#but i also like how it shows a little bit of how he's had courtly etiquette hammered into him

[luckyricochet]

"Gloire au grand défenseur de la liberté." "Charles. De quelle taverne avez-vous été jeté aujourd'hui?" "Aucune. Mais il est encore tôt. Quand partez-vous sauver l'Amerique?" "D'un jour à l'autre, le cour m'honore d'une commission."

THÉODORE PELLERIN as GILBERT DU MOTIER, THE MARQUIS DE LAFAYETTE

EVERY LAFAYETTE SCENE, 7/? ✧ 1x02, FRANKLIN (2024)

[arabellasleopardcoat]

Threefold cord (Daemon Targaryen x Reader)

Summary: Daemon’s wife is presumed dead. But is she?

A/N: Blue beard, to finish my Halloween celebration because I cannot write on schedule. Also @just-some-random-blogger look! The fic I told you about.

Warnings: Hightower!reader x Daemon. Smut. Alicent, Gwayne and reader as siblings. Death of Rhea Royce. Happy ending!

“ARE YOU TRULY about to wed him?” You set your teacup down on its saucer. When your father had summoned you to the capital, you had known it was important news. But Alicent becoming a Queen? It surpassed everything you had imagined.

Your father wanted to make sure you were there to witness her triumph. Alicent lacked allies in court, beyond the Princess. And that relationship would sour as soon as the other girl heard just who her father was to wed.

Alicent was too naive to see it. Or purposefully blind. She claimed to not know what she had been doing when visiting the King, too. You guessed the thought made it easier to bear for her.

You didn’t blame her. King Viserys was old and beginning to show signs of being sickly. The thought of offering yourself to such a man, twice your age, on your father’s orders, wasn’t pleasant. You would rather pretend you were just being kind.

“It is for the best. Father says that he…” Alicent begins justifying her actions, and you tune out. You know it will just be a repetition of your father’s lectures. Duty. Bearing children. Women knowing their place.

You pitied her, for believing in his bullshit. It wasn’t as if either of you could escape your fate, but you at least tried not to lower yourself into thinking you were a lesser, gentler being, made to be bred. Instead, you enjoyed thinking you were a person. Just as human as any man, just as smart, just as strong. Only one trapped by your status as a noblewoman.

You sip at your tea. You are cautious not to make a sound when doing so, and not take too big of a sip. Anyone who gazes at your courtly smile and comely manners would not guess your innermost thoughts.

Alicent continues her tirade, describing animatedly how much she wants to do her duty and birth children. How she knows her body will not fail her as it did for the late Queen. She has an unfortunate thirst for proving herself, your eldest sister.

“And King Viserys asked me about you, the other day. He would like for you to marry Prince Daemon…”

The tea you are drinking goes down the wrong way. You start coughing, and have to hurriedly set down your teacup as to not burn yourself.

“Excuse me?” You say, once the coughing fit subsides a bit, and you are able to wipe your mouth with a napkin. “I will… What? Does father know of this?”

She looks at you, concerned, but says nothing about it. She pours herself another cup of tea.

“Prince Daemon’s wife has been missing for a while. They think she might have…” Alicent leans in, voice lowering. You are in the Tower of the Hand, surrounded by men loyal to your father, and yet she feels she cannot say it freely. You wonder what has Lady Royce done to scandalize her such. “Ran away. With a lover.”

“You prude!” You laugh. You had thought it much worse. “She wouldn’t be the first woman to do so, don’t be nai…”

“A female one.” Alicent interrupts, setting down her own teacup. The movement is a bit harsh, making the porcelain screech.

You open and close your mouth. You had not known that was even a possibility.

“How does one..?”

“Be as it may…” She raises a hand, halting you. “Father says you shall marry him, if he finds you agreeable.”

There was not much you knew about politics, but you were pretty sure the Prince despised your father and your house by extension. You doubted he would find you agreeable. Your father would doubt it too, but he was too blinded by the hope of getting Runestone.

Lady Royce had no heir. Her castle had gone to Daemon, the King needing little convincing to award it to his beloved brother. Imagining all that bronze in your hands, in House Hightower’s hands, would have him salivating. At getting his enemy away from court? That was only an unexpected bonus. If the man liked you and decided he wanted to play Come-into-my-castle with you, you were sure your father would dance a gig.

You wouldn’t. If it did happen… You shuddered, thinking of the man with the lecherous grin, always whoring. Twice your age, and crass as they came. The only times you had crossed paths, he had been busy ogling Alicent or his niece.

“I am not marrying him.”

Alicent frowns at you. Her eyes turn sad. When she gets contradicted, she looks much like a kicked puppy.

“I have never met him.” You explain, feeling guilty over upsetting her. She is just so much like your father, sometimes. It angers you, even when you know it is not her fault. She doesn’t have the same anger in her veins as you do. All she ever wanted was to please your father.

“He is looking for a wife, and King Viserys thinks it would be marvelous if you married him. I have told him all about you.” Alicent sounds excited about the whole thing, and just… No. You do not want to marry a man twice your age. Gross. Her tone turns softer. “I think it would be nice. To belong to the same House even after marriage. To be never parted from my sister.”

The want in her expression makes you soften. It is not often that Alicent admits to desiring anything, and you do not wish to discourage her.

“I’ll meet him.” You decide. “Just that.”

“Oh, how wonderful!”

And the Seven bless her, she actually seems delighted to hear it.

THE WEDDING IS awfully dull. The Septon drones on and on about the Mother and the Father, and the duties of marriage. Alicent looks stunning in her silk gown, beautiful but modest. It is no use. People already speak of what she has done to trap the King into marriage.

Princess Rhaenyra keeps sending her glares during the feast. Sometimes in anger, sometimes in hurt. She is not quite sure what to feel. You can tell from the way she pauses when looking at Alicent. You pity her too.

Losing a mother is a terrible thing. You can only imagine how much it hurts to see her replaced by a girl your own age.

The Princess is a woman who has everything and yet, it's still a woman. No power to stop her father from bedding her best friend, no power to change anything at all. The realization of her powerlessness is clear in her features.

In contrast, you doubt you have ever seen your father this happy. Ever. He is alight with pride. As if throwing his daughter to an old man is some great accomplishment. He has spared no expense on this wedding, the ceremony and feast lavish in a way that feels almost tasteless.

The pomp and luxuries have you feeling morose. You sip at your hippocras, tucked into a corner of the high table, and try to pretend you are invisible. Gwayne has left you far too soon, off to dance with some ladies.

He has always been the courteous sort, just like you. You enjoy watching him charm the ladies, and enjoy more the fact that he hasn’t tried to drag you to the dance floor.

For that, you are grateful. Some ladies are lively and dance as if gliding through water. You do not. Dancing had not been on the list of abilities you had acquired during your etiquette lessons.

It had always felt like peacocking to you. Showing yourself to others, showing how pretty you smiled, how graceful you were. The attention it brought made you uncomfortable. You much preferred blending in.

“Strange choice of drink you have there.” Prince Daemon says, sitting across from you. “Even stranger that you are still sitting at your sister's wedding.”

“I could say the same.” You reply, colder than you planned to. The hippocras is hitting you already, making your temper shorter. You have little interest in Daemon Targaryen.

There is a secret plan in your head. When you reach thirty, you will claim a sudden awakening of Faith and retire to the comforts of life as a Septa. You have done enough charity to know that Septas don’t do as much as they like people to think. The only thing you will miss will be the alcohol.

“Ah, but I am just sitting now.” He idly reaches for the carafe of hippocras you are monopolizing, and serves himself a goblet. “Is this any good?”

“At least it’s not dornish swill.” Dornish wine has to be the worst thing you have ever tasted, not even fit for pigs. Bitter and watery, the mere thought annoys you.

Prince Daemon barks out a laughter.

“Good Gods, where was Otto hiding you?”

“Probably in the same place as your decency.”

“Thread carefully.” Daemon’s expression turns far colder. His hand tightens around the stem of his goblet. “I might like your cheek, but I am still a prince of the realm.”

“One soon to be displaced.” You toast. A bit of hippocras spills from your goblet. You are far too drunk to care about his thoughts. “Be it by my nephews or your niece.”

His face reddens.

“Bitch.” He spits the word from clenched teeth. You laugh loudly.

“Knave.”

“You are an insolent little thing, aren’t you?” Daemon snarls, leaning over the table as if to throttle you. Drunk as you are, you don’t feel any fear. You have just enough rational thoughts left to believe you will be alright, since even the darkened corner you have chosen to sit in is too public for him to murder you without repercussions.

“I am small but fierce.”

“I can see that. Do all Hightower cunts have teeth?”

You smile at him, lazy and warm from the drinks you have had.

“I don’t know, care to find out?”

And Daemon laughs. He asks you to dance instead. As he twirls you and dips you, you come to find he is not bad company after all. And if you laugh a tad more than necessary, and accept his offer to walk the gardens the next afternoon, no one can blame you.

“IT IS BUT a couple of days.” Daemon says to you, softly. You lay on your stomach, head propped up on your arms. You twist your head just so to force him to see your sad little pout.

His hand comes to rub at your shoulders, as if you were a spooked horse he is trying to soothe. His touch is warm and calming against your bare skin.

“I’ll be back before you know it.”

He has soothed you into complacency, this husband of yours. He allows you to indulge in fine wines, and be as frivolous as you wish. The only thing he asks of you is that you are warm and willing when he is. It is no chore.

Long gone is your rage. Now, you exist in a perfect bubble, where no one constricts your freedom. There is no screeching father to tell you that you are a disaster, nor is there a horrified Alicent. Instead, Daemon encourages all your eccentricities, and teaches you some new ones.

“Will you?” You roll on your side, stretching. You have done nothing today, not even dress. Daemon and you have spent the whole morning tangled in each other, warm and naked.

He smiles. That same grin that had once seemed so lecherous to you, now looks inviting.

You bite your lower lip, already anticipating what is to come.

“Minx.” Daemon laughs, before leaning in to press an open-mouthed kiss to your shoulder. The contact of his lips against your skin makes you shiver, a delicate sigh leaving you. “You won’t even notice I am gone.”

“Of course I will.” You whine, as he kisses a path down your spine. “Who will bring me such pleasure?”

A sudden, sharp pain on your arse makes you yelp and sit up. Daemon smirks, and feigns taking another bite out of you.

“You are so spoiled.” He laughs. “Cannot take even a little pain. I’ll leave you some coin, and you can invite your sister to keep you company. How does it sound?”

“Think the King can spare his Queen?” You have not seen your sister since your wedding. The ravens fly fast enough that you know the news already, but you doubt King Viserys will allow her to be out of his sight for long. Not when pregnant.

Daemon nips at your thigh. You jerk, but he coaxes you back into laying on your stomach.

“Before she gets too round to travel, yes. In a few moons, it will have to be us making the trip.”

“Gods, I hate babes.”

“So do I.” He rubs at your inner thigh, slowly prying your legs open. “So? Is my spoiled wife happy?”

“Very.” You rub your face in the pillow, all kittenish. You like being called his. “Do I get the keys of the castle, too?”

Daemon kisses the place where your thigh meets your arse. You can feel his smile against your skin, promising sin.

“Of course. Just don’t go into the room with the red door, alright? I forbid it.”

“You do?” You challenge, thinking it part of the game. So far, you have yet to explore all of Runestone, always too entertained by him to do so. There are a few rooms he is cagey about, but you have always blamed it on Daemon being very private and needing his space. He has never allowed you into his personal library, either. Says you would ruin the books.

You have never minded it. You understand your place here, the dumb young wife. Men never like thinking the woman they are with can be more interesting than them. To think you can also have an interest in books, apart from being frivolous, would be too much for him to handle.

The warning about the red door only registers to you as part of the games you usually play in the bedroom. Something he can punish you about later on, something that might excuse a round of rough lovemaking.

But his expression turns into a frightening mask of utter rage. He pinches you in the thigh, and this time, it really hurts.

“Fuck!” You cry out, fighting his hold. His grip has turned from the sweetest chains into unforgiving iron around your hips. You cannot move. Not even as he slaps your thigh, hard enough to make your eyes water. “Daemon, what the..?”

“I mean it.” He is cruel about it, slapping again the stinging flesh. “I do not want you in there. If you disobey, I’ll know.”

You stare at him, open-mouthed, You cannot comprehend how fast he has flipped, from kind lover to whatever this is. The rogue Prince is mercurial, you think, echoing the letter your father had once written complaining about him, his moods dangerous.

“Fine!” You cry out, desperate to evict this creature that has taken sudden hold of your husband’s body. “Fine! No opening the red door.”

Daemon softens then. His shoulders slump, and his face goes back into a mask of devotion.

“I just don’t want anything to happen to you.” He presses a kiss to your thigh, to the place he slapped. You tense. “It is dangerous for you. Like the Moondoor in The Eyrie.”

Yet, as his touch turns back into loving, you do not forget. There is something about what lies beyond that red door that turns him into a monster. A creature capable of hurting even you.

You intend to find out what it is.

THE FORTNIGHT SPENT with Alicent is by far, the best of your life. Runestone is grand, with intricate tapestries and artwork decorating the walls. Your sister has always loved art, and the time spent surrounded by beautiful things seems to rejuvenate her.

Her pregnancy appears to be easy and without fuzz. There is no nausea preventing her from having as many lemon cakes as you two wish, or from exploring the Vale’s markets, trying on dresses and tasting expensive food.

The money Daemon has left you is enough to fund your shopping sprees. You have so much fun, running in the halls and trying on dresses, it feels as if you are little girls again. The only thing missing from your childhood is Gwayne.

So you send for him.

Despite how much joy your time spent with your sister brings you, you cannot shake the thought about the red door.

It is situated in one of the towers, near the place where Daemon keeps his books. You pass by it daily, for Alicent’s rooms have been placed in the same tower. Housing a Queen is no easy task, much less when she carries the heir to the Iron Throne inside her. She had come with servants and guards, who had to be housed too. There was no space but that tower.

That tower. Each time you pass it, you have to clench your fists hard to stop yourself from reaching towards it. Every time you open a door, your hands linger on the only key you will never use.

What lies behind the red door? What can possibly upset your husband such and change him from a careless hedonist into a violent man?

When no one is near, you kneel by the door and try to look through the keyhole. The lock on the door is old and smells faintly of iron. The only thing you can see looking through the keyhole is rust.

Trying to look under the door gives you the same results. Rust and iron, and a nagging curiosity that will not leave you alone.

You try to forget about it. You owe obedience to your husband, and you remember all too well the tale of the woman who owned a jar that should never be opened. It had been a favorite of your father during your youth.

A wife must never pry. For she might find something she doesn’t like.

Yet, when you think of Daemon grabbing you hard enough to bruise, you realize you already have found something you do not like. It is that thought what helps you make up your mind. One afternoon, when Alicent claims to be too tired to keep you company, you decide to open the door.

Your hands are slick with sweat, and shaking so much it takes you two tries to fit the key into the keyhole. Your heart feels like it will leap out of your chest. Suddenly, you are paralyzed.

You cannot turn the key. Your hands have gone rigid. Your fear overwhelms you. What could possibly be in here, if not a terrible secret?

You turn it. The lock clicks, and the door gives with an ominous creak. You step inside, as careful as you can. The floor is slick and sticky. When you look down, your shoes and the hem of your gown are tinted red.

You scream. You turn towards the walls, only to find more blood. Bloodied rags, stains, a bloodied dagger. You begin to feel lightheaded. When you stumble towards a corner, you see her.

A corpse of a woman, hugging her knees to her chest. Her body is rotting, half of her face gone, but enough of it remaining so you can see that it has frozen in an expression of utter horror, much like your own. She wears a rune covered armor, and has several cuts all over.

This time, you fall down. The keys slip from your grip, and you scream so loud, you are sure you wake the whole castle.

The missing Rhea Royce.

“Good gods!” Alicent cries out, behind you. You stumble to your feet, terrified. She cannot see it. Daemon… Daemon was going to kill you both. “What is this? By the Seven, is that..?”

“He is going to kill me.” You say, wiping the blood clinging to your hands on your dress. You try to clean the keys as well, but the stain won’t come out. No matter how hard you try. “He’ll know.”

“He is not going to, we can go to the King, and I am sure there is…” Alicent sounds horrified. She lingers on the doorstep, already on her nightshirt. Her belly is barely beginning to show.

“Alicent!” You say, sharply. “He’ll know. You have to run, Alicent. He will kill us both.”

“And leave you to die?” Your sister sounds indignant. “I cannot. You cannot…”

You cannot run, you wish to say. You cannot because if you do, Daemon will know even quicker, and chase you both. If you stay, maybe you can fool him. Or at least, give your sister a fighting chance.

“Please!” You cry. “Do it for the babe.”

Alicent’s lips turn white from the force she uses to keep them closed. She looks into your eyes, and hesitates. You fear she might not go through it.

“Go!” You cry, slipping on all the blood.

And Alicent, big brown eyes wide, hikes up her skirts and runs.

DAEMON NOTICES AS soon as he asks for the keys. You have never been a good liar, and the blood still stains them. When handing them over, you shake.

His smile drops. He no longer is the happy husband, but the creature that had frightened you the other night. The creature that had killed Rhea Royce, and took her lands.

“You couldn’t leave it alone, could you?” He grabs you by the neck, snarling.“I told you to leave it alone.”

Your pulse begins to race. You cannot speak, and you can only take shallow breaths. Your panic must show on your face because Daemon smiles at you, coldly. He squeezes a tad harder, enough to cut off your breath.

You gasp. It comes out more like a choked hiccup.

“Look at what you are making me do.” When you are starting to feel lightheaded, breath coming out in desperate wheezes, Daemon gives you a shove. “I never wanted to do this. This is all your fault.”

“You don’t have to kill me.” You plead, voice shaking. “I’ll keep your secret.”

Daemon looks at you, and laughs.

“I assure you, I have not gotten away with it this long because I believe every pretty thing telling me they will keep their mouths shut.”

Your eyes widen. The phrasing is strange. Every pretty thing…

“There had been others?” Daemon scoffs at your question, but doesn’t answer. You look into his eyes, and try pleading once more. At this point, tears are streaming down your cheeks. You are sure you make a very pathetic sight. “Just… Don’t kill me.”

“Good Gods. Are all Hightowers this dumb or is it you and Aliwhore?” Daemon grasps your face, roughly. You cannot believe your ears. Where is all this hatred coming from? It seems like the man you loved, the one that had courted you for endless summer days, is gone. All that is left is his profound hatred for you and your family. Had he only pretended not to hate you, and was showing his true colors now? “At least die with some dignity, you pathetic cunt.”

Dignity. Dignity could buy you time. You need it, to think of a way to survive.

“Allow me to pray, then. To make my peace with my death.”

Prayer wasn’t your strong forte. But you guessed you could possibly buy an hour with it. You had never been as devout as your siblings, but you could pretend well enough to fill the time as you tried to make your own miracle happen.

Daemon studies your expression closely. He tilts your head up and down, and then gives you a patronizing little pat on the cheek.

“Fine.” He spits out. “Pray. Only a few minutes, not a second more.”

You walk past him, intent on going back to the tower where a statue of the Mother stands. You watch his face carefully when you pass by him, worried he is only toying with you and has no true intention of allowing you to pray in solitude. But he doesn’t stop you.

You make your way to the highest tower, kneel by the feet of the statue and weep. Your weakness only lasts you a moment because when you lift your gaze, you catch sight of a green standard approaching the gates.

Could that be..?

“Are you done?” Daemon asks, from behind the closed door. You can hear the drag of steel against steel, and picture him in your mind’s eye. Taking Dark Sister out of her sheath, face full of bloodlust.

“Just a minute more.” You beg, watching the rider stop at the gates and being allowed in by the guards. “Don’t kill me, please! Not yet!” You cry out, as loud as you can, hoping your voice carries.

