#anti night court

[hrizantemy]

I don’t mean to be that person, but whenever someone tries to justify Morrigan saying Nesta would thrive in Hewn City, I have to ask—are we forgetting what kind of place Hewn City is???

Like… do y’all remember that it’s a misogynistic, cruel, ruthless place where women are treated as property and strength is often synonymous with brutality? Where Mor herself was literally tortured and left for dead? And y’all genuinely believe that Nesta—ACOSF Nesta, with all her trauma, all her pain, all her struggles—would have gone down there and done what, exactly? Opened a self-help seminar? Hosted a girlboss networking event?

The comment wasn’t just a casual, bitchy remark—it was an insult, and a loaded one at that. Mor wasn’t saying Nesta is strong enough to survive Hewn City; she was saying Nesta belonged there. That the cruelty Nesta has endured and the walls she’s built because of it make her one of them. And Cassian agreeing? Yeah, that just made it worse.

Nesta is many things, but the idea that she would somehow flourish in a place built on everything that nearly destroyed her? Let’s be so serious.

[spacerockfloater]

The way people switched on Tamlin the moment Rhys was introduced is diabolical.

“Tamlin never really loved Feyre, it was all a trick from the start”: It is stated that Tamlin was disgusted by the idea of forcing someone to fall in love with him and considered it slavery, but ended up being so in love with her that he ultimately lets her go and choses her freedom and safety over that of his own people. Rhys confirms that Tamlin loved Feyre too much. And he loved her truly. Not because he had to. Tamlin treated Feyre with dignity when she was engaged to him. He introduced her as his lady, to be respected and cherished by all. And she really was loved by his people, too. Rhysand uses her as his lap dog to scare Hewn City and parades her as his whore.

“Tamlin never did anything for Feyre, he just used her”: He improved her and her family’s life in every aspect and offered her everything he had.

“Tamlin had sex with someone else in Calanmai”: Out of duty and responsibility because he didn’t want to force Feyre, who still wasn’t sure about her feelings, into it. All of the High Lords perform the Calanmai. Lucien says so. How convenient that this is never brought up with Rhysand. He surely does perform it as well. All the theories in here, “Lucien doesn’t know what he’s talking about/ This is a SC ritual only/ He probably just passes the duty on to someone else” are just a way for people to villainise Tam and glorify Rhys again. All of them inaccurate. The Calanmai is canonically performed by every High Lord. There’s no evidence that proves otherwise. As the son of one High Lord and the ambassador of another, Lucien would know. He is 500 years old. It’s just more convenient for SJM to never bring this up again because it raises the question of “Who was Rhysand fucking all these years?” and it makes her favourite character look bad. And once he is engaged to her, Tamlin flat out refuses to do it. Let’s be real for a second.

“Tamlin didn’t help Feyre under the mountain”: He literally could not. He was bound by a curse. He was forced to be Amarantha’s consort and a consort cannot oppose you. His powers were bound. Alis warns Feyre that Tamlin will not be able to help her. Stop acting as if he didn’t want to help her. He decapitated Amarantha the moment he got his autonomy back. Claiming that there’s no proof that Tamlin was under the influence of a spell when he literally didn’t break the curse and Amarantha’s magic didn’t allow him to use his powers is crazy. And even if he tried, he could never provide actual help. We see this when he begs Amarantha for Feyre’s life. Him showing he cares about her would only make Amarantha more jealous and vicious towards Feyre.

“Tamlin made out with Feyre instead of helping her”: He couldn’t help her run away. No one could do that. She would never make it, Amarantha would find her. In fact, Tamlin specifically could not help her in any way. He could only assure her he still wants and loves her. And she wanted that just as much. Rhys abused her physically, mentally, verbally, drugged her and much worse. And he enjoyed all of it. If he didn’t want to raise suspicions, he wouldn’t have placed a bet in her favour. Rhys is a sadist, SJM just decided to mellow him down in the next book so that we’d all like him over Tamlin.

“Tamlin ignored Feyre’s wishes and only wanted her to be his bride, he didn’t let her be High Lady”: Both Tamlin and Feyre were bad communicators going though trauma and Tam had a whole court to care for. Tamlin was unaware of how Feyre felt because she barely spoke up once. Rhys knew because he literally lived inside her head and had all the time in the world to focus his attention on her since his court suffered zero consequences during Amarantha’s reign. And Tamlin simply told her the truth: there’s no such thing as High Lady. Even her current title is given to her by Rhys, the magic of Prythian has not actually chosen her to be High Lady. The title and its power are decorative. And she said she didn’t want that anyway.

“Tamlin locks Feyre up and uses his magic to harm her”: He locks her in his humongous palace to keep her safe, after she just came back from the dead and his worst enemy is kidnapping her every month, while he runs off to protect his borders. Rhysand locks Feyre in a fucking bubble. Tamlin loses control of his magic. He doesn’t want to harm her. That’s not abuse. Abuse is intentional. Feyre and Rhysand lock Lucien and Nesta up. They lock the people of the Hewn City up in a cave. Feyre loses control of her magic and harms Lucien’s mother. Double standards I guess.

“Tamlin is a bad and conservative ruler”: Tamlin is such a beloved ruler that his sentries literally begged to die for him. Feyre had to fuck with their minds to finally turn them against him. They were his friends. He was so progressive that the lords fled his court once he became their ruler because he wouldn’t put up with their bullshit like his father did. He loved all of his people. He is against slavery. The Tithe was just tax collection. Rhysand practically rules over just one city, while ignoring Hewn City and Illyria. He treats 2/3 of his realm like shit and everyone except the residents of Velaris hates him. He collects tax, too, but we conveniently never see this. He ranks the members of his inner circle (my 1st, my 2nd etc.) and reminds them every moment that they are his slaves first and anything else second, while Tamlin treats them equally and even gives Lucien an official title by naming him Ambassador.

“Tamlin conspired with Hybern”: He was a double agent and his short lived alliance, two weeks all in all, not only didn’t harm a single soul, but ultimately saved all of Prythian as he was the only one who brought valuable information to that meeting. He dragged Beron to battle. Rhysand’s alliance with Amarantha harmed thousands and only helped save one city, Velaris.

“Tamlin is responsible for turning Nesta and Elain into Fae”: No, that was Ianthe, who got the info from Feyre. Tamlin was fooled by her, just as Feyre obviously was, or she wouldn’t have trusted her. Tamlin was disgusted by that act.

