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beloveds-embrace · 2 months ago

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(The awaited regicide addition! A huge thank you to @sun-daddy-yoriichi and @thegreyjoyed for reading this beforehand and giving me their thoughts and pointing out the typos I missed! To @nightunite and everyone else, I hope you all enjoy!)

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Dukedom masterlist

The halls of the Palace were as oppressive as they were grand, a suffocating testament to a monarchy that, to you, had long since lost its soul. Towering columns of alabaster rose toward impossibly high ceilings, their surfaces carved with scenes of divine rulers ascending to eternal glory. The frescoes above- gold-leafed and luminous- depicted gods bestowing crowns upon mortal kings, and with those crowns, the right for greed.

It was a vision of power untouched by humility, a stark and painful mockery of the kingdom that groaned under its weight. Under its own monarchy’s weight.

You moved through the opulence with the practiced grace, your silks whispering softly against the cold marble floors. The jewels at your throat sparkled, but they felt like chains around your neck. No amount of finery could shield you from the oppressive weight of those walls- or the eyes of the man who ruled within them. You couldn’t wait until you could leave at last.

King Edgar, on the other hand, sat upon his throne of carved ebony and gold, draped in garments that spoke of wealth beyond even your imagination. But the man beneath them was a creature of cruelty. His gaze was sharp, predatory, as though he were dissecting those before him for weaknesses to exploit. Edgar wielded his authority like a weapon, each word carefully chosen to cut deep.

And you had made the mistake of challenging him. You and John both.

When Edgar imposed brutal taxes to fund yet another palace wing for a Queen never satisfied, for the concubines he keeps, John spoke out in the council chamber. When he refused aid to the starving eastern provinces, you arranged for secret shipments of grain. Neither defiances were ever bold enough to be declared treason, but it burned like an ember beneath his throne.

For this, you both earned Edgar’s ire.

But it wasn’t just ire. You wish it had just been ire.

Edgar’s disdain for you, specifically, had taken a far more personal turn. At court functions, he would find reasons to draw near on the now-rare chance you weren’t close enough to John, his presence impossible to ignore.

His hand would rest on your shoulder, his grip firm enough to press a message into your skin: I am in control. His words were always mix of thinly veiled insults and mocking observations, the look in his eyes something that made your stomach twist.

This last court gathering had been the worst yet. Edgar had been in rare form, seated at the head of a long banquet table while nobles competed for his favor. You had been seated nearby, as was customary for a duchess of your rank, but unfortunately, proximity to the king was a double-edged sword not even John could outright protect you from.

“You look radiant tonight, Duchess Pricee,” he had said, his voice loud enough to draw the attention of the room. John’s hand landed on your thigh, squeezing lightly, comfortingly. “Tell me, do you think your husband appreciates your beauty, or is it wasted on him?”

The comment was met with nervous laughter from the assembled nobles, their eyes darting between you, John, and the king. You forced a tight smile, keeping your voice measured. “The Duke has always been a man of great appreciation, Your Majesty. For beauty, and for substance.” You turned to look at John then, finding safety in him.

Edgar’s smile didn’t falter, but his eyes darkened. The conversation moved on, but the tension lingered like a storm cloud. Later, as the banquet ended and the guests began to disperse, Edgar found you near one of the towering windows while you waited for John to finish speaking with a Baron. The light of the full moon was beautiful, but there was nothing serene about the way he cornered you.

“You should know your place, Duchess,” he murmured, his breath brushing your ear as he leaned in far too close to be proper. The scent of his perfumes was so heavy it made your head swim unpleasantly. “Perhaps I’ll remind you of it one day. You’d make a good teacher, at the very least, for my other women.”

The implication behind his words froze you to the core. You felt his hand graze your arm- light, but too close-before he turned and strode away, leaving you trembling with suppressed fury and fear. Queen Vivian, the only witness to this encounter, merely cuts you a dark, nasty look before she leaves as well.

You hated him. You hated her. You hated both of them.

You tell your men as much later that night, after Kyle helped you shower and kisses every inch of your skin until you could no longer think about the way Edgar had touched you.

John’s face darkened as you spoke. He sat by the fire, his broad shoulders hunched, his hands gripping the arms of his chair like he was holding himself back. Across from him, Simon’s jaw ticked, eyes unreadable beneath the flickering shadows of the room. Johnny paced the room, his usual good humor replaced by a simmering rage, while Kyle stood in the corner, his expression calm but his hands tight while he held yours.

“He’s a bastard,” Johnny muttered, accent thick with anger. “I’d love ta wipe that smug grin awff his face.”

“He’s more than a bastard,” John said, low and dangerous. “He’s a threat. To her. To the kingdom.”

Simon leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees. “This isn’t just about his treatment of her. The people are starving, dying in the streets while he and the Queen feast on their labor. They are desperate, and will grow more desperate as winter fully comes…” he trailed off, but you had always been sharp enough to read between the lines.

And still, you hesitated. “…are you saying that-?”

John looked up, his eyes meeting yours. “We are saying it’s time for a change. If this continues, we are looking at a kingdom that will fall.“

He stood up, striding until he was pulling you into his arms and Kyle easily let you go. “But if we stop it now… we are looking at a kingdom that will prosper under new rule.”

And so, the plan was born in that room.

But still, plans and results take time. In that time, you still do your best to help your people:

The smell of smoke lingered in the air, heavy with the scent of charred wood and burnt houses. You stood at the edge of a village that had been reduced to rubble by one of the king’s careless decrees- his soldiers had come through a week ago, demanding supplies the villagers couldn’t afford to give. When they refused, their homes were set ablaze, leaving them with nothing but ash and grief.

And now, you were a witness to it. But you wouldn’t be a bystander.

John stood beside you, his face carved from stone. His shoulders and back were set straight, but his eyes softened when he turned to the group of villagers huddled nearby.

They looked up at him with a mix of awe and apprehension, as though they weren’t sure whether to trust the tall, battle-hardened man who had appeared out of nowhere with promises of help, and he couldn’t blame them. He likely reminded them of the same soldiers that ruined their lives, but he hoped your presence would soothe that animosity just a little.

Simon moved silently among the wreckage, not a Duke; masked and armoured, he had no identity in this moment. Yet, when a small child stumbled toward him, soot smudged across her cheeks and her eyes teary, he knelt without hesitation even when he could see her father and mother rushing towards them.

“Easy now.” he said, his voice low but gentle as he handed her a chunk of bread from his pack. The girl blinked up at him, her tiny fingers clutching the food as though it might vanish if she let go. Simon stepped back when her parents reach them, nodding his head towards them.

“Got the last of the grain sorted,” Johnny called, his arms loaded with sacks of provisions like the other servants. His coice carried a warmth that drew the attention of the villagers. “We’ll get it distributed fair and square- no one will be left hungry, aye?”

And Kyle was already speaking with the village elder, his calm, measured tone putting the man at ease. He had a natural way of connecting with people, one you were so fondly familiar with, and soon, the elder was nodding, gesturing to the scattered remains of what had once been homes. “We’ll help you rebuild,” Kyle said firmly. “But we need to know if any of the king’s soldiers are still nearby.”

They weren’t worried about repercussions or punishments; the King and Queen would just likely use this as an opportunity to boast about how they convinced John Price and his lovely little wife to help those in need.

As the men worked, you found yourself among the women and children, offering what comfort you could. You knelt beside an older woman who was cradling a young boy with a bandaged arm. “You’ve done well to keep it clean,” you said, inspecting the makeshift dressing. “But it needs proper tending. Let me help, please.”

She hesitated for a moment before nodding, tired eyes brimming with gratitude. As you worked, the boy looked up at you, his small voice breaking the silence. “Are you the Queen?”

The question startled you, and you glanced at John, who had overheard. He smiled faintly, his expression softening as he turned back to the villagers he was helping.

“No,” you replied, brushing the boy’s hair back gently. “I’m just someone who cares.”

Though you still heard the older woman sigh quietly. “… should’ve been you the Queen.”

Later, as the sun dipped below the horizon and the village settled into an uneasy calm, the five of you gathered around a fire with the villagers, everyone now with coats and blankets to fight off the chilly night.

“They will likely not come back.” John told them, easing them more. “But even if they did- the Duchess and I will help. The Price and Riley duchies will never turn you away.”

You glanced at the men surrounding you, their determination. They were the hope these people desperately needed. Not a greedy King and an impassive Queen.

Your plans had to succeed.

Late at nights, you all sit together. Tonight, you were pressed to Johnny’s side, finding comfort in the soft smell of sugars and cinnamon and his arm warm and heavy around you.

John spoke, his voice a low rumble. “The army’s discontent is no secret. Edgar’s burned too many bridges, especially with this recent village raid, and Simon and I still have allies who’d follow us.” His blue eyes met yours, steady and unyielding. “But we’ll need more than soldiers to topple a king.”

Simon nodded. “That’s where Kyle comes in.” He said, squeezing Kyle’s hand. “His network runs deeper than the king realizes. Servants, merchants, guards and soldiers- they all talk. We’ll plant the seeds of truth, let Edgar’s reputation rot from the inside out.”

Kyle leaned against Simon, squeezing back. “I don’t need to do much. People are already whispering. About the taxes, the famine, the soldiers running unchecked. Give them a reason to believe the king can fall, and they’ll push the rest of the way.”

Johnny grinned, his usual lightheartedness sharpened into something fierce. “And that’s where I come in, eh? The common folk already hate him. They just need a spark. I’ll give it to them- allies, stories, newspapers, whatever it takes to light the fire.”

Then all eyes turned to you.

“You want me to be the face of this,” you said, more a statement than a question. Your heart pounded in your chest, but you… weren’t afraid. You trusted them fully and unabashedly.

“You’re more than the face,” John said firmly. “You’re the reason, beloved. The people already call you the People’s Duchess. They trust you. They have reason to trust you.”

Simon leaned forward, his gaze locking with yours. “They need someone they believe in. Someone who cares about them more than titles or power.”

“You don’t have to be ready,” Kyle added, gentler. “You just have to lead. We’ll do the rest.”

Johnny kissed your cheek, raising your hands to kiss your knuckles. “They see you as hope, lass. And hope’s a powerful thing.”

Such a big responsibility, and yet…

If they believed you could lead this, maybe you could.

Another night, weeks into the planning, spreading and investigating, John found you in your study. The room was dimly lit, the fire casting warm light over the worn leather of the armchairs. You sat by your desk, going over the latest reports from the villages who were slowly and steadily understanding, when you felt his presence behind you.

“You shouldn’t have to carry this alone, my Duchess,” he said softly, leaning over you to brush a kiss across your bare nape, jewelry forgone for comfort.

You turned to face him, smiling. When he cupped your cheeks with such gentle hands, you leaned into his touch right away. “I’m not alone. I have all of you, no?”

John stepped closer, his fingers brushing your skin. “We’ll protect you. From him, and from anyone who dares to harm you.”

His words, the protectiveness that laced each letter, carried a weight that made your breath hitch. When he leaned down, his lips brushing yours in a tentative kiss, you didn’t pull away. Instead, you reached up, tangling your fingers in his hair as the kiss deepened, his hand sliding to your waist to pull you up and closer.

When Simon walked in moments later, he froze. Then, with a low chuckle, he closed the door behind him and stepped into the room. “Didn’t mean to interrupt.”

“You didn’t,” John said, voice husky as he straightened, his hand still on your waist. You were trying to catch your breath, butterflies fluttering in your stomach and a slow, curling heat between your thighs.

Simon’s eyes met yours, and for a moment, the air grew thicker and warmer. Your dress felt like too much on your skin- you wanted to take it off. “You’ve no idea how much you mean to us, do you, darling?”

His words sent a shiver down your spine, and when he stepped closer, his hand cupped your cheek with surprising tenderness. He leaned in, his kiss slower, more deliberate than John’s, but no less consuming.

When the door opened again, it was Johnny and Kyle who entered, their expressions shifting from surprise to something far more intense as they took in the scene. What followed was a night of you being adored, their touches and whispers a vow, a promise to make you Queen, a devotion that words could never capture.

Eventually, in due time, it happened.

The coup began with the precision of a blade, honed by months of preparation and carried out by hands both steady and ruthless.

Under the cover of night, John and Simon led their soldiers into the Palace, moving like shadows through the grand halls. Years of military training were evident in every step, every silent order given and every hand waved. John’s voice cut through the tense air as he directed his men, his commands sharp and decisive.

Simon reminded everyone why he had earned the respect he was given.

Kyle’s network of informants worked in perfect synchronization with the military strike, just as they’d predicted. Loyal (to the people) servants within the palace dismantled its infrastructure from the inside- locks were jammed, gates sealed, and secret escape routes collapsed.

What had once been a fortress of power was turned into a cage, leaving Edgar and Vivian trapped within their own walls.

Beyond the palace, Johnny roamed the streets, igniting the people’s fury like sparks to dry timber. His words were a rallying cry, weaving tales of justice and liberation that resonated with a populace crushed under Edgar’s rule. Crowds gathered in the streets, their anger swelling into an uncontainable wave and further encouraged by Johnny.

By dawn, the city was awake, and its people were ready to reclaim what had been stolen from them.

Inside the estate, you paced the length of your study, the minutes dragging by like hours. The room felt stifling despite the cool night air, your thoughts a cacophony of fear and hope. You had wanted to be there, to stand beside them in the heart of the action, but your men had insisted you remain safe and sound. The helplessness clawed at you, but you trusted them.

You had to.

The doors burst open, and Johnny stepped inside. His clothes were disheveled, streaked with blood and soot, but his grin was feral and triumphant and you could feel a matching grin forming on your face. The fire in his eyes was unshakable. “It’s done. The palace is ours, lass. It’s time.”

The throne room was a battlefield, its previous grandeur marred by the evidence of the rebellion. The alabaster columns still stood tall, but the golden trim was tarnished by smoke and blood. Soldiers that did not join the rebellion lay bound and defeated across the marble floors, their weapons scattered.

And at the center of it all knelt Edgar, expensive robes torn and stained, his crown discarded and dented, all glory stripped from him. Vivian clung to him, her once-perfect facade crumbling into a mask of fury and fear.

“This is treason!” she shrieked, her voice piercing the heavy air. “You’ll hang for this, all of you! Guards! Guards!”

Edgar ignored her, and raised his head as you entered, enraged. “You dare to challenge me?” he spat, blood his voice trembling despite his bravado. “You think you can rule this kingdom? You’re nothing but a woman playing dress-up, a woman with too much freedom-“

You stepped forward, the sound of your heels- Simon had bent down himself, kissed your ankles and placed them on your feet by his own hands- echoing through the chamber. The weight of your fury steadied your voice as you replied. “And you’re nothing but a tyrant who will be forgotten. You will not be remembered for your glory, or achievements. Just… a simple speck of dust.”

At your signal, Simon hauled Edgar to his feet with ruthless efficiency, his gloved hand gripping the torn fabric of Edgar’s robes.

Edgar’s sneer faltered as his gaze flicked to John, then to Kyle, whose cold, measured gaze spoke of a resolve that could not be broken. Finally, his eyes landed on Johnny, who leaned casually against the throne, his dagger spinning idly between his fingers, his grin sharp as the weapon itself.

“You’ve surrounded yourself with traitors, John-” Edgar hissed, but his voice wavered, betraying the fear he couldn’t suppress. “This bitch-“

“Watch your words.” John shoved his sword right in front of Edgar’s face, a scoff falling out of his mouth, while Simon chose to grip Edgar by the roots of his graying hair, pulling tight. “The mud at the bottom of her heels is worth more than you’ll ever do, Edgar. Do not speak of treachery when you, your wife, and your family had betrayed this kingdom first.”

The weight of John’s words hung heavy in the air as Edgar’s sneer crumbled, and for the first time, you saw fear in his eyes.

It made you… happy.

It made you happier to know what their fates were, watching Simon and Johnny drag them away. You’d have to kiss them extra hard later… including some other things, of course.

