#my characters: Trestle

[possumcollege]

Hi! I love Crittertongue, and I’ve been wondering; why is one of the three sisters human? Does she have a different father?  Is she adopted? Something else?

Ooor did I miss the comic where that's explained?

Hope you have a good day! :)

Yep, Trestle's got a different father. He hasn't been in the comics because he wasn't around for long. He's called Roy and he now lives on a canal boat with his third wife, Dale. They're nice.

The curse stems from Silo and Joist's dad, a real shitbird of a con-man with a gift for sweet talk and phony paperwork, but very little else. He bobbed around for a few years after Silo was born, and fucked off for good when it became clear that there was another child inbound and the "daughter is goat" situation wasn't going to clear up on its own.

"I may live in an abandoned shipyard and I'm almost certainly having a second goat baby, but at least my shitty boyfriend ain't 'round no more!'

[crittertongue]

Crittertoingue no.8: Varmint Master

[a-world-of-whimsy-5]

Part 6

Pairing: Thranduil x Fem. Reader

Themes: Soft

Warnings: Mention of Elwing casting herself into the sea prior to the beginning of the story | Mentions of other character deaths prior to the beginning of the story

Wordcount : 3.1K words

Summary: Thranduil attends the feast held in honor of Angon taking Nitiel to wife.

Minors DNI

Masterlist

Thranduil’s POV

The feast Lord Thiliedir and Lady Annien held in honor of their son taking Nitiel to wife was a most splendid affair. 

Guests came from all over Amon Lanc. They poured through wide open doors leading to a vast garden, dressed in their finest furs and silks. Gold and silver, rubies and emeralds, glittered around the throats and lips and ears and wrists of many. Newly forged circlets rested amidst dark, crimson, and silver-gold hair that had been combed into intricate braids. Some of the visitors bore the marks of beasts and leaves and flowers along their arms and along their cheeks. Heralds called out the names of each new visitor, and attendants walked amidst the invited elves, their hands heavy with gilded pitchers full of wine and trays full of delicate pastries. Thranduil stood by his father’s side, observing lords and ladies joining an ever-growing line of those wishing to offer their felicitations to the newly wedded pair.  

“The marriage of Lord Angon and his lady has been well received.” Oropher nursed his chalice of wine, while minstrels kept to the grotto set aside for their use during the festivities. The music they played and the songs they sang drifted around the garden, barely heard over the chatter of elves and the clinking of glass. “I confess, I expected to hear and see quite the opposite when I was told the news.” 

“Were you hoping to witness the tearing of hair and the gnashing of teeth?” Thranduil whispered. He sipped his wine and then smiled. “Lord Angon’s lady mother and lord father are too well bred for such theatrics. So are their kin. If they truly are unhappy with their son taking a servant to wife, then they have taken great care not to show it.” 

“You are studying those who serve us,” said Oropher. “That is a good thing, my son. Continue it. It will serve you well should my crown pass on to you.” 

Thranduil shivered. His lord father’s demise was not a matter he wished to consider. “It will not happen,” he replied, “for you will live on for more ages than you could care to count, and then we will both take a ship leaving for the Blessed Realm so that we can be reunited with my mother.”

“That is my hope also,” his father returned. “But so long as Belegûr’s servants remain abroad, we must prepare ourselves for the dark possibility of my perishing in this land. Do you understand me, my son?” 

“Yes, father,” Thranduil told him, albeit reluctantly. 

Oropher clapped him on the shoulder and said, “Enough of such talk. Come! Let us join the throng!”  

The throng had grown in size by the time they joined them, and they had grown more carefree despite the late autumn chill. Golden lamps adorned the low-hanging branches of trees, their light limning all those who stood beneath them. Trestle tables had been arranged at the far end of the garden, with a raised dais facing them. Kitchen attendants were occupied slowly turning wooden spits and roasting wild boar and deer over a fire pit, basting the meat with honey and herbs until it crackled. The smell of freshly baked bread and pies wafted from the nearby kitchen. Even the tables themselves had large bowls placed in the center, all filled with wild berries, cheese, and olives brought in from Esgaroth. More wine was served, along with ale and mead. Thranduil joined his father while he spoke to the others, taking great care to listen to all that was being said and answering any question that was asked of him. 

It was an aspect Thranduil had long prepared himself for: the tediousness of everyday duties. He had to attend council meetings even when he wished to do nothing more than lay in bed; he had to hear out supplicants that came to him, begging for a listening ear; and he had to speak to elven nobles he had no desire to speak to, all while having a warm smile or a look of deep concern on his face. All of this he did splendidly well, which pleased his father greatly.  

“Now all you need is a bride who might one day make a fine queen,” Oropher said when they had a moment to themselves again. “Someone worthy of you, and of course, someone worthy of the crown that would rest amidst her hair.”  

‘Tis the same song as always, Thranduil thought. He forced himself not to sigh. “I will wed when my own household is ready, father,” he said through gritted teeth, and he set his jaw in determination. “And I will decide for myself whom I should marry. Me, father, and no other. Any command for me to bind myself to a stranger in a marriage of political convenience will be answered with a swift and certain no.” 

“I swear to Eru, my boy, you can be as stubborn as your beloved mother sometimes.” Oropher laughed. “And I understand the need to wait until your household is ready to receive a mistress. Pray tell me what is becoming of the halls our builders are making for you.” 

They spoke at length while they made their way to the dais. Angon and Nitiel had already taken the seats of high honor, and the king and the crown prince took their places on either side of them. Then the mother and father of Angon, and the mother and father of Nitiel, took their seats accordingly.  

Angon only waited a moment before rising, his cup in hand. “Let us drink!” He cried. “A toast, my friends! To Lady Nitiel! My wife and the companion of my life!”  

The others rose and lifted their cups. “Lady Nitiel!” They shouted as one. Nitiel flushed, and she bowed her head as a gesture of thanks.  

The first course was a dish of soup made of leeks and mushrooms, served in glazed green bowls. Lady Annien took the first spoonful to taste, and the others were served after she gave her approval. 

Lady Nitiel looks so different now, Thranduil thought. The lady who once served in the kitchens was dressed in robes sewn especially for the feast, and with colors that matched those on her husband’s tunic. Green velvet slashed with cloth of gold adorned her person. New gold caught the light of nearby lamps as they lay around her throat and around her wrists. More gold gleamed where it lay in her auburn hair. It had been combed into elaborate plaits and then arranged in a style he did not recognize.  

The gold and the robes must be gifts, no doubt, Thranduil thought, from her doting husband. The way her hair has been arranged, on the other hand…

“Forgive me,” he leaned in and said, “for asking this, but who arranged your hair?” 

Nitiel leaned in as well and lowered her voice. She did not wish for the king to hear what she had to say. “Y/n, my lord,” she said. “She helped me dress, and then she arranged my hair for me. It is the style favored by those who dwelled in a city called Alqualondë, she said, but without the adornments of shells and pearls.” 

Thranduil knew of Alqualondë, having heard the tales told by Lady Galadriel. “The style favored by the elves of Alqualondë?” he whispered, “and not the kind favored by her own people?” 

“She thought the sight of it might anger the king.”     

“Of course. It was wise of her to make such a choice. And it was thoughtful of her as well, to help you prepare for this feast.” 

The next course was a dish of sage and potato tarts, and the course that came after that was a dish of roasted boar and venison with stewed carrots and potatoes that had been boiled to a mash and mixed with cream. Thranduil ate with great relish, and he ate in silence.  

Y/n would have had to have learned the art of such arrangements from her mother, as she was born long after the first kinslaying. And it would have served her well during the years she spent wandering from one place to the next, perhaps even keeping her safe, as the few who served the sons of Fëanor and remained in the new land they had come to call home found little welcome wherever they went.  

There is the grandson, he remembered. Why did y/n not go to Lord Celebrimbor? 

It was a question he had asked when he first procured her freedom, and it was a question he thought of asking her himself, as those who held her could not give him an answer. Until the opportunity to do so presented itself, he would have to bide his time. 

A minstrel plucked at the strings of a high harp while another sang, her voice as sweet and clear as a bell. It was nowhere as lovely as Tinúviel’s otherworldly voice, Thranduil thought, nor was it as bewitching as her lady mother’s. Still, it was enchanting to hear, and a tear came to his eye when he remembered Menegroth in all of its glory. He harkened back to the days of his youth, when nightingales would make their nests in little nooks and crannies that dotted the great city of many caves, where flowers of rare beauty would bloom to life during the spring, where Daeron played the harp and Tinúviel sang, and they were sheltered from the darkness that tainted the lands beyond their own. Then the sons of Fëanor came to reclaim what was taken from their father, they had said, and to seek justice for the slaying of their grandfather.  

The sons of Fëanor came, Thranduil thought as he drained the last of his wine. The sons of Fëanor fought. And the sons of Fëanor perished. Thranduil set down his chalice when a dish of gammon pie was set before him. And the line of Melian and Thingol nearly ended because of them and that blasted Oath of theirs. 

Grief and bitterness gathered around his heart like a swarm of angry bees. Thranduil still remembered King Dior and his queen, Lady Nimloth. He remembered their sons, twins who were all of three when their father came into his inheritance, and he remembered the dreadful winter that brought about an end to Dior’s reign, the tragic fate that befell his sons, his queen, and the great city of caves they all called home.   

And then there was the daughter, the princess who was forced to abandon her own children as she was once forced to abandon her home, and cast herself into the sea after those who sought the Silmaril came for her. That too angered Thranduil—that swords were raised against those who fled the violence that fell upon their once-fair city. He remembered the dark words that were brought to them on a night with the moon and stars hidden behind thick clouds. Perhaps that was a sign, a portend of the dreadful message they were to receive. His father gave the order for their warriors to march, but by the time they reached the Havens, it was already too late. 

At least Elwing's sons lived, he thought, and I pray word of their living lives of great renown reached her ears in the Blessed Realm.  

He took the pie with both hands and bit into it. The meat melted in his mouth, as did the pastry that held it. And it tasted almost like ash against his tongue. Thoughts of the lives lost because of an Oath that could never be fulfilled tainted whatever joy the prince would have found in the food he ate. He waived away all further offers of refreshments, claiming that he was already full. 

I need to step away for a moment, he told himself, and free myself from such dark and dismal thinking.  

He rose and excused himself. “Pray allow me to take my leave of you all for a moment or two,” he said. “I will return soon enough.” 

“Of course, my lord,” Lady Nitiel said. Thranduil bowed deeply and took his leave of them. 

The air outside the manse was no less fragrant. This time, the smells that greeted him were of night-blooming flowers and not the scents of delectable dishes being brought to the table. He walked toward a nearby marble pond, listening to the little waterfall bubbling at the far end of it. There was no other elf to be seen. Most were at the feast. Others were keeping a watchful eye along the city’s high walls or tending to their duties in the palace itself, and there were those who had already retired for the night. Still, the absence of other elves was a welcomed thing, as was the cool wind that swept around his face and hair. Thranduil felt the anger and grief within him ebb away. He stopped and sat on the edge of the pond. 

Tis good to have a moment to clear my head, he thought. Tiny fish darted beneath the leaves of water lilies and around his fingers as he trailed his hand through crystal-clear water, their scales glittering with silver and gold whenever they caught the light of nearby lamps. He heard the sound of leather against stone. Another elf was walking toward him; the sound he heard was the sound of their slippers falling over polished cobble. Thranduil sighed as his peace was disturbed. Then he heard a gasp. The elf who came upon him did not expect to find him there.  

“Forgive me, my lord,” they said. “I… I was told this part of the city was empty at night.”  

“The one who told you this did not err on that score.” The prince turned to face the one who approached the pond. “This part of the city is quiet at night. And there is no need to ask for forgiveness, y/n. You have the freedom to walk about Amon Lanc; there is no one to hinder you from doing so. Pray why are you here, at such an hour?” 

“We were not needed in the kitchens.” Y/n dipped into a deep curtsy before rising again. “And the cook told me that I would not be needed on the morrow. I… I thought of seeing something of the city while the others were not about, my lord.” 

“Yes,” Thranduil smiled. “Amon Lanc feels like a city found only in fairytales when one walks about it at night. I will not say more, lest I spoil the beauty of the city for you.” He paused and decided now would be an opportune time to speak to y/n about Celebrimbor and why she did not approach him for shelter. “But I do have a question to ask of you.” 

“Go on, my lord,” said y/n. 

“That day when I procured your freedom, I was told you spent your days wandering. You put down no roots, not even with Lord Curufin’s son, Lord Celebrimbor. Why is that, y/n?” 

“Being the daughter of an attainted kinslayer made it hard for me to put down roots, my lord. And Lord Celebrimbor made it plain that anyone who served his father and his uncle would find no welcome in his home.” 

“Is it because of what happened to Lord Finrod?” 

“Yes, my lord. Lord Celebrimbor never forgave his father, nor his uncle, for that matter, for what became of Lord Finrod in the end.”  

“And so you kept away from his realm,” Thranduil said. He patted the space beside him.  

“Yes, my lord.” Y/n smoothed her skirts and sat a respectful distance away from him. Etiquette demanded it, for she was but a kitchen maid and he was the crown prince. “I did not have the stomach to bear the sight of another door closing on me, so I kept away.” 

The crown prince tried to envision what such a life would have been like: walking from place to place without a proper home to claim for oneself, selling what little possessions one had to keep oneself alive, having no friends, no family, and no one to turn to for aid. He shivered.  

Such a wretched life, he thought, and yet the lady is still here, enduring each hardship as best as she can. 

Enduring such hardships without complaint was to be expected of the Noldor; it was something minstrels waxed poetic about in story and song. Thranduil studied y/n discreetly. Her hair had grown a fraction longer, and already she looked less gaunt than she did before. The robes she wore were blue and gray, simple but well-made. A tarnished pin was all she had for an adornment. Its painted flowers had faded, and they were the likes of which Thranduil had not seen before. 

“The flowers on your pin,” he began, “are those found only in the Blessed Realm, yes?”

“Yes.” Y/n reached up and touched it. Her fingers trembled when they brushed against the filigreed silver. “My father had this made for me when I came of age. My mother painted the flowers you see in the center. This is all I have left of them.”

To have only one token left of one’s flesh and blood, and that too in a poor state, pricked at Thranduil. But it could still be saved, he thought. It could still be restored to its former glory.  

Ah, but would the goldsmiths agree to such an undertaking when the request to do so came from one such as her? Thranduil knew they would turn her away the moment they saw her standing at the door of their forge. A respected courtier who carried the order of the crown prince, on the other hand… 

“It must have great value to you.” Thranduil rose. He could not linger for much longer. The others would expect him to return to the feast without further delay. Nevertheless, he did not intend to leave until he spoke to y/n about what he had in mind. “And it can be returned to what it looked like when you first received it. Give it to Feren when you see him next. I will speak to him, and have him go to our goldsmiths. If there is anyone in Amon Lanc who could restore that pin to what it once was, it is them.” 

“I…” Y/n paused and hesitated. She lowered her gaze, took a deep, steadying breath, and then she dared to look him in the eye. A decision had been made. “Thank you, my lord.” 

Thranduil nodded. “And now you must excuse me. I must return to the feast before my father sends someone to search for me.” 

“Of course, my lord.” Y/n rose also, and curtsied to him again. “Good night, my lord.”  

“Good night, y/n,” Thranduil said. He looked back at her over his shoulder for a moment as he walked away. The sight of her beneath a spill of lamplight, her eyes sparkling as she turned to admire the fish in the pond, tugged at him in a way he could not describe.

tags: @deadlymistletoe @coopsgirl @lemonivall @tigereyesf @thranduilseyebrows @cupids-got-me @asianbutnotjapanese @kurochan3

[emilykaldwen]

The Maiden and the Drowning Boy | Aegon x OC | Chapter Fifteen

Rating: Explicit

Ships: Aegon II Targaryen x Abrogail Strong (Lyonel Strong's Daughter), Jacaerys Velaryon x Helaena Targaryen

Summary: As the kingdom teeters on the edge of chaos, Alicent Hightower swaps the pieces on the board: Aegon will marry Abrogail Strong, Larys’ younger sister and heir to Harrenhal. Caught in the web of intrigue and political machinations, the pair must figure out where their loyalties lie, and what they mean to one another.

Tropes: Childhood Sweethearts/Friends to Lovers, Generational Trauma and Cycles of Abuse, It's All About the Character Development, Unreliable Narrators, Multi-POV, Canon Divergent, Bisexual Aegon II Targaryen, Book/Show Mash Up, Fix-It Of Sorts, Stopping the Cycle of Abuse before it gets us all killed, Team Neutral, fairy tale vibes meets victorian medievalism meets grrm

no tag list. please follow @emkald-fic and turn on post notifications for updates or subscribe on AO3

Tumblr Masterpost

Chapter One | Chapter Two | Chapter Three | Chapter Four | Chapter Five | Chapter Six | Chapter Seven | Chapter Eight | Chapter Nine | Chapter Ten | Chapter Eleven | Chapter Twelve | Chapter Thirteen | Chapter Fourteen

AO3 Link

Author's Notes: We are back from hiatus on APRIL 26, 2024 with Chapter 16! Hope you join us! These will continue to be crossposted so instead of seeing my usual AO3 link with snippet, you will see posts like these so you can continue to read on AO3 should you wish, or on tumblr!

we are now in the 'oh my god these two are so fucking feral for each other it makes them look dumb' era and SPICY SPICY! plus djkfhsdf some cute things I'm sure you've been waiting for.

Translations: Dhá chroí mar aon ní amháin - two hearts as one Prūmio ezīmus ñuhus - half of my heart

CHAPTER FIFTEEN - Your Love Is Like Sunlight

Pride is taken and love is given.

Aegon had wandered through the mass of small folk without a care, a grin across his face as vendors hawked and goods were sold, as people came out to rejoice for his day. Alyn had fallen in step beside him, following him and Aemond into the tent where Daeron was waiting. His little brother, dark blonde hair mussed from sleep, was furiously polishing Aegon’s new armor.

Not even the thick, red and black canvas of the tent could block out all the sounds of the crowds pouring into the arena that morning, but once the flaps closed, there was a kind of muffling effect to it all that made Aegon feel like he’d entered another world.

“How lucky,” he’d told his baby brother as Daeron jumped to attention and went about his duties. “That I get Ser Gwayne’s prized squire for this tournament.” The boy had preened and glowed beneath the attention in a shy, nervous way that belied his newness to the position at large. Aemond posted beside the trestle table, helping himself to watered wine and the platter of cold meat and cheese while Alyn lingered near the rack holding Aegon’s sword.

