#I did 2 Daemons and they look nothing alike

[beneaththeshadows]

A few WIPs here because it's my birthday!!!

[huramuna]

the calico bastard - chapter 1.

 aemond targaryen x strong bastard oc (series) part one | next part

summary: After his takeover of Harrenhal, Aemond encounters a dreamy-eyed, wistful bastard of House Strong, who piques his interest and changes the course of Westerosi history.

 warnings: smut (eventually), angst, canon typical violence, canon typical misogyny. will add more as I go through each chapter. 

wordcount: 2.6k

a/n: alys rivers doesn’t exist in this universe, alysanne takes her place somewhat. a/n 2: this is my first fic, i got the courage to post it -- please be nice n' leave a like if this interests you!

wuthering heights - kate bush • leave me for dead - GAYLE

It was a chilly spring day when he arrived— atop his dragon that blotted out the sun. 

Harrenhal stood tall, foreboding against the horizon of the Riverlands. It was a tower with a known history of bloodshed and held many ghosts within its hallowed walls. 

Recently, it’d been a symbol of the Dance, a game of tug of war between the Rogue Prince and his One-Eyed nephew. 

Day after day with Daemon holding Harrenhal, Aemond taunted him by flying in the distance atop his mossy colored war dragon. 

Until, one night, Daemon acquiesced. He gathered his forces and left during the hour of the wolf, leaving the original denizens of the ancient stronghold behind.

It was all too fast that Aemond would seize the opportunity— and seize he did.

“Bring out every man with the blood of House Strong in his veins!” he cried out, his voice stringent and unwavering. His dragon grumbled in agreement just outside of the castle’s walls.

His soldiers ripped husbands from their wives, fathers from their children, and sons from their mothers. All were dragged out to the courtyard. 

A diminutive lady watched atop the castle ramparts, looking down at the scene. Alysanne Rivers— a bastard of House Strong, as far as she knew. 

She looked nothing like her Strong relatives, her hair being almost white in color, tumbling down in billowing curls, likely not been cut drastically since she was born, as it lingered past her bottom. The only reminiscences of the Strong bloodline was the errant streak of brown that ran down the front of her hair.

No two sides of her face were alike— one side had a violet eye with white lashes and a brown eyebrow, the other side having a brown eye with brown lashes and a white eyebrow. 

‘The Calico Bastard’ they tended to call her, mostly behind her back— but she didn’t mind. She was rather fond of calico cats.

As she pressed herself belly down on the ramparts, she observed the man below. Tall and chiseled, she could almost feel the hate and contempt eek from his being. It smelled of brimstone. 

Her brows perked as he reached to his face, ripping his eyepatch off, revealing the sapphire prosthetic underneath. He spoke a few words, too quietly for Alysanne to hear.

Then he unsheathed his sword. She watched with widened eyes as he brought down the blade upon the neck of the first in line— Ser Simon Strong, the oldened head of Harrenhal; now beheaded. 

She didn’t retch, but she felt a pit of darkness settle in her stomach. Alysanne had been raised as a bastard usually was; hardly at all. She was treated like a dormouse, her chambers being a closet near the kitchens, her bed a pile of old mattress material. 

Her Strong family had treated her with contempt, for the whiteness of her hair and her violet eye— she could only wish to hope that her mother, whomever she may be, never received such treatment. 

She’d heard not much about her mother over her eighteen years of life, and such questions would earn her a slap to the face. 

She never felt love for the Strong family, not even her father, Lyonel Strong, who had left her for many years of servitude on King Viserys’ council. 

The only one to not treat her like dirt beneath her feet was her supposed half-brother, Ser Harwin ‘Breakbones’ Strong. He was the only kind person she’d ever known.

But he was gone now. And apparently, so was the rest of House Strong.

She watched the heads roll into the mud with a detached gaze. No tears would be shed on account of her blood family’s deaths, but she hadn’t seen such ruthlessness firsthand. The only thing comparable was when she heard the screams of her father and brother dying in a fire all those years ago— but she didn’t see them. 

As the last man fell, Aemond glanced up at where she was laying. He leaned over and said something incoherent to a Dornishman next to him. 

Then she was grabbed. She kicked and growled like an impudent animal, snapping her teeth at the soldiers that drug her from the ramparts, down to the courtyard and before Aemond himself. They let her go, then, and let her adjust herself as Aemond approached her slowly.

The bastard girl glared up at him. And he stared back, his one violet eye wide with a fading madness. 

“You were watching,” he started, his voice laced with authority but also… curiosity. “What do you make of this?” he asked then, his arms resting behind his back. 

She swallowed nervously as he got a bit closer, to which she took two steps back. “I see the dragon has come to deliver its reckoning upon House Strong.” she bowed her head, averting her gaze as if it pained her to keep eye contact with him. 

Aemond’s brow rose. The way she spoke was odd, mysterious, dreamlike, even. Not unlike how his own maddened sister, Queen Helaena, spoke often. “Reckoning,” he repeated, “House Strong has defied the crown for too long.” His tone held a touch of disdain for their audacity to challenge him—an affront that demanded retribution in the form of blood spilled upon already stained grounds. 

He stepped closer to her, closing the distance between them. His presence so close was almost suffocating, scalding— like being too close to dragonfire. “And what do you make of this reckoning?” he pressed, searching her mismatched eyes for any recognition that she understood— it was more likely she didn’t. 

“You smell of ash and musk, dragon,” she murmured, stepping back once more. She did not like having people in such close proximity to her, it seemed, as her eyes flitted nervously around.

“A reckoning within your right; mere mice burn before a flaming beast.” she said finally, seemingly in a riddle or poem. Her voice was soft, lilting and song-like; not unpleasant upon the ears, but could be unnerving if anyone actually paid attention to the depths of her manic mutterings. 

Aemond’s face stayed neutral, his jaw clenched slightly, “And what do you make of this flaming beast? What lies beneath its exterior?” he continued. There was something about this fidgety bastard that intrigued him— perhaps it was how much she looked and acted like his sister. His heart clenched slightly at the thought. 

She let out a huff, as if annoyed by his incessant questioning. “A dragon needn’t concern itself with the opinions of mice or birds,” she grumbled. Her hands fiddled with the hem of her dress. “Are you going to kill me, dragon?” 

He stared at her for a moment longer, “Hm,” he seemed to mull it over in his mind, “Mayhaps not, for the moment. I am in need of a cupbearer, and you are capable enough.” 

Alysanne bristled slightly but said nothing. She just stared down at her feet— they were bare, stained with dirt and dust. 

“It seems she knows the power of holding her tongue. I know a few bastards who would do well to learn such a thing,” he added before turning his gaze upward towards two of his men, “Find some handmaidens or servants and have her scrubbed and dressed— I shan’t have my cupbearer looking like…” he appraised her dirty form up and down, “that.” 

The two soldiers nodded their heads, “Yes, prince.” they hummed in agreement, one going to grab Alysanne once more. 

He roughly pulled her, the coarse leather of his gloves grating against her skin. She hated the feeling, the sensation of being grabbed and strewn about like she was nothing but a sack of potatoes or a bale of hay.

Aemond spoke once more, his voice cutting like a whip, “And treat her with respect— she may be a bastard, but she is still a lady, hm?” he glared at the pair of men, his icy stare boring particularly chilly into the one who had so carelessly handled her. 

The soldier straightened up, releasing Alysanne from his grip— he left harsh red marks upon her skin, “Yes, my prince— apologies.” he dipped his head. 

Seeming satisfied with the answer, he turned around and began walking away. 

Alysanne observed him with a tenuous gaze. The way he walked was unnerving— a bit slow, but meticulous. Like a stalking predator. 

But he wasn’t just a mere predator, was he? He was the apex, the king of predators, hewn from brimstone and lava deep within the fissures of the Fourteen Flames. 

Alysanne had encountered the Targaryen house before— with Daemon having occupied Harrenhal just before. 

Daemon was an annoyance to her. She had a distaste for him, even if they did not speak. He would leer at her, looking as if he was undressing her with his eyes. 

But Aemond— he felt different. He didn’t leer, nor undress her with his eyes or look upon her as a commodity. 

No, he looked at her as if he wanted to remove her skin and see what lies underneath. To remove the outer layer of her being from the bone and tear out her heart— 

She snapped herself out of her reverie at the annoyed quip of one of the soldiers that were to escort her. 

“You deaf or something, bastard? Get moving,” the man grunted. 

A fitting noise for him, as he was nothing but a grunt, behest to a dragon. 

A dragon that interested Alysanne, for reasons she didn’t understand. There was an unconscious nagging sensation, deep in her gut when she looked at him. A feeling that elated her and made her feel sickly. 

She walked along, being escorted— escorted in her own home. She thought the idea silly, but let them do as they liked. They were stronger than she— let them have their moment of significance. 

Prince Aemond, as it turns out, left much of the staff in Harrenhal intact. Scared, but alive. 

Her mismatched gaze flitted around as they stepped into the Great Hall. The quivering, huddled bodies of servants, cooks and maids alike stood together. 

“Oh, girl, you lived,” the cook, Magga, cried. The older woman broke away from the conglomerate of clucking hens to go embrace Alysanne. 

She flinched slightly— girl, Magga had called her. She didn’t even call her by her name. She hardly ever did, and never with such… saccharine sweet reverie. 

