#northern iron age

[priestess-of-the-north-west]

Burial site Lindholm Høje at Nørresundby, Denmark. Dated between 400-1000 CE. (Picture by Bavi, source.) More information about this site at the Vikingemuseet Lindholm Høje. And here you can look around at the site the Google Streetview-way.

Interestingly, it's not only ship shapes but also circles. Picture made by the Archaeology in Europe Educational Resources Website.

Some stone ships at Lindholm are relatively young, early Viking Age, but most can be dated further back in time, to the Northern Iron Age. Stone ships, however, go back as early as the Northern Bronze Age:

Southern Scandinavia and the Baltic Sea region with important areas of ship-decorated artefacts, rock art and stone ships from the Nothern Bronze Age, illustration by Joakim Wehlin in 2022.

Besides remains and typical items for burial, archaeologists found tools, fireplaces, needles, charcoals, and other artefacts with the stone ships.

A study by Dr. Joakim Wehlin showed that some of the stone ships didn't have graves. This suggests a social use.

Wehlin also proposes that these stone ships should be related to a specific group of people in the Baltic region:

The communities around the Baltic Sea differed from the Nordic Bronze Age sphere. In the wake of these maritime groups, what could be called a Baltic Sea culture ca. 1000‑200 BCE emerged. Through establishing and sharing mutual interests, the communities around the Baltic Sea have reached a certain degree of consensus. Such a manifestation would not have been possible without an infrastructure or network, in this case, a maritime one: a “Baltic maritory”.

A tentative map of the Northern Bronze Age "Baltic maritory" by Joakim Wehlin in 2022.

[wilderbas]

the green comet • c/2022 e3 ‘ztf’

[quotesfrommyreading]

It is difficult to answer the question ‘what happened to the Celts?’ because they never really went anywhere. The people – and their art, culture and DNA – were absorbed into other empires, kingdoms and societies. Some areas of Britain, such as what is now Wales, Scotland and Cornwall, remained largely free of Roman influence, while Ireland was never part of the Roman empire. All later helped to reintroduce Celtic art and tradition back into what was once the province of Britannia. Elsewhere, Celtic culture fused with English, Danish and Norman influences to create a distinctive style all of its own.

It is only really within the last few centuries that the term ‘Celtic’ has taken on a more political dimension, being linked with concepts of Welsh, Scottish, Irish, Cornish, Gallician or Breton independence in the face of perceived English, Spanish or French political domination.

Throughout the 19th and 20th centuries, Celtic art, culture, language and tradition have been resuscitated and used, not only as symbols of resistance, but also of identity and common ancestry, especially among those descended from emigrant groups in the USA, Canada, South America and Australia.

Although this new form of Celtic identity is far removed from its prehistoric origins, it is surely testament to the powerful nature of this most distinctive and magnificent of ancient civilisations.

  —  The Celts: Who Were They, Where Did They Live, & What Happened After The Romans Left Britain?

[analog-mothman]

i'm in one of my "fantasy saves that go nowhere before the vibe passes" moods, so if I post a bunch of braids and long hair for men and drop all of my current wips for the next few weeks, i dunno sorry?

[yarnandink]

To all the fibre and textile crafters of centuries and millennia past, whose work has long since rotted away, all trace of their creations vanished, and their contribution to the growth and expression of their cultures erased and made invisible by the oblivion of decay, such that nowadays the inheritors of their craft and tradition are dismissed as hobbyists, and the skill and technical prowess required to create fibre or fabric is overlooked or dismissed outright.

raise a glass to the posts you love that end up deleted. to the fanart and fanfics you lose track of and can't locate. to the blogs you used to look through that ended up unexpectedly disappearing. to the things you didn't archive because you always assumed they'd be there.

[lobselvith8]

Regarding Gaider's "Modern Elves are Partly to blame for their own oppression"

In a conversation with Christina Gonzalez and a few other people on twitter, David Gaider, the former headwriter of Dragon Age, mocked fans of the Dalish. I took issue with his statement and pointed out why people are critical of how he and the other writers handled the Dalish in Dragon Age (while Allan Schumacher of Epic Games had nothing of substance to say in response). The Dalish are nomadic as a consequence of Andrastian societies violently attacking them if they stay too long in one area. The Andrastian Chantry outlawed their religion, making them criminals as a consequence of their faith. Andrastians will threaten the Dalish with violence in an attempt to force conversion to the Andrastian faith. Templars will hunt down the Dalish, and will even torture children. Andrastian elves also suffer from Andrastian oppression as Andrastian humans can massacre all of them, down to the children in an orphanage.