“Two swords, hm?” he’d inquired, admiring the balance on the blades with a critical eye. Which was really only Alyn trying to pretend he knew exactly what he was talking about when it came to the elegance of worked steel. It wasn’t even Valyrian steel.

“Aegon’s rare moments of overachieving,” Aemond drolled. Aegon rolled his eyes, ignoring Alyn’s soft snickering, while Daeron went to work, his gaze drifting to the second rack where his suit of armor rested, the breastplate his brother had been working on reverently placed back where it belonged.

“You are the king’s eldest son. You think the men you’ll liege over would respect a lord who’d never donned a suit of armor?” The Tower had snapped at what Aegon thought was a simple question as to why. It was a strange feeling when he was a dragonrider of all things, bonded with the greatest creature to exist. He was a god amongst men.

Once, custom dictated that a dragonrider must always be in the Dragonpit should the call to arms sound, but his mother had put her foot down when Aegon had asked. Which hadn’t really mattered, since on days where his melancholy threatened to smother him, he’d sneak out to sleep with Sunfyre anyway. Days where he felt like he would burst from his own skin, rend his flesh with claws of his own, where he swore in his dreams he was Sunfyre himself.

This day, Aegon did not have claws and fangs, nor could he breathe fire. With both feet firmly planted on the ground, he would don the armor of his mother’s people, of mere mortals. He shifted as Daeron tugged on the red padded arming doublet he was wrestling him into with a kind of single minded efficiency that strongly reminded him of Aemond. They both poked their tongues between their lips, eyes squinted in focus. It took everything in Aegon not to reach up to ruffle his baby brother’s hair and instead kept uncharacteristically cooperative at the boy’s assistance.

Warmth spread through his chest while Daeron straightened the padding and examined the red fabric for wear and tear now that it was on him.

“Can you move, Aeg?”

He twisted at the waist and raised his arms up and down to show that he could and Daeron went to the pieces of polished black armor. The finely crafted plates layered together like dragonscales of his very own, edged in beaten gold, and over his chest, a dragon was etched into the metal. Aegon was still surprised how perfectly the armor fit. He flexed constantly under Daeron’s questions and it was so different from the training breastplate he wore that would have to last through the growth spurts of his youth. This suit of armor felt like a second skin, as if he was covered with his very bones. He flexed once Daeron had finished, lifting his legs and bending around to ensure that all was where it was meant to be and he grinned at Daeron.

“Well done, squire,” he complimented. Daeron’s beam made him look younger than his two and ten years, and as brilliant as the sun. “I think you’ve earned a place with us to go mucking around Flea Bottom, hm?”

“Thank you,” he said shyly, blushing at the praise, and preening a little even though the only audience was Aemond and Alyn. “I’d hate for you to make a fool of yourself on your nameday in front of everyone.” The cheeky look in his cornflower blue eyes had Aegon lightly swiping at him, the boy dancing away while Aemond made an annoyed sound.

Aegon snatched a piece of meat off of his brother’s plate. “You know, Aemond, if you’re going to be a miserable arse, you don’t have to be here. Go sit in the box with our mother, let all the pretty girls stare at you. I’m sure it would be more fun. I was certain that Maega Stokeworth was trying to figure out how to swoon in your arms.” Aemond had found himself beneath the center of attention in a way he’d never encountered since the court had begun to fill in the past few weeks. “Or better yet, let Karstark be your shield once more and you can swoon into her arms.” It hadn’t been missed that his brother had gone straight for Abby’s lady as soon as the proverbial sharks had begun to circle. Aegon would not deny his surprise, but he kept it to himself. It wasn’t everyday his brother and his violet gaze targeted someone he wasn’t intendending to declare an enemy.

Unless declaring Wylla Karstark his enemy was a form of foreplay. Perhaps a northern custom he wasn’t aware of but surely Aemond knew everything about. Mating habits and rituals and all that.

His brother rolled his eye but the pink that tinged his cheeks had Aegon smirking in satisfaction as he looked over the drink available. Cider had been his choice since Mother had forbidden wine. A carafe of it had made it into the tent, the Arbor red he preferred calling to him. His fingers clenched and he went for the water instead. He needed his wits about him.

“And miss your great debut? I hear Vance has been known to fight with a pollaxe and you’ve only matched against blade and the morningstar.” Aemond’s unimpressed commentary on Aegon’s resurgence in training for this event dripped through every word and he scoffed.

“Are you truly belittling me for participating in my nameday tournament while you peacock around going,” Aegon lilted his voice to match Aemond’s slightly higher tone. “Fuck tourneys, I want a war and a real fight, watch me jump around the training circle with Criston Cole.”

Daeron giggled, sweet boy that he was, and even Aemond’s glower was softened at the long missed sound.

“I’ll fight in the joust at Harrenhal,” Aemond declared, his mouth curling in satisfaction at the sound of surprise Aegon made.

“You? Joust? But you hate jousting.”

“I wouldn’t want to face him in a joust,” Alyn offered with a serious look. “You’ve met your brother, right?”

Aemond shifted in his chair, chin tilting slightly with his own hint of preening. The curl of his mouth turned deadly sharp with satisfaction. “Well, well, looks like you should be trusting Hull’s judgment more than I gave him credit for. It seems he’s not the fool I thought.”

“To finally be recognized by the One-Eyed Prince!” Alyn said, clasping his hands together in prayer. “Warrior, you have heard my prayers to have my statement of the obvious that I have eyes and know when to not engage with the scariest cunt in the room is taken seriously.”

Aegon veered to the left as Aemond chucked a piece of meat at his friend, Alyn’s locs swinging with the motion, and with an open mouth, he caught the piece in his mouth, but gasped and choked briefly from the speed at which Aemond threw it. His brother looked stunned, getting up to thump Alyn on the back. Aegon glanced down at Daeron, his brother only a scant few inches shorter and promising another growth spurt.

“So proud of the progress they’ve been making.”

“Aye,” Daeron said seriously. “But I’m still your favorite.”

Aegon tapped the side of his nose and poured Daeron a cup of wine and another for Alyn, who’d coughed up the projectile. Aemond was now examining the blades for himself now that Hull wasn’t in danger of expiring.

“I still think you should go with the single blade and shield.”

“We’ve been over this.”

“It’s flashy.”

Aegon’s face contorted into confusion. “Of course it’s flashy. What? I don’t get to be flashy, you twat? Is this because you’re jealous my dragon is lovelier than yours?”

“Don’t you compare anything to Vhagar, you golden peacock.”

“Oh please, Vhagar’s more wrinkled than Beesbury’s ballsack.”

Aegon saw a flash of light as the tent flap opened, but it was Alyn who startled to attention, cutting through the bickering loudly. “Lady Abrogail!” Aegon jerked his head around, watching as Alyn hurried up to the slight figure who just entered the tent. He sketched a bow before her, Abby’s eyebrows raised in amusement as he took her hand to press a kiss to it. “It is a pleasure to finally put a name to the face, my lady. The prince’s songs of your beauty do little to match the vision you present.”

Whatever demands Aegon was about to make for Alyn to stop with his charms died on his tongue when he took Abby in, lined by the sunlight coming through the part of the tent flaps. Her wrap gown was nothing she’d worn before and it took Aegon a moment to realize it was similar to Rhaenyra’s gowns. There was nothing of his mother’s influence or of the Riverlands about it. The silk blue as a robin’s egg, the lining of her belled sleeves a warm sunset orange-gold, and the belt cinched around her waist was a wrap of golden metal etched with decorative roses and weirwood leaves. A heated sensation curled through Aegon’s chest when he caught sight of the numerous golden dragons embroidered along her body: over one shoulder where the dragon’s head rested over her heart, wrapped around one arm, down along the drape of fabric and across her skirts.

Not just a dragon. It was his dragon. Sunfyre decorating his bride’s gown, so everyone knew she was his, his to protect, his to care for, his to hoard. The place inside his bones where Sunfyre fused into him purred.

Her hair was a cascade of copper curls, a loose knotwork of braids twisted along the crown of her head, the cinnamon sugar of her freckles were dark against her softly flushed cheeks. Woven into her braids was a strand of sea pearls interspersed with topaz gems that brought out the river blue of her eyes. His eyes darted to the necklace she wore, the warmth of it a contrast against her lightly flushed skin.

He still needed to get a necklace for her. One that was wholly from him.

“Off,” Aegon barked at Alyn as if he were a pup begging. “All of you out.”

“Mother said you’re not to be left alone with Abby,” Daeron chimed from where he was putting away his armor polish. “She was very insistent, but said I’m allowed to leave you two alone after you're married.”

Aegon stared at Daeron, blinking in confusion until he caught the scent of Abby’s rose and red currant perfume.

“It’s alright,” she reassured. Aegon felt his cheeks flush while Abby stroked her hands admiringly over his armor plated bicep. “I’m nothing if not a proper lady. Besides, I brought Aegon a present.”

“Would that be proper?” Alyn asked innocently, his meaning clear. Aegon growled, feeling Sunfyre huff in his throat, a heated thing in his chest. Abby’s cheeks flushed but she paid Alyn no mind, reaching beneath the fold of her gown. For a moment, Aegon thought he might catch a glimpse of creamy skin and the little freckle along the edge of right breast, but she pulled a folded scrap of fabric out instead.

Aegon thought of the tourneys they had watched when they were little, of knights coming to the stands and the royal box to curry a favor from one of the ladies. Ser Criston would wear his mother’s favor, Ser Harwin a boon from his elder sister. How daring they all looked, wearing those favors meant to keep them safe and bring them victory.

He didn’t see so much as heard Aemond’s low voice and the rustle of the tent fabric as he pushed Alyn and Daeron out of the tent, leaving him alone with Abby.

“You made me a favor?” he asked, so soft that he could barely hear his own voice. Abby’s teeth caught at the plump red of her lower lip and with careful fingers, unwrapped the gift.

The leather braid was multicolored, the red, blue and green of House Strong snaked with the black of House Targaryen, silver charms woven into it etched with tiny runes. On closer inspection, he realized they were like the runes on the gold chain that Lyonel Strong had worn. Aegon recalled how they danced in the candlelight as the two of them sat at the table on his nameday not long before he died, and Aegon had promised not to tell that Lord Lyonel was helping himself to the strawberry cream cakes that the Maester said he wasn’t meant to have. The favor was woven and twisted into a complicated knot, foreign in its design. It was familiar, tickling at some distant memory he couldn’t quite place, but knew he had seen it somewhere before. Abby held it in her hands and he touched it, taking it in hand and he could see that it hung on a leather cord to hang around his neck.

Emotions seized at Aegon’s throat. A sense of longing that he couldn’t quite place, grief at the loss of the man he had once known, and a strange sort of trepidation that curled through it. ‘I’ll protect her, I swear it’.

“It’s…” Her pink tongue darted out to wet her lips and Aegon’s mouth watered at the sight of it. She looked up at him beneath her lashes, her eyes so blue they looked like sapphires. “Dhá chroí mar aon ní amháin.” She paused, and then said it once more with a scrunch of her nose as she pronounced it slightly differently. “Two hearts as one, interlocked with no beginning and no end… I worked on it all night!” she added in a rush. Aegon could see her hand shaking and the twitch of her fingers from nerves. “What hurts you hurts me and the charms are protection to ensure that you’re safe and-”

Aegon closed the distance between them, his hand cradled her cheek while the other held the knot between them. He took advantage of her parted mouth to lick his way inside, and steal the taste of her mint and honey tea she drank in the mornings, of the sweet cream she slathered on her bread, of whatever taste that remained that was hers. She whimpered into his mouth and he drank it greedily, a growl low in the back of his throat. He stepped closer so there was no space between them, and Abby arched into him, uncaring of the armor that separated them.

“Prūmio ezīmus ñuhus,” Aegon breathed into her. The words unbidden, a spell, a promise, a declaration. His hand was trembling and he could feel her shaking against him. When he dared to open his eyes, her own were heavy lidded and looking back at him, the slightest pull of confusion creasing her brow. Her heart shaped mouth was red and kiss swollen, trembling as he was. “Half of my heart,” he whispered, the very thing pounding in his chest, his throat, the blood rushing through his ears that he felt dizzy with it.

He loved her. He loved her. He loved her.

Three times to matter. Three times to make it true.

“Aegon.” Abby’s voice cracked on the end of his name and she reached up her free hand to curl against his cheek and pull him closer again. She nuzzled her nose against his and tried to speak, but her voice cracked again, wordless.

His words, however, did not fail him. Aegon’s fingers stroked against the soft curve of her cheek, brushing away the copper of her hair from where it had fallen into her eyes.

“I love you.”

Let him be the first to tell her, for she was always the first to say so many things to him.

Her eyes widened, the smile spreading slowly across her face, and Aegon felt as if the sun broke through the storm clouds, the warmth of her as reassuring as Sunfyre. Her eyes crinkled and Aegon could feel his own crinkle in return as he smiled back at her, basking in the warmth between them.

“I love you.” Soft voiced but there was no lack of confidence, no indecision in the return of the declaration. Favor still clutched in her hand, Abby’s fingers dove into his hair, pulling him closer.

Aegon tilted her head back, touch reverent and mouth hungry, to taste the words for himself.

The silver necklace Abby wore was one meant for the Lady of Castamere. It belonged, by rights, to her grandmother, Dalla Swift, and was meant to pass onto her uncle’s wife when he took the seat. It was, however, the necklace her mother had worn on her wedding day and Abby’s fingers toyed with flame hued carnelian. It hung, smooth and flat backed in a lay of silver along her neck. The delicate silver chain was deceptively strong, strung with smaller carnelians.

‘Strength and bravery,’ her mother had told her of the precious stones she would wear. ‘Courage and joy.’ Abby ran her thumb along the smooth surface. ‘Brave, my little river lion. The fire of my heart.’

Helaena tugged at the ends of the braid slung over her shoulder, clad in a pleated gown of midnight blue with dragon pins at each shoulder, the fall of blue silk brushing against her shoulders. Rubies on a twisted band of woven gold were braided around the crown of her head, a veil of sheer red falling around her like a shield. Her mouth was pinched, brow furrowed, and it was clear the princess was at the end of her patience with the crowds.

“I will leave after Aegon’s gone,” Helaena murmured when she saw the concern on Abby’s face. She sunk further back into the low chair she sat in, her left leg bouncing. Abby reached into the basket at their feet and pulled out the half done embroidery that she’d been working on. Butterflies and beetles glimmering in jewel tones. She pressed it into the princess’ grasp, stroking her fingers along the back of her hands with a tapping motion.

“I’ll let you know when it’s his turn. Just focus on this.” Helaena’s mouth twitched as she clutched at her embroidery hoop, and Abby chanced a glance in the row behind them.

The royal box was an elegant thing. Rectangular with four massive stone columns at each corner carved with snarling dragons circling around each one. The roof was made of terracotta shingles coming to three points for the two lower levels on either side of the main royal box. The Targaryen banner flew from the highest point, with three banners each on the other two: Stark, Tully, and Arryn on the left, and Lannister, Tyrell, and Baratheon on the right. The view of the pitch was unimpeded from either end, and allowed those in the stands around them to view their liege.

King Viserys sat in a padded chair like a chicken in a nest, his crown of gold heavy on his brow and a cup of wine in hand as he inclined his head towards Lord Otto and her grandfather. The Queen was resplendent in a gown of verdant green, braided cord across the shoulders of the gown and snaking down her bodice in a mimicry of flames. Her auburn curls were free down her back save for the delicate twists that held it from her face and held her crown of state in place. She was smiling at Lady Lysa beside her and Abby was startled with how young the queen looked. So used to the cold remoteness of her cousin, the laughter spilling from her mouth was a rare sound.

She swallowed and turned away, uncertain how she felt about the sight.

“Have you had a chance to talk with Lady Alys yet?” she asked Wylla to her left. She looked beautiful in her bronze brocade surcoat, striking against the black kirtle beneath with bronze embroidery along the arms. Her thick hair was braided into cauls on either side of her head, much how she’d seen Lady Lysa wear her hair. Abby wound one of her own red curls around her finger and wondered if she too could pull off such an elegant style. Pearls draped around the crown of her friend’s head, little treasures nestled in the expanse of raven wing hair.

“Briefly, during the feast,” Wylla said and the pair glanced down towards the seats to their left. Harrion was easy to spot with his height in the crowd, his head inclined to the smaller figure beside him. Alys Bracken, his bride to be, her dark red hair caught in a snood - less delicate than the nets favored in the crownlands and the Queen’s court. She was a tiny thing compared to her betrothed, and Abby smiled as she saw the woman reach to touch Harrion’s arm. “She’s nice. Quiet.” Wylla pursed her mouth a bit in the expression she wore when she was trying to find something tactful to say. “Are all girls from the Riverlands like that?”

“Mmm, not if you were speaking with Melony Piper last night,” Abby grinned. Wylla was brash, and Abby wondered if her mother was such a way as well. “It is difficult sometimes to find one’s voice when everyone is so loud.” She clucked her tongue and took a sip of the strawberry wine that had come in for Aegon’s nameday, feeling rather smug about engaging with House Buckler on trade agreements. It was good wine, less heavy than the Arbor Red that Aegon tended to enjoy that was too dry for her tastes. “Why, I do think you fell rather quiet when Aemond pulled you onto the floor.”

“Och! Are you going to start with me?” Wylla’s attention pulled from her brother to smooth her hands over her black skirt and her pale cheeks flushed a touch. “It was very nice of him to ask me to dance-”

“Nice, was it?” Abby would not forget how Wylla had teased her so, pulling the details of the clandestine affair that had gone on in Abby’s bedroom by the firelight. “Did his hand stay in its proper place, or did you encourage him.” She put on a low mimic of Wylla’s brogue, sounding more Riverlander than Northerner as her lilt came on stronger. “Oh, Prince Aemond, your hand is so warm-”

“Prince Jacaerys!” Wylla’s voice came out high pitched and a little strangled, loud enough to carry over the din. There was a chair that separated him and Helaena before the King, for when Aegon and Aemond came up after the melee, he would take it as his place of honor. In the meantime, Helaena was, as she put it ‘staking her claim until her brother proved himself worthy of it’.

Jace was reclined in his chair, his head bent towards Baela’s. His jerkin was dark red leather edged in black, the buckles were shining silver seahorses. “Lady Wylla,” he smiled, a look so familiar it made Abby’s chest ache.

