#V; Beyond the sands { What wonders await }

[obsessedvibee]

Temptress

MDNI, 18+

Pairing: Austin Butler x Evelyn(reader)

Summary: Austin and Evelyn are on vacation in Hawaii and a little teasing game begins. Who can get the other to crack first?

Warnings: teasing, sex against a wall, neck squeezing? i don't wanna call it choking, unprotected sex, p in v, masturbation reference, dirty talk, what's a smut story without a little awkward boner?

Words: 2.5k

Authors Note: When I tell you I had such terrible writers block when trying to come up with the scenes where they tease each other. I don't know why that was so hard for me?? But I know a lot of you were waiting for this (I've never had so many notes on a teaser before! I'm so beyond thankful but now the pressure is a thousand times more I truly hope I don't dissapoint-oh gosh) story to be put out, so alas- here it is.

As always comments and reblogs mean the absolute world to me, so feel free to write your little hearts out or even message me!

But enough from me...enjoy!

The hot Hawaiian sun blanketed her body as she laid out on one of the white beach chairs. The sound of the nearby waves lapping at the sand lulled her buzzing mind. Only thoughts of her husband Austin were present. She was on vacation after all, he SHOULD be the only thing on her mind. 

Austin soon returned with two cocktails in his hands, handing the cold glass to her. She took it in her hands, the condensation dripping onto her thighs, causing goosebumps to form.

She took a generous sip, savoring the sweet flavor on her tongue, the alcohol warming her throat as she swallowed.

“Mm, you’re so hired,” she moaned, taking another gulp.

He chuckled, sitting to face her on the chair beside her. “Does that mean you’ll keep me around for another night?”

A smirk danced on his lips as she pretended to consider her options. 

She eyed him through her glasses, taking in his newly toned body. He’d always been thin, but he bulked up in the last month for his upcoming role. His shoulders were more rounded and his biceps held more shape. The lines of his abs were subtle beneath his skin with a bit of hair topping the waistband of his swim shorts. Her thoughts quickly began to fill with desire. A sudden little playful idea formed in her head.

She waited until his eyes made their way back to her before swiping her tongue along the rim of the glass before going in for another gulp.

His eyebrow twitched in response.

She straightened her posture, “that’s not a very respectable thing to say to a guest, now is it?”

Beneath her confident gaze, her heart pounded in her chest as the words left her mouth. 

He had to crack first. 

“My apologies, ma’am.” He stretched his arms above his head, his biceps flexing.

He didn’t miss a beat. 

He was on to her.

Let the games begin.

Although, she wasn’t sure if any kind of game had started when neither of them made a move in the last hour. But she did know she wanted to cool down and get out of the sun for a bit, feeling a bead of sweat roll down her back. 

“You gettin’ hungry?”

“A little,” she admitted.

He sat up, groaning as he stretched his stiff limbs. 

“You go ahead,” he encouraged, “I’m gonna take a quick dip before I head in.” He nodded his head towards the ocean. 

She couldn’t tear her eyes away from his back as he walked right into the water, sinking down just enough to dunk his head before walking back up to shore. He ran a hand over his face and through his hair to slick it back like he was Fabio on some cover of a romance novel.

She was eating up every second of it. 

He looked her way right as her tongue darted out to wet her lips. 

A cool shower sounded incredible. For more reasons than one.

She abruptly stood, refusing to look in his direction, already knowing he had a smirk that was awaiting her gaze. Making her way to the outdoor showers, she gratefully slipped behind the wooden paneling. 

She briefly wondered if he’d follow in behind her.

Flipping the water on, she jumped aside with a shriek as a sudden spray of freezing water hit her.

If her nipples weren’t pebbled up from a moment ago, they sure were now. 

She waited a bit hoping the water would warm some, but quickly realized there wasn’t going to be anything remotely tolerable coming out of the shower head any time soon. 

Turning the spout off, she stepped back out into the heat again, almost welcoming the warmth if it weren’t for the dried sweat that covered her skin. 

“Was that water a little too cold for you?” Austin chuckled as he toweled himself dry. 

“Straight from an iceberg- that's what that was.” She grumbled lightly, watching as his hands moved the towel over his body.

Everything’s always hotter when it’s wet.

“Is that why you’re..” he stuck his pointer fingers out from his chest, nodding to her breasts, “pokey?”

She blushed.

“Or is it just cuz of me?”

“Careful,” she warned, pausing in the doorway. 

He wanted to talk about her boobs? 

She could work with that. 

Reaching for the strings of her bikini top, she pulled them loose letting the bottom fall free. 

He visibly swallowed watching her hands, his throat bobbing.

Oh the power of a little peek-a-boob.

She turned, not able to contain her cheeky grin as she made the snap decision to rid her top as a whole, keeping her back to him as she dropped it to the floor.

“Hey, that’s not-“ he trailed off as she turned to face him with a giggle, his eyes drinking her top half in. “…fair.”

“Anything is fair game, but the first to touch the other person loses.”

He reluctantly brought his eyes back up to hers. She could almost see the tug of war that was going on in his brain of where to look.

“You were going to order dinner for us, weren’t you?” She teased, scooping up her top before beelining it for the shower. 

*****************************

It was after dinner, and he had just turned the water off for his own shower. He called her over to him from the bathroom. 

She walked over to find him with just a towel tied low on his hips, standing in front of the clouded mirror. Steam was still hanging in the air from the hot shower, adding to the mood. 

A dark new tan colored his skin from all the time spent on the beach the last few days. Her mouth almost watered as his muscles flexed beneath his skin while he spread shaving cream over his face. 

“Hi,” he greeted, a playful look in his eyes.

A nervous smile pulled at her mouth, “hi?”

“I need your help.”

She raised a brow, “with shaving?”

He nodded, patting the counter with his hand, “come sit.”

“But I can’t touch you?”

He chuckled, handing her his razor, “you’ll have to be careful then.”

She stood frozen for a moment contemplating the challenge. Not wanting to back down she hopped up on the counter, sitting tall. 

His eyes sparkled mischievously, watching as she brought the razor gently to his face. The air seemed electrified as she scooted a little closer, their faces now only a few inches apart. Pressing the blade to his skin, she made the first swipe. Her teeth sunk into her bottom lip in concentration as she focused on not slicing his sensitive skin. Her arm almost shaking by the end from the exertion. 

Making the final swipe, she finally realized how close they were, feeling the exhale from his nose. She’d never craved to kiss him so badly before, she could practically feel the warmth of his lips on hers. 

She sudden feel of his towel brush against her inner thigh snapped her out of her lustful haze. Looking down she noticed she wasn’t the only one getting affected. 

She pulled away rather abruptly, quickly hopping off the sink. Straightening her shirt, she looked back at him. The tips of his ears were red, but whether that was from the shower or if he was actually blushing she wasn’t sure. 

“That doesn’t count,” he defended, clearing his throat.

“No?”

He took another towel to his face, “I can’t-“ he looked at her, “control it.”

Taking one more glance down to see the obvious sign of his arousal she was almost light headed with desire just knowing he wanted her just as much. 

She fled before she could lose control and yank him back into the bedroom.

Were there any rules against taking her own pleasure into her own hands?

**********************

Later that night, well after the sun had set, the bonfire crackled weakly as it began to die out between them, only the moon casting a blue glow on the sand. The breeze caused a chill to shiver up her spine, and of course Austin noticed. 

“You cold?”

She reluctantly nodded.

He picked up a stick and poked around in the burnt logs trying to coax a new flame, but only a few extra sparks fluttered up into the air.

“There's some other ways we could keep warm.” The words fell out of her mouth before she could think.

He paused. “Are you forfeiting?”

Her fingers tingled with the desire to touch him.

“Is the temptation too much for you?” She quipped.

They were both fighting for their lives.

“Only ‘cause it comes from you.”

Fuck. 

Damn him and his way with words.

His eyes were like a magnet pulling her to him and she was too weak to pull away. His tongue swiped over his lips, his eyes darting behind her.

“If you put that towel down, I’ll take you right here.” He said, his voice dropping an octave.

She bit her lip, failing to hide her smile as a new warmth spread through her veins for what seemed to be the hundredth time that day.

“Didn’t know you were an exhibitionist.” She slowly reached back for the towel, spreading it open on the sand.

She hardly had time to situate herself down before he was on her.

He hovered his lips over hers, teasing just a bit more. She could feel his breath on her lips. Every inch she moved back, he inched just as far forward. 

“Aus,” she whispered.

“Hmm?” 

“As much as I want to do this right here-“ she inhaled sharply as his lips nearly brushed hers, “-what if there’s paps?”

He pulled away with a heavy sigh.

“C’mon,” she stood, before she took off running as best as she could in the shifting sand, a laugh bubbling past her lips. She just made it past the front door when Austin's arm snaked its way around her waist, “not so fast, baby.”

Her soul cried out in joy as she felt the weight of his touch on her, his warm skin making her nerve endings sing.

He pulled her into him, his front pressed to her back, his head lowering over her shoulder. “Where do you think you’re going?”

She laughed some more as his cheek brushed against hers.

“Where do you wanna do this, hm?” He spun her around.

A full grin spread across her mouth as his hands found hers, and he began to toy with their fingers.

“You wanna do this right here?”

She nodded, her heart skipping a beat when he gently pressed her back into the wall of the hallway, his forehead pressed to hers, his blue eyes swirling with lust.

Like a dam that breaks when the flood waters come, so was his desire for her, breaking through in a heavy long awaited kiss; his mouth finally devouring her own.

His hands fumbled with her shirt, his fingers almost trembling. Quickly discarding it to the floor,  his hands began to explore the newly exposed skin, earning a moan when his thumb swiped over her nipple. 

His desperation was contagious. She tugged at his shirt blindly, his mouth the only thing she could focus on.

He took a half step away to pull his shirt over his head, “tell me what you want, Ev.”

She whined, reaching for him, “Aus.”

He raised a brow with a little smirk, “hm? You’ve mentioned it before.” His fingers slotted into the belt loops of her shorts tugging her closer to his warm chest pressing a soft kiss to her forehead.

“Take me against the wall,” she all but whispered.

“There's my good girl.”

His fingers reached down, popping the fly open on her shorts and yanking them down over her hips, landing at her feet. His cock twitched realizing she had been pantyless the whole evening. 

Ridding himself of his own shorts, he quickly hoisted her up, gripping her thighs. She wrapped her legs around his waist, his already stiff length brushing teasingly at the inside of her thigh.

They both fumbled for a moment trying to get him in her, the angle proving to make things difficult, “put your leg down for a sec-“

Lowering her leg carefully back to the floor, freed up his hand and he quickly positioned himself at her entrance and pushed inside. She inhaled sharply as her walls stretched to accommodate him.

“God, I don’t think I can ever get used to that,” she breathed as he eased in, gripping his bicep for dear life.

He gave a few slow strokes, testing the position.

Once he was sure they were stable, he hiked her thigh a little higher around his waist, spreading her open just that much more. Slotting his mouth over hers, he reached a hand up to squeeze her breast, coaxing a moan out of her. His hips began to piston faster, jolting her into the wall with each thrust. 

“Can you-“ a particularly hard thrust caused her to stutter. “A-Aus.”

His eyes darted to hers, his hips stopping. “You okay?”

“Don’t stop,” she whined, pulling at the hairs at the bottom of his neck, “-need you deeper.”

“Shit- yeah?” He reached down, getting her to wrap her other leg back around his waist. 

A wanton moan danced in his ears from her mouth as he sunk even deeper into her, “fuck, yeah.”

He pressed her harder into the wall, hips working double time, panting heavily in her ear as he held her, his fingers digging into the skin of her thighs. Sweat began to form across his forehead from the exertion, dampening his hair. Little groans began to fall from his mouth as their passion progressed, unable to contain it all inside.

A sudden impulse came over him and his hand reached up to her neck, squeezing gently. Her eyes widened as he locked his eyes to her, pressing their foreheads together. He slowed his thrusts, taking his time making her writhe with every push of his hips into her. 

“Baby-“ she mewled, clawing her fingernails into his shoulders.

He could feel her tightening as her climax quickly  approached. “You gonna cum for me, baby?” 

She squeezed tighter with her legs, her fingers tugging harder at his hair, pulling a grunt out of his throat. 

“Give me a good one, c’mon.” 

