#Chosen by the World Chalice

[normalmonsterfight]

Hello! Here is are some monsters I’d like to submit (along with some reasons why I like them):

- Stray Familiar: Cat

- Interstellime: It’s so cute

- Metaphys Armed Dragon: One of the first cards I had when I started playing the game

- Alexandrite Dragon

- Wolf: So descriptive and the flavor text is fun

- Gunkan Suship Shari

- All three World Chalice normal monsters (Beckoned by the World Chalice, Crowned by the World Chalice, Chosen by the World Chalice)

- Bitron and Digitron: I’m a sucker for Yugioh Vrains

- Ultimate Flag Beast Avan Wolf and Ultimate Flag Mech Tough Striker: Light Machines is my favorite Rush deck to play

That is all but I will probably return with more

Seconds for Alexandrite Dragon, Metaphys Armed Dragon, Crowned by/Chosen by the World Chalice, and Digitron, the rest added!

[yandere-sins]

Yan-Poll #28

[Continuation of Poll #27]

"Some food sounds nice," you mumbled hesitantly, forcing a smile on your lips and looking towards the werewolf while placing your hand on your stomach. A glint of victory sparked in his eyes as he raised his snout highly, proud to be the chosen option.

"As I said," he announced with a huff, and you got up from your seat to follow him out of the door. This was the perfect opportunity! You'd scout the area, try to sneak away when he was busy hunting, and be rid of this fearsome duo! Even if a night in the woods had the potential to be scary, you doubted the werewolf would let harm befall you if anything else tried to attack you. It was definitely the right choice!

A finger hooked underneath your shirt collar, tugging you back into a cold, firm chest while one arm wrapped around you from behind, leisurely holding you in place. "Ah, ah," the vampire chimed. "Where do you think you're going?"

"H-Hunting?" you questioned, looking up at the vampire, who quirked an eyebrow.

"You? Our sweet, incapable human?"

"Let them," the werewolf barked, stomping back through the door. His claws splintered the wood as they gripped the frame, the cracking a fierce reminder of his strength.

"Are you that dense? As if you could take care of a human while you're focusing on hunting. They'll slip from you, and you'll spend the rest of the night searching for them. How dumb do you take them that they wouldn't try to sneak away? No, you're not taking them on your mindless hunt; go fetch them some food alone."

You shivered slightly as the usual light and chatty tone of the vampire's voice turned into a snarl, clearly not amused about the idea of letting you out of their sight. On the other hand, you looked up at the werewolf, giving him your best impression of "puppy eyes", knowing that this was your best chance of escape. It had to work!

When he looked at you, his eyes softened, bared teeth disappearing beneath fur. But just as quickly, he looked back at his natural enemy, a growl vibrating in his throat as he spoke. "So you want me to leave them here? With you? So you can drink them dry before I even have the chance to feed them?"

"I won't," the vampire replied, a surprising firmness in his answer. "I'd rather see where this-" they waved their hand back and forth between the three of you "-is going to lead. It's been more fun than most of my meals in the last century, and I have the time to savor it."

"How am I going to believe you?" the werewolf bit back, and the vampire let out a long sigh while you imagined them rolling their eyes at this.

"You'll just have to. You do want to provide for your little mate, right? Look, they're famished."

The vampire hooked one of his cold fingers beneath your chin, lifting it to show you off. There were no mirrors to check your appearance, but famished wasn't how you would have described yourself. Still—and it made your mouth open in protest—the werewolf growled before giving a short nod with his snout and relented reluctantly, "I'll be back. And if they are missing just one drop of blood, I'll tear you limb from limb, you bat."

Then he was gone, his footsteps the only thing echoing through the mansion for a short while before you heard a door bang closed. How could he have possibly believed the vampire's sweet deception? Why in the world would he leave you alone with the possibly more dangerous monster of the two?!

"What an ill-tempered fellow," the vampire sighed, unwrapping their arm from you and stepping away. You stood there for a few seconds more, seeing your hope slowly fade away into the darkness of the hallway, when the golden chalice from before suddenly came back into view. You jerked away in surprise, but the vampire held it patiently in front of you until you had regained your composure, taking it from them. The pitcher followed in just as quick of a movement, and the dark red juice you had been given before flowed from its neck into your chalice.

"I know you were thirsty. Drink up," they encouraged you softly, stepping away while looking truly unbothered by your presence. It was as if it was no longer relevant that you were below them on the food chain.

"Are you... Are you not going to kill me?"

Turning around, you watched as the vampire placed the needle of an old gramophone standing in the corner of the room onto a record, soft music filling the room.

"What?" they squawked, uncharacteristically human, as if appalled by the thought. "Didn't I just say I wouldn't? You should listen when you are in a room full of monsters."

Instead of coming right back up to you, they sat on the armchair next to the couch, breathing out heavily as if a weight had been lifted before their eyes fell back from the ceiling to you. "Come," they beckoned, patting the soft cushion next to them. "No need to be so alert."

Reluctantly, you swayed on your spot, feeling the red eyes drilling into you as you had to convince your body to move. When you finally did, you left some space between the vampire's reach and your seat, just to be sure, before nipping at your juice again, your body relieved by the drink.

"I was human once," the vampire mused, and you jumped, almost feeling bad for your reaction.

"It's not a pleasure to drink blood, and most of the time, it tastes as awful as what it sounds like." They sighed once more, and you got the feeling they were quite dramatic.

"But having company, bickering, learning new things—that is fun! That is what's interesting! So," they sat up straight again, crossing their legs before giving you a toothy grin, "Tell me about yourself!"

You gulped down the tart sweetness on your tongue, unprepared for the overwhelming interest you suddenly received. Quickly, you averted your eyes, fearing the vampire's hypnosis and all the uncomfortable things they could order you to speak about to get a good laugh. But after a few moments, you caught yourself, rattling down basic facts about your life, going from your family to your hobbies, and discovering some shared interests between you two as the vampire chimed in with their own.

"So... do you have any other hobbies?" you asked, wringing your hands as you tried to keep the conversation going and push it away from you. Even after talking for a while, you were still running on survival instinct, knowing that the longer you kept the vampire occupied, the more time the werewolf had to return. If running wasn't an option, keeping the two of them occupied with fighting each other was your next best bet.

"Hm," the vampire hummed. "I love dancing. It has become awfully lonely in recent times, but we used to hold balls and celebrations in this mansion and dance all night. Those memories keep me alive in the dark times; memories I wish to always relive and cherish for as long as I can remember them."

Their words reminded you of a movie you had seen recently: nobles waltzing to music through a grand hall. It brought a sad smile to your lips as you felt a hint of sympathy for the vampire who must have witnessed the rise and fall of such traditions and, even more, the people who made them special.

"Well," they tore you out of your thoughts. Their hand stretched out towards you, long fingers with pointed nails, well-cared for yet inhumanly cold. "Would you do me the honors?"

Refusal made your lips quiver, but their gaze was almost bashful as they looked up at you, expecting the rejection yet hopeful you'd agree. You glanced back at the door, not knowing when the werewolf would be back. Dancing would bring you in a very close, very dangerous reach of the vampire's fangs, but it would also keep them occupied. You had to stall more time and force them not to kill you, but you didn't want to be served on a silver platter either.

"Don't I stink too much?" you laughed nervously, pointing out their previous comment about you needing a bath.

"Oh, I don't mind your smell as much as that beast's. In fact, you have a pleasant scent lingering on you now that he's not marking you up and down."

They seemed sincere enough, hadn't made a move except for petting the space that kept you two apart, seemingly disappointed. The conversation had been pleasant, going on for a very long time. Even for the hobbies they didn't share with you, they questioned and listened intently, glancing at your lips ever so often as if they wished for more and more information. Quality time seemed to be their thing, so if they were honest, agreeing to dance would probably put you in good standing with them, while refusing might anger them.

But that was if they were truthful about not harming you, given the chance.

[xxnashiraxx]

Pairing: Astarion/f!Durge ◇ Astarion/f!OC (Ofelia)

Word Count: 6,119

Tags/Warnings: Mature (slight spice), Soft Astarion, Fluff

Summary: It's December in Baldur’s Gate and the snow is falling on Act 3 of Ofelia's adventure. After falling ill to a cold that prevents her from spreading the joy of Christmas to her companions, they decide to band together and prepare it in secret as a surprise for her. As they look for decorations, gifts, and a tree, Astarion reflects on his time with her and contemplates whether or not his gift will convey the depth of his true feelings...

divider here!

AO3 | Song Reference: Let it Snow!

Hi everyone!!! My apologies for this trainwreck, I tried my best on little time, but I really wanted to write something sweet for these two, and I owe inspiration for this oneshot to @caffeinatedmunchkin ! Thank you again friend!!! I also tried as far as the elvish, so please bear with me 🙏🏼

Please enjoy- fluff was needed for the season, and I hope everyone has a lovely day if you celebrate!!! ❤️ You do not need to read the main fic to read this one- it's its own little standalone! 💕

“So, you expect us to believe that some jolly old man goes around to every child in your world and delivers gifts on this ‘Christmas Eve’?” Gale's tone, while incredulous, remains cheerful. “That does not seem feasible, given your planet's population.”

“Well, not every child celebrates Christmas, so not all seven billion. But yeah pretty much,” Ofelia’s eyes light with amusement as Gale begins another spiel into logic and probability, causing Astarion to roll his eyes and grumble into the chalice of blood Ofelia had filled for him not but a few minutes ago.

“It's just make-believe!” Ofelia spouts around giggles, her smile bright. “Not real! Something you tell kids so they behave, but the holiday is still the same- parents get their children gifts, blame it on Santa, make cookies and leave milk out for him for his journey, hang stockings on the mantle to see if they get coal if they’re bad or sweets and little toys if they’re good. It's all for fun- I myself most enjoy the snow and decorations.” She sounds wistful as their ragtag group listens. He watches her face twist slightly as if recalling a bad memory, and he pays attention to the warble in her voice when she next speaks.

“I haven't had a real Christmas since I was still young enough to believe… my parents did everything for me, those first nine years. It was always so magical… pazole, tamales, candy, gifts- I wished they wouldn't have, but they'd do everything, take extra shifts just so there was something under the tree for me… I miss them this time of year. Just a little bit extra.” No longer afraid of the warmth that blooms in his chest, he reaches for her and when his hand rests over her shoulder she turns to him and quickly wipes the moisture from the corner of her eye. Her cheeks crease with an appreciative smile and she squeezes his hand in thanks as the others look around.

“Would you want to celebrate it here?” Karlach asks, setting her cleaned plate off to the side on one of the many little tables littered around their common space in the Elfsong.

“You guys want to?” Ofelia asks with a soft huff, hefty emotion washing from her voice amid the sweet hope that spreads over her face.

“We may not have Santa, but why not? The spirit of gift giving and love isn’t foreign here,” Gale smiles, patting Ofelia’s opposite shoulder.

“Okay… yeah! We’ll have to find a tree, and ornaments, and gift wrapping of some kind- paper will do! Stockings to hang over the fire for each of us… day after tomorrow!” Her eyes brighten at each syllable, and for all the teasing he’d love to utter, he can’t find it in himself to poke when this is the happiest she’s looked since they’d arrived in Baldur’s Gate.

And gods, if it isn’t the happiest he’s been, as well. Since Cazador fell. They still have the brain and two of the Dead Three's chosen left, but curse it all to the hells. Right now perhaps they can indulge in some respite from it all. The calm before the storm.

They move through the rest of the day restocking their supplies, tracking down various needs, and chasing some loose ends. They discover more of Orin’s handiwork littered throughout the city, much to Ofelia’s chagrin, but decide to turn in early in the hopes of getting started on their decorating. Unfortunately, fate has other plans.

“I’m afraid healing magic really only works on injuries and the like- I’m sorry, Ofelia. I know how much this meant to you… perhaps we can have it later in the week?” Shadowheart strokes the human’s face softly, her pale hand meeting russet, clammy skin. Ofelia nods, eyes shifting to a corner of the room as the half-elf leaves and shoots Astarion a pitying frown. When the door shuts, he sinks down beside her and strokes the hair off her cheeks and forehead, fever hot against his cold undead hands.

“This sucks…” She mutters, cheeks ruddy with heat as her body fights against an infection they have no hope of combatting with anything but time and herbs. Already, Jaheira had mixed what little items she had into a concoction Ofelia had knocked back minutes ago, and though a bit of color has returned to her lips, she’s not exactly the picture of good health.

“I’m sorry, darling,” He murmurs, resting the back of his hand against her cheek. He knows she likes it when he does, and she typically runs hot, but this is something else entirely and it pulls at his unbeating heart.

“No, it’s okay… it’s been so long since I’ve tried to decorate, but I did try last year- look.” She strains to her right to grab the object that always manages to mystify him and she starts to scroll through the little frozen pictures on her device before holding some up to him. “I got this really stupid fake tiny tree and I put all those little things on it, got some tinsel and hung it up around the doors and windows.” He peers down at the small room she’d once called home- bright metallic garlands trimming the entryways with twinkling lights adorning the small tree that sits on a table in the center of it. His lips tick up at the corners as he sees her in the next photo, bright red painted lips and golden eyelids, some terribly gaudy red and green jumper covering her chest.

“Beautiful, and loud. As always,” She rolls her eyes at his attempt to poke fun, leaning down more fully onto his right elbow as she tucks herself closer to him.

“I wanted to get a big one this time… really show you guys what it looks like, though I’m not sure what the hell I’d do about the bulbs, or lights, or star on top…” She smiles up at him and he feels his chest twinge with guilt. Of course she’d gone and gotten herself sick somehow…

“There’s… always next year,” He says around the strange doubt in his mind. It’s nothing but disbelief- disbelief that she’s with him at all. That she keeps telling him she loves him. That she keeps promising they’ll defeat the brain and get rid of Orin and Gortash and be able to breathe once it’s all over… together. Sometimes the incredulity of it all still catches him off guard.

“You’re such a big softie, really,” He huffs a laugh, reaching down to pinch one of her cheeks before pressing a terse kiss to the crown of her head.

“And the mistletoe, gods, can’t forget the mistletoe!” She groans, pressing a hand over her eyes as she collapses into the pillows.

“Mistletoe?” He questions. She sighs, spreading her fingers enough so that one eye peeps up at him.

“It’s silly, but you hang it up over a doorway- it’s got these spiky green leaves and cute red berries on it- and if you pass under it with someone else you have to kiss. It’s just the rules,” He smiles, lost amid her explanation though enamored by the wonder in her voice as she speaks. “I've never been kissed under the mistletoe, you know…”

“Hmm, you haven't? Seems we'll have to change that in the future.” She giggles under the kiss he presses to her forehead, careful and full of promise. When he stands he strokes her cheek once more before adjusting the blankets.

“Get some rest, I’ll bring back some soup in a little while.” He whispers, taking her device from her to set back onto the nightstand. She pouts up at him, curiosity in her gaze, and he finishes tucking her in. “I’ll be back, promise,”

Once out in the main room, he finds the rest of his travelling companions speaking in hushed voices around the fireplace, Scratch pacing near Astarion’s feet. The dog quickly ducks in before Astarion gets the door shut, and he smirks knowing Ofelia will at least have some company before he returns to bed. Nearly every morning that mutt’s laying between them or with half his body draped over her legs. She doesn’t seem to mind, and he’s starting to grow accustomed to the beast as well, much to his disdain…

“Vampire- what are we doing about this Christmas?” Lae’zel demands as soon as he’s within a few feet of them. He simpers and sits on a lush ottoman, draping one leg over the other as he accepts a glass of wine from Gale.

“Gods, Lae’zel. We’ve only been travelling together for the last few months, I’d expect you’d have remembered my name by now.” His sly remark is met with the githyanki’s signature Tchk! before Shadowheart grins.

“Now, now, try to get along you two. Your mediator isn’t here,” The half-elf snickers, and Astarion sighs, waving a hand towards the others.

“So, what were you all murmuring about before I came out here? I’m assuming it has something to do with dear Lae’zel’s questioning?” He takes a sip of the wine- an expensive sort that flows easily down his throat- and casts his eyes amongst the others as he watches them exchange nods.

“We want to put it on anyway,” Gale explains, the dark liquor in his glass catching the light of the fire. “She spoke so fondly of it this morning, and to get sick now… it isn’t fair.” Astarion hums, pondering the silence that settles over them once Gale is finished.

He’d been of a similar mind as she’d shown him her pictures- it’d be no easy task to find a tree, especially with them being in the heart of the Gate. Then there was the tinsel he’d seen… they’d perhaps be able to find something like that in the city, the baubles…

“My, my, it’s odd being amongst you all once you actually experience an intelligent thought.” Their murmurs of disbelief and annoyance fuel the smirk that spreads over his lips as he waves a hand “I’ve been snooping through her photos and I’ve got some references we can likely use, though wrestling her away from the damn thing will be a feat in and of itself.” Astarion grumbles around another swig.

“Leave that to me,” Shadowheart assures, clapping her hands together once. “I’ll run her a bath in the morning and make sure she stays in it for a few hours. To ‘leech the toxins’ so to speak. It isn’t as if she’s well versed to our healing methods to know I’m making it up,” Astarion nods, pondering, as the others chime in.

“The tree… we won’t be able to sneak that into the city,” Wyll laments, forefinger stroking over the fine hairs on his face.

“If you were able to secure a sapling, I’m sure I’d be able to encourage it to grow quickly enough.” Halsin adds, earning a nod from the Blade.

“I’ll help with that as well,” Jaheira offers, smile on her softly lined face.

“What about the decorations?” Minthara asks, frowning.

“We’ll figure something out- I’m sure there are plenty of merchants with trinkets and baubles around- Sundries may also have something. We should ask Rolan and his siblings, as well. I seem to remember that Lia had some dolls and things made for the children once they got to the city.” Astarion nods at Gale’s words, contemplating.

“And do not forget gifts for her,” Astarion murmurs crossly, eyes flashing around the room. “At least have the common sense to wrap them first,”

“Course not,” Karlach grins a wide, toothy smile, the likes of which sets his teeth on edge. He'll never let on that it does somewhat please him, however. “We'll get gifts for Ofelia and each other!”

They scatter to their personal rooms or beds, plan worked out in the dim candlelight and hearth as if they’re a secret society. He crawls into bed with his lover, her’s and Scratch’s soft snores filling the room much to his amusement. He checks her temperature, sigh soft on his lips as he rests back against the pillows when he finds it unchanged.

As he lays in bed, his mind spins with the possibilities of all the gifts he could possibly get her- if it were up to him, he’d likely not get one at all. Perhaps steal something.

Images of her adorned with pretty scarlet jewels and glistening pearls flood his vision, though something about jewelry feels almost cold and distant- too obvious a choice. Or possibly even too meaningful, something he isn’t ready for…

No… despite her expect-nothing nature, he’d like to at least try to make this sentimental and meaningful. It could be their last celebration, after all, and gods does he care for her too much not to indulge this simple, saccharine wish. He’ll need to put in the effort- just as she puts in the effort to make him feel cared for each day. He wouldn’t be where he is now without her… without her kindness. It’s a blessing he tries not to take for granted, though he does slip up from time to time. He cannot make that mistake now.

He rises from the bed, trancing left for later, as he pulls some items out of his pack and retrieves a tool kit from the main stock supplies. He’s not sure if he’ll be any good at this, but he doesn’t trust someone else to do the job.

***

“I feel better this morning, I swear…” Ofelia grumbles as Astarion kisses her awake. For the umpteenth time, she thanks the gods that he can’t catch her cold. It’s nice to indulge in a tender kiss first thing, though she’s sure she looks positively awful. Pale skin, scarlet cheeks, sweaty and clammy. She huffs a laugh and pushes him away, making to sit up and use the restroom, but her vision tilts and she stays seated, clutching her head.

“You feel better, hmm?” He trills softly, last syllable enunciated with a haughty laugh. Smug bastard.

“I swear, if I didn’t know better I’d say you’re actually enjoying this.” He stands above her, back of his hand pressing against her forehead, and she lets out a soft moan at the relief. The heat behind her eyelids slowly recedes beneath his touch, and she clutches his hand to hold it still as he hums quietly.

“Well, you do push yourself far too much, darling. Though your pain is something I do not take pleasure in, under these circumstances at least,” She rolls her eyes at the smirk over his lips, longing curling low in her belly in spite of the state of her body.

“Yeah well, you and me both.” She sighs, kissing the back of his hand, and he stoops down to place one of his over her forehead.

“I have some errands to run with Gale of all people- Shadowheart volunteered to stay with you, said she would like to try some kind of healing bath? Silly in my opinion, but who am I to question a cleric’s healing skills?” She groans, lying back on the mattress to stare at the ceiling. She’d really wanted to see if she could convince them to let her go out and find decorations, at least put them up… but it’s not looking probable. That and she’d lied about feeling better to worm her way out of staying in today.

