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its-the-pilot · 11 months ago

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If December Never Ends | One-Shot

An early Christmas gift for y'all! Here's my entry for "Midnight Mass" in @sailor-aviator's Christmas Writing Challenge! Kinda fell in love with these two, so let me know if you want to see more of them!

Summary: Bradley joins you and your family for midnight Mass.

Warnings: religious inaccuracies

Length: 2.3k words

Pairing: Bradley Bradshaw x Female Reader

Masterlist

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Christmas with your family was always a big event. Everyone came from all over to your parents’ house in Norfolk and spent the holiday together. Nearly forty-eight hours of uninterrupted family time. There was little sleep involved as there were people playing music and games all night long, so if you could find a quiet place to take a nap, you were lucky.

That’s why you couldn’t help the smile that spread across your face when you saw your boyfriend of eleven months, Bradley “Rooster” Bradshaw, dozing in one of the plush chairs in your father’s study. Your three year old niece was tucked into his side while she drew in the princess coloring book you had gotten her, his arm wrapped protectively around her and a purple crayon dangling from his fingers. Pulling out your phone, you snapped a quick picture, the sight melting your heart.

You knew the day had to have been overwhelming for Bradley. Hell, it was your family and it was overwhelming for you. Your two older brothers, their wives and children, your aunts and uncles from both sides and some of your cousins… twenty people, even in a house as large as your parents’, was nothing short of chaotic. You were shocked he even agreed to come, since he was used to spending the holidays alone on base.

Stepping into the room, the click of your heels on the wooden floor drew the attention of your niece Lyla, despite your attempts to be as quiet as possible. She waved with a smile, then put her chubby finger to her lips, a signal for you to be quiet. “Unka Roo sleepin’,” she whispered, before going back to coloring.

“I see that,” you whispered back, pressing a kiss to her unruly curls. “You like cuddling with your Uncle Roo?”

The little girl nodded, her tongue poking out of her mouth a bit as she focused on coloring. “He a warm blankie.”

She shifted, snuggling closer to him, and the slight movement was enough to rouse him, his muscled arm tightening around her as though she was going to fall. “You okay, doll?” He asked, his voice thick with sleep and his eyes barely open.

You chose to remain silent, watching the heartwarming interaction. Seeing him with your niece lit a fire in your belly unlike anything you had ever felt, the thought of him with children of his own and what that would be like was impossible to ignore.

“Mmhm!” Lyla nodded, holding up her picture for him to see. “All done!”

Bradley ran his free hand over his face and forced his eyes open further, looking at the presented coloring page. “Wow, it's beautiful,” he grinned, kissing her hair before looking up, finally noticing that you were in the room. “Hey, Tink.”

“Hey yourself, handsome. Have a good nap?” You asked, watching as he helped Lyla out of the chair when she started trying to get up, saying something about going to show her parents the picture she colored.

Once she was out of the room, Bradley stretched his arms above his head, hoping to rid himself of the last vestiges of sleep. “Must have,” he said, sitting back and patting his knee for you to come join him. “How long was I out?”

You moved closer and sat on his lap, careful not to wrinkle his dark gray slacks too much. His matching jacket had been discarded on a chair across the room earlier in the night, leaving him wearing a white dress shirt that had the top button undone and the sleeves rolled up, showcasing his well muscled forearms. His arm wrapped around your waist effortlessly, his thumb brushing over the skin exposed by the open back of your green party dress.

“An hour, at least,” you replied, moving your hand to the back of his neck, your nails running through the short hair there. You had been helping your mother and sister in laws clean up after dinner, so you didn't know for sure.

Bradley nodded, leaning forward just enough to kiss your shoulder. “Lyla was getting a little cranky, I think there was too much going on with all the kids running around after dinner, so I brought her in here to relax. I hope that's okay.”

“More than okay,” you reassured him. “I'm sure Tim was thrilled for the break, Uncle Roo.”

His cheeks turned pink at the term of endearment. “I think she's used to calling everyone ‘uncle’,” he explained. It made sense, aside from her father and grandfather, every other adult man in her life was an uncle. “And she was having a hard time with Bradley, so I figured she could call me Rooster.”

You smiled, leaning in to kiss him tenderly before pulling back to meet his hazel eyes. “So long as you're okay with it. I don't want you to feel pressured.”

“I like it, actually. I've always wanted to be an uncle. Hard with no siblings though,” he said, his voice laced with a hint of sadness.

Your left hand lifted to rest on his jaw, stroking over his stubble with your thumb. “My brothers might give you shit, but they love you, and you know my parents adore you. Lyla clearly prefers you to anyone else, and the other kids love when you roughhouse with them. I'd say you're pretty welcome in this family, Bradley.”

He nodded, a small smile pulling at the corner of his mouth. You��d always had a large family, so you couldn't imagine what it was like for him to be an orphan. He had told you the story before, his father died when he was a toddler, and his mother passed from cancer as a teen. He went to live with Maverick, his godfather, who betrayed his trust and prevented him from going to the Naval Academy. They hadn't spoken in years, leaving him with nothing but the Navy.

Until he met you.

To hear him tell it, your blind date set up on New Year’s Eve the previous year was a miracle in and of itself. You remembered it more based on the hangover you had the next day, so you took his word for it.

Since then, though, despite a deployment and a couple missions, you were happy together. Nothing was perfect, of course, but you never expected it to be.

You studied him carefully for a moment, and when he didn't reply, you rested your head against his shoulder, letting your hand slip from his jaw to rest against his chest, his heartbeat strong under your fingertips. “Bradley, I--”

The sound of your father’s booming voice interrupted you as he called for everyone to get ready for Mass. You knew Bradley wasn't religious, and you had told him he didn't have to participate, but it was a family tradition of yours to go to midnight Mass at the local church every Christmas.

“You should come with us, you might enjoy yourself,” you whispered, lifting your head from his shoulder to kiss him gently.

“I don't know anything about religion,” he pointed out, his arms holding you close as you perched on his lap.

Shaking your head, you smiled and continued to run your fingers through the short hairs at the back of his neck, soothing him. “That's the beauty of it, you don't have to.”

With a pat to his chest, you stood, holding your hand out to him. His eyes locked with yours for a moment, unsure, before he finally accepted your hand and stood himself. You took the liberty of buttoning his open button while he unrolled his sleeves, helping him into his suit jacket after he had done so.

“You do clean up nicely, Lieutenant Bradshaw,” you grinned, kissing him once more.

“So do you, Tinkerbell,” he said, twirling you in a circle, making your skirt flare around your legs. He caught you in his arms before dipping you backward, drawing a giggle from you. “Should we go?”

You nodded as he stood you back on your own two feet, leading him out to the front hall where there was a bustle of energy as everyone put their coats on to brave the cold. Bradley helped you into your parka, making sure it was buttoned up before slipping his own heavy coat on.

