#did he watch as the pyres were lit

[marcobodtlives]

Do you think Jean was the cadet who had to carry Marco’s body to the pyre?

[anyca786]

"YOU'RE A MENACE, DAEMON TARGARYEN"

Daemon Targaryen x sister!Targaryen

WARNINGS: canon typical incest/targcest (brother & sister), angst (smut warning: fingering) Daemon being Daemon.

Part 1 Part 2 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6

The rocky shores of Dragonstone were transformed into a somber gathering place for the funeral of Queen Aemma and Prince Baelon. The two were laid to rest on pyres, wrapped in white cloth.

Syrax, Rhaenyra's dragon, perched atop a hill overlooking the field, her eyes filled with sadness. Daenys approached her niece, placing a comforting hand on her shoulder.

Daemon joined them, whispering in Rhaenyra's ear, "They're waiting for you."

Rhaenyra spoke in High Valyrian. "I wonder if, during those few hours my brother lived, my father finally found happiness."

Daenys' heart ached at her niece's words.

Daemon replied, "Your father needs you more now than he ever has."

Rhaenyra shook her head. "I will never be a son."

After a moment, Rhaenyra stepped forward bravely, her hand clutching Daenys' tightly. Syrax watched as Rhaenyra attempted to speak, but the words caught in her throat. She glanced back at her father, who did not return her gaze. Then she looked at Daenys, who nodded.

"Dracarys," she finally said.

Syrax crawled forward, her breath scorching the air as she ignited the funeral pyres.

Rhaenyra, unable to bear the sight of her mother's body burning, found solace in Daenys' arms. She buried her face in Daenys' chest, sobbing silently. Daenys stroked her hair gently, watching the flames with a heavy heart.

Daemon mourned for his brother and niece, but the look on Daenys' face was a dagger to his heart. He had never seen her so heartbroken.

While Daenys spent rest of the day comforting her niece, Daemon turned himself to the Brothel, surrounded by gold cloaks and sex workers engaged in various sexual activities. Words were sent that Daemon chose to celebrate his own rise.

After Viserys banished him for the stunt he pulled at the Brothel, Daemon stood at the doorway of Daenys' dimly lit bedchamber, his face etched with anger. He hesitated for a moment before entering, his footsteps echoing in the quiet room.

Daenys was lying in bed, wearing only her nightgown. The soft flames from the candles luminating her body. She looked up as Daemon entered, her expression neutral. "Daenys," Daemon began, his voice low.

Daenys closed her book. "What is it?" she asked, her tone expectant.

Daemon took a deep breath. "Viserys is sending me back"

Daenys' eyebrows raised. "Of course he did," she replied, her voice laced with sarcasm. "What did you expect?"

Daemon's jaw clenched. "Daenys, I-"

"You insulted Viserys' dead son, Daemon!" Daenys interrupted. "You played a dangerous game and lost. It's your own fault."

"It was a jest," Daemon retorted, his tone equally harsh. "A harmless jest."

"Harmless?" Daenys scoffed. "You're a menace, Daemon Targaryen."

Daemon's anger flared. "How dare you speak to me like that?" he growled.

Daenys replied, her voice rising, "You're selfish, arrogant, and cruel. You care about nothing but yourself."

She arises from her bed and stands in front of him.

Daemon stepped closer, his eyes filled with fury. "I care about you," he said, his voice low.

Daenys laughed bitterly. "You're a fool, Daemon." she said.

Daemon grabbed Daenys by her shoulders, "Don't you dare call me a fool," he shouts.

Daenys looked at him defiantly. "I will call you whatever I want," she said.

Daemon inched dangerously closer to her. 'Daemon, what-" She didn't even finish the sentence as he slammed her body the against the table. Daenys let out a whimper as loud as the thud of her back hitting the white wood.

"What-" He interrupted her again, "This little body deserves to be fucked until you're crying my name. I want to break you so harshly you feel me for days after for being disrepectful to me. Every time you sit down or walk, you'll remember me," He lifted her up in one swift movement and then setting her on top of the table.

She tries to hop off it but Daemon kept her pinned with a hand on her hip, with his other hand he pull riped the thin layer of the nightgown. He groaned when her soft round breast were set free.

"Dirty girl, wearing these,' He murmured, making her shiver. "Are you wet, princess?" He whispers in her ear.

She squeaks in response, "Daemon, no...we can't," she pleads half-heartedly.

"That's not what your body says, princess,"' he said as his hand brushes up her thigh to her clit, gathering her wetness and circling it slowly.

"Seems you're soaked, babysister," He smirked, "Is this for me?"

She doesn't respond, throwing her head back with a whimper as Daemon pinch her clit softly.

Sinking down, He kisses up her thigh before latching his mouth to her core, his tastebuds exploding with the sweet taste of her.

She moans as he circles her clit with his tongue, pressing a finger into her as well.

"Daemom, please,' she cries out breathlessly but he ignores her, adding another finger into her. He work her clit, inducing a string of moans from her as she tries to wiggle away from him.

"Daemon," she whispers, making him move his mouth away. He rise to his feet again, keeping his fingers inside her.

"What do you want, Princess?" He asks her, tilting his head mischievously, "Do you want me to stop?"

She bites her lip as he changes his angle and pace, stroking her insides deeper than before, "Tell me you want me to stop," He whispered while kissing her soft silky breasts,"Beg me." He starts biting and sucking her nipples hungrily.

She stays quiet, another moan escaping her lips. He increases the pace, making her pant as her walls begin to flutter against his fingers, "What do you want, Princess?" He ask her again as her orgasm threatens.

'I- I want," she drifts off, biting her lip to stop a scream as he adds a third finger. 'You want what?" He taunts her, knowing exactly what she wants from the way her core was throbbing.

"Make me come, Daemon. I-I want y-you" she chokes out in a sob as he increases the pace, sending her body into overdrive. "Your wish is my command, sister," he smirked, sinking down again, licking her clit. She cries out as her orgasm washes over her, her walls squeezing the life out of his fingers as she falls over the edge.

Daemon works her through it, not relenting until she is a panting mess. Standing to his full height, he encapsulate her lips in a harsh kiss, wanting her to taste herself on his lips. "What do you say?" He tilts his head with my eyebrows raised.

She gulps, her eyes wide again with innocence "Sorry,"' she whispers, her face flushing red. Daemon chuckled.

She helps herself off the table, and he watches her as she tries to cover herself with her hands. Before she could do it, He grabbed her hand.

"We're not done, yet," He warned her.

A/N : Double update. Cause I'm ovulating.

[catsteeth]

The Caged Bird & The Leased Dog

Sandor Clegane x reader Ko-Fi

+:✿ Chapter - 16 ✿:+ Home In Your Arms

Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

Summary: You are the daughter of Jon Arryn, you and your father travel to King's Landing with the intention of arranging a marriage for you. You catch a glimpse of The Hound during your first night in Kings Landing and it creates a mutual fascination even if he won't admit it. 

CW: MDNI, SMUT, P in V sex, bath sex, thigh riding, cum play, oral (M rec), guided masturbation (female), NSFW themes, pregnancy, Sandor “my wife” Clegane, misogyny, angst, VIOLENCE emotional unavailability, emotional vulnerability, The Hound being abrasive, mention of death, blood, threats of violence, mentions of arranged marriage, 

Word Count: 4.2K 

꒰ ୨୧ ─ ・┈ ・ ─ ・┈ ─ ・┈ ─ ・┈ ꒱꒱

As the war had ended. Bodies were gathered in pyres. Your husband stood by your side proudly as you looked upon the pyre of your men. The Great War had cost you greatly in your numbers. Though you couldn’t find it in yourself to care about your advantage in such a time. You were consumed by guilt. 

You’d lead men who were loyal to you into slaughter. 

As Jon approached you with a lit torch, you held in your emotion knowing what was to come next. Though your nose and eyes were red and watery. Sandor ran his hand down the back of your head. From your crown down to your neck.  It gave you some comfort, enough strength to take the torch, being sure to hold it far from your husband. 

You walked towards the pyre of Vale knights. Giving the fallen men a last solemn look as you lowered the torch, igniting the flames that consumed it. 

As the fires rose fiercely, you stood and watched. Almost transfixed by the way the flames danced and tore apart anything it touched. But also horrified. ‘What a strange way of honoring the dead’, you thought. Letting fire consume them. But you also thought there’s no good way of honoring the dead. Your father and mother were laid out in the sept and painted rocks over their eyes. Laying there for any curious soul to gawk at. 

Before you could contemplate further, your Sandors strong hand wrapped around your arm, pulling you away from the fire. Not that the flames were too large or were at all any threat to your safety. But he was overly cautious with fire as he always was.

You placed a hand atop the hand Sandor held your arm with. In truth, although you felt guilt, you felt incredibly fortunate that you’d only lost half your army, and not your husband. You’d rather have lost them all then lost Sandor. 

Sandor, uncaring of any eyes that may be looking, leaned his head down, leaning his head against yours as you watched the fire burn. 

You took hold of Sandor's hand with a firm grip, and led him away from the funeral. Knowing how uncomfortable he must’ve been so close to such a large fire. How the smell must’ve reminded him of his own assault. As you led him away, hand in hand, husband and wife, you passed Jon. You stopped for a moment turning to him for a moment, “We made a deal. I honored my part of that deal twice. We said, a war for a war. My men fought and died in your war for Winterfell and now they’ve died in your war against the dead. My husband fought for your war.” You said in a hushed and low tone. “Now I ask you, to honor your part.” You said, your eyes more solemn than before. 

Jon nodded with his ever present brooding expression. 

꒰ ୨୧ ─ ・┈ ・ ─ ・┈ ─ ・┈ ─ ・┈ ꒱꒱ 

That night, a feast was held in celebration of both a victory won and the lives lost. However bloody the cost was, the war was won, and a victory was a victory all the same. 

So you stood in the corner of the dining hall which held the grand feast. Some lord held you captive to the wall as he discussed the politics of the wars to come. And though he was no doubt high born he was a northern lord so you’d very little regard for his words or opinions. It would be in a time like this that you would indulge yourself in wine. Just as you did in the Eyrie when the Boltons came. However, the babe in your belly deterred your taste for it. So you were stranded with a cup of raspberry leaf tea. A tea the maester assured you would aid in your steady and safe pregnancy. Though it aided you in that regard, it did not aid you with such a boring and trivial conversation. 

You hoped your husband who was at a table across the room would come and save you from it, but his back was turned and was quite distracted by a red haired wildling.

Tormund sniffled into his cup of ale, “I mean it, I fought a war with that girl, fought it for her. And you come along and take her from me. I should kill ya for it-” Sandor placed his cup of ale down, and glared at Tormund with irritation, “I mean it Clegane, my heart is broken.” Tormund said teary eyed as he grasped onto Sandor’s arm.

Sandor yanked his arm out of his grasp in anger, he couldn’t stand anyone's hands on him other than yours, “Don’t touch me.” he huffed, completely uninterested in Tormund’s ramblings and delusions of his one sided romance with you. Normally if a man was so shamelessly lusting after you he’d have killed them by now. But with Tormund, it felt almost a pitiful annoyance. Sandor had noticed Tormund staring longingly at you across tables or courtyards. But you paid it no mind. Besides, Tormund fought alongside Sandor twice now, and saved his life once or twice as well. So he learned to endure Tormund’s delusions. 

“You can touch me.” A feminine voice chimed in, “I’m not afraid of Wildlings.” Sandor didn’t bother to turn and look, but Tormund did. Two serving girls stood behind Sandor and Tormund. 

Tormund raised his eyebrow at the girl, “Maybe you should be.” His heartbreak seemingly disappeared in a moment as he left with the girl on his arm. 

The other girl, however, sat beside your husband, unaware that you were watching from afar, “What about you?” The girl asked sweetly.

It was at this point that you dismissed yourself from the Lord and his boring conversation. Approaching your husband and the girl who spoke sweetly in his ear. However you did so slowly, wishing to see how he would handle such a situation. It was a rare thing for someone to want him in this way, perhaps he would seize it.

However, Sandor wouldn’t look at her, he grabbed his pitcher of ale and refilled his cup, “You’re not my wife.” he grumbled dismissively.  

The girl smirked and moved closer towards him, “Lots of men have wives.” She said her voice was low and sensual. “Lots of men get bored of them. What’s life without a little fun-” She said as she reached for his hand. As soon as her skin met his he slammed his cup onto the wooden table, turned to the girl and growled at her. 

The girl, rightfully, was frightened. She recoiled and ran off. Leaving Sandor alone at his table. That’s the way he preferred it if it wasn’t with you. 

You smiled to yourself as you watched the girl scatter, and you approached him from behind. 

Sitting beside him, he looked over to you, ready to shout at the serving girl once more. But his eyes softened once he noticed it was you that filled the empty place now. “A “no” would have done it.” You said with a slight smile. 

He scoffed, “I don’t have time for that shit.” He said into his cup. 

You placed a hand on top of his, holding it tightly, “Your wife must seem like such a neglectful one. Leaving her husband to eat alone.” You said in a soft and gentle tone.

“Her husband isn’t some babe who needs to be coddled and fed.” He grumbled as he placed his cup down. 

You stifle a chuckle as you shook your head, “No he isn’t. But she could have made you happy for a moment-“

“She couldn’t.” He nearly barked as he interrupted you, upset you’d think such a thing. You squeezed his hand, in an attempt to calm him. He sighed and looked at the hand you placed onto his, “Only one thing could.”

You smiled softly, rubbing your thumb over his bloodied knuckles “I do not believe anyone in the realm would believe you to be such a devoted husband.”

His mouth twitched, tugging at the corner of his mouth, “Mhmm.” He grumbled irritated at your sweet comment. Not irritated at you, but irritated with himself for allowing himself to be tamed in such a way. 

You leaned forward, “I should show you my appreciation.” You said with a tone of voice you knew made him stir. 

He chuckled slightly, allowing a rare smile to encroach on his face. He bit his lip as his eyes examined your face, illuminated by the candle light, lovingly. He held your chin between his fist and his thumb. “How would you do that?” He asked in a low rasp. Words only meant for you.

“Everyway I can.” You said with a smirk, in a whisper, leaning in closer. 

“The Lord and Lady of Vale!” A drunken Tyrion nearly shouted merrily as he approached you and your husband. Breaking apart the blissful moment you’d created. 

Sandor dropped his hand from your chin, “Fuck do you want?” He grumbled, annoyed with the new titles he was given as well as annoyed by his presence. Understandably so, he wasn’t thrilled having Tyrion so close to you, being that he was at least once greatly in love with you. 

“Came to congratulate you on an impossible task.” He said as he took a seat across from you and your husband, placing his cup on the table. 

“Surviving the Great War-” You began, believing that to be the great victory he spoke of. 

Tyrion drank down whatever was left in his cup and shook his head, “No, a difficulty but not impossible.” He was with a smile, he then pointed to you, “They all said that the Eyrie was impregnable. And yet you’ve impregnated it… And married it!” He said loudly and cheerfully. 

Sandor looked at you with a raised eyebrow. Looking for an explanation as to how Tyrion knew. To you simply shrugged and sighed. You’d tell him later. 

Sandor looked back to Tyrion, “Careful with your words, Little Lord.”

“I mean no offense, I am not bitter.” He began to reach for the pitcher on the table to refill his cup. “I was, but not anymore.” He poured so much into his cup it overfilled, Sandor grabbed the pitcher from him and knocked it back down to the table top. Tyrion stood and raised his cup, “To the Lord and Lady of The Vale! And the babe that grows within the Lady Falcon’s womb!” He cheered. 

Everyone in the hall stood and cheered. Taking any more of a reason to celebrate, drink, and sing. It was certainly a much warmer reaction than you would have expected from the North. 

But as you expected when you turned your head to your husband, he was looking at you with eyes that pleaded with you to leave. To which you agreed with a nodd. 

As you both stood from your spots, you attempted to smile and nod at the crowd's cheers of joy and well wishes, though your husband did not care. He took you by your hand as he led you out of the dinning hall. 

However it would be impossible to not pass the large table where all the highest lords, and the Queen sat. Jon was giving you a concerned look. Sansa who sat beside the empty chairs where you and your Husband were meant to sit, gave you a pitiful smile. Attempting to lighten the embarrassment that you were feeling. 

Your eyes wandered down the table and were caught by the Queen Daenerys, “Lady (Y/N).” she said firmly with a smile,

You stopped immediately, bowing your head slightly. “Your Grace.” You said with a fair respect. Your husband stood closely behind you.

She smiled at the man who loomed over you, reminded her of someone else. She then turned her attention back towards you, “I do not believe I’ve had an adequate opportunity to speak to you about yourself and your mission.” 

You shook your head, held your stomach and stepped forward, “No, I suppose not. Though I should thank you. You saved my husband beyond the wall. You flew him on dragon back.” 

She nodded quickly, “And I should congratulate you on your marriage. And now your pregnancy. A gift from the Gods.” She said with a warm smile.

You nodded in return, rubbing your thumb against your already swelling belly. “Yes. An unexpected gift. Unexpected but welcome.” You said with a slight smile.

