#northern brown ale | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

gotranting · 5 months ago

Text

The Winter Feast - Part Two

Cregan Stark x Female Northern reader Summary: The last celebration before Winter comes. A time when blessings and protection are sought from the Old Gods. A time of feasting and song before the biting blizzards arrive. A time to indulge in all pleasures before survival becomes the only thing that matters.

A/N: You can technically read this without part one as that was an introduction to the characters. English is not my native language, and any constructive criticism is welcome! ...I think the grammar is in order. Would hope so. *Hides behind the Wall*. Is it too sappy? Warnings: smut at the end, slight breeding kink, fluff, minimal description of reader (red hair, brown eyes). I tried to use Y/N as little as possible. Hope you enjoy!

The Feast was a magical affair. Fire embers lit up the night sky as the sound of drums echoed through the forest.

Sat on a wooden bench, an elderly woman created all sorts of creatures with her hands, as the children around listened to the tales of monstrous beings beyond the Wall. Huddled next to each other, some shivered, others covered their eyes with their little hands, yet they could not stop listening to all the frightening details of each tale.

No matter where you turned, one could hear the chatter about all sorts of subjects. From shared worries about the oncoming winter, to idle gossip about the neighbour next door.

The sweetness of mead was felt heavily in the air as men and women joined together in their merrymaking – singing the Northern songs, their voices complimented the jolly tunes of drums and lutes.

...That is, singing was done by those who had not been defeated by one bottle too many. True, even those who decided to empty their tenth cup, before the Feast even began sang along. Although, many who heard those screeches hoped that the drunken sleep would take over as soon as possible and rid them of their misery.

A lively affair indeed.

But the largest attraction stood proudly in the middle of the gathering. A massive bonfire, made specifically for the celebration. Its flames danced along with the common and highborn folk alike, all lost in their own music. Children ran around the fire, some folk danced on their own, elders were moving as much as their old bones allowed them to.

The young lovers, who wanted a blessing from the Old Gods, jumped over the blazing flames, hand in hand, as others cheered and wished them a long and healthy union.

And there, far away from the light of the flame, shielded by the deep green branches of the trees, were lovers who wished to dance to their own tune. Either they already jumped over the flames, or they did not care for such trivialities. Some tried to hide from disapproving members of their kin in order to have their own moment of peace, as bittersweet as it was for them.

One last moment of peace before Winter arrived. Last time for the folk to release all of their troubles, before survival became the only important matter in their life. This was a time of songs, dance and spending time with family or friends. For one knew that not all would survive the harshness of the arriving blizzards.

Sacrifices were brought to the Old Gods, in hope that they would protect them all. Food and drink covered the tables, while the rest of it was stored safely for the harsher times.

If there were any mischievous children trying to sneak into the pantry, Aida would welcome them. From then on, their plan was doomed to failure.

Same went for the young lads who tried to snatch away one more barrel of ale to their company. Woe to the man who was caught by the watchful eye of Aida.

„That wench is like a guard dog standing beside those barrels“, grumbled Arnolf as he tried to devise a strategy to get closer to them. At least one.

„You could always try and sweet-talk her dear friend“, laughed Osric taking a swig of his own mead.

„Tried it, and it did not work!“, Arnolf cried out, still in disbelief that his charm did not sway the old crone.

„Well, if you hadn't asked her if she wanted to join you in the forest and taste something far sweeter than mead, perhaps she would at least refrain from hitting you right after the words left your mouth“, Osric added.

„Oh, then you do it. Come on now, show us how it is done Lord Mormont. Let us see the mighty bear come alive!“

„Maybe I will dear friend if only so you would stop whining for a moment." Taking another swig, Osric glanced to his right.

"Or, we could send our Warden to use his wolfish charms on her. Instead of snapping his head to the crowd every time a redhead passes by.“

Cregan averted his gaze from the dancers, at the mention of his title. Aye, he sought the young sorceress, however he should do so with some resemblance of control.

Besides, he wasn't sure if she would even join the festivities in the end. Even though, the feast was the type of gathering she rarely missed out, her plans often changed. It was quite possible that she ended up celebrating on her own.

Or, whispered a voice in his head, she might already have company. Stormy eyes glanced at the darkness beyond the fire, his thoughts creating an image of her sprawled on the forest floor as some inexperienced boy tried to pleasure her in vain.

His grip tightened around his cup as another image appeared of her, only this time with a man – one who knew well how to make a woman cry out their name.

„Dear brother, whatever did that cup do to you?“

Too engrossed in his thoughts, Cregan did not even notice a new member joining their group. He scolded himself once more.

A Warden on whom thousands of people depend on, cannot allow himself to be taken by surprise like that.

Releasing the cup, he turned to his sister, as she beamed innocently at her older sibling.

„Sara“, he nodded, gruffly as she kept on grinning.

„You are looking the wrong way“, she muttered taking a swig from her cup.

„Am I now? And what exactly would I be looking at sister?“

Sara could only snort as her brother tried to seem disinterested.

Nodding off to the left, she watched Cregan's face softening as he noticed the young woman standing by the fire.

„My job here is done“, she turned to their friends, finding their banter far more amusing than her lord brother's incompetence in approaching a woman.

Cregan was in awe. What a sight she was.

Standing at the edge of the dancers, her curls resembled the very flames that surrounded her. She smiled fondly as another couple jumped over the fire, laughing as her friend dragged her into the crowd.

The drums were becoming louder.

He watched as she twirled around with a black haired woman, both of them picking up the pace at the merry tune. Cregan's heart stuttered, as she threw her head to the night sky, releasing a wild cry along with the rest of the townsfolk.

Perhaps the Southerners were right in calling them savages. No matter. None in the crowd cared for any of the nicknames as they lost themselves in the roaring of the drums.

„You could join them you know? They would be glad to see their lord among them“, whispered Sara as she turned to him once more.

„I am among them, in order to protect them Sara, should something happen. A lord cannot just abandon all of his sense for a fleeting moment of pleasure.“

He could see the annoyance at his answer. His sister never failed to voice out her displeasure, and this time was no different.

„Cregan, you are not one of those lordlings that cannot lift a finger without being instructed on how to perform each fucking movement. Aye, you are our Warden, but do you honestly think we expect you to be proper all of the time?“

Her tone softened at her next words, as she tried to catch her brother's gaze.

„The elderly here remember the small boy who ran through the town with his leathers all covered in mud. A boy that loved the company of the common folk, who loved to observe as the blacksmiths brought in new material for their weapons.“ A cheeky grin flashed over her face.

„A Northerner. If we wanted a proper Southern princeling, we would have made it known.“

As she recalled their childhood, Sara was well aware how fast it all changed after their father's death. Suddenly, most of their freedom was gone. Cregan had to adapt to his new title, as new problems appeared every day. He handled them well. But there was no time left for carefree rides through the northern tundra. No more time for competing in archery with his sister. No time to visit Y/N, as much as he wanted to.

The betrayal of their own uncle hardened the young lord unlike any battle he fought.

Starks valued family and honor above all else. Many Northerners did, no matter their last name.

It was an unbearable pain, witnessing to what lengths his own kin was capable of going to, in order to obtain power.

His uncle now rots in chains. It is still no easy task, to sentence one's own family to such a fate.

Now all grown up, Cregan was as gruff as any Northerner. Sharp with the greatsword, and ruthless to those who tried to use sweet words in order to hide the truth.

He was not as happy as he once was, Sara knew that. His attention was on the Wall, on helping his people to survive, and on ruling his country. Boyish dreams were forgotten.

Alas, she knew her brother was still capable of quick remarks, especially in the company of Arnolf and Osric. Or when he was with her.

Or, with the young woman whom he waited for the whole evening.

A wave of sadness washed over her as she witnessed how her brother kept seeking out her friend. Nudging his shoulder, she nodded towards the crowd.

„Go to them. ...Go to her. Allow yourself one night Cregan. Whatever it may bring.“

Cregan thought about his sister's words. His eyes found the redhead once more, right in the moment she leaped over the fire.

The drums thundered as the dance began to transform into something far more primal. He watched her eyes falling shut, as she followed her own rhythm. Curls ruffled by the wind would not stand still, as she spun around.

Sara only smiled as her brother left their table.

Y/N was startled to see Cregan walking towards her as she reopened her eyes.

Cloak left behind, it was easy to admire him dressed in leathers, the Stark sigil lying proudly over his chest. He always looked handsome, she thought with disdain. With the firelight as their only source of lightning, it all became a rather intimate scene as the pair met in the middle of swaying bodies.

„I thought you would already be lost in your own celebration somewhere“, Cregan greeted her, as he surveyed the people around them.

An unfamiliar woman had her legs wrapped around her partner, as they ground against one another. Another man's hands roamed over his partner's body as they moved towards the forest.

The children had left the bonfire, as the drums changed their pace. Mostly young men and women remained, as others either succumbed to their mead, or discussed other matters, not paying much mind to the dancers.

„Later perhaps. I still owe a few drinks if I remember well.“ Although, seeing Arnolf and Osric barely sitting upright, perhaps drinks should be saved for some other time, she mused.

„I did not think you would partake in this part of the Feast lord Stark.“ She never expected him to, knowing that he preferred to keep to the sides.

„I did not plan to. Sara thinks it will do me some good“, he looked around him once more. „I'm not sure I remember the steps of this dance anymore.“

„It is certainly not the kind of dance they teach you in the great halls,“ the girl chuckled under her breath.

„Look around you Cregan, and follow the movements of others. There are no rules to this, one dances how they wish to, that is the beauty of it.“

Truly, each pair moved to their own tune. Cregan sought out someone who danced on their own, and found that only a few twirled without a partner by their side.

„It is not a dance for one person alone it would seem?“ he huffed out a breath as he stood unmoving. The sweat clad bodies around barely left any space between as they glided against one another.

...It was difficult to tell who collided with the young pair, but both were brought back from their observations as his hands grabbed her waist, luckily preventing them from falling.

She could feel each beat of the drum coursing through her as she gazed up at him, only to find grey eyes already boring into her.

He cared little for anyone around, his voice only heard by the two of them.

„Will you teach me?“

She found herself nodding before she had time to think anything through, her hands covering his own. Trying to hide her own nervousness, the little witch smirked at Cregan.

„Think you can keep up Lord Stark?“

The proper titles once more. He could not help but want to hear her teasing each morning.

Another image appeared in Cregan's mind. Both of them laying in his chambers. Him nipping at her neck each time the words lord left her mouth. Not that he would stop once she gave up and used his name. It was only imagination, yet he could hear so clearly each laugh that would escape her as he trailed over her more sensitive parts.

Her hands left his own, lightly trailing over his chest. Breath catching in his throat, he was brought to the reality.

The wind picked up, as the fire blazed behind.

„Dance how you wish to Cregan...“ the girl whispered, as she circled around him, her hands gliding over his back.

As if the vixen was unaware that if he were to move as he wanted to at that moment, he would have taken her without giving a damn who watched.

He had to let her set the pace. Cregan could not trust himself with her hands all over him.

Alas the self control did not last for long.

Hooded eyes met her as she stood in front of him once more. Cregan watched as she threw her head back, her eyes fluttering shut. Mouth falling open, as another laugh escaped her, he watched utterly spellbound as this girl in front of him allowed herself to be free. He wanted to be so as well. With her if she would let him.

Damn propriety.

In one swift motion, Cregan pulled her towards him, his hands wrapping underneath her thighs, lifting her into the night sky. Her smile turned into a gasp, as he watched what little of the brown hue in her eyes disappeared. Smiles fading, both tried to control their breathing in vain. Whatever control was left, it was bound to snap at any moment.

It snapped when the girl made the first move. When he felt her hips slightly rolling against him, as she tried to adjust in his arms. When he heard her gasp as she felt him hardening below her.

Cregan could excuse her the first time.

He could only groan the second time he felt her move against him, his head burrowing in the crook of her neck. His hips responded to her own, the scent of her making him lose what little sanity he had.

„Perhaps you do know the dance after all“, she gasped. Cregan only hummed against her, his lips busy with tracing an invisible line up her neck. She could barely feel his lips on her, as he seemed to enjoy torturing her.

She needed air. More so, she needed to stop him before he did something he would regret.

„Cregan, we can't...“ her sentence was lost in another quiet moan as he left an open mouthed kiss over her pulse point. She would've let him take her in that moment. Gods, she would let him do whatever he wanted right there. But one of them had to think rationally.

Feeling the graze of his teeth, she wasn't sure if she could achieve such a task. Still, she had to try. Cupping the back of his head, the girl pulled at his hair as grey eyes met brown once more. Or whatever little was left of the two colours.

He was beautiful like this. She wanted to see him without breath every day, as long as she was the cause of it.

No. She needed air.

Releasing the stone hard grip on him, the girl lowered herself back to the ground, but Cregan would not let her go, as he tried to memorize each part of her in this moment.

„You'll be the death of me“, he murmured, gently tucking a lock of hair behind her ear. Pointless, as the wild mane just fell back where it was.

„A slayer of the Wolf in the North. Now, that is a title indeed“, she whispered back.

The way he looked at her. As if she was Nature herself in all her wildest glory. The word witch never fitted her better, than at this very moment. She could see the adoration in his eyes.

Dare she say, even love.

Her chest tightened in pain. Air. She needed air.

And yet...

„I propose a hunt Lord Stark.“

Cregan narrowed his eyes.

„If you catch me, you win. If not, I take the victory.“

„And when I find you? What then?“ He tried to catch her mouth, but the vixen moved on time, her lips leaving a chaste kiss on his cheek.

„Do not get ahead of yourself my lord.“

With a devilish glint in her eye, she blended into the crowd, red curls the only trace Cregan could follow.

He only stood there for a moment, before heading after her.

Moving between gasping bodies, she didn't dare turn in case he was nearby. It was a thrill she had to admit, knowing that he was trying to find her. Wondering what he would do if he did.

Being skillful when it came to hiding in the shadows, she thought herself hidden well enough. After all, she was not the only one with auburn hair among the folk.

Coming to the other side of the bonfire, surely she could stop for a moment to admire yet another couple leaping over the flames.

It was always endearing when they jumped, she thought. The leap itself was a simple enough task, yet it symbolized the trust that lovers held for one another.

By tradition, they crossed the flames together, in order to have their union blessed by the Old Ones. It was a way to make their intentions known, before they took their vows underneath the Weirwood Tree.