“Tamlin is less powerful than Rhysand”: Rhysand himself says that a battle between them would turn mountains to dust. Tamlin killed Rhysand’s dad, the previous High Lord of the Night Court, in one blow. He is just as powerful as Rhysand. SJM again just wants us to believe otherwise. And he is smarter, too. He was the only one not to trust Amarantha. And he was a good spy for Prythian against Hybern.

All of these takes are cold as fuck. SJM was testing the waters with ACOTAR and she made sure the main love interest, Tamlin, was insanely likeable, so that the book could be a satisfactory standalone story in case she couldn’t land a trilogy deal. She didn’t know it would be such a big hit. But once she realised she could turn this into a franchise, she had to figure out a new story to tell. She may claim otherwise, but there’s just too many plothotes to convince me. And in order to make her new main love interest seem like the best choice, she had to character assassinate the old one. There was no other way. ACOTAR Rhys was too much of an evil monster to be loved by the majority of the audience. But Tamlin was introduced to us as such a heroic and passionate man that is literally impossible to turn him into someone despised by all. Feyre’s relationship with Rhysand reads too much like cheating on Tamlin. That’s why anyone with basic analytical skills is able to realise the flaws of the narration.

[geniemillies]

i will never be convinced on rhysand the better high lord when tamlin opened his court to refugees during amarantha's reign, began celebrating festivities that didn't belong to spring just so they'd feel at home, played for them too with his silly fiddle omg, refused to send his people beyond the wall until he was desperate, felt them die because their bond as subject and high lord was just too great (sarah's words not mine), even buried a lesser fae in his court after he was brutalized by amarantha, dug the ground with his haaaands, said lesser fae wasn't even his subject but he offered him peace and company during his death anyway. then there's mister change takes time over here, has his people living in harsh conditions in camps, under a mountain where they cannot leave because they're more weapons than people. so if you were born anywhere in his court that's not velaris sucks to suck i guess.

don't even get me started on his family being in charge while he was gone for 50 yrs because their circus troupe didn't do squat either. cassian is a privileged boy who has lost all emotional connection to his own people. idk what azriel does besides do a job he doesn't even want to do and mope around i guess. morrigan hates her people, morrigan 'i'm the exception, everybody evil except for me and i will make no effort to change anything bc im too pretty for that'. amren. amren wtf even is she doing in the night court. not even from the lands and she's already named second in command, that's all i have to know about the high lord. what is she commanding? *in damian's voice* she doesn't even go here!!!

tamlin did more for spring and people from other courts in those fifty years than the ic will ever consider doing for the night court. morrigan couldn't lift a pinkie, if you mention doing anything for hewn city she'd start whining throwing up waa waa waa, grown ass woman. cassian kisses the dirt rhysand steps on, if he says bark he out here 🐕. amren is just there for shits and giggles. azriel.

so if anyone sat on their asses it's rhysand and his ragtag group of powerful people who don't do shit with it. illyrians still suffer in the camps, hewn city still trapped in a mountain where abuse is the norm. and they aaaalll stiiill haaaate youuur aaaasss 💥💥💥💥💥

[viktoriaashleyyx]

My personal favorite thing about ACOWAR was Tamlins ingenuity. Like holy shit.

He started with weakened forces due to Amaranthas deal killing off his men. Then Feyres *~* boss bitch*~* plan to turn the rest of his court against him. By the time the war comes around he does not have an army and he still pulled more than his weight.

Tamlin obtained a STACK of information on Hyberns plans down to where exactly they were keeping the feybane. How, when, where, what, all of that shit and shared it with all of the High Lords. Didn't keep it a secret (like RhySAnd does with most shit) cause that would've been dumb. He got actual useful information on how to bring down Hybern in half a year, RhySAnd didn't get any information standing by Amaranthas side for 50.

He blew his cover and saved Feyre, Elain, Briar and Azriel using his wind magic to get them airborn and his brute strength to fight off the hounds. They would be dead without Tamlins help. All of them.

And THEN HE SHOWS UP DRAGGING BARON BY THE SCRUFF OF HIS NECK. He commands BARONS SONS (who fucking listen to him) where and how to destroy the feybane caches. And commanding BARONS ARMY.

This man will figure. it. out.

While most of RhySAnds plans end up only barely working out by sheer luck, Tamlins just fucking work. Like hate him all you want, but without him yall would've gone into that war relying on nothing more than RhySAnds inflated sense of self worth. Tamlin delivers results, every single time.

ACOWAR was Tamlins redemption arc from MAF. And everything else forward is just a testament to RhySAnds insecurity.

The NC was out here playing checkers, while Tamlins playing chess. Do you realize how bad you have to be when you have a full board and the guy you're playing against starts off missing his rooks and bishops and you still lose?

[legendl0re]

I was reminded of a scene in ACOFAS that made me despise Rhysand, the one where he visits Tamlin and just berates him over and over, and now I remember why and can form it into words:

This scene just proves that Rhysand can’t stand the fact that he will forever owe his life, his happiness, even the existence of his own kid, to Tamlin.

That’s what makes him so angry and hateful, that Tamlin proved to be the better man and bought him back despite everything that happened between them.

He is goading Tamlin because he wants to desperately prove that he isn’t that good person, but Tamlin won’t bite. Feyre destroyed his court, Rhys and his father killed his family and forced him to become a High Lord, the one thing he never wanted to be, and yet still he gave that last piece so the two of them could be happy.

Rhys should be kissing Tamlin’s shoes for that, but instead he can’t cope and is attempting to drive the man deeper into depression, not to mention disrespecting his borders with Cassian and Nesta and Eris’ little meetings.

[macel625]

If you say "Rhys is not my high lord" 3 times in the mirror, Cassian appears

[my-acotar-thoughts]

High King and High Queen…

I don’t understand why people think this is a good idea no matter who you want in the throne… You will not get all 7 Court to agree to give up all their power to one ruler. You’re asking for war. You’re asking for most likely genocide. You’re asking for tyranny cause that’s the only way a High King and High Queen can come into power again. Also, for those who want Rhys and Feyre on the throne… one good city inherited by generations before who built it in a giant court that is double the size of most other courts is not enough to prove you’re good rulers. Seriously, ONE. SINGLE. CITY.

The road to High King and High Queen is paved in blood. You know who also wanted to take all of Prythian? Amarantha. And look what happened there. No one. Not a single court will ever want to live remotely like that again. Especially not under the rule of the court that has a city Amarantha’s court under the mountain was modeled after.

