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inthedayswhenlandswerefew · 1 year ago

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When The World Is Crashing Down [Chapter 4: These Words Are All I Have So I'll Write Them]

Series summary: Your family is House Celtigar, one of Rhaenyra’s wealthiest allies. In the aftermath of Rook’s Rest, Aemond unknowingly conscripts you to save his brother’s life. Now you are in the liar of the enemy, but your loyalties are quickly shifting…

Chapter warnings: Language, warfare, violence, serious injury, alcoholism/addiction, prostitution, references to sexual content including noncon (18+), pregnancy, methods of ending pregnancy, speaking High Valyrian at a third-grade level, no Larys Strong this time yay!!!

Series title is a lyric from: “7 Minutes in Heaven” by Fall Out Boy.

Chapter title is a lyric from: “Dance, Dance” by Fall Out Boy.

Word count: 6.7k.

Link to chapter list: HERE.

Taglist (more in comments): @tinykryptonitewerewolf @lauraneedstochill @not-a-glad-gladiator @daenysx @babyblue711 @arcielee @at-a-rax-ia @bhanclegane @jvpit3rs @padfooteyes @marvelescvpe @travelingmypassion @darkenchantress @yeahright0h @poohxlove @trifoliumviridi @bloodyflowerrr @fan-goddess @devynsficrecs @flowerpotmage @thelittleswanao3 @seabasscevans @hiraethrhapsody @libroparaiso @echos-muses @st-eve-barnes @chattylurker @lm-txles @vagharnaur @moonlightfoxx @storiumemporium @insabecs @heliosscribbles @beautifulsweetschaos @namelesslosers @partnerincrime0 @burningcoffeetimetravel-fics @yawneneytiri @marbles-posts @imsolence @maidmerrymint @backyardfolklore @nimaharchive @anxiousdaemon @under-the-aspen-tree @amiraisgoingthruit @dd122004dd @randomdragonfires @jetblack4real @joliettes

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She gives you a new dress to replace the one that is sopping wet and algae-stained from your tumble into the fishpond: a deep gory maroon, low-cut across the chest, a slit up to your thigh. It is the most revealing thing you have ever worn. You keep crossing your arms and tugging at the fabric, trying to make it cover more of you, incurably out-of-place in this room, this world. The madam is seated at her desk and jotting down notes in a thick, ancient book. When you steal glimpses of her words, they are messy and often misspelled, the script of a child. If you had parchment, you could write a letter. Your hands itch for it; your fingers flex to grasp nothing.

A woman glides into the madam’s bedroom—a tiny kingdom where no men exist—and hands you a cup of tea. She appraises you with a swift, intrigued glance; her hair is long and coppery red, her belly rounded out. She is perhaps five months pregnant. The madam casts her a stern look and the woman dutifully vanishes. “What is this?” you ask as you take a sip. It’s hot, lemony, bitter. “Moon tea?”

The madame chuckles. “No. We have moon tea for if that doesn’t work.”

Because I’m going to be doing things that could result in a child. Because I’m going to be violated here, again and again, I who was so terrified of being possessed by even one man.

The madam says: “Can you play any instruments?”

“No.” You draw into yourself—eyes and ears and the pores of your skin—every detail, every tapestry on the walls and creaky board of the floor and shift in tones of voice, anything that could help you escape. You are a traveler in a strange land. You have no map, no compass. You can bandage burns and set bones, but you know nothing about brothels in the suffocating, squalid entrails of a city.

“Sing or dance?”

“Not well at all.”

A furrowed brow. “Can you sew?”

“Barely.”

“Cook?”

“No.”

Disappointment, palpable and shaming. “Can you read or write?” the madam asks, scratching disorderly lines of black ink into her book.

“Both.”

Now she has perked up a bit. “How well?”

“Fluently.”

A raised eyebrow. This is unusual. “Any other languages besides the Common Tongue?”

“No.” Then you add desperately: “But I know about medicine! I’ve studied herbology and wound tending, and I can act as a healer for the women here, I can—”

“You could, perhaps,” the madam says, smiling with sad, aged patience. “But that is not what the prince regent intended.”

You stare at her, aghast, petrified. There is no swaying her. You consider revealing yourself and attempting to bribe her with the renowned Celtigar fortune, but this is inadvisable. It is one thing to be raped; it is another to be raped and then murdered and then probably raped again. The Greens are the true heirs of the throne in this establishment, which means Rhaenyra and all those who aid her are traitors. Already you have overheard the women gossiping about King Aegon. They do not appear to fear or dislike him; on the contrary, they fret over him like anxious mothers or wives. They hope his recovery is quick. They are grateful he survived. They wonder if he will return to visit them again soon. They do not seem to be under the impression that he is vile, amoral, cruel, a threat, a curse. When they look at him, white hair and ocean-deep eyes, they do not see a monster.

“You aren’t bleeding currently,” the madam continues.

“How do you know that?”

“You didn’t ask for a rag when I gave you that dress.” New words springing to life on those yellowed pages, pricelessly valuable and yet forbidden to you. “Ever borne children?”

“No.”

“Are you a maiden?”

You can’t decide how to answer; you aren’t sure if either reply will help you. You settle on the truth. “Yes,” you admit tentatively.

“Good. We can charge more for you.”

“Wait, no, I’m not. I’ve been with lots of men.”

The madam laughs, shaking her head as she makes her notes. Her necklace and earrings jangle merrily, too large, glinting and gaudy. “Have no fear. I will make it easier for you. I will find a slight, young lad to be your first. He won’t be too big, he won’t last too long. And if you’re fortunate, he’ll even be handsome!” Her prominent, pale eyes go distant; she is orchestrating myths, the trade she deals in like some women sell silk or wool. “A soldier home on leave, perhaps. Looking for a taste of dwindling innocence before he marches off again to be butchered by a Costayne or a Darklyn.” She snaps back into the room. “It will be over before you know it. You’ll be more underwhelmed than anything else, trust me.”

You picture it, red, rust, rage, resignation: the impossibly large stain of blood on your cousin Theodora’s bedsheets. “What if I’m frightened? What if I cry?”

The madam shrugs. “Some men like that. It will convince them of your inexperience.”

You gape at her. “That’s appalling.”

“That’s the world we live in.” She sets down her quill, closes the book, and stretches out her back as she stands. “Follow me. I’ll show you around.”

There are rooms where the women sleep, rooms where they get ready, servants to arrange their hair and moonlight-silver mirrors and a cluttered array of cosmetics and closets bursting with sheer, sensuous gowns. As the madam momentarily diverts her attention from you to scold a servant for knocking over a tin of rouge made from ground cinnabar, you swipe a small stick of kohl eyeliner off a table and tuck it into the pocket of your dress. You might be able to write with it.

What is that pocket supposed to be for? A vial of perfume to mask the sweat of men, mint leaves to clear away their taste? A cloth to mop their mess off your thighs? You shudder, then trail after the madam as she floats out into the hallway.

There are bedchambers, six or seven of them, but the doors are shut. You can smell incense burning; you can hear moans and wet slaps of flesh beneath plucks of harps played by servants. Outside there is a courtyard where women sit on the stone rims of fountains simpering and stroking men’s beards, necks, chests, thighs. It is surrounded by a wall nine feet high. Armed guards pace through the maze of rose bushes and elm trees and proliferate quilts of ivy, keeping uninvited men out, keeping women in. They are protected from their own ambitions of some other kind of life. They are prisoners. The sky above them is a mosaic of spilled wine and gold; the sun is setting.

Downstairs in the kitchen, the madam leaves you in the care of the same woman you saw earlier, long coppery ringlets and a bastard in her belly. The dress she wears is a cleaner red than yours, not blood that has dried and flaked but a heart that’s still beating. She is chopping vegetables and tossing them into a pot boiling over the fire. The long wooden table is strewn with carrots, onions, potatoes, leeks, mushrooms, fresh dark green herbs.

She flashes you a wily smile. “Our cook dropped dead last week. We’ve yet to procure a new one, so I’m making myself useful. All the house laments.”

You laugh and join her, though you don’t know the first thing about working in a kitchen; you pick up a knife and begin slicing through a carrot. It takes more muscle than you anticipated.

“On a cutting board, you idiot,” the woman says kindly, passing you one.

“Sorry. I’ve never cooked before.”

“What? Never?” Her auburn eyebrows spring up. “Where did you come from?”

The cliffs, the sea, salt and waves and mist. “The Crownlands.”

She is studying you with interest as her blade hovers over a half-chopped leek. “Were you a handmaiden to a lady there, or…?”

“It doesn’t matter. Whoever I was, I’m not the same person anymore.”

“No,” the woman agrees softly. “None of us are, I suppose.”

You glance down to her belly. You don’t wish to offend her, but you are curious.

“Go on,” she prompts. “You may inquire. I am well aware of my predicament whether you speak of it aloud or not, I assure you.”

“Did the moon tea not…expel the child?”

“No,” she sighs as she resumes hacking away at the leek. She speaks with vague, weary fondness. “The lemonweed tea did not prevent it, the moon tea did not kill it. I nearly died of fever and vomiting myself, but the child held on. It’s alive in there, I can feel it kicking sometimes. A fierce little thing.”

You nod, still gazing at her belly, undeniable evidence of the act that built it. The copper-haired woman is almost certainly younger than you, and yet she knows exactly what it means to be opened by a man, pillaged, conquered, used, left. This time tomorrow, you will know it too. “The madam let you stay?”

“Not very enthusiastically, but yes. I cook, I clean, I do the shopping in the market. She does not fear letting me venture out into the city. She knows I have nowhere else to go. I only have to entertain clients if they ask for a pregnant woman. Some men have a particular liking for that, you know.”

You did not know. “Right.”

“Besides, there might be some advantage in it for the madam,” the woman tells you. She grins. “When the child is born, there’s a chance it will have the silver hair of a Targaryen. Then the madam could approach Otto Hightower for a reward of some sort, money, protection. Royal bastards have never been more valuable. Little princes are dying left and right.”

“King Aegon’s?” you say numbly. “The child could be his?”

“Yes, obviously. Who else?”

So Aemond does not frequent this place as a customer. You wonder how he met the madam.

Aegon was here before the war began, you think, blood hot in your face, your guts twisting and nauseous. How many women know what he feels like, tastes like, sounds like when he is moaning in pleasure instead of agony?

The copper-haired woman is staring at you quizzically. You have to say something. You hear your voice like the distant cry of a crow through fog: “What was he like? The king, I mean.”

She considers this. “Drunk. Sad. But perfectly pleasant. I wouldn’t mind serving him again. He’s well thought of on the Street of Silk. I do hope he recovers. I think Rhaenyra would hang us all from a gallows. She knows Daemon has a wandering eye, and she’s not the type of wife to look the other way.”

You are trying to clear it out of your skull, like a room full of smoke: Aegon was here, Aegon was here, Aegon was here. “When you met with him, it was in this brothel?”

She hesitates. “Mostly.”

Mostly…? “Have you been inside the Red Keep?”

“Once. Ages ago. There is a network of secret passageways beneath the castle and behind the walls. The king has been known to use them for…well. You know.”

It should not hurt you. You’ve spent all your life listening to the tales of his failings. Yet it does, more than you thought was possible. You’ve never wanted a man before. But you want Aegon now. You do, you must, otherwise you wouldn’t be so pained by the thought of others touching him. You wonder if he feels the same way about you, if he ever lies awake at night with his stomach in knots over your nameless betrothed.

You try to focus on this moment, this kitchen, this copper-haired woman.You need to find a way out of here. “So the madam will decide what happens to your child once it’s born.”

“Of course,” she replies simply.

“You don’t want to keep it yourself? You are not attached to it?”

The woman is suddenly serious, quiet, melancholy. “I have no choice in the matter.”

She’s my chance. She’s my redeemer. “Can I ask your name?” you say.

“What my family named me is of no account. As you said, we’re not the same people anymore.” She smiles, warm like embers once again. “People here call me Autumn.”

“Autumn,” you echo. A woman with hair the color of crisp, dying leaves, the color of a dying world hurtling towards winter. “I think I can help you. You and your child, no matter its parentage.”

She does not want to believe you—hope is a dangerous, taunting creature, one that builds a home in your ribcage and then taps taps taps its claws along the ladder of bones—but she does. You can see it flickering in her small, upturned hazel eyes. “You…what?”

“When you go to the market, do you take a list with you? Of items that you require?”

“Yes,” Autumn replies, puzzled. “The madam always gives me one.”

“Do you have any parchment here in the kitchen?”

Autumn shakes her head. “The madam keeps it in her room. Shall I ask her—?”

“No,” you say. “Definitely don’t ask for any. Is there an old list lying around, perhaps?”