A binding ritual of sorts, it was never taken in a light manner by those who chose to go through it.

As she watched another happy pair, she wondered for a moment if such a fate was in store for her. Would she want it?

When she jumped before, it was only with the intention to ask for the blessing of the Old Gods. That she can continue to help her people, and everything around her. But to jump in order to bind herself to another man? Could she do it? Did she want to do it?

Her musings were cut short as two strong arms wrapped around her waist. The chase was over.

„Found you“, he murmured, as he nosed at the sensitive spot behind her ear, tickling her as he did so. She always smelled of fir, and various sorts of herbs kept on her all of the time. Cregan tried to focus on that, hoping that it would help him ground himself.

Her hands came to rest upon his once more, as she leaned back into the warmth of him. Cregan's head rested on her shoulder as they both looked upon the fire.

„Jump over the fire with me Y/N“, he left a soft kiss on her shoulder.

Her breath hitched in her throat at that. Turning her head slightly, she was met with the same warm look from before.

Another painful tug at her chest.

„That is a heavy request Cregan“, her eyes softened, no doubt reflecting the same feeling back at him.

„Mead and the heat of fire can damage a man's mind just as any poison...“

He cut her off before she could finish that thought.

„Tonight, tomorrow, in five years, or ten I would ask you the same question Y/N. The mead plays no role in this, my mind is clear.“ He almost sounded offended that she could even suggest that.

„I was yours when we first went horse riding as children.

I was yours when you taught me which herbs are used in treating the strongest of fevers.

I was certainly yours when we fought side by side a few moons ago.“ Cregan's voice could barely be heard as he nudged his nose against hers.

„I'm yours every time you bicker with me when you worry for my safety. Just as I do for yours.

I'm yours. My mind is clear on that matter.“

And she was his. Surely he had to know that. Cregan could feel her hands trembling as she returned the nudging back to him.

But they could not. If he was to bind himself to anyone, it would be to strengthen an alliance, at least that is what the other houses expected of him. A southern lady, or one from the Riverlands to bring the two houses together.

And she couldn't either. There was no possibility of her abandoning her home or the woods, in order to become a Lady of Winterfell. She was bound to the land. Managing a castle, and bringing up heirs was not her future.

Her smile faltered. „We both have a duty Cregan... you know we cannot.“

„Damn the duty. Tomorrow is not promised to us Y/N. Other lords would come to understand. They know you. And they respect you. They would have a fierce lady protecting them, just as you do now.“

„A Stark forsaking their vows? The world must truly be on the brink.“

He did not smile at her attempt at a jest. Sighing the girl tried once more. „The Northern lords would understand. Others would not. You need alliances Cregan, especially now when there is talk of another war brewing.“

A sad fate. To have them be in love without being able to act on it fully. Another pair jumped, as they got lost in their own thoughts, holding onto one another. As the lovers rushed somewhere into the woods, Cregan nosed behind her ear once more.

„Then let us have this night together. In the morning we will go back to what is expected of us.“

The witch turned in his arms. Another nuzzle.

„Spend the night with me Y/N.“

...There were no words for an answer. Only rushing into the shadows as the young lovers laughed breathlessly. If anyone noticed, they were happy for their Warden. Alas, not many did, too occupied as they were in their celebrations.

Abandoning the light of the fire, only the Moon lit their path as they ran deeper into the forest. It was truly a joyous sight to witness them so carefree, even amongst all the trouble in the world. Cregan lifted her again, twirling her in the air, as she let out a shriek of laughter.

As soon as the first tree shielded them from the view, her back was met with rough bark as Cregan's mouth crashed against hers.

There was no patience, years of holding back catching up with them at last. Hands fumbled around, as both of them tried to reach any part of exposed skin they could find, letting out frustrated noises as the layers of clothing only slowed them in their goal.

For Cregan it proved even more difficult, as the little vixen tugged at his lower lip, her tongue quickly lapping over the sensitive skin.

Groaning, he pulled back briefly to catch his breath, his forehead resting against hers.

"You're making me lose my mind woman," he rasped, as his thumb traced over her lips. Unable to restrain himself for too long, he pulled her back into a deeper kiss.

"I'm glad of it" she moaned, as he began to leave open mouthed kisses down her neck. "Gods Cregan..."

Cregan hummed at her words, his mouth trailing down to the hollow of her throat. He nipped at her skin, revelling in the taste of her.

It was frightening how she ruined him with only a few fleeting touches. Luckily, it seemed that he had just about the same effect on her.

"You're a sorceress," he mumbled against her skin, "I should lock you up for trying to seduce your lord." He was met with only a deep chuckle in response. She seemed to take it as a compliment.

Without warning, Cregan lifted her up, her legs wrapping around him, as he pinned her against the tree.

No prying eyes to worry about this time. They were free to do as they wished.

She could not help but laugh as he kept stealing small kisses from her, and each time she tried to deepen at least one, he withdrew far enough from her reach.

„You're not playing fair“, her eyes crinkled as he kissed the tip of her nose.

„If I'm to have you for this night alone, then I'll make love to you properly“, Cregan murmured, as he ground against her. She truly hoped no one was nearby, as a loud gasp echoed through the forest.

„I want to know what it would feel like to care for you each morning when you wake up“, another feather-like kiss to her cheek.

„I want to know each sound of pleasure you can make while I'm fucking you“, she tangled her fingers tightly in his hair, as grey eyes met brown ones.

„I want you. Even if it is only for tonight.“

Her hips met his thrusts as she watched him shut his eyes in pleasure. Releasing soft grunts each time her hips rolled against him.

Urging her on to keep doing so, just to hear him rasp her name again.

Putting more force into her next movement, Cregan lost his footing, pulling them both into the soft snow beneath them. He let out a breath as she fell on top of him, both laughing along before they continued to explore one another. She reached for the laces of his breeches, impatient now.

"Slowly little witch", he chuckled as he helped her with unlacing. Or perhaps he was of no help at all - distracting as he started peppering kisses along her neck, deciding right there that he loved how she stuttered when his mouth grazed over a specific spot.

Her turn, she thought. If he is to distract her, she would return the favour. Finally, moving the offending fabric aside, she wrapped her hand around him.

"Fuck, Y/N!"

Slowly stroking his length, Cregan let out a choked off moan, buckling involuntarily under her touch.

"Slowly, little wolf" she teased back. "We have all night". As if to emphasise her point, she slowed down her movements even more, gliding her finger back and forth only over the tip.

She was going to be death of him.

"If you keep that up", he barely ground out, "we won't last through the night."

"Good." she smirked, as her finger lightly traced under the head. Foreheads touching, both watched her hand sliding down his cock.

„Perhaps I want to see you come undone in my hands", she murmured. Each time his breathing became too laboured, she would put a stop to it all, loving to see him chasing after her. Loving to witness how his eyes scrunched shut in frustration, as he tried to control his breathing.

What she did not anticipate was for her skirts to be lifted, as Cregan roughly tugged her into his lap, thrusting hard along her slit. His mouth met her own, silencing both of their moans, as she tried to line him up to her entrance.

Steadying her with his hands, he would not allow her the full satisfaction. Even if it was torture for Cregan to feel her wetness, yet unable to fill her up as both of them wanted to.

They always matched each other, no matter what they did. If she was to tease him, he would show her exactly how that feels.

"Ride me."

A command uttered loud and clear, as stormy eyes observed the beauty above him.

There would be times for soft touches. Times when they would be able to fully explore each curve of one another.

He would come to her, or they would meet in secret once more.

It was foolish to think, they could keep apart after this night, no matter how much they kept lying to themselves.

She obeyed without question. Taking him into her hand, she lowered herself down, gasping as he filled her up completely. Breaths mingling, they clinged to each other, trying to adapt to the overwhelming pleasure.

After what seemed an eternity, two fingers at last tapped her hip, allowing her to set her own pace.

Cregan looked to the stars above them, as she started to slide up. Tightening her cunt every time she did so, his jaw clenched at the feeling, hands grasping her hips, sure to leave a mark on the morrow. Pleasure overtaking him, Cregan pulled her along, as his head met the soft ground.

He was beautiful underneath her. She watched his eyes shut in pleasure, his frown a reminder how hard he tried not to thrust into her.

She wanted him to take control. Wanted him as he was at the Feast. Without holding back.

Grazing her teeth over his ear, the girl mustered enough control to whisper. "Why do you hold back my love?"

With a sharp movement, she slid down until he was fully sheathed in her, leaving him completely out of breath from the sudden movement. „Fuck me Cregan...please. I want you to.“

He wasn't sure what made him buck sharply into her as deep as he could.

Perhaps it was hearing the profanities coming out of her mouth.

Perhaps, it was the fact she called him hers.

Cregan's hands guided her as she moved against him, as he tried to mark every part of her skin exposed to him.

"I want to taste you next time." An open mouthed kiss left on her neck.

"I want to feel you come undone from my mouth alone Y/N." His lips lowered.

When she cried out from the pain of his teeth marking her, he was quick to soothe her, his tongue lapping over the bruising mark.

A sharp tug on his hair, the girl pulled him back to her. Wanting to see him as he made those promises.

"And if I wanted to use my mouth on you lord Stark?"

A sharper thrust into her at the idea of it. As if she had to ask him.

"If I wanted to be the only one to pleasure you like this Cregan? Would you let me do so?"

"I'd let you do whatever you wished my lady." A breathless chuckle, as she limply smacked him in the arm at the nickname.

"I'm yours, and yours alone."

A heavy promise.

"As I am yours Cregan."

She begged him not to stop, crying out each time he hit the right spot, as only noises of skin against skin echoed through the air.

"I'm close" he choked out as she threaded her fingers through his hair, wrapping herself around him, fearing to let go. "Me too", she kissed the side of his cheek, her lips lingering there.

Pressing their foreheads together, stormy eyes met brown ones once more.

„Where do you want me to...“ "Inside...please. Inside, Cregan.“

It was difficult not to imagine what that could bring. At the thought of his seed taking hold in her, Cregan thrusted deeper.

Her arms wrapped possessively around him, not allowing him to spill anywhere but inside of her.

"Are you sure?" "Please."

Hips stuttering, he choked out her name, the sound muffled in her neck as she felt him spilling in her.

The lovers held onto each other, as they shook from their high. Barely any coherent words leaving their mouths, apart from sighs of each other's names.

...She must've whimpered as she clenched around him, for he was whispering sweet nothings to her, fingers tracing soothing patterns on her back, bringing her back to him.

Taking a moment to return to reality, Cregan nosed at the side of her head, urging her to look at him. Capturing her lips, the gesture was gentler than the previous they shared.

As the lust left them, he could not stop himself from leaving soft kisses over her face. From one on the cheek, to one on her nose, not finding it fair to abandon the other side.

Trying to catch her breath, the girl could still feel him inside of her as she moved. Feeling the mixture of them leaking down her thigh, a sudden shyness of what they had done started to grow, urging her to hide in the crook of his neck.

"What's this now?" Cregan murmured, his fingers gently caressing her back. "No need to be bashful, my heart."

He pulled her out of her hiding place, his hand under her chin, trying to catch her gaze. He looked at her for a moment, taking in the sight of her.

The curls were scattered in all directions. Red cheeks from the cold, and puffed lips, she looked completely wrecked. Cregan wished he could see her like that every day.

"Do not hide from me", his thumb traced the line of her jaw. "I want to see you. All of you."

Her eyes were filled with warmth as they met his own. Seeing the softness and love in them as he gazed upon her, she had to let him know. There was no point in holding back anymore.

„I'm yours...whatever may come, know that I'm yours Cregan.“

The words were not hasty mutterings, spoken in the moment of pleasure. He could see she had meant them.

„And I'm yours. From this day until the end of my days.“

Interlacing their hands he laid them between their hearts. The branches shielded the young lovers as they traded kisses, for however long the cold allowed them to.

True, they didn't jump over the fire tonight.

It mattered not.

They were bound to one another after that night, with the Moon as their witness.

It was amusing that both of them thought one night would be enough. They would always come back to one another, whatever may come.

#hotd #house of the dragon #hotd season 2 #cregan stark #team black #house stark #cregan stark x reader #cregan x you

200 notes · View notes

sophaeros · 10 months ago

Text

arctic monkeys for q magazine, june 2011 (x) (x)

ARCTIC MONKEYS: Inside Alex Turner's Head

Words Sylvia Patterson Portrait John Wright

The day Arctic Monkeys moved into their six bedroom, Spanish-style villa in the Hollywood Hills, where the first-floor balcony looked over the patio swimming pool, they knew exactly what to do.

"From the balcony, you could get on t'roof and jump in't pool," chirps the Monkeys' most gregarious member, drummer Matt Helders, in his homely Yorkshire way. "We looked at it and said, That's definitely gonna happen. So by the end, we did a couple of 'em. Somersaults in t'pool, from the roof. At night time."

In January 2011, as Sheffield and the rest of Britain endured its bitterest winter in a century, Arctic Monkeys capered among the palm trees, eschewing hotels for a millionaire's Hollywood homestead as they recorded and mixed their fourth studio album, Suck It and See.

The four Monkeys, alongside producer James Ford and engineer James Brown, lived what they called the "American man thing": watched Super Bowl on giant TVs, played ping-pong, hired two Mustangs, cooked cartoon Tom And Jerry-sized steaks on barbecues on Sundays, had girlfriends over to visit, all cooking and drinking around the colossal outdoor kitchen area featuring a fridge and two dishwashers. Living atop the Hills, they could see the Pacific Ocean beyond by day, the infinite glittering lights of downtown LA by night.

Every day, en route to Sound City Studios, they'd travel in a seven-seater four-by-four through the mountains, via bohemian 60s enclave Laurel Canyon, blaring out the tunes: The Stones Roses, The Cramps, the Misfits' Hollywood Babylon. For the sometime teenage art-punk renegades whose guitarist, Jamie Cook, was once ejected from London's Met Bar for refusing to pay €22 for two beers, the comedy rock'n'roll life still feels, however, absolutely nothing like reality.

NICK O'MALLEY: "It were really as if we were on holiday. When we came back it's the most post-holiday blues I've ever had!"

JAMIE COOK: "It's hard to comment on that. It were just really good fun."

MATT HELDERS: "We always said, As soon as things like that feel normal, we're in trouble. But it's just funny. You might think it would get more and more serious as you get older but it's getting funnier. We've done four albums now and I'm still only 24, I'm still immature to an extent. So who cares?"