She fought every instinct within her to run away, growl or do some other animalistic display of fear as Magga enveloped Alysanne in an all encompassing hug, practically suffocating her in her bosom. 

“We thought ye dead, girl,” Magga continued, “They said they were butcherin’ all of House Strong. They didn’t do anything to ya, did they?” 

Alysanne, once she was finally able to catch her breath, shook her head. She was still confused by Magga’s sudden maternal disposition. The cook always treated Alysanne as a nuisance, an extra mouth to feed that likely didn’t deserve it.

Witnessing death, she supposed, had a funny way of changing people. 

Alysanne would give the old cook a fortnight before she was back to calling her a bastard and trying to beat her bloody with a wooden spoon for pilfering honey cakes. 

The two guards that had led Alysanne in seemed unmoved by the reunion. One, apparently named Ser Daunton, spoke up, “Which of you is a maid? The prince has deemed that this…” he cleared his throat before speaking, “lady, requires to be bathed and clothed— befitting the station of royal cupbearer.” 

A few of the ladies spoke up. Flora and Beth stepped up— sisters from near Maidenpool. “Yes, ser,” Flora, the more talkative of the bunch, murmured, “We will… tend to Lady… Rivers,” she glanced over at her sister, who gave an imperceptible shrug of her shoulders. 

“Very good. I’m sure that the prince will have need of his… cupbearer sooner than later— so do not tarry.” Ser Daunton nodded, his gloved hand rested on the pommel of his sword before he turned and left, a nod of his head commanding his companion. 

As they walked out of the Great Hall, there was almost a physical sigh in the room. 

Flora and Beth walked to Alysanne, the latter finally speaking, “What in the name of the Seven did you do to be spared?” she hissed, pushing Alysanne to the back room while Flora began to heat the water for the bath. 

“I did nothing— the dragon, he—,” her voice was cut short as Beth pinched the sensitive skin of her arm.

“He is not an actual dragon, you dumb girl,” she admonished, “He is a prince— more so even than the one that was here before. At least address him with some modicum of respect. You greet him as ‘my prince’ or ‘your grace’— no more of this foolish dragon nonsense.” Beth grumbled, stripping Alysanne of her clothes. 

“But he… he is a dragon, he—,” 

SMACK.

A sharp hit to her cheek by Beth, “I don’t care if he has horns growing out of his bloody head, or breathes fire— I won’t have you jeopardize our lives by spewing hogwash,” she paused for a moment as she began pulling Alysanne’s hair out from the errant braids she had them in, “I… He is unstable, look what he did to Ser Simon— poor lord couldn’t even raise his sword before the prince took his head. He was just an old man, shameful,” Beth continued, her fingers attempting to unknot her curls, “But we shan’t expect better from a Kinslayer.” 

Alysanne winced, her scalp prickly and heated. She didn’t say anything else— she would only dig herself into a deeper hole; it already felt like she was six feet under. 

The sisters dragged the odd-eyed lady to the copper tub, now filled with hot water and began to scrub her raw. Her skin pulsed red before finally settling into its normal pallor. 

Her hair was run through with a brush, more than half a dozen times before pulling it back into one tight braid that swept to her posterior. 

They stuffed her into a modest dress— a blue woolen kirtle with a white undershirt, the sleeves long and puffy. 

Alysanne, who hated being touched, squirreled and wriggled all throughout their prodding. She wasn’t a skinny thing by any means— she had a soft core and curvy figure, which was accentuated in the corset they strapped her in. 

“Cruel lot of chickens,” she grumbled under her breath, eyeing the two sisters with ire. 

“Hm— didn’t know you had a pair o’ hips under those mops, Calico,” Flora hummed, “This might be what the prince wanted you for.” 

Alysanne felt her cheeks heat up at the thought— she had been the receiving end of looks of leer and lust a few times, but she staved them off. She had no interest in romance, or whatever her twisted ideology of it was. Nor was she interested in being rutted into like a barn animal. 

“Don’t be ridiculous,” she replied, her voice quiet, but with a tinge of sharpness, “A dra— a prince has no use for a calico bastard— mayhaps you should visit him instead of I, Flora?” 

SMACK. 

That earned her another red mark on her cheek— one from each of those shrewd sisters. 

“I’d knock you out if you weren’t meant to be somewhere, Calico. Now go, I’d imagine you’re being expected.” Flora snapped, leaving the room. 

Beth tagged along, giving Alysanne one last dirty look. 

She took a few deep breaths, smoothing down her dress. Once, twice, thrice. With as straight of a posture as she could give, she left the room as well, quickly swept up by Ser Daunton to be escorted to the prince. 

Into the dragon’s lair.

[bohemian-nights]

Something a lot of people seem to look over is how Rhaenrya failed her children. All of them she failed just like Viserys did, you can love your child with everything in you but if you don’t teach them the things they need to know to succeed they’re gonna fail and that’s what she did. She literally told Jace that him being a Targaryen is all that matters it’s not, Rhaenyra is a Targaryen and that didn’t stop the greens from usurping the throne. I agree with Alicent when she told gollum to have ONE like that can be a mistake or ancient but to have THREE is an insult and disrespectful to the biggest house you need as an ally then just distancing yourself from court for 6 years then acting surprised to see that no know respect you like girl you gave the greens kings landing so of course a man like Otto is gonna plot and spy and make allies because your not. Sending Baela to driftmark was stupid because not only is she not the heir to driftmark but you’ve proven that she’s more family to them than your own son. If it was my way I would have sent Jace to Dragonstone and Luke to driftmark because they need to toughen up they way Aemond has been training since he lost his eye should have motivated them to train harder, even aegon has proven he has some combat experience. I get she loved her sons but she set them up to die the moment she kept sleeping with Harwin, and before people in the comments say “but she and Laenor tried, maybe Laenor is infertile” Laenor has cousins that look like him they could have arranged someone with someone who looks similar to him but no she picks a BROWN HAIRED BROWN EYED WHITE MAN!!!! And is now trying to pass her kids off as black like Rhaenyra your math isn’t mathing. The fact that Daemon knows his Daughters have more rights to the throne and driftmark than Rhaenyras kids but doesn’t do anything bothers me like I honestly don’t know what goes on in his head. Rhaenyra and Cersi or waaaaaaaay more alike than Cersi and Alicent, because wither people like or not Alicent did her duty and for her people, while Rhaenyra wants to spend money on a fleet of ships to the stepstones Alicent knows if they people starve riots will start and they need money to balance things out. That’s why I 10000% understand why alicent went “crazy” after Aemond had his eye cut off if it was the other way around you know team black would want Aemond to die. Sorry for the rant but I just can’t stan Rhaenyra, I like daemon but whenever his put together with Rhaenyra I get stomach cramps like🤮

Missy Anne is a straight up deign batt. I’ve seen people use the excuse that she remained with Harwin because he was discrete, but there was nothing discrete about what they did. She should’ve stopped at Jace and found a silver haired man* and called it a day, but nope. Miss Maegor kept keeping on and was willing to lie, maim, and kill to keep her secret(Alicent was totally justified in her anger).

She’s worse than Cersei because at least she was smart(or maybe it was her narcissism) enough to have kids that looked like her.

*Show!Laenor is only 1/2 Black. His kids with Missy Anne would never be Black(that’s the thing that irked me with Vaemond’s actor when he said that). They’d be mostly white so it’s fine if they look white. The problem isn’t their race it’s that they look literally like Harwin.

As far as Daemon goes, he doesn’t do anything because I doubt he was ever going to let the weak boys live long enough to ever take up their seats.

[adarafaelbarba]

Unlikely reunion

Pairing: de Clermont family. Godfrey x Marceline.

Fandom: All Souls Trilogy

Warning: tw: blood. Louis calling his sister-in-law "King's Whore" (basically) in French. Threats of violence.

A/N: this is an au in which the de Clermont siblings, Philippe, Bertrand, Diana's parents and Emily return from the dead, giving everyone else at Sept Tours a bit of a shock.

A/N 2: Will also be posted on AO3 ❤️

One minute the chateau sounded alive, with how many people, vampires, daemons and witches alike, were in the place. And the next someone dropped a bottle, the glass shattering on the floor. Muffled cursing in French, English, Portuguese and everything in between followed suit as new, or should she say old, scents filled the whole place.

And then, a scent she had committed to memory as a human and that she had emerged herself in as she transitioned into a vampire. Marceline quickly, well as quick as she could after having stopped feeding, and shot out of the room, down to the living room.

She made it to the bottom of the stairs in record time, but was stopped by Marthe, «You’re in no state to see anyone at the moment my dear», she murmured, and although Marceline fought, she was no match for the older woman.

«Please Marthe, I—I need to—», the scent she had smelt became stronger as a tall vampire made his way towards the two. «Am I—is this? How long has it been since I last fed?» She thought she was seeing ghosts as the face of the man in front of her became clearer.

«Mon coeur, you’re alive?!» Godfrey exclaimed, hands cupping her cheeks and eyes scanning her face. But almost as soon as he had touched her, Marceline felt her feet give way under her and she fell forward into her not so dead husband’s arms.

He was of course quick to catch her. «When was the last she fed?» He asked, looking to Marthe, «Francoise, can you please get some blood for her?!» He turned to Ysabeau’s other housekeeper.

«She stopped feeding a few weeks ago, we all advised against it, but she was missing you too much monsieur Godfrey», Marthe noted, and Godfrey cursed, he should never have left her back then.