“Um, let me see…” Autumn rummages around the table; onions go rolling, leeks are flung aside. She snatches a tattered, folded sheet of parchment from under a pile of potatoes and surrenders it to you. “Here. This is the one from yesterday.”

You open it and lay it flat on the table. Sure enough, there is a list written in black ink; but not in the Common Tongue. The items are sketched. There’s a carrot with a cloudlike plume of fronds atop it, a bee (meaning honey, you imagine), a pig and a chicken, a round bottle with a heart drawn above it. Perfume? you guess. “These are pictures.”

“Well, of course. I wouldn’t be able to read it otherwise.”

You take the stick of black kohl out of your dress pocket and flip over the list. The back is blank. You write as Autumn watches, baffled, fascinated.

Your Grace, you begin, and then scratch it out. You start again.

Aegon,

Aemond has imprisoned me in a brothel. He knows the madam (middle-aged, brown hair, clever).

“What is this place called?” you ask Autumn.

“The Pink Pearl,” she says.

Autumn works here, if you recall her. She says the establishment is known as the Pink Pearl. Please send someone to rescue me at once. I am to be put to work soon, and I am afraid.

You pause. What will he have been told? What will he think of you now?

I beg your forgiveness for my deceit. I did not mislead you out of malice. I knew you needed help, and that I would not be able to provide it if my true identity was known. I have not done anything to undermine your cause. I have not written a word to my family. I assume they now believe me to be dead. I do not want this, but it is a sacrifice I have made so that I can continue to serve you.

Please help me. Please allow me to return to the Red Keep.

My name was a lie, but none of the rest was.

Angel

“You’re highborn, aren’t you?” Autumn says, hushed, awed. “You must be, to write like that.”

“Yes. And I am a friend of King Aegon. If he knows I’m here, he will pay for me.” You don’t know that for sure, but you have hope, that risky rattling beast.

“He will pay to fuck you, you mean?”

“I believe he will buy my freedom.”

“And if he doesn’t?”

Then I will slit my own throat with one of these knives. “It’s better for everyone if he does.” You fold the parchment closed and then give it to Autumn. She takes it, perplexed but willing. “I cannot leave this place. But you can. I need you to get that letter to the king. You know the way to the Red Keep; you have been inside these secret passageways. Hand the letter to him directly if possible. If you are intercepted, ask to see the Dowager Queen Alicent or…” You debate this. Sir Criston is closer to Aemond than Aegon, but you believe the opposite to be true for the youngest Targaryen brother. “Or Prince Daeron. Tell them that the letter must be read by the king immediately, and by him only. If he is resting, he must be roused. If he is speaking with someone, he must be interrupted. Explain this and then leave. And do not allow the prince regent to see you.” Aemond’s words blow through you like a cold wind: If she tries to escape, kill her.

“This is a difficult task,” Autumn says uncertainly, the folded square of parchment disappearing into the bodice of her gown. “I cannot promise you anything. But I can try.”

“If I am rescued, I will see that you and your child are provided for. You will have your own home, one far, far away from here. You will never have to answer to the madam again. You will never have to lie with a man who is not of your choosing. Your life will be your own.”

She stares at you, dazed and wonderous. She cannot even fathom this, but she knows she wants it. You’ve begun to feel that way about certain things as well. When Autumn speaks, it is in little more than a whisper. “I would like that very much.”

“You will have my most fervent gratitude.”

“I will depart tonight after supper. I will tell the madam that I am craving apple cake from a street vendor.”

“Thank you, Autumn,” you say, lips trembling as they curl into a smile, tears blurry in your eyes.

She points to the stick of black kohl you’ve used as a makeshift quill, smirking. It’s still clutched in your dominant hand. “You’d better hide that before people start showing up looking for soup.”

Hours later, you are trying to fall asleep in a room you share with half a dozen other women who are not presently working, beds so close together they almost touch, soft snores, mattresses shifting when people roll over, a thin wool blanket pulled all the way up to your chin.

Aegon will read the letter. Aegon will send someone to rescue me.

In the darkness, your hands wander down to your belly, your hips, lower. Skating over your white silk nightgown, your fingertips press cautiously at a place where you sometimes feel an indistinct, uneasy sort of pleasure. You rarely touch yourself; you cannot do so without remembering that your body is not your own and never has been. But now, for the very first time and without any premeditation, you picture Aegon—his murky oceanic eyes, his crooked grin, his hands, his bravery, his gentleness, his shock of white-blond hair adorned with that single tiny braid—and instantly your once-ambiguous desire sharpens, strengthens, is accompanied by a wetness that you can feel blooming warm and needful beneath your nightgown.

But it’s not going to be him. It’s going to be some stranger who doesn’t know me and doesn’t want to.