[kataraavatara]

the nc’s main army from illyria being so poor cassian is handing out blankets while the the rich merchant class in velaris doesn’t have to provide any soldiers is good class commentary until you remember rhysand is supposed to be the good guy and also it’s sarah j maas

[maybeiwasjustjade]

“Nesta hates Rhysand, so of course he looks godawful in her POV. She’s unreliable and villainizes him!!!!”

Y’all sound ridiculous.

The fact that ACOSF was written in 3rd person pov with DUAL MCs (one of which was a member of the IC) already proves that it’s a significantly more ubiased perspective than Feyre’s rose tinted glasses and lobotomy. Y’all just don’t like that your faves are unapologetic assholes whose actions actually can’t be redeemed this time without Feyre spinning in her own web of delusions.

Most of the scenes involving Rhysand the King Prick were from Cassian’s perspective. Given that Cassian is so far up Rhysand’s ass that he’s essentially a second mouthpiece, if Rhysand comes off impeccably dick-ish just accept that it’s more than likely the reality.

Nesta wasn’t the one that painted Rhysand as the insufferable villain; that was Cassian. Quit blaming Nesta for it. Accept that the IC are in fact the villains in a LOT of the characters’ stories. Literally barely anyone likes or even tolerates the NC. Nesta didn’t need to do squat for characters AND readers to dislike the Mayor of Velaris and his equally useless entourage.

[visenlya]

see how tamlin chose to sacrifice himself and sent feyre away to save her from amarantha and rhysand the blackmailer? very demure, very considerate. see how he has always been very honest about the type of person he is? very demure, very cutesy. see how he didn’t have to be the bigger person and gave a part of himself to save rhysand? very demure, very mindful, very compassionate.

[litnerdwrites]

The IC have no clue how lucky they are that the cauldron mated Lucien and Elain. If it wasn't for Elain, and her presence in the NC, even if Feyre found a way to keep Lucien from telling Tamling that she couldn't be trusted, if he chose the path of revenge, she'd be in trouble. He has friends in every court, and is well respected as an emissary. Meanwhile, the NC, are distrusted by everyone, especially after the shit Rhys pulled UTM. He could've turned all of Prythian against the NC before the High Lords meeting even started, and done it so thoroughly that nothing Rhys or Feyre could say would convince them to trust the NC.

[hrizantemy]

Feyre’s voice shook the walls of the House of Wind as she let her rage spill free.

“It was supposed to be us! Nesta, Elain, and me!” she shouted, her chest heaving, her hands fisted at her sides as she glared at them all—her Inner Circle. The people she trusted, the people she loved. But right now, she felt nothing but fury toward them. “Do you understand what you just did? Do you even see it? You tore into her. You all stood there, watching, saying nothing as Amren ripped her apart. And then Taryn—” Feyre let out a sharp, humorless laugh, shaking her head. “A stranger defended my sister when none of us did. When I didn’t. Do you have any idea how wrong that is? How disgusting that is?”

Her voice cracked on the last words, but she didn’t stop, didn’t care.

Rhysand exhaled heavily, running a hand through his hair, his jaw tight as he finally spoke, his voice the controlled, reasonable tone he always used when trying to calm her.

“Feyre—”

“Don’t,” she snapped, cutting him off, her rage turning toward him. “Don’t stand there and try to explain this to me, Rhys. Don’t act like you had no part in it. You stood there and let it happen. You let Amren shame her, humiliate her, like she was nothing more than a stain on this court. Like she hadn’t fought, like she hadn’t bled for all of us!”

Rhysand’s jaw ticked, but he didn’t let his composure slip. “She needed to hear it,” he said, calm, as if he truly believed it. “Nesta has spent the last year destroying herself, and we have done everything to try and help her. She refused it. We had no choice—”

“No choice?” Feyre’s voice rose again, incredulous. “You always have a choice, Rhys. Always. And what you chose was cruelty. What you chose was to let Amren belittle her, let everyone sit in their silence while Taryn—TARYN—was the only one to stand up for her.”

She turned her furious gaze to Amren, who had remained quiet, her face unreadable. “And you—what the hell was that? You didn’t try to help. You didn’t try to fix anything. You just wanted to break her down, just like you did before. Just like you always do when someone isn’t what you want them to be.”

Amren’s silver eyes narrowed. “I told her the truth.”

“No, you shamed her,” Feyre snapped. “You humiliated her. And the worst part is that you all let it happen. You all let her drown in it. Again.”

She turned to Cassian now, who hadn’t spoken once, his wings tucked tight, his expression unreadable.

“And you,” she breathed, the betrayal sharp in her voice. “You just stood there. You, out of everyone, should have said something. Should have done something.”

Cassian’s throat bobbed, but he said nothing.

Feyre let out a shaky breath, looking at all of them, her closest friends, her family. And for the first time in a long, long time, she didn’t recognize them.

“Look what you did,” she whispered. “Look what you all did.”

Morrigan shifted where she stood, arms crossed over her chest, her golden eyes flicking between them before finally landing on Feyre. Her voice was measured, careful, but there was a sharpness to it that Feyre immediately bristled at.

“Taryn doesn’t know what Nesta did to you,” Morrigan said, her tone low but firm. “She doesn’t know how Nesta treated you, how she—”

“Don’t,” Feyre snapped, cutting her off so abruptly that Morrigan blinked in surprise. “Don’t you dare bring that up right now.”

The heat of her anger reignited, searing through her veins as she turned on Morrigan fully. “Nesta was cruel to me. I know that. I lived it. I am not pretending otherwise. But you—all of you—are pretending that your behavior tonight was justified. That shaming her, belittling her, proving to her once again that she has no place here was somehow the right thing to do.”

She shook her head, letting out a breathless, bitter laugh. “And the fact that Taryn doesn’t know what happened between me and Nesta? Maybe that’s a good thing. Because for once, someone looked at Nesta and didn’t see her as the villain you’ve all made her out to be. Someone saw her, not just her mistakes.”

Morrigan’s expression tightened, as if she wanted to argue, but Feyre wasn’t done.

“Nesta tried to hurt me. She lashed out at me in ways I’ll never forget, and I won’t excuse that.” Feyre’s voice was shaking now, but she refused to back down. “But I am standing here, Morrigan. I survived it. I moved on. And if I can do that, why the hell can’t any of you?”

Amren exhaled sharply, her silver eyes narrowing as she finally stepped forward, her expression unreadable.

“Then why don’t you stop them?”

Feyre’s brows furrowed, confusion flickering across her face. “What?”

Amren tilted her head slightly, watching her with a gaze so sharp it felt like it cut right through her. “You act like you’re separate from this, like you weren’t part of it. But you were. Every time someone said something about Nesta, every time we tore into her, you were the one who told us what she was like before we even met her. You were the one who made sure we knew every cruel thing she ever said to you. And each time we said something about her, what did you do?”

