#musings of an antari

[ravenblccded]

Willem knew that marrying Myella wouldn’t be an easy task. He figured most of the issue would be from public opinion from his advisors and such. He knew that his future wife’s reputation preceded her, but he didn’t care. He would always defend her, loyally and emphatically. However, what Willem didn’t expect was navigating her family. Yes, he knew that marrying the niece of the king would take a great deal of effort on his part, but Willem seemed to forget one thing: her father. Their marriage was partly arranged by the king, not Prince Daemon. The Prince had not factored into Willem’s mind at all. It’s not like he was scared of him…

Well, perhaps he was a little. But, only an idiot wouldn’t be scared of Prince Daemon even a little bit. If his Dark Sister didn’t strike fear into a man’s heart, then certainly the Blood Wyrm did. Plus, now that Daemon was wed to Rhaenyra, it was probably a bad look considered Willem had asked for her hand when he was just a boy. Regardless, his love for Myella was greater than his fear of her father. So, when time came to meet before their wedding, Willem tried to look forward to the meeting.

He waited anxiously with his bride-to-be for the arrival of her family. When they did, he watched as Myella tenderly hugged her father and turned to introduce them, “Father, this is Willem.”

He gave a curt bow, “My Prince. It’s a pleasure to finally meet you.”

@musings-of-an-antari

[lysenixdragon]

Some days Myella didn’t know why she stayed in Kingslanding. Her father and cousin Rhaenyra—now stepmother—offered many times she could stay in Dragonstone, but she always respectfully declined. The truth of it all was that she felt out of place. She never truly felt like she belonged there. Honestly, she never felt like she belonged anywhere. Myella certainly didn’t belong here in Kingslanding. Here, she was surrounded by the Greens who despised her father and her. She was the ‘bastard daughter of the Rogue Prince with the face of a foreign whore’ as the others described her. But, because of who her father and uncle were, no one would dare to touch her. Only words, and Myella had grown immune to them by now.

Today, she was in her chambers practicing embroidery on one of her old gowns. She had developed a knack for it, seeing as she had a lot of time on her own. Mostly because Myella lacked any real friends.

@musings-of-an-antari

[xx--ofmanythoughts--xx]

cont'd from here

Tired eyes looked over at her host and as she tried to show anger or hatred; she did not have the emotion in her now.  She was tired and fighting her future husband was exhaustive.  She knew it was not his fault for any of this, but it was her father’s.  He had decided and moved the pieces on the chess board…

…but for what? 

She knew of this man’s mother and her control over others.  She had seen it for herself when she had come to her father’s kingdom.  She did not trust the woman, but she could not say anything to her father…at least not in public.  “Your mother has her own agenda, I believe.  I saw this when she came to my father’s lands and witnessed it,” she admitted softly, hoping it would not cause his ire. 

She was not a woman that was easily frightened but she had seen this one’s temper and could not explain the shadows around him at the time.  What was he?  She did not know but she hoped he was not the monster many described him as she had travelled through the distant lands.  “Your mother just desires the most powerful alignment for her and your kingdom.  I am just a princess and a pawn in this game,” she softly said moving from the makeshift bed she had been lying on.  She took a step and wobbled a bit before she thought she was falling forward.

Her hand reaching for something to secure her footing, she grabbed his arm to steady her form.  “I am sorry,” her apology soft and almost just a whisper.  But when she lifted her head; his mother’s gaze captured her eyes burning into her.  Aerella knew she was in a castle of something she did not understand and wondered if her own training with swords would even matter. 

[shireentheunburnt]

Meeting a God

Shireen sat at the side of Gaia's gleaming water wearing a green dress of foliage that the other children had made for her shortly after her arrival. Her old attire, which still felt strange to acknowledge, was not appropriate for the planet's warm climate as it had been donned with Westeros' bitter winter in mind. Here, the sun shone as though it were summer, and all was lush and green...

A not insignificant part of the child thought that, perhaps, she had died upon the pyre after all and was now in one of the Seven Heavens.

Tapping her charred stag figurine across her leg, she stared out over the glittering blue and tried again to organise her thoughts, to soothe the pumping of her heart. Nothing felt right, and she didn't know if it ever would again. With a sigh, the hand holding her toy stilled, and she brought it slowly to her middle, clutching to it tightly for comfort.