You roll over onto your side and thrust your hands under the pillow, squeeze your eyes shut until they ache, try not to hear the moans that creep through the walls like dark veins of blood poisoning.

~~~~~~~~~~

All day you wait for someone to cross through the doorway of the brothel to claim you, a guard, a messenger, Daeron, Criston, anybody. But no one does. The women here keep strange hours: late to bed, late to rise, breakfast at noon, lunch at four or five, supper long after nightfall. You pick listlessly at a breakfast of biscuits with butter, honey, and blackberry jam, bacon, weak wine, pomegranate juice, lemonweed tea to prevent an unintended child like Autumn’s.

“I was stopped by a guard just outside the Red Keep,” she mutters to you in a stolen moment, huddled together at the end of a hallway by a window that opens out onto the courtyard. “They agreed to let me see Prince Daeron. He took the letter and said he would deliver it. That’s all I could do. I hope it’s enough.”

I hope so too, you think to yourself as you thank her, marveling with brick-heavy horror at how all the Valyrian ancestry and riches in the world cannot save you from the fate of being born a card for others to play, trade, bet on, use until it is worn and faceless. I hope so with everything I’m made of.

The other women take you with them to the bathhouse down the street, and in the labyrinth of sweltering pools and swirling steam you scrub yourself all over until your skin is tender to the touch. You use perfumed soaps and luxurious floral oils, not for healing but for vanity, so strange men will imagine you to be an intoxicating fantasy, so any human imperfections can be ignored. You pluck some stray hairs and trim others. You inspect each other for bruises or scratches or bitemarks that will need to be covered. No one mentions how they got them. Everybody knows.

Back in the brothel, the women show you how to wear your hair and do your makeup: black kohl on the eyes, beeswax dyed with berry juice on the lips, powder on the face to even out your complexion. Servants flit around fussing over hairstyles and switching ripped seams on dresses. Your silk gown—the one you will be raped in—is a soft, helpless, feminine lavender. You are shown to a bedchamber: flickering candles, a mountain of pillows and jewel-toned throw blankets, harp music and fresh air breathing in through the windows. You sit on the edge of the bed wringing your hands. You are waiting to be rescued. You are waiting to be harmed.

The door opens, and he enters. The madam was truthful: she has found you a slight, benign-looking young man. He smiles shyly, clanging in his light armor. He is indeed a soldier on leave from the front. He wears the crest of his family as the clasp for his cape, a white shield with a black cross. He is a Norcross, the same as the dying boy you were tending when Aemond pulled you off the battlefield at Rook’s Rest. How easy it would have been for you to not be here right now; a difference of a few minutes, a few meters, and Aemond never would have found you.

“Hello,” the man says pleasantly. He is yanking off his boots.

“Hello.” You are still sitting on the edge of the massive bed, big enough for four or five occupants. This is not a coincidence, you’re certain. But that will come later, once you have been sufficiently broken in. Your stomach lurches; you try not to show it.

Now he is taking off his cape. “You’re nervous,” he observes. There is a pitcher of wine on the table in the middle of the room. He pours two cups and hands one to you. You take it—intending to be dignified, ladylike—and then gulp it down. The Norcross laughs. “You needn’t fear me, maiden,” he says. “I am here for pleasure, not pain. I have paid a considerable price for you. You are a piece of treasure, a rare gem, and I will handle you accordingly.”

Then he reaches out to stroke your cheek, and something in you shatters, splits open, screams. I don’t know this man. I don’t trust this man. You shrink away from him and retreat to the center of the vast bed. The Norcross blinks at you, a little amused, a bit bewildered. “Sir, you have stumbled upon a great opportunity,” you tell him. “I am no ordinary woman.”

“No?” he says. But he is smirking beneath gleaming eyes, like this is a joke; and he is removing his armor as well.

“I am here as the result of a dreadful misunderstanding. You see, I have actually already been claimed. There is another man who has the right to take my innocence if he so chooses.”

“Oh?” the Norcross says. He is unbuttoning his white cotton shirt. “Who?”

“King Aegon.”

He throws his head back and guffaws, dark hair long enough to cover his ears and brush against the nape of his neck. “This is a very charming jape. Me? Getting to deflower the king’s chosen whore? Yes, yes, very good. Delightful. Delicious.” He crawls onto the bed; the mattress shifts beneath your palms. A cold sweat slicks across your skin. Goosebumps rise on your arms. He doesn’t hear me. He doesn’t want to.

“I’m not joking,” you implore the Norcross. “I am well-acquainted with King Aegon, he cares for me. I was brought here by mistake and against his knowledge. If you assist me in returning to him, I’m sure you will be generously compensated for your trouble—”

The man’s hand juts out, snags in your hair, yanks and tears at it. You yelp and struggle as he wrestles you down onto the mattress and settles his weight on top of you. “You’re mine, all mine,” he growls, smiling, playing along with what he has chosen to believe is a fantasy. “Not the king’s whore. The king has plenty of those already, he probably has thousands. But you’re all mine.”

“Get off me,” you order him, as if you are still the daughter of one of the wealthiest houses in Westeros and not some powerless, penniless woman imprisoned in ornate walls and perfumed silk; and isn’t this where you always would have ended up anyway? Flinching on some stranger’s bed as he tried to claim you, subdue you, force pieces of himself inside you?

“I will show you, maiden. The king is a cripple now. He could not satisfy you anyway. I will give you what he could not. And I’ll give it to you more than once, if you ask nicely.” He presses his lips to yours, a sickening mockery of a kiss, all flesh and no heat. He is wearing only his trousers; they could be gone in an instant. He is tugging your sleeves off your shoulders to get to your breasts.

“Please don’t do this, please stop, I’ll give you anything—”

“Everything I want is right here.”

Just let him do it, you think. I can’t leave this place, I can’t fight him off. There’s no way out. Just let him do it, and live to see if freedom will arrive tomorrow.

Aemond’s words fill your skull like flashes of lighting: If she tries to escape, kill her.

The Norcross man is pulling off his trousers. It strikes you like a closed fist: the terror, the injustice, the rage. You swing at his face, your knuckles rapping against his cheekbones. “Get off of me—!”

There is a tremendous fracturing noise, and at first you think the man must have snapped one of your bones, your radius or your tibia or your clavicle. But no: it was the bedchamber door being thrown open so violently it hit the wall behind it and cracked down the middle. And now there are footsteps, and now there are guards pouring into the room, and now the point of a blade bursts through the Norcross man’s windpipe splattering blood across the bed, the walls, the wood boards of the floor. You are shrieking; scarlet rain peppers your face, chest, hands.

“You’d take an unwilling woman?!” Aegon demands of the dying man, who gapes at him with rapidly fading eyes and a mouth hemorrhaging dark, lethal red. The king is wearing all black, tunic, trousers, boots. Half of his hair is pulled back from his face and secured with a black ribbon. You have never seen him like this before. You have never seen him brutal, formidable, furious. “You fucking animal. Enjoy drowning in your own blood.”

Aegon wrenches his sword free from the dying man’s throat and he falls face-down onto the mattress as you scramble away. And then Aegon falls too: his legs give out and he collapses to his knees, kneeling in a pool of the Norcross man’s blood, the hilt of his sword tumbling out of his grasp. You bolt off the bed and drop down onto the floor beside him.

“Aegon?!”

“Are you okay?” He takes your face in his hands—they’re shaking, they’re weak again, but just strong enough to cradle the slope of your jaw—and looks at you, turning your face one way and then the other, his eyes searching for bruises, lacerations, more fuel for the vengeful fire that blazes in him. The burn on his own right cheek is inflamed, blistering. He does not seem to notice.

“I’m okay, I promise.”

“Did they hurt you?”

“No, no, you got here just in time.”

And Aegon—this so-called monster, this alleged beast, this man who the Blacks swear is a villain and a degenerate and soulless—slips the sleeves of your silk lavender gown back up over your shoulders so your chest is covered. “If it’s any consolation, you’re fucking beautiful.”

“Of course you would prefer me dressed like a prostitute.”

He laughs, embraces you, holds you to him, the first time he ever has. Your arms link around the back of his neck, your fingers knot in his hair. You are so close, yet not nearly close enough; you want him completely, always. You can’t claw your way back up the cliff you’ve fallen down.

There is a commotion as the guards that accompanied Aegon to the brothel part to allow two new arrivals into the bedchamber. Aemond and Criston now stand just inside the doorway, breathing heavily from their sprint across the city. Your gaze meets Aemond’s and you clutch Aegon tighter. The king kisses your temple—so quickly and unceremoniously it feels like a habit, something instinctual, something innately right—and reluctantly unravels himself from you. He grabs the nearest bedpost and hauls himself to his feet, wincing, groaning, bracing himself against it with both hands.

“What the hell are you doing?!” Aemond shouts at his brother.

“You will not harm her! You will not take her from me!”

“Aegon, she’s not a Thorne, she’s a Celtigar! Her father sits on Rhaenyra’s council, he funds her war effort, when our men are killed it’s with arrows and steel that he paid for—!”

“We’re all different people now!” Aegon roars. “All of us! You were some pathetic runt, I was useless, Daeron was a child, Helaena was happy, Criston was devoted to Rhaenyra, Mother was her closest friend, all of us have been changed by this world and its endless goddamn misery! So she was born a Celtigar, is she to be eternally condemned for that? Is she truly irredeemable? Can no acts of service to the Greens’ king convince you of her loyalty? She saved my life!”

“Are you insane?! We can’t trust her!”

“I am the king!” Aegon bellows. “I am still the one who gets to make these decisions, no matter how unworthy you think I am!”

“She lied to you, to me, to everyone, that cannot go unpunished!”

And then Aegon responds, but not in the Common Tongue. He says something—laboriously, haltingly—in a language you recognize only from hearing Daemon and Rhaenyra converse in it. You were not aware that Aegon knew High Valyrian well enough to carry a conversation. Perhaps Aemond and Criston weren’t either; they exchange a brief, astonished glance. The guards’ eyes dart between the king and the prince regent.

Aemond replies, his tone cutting but his words swift, seamless, graceful, fluent. Aegon stumbles his way through a sentence or two, pausing several times to conjure the correct word. Aemond says something else, an effortless litany of syllables your forebears shared. Aegon forces out one last plea. It sounds painful; it sounds like a confession. Aemond stares at his brother, perhaps scandalized, perhaps merely stunned.

“Alright?” Aegon pants, in anguish now. His hands are like talons on the bedpost, the force of his fingernails leaving white scratches in the wood. “You get it? You understand?”

“Fine,” Aemond says, low and bitter.

“You will not harm her. She stays in the Red Keep. Promise me, Aemond. I cannot rest until you do.”

Aemond nods, glaring down at the floor.

“Criston?” Aegon presses. “Promise me. If he breaks his word, you will stop him. I command this. I am your king.”

“I promise, Aegon,” Criston agrees, willingly enough.

“Good,” Aegon says. “Good.” And then he blacks out and crumples to the floor. The guards rush for him, but Criston tells them to stand back. He stoops low, lifts the king, throws him over one shoulder and carries him. Aemond fetches his brother’s fallen sword. You follow them out of the brothel, staying as far away from Aemond as you can. You pause just long enough to peek into the kitchen.

“Autumn?” you call, and she looks up from the chicken she��s been coating with herbs and butter. “I’m leaving now. You’re coming with me. Get your things.”

“What things?” she says, grinning. She cleans her hands and trots after you, one palm resting on the swell of her belly, her copper sea of hair streaming out behind her.

Inside the Red Keep, you inform the servants that Autumn will be staying as a guest of the royal family and that she is to have a room near yours. Then you hurry to Aegon’s chamber. He is sprawled across the bed, writhing and moaning. Grand Maester Orwyle is administering milk of the poppy. Criston is stripping him, heaving off Aegon’s boots and trousers before gingerly removing his tunic to reveal bandages red with blood around his shoulders. He has torn the half-mended flesh there. He suffers, he heals, he suffers again.

“Angel?” Aegon chokes out, reaching for you with tears flooding from his eyes.

“I’m here.” You take his hand. “What hurts, Aegon?”

“Everywhere,” he gasps.

You tell Orwyle: “Give him another dose.” And a second goblet of milk of the poppy is emptied down the king’s throat. Within a minute, he is mercifully unconscious again.

Criston looks at you. “What’s wrong with his face?”

“Sunlight. The rest of his burns were covered, but not the one on his cheek. Fresh burns must be kept out of the sun. He knows that.” You unwrap Aegon’s bandages; his wounds need to be cleaned and re-dressed.

“Oh, seven hells,” Criston whispers, covering his mouth with one hand. There are four or five ruptures around each shoulder, thin bleeding crevices that branch out like the legs of a red spider. Grand Maester Orwyle ambles off to order servants to fetch water, vinegar, honey, linen, more milk of the poppy.

“I should have done better,” you say, and your voice breaks. “I should have used more rose oil on his shoulders. I should have made him stretch three or four times a day.”

“You’ve tended to him tirelessly,” Criston says gently.

“I shouldn’t have lied about who I was.”

“I don’t see how you could have saved his life otherwise.”

“Go find Alicent,” you say. “Explain what’s happened, but don’t bring her to visit him yet. It will only upset her.”

“Yes,” Criston agrees, and leaves.

Outside, the sun is setting, and all the world is the color of dragonfire. Grand Maester Orwyle returns with servants and supplies. As you are dabbing at Aegon’s wounds with cloths dripping with water and vinegar, Daeron appears in the bedchamber doorway. His eyes—large and expressive like Aegon’s, but more crystalline, less dark—are shimmering and wider than you’ve ever seen them.

“Is he dying?” Daeron asks, sounding fearful and very young.

“No more than usual,” Aegon rasps; and that’s how you know he is awake again.

When Aegon is cleaned, bandaged, and soothed once again with milk of the poppy, the two of you are left alone. You perch on the edge of the mattress and can’t stop touching him, his left hand where his dragon ring glints in the flickering candlelight, his disheveled silver hair that still has that little braid you made for him. You don’t know what to say. You worry that if you begin talking, everything will spill out like a monsoon or a rogue wave, things you can’t take back, things you don’t fully understand yourself.

“House Celtigar, huh?” Aegon murmurs drowsily, smiling. “I’ve never been so happy to see a crab in my bed.”

And it hits you all at once: I would take every last drop of pain for this man. I would slit him open and drain him of it, swallow it down, assume the debt. I would carry every burden, every red flare of agony and ache in his bones. I would learn the art of self-loathing if he could forget it. I would trade fates with him, threads cut and crossed and burned to ash.

“What?” Aegon asks. He’s watching you with those storm-blue eyes, glassy with pain and poison.

Why wouldn’t you send someone else in your place? Why would you go yourself? Why would you injure yourself so grievously, so senselessly? “Why would you do this for me?”

“You are the only person I’ve never disappointed. I’d like to keep that going if I can.” He takes your hand and laces his fingers through yours. “You’re so far away.”