“Ughhhhh,” Her long drawn out groan pulls a light chuckle from the elf and she reaches up to pull him down, knee between her thighs on the spare bit of mattress available, hands at either side of her head. She wraps her arms around his torso and clings to him, trying to absorb as much of him as possible before he leaves for the day.

“I’ll be back later, just relax and enjoy your bath. Maybe there'll be a reward in it for you,” She sighs into his neck, pressing a hot kiss to his skin fueled by the promise of his words, and she smiles when his muscles stiffen. “Patience, dear,” He murmurs as he pulls away and she squeezes him one last time before letting go. There’s a knock at their door and Shadowheart appears, arms laden with towels and supplies. Ofelia smiles forlornly at her, her own far too empty in Astarion’s absence.

She doesn’t notice as she’s ushered into the washroom Astarion’s quick swipe of her phone off the nightstand, or his soft smile in her direction. She doesn’t see that smile widen into a pleased grin as his fingers snake around the gift in his pocket, clutching it with a light squeeze.

***

“Do you think she’ll like it in the morning?” Gale asks Astarion softly, the fruits of their labor casting the main room in a festive glow. Somehow, he’d been able to obtain a lighting spell scroll- something Rolan had insisted upon them not paying for once he’d heard it was for Ofelia’s benefit. Astarion had rolled his eyes- that tiefling wizard ever hopelessly infatuated despite Ofelia’s vehement denial- and they’d stopped for some books as Gale’s gift to her before Astarion had found something for the man as well. His eyes also caught on a crystal carved into the shape of a crescent moon for Shadowheart, and upon realizing his gaze was tracking items for his companions, promptly huffed in annoyance. He’d grabbed the item anyway.

“I think a twig in the corner with lights on it would send her into a fit, but this is much better.” Astarion sighs, thanking the help from the Midwinter celebrations going on around the city for the garlands of pine and the berries that now hang in the frame of every doorway. It’s not as gaudy or brightly colored as the decorations in her apartment from the photos he’d shown them all this morning, but it’ll do. Even he’s feeling a bit of wonder gazing at the lovely spruce the two druids in their group had spent nurturing, as well as cladding in brightly colored glass sphere’s Karlach procured from a friend she’d known before she’d been cast into Avernus.

Presents wrapped in paper of varying colors sit beneath the full branches, a blanket protecting them from the cold floor as Scratch paws restlessly at a long, stick shaped present wrapped in blue paper with his name penned gracefully across its front. Astarion smirks- she’ll get a kick out of that one.

“Great job, Fangs. I almost forget you don’t have a functioning heart sometimes.” Karlach’s teary voice scrapes against his nerves and he sneers, shrugging his shoulders.

“Don’t go spreading that around,” They poke fun at him some more, and thankfully he’s saved by Minthara’s short temper as she demands they all get to bed. It’s almost midnight and she’s not missing a stop from the old geezer- much to his amusement. He just barely manages to duck into his room before they dissolve into a debate about whether or not she’d paid attention to Ofelia’s story, shutting it with a soft click as he stalks over to the bed, shedding clothes on the way.

He hears even breathing- her airways finally starting to clear- and just as he slips beneath the sheets he nearly yelps.

“Hiding from me all day- what, I’m sick and you’re out there looking for a replacement after I wither away?” Her tone is playful and he smirks, admiring the color returning to her cheeks and the brightness of her eyes beneath the light of the full moon. Beneath him.

“Hmm, yes, I was shopping for a new lover today. Pity they all didn’t seem to match your prowess at being irritating. And none of them had these- seems I’m doomed to solitude.” His hands cup her breasts, separated from him by the thin layer of her cotton shirt, and she rolls her eyes and pouts.

“All you’d miss are my tits and my attitude. Rude,” A smile at the corner of her lips betrays her and he grins, fangy and wide, before claiming that smile with a kiss. “Missed you…” She hums, arms winding around his waist, and he matches the sound with sincerity, finding that his day while busy was severely lacking her presence. A travesty, indeed.

“Your fever’s gone,” He mumbles, enjoying the taste of her mouth and the way her hips slightly buck into his own, the hands still firmly anchored to her chest kneading softly. She sighs, baring her throat, and it’s all he can do to not sink his teeth in. Just a bit more recovery, and he’ll indulge in her blood again. He’s holding over with animals in the meantime.

“Mmm, whatever was in that bath made me feel a lot better. And whatever the hell concoction Jaheira made me drink earlier, too- tasted awful but I think it helped.” Her eyes find him and he brushes the hair from her face, slowly sinking onto his side and off of her.

“Good, perhaps we can get back on schedule tomorrow since you’ll be done lazing about.” She scowls and smacks his arm away before yanking the sheets up beneath her chin.

“And I was going to offer you my mouth- jerk.”

“I’ll still take it.”

“Haha. Goodnight.” He smirks and presses a kiss to her lips before lying back, eyes tracking over the beams on the ceiling as she snuggles up close and rests her head over his bicep.

“Goodnight, love.” He whispers, heart tethered to the small gift he intends to give her tomorrow, hope brimming at the fringes of his mind as he pictures her opening it.

***

“Astarion! It’s snowing look, look, wake up!” He does with a start as her hands shake his shoulders, startled out of the trance and back into the real world. For once, his reverie was clouded in visions of her and not nightmarish memories, and as he opens his eyes he yawns.

“It’s been snowing the last couple of days,” He murmurs, blinking the sleep from his eyes as he rises and lets her drag him to the window.

“Yeah, but this one’s stuck,” Her grin is nearly contagious and he fights back the compulsion to instead press his cold nose to the back of her neck as he pulls her into his arms, hands resting over her belly.

“It’s cold, white, a pain to deal with… I’m not sure what you’re so excited about.” He mouths lazily at her pulse point, delighted as her heart beat speeds up, and she laughs.

“You realize you’ve just described yourself, right?” His lips idle over her skin and with an annoyed sigh he bites enough to leave the impression of his teeth but not pierce, earning a satisfying gasp of surprise from her.

“Get dressed, I think you can leave quarantine for breakfast, today,” He knows the plan- pretends that the routine is back to normal. She slips from his arms and goes to her pile of clothing- gods, is she messy- and pulls out some comfortable pants and flashes him a look.

“Get out, I’m going to change.” She demands and he scoffs.

“I’ve seen you naked more times than I can remember, why can’t I stay?” He plays the part of mock dissatisfaction, though he’s silently pleased. It’ll give him an opportunity to check and make sure the dullards outside are ready.

“Just- out!” He huffs, pulling on a pair of pants before making for the door. His tadpole seeks Gale’s, and upon confirming that they’re aware it’s just Astarion exiting the room, he slips out and closes the door behind him.

“She almost ready?” Wyll whispers, tweaking some of the garlands over the mantle as Lae’zel places little rocks in each sock. She’d been far too amused at the prospect of coal for naughty behavior, and had been adamant that none of them deserved candy and would all get a piece each to keep them in perspective. He has to admit, it is a little amusing.

“Getting dressed- should be any moment-” Just as the word leaves his mouth, the door behind him opens and he steps to the side with his heart in his throat.

She’s completely silent, hair brushed into soft waves laying down her back, proper attire donning her body save for the slippers on her feet, and they all hold their breath as her gaze sweeps over the room.

“Hu-huh…?” She mumbles, breath catching, and he watches intently as moisture begins to bead in the corners of her eyes. They all exchange glances, frozen in anticipation, before her hands cover her mouth and she starts to sob. “You guys? Are you serious?”

“Merry Christmas!” Most of them chant- Astarion forgets, Minthara’s nose is buried in a fragrant chardonnay but she tilts the glass in acknowledgement- and they all rush her before he has a chance to dodge them. He’s swept up in Karlach’s large wingspan as she tucks them together and squeezes until white blotches dot his vision, yet the delight from Ofelia keeps him from complaining too loudly about it. Mostly.

She turns to him between embraces, eyes round and soft, and his chest goes tight as he offers her a smile reserved for no other but her. It’s sweet when she returns it- steals the breath he doesn’t need from his lungs, and when she goes to pull him in she clings to him and whispers little reverent ‘I love you’s into his ear as if he’d hung the moon itself. Pride and affection blooms within, and he presses kisses to the side of her head where the others can’t see, though he wouldn’t mind if they did. He’s long past the notion of hiding his feelings for her. From himself or otherwise.

They push her into the best seat- one the others usually fight over- and Karlach excitedly pulls gifts from the pile to start passing around. Astarion’s gift to her is tucked behind the tree and hidden- saving the best for last. Hopefully. No, he’s confident.

Ofelia laughs at the coal in the sock, munches on fudge from the bakery near the entrance to the upper city, enjoys the books Gale’s gifted her and the plush dog that Lia had sewn and stuffed. She remarks about the lights, face brighter than he’s ever seen it, and forces Minthara into a tight hug and kiss on her plum cheeks as Ofelia clutches the necklace adorned with a single ruby charm and spider etched into its stone. The drow protests and growls in annoyance, but it’s all really just for show. Once turned away, she smiles into her cup and quickly clears her throat afterward.

They all offer her small trinkets or treats, and he’s content to just sit and watch, but he’s swept up by the spirit of it all as he opens small packages with his name on it. A silver pocket watch from Shadowheart, a silken kerchief from Wyll, a new scabbard for his dagger in dark leather from Lae’zel. He’d not expected anything, even vehemently enunciated that this is for her, not him, but despite his claims it seems no one listened to him. What else is new?

“That’s it!” Karlach proclaims from beside the tree, tossing candy and pastries in her mouth by the fistful as the others sip on warm beverages or partake in alcohol around the heat of the fire. His eyes go to the frosted window, the entire city covered in a blanket of white. He decides, for the first time, that it looks much better this way.

“You didn’t get anything for Ofelia?” Gale asks, and Astarion’s hackles raise as he feels the ire rise and claim the atmosphere.

“I saved the best for last,” He stands with a flourish, calming the mood before his head ends up on a pike. “Besides, who went to all this trouble?”

“Don’t take all the credit!” Shadowheart snaps and he smiles as he turns his back to them, going behind the tree to pluck his gift from beneath an alcove in the wall. His eyes linger over shiny red paper- this, at least, he'd stolen. For a moment, he hesitates. His fingers wrap around it, her name glaring back, and he wonders if this will be good enough. He'd seen everyone's carefully thought out gifts, hells, had even managed to hit the nail on its head a few times for the others. But Ofelia? She's the one he needs to get right. Above all else, he can't fail.

He steels himself and turns, each step towards her smiling face making him question the object in his outstretched hand, and when she takes it he stands stiff and still- making no move to breathe or blink or talk. She gingerly unwraps it at the seams, her pulse racing in his ears as she continues to pry back the paper, and he watches her stop as a soft breath vacates her lungs.

“Star…” It feels as if a century passes before his eyes when she finally speaks, pulling the dagger from the paper to hold up and admire. The metal flashes, light glancing off the engraving near the hilt- one she speaks in hushed tones as if in prayer.

“Nin anor,” Her lips shape around the elegant script as if she's painting it in the air, and once it's hanging around them he knows it's right. Knows it's right in the way she looks at him, in the way the sun, through a break in the clouds, casts a golden glow around her. It breaks on her skin and sinks in, frames her like it did that day in the sand, that day he'd first tasted freedom. The first day he'd met her and had heard her heart quicken beneath the sharp edge of his blade- the blade she now cradles in her hands.

Purpose, like a compulsion, stole his mind the moment chisel met steel. Illuminated by candles, he'd carved in elvish the words he's said to her over and over, again and again. Against her lips as he makes love to her, into the crown of her head as he pulls her into an embrace. Softly, against her forearm as she returned to herself enough to let go of his neck and fight the urge…

“My sun…” He breathes back, and she's out of the chair faster than he can blink. With a laugh that's no more than a huff, he wraps his arms around her and squeezes back, smiles as she laughs and sniffles and sighs.

“I love you,” It's quiet against his ear, and a barely perceptible shiver trembles through his limbs in reply. He'd been worried for nothing, and that's cemented further when she pulls back and the grin on her face renders him speechless.

“A knife? You got her a knife?” Karlach asks, bewildered, and the tension in his limbs falls away when Ofelia looks at him and laughs. This time, he doesn't fight the impulse to join her and it's freeing and juvenile, but worth the joy it brings.

***

“It's the one he threatened me with when we first met,” Ofelia smiles as she finishes off her plate of roast meats, fresh greens and potatoes. She pushes it towards the center of the table, leaning back in the chair as she admires the way the fire looks as it dances in his crimson eyes. He's beautiful, and her heart slams into her ribs like it's trying to break free- that look he gives her never failing to stir an ache in her chest that feels like it consumes just as much as it grows.

“Hmmm… and how is that romantic?” Gale asks around the cookie in his mouth. Ofelia chuckles at his muffled words, about to speak when Minthara beats her to it.

“Is it not provocative to feel the sting of your lover's blade against your skin? The dance between pleasure and pain, the testament of your trust in them not to supply too much pressure lest they end your life?” Gale swallows thickly, stiffening when the drow places her hand on his arm. “If you do not understand, I will show you tonight, wizard.”

Their group laughs, partaking in drinks that almost remind Ofelia of home. Something that tastes like hot chocolate fills her belly as Astarion holds her close, swaying softly to the music that pours from Ofelia's speaker- an old favorite.

“Let it snow, let it snow, let it snow,” She murmurs against his shoulder, echoing the melody as he squeezes her hips.

“You liked your gift?” His voice is quiet- almost shy. Her arms circle him tighter, letting him guide her through the room as their companions slowly start to filter off to bed. The entire day had been like a dream- a perfect, beautiful reprieve from pain or worry. Something rare and sweet- sorely missed in the years since and filling the empty hole in her heart with so much that it almost hurts to contain. Family. Love.

“I'll cherish it forever, Star,” She smiles, pulling away to stroke her fingers over his cheek. It's cool beneath them, and his smile is relaxed as it spreads over his face. She bumps the door frame to their room with a soft laugh and his gaze lifts up above her head, causing her to redirect hers and stop almost disbelievingly over green leaves and white berries.

“There weren't any red,” He hums softly, but her throat is dry and her ears are filled with cotton when she looks back at him. Moonlight turns his hair to silver and his skin to marble, and as she looks at him and watches him lean closer, she's not sure if she'll ever deserve the affection he now presses to her lips.

Hands tangle in her long hair, chest to chest, the taste of wine on his tongue- her stomach clenches in fear of the future, of losing it all, of making a mistake or failing to free them from the brain. All of it looms like a dark cloud, trying to swallow her whole, but then he's pushing them into the room, shutting their door and latching it. He's driving her back, legs folding until she's forced to collapse onto the mattress, heat pooling in her belly low and needy when he goes to push her sweater up over her head.

“I feel bad I didn't get anyone else a gift,” She whispers and he snorts, discarding his shirt onto the floor as he starts to untie the shirt barring him from further access.

“Anyone else? What did you get me?” She laughs when he stops, frozen at the sight beneath her clothes.

“I got these a few days ago… was going to at least do this since I couldn't get presents or decorate.” His irises narrow into thin lines between the enlarging of his pupils, gaze dragging down her form as he tugs her pants down and off. Ribbons and lace, scarlet and black, cradle her breasts and expose the underside of them while big red bows conceal her nipples. Her underwear leaves nothing to the imagination, either, and his lips part around a raw hum of appreciation when he discovers with his eyes the way the fabric conveniently vanishes beneath the waistband.

“Gods…” It's brittle and needy and she smiles wickedly when his clothes fall to the floor.

“Unwrap me?” She whispers.

“Yes,” He breathes.

She laughs as his fingers find give on the bows and he pulls them apart, mouth chasing his touch as he pushes her thighs back and sinks inside. She sobs his name as he sets a feverish pace, mind nothing but foggy desire and heady affection. Affection for him, for this, for them. She clings to him like her life depends on it, canting her hips in time with his, every sensation as intense and lovely like she's experiencing it for the first time.

She leans in and kisses his ear, revels in the shivers that shake through his body when she tightens her grip. They're teetering over the edge, now- drawing to a close. But even so, she knows it won't be the end. Not when she's right where she's supposed to be.

Like the phantoms of quivering tree limbs, the warmth of the sand beneath her body, the flash of a blade while rubies danced in her vision she feels him. Feels him in every pore, every beat of her heart as he meets her eyes and opens his mouth to speak. Soft and full of promises they never knew were made that day on the beach.

“Nin anor,”

[maryaandmorevna]

A Song of Swan and Dragons IV.

Ao3 link

Summary: Following Princess Rhaenyra as one of her ladies-in-waiting, Arianne Swann was woefully unprepared upon arriving at the Red Keep.

No scroll or tome could have captured the astounding amount of gossip that thrived within the Targaryen court. For a mere lady like her, it felt as though she had made a catastrophic blunder before even having the chance to place her pieces on the board.

Yet, if she allowed her heart to guide her—especially toward the man it had chosen—Arianne believed she could endure anything and emerge triumphant. Prince Jacaerys Velaryon would one day be king, and though her father often said that hope was a fool’s errand, she dared to dream she might one day be his queen.

If only his boor of an uncle would stop tormenting her.

Chapters: 4/? (47,745k)

Warnings: safe for now, canon-typical sexism, the story will get progressively darker and will include explicit content, canon character death(s), dubcon, noncon, it's war folks

Tagging my dear @lacebvnny, hope you like it! Our poor Arianne in this one.

I., II., III.

IV. Izula

"People do not see you, They invent you and accuse you." - Helene Cixous

(Arianne)

.

Clumsy as Seven Hells.

Arianne knew that as long as she kept blinking she might be able to keep tears at bay. They itched, those translucent droplets gathering between her dark lashes.

Prince Aemond offered her one last icy glare before he stalked through the crowd and out of her eyesight.

Her breath lodged underneath her throat.

Out of all the insults in the world, he spat that she had no grace.

Her house prided itself upon it. A swan was...above all, a paragon of grace.

Arianne's clammy hands trembled - she wished to fade into the walls rather than stand in the middle of the banquet hall, surrounded by the joyful crowd of lords, ladies, and courtiers.

Clumsy.

A blight that has no grace and does not belong here.

The low and venomous voice burned through her skin and permeated her flesh.

Less than a tavern wench.

What could she have possibly done to Prince Aemond for him to bestow her with so many insults?

For a moment, she imagined that they had found the mutual language, that they could be cordial, but he threw it right back at her face.

Hateful, hateful, hateful, hateful twat!

"Arianne, are you alright?" Jace came to stand right by her when she took too long to respond to his offered arm. He carried a certain, familiar warmth with him, and the concern bleeding through his tone made her flutter her eyelashes bashfully.

"I'm fine—" Arianne started, but her words faltered, her voice trembling just enough to betray her.

Did Jace think she was without grace? L-like a tavern wench.

Her bottom lip quivered.

She was an embarrassment to her House.

"What happened?" He asked, his dark brows furrowing.

Arianne brushed her palms down her dark skirt, her pinky finger getting stuck against the embroidered feather. The mere attempt to repeat what the One-eyed Prince uttered would have her succumb to hysterics.

Jacaerys Velaryon tilted his head up, gaze knifelike as he followed his uncle leaving the hall and vanishing into the passageways.

"Did he say something to you?" He asked again, his tone colder now.

Arianne pressed her right molars into the inside of her cheek.

'Only that I was clumsy as hell and that no one would accept me as your queen.'

"No… no, of course not," she murmured, though her voice lacked its usual strength.

"He just said he didn’t care about a rematch."

Figures moved around them as another dance began. Jace gently pressed his fingers on her forearm and slowly guided her to safety.

A servant offered her a goblet from the golden tray and she gladly took it. The wine was heady, a blend of dark cherries, ripe plums, and spice—perhaps cinnamon or clove—lingered at the back of her tongue.

"That’s all?" Jace attempted again when she met his dark chocolate eyes over the rim of her chalice.

Arianne nodded, unable to commit to words. She couldn’t bring herself to tell him the truth, not when the sting of Aemond’s insults still made her stomach churn.

"You do not belong here."

"Clumsy blight just like your grandmother - how much does he pay you -"

She realized it wasn't just the words but the way he’d looked at her—like she was fragile, inconsequential, and utterly beneath him.

Besides, what was he insinuating with that? What would they pay her for?

She drew her brows together.

Her company?

Her...her...her... Arianne coughed against the back of her hand, scandalized.

Did he think she was a courtesan?! How preposterous, her family would've disowned her if that were true!

Her mother would have dragged her by the neck to some remote sept and given her to silent sisters - insisting their newly acquired novice be canned for her sins.