What was she to do now? She did not know. She felt rather lost in a universe she had only just learned was far larger than she had ever dreamed. Safe now, but adrift all the same, like so many of the children who had found themselves here. A tear rolled down her stone-scarred cheek that she brushed away. It would be all right, it would-

Was that something in the sky?

@musings-of-an-antari

[charmed-redemption]

It's my 9 year anniversary on Tumblr 🥳

Thank you friends

@adsagsona @musings-of-an-antari @edwardantes @soldiershunterswitchesandroyals @sunsrpmuses @ang3lmoan @iisoldmysoulxx @mccallpack12

[bcbliophile]

Working on replies and crying over how much @musings-of-an-antari’s Aemond loves Penelope.

[ravencromwell]

Headcanons for either or both of the Dane twins?

Going beneath a cut, because somehow this turned into 3k of Astrid stream-of-consciousness musings on ruling her city, bracketed with Holland's disgusted dead-pan snark.

The very worst thing, Holland thinks in the bleakest moments, is that the Danes aren't the worst rulers Makt has ever had.

***

Athos alone probably would be. He is the lord of infinite, fruitless defiance, and if the city wants to give him such gifts as rebellion, who is he to say no? He will simply fight them all as entertainment between bouts of indulging his insatiable curiosity about artifacts. Emerging victorious would soothe his terror that everyone lost the throne eventually even if it left the city in ruins and more corpses than living people.

But if Athos is lord of defiance, Astrid is lady of small mercies.

From the moment the old man was dead, Astrid knows she will show none of his faux love and camaraderie to her subjects. They might love her in return, and those who love a queen want to see it reflected back, need her words of praise for their devotion no matter how they prattle simple service will suffice.

Such displays are tedious, love reserved for Athos alone.

But gratitude? Gratitude has its uses.

She and her brother want to leave their mark on this world (and its people). If her brother's little stone is as strong as they believe, one day folk privileged to suffer beneath their blades may show their scars with pride and whisper what a gift they were given by Makt's saviors.

If they do not, well. More fool them.

But in the meantime, even an Antari cannot hold off a hundred angry citizens, if they decided to mob. And sometimes, the Danes satiation requires a few missing loved ones. And inevitably, discontented souls decide there must be new blood. In especially unfortunate moments, those close to traitors have chosen to mewl about her brother's punishments and must be put down in their turn.

Her beloved Athos never understood how the body forgets pain. Men and women drink. They promise themselves the blood they saw running in the gutter was not as red as all that. Besides, it will not happen to them. To live in this city is to become deaf to screams, even your own.

Look at her brother's pretty thing. How many times has Athos made him scream? (Enough it's added a permanent, graveled edge to his voice, Antari or no.) And still she and Athos catch those glimpses of defiant hatred that are almost better than the blood for her twin.

Profound appreciation, by contrast? Thankful obligation at holding a living, breathing child, where a month ago there was dying skin and bones? That will make a man hesitate before joining a revolution.

Appreciation may even bind the Antari better than the spell of which Athos is so proud.

'Obey and protect my sister' Athos always says when he won't be close to repeat an unheeded command.

Still, she has seen how he can resist myriad precautions binding every joint and muscle and bone ! Athos's will. Seen the foolish delays, misinterpretations. Seen him dare, if Athos' words are closer to suggestions ignore them outright, force her brother to the clearest possible command. She suspects he can withstand even better as Athos' proximity fades.

Wasted breaths are risk, when blood is in the balance. Fortunately, she is no fool, wrapping herself in enough amulets calling him to her aid is rarely necessary. He rides beside her to prove that even the Dane with slightly less black in her veins can easily control their demon.

But at almost every sign of threat, he moves unprompted. Not because he fears her brother's retribution, not because the seal compels. He comes too swiftly for either of those. Holland Vosijk comes because he knows if she died, he would never throw alms to the city that hates him. No subsidized wheat; Athos would love watching the men and women he trains to ride behind them—never beside, no one is given enough knowledge to stand as equal to they two—into Arnes—divide the city into wedges and make the people under their control scrabble and beg.

When she first saw the stacks and stacks of carefully labeled payments to spell-crafters and curse-makers, she'd thought none of Athos' experiments would be needed. The old man had found a way to open the doors, and now he was dead, and they could simply ride into Arnes and snatch the glory.

But a magical payment for each farmer to feed the city as a whole, rather than their chosen hoard, wasn't the worst idea. And Astrid would happily put the dead's ideas to fine use.

She graciously allows the pretty former knight over-see it, so long as he remembers the queen is always watching.