You lie down on the bed and curl up beside him, careful not to put pressure on his fresh wounds. You place one palm on the center of his bandaged chest, the other against his unburned cheek. Aegon pulls you in closer until your noses are nearly touching and you swing one leg up to rest on top of his; even then, he keeps a hand on your thigh, as if to make sure you don’t leave. The other twists into your hair and stays there. Aegon dives into a deep, starless sleep and you doze next to him. When you catch wisps of dreams like fireflies in a child’s grasp, you hear crashing waves and see dragons pitching into the sea: Vermax at the Gullet, Arrax into Shipbreaker Bay.

Why did Aemond have to murder Luke? Why did he have to start this war?

Something wakes you, a sound, an indescribable shift in the room. You open your eyes and turn to see Aemond, arms crossed and back propped against the opposite wall. You rise as carefully as you can so you don’t disturb Aegon, untangling yourself from him like he’s something catastrophically fragile, a spider’s web, a splintering pane of glass.

You stand and take several steps towards Aemond, only so you can speak without waking Aegon. “What do you want?”

“I fear I did not conduct myself particularly well yesterday,” he says. “I may have acted…impulsively. Unwisely.”

“Your capacity for self-reflection is truly inspiring.”

Aemond frowns. “I’m being serious.”

“I’m not interested.”

“If we are to be on the same side of this war, we should learn to understand each other.”

“I don’t want to understand you. Your mind must be a horrible place to live.”

He stares at you with his sole remaining eye, cold and hurt and wrathful and hopeless.

You ask softly, knowing that only Aemond can tell you: “What did he say? Back at the brothel?”

Aemond does not answer for so long that you convince yourself he’s not going to. At last, he decides to extend a peace offering. “He said that he cannot live without you. Or that he wouldn’t want to. I’m not certain which he meant. His High Valyrian has always been terrible.”

Then Aemond walks out of the room without another word.

#aegon ii targaryen #aegon ii #aegon targaryen ii #aegon targaryen #aegon targaryen x reader #aegon ii x you #aegon ii x y/n #aegon ii x reader #aegon x reader #aegon targaryen ii x you #aegon targaryen x you

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flowerandblood · 1 year ago

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The Impossible Choice (18)

[ Aemond • Targaryen x Baratheon! • female ]

[ warnings: mention of underage sex, violence ]

[description: Aemond comes to Storm’s End to choose his future consort. However, Lord Borros Baratheon presents him with only four of his five daughters. Being attached to his youngest child, he does not want to marry her. The prince, however, thwarts his and her plans with his decision. This is slow burn, with a lot of dark angst and sexual tension. (Anon Request)]

* English is not my first language. Please, do not repost. Enjoy! *

Previous and next chapters: Masterlist

______

Searching with Ser Criston for Aegon in the inns and brothels of King's Landing made him realised bluntly what kind of man his brother was. He felt an overpowering disgust at the thought; he said to Cole with regret and frustration that they were too decent and composed men to be able to read his steps and find him.

He finally remembered the place that he didn't want to return to and hoped never to appear there again.

However, he had no choice.

They stood outside the brothel, banging on the door with a large steel knocker, the building they were looking at was dingy, recently renovated with white lime plaster. He felt that his heart was in his throat, pounding loudly, he had a feeling that he was about to vomit.

They heard the turning of the key in the lock and a moment later a woman that he recognised immediately appeared in the entrance.

Red-haired, curvy, with a fierce look and a soft body.

He looked away from her, unable to bear the memories that flashed through his mind, while Ser Criston asked her if she had seen Aegon the night before.

"Come, don't be shy." His older brother sneered, throwing his arm over his neck, patting him comfortingly on his back.

Aegon said that he had a birthday surprise for him, and though his gut told him not to, he went with him and already regretted it.

"It's time for you to get it wet."

Aemond had no idea what his brother meant; he had just turned thirteen and already felt like a man. He was paying more attention than ever to his training and had grown considerably, but he still didn't look like he wanted to.

His brother's words filled him with fear of another life humiliation.

Aegon led him to a strange, disturbing place full of mature, half-naked women. He didn't know where to look, trying to keep a dispassionate, indifferent face, but inside he was terrified and felt ashamed every time that a passing girl cast a curious glance at his eye patch and scar.

He didn't want to go any further at all, but Aegon pulled him forcibly and they began to walk through interconnected rooms, separated by translucent red curtains, tables with goblets of wine all around, beds, couches and chairs, an intense smell of oils, sweat and some other, disturbing, strange, bodily smell that he couldn't identify.

What frightened him most were the loud moans and the sounds of wet, sticky bodies slapping against each other.

His brother led him to one of the chambers that was lockable; they went inside and he saw a large bed on which rested a woman, clad only in see-through blue robes, bound around her waist with an ornate copper belt, her red hair partly pinned up in a disorderly bun.

He figured that she was at least fifteen years older than him.

"I'll leave you alone. Lara, I'm handing him over to you." Aegon said amused, walking out and closing the door behind him.

He stood, terrified, fighting the overwhelming urge to run away immediately. He reasoned, however, that then the whole of King's Landing would know that the Prince was not only a cripple.

That he was afraid of women and unable to please them.

He had no knowledge of this mysterious, physical act.

He couldn't move.

He was petrified.

So he stayed.

The woman, seeing his terror and shyness, took his hand and led him towards the bed. She told him to lie on his back, so he did, feeling his heart pounding hard, cold sweat run down his back. He looked away as she lowered her gowns in front of him, exposing her large, shapely assets.

For some reason he felt discomfort at the sight, he wondered how Aegon could be attracted to such things.

He drew in a loud breath and pressed his lips together as he felt her take his hand and place it on her breast, forcing him to knead it, making purring noises that were apparently meant to encourage him.

He felt like he was about to vomit.

He did not want to do this, but her hand held him securely, her other palm with her nimble fingers untied his breeches. As she slid them down, he pressed his lips together to keep from crying.

He didn't want to do this.

He wanted his brother to return and take him home.

But Aegon did not come for him.

It was only the mechanical movements of her hand that made anything begin to happen to him. He felt suddenly hot, tense, still not looking at her.

No one had ever touched him there, in his intimate place, and he didn't like the fact that some complete stranger was doing it now.

"Easy, my Prince." She said sweetly, panting loudly for some reason, her other hand still forcing him to massage her large breast, which didn't fit in his hand. "I'll make you feel good."

As she sat on top of him, as he felt her hot, fleshy insides, he felt discomfort, embarrassment and an urge to pull away from her, to escape. He began to breathe loudly along with her, but not out of pleasure, but because with the rest of his strength he was trying not to sob.

He felt that something was about to happen, that the tension in his lower abdomen was reaching its zenith, but his head was thinking only of yelling out to her to get off him.

He stared out of the window, trying not to listen to the sounds of her and the creaking of the bed beneath him, not to feel her buttocks slapping against his thighs.

He felt a sudden relaxation and clenched his eye, shuddering slightly, swallowing loudly in relief that it was over. A single tear of humiliation ran from the corner of his eye onto the sheet beneath him but the woman didn't notice it, and he wiped his face quickly, pretending to wipe the sweat off his face.

"You were wonderful, my Prince." She lied sweetly, and he felt like slapping her for those words.

Fucking cow.

When she finally got off him and he breathed a sigh of relief, he sat up, fastened his breeches and left without even giving her a glance. He didn't wait for Aegon, who had just enjoyed himself with another whore, despite shouting after him, asking how he liked it.

He returned to the Red Keep alone through the same secret passage as before and locked himself in his chamber. He climbed onto his bed, covered himself with bedclothes up to his head and sobbed quietly all night.

After this event he never again allowed a woman to take the initiative in any intimacy with him and although he began to recognise that he could derive great pleasure from it, he only felt it when he was in control of everything that was happening.

He dictated the pace, the position and the way he would be satisfied.

The thought that his wife was a maiden at the time of their betrothal aroused him incredibly, but it also terrified him.

He didn't want the one he'd chosen to see him the way that he saw that brothel whore.

He wanted her to be able to really enjoy it.

His experience with women was limited, but he had already noticed what touch and where gave them joy, what movement of his fingers made them squirm with pleasure.

During their wedding night he decided to take his time and watch carefully for any signals of her body; he wanted her to look at him, he wanted to see her face, her gaze, watching if he saw a trace of horror or disgust in her eyes.

However, he saw nothing of the sort.

She was afraid of him, but there was also warmth and trust in her gaze, a plea for him not to hurt her.

She was obedient, sweet and polite, her insides wet and moist under his fingers, focused on his caresses.

He sucked on her nipples, her breasts plump and soft, in the shape he loved, unable to pull away from her.

When he opened her on his cock he was surprised by how tight she was; each thrust of his hips sent a wave of wonderful pleasure through him. He couldn't stop the quiet panting that escaped from his mouth at the sight of her half-bare body beneath him, beautifully soft, surrendered to him, her puffy lips slightly parted.

She was so innocent.

As the months passed and their marital relationship improved to the point where he was fucking her almost every day, he let her do more and more; at first he let her sit with her back to him, imposing an intense, brutal rhythm on her, clamping his hands on her hips.

Then he began to notice that he enjoyed kissing and sucking her breasts as she sat on him, all aroused, involuntarily rising and falling on his fat, hard cock, making him tremble with pleasure.

He thought then that he had a grudge against Aegon.

A grudge that he had taken away his first time that he could spend with her.

With his wife.

Sometimes he couldn't help himself and imagined it was her soft, warm, subtle hands that was touching his bare chest and manhood, it was her breasts that his hands touched for the first time. That all night long he would have kissed and licked only her lips and her body, getting to know her step by step, trembling all over with fear and excitement at the unknown.

He imagined that they would both be shy, that they would both be ashamed of what they were doing.

That he would reassure her with the sweet, tender kisses of his lips and she would soothe him with the touch of her hands on his cheeks, with assurances that they needn't hurry, that until the sun rose they could indulge in nothing but soft, calm caresses.

However, the opposite has happened.

What he had experienced and his fear of humiliation made him want to get through it all as quickly as possible.

He tried to show her as much understanding as possible, knowing that she was afraid, to be as gentle as he could, not to rush her or humiliate her in any way, but he couldn't open up to her.

He couldn't admit what he desired the most.

He thought of this as he looked at the woman who had ridden him that fateful day; she had told Ser Criston that Aegon had been seen in a completely different place, known for even more disgusting things.

Child fighting.

Lara looked at him, smiling lightly.

"You have grown so much." She murmured, and he pressed his lips together, swallowed quietly and turned away, following Cole.

More clues led them further, until they came across the twin knights in the Great Sept. Aemond saw his brother fleeing quickly through the main gates of the temple and caught him, throwing him to the ground; they struggled with each other and no one dared disturb them, knowing that this was matters between two brothers.

"Is it true that our father is dead?" Asked Aegon wearily, lightly prodded with shoulder by his younger brother.

"Yes. And they want to make you king." He said amused, but hissed when his brother spat in his face.

Aegon began to scream and begged him to let him escape, to sail away to Essos, to disappear. He struggled against himself, feeling a tightness in his throat.

Aegon's realisation that he was unfit for such a role struck him, as did the thought, once again that day, that he should be king.

He, his younger, well-educated brother, knowing history, philosophy and poetry, understanding the art of war, experienced in battle, attending all the meetings of the Small Council, understanding the politics and needs of the kingdom.

Nothing came out of his throat as he watched with a blank stare how Cole grabbed Aegon and began dragging him towards the Red Keep.

They had gathered in the Small Council chamber with their closest advisors to determine what to do next, prepare for the coronation, discern alliances and decide whose support they would need to ask for.

His grandfather stood up, touching his hand to a statue standing on a large map, carved in the shape of a deer's head at the spot where his wife's ancestral seat was located.

"We need the Baratheon army and the support of Lord Borros. His father swore allegiance to Princess Rhaenyra, but we have his daughter and we need to gently remind him of that." He said lightly, looking meaningfully at his grandson. He furrowed his brow at his words.

"You expect me to threaten her father? What would I say to him?" He asked impatiently, turning his head away with a snort. Otto was not deterred by his words or approach.

"You and your wife will fly to Storm's End to speak with Lord Baratheon. In the meantime, I will personally travel to Winterfell to speak with Lord Stark about the North's support for the Crown." He said, standing proudly, glancing at the lords who nodded their heads. He tapped his finger on the armrest of his chair, looking at his grandfather intensely.

"Let my wife speak on the matter. She knows her father better than I do." He said objectively with a kind of boredom, impatient and tired. Aegon chuckled at his words.

"You're not even able to piss anymore without your wife's permission?" He asked, Lord Lannister grinning under his breath at his words, amused. His expression, however, did not change.

"Our journey there will be a pointless waste of time if it turns out that Lord Borros will support us right away for her sake. Perhaps he will not even consider my whore-sister." He said indifferently, his mother throwing him a surprised look full of pain at his words.

She pressed her lips together and nodded at Ser Criston, ordering him to bring his wife to the Small council chamber.

After a moment his wife stepped into the room, standing before them with an uncertain expression on her face.

He could see that she was pale and that she was afraid, unsure of what was happening.

He felt a tightening in his chest at that thought, but there was nothing he could do.

"Come closer, my love, don't be afraid. We are just discussing what we should conceive after the death of our beloved King. We are preparing for Aegon's coronation, but also to secure our kingdom against the resistance of Princess Rhaenyra. I wish you and my son to fly to Storm's End after the Prince's coronation to remind your father of his arrangements with the King." Said his mother, apparently noticing as much as he did that his wife was terrified.