Her father -

Arianne's stomach lurched.

Father would consider her dead from that moment on.

Her grip on the goblet tightened, the warmth of the wine doing little to ease the chill coiled in her stomach.

Arianne cursed herself silently for lowering her guard around that malevolent arse and then cursed him into Seven hells, before remembering that cursing was a sin.

'Forgive me Maiden, but truly I do not think you would find Aemond Targaryen palatable either. I think you'd sooner remove his uppity head from his shoulders than let him prattle.'

Ser Galladon he was not.

Jace studied her, the flush of crimson bedecking her cheeks, the tight frown her full lips were settled into - his gaze searching.

'Tavern wench! Tavern wench! How dared he? 'Arianne scrunched her nose - she'd been nothing but courteous! She sought his forgiveness and what did she receive in return? More insults!

The fires of the Freehold, she’d beamed, as though the topic alone could bridge the chasm between them. As though Aemond Targaryen, with his jagged dagger of a tongue and demeanor that would put the Night King to shame, might soften at the shared reverence for their ancestors’ triumphs.

Foolish.

"Naivety, daughter," Her father had tried to lecture her — though clearly in vain —

"is a weakness—one that others will exploit without hesitation. To speak openly, to trust too readily, is to lay yourself bare to a world that feasts on vulnerability."

How could she have let herself believe, even for the briefest of moments, that he might see her differently? Just because she wished it so — because he'd be her uncle by marriage if her dreams came true.

Aemond hated her—clearly hated her. The way he looked at her, with that unnerving pale gaze, piercing through her armor, leaving her flayed and exposed.

"Did my mother put you up to this?" Jace crossed his arms, the movement pulling the fabric of his doublet taut over his broad shoulders. His cape, fastened at one side with a brooch shaped like a dragon in mid-flight, cascaded down in heavy folds of deep crimson velvet.

"My prince?" Arianne blinked, startled.

"Did she ask you to speak to him? To any of them?" he pressed, his frustration bubbling to the surface. "To get close, to learn what they’re planning? Because if she did—"

"Jace," she interrupted, her voice breaking through his rising anger. Arianne batted her lashes in an attempt to clear her mind.

"Gods, no. Nothing like that." She shook her head and took another sip. A thunderbolt charged through her nerves — but his mother had asked her to speak with Lady Tarth! Which she failed to do!

She'd been conversing with that foul boor all night! Arianne returned her chalice to the table lest it slip from her perspiring palms.

He'd appeared there out of nowhere! How was she supposed to breach decorum by ignoring him?! She hadn't managed to gauge Lady Tarth's opinion on the Court welcoming a debate on an already settled succession matter.

"Ah... do not waste thoughts on my uncle then, even his own brother finds him unpalatable. " Jace declared, waving his arm.

 A glint flashed in his eyes of molten umber, and he chuckled.

When he spoke again, his voice was tinged with something whimsical.

"Shall I remind that spiteful cur that he cried to his mother over a silly pig in the Dragonpit?"

Arianne pressed her hand to her lips, stifling a giggle. She shook her head as if to seal the conversation.

She would not think about Aemond Targaryen and his wicked words, at least not until she could cry it out in the safety of her chambers.

Yet her mind could not, would not, quiet down - it tumbled and twisted so vehemently that the hall's music, voices, and pleasantries were but a quiet whisper.

"It’s her ladyship’s decision," Aemond had snarled, his fervid gaze locked on her with a torridity that made her stomach churn.

Why had he said that? If he despised her so thoroughly—why would he pretend to leave such a choice to her? What if she had decided to walk the inner courtyards with him? He'd have to suffer clumsy Arianne the Tavern Wench even more than he already did.

 Would he have laughed openly to her face if she accepted his invitation?

To humiliate her further?

To remind her how little she was suited to hold any position at court, let alone that of a Queen?

Or—her breath lacerated her throat—he had truly meant it and she scorned him by refusing?

Something tumultuous, something that made her chest tighten and her skin clammy invaded her mind.

No, that would be ridiculous. She pushed the thought away as she knew nothing of men or their peculiar behaviors. They were creatures of whims, mother would often say.

However, if a man wanted to spend time with a lady he wouldn't call her someone's mistress.

It would be absurd.

Utterly, veritably unsound.

Was he the only one who thought her frivolous with her honor?

Her thoughts pivoted suddenly, uncomfortably, to Jace.

" She will be my betrothed."

Arianne blanched, eyes widening as it dawned on her. Her eyes flickered to her handsome, curly-haired prince who had been, thank the gods, distracted with sipping his wine.

The tips of her ears tingled.

Jace had said it earlier, so plainly, as if it were an inevitable truth.

No, she couldn't hope. Hope is a fool's errand, her father always said. Jace only said it...well, because of Aemond...that... But...but..., Arianne pulled on her embroidered sleeve so tightly, she could feel the stitching holding onto fabric for its dear life.

A terrible sort of heat suffused her face, the words settling over her like a cloak too heavy to bear.

"Jace, you..." she began, her voice diminishing as she took him in now, beautiful and princely, his warm eyes set on her.

Arianne tried again, her words stumbling over themselves. "Earlier, you—"

"I am leaving!" Luke's voice cut through her attempt, rendering it inconsequential. He stormed past them, face flushed from anger or something else - Arianne could not know.

Jace sighed, his attention drawn away. "Luke—"

"No!" Luke snapped, his voice cracking from the frustration. "Don’t. I’ve had enough of this place, they are all muttering behind our backs—"

Arianne sucked in her bottom lip, glancing at the crowd from where Prince Lucerys escaped. So many green doublets in Targaryen court. Too many green gowns. Hightower green.

"Luke," Jace interrupted, his tone calm but firm. "We’ll leave together. Just wait—"

Luke pushed past them, muttering under his breath, his shoulders stiff with anger.

Jace turned back to Arianne, his large eyes brimming with something apologetic.

"Let me handle this," he rasped gently. She nodded, unable to say anything else. How awful she must be, selfishly caring about her betrothal when Luke could have his whole life upended if the Crown gives weight to Vaemond Velaryon's accusations.

Jacaerys lingered for a moment, then strode after his brother, his crimson cape trailing behind him in a sweeping arc of fire and blood.

Arianne stared at her half-empty cup, her posture rigid, her pulse racing steadily up her neck. The weight of Jace’s words earlier struck her again, and she pressed her lips together, her hands trembling faintly.

Her heart seized.

Betrothed.

Should she write to her father again? Or her Aunt Johanna?

She'd written to the black swan of Lys more often after settling in Dragonstone, the fear of her lord father finding out diminishing with such distance from Stonehelm. Johanna already knew from her last letter that she would be in King's Landing by now.

'Aunt Johanna would know what a man thought. From Lys to Asshai, men had fought for her favor.'

Arianne surveyed the spacious hall for any sign of Lady Tarth's gray updo yet her luck seemed to have run out - the old lady was nowhere in sight. With another curse upon Aemond's name, she relented and decided to retire for tonight.

A knight she did not recognize offered to escort her but she politely declined - she had memorized her way to the Holdfast.

Her handmaid was still awake, giving her evening prayers to the Seven.

Arianne let her untie the lace bindings at her back with no protest and dressed herself for bed. The unadorned, linen chemise shimmered faintly under candlelight. It clung to her form, falling loosely to her calves, as gentle as a breeze.

"Out with it." Miriam crossed her arms, copper hairbrush in hand, once her young Lady Swann quietly sat to have her hair loosened from the tight hold of the braids and brushed.

Arianne's eyes found her maid's reflection in the brass mirror. Miriam's hair was pulled back in a neat chignon of warm sunflowers and her thin eyebrows were narrowed.

"What do you mean?" Arianne pursed her lips.

She'd been so careful to avoid precisely what she imagined was now brewing.

Were her thoughts and secret pains truly so legible?

Her mother had been right in picking Miriam to watch over her, for nothing escaped her notice.

"If you think you'll be Queen you are simpler than I thought..."

A tremble of discomfort passed through her lower back.

Mayhaps, she was simple because Aemond somehow guessed - no, knew - she'd spent countless nights ruminating on those same premises.

It was a plain syllogism really.

She was Saera Targaryen's granddaughter.

Saera was the worst of the Conciliator's children. Nefarious. A clawed harlot.

Therefore, Arianne had that same taint. It poisoned her blood and made people doubt her good graces.

'I need to be above suspicion. Better behaved, as pious as the Queen, then maybe...'

"You're awfully docile. No argument?" Miriam replied with a raised brow, her voice laced with disbelief.

"You're not even trying to grab that fat book and weasel out of - " She waved the brush in the air.

"-my butcher's hands."

Arianne had to huff at her wording.

Her maid had been as gentle as she could but brushing Arianne’s wavy mass of maple-brown hair was unpleasant because it always got tangled. Always.

The knots seemed to multiply with every pass of the brush, like a wild thing refusing to be tamed.

Miriam had learned long ago not to take offense to the occasional wince or gasp from her lady, and to barrel through her refusal to have it done before going to bed.

"Miriam," Arianne whispered softly at last. She swallowed thickly around the weight in her throat. Her fingers twisted nervously in the folds of her chemise because she knew her maid was poring over her reflection in the brass.

"Do you think I have no grace?" She wondered, unwilling to meet Miriam's keen eyes.

The other woman stilled, hairbrush resting lightly in her palm. Arianne knew her handmaid was trying to see her better, but her gaze just wouldn't leave her knees.

"You are a daughter of House Swann." Miriam offered at last.

Her fingers deftly seized one of Arianne's heavy curls, smoothing it between thumb and forefinger.

"Grace Above All. How could you not have it? It is in your blood."

"I am a rotten fruit then." Arianne muttered bitterly. "One-winged swan. Maybe I was swapped in the cradle. Something is wrong—"

"Where is this coming from?" Miriam cut in and crossed her arms.

"I am clumsy," Arianne confessed, her voice catching as she finally met her maid's eyes in the reflection.

"It's unbecoming. Laughable."

Her breath quivered.

She had collided with Jace before during turns and he waved it off, but now - What if he were to arrive at the same conclusion? Clumsy Arianne Swann. Who'd marry her? Certainly not a Velaryon prince.

One other prince found her so unbecoming he wanted her gone from court.

Aemond snarled that she did not belong there.

"My lady," Miriam replied, with a slight raise of her brow, "if you're fishing for compliments at this late hour—"

"I am not!" Arianne snapped, furious heat tickling her cheeks.

"I really...what was father thinking, sending me to Dragonstone? I'm not..." She faltered, her fingers twisting harder in the chemise.

"My grandmother didn't belong here, how could I?" The question left a hole in her ribcage. What Prince Aemond had said gnawed at her insides, because what if it were true — what if she truly was ill-suited for all this?

"You're nothing like her!" Miriam argued with a surprising fierceness.

"She -"

"I know." Arianne cut in, her voice quieter now, the words weighted down by the obsidian stones of Stonehelm.

Miriam sighed, brushing a stray curl back into place with a tenderness that belied her brusque tone.

"Well, you are as comely as she was."

Arianne's nose scrunched.

Her thoughts flew to the image of her grandmother she conjured in her mind from stories—fabled Valyrian hair that shone like woven starlight, cerulean eyes so piercing they could freeze a room. So, so charming supposedly — when she wished to be.

Arianne had none of it.

Her eyes, mossy green like her father’s, had somehow managed to persist through generations of Swann sons and daughters, stubborn and unyielding against both dark browns and palest of blues.

Her father took after Saera in everything else, much to his chagrin.

His hair, a dazzling white-gold, caught the light like the finest gossamer. He carried himself with an almost dragon-like grandeur, and Arianne often thought that if he’d been given a dragon, many would have mistaken him for a true Targaryen prince rather than a scion of an old Andal house.

After beholding the Old King's portrait, she was rather surprised at how much his grandson — her lord father — resembled him.

Yet, if she ever mentioned it to him, he would have septa whip her palms with a thin birch branch.

"I highly doubt that." Arianne shrugged noncommittally. She adjusted the tiny horses on the lapis-lazuli board before her, trying to feign disinterest.

"I just wished to know if dancing was truly a requirement for a lady's luck with marriage prospects."

Her lips pursed into a pout as she fixed the misaligned pieces. A light horse's value is two-thirds of a heavy horse's. It is one of the most versatile pieces. If she had not accepted the exchange and pursued Aemond's with an elephant...

"I’ve seen her portrait, you know," Miriam said after a pause, her voice quieter now, almost conspiratorial.

"Before Lord Swann had it removed. You favor her."

Arianne’s head turned, and she afforded Miriam with a sharp, incredulous look over her shoulder.

"Well, thank the Seven," Miriam added quickly, raising her hands in mock defense, "—it is only her lovely face you inherited and not her temperament. You are not an evil cow like she was, my lady."

"Miriam!" Arianne gasped, though the corners of her mouth twitched with the threat of a smile.

"It is the truth! You'd think being so pretty would make her kind, but she had all the older serving girls beaten if anything displeased her. And everything displeased her in Stonehelm. My mother told me and she does not lie."

Arianne’s fingers paused above the bronze elephant.

Even among her kin, Princess Saera's reputation was far from flattering. Beauty and high birth had done little to soften her temper or foster any measure of humility.

The older members of Swann's household had spoken of her sparingly, but what they said painted a picture of a woman whose beauty was matched only by her cruelty.

Arianne often found herself wondering if her grandfather loved his Targaryen princess. She had been his wife, but, according to her father, Princess Saera was hoisted on him without much room for debate.

She had not even been a maiden when they wed.

King Jaehaerys had taken the life of a man who deflowered her and forced her to marry after that debauchery.

She abandoned her son when she decided to leave for Essos. My father — then only a babe.

Now her name lingered in her family’s history like a shadow, dark and unwelcome.

"You are an awful flatterer, Miriam," Arianne said finally, her voice tinged with dry amusement, breaking the heavy silence.

"I practice," Miriam quipped, her grin flashing.

"Now, enough of this. I need to brush your hair. Gods know it will tangle into a viper’s nest if I don’t."

Arianne sighed dramatically, leaning back into the chair with exaggerated resignation.

"So, I look like the most hated woman in the Seven Kingdoms, and I have the grace of a tavern wench. What merciful gods—"

"Your embroidery is also atrocious, must I remind you." Miriam tutted, hiding her grin behind the copper hairbrush.

Arianne’s lips parted in a scandalized gasp.

"I take it back, you—"

"But," Miriam interrupted again, her voice softening. "you are courteous and kind, and quick-witted besides. I am certain everything will turn out well."

Kind. 

The word did nothing to assuage her distress. Kindness was one of those virtues her father considered a demerit.

Arianne winced as the bristles caught a knot in her waves.

"Being kind does not help me here. I'd rather dance well, sing, and be more like Rhaena." She uttered morosely.

While Arianne's introduction to the Red Keep was as successful as Rhoyne's war on Valyria — courtesy of that evil one-eyed demon, Rhaena Targaryen thrived.

The Hightowers' contempt for Prince Daemon did little to dim her effortless charm. If she were not already promised to Lucerys Velaryon, she would have to chase suitors away with a sword.

She glided along the marble while dancing — engaging in conversations and settling debates — with a poise Arianne could not help but envy.

Jace too, seemed to possess an innate penchant for diplomacy, as though he had been born with the ability to weave alliances.

Even if they muttered behind his back about his dark curls, not one of them could call him an unworthy heir.

Miriam sighed, releasing the strand of her lady's hair she had intended to brush. She set the torture device down deliberately, her hands folding in front of her.

"If you truly lacked any grace, do you think Lord Donnel would have a stack of letters as tall as you, all asking for your hand?"

Arianne huffed.

"It’s my dowry," she replied with a faint shrug. "Not me."

"It is not your dowry," Miriam's huff bled with exasperation.

Arianne’s lips twitched as if to argue, but Miriam pressed on.

"Besides," she said slyly, long fingers curling around the copper brush.

"Prince Jacaerys fancies you."

Her response drowned in the fierce rush of blood, her eyes widening.

"She will be my betrothed."

The beating muscle in her chest billowed turbulently. She couldn't - wouldn't dare hope.

Alas, Arianne's disobedient, grasping heart could envision it. 

Jacaerys Velaryon taking his mother's name.

Jacaerys Targaryen, the first of his name, getting crowned, his eyes as dark as storm-tossed waves.

Jacaerys holding her hand and helping her sit on the saddle. Securing them with belts. The air whips at her cheeks as Vermax soars ever higher.

Their wedding feast - his cloak on her shoulders.

Jace feeds her their marital bread, and she smiles, and smiles, and smiles, as Queen Alysanne's golden crown decorates her head.

Pain flared from her left temple as bristles caught in another tangle of her luxuriant chestnut curls.

"H-how would you know?" Arianne sputtered, pinching the bridge of her nose. 'What foolish, nonsensical dreams.'

 They would be old before supplanting his mother as King and Queen. Princess Rhaenyra had years ahead of her, gods willing.

"He’s never said anything like it," She added, voice trembling from the echo of the valyrian response he gave to Aemond.

Miriam's hand stilled, her brush pausing midair.

Arianne peered at her maid's exasperated visage.

"Because I am not blind." The older woman declared levelly. One of the burning wicks gave a few last flickers of warm light before dying in a pool of molten wax.

Arianne shook her head, her voice dropping into a resigned whisper.

"Even if he did, it wouldn’t matter. It won’t be his decision."

Because father was right. Princess Rhaenyra might not wish to ally with them through Jace, but rather one of her younger sons.

Lady Swann furrowed her brows.

Joffrey, Aegon and Viserys were just boys and she was a woman grown. Besides, it was rotten luck to marry anything less than a firstborn son — her father would not have it. 

He would prefer giving her to Bryen Caron even, she imagined. It did not matter that he was one of the Carons, a simpleton or that he lost half his teeth in a brawl because he was Lord Royce's eldest son. Heir to Nightsong. If she were to wed him, Arianne knew it would be her blood one day inheriting everything — her firstborn son by Bryen. 

If she were to wed Prince Joffrey Velaryon, their sons — Lord Donnel Swann's grandsons — would inherit...nothing. 

No, father would absolutely not have it.

Jace was Rhaenyra's heir, and no simpleton. If she could marry him, if only...

If gods could be merciful for once, because she liked him and her father would be proud of her — marrying the best firstborn son in the kingdom. 

His grandsons would inherit the Iron Throne.

Arianne placed the bronze dragon in front of teal king, isolating him. Her imaginary opponent would suffer a defeat in three. It irked her, the fact that if she had not exchanged her light horse, she might have won against Aemond Targaryen. 

But it did not matter that she liked Jace.

Jacaerys Velaryon and her both were little more than tools for lucrative bargains and enterprising alliances. He, something of a rarity, a coveted tool of pure valyrian steel, an heir, and she — a common one of plain iron, just another noble lady awaiting her father's decision about the remainder of her life.

Miriam tilted her chin up with the tip of her index finger.

"Princess Rhaenyra seems fond of you." Her voice was as soft as a goose pillow, and Arianne knew she merely wished to soothe her ache.

Yet, the words tightened around her throat like feral hands. 

Princess Rhaenyra expected her to have done what was ordered.

Tears welled in her eyes, so, so full of salt.

She tried to blink them away, but the dam broke before she could stop it.

"She won’t be after tonight," Arianne whispered, her voice cracking.

How was she to explain that she tried conversing with Lady Tarth, when Aemond Targaryen and his venom soured the older woman's mood?

Aemond.

His name had an acrid aftertaste.

Like a curse.

"Mayhaps everything would turn out well if you'd say your prayers for once." Miriam rolled her eyes and spoke no more, intent on detangling her lady's hair for bed.

Prayers helped no one. She ought to strengthen her position like bolstering catapults with a heavy-horse.

With a soft, nearly imperceptible groan, Arianne stood up once her handmaid concluded she'd suffered enough. She lifted a hand to her forehead, rubbing it as if trying to push away the ache that settled there.

The bed appeared irresistibly soft.

Arianne gathered the Fires of the Freehold into her arms and shoved the plush covers aside when Miriam's firm grasp caught her shoulder.

"Do not even think it! You need rest!"

"But only one paragraph-" Arianne insisted, her knuckles paling with the effort to resist her maid's seizure of precious tome.

"Your lack of sleep is why such calumnies weight on your mind, my lady. Give me the book and go to bed."

She huffed, and with a glare, relinquished The Fires. Arianne burrowed beneath the covers, throwing a few pillows to the floor in an unladylike form of protest.

"I do not have to listen to you, you know. I'm your Lady." She muttered.

Miriam snorted and doused the candles.

.

.

.

The hour of the nightingale came with the first, thin rays of sun. Arianne tossed in her bed, reluctant to leave the warm comfort of it.