(Though when speaking of food and goods of all kinds, it is her brother who shines in trade. His tactic is so very simple. So very effective. A merchant enters the throne room. Athos informs them what they will bring to the city. Should they complain or protest, he does not even deign to blink. Merely says: "Unbutton your shirt." And while the merchant is gawping and spluttering, the Antari bears his Seal.

"Do you know what this is?" her brother asks, gently.

By the time he has demonstrated the Seal to his satisfaction—such a thorough tutor to the less accomplished, her twin— the question of whether the merchant's trade might improve under Athos' control does not need asking.

Once, Athos slipped a request for a woman's first-born into a contract revision and she signed without even looking, so desperate to flee from the throne before she had matching runes. She even dutifully paraded the child to the castle six months later. Athos had no interest now she behaved so well, but Astrid found gratitude at keeping her child made her a most excellent spy. within the city.)

And then there are the sick. Perhaps the Antari would be allowed his little preoccupation if her brother ruled alone, assuming the family were desperate enough to contribute a person to his servants' ranks. But even mindless, there's something in his guards that hungers to live, ducking blades and attacks on instincts most would swear puppets could not have. He rarely needs replacement.

On those occasions a petitioner dares bring the ill to their attention, Astrid takes whatever their pathetic tribute is. With gloves, of course, because assassins lurk everywhere. Takes the faded, wilted flowers and oddly shaped rocks with the tiniest bit of color lurking in stone veins from the children—so many are children, young and unscarred enough to believe facing the twins and their demon is a price gladly paid even as those they keep alive will likely betray them eventually.

Adults, when they come, bring carefully knitted blankets and finely spun clothes. Once, there were even the most lovely hair combs, made of some creature's shell far from the south the woman called a tortoise. Why she would surrender them for a squalling brat who has years and years to die while she has nothing else to barter, Astrid cannot guess. But she passed the combs to Albiz, her brother's favorite among the spell-working salon, to check for curses and let Holland do his work.

There are not many such petitioners, but every one will go back into the city and whisper of the queen's mercy, how she always stood between them and the demon, and when it was done, their friend or child or lover was alive. Whispers that will still other's discontent.

She keeps almost all those talismans, unless something catches her brother's fancy. Carves spells into the stones, wraps herself in the blankets, wears the finely made trousers.

Though she has little use for wilted posies. "Keep them," she says gently, savoring Holland's second flickering of desperate relief at being handed a token not steeped in blood.

Funny, how he is even responsible for Astrid's proudest creation, though he disdains her falcons. The complement to her brother's court of favored scholars and magicians. Where her brother's is equally spread between men and women, barely any of her falcons are men. Men are so terribly squeamish about having their bodies borrowed. And all her falcons wear a possession charm, so she may see any part of the city through their eyes whenever she wishes.

She could simply force her will, toss a charm over any likely-looking neck. But she wants keen servants, who will willingly call her attention to matters of interest. Made hungry enough from being overlooked they have the grit to never utter a word of complaint when she enters them abruptly. To never fight when she raises their hands or opens their mouths. To fall upon her prey in whatever manner she requires and ask no questions.

The obedience Athos must bind, given freely.

In return, they shall never starve, never offer their measly tributes to free family from pain, never serve anyone's will but she and Athos.

Years later, the keenest ferocity of them all, her magicless, intrepid Gudrun, under the thumb of a father who craved a drudge incapable of disobedience until she went to the market and ran to rumors of Astrid's glove, nets her flower boy. Whispers the most ridiculous, delightful story about forbidden letters and a knight-turned hound's vices that sees Astrid smiling even days later as she prepares to fully possess a prince. Whispers it with the sweet conviction she must have displayed to her father before Astrid murmurred he could not touch her. To do all the things she must have dreamed. (He learned then a knife could make even a magicless woman a man's greatest terror and Gudrun snarled in delight.) Whispers until the Antari falls to her talons, while Astrid watches from half a city away.

What she wants is easy. What she will call them does not come to her until after Holland's third visit to Arnes, feeling her brother's hand squeeze hers in delight at the wonders of this red city. Both their fingers ache pleasantly from expressing such delight at the hours-long recitation, as they have each time her brother told the Antari to 'account for each moment in the Red City'.

The prey-vulnerable Red Royals must think they are predators, dawdling with their letters, letting 'Master Holland' wander the city while they mull their answers, thinking themselves so safe with their doors. She would mock them more, save their complacency makes for beautiful tales.