Just then Francoise came back with some blood bags, «We should get her to her rooms monsieur», she murmured. Godfrey agreed, picking Marceline up like she weighed nothing.

…

She didn’t want to drink at first. But with her husband’s encouraging words she let him feed her, one bag and then another. «That’s it mon coeur, just a little more, let’s get your strength back», he murmured as she drank hungrily.

«You should feed too monsieur», Francoise noted. He didn’t say anything at first, only focused on Marceline.

«I’ll feed later, but Francoise tell me, who turned her? Was it you? Or Marthe perhaps?» He asked, finally looking away from his wife.

«It wasn’t a servant who turned her, monsieur, it was your brother-in-law, Fernando. It was the only way.» At that Godfrey nodded, going back to caressing her cheek. «She wanted to be turned, we all told her the risk it would bring, but she wanted to regardless, to avenge your death.»

Godfrey let out a small laugh at that, looking at Marceline as she rested in his arms. «And did you get revenge, mon coeur?» He asked, making her look at him.

«They all suffered—greatly», she said weakly, reaching a hand up to touch his face, her fingers going through his brown locks.

«Good girl», he murmured in respond, leaning down to finally place his lips on hers.

There were footsteps leading to the door, and Francoise said a soft «I’ll give you a moment with mademoiselle Marceline. Call for me if you need anything», she said before leaving them to reconnect.

«How—how are you alive, mon cher», Marceline asked when she knew Francoise would be out of earshot. She sat up without moving too much out of his arms, needing the closeness.

«I don’t know. One minute I was dead, the next I wasn’t.» Was that how the afterlife felt like? just a very long minute?

She looked at him, «You know what year it is right?» Marceline worried he was confused as to how long he had been gone.

When he shook his head she let out a soft sigh. «It’s 2021. You’ve been dead for the past 300+ years, mon cher», she explained, taking his hands in hers.

«What?» Godfrey was right to be surprised. By all logic he wasn’t supposed to be here in this very moment. But by some twisted trick or magic, he and what sounded to be his older brother and father, along with a couple of witches, were brought back to life.

«Don’t think about it too much mon cher, focus on me», Marceline murmured, making him look at her.

Godfrey was quick to nod his head, pulling her in for a hug. «To have you in my arms again is all I wish for again. And now I don’t want to let go», he murmured, his nose nuzzling into the crook of her neck to rememorize her scent.

«It’s all I’ve dreamt of too. But would you not want to see your family some more too?» Marceline asked, looking at her husband.

«Later.» And then he kissed her again, only this time there was more passion in the kiss.

Hours, if not days, went before they finally left Godfrey’s rooms at Sept Tours to reunite with his family. In that time they had talked, cried, slept together, and fed on the blood that Francoise and Marthe had brought up for them.

One by one, Godfrey’s siblings, his brothers and sisters on Philippe’s side and Matthew, came to greet him, all pulling him in for a hug. Stasia and Freyja were almost crying with happiness for having their brothers back.

Marceline was watching the reunion unfold when Hugh came up to her. «Fernando told me about you. Says you were a good companion to him and Gallowglass», he said, taking one of her hands in his and leaning to place a kiss on it.

«Your family spoke very highly of you too, monsieur Hugh, especially Fernando and Gallowglass.» He smiled at that cupping one of her hands in both his while she rested her free hand on top of his.

Next to meet her was Ysabeau’s second son, Louis, looked at Marceline with a smirk on his lips. «Hello Louis», she said, greeting him. If there were people she hadn’t missed, it would be the likes of Louis and his twin sister Louisa. The two were absolute devils, and she remembered how little she had enjoyed spending time with them, even if she had barely spent any time with Louisa.

«I’m surprised they still keep you around, although from what I gathered Fernando hasn’t bored of you yet», his words stung, but she didn’t let it show. She could feel her father, Gallowglass and Godfrey look at them, but she kept her cool, didn’t say anything back to him. Marceline knew better than to talk back to someone as unstable as Louis. «Come now, catin du roi, aren’t you going to respond?» He asked, cupping her cheek to make her look at him.

«I suggest getting your hands off my wife before I rip them off for you, frére», Godfrey was by her side in a matter of seconds, staring down his younger brother. But Louis made no point to move, only laughed at Godfrey’s protectiveness.

Matthew hurried over after his brother, grabbing hold of the back of Louis’ neck, «Apologize to Marceline, brother, I won’t ask so nicely again», he growled. When Louis made no point to apologize Matthew twisted one of his arms behind his back. «I suggest you do as you’re told.»

Surprising everyone, Louis let out a scream in agony as they could all hear the bones in his arms breaking. «Never», he bit out, trying to break free from Matthew. But unlike his older brother and twin sister, Louis wasn’t as strong.

«Apologize or you’ll be gone from here soon enough», Matthew sneered. Louis looked to his mother and siblings for any help, but they were all standing there, forming a circle around them, seemingly to make sure he didn’t get away.

«I—I’m sorry—Mademoiselle», Louis said, groaning in pain as Matthew kept a hold of his brother’s arm. «I’ll never call you that again.»

Marceline looked past Godfrey’s shoulder, her eyes meeting Matthew’s, nodding at him. And with that, Matthew let go of Louis, pushing him to the side.

After that, the room became quiet again, and Marceline felt an awkward aura around them all. «I think I should go upstairs, let you all chat, and reunite», she said, stopping her husband when he tried to go with her. «You have a lot of things to catch up with your family about, mon cher, I’ll be in your rooms when you’ve had your time with them.» Leaning up, she placed a soft kiss to his cheek. «I’m not going anywhere any time soon.»

[lordeasriel]

here’s the tea for episode 2 of his dark materials (do not worry, it’s mostly nice things):

i loved the scenes with marisa; there is a lot going on with her glances and smiles, it’s as if she’s lying constantly, steadily and i enjoy that; her wardrobe is beautiful and impeccable;

marisa teasing macphail is lmaooo is funny af not gonna lie but it makes me fear NT way more than i would like.

although i did like that they showed boreal’s second life, and the window looks cool af, i think they showed too much, if that makes sense? so they’re either making asriel’s big boom something even more relevant or it’s just gonna be underwhelming because it renders his efforts... dull.

look, i tried liking boreal, but he’s a bitch. killing adele? bitch no. killing adele with his hands? BITCH NO

also they should’ve made adele oakley street, a waste of opportunity just saying. not biased at all

his scene with the smartphone made me cackle tho i dont even know why KJASHKJAHSAKJHSKJAHJSAKJASH it’s just so funny he in our world

roger and billy, together forever and dead

i like sad lyra, believe it or not. she feels real and in actual pain and that helps flesh out the idea of a neglected child much better. she is much better in this episode than dafne was in the first one, so i am counting on constant improvement.

MARISA’S PARENT REVEAL WAS FUCKING WILD. I was not counting on that, like, NO. it was great, honestly, and lyra’s reaction was much more appropriate; she feels betrayed by his lies. she is way too dumb tho, WHO’S MY MOMMY???? WELL LYRA LET ME FUCKING TELL YOU

also marisa saying asriel was a slut is just canon reaffirmation, we all knew that

the gyptian arc is cool, but so short.i especially like how they bring billy’s sweater to ma costa, although that was sad af.

marisa’s suicidal behaviour is quite neat. i feel so sad for the monkey tho. and i like how they still show they’re connected despite not being properly connected, apparently.

the MASTER SLAYING BOREAL!!!! YES BITCH YOU TOP HIM, THIS BITCH AINT NOTHING

overall, a much better episode than the pilot. would’ve traded boreal’s scenes for something less revealing. parent reveal was fucking awesome. a great way to engage non-book and book fans alike. didnt pay attention to the daemons much lmao i liked the arctic institute, but it was so short. 9/10 if i had to label it

[nobodysuspectsthebutterfly]

question from a non-book reader; i've been reading up on a lot of targaryen history since i got the world of ice and fire book. i vaguely understand the blackfyre rebellion and a lot of what i see on tumblr seems to side either with the targaryens or the blackfyres. but it seems to me that neither side was fully in the right since the targaryens overall weren't exactly known for being just rulers. that said, what is your opinion on the blackfyre rebellion? (1/2)

(2/2) did bloodraven genuinely commit tyranny and sins against the gods, or was aegor rivers the one who had the moral high ground in comparison?

…um.

I’m not sure if you’re confused because you haven’t read the books, or what, but sorry… no. The Blackfyre Rebellion happened because King Aegon IV Targaryen, Aegon the Unworthy (motto: “wash her and bring her to my bed”), always hated his trueborn son Daeron, considering him weak, hated Daeron’s mother Queen Naerys (and always tried to undermine her, including accusing her of infidelity through a proxy), hated the peace made with Dorne that was sealed with Daeron’s marriage to a Dornish princess (including trying and failing to start a war with Dorne by attacking them unprovoked with wooden “dragons”), decided to give Daeron one last stab in the back by legitimizing all his bastards on his deathbed.

One of those bastards included Daemon Blackfyre, born Daemon Waters, the son of Aegon and his cousin Daena the Defiant.