She held her breath as her high took hold, her walls spasming around his length.

“Holy shit,” he mumbled as he felt her squeeze every part of him as her climax hit. He quickly fell into his own orgasm, his blue eyes rolling back. His cock spilled heavily inside of her, painting her walls white with a low moan.

As her limbs loosened, her walls continued rhythmically milking every last bit from him until he was completely soft, quickly slipping out of her as he carefully let her down.

“Just so you know,”  she said between breaths, “you lost.”

-

Tags: Want to be added? Let me know! @ughdontbeboring @btsisinmyheartue @myles-production @purejasmine @shockercoco @sunsetsturniolos @denised916 @richardslady121 @austinbutlerslovers

[untameablesands]

calamitousheir:

❛ Excuse you, I’m absolutely fine up here! ❜ Easier said than done is what he actually wanted to say. Transerving new land called for scaling whatever piqued his interest, after all, everything looked like it was within reach for someone of his height, and basically get a better view from heights. The one thing he didn’t account for was struggling to find an easy way back down, often jumping down whenever it called for it, but ensured no damage would be inflicted upon executing the action. This level.. screamed danger, thus was timid in going with what normally solved the issue of being stuck, the last thing he needed to make his new guard worry about is Noctis getting hurt and try not to be reckless everywhere he went.

Dammit, he’s not going to hang around up here all day, so – ❛ I’m – gonna try to get down, be prepared to catch me if I slip up. ❜ Or he may station himself in getting ready to jump stance, the epitome of a cat readying to jump up onto whatever surface it believed it’d be able to get onto. Should he go with this or attempt some way to get closer to ground before he does jump off?He hopes Sundira will catch him either way.

        Was it wrong of him to be as amused with this as he was?

       Possibly.

        Could he be blamed, however? Noctis was... Actually pleasant to be around; Sundira had found himself enjoying being around the prince, which was why he was so tickled pink over the situation Noctis had found himself in. With most royals or nobility Sundira would have been much more stern; warning them away from things that could be dangerous or risky, but Noctis had proven that he was deserving of such ‘special’ treatment and thus far he’d been allowed to do whatever he wanted. 

      Within reason of course.

      Which is what led them to now, Sundira watching as the prince attempted to find his way down and struggling to keep his snickers of amusement quiet. It was bad enough his arms were crossed over his stomach as he took on a rather casual pose, he couldn’t let the royals foolishness make him ‘break character’ further by -gasp- laughing in public! “Of course, your highness. I will not allow you to come to harm.” 

     Should he mention that he has teleportation magic? 

      ... Nah. Noctis could get out of this on his own, he’d be fine~

[agirlinhell]

OKAY SO I’VE HAD A LOT OF ASOIAF / GOT RP BLOGS FOLLOWING ME LATELY AND I JUST HAVE TO LET YOU ALL KNOW THAT CLEMENTINE HAS SEVERAL VERSES, IN DIFFERENT ERAS AND IN DIFFERENT FACTIONS OF THE SERIES. I mostly follow book canon, as I’ve read all the books and I’ve watched all the seasons, but I am also show friendly, as well. I will be using Amandla Stenberg, Nyane Lebajoa and Indya Marie as her faceclaims. As this is A Song Of Ice And Fire / Game Of Thrones, there will naturally be explicit and mature content in a variety of different ways. She is bisexual, as in canon. There are six verses in all.

Although, they are not officially in my verses quite yet, allow me to elaborate them for you. Long post under the cut!

#1: Clementine is a skinchanger and a spearwife beyond the Wall whilst possessing greensight. She’s lived among the Free Folk all her life and was born near Hardhome. When she and the entire horde of the Free Folk are being driven south by the Others. she’s actually quite capable of defending herself even for a small girl, she’s taken out a few lone wights by herself. Clementine had faced the wrath of the likes of rangers of the Night’s Watch, slavers from the eastern cities, Hornfoots and Nightrunners, men and women of the Frozen Shore, men of the Ice-river clans who feasted on human flesh, snowbears, shadowcats and even other wargs. But worst of all the enemies she had fought were the wights, those moving corpses who only devoured the flesh of the living without a second thought. The girl had seen the likes of giants and mammoths, and she could see through the eyes of the beasts of the land and the birds in the skies, things that the girls of the south would hardly begin to imagine. Yet, at only age sixteen, she had managed to survive long enough to make it to The Wall. She wonders what the lands are like Beyond The Wall, survival is all she’s ever known. When the Free Folk are brought south of The Wall, Clementine is being taught how to read by Shireen Baratheon and the maesters at Castle Black. She has a shadowcat for a companion and can warg into it and take over its body as its host. The Free Folk both fear her and respect her, and several of the men of the Night’s Watch can say the same. Some think that she is descended from the Children of The Forest because of her golden eyes, but that is up to speculation. To put it very simply, this is her verse for any muses from the North or Beyond The Wall. I can easily see her being tangled up with Melisandre or the Boltons, perhaps she can possibly help Jeyne Poole escape Winterfell? She is age sixteen in this verse. This verse will be tagged as v; I MAY BE YOUR PRISONER BUT I AM A FREE WOMAN. ( A SONG OF ICE & FIRE / GAME OF THRONES. || THE FREE FOLK. )

#2: Clementine is a Princess of the Summer Isles. She serves Queen Margaery Tyrell as a lady in-waiting while serving as an intermediary between the Iron Throne and the Summer Isles as a princess of one of the isles and is one of their representatives so that trade between Westeros and the Summer Isles can continue further. Clementine is of Rhoynar, Summer Islander and Naathi descent. From a young age, she had been taught how to fight with a spear and shoot with her goldenheart bow and arrows that could pierce through even steel plate, as in the Summer Isles, women are considered equal to men. At age sixteen, she is well versed in many languages, the arts of love, music, song, dance and war. She leaves the Summer Isles on a swan ship to The Reach to broker a deal with the Hightowers at Oldtown at a young age while accompanied by an entourage of her own, and Alerie Hightower selected her to be one of ladies in waiting at Highgarden. Clem travels with Margaery and her relatives all throughout the events of The War of The Five Kings until they reach King’s Landing. When Margaery is betrothed to Joffrey Baratheon, Clementine is introduced in court, as well, and is seen as an exotic beauty by much of the court. She gets a lot of requests for marriage or simply sharing her bed from many lords of Westeros, including but not limited to Jhalabar Xho, Aurane Waters, Willam Wythers, Perros Blackmont and Daemon Sand, because many want the riches and treasures that the Summer Isles provide, and Clementine is an attractive young lady, something she will use to her advantage in court. ( **Note: this is what happens in my portrayal, if you portray any of these muses, this does not need to happen. )

She wears the feather capes that the Summer Islanders are known for and her loose silken diaphanous gowns from Naath, her hair is adorned with a myriad of butterflies and flowers in her hair and dressed in brilliantly colored feathers of exotic birds, silks, seashells and gemstones - rubies, sapphires, emeralds and pearls, along with the gowns and Myrish lace that Westeros provides when serving Queen Margaery Tyrell. Yet her heart always lies with her home. Afterward, she intends to venture to the Temples of Love in the isles and allow others to share her bed, as was expected of her and all other individuals on the isles, male or female, lowborn or highborn, as a way of worshiping her gods. She keeps to the gods of the Summer Isles and the Lord of Harmony of Naath and she’s been rumored to practice water magic, but this is debatable. She will protect her Queen with her life if need be.

Her fellow companions at court are Megga, Alla, Elinor and Leona Tyrell, Margaery’s cousins, Alyn Ambrose, Alysanne Bulwer, Meredyth Crane, Alyce Graceford, Taena Merryweather of Myr, Leonette Fossoway, Mira Forrester, Sara Durwell / Flowers and Septa Nysterica, a sister of the Faith. Through it all, even though she finds King’s Landing fascinating at first, she grows to yearn for her motherland… and learns that the capital is a pit of vipers. In A Feast For Crows, Clementine is accused of lewdness, fornication and high treason by The Faith and is arrested for crimes she did not commit. In a Dance With Dragons, Clementine’s currently awaiting her trial alongside the queen’s within the Sept of Baelor. To put it very simply, this verse is for King’s Landing and any shenanigans that may occur there, and it will be tagged as: v; YOU SHOULD SEE ME IN A CROWN. ( A SONG OF ICE & FIRE / GAME OF THRONES. || KING'S LANDING. )

#3:Clementine is a dragonrider, sorceress and noblewoman of the Valyrian Freehold, a daughter of the ancient House Targaryen, of the union of Aenar Targaryen and a princess from the Summer Isles. Keeping to the Gods of Old Valyria and the Deities of the Summer Isles, she finds herself praying to both deities, never truly having a preference of any of them over the other. One of the most striking things about her physical appearance are her violet eyes and her silver hair from her Valyrian ancestry, yet her skin tone is purely Summer Islander. It seems her lady mother won the genetics lottery. Clem has a good standing relationship with her half-siblings and most notably in Daenys Targaryen who would later to be known as Daenys the Dreamer renowned for foreseeing the Doom of Valyria twelve years prior to it’s fiery downfall. Clementine is dragonrider to the dragoness Zalliel. They practically grew up together from the time she was only an infant girl in her crib, as she’d been holding her egg to keep it warm. Zalliel, like her rider, had a thirst for adventure and freedom. Although not the warlike type, the dragoness would fight to the very bitter end to protect her rider. Her lord father, Aenar Targaryen, had paid a fine amount of gold for one of the best blacksmiths in the Freehold to make his youngest daughter a Valyrian steel sword, as Clementine had a intrigue for blades and the art of war, despite her calm and gentle exterior. Her lord father always knew that she had a fire burning in her heart. Clementine named this blade Dark Sister and so when she soared into the battlefield on dragonback, she would be seen fighting with it, as well as using one of her lady mother’s goldenheart bows and arrows. Clementine is a warrior through and through, and the blade has passed down to the future generations of House Targaryen, such as Queen Visenya Targaryen, Maegor Targaryen, Prince Daemon Targaryen and Lord Brynden Rivers, to which the sword is now lost to history.

Clementine was born - and grew up - within Valyria, and magic was at its height in the capital and in all the known world. At its apex Valyria was the greatest city in the known world, the center of civilization. Within its shining walls, twoscore rival houses vied for power and glory in court and council, rising and falling in an endless, subtle, oftsavage struggle for dominance. She enjoyed much of her childhood and adolescence there, loving to soar around the seemingly topless towers in the city, or spending time with her family in Lys. She kept monkeys, apes, panther cubs, and parrots from the Summer Isles as pets. She was taught in the arts of love and war, in many languages and was taught how in the magical arts by several sorcerers and mages hired by her lord father and lady mother. She is of Summer Islander, Naathi, Rhoynar and Valyrian descent, and was a member of the Young Dragons faction of Valyria. House Targaryen at the time was not considered a powerful house, compared to the forty other noble families of Valyria, but Clem cared little for court politics, but she was seen as a beauty amongst the dragonlords. In the Freehold, dragons were usually tamed with dragonhorns, sorcery and whips, but Clementine disliked the cruelty and thus attached herself to Zalliel in other ways, by way of kindness and companionship. After Daenys the Dreamer prophesied that Valyria would be destroyed, Aenar sold his holdings in the Valyrian Freehold and the Lands of the Long Summer, and moved with all his family, wives, wealth, slaves, and dragons, with House Velaryon and House Celtigar following behind them to Dragonstone, a bleak island citadel beneath the Dragonmont, a smoking mountain in the narrow sea. The Targaryens were far from the most powerful of the dragonlords, and their rivals in Valyria saw their flight as an act of cowardice. However, because Aenar had moved his family away from Valyria, the Targaryens were the only dragonlords to survive the Doom in 114 BC and the following Century of Blood. 