“The best gifts are.” She said softly, “You by all accounts but the dead kings, are the true Warden of the East?” Her tone shifted to a more serious one, “The Wardens are meant to protect their region by preventing disunity of command in the name of Iron Throne.” She said with a raised brow, “You seem to be creating disunity.”

You held your head high, “In the name of protecting my land, my people.” You took one more small step forward, “Just as you are.” You said with a tilt of your head.

She smirked at your remark, and after a brief moment spoke again, “Your cousin tells me of the promise you and he made. Though the Northern armies are no longer independent to the North. They are sworn to me now.” You gaze and hers hardened, “So why should I help you?”

“I’ve done nothing for you. But if you plan on taking Kings Landing you will need as many men as you can get. My men are some of the best in the realm. If you mean to get the support of Petyr Baelish you will be disappointed. His rule depends on the Lannisters say.” Your tone shifted suddenly becoming darker, “With the Eyrie, the Vale and its Knights are an invaluable resource. The Eyrie castle that has not once been taken in siege in thousands of years. But it was once, by Dragon.” You said with a smirk.

She smirked back in return. Remembering how it was seized during Aegon’s conquest. She nodded, “I’ll consider it.” She looked back to the man who loomed over you protectively, “Enjoy your evening.” 

And with that you bowed your head, and took a breath as you left the Hall. 

꒰ ୨୧ ─ 

It was not long till you had successfully dragged your husband into a bath. 

Though Sandor was never one for hot baths of oils and flowers. 

He bathed often in the KingsGuard bathhouses, and those were far from as luxurious as this. In those bathhouses there were two large stone bathes, the water was murky and cold, and the smell was no wear near as lovely as the smell of your perfumed oil. As you poured hot water into the wooden tub that was nearly too small for him, his body laid against the linen sheet that covered the wooden panels of the tub. Your bathing chamber was private. No men to be walking about naked and smelling. 

Though he’d never allow you to think he preferred it this way, that he’d gone from a stray dog who bites to a comfortable lap dog. He did. Especially when you removed your shift, and slowly entered the tub. 

He tried his best not to become erect from the sight of you, or from the feeling of you straddling his bare body. And the warmth from the water did not help either.

To distract himself, he began to undo the braids in your hair for you. Thank the Gods your bathing chamber was private, if someone were to stumble upon a scene as intimate as this, he’d have to kill them.

As he did you grabbed a cloth and dunked it into the soapy water. “You’re the strongest man I’ve ever met.” You said softly as you ran the damp cloth against his bruised muscles. You could never deny that your husband's large stature excited you.

He groaned, “You’ve seen my brother. He’s bigger. Stronger.” 

It was hardly true. His brother was an inch or two taller. And not much stronger either. 

You looked at him with narrow eyes, “No.” shaking your head, “I’ve seen you fight. It’s an even match, it’s too even.” You stressed the last bit, trying to shake any notion he might have of seeking revenge out of his head. You turned your attention back to bathing him as he began to pour a dipper filled with water over your hair. “Besides, I did not mean your physical prowess.” Your eyes trailed up and down his naked body beneath yours. As your eyes met his large member you saw it was beginning to harden and twitched beneath your touch. As your eyes returned to his. He gave you a knowing glance, one that you returned. He never felt handsome or desirable, unless it was when you looked at him like this. Unwilling to give into his look, you began to run the washing cloth against his chest, “Your brother is weak. Gives into his strength all too easily. Gives into his cruelty.” He could have taken you right then. You were the only person to see it. “You’ve taken more suffering than any other man I have met. And yet, you try. Though reluctantly at times… You try to do what is right.” He didn’t say a word. He couldn’t agree with you because he didn’t really believe that much of himself. But he couldn’t disagree because you were too stubborn to not argue back, and his cock was hard enough as it was. So he just stared at you, biting his lip as he gripped onto the wooden tub. “I am not flattering you to get what's between your legs.” You said with a raised brow and half lidded eyes.

He chuckled softly, and shook his head. He ran his hand over your soaking wet hair. “No you can get that on your own.” His hand travels over your body. Gripping onto your breast gently, then roaming your plush sides.

You wrapped an arm around your stomach, “I think I am already changing.” you said with a small amount of insecurity. An insecurity you’d not let anyone else see. Outside of these walls you were a warrior, a lady, and a formidable threat. But within these walls alone with him you were human.

He moved your arm, placing a hand on your belly “It looks good on you.” He said, biting his lip.

“Tell me how to thank you.” You said as you dropped the cloth into the tub and leaned in closer into him. You wrapped your arms around his neck.

“What?” He asked, confused, but also getting even harder by your close proximity. 

You rubbed your nose against his, “I am your wife. Tell me how to please you.” You said as you grazed your lips against his own.

With a small groan deep in his throat, “Come ‘ere.” he rasped as he took you by your hips. He turned you over, making you lay against his strong, hairy chest. “I got you, birdie.” He whispered into your ear as his hands traveled over your body. “Fuck yourself the way you like it.” You were excited by it, it reminded you of when you and he were in Kings Landing and he refused to take your virginity. Instead making you fuck yourself as he pumped his own length. You did as he asked, taking two fingers to rub against your clit. You moaned in a sweet whisper. “That how you do it?” It was close to mocking, but it was only cause he knew you were holding out. So you added three fingers into yourself. You always added three, wanting to feel that same stretch he made you feel. You used your palm to grind your clit into. As you moaned, you could feel his hard cock become even stiffer as it pressed against your back. “That’s it, I knew you were a filthy bird.” He bit onto your ear as one of his hands grasped your breast. Pinching and teasing your nipple. And his other hand pet your head. “What did you think of when you fucked that sweet cunt with those pretty little fingers?” He rasped.

“You,” You attempted to say but you were cut off by a gasp as his hand that was petting your head, was now grasped your throat.

“I need more than that, birdie.” He said as he began to grind his pulsing length into your back.

“Your hands,” You blurted out between moans, “I thought of them around my throat, thought of how your knuckles felt when they curled deep inside of me.” You slowed your finger, tilting your head up to look at him.

His eyes were lustful and dark, “But I don’t always do it like this.” You whined. “I’d grind my cunt into my pillows. And want only for your cock.” 

He bit his lip at your words. He loved it when you used such vulgar words. He nodded his head swiftly. “Then do it.” He said, his voice so low it rumbled into his chest. “Grind your cunt on me.” 

You did as he said, gladly. Flipping over. 

You straddled his thick, hairy, and muscular thigh. As you did you pulled your fingers from you, biting down on your lip as you did. Sandor took your hand and placed your fingers into his mouth, drinking in your taste however watered down by the bath.

As he sucked you let out a moan and grind yourself against his strong thigh. “You like that?” He asked as he pulled your finger from his mouth. He licked your palm, desperate for any wetness you’d left behind on your hand. You couldn’t help it but grind harder more desperately. “Fucking hells, you do-“ He rasped, he gripped the fat of your hips, flexed the muscle in his thigh, making you ride him harder. You could feel him grinding his own length against your thigh. You tried to grasp onto the wooden edges of the tub for support but it all was too much. You ran your hands over his stomach. It was hairy like the rest of him, littered with scars, each one you knew and knew how they appeared by now. He was of course muscular but his stomach had some plushness to it. It made you all the more eager. As you kept fucking yourself on his thigh, you collapsed onto his chest. His hands still guided your hips to keep grinding. You tilted your head upwards to kiss his neck. “Fuck- such a needy thing.” Your hand gripped onto the fat of his stomach desperately as he kept fucking you on his thigh, “Such a needy birdie.” “

“Fuckkkk” You whimpered against the hot skin of his neck. His fingers tangled into your hair gripping hard, the way you liked. 

“You want me to fuck you, birdie?” He groaned against your ear, “Does my wife want my cock deep in her? Deep in that needy pussy?” 

“I want what you want-” You whimpered. Your answer wasn’t good enough, he pushed you against the other end of the tub. A wave of water pushed past your back, tipping over the edge of the tub.

Now your back was against the tub, and your husband on top of you. He held you close to his chest, “Not what I asked you, woman.” He nuzzled his face into your neck, licking at your sensitive skin. “You know what I want.” He said as he grabbed his cock, rubbing the tip of his cock against your clit. “Use your fucking words.” 

“I want it, your dick, your cock, I want it deep inside of me-” You shook your head, “No, I need it. I need your cock in me, need you inside of meee-Ah!” Your desperate pleading was cut short by your husband's cock pushing into you, the stretch was amazing, “Your cock is so big,” You whispered as you closed your eyes from the pleasure. Leaning your head back against the tub in pleasure. 

“You just noticed that?” He said with a stifled chuckle, interrupted by a groan of pleasure as your walls wrapped around his thick cock tightly. 

“I-I-Fuck, I’m so sensitive.” You whimpered loudly, stammering over your words as you clenched around his thick length. The grinding had made your poor aching cunt so so sensitive. And as he slid himself into you completely, you shook and moaned. Even though he was engulfed by warm water he could feel your release rush around his cock. And he could recognize that moan anywhere. “I’m sorry-” You began but his mouth found yours. 

As he pulled away he rasped, “Don’t.” shaking his head. 

He began to pull out of your cunt, but you locked your legs around him. 

“I don’t share the same weakness men have. I am not spent so easily.” You said with a smirk. 

“I don’t think I’ll last long.” He groaned feeling your cunt become wetter with your release. 

“Where do you want to cum?” You pulled his face into your own. Pressing his forehead against your own, “Don’t be dull, you’ve cum in me plenty, you’ve finished on my thighs, my stomach, tits-”

“Down your throat.” He blurted out, 

“Stand.” You commanded and he obeyed. 

He stood, the water running down his naked body sounded like rain as it hit the water's surface. He stepped out of the bath, standing by the edge of the tub.

You sat up, taking his painfully hard cock into your hand. Placing a wet kiss on the head, already leaking precum. You licked your lips tasting him. 

As you sank your mouth around his cock, your fingers found your overly sensitive clit. The sudden stimulation made you jump slightly, and moan around his cock. Making him groan like an animal.

You kept your pace as you bobbed your head, allowing your tongue to work your way down his shaft.  His hand gripped the back of your head, his fingers tangling your wet hair. You kept moaning on his cock, the vibration making his pleasure all the more intense. He moaned out as well, “That's it,” He hissed, “That's your cock, all yours.” He moaned as you kept sucking on his cock, and playing with your clit. You felt your own peak rising as you moaned on his cock. “My wife…” He grunted as your pace increased, “Mine, all fucking mine!” He grunted as you reached your peak. 

You took your hand, wet with the bathwater and your release as you stroked his length. Over and over again. “Look at me…” He rasped, and so you did, your eyes peering up into his own. You felt his cock twitch, and he couldn’t help but buck his hips slightly. He didn’t mean to, but it was all too much, and his seed spilt from him suddenly. His seed was warm as it spilt down your tongue, down your throat. It was salty, and slightly bitter. Nothing like how you tasted on his tongue. But it wasn’t unpleasant, no, you loved it. You swallowed it as he kneeled down to look you in the eyes. He took your cheek in hand. 

“You alright, Birdie?” He asked you gently as he rubbed your cheek with his thumb.

You nodded with an exhausted smile.

꒰ ୨୧ ─

As you sat on a chair by a fire in your chamber, you brushed your hair. You looked over to Sandor who was reading your bed. A habit he picked up soon as he was your husband. He had learned your routine quite well by now. He knew you needed water by your bedside, he knew how many pillows you needed on your side of the bed. He said he did it because he didn’t want to be woken up in the night by you grabbing these things. But it brought him some sense of fulfillment when he did things like this for you. 

You placed the brush onto your lap, “Why’d you choose me?” You asked softly.

He crooked his neck towards you, “Hm?” he grumbled.

“Have you ever loved a woman before me?” You asked, purely out of curiosity, not jealousy.

He scoffed, “Fuck no.” His eyes narrowed and his eyebrows furrowed. Though it were true he fucked women before you, they were paid whores, and few and far between. As well as a handful of them were bought specifically because they resembled you in some way. Fucking into them from behind to see the hair you and the whore shared, pretending it were you. 

Now he’d never think of it, now that he had you, he’d never betray you in such a way. Nor could he ever want another woman, or even pretend they were you.

“Why me?” You asked again, softly.

He sighed through his nose, and his eyes softened, “You looked at me. With those eyes.” He stepped towards you, “There was no fear in them.” He looked at the faded scar above your lip, “Not even when I let them beat you.” He continued towards you.

“Sandor-” You tried to stop him. 

He kneeled by your side. “I stood there, in a white cloak and let that foul prick Meryn Trant hit you. I let myself get cut, stabbed, bitten, and beaten while Littlefinger did as he liked with you. I let myself lay half dead while you were sold off to the Boltons. I let myself believe you were dead while you fought a war.” He angrily babbled to himself.

“Enough.” You held his face in your hands, “I’ve said enough time and time again.” Your tone was less sweet and gentle. Your words were hard. “No one has stood by me as loyal as you. No one. If I should lose this war, humiliated and disgraced, and flee to the Second Sons to live life as a wife of a sellsword. As long as I am your wife it would be enough. If you and I were alone in this world, that would be enough.” 

He shook his head, “I’m getting you that castle.” He said with strong conviction. Before you pulled him into your own lips.

Pssst! Support me on Ko-Fi! NOTE: Sorry this is so late. I wrote part of the tavern scene while my uber got rear ended lol. And now I have COVID for the first time. This was originally part of a much longer chapter but there was no way it would be finished tonight so here is a lil sweetness for you all. Sorry things have been late. K love you, xoxo

Bambi

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@hotvillianapologist

[deadboyswalking]

Made myself sad because I imagined Yoichi and Kudo meeting again inside One For All.

Yoichi had been dead for a little while, yet unable to fully pass on as his soul echo lived on inside the Quirk. He was lonely again, trapped all by himself in another dark room because of his brother.

Suddenly, a blue light filled the room, so bright that he could scarcely look at it. It settled, slowly, and when he could finally open his eyes they instantly filled with tears.

Kudo. His savior. His beloved. Had he come to pull Yoichi out again? Could they be free together, under the sun again?

In his heart, Yoichi knew that couldn't be true, but he still had hope. Kudo always gave him hope.

His beloved had a sad smile on his face as Yoichi stumbled forward, pulling him into a tight embrace.

He was warm to the touch, just like the last time they'd held each other as Yoichi bled out. But there was no heartbeat, steady and sure. Not anymore.

Yoichi gasped, sobbed, clung to Kudo as the other man's arms finally encircled him again.

"Shhh, shhh, it's okay," Kudo said, running his fingers through Yoichi's long, white hair.

"No, it's not," Yoichi muttered, his voice nearly cracking on every syllable, "You look the same. Exactly the same. How long?"

Kudo did not require further elaboration. He sighed.

"A couple of months."

"This is my fault," Yoichi said bitterly, "If I hadn't... if I'd stayed in that room..."

"Self-martyring idiot," Kudo murmured, "He was always going to kill me. I scared the fuck out of him, you know."

Yoichi chuckled.

"I know. Still..."

"It's stupid to think of the what-ifs. I passed the power on to our friend, and he got away. I'm satisfied."

"Our friend is all alone, facing that monster, and we can't do anything," Yoichi said, "How can you be satisfied?"

"I have to be," Kudo replied simply, "What else is there? I'm mad as hell that he killed me and I can't fight him anymore, but at least I get to see you again, and hold you again." He tilted Yoichi's chin up with his finger and gently pressed their lips together. "And do that again too."

Despite himself, Yoichi smiled.

"I missed you."

"Same here. And our friend is strong and smart, so I think he'll be able to stay away for a long time. As for us, I think we deserve to rest for a bit, don't you think? Your brother can't touch us here."

A sickening feeling crept into Yoichi's gut just then.

"My body... what happened to it?" he asked quietly. Kudo stiffened, then tightened their embrace.

"Burned to ashes with my own hands," he replied, the choke in his voice audible, "I built the pyre, laid your body on it, lit the flame, and stood watch for hours until it was done. Until there was nothing left but ash to blow away in the wind."

"Kudo..." Yoichi started, reaching up for his lover's face.

"Our first time together, you told me about your brother's perversions," Kudo cut him off, pained and angry, "I couldn't let him touch you again, even if you were gone and only a corpse was left. You hear me? I couldn't let him!"

Yoichi brushed away a few tears with his slender hands as he gently forced Kudo to meet his eyes. Kudo had saved him, over and over, even when this last act of love had clearly broken his heart to carry out.

"Kudo, my love, thank you," he whispered, before he pulled his savior down into another slow kiss.

[themotherofblood]

CHAPTER 1| RIVER OF GOLD |

The Lady | T.L x READER |

series masterlist | main masterlist

~ and if I was a child, did matter? If you got to wash your hands. ~

“He scares me, just a little. Not a violent way I suppose but as if he knows everything about me, though he might if he paid for spies. I am to be his wife, never thought I’d lay with a Lannister and yet here I am. Father has forbade me from writing to Doran, he would be mad at me. Lannisters and us have had a bitter history, my sweet aunt lost at the cost of war but perhaps this would be my first taste of power. I would be his wife, I would hold the sword.”