He saw the grimace on her face and furrowed his brow at the thought that his wife was about to say something that he might not like. She struggled with herself for a moment, looking at the map in front of her, and walked closer to the table.

"My husband cannot accompany me if my father is to support Prince Aegon." She said in a confident voice, glancing at him of the corner of her eye, and he clenched his jaw at her words, enraged.

What was she doing?

Was she playing her own game without his knowledge?

His grandfather laughed at her words, amused, clearly not taking what she said seriously.

"My lady, forgive me, but this is ridiculous. A lady should not present matters of war to a mature men." He said lightly, looking around the room for support on the lords' faces. Several of them giggled, Lord Lannister again seeming most amused.

He saw his wife's face turn suddenly serious and cool, almost stony.

He watched her intensely and thought that he had never seen her like this before.

"My father believes that my husband took me from my household against his will. He has no affection for him and will not welcome the sight of him. However, I can convince him. He is fond of me, I am his youngest child. He will listen to me, but in solitude, in a conversation between daughter and father, not between Prince and Lord." She said slightly impatiently, placing her hands on the table in front of her, leaning over it.

He was surprised by her words and felt a burning shame flow through his veins.

My father believes that my husband took me from my household against his will.

He has no affection for him and will not welcome the sight of him.

He realised that she was right.

When he arrived in Storm's End he was furious and bitter; he lashed out at her father, taking advantage of the fact that he was not in a position to defend himself against him.

He mocked and humiliated him, scolding him in front of his daughters for not being able to read or count, and then took away his beloved child, his treasure that he had tried to hide from him.

He figured that her thought could bear fruit.

Without him by her side, she would be just his child again, and their conversation would take on a different, parental overtone.

He realised that his wife was more reasonable than most of the people in the room around her who were trying to humiliate her.

"My wife is right." He said calmly, and she threw him a surprised, shocked look. The lords around him twisted in their seats, glancing at each other in surprise.

"I defied the lord's will in his own stronghold and I suspect that he still hasn't forgiven me for it. It would be better for me to fly to Winterfell on Vhagar, to show the people of the North who have never seen a dragon what the real power looks like." He added, looking into his wife's eyes.

He felt a squeeze in his stomach as he saw something in her gaze that he couldn't even name.

She smiled almost imperceptibly, full of gratitude, letting the air quietly out of her lungs as if she was relieved.

He thought with satisfaction that his wife was his ally.

That he would make her his Queen.

_____

Aemond Taglist:

(bold means I couldn't tag you)

@its-actually-minicika @notnormalthings-blog @nikstrange @zenka69 @bellaisasleep @k-y-r-a-1 @g-cf2020 @melsunshine @opheliaas-stuff @chainsawsangel @iiamthehybrid @tinykryptonitewerewolf @namoreno @malfoytargaryen @qyburnsghost @aemondsdelight @persephonerinyes @fan-goddess @sweethoneyblossom1 @watercolorskyy @astral-blossoms @randomdragonfires @amirawritespoorly @apollonshootafar @padfooteyes @darylandbethfanforever9 @fudge13 @snh96 @diosademuerte @rwdkarla @echos-muses @ipostwhtifeel @letmeloveyouuuu @yentroucnagol @valeskafics

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omgthatdress · 10 months ago

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("St. William Dorsey Swann," by artist Jason Tseng, Queer Saints)

No known photographs of William Dorsey Swann exist today, but his legacy is undeniable. He was born into slavery in 1860, but as an adult, he organized underground "drag balls" in Washington, D.C., and called himself "the Queen of Drag." The group of men that he gathered with came to be known as "House of Swann."

In spite of numerous arrests and criminal charges, Dorsey kept on with his pursuits. In 1896, he was falsely charged with "keeping a disorderly house," that is, running a brothel. He fought the charges, but was nonetheless convicted, and spent ten months in jail. He wrote to president Grover Cleveland to request a pardon, but was denied. This made him one of the first Americans to make a legal fight for LGBT rights.

In 2022, the book House of Swann: Where Slaves Became Queens-- and Changed the World, by Channing Gerard Joseph, was published, bringing Swann's story to light once again. Later that year, Swann Street in Washington D.C., which was formerly named for a slave-owning politician, was re-dedicated to honor William Dorsey Swann.

#drag #drag history #lgbt history #gay history #queer history #gay #lgbt #queer

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vilevexedvixen · 7 months ago

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Fowler's Flower Pt. 1 - Uprooted Abijah Fowler x servant! Reader

Summary: Fueled by anger at what the English / Tudors did to him, Fowler keeps a handful of English Roses to take out sadistic tendencies on as a form of passive retribution. The reader is a commoner caught stealing during a feast and is offered an indentured servitude contract as Fowler's servant by the town Sheriff as an alternative punishment to execution (the punishment in England for theft at the time). Takes place before he stopped using the dungeon, so before 1647.

Banners and dividers by @roseschoices

It's ironic that such a man as Fowler, starved of stimulation and novelty, would become dull to both. To the point that he began to crave the mundane and familiar, a taste of home. For these rare occasions were mistresses shipped over from the English Isles along with the two beeves he brought for milking. As good as cattle, and just as hardy. For they had to last as long as he needed them, indefinitely. At least in principle. Night after night spent shackled and beaten in the dungeon, but eventually their bodies would cave even as their eyes bled with life and spoke every curse their throat could no longer even whimper. Their attire stained progressively deeper shades of red before rendered entirely black and blue by the end of it. Perhaps fortunately, then, it wasn't often that Fowler found himself craving the touch of an English maiden. He'd only need a handful, and could bare to wait a while between shipments if he exhausted them sooner than intended. Sparing however many from his ever expansive "imagination" which so often craved exoticism instead, an ever rarer commodity when grounded at one station for decades at a time. His spring pilgrimage alongside a ready supply of local flesh at his associate's behest somewhat sated his frustration and brought some respite from his cabin fever, but this supply was always quickly burnt through and the delights of the pilgrimage soon stale and forgotten. The girls brought in being too fragile and easily broken to enjoy for long. And while the heady high of seeing his dissatisfaction being met with swift replacements and adjustments instead of outward (though still very apparent) disgust and horror at what he costed the brothels in blood did amuse him, he still needed toys not trinkets. To feel the slight more effort it should take to make them break. Still like porcelain, but not as precious as bone china. And all the sweeter to hear crack at the hands of someone the English so often spat at in all his years over there. Ideally someone he could even tangentially say was directly culpable for manufacturing the suffering he endured, but good graces with people like that was what kept his pockets lined fatter than the breadth of the Atlantic... so commoners would have to do.

"You boy, bring us another round!", another sloshed patron blurted, barely holding onto his pint which dangled loose from his fingers with his arms snug around his mates' shoulders, keeping him afloat from practically drowning in ale. His clearly costly cloak now soaked damp in the stuff both by his own inebriated hand and that of his well-to-do peers. They had all gathered to generously shower their decadence like a fountain of obnoxious charity upon the Woodward Farmhouse, as the town's representatives had done every Easter since its construction. A tithing of sorts, to be sure the wood about St. Ann's well stayed pleasantly pristine for all to enjoy its miracle water.

Inside the farmhouse the air sat thick with tobacco smoke, stale breath and abuzz with disorderly glee as folks stumbled to and from the bar back to their tables. Barely holding together the clusters of steins they brought. Every round overflowing with beer. Each haphazard step tipping more of the precious brew onto the floor which lay already slick with the spillages of other patrons. Ironically making those who'd mustered the audacity to clamber onto the tables and dance of steadier stance than anyone else there. Even as the more lively maidens among them began to gladly chant,

"My granny is sick, and now is dead, And we’ll go mould some cockle bread. Up with my heels and down with my head, And this is the way to mould cockle bread!"

-before either being curtailed mid-chant by a stumble off the table's edge or being hastily ushered down by their attending kin before they could so much as bend to reach their skirt's hem, let alone perform the dance that accompanied the chant. Faces flushed red with embarrassment rather than intoxication.

As appreciative as the Woodward and nearby townsfolk were for the funding, that didn't make their rowdy display any less exhausting to accommodate. What it DID make was a perfect distraction for opportunists like _______ to swipe every loose coin and discarded luxury the nobles might lose track of amidst their merriment. Not that they'd miss any of it, mind. They came here to walk out bellies full and their purses spent, and that's exactly what they'll be by day's end.

Having waited until the festivities were well underway, the greatest challenge (besides remaining unseen, a fairly easy feat given how blind drunk all but the staff seemed to be) became dodging wayward hands flying or being crushed if any brawls broke out or someone proved too unsteady even when idle. As the thought passed _______'s mind, some poor sod began to tip backwards from his chair and nearly onto her had she not skirted so quickly past them. An amused cheer resounded across his table at the sound of him crashing onto the stone floor, much like was customary to do when any crockery shattered in a tavern such as this. "Lightweights...", she muttered so herself, smug with the fat payout the day's already granted her. Enough that there was barely any space left to covertly tuck anything away. Might be worth heading home and stowing away what she had to free up space again. Maybe just another handful...

Taking a moment to pause and see who had anything by their side or on the floor that she could swipe on her way out, she started thinking of all the food she could afford and store for winter with what she's already accumulated. Even if prices inevitably rose again because of yet another crop failure. Or because of more people flooding the town and driving up demand after being enclosed on by the damned Willoughbies like hers had been in Sutton Passeys. Or whatever war the powers that be demand the food should be diverted to instead. She won't go hungry, not this time!

Just as she felt drool begin to well up in her mouth, she spotted a particularly well dressed gentleman just past the open door laying down a round for his table. The two men sat beside him were oddly dressed, in much plainer clothes than the puffy, blouses and jackets expected by the feast's usual attendees. Come to think of it, she didn't recognise any of them from previous years. The man who brought the drinks didn't look rich per-say, but was certainly smartly dressed. Hair dark brown cut to shoulder-length and a feathered cap atop his head. Perhaps a merchant? The other two had a strangely cool tinge to their skin and such dark eyes it was as if their pupils were as wide as a rabbit's and hair dark to match, styled much higher and tighter than their fellow's loose tie-back. Their robes more like a shawl with sleeves and less gathered. Unrecognisable patterns resembling a grid of angular flowers dotted the fabric, but beyond that little decoration darned their outfits. Remarkably modest given their company and the occasion.

As she sauntered closer, she attempts to fain disinterest by periodically gazing about the place and hums along with the raucous singing blasting from within the farmhouse. Every so often darting a glance at the table both to scan for goods and to take in more and more odd details they noticed about the people sat there. In spite of how shoddy her attempt at "acting natural" was, it shouldn't matter as they surely should be too drunk to notice her pinch his coin pu- "There it is!", a hand had grabbed her wrist before she could register what happened. She froze as the Englishman tightened his grip on her wrist before plucking his coin purse back from her aching hand, "Thought someone might have nabbed it there for a second, thank you kindly for returning it to me..." No manner of tugging freed her from his grip, which kept her uncomfortably close, her frantic squirming further broadcasting her guilt as the thief in front of his associates, who simply stared unbothered. As the man turned in his seat to face her, she could see the ornate badge pinned to his breast pocket and his less ornate but still remarkably well-kept attire... a uniform?

"This isn't the usual way I'd spend Easter, but word is this feast has been swarmed with thieves these past few years," he snaked a hand under her chin and held it there, forcing her to keep eye contact, "I'd be careful if I were you. You wouldn't want to lose something valuable tonight... would you?"

With that he let go, and her wrist practically flew free of his grasp. Rubbing it gently to sooth the sore mark he'd left, she hastily scampered off to hide her stash somewhere safe. Who was that? Who were they? Those people? Was that their first round? Of all the tables she picked a sober one last, fantastic!

In the mad dash back home, she hadn't noticed the trail of coins she was leaving behind like breadcrumbs leading back to Lenton village. Some coins dropped on the heads of sleeping vagrants and children playing nearby snatched up what they could once they realise what had littered the ground, scrubbing off the mud that now caked each coin. Unknowingly covering _______'s tracks, at least through the main street, but still too preoccupied in their frantic gathering to notice which alley she'd darted through next. Pushing through her backdoor and clambering for somewhere to hide the goods (or herself) her hands spread wide, feeling the floor for any loose boards. In her panic the floorboard she lifted to stuff the goods under got jammed slightly out of place, and no manner of prying could correct it while in such a state. She'd force it back into place once she'd calmed down. Before she could, though, a daunting knock at the door could be heard. Timidly she peered through through the window. The unnerving man from earlier. How did he know where she went? Doesn't matter. Just keep quiet and unseen and he will leave. Hopefully. The man knocked more forcefully after a minute or two of silence. Then again... and again, before finally sighing and demanding, "If you don't open the door you WILL be arrested. You know the charge for theft. Open. The. Door." Keep quiet.

Luckily the feast had most people out and about for the day, but a worrying patter of footsteps upstairs tore _______ between trying to sway the man to let her go, hand herself in, or let him loudly break down the door and potentially rope in her kin with her punishment since the stash she added to could be implicated as everyone's under the roof. She'd weaseled herself out of tighter situations before, but that was when she was alone. It's all different now! What- Her indecision was cut short by the abrupt kicking open of the door which slammed hard onto the cold stone floor, small fragments of wood breaking off at point of impact with the hinge swinging loose like a doomed man's head. Her decision was already made. She held in her yelp, mustering a whimper, but the sound of the break in already alerted her kin upstairs who clattered downstairs, only to stop at the top step, the eldest of them immediately recognising who was at the door.