Aegon had knighted Daemon for valor in a squire’s tourney (age 12), and presented him with the Valyrian steel sword Blackfyre, the hereditary sword of House Targaryen and the Targaryen kings. (Blackfyre had belonged to Aegon the Conqueror, and when Aenys gave the sword to his younger brother Maegor at Aegon’s funeral – because Maegor was a warrior and Aenys was not, wanting them to rule together – it was widely considered to be a sign of Aenys’s weakness and Maegor’s strength.) Aegon IV giving Daemon the sword of kings, acknowledging him as his son, and then legitimizing him two years later, was considered by many to be his attempt to make Daemon his true heir and deny Daeron as falseborn, Naerys’s secret bastard.

Nevertheless, Daeron did not let his father’s duplicity preclude his obligations to his many bastard half-brothers and -sisters; including allowing Daemon to change his last name to Blackfyre, arranging his marriage to Rohanne of Tyrosh as Aegon had negotiated (though Daeron did not allow Daemon to marry his sister Princess Daenerys too), and granting a keep and lands along the Blackwater to the new House Blackfyre. Daemon even took his sigil the Targaryen arms inverted, a black three-headed dragon on red. And Daemon made it known that Aegon had given Daemon the sword because he was a warrior and Daeron was not, though Daeron did have two sons (out of four) who were highly martially talented.

Daeron’s rule soon stablized the excesses of the reign of his corrupt hedonist father; he was seen as just and good-hearted, and he was called “Daeron the Good” by both smallfolk and lords. Nevertheless, as time went on, those who opposed Dorne and its inclusion in Westeros, bound by two marriages to House Targaryen, found their figurehead in the handsome warrior Daemon Blackfyre. They looked at Daeron’s marriage to Mariah Martell, and his heir Baelor Breakspear, who though a warrior, also looked like his mother, with dark hair and dark eyes. They stewed at Princess Daenerys’s marriage to Prince Maron Martell of Dorne (oh noes a smelly brown man manhandling our white princess), and imagined a great love story denied to Daemon. (Though for all Daemon’s passion was supposedly cockblocked by his mean half-brother, he was still getting busy with Rohanne, producing at least 9 children in 12 years; and Daenerys never seemed unhappy in her marriage to Maron, who built the Water Gardens for her.) They got really angry at the Dornish courtiers who came to King’s Landing with Mariah, and supposed special treatment to Dorne. They brought up the rumors of Naerys and Aemon the Dragonknight, claiming that the weak Daeron was not Aegon’s son. We literally have the words of a Blackfyre supporter telling us this:

“Treason… is only a word. When two princes fight for a chair where only one may sit, great lords and common men alike must choose. And when the battle’s done, the victors will be hailed as loyal men and true, whilst those who were defeated will be known forevermore as rebels and traitors. That was my fate.” Egg thought about it for a time. “Yes, my lord. Only…King Daeron was a good man. Why would you choose Daemon?” “Daeron…” Ser Eustace almost slurred the word, and Dunk realized he was half-drunk. “Daeron was spindly and round of shoulder, with a little belly that wobbled when he walked. Daemon stood straight and proud, and his stomach was flat and hard as an oaken shield. And he could fight. With axe or lance or flail, he was as good as any knight I ever saw, but with the sword he was the Warrior himself. When Prince Daemon had Blackfyre in his hand, there was not a man to equal him…not Ulrick Dayne with Dawn, no, nor even the Dragonknight with Dark Sister. “You can know a man by his friends, Egg. Daeron surrounded himself with maesters, septons, and singers. Always there were women whispering in his ear, and his court was full of Dornishmen. How not, when he had taken a Dornishwoman into his bed and sold his own sweet sister to the Prince of Dorne, though it was Daemon that she loved? Daeron bore the same name as the Young Dragon, but when his Dornish wife gave him a son he named the child Baelor, after the feeblest king who ever sat the Iron Throne. “Daemon, though… Daemon was no more pious than a king need be, and all the great knights of the realm gathered to him. It would suit Lord Bloodraven if their names were all forgotten, so he has forbidden us to sing of them, but I remember. Robb Reyne, Gareth the Grey, Ser Aubrey Ambrose, Lord Gormon Peake, Black Byren Flowers, Redtusk, Fireball… Bittersteel! I ask you, has there ever been such a noble company, such a roll of heroes? “Why, lad? You ask me why? Because Daemon was the better man. The old king saw it too. He gave the sword to Daemon. Blackfyre, the sword of Aegon the Conqueror, the blade that every Targaryen king had wielded since the Conquest…he put that sword in Daemon’s hand the day he knighted him, a boy of twelve.” “My father says that was because Daemon was a swordsman, and Daeron never was,” said Egg. “Why give a horse to a man who cannot ride? The sword was not the kingdom, he says.” The old knight’s hand jerked so hard that wine spilled from his silver cup. “Your father is a fool.”

–The Sworn Sword

There is nothing to do with justice here. Nothing to do with ruling justly. There’s only hero-worship, glorification of violence, ableism, anti-intellectualism, misogyny, and Dornish racism. That’s what the followers of Daemon Blackfyre supported. They’re like Trump supporters, wanting to make Westeros great again.

And no bigger supporter of Daemon was his half-brother Aegor Rivers, aka Bittersteel. Aegor, “pissed off all his life”, was particularly mad at the court, because his mother Barba Bracken, Aegon’s mistress, had been sent away in disgrace after it was found that she and her father were talking up making Barba queen when Naerys had a health scare. (It was Daeron and his uncle Aemon, Naerys’s supporters, who made enough of a fuss about the scandal to get Aegon to send her away. Note also that Aegor’s grandfather was later executed along with his daughter Bethany, Aegon’s mistress, after she was caught sleeping with a Kingsguard.) While Aegor also received the legitimization given to all of Aegon’s bastards, he didn’t get all the benefits he felt he should have gotten – unlike his half-brother Brynden Rivers, “Bloodraven”, whose mother Melissa Blackwood (another one of Aegon’s mistresses), had always been popular at court (even with Naerys and Daeron), leading to Bloodraven remaining close with Daeron and his family even after Melissa was dismissed as mistress. Furthermore, Shiera Seastar (another one of Aegon’s Great Bastards), chose Brynden as a lover instead of Aegor, making him even more angry.

So, Aegor got close to Daemon, including getting betrothed to one of his daughters, and frequently urged him to press his claim to the throne, on the grounds of king’s choice, having the sword, being more fit than Daeron Falseborn. Do you see a moral high ground here? I do not. It’s further implied that Brynden was also close to Daemon at the time (see him telling Bran that “a brother I loved” is one of his ghosts), and was able to get away and warn Daeron when the Blackfyre plans went from idle talk to open rebellion. He was no tyrant – he probably didn’t even have an office at court at the time, though he did eventually become Daeron’s spymaster.

But yes, Brynden did kill Daemon and his two eldest sons, sniping them during the last battle of the first Blackfyre Rebellion. For which he was accused of kinslaying, and of using sorcery to get those accurate shots. The accusation of sorcery was probably slander (probably… a weirwood bow and weirwood arrows fletched with raven feathers might have had some mystical qualities), and as for the kinslaying… it was a battle where Daemon would have killed his half-nephews Baelor and Maekar if he’d had a chance, where Aegor fought Brynden one-on-one and took his eye out… and if the Blackfyres had won, do you think they’d just have packed off Daeron and Mariah and Aerys and Rhaegel? No, the falseborn weak Dornish half-breeds would have been executed or hunted down. You think they’d’ve left Daenerys and Maron and their children in peace? Nope, a war with Dorne would have been next on the agenda. Don’t talk to me about kinslaying. (Though whether Brynden considers himself to be gods-cursed could be a different matter.)

Now, after the first Blackfyre Rebellion, when Brynden supported killing all the rebel lords (Daeron elected to take hostages instead), after the death of Daeron’s heir Baelor, after the Great Spring Sickness when Daeron and Baelor’s sons died, leading to Daeron’s second son Aerys becoming king, and appointing Brynden as his Hand and master of whisperers… then you might get into questions of tyranny. (Which I consider a lot more debatable than some.) But it has absolutely nothing to do with why Daemon Blackfyre and his supporters rebelled in the first place. When Aegor Rivers formed the Golden Company, to support the Blackfyre cause in their exile in Tyrosh, did he give a flying fuck about tyranny or justice? No he did not, he just wanted to keep fucking with Bloodraven and put Daemon’s son on the throne of Westeros. (Not the gay son, though! That one, the heir after his older brothers died, Bittersteel ignored and kept his support from.)

The Blackfyre cause was never just. They were never in the right. I oppose them wholeheartedly, and I’m suspicious of anyone who chooses the black dragon over the red. I hope that clears things up for you.

[mtraki]

Headcanon Request: 6 Headcanons for Gilgamesh

Hmmm… I don’t have many established headcanons for our Blademaster.  The game just kind of used him as a set piece or a prop.  We don’t learn a lot about him or his real impact on the world outside of being one more ancient big bad to conquer– and that it apparently shaped Cor’s history, but even that isn’t fleshed out.  As you know, my dear, I prefer building on more original materials than blank canvases.  So here are some headcanon questions I have and my thoughts on them!

1. Gilgamesh and Ardyn?

It’s never explicitly mentioned that Gilgamesh was Ardyn’s Shield.  We assume so, because he was the Shield of the Founder King and Ardyn is the Founder King– right?  I’m not entirely convinced, though.  Ardyn was erased from history.  If anyone is remembered as the “Founder King” it would be Somnus.  Ignis mentions Ardyn as the Founder King, but Ignis would also have special access to records that managed to escape destruction.  Gilgamesh is also zealously loyal to the Lucis Caelum line and its prophecy– which Ardyn is the antagonist of.