Clementine, however, was unhappy with the whole ordeal, feeling as if her entire future was being torn away to rot and sit at the very westernmost precipice of the Valyrian Freehold - Dragonstone, especially near a place as foreign and strange as Westeros. She helped her family with their affairs in Essos, most predominantly in the wars of the Free Cities. After staying for a few years at Dragonstone, deciding to rebel against her father and refusing to stay any longer in the bleak citadel before she withered away, took all of her things and her dragon and soared away from Dragonstone to travel the known world. What happens to her afterward is still debated by the maesters of the Citadel to this day, and her adventures vary depending on the tale. Some say she had affairs with several Westerosi lords - and even ladies, others say she eventually united the Summer Isles under her rule - something that was uncommon amongst the islanders, while alternate sources claim she was a consort of a YiTish god-emperor. What is known, however, is that she’s had many lovers - both men and women - and several adventures in her life and eventually returned to Dragonstone by way of a ship and brought Dark Sister back to the ancestral home it belonged to, and that she lived a very long and natural life. To put it very simply, this verse is for any pre-ASOIAF / GOT characters before Aegon’s Conquest. The tag for this verse is:  v; I AM THE DRAGON'S DAUGHTER. ( A SONG OF ICE & FIRE / GAME OF THRONES. || THE VALYRIAN FREEHOLD. )

( Note: Slavery, incest and polygamy are all a part of Valyrian culture, especially amongst the nobles. Her father had many wives and Clementine\s half siblings, as was common in Valyria, married and had children together. Incest is common among the noble families of Valyria and even then they’re often political with no romance involved and Clementine is a noblewoman, so it’s entirely possible she may have been betrothed. Slavery exists in this time period and Valyria profited off of slavery. Please keep in mind that I tolerate NONE of these things as a mun, but it is something that does happen and I will not be sugarcoating it in my portrayal, but I will always tag it when mentioned. )

#4: Clementine is a lady of Dornish, Summer Islander, Naathi and Rhoynar descent and owes her allegiance to House Martell.  Although mostly underdeveloped in comparison to the rest of her verses, Clementine was born and grew up in the Summer Isles before being sent to Dorne as an older child as a negotiation agreement for trade, and she grows fond of Dorne while staying there. Eventually, she works together with Arianne Martell, the Sand Snakes and Arianne’s entourage to crown Myrcella Baratheon as true Queen of the Seven Kingdoms by Dornish law. In A Storm of Swords, she attends Ellaria Sand and Oberyn Martell and saw the consequences of the trial by combat go horribly wrong, with the Red Viper’s death having a critical blow on the Dornish. During the later parts of the books, she stays back in Dorne and attends Doran Martell with anything he might need, all while taking care of Princess Myrcella. To put it simply, this verse is mostly for interacting with characters from Dorne and mostly southern Westeros. The tag for this verse is v; SHE WHISPERS INTO THE EARS OF MEN. ( A SONG OF ICE & FIRE / GAME OF THRONES. || DORNE. )

#5: Clementine is a Princess of the Summer Isles, and was born and grew up in the isles. She was sent by her lord father to negotiate with the Free Cities on matters of trade... only to be kidnapped by Basilisk Isles raiders and to be sold as a slave in Meereen, first as a female fighter in the fighting pits, before being noticed by some of the Masters and being taken to the Temple of the Graces to be trained as a Red Grace - all of this against her will. When Daenerys Targaryen enters the scene, however, Clementine is one of the first women to raise the sword for the Dragon Queen. Daenerys frees her from her bondage as a slave and a Red Grace and Clementine has been loyal to her - and her entourage - since. This verse is used to interact with any muses of Slaver’s Bay or any individuals who are aligned with House Targaryen in the present time. It will be tagged as v; I'D RATHER DIE ON MY FEET THAN LIVE ON MY KNEES. ( A SONG OF ICE & FIRE / GAME OF THRONES. || SLAVER'S BAY. )

#6: Clementine is a young lady trained to become the next Black Pearl of Braavos, one of the most proeminent courtesans of the city.  From a very young age, she was educated and trained in various cultural pursuits such as art, music, poetry, calligraphy, song, dance, history, literature and flower and fan language. She’s an educated girl of good social standing, who is oft present at festivals and entertainments, and is hired as a mourner at funerals. She, like her lady mother, enjoys high status and is famous worldwide. She, like every other courtesan, has her own barge and servants to work them, as slavery does not exist in Braavos. Her beauty has inspired many a song and she is showered with gifts from goldsmiths and craftsmen beg for her custom. Nobility and rich merchants pay her large amounts of money to appear alongside them at events, merchant princes pay royal ransom to have her on their arms at balls, feasts and mummer shows and bravos are known to kill each other in her name.

She is famous, respected and wealthy and enjoy a kind of celebrity status as well as a certain kind of mystique, and she is cultured and beautiful. She sleeps on rose petals and wears silken skirts that rustle when she walks, and great lords beggar themselves for her maiden’s blood. She can trace her descent through the female line to the daughter of Bellegere Otherys, a pirate queen who was the first Black Pearl, and King Aegon IV Targaryen, and thus the earlier generations of the Targaryen Dynasty as a whole, as well as having other bloodlines such as having royal descent of both a Princess of the Summer Isles and a Sealord of Braavos. She dresses in charcoal grey, purple, blues so dark that are almost black, and blacks as dark as moonlight. Clementine is age sixteen and is still in the process of following her mother’s footsteps. This verse is used for muses of Western Essos, moreso the Free Cities and particularly Braavos, but Clementine can easily travel elsewhere. This verse is tagged as v; THE BLACK PEARL. ( A SONG OF ICE & FIRE / GAME OF THRONES. || BRAAVOS. )

[sheithfanficrecs]

Wildcard Monday: Hidden Gems

Welcome back to wild card Monday! Mods Krolia and Komso are back at it again sharing some of our favorite hidden gem fics. Be sure to send us an ask if you have any suggestions!

Mod Kosmo’s Recs:

Ruffle your feathers, rated T, 3.5K by seasoda ( @seasodas )

A mission gone awry ends with Shiro as the pseudo-mother to a flock of alien ducklings. Fortunately, he’s ready for parenthood. Unfortunately, Keith is not.

Shiro looks around before he carefully sets the ducklings down. They peer up at him like little soldiers awaiting orders. “I — Just watch,” he says, a little helpless.

He stands back and abruptly turns away from everyone, and then takes several steps in the opposite direction. Almost immediately, the ducklings form a neat line and march right up to him, their little flippers scrabbling against the ice for purchase. They peer up at Shiro once more, peeping.

“No,” Keith says, his face draining all color.

Pidge adjusts her glasses. “Just like I guessed," she says, unsurprised. "They’ve imprinted on him.”

Mod commentary: While there has only been one chapter so far, this fic is already a gold mine of hilarity, based upon the premise of Shiro accidentally adopting nine baby alien ducklings. Feat. Allura and Coran not knowing what human babies look like, discussions about the positives of a rebel base on an ice planet, and just some sweet Shiro and Keith loving.

space madness, rated T, 757 by yououui

They’re still stuck. Together, but alone. Stranded in the middle of space. How long have they been there? How much longer will they last? Keith has failed them. He was right; he couldn’t be the leader they all wanted him to be. The leader they needed. He tried. He should have known it was doomed from the beginning. If Shiro were here though… Shiro would have been able to help them. Now, they’re going to die, alone in space. And all Keith can do is dream about seeing Shiro again.

Mod commentary: Based off of this gorgeous drawing by @v-0-3, this fic is a what-if of the space madness episode; what if there were other more personal hallucinations experienced by a certain Paladin of Voltron?

I’ll Be Here, rated T, 10.8K by wallmakerrelict ( @wallmakerrelict)

The robot explodes. The lions fall. Shiro struggles with leadership in the face of personal attachment. And when his decisions have terrible repercussions for Keith, he is forced to contend with his own guilt and grief.

Luckily, someone once reminded Keith not to give up on himself.

Mod commentary: A gorgeous character study of Shiro in the events of the battle against the Galra Armada and the new mecha, revolving around his new role in the Garrison and his own feelings for Keith.

Mod Krolia’s Recs:

Last to Know, t, 39.4k by paintedrecs ( @appreciateshiro) 

It took a while for Keith to identify the feeling that rushed through his chest every time he saw Shiro: when Shiro caught his eye from the opposite end of the mess hall, when Keith saw him smiling in groups of other junior officers, when any of the cadets spoke Shiro’s name with a reverence that proved they didn’t know anything beyond the poster boy’s glowing reputation.

Happiness.

If this was what friendship felt like, Keith was finally starting to understand why everyone made such a big deal out of it.

***

When Keith first met Shiro, he had no idea how dramatically his life was about to change—or how crucial Shiro would become to every aspect of it.

...Shiro, who wouldn't stop dying.

Mod commentary: incredibly lovely between canon moments fic that’s beautifully paced, in character and keeps you invested the whole time. one I'll read again and again. 

Heels Over Head, g, 2k by MoreThanSlightly (cadignan)

Allura carries Shiro's consciousness within herself while she transfers it from the Black Lion into his body. She feels some residual effects.

Mod Commentary: a great concept and hilariously executed, this is such a fun fic that feels like a breath of fresh air. packed with great details and a lot of wit. I'm still laughing.

the sands of life shall run (and still), not rated, 11.5k by xerampelinae

 ( @xerampelinaekiss) 

“When I was eight, the scouts came back,” Keith says, voice shifting to something clinical. Like if this is a report he can make it through without tearing his heart open, leave it more vulnerable than it already is. It happened to someone else, Keith thinks, but that’s not true. He remembers the weave of the shirt his father had been wearing, sometimes wonders that it’s not pressed into his fingers even now, what with how hard he’d been clutching at it before Kolivan had brusquely coaxed him away.

“If there had not been a rebel trailing the scout, things on Earth would be very different,” Keith says, voice distant. “But there was. Nothing was transmitted back to the main fleet.”

-

Keith grows up among the Blade of Marmora and meets Shiro in his days as a Gladiator.

Mod commentary: *BANGS POTS AND PANS* BLADE OF MARMORA KEITH!!! BLADE OF MARMORA KEITH!!!!!!!! ahem. Okay. this is a wonderfully written fic of one of my personal favorite au concepts and it wisely chooses to focus on the pre-canon build of shiro and Keith’s relationship. so so good. 

[checkfortraps]

Stormblessed

I. Memories. He has never been fond of them, the way they crawl under his skin, haunting him, invisible but there, right within his bloodflow, passing through every inch of his body and his heart, ripping, until all he can taste is the bitter iron of despair. It makes him hurt in ways never known; the longing for all the things he has lost, or rather, let himself lose. Precious cargo at the bottom of the sea.

II. But sitting on the shore, moon alight on the waves in silver crests, wind in his face with the rage of dying summer, he cannot help but pull at the scars, pull them open until he’s bleeding with wonder: Has he chosen wisely? Or is he just a sailor abandoning course at the siren’s call, never realizing his mistake until it is far too late? His shadow is deep crimson at his heels, dripping with the evidence of sins he cannot not wash off no matter how much he scrubs with brine and trembling fingers. It spews forth images, a steady haunting, his own personal hell; acts of a life far away from salvation.

III. The old boat, moored to the pier beside the house, a spiderweb of knots and rope tangled around its single mast. Autumn seized the gulf with rusty fingers, decaying breath giving rise to waves more cruel than usual. It was like Umberlee herself rose from the depths to touch briny fingers to the dark bellies of stormclouds. The view had a strange beauty, he had found, longing rolling through his chest like thunder, leaving aftershocks in his heart that no prayer could soothe. He wished she would take him with her, down, down, until light and life seemed like distant memories.

IV. Smoke rose from the chimney, mingling with mist around a hut of dark woodblocks. Bright yellow leaves twirled in the wind, scent of stew and herbs overpowering the stench of drying fish and salt. Mother sat on the porch, in grandma’s old rocking chair, dark orange wool falling over her knees like a mantle while needles clicked with the tremble of her fingers. It’s the brine, the healer had said; as if there was another home for people like them, born from salt and misery and the dark light on the horizon just before a stormwall hit. The bruise on Mother’s cheek bore that same color, a sharp contrast to the ashen hue of her skin. He found himself wondering if death would finally erase it from her skin, and shuddered. Had he just invited the darkness into their house? But Mother smiled, and the chill faded, and for a moment, everything was alright.

V. He stared at the lightning as it came crashing into their house, and brought with it a fist of iron and a voice like violent waves. Mother’s cries were a siren song outlining the thunder in bitter blue; darkness swallowing her light as if pulled beneath the waters. Blood sizzled in the fireplace, shrinking the flames for a moment before stoking them ever higher. Just like the waves outside the window; just like Father’s rage when it painted the walls bright with red, leaving nothing but destruction in its wake. He caught Mother’s pleading stare, seaglass eyes searching their like, and turned away. Like a single sandbag against the flood, he could not save the world from drowning. So why even try?