“Are you not competing today?”

Baela laughed and Jace rolled his eyes at her before returning to Wylla’s question with a sly grin that she recalled from their youth. It generally predated some sort of mischief, Aemond often its target. “I would, but since it is my Uncle’s nameday, I thought it would be in poor taste to upstage him.”

“Upstage him?” Baela snorted, reaching down beside her to lift one of the little vases that the vendors were selling among other things. A crude painting of a yellow dragon was splashed across the red clay and a black figure holding a sword was positioned for battle. “How could you upstage the man whose liking is splashed across a dozen pisspots?”

“They’re too narrow to be pisspots,” Helaena said mildly. “But they’d be perfect for the foxglove and oleander growing in Visenya’s garden. I could show you, if you’d like, cousin.”

Abby gave the princesses a sidelong look, but was pleased to see Baela’s expression was one of amused appreciation and Helaena’s own smile was small. Jace looked confused and uncertain of what he was meant to do before huffing and helping himself to some more finger foods from the low table. Abby hummed, her own smile crossing her face as the trumpets sounded for the first round of contestants. Squires marched out onto the pitch carrying the banners of their knights. Warren Fossoway was no longer among their ranks - he’d been knighted only a few weeks ago and would compete in the melee. Many of the women around her cooed over the sons and brothers proud on the pitch with their standards.

“Oh!” Abby leaned forward, touching Helaena’s arm to draw her attention before pointing. “There’s Daeron!”

The youngest Targaryen’s blonde hair gleamed golden in the morning light, proudly bearing the blood red, three headed dragon upon the field of black for his eldest brother. Ser Gwayne had let the boy squire for Aegon this day, and Daeron looked so proud and so serious all at once.

“He looks like Aemond,” Wylla said with a soft laugh. “They both have that same serious look.” Abby giggled at the comparison. Even this far away, it was undeniable.

“He has my hair though,” Helaena chimed in, waving out to Daeron with a beaming smile amidst her discomfort of being in the crowd. Her hands clutched back at her embroidery hoop as a wave of cheers rippled through the crowd again as the standards were placed in pairs of who would face off against whom.

“What is it that you’re making?” Abby looked over to see Jace leaning over to admire her embroidery. He’d slid over to Aegon’s empty chair, while Baela remained in her own chair, speaking with one of the ladies that had accompanied her, Zara Celtigar. “Would you show me?” Helaena nodded and Abby was relieved to see her focus on Jace’s question and interest. She recalled when they were young, that Jace had joined them on their explorations into the mud and underbrush for Helaena’s interest, always asking her questions about what she’d found and what she was looking for. Tension riddled through her own bones at what Jacaerys and Baela’s arrival would mean, but the fear that Jace would have turned cruel over the years felt silly now. Hopefully it would remain as such.

First on the pitch was Ser Warren Fossoway, the gleaming gold and red of Cider Hall embolized on his shield. His squire, a sandy haired boy who had served as page for Lord Otto, bounded in front of him proudly as the heralds announced him with trumpet and drummed fanfare. She did not know the boy’s name, but his preening and excitement was adorable. Warren’s light brown hair curled along the back of his neck, his armor heavy plate that suited his broad frame well. As his opponent, Lord Ryam Merryweather, called for a favor from his lady wife, Warren approached the royal box, his helmet beneath his arm. The squires got out of the way, perching with the heralds

“Princess Helaena!” he called, cheeks flushed from the excitement and a boldness that Abby wasn’t entirely surprised by. Helaena’s head jerked up from where it was bent next to Jace’s, startled at the public address. “It would be a great boon to my spirits if you would grant me your favor on this day!”

Her round cheeks went flush pink, and Abby wondered when the last time Helaena had snuck off to trade favors with the knight before them. The princess handed off her embroidery hoop to Jace and reached into the basket for her favor. She pulled out one of the twisted bands of flowers and ivy wrapped with ribbon, normally used to crown the lances of the jousters than for a melee fighter but it worked all the same. Ser Warren would be able to hook it on his belt without issue. Helaena rose smoothly, approaching the railing and tossing the favor down to him.

“I hope this protects that pretty face of yours, Ser Warren!” she called down to him, anxiety pushed away and teasing in her tone. “It would be a pity to lose such handsome countenance to some knightly foolishness.”

Warren caught the woven circlet and sketched a bow, sending a wink up at the princess before going to meet Lord Ryam out on the pitch.

“I’m sure Warren appreciates your blessing,” Abby teased her sister. Helaena rolled her eyes and took her seat once more. Jace’s lavender eyes were narrowed, brow furrowed as he looked from Helaena to Warren as the knight swung his sword with a great yell and the bout started.

Abby winced at the first screech of Lord Ryam’s blade across Warren’s shield and the wave of excited hollering that washed across the arena. She was giddy with the excitement that it spurred on. Gone were the tangled snake nest of nerves that fostered in her belly from the feast. Here, there was comfort being in the relative privacy of the box. Yes, the eyes of the realm kept gazing up, pointing and whispering, but there were men drawing blood in the arena below, and Abby could pretend they were pointing at anyone else but her.

For his first tourney, Warren stood his ground. It took everything Lord Ryam, an experienced tourney knight with a decade and a half on the younger man to land each blow. Each white flag for the knights were slow to come. Twisting and turning, it was an exciting start to the melee events and finally, Warren struck the last blow: a clang of castleforged steel along the back of Lord Ryam’s shoulders. Lady Lysa, from her seat behind the queen, stood and cheered along with the applause of the rest of the court. Even Ser Westerling, stoic as he oft was, shouted, “Well done!” that carried over the crowd.

Helaena shifted in her chair and Abby glanced over at her. Teeth caught on her lower lip as her occasional paramour bowed to the royal box and Abby noted the flush on her cheeks.

“I didn’t know Warren Fossoway became a knight,” Jace said casually. Heleana did not clap, but held her hands before her, a broad and encouraging smile on her face, eyes dancing with curiosity.

Helaena shrugged. “It’s well earned, mind you. Ser Warren is the attentive sort. Not even Aemond could cow him.” She settled back in her chair to focus on the embroidery in her lap. “He’s worked hard for it and he makes quite a handsome figure in his armor.”

On her other side, Wylla muffled her snort into a cough and Abby silently handed her a goblet of wine with an amused shake of her head.

“What was it like twirling about the feast in Aemond’s arms?” Abby asked as the next competitors took the pitch. Her heart thrummed in her chest, her cheeks heated when her thoughts strayed to the feel of Aegon’s mouth on hers, the taste of him, the feel of his armored arms wrapped around her. She sighed, soft and distracted before her bright blue eyes landed on Wylla, who was giving her a knowing look.

“I will throw you from this box, lady. I’m not drunk yet.” She took a swallow of the strawberry wine, making an intrigued face at the taste and then another sip. “Did he get under your skirts again?” Wylla asked quietly, leaning her head closer so as not to be so easily overheard.

Abby’s cheeks flushed. “So did Aemond pull you on the dance floor to argue with you, or to be his human shield?” Their eyes met, both challenging, but there was no bite beneath their words. She would not be dissuaded from her line of questioning.

The crowd cheered as Ser Corbin Manderly knocked Ser Janos Farley’s helmet from his head.

Wylla’s cheeks, fair as the winter snow, flushed pink. “He said, rather dashingly, that he knew I’d be a good dance partner because I would not bore him with inane conversation. I then proceeded to tell him how I never, ever wanted to sew the beads upon your wedding slippers ever again. I did it for the love of you, but you better not ask for beaded slippers for any other dress or for your children or anyone else.”

“But I didn’t ask you for beaded slippers, you offered.”

“I will throw you from this box.”

Abby giggled and took her own sip of strawberry wine. “You’ve said that already. We need to get you new threats.” She glanced down at the pitch, clapping along with the crowd. “So you explained the intricacies of beaded slippers. You danced quite a bit, so he must not have been dissuaded.” Aemond and Wylla had danced several turns before he was pulled to dance with other maidens of the court. He’d not danced with anyone else even half as frequently as he’d danced with the northerner.

“He was quite pleased to discuss the original plans of the Aegonfort,” Wylla huffed, but there was a smile dancing about her red lips. The kind of womanly secret Abby had been jealous of in Cassandra Baratheon. The kind that Abby wondered if she held now. Wylla clapped politely as the knights finished, Ser Janos the victor this time around. The expression she wore was a pensive one, uncertainty creasing at the corner of her eyes. Reaching over, Abby stroked the elder girl’s arm, comforting if not sympathetic, as she was uncertain if Wylla needed sympathy so much as reassurance.

“Aemond is mercurial and moody, and knows everything, but he is, above all else, honest.” Abby’s fingers brushed at a loose thread on the bronze silk of Wylla’s gown. She had never been to the north, but Wylla had spoken of it lovingly, with a homesickness laced with the kind of frustrations one developed with a need to see the world. “I know this place is one of duplicity and confusion, but you can believe me when I tell you that Aemond plays no games. His intentions are what they are. He finds deception in such things to be foolish.” Abby grinned then. “Why be underhanded and duplicitous when he can simply threaten or show he knows more?”

Wylla snorted. “He knows everything about the Aegonfort.”

Abby shrugged, grinning. “He plans to be an unparalleled military man, you know.”

Their conversation was cut short as the trumpets sounded, louder now than they had been for the men who had come before. It was the Targaryen herald song, the drums thrumming through the stadium as the people rose, cheering for Aegon Targaryen, son of the king. Abby’s heart pounded in time with the beat, slowly rising to her feet with a grin, cheering along with the rest of the crowd that chanted his name. ‘Aegon! Aegon!’ They shouted. ‘Prince! Prince!’ Her feet took her to the railing, if only to get as close as she could, the breeze tugging at the loose curls that hung down her back.

Daeron looked so serious leading the way, carrying Aegon’s Targaryen standard to be hung, the breeze catching at his curls. This was not his first tournament, nor, Abby surmised, was it even his tenth. He carried his duties with the experience of a squire far older than he. As he hung the standard up and stepped back, Aegon grabbed his hand to tug him close, lifting their joined fists in the air together. Even with all his experience, the boy was not immune to the cheering and shouting chants of his own name as the brothers stood beneath the crowd, Aegon sharing this moment with his littlest brother. Daeron broke out into a grin, his own cheering as the people of King’s Landing, the lords and ladies of the realm who had come down, shouted out their wishes.

Aegon was so handsome. Everything narrowed down to seeing him standing there. His armor was a burnished black, the plates of it layered like Sunfyre’s dragon scales. The pauldrons were layered similarly, broadening his already broad shoulders. The gold chasing glimmered in the sunlight, his helmet beneath his arm. His silver hair shone golden beneath the light, pulled back from his face in a few small braids that Aemond must have done for him so his hair would not fall into his eyes beneath the helmet.

He turned from the crowd to approach the box as all the contestants did, his lilac eyes meeting hers. A flush unfurled beneath her cheeks even if all he did was smile so wide that his eyes squinted with it.

“My lady!” he called, his voice nearly lost to the noise of the arena. “The joy on your face could outshine the sun itself!” Abby heard Wylla scoff behind her, but paid her little mind, teeth nibbling along her lower lip. “Are you truly so happy this day?”

“I am, my prince,” she called down to him, feeling Wylla slide the braided ring of flowers into her hand. Abby toyed with the favor. She wanted to call down to him that she was so happy because he told her he’d loved her. He had said those words to her, confessed them to her first and she was drunk with it, giddy and incandescent. She wanted to kiss him again, to taste the promises on his pouty mouth, but all she could do now was toss the favor down to him. “And if you wish to keep me so happy, you will come back to me safe and victorious!”

Aegon’s smile took a mischievous edge, a rakish glint in his eye. “I do wish it, my lady. All you must do is command me.” He tucked the favor onto his armor, turning his gaze to meet his father’s. He crossed his arm across his chest in a sign of fealty and bowed before giving her a wink and going to stand by Daeron who held his swords in hand. Further down the pitch, Abby could see Aemond and Alyn Hull standing safely out of the way. Aemond looked serious, face pinched in concern as Alyn hollered his cheers of encouragement.

Abby watched as Ser Edmund entered, the cheers for him quieter than the people who cheered for their prince, but the sound of it joined the excitement of the match to come. His squire was one of the Piper boys, only a little older than Daeron and no less experienced. Edmund looked like a knight from a song, his light brown hair golden in the sun, the placid smile on his face making it seem as if the accolades of the crowd bored him. His armor was bright plated steel, elegant in its simplicity, but the strange eyes that made up the Vance coat of arms unnerved her. They reminded her of the unblinking eyes on the older carvings within the Red Keep: sightless, with their wide, frozen gazes.

His page carried his arms for him, the two handed greatsword nearly overwhelming the boy. Aegon stood with Daeron on the other side of the platform where the standards were set beside the officials for the match. He barely spared the elder man a glance, busy flexing his hands and adjusting his gauntlets. Daeron had his brother’s swords sheathed and ready.

Anxiety curled in Abby’s gut. Aegon had a natural talent with the blade, had found great joy in it when he was younger, like any boy would when they found themselves handed something sharp and deadly and taught to wield it from some of the best swordsmen in the realm. Regardless of natural talent, Aegon had not spent the past three years throwing himself into blade mastery. Not the way Aemond had.

A hot hand found her own and Abby blinked when Helaena appeared at her side and gave her hand a gentle squeeze.

“You’re giving Mother lemons,” she whispered. Abby felt her cheeks flame deeper but she did not spare a glance over her shoulder.

“Let her. The realm enjoys my foolish childishness,” Abby murmured. Helaena chuckled, but her form grew tense as Edmund Vance’s eyes cut in their direction. The knight approached, bowing before the king and the court.

“Congratulations on your betrothal, Lady Abrogail!” he called up, his eyes flicking towards Aegon. “I do hope to deliver His Grace back to you in one piece!”

Her fingers scraped against the stone railing she leaned against, the smile still firmly on her face. She ached to claw at him again, to peel back the layers and reveal the ugliness that lay beneath.

“That is too kind, Ser Edmund. I only hope that you are prepared to fight your first dragon.” She tilted her head. “They are fearsome opponents.”

As if on cue, Sunfyre’s call came from the dragon pit, loud even as Aegon’s mount was confined. He’d broken out that night months ago when Aegon and Aemond had fought, and was under even more guard to ensure he did not break free again.

Aegon’s grin was bright and full of what might have been boyish innocence had he been anyone else. Instead, there was something invitingly dangerous about it. It made her belly feel as if it was turning circles, the embarrassed flush morphing into something wanting and excited. His eyes met hers, his lilac gaze bright as the pink streaked across the sky at night.

The herald called the start of the match and the two men were on each other like Braavosi dervishes. Vance, with his greatsword glinting in the light, and Aegon meeting each strike with the clang of his own steel. He wielded an arming sword along with a slightly shorter sword and it was a sight to behold to see him in true combat and not just in the training yard with padded armor. Abby exhaled slowly, too breathless, too anxious to shout for him, but her eyes did not stray.

Her heart was in her throat. Ser Edmund was fierce and well practiced, a tourney knight several times over. Each powerful swing had her gasping in fear. Each clang of Aegon’s swords against his had her trembling. Edmund had reach, but Aegon had a ferocity that was less polished, more wild than his brother. He dove under swings instead of jumping back out of harm’s way. Abby had watched him in the training yard sparring against Harrion Karstark, the northman a powerhouse of grace and battle readiness. Aegon had held his own, although different from how he did now.

The crowd was a wave and a roar of cheers and hollering as if this was the best fight they would ever witness. Let it not be said the people did not enjoy a drama, or the sight of the king’s son, a fierce warrior.

Abby’s teeth caught at her lower lip, worrying the pink flesh with her nerves and excitement. Vance swung and a scream caught in her throat when the sharp edge of that great blade knocked Aegon’s helmet from his head, sending it flying and skipping across the ground and too far to reach. Abby heard Alicent cry out in worry, but there was no tearing her gaze from him.

Sweat dampened his silver hair, the fine braids Aemond put in doing their work to keep his vision clear. A laugh escaped him and then Vance’s gauntlet knocked him about the face, sending him reeling back.

Aegon laughed as the knight before him advanced, spitting blood on the ground from his. He twirled his swords lazily, arms open as if he meant to embrace Vance. The man swung, and Aegon abandoned his right blade, tossing it behind him in the dirt. His left sword came up to block the swing as he stepped into Vance’s reach. This time, a wordless cry ripped from her, more inhale than exhale. Helaena gripped her hand tightly, reassuringly, but was otherwise silent in her observation.

She’d seen Aegon pull the move before. It was not something taught by Ser Criston. No, this was purely Aegon, who spent his time in taverns and brothels, coming home with split lips and bruised egos. As Aegon stepped into Vance, his left blade blocking the elder’s sword, he turned. It all happened so fast. One moment they were both upright, the next, Vance was flying over Aegon’s shoulder, his greatsword falling out of his reach and even from the dirt of the pitch, Abby swore she could hear the ring of metal armor as Ser Edmund Vance hit the ground so hard his own helmet careened off, leaving the man red-faced and gasping.

“I don’t need to take his hands.”

“And what have you decided to take instead?”

“His pride.”

Aegon still held his arm in his grasp, looking down at him. He shouted something but Abby could barely make it out over the roar of the crowd, louder than dragons. His hands jerked and twisted Edmund’s arm in a sudden motion, the knight howling in pain as his arm fell limply to his chest, broken. The herald was declaring Aegon the winner. Vance’s page was running out to the field with two other men as Daeron ran to his brother, cheering and pumping his fists in the air. Aegon embraced him, spinning him around as the pair cheered, shortly being joined by Aemond and Alyn.

Abby’s grip on Helaena’s hand eased and her whole body trembled as the tension bled out. The heat remained though. The twisted tangle low in her belly was warm and syrupy and this time she screamed out his name, like one of the small folk in the stands, her grin so bright it might have hurt if she even registered it.

“He really did it,” Baela said. “And fucked his sword arm while he was at it.” It was only then that Abby registered that they had been joined at the railing. Jace on Helaena’s other side, Baela beside him, leaning over the railing like she could get closer. Wylla was to her left, clapping and shouting along with the rest of the crowd. “Fuck. I owe Lannister ten dragons.”

“I won’t say I didn’t think he had it in him…” Wylla began, a teasing note in her voice. “But your betrothed was in fine form today. Lucky you.”