More so since she had a task at hand. To find Lady Tarth in the Great Hall during the morning assembly. She will somehow have to juggle it with picking out silks for Princess Rhaenyra's new gowns. Her belly was growing larger by the day, as was the babe in it.

Younger princes also had to be escorted to their lessons, but Arianne hoped Lady Massey could cover for her.

'I won't be able to see Jace before supper.'

Knowing her maid would be knocking soon enough, she dressed herself in a simple woolen dress of rather pale pink.

Its sleeves, long and flowing, were adorned with a fine, white embroidery that danced in subtle patterns along the edges, adding a touch of grace to the otherwise modest garment.

She tied a ruby-red silk girdle around her waist. It was Myrish, of pristine quality — its sheen catching the light with each movement, and Arianne adored how the ends of the sash cascaded over her hips. The crimson-painted fabric originated from Tyrosh, where sea snails producing the color were abundant.

The door creaked open, and Miriam entered without a word.

She raised an eyebrow at Arianne's choice of attire but made no comment.

"Has my father written to me?" The young Lady Swann yawned, sitting immobile as her handmaid's fingers deftly braided the hair over the crown of her head.

"I will go and check if any ravens came for you, my Lady."

The single braid kept the hair away from Arianne's face, looping behind her ears like a delicate headband.

The rest cascaded freely down her back.

When Arianne left her chamber the Holdfast was rather empty, save for other ladies scrambling to fulfill their duties. She caught the flash of green once she passed the corridor leading to royal suites.

The Queen?

Alicent Hightower was rushing — clad in an exquisite emerald gown, she passed Rhaenyra's youngest lady-in-waiting without a glance. Beside her walked a knight of the Kingsguard. Arianne curtsied but by the time she looked up they were paces away from her already.

"Delicate situation in the prince's chambers—"

The rest Arianne could not hear because the Queen rounded the corner and disappeared.

She was rather dismayed because she had hoped the most important woman in the realm would have remembered her from last night. Arianne practiced her introduction to perfection, and even, if briefly, managed to speak to Queen Alicent. She was from Oldtown! The most wonderful town in the Seven Kingdoms! The Conclave conducted their meetings there, and the library - the grandest in the Realm! The Hightower itself is the tallest structure ever built!

Arianne asked if she had ever been in the Citadel and the Queen merely smiled. "Rarely I am asked about the Conclave and my House. But no, women are not permitted inside."

Alicent dismissed her gently, as people waited in line to speak to the current ruler of the Seven Kingdoms in all but name, and Arianne was overcome with a soft sort of melancholy.

When she was a slight girl of eight, her mother said the same thing after Arianne had professed she would love to marry a Hightower boy because then she would go live there and read all the books in the Citadel.

' "Lord Hightower does not rule over the Conclave, little pearl. The Maesters choose who can enter."

"Then I will become a maester, mother." She scrunched her nose in childish determination.

"Silly, girls cannot be maesters. They cannot go to the Citadel." Her brother Robb, eleven of age and golden-haired, pinched her cheek.

"Never?"

"No, sweetling." Her mother patted her head. "Only the good Queen Alysanne was granted entrance."

Arianne drew her brows together.

"Then I could become a Queen one day." She declared, much to her mother's chagrin.

Her brother guffawed and chucked a wooden toy at her.

"A Queen of froggy ponds only—" '

The Great Hall was full of murmur — the courtiers forming an endless sea of silks and velvet. The morning sun filtered through the high windows, casting long beams of light that made the polished stone floor gleam.

The stained glass fascinated Arianne, depicting flames in the warmest ochre, the dragons with scales of darkest coal to ivory.

'The white one must be Meraxes.'

She spied Rhaena Targaryen close to one of the gargantuan columns, not far from the throne. She was conversing animatedly while several ladies nodded along with her every word. A young knight seemed to have acquired stars in his eyes as he glanced shyly at the silver-haired daughter of Laena Velaryon.

Taking a breath, Arianne made her way toward Rhaena, weaving through the courtier clusters with a quiet, deliberate determination. A caustic pang of envy almost made her hesitate.

When she finally reached the small circle of conversation, she smiled nervously.

"Arianne," Her friend beckoned her close, and a woman Arianne was certain was one of the Roxtons side-stepped to allow her in.

The others in the group, seeing Rhaena’s welcoming gesture, gave nods of acknowledgment, some of them even offering polite smiles.

"Have you met my dearest cousin, Lady Swann? The Keep's cyvasse champion." Targaryen princess introduced her. Arianne blanched at her choice of words, they were hardly cousins, and she was hardly a champion.

Prince Aemond held that informal title, she had asked around.

Of course, he did. Hateful prick.

"Rhaena," Arianne began, her fingers straightening down her ruby belt. “if I might speak with you in private for a moment?”

Rhaena’s smile faltered only slightly, the faintest edge of surprise crossing her face.

Someone cleared their throat.

The others clearly didn’t appreciate being brushed aside, and Arianne could sense their collective annoyance.

“Oh,” one of the ladies murmured, her voice dripping with a subtle, masked irritation. “How… important, I wonder, that Saera's granddaughter requires private conversation.”

Several nods erupted around the group.

"Is she marrying into Boltons with those colors on her?"

Arianne groaned inwardly. It was important! She had no time for idle chitter-chatter.

The corner of Rhaena's lovely mouth curved into a smile — with just a touch of feigned disappointment.

“Ladies, I do hope you will forgive me. I am terribly needed elsewhere.” She inclined her head apologetically before her gaze returned to Arianne.

“Of course, Arianne,” Rhaena linked their elbows and let the Swann girl lead her away.

“I’m certain these lovely ladies will continue their discussion in my absence.”

Arianne hurried through the mass of people, trying to decide where they might speak without interruptions. They exited the Great Hall before she pursed her lips.

"How do you do it? So easily?" Arianne sighed, eyeing Rhaena from the corner of her eye.

"Do what?"

"The court thing." She clarified as they descended the first staircase. "They all like you."

Rhaena giggled, a charming tinkle of sound.

"Well, I don't ask for privacy when everyone is starved for gossip. It reflects poorly." She squeezed Arianne's arm before they both greeted several of King Viserys' dignitaries.

Once at a safe distance from prying ears, Arianne groaned.

 "I hate gossip." Her free hand brushed over her roseate skirts.

Especially when it is directed at me. Bolton? What would she do all the way up North?

The corners of Rhaena's eyes crinkled, lashes fluttering in what one might consider a mild amusement.

They turned the corner, entering the spacious corridor that opened into a long loggia. Between the columns, the view of the lush greenery of the castle grounds gave Arianne's heart a tug.

They seemed to stretch for miles, full of pebbled paths and old trees.

Stonehelm had well-cared-for grounds as well, her mother considered their beauty a reflection of her work as the Lady of the House, but they were perhaps one-third of the size.

One of Arianne's earliest memories entailed her older brother shoving her into the fish pond before running away. His palms have been raw red for weeks from the lashes he received as a punishment.

She pulled at Rhaena's crimson sleeve lightly, not wanting to damage the brocade.

"I need your help." She whispered, pretending to peruse the detailed tapestry on the nearest wall.

Yet her breath caught mid-thought, her eyes widening. 

'Wait a moment, are those people bare...?'

The tapestry's scandalous display—a swirl of figures entwined in unmistakably Essosi decadence—left her blinking, her cheeks heating in quiet horror.

She quickly averted her gaze to the stone floor underneath their feet, a sudden and oppressive flush of mortification entering her mind — were those things she would have to do with a husband? The septa said a woman is supposed to lie down and not think about it, but those women weren't lying down, they were on hands and knees and the men — the men —

Would Jace do that to her?

Her vision spun.

"Arianne," Rhaena laughed lightly.

"I think our castle in Pentos would've made you faint. These are rather tame—"

"They are naked!" Arianne quaked, nudging her friend towards the stone bench nestled against the outer columns, safely distanced from those sinful textiles.

"Can you help me, Rhaena?" Her tone was laced with an urgency born of desperation.

"I need to speak to Lady Tarth and last night...well, your cousin Aemond interrupted me and it was...tense. W-would she talk to me again?"

Rhaena tilted her head, her expression poised somewhere between curiosity and suspicion.

"So that is what you were doing with that thief." She flicked her moonlight strands behind her shoulder.

"I wasn't doing anything with him." Arianne retorted quickly, her face flushing deeper.

'Only one dance, after which he proceeded to compare me to a Tavern Wench and found me lesser. Rude twat!'

Rhaena's cheek twitched.

"Hmmm," she murmured, as if deciding whether to let the matter drop. "Let us see what we can do. You do know Lady Tarth plays cyvasse, don't you?"

Arianne blinked.

"No...she does? H-how do you know?"

Rhaena sighed, the sound reminding lady Swann of her mother when she'd caught her sneaking cakes from the kitchens.

"Ser Edric Wylde told me." Her brows, as pale as gossamer threads narrowed at Arianne's confused stare.

"Can you imagine he has twenty-seven younger siblings? And an older brother, Jarlon." She added, tone decorated with the slightest of reprimands.

"You asked me how — by speaking to people more, making them feel important. Men are honestly...they would talk until the end of time if they thought their voice impressed a woman. One of my tutors always emphasized the art of speaking as essential as wielding a sword."

Arianne deflated, peering down at the couple promenading along the grounds. What tutors? She had her septa and castle's maester.

"Speaking of Edric," Rhaena continued smoothly. " his younger sister told me my dragon-pilfering cousin followed you into the gardens that night."

Arianne's throat seized.

"W-who?"

"Aemond." Her friend clarified levelly.

"So, what is happening? I am warning you, Arianne, if you're gonna fancy a man who stole my mother's dra—"

"That is utterly insane," Arianne interjected, her tone sharp with disbelief.

'Fancy Aemond?!'

The thought itself was enough to make her innards twist.

She might as well fancy a Skagosi cannibal.

"I haven't even seen him, so how would I know if he went to the gardens?" The lie left her lips hastily, escaping her clamped throat. The last thing she needed was for anyone else to find out she kicked a prince in the shin and acted in a manner unbecoming of a lady.

Arianne's verdant gaze, in an attempt to avoid Rhaena's, landed briefly on one of the tapestries.

The naked male was kneeling between the woman's legs. 'W-was he kissing her womanhood?'

Her mouth dried.

There were stories, gossip, about Prince Aegon's proclivities, but a brief, and very, very torrid thought made her palms clammy — she'd wondered if that loathsome paragon of vanity ever did engage in carnal indulgence like the bodies — pale as ivory or golden as the sun — depicted here.

The concept itself, of a man like Aemond on his knees sent a strange jolt to the bottom of her belly.

Arianne wondered what could make the man commanding the greatest military power in the Seven Kingdoms - Vhagar - kneel.

Then again, Targaryens were quite strange with their customs.

Her nails bit into her palm violently and she turned back to Rhaena.

'Evening prayers would do me well.'

"Please, help me. I do not want to disappoint Rhaenyra." Arianne's voice softened, the plea woven into her words unmistakable.

Rhaena studied her for a few moments, before relenting.

"Alright. Let us find her first."

She stood up and fixed her exquisite gown made of vermilion brocade. Two young women spoke in hushed tones until they reached the main corridor.

For once, Arianne sensed her luck returning, because Lady Tarth appeared on the stairs leading toward the Great Hall, her mood evidently buoyant.

"Just allow me to speak first, Arianne,"

Rhaena urged into her ear.

.

.

.

Arianne was beaming.

She couldn't even control the light skip to her steps as she returned to Holdfast. Lady Tarth had not held last night against her, and more — Rhaenyra would be pleased with what Arianne had learned.

The older woman thought Lucerys Velaryon was Lord Corlys' chosen heir. He should inherit Driftmark.

This could not have turned better for Arianne.

She hurried to Lady Massey's room to help with the silk delivery. The lingering warmth of her conversation with Lady Tarth left her feeling oddly jovial, a rare sense of triumph settling over her. If she thought on it, the Lady of the Evenstar Fall was rather nice company.

They conversed about the famous cyvasse game between King Jaehaerys and Lord Rogar Baratheon.

Lady Tarth appeared to be impressed by her commentary of the game.

"The trebuchet could've negated the King's spearmen. Had Lord Baratheon noticed the dragon was pinned, he could've trapped the King's king. Death in four."

Lady Tarth had tilted her head at that, her dark eyes glimmering.

"A sharp observation, my dear. A few would dare voice it."

The Lady of Evenstar even lamented, half in jest, that all her sons were already wed. "If they weren't, I would gladly welcome a clever mind like yours into my household."

It brought an influx of warmth to Arianne's cheeks.

Her heart tittered in hopes that Princess Rhaenyra would see her in a similar light.

Arianne knocked on Lady Elinda Massey's door, her incisors biting into her lower lip. 'Gods, let it be Jace, please, please, because if not —

If not him, then who, and whoever it was, they could hardly match the prestige of a future king — Jace, her curly-haired Galladon of Morne.'

Marriage loomed ever large on the horizon, not as a choice but as a certainty.

Father had all but said so — she would be married by the year's end. Eight and ten almost, it was nigh-time.

The only reason he had waited this long was because of Jacaerys Velaryon. 

"You are my only daughter, Arianne — my pearl beyond price. I would see you flourish."

If not Jace, then Lord Paramount, she supposed. Father would not settle for less. Not for Bryen Caron. Not for old Lord Horpe.

Arianne hoped he had not meant to offer her to the dreary North, even if Cregan Stark was allegedly handsome and her age. Besides, why would Lord Cregan even want a southron wife?

Her lips twisted into a wry smile at that.

How ironic that she could pin a dragon or corner a king on the board regardless of her opponent, but remained so helpless when it came to plotting her own future.

Just as she raised her hand to knock again, the door creaked open to reveal a rather disheveled Elinda.

"Arianne," She said, her tone hushed and hurried.

"I was looking everywhere for you. But I couldn't find you so..."

“What’s wrong?” Arianne asked, a lilt of unease in her voice. It must have been something of importance, because Lady Massey rarely lost composure, her blue eyes always reminiscent of calm seas.

“The Library’s custodian came by, and…” Elinda hesitated, her expression tightening. “Well, he seemed furious. He had two Septas with him.”

Custodian? What possible —

Arianne felt her pulse quicken, her stomach sinking.

“What?”

“They went to your chambers.”

The words hit her like a thunderclap, her mind scrambling to make sense of them.

'Gods, oh gods.'

Without another word, she turned and rushed toward her chambers, her heart pounding louder with each step.

As she approached, she could already hear the commotion inside.

“You!”

The custodian’s voice, sharp as an executioner's blade, rang out the moment she came into view.

Arianne's palms grew damp.

She swallowed.

His wrinkly face was flushed, and his pointed index finger trembled with outrage.

The door to her chambers stood wide open, and from within, she could hear Miriam’s voice raised in protest against the clipped tones of a woman.

“How dare you steal a tome of such rarity from the library! To think your ladyship even involved a prince in it!”

Arianne halted just outside the threshold, her body locking tightly as her heart plummeted.

'The Fires of the Freehold!

What? How... How in the Known World did he —'

A jagged tightness clogged her throat.

'How could he know? Jace...'

Arianne's lungs refused to expand.

She could not get Jace in trouble!

She swallowed hard, forcing herself to curtsy and step inside, her movements wooden and jerky.

"There she is!" A plump woman, adorned in the simple, gray robes of a Septa pointed a finger at her.

"You'd be wise to offer an explanation for how this came into your hands!"

The taller Septa clutched The Fires of the Freehold against her chest as though it were the crown jewels, her face a mask of disdain.

"I just...borrowed it to read." Arianne felt as though somebody else possessed her body and spoke because she could not. 

"I didn't steal it!"

“Thief!” the plump Septa spat, her voice burning like a birch strike against flesh.

'Seven help me!'

“No, no, no, that is not true!” Arianne protested, waving her hands desperately.

“I would have returned it after I finished!”

"Confess it to a Septon and pray the Gods forgive you this foul sin, young lady." The taller one intoned coldly.

"And your princess has already been informed."

Arianne’s vision blurred, her heart lurching violently.

'Rhaenyra knows?

Oh no,no,no,nonononono —'

Her mind reeled, trying to piece it together. She hadn’t told anyone about the book. Jace and her alone know so... 

No one, except—

"I am reading The Fires of the Freehold now. Have you read it?"

"Of course. But all known copies, all six of them, are here or the Citadel. How did you get your pretty hands on the tome?"

She froze.

Aemond.

Her stomach clenched painfully, her thoughts spiraling into chaos. The betrayal burned like dragonfire, scorching her from within.

Aemond.

Aemond.

Her chest tightened as white-hot anger whirled inside her vessels, mingling with the iron in her blood. 

He offered to help her translate it! Only to...Arianne, you idiotic girl — how could you even tell him —

Aemond.

Arianne curled her fingers.

Aemond — gods curse him and his name.

It had to be him.

It was not her, and it was certainly not Jace.

She dug them so deep into her clammy palms that it hurt, but the pain felt distant - almost insignificant against the reality of the situation.

They told her princess.

She will be sent away. Punished.

Father will —

It was unbearable. The humiliation.

She glanced after the two women as they exited her chambers.

If she explained it to Rhaenyra, then maybe...

Miriam just stared at her, unable to find the right words. Arianne could not fault her for it, because her own throat was rendered useless.

She walked out and followed a corridor until it turned left towards the royal suites. Princess Rhaenyra would not — she would not send her away, would she?

Arianne’s heels clicked softly against the stone floor as she blindly passed several handmaidens and guards. 

Why? How could he do this to her? She did not even finish translating the massacre of Quarlon's entire army under the walls of Norvos. The scouring of Lorath!

What had she done to provoke this cruelty? She replayed their conversation about Galendro's work, searching for the moment she had erred so egregiously that he would do this. Was it because she rejected his offer?

How petty! Could a Prince be so spiteful?

Did he not say they were even now? Arianne scrunched her nose. One day she would make him pay for this humiliation — knowing damn well she could not do so now, he was a Prince, but one day - when she weds the Crown Prince — she would make Aemond Targaryen regret it. She would find the thing he cherished most and deprive him of it.

As if Princess Rhaenyra would ever accept her hand for Jace after this, she thought morosely.

Arianne halted outside the large, double doors.

The torchlights along the corridor danced on the carved dragons etched into the wood, their eyes gleaming like rubies in the dim light.

They were slightly ajar and she frowned — Where were all the handmaidens, servants, and ladies-in-waiting?

Then, voices spilled through the crack, low but unmistakable.

"Ah, the maesters." Prince Daemon's voice was a drawl, his disdain palpable even through the thick oak. "Of course. It is they who keep him… addled on milk of the poppy while the Hightowers warm his throne."

"Rhaenyra, if you would see him without it, almost blind with suffering."

Arianne blinked. That voice — the Queen's?

She realized with a jolt that she was eavesdropping. Her fingers hovered near the doorframe, but her feet refused to retreat.

What if they spoke of her transgression? Would Queen Alicent press Rhaenyra to send away her unruly lady-in-waiting? Her cheeks burned at the thought.

"Oh, Alicent, I have no doubt it was… an act of the purest mercy, but tell me, for the King’s suffering, did the maesters also prescribe the removal of Targaryen heraldry and the installation in its stead of various statues and stars?" Prince Daemon snarled.

A barely audible sigh of relief escaped Arianne's lips.

They were not speaking about her mishap with the book.

The silence fell for a few uncomfortable seconds and then the Queen's voice lifted again, all steel and iron.

"The emblems of the Seven serve only to guide us on an uncertain path. To remind us of a higher authority."

"Speaking of authority," Rhaenyra interjected. "what is the Crown's decision regarding Vaemond Velaryon's brazen insult?"

"Insult." Alicent intoned.

"The King's Hand has sent a letter to Driftmark. Ser Vaemond is entitled to petition His Grace to consider this matter."

"When?" Rhaenyra pressed.

"A moon from now," Alicent replied smoothly, her tone betraying no hint of emotion. Or perhaps the heavy wood hid it from Arianne.

"The Books of Law and the Seven’s mercy grant time for the preparation of petitions and evidence."

'A moon? If father reached Griffin's Roost, he should be here by then as well.' She sent a letter there just days ago.

A flicker of hope ignited in Arianne's chest, only to be swiftly doused by cold dread.

A bout of nausea churned in her stomach—not for fear of punishment over the book, but for what one whole month might mean. More than enough time for Rhaenyra to come to an accord with Princess Rhaenys, which would mean —

it would not be her who would marry Jace.

"And with the condition my father is in, who will sit in judgment of my son’s claim on his own inheritance?" Princess Rhaenyra’s voice pulled Arianne from her spiraling thoughts.

"That would be me, " The Queen replied evenly, "and the Hand."