VI. Weeks spent at sea. The crashing of waves, the cries of seagulls, the distant shimmer of a lighthouse. Salt and kelp adorning vessel and sailor alike, the unsettling art of nature untamed. Never did freedom live in his heart like this before, nor would it ever again; he could taste it in the winds, see it in the shape of the clouds and the dance of fish beneath the waves. The city and its wonders fixed what it could, but even the gentlest lover’s touch could not heal old scars, nor prevent the skin from tearing again. Returning home would always come at the price of trauma repeating itself like the tides, burrowing ever deeper.

VII. He found the weather changed when he came back. Mother was not sitting on the porch anymore, her wool scattered to the winds, her needles broken, grandma’s rocking chair smashed against the stairs like driftwood swept in by the sea. Low ceiling, small windows, chimney dark with smoke – familiar sights turned into nightmares within a single heartbeat. Mother begged him to let it go, to not ruin what she had preserved so painstakingly at the cost of her own safety, and for a moment he thought he could conquer the storm within his heart. But then the fire illuminated his brother’s twisted shape, his sister’s hand tainted by grey scales, and he could not see past the anger coloring his vision red. If he could not be the sandbag, he would become the waves, cleansing the world from those who would challenge them with force unfathomed like the depths of the sea.

VIII. They searched high and low on the beach, poking through driftwood and kelp and fish too slow to escape back into the sea before the ebb took hold. Eventually they found their quarry: A body blue from cold, mangled and twisted, missing the hands that had wrought so much misery upon their house. An accident, they said. A terrible misjudgement of time that found him left out during the storm until his boat capsized and the ocean swallowed him whole, returning only broken bones back to the shore. Little did they know that the wrath of the tempest had come in the shape of the young man now kissing his brother and sister and mother goodbye, leaving a harbor that had never been safe for his troubled mind.

IX. Thunder, lightning, crashing waves. The sickening crunch of wood and bones intermingling with cries and dying breath while treasured crewmates were pulled under. Here, the first mate, trying in vain to steer the ship to safety while the captain clutched at the railing, legs smashed by ship parts come loose in the tempest. There, the pretty ship-boy he had kissed just the night before, impaled on the splinters of a broken mast, blood washed away before it could settle on his shattered chest. He wanted to mourn, but the sea seized him violently, pulling him overboard like a giant throwing a puppet through the air. The darkness swallowed him, and he closed his eyes, awaiting judgement.

X. Light washing over his skin, waking him from deep slumber on an unfamiliar shore. Trembling fingers searching for the terrible truth but finding only hale bones and skin and hair matted with brine. No blood. Just bruises the color of the night sky, covering his body like a dark sheet. He sat up and saw a rocky beach, and beyond it, a heath stretching to the horizon. Gravel crunched under his feet as he walked towards it, leaving behind wreckage and pain and a love turned to ashes before it could be truly enkindled.

XI. A new life in the monastery, devoting himself completely to the goddess that rescued him. She was a harsh mistress, but not uncaring; her voice a soothing song at night when the memories became too much to bear. The death of his crew, and his past, and everything he had thought well and truly his turned into a price he paid willingly for her good graces. He learned to fight and to kill, to call upon the waves and wield lightning like a spear. When he left, she was with him, guiding his every step; murmuring promises of a greater destiny whenever doubt snuck into his mind like a thief.

XII. He sits at the water’s edge, tracing patterns in the sand while her voice calls him from beneath the waves. Do not mourn the life you left behind, my champion. I chose you from the dead to rise from troubled waters, to be my hand in the realms beyond the shore. We still have so much more to do until you reach your destiny. He closes his eyes, breathing out a command, and lightning heeds his call, streaking from the sky into his waiting fingers. Ready when you are, my lady. The sea churns, and he grins. Let the past rest beneath the waters; he has a lady to please.

[infragalaxia]

Stormblessed

I. Memories. He has never been fond of them, the way they crawl under his skin, haunting him, invisible but there, right within his bloodflow, passing through every inch of his body and his heart, ripping, until all he could taste is the bitter iron of despair. It makes him hurt in ways never known; the longing for all the things he had lost, or rather, let himself lose. Precious cargo at the bottom of the sea.

II. But sitting on the shore, moon alight on the waves in silver crests, wind in his face with the rage of dying summer, he can not help but pull at the scars, pull them open until he’s bleeding with wonder: Has he chosen wisely? Or is he just a sailor abandoning course at the siren’s call, never realizing his mistake until it is far too late? His shadow is deep crimson at his heels, dripping with the evidence of sins he could not scrub off no matter how much he scrubbed with brine and trembling fingers. It spews forth images, a steady haunting, his own personal hell; acts of a life far away from salvation.

III. The old boat, moored to the pier beside the house, a spiderweb of knots and rope tangled around its single mast. Autumn seized the gulf with rusty fingers, decaying breath giving rise to waves more cruel than usual. It was like Umberlee herself rose from the depths to touch briny fingers to the dark bellies of stormclouds. The view had a strange beauty, he had found, longing rolling through his chest like thunder, leaving aftershocks in his heart that no prayer could soothe. He wished she would take him with her, down, down, until light and life seemed like distant memories.

IV. Smoke rose from the chimney, mingling with mist around a hut of dark woodblocks. Bright yellow leaves twirled in the wind, scent of stew and herbs overpowering the stench of drying fish and salt. Mother sat on the porch, in grandma’s old rocking chair, dark orange wool falling over her knees like a mantle while needles clicked with the tremble of her fingers. It’s the brine, the healer had said; as if there was another home for people like them, born from salt and misery and the dark light on the horizon just before a stormwall hit. The bruise on Mother’s cheek bore that same color, a sharp contrast to the ashen hue of her skin. He found himself wondering if death would finally erase it from her skin, and shuddered. Had he just invited the darkness into their house? But Mother smiled, and the chill faded, and for a moment, everything was alright.

V. He stared at the lightning as it came crashing into their house, and brought with it a fist of iron and a voice like violent waves. Mother’s cries were a siren song outlining the thunder in bitter blue; darkness swallowing her light as if pulled beneath the waters. Blood sizzled in the fireplace, shrinking the flames for a moment before stoking them ever higher. Just like the waves outside the window; just like Father’s rage when it painted the walls bright with red, leaving nothing but destruction in its wake. He caught Mother’s pleading stare, seaglass eyes searching their like, and turned away. Like a single sandbag against the flood, he could not save the world from drowning. So why even try?

VI. Weeks spent at sea. The crashing of waves, the cries of seagulls, the distant shimmer of a lighthouse. Salt and Kelp adorning vessel and sailor alike, the unsettling art of nature untamed. Never did freedom live in his heart like this before, nor would it ever again; he could taste it in the winds, see it in the shape of the clouds and the dance of fish beneath the waves. The city and its wonders fixed what it could, but even the gentlest lover’s touch could not heal old scars, nor prevent the skin from tearing again. Returning home would always come at the price of trauma repeating itself like the tides, burrowing ever deeper.

VII. He found the weather changed when he came back. Mother was not sitting on the porch anymore, her wool scattered to the winds, her needles broken, grandma’s rocking chair smashed against the stair like driftwood swept in by the sea. Low ceiling, small windows, chimney dark with smoke – familiar sights turned into nightmares within a single heartbeat. Mother begged him to let it go, to not ruin what she had preserved so painstakingly at the cost of her own life, and for a moment he thought he could conquer the storm within his heart. But then the fire illuminated his brother’s twisted shape, his sister’s hand tainted by grey scales, and he could not see past the anger coloring his vision red. If he could not be the sandbag, he would become the waves, cleansing the world from those who would challenge them with force unfathomed like the depths of the sea.

VIII. They searched high and low on the beach, poking through driftwood and kelp and fish too slow to escape back into the sea before the ebb took hold. Eventually they found their quarry: A body blue from cold, mangled and twisted, missing the hands that had wrought so much misery upon their house. An accident, they said. A terrible misjudgement of time that found him left out during the storm until his boat capsized and the ocean swallowed him whole, returning only broken bones back to the shore. Little did they know that the wrath of the tempest had come in the shape of the young man now kissing his sister and mother goodbye, leaving a harbor that had never been safe for his troubled mind.

IX. Thunder, lightning, crashing waves. The sickening crunch of wood and bones intermingling with cries and dying breath while treasured crewmates were pulled under. Here, the first mate, trying in vain to steer the ship to safety while the captain clutches at the railing, legs smashed by ship parts come loose in the tempest. There, the pretty ship-boy he had kissed just the night before, impaled on the splinters of a broken mast, blood washed away before it could settle on his shattered chest. He wanted to mourn, but the sea seized him violently, pulling him overboard like a giant throwing a puppet through the air. The darkness swallowed him, and he closed his eyes, awaiting judgement.

X. Light washing over his skin, waking him from deep slumber on an unfamiliar shore. Trembling fingers searching for the terrible truth but finding only hale bones and skin and hair matted with brine. No blood. Just bruises the color of the night sky, covering his body like a dark sheet. He sat up and saw a rocky beach, and beyond it, a heath stretching to the horizon. Gravel crunched under his feet as he walked towards it, leaving behind wreckage and pain and a love turned to ashes before it could be truly enkindled.

XI. A new life in the monastery, devoting himself completely to the goddess that rescued him. She was a harsh mistress, but not uncaring; her voice a soothing song at night when the memories became too much to bear. The death of his crew, and his past, and everything he had thought well and truly his turned into a price he paid willingly for her good graces. He learned to fight and to kill, to call upon the waves and wield lightning like a spear. When he left, she was with him, guiding his every step; murmuring promises of a greater destiny whenever doubt snuck into his mind like a thief.

XII. He sits at the water’s edge, tracing patterns in the sand while her voice called him from beneath the waves. Do not mourn the life you left behind, my champion. I chose you from the dead to rise from troubled waters, to be my hand in the realms beyond the shore. We still have so much more to do until you reach your destiny. He closes his eyes, breathing out a command, and lightning heeds his call, streaking from the sky into his waiting fingers. Ready when you are, my lady. The sea churns, and he grins. Let the past rest beneath the waters; he has a lady to please.

[nonameinanytongue]

The Flower & the Serpent: The Violent Women of Game of Thrones

“Here's the smell of the blood still: all the perfumes of Arabia will not sweeten this little hand. Oh, oh, oh!”

-Lady Macbeth, Macbeth, Act V, Scene I

DC’s Wonder Woman opened this summer to critical acclaim. Pop culture outlets made much of its empowered protagonist and progressive themes, lauding everything from its feminist fight scenes to Wonder Woman’s thigh jiggle. In approaching the first superhero flick of the modern big-budget tentpole era both helmed by and starring a woman with such intense and specific scrutiny, much is overlooked and more repurposed to suit a flexible, almost reactive set of ideals held by fans and critics alike. If a woman does something in art that shows her to be powerful, it is interpreted as inherently feminist no matter its context in the work of art or the world beyond.

Perhaps in a world where women, homosexuals, and transsexuals lobby vigorously for the right to serve in active combat zones a conflation of ability to do violence and the possession of feminist power is understandable. Surely there are many women who, for reasons understandable or awful, crave invincible bodies and the power and grace to crush the people who hurt them. Many more are happy to acclaim any media in which a woman emerges victorious as another mile marker driven into the roadside on the highway of equality. Especially beloved are movies, shows, comics, and novels in which such victories are portrayed as straightforwardly virtuous and good. 

Think of Sansa Stark condemning her rapist and tormentor, Ramsay Bolton, to a grisly death at the jaws of his own hounds. How many fans and critics expressed unbridled joy at that, as though Sansa had won some kind of symbolic victory for all women? Her sister Arya’s rampage, which has taken her across the Narrow Sea and back again and claimed the lives of dozens, has likewise been applauded as a meaningful triumph in the way we tell women’s stories. For the record, I think both of these plots are intensely compelling and reveal volumes both about the characters themselves and the world they inhabit. Game of Thrones is a show nearly singular in its refusal to make violence joyous or cathartic, no matter the whoops and cheers of many of its fans.