“Lucky me,” Abby repeated with a faint voice, her eyes affixed on the man below basking beneath the accolades and triumph. It was the second time in as many days that the realm cheered for him in a way he was so deeply unaccustomed to. Aegon reveled in it, blowing kisses to the crowd and waving both hands.

The favor she had publicly given him was still affixed to his belt and he unhooked it, twirling it thoughtfully around a finger before flinging it into a section of the crowd. Abby watched the scramble it caused but the crowd was too thick for her to see who had come out with the prize.

“The Golden Sunfyre indeed,” Helaena grinned. “Although more like a Golden Peacock. Abby, you don’t seem to mind, do you?”

She glanced at her. “Did you enjoy dancing with Jace at the feast?” She was no longer the only one who could be teased, and she’d make sure the rest of them knew that. It was nice, getting to have something to poke at the others about.

Jace’s face flushed. Helaena raised her eyebrows, a smirk playing across her soft features.

As the boys below disappeared back to the tents, Abby turned to take her seat. Her eyes caught the Queen’s from where she sat on the right side of her husband. There was a vague air of annoyance on her face and Abby was immediately concerned it was due to her.

‘Why should I be concerned about cheering Aegon on?’ Abby thought. It would have been a poor showing indeed if she had not. She squared her shoulders, inclining her head. Aegon had shown up sober and ready to make a good impression, both things she thought would soften the queen’s edges.

“Quite the show,” her grandfather said from where he sat on Lord Otto’s other side, an indulgent smile on his face. “Prince Aegon is quite the creative warrior, and practiced with the crowd.” He raised his goblet to the king and queen and Lord Otto. “Congratulations on raising a fine young man. To Prince Aegon on his nameday indeed.”

“Ah, that he is. We’ve minded him well, and he’ll make a fine lord, having minded the example I’ve set.” Lord Otto choked momentarily on his goblet of wine. The queen flushed, plucking at her skirts while she hesitantly returned the smile, as if expecting a jest, but found none.

“Thank you, Uncle. He is… still a rambunctious boy in many ways. But it seems my hunch was right that a gentle hand was what he needed.”

Abby sucked in her lips to hide the smile that threatened at the uncomfortable looks that her grandfather was pretending not to notice while he commented on the taste of the wine. Her heart ached with it. The presence of Rodrick Reyne had been a balm to her soul. To have someone in power care about her wellbeing in such a genuine way as he had shown her in the days that he’d been there felt as if it had started to heal something she did not even realize was broken. He did not care about her becoming Aegon’s queen, or the games that were being played. He just wanted her to be happy.

She reached back, squeezing Wylla’s arm before looking over at Helaena. “I’ll accompany you to Aegon’s tent before you go back to the castle, now that the important show is done with.”

Helaena’s relief at escape was palpable, naked on her face and she shoved her embroidery back into the basket, smoothing her hands over her skirt. The queen’s brow furrowed.

“Helaena, darling, are you well?”

The princess plucked at her skirt as she bobbed a curtsy. “A headache from all the sound,” she said. It was a familiar statement and while it did little to ease the concern on Alicent’s face, understanding shone and she nodded. Lord Otto’s concern was also there as he noticed them moving towards the back of the box. He waved to one of the servants lingering along the side of the box.

“Have the cook prepare Helaena some sherbert and send it up to her rooms,” he ordered. Helaena’s gaze brightened at the prospect of the spiced compote and she shuffled over to press a kiss to her grandfather’s cheek.

Arm in arm, Abby and Helaena exited the royal box. Her heart thudded like the drums between her ribs and she felt Helaena tug her back when she walked faster.

“Give him time to get out of his armor first,” Helaena said softly.

Abby gave her a look, prim and proper. “And what if I want to help him out of his armor?” The princess scrunched her face up to hold back her laughter. The guards outside Aegon’s tent bowed and opened the flap to let them inside the dim interior.

Aegon was indeed in the process of getting out of his armor, Daeron tugging at the shoulder strap of the cuirass with a concentrated look so far removed from his boyish glee that he’d shown just moments before.

“I can’t believe you used the same move on him that Gabor put you through that table with!” Alyn crowed as if Aegon’s victory was his own. “I wish I could’ve seen the look on his face when you started laughing-” His words were cut off as Aemond punched his shoulder, drawing his attention to the tent opening. Alyn sputtered, jumping to attention and bowing like the most experienced of courtiers, rather than the smooth talker he’d been before. “Your Grace, Lady Abrogail.”

Abby tilted her head. “So I only get such gallantry from you if I’m in the company of the princess?” she asked, a soft, imperious tone to her voice. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Aegon smirk. “Such a shame.”

Alyn blanched, mouth gaping like a fish. “N-no, my lady! I never mean any disrespect. I…” The poor man was at a loss for words. Aemond was also looking amused at Alyn Hull caught on the edge of the unexpected teasing. Abby moved further into the cool confines of the tent, folding her hands beneath the long bell sleeves of her lapis gown. It was her first foray into the Targaryen styles that had been popular when Princess Rhaenyra was at court and a gown that she found quite comfortable in.

“Leave us,” she commanded, a smile playing on her face. “I would like some time alone with my gallant knight, and the princess needs her escort towards the carriage to go back to the castle.”

Aemond’s gaze shot over to Helaena, concerned before understanding. He grabbed Alyn by the shoulder and hauled him up. “We’ll escort her, since Prince Jacaerys lacks such manners.”

“Wylla is still in the royal box. I’m sure she’ll be lonely since we’ve left her to fend for herself,” Abby piped up. Aemond’s cheeks turned so red she thought he’d burst into flames, and he growled low before following Helaena from the tent. Abby looked at Daeron expectantly as he undid the second strap and was removing Aegon’s cuirass. “You too.” Daeron frowned, opening his mouth to protest, but Aegon rested a hand on his head, mussing his hair and pushing him away.

“You did well today, squire,” Aegon told him. “Go have some fun before you have to help Uncle Gwayne for the joust.”

Daeron squinted at the pair of them before shaking his head with the most put upon sigh Abby thought she’d ever heard before he scampered away. The flap closed behind him, cutting off the shaft of light that came in, muffling some of the revelry outside. Heat flushed through her body and Abby turned, studying Aegon half out of his armor.

He was still smirking at her, a dark look in his lilac gaze, his lower lip cut and swollen from the hit he took. Aegon turned and pulled over the chair to sit and work on his greaves, and Abby came to undo the rerebrace that protected his biceps. He smelled of sweat and the lavender mint of his soap. There was the subtle scent of something warm, something inherently Aegon that she couldn’t put her finger on, but had her belly fluttering and rolling with heat. It made her fingers tremble, the only sound the clinking of his armor as the pieces were slowly removed.

Abby moved to his other side to work on the braces, her fingers stroking over the braids in his short hair. “Aemond?” she asked softly.

“They work, even if my hair’s…” He waved a negligent hand and she stroked her hand over his head again.

“I think it looks nice. I’ll learn, if you’d like,” she offered. Aegon made a soft sound and handed her the greaves for her to put on the table so he could work on his other leg. Once both his arms were free of the armor, Abby leaned against the side of his chair to stroke her fingers over his hair again. Aegon nuzzled his head back instinctively into the touch. She remembered the shadowy night on Driftmark, the trembling fear she felt as her brother was accused of fathering heirs to the throne, of Rhaenyra demanding Aemond be questioned. Of feeling so lost in the midst of dragon fire.

Flame that eventually consumed those she held dear.

She slowly worked the braids free, tenderly untangling the twists with a sigh, as if she could breathe out the bad memories that lingered and threatened. Abby inhaled, letting the scent of him fill her gaps and spaces. If only she could crack open her body and bring him into her, caging him into the space between her ribs and lacing herself closed. Perhaps then this newfound feeling of safety, of acceptance, would never leave her.

How warm he was. More than warm, Aegon, like his siblings, ran hot with the dragonfire in their blood, and she hungered for his closeness as she always had. To keep her warm and comforted. He tilted his head back to rest along the back of the high-backed chair, a lazy smile on his face, eyes still heavy with the dark look that blew his pupils so wide the lilac was just a rim.

“I should call you kēlītsos, shouldn’t I? You’ve been flexing your claws and baring your teeth.” His voice was low and rough in that way that she adored. It had her breath hitch and the ache inside her grew. Arousal was thick in her veins, pulsing through her with each pound of her heart.

“What does that mean? Kēlītsos?” She had finally asked Helaena what hunītsos meant, blushing so deeply at being told it meant little rabbit that she swore Helaena to secrecy upon her coveted orb weaver.

“Little lion,” he said with a shrug, heavy lidded with the attention she was paying him. “Technically, little cat, but the point-”

Fingers in his hair, Abby licked her way into his open mouth without hesitation. No tender, shy touch of her lips against his. No, she was parched as if she’d been lost in the deserts of Dorne and Aegon was the only spring she’d seen in days. He tasted like salt and strawberry wine, of the copper tang of blood from his split lip. He growled into her mouth and she moaned in response, fingers dropping from his damp hair to his sweat soaked linen shirt. He was eager, giving in to the way she yanked him up to feel him against her, to lean into him on her shaky legs. Aegon wasted no time, his arm hooking around her waist to hold her close to him.

Her teeth caught instinctually on his lower lip and Aegon grunted with a note of pain. “Sorry,” she mumbled into his mouth, not really sorry at all, and Aegon didn’t seem to mind, for he growled at her murmured apology. All that mattered was the slide of his tongue against hers, the way the heat of him sunk into her, nestled there, and the heat that pooled between her thighs, of the way her hips pressed into his without nary a thought for what it meant.

Abby bumped back into the edge of the trestle table, the armor on the other side clinking with the jostle and tried to hoist herself up, but her gown was in the way and she didn’t want to let go. Aegon handled it, his broad hands grasping her waist and dropping her down on the table top. He broke the kiss, flushed face and nipping at the tip of her nose, grinning as she giggled at the playfulness. His hands played along the decorative metal and chain of her belt, stroking around to her back to toy with the clasp. Her eyes darted to his, drawn to the heated darkness of his gaze and the concentrated furrow between his brows as he worked the clasp. He held her gaze and her lips parted with each unhooked chain until they were undone.

‘Eyes on me’ she recalled, uncaring as he dropped the belt to the table, the slide and thump as it slid off. Abby swallowed, a whimper escaping her, nipples peaked against the fabric of her gown with that needy sort of aching that was spiraling through her.

“Aegon,” she breathed and arched into him, his hands coming up to cradle her jaw and caress her neck, fingers diving into the curls that flowed about her. Her hands trembled as she grabbed at his hips to pull him closer with all the imperious demanding she was capable of. He laughed into her mouth, and Abby swallowed it greedily while her hands worked at his own belt, the back of her hand brushing against the hard evidence of his own arousal. She whined again and Aegon brushed her hair from her neck to nip along her jaw and down the pulsing flutter of her heartbeat beneath her flushed skin.

“Abby,” he breathed back, his prayer answering her own. Hands tugged on the gown she wore, kindly undoing the ties that kept the wrap of the dress closed. The air hit her when the fabric was pulled away, baring her body beneath the airy linen that protected her skin from the scratchy underside of the gown. Abby shivered so hard her teeth chattered.

The feeling overtook her. It was a heady thing, like she’d drunk too much wine. Her hand lifted to tangle into his hair, his mouth dragging against the crook of her shoulder. Her other hand came up, pulling aside the collar of the loose linen shirt and she sank her teeth into the crook of his shoulder, biting into the salty taste of him. She moaned and growled as if she too were a dragon and Aegon gave a shout, a growl that sounded too deep, too inhuman to come from a human body before he snarled, his teeth locking onto her shoulder to make a twin. The sharp pain of his bite spiked hot and she bit harder into his shoulder to muffle her cry, the copper taste hitting her tongue as she broke skin.

His hands were yanking into her hair and she cried out when he pulled her off him only to take her mouth with his. He was frenzied with it. There was nothing gentle in the kiss and her own hands pulled at his shoulders, tearing into the linen shirt. Her legs came up, now free from the confines of the gown to wrap around his waist and pull him closer, feel the hardness of him press into the soft heat of her. She wanted him. She craved him. ‘Fuck what the queen says’, she thought with a possessed need that had been coalescing inside of her since the first time Aegon had kissed her beside the lake. She would have her husband now, open her body to him so he could never leave, so he would never stop touching her.

The cry that escaped her was bereft when he broke the kiss, both of their mouths red from the exertion. Aegon looked wild, a man possessed, his eyes bright as he licked his lips and leaned back to take a look at her. Abby leaned back so he could see her, the way she wanted him. The fabric was only on this side of sheer, the shadow of her form visible beneath - the dusky pink of her achingly peaked nipples, the gentle round of her breasts and the way the neckline of the shift was tugged down over a shoulder.

He growled low in his throat and leaned forward, pushing her back so she had to brace herself on her hands to keep from falling back. Aegon cupped a breast in one hand, his mouth capturing the other, the wet of his touch soaking into the material as he tended to the aching peak. It was heated and she whined, helpless to his touch and unable to reach for him lest she fall. She pulled her legs up to hook her ankles to the small of his back and hold him close, digging her hips into him to feel the thick outline of his cock pressing against her. She instinctively wriggled like a caught cat, rubbing herself against him for a way to relieve the ache that was driving her mad.

There was a knot growing in the syrupy heat of her belly and she gasped out, “Aeg, please,” but Seven help her, Abby didn’t know what she was asking for. Aegon must have, for his hand came up to press against her back to hold her steady and she immediately looped an arm around his neck while the other hand clawed at the linen of his sleeve, so hard she might have torn at the seams. It brought her closer into him and he encouraged it, his thumb rubbing over her other nipple in soothing strokes that made her shake. She felt a pang of jealousy at the idea of him touching other women like this, possessive with the need to have him all to herself, to let him forget about the faceless women, to make sure Cassandra Baratheon was a flitting memory.

Let her be filled with the womanly secret. Let her be the one he was mad for. Let her always be the one that he fought stupid men for, whose favors he wore.

The woven knot had slipped from his collar, brushing against her and she smiled, mouth brushing against the crown of his head. She pressed herself further against him and Aegon’s hips snapped into her, the groan he let out filling the tent as he switched the breast he tended to.

She wanted his mouth everywhere.

Abby’s hand wormed back between them, tugging at the fastenings of his trousers, eager to feel him, to feel the warm weight of him, to imagine what it would be like once he was inside of her. “Let me,” she begged. Demanded. Whined for with all the impatience of a child waiting for a treat. Her fingers found him, the warm velvet feel of his cock and the violent shudder that went through him. She cried out louder this time, his name broken on her voice when his teeth bit down on her breast from the shock of it before he soothed it with gentle licks of his tongue.

He was as thick as she remembered, her fingers unable to properly wrap around him and the feel of it made her light headed to wonder at how he would fit, when his finger stroking in had felt like an intrusion. Yet, she was eager to find out, hungry for it. With a grunt, Abby pressed her free hand against his shoulder to push him back, her breasts cold from the absence of his mouth. She needed space between them so she could see, so she could take in the sight of him, heavy and warm and what he would look like wrapped in her cool hand. It was an image she had been robbed of before.

She had only touched him once before in the night when he had crawled into her bed like a demon from Asshai, the kind that crept into a maiden’s dreams. It had not been as easy as this and she had barely been able to touch him properly, but had thought about it often in the weeks since. Now she could look at him and so she did, Aegon still holding her up with his hand braced against her back. A kind lover.

She was not a blind nor sheltered girl. Abby had seen the tapestries that the queen had moved into the gallery. The lurid Valyrian ones of men and women copulating in all sorts of poses. Of women embraced with other women, groups of them all tangled in a mess like snakes. Books of anatomy snuck from the library had also done little to prepare her for this.

He was flushed and thick, the tip of him beading with moisture and he bobbed as if seeking her hand when she reached down to touch him. A nervous giggle escaped her.

“Are you making fun of me?” Aegon asked, curious and teasing. “It’s just saying hello.”

She gently wrapped her fingers around him, another giggle escaping her. “It’s soft.” She did not know whether to meet his gaze or to keep looking at him to hide her sudden nervousness that did little to wick away her needy giddiness, her insatiable curiosity.

Aegon grunted, his eyes fluttering as her cool fingers wrapped around him. “It’s very much the opposite, kēlītsos,” he said in a voice so gravely and raw that it seemed to come from somewhere else. It hooked down into the knot deep in her belly, tugging at it like she might peak at the mere sound of his voice. Her fingers could not properly meet, and she felt truly dizzy. Aegon’s mouth was warm on her forehead, nuzzling into her and she sighed, eyes fluttering closed as their mouths brushed, the laziness of the motion contrasting with the frantic need that pulsed between them.

Tentatively, Abby’s hand began to stroke and Aegon’s shiver was delicious to feel, the whimper that escaped him like a wounded animal, broken and gasping against her mouth. She swiped the tip of him, gathering the wet that beaded there, and licked at the cut on his lower lip. Aegon’s eyes fluttered, the growl he made before rumbling through him.

She gasped, an abbreviated kind of giggle. “You sound like Sunfyre,” she murmured and Aegon chuckled, groaning low into her hair.

“You love him more than me,” he complained as his hot hand bunched up her shift, pushing away her blue gown some more so he could stroke his fingers across her belly. The muscles clenched and it was her turn to groan, an indelicate sound that had her jumping, her hips shifting and seeking that pressure again, the delicious touch that she had missed. “There’s not enough time to taste you.” He shook his head in annoyance, a glance at the hourglass on another table.

“Take me instead,” she said, her cool hand reaching to cup his face and draw his attention back to her. She looked up at him, beseeching. “I don’t care, I want you. I love you.”

An agonized expression crossed Aegon’s beautiful face, the feral edge he had when they first begun and the softness that came after, the fondness and love.

“Not now, not like this.” He was shifting her back from him, removing her hand so he could use both hands to tug the gown away from under her, pushing her around to tug it free. “When I take you, I won’t stop. We’ll be in bed for days,” he told her, serious, his gaze heated, his tongue darting out to lick at his lower lip. “Just when I taste you, I need more than the little time we have. I want to feast on you, not rush.” He took her gown and carefully laid it over the back of the armor rack.

Abby swung her legs, her blue eyes large and heavy lidded, watching as his hand wrapped around himself, tugging with purpose. She committed the motion to memory, tongue darting out to lick at her lower lip in an expression reminiscent of his. Her hair was a mess around her shoulders, and she was shivering not from cold, but from the heat coursing through her, the achy want that she could taste in the back of her throat and feel roiling and twisting in her belly. She reached for him, whimpering, “Aegon, please,” on her trembling voice and hooked her fingers once more into the linen shirt and tugged him to her once he was within reach.