Grey, the skies were grey in the Westerlands. Black adorned every noble lord and lady's bodies as they stood by the falls. Five children stood as they mourned the death of their mother, along with many other houses who had only come to pay respects; out of obligation. Only five young bodies knew the truth of what had happened.

"Our princess took a terrible fall." the Maesters and handmaidens said, a truth laced with an ugly lie.

Our mother killed herself

The silk that wrapped the former princess's body held the further truth, if one peaked in they would see her bashed left cheek from the impact, a little lower they would see her crushed collar bone and even lower they would see blackened bruises from the fall. They would also see scars, yellowing bruises and fingerprints all over her skin, the testament to the brutality she had to suffer at the hand of her lord husband.

She was gone, and a candle that all five children held in the storm; blew out with her. The oldest boy Jeagir stood with his arm around his sister, you. Her hands rested on the shoulders of her two younger sisters Ellia and Nyela and their Maester Crasden, that stood next to them with an asleep toddler in his arms; the youngest Loren.

While the younger girls wept silently, their older siblings silently boiled in rage. All four children were handed torches as they walked to the four corners of the pyre their mother laid on, a Dornish priest went on with words that were muffled in the noble children's ears. While some remembered the screams from that night, some could only hear the crackling fire in their hands. In unison they lit the four corners of their mother's final rest. She would be safer now, nobody would hurt her now.

Your mother had written to you six moons ago, "Fly back to me, child." She had written. Her Martell uncles had managed to get her on a ship within the next day of the letter's arrival. The ship flung the banner of House Martell and delights filled the cargo of the ship for their dear sister.

"Give her my love." Doran Martell had said as he kissed the top his niece's head, a girl he had raised as his own for the past twelve years.

The morning you arrived to Lannisport, your receiver and long friend Fredrick also brought the doomed message.

"Princess Elina took a terrible fall."

One look at your mother's dead body and the guilt in your mother's handmaiden's eyes, the horrified sullen eyes of your sisters and the rage in your brothers eyes. You knew.

Your mother killed herself.

Lannisport was controlled by the most powerful family in the Westerlands, the Lannisters. More specifically Tywin Lannister. That man knew everything that went on in his lands and surely a Dornish ship with Martell sails entering his harbour was to be brought to his attention. He had ridden out that day, as he did every other day to visit Lannistown and the port. Mostly to set his own eyes upon the visitors from Dorne, he had taken extra guards as a welcome party.

He watched from high ground as the ship docked itself, five boats emerged from the ship. One with a golden pavilion shade, harbouring most likely a person of noble decent. He wondered if the Martells finally had come for his head, but out emerged a young lady at best in a pink Dornish dress, you.

His brother Kevan had rode down to the ports to enquire about the arriving party before riding back to his brother. Tywin watched as a man stood with the banner of his sworn house Maerilys, he watched as the man greeted you dressed in pink, then he watched you speak and for a moment all the colour drained from your face. It seemed as though everyone around you had frozen too, then he watched as your hand came up to your forehead, your lips widen as all the men and women that came with you hung their head low. A message came for him too, a rider rode out from Casterly Rock with the message.

"Princess Elina Martell of House Maerilys has passed."

Kevan too returned from the ports.

"That's Lord Maerilys's eldest daughter."

Tywin had arrived to Deep Den after the funeral, he had known Princess Elina personally having been a close companion to his late lady wife Joanna, the woman wasn't much older than him but he knew wits when he saw it, though he never liked the man she married. Lord Loren Maerilys, clearly named after his ancestor but Tywin knew that man held no kingly qualities. The house provided a good chuck of the Lannister fleet and armies, siege weapons and other labour personnel to Casterly Rock.

Lord Maerilys was a cruel man, the Mad King had his own reasons but Maerilys was another kind of evil, he flaunted his affairs in his lady wife's face, he beat her and humiliated her. Princess Elina on the other hand suffered through it all, many never understood why, she was Dornish. If she had written about the true brutality of her husband to her brothers. They would have landed an army right at her front gates to take her home. She never did, she suffered it all.

When you were born to the household, Lord Maerilys was not pleased, had it not been for his advisors and Maesters, he would have thrown your babbling form into the sea to wash off your existence, to another father you may have been a delight, a gorgeous little girl. But to your father, you were weakness, you couldn't carry their house's name.

Maester Crasden protected you as alittle girl as best he could, keeping you for longer lessons or away from your father's sight most times. However she you fell in the trap of your father's violence, instead of staying in your bedchambers one night as your mother's muffled wails rang through the halls, you hid a dagger stolen from the armoury in your skirts and walked into your parents chambers. Your little hands were ineffective, the blade you wielded ended up giving you a bigger cut than her father and a swollen bruise to her cheek from a backhanded slap.

"You insolent cunt! I could have your head for this." He screamed like a mad man as the little girl's glare never left him. That night her mother wrote to her brothers for help for the first time. She urged them to take her daughter, to raise her as their own with her nieces and nephews.

"Protect my girl, do not let her flame die." She had written.

Tywin had strayed from his riding party for a while, he rarely got to breathe in the country and the serenity of its views. He wanted to tarry a bit, as his riding party prepped for his arrival. The Old Lion had taken a guard along with him, surely he was learned enough to know that he was safe no where. There was a faint rush of water from the great falls in the mountains by Deep Den, the birds sang their songs as the air in the forest remained thick and humid, and Tywin walked through it all like he owned the forests. He had taken a long deep breath, closing his eyes as his head lifted upwards, allowing himself to unravel for just a moment. Though his moment of peace was interrupted by the whoosh of an arrow that nearly missed him and lodged itself onto the tree trunk behind him.

His guard drew their swords, at alert as Tywin sat strong on his horse. All of them looking around to find the source of the attack, a rustle in the bushes and most of them were prepared to fight. Until from the bushes and vines emerged your figure dressed in commoner rags, out of breath and sharp as you looked around before your eyes widened at the men with their swords out. You hands instinctively held tighter on your bow as your chest heaved, looking at all three men skeptically; until the armour they wore gave their true identity away. Lannisters.

You dropped the bow, raising your hands in defence. Gulping at the glare, the lord had fixated on you. If you weren't mistaken, you stood in the presence of Tywin Lannister. Comely and stern looking man.

"Forgive me, my lord. I thought you were a deer," you looked at him apprehensively, as you prayed to the gods, that this man knew nothing of your identity.

"Clearly not," He nodded at his men to sheath their steel.

Tywin didn't trust the girl, and the only way he knew that he would make out of these woods without killing you, was to take you with him. You were clean, too clean for a commoner. Your posture and nimble fingers, too relaxed to be an assassin. You looked familiar and yet he couldn't quite put a name to the face.

"Who are you girl?" Tywin commanded, his eyes capturing every detail of the sweet maiden before him. The velvet of your dress pointed that you were no mere peasant girl, though your unruly hair and mud over your hands would unlikely make you of noble birth.

"I am a kitchen wench, from the Den my lord," you tried to hold his gaze to not seem as if you were lying through your teeth. The lord gave you a grunt of answer before turning his horse around.

"Come along then. No girl like you should be out here alone." He ordered but you stood your ground

"Forgive me my lord, strange men offering escort in the middle of the woods, not exactly reliable," you made your case "I can find my own way home." With that you ran, abandoning your weapon. You ran through the very well known forests as the Lannister guards wandered deeper into the forest with no avail.

You huffed in exhaustion as you returned home, sweaty and covered in dirt. What was to be a trip to clear your head turned out to be a rat chase. The maids all looked scared for their Lady, for surely if Lord Maerilys saw his daughter in this condition, not only would he have your head but also the gaurds that were supposed to be escorting you.

"You must change, before your father sees you my lady." A man called out, Fredrick Serrert. When you had left the shore he was merely a boy but when he came to receive you, he stood a man grown at nearly six foot three.

Down in the Deep Den's hall, Lord Maerilys. A stubbed, and disgruntled old man greeted their liege lord. Both lord exchanged words of formality before Tywin walked himself to the rear gardens, where a burnt out pyre of ashes remained, still gusts of simmering smoke emitted from it. There laid Princess Elina, he still remembered her face, how young him and his betrothed were when his father had brought him along to their wedding. An elaborate affair, the Dornish princess was set to marry the older Maerilys brother, yet tragedy struck Daven Maerilys and her "condition" (the birth of your brother) left her in choice but to wed the younger brother Loren Maerilys instead.

"They say you look for a wife, Lord Tywin." Lord Maerilys asked, the old lion just nodded in reply.

"I have three. The older one just returned from Dorne, and my two younger one's are yet to bleed but should be of cause my lord." Tywin's face scrunched up in disgust, though his face looked away from Loren, he couldn't believe what he was hearing. Sure Tywin had imposed a marriage on his daughter, but sell out your daughters that young. Then out of the blue, it hit Tywin.

"Kitchen wench." He scoffed under his breath. He hadn't been outsmarted in a while but surely he was looking forward to meeting this Lady as he put a name to the familiar face. He remembered you from the docks

All the Maerilys kids poured out one by one. Olyvar came first, head held high and the spitting Dornish image of his mother, behind him trailed the two younger girls, Nyela and Ellia. They stood in a line as Tywin was introduced to them, he shook the oldest boy's hands and charmingly complimented the little girls on their hair. Then burst through the doors was another, your hurried feet found you standing next to your little sisters, with a toddler in your arms. You gracefully bowed.

"This is my eldest daughter." your father introduced you, every cursed word you could think of you used on yourself internally. You prayed that he would keep his mouth shut about earlier, and thank the gods he did.

"And who might this be?" Tywin gestured at the child wriggling in your arms, your sweet brother you had only seen painted palm prints off in your mother's correspondences

"Harolld Maerilys, my lord." you voice spoke up, a lot gentler then earlier, almost a whisper as you tried to not startle the child.

Tywin that night thought of the proposition Lord Maerilys put forth, there was something about this girl that just made you tick. Tywin wasn't a child that merely beauty would sway him, though you were quite a sight he had seen in a while, full lips, expressive eyes. There was something commanding about you, the way your eyes never left his, your head held high even admist all this sorrow. He saw a gain in this too, an alliance between Martells and Lannisters, you were important enough for them to send you home with Martell sails.

The next morning he made his wishes heard, he would court you for the week he was to reside at Deep Den, and leave with a bride by him.

You were having none of it, a screaming match broke out in the hall. As servants and soldiers turned a deaf ear to them yet again. You had nothing against this wedding but you refused to leave you little sisters behind at the hands of a monster.

"The girls will leave with me to Dorne!" You yelled over your father's voice

"You watch it girl, I could sell you and sisters for a lump sum and no one would bat an eye!" Your father threw back, menacingly nearing your proximity. However you weren't a child anymore, you stood your ground glaring up at your father. His hand shot forward, yanking your head up from the root of your hair making you yelp out in pain.

"Hurt me, go on. My uncles will cut your hands off if I tell them about this." your words were laced in venom and yet the truth. Doran Martell, was viciously protective over you and Oberyn, your sweet uncle Oberyn. You were his sunshine, though he may never see you more than just his little niece, your heart once yearned for more with your Uncle Oberyn. Many whispered at Sunspear that you had given your maidenhead to him and how you wished that were true.

"My lord." Maester Crasden's voice made Lord Maerilys push his angry daughter away, as tears threatened to roll down your face. You sat on the chair with your head on the table, rubbing the spot your father had held onto. Crasden came over, his fingers gently parting your hair to check for injury, you sweet lady would be fine.

"Marry him child." you scoffed at Crasden but he looked at you as if he wasn't finished, he sat down next to you.

"You would be the Lady of Casterly Rock, our liege lady," he cleared his throat before going on "you could order your sisters away to Dorne." His hand patted your cheek "You would hold power, I could not help your mother child. Let me help you."

The old maester's words had sunk deep within you as you began to ponder on the topic of your marriage and finally gave in, other than Tywin's cruelty on the battlefield and politics, there was no account of him ever imposing himself on women, you began to think of if you'd be safe and the only way to confirm your queries would be from the source itself.

You and Lord Tywin had found yourselves in your mothers gardens, you had called for him yourself and Tywin was curious to hear what you had to say.

"I realise how auspicious of a union this is, however I have questions and terms of my own before I agree to this." you kept your voice strong as you voiced yourr feelings on the matter.

"Go on then, my lady." Tywin walked past you to sit down.

"I truly hope that you know my disdain isn't toward you my lord, but merely a worry for my prospects." you stated as you sat down across from him, you didn't want to elaborate further, not wanting to slander your father in front of his liege lord.

"I am aware, my lady" Tywin's stress on the word made you look away. If your mother's troubles had been so known, how come none of these vast noble lords come to her aid.

"You needn't worry about me imposing myself on you" He suggested making you look at him, grateful and confused

"You would be well looked after and eventually sponsored for when the time came for your duties at Casterly Rock." He elaborated further.

"I knew your mother, I have a debt that still needs to be paid." The mere mention of your mother made the your eyes gloss over.

"And I would be safe?" There was a gentle crack to your voice.

"You would be safe." He reassured you, the green of his eyes glinting against the sun.

So it was setttled, Lady Maerilys was to wed Lord Tywin Lannister, ravens flew from Deep Den to Castley Rock, The Red Keep and to Sunspear. The news of this alliance spread through both families, both his children and the Martells were furious at about the wedding but it was done. A small affair at the Great Hall, you wore your mother's ivory dress that was fit to your sizing, that morning your mind nearly changed again as you tried to make a break for the ports but was stopped by Olyvar. If not for yourself then you performed her duties to protect her sisters.

"Father."

"Smith."

"Warrior."

"Mother."

"Maiden."

"Crone."

"Stranger."

"I am hers and she is mine."

"I am his and he is mine."

"From this day until my last day."

A chaste kiss between the two sealed this union. You were now Lady Lannister of Castley Rock, and hell was to pay if anyone tried to hurt you.

next chapter

[maniculum]

An Excerpt from the Aberdeen Bestiary

I've started preparing the bestiaryposting, and have encountered one entry that doesn't really fit into what we're doing. Not only is it one of the longest entries, but instead of "let me tell you about this animal", it's taking more of a "we all already know about this animal, so I'm going to share some stories about specific ones" approach. But out of a sense of completionism, I can't just not post it, so here you go.

Dog

The Latin name for the dog, canis, seems to have a Greek origin. For in Greek it is called cenos, although some think that it is called after the musical sound, canor, of its barking, because when it howls, it is also said to sing, canere. No creature is more intelligent than the dog, for dogs have more understanding than other animals; they alone recognise their names and love their masters.

There are many kinds of dogs: some track down the wild beasts of the forests to catch them; others by their vigilance guard flocks of sheep from the attacks of wolves; others as watch-dogs in the home guard the property of their masters lest it be stolen by thieves at night and sacrifice their lives for their master; they willingly go after game with their master; they guard his body even when he is dead and do not leave it. Finally, their nature is that they cannot exist without man.

Also of the nature of dogs

We read that dogs have such great love for their masters, as when King Garamentes was caught by his enemies and taken into captivity, two hundred dogs went in formation through enemy lines and led him back from exile, fighting off those who resisted them. When Jason [Licio] was killed, his dog rejected food and died of starvation. The dog of King Lysimachus threw itself in the flame when its master's funeral pyre was lit and was consumed by fire along with him. When Apius and Junius Pictinius were consuls, a dog that could not be driven away from its master, who had been condemned, accompanied him to prison; when, soon afterwards, he was executed, it followed him, howling. When the people of Rome, out of pity, caused it to be fed, it carried the food to its dead master's mouth. Finally, when its master's corpse was thrown into the Tiber, the dog swam to it and tried to keep it from sinking.

When a dog picks up the track of a hare or a deer and comes to a place where the trail divides or to a junction splitting into several directions, it goes to the beginning of each path and silently reasons with itself, as if by syllogism, on the basis of its keen sense of smell. 'Either the animal went off in this direction,' it says,'or that, or certainly it took this turning.’

Again on the nature of dogs

Often, also, when a murder has been committed, dogs have produced clear evidence of the guilt of the accused, with the result that their unspoken testimony is for the most part believed. They say that at Antioch, in a distant quarter of the city at dusk, a man was murdered, who had his dog with him on a lead. A soldier had been the perpetrator of the deed, with robbery as his motive. Undercover of the growing darkness, he fled elsewhere. The corpse lay unburied; the crowd of onlookers was large; the dog stayed at its master's side, howling over his sad fate. It happened that the man who had committed the crime, acting confidently in order to convince people of his innocence - such is the cunning way in which men think- joined the circle of onlookers and, feigning grief, approached the corpse. Then the dog, briefly abandoning its doleful lament, took up the arms of vengeance, seized the man and held him, and, softly singing a pitiful song, as in the epilogue of a tragedy, moved everyone to tears; and the fact that the dog held that man alone, of the many that were there, and did not let him go, lent weight to its case. In the end, the murderer was at a loss because the evidence in the case was so plain; he could not clear himself by objecting that he was the victim of anyone's hate, enmity, envy or spite, and he could no longer rebut the charge. Because it was very difficult for him, he suffered punishment, because he could offer no defence.