Wrapping his arm around your shoulders, he pressed a kiss to your temple and smiled. “Ready to go?” he asked, motioning toward the door with a tip of his head.

“I am.” You snuggled into his side and allowed him to lead you out to his Bronco that you had driven from Virginia Beach. Once you were both inside, he started the engine and followed the caravan of vehicles leaving your house for the church.

Sacred Heart was the church you had attended with your family for as long as you could remember. You and your brothers had been confirmed there, and while none of you were particularly religious anymore, you still attended midnight Mass with your devout parents every year for Christmas.

You usually sat in the back, since you were such a large group, and with small children it was easier to duck out if they got too loud and interrupted the service. This year was no different, with you and Bradley taking a seat in the last row with your brothers and their families.

Almost as if on cue, as soon as the service started, Lyla started making a fuss. She hadn’t napped earlier in the day like your brother Tim had hoped she would, and now that it was midnight, she was beyond tired. Her older brother Brenden tried to calm her down, but it only caused her to get louder, trying to squirm out of her mother’s arms. Her efforts doubled when she saw you and Bradley sitting at the end of the pew, reaching out for him.

“Unka Roo! Unka Rooooo!” she cried, tears falling down her pink cheeks as she got more frustrated.

Bradley peeked around you to see Lyla distressed and frowned. Without hesitation, he stood and moved around the back of the pew, crouching down behind Tim and his wife, Sarah. “I can take her, maybe she’ll stop?” he whispered, smiling when he saw the three year old already calming some since he came over.

They shared a look between each other and then looked back to Bradley. “Baby whisperer, huh?” Tim smirked, watching as his wife handed their daughter over to the aviator. “Good luck.”

Lyla quieted almost instantly once she was in Bradley’s arms, resting her head against his shoulder. You turned in your seat to smile at him, feeling like your heart was going to explode in your chest as you watched him pace the rear of the church with your niece in his arms. The only thing that pulled you from your reverie was your eldest brother, Tony, nudging your shoulder.

“Oooh, you’re in trouble with that one, aren’t you?” he teased, taking the elbow to the ribs you delivered with a quiet grunt. “What? You’re looking at him like you want him to put a baby in you right here.”

“Tony!” you hissed, your cheeks warming with embarrassment.

Before you could say anything else, Bradley returned to his seat beside you, a soundly sleeping Lyla on his shoulder. “Everything okay?” he whispered, noticing the flush in your cheeks.

Tony leaned over you. “She just --”

You covered his mouth and shoved him back toward his wife before shaking your head at Bradley. “Everything’s fine, my brother is just being a pig,” you explained quietly, turning your attention back to the service when your father shot you and your brother a look over his shoulder.

The remainder of midnight Mass went without incident, and when the service was over, you waited for everyone to leave before heading outside yourself with Bradley by your side. Your family was gathered on the steps of the church, making conversation amongst themselves when Tim stepped in front of you.

“Thanks for holding her, Bradley,” he smiled, managing to lift his daughter into his own arms without waking her. “She really likes you.”

He shrugged, his hands sliding into his coat pockets. “She’s a cutie, that’s for sure. Thanks for trusting me with her.”

You snuggled against his side, smiling up at him. “Did you have a good night?”

“I had a great night,” he promised, wrapping his arm around you. “I do have one thing that would make it better though.”

There was a curious look on your face when he pulled away, just enough to drop to one knee in front of you, his hand pulling a small box out of his pocket. You gasped, covering your mouth, unable to take your eyes off Bradley despite feeling your whole family staring at you.

“I love you so much,” he swallowed hard, opening the ring box to show a simple diamond ring that had belonged to his mother. “I want you to be my Tinkerbell forever. Will you marry me?”

A tear slid down your cheek as you nodded, offering him your hand. “Yes. God, yes, Bradley!”

Your family and a few other bystanders from the church all clapped as he slid the ring on your finger and pulled you into his arms, kissing you deeply. As you parted, a light snow began to fall, dusting your cheeks with cool snowflakes.

You giggled, wrapping your arms around his neck. “Look at you with the perfect timing.”

“I try,” he smirked, kissing you once again as your family headed off to their cars to go back home. “Let’s get back, we have Christmas and an engagement to celebrate.”

“It’s the best Christmas ever.”

#bradley rooster bradshaw #top gun maverick #bradley bradshaw fic #bradley bradshaw fluff #bradley bradshaw x female reader #bradley bradshaw x oc #bradley bradshaw x reader #bradley rooster x reader #sailor-aviator's christmas writing challenge #Youtube

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inthedayswhenlandswerefew · 2 years ago

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Now I’m Covered In You [Chapter 2: Dusk]

Series summary: Aemond is a prince of England. You are married to his brother. The Wars of the Roses are about to begin, and you have failed to fulfill your one crucial responsibility: to give the Greens a line of legitimate heirs. Will you survive the demands of your family back in Navarre, the schemes of the Duke of Hightower, the scandals of your dissolute husband, the growing animosity of Daemon Targaryen…and your own realization of a forbidden love?

Series title is a lyric from: Ivy by Taylor Swift.

Series warnings: Language, sexual content (18+), dubious consent, miscarriage, pregnancy, childbirth, violence, warfare, murder, alcoholism, sexism, infidelity, illness, death, only vaguely historically accurate, lots of horses!

Word count: 4.0k.

Link to chapter list (and all my writing): HERE.

Taglist: @borikenlove @myspotofcraziness @ipostwhatifeel @teenagecriminalmastermind @quartzs-posts @tclegane @poohxlove @narwhal-swimmingintheocean @chainsawsangel @itsabby15 @serrhaewin @padfooteyes @arcielee @travelingmypassion @what-is-originality @burningcoffeetimetravel @blackdreamspeaks @anditsmywholeheart @aemcndtargaryen @jvpit3rs @sarcastic-halfling-princess @flowerpotmage @ladylannisterxo @thelittleswanao3 @elsolario @tinykryptonitewerewolf @girlwith-thepearlearring @minttea07

Let me know if you’d like to be added! 💜

The girl is from Milan, and Daeron is enamored with her: bright-eyed, beaming, blood rosy in his cheeks. Her name is Nicolosa, though she is adamant that everyone should call her Nico. She is one of those effortlessly informal people. She laughs too loudly and says all the wrong things, too-honest observations that would be offensive if the person breathing life into them was anyone but her. She spins around the hall as violins and lutes play, swinging from the willing arms of chuckling noblemen, an aisle of light in a goldenrod gown, the sun made flesh. She has the luxury of dancing until breathless, until she glows with the sheen of exertion. She could not possibly be carrying a child; she will not be wedded and bedded for another year.