Daemon bursts in, Dark Sister held by his side. His smile is cold, his face the image of calm. One would never guess he is about to kill someone by watching his expression. You notice the dagger he carries at his hip, but do not dare to try to take it. Not when Dark Sister’s reach is much longer.

“Oh, spare me the hysterics. More prayer will not spare you.” He lunges at you, and you evade him, but there are only so many places one can run to in a small room. Daemon catches you by wrapping your braid in his hand, giving you a harsh tug that makes you tumble down. You scream.

“Shut up. Seven Hells, quiet.” Daemon places the sword at your throat. “You will…”

The door is thrown open by a kick, the loud bang startling him and making his grip falter.

“She will do nothing.” Gwayne says, firmly. You can see Alicent standing behind him, wrenching her hands together. You have never been more grateful to see them. “Or I’ll gut you like a fish.”

“Oh?” Daemon shoves you. You do not fight his push, laying limply on the floor. He turns towards Gwayne, sword no longer focused on you. “You think you can beat me, boy?”

Gwayne cannot. He had lost to him in a tourney not even six months before. You do not hesitate. You grab the dagger at Daemon’s hip and stab him in the stomach, hard. And you do it again, and again, until your hands and face are covered in blood, and Daemon does no longer move.

You look up at your siblings, then. Alicent’s face is horrified, but when she senses your eyes on her, she smooths down her expression. Gwayne watches with vague interest. At some point, he seems to have taken Dark Sister from Daemon’s hand because he now holds it.

The three of you stare at each other. The blood on your hands is rapidly cooling and turning sticky. You wipe your hands on your dress.

You had thought you would feel something if you killed another person. Instead, you only feel numb. Empty. Daemon is gone, and so are his things. His kisses, his threats, the monster that lurked beneath.

It’s Alcent who first speaks, face pale. “The red room. We need to get to work.”

By the end of it, it is as if he never came home at all. The three of you hug, on the brink of tears. Another string tied you now, beyond the sibling bond. The man you had murdered, and the duty to forget him.

[annwrites]

— gwayne hightower quotes ⊱⚜⊰ | the fox & the flower

❝I’m most adept at acquiring secrets from comely young maidens. I’ve yet to meet one which is a match for my silver tongue.❞

❝Would you care to dance? I’ve a difficult time believing you decided to attend merely to spectate. And to let a jewel as rare as you stand to the side as a wallflower all night would be a waste indeed.❞

❝So,❞ he says. ❝It is up to us to be whomever we wish to be tonight. To make our story as we want it. Tell me, my lovely lady, who are you?❞

❝It seems to me we should make the absolute most of this evening we share, then, should we not? Before you are stolen away from me come the morn.❞

❝And I do not intend to part with my quarry until she disappears into a fit of white feathers, leaving me heartbroken and yearning once more.❞

❝I've yet to hear a complaint in regards to my...chivalrous nature. I do so love to tend to damsels in distress.❞

❝I would never harm a woman. Nothing occurs between us tonight that you do not wish. I give you my word. I want only those who want me in return.❞

❝Have you ever considered allowing those perfect feathers to be ruffled, my little swan maiden?❞

❝There are other lips I might pleasure on your body.❞

❝It is just the two of us. I wish for tonight to be all you want it to.❞

❝Let me touch you. I beg of you.❞ (...) ❝Let me please you. End my agony, My Lady.❞

❝There you are, darling, show yourself to me. Allow me to see it. Let me watch you.❞

❝Gods, you are magnificent, aren't you? An astounding spectacle to behold, My Lady.❞

❝I must know who you are. Who it is which I've held in my arms all night. Who it is that I've had the pleasure of pleasing by mine own hand.❞

❝I make you this solemn vow, My Lady: I will guard the secret which is your identity with all that I am. That this night—our brief love story—shall follow me to my grave. None shall know, I assure you. You've my word. And my word is my bond.❞

❝Pleasure to meet you, niece.❞

❝What a prize it is.❞

❝May I not look upon beautiful things?❞

❝I’d considered that, perhaps, I might keep you warm. It would be a great travesty for my darling niece to catch cold while under my protection, would it not? And so early in her trip, at that.❞

❝Perhaps we just allow ourselves a bit of indulgence, just as we did that night.❞ (...) ❝Nothing more than…courtly romance. All very prim and proper, for your sake, of course—I know how precious your virtue is—just enough to titillate.❞

❝I fancy you. I cannot…move past that evening. How we met. Who I initially thought you to be. I know you are my niece. I do. I just…instead choose to see you as a comely young woman who brings me joy. And I merely wish to return the favor and the feelings you stir within me.❞

❝No. You are my niece. My family. My blood.❞ (...) ❝My princess. But also a woman who takes my breath away. Who, despite my absolute best efforts, I cannot manage to get out of my fucking head. All I do is want for you.❞

❝It is not as if I have any shortage of female suitors. But… They, like with your own, see me for what I am. Not whom. A man of a great house, son of the Hand of the King, brother to the queen, a gallant knight who has won many a joust, a future statesman. The list rows on.❞ (...) ❝But when I am with you… For the first time in all my life, I am merely Gwayne. Mayhaps uncle as well, but that is it. A familial bond is far more meaningful to me than a title bestowed upon me in an attempt to garner glory and notoriety.❞

❝Do I not make you feel the same? Do I not make you forget what you are, while instead reminding you of who?❞

❝I believe in the Gods and pray to them myself. But, let me ask you something: in all your life of confiding in them, have they ever granted you that which you most desire? That which will bring you joy, and save you from your solitude and woe? Or, have they, instead, remained silent pillars of stone?❞ (...) ❝Who is to say that this—what we've found—each other, is not a gift from them? It is said they work in mysterious ways. Mayhaps this is their answer to your prayers and mine own: bringing the two of us together in such a manner.❞

❝So help me Gods, Alicent. You will either give her to me to take to wife, or I will take her from you.❞

❝Please, sister, I beg of you. I adore her. I worship her. Let me make this right. Allow us to wed so none may know.❞

❝I do what I do for the good of her: the young woman I love. Do you not think it better she wed me, as opposed to some elderly stranger?❞

[knmaskitten]

Hate to love you !!

pairing— Ren Amamiya x afab!reader

summary— you hate Ren amamiya so much you avoid him everyday, until your classmate decides to play you a little prank.

warnings— Slight bullying.

notes— I feel like I can't write enemies to lovers, enjoy.

It was a rainy day today—the kind of day you cherish and love. The rain reminded you of many things, among them your boyfriend. You met him in your high school days when you were just a teenager, full of dreams and vehemence. The thing is, you and him had a weird start, a very weird one, which even today makes you laugh hard.

Ren Amamiya was always able to infuriate you. Regardless of the situation, something always came up when it came to him. God, you couldn't even stand to see him in the school corridors. You always wondered what the hell it was that kept you on edge when it came to him. God cursed the days you had to see him more than once at school, all because of bad luck. He wasn't even in the same class as you were, and even so, you saw him at least three times a week.

Today was one of those days. Between classes, you were standing in the center of the hallway when you noticed his jet-black hair. Along with him were Ryuuji Sakamoto and Ann Takamaki, who looked very busy discussing something you weren’t able to hear. He hadn't noticed you, and you weren't going to allow him to see you. Quickly, you ran towards the nearest door, which was a few meters away. On the way there, Mariko Yoshimoto intercepted you with a big, bright, toothy smile.

“Hey there! Where are you going in such a hurry, dear?” She asked naively. You were aware that she was faking it. Mariko liked to mess with people just to see their reactions, and while you never even allowed a pinch of her foolishness to deceive you, she still dared to use you as one of her little toys. You were strong-minded and hated when other people played dumb tricks on you; you could not stand injustice. 

Perhaps this could not stop her from doing what she was about to do, because somewhere inside you, you knew. You knew what she wanted to do because it was no secret how much you loathed Ren Amamiya and how much you loved to evade him. And she knew this piece of information very well.

She peeked behind your shoulder, and her smile grew even wider.

“Wow, running away now, are we?” A devilish chuckle erupted from her mouth, and as her lips mouthed her next sentence, a cold sweat ran through your body. Your instincts were telling you to tackle her and escape to the roof, the library, or somewhere else that would let you be at freaking peace. But you didn’t do any of those things; instead, you stood, frozen in place.

“Ren-kun!, hey! How are you?” One of her little devil hands flew to your shoulder to keep you in place. You could feel how her nails were digging little moons into your skin, while also wrinkling your school uniform, which you worked hard to keep pristine. You pursed your lips at this.

“Don’t you fucking dare.” You warned. Placing your hand on her wrist to free yourself, she countered by staying still and strong, unfazed by her mission of making your life miserable.

Regarding your threats and silent protest, she kept her schemes up, and her next sentence was the last nail in the coffin. It was the last thing you wanted to hear in the world. 

“My little friend and I would love to spend some time with you and your friends if that's okay with you. Uh, and them too, of course.” Her eyes looked like those of a deer, glazed and doe-like and her teeth were showing again. She was smiling courtly and kindly, trying to hide the deception behind her words.

Say no.

Say no.

Please say no.

Mentally, you pleaded. Turning around, he was standing there a little bit taken aback, even more so seeing that it was you who was included in that sentence. He looked at you, piercing through your figure, analyzing every movement and every gesture. Anything that might tell him otherwise.

“You sure? Your friend sure looks like she could be buried at any moment.” He said it sternly. His eyes were scanning between you and Mariko, noticing something odd about the situation. 

Ann thought otherwise, because she smiled brightly and shrugged Amamiya off.  “They just want to hang out with us; I don’t think there’s something wrong with anybody.”.

But there was!

You mentally screamed and rolled your eyes. It was out of comprehension how this was even happening and why you were allowing it. You sighed, defeated. You smoothed the pleats on your dark skirt and proceeded to walk towards him, and with fake pleading eyes and a pout, you confronted him.

“Today is not your lucky day, Amamiya, and neither is mine.  If we ever have to spend some quality time together, it would be in fucking hell.” You spat. And then you turned around to finish your blow. “And Mariko, find someone else to be your bitch because I am not available to fill that damned position.”

And you walked off. There was nothing else to do but walk away from there. And you walked—not run, not sprint—walked. You walked to the beat of the confused conversation you were leaving behind, and when there was a turn, you ran. Ran so fast you could feel a stream of tears forming in your eyes.

You ended up in the girls’ bathroom, feeling a little bit safe. You hid on one of the stools. Letting yourself go, the flood of tears came like a current, strolling down your cheeks like a river. Thank goodness you were wearing waterproof mascara that day. Feeling a little bit pathetic, you let yourself go and cried like a baby. You hated when everything went to your head; you hated when such trifles were able to get a grip on you. 

Life was just this shitty, you guessed.

Later in the day, you were on cleaning duty, trying to dust off a corner filled with spiderwebs.

“Do you need help with that?” He was softly spoken, almost like a faint mumble. Just like he didn’t want to be either heard or perceived.

“Maybe never,” you spat. Was it that hard to have a single peaceful day? He meddled in every single one of your businesses as if he were your mom or something. You turned around to face that fair skin and sharp features, those deep eyes and ruffled hair, to face him.

He frowned; he looked a tad bit pissed. Like if somebody just stuck gum in his pristine, perfect hair. He took two steps towards you, perfectly measured and dance-like. The light shone in his iris, making it difficult to pinpoint what was making you feel so drunk-like.

“You are one hell of a nice person, aren’t you?” he hissed in a poisonous manner.

Was it his tone that made you feel a tingling sensation at the nape of your neck? Or maybe it was how his eyes lit up with fire when you spoke. Or maybe, just maybe, was it that you hated him so much that you wanted to shut him up in just about any way you could? The room was empty but it felt full to the brim with anger. It was an antithesis of how the light danced on the floor and the little specks of dust floating in such serenity and then you two, full of tension and loathing.

“You’re one to talk, mister perfect behavior.” You gave him a very fake, crooked smile. He looked like he expected it as such but still managed to lose composure whenever you were around. He ran his hand through his air and adjusted his glasses; he almost looked disheveled.

“You play with my nerves.”

“Can’t believe you even have nerves.”

“Ugh.”Another step closer—too close, maybe. Everything felt as if it were slowing in time; the little dust specks were suspended, and the light ceased to dance. A light breeze flew past you, messing up some hair strands.

“What are you even doing here?… You don’t even go to this class.” You almost whisper, lowering your tone.

"Why, just why do you hate me?” He said bluntly.

“Cornering someone is not very friendly, you know.”

“I’ve never said I wanted to be friendly with you.”

“I hate you.” 

Another step closer to you, he leaned in, millimeters from your face. You were able to see his porcelain skin and dark eyes, as well as how he scrunched his face when he was near you.

“You don’t understand how much I do too.”

He looked as if he were going to kiss you; he looked at your lips and then at your eyes, analyzing you. He smiled, a mischievous grin, and exhaled. You felt his breath hit your nostrils, your warm skin. Instinctively, you took a step backwards, putting as much distance between you two as you could.

He then approached you and kissed you very swiftly but passionately. You returned the kiss, hatefully kissing him, with spite and loathing.

“I hate you.”

“I know.”

And the rest was history. After that, you two started sneaking out of class to kiss, progressively started having lunch together, and then, after keeping all of this a secret, you asked him out, but not before discussing what the hell was the feeling you both had. At the end, you both came to the conclusion that you hated each other’s guts because you couldn’t have them. Ren said, “I hate to love you.” and you agreed with him.

You definitely hated to love Ren so much, but still, at the end of the day and even right now, you couldn't imagine a life without him.

Thank you for reading <3 masterlist and more.

[a-small-batch-of-dragons]

Be Nice

Read on Ao3

Warnings: bullying, teasing, even though they don't mean it.

Pairings: merthur

Word Count: 6181

It shouldn't be a surprise, really, if the knights think punching each other in the arm is a viable and efficient way of cheering each other up, that they also think insulting each other is a perfectly good way to show affection. Insults are compliments, threats are reassurances, and actual bodily harm is considered good manners or at the very least the mark of genuine companionship. Basically, take everything Merlin's ever been taught about how you actually treat the people you care about and flip it on its head, because stars know that if any one of these men actually behave as though being nice won't incinerate them, the world will actually end.

Alright, maybe he's being a bit harsh.

But he's had a long few days saving the entirety of Camelot all by his-own-bloody-self, he's entitled to throw a bit of a fit when he gets shoved too harshly into the side of the stable under the guise of 'friendly greetings.' And it's not like the knights are doing it on purpose—except when they are, which they absolutely do, they have days where it seems like they all passed around a note that says today's one of those days, boys, make Merlin's life a living hell for no reason other than our enjoyment! He swears he's going to invent some kind of spell that lets him know when those days are so he can sit himself in Gaius's chambers and just stay there for all eternity. Or at least until they shake themselves out of it.

And fine, it's not as though he's never known softer kindness from them. Percival shoves and claps and punches, but he's also helped Merlin with the heavier chores and—not that Merlin would ever admit this—carried him when he's overexerted himself to somewhere safer. Elyan is an older brother, and older bother if he commiserates with Gwen, but he's not all bad when he's being protective or complimentary. Gwaine is…Gwaine, which means he commits himself wholeheartedly to whatever he's doing, be that teasing Merlin until his face is about to explode or making sure he's calming down when something really bad happens. Lancelot—listen, the main problem with Lancelot is that he keeps making this sly little face that's all you could stop us, Merlin, you could, but will you? As if he doesn't know damn well that it would go very badly if he actually did do anything. Leon is secretly a menace because he sees everything. And Arthur…

Well. Arthur's Arthur.

Look, the point is that Merlin knows he's being dramatic sometimes, really, he's self-aware enough to admit it, but sometimes…

Sometimes it feels like he's not being dramatic enough.

It's definitely one of those days. One of those days where he walks down to the courtyard with Arthur and all the knights are grinning up at them and he knows, he just knows that today he's going to be teased and pushed around and have pranks and jokes played on him every chance they get. Admittedly, with the amount of courtly stress the kingdom has been under, it's the same reason why they're going on this hunt in the first place; to give them all a break from the pressures of being in the citadel, to let them actually have a chance to relax without worrying about courtesy or diplomacy or any of that nonsense. It makes sense, Merlin's oddly grateful for the chance they have…

He just wishes he weren't about to be the chew toy for it, you see?

It starts almost as soon as they leave the walls of the city behind.

"Merlin," Gwaine calls and Merlin's shoulders immediately tense, "when's the last time you actually caught something on one of these?"

No. No, absolutely not. I am not engaging. "The last hunt we went on was three months ago."

"That's not what he asked," Percival says—oh, he's also starting early, "he asked when you caught something."

"Does a cold count?" Elyan asks and the knights start laughing. Merlin just adjusts his reins and his horse nickers.

"Come on," Gwaine cajoles when the first wave of laughter dies down, "do you want us to show you how it's done?"

"I've tried teaching him since he first arrived," Arthur calls out, "he's utterly useless at it. If I didn't know any better, I'd say he was forgetting everything on purpose."

"Well, with how much he has to remember to keep Princess satisfied, then—" Gwaine grins— "maybe it's a good thing he doesn't know how to hunt."

What does that even mean?

"Don't worry, Merlin," Elyan says with false sympathy as he brings his horse alongside, "we didn't bring you out here because you're good at hunting."

"That's right," Percival agrees, "best thing you can use on a fine hunt is a fine flush hound."

Despite all his instincts that tell him not to feed whatever mood they're in, his curiosity takes over. "What's a flush hound?"

He hears Arthur groan and Elyan snorts, and oddly enough, it's Leon who clears his throat and says: "A flush hound pushes the game out into the open where the hunters can see it."

He opens his mouth to ask why exactly he would be good at that when his horse steps on a rock wrong and he nearly falls off as he crashes into a nearby tree branch, making a wild grab for the saddle as a chorus of birds take off screeching into the sky. A lurch in his stomach and a mortifying yelp accompany the guffawing and cackling of the knights as his horse struggles to right itself and he emerges from the tangle of twigs and leaves with scratches all the way down his cheeks and arms.

"See," Gwaine crows triumphantly, "where else are we going to find a natural talent like that?"

Merlin ducks his head under the guise of making sure his horse is alright, running his hand over her face and neck that he can reach. Her mane rubs coarsely against his fingertips as he tries to swallow the pang of hurt as they keep laughing. His horse nickers back a moment later and he makes himself sit upright.

"Well, then if I'm so good at it," he says, "then it's a wonder you've not had much success over the last few hunts."

"Don't be so sure of yourself," and suddenly there's the familiar condescending voice from Arthur, "just because you've got some natural talent doesn't mean you don't have room for improvement."

"After all, it's as much about making sure you're in the right place as it is about making a fool of yourself."

"And we all know you're excellent at that."

And they're laughing again. Merlin's hands tighten on the reins. Is it just him, or are their barbs a little extra pointed today? Has he done something recently? He doesn't think so; he's just been, oh, saving the kingdom, like usual. Half out of reflex, half out of desperation, he glances over at Lancelot.

Come on, just—give me something. Say something, make a joke at one of them instead.

But no, Lancelot smiles wider and motions for him to turn around. Merlin does—

And almost runs face-first into another tree branch that Arthur 'happened' to pull back to swing in Merlin's direction. He just manages to dodge it, only receiving another swipe to the cheek.

"Careful," Arthur fake-scolds, "I know you're eager to show off, Merlin, but there's a time and a place. Don't know if you remember that about hunting."

"Maybe running into all those tree branches makes it difficult," Elyan suggests, and yes, there they go, laughing again.

It's not that funny.

Luckily or unluckily for Merlin, he's not quite sure which, they actually do find some game to hunt. Or rather, they find something they think they can hunt, and they start to actually behave like men who are on a hunt, not young and rude boys out to poke fun at someone who's supposed to be their friend. Grateful for the reprieve, Merlin quietly steers his horse to the back of the group, where him and his loud, rambunctious self won't be a distraction. Leon passes him one of the spare saddlebags and the reins of his horse, silently sliding off and into a crouched stance. Merlin fastens the reins to his saddle and lets the other horse draw up alongside, patting its neck.