A dog's tongue, licking a wound, heals it. A dog's way of life is said to be wholly temperate. A puppy's tongue is generally a cure for internal injuries. It is characteristic of a dog that it returns to its vomit and eats it again. If a dog swims across a river carrying a piece of meat or anything of that sort in its mouth, and sees its shadow, it opens its mouth and in hastening to seize the other piece of meat, it loses the one it was carrying.

In some ways preachers are like dogs: by their admonitions and righteous ways they are always driving off the ambushes laid by the Devil, lest he seize and carry off God's treasure - Christian souls. As the dog's tongue, licking a wound, heals it, the wounds of sinners, laid bare in confession, are cleansed by the correction of the priest. As the dog's tongue heals man's internal wounds, the secrets of his heart are often purified by the deeds and discourse of the Church's teachers. As the dog is said to be temperate in its ways, the man who is set over others diligently studies wisdom and must avoid drunkenness and gluttony in every way, for Sodom perished in a surfeit of food. Indeed, there is no quicker way for the Devil, his enemy, to take possession of man than through his greedy gullet. The dog returning to its vomit signifies those who, after making their confession, heedlessly return to wrongdoing. The dog leaving its meat behind in the river, out of desire for its shadow, signifies foolish men who often forsake what is theirs by right out of desire for some unknown object; with the result that, while they are unable to obtain the object of their desire, they needlessly lose what they have given up.

Some dogs are called licisici, wolf-hounds, because they are born of wolves and dogs, when by chance these mate. In India bitches are tethered at night in the forests to breed with wild tigers, by whom they are mounted, producing very fierce dogs, so strong that with their grip they can pull down lions.

[safely-in-vhagars-belly]

Vhagar's diary (The Point of view of a dragon) ((Slight spoof)

This fanfic has been dedicated to my friends, who told me to start writing and to kinda dont give a f what people think about it, tbf people will always moan.

The majestic dragon Vhagar shares her story, in a exclusive interview/tell all biography. What does she remember and what can she tell us about the past? What do we know? Vhagar tells all is part of a mini series featuring three parts of Vhagars life leading up to house of the dragon, with her ...unique thoughts and perspective!

I have always been a simple, elegant and well-educated dragon. I was born at Dragon Stone, which would become the ancestral seat of the Targaryens. The Targaryen family has plagued me for as long as I’ve been alive. From the very moment I hatched, I was wary and paranoid of those white-haired people. It was very clear to me, as with any other sane soul, that there was something incredibly wrong with them. So, naturally: I felt right at home in their presence!

I could hear the swords clash whenever Aegon, Visenya and Rhaenys were around. I could smell the sweet smell of blood whenever they were near and feel the fire burn in their veins, yes all that is true. But I must admit that I never felt more comfortable as I did at Dragonstone. It is perhaps a bit childish, but I hatched there. It shall always be my home.

What did I think of the three conquerors personally? Aegon smelled funny. He smelled like cattle and he had a big dragon called Balerion. Aegon was a true Targaryen in name, and birthright, and shared this wonderful bloodthirsty mind that befitted a Targaryen. He also gave me treats whenever Visenya would look away. Aegon married both Rhaenys and Visenya, for some reason I as a dragon quite don’t understand. But he preferred Rhaenys over Visenya, unfortunately. 

It was difficult for me when he died, I’ll admit it. I wish I had killed him for the pain he inflicted on Visenya. That will forever be my greatest regret, dear reader. I lit his funeral pyre, but I must admit it is no fun lighting a corpse that has been killed by a better, clever and stronger someone before you.

Rhaenys was a sweet boring woman and therefore never interested me, personally. But as Visenya’s first soldier, loyal servant and beloved pet I had to see and watch how Aegon treated Rhaenys and Visenya and let me tell you it was so difficult to not breathe fire at each of them whenever i saw them together.

Visenya. Visenya was the cleverest sweetest most generous and greatest woman that ever lived and shall ever live, mark my words and count my scales! From the moment we bonded, I knew, that woman was a special soul, like me. I could tell, because these are my words, so you have to either buy them, or leave it. 

I remember after she and I bonded; she did a victory ride, with me, soaring through the skies. I never had been bonded before, and no rider’s bond would be as strong as the one I shared with her. I always suspected that Visenya and I were part of the same soul, brought together by fate. We were meant to die together, too. 

Aegon, the pervert, was watching us, and now that she did have a dragon, he was interested in marrying his other sister as well. Visenya was happy. I think I know why. She was finally noticed. She was finally good enough.

From the moment I hatched, I always have been in Balerion’s shadow. Quite literally. Have you seen the size of that beast? But sadly, it is true, I swear on my beautiful horns. The Black dread, they called him. He inspired genuine fear, true terror in ways I could only dream of. You must know, that I was quite the pathetic baby lizard at that time, but I grew and I grew harder out of pure spite, jealousy, and determination. 

It was a sight to behold, the conquest. So many burning things, so many fleeing things! Visenya and I flew to Stokeworth. I never understood humans very well, but according to Visenya StokeWorth was not first in line when the gods handed out brains. They shot bolts at us until I turned the castle roofs to crisp and ash. 

At some point, they crowned Aegon too, I can’t recall when it happened, as I don’t really care about Aegon, much as you can probably tell.  I do recall Visenya feeding me a nice big cowhead as a thank you for my loyal servitude. I never had any friends, but she comes close to what I would consider a friend if you must know.

Castles fell at our feet, men begged us for mercy, they screamed prayers at their gods as I and the other dragons soared above the skies of Westeros, teaching it the meaning of ‘Fire and Blood’. It felt great to be a part of something bigger than me, something that I would know would last centuries. Something that I would know would last long after I had left behind this, earthy crispy shell of a ball.

It was great. But like all great things, this came too an end. 

The Dornish people killed Rhaenys and the dragon Meraxes in Dorne. Aegon never was the same after their deaths, neither was Visenya. There was this hole left in her soul that no dead body could fill. We went on a beautiful trip to Dorne, avenging the fallen Queen and her dragon. I did not care much for revenge; I was just happy to be invited and to taste Dornish. 

Aegon died in 37 AC, and I was invited to light his funeral pyre. I did so with great pride and effort, happy to see the flames lick away the remains of that man. Visenya had again lost something very dear to her, and she remained close to me. The eldest of the three, yet the last alive.

In 41 AC, I saw my birthplace again. Visenya had taken me back to Dragonstone, when Aenys, one of the sons Aegon had fathered, named another Aegon, the prince of Dragonstone, which made him the heir of the Targaryen kingdom we just conquered. I pray to their ‘gods’ whatever these might be, that this is the final man named Aegon in the Targaryen dynasty, as this dragon already finds this incredibly confusing.  I understand my lady was very upset. We passed the moon, and it turned red, according to witnesses. Well, those had a little bit too drink, I think. I did not see such a thing. 

It fell from the skies and shattered. I did see that. But what they claim? No that’s a lie, my apologies. 

The rest of the tale that follows is the tale of the maesters, of corrupt men writing on powerful women. I would not speak ill of the dead, though I do so with much pleasure, but my Visenya was no evil woman. She was gentle with me, she was good and kind. She had given dozens of reasons to burn her sister and brother alive, jealousy being the main one. I must admit, perhaps time erased all the horrible things Visenya did, and only made her sweet in my memory. I do not see Visenya as some beacon of goodness. I see her as any dragon should see their riders: Once upon a time, I was confronted by a girl who stared into my eyes, tears running down her face, begging for a chance to become a Queen. And I gave it to her.

As a dragon, it is hard for me to remember all this stuff. I did not become attached to much humans in my lifetime. Most I ate. But Visenya was unique for I felt we had a connection. A deep connection that threw us together and bound us. 

It was terrifying watching Visenya visit me, every time a little thinner, and a little thinner. I once shared my cow with her, but she did not like the meat, I think. Visenya was declared dead in the year 44 AC, but she died much earlier, I tell you. I watched her die, multiple times a day, multiple times a year, until I finally felt this, horrible emptiness. I wept and screamed, breathed fire until I had blackened the walls of dragonstone, but none of it mattered. I knew she was gone. Nothing could bring her back. I felt alone, truth be told.

At that moment, all I wanted was to join her. We should have died together, fighting as warriors. They call my lovely lady a Kinslayer, perhaps a Kingslayer and a murderer and an unfaithful witch. Well, let them, I say. My lady remains one of the most iconic queens of the Targaryen dynasty, and I shall forever be proud she was my first rider. 

She was amazing.

Not as amazing as me, but be honest: Who even can be?!

Vhagar's diary ends here. A part two might be in the works, I love vhagar very much and i like imagining her life but clearly she forgets/misremembers things and its so fun to write something else for a change.

[suspiciouslypinkrosegarden]

𓆝 𓆟 Armin Week 2024 𓆝 𓆟

Day 2: Prompt EMA

Armin, Mikasa and Eren can't sleep the night before the attack on Liberio. They stay awake thinking of each other.

Three soldiers, three excuses to not sleep. One drowning, one burning and the other suffocating. In just a few hours the scouts would find themselves leaving for Liberio, finally bringing Eren home to Paradis. 

Armin’s room was lit only by a singular candle at his wooden desk, shadows growing and shrinking upon the man’s sunken face as he shifted around the flame. The tips of his fingers familiarized themselves with the grainy surface of the parchment paper before him, tracing small patterns over a map of the harbor. Three children kept alive by the glimmer of hope the ocean brought, now reunited across it to bring forth destruction to a world they once yearned to be part of. His eyes danced from label to label, land mass to water in frantic repetition, searching for a sign of a flaw in their plan, in his plan. Torment wracked his tired body as he continued his almost mechanical repetition, drilling the targets into his mind in an effort to outrun the weight of the emotions he felt. Tomorrow he’d have to employ his titan as a weapon of mass destruction. Could he live with himself after the damage was done? He did his best to ignore his conch shell in his turmoil, sat beside the map and fully illuminated by the small bit of candlelight. 

As the night pressed forward the deeper he fell, cold as his back hit the water he once dreamed of. Alone at sea is where he found himself, abandoned by his parents and now temporarily his dearest friend for that outside world which hated them. As the tears began to trickle, he felt his lungs burn with the taste of salt that surrounded him, choking as it invaded his system. Opening his eyes he saw midnight blue, murky and void of the wonders he sought deep within. The more he sank, the less he felt he had the right to struggle to breathe. He could see it now, blond locks of hair growing longer as they swirled around him. As soon as he stopped fighting, he floated there for a while, a scared boy again. He’d drown in those battle plans until he were one with them, his sharp mind his only weapon and use. He thought of Eren and pushed forward without sleep. 

In a room not too far from Armin’s, Mikasa’s muscles were set alight as she forced her body to continue moving in preparation for tomorrow’s invasion. Instead of resting, she trained under the cover of darkness, pushing forward below a small gas lamp creating an amber spotlight on her moving form. She was sticky with sweat, uncaring as it ran down her forehead and along her exposed stomach. Tomorrow she’d do what she has always done for the sake of her loved ones, defend them without regret or fear. Her ebony eyes flicked to the small pile of red placed gently upon her bed. 

As she kept moving, pins and needles rippled along her skin, sharp and wicked in way. At first the flames which licked her were searing, but the longer she stood in the fire the colder she felt. Her flesh did not melt off its bone as it should have, forced to endure a pain she knew would not kill her. Engulfed by orange and red, her feet struggled to maintain solid ground against the withering wood of the pyre. As a log snapped, she fell on her hands, watching the long ends of her scarf level with her line of sight on the ground. And then, the gift started to burn. Her body ached as she pushed through another sit-up, knowing she herself was immune to the fire that devoured her loved ones. She was strong and able to protect, and that’s what she was good for. She thought of Eren and pushed forward without sleep. 

Across the sea, Eren stayed awake in the hospital he was undercover in. He sat upright, scanning the rows of beds as he pitied those asleep in them and what would become of them. Tomorrow they’d lose Sasha, without any chances for him to give goodbyes. Tomorrow would be the beginning of the end, reuniting with the people he cared for and remaining cold for their sakes. 

It was as if the air had suddenly left the room, a quick and sharp cutoff with nothing left to fill his lungs. Eren’s chest felt heavy as he strained harder than usual to inhale, his head dizzying by the second with nothing to give it life. He knew there were no hands belonging to another clasped over his mouth to pry off, choking as one would if in the vacuum of space without a helmet. Against his will, his green eyes watered, remembering his promise to himself that he’d never get to breathe. In the silence he wept knowing that riding the wind was not for him, opening his palms to release the two birds he held in them, that he held in his mind always. He deserved this feeling of sadness, he thought to himself, sacrificing so much in the name of the two other soldiers. Eren thought of Armin and Mikasa, pushing forward without sleep. 

[prideducky]

Ardeen

A fire was cackling right underneath me whilst many people watched the pyre lit aflame. “May thy witch burn here on earth and in the pits of hell's depth.” A man beside said to the crowd as the flames quickly spread around me. I close my eyes as the heat becomes unbearable. I feel the flames melting away my skin. I want to scream. Scream as loud as I could, cry out for help and do it all over. But no. No screams. Just the immense pain of being burned alive.

You might wonder ‘how did I eventually end up in this shithole while I seemed like a normal maiden they used to burn back then?’ Hah, no. The answer is quite simple. Sins. In my case it was vengeance. Oh the wrath and the bittersweet taste of revenge I felt back then. The still delightful aftertaste after many, many decades. That is exactly why I nowadays live in the Ring of Wrath. Really, fuck this place. Everyone is always so upfront and self-centered. Honestly, I did not even deserve to be here in the first place… I mean sure, murdering your family, feeding their flesh to the dogs and yourself might seem a bit… Cruel… But I know I am a reasonable person! If they did not treat me as an animal I would not have started behaving like one. I am quite sure they are down here too and running into them would not be the biggest problem here… The biggest problem is the residence itself. You have to watch out with every step you make or take because there might be lurking danger around the very corner of your very own doorstep. That's why I decided I was going to step up my game and pay a long-term visit to the newest hotel; The Hazbin Hotel.

“Guys! Guys. I just received a notice that we'd be having our third recruit! Isn't this so exciting!!!” Charlie beamingly exclaimed as she rushed to the lounge where all her friends were gathered by her call. “Calm down, Charlie,” Vaggie placed her hand on her Girlfriend's shoulder. “No! This is the first time someone willingly joined!” She was too excited to calm down. Angel Dust huffed and looked up from his phone. “Hey, who am I then?” Charlie chuckled a bit awkwardly, “Uh, you're our first resident, but that doesn't really apply to you because you're our friend. This time…” — “This time it's a complete stranger and we're going to make this place pretty squeaky clean! We don't want to make it look like she isn't welcome!” She grabbed Vaggie's shoulders and shook her violently. “Great, another whiny woman.” Husk said, before anyone could answer him he walked to the bar and chugged the first and best bottle of beer he could find. “Wonderful, my dear. I shall prepare the hotel to your desires.” Alastor stood up from the couch, tossing and catching his cane. “Heheh, kill all bugz til clean…~” Niffty ran after a bunch of cockroaches with a knife; the usual. “Make dem suffr…~” Charlie had a satisfied and motivated grin plastered on her face. “Great, that's settled! This is gonna be fuckin' awesomeee!”

[shebeafancyflapjack]

A Mother's Nightmare

(A little horror fic set in @idiotwithanipad 's Gore AU, ft Gore Mary and my oc Silver.

Tw: Burnings.)

"Didst thou truly think ye could hide from the law forever, Witch?"

Mary spits the dirt from between her lips after they threw her to the ground.

Yes. After all this time, yes.

Time rots everything. Plants. Meat. Fruit. Hope, as well as Fear.

She had grown too complacent. Safely secluded in her forest. No one dared to tread upon the realm of the Bone Witch. That be one of many names they have given to her over the years. Burned beside the great manor of Bone Hall, coincidentally that which she would become in her resurrected form. Bone and Flame. Smoke and Rage.

For an endless age, she has claimed the land as her own. Scourging out the menfolk and protecting the lost maids and children. A demon and an angel, depending on who doth trespass on her home.

She thought none would dare to come for her again. She was a fool.

Somehow they bind her wrists, trapping her in chains of iron that stifle her magic. Once again, she be but a helpless woman, forced to her knees at the foot of Righteous Men. Her Masters. Her betters.

A spit at his boot earns her a kick to the chin. Her skinless jaw breaks and shifts to one side. It takes a fierce shake of her head to slot it back in.

"Disgusting creature. I should have them grind your bones to powder and scatter it upon the wind." The Witchfinder sneers.

It can't be. Had she a heart, it would skip a beat.

How is it he still lives? Did she not cause him to burn at her execution?

She had gone to the pyre a faithful woman. All her life, she had trusted the Lord. It was in His holy name that she did gather herbs and mix them to aid others in the villages with teas and poultices. T'were not Witchcraft. T'was not the devil's work. Her wards and workings were to protect from Lucifer, not to summon Him.

She had told them as such at her trial. But they did not take heed. The jury had condemned her before she was given chance to speak.