Gaider postulates that one could discuss how the ancient elves were "partly to blame" for their enslavement (let's keep in mind that being slaves is what he's talking about, even though he's careful not to put that into his tweet) or how "modern elves are partly to blame for their own oppression" which is essentially what we are told throughout the whole of Inquisition and the DLCs that accompanied the game (even JoH tries to romanticize the genocidal tyrant Drakon and place all of the blame on the Dales for the elves not trusting the tyrant who was invading their neighbors, forcing conversion, and massacring the people who would not convert - like the peaceful pacifists known as the Daughters of Song).

Inquisition even rectonned previously established lore on the Dalish in order to have characters like Iron Bull denigrate the Dalish. It's a game that will side-step Celene burning thousands of elves alive in Halamshiral while it will demonize the Dalish for wanting to maintain their autonomy from what's essentially a group of colonizers who want to rule over them and force them to convert, and the white Canadian writers (who are from Canada, a place known for its long history of horrific treatment towards Indigenous people) are firmly on the side of those who think that the Dalish (who, as Gaider himself once said at the Dragon Central forums before the release of Origins, were modeled after "Northern Native Americans") are wrong not to subjugate themselves to white Andrastian rulers.

Andrastian elves similarly face hardships because of Andrastian rule. In Ferelden even the efforts of the Night Elves fighting to free the nation from Orlesian rule didn't the elves any greater freedoms once Maric came to power. The Boon of the City Elf faces a number of dire consequences unless the Warden assumes control themselves as the new Bann. Inquisition ignores the plight of the elves of the Dales entirely to focus on a white human noble as the focus of the storyline in the Dales, and you can potentially help chevalier Michel de Chevin (a white man with blonde hair who is part of the chevaliers, a group who murder innocent elves as part of their initiation rite, although this isn't properly addressed in-game) while Briala's role is marginalized in-game despite being the leader of an elven rebellion across Orlais (and she strangely became white despite her in-book description making it clear she's a woman of color, which accompanying artwork confirmed).

Whether you're talking about the slavery of ancient elves or the 'modern' oppression of Andrastian elves and Dalish elves, I don't see how you can blame either the victims of slavery or the victims of racial (and in the case of the Dalish religious) persecution for the oppression they face. And Gaider doesn't seem to understand that at all, which explains the inherent problems with how the plight of the elves is framed within Dragon Age.

[sehaedazokla]

he that dares

part eight

premise: Cregan Stark's arrival in King's Landing has brought a new type of chaos to the capital. Lady Tyrell is determined to use the Northern lord to her advantage, but the task might not be as straightforward as it seems. 

tags: slowburn, tension, angst, comfort, eventual smut, court politics

chapter warnings: adult content

word count: 12.0k

a/n: the pinterest board and playlist for this series have been added to the series masterlist! i am a little nervous to post this chapter because i've never written anything like this but here it is – 

previous part | next part | series masterlist

The day prior to the trials held at King’s Landing, the young prince Aegon makes his first public appearance before the nobles at court. Scarcely has the sun peaked its way above the edges of the world when the lords and ladies are summoned to gather in the throne room, half-covered yawns and bleary eyes waiting impatiently for the presentation of their future king. Hazy morning light wanders in pale rays through the arching windows, illuminating flecks of iron upon the weapons composing the throne. Lady Tyrell has not even the energy to glare ferociously at it, barely having slept the night before. Her satins and feather pillows do little to assuage her troubled mind, roiling with concern over the arrival of her lady mother – perhaps on the morrow, more likely that very morning. She pictured all sorts of disastrous matches, weighing the probability of each one in her mind and finding that if she thought long enough, it is almost as if she can read her mother’s mind. This only served to agitate her further, for if she is indeed correct then her fate is rather sealed after all, as well as that of her sister. 

Her hands skim down the front of her dress in a nervous habit, aching to appear as presentable as humanly possible. The fabric is a dark blue, inky and soft beneath her fingers, decorated with the golden embroidery of flowers that grow within the gardens of the castle she was raised in. A gift from her mother, sent for her most recent birthday with an assortment of teardrop pearls and letters adorned with curved words imploring her to hold out against the tumultuous wartime tide and wait for an advantageous time to act. The roses blooming upon her body, spun in shining silk, bind her and remind her poignantly of her where her loyalties ought to lie. During the war, her attention had been given solely to surviving and attending to Helaena and the children – there was little time to devote to any sort of scheming, save for what her mother deemed absolutely necessary to protect their House. 