"Sheriff! What a lovely surprise, what brings you to our humble abode?" Playing dumb was never her grandma's strong suit, as senile as she was she wasn't ignorant by any means, the darting of her eyes hinting as much. The awkward silence lay like an unmoving layer of fat over water, hardening as the room grew cool with the Sheriff's imposing demeanor freezing everyone in place. His eyes scanned the room, flitting between faces before landing at the jammed floorboards by the stairwell. His attention drawn by the faint glint of sparkling gold. Raising a finger to the gap, he asked, seemingly to no one but clearly directed at _______, "Is this yours?" Shifting in place, _______ was about to say "N-" but her aunt interjected, "It's mine. My dowry. My husband, his family wouldn't let him marry a vagrant but he brought what he could and married me despite their wishes." Her stunned confusion blatantly on display, _______ caught herself and nodded along with the best slack they had. God bless you Auntie, I owe you one. "That looks like far more than eleven pence right there. Rather risky to keep such a valuable asset on display right by the back door, don't you think?" Saving face her aunt doubled down, "Well... that's why it's exactly where a thief wouldn't think to look! You see?" attempting to look chuffed with herself, forcing a confident grin as best she could.

"I DO see, so you're saying you can think like a thief, eh?", a smirk crept up on the Sheriff's face, something he'd clearly been holding back the whole time he'd been standing in the doorway, blocking our nearest exist. "And uh, Ma'am you do realise vagrancy isn't exactly... appreciated, well, anywhere in God's land? You look able-bodied, I assume you've made yourself useful since your marriage?" The questions stewed in their minds, bringing their patience to a boil. Days spent toiling at the spinning wheel, knitting until the skin on their fingers thickened into boot leather. 'Made yourself useful?' as if the Sheriff himself wasn't a bloated mouthpiece for the inept aristocracy that didn't so much as blink before they shoved people like them off of land they'd subsisted on for centuries, for what... aesthetics? So they didn't pollute their lovely view? _______'s fists clenched, tighter and tighter with her family glancing over and back like if they looked away too long she'd set ablaze. "YES. They have..." _______ said firmly through gritted teeth. Closer and closer, the Sheriff stepped, circling _______ as her kin hugged the banister like a lifeline. Wanting to hide back upstairs, but not wanting to abandon their child to the whims of the law. After tracing her curves with his gaze up and down, he crouched to pry open the "dowry". As he did the metal caught the light, brilliantly gleaming in the spring daylight. Certainly not rusted. Not in the slightest. The kind of money no one has touched in years. Could be a dowry, then. Could be new, counterfeit (more likely, he thought). Could be the pretty pennies of the drunken nobles who needn't worry about directly paying with money but once in a blue moon.

"I'll ask again... is this yours?" A trap. She wasn't sure how, but the way he phrased it made it seem like answer answer she'd think to give would lead to a trap. Yes, and that could be an admission that she'd stolen it. No, and that could be admitting it's not hers and she stole it. Please Auntie, please, you or grandma. She wished they'd speak for her, like they always did, now was the time but they stayed quiet. This time it was her gaze flitting to them, back and forth as they evaded hers. The Sheriff reach down and pinched a coin from under the floorboards, rotating it to catch the like, eyeing it closely. Not counterfeit. The real deal... He chuckled, bemused by their awful attempt at saving face. "I know it's not yours. I just needed to see if it was all of you who needed executing, and not just this skank here I caught in the act." he grabbed her by the forearm, raising it like an unwilling volunteer. Despite being but one man, running from the house didn't seem wise, where would they go? Hide? He could just nail the door shut and burn it down with everyone still inside. He didn't need to shackle anyone to keep them right where he needed them.

"Please, I asked her to do it - we needed the money!", Grandma blurted, hoping to help. Honest to a fault. Auntie shot a death-glare at her, not in anger but fear. Now they absolutely would be implicated in the theft, not just _______! Desperate, she kept going, "She was only doing what she was told. If you should prosecute anyone, it should be me, I'm culpable." Her frail, old form gently slinked down the stairs, leaning on the banister for balance. Before she even reached the last step, the Sheriff refused. "How noble, but you're already on death's door you old Crone. It wouldn't be much of a punishment at this point." Offended wasn't quite the word. Disheartened? Shocked? It didn't really matter. An embarrassing withdrawal, she held herself by the bottom of the stairs not sure what to do with herself anymore. His smugness grew, seeing them all so flustered and disheartened. While he couldn't change the law (legally speaking, they deserved death), anything he offered would seem better at this point, and that's exactly what he needed. Unfortunately, only one here would be suitable for his associate's tastes. The other two were clearly too worn and delicate to withstand a long-term tenure with his associate. No, only the skank will do.

"Tell you what! Unless you'd rather let the gentlemen back at the farmhouse sober up, realise they've been robbed blind and let them hunt you down... I have the means to make it look like you're as good as dead and they'll be none the wiser.", he paused, as if waiting for someone to question his proposal, but all that rose was curious silence amidst a flurry of glances between the three women as if performing furious wordless debate amongst themselves. He continued, "I can redistribute the evidence accordingly, and you'll be long gone from the reach of any gallows rope." "Banishment, then? To where?", _______ demanded, exhausted with his drawn out charade. "Oh, nowhere you'd know. A land in the far East, but don't worry! If anything where you'll be is far grander than this... dusty hovel.", he said, gesturing about the place. _______ could feel their brow twitch, if he was so disgusted by their humble lodgings he shouldn't care what they stole, they clearly need it and couldn't afford anywhere "better". "Since you stole a hefty sum, you can pay it back by working under contract as my associate's indentured servant. With how much is here I'd say it should last roughly,", squinting, he sucked in a breath for dramatic effect, "fifteen years".

"WHAT?" _______ yelped, "You've got that wrong, surely?" "It's adorable how you think you grasp the severity of your situation, when you clearly don't.", he scoffed before letting out a small chuckle. Reaching in a hand under his cloak, he pulled out what was presumably the contract and unfolded it to show only _______. "Do you intend to only spare her?", tentatively asked her Auntie, voice hushed like her words might kill her if she spoke them any louder. Again, he scoffed, "The old Crone there isn't worth the trouble of an execution, and she", he pointed right at _______'s face, barely a centimeter from slapping her as he did so, "Is young and clearly fit enough to work this contract as written. YOU are neither. I'll give you a chance to live by still confiscating the evidence but any suspicions that lead back to you leave your fate thrown to the wolves. Tag along if you wish but I don't you'll be much use to my associate." A chance to stay and live, especially while Grandma (sturdy as she was) would still be here, even if it was but a chance and not a certainty seemed too vital to cast aside. No, better she be here for Grandma rather than risk both herself and _______ dying and leaving her to fend for herself. "I'll... stay, thank you." _______ shot her a desperate glare, pained and conflicted. She can't really be serious? The contract was still held there, the Sheriff growing impatient, so she took it from him to glance it over. "...", she looked back up, "You do realise I can't read this?" Snatching it back briskly, he began to read the contract in full, she assumed. The terms seemed fair. Room, board, food, pay contributing back to her debt she owed the nobles, doing general duties expected of a servant / maid, even tending a garden of sorts? It seemed strangely described and involved caring for some animals? Her family did pasture sheep they made the wool yarn from for a while so, that shouldn't be too hard. "Now, normally you'd sign your name, but since you're illiterate I'll just sign your name on your behalf. What was it again?" "_______" "No, your full, legal name." Confused, she repeated, "_______" "Right..."

#blue eye samurai #abijah fowler #💌resources by rose!#abijah fowler x reader #blue eye samurai x reader #blue eye samurai x you #fanfic

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scotianostra · 3 months ago

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Crime statistics for Edinburgh, 1898-9 included reported 939 cases of disorderliness, 833 of incapability, 150 of loitering, 76 of drunk in charge of a horse, 15 of found wandering and 43 of nuisance. Other offences included 6 of brothel keeping and 5 of cycling without lights

Info from Andy Arthur @cocteautriplets on twitter

#scotland #scottish #history #edinburgh #crime statistics #Victoria Edinburgh

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hypnotisedfireflies · 10 months ago

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Would I be an absolute LOC slut if ask for asked for a little prompt about Tess having to give birth to Ellie on her own and how she had to deal with it all, thinking that Joel abandoned her and their baby?

I just keep thinking about that period, especially after the short story in CN&OS with the Bandit Era of Joel and Tess and them working out of the brothel. Tess, knowing the Madam, made me wonder if she might have helped Tess during that time-period.

Hello, lovely! Legend of Charro questions are always welcome, and thank you for yours!

I’m going to answer this as more of a ramble. My brain is kind of out of Charro-mode in terms of being able to turn out decent prose (we can thank IO and it’s sticky plot for that) so I hope you don’t mind if I do it this way! It might be something I can write properly if I go back to these guys in the future.

The below story ramble refers to events from my western AU The Legend of Charro and the short story, Disreputable Means.

Tess was with Adelaide (the future madam) when she gave birth. The bordello wasn’t under Adelaide’s rule then and she and the other girls were in a bad situation with some pretty unpleasant guys running things. Adelaide met a heavily-pregnant Tess by chance outside the bordello, when Adelaide was being stalked by a patron who’d been kicked out for being drunk, disorderly and rough the previous night. Tess was dangerously low on cash (the money wire hadn’t yet come through) and sleeping rough. She intervened when things got dicey for Adelaide and they took care of the guy together. It was very messy and very dirty. He took a lot of killing.

They were both pretty terrified and in a lawless part of town. Adelaide, seeing Tess’s condition, took her back with her to the bordello. She and the other girls essentially hid Tess in the kitchen. In exchange for laundering and helping Cook, she had somewhere safe to stay, as long as she stayed out of sight.

Adelaide and Tess became fast friends while she was there. To keep her safe, Tess told Adelaide her name was Amy and she made up a story about where she was from and how she came to be by herself. The others probably bought it but Adelaide didn’t. She was used to keeping her own secrets and so never pried into Tess’s.

Tess gave birth in the bordello. Fortunately for them all, the labour came in the early morning when the patrons were gone and the proprietors and pimps drunk and dead to the world. But with Ellie in the house, the secret would get out sooner or later. They took a chance and concealed mother and child in the woodshed for a few days, and then Tess had to leave. The consequences would’ve been dire for everyone if they were found out.

(And where was Charro during all of this? Tess would never bring him into towns with her. He was too exceptional-looking and he wouldn’t suffer town stables. He would just be waiting for her in the wild. All Tess would have to do was walk out a ways and he’d find her again).

Tess went to the post office on the off-chance there might be word from Joel, and found the money wire and … well, we know what she thought of that.

The two women wrote to one another sometimes over the years. It was hard to keep track of Tess, but Adelaide knew where she could send letters and Tess would pick them up. It wasn’t long after Tess had gone that men bearing wanted posters with Tess’s likeness on them came to town. Adelaide now knew who she really was.

Tess had a pretty bad time of it during those early years. Ellie wasn’t a happy baby and Tess almost gave her up to be sent back to Black Creek to be raised by Joel’s family (which she ultimately could not do as in the story). Once the money ran out, Tess’s options were limited. She couldn’t stay anywhere long or she risked being found out, she couldn’t bring Ellie with her because it made her disreputable, so her options for making money legitimately were severely reduced because of these factors. She would stash Ellie with unknowing families, pay them to keep her while she “ran errands” – which essentially meant she was entering banditry to make money. Eventually, she found Henry and Sam and they were far enough away for Ellie to stay with them, permanently hidden.

Despite everything she and Ellie had a very, very close bond. Tess put all the love she still had for Joel directly into Ellie. The life of their daughter helped her to find a way to forgive Joel for what the thought he’d done (thanks, Isobel) and when she was into banditry, that was where she expelled her anger. Ellie never saw Tess angry, and she never had a bad word to say about her daddy. Tess was determined that she get Ellie “right” and that “bringin’ her up proper” was all that could redeem her. The only time Charro carried two people was when Ellie was small and he’d bear her and Tess together.

Adelaide and Tess met once again when Tess was passing through town. She did not have Ellie with her and was very vague with Adelaide about what had happened to the infant. Adelaide intimated that she knew who Tess was and warned her to stay away. Tess noticed that Adelaide had some pretty bad bruises, was too thin, looked like she hadn’t slept. She told her another vague story, something about knowing what to do with men like that, and if she ever wanted to change things, she had only to let her know.

Eventually, things got very bad at the bordello and Adelaide reached out to Tess for help. And did she ever repay the kindness shown to her. There was a big shoot-out between the whores and the men, but by sundown, the bordello belonged to Adelaide.

#asks #the legend of charro #tlou fic #tlou

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hanasnx · 1 year ago

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small talk

MINORS DNI 18+ WARNINGS: mentions of alcohol and drug usage | contains details about a brothel | lian being marginally jealous.

LIAN shifts her hips in tandem with her horse's trots. It's hooves kicking up water from the stream they pass through. The handsome stranger that escorts her says nothing, merely leads. Her brother hangs back, becoming acquainted with their newest addition to their party: Xiaoli.

There's little to occupy the time, so Lian catches up to their hired guard. He does not show her he registers her presence, and after growing up in a palace, she tries not to perceive it as disrespect. She's sure he doesn't mean it.

"What's your name?" she asks to make conversation, realizing she'd could've offended him by taking this long to ask.

Finally, he casts her a side-glance, and considers hiking his horse to draw forward so he could indicate his disinterest. The reason he doesn't is because she's a lady. A noblewoman of high stature, indeed. He huffs through his nose, moistening his chapped lips from the crisp air. "It'd be safer if you didn't know." he replies, his grip on the reigns tightening at the grim reminder of his origins.

If Lian had a stronger backbone, she might've pushed through, "Surely you can't be serious." she might say. Instead, she bows her head, pressing her lips into a thin line.