Arianne caught the faint sound of Daemon scoffing, though the noise barely carried before Alicent’s voice sliced through once more.

"But be assured, the Father is just and commands me to forget the accusations you have hurled in this room today."

'What accusations?'

She scarcely had time to process the words before the door creaked, and Alicent swept out, her green skirts rustling.

Arianne's breath breath hitched as the Queen’s sharp gaze fell on her, so utterly unreadable. Hastily, she dipped into a low curtsy, her head bowed in deference.

"Your Grace," she murmured.

For a moment that stretched unbearably long, Queen Alicent stood still, her silence heavy as a drawn blade. Then, with a faint, almost imperceptible nod, she turned on her heel and glided down the corridor like a specter, leaving Arianne to rise on trembling legs.

She swallowed thrice before knocking on the halfway-open door.

Inside, Rhaenyra’s voice was the first to answer. “Arianne,” she sighed, her tone laced with a weariness that only served to deepen the tension in Arianne’s chest.

'Mother grand mercy to your humble daughter, Maiden guide me —'

Adjusting her silken girdle, Arianne stepped into the room.

She lowered herself into a graceful curtsy before both Rhaenyra and Daemon.

“My princess,” she addressed Rhaenyra with the utmost respect, then turned to Daemon, offering the same courtesy.

“My Prince.”

Rhaenyra studied her for a moment, then nodded, her expression unreadable.

“You may rise, Arianne.”

Before she could proclaim and insist how terribly sorry and repentant she was, Daemon’s voice cut through the silence, as biting as the frost.

“They said my aunt Saera stole jewelry from her mother, Queen Alysanne.” He shot Arianne a glance, his blue eyes gleaming with mischief.

“You steal books. Quite the downgrade, if I must speak plainly.”

Arianne stiffened, gaze cast downward. 

Well, if mocking was her punishment, she should be thanking the Seven.

Aemond's foul grin flitted through her thoughts. She realized there was a certain similarity, a likeness of sorts, between him and his uncle, The Rogue Prince.

Except, she highly doubted Daemon stalked around reporting people for sneaking books out of the library.

Rhaenyra shot the Prince a sharp, warning look, her brow furrowing slightly.

“Let me speak with her, Valzyris." (Husband.)

Daemon raised a pale eyebrow but inclined his head, stepping back. He sat in one of the armchairs and crossed his arms.

Arianne’s breath caught in her throat as the words tumbled out, almost as if she had no control over them.

“I swear I didn’t steal it!”

"I would never steal anything!"

Her voice cracked, desperation creeping into the edges of her words.

“I just borrowed it! Please forgive me! It was a misunderstanding—"

Daemon, a glint of curiosity in his eyes, shook his head and snorted.

“Who did you anger enough to have them report you?” He shrugged with feigned innocence.

“Everyone sneaks in there all the time and—"

Rhaenyra glared at him sharply, her eyes narrowing with a warning.

Daemon raised his hands in a gesture of surrender, his expression shifting to one of mock defeat.

"Very well, Your Grace," he muttered, then turned and exited the room, clearly deciding to leave the matter to his wife.

Rhaenyra took a long breath, turning back to Arianne with a tiredness to her gaze.

“You are quite adept at following the rules, even at your detriment sometimes. I know you didn’t steal it.”

Oh.

Arianne blinked, the weight of the words grounding her in relief.

Thank the gods —

"Because my son borrowed it for you."

A candle flickered between Arianne's breaths.

Her heart twisted.

She cleared her throat, before shaking her head.

"Prince Jacaerys would not —"

"Oh, he would." Rhaenyra flicked her hand dismissively. She leaned back into the cushioned chair, sharp eyes poring over her lady-in-waiting.

Arianne did her best to keep her trembling hands steady — clasped together in front of her stomach. A sliver of dread tickled her spine.

“And I think I know why,” The Crown Princess continued, her tone pensive.

"He is overly fond of you."

Arianne paled.

She dared not raise her gaze to meet Rhaenyra's.

Fond of her?

How could it be that the one thing she wished to hear more than anything now sounded so damnable? So sinful? So uncomfortable?

Because Arianne knew, or at least, she had an inkling, that Rhaenyra was not going to entertain the idea of an alliance born of an infatuation. Less so, if it incited her firstborn son  — her heir — to act unruly.

Rhaenyra studied her for a long moment, her expression inscrutable.

"I will not pretend there isn't," The future Queen paused, perusing the embroidery decorating her sleeves.

"A consideration about a betrothal." Her eyes, now murky as the riotous seas, met Arianne's fearful green ones.

She swallowed yet again.

“But until such time,” Rhaenyra declared, hands resting on her swollen belly.

“I expect you not to encourage him.”

The seas pulled her under. Arianne's face reddened. She was not, was she? 

Her mother had told her the same day she had flowered to behave with care. "Men will look at you, daughter — and some of them will look at you differently now. They'll want what belongs to your future husband. A virtuous lady must never instigate such aspirations."

 “Your Grace, I would never—”

Rhaenyra raised a hand, silencing her.

“Dragon’s blood runs hot, Arianne. I know it better than most. The Hightowers might whisper treason about his parentage, but he is my son. A Targaryen. He will go after what he thinks he wants.” She exhaled sharply, shaking her head.

“Surely, you must understand the trouble this… fondness could bring. Jacaerys is my heir. He will one day sit on the Iron Throne. His heart belongs to the future of the Seven Kingdoms."

Arianne’s heart twisted, shame and disbelief surging within her. She itched to say so many things — that she considered the future, that she would never bring him trouble, that her heart belonged to it too.

Yet, she could not.

She could not utter any of those things. Tears welled in her eyes.

"I swear Prince Jacaerys had nothing to do with this." The lie tumbled from her dry lips.

Father is going to be so furious with her. How dare that hateful prick ruin her life?! Oh, if she could strangle Aemond —

Before the silence could stretch further, the door to the chamber flew open with a thud.

“It was me, Mother!”

Arianne's long-lashed eyes widened.

Jace burst into the room, still clad in his training tunic, his dark hair in disarray.

Rhaenyra turned sharply, her brows lifting in surprise at his abrupt entrance. He breathed loudly, his chest rising and falling as if he had run the length of the castle to be here.

Green met brown and Arianne's pulse upsurged to her ears. She glanced down first, unable to do anything else under Rhaenyra's stare.

Scarlett heat enveloped her cheeks.

Jace stepped in front of her, as if to shield her.

“Do not blame lady Arianne,” he addressed his mother, though Arianne could not see his expression.

“I borrowed the book for her. It was my idea.”

He is making it worse. Her gallant prince.

While her heart melted at his words, her head knew better. This would only give weight to Princess Rhaenyra's concerns.

His hands were clenched at his sides, his shoulders drawn taut as though bracing himself for a storm.

Rhaenyra’s face shifted as she took in her son's eagerness. She regarded him for a moment, her lips pressed into a thin line, before she spoke, her voice calm but heavy with authority.

"Leave us, Arianne."

Arianne curtsied stiffly, her face ashen as she slowly retreated. Still, she dared not meet Jace's tender gaze.

She could still hear the faint murmurs from within once shutting the heavy door behind herself —Rhaenyra's controlled diatribe, Jace's desperate pleading.

But none of it reached her as she stumbled away, her thoughts a whirlpool lapping at the inside of her skull.

Arianne had barely taken a step before the tears overwhelmed her eyes, blurring the corridors before her.

She leaned against the cool stone wall, sobbing.

She had not even told Rhaenyra about Lady Tarth — not that it mattered now. Rhaenyra was disappointed in her.

With her behavior. With Jace's behavior.

'Oh, gods, I'll never read any book ever again.'

 Arianne gnawed on her bottom lip and instant regret flooded her veins. 'Please, just not the books. Leave the books. I didn't mean it.'

Her hands trembled as she wiped furiously at her face, but it only made the tears fall harder.

Arianne slowly made her way through the Holdfast. The weight of Rhaenyra's words crushed her.

Betrothal was possible, but, but, but —

'What would father think?'

Her legs almost gave out and she had to steady herself lest she fall down the polished staircase.

The very idea of him knowing about this, knowing of the whispered accusations and the suspicions cast upon her…

'Stranger take Aemond Targaryen!'

 If a word of this were to reach her father—if he even heard a whisper about the borrowed book—he would never forgive her.

He held onto grudges as if they were treasures.

She could plead her case walking barefoot from the Wall to Sunspear and it would be to no avail.

The punishment would be swift, and cruel, and final. Would he marry her off to some old minor lord to put an end to her folly? Some distant, distant noble she could never stand, a man old enough to be her grandfather, shackling her to a life she couldn’t bear? Or perhaps he'd take harsher measures, thinking it a failure of her upbringing. 

Silent sisters would await her.

Oh, she'd rather run to Essos like Saera once did.

To Lys, to Aunt Johanna.

She would take her in, Arianne knew. But she would truly be dead to her parents then — their hearts would shatter to learn their daughter had become a lyseni whore.

'Would Rhaenyra write to them about this? Maybe she would not? No one else seemed to even know but her, Custodian, and those septas.'

Arianne rubbed her teary eyes with the back of her hands.

She hurried, crossing the narrow hall and the three ladies seated on the wooden bench. The Queen did not seem to even mention her, she was there to discuss the petition for Driftmark.

Arianne pressed her eyelids tightly together, wishing desperately for the weight to lift, for the tears to stop.

There was nothing to do but wait.

Oh, how much she loathed powerlessness.

If only she could hide somewhere, anywhere, just until this awful sobbing stopped. Her face must look blotchy and ugly from crying.

Arianne continued walking, looking for one of the gardens. She might hide under a pear tree or a rock until the end of her days.

She disappointed Princess Rhaenyra. She couldn't imagine a worse thing happening now.

' W-what if she really writes to my father?'

She hurried along the colonnade, its archways opening into the inner courtyard.

'Father would not forgive this.'

Arianne could see it — a simple carriage without much comfort to send her back home. She'd have to travel the Kingsroad for a month before reaching Stonehelm in disgrace.

Her father would tell her she had no one to blame but herself before giving her hand to Lord Horpe, or even worse, one of the Carons.

If Jace truly fancied her — and she hoped, hoped, hoped it so —

even if everything went to ruin, he could steal her away on Vermax and wed her and —

oh, the infamy! She would never dare!

To even think about it, what unabashed sin! 

Wicked Arianne. 

Saera's granddaughter in truth.

They could put her on some morally abhorrent tapestry —

Arianne felt her legs tangle and before she could steady herself, her right knee met the cold, stone floor with a resounding thud.

Ouch.

She shot up back to her feet so quickly that the air spun around her.

She at least managed to keep herself from yelping or cussing — which would be utterly unladylike.

'H-how embarrassing.'

Her eyes darted toward the corridor, and she released a small huff of air when she realized there was no one coming in her direction.

"Your education should've included walking it seems."

Arianne's head snapped to her right and her muscles stiffened.

Prince Aemond Targaryen was leaning against the column, his lithe arms crossed.

'Him! Him, gods curse him! W-where did he come from?'

"Your Grace."

She muttered levelly, her fingers curling into fists.

Arianne's first instinct was to flee all the way to Mossovy.

Her heart, however, lurched, rightful wrath towards the silver-haired Targaryen spilling in torrents into her blood.

It wasn't the wry taunt about her clumsiness, it was the abominable crime of taking The Fires of the Freehold from her!

Of ruining her life! She ought to kill him where he stands!

Arianne wished her eyes could pierce through him as she stared. He seemed to have come from the training courtyard by the faint sheen of sweat on his forehead. A few shorter strands of his silky hair, pale as the pearl, were strewn across his temples.

Arse!

She couldn't even accuse him. She had no proof, but somehow, she knew it in her bones that it had been him who slandered her to the Custodian.

'She did not steal a book! Jace borrowed it for her.'

In mere moments, Arianne was overwhelmed with all sorts of sinful thoughts about Aemond Targaryen's untimely demise. She would pray to Father to make him suffer, to Warrior to make him a craven, and to the Crone to send an illness his way!

To Stranger itself, to make his rotten heart suffer!

How could he deprive her of a book she told him she stayed up all night reading?!

He in question, merely clicked his tongue at her and hummed.

"Does crying prevent you from curtsying properly? I am a Prince of the Realm."

Arianne sniffled and wiped at her face furiously.

"I am not crying!"

Aemond fixed her with his shrewd, icy eye before drawing himself to his full height.

She observed how his shadow stretched to almost meet hers.

"I do wonder what is it this time, Lady Swann." He stalked toward her, his sturdy dark boots thudding softly against the stone floor. The rhythmic sound seemed to echo her volatile heartbeat.

"One of your suitors decided he'd rather pursue an honorable woman, mayhaps? Or your payment was less than what you'd—"

"Yet I do not find my crying important enough for a prince of the Realm to wonder about it." Arianne retorted, digging her nails deeper into her palm, almost yelping at the pain.

It did keep her grounded when she wished nothing more than to become a swan and peck his remaining eye out.

'Payment? Payment for what? Just w-what was he insinuating again?'

"Humor me," Aemond said, his voice a dark purr of a sound.

Arianne glanced up, observing the high collar of his training tunic rather than his face. She cleared her throat and wiped her hands down her roseate skirts.

"I am Princess Rhaenyra's lady-in-waiting, not your fool." The harsh response made Aemond's blood thrum. So, Lady Swann was avoiding his gaze.

The muscle in his jaw ticked.

Arianne decided it would be for the best that she absconds quickly, lest she truly try to maim him again. 'He would deserve it! Her princess now considered her bad influence on Jace.'

"Your Grace." She dipped in a quick, low curtsy — her knees ached from it, and dashed past him, her skirts swishing around her legs.

Aemond caught up to her in two strides and blocked her way, his arm extending like a gate across her path.

"You forget yourself, woman." He snarled.

"You are mine-whatever-I-decide you are."

"Have you any manners at all?" She shrieked, rather startled by the harshness in his usually melodious voice.

He ignored her outburst and continued, chuckling nastily.

"How is your progress with The Fires of the Freehold going? Did the bastard translate you the scouring of Lorathi islands?" Aemond's defined lips peeled back to reveal his white teeth.

'You evil, evil arse!'

"I know no bastard. And it is going fine." Arianne gritted out.

Aemond's ivory eyebrow lifted.

"Truly? Here I've heard a different tale, Lady Swann." He taunted, his face settling into feigned wonder.

"That they've confiscated the tome from you."

She must've drawn blood from how forcefully she was pressing her nails into her own skin.

'Heard the tale? He mocks me.'

Lady Swann could scarcely believe a prince could be so wicked to not only do it but to torment her over it. Was he still angry over her earrings? She apologized!

Could he think she scorned him last night?

What despicably cruel retaliation, then! Arianne concluded — because now she might never get to read it. Only six copies existed in the Seven Kingdoms. Four were locked inside the Citadel, and now she'll never be allowed to peruse the two housed in the Royal Library.

 'Oh, shivers take him, if he truly branded her a thief over some wounded pride of a man.'

She had been nothing but polite!

"You've heard it true," Arianne uttered stiffly.

"Some awful miser told the Custodian I had the book."

Aemond's one, cerulean eye widened.

"An awful miser?"

He tilted his head mockingly. "Or just someone with respect towards the laws and rules that keep our Realm from descending into chaos?"

Arianne had to exert a significant effort not to laugh at his badly performed act of a righteous man.

"And does Your Grace agree with him?"

She glanced at the deep, darkened scar decorating his left cheek.

"Naturally."

"I wouldn't have dared hope otherwise." Arianne's mouth widened into a brittle smile and she curtsied, hoping it was for the final time. 

It was him, and she will not forget it!

Rather than to risk another bout of unladylike violence, she turned around.

So what if she had to walk all the way back and confront Miriam about her utter disgrace — it seemed a superior choice than to argue with the evil boor himself.

She wouldn't even refer to Prince Aemond by a name anymore, he'd earned his special title. He was evil boor from now on.

"You should be aware though," He tutted after her, in tones cool and sharp as valyrian steel.

"Those misers will know shall your pretty head try to loot the royal library again."

Loot?

Heat surged through her chest, rushing to her face as indignation overcame her. She peered over her shoulder at the tall dragonrider.

Aemond ran his tongue over his incisors and hummed.

"You've never seen the dungeons, have you, my lady Swann?"

Arianne shook.

How dared he? How dare he speak to her this way, as if she were some common thief, as if her desire to know more was a crime?

Her breath hitched, her muscles locking as she tried to suppress the insults threatening to erupt.

Aemond Targaryen was a blight. He was as ill-behaved as her grandmother had been. Only he hid it better, the capable swordsman, the studious prince, the Queen's favorite son — oh, how blind those courtiers were!

He was sent here by some Stygai demons to ruin her life.

Arianne knew the best way to proceed would be to apologize again, much as it pained her lady's heart. Profess her regret for whatever it was that earned his enmity and bide her time.

One day, when Princess Rhaenyra becomes Queen and Jace the Crown Prince - and she his Crown Princess - Oh, she'll find Prince Aemond the best seat to watch her, graceless bird, become Queen among Dragons, and then she'll exact her revenge. Even if holding grudges was a sin.

Her bottom lip quivered.

Even if it was strategically the most sound approach she could not do it.

She would sooner die than be Aemond's supplicant after what he had done to her.

Her father would sooner let a pirate ship carry her away like it did his cousin Johanna, than to hear she humiliated herself in front of a Targaryen.

A certain something curling around her spine —her pride—would not allow her to walk away from his taunts.

Not this time.

She was a lady of a noble house, her father a Lord of the Marches and her grandmother a princess herself!

Arianne whirled around, the strands of her chestnut hair bouncing with the force of her movement.

The fiery glare she fixed on him could have scorched dragonhide.

"I know this awful miser is you!" she snapped, her voice acidic and unwavering despite the tremor in her hands.

Her words reverberated in the corridor, something that startled even herself. She stomped back toward him, her chin held high. Arianne flicked the heavy curl that had fallen over her shoulder back with her hand — Aemond seemed to follow the motion with his pale eye.

She thrust her finger out in an accusatory jab.

"You told the Custodian I was reading Fires of the Freehold!"

The words were flung like arrows, her voice tinged with the sting of betrayal. She only told him about it because he claimed they loved the same books.

Arianne could feel her pulse thundering in her ears, fueled by the righteous wrath that consumed her.

She’d been humiliated, shamed, and stripped of her dignity—all because of him!

"You malevolent arse!"

Her outburst echoed against the columns. Arianne took in a sharp breath, it sizzled inside her lungs. Oh, Seven! 

Her cheeks reddened, and her eyes burned with the unshed tears of frustration.

Aemond stood there, unflinching, his condescending grin deepening, and that infuriating gleam of amusement in his blue eye only stoked her fury further.

She wanted to scream at him, to lash out more, to do anything that might make him understand the depth of her outrage.

He made her look wicked in Princess Rhaenyra's eyes.

Aemond’s delight was immediate and utterly insufferable, a sardonic chuckle that rumbled deep in his chest.

He shifted slightly — one leg stretched brashly forward, fingers tracing idly the pommel of his sword.

The leather strap of his eyepatch caught a sliver of sunlight as if it too mocked her.

"Hontes drējī pykagon perzys issa." (A bird is a spitfire, indeed.)

He muttered it more to himself than her, his lips twitching as though savoring the observation.

Arianne's nostrils flared.

The infuriating ease with which he dismissed her anger was enough to set her blood to boil.

"Rya nopāzma!" (Go to hell.)

She hissed rabidly, remembering all the valyrian insults Luke, Rhaena, and her learned one rainy afternoon.

For the most fleeting of moments, something in Aemond's eye glimmered, disbelief passing through his features.

"My, my what a foul mouth you have—"

"Your deed garners no respect, Your Grace!" she interrupted sharply, stepping closer, emboldened by her fury.

A mistake, in hindsight.

Aemond moved too quickly for her to react, his hand darting out to grasp her wrist with a downright frightening precision.

The heat of an unexpected touch rooted her in place, her breath lodging in her throat.

His grip was firm but not bruising, the strength of his fingers pressing into her skin just enough to hold her there.

Arianne could suddenly not think, hyper-aware of the bared skin of her wrist and the way her blood trashed underneath it — meeting his.

It was utterly improper—by all laws and morals of gods and men—and her mind raced with the implications.

Would he harm her? Kill her? B-break her wrist?

Dread cascaded down and around and through her spine.

No one had ever — well her brother did hit her when they were younger but that had been different. She hit him too — but Aemond could, if he wished, and who'd punish him for it?

He has a dragon — she gulped — no, not just a dragon, he has Vhagar.

Arianne willed herself to remain calm.

For a man of his rank, a Prince, to seize a lady in such a manner...

It bordered on scandalous.