He might have been Ardyn’s Shield, before Ardyn was stripped of power and cast aside by man and god alike…  But that leads me to my next question and theory!

2. Haunting Taelpar Crag?

The wiki suggest that Gilgamesh may have been involved in the War of the Astrals because he’s there in the wound in the Star that was caused in all the fighting.  Yeah maybe.  But why is he a ghost?  Most ghosts you fight are daemons, and as far as anybody can tell, Gilgamesh is not a daemon.  He’s a powerful spirit.  Fine.  Cool.  Why?  Why doesn’t he get to ascend into ever after?  Or is that something I’ve missed concerning the afterlife in all of FFXV? (Let me know!)  I think there are three alternatives here:

- We could go traditional “unfinished business”.  His zeal for Lucis Caelum keeps him around until the King of Kings does his prophecy thing.  This is probably what was intended, but honestly, it makes me want to throw up.  I’m so sick of how wanky this story is about that family…

- I better like the punishment alternative.  Angelgard is rumored to be where Ramuh passes judgement.  If Gilgamesh was Ardyn’s Shield, and stayed loyal to Ardyn instead of Lucis Caelum and the prophecy… perhaps he was punished for it.  Now he serves his penance to prepare the Shield of the King of Kings to be a proper fit for the prophecy, like he wasn’t.  Maybe THAT’S why he’s so overzealous and blood-thirsty about it! (And maybe that’s why he spared Cor: because Cor was there to be more useful to Lucis Caelum)  Again: super wanky, but I can only do so much without deviating from canon entirely…

- Adding on to above: maybe the opposite happened.  Maybe Ardyn was betrayed by Gilgamesh.  Nothing happened to him in life, but Ramuh was sure to judge and curse him in death for his treachery.  “You are so eager to serve Lucis Caelum?  Then see your ‘good work’ through to the end.” sort of deal…  Justice is justice, after all, and betraying a King of Lucis Caelum (even a blacklisted one) probably doesn’t come cheap.

3.  Speaking of Ghosts…

He’s got an army of ghosts who serve him.  Cor says they’re the spirits of those who dared the Tempering Grounds and died.  I usually don’t like to contradict the Marshal, but… how does he know that?  Did somebody tell him?  Does he recognize some of the corpses?  For argument’s sake, let’s just assume he’s right.  Well then that means…

4. Gilgamesh is a Wizard?

Or something.  Not only is HE a ghost, but he can a) ensure everybody he kills is trapped with him as a ghost and b) they turn from trying to defeat him to absolute loyalty to him.  So either Gilgamesh himself has some powerful magic or…

5. The Proving Grounds are Cursed?

The only people with magic, canonically, are the Oracles and Lucis Caelums.  So unless we delve into a mess where the Blademaster was one of them, it’s more likely that something is magic about the area.  It’s established that elemental/magic power can be pulled out of the ground.  Perhaps that place is a locus for pooling magic, manifesting itself as a curse, so that everyone who dies there is trapped?  Maybe that’s how Gilgamesh got there too?

6.  Gilgamesh and Cor

It’s very clear that the encounter with Gilgamesh had a very profound impact on Cor’s life– not just the cool (but shameful) moniker, but apparently the encounter humbled the hot-headed youth into the pragmatic man we know in the game.  What was also very clear to me, however, was that Cor had a very profound impact on Gilgamesh– and I don’t just mean the arm and sword thing.  As Gladio works his way through the ruins, the spirits throwing jabs and threats, they mention Cor several times.  They sound like they were impressed.  Cor even makes a self-deprecating joke about it.  I don’t think the ghosts recognize him at all, but that makes sense with ghosts anyway.  Still, somebody came through here and impressed them enough for them to remember somebody did it, even though there are corpses and swords all through that chamber you fight Gilgamesh in– so Cor wasn’t the first/only person to make it that far.  But he was the most memorable.

Cor also has the means of opening the chamber.  I don’t know if that was supposed to be something significant, but it sure looked significant and ritualistic, especially if you consider that Cor may have taken that sword from the Proving Grounds after losing his.  Even if he didn’t, I think it’s clear that Gilgamesh intended for Cor to come back.

But Cor was different, now, changed by his experiences.  He had no intentions of facing Gilgamesh again, and I think he damn well knew if he followed Gladio into that chamber, it wouldn’t have been about Gladio anymore.  Gilgamesh would recognize him, even if the other ghosts didn’t, and it would be all about Cor.  This is why Cor didn’t help with any of the trials.  Not to test Gladio, not because the ritual required it, but because he wanted to make absolutely clear to everything in these caverns that this wasn’t about him this time.

And I think Gilgamesh was honestly very disappointed.  This might just be me meta-ing again, but the resolution of the fight was really awkward and lame.  The answer to Gladio’s problem was just to believe in his own strength after all.  There you go.  You win.

Lame.  Especially considering all the people who died, who likely thought the same thing “Just believe in my strength!”  Even hot-headed young Cor probably did!

So it seems to me that Gilgamesh just kind of… phoned it in.  “Yeah, I guess that other guy really isn’t coming in… What a shame… Alright, fine, you can win… Yep, yep, whatever– Oh I know!  I’ll give you this sword that used to be his and maybe he’ll come in here and face me at last! … No?  Worth a shot…”

The Immortal has many fanboys.  I headcanon that Gilgamesh might be the original. ;)

[verbumincarcerem]

you were made to suffer

Prologue, Ch. 1, Ch. 2, Ch. 3

Chapter 4: In the Blood

Heal him.

Melody was certain that one basic command was wrapping itself around her neck like a noose. So simple, so easy. All she needed to do was reach out to Ben and cast out the Scourge from his body.

The daemon—Ben—in the chains thrashed. It hadn’t noticed her slowly nearing yet.

But it would soon. And there was still not even the slightest tingle of magic burning at her fingertips.

It should have been simple. For Lunafreya, it would have been. But Melody’s healing gift was weak, and as of this moment, nothing else was more difficult than saving an innocent man that she’d personally dragged straight to hell.

He’s innocent, true, but still a stranger. I owe him nothing. It’s easier to escape with just yourself.

The thought came to her like a breath, effortless and without censure. Melody paused, revolted and dismayed at herself. When had she become like this? So ruthless and hard-hearted? She had to heal Ben now because he deserved it. Because she still had some decency. Her dreams had not led her to Ardyn because they were secretly alike, one darkness calling to another. She was better than her thoughts, than him.  

Stepping lightly, Melody managed to skirt around Ben and lay a hand on his back, another at his neck. His jugular vein was stiff, as if the miasma was hardening inside him as it hollowed out his humanity. The thing jerked and snarled, and a hand with broken, blackened nails clawed at her wrist. The other worked the chains more frantically. It wouldn’t be long now until he was free, until he turned and attacked her, infecting her with the Scourge, too, if he didn’t kill her first.

In spite of every instinct telling her not to, Melody closed her eyes and tried to think healing thoughts. Bruises fading away. Skin knitting back together. Lungs filling with air instead of damp. Vitality and strength surging through renewed limbs. Hands glowing white as they healed everything that was wrong.

Somewhere in front of her, Ardyn sighed loud enough to echo, the sound a chorus of wraith moans in the dark. “Unbelievable. Is there truly nothing left of my world in this unrecognizable farce? They don’t even make healers like they used to.”

“Shut up,” she hissed, concentration broken. Miasma leaked down her hand at Ben’s neck. She squinted her eyes open, heart pounding to find that a pair of dark, dripping horns were starting to sprout from the top of his bald head.

“Back then, all it would take is an instant,” Ardyn mused, his tone whimsical as he spoke more to himself than to her. But she heard every word clearly. “Someone in dear Ben’s place would have been child’s play, yet here he is, suffering while his healer—” He broke off with a laugh. “Struggles to heal.”

“Even Lunafreya would’ve struggled with this,” she bit out.

“I wasn’t speaking of Lunafreya,” he replied silkily.

Melody clenched her eyes shut and delved deeper, imagining. Miasma drawing away from the body, turning into mist. Veins changing from black to blue. Rot replaced with rebirth. New, unbroken skin in place of those horns, and those gruesome eyes clearing, becoming Ben’s natural seafaring blue. And when he speaks again, it’ll be in his normal, rough, salty scratch, not the inhuman shrieks of a daemon.

“You know what your problem is, don’t you?” Melody jumped as Ardyn’s hands cradled her by the shoulders, his mouth by her ear. “Healers are selfless by nature, but you? You are so deliciously selfish. You care more for your secrets than you do their lives.”

“That’s not true!” She drew her hand from Ben’s neck and shoved Ardyn back. He stumbled away, laughing darkly, with flecks of miasma dripping down the lapels of his coat. “I pick my battles. If I tried to save everyone, then I’d save no one.”

“Oh yes, I’m sure all those people you passed by would agree with you. That poor old woman by the sea, the little boy roaming the Lucian outlands.” Ardyn shook his head, face heavy with mournfulness. “Already lost causes, much like your Benjamin here.”

Ardyn looked and sounded perfectly regretful, perfectly understanding. Save for the glint of amusement in his amber eyes. So many games he was playing. Melody wasn’t sure which one she should try to win, or even if she could win. She was shaken that he knew about those nameless people she’d chosen not to help, each of them beyond her skills, now ghosts she’d been trying to forget. How had he come to know her failures? Just how much about her did he know?