But perhaps he's spoken too soon about them behaving like men rather than boys, because as soon as all the other knights see Leon doing the cool thing of hunting on foot rather than on horseback, they all immediately slide off their horses and start leading them towards Merlin, who is still on a horse and very much does not have the capability to suddenly be in charge of several horses.

"What are you—"

"Shut up, Merlin," Arthur hisses, frowning at him until he slides off his horse too, "now stay here and stay quiet. Now's not the time for you to be flushing anything."

"Don't pout," Gwaine says when Merlin opens his mouth to protest very reasonably, thank you, he is not pouting, "I'm sure you'll get your chance soon enough."

"They're close," Elyan whispers before Merlin can ask just how, exactly, he's supposed to keep all the horses organized and follow them and keep quiet all at once, "I can hear about…three sets of footsteps."

"Deer?"

"Most likely."

"We'll have venison for dinner, then."

Merlin's heart sinks when he realizes just how long of an evening this is going to be.

He gives up fairly quickly—alright, immediately on staying with them. Instead, he and the horses make a very suitable area for themselves in one of the larger clearings. He loosens their saddles and takes the bits from their mouths so they can have a bite to eat. He makes sure to check his horse's hoof; that rock must've hurt quite a bit, better to make sure it isn't stuck in there, after all. The leaves rustle cheerily overhead as a gust of wind blows through. The scent of fresh, clean water comes with it—there must be a river of some sorts nearby. That might be nice for them, some fresh water to drink. Best not stray too far from here, though, not when who knows where the 'hunters' are eventually going to end up.

He sits down near one of the tree trunks and is just on the verge of making himself comfortable when all of a sudden, something crashes out of the brush to his right and he has just enough time to scramble to his feet before the deer falls down dead in front of him.

"Would you look at that," comes Percival's voice from very far away, "it's almost like he knew where it would run."

Merlin can't tear his eyes away from the deer on the ground, not until one of the horses snuffles and nudges his arm. Then he lifts one hand to blindly pat its face and turns to look at the knights who spill triumphantly into the clearing.

"Wonder of wonders," Arthur says, coming up to clap him on the shoulder, "maybe you aren't completely useless after all."

The words lodge in some soft part of Merlin's chest and he clenches his jaw. "You didn't have to kill it."

"It's a hunt, Merlin," Arthur says slowly, as though he's talking to a child, "that's what a hunt is for."

"It wasn't hurting anyone."

"It's a deer," he scoffs, "it's not going to do much of anything except run into things."

"Not true," Gwaine says from where he's already carving the poor thing, "it'll fill our bellies tonight and that is a worthy cause if I've ever heard one."

"You'd consider anything a worthy cause if it got you bread and wine," Lancelot points out and they all start laughing again. The horse snuffles his hand again and he turns away, patting its nose and sparing one more thought for the deer, who at the very least was put out of its misery quickly.

If he thought it would be over when they started to camp for the night, he was terribly and miserably wrong.

First he wasn't moving fast enough. Then he was doing it wrong. Then he wasn't doing enough. Then there were things he kept forgetting. Then they noticed he wasn't talking very much and he was too soft-hearted, mourning for a stupid deer. Arthur's favorite insult of girl's petticoat made an appearance, followed by Gwaine's infamous innuendoes of—oh, who bloody cares, it's not like he's paying much attention at this point.

Maybe it's the fact that they've all not let off steam for too long. Maybe Merlin's been too busy saving Camelot and his tolerance of them has worn low. Maybe they're all in an especially cruel mood today and they don't realize it. Maybe Merlin's just worn himself a little too ragged and this thing that's supposed to be their chance to all relax just isn't how Merlin would choose to do that at all.

Whatever the reason, the armor that Merlin thought he had against the knights has abandoned him. Every word, every look, every laugh hits him like an arrow or a punch, lodging deep in his flesh and hurting. It doesn't matter where he goes, what he does, even when he gives into his cowardly instincts—Arthur's already called him a coward at least half a dozen times in the last ten minutes, he might as well give in and be a coward—and hides behind one of the horses, he still can't escape from it. His body truly starts to ache, starts to flush and burn and he's too hot and he's too cold and he's angry, so angry, because they're hurting him and they don't care, they just don't care.

There comes a point where enough is enough.

"Say, Merlin—" Percival tugs his sleeve a little too hard and Merlin has to steady himself before he falls over— "whoa! Easy!"

"It's a wonder we didn't mistake you for the deer," Elyan jokes, "you're wobbling around like you don't know what your legs are for."

He didn't mean it like this, but Merlin's mind fills with smoke and the sound of blades clashing over a rising chant of burn the sorcerer and he flinches. Hard.

"Be nice to him," Lancelot scolds, and Merlin's heart leaps with hope— "you know fawns are the most skittish of all."

His hands tighten until his knuckles turn white and he sets his jaw, determined to put all the bowls down and sit and actually rest for once. He manages to make it halfway across the campsite and almost to the fire to bend down and—

"Maybe you should train with us a bit more," Percival suggests, "then you could keep up more often."

Merlin doesn't even need to turn around to know that Arthur's sitting up with a fiendish grin on his face.

"Oh, he hasn't told you? I'm surprised, I would've thought they would have by now."

"Told me what?"

Not a damn thing, you prat, now shut the hell up.

"Merlin used to be Princess's training dummy," Gwaine says helpfully, and how the hell does he know about it and he hasn't told Percival? "Used to wear the padding, the helmet, everything but the straw. Bet that suited you better than the armor did, ey, Merlin?"

Merlin doesn't say anything.

"I'd have preferred a proper training dummy," Arthur snorts, and there comes the rustling of leaves as he must lean back, "at least it wouldn't have flinched every time I so much as raised my sword."

I was brand new to Camelot. I'd come to see one of my kind get executed on my first day. You had tried to kill me already and I had saved your life. You swung swords at me and I didn't know what to do.

"But hand to hand, surely," Percival says, "that must have been better?"

"Oh, no, I know this one," Elyan says, and how does he—Gwen. Gwen must have told him— "what was it, three times in as many minutes that he ended up face-first into a cowpie?"

"I can't take credit for all of them—"

"But you will."

"No, no, some credit must go to Merlin for being the clumsiest sod I've ever laid eyes on."

He flinches again and the bowls clatter to the ground.

"See?"

That does it.

Without bothering to pick up the pot, he stoops down and picks up the bowls, fumbling around to free his horse from its tether and walking off. The knights' laughter rings in the trees behind him as he ventures further and further away from the light of the campfire. The wind stings the open cuts on his face and arms. His horse brushes against him. He keeps going, not caring that the shadows start to gather around his feet as they pick their way toward the river.

He remembers those first days. Those days where it felt like Arthur was always on the verge of having him arrested, or having him thrown out for no reason, or something. Where every time he ventured outside it felt like it was punishment for something he'd done, when swords and maces and spears would be flung at him without regard for the fact that he was a living, breathing person with feelings and that he would be hurt, and then he'd go stumbling off to Gaius still hearing the clangs and wobbling from the impact and then Gaius would laugh at him too. Why was everyone always laughing at him?

They laughed at him when Arthur decided that he needed to be trained 'for his own good' too. Never mind that he could do far more impressive things and far more effective things than swing a bloody sword, no, Arthur dressed him up in that stupid bloody armor and had all the knights and squires have a go at him. He'd been pushed to the ground, hit, punched, kicked, pinned, humiliated and every time there was Arthur, either looking incredibly disappointed or trying and failing to hide a smirk. Then he'd tell him to get up so they could go again.

They reach the river.

His horse nickers gently, pulling the lead through Merlin's hands to stretch its neck down for a long drink. Merlin looks at the bowls piled haphazardly in his other hand and slowly sets them down on a nearby rock before he sinks to the ground, wrapping his arms around his knees and setting his chin atop them to watch the water. Some of the last of the sunlight still sparkles off its ripples as it flows downstream.

See? This, this, this is all he wanted. He wanted to go and be in the woods and just breathe. Just watch the water, listen to the sound of the breeze, not to murder some animal that wasn't doing anything and make a loud ruckus and all of that. He didn't want to be surrounded by insults and laughter, he just—he just—

Oh, Merlin realizes faintly as the horse turns to bump its damp nose against his hand, I'm crying.

Of course, as soon as he realizes that, he starts to sniffle in earnest, his nose quickly making a mess of his trousers as his horse snuffles at his hand. He shuffles a little closer, leaning against its side, as it goes back to drinking. He closes his eyes and turns his face into the warmth. He ignores the slight sting against the still-open cuts.

Why had they been so cruel today? Was he—he wasn't that useless and clumsy, was he? He never tries to be, he just—it just happens sometimes, it's not as though he can keep complete control over himself all the time, not when he has to work so hard to constantly keep his magic in and hidden and unseen and it's hard, it's just hard sometimes and it's not fair. It's not fair that they get to prance around and make nuisances of themselves and when he doesn't do anything, they insult him for it. It's not fair that they get to poke fun at him all the time for things that he has no control over. It's not fair that they get to pick the things to do and he just has to go along with it.

And it's especially not fair that they don't notice how much they really, actually hurt him.

Perhaps that's the worst part of all of this, he decides as he sniffles again, it's that he doesn't think they realize how hurtful some of the things they say actually are. He doesn't have the same sort of hurt-people's-feelings-and-get-away-with-it that they do, he doesn't have this I'm-going-to-be-mean-on-purpose instinct. He doesn't have the ability that they all have to trade blows and take it and laugh it off. He spits back at them because he can't do anything else sometimes, and then he's beaten down again. He knows he's not a knight, he knows he's just a servant but they don't—do they have to make him feel like he's less when there's no one else around too?

It hurts. Everything hurts.

Maybe he should just stay here. Here, by the river, where the sunset was soft and golden and the horse was firm and solid and the air smelled slightly sweet, like flowers that had just past their prime. No one would be mean to him here, no one would shame him for being upset, he could cry and it would be alright if he did that. He's been accused of being far more than just clumsy and useless today, after all, he might as well indulge the parts of him they would gladly spear and roast over the campfire.

He flinches at his own metaphor, startling the horse slightly until it rubs its nose against his hand again. He fumbles to pat it carefully in silent apology and it lets out a worried noise, nosing at his head too. He sniffles and lets it nibble his hair, its breath warming the top of his head until it grows bored and goes to drink again. He keeps his hand on its leg, stroking the strong muscle with his fingers. Out of habit, he finds himself picking out little bits of twig and brush, cleaning the worst of the detritus away with quick little motions as the horse shifts its weight back and forth. He finds a slightly rough patch and scruffs at it with his fingernails until the horse's coat is smooth again. It snorts in thanks.

See, he thinks again, what's so bad about this? Why is it so bad to be kind in an uncomplicated way? Why can't you just be kind for the sake of being kind, without having to disguise it?

Should he have swatted the horse and mocked it for its matted coat? Should he have shoved it this way and that in lieu of a proper grooming? Should he have laughed at it when it stumbled and hurt its leg on a rock it couldn't have seen before it was already too late? What purpose did any of that serve? Why would he want to make it seem like he would only hurt the horse when all he wanted to do was be kind?

With a courage he does not feel, he closes his eyes and wraps his arms back around himself, trying to find the scared, hurt horse in his own chest and reach out to it too.

Why are you being unkind to me, that part of him sniffles, why are you hurting me? What did I do to deserve being hurt by you? Why are you taking pleasure in hurting me?

I don't know, says another part, I don't know.

Make it stop. I don't like this, it hurts. You're hurting me. Please, make it stop.

A rock clatters behind him.

In an instant, he whirls around, trying to see what managed to sneak up on him, but in his haste he overbalances and is about to fall into the river—

A hand grabs the front of his tunic, catching him before he drenches himself. Panting, Merlin stares up at Leon, who looks just as surprised as he, his hand still fisted in the thin material of Merlin's front. He raises his other hand, palm open in a signal of sincerity, before he slowly reaches forward and tugs Merlin back to safety.

"Are you alright?"

The fear of falling into the river dwindles, swiftly replaced by a growing anger at being caught off guard again, at almost falling in and needing to be saved, and at himself for not noticing Leon's approach. He twists Leon's hand none-too-gently out of his tunic, setting his jaw and deliberately turning away. "Thanks."

Leon gives a non-committal hum. For a moment, Merlin thinks he's going to leave, or at the very least, do whatever it was that he was going to do when he came here that wasn't cause-and-prevent-Merlin-falling-in-river, but then the still-dirty bowls are being moved further away and Leon is crouching next to him on the bank of the river. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees him take something from a pouch on his belt, remove his gloves and dip something in the river.

When callused hands reach for him, he contemplates pulling away, saying no, even snapping at them—if they're going to insist he's a hound, he'll damn well act like one—but before he can decide what to do, the dry warmth of Leon's hand is turning his chin and then something soft and damp is dabbing over the cuts on his face. With the soft and steady patience that only he has, Leon tends to the open wounds without saying a word, his free hand gentle on Merlin's chin and shoulders to hold him in the right place to reach all of the right places without straining either of them. He keeps his eyes on his hands as he works, the smallest wrinkle between his brows the only indicator that something's upsetting him. Is he upset? Why is he here? Merlin hasn't been gone that long, has he?

The cloth rubs too harshly against one of the cuts and Merlin flinches, a quiet whimper emerging into the still air. Immediately he wants to claw it back into his throat, but Leon doesn't smirk, doesn't tease, doesn't do any of that. Instead he takes the cloth away and leans closer, blowing cool air over the raw and reddened skin until the ache is soothed. The tenderness of the gesture causes tears to spring to the corner of his eyes and to his absolute horror, he sniffles.

Leon pulls the cloth away but his other hand remains, thumb carefully stroking the unblemished skin of Merlin's right cheek. He lays the cloth carefully over one of his gloves before he looks back and uses his other hand to ruffle Merlin's hair just above his ear.

"I'm sorry," he says gently, "I should have realized."

A lump appears in his throat and he does his best to glare. Leon takes it, because he's a stupid kind bastard sometimes and Merlin is weak, and when Leon opens his arms and says come here in the softest, gentlest voice in the world, Merlin doesn't bother to fight it and buries his stupid sniffling nose into the crook of Leon's neck and lets the knight wrap him up in a cuddle, his stupid cape wrapped around him too like a blanket.

"There, now," Leon murmurs, one hand still scratching lightly at his scalp, "there you are…forgive me, Merlin, I didn't realize they were hurting you so much. That we were hurting you so much."

"Why are you so mean to me," he mumbles, half into, half over Leon's shoulder, not caring that he sounds like a child, "why are you always so mean?"

"I don't know," the knight confesses and Merlin just huddles further into his hold. "I'm sorry."

"It hurts, you know, when you all say those things. And when you hit me. And throw things at me."

"I'm sorry."

"Why are you so mean," he sobs, making a fist and weakly hitting Leon's shoulder, "why— why?"

Leon just tightens his grip, turning to bury his own nose in Merlin's hair, and Merlin sobs again. He's being unfair, he knows; Leon isn't the only one to blame in this situation, and in fact, might be the least to blame, but Leon is the only one here and Merlin is angry, angry, so angry.

As if he can hear it, Leon shifts, putting his mouth to Merlin's ear. "Go on, Merlin, it's alright."

"But I don't want to," he grits out, "I don't want to hurt you. I know what that's like, it hurts, it doesn't feel good, I just—you just—I just want it to stop!"

"It'll stop," Leon says immediately, "it's over, now, Merlin, I swear to you. No more of this, I swear."

"It hurts, L-Leon, it—it really hurts."

"Shh, shh, I know, Merlin…hush, now, please, try and breath a bit slower." The knight's chest expands and contracts slowly, exaggerated breaths filling the small clearing. "There…in…and out…in…and out…that's it, shh, just like that."

Slowly, Merlin manages to calm the worst of his anger and tears, the whole mess unspooling as Leon keeps rubbing his back, soft words in his ears. He buries his nose in his neck again. This part, this part of the knights he's never taken for granted, this tenderness that he's only able to get when he's visibly upset. When he manages to voice that thought, Leon goes still for a moment, before a quiet and terrible sigh leaves his lips.

"I have failed, then," he says lowly, "more terribly than I could ever have feared, if you do not know how deeply I care for you."

"W-what?"

Leon pulls back, then, just enough for Merlin to see his face. "You are a dear friend of mine, Merlin, and it is an honor to serve with you. Ever since the day you arrived and saved the Prince's life—hush, shh, none of that, now," he soothes when Merlin panics, "your secret is safe with me, I swear upon my honor and my life. I mean every word that I say, Merlin, you are one of the best men I have ever had the privilege of knowing, and more than that, you are a dear friend. If I have not made that clear to you, that is no one's fault but my own."

"You'll make me cry," Merlin accuses, even though he's already crying.

Leon smiles, but it's a kind smile. "Come, then, shed your tears. I will tend to you."

Well, with an invitation like that, how can Merlin say no?

When he's cried himself out—and made a mess of Leon's cloak, which the man doesn't even let him apologize for—Leon ruffles his hair and takes off his cloak, wrapping it over his shoulders and cleaning the bowls while the horse snuffles at Merlin's shoulders. The cry exhausted the part of him that could protest, and so he watches in the quiet dusk as Leon finishes the last bowl and stands, offering a hand.

"They'll worry," he says softly when Merlin hesitates, "and then they'll all come looking for us together."

He doesn't want that. But neither does he want to lose this, whatever this is, whatever he's found with Leon on the banks of the river. As if he'd spoken the thought out loud, Leon cups his elbow through the cloak, thumb rubbing back and forth until Merlin nods and gets to his feet, going to give Leon his cloak back.

"Keep it, if you want it."

"They'll laugh at me."

"They won't," he says with remarkable confidence, only to acquiesce when Merlin raises a doubtful eyebrow, taking it back. "If you decide you want it again, it's yours."

Part of him wants to take him up on the offer as soon as they start to hear the voices from camp again, to hide underneath it and not have to show his face until next morning, but the horse calls out to its friends and the voices hush. He stops, lingering just out of sight, before Leon rests a hand on his back and silently encourages him forwards. He emerges from the tree line, already bracing himself for whatever comes flying at him, when—

"Oh, sweetheart, what's happened?"

That…that can't be Arthur. That soft voice and worried tone can't be the same man who just delighted in dictating Merlin's humiliation not three hours earlier, it can't be.

"Merlin," the voice says again, and it certainly looks like Arthur scrambling up and over to him, reaching out to cup his face, "oh, you poor thing, look how hurt you are…is this from that tree?"

Merlin nods dumbly and Arthur sweeps his thumb across his cheek. "You've been crying, does it hurt very badly?"

"No."

"You don't have to lie," he chides, but it's gentle, why is it gentle? "You can tell me."

"We've got extra salve," Elyan says, already going for one of the saddlebags, "here, come over by the fire."

"There's another portion still here," Percival adds, "if you're still hungry."

"Give him a moment," Lancelot says, standing too, "he looks a bit overwhelmed."

"Wh-what—" Merlin staggers and Leon and Arthur both surge to catch him— "what's happening?"

"Come sit," Gwaine says, already clearing a spot and shuffling a bedroll close to the fire, "you look like you're about to fall over. Leon can handle the horse and the dishes."

Sure enough, Arthur's hands take Leon's place as he guides Merlin carefully over to the bedroll, sitting him down and immediately taking a position at his elbow. He strokes his thumb over Merlin's jaw as he examines the scratches, before looking back up at him properly.

"What's the matter, sweetheart?"

Merlin still has whiplash from the difference between the knight before he left and the knights now, thank you very much. He swallows around the lump in his throat and mumbles something about being mean and insulting and whatever they're doing now, and Arthur's face crumbles.

"Oh, sweetheart, you know we don't mean it, don't you?"