Later, he will learn to speak of Arnesian wonders in a monotone as though they were fool enough to believe the city left him any less awestruck than they. But in these early days, even he cannot help closing his eyes at the thought of the fat, juicy rabbits a hunting party carried with them. Or perhaps it is the juice running in rivulets across her brother's fingers and lips as he savors the last few bites of apple. So sweet, that juice, when he had pressed it to her lips for the first bite. She had laughed until her sides ached, spun him about the throne room. She would offer her brother a bite of her own pasty—what a marvelous idea, to tell his pretty thing he must fetch back two things he had enjoyed most for them—but even three trips in, she knew his tastes ran to sweet and savory, not the burn that accompanied her meat and vegetables.

"Did you like it because it burned, pretty thing? Because everything in their world should carry the burn of their betrayal?" she had asked, hours ago, and relished the hiss of breath when he forced the Seal to jerk his head in affirmation.

"Even as you could not help wanting the sweet," Athos had laughed, graciously smearing some of the juice in a lingering kiss at the corner of the Antari's mouth. She could see the red shine of it still. Will he clean it away the second he is alone, or be unable to resist the last taste of sweetness even as he hates himself for it? she wondered, and then the Antari's voice cracked, and Athos gestured that he might fill one of the glasses beside the water pitcher and she exhaled her disappointment.

"We will scry his room and see what he does another day," Athos whispered, and of course he too had wondered if his pretty thing could resist temptation.

"The leader had a bird on his arm," the Antari continued barely a moment later, setting the emptied glass on the table and before he was done explaining how such a fierce thing rested so easily for bits of meat, she was striding to Athos' scrying basin, pulling Holland behind. "Clever, pretty thing, seeing what I need. Falcons."

Such beautiful ferocities, and she tried to touch the feathers even as she knew she would only ripple the water. "As Tosal," her brother said softly, pressing against her back and she blinked.

"Mhmm?"

"He will go back tonight and bring you one with As Tosal. It will make the bird still and silent, but not turn it to stone."

"Was it your favorite, when you made him demonstrate all his mysterious tricks to the salon?"

"You know me so well. We will send him jingling with compulsion coins and they will be none the wiser."

"It isn't a fruit I can have forgotten in a pocket if something goes wrong."

"Then you will not let it go awry, Holland. Do you think a week's silence on his return would make him more or less inclined to state the obvious. It is so very dull."

"More, to spite you. It is what comes of wanting a pet who bites. Athos, come here." She held her mad, foolhardy brother, who would weave a plan in an instant and risk all his great discoveries to bring her something marvelous without her even needing to ask, close to her chest. "The pretty thing is not wrong. Besides, I do not need a falcon, love, only their design. For my court. Can he-"

"Of course. Tell us the rest of the trip later. For now-"

"Holland-" This once, for bringing her such a gift, she will grant his name, since he has so little liking for her sobriquet, "Find the best silver smith in the city. A falcon, in flight. On a chain, small enough to slip beneath a shirt. Bring a finished one for approval by lunch tomorrow."

It was midnight, he would have to roust the Shal's leader from a warm bed to find a smith he would also disturb, he was tired. If the Antari thought any of these things, he did not say them, simply turned on his heel and left.

***

In the next seven years, Holland Vosijk can count, with fingers to spare, those Astrid Dane invites to her glove who flee the invitation. (Athos always let his magicians come grovelling, but Astrid's falcons were always keen-eared for new recruits) Perhaps it is his worst delusion, thinking they, too, see how much blood runs at the margins of a people who, if not content, are at least not especially restless.

There is fountains worth from the one hundred eighty-two killed by the Danes personally, and his sixty-four. The blood of fools who ran their mouths too freely to the innocuous-looking barmaid or shopkeeper or grandmother before a little silver charm emerged. Blood of crows know how many drunk by Athos' magicians for power.

When forced to collaborate or unearth magic, he can most easily hold his control near lady Albiz, who makes the job no crueler than necessary, heeds advice, and returns her dead to their people or buries them herself. And she still snuffed out two Maktahns the day she swanned into Athos' service. He will not forget that because she grants an ounce of respect.

Two lives she'd taken, that were merely one crime, on one day of two thousand five hundred fifty-five. Still full of all that blood, she'd strolled into morning court in a ragged tunic and skirt, pupils glassy from the sudden torrent of magic into a body that knew only a trickle.