When the throne room was finally cleared, John ordering the soldiers and Kyle speaking to the palace servants, you lingered near the grand windows overlooking the celebrating city. The adrenaline still coursed through your veins, leaving you trembling.

The men found you there, the tension of the night giving way to a quiet that was almost more overwhelming.

Johnny reached you first, his usual teasing grin tempered with a softness you rarely saw. “You were bloody brilliant in there, sweetheart,” he said, warm and fond. “Never seen a tyrant look so small.” His hand brushed your arm, and his voice dropped, the edge of his accent rougher now. “You’ve got more fire in you than half the men I’ve known.”

Before you could reply, John stepped forward, his presence grounding you. He cupped your chin with surprising tenderness, tilting your face. “You’ve had more done tonight than Edgar’s done in all his miserable life.” He’s quiet, filled with pride.

Simon appeared at your other side. His gloved hand settled on your waist, unyielding. “You’re ours now,” he murmured, low and rough. “Our Queen. And no one- not a king, not an army- will ever lay a hand on you again.”

Kyle joined you last. His fingers brushed yours, as gentle as a whisper. His eyes were on the celebrations and songs, then on you. “You’ve given them hope,” he said softly, admiration shining through. “You’ve given us all hope, love. Let us retire for the night, hm? Everything else can wait until the morning.”

“For now,” Simon cut in, shaking his head, and his eyes were alight and alive. He looked at you in such a way that made you shiver, cheeks warm. His hands settled on your waist, squeezing. “I’d like to see our Queen on her rightful throne.”

No disagreements rang out.

And in the morning, the sun rose on a kingdom reborn.

Standing on the palace balcony, a crown on your head, you looked out over the gathered crowd. Their cheers rang out, echoing through the city with a fervor that sent pride up your spine. The people had come not just to celebrate the fall of a tyrant but to welcome the dawn of a new era.

As the golden light bathed the kingdom, you felt the weight of your new crown. It was heavy, but you were not alone; you had John, your King. Simon, Kyle, and Johnny. All of them were with you, supporting you.

You’d never want for anything else.

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flowerandblood · 6 months ago

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Paradise Fruit (1)

[ Kingdom of Heaven • King Baldwin x female ]

[ warnings: watching each other masturbate, soft, poetic smut, a detailed description of the deadly disease and the unpleasant symptoms associated with it ]

[ description: After being treated by King Saladin's physicians, King Baldwin begins to leave his chambers. The people of the court whisper around her that the young ruler will not even live to be thirty years old. As a lady of waiting of his sister, she attracts his attention. ]

Author's Note: I said it and I did it: I know this isn't your typical Ewan Mitchell character, but I couldn't resist. I'm glad I wrote this because I had too many thoughts after watching this movie and now my soul is at peace! For those who haven't seen Kingdom of Heaven, I highly recommend it, it's an amazing production.

Word count: 3.900

Part 2 – White Marriage

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

My other works: Masterlist

_____

Jerusalem seemed to her at once a paradise and a hell on earth, both beautiful, sublimely sacred, as much as broken, dirty and cruel. The reign of King Baldwin IV was a reign of restraint and peace, the greatest evidence of which was his rich diplomatic correspondence with King Saladin himself.

Baldwin gave permission for the Muslim part of Jerusalem to hold prayers as it wished, on payment of appropriate taxes – a huge step towards reconciling the city's disparate population and a cause of contention among the Christian knights.

As lady of the court, she accompanied the royal sister, Sibylla, like her shadow, serving her with conversation, reading books in her company, being the equivalent of her friend and confidante, watching over her welfare.

She was the third daughter, and was therefore a burden to her lord father, who sent her to Jerusalem to the royal court when she was thirteen. Her father hoped that Sibylla herself would find her a suitable husband and put up the coins for her dowry, allowing her family to glory on the Old Continent in the fact that her chosen one was favoured by the God in the Holy Land.

Looking at Princess Sibylla's marriage, she prayed that she would never meet her fate, preferring to eventually fade into old age in a monastery.

Her Lady abhorred her husband: not in a physical context, for he was not unlike other great knights in stature or appearance, but in his heart, which was filled with the lust for power.

Although he believed that he was acting in the name of Christ on the Earth, he represented neither his mercy nor his prudence, being a simply unkind and spiteful man.

Sibylla was given in marriage to him at the age of 15, and she watched her sufferings and humiliations in silence, only being able to allow herself occasionally to close her hand on hers, giving her encouragement.

It was known that her husband's dream was the death of the King, for it would then be his wife who would become heir to the throne. Someone might laugh at this wish, knowing that King Baldwin was only 16 years old when she arrived at court.

However, despite such a young age, it was known that the King would probably not live to see his thirtieth year.

The cruel disease that had descended upon his body when he was still a young child, leprosy, was the reason why his whole body was covered, and his face was adorned with a beautiful silver mask – the only thing visible through it were his eyes, bright and wise, the skin around his eyelids all red.

His sister despaired at his undeserved suffering, at the thought that his body was falling apart, his skin peeling and pulling away from his muscles, causing him excruciating pain. He could not touch anyone or be touched directly because his disease was contagious.

Thus, one of the greatest rulers of Jerusalem, a man who had accomplished the impossible and ushered, at least for a while, the Kingdom of Heaven into this forbidden holy land, suffered daily torment.

As she prayed for the health of her family and his sister, she also prayed for him – since Christ was able to miraculously cure lepers, as the Bible itself said, perhaps there was hope for him too.

As a sign of respect and friendship, the Muslim King Saladin sent a retinue of his best physicians to relieve the King of his pain, which must have helped at least to some extent, for although she had previously only seen him in audience standing by his sister's side, now the King began to walk through the palace gardens on his own.

One day, when Sibylla noticed him standing next to one of the monks, she approached him immediately, praising his name, and she moved humbly to follow her, feeling grateful at the thought that the King was indeed feeling better.

That perhaps her prayers had been answered.

"Brother. It rejoices me to see you in the fresh air, away from the suffocating comfort of your chambers full of books and parchments." Sibylla said, pulling her shawl from her mouth, revealing her face to her brother.

As a married woman, she covered her face out of sheer decency, as her husband was a jealous man, but she, as a maiden, in addition almost always being in the presence of her Lady, did not have to do so.

"Your judgement is too harsh, dear sister. Books and parchments are my solace in the hardest of times." He said calmly and lazily, effortlessly – it was the first time she had heard his voice this close and she thought the words coming out of his mouth were like humming.

He had a white linen cloth draped over his head that reminded her of the headgear of the pharaohs, a richly embroidered white robe and gloves on his body, a silver mask portraying the features of a handsome, masculine man on his face.

She swallowed hard as his gaze shifted to her, catching her looking shamelessly at her ruler's face, causing her to lower her head immediately.

"Let's take a walk. We should take advantage of the beautiful weather." Said his sister, wanting to take his arm, he however moved away immediately and shook his head.

Pain and sadness crossed Sibylla's face, but after a moment she only nodded and forced herself to smile, walking ahead with him, letting her and the King's servant walk a few steps behind them.

That evening, for the first time, the King summoned her.

"Do not fret." Sibylla said. "My brother is a man of decency and sensitivity. Rest assured, he will not set upon your virtue or force you to do things unworthy of a lady. He confessed to me that he would like to look at your face for at least a moment longer and asked me to convey his wish to you, indicating that you may refuse."

She looked at her in disbelief, feeling the blush of embarrassment appear on her cheeks at her words, feeling her heart begin to pound like mad.

"If it is the will of our beloved King, I will do so." She said, and Sibylla nodded, giving her one satisfied smile.

She wore her most beautiful robe and hair adornments as if she were about to attend a nuptials – the material cast over her body was blue, fastened at the shoulders and waist with golden buckles, in her hair at the sides jewellery resembling a wreath of laurel leaves.

As she entered his chamber, candles burned all around, she was also struck by the intense scent of lavender – she noticed immediately his white, seated figure bent over thick tomes. His head turned towards her, in his mask she was able to see the reflection of everything around him.

"Do not be afraid. Come closer." He said softly and she nodded, feeling her heart flutter in her chest like a bird.

Her footsteps on the stone floor echoed through his chamber, the rustling of her robe as she sat down opposite him made her sound similar to the rustling of leaves.

She swallowed hard as she watched him sigh and spread out comfortably in his chair, looking her straight in the eye – she immediately looked away, unaccustomed to such confidentiality with anyone.

"No." He said. "Don't deny me this pleasure."

She tightened her fingers on the material of her garment, lifting her gaze to him again, feeling herself involuntarily begin to breathe through her mouth.

She could see the calm and curiosity in his eyes – his head was tilted slightly to one side, as if he was thinking about something, silence all around him.

"I'm making you uncomfortable." He concluded.

She shook her head quickly, horrified, thinking that something in her posture or gaze had discouraged him.

"No, Your Grace. I just don't know how to behave. What is appropriate for me to do or say in your presence. Silence is safe." She confessed in shame, lowering her eyes to her fingers again, reminding herself after a moment that she should not do so.

The King hummed at her words.

"Do not take my words as my attempt to mock you, however, knowing how little time I have left in this wretched world has made me tread lightly in courtly etiquette." He said with amusement, not taking his eyes off her, something flashed in his gaze as if someone had lit a candle inside them.

"We waste time feigning care and respect, hiding what is true, arising from the depths of our hearts, because that is what etiquette demands of us. When we stand before God, will we say to him: I have never really loved or sympathised, but my lips have left many beautiful, great words?" He asked, and she looked at him in disbelief, completely surprised by his approach and what she had heard.

Some part of her knew he was right.

"In this world, only the King can afford to lack beautiful words." She muttered, hearing after a moment that something akin to a chuckle had left his lips.

"You are mistaken. One word from the King can either create or destroy."

She lowered her head, wondering if he had just rebuked her, he, however, seemed satisfied.

"My reign will end with my death, which will be in a few years at the latest. I will not beget an heir to whom I can pass on my philosophy of ruling, the values that are essential. My sister's husband and his greed will sit on the throne, and Jerusalem will fall." He said calmly, as if he were telling her about the weather, his fingers clad in a white silk glove tapping rhythmically against the table top.

She swallowed hard, feeling a squeeze in her heart, wondering if perhaps the reason he had summoned her was quite different from what she had suspected.

"What shall I do, my King?" She asked, and he laughed again, louder this time, looking at her as if something in her question gave him pleasure.

"Your devotion rejoices my heart. Do not think, however, that you will hear from me an order that would condemn you to eternal damnation. I could not then leave this world in peace. No. I wish that when I disappear, someone will watch over my sister. To help her escape when all is lost here, no matter what her husband will desire. Do you understand what I have in mind?" He asked softly, and she nodded, thinking she felt more respect towards him than ever.

"Yes, my King." She replied.

He smiled at her words, she saw it in his gaze. She lifted her gaze higher, towards the windows by which the shoots of dried lavender hung, surrounding them with a pleasant, refreshing scent.

"I had these beautiful flowers brought in from far away. They mask well the unpleasant ailments of my illness on hot days. The smell of rotting flesh is one of the most disgusting to man, for nature equates it with spoiled food from which he can die." He explained, and she looked at him in disbelief, feeling hot shame ripple through her body at his words.

His suffering must have been unimaginable.

"Knights praise their own greatness and bravery during battles wishing for songs to be sung about them. I, for one, hope to hear songs about Baldwin IV, a wise and prudent King, a merciful Monarch who fought each day with his own suffering and triumphed. I do not know the words that can convey my admiration for your person." She mouthed in a trembling voice, feeling that her hands lying on her thighs were quivering all over with emotion, burning tears for some reason squeezed under her eyelids.

The King looked at her for a long moment in silence, something in his gaze that made her feel a pleasant tingling in her fingertips.

"Your soul is as beautiful as your body. You are like a breath of cool wind on a hot day. I am grateful to you for allowing me to experience this joy."

As she left his chamber, for some reason she burst out crying.

She could not understand why: it seemed to her that her heart squeezed all over in pain, not only out of compassion, but also out of a sense of injustice that a man so great and enlightened was experiencing undeserved torment every day.

Or was it through his ordeal that he became such a man, such a King?

If the gates of the Kingdom of Heaven were to open before anyone in the second life, it was before him, she thought.

That night she could not sleep: she was ashamed of herself for thinking about him. She tried not to pay attention to men, knowing their nature, knowing that they might consider it an invitation on her part to sin.

However, the time she spent with him, although she might perceive his words as ambiguous, seemed to her something almost spiritual, a moment of awakening, as if she had been in a half-sleep until the moment she looked into his eyes.

His gaze would find her in the audience among the other servants and ladies of the court. She knew this because his eyes stopped on her face, and although he listened intently to what his subjects were saying to him, she knew that for that one moment he was focused only on her.

The flutter of her heart shamed her, allowing her to realise that, like a flower, a warm and pleasant feeling was blossoming within her, coming from God.

"You occupy my brother's thoughts. He follows you with his eyes." Said Sibylla as they walked together through the corridors of the great, cold stone fortress.

"It was not my desire to distract him from the affairs of the Kingdom." She confessed with shame, entwining her fingers on her womb, looking sadly at her fingers. His sister snorted at her words.

"Jerusalem is destroying him. It is the Kingdom that is his disease. He has taken upon himself all its sins, purified it. He gave it years of peace and dignity." She said with a pain from which she felt a sting in her heart.

Why was it that whenever she thought of him she wanted to cry?

"I want to relieve him." She said finally, looking at her uncertainly, afraid of how the words sounded when they left her mouth. Sibylla stopped, looking at her with furrowed brows.

"Don't be a fool. My brother will not condemn you to a fate similar to his own."

"There are many ways to experience relief. You said so yourself, Princess."

Sibylla looked at her thoughtfully and after a moment nodded, giving her wordless consent to whatever she wished to do.

The trust she had in her intimidated her.

As the siblings' chambers were next to each other, walking along the corridor from one quarters to the other was not a problem for her – Sibylla dismissed her guards so that no one could see in what negligee she went to the king's chamber.

Her long hair was loose, her body covered only by a thin nightgown, rubbed with fragrant oils, on her shoulders a cashmere shawl with which she covered herself to protect herself from the cold.

When she closed the door behind her and turned to face him, his eyes were wide in shock. He was silent for a moment, clearly not knowing what to say.

"No." He said finally. "Go back to your chamber."

"I have not come to you to sin. Does the sight of me disgust you, my King?" She asked in a trembling voice, feeling that she was breathing heavily through her mouth, her heart pounding like mad in her chest.

She saw something in his gaze that looked like he felt pain, his figure creased slightly, as if he had run out of strength.

"God created you to subject me to the ultimate trial. He is torturing me like Job."

She felt a single, warm, heavy tear run down her cheek at his words, her body trembling all over, hot and cold at the same time with desire, though she did not know what kind or what was causing it.

"God sent me to soothe your suffering." She whispered.

They looked at each other like that for a long moment that lasted an eternity, and only after a while did she realise that his silence was due to the fact that he wanted whatever she was going to do to be due to her free will. Therefore, she moved tentatively towards his bed, on which she saw a clean, snow-white sheets, and lay down on her back, putting her shawl aside.

She looked up at him – his gaze was fixed on her, his silhouette sitting in a chair by the window frozen in stillness, the whiteness of his attire seeming to her to shine amidst the candles and the surrounding darkness of the night.

She swallowed hard, feeling the dryness in her throat as her fingers lifted to the ties of her nightgown – she untied the knot, a pleasant squeeze spreading between her thighs, something sticky beginning to leak from it onto the sheet beneath her buttocks.

"– does what I am doing disgust you, my King? – is it a sin? –" She asked, sliding the thin material off her shoulders in a gentle, soft motion, unashamedly revealing her plump, sweet breasts. His gaze fled to them, as if what he had just seen simultaneously terrified and excited him.

"– looking at you, all I feel is desire – it's me sinning in my mind, not you –" He whispered so that she barely heard him, his hand sliding from the table top to his thigh.

Though she knew it was wrong, her whole body screamed, wanting him to touch her, to check for himself how soft and warm her flesh was, her moist, swollen womanhood, pulsing around nothing in desire.