As of late, her heart has been swayed to those of House Stark and House Targaryen. Her eyes close as she imagines what her mother might say, finding the daughter she raised to be ambitious and cutthroat behind deceptively fluttery lashes instead harboring love and affection for those of other houses. Fingers dig tightly into the soft fabric of her heavy skirts, a sudden wave of suffocation washing across her body as the weighty dress seems to grow heavier. With a soft breath, she returns her attention to the head of the throne room. Many Northern guards are present, alongside what remains of the Kingsguard. Despite the exhaustion and ruffled expressions throughout the room at the early hour of the gathering, there is a hum of expectation about the hall. The coveted and damned chair of swords shall not be claimed by Rhaenyra nor Aegon II. A child shall sit it instead, only ten years of age. 

Lady Tyrell does not much care who is cursed by the crown of the Realm any longer. She has seen firsthand what unimaginable horrors and suffering it brings about. Let the nobles squabble for it like crows over a poisoned carcass. 

Yet as she looks upon the child at last, all eyes within the room locking upon the boy hungrily or with poorly concealed interest, a sense of resigned sorrow fills her chest. Doomed is he, through the blood of both mother and father and chained to a skeletal and haunted existence within these walls. It is already apparent in his face, the hollowness of his eyes as they rest sunken into his youthful countenance. With all of the division sowed during the war, she has almost forgotten that this child is not a stranger of some unknown lineage, but Helaena’s own nephew, Jaehaera’s cousin. The resemblance nearly frightens her, when her eyes meet Aegon’s across the room. Has Helaena not looked upon her with those same violet eyes, that same sense of dread, of finality?

Her gaze is violently torn away, a sharp breath clawing its way past her tongue and teeth and lips. She shall never know peace so long as she remains here within this castle. Ghosts haunt her every breath, and while one of them is always welcomed with open arms and a gentle falling to her knees, others she does not wish to see. The amount of Targaryen spirits lingering about, wide eyes still cast to the throne and the child sacrificed to it, is far too many for the Lady Tyrell. All she can hope to do is take Jaehaera away from here and ask the dead for forgiveness or at least to be ignored. But the soon-to-be boy king breathes still. Is it haunting if the figure’s blood thrums beneath taut skin, veins as purple as the eyes that unknowingly condemn? Is it haunting if the guilt from turning away rips her internal organs out with bone hands, wrapping her intestines around her neck and forcing her to look at the child whose fate she is feigning ignorance to?

By the prince’s side stand his two elder half-sisters, whom Lady Tyrell quietly hopes are supporting the child during this impossible time. As with Jaehaera, the prince has primarily been confined to his chambers whilst the North has held power at Court. She has never had the chance to converse at length with either Baela or Rhaena, given that she had been betrothed to Daeron and decidedly upon the other side of the war despite her own House’s neutrality. Cregan remains a few feet away, but his presence is far more commanding than anyone else’s upon the stairs. Remembering what he had told her of his own past, she watches quietly as Aegon begins to speak.

“The trials for those who betrayed the crown and forsook their honor will be held on the morrow,” The prince’s voice rings out clear and solemn, echoing the dullness of his amethyst eyes. It is clear that someone his elder has written the words for him to speak, and Lady Tyrell wonders if the presence of the princesses at Aegon’s side indicates that Cregan has made some sort of agreement with them. If they truly care for Aegon, the lady does not imagine it will be hard for the three to come to an arrangement that suits all of their desires for the betterment of the Realm and for the future of boy. “Lord Cregan Stark, Warden of the North, shall preside over the trials as Hand of the King.”

If Lady Tyrell is shocked by this announcement, she is joined by nearly every noble within the throne room. The young prince is quick to depart following the brief words, the guards following him closely as he exits through one of the arched hallways at the sides of the staircase by the head of the hall. Rhaena and Baela linger within the hall of a moment to speak to Lady Blackwood, as the rest of the lords and ladies turn to each other to whisper their opinions upon this appointing quite fiercely, everyone seemingly eager to get their thoughts out at once. Many of them still regard Cregan with obvious distrust, seeing him as a foreign presence unfamiliar to their Southern customs and traditions. She need not cast him long looks, wondering upon whether he might plunge the capital into chaos or refuse to leave. The skirts of her gown brush delicately against the grey stone flooring as she nears the steps, caring little for the eyes that are drawn to her boldness.