She wanted to die when he kissed her. She wanted to drift into the endlessness of oblivion where nothing else mattered, where it was just the taste and feel of her Aegon, the feel of his body against hers, the shape of him fit against her, the only fabric separating them the damp cloth of her smallclothes. It wasn’t enough and she canted her hips, and Aegon rutted against her, the thick of him sliding along the shape of her separated by her small clothes. Abby couldn’t breathe, all she could do was taste the copper and the strawberry wine, the imagined feeling of Aegon slipping in and filling her up, right where he belonged. She craved the touch, craved his heat in a way she never knew she was capable of. Her legs came back to press against his hips, her feet hooked at the small of his back to trap him to her where he was hers, and only hers, and she belonged to him.

The familiar feeling of something building came rising through her, the gathering of a great wave to crash upon the shore. Abby gripped him frantically, tugging at his hair, pulling at his shirt sleeves, fingers scratching against his shoulders to keep from falling, even when it was all she wanted to do. Aegon rutted against her with the abandon she wanted from him, no care at all except the chase of pleasure between them as he nudged that spot only recently discovered. Her head fell back, eyes squeezed shut as she frantically sought her end and dimly, she registered Aegon consoling her, his murmured words against her throat where he’d bitten her, the mark red and surely to bruise.

“You are so beautiful, look at me,” he commanded her in reverent tones. She forced her eyes open, heavy lidded, to focus on his own distraught and desperate look. There was a sensation of insurmountable feeling as she teetered on the cusp, the world focused onto the look in his bright eyes, their gazes locked to one another. Aegon’s hand dipped between them, his rutting ebbing to be replaced with hot, calloused fingers dipping beneath the mess soaked linen. Her cry was loud, strangled, and it took everything to keep her eyes on his while he rubbed at the aching of her, fingers dipping teasingly into the heat and then she clenched on nothing, unfairly nothing, the rushing and roaring of blood in her ears and the gasping of air as she fell from the pleasure washing over her. That great wave that crashed against the shore was crashing through her.

She was vaguely aware of the way he tugged her smallclothes away, words spilling from him, “You’re so beautiful, this cunt belongs to me now, look at you,” and she nodded, whimpering over and over, ‘Please’ and ‘yours yours’ and ‘love you love you.’ She felt the heat of him rub against her, the sticky sound of it and Aegon’s own groan loud before something wet and full of heat brushed onto her. Abby watched him stroke his cock, the milky white spend of him falling upon her cunt, caught in the thatch of red curls and the sinful, delightfully reckless feeling of it all made Abby squirm. The feeling of him sliding over her heated skin, the way she was entranced by it was a feeling she couldn’t describe.

She reached down, swiping her fingers through the mess to stick them into her mouth, the way she had watched him suck her own taste from her fingers, her eyes never leaving his. In turn, she shivered as he dragged his own fingers through the mess he’d made of her. Abby canted her hip, wanting him to press inside but instead, he licked the taste from himself as well.

It felt like a ritual. Like something strangely holy, reverent within the indulgence of it. ‘Fuck what the septa said. What the queen said’, she thought savagely to herself. ‘There is nothing wrong in this, and I won’t be denied.’ She opened her arms to him and Aegon gently tugged her smallclothes back over her, petting her softly before stepping into her hold and wrapping his arms around her. Abby sighed and buried her face against the crook of his neck, her mouth pressed to where she’d bitten him.

“I love you,” he whispered into her hair and she shimmered and glowed in his hold, feeling his arms squeeze her in the clinging way he had not done for so long, like he was afraid she would slip through his touch.

“I love you,” she whispered against his neck, trying to cast a spell that would embed the words into his skin, to be indelible, a tattoo that would protect him in the way her favor might not. “Can we stay here? I want to stay here with you.”

He chuckled, low and fond and stroked his fingers through the mess of her hair. “I’ll help put you back together. Pity there’s nothing to clean you with.” It was a lie, and he didn’t sound sorry at all, for her gaze drifted over to the barrel of water, soap and cloths in the corner. “You’ll just have to carry the mess for the rest of the afternoon.” Aegon sounded pleased with himself, and Abby squirmed deeper into his hold, blushing with it, shy and heady. “Come, let’s get you put together before Daeron comes back, and then we’ll go watch the jousting.”

There was a tenderness in the care he showed after it that warmed her, and Abby watched him with a soft, giddy feeling as he grabbed a comb from the table to start putting her hair to rights with unpracticed but eager attentiveness. She sighed and settled in to let him tend, and let herself drift into the afterglow.

Thank you so much for reading! I'd love to hear your thoughts! Please support by reblogging <3

I'd love to know your favorite bit: What did you think about Abby and Aegon telling each other their love? How great is Alyn Hull? He is my fave lil dude and I'm so happy whenever I write him. Or the way the group ended up watching the fight. I mean BAELA! she got involved! We love that for her.

[Chapter Sixteen]

[girl-next-door-writes]

535,600 minutes

Characters: Mycroft Holmes x reader

Summary: Snapshots of your first year with Mycroft, and how he adjusts to being part of a pair.

Word Count: 1924 words

Prompt: ‘How about Mycroft doing something seasonal.’

A/N: This one is for the wonderful @theweepingvulcan91. I couldn’t decide on a season, so I went with four, because who doesn’t want a whole year of Mycroft Holmes?

You met the elusive Mycroft Holmes in the spring. The details of how you both found yourselves at this particular gathering were lost to memory, but Mycroft was standing by a trestle table in the terrace gardens of Yardley Hall, failing to conceal his confusion and precisely how horrific he was finding this event. Small children were everywhere, which meant squealing and sticky hands and chaos. They were running around, searching (and ruining) the topiary in their search for small chocolate eggs, while a man, who Mycroft suspected was Colonel Yardley, was scampering about dressed as a terrifying giant rabbit.

“Which of these delights are yours?” Turning to his right, his scowl was met by amusement, causing his sour mood to melt just a little.

“Technically, none.” He took the flute of champagne you offered, mentally scanning your fingers for any signs of a wedding ring.

“Technically? That’s intriguing.”

“My brother’s friend has a daughter and they felt this would be a ‘fun’ Easter activity for her.”

“So, you are here for your brother’s friend’s daughter?” The way your brow furrowed while the corners of your lips curled up was enchanting, and Mycroft found himself momentarily distracted.

“I am merely their ticket in.”

“And yet, you are still here.”

“I am. And you? Which of these delights are yours?” He watched your response curiously, trying to deduce as much as he could.

“Oh, I am just here as a wingman to my friend who has a huge crush on some single father who is here. Honestly, we just kinda crashed, but I am trusting you not to tell on me.” Your eyes glinted with mischief and Mycroft realised he was chuckling.

“Your secret is safe with me, my dear.” Clinking his glass to yours, he wondered how long he could get away with monopolizing your attention. Unfortunately, fate, or rather his brother, intervened.

“Here’s Uncle Mycroft, Rosie. I am sure he will be more than happy to help you discover the last of the eggs.” Sherlock smiled brightly at the little girl, allowing his smile to tighten as he looked at his brother.

“Sherlock, I-“

“John is busy talking to a rather uncomplicated woman and Lestrade just called. As a responsible adult, I am leaving Rosie in your care until John is done. Goodbye, brother mine.” And with that, Sherlock strode off.

“Uncle Mycroft.” Rosie tugged at his coat, and he tried his best to hold back a frustrated sigh. “The bunny has put out more eggs, Uncle Mycroft.”

“Then we shall take your basket and see if we can ascertain their location.” His nose scrunched slightly as the four-year-olds sticky hand slipped into his, then turned to give you an apologetic smile, only to be stunned to find you crouching down to address Rosie.

“Which eggs are we looking for? What colour is the best?” You asked earnestly.

“Pink. They are bright and you can see them more so you can get lots.”

“Ah, so pink is easiest to see. I’m guessing, with that being the case, there are possibly a LOT of green ones still hiding. How about you look for pink, I will look for blue, and your uncle can look for green because I think he should take the hardest challenge.” You smiled teasingly as you looked up at Mycroft, who was suddenly imagining a whole future life with you.

Twenty minutes later, John was standing on the terrace, frantically scanning the garden as he searched for Sherlock and Rosie. His eyes widened with surprise however, when he spotted Rosie sitting on Mycroft’s shoulders as she reached up into a tree for an egg while a rather attractive stranger held the basket up for the treasure to be placed. This was a side of Mycroft he had never seen, and he considered filming a little to send to Sherlock. Mycroft looked happy and relaxed, and John couldn’t help but wonder if that was down to you.

The summer heat was stifling, and Mycroft wondered why on earth you had insisted upon meeting him in Hyde Park at the hottest part of the day. It was so warm he’d already had to remove his suit jacket, hanging it over his arm as he searched the vicinity for your presence.

“Mycroft! Over here!” His head whipped around at the sound of your voice, and the reasoning for such a venue became apparent.

“My darling, a picnic?” He looked skeptically at the blanket you had spread in the shadow of a huge tree.

“I have blankets to prevent you getting grass stains on your suit. Everything is in containers which can be closed while not in use so there will be no surprise insects in your food. We are in the shade, so you won’t burn. I have a fan, so you won’t over-heat. The drinks are on ice, I’ve brought all your favourites, I know how much you despise eating outside, but I was rather hoping you would make an exception, just this once, as the weather is so glorious.”

“How could I ever deny you anything?” He gave you a soft smile, appreciating how much effort you had put into this compromise.

Sitting next to you on the blanket, he rolled up his shirt sleeves and picked up a container of your favourite fruit, already cut into perfect bitesize chunks. Peeling off the lid, he carefully picked up a piece and offered it to you, silently elated when you ate it directly from his fingers. If this was where compromise led, then he vowed to be more compromising for you in the future.

The afternoon was spent laying in the warm breeze, reading and talking. At one point, he was sat with his back against the tree and your head resting in his lap, and he wanted to bottle that moment up and store it away in his mind palace, untainted forever. The scent of the grass and the dry earth at the base of the tree, the mixture of heat and mild caress of the breeze from the fan, the texture of your hair as his fingers toyed with it in a distracted manner, the weight of your head against his thigh, the soft susurration of the pages turning and gentle sighs which fell from you as you read. This moment right here was perfect. You were perfect. The last four months had been perfect. He wanted this to be his reality, his always.

“This is ridiculous.” He huffed, adjusting his collar once more. “If you wanted to get all dressed up then there was a masked ball we could have attended.”

“Mycroft, you look incredibly dashing, and you do not fool me for one instant. You enjoy dressing up just as much as I do.”

“That is-“

“Lady Bracknell.”

“How did-“

“Sherlock.”

“Ah. Sherlock.” He grumbled with a frown.

“It is Halloween, Mycroft. One party.” You hummed as you smoothed down his shirt.

“One party.” He nodded, psyching himself up for the teasing he knew would inevitably come from his brother.

“I think you make a rather stunning Victor Frankenstein.” This compliment had him smiling despite himself.

“Yes, well, you picked out the costume so I would hope so. I do think, perhaps, nobody will be looking at me when they see you. Exquisite, as always, my dear.” He tenderly caressed your cheek before leaning in and placing a gentle kiss to your lips, not wanting to mess up your make-up.

“Maybe next year you could be one of those detectives from those films you like to watch, we could do a little role play.” Your smile was mischievous, and Mycroft felt a heat roll through him.

“That is a role play we would most certainly not be doing in public.” He growled, pressing you close to him.

“Now there’s a thought. Sadly, we have a party to attend.” You pushed him away, leaving your hands on his chest. “But I will absolutely take that scenario into consideration for a later date.”

Watching you sweep out of the room, Mycroft knew he was left standing there, grinning like a loon. Just when he thought you could not possibly get any better, you threw something like that onto the table.  In the back of his mind he thought, ‘I really need to get a ring’.

The howling wind battered the rain against the window, but it was barely audible over the crooning of Michael Buble which filled the room. The scent of pine was far too strong for Mycroft’s liking, and the pine needles littering his carpet were irking him, but watching you carefully unpacking various baubles made his irritations shrink significantly.

He did wonder quite how you intended to dress the tree, as the only light in the room came from the crackling fireplace and the fairy lights he had fought to wrap around the branches not so long ago. Regardless of his misgivings, he observed you assessing the tree before hanging the first of many ornaments from the branches.

“Are you going to stand there all evening, or are you coming to help me?” You asked with amusement, not even turning to look at him. Mycroft instantly moved to lean against the mantle above the fireplace, glass of whiskey in his hand.

“I was rather enjoying your masterclass in tree decorating, my darling.”

“Really? And here I was thinking you were just afraid of the tree falling on you again.” This earned a scoff from him and a light peal of laughter from you.

“It did not fall on me, it just became a little unbalanced.”

“Well, come over here and make sure I don’t become ‘a little unbalanced’ while I try to put the star on the top.”

Mycroft placed his glass down and moved to stand behind you, his hands coming to rest on your hips as you stretched up.

“Here, let me.” He murmured in your ear, his fingers trailing up your arm and taking hold of the ornament slowly, enjoying how you shuddered slightly at his touch. Placing the star on the top of the tree, he smirked as he pressed himself against your back.

“Perfect.” You hummed, turning your head slightly to look at him.

“Is this likely to be a tradition?” He asked as his eyes met yours. The lights from the tree illuminated your skin, making you look ethereal.

“I know how much you like a tradition.”

“I am rather traditional like that.” He smirked, leaning in a little closer as he wrapped his arms around your waist, resting his chin on your shoulder.

“Yes, you are. It is one of the many things I love about you.” You smiled as you placed a soft kiss to his cheek.

“You have a list? That is interesting.”

“You don’t?” You raised an eyebrow as you suppressed a giggle.

“I have a whole filing cabinet full of dossiers.”

“That was smooth, Mr Holmes. Very smooth. Well, before we get into a rather entertaining argument about who has the bigger list, I am going to get the vacuum and get rid of the pine needles. I know that just knowing they are there, hiding, is itching at the back of that brilliant mind of yours.” You moved to leave, only for him to pull you back against his chest.

“And that is another of the multitude of reasons why I love you.” He grinned before thoroughly kissing you. Christmas morning couldn’t come soon enough, he could only hope that your answer would be yes.

[aquaticasart]

With a Heavy Heart - Chapter 2

<- Previous Chapter | Next Chapter ->

Summary:

After a disasterous mission, Raven demotes Li Ling from his rank as Operations Chief. He is placed under the tutelage of Drew, who is tasked with his re-training and assessing when, or if, he is able to earn his title back.

In his brash attempts to regain his lost position and pride, Li Ling stumbles into long-buried pasts, and comes to realise the terrifying depth to his unassuming teacher and the house he served.

CW:

Contains themes of emotional hurt, grief and loss, with mention of canonical character death, and use of organised crime-adjacent tropes.

Chapter 2

Li Ling stepped sideways to get through the small door to the old gym, an instinct from his usually imposing silhouette. He caught himself and squared himself up before crossing the threshold. Damnit. He absentmindedly clawed at the slim cuff on his left arm, trying to work his fingers underneath where it opened at his forearm. He fidgeted on his entire approach to the lone figure of a Jackal at the opposite edge of the room.

Drew was carefully setting out water bottles on an old trestle table, standing them up alongside an expertly curated collection of electrolyte powders. His silhouette was rigid, his motions restrained to the bare minimum required for his task. His pristine appearance was made dingy when lit solely by the cheap Fluro of the room’s blinking overheads. The room was deathly still, not even a wayward fly causing movement to grab onto. Compared to the Union halls Li Ling had just come from, the entire scene was painfully, achingly ordinary.

An ear flicked at Li Ling’s heavy footfalls.

“Ah! Master Li Ling, thank you for joining me.” Drew began. “As you were no doubt made aware, I will be your tutor for your retraining. I do apologise for the poor state of our training arrangements, unfortunately the usual Union training grounds are not built with such a… mundane standard of safety in mind.”

Li Ling took this opportunity to take in the surroundings. Calling it in a poor state was euphemistic at best. The gym was small and stuffy, with raw brick walls half-heartedly covered with sagging crash mats. One wall was dedicated to a grimy floor to ceiling mirror, attached to the wall in several panes with seams every few meters. Li Ling couldn’t escape his own reflection, diminished substantially without his arms. He took a moment to square up his shoulders and push back the slouch that had crept in, desperately trying to close the few centimetres in height between him and Drew. Jigsaw mats roughly colour matched into two sparring rings lined the floor.

It was patronising to even stand in.

“For the foreseeable future your afternoons will be spent here” Drew continued, “I have been asked to take you through combat and sparring basics, with an emphasis on controlled martial arts and meditation. Our course will consist of several forms, including Yoga, Tai Chi, Tae Kwon do…

“Look Drew…” Li Ling interrupted, crossing his only arms, “I don’t know what kids TV lesson Raven’s cooked up with you, but we can skip it. I’m sorry, ok? I’ve learnt my lesson, I won’t do it again, write it in the rulebook and throw it at me. I don’t need any of this crap, and the longer I spend in THIS thing…” He yanked helplessly at the cuff “… the less time Miramon spend dying, which no one wants. So, if you would just get me OUT of this THING.” He threw his arms down by his side. The cuff rather inconsiderately stayed fastened to his forearm.

Drew raised an eyebrow.

“Well, that’s excellent to hear, Master Li Ling.” Drew replied. His tone was perfectly pleasant, but Li Ling couldn’t hear anything but sarcasm drip from the words. “I shall report it to Raven at once. However, before I do so, may I trouble you for a demonstration?”

A demonstration? What was this dog on about? Drew carefully slid his tailcoat off his shoulders, revealing a crisp white dress shirt underneath, his normal bandage wraps carefully rolled into neat cylinders on the table already.

“Fine. Whatever you want.” Li Ling threw back through clenched jaw. “Want me to write a sappy letter? Record a teary apology video and post it to SwiftSpace? Wear a sandwich board with ‘I fucked up’ written on it?”

“None of that will be necessary” Drew responded, not rising to the venom in Li Ling’s voice. “If you do not believe my training is required, I simply wish you to show me.”

Satisfied his coat was out of danger of the water and powders, Drew turned to Li Ling and widened his stance slightly, his black leather shoes sinking into the foam as he lowered his centre of mass, his cane in his hand with its tip held unwavering off the ground.

Li Ling guffawed.

“What, FIGHT you?”