"– not just you, Your Grace –" She muttered in a trembling voice, shamefully mimicking his movements, her long, small fingers sliding down her belly between her thighs, sinking into her warm folds like the moist flesh of an exotic fruit.

His head bowed as they both made a strange, unnatural sound full of surprise at the same moment, a moan as if they had caused each other pain, but yet all she could feel was a wonderful, hot tingling in her quivering womanhood, in her lips, in her nipples, in the tips of her fingertips.

He did not allow her to look at what he was touching under the material of his robe, she could however see the shape of that part of his body outlined on the material – his manhood was long and fat like a piece of stick, growing larger and larger with each squeeze of his hand.

She threw her head back, imagining feeling something that big inside her, in an involuntary reflex finding with her fingertips her puffy slit, slick and tight, resisting her as she tried to slide it inside her.

"– let me see –" He whispered, as if asking for something dirty, disgusting, repulsive.

She, however, felt only the heat of pleasure at his words shake her body – her thighs involuntarily parted, her legs bent at the knees allowing her nightgown to shamelessly reveal all that only her husband should be able to look at.

She felt tears under her eyelids at the thought of wanting to be his wife.

"– you have my love, my King – you have my heart –" She breathed out, digging her fingers deeper into the delicate structure of her folds, teasing again and again the small bud from which her body went through shivers of wonderful, familiar pleasure.

His eyes were fixed on what was between her thighs, his gaze hazy and hot, his breath heavy, the sound of his hand smacking against his flesh sticky and lewd.

"– like the inside of a ripe fruit – like Eve in paradise –" He breathed out, staring at her as if he were looking at something delightful, accelerating the splats of his hand with a low grunt of pleasure. "– so beautiful –"

She felt a thrill of pleasure shake her, shivers ran through her cheeks, breasts and legs at his words, so shameless and yet poetic, beautiful, like the Song of Songs of King David.

"– her breasts are like two fawns –" She hummed, quoting one of the biblical verses, the gaze of her King again fixed on her face, full of fire, heavenly or infernal. "– like twin fawns of a gazelle that browse among the lilies –"

"– her lips drop sweetness as the honeycomb – milk and honey are under her tongue –" He whispered in reply, quoting another of the songs from the manuscript, making her involuntarily allow her own fingers to invade her insides at last.

She threw her head back with a girlish moan, her free hand gripping the frame of his bed, rolling her hips back and forth, stretching her tight interior with the sticky clicks of her wetness.

"– she is a spring enclosed – a sealed fountain –" He muttered and let out a low, helpless groan of relief, leaning down, his hand lying on the table top clenched into a fist.

She felt a wonderful convulsion shake her body at his words, her fleshy, moist walls beginning to throb and clench around her own fingers.

She imagined that her body had just sucked his seed deep inside her, which would take root in her like a tree, giving him a future and an inheritance.

She moaned as she felt her pleasure reach its peak, seeing for a moment only the darkness before her eyes – her fingers, all wet with her moisture stroked for a moment more the little spot deep inside her, her whole body hot and sweaty from the exertion.

Her release was wonderful and sweet, as if she had tasted the most delicious of fruits.

She opened her eyes and met his gaze, his figure relaxed and spread out comfortably on the chair, his hand laid back on its armrest, his glove sticky with something pearly and shiny.

They breathed loudly for a while, just watching each other – she decided not to cover her body, wanting to give him that pleasure, wishing only his gaze could see her like this.

Bare.

He sighed quietly, cocking his head, his gaze satisfied, indicating that he had clearly made a decision in his heart.

"– I will marry you tomorrow at dawn –"

She blinked and raised herself up on her elbows, horrified.

"– my King – that's not –"

"– I know that this was not your intention – I also know that you will understand that it will be a white marriage, which I will declare to all and sundry – you will not lose your maidenhood – you will not bear me children – the Kingdom will treat you after my death as a saint who stood by the dying King in his misery – when I join my Father in the Heavens, you will be free to remarry –" He explained and she shook her head, feeling offended by his words.

"– I will not take another husband –"

He fell silent and swallowed hard, as if something in the certainty in which she said this moved him deeply.

"– very well – I have only one condition: you will never take off my mask – not even after my death – you will see me as I am only in the Kingdom of Heaven –"

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former-leftist-jew · 4 months ago

Text

Of course I'm upset. I'm sick to death of Christians trying to take our shit and make it theirs, while giving us shit for not abandoning our shit for yours.

It's a Jewish movie, based on a Jewish story. Judaism exists just fine without Christianity, while Christianity can't exist without Judaism.

If you find meaning and fulfillment in a Jewish story it because Judaism preludes your Christianity: good for you. But stop trying to take our shit and make it yours.

Get your own shit.

Need this site to understand that "The Prince of Egypt" is BOTH a Jewish and Christian movie. Let no one rob it from the Jews, but us christians literally owe our faith to the same God who saw to and led the Exodus. The Ten Commandments are still in effect, Jesus did not abolish the law but fulfilled it, and to get to Jesus we needed Moses.

#cultural appreciation #chrisitan appropriation of judaism #jesus fulfilled ZERO jewish prophecies of the messiah anyway #and in the long run he and his followers fucked us over worse than king herod ever did #he was just one of many messianic claimants who didn't live up to the hype #and you and your lot fell for it #and moved the goalposts to say 'it still applies to him' even though it doesn't apply to him in any way #according to you--he ALREADY came back to life once and STILL didn't do any of the things the jewish messiah is supposed to do #“Oh Jesus is God and God is Perfect” except it takes Jesus three attempts to do something the Jewish messiah could do right the first time #Even by New Testament standards jesus didn't fit any of the criteria YOU SET for his messianic claim #“oh he was a direct descendant of king david”#a) you literally can't prove that since there are no geneological records and it was 2 thousand years ago #b) it was HIS STEPDAD Joseph who was supposedly the direct descendant of david--not Mary herself #Christian dogma makes very clear “Jesus was the son of God NOT JOSEPH” so jesus isn't even a direct descendant of king david #The New Testament also starts with the prophecy “your son will become king of the jews” -- except he NEVER BECAME King of the Jews!!#NOT in a legal sense--and not even in a spiritual sense since he failed to win over all of judea during his life and even after death #He was a literal cult leader whose followers grossed out other jews cuz they didn't believe in washing their hands before they ate #he didn't unite all the peoples of the world into one nation #he didn't bring a thousand years of peace following his death #he didn't drive out the romans and restore judea for the jews #Hell--jesus lived 40 years before jews were even driven into diaspora by the romans to begin with #So he didn't even fulfill the most BASIC Jewish messianic function of “restoring jews to the land of israel”#That thing that ancient jews created the 'messiah' concept for to honor the persian emperor cyrus the great #who restored ancient jews to their homeland after we were conquered and exiled by ancient babylonians #cyrus the great showed up #conquered the babylonians #and said to the jews “sure you can go home and worship your own god and run your own shit--just pay your taxes”#literally cyrus the great of ancient persia was more of a messiah to the jews than jesus ever was #y'all just moved the goalposts and changed the criteria of what a messiah is to make it apply to jesus after the fact #because history revisionism and wilful cherry-picking is what christians do best

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sunderwight · 1 year ago

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With moshang I think I'm equally fond of the possibilities/concepts where either Shang Qinghua is ludicrously attractive to demons in a broad sense (but doesn't realize it), or, where Shang Qinghua is just some weird little gremlin and everyone else cannot wrap their head around why THE Mobei Jun is so smug about seducing this man.

Or a combination, where no demon in their right mind would ordinarily look at Shang Qinghua and perceive a sex icon, but because such a high-ranking demon has clearly done so, they go "well there must be SOMETHING going on there" and then look closer and before they know it they're on the slippery slope to being horny about a guy who could help file their taxes or arrange to have their clan base's faulty plumbing fixed.

Basically it's all good. Demons en mass going "yeah yeah big scary dudes who punch good are a dime a fucking dozen around here, but do you know how hot someone who can skillfully use an abacus is?" vs demons going "the ice king is a respectable ruler but he has garbage taste in men, we all just smile and politely nod while he insists the weird rat guy he fixated on as a teenager is a catch" vs demons going "I really don't see the appeal -- wait he did what? he killed how many guys at once with 1 trick? he betrayed WHOMST? and lived?! and he knows how to get my door to stop making horrible squeaky noises?! okay yeah figures the king would marry him" but every option is a winner.

I'm also a big fan of both Shen Qingqiu and Shang Qinghua being not very attractive to demons in general, but it also being really common for demons to get super weird about first crushes and fixate hard on them, so in that sense they are completely normal choices for a couple of high-level demons to marry. Like the demon populace can appreciate the emperor actually landing his hot teacher and the king successfully marrying his teenage sweetheart. It's an idealized fantasy in terms of the scenarios, even if the actual guys are just weird humans. Nearly every average demon has lifelong daydreams about successfully seducing their first crush, so regardless of who those crushes turned out to be it's still a power move for LBH and MBJ to actually succeed.

Bonus if the fact that both SQQ and SQH are peak lords from the same sect leads to a bunch of demon kids developing crushes on the other remaining, unattached peak lords, and chaos ensuing. Especially for Liu Qingge. I think it would be funny for him to gain a flock of teenage demons with crushes, whom he keeps trying to fight off, only to discover that beating them up does NOT discourage them at all (actually makes the crushes worse). Or Yue Qingyuan getting mobbed like he's a pop star any time he makes a diplomatic visit to the demon realms. Sha Hualing deciding that she's just waiting for Liu Mingyan to become a peak lord before they make things official, since That's Obviously How It's Done, or Qi Qingqi doing a head count one day and realizing she suddenly has a bunch of unfamiliar "guest" disciples who sigh at her a lot and have funny-colored eyes...

#svsss #moshang #bingqiu #scum villain #scum villain's self saving system

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horizon-verizon · 5 months ago

Note

What do you think of George referring to Aegon and Helaena as "King Aegon" and "Queen Helaena" and Rhaenyra by her name in the new (now deleted) blog?

(Webpage Link)

And I said this in the comments of this post, but repeating myself: he's writing in the mood and "perspective" of the KLers who resented Rhaenyra and loved Helaena for the "sweetness" they felt Rhaenyra no longer had. I also wrote another independent post abt what sort of love the smallfolk had for Helaena HERE, which is very important for anyone to read BEFORE reading this post bc I'm not going to repeat myself. You also should probably read THIS POST that goes into how the Shepherd characterizes Helaena vs Rhaenyra.

A) The Actual Comments I Wrote:

[*EDIT: 9/8/24*] Adding/correcting, I was describing the free indirect style:

This is a literary style that allows the narrator’s voice to share with us the words, thoughts or feelings of the characters, without telling us that this is what they are doing. This means that the character’s thoughts or words slip into the third-person narrative, subtly shifting the perspective from that of the narrator to that of the character. It’s almost as though the narrator is the character for a moment, but they’re not – they’re still the narrator. Importantly, the speech or thought is not attributed to the character (for example with a ‘she thought’ or ‘he imagined’), so the reader must pick up on clues in the text to understand that these are the thoughts of the character, not the narrator.

[*END OF EDIT*]

And in response to what GRRM said that started this whole debate after someone else asked:

B) Jaehaerys, Rego Draz, and the Taxes/Executions (for context and comparison b/t smallfolk's reactions to taxes and executions):

I don't deny that the smallfolk loved her and GRRM was being sympathetic for Helaena when he wrote that post.

I am saying that:

He was writing, in that post, sympathetically bc Helaena was so from the smallfolk and Rhaenyra was reviled both here and at large by the narrative bc she was simply the more active party while being female; Helaena never actually ruled, she was always a consort and her person was more the accessory of Aegon or as a representation of "goodness", esp when the Shepherd contrasts Helaena's "purity" to Rhaenyra's "whorish" "evil", which further encourages the peasants to riot as they are already rioting

the smallfolk's sort of love for Helanea was not the sort that comes from just appreciating the person as is but as a contrast to the person they came to despise. And from that phenomenon, the smallfolk revealed another interesting phenomenon of how the actual people, the subjects themselves, can switch between diff "definitions" of queenship. Not kingship, QUEENSHIP, precisely bc gender, ethnicity, etc. did/does affect how the public will see a ruler's actions' effects on them.

The Shepherd and Helaena v Rhaenyra ("Rhaenyra Overthrown"):

When Jaehaerys strung up Rego Draz's murderers (Rhaenyra strung up those she had executed), it was during a time of "peacetime"/no war even as it was also a time of widespread fatal illness; he had no outside enemies who could invade at the same time, bc his mother and stepfather took care of that in a sorta-similar situation when he himself was still underage ("The Long Reign-Jaehaerys and Alysanne-Policy, Progeny, and Pain"):

Rego Draz, like Celtigar but much smarter about it, still also put taxes on common KLers after he and Jaehaerys did on luxury items (nobles) out of necessity. But the smallfolk of KL still took issue with Rego and not Jaehaerys both bc of said taxes AND bc Rego was a Essosi foreigner.

So yes, Jaehaerys did have to deal with a dying and ill populace and used an actually consummate master of coin...but those taxes still angered smallfolk enough towards violence & rape & looting ("The Long Reign - Jaehaerys and Alysanne - Policy, Progeny, and Pain"):

bc they were being taxed already through a gate tax BEFORE the Shivers came ("Birth, Death, and Betrayal Under Jaehaerys I"):

Were Rhaenyra's taxes very heavy, yes. Did she have much other option during a war where food was scarce and an invasion could happen at any moment AND the greens depleted the treasury she sought to quickly fill, no. Were there rumors PLUS the Shepherd's anti dragon, anti "bad" woman preachings incentivizing already resentful and starving people to riot against the woman ruling over them who they previously loved [evidence in the next section], yes. Did Jaehaerys really go through a similar situation, even with the Shivers being so terrible, no, bc he had more than Rego Draz, he had his own mother and stepfather basically pave the rulership-way for him before he came of age to become king for him and Rego to be able to implement the taxes as well as they did. The same Alyssa and Rogar who the KLers also took issue with for the taxes they made on them when they were trying to rebuild the Dragonpit ("A Surfeit of Rulers"):

Yes, Jaehaerys-Rego fixed this situation & learned from it--once again, neither ALyssa-Rogar-Edwell nor Jaehaerys-Rego had to contend with an ACTIVE war and a TOTALLY DEPLETED treasury nor the PREJUDICE AND HIGHER EXPECTATIONS against a female ruler. So....

C) Use of the Book to Show What I Mean abt GRRM's Use of the Smallfolk's Perspective and the Timeline/Transition of such b/t Before The Fall of King's Landing and After It

Before the Fall of King's Landing, & the taxes the KLers loved Rhaenyra as the "Realm's Delight" and such a moniker in the book connoted an image of pleasantness:

("Rhaenyra Triumphant")

("A Question of Succession")

("A Son for a Son")

Refer back to the very first pic/quote I give in this section. The moment Rhaenyra showed herself to be...not so "sweet" by the taxes during a time of fear of invasions/retaliations from the greens and their dragons, starvation, etc. bc...war (which she did bc the greens looted the royal treasury BEFORE she even landed & took KL but the smallfolk didn't know about that nor would they ever come to), and the previous image of her being charming, lovely, and innocently beautiful, innocently childlike transformed into her innate cruelty.

So yes, they resented Rhaenyra and many would not have wanted her as their Queen not just bc of taxes but bc the taxes were compounded by the...disillusionment(?) of that image/character of her through said taxation. thus the lack of "Queen" for Rhaenyra and "Queen" for Helaena and "Prince" for Maelor, both people who have no power, were very vulnerable to the actions of those around them, and nearly childlike or was an actual child whether in reality or in their imagination. At least under the greens--who Helaena is inevitably connected to--they weren't being taxed and Helaena has no real power herself to ever had affected the smallfolk's life so strongly.

This is what I think is being expressed through GRRM's writing in that particular blog post.