It matters not when he is already searching the room for her, storm cloud eyes sparking as he catches sight of her approaching. The slight softening of his gaze does not go unnoticed by her, although it shall not be dwelled upon when she is sure her own eyes melt slightly as he crosses the space between them to meet her. Hushed voices murmur around them, the raising of brows at the pair of them. What might have been excused as courtesy before is now blatantly seen as it is – favoring. For formality’s sake, despite what little good it will truly do given how her public closeness with the Lord of Winterfell shall surely spread in wild rumor throughout the castle halls that night, she scoops fabric of her gown into her hands and gives Cregan a low curtsy.

“I wish to offer you my congratulations, Lord Stark,” Her chin remains tucked towards her chest, her eyes modestly lowered as she slowly rises up, shoulders pulling back gently. There is a light flutter to her lashes as she blinks up at Cregan, gazing into his eyes for a moment before a soft amusement tugs at the corners of her lips with the knowledge that many of the nobles present shall fret over how long the Warden of the North will remain and power and what anarchy he might cause. The volume of her speech decreases with a twinkle in her eyes, her head tilting slightly as she holds his gaze. “It is only a temporary position, I am sure, but I offer you felicitations nonetheless.”

Only the glimmer in her stare, scarcely more visible than a lighthouse in a midnight tempest, gives any hint at the teasing quality to her words. Cregan seems to find amusement in them, reflected in shrouded subtlety within his own eyes as he looks down at her. “So eager to be rid of me, my lady?”

The tilt of her head deepens at this, a soft breath through her nose escaping as her eyes briefly cast their gaze sideways in an attempt to conceal the delight dancing across her countenance at his low and rolling timbre and the peaking of his Northern humor. While the other nobles at court might view her as bashful and shy in the presence of the imposing lord, Cregan alone catches the humor within their exchange, the affection in her expression that softens her lips and her stance. It is exhilarating, reading her as one might a tome in the restricted section of a vast library. Giving another quiet breath, her voice adopts a sweeter quality reminiscent of their earliest conversations. “Oh, but how dreadfully boring it should be without you here, my lord.”

Cregan’s eyes narrow in almost playful scorn at this, only a fraction of an inch but enough that she can sense a teasing retort sharp on his tongue. Yet no time is spared for further conversation, as one of the Northern lords is standing so close to the Lord of Winterfell that he is practically breathing down Cregan’s neck and clearly has a pressing matter to discuss. Lady Tyrell dips her head in a demure excusing of herself, her attention drawn to the twin princesses once more as Cregan’s deep voice is heard softly behind her. Perhaps it is far past time she makes an attempt to speak to them, regardless of her hatred of their father. It is hardly their fault, nor should she allow personal feelings to interfere with a potential alliance. Her mother might have her head if she did so.

The conversation goes as well as she might hope, given the initial uncomfortable tension that stems from lingering feelings from the war. Both Baela and Rhaena seem weary from their efforts to reason with Cregan over the imprisonment of their grandfather Corlys. It appears that the Sea Snake has indeed been in contact with the lady’s mother, for the princesses mention that their families now share similar goals of bringing peace to the Seven Kingdoms. Yet at the remarking upon the favor she has gained with the Lord of Winterfell, all Lady Tyrell can do is merely nod and brush the inquisitive questions aside, not wishing to speak upon the matter at length when Lady Blackwood is rather close. She still cannot pinpoint the nature of Alysanne Blackwood’s relationship with Cregan, but her spies brought rather comforting rumors of a romance with Lady Sabitha Frey, who additionally fought in the battles during the war. If she truly wishes to be amiable, she might invite the ladies all to tea in the gardens prior to their imminent departure, but she cannot surmise if Lady Blackwood would find it worth her time and does not wish to offend. 

A page hovering rather obviously to her right catches her attention, the young boy’s eyes widening in order to alert her of a message over which he fidgets with an anxious need to deliver. A caving pit begins to form in her stomach, sinking as if grains of sand in an hourglass that has run out of minutes, has her quite certain she is already aware of what it is he has come to tell her. Offering the princesses a soft smile and an apologetic excuse for taking her leave of the conversation, she straightens her posture and attempts to forge a steady peace within her mind before addressing the boy. Giving her a deep yet clumsy bow, the messenger looks up at her with brown eyes, straw-colored hair turning golden in the morning light streaming in from the windows.