The contrast between the two couldn’t be starker. Li Ling stood shirtless, in flowing and unrestrictive fighting gear. His physique was lean and powerful, with deep lines cut into it from a lifetime of operating at a superhuman level of strength and finesse. Drew, on the other hand, was dressed for a high tea. He hadn’t so much as undone his top button, let alone prepared himself for a fight. Only his canine appearance betrayed any nonhuman ability whatsoever.

“A simple spar” Drew clarified. “If you can land a hit on me, I will go to Raven immediately and relay what you have told me and recommend the immediate reinstatement of your field duties…”

A smile crept onto Li Ling’s face. This was perfect, even without his Esper abilities Drew was literally fighting on Li Ling’s terms.

“…However,” Drew continued “If I can knock you off your feet, our training will continue as planned. Do we have an agreement?”

“Yeah, Whatever.” Li Ling replied gleefully, trying to hide his confidence.

“In that case…” Drew said, his grip on his cane tightening and his stance deepening, “Proceed.”

Li Ling didn’t need to be told twice. He lunged forward with astonishing speed, pulling his fist back for a punch that he hoped would end this charade as soon as it started. Drew hadn’t so much as flinched. He held statue still as the punch raced towards him. Li Ling’s fist flew forward, expecting to find contact with furred jaw. It found nothing but air. Drew had effortlessly sidestepped the lunge, gently tapping the bronze tip of his cane into Li Ling’s back as he sailed inelegantly past.

Li Ling yelped and caught himself, shifting his feet to catch his wild momentum. The tap of the metal cane had been calculated not to damage, but to sting like hell on his bare skin and intensely irritate him. It was working. Li Ling stretched his neck side to side, recentering himself. Drew was standing perfectly upright, his heels touched together and his arms behind his back, cane included. Li Ling surged again, throwing fist after fist at the Jackal, but kept on landing on the empty space the Jackal used to be in. Drew weaved easily around Li Ling’s speed, not even so much ducking, and each time he followed up with another one of those stinging, infuriating taps.

Li Ling roared, he wasn’t holding back his punches for sparring purposes anymore, he was throwing wild, powerful attacks trying desperately to wipe the placid, calm look off that smug canine face. His blows were heavy, and his speed was taking a toll to match. His attempted hits were becoming more and more sluggish as his back stung. One sloppy punch was all it took. Instead of smoothly weaving to the side again, Drew simply dropped his head, allowing the fist to fly into the space where he had been a moment ago. He grabbed Li Ling’s wrist, effortlessly redirecting the momentum to continue forward as he pulled on Li Ling’s arm, adding a substantial amount of force that Li Ling hadn’t anticipated. It was all it took to send Li Ling spiralling off balance and crashing to the floor.

He breathed heavily, sprawled on his back, utterly despondent. Drew hadn’t even darkened his white shirt. A black furred hand was held in front of him, an offering of sportsmanship. Li Ling didn’t take it and scrambled to his feet on his own.

“I believe that’s settled then” Drew said, cheerfully.

“Yeah yeah.” Li Ling growled, letting his anger smoulder in the words. “Real fair fight, Esper against effectively a normal human. If it weren’t for…”

Drew wasn’t listening to him, instead he was turning back towards the trestle table. He unbuttoned one of his sleeves and quickly rolled it up, paying no mind to Li Ling. He pulled a small key-like device from the pocket of his tailcoat and ran it along the slim, metal cuff he revealed underneath his sleeve, a perfect match to the one on Li Ling’s arm. With a click it opened and drew placed it gently on the table. As the cuff left his arm, Drew’s body alighted with energy, plumes of otherworldly black smoke pouring from every opening to his clothing and from a tiny crack at the top of his cane. Drew’s silhouette roiled as the smoke seamlessly ebbed and flowed from his black fur, before calming down into its usual subtle turbulence. Drew’s power returned in force, an illusory violet butterfly coming to rest on his shoulder and casting a gentle purple light into the room as he turned back to face his ward, who could do nothing but stand with his mouth agape.

“We shall be starting today with some meditation exercises…” Drew said, launching into his session as though nothing at all had happened.

The dojo underneath House Ramses was crowded with aspirants. Every Esper in the room had endured gruelling trials to stand where they were, seeing Lateef Ramses in the flesh for the first time. He sat stoically as he gave them their final trial. A simple task, a deceptively simple one, one that he assured them would separate the one here who would be welcomed into the family; Defeat the family butler in one-on-one combat, no holds barred, all powers permitted. The first challenger raced at the opportunity and was dispatched just as quickly. The others weren’t so eager after that. Esper after Esper fell and was dismissed, and as the butler discarded more of his bloody, sweat-laden and elementally damaged garb between fights, it became ever more apparent that he wasn’t just a simple master of the house. Espers either fled or were carried grappling with injuries. Finally, one candidate remained to test his mettle; a young man barely in his twenties with the head of a Jackal and a wicked rapier that burned with black and purple fire.

[silkendandelion]

Pomegranates, A Stardew Valley fanfiction

Pairing: Lance (SVE) x Farmer (male, character sheet here)

Genre: Fluff

Summary: Farmer Max didn't listen to the wizard's warning and encounters a spell that shows him a version of his life where he married Elliot, instead of Lance. Hurt/Comfort, happy ending.

AN: Spoilers for Lance's 10-heart event and several late game quest lines, references to the outcome of these quests or rewards. Player is an OC with established characteristics, story, mannerisms. It's fine, we have fun anyway.

Rated Teen and Up Audiences for sexually suggestive content, unsafe situations, characters worried about infidelity (No actual cheating). One-shot. Cross-posted to Ao3 here. Send me a DM: yell at me, send flowers. Cheers.

He always saved the best pomegranates for Elliot.

The shiniest fruits of the batch, so heavy with juice they nearly jumped off the branch and redder than wine-stained, kiss-swollen lips. They always got washed separately, scrubbed twice, and packed in a box that had become known as “Elliot’s box” because of the blocky, handwritten label that declared it.

“That time of the year again?” Lance smiled as he set his satchel on the kitchen floor, mindful of the farmhouse’s stone counter-tops ever since they discovered that life elixir is surprisingly acidic. Luckily, the microwave now hides his shame.

“Just in time for his birthday too, since the summer was so cool,” Max said, clicking the crate shut.

“Well, I’m off to the Highlands.” Lance glanced in the fridge while the farmer tugged on his boots. The sticky rice he made the night before was untouched, a cursive note that read ‘goodnight, my love’ still attached to the top.

Poor farmer, he works so hard, he thought. “Actually. There’s not much to do the first week of the season, besides observations. If I only do a half day, I could make it back by say… 8 o’clock? What do you think, love, want to quit early with me?”

His mushy thoughts of hiking up to the bath house and splitting a pot of cider on the couch were dispersed by Max reaching for his coat with a wince. “I’m sorry, honey, probably not. Leah wants to do a brunch thing tomorrow for Elliot’s birthday and I gotta turn in early if I’m gonna finish the chores before I go.”

Lance opened his mouth to point out the flaw in his plan, but settled for a frown as he slung his satchel over his shoulder. “No worries, love, just a thought.”

They parted ways with a kiss, soft and sweet: the farmer’s preferred choice of apology when he knew Lance wasn’t actually looking for one.

“Stay safe up there. And say hi to Marlon for me if you see him,” Max said.

“Of course. Safe travels, farmer,” Lance teased him with a smirk.

He watched Lance leave their homestead and down the road, the smell of freshly-tilled soil washing away the scent of his husband’s soap before he even turned the corner. By the fifth day of the season, the crops were all settled into their neat little rows, the promise of pumpkins already in curly little saplings, and colorful mushrooms peeking up from plush, sleepy grass. The trestles by the fence would have grapes on them soon enough—best to keep an eye out for Petunia then, lest his horse be tempted out of her stall and he find her foundered in her sin.

Elliot loved the fall.

And Max almost slapped himself as he started the rest of his chores.

The wizard had warned him, “you can peruse my library at your leisure, but don’t touch any of the books behind that altar. It’s for your own safety,” and gestured to a menacing golden creature atop a spell circle, the statue’s ruby eyes seeming to follow him around the candlelit room.

It was one book.

A simple spell, just a single, short paragraph among the hundreds of others, found by parting the book to a random number and beginning in the middle of the page. The spell explained itself to have no ingredients, casted only by reading, though Max couldn’t have guessed how literal the instructions were.

“Spirits alive, spirits alike, spirit made flesh. The mind is a shallow cup, cursed to overflow with too many memories, but the soul remembers. Never forget, dear spirit. Recall your journeys, dear spirit… allow us to enter your mind, spirit. And look with us.”

Even Max knew not to speak aloud from spell books, but just reading the words left him breathless, his wheeze condensing in front of his face. He slammed the book shut, quick and careful to replace it on the shelf exactly as it had been found before fleeing back to the warp hall, his fumbling hands yanking at his coat’s zipper.

“Too creepy… Never again,” he said, believing now that Magnus wasn’t exaggerating when he placed the shelf off limits.

But the spell was already cast, brought to life by being read, and Max found himself visited by the most vivid dream he’s ever had—and hasn’t had one like it since.

A farm, what must have been his farmhouse, and an autumn day like today. A striped cat rushed to the kitchen under his feet while the writer hummed at the stove, his ginger hair pulled back to the nape of his neck.

“Good morning! Come eat, darling, I made your favorite.”

He never cared for pancakes but his stomach growled regardless, heart squeezing unbidden when the writer fluttered over to greet him with a milk coffee kiss.

Lance drank his coffee black.

It wasn’t his farm, not his cat, not his husband, so why did it feel so warm?

Why did he wake up missing the rosy lens of that other place? With syrup on his tongue and a pain in his chest for a man he’s never looked at before with anything other than friendship? His heart sank, belly cold as he rolled over to seek the warm back of his sleeping husband, minding the pomegranate hair draped over his pillow.

“Mm—hello,” Lance rumbled with fondness, awoken by the way the farmer squeezed around his middle.

“Go back to sleep, Lance,” he said against his hair. The smell of magic never did manage to wash out, like lightning in a forest. A happy huff was his only reply, though Max would stay awake for the rest of that night, and for days after.

He never should have read from that damn book.

The dream wasn’t anything more than a glimpse. He didn’t know the farmer’s story, who raised him, but he knew why his belly twinged when the writer kissed him. And if this flash of a feeling could haunt his thoughts in broad daylight, he knew he would die if he ever knew the truth about their entire life together, killed gloriously by the knowledge of one single lifetime, out of the thousands this other valley might know.

And he would never recover if Lance knew.

How could he ever say that in another life, some other place just like their valley, he was married to Elliot? And that they were so happy?

He couldn’t, he would rather jump naked into a bath tub of lava slimes than hurt Lance.

Lance, who when he was contemplating giving up farming to be a full-time adventurer declared with that self-assured grin that Max was the only one who could help him with his research.

Lance of the First Slash Clan, seasoned adventurer, who becomes as red as his hair, suddenly shy when Max reminds him that on his first visit to the First Slash Guild Hall, he took off his clothes and suggested they squeeze into the single bed.

The same man who when Max came to him with the insane idea to turn their cellar into a guild hall, didn’t poke holes in his dream or complain about how much the construction would cost, instead swelling with pride to say “My farmer, always thinking of others.”

Lance, whom without the world would have no spring.

Max looked at the crate in his hands, having walked all the way to the beach after his chores, and knocked on Elliot’s door with his boot. What am I doing?

“Max, hello there!” He opened the door with a gasp. “Are those for me?”

“What—yes. Fresh from Haddenfield,” he said reflexively, pulled from his thoughts to follow Elliot inside and put the crate on the piano bench for unpacking.

“Oh, they’re beautiful,” he said, holding one up to the window to admire it’s ruby glitter. “Won’t you let me pay you this time?”

“No no, of course not,” Max waved his hands. “I brought it to you without asking, it’s a gift. Happy birthday.”

“Well, thank you.” Elliot bowed his head, but was struck by a thought. “Wait. This is heavy, too big for Petunia. Did you walk all the way here? Let me make you a cup of tea before you go.”

Max remembered the smell of green tea from his dream, knowing what he would offer even before Elliot opened the metal canister. “I’ve got green tea, do you mind a travel cup?”

This life is enough. No memory, intangible and false, will come between him and his valley.

“I’ve actually gotta get going. Somewhere to be. Thank you, Elliot, and happy birthday!”

“Thank you, Max, please be careful. Say hi to Lance for me!” He called as Max was already marching his way up the beach with a wave. ____ ___ __ _

Good, Marlon didn’t take the boat, he thought as he found the dinghy by the mountain dock, tied and ready. The trek to the Highlands always managed to be twice as long when you were in a hurry, and Max prayed the clouds gathering overhead would hold off on their rain until he made it to the outpost.

A distant crackle of thunder caught Lance’s attention, and he paused his note-taking where he was crouched beside a sleeping mushroom sprite.

“That’s enough for today, I guess,” he said, accidentally startling the creature awake and having to cast a recall spell to avoid its tiny rage.

On the river, Max struggled with the frantic sail of Marlon’s little boat, holding his own against the wind despite the way the waves slapped against its fragile sides.

“I can hear the conversation now—Sorry Marlon, I took your boat out into the storm without your permission but it was all for love! No no, it’s in pieces but I’ll buy you a new one, I promise.” Max yelled to no one as the little boat bobbed and thrashed around the last bend before the dock.

Ring. Ring. Ring. Inside the outpost, Lance closed the line on his emergency phone when no one answered.

“He must be on his way home… oh, I hope he’s all right,” he said, going to pilfer his satchel for supper.

“Oh no,” he groaned, realizing his packed dinner was still in the fridge at home, probably next to the forsaken sticky pudding.

“Crumbs,” he said with a huff. Rain on the stone roof meant it was too late to try to fish, too far to try to go home.

A loud thud came from the direction of the dock, heard clearly even through the heavy wooden door, and the hair on his arms stood up.

Debris from the storm? No, it sounded like a person. Marlon? But why? It could also be a monster.

“The warding should keep them away…” Unless the storm fractured my spell circle.

The lumbering came again, closer now, until both Lance and the mysterious noise stood on opposite sides of the door.

His fingertips sparked with a welling of magic. “Aureus lux—“

The door flew open to crash against the opposite wall. “DAMN it all—”

“Max!” Magic leapt from his hand to scorch across the stone wall, but at least the attack hadn’t landed on his soaked husband, frozen in the doorway.

“Did you just try to zap me?!”

“Of course I did! How am I meant to know you’re the one stomping around like a Golem in the middle of a storm? What are you doing here?” He helped the farmer inside, setting him down at his workbench to begin taking off his boots. His fingers shook on the dripping laces, but not with magic.

“You’re soaked—what were you thinking?! What if the boat crashed, how would I ever even know what happened to you? Drowned, or, or—” Max hushed him with the hand that wasn’t holding his bag.

He pulled him close, uncaring he was likely dampening Lance’s shirt, he needed to feel him before he floated away. “You forgot your dinner.”

Lance blinked at him, watching the farmer open his bag to take out two portions of curry and a bottle of wine. Blue Moon, his favorite. “No hard feelings that it’s not from Haddenfield,” Max said, like every time he gifts it to him with the same cheeky grin.

“Have dinner with me? Maybe?” He tries again when Lance is quiet.

“That was an incredibly foolish thing you did,” Lance finally says, flat, but his eyes are soft when he pulls him into a long kiss. They can hardly tell which one of them deepens the kiss first, lips sliding and tasting of petrichor by the time they part to breathe.

“… So you’re not mad?” Max says, dazed and a little warmer where his jacket collar bows away from his skin.

“Of course I’m angry. But I’m also helplessly in love with you, farmer.” He shakes his head and reaches for the bottle.

“I’ll open the wine if you’d like to change your clothes.”

“You have extra clothes here?”

“No,” he says, flat again, and punctuated by both the pop of the cork and his affectionate smirk.

Well, at least the bed is dry, he thinks as he sits in his underwear. Lance never stayed mad for long, and by the time they finish supper he’s coaxing the farmer under the duvet and into his arms. For body heat, he insists, not because the outpost bed, while bigger than the one at the guild hall, is still a squeeze for two grown men.

“It reminds me of that first night at the First Slash,” Max said, accepting the wine bottle when Lance passed it to him.

“Oh Yoba, hasn’t my heart been through enough tonight?” Lance rubbed his tired eyes, albeit smiling behind his hand.

“Don’t be embarrassed, you were very charming,” Max grinned and passed the last sip back to him.

“How long had we been dating? Not long at all, and I threw myself at you.”

Max grabbed his hand to invite his gaze. “I caught you, didn’t I?”

Lance waited a beat, eyes softening as he squeezed their hands. “Yes, you did. Handsome farmer, I couldn’t help but need to know how you felt.”

“I promise, the fact that you were pressed up against me with your abs out had no influence on my answer.” Lance’s chuckle made his stomach flip, a familiar feeling he wanted to happen over and over for him alone.

He drifted easily into a useless dream about keeping Petunia away from the grapes, deeper than he’s slept in weeks, and wondered if pomegranates would be important in his next life too.

[ask-de-writer]

WIND MEETS THE ROM : Part 8 of 27 :

MLP Fan Fiction

Return to the Master Story Index

Return to MLP Fan Fiction

WIND MEETS THE ROM

Part 8 of 27

by

De Writer (Glen Ten-Eyck)

Cover art by @wind-the-mama-cat

54212 words

© 2023 by Glen Ten-Eyck

Writing begun 06/01/18

All rights reserved. This document may not be copied or distributed on or to any medium or placed in any mass storage system except by the express written consent of the author.

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Users of Tumblr.com are specifically granted the following rights. They may reblog the story provided that all author and copyright information remains intact. They may use the characters or original characters in my settings for fan fiction, fan art works, cosplay, or fan musical compositions.

All sorts of fan art, cosplay, music or fiction is actively encouraged.

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New to the story? Read from Part 1, here!

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Wind looked up from where she was sitting and replied, “Mama Dragon was out gathering some wild herbs. She heard me fall and found me. She took me back to her cottage and saw to my healing.

“There is a lot more, but you all have things to show or tell Shansa, too.”

Hanar nuzzled Wind again before saying, “I have been telling Mom all about you and how you came to us. I told her about our Pulls all the way up to Corbiestep fair and all the places in between, too. Now it is every other horse's turns.”

Old Marchhare stepped up to the edge of stones glittering in the sunlight and held out a small box of wood that was almost black. It was intricately carved and had a glossy finish. “I want to use your Blackwood in jewelry boxes and cases. For the last three years I have been trying to equal your finish. What am I doing wrong and what is right?”