A cursed field. A dead husband.

That was all the proof they needed to seal her fate.

Yet the Vicar had comforted her. Told her that she had nought to fear, so long as she trusts in the Lord. For only He knew her heart. And if she truly be a good Christian, then no harm shall befall her.

As they'd tied the robes around her wrists, she'd taken a breath in. She'd prayed. Our Father. Who art in Heaven. Hallow'd be thy name.

Jesus would save her. Jesus would know that they were mistaken.

The pyre had been lit. The crowd watched with baited breath.

Thy kingdom come. Thy will be done.

Sweat was dripping from her in panic before the heat rose up. And rise it did as the flames spread quickly. Hot. So very hot. Hotter than any hearth or stove she had worked over before. Do not falter. Do not give up. Trust in Jesus.

Forgive us our trespasses. As we forgive those...

The Witchfinder had smiled at her. A sick smile. The smile of a man who was watching in entertainment. Forgive him? Forgive one such as this?

Flames licked at her feet and she'd let out a cry of pain. And that was only the start.

Deliver us from evil...

Oh God. Oh God, the pain. The pain. She thought nothing could compare to the agony of childbirth, especially when that babe she bore did not live through her first year. Surely after that, she could endure anything. She lived through her lashings, her whipping through the streets as she was dragged behind the cart, the pelting in the stocks.

But, Oh God, this is too much. She can't finish the prayer. All she could do was cry out to God to save her. Jesus. Angels. Anyone.

And none had come.

The only reply to her ever increasing screams and shrieks were the cheers of a bloodthirsty crowd and the sick smile of her executioner. Had this been what Jesus had felt upon the cross? Why he cried out to ask why the Father had forsaken him?

Perhaps the human in him had been used, tricked and abandoned. Just like her.

As her skin had begun to melt, so did her faith.

With her bone chilling screams, she cursed those around her, and God himself.

How dare he. How dare he?!

This was how he saved those who were faithful to him?! This was her reward for her devotion?!

All her life, Mary had quashed down any urge to be angry, to rage against the injustices put against her class and her sex. She had kept her eyes down, her lips shut tight, only spoken to highborns when spoken to first. She had always tried to turn her misfortunes to good. Walking through the world with a song on her lips and imagining the beauty hidden in all things.

There was no escaping the truth of this world now. In those last moments, the veil had fallen. She grit her teeth as her very lips began to burn away. The only balm to the agony was her rage.

If they wanted a witch, then she would give them one.

She would be the most fierce, the most wicked, the most dangerous and wrathful of demons like none they had known before.

The power had exploded from her as her living body perished.

She had sent her great fire upon the Witchfinder. She'd watched him burn and the crowd disperse in fear, scattering like rats.

So how was he here now? After all this time? How did he find her?

"If thou doth wish to burn me a second time, ye will needs the fire of angels. I be immune to your pathetic pyres now, Witchfinder." Mary Guppy seeths.

Once she finds a way to escape these damn chains, she will eviscerate him. Slowly.

Last time was far too merciful.

A hand grips her bonnet and what little remains of her hair, forcing her to look at him.

He is a husk of a charred bone. Just as she.

"Fire be too quick for a demon like you." He snarls at her; "We shalt bind thee tight and throw you down to the bottom of the lake, weigh thee down with boulders to bury ye at the bed. There you can rot for eternity."

Water...That be her one weakness. The one part of her land which she dare not approach aside from the great house.

Perhaps the spirits of the lake will help to free. Perhaps dear ally will....

Wait. Where is he? Where is her oldest friend?

"If you are searching for your pet," smiles the Witchfinder when he sees her eyes darting; "He has already been dealt with."

He points to one of his guards, who holds up a set of furs dripping with blood and....No.

Oh sweet demons. No.

Flecks of skin. And brown hair.

"I believe it shall make a fine rug for my chambers once my wife has washed it."

Mary growls, as her ally would do. She roars out her anger and grief for her most trusted companion. Embers spark uselessly against the iron of her shackles.

She will flay him. Slowly.

She will spear him, mouth to rear, and roast him on a spit. She will take his eyes. His tongue.

Ally. Sweet, beloved, loyal ally.

"And of course...I have one more surprise for you, until you are condemned to your watery tomb." The Witchfinder grins.

What else could he possibly...?

He steps aside.

Mary's jaw drops.

No. Oh no, no, no, no!

Another pyre. Another girl tied to the stake.

A tattered dress of pink and ebony. Ripped from too much struggling. The girl's bruised head is slumped onto her shoulders. She always sleeps, but this be not natural. Someone has knocked her out with a blow to her gentle head. Tears of blood fall from her ears, her nose, her lips.

"Wake up, girl!"

Mary can do nothing as they jab the teenager in her side.

She stirs, eyes opening with confusion. They squint, blind to her surroundings.

Lost in the dark. She cannot see what they are about to do.

"Mummy?" Silver calls out.

It is only when Mary cries out that Silver's pale eyes look towards her direction.

"No...No, not her. Not my little'en, you can't!"

"We can and will. You may have found a way to live through your burning, but your brat will not. By offering up this filthy witchling to the Lord, he will cleanse this land for good."

Silver gasps as she smells a man begin to light a torch from a giant brazier and carries it over to the pyre.

Somehow, the girl knows. Because her mother has warned her many a night of what dangers await beyond the safety of their forest.

"No! Mummy, please! Don't let them! Mummy, save me, please!" The child begs, struggling in vain against her binds.

Only rope. But her powers be in the gentleness of mist. She doth not have her mother's gift of flame.

Mary tries to rush forward but is held back by firm hands. The shackles seem to tighten. Her magic boils, captured and contained, beneath her own skin, only causing hurt to herself.

"Let her go! She be only a child!"

"She is no child. She is a demon. An imp. Watch, Mary Guppy. Watch us cleanse her with holy fire."

Silver's screams grow louder as the pyre is lit. The flames spread and grow at a terrifying speed. Mary does not stop fighting.

Not her. Not her baby. She already lost her once before...

"MUMMY! MUMMY, HELP!"

Mary wails as she remembers the pain. The scalding of her skin. The blistering heat. The torture. The agony. The feeling of helplessness and loss of faith.

Hers had been in a God who abandoned her. Would Silver's be in her? If she did not save her, would her darling girl think she abandoned her?

A mother has one job. One purpose.

And she has failed.

"MUMMY! MUMMY! AAAAAH!"

Silver's pale skin drips like candle wax. Her beautiful hair dissolves. Her dress crumbles into ash that's carried off by the wind. Her daughter. Her perfect daughter.

Never hurt a fly. Never did any wrong.

A good girl. A beautiful girl. Burning.

Stop! Stop! She'll do anything, she'll kneel and bow to anyone, just let her-

Mary sits up, clutching at the remains of her dress at her chest. There is a hand on her bony shoulder. Firm. Warm.

A worried grunt.

Ally is at her side, heavy brow set with concern. He is whole. No blood except for the claw marks on his front and nape. Rest of his skin and fur attached. He is....safe.

She embraces him, as best as she can, as close as she knows he'd be comfortable with. Her hands clasping his face and bringing him close, pressing her forehead to his. His next grunt is softer as he paws at her breast.

"Thank you, old friend. I is most glad to see thee well." She sniffs, as emotional as he's ever seen her be before.

There is a reason she rarely sleeps.

He remains still for a brief period, letting her hold him close, take comfort in his devoted presence. He would never abandon his Mistress.

"....My little'en. I needs to see her. Be she safe?"

Ally grunts and gently wraps his hand around Mary's bony digits.

He leads her to the mound of flowers so she can see for herself. Mary lets go as they arrive and she drops to her knees.

Silver sleeps peacefully. That smile remains on her face as she dreams of fae and dragons and beautiful mermaids to court.

Her darling girl. She is unharmed.

The witch lays down beside her slumbering daughter, her smoke coiling like a giant serpent around the both of them. Nothing shall ever come to threaten her child. Nothing shall ever take her from her mother's arms.

Mary sighs, stroking her daughter's pink fringe from her forehead before laying a kiss with her lipless mouth.

"Mummy's here, little'en. Sleeps now. Mummy will burn the world to keep thee safe."

[lamemaster]

Shores of Styx (Achilles x Patroclus)

Pairing: Achilles x Patroclus

A.N. - I have never written for Achilles and Patroclus and only plan to post the Silm fic on my blog but this...this was a challenge between me and my roommate.

Patroclus never gets the chance to thank Thetis. His feet move almost on their own as he sees his name on the gravestone. He is free at last, unbound from the limbo between life and death. Death comes with a newfound power that promises peace and rest from the noise of the world. Patroclus's soul travels faster than ever before, leading him to the depths of the underworld, a place he has been denied for so long.

In this world, his beloved resides. But the darkness of the unlit halls of Hades doesn't bother Patroclus, nor do the eerie shadows that have haunted him for so long. While others may have resented this fate, no one in the world has ever yearned for it more than Patroclus.

The silvery gushing waters of Styx greet Patroclus, a river that protected and destroyed his beloved. A river of irony, that separates the living from the dead, a river so formidable that it holds the power to curse the gods. While Styx is known for its hatred, Patroclus finds nothing but joy at its very sight.

He spots the ominously robed Charon, unmistakable despite the tattered dull robes and hood that obscure his face. It is remarkable to believe that the fragile boat, which seems to glide over the unrelenting currents of Styx, has carried shades for eons.

The three gold coins in Patroclus's grasp feel heavier than ever. Their weight had never been so concrete during the eternity he had carried them as a wraith. Three gold coins that his beloved Achilles had placed on both his eyes, the last coin followed by a tearful kiss.

 Their last kiss. Patroclus had witnessed it all, helpless as he watched his beloved break. The fire of his pyre had shattered everything. Even as a wraith, Patroclus had rushed to catch Achilles as he fell to his knees. "Patroclus, Patroclus, Patroclus," Achilles had called him for hours until the sun rose and time left his voice a hoarse whisper. Achilles had sat unmoving for the entire time Patroclus's pyre burned. Heat, soot, or even the smell of burning flesh did not move him.

When the fire had finally mellowed, leaving behind only ash of what once had been Patroclus, Achilles stood up. His steps were brittle, stumbling in the rough sand next to the roaring seas. Achilles gathered Patroclus's ashes carefully with the most gentle movements. The greatest of Greeks, Son of Thetis and Pelus, a demigod, did the labor of widowed women.

In that moment, Patroclus couldn't help but question if his sacrifice was worth it. Was there any victory, queen, or beauty that could be more valuable than his Achilles? Had he not wronged his lover in the worst possible way? What would he have done if he were the one left alone?

All that he had once valued felt vainer than ever. Achilles' anger, hubris, and stubbornness had vanished from Patroclus' mind. Everything that had once troubled him, that had forced him to fight in his beloved's armor now seemed insignificant. What sin would he not bear to be with his beloved again? What labor, what fate would he not challenge to take away the pain that followed from Achilles' eyes?

Yet, the pain had only grown when Patroclus was denied the chance to love and comfort his beloved even in death. Perhaps it was his penance to bear the separation. His repentance was a due paid to Achilles, the one who suffered most. The one who was isolated from the world, from godhood, from sanity for a war he never asked for.

So, Patroclus' wraith existed as a carrier of memories made of Achilles. For years, Patroclus reminisced about his beloved. Not the rage-engulfed demi-god who turned the tides of the battle, but his lover. Achilles, who played the lyre with the most gentle fingers, whose laugh lit a thousand suns on fire, who was born out of the seas but ruled lands. The Prince of Pithia, who generously offered friendship to him. Achilles was much more than the infamous Hector Slayer. He was the pious fragrance of jasmine, the sweetness of figs, and the comforting shade in the burning summer.

Now, he was closer to his beloved than ever. Achilles was here, in the same realm as him, in the halls of Hades. Patroclus would finally hold his love and assure him. He would take away all the grief and misery that had stretched between them like an unending chasm.

But where would his beloved Achilles be? In the heroic fields of Elysium or the Asphodel Meadows? Patroclus couldn't help but ponder as he anxiously waited for his ferry to touch the shores of Hades' kingdom.

The judgement of the Kings of the Underworld loomed over his head. Would he be given a fate similar to his lover? He needed it, and so did Achilles. They needed to be together after all this... Patroclus would beg once again. He would grovel for an eternity next to Achilles.

As the shore drew closer, Patroclus found his thoughts breaking away from the past that gripped his heart. He reassured himself of the future that awaited them. Death would be kinder.

However, as Charon slowed down his boat with approaching land, Patroclus couldn't help but notice a crouched figure on the other end of the shore. What wandering shade had been left unjudged on the solitary shores?

As Patroclus disembarks from the boat, he spots a crouched figure with a ripped tunic barely covering the fresh wounds on their back. The sight of the person, as if their skin has been ripped off by a whip, makes Patroclus recall his past life as a healer. He feels a strong urge to help the tortured soul in front of him, even in death.

As Patroclus approaches the figure, he realizes that it is none other than Aristos Achaion, whom he had promised to recognize even in death. The memory of his promise floods back to him, but he struggles to remember who Aristos Achaion was.

Overcome with emotion, Patroclus falls to his knees beside the figure, who turns out to be Achilles. But the Achilles he sees is not the great Greek hero he once knew. He is a broken, tortured shell of his former self, with blisters, missing fingernails, and a bleeding scalp.

Patroclus tries to reach out to his beloved, but Achilles flinches away, chanting a desperate plea to go. His glazed eyes hold no recognition of Patroclus or their past life together. All the memories Patroclus cherished are gone, and Achilles is lost to him forever.

A venomous voice whispers in Patroclus' mind, blaming him for letting Achilles go. The pain of the loss is too much to bear, and Patroclus can only repeat, "He's gone, no, no, no, no..."

Aristos Achaion had vanished. The person who now groveled at the unforgiving walls with bloodied fingers was not the greatest of the Greeks. His Achilles would have known him, and responded to Patroclus' mere breath.

“Achilles,” Patroclus called out to his beloved, but only silence welcomed him. The figure next to him continued scratching at the walls that refused to yield to his force.

Patroclus inched forward to touch his beloved, to carry him back to Elysium where heroes like him lived. But Achilles flinched. “Go...I need...go, must go…” the figure chanted.

“Achilles...please,” Patroclus pleaded. Please come back. Achilles' glazed-back eyes looked back at him, holding no recognition. His beloved did not smile, cry, or utter his name with the determination he had done long ago.

Patroclus' vision blurred as he took in his lover's appearance. His hands were full of blisters, his fingernails had fallen off, his golden hair had been ripped, leaving a bleeding scalp. Every pore of the figure next to him spoke of ruin.

Gone was the wrath, the love, and the life that formed Achilles' soul. Memories that Patroclus had carried for eons were gone. Achilles was gone.

Patroclus crouched next to the figure that shuddered as it tried to shuffle away from him. A venomous voice whispered in Patroclus' mind, "He's hiding, or escaping from whatever torture reigned on him on these shores."

"He's gone because YOU let him go," the voice continued. "He's gone, no, no, no, no..."

Now, as she observed him digging his fingers into the unrelenting walls of Hades' palace, she couldn't help but mellow her currents. She had known him and his mother, and for some reason, even the river of hatred felt a sense of pity.

Styx remembered the man who knelt by her. She remembered him from the time when he was a mere babe.

Achilles Pledis knelt next to her as he called for a name that faded away from him every passing second. A name that was once uttered with the certainty of day and night was now a hushed whisper from a hoarse throat.

Styx observed the Greek hero as he persevered through the harsh whips of guards who tried to drag him back. Yet, he did not go. Achilles remained by her shores. Resentful souls in her body itched to get a hold of the vulnerable demigod.

But Styx held them back. She would spare him of this torture.

[foibles-fables]

hehe hehe. 14. cara/kahlan, please

hello please have this it is very unpolished, i made myself write it in one sitting PLEASE EVERYONE CLAP. Post-"Perdition."

14. “I don’t think I should leave you alone right now.”

It's a hard world. Leo Dane's body burns on its pyre.

Cara takes a triple watch that night. The wizard didn't argue, but--of course--Richard had. Fought slumber as valiantly and stubbornly as he should be fighting the Keeper. But the exhaustion of perdition's magic won--he's sleeping like an infant, curled in on himself and breathing deep as a man saved from drowning.

She doesn't try to argue with Kahlan. Not anymore. To do so feels like a risk--of words, of intent. A risk of not meaning what she says. Or, worse: of meaning it too much. Last watch will be hers. Cara pretends it doesn't bother her. Inside, she boils.

They keep the night-fire to a pile of seething embers. Cara lets them sear her vision and then blinks up towards the star-swirled sky, concentrating on the coruscating afterimage. Tries (and fails) not to think about the day's loss. Of who she chose to shield (Nicci's dacra, halted in midair, the sound of Cara's own blood rushing in her ears), and who she did not (Leo, set alight, also for Kahlan).

Behind her shout of his name, there was a sick wash of relief. She'll never utter that aloud. (None of them will ever ask.)

Because Cara meant what she had said over his body moments before Kahlan let the torch fall. I do care about you. But she is learning that care is a complicated thing, one with knotted twists and sharp teeth.