“The Tyrell traveling party has entered the city, my lady.” The page’s voice is rather high-pitched, echoing the sharp twinge of her heart that rings in her ears like the plucking of a poorly tuned lute. Rather than allow this to show upon her face, she pinches her lips together in a tight smile, eyes lackluster as she nods in measured acknowledgement.

“I see. Thank you for informing me.” It is all she can force herself to say, her mind racing too hurriedly through the realization that her family has finally returned to King’s Landing after three long years. The boy is already scrambling to convey the news to others it is pertinent to, leaving her to clench her fists tightly as she begins to make her way towards the doors. The lords and ladies still lingering within the throne room are occupied with conversation over the trials, and the sudden appointment of a new Hand of the King, but she has banished every thought from her mind rather than how she might handle the impending betrothals her mother is certain to bring upon her today. For her sake, for her sister’s sake – she must have her wits all about her. Everything else in the throne room becomes a muffled, distant blur and murmur.

The sharp echoes of her steps are snuffed out by the ruffle of her skirts overtop, her attention solely focused on her worry and not at all upon Cregan, who takes notice of her rapid exit and draws out of his conversation quietly. His arm reaches forth to catch her softly as she passes him, the touch startling her out of her thoughts. After a brief flash of panic, unsure of who has grabbed her, she exhales a sharp breath that has the lord furrowing his brows deeply over his concerned eyes.

There is no need for him to speak his worry aloud upon his tongue, it reads as clear as a voice within his grey eyes. The depth of his frown, a tightening jaw, the soft brush of his thumb against the fabric of her sleeve. Her own expression, guarded yet yielding only to him, only at his waiting gaze, is undoubtedly legible to him as well. Lips part with practiced ease, the habit of brushing her worry aside to prevent any from seeing and weaponizing her own fear against her a hard one to break. It bends for Lord of Winterfell. The soft dip of her brow as she allows a flicker of concern to dance across her visage indicates all she wishes to convey. And hardly is there need to explain with further words when he knows her troubles already.

“My mother is arriving.” Her chin lifts defiantly as she speaks, yet she knows well her tendency to yield to the Lady of Highgarden. Cregan does not release her arm from his hold as she might have expected, but instead tightens his fingers around her slightly. As if he does not wish to let her go. After a moment of silence, the lord nods heavily, taking a slow breath.

“Let us greet her, then.”

The Tyrell banners fluttering delicately within the salty sea breeze from the bay embeds a compelling nostalgia like a polished stone into her chest. Olive fabric decorated with roses of the purest gold, the same flags that used to fly high above the whimsical days of garden girlhood, a dreamlike haze of giggles and flowers in her hair. When she had emerged from her carriage three years ago, the very one currently wobbling up the cobblestone streets to the gates of the castle, she had still retained the wide-eyed innocence of her youth. It had ended then, so she had thought, when the soft satin slippers of a baby blue shade had touched the rocks in the gated courtyard. And her days had been filled with challenge after challenge, shaping and molding her into the woman she has now become, not out of a desire to ascend the power chain of the capital but out of a primal need to survive. But it was not strife that had turned her into a woman; it was death. The loss of Helaena was the end of innocence and childhood and dreams. 

Survival is intertwined in all of House Tyrell, binding ancestral words that are less about power and more about permanence. Incessant and persistent, tangled in the history of the soil as much as the roots of ancient trees. The growth is everlasting, ever-changing, weathering the various seasons as the woods do. While many Houses suffered great losses during the war, House Tyrell remained as they were before, watching and waiting until the ideal time to involve themselves would be. As the carriage draws near, the white horses tossing their golden manes in the brilliant sunlight beaming down upon the courtyard, the Lady Tyrell straightens her shoulders with poise and intention, a slow breath inhaled like syrup into her lungs. So tightly clasped together are her hands atop her gown, she wonders if she might break a nail off accidentally.