Still, no matter how many times the show delivers searing anti-war images or explores the corrosive influence of violence on those who commit it, viewers remain hungry for the spectacle of women overpowering their enemies and turning back on them the weapons of their own oppression. In a culture where Redpill misogynists hold elected office and our president is a serial rapist, a desire to see women take power with a dash of fire and blood feels all too understandable, but celebrating the destruction of their personalities and lives is a reductive way to understand their stories.

In order to understand what Game of Thrones has to say about violent women, it’s necessary to set aside the thrill that seeing them materially ascendant brings and focus on the images, words, and larger context of the show’s particular examples. Where films like Wonder Woman thrive by repurposing a complex and horrifying conflict (World War I in the first film, the Cold War in the upcoming second) into a heroic battle between good and evil, Game of Thrones, rooted in a genre where conflict is often artificially cleansed of moral ambiguity through devices like entire species of evil-doers, makes no attempt to sand the edges off of its depictions of war or violence. 

Nearly every woman on the show, with the possible exceptions of Gilly and Myrcella, are directly involved in war, torture, and many other forms of brutality. From Catelyn and Lysa’s ugly mess of a trial for Tyrion, an act they surely must have known would cost many smallfolk their lives once Tywin Lannister caught wind of it, to Ygritte fighting to save her people by sticking the innocent farmers in the shadow of the Wall full of arrows, the actions of women with power both physical and political are shown to bear fruit just as ugly as any their husbands, sons, and brothers can cultivate. There’s an uncomfortable truth lurking there, an admission that some modes of action and ways of being may not intersect meaningfully with many of modern feminism’s tenets.

In this essay I will dissect scenes and story to illustrate the show’s deeply antipathetic stance on violence and the ways in which it is misunderstood both by those who enjoy the show and by those who detest it or object to it.

I. ARYA

If a man is getting his eyes stabbed out by a child he intended to beat and rape, does the child’s gender matter when determining what the scene is meant to convey? Is it somehow triumphant for a girl to do that to another living person, no matter how repugnant he might be? Isn’t it possible that what the scene communicates is not that Arya’s slow transformation into a butcher with scant regard for human life is something we ought to cheer for but that the fact she couldn’t survive in Westeros or Essos as anything else, much less as a little girl, is deeply sad?

Arya’s crimes nearly always echo those of her tormentors. Think of the first person she kills, a stable boy, not so different in age or appearance from her erstwhile playmate, Mycah, who was slaughtered by the Hound a bare few months before. Or else consider Polliver, the Lannister soldier who murdered her friend Lommy and whose own mocking words she spits back at him as she plunges her sword up through his jaw. More recently, her wholesale slaughter of House Frey recalls with a visual exactitude which can be nothing but intentional the massacre of her own family and their allies at the Red Wedding. In this last instance she literally dons their murderer’s skin in order to exact her revenge, pressing Walder Frey’s face against her own in an act that feels uncomfortably more like embodiment than disguise.

Arya’s long journey through peril and terror has hardened her, but there’s little reason to rejoice in her hard-won powers of stealth and bloodletting. Who, after all, does she resemble with her obsession over old scores and her penchant for cruelly ironic punishments if not the subject of this essay’s next section.

II. CERSEI

Cersei Lannister,  is distinguished from a hundred other interchangeable evil queens by the attention devoted to her own suffering. Sold by her father to a man who beat and raped her, denied the glory heaped on her twin by sole dint of her gender, humiliated and terrorized by the despicable son whose monstrosity she nurtured, and finally stripped, shaven, and marched barefoot through jeering crowds after being tortured for weeks or months in the dungeons of the church she armed and enabled, Cersei’s brutality serves only to deepen her misery and isolation.  

The aforementioned tyranny of the High Sparrow she put in power, the murder of her monstrous son by her political rivals after she groomed him to be the beast he was, her conflicted and good-hearted younger son’s suicide after his mother’s revenge on the High Sparrow and the Tyrells broke his spirit; Cersei’s litany of victories reads a lot like a list of agonizing losses when you look at it sidelong. Certainly her grasping, vindictive reign has brought her no joy. It’s true that audiences are expected to see Cersei as a horrible human being, which she is, but the time the show spends on giving viewers a chance to empathize with this badly damaged person trying to throttle happiness and security out of a recalcitrant world argues for a more complex interpretation of her character. Watching her need to dominate rip her family and sanity apart, ushering all three of her children into early graves, transforms her from a straightforward villain to a troubled and tragic figure.

III. DAENERYS

Sold into slavery after a life on the run with her unstable and abusive brother and raped on her wedding night by a foreign warlord, Daenerys’s relationship to violence after her ascent to power is complex and heavily ideological. Her crusade to end slavery, motivated as much or more by strength of character and an innate sense of justice than it is by personal suffering and an impulse toward vengeance, has engendered sweeping changes throughout Essos, but at times it has taken on shades of the ostentatiously symbolic punishments for which her family name is famous. The crucifixion of the Masters is a particularly gratuitous example as Daenerys allows her desire to change the world and her need to feel good about the justice she doles out combine to produce a dreadful and inhumane outcome.

This act of performative brutality finds its echo in the rogue execution of a Son of the Harpy, imprisoned and awaiting trial, by Daenerys’s fervent supporter Mossador. Dany may claim that she is not above the law when Mossador confronts her, but when butchery without trial suited her she was quick to embrace it. Her case is uniquely complicated by her enemy: the slavers. Nothing excuses violence like a civilization of rapists and flesh-peddlers beating and maiming their human chattel onscreen, and there is powerful catharsis in seeing their corrupt works shredded and their hateful and exploitative lives snuffed out, but in making them suffer and in choosing the easy way out through orgiastic episodes of violence, Dany betrays her own unwillingness to do the hard work of reform. In many ways, her long stay in Meereen functions as the tragic story of her decision to embrace the grandiose violence her ancestors partook of so freely. We may feel good watching her triumph over evil, but we’re reminded frequently of the horrors and miseries of her reign.

IV. BRIENNE

Brienne’s pursuit of knighthood and adherence to its practices and code is no warrior-girl fantasy about a scabby-kneed tomboy learning to swordfight. Trapped in a body unsuited to courtly life, mocked by suitors and competitors alike, and yearning for the right to live by the sword as men do, Brienne finds challenging refuge in a way of life intimately associated with violent acts. From her butchery of the guards in Renly’s tent to her honor-bound execution of her one-time king’s brother in a snowy forest, Brienne’s path has frequently led her into mortal conflict.

At the climax of Wonder Woman, Diana kills a super-powered caricature of historical figure General Erich Ludendorff, a character who seems to exist solely to uncomplicate the moral landscape of World War I. A few minutes later she kills the man behind the man, her divine uncle Ares, and breaks his grasp on the people of war-torn Europe. The presentation of the act of killing as a triumph for human morality strips away much of what violent media can offer. Contrast Brienne’s desperate fight with three Stark soldiers as she attempts to spirit Jaime Lannister to safety on Catelyn’s orders. Screaming with every blow and leaving her opponents hacked to pieces, Brienne succeeds in her mission at an obvious human cost. Men, despicable men but men nonetheless, are dead. She and Catelyn are now in open rebellion against Robb’s authority. 

To kill is to sever a life and give birth to a living, growing tree of consequences. To explore it instead as a tidy way to resolve problems and make the world a better place is to misrepresent its essential nature. You can’t improve the world through butchery. You can’t heal by harming. What violence in media is meant to teach us is a capacity for empathy, a reflexive understanding that all people are as fully and completely human as ourselves. Loathsome or virtuous, kind or cruel, no human suffering should be a comfortable or affirming thing to witness. (The Republican Party’s elected officials and pundit corps certainly makes a strong case for an exception to this rule).

One might charitably assume that lionization of violent women and their specific acts of violence stems from a place of vulnerability, a desire to balance the scales and erase the danger and aggression with which almost all women must live on a daily basis. I would argue that while this may hold true in part, a deeper truth is that many people have not been taught to feel pain for others in a way that allows for true emotional vulnerability or complex feelings about morally ugly and confusing actions. It’s easier to cheer when the guy we hate gets his than it is feel sorrow for the former innocent who dished out justice, or empathy for the deceased whose life must surely have held its own miseries and secret hurts. 

Audiences would be well-served by taking a moment to step back from their reactions to violence in media and attempting to interpret what message the art is trying to convey. Is the violence slickly produced and bloodless, a parade of cool moments and heroic victories? Or is it focused on the humanity of victims and perpetrators and the cost of their actions? What is the camera telling us? The colors? The editing? Are we meant to agree with King Theoden’s speech about the glories of war in Return of the King when the very next cut brings us into the hellish, pointless confusion of the taking of Osgiliath? Are we meant to be happy when Sansa smiles at Ramsay’s death when the very last thing he told her was that she would carry him, his essence, with her forever? 

The most transcendent joy art brings is the opportunity to reach out of your own beliefs and feelings and into someone else’s dreaming mind, to parse the language of symbols and ideas with which they have addressed the world and make in the negative space between your consciousness and theirs a new understanding. Learn to relish the complex and sometimes hideous nature of humanity over the easy thrills and cheap moral lessons of crowd-pleasers made by billionaires. Understand that art that makes you uncomfortable could be helping you grow. 

A woman’s actions are not laudable just because she’s a woman, or just because she’s been wronged. In our rush to associate the violent triumph of women over the men who’ve hurt them with personal strength, healing, justice, and praiseworthiness we ignore what shows like Game of Thrones are saying in favor of what we want to hear. Violence should never be easy, and violence that assures us, or that we think assures us we’re good and rooting for the right people should always be suspect. 

In labeling anything that pleases us, that satisfies our own hunger for justice and supremacy “feminist,” we forget that feminism is first and foremost an attempt to remake the world. The structure of things as they are is brutish and oppressive, and to cry tears of joy as women, even fictional women, fall prey to the allure of those same structures is to fundamentally misunderstand the point of a life-or-death struggle in which at this moment in history we are perilously engaged. As assaults on our tattered reproductive rights continue, as women struggling with addiction, illness, and homelessness are thrown into prison en masse, as our political leaders openly contemplate sentencing the most vulnerable among us to death in order to pay off the corporate elite and the Left (justifiably, in my opinion) contemplates and utilizes resistance through force on a scale unheard of in this millennium in our country’s history, learning to see violence for what it is has become more imperative than ever before.

[khaleesi-in-the-north]

In the Crosshairs (28/?)

@theluthor

When she wakes the next morning, their hands were still laced together. Margaery flexes her hand and watches Alayne’s twitch beneath it. She sits up slowly to not wake the woman beside her. She grabs her phone off the nightstand and quietly leaves, closing the door behind her.

                    She’s only going to check the news, but a text message caught her eye. Other than her grandmother, she hadn’t used the phone to contact anyone. It was supposed to be untraceable.

                    She opens the text downstairs. “Little Rose, I was overjoyed to hear you had found safety amongst the sands of Dorne and have now returned to the flower bed. As promised, I have kept my nose to the ground on learning what I can of our Queen Bee. My little birds have told me that she shall be making a surprise visit to High Garden by the end of the week on her return from Sunspear. Your Grandmother has this message awaiting her as well. – The Spider.”

                    She shakes her head as she opens the backdoor and stepped outside. The man was a wonder. All of Westeros probably thought she was dead by now, and he’s figured out her phone number.

                    Before she can dwell on the thought too long, Lady jumps on her. Margaery manages to hold on to her phone, but barely.

                    “Down girl,” she commands.

                    Lady sits, panting and wagging her tail. Her back has dried flower pedals all over it. Margaery turns to her grandmother’s flower bed. The flowers are flat and crushed. “You have a death wish.”

                    Margaery gets down to the ground. Lady takes it as permission to lick her face all over. In a way it was. She pushed the dog down, but scratched behind her ears. Lady’s tail wagged faster. Margaery scratched down to her back and Lady laid down at her side, thrilled to have her attention once more.

                    “That’s a good girl,” Margaery murmurs. Lady settles down. She rolls on to her back, massive hindlegs dangling in the air. Again, Margaery pets her. “I’ve missed you too.”

                    The morning is bright and the birds tweet high form their perches. It’s the right place to think.