Alex? Al? Are you there?

ALEX TURNER: "Yeah, it were good times. But we were in the studio most of the time. So there's no real wild Hollywood stories. Hmn. Yeah."

Wednesday, 16 March 2011, Strongroom Bar, Shoreditch, East London, 11am. Alex Turner, 25, slips entirely alone into an empty art-crowd brasserie looking like an indie girl's indie dream boy: mop-top bouffant hair which coils, in curlicues, directly into his cheekbones, army-green waist-length jacket, baggy-arsed skinny jeans, black cord zip-up cardigan, simple gold chain, supermoon sized chocolate-brown eyes.

Almost six years after I Bet You Look Good On The Dancefloor became the indie-punk anthem of a generation (from the first of Arctic Monkeys' three Number 1 albums), and nothing prepares you for the curious phenomenon of Alex Turner "in conversation". Unlike so many of the Monkeys frenetic early songs, he operates in slow motion, seemingly underwater, carrying a protective shell on his back, perhaps indie rock's very own diamond-backed terrapin. The most celebrated young wordsmith in rock'n roll today talks fulsomely, in fact, only in shapeless, curling sentences punctuated with "maybe... hmn.. yeah", an anecdotal wilderness sketching pictures as vague as a cloud. He is, though, simultaneously adorable: amenable, gentle, graceful, and as Northern as a 70s grandpa who literally greets you with "ey oop?".

"People think I'm a miserable bastard," he notes, cheerfully, "but it's just the way me face falls." Still profoundly private, if not as hermetically sealed as a vacuum-packed length of Frankfurter, his fante-shy reticence extends not only to his personal life (his four-year relationship with It-girl/TV presenter Alexa Chung, whom he never mentions) but to insider details generally. Take the Monkeys’ Hollywood high jinks documented above: not one word of it was described by Turner. Before Q was informed by his other Monkey bandmates, Turner’s anecdotal aversion unfolded like this:

Describe the lovely villa you were in. AT: "Well... we certainly had a... good view."

Of what? AT: "Well, we were up quite high."

The downtown LA lights going on forever? AT: "I dunno. It was definitely that thing of getting a bit of sort of sunshine. Is it vitamin D? If you can get vitamin D on your record, you've got a bit of a head start. So we'd get up and drive to the studio."

What were you driving? AT: "Nothing... spectacular. But yeah, we'd drive up the studio, spend all day there and sort of, y know, get back. To be honest... we had limited time. So we spent as much time as possible kind of getting into it, like, in the studio.

So your favourite adventures were what? AT: "Well, they were really… minimal. We were working out there!"

Any nightclubs or anything, perhaps? AT: "You really want the goss 'ere, don't you?"

Yes, please. AT: "I could make some up. Nah!"

And this was on the second time of asking. It's perhaps obvious: Alex Turner, one of the most prolific songwriters of his generation (four Monkeys albums and two EPs in five years, The Last Shadow Puppets side-project, a bewitching acoustic soundtrack for his actor/video director friend Richard Ayoade's feature-length debut Submarine), is dedicated only to the cause – of being the best he can possibly be. He simply remembers the songs much more than the somersaults.

Throughout 2009, Arctic Monkeys toured third album Humbug – the record mostly made in the Californian desert with Queens Of The Stone Age man-monolith Josh Homme – across the planet. While hardly some cranium-blistering opus, its heavier sonic meanderings considerably slowed the Arctic Monkeys' live sets and on 23 August 2009, Q watched them headline the Lowlands Festival, Holland and witnessed a hitherto unthinkable sight – swathes of perplexed Monkeys fans trudging away from the stage. With the sludge rock mood matching their cascading dude-rock hair it seemed obvious: they'd smoked way too much outrageously strong weed in the desert.

"Heheheh, yeah," responds Turner, unperturbed. "That's your theory. You probably weren't alone."

Back in the Strongroom Bar, Turner's arm is now nonchalantly draped along the back of a beaten-up brown leather sofa. He ponders his band's somewhat contrary reputation…

"I think starting the headline set at Reading with a cover of a Nick Cave tune perhaps was a bit contrary. D'youknowhat Imean?! But to be honest, that summer, at those festivals, we had a great time. And I know some fans enjoyed those sets 10 times more. And you can't just do, y’know, another Mardy Bum or whatever. Because how could you, really?"

With Humbug, notes Turner, "I went into corners I hadn't before, because I needed to see what were there," but by spring 2010 he wanted their fourth album to be "more song-based" and less lyrically "removed". He was "organised this time", studied "the good songwriters" (from Nick Cave, The Byrds and Leonard Cohen to country colossi Johnny Cash and Patsy Cline), discovered "the other three strings" on his guitar, and wrote 12 songs through the spring and summer of 2010, mostly in the fourth-floor New York flat he shared with Chung before the couple moved back to London late last summer (the New York MTV show It's On With Alexa Chung was cancelled after two seasons). The result: major-key melodies, harmonised singing and classic song structures.

At the same time he revisited the opposite extreme: bands such as Black Sabbath and The Stooges ("we wanted a few wig-outs as well"); he was also still heavily influenced by the oil-thick grinder rock of Josh Homme, who is clearly now a permanent Monkeys hero. After four months' rehearsals in London, on 8 January the Monkeys relocated to LA for five swift weeks of production and Homme came to visit, singing backing vocals on All My Own Stunts. Tequila was involved.

"Tequila is probably me favourite," manages Turner, by way of an anecdote. "But it takes a certain climate... It's not the same... in the rain. Yeah. [Looks to be contemplating a lyric] Tequila in the rain."

Vocally, he developed the caramel richness first unveiled on The Last Shadow Puppets' Scott Walker-esque The Age Of The Understatement, finding a crooner's vibrato. "Everything before was so tight,” he notes, clutching his neck. "Probably just through nerves. That's just not there any more." Suck It and See contains at least four of the most glittering, sing-along, world-class pop songs (and obvious singles) of Arctic Monkeys' career: the towering, clanging She's Thunderstorms, the summertime stunner The Hellcat Spangled Shalalala, the heavenly harmonised title track and the Echo & The Bunnymen-esque jangly pop of closer That's Where You're Wrong.

Elsewhere, in typically contrary "fashion", there's preposterous head-banger bedlam (Brick By Brick, the rollicking faux-heavy rock download they released in March "just for fun", featuring vocals by Helders; Don't Sit Down 'Cause I've Moved Your Chair, and Library Pictures). News arrives that the first single proper will be Don't Sit Down 'Cause I've Moved Your Chair. Q is perplexed. Brilliantly titled, certainly, but arriving after Brick By Brick, the new album will appear to the planet as some comedy pastiche metal album for 12-year-old boys.

You've got all these colossal, summery, indie-pop classics and you've gone for... The Chair? AT: [Laughing uproariously] "The Chair! I'm now calling it The Chair, that's cool. Well for once it weren't even our suggestion. It was Laurence's (Bell, Domino label boss). And I were, Fucking too right! He's awesome. It'd be good to get a bit of fucking rock'n'roll out there, won't it? It's riffs. It's loud. It's funny."

If you don't release The Hellcat Spangled Shalalala as a single I'm going round Domino to kick Laurence's "awesome" butt. AT: "I think it'll be the next one!"

The record's title, meanwhile, could've been more enigmatically original than the un-loved phrase Suck It and See. The band, struggling with ideas due to the opposing sonic moods, invented an inspiration-conjuring ruse: to think of new names for effects pedals in the style of Tom Wolfe, Turner being long enamoured with the American author's legendarily psychedelic books The Electric Kool-Aid Acid Test and The Kandy-Kolored Tangerine-Flake Streamline Baby, "cos that just sounds awesome".

"There's the Big Muff pedal," he elaborates, "That’s the classic. I've got the Valve Slapper. And there's the Tube Screamer. So we came up with the Thunder Suckle Fuzz Canyon. And… wait till I assemble it in me mind… em… it'll come to me… The Blonde-O-Sonic Shimmer Trap. So we were going for summat like that."

A wasted opportunity?

"Nah. Because some of those things ended up in the lyrics anyway. Suck It and See was just easier."

Alex Turner, rock'n'roll's premier descriptive art-poet, still writes his lyrics long-hand in spiral-bound notebooks. "Writing lyrics is a craft that I've practised a bit now," he avers. "In me notebook it looks like sums. Theories. There's words and arrows going everywhere. There's always a few possibilities and I write the word 'OR' in a square."

For our most celebrated colloquial sketch-writer of the everyday observation (all betting pencils, boy slags and ice-cream van aggravations) the more successful he becomes, the less he orbits the ordinary. "I'm not struggling with that, to be honest," he decides. "In fact I'm enjoying writing lyrics much more than I did. Stories. Describing a picture. Um. There's quite a bit of weather and time in this one. Which is probably not reassuring. 'Oh God, he's writing about the weather.' Maybe leave that out!"

There are also some direct, funny, romantic observations: "That's not a skirt, girl, that's a sawn-off shotgun/And I only hope you've got it aimed at me..." (from the title track).

Some of your romantic quips, now, must be about Alexa. AT: "Right. Yeah. Definitely. Well... there's always been that side to our songs, when we weren't writing about... the fucking taxi rank. It's kind of inevitably... people you're with." [At the mention of Chung's name, Turner is visibly aggrieved, head sliding into his neck, terrapin-esque indeed.]

It must have been very grounding being in a proper relationship through all this madness. Because if you weren't, girls would be jumping all over your head. AT: "Em. Hmn. Well, of course that helps you to... I don't really know.. what the other way would be."

Does Alexa wonder if the lyrics are about her? AT: "Oh there's none of that. Yeah, no, there's no looking over the shoulder."

She must be curious, at least. "Maybe."

Did you ever watch Popworld? AT: [Nervous laughter] "Em! Now and again."

Did you ever see the episode where she helps Paul McCartney write a song about shoes? AT: "Ah, yeah I think so, maybe I did see that."

Well, if I was you, I'd have been thinking, "She's the one for me." AT: "Well. Yeah... maybe that would've... sealed the deal! Hmn. But maybe that wasn't when i got the ray of light. When was? Nah [buries head in hands]. I might have to go for a cigarette..."

Q can't torture him any more and joins him for a snout. Turner smokes Camels from a crumpled, sad, soft-pack and resembles a teenager again. As early song You Probably Couldn't See For The Lights But You Were Staring Straight At Me says, "Never tenser/Could all go a bit Frank Spencer…”

In January 2006, when Arctic Monkeys' Number 1 album Whatever People Say I Am, That's What I'm Not became the fastest-selling debut in UK history, inadvertently redefining the concept of autonomy and further imploding the decimated music industry (& wasn't their idea to be "the MySpace band", it was their fans': the Monkeys merely kick-started viral marketing by giving away demos at gigs), the 19- and 20-year-old Monkeys were terrible at fame. They weren't so much insurrectionary teenage upstarts as teenage innocents culturally traumatised by the peak-era fame democracy.

To their generation (born in the mid-'80s) fame was now synonymous with some-twat-off-the-telly a world of foaming tabloid hysteria where renown and celebrity meant, in fact, you were talentless. Hence their interview diffidence and receiving awards via videos dressed up as the Wizard OfOz and the Village People. Which only, ironically, made them even more celebrated and famous. (“That were a product of us just trying to hold onto the reins," thinks Turner today. "Being uncooperative.")

Q meets The Other Three one morning at 11am, in the well-appointed, empty bar of the Bethnal Green, Bast London hotel they're staying in (all three live in Sheffield, with their girlfriends, in their own homes). First to arrive is the industrious, sensible and cheerful Helders, crunching into a hangover-curing green apple. He has recovered from last year's boxing accident at the gym, which left his broken arm requiring a fitted plate. Now impressively purple-scarred, the break felt "interesting" and the doctor couldn't resist the one-armed drummer jest: "D'you like Def Leppard?"

Currently enjoying an enduring bromance with Diddy, he still doesn't feel famous, "it just doesn't feel that real, there's no paparazzi waiting for me to trip up." He and Turner, during the four-month rehearsals last year, became an accomplished roast dinner cooking duo for the band. "I reckon we could have us our own cookbook," he beams. "Pictures of us stirring, with a whisk."

O'Malley, an agreeable, twinkly-eyed 25-year-old with a strikingly deep voice and a winningly huge smile, is still coyly embarrassed by the interview process. A replacement for the departed original bass player Andy Nicholson in May 2006, he went from Asda shelf-filler to Glastonbury headliner in 13 months and still finds the Monkeys "a massive adventure". His life in Sheffield is profoundly normal – he's delighted that his new home since last October has an open-hearth fireplace: "Me parents had electric bars." He has also discovered cooking. “I’m just a pretty shit-hot housewife, most of the time," he smiles. "I cook stews, fish combinations, curries, chillies. I made a beef pho noodle soup the other day, Vietnamese, I surprised meself, had some mates round for that."

Recently, at his dad's 50th birthday bash, the party band, made up of family and friends, insisted he join them onstage "for ...The Dancefloor. So I were up there [mimes playing bass, all sheepish] and it were the wrong pitch, they didn't know the words or 'owt, going, Makin eyes... er..." He has no extra-curricular musical ambitions. "I'm happy just playing bass," he smiles. "I've never had the skill of doing songs meself. It'd be shit!"

Cook, 25, is still spectacularly embarrassed by the interview process. He perches upright, with a fixed nervous smile, newly shorn of the beard and ponytail he sported in LA: "Rockin' a pone, yeah, because I could get away with it." With his classic preppy haircut and dapper green military coat (from London's swish department store, Liberty), he looks like a handsome '40s film star. (Turner deems Cook "the band heartbreaker" and had a word with him post-LA: "I said to him, Come on, mate, you've got to get that beard shaved off. Get the girls back into us. Shift some posters.")

His life in Sheffield is also profoundly normal. He still plays Sunday League football with his local pub team, The Pack Horse FC (position, left back), remains in his long-term relationship with page-three-model-turned-make-up-artist Katie Downes and "potters about" at home, refusing to describe said home, "cos I'll get burgled".

A tiler by trade, he always vowed, should the Monkeys sign a deal, that he'd throw his trowel in a Sheffield river on his last day of work. "I never did fling me trowel," he confirms. "Probably still in me shed." He's never considered what his band represents to his generation. "I'd go insane thinking about it, I'm pretty good at not thinking about it… Oh God. I'm terrible at this!"