“No, he isn’t,” she replied, and then she drew the knife she’d reclaimed from Ardyn’s chest and swiftly cut open the back of her hand. Not the palm or the wrist. Cutting those areas made it difficult to wield things, could take too long to heal, and be life-threatening if done incorrectly. What she was doing was dangerous enough, and all she needed was a little blood.

The wound stung, blood welling up quickly from the cut. Melody clenched her fist, so the pressure would force the blood out to slide down her hand more easily. Before she could lose a drop of it to the ground, she raised her fist over Ben’s mouth.

The first few drops missed, hitting his face and hair as he thrashed and snapped his jaws, the smell of blood sending him into a frenzy. Once he realized where it was coming from, he stilled and opened his mouth wide, a macabre parody of a child catching raindrops on his tongue.

After he swallowed five or six drops, Melody felt it. Felt him.

Not Ben, but Ardyn. The Scourge. Its source. The separate energies that made up photosynthetic organisms and the human they fed on, intent to take over—and it had come from him. Melody felt the magic in her blood react to the organisms’ presence, awakening at last. Separately, she sensed Ben’s despair and disgust—and anger and sorrow. She sensed an acute willingness to die.

Melody clenched her dagger as Ben grabbed her with a clawed, festering hand, bringing her bloody wound to his mouth.

The action was enough for her magic to flare at last, to protect her blood from being infected with the miasma. Melody latched onto the warmth and forced it to flow out. Her hands burst with white, but that wasn’t where the healing magic was focused.

If she couldn’t heal Ben from the outside, then she would do so from within.

Ben’s back arched, and he threw his head back with a shriek. His skin seemed to burn white-hot from the inside, and miasma wafted from his body in bursts of mist, as if the blackness itself was fleeing from him. The horns, the claws, the rotting skin, everything daemonic was burned away until only the human in tattered clothes was left, yelling out in a ravaged throat what could only be pain.

Melody snatched her hands away. Ben slumped to the floor, face-first and unconscious but no longer screaming. As soon as she’d released him, the connection between them was broken, and her magic followed its host. She peered at him to make sure he was breathing, and he was, but Melody didn’t feel like congratulating herself, didn’t feel thankful that she hadn’t had to gut him to end his misery. She felt like crying.

“What a display!” Ardyn clapped his delight, the sharp sounds echoing hollowly throughout the room. “The novice healer, victorious after all! And quite the miracle you performed, my dear. You should be proud.”

“I did what you asked. Now let him go.”

“Now, why would I do that?” Ardyn paced around Ben’s body, throwing her a condescendingly patient look over his fallen form. “I don’t recall making any such promises.”

Melody fought not to reveal the desperation she was drowning in. “You said this was a game. I won. Winners get something for their victories.”

“But alas you have only won the round. The long game is still at hand. Oh?” Ardyn smirked at her dazed expression. “Did you think I would let you go so easily? Perish the thought. Guards, oh, guards!” he called in a sing-song, hand by his mouth.

Two MTs shuffled into the throne room, their steps perfectly in sync and unnaturally stiff. They looked to Ardyn with their unblinking, eerily-glowing red eyes. Ardyn snapped his fingers and pointed down at Ben.

“Ah, ah, ah,” Ardyn said as Melody took an aggressive step forward to take them out. Her hand was suddenly empty, and a quick inventory check revealed the rest of her weapons were gone as well. Vanished into thin air. “You’ll get those back when I know you can behave yourself around my soldiers.”

“What are you doing?” Melody stared after the MTs helplessly as they dragged Ben away. “Where are they taking him?”

“Somewhere safe until our next little game.” Ardyn closed the distance between them, holding her fast with his hand gripping her chin. “Is the anticipation killing you as much as it’s killing me?”

“I thought you couldn’t die.”

“So you are following along. Good, very good.” He released her and gestured her along with a crook of his finger. “Now keep following.”

What now? Melody didn’t think she could take much more of this, as evident by the strain in her voice as she asked, “Where?” Nevertheless, she did follow as Ardyn led her away from the throne room.

“As you so assiduously pointed out, you did technically win my first gambit against you. It’s time for you to claim your own glorious reward.”

“Which is?”  

“Dinner, with me.” She caught a flash of teeth as he threw over his shoulder, “Aren’t you lucky?”

*

For just two people, the spread of food was impressive. Plump strawberries, grapes, and melons immediately drew the eye, the fruits having become increasingly rare in the wild without sunlight to grow them. Holly had mentioned starting a greenhouse powered by artificial light to preserve the plants they needed to live, and Melody had even found her seeds to get started. She cut off the thought before it could depress her, following the line of the table with a wary gaze. Thickly-sliced cuts of beef and savory breads wafted to her nose, making her realize how hungry she was, and her mouth watered at the sight of grilled carrots, squash, and zucchini arranged prettily on a massive serving dish.

She was starving, but at the same time, her stomach cramped in protest. She knew the reason why. It was the man sitting to her left at the head of the table, holding court and watching her far too closely over a glass of red wine. Melody forced herself to fill her plate before he could prompt her to do so but proceeded to pick at it, eating a bite or two every so often. She hated having strangers watch her eat, but for some reason Ardyn was worse even though he wasn’t exactly a stranger.

The dining room they were in was an intimate one, intended for small, private dinners among family than hosting foreign dignitaries or a surplus of guests. Wall lamps burned low, casting the gray room in a warm, orange light while the night pressed against the windows behind her. There were no MTs guarding the room, and no one else joined them. Melody wondered what the show was for because it certainly wasn’t for her.

She wondered at the appreciative drink Ardyn took of his wine, of his own plate that had been covered in food but was now mostly empty. He couldn’t die, but he needed food? What about sleep?

Ardyn was in the middle of discussing the room’s previous décor and the changes he’d made when she asked, “Will you die if you don’t eat?”

“No.” His voice was light with arrogance. He smiled, a look of surety that said, I know what you’re trying to do. “Nor will I starve.”

“You don’t feel hunger?”

“I don’t feel a great many things.”

“So why bother?” She gestured to the table and the room at large. “With all this?”

His eyes were half-lidded as he purred, “Pleasure.” As if it explained everything.

Melody ignored the low drag of his voice, how it made the hair on the back of her neck stand up. “But if you don’t feel—”

“Pleasure, my dear, isn’t something you feel. It’s something you take.” He leaned upon the arm rest, chin propped casually on a hand, and looked her up and down. The amber in his gaze seemed to burn, but he swirled the wineglass in his free hand nonchalantly. "I'm certain you know what I'm talking about."

She smiled, or thought she did. Her mouth made the familiar pull, but there was no emotion behind it. “Not really.” Giving up on her appetite returning, she set down her fork and pushed the plate away. “So. What now, Ardyn Lucis Caelum, or whoever you’re supposed to be? Gonna call in the MTs to drag me away, too?”

“Please,” Ardyn said, dragging out the word and leaning back in his chair. “Call me ‘your Majesty’. It’s only fitting. You’re my dear, sweet subject, after all.”

Melody lifted her chin, proud. Defiant. “I’m from Accordo, and Accordo has no king.”

“Is that so?” His eyebrow arched, but still no anger appeared on his face. No frustration. Melody wasn’t sure why, but the lack of negative emotion bothered her. “I must have missed these past thirty years where Niflheim has gripped Accordo in its fist.”

“No true Accordon has ever acknowledged Aldercapt as their sovereign. Now he’s dead, along with his entire high command.”

“All save for the Chancellor,” Ardyn commented lightly.

“The Chancellor is—”

“Right here.”

Melody stalled. Ardyn raised his glass to her, his growing smirk warped through the glass. Her next words were accusing yet cautious. “The Chancellor’s name was Izunia.”

“Mm, yes. I’ve answered to that for the past few decades. Ardyn Izunia, the name more fitting than you know. Oh, my dear girl, did you not watch the news? Cameramen were crawling all over this place when the treaty was being”—he laughed to himself—“negotiated.”

No, she hadn’t watched it, even though the event had been the top story even out toward her waters. Melody couldn’t recall now what she’d been doing that day, and whatever it was had been swiftly overshadowed by news of Insomnia’s fall and Lunafreya’s alleged death, which she’d learned about only after arriving home.

But… She did remember hearing a brief radio broadcast. The news anchors had remarked on the unusual sight of seeing the Emperor in the flesh, no longer hidden behind the might of his kingdom. The man walking beside him, Chancellor Izunia, had been described briefly, too, another rare sight. What had they said?

Now here’s something you don’t see every day, folks. A Nif dressed in true colors, all black instead of white. Have you ever seen such a thing, Yrene?

No, Lorin, but Chancellor Izunia’s fashion sense isn’t the only thing that’s been making a splash as of late. You know, they say the Magitek troopers and tech were all his influence, the reason behind Niflheim’s military success being largely attributed to him and Imperial Research Chief Verstael Besithia.

That’s all Melody had to go by, a brief mention and Ardyn’s own word. Unacceptable.

Before she could verbally deny it, Ardyn pulled from his coat and tossed what looked like a newspaper on the table. “As enjoyable as it is to watch you struggle to grasp reality…”

She took her eyes off him to read the headline: “Lucis, Niflheim to Discuss Peace Treaty,” only to land on the black-and-white photo in the middle of the article’s text. The shot was of Aldercapt strolling toward the Citadel, surrounded by armed guards, and at his side was, unmistakably, Ardyn. Same long coat, same hat, turned toward the camera, in mid-conversation with Aldercapt.