He regards her lack of confidence, and is torn between being grateful for the silence and guilt for shutting her down. The poor girl is still coping with her circumstances, but he can't coddle her when he's got his own problems. The horses reach the bank, trotting uphill. When he merges onto a rocky pathway, the group follows, cutting through a town. It's quiet, smoke from pipes and fires curling into the gray skies. Their guard keeps a watchful eye on those whose gazes idle on their traveling throng. Unfortunately, they have no money for clothes, and their expensive fabrics stick out like a sore thumb.

A tavern comes up, and when they close in, Lian recognizes the true nature of the place. A brothel, drunken men filtering in and out searching for warmth in bodies willing. For the right price, that is. She has half a mind to look away, to glue her stare to her horse's mane, but she can't bring herself to. How couples laugh and pour drinks, it appears welcoming. She studies the mannerism exchanged between a woman and her mark, intent on milking him for all he's worth. The one notion that diverts her attention is that of the back of her companion's head and what he must be thinking. Would he rather spend his time in a place like this? High out of his wits in such a sultry atmosphere of pleasure and luxury? Has he ever?

When the town recedes out of their view, past the horizons, not one word has been spoken, shaking off still the fear of being caught. Perhaps, the villagers cared not for the reward money on her and her brother's heads, or their personal debauchery was best left untouched by the Black Guard's judgmental influence. Inviting them there, if only to turn in outlaws, would only bring trouble to their privacy.

The path, wider now, makes room for their escort as his horse aligns with hers again. It's unintentional, but she hopes against all odds he wanted to be closer to her. "Would you rather have stayed behind?" she questions him before she stops herself. The memory of where she met him resurfacing. How he cared only for his sword and his artificial ecstasy as he clambered drunkenly about a pub.

"I'd rather make camp at sunset." he responds. He sounds displeased. It convinces her further he'd rather do anything but this, rather be anywhere but here with her.

"Have you ever been to a disorderly house?"

He's reticent. Contemplative of whether or not to reveal any detail about himself.

After a moment, he concedes, “There was a time I would’ve loved to be drowning in women," As he lulls his head in her direction, she meets his gaze in time for his eyes to wander lower, scanning her form. Once caught, he's unabashed, lulling his head to face forward. "but those days are over.”

Heat spreads to her cheeks, coloring them.

#indy: drabbles #ch: jacob x lian #jacob drabble #outcast (2014)#jacob x lian #outcast jacob #outcast jacob x lian #outcast jacob x lian smut #jacob x lian smut #outcast fanfiction #outcast 2014 #outcast 2014 fanfiction #jacob fanfiction #lian fanfiction #jacob x lian fanfiction #outcast jacob smut #outcast lian smut #jacob smut

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hjertetssunnegalskap1 · 1 year ago

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So I noticed a strange little thing that probably only will be interesting for me. Still, I gotta share it, because I don’t know what else to do with it. In that scene in the magic trick shop in Good Omens s2 ep4, the shop owner mentions a man, William Ellsworth Robinson, who got killed doing the bullet trick in 1918. Robinson used the stage name Chung Ling Soo, pretended to be from China, and claimed to have been the pupil of Albert Taen Arr Hee, a known magician/ acrobat/ tradesman from China. I have been hyperfocusing on Albert Taen Arr Hee and his family for three years, mostly because I looked for a possible connection to my family tree, and then I ended up falling down a bottomless rabbit hole.

You see, Albert Taen Arr Hee was part of one of the very first Circus troups from China that toured USA and Europe. Also, he had an adoptive sister, Achuen Grace Amoy Eaton, or, she was most likely sold as a child to his parents, Tuck Quy and Wang Noo. Tuck Quy led this group of Chinese jugglers and acrobats that toured the world. While Albert stayed on as a circus artist and later became a tradesman, Grace escaped the circus life, married and moved with her family to Canada. She was the mother to the well-known authors Edith Maude Eaton (“Sui Sin Far”) and Winnifred Eaton (Onoto Watanna).

You can see how I could so easily fall down this rabbit hole, right? This family had so many intriguing stories to tell.

Oh, and Albert married Frances Poolman, the sister to Isabella Poolman, or Bella Freeman, who was a coffee shop owner, brothel madam and fence, who supposedly devoted her life and money to tracking down the Whitechapel murderer. Because she had been familiar with one of his victims. Bella was prosecuted a number of times for running a disorderly house. She ended up very rich, apparently.

Oh, and Albert founded the stores of China & Japan Goods TAEN-Arr-Hee, in Berlin and Dresden, around 1880, and his sons took over, and that’s a whole other story.

Anyway. I just never expected to stumble over the mention of this magician Robinson, who more or less was connected to all of these other stories (and more). I shouldn’t be surprised, of course. Neil Gaiman knows how to sprinkle his stories with interesting anecdotes and historic facts like these.

So yeah. Fun times.

#neil gaiman #good omens #hyperfixation #good omens s2 #edith maude eaton #winnifred eaton #bella freeman #achuen grace amoy eaton #acrobats #magicians #history #circus #whitechapel

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conradscrime · 2 years ago

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The Canonical Five: Mary Jane Kelly

April 02, 2023

Mary Jane Kelly is who is known as Jack the Ripper’s 5th and final canonical five victim, however, there is much less information known about her upbringing compared to the other four women.

It is believed by many that the information we do know about Mary Kelly is embellished, with her having fabricated details that are known about her early life.

The man Mary Kelly had most recently been living with before her murder was named Joseph Barnett, and he later claimed Mary had told him she was born in Limerick, Ireland around 1863 and her family had moved to Wales when she was a child.

Supposedly Mary Kelly had told an acquaintance that she had been disowned by her parents, but she was close with her sister. It was said from Joseph and Mary’s landlady that she had come from a somewhat wealthy, good family. Joseph also claimed Mary confirmed she had seven brothers and at least one sister.

Mary’s landlord, a man named John McCarthy claimed she had received mail from Ireland, but not regularly. It was also believed that Mary was illiterate, as Joseph claimed she would ask him to read her the newspaper reports of the Jack the Ripper killings.

Though it’s been reported Mary had blonde or red hair, she went by the nickname of “Black Mary” suggesting she actually had quite dark hair. She also had blue eyes and some claimed to have known her as “Fair Emma.” It is estimated that Mary stood at about 5′7″ tall, and some said she was quite attractive.

On November 10, 1888, the day after her murder,

the Daily Telegraph

described Mary as “tall, slim, fair of fresh complexion, and of attractive appearance.”

In 1879, at around the age of 16, Mary married a coal miner named Davis or Davies who ended up getting killed 2-3 years later in a mining explosion. After this, Mary lived with a cousin in Cardiff, and this is where it is believed she started being involved in sex work.

In 1884, Mary left Cardiff and moved to London, where she worked as a domestic servant while lodging in Crispin Street, Spitalfields. In 1885, it’s believed she moved to the district of Fitzrovia.

Mary eventually began working in a high class brothel in the West End of London, becoming one of the most popular girls. She did quite well for herself and bought expensive clothes and hired a carriage at this time. Supposedly Mary had met a client named Francis Craig who took her to France, but she returned to London two weeks later, not having liked the France life.

It is believed that in 1885 Mary Kelly began drinking heavily. She moved around quite a bit lodging with different women and different men around this time.

It was on April 8, 1887, that Mary Kelly met Joseph Barnett, with the pair agreeing to live with each other after only knowing one another for a day. They lived in George Street, and soon a place called Little Paternoster Row, but were evicted for not paying rent and of drunk and disorderly conduct.

In early 1888, the two moved into 13 Miller’s Court, a single room a the back of 26 Dorset Street, Spitalfields. Mary had lost her key to the door, so she would bolt and unbolt the door from outside, putting her hand through a broken window by the door. A neighbour claimed Mary had broken the window when she was drunk, and a man’s coat often was used to act as a curtain.

It was said by Mary’s friend Lizzie Albrook, that Mary was sick of how she was living in 1888 and wanted to go back to Ireland. Her landlord said that she was a quiet woman when she was sober but very noisy when drunk. When Mary was drunk she often could be abusive to people, and was nicknamed “Dark Mary.”

Joseph lost his job as a fish porter in July 1888 due to committing theft, and because of this, Mary turned back to sex work. Mary would often let other sex workers sleep in their room at night when it was really cold because she did not have it in her to refuse them shelter.

It is believed that on October 30, 1888, Joseph moved out as him and Mary got into a fight about a sex worker named Julia sharing their room with them. Between November 1 and November 8, Joseph visited Mary almost everyday, sometimes giving her money.

The last time Joseph visited Mary was between 7-8 pm on November 8, 1888. Joseph claimed Mary was with her friend, Maria Harvey and that he did not stay long. He also apologized to Mary for not having any money to give. It is reported that both Joseph and Maria left Miller’s Court at the same time.

Joseph went back to his lodging house and played cards, falling asleep around 12:30 am. Before Joseph left Mary that night, her friend Lizzie Albrook also visited. Lizzie claimed Mary was sober.

In the evening, Mary reportedly had one drink in the Ten Bells public house with a woman named Elizabeth Foster. Later on, Mary was seen drinking with two other people at the Horn of Plenty pub on Dorset Street.

A sex worker named Mary Ann Cox, who also was a resident of Miller’s Court claimed to have seen Mary going home drunk with a stout, ginger haired man, around the age of 36 at 11:45 pm. The man was wearing a black bowler felt hat, had a thick moustache, had blotches on his face and was holding a can of beer.

Mary Ann actually had spoken to Mary Kelly, they both said goodnight. Mary Kelly then entered the room with the man. Mary Ann heard her singing the song, “A Violet from Mother’s Grave.” She was still singing when Mary Ann left her place at midnight, and when she returned an hour later around 1 am.

Elizabeth Prater lived in the room directly above Mary Kelly. She reportedly went to bed at 1:30 am, and the singing had stopped.

A man named George Hutchinson who knew Mary, claimed he had met up with her around 2 am on November 9, 1888 on Flower and Dean Street. Mary had asked George for a loan of sixpence, though he claimed to be broke. George said Mary Kelly walked toward the direction Thrawl Street when she was approached by a man of “Jewish appearance.”

The man was looked to be about 34-35 years old and George said he was suspicious of him because while it did seem like Mary knew him, his appearance made him look suspicious in that particular part of town. It was also said that this man made an obvious effort to disguise his looks from George, having his hat covering over his eyes as he passed.

George provided police with a very detailed description of said man, and told them he had overheard Mary talking with the man, complaining she had lost her handkerchief, and the mysterious man gave her a red one that he had. George heard Mary say to the man, “Alright my dear, come along. You will be comfortable.” And then the two walked into 13 Miller’s Court with George following them, though George never saw either one of them again.

A laundress named Sarah Lewis also claimed she had been walking in the area to meet up with friends around 2:30 am, when she noticed two or three people standing near the Britannia pub, among the people was a nicely dressed young man with a dark moustache and he was talking to a woman.

Both the man and woman appeared to be drunk and there was a poorly dressed woman standing near them. Opposite from Miller’s Court, Sarah said she saw a stout looking shorter man standing at the entrance to the courtyard. Sarah also saw an obviously drunk woman with a man further up the courtyard.

Mary Ann returned to her room around 3 am that morning and claimed she did not hear or see any light coming from Mary Kelly’s room at the time. She did think she heard someone leaving at around 5:45 am.

Elizabeth Prater who lived in the room above Mary Kelly and Sarah Lewis who was sleeping at 2 Miller’s Court that night both reported hearing a faint cry that said “Murder!” between 3:30 and 4 am, but didn’t do anything about it because this was common to hear cries in the area. Sarah Lewis said it was only one scream so she did not think much of it. She also claimed she did not sleep that night and heard people coming and going out of the court throughout the night.

Elizabeth Prater said she left her room at 5:30 am to walk to the pub for a drink, but saw nothing out of the ordinary.

On the morning of November 9, 1888, Mary’s landlord sent his assistant to collect the rent. Mary herself was 6 weeks behind, owing 29 shillings. Shortly after 10:45 am, the assistant knocked on her door but got no response. He tried to then turn the handle, but the door was locked. He looked through the keyhole but did not see anyone in the room.

Using the broken window, he peered inside the room and found Mary Kelly, completely mutilated lying on the bed. She was estimated to have died 3-9 hours before she was discovered.

The assistant ran to tell the landlord, and then went to inform the police. The assistant immediately told the police it was the work of Jack the Ripper. A surgeon came to look at the body, and police gave orders to prevent anyone from entering or exiting the yard (I know, impressive for 1888 police work.)

Bloodhounds were sent in, but it appeared to be impractical. It appeared that women’s clothing had been burning, and authorities believed Mary Kelly’s clothes were burnt by the murderer to provide light so they could see what they were doing.

Joseph Barnett identified Mary Kelly’s body, he could only identify her by the ear and her eyes due to the severe mutilation.

The mutilation done to Mary Kelly was the most extensive of all of the Whitechapel murders, with many believing it’s due to the fact that the Ripper had more time to commit this one in a private setting.

During the autopsy it was noted that it most likely took 2 hours to perform all of the mutilations on Mary’s body, the death was further estimated to have occurred between 2 to 8 am.

Her body was found lying naked in the bed, her head turned on the left cheek. Her legs were left wide apart, the whole surface of the abdomen and thighs were removed and her abdominal cavity was emptied (but later said there was food found in it). Her breasts were cut off, her face was hacked beyond recognition, gashes occurring in all directions. Her ears were partly removed.

Her neck was cut through the skin and her other tissues were cut down to the vertebrae. Her air passage was cut at the lower part of the larynx. Her heart was taken. There was also blood splatters on the wall, lining up with her cut throat.

She had a superficial cut on her thumb, which some believe was caused while she tried to defend herself from her attacker.

It was believed during the autopsy that Mary Kelly had been killed from a slash to her throat, and the mutilations were performed after she had died. It was not believed that the murderer had any medical knowledge.

The inquest into Mary’s death began on November 12, 1888. After testimony, the jury had a short deliberation and the verdict was that Mary Kelly had been murdered by a person or persons unknown.

Police did house to house questioning trying to get answers as to who murdered Mary Kelly. A few people claimed to have seen Mary on the morning of November 9, after she had supposedly been murdered, though police could not find anyone to corroborate those sightings, as well as the descriptions of Mary didn’t match.