As for reactions to Aegon's coronation, we have Munkun saying the smallfolk were "most[ly] confused" by the announcement of Aegon's coronation and saying (some) Rhaenyra's name instead VS Munkun saying that there were many cheers when the actual coronation happened ("The Blacks and the Greens"):

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gallusrostromegalus · 7 months ago

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Have you talked about the agriculture and infrastructure of AEIWAM? Cause in the show we see the people of Seireitei eating, but they’re dead, so that’s a lot of dead people to be feeding. Plus you’ve established the mail service so public services are available in a way.

What’s the food situation look like? Do we have entire districts of people farming? Are there laws about it? Who can be bribed with a very specific food?

Autism Voice: How much are you prepared to learn about this topic? Because there's 5,236 words under the cut. Godspeed.

So in canon, souls don't "need" to eat, but do so out of habit, and also the rukongai is largely a feudalistic economy, which is not how habits OR feudalism work.

Not to drastically oversimplify enormous fields of history, political theory and socioeconomic, but if you were ever wondering WHY someone would tolerate living in a feudal system, the answer largely is "Because it beat the fuck out of the previous system, 'constant and devastating warfare'."

How feudalism gets started is easy:

There's a very large amount of people with no effective unified government for whatever reason (humans just moved into the area/an empire collapsed/a volcano blew up the general everything, etc.), and a limited amount of arable land, and therefore, a limited amount of food.

There's always a few assholes, and those assholes immediately try to establish dominance over the good turf with violence. This is the "constant warfare" phase of the agrarian government cycle.

In response, everyone bands together with their families and immediate neighbors to create defenses against The Marauding Assholes.

If one village is particularly defensible, or one marauder is particularly good at defense-breaking, people start to move in with whoever they think will do a better job of helping them stay fed. eventually these groups get big enough to need some kind of organization, and the organization tends to default to transactional loyalty.

I swear to god this is about the food situation.

The Transaction is thus: In exchange for taxes and you occasionally being called in for military Service, your Lord keeps the Marauding assholes away and does the obnoxiously complicated work of governance that helps farming but is too time-consuming for any farmer to actually do. Sounds like a good deal, right?

Smart people will recognize several glaring omissions and problems with that deal, but that's not important right now. After decades of "constant and devastating warfare", this is a relatively sane and fair deal.

This transactional loyalty continues up the political food chain: The leaders of several villages along a river need to coordinate efforts along that river or whatever, so they pick One Guy to be The Lord of the River Districts, typically the most popular guy in the clique.

...Or the one with the most heavily armed peasants.

In exchange for coordinating all the traffic/trade/environmental conditions along the river and ensuring peace between all the river districts, The River Lord also gets paid taxes and can call on all the River Lords to turn up with the heavily armed peasants should trouble come knocking.

Eventually, the River Lord makes an alliance with the neighboring Plains Lord and Mountain Lord and the Beach Lord up the coast because warfare suuuuuucks, and the most popular member of that clique is crowned emperor.

After a generation or two of relative stability, people have forgotten what the previous period of warfare was like, and develop the unconscious bias that it's Always Been Like This/the horror stories of your elders are just superstition. See: people who don't vaccinate their children because THEY never met anyone with Polio.

So they start pushing their luck.

Get funny with the ownership laws and realize they can make EVERYONE a renter and get away with being a shitass landlord.

Justify being a shitass landlord by coming up with things like "The Divine Right Of Kings"

Someone figures out that if you make everyone pay taxes in a grain crop, you can get away with EVEN MORE shitholery because you can force the peasants to use the bulk of their time and space to grow a crop that they have a limited ability to process and eat themselves, and grow their actual sustenance on the margins, so you can keep them in line with the constant but unspoken threat of starvation.

So if the Rukongai is running on a rice-based feudal system (which it is, because Kan is a rice-based currency and there are Noble houses and Lords and Daimyo in canon), souls MUST need to eat or the lords would have all been beheaded for being assholes who can't govern a while ago without the threat of starvation.

See? It IS about the food situation.

SIKE

I need to talk about law enforcement and postal services in the modern Soul Society now.

So the thing is: Until Ichigo and his friends show up and Cause A Ruckus, The Gotei-13 didn't actually have the authority to arrest anybody besides other Shinigami, people actively trying to Kill Shinigmai, and Hollows (theoretically) in AEIWAM.

See, after the initial period of "Various Lords make friends with each other for fun and profit", some Lords got really, REALLY good at getting other lords to sign up for their Multi Level marketing Schemes, and got stupid rich and also regular stupid doing it. Five of them specifically. These five super-popular guys were the Five noble lords, and their families that everyone pledged loyalty to became The Great Noble Houses: Shihouin, Kuchiki, Ise, and Shiba. AND DEFINITELY NOBODY ELSE.

The fact that all four of these houses were involved in a peculiar incident that imbued them with terrible spiritual power and some really kicass magical artifacts sure helped too.

Theoretically, any of these Four guys could become Emperor, but nobody was willing to bow to anyone else and it rapidly turned into the tensest five-way Mexican standoff, with a shitload of proxy wars between the minor noble houses that served the Great ones.

Great.

We're back to "constant, if somewhat less devastating warfare" AND we have to pay rice taxes.

...so some peasants invent anarchist communalism.

Not communism, they don't have control of the state, but they DO have Lords that are too busy doing poetry and snorting drugs to do their jobs... or catch them doing things that aren't in their lord's best interests.

So one village elder quietly whispers to another about "Hey, let's agree to trade grain and other supplies to each other at a discount and ah... not tell His Lordship about it. We'll have to send messages to each other in secret tho."

So Some Fucking Peasant becomes The Messages Guy, hoofing it all over the Rukongai delivering messages and facilitating an entirely lordless agrarian economy.

It's Kind of a Big Deal.

It's Kind of a Big Deal because peasants who can communicate are peasants who can ORGANIZE, and when word comes down from the scullery maids and underpaid clerks in the noble houses that the minor houses of X and Y are about to go to war at the behest of their masters THE MOST PECULIAR THING HAPPENS-

Holy shit. Terrible plague outbreak in the lands of Lord X. Hundreds dead. No way any village has anybody to spare for the war. What, you want to look? You want to catch this too? That's what happened to the last guy who came to look and look at him now! Crow food :(

Meanwhile, Lord Y and his two jackass sons have suddenly fallen ill. Must be that Plague from District X. Oh no! They died! Now the only Heir left is his daughter Lady X Who Was Doing All The Work Anyway. How unfortunate :(

and that's not even getting into the network of secret granaries, flash livestock auctions, refugee migration routes and fun new alliances with people like Bandit Gang That Is An Entire Calvalry But Better.

It gets to be such a big deal, there are TONS of message guys, and they organize and demand to be paid properly for all this running and not getting caught by the nobs.

And the first postal service is born.

And shit, now that they're organized, why not formalize some of these grain stores and livestock trades and does the cavalry want to help delivering these messages? Or how about all the Village Elders who are experts in various things write down how all that stuff is done so it can be shared? Maybe they should all have a chance to meet up and share wisdom in person...

Shigekuni Yamamoto is all of eleven years old when he hears the village elder who runs the orphanage float the idea. Much, much later, he'll recall that THAT was when the Central 46 began.

Gradually, the lordless network of elder advice and tax-free farm economy grows, and begins to develop internal structures of it's own, and slowly grows to rival the Noble Houses in power, the decentralization of the network making it difficult for the noble houses to even recognize as a player, let alone attack.

Sure, lone messengers are often captured by the armies of the noble houses, but the messages they carry make little sense- the peasants use an entirely different alphabet- and the messengers will bite their tongues off and drown in their own blood before speaking.

But the shape of this secret fifth house remains a mystery for a long time until it becomes An Fucking Problem for food-related reasons. Specifically:

Ever Since the noble houses came back with weird magic powers and fucked up artifacts, there's been more and more and MORE people who have their own fucked up magical powers who live bizarrely long lives and also there are these really fucked up creatures with skull-like masks and holes in their chest that FUCKING EAT PEOPLE??

Fortunately, if you've got one of these magical freaks in your village, they're GREAT at dealing with the hole-monsters or "Hollows"

Unfortunately, these guys need a TON of food.

I read a statistical analysis from a medieval European scholar who worked out that in an agrarian economy, if you want to have ONE full-time warrior, you need to have about 1000 people to support that guy in terms of services needed and the labor lost from them being a fighter. ...And these magical warriors have the appetites of three or four people.

So anyone born with Spiritual power in Soul society is a bit up shit creek.

While everyone experiences the threat of starvation but for them, it's a matter of days, not weeks. While their home village would love to keep them, they straight-up may not be able to produce enough food, even if he's a magical farmer most of the year.

The nearest noble house definitely has enough food. But they also know from the Magical Dudes in their own families just how hungry these guys are, AND how powerful they are and how badly a rival house would want them. So the Noble houses often default straight to conscription, threats of violence against the warrior's home and family, indentured servitude and straight-up curses to control any spiritually powerful people who appear in their districts before a Rival house can make them a decent offer. Or kidnap them.

Basically, unless you're actually a member of the family, the noble houses SUCK to work for. Magical warriors are treated like weapons or animals or worse, are forced to marry into the family.

What are you going to do though? Starve? Not a lot of other options.

...until the secret postal service starts.

Postal Service has Food. And decent wages and working conditions baked right into the way its run.

Sure, it's not easy work, but the magical warriors are the fastest and strongest out there, AND the people most equipped to handle suddenly running into a Noble Guard or a hollow.

Once the word gets out, the magical warriors are practically hammering down the post office doors for a job.

Bit of a rowdy lot, these guys. The Council of Elders realizes. Also, very noticable to the noble houses. it's going to becaome real clear what's going on real fast, and we don't have an army. Yet...

Enter Postmaster-General Shigekuni Yamamoto, who has been running this for the last 500 years and already built a Dojo to train carriers how to defend themselves. He's even a pretty heavy hitter of a magical warrior himself! We'll have him run the army. It's basically the same thing, right?

Yamamoto is made aware of his promotion when the news is first released up north where the council is holding it's meeting this year, and an adolescent Chojiro Sasakibe decides that a good way to apply to the Dojo is to Personally Deliver the News Himself.

At 1 AM

In Sensei's Bedroom. "...Are you all like this, or are you a special pain in the ass?" the man with the extremely impressive mustache and frightening glare croaks at the lad. "My ability to inflict discomfort on various backsides has been noted before, Sir!" Sasakibe reports cheerfully. "...But I'm not sure who you mean by 'you all'?" "You and every other maniac with an ounce of Reiryoku who's apparently headed here at speed?" Yamamoto glowers at the letter he's been handed. Chojiro frowns, looking off to the side and rubbing his chin, giving the question entirely too much serious thought. "Well-" the boy grimaces. "I'd say that compared to the population at large, I'm a statistically significant pain in the ass, but compared to just people with spiritual power, I'm only a minor nuisance." Yamamoto groans, laying back down and staring at the ceiling for a bit. "How old are you, boy?" "Fourteen sir!" Chojiro chirps. "Princess-Who-Understands-The-Heavens, he's fucking fourteen." Yamamoto groans, rubbing his face. "Well. You're my pain in the ass now. Make yourself useful and get me some breakfast."

Sasakibe has been faithfully following that order for the last 1200 years :)

Soon, the Lordless Council of Elders has themselves a sizeable, very powerful and extremely loyal army. In an act of extreme magnanimity, they extend an offer to each of the Four Noble Houses to bring an end to the feuding and create a government and laws for noble and peasant alike to follow and prosper under.

Every Single Noble House: 🗡️⚔️🔪FUCK. YOU. 🔪⚔️🗡️

Well, this was going to happen sooner or later, Yamamoto supposes, and readies for The Final War To End All Wars.

He was so full of hope and promise back then.

The Four Noble houses and Postal Army prepare their initial salvos but before anyone could strike, AN ABSOLUTE SHITWACK OF ARROWS rain down from the sky.

Knock Knock It's The Quincies.

Everyone scrambles against the invaders, but refuses to ally and soon the last hope of Spirit World is pinned on The Postmaster-General, the couple dozen surviving warriors of his Dojo, and Twelve Fucking Maniacs he hired off Death Row.

To ABSOLUTELY EVERYONE'S VAST SURPRISE, Yamamoto is Victorious. Well. Him and some weird monk guy who turned Yhwach into a bug, gave Yamamoto A Mandate From heaven re: The Hollows and Balance of Souls, and Dipped.

The tattered remains of the noble houses finally Unite, but Shigekuni Genryusai Yamamoto has three names now and is like unto a God. and the twelve shady bastards backing him up are no slouches either. ...Perhaps it's time to Negotiate.

And negotiations happen! - The Noble houses bring their not-insubstantial forces to the table, along with the fact they're the only people who have a System FOR collecting taxes, something a government really does need. - The Council of Elders brings it's vast organizational network, expertise in many practical subjects and Lifetimes of Wisdom, only accurate maps of the immediate spirit world. - The newly-named Court Guard brings it's Much more substantial force, it's Mandate from on high, and Yamamoto's scary mustache and even scarier wife.

Things are actually going pretty well. Yamamoto and the army are getting the civil protections they wanted, the elders are getting the fairer means of governement they wanted and the Noble houses are getting to still be Rich As Cream.

...then someone sneaks in to negotiations. Well, they were actually brought in, as part of the entourage of one of the Elders, who takes her advice very seriously. After all, she's the oldest being the elder knows- even older than whatever it was that made the nobles so powerful in the first place.

"Listen, I've worked with these slippery shits before. Make damn sure they can't betray you." she growls. "I know, Yamamoto-sama has laid a very clever trap for them-" the elder nods. "No, I mean Yamamoto." She growls, yellow eye narrowing as she tracks him and his wife as they meander around the gardens below the negotiation hall. "Not him specifically, but it was a betrayal by someone like him- someone gifted the power of heaven- who cursed me to be as I am." "...Oh." says the elder, realizing that if Yamamoto could strike down that monster that lead the Quincies, he could very easily turn his blade on the council too.

...And that's when the first cracks in the bond between Yamamoto and The Council appeared.

So it was declared thus:

The actual governing would be done by the Council of Elders, now called the Central 46.

The Noble houses would still be allowed to retain their lands and collect SOME taxes in exchange for clearly defined and legally binding responsibilities.

The Gotei-13 would be responsible for matters supernatural- People with strange powers, the balance of souls between worlds, hollows, etc. funded and housed by the Central 46.

Additionally, the four of the captain's positions in the Gotei-13 would be reserved for the scions of The Great Noble Houses, unless it somehow came to pass that there were no Scions left.

The former armies of the Noble Houses would become the Onmitsukudo*, who would do the actual enforcing of the central 46's laws and collecting of taxes in the Rukongai, as well as independently collecting information for the central 46.

The Central 46 would also cultivate and independent force of spiritually powerful souls to use the art of Kido for Civil Projects and assisting the Omnitsukido or Gotei-13 when necessary.

It's Peace, but it's a Very Uneasy Peace.

As it stands, the Gotei-13 is *a* military branch, and a force to be reckoned with should they decide to throw their weight around, but they are entirely legally beholden to the Central 46 and not allowed to enforce the law. In fact, the Central 46 and Onmitsukido are allowed to arrest and detain any shinigami they see as a threat, without notice, explanation or Trial. The Central 46 could even decide to stop funding the Gotei-13 altogether and leave them to starve if they chose.

That's why Yamamoto is so strict about direct orders from the Central 46, and why Shinigami aren't allowed into the government quarter of the city.

Is this an excessive amount of world-building? maybe Is it actually making the writing process easier because I actually know what the broader chains of causality already are so the plot flows more naturally? YES. More importantly, am I having fun? VERY MUCH YES.

...What the fuck was this about again?

Oh, right. Food.

So as you can see from the previous fucking doctoral thesis, the food situation is

INTENSELY POLITICAL

AND

EXTREMELY FRAUGHT

...but actually pretty stable!

The vast majority of flat-enough-to-use land in the Rukongai is dedicated to farming. The land mass of the districts gets larger as you get farther from Seireitei, and districts 40-75 are almost ENTIRELY agrarian, with substantial amounts of farming occurring in 20-40 and above 75.