Back in the Strongroom Bar, Alex Turner is cloudily describing his everyday life. "I just keep meself to meself," he confounds. He mostly stays indoors and his perfect night in with Alexa is "watching loads of Sopranos. And doing roast dinners".

No longer spindle-limbed, he attends a gym and has handsomely well-defined arms – "You have to look after yourself."

Suddenly, Crying Lightning from Humbug rumbles over the bar stereo. "Wow. How about that? I was quite happy the other morning cos Brick By Brick were on the round-up goals on Soccer AM. It's still exciting when that happens. It was like Brick By Brick is real."

He spends his days writing music, "listening to records", and recommends Blues Run The Game by doomed '60s minstrel Jackson C Frank ("who's that lass?... Laura Marling, she did a cover recently), a simple, acoustic, deep and regretful stunner about missing someone on the road.

Lyrically, he cites as an example of greatness the Nick Cave B-side Little Empty Boat [from ‘97 single Into My Arms ], a comically sinister paean to a sexual power struggle: "Your knowledge is impressive and your argument is good/But I am the resurrection babe and you're standing on my foot."

"I need a hobby," he suddenly decides. "I'd like to learn another language." Since his mum is a German teacher (his dad teaches music), surely he can speak some German? "I know how to ask somebody if they've had fun at Christmas." Go on, then. "Nah!"

Where Turner's creative gifts stem from remains a contemporary rock'n'roll mystery; he became a fledgling songwriter at 16, after the gift of a guitar at Christmas from his parents. An only child, did his folks, perhaps, foresee artistic greatness? "I doubt it!" he balks. "Cos I didn't. I wasn't... a show kid." Like the others, he doesn't analyse the past, or the future.

"You can't constantly be thinking about what's happened," he reasons, "it's just about getting on with it." The elaborate pinky ring he now constantly wears, however, a silver, gold and ruby metal-goth corker featuring the words DEATH RAMPS is a permanent reminder of he and his best friends’ past. The Death Ramps is not only a Monkeys pseudonym and B-side to Teddy Picker, but a place they used to ride their bikes in Sheffield as kids.

"Up in the woods near where we lived," he nods. "Just little hills. But when you're eight years old they're death ramps." The ring was custom made by a friend of his, who runs top-end rock'n'roll jewellery emporium The Great Frog near London's Carnaby Street. Ask Turner why he thinks the chase between his writing and speaking eloquence is quite so mesmerisingly vast and he attempts a theory.

"Well, writing isn't the same as speaking," he muses. "Not for me. I seem to struggle more and more with... conversation. Talking onstage... I can't do it any more. Hmn. I'll have to work on that."

The ever-helpful Helders has a better theory.

"Since he's been writing songs," he ponders, “It seems like he’s always thinking about that. So even when he’s talking to you now, he’s thinking about the next thing that rhymes with a word. Even when he’s driving. We joke he’s a bad driver, his focus is never 100 per cent on what he’s doing. Which is good for us cos it means he’s got another 12 songs up his sleeve. I think music must be the easiest way for him to be concise and get everything out. Otherwise his head would explode.”

The Shoreditch.com photo studios, 18 March. Alex Turner, today, is more ethereally distracted than ever, transfixed by the studio iPod, playing Led Zeppelin, The Rolling Stones, a version of I’d Rather Go Blind. Occasionally, he’ll completely lose his conversational thread, “Um. I’ve dropped a stitch.”

The first to arrive for Q’s photoshoot, he greets his incoming bandmates with enormous hugs (and also hugs them goodbye). Today, Q feels it’s pointless poking its pickaxe of serious enquiry further into Turner’s vacuum-packed soul and wonders if he’ll play, instead, a daft game. It’s called Popworld Questions, as first posed by someone he knows rather well.

“Oh, OK. Let’s do it,” he blinks, now perched in an empty dressing room. He then vigorously shakes his head, “Um…I’ve gotta snap back into it.”

Here, then, are some genuine “Alexa Chung on Popworld” questions (2006-2007), as originally posed to Matt Willis, Amy Winehouse, Robbie Williams, Pussycat Dolls, Kaiser Chiefs and Diddy.

Why do indie bands wear such tight jeans? AT: “Um. I supposed they do. They haven’t always. When we first were playing I was definitely in flares. You need to be quite tall to get the full effect, though. So, that's why this indie band wears such tight jeans, cos we've not got the legs for flares."

What makes you tick in the sexy department? AT: "Wow. Pass. What do I find most attractive in a woman? Something in the head? That's definitely a requirement. Well... Hmn. I'm struggling."

Tell us about all the lovely groupies. AT: "No!"

If dogs had human hands instead of paws, would you consider trying to teach them to play the piano? AT: "Absolutely. I'd teach Hey Jude."

How many plums d'you think you can comfortably fit in one hand? AT: "They're not very big. [Holds small, pale, girly hand up for inspection] It's a shame. Probably three. Diddy only managed two? Maybe not then. I can carry a lot of glasses at once, though. If they're small ones I can do four."

Are you cool? AT: "Not as much as I'd like to be. There's this clip where Clint Eastwood is on a talkshow and he gets asked, Everybody thinks of you as defining cool, what d'you think about that? And he gets his cigs out, takes one out, flicks it into his mouth, lights it and says, I have no idea what you're talking about."

Here, Turner locates his Camels soft-pack and attempts to do a Clint Eastwood. He flicks one upwards towards his mouth. And misses. Flicks another. And misses. "Third time lucky?" He misses. "I'll get it the next time." And succeeds. "Hey. Fourth time. Don't put that in! So there you go. I'm four steps away from where I wanna be."

Thank you very much for joining me here on Popworld, here's my clammy hand again. There it is, let it slip, hmmn. You can let go now. AT: "OK! Were you a Popworld fan, then? It was funny. Cool. What were we talking about, before?"

Blimey, Alex. What must you be like when you're completely stoned out of your head? AT: "Stoned? What d'you mean, cos I seem like that anyway? Yeah. A lot of people... tell me I'm a bit... dreamy. But I like the idea of that. Of being somewhere else."

Two days earlier, Turner had contemplated what he wanted from all this, in the end. Many seconds later he gave his deceptively ambitious answer.

"I just wanna write better songs," he decided. "And better lyrics. I just definitely wanna be good at it. Hmn. Yeah.”

—

RUFUS BLACK: AKA Matt Helders, on his ongoing bromance with Diddy

Matt Helders has known preposterous rap titan Diddy since they met in Miami in 2008. “He goes, Arctic Monkeys! Then he said summat about a B-side and I was like, He's not lying! I just thought, This is funny, I'm gonna go with this for a while." Last October Diddy texted Helders, suggesting he play drums with his Diddy Dirty Money band on Friday Night With Jonathan Ross, to give his own drummer a day off. “I were bowling with me girifriend at the time. In Sheffield, on a Sunday." On the day of recording, says Helder, "We had a musical director. That were one of the maddest times of my life. Next day Diddy said, Why don't you just stay? Come along with me. So I went everywhere with him." Diddy had "a convoy of cars" and made sure Helders was always in his. "He'd stop his car and go, Where's Matt? You're coming with me! So I'd get in his car. Just me, him, his security, driver." Diddy, by now, had given him a pseudonym - Rufus Black. "He kept saying, I don't wanna fuck up your image. And I'm, I don't think it's gonna do me any harm!" He stayed in Diddy's spectacularly expensive hotel. Some weeks later, Helders almost returned to the Dirty Money drumstool for a gig in Glasgow. "But we were rehearsing in London. I were like, I might come, how are you getting there? And he were like, Jet. Jump on t’jet with me. But I had to stay in Bethnal Green instead.”

Love’s young dream: Diddy (left) with Helders

#arctic monkeys #alex turner #matt helders #nick o'malley #jamie cook #sias era #interviews #q magazine #my image id #bands #this is such a funny interview honestly shfjwjs #self proclaimed housewife nick my beloved......#also why did the interviewer describe alex's hands as small pale and girly HELPME #btw im missing page 93 it's probabky just a photospread but yeah #i managed to find the dead links' images on vk #eye contact #not my scan

293 notes · View notes

kemetic-dreams · 4 months ago

Text

Jamil Abdullah al-Amin (born Hubert Gerold Brown; October 4, 1943), is an American human rights activist, Muslim cleric, African separatist, and convicted murderer who was the fifth chairman of the Student Nonviolent Coordinating Committee (SNCC) in the 1960s. Best known as H. Rap Brown, he served as the Black Panther Party's minister of justice during a short-lived (six months) alliance between SNCC and the Black Panther Party.

He is perhaps known for his proclamations during that period, such as that "violence is as American as cherry pie", and that "If America don't come around, we're gonna burn it down." He is also known for his autobiography, Die Nigger Die! He is currently serving a life sentence for murder following the shooting of two Fulton County, Georgia, sheriff's deputies in 2000.

Brown's activism in the civil rights movement included involvement with the Student Nonviolent Coordinating Committee (SNCC). Brown was introduced into SNCC by his older brother Ed. He first visited Cambridge, Maryland with Cleveland Sellers in the summer of 1963, during the period of Gloria Richardson's leadership in the local movement. He witnessed the first riot between whites and blacks in the city over civil rights issues, and was impressed by the local civil rights movement's willingness to use armed self-defense against racial attacks.

Brown later organized for SNCC during the 1964 Mississippi Freedom Summer, while transferring to Howard University for his studies. Representing Howard's SNCC chapter, Brown attended a contentious civil rights meeting at the White House with President Lyndon B. Johnson during the Selma crisis of 1965 as Alabama activists attempted to march for voting rights.

Major federal civil rights legislation was passed in 1964 and 1965, including the Voting Rights Act, to establish federal oversight and enforcement of rights. In 1966, Brown organized in Greene County, Alabama to achieve African voter registration and implementation of the recently passed Voting Rights Act.

Elected SNCC chairman in 1967, Brown continued Stokely Carmichael's fiery support for "Black Power" and urban rebellions in the Northern ghettos.

During the summer of 1967, Brown toured the nation, calling for violent resistance to the government, which he called "The Fourth Reich". "Negroes should organize themselves", he told a rally in Washington, D.C., and "carry on guerilla warfare in all the cities." They should, "make the Viet Cong look like Sunday school teachers." He declared, "I say to America, Fuck it! Freedom or death!"

In this period, Cambridge, Maryland had an active civil rights movement, led by Gloria Richardson. In July 1967 Brown spoke in the city, saying "It's time for Cambridge to explode, baby. Black folks built America, and if America don't come around, we're going to burn America down." Gunfire reportedly broke out later, and both Brown and a police officer were wounded. A fire started that night and by the next day, 17 buildings were destroyed by an expanding fire "in a two-block area of Pine Street, the center of African-American commerce, culture and community." Brown was charged with inciting a riot, due to his speech.

Brown was also charged with carrying a gun across state lines. A secret 1967 FBI memo had called for "neutralizing" Brown. He became a target of the agency's COINTELPRO program, which was intended to disrupt and disqualify civil rights leaders. The federal charges against him were never proven.

He was defended in the gun violation case by civil rights advocates Murphy Bell of Baton Rouge, the self-described "radical lawyer" William Kunstler, and Howard Moore Jr., general counsel for SNCC. Feminist attorney Flo Kennedy also assisted Brown and led his defense committee, winning support for him from some chapters of the National Organization for Women.

The Cambridge fire was among incidents investigated by the 1967 Kerner Commission. But their investigative documents were not published with their 1968 report. Historian Dr. Peter Levy studied these papers in researching his book Civil War on Race Street: The Civil Rights Movement in Cambridge, Maryland (2003). He argues there was no riot in Cambridge. Brown was documented as completing his speech in Cambridge at 10 pm July 24, then walking a woman home. He was shot by a deputy sheriff allegedly without provocation. Brown was hastily treated for his injuries and secretly taken by supporters out of Cambridge.

Later that night a small fire broke out, but the police chief and fire company did not respond for two hours. In discussing his book, Levy has said that the fire's spread and ultimate destructive cost appeared to be due not to a riot, but to the deliberate inaction of the Cambridge police and fire departments, which had hostile relations with the African community. In a later book, Levy notes that Brice Kinnamon, head of the Cambridge police department, said that the city had no racial problems, and that Brown was the "sole" cause of the disorder, and it was "a well-planned Communist attempt to overthrow the government."

While being held for trial, Brown continued his high-profile activism. He accepted a request from the Student Afro-American Society of Columbia University to help represent and co-organize the April 1968 Columbia protests against university expansion into Harlem park land in order to build a gymnasium.

He also contributed writing from jail to the radical magazine Black Mask, which was edited and published by the New York activist group Up Against the Wall Motherfucker. In his 1968 article titled "H. Rap Brown From Prison: Lasima Tushinde Mbilashika", Brown writes of going on a hunger strike and his willingness to give up his life in order to achieve change.

Brown's trial was originally to take place in Cambridge, but there was a change of venue and the trial was moved to Bel Air, Maryland, to start in March 1970. On March 9, 1970, two SNCC officials, Ralph Featherstone and William ("Che") Payne, died on U.S. Route 1 south of Bel Air, when a bomb on the front floorboard of their car exploded, killing both occupants. The bomb's origin is disputed: some say the bomb was planted in an assassination attempt, and others say Payne was carrying it to the courthouse where Brown was to be tried. The next night, the Cambridge courthouse was bombed

Brown disappeared for 18 months. He was posted on the Federal Bureau of Investigation's Ten Most Wanted List. He was arrested after a reported shootout with officers in New York City following an alleged attempted robbery of a bar there. He was convicted of robbery and served five years (1971–76) in Attica Prison in western New York state. While in prison, Brown converted to Islam. He formally changed his name from Hubert Gerold Brown to Jamil Abdullah al-Amin.

After his release, he moved to Atlanta, Georgia, where he opened a grocery store. He became an imam, a Muslim spiritual leader, in the National Ummah, one of the nation's largest African Muslim groups. He also was a community activist in Atlanta's West End neighborhood. He preached against drugs and gambling. It has since been suggested that al-Amin changed his life again when he became affiliated with the "Dar ul-Islam Movement"

On May 31, 1999, al-Amin was pulled over while driving in Marietta, Georgia by police officer Johnny Mack for a suspected stolen vehicle. During a search, al-Amin was found to have in his pocket a police badge. He also had a bill of sale in his pocket, explaining his possession of the stolen car, and he claimed that he had been issued an honorary police badge by Mayor John Jackson, a statement which Jackson verified. Despite this, al-Amin was charged with speeding, auto theft and impersonating a police officer.