Amren let the silence settle, let the weight of her words sink in before delivering the final blow.

“Nothing.”

Feyre’s lips parted, but Amren kept going, her voice steady, unrelenting.

“If you did say something, it was half-hearted at best. You never truly defended her, not really. And don’t pretend you did. Because if you had, we wouldn’t have spoken about her the way we did tonight. We wouldn’t have seen her as nothing more than a disgrace to this court. We wouldn’t have thought of her as someone who deserved to be punished.”

A long, heavy pause.

“And isn’t that what you wanted, Feyre?” Amren asked, her voice softer now, but no less damning. “For her to be punished? To feel what you felt? To pay for what she did to you?”

Feyre’s throat was dry.

She wanted to argue. She wanted to deny it, to fight back, as proof that she wasn’t wrong. But the words wouldn’t come.

Because for the first time, Feyre didn’t know what to say.

She had no words.

Rhysand’s power darkened the room, his rage curling around them like a storm ready to break. His growl was low, dangerous, a warning that echoed through the tense silence.

“You will not speak to your High Lady like that,” he snarled, his voice laced with authority, violet eyes burning as he fixed Amren with a look that would have made most people tremble.

But Amren was not most people.

She merely scoffed, rolling her eyes as if he were nothing more than an impatient child. “Oh, spare me the dramatics, Rhysand,” she said, utterly unimpressed by his display of power. “You think your title scares me? That I should bow and scrape because she wears a crown? I was drinking the blood of worlds before you were even born—I don’t give a damn what you call yourself.”

Rhysand’s jaw clenched, his hands curling into fists at his sides, but Amren only continued, voice dry with amusement. “You don’t like the truth, fine. But don’t act like I said anything you don’t already know.”

She turned back to Feyre then, silver eyes gleaming with something unreadable. “You’ve spent all this time pretending you wanted to help her. But deep down? You wanted to see her suffer. You wanted her to feel as alone as she made you feel. And you let us do the dirty work for you.”

Feyre flinched.

Rhysand stepped closer, his power crackling in the air, but Amren didn’t so much as blink. “You can growl all you want, High Lord,” she said, voice laced with sharp amusement. “But we both know I’m right.”

The room was still tense, thick with everything that had been said, everything that still wasn’t being said. And then, a small voice broke through the silence.

“It was my fault.”

Elain’s voice was quiet, barely above a whisper, but in the heavy stillness of the room, it was deafening.

Everyone turned to her. She stood near the doorway, her arms wrapped around herself, looking smaller than ever. She swallowed, her brown eyes flickering to Feyre before dropping to the floor.

“I was the one who told Nesta about the plan,” she admitted, her voice barely steady. “I— I didn’t mean to, I just—” She took a shaky breath. “I was angry. And I told her. And now—”

She trailed off, shaking her head, as if trying to process everything all over again.

Feyre’s throat tightened. “Elain—no,” she said immediately, shaking her head, stepping forward. “It’s not your fault.”

Something in Elain’s shoulders loosened, and she let out a small breath, as if she had been waiting for Feyre to say those exact words.

But before the moment could settle, Amren let out a sharp, unamused snort.

“Of course it’s your fault,” Amren said flatly, silver eyes gleaming as she crossed her arms. “You couldn’t keep your mouth shut, and now here we are.”

Elain’s face flushed, her fingers curling into the fabric of her dress, but she didn’t argue.

Feyre turned sharply toward Amren, her anger reigniting. “Enough,” she snapped.

But Amren only raised a brow. “Why? Because you don’t want to admit that she did exactly what you didn’t want her to do? That she let Nesta in on the little secret you all kept from her?”

Feyre clenched her jaw, but Amren just let out another scoff.

“None of us are innocent here,” Amren said coolly, looking around at them all. “Not you, not me, not Elain. Not a single damn one of us.”

Cassian finally stepped forward, his broad frame tense, wings tucked tightly against his back. His hazel eyes burned with frustration, but there was something else there too—something pleading.

“It was to help her,” he said, his voice firm, yet softer than it had been all night. “She’ll understand that, Feyre. Eventually, she’ll see that we did what we had to do.”

Feyre turned to him, something like disbelief flashing across her face.

“No, she won’t,” Feyre said, shaking her head. “She won’t understand, Cassian.”

Cassian’s jaw clenched, but Feyre didn’t stop.

“Nesta doesn’t see it that way. She never has. She won’t look at what we did and think, ‘Oh, they were just trying to help me.’ She’ll see it as exactly what it was—a punishment. A choice that was made for her, not with her. A way to control her, to make her into something we were all more comfortable with.”

Her voice wavered slightly, but she pushed on. “And after tonight, after what you all just did, do you really think she’ll ever look back on this and believe it was done out of love?”

Cassian’s hands curled into fists, but he had no response. Because he knew—deep down, he knew—that Feyre was right.

Morrigan exhaled sharply, crossing her arms over her chest as she leaned against the wall. Her golden eyes flicked to Feyre, then to Cassian, and finally, she let out a scoff.

“Good riddance, then.”

The words were casual, dismissive, but they sliced through the already-tense room like a blade.

Feyre’s head snapped toward her, disbelief flashing across her face. “What?”

Morrigan shrugged, her expression impassive. “She’s made her choice. She never wanted to be here anyway. She’s spent the last year making it clear that she wants nothing to do with us, with this court, with you. So fine. Let her go.”

Cassian stiffened, his wings flaring slightly, but he said nothing. Amren merely arched a brow, as if she weren’t surprised by Morrigan’s response.

“You all act like we forced her into misery,” Morrigan continued, her tone sharpening. “Like we held her down and made her suffer. But Nesta was already suffering. We tried. Over and over again, we tried. And she spat in our faces every single time. So if she wants to run off with that girl—if she wants to leave this court—good. She’s not our problem anymore.”

Feyre stared at her, her breath coming short. “How can you say that?”

Morrigan raised a brow. “Because it’s the truth. And I’m sick of pretending otherwise.”

Her words left a chilling silence in their wake, one that settled into the cracks already forming between them. And this time, no one rushed to fill it.

Morrigan shrugged, entirely unbothered by the weight of the silence pressing down on the room. Her golden eyes flicked between them all before she let out a dry laugh.

“Am I wrong?” she asked, her voice deceptively light. “She healed herself, didn’t she? She got better without us. She obviously wants nothing to do with Cassian—I mean, she’s already found herself a new lover, someone who’s more than just a warm bed to her.”