                    Obara’s words replay in her mind. “Don’t fall for her lies again.” What were the lies? After last night she could no longer tell herself Sansa didn’t care. Her confession felt like a load off her chest. She didn’t have to keep it to herself anymore. Still, after all the bullshit she put Margaery through for her job and keeping secrets, only to be keeping the world’s biggest secret for a year was something she couldn’t bring herself to forgive. She didn’t want to forgive. The wall was crumbling though. She could feel it.

                    There was no rectifying it, but perhaps she could make herself a bunker. Let Sansa in without letting her have the capacity to hurt her again. She would never let herself love anyone the way she loved Alayne. That only led heartbreak. She couldn’t put herself through that again.

                    “Beauty tamed the beast,” Obara smirks and sits down beside her.

                    Margaery moves her hand over so Obara can pet Lady as well. “She’s not so bad when she’s in a good mood.”

                    “Are you talking about Stark or her bitch?” Obara asks.

                    “Both,” Margaery pats Lady’s stomach. She looks at Obara. She’s wearing a sports bra and shorts, with a water bottle in hand and a mat by her side. “Early morning workout?”

                    “Yes. If you still wanted to go on a run we could. I just wanted to do some core training this morning. Rid myself of some frustration.” Obara gulps down some water.

                    “No thanks. Today is my off day,” Margaery says.

                    “How did things go with Stark last night?”

                    Margaery shrugs. “We talked.”

                    “About?”

                    “The mafia. Renly.”

                    “You didn’t trust her did you?” Obara brushes a strand of blonde hair from Margaery’s eyes, though Margaery looks at the ground.  

                    Margaery doesn’t answer. She doesn’t know what she trusts.

                    “Oh, Margaery,” Obara sighs. “The Starks are cold and rigid. No passion. For all their talk of honor, would an honorable woman lie to you about who she was and what she wanted for so long? Look into those lifeless eyes and you can’t tell the lie because she’s so used to lying.”

                    Margaery cocks her head. “And you are passionate and honest and forward?”

                    Obara laughs. “You said it. I assume you know the rescue mission will be going soon? I have some packing to do then.” She kisses Margaery’s cheek and draws a little spear on the side of her neck with her finger nail. “Whenever you’re ready, Tyrell, just say the word.”

                    She pushes herself up and flashes Margaery a smile. Margaery looks back to see her go and Ygritte come out. Ygritte looks at Obara as she walks past. She makes her way to Margaery and sits. Lady licks her hand before nuzzling her head into Margaery’s lap.

                    “You think those are real abs? Is it possible to get an ab implant?” Ygritte asks.

                    “Have you seen her running with us the last week. Those are real.”

                    “They’re better than Jon’s. Do you know how defined that boy’s abs are?”

                    “Yes. I’ve seen them on multiple occasions because you don’t take “get a room” literally.”

                    “Gosh, Marge, that’s only happened like five times,” Ygritte exaggerates her voice to sound like a preppy teen. They giggle at the ridiculousness of it.

                    They get up and go back to the house. “Jon said he and Obara are leaving today,” Ygritte mentions.

                    “Obara just told me. Loras is coming home.”

                    Ygritte opens the back door. Margaery shuts it behind her. She feels bad for leaving Lady, but the dog is muddy and bringing her inside will mean not only the dog’s death, but quite possibly hers as well. Lady puts up a good fight, deflating her ears and whimpering in an attempt to guilt Margaery into letting her in. Not this time.

                    “Jon knows nothing. I’m glad he’s going with someone who at least has a brain,” Ygritte mutters.

                    “He figured out your disguise,” They go to the kitchen and start a pot of coffee.

                    “Took him an hour of staring at me to figure it out. I’m glad Quentyn’s not going though. That could have been awkward,” Ygritte leans against the counter. Her shoulders are tense and not relaxed like they used to be. She’s worried.

                    “He’ll be safe. According to him, he’s done a lot more dangerous things than this,” Margaery offers her comfort.

                    Ygritte half-heartedly shrugs. “Yeah. We just figured things out and he’s running off again. I should be with him, not stuck here.”

                    Margaery rests her palms against the edge and decides to divert the conversation. “How are you guys getting along?”

                    “Better. Old gods help me, but I love the bastard. We’ve been talking.”

                    “You’ve been talking? That must be a first,” Margaery huffs a laugh. “Before or after he ate you out.”

                    “After. It was glorious. Still bristles me that he had to fucking lie about it all. Even more so that he cut his damn hair. But I forgive him. I can’t hate him for circumstances beyond his control.” Ygritte pours her coffee and adds a shot of espresso. “Bastard lies to me again though, I’m wearing his cock as a necklace.”

                    “I’ll be there to hold him down for you,” Margaery poured her own cup. They toast and drink.

                    “So you and Alayne…”

                    The coffee mug covers Ygritte’s face as she gulps it down, hiding her from Margaery’s glare.

                    “It’s complicated,” Margaery says.

                    As if she was a genie summoned by her mistress, Alayne enters the kitchen. In one hand she carries a fabric of some sort with pins and needles sticking out of it. Margaery can hardly remember the last time she saw Alayne sew. A warm smile crosses Alayne’s face. “There you are.” She sits down beside Margaery. She sets aside her sewing materials and covers Margaery’s hands with her own. “I was hoping we could talk a bit more. There are some things I want to tell you. Maybe go on a walk through the gardens or take a ride to some overlook. I bet it the view would be gorgeous.”

                    Ygritte quietly excuses herself, giving Margaery as much privacy as she’s likely to get in this house.

                    “Yeah we should,” Margaery says brightly, but curtly.

                    Sansa sits down across the table from Margaery, directly in her line of sight. She smiles softly.

                    Margaery looks at her coffee mug, then back to Sansa. All the hope in her eyes almost breaks her heart, but she won’t let this woman break her heart again. It’s not fair for either of them. “We promised each other honesty right? So here’s me being honest. Sansa, last night was… it doesn’t change things between us.”

                    Sansa refuses to break her smile. “It did. You opened to me. I’m not going to pretend things are the way they are before, but things are changing, progressing. I still love you. That won’t change. I’m going to earn your love back.”

                    “What if you can’t?” Margaery finishes her coffee and gets up.

                    Sansa goes around the table to Margaery. She’s intrusively close. “You loved me. You still do, even if you’re too angry to realize it right now. Which you have every right to be angry, but…Margaery. I don’t know what else I can do. I have nothing left to apologize for.”

                    “I loved Alayne. Sansa Stark…” terrifies me, she’s about to say, but doesn’t. Even honesty has its limits, so she thinks of an alternative truth. Her feelings and what others know of them are some of the few things she still has control over in her life. “Sansa Stark isn’t Alayne.”

                    Not wanting to acknowledge the desperation on Sansa’s face, Margaery drops off her mug in the sink and mutters and apology to Oberyn when he says good morning as she brushes past him.

                    In the shower, her thoughts flow. Renly, Cersei, Alayne, Obara, Sansa, the article, Loras, her grandmother, Garlan. They all run together. It’s on her to keep it in order and sort it out. It’s her mess and she has to fix it.

                    She’s always been a creature of order. So she puts them in order. What can be solved now, what can wait. By the time she gets out of the shower, she has a plan. It begins with finishing her article. It’s nearly done as is, but it’s missing that spark that will turn it from an intrigue piece to breaking news that will find its way to every major news outlet from the bloody Red Watch to Westeros Daily to the Westerosi News Newtwork. Hours spent going over her notes and interviews turn up nothing of value.

                    As she works on her article, the others came in and out. Ygritte mentions that Jon and Obara have been locked in meetings with Sansa, Oberyn and Olenna all day, likely finalizing plans for saving rescuing Loras. Let out of the primary scheme, the rest of the Viper’s clan, Karstark, and Ygritte are left with little to do other than find ways to entertain themselves. Karstark, for his part, retells valiant tales of working in the Stark Mafia. His near death experiences and glories of climbing through the mafia ranks impress no one. Eventually, they all scatter, letting Margaery finish her work in peace.

                    As Margaery packs away her things, Quentyn comes in. “We are saying our goodbyes now, if you would like to join us.”

                    “I’ll be there momentarily.” She follows after him.

                    They’re all gathered around the front door as if wishing farewell to beloved cousings rather than strangers forced together in a bizarre scheme of events. Sansa hugs Jon as Ygritte bickers by his side. Obara is talking with her sisters. She’s not much of a hugger. The most affection Margaery observes is a pat on the shoulder. Olenna interrupts them and whispers something to Obara, who nods in acknowledgement.

                    Margaery isn’t sure whom to go to first, so she stands back in between the two. She nearly jumps when she feels a furry head nuzzle against her hand. She hadn’t expected her grandmother to ever let Lady back in the house after this morning. Apparently she was more forgiving than usual. Or she didn’t know about her crushed daffodils.

                    Jon approaches to scratch Lady’s head. “You be a good girl and watch over Sansa.” He smiles at Margaery. “Both of you.”

                    “She’s a big girl. She can take care of herself,” Margaery mutters.

                    Jon awkwardly pulls her into a hug and grumbles, “Doesn’t mean an extra pair of eyes will hurt. She’s got a lot stressing her out with the mafia right now and could use a shoulder to lean on.”

                    Ice melts under heat and pressure. Perhaps someone forgot to mention that to “Ms. Stone-Cold.”

                    “Get my brother back. Be safe,” is all she says.

                    Ygritte grabs his arm and wraps her arms around his neck. “Don’t do anything stupid, Snow. I don’t want to have to hunt down some prick cause you can’t take care of yourself.”

                    “I’ll let Obara do the thinking for both of us, okay?” he grins.

                    Ygritte pulls his head down and presses her forehead against his. “Being with you has made me soft.”

                    “That’s just what love does, I suppose,” Jon kisses her. Ygritte holds him tight. Her emotions are raw and vulnerable, on display for everyone to scrutinize rather than hidden under a mask of sarcasm and defiance.

                    Margaery is so caught up in the spectacle of her friend that she doesn’t notice Obara at her side. “Any words of advice?”

                    In her brown jacket, low boots and pulled up hair, Obara looks less like she’s going on a mission to break a man out of jail and more like she’s on a night out with friends.

                    “Invest in a winter jacket. Dorne makes King’s Landing look like Winterfell.”

                    “And what does it make Winterfell look like?”

                    “A glacier of eternal snow,” Margaery quips.

                    Obara laughs and steps closer. “Good to know. Don’t worry about Loras. He’ll be back without a hair harmed. I can’t say that’ll be true for anyone who gets in our way.”

                    “Thank you,” Margaery says. “Truly, thank you. I don’t know if I can ever repay you.”

                    “I don’t require repayment,” Obara murmurs.

                    Suddenly she’s closer than Margaery realized. She cradles Margaery’s cheeks and pulls her forward for a kiss. It’s short and rough, but leaves Margaery’s head spinning from the shock. The salty sweetness of her lips lingers on Margaery’s mouth as she tries to map out what had just happened.

                    “One for the road,” Obara winks. She gives Margaery one last hug, mutters a half-hearted good bye to Alayne, who looks as though she’s using all of her self-control to not punch a hole into Obara’s chest, and she follows Jon out the door.

                    As everyone is about to depart in their own directions, Olenna snaps her fingers. “While I’ve got you all here, I have some news. My Spider appears to have caught a few flies in your water gardens Oberyn. Cersei Lannister is on her way here.”

                    “Is that not important information for them to hear? I’m pretty sure both Jon and Obara would be pretty interested to know that the whole reason for this crap will be sitting in you living room in two days,” Ygritte gestures toward the door.

                    “And have them distracted? This far south, the bitch is clawless. Their concern is Loras.” Olenna iterates.

                    “Spider? As in the Spider? Varys?” Sansa tilts her head.

                    “No, dear girl, I meant my pet spider Octavius who lives in Dorne. For such an intelligent girl, you can be quite stupid.” Olenna rolls her eyes.

                    “Ain’t that the guy Baelish loathes?” Karstark asks.

                    “He can’t be trusted,” Sansa hardens her glare. “He’s a liar.”

                    “Excuse me, girl. I don’t care for the man much myself. He has his secrets as we all have ours. But he has never lied to me in decades of work together. Nor has he lied to Margaery in the course of her work, as far as I’ve been told. Tell me, what did he lie to you about?”

                    It was true. Of all her sources, even documents, there was nothing she trusted more than the words of Varys. He had a heart for fairness and justice. He was almost completely objective in his pursuits to help the country.