The Primary crop is still rice, but that's been receding since Soul Society finally switched to a Fiat Currency in the 1800s.

Also since about then, a greater variety of crops from the living world have appeared, including: Tomatoes, Potatoes, Crummock, Salsify, Cantaloupe, Avocado, Jicama, Sunroot, Marijuana, Strawberries, Corn, Broccolini, blue berries, boysenberries, Chicory, Cranberries, asparagus, black berries, raspberries, black raspberries, red blackberries, Okra, Coca, lingon berries, elder berries, Rhubarb, gooseberries, salmonberries, bearberries, and so many fucking squash.

New livestock has appeared as well- Soul Society has had an almost unlimited supply of beef from the Chihuahuan Desert cattle trade, but recently there have been new arrivals from the living world- wool sheep, Dairy cattle, Llamas, Mini pigs, Micro Pigs, Guinea Pigs, Fallow Deer, and those fucked up damascus goats.

There is also a bunch of crops native to Soul Society like Hummage, Black yams, ratweed, Pinnerey, Tomangoes, Craic, Duck radish, Sisei, and So Many Fucking Beans. There is also, like Nano Pigs, Pico Pigs, Mega Pigs and the terrifying Giga Pig (actually a type of Cavy). There are also Meat Horses, wool donkeys, and riding cattle, as well as Fertile mules.

Are there Laws About It?

Bruh.

The Soul Society Department of Agriculture was the FIRST formal regulatory agency formed by the Central 46. Even before the IRS.

Soul Society Agricultural and Land-Use Law is so Complex and Arcane that Kaname invents* an entire Rice Farm Subsidy Fraud Case for that takes Momo over a DECADE to investigate in various archives (Aizen is allergic to paper dust), travel to distant districts of the Rukongai (He also gets sick on trains and gates are for emergency use only), and talk to a hell of a lot of lawyers about (Aizen hates talking to anyone who really understands contract law) specifically to keep her physically away from Aizen as much as possible. It even works! *Sort of. The Rice Subsidy Fraud is Very Very real, but difficult to investigate, so he was leaving her subconscious clues in the crossword to point her to more evidence.

Who can be bribed with Very Specific Food?

As a side-effect of shinigami appetites, very nearly everyone to at least some degree. Most have hard limits about what they will accept any kind of compensation for, but everyone can be at least inclined to consider your proposal with the right snacks.

Ukitake loves cookies. He won't break laws or promises or forgo prior engagements, but he will make little exceptions that will make everyone happier.

It's more effective to bribe Rukia with plushies instead of food.

---

Mayuri wants whole-roasted fish, especially the heads and eyeballs. Technically, Mayuri has no limits, but you're going to need to present him with something exceptional.

Nemu can be persuaded to do some truly startling things for a nice dessert. She's done felonies for a fruit parfait before.

You can't Bribe Urahara with food, but you can bribe him with edibles ;)

Akon has a chart posted on his office door what various favors cost in money, labor, cigarettes, beer and/or pirated media.

---

Zaraki doesn't have a specific food he likes, but is constantly craving calories. He's also very willing to eat all your food and then tell you to go fuck yourself. The most effective strategy is to share food while asking for nothing a few times and then ask for whatever you needed his help with outside of a food context. For better or worse, he's extremely trainable.

You can't Bribe Yachiru with what she's already stolen out of your pockets.

Ikkaku is sort of offended when people fail to attempt to bribe him, and VERY offended if they try to lowball him. What, do you think he's cheap? Will show up anywhere with a buffet tho.

Attempting to Bribe Yumichika is a great way to end up owing Yumichika for the rest of your life. He never fails to make it to Sasakibe's High Teas/Gay Bitching sessions and often takes the snacks home.

---

People try to bribe Rangiku with alcohol all the time, which is really annoying. She is Perfectly Capable of acquiring her own booze thank you! Also, they keep offering her shit like Aged Whiskey which tastes how burnt hair smells. What she REALLY wants is Neon orange "Cheez" or "Nacho Blasted" snacks from the Living World. She craves that Riboflavin.

Hitsugaya lets everyone believe he's a slut for watermelon so they don't offer him the thing he'd actually have to fight to not accept: Jerky.

---

Tousen will not be 'bribed' into doing anything and will get extremely offended if you imply that he might consider it. He will, however, go to remarkably extreme lengths to get his hands on persimmons without paying for them. Not theft, that's very unethical, but he holds a bizarre principle about never paying for that fruit so that means exploiting agricultural, fair use, zoning and Tree laws to find or plant persimmon trees that are Perfectly Legal for him to pick from.

Kensei is similarly stony about the idea of being 'bribed', and worse still has an utterly flavorless protien-based diet. Mashiro knows he's got a pathological craving for Oreos and exploits it regularly.

Shuuhei will not be bribed but he will be VERY grateful if you go fill up his water bottle for him. Dweeb.

Mashiro will sell her own granny for a corn chip because she likes snacks, loves shenanigans, and knows her granny can kick a man in half and could use the excitement.

---

Everyone *knows* Shunsui is a drinker, but the trick is that he's savoring some really, REALLY good stuff very slowly. You can't afford the shelf he's drinking from. He thought he was immune to food-based Bribery until Nanao was out of town one week and the rank-and-file Shinigami she left to mind him introduced him to the grand tradition of the post-spree Dirty Great Fry-Up. It was like waking up in heaven to his hungover ass, and now he's the one attempting to bribe his minder into making it again every time he wants to go on a bender because he refuses to wake up from one any other way again.

Nanao did not believe the minder when she told Nanao of the great power of The Dirty Great Fry-Up, but now that Shunsui limits his sprees to the availability of breakfast the following morning, Nanao is trying to figure out what kind of raise it's going to take to keep the fry cook on staff.

---

Sajin Komamura is a deeply honorable man who doesn't even like eating lunch out with a visitor lest it be misconstrued and because he's still self-concious about eating in front of others. Last spring though, someone put up flyers for Game Share tags, and Komamura met with them in private to negotiate terms and ended up putting almost half a month's salary towards at least two does, one wild sow, as many marmots as they can bag (they can keep the pelts), and the offal/feet of the other animals they bag on other tickets. Half of the following month's salary went towards an adequate chest freezer. It's worth it though. His diet had been suffering from lack of variety and some of the vitamins and other nutrients from parts humans don't eat and by December his coat is LUXURIOUS.

Tetsuzaemon won't do anything illegal but will do some remarkably stupid shit for a beer.

---

You don't even SAY the word 'bribe' in the sixth division. Byakuya will remember you forever if you bring him an extremely specific brand of seaweed snack though.

Renji will eat anything handed to him, which is a problem because he almost broke a tooth on a stapler he thought was going to be a sandwich. He's unbribable because his brain won't process anything you say to him while he's eating.

---

People kept bringing Aizen Chocolate when he was captain and he HATED it. It's not that he dislikes the food: it's that his Dead Twin Brother was an absolutely peerless confectioner and made chocolate that could make the angels weep. Not only are Aizen's standards ridiculously high, the food is a genuine trauma trigger for him.

Shinji loves him some Black Thunder Chocolate bars but is so goddamn bad at conversations that he will not grok what the FUCK someone is talking about when they try to bribe him. He'll think they're a bad conversationalist with good taste in candy.

Some god thought they were being real funny when they made Momo be born with an aversion to peaches and a deep fondness for Sour and bitter Flavors. Shinji did manage to remember her joking about that and bought her a jar of pickled lemons for her birthday as a joke, and was genuinely surprised when she was moved to tears.

You have to Bribe Hiyori to even get her to listen to your proposal for the thing you're actually trying to bribe her for. For Better or Worse, she trades in novel potato chip flavors.

---

Attempting to bribe Unohana with food is an absolute crapshoot, because what she'll accept is a complex internal metric of how serious the favor is, how much she likes you, and how much she likes the proferred snack. You might be able to get a perscription for something that's normally a band substance for some Senbei, you might lose your nose for even bringning Okra into her hosptial. Best not play that particular roulette.

Isane is impossible to bribe because she just agrees to stuff before you can bring out the payment. Sure, you got your surgery moved or your hands in some pretty heavy drugs, but you'll walk away with the feeling that, since you didn't actually pay her for this, you actually OWE her now, and you'd be right. You'd better believe she'll call in that favor whenever she needs it, because you're *friends*, aren't you? It also never occurs to anyone to offer her her favorite food: Apples.

Hanataro has accidentally taken bribes multiple times because he did not realize people were attempting to pay him. He thinks it's just basic manners to show up at someone else's home or office with snacks and also people are wildly misinformed about what he's legally allowed to do. What? they wanted me to BREAK A LAW? FOR KIT-KATS?? The boy loves him some kit-kats but not to the point of committing a FELONY, what the fuck???

---

Izuru once walked in on Gin swallowing a rat whole, turned around and tried desperately to pretend he hadn't actually seen that for a year, until he REALLY fucked up his scheduling conflicts and needed an extra week of paid time off to go to a friend's wedding and in a fit of panic, attatched a deceased rat suitable for serpentine consumption he purchased from a pet store. Gin was more than happy to give him the time off and hey, a little hazard pay so you can get something nice for the happy couple Unfortunately, this also condemned Izuru to having Gin lean out of his office at least every other month and holler "Hey Izuru? What's our Rat Guy's phone number?" loud enough to be heard by the entire Division.

Rose can be bribed with anything from a patisserie.

---

People keep givng Soi Fon honey which is honestly starting to feel like a microaggression at this point. What she REALLLY wants is a bucket of fried chicken.

You can't Bribe Omaeda with food, he's the one feeding YOU. Sit down and stop yapping, you're skin and bones!

---

Yamamoto does not accept bribes, at all, ever. He does accept all forms of SUPER MEGA SPICY FLAMING DEATH-REINCARNATION-AND-SECOND-FLAMING-DEATH TURBOFIRE HOT hot sauce.

Sasakibe has been assisitant headmaster of Shin'o academy since it was founded before the fall of Rome. no matter how delicious your offer or how clever your scheme, an adolescent dork already made a better version of it like 700 years ago. Pathetic. What Sasakibe REALLY wants is to be able serve high tea to an adoring crowd. Hope you like cucumber sandwiches.

Okay this is like 5.2K and it's 3AM I'm gonna end this and go to bed.

#aeiwam #an elephant is warm and mushy #Bleach #Bleach fanfic #Long post under the cut #Either meds are not working or they're working GREAT.

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evilgwrl · 4 months ago

Note

Arranged marriage! With ghost where she’s from a small island and ghost comes to collect taxes well the island is just a few hundred short they can make it up next year? Right?! Nah ghosts is like mmmmm I’ll take what yall call a princess mean while she’s struggling as much as the other fokes on the island so when Simon takes her way and finds out she’s never lived the simple life he makes it his mission to show her the good that can out of this arrangement smutty if you would 😭 I’m obsessed with the arranged marriage trope with ghost he’s a cutie patootie

Arranged Marriage w/ Simon Riley

Holy moly I love this…

Thank you for this idea @creepytoes88 I hope you don’t mind that I made him a king, I just wanted it to flow with giving her a better life and the tax collection <3

King!Simon Riley x Reader

Archipelago

CW: Being sold by your family to pay off debt, sharing a bath, oral sex (f receiving), orgasm bc simon knows what to do ;)

Word Count: 2,623

Twisted fingers hooked under the bark, knees scraped with stagnant flora, coiling limbs of bushy thorns blistering around the tropical plains. There was a subtle burn that sunk through your thighs, muscles gnawing at your bones before you finally settled on a thick branch, wind hissing in your ear, almost warning you. You paid no attention.

Pupil-blown eyes stared off to the view in front of you, lapping in the vicious strain of turquoise, untouched coral glistening an array of colours under the harsh sun. There was a trickle of sweat that ran down the back of your neck, your hair thrown into a rough bun as you shielded yourself with raggedy, overworked fingers.

You watched the skerries surrounding your island, a flurry of birds swooping low before nestling down on the warmth of the rocky floor. It was a peaceful sight. Nothing but the low crash of waves to be sound, the occasional calling of a fellow Islander working its way through the palms and out of the sand, before landing in your ear.

You felt the prickle of pain shoot through your feet as you landed on the ground, the grass covered in speckles of yellow dust sticking in between your toes as you hurried down to the village. Any bit of tranquillity soon disappeared as your eyes locked into the sight of the townspeople, the Island far too small to accommodate such needing families.

“Y/N! Where have you been? The King shall be here soon and you’re off running with the fairies.”

Your Mother’s tone was harsh and reprimanding, her eyes tight with wrinkles as she scowled, chucking a makeshift broom at you. You weren’t exactly sure what the difference of you sweeping would make, the life you live here, swept or not, is strikingly different to the one of a King. No matter how beautiful your Island is, your feet are permanently stained with grains of sand, skin is littered with dull scars and fresh scratches.

You understood her worry, offering her a gentle, apologetic smile as you followed her bustle of orders. Your Father was the village Chief, a wise man who led the people to survive without the worry of advanced civilisation.

You were seen as a headcase to the others. A woman whose head wasn’t fixed well enough to her shoulders. A dreamer. Your mind was amplified by the need to do more, to see more. Untouched beauty too turns mundane when you’re not allowed to experience it.

As night fell, the waves seemed to settle, burying themselves in the crops of sand that spanned around you, 10-legged creatures hiding away in the cocoon of a cracked shell. Palms slept with the safety of coconuts that would blossom into the town’s delicacy, the meat tender on the tongues of children, the water fuel for the fishermen. There was a large bonfire lit, the earthly crackle occasionally popping as a spark flew out, hissing against the cool air before dispersing into a drag of smoke.

Girls chattered around you, smoothing down their appearances as they used crushed berries on their lips and the apples of their cheeks. You were never fussed about the King, hardly paying attention to him on his previous arrivals if he even bothered to show up. You took note of his lack of empathy, normally sending one of his men in his place, unbothered by the Island that’s supposed to fall under his command.

You heard the ship pull up, wood striking against the ground as it split between the beach, a carved woman tangled to the figurehead, flowing hair etched between wood and a man’s knife as she breached the island. They were a loud bunch, deep voices echoing across the Isle as your father walked down to greet them formally.

The air grew silent, thick smog suffocating the air as your father appeared, his figure shaking as he hobbled towards you. Toughened hands gripped your cheeks, stroking the sun-kissed skin to comfort you.

“Father, what’s wrong?”

“We- We’re short on our taxes,” he gulped, a hand planted in your matted hair as you scrunched your brows together.

“But how? We’re sensible, we work harder- How?”

“Things happen beyond our understanding sometimes, sweetheart, just know me and your mother love you very much.”

“I know? Why are you-” you stalled “- Why are you telling me this? What’s going on?”

“The King needs a wife,” he hiccupped as realisation set in, spine snapping into a cold flush as you attempted to wriggle free from your father’s grip.

“No-“

“I have to, Y/N, I don’t have a choice!”

“A choice? There’s always a choice! How could you do this to me?” The strain of a sob wracked through your chest, your heart beating eerily slow against your rib cage as you wailed out for your mother who only walked away, her face concealed by strands of hair. Hands coiled around your biceps, dragging you towards the ship as you carried on, cementing your heels into the dirtied sand to anchor yourself.

“Stop resisting,” A harsh voice spoke into your ear, nails breaking the surface of your tender skin as you nipped at the air, wriggling. Your limbs felt mangled as you were thrown over someone’s shoulder, your stomach caving in with a penetrative force as you choked on the air, saline tears streaming down your face.

Aching skin collided with the sand as you were thrown onto the floor, leather boots staring back at you as your head cocked up. His figure was tall, dressed in all black with a row of medals displayed on his breast pocket. His stare was dark, irises the colour of burnt whiskey, pale lashes flickering down at you before looking back up. The rest of his face was covered by a woven garment, handcrafted to perfection, painted with a white skull.

“Did you find it necessary to throw her at my feet like she’s some dog?”

“Your Majesty she was res-“

“It is a yes or no question.”