Her gaze snapped to his hand, then to his face, and she felt her pulse mutinying vehemently against the confinement of his grasp.

Aemond's expression was unreadable, his pale eye burning with an intensity that seemed to bore straight into her.

"Unhand me, Your Grace," she demanded, her voice low and strained.

She twisted slightly, testing his hold, but his fingers did not falter.

"What do you imagine would happen if everyone disregarded rules and laws like you, Lady Swann? Hmm?" He crooned, a dangerous undercurrent racing beneath the words.

Aemond leaned closer, his breath warm and steady against her skin.

"If men took what they wanted like you did?" The grip around her wrist tightened briefly.

Arianne gulped, her free hand trembling at her side. She wiped it against her skirts. The proximity was unnerving, the heat of his presence coiling around her like an unwanted tether.

"I did not take it, and your grace knows it! Prince Jacaerys borrowed it and happened to give it to me." She stammered.

Still, he held her, his thumb brushing against the inside of her wrist as if testing her pulse, gauging her reaction. The gesture was both intimate and unsettling, a deliberate breach of decorum that urged her to demand a release and flee.

"B-besides," Arianne continued despite the uncomfortable tightness of her vocal cords. "If men only wanted to read books, I do not see what is so wrong with that. No one is hurt by it. You cannot compare it to raiding-driven subsistence where men just plunder peaceful settlements for land and food."

Her words were hurried, as if she could will the moment to pass faster.

Aemond's hold on her lingered — his fingertips calloused and rather warm against the inside of her wrist.

"Their liege lord was murdered ever so often during the Old Way and they raised rebellions because it would cause instability and—"

"I do not need a lecture on the primitive savagery of Iron Islanders, Lady Arianne." he interrupted smoothly, though there was a clipped edge to his tone.

"Release me, then. I have duties to attend to." Arianne spat, cutting the air between them. Her frustration was mounting.

Aemond’s gaze bore into hers, dark and molten — his single eye burning like the edge of twilight.

He tilted his chin as if weighing whether her demand deserved acknowledgment.

After a few long moments, his fingers loosened, sliding away with an infuriating slowness that made her feel as though she had conceded ground rather than reclaimed it.

But he did not step back.

"What duties,hmm?" he questioned, his voice low, mocking.

"Gallivanting around my Keep, diverting men's attention with those ridiculous dresses you wear—"

 "There is nothing wrong with my attire!" Arianne bristled, brushing her skirts defiantly.

Her movements were brisk, her pulse still thrumming incessantly in her wrist where his touch lingered like a scorch mark.

"Nothing," Aemond drawled, his tone dripping with derision.

"If you wished to resemble a strawberry tart."

'A- a strawberry tart?' His explanation rattled her so much, Arianne couldn't muster a proper answer. The insult struck her so unexpectedly that she could only gape for a moment, her thoughts scrambling for purchase.

Her dress was a paragon of modesty!

Perhaps it was a tad bit vibrant with a red silk girdle but how was it Aemond's problem?

Besides, what was wrong with strawberry tarts?

"I don't understand," she confessed at last, her voice tinged with bewilderment and indignation. Arianne searched his face for some clue to his meaning, but his expression was unreadable, save for the faintest twitch at the corner of his good eye.

It now roved over her with a deliberateness that made her spine stiffen, lingering on her rose-tinted woolen skirts before returning to her face.

"Those iron-born savages would ignore every other sustenance if they saw you frolicking and pretending unaware of your womanly wiles."

The accusation hit her like a strike, her cheeks stinging.

"You cannot swindle me though, my lady," Aemond added with a hearty dose of venom in his voice. It was too measured, too deliberate.

Arianne swallowed hard.

"You should talk to a septon, your grace. Imagined slights are a disease of the mind and soul." She snapped, lifting her chin.

Aemond’s expression darkened.

His long, tapered fingers gathered the free end of her silk girdle. Arianne's cheeks colored into the same ruby-red that now gleamed inside his palm. H-he ought not to touch her clothes!

"I would never allow my lady to dress like a Lyseni courtesan." He spat, releasing the fabric.

Arianne balked, her mouth opening and closing before she could form a coherent response.

Her anger surged anew.

"Thank the Seven, I am not your lady!" She hissed, her body trembling with fury.

"Indeed," Aemond replied coldly, though a flicker of something — she couldn't quite make — crossed his features before he masked it.

"Thank the gods. A commoner wife would be preferable to you. She'd know her place, at the very least." He taunted, with something  not quite a smile.

"How wisely you speak, Your Grace." Arianne batted her eyelashes several times before the corner of her mouth curled.

"Mayhaps you go court one then, instead of ruining my day."

For a long, tense moment, Aemond said nothing.

Something brimmed in his eye, a brief, almost imperceptible flicker of surprise crossing his features before being buried under a cool, marble-like facade.

His lips twitched, just slightly, as though he could not decide whether to sneer or hiss something back.

Just as his mouth opened, his gaze lifted to focus on something above her, further away.

Aemond stilled, then quickly composed himself as he saw who approached — several courtiers, Ser Tyland Lannister among them.

The group moved toward them with casual grace, their footsteps light on the cobbled stones, yet their arrival seemed to extinguish something in the air.

Aemond's eye sizzled with irritation, but he said nothing—choosing instead to shift slightly away from Arianne, into a proper distance for their stations.

She turned her head and observed them as various voices greeted the Prince.

Tyland Lannister noticed Arianne, his mouth opening in something akin to a concern.

"Lady Swann," he said with a gentle note of surprise.

"Your eyes are rather red. Do not tell me something has made your ladyship cry? You only need let me know—"

Arianne let out a quiet, relieved breath, her expression softening into a smile.

At least now she had witnesses.

'The Lannisters are the Queen's supporters, you foolish girl.'

Even if they were not, she hardly doubted anyone would take her side when the other one had a ferocious beast like Vhagar.

'Would Jace...would he do something about his uncle? If she told him he seized her like...like...oh she did not know!'

Arianne grimaced inwardly. No, she could not tell him. Rhaenyra had made that clear.

He had enough on his plate now, and, not to mention, his legitimacy could be called into question.

Was Princess Rhaenyra telling him now to keep away from her — unruly Arianne?

Oh, curse you, Aemond.

Though, an idea flashed in her mind.

How effortlessly Rhaena moved through the Court, either side welcoming her with open arms! 

Perhaps if she tried to speak prettily, too?

"Ser Tyland, you truly are my knight in shining armor."

Her voice was underlined by genuine gratitude—Tyland had given her a welcome reprieve from Aemond’s cruel presence.

'How had Rhaena explained her ease in conversing with people? To give them a chance at feeling important.'

Arianne thought about it briefly, deciding this was her refuge from the evil boor himself.

She straightened, subtly shifting away from Aemond’s imposing figure as she faced Tyland with a new spark of amusement.

"It is true, I’m on the verge of tears."

Arianne let the words drip from her lips as if she were indulging in a great tragedy.

"Prince Aemond has been talking about the taxation system the crown exerts over fiefdoms, and I... I scarcely understood him."

She took in his finely tailored Lannister attire—a richly embroidered crimson tunic with gold thread winding around the edges in intricate patterns.

"Of course, I’ve tried reading the monetary treatises you wrote, but..." She gestured with a hand, her fingers curling in mock defeat.

Tyland’s face brightened at the mention of his work.

"I am honored, Lady Swann. But how could you forget to tell me earlier taxation interested you!" He accused, though his smile was genuine and he was seemingly unaware of the pretense in her tone. Of course, she understood how taxation worked! Arianne gave him a polite nod, her shoulders relaxing.

"But it is all so difficult," she continued with a dramatic sigh, casting a glance toward Aemond, who stood silently watching.

"The prince was clearly bored by my lack of knowledge."

Tyland leaned in, eager to lighten the mood.

"Surely no one could be bored conversing with you, Lady Swann."

He shook his head as if such a thing was preposterous.

"A lady of your wit and beauty would charm a Night King."

Arianne let out a soft laugh, eyes sparkling.

"You flatter me, Ser. I was hoping you had a moment to spare and simplify it for me," she said, a bit more brightly now that Tyland’s presence had dissolved some of the tension.

"I would prefer to have knowledge of such matters. You do mention how several members of a noble house ought to peruse the numbers lest some opportunities slip through the cracks. How fortunate I could be if I learned about gold form a Lannister."

Tyland’s grin widened, clearly pleased. An older lady whose name Arianne did not know nodded eagerly. She wore red and gold as well.

"Ah... of course. Mayhaps you’d offer me a rematch sometime then."

He took a half-step forward, his voice growing more playful.

"I do pride myself on my prowess in cyvasse, yet your maneuver with using an elephant as a sacrificial piece..." He was about to continue, but then, his eyes flickered past her, catching Aemond’s glare.

The prince stood ramrod straight, his icy stare fixed firmly on Master of Ships.

Tyland hesitated, suddenly aware that he had interrupted something.

The easy, confident smile slipped from his face.

"Your Grace," He murmured, his tone shifting to one of polite caution. His eyes quickly regarded Aemond, who had barely moved, save for flexing his fingers in a way that suggested restraint.

The air grew thick and Arianne cleared her throat.

She could practically feel Aemond's fervent glare bore into the back of her head. 'What was he glowering about?'

 His distaste for her had been clearer than a mountain lake, so he should be happy she was leaving.

He should be overwhelmed by joy that she could not, in fact, kill him!

Or did the One-eyed Prince think she ought to suffer under his wicked thumb for hours?

Well, regardless of evil boor's opinion, she was going to extricate herself from his unsettling torment.

“Your Grace,” she began, turning to Aemond and trying not to tremble under the hateful attention of his sole eye.

“We would never dream of delaying you from your princely duties. Surely, your loyal subjects are constantly entangled in their own... misunderstandings with books. Perhaps it is your responsibility to rush and report every last one, my Prince of the Realm.”

Tyland shifted on his feet, not really wanting to find out how Vhagar's rider would react to Lady Swann's words—they were nothing more than a very elegant dismissal.

Someone cleared their throat.

The harsh lines of Aemond's face took on a mien of cold indifference.

His blue iris glinted like ice under sunlight.

He clasped his hands behind his back and blinked, before speaking,

"I assure you that every thief will be brought to justice, my lady Swann." His tone could put the deadliest lyseni poisons to shame.

 "I suggest caution though, Ser Tyland. Her ladyship trips over her own feet, and often so."

Just as Arianne thought she was safe, his melodious voice made her ears red again.

Her bottom lip quivered from another bout of shame, but Tyland would have none of it it seemed.

Master of Ships stepped forward and proffered his elbow to her.

“Lady Swann,” he declared, his voice as sweet as linctus. “if it pleases you, may I offer my arm? I would be most honored to escort you. And I will explain everything you wish to know about the system of taxation detailed in my treatise."

A fleeting thought of how Rhaena might be the smartest person she knew — because everything she had said was working — invaded Arianne's mind as she smiled.

"Ser Tyland. I would be delighted.”

'I'd be delighted to sail to Skagos to avoid this particular Targaryen.'

Tyland inclined his head, his own smile growing as he turned toward the waiting courtiers.

“Your Grace,” he added with a respectful nod to Aemond, before leading Lady Swann into the courtyard.

Arianne felt the tension in her spine finally diminishing.

She allowed herself a soft exhale, the corners of her lips lifting in genuine relief.

Aemond’s presence had been oppressive, his words mean and uncourteous.

He seized her wrist like some savage.

Now, in the company of Tyland and the courtiers, she felt like she had slipped free from the coiling grip of a dragon's tail.

Would Princess Rhaenyra write to her father?

Arianne didn't glance back, though her mind was still working through fantasies of exacting revenge on the One-eyed twat for taking the Fires of the Freehold from her, all the while crafting small pleasantries to distract herself from the encounter.

When Jace becomes King, and she his Queen, she will have Aemond Targaryen exiled to Yi Ti!

To Sothoryos!

To Grey Waste!

To ruins of Valyria if need be!

[turnwheelofthetwelve-if]

Back when the world was whole, it was presided over by the Celestial Twelve. Each held a Relic that bestowed abilities onto it's chosen Warden and provided life and magic through the land and for a while, there was peace. But greed and jealousy corrupted the people and wars broke out over the Relics. Then the Great Fracturing occurred, ripping the world into twelve shards, extinguishing the powers of the Twelve from the world completely, and the Relics were lost to time. Without the powers of the Twelve, the world was plunged into a centuries long Dark Age, suffering from famines, plagues, and wars. Until 500 years after the Fracturing, when all across the world, new Wardens began emerging from the shadows. But without their Relics, their abilities were useless. Enter the Guardians, people born with a connection to the Wardens who were tasked with protecting them as they searched the world for their Relics. For centuries, Wardens and Guardians worked in tandem to search for the Relics, but as they kept returning unsuccessful and the disasters got worse, tensions rose and bubbled over and the powers of the Twelve were once again lost. Now, 1000 years after the Fracturing, Wardens and their Guardians have started to appear again just in time as worse disasters have started to ravage the world. But with the world rife with danger and in such disarray, truly restoring the Twelve seems more like an impossible goal than reality.

The Turnwheel of the Twelve Saga is a WIP collection of 13 interactive CYOA stories all taking place in the fictional world of Astelle, a world that was once lush with life and magic, now relegated to dry empty deserts and dense industrial pollution. Each of the books follow different characters on their journeys to recover the respective Relic.

Note: Because this is still a WIP, some names of characters or places may change during development. Also, this blog serves mostly as a hub to reach all of the other planned books, so there won't be much original content added here and just reblogs.

Genre: Adventure, Romance, Fantasy Post-Apocalyptic

Rating: 18+

Tracked Tag: #turnwheel of the twelve

Current Book: Chalice of the Scales

Status: Writing Book 1

Current Book Demo || FAQ || Ask Guidelines || Tag Navigation || World Lore || Dev's Main Blog ||

Book 1: Chalice of the Scales ( @chaliceofthescales-if )

Book 2: Ballad of the Maiden ( @balladofthemaiden-if )

Book 3: Sword of the Lion ( @swordofthelion-if )

Book 4: Tome of the Moon ( @tomeofthemoon-if )

Book 5: Fruit of the Twins ( @fruitofthetwins-if )

Book 6: Ring of the Heavens ( @ringoftheheavens-if )

Book 7: Horn of the Ram ( @hornoftheram-if )

Book 8: Mirror of the Sea ( @mirrorofthesea-if )

Book 9: Vessel of the Waterbearer ( @vesselofthewaterbearer-if )

Book 10: Sickle of the Harvest ( @sickleoftheharvest-if )

Book 11: Key of the Archer ( @keyofthearcher-if )

Book 12: Crown of the Dark ( @crownofthedark-if )

Book 13: Return of the Twelve ( @returnofthetwelve-if )

[doodle-pops]

Insufferable Beginnings

Turgon x reader

Request: Turgon x reader, enemy’s to lover in Valinor, angst?… (help I live the enemy’s to livers trope to much 😭😭) - Anon

A/N: I originally wanted to keep this short, like under 3k, however, dialogues became my weakness and I fell in love with the hating each other a little too much. However, I do hope that this was good enough to your liking. Apologies if it’s too long. Enjoy!

Warnings: female reader, arranged marriage au, enemies to lovers au, angst/comfort, arguments, insulting one another, a knife gets drawn (a butter knife), kissing, confessions, since it’s set in Valinor I used Quenya names

Words: 4.6k

Synopsis: Arranged marriages when you and your millionth reason why were at each other’s throats was always the best way to introduce a new emotion on the battlefield and seek victory.

“Must you look so disparaging? It is our wedding, after all, cheer up and have a drink!” Turukáno sat beside you, or rather two feet away and towards the end of the table, leaving you to wallow in your bitterness. He managed to find your expressions throughout the entire day more entertaining than ever, it made the wedding interesting.

Casting a dreadful and bone-chilling side eye at your newlywed husband, your fingers twitched in your lap with unbridled rage to wrap them around his obnoxiously long neck and choke. However, he remained aloof under your threatening gaze and took another gulp for his sixth cup of wine for the night. Anything to avoid going home, sane, to a shared house.

“I’ll only smile if you disappear and leave me alone.”

He paused with the chalice against his lips, pondering before scoffing and taking a violent chug. Emptying the cup with an enthusiastic exhale and slamming it on the table, he reached for the vat of wine to refill. “So you can find yourself in the arms of one of your pathetic suitors or my cousins since you enjoy kissing their asses so much.”

“Anyone else would be a better company.”

“What’s stopping you then? I thought you loathed me with an unbridled passion to the point that you would do anything to make your life less miserable,” he half-heartedly muttered while gazing at the ruby liquid in his cup. “Or maybe you didn’t want to humiliate yourself knowing that no one else would accept you and your terrible personality.”

“What makes you think that one of your cousins would not accept me?”

“So it’s my cousins you’re interested in. Well, I think you and Tyelkormo or Atarinkë would suit each other well, especially with the similar personalities you all share.”

You growled through bared teeth, “Do not ill-speak of the House of Fëanáro. They are far nobler, skilled and of better status than you can ever be.”

“Ah, so you admit that your personality is dreadful then?” Awed by the revelation of your words, he flashed a blinding grin at you.  

“You act as though your personality is perfect, and do not make this about me when it is not!”

“My personality isn’t perfect, but it’s better than yours,” he snickered and sat upright. “Besides, it is your wedding day, you are the centre of attention, so everything is about you.”

“You’re simply bitter and jealous that I would never choose you in a world of standards because you are as poor as your insults.” Flipping him off with a triumphant smirk, you crossed your arms and performed a mental victory dance at your comeback.

“Of course I am,” he muttered half-heartily as he slammed his chalice on the table once more and slumped deeply into his chair. As much as he wanted to leave the table, his grandfather and father were eyeing you down like hawks. “No power and no high status. Yet I was still chosen to be your future husband by the King.”

Not caring that he was being stared at, Turukáno exited the hall and rushed out of the palace to find a secluded spot for a bit of fresh air. He didn’t care about what became of you during the rest of the night. You could have returned to your parent’s house and left him alone in your supposed shared home or run off with his half-cousins, he would surely find something worthwhile to fill his time with.

Making his way through the half-empty streets of Tirion, he slid his body through a few alleyways before breaking into the hills and entering the outskirts of a small forest. A familiar path he took which led to a small pool—a place where he and Findekáno formerly commuted before his successful marriage—now became his fortress of refuge to his unbearable hater.

Being petty, bitter, and judgemental were common traits of the second son of Ñolofinwë, however, you brought the worst out in him. It was only the day you entered the picture with your desirous hatred towards him, his boring life became infuriating. There wasn’t a day you didn’t make his life a living hell.

Wanting nothing more than to refrain from continuing his thoughts on you before his head exploded, he undressed and took a midnight swim, spending the rest of his wedding with peace of mind. He would deal with you another day with the guarantee to make you regret hating him.

**

The first year of marriage was always described as challenging and for God’s sake how fucking true it was. You weren’t even past the first three months without wanting to launch objects at him, which you had already done numerous times before. But the point was that you wanted to launch the entire dining table at him for interrupting your peace of mind. Why did he have to show up at the same hour? Did he not have something more important to do like die?

“Can you not eat so loudly? It is breaking my concentration?” you retorted sharply.

“Then cover your ears. To eat I must; to hear, you can choose,” he lazily replied in a bored tone.

Your left eye twitched as did the cutlery in your hands as you pressed the knife and fork into the porcelain plate to evidently create a hairline fracture. Casting a look at the servants lined up on each side of the room with a monotonous expression, you felt a wave of embarrassment.

“What, no counter to my response? Finally realised how foolish you appear hating me unnecessarily?” he mocked.

Deeply inhaling, you managed, “I merely asked you to cease chewing so loudly. Is that not a possible task, something a Prince of your lowly status can adhere to?”

Countering without waiting for a second, he stated with plainness, “I must chew if I am to eat, don’t you know that or have you forgotten the fundamentals of eating?”

“Then don’t eat, starve and die.”

Turukáno’s lips twitched as he fought a sarcastic grin, instead, scoffing as his breathing fumbled before he lifted his head to gaze at you across the table. Your seated presence at the opposite end, surrounded by an array of candles left a glowing aura casting a glow on your figure to appear as some omnipotent being…a demon in sheep’s clothing.

“My dear, have you not paid attention to the tranquillity of the room? A pin drop can be heard; thus you will hear my chewing, same can be said for yours.”

“I do not chew loudly!” you snarled, visibly vibrating in your seat.

“Of course not, how rude of me. Where are my manners?” he satirically replied, casting a mocking smile at you; his turquoise eyes shining brightly under the glow of the candles. “Allow me to clarify, you yap like a goat.”