Cassian flinched, just barely, but it was enough.

Morrigan turned toward him now, her sharp gaze locking onto him. “And yet here we are, still talking about her like she’s our responsibility. Like she’s still our problem. But she made her choice, Cassian. She’s done with you. And you’re just sitting here, waiting for what? For her to change her mind?”

Cassian’s jaw clenched, but Morrigan wasn’t finished.

“She’s rotten, Cassian,” Morrigan went on, her voice turning sharper, crueler. “What she’s doing to you—leading you on, using you when it’s convenient, discarding you when she’s had enough—it’s disgusting. And you’re just letting her.”

Cassian finally moved, his wings flaring slightly as he turned to glare at her. “That’s enough, Mor.”

“Is it?” she challenged, tilting her head. “Because I think someone needed to say it. Nesta Archeron takes and takes, and when she’s done, she walks away like none of it ever mattered. And she just did it again.”

Feyre’s breathing was ragged now, her hands shaking at her sides, but Morrigan didn’t seem to care.

“So why are we still standing here pretending like she deserves our sympathy?” Morrigan finished, her voice ringing through the room, leaving behind a silence that felt far too final.

Feyre’s hands were shaking now, her breath coming in sharp, uneven bursts. The fury, the disbelief, the exhaustion of it all was pressing down on her, suffocating her.

“I invited her,” she said, her voice cracking slightly before she forced herself to steady it. “I was trying to mend my relationship with her. I wanted her here, I wanted to talk to her—to try to fix this.”

She turned sharply on Rhysand now, her rage burning anew.

“And you—” she practically seethed, “you didn’t even tell me they were going to be here.”

Rhysand’s violet eyes darkened, but he didn’t flinch. “It was a precaution,” he said smoothly, as if he hadn’t just shattered what little control Feyre had left. “Nesta isn’t stable—”

“Do you really think Nesta would hurt me?” Feyre cut him off, her voice rising, her face twisting with something raw, something wounded.

Rhysand exhaled through his nose, his jaw tightening. “I think Nesta is unpredictable. I think her temper is volatile, and I won’t take any chances when it comes to you—”

“She’s my sister,” Feyre snapped, “not some rabid animal you need to monitor!”

Rhysand didn’t say anything, just looked at her, and the answer was written all over his face.

And it broke something in her.

“You don’t trust her,” Feyre whispered, the weight of it settling in her chest. “You don’t trust her, and you never have.”

Rhysand’s silence was all the confirmation she needed.

Feyre’s breath came fast, her heart pounding in her chest as she stared at Rhysand, at all of them. At the people who claimed they tried with Nesta, who claimed they wanted her to be better, to be part of this family.

But then she thought about it—really thought about it.

Nesta had a life now. A real life. She had a job, a home, a purpose. She was stable enough that she had even paid them back every copper mark of the money she had taken, had forced it into Feyre’s hands despite her protests. She came to Solstice when asked, she showed up when she didn’t have to.

And yet, it still wasn’t enough for them.

“She’s happy,” Feyre breathed, realization slamming into her like a punch to the ribs. “She has a life, a job, she even paid us back for the drinking. She comes to Solstice when I ask her to. What more do you want from her?”

No one answered.

Feyre let out a breathless laugh, shaking her head. “She’s not perfect, but she’s trying. She’s open, she’s—” Her voice wavered, and she had to swallow hard before continuing. “She brought someone she loved around us, and what did we do?”

She looked at all of them, at the silence, at the shame flickering over Cassian’s face, at Morrigan’s crossed arms, at Amren’s cool, unwavering stare, at Rhysand’s carefully measured expression.

“We ruined it,” Feyre said, her voice breaking now. “We ruined everything.”

Even Elain, who had remained quiet for most of the conversation, began to fiddle with her dress, her fingers twisting in the fabric, her lips pressed together like she wanted to say something but didn’t know how. She kept her eyes down, refusing to meet Feyre’s gaze.

Feyre exhaled sharply, her hands shaking at her sides, but she didn’t let herself stop. She couldn’t stop.

“I wanted her to be part of this family,” she said, her voice raw with the weight of it all. “I wanted my sister here. And that’s what she is—Nesta is my sister.”

She turned to look at them, at each of them, her anger barely contained, but underneath it was something deeper, something far more painful.

“The same sister who fought in the war,” Feyre continued, her voice growing stronger, “the same sister who stood before the High Lords and spoke for me when no one else did. The same sister who threw her body over Cassian’s when he was about to die. The same sister who helped kill the King of Hybern when none of you could.”

Silence.

A thick, choking silence.

Even Amren’s expression faltered slightly, a flicker of something unreadable passing through her silver eyes. Morrigan had stopped leaning against the wall, now standing rigid, as if Feyre’s words had knocked something loose inside her.

Amren examined her nails, utterly unbothered by the heavy silence that had settled over the room. She let it stretch, let them sit in it, before she finally spoke, her tone almost bored.

“Speaking of things Nesta did,” she mused, “there’s something else.”

Feyre stiffened, her heart lurching.

Rhysand’s head snapped toward Amren, his voice tight, controlled. “Amren.”

Amren flicked her silver eyes up to him, unimpressed. “What, boy? You were going to say it eventually.”

Feyre’s stomach twisted. “Say what?”

Amren sighed, as if this were all terribly tedious for her, before she finally looked at Feyre directly.

“We need Nesta to scry.”

The words hit Feyre like a slap.

She glanced at Rhysand, at Cassian, at the way neither of them were looking at her, and something cold curled in her stomach.

“You need her to what?” Feyre asked, her voice dangerously quiet. Amren just raised a brow. “You heard me.”

Rhysand let out a long, tired sigh, rubbing his temple as if this conversation had drained him. He glanced at Amren once more, then finally turned to Feyre, his expression carefully measured.

“Amren has been doing some research,” he admitted, his voice low, careful. “She found something about the Dread Trove… something we can’t ignore.”

Feyre crossed her arms. “And what exactly did she find?”

Rhysand inhaled sharply before answering. “Their original maker was the Cauldron. Some of them were created hundreds—thousands—of years ago and were used by various Fae rulers to secure their rule.” His violet eyes darkened slightly as he went on. “Only three of the ancient Trove have survived. The Crown, the Mask, and the Harp. The rest were either lost to time or misplaced.”

A chill ran down Feyre’s spine.

“And?” she pushed.

Rhysand hesitated. Just for a moment.

“And the only two people connected to the Cauldron,” Amren said, finishing for him, her silver eyes gleaming, “are Nesta and Elain.”