This is a great triumph for Otto the Duke of Hightower. Milan under the House of Sforza is an enviable ally, wealthy and sophisticated, and eager for friends who will one day be willing to assist them in resisting French encroachment. This is the deal that the Duke of Hightower has struck. True, Daeron is still rather young to take a bride. True, Nico’s parents, the Duke and Duchess of Milan, were insistent that they would concede to the match only if the marriage and consummation was postponed until next August. True, this does not resolve the immediate concern of Aegon’s lack of an heir. But it is another tile of a mosaic, another thread in the patchwork of the Greens’ objectives, another brick in a castle wall from which boiling oil could be poured down upon invaders.

The Duke of Hightower is accepting warm congratulations from the nobility of Southern England: Norfolk, Gloucester, Somerset, Buckingham, Suffolk, Clarence, Exeter. Those of the North—Lancaster, York, Stark—shun him. They stand instead with Rhaenyra, admiring her two eldest sons, pretending not to notice how little they resemble the late Laenor Velaryon. The Crown Princess is wearing black accented with maroon, as she almost always is. She sends a small, reassurance-seeking smile to where Daemon sits at the high table, and he raises his cup to her, his face sly, arrogant, proud. They love each other, this is clear; it may not be an especially conventional love, and it may be a love that emboldens rather than tames, but it is love nonetheless. This does not make your resignation to your own fate any easier. Queen Alicent, laughing as she joins Daeron and Nico dancing, is dressed in dark green to match her father and her children. You often wear purple, the color of royalty…just to remind people that you still deserve to be here.

You are at the high table too, albeit on the opposite side from Daemon; the Blacks are always seated to King Viserys’ right, while the Greens are on his left. Aemond doesn’t dance, you aren’t permitted to, Aegon is too drunk. He’s apparently not too drunk to leer, however; his bleary storm-blue eyes follow Lady Joanna Montford as she glides across the floor like a shark through surf, flashing luring eyes and flirtatious simpers. You’re a better dancer than she is, but of course that doesn’t matter, because no one ever gets to see you do it. Aegon won’t go so far as to touch her in public—he would consider that discourteous, you think—but he’s sleeping with her, and everyone knows he’s sleeping with her, and you can’t even truly wish he’d stop because you don’t want him in your bed anyway. But the humiliation of it…the hopelessness…that is more difficult to come to terms with.

“Portugal,” Daemon tells Aegon nonchalantly. “You could have married some princess from Portugal.”

Aegon guzzles his wine and says nothing. Aemond—scribbling messy lines of black ink onto parchment at the end of the table—glances up at you and then back down again.

Daemon continues: “The Infanta Maria was wed around the same time you were, and she’s produced a more than satisfactory son for her husband. Hugely fat, practically hoglike, I’ve seen portraits.”

“Daemon, please,” King Viserys scolds mildly, smiling as he watches Rhaenyra mingle with nobles who wouldn’t mind burning you alive if it meant the Blacks would ascend more seamlessly to the throne. The king has her son Joffrey in the chair next to him and has enthralled the boy with stories of jousts, hunts, feasts, Christmases and May Days. You wonder if he’s ever shown such interest in any of his children with Alicent. If he has, you aren’t aware of it.

“Or Savoy,” Daemon says. “Not as cultured as Milan, this cannot be denied, but of great strategic significance geographically. One foot in France, the other in Italy. I’ve heard wonderful things about Princess Louise. Very athletic, very…” He smirks, biting into a pomegranate. Ruptured seeds spurt juice like the gleam of rubies. “Flexible.”

“Oh, look, Prince Daemon.” You point into the crowded hall. “I think your wife is beckoning you to join her. Your third wife, I mean, the most recent one. The one who also happens to be your niece.”

“Or Naples!” Daemon exclaims, as if it has just occurred to him, as if he hasn’t been waiting to torment you like a wolf shadows a wounded stag, saliva filling up its mouth, fangs bared and dripping. Southerners detest Daemon because they fear he is mad; but that’s exactly what the North likes about him. “Or perhaps even—would we dare to hope?—a princess of France! Think of it! The poor Duke of Hightower would not know what to do with himself, he would be so delighted. At his age, the shock might just kill him.”

“Daemon,” King Viserys warns again.

“Perhaps you shouldn’t be giving us so many ideas,” Aegon says, slurping his wine. “Aemond is still unspoken for, and now we have a tidy list of candidates to consider. How thoughtful of you.”

“Or you simply could have made the same arrangement that you did but in reverse,” Daemon goes on as if no one else has spoken at all. “You could have taken a Castilian bride, and Helaena could have been shipped off to the Pyrenees, and your circumstances would be wildly different than they are now. Princess Lucia would have been the right age for you. Do you want to know what she gave to her new husband this past Christmas?”

“I surely don’t,” Aegon replies.

Daemon grins beneath glinting eyes. “Twins.”

“Enough,” Aemond says, dark and quiet like midnight.

Now Daemon addresses you, resting his elbows on the table. “How many more chances do you think they’ll give you, Navarre, before some providential technicality that voids your marriage contract is discovered and you are discarded of in a nunnery?” Another bite of the pomegranate; another freckling of bloodlike red across the tablecloth. “The globe is crawling with royal women, they’re fish in a barrel, why would anyone jeopardize their dynastic ambitions for you?”

“My wife belongs where I am,” Aegon says: a fact, a dare. “And I will hear no more of it.”

You look at him, grateful but a little stunned. He does this sometimes. He will choose a seemingly arbitrary moment to make a show of loyalty, and then he will never mention it again. He doesn’t return your glance. Instead, he picks apart a roasted chicken carcass with his fingers and resumes staring at Lady Joanna Montford with his dazed, watery eyes. Aemond, engrossed in his writing, hasn’t eaten much tonight. Neither have you; but there’s a reason for that.

“Where you are,” Daemon muses, raising his strange white eyebrows. “Well, I hope she enjoys brothels.”

You fling back: “Like the one you fondled the Crown Princess in?”

“A baseless rumor,” Daemon replies, but he can’t smother the flare of wicked pride in his eyes.

“Will you stop it?!” the king roars at both of you. Joffrey gazes up at him with awe, like he’s seen a falling star or a dragon or the face of God. “This is supposed to be a joyous occasion, a royal betrothal, and you can’t conduct yourselves appropriately for one night—?!”

“What are they squabbling about?” the Duke of Hightower asks as he approaches the table. He can summon nothing more condemnatory than half-serious annoyance; his mood is too lofty, his victory too fresh. Behind him in the festive ruckus, Queen Alicent and Rhaenyra are exchanging awkward compliments and trying to ignore all the enmity that has stacked up between them since the king married his daughter’s lifelong companion and started producing white-haired children with her. Jace is dancing with Baela, Luke with Rhaena; Daeron and Nico have found themselves alone in a corner, giggling as candlelight glows hot and golden on their flushed cheeks.

Rather than answering, the king merely rolls his eyes and sighs, exasperated.