"We never do," Lancelot says immediately, "it's only supposed to be fun."

"How is being mean to each other fun?"

"Merlin's right," Gwaine says before anyone can try and explain, "it's only fun if everyone's in on it. And Merlin wasn't in on it, that means we stop."

"What happened," Merlin blurts out, "when I left, you were all more than happy to laugh at me being humiliated or otherwise, and now you're all being nice and calling me sweetheart, what happened?"

The campsite grows quiet. He looks around. None of them seem willing to meet his eyes, save for Leon, who just gives him a reassuring nod. He's about to open his mouth and ask again when Arthur speaks.

"I'm sorry, Merlin. I'm so sorry. I didn't—I…I never mean it. I never mean it."

Merlin swallows. "Then why do you do it?"

Arthur shrugs helplessly. "It's…it's what they all do. What we all do."

The knights make vague noises of agreement but Arthur reaches out for him again.

"But we'll stop now. I promise," he says when Merlin looks at him doubtfully, "we'll—we'll put a stop to it. At least between us, and definitely with you. You're Merlin, we never want to hurt you."

"You promise?"

"Yes." Something that could be mischief flickers across his expression and he leans closer. "And I'm the only one who gets to call you sweetheart."

"What happened to being nice?" Merlin yelps as he starts blushing furiously.

"Sorry, sorry, I didn't know it would make you do that."

Merlin closes his eyes and takes a few deep breaths to calm himself down. When he opens them again, he sees Arthur staring at him like a worried puppy and he sighs. "You don't…you don't have to stop everything. Just—will you stop if I tell you to?"

"Yes," he says immediately, and the rest of them join in, "of course, the moment you say."

"Thanks." Arthur's hand passes over his shoulders and he grins. "Besides, you were the one who couldn't speak after the barmaid smiled at you."

"Merlin!"

"Wait, Princess did what?"

"You've been holding out on us, Merlin, tell us!"

"Oi! Show some respect for your King!"

"Oh, is that what the barmaids are calling it these days?"

Merlin laughs as Arthur hucks a spoon at Gwaine and Leon comes to sit next to him, offering a warm side to lean against. Perhaps they really are capable of acting nice after all.

[i-is-v-tired]

D20 theory time: Colin Provolone

I have seen a lot of people bring up the ex-noble theory and I personally love this theory Could Colin Provolone be a bastard? I think he is hiding because he is technically the last of the Fontina line.

In episode 1 and 2 he referenced being an orphan or coming from the streets. When he talked about not eating enough and tell Karna he knows what it is like to be on the streets.

My idea is that he is a bit younger then we think. So after the coup he hide as orphan child, in ACoC they talked about how small the Dairy Islands are and after Cal’s coup and Cinnamon’s destruction on port syrup that innocent people die in conflicts like that some child left parents less. So it would be easy to hide with the other orphan children. I think he is older then Deli but not by much. So 20s at least but I don’t see him breaking 30

He was quick to stay and aline with Deli.

He understands being close to a heir of tribe would inadvertently bring him protection from people looking for him but also being just a sword and working in the shadows would help bring cover for him. Deli can account for him/ who he is and no one would ask those questions to him. Him becoming Skald Provolone messes with him a little, but that’s still Deli giving him protection.

In episode two, he talks about people looking for him. When Deli asked “Is it someone you killed” only to responded “I don’t think I even really did anything”

This personally makes me believe in him being a bastard because he could literally have nothing to do with his royal family but just him being born would cause issues for the Fontina family and later the coup. However, for him, he in all reality didn’t do anything.

He recognized the banter but He is not used to being in the spot light nor prepared to announce or what to say or when to say it.

With ACoC being inspired by Game of Thrones, It makes sense for him being a part of the Fontina family in someway, but being a Jon Snow like part of it. This would lead to him being put to the side and never being involved in a court atmosphere.

His build shows someone that was trained and knows how to survive battle. Cunning Action, Mobil feat, and AC of 17 show he is going to be hard to hit and to keep in one spot.

With GoT inspired and going with the Jon Snow influence, him being trained makes perfect sense. And if he’s the only surviving member of the coup him, picking up the rogue aspects combined with the battle master. would give way to someone who’s battle smart but not courtly as a noble would be.

Some of these points might not really add to the theory. But I think it might explain why he ask a certain way.

He was creeped out by the Archbishop, paying so much attention to him 

(Honestly, I would be too.) This gives more evidence into him, trying to hide who he is. 

He is not a church going person, but he got serious enough to quick to pull a sword when he saw Karna’s magic. Then continued go so far as to threaten Karna even after it was explained as she was a miracle worker.

It would make since for him not to be church going or trust the church. In GoT people bastards/ people born out of wedlock from an adulteress situation are looked down on and considered a sin. Maybe he has had a bad experience with someone who was a miracle work for the Fontina

 I think it would be really cool to have a bastard character because we didn’t really see one in ACoC. The was everything with Jet, Ruby, and Saccharinne, but at the end of the day that didn’t matter really because they were all turn out to be legitimate and Ruby did want the candy crown. Yet this is just a theory by the end of the day so feel free to pick up this as you like or add to it. I am very interested to hear everybody else is theories.



[akkivee]

stage dh……………….. them………………:

*inhales*

*exhales* aramaki-san was such a legendary sasara lmao

i remember reading some interview with hirono-san where he mentioned aramaki-san has a princely appeal and he does lol and it bleeds into his sasara

but the way it bled into his sasara made him the most intimidating version of sasara no cap lmao

aramaki-san’s sasara in the early stage was formed primarily bc of a lack of material for nagosaka at the time, so all he really had was the first dh drama track, where sasara’s two faced personality was his introduction, and the tdd manga, where he rolled with samatoki so i understand how it happened lol

LOL AND YOU KNOW WHERE I THINK THAT CHANGED

his and iwasaki-san’s cross talk i firmly believe rewired how he functioned as sasara’s actor LMAO

iwasaki-san is him lol he is very much so sasara and joked his entire way thru that cross talk and while aramaki-san won the competition part of the cross talk, he said he felt like he lost by being serious LOL

his sasara is still a bit scary but it definitely lightened up by dh vs bb lmao and sometimes that starts by coming into every rehearsal session and roping your character’s partner into freestyling manzai to set the mood lol

that dedication is insane lmao

i find it absolutely hilarious aramaki-san claims to have fallen asleep listening to recordings of satonaka-san’s voice to perfect his osaka accent LOL

it’s gotta be like a requirement for sasara actors to be down bad for rosho this man really out here describing sasara’s solo as courtly love 😭😭😭

the stage is so fun lmao rosho and sasara’s confrontation in canon was plenty dramatic but holy FCK did the stage ramp it up they were both crying and screaming throughout that fallout and subsequent reconciliation and that’s Theatre lmao

fills me with so much rage having palpable proof these actors were still exploring and finding new ways to portray the characters bro like during one of the dh rep live shows, aramaki-san wound up missing his cue and laughed his way thru his apology and catching up with the song

except he clearly recognised he kinda cooked actually so come bop2023 he started rapping with that laughing quality THATS SO SICK ITS COOL TO LISTEN TO LOL

still crying over that bop2023 manzai dh did together lol the references to classic sasara manzai and past stage hijinks and the nods to the oridivi and ddb 🥺🥺🥺

ohhhhh speaking of bob2023 i loooove the sasasama duet performance he and alan-san did

like nvm aramaki-san proving exactly why that song should have been a real performance this entire time lol the stage direction between the nb and mcd duets directly contrasted each other 😩👌

throughout the nb duet kuukou was tactile with ichiro; he playfully kicked him, ruffled his hair, shared a coke etc. but not once did sasara or samatoki meet in theirs; they kept circling each other on that stage and it was symbolic of what was real (ichiro’s memories of kuukou) vs what wasn’t (samatoki dreaming of sasara) AND ITS GREAT MAN

is satonaka-san not a ridiculously handsome rosho lmao

it’s so neat he’s such a cool rosho to play off of the cool sasara

shoutout to the stage for making rosho really intolerant towards sasara’s bullshit in dh vs bb lol it had been a nitpick of mine that rosho was a little too passive in track 3 but they heard my pleas (they did not lol) and said rosho isn’t some bum to be walked over

god that whole thing where sasara manipulates ichiro into fighting rosho and rosho!!!!!!!! let’s ichiro know he’s his own person and not a stepping stone towards sasara!!!!!!! AND THEN!!!!!!! blows up on sasara for orchestrating it and being a massive heel towards them both

FINE ART MAN THE FINEST I LOVE STAGE ROSHO LOL

i also live for sasara and the ddb crew bullying him for sasara’s tv show in that play lol i’m sorry rosho was created to suffer by the hands of sasara and anyone who knows rosho is easy to prank LOL

i like both our rei actors!!!!! what i miss about higashiyama-san’s rei is his singing (his rei was intense lol) and the way he started moving with a quasi body roll and moved hips first LOL

i felt a little bad watching him tho lol like sometimes he looked a little lost and i wouldn’t be surprised if the man just couldn’t see with those shades lmao

gomoto-san sure flipped the script with his rei lol!!!!!

from the beginning, he said higashiyama-san’s rei leaned heavily into the mystery aspect of rei and aimed to incorporate more of his comedic value and he did exactly that lol!!!!!

shoutout to dh’s rep live skit specifically LOL

i always think about him deciding to call his fans ‘nezumi-chan’ and the way he really didn’t expect it to take off so when the crowd lost their shit he told was like ‘oh y’all are really weird okay’ LOL

[lemonhemlock]

Ok so I went through your Helaemond tag a little bit and had complete whiplash because do not cite the deep magic to me etc., I was shipping it when it was me and iskarieot writing unhinged posts about BTS scenes for the Helaemond adult actors before the episode with them even aired. I dipped around the finale or maybe a little before (I have zero recollection) and had NO idea of the fandom furore lmao. I wrote one of the first Helaemond fics in the AO3 tag (💅) and was literally just mainlining the spice melange ok. I was seeing things my terrible purpose

I cannot believe it got this out of control???? All the moralising??? Nobody (all 5 of us) gave a fuck about team Black/team Green and it wasn't intended to discredit either side at all, although I did love the idea of Alicent's children doing the same shit as Rhaenyra - that was more because I love death misery and despair and Alicent/Rhaenyra parental role-model family tumbleweed free-for-all. You made our children like this!!! lesbian parthenogenesis so true so true

Anyway I really enjoyed the dark courtly romance of it all, one of the things which specifically interested me is that Aegonfail sloppy wet wish-I'd-been-born-a-girl-to-marry-Rhaenyra's-kids-aka-my-cousins-nephews is bad at practising Targcest since he's not interested in Helaena in the one scene that started it all, which is like, a Good Thing Perhaps, but Helaemond is also a little bit True Love, and so everything is lovely and fucked up. It made all the characters much more interesting because you get complexity added to three, even four characters in one fell swoop, illegitimate children or nay. Power is a shadow on the wall etc. I didn't actually like, have a dog in this illegal child fighting ring; I am interested in the way these characters interact with, resist, covet the feudal system/positions therein, the way men and women alike negotiate what power is afforded based on sex and arbitrary inheritance, and being in love with the wrong brother who has the Audacity to not want to Practise Incest, and so on and so forth. (This is my extrapolation anyway. I think it's interesting that dragonboy cannot dragonboy but also has the most beautiful dragon ever and is going to be the king styled after the vewy fiwst Aegon. At least one Targ has gotta have a bit of an ick with this whole business and Mummy's Number One Boy who's passed out drunk and doesn't even wunna rule has to be it for me).

I want to end this ask with an apology because I feel partially culpable, for some reason. I'm literally just a tumblrina nobody but at the very least I can say at ground zero (I didn't see your posts back then but also if you were There, you were There as well ofc - I'm sorry I didn't go back that far through your tag or see you mention when you started shipping it, and also Everybody Matters in fandom no matter when you join, and I want us all to hold hands, and I hate when we fight cries) it was never ill-intentioned. We were just crazy

My goodness, what an interesting piece of lore. 😅 You certainly pointed out a few of the themes that make helaemond appealing from a shipping point of view. The fact that you started to ship it just based on the actors' BTS just goes to show how perceiving a random interaction can open up new perspectives.

I personally started posting a few weeks after the season finale, but, like many people, my helaemond eyes opened just watching the dinner table scene (in conjunction with the Driftmark conversation between aegond regarding Helaena it was just a compounded thing).

And, of course, like you said it was never really meant to be anything other than a fun ship to play around with! I had very little clue about the endless moralising that was about to follow - November 2022 me would tell you it's goofy af to be so stuck up about another incest ship in THEE incest show and, honestly, she'd be right.

So, there's absolutely no need to apologise, we were all just trying to vibe within the freak slice of fandom. I don't think anyone started ~peddling this ship as an inside job against team green or to discredit Alicent or whatever the hell other chronically-online interpretation I've heard. :))

Personally, I know I've used this as a pretext to procrastinate from my actual responsibilities and it was definitely.....interesting.....to witness all the varied reactions, some more unhinged than others, but, at this point, all of us need to step back a little and chill, because there's nothing really to debate anymore. It's the time for fan artists and fic writers to shine.

[katwriteswitcherthings]

Title: Vi Moxt Miirik (Chapter Seven - Also on AO3)

Prompt: Wuv: Getting to Know Each Other

Pairing: Geralt & Jaskier

Rating: T

Warnings: None

Summary:

Our favorite lovable Bard is a little more than he let's Geralt know. Follow them through the years as he learns to let down his walls and show Geralt how beautiful he really is.

Chapter Seven

"Geralt! What am I going to do with you?" Jaskier's voice was melodic as he entered the little room Nenneke had let Geralt stay in while he healed. He was smiling, and had his lute and travel pack slung over his shoulders. Geralt grunted and slowly sat up, careful of his still-healing neck and shoulder.

"How did you even find me?" Geralt asked as Jaskier dropped his pack into the corner next to Geralt's things. The bard looked good. Healthy and vibrant in a light lilac ensemble that he looked good in. It suited him, somehow.

"A good friend of a friend in Temeria saw you heading toward Ellander. You told me the temple here would house you if needed." Jaskier said flippantly, and Geralt thought about that. It had been a throw away joke, actually. 

Jaskier had asked him once what he would do if he got severely hurt during a hunt. Geralt responded with a bit of dark humor that the priestesses of Melitele in Ellander would give him proper last rites.

"Hm…" Geralt had nothing to say to that. He was caught off guard by Jaskier remembering such a little thing.

"Well, let me see." Jaskier was kneeling in front of Geralt now, off to the side of where his legs were swung over the edge of the bed. His hands were inches away from the bandages.

"You touch those, boy, I'll have your hands." A woman's voice from the doorway barked, making Jaskier jump. Geralt just smirked up at Nenneke. The older woman gave the bard an appraising once over and narrowed her eyes as she considered him. "I've finally got this stubborn mule to leave them be. Don't you dare undo all my hard work."

"Ah. Sorry, Mother Nenneke." Jaskier mumbled.

"And who might you be, then?" She asked as Jaskier stood, backing away quickly. He gave her a pleasant smile and a very large courtly bow.

"Jaskier the Bard, at your service, venerable Mother." 

"So you're the one who's been singing those songs about Witchers the last couple years?" Nenneke said as she dropped the couple of books she'd been holding into Geralt's lap. She quickly fussed at the bandage ends, making sure they were still properly wrapped. "Didn't think you could take on such a vibrant travel companion, boy." She said to Geralt, poking him in the shoulder.

"I thought that Geralt deserved an image fix, what with all the nasty names people liked to give him. The White Wolf is so much better than… that." Jaskier huffed at the woman, slightly offended, but Geralt could see the gleam in Nenneke's eyes that meant she was teasing the boy.

"I have to agree there." She said, surprising Geralt with her earnesty. "You're that Pankratz boy Stefania talks about, aren't you?" Jaskier's jaw dropped at that, eyes wide in surprise and shock.

"You… I- Yes. Stefania is one of my aunts. How do you-?"

"She studied here as a girl, and she still visits from time to time." Nenneke cut off the rambled questions easily, and Jaskier could do nothing but nod. Geralt was surprised.

"I didn't realize." He answered, obviously out of his depth and floundering.

"You keep interesting friends, Geralt." She said softly to Geralt with a small smile and soft touch on his shoulder. Geralt just grunted.

"I'm leaving tomorrow, Nenneke. I'm healed enough to get back on the Path." Nenneke raised an eyebrow at him, skeptical.

"Can you even lift your sword yet, Geralt?" Jaskier cut in, frowning at him. "What about turning your head?" Geralt growled a little at him for that. He didn't realize the bard could read him that well. He had been trying to hide that fact from him.

"I'm going to go somewhere safe for the rest of the season. Heal until spring comes." He replied in a grumble.

"Going home so soon? Will Vesemir even be at the keep this early?" Nenneke asked, knowing exactly where he was planning on going. Geralt shrugged and immediately regretted it. He sucked in a sharp breath, trying to hide the wince.

"You've told me the trail up the mountains is dangerous even for you on a good day." Jaskier was radiating concern now, hands fluttering about in a nervous tick that only Geralt seemed to notice. Nenneke raised a questioning eyebrow at that. She knew better. He'd only told the bard that so he wouldn't try to follow him home. "Why not come winter with me? Oxenfurt is an easy ride from here. I've more than enough space in my house, and I'd planned on teaching this semester anyway."

"You teach?" Geralt asked, a little blindsided by that. Jaskier crossed his arms at that, obviously upset.

"I've told you that before. I teach rhetoric some of the winter semesters." Geralt was surprised by that.

"I thought you'd teach music." Jaskier wrinkled his nose in distaste, which was probably more endearing than it had any right to be.

"Melitele's tears, no! I'd fling myself off the roof of the Chancellor's building if I had to teach music to students who didn't truly love it." Nenneke laughed just a little at that.

"Go with him, boy." Nenneke whispered quietly, giving Geralt a small sly smile. "It'd do you some good, being around people for a while."

It was that stern approval from Nenneke that swayed him. Geralt stayed one more night in the temple before they both set off toward Oxenfurt.

"Well?" Jaskier asked nervously as they approached his house. Ever since he had asked Geralt to accompany him home for the winter, he'd been a nervous wreck. Not that he regretted the offer, but he was worried that he had effectively trapped the Witcher in his presence for months on end. After all, Geralt couldn't just run off in the middle of the night once winter had settled in. "What do you think? Three words or less."

"There's a stable." He grumbled out and Jaskier just laughed at his response. Indeed, that was the reason he had chosen to move to this house almost four years ago after meeting Geralt the first time. It was small and set about as far away from the university you could get and not be in the water. 

"You'll have to make sure it's in good repair for Roach before we go get her." He said just as they were getting to the door. Letting himself and Geralt inside, he stood back to watch Geralt's face as he took in the house. It was probably nothing like what Geralt was expecting; he just hoped he would be okay living here until Spring. "And I'll need your help getting the spare bedroom set up the way you want it."

"Hm." Geralt grunted as he awkwardly set his bag and swords down in one of the vacant chairs. Jaskier sat his bag down in his favorite chair, the one at his desk in front of the window, before heading into the spare bedroom. It was little more than storage at this point, but there was an extra bed frame here already, propped up out of the way against the wall.

"Oh. We'll need to grab a mattress as well, when we pick up supplies." Jaskier started rambling when he heard Geralt following after him. "How about we head out to dinner after you check out the stables, and we can stop by the market on the way back from getting Roach. We can rent a cart."

"Hm." Geralt just hummed back, but Jaskier could hear the acceptance in it. Jaskier smiled back at his Witcher.

He felt his heart flutter in his chest as Geralt stepped in close to him before he carefully picked up one of the crates of books and stacked it neatly into the corner. 

"We can just stack this up out of the way. Don't want to impose any more."