His voice was thick with malt, a hidden arrogance underlying his words as his eyes spoke for him. A veiny hand was offered to you, light scars tracing his knuckles before he lifted you, admiring you for a brief second.

“She’ll do. I’ll be back in 6 months,” The King spoke roughly.

The sea breeze was tranquil given the circumstances, the ocean rocking your tears to a halt as you huddled yourself away in the captain’s quarters. Your body was trailed with layers of silk, dirtied clothes moulded to your skin as you sniffled. There was a vast smell of salt, almost suffocating you as it burnt through your nose and hair. You scrunched your skin, rubbing at your nostrils before nestling yourself into a pillow.

You awoke to the sound of commotion. You took in the handful of women surrounding you, their hair tied back in a tight bun, protected by a frilly cap. They wore black and white dresses, aprons attached to their fronts and smiles on their faces.

“Good evening, your majesty. Shall we run you a bath?”

You sat up, hands creasing against the sheets below you as your eyes adjusted to the new scenery. You weren’t on the ship anymore.

“Where am I?” You choked out, huffing your chest out to look more intimidating. In reality, you look cowered, skin droopy with betrayal, burst blood vessels evident under your eyes.

“In your private quarters, the King requested we come to you, settle you in.”

You scowled, “I just want to be alone.” They left in a hurry, feet skidding against the floor in a squeak as they shut the large oak doors behind them.

The room was one for Royalty. The large bed was dressed in golden sheets, red swirls detailing the plush headpieces, solid gold baubles along the edges as tall stakes met the ceiling, lace hanging from them for privacy. Your feet hit the polished marble floors; calloused skin not used to such luxury that you almost yelped in unfamiliarity. Glass trickled from the overhead chandelier, an arrangement of crystals advocating flickers of light across the room, an occasional rainbow seeping through like a diamond in the rough.

Oil paintings hung from the walls, detailed gold wrapping around them as the figurines stared at you dauntingly. A plethora of books rested on shelves, a comforting sofa tucked away in the corner, highlights of red bursting through the stuffed pillows, plucked by the finest of feathers.

The room felt suffocating, the air a terminal sickness that wove into your lungs as you realised the severity of the situation. Your father – your parents, had sold you away to the King to pay for lost taxes. You were a miserable sight as you huddled over onto the floor, chest collapsing with cries as you attempted to grip the material beneath your knees, desperate for the sensation of sand.

Simon watched you intently from the door as he cracked it open, a deafening cough sounding from him as you looked up at him, bewildered.

“I understand the circumstances aren’t the best, but your people owed me, and they chose you as collateral.”

“I want to go home,” you hiccupped, facing away from him in humiliation. His leather shoes hit the floor, striding up to you in only a few steps.

“This is your home now, and in a few weeks, we shall be wedded. Whether or not you choose to invite your family is up to you, but I shall not tolerate disrespect. If you didn’t want the maids to tend to you, that’s fine, but I will.”

You watched his stalking figure disappear into another room attached to your quarters, the heavy pour of water indicating that he was running you a bath. You rose to your feet anxiously, popping your head around the corner as you took in the room. A large tub was carved with porcelain, wide in size with golden feet, bubbles guzzling under the powerful stream as the scent of lavender filled the air.

“Undress,” He spoke as you cocked a brow.

“In front of you?” You scoffed.

“You didn’t want the maids, now you have me. Undress.”

Your clothes itched as they were ridden from your skin, bare body flushed under the light as you attempted to conceal yourself from his bruising vision. The water scolded you as you sunk in, muscles relaxing instantly under the soothing oil. It was an irregular feeling.

You heard him shuffle behind you as you turned, eyes gawking wide as you took in his naked figure, cock resting low against his thigh. A squeak slipped through your lips as you turned around in a fluster.

His mask was off, his face a welcoming surprise. His brows were thick, bulging above slit frames, his nose slightly crooked with a masculine appeal to him.

“What are you doing?” you gasped, chest tight, eyes bulging.

“Bathing,” he practically snarled, “move over.”

Your belly felt hot, the unknowing feeling of arousal seeping through your pores as you adjusted in the water, the liquid rising as he stepped in before you were pulled back against him, bottom flushed against his thighs. You were tense.

“Relax, it’s just a bath. We will not do anything until you’re ready but after marriage, I will need heirs.”

“Heirs? I don’t even know your name!”

A hand coiled around your waist, tugging at the tender skin for a moment before it rested, settling at your upper thigh.

“It’s Simon, Y/N.”

“How do you- “

“What kind of King would I be if I didn’t even know the name of the woman I’m marrying?”

The air was hazy with steam, almost suffocating you as you felt yourself relax against his hard chest, delicate twirls of hair tickling against your spine. As your body settled, Simon washed you, entwined rag lubed with delicate soap as he massaged it into the crevices of your skin, any dirt seeping into the water. His fingers were long as they massaged against your scalp, digging any knots out with a gentle force before rinsing it.

You found yourself refreshed as you settled into the sheets once more, body fresh with a floral scent, skin drenched in almond oil, the glistening reflecting against the flame of the fireplace. The bed sunk in as Simon crawled in next to you, menacing frame wracking against yours. It was silent, the usual sound of waves and birds no longer hushing you to sleep.

Your fingers twitched as you played with the hem of your nightgown, letting out a low, exhausted breath.

“I shall not hurt you for as long as you are mine, Y/N. I hope you grow to trust me and understand that I am a man of my word. If you allow me, I would like to show you who I am and the life you can have here.”

You swallowed. There was an itch inside you that couldn’t be scratched, his words only adding fuel to an uncontrollable flame as you turned to face him, cocked up on one arm. Your gown hung low, strap dangerously low on your shoulder as he adjusted his vision back to your face, lips parted with a flushed manner.

“I’ve never experienced anything before.” Your voice was low, an evident streak of self-consciousness staining it as you averted your gaze.

“Let me help you.”

Rugged fingers lifted your gown up, silk resting against your stomach in a hunched manner as Simon gripped at your thighs, spreading them lewdly. He huffed out a hum of appreciation as you jolted in embarrassment. You were so open, so exposed to fresh eyes.

“No one’s ever touched you here?” He asked. You shook your head, gazing down at him with an unspoken innocence. You felt his lips curl against your thigh as he placed a gentle kiss to it, letting it rest against the warm skin before two fingers pulled apart your lips, glistening folds presented before him.

You felt pleasure tickle up your spine as the King placed a small kiss against your clit, a mewl escaping you as you instinctively attempted to press your thighs together. He let out a tsk as he looked up at you, amused by your reaction.

“Relax for me,” he said, arms flushed around your thighs before his tongue soaked up the middle, your juices drenching his lips as you squealed, your fingers wrapping into his dusty hair as he ravaged the taste of you.

The noises you made were wanton, slopping breaths soaking the air as he worked against you, slurping you into his mouth with an aggravated need for you. His teeth grazed against your sensitive clit, wrapping his lips around it before sucking, an obscene scream sounding from you as he continued the assault.

“Taste so fucking good,” he quipped, holding your belly down in place as your hips lifted, clit overstimulated by the amount of pleasure it only just began receiving.

“Sim-Simon, I feel strange- somethings happening,” you croaked, pulling at his hair in an attempt to stop him.

“Let it happen,” he growled, his tongue thrusting against your entrance as a finger pressed against your nub, rubbing it in circular motions as you began to hold your breath.

The pressure in your belly was turmoil like an unknown danger was approaching. Simon didn’t stop, the sound of your breath hicking stirring something primal inside of him as he held you down before the pressure inside you popped, a broken whine piercing the air as you came, hips rocking desperately against the King’s face as he growled against your heat.

He pulled away, spit slick against his chin, cocky smile on his face as you panted, chest rising and falling in a synchronised fashion. Your legs closed instinctively, wetness seeping between your bottom as you shivered, satisfied clit throbbing.

“I’m not done yet, sweetheart.”

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inky-duchess · 2 months ago

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Fantasy Guide to Dukes and Duchesses

This new series will offer an indepth view of each noble title in the standard European hierarchy of noble titles. Here we will discuss what they are, their lands, their jobs and everything you need to know when writing them.

What is a Duke exactly?

A Dukedom is the highest rank in most noble hierarchies. The Duke rules a section of land within the Kingdom known as a Duchy, for example the Duke of Lancaster or can be a standalone title, Duke of Rothesay. A Dukedom is inherited through the family line, from father to so but the title is bestowed on the by the monarch. Monarchs can also give their children Dukedoms, and often do. For example the second son of the King of France would be the Duc d'Orleans.

Titles, Titles

The Duke is the highest ranking in the land. They are the first among the nobility, among the wealthiest, with the most prestige. A Duke is referred to as 'Your Grace'. If one is meeting a Duke in a social setting, nobles would call them Duke whilst underlyings would call them "Your Grace". A Duke would also hold subsidiary such as an Earldom or two, a Barony or three. But would go by Duke as it is the highest title. Fun fact, Carlos Fitz-James Stuart (pic above) has the most titles:

He is: Carlos Fitz-James Stuart, Duke of Alba, Grandee of Spain, Duke of Berwick, Grandee of Spain, Duke of Huéscar, Grandee of Spain, Duke of Liria and Jérica, Grandee of Spain, Count-Duke of Olivares, Grandee of Spain,Marquess of Carpio, Grandee of Spain, Marquess of La Algaba, Marquess of Barcarrota, Marquess of Castañeda, Marquess of Coria, Marquess of Eliche, Marquess of Mirallo, Marquess of la Mota, Marquess of Moya, Marquess of Osera, Marquess of San Leonardo, Marquess of Sarria, Marquess of Tarazona, Marquess of Valdunquillo, Marquess of Villanueva del Fresno, Marquess of Villanueva del Río, Count of Lemos, Grandee of Spain, Count of Lerín, Grandee of Spain, Constable of Navarre, Count of Miranda del Castañar, Grandee of Spain, Count of Monterrey, Grandee of Spain, Count of Osorno, Grandee of Spain, Count of Andrade, Count of Ayala, Count of Casarrubios del Monte, Count of Fuentes de Valdepero, Count of Fuentidueña, Count of Galve, Count of Elves, Count of Modica, Count of San Esteban de Gormaz, Count of Santa Cruz de la Sierra, Count of Villalba, Viscount of la Calzada, Lord of Moguer.

The Family of the Duke

The wife of a Duke is a Duchess. If a Duke is married to a man, while there is no real world examples, I would personally say they would take one of those other subsidiary titles I mentioned above. Same thing with a ruling Duchess and her wife. However, a ruling Duchess's husband usually sticks with whatever title he came with. The heir of the Duke usually inherits their parent's next highest title, usually an Earldom. The other children are styled as Lord/Lady Firstname.

The Role of the Duke

As the Duke is leader of the Duchy, which is a large section of the kingdom. They are in control of this section, the highest power in law and order, politics and all things in that section with only the monarch above. They handle administration at the highest level, raising troops from their duchy for the crown in times of war, see the collection of taxes and sometimes they might even advise the monarch if they are offered a place of the monarch's council. They would also attend the monarch at their coronation.

Cribs

Dukes like a lot of nobility would have multiple houses, manors, estates etc. Their homes would be the grandest in the land and the social hubs for the Duchy and even the country. A Duke would sometimes live at court when invited but would also have the homes in the capital. This vast portfolio can become a source of income as the Duke can rent them out or a handy way to shelf relatives who depended on them.

#Fantasy Guide to Dukes and Duchesses #Dukes #Duchesses #Duke #Duchess #Fantasy Guide #Fantasy Guide to noblity #Nobles #Noble titles #Nobility #Titles #writing #writeblr #writing resources #writing reference #writer's problems #writer #writing reference writing resources #writing resources writing reference

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inthedayswhenlandswerefew · 2 months ago

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Cannibals [Chapter 5: Sapphires and Cinnamon]

Series summary: You are his sister, his lover, his betrothed despite everyone else’s protests; you have always belonged to Aemond and believe you always will. But on the night he returns from Storm’s End with horrifying news, the trajectories of your lives are irrevocably changed. Will the war of succession make your bond permanent, or destroy the twisted and fanatical love you share?

Chapter warnings: Language, sexual content (18+ readers only), references to war-related violence, Targ chaos terrorizes poor innocent House Corbray, Red and Jace have a lovers' quarrel, interesting news arrives from the Riverlands, bats!!!

Word count: 7.4k

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Like game pieces on a board, he moves the coins he’s using as tokens around the ink-and-parchment Westeros that is rolled open across the table. He’s been underwater for weeks, but now he can breathe again. Aegon is starting to heal, through the worst of the danger and unlikely to die, and he has been tucked away someplace no enemy will find him: an unassuming farm in the countryside surrounding Rook’s Rest, under the protection of the knights of his Kingsguard and tended to by requisitioned maesters. Criston’s infantrymen and cavalry have rested and healed and reorganized to fill the gaps in their ranks following the battles to subdue the turncoat houses of the Crownlands. Yesterday, Aemond rode Vhagar to the stone gates of Claw Isle and accepted a tremulous, tearful surrender from Bartimos Celtigar’s lady wife, in whose care the castle was left. Rhaenyra will receive no further gold from the region, and she will find the treasury of King’s Landing empty, the wealth once stored there split and hidden at Tyland Lannister’s suggestion in Braavos, Casterly Rock, and Oldtown. She will try to tax the smallfolk to fund her war effort, and they will rise up and murder her. That, at least, is Aemond’s hope.

Criston walks into the room. He’s just come from the rookery, where ravens arrive carrying news from Green spies and allies throughout the Seven Kingdoms: the Triarchy will send ships to combat the Sea Snake’s fleet; the Hightower army in the Reach has won battles at the Honeywine, Tumbleton, and Bitterbridge; the Lannister army in the Riverlands triumphed at the Red Fork and Acorn Hall; Cregan Stark is marching south from Winterfell with ten thousand men to fight for Rhaenyra, and they will need to be dealt with.

This will all be over soon, and I can go home. Home to my family, home to her.

“Daemon is restless,” Aemond says, repositioning his coins. “He will tire of enduring Rhaenyra’s orders in the capital, and he will fly elsewhere on Caraxes. He yearns for battle, I know him. A hero’s glory, perhaps even a hero’s death. When he leaves King’s Landing, I will go there on Vhagar and kill Syrax, Vermax, and this new dragon Sheepstealer. I will retake the capital and then leave Daeron as its protector in my stead while I hunt Daemon. Daeron has proven himself in the Reach. He’s growing up.”

Faintly, fondly, Aemond smiles. But Criston appears stricken.

“Bad news,” Aemond says for him. “From where?”

“The Red Keep.”

“Mother?” He fears that Rhaenyra will have her executed like Grandsire, though this would be a grievous mistake. The people love the queen dowager, who has lived among them nearly all her life and selflessly nursed King Viserys while Rhaenyra seduced her uncle, plotted Laenor Velaryon’s death, and secluded herself and her vile nest of bastards and villains on Dragonstone.

Criston is hesitant to begin. Perhaps he isn’t sure if Aemond should know this. “No, your mother and Helaena are still held in the dungeon, captive but in relative safety. Jaehaera and Maelor are wards of Rhaenyra. I would assume she’s trying to win their affection and then arrange politically advantageous betrothals.”

There has been a name left out. Aemond stares up from his map, waiting.

“She’s been taken out of the city,” Criston says.

An impossibility, an irrationality. “What?”

“I don’t know where to, or for what purpose. But she’s not in King’s Landing.”

Aemond says nothing for long, cold, grey minutes. The sky outside beckons in the coming winter like a nefarious houseguest, one who shares your dinner table and then slits your throat while you’re asleep. When he finally speaks, his voice is low but fierce. “She’s no threat to them.”

“She isn’t.”

“She can’t travel by dragon.”

“No,” Criston agrees. “So they must have transported her by land or sea.”

Aemond shakes his head. “Why would Rhaenyra do that?”

Criston’s dark eyes are afraid. “I don’t know.”

“Where might they have sent her? Where could she be?”

“Anywhere, Aemond,” Criston says helplessly. “Anywhere.”