On March 16, 2000, in Fulton County, Georgia, Sheriff's deputies Ricky Kinchen and Aldranon English went to al-Amin's home to execute an arrest warrant for failing to appear in court over the charges. After determining that the home was unoccupied, the deputies drove away and were shortly passed by a black Mercedes headed for the house. Kinchen (the more senior deputy) noted the suspect vehicle, turned the patrol car around, and drove up to the Mercedes, stopping nose to nose. English approached the Mercedes and told the single occupant to show his hands. The occupant opened fire with a .223 rifle. English ran between the two cars while returning fire from his handgun, and was hit four times. Kinchen was shot with the rifle and a 9 mm handgun.

The next day, Kinchen died of his wounds at Grady Memorial Hospital. English survived his wounds. He identified al-Amin as the shooter from six photos he was shown while recovering in the hospital[citation needed] Another source said English identified him shortly before going into surgery for his wounds.

After the shootout, al-Amin fled Atlanta, going to White Hall, Alabama. He was tracked down by U.S. Marshals who started with a blood trail at the shooting site, and arrested by law enforcement officers after a four-day manhunt. Al-Amin was wearing body armor at the time of his arrest. He showed no wounds. Officers found a 9 mm handgun near his arrest site. Firearms identification testing showed that this was used to shoot Kinchen and English, but al-Amin's fingerprints were not found on the weapon. Later, al-Amin's black Mercedes was found with bullet holes in it.

His lawyers argued he was innocent of the shooting. Defense attorneys noted that al-Amin's fingerprints were not found on the murder weapon, and he was not wounded in the shooting, as one of the deputies said the shooter was. A trail of blood found at the scene was tested and did not belong to al-Amin or either of the deputies. A test by the state concluded that it was animal blood, but these results have been disputed because there was no clear chain of custody to verify the sample and testing process. Deputy English had said that the killer's eyes were gray, but al-Amin's are brown.

At al-Amin's trial, prosecutors noted that he had never provided an alibi for his whereabouts at the time of the shootout, nor any explanation for fleeing the state afterward. He also did not explain why the weapons used in the shootout were found near him during his arrest.

On March 9, 2002, nearly two years after the shootings, al-Amin was convicted of 13 criminal charges, including Kinchen's murder and aggravated assault in shooting English. Four days later, he was sentenced to life in prison without possibility of parole (LWOP).He was sent to Georgia State Prison, the state's maximum-security facility near Reidsville, Georgia.

Otis Jackson, a man incarcerated for unrelated charges, claimed that he committed the Fulton County shootings, and confessed this two years before al-Amin was convicted of the same crime. The court did not consider Jackson's statement as evidence. Jackson's statements corroborated details from 911 calls following the shooting, including a bleeding man seen limping from the scene: Jackson said he knocked on doors to solicit a ride while suffering from wounds sustained in the firefight with deputies Kinchen and English. Jackson recanted his statement two days after making it, but later confessed again in a sworn affidavit, stating that he had only recanted after prison guards threatened him for being a "cop killer". Prosecutors refuted Jackson's testimony, claiming he couldn't have shot the deputies as he was wearing an ankle tag for house confinement that would have showed his location. Al-Amin's lawyers allege that the tag was faulty.

Al-Amin appealed his conviction on the basis of a racial conspiracy against him, despite both Fulton County deputies being black. In May 2004, the Supreme Court of Georgia unanimously ruled to uphold al-Amin's conviction.

In August 2007, al-Amin was transferred to federal custody, as Georgia officials decided he was too high-profile for the Georgia prison system to handle. He was first held in a holdover facility in the USP Atlanta; two weeks later he was moved to a federal transfer facility in Oklahoma, pending assignment to a federal penitentiary.

On October 21, 2007, al-Amin was transferred to ADX Florence, a supermax prison in Florence, Colorado. He has been under an unofficial gag order, prevented from having any interviews with writers, journalists or biographers.

On July 18, 2014, having been diagnosed with multiple myeloma, al-Amin was transferred to Butner Federal Medical Center in North Carolina. As of March 2018, he is incarcerated at the United States Penitentiary, Tucson.

Al-Amin sought retrial through the 11th Circuit Court of Appeals. Investigative journalist, Hamzah Raza, has written more about Otis Jackson's confession to the deputy shootings in 2000, and said that this evidence should have been considered by the court. It had the potential of exonerating al-Amin. However, the 11th Circuit Court of Appeals rejected his appeal on July 31, 2019.

In April 2020, the U.S. Supreme Court declined to hear an appeal from al-Amin. His family and supporters continue to petition for a new trial.

#african #afrakan #kemetic dreams #africans #brownskin #brown skin #afrakans #african culture #afrakan spirituality #h rap brown #Jamil Abdullah al-Amin #Black Panther Party #black panthers #kwame ture #fred hampton #civil rights #civil rights movement #malcolm x

82 notes · View notes

new-dinosaurs · 5 months ago

Text

Caprimulgus ritae King et al., 2024 (new species)

(A male individual of Caprimulgus ritae photographed by James Eaton, from King et al., 2024)

Meaning of name: ritae = for Rita Bobbin [friend of the study's lead author, Ben F. King]

Suggested common name: Timor nightjar

Age: Holocene (Meghalayan), extant

Where found: Primarily in lowland forests on the islands of Timor and Wetar

How much is known: At least four collected specimens (two males and two females) are held in museum collections. A fifth specimen, an immature individual, may also belong to this species, but this has not been verified by genetic analysis.

Notes: Caprimulgus is a genus of nightjars, a group of nocturnal, insect-eating birds. Nightjars typically spend the day camouflaged against the ground and use their wide mouths to capture flying insects at night.

C. ritae is closely related to the Mees's nightjar (C. meesi) from the islands of Flores and Sumba, and the large-tailed nightjar (C. macrurus), which is found across South Asia, Southeast Asia (though not Timor or Wetar), and northern Australia. In addition to being genetically distinct and geographically separated from its close relatives, C. ritae is smaller than them on average. It can also be distinguished by its vocalizations and details of plumage patterning, such as having darker brown feathers on the sides of its face.

Reference: King, B.F., G. Sangster, C.R. Trainor, M. Irestedt, D.M. Prawiradilaga, and P.G.P. Ericson. 2024. A new species of nightjar (Caprimulgus) from Timor and Wetar, Lesser Sunda Islands, Wallacea. Ibis advance online publication. doi: 10.1111/ibi.13340

#Birblr #Dinosaurs #Birds #Caprimulgus ritae #Timor nightjar #Holocene #Asia #Strisores #2024 #Extant

91 notes · View notes

sartoriale-designo · 2 years ago

Text

Sexy in Stripes...

135 notes · View notes

girlactionfigure · 4 months ago

Text

In 1047 BCE, a confederation of Hebrew tribes came together to found the Kingdom of Israel, the first ever unified, sovereign nation state in the history of the land. Though some historians have cast doubt on the existence of a unified Israelite state, in recent years, more and more archeological evidence has suggested that some form of unified state existed, though its grandiosity as depicted in the Torah is contested.

In 930 BCE, the Kingdom of Israel split into two: the Kingdom of Israel to the north, also known as Samaria (after its capital “Shomron,” or Samaria in English), and the Kingdom of Judah to the south. The term “Jew” comes from “Judahite,” as in, “someone from the Kingdom of Judah.” In Hebrew, the words for “Judahite” and “Jew” are the same word: Yehudi.

Our closest ethnoreligious brothers, Samaritans (or Shomronim in Hebrew), are the descendants of the citizens of the northern Israelite kingdom.

When the Babylonian Empire conquered Judah in 587 BCE, the territory of the Kingdom of Judah went on to become a province of the Babylonian Empire (587-539 BCE), the Persian Empire (539-332 BCE), the Seleucid Empire (332-37 BCE), and finally, the Roman Empire, which is depicted in green in the map to the left. “Judea” is merely a Romanized version of “Judah.”

After the Romans crushed the Bar Kokhba Revolt in the year 135, Emperor Hadrian carried out a retaliatory genocide against the Jewish people that took some 600,000 lives. Part of his genocidal agenda was to erase any trace of Jewish presence and autonomy in the land. To do so, he dissolved the Roman province of Judea and united it with Syria, creating Syria-Palestina. Syria-Palestina was then divided into Palestina Prima, Palestina Secunda, and Palestina Tertia. “Palestine” derives from “Philistines,” the ancient enemies of the Israelites in the Hebrew Bible. They were of Greek origin, unrelated to today’s Palestinians.

After the Arab conquest in the 7th century, what is now Israel and the Palestinian Territories became a part of Bilad al-Sham, or the province of Syria. There is a reason early Palestinian nationalists in the 20th century advocated for a unified Palestinian and Syrian Arab state in Greater Syria.

At this time, Jund Filastin, translating to “the military district of Palestine,” was a military district encompassing the green region surrounding Jerusalem.

All throughout 1280 years of Islamic rule, the territories now encompassing Israel and the Palestinian Territories belonged to some variation of a Syrian province.

The map on the left is of Ottoman Syria (1517-1917), which itself was further split up into various vilayets (administrative divisions).

In the wake of World War I, the British and French conspired to carve up the Middle East amongst themselves, thus creating the borders for much of the region as we know it today. The map that we are familiar with as Israel and the Palestinian Territories is a British invention.

The British also chose to revive the Roman name “Palestine” as a political entity for the first time since the year 636.

Transjordan, seen in brown above, was originally assigned to the British Mandate for Palestine (1917-1948), though in 1923, the British handed the territory over to the Hashemite family, an ancient dynasty that traces its origins to the Arabian Peninsula. Throughout the period of the Mandate, Jews were not allowed to settle anywhere in Transjordan.

Until 1920, early Palestinian nationalists wanted Palestine to become a province of the pan-Arabist Greater Syria, which would include Syria, Lebanon, Jordan, Israel, and the Palestinian Territories.

At the first Palestinian Arab Congress 1919, the resolutions included statements such as, “We consider Palestine nothing but part of Arab Syria and it has never been separated from it at any stage…Our district Southern Syria or Palestine should be not separated from the Independent Arab Syrian Government and be free from all foreign influence and protection.”

ORIGINS OF ISRAEL

The earliest known mention of “Israel” in history — and the earliest mention of Israel outside of the Torah — is 3200 years old and was discovered in Thebes, Egypt, in 1896.

The mention is found in what is known as the Merneptah Stele, an inscription by the ancient Egyptian pharaoh Merneptah, who reigned between 1213 BCE to 1203 BCE. The Stele itself is dated to 1208 BCE. It’s written in ancient Egyptian hieroglyphs.

The Merneptah Stele mainly describes Merneptah’s victory over the ancient Libyans. However, three of the 28 lines talk about a separate Egyptian military campaign in Canaan. It reads:

“The Canaan has been plundered into every sort of woe:

Ashkelon has been overcome;

Gezer has been captured;

Yano’am is made non-existent.

Israel is laid waste and his seed is not;

Hurru is become a widow because of Egypt.”

The hieroglyphs used describe Ashkelon, Gezer, and Yano’am as city-states, whereas “Israel” is described as a foreign (to Egypt) people. This suggests that at this point in time, the Israelites did not rule over a unified state, but rather, were a nomadic or semi-nomadic tribe(s). This would corroborate the narrative of the Torah, as the Kingdom of Israel did not become a unified state until some 161 years later.

As a side note, it’s interesting that the first ever mention of Israel in history comes from a ruler bragging about our supposed destruction. Over three millennia later, here we are.

In 1040 BCE, a loose confederation of Hebrew tribes united to form the first centralized state in the Land of Israel, known as the Kingdom of Israel.

The Hebrew tribes originated -- and later split away -- from the Canaanites, a loose group of semi-nomadic tribes that lived during the second millenium BCE; they were the original inhabitants of the Land of Israel. Though depicted as the enemies of the Israelites in the Torah, archeologists, linguists, Biblical historians, and geneticists today widely agree that the ancient Hebrews were originally Canaanites themselves. The Tanakh itself even makes some vague references to the Hebrews’ Canaanite origins. Ezekiel 16:3 tells us, “Thus said the sovereign God to Jerusalem: by origin and birth you are from the land of the Canaanites — your father was an Amorite and your mother a Hittite.” The Amorites were a Canaanite people.

It was customary at the time and in the region for nations to name themselves after their most important deities. For example, Israel’s neighboring Assyria named itself after the Mesopotamian deity “Ashur.” “El” was the most important god in the Canaanite pantheon; over time, the cult of El and of the southern deity YHWH merged to form the Hebrew God as we know Him today. “Israel,” then, translates to “one who wrestles with El [that is, God].”

Until 1948, the United Kingdom of Israel (1047-930 BCE), the southern Kingdom of Israel (930-722 BCE), and the Kingdom of Judah (930-587 BCE) were the only ever sovereign nation states in the entirety of the land’s history. At all other times, the region was a colony, vassal state, or province of some foreign empire whose administrative center was elsewhere. The founding of the State of Israel in 1948 marked the first time that the land belonged to a fully sovereign, independent state in over 2500 years.

ORIGINS OF PALESTINE

Historians have long debated the origins of the name “Palestine.” Most believe that the word derives from the Hebrew and Ancient Egyptian word “peleshet,” translating to “invader” or “migratory.” “Peleshet” was used to describe the Philistines, who settled on the Mediterranean coastline above Egypt, in parts of what is now Israel and Gaza. The Philistines were a seafaring people of Greek origin, entirely unrelated to today’s Palestinians, who are an Arab ethnonational group. Some Palestinians, particularly Christian Palestinians and Palestinians from the city of Nablus, have Jewish and Samaritan ancestry, respectively.

The first use of the word “Palestine” to describe a geographic region was in the 5th century BCE, at least 700 years after the first use of the word “Israel.” Like the Land of Israel, “Palestine” was a loose region, describing the coastal strip that runs from Egypt to Lebanon. However, unlike “Israel,” Palestine was not a political entity until the Romans renamed Judea “Syria-Palestina” in the second century CE.

Another, newer, more controversial theory asserts that “Palestine” derives from the Greek word “Palaistes,” meaning “wrestler.” If you recall, the term “Israel” means “one who wrestles with God.” According to this theory, “Palestine” is a direct Greek translation of “Israel.”