Feyre’s stomach turned to ice.

Her gaze flicked to Elain, who had paled considerably, her hands tightening on the fabric of her dress.

“You need her to scry,” Feyre whispered, the words tasting like ash on her tongue.

Rhysand exhaled slowly. “Yes.”

Feyre’s hands curled into fists at her sides, her jaw tightening as she tried to steady her breathing. The weight of what they were saying, of what they were asking, settled heavily over her like a storm ready to break.

“Why?” she demanded, her voice sharp, barely holding back the rage simmering beneath her skin. “Why do you need Nesta to do this?”

Amren let out a sharp sigh, pinching the bridge of her nose before leveling Feyre with an unimpressed look.

“Are you really this stupid?” Amren snapped, her patience wearing thin. “Because your sister—brilliant as always—managed to piss off the human queen Briallyn. And now that wretched girl is after the Trove. If she gets them before we do, we’ll have another war on our hands, one we may not win.”

Feyre’s stomach dropped.

“Briallyn,” she echoed, barely getting the name out.

Rhysand nodded grimly. “She’s been moving in the shadows for some time now. She’s not just after power, Feyre—she’s after revenge. Nesta insulted her, humiliated her, and Briallyn has not forgotten. If she gets her hands on the Trove…” He trailed off, but the implication was clear.

Elain was deathly pale now, her fingers digging into her dress so tightly her knuckles had gone white.

Feyre swallowed, trying to push past the rush of anger, the exhaustion clawing at her.

“So now you want Nesta to fix it,” Feyre said bitterly, shaking her head. “After everything, after tonight, you still expect her to do this for you?”

Amren didn’t even blink.

“She doesn’t have a choice,” Amren said simply. “None of us do.”

Feyre shook her head, her throat tightening as she struggled to contain the sheer exhaustion clawing at her.

“I’m not forcing her,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. Then, louder, more resolute, “I won’t force her.”

She looked at them all—Rhysand, Amren, Cassian, Morrigan—and then finally turned to Elain, whose face was pale, stricken.

“You know what happened last time Nesta scryed,” Feyre said, her voice shaking slightly. “You know what it did to her.”

Elain swallowed hard, but she didn’t look away.

Amren, however, only sighed as if Feyre were the most naive creature in the world. “So? Then we use Elain.”

Elain tensed.

Amren tilted her head, her silver eyes glinting. “We all know Nesta would never allow that. She’d take her place. Willingly.”

Feyre blanched, the blood draining from her face.

“We are not manipulating Nesta,” she snapped, her voice shaking.

Amren just arched a brow. “Aren’t we?”

The words felt like a slap.

Rhysand exhaled sharply, rubbing his temple, but he didn’t deny it. And Feyre—Feyre hated the truth in Amren’s words, hated that they all knew Nesta would never let Elain be the one to suffer. That even after everything, even after all that had been said tonight, Nesta would still choose to protect them.

And now, they were going to use that against her.

Feyre’s fists clenched, her nails biting into her palms. “I’ll ask her,” she said, her voice unwavering. “But if she doesn’t want to do it, then that’s the end of it.”

Amren let out a sharp, amused laugh, shaking her head. “Gods, you really are naive, aren’t you?”

Feyre snapped her head toward her, but before she could say anything, she caught movement from the corner of her eye.

Rhysand.

He wasn’t looking at her. Not directly. His expression was unreadable, his arms crossed, his power curling subtly around him—not in anger, not in disagreement, but in something… calculating.

Feyre’s stomach twisted.

“Rhys,” she said slowly, her voice quieter now, more fragile.

He finally met her eyes, and in that single moment, Feyre knew.

He didn’t oppose it.

He wasn’t against what Amren had just said.

“You would risk war,” Amren mused, her silver eyes gleaming, “just so Nesta gets a precious choice?”

Feyre’s breath hitched.

Because the way Amren said it—the way Rhysand didn’t argue—made it clear. They didn’t intend to give Nesta a choice at all.

Feyre’s hands were shaking, but she lifted her chin, squared her shoulders. The room felt suffocating, filled with the weight of all the unspoken words, of the choices already made without her. Without Nesta.

“I am your High Lady,” she said, her voice ringing through the room, hard and unyielding. “And I am commanding you—Nesta will have a choice. If she says no, that is the end of it. Do you understand me?”

Amren just smiled, sharp and amused, but didn’t argue.

Morrigan’s expression was unreadable.

Elain still looked as if she wanted to sink into the floor.

Cassian had turned away, his jaw tight.

But it was Rhysand Feyre was waiting for.

Her mate, her partner, the one who had always promised her that she was his equal.

Rhysand’s violet eyes darkened, his power crackling faintly in the air. But he didn’t argue, didn’t fight her on it.

“Of course, Feyre darling,” he said smoothly. Too smoothly.

She didn’t trust it.

Didn’t trust any of them.

Feyre swallowed hard, the weight of everything pressing against her chest, constricting her breath. Even as she stood there, back straight, chin lifted, she wasn’t sure if any of them truly heard her—if they truly listened.

And worse than that, she didn’t even know if Nesta would speak to her.

After everything that had happened tonight—after the way they had ripped into her, humiliated her, torn her apart in front of the one person she had been brave enough to bring around them—would Nesta even listen? Would she even let Feyre get a single word out before walking away?

Feyre wouldn’t blame her if she didn’t.

Gods, she wouldn’t blame her.

The memory of Nesta’s face—stone-cold, her blue-gray eyes blazing, not with fury but with something far worse, something like disgust—burned in Feyre’s mind.

Would Nesta even care about what she had to say?

Would she even look at her after tonight?

Feyre let out a slow, shuddering breath, her pulse thrumming in her ears. She knew—gods, she knew—how horribly this had gone. How horribly every attempt had gone.

She had tried. Over and over, she had tried to reach out, to mend what had been broken between them. But every time, it had ended the same way.

Repetitive. Exhausting.

She would offer an olive branch, a quiet invitation, a moment of peace—and something would always happen. Some cutting remark from Nesta, some argument neither of them knew how to stop, some fresh wound torn open that made everything worse.

Or worse than that—the silence.

The unbearable, suffocating silence.

Nesta would shut her out, ice over completely, make Feyre feel like an intruder in her own sister’s presence. And Feyre had stopped knowing what to do with that—had stopped knowing how to fix something that had been shattered so long ago.

And now?

Now, after tonight?

Feyre could feel it in her bones.

This time, there might not be another attempt. This time, Nesta might not let her try again.