Springing from your chair, your palms came crashing down on the table, prompting the ornaments to tremble, even the servants shifted on their feet at the intemperate tension. “You should have care how you speak; it might be your last.”

“What are you planning on doing? Launching another poor object at my head and missing like you did in the last fifty attempts? Best of wishes, may your aim be true, or would you prefer I stand within three feet, so you don’t miss?” he snickered with a shake of his head.

Darkly whispered, you picked up your butter knife and stabbed it into the napkin. “I could end you right here and now,”

“How terrifying?!” he dully muttered and wiped his mouth with his napkin. “Somebody save me!”

“Would you stop that!”

“Ah, so it would appear that I have struck a nerve?” Turukáno grinned delightedly and took a sip of his wine while appreciating the sight of you pointing your knife at him.

“You have been a pain in my ass since the day I met you!” you rumbled, jabbing the knife through the air towards his figure peacefully sitting unbothered.

Wanting nothing more than to bask in the glory this unnecessary argument brought, he rose from his chair and strolled around the table. Fingers gliding along the tabletop as he took his time to approach you, he appeared smug. “What you are telling me, is that I’ve always been on your mind? I’m touched. No one has ever thought of me so much as you did, my number one supporter and hater. Makes this union worthwhile because you can continue to think of me even more while allowing it to consume your every thought.”

At this point, Turukáno was standing before you as your body had turned to meet him head-on, the knife in your hand still focusing on him. Despite his towering figure, you were able to match his height with the passion in your eyes that made you grow. Those turquoise eyes of his darkened and narrowed into slits as the gazed down at you. No one dared to whisper a word, only the sound of heavy breathing which was still too soft for the other’s ears.

Suddenly, his left hand gingerly reached out to grab the wrist of your right, which held the knife and brought it to his throat. He knew you couldn’t cut him with a butter knife, yet he wanted you to realise your folly. The action urged the servants in the room to break their formation and panic as they looked on. He felt the trembling of your hand as he held onto it, steadfast, while the expression on your face spoke the reason for him. All bark and no bite.

“Do it,” he taunted with s whisper, gazing his playful eyes at your paralysed ones and pushing the knife harder against his skin.

You wanted to reply. Counter as equally as petty as his insults or even take actions, but the wheels in your body weren’t rotating. You didn’t know why, but the longer you stared into his slithered eyes; you noticed the ring of green around his iris, the small mole under his left eye and his neatly shaped wine-stained lips. His change in demeanour made him appear ridiculously attractive and you fought to deny it, but comparisons between him and the sons of Fëanáro’s beauty had already crossed your mind.

It outmatched a few of them.

You struggled to catch yourself the longer you focused on his face, grip on your knife slipping, yet the grip around your wrist tightened and tugged. Your lips parted and your head inched closer, grateful for your height, you were able to lean into his personal space, breathing in his air. Wine and spearmint. The alarms were blaring in your head that it was a precarious move you were making, but his standstill stature encouraged you to persist and bridge the gap.

Turukáno didn’t know who moved first, he or you; all he knew was that his hand gripping your wrist had tossed it over his shoulder, with the knife still intact, as his lips moulded against yours. It was full of anger, confusion and hidden truths as your bodies were entangled in an unceremonious form of solving the argument. Lips breaking apart to gasp for air, catching your breaths before returning to the task, his hands were busy cupping your cheeks to tilt your head to increase the vigour. He forgot—or rather, didn’t care—about the knife in your hands behind his neck as he pressed his body closer, wanting you to experience his heat, raging from the passion you sparked tonight.

Yet nothing was ever long-lived as you caught your biting his luscious lip and pulled away, gasping. Casting your eyes downwards, a questionable frown appeared. Unable to take the confusion and possible humiliation of the suddenness of the scene, you muttered a curt, “Excuse me,” and slipped out of his embrace, vacating the room while leaving him hoping.

**

You began to avoid him even more; more than what you normally would, yet failure was the start of something different. Your mornings were clashing, him showing up at the same time for breakfast, exiting and entering the house, and needing to share the same space. It was as if fate was playing a sick joke on you to remember your kiss. He appeared the same, refusing to bring it up and make any eye contact, however, his persistence to irritate and aggravate you never ended. The night of the dinner was just the beginning of him goading you to commit your desire.

Standing at the entrance of the drawing-room, you fixed your body behind the pillar that rested a vase and observed him. He appeared relaxed and a level of comfort you wished to achieve in the shared household. How was he able to be unbothered? Didn’t your presence usually provoke him? Was he not thinking about you the way you always thought about him?

“Cease your staring from behind the pillar, please. I know that I’m not the best-looking elf compared to your idolised house, so spare me your soft gaze as though you considered me,” he huffed and turned the page of his book without lifting his head to make contact.

Soft gaze?

“I was not gazing at you, I was glaring…” He was right, whether you were gazing at him or not, you were silently observing him. Clearing your throat to avoid making a fool of yourself, you stepped into the spotlight and clasped your hands together. “I was coming to call you, There’s an invitation addressed to you…and I.”

“My grandfather?”

“Hmm, a dinner party.”

The room fell into silence as you both took in the silent meaning behind the invitation. This was the first event after the wedding that would display the depth of your relationship with his family and others.

Turukáno’s eyes lifted off the pages to fall on your nervous figure standing in the doorway. No animosity or disdain was held in his eyes as they softened on your appearance; he almost felt sorry for the discomfort you were about to be placed in, similar to himself. Gatherings involving the entire family usually made him cautious and uninterested due to the typical outcomes.

“You can stay at home if you are uncomfortable attending. I’ll make up an excuse that you’re unwell and request tranquillity,” he suggested while shutting his book and placing it on the table.

Puzzled at the sudden shift in the atmosphere, you wrinkled your forehead. “What about your grandfather when he questions why you’re not at home looking after me?”

“I’ll make up some lie, whatever comes to mind,” he monotonously muttered, drifting his eyes to meet your astonished ones.

“Why?” Your question lingered heavily in the air like it weighed a ton. A sudden increase of pressure showered over you, leaving him wondering if he had made a mistake in his response to warrant your opposition.

“Why not? You’re not interested in meeting my family for known reasons, and if you want to stay at home, you are welcome to.”

“But don’t you hate me?” you delicately uttered. “You shouldn’t be concerned about how I feel or whether I desire to stay at home; you should ignore me like you have always been doing.”

Opening his mouth to counter, he closed it and dropped his gaze to your feet. The look of puzzlement decorated his face the longer he contemplated a response while reasoning with himself for the corner he was backed into. There was never a discussion he wasn’t able to counteract, but here you were causing him to fumble. A sharp look at your face, the squinting of his eyes and a nervous chuckle he conjured a response rattled off the tip of his tongue. “I don’t hate you; I don’t particularly like you, but ignoring you is incredibly difficult when you have an unmistakable aura that causes me to consider you in whatever way I can.”

His eyes widened at the acknowledgement of his words. Unable to feign his mistake, he rose immediately off the sofa and marched to the opposite exit of the drawing room.

“You…You don’t hate—”

“Forget what I said. Simply do whatever you want for the dinner, it doesn’t matter to me.” With that, he departed the room and rushed to his chamber, slamming the door.

In the following days, Turukáno had done his best to avoid you after his slip-up while you became fixated on decoding his grand speech and his nonchalance towards his actions. It wasn’t like him to use words which didn’t coordinate with his enmity-like personality. All the screaming, shouting, slamming the doors and throwing objects at each other died down, and all you received were his typical smart-ass comments which started carrying a two-meaning message. You were positively sure that he was not aware of his choice of words; he never mixed his vocabulary.

For the prim and proper Prince he was, he was enunciated.

Hence why you were gawking at him all night from behind a pillar, avoiding interactions with his siblings and cousins to observe his mannerisms. His face seemed to be a lot more relaxed, visibly pleased, lips stretched into a grin, and laughing. You had never seen him like this around you, it was a side he withheld during your arrangement, and it stung that you would never be fortunate to experience it due to his hate towards you. No sweet moments exchanged, smiles and words reserved only for you, or another kiss like that night.

Licking your lips and biting it, your fingers touched your lower lip as you held eye contact with his figure. The events of that night were still unexplainable.

“Staring at my brother.” The teasing voice of Princess Irissë came from your left before you felt her arm linking with yours and pulling you closer to her. “Well, you should be, especially after how great your relationship with him is going. Look at how much my brother is smiling; he’s talking about you.”

“Y-Your Highness?!”

“Relax. You can drop the formalities for now. It’s a family dinner and we’re all family, so call me nésa,” she laughed which resembled crystal bells tinkering.

Feeling overwhelmed by the plethora of information you consumed, your chest felt tighter all of a sudden, as though the dress shrunk. “I uh, do not understand what you mean by your brother. He is talking about me?”

Surely not good things, no wonder why he was smiling. Prattling his cousins’ heads about how terrible you were to live with. You felt your heart sink to your stomach, not realising how much you hoped for good things to be spoken about you.

“Of course he is! You’re his wife!” she exclaimed and gave you a small shake before guiding you away from the pillar. “He was asked to produce grandfather with a report at the start of the dinner in private, we were all there, and we heard him speak about how things are looking brighter, and that he’s pleased. So that means you two no longer hate each other and grandfather’s idea worked.”

Holding eye contact with her before looking at the wine in your hands, you felt uneasy at the explanation. “I guess it did,” you uttered in disbelief.

It didn’t take long for interrupting footsteps to break your concentration. Knowing the echo and presence before the voice rippled into your ear, your head snapped up to gaze at him already looking upon you with softer eyes and a tender smile. Your lips quivered as you bit back the urge to cry the longer you held his gaze, unable to focus on the sound emitting from his lips.

He was cruel and unkind to make you feel such a way.

“Is everything alright? You haven’t responded to a word I said,” he inquired worriedly, inching his head closer to yours. At this time, Irissë had slipped free and sauntered away to annoy her cousins, leaving you two to embark on your hateful-love relationship.

“I um, I.” Why was speaking so trivial? Just spit out your words for they were at the tip of your tongue. “I must speak with you, immediately.”

You had no time to witness the painful frown on his face as you swivelled and marched out of the ballroom with him following a few metres behind, confused. Exiting the room and meandering through the corridors, an earful away from eavesdroppers, you fumed in your mind at how careless you were to allow things to escalate to immeasurable heights. You couldn’t undo what had been done, not even the sea could wash it away. Though Turukáno hoped he had not said anything during the day to disrupt your tranquillity, he was most mindful of his words and behaviour due to his joviality.

“Have I said or done something to displease you, Y/N?”

“Yes! Yes, you did!” you shouted and spun on your heels to stand in the middle of the corridor and face him. “You, You, ugh, you infuriate me on levels beyond comprehension! How can you say those things so openly without disgust?”

“What things?! What have I said about you?!” he cried and took steps closer, still maintaining his distance.

“You–…I hate you! I hate how you…how you were talking about us and the house and how things are getting better! Or how you were smiling and happy and laughing and making everything seem like it is perfect and great when it’s not because I hate you!” Your temper flared as millions of reasons raced across your mind, and yet you were able to stutter out jumbled words, making a smile stretch across his face. “I hate the way you look at me with those eyes and I hate the way you look at others because you’ll never genuinely look at me like that. I want your eyes on me, but you’ll never because of how I hate you!”

“You hate me?” he questioned in an affectionate teasing voice.

“Yes, I do! Because ever since this arrangement began, you made me feel crazy and I found myself unable to think of anything else! I am utterly consumed by you, and I hate it! I’m supposed to hate you!”

Tears cascaded down your cheeks as you struggled to breathe and glared at him through the crystal droplets. You knew he was looking at you the same way you wanted and hated. Your emotions were truly a bitch who couldn’t make up its mind.

Turukáno grinned and took more steps to bridge the distance between you both. Standing three feet apart, he looked down at his boots as his voice rumbled in his chest. “I know and I accept this,” he softly whispered. “I’m not the best at emotions, but I also hated you till it was aggravating. You were constantly on my mind every second of the day, consuming and leaving me thinking about you more than I breathed. I thought of everything about you, even your insults. You were able to contest me, a feat no one else could muster and still stand facing me; I enjoyed the pleasure it brought, drinking and desiring more. Then I started seeing you as my equal and no longer my source of hate, but my reason to look forward to each day. I considered you and thought about you too much, I bent the knee before you…”

Standing there baffled, you wanted to know who this individual was.

“I know, I know,” he shrugged. “I’m not great with emotions so it was impossible for you to notice my changes. I thought I was subtle, and neither are you.”

“Excuse me?! You’re telling me about how I feel?” you sniffled.

“You claim to hate me, but you don’t,” he breathed as he finally bridged the gap, standing in the same proximity as the kiss. His fingers twitched with urgency to hold you again as they remembered the last time they held you closely. “You don’t tell someone you hate them; you show them, make them feel it. And how you feel for me is what I feel for you, it was only masked by hatred.”

Scoffing with a teary eye roll, allowing a few drops to roll down your cheek, you countered with a teaspoon of attitude, “What do you know about how I feel? You’re just a foolish Prince who thinks he knows people better than themselves.”

Lifting his hands, he was allowed to cradle your face, thumbs wiping away the tears. Smiling along with his thoughts, he felt relieved that your flame had not been diminished. “Of course I am, but you’re no different. Foolish for hating me till it makes you look ridiculously in love.”

“You should stop talking because you’re not making any sense like you always do.”

“Then silence me if you dare.”

The silence that followed rang sharply in your ears as your eyes locked and dropped to each other’s lips.

This time, you were aware of who had made the first move when your lips moulding against one another. Grinning into the kiss, this time you were able to bite his lower lip without feeling disgusted as it only deepened the kiss, causing him to groan from your actions. Turukáno’s hands cupped your cheeks and tilted your head higher to allow him to take over the kiss while your arms contently encircled his slender waist. There were a few blissful sighs and breaks to take in air as you lazily kissed in the open corridor, unconcerned by the possibility of being trespassed upon. Regardless, Turukáno had the decency to break away first with his soft turquoise eyes roaming your face, landing on your lips one last time before exhaling.

“Tell me,” he muttered affectionately. “Do you still hate me?”

“Irrevocably.”

“And do you hate me for getting us into this arrangement?” he asked again.

“No,” you gently murmured. “I can live with it.”

“Then that is enough for me.”

Masterlist

Taglist: @lilmelily @ranhanabi777 @rain-on-my-umbrella @mysticmoomin @asianbutnotjapanese @batsyforyou @sakurayaxd @involuntaryspasms @stormchaser819 @aconstructofamind @addaigio @lamemaster

If you wish to be tagged, click the Taglist link to join.

[followfire]

I was wondering how Jean's name had been chosen, and really maybe she just needed a name and there's no need to write a whole essay about it, but anyway there are two main theories/analyses that I like that also involve Barbara because I think they have common themes and their names match each other more than it seems so here goes...

Etymologies of Jean and Barbara's names

First theory: the saints

Jean looks like an obvious reference to Joan of Arc, and her name sounds like it. It's the pious white knight in charge of an army and saviour of her people vibe. (I think there is also something to say about the theme of freedom but I'll talk about it in another post)

Barbara could also be a reference to a saint: Saint Barbara. I think the comparison is less obvious or maybe I just don't know enough about it, but one of her attributes is the chalice which is similar to Barbara's constellation.

I think it fits both of them to have the name of saints known for the strenght of their faith given their family and occupations.

Second theory: Lyre and Barbatos

Barbara's name has a striking resemblance to Barbatos' name. It's never said that there's a link between the two and maybe there isn't, but I think "Barbara" kind of sounds like a possible female version of Barbatos. Not if you look at the real etymology of the two names, they're not related in our world, but I mean in Teyvat where Barbatos is the name of Mondstadt's Archon, Barbara could sound like a name derived from Barbatos'.

In Chinese, Jean's name is 琴 (Qín) which can be translated as "lyre", which is exactly the same word as the Holy Lyre der Himmel. It's completely lost in translation though and the fact that her name was translated as "Jean" and not "Lyre" means that maybe it wasn't really the goal to call her Lyre in the first place but it's still hard to ignore and there even was a pun about it in the Chinese version!

So there'd be one of the girls named after the Archon and the other named after his instrument! It's totally fitting for the very pious Gunnhildr-Pegg family! (Also I think "Lyre" would have been a very good name for Jean, I think it really fits her to have the name of a musical instrument with such gentle tones 🥺)

I think both theories could hold some truth on how Jean and Barbara were named, whether it's a reference from historical figures or for more lore related reasons. But I really like finding a connection between their names and that despite not sharing the same family name anymore, they still have something in common when it comes to names...

[galactic-academia]

Love One Another (As I Have Loved You)

Continuation to Finding God and Divine Wrath

Rating: M; minors, pass your way.

Category: F/M

Fandom: The Young Pope

Relationship: Lenny Belardo x F!Reader

Tags: language, sexy times drowned into metaphors, angst, unrequited (?) love, Chrismas mass, Reader smokes cigaret and has hair long enough to get pulled; TW: rejection, loneliness. Read as "The author chose not to warn for content, or Archive Warnings could apply, but the author has chosen not to specify them" on AO3. Don't hesitate to message me to get more informations if you want to read this story but don't feel like starting it without full warnings.

Words: 873

Notes: Set before Lenny became pope, but after he became Cardinal and the Archbishop of New York. Don't blame me, blame the Noots (don't, for I love my Noots).

Masterpost | Ask | Guidelines |

This is ridiculous.

You and Lenny… It has always been complicated. You’re both piggy-headed and have far too much pride for anything between the two of you being a bed of roses, even without considering his situation. But this outdoes all the shit you’ve come through.

There, on a Christmas day, you’re chain-smoking on your couch while glaring at your TV. Monseigneur Belardo is celebrating mass into St Patrick’s Cathedral before thousands of believers, since the whole affair is broadcasted on TV. And truly, this is ridiculous. 

He’s been babbling for almost an hour now, about love, and peace, and forgiveness and you would laugh your heart out if you weren’t so goddamn mad. Please, Lenny Belardo doesn’t know shit about peace and has never practiced forgiveness. As for love… He shouldn’t be authorized to even spell the fucking word.

The first time you fucked Lenny, long before he became the a Cardinal and the Archbishop of New York, it wasn’t about love. Transgression, yes; sacrilege, certainly; but “love” was never mentioned. But when he cupped your hips in his large, almost trembling hands to receive the bestowal of your body like he would hold the chalice with the wine become blood of Christ; when he came to your altar as often - in not more - as he went to Jesus’ one, maybe it didn’t need to be told? Maybe Lenny didn’t need words and labels to love you.

What a fool you have been.

When Lenny’s been called to a “higher destiny” than the one he had in your humble city, you followed him. No question asked. You left your job and you sold your house and you came to New-York, ready for a new life, and you weren’t afraid, for Lenny was with you. Should have been with you.

But you wouldn’t believe what a fucking cardinal has to do. Meetings, business trips, phone calls to one end of the world and then the other. Masses, benedictions, public appearances, preachings… Maybe he has some time to pray, while he’s brushing his teeth… 

He didn’t have time for you, and his secretary was beginning to be rude with you; when she hung up on you after one too many calls to his office, you lost it. You went to his place and cried for him until the security came and tried to make you leave and Lenny stopped them. For the first time in weeks, he finally was before you.

You weren’t prepared to get sermonized.

“This is my life, now”, he has said, “I’m a servant of God and I must honor Him”.

And it hurts you to think back about it now, the tears in your eyes and the tremor in your voice when you told him “I thought you loved me”. What a stupid thing to say in the first place…

“I only love God.”

Now, it seems laughable how, the closer to God he thinks to get, the more his heart desiccates. It didn’t make you laugh, then.

To see him spout all that nonsense in front of an adoring audience, it riles you up. You can feel it simmer low in your belly. Isn’t he pretty, that bastard, all in white; an albino peacock doing a cartwheel in front of its court. And that smile… You’ll never get tired of that smile. It calls troubles, fun troubles; a bratty behavior met with a few, powerful slaps and a punishing pace. You can almost still feel his hand pulling on your hair.

Fuck, you liked it when he lost control over himself and get a little rough with you. You suspect he came harder when he could see tears rolling down your cheeks.

As the choir ends and Lenny comes back to his pulpit, opening his arms and making his voice vibrate through the cathedral, you can’t help but rub your thighs together. It’s been too long. And why not, after all? Isn’t Christmas about love? It would be relevant, for once, giving yourself some love on Christmas day, yeah? So you drown out Lenny’s soliloquy - the man has always been his better audience, anyway - and let your fingers play another anthem; your eyes never leaving his angelic face.

You push yourself over the edge quickly, never better served than by yourself, yeah? Well… It’s efficient, at least. In a haze you see the assembly get up and turn to each other to shake hands, kiss on the cheeks - sometimes both - and Lenny stays there, petrified. Alone, standing high in a storm of people bending toward each other, let in peace to witness his fellow human beings show affection to one another. Just as he asked them to.