“You must be overjoyed, Otto,” Daemon says. “Another friend on the Continent. And yet, they are awfully far away, don’t you think?”

The Duke of Hightower smiles tightly. “Ships travel fast.”

“Ah, perhaps, though not faster than word from here to the Scottish border.”

“The Milanese girl will make a lovely bride for young Daeron, Otto,” King Viserys praises. He has either successfully deluded himself into believing that the whole of the realm will miraculously coalesce behind Rhaenyra upon his death, or he is determined to ignore the catastrophe that will ensue once he slips, gleefully ignorant, off into the afterlife.

Daemon nods. “Yes. Buxom, vivacious, amiable, she will be a fine mother someday. Unlike certain other people among us.”

Aegon says around a mouthful of chicken: “Grandsire, Prince Daemon was kind enough to point out all the other advantageous matches still at our disposal. Since we haven’t monopolized our bloodline by marrying exclusively immediate relatives.”

The Duke of Hightower chuckles. “Yes, I do sincerely hope that Jace and Luke’s offspring don’t all end up with fifteen fingers or gills or some such thing.”

“Fortunately, Harwin Strong’s blood should dilute the lineage,” you say.

Daemon turns towards you, twisting in his chair, grinning cruelly. “Gills or not, at least they’ll have children.”

You can’t think of anything to say back. Perhaps there is nothing to say. The Duke of Hightower and Aegon both avert their eyes. King Viserys has returned his attention to young Joffrey and is teaching him a prayer to invoke the protection of Saint George. Only Daemon looks at you; and Aemond watches him, quill hovering in midair, his sole blue eye a blaze of cold fire. You push out your chair and rise from the table, fleeing to one of the rooms adjacent to the exuberant, cheerful hall. You’re happy for Daeron and Nico, truly you are. But pain has a way of feeling heavier than joy, doesn’t it? It grips onto your ankles and drags you down into depths that nobody else can see.

The room is small and empty, the music muffled by the walls. Through the stained glass windows trickle in beams of pink-lavender light as dusk falls over Westminster Palace. And you stand there alone in the twilight, thinking of the past and the future and time itself, a ghost that will always be made of more secrets than answers.

You hear the door open behind you. “I’ll return to the festivities in a moment,” you say to the intruder, trying to keep the emotion from your voice.

“No need,” Aemond replies softly.

You wheel, and there he is, walking to meet you in the vanishing daylight. He takes your left hand in his and settles his right lightly, modestly, on your waist. “What—?” And then you understand.

Dancing. Here, where no one can see to forbid or ridicule. He’s come to take me dancing.

You smile up at him. “I’m not supposed to be doing this.”

“We’ll go very slowly.”

And slowly would be an understatement: you and Aemond move together in dawdling, careful steps, rotating like seasons, like the phases of the moon. He smells like he always does, of work and effort: smoke, leather, that scent he wears that is dark and woodsy and with an edge like a knife. His hands are calloused from sword sparring. Yours feel soft and helpless in his; they weren’t always so fragile, but they are now. “I thought you hated me,” you tell him.

“I’ve never hated you.”

“But you ignored me. For an entire year after I arrived in England, you ignored me.”

“I kept my distance. That’s very different from ignoring.”

“Alright, but why keep your distance at all?”

Aemond hesitates. “I am not in the habit of allowing myself to be noticed.”

“Because you fear people will see through the armor you’re wearing?” And when he abruptly stops dancing, you add: “I don’t mean that unkindly. I’m the same way. I wear all sorts of masks.”

He studies you in the lilac light. His gaze falls from your eyes to your lips to your throat. And then he resumes the unhurried dance. “There’s nothing about you worth hiding.”

You spin away from him and then return to be caught. “And you think you are a trove of scandalous secrets, Prince Aemond? Is that what’s in all those poems you won’t let me read?”

“If they were any good, I’d let you read them.”

“But you have the disposition of a genuine poet. Enigmatic, perceptive…” Alluring. Beautiful. You cast those thoughts away like coins into a wishing well. “Graceful.”

“So the dancing isn’t too terrible. I don’t do it often, I’m afraid.”

“You don’t do it ever to my knowledge. And no, not terrible at all.”

“I move best when holding a sword, not a princess.”

“I used to have callouses like yours, you know,” you say. “My palms and fingers were covered in them.”

“Because you sparred with your brothers,” Aemond remembers.

“For hours and hours. Especially with Alonzo. He’s the exact opposite of you, short and stocky and loud, with dark curls and heavy feet. And his poetry would send a lady sprinting in the other direction.”

“Do you miss it? Terrorizing men with swords?”

“Of course. I was almost somewhat good at that, unlike everything I’m tasked with here.”

Aemond grins, broad and mischievous. “Let’s have a demonstration then.” He releases your hand, goes to the door that leads to a stairwell, and waits patiently for you to join him.

This is improper. This is disobedient. But what has being obedient gotten you lately?

You follow Aemond through the doorway, down the stone steps, and out into the courtyard illuminated by dusk like amber, tiger’s eye, amethyst, rose quartz. It is empty except for the two of you; the rest of the palace is thoroughly occupied with drinking, dancing, and murderous scheming. It is a wonder with as lethal as the world is that women are meant to be so powerless. Aemond trots across the grass towards the blacksmith’s forge at the far end of the courtyard, then returns with two swords. He passes you the lighter one.

“How does it feel?” he asks you.

You twirl the sword a few times, admittedly rather inexpertly. “Wonderful. But I’m very out of practice.”

“Fear not. We’ll take this slow as well.” He taps his blade against yours, so tenderly it’s laughable; the sound it makes is blunt and low. Still, you’re both smiling as you circle each other, striking out with intentionally ineffectual thrusts and lunges, blocking, parrying. “Your footwork is excellent,” Aemond notes.

“It used to be better. But I appreciate your compliment. You’re more talented than Alonzo. Then again, you probably spend much less time skipping lessons to chase women around.”

“Undoubtedly,” Aemond says in a tone you can’t decipher. Then he asks, interest piqued: “What sorts of masks do you wear?”

You shrug, your blade skating down the length of his. “All sorts.”

Aemond parries. “I’d be interested to know.”

“A genuine poet would be astute enough to sift out the truth from the lies.”

“So lie to me,” Aemond says, his stare direct and bold, his sword balanced in one hand and pointed at your ribs, your heart. “And we shall find out if I can tell.”

You side-step him, thinking of frivolous diversions. “I love English ale and drink it all the time.”

“Lie. Apple cider.”

The blades clang. “My favorite color is, dutifully, green.”

“Lie. Red, like the flag of Navarre.”

And like blood. “It’s beginning to lose its charm,” you confide in Aemond.

“Don’t do that,” he says severely. “Don’t let them take something you’re proud of away from you.”

You consider him as stars rise in a violet sky. “Why are you encouraging my rebellious inclinations? You don’t give the impression of being much of a rule breaker.”