For hundreds of years, the term “Palestinian” was virtually synonymous with “Jew.” In the 18th century, for example, Immanuel Kant described the Jews in Europe as “the Palestinians among us.” In the early 20th century, Jews used “free Palestine” as a rallying call to establish a Jewish state.

The first Arab Palestinian to identify as Palestinian was Khalil Beidas in 1898, though the term was not universally used until the 1960s. During the 1937 Peel Commission, Palestinian Arab nationalist Anwi Abd al-Hadi told the British, “Palestine is a term the Zionists invented!”

WHY IS THE STATE OF ISRAEL "ISRAEL"?

Though the second Kingdom of Israel was conquered by the Assyrians in 722 BCE, both Jews and Samaritans continued referencing to the land as “Eretz Israel,” or the Land of Israel, for three millennia. When the Maccabees briefly gained a semblance of independence after the Maccabean Revolt (167-141 BCE), they referred to their new semi-autonomous kingdom as “Judea” and “Israel” interchangeably. During the Bar Kokhba Revolt against the Roman Empire (132-135 CE), the revolt leader, Simon Bar Kokhba, was known as the “prince of Israel.”

Even during the British Mandate (1917-1948), the official name of Palestine was the “British Mandate of Palestine (Aleph Yud).” Aleph Yud are the letters corresponding to the abbreviation for “Eretz Israel,” the Land of Israel.

Even so, most assumed that the new Jewish state would be called “Judea,” or “Yehuda” in Hebrew. In 1949, on the first anniversary of the State of Israel, Zeev Sharef, who had been present during the deliberations, explained why the name “Judea” was quickly discarded: “Most people had thought that the state would be called Judea. But Judea is the historical name of the area around Jerusalem, which at that time seemed the area least likely to become part of the state...So Judea was ruled out.”

The Provisional Government of the State of Israel also spent some time deliberating on what the name for the country would be in Arabic. Initially they considered Palestine, or "Filastin" in Arabic, to "take the feelings of the Arab minority into account." But the idea seemed too confusing, because they assumed an Arab state would be established alongside the Jewish state, and that Arab state would likely be called Palestine. As such, the idea was discarded. Instead, Israel is called "Isra'il" in Arabic.

Since a lot of you guys seem to have a problem with reading comprehension, let me comprehend this for you: the point of this post is *not* to say only Jews have a right to live in the land, or to say that I unequivocally support everything the Israeli government has done, is doing, & will continue to do forever into eternity.

the point is: (1) the idea that Israel is “colonial” is ahistorical & antisemitic because it is a blatant erasure of Jewish history & identity, (2) the idea that Palestine is “anti-colonial” is also ahistorical and also an erasure of Jewish history, & (3) the “river and the sea” that you’re so damn attached to in the name of “anti-imperialism”?Yeahhhh those borders were a British invention.

For a full bibliography of my sources, please head over to my Instagram and Patreon.

#Israel #Palestine

26 notes · View notes

talestold · 7 months ago

Text

LADY ALYS MORMONT of BEAR ISLAND !

( marina moschen / demi woman + she/they ) hear ye hear ye — king garlan tyrell welcomes ALYS MORMONT of BEAR ISLAND ! his great majesty is glad that the twenty three year old noble appears to be gallant while overlooking that it’s said they are also insecure, as long as they are glad to celebrate peace in the seven kingdoms. fortunately for them, garlan remains oblivious that they are happy with his reign and that their true allegiance lies with the north.

one - basic information.

full name: alys mormont. preferred nickname: al / alys. official title: lady of bear island. monikers: little bear / she bear. age: twenty three. gender + pronouns: demi woman + she/they. orientation: lesbian. true allegiances: house mormont, house stark & the north. spoken languages: common tongue. religion: the old gods.

two - exterior.

looks like: marina moschen. eye color: brown. hair color: dark brown. dominant hand: right. height: 5'6" build: slim.

three - interior.

virtues: gallant, incorruptible, adroit, honorable, compassionate. vices: insecure, overwrought, naive, vulnerable, cautious. weapon of choice: longsword or their dagger. moral alignment: lawful good. hobbies: weapons training / watching others train, horseback riding, exploring, horseshoes, climbing trees.

four - connections.

parents: liege utp mormont & liege utp mormont. siblings: mormont c & mormont d. birth order: youngest. relationship status: single. children: none. pets: though not considered a pet but more of a companion, alys' trusted steed is a brown thoroughbred named bear. other relations: none atm, would love cousins for house mormont ! past relations: none atm !

five - background.

born on the twentieth day of the seventh moon in the year 275 after conquest, alys mormont was the last child to grace the ruling couple of bear island. even as a child, she never displayed the same fierceness that house mormont was known for yet still found a way to hold her own. muscles did not appear nor did the impressive strength those around them seemed to possess, leading to insecurities about their stature and where they lack in battle. some lords were cruel in their victories and they managed to make alys' confidence waver, wondering if she could ever be a historic knight or warrior one day. they have always dreamed of looking different and shedding many of their feminine features but are proud of their identity. as alys got older, she learned how to turn her appearance into a likely opportunity to be underestimated - which sometimes works in her favor.

while she can bite if provoked ( do not poke the bear vibes ), there isn't much bark to alys. her idealism can be faulty when harsh reality rolls in, but she's always dreaming of being the best version of herself she can be. her heart has always belonged with the north, raised on stories of heroic northerners and the honor of what that meant. alys was thankful the women of house mormont were not forced to partake in ladylike hobbies as they had never been good at them. their talents remained in being one of the faster children, off in a blink and always on the move. curiosity helped propel them and they were always interested in learning what others were doing.

though bear island was home, there became a feeling of suffocation the longer alys stayed. they loved to travel and explore, seeing the beauty of the north, feeling as if there was nothing for them on bear island. family means a great deal to them but alys has always been driven by purpose, their purpose becoming duty as they got older. in her teens, she was a squire for a northern lord, collecting achievements such as winning horse races, foot races, duels, and never failing to be there when they were needed. knighthood has always been a dream and they still seek it now, even if plans have changed quite a bit. if there is anything to be learned from being a mormont, it is that anything is possible.

for the past year, alys has been working in the service of house stark as a guard in winterfell. after an incident while traveling, alys decided to stay within familiar surroundings for a while and after spending a bit of time in winterfell, they figured that working for house stark would be quite the honor. she spends most of her days training in the yard and up top the winterfell towers, though occasionally does errands for the house as she is now as trusted as the others. there are talks of them becoming a sworn sword for someone, as alys has become a favorable companion, though they would go wherever they're instructed.

anyone who knows alys knows they will always lend a helping hand. sometimes they will go above and beyond to do the right thing even if it is at the cost of their own happiness. an extrovert 100% yet needs quiet time after a while. loves to joke around and find the good side of every situation, much to the annoyance of those around her. has absolutely no interest in politics or anything really going on in westeros and kind of prefers that the trifecta is thriving in their own lil bubble. just wants to do good and honorable things.

more headcanons :

before she had turned double digits, alys had been gifted not toys nor dolls but a custom dagger with her house's sigil burned into the handle. it is their most prized possession and alys never goes anywhere without it. she keeps it hidden in her boot most often, yet sometimes has the dagger on her belt along with her sword.

is incredibly sentimental with trinkets and gifts. alys has never discarded a gift and keeps many trinkets in both their bedchambers and on their person. one is a piece of wood that has been whittled into a bear standing up and roaring - which reminds her of house mormont's words every time she looks at the object. they keep a coin purse full of differently colored stones tied to their belt and twice now someone has tried to steal it thinking it's full of coins... both times they've opened the contents to only throw the pouch back at alys with cruel words.

can do cartwheels and back flips but will probably only say yes if she's a little drunk.

six - wanted.

besties - could be northern, could be someone they met through travels, could be anyone really ! just a couple ppl alys is besties with, meaning they definitely trust each other and probably either spend the most time together or talk to each other / send ravens incredibly frequently.

idols they aspire after - probably older, more experienced swordsmen / knights who alys has been inspired by and looks up to quite a bit !

the eventual sworn shield position - ( this will be a wc at some point ) alys is a trusted guard in winterfell and is about to be promoted ( you have been promoted !! you are now one of my elite employees !! ) to be someone's sworn shield ! it's most likely this would be a house stark member or someone from a wealthy northern house as she is still apart of the winterfell guard !

unlikely friends, past flings, a bad influence on alys, frenemies, i am down for anything !!

#conquest.intro

7 notes · View notes

princeluce · 6 months ago

Text

Qȳbor & Trēsy: A Night Out

A Starter with @goldaegontargaryen

The tavern in Flea Bottom was a far cry from the opulent halls of the Red Keep. Flickering candles cast a dim, uneven light across the room, revealing the worn wooden tables and benches that have seen countless patrons over the years. The air was thick with the smell of cheap ale and roasted meat, mingling with the sweat of the tavern’s rough clientele. Lucerys sat uncomfortably at a table in the corner, his cloak pulled tight around him as if it could shield him from the unfamiliar surroundings. Although a tiny voice in the back of his mind reminded him that it was not like anyone would recognize him.

Just another brown hair, brown-eyed bast-. Lucerys stopped the thought with a deeper-than-usual swig of ale.

Lucyers had never been one for the noisy, boisterous environment of taverns. Honestly, sometimes dinner with the whole with all the Targaryen, Velaryon, and Hightower family was too much for him. He preferred the quiet solitude of his chambers, the vast expanse of the open sea, or the sky above on dragonback. Tonight, however, was different. He was here, in this crowded and bustling tavern, because his uncle, Aegon, had insisted they meet away from the prying eyes of the court. Luce had agreed, wanting to prove to himself that he could handle such situations, that he was more than just a sheltered prince. He agreed because this was something that he would regularly avoid. He agreed because he thought his fathers would be happy to see him on such an outing and his mother would be displeased. But now, sitting in the dimly lit tavern, he couldn’t help but question his decision.

Between the clamor of laughter and clinking of tankards, Lucerys felt out of place. He notices the curious glances from the other patrons, their eyes lingering a moment too long on him. He wondered what was catching their eyes. Is his clothing too nice? Is his decorum too noble? Luce didn’t know. He didn’t have the white hair or violet eyes that clearly marked him of noble blood, but that does not mean he was not recognized. Every look at him, followed by a hushed rush of voices, set him on edge. He knew of the numerous rumors that swirled around him, whispers about his parentage to his lack of interest in women.

It wasn’t that he wasn’t interested in women; he just was not interested in visiting Silk Street like his uncles and his father did in his prime. He was also somewhat terrified of what his mother would do if she heard whispers of his presence in brothels. Yet he found himself almost wanting to test her anger. He had always been close to his mother, Princess Rhaenyra, heir to the Iron Throne, Hand of the King, but with her impending ascent to the throne, he felt a growing distance. His older brother Jace was her heir in turn, leaving Lucerys as little more than a spare. His title as the heir to Driftmark felt hollow, a place he barely knew compared to the familiar of King’s Landing. He loved his mother and his sibling dearly, but he was beginning to understand that his future lay outside of King’s Landing and beyond his parents and siblings.

He took another sip of the ale and tried to hide his grimace. Luce had ordered the ale to better fit into the setting, but he preferred Arbor Golds or northern meads.

In contrast, Aegon had always been a bit of a wild card. He was known for his unpredictable nature and love for revelry, although he mellowed in recent years since his marriage to Helaena. Aegon was the antithesis of Luce. Outgoing where he was reserved, extroverted where he was introspective. Earlier, Aegon had seemed determined to pull Lucerys out of his shell to show. It seemed that tonight Aegon wanted to show him a side of life he had always avoided. But as Lucerys sat in the corner, he found himself overwhelmed by the noise, the smells, and the scrutiny of the tavern’s patrons.

Beside him, Aegon sat nursing a tankard of ale, his movements languid and unhurried. The lights from the candles highlighted the sharp angles of Aegon’s face, casting shadows that made him appear both regal and roguish. He seemed perfectly at ease in this setting, as if the noise and chaos of the tavern were a familiar friend. He embodies a confidence that Lucerys envied.

Taking a deep breath, Lucerys decided it was time to break the silence, to voice the question that had been swirling in his mind since they sat down.

“Qȳbor,” Uncle, he said hesitantly, his voice barely above the din of the tavern, “What do you truly want from me tonight? Why bring me here, away from the prying eyes of the Red Keep?”

A Roleplay Blog within @asongofgoldenfireandblackblood

Main • Message • Plot • Questions & Answers

#Qȳbor & Trēsy #lucerys valeryon rp #my threads #asongofgoldenfireandblackblood #asongofgf&bb #asongofgf&bbstarter #rp starter #rp #hotd rp #hotd au rp #rp blog #roleplay #house of the dragon #asoiaf #asoiaf roleplay #house of the dragon roleplay

6 notes · View notes

nicholaslannisters · 1 year ago

Text

setting: flashback. winterstown, the north. during house stark's winter games, some time prior to the coronation of jaehaerys ii, the captain of the cavalry and his elite battalion of knights have taken short leave. competing in the name of house lannister, they make camp near a tavern. after a long day of competition, the many competitors, travelers, and game fans have taken to drinking, eating, and celebrating the loses and victories. snow falls thickly outside. @anya-snow

The last time he'd been in a tavern, it hadn't gone well. Cheeky Laena had dared to talk to a woodswitch—a crumbling old woman with black teeth and a lazy eye that had sent a curling sensation twisting in his stomach. Though he'd done all he could to hide the blanche of his gold-kissed skin, the captain had... well, hadn't. He'd prayed to The Warrior that he might smite her where she stood, and take the smell with him. Nicholas Lannister could face down screaming cavalry and the clash of steel. He was skilled in horseback and war. He was not skilled in evading batty old women who smelled like... what? Prophecy and death, aging skin and decaying... something. Filth. As he drank heavily from a mug of brown ale, he felt his skin crawl. No, there would be none of that.