Feyre looked at them all, at these people who had stood by her side for so long, the people she had fought for, bled for, nearly died for. And yet, as she met each of their gazes, she felt utterly alone. Like she was speaking to herself, like none of them truly heard her. Like they had already decided what they were going to do, with or without her permission.

“I will ask Nesta,” she said firmly, her voice even, though she felt something inside of her breaking as she spoke. “I will write her a letter. Whether she chooses to respond or not is her choice.”

She could already see the reaction before it came. The barely masked irritation flashing across Amren’s face, the way Morrigan exhaled sharply through her nose, like Feyre was a child clinging to a fantasy. The way Rhysand’s jaw tightened, his fingers curling ever so slightly at his sides. And then, predictably, Amren scoffed, shaking her head in that way she always did when she thought Feyre was being unreasonable.

“We don’t have time for letters,” Amren said coolly, folding her arms as if the matter was already settled. “This isn’t a social call, girl. Briallyn is moving now. We can’t sit around and wait for Nesta to make up her mind.”

Feyre’s temper flared, sharp and sudden, and she snapped her gaze toward Amren, glared at her, at all of them.

“I don’t care how much time we have,” she said, her voice no longer calm, no longer controlled. “Whether she chooses to respond or not is her decision. Not ours. Not yours. Not mine. Hers.”

Amren only arched a brow, but before she could respond, Rhysand spoke, his voice measured, steady, but with an undeniable edge.

“This is war, Feyre,” Rhysand said, and something in his voice made the hair on her arms rise. “And war doesn’t wait for people to make choices. You know that better than anyone.”

Feyre’s throat tightened, but she didn’t budge.

“And yet, you will wait,” she said, lifting her chin, daring him to argue. “Because I am your High Lady, and I am telling you that this is how we will do it. We will ask her. We will give her the choice you have all so clearly tried to take from her. And if she refuses, that is the end of it.”

Rhysand held her gaze, the room silent around them, the weight of her words hanging between them like a blade.

He didn’t like it.

He didn’t agree.

But Feyre had drawn her line, and this time, she would not let them cross it.

Though now, she didn’t care if Rhysand agreed.

Tag list: @litnerdwrites @viajandopelomar @wolfinsocks

[merwgue]

The Night Court in A Court of Thorns and Roses is portrayed as a place of freedom and opportunity, especially within the city of Velaris. However, beneath this veneer of liberty lies a dictatorship, one that controls and manipulates its subjects to maintain Rhysand’s hold on power. The stark contrast between Velaris and the rest of the Night Court, particularly Hewn City and the Illyrian camps, highlights how Rhysand’s rule is not as benevolent as it appears. This essay will delve into the ways Rhysand’s leadership functions as a dictatorship, exploring his control over his people, his manipulation of his Inner Circle, and the lack of true freedom within the Night Court.

Control Through Manipulation

Rhysand is often hailed as the epitome of a “good” High Lord because he allows for personal freedoms within Velaris, but his rule over the rest of the Night Court paints a different picture. His dictatorship is most evident in the way he exerts control over his subjects through manipulation and fear, especially in Hewn City and the Illyrian camps.

In Hewn City, the people live in a state of oppression, fear, and isolation. The citizens of Hewn are not allowed to enter Velaris—the so-called “City of Starlight”—because they are deemed unworthy. This segregation is a form of control, ensuring that only those Rhysand deems “good” enough can experience the supposed freedom of Velaris. It's crucial to note that Rhysand does not provide any opportunity for the people of Hewn City to change or rise above their circumstances. Their exclusion from Velaris creates a class divide that mirrors the structures of totalitarian regimes, where one group of people is favored and others are subjugated.

Moreover, the way Hewn City is governed is particularly telling. Rhysand claims to despise the Court of Nightmares, yet he allows it to continue operating under the rule of his father’s cruel and oppressive steward, Keir. By permitting this, Rhysand creates a convenient scapegoat. While he distances himself from the atrocities of Hewn City, he still benefits from the power structure in place, maintaining a balance of fear and control that ensures Keir’s loyalty without directly dirtying his hands. This hands-off approach to brutality is characteristic of dictatorships that allow local tyrants to terrorize the population, creating an environment of fear while the dictator maintains a benevolent façade.

Rhysand’s treatment of the Illyrians further illustrates his dictatorial tendencies. He controls the Illyrian warriors through the threat of violence and punitive measures, such as when he punishes them en masse after they refuse to comply with his orders to stop clipping the wings of female Illyrians. Instead of working with the Illyrians to build trust and create real change, Rhysand chooses to rule through fear. His brutality toward his own people, even if it’s framed as “necessary,” showcases his authoritarian rule. The problem of clipped wings goes beyond physical abuse—it's a systemic issue that requires more than just punishment. However, Rhysand does little to address the root of the problem, instead opting to control the Illyrians through fear of his power.

Segregation of Velaris and False Freedom

Velaris is often presented as a utopia within the series, a place where everyone is free to live their lives in peace and happiness. However, the freedom offered within Velaris is illusory. Only a select few are allowed to enjoy the privileges of this city. By keeping Velaris hidden from the rest of the Night Court and the other courts, Rhysand ensures that this “freedom” remains inaccessible to most of his subjects. The people of Hewn City and the Illyrian camps are barred from entering Velaris, creating a stark divide between those deemed worthy of freedom and those left to suffer under oppressive rule. This is a form of control—if the people of Velaris are the only ones benefiting from Rhysand’s rule, they are more likely to remain loyal, while the others remain oppressed.

Furthermore, even within Velaris, true freedom is limited. Rhysand’s Inner Circle, who serve as his closest advisers, are loyal to him above all else. Their loyalty is so strong that they often suppress their own needs and desires to maintain the status quo. This is particularly evident in Feyre’s interactions with them. Though they are welcoming, their loyalty to Rhysand is unquestionable, which creates an environment where dissent is impossible. Even if someone within the Inner Circle wanted to challenge Rhysand, it’s clear that they would never act against him. This kind of unquestioning loyalty is a hallmark of dictatorial regimes, where those in power surround themselves with individuals who will never challenge them.

Moreover, Rhysand exerts subtle control over Feyre, especially in her early days in the Night Court. When Feyre is first introduced to Velaris, she is isolated from her old life, particularly her friendships with Lucien and Tamlin. Rhysand subtly undermines her relationships with these characters, ensuring that Feyre becomes more and more reliant on him and his Inner Circle for support. While Feyre’s alienation from her past is presented as her growing into her power and finding her place, it’s also a form of control. By isolating Feyre and making her dependent on him, Rhysand ensures her loyalty and obedience, even as he presents himself as offering her freedom.