And it rises in him like magma through the earth: a scorching venom that pools in the capillary beds of his lungs, a fatal heat that burns away flesh and bones and reason.

~~~~~~~~~~

Rain falls from the sky, sea spray erupts from the waves, stinging eyes and the abrasions on your skin from falling on the rocks over and over again. You are a child, and you are tracking Vermithor on Dragonstone. The mist is so thick that Criston and the guards have lost sight of you, and you can hear them shouting for you to wait for them, but you can’t, you can’t, you’ve wanted this for years and now it’s about to happen. You can feel the volcanic stones, black and serrated, quaking as the Bronze Fury stomps in his hovel. The cave is shrouded in fog, but you know he’s in there. He is growling, a sound like thunder. You can see the glinting gold of his eyes.

“Vermithor!”you command him in High Valyrian, holding out your hands, your maroon gown billowing around you in the vicious wind. Strands of long silver hair are torn from your braid. Blood runs in thin rivulets from your ravaged palms down your wrists and forearms. Saltwater burns like fire in the gashes on your feet; you’ve lost your shoes while scrambling over the rocks. “All my life I’ve dreamed of you, and now we will fly together at last. We will be bonded to one another until death. We will preserve the realm and burn our enemies. Serve me, Vermithor! Serve me!”

He emerges from his cave: a colossal skull covered in scales and spines, steam rising from his nostrils, jagged fangs bared, eyes that are at once reptilian and mindless and wrathful and sage. He is a century old and unfathomably mighty; he is an inheritor of the sacred magic of Old Valyria. He judges you with eyes like kindling flames.

“Red, step back!” Aemond yells from where he watches, his black cloak like a banner in the wind, closed at the neck with a silver chain and with a constellation of silver buttons in the shape of Vhagar’s wings across his shoulders. He is the only person who has kept pace with you. “Give him room! Let him approach you!”

But Vermithor is yours, there is no other possibility, in your heart he has always been yours, he has been the beast you claimed in your soul when you first heard his legends as Aemond read them aloud to you, Aegon, Helaena, Daeron under the heart tree in the Godswood of the Red Keep, and now you will climb onto his back and fly with him and meet Aemond and Vhagar in the mist-grey sky. From deep in his throat, the Bronze Fury snarls.

“Vermithor, be calm! Don’t you recognize me? We are meant for each other. We belong to each other. The dragon egg I was given in the cradle didn’t hatch so I could come here and find you instead. I am not afraid of you. I will not flee from you. Serve me! Serve me!”

“It’s not working,” Aemond tells you with dawning horror. “Get away from him! Red, get away!”

“Serve me, Vermithor!” you scream, and now you’re terrified, because his jaws are opening and dragonfire is boiling up into his mouth, crimson and glowing. “No, no!”

You try to run but the heat is already everywhere, and the air is suddenly too hot to breathe, and when you touch your face with your bloody hands you can feel your cheeks blistering. And then something collides with you like a lance striking a jousting knight, and you are thrown to the ground. It’s Aemond, and he is shoving you down into a crevice between two slabs of black basalt, and when instinctively you try to push him away—you’re always fighting him, something wild to be tamed—Aemond pins your wrists to your chest and shields your body with his, shrinking from the lethal heat of the world outside and burying his face in the velvet of your gown.

Then Criston and the guards and the Dragonkeepers are here, and with their ancient spells the Dragonkeepers convince Vermithor to retreat into his cave. When Aemond helps you out of the crevice, you see that the buttons on the back of his cloak have melted, and if the attack had lasted even a moment longer he’d be dead.

~~~~~~~~~~

When you wake in your bedchamber at the top of a tower of Heart’s Home, Jace is already gone. You peer through the window and see him strolling in the castle courtyard with Lord Leowyn Corbray, both of them bundled up in heavy furs; there is a layer of powdery snow on the ground, just as high as the ankles. The pine trees of the surrounding forest sway in the cold mountain wind. Servants lead horses in and out of the stable. And you wonder randomly: Do they have bats in the Vale?

Maids hear you walking around and file into the room to show you the clothes your closet has been stocked with through House Corbray’s generosity and help you dress. They try to distract you, but you notice anyway: one of them strips the bed and takes the sheets away, blotted with a watery, pale pink stain of blood. You’re sore, but not terribly so, just enough pain to remind you—when you move in certain ways—that you are wed to Jace, and that he took you last night as any husband would, and that now you could be carrying his dark-haired heir. The thought stuns you; you’ve never been more than ambivalent to the prospect of bearing children. Your dreams were of Vermithor, and marrying Aemond, and being possessed by him in every sense possible. Motherhood would come later, and you had always assumed you would one day begin to dream of that too.

Do I dream of it now?

No, you feel in your bones. Not now. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

The colors of the Vale are chilly and weak like the sky. The maids show you velvet gowns of dusky rose, icy blue, moss green, dove grey. After some consideration, you choose the blue. Then you wander the castle, your drafty stone prison, your new home. There are no tapestries of the Hightower or wrathful dragons or lovers ensnared like knotted threads, no familiar faces. Heart’s Home is austere, its primary embellishments being candlelit chandeliers and rugs made from dead animals, and the loudest sound you hear is the whistling of wind through cracks in the walls, frigid air that howls in from the Mountains of the Moon.

After much exploration you find the rookery, where ravens squawk in their cages and bed down in mounds of straw, and through the window is a view of snowcapped mountains that stretch on endlessly like a sea. There is no table to write on, and you see no parchment or ink or quills, and you don’t know which raven (if any of them) is trained to fly to Rook’s Rest. It doesn’t matter; you can’t write to Aemond without endangering your family held hostage in King’s Landing. And even if you could, what would you say to him?

Aemond, I’ve married Jace and I did it to save you. But don’t fear for my safety. I am protected here, I am content enough. I have no dragon, but I can help fight the war in my own way. Jace seems to like me. I might even be beginning to like him too.

“You’re not supposed to be in here,” someone says, and you whirl to see Lord Corbray’s wife filling up the doorway.

You do not bow or curtsey. As a princess, you outrank her. “Lady Caroline.” No. Not quite. “Lady Carolyn. Lady Carolina.” Then you remember. “I am so sorry, Lady Carolei. Forgive me.”

She laughs boisterously. “Carolei is a common name in the Vale, but not elsewhere, I’ve been told. My closest friends here call me Lady Caro, you can feel welcome to do the same.”

“Lady Caro. Please allow me to apologize again.”

“Oh no, that won’t be necessary. I’m sure you had a late night.” Her eyes—large and round, almost bulging, and a very pale blue—sweep from your feet to your face. “But you didn’t have too bad of a time with it, I think.”

“The maids took the sheets,” you say like an accusation.

She smiles, perhaps a little guiltily. “As High As Honor,” she replies. “They are the words of House Arryn, but all the great families of the Vale aspire to be above reproach.”

“And you are a great family.” It’s more of a question.

“We are not grand or wealthy, that’s true,” Lady Caro concedes. “And I can imagine our little castle cannot compare to King’s Landing or the Hightower of your Mother’s house. But we are dependable and honest. What Queen Rhaenyra has entrusted us with is a tremendous privilege. We will abide by her instructions, and endeavor to satisfy her every request.”

“So she wanted to know that I bled.”

Lady Caro shrugs—I can’t tell you that—and then signals for you to follow her. “Join me in the Great Hall. We’ll have some cinnamon tea.”

The Great Hall of Heart’s Home is about the same size as your bedchamber in the Red Keep, with two rows of wooden tables and a crackling fire in the hearth. When you look into the glowing embers, you are reminded of Vermithor’s flames. Cool overcast light falls like snow in through the windows. Lady Caro gestures for you to sit with her at the table closest to the fire, and maids bring you fried eggs and bacon, fresh bread, butter, blackberry jam, and cinnamon tea, milky and aromatic and very sweet.

“It must be difficult for you,” Lady Caro says thoughtfully as she slurps her tea, steam wafting into the air. “Being so very far from your family. Even if they are traitors.”

She seems to be testing you for a reaction. You gaze into your tea and try not to let tears well up in your eyes as you think of them: Mother and Helaena in a dungeon, Jaehaera and Maelor with strangers, Jaehaerys and Grandsire dead, Daeron at war, Aegon burned, Aemond hating me once he learns of my betrayal. None of us are in the same place. That’s not how it’s supposed to be. “But you must be far from home too. Women get married off and sent across the world, it’s nothing new.”

“This is true,” Lady Caro muses. “I am originally of House Coldwater, and if you think Heart’s Home is plain and remote, I hope you never see Coldwater Burn. You’ve probably never even heard of it.”

“It’s up near the Fingers,” you say softly, remembering Aemond showing you dots littering the Vale on one of his maps, warm firelight, teasing hands, his lips murmuring against the shell of your ear. “The colors of its banner are blue, red, and white.”

She gasps and presses a palm to her chest, delighted. Her already ruddy cheeks flush pinker. “Mother have mercy, they teach that in the capital?”

“I have an interest in geography.” No, you don’t; but Aemond does.

“Do you embroider or sing?”

“Neither. Not well, anyway. Helaena works miracles with a needle and thread.” Absently, you touch your gown where beneath the pale blue velvet a scar runs from your left collarbone down to the top of your breast. So does Aemond.

Lady Caro observes this curiously, peering at you over the rim of her mug. “How did you occupy yourself before you came here? I do want to make you feel as comfortable as possible.”

Because you are kind? Because Rhaenyra told you to? Or because I might be the queen myself someday? “I spent a lot of time with my brothers and sister,” you answer honestly, dolefully. And I kept bats. You decide to omit this. “We all had our crafts. I made mosaics out of seashells.”

Lady Caro titters. “Seashells? Well, they aren’t exactly abundant, but there are some out near where the river meets the Narrow Sea. I’ll see if I can have a bucketful brought to you.”

“I can collect them.”

“The water is very cold, and the current powerful.”

“I like to choose my own shells. You can send knights to watch over me, I’m not hoping to drown myself or anything.”

Now Lady Caro laughs loudly. “Drown yourself! The things you say, princess…”

You decide to try to make conversation to encourage her affection, as Mother would want you to. “Do you have children, Lady Caro?”

“Oh yes, five of them. Four died though. Awful luck, isn’t it?” She goes somber, staring blankly out the nearest window for a long while, leaving you unsure of what to do or say. Eventually, she returns to the Great Hall and is cheerful again. “My daughter Jessamyn was married into House Mallister of Seagard. I get to see her and the children once every few years. And she’s nothing like you.”

You smirk cautiously. “What does that mean?”

“It means she’s very sweet and agreeable and naïve.” And then Lady Caro winks at you, and you realize you might be becoming friends. “Not like a Targaryen.”

You drink your cinnamon tea and think of last night, feeling a strange brew of fondness and shame and relief and loss. “Sounds a bit like Jace though.”

“Yes, well,” Lady Caro says, then wisely leaves the rest unspoken. He’s more of a Strong, isn’t he?

One of the Great Hall’s heavy wooden doors creaks open and Jace strides inside, wearing black accented with red and a bear fur coat overtop, speckled with snowflakes. More flurries are melting in his hair. You stand to meet him and he takes both of your hands. You smile uneasily, not knowing what to expect; then Jace playfully kisses the knuckles of your right hand, and after that your left, and he beams at you.

Instead of a greeting, he says: “We have a few more days together, then I have to go away.”

It’s the second time a man has told you this. “Go where?”

Jace shrugs evasively. No one is allowed to tell you anything. “Do you like horses?”

“Sure.” Aemond used to take you to visit his war horses, all towering and temperamental: Rusty, Apple, Fox, Ladybug, Pomegranate. Then he would watch as you stroked their forelocks and their downy muzzles, his remaining eye fixed on you, imagining sins that never felt like damnation but rather searing, tumultuous waves like an ocean of blood.

“Good. I’ll show you the stable.” Jace kisses you, a quick peck for modesty’s sake since you aren’t alone. He grins and licks his lips. “Mm. You taste like cinnamon.” Something warm, something red. He turns to Lady Caro. “Thank you for making us feel so welcome. The queen will be pleased to hear of your devoted service to the crown. We know that this is an imposition, and we appreciate your generous sacrifice.”

“Nonsense,” Lady Caro replies, and she seems to mean it. “It’s no imposition. It’s an honor.” Then she rises to her feet. “Let me find some boots and a fur coat for the princess.”

Once you are properly guarded against the cold—wrapped in a thick coat of fox pelts—Jace links his arm through yours and leads you outside, and you tread together through the shallow snowfall toward the stable.

“You’ve probably never even seen snow before,” Jace says, and you agree even though this isn’t true. You saw snow here in the Vale when you were very young—you don’t even remember which castle Mother and Father had been visiting on their royal progress—and that was the trip when Aemond pushed you into a frozen river and you caught a chill that almost killed you.

“Jace?” you ask, cutting him off mid-sentence. You hadn’t meant to interrupt him; your mind had been wandering.

He looks at you with some trepidation, as if he’s worried you might have a complaint. “Yes?”

“Why are you being so nice to me?”

He blinks at you, then exhales in a relieved chuckle. “You’re asking why I’m nice?”

“You never liked me before. And you had no reason to.” In your eyes, I was a traitor. If you could tell what I’m feeling, you’d know I still am.

He ponders how to answer as you walk. Now his expression is serious. “I always knew that when I married—to whoever it was, although for most of my life I believed it would be someone else—that would be it for me, and I would never be estranged from her or take another lover. There are so many families with…” He pauses, and you watch him closely. “There are so many children who suffer from the indiscretions of their parents.” There is a bloom of ashamed, gory pink in his cheeks, and you know he is speaking of himself, and of all the bastards anywhere in the world who have ever been made to feel lied to, less than, disgraced, disavowed. “I swore to myself that I would be a good husband and father, and that my own household would be…wholly uncomplicated.”

“So you would act this way with anyone. With whoever you were wed to.”

“Well…” He smiles softly. “As it turns out, there are things I like about you.”

“Really?” you tease, grinning, and when you reach the stable you shove the door open and step inside onto a straw-strewn floor. There’s no biting mountain breeze here in the shadows, and the body heat radiating off the horses makes the air more hospitable. Jace seems surprised you didn’t wait for him to open the door for you. “What things?”

“Several things,” Jace says, then—now that you are alone aside from the horses nickering and chomping on hay in their stalls—wraps his arms around your waist and holds you from behind, kissing the side of your neck. You have to resist the reflex to fight him off so he can overpower you, pin you to the floor, fuck you as you hiss and claw at him and tell him to stop. Jace wouldn’t understand it. Jace would be horrified by it. “Here,” Jace whispers, skimming a hand over your gown where he made you bleed last night. Then his palms travel up to your breasts. “And here.” Then he nuzzles your silver hair as he gently unfastens your braid and inhales deeply. “And I like this too. Although I’d be interested to see you wear it in a style that is a little…softer.”

“Softer?” you echo doubtfully.

“You’re not a warrior,” Jace says as if he thinks you will want to hear this, as if it will comfort you. It doesn’t. “And that’s alright. You can be soft. You can be ladylike.”

You don’t feel very much like a lady. You feel like a kettle full of boiling water, like lava bursting up through the cracks in the earth, like dragonfire hemorrhaging from a beast’s gaping throat. Now you and Jace are on the wooden floor of the stable, displacing straw as you kiss hungrily and pull off each other’s coats. Jace climbs on top of you, and you think: I can’t do this again, not like last night. I want to be fed too.

Jace stops to marvel at your face, his thumb skating over the curve of your cheekbone. “I want to make it as good for you as it is for me,” he says solemnly. “Last night it was over so quickly, and…I didn’t…I feel like I could have done more, but I don’t know…I’m not sure if…”

You grab his right hand and lace your fingers through his. “Can I show you how I touch myself?”

Jace’s eyebrows go up. “You touch yourself?”

“Don’t you?”

“Well, yes,” he admits bashfully, blushing. He does this a lot, you are learning. “But I’m a man.”

You smile. “Women experience longing too, Jace.”