He cocked his ears in what Wind had learned was a totally attentive way. Suddenly he pursed his lips in surprise. “That simple? Thank you, I am going to try it right away!”

He gave way to Tia who held out some strings in her magic. The conversation was inaudible but the strings, held in Tia's magic, unwound, stretched snug and plucked. They then flexed oddly and rolled up.

Tia's face was thoughtful as she examined the strings again, nodding in comprehension.

Midnight was brief and to the point. “I have a new recipe. Share it with you at the feast!”

Many of the others were simply respectful greetings. Some, like Marchhare or Tia took a while to clear up some thing or other.

Shansa, it appeared, was not a one trick horse.

It was not long before it was time for the feast. This time there were trestle tables and a serving line. Without hesitation, Wind took her place, serving up pie slices and helpings of several sorts of scrambles. And cautioning, “Not those pasties, they have my meats in them!”

Soon everyhorse was seated at the trestle tables and partaking of the plenteous feast that they had prepared. Hanar was sitting next to a plate at an empty place. Every sort of good thing that they had fixed piled it high. Shansa's place.

The guard Greenforest could not contain his contempt for the Rom and stomped straight into the camp! Midnight and Tia noticed. Signaling with their horns to Hanar, they quietly kept on eating. Greenforest barged right up and started to muscle his way into Shansa's place.

“Lots of good stuff here! I will just - “ was as far as he got. Hanar's magic, as softly yellow gold as her lovely eyes, had him wing bound, hoof bound and muzzled. In the irresistible grip of her magic, he was lifted and placed beside the Wayside trash bin, over twenty meters away.

Guard Major Hawkwing approached and requested, “Permission to enter the camp?”

Marchhare gestured magnanimously, “Feel free, Major Hawkwing! What can we do for you?”

“I would like to ask young Hanar a few questions. I want her to know that she has done no wrong in this.”

Hanar did look up, giving the Major her full attention. “What do you want to know, Major Hawkwing?”

“Um, first, why did you not put Greenforest in the trash bin?”

She grinned, “Because he is not trash. I did not want to give him such an insult. He is rude but that is likely temporary. Stupid ponies rarely get as far up as the Royal Guard. This is his first time serving when the Princesses are Rom, isn't it?”

“It is. Should he be removed from the Guard? I saw the Princesses put the case in your hooves.”

She chuckled, “No. I remember a younger Sargent Hawkwing's first experience with us. I was really little then, but I do remember you, Sir. You turned out great. Give Sargent Greenforest the same chance.”

She cocked an ear toward the empty place beside her and got up. She came back with a pie slice and offered it to Guard Major Hawkwing. “Mom says that is the last slice of Black Lotus's peach pie. You better have it so none of us fight over it!”

“Since you see and hear her, please thank Shansa Na Kili for me.”

“She heard you, Sir. Enjoy your pie. I gotta get back to mine.”

Wind was watching the entire event with delight. She was thinking, these are my kind of folks!

Stories of Shansa's life, escapades, and accomplishments were flying thick and fast about the feasting table. Wind was listening carefully and trying to commit them to memory. She determined to ask some of the horses telling them for better details. To her, this was the most amazing thing that she had found in any adventure.

She observed that the Guard had sent two of their number to intercept Sargent Greenforest. He was taken, protesting all the way, back to join the Guard formation.

The Rom were done with eating and the trestle tables put away. The dishes were washed. The serving line, with its many left over goodies was left for now.

The Rom started in with music, song and dancing. Wind was dragged into the dancing by Hanar's magic! By listening carefully to the unique nature of the Rom music, and following Hanar's patient lead with magic that did not rule, but rather showed and helped, at first, Wind was soon fitting into the dances. It was far more fun than she expected!

The Sky Dancers were experts on the ground, too. Besides hooves, legs, and bodies, they used their wings to great effect. Both Tia and Midnight were in the midst of the happily dancing Rom.

Wind noticed a small altercation developing among the Guard. She quietly left the dance to go and speak to them.

Greenforest saw her coming and snapped, “Whatever you are, Camp Privacy! Stay out!”

Guard Major Hawkwing overrode his rude guard Sargent, “Be welcome. How can we help you?”

Wind sat and pointed to Sargent Greenforest. “I came about him, actually.” She tapped her ear. “It happens that I have excellent hearing.

“I know that he is upset that Hanar put him down over by the trash bin.”

He interrupted, “She had no right! I am a noble, a baron! I got a right to what I wants from commoners!”

Wind cocked her head and grinned a sideways grin. “Even those commoners serving another noble? Say one who outranks you - - a LOT?”

“Who owns those dratted Rom that I should bend the knee to THEM?”

Wind shrugged, “As I understand it, could be wrong, I am new here, all the Rom EVERYWHERE, are subjects of the Princesses and MARCHHARE and HOOF DANCER, ROYAL DUKE AND DUCHESS of ROM.” She pointed over to where Marchhare was presently engaged in a couples dance with Midnight.

“ROYALTY. And you tried to barge into rites relating to the Rom beliefs in the afterlife and worse, take the place reserved to Shansa Na Kili, deceased as you understand it. They do not see life and death the same way that you do. You showed no trace of respect for the Rom beliefs. Beliefs that are so strong that the PRINCESSES made you a MANUAL relating to them.

“You saw what happened to Wiltin but you don't seem to realize just how close you came to joining him.”

Guard Major Hawkwing interposed, “She is right, Greenforest. The Princesses put your case into the hooves of Hanar Na Kili, the daughter of the horse that they came here to honor.”

He paused to let that sink in. “The same filly who did not even need to look up to put you beside a trash bin twenty meters away, had the final judgment of your case.

“She could have had you removed from the Guard. Was asked specifically about that.”

“WHAT! That filly? Who gave her the right!?”

Hawkwing replied with some relish, “BOTH Princess Celestia and Princess Luna did. Shansa Na Kili was, and according to Rom beliefs still is, her mother.

“Her judgment was that you were rude, but that was likely temporary and that you should be given another chance.”

Sargent Greenforest sat hard. In a plaintive voice he whined, “Don't she realize that I worked my tail off for five years to get this post?”

Wind nodded. “Yes, she does. That is why you got a second chance. I just wanted to make sure that you are properly grateful for it. One word from her and you would have lost this post.”

Wind paused, thinking something over before asking, “I have no experience with the unicorns of this world except for the Rom. I do know of one other Equestria, but it is largely corrupted. Those unicorns, at least most of them, could not support your weight at twenty meters. Is Hanar exceptionally strong?”

Major Hawkwing immediately answered, “All of you, listen up! What has just been breached is Official State Secret. Greenforest, and the rest of you too, what Hanar did, lifting the Sargent in his armor that twenty meters DID NOT HAPPEN, got that?

“The sheer power of Rom unicorns is, and has been in the past, a hole card that has helped to keep this realm safe. If enemies learn of it, we could be in over our withers before we know it.

“They use their power like it is nothing special and for that reason, nobody thinks twice about it. Actually questioning it opens up a whole different kettle of rotten fish.”

The Guards all turned their heads over to look at the happily dancing and singing Rom. One quietly pointed out, “That was a filly did that. Wonder what one of the grown ups could do, right?”

A quiet voice said with absolute authority, “Best not to think of that, Sargent. I have come to collect our wayward friend. We are teaching her to sing our songs and she won't learn them here, with you.”

Celestia smiled down and suggested, “Come, Wind. The singing will help your pronunciation, grammar and vocabulary, besides just being plain old fun. I still remember what it was like for Midnight and I to learn Gyptian.

“Besides, seeing how you dance will inspire us to make new dances and steps. For us, dance is a thing that never stops growing and changing.”

Wind chuckled as she was being led away. In Gyptian she said, “They do not seem to understand anything. They have wealth that all comes from the labor of commoners, yet they seem to have no respect for those commoners that make them wealthy.”

Celestia nodded. “A fair point, Wind. It slightly misses the mark, though. When the whole system is working properly, the nobles are the brains that direct the labor and not only for themselves. The commoners are the hands, muscle and bone, it is true, but without a proper brain, the other parts do not work well.

“They will plant and harvest. They will build homes. They will bicker and withhold work on a dam and waterworks that would benefit all, in the hope that they can benefit from the labor of the others, for example.

“That castle that the noble's grandsire raised by the directed labor of commoners? If there is trouble in the land, that castle and its stores are the refuge for the commoners. It may seem unfairly divided at times but it is a two way street.

Wind said thoughtfully, “Let me guess. The prosperity of this land comes about because you and your sister actually keep a pretty close eye on those nobles?”

Eyes twinkling, Celestia agreed, “We do. We watch the commoners too. And yes, accepting that no system is perfect, we do try to make it as good as we can for all levels of society.”

It was a thoughtful Wind who returned to the songs and dancing of the Rom.

<== PREVIOUS ~ NEXT==>

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[letsgethaunted]

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Episode 105.5: Listener Stories #12 Photodump

Image 01-02:A Rakugo Performer. Wikipedia says “Rakugo is a form of Japanese verbal entertainment of yose. The lone storyteller sits on a raised platform, a kōza. Using only a paper fan and a small cloth as props, and without standing up from the seiza sitting position, the rakugo artist depicts a long and complicated comical story.” Apparently they depict different characters by turning their head slightly different directions. I’m sure this has something to do with the 2chan story, but I already hit the 2chan OP with my car for boring the sh*t out of me, so we will never know. Image 03-09: The 7 gates of Hell in Collinsville, Illinois. Legend says if you drive through each trestle bridge gate in order at the right time, you will open a portal to Hell! The final gate must be driven through exactly at midnight. When this portal opens, Hell Hounds will run out and drag you to Hell. Also, if you drive through the gates in reverse, a rip in reality will appear in your rear view mirror and you will see Hell. So apparently once you break out of the simulation you are just in actual Hell which checks out tbh. Would you hit the 7 gates of Hell back to front or front to back? Lmk in the comments.

[chase-solidago]

Macdonald, Helen. H Is for Hawk (pp. 27-29). Grove Atlantic. Kindle Edition.

I never forgot those silent, wayward goshawks. But when I became a falconer I never wanted to fly one. They unnerved me. They were things of death and difficulty: spooky, pale-eyed psychopaths that lived and killed in woodland thickets. Falcons were the raptors I loved: sharp-winged, bullet-heavy birds with dark eyes and an extraordinary ease in the air. I rejoiced in their aerial verve, their friendliness, their breathtaking stoops from a thousand feet, wind tearing through their wings with the sound of ripping canvas. They were as different from hawks as dogs are from cats. What’s more, they seemed better than hawks: my books all assured me that the peregrine falcon was the finest bird on earth. ‘She is noble in her nature’ wrote Captain Gilbert Blaine in 1936. ‘Of all living creatures she is the most perfect embodiment of power, speed and grace.’ It took me years to work out that this glorification of falcons was partly down to who got to fly them. You can fly a goshawk almost anywhere, because their hunting style is a quick dash from the fist after prey at close range, but to fly falcons properly you need space: grouse moors, partridge manors, huge expanses of open farmland, things not easy to come by unless you’re wealthy or well connected. ‘Among the cultured peoples,’ Blaine wrote, ‘the use and possession of the noble falcons were confined to the aristocracy, as an exclusive right and privilege.’

Compared to those aristocratic falconers, the austringer, the solitary trainer of goshawks and sparrowhawks, has had a pretty terrible press. ‘Do not house your graceless austringers in the falconers’ room,’ sniped the fourteenth-century Norman writer Gace de la Bigne. ‘They are cursed in scripture, for they hate company and go alone about their sport. When one sees an ill-formed man, with great big feet and long shapeless shanks, built like a trestle, hump-shouldered and skew-backed, and one wants to mock him, one says, “Look, what an austringer!”’ And as the austringer, so the hawk, even in books written six centuries later. ‘One cannot feel for a goshawk the same respect and admiration that one does for a peregrine,’ Blaine explained. ‘The names usually bestowed upon her are a sufficient index to her character. Such names as “Vampire”, “Jezebel”, “Swastika” or even “Mrs Glasse” aptly fit her, but would ill become a peregrine.’ Goshawks were ruffians murderous, difficult to tame, sulky, fractious and foreign. Bloodthirsty, wrote nineteenth-century falconer Major Charles Hawkins Fisher, with patent disapproval. Vile. For years I was inclined to agree, because I kept having conversations that made me more certain than ever that I’d never train one. ‘You fly falcons?’ a falconer enquired of me once. ‘I prefer goshawks. You know where you are with a gos.’

‘Aren’t they a pain in the arse?’ I said, remembering all those hunched forms lodged high in wintry trees.

‘Not if you know the secret,’ he countered, leaning closer. There was a slight Jack Nicholson vibe to all this. I drew back, faintly alarmed.‘It’s simple. If you want a well-behaved goshawk, you just have to do one thing. Give ’em the opportunity to kill things. Kill as much as possible. Murder sorts them out.’ And he grinned.

‘Right,’ I said. There was a pause, as if it wasn’t quite the right response. I tried again. ‘Thanks.’ And I was all, Bloody hell! I’m sticking with falcons, thank you very much. I’d never thought I’d train a goshawk. Ever. I’d never seen anything of myself reflected in their solitudinous, murderous eyes. Not for me, I’d thought, many times. Nothing like me. But the world had changed, and so had I.

[possumcollege]

Cereal Killer's outfit from Hackers 8)

Thanks for this suggestion from a movie that probably awakened a generation of queer nerds, a movie whose release likely coincides with a noticeable spike in rollerblade injuries, a movie that simultaneously makes computer hacking look cooler AND dumber than it really is, 1995's Hackers.

[icebreaker01]

S4E8 Predictions

Again, I can not stress this enough! I have a shovel! It is a very BIG shovel! I use it to go digging for things on the internet about Snowpiercer! Sometimes I find fun things, some times I find things I do not want to find, and sometimes I find things that strongly hint on what is to come by simple logical thought. Therefore: If you do not want to know what is coming, it is STRONGLY suggested you not read this. Does it contain SPOILERS? Not directly. But it does contain, again, extremely well thought out logical conclusions from previews. Am I always right? No. But sometimes better safe than sorry, hey?

So, lets get into the next episode. In the previews, several things are shown. One that makes me happy is that poor little Javi, though appearing unconscious, is still in one piece. Now this is not all good as that ONE, he is unconscious, meaning he was still close enough to the bomb when it went off to catch some of the discharge, and TWO; he is not laying on tracks. It looks more like solid ground, suggesting he may have been thrown off the train trestle by the force of the explosion. Lets face this down, folks. We have already lost two engineers. Without engineers, the people left on earth, especially our intrepid little group, stand a zero chance of survival. (Remember this when your children are considering a career. Earth needs engineers!) Now, with it clearly pointed out engineers are the most endangered species currently on the show, allow me to put a theory out there that flies in the face of everything I have read on this subject. Is Javi yet another casualty of the insane writers vendetta against engineers? (Goes searching for a coin to flip.) Is Wilford really gone? My theory is ‘No’. Why? Because Sean Bean is well past the ‘I am sick of not being invited to the wrap party because my character died halfway through the show’ stage. Also, the blunt he smoked was laced with a Headwood concoction. As fanatically dedicated as that lunatic was to Wilford, I do not see her providing him with a way to end his life. More likely I would suggest that blunt was laced with something that gave the appearance of shucking the mortal coil, and the person would revive later. Why do I think this? If I remember things right, Wilford was in the last cars with Layton and Josie that got disconnected. Now those two, while good fighters, are no electronic wizards. And yet, Layton was able to find (or MAKE) a radio device to call for help as shown in the preview. My theory for this goes like this: Wilford, in the second car left behind, wakes up, comes forward, and tells Layton and Josie if they want to survive they will not kill him again, and he manages to either contact Snowpiercer (which honestly at this point I have lost track of exactly where which train is) to rescue them, or somehow manages to make those two train cars move on their own. And quite frankly, having FINALLY been allowed to see ‘Wilford the engineer’ at work, I firmly believe this man could make an engine out of three bobby pins and some bellybutton lint.

Do I think Layton et all are dead? No. Why? First off, you do NOT kill babies on shows. That is just a solid no-no. Next, previews of episodes going forward clearly show Layton in New Eden when the Rat Squad arrives. How do I think he survived?

(The author stopped here because she foolishly found a recap of episode 8 and even more foolishly watched it. She is now going off to sit in a corner for while to contemplate just how wrong her predictions in this installment are and keep telling herself that Wilford is not dead.)

If by chance you do want to check out the episode 8 recap by Weeping Cross Breakdown, I highly recommend it. He makes some excellent points about what happens in E8 and the inconsistencies in other characters exits from the show that just don’t make sense.

Also, I’m not saying anything about the attack on New Eden because A) I have prior knowledge about that scene, B) I think what they do is a loving head nod to the original movie, and C) it makes no sense.

And did I NOT tell you we needed to kill little weasel Nima? DIDN‘T I!?!

[wutbju]

Who has seen Red Runs the River? We all need to watch it again.

Film Focuses on General Who Turned to Religion

"Red Runs the River," the latest feature length production of Unusual Films, a Bob Jones University enterprise, details not only the conflict of North against South in compelling col-or, but focuses on the conflict the heart of Gen. Richard Stoddert Ewell, who found religion on the battlefield.

Starring in the film, indeed running away with the picture is Dr. Bob Jones Jr. university president, whose talents as an actor have earned him recognition both nationally and abroad. As a young man, he turned down offers from Broadway and Hollywood for his ministry in evangelism and education.

In the role of the rough, tough, blasphemous, bald-headed Gen. Ewell, who scoffs at things spiritual, Dr. Bob Jr. turns in a convincing performance from beginning to end of the 90-minute film. His maturity, his diction and his seasoned stage abilities result in an outstanding performance.

In sharp contrast to his father, is Dr. Bob Jones III as Gen. Stuart, a flamboyant and colorful character, He measures up well to the demands of the role of the daring and capable cavalry officers who still paused in the press of war to give Christian testimony. But it is Gen. Thomas "Stonewall" Jackson, as played by Jack Buttram, who carried the burden of evangelistic appeal. A Virginian himself, he is said to have voice, build and facial features that admirably fitted him for the role. He also had histrionic experience that rang. ed from Shakespeare to radio program production.

Historians have described Jackson as a devout Christian who considered the spiritual condition of his men as much as his responsibility as the winning of battles. He is quoted as declaring that "I always take time to bury my dead and care for my wounded," but he took time, too, to read the Bible, pray and hear testimony.