“I don’t see what good can come from you being denied any source of happiness,” he says simply. “Go on. Let’s have another attempt at a lie.”

You block Aemond’s benign, cautious swing as you circle him. “I’m pregnant again.”

Aemond halts; every muscle in his body goes still and inflexible. And he knows immediately that you’re telling the truth. “I’m…I’m very glad to hear that,” he manages at last.

You laugh fleetingly, cynically. “You can’t even properly congratulate me. No one can. Because everything’s gone so horribly thus far, people don’t want to get their hopes up.”

“Does anyone else know?”

“Not yet. But I can recognize the first signs by now.” Constant low-level nausea, difficulty waking in the morning, dull cramping. You force a thin smile. “At least your brother won’t need to visit my bed for a while.”

“You don’t find pleasure with him? Is Aegon not…” Aemond searches for the right word, nervous, bashful. Hot blooms of blood appear in his cheeks. “Attentive to you?”

“It’s not his fault. He tries, really. He’s never been selfish or rough. It is entirely my own deficiency. I’m just not…at ease with him, I suppose. I can’t relax enough. I can’t reach…well…” Euphoria? A climax? A peak? You know what euphemisms others use, but it’s difficult to describe something you’ve never experienced before.

Aemond nods, meaning that he understands, that you don’t have to wrench the words out of you like entrails from a slaughtered animal.

“I know that other women can,” you say, tapping your blade against his. “That their husbands are well-matched with them and that they enjoy great pleasure. It’s difficult for me to accept that isn’t something I’ll ever get to have myself. At least…I don’t believe I’ve ever had it.”

“I think you’d know if you had.”

“Oh, and you’re an expert in a woman’s pleasure, are you? As an unmarried prince?” Your voice is casual and teasing; but the thought of him with a lover is like a bolt of lightning. It pains you, it paralyzes you, it hits you without any warning.

“Years ago, Aegon paid for a woman to…initiate me,” he explains. “Several times. He meant it as an act of compassion, I think. I was speechless around anyone I found desirable.”

Your nausea swells from a ripple to a wave. “Oh. I see.”

“It’s not something that I especially wanted at the time, and it’s not something that I have cared to repeat since. But it was very…informative.”

He gives you an infinitesimal little half-smile, and something passes between you as the last threads of dusk are unwoven from the sky and night engulfs Westminster Palace, something like a promise, a note, a whisper. The queasiness in your belly vanishes and is replaced by something else: a sensation like falling, like wanting. You are overcome by an ache to say something, though you don’t know what.

“What the hell are you doing?!” the Duke of Hightower bellows, striding out into the courtyard. Aemond takes several swift steps away from you and hurls his sword to the ground. You toss yours away as well.

“Grandsire, the princess and I were just—”

“You!” the Duke of Hightower shouts, turning on you first. “You should be in a chair or in bed, you should be resting, you should be thinking only of your health and of the wellbeing of the heirs you will produce with Aegon, not gallivanting around in the darkness and playing with swords, of all things! What would your husband say? What would your parents say?! Are you what we were promised when we signed that godforsaken contract?! Surely, princess, at this very moment you are not.”

Aemond begins: “Grandsire, it wasn’t her idea—”

“And you,” the Duke of Hightower growls at him. “You will immediately rid yourself of your baffling aversion to marriage, because you’re next, Aemond. Be prepared to discuss the candidates tomorrow and decide upon your preferred bride. Your brothers and sister are spoken for. We have one last card to play, and it cannot wait any longer. Not with this enduring…” He glances bitterly at you. “Uncertainty.”

Since you arrived in England, there have been innumerable discussions of who Aemond will marry, and he has staunchly evaded every proposed match. His rationale has wavered from needing to focus on his studies to committing himself to training as a warrior to interrogating the strategic wisdom of each potential alliance. This is strange for a man who is otherwise so constrained by familial loyalty, so devoted to the advancement of the Greens. “I won’t even get to meet her first?”

“You’ll learn to like her. Daeron met his betrothed today and he is happy.”

“Daeron is lucky,” Aemond objects. “I might just as easily not be.”

“You will marry,” the Duke of Hightower insists. “Without protest and without further delay.”

Aemond looks down at his empty hands—lines and callouses, fresh scars and ancient heritage—and he says quietly: “Do you care nothing for love?”

“Have you ever wondered why the old put so little stock in love, Aemond?” the Duke replies. “It’s not because we don’t believe it’s real. It’s because we know it doesn’t last. Women die in childbirth. Men die at war. Thousands die of Plague or the bloody flux. People who once would have killed for you grow to hate you, or worse, feel nothing for you at all. Love is transient and painful and changeable and destructive. Best to skip over such things and think of legacy instead. That’s all any of us are left with in the end.”