"Nonsense!" Jaskier huffed at him, crossing his arms and scowling. "I invited you, Witcher. You are not an imposition on me, and I want you to be comfortable here!" Geralt ducked his head a little and reached to pick up another box, but Jaskier was watching him now. He saw the little twitch in his face and arm that meant he'd over-reached. "Nope! None of that!" Jaskier flapped his hands at Geralt until he moved away from the box, amusement hiding in the corners of his eyes. "You are to rest, stubborn man. And that means I can move these boxes all on my own." Jaskier waved at the room thematically. "You go check on the stables and make sure Roach will be okay out there when we go get her." He poked Geralt in the chest, but he saw the slight smile tugging at his lips.

Jaskier wanted to kiss them.

"Fine." Geralt relented and turned away.

Oh, Jaskier knew his traitorous heart too well by now. He was falling for his broody Witcher.

[erendur]

Is that my second cursed post ? :D

I don't have much to say about that because I don't know much about Chaucer, but the bottom line is he left his Canterbury Tales unfinished (he died), and because they were very popular a lot of authors actually set to write an ending/a sequel to it (something quite common in the Middle Ages).

The self-insert guy I think is John Lydgate.

I can add to this thread however the inventor of the incel fan fiction : Jean de Meung.

Jean de Meung wrote an end/sequel to Guillaume de Lorris' Roman de la Rose.

Lorris' Roman de la Rose was an allegorical poem about love, where the narrator is schooled about the principles of courtly love. So the characters are personified vices (like Jealousy, Lies, etc) and virtues (Faith, Fidelity), and the narrative is about showing how a good guy should win his lady's love (by being nice and not a dick, if I sum it up). The "Rose" of the title is the allegory chosen for Love/the lady (how to win the Rose). It was left unfinished by Lorris' death.

Now Jean de Meung saw that, and decided to write a sequel. It's four times the size of the original, has digressions on literally every subject possible (from animal farming to astronomy - the guy was a nerd and decided to put every little bit of knowledge he had in it), and is furthermore violently misogynistic (and critical of the Church). Its overall message is "they're all manipulative bitches", and ends with the narrator fucking the Rose.

Jean de Meung's version/extended version was widely popular in the late XIIIth to mid-XIVth century in France because of it encylopedia-like nature, and also its misogyny and also its graphic ending. It was very successful incel fanfic.

If I were to re-write the History of Middle-Earth to suit my convenience it would be a very boring story because I want nothing bad to happen to my favourite characters. So Melkor would never steal the Silmarils or kill Finwë, the Fëanorians would never swear the oath or kill anyone and stay in Valinor. It would be 500 pages of them chilling out in Valinor. I would keep all the family drama (of course !). Melkor would be that guy that would try and tempt them into doing evil things and they would fall for it at first and then go "WTF, no way !!!" and Melkor would be very embarrassed and then because they would all be a bit dumb they would start it all over again the day after. Maybe eventually they could try and go to Middle-Earth sitcom style ? Anyway there is a reason why I will never write an epic tragic poem (more than one, ok).

I understand the argument that while transformative and derivative works have always existed, "fanfiction" as a medium is inherently connected to the concept of IP law and thus is a specifically contemporary art/craft movement, I get it I really do, but also twenty years after the canterbury tales were finished an english monk wrote his own additional chapter and added himself as a character, and I'm sorry but that man should have been on wattpad

[daughter-of-melpomene]

I got some questions for your Tav’s based on the ask game! These ones are for your Tav Raven! The questions are 3,16, 23, 27, 32, 35, 44, 51, 62 and the bonus 70, my bonus questions is what are some headcanons for Raven and Wyll once they finally start a relationship together? And the bonus question to the bonus, what are they headcanons like for the poly relationship with Astarion?

Ahhhhh, thank you so much for asking about my sassy little bard!! Answers are under the cut! (And I’m also gonna tag the BG3 moots @astarionbae and @reyofluke-ocs. <3)

What is your character’s moral alignment?

I’d say that Raven is solidly Chaotic Good. They do want to do the right thing ultimately, but they don’t always want to do it for the right reasons, and they certainly have no qualms about doing some less-than-legal things in order to accomplish their missions.

Which of the companions does your Tav trust most?

Already answered this here!!

What is your Tav’s favorite moment they’ve had with their lover?

I think Raven’s favorite moment with Wyll might be the first dance they share. Raven hasn’t exactly been the easiest person to get along with up until this point, at least not with Wyll, but they’re just starting to come around to him at this point, so sharing this sweet little moment with him, with him teaching them a courtly dance while they show him the looser style they’ve picked up in taverns, goes a long way towards improving their relationship, and it’s probably the first moment when Raven started to genuinely like Wyll.

What is their sense of humor like?

I’d say it’s the closest to Astarion’s over all of the other companions - Raven is incredibly sarcastic and loves to make constant little digs at people they don’t like. A lot of their jokes and comments also tend to be very witty and creative, an indicator of their talent as a songwriter. They’re also not above quoting some of the many bawdy jokes they’ve picked up from performing in taverns, even if Karlach’s usually the only one who laughs at them.

How did your Tav get their scars, if they have any?

Before the whole adventure with the party, at least, Raven only has one scar, a thin slash travelling from their jaw up their cheek. They got it when they were still young, after a group of other street urchins cornered them and attempted to steal the money they’d just earned from one of their first jobs performing at a tavern. Raven managed to get away with all their money, but one of the urchins had a knife and managed to slash their face as they escaped.

How does your Tav react to wearing the Wavemother’s robe? How do they react to their partner wearing it?

Very unlike Nifara, Raven freaking loves this outfit. They’ve always loved a bit of style, and the Wavemother’s robe is without a doubt one of the most stylish and most elegant things they’ve ever worn. If it was at all practical for fighting it, they’d probably refuse to ever take it off (and it definitely helps that Wyll can hardly tear his eyes away from them when they have it on).

And Wyll wearing it? Oh, don’t even get me started. Depending on what point in their relationship it is when he wears it, Raven might tease him relentlessly for wearing it (but still with the occasional appreciative glance his way), but if he wears it after their romance has started? There will be enough drool involved to douse Karlach’s Infernal Engine, and there’ll be no chance of Wyll wearing it on the road because Raven will walk into many trees because they’ll be distracted watching him.

What song best represents your Tav?

Okay, this may be at least in part because a lot of Raven is based off of Lucy Grey Baird from The Ballad of Songbirds and Snakes, but I really think that “Nothing You Can Take From Me” by Rachel Zegler is perfect for them! It’s representative of the kind of music they usually play and write, plus it speaks to Raven’s steadfast determination and refusal to let anybody change them unless they want to change as well.

What does your Tav want in their future? (domestic bliss, more adventure, a family, etc)

I really do think that Raven wants some kind of stability in their future - being essentially raised on the streets and having to live off of meaner pay from tavern gigs, combined with all the stress of the parasites and the party’s adventure, means that so much of their life has been in constant uncertainty, and they would really like that to change further down the road. They don’t really want kids, especially if it would involve getting pregnant themself, but they do want to hopefully be able to settle down with a partner and live a sort of domestic life - and luckily enough, they’re able to find that with Wyll after he marries them and takes over the duties of duke from his father.

What meme describes your Tav the best?

I definitely think that Raven’s whole friendship with Astarion and Karlach can be summed up by that one meme that’s like “local dumbasses knew what they were getting themselves into and did it anyway”.

Some headcanons about Raven and Wyll’s relationship:

They’re sort of a black cat/golden retriever couple, except Wyll also has a bit of cat energy, so it’s really more black cat/polite cat.

Raven calls Wyll “dukeling” when they first meet as an insult, but as their relationship progresses, it slowly becomes more of a term of endearment.

In return for Wyll teaching them the noble dances of his childhood, Raven teaches him some of the dances they’ve learned in taverns. He’s not quite as good at them as Raven is at his noble dances, but he does his best.

Raven writes a great many songs about Wyll after they officially get together, and in quiet moments Wyll can often be heard humming one or another under his breath. The servants, after the two of them are living in the duchy in Baldur’s Gate, finds this absolutely adorable, but Astarion and Karlach don’t hesitate to tease Wyll relentlessly about it whenever they visit.

Some headcanons about Raven, Wyll, and Astarion’s relationship:

Whenever the three of them cuddle or sleep in the same bed, Astarion is always in the middle, soaking in the warmth of his two lovers’ bodies.

After Wyll takes over the duties of duke from his father, he will often stay up much too late working or forget to eat, but Raven and Astarion will always make sure to bring him food or tempt him to bed with the promise of “some fun” (only to bundle him up in a blanket and tell him forcefully to get some sleep, and he somehow falls for the trick every time).

Neither Astarion nor Wyll can sing even half as well as Raven, but when the three of them are alone, that doesn’t stop them from joining in when their love is practicing or working on a song and turning their solos into group numbers.

Though most of Baldur’s Gate refers to Raven and Astarion as “the duke’s lovers,” Wyll will never hesitate to correct people when they say it in front of him, insisting that he belongs to the bard and the vampire much more than people as amazing as them could ever belong to him.

bg3 tav questions!!

[freudensteins-monster]

A Very Polite Marriage

Allow me to introduce you to a completely random ship that I’ve decided to invest in after reading the latest chapter of @inexplicifics​ latest amazingness Must Brave The Thorns, despite the pair not having any scenes together (yet): Coën x Adelina.

Not exactly sure how it happened, but it’s a little bit that shot from the Netflix show where Coën is poor little touched starved boy clinging to one of the prostitutes visiting Kaer Morhen…

And then thinking about the courtly Griffin, who inexplicifics mentioned as being ace/aro, and Queen Adelina, who has probably suffered so much being married to Vizimir, and will probably never want another man touching her, but is also so very brave and noble despite the cruel world she’s been existing in… and then deciding that my AU of an AU of an AU headcanon is that while Coën is asexual he isn’t necessarily aromantic. Possibly demiromantic or similar, which is just as a surprise to him as it is anyone else. Because he and Adelina (and I) deserve some courtly romance. As a treat.

“Coën. Your troop to the queen, and guard her well.” - Chapter 28, Must Brave The Thorns.

And this line somehow made me think of the painting The Meeting on the Turret Stairs and it made me want to make some art of it with Coën & Adelina... Which, as you can see, is a liiiiiiiitle bit beyond my art abilities. I literally stuck a piece of paper over my computer screen and traced the basic image and then tried to make the knight look more like Coën. And then I dug out some old colour pencils, and then I tried to make the colour more saturated in a free online photo editing thing, because I attempt art so infrequently that I haven’t bothered to get an art program since my photoshop trial ended, oh, about ten years ago. And only after all that did I realise that I had forgotten to include Adelina’s other hand!!! How did I miss that??? *a thousand facepalms* Let’s just pretend it's hidden by Coën’s arm, pressed against his heart. Okay? Okay.

[pillage-and-lute]

An Ever Fixed Mark (arranged marriage Au)

Part 1 is here, finally! Title a reference to Shakespeare’s Sonnet 116.

Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6, Part 7, Part 8, Part 9, Part 10

Read it on Ao3 HERE

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Vesemir’s slap hit Geralt firmly on the back of the head. Two seconds previously Geralt had been complaining about his upcoming, politically motivated marriage to some nobleman’s son. 

“It’s a good thing, lad. Other witcher schools would kill for something like this,” he said. Geralt knew it was right, legal punishment for those who shortchanged or attacked witchers. It set a precedent, and apparently the earl was very influential. It could change things.

“And there isn’t a fidelity clause,” Eskel said. “It doesn’t have to be more than a sort of partnership.”

“No consummation requirement either,” sniggered Lambert from the other side of the campfire. “You don’t even have to fuck the bugger if he’s ugly.” This earned him a sharp elbow from Eskel. 

“What I don’t understand is what they get out of this,” Geralt said. It had been bugging him. 

“Ah,” Vesemir said, looking uneasy. “It seems that the payment is...taking the viscount off of the Earl’s hands, officially. It seems he’s something of an embarrassment.”

The unease in Vesemir’s voice was subtle, but after so many decades with their teacher, the wolves of Kaer Morhen knew the slight variations of tone and expression. His discomfort was twofold, first, the obvious implication that the Earl was sending his son to live a dangerous life alongside a witcher in order to...deal with him. A death sentence, from father to son. The second was that Geralt, already saddled with a political marriage, was also to be saddled with a nuisance of a husband. 

“But why me?” Geralt knew he was whining like a child, but he couldn’t help it. It was three days to Lettenhove, and then they’d be there at least a week for the wedding and he’d have to act courtly. 

He wasn’t good at courtly.

When he thought about it none of them were. 

“It couldn’t have been me,” Eskel said, a little shyly. He was right. Eskel believed his scars were horrible, made him unlovable and undesirable. Geralt didn’t buy it, but nobles could get a bit stroppy about appearances. And if they humiliated Eskel because of his scarring...no, Geralt wouldn’t let that happen.

“Couldn’t have been me,” Lambert said, mouth full and rather cheerfully. No. It couldn’t have been him either, no manners and no filter, they’d be at war with the entirety of Lettenhove within a day.

“And I’m an old man,” Vesemir said. He didn’t actually wink, but he might as well have. Older though he was, he was still three times the warrior of any young human man walking about these days. But from what Geralt had heard, and it hadn’t been much, the Viscount was young, not quite twenty, and it wouldn’t be kind to marry him to someone so much older than himself. Geralt reflected grimly that he was nearly four times the youth’s age.

Three days of riding passed far too quickly for Geralt’s liking.

Chateau de Lettenhove loomed. It was a fairytale castle built by a man expecting a siege. There were high, rising towers with huge windows and artful buttresses, but to the trained eye of the witchers, it was a fortress. The towers had carved, decorative arrow slits, the windows all had iron grates over them, wrought like lace, and the buttresses could be easily used as defensive positions. All in all, it was a castle that growled, albeit genteelly.

They were greeted first by a footman, and then a line of servants increasing in rank, until a very snobby servant, likely the head housekeeper from the way all the maids scuttled away from her, brought them to an anteroom. At this point courtesy dictated that she bade them sit down on one of the lavish sofas. She did not. She chose instead to turn up her nose and sweep away.

The four witchers remained standing, not looking at one another. Geralt could feel Lambert stewing about the obvious slight beside him. He reached out, still staring straight ahead, and tweaked Lambert’s ear. 

This was about to result in much brotherly retribution and probably a brawl when the housekeeper returned, followed by another woman.

“His lordship the Earl of Lettenhove is attending to vital business,” the housekeeper said, tone of voice implying that the arrival of four witchers who were muddying her nice clean floor were certainly not vital. “I present, her ladyship, Countess Amaria Elizaveta de Lettenhove.” 

The countess curtsied, it was a polite little bob, and she smiled a little dazedly as the witchers all gave their best attempt at courtly bows. A small but significant part of Geralt’s brain was panicking, and it dealt with this new form of terror by imagining that the school of the wolf, seen from the outside plying their newly practiced bows, must look like a line of seagulls vying for a dropped crumb.

Vesemir stepped forward and, in a rather more suave gesture than Geralt had been expecting, took the Countess’ hand and bowed over it. Two bows seemed excessive to Geralt, but since it seemed to indicate that Vesemir would be taking over the speaking for now, he certainly wasn’t about to bring it up. 

“A pleasure to meet you, my lady,” Vesemir said, straightening and releasing her hand. “May I introduce the school of the wolf. Eskel is--”

The countess had waved a limp hand. “Plenty of time for that at the feast, deary,” she said, smiling dreamily. There was something in her eyes that was a little absent, possibly more than a little if her calling Vesemir ‘deary’ was anything to go by. Geralt looked the countess over. He had been given to understand through the brief letters from the Lettenhove estate, that this wasn’t the viscount-Julian, the letters said-’s mother, but rather his step mother. She was a petite lady with mousy hair and rather absent blue eyes. Her dress was obviously of very fine material, rose pink and probably silk, although Lambert would know better than him, but a simpler cut than Geralt had expected. 

His examination, done in a split second, decided that she wasn’t an immediate enemy, but probably not a terrible useful ally. 

“I’m to give you this courting gift,” here she proffered a small but beautifully carved wooden box. “And to show you to your quarters.” She smiled again, and it was warm, but still vapid.

“Custom usually dictates that the fiancé give the courting gift,” Vesemir said, cautiously taking the box.”

“My husband wanted someone else to present it,” she said. “But your grandson can give his gift in person when he meets Julian. Now what...” she trailed off, not even noticing Vesemir’s slight sputter at grandson. “Ah yes, your rooms, right this way please.”

She got lost on the way to their rooms and a shaking footman showed them up to a suite, then kindly took her by the hand and led her away.

They sat, silent, in the nice but not lavish quarters. Four beds in curtained alcoves off to the side, and in the middle a room with a table and chairs, and a sofa and more comfortable chairs in front of a fireplace. It was already blazing and the witchers stared into it for a minute.

“That was strange,” Eskel finally said, and the others just nodded.

“Should I have insisted on giving her our courting gift?” Geralt said after another pause. “I thought they were usually given in person.”

“I think you’re fine,” Vesemir said. “If they broke that tradition they can hardly fault you for doing the same.”

Lambert, sprawled across the sofa, said, “When’s dinner?”

“I think I’m supposed to meet Julian first,” Geralt said. “Someone will probably come get us. 

“When we meet Julian you mean,” Lambert said, sitting up. 

“No, I’ve been thinking about that and I want to meet him alone.”

Vesemir nodded, “Sensible, we don’t know how he will react to one witcher, let alone four.” Then he smirked, although not unkindly, at Lambert. “You will be introduced and have a chance to be nosy later. At dinner perhaps.”

They unpacked their belongings, potion bottles and swords looking out of place along the old but nicely carved furniture. After days of tension on the road as Geralt wound himself tighter and tighter with anxiety for his...wedding, yes his wedding, now this pause was jarring. Eskel tapped him on the shoulder and gave him a look.

Geralt turned around to give Eskel room to work.

On the Path, witchers are rarely, if ever touched. Certainly not in a friendly way if the other isn’t being compensated. It wasn’t therefore, unusual for the wolves of Kaer Morhen to be tactile with one another. Not hugging and cuddling sweetly, but rough housing and wrestling ending in exhausted dog piles. But Eskel had a gift, he had magic hands, literally and figuratively, and he carefully oiled his hands while Geralt took off his travel stained shirt. 

Geralt sunk into himself, half meditating as Eskel dragged the tension from his shoulders and beat the knots from his muscles. It wasn’t a relaxing massage, but it always left him feeling like liquid, if slightly bruised. When it was over and the liquid feeling had left him, or at least subsided enough that his knees could hold him, he stood, clapping Eskel on the shoulder in thanks.

Then came the hard bit.

Geralt needed to be courtly. He scrubbed the bits he could with water and a cloth from a little washstand, but he hoped he could have a hot bath later. Afterwards Vesemir advanced on him and battled the dirt from underneath his fingernails with a stiff brush before attacking his hair with a comb. Geralt sat on the ground like a child, his brothers looking on in amusement as Vesemir sat behind him on the couch and teased the tangles from his hair. He was making faces, he knew, but Vesemir wasn’t gentle, and he hadn’t detangled his hair in some time.

Scrubbed raw, with his hair floating around his shoulders like a silver cloud, Lambert presented him with a doublet. 

It was black, which was good.

That was the only good thing about it. It was most likely a very nice, extremely fashionable doublet. Lambert might take delight in embarrassing Geralt, but he didn’t mess about with clothing. The issue was that it was attention grabbing, it was subtle in a way that seemed to play itself down while actually drawing every eye. It was black, in the same way a raven’s wing was black, every shimmering shade shifting as the fabric moved.

And he would be wearing it. 

He did wear it. 

His hands shook as he buttoned it up. 

He was just examining himself in a slightly tarnished hand mirror when there was a sharp knock at the door. The footman let himself in right after and bowed swiftly. 

“I am to escort the witchers of Kaer Morhen to meet Lord Julian.”

“Just the one witcher,” Geralt said. Vesemir pressed his courting gift, and the little carved boxed nestled on top, into his arms.