On November 10, 1888, Mary’s murder was linked to four other murders: Mary Ann Nicholas, Annie Chapman, Elizabeth Stride, and Catherine Eddowes. There was also an offender profile made, which stated the killer was an eccentric person, who was in an extreme state of satyriasis while performing the mutilations on Mary and the four previous victims.

There were no other similar murders after Mary Kelly’s and a lot of people believe she was the final victim of Jack the Ripper. Most believe these Whitechapel murders ended due to the killer dying or going to prison.

Over 100 years after the Whitechapel murders, two authors named Paul Harrison and Bruce Paley theorized that Joseph Barnett, Mary’s partner, had actually murdered her during a jealous rage. They took the theory farther, stating that perhaps Joseph also murdered the other 4 canonical five, trying to scare Mary from engaging in sex work.

Others believe Joseph did kill Mary, but only Mary and had tried to make it look like a Jack the Ripper killing to avoid being captured. The fact that Mary was found lying naked on her bed, with her clothes folded on a chair leads many to believe that her killer was someone she knew or who she thought was a client.

Some people do not believe Mary Kelly was a victim of Jack the Ripper at all. Mary was assumed to be around 25 years old, much younger than the other victims who had all been in their 40′s. Also, her mutilations were more extensive than the other four, she was killed in a private location and her murder occurred 5 weeks from the previous killings which had all occurred within a month.

In 1939, author William Stewart theorized that Mary might have been killed by a midwife, “Jill the Ripper” in which Mary was going to have an abortion. Stewart believed perhaps the midwife had burned her own clothes, putting on Mary’s and that’s why people the next morning believed they saw Mary after she had been killed.

Mary Kelly was buried on November 19, 1888 in St Patrick’s Roman Catholic Cemetery in Leytonstone. None of her family members could be found to attend her funeral. The inscription on her grave reads, “In loving memory of Marie Jeanette Kelly. None but the lonely hearts can know my sadness. Love lives forever.”

#unsolved #UNSOLVED MYSTERIES #unsolved crime #unsolved murder #unsolved case #murder #jack the ripper #london #canonical #five #last #victim #whitechapel #murders

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hikichanbeatz2000 · 2 months ago

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Emily parody ""redesign""

feeling tired n edgy today so I decided to work on that one hazbin hotel parody (disorderly brothel)

everyone meet Pari Bajaj, a news reporter from India

here's some facts about her:

-she's 28 years old

-she's the main protagonist of disorderly brothel

-she has an older sister named "Bhuvi" (the parody counterpart of sera)

-she works for an company called "what's happening in Janesville right now"

-she's based off the nerdy Indian character stereotype

-her first name means "angel" or "charitable" in hindu

-she has an very nerdy, passionate, clever, witty, skillful and determined personality

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lafcadiosadventures · 2 years ago

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“Hablé de la etimología posiblemente africana de la palabra. (…) Lugones propone como etimología la palabra latina tangere, tango… sí… tangere, tango, tetigi, tactum. Pero me parece muy inverosímil que la gente que frecuentaba las casas malas de la época fueran humanistas y tomaran palabras del latín: no creo en la erudición de los compadritos de la calle Chile o de la calle Rodríguez Peña, o del Tambito.”

“I have mentioned the possibly african etymology of the word. (…) Lugones proposes as an etymology the latin word tangere*, tango… yes…tangere, tango, tetigi, tactum. But I find it very unverosimile that the people who frequented the disorderly houses** of the time were humanists and borrowed words from latin: I don’t believe in the erudition of the compadritos*** from Chile or Rodriguez Peña streets, or from the tambito.”

Jorge Luis Borges, Los orígenes del tango.

* to touch, to play (an instrument)

**brothels

***lunfardo (porteño argot) word, diminutive form of compadre: mate, pal, companion. Compadritos were the partners and sometimes pimps of prostitutes, credited with forging tango along with them. Osvaldo Bazán in Historia de la homosexualidad en Argentina affirms compadritos are one of the first queer subcultures in Buenos Aires, since they scandalized the population with their flamboyant fashions and effeminate hip movements while walking. They were often seen dancing tango amongst themselves, shocking the other men waiting to be serviced in the brothels.

#jorge luis borges #orígenes del tango #my translations #isn’t it ‘fun’ how hard some intellectuals will try to erase africa from our cultural history #although i think borges is making some wide generalizations that none of the tango players could know latin #after all not all people asociated with the creation of tango were small time gangsters like the compadritos #nowadays the theory that tango is an african word is very accepted

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beardedmrbean · 2 years ago

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The European Medicines Agency (EMA) said on Tuesday that it was "very concerned" with Amsterdam's plans to open an "erotic center" near its headquarters.

The center is to include about 100 "work spaces" for sex workers, as well as bars and entertainment.

The agency is tasked with reviewing approvals for vaccines and new medicines, among other things.

Why is this happening?

The capital of the Netherlands has been considering relocating brothels out of its historic red-light district for years as it seeks to curb the effects of mass tourism on residents. Prostitution has been legal in the country since 2000.

The EMA building is near a number of major hotels and the city's financial district.

Also in February, Amsterdam's city council announced a plan to ban the smoking of cannabis in the red-light district in a bid to tackle mass tourism.

What did the EMA say about the plan?

In February, Amsterdam announced three possible locations for the shift, including two near the new EMA building.

A decision is to be made in autumn.

The agency said it was "very concerned" about the plan to move the center.

"The change of the location of the Red Light District is motivated by concerns of nuisance, drug-dealing, drunkenness and disorderly behavior," the EMA said.

"Locating the Erotic Center in close proximity to EMA's building is likely to bring the same negative impacts to the adjacent area," it said, adding that it was concerned about the safety of staff and visitors.

The EMA moved its headquarters from London to Amsterdam in 2019 following the United Kingdom's withdrawal from the European Union.

The agency noted that it had an agreement with the Dutch government on guaranteeing "security and tranquility" at its offices. It said it would fight the plan "at the highest appropriate political and diplomatic level" alongside the European Commission.

#nunyas news #lol #should have set up in a different city #not one that's globally known for this kind of thing

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apsny-news · 2 years ago

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Pharma regulator objects to ‘Red Light District’ relocation — Apsny News

The European Medicines Agency (EMA) is opposing plans to move nearly 100 of Amsterdam’s brothel windows to a center near its HQ Europe’s pharmaceutical regulator, the European Medicines Agency (EMA), says it has concerns about potential “disorderly behavior” in the vicinity of its Amsterdam headquarters if the Dutch city follows through with plans to build an ‘erotic center’ nearby. In 2021,…

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xtruss · 2 years ago

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Taverns and public houses at ports of call throughout the Atlantic were frequented by pirates and locals alike. Illustration Via Pictures NOW, Alamy Stock Photo

Where Did Pirates Spend Their Booty?

The cash flowed—and so did the drinks—at taverns across the Caribbean during the golden age of piracy. But these watering holes weren’t just for getting drunk.

— By Jamie L. H. Goodall | December 13, 2022

When pirates weren’t marauding on the high seas between the 1650s and 1730s—the so-called golden age of piracy—they sought haven in Caribbean ports to restock their goods, fix their ships, and hide from authorities. During these downtimes, they often spent their time in taverns.

Any Caribbean port worth its salt offered a bevy of drinking establishments where locals and travelers—including pirates—could come together and enjoy a hearty drink. Without doubt, pirates had a propensity for drunkenness. They were frequently described as drunk and disorderly, but it wasn’t all about villainy and debauchery. Wheeling and dealing was the name of the game.

“The Capture of the Pirate Blackbeard, 1718” by Jean Leon Gerome Ferris. Painting By Jean Leon Gerome Ferris, Private Collection, Bridgeman Images

Choices, Choices

Back then, pirates had a choice of two types of drinking establishments: public houses (or pubs) and taverns. A public house was, quite literally, a private house that was made public. At a time when brewing ale and beer was poorly regulated and untaxed, many people saved money by brewing their own. Anyone with an excess of ale might open their house to passersby, including pirates—those wanting to keep a low profile would be especially interested.

Taverns, on the other hand, were spaces built for the sole purpose of selling drinks, serving meals, and providing entertainment. A good tavern would have a sitting area, a bar, a dance floor, and even a stable to look after a customer’s horse. Sale notices, reward posters for enslaved individuals who had escaped, and news of trials and hangings covered the walls. Local prostitutes worked the crowd. Taverns were open regular hours and sold other drinks besides ale, notably wine, rum, and whiskey. They often had upstairs rooms for visitors to overnight.

Port Royal, Jamaica was overflowing with taverns during its zenith, with some 40 licenses being issued in a single month in 1661. Photograph By Phil Clarke Hill, In Pictures Via Getty Images

The Art of Deal-making

Despite their rowdy reputations, taverns often served as centers for community activities. For one, they functioned as informal places for sharing information and intelligence. Here, news about the latest political scandal or treaty negotiation could circulate widely. In Barbados during the 17th century, for example, the assembly regularly met at a tavern instead of a dedicated meetinghouse. Secondly, taverns often operated as a casual place of commercial negotiation.

Pirates also used these public spaces to their advantage. In between swills, they interacted with a variety of individuals, recruiting sailors, promoting mutiny on merchant vessels, and learning about the trade routes of various merchant ships.

Pirates also made business deals with society’s rich upper-class merchants and political figures, who didn’t dare be seen with them in traditional commercial sites. One visitor to Jamaica, John Taylor, remarked in 1683 that the island’s inhabitants possessed a great amount of wealth and myriad modes of entertainment because of the pirates and privateers—pirates operating with official permission from the British crown to protect their interests from the Spanish-- who frequented the taverns and brothels there.

The triangular trade throughout the 16th to 19th centuries was the transatlantic movement of enslaved people, goods, and cash crops among West Africa, European colonies in the Americas, and Europe. National Geographic Maps

Fueling the Consumer Revolution

During that time, Europe, led by England, developed policies, created trade routes, enslaved Africans, and protected markets connected to their colonies in America. This triangular trade network, which provided Europe with raw materials like cotton, tobacco, and indigo from the colonies to turn into finished goods and relied on the work of enslaved individuals, fueled a consumer revolution—a huge demand among commoners and gentry alike to possess material goods that suddenly were more affordable. Societies used to scarcity suddenly were bombarded by frenzied consumption.

The taverns became hubs of economic activity in this new type of economy. Merchants, tavern keepers, inhabitants, and pirates were all involved in the business of trading fashionable and luxury items, including tea, furniture, clothing, and spices.

A gold bar and coins recovered from the Spanish galleon Nuestra Señora de las Maravillas that wrecked in 1656 off the Bahamas in 1658. Photograph By Jeff Rotman, Nature Picture Library Via Alamy Stock Photo

Fencing Loot

Pirates also traded in expensive ill-gotten loot. It’s no secret that in the course of their jobs, they plundered valuable items from their victims. But what use did they have with Chinese porcelain, English and Dutch blue-on-white tin-glazed earthenware, and fancy German Westerwald ware? Tavern owners readily took these costly items off their hands (no doubt at a fraction of the original price), thereby supplementing their own collections. The pirates, in turn, may have their profits in the same establishment.

Pirates also hawked their goods to unscrupulous dealers, who would later sell them through legitimate channels. In this way, average people collected a wide variety of cultural material that they might not otherwise have had access to or been able to afford. Of course, this did little to help the rightful owners who had no hope of regaining their treasures.

DRINK AS THE GREAT EQUALIZER: Women played an important role in tavern life. They were quite often licensed drink sellers throughout the Caribbean. And many women were cited for operating unlicensed or disorderly houses on the islands, such as Martha Harris who, in 1655, was accused of selling liquor illegally from her home. Harris was so invested in illicit alcohol sales that she declared if the authorities seized what she had, she would just get more and sell it. Additionally, in many of the port towns that pirates frequented, women were quite often tavern patrons or workers. A pair of common 17th-century drinking vessels found in Port Royal, Jamaica. Photo Via Port Royal Project, Texas A&M University

Cash Flow

By virtue of their business practices, pirates dealt in large amounts of cash. In 1683, a visitor to Port Royal, Jamaica, named Francis Hanson was astonished to find that, unlike in other locations, where accounts were kept in commodities such as sugar or tobacco, there was so much cash available in Jamaica that it rivaled the city of London.

According to 18th-century buccaneer Alexandre Exquemelin, taverns and brothels easily “got the greatest part” when it came to pirates’ booty. One piratical venture, for example, might allow a man to squander in a month 1,000 pieces of eight, a form of Spanish currency that became the world’s first global currency. Pirates were even known to drop two to three thousand pieces of eight in a single night, which was more than some local laborers would earn in a year.

Pirates and privateers were very active in the Caribbean during the so-called golden age of piracy. Illustration Via Culture Club, Getty Images

The avern Keeper’s Woes

As for the tavern keepers, income was income no matter what form it took, prompting them to freely supply pirates with their drinks of choice. No wonder Port Royal—one of the largest pirate havens at the time—boasted over 100 taverns by 1680.

Sometimes, this economic model led to trouble for the tavern keepers. In 1721, Port Royal locals accused a tavern keeper named John Dunks of supplying a pirate with men and provisions and allowing another pirate to escape persecution by springing him from jail. John Perrie, a tavern owner in Antigua, was accused of trading with pirates in his tavern at St. John’s and harboring pirates from the law.

The Importance of Taverns

Taverns offered Atlantic world inhabitants, including pirates, a location in which they might conduct business, share knowledge, and create economic and social networks without fear of government interference. The islands of the Atlantic world were particularly well suited to host such exchanges, as inhabitants often relied on pirates and innovative merchants to provide necessary goods and services that were disrupted during incessant periods of international warfare. Without taverns, pirates would have had a much more difficult time fencing their loot and refitting their ships. They also would have had no place to spend their ill-gotten money or enjoy their free time.

— The National Geographic

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