“Yes,” he says, and now he’s breathing quickly and it sounds less like he’s merely intrigued and more like he’s begging for it. “Show me. Please show me.”

You take his hand and guide it beneath your gown, up the length of your legs, stopping where you are slick and needful, an ache so deep it hurts like the cramps when your blood arrives each month. You place two of Jace’s fingers on the right spot—he keeps inadvertently moving his hand just off the mark, and each time you put it back where it belongs—and lead him into a rhythm, a tight swift circling and pressure that makes your thighs open wider for him and your spine arch.

Jace murmurs as you pant on the stable floor, shadows on your face and straw in your hair: “Is this okay, am I hurting you at all?”

“You can press down pretty hard,” you assure him. “You won’t break me. I’m not glass.”

He’s trying not to lose his focus. “Okay…okay…”

“Jace,” you gasp as you sling your arms around the back of his neck and cling to him, your hips rocking, and he moans and kisses you—deeply, passionately, gluttonously—and under your dress his hand suddenly strokes you so forcefully it’s almost painful and then it’s on you, that feeling better than anything else on earth, being opened, being dragged under, being ignited, being devoured until you go weak and limp and boneless, aftershocks throbbing and your lips smiling drowsily. “Jace, Jace, Jace,” you breathe dizzily, still holding him.

He is gazing down at you, awestruck. “When can I watch you do that again?”

“Soon,” you purr through Jace’s dark curls. “Now…your turn.”

You are barely aware of it as he pushes the hem of your gown up to your waist and frees himself from his trousers, and you only come back to Jace when he enters you—your flesh still tender from last night, but wet and wanting him—and he is careful as he slowly pushes himself all the way inside, trying not to hurt you again. Then he thrusts and you are stunned by how good it feels, like your climax made everything more sensitive, more ready, more flawlessly tailored to fit with him. Jace doesn’t last much longer than the first night, and yet just before it’s over there is the ghost of something, a vague desire that is building, and you think next time (or the time after that, or the time after that) you will be able to finish again, and you will be drained like a slaughtered animal with its throat cut and its body hung by the feet, every last blood drop purged and collected in a bucket to be used for fertilizer or pig feed.

Lying together exhausted on the stable floor, you twirl one of Jace’s curls around your finger and—purely by instinct, because it’s what you and Aemond used to do—whisper to him in High Valyrian: “I love how you touch me, thank you, I needed this, I needed you.” But you can tell by the way Jace turns to you, startled and a little self-conscious, that he doesn’t understand what you said.

“I know some High Valyrian, of course,” he explains quickly. “But I’m…I’m still learning.”

“Oh.” It doesn’t come easily to him. Because he’s a Strong, and the Strongs have nothing to do with Old Valyria. And then, to temper the blow: “I can help you practice.”

“Who taught it to you?” Jace asks. He is suspicious, then hopeful. “Helaena?”

You should lie to him, but you don’t. At some point you have to start letting raindrops of the truth seep in. You are going to share a household with Jace, your bodies, your futures, your children. You want him to understand who you really are. You can’t pretend forever; already, it is stifling, a constant and trudging effort, a vanishing until you are transluscent like clear water. You are reminded of all the times when you’ve tried to hide pieces of yourself to please Mother, whose Hightower blood was washed away by the grim, intoxicating magic of the Targaryens. “No, Helaena doesn’t speak High Valyrian except when giving commands to Dreamfyre. She can understand it fairly well, though.”

Jace nods, studying you, but he doesn’t say anything else. The phantom of Aemond stands in the far corner of the stable. You think: I am a traitor to both of them, I am a house of no banners. After a moment, you ask Jace for your very first favor.

“I want Helaena freed from the dungeon in the Red Keep,” you say. “I understand Rhaenyra’s distrust of Mother, but Helaena is innocent. She should be confined to her chambers and permitted to see her children. And allowed to walk in the garden sometimes too.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” Jace says distractedly.

“You know Helaena. She is gentle, she is fragile. She deserves compassionate treatment.”

“So did Luke,” Jace replies; and though he takes your hands and helps you to your feet as horses snort and paw at the straw-covered floors of their stalls, he averts his dark gaze—an inheritance from his bloodline, the indomitable lineage of the First Men—and doesn’t meet your eyes.

Two days later he departs Heart’s Home for a destination that Lord and Lady Corbray know, surely, but you don’t. Jace bids you farewell at the edge of the field beyond the castle walls as Vermax waits impatiently for him across the clearing, not liking the mountain cold, not liking you. Jace wears black and red as he almost always does, the colors of his mother’s house. His curls are ruffled by the breeze, his red cloak flowing down from his shoulders like a trail of blood.

“I’ll be back as soon as I can.” Jace touches your cheek, then your chin. “I’ll miss you and all those things I’ve discovered I like so much.”

You smile back. You have the beginning of a headache—a throbbing above your left eye, a fuzziness in your thoughts—but you’re trying not to show it. “I’ll be here.” Where else could I go?

“I love you,” Jace says, and then looks at you expectantly. It takes you a minute to realize he’s waiting for you to say it too.

You open your mouth, but your pulsing skull is clamoring with prayers you cannot voice. Please protect the family I have left. Please don’t find a way to kill Aemond. At last you manage: “I love you,” but it sounds hollow and unnatural and cold, like stark snowcapped peaks and the gales that shriek through them.

Nonetheless, Jace is satisfied. He tilts up your face to bring his lips to yours and then treks across the field towards Vermax, leaving footprints in the fresh snow. His sword hangs from his belt. He practices with knights in the castle courtyard each day, and he’s not bad, you’ve observed anxiously. Not as good as Aemond, but not bad.

That night you see the shadow of something interrupting the moonlight that floods in through the window of your bedchamber, and when you push open the glass a bat lands clumsily on the sill and then scrabbles inside. You squeal with delight and scoop it into your arms. It’s a male and a different sort of bat than the ones in King’s Landing, larger in size, black and white in color and with long fanlike ears. He sniffs at you and gazes up with small but intelligent inky eyes. Then, as a mark of friendship, he begins to lick at your fingertips.

“And what do you eat, huh?” you coo as you pet him. “Probably not honey or fruit if you live way up here in the mountains. Probably just bugs. Should I try to catch you some spiders tomorrow? This decrepit old castle must be full of them.”

You have to name him. And this is an opportunity to break all your old patterns. You could call him Seahorse for Jace’s false house, or Dragon for his true one. You could call him the High Valyrian word for bat or wings. You could name him after something black, the color that Jace favors. And yet as you hold him, old memories come screaming back to you, Aemond helping you tend to your bats, Aemond protecting them, moments of kindness and understanding that you now fear were illusions.

He never said he loves me. Not once in eighteen years.

You keep waiting for a glimpse into Aemond’s mind, a stabbing pang of loss and longing when he realizes you’ve been taken away, but it never happens. You keep waiting for him to find you and descend upon House Corbray with fire and blood.

Aemond, where are you? Aemond, have you forgotten me?

“Sapphire,” you whisper to your new bat—your only bat—and he looks up at you as if he knows his name.

~~~~~~~~~~

Jace is gone for weeks, and in his absence you try to learn how to be his wife. You ask Lady Caro to teach you how to wear your hair like the ladies of the Vale: soft waves, sedate buns knotted at the nape of the neck, delicate wisps that frame the face and blow in the harsh mountain wind. You attempt to cultivate an affinity for pale impassionate colors. You distract yourself so you don’t think of Aemond. You catch spiders and moths in secret to feed to Sapphire when he visits you each night. You spend days practicing quiet, feminine embroidery—ruining yarn scenes, piercing your fingertips with needles—until you give it up and fling the cursed tangle of threads away and return to your strange fixations that once confounded Mother.

Lady Caro sends knights to accompany you to the mouth of the river, and you wade up to your knees in the icy water plucking rare shells out of the silt and the pebbles. You are not permitted to collect bones from the forest—there are bears and wolves and shadowcats—but you arrange for the hunters to give you what’s left of the carcasses once they’ve been skinned and butchered. The carpenters give you boards of wood and the blacksmiths forge you a small iron mallet. Sometimes Lady Caro stands in the castle kitchen watching you boil animal bones in a caldron or in your bedchamber as you shatter shells and paint the shards with glue, and she shakes her head, surely thinking: What is wrong with these Targaryens?

You don’t dare to make any mosaics of Aemond. It’s too dangerous, and too painful, and too revealing of what you’re truly feeling. So instead you piece together visions of the rest of them: Aegon smirking over a goblet of red wine, butterflies landing on Helaena’s outstretched palm, Daeron riding Tessarion, Mother smiling at Criston, Jaehaera and Maelor playing together in the garden of the Red Keep. You hang them on the walls of your bedchamber and at night you sleep better.

When Jace and Vermax return to Heart’s Home, you and Lady Caro are in the inaptly named Great Hall sipping cinnamon tea and nibbling blackberry oatcakes, and Lady Caro is telling you about her flock of grandchildren who reside at Seagard on the shore of the Sunset Sea. “Jasper is clever but terribly loud, and then Joy won’t talk to humans at all but loves her cats…” She trails off as your husband rushes into the room, his steps buoyant, his red cloak flying behind him.

“Welcome back, Prince Jacaerys,” Lady Caro says as she stands to greet him. “I hope your travels were comfortable and all your ventures went well.”

“Very well,” he says, grinning, alight with victories that are yet unspoken. Lady Caro dismisses herself to give the two of you privacy, promising to bring cinnamon tea for Jace. As soon as she is gone, Jace bolts to the table.

“What happened?” you ask he sits opposite of you. The hearth throws off rage-colored heat.

Please let this be peace and not violence. Please don’t have harmed anyone I love.

He is beaming as he takes a messy bite of a blackberry oatcake, crumbs falling down onto the table. And he must have decided that he can begin telling you his secrets now. Perhaps he trusts you; perhaps he knows there’s nothing you can do to sabotage him anyway, no ravens to send, nobody to inform. “I found someone to ride Vermithor.”

The realization sinks inside you, dark and heavy, an anchor, a sickness. You murmur, knowing it is pointless: “He was supposed to be mine.”

“Well…he didn’t agree.”

This hurts you; Jace doesn’t seem to notice. You think of the tiny wooden Vermithor that Aegon once carved for you, and you wonder if it’s still on your dresser in Maegor’s Holdfast or if Rhaenyra has burned or broken it, or mistaken it for something of no value.

“Corlys’ bastard Addam has claimed Seasmoke,” Jace continues, as if this could not possibly be anything to you but good news. “Vermithor and Seasmoke are now helping Mother to safeguard the capital. Daemon and Nettles…” Jace gestures awkwardly. There was a falling out with Rhaenyra. “They’ve taken Harrenhal as a base in the Riverlands. So we needed more help in King’s Landing, and we found it.”

We have two battleworthy dragons. Now they have six. No wonder Jace is so pleased.

“And there are still other unclaimed dragons,” you say dully, nauseous with dread.

“Yes,” Jace agrees. “But unfortunately, Aemond realized what we were doing. So he took possession of Dragonstone, and he and Vhagar are always back and forth from there, and no one can approach the island and risk him happening upon them.” Another bite of his blackberry oatcake, more crumbs, more casual chewing. “Which brings me to my question for you.”

“For me?”

Jace nods. “I need you to tell me what he’s going to do next.”

You stare at your husband inanely. “What?”

“Aemond is the problem,” Jace says, more agitated now. He devours the last of his blackberry oatcake. “Even with all the dragons we have, it’s going to be difficult to destroy Vhagar. Our new dragonriders are inexperienced, and Daemon, he’s…” Jace waves a hand. “Unreliable. Self-serving. But you were there at the Red Keep with Aemond when he and Criston were drawing up their plans, and therefore you can help us.”

You lie immediately. “I don’t know anything.”

“I don’t believe you.”

Another lie. “Really. He didn’t discuss it with me.”

“Then tell me about him,” Jace says impatiently. “I know he’s good with a sword, but he must have weaknesses. Does he have lasting pain from his maiming, does he have vices that distract him?”

I’m not convinced I knew Aemond at all. “I’m not going to help you kill him.”

Jace glares at you incredulously. “How do you think this ends?”

“Rhaenyra promised Mother that Aemond would be spared, and you were a part of that bargain—”

“We said we would let him live if he’s still alive when the war is over, but we can’t win the war if he and Vhagar are seizing castles and territory and burning our men and supplies and nobody can stop him!”

“Does he know that…” You swallow, your throat burning. “Did Rhaenyra send him a raven to tell him about our marriage?” About my treason, about my ruining?

“No. Why would we provoke him like that? Why would we put a target on my back? The realm will be told when the battles are past and the surviving Green loyalists must be convinced to bend the knee.”

You close your eyes and you can’t picture Aemond as a warrior; you can only see him as a child with stitches and agony, as a man who gave you forbidden, bewitching pleasure. “I don’t know anything. I can’t help you.”

“I did as you asked,” Jace snaps. “I persuaded Mother to give Helaena more freedom, I ensured that Alicent is healthy and that Jaehaera and Maelor are well cared for and never lonely. I can probably even save Daeron. But Aemond must be stopped.”

“He’s my family too—”

“I am your family now!” Jace roars, jolting to his feet and pounding on his own heart. “Me and my siblings, and my parents, and my children, not them!”

One of the doors of the Great Hall swings open and Lady Caro is there with a tray of cinnamon tea and fresh blackberry oatcakes. She gapes at you and Jace, too shocked to remember to be polite. It’s too late for her to pretend she hasn’t heard. She stalls, trying to think of something to say.

“I believe we’re having venison for dinner,” she announces with feigned cheerfulness.

Jace looks at you one last time—with disappointment, with fury—and storms out of the room.

~~~~~~~~~~

He doesn’t come to bed all night, and you leave the window wide open so Sapphire can glide in and visit you: hanging from your bedposts, scrambling over your blankets, and then vanishing shortly before daylight. You have a headache that worsens until you are half-blind and sick to your stomach, and the maids hear you retching and bring you toasted bread and ginger tea and a bucket and wet cloths to cool your face.

Lady Caro wanders in and sits down beside you, her weight shifting the feather mattress, and pats your shoulder sympathetically. “I think you should tell the prince that his efforts have been successful.” To produce an heir, she means, and you’re convinced she’s wrong.

“That’s not what it is,” you moan, burrowing under the blankets. “I’m sick all the time.”

“You haven’t had your monthly blood since you’ve been here,” Lady Caro says gently, and of course she knows this because of her maids, her spies. You stare up at her vacuously, unable to comprehend it.

Pregnant with Jace’s child?

And this feels like a final severing of any possibility that Aemond will ever want you back. No other man was allowed to lie with you. Now Jace has wed you, bedded you, bred with you, turned your coat.

You force yourself out of bed and let the maids dress you and comb your hair, nursing the ginger tea—unappetizing, but good for nausea—as you gather your courage. You aren’t sure how to tell Jace. You aren’t sure that you want to see him at all.

Your skull still throbbing and your bare feet unsteady, you stumble through the cold stony corridors of the castle until you hear men arguing spiritedly in the Great Hall, their voices rumbling like thunder. Inside you find Lord Corbray, a number of lords and knights, and the maester of the castle. Jace is bent over one of the tables and reading, then rereading, a letter that the maester must have brought from the rookery.

Lord Corbray is saying: “They write that he has already razed Darry, Blackbuckle, Claypool, Swynford, and Spiderwood. The noble houses are constructing scorpions, but even with them, how many bolts would be needed to kill Vhagar? She’s massive, she’s monstrous. The Northmen are marching south, but now they’re saying they won’t go beyond the Twins without Caraxes and Sheepstealer as escorts, and can we count on Daemon for anything…?”

Jace looks up and sees you standing in the threshold. His dark curls hang over his bloodless face; his eyes are staggered and fearful. And twistedly, horribly, there is a flash of light that burns radiantly through the murky gloom of your skull and your ribcage, a forbidden vindication, a rapture you can never reveal.

Aemond remembers me? Aemond longs for me?

Jace says: “He thinks you’re in the Riverlands.”

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