Like Alox.

Fifteen and cocksure with it like him, too.

"I heard there was a place here for those who could take it. I'll be your best magician if you'll let me take enough. I'm tired of running dry."

There had always been people not even the king's knight could stop, no matter how it choked him to admit it. He could have wandered the streets, never sleeping, and still not stopped all the blood being shed. And sometimes. Sometimes, they had something Vor needed and he turned a blind eye and Holland fled to Arnes to be in a world where kings didn't have to allow atrocities for the greater good. Until the ache to smell ash and steel and the fear Vortalis was dead in his absence swamped the rage and tugged him home.

But Vortalis would never have leaned in and inhaled the blood clinging to her like a bouquet, licked the red from the corner of her mouth, mirth echoing off the walls until Holland's head throbbed when she moved like a desperate, striking snake to try for a kiss. As though he'd let it be stolen back from his tongue. Would never have said, for all to hear: "Defiant little thing, aren't you? You're the third most beautiful person I've seen all month."

How many lives might be saved, if Albiz and worse weren't infesting the city? How many slum magicians had killed some unwitting neighbor, watching them preen and knowing Athos and Astrid Dane would never care, so long as they were not challenged as the greatest sorcerers of the land?

Deluded or no, it is those few refusals Astrid grumbled over and insisted he keep an eye on ("If they dare not serve, they must have plans of their own. Look harder, pretty thing, and you'll find the rot they're tangled in.") he seeks when he returns for kingship. Hopes their refusal meant more than a disdain for fancy jewelry. Because Athos and Astrid Dane aren't the worst rulers Makt had, but he will be better by far.

[lcveblossomed]

@musings-of-an-antari asked: our friendship matters more to me than anything. i don't ever want you to leave my life. (from Aemond to Nymeria)

Nymeria enjoys evenings like these where they could be alone to just talk. There was no one else to interrupt them no expectations that came with events. She could just sit on the bench in the garden laughing at his jokes and not have to worry about anything but themselves. She thinks these times are when they have the deepest talks when they can think about the future and talks bout their hopes. She always leaves these evenings with a sweet smile on her face and butterflies in her stomach.

She yearns for the day that they are married and not do this when they please without some guard lingering nearby making sure their intentions were pure. She had long since forgotten that Ser Arryk was there though as she is too focused on Aemond.

She smiles sweetly, reaching her hand out to rest on top his of his own hand. "I am not leaving for good, Aemond. My father just wants me back at home for a few weeks he cannot leave home and misses me dearly. We can write while I am away and if you miss me too much you could always come with Vhagar for a visit. I am not sure if she will like it very much since it's winter and in the North." She had not been away for so long since she had moved her as a girl it was strange but her father did not ask much of her so she would do it.

[siderealxmelody]

Lol Dain is an asshole, so is Ianthe 👀

They both grow up in Spring. Should they be siblings??

@starlsssankt

@musings-of-an-antari

[dragxnsnfire]

Despite everything, they were in this together. “Why would I not? Trust you, I mean.” Dark hues widening in surprise, “really? Surely others will have plenty to say.” Though, as she looked at him, she could tell it was not a simple jest. He was truthful. In turn, she would have to be truthful with him, about how she felt.

“I-” She had paused, needing to form her thoughts, what she was going to tell him. Looking at him, taking in his features. His long hair, the scar that across his face, an eyepatch covered his missing eye which in turn was replaced by a sapphire. Her eyes drifted further, glancing at his lips before going to his working violet eye. She squeezed his hand gently as the two of them continued to walk, side-by-side. “There is this part of me that wants to love you, more than I already do.” Yet, there was still that one fact that she thought of, loss. “I am terrified I will lose you.”

Julianna took her leave with Aemond, craving the quiet that she oh-so sought. Thoughts often plagued her mind recently. Yet, a walk and fresh air quieted the noise. A hesitant hand reached out for his own, looking up at him nervously as they left. Outside…it was so peaceful, unlike the chaos inside. As they made their way out onto the grounds of the Red Keep, she spoke earnestly. “You are the voice that pulls me from the roaring oceans of my mind.” Admitting this. Stopping with him after they were an earshot away from any guards. “I was hesitant.” For her, it seemed hilarious. How one time her fears were once so large. Those same fears, caused her to once not be sure about this. About them. It was still that way. There was this certainty that she felt, though, deep inside her whole being. If that was possible. A small part of her hoped it was. “I am to be your wife, your partner and, hopefully, your confidante.” She knew that he had many thoughts plague his mind. Which, she hoped that as he grew comfortable, he would tell her as she would tell him. Especially with how everything quickly moved.