Directed by Mrs. Katherine Stenholm, "Red Runs the River" is from an original story by Miss Eva Carrier both are of the BJU faculty--and the screenplay was adapted by Charles Applegate.

Primary responsibility for the filming lay with the students in the division of cinema of the school of fine arts, but the student body and faculty were also involved in producing the epic.

Two months before filming started, students began growing beards and long before that research teams were off to Manassas, to the Smithsonian Institute and the Library of Congress. More than 600 actors were outfitted with uniforms, muskets, bayonets, canteens, cups and haversacks. "Ordnance" crews made working models of Civil War rifles to augment real muskets and hundreds of dummy guns were made, so real "only a woodpecker could tell the difference."

Equally realistic are the scenes of Virginia's rolling hills and red soil filmed actually a few miles from the campus. Nothing was stinted -- the cavalry action, the great train wreck when Gen. Stuart dynamited a trestle, and the battle scenes with their realistic mortar and cannon explosions and musket volleys. Mention should be made, too, of the fine music track produced by Dr. Dwight L. Gustafson, who composed and directed the mood music.

The world premiere was held at Bob Jones University in the spring of 1963, two years after the original story had been conceived and a full year after the cameras had first rolled. The award-winning film is now available on rental basis through application to Unusual Films. Seeing it is a memorable experience.

[istumpysk]

Oh my goodness, a favourite of mine.

Taken from one of the two opening back-to-back Jon and Sansa chapters in A Storm of Swords. The author appears to deliberately mirror the text, situations, and experiences between the two characters.

Sansa I (ch. 6) -> <- Jon I (ch. 7)

Sansa visits the Queen of Thorns, while Jon has a face-to-face with the King-beyond-the-Wall. The similarities won't stop there.

Beyond the spiked moat, two dozen men were taking their practice with sword and shield. With the castle so crowded, the outer ward had been given over to guests to raise their tents and pavilions, leaving only the smaller inner yards for training. 

[...]

A fire was crackling in the hearth, and sweet-swelling rushes had been scattered on the floor. Around the long trestle table a dozen women were seated. - Sansa I, ASOS

x

Elsewhere two bearded youths in boiled leather were sparring with staffs, leaping at each other over the flames, grunting each time one landed a blow. A dozen women sat nearby in a circle, fletching arrows. - Jon I, ASOS

___

Outside its tall carved doors stood two guards in gilded halfhelms and green cloaks edged in gold satin, the golden rose of Highgarden sewn on their breasts. - Sansa I, ASOS

x

Here at least they found defenders; two guards at the flap of the tent, leaning on tall spears with round leather shields strapped to their arms. - Jon I, ASOS

___

Sansa knelt at the feet of her future queen. "You do me great honor, Your Grace."

"Won't you call me Margaery? Please, rise. Loras, help the Lady Sansa to her feet. Might I call you Sansa?" - Sansa I, ASOS

x

"Your Grace?" The king smiled. "That's not a style one often hears from the lips of free folk. I'm Mance to most, The Mance to some. Will you take a horn of mead?" - Jon I, ASOS

___

Pale, elegant Lady Graceford was with child, and Lady Bulwer was a child, no more than eight.

[...]

The old woman called to Butterbumps. "Fool! Give us a song. A long one, I should think. 'The Bear and the Maiden Fair' will do nicely." - Sansa I, ASOS

x

A dark young man and a pretty blonde woman were sharing a horn of mead. A pregnant woman stood over a brazier cooking a brace of hens, while a grey-haired man in a tattered cloak of black and red sat crosslegged on a pillow, playing a lute and singing - Jon I, ASOS

___

"Sansa," Lady Alerie broke in, "you must be very hungry. Shall we have a bite of boar together, and some lemon cakes?" - Sansa I, ASOS

x

"Sit, if you like," Rayder said when they were gone. "Are you hungry? Tormund left us two birds at least." - Jon I, ASOS

___

"He will," Sansa lied. "He is very . . . very comely." - Sansa I, ASOS

x

Jon had his lie all ready. "The Lord Commander sent me to the Halfhand for seasoning, so he took me on his ranging." - Jon I, ASOS

___

Sansa realized that her mouth was open again. She filled it with a spoon of broth - Sansa I, ASOS

x

He took a long draught of mead to buy time for his answer. - Jon I, ASOS

___

Courtesy is a lady's armor. You must not offend them, be careful what you say. - Sansa I, ASOS

x

Guest right or no, Jon Snow knew he walked on rotten ice here. One false step and he might plunge through, into water cold enough to stop his heart. Weigh every word before you speak it, he told himself. - Jon I, ASOS

Jon II (ch. 15) -> <- Sansa II (ch. 16)

Children, shared beds, men flying eagles, and brand new clothing in back-to-back chapters.

"I might get her with child."

"Aye, I'd hope so. A strong son or a lively laughing girl kissed by fire, and where's the harm in that?" - Jon II, ASOS

x

If I give him sons, he may come to love me. She would name them Eddard and Brandon and Rickon, and raise them all to be as valiant as Ser Loras. And to hate Lannisters, too. In Sansa's dreams, her children looked just like the brothers she had lost. Sometimes there was even a girl who looked like Arya. - Sansa II, ASOS

___

Rangers often shared skins for warmth, but warmth was not all Ygritte wanted, he suspected. After that he had taken to using Ghost to keep her away. Old Nan used to tell stories about knights and their ladies who would sleep in a single bed with a blade between them for honor's sake, but he thought this must be the first time where a direwolf took the place of the sword. - Jon II, ASOS

x

They spent long afternoons doing needlework and talking over lemon cakes and honeyed wine, played at tiles of an evening, sang together in the castle sept . . . and often one or two of them would be chosen to share Margaery's bed, where they would whisper half the night away. - Sansa II, ASOS

___

"Jon Snow, you know nothing. You don't go in with clothes." - Jon II, ASOS

x

They are children, Sansa thought. They are silly little girls, even Elinor. They've never seen a battle, they've never seen a man die, they know nothing. - Sansa II, ASOS

___

She reminded him a little of his sister Arya, though Arya was younger and probably skinnier. It was hard to tell how plump or thin Ygritte might be, with all the furs and skins she wore. - Jon II, ASOS

x

Sister. Sansa had once dreamt of having a sister like Margaery; beautiful and gentle, with all the world's graces at her command. Arya had been entirely unsatisfactory as sisters went. - Sansa II, ASOS

___

Jon turned at the sudden sound of wings. Blue-grey feathers filled his eyes, as sharp talons buried themselves in his face. Red pain lanced through him sudden and fierce as pinions beat round his head. He saw the beak, but there was no time to get a hand up or reach for a weapon. - Jon II, ASOS

x

"Willas has the best birds in the Seven Kingdoms," Margaery said when the two of them were briefly alone. "He flies an eagle sometimes. You will see, Sansa." She took her by the hand and gave it a squeeze. "Sister." - Sansa II, ASOS

___

Jon wheeled and followed Tormund back toward the head of the column, his new cloak hanging heavy from his shoulders. It was made of unwashed sheepskins, worn fleece side in, as the wildlings suggested. It kept the snow off well enough, and at night it was good and warm, but he kept his black cloak as well, folded up beneath his saddle. 

[...]

Mance Rayder had not been blind to Rattleshirt's mistrust of the "crow-come-over," so after he had given Jon his new sheepskin cloak he had suggested that he might want to ride with Tormund Giantsbane instead. - Jon II, ASOS

x

"A new gown?" she said, as wary as she was astonished.

[...]

"More lovely than any you have worn, my lady," the old woman promised. She measured Sansa's hips with a length of knotted string. "All silk and Myrish lace, with satin linings. You will be very beautiful. The queen herself has commanded it." - Sansa II, ASOS

x

And so it was that her lord husband cloaked her in the colors of House Lannister whilst standing on the back of a fool. - Sansa III, ASOS

Thank you for helping spread the gospel.

jonsa foreshadowing of the day: they wear clothes

[avengerscompound]

Small Gods: Little Traditions - 1

Little Traditions: A Sam Wilson Fanfic

Little Traditions Masterlist | More Small Gods

Buy me a ☕ Character Pairing:  Sam Wilson x F!Reader

Rating: E

Word Count:   1887

Warnings: Nothing on Chapter, smut on series.  Lot of mentions of food.  Reader is a god.

Synopsis: Since the blip and Steve Rogers giving up the mantle of Captain America, Sam’s life has been chaotic.  It’s not enough that the world has moved on in the five years he’d gone, and that he’d missed so much, now he has to live with everything it means to be Captain America.  He feels like he’s losing all the things that make him him.  A venture to the supermarket to recreate one of his parents famous recipes brings him to you.

A/N:  IF YOU WISH TO BE TAGGED IN THE REMAINDER OF THIS SERIES, EITHER ADD YOURSELF TO THE TAGLIST OR SEND ME A MESSAGE

Chapter 1

To say the world had changed was as much of an underestimate as a person could make.  One moment Sam was fighting in Wakanda to save it from some big, purple, Barney the Dinosaur-looking dude, and the next, it was five years later, and the very same fight was happening somewhere else.

After that, Sam had to accept a whole bunch of changes - one after another.  Losing five years of his life.  The death of one of his closest friends.  The death of Tony Stark.  The world plunging into chaos after the sudden reappearance of three and a half billion people they’d not only thought were dead but had stopped providing enough food and power to sustain.  Steve suddenly aging what looked like sixty years in less than a minute.  Steve handing over a shield he’d had made especially for Sam.  Missing so much of his nephew’s lives, not just because of the blip, but because he’d been on the run for three years before that.  The issues with borders and a whole hell of a lot of displaced people who had just been going about their lives for five years suddenly being homeless because of the blip.  Super soldiers.  John fucking Walker.   Becoming Captain America.

It was just so fucking much and by the time he had a chance to breathe, Sam wasn’t quite sure who he was anymore.  He felt like there were all these people he had been once - that made up the man he was now.  Sam the son.  Sam the brother.  The uncle.  Paratrooper.  Friend.  Wingman.  Falcon.

Captain America.

Each one was him and yet he felt the parts that he valued most were slipping from his grasp and were being replaced by the parts others pushed onto him.

Not that being Captain America was bad.  It was a lot - but it had its moments.  Besides America needed a hero to look up to that cared about all the people, not just some of them.  Sam wasn't going to let anyone else do it - not after Walker.

He just also needed to hang on to those things that made him Sam as well.  It was why he was still in Louisiana helping Sarah with the boat.  It was why he had started coaching his nephew’s baseball team along with participating in other community events.

It was also why he was going through all of Sarah’s kitchen drawers looking for his mom’s recipe cards.

He'd woken up with the memory of his family’s crawfish boils.  When the first good haul of crawfish came in, his aunts, uncles, cousins, and people from the street would all come around and cook up huge pots full of them.  They’d light a big fire out the back and set out long folding trestle tables with new plastic tablecloths, and the crawfish, potatoes, and corn would just be dumped on them for everyone to eat.  He remembered loving the smell, and the mess of cracking them open and sucking the meat from inside before throwing the shells into the fire.

They hadn’t done a boil since his dad died and while he’d had crawfish boils since, some of which were incredible while others had been less than spectacular, none had been the same as the ones his parents had made.  There was something about the way your parents’ cooking tasted that was special.

“Sam Wilson! What are you doing to my kitchen?”

Sam’s head snapped up.  He hadn’t realized he’d been looking for long enough for Sarah to be back.  Or maybe she was back earlier than he’d expected.  He looked around the chaos of the kitchen and back at Sarah sheepishly.

“Ohhh, Samuel,” Bucky said, stepping up behind Sarah.  Bucky had been staying with her ever since the thing with Kali.  He still slept on the couch, and Sam was considering converting the attic space into a makeshift room for the other man.  “What did you do?”

Sam resisted the urge to flip him off.  “I was trying to see if you had any of mom’s recipes written down,” he said.

She came over and began closing the drawers, straightening everything back up again.  “Some.  But not in here.  Mom didn’t really write that stuff down though,” she said.  “Why?  What are you looking for?”

“I want to do a crawfish boil like mom and dad used to do,” Sam said.  “Do you remember when they did their first big crawfish pull of the season they’d invite everyone around and do a huge boil?  We’d eat it outside and have a bonfire.”

“Vaguely.  I was pretty young when they stopped doing those,” she said, pausing what she was doing to think for a moment.  She shook her head and waved him off.  “We can do that if you like.  We even have the crab boil spice.  You don’t need a recipe.”

Sam shook his head.  “They didn’t use those premixed spices.  I remember mom putting the spice mix together.  Plus dad said he had a secret ingredient.”

Sarah shrugged.  “Sorry, Sam.  I have a few in the back of a cookbook, but I don’t remember any for a crawfish boil.  It must have been just something they messed around with.”

Sam grabbed his keys and wallet.  “Do you need anything from the store?”

“What do you plan to do?” Bucky laughed. “Just wander around until the secret ingredient jumps out at you?” 

“I don’t know,” he said.  “Maybe.”

Bucky started laughing hysterically. “Oh my god.”

Sarah put her hand on Sam’s shoulder.  “I think we have pretty much everything that you’d make the spice mix with.  But we’ll need way more bay leaves.  A lot more.  Get a few cloves of garlic.  And I need milk and eggs.”

“You’ve got it,” he said.  “I’ll be back soon.”

He headed out, jumped into the truck, and drove into town to the nearest supermarket.  It was a bit of a drive through the fishing town and he had to pass a lot of marinas and bungalows on stilts before stores started popping up.  During that time he tried to remember what it was that made his parent’s recipe different from all the other boils he’d had in his life.

He pulled into a parking spot outside the grocery store, no closer to figuring it out, and headed in.  He grabbed the things Sarah had told him to get first, along with plenty of fresh sweetcorn and potatoes.  He then made his way to the aisle with the herbs and spices.  He stood in front of the racks and racks of different bottles hoping one of them would jog a memory.  When that didn't work he attempted to smell different things through the packaging.  Generally, it didn't work but when it did it didn't bring back memories of crawfish boils.  Rather having pumpkin pie at Thanksgiving, eating Laksa at a street vendor in Penang, and köfte in Istanbul.

He didn't notice the cart pull up beside him until you cleared your throat.  “Sorry to interrupt,” you said.  “Do you mind passing me the star anise?”

“Oh shit,” Sam said, shoving his cart out of the way.  “I'm sorry.  I was lost in my own world.”

You reached past him and grabbed the star anise.  “You look lost.  Do you need any help?”

Sam’s eyes grazed over your cart as he looked up at you and he noticed many of the things he was buying, along with a big box of crawfish.  “Are you doing a crawfish boil?”

You looked down at your cart and back up at him and laughed.  “How’d you guess?  I mean it’s the season right?”

“It is.  I’m going to do one tomorrow.  I want to make it like my parents used to, but they had a secret ingredient and never told anyone what it was before they passed,” Sam explained.  “If you have any idea what someone might use as a secret ingredient in a boil, then I’d love to hear it.”

“That’s tricky,” you said, tapping your fingers on the handle of the cart.  “I know some people change the kind of peppers used.  So instead of cayenne, they might use ground ancho or even something like scorpion peppers.  You could try experimenting with that.  It would change the levels of sweet and heat so if you can remember if your parents’ version was hotter or sweeter than the ones you're used to, it might give an idea.”

“That's a good idea,” Sam agreed and grabbed a few different types of dried pepper from the shelves.

“Oh!  You know what else.  If it was me I might use lime instead of lemon.  Have you ever had the Viet-Cajun style?  They will sometimes use lime and lemongrass.”

Sam tried to picture the stock and whether it had lemon or lime in it.  He couldn’t remember seeing either and he knew there had to be something to account for the flavor.  “Lime, huh?” he said.  “I might try that.  Thank you.” 

“You’re welcome,” she said. “Good luck replicating your parents’ recipe.  Who knows, maybe if you can’t you can find something new that you love.”

A smile crossed Sam’s face as he realized how that was really what he wanted.  He wanted a new thing that he loved, that could be shared with others.  A tradition that could be rekindled that when he thought about who he was it would include more than just the words; Captain America.

“Thanks for your help,” he said.  “I really appreciate it.”

“Anytime,” you said.  “I hope it all works out for you.  It sounds like it will be fun.”

He watched you wheel your cart away and wished that he’d asked you for your number.  It was rare to meet someone who was cute and didn’t either fawn on him or treat him with some level of disdain.

He then remembered who exactly he was.  He was Sam Wilson.  He was Captain Fucking America, damn it.  If anyone could ask for a random stranger's number at a supermarket, it was him.

“Wait!” he called, quickly wheeling his cart after you.  “Miss!”

You turned to face him with a startled expression.  “I know this is a little forward, but do you think I could get your number?  I might text you to get other ideas for the recipe.”

You laughed and shook your head in disbelief.  “Sure.  Okay.”

He pulled out his phone and opened a new contact, filling in ‘supermarket’ as the name.  He handed it over, and you started filling in your number.  “I’m Sam, by the way.”

“I know,” you said before telling him your name.

“I’ll text you about how it turns out,” he said as you handed his phone back.

“I can’t wait to hear,” you said.  “Good luck, Sam.”

He tucked his phone back into his pocket as he watched you go, and when you’d turned the corner, he pushed his cart back to the fruit and vegetable section to grab some limes.  He was feeling a little hopeful now.  Maybe he’d be able to get this recipe how he wanted, and if not, he might be able to create his own version he liked just as much.  Besides, he had the number of a cute girl, so things were looking up either way.

// NEXT

[amuelia]

Petyr was seated at the trestle table with a cup of wine to hand, looking over a crisp white parchment. He glanced up as the Lords Declarant filed in. “My lords, be welcome. And you as well, my lady. The ascent is wearisome, I know. Please be seated. Alayne, my sweet, more wine for our noble guests.” - Alayne I, aFfC

And the winner of the end of year raffle is here :) @yassineabouftass requested Benedar Belmore!

And since I love the Vale storyline and also had a lot of Vale-related requests, I decided to add some more characters :) @sol-martell requested Anya Waynwood and Lyn Corbray, and three anons requested Littlefinger (who technically didnt qualify since i drew him in november, but he fit the setting well).

Pictured: First row: Nestor Royce, Bronze Yohn Royce, Lyn Corbray, Symond Templeton. Second Row: Horton Redfort, Alayne (Sansa Stark), Gilwood Hunter, Anya Waynwood, Benedar Belmore, Petyr Baelish/Littlefinger