And, once again, you would laugh - if you couldn’t feel your heart shattering into your chest. He looks both so majestic and lonely in the center of that magnificent cathedral, surrounded by those ethereal lights. You miss him.

Not five minutes after the end of the Service, as you’re still breathing a little hard, your phone lights up and starts to vibrate. You shouldn’t pick up, not after the crap he dumped on you.

You shouldn’t pick it up.

You shouldn’t pick it up.

You shouldn’t pick it up.

You shoul-

Back to The Young Pope Masterlist

[seaweedwolf]

Also can we talk about the difference in the show about the importance of the chosen one?

I love it every other kind. Even this book has the chosen one be this amazing and super important character that has just joined the world, and they'll automatically save everything?

Here, you have percy constantly believing he won't survive. He is going to slow the quest down?

And it makes sense right? He has been training for less then a week, even chiron made it sound like his role in the quest was to be the sacrifice. The one who died to let the others get away to succeed.

Thalia now she seemed like the chosen one? She the daughter of the king of the gods. She was older and more experienced. She was overly certain.

Percy? He was alwaysplan b. He says in the show about the fates and how they can choose to do it themselves?

He's right? The prophercy doesn't pick him, he picks the prophercy because he won't let nico or anyone else suffer.

You're not the hero.

Everything leads to that line.

He wasn't the hero to stop Kronos. (Hero in quotation marks because fuck Luke)

He wasn't the hero to stop gaia.

Yet somehow they say he is the best hero of the generation. The most powerful. Why? Because he will truly do anything to help people. He will make sure he will do anything to succeed but not at the expense of others.

Poseidon said in the chalice of the gods. He was impressed by his lack of selfishness. It is what makes him the hero. And it is.

Leo, Calypso, (don't get me started on the Calypso thing it was so unfair to blame on percy) nico, and others will make percy believe he doesn't keep his promise and he can be selfish. He's not. He either doesn't have the time because everything is happening or needing time to live his own life but because they can and its easier they will blame him.

[cymorilcinnamonroll]

Genesis Remixed: A Lilith and Eve Sapphic Romance One Shot

When Chavah awoke in the Garden, she was filled with regret. What was once rib, now flesh, did not feel whole. Her husband slept as G-d led Chavah, an automaton given Breath and Word, through Gan Eden.

Shortly after Adam first forced her to submit, on the hard red clay he was made from, Chavah’s cries summoned a beautiful siren with raven hair and emerald bezels in her eyes. The maven rode a cherry red Harley, this Lilith, and had an extra pink helmet with daisies she had drawn in chalk paint on it for Chavah.

Chavah was quite impressed by Lilith’s nose ring, generous hips and breasts, and tattoos like a barista on the lam.

Having just been made that morning, Chavah had nothing to pack. All Chavah knew was that her destiny lay with this dazzling serpent woman, in her leather jacket, smoking Virginia Slims. They were meant to cleave, be helped and helpmate, master and servant, mistress and lover and laughter, and create beauty.

So, Chavah put on a red checkered sundress, wedged heels, and saddled Lilith’s Harley, the sun skipping over their luscious locks as they sped, hellbent, out of Gan Eden and into the wide green world.

First they traversed the universe, making camp at night under Adonai’s cosmos, and angels and demons alike attended Lilith and Chavah with food, manna, and figs. Chavah kept an elegant, scribbled in sketchbook - a stenciled Moleskin - where she drew figure studies of her lady love and botanical drawings. In return, Lilith liked to try out her tattoo gun on her girlfriend and carve seashells and coral into jewelry to adorn Chavah.

Lilith taught Chavah secrets – Adonai’s name, how a pearl was formed on an oyster’s tongue, and a diamond forged out of carbon deep in the depths of the Earth. But Chavah taught Lilith pleasure in a way that distant Sammael never had – where men fail, women understand.

They cast stars upon each other’s bodies and drank down mountain dew and honey wild from their chalices. When they made love, even Dumah, angel of silence, was known to weep.

Those were the days of great making. The universes coalesced, coiled, spiraled out like the Shekinah’s hair, and the Shekinah shone brightly down onto her handmaiden, Lilith, and her chosen daughter, Chavah.

They walked in the light of Adonai, crafting fantasies and terpsichores from the spindrifts of cavemen dreams. Adam had multiplied with his second nameless wife, the one whom G-d had constructed before Adam’s very eyes, flesh upon muscle upon bone, and soon, Chavah and Lilith were relegated to the realm of myths and sin.

The People cried out: give us succor, Asherah. So Lilith and Chavah became a Tree, menorah-shaped, and grew fruit to feed their sons and daughters. Only Adam, immortal, hacked the Shekinah Tree of Knowledge down. In revenge, Lilith planted the vine of Baruch – grapes that she and Chavah taught their daughters to make wine so splendid, it inspired poetry and deeds of greatness in men of valor and the daughters of the Watchers.

A flood came. A great one. Towers were built and toppled. First, clay cities, then wood, then stone, then the bones of earth raped to form great metal beams and skyscrapers. Moloch of industry arose, consuming dreams. Mammon created empires fat off his golden coffers. Ashmedai seduced. Beelzebub possessed. Sammael was set against Michael at every turn.

But Chavah and Lilith? They infused the world with beauty. Feminism. Revolution. Science and the Renaissance. Democracy. For every mother kissing her child, there was Chavah. For every blue-stockinged lass carving her way in a man’s world, there was Lilith.

Eventually, they opened a bakery. Challah was their specialty, with seven twisted braids. They kept bees out back, the wives Lilith and Chavah, and they read Tarot and the threads of fate for the young maidens and boys who came to them for advice. For widows and those who lost a child – whether to Dumah or abortion or infertility – they gave free iced coffee, fresh honeycomb, and bread.

It was a man’s world, but slowly, gently, women reigned. We, their daughters, created peace, endless beauty and succor, so that no son died in war, and every daughter was cradled and wanted. Lilith and Chavah continued serving the Shekinah, and the women of the world finally tasted the Fruit of Life.

It was born of two women, first and last, alpha and omega, snake and snake charmer.

And now, Lilith and Chavah live in our hearts, and if you seek out to find them, bread and cheese in hand at midnight, through Alice’s looking glass, you will come to their café, and the Mothers of Life and Death will braid your curls free of sorrow.

And all that starts well, ends well. They will wipe your tears, kiss your cheeks, make you a mocha, flat white, or comforting oat milk latte, and the fire in your heart to carry on will be kindled, and the Foundresses of Humanity will sing you into this life and the next, carrying you and your loved ones to the far shores of wonder, miracles, and the wild, and on their motorcycle, you’ll ride.

[normalmonsterfight]

here's some Normal Monsters i think are cool! (mostly just ones that i like the artwork of)

Power Pro Knight Sisters Chosen by the World Chalice Wattaildragon Gem-Knight Garnet Alexandrite Dragon Mekk-Knight Avram Luster Dragon 7 Colored Fish Suppression Collider Frostosaurus Angel Trumpeter Galaxy Serpent Guardragon Justica Crowned by the World Chalice Doll Monster Miss Mädchen Doll Monster Bear-Bear Dragon Core Hexer Divine Dragon Ragnarok Digitron Rabidragon Metaphys Armed Dragon Flash Knight

I might have more later.

also, one question. If a monster is Normal/Pendulum, but it does have a Pendulum Effect, does it count for the list? If so, i'd like to nominate Dragonpulse Magician and Hallohallo.

All added!

I'm a little mixed on Normals with pendulum effects, but for now I'll allow it unless a significant number of people feel it's unfair.

[crossdressingdeath]

Astarion: It feels so good. Freedom - true freedom. Finally. I can feel my strength growing. Every day that passes, I gain new abilities. You know, now that our enemies have fallen, I might be the most powerful person in the world. And as you're my consort, that makes us the most powerful people in the world. Kyvir: I wouldn't want it any other way. Astarion: And neither would I. Together, we can do anything. The world is ours for the taking. So, what would you like? Kyvir: I want to sit on your lap, sipping blood from a chalice, ruling the Gate from our foul throne. Astarion: Oh, darling. I love the way you think. We will need to be careful, of course. There are still powerful forces in the city. We can start slowly - quietly charming and manipulating key figures, building up our network of puppets. Before long we'll have our hands on every string in this city, and they will dance however we tell them to. We have a beautiful, bloody future to look forward to, my love. I can't be sure what it holds for us, but I know one thing. This is going to be fun.

The worst husbands in Faerûn continue to be the worst, yes. I love how unrepentantly awful you can be if you romance ascended Astarion; yes, you saved the Gate! But mostly because if the illithids take it you can't have it. I also love how you can be all for the whole "sitting in his lap on your throne" thing that he mentions if you go Chosen Durge; I guess as soon as you get out of the incredibly preachy section immediately after ascending him wiser heads in the writers' room prevailed and reminded everyone that a given PC might be totally okay with this situation, actually. This relationship may not be healthy but both parties can be having a wonderful time despite that and it's grand. Codependent possessive jackasses making that everyone else's problem! I get why so many people write it as fucked up and miserable and the PC having to suffer through it because they've trapped themselves in this situation, but honestly I find a dynamic where the PC went into this with open eyes and knowing the risks and consequences and finding that they are in fact quite pleased with their situation just as compelling. If not more so; I won't lie, I find horrible people being a genuinely loving power couple in their own ways much more interesting than one partner being the other's innocent victim.

[acquired-stardust]

Game Spotlight #10: MediEvil (1998)

Spooky season is upon us, which means two themed spotlights! Join Ash as she takes a look back at a game from her childhood in this Halloween edition of Acquired Stardust’s gaming spotlights!

Often discussed here is the legendary year of 1998, a year in which it seemed like pop culture at large was firing on all cylinders, and a big one in my childhood personally. It was the year of the one and only Disney movie I’d seen as a kid, Mulan, which helped me feel a little bit closer to my Chinese immigrant great grandfather, a figure that loomed large in my family. The world of video games saw heavy hitters with enduring legacies such as Spyro the Dragon and Burning Rangers. Sandwiched between a lot of all-time classics is SCE Cambridge’s MediEvil, a game that despite being noteworthy at the time has fallen off in terms of relevancy steeply.

Combining a Tim Burton-esque aesthetic and gameplay inspired by Capcom’s Ghosts n Goblins and Nintendo’s Legend of Zelda, and much like Megaman Legends was released before Ocarina of Time. MediEvil stars the reanimated skeleton of Sir Daniel Fortesque, revered ‘hero of Gallowmere’, revived in an unwitting coincidence by century-past nemesis Zarok who’s magic creates an army of the dead, gives life to stone statues and corrupts the living into doing the evil sorcerer’s bidding. An interesting turn of events in the opening of the game reveals that the moniker ‘hero of Gallowmere’, ostensibly earned by Sir Dan in the past fight against Zarok a hundred years before the start of the game, is actually completely misattributed to him, having actually been struck down in the opening moments of the climactic battle. This detail serves as the motivating force for Sir Dan’s quest, seeking to redeem himself and banish Zarok once and for all. It also touches on a very interesting concept as a hobbyist historian, the cliche that “history is written by the victor” is a very real thing and something that multiple fields of history grapple with - many things in the past (especially the very distant past) are tragically unknowable and our understanding of accepted history can be shaken by discoveries that have literally laid beneath our feet all along. It’s a small hook but one that’s always been fun for me and compelling enough.

MediEvil’s action-platformer gameplay is fairly standard for the time, featuring a number of strongly themed levels spread out across a world map which allows the player to tackle batches of levels in any order they choose. True to its Zelda inspirations the player will collect a variety of weapons and items that allow for new methods of attack along with new exploration opportunities, often allowing backtracking into previous levels to access new routes that are further populated with gold, health recovery or yet more items. Hidden in each level is also a ghostly chalice, normally inaccessible even if found, that is made obtainable through the defeat of enemies in the current level and will grant access to the Hall of Heroes, a Valhalla-esque realm in which Sir Dan’s former allies in the battle of Gallowmere now reside with their spirits bound to statues bearing their likeness. Each chalice collection offers a conversation with one of Dan’s many past allies and a gift, in many cases upgrades to overall health capacity or gold but many encounters also see the ally bestow their legendary armament to Dan to aid in his fight against the returned evil sorcerer. Chalice collection isn’t particularly difficult or involved, but adds a wonderful sense of progression to the game along with its great rewards.

While it may not be especially difficult to physically collect the chalices, fulfilling the qualification for it can prove slightly frustrating. Combat is very simplistic and slightly clunky, the player often not able to avoid taking damage depending on the weapon chosen as Dan and an enemy frantically bump into each other causing damage to the player. The camera can also be an issue and was even back in 1998. Most of these issues are remedied by familiarizing yourself with the way health and revival works, and realizing it’s actually very simple to spend a few minutes farming the first level to replenish your health stock before tackling a new level with more limited resources. Level design is also largely good, though these issues do come to a head in a later stage (the dreaded ghost ship). Despite some blemishes and minor frustration MediEvil is a game that rewards familiarity well and can take experienced gamers (and ones who adjust to its particular feel) very little time to beat. For the purposes of giving this game a spotlight my run of MediEvil only took four and a half hours, and the Playstation 4 remaster, released in 2019, took under four hours.

On the subject of the PS4 remaster, it’s a largely improved version of the game and in many cases a straight upgrade. Controls have been smoothed slightly, the graphics have kept their Burton-esque charm without straying too far visually or tonally like the 2005 Playstation Portable remake which looks and comes across a lot closer to Spyro the Dragon than MediEvil proper, which can be genuinely eerie at times especially as a child and especially in 1998. Replacing the text-only tomes that give lore and gameplay advice is new narration by veteran voice actress Lani Manella which also adds to the experience quite well without changing it into a more comedic or childish one which unfortunately crops up in detrimental ways in both the 2005 PSP remake and MediEvil’s 2000 sequel, MediEvil 2, also on the Playstation console.

Speaking of being a child in 1998, MediEvil has a special place in my heart for being one of the few times I can remember my whole immediate family bonding over an experience. In an especially difficult early childhood, this game is one of the only things I can remember bringing together my entire immediate family to bond and gush over. To this day my mother vividly remembers attempting to dodge the boulders of early level Cemetary Hill, as well as the eerie possessed villagers of the Sleeping Village. Although the 2019 remaster is a straight upgrade in many areas there is still an unmatched charm that the original brings largely through its visuals. There’s just something so charming about Dan’s low polygon count depiction along with many other enemies and locales. The remaster is still very strong visually and may fit more modern sensibilities (especially those who have a hard time visually with the distinct polygons featured in many Playstation titles). Both versions are worth playing, and the relatively low playtime for those who adjust to its gameplay means you can indeed tackle both the original and 2019 remaster in pretty short order if you so desired.

A gem hidden among the stones, MediEvil is undoubtedly stardust.

- Ash

[resquices-of-godhood]

III THE EMPRESS

The Empress is the most feminine card in the Tarot, and greatly encourages compassion, beauty, and love. She is deeply connected to Mother Nature, and her influence is powerful when you absorb the energy of the natural world around you.

Violet was chosen by June to be the next bearer almost a full decade before the crown was passed down to her. In fact, Narinder had chosen her specifically at the time because the cult needed a new figure to start growing again after it nearly ceased to exist. June ensured it would survive during its darkest time, but now it was time to thrive once again.

Violet is a very feminine white unicorn, often wearing flowy dresses to accentuate her femininity. Her white fur coat accentuates well her curves, and her movements are gracious. Her eyes are cat-like when she is focusing on something.

Much like her predecessor, Violet was appointed to be the last vessel's disciple and apprentice, though she did not get engaged with June. She was prepared to assume the position of cult leader and the sacrificial ritual she would go through to meet with The One Who Waits. When the time came, June gave her the crown and a chalice filled with poison. The previous vessel instructed her that, once she got to the land of the dead, she should keep hold of the crown, for it would bring her to their god. Afterwards, she drank the poison, which led her to the panther on the other side. After a few questions to make sure he chose right, he officially transferred the vesselhood to her and gave a message to be delivered: Witness Aries might still live.

Upon her return as a vessel, Violet conveys the message to June, who leaves the cult grounds the following day, leaving the unicorn lady as the uncontested leader. From there, she started making changes in the doctrines, getting the cult ready to expand, before leaving on her first crusade a year later.

For the following century, she would venture into the lands of the Old Faith, recruiting dissenters into her cult to replenish the numbers. While compassionate towards her followers, she was nonetheless ruthless in making sure faith remained high, keeping them nearly constantly high on menticide throughout her time with the crown. She was no less brutal on her enemies, using poisons that flowed from her chalice, which she had adopted as a vessel to be her symbol. Some say she is the one responsible for the creation of the bane weapons for that same reason. This left the cult in a state of disarray, however, prompting The One Who Waits to select the next vessel. She remained by his side as advisor and enforcer, before they both left the cult a century later to live in a secluded cabin around Pilgrim's Passage, where they reside to this day.

Violet's favored weapons are the dagger and her chalice. She is a master of poisons, using curses to generate them from her chalice to then spill onto her enemies directly, or imbibe her blade with it. Her fleece was fashioned as a shawl.

Of the vessels, she was the one Narinder kept the most distance. Even if she was loyal and devoted to him, there was just something that rubbed him the wrong way about her. This girl is toxic.

[clevermird]

Review: Chalice by Robin McKinley

I enjoyed this book way more than I expected I would and I’m not at all sad about that.  Only a little while ago, Mirasol was just a simple girl with no greater goals than to continue taking care of her woods and her bees. But that was before the Master and the Chalice, who maintain the land via their mystical connection to it, both died suddenly and without proper successors. Chosen as the new Chalice, Mirasol must figure out the complexities of a role that supports an entire nation with nothing more than books to guide her. Further complicating matters is the new Master (who’s more strongly bound to fire than he is to is people), the politics of the rest of the land’s magical rulers, and the ripple effects of the previous Master and Chalice’s mistakes.  Chalice is far less about plot and far more about worldbuilding and vibes. Although the magic is ill-defined in many ways, what information we are given paints a very interesting picture that holds interest even when not much is happening and there are plenty of tantalizing tidbits about the world and characters beyond the scope of the book that also held my attention. The main heroes of the story are all very likable people and the story’s focus on caring for land and animals and on improving the lives of ordinary people gives it a very warm feeling. I genuinely enjoyed reading this one and following Mirasol’s and the Willowlands’ journey.  The book isn’t perfect, though. The beginning of the book throws a lot of terminology at the reader and doesn’t explain what it means until much later and while it is possible to do this in a way that builds tension and intrigue, in Chalice it mostly just serves to make the book feel confusing and needlessly difficult to read. Mirasol’s interior monologue gets a bit repetitive at points, the romantic subplot, while sweet, still felt a bit underdeveloped, and the ending was slightly rushed.  Really, though, this book was pretty darn good. Worldbuilding familiar enough to feel welcoming but unique enough to be intriguing, characters you want to see succeed, and enough lush descriptions of animals, food, and countrysides to set you smiling

Warnings: There are a few descriptions of burn injuries and insect bites that, while not especially graphic, do stand out in a relatively non-violent story. Additionally, a plot point revolves around the threat of a forced marriage.

Rating: 8/10

[blood-orange-juice]

More Narcissenkreuz lore leaks because I have zero self-control.

Mostly for myself and future reference.

The Tower of Self

"The Narzissenkreuz Ordo believes that people continuously refine themselves through samsara cycles. These include Hyperborea, Natlantean, Remuria, and the first half of the fourth samsara (Clauria), which we are presently experiencing. Please take note that these are just names given to these eras by the Ordo based on ancient texts, and this evolution refers to spiritual evolution. There is no intent here to antagonize any research results obtained by the Akademiya. The human spirit undergoes the loss of paradise, the defeat of evil dragons, the original sin and baptism, and finally, freedom from the gods."

The pocket watch, cute Alice in Wonderland references.

Sacred Chalice

"The specialized refinement material for the Sword of Narzissenkreuz. Conches were often favored materials in ancient Fontainian civilization for making ritual implements, and the sacred unguents within this conch chosen as a sanctified chalice have finally emerged. Symbolically, this chalice is the primordial word, the oils are the honed will, and the holy sword itself is reason, which breaks through all."

Holy Blade of Narcissenkreuz

A sacred blade indwelt with great enough reason and will to create and destroy a universe, or a dream.

Root Cycle

"One of the keys designed by the Narzissenkreuz Ordo for the tower. When combined, the keys form a peculiar shape of three and a half circles, for which there is a special explanation. The innermost circle is the Cycle of Hyperborea, symbolizing the age when the world was frozen and the lost paradise."