                    Sansa shuffles. “Well, I’ve never spoken with him, but-”

                    “A mafia leader whom has never spoken with Varys. Poor girl, you don’t know the fun you’ve missed. When you learn the things he’s learned…” Oberyn sighs. “Why do you not trust a man you’ve never met? It’s almost as dangerous as trusting a man you have met.”

                    “Petyr has delt with him before,” Sansa held, chin high.

                    Olenna laughs. “Should Petyr be here then, making decisions for you? Regardless we are not in a state to reject notice that the woman we are trying to take down will soon presume herself a guest in my home.”

                    “Grandmother, let her be. She’s wise to listen to council of others where she has no experience herself. A mark of leadership,” Margaery finds herself defending Sansa.

                    Sansa’s eyes snap to her, confused yet pleased to have Margaery’s support. Tyene and Oberyn nod in agreement.

                    “Wise words of your own, Ms. Tyrell. Please make yourself available next time our little parties have a meeting. Nevertheless, Varys is a man worthy of trust. So we must prepare for Cersei.”

                    “In the morning. It will be at least two days. That was all. You may all get back to your drinking games or whatever it is the youth does these days. And if anyone touches my last bottle of Arbor Gold, there will be hell to pay.” Olenna excuses herself as briskly as she can nowadays.

                    “That old woman is my hero,” Ygritte whispers.

                    “Mine as well,” Tyene agrees.

                    She’d always been Margaery’s. Mothers tended to be young girls’s heroines, but Margaery had always been drawn to her grandmother. The preference never seemed to both her mother.

                    Rather than focus on her grandmother, Margaery goes after Alayne, who had scattered as soon as Olenna had excused them.

                    She’d expected Obara make her move. But not in front of Alayne.

                    The kiss itself had been what Margaery expected from the woman. Passionate, confident, rough on the edges, but leaving her wanting more.

                    The message behind it was clear. The kiss was less for her and more for Sansa, to show that Obara was staking her claim before leaving. She had no right to any claims. Because the first thought through Margaery’s head wasn’t “that was a great kiss” but “where is Alayne?”.    

                    She checks room after room before coming across her in Jon’s room with a needle and thread and some sort of cloth in hand. Lady lays by her side and perks up when Margaery enters the room. Sansa doesn’t look up as Margaery slides down to the floor next to her.

                    “How is your sister?”

                     “Fine,” Sansa says without looking up.

                    “And your adviser? Did Petyr say how they are doing?”

                    “Brienne is doing better,” she says curtly.

                    They sit together in silence. She’s not sure what how to seg into it. Eventually Margaery utters, “I didn’t kiss her back.”

                    She continues sewing. “I know.”

                    “She was trying to provoke you.”

                    “I know.” She stops sewing. There’s an edge of frustration in her voice. “Is it because of her? Is she why you won’t give me a chance?”

                    Margaery drops her head down. “No. “

                    “Then why? Why can’t you let me in?”

                    This close, Margaery can see the spots of red bleeding through the black dye in her, despite the braid. The tattoo under her shirt peaks out from the collar. Sansa scoots closer, invading Margaery’s space.

                    She could run, but she doesn’t. She told her she’d have honesty.

                    “You terrify me,” she whispers.

                    “There’s nothing to be afraid of. I’m the same woman you’ve always known,” Sansa assures her, exasperated. She takes her hands and rub circles over her knuckles.

                    “I knew Alayne Stone. Sansa Stark took her from me. She was everything to me. Do you realize how cruel that is?” Margaery asks, close to tears. “You’re asking me to set that all aside and pretend that this was what I wanted all along. I’m not made of rubber. I can’t bend and twist to all your revelations.”

                    “Let me explain, Margaery. I know it hurts. I never wanted to hurt you. We’re the same though. I am still Alayne.” She pleads. “Every day I wanted to tell you. Watching you dance around Cersei’s grasp nearly killed me. After everything she did to me, I couldn’t let her-”

Margaery stops her. “Not now. We’ll talk under my terms when I’m ready,” she swears. She pulls her hand away from Sansa’s grasp.

[libraryofvenus]

Four Quartets: Little Gidding - T.S. Eliot

I

Midwinter spring is its own season Sempiternal though sodden towards sundown, Suspended in time, between pole and tropic. When the short day is brightest, with frost and fire, The brief sun flames the ice, on pond and ditches, In windless cold that is the heart's heat, Reflecting in a watery mirror A glare that is blindness in the early afternoon. And glow more intense than blaze of branch, or brazier, Stirs the dumb spirit: no wind, but pentecostal fire In the dark time of the year. Between melting and freezing The soul's sap quivers. There is no earth smell Or smell of living thing. This is the spring time But not in time's covenant. Now the hedgerow Is blanched for an hour with transitory blossom Of snow, a bloom more sudden Than that of summer, neither budding nor fading, Not in the scheme of generation. Where is the summer, the unimaginable Zero summer?

             If you came this way, Taking the route you would be likely to take From the place you would be likely to come from, If you came this way in may time, you would find the hedges White again, in May, with voluptuary sweetness. It would be the same at the end of the journey, If you came at night like a broken king, If you came by day not knowing what you came for, It would be the same, when you leave the rough road And turn behind the pig-sty to the dull facade And the tombstone. And what you thought you came for Is only a shell, a husk of meaning From which the purpose breaks only when it is fulfilled If at all. Either you had no purpose Or the purpose is beyond the end you figured And is altered in fulfilment. There are other places Which also are the world's end, some at the sea jaws, Or over a dark lake, in a desert or a city— But this is the nearest, in place and time, Now and in England.

             If you came this way, Taking any route, starting from anywhere, At any time or at any season, It would always be the same: you would have to put off Sense and notion. You are not here to verify, Instruct yourself, or inform curiosity Or carry report. You are here to kneel Where prayer has been valid. And prayer is more Than an order of words, the conscious occupation Of the praying mind, or the sound of the voice praying. And what the dead had no speech for, when living, They can tell you, being dead: the communication Of the dead is tongued with fire beyond the language of the living. Here, the intersection of the timeless moment Is England and nowhere. Never and always.

II

Ash on an old man's sleeve Is all the ash the burnt roses leave. Dust in the air suspended Marks the place where a story ended. Dust inbreathed was a house— The walls, the wainscot and the mouse, The death of hope and despair,       This is the death of air.

There are flood and drouth Over the eyes and in the mouth, Dead water and dead sand Contending for the upper hand. The parched eviscerate soil Gapes at the vanity of toil, Laughs without mirth.       This is the death of earth.

Water and fire succeed The town, the pasture and the weed. Water and fire deride The sacrifice that we denied. Water and fire shall rot The marred foundations we forgot, Of sanctuary and choir.       This is the death of water and fire.

In the uncertain hour before the morning     Near the ending of interminable night     At the recurrent end of the unending After the dark dove with the flickering tongue     Had passed below the horizon of his homing     While the dead leaves still rattled on like tin Over the asphalt where no other sound was     Between three districts whence the smoke arose     I met one walking, loitering and hurried As if blown towards me like the metal leaves     Before the urban dawn wind unresisting.     And as I fixed upon the down-turned face That pointed scrutiny with which we challenge     The first-met stranger in the waning dusk     I caught the sudden look of some dead master Whom I had known, forgotten, half recalled     Both one and many; in the brown baked features     The eyes of a familiar compound ghost Both intimate and unidentifiable.     So I assumed a double part, and cried     And heard another's voice cry: 'What! are you here?' Although we were not. I was still the same,     Knowing myself yet being someone other—     And he a face still forming; yet the words sufficed To compel the recognition they preceded.     And so, compliant to the common wind,     Too strange to each other for misunderstanding, In concord at this intersection time     Of meeting nowhere, no before and after,     We trod the pavement in a dead patrol. I said: 'The wonder that I feel is easy,     Yet ease is cause of wonder. Therefore speak:     I may not comprehend, may not remember.' And he: 'I am not eager to rehearse     My thoughts and theory which you have forgotten.     These things have served their purpose: let them be. So with your own, and pray they be forgiven     By others, as I pray you to forgive     Both bad and good. Last season's fruit is eaten And the fullfed beast shall kick the empty pail.     For last year's words belong to last year's language     And next year's words await another voice. But, as the passage now presents no hindrance     To the spirit unappeased and peregrine     Between two worlds become much like each other, So I find words I never thought to speak     In streets I never thought I should revisit     When I left my body on a distant shore. Since our concern was speech, and speech impelled us     To purify the dialect of the tribe     And urge the mind to aftersight and foresight, Let me disclose the gifts reserved for age     To set a crown upon your lifetime's effort.     First, the cold friction of expiring sense Without enchantment, offering no promise     But bitter tastelessness of shadow fruit     As body and soul begin to fall asunder. Second, the conscious impotence of rage     At human folly, and the laceration     Of laughter at what ceases to amuse. And last, the rending pain of re-enactment     Of all that you have done, and been; the shame     Of motives late revealed, and the awareness Of things ill done and done to others' harm     Which once you took for exercise of virtue.     Then fools' approval stings, and honour stains. From wrong to wrong the exasperated spirit     Proceeds, unless restored by that refining fire     Where you must move in measure, like a dancer.' The day was breaking. In the disfigured street     He left me, with a kind of valediction,     And faded on the blowing of the horn.

III

There are three conditions which often look alike Yet differ completely, flourish in the same hedgerow: Attachment to self and to things and to persons, detachment From self and from things and from persons; and, growing between them, indifference Which resembles the others as death resembles life, Being between two lives—unflowering, between The live and the dead nettle. This is the use of memory: For liberation—not less of love but expanding Of love beyond desire, and so liberation From the future as well as the past. Thus, love of a country Begins as attachment to our own field of action And comes to find that action of little importance Though never indifferent. History may be servitude, History may be freedom. See, now they vanish, The faces and places, with the self which, as it could, loved them, To become renewed, transfigured, in another pattern.

Sin is Behovely, but All shall be well, and All manner of thing shall be well. If I think, again, of this place, And of people, not wholly commendable, Of no immediate kin or kindness, But of some peculiar genius, All touched by a common genius, United in the strife which divided them; If I think of a king at nightfall, Of three men, and more, on the scaffold And a few who died forgotten In other places, here and abroad, And of one who died blind and quiet Why should we celebrate These dead men more than the dying? It is not to ring the bell backward Nor is it an incantation To summon the spectre of a Rose. We cannot revive old factions We cannot restore old policies Or follow an antique drum. These men, and those who opposed them And those whom they opposed Accept the constitution of silence And are folded in a single party. Whatever we inherit from the fortunate We have taken from the defeated What they had to leave us—a symbol: A symbol perfected in death. And all shall be well and All manner of thing shall be well By the purification of the motive In the ground of our beseeching.

IV

The dove descending breaks the air With flame of incandescent terror Of which the tongues declare The one discharge from sin and error. The only hope, or else despair     Lies in the choice of pyre or pyre—     To be redeemed from fire by fire.

Who then devised the torment? Love. Love is the unfamiliar Name Behind the hands that wove The intolerable shirt of flame Which human power cannot remove.     We only live, only suspire     Consumed by either fire or fire.

V

What we call the beginning is often the end And to make an end is to make a beginning. The end is where we start from. And every phrase And sentence that is right (where every word is at home, Taking its place to support the others, The word neither diffident nor ostentatious, An easy commerce of the old and the new, The common word exact without vulgarity, The formal word precise but not pedantic, The complete consort dancing together) Every phrase and every sentence is an end and a beginning, Every poem an epitaph. And any action Is a step to the block, to the fire, down the sea's throat Or to an illegible stone: and that is where we start. We die with the dying: See, they depart, and we go with them. We are born with the dead: See, they return, and bring us with them. The moment of the rose and the moment of the yew-tree Are of equal duration. A people without history Is not redeemed from time, for history is a pattern Of timeless moments. So, while the light fails On a winter's afternoon, in a secluded chapel History is now and England.

With the drawing of this Love and the voice of this     Calling

We shall not cease from exploration And the end of all our exploring Will be to arrive where we started And know the place for the first time. Through the unknown, remembered gate When the last of earth left to discover Is that which was the beginning; At the source of the longest river The voice of the hidden waterfall And the children in the apple-tree Not known, because not looked for But heard, half-heard, in the stillness Between two waves of the sea. Quick now, here, now, always— A condition of complete simplicity (Costing not less than everything) And all shall be well and All manner of thing shall be well When the tongues of flame are in-folded Into the crowned knot of fire And the fire and the rose are one.