[badassbutterfly1987]

If the muse is up for it: snowball. I'm thinking Holl/Vpor with Leta and Nasi in the mix, because I doubt they would snowball fight without impetus but honestly any characters in whatever scenario catches your fancy.

(gathering of shadows era)

There was a chill in the air: not the bitter cold of a harsh winter, but the melting frost before spring. Flowers would bloom again in a few months. Nasi’s delighted giggles and Leta’s warm voice filled the courtyard.

Holland kept his distance, half-hidden by the marble column, not wanting to intrude on a private moment. Joy was a fragile thing, even if Makt was getting better. He watched as Leta instructed her daughter on how to form a snowball.

“At least the snow is making someone happy.” Vor’s arms wrapped around him, chin resting on his shoulder. One hand trailed down his side, teasingly resting against his hip. “You could learn something from them.”

“We are in public,” Holland chided. “What would your guards think?”

“Let them watch, what do we care of what they think?”

He shifted away, squirming out of his king’s grasp. The words didn’t sit right but he couldn’t say why. He leaned against the marble, solid and cold against his back.

Vortalis tilted his head, dark eyes searching his. “Is something the matter?”

Were his eyes really that dark a shade of brown? “I… I don’t know.”

Vor’s hand reached out for his. “You seem tired, Holland. Come back to bed.”

It was only afternoon, wasn’t it? He wanted to disagree; he wasn’t tired. But Vortalis was already pulling him towards the door into the castle. Holland glanced back to see Leta still playing with her nine-year-old daughter.

Except that wasn’t right, was it?

Nasi had only been a toddler when they died, too young to remember any of them. Leta had never had the chance to see her daughter grow. Their king had been cut down first, all the other chess pieces falling after him. This was only another empty fantasy.

Vortalis released his hand; Holland slipped out of the dream, back in his bed. The air was cool, slowly warming into a new spring. The old scar over his heart pulsed. Osaron was an insistent itch at the back of his skull, quiet but never fully forgotten. He stayed curled up in the sheets a few minutes more, as if he could slip back into the warmth of the dream.

But kings could not afford to get lost in dreams.

Holland sat up. The sunrise was just starting to brighten the sky, a more vibrant blue than it had ever been in his lifetime. Best to be dressed before one of the servants or Ojka came to check on him. He did not linger on grief or longing or guilt as he dressed. But he did falter when he saw the room’s newest addition.

There was a plant growing out of the wall next to the window. A small shrub of some kind, a leafy green branch ending in a tight bundle of white flowers. A plant of magical origin but not magical itself; just as harmless as Osaron’s previous nightly games.

He smothered the feeling of disquiet. Osaron was unpredictable but Holland was still in control. Once Makt was stable, he would find a way to rid himself of the oshoc.

Until then he should probably put the shrub somewhere else. Flowers weren’t supposed to grow out of bedroom walls.

…

Nasi was small and quick enough to escape notice, and observant enough to recognize someone’s approach. But she was still startled by the voice calling her name. The Antari who had been the silent knight and was now the quiet king, who now held a bundle of flowers out to her.

It took a moment to realize he wanted her to take them. She did; they felt small and fragile in her hand, like they might break if she squeezed too tight. Had anyone ever given her flowers before? Nasi couldn’t remember such a time or think of a reason why. She should probably thank him if this was a gift, but it was hard to speak in general and difficult to even meet his face; the obsidian dark eye unsettled her almost as much as the previous rulers did, even if this king hadn’t tried to hurt her.

“You can put them in the garden if you like,” the Antari king said after a moment. “I do not think they will grow as well inside.”

Nasi nodded before remembering she should probably use her words. “Thank you, my king.”

When he didn’t say anything more, she shuffled away. The little white flowers were pretty, and they did smell nice. If she watered them enough, perhaps they would grow more.

[xx--ofmanythoughts--xx]

cont'd from here

“The ones I do trust, I hold dear to me as they have been with me for many moons.  They have protected me and led me away from making foolish decisions,” she began.  “And they have taught me of the past and yes, I do keep them close and my enemies closer.”  She said with a strong voice, remembering what had happened at Astapor when she played the game to obtain the Unsullied Army and the death of the slaver that believed her child was for him. 