He could still be lying, her mind railed. This could be a trick. It’s not real.

But something deep down in her gut clenched, and she knew then that some part of her had recognized the truth and accepted it.

So he was Niflheim’s chancellor. Fitting. He was as mad and inhuman as the rest of them. But so what? That didn’t make him a Lucian king any more than she could claim an Oracle bloodline.

“Imperial Chancellor Izunia,” Melody enunciated every word, getting a feel for their truth. “I don’t know how you did it, but eliminating the Emperor, burning through Niflheim’s high command, assuming control of the military. That’s quite a coup. Was the false treaty with Lucis your idea as well?”

“I like to think of it as more of a collaborative effort.”

“Busy boy. Sure it was.” She braced her arms on the table and leaned towards him, her words entreating. “But none of this has anything to do with me. So why not let me go? I’ll take Ben, and neither of us will ever—”

Ardyn sighed, lowering his glass to the table. “Oh, how quickly she moves towards deflection and deceit! Did you really believe that would work, my dear? A few words of shameless flattery, and I’d be in the palm of your hand like all your little hunters?”

“What I thought would work was speaking to you like a creature of reason.” Melody pushed back into her chair and crossed her arms. “But I forgot: you’re an evil, insane daemon.”

A blur of purple light and miasma-thick shadow rushed toward her. Suddenly, she was standing, the chair and table gone, the dining room replaced with the bedroom she had woken up in, the same as she’d left it with the exception that her weapons were missing. But none of that mattered, because Ardyn was holding her up with a hand around her throat, not squeezing, her feet still touching the ground, but Melody knew if she tried to pull away, all that might change. So she froze as Ardyn said softly, “I’m also your generous host.” His thumb swept across her jumping pulse. “How generous depends on you. And me.” He smirked. “But mostly on you.”

Her mind couldn’t catch up with what that light had been, how she’d gotten here, not just with his hands on her, but in this room, when it was several floors below the dining room. How had he gotten them both here, with what magic, and why was he still not angry, even at being insulted?

The words that came out instead were “Why are you doing this?”

Ardyn’s eyes lit up, as if delighted by the question. “Did you know the gods secretly amuse themselves with mortal affairs? Doomed lovers, exiled princes, a group of young heroes who arrive just in time to slay the great evil threatening all they hold dear. They adore these tales, will sometimes intervene enough so the story ends the way they want them to. The gods are selfish creatures, after all.”

Melody felt his eyes linger upon the bruise on her cheek, and Ardyn’s smile appeared crueler for it.  Hand falling away, the Niflheim Chancellor strolled toward the door. “Why, you ask me? Why you, why here? Why me?” He stopped, turning just enough for her to see his face, and the showman was back, all wistful storytelling and animated anticipation. “Because those tales are currently on hiatus, and, unfortunately for you, my dear, I find myself miserably bored, yearning for them to begin again.”

[captain-zajjy]

Solstice, Chapter 7 - A Final Fantasy XV Story

Pairing: Ignis x Female Original Character

AO3 | Chapter 1 2 3 4 5 6

A/N: It looks like next week’s update is going to be THAT chapter (•﹏•)

Valeria sat on her bunk, staring at Felix’s still-empty cot in bewilderment, while the morning announcements played over the loudspeaker. She was only half-paying attention; it was the usual: one ration per person per voucher, curfew at sundown, manufacturing district strictly off-limits. She found that last one particularly strange, given that she’d restored the power to that area over a week ago, but was now far too distracted with Felix’s disappearance to care about what was happening in another part of town.

Two days, and no sign of him. No help from anyone else either. He must have been as invisible as she felt, getting only shrugs or frowns in reply from every person she spoke to. They didn’t seem to understand how serious the situation was - Felix would never leave without his phone charger. Hell, he didn’t even go to the latrines without taking his phone.

“There will be a special announcement given by the High Commander and the Provisional Governor at noon today,” the voice over the loudspeaker droned. “All citizens are required to attend.”

Valeria shook her head. ‘Special announcement.’ Was it about how children were going missing and no one seemed to give a damn? Because that seemed like something people should be aware of.

Unable to stomach breakfast on this particular morning, she instead put on her shoes and wandered around the camp, questioning any unfamiliar faces about Felix. It would have helped if she had a photo of him, or even knew his last name. As it was, the way people stared at her through narrowed eyes, it felt like she had dreamed him up to keep her company.

Her feet took her, perhaps subconsciously, over to the missing persons area, where a stalwart few still kept futile vigil. Valeria approached a pair of women - one who looked like she hadn’t slept in a week, clutching a photograph; the other decidedly more hale, hovering protectively over her friend.

“Hey,” Valeria said to the pair. “I’m looking for someone.”

The healthier-looking woman scoffed. “You and everyone else here.”

Valeria shook her head. “No, he’s not-” She almost said dead, but caught herself. It may have been the unfortunate truth these people were unwilling to accept, but rubbing that in their faces would certainly not win her any allies in her search.

“He was here,” she said instead. “Two days ago.” Valeria went on to describe Felix while the woman holding the photograph stared at her dispassionately.

Her companion sneered. “Why don’t you go ask that Niff you’re all buddy-buddy with? Don’t think we haven’t seen you coming and going with him.”

Valeria frowned. “It’s not-” She stopped herself from explaining. They could think what they would about her; that wasn’t why she was here. “A child is missing,” she said. “Don’t be petty.”

“My child is missing!” The other woman cried, suddenly on her feet and shoving the photograph into Valeria’s face. “Nobody gives a damn about her! Nobody...”

The woman’s friend pushed her aside, standing with shoulders squared and arms crossed, something vaguely physically threatening in her bearing. Valeria could tell the only thing she was going to get out of these two was more yelling and possibly a slap to the face, so she backed off, despite her growing irritation.

Your child is buried under a mound of rubble. Sad, but true. Nothing could be done for those people, but Felix...Felix could still be out there somewhere, in need of help. Valeria was no detective, but it was clear he hadn’t left voluntarily. Which meant that he’d either been taken by the Niffs for some unknown purpose, or some pervert had abducted him, twisting the chaos of the occupation to his own, sick advantage. In either scenario, time was not on their side.

She made her way over to the entrance to the relief camp, where the announcement was to be given, hoping to question people who were staying outside the camp in the neighborhoods. A makeshift scaffold had been erected in the area; Lucians and Niffs alike milled around in wait of their ‘special’ guests, but the two groups kept strictly to themselves, never mingling.

Valeria made her way through the crowd, talking to anyone who would give her the time of day, but it was more of the same. How does someone just up and vanish ? she wondered. The whole situation was beginning to make her feel vaguely crazy, so she went to stand on the far edge of the crowd, arms crossed over her body, desperately trying not to flash back to that party on that terrible night at the Citadel, despite the obvious similarities. She settled for eavesdropping in order to keep herself distracted.

“-telling you, it was a daemon,” a man behind her said, his voice insistent.

“How the heck would you even know, Jon? You seen a daemon before?” another man asked.

“Well, it sure as hell wasn’t a rat,” the first man, Jon, replied. “It was all twisted and...hissy.”

“If it was a daemon - and I ain’t saying it was - how come it didn’t attack you?” the second man said.

“Scared the nasty old thing off with my flashlight,” Jon said.

“Maybe with your face,” his friend said. The pair shared a laugh that was abruptly cut short by the appearance of a cadre of magitek troopers.

Valeria felt her breath catch in her throat, every hair on her body stand on end, every square inch of her body freeze in terror as the smell of smoke and blood filled her nostrils, screams filled her ears. It’s happening again...

But it wasn’t. Nothing was happening. The magitek encircled the scaffold, all snapping to attention at once, their mask-like faces and metal limbs frozen in place. Stop it, Valeria told herself, told her racing heart and quivering knees. It’s fine. You’re fine.

No one in the crowd seemed to notice her momentary panic, all too fixated on a tall, slender man in a white coat as he took to the stage.

“High Commander Ravus Nox Fleuret,” some soldier barked out, and all the Niffs in the crowd went rigid in salute. Ravus Nox Fleuret... The familiarity of that name gave her brain something to focus on. She’d heard the First Son of Tenebrae had turned his coat to the Imperial side, but was shocked to see that he’d made it all the way to the post of High Commander. Apparently she wasn’t the only one to recall his origin. The crowd received him with absolutely zero applause, and quite a few jeers.

“Snake!” Several people called out. “Imperial scum!”

“Ain’t that the Oracle’s brother?” the man behind her, Jon, said.

“I heard he watched the Niffs kill his mama way back when. Now look at him,” his friend said. “There’s a special place in hell for his kind.”

His kind. The men behind her were correct: The Niflheim Empire had murdered the Queen during the invasion of Tenebrae, and a young Ravus had witnessed it all. Ignis had essentially confirmed that for her when she’d been brave enough to broach the subjugation of his homeland;  he’d replied almost coldly, rattling off information like he was reading it from a textbook. “I was already here when it happened,” he’d said with a casual shrug. “Lucis is my home now.” She’d always thought that he truly believed that, and yet something about that proclamation didn’t quite square with the fact that he’d deliberately hung onto his distinct Tenebraen accent after all these years.