(For help understanding this poem, try this article: https://voegelinview.com/a-pattern-of-timeless-moments-pt-1/)

[localfreshies]

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What to expect on the Tahoe Flume Trail

Mountain biking isn’t just about the adrenaline-pumping-downhill variety you see in the videos, but a chance to enjoy the mountains in a different way. If you want to see the Sierra Nevadas & Lake Tahoe in a totally different light, the Flume Trail should be on your bucket list. With a little bit of pedaling, you’ll get unrivaled views and scenery that are unlike anything else in the world. Here’s a little bit of what to expect on the Tahoe Flume Trail.

The Flume Trail gives you unparalleled views like this

The History of Flumes

Being from the flatlands of the Midwest, when I first heard of its name I wondered… “What the heck is a flume?” After talking to a few folks and doing a bit of research, I came to find out that during the heyday of the lumber and mining industries, there was a need to transport fallen trees down from the steepest sections on a mountainside to the mills. All along the Sierra Nevadas, flumes were built and consisted of 2 boards, 2 feet wide constructed in a V shape, that were then filled with flowing water. The lumberjacks would throw the logs into the water and it would then transport them quickly to a sawmill at the bottom of the mountain.

It was also one of these flumes that inspired the amusement park ride that you see in places like Disney World. The owners of one of them, James Fair and James Flood, suggested that an east coast reporter by the name of HJ Ramsdell accompany them on a ride down their 15-mile flume. Just how insane does that sound? Personally, I would never have done that ride, but somehow they talked Ramsdell into doing it. Here’s a recount of the ride:

You cannot stop; You cannot lessen your speed; You have nothing to hold to; You have only to sit still, shut your eyes, say your prayers; Take all the water that comes, filling your boat, wetting your feet, drenching you like a plunge through the surf, and wait for eternity… It is all there is to hope for after you are launched in a flume-boat.

Fortunately, you don’t have to take a bare-knuckled death ride to experience the Tahoe Flume trail. All you need is a bicycle and a little adventure in your soul.

The adventure begins in Incline Village

As you may have read in past posts, this summer we jumped head first into the sport of mountain biking. After exploring a few of the trails on the south shore, we decided to expand our horizons and check out the most famous singletrack in our area: the Flume Trail.

On a cool morning, we pulled out of South Lake Tahoe and headed north to Incline Village. On the southern edge of town lies the END of the path and a company named Flume Trail Bikes. From here, you can rent a bike or bring your own and take a shuttle to the beginning of the path. Arriving thirty minutes before the shuttle, we put our name on the list and eagerly awaited the drive up to the start of the route.

Spooner Lake State Park – Entrance to Flume Trail

Throwing our backpacks and ourselves into the shuttle van, we pull out of the parking lot. After a 15 minute drive, we arrive at Spooner Lake State Park and unload our bikes. From here, we’re given a quick intro of what to expect this morning. A warning is given… “The first 4 miles are the toughest so take it easy as it’s a steep continuous climb all the way to the highest point. But from there, it’s a fun-filled ride back to the shop.” Hopping onto our trusty steeds, we begin our adventure.

Snowy Peak and a High Meadow

The winding road up to Marlette Lake. Snowy Peak to the right in the distance

The trail starts on a wide gravel service road, canopied by massive groves of Aspen. With last night’s rain, the trail is smooth and dust-free. Just beyond our vantage point, we can hear the sound of rushing water. Continuing our ascent, the Aspens are replaced with Evergreens. As the forest thins out, we make a large swooping turn and are then exposed to a HUGE valley surrounded by massive mountains. On the right of the valley towards the top of the ridgeline you can see a teeny-tiny cut into the mountain… that’s the Tahoe Rim Trail. Knowing how wide the Tahoe Rim Trail really is, it gives you an idea just how large the landscape features are around us.

From Marlette Lake it’s all downhill

Riding through the meadow, we head back into the forest canopy and continue our climb up. The path continues to get steeper until we crest at the summit to the Marlette Lake basin. We pause for a moment to take in the view of this high alpine lake and catch our breath. Was it as bad as they said? Nope, but it definitely took a bit of work to get here. We then decided to coast down to the shore of Marlette Lake for a closer view.

Propping our bikes against the rocks, we walk over to the beach and sit down on a massive piece of granite. A sense of calm comes over us as we attempt to absorb the sight. The water looks like a sheet of glass with only a few ripples. Wisps of clouds float along the sky making us all smile. We could stay here for hours enjoying the serenity but alas, this isn’t our final destination. Throwing our packs back on, we continue pedaling our way around the lake. Towards the other side, the wide path suddenly narrows to a tiny singletrack barely discernible from the granite outcroppings. “Are we going the right way?” Unaware of other options, we continue onward.

A little bit of fun before the views

Pausing to take in the views

Quickly snaking our way down through some tight trees and a boulder-strewn corridor, we pop out the other side onto another thin singletrack. On our left we can see it falls steeply away but the thick vegetation hides just how steep it is. It wasn’t until we made a tight 90-degree turn, exposing us to the deep blue body of water known as Lake Tahoe, did we understand the thousands of feet below us that existed. We stare at the spectacle before us for a moment. The smoke from the forest fires creates a haze over the peaks making it look more like islands you would see in the Caribbean than a mountain lake.

Sand Harbor – The Crescendo of the Flume Trail

The crescendo of the Flume Trail – Sand Harbor

Continuing our ride, we focus on the trail ahead. Segments of it are literally cut out of the granite walls on the mountainside. It’s hard to imagine this tiny path holding a flume filled with water and logs, let alone us! One of our crew suddenly stops at a small outcropping and points to our left. Pulling up next to him, we look towards where he’s pointing. There lies Sand Harbor.

One word explains seeing Sand Harbor: WOW!

The boats floating along are but tiny specks and the colors of the water are unlike anything else in nature. On the shoreline, the color palette starts clear, fading into different shades of blue & green until it finally finishes into a dark hue. One word: WOW! Taking a few snaps with our camera, we continue onward. The mostly flat trail zig-zags its way along the ridgeline until we end up on a large service road. From here we quickly descend down a sandy path at a furious pace, braking a lot more than you would like to admit & finally arriving back at the shop.

Which Mountain Bike Trail is the best in Tahoe

Standing with our bikes by our truck, we reminisce on our full day of adventure. Just a few months ago we were barely riding our bikes through our backyard network of singletracks and now we had just finished the Flume Trail. I know what your next question is – “Is the Flume Trail better than the other ones around Tahoe?”

The answer isn’t that simple. Each path is so vastly different. For example, the Corral Trail is a great one if you’re into jumps and banked turns while Cold Creek is more of a snaky-fun run that allows you to get a mix of everything. If you’re looking for views and scenery than I absolutely agree that the Flume is king. But if you’re looking for other types of adventures, you will have to explore each one to figure out which is right for you. All we know is we will continue to venture further into the vast network that exists around Tahoe and enjoy each one just as much.

What to expect on the Tahoe Flume Trail

Shane Ricketts doing his best to stay on the Flume Trail while still having fun

For those who want to experience this amazing adventure themselves, here’s a few things to be aware of:

If you bring your own bike, it costs $19 for the shuttle. Otherwise, the shuttle is FREE if you rent a bike through Flume Trail Bikes.

Arrive 30 minutes early to make sure you get on the next shuttle.

If you’re afraid of heights, just know that there are certain sections with steep drops. It might scare the heck out of you. Fortunately you can walk these segments if you wanted to.

The first 4 miles of the 14 mile journey are the hardest with a continuous climb to Marlette Lake. From there, it’s a nice leisurely bike ride full of awesome views.

[untameablesands]

@calamitousheir ❤ ‘d for a starter! 

         “Have you decided on where you wish to explore in Hyrule for today, your Royal Highness?” Sundira would admit, at least to himself, he didn’t quite understand the logistics nor the reasoning behind the switching of Noctis and Zelda’s personal guards. At all. He had already expressed his concerns to Zelda however, and while she had understood them she had attempted to reassure Sundira that everything would be fine. It didn’t work, but she had tried, at least. He cared too deeply for her, felt too responsible for her well being to so easily place her safety in the hands of others.

        But yet, here he was. He just hoped that his ‘new’ royal charge wouldn’t be obnoxious and pompous like some of the nobles of the Hylian court. Perhaps this visitation of foreign royals could even be at least slightly enjoyable provided that these Insominans weren’t as irritating and unintelligent. No doubt Zelda at least would be enjoying herself, that was a perk.

[untameablesands]

@eldingaesir ❤ ‘d for a starter! 

         “If you’re thinking of killing the beast in the distance for its treasure... I highly recommend not attempting at all.” Although this man was rather highly armoured and held himself in a way that made Sundira believe he was rather capable in combat... Hinox’s were simply something that should be left alone. It was highly possible that this stranger’s attention had been focused on something else in the horizon, but just in case he felt he should give the man proper warning.

[untameablesands]

@courageunclouded ❤ ‘d for a starter! 

         “.... Where are we going again?” Forgive him for being so absent-minded as to forget such an important fact of their travels, it has been far too long since he had last spent more than a brief amount of time away from his charge and he is slightly antsy over being so far from ‘his’ Princess. In all truth, had she not all but ordered him to take some time for himself he would not even be travelling with the Hero, who needed a vacation when the one you were meant to give you life protecting was the Princess of the Kingdom? 

        Not him, willingly at least.

[untameablesands]

@brokenexalt ❤ ‘d for a starter! 

        “There are many reasons why one might be wandering the gardens this time of night...” The last gentle notes of his lyre faded around them as Sundira settled the instrument on the branch beside himself (forgive him if the sudden voice from a tree startled you Lucina, this poor man would rather hidden among the leaves then use the perfectly acceptable stone benches dotted here and there throughout the gardens) and fixed the Princess with a concerned expression. “Are you well, your Highness?”

[untameablesands]

" tell me ; how far would you go to save hyrule in its times of desperation & need? " a simple question posed by a simple merchant to a simple warrior. janus already knows the answer; really, he does! a sheikah warrior trained to protect the royal family... such information, such gossip, was vital to his trade. to his work. " are you willing to break boundaries for them? " //have my asshole son

         Crimson eyes narrow at the man as a slight shiver crawls along his back, a feeling of unease creeping over his skin and settling deep within him. He had limited interactions with the Mask Salesman before, if any at all truthfully, and it was... Unnerving, to learn that most of what he had previously heard of the man seemed true. There was an air about him that was setting Sundira on edge, as if he knew too much; as if he were hiding something dark- or at least, that he could see the secrets others held close to their hearts... He didn’t like it.

        “I suppose...” He begins slowly, taking the time to carefully ponder over each word while ensuring to never take his gaze from the other man (was he even a man? Steeped in mystery as he was, it would not surprise Sundira to learn he was nothing more than a spectre). “My answer would depend on why you’re asking.” He wasn’t very fond of being approached by strangers, especially strangers he had heard such strange rumours of. The question was... Unsettling, and the very anticipation of an answer was causing anxiety to twist his stomach into knots. Please go away.

[untameablesands]

She was a rather social being. She had no problems with approaching strangers, which may or may not be a dangerous trait, but she was not going to focus on that right now. Instead she moves white strands of hair away from her eyes, so she could greet the other properly with a cordial smile. " Hello. The weather is wonderful today, wouldn't you say? "

        “It is.” How often is it that he doesn’t even open his eyes when sensing someone approaching? Rare. Very rare. It just goes to prove how right this unknown woman was (or at least he assumed them to be a woman judging from voice alone) about the weather; warm sunlight drifting through the branches of the cherry tree, lazy breeze occasionally blowing across the field, it was the perfect day to sprawl across the grass and just... Exist in peace for hours on end. 

       “I dare say it beautiful even.” His arms had been crossed behind his head to be used as a pillow, but now one stretched out beside himself to gesture towards the nearby grass. “Do feel free to join in enjoying it, if you so desire.” Despite being reserved and difficult to find trust in others, this was simply the sort of day that lowered defences and brought out the less guarded side of himself; why bother being tightly wound and suspicious of everything when there was warm sunlight and fresh breezes to enjoy, after all?