The Dictatorship of the Inner Circle

The Inner Circle functions as Rhysand’s elite group of enforcers, each of whom plays a role in maintaining his control over the Night Court. This group is fiercely loyal to Rhysand, and while they are portrayed as having close, familial bonds, their relationships with him are more complicated. They are bound to him by duty, power, and past trauma, and while they may not always agree with him, they rarely act against his will.

Take Mor, for instance. Mor is Rhysand’s third-in-command, a powerful female who plays a key role in maintaining order in the Night Court. However, even Mor, who is shown to be incredibly strong and independent, remains deeply tied to Rhysand. Her loyalty to him is unwavering, even when it means sacrificing her own emotional wellbeing, such as in her complicated relationship with Azriel. In this way, Mor is part of a system that prevents any real dissent from occurring within the Night Court. If even someone as strong-willed as Mor won’t act against Rhysand, it creates a chilling effect for anyone else who might challenge his rule.

Similarly, Cassian and Azriel, despite their personal feelings and desires, always put their loyalty to Rhysand above all else. They serve as his military commanders, enforcing his will in Illyria and beyond. Their loyalty is rewarded with power and status, but it also binds them to Rhysand’s rule. This dynamic is reminiscent of dictatorships where military leaders are rewarded for their loyalty, ensuring that they remain loyal to the regime instead of acting as a check on power.

Rhysand’s control over the Inner Circle is particularly evident in his handling of Feyre’s pregnancy in A Court of Silver Flames. Despite the clear danger to Feyre’s life, Rhysand withholds crucial information about her condition from her. His decision to keep this information secret, along with the complicity of the Inner Circle, is a form of manipulation and control. Even though this decision is framed as an act of love, it reveals the extent of Rhysand’s need for control over those closest to him. He makes decisions on behalf of others, even when it involves life and death, without allowing them the agency to make their own choices. This is not freedom—this is control masquerading as care.

A False Democracy

The Night Court is often presented as a more progressive alternative to the other courts in Prythian, but the reality is far different. Rhysand’s regime is not a democracy. It’s a dictatorship, one that hides behind the illusion of freedom and progressivism. Velaris, the shining city, is kept separate from the rest of the Night Court, and only a select few are allowed to enjoy its benefits. The rest of the Night Court is ruled through fear, manipulation, and violence.

In contrast, the Autumn Court, ruled by Beron Vanserra, is at least honest about its autocratic nature. There are no pretenses of freedom or equality in the Autumn Court—it is a place where power is maintained through fear and strength, and everyone knows it. In this way, the Autumn Court is more transparent than the Night Court. While Beron’s rule is cruel and oppressive, it is not hidden behind a façade of benevolence. The Night Court’s claim to be a place of freedom and opportunity is false advertising, a way to maintain Rhysand’s power while silencing any dissent.

Conclusion

The Night Court is not the bastion of freedom it claims to be. Rhysand’s rule is built on manipulation, control, and fear, and his so-called “freedom” only extends to those who are willing to submit to his authority. The people of Hewn City and the Illyrian camps suffer under his rule, while Velaris remains a gated utopia for the chosen few. Rhysand’s Inner Circle, though powerful, is bound to him through loyalty and duty, ensuring that no one ever challenges his decisions. The Night Court is not a democracy—it’s a dictatorship, one that hides behind the illusion of freedom and progressivism while perpetuating inequality and oppression.

I just got back from college so its not all that good but I hope you like it 🥹 @tamlindudley

[geniemillies]

something very diabolical with the inner circle thinking a child's worst crime is letting their younger sibling hunt ever since they were children but the ic will go on and let little illyrian children beat each other and get punished if they ever misbehave. it's normal apparently. oh and their only purpose is to be weapons for war, hurry children pick that sword up and fight 👏👏. children of velaris? playing hopscotch. aw 😊. children of hewn city? evil incarnate 👿. no sunlight for them. their worst crime? being born in the wrong court. hurry tell the velaris vendors to REFUSE SERVICE TO ANYONE AND—💥💥💥💥

[bonecarversbestie]

My biggest beef with the Inner Circle is how they feel so entitled to information that impacts ALL of Prythian. And they hoard secrets and powerful artefacts like they’re the only ones responsible or trustworthy enough to handle them. For someone who says he doesn’t want to be high king Rhys sure acts like he rules all of prythian. 🙄

Maybe that’s how being high lord works but it’s just the superiority complex of it all.

Examples

Azriel spying on literally everyone (I know it’s his job but it just feels like there’s no privacy in this court and they want it that way. If ANY other person outside the IC has information they don’t, they want it. Secrets are for NC only 🙅‍♀️. No one else is allowed to make plans to save the world)

Location of the cauldron(it should be secret but why does it get to be the night courts secret? I think they should have let Tarquin decide tbh)

The whole search for the book of breathings (as if the war that was starting didn’t affect everyone. They considered just asking Tarquin and they should have.)

The existence and location of the trove (again why do they deserve to be the only ones who hold this knowledge)

Keeping Nestas weapons from her (they belong to her and no one else has any right to them. I’ll die on this hill)

Luciens paternity (though I’m pretty sure he already knows. But it’s the fact that feyre wouldn’t tell her friend this life altering information for literally no good reason)

Even Rhys and Feyre keeping their stupid death pact a secret is so selfish. Bc if they both died with no heir who becomes high lord? Kier? Seems like a shitty surprise to leave your mourning court.

[bellavida-loll]

I'll start

Tamlin is the most lovable high lord. He and Rhysand are the only ones we get insight into the lives of, and I have to say I much prefer fiddle playing and limerick writing to whatever it is Rhysand does apart from bang, drink and gamble. His hobbies are just so cute, like him!

Secondly, he's so much sweeter. Rhysand actively withheld information from Feyre that literally meant the end of her life. Rhysand explained away all he did to her under the mountain without so much as a sorry. Rhysand made her into the very thing she said she hated at the beginning of the series- a domesticated, crown-wearing breeding machine.

But Tamlin? All he ever did was try to protect her. He might have gone about it in a better way, but he was going through his own stuff too. Locking her in the house might have aggravated her trauma, but he had no way to know that would happen-because unlike rhystupidslut he does not have direct access to her brain. I can promise you he wouldn't have gotten Feyre without being a daemati- after all the powers don't seem to have any actual use. Tam baby did nothing that would warrant Feyre choosing the tear-licking predator with an Oedipus complex over the cute lord with a lute.

That's all for now, might add more later. Y'all have anything else to add?