The footman didn’t seem to care and simply turned away, leading Geralt through hallways that all looked the same and down two very winding staicases, the second of which was so narrow his shoulders actually brushed the walls. They stopped outside a plain wooden door. The footman bowed and smiled. It looked, Geralt couldn’t help but feel, rather cruel. Then he left. Geralt knocked softly on the door, feeling very large in the narrow, low ceilinged hallway.

Eskel had told him once of a myth he had read, about a beast, half man half bull, hidden away in a maze. Geralt felt like such a beast, too large and rough and probably going to barge in and do everything wrong.

“Come in.” 

It was soft, but not nervous, and Geralt pushed open the door. 

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Oooh I’m naughty for leaving it there, but it’s almost 2000 words already. @llamasdumpsterfire here it is at last, I hope it lives up to expectations.

[itonje]

people of color in arthurian legend masterpost

hi! some people said it would be cool if i did this, and this is something i find interesting so. yeah! are you interested in king arthur and the knights of the round table? do you like to read about characters of color, especially in older lit? well, i hope this can be a good resource for people to get into stuff like that, especially poc/ethnic minorities who might feel uncomfortable or lonely getting into older media like arthuriana. this post is friendly to both those who prefer medieval lit and those who prefer modern stuff!

disclaimers: i am not a medievalist nor a race theorist! very much not so. i am just a 17 year old asian creature on the internet who wants to have an easy-to-reference post, if i’m not comprehensive enough please inform me. i’m going to stay closely to the matter of britain, as well, not all medieval european literature as a. this is what i’m more familiar with and b. there’s so much content and information and context to go along with it that it would really be impossible to put it all into one tumblr post. (however there’s always going to be overlap!) also, please do not treat me or any other person of color/ethnic minority as a singular all-knowing authority on anything! we’re all trying to have fun here and being made into an information machine on things, especially what is and isn’t offensive isn’t fun. with that out of the way, let’s get into it! (under cut for length!) 

part i: some historical context (tw for racism and antisemitism discussion)

fair warning, i’m going to start off with some discussions of more heavier history before we talk about more fun stuff. while pre colonial racism was far more different than how it is today, there still...was racism. and it’s important to understand the social mien around nonwhite people in europe at the time these works were written. 

to understand how marginalized ethnicities were written in medieval european literature, you have to understand the fact that religion, specifically catholicism, was a very important part of medieval european life. already, catholicism has violent tenets (ie, conversion as an inherent part of the church, as well as many antisemitic theologies and beliefs), but this violence worsened when an event known as the crusades happened.

the crusades were a series of religious wars started by the catholic church to ‘reclaim’ the holy land from islamic rule and to aid the byzantine empire. while i won’t go into the full history of the crusades, (some basic info here and here and here) its important to understand that they had strengthened the european view of the ’pagan’ (ie: not european christian) world as an ‘other’, a threat to christiandom that needed to be conquered and converted, for the spiritual benefit of both the convertee and the converter. these ideas of ethnoreligious superiority and conversion would permeate into the literature of the time written by european christians. 

even today, the crusades are very much associated with white supremacy and modern islamophobic sentiment, with words such as ‘deus vult’ as a dogwhistle, and worship of and willingness to emulate the violence the crusaders used against the inhabitants of the holy land in tradcath spaces, so this isn’t stuff that’s all dead and in the past. crusader propaganda and the ignorance on the violence of the catholic church and the crusaders on muslim and jewish populations (as well as nonwhite christians ofc) is very harmful. arthuriana itself has a lot of links to white supremacy too-thanks to @/to-many-towered-camelot for this informative post. none of this stuff exists in a bubble. 

here’s a book on catholic antisemitism, here’s a book on orientalism, here’s a book about racism in history that touches on the crusades. (to any catholic, i highly reccommend you read the first.)

with that out of the way, we can talk about the various not european groups that typically show up in arthurian literature and some historical background irt to that. the terms ‘moor’ and ‘saracen’ will typically pop up. both terms are exonyms and are very, very broad, eventually used as both a general term for muslims and as a general term for african and (western + central) asian people. they’re very vague, but when you encounter them the typical understanding you’re supposed to take away is ‘(western asian/african) foreigner’ and typically muslim/not christian as well. t

generally, african and asian lands will typically be referred to as pagan or ‘eastern/foreign’ lands, with little regard for understanding the actual religions of that area. they will also typically refer to saracens as pagans although islam is not a pagan religion. this is just a bit of a disclaimer. the term saracen itself is considered to be rather offensive-thank you to @/lesbianlanval for sending me a paper on this subject. 

while i typically refer to the content on this post as having to pertain to african and asian people (ie, not european) european jewish arthurian traditions are included on this post too. but, i know more about poc and they’ll feature more prominently in this post because of that, lol. 

part ii: so, are there any medieval texts involving characters of color?

i’m glad you asked! of course there are! to be clear, european medieval authors were very much aware that people of color and african + asian nations existed, don’t let anyone tell you otherwise. even the vita merlini mentions sri lanka and a set of islands that might (?) be the philippines!! for the sake of brevity though, on this list i’m not going to list every single one of these small and frequent references, so i’m just going to focus on texts that primarily (or notably) feature characters of color. 

first of all, it’s important to know was the influence of cultures of color and marginalized ethnicities that helped shape arthurian legend. the cultural exchange between europe and the islamic world during the crusades, as well as the long history of arab presence in southern europe, led to the influence of arabic love poetry and concepts of love on european literature, helping to form what we consider the archetypal romance. there are also arthurian traditions in hebrew, and yiddish too, adding new cultural ideas and introducing new story elements to their literature-all of these are just as crucial to the matter of britain as any other traditions!

when it comes to nonwhite presence in the works themselves, many knights of color in arthurian legend tend to be characters that, after defeated by a knight of arthur’s court join the court themselves. though some are side characters, there are others with their own romances and stories devoted to them! many of them are portrayed as capable + good as, if not better than their counterparts. (this, however, usually only comes through conversion to christianity if the knight is not christian...yeah.) though groups of color as a general monolith created by european christians tended to be orientalized in literature (see: mystical and strange ~eastern~ lands), many individual knights were written to be seen by their medieval audience as positive heroes. i’m going to try to stick to mostly individual character portrayals such as these. 

with that all said though, these characters can still be taken as offensive (i would consider most to be) in their writing, so take everything with a grain of salt here. i will also include links to as many english translations of texts as i can, as well as note which ones i think are beginner friendly to those on the fence about medieval literature!

he shows up in too many texts so let’s make this into two bullet notes and start with one of, if not the most ubiquitous knight of color of the round table (at least in medieval lit),-palamedes! palamedes/palomides is a ‘’saracen knight’’ who (typically) hails from babylon or palestine and shows up in a good amount of texts. his first appearance is in the prose tristan, and he plays a major role there as a knight who fights with tristan for the hand of iseult-while he uh. loses, him and tristan later become companions + friends with a rivalry, and palamedes later goes off to hunt the questing beast, a re-occurring trend in his story. 

palamedes even got his own romance named after him (which was very popular!) and details the adventures of the fathers of the knights of the round table, pre arthur, as well as later parts of the story detailing the adventures of their sons. it was included in rustichello da pisa’s compilation of arthurian romances, which i unfortunately have not seen floating around online (or...anywhere), so i can’t attest to the quality of it or anything. he appears in le morte darthur as well, slaying the questing beast but only after his conversion to christianity (...yeah.) in the texts in which he appears, palamedes is considered to be one of the top knights of the round table, alongside tristan and lancelot, fully living up to chivalric and courtly ideals and then some. i love him dearly and i’ve read the prose tristan five times just for him. (also the prose tristan in general is good, please give it a try, especially if you’re a romance fan.)

speaking of le morte d’arthur, an egyptian knight named priamus shows up in the lucius v arthur episode on lucius’ side first, later joining arthur’s after some interactions with gawaine. palamedes has brothers here as well-safir and segwarides. safir was relatively popular, and shows up in many medieval texts, mostly alongside his older brother. i wouldn’t recommend reading le morte of all things for the characters of color though-if you really want to see what it’s all about, just skip to the parts they’re mentioned with ctrl + f, haha. 

the romance of moriaen is a 12th century dutch romance from the lancelot compilation, named for its main character morien. morien, who is a black moor, is the son of sir aglovale, the brother of perceval. whilst gawaine and lancelot are searching for said perceval, they encounter morien, who is in turn searching for aglovale as he had abandoned morien’s mother way back when. i wholeheartedly recommend this text for people who might feel uncomfy with medieval lit. though the translation i’ve linked can be a bit tricky, the story is short, sweet, and easy to follow, and morien and his relationships (esp with gariet, gawaine’s brother) are all wonderful. 

king artus (original hebrew text here) is a northern italian jewish arthurian text written in hebrew- it retells a bit of the typical conception of arthur story, as well as some parts from the death of arthur as well. i really can’t recommend this text enough-it’s quite short, with an easy-to-read english translation, going over episodes that are pretty familiar to any average reader while adding a lot of fun details and it’s VERY interesting to me from a cultural standpoint. i find the way how they adapt the holy grail (one of the most archetypal christian motifs ever) in particular pretty amazing. this is also a very beginner friendly text! 

wolfram von eschenbach’s parzival (link to volume 1 and volume 2-this translation rhymes!) is a medieval high german romance from the early 13th century, based off de troyes’ le conte du graal while greatly expanding on the original story. it concerns parzival and his quest for the grail (with a rather unique take on it-he fails at first!), and also takes like one million detours to talk about gawaine as all arthurian lit does. the prominent character of color here is a noble mixed race knight called feirefiz, parzival’s half brother by his father, who after dueling with parzival, and figures out their familial connection, joins him on his grail quest. he eventually converts to christianity (..yeah.) to see the grail and all ends happily for him. however, this text is notable to me as it contains two named women of color-belacane, feirefiz’s black african mother, and secundilla, feirefiz’s indian wife. though unfortunately, both are pretty screwed over by the text and their respective husbands. though parzival is maybe my favorite medieval text i’ve read so far i don’t necessarily know if i’d recommend this one, because it is long, and can be confusing at times. however, i do think that when it comes to the portrayal of people of color, while quite poor by today’s standards, von eschenbach was trying his best?-of course, in reason for. a 13th century medival german christian but he treats them with respect and all these characters are actually characters. if you’re really interested in grail stories (and are aware of the more uncomfortably christian aspects of the grail story), and you like gawaine and perceval, i’d say go for it. 

in the turk and sir gawain, an english poem from the early 16th century, gawaine and the titular turkish man play a game of tennis ball. i’m shitting you not. this text is pretty short, funnily absurd, and with most of the hallmarks of a typical quest (various challenges culminating in some castle being freed), so it’s an easier read. it’s unclear to me, but at the end of the story the turkish man turns into sir gromer, a noble knight, who may or may not be white which uh. consider my ‘....yeah’ typical at this point, but i don’t personally read it that way for my own sanity. also he throws the sultan (??) of the isle of man (????) into a cauldron for not being a christian so when it comes to respectful representation of poc this one doesn’t make it, but it does make this list. 

the revenge of ragisel, or at least the version i’ve read (the eng translation of the dutch version from the lancelot compilation), die wrake van ragisel, starts off being about the mysterious murder of a knight, but eventually, as most stories do, becomes a varying series of adventures about gawaine and co. one of gawaine’s friends (see: a knight who he combated with for a hot sec and then became friends and allies with, as you do) is a black knight named maurus! he’s not really an mc, but he features prominently and he’s pretty entertaining, as all the characters in this are. i also recommend this highly, i was laughing the whole time reading it! it’s not too long and pretty wild, you’ll have a good romp. this is a good starter text for anyone in general!

i’ve not read the roman van walewein, which, as it says on the tin, is a 12th century dutch romance concerning some deeds of gawaine (if only gawaine was a canon poc, i wouldn’t need to make this list because he’s so popular...). i’m putting it on the list for in this, gawaine goes to the far eastern land of endi (india) and romances a princess named ysabele. i can’t speak to ysabele’s character or the respectfulness of her kingdom or representation, but i know she’s a major character and her story ends pretty well, so that’s encouraging. women of color, especially fleshed out woc, are pretty rare in arthurian lit. i’ve also heard the story itself is pretty wild, and includes a fox, which sounds pretty exciting to me!

now the next two things i’m going to mention aren’t really? texts that feature characters of color or jewish characters, but are rather more notable for being translations of existing texts into certain languages. wigalois is a german 13th century romances featuring the titular character (the son of, you guessed it, gawaine!) and his deeds. the second, jaufre, is the only arthurian romance written in occitan, and is a quite long work about the adventures of the knight jaufre, based on the knight griflet. what’s notable about these two works is that wigalois has a yiddish translation, and jaufre has a tagalog translation. wigalois’ yiddish translation in particular changed the original german text into something more fitting of the arthurian romance format as well as adding elements to make it more appealing for a jewish audience. the tagalog translation of jaufre on the other hand was not medieval, only coming about in 1900, but the philippines has had a long history of romantic tradition and verse writing, so i’m curious to see if it too adds or changes elements when it comes to the arthurian story, but i can’t find a lot on the tagalog version of jaufre unfortunately-i hope i can eventually!

this list of texts is also non-exhaustive! i’m just listing a couple of notoriety, and some to start with. 

part iii: papers and academic analysis

so here’s just a dump of various papers i’ve read and collected on topics such as these-this is an inexhaustive and non-comprehensive list! if you have any papers you think are good and would like to be added here, shoot me an ask. i’ll try to include a link when i can, but if it’s unavailable to you just message me. * starred are the ones i really think people, especially white people, should at least try to read. 

Swank, Kris. ‘Black in Camelot: Race and Ethnicity in Arthurian Legend’ *

Harrill, Claire. ‘Saracens and racial Otherness in Middle English * Romance’

Keita, Maghan. ‘Saracens and Black Knights’ 

Hoffman, Donald L. ‘Assimilating Saracens: The Aliens in Malory's ‘Morte Darthur’

Goodrich, Peter H. ‘Saracens and Islamic Alterity in Malory's ‘Le Morte Darthur’

Schultz, Annie. ‘Forbidden Love: The Arabic Influence on the Courtly Love Poetry of Medieval Europe’ *

Hardman, Philipa. ‘Dear Enemies: the Motif of the Converted Saracen and Sir Gawain and the Green Knight’

Knowles, Annie. ‘Encounters of the Arabian Kind: Cultural Exchange and Identity the Tristans of Medieval France, England, and Spain’ *

Hermes, Nizar F. ‘King Arthur in the Lands of the Saracens’ *

Ayed, Wajih. ‘Somatic Figurations of the Saracen in Sir Thomas Malory’s Le Morte Darthur’

Herde, Christopher M. ‘A new fantasy of crusade: Sarras in the vulgate cycle.’ *

Rovang, Paul R. ‘Hebraizing Arthurian Romance: The Originality of ‘Melech Artus.’’

Rajabzdeh, Shokoofeh. ‘The Depoliticized Saracen and Muslim erasure’ *

Holbrook, Sue Ellen. ‘To the Well: Malory's Sir Palomides on Ideals of Chivalric Reputation, Male Friendship, Romantic Love, Religious Conversion—and Loyalty.’ *

Lumbley, Coral. ‘Geoffrey of Monmouth and Race’ *

Oehme, Annegret. ‘Adapting Arthur. The Transformations and Adaptations of Wirnt von Grafenberg’s Wigalois’ *

Hendrix, Erik. ‘An Unlikely Hero: The Romance of Moriaen and Racial Discursivity in the Middle Ages’ *

Darrup, Cathy C. ‘Gender, Skin Color, and the Power of Place in the Medieval Dutch Romance of Moriaen’ *

Armstrong, Dorsey. ‘Postcolonial Palomides: Malory's Saracen Knight and the Unmaking of Arthurian Community’ (note this is the only one i can’t access in its entirety)

part iv: supplemental material

here’s some other stuff i find useful to getting to know knights of color in arthurian legend, especially if papers/academic stuff/medieval literature is daunting! i’d really recommend you go through all of these if you can’t go through anything else-most are quick reads. 

a magazine article on knights of color here, and this article about the yiddish translation of wigalois. 

this video about characters of color in arthurian legend!

the performance of the translation of arabic in Libro del Caballero Zifar, and how it pertains to the matter of britain 

a post by yours truly about women of color in parzival

this info sheet about palamedes, and this info sheet about ysabele-thanks to @/pendraegon and @/reynier for letting me use these!

this page on palamedes as well

this post with various resources on race and ethnicity in arthuriana-another thank you to @/reynier! 

part v: how about modern day stories and adaptations?

there’s a lot of em out there! i’m not as familiar with modern stuff, but i will try to recommend medias i know where characters of color (including racebends!) are prominent. since i haven’t read/watched all (or truly most) of these, i can’t really speak on the quality of the representation though, so that’s your warning. 

first of all, when it comes to the victorian arthurian revival, i know that william morris really liked palamedes! (don’t we all.) he features frequently in morris’ arthurian poetry, (in this beautiful book, he primarily features in ‘sir galahad, a christmas mystery’ and ‘king arthur’s tomb’. he has his own poem by morris here.)

and some other poems about palamedes, which i’d all recommend. 

for movies, i know a knight in camelot (1998) stars whoopi goldberg as an original character, the green knight (2021) will star dev patel as gawaine. 

some shows include camelot high, bbc merlin, disney’s once upon a time, and netflix’s cursed, all featuring both original characters of color and people of color cast as known arthurian figures. 

for any music people, in ‘high noon over camelot’, an album by the mechanisms, mordred is played by ashes o’reilley, who in turn is performed by frank voss, and arthur is played by marius von raum who is perfomed by kofi young. 

i’ve also heard the pendragon and the squire’s tales have palamedes as a relevant character if you’re looking for novels, as well as legendborn and the forgotten knight: a chinese warrior in king arthur’s court starring original protagonists of color! 

part vi: going on from here

so, you’ve read some medieval lit, read some papers, watched some shows, and done all that. what now? well, there’s still so much out there! 

if you have fanfiction, analysis, metaposts, fun content etc etc about arthurian poc, feel free to plug your content on this post! i’d be happy to boost it. 

in general, if you’re a person of color or a jewish person and you’re into arthurian legend, feel free to promote your blog on this post as well! i would love to know more people active on arthurian tumblr who are nonwhite. 

this is really just me asking for extra content, especially content made by poc, but that’s okay! arthurian legend is a living, breathing set of canons and i would love love love to see more fresh diversity within them right alongside the older stuff. 

a very gracious thank you to the tumblr users whom i linked posts to on here, and thanks to y’all for saying you want to see this! i hope this post helped people learn some new things! 

[whentheynameyoujoy]

Yup, Sure Was a Finale

I had an epiphany. The reason why I never re-watched the final two parts of Sozin’s Comet even though I’ve popped in episodes at random many times over the years isn’t that I can’t bear the sadness of seeing one of the best, most engaging narratives out there come to an end.

It’s simply that the finale isn’t all that good.

Some honorable mentions of what was enjoyable.

(+) This

Just this.

(+) The Church of Zutara has another convert

“Are you sure they don’t get together?” Hubster, 2020

(+) The tragedy of Azula

And the fact that it’s acknowledged as such. I hope Zuko will do his best to get her help and have a relationship with her…

(+) Sokka being a big bro

And the whole airship sequence in general. It’s wonderfully paced and plotted, with moments of humor, real stakes, Toph being both badass and a scared crying kid, Sokka strategizing and protecting, Suki saving the day, and non-benders being instrumental in thwarting the bad guy firebender’s plans. Would be shame if Bryke never portrayed them this capable ever again…

And now for the main course.