Leo was a good man, a brave man. Aggravating, at times, but not enough to earn a punch to the throat. Witty enough to make her laugh and keen enough to pay attention. A decent enough fuck to distract her from what she really craves.

Maybe, if he had lived--maybe he would have stayed with them. Maybe there would've been more flowers, more sheltering from the rain. Something for Cara to bury herself in until she would stop dreaming of Kahlan touching her in the night. Something she could have when she can't have what she wants. Something that could somehow want her in return.

Smoke and ashes. A good man is dead, taken by the wind. Another reason for them (for Kahlan) to try to peer under her armor, to not like what they find there. The world is hard and care is relative. And Cara is just glad that Kahlan was the one who lit the pyre, not the one who burned.

Clenching her jaw, Cara prods at the embers. The stir of hungry light casts itself over Kahlan: awake, approaching. The blue of her eyes flares crystal in the low glow--those eyes that were made to pry into the truth of all things, trained steadily on Cara. Kahlan's gaze makes her want to hide. Kahlan's gaze makes her want to be devoured.

"It's not your watch yet," Cara points out when Kahlan sits beside her, close but not close enough. Her voice comes out on an edge, sharp but thick and husked.

Go back to Richard, she doesn't say.

Kahlan doesn't take the hint. "It's alright. I'm awake."

"Don't tell me to get some rest."

Kahlan smiles at her, all soft shadows. Cara finds her heart in her throat.

"Don't worry. I know better than that," Kahlan says. The smile changes into something else, then--not in shape, but in weight. "I just--I don't think I should leave you alone right now."

Cara doesn't try to argue with Kahlan. Not anymore.

The space between them is alight. Kahlan breathes, Cara sears. The world becomes a little bit harder still.

[stargazingfordreams]

A court of Night and stars

Hey guys, welcome to my first fanfic. I hope you guys enjoy it. I couldn't get this story out of my head, so here goes. Nyx pov will be up maybe in the following two chapters.

Summary- Random killings have been happening all over Pythian and make its ways to a kingdom in the fae realm known as Mareen. Emrys grieves the loss of her sister and keeps her domain away from war, and she gets help from an unexpected ally.

Pairing- Adu!t Nyx x OC

warnings-None 

Chapter One

Emrys Pov 

Song- The other side by Ruelle

I sat on the dais in the throne room. My mother, the queen, sat on her throne above everyone, looking at her people. She wore all white like my older sister and me. Everyone else in the room wore black.

“ We are here today to honor the death of my eldest child, your future queen,” her voice wavered ever so slightly that no one in the room seemed to notice.

My older sister Sauda was looking down. Her dark ebony skin was pale, and her eyes were tired. I hadn’t slept either. My mother looked over at Sauda and reached out her hand, and she stood and took it. She led her in front to speak to the room.

“My sister Annika was Joyful and loving. Kind and brave. She would have been an amazing queen, and I will lead you all with the same grace she would have.” she walked to Annika's unmoving body on the pyre that was going to be burned. I could feel it panging in my chest as my sister's emotions washed over me. Finally, I pulled myself back, leaving only my sorrow in my body; only my feelings resided again.

“I know you will be watching me, kessa”(kessa-sister), She said and then turned to me. Everyone turns to me because there expect a warrior princess who has trained in combat and fought her enemies, but today that is not me; today, I am a girl who has lost her older sister and does not know what to do without her. Our mother, the blood queen, and the ruler were waiting on me. My mother trained me to fight and lead, but my sister taught me to be more.

I walked up to her Pyre. I fought back the tears, the tightness in my throat, the whelming in my eyes.

“In death, there will be light, this is not the end for you, kessa, and this isn’t goodbye for us. May the spirit of our ancestors guide you; I will see you again in the next life” I let the tears run down my cheeks. My mother will see it as a weakness, but I see it as my love for her. I took the torch from the maester and lit the pyre. It went up in flames but so did her body.

------------------------------------

I walked down the hallway alone. It had been a whole week since the funeral, and I hadn’t seen much of my family since then when I walked into the council room. My mother and sister, council and general were waiting.

“I apologize for my lateness,” I said as I took my seat.

“We will begin now, then as many of you know, Ranthian has been going from courts and kingdoms killing people, and as of recently, he took the life of our late Princess.” Maester Harken spoke.“This cannot go unpunished. So we have agreed to meet with the high lords of Prythian.”

“Will this mean war?” I spoke up and asked; my spine chilled, and my stomach pitted.

“I will not let this go, so if it comes to it, then yes, and that goes for anyone who stands in my way,” My mother said. There was silence in the room. I understood more than anyone what a war would mean, not just for me but for our tropes. But it's for my kessa. My kessa. She wouldn’t want this, but I had to give this to her. I had to do this for her.

“Yes, Of course, we will wait for the word of Queen Kirsi '' Sujeed said. He looked over to me, and with a boyish smirk, he nodded. I simply looked away. I had always ignored his advances, mostly because I knew my mother expected me to marry him. He is the general of our army, and the third princess could not ask for anyone better, and if I do not do so of my own free will, she will arrange it, and he knows it too. However, the night that I found out my sister had died, he found me crying and gave me comfort. I wanted to feel anything other than sadness, and I made the mistake of fucking him not once but twice that night. He wasn’t my first. I would not tell him or my mother that, but he was acting as if we were love-sick youth, and I have been avoiding him.

“So if there is nothing more, then that will be all” we were all dismissed to go. I was the first to leave.

“Emrys'' I heard a hushed whisper, looked down the hall, and saw Leola coming toward me.

“Well?” she asked me.

“We might go to war with our two neighbors if it comes to that,” I said, strolling down the hall toward the gardens. We passed by large floor-to-ceiling windows that allowed so much natural sun. I looked out those windows at the parks and past that was my kingdom, my home that would soon be tainted by the blood of war. No, I won’t let it come to that; I won’t let it come to the shores of my home. Leola gave me a small smile, but I could see the look of sadness and a little fear in her eyes.

“Does this mean you're going to give your lover a proper send-off?” she tried jokingly teasing me to make light of what she was feeling. I scoffed at her remark.

“I didn’t tell you that, so you can use that against me. You know I told you that as My best friend,” I nudged her side playfully, letting out a small laugh.

“Emrys,” I heard a strong voice behind me, only to turn and see my mother standing there with her hands resting in front of her. Leola turned around and gave her a deep bow.

“Your grace,” she said, ensuring she had moved along fast.

“Yes, mother?” I said to her as her ever-obedient daughter. She stalked toward me with grace and power. Not even turning her head in my direction, she says, “walk with me.”

We walked outside into the garden of roses and lilies. She turned to face me, and her brown eyes met mine. I studied my mother like she had taught me to learn an enemy. Her eyes watched my brown. I watched as the sun kissed her chestnut skin like it was kissing mine. I watched as she fixed the sleeve of the maroon-colored dress that I was wearing.  

“We are going into war, crana. Do you know what that means? Do you know what I will expect of us, especially of you?” But, she said to me, There was still hope, still time to stop it.

“Yes, mother, of course. I am to lead the armies with Sujeed if it comes to war. We are to be led into victory. Being captured isn’t an option. Failure isn’t an option,” I said, standing up straight so she would find no fault in me or my answer.

“Good.” she took paused and then sighed. “ Emrys, we are fae. We live long and are hard to kill, but no one and nothing can escape death. I will not always be here, and with us charging into this war, I cannot say that we will all make it.” She looked to the horizon, the sun's pretty colors

“Mother, I-” she cut me off.

“I might die in this war; your sister might as well, and if we do, that will make you the queen of Mareen. You will not disappoint me or this bloodline.” Her eyes held an unreadable expression.

“I won’t, mother, but you and I both know what this is about and who Ranthian is killing. We should be telling the high lords of Prythian,” I pleaded.

“No child If we make it through this war. I will need to plan your sister's wedding and then, of course, yours; I am sure that Sujeed will need some time to heal his battle wounds, but as soon as he’s healed, you both will have a grand wedding. The secret will stay safe with us.” she began walking away with that last statement, most liking avoiding giving away her genuine emotions about what she was feeling. My people have managed to stay away from the business of another fae since the very beginning. We have wanted no part in what Prythian or Hybren had done to their land or the humans who lived on it. We have created peace between the humans who lived here and us, and now we will alter all of it.

----------------------------------

I watched the night sky enjoying it as if it would be my last as a warm breeze flowed in. Midnight my familiar lay at my feet, his bright yellow eyes alert, and his black fur shined in the moonlight. I was at peace petting the spoiled panther before me until I heard a knock at my door.

“Princess?” Sujeed moved his head into my room.

“Yes, General Sujeed,” my voice couldn’t hide my annoyance. I just wanted tonight. I just wanted a minute to process what tomorrow might be like. This will not be my first war. Maureen hadn’t been a place of peace, but after the civil war, I thought that maybe this would be it.

“The watch for tonight will be changing now.” He said with a bow and smirk.

“You’ve never felt the need to tell me you would be standing guard before,”  I said to him.

“Oh no, it won’t be me but rest knowing that I put one of my best to guard for you tonight. I really came in here to talk to you.” He moved further into my room though the door was still open. I shifted in my seat on my window sill.

“I don’t think that we have anything to talk about,” I said to him.

“It’s about tomorrow. I want you to stay close, and if you see danger, please just run. I can protect you.” I scoffed and shook my head.

“You want me to run from a fight when my people are risking their lives,” I said

“I want to keep you safe,” he said. Coming closer. Midnight's eyes were fixed on him.

“Well then, I hate to disappoint you, but I won’t be doing that” I got up from the window sills and moved to my vanity. I picked up some hair oil in a bottle and started putting it in my hair, looking into my mirror and not at the general, who took it upon himself to come further into my room and close the door behind him; I stopped what I was doing to glare in his direction. Still, it seemed as though no matter how much he looked at me, he wasn’t seeing me.

“I don’t want this to be up for a discussion. Truly it shouldn’t be your safety that is best for all of us. If anything happens to the Kirsi or Sauna, then it will be you to take over the throne, and we can’t have you dead.” A nerve in me was being pushed at. He quickly forgot his place, and then a thought struck me.

“You spoke to my mother, haven't you? What did she tell you?” My tone was deadly, and he was wise to be worried. He straightened his back and took straight at me.

“When all is done, you are to be my wife, I look forward to that, Emrys, but that day won’t come if you are no longer here. So please, for our sake, for the sake of the life we will have, stay away from danger” he took a step forward, but I took one back.

“I think it is time for you to leave.”

“Emrys, please I-“

“No, just leave,” I said, taking a threatening step toward him. Midnight was now up, eyeing him down. A challenge to try if he dared to disobey. He stepped back, took his last bow, and left through the door. When I was again by myself, I finished my hair for the night, went back to the window sill, and looked up at the stars. A million thoughts and emotions ran through my head, but none mattered, not right now, and it was just me and the night sky.

[aroundtheworldwithphillyfogg]

October 24th, 1872: meet Aouda

The project was a bold one, full of difficulty, perhaps impracticable. Mr. Fogg was going to risk life, or at least liberty, and therefore the success of his tour. But he did not hesitate, and he found in Sir Francis Cromarty an enthusiastic ally.

As for Passepartout, he was ready for anything that might be proposed. His master’s idea charmed him; he perceived a heart, a soul, under that icy exterior. He began to love Phileas Fogg.

There remained the guide: what course would he adopt? Would he not take part with the Indians? In default of his assistance, it was necessary to be assured of his neutrality.

Sir Francis frankly put the question to him.

“Officers,” replied the guide, “I am a Parsee, and this woman is a Parsee. Command me as you will.”

“Excellent!” said Mr. Fogg.

“However,” resumed the guide, “it is certain, not only that we shall risk our lives, but horrible tortures, if we are taken.”

“That is foreseen,” replied Mr. Fogg. “I think we must wait till night before acting.”

“I think so,” said the guide.

The worthy Indian then gave some account of the victim, who, he said, was a celebrated beauty of the Parsee race, and the daughter of a wealthy Bombay merchant. She had received a thoroughly English education in that city, and, from her manners and intelligence, would be thought an European. Her name was Aouda. Left an orphan, she was married against her will to the old rajah of Bundelcund; and, knowing the fate that awaited her, she escaped, was retaken, and devoted by the rajah’s relatives, who had an interest in her death, to the sacrifice from which it seemed she could not escape.

The Parsee’s narrative only confirmed Mr. Fogg and his companions in their generous design. It was decided that the guide should direct the elephant towards the pagoda of Pillaji, which he accordingly approached as quickly as possible. They halted, half an hour afterwards, in a copse, some five hundred feet from the pagoda, where they were well concealed; but they could hear the groans and cries of the fakirs distinctly.

They then discussed the means of getting at the victim. The guide was familiar with the pagoda of Pillaji, in which, as he declared, the young woman was imprisoned. Could they enter any of its doors while the whole party of Indians was plunged in a drunken sleep, or was it safer to attempt to make a hole in the walls? This could only be determined at the moment and the place themselves; but it was certain that the abduction must be made that night, and not when, at break of day, the victim was led to her funeral pyre. Then no human intervention could save her.

As soon as night fell, about six o’clock, they decided to make a reconnaissance around the pagoda. The cries of the fakirs were just ceasing; the Indians were in the act of plunging themselves into the drunkenness caused by liquid opium mingled with hemp, and it might be possible to slip between them to the temple itself.

The Parsee, leading the others, noiselessly crept through the wood, and in ten minutes they found themselves on the banks of a small stream, whence, by the light of the rosin torches, they perceived a pyre of wood, on the top of which lay the embalmed body of the rajah, which was to be burned with his wife. The pagoda, whose minarets loomed above the trees in the deepening dusk, stood a hundred steps away.

“Come!” whispered the guide.

He slipped more cautiously than ever through the brush, followed by his companions; the silence around was only broken by the low murmuring of the wind among the branches.

Soon the Parsee stopped on the borders of the glade, which was lit up by the torches. The ground was covered by groups of the Indians, motionless in their drunken sleep; it seemed a battlefield strewn with the dead. Men, women, and children lay together.

In the background, among the trees, the pagoda of Pillaji loomed distinctly. Much to the guide’s disappointment, the guards of the rajah, lighted by torches, were watching at the doors and marching to and fro with naked sabres; probably the priests, too, were watching within.

The Parsee, now convinced that it was impossible to force an entrance to the temple, advanced no farther, but led his companions back again. Phileas Fogg and Sir Francis Cromarty also saw that nothing could be attempted in that direction. They stopped, and engaged in a whispered colloquy.

“It is only eight now,” said the brigadier, “and these guards may also go to sleep.”

“It is not impossible,” returned the Parsee.

They lay down at the foot of a tree, and waited.

The time seemed long; the guide ever and anon left them to take an observation on the edge of the wood, but the guards watched steadily by the glare of the torches, and a dim light crept through the windows of the pagoda.

They waited till midnight; but no change took place among the guards, and it became apparent that their yielding to sleep could not be counted on. The other plan must be carried out; an opening in the walls of the pagoda must be made. It remained to ascertain whether the priests were watching by the side of their victim as assiduously as were the soldiers at the door.

After a last consultation, the guide announced that he was ready for the attempt, and advanced, followed by the others. They took a roundabout way, so as to get at the pagoda on the rear. They reached the walls about half-past twelve, without having met anyone; here there was no guard, nor were there either windows or doors.

The night was dark. The moon, on the wane, scarcely left the horizon, and was covered with heavy clouds; the height of the trees deepened the darkness.

It was not enough to reach the walls; an opening in them must be accomplished, and to attain this purpose the party only had their pocket-knives. Happily the temple walls were built of brick and wood, which could be penetrated with little difficulty; after one brick had been taken out, the rest would yield easily.

They set noiselessly to work, and the Parsee on one side and Passepartout on the other began to loosen the bricks so as to make an aperture two feet wide. They were getting on rapidly, when suddenly a cry was heard in the interior of the temple, followed almost instantly by other cries replying from the outside. Passepartout and the guide stopped. Had they been heard? Was the alarm being given? Common prudence urged them to retire, and they did so, followed by Phileas Fogg and Sir Francis. They again hid themselves in the wood, and waited till the disturbance, whatever it might be, ceased, holding themselves ready to resume their attempt without delay. But, awkwardly enough, the guards now appeared at the rear of the temple, and there installed themselves, in readiness to prevent a surprise.

It would be difficult to describe the disappointment of the party, thus interrupted in their work. They could not now reach the victim; how, then, could they save her? Sir Francis shook his fists, Passepartout was beside himself, and the guide gnashed his teeth with rage. The tranquil Fogg waited, without betraying any emotion.

“We have nothing to do but to go away,” whispered Sir Francis.

“Nothing but to go away,” echoed the guide.

“Stop,” said Fogg. “I am only due at Allahabad tomorrow before noon.”

“But what can you hope to do?” asked Sir Francis. “In a few hours it will be daylight, and—”

“The chance which now seems lost may present itself at the last moment.”