Ravus, on the other hand, had apparently done his best to sound like his Imperial masters. “People of Lucis,” he called out above the leering crowd. There were hints of his Tenebraen origin around the edges of the vowels and in the distinct way he enunciated the hard consonants, but all-in-all, he sounded more like a Niff than Ignis or even his own sister, doing her interviews over the radio.

The Oracle still lives. Ignis had told Valeria that over the phone a few days ago. Maybe that was why Ravus did what he did - to protect his sister. Maybe, as with Valeria, it had begun as small tasks, couched under the guise of aiding Lady Lunafreya and his fellow countrymen. And then slowly, over the years, he’d begun to buy what the Niffs were selling him, or simply felt trapped, realized he was in too deep to back out. What would she do if the Empire brought her Ignis in chains and demanded her compliance in exchange for his life? Almost anything. The realization that she could be watching her future self up on that scaffold left her with a sick, sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach.

Ravus turned slightly, revealing one arm that was curiously fully armored from shoulder to fingertip, and a familiar-looking sword hilt attached to his belt. King Regis’s sword. Valeria wasn’t the only one to recognize it.

“Thief! Traitor!” The disapproval from the crowd boiled over into rage. It seemed almost everyone was shouting or booing now, except for the people who walked off in disgust. Something whizzed over Valeria’s head and the arm of one of the magitek troopers shot up, unnaturally fast and at an impossible angle, plucking the rock from the air.

“Enough !” Some lesser Imperial officer shouted. The MTs brought their rifles to half-attention, and Valeria immediately began to backpeddle, pushing aside the men who had been bickering about daemons minutes before. She forced herself to stop when the crowd quieted down and the troopers went back to their passive stance.

Ravus didn’t bother with niceties or platitudes. He swiftly introduced the provisional Governor, apparently appointed by himself, to absolutely no fanfare. The Governor wore a smug expression as he took the stage, a little man who looked happy to finally be in charge of something. The proud, self-satisfied speech he gave while Ravus looked on, full of hollow promises and self-aggrandizement, only served to confirm her analysis. He wasn’t here to make life in Insomnia better for its citizens; he was here to polish his little ego.

“In addition to the Governor,” Ravus said after the man had finished speaking, “I am promoting Caligo Ulldor to Brigadier Commander, and leaving him in charge of Imperial forces in Insomnia.”

A stout man, clad in armor similar to Loqi Tummelt’s, shuffled across the stage. He wore a  metal gauntlet on his left hand, but his right was encased in a thick plaster cast, and his face appeared slightly ashen, as if he’d recently been ill. Unlike the Governor, Caligo surveyed the crowd with the discerning eye of a career military man; although the expression he wore was neutral, something about his air set her ill at ease. Caligo did not give a speech, or any words at all, merely nodding to acknowledge his promotion.

Valeria’s phone vibrated in her pocket. She peeked at it just long enough to see that it was a message from the fake name she’d reassigned to Ignis’s contact in her address book - an extra precaution, just in case.

She extricated herself from the back of the crowd to take his message, although it was obvious it wasn’t about anything particularly important.

How are you feeling today?

Valeria didn’t know what to tell him about Felix, much less how to explain it over text messages. So, she lied.

Alright.

Is your shoulder still bothering you?

Not really.

Are you sure everything’s alright?

Just in the middle of something. I’ll call you later.

Valeria let out a long sigh, putting her phone back in her pocket. Being short with Ignis was hardly fair, but she couldn’t help feeling that he just didn’t understand - couldn’t understand - how miserable things were for her, here. It wasn’t his fault, and she knew he was trying, but at this moment, surrounded by people who either despised her or simply didn’t care about her or Felix or anyone else, it didn’t feel like it was enough.

And now, on top of that, there was the uncomfortable idea that she and Ravus Nox Fleuret were on the same spectrum, that maybe those people who distrusted her were right. No, she reminded herself. You’re doing this to earn the Niffs’ trust, to get information for Ignis. For your true King.

Ignis was annoyed.

He was annoyed with Gladiolus for up and leaving with very little in the way of an explanation, with Noctis for insisting that they spend an entire day to fish the Vesperpool, with Prompto for apparently having nothing better to do than play video games on his phone and speculate on the state of Cindy’s undergarments.

Am I the only one who feels any sense of urgency ? he wondered as he paced their campsite, staring down the hill at his younger counterparts on the dock, feeling far more like a babysitter than royal retainer. He could hardly begrudge Noctis a bit of leisure time after all they’d been through, and had to admit that his catch made for an excellent dinner, but the parts they needed to sail His Majesty’s boat to Altissia were not going to collect themselves. And the faster they received the Hydraean’s blessing, the faster they could hunt down the Crystal and reclaim their home.

Thinking of the Crystal only gave Ignis more reasons to be annoyed. Annoyed with that foolish young hunter for letting their Imperial captive go, annoyed with the elder hunter for bringing someone so clearly inexperienced along on an important mission, annoyed with himself for letting it all happen. He’d lost his temper, lost control of himself and the situation, stabbing the man and giving him the opening he needed to get under the young hunter’s skin. He beat you, Ignis thought to himself, feeling equal parts shame and pique. In a battle of wits, no less.

It was downright embarrassing. As was the way Ignis had behaved afterward, just leaving that awful man to beat on his son. The boy may have deserved a verbal lashing, but not physical violence. Noctis, had he been present, never would have tolerated such abuse; and, as his servant, it was Ignis’s duty to uphold his King’s wishes whether he was present or not.

Failure was the word that came to mind, that had been dogging him since their encounter at Fort Vaullerey, even if the others didn’t seem particularly bothered. Stuck with his dark thoughts while Noctis and Prompto horsed around, Ignis tried to text Valeria in order to distract himself, but her responses were brief, clipped; up until now she’d managed a friendly tone, despite everything she must have been going through, which only left him to worry about her on top of everything else.

All that fretting, combined with the humidity and noise from myriad creatures near the lake, kept him up half the night, and so, when Noctis and Prompto crept out of their tent unseasonably early the next morning, whispering something about mushrooms, Ignis merely rolled over and went back to sleep.

When he woke next, beams of sunlight poured in through the seams of the tent, and, noting that he was still alone, Ignis put on his glasses, examining his phone with eyes still bleary from sleep. No new messages. He then went to reach for his toothbrush when the ground beneath him trembled, followed by the bellowing of some great creature. And, just below that commotion, he could’ve sworn he heard the shouting of Noctis and Prompto...

Ignis was out of the tent in the span of seconds, daggers in hand, barefoot and wearing nothing but his nightclothes. To both his relief and dismay, Noctis and Prompto were sprinting from the lake toward the hill and campsite - with a massive catoblepas trudging after them.

“Noct !” Ignis yelled, running toward the Prince. The gargantuan creature was slow, but each of its strides were vast, its lumbering quickly closing the distance between itself and the others. Such beasts were usually docile, but this one shook its colossal head, swaying about on its long neck, aggressively huffing and puffing through its snout.

“Run!” Ignis shouted, dismissing his daggers and grabbing Noctis by one arm, Prompto with the other, hauling both of them up the hill. There was no way the three of them could take on the catoblepas in a fight; flight was their only option.

“The mushrooms!” Prompto cried, his voice high and panicky. “Ditch the mushrooms!”

Ignis had no idea what he was on about, but Noctis responded, digging into his pocket and tossing a handful of fungi off behind them. As the trio of them sprinted past the campsite and into the woods, the catoblepas slowed, then stopped, snuffing at the ground where Noctis had thrown the mushrooms. After quickly gobbling them up and sniffing around for a second helping, it trundled off back toward the lake with a low, satisfied sound.

Convinced the coast was clear - and more than a bit confused - Ignis signaled it was safe to return to camp and immediately rounded on the other two.

“What in Eos was that ?”

Noctis and Prompto, both bent over to catch their breath, took one look at each others’ pale faces and simultaneously burst out laughing.

“You just about crapped your pants, man!” Noctis said to Prompto, chortling all the while.

“Me? Look at you!” Prompto replied, wiping sweat from his face.

All Ignis could do was glower. “Since when is nearly being devoured by a giant beast a laughing matter?”

“Whew...” Noctis didn’t seem to be listening at all. “Specs, the look on your face...” He and Prompto burst into laughter once more.

Am I the only one who’s sane around here ? “You provoked it with those mushrooms, didn’t you?” Ignis demanded. Honestly, he’d met five-year-olds with more sense than that.  

“But I got the shot!” Prompto declared, triumphantly brandishing his camera. “That’s all that matters.”

Ignis rounded on him. “What matters is that you put the life of our King in jeopardy for the sake of a bloody photograph. Do you have any idea what would happen if Noct were to perish? Do you?”

“Ignis, it’s cool,” Noctis said, his laughter finally tapering off. “We had it under control.”

“You most certainly did not,” Ignis snapped. “There are people - thousands of people - counting on you to retake your throne and avenge what was lost. Do you understand that? Do you care, at all?”

“Of course I care,” Noctis muttered, running a hand through his hair. “Geez...”

Prompto had gone bright red, not entirely from exertion, and merely hung his head. “And you!” Ignis jabbed a finger at his chest. “Do you understand what it means to be a member of the Crownsguard? Because I can assure you, endangering the life of the King for the sake of your hobby is entirely contrary to its purpose.”

“Hey, lay off him,” Noctis said, grabbing Ignis by the shoulder. “We’re fine, aren’t we?”

Ignis shrugged him off and threw up his hands. “This is not a vacation,” he said, and withdrew to the tent.