Sipping from her goblet, a smile appeared to curl the corners of her lips.  “I would hope you would not betray me as it would not be in your best interest as others have tried and have died.”  She spoke of the ones that have died to a young dragon’s fire.   

Listening to @musings-of-an-antari his words about the potential threat, she knew Ser Barristan and Jorah had heard of this, as well, but it was information she was pleased that he did tell her, instead of looking out for himself as many sell-swords have done to survive.  And where did you hear this from?” She inquired, not truly concerned but…maybe she did have some concern as she did not wish to die in her sleep, but she knew the slavers did not trust her nor like her.  She wished to free the slaves…and that was not a popular idea.

Rising from her seat, she scratched the neck of Drogon as the other two watched and cooed before she called for Jorah to be sent to her.  “What do you see as a reward, sell sword for telling me of the threat?  What do you wish to receive?”  She paused in her inquiry, pouring wine into a goblet for him then handing it to him when Jorah arrived. 

“This sell sword would like to be on watch this night as he has come to inform us…or me of an attempt on my life.  Make use of him.” She told Jorah with a grin, brightening her features knowing he would be watched as much as any attempt on her life.    “I hope your night is not an active one, sell sword.” 

[dragxnsnfire]

@musings-of-an-antari sent a raven | Send 👅 for sender to catch receiver's muse try to hide a hickey |

   A bruise that rested just along her collarbone, how wonderful. The young woman was trying everything to hide it, yet, nothing seemed to help. It was as the doors to her chambers opened and then closed that it caused her to attention to be drawn. Eyes focusing on Aemond. “I thought you were with the small council…”

[hcrctic]

— @musings-of-an-antari sent an ask from stephen; feel free to reply.

❝  you’re so strong.  and brave—but i wish you knew you don’t always have to be.  i’m here,  if you’re ever willing to let me help shoulder those burdens. ❞ (from Stephen)

Wanda looks up at him, tears forming on her eyes. There was a knot on her throat that stopped her from talking, to express how she felt for him, how much his words meant to her; she knew how hard it was for him to express this over his sarcastic demeanor.

After a while, she was able to form coherent sentences inside her brain, so she reached to grab his hands with hers, taking her time to talk, "Stephen, I want to, but you have your own burdens to bear, your own demons to chase.." She lets go of his hands, reaching to cup his cheek. ".. you know that wherever you go I'll follow.. There's no other person in this universe or others that I'd let wreck my plans than you.. And if you mean what I think you really mean, then, allow me to share your burdens too."

[silcntsinners]

Small starter for @musings-of-an-antari

Moiraine x Evangeline

She held her wound, gasping in pain as the trolloc approached. That was it. That would be her end and her escape from that dreaded orphanage would be for nothing. Evangeline closed her eyes tightly, her hand still pressing on the side of her stomach to help the bleeding. She only opened them when hearing the sound of a small explosion. Evangeline looking to see the trolloc had disintegrated, the girl glancing over to a woman who had clearly got rid of the beast. Her eyes widened in disbelief, the girl still shaking from the thought of nearly dying. “Who are you?” She whispered, winching at the pain in her stomach.

[bcbliophile]

@musings-of-an-antari Aemond & Penelope

Perhaps it was foolish to think all would be well when she arrived to court, even in the horrible yellow dress her mother forced her into she walked into the keep blindly and unprepared for the unkindness she would find outside of the royal family's company. Queen Alicent was lovely to her and she enjoyed chatting with Princess Helaena about her collections, even if bugs did unsettle her, it was nice to see her light up when she explained them to her while she helped her ready for the day.

It was even nice to reconnect with Prince Aemond who had been a childhood friend to her before she had returned to the Arbor after the events of Dragonstone when he sadly lost his eye. Over the years she stayed in touch with letters, but she was much changed from a girl of eight to now a woman of ten and eight, coming to court so the Queen could find and bless a union for her after her father's passing.

She was walking through the training grounds when a young squire and his friend made an unkind comment about her size, she had been keen to brush it off as she often did, she would cry over it later when she watched a streak of black and silver move past her and she nearly dropped the basket she had been carrying to stop the Prince.

"Your grace-- " she quietly pleaded with him to let it go, her smaller hand resting on his upper arm. "It's nearly time for supper-- you should go inside and get ready, lest we all meet the Queen's wrath" it wasn't uncommon that she joined for informal dinners, having become a companion to the Princess.