(-) Blink and its over

The wrap-up feels too quick (hashtag Needs More ROtK-style False Endings). A part of this is due to how fast the story goes from the thick of the action to hastily tying up a bunch of loose ends, but the larger issue is how Book 3’s uneven pacing comes home to roost. After spending half a season on filler episodes that at best subtly flesh out established characters while dancing around a huge lionturtle-shaped hole, and at worst contradict the theme of “no one is born bad” with “you’re a hot mess because your great-grandfathers didn’t get along too well”, the frantic “go go go” rush of the second half screeches to a halt with “they won and everyone was happy because now the right people have power and it will be all good from now on yup nothing more to deal with baiiiii”.

Yes, I know, it’s a kids’ show. But goddamn, this particular kids’ show has proven so many times it can do better than the expected tropiness. Showing the characters in their roles as builders of a new world was the least that could have been done.

Oh well!

(-) Ursa

We’ll never know. There will never be a story that delves into this. Yup. Shall forever remain but an intriguing mystery. Is good, though. Mystery is better than a story where Ursa shares her son’s penchant for forgetfulness. Imagine how embarrassing that would be. Speaking of which…

(-) What does Mai see in this jerkbender?

Look, I like to harp a lot on the mess of inconsistent writing that’s Mai but let’s unpack this scene from her perspective, shall we?

Zuko forgot about her! It totally slipped his mind that the one person who prioritized the safety of his dumb ass was rotting in the worst prison in the Fire Nation—because of him! And she was rotting there long enough after the final Agni Kai for the news of Zuko’s upcoming coronation to spread and her uncle to feel sufficiently secure to release her. But then the coronation scene is attended by every single member of Gaang & Friends that was imprisoned?

So what this tells me is that either a) the invasion force had the ability to break themselves out the whole time and for some reason decided not to exercise it until after the war was over, b) Zuko forgot about them as well and no one thought to remind him there were prisons full of POWs until Mai arrived, or, and that’s even better, c) Zuko took care to free every single resistance fighter while making sure Mai would be the one to stay behind bars.

Never thought I’d say this but Mai? Honey? You deserve so much better.

(-) “What does Katara want?”

Asked no one in the writers’ room ever, apparently.

This is not so much anti Cataang as anti romance stories that pay attention to the needs, opinions, and wants of only one partner in general. Over the previous 60 episodes, Katara actively expressed romantic interest in Aang exactly, wait for it,

Once.

And it got retconned out of relevance by the following two interactions where the possibility of a romantic relationship came up, making the Headband dance pretty easy to reclassify as just one of those examples where Aang “teaches” Katara to have fun (as if one of the main obstacles to her having fun wasn’t him constantly fooling around and offloading his duties). And because the writers not only didn’t succeed in portraying Katara’s internal state of mind, but also failed to root her reluctance to pursue a relationship in outside circumstances that could change, her sudden state of unconfused once Aang steps into the spotlight has a single canonical explanation that as much as approaches coherency.

The fact is, though, that trying to interpret canon Cataang from a Watsonian perspective is an exercise in foolishness. Because there is no Watsonian justification for the ship and never has been. Bryke simply conceived of Katara as nothing but a tropey prize for Aang, never saw her as anything beyond that, and were perfectly happy to go on and immortalize her as a passive broodmare for the rest of her life.

And I fully intend to die mad about it.

(-) Iroh dips

OK, it’s been long apparent that the show doesn’t intend to do anything about Iroh’s complicity in AzulOzai’s regime in any meaningful way, and that his sole motivation for doing anything whatsoever is Zuko whom he views as a replacement son which is supposed to be good for some reason. But the finale has him abandon even that, and instead turns him full-on YOLO, idgaf anymore. It really throws Iroh’s supposed love for Zuko into doubt when his last act in the entire show is to take a half-educated 16-year old with no political savvy or an heir to secure a dynastic continuity and plomp him on the throne of a war-mongering imperialist regime where the entirety of the militarist and ruling class is guaranteed to fight him tooth and nail for power.

(I sure hope Mai’s ready to start popping out babies by tea-time otherwise the whole country is fukd in about a week)

Christ, how hard would it be to have Iroh keep the throne warm for a few years while Zuko is getting ready to succeed him? Not only would it make the whole FN reformation bit quite likelier to occur, it would require Iroh’s hedonistic ass to actually sacrifice something for once. And not having Zuko ascend to power, instead spending some time bettering and educating himself first, would be a wonderful message that no matter what you endured and overcame, you never stop growing. A kids’ show, remember?

(-) The conquering of Ba Sing Se

Gee, I feel so blessed to have my attention diverted from battlefields which actually matter to an old dude vanity project I would have been perfectly happy to assume resolved itself off-screen.

The White Lotus in general just bugs me. I was fine with the individual characters and their overall passivity when they were portrayed as lone dissenters living under circumstances where it wasn’t really possible for any single person to mount a meaningful resistance. But as members of a far-reaching shadowy organization that’s left the real fight to a bunch of kids for 59 episodes straight and didn’t turn up until a perfect opportunity presented itself to take control of the largest city in the world and bask in the spotlight?

Yeah, no.

Similarly to the lionturtle-ex-machina, the White Lotus represents a huge missed opportunity for a season-long storytelling. Here’s just a brief list of what they could have been doing throughout Book 3:

orchestrating a Fire Nation uprising;

gathering those directly persecuted by AzulOzai’s regime to help Zuko keep his hold on power once he’s crowned;

establishing themselves as a viable alternative to Ozai;

sabotaging Fire Nation’s war efforts from the inside;

countering Fire Nation propaganda (Asha Greyjoy’s pinecones, anyone?);

running a supply network to alleviate the suffering of Earth Kingdom citizens.

Instead, they sit on their asses until the time comes to claim personal glory.

You know what, good on Bryke for making me conclude that in comparison, the Freedom Fighters were perfectly unproblematic, actually.

(-) Fire Lord Dead-by-Dawn

Yes, a kids’ show, I know! But ffs, this is the same kids’ show that came up with Long Feng and portrayed courtly intrigue, kingly puppets, secret police, spy networks, and information wars. Was it really too much of me to expect something other than “enlightened despot solves everything”? Especially if said enlightened despot has persisting anger issues, no personal support system, no base of followers, and no political experience whatsoever?

If Zuko’s actually serious about regaining the Fire Nation’s honor (i.e. by dismantling the country’s military machine, decolonizing the Earth Kingdom, paying reparations to everyone and their lemur, and funding any and all cultural restoration projects Aang and the SWT come up with), then there is no way, no way in the universe that he doesn’t face a civil war, deposing, and execution within a month.

One reason why his future as a Fire Lord seems rather bleak is that little’s been shown about the actual subjects of AzulOzai’s regime. While we get a vague reassurance that “no Toph, they’re not born bad” (le shockings), they largely remain a voiceless uniform mass of brainwashed clapping seals. What is their view on the Fire Nation’s crimes? Do they associate their condition with their country’s war-mongering? How will they react when Zuko starts dismantling the country piece by piece to rebuild it, bringing it to economic ruin? What will they do when noble Ozai loyalists come out of the woodwork and begin rounding them up under the banner of “Make the Fire Nation Great Again?”

I have no idea, and Zuko doesn’t either because he’s unironically more qualified to rule the Earth Kingdom than his own people.

You know what would have been better? Fire Lord Iroh, White Lotus pulling the strings to maintain the regime, and Crown Prince/People’s Champion Zuko travelling the Fire Nation with Aang and an army of tutors to promote the new boss, only to realize that absolute monarchy is kinda crap for the people he’s one day supposed to rule and gaining their support by ceding some power to them.

I’d laser holes into my TV due to how much I’d enjoy watching that.

(-) All hail Avatar Rock

Literally and metaphorically. Aang doesn’t sacrifice anything, gets everything, and the clever solution of going about getting said everything is handed to him on a silver platter, requiring no active participation on his part whatsoever.

He doesn’t work to unblock his chakras, spiritually or physically.

He only speaks to his past lives to get a pat on the back and a bow-tied solution he could mindlessly follow.

Energy-bending doesn’t require any sacrifice from him, leaves no lasting marks, and only serves for the narrative to praise him as the rare individual that’s unbendable and thus so very very special.

The most infuriating thing is, however, that Aang is clearly shown as being able to beat Ozai without either the Avatar state, or energy-bending.

And he chooses not to. From this moment on, Aang no longer fights to save the world. He fights to preserve his beliefs, going directly against the instructions of his past lives and effectively reneging on his duties as the Avatar.

Again.

It’s not like you can’t portray Aang’s faithfulness to his spiritual beliefs as the key to beating Ozai and saving the world. But that’s not what the show did. There is no link between Aang sparing Ozai and securing a better future, quite to the contrary—Ozai’s survival ends up being a massive problem for the continuation of Zuko’s rule, and consequently a threat to the world at large. His survival benefits Aang and no one else.

Aang’s spiritual purity and his status as a savior of the world are allowed to coexist only due to a deliberate stroke of a writer’s pen.

And I hate it.

Welp, nothing to do about it now except to bury myself up to my tits in fix-it fics I guess.

[handwrittenhello]

sweet little lies

Rating: M Warnings: Assassination attempts, poisoning, bombing Relationships: Geralt/Jaskier/Yennefer Word Count: 6.2k Summary: “He’s very…” Geralt trailed off, arms crossed. "Pretty?” Yennefer finished for him, appraising the man in front of her. He seemed entirely unconcerned about his state of near-nudity, and even less concerned about the fact that the entire court was ogling him, including the Warlord of the North and her right-hand man. “Thank you,” the man said, bowing deeply. “I do try.” -- When Yennefer of Vengerberg, Warlord of the North, receives Jaskier as tribute, she doesn't trust him—the rumor is that assassins and spies are trying to infiltrate her court. And despite being sent unwillingly, Jaskier seems perfectly happy—too happy—to be there. As tensions with the bordering country of Rivia grow stronger, she must beware, and figure out who she can truly trust.

or, yet another warlord au (but with warlord yennefer this time), inspired by @inexplicifics! read here on ao3.

“He’s very…” Geralt trailed off, arms crossed.

“Pretty?” Yennefer finished for him, appraising the man in front of her. He seemed entirely unconcerned about his state of near-nudity, and even less concerned about the fact that the entire court was ogling him, including the Warlord of the North and her right-hand man.

“Thank you,” the man said, bowing deeply. “I do try.”

He did indeed try, judging by how heavily his face was made up and by the numerous precious metals and jewels that adorned his ears and fingers and even one nostril. Yennefer didn’t think she’d ever seen more piercings in her life. The wealth the stranger wore on his body was simply astounding. Besides the more conventional jewelry, he also wore a shirt—if one could call it that—of fine gold chains interlaced, studded intermittently with shimmering gems. He wore no trousers, only a sheer wrap accentuated by a belt, made of yet more fine chains entwined. Finishing the ensemble were golden cuffs around his wrists—the entire outfit seemed to subtly shout prisoner, in fact, when she looked for it.

“And who sent you?” she asked, her voice ringing clear through the hall.

“I come to you as a gift, courtesy of King Vizimir of Redania,” the man replied, sinking into another low bow. “Julian Alfred Pankratz, Viscount de Lettenhove, Master Bard, and Esteemed Courtesan, at your service, my lady.” He made no mention of his own involvement in the matter, Yennefer noted darkly. She would not take slaves, expensive tribute or not.

But to publicly refuse such a gift would show blatant disfavor, and may spark an unwanted war. “You may tell King Vizimir I accept his gift,” she told the messenger who had accompanied Master Pankratz. “And you,” she turned to Pankratz, “may come with me.” She turned and left the hall, trusting him and Geralt both to follow her.

Whispers rose up in her wake, titters at what she might do with the new esteemed courtesan, but she ignored them. One did not become Warlord of the North by caring what courtly gossip featured oneself.

She pushed open the doors to her room, Pankratz just behind her, and Geralt, silent, bringing up the rear. He was good at that sort of thing—protecting her, always, and always with the taciturn seriousness most knew him for.

Only few knew what truly lurked beneath the surface. She was privy to more than most—as her right-hand man, bodyguard, and occasional lover, he let her see more than most. She could see a hint of it peeking out through his stony exterior now—he was disturbed, unsettled, though she couldn’t tell the cause.

She sat herself in her customary armchair by the hearth, Geralt taking a place looming behind her, and after Pankratz hesitated, she directed him to the armchair across from her. He sank into it quickly, giving the ridiculous impression of a puppy aiming to please its master. She rolled her eyes.

“We can drop the bullshit,” she stated plainly, and his eyes widened. “Do you truly wish to be here? Speak truly.”

He swallowed. “My lady, it is truly the greatest honor to be in your presence—” he began, but Yennefer cut him off with a look.

“I said no more pretty lies. I have enough of those in my court—I don’t need you adding to that pile of shit.” There was little more she despised than venomous intentions disguised. The best attack was one that could be anticipated.

“Very well, my lady. Though it is true I did not come here willingly—” Geralt stiffened at that, his hand going reflexively to the hilt of his sword, though Yennefer gave no outward indication of her disgust. “—I did not come here willingly, but, having found myself in your court, I find that there is little else I could wish for. In truth, I would much prefer here to whence I came.” He said the last bit in a black tone, hinting at some strife Yennefer knew not of.

“Well, I would give you the option, then,” Yennefer replied. “You may leave, if you so wish—I will supply you with enough to get by until you can establish yourself, wherever you may choose to go. I hear Toussaint is nice this time of year.” Pankratz smiled. “Or you may remain in my court, but know this—I tolerate no treachery, no spies, of any sort.” She leaned in close; the smile dropped from his face. “If I discover that you’ve been sent as some foreign agent to engineer my demise—” she locked eyes with him “—your demise will not be swift.” She spoke the last words softly, so softly, but plenty intelligible in the absolute silence of the room. “But you’ll wish it would be.”

Pankratz gulped.

“Have I made myself clear?” she asked, leaning back, releasing him from the uncomfortable closeness.

“Crystal, my lady,” he answered, smiling shakily. “And, if it’s all the same to you, I would rather not try my luck out there. Much easier to earn my keep at the luxury of the court.”

Yennefer wasn’t surprised by the attitude; clearly this was a man well accustomed to luxury. “Very well. And how do you plan to earn your keep?”

“Well, my lady,” he began, voice dropping into a sultry register. “You’ll find that I’m quite good with my fingers and tongue, as it were.” He slid from his chair, somehow managing to make it look effortlessly elegant, and shuffled closer to her on his knees. Geralt stiffened; Yennefer waited for Pankratz to dare touch her. But no touch was forthcoming, despite the strange flutter of arousal in her stomach that spoke to how she almost wanted him to try.

“Presumptuous of King Vizimir,” was all she replied. “And what if I have no need of a bedwarmer?”

Pankratz sat back on his heels. “Well, I have other talents. I studied at Oxenfurt—you may also hear me called Jaskier the Bard, at your service,” he said, giving a little half-bow, all he could manage in a kneeling position. “I would sing of your victories for all to hear and be warned, lest the—the Raven Storm come to batter down their doors!” He punctuated his sentence with a grand gesture, one that nearly knocked him off balance.

“No.”

“N-no, my lady?” Jaskier questioned, his arms dropping. “I can come up with something else, if you don’t like the name—"

“It’s not the name,” Yennefer said dismissively. “It’s the exaggeration. I’ve already told you, I value honesty alone. I won’t have any pretty ballads hiding bastard truths.”

Jaskier looked as though he wanted to argue, but wisely held his tongue. To soften the disappointment, Geralt came around and offered him a hand up. Jaskier took it, and also took a moment to stare appreciatively at Geralt. He was lucky she wasn’t the jealous type—she could have his head for it.

“You may stay,” she declared. “You need not pay for it in my bed, though if you do truly mean what you say, then we can discuss your… talents, as it were. For now, Geralt will find you rooms of your own and show you around the palace. You may have the rest of the day to acclimate, though I expect you in the dining hall tonight at sundown.”

It was a clear dismissal. “Thank you, my lady, you’re too kind,” Jaskier said as Geralt led him out of the room.

“No flattery,” she reminded him, but they were already gone.

Jaskier settled into life at her court like a duck to water. He did indeed have a talented tongue and fingers—which he proved the first time he sang for them, with a lute to accompany it. He bounced around the room, capturing the attention of all he met—he was impossible to ignore, loud and bright as he was, bedecked in jewelry.

Geralt had tried to offer him clothes when he first settled into his rooms, but Jaskier seemed more than content to prance around nearly naked. Geralt hated it—he complained to her, one night, that Jaskier was too distracting, pulling Geralt’s attention away. He took his duties very seriously—formerly a knight of Rivia, he now devoted himself to her with the same near-religious fervor, taking her protection upon himself.

It was sweet, if a little misguided. She could protect herself just as well, but it was nice knowing that he was there behind her, always ready to support her if she faltered.

“I don’t like it, Yen,” he said to her, late one night, as the fire burned down to embers in the hearth. They were curled side by side in her bed, sweat cooling on their damp bodies, Geralt occupying himself by playing with strands of her hair. “Unrest in Rivia is growing stronger—we could have a revolt on our hands before the harvest.”

“I’m not worried about Rivia,” Yennefer replied, waving a hand lazily. “Little more than whispers on the wind. King Reginald, gods spit on his soul, has too few supporters left to be any real threat. The rest either died with him in the coup or fled like the cowards they were.”

“I’m serious, Yen. Word on the street is that there’ll be an attempt on your life before the year is out.” A furrow creased his brow, his fingers growing tense in her hair. Gently, she disentangled them before lacing their fingers together.

“Is that not what I have you for?” she asked, a smile quirking her lips. He worried too much—his consternation was almost cute. “Relax. If any assault comes, we’ll be well prepared for it.”

“It won’t be anything as obvious as an attack on the city. Rivian forces are smart—they’ll send spies, or assassins, or both. You wouldn’t even see it coming.”

“If it will make you feel better, then you may begin vetting those in the court you find suspicious,” Yennefer relented.

Geralt hummed, his eyes slipping closed in satisfaction. She too closed her eyes, but the thought nagged at her—did she trust everyone in the palace? Most of them she’d known for decades—they’d worked under King Demavend with her, and had helped her overthrow him when he became too cruel to stand. She’d rewarded their loyalty with a place at her side, and they’d remained trustworthy through the years.

There had been few new arrivals since then—Geralt himself was among them, having joined her during the Coup of Rivia. And of course there was their newest arrival, Jaskier.

He seemed perfectly content in his new role. She had to admit it suited him well—he loved attention, and got it in spades when singing or when draped seductively next to her throne. He made good decoration, though she had yet to negotiate a more intimate role with him. She never held back from staring, though—and though he often caught her, he seemed pleased more than anything else.

Was he too comfortable here? It was true, he had settled in remarkably quickly—did he have a hidden purpose? But what use would King Vizimir have for a spy in her court, especially one as useless as Jaskier? He wasn’t present at any strategy meetings, or even privy to her company more than most. Perhaps he was an assassin biding his time?

Yennefer huffed. This was how paranoia set in—whispers and rumors crept in and set the mind aflame with possibilities until it drove itself mad. She resolutely cleared all thoughts of betrayal from her mind and tried to sleep.

Geralt commenced his investigation as soon as he was able, but Yennefer heard little else from him about it. She assumed that meant the search for traitors was proving unfruitful.

She interrupted him one day with a task at the southern border—there were reports of skirmishes breaking out, most likely bandit attacks. He departed with a promise to return by the month’s end, and she watched him leave with a pit in her stomach.

It wasn’t the first time they’d parted—so why was her stomach twisting so? Why were her instincts screaming that it would all go wrong?

There was nothing to worry about. She needed to take her mind off it, that was all. She went back into the palace and headed for the southern wing—where Jaskier’s rooms were.

“My lady Yennefer!” he greeted her happily, springing from his writing desk upon her entrance. “To what do I owe the pleasure?” Then he paused, frowned. “Where’s your shadow? I can’t hardly think of a time I haven’t seen him hovering menacingly over your shoulder.”

“He’s away for the time being.” She motioned him closer, and he went as if reeled in by a fishing line.