And then the Duke of Hightower clasps your wrist and leads you back inside the palace, gently, as if you are made of glass.

~~~~~~~~~~

It is several hours later when Aegon staggers noisily into your bedchamber, knocking over a Florentine vase by the door. Shards of it tumble across the floorboards like wounded men littering a battlefield.

“Sorry,” he slurs, pulling off his tunic and then the plain white shirt underneath. “I’m very drunk, wife, I cannot deny it, but there’s only one part of me that you’re in need of and I think that I can still get it up—”

“Aegon.” You’re lying in bed and sipping a cup of apple cider. “You don’t need to stay. Your part is done.”

He stops cold and blinks at you, comprehending it sluggishly. His eyes flick down to your belly, covered by a blanket decorated with green roses. “Oh.”

“It’s alright. You can go now. You have other places to be, and I know that’s what you want.”

“Is there anything I can do for you? To make it easier?”

Be a different sort of man. Be more like Aemond. “No, I’m fine. But it’s very sweet of you to ask.”

“Okay.” He lurches away, stepping on pieces of the shattered vase. His bare feet leave stains of blood on the floor. And then he pauses under the doorframe, gripping it so he doesn’t fall over. “Wife?”

“Yes?”

“It’s not that there’s anything wrong with you, you know,” he says. “It’s the pressure of it all. It’s the responsibility. I don’t have to feel that when I’m with anyone else.”

I don’t wish he was more like Aemond. I wish he WAS Aemond. “I understand, Aegon.”

He gives you a pitiful, off-kilter, childish smile. “Goodnight,” he says just before he leaves, clutching the doorframe with clawed hands. And then: “Goodnight to both of you.”

#aemond x you #aemond x y/n #aemond targaryen #aemond one eye #aemond targaryen x reader

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gifts-of-heimdall-runes · 1 month ago

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Rune Art:

THE DRAGON AND THE SPEAR (Part I) @gifts-of-heimdall-runes

THE DRAGON AND THE SPEAR was the name given to a design created in the second half of 2023 that subsequently became the title for a 2024 rune art project shared upon Instagram & Facebook.

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The project began amidst chasing deep labyrinths of Dragons' Earth Energy that wind their way throughout the Anglo-Saxon Futhorc that was helped by a visit to Somerset and Glastonbury in June 2023. This project uses 33 runes of the Anglo-Saxon / Northumbrian Futhorc inspired by the works of Ingrid Kincaid.

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The Anglo-Saxon runes scribed for this project were created using Serif Draw X8. Backgrounds and textures were developed using original images foraged from various internet sources, developed by MirrorLab app, and assembled via personal aesthetic preferences.

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An intuitive colour model was used for the respective four eights of the Anglo-Saxon Futhorc:

Red: JOURNEYS OF LIFE

Blue / Black: JOURNEYS WITHIN

Purple: JOURNEYS OF SPIRIT

Green: JOURNEYS OF GROWTH

White: JOURNEYS BEYOND

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Rune names and translations of 'The Anglo-Saxon Rune Poem' were copied from Stephen Pollington (1995) "Rudiments of Runelore." Anglo-Saxon Books, Norfolk.

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Image refs:

▪︎ Old English fonts by Peter S. Baker

These final two designs began "The Dragon And The Spear" Rune Art Project in Autumn 2023.

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The Dragon & The Spear

Image references:

(all of which were flagrantly adapted with sincerest appreciation):

Celtic Ring

Double Headed Dragon Vector

Ouroboros / World Serpent Vector (Edited)

Celtic Patterns Font by Omega Font Labs

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Background textures were all adapted from originals found via PINTEREST.

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This rune art project was created for fun.

It was shared to honour guidance of personal Inner Spirits.

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GIFTS OF HEIMDALL RUNES (FACEBOOK)

GIFTS OF HEIMDALL RUNES (INSTAGRAM)

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ML. Birmingham, UK

September, 2024.

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tomorrowsgardennc · 2 months ago

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good article about the purple tomato. i got seeds saved from someone who grew them because they were able to snag the seeds from Norfolk themselves. i can't wait to grow them next year and see how true to the purple they stay.

#food not lawns #gardening #home garden #homegrown #nature #food #grow food #gardenblr #garden blog #suburban agriculture #suburban farm

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briarpatch-kids · 9 months ago

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Ahahahahahahhaha. So I hate Baker Creek seed for reasons beyond this, in fact I like the idea of GMO just not the patent law behind it, but their flagship tomato this year was a stolen GMO when they make all their money on being anti GMO fear mongers.

This is delicious drama and I'm living for it.

It's in the FAQ from the company that patented it.

#my opinion is try the purple tomato if you want it #then save seeds and pirate it for friends

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meret118 · 8 months ago

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The Purple Tomato, a genetically modified crop created by Norfolk Plant Sciences, is available to home gardeners to start from seed.

#Gardening

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penchantment · 2 months ago

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In Norfolk for a reunion, so I popped over to Virginia Beach. This is a great shop, and the owner is great. She let me try the Murasaki-shikibu, which is MUCH more deep and rich than the color on the box. Also a complimentary 2025 magnetic calendar.. Just what I wanted in a purple. Picked up a Platinum Curidas in red, EF nib. And the Monteverde Monza in purple, the 3 in 1 set with fine, medium, and omni-flex. But not just the nibs, a whole separate section and converter for each, as well!

#fountain pen #platinum #pilot #iroshizuku #curidas #monteverde #monzapen

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dansnaturepictures · 1 year ago

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Seeing a Swallowtail at Hickling Broad 8th July 2023

Two weeks ago another dream of mine came true this year when we were lucky to see a Swallowtail late on in their flying season at Hickling Broad. I felt like doing a post delving a little deeper into the experience and what it means to me.

As mentioned in previous posts about seeing it, it was something that I had wanted to see for years. I look back on my childhood after getting into birdwatching, and as I have said before the big moment that got me into butterflies - and was really as much of a life changing moment as when I first got into birds or rather a life defining moment for me getting into this amazing interest - was seeing a Silver-washed Fritillary in the summer of 2010 at Bolderwood in the New Forest and saying I’d like to know what that is. The next day a lepidoptera ID book turned up and I’ve not looked back for butterflies and other insects since. But the interesting thing is I didn’t not notice or acknowledge butterflies prior to that. It actually came to light from a photo taken that I first saw Silver-washed Fritillary a year earlier at Acres Down in the New Forest and I recall a picture of a Brimstone being in a pack I had when a member of the RSPB youth group the Wildlife Explorers and seeing one back then. And I recall somewhere within those pre-seriously into butterfly days me hearing of Swallowtail and feeling impressed by their beauty. So it’s long been a butterfly I’ve known and been one I so wanted to see. I think I was also fascinated by the idea of (bar continental ones coming over that I learnt of years later) them only being found in the Norfolk Broads in the UK. There was a certain unattainable quality about them which made them exciting through the years as my butterfly interest intensified and from Purple Hairstreak to Northern Brown Argus we were lucky to see many wonderful species. And it was something I dreamed of.