Earlier this evening, though, when Nicholas had prayed to The Warrior? It was to bless him in competition the following morning, and then give him the strength to down at least four more casks of ale. He was drunk -- a large man of equally large reputation, so the dark northern ale didn't completely stifle him, but still the world still buzzed in his ears. The tavern was overflowing, the doors constantly opening and closing to let people in and out. But, the snowy wind was welcomed -- the sheer number of people was as stifling as the roaring fires. People drank, people swayed, they chanted and sang. Men as large as he would pat him on the back, shake him by the shoulder -- and Nicholas and his battalion had partaken in drinking games. The sheer number of foreign knights and jousting lords, hedge fighters and northmen. So when his eyes landed on her, there -- across the room -- he was blinking in drunken surprise. And then he was smiling -- in such a way that his pale green eyes sparkled with boyish mischief. He stood, turning so that she would not see him, and lifted his large mug to drain it dry. "Another round?" Nicholas said to his men when he finished, and they cheered. Off he went to the bar keep, sending a wench in the direction of their table. But he did not return, his steps -- more sluggish than normal, but still deliberate and calculated -- ducking around tables, using tavern patrons to block his large frame. Finally, he came up behind her. And the lion sprung. Suddenly, and without warning. Nicholas hooked his hand around her waist, yanking her backwards away from the edge of the drunken, swaying crowd. In the same motion, he spun her toward his chest, backing her into a darkened, abandoned corner. The party had moved toward the lutist, and singing had begun. His hand stayed firmly planted on her waist as her back hit the wall, and like he had in Oldtown, used the other to pin both of her wrists above her head. His grip was different, now -- it was not life or death, more as if he was...playful.

But Nicholas' grin was drunken as he looked down at her. Small thing, wasn't she? Not drunk, but still -- wide, and filled with a twist of sick humor pulled forth by the inhibitions. His body, lazily leaning forward, frame dwarfing her anew. Nicholas' words were slow, drawled. Rasped from drink and playing at war, yet still held a chuckle within them. "Fancy meeting you here."

#oop #marking this as 03 since yours is 02 #|| flashback ||#|| threads -- the winter games ||#|| threads -- the north ||#|| threads -- winterstown ||#|| threads -- anya 03 ||#|| threads ||

7 notes · View notes

avars · 6 months ago

Text

MODS DE PERSONALIZACIÓN - CAS | LOS SIMS 4

Más rasgos en CAS.

Cambiar el ícono de contenido personalizado del CAS. (Recomiendo elegir solo una)

1 | CC Wrench override - Patch 1.105 2 | Tidy details & Tidy tattoos by sparrow's cc

Pantalla de carga.

Loading Screen - Pink Kitten by Tiasha-sims | 1 Gradient Loading Screen by Tiasha-sims | 2 Cozy Lo-fi Loading Screen by Tiasha-sims | 3

Fondos de CAS

Iluminación en el CAS. (Ten en cuenta que estos mods pueden interferir entre ellos, así que asegúrate de descargar solo uno)

FrontGlo by vyxated | 1 CAS Lighting by SimplyAnjuta | 2 Gentle CAS Lighting MOD by northern Siberia winds | 3

Mas columnas en el CAS.

Quitar el mosaico de censura.

MOD CAS - Sin maquillaje ni accesorios en sims aleatorios.

Pose al quedarse quieto en el CAS

Stand Still in CAS by helgatisha | 1 (Recomendado) Stand Still in CAS by Mizore Yukii | 2 Stand Still in CAS by EllieMaySims | 3

Control de posición de sim. (Compatible con cualquier "Stand Still In CAS")

#pc games #the sims 4 #sims 4 #sims 4 cas #ts4 #ts4 gameplay #ts4 mods

2 notes · View notes

crazy-ache · 11 months ago

Text

in eternal bloom - elucien one shot

Summary: On the quest to find the sixth mortal queen, Lucien Vanserra meets a human with brown eyes and that same stubborn Archeron nose. Together, on their search for Vassa, Lucien befriends Elain’s father, and learns a bit more about his mate.

Rating: G

Word count: 5.4k

Read on AO3

in eternal bloom

Looking back, Lucien could only attribute fate’s nimble hands to piecing together his journey to the Continent. A deliberate thread that tied his story closer to the fabric of whatever it was meant to be with his Cauldron-blessed mate.

It is how he found himself somewhere in the borders of the mortal lands, an eastern port on the outskirts of Scythia. The land of the sixth queen. He sucked in a breath as he pulled a hood over his head, glamour and shadows hiding his fae ears, golden eye, and molten hair from the onlookers in the human territory. He was both quick and quiet, as if his boots glided over the wet stones, his heightened hearing picking up fragments throughout the crowd and rumble of merchants, sailors, and drunkards. It was a pulsing town of trade and Lucien was a merchant of whispers and secrets without even opening his mouth.

He had to duck slightly to fit through the human doorway of the White Horse Tavern. Lucien moved slowly, careful not to attract any unnecessary attention, but the moon was high and the ale was flowing as pints passed through hands. His eyes landed on the stare of dark brown eyes, sitting in the corner, as if waiting for his arrival.

Lucien slid into the chair across from him. “The word in town is you are in need of a mercenary to find the supposed Queen Vassa.”

He eyed the human scrupulously now before him. This was his best lead so far in the vast Continent, the closest he could determine to help him find the sixth queen. This small, helpless human apparently had the answers--and Lucien would retrieve them. “I have also heard you have denied every offer so far. What can I do to convince you otherwise?”

The human man’s hands absently traced the rim of his glass, those fawn coat colored eyes unnerving, nearly familiar, as they sized Lucien up in return.

“I do not need to find her. I know where she is, in fact.”

The deep rumble from his throat surprised Lucien. He watched as the man shifted to pull what was undoubtedly a heavy bag of gold and slid it across the wooden table.

“I need you to take me into the faerie realm to retrieve her.” Lucien’s eyes flickered to the payment before him, then back at the bearded man. He had taken a risk allowing the human to see his face, but now he realized, every mercenary had been turned away because he had been waiting for someone preciscely like Lucien--a faerie who could venture into the northern lands beyond the wall.

“What are your intentions with the queen?” Lucien asked.

The man nodded, leaning forward to drop his voice to a whisper. “To build an army that will save my daughters.” It was as he spoke that Lucien’s golden eye whirred hurriedly, as if finally placing those brown eyes into the puzzle pieces of his memory, that proud nose he could recognize from anywhere--

“What is your name?” Lucien gripped the table, raising an eyebrow.

The human sat back, raised the ale to his lips to throw back what remained. He carefully wiped the edges of his mouth with the back of his hand. He gave a small smile, reaching across the table with an open hand.

“Arthur Archeron. And yourself?”

His mouth went dry, the noise of the pub suddenly flooding into his senses. But a small tug at his ribs, like the threading of a needle, moved his hand to reach across and clasp his hand. “Lucien,” he finally breathed. “Lucien Vanserra.”

He stood, their hands still locked together. “And I know your daughters, Arthur Archeron. I will do anything to protect them, so consider this a trade--allow me to help you find and retrieve this queen and her army, in return I will protect you with my life at no cost.”

The Prince of Merchants raised an eyebrow. “That is a rather terrible trade for yourself--”

But as they shook hands, whether Arthur Archeron realized it or not, a magic bargain bound them most permanently.

It was either cruel or a gift that Arthur’s face so closely resembled Elain’s. Lucien hadn’t made up his mind about fate’s hand yet as they began their journey on horseback.

They were fortunate as Scythia had the finest horses across the lands, strong, beautiful, and sturdy in their breed. The Archeron’s father had assembled a large fleet of ships, but their trek to an ominous lake, surrounded by dangerous mountains and forest in the fae lands, could only be accomplished by land. The worn map sat tightly between Arthur’s hands as they trotted on their horses. It would take at least a week of non-stop travel by Lucien’s estimations.

“What is your plan? For when you meet this powerful sorcerer keeping her?” Lucien’s voice did not hold malice or taunting, but genuine concern.

Arthur looked up from his map, folding the parchment carefully before tucking it into the inner layer of his coat. “I’m going to do what I always do--I’m going to make him a deal he can’t deny. My friend, do not worry yourself over that part, leave it to me. I simply need you to get me there alive.”

Lucien knew this man had never fought a battle or even a brawl a day in his life. His hands did not bear the markings of labor or training, his frame thin, and Lucien wasn’t sure he was even carrying a single dagger on this journey except his damn wood carving knife. Meanwhile he was still wearing the Illyrian leathers, several daggers hidden in various locations, a broad sword against his back, and more dangled from his pack. Had Elain seen this far? Had she known her father was weaved into this future?

“You have seen my daughters then? How are they?”

“They…” Lucien considered his words carefully, those brown eyes peering into him expectedly. “They have been through some great and terrible things. But they have survived. They are together now, fortunately. Feyre is my friend--she saved our kind. She saved me. I owe her very much, considering there were also many ways I failed her in return.”

“That makes two of us.” They mirrored a small, sad smile to each other. “Feyre is married to her mate now, in a great position of power. She is happy with him.”

“And Nesta?”

“She seems to be keeping it together for her sister’s sake, considering all things. I did not get the chance to know her,” Lucien admitted.

Arthur laughed, giving him a knowing look that they both understood as, actually she did not care to know you.

“And Elain--” Even the mention of her name from his lips sent a shudder up his spine. “She is getting better from what I have been told. She has lost so much and I can only imagine how difficult it has been. I did not get a chance to get to know her either, but--”

Lucien had to look away, towards the horizon, towards the faraway mountains they were after. “But I would like to, one day.” And even if the words she’s your mate, she’s your mate bore into his mind, he decided he would not tell her father, not on this journey, that it was not for him to share.

From where he sat on his horse, Lucien couldn’t see the way Arthur tilted his head, studying the fae’s profile, with only a whisper of a wind between them.

They continued on this way for days. Lucien had decided that the man was a pleasant companion after all; days on horseback entitled them to endless conversations and stories, from comparisons of the mortal and fae lands, his rather clever merchant negotiations, to embarrassing stories of his daughters that Lucien was indeed saving for the right opportunity. They spent nights by the fire, where Arthur either worked on various wood carvings, or they taught each other card games between sips of whiskey. The human was a rather terrible gambler, but always lost with a smile.

“I’d like to hear more about your daughters, in your own words.” Lucien found himself asking one night, poking a stick into the fire. Arthur looked up from whatever it was he was currently attempting to carve.

“Hmm,” the man scratched at his now rugged beard. “Let’s see. Nesta was our first born. She is the most like her mother, but softer around the edges if you can believe it. Nesta is calculating and cunning. She possesses a fierce type of love.” He set the wooden carving to the side, rubbing his hands together at the fire. “You seem to know Feyre rather well. She was always the bravest of us all. Brave, determined, and free spirited.”

Lucien nodded with a neutral face, hoping their father could not sniff out the anticipation on his face for the remaining daughter. The restraint to demand to know everything about her ached in his muscles. The longing he felt settled deep inside his bones.

“And…and Elain?” Lucien asked, when he caught the man staring at him from across the fire.

Arthur smiled. “Elain is filled with kindness and hope. She was my light in the darkest of times. A rarity in this world.”

When Lucien did not say anything in return, Arthur pressed on. “She was always the most social of her sisters. I had never met a servant or friend or suiter who did not come to love her--and certainly not one who could deny her anything.” There was a twinkle in his brown eyes, something soft and proud.

“She was to be married—” Lucien swallowed roughly, that primal anger pooling into his belly, that instinctual roar to claim, causing the fire to burn brighter and higher than before. If Arthur noticed, he did not show outwardly. With a wave of his hand, he cut Lucien’s thoughts off from further spiraling. “No, that Nolan boy won’t marry her once he knows the truth of what happened.”

If there had been time, Lucien would have turned the words over in his hands. He would have possibly let himself imagine a life where his mate could offer him something that had been hollowed out of him long ago--he would allow himself to consider how even the hint of kindness and hope made something in chest flutter with warmth like an awakening.

Before he could, three figures emerged from the darkness into his eye line.

Lucien snarled, fangs and all, as he reached for his broad sword. This was one of the many reasons Arthur Archeron was wise to bring him, he mulled. Three fae with swords growled back. Dangerous. These three were dangerous, hungry to kill a human, and eager to steal whatever they possessed on their backs.

These may have been foreign lands, but the rules were familiar. He could dance the dance of his kind. In a few steps, he stood before the human in question, who had sat frozen on the ground behind him.

“Hate to disappoint, but you’re not getting this one.”

Three swords pointed back at him. Without sparing a glance, he tossed one of his spare blades at Arthur’s feet. “You’re going to run now.”

Thank the Mother he had the good sense to grab the weapon and scramble further into the woods without further command.

It did not take long for Lucien to find him--he only had to follow the scent of fear.

With a grunt, he stepped to the top of a boulder, to peer down where Arthur was crouching behind a tangle of roots and rocks, the blade shaking in his hand. “Lucien!” He exclaimed, relief flooding his features. Lucien jumped down to meet him below, placing a bloodied blade into its sheath.

“You did not leave me?” Arthur asked.

“I am a male of my word,” Lucien smirked. “I made a deal with the Prince of Merchants. I intend to keep it.”

They laughed, the human patting him on the shoulder in gratitude. “Come, Lucien, let us make camp again. I will even let you beat me in cards in return for saving my life.” Lucien’s laugh barked through the trees. Bargain or not, he would have saved this human. Mate’s father or not. He would have for his friend, just as he had done for another Archeron long ago.

They were growing weary. Even if their horses were strong and Arthur had more than enough money for provisions. Perhaps it was this exhaustion that made him more amenable to the human’s idea.

“I have a proposition,” Arthur said in an even tone over his cards. Lucien raised one eyebrow over his own hand fanned out in front of him. “If I win this hand, we make a detour of my choice.”

“What kind of detour?” Lucien chewed on his words. “It would add days to the journey and I am not sure if we have time to afford the delay.”

Arthur placed his cards carefully on the ground, then pulled out the map from his chest to hand to Lucien. From there, he pointed to a spot on the map a bit more western from the forest perimeter of their intended lake, marked with a small star in his own writing. “There.”

Lucien’s brows furrowed. “What is there? What is so important?”

Arthur ripped the map back, folding it quickly to place back into his chest. “A tulip field,” he muttered, waving his hand as if everything he had just said could be disregarded, hiding behind his cards instead.

Something pressed tightly in his chest--like spark rocks for a fire.

Go it urged. Against all better judgment, Lucien glanced at his cards once, then spoke before he could regret it later, the words drawing out. “Alright, but only if you win this hand.”

He could not explain why, but Lucien lost for the first time on purpose.

It would add two additional days to their trip. But the fields were, after all, worth it.