Sir Francis would have liked to read Phileas Fogg’s eyes. What was this cool Englishman thinking of? Was he planning to make a rush for the young woman at the very moment of the sacrifice, and boldly snatch her from her executioners?

This would be utter folly, and it was hard to admit that Fogg was such a fool. Sir Francis consented, however, to remain to the end of this terrible drama. The guide led them to the rear of the glade, where they were able to observe the sleeping groups.

Meanwhile Passepartout, who had perched himself on the lower branches of a tree, was resolving an idea which had at first struck him like a flash, and which was now firmly lodged in his brain.

He had commenced by saying to himself, “What folly!” and then he repeated, “Why not, after all? It’s a chance,—perhaps the only one; and with such sots!” Thinking thus, he slipped, with the suppleness of a serpent, to the lowest branches, the ends of which bent almost to the ground.

The hours passed, and the lighter shades now announced the approach of day, though it was not yet light. This was the moment. The slumbering multitude became animated, the tambourines sounded, songs and cries arose; the hour of the sacrifice had come. The doors of the pagoda swung open, and a bright light escaped from its interior, in the midst of which Mr. Fogg and Sir Francis espied the victim. She seemed, having shaken off the stupor of intoxication, to be striving to escape from her executioner. Sir Francis’s heart throbbed; and, convulsively seizing Mr. Fogg’s hand, found in it an open knife. Just at this moment the crowd began to move. The young woman had again fallen into a stupor caused by the fumes of hemp, and passed among the fakirs, who escorted her with their wild, religious cries.

Phileas Fogg and his companions, mingling in the rear ranks of the crowd, followed; and in two minutes they reached the banks of the stream, and stopped fifty paces from the pyre, upon which still lay the rajah’s corpse. In the semi-obscurity they saw the victim, quite senseless, stretched out beside her husband’s body. Then a torch was brought, and the wood, heavily soaked with oil, instantly took fire.

At this moment Sir Francis and the guide seized Phileas Fogg, who, in an instant of mad generosity, was about to rush upon the pyre. But he had quickly pushed them aside, when the whole scene suddenly changed. A cry of terror arose. The whole multitude prostrated themselves, terror-stricken, on the ground.

The old rajah was not dead, then, since he rose of a sudden, like a spectre, took up his wife in his arms, and descended from the pyre in the midst of the clouds of smoke, which only heightened his ghostly appearance.

Fakirs and soldiers and priests, seized with instant terror, lay there, with their faces on the ground, not daring to lift their eyes and behold such a prodigy.

The inanimate victim was borne along by the vigorous arms which supported her, and which she did not seem in the least to burden. Mr. Fogg and Sir Francis stood erect, the Parsee bowed his head, and Passepartout was, no doubt, scarcely less stupefied.

The resuscitated rajah approached Sir Francis and Mr. Fogg, and, in an abrupt tone, said, “Let us be off!”

It was Passepartout himself, who had slipped upon the pyre in the midst of the smoke and, profiting by the still overhanging darkness, had delivered the young woman from death! It was Passepartout who, playing his part with a happy audacity, had passed through the crowd amid the general terror.

A moment after all four of the party had disappeared in the woods, and the elephant was bearing them away at a rapid pace. But the cries and noise, and a ball which whizzed through Phileas Fogg’s hat, apprised them that the trick had been discovered.

The old rajah’s body, indeed, now appeared upon the burning pyre; and the priests, recovered from their terror, perceived that an abduction had taken place. They hastened into the forest, followed by the soldiers, who fired a volley after the fugitives; but the latter rapidly increased the distance between them, and ere long found themselves beyond the reach of the bullets and arrows.

The rash exploit had been accomplished; and for an hour Passepartout laughed gaily at his success. Sir Francis pressed the worthy fellow’s hand, and his master said, “Well done!” which, from him, was high commendation; to which Passepartout replied that all the credit of the affair belonged to Mr. Fogg. As for him, he had only been struck with a “queer” idea; and he laughed to think that for a few moments he, Passepartout, the ex-gymnast, ex-sergeant fireman, had been the spouse of a charming woman, a venerable, embalmed rajah! As for the young Indian woman, she had been unconscious throughout of what was passing, and now, wrapped up in a travelling-blanket, was reposing in one of the howdahs.

The elephant, thanks to the skilful guidance of the Parsee, was advancing rapidly through the still darksome forest, and, an hour after leaving the pagoda, had crossed a vast plain. They made a halt at seven o’clock, the young woman being still in a state of complete prostration. The guide made her drink a little brandy and water, but the drowsiness which stupefied her could not yet be shaken off. Sir Francis, who was familiar with the effects of the intoxication produced by the fumes of hemp, reassured his companions on her account. But he was more disturbed at the prospect of her future fate. He told Phileas Fogg that, should Aouda remain in India, she would inevitably fall again into the hands of her executioners. These fanatics were scattered throughout the county, and would, despite the English police, recover their victim at Madras, Bombay, or Calcutta. She would only be safe by quitting India for ever.

Phileas Fogg replied that he would reflect upon the matter.

The station at Allahabad was reached about ten o’clock, and, the interrupted line of railway being resumed, would enable them to reach Calcutta in less than twenty-four hours. Phileas Fogg would thus be able to arrive in time to take the steamer which left Calcutta the next day, October 25th, at noon, for Hong Kong.

The young woman was placed in one of the waiting-rooms of the station, whilst Passepartout was charged with purchasing for her various articles of toilet, a dress, shawl, and some furs; for which his master gave him unlimited credit. Passepartout started off forthwith, and found himself in the streets of Allahabad, that is, the City of God, one of the most venerated in India, being built at the junction of the two sacred rivers, Ganges and Jumna, the waters of which attract pilgrims from every part of the peninsula. The Ganges, according to the legends of the Ramayana, rises in heaven, whence, owing to Brahma’s agency, it descends to the earth.

Passepartout made it a point, as he made his purchases, to take a good look at the city. It was formerly defended by a noble fort, which has since become a state prison; its commerce has dwindled away, and Passepartout in vain looked about him for such a bazaar as he used to frequent in Regent Street. At last he came upon an elderly, crusty Jew, who sold second-hand articles, and from whom he purchased a dress of Scotch stuff, a large mantle, and a fine otter-skin pelisse, for which he did not hesitate to pay seventy-five pounds. He then returned triumphantly to the station.

The influence to which the priests of Pillaji had subjected Aouda began gradually to yield, and she became more herself, so that her fine eyes resumed all their soft Indian expression.

When the poet-king, Ucaf Uddaul, celebrates the charms of the queen of Ahmehnagara, he speaks thus:

“Her shining tresses, divided in two parts, encircle the harmonious contour of her white and delicate cheeks, brilliant in their glow and freshness. Her ebony brows have the form and charm of the bow of Kama, the god of love, and beneath her long silken lashes the purest reflections and a celestial light swim, as in the sacred lakes of Himalaya, in the black pupils of her great clear eyes. Her teeth, fine, equal, and white, glitter between her smiling lips like dewdrops in a passion-flower’s half-enveloped breast. Her delicately formed ears, her vermilion hands, her little feet, curved and tender as the lotus-bud, glitter with the brilliancy of the loveliest pearls of Ceylon, the most dazzling diamonds of Golconda. Her narrow and supple waist, which a hand may clasp around, sets forth the outline of her rounded figure and the beauty of her bosom, where youth in its flower displays the wealth of its treasures; and beneath the silken folds of her tunic she seems to have been modelled in pure silver by the godlike hand of Vicvarcarma, the immortal sculptor.”

It is enough to say, without applying this poetical rhapsody to Aouda, that she was a charming woman, in all the European acceptation of the phrase. She spoke English with great purity, and the guide had not exaggerated in saying that the young Parsee had been transformed by her bringing up.

The train was about to start from Allahabad, and Mr. Fogg proceeded to pay the guide the price agreed upon for his service, and not a farthing more; which astonished Passepartout, who remembered all that his master owed to the guide’s devotion. He had, indeed, risked his life in the adventure at Pillaji, and, if he should be caught afterwards by the Indians, he would with difficulty escape their vengeance. Kiouni, also, must be disposed of. What should be done with the elephant, which had been so dearly purchased? Phileas Fogg had already determined this question.

“Parsee,” said he to the guide, “you have been serviceable and devoted. I have paid for your service, but not for your devotion. Would you like to have this elephant? He is yours.”

The guide’s eyes glistened.

“Your honour is giving me a fortune!” cried he.

“Take him, guide,” returned Mr. Fogg, “and I shall still be your debtor.”

“Good!” exclaimed Passepartout. “Take him, friend. Kiouni is a brave and faithful beast.” And, going up to the elephant, he gave him several lumps of sugar, saying, “Here, Kiouni, here, here.”

The elephant grunted out his satisfaction, and, clasping Passepartout around the waist with his trunk, lifted him as high as his head. Passepartout, not in the least alarmed, caressed the animal, which replaced him gently on the ground.

Soon after, Phileas Fogg, Sir Francis Cromarty, and Passepartout, installed in a carriage with Aouda, who had the best seat, were whirling at full speed towards Benares. It was a run of eighty miles, and was accomplished in two hours. During the journey, the young woman fully recovered her senses. What was her astonishment to find herself in this carriage, on the railway, dressed in European habiliments, and with travellers who were quite strangers to her! Her companions first set about fully reviving her with a little liquor, and then Sir Francis narrated to her what had passed, dwelling upon the courage with which Phileas Fogg had not hesitated to risk his life to save her, and recounting the happy sequel of the venture, the result of Passepartout’s rash idea. Mr. Fogg said nothing; while Passepartout, abashed, kept repeating that “it wasn’t worth telling.”

Aouda pathetically thanked her deliverers, rather with tears than words; her fine eyes interpreted her gratitude better than her lips. Then, as her thoughts strayed back to the scene of the sacrifice, and recalled the dangers which still menaced her, she shuddered with terror.

Phileas Fogg understood what was passing in Aouda’s mind, and offered, in order to reassure her, to escort her to Hong Kong, where she might remain safely until the affair was hushed up—an offer which she eagerly and gratefully accepted. She had, it seems, a Parsee relation, who was one of the principal merchants of Hong Kong, which is wholly an English city, though on an island on the Chinese coast.

At half-past twelve the train stopped at Benares. The Brahmin legends assert that this city is built on the site of the ancient Casi, which, like Mahomet’s tomb, was once suspended between heaven and earth; though the Benares of to-day, which the Orientalists call the Athens of India, stands quite unpoetically on the solid earth, Passepartout caught glimpses of its brick houses and clay huts, giving an aspect of desolation to the place, as the train entered it.

Benares was Sir Francis Cromarty’s destination, the troops he was rejoining being encamped some miles northward of the city. He bade adieu to Phileas Fogg, wishing him all success, and expressing the hope that he would come that way again in a less original but more profitable fashion. Mr. Fogg lightly pressed him by the hand. The parting of Aouda, who did not forget what she owed to Sir Francis, betrayed more warmth; and, as for Passepartout, he received a hearty shake of the hand from the gallant general.

The railway, on leaving Benares, passed for a while along the valley of the Ganges. Through the windows of their carriage the travellers had glimpses of the diversified landscape of Behar, with its mountains clothed in verdure, its fields of barley, wheat, and corn, its jungles peopled with green alligators, its neat villages, and its still thickly-leaved forests. Elephants were bathing in the waters of the sacred river, and groups of Indians, despite the advanced season and chilly air, were performing solemnly their pious ablutions. These were fervent Brahmins, the bitterest foes of Buddhism, their deities being Vishnu, the solar god, Shiva, the divine impersonation of natural forces, and Brahma, the supreme ruler of priests and legislators. What would these divinities think of India, anglicised as it is to-day, with steamers whistling and scudding along the Ganges, frightening the gulls which float upon its surface, the turtles swarming along its banks, and the faithful dwelling upon its borders?

The panorama passed before their eyes like a flash, save when the steam concealed it fitfully from the view; the travellers could scarcely discern the fort of Chupenie, twenty miles south-westward from Benares, the ancient stronghold of the rajahs of Behar; or Ghazipur and its famous rose-water factories; or the tomb of Lord Cornwallis, rising on the left bank of the Ganges; the fortified town of Buxar, or Patna, a large manufacturing and trading-place, where is held the principal opium market of India; or Monghir, a more than European town, for it is as English as Manchester or Birmingham, with its iron foundries, edgetool factories, and high chimneys puffing clouds of black smoke heavenward.

Night came on; the train passed on at full speed, in the midst of the roaring of the tigers, bears, and wolves which fled before the locomotive; and the marvels of Bengal, Golconda ruined Gour, Murshedabad, the ancient capital, Burdwan, Hugly, and the French town of Chandernagor, where Passepartout would have been proud to see his country’s flag flying, were hidden from their view in the darkness.

[acewithapen]

to die from smoke and fire; a lovely curse

hiii yall. welcome to the prequel for 'How Does a Legend Die?'

warning for major character death. long story short, will dies. his death is also from his pov, so that might be worse. read it on ao3!

anyways, as always, the fic will be under the cut!

Will Treaty had almost died many a time. Hell, he was known for his death-defying stunts! So why did this one feel so final?

He inhaled carefully, watching the camp. They were setting up for something, and he had a feeling it would be big. The men were stacking wood, arranged in a tent-like structure. He tried again to wiggle his hands out of the rope. It was too tight. Where was Maddie? She had to arrive soon.

Ruhl watched the wood pile up, an odd fascination in his eyes. “Well, Mr. Treaty. It’s going to be a beautiful burn, won’t it? Not as pretty as your wife’s was, but oh…can’t you just imagine it?”

Will struggled harder. 

The pyre, for that’s what it had to be, was done. Will fought hard to avoid being pulled up, but he was quickly overpowered. He pulled at the ropes binding his wrists together, watching Ruhl nervously. The man was speaking with some of his men, arms waving. 

He tensed as they moved closer, but nothing happened. 

“Well, I think we'll wait for midnight. This will be such a lovely spectacle, don't you agree?” A manic sort of glee lit up the man’s eyes and Will fought down a shiver. 

It was so cold up here. His fiery anger had frozen into a solid block of fear. Will closed his eyes. “Sorry, Maddie,” he breathes. If it all goes wrong…hopefully she’ll be far enough away. 

If he closes his eyes, he can see Alyss. Back in their little cabin in the trees, hair pulled back, frowning intently at her work. He’d come home and she’d look up and smile. 

He missed her. It had never truly gone away—the sharp, knife's edge pain had just dulled into a tender ache. It spiked every now and then. Over and over, he had pleaded and cried and apologized, screaming at the sky. And here he was. To die in the same way—choking on acrid smoke. Maybe the smoke would kill him first, rather than the flames. 

Will inhaled the smell of fresh cut wood, and let a tear slide down his cheek. 

Jory smiled. The pyre was beautiful, ethereal. He wished he’d been able to build something like this for the Ranger’s wife—she would have been lovely going up in flames. At least, her husband could die like that. Reunited, cleansed in the wrath of scorching fire. He breathed in the smell. Pine, perfect for a good one. The scent of the sap hung heavy in the air, mixing with the sea breeze. 

He lifted his face up, letting the moonlight touch his face. Jory Ruhl would not be afraid. After all, everyone was born for a reason. Why couldn’t this one be his? 

Jory struck a match to light a torch. Only an hour left to go until the moon was at its peak. This was going to be excellent.

“Jory!” Cyrus, one of his closest friends and his right-hand man, jogged up. Windswept dark hair curled under his ears, and he looked worried. “We think the girl may come back soon. She got the children, and it looked like she was going to come back.”

He cursed under his breath. Why couldn’t she see his vision? “Wasn’t she injured?” 

Cyrus made a face. “You know how Ranger’s are. Too stubborn for their own good.”

Rage simmered under his skin. “Well, maybe she’ll burn with him! Capture her if she comes back, and put her up on the pyre.” Cyrus nods once. It’s nice to have people you can trust, isn’t it? 

He turns to look back at the pyre. Magnificent. It’s tall, built in a pyramid-style shape, with a flat top. The Ranger is bound up there, bathed in the silvery light. 

“We’ll wait for midnight. If it’s already started when she arrives, just throw her in.”

“Okay. I’ll let the men know.” He slinks off, dark clothes soon blending in with the cliffs. He pushes his hair back from his face, glancing around. Nothing. It’s quiet except for the waves gently lapping against the shore. The moon smiles down at him. He hopes it will appreciate his efforts to make something beautiful. 

The Diplomat’s death was for the sun—she burned bright and quick and lovely for the dawn. The Ranger will die underneath the moon—bathed in silver and fire, a fallen star. 

Maybe the girl will burn too—perhaps she can die when both are visible. A reunion at an eclipse. To finally bring all three together—holy fire, the sun, and the moon. He smiles. That one…that will be his legacy. 

Will watches the group of men carefully. They’re relaxed, sure that he won’t be able to escape. Perhaps he won’t be able to. The thought isn’t comforting—Halt had drilled into him how a Ranger should always be able to escape. 

His oakleaf will burn with him, won’t it? The Corps will have to make a new one. 

(He tries to not think about the gold laurel pin on Alyss’ grave, and how he would get a gold one.) 