It was something we were meaning to do over the years, get to Norfolk where we have been a fair few times now in the season at the right place to try and see one. We first discovered Hickling Broad when going there when seeing the Bee-eaters in July 2022 in the quarry at Trimingham. One week later than our summer Norfolk visit this year, we called in there and saw some fantastic stuff at a wonderful wild site on the off chance a late Swallowtail might be about. We had toyed with the idea of a Swallowtail attempt trip among everything else this year but it didn’t really look to be materializing, until the sensational Bee-eaters returning lured us to Norfolk. RSPB Strumpshaw Fen was where we planned to head the day after going to Trimingham for the Bee-eaters on short weekend trip to try and see a Swallowtail, ultimately the weather possibly proved not on our side overall to see a Swallowtail at that big site for them on the Sunday but seeing our first ever Norfolk Hawkers, Marsh Harrier and many other brilliant things was fantastic. Amazingly seeing the Bee-eaters again early in the time we spent at the quarry on the Saturday left us with enough time to head to Hickling again, where a year before we had seen a new butterfly for us in the form of an Essex Skipper, to see if we could repeat this on a pretty hot day with sunny spells and the sun sitting on the edge of clouds nicely at times.

In a few utopian minutes at Hickling Broad we managed it. We felt hopeful taking a shortcut path going well into the wetland habitat and the sun came out more prominently. Me spotting a gorgeous Four-spotted Chaser dragonfly landing well led to us pausing for a bit. And then it happened. In an unbelievable few minutes I saw the unmistakable humongous, creamy, starkly and divinely black and white patterned butterfly dash past me. I instantly said “Swallowtail” and ensured my Mum could see it, who was in disbelief as this butterfly sailed through the air strongly flying over vegetation allowing us a real good look before disappearing - interestingly as I drew comparisons to the other large butterfly we’ve been so lucky to see over the years and had seen this year at Knepp a week earlier the Purple Emperor as this is the tree associated with them - up towards and over an oak tree. We were ecstatic that our on the off chance had paid off, it was a thrilling and glee-filled few minutes taking in this amazing butterfly. We were astonished, and felt so fortunate to see it.

On an afternoon where we’d already seen the splendid Bee-eaters at the Trimingham quarry and seen our first Brown Hawker, Ruddy Darter and Emerald Damselfly of the year at Hickling Broad, we proceeded seeing beautiful Peacock butterfly and Garden Tiger moth caterpillars and I was jubilant. Just like the Otters on Mull in April after so many years of hoping, I sort of had dared to imagine this moment and in a flash it had happened. I nicknamed Swallowtail my Lesser Spotted Woodpecker of butterflies being a bird I had wanted to see for years before we did, and we had done it. I felt enriched by now being able to say I had seen a Swallowtail. At this stage in our wildlife watching it’s quite frequent that something we see for the first time is something we might not really know of until the sighting is reported or not be something we know well, but a Swallowtail we knew exactly what to look for in terms of the adult butterfly so there was an added sense of satisfaction to finally seeing one. What a place, what a species, what a weekend!

It wasn’t a landing sighting so no photos, so I thought I would post five from the walk at Hickling Broad below.

The Four-spotted Chaser, in a totally jocular way I said this could be the greatest of this species I’ve ever seen as had I not spotted it we wouldn’t have stopped and further down the path who knows whether we’d have seen the Swallowtail.

A view taken quite a way before the point we saw it, but showing similar habitat and conditions to how we did.

Another view from the walk round.

The Peacock caterpillar, a momentous day for me for butterflies capped off as this is the first butterfly caterpillar I have ever knowingly seen, every caterpillar I’d seen and managed to identify before that point was a moth.

Ruddy Darter

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thepastisalreadywritten · 1 year ago

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In London during the late spring of 1953, preparations for Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth II’s Coronation were reaching their denouement.

Couturier Norman Hartnell was completing a dress to outshine any other.

Tucked away at the back of Hartnell’s lavish Mayfair townhouse, a team of embroiderers were finishing stitching a floral garland on the ivory silk bodice and crinoline.

Pastel thread, jewels, sequins, beads and 10,000 seed pearls were sewn as Commonwealth emblems and British flora around an English Tudor rose scattered with diamond dewdrops.

Six young, aristocratic maids of honour, including 19-year-old Lady Anne Coke – best-selling author Anne Glenconner – were being drilled like guardsmen by The Duke of Norfolk, responsible for organising the coronation, as they rehearsed the walk to the Abbey altar, with his wife, the Duchess, standing in for The Queen.

“If the Bishops don’t learn to walk in step,” he remonstrated, “we’ll be here all night.”

The photographer Cecil Beaton, well-versed in photographing crowned heads and aristocrats in the Vogue studios, was prepping a vantage point in Westminster Abbey, high up by the organ pipes, as the best location from which to capture the ceremony.

It would be a long day; he’d fill his top hat with sandwiches to sustain him.

Nearby, at Garrard, the Crown Jeweller and his team of master craftsmen were hunched over workbenches altering the Imperial State Crown to fit the young Queen’s head.

Garrard had made the Crown in 1937 for King George VI – a replica of the crown designed and crafted for Queen Victoria, which contained virtually all the same stones symbolic of centuries of Royal history, fitted around a purple velvet cap and ermine band.

Clusters of diamond-set crosses and fleurs-de-lis linked by swags of diamonds, supported by sapphires, emeralds and pearls in the form of oak leaves and acorns, dazzled around the massive 317.40 carat Cullinan II diamond, the Second Star of Africa, cut from the largest diamond ever discovered.

Above it sat the Black Prince’s Ruby – in fact, a spinel, worn by Henry V at Agincourt – while the 104 carat oval Stuart sapphire gleamed at the rear of the band, with the cross atop the orb set with the sapphire from Edward the Confessor’s ring.

King George VI requested Garrard create an inner “hammock” style fitting, like a guard’s officer’s bearskin, to distribute the nearly three pounds of weight evenly on his head.

Reshaping the circlet for Queen Elizabeth II involved remounting the stones and motifs of which it is composed, as well as repositioning and lowering the arches, all of which required craftsmanship of the highest skill.

The aim was to improve the strength of the crown with lightness of weight, which isn’t easy with large stones, and those which were cut nearly 300 years ago.

They were working against the clock. The new Queen required time before the ceremony to become accustomed to the crown’s feel and weight.

“There are some disadvantages to crowns, but otherwise they are very important things,” said Her Majesty, recalling its heaviness on the 65th anniversary of the coronation.

“Fortunately, my father and I have roughly the same shaped head, so once you put it on, it stays.”

The media demanded constant updates on Garrard’s work, with the coronation making broadcasting history as the first service to be televised, adding to the sense of pressure.

In addition, two gold Armill bracelets of sincerity and wisdom, symbolic of the monarch’s bond with the people needed to be finished, which were replacing the 17th-century enamel bracelets dating from the coronation of King Charles II.

In previous ceremonies, the Armills had been carried, but these were made for the Queen to wear, decorated with two rows of engraving and Tudor rose clasps with red velvet linings.

Garrard was also inundated with cleaning requests.

“No one had worn their jewellery or tiaras during the war,” explains Lady Anne.

“People were queuing to have their tiaras, which were like great fenders of diamonds, stomachers and necklaces cleaned.”

On the day, 2 June 1953, it poured with rain.

Lady Anne remembers arriving at the Abbey:

“It was pretty dark and cold. Our dresses weren’t lined, there were clothing coupons after the war you see.

A tiny thread of blue cotton had been placed on the floor in the Abbey, so the Queen knew where to stand.

When the procession began, we walked past row upon row of tiaras, as well as people in their National dress.

The Queen walked a bit faster than the Duchess had in rehearsals, so we had to adjust our steps.”

The ceremony ended at 2 o’clock in the afternoon.

Hartnell left after watching his historic dress sweep down the aisle followed by the procession of royal pages, maids of honour, peers and peeresses sparkling with diamonds, looking, he remarked:

“Like a lovely hunk of fruitcake, the damson jam of velvet bordered with clotted cream of ermine and sprinkled with the sugar of diamonds.”

Beaton rushed to Buckingham Palace to photograph the Queen theatrically against a painted backdrop, holding the orb and sceptre and wearing the Imperial State Crown.

The Crown Jeweller Garrard remained until The Queen and the Duke of Edinburgh had taken lunch in the Abbey annex, in case any last-minute adjustments to the diamond-encrusted Crown were needed.

“Cecil was waiting when we all returned from the Abbey,” Lady Anne continues.

“He had everything set up for the photographs, and that’s when I really noticed the Crown and jewels glittering under the bright lights and took note of it all.

The Queen looked so young, beautiful and vulnerable, so the contrast of seeing her crowned with all the regalia was extraordinary.

She was weighted down a bit, but I remember thinking it was terribly poignant.”

A tense moment followed.

“The Duke of Edinburgh was fussing around, and Cecil got irritated, put his camera down and said, ‘Oh Sir, would you prefer to take the photographs?’” Lady Anne laughs.

“The Queen looked a bit horrified, and The Duke wandered off. You see, The Duke would have liked the photographer Baron, but it was The Queen Mother who adored Cecil.”

Later, it was still rainy and dark outside.

When the gleaming, crowned figure of The Queen appeared on the Buckingham Palace balcony, she shone with a sense of tradition and permanence.

With the Imperial State Crown, she wore the Coronation necklace and earrings, made in 1858 by Garrard and worn by Queen Alexandra and Queen Mary, including 25 brilliants suspending the Lahore diamond drop.

Time will tell if the Armills will return to being carried at the Coronation of HRH The Prince of Wales, and if he has inherited the Windsor head shape, but should substantial adjustments be required, the crown will appear once more unchanged.

The historical continuity of the regalia, and the fact the crown is still in constant use, makes these jewels created in the Garrard workshop the most potent in the world.

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queenmarytudor · 3 months ago

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Mary I's Fight For The Throne

3rd August - Mary triumphantly enters London

Mary arrives at Whitechapel around 6pm, and after a brief stop to change clothes, proceeds to pass through the city "accompanied with gentlemen, squires, knights, and lords, with a great number of strangers all in velvet coats riding before her, with all the King's trumpeters, heralds, and sergeants at arms." 1

This includes the Imperial ambassadors, who confirm "the Venetian ambassador was there too; but not the ambassador of the King of France." 2

The new queen wears a "gown of purple velvet French fashion, with sleeves of the same, her kirtle purple satin all thick set with goldsmiths work and great pearls, with her foresleeves of the same set with rich stones, with a rich bowdricke of gold, pearls, and stones about her neck, and a riche billement of stones and great pearls on her hood, her palfrey that she rode on richly trapped with gold embroidered to the horse feet, and another rich trapped palfrey led after her highness by Sir [Edward] Hastings, master of the horse." 3

The Imperial ambassadors believe "Her look, her manner, her gestures, her countenance were such that in no event could they have been improved.[...] her face is more than middling-fair." 4

She enters London at Aldgate, which is "richly hanged with arras and set with streamers." 5 She meets the Lord Mayor and Recorder here, who salute her highness. The Recorder says:

"Pleaseth your highness, my Lord Mayor, here present, in the name of his brethren and all the commons of this your highness city and chamber of London, most humbly beseecheth your highness to be good and gracious Sovereign to these commons of this your city like as your highnesses noble progenitors aforetime have been, and, according to their bounden duty at your highnesses coming, my Lord Mayor presenteth here your highness with the sceptre pertaining to the office, in token of loyalty and homage, most humbly welcome your highness to this your highnesses city and chamber of London." 6

The Lord Mayor then kisses the sceptre and passes it to Mary, who answers:

"My Lord Mayor, I heartily thank you and all your brethren the aldermen of your gentleness showed unto me, which shall not be forgotten, for I have known you ever to have bene good toward me." 7

Her words are "so gently spoken and with so smiling a countenance that the hearers wept for joy." 8

Mary then proceeds down the street, with the Mayor of London bearing "the mace, and the earl of Arundel bore the sword, and all the trumpets [blew]; and next [after] her my lady Elizabeth. After Elizbeth the duchess of Norfolk, and next [after] her the marquess of Exeter, [and other] ladies, and after [them] the aldermen, and then the guard with bows." 9 The guards wore "green and white, red and white, and blue and green." 10 All these colours were significant liveries in Mary's past - the green and white being the Tudor livery, red and white belonging to Henry VIII and the blue and green being the personal livery Mary herself had her household wear when Princess of Wales.

The streets are "richly hanged with clothes of arras and silk" 11 and "gravelled all the way [...] And all the streets by the way as her highness rode standing so full of people shouting and crying Jesus save her Grace, with weeping tears for joy, that the like was never seen before." 12

Rails have been placed down the streets for the large crowds, where citizens and merchants stand with "streamers and banners of every Company or occupation standing at [the] rails, every Company in their best liveries." 13

Various celebrations have been prepared for her, including a "great stage covered with canvas where all the children of Christ's Hospital sat." 14 There are "about one hundred poor little children [...] all dressed in blue, with red caps upon their heads. They were given to the Queen to nourish and care for them, the eldest not being over twelve or fourteen. One of them addressed a prayer to her Majesty that she might take them under her care." 15

There are four stages in all between Algate and the Tower, where "clerks and musicians stood playing and singing goodly ballads, which rejoiced the queen's highness greatly." 16

In the Tower, there were "terrible and great shots of guns shot within the Tower and all about the Tower wharf that the like hath not been heard, for they never ceased shooting from the time her highness entered in at Algate till she came to Mark Lane end, which was like great thunder, so that it had been like to an earthquake." 17

As well as gunshots, bells "so long disused" 18 are ringing out in celebration across the capital.

The Lord Mayor leaves when Mary reaches the Tower. Inside "The Duke of Norfolk, Doctor Gardner, late bishop of Winchester, and Mr. [Edward] Courtney, prisoners in the Tower, kneeled on the hill within the Tower asking pardon." 19 Anne Seymour, late Duchess of Somerset is also amongst the group who "presented themselves before the Queen to ask for her pardon and their full liberty."20 Mary "gently saluted, bidding them rise up." 21 and "kissed them, and said These are my prisoners." 22. She "replied that they had done nothing for which they should sue for mercy, and she was sorry that they should have suffered and been detained for so long. She gave her full consent to their liberation." 23

Mary has now taken possession of the Tower of London as England's reigning monarch. All that remains is the coronation "which will take place as soon as the necessary preparations can be made." 24

Meanwhile...

On the 8th of August King Edward VI is buried. At his burial there was "a standard with a dragon, and then a great number of his servants in black, and then another standard with a white greyhound, and then after a great number of his officers." The chariot conveying his body was covered with cloth of gold and an effigy of the king with "his sceptre in his hand, lying in his robes, and the garter about his leg, and a coat in embroidery of gold; about the corpse were borne four banners, a banner of the order [of the Garter], another of the red rose, another of queen Jane (Seymour), another of the queen's mother." 25

Sources:

1. Wriothesley's Chronicle

2. Spanish State Papers, 6th August 1553

3. Wriothesley's Chronicle

4. Spanish State Papers, 6th August 1553

5. Wriothesley's Chronicle

6. Wriothesley's Chronicle

7. Wriothesley's Chronicle

8. Wriothesley's Chronicle

9. Diary of Henry Machyn, August 1553

10. Diary of Henry Machyn, August 1553

11. Wriothesley's Chronicle