As they dismounted from their horses, even Lucien in all his centuries of living could admit he had not seen a vision so beautiful. It rivaled the mightiness of the Spring Court. Endless green rolling hills cradled the rows of wild tulips. Their vibrant colors of red, purple, yellow, orange, pink, white seemed to reflect against the blue sky. Their stems poked past their knees, the breeze making them dance, as if they were waves of a colorful ocean.

The pair walked through the field, a melody of beauty in the air. It was only Arthur’s voice that cut through the spectacle.

“It was Elain’s dream to see the tulip fields on the Continent.” Lucien turned his head finally, catching the ghost of a tear in the man’s eyes. The sadness at odds with the scenery before them. “I should have taken her, before all this. Before it was too late.”

“It doesn’t have to be too late, Arthur.” Lucien stepped closer, gesturing at the field. “After all of this is over. I will gladly accompany you both.”

Arthur’s hands rested on his waist, as he smiled at the flowers, his human eyes unable to even see the end of their buds in the distance. “Yes. Promise me, Lucien. Promise you’ll ensure she sees them one day.”

He meant to ask why he spoke as if he would not be here in the future, as if there would never be a day Arthur himself would be able to stand here with Elain. Instead, he simply whispered, “I promise.”

They did not speak again as they ventured further into the field, their fingertips brushing against hundreds of petals. When he closed his eyes, Lucien could nearly imagine Elain there with him. He could only hope.

The stars were hung high, only a sliver of moonlight breaking the darkness of the night. Lucien heard his voice clear through the crackling of a dying fire.

“Tell me, Lucien, what heartbreak drove you to this quest on the Continent?” He could not see Arthur’s face from where he laid on his mat, but he understood the implication. “What pain? What regret?”

Every scar singed with the reminder of its ghostly pain at the thought. Jesminda’s name still ached in his teeth, his mother’s bruises in the back of his head, all of the places he once called home that he could never return to, Amarantha’s wrath and nails buried in his skull, Hybern and his mate who would always be out of reach, Tamlin and Feyre and Spring—

“I wouldn’t know which one to pick.” He tucked his hands behind his head, the sky draped like a blanket over his skin.

He didn’t have to ask to know Arthur’s reason—the immense regret he felt for failing his daughters during their darkest time of need. With every conversation, he painted another layer of how everything had unraveled beneath his roof in poverty, how he had lost himself to his misery, allowing his daughters to pick up the pieces instead. It was the kind of pain that drives a man across an ocean. How terribly human, he thought, to wear your shortcomings on your sleeves, to proclaim them loudly with every intention, every turn.

“All of this…everything you’re doing, is it going to help you?” Lucien asked and he knew the human would understand. Will their forgiveness save you? From the miserable pit inside your soul?

“No.” It cut the air like a knife. “For that, we will need to forgive ourselves.”

When they finally reached that lake, the panic began to surge through his blood. Every step closer to the water, Lucien began to understand it for what it was—a prison. Some magic old and dark and haunted bound whatever it was that remained inside. His body begged to escape, a visceral dread that had his mechanical eye whirring with desperation.

But they walked on. Because he had to ensure Elain’s vision was not in vain. The magic of the bargain pushing and pushing him forward.

And Arthur did not waver. Wherever that trembling human with a blade in hand had gone, he was not sure. His face was devoid of all emotion, only set in determination.

“Are you sure you wish to go alone?” He turned to the human next to him. “Arthur, this is madness. He is an all powerful, ancient sorcerer. Take me with you. I may be able to help, there are things I understand, things I can see that you cannot—”

“No, Lucien. This is something I have to do alone. I cannot fail my daughters again. I cannot give up again.”

It was the most resolute he had seen the Archeron patriarch throughout their entire journey. And he could almost understand then. For it was the same face he had worn when leaving Velaris, the ghost of his mate at the staircase. The face of someone whose past felt like heavy chains, whose regret could consume them whole if they dared to look back.

“Remember,” he called out after him, “Every word in your deal matters! Think of every possible outcome, he will only accept what is advantageous to himself—”

The words were lost like mist over the water, as Arthur Archeron walked down the narrow passageway into the depths of the lake to meet Vassa’s keeper.

As he waited and waited, he could not help but recall every detail of that fateful day that had spun its thread to this moment. Back in Velaris, when the knowledge of Elain’s newfound powers had still been raw in both of their minds. They were at last alone, a simple kindness from the rest of the Night Court.

He had not known what to say to her when everyone else had gone upstairs. He was rendered speechless and she did not look away from the stitching of the pillowcase.

“What if I am wrong?” Her voice was small and frayed. There was doubt laced through her words. Lucien yearned to comfort her with tenderness. To wrap his fingers around those delicate, pale wrists and learn the rhythm of her pulsing blood. To throw her over his shoulder and bring her with him so she could simply see how wrong she was to doubt herself.

He did not know her. But he was bound to her soul. That alone meant something. Even if it meant nothing to her.

“I do not believe you are wrong. I will find her, lady. I assure you.”

Elain’s faraway eyes looked down at her hands, staring at the lines of her palms. And Lucien could not help himself, call him a romantic, but he had to offer at least once. He had to put his heart out on a sacrificial platter for her even if this may be the last time.

“I will stay, if you’d like. I will go find the queen from your vision. But if you ask, I will stay.”

She was slow to speak, but sincere, earnest almost. “I think it is best for you to go.”

He had mistaken it for dismissal. He is bound to her. He wondered if now that he had spoken to her, seen her, breathed the air next to her, if the distance he was about to embark would puncture him where that thread tied to his rib. He wondered if she would forget him. “As you wish,” he nodded, and he lingered for just a moment where their hands almost touched.

But for all those thoughts, there was one that had been afraid she’d ask him to stay. There was a small piece of him terrified by what she would find if she finally looked him in the eye. He was not ready for it.

Lucien’s memory was interrupted as he looked upon the lake.

That clever human. Lucien had broken into a run as soon as he had seen the silhouettes form in the mist. One that was undeniably Arthur Archeron, an arm wrapped around a smaller frame—Vassa. Oh that clever and cunning Prince of Merchants had done it. As his face came into his vision, brown eyes and proud nose, it was as if seeing Feyre triumphing against Amarantha all over again. It all but confirmed what he should have suspected; there was more to him than simple pleasantries. That cleverness ran strong through Archeron blood.

They found the queen.

“I imagine you’re going to sail on this one.” Lucien turned around from where he had been staring at the elegant, white lettering of ship in the harbor, the Elain. The thundering of armies loading onto the fleet of ships echoed around them as they prepared for an unknown war against Hybern. When he saw his mate’s father smiling at him, he felt his face redden, a hand shooting to rub the back of his neck. Had he been that obvious this entire time? “I—well—uh—” he stuttered but Arthur mercifully stepped next to him, gazing upon the ship himself.

“It was Elain who once told me about the significance of tulips,” he had his hands behind his back and Lucien couldn’t shake his stare. “Did you know they are slow to bloom? And once they do, they only bloom for a week or two for the entire year? What are the chances of that? That you and I would happen to see something so rare, so beautiful on our journey.”

Arthur turned to Lucien, offering an outstretched hand. There was a pause, where his mismatched eyes took in the human. The grays strewn through his hair and beard, those dark brown eyes that seemed to know much more than he had ever let on. This human who had negotiated with a Death God was the same crippled, hobbled man that had haunted Feyre for years. His mate’s father. And here they were.

“They are certainly worth the wait.” Lucien replied, clasping his hand in a firm grip.

“Yes, she is.” Arthur nodded, a second hand enveloping Lucien’s, patting his knuckles. And it was her face that flashed in his memory and glowed within his rib cage like embers. Lucien’s eyes flickered with confusion, his grip tightening as he searched Arthur’s face for more answers. But the smile on the man’s lips only confirmed he had not misheard what was really being said. Elain. “For however long it takes.”

He felt something between their palms.

“You’re a good man, Lucien.” Male, he wanted to instinctively correct, but instead he was at a loss of words, as Arthur had already let go to begin walking towards the Nesta further down the harbor. It rang in his ears like a goodbye.

When he looked down in his hand, a carved, wooden tulip laid in his palm.

When he ran across the battlefield on that fateful day against Hybern, it was as if the bond, raw and aching at the proximity, was an invisible pull against all currents, all power. He ran harder than ever before, sword heavy in his head, slicing through enemies and barriers. Nothing called to him louder. He still could not hear her heart, but that didn’t mean his own couldn’t find her within the bloodshed.

When they speak again, in the tattered edges of the war, there is a moment they find themselves alone once again. A blood soaked bucket strained against her hands.

“You found her,” she broke the silence. The lost, flaming queen from her vision.

Lucien turned to her nodding, a throat bobbing.

“You found her, Elain. As did your father. I simply followed.”

She looked at him with words unsaid, and Lucien longed to read her mind, to drop to his knees and beg for just another few more syllables to quell his pounding heart. To touch her. “Thank you.” Elain swallowed, adjusting her grip on the bucket carefully. Those big, fawn-colored eyes blinked at him before turning away without another word, and for an odd reason he couldn’t possibly place a finger as to what she was thanking him for at all.

He could not know that she had seen his evenings with her father in the smallest glimpse of a vision, the fire lit upon their faces, a warm laugh shared. He watched her walk away, specks of red in her hair, just as his hand found the carving in his pocket for the first time since the harbor.

When months became years, Lucien had developed a habit of thumbing over the tulip carving in his pocket. With every disappointment, every cold, stifled conversation, the sorrow and longing for his mate had long found a permanent home in his chest. It was difficult at times when the person Arthur had described was so at odds with the Elain in his presence. The petals had long worn and weathered from his frustration. But it was enough. Enough to remember the final words he had shared on that harbor with her father. Enough to clear the fog from his lungs and straighten his shoulders with nothing but unwavering patience. She is worth the wait, even if it means centuries.

It was dawn when he arrived at the gravestone in Velaris.

How long had it been since his last visit? He could not recall, as time had been blending together lately. Lucien’s gaze traced the outline of Archeron on the white stone, his fingers absently running over the wooden carving in his memory.

“Lucien?”

With a quick step, Lucien turned to find Elain behind him, a bundle of purple lilies in hand. She radiated with the morning light in a soft pink dress, curls cascading down her back. He swallowed, his cheeks likely matching the color of her gown.

“Elain,” he bowed his head, moving to give her space. “Please,” he gestured to where he had been standing. “I can give you some space and privacy.”

Instead of stepping forward, he watched as Elain’s gaze landed on the wooden tulip in his hand, as if she had not heard a word he had said. As she bent down to place her lilies on the grass, she took a sharp breath before finding her voice. “What is that?”

Lucien held his hand up, palm open to the sky above. He inspected the wooden carving, looking closer than he had in ages. “Your father…he had carved it for me on our journey through the continent. It’s a tulip.” Ripping his eyes from the small figurine, he looked at Elain, who had now stepped closer to take a look.

He almost stopped breathing when her soft hands grazed his skin, to turn the tulip over, poking a finger at the delicate stem and adjoining leaf. “Oh, this one is rather good,” Elain smiled, peering up at him with mirth in her eyes. “He had truly gotten better over the years.”

“Would you like it?” He couldn’t stop himself. One look and he was ready to give everything up. And he would, he knew. Without hesitation. “Say the word and it’s yours.”

For a heartbeat, he could see as she sincerely contemplated the offer, staring down at the wooden flower, perhaps one of the last relics of her father’s life. She made her decision as she used her two hands to curl Lucien’s fingers over the carving. “No…you should keep it. He must have given it to you for good reason.”

The bond tethered between them flickered with melancholy. Lucien bowed his head, tucking his hands into his pockets, shoving the carving deep inside. Her small, polite smile plastered on her face was sad, this Lucien knew, as it throbbed inside his chest. But there was something else, faraway, a glow. He couldn’t stop now.

“You never asked about him, about our time together. I do not wish for you to think I am withholding anything from you. I just didn’t want to intrude—”

“—I know.” Elain shook her head, tucking a curl behind her ear. “I suppose I wasn’t ready to hear what you had to say, at least not from you.” Emotions flashed across the bond. Confusion. Anguish. Anger. Disdain. Sorrow. It was every familiar feeling Lucien had felt from her over the years, as if she was remembering each and every one. Just as quickly as they appeared, they vanished, melting away like snow. In its place, something brave was awakening.

“What about now?” Lucien held on to that bravery with a bated breath.

She looked away, but a smile was spreading across her pretty lips, eyes settling on the horizon, the sun now settled between clouds. “I think I am ready after all.”

That smile was a thousand petals unfurling, an everlasting bloom unfolding before his very eyes. It put that tulip field to shame. It was spring incarnate. Lucien stilled, his hand letting go of the wooden tulip in his pocket he had been gripping with white knuckles.

His smile blossomed, as if cracking him wide open. His heart stretched and strengthened anew. “Then I must confess, my lady. Your father and I saw the tulip field in the continent.”

“Really? Is it as lovely as they say?” Elain asked.

“It was breathtaking.” Lucien could not look away from her, not at the joy radiating from her cheeks, as if her smile had the power to shine daylight. “He made me promise I would ensure you see it one day. I had hoped to accompany you and him…but—” They both looked down at the marble gravestone. A quiet settled and Lucien could feel his own heartbeat thundering beneath his skin.

“I would like to, one day.” He had almost forgotten his confession, content to stand next to her in silence forever if that was what she had desired, if that’s all she would allow for the rest of their days. His head turned towards her, their eyes meeting again. There it was. Hope.

“Would you like to walk back with me to the house? And perhaps share some of those stories now?” Elain gestured to the general direction of the townhouse.

Lucien nodded, taking a moment to look at the gravestone of Arthur Archeron once more. Thank you, my friend he whispered in the back of his mind, before taking the first step into this new journey alongside his mate.

“Yes, under one condition. Please tell me you’re a better hand at cards than your father was—I simply could never wrap my head around how such a clever man could be so terrible.” Elain’s head tipped back in an echoing laugh. As she uncovered her own story of her father, Lucien could feel something take root deep inside his chest, something brave and beautiful.

Perhaps they were both ready now.

#elucien #elucien fanfiction #elucien fic #elain x lucien #pro elucien #Lucien friendship with papa Archeron #since SJM wont tell me what happened to lucien I WROTE IT MYSELF #Lots of longing but still warm and fuzzy

6 notes · View notes