As the minutes flow by, he thinks. His weapons are gone, except for the strikers. They’re concealed in his belt, but useless unless he can free his hands and then his ankles. 

Maddie is gone. They broke his bow. Even Tug is too far to help. 

And for the first time since he was 15, Will Treaty is truly on his own. 

Cyrus goes to Jory when it’s almost midnight. “We’re going to need to light it soon.”

“I know, I know.” His friend won’t look him in the eyes. It’s what happened at the inn too—something about fire takes up his full concentration until he can barely think of anything else. It scares him sometimes, but knowing that they’re firmly on the same side is a comfort. 

Jory is holding a box of matches. “Take one. Light a torch, and throw it in.”

“Okay. Have fun, Jory.”

His smile is radiant. “I will! You too, Cyrus.”

His smile is smaller, but no less. “I shall.” 

Cyrus lights a match and touches it to the end of the pitch. The spark catches and alights, flaring up against the dark of the night. Jory is watching the flames hungrily and he nods to Cyrus. “Do it.”

Will watches, fear constricting his throat as the torches ignite and move closer. Maddie isn’t going to make it. He’s going to die here, scorched, just like Alyss. 

“Ranger, I hope you can appreciate what your death will do! The moon will adore it.” Ruhl’s voice is heavy with passion, and he’s almost ecstatic. “I cannot wait to see how beautifully you’ll burn.”

“Now?”

“Yes! Burn the pyre! Let us see what awaits him after he is cleansed!” Ruhl is laughing, sick fascination in his demeanor. 

Will doesn’t close his eyes as they throw the torches. He will not turn away from his death. 

The fire catches quickly, racing up the sap soaked wood. Smoke stings his eyes, and fire catches at his feet. Halt had said once that fire doesn’t kill—it’s the smoke that does it. 

He wonders if that’s true for him now, too. Will he die from smoke or fire? Will the gray choke him or will fire break him down to his bones? Will smoke wind around his lungs or will fire twist around his muscle? 

He doesn’t know. He can’t breathe. Wind ruffles his hair and it’s cold and salty and he tries to lean into it. 

The fire licks at him instead. His eyes flutter closed and he exhales in one long sigh. Smoke is choking him now, moving deeper on every hacking cough. Pain is almost background now—the burn of the fire, the acrid smoke. 

The Will Treaty is going to die. The love of his life is already dead. He’s going to join her, finally, and their deaths are from the same man. Tears drip down his cheeks, cool against his cheeks. But his sun is gone, his Alyss is dead, and soon he will be too. 

A sun and a moon, eclipsed by smoke and fire. He dies with closed eyes and a stuttering exhale. It makes sense, after all. Death was the only constant in his life—from Birth to his Final Minutes.

Jory watches with rapt attention. The smoke floats overhead, wood burning down and down and down, taking the spectacle in hungrily. The moon glows brighter, and he swears he can feel the satisfaction dripping down. 

None of his men except for Cyrus will understand. That’s okay. They just need to tell their stories and take the children. He can carry out the celestial will—to burn and scorch and renew the earth. Is that not what Life means? From dust they came and to dust they will go. After all, life came from dust. 

The world will come again—renewed by fire and cleansed by smoke, nourished by the ashes of what it once knew. 

He beams as the fire burns down. He alone can achieve the goal of the heavens. 

The world won’t forget Will Treaty—a Ranger, level with the mighty Halt O’Carrick. Of the highest caliber. 

The world won’t forget Jory Ruhl—a man who believed he heard the heavens, and took down a star for them. 

----

thanks for reading!!! please let me know what you thought!

[themotherofblood]

Watching You

Tywin Lannister x Reader

Tears of Gold AU

A/N: this is a flashback chapter, there is nearly a years difference between this chapter and the first tears of gold chapter.

TW: domestic abuse, misogyny, child abuse, suicide.

Grey, the skies were grey in the Westerlands. Black adorned every noble lord’s and lady’s bodies as they stood by the falls. Five children stood as they mourned the death of their mother, along with many other houses who had only come to pay respects; out of obligation. Only five young bodies knew the truth of what had happened.

“Our Lady took a terrible fall.”

Our mother killed herself

The silk that wrapped the former ladies bodies held further truth, if one peaked in they would see her bashed left cheek from the impact, a little lower they would see her crushed collar bone and even lower they would see blackened bruises from the fall. They would also see scars, yellowing bruises and fingerprints all over her skin, the testament to the brutality she had to suffer at the hand of her lord husband. She was gone, and a candle that all five children held in the storm; blew out with her. The oldest boy Jeagir stood with his arm around his sister Y/N- her hands rested on the shoulders of her two younger twin sisters Ellia and Nyela and their Maester Crasden,that stood next to them stood with an asleep toddler in his arms; the youngest Loren.

While the younger girls wept silently, their older siblings silently boiled in rage. All four children were handed torches as they walked to the four corners of the pyre their mother laid on, a Dornish priest went on with words that were muffled in the noble children’s ears. While some remembered the screams from that night, some could only hear the crackling fire in their hands. In unison they lit the four corners of their mother’s final rest. She would be safer now, nobody would hurt her now.

Lady Y/N’s mother had written to her six moons ago, “Fly back to me, child.” She had written. Her Martell uncles had managed to get her on a ship within the next day of the letter’s arrival. The ship flung the banner of House Martell and delights filled the cargo of the ship for their dear sister.

“Give her my love.” Oberyn Martell had said as he kissed the top his niece’s head, a girl he had raised as his own for the past seven years.

The morning the young lady arrived to Lannisport, her receiver and long friend Fredrick also brought the doomed message.

“Lady Elina took a terrible fall.”

One look at her mother’s dead body and the guilt in her mother’s handmaiden’s eyes, the horrified sullen eyes of her sisters and the rage in her brothers eyes. She knew.

Her mother killed herself.

Lannisport was controlled by the most powerful family in the Westerlands, the Lannisters. More specifically Tywin Lannister. That man knew everything that went on in his lands and surely a Dornish ship with Martell sails entering his harbour was to be brought to his attention. He had ridden out that day, as he did every other day to visit Lannistown and the port. Mostly to set his own eyes upon the visitors from Dorne, he had taken extra guards as a welcome party. He watched from high ground as the ship docked itself, five boats emerged from the ship. One with a golden pavilion shade, harbouring most likely a person of noble decent. He wondered if the Martell’s finally had come for his head, but out emerged a woman, young lady at best in a pink Dornish dress.

His cousin has rode down to the ports to enquire about the arriving party before riding back to his brother. Tywin watched as a man stood with the banner of his sworn house Maerilys, he watched as the man greeted the girl in pink, then he watched them speak and for a moment all the colour drained from the girl’s face. It seemed as though everyone around her had frozen too, then he watched as her hand came up to her forehead, her lips widen as all the men and women that came with her hung their head low. A message came for him too, a rider rode out from the Rock with the message.

“Lady Elina of House Maerilys has passed.”

His cousin returned from the ports too.

“That’s Lord Maerilys’s eldest daughter.”

Tywin had arrived to Deep Den after the funeral, he had known Lady Elina personally, the woman wasn’t much older than him but he knows wits when he sees it, though he never liked the man she married. Lord Loren Maerilys, clearly named after his ancestor but Tywin knew that man held no kingly qualities. The house provided a good chuck of the Lannister fleet and armies, siege weapons and other labour personnel to the Rock.

Lord Maerilys was a cruel man, the Mad King had his own reasons but Maerilys was another kind of evil, he flaunted his affairs in his lady wife’s face, he beat her and humiliated her. Lady Elina on the other hand suffered through it all, many never understood why, she was Dornish. If she had written about the true brutality of her husband to her brothers. They would have landed an army right at her front gates to take her home. She never did, she suffered it all.

When Lady Y/N was born Lord Maerilys was not pleased, had it not been for his advisors and Maesters, he would have thrown the girl into the sea to wash off her existence, to another father she may have been a delight, a gorgeous little girl. But to her father, she was weakness, she couldn’t carry their house’s name. Maester Crasden protected that little girl as best he could, keeping her for longer lessons or away from her father’s sight most times. However she too fell in the trap of her father’s violence, instead of staying in her room one night as her mother’s muffled wails rang through the halls, she hid a dagger in her skirts and walked into her parents chambers. Her little hands were ineffective, the blade she wielded ended up giving her a bigger cut than her father and a swollen bruise to her cheek from a backhanded slap.

“You insolent cunt! I could have your head for this.” He screamed like a mad man as the little girl’s glare never left him. That night her mother wrote to her brothers for help for the first time. She urged them to take her daughter, to raise her as their own with her nieces and nephews.

“Protect my girl, do not let her flame die.” She had written.

Tywin had strayed from his riding party for a while, he rarely got to breathe in the country and the serenity of its views. He wanted to tarry a bit, as his riding party prepped for his arrival. The old lion had taken a guard along with him, surely he was smart enough to know that he was safe no where. There was a faint rush of water from the great falls in the mountains by Deep Den, the birds sang their songs as the air in the forest remained thick and humid, and Tywin walked through it all like he owned the forests. He had taken a long deep breath, closing his eyes as his head lifted upwards, allowing himself to unravel for just a moment. Though his moment of peace was interrupted by the whoosh of an arrow that nearly missed him and lodged itself onto the tree trunk behind him.

His guard drew their swords, at alert as Tywin sat strong on his horse. All of them looking around to find the source of the attack, a rustle in the bushes and most of them were prepared to fight. Until from the bushes and vines emerged a woman, out of breath and sharp as she looked around before her eyes widened at the men with their swords out. Her hands instinctively held tighter on her bow as he chest heaved, looking at all three men skeptically; until the armour they wore gave their true identity away. Lannisters.

She dropped the bow, raising her hands in defence. Gulping at the glare, the lord had fixated on the girl.

“Forgive me, my lord. I thought you were a deer.” She looked at him apprehensively, as the prayed to the gods, that this man knew nothing of her identity.

“Clearly not.” He nodded at his men to sheath their steel.

Tywin didn’t trust the girl, and the only way he knew that he would make out of these woods without killing the woman, was to take her with him. She was clean, too clean for a commoner. Her posture and nimble fingers, too relaxed to be an assassin. She looked familiar and yet he couldn’t quite put a name to the face.

“Who are you girl?” Tywin commanded, his eyes capturing every detail of the girl. The velvet of her dress pointed that she was no mere peasant girl, though her unruly hair and mud over her hands would unlikely make her noble.

“I am a kitchen wench, from the Den my lord.” She tried to hold his gaze to not seem as if she was lying through her teeth. The lord gave her a grunt of answer before turning his horse around.

“Come along then. No girl like you should be out here alone.” He ordered but the girl stood her ground

“Forgive me my lord, strange men offering escort in the middle of the woods, not exactly reliable.” She made her case “I can find my own way home.” With that she ran, abandoning her weapon. The girl ran through the very well known forests as the Lannister guards wandered deeper into the forest with no avail.

Lady Y/N had returned home, huffing and covered in dirt. What was to be a trip to clear her head turned out to be a rat chase. The maids all looked scared for their Lady, for surely if Lord Maerilys saw his daughter in this condition, not only would he have her head but also the gaurds that were supposed to be escorting her.

“You must change, before your father sees you my lady.” A man called out, Fredrick. When she had left the shore he was merely a boy but when he came to receive her, he stood a man grown at nearly six foot three.

Down in the Deep Den’s hall, Lord Maerilys. A stubbed, and disgruntled old man greeted their liege lord. Both lord exchanged words of formality before Tywin walked himself to the rear gardens, where a burnt out pyre of ashes remained, still gusts of simmering smoke emitted from it. There laid lady Elina, he still remembered her face, how young him and his betrothed were when his father had brought him along to their wedding. An elaborate affair, the Dornish princess was set to marry the older Maerilys brother, yet tragedy struck and her “condition” left her in choice but to wed Loren Maerilys instead.

“They say you look for a wife, Lord Tywin.” Lord Maerilys asked, the old lion just nodded in reply.

“I have three. The older one just returned from Dorne, and my two younger one’s are yet to bleed but should be of cause my lord.” Tywin’s face scrunched up in disgust, though his face looked away from Loren, he couldn’t believe what he was hearing. Sure Tywin had imposed a marriage on his daughter, but sell out your daughters that young. Then out of the blue, it hit Tywin.

“Kitchen wench.” He scoffed under his breath. He hadn’t been outsmarted in a while but surely he was looking forward to meeting this Lady as he put a name to the familiar face. He remembered her from the docks

All the Maerilys kids poured out one by one. Jaegir came first, head held high and the spitting Dornish image of his mother, behind him trailed the two younger girls, Nyela and Ellia. They stood in a line as Tywin was introduced to them, he shook the oldest boy’s hands and charmingly complimented the little girls on their hair. Then burst through the doors was another, her hurried feet found her standing next to her little sisters, with a toddler in her arms. She bowed.

“This is Lady Y/N Maerilys, my eldest daughter.” Her father introduced her, the young lady cursed herself internally with ever crass word she knew. She prayed that he would keep his mouth shut about earlier, and thank the gods he did.

“And who might this be?” Tywin gestured at the child in Lady Y/N’s arms.

“Loren Maerilys, my lord.” Her voice spoke up, a lot gentler then earlier, almost a whisper as she tried to not startle the child.

Tywin that night thought of the proposition Lord Maerilys put forth, there was something about this girl that just made her tick. Tywin wasn’t a child that merely beauty would sway him, though she was quite a sight he had seen in a while, there was something commanding about her, the way her eyes never left his, her head held high even admits all this sorrow. He saw a gain in this too, an alliance between Martells and Lannisters, she was important enough for them to send her home with Martell sails. The next morning he made his wishes heard, he would court Lady Y/N for the week he was to reside at Deep Den, and leave with a bride by him.

Y/N Maerilys was having none of it, a screaming match broke out in the hall. As servants and soldiers turned a deaf ear to them yet again. Y/N had nothing against this wedding but she refused to leave her little sisters behind at the hands of a monster.

“The girls will leave with me to Dorne!” You yelled over your father’s voice

“You watch it girl, I could sell you and sisters for a lump sum and no one would bat an eye!” Her father threw back, menacingly nearing her. However Y/N wasn’t a child anymore, she stood her ground glaring up at her father. His hand shot forward, yanking Y/N’s head up from the root of her hair making her yelp out in pain.

“Hurt me, go on. My uncles will cut your hands off if I tell them about this.” The young lady’s words were laced in venom.

“My lord.” Maester Crasden’s voice made Lord Maerilys push his daughter away, as tears threatened to roll down her face. She sat on the chair with her head in the table, rubbing the spot her father had held onto. Crasden came over, his fingers gently parting her hair to check for injury, the lady would be fine.

“Marry him child.” Y/N scoffed at Crasden but he looked at her as if he wasn’t finished, her sat down next to her.

“You would be the Lady of Castley Rock, our liege lady.” He cleared his throat before going on “You could order your sisters away to Dorne.” His hand patted her cheek “You would hold power, I could not help your mother child. Let me help you.”

The old maester’s words had sunk deep within Y/N, she began to ponder on the topic of her marriage and finally gave in, other than Tywin’s cruelty on the battlefield and politics, there was no account of him ever imposing himself on women, she began to think of if she’d be safe and the only way to confirm her fonts would be from the source itself.

Tywin and Y/N had found themselves in her mothers gardens, Lady Y/N had called for him herself and Tywin was curious to hear what she had to say.

“I realize how auspicious of a union this is, however I have questions and terms of my own before I agree to this.” She kept her voice strong as she voiced her feelings on the matter.

“Go on then, my lady.” Tywin walked past her to sit down.

“I truly hope that you know my disdain isn’t toward you my lord, but merely a worry for my sisters.” She stated as she sat down across from him, she didn’t want to elaborate further, not wanting to slander her father in front of his liege lord.

“I am aware Lady Y/N” Tywin’s stress on the word made her look away

“Our family could take them for ward.” He suggested making Y/N look at him, grateful and confused

“They would be well looked after and eventually sponsored for when the time came for potential matches.” He elaborated further.

“I knew your mother Lady Y/N, I have a debt that still needs to be paid.” The mere mention of her mother made the lady’s eyes close over.

“And I would be safe?” There was a gentle crack to her voice.

“You would be safe.” He reassured her.

So it was setttled, Lady Y/N Maerilys was to wed Lord Tywin Lannister, ravens flew from Deep Den to Castley Rock, The Red Keep and to Sunspear. The news of this alliance spread through both families, both his children and the Martells were furious at about the wedding but it was done. A small affair in the sept, Lady Y/N wore her mother’s ivory dress that was fit to her sizing, that morning her mind nearly changed again as she tried to make a break for the ports but was stopped by her brother. If not for her then Lady Y/N performed her duties to protect her sisters.

“Father.”

“Smith.”

“Warrior.”

“Mother.”

“Maiden.”

“Crone.”

“Stranger.”

“I am hers and she is mine.”

“I am his and he is mine.”

“From this day until my last day.”

A chaste kiss between the two sealed this union. She was now Lady Lannister of Castley Rock, and hell was to pay if anyone tried to hurt her.

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