“Luckily you still have me,” he replied, biting his lip. He was yet unsure of his advances—good. She would keep him on his toes.

“And would you give yourself to me?” she asked, stepping even closer, until there were scant few inches between them. “Let me have you?”

“In a heartbeat, if my lady so wished,” he breathed, leaning in. She didn’t wait for his lips to brush hers; she surged forward at once, attacking with brutal efficiency. The kiss was more a clash of wills than anything tender. To her delight, he didn’t simply let her plunder his mouth, but gave as good as he got, hands coming up to clutch at her dress. She pushed him away, and his face split with confusion until she pushed him again, back onto the bed. His hands fisted in the covers as she climbed on top of him, finding the clasps that would free him from the confines of the chains that draped over his body.

Soon she had stripped the gold and gems from his body, and at some point her own clothes had disappeared as well, and finally she was free to take him how she wished. He was a good lover, enthusiastic and skilled—his talents truly were as good as he’d made them out to be.

Her only point of contention came near the end, when he began to murmur sweet nothings into her hair, praising her and begging in turn. Even after, when they lay panting atop the sheets, he continued to weave pretty lies, complimenting her prowess and beauty until she rolled over and pinned him down.

“What have I said about lying?” she bit, but there was no real heat to it.

“And as I’ve told you a dozen times, I speak nothing but the truth,” he replied, “but if you wish my silence, well—I suppose you’ll have to find a way to shut me up.” He grinned.

She was gratified to see that he was no longer the deferential pretty thing that had been gifted to her, but had instead grown into his role here and thus felt comfortable enough to tease and prod.

In fact, as the days passed and they spent more time together, he turned downright annoying, at times, whining about how cruel silver was to his skin—did she know that he was one sixty-fourth fae? How it itched so—but gold didn’t go as well with his complexion, and really, he should be wearing sapphires, not rubies, since they brought out the blue of his eyes better…

Yennefer tolerated it with confused amusement for all of one day before she took his suggestion and found ways to occupy his mouth, just so that the inane chatter would stop.

She was almost disappointed when the day that Geralt would return drew near. She looked forward to his triumphant return, of course, but she was apprehensive of how he would react to her getting so close to Jaskier in his absence. She was lucky that she didn’t have to contend with jealousy from him—he simply wasn’t the type—but nor did she want him to distance himself from her, afraid of intruding on something new.

And though she’d succeeded, for the most part, at distracting herself from his absence, she couldn’t shake the sense of dread that still came over her at odd times when she thought of him. He was plenty capable; there was nothing to worry about, she knew, and yet that didn’t stop her traitorous heart.

As the days passed, however, with no sign of his imminent return—not even a letter—she knew her worry was well-founded. On the second day of the new month—two weeks since she’d last seen him—she resolved to ride to the border with all the forces she could gather.

Jaskier worried at her departure—“My lady, you would leave the palace so defenseless?”—but she would not be swayed.

“You’ll be fine. The city can protect itself; you need not worry about a thing.”

“It’s not myself I worry for,” he replied flatly, a moue of displeasure overtaking his face. He didn’t grace her bed that night, and she resolutely told herself she wasn’t bothered.

The sun rose early, and she with it, saddling her horse and donning her armor. The air held a chill, heralding the coming of autumn, though it was unusual so early in the season. As the morning mists in the fields began to burn off, she and her forces rode out, heading south.

They were scarcely a mile away from the palace when she spotted something on the horizon. She called them to a halt, sending ahead scouts to report on what the disturbance was. They returned in short order, shouting joyously—Knight Geralt was returned, unharmed, though he’d lost his men in the interim.

“Yen,” he greeted her warmly, pulling short his ill-tempered mare as he approached. She seemed especially ornery today, hardly responding to his commands, but Yennefer supposed that after weeks on the road, she would be ornery too. “Sorry I’m late.”

“You should be,” she answered, but couldn’t maintain her anger for long, not upon seeing him safe and whole. “What took so long? And where are the men who accompanied you?”

He frowned. “They’re not back yet? I’d thought they’d arrive first.”

“No, we’ve heard nothing since you left. What happened?” It was unlike Geralt to leave his men behind—his sense of chivalry demanded otherwise.

“It wasn’t bandits at the border—it was Rivian insurgents making trouble. Easy enough to mop up, but in the fight, I got separated. Ended up having to lay low for a few days in Spalla. I gave the men instructions to return to Vengerberg if anything went wrong.”

“Do you think they’re still out looking for you?” Damned loyalty. While she valued it, it often proved to be quite the pain in difficult situations.

“Could be. We ought to send another team out, round them up.” She was grateful that he didn’t suggest going back to look for them himself—she would have expected that from him, stubborn as he was, but she wasn’t ready to lose him again so soon.

She motioned over the captain of her guard, Ivenka. “Take your best fighters and track down our poor wayward soldiers.”

“Yes, my lady,” Ivenka replied. The party split; Yennefer and Geralt led the rest of the forces back to Vengerberg.

Upon their return, Jaskier launched into a rousing song of victory—if he was surprised to see them back so soon, he didn’t show it. Geralt bore the attention as he always did, with an uncomfortable grimace. Once the commotion settled, Yennefer pulled Geralt into her rooms for a full report on what he’d found at the Rivian border.

“The talk of insurgence was right. A resistance has formed, with more support than we thought. King Reginald had more friends than we knew.” Geralt delivered the bad news with no inflection, which was how Yennefer knew it was a grave matter indeed.

“A resistance? How strong would you say? Have they any support from the commonfolk?” That was how battles were won, Yennefer knew—it all depended on the attitude of the peasantry. If their favor had shifted against her, they could expect full-blown war within the year.

“Not yet, though they’ve changed the minds of a few. More than anything they’ve sown dissent—talk of crop shortages, of trade disturbed. Trying to make you out to be just as bad as Reginald.”

Yennefer cursed. “We need to head this off before it grows any worse.”

“Parley? They might be open to discussion—this incursion may have been a way to get our attention.”

Yennefer nodded. “Send a messenger at once,” she instructed.

Geralt inclined his head in acquiescence and left her to her thoughts.

He had been right about the coming rebellion—was he also to be believed about the rumored attempts on her life? She would have to keep her guard up.

They received the Rivians a few nights hence at a banquet, meant as both a display of wealth and numbers. The entire court was assembled, and the visiting party arrived wide-eyed and trying to hide it.

Yennefer herself was seated upon her throne in full gilded plate armor—everything but a helmet. Geralt stood beside her, arms crossed, a scowl writ upon his face, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword. And on her other side, draped across the arm of the throne, was Jaskier, in his finest jewels and with a full face of makeup, not looking even a bit vulnerable though he wore almost nothing.

“Yennefer of Vengerberg,” the man leading the visiting party said, inclining his head in lieu of a bow. Beside her, Jaskier narrowed his eyes. “I am Gudros of Scala, and accompanying me are Velah of Hawksburne and Ozrias of Scala.” He gestured to the two behind him, who had so far stood silent and still, their expressions unreadable beneath their helmets.

“Vengerberg welcomes you,” Yennefer announced. “You may partake of food and rest from your journey. Once you’ve had your fill we may retire for more formal talk.” Gudros bowed his head again, and the feast resumed.

“I don’t like this,” Geralt murmured, barely audible over the voices and instruments overlapping in the hall. Yennefer glanced up at him—he looked torn, lips pursed and hands clenching and unclenching into fists.

“Keep an eye on them for me?” she replied. He nodded and slipped away—Yennefer looked forward to his report on what they were saying.

She was so intent on watching the Rivians that she hardly noticed it when an attendant approached with a tray carrying goblets of wine. “Milady,” he greeted, offering her a glass. She reached out to take it, but was beaten there by Jaskier, who snatched it out of the attendant’s hands before she could.

He grinned cheekily at her—this was almost too bold. She’d have to put him in his place later tonight. But she let him have it and reached for her own goblet, just as Jaskier took a sip of the wine.

The smell hit her nose as soon as she raised the glass to her lips. It was hardly detectable, but she’d learned a thousand and one ways under King Demavend’s reign to brew poisons—she recognized instantly the characteristic sour odor it held, the way it slid, oily, down one’s throat, the way it burned from the inside out.

She threw the goblet to the floor, heedless of the way that it shattered into a million pieces. “Geralt!” she screamed, wrenching Jaskier’s goblet from him—though it was already falling from his stiff fingers, his eyes bulging and his face reddening in mere moments.

Geralt appeared at her side instantly, as if he’d never left. Seeing Jaskier in trouble, he threw the consort over his broad shoulders and followed Yennefer as she fled to her old workshop—Goddess willing, she would still have enough ingredients to prepare an antidote, though it had been years since she’d set foot there.

The doors flew open under her hands, dust swirling about the room and cobwebs shuddering in the sudden breeze. Yennefer drew on the spark of chaos buried deep inside her, hardly used, but called forth in full force now. The torches flared to life at once, jars and pots flying off the shelves into her hands.

Geralt laid Jaskier down on the worktable in the middle of the room, now wheezing and coughing, spittle flecking his lips. “Yen,” he tried to wheeze, but she paid him no mind. She needed every ounce of concentration to prepare the antidote, something she hadn’t done in years.

“Mistletoe… wartweed… ground lichen…” she muttered, adding each ingredient in turn. The potion began to bubble, a haze descending on the workshop as it released puffs of smoke.

“Yen, he's not breathing,” Geralt called, and she cursed, stirring faster. Finally, finally, the sickly shade of green gave way to a deep turquoise, and then a solid blue. She rushed to Jaskier’s side, forcing his mouth open with one hand and pouring the antidote down his throat.

He convulsed, and, sensing that he was about to spit it up, she clamped his mouth and nose shut, putting her full weight into holding him down as his limbs juddered and jerked. But with no other choice, he eventually swallowed, his throat spasming under her harsh grip, and then he went abruptly lax.

She took her hands away, letting him breathe—it was a long, tense moment of waiting before he took an easy breath, no wheeze present. Yennefer breathed too, the tension lifting from her shoulders.

Jaskier’s eyes fluttered open. His gaze flitted around the room for a moment, landing first on Geralt and then on herself. “Yen,” he said urgently, struggling to sit up. “You’re alright?”

“Of course I am,” she snapped. “I’m not the idiot that drank poison.”

“Oh, thank the gods,” he sighed. “I mean, I had a suspicion, but I didn’t want to die for nothing—”

Yennefer froze. “You had a suspicion?”

“Well, yes,” he answered, frowning. “I highly doubted the Rivians were here under good intentions, and as Geralt has been saying, an attempt on your life was bound to come sooner or later, so—”

“You knew it would be poisoned, and yet you drank anyway? Why the fuck would you do that, Jaskier?” She dug her nails into the tabletop, itching to wring them around his neck.

What sort of fool would knowingly drink poison? Only the braindead or suicidal, and while Yennefer did hold his sanity in question at times, it still didn’t make sense.

He blinked. “Do you really have to ask? It’s as I’ve told you a thousand times in a thousand ways.”

No. No, he couldn’t mean—

“I love you, Yennefer of Vengerberg. I would, in fact, die for you, as we’ve proven.” He grinned. “Don’t say I never live up to my promises.”

While, yes, he’d said as much before, it still stunned Yennefer to hear it said so blatantly, and with such tangible commitment. She’d thought them pretty lies, the fanciful words of a jester that wanted only to flatter his lord.

Unable to come up with a response, she turned and fled. If she stayed in that room, she might end up saying or doing something she would later regret—whether that was wring his fool neck or have him right there on the table, she would never know.

So caught up was she in whirling thoughts of truth and lies, she didn’t notice Geralt was following her until she was nearly to her rooms. “I don’t want company right now, Geralt,” she said tersely, whirling around.

“We need to talk,” Geralt replied, stepping closer. “The Rivians—”

“Leave me alone!” she snarled, which was enough to make him pause, giving her time to dart into her rooms and slam the door behind her. She locked them with a fierce finality, relishing the heavy click that signified she was alone with her thoughts. She pressed her back to the door and her hands to her eyes, seeing the stars that burst behind her eyelids from the pressure.

If she could have but a moment to think, to sort out the mess of thoughts churning in her mind—but no, even now, she could hear raised voices, shouting, the clang of steel on steel. What kind of leader was she, cowering in her rooms like a confused animal, simply because of an ill-timed, unexpected confession of love?

She straightened her armor and drew her swords before opening the door and heading out to face whatever chaos lay in wait. As she grew closer, the voices grew more panicked, and she hurried her steps along until she was nearly running.

Jaskier came stumbling out of her workroom, looking worse for the wear and confused, searching for the source of the commotion the same as she was. “Go lie down,” she snapped. “I just saved your life. I don’t need you undoing all my hard work.”

“But what’s happening? Where’s Geralt?” he asked, craning his head. Then he spotted the swords she carried. “What do you need those for?”

She started to reply, and then—

An explosion. All-consuming, fiery hot, ripping her eardrums apart. She flew backwards and hit the wall, stunned. Through blurry vision, she saw Jaskier tossed like a ragdoll, slumped opposite her, bleeding from the temple.

Her ears were ringing; she blinked. Chunks of stone rained down on her like hailstones, a fine white powder covering everything in a thin layer of dust.

Slowly, slowly, her vision stabilized and her hearing began to return—the first thing she heard were screams.

Her people—she had to help her people. She tried to struggle to her feet, but it was as if her limbs were encased in plaster. She looked down and saw that a large chunk of stone was pinning her legs to the ground—with monumental effort, she lifted it off herself, grunting. She closed her eyes and breathed, in, out, and then staggered upwards.

She checked on Jaskier first—he had a head wound, bleeding profusely, but nothing more serious than that. She clumsily slapped his cheeks a few times until he roused, groaning, eyes squinting shut.

“Are you alright?” she shouted, her own voice hardly reaching her ears. He nodded, eyes still closed, and she left him to recover. Staggering into the hall, she took in the sight before her—it was as if a bomb had gone off, and maybe it had.

The entire hall was bathed in sepia-toned light, the torches guttering in and out in the wake of the blast. Chunks of stone and broken pieces of furniture littered the floor, which had fallen through to the dungeons below. To her surprise and immense thankfulness, there were few bodies—perhaps they’d had advance warning and had fled, screaming.

Four people stood in the middle of it all—she recognized Gudros, flanked by Ozrias and Velah. The fourth had hair as white as bone—“Geralt?” she called, and he slowly turned around. Wrong, wrong, wrong, all her senses screamed.

“Not quite.” He laughed, a chilling sound, unlike Geralt’s own rare laugh in every way. She knew then—this wasn’t Geralt. This hadn’t been Geralt for a good while.

“When?” she asked, though she knew exactly when. It had been that damned trip to the border. “Who are you? Really?”

“We are the rightful leaders of a free Rivia, and we would see her prosper once more, no longer under your bloody banner!” Gudros cried. “You have bewitched Rivia’s citizens. We’ll not see you reign any longer!”

“I’ve bewitched no one,” Yennefer snapped. “If you speak of your loyal knights turning against you—that was your king’s own doing, with his wicked deeds and cruel heart.”

“No! Geralt of Rivia was a good man—we’ll break whatever spell you’ve placed on him, right after we parade your desecrated body through the streets!”

Not-Geralt smiled, all teeth, and dropped the illusion—suddenly, he had changed forms, and now appeared as Yennefer herself. “You’re a doppler,” she said, teeth gritted. “What stake have you in this fight?”

“I’ve lived a long life, you know. To tell you the truth, I’ve grown rather bored with it—and what better game to play than this?”

“You’re sick,” Yennefer spat. “You’ve aligned yourself with murderers and oathbreakers.”

“Would you have me align myself with you, Kingslayer?” the doppler purred. “I see it all, you know—I’m in your head. I see how you kill, and lie, even to yourself.”

With a wordless yell of rage, Yennefer threw herself at the doppler, who met her swords with a sword of its own. It was an even match—perfectly even, with all her skill as a fighter reflected back at her. And with the other three Rivians advancing, it looked to be a quick end for her.

Her people would die, and Jaskier would be captured and most likely enslaved, and Geralt would remain captive to those who believed him brainwashed, subject to tortures as they attempted to break whatever enchantment they believed lay over him. And she would be brought up as an example, her dead body held up to the world to say: this is what happens to those who fight back.

She dodged the first swipe of Gudros’ sword, but it left her open for the doppler to press her back, putting her off-balance. Her foot caught on a chunk of rubble and she teetered backwards, falling to the ground, the doppler pouncing on her at once.

“Here lies the Raven Storm; blustered herself out, little stronger than a gust of wind at the end,” the doppler cackled. Yennefer looked into its eyes—her eyes—and braced herself for the end.

And then a chain looped around the doppler’s neck, choking, burning. The skin beneath the silver links smoked and cracked, blackening, the doppler’s hands scrabbling uselessly at the chain and burning too.

Yennefer looked up to see Jaskier standing tall behind the doppler, one of his many decorative body chains in his hands, his face creased in furious fierceness. Yennefer pushed the doppler off of her, rolling to the side just in time to avoid yet another blow from Gudros. She yelled inarticulately and stabbed upwards, piercing his gut through. Without bothering to check if he was dead, Yennefer turned to Velah and Ozrias, both of whom were advancing on Jaskier, swords drawn.

“Behind you,” she shouted, and he ducked a swipe meant to behead him. She darted over and shoved Velah away with a kick to the side, and in the same motion brought her sword up to parry Ozrias’ next strike. Behind her, she heard the doppler let out a guttural noise and collapse—hopefully dead—and out of the corner of her eye she spotted Jaskier trying to avoid Velah’s wildly swinging sword. He barely dodged the last one, and earned himself a neat score along his cheek, blood pouring forth from the small wound.

Luckily, Ozrias proved to be a rather weak swordfighter, and she killed him with a swift dodge and counterattack, cutting off his head in one swift motion. She threw herself in between Jaskier and Velah just in time, handily disarming her while Jaskier cowered and yelped behind her.

Pointing her sword straight at Velah’s throat, Yennefer demanded, “Where is he?”

Velah threw her hands up. “He’s in Spalla. Please, don’t kill me.”

Yennefer narrowed her eyes. “You hurt what’s mine.”

“Please, mercy—” She didn’t finish; she was dead before her body hit the floor. Mercy granted her a quick death, but nothing more. Not after kidnapping her right-hand man, her lover, not after bombing her palace and killing her people, not after hurting Jaskier.

Jaskier took in a deep breath, letting it out shakily. “Whoo. That’s enough excitement for me, I think. I need to sit down,” he said, and sat down right there in the middle of the wreckage.

Yennefer busied herself with cleaning her sword. “So you don’t want to come to Spalla with me?” she asked casually, and he sprang back up to his feet—albeit shakily.

“No, no, I’m in! Someone has to write sweeping songs of your victories there.” He paused. “Just, maybe, a moment to catch my breath? I’ve never really—ah—never had to fight for my life before. Never killed anyone, either. I think my body might be shutting down?” he squeaked, sinking to his knees. “My—my heart is beating so fast, gods, and my hands feel all tingly, and I’m shaking—”

“That’s the adrenaline,” Yennefer answered, kneeling down as well. “It will pass.”

“Good. Because this—well, is this what you feel all the time?” He looked up at her, a dawning sort of respect in his gaze.

She shrugged. “You get used to it eventually. But yes, more or less.”

“Color me impressed, then.” As they spoke, the color began to return to his cheeks, and his frantic breathing slowed, and his shaking died down. “Alright. I’m feeling better, I think.”

“Good,” she echoed, sheathing her sword and helping him up. “Because now we ride for Rivia.”

“To Rivia,” he repeated. “Hey, do you think Geralt will be impressed? Bet he’s never killed a doppler before.”

“Shut up, Jaskier,” she replied, but couldn’t hide the small smile that graced her face.

Her palace was in ruins, and Geralt had been kidnapped, and they were about to go to war with Rivia for the second time, but somehow she knew—it would be alright.