At her side stands the Lord of Winterfell, ever the sturdy presence she might rely upon. He had offered his arm for her to steady herself upon, but she cannot accept for fear that her mother might see the genuineness with which the lady attends to Cregan. It would be a poor start to what shall likely be a stressful few days even with the absence of any additional issues. The lord does not press the matter further, eyes lingering heavily upon her visage. Even in the earliest days of their knowing each other, when he had only seen the glass figurine of a lady she had presented to him, never has Cregan seen her so uncertain. Every muscle of her body seems to be drawn tight and strained, her eyes as sharp and watchful as a bird of prey. All of this appears to leave her figure in a sudden melting as the carriage door opens and a young lady can be seen stepping out gently, a footman by the open door to hold the girl’s hand as she descends the stairs. 

Any concept of rigidity abandons her, the shimmering skirts of her dress bunched up in her fists as she all but runs to the carriage. As the girl finally steps solidly onto the ground, Lady Tyrell’ skirts are released hurriedly to fall about her feet as she throws her arms around the young lady, who gasps in soft excitement and returns the hug just as tightly.

“Sister,” It is a bright squeal, girlish and sweet with sincere delight. Cregan could have surmised as such without the word being spoken – the younger lady looks so much like the Lady Tyrell that he finds it almost amusing. The same hair, arranged in a similar manner, the same color of her eyes. A dress in a soft shade of pastel green that the lord knows he has seen Lady Tyrell wear upon at least one occasion. The lord watches with gentle patience, eyes soft as he witnesses the loving reunion.

“Oh, Cassia,” The breath Lady Tyrell responds with is one of complete relief and gladness, her eyes closing as she holds her sister tightly in her arms. After a moment she pulls away, her gaze pleased and mirthful as she beholds her sister’s face. In the three years since they last saw each other, Cassia has indeed grown into her beauty as their mother spoke of in her letters. The little girl who would race after her, always trying her utmost to keep up in the flowering fields outside the castle walls, has become quite the comely young lady. This reminds Lady Tyrell pointedly about the unavoidable fate of an upcoming marriage for both of them, a thorny reminder that nestles itself into her troubled chest.

“I had not known if you would meet us right away,” Cassia begins, her smile brilliant and delighted as she gives her sister another tight hug. A soft laugh escapes her lips, the excitement of being reunited after such long years apart evident upon her pleased visage. Lady Tyrell gives a soft hum at this, unable to prevent the easy way that her younger sister brings out the gentler side of her which she normally hides behind parapets of threatening briars. 

“How could I not be here to greet you? I have missed you so.” The reply is a breeze of spring air, as Lady Tyrell smiles in a warm manner she rarely bestows upon others. She reaches up to tuck a loose strand of hair behind her sister’s ear, her mind instantly eased by the girl’s voice and presence. No more at home could she have felt if she had returned back to Highgarden, amidst the roses and fountains and string quartets playing elegant songs about the terraces. Cassia gives a nod at this, her eyes briefly wandering to the courtyard. Cregan seems to catch her attention first, and the girl hesitates, her gaze lingering upon the Lord of Winterfell with a soft worry. But the girl shall not stare – it is unbecoming of a lady to do so – and quickly returns her attention to her elder sister.

“I know,” Cassia speaks with a sweet cadence, reminiscent of Lady Tyrell’s when she is presenting herself to others, but with a twinge of hesitation. “It is only that mother was unsure of…”

As the girl trails off softly, her eyes once again flickering to gaze at the Warden of the North in silent concern, Lady Tyrell cannot help but smile knowingly. She is certain her mother has retained her belief of the Northerners, deeming a majority of them as violent savages who have brutally seized the castle and intend to behead all of those imprisoned. Cassia has never met anyone from the North, and likely deferred to their mother’s opinions. Her heart aches at the thought of her sister worrying over her, evident by the way Cassia takes her hand and squeezes it softly, unsure if the lady is treated poorly by the Northern forces.

If only she could tell Cassia that cannot be further from the truth.

Her attention is quickly drawn to their mother, the sunlight glittering off the pearls woven into Elinor Tyrell’s hair and the golden circlet that adorns her brow as she descends the steps of the carriage. A soft undulation of edelweiss and hyacinth swirls delicately about the air, catching like dew droplets amongst the salty gusts of wind from the Blackwater. The Lady Tyrell releases her younger sister’s hand gently, instead taking her gown into her own hands and dipping her head low as her body sinks into a practiced curtsy of the utmost grace. Her eyes remain cast to the pebbles that are scattered haphazardly throughout the courtyard, her lower lashes brushing demurely against the curve of her cheeks. The slight squeaking of the carriage steps, the light creaking of wood, and the soft rustling of pebbles all inform her that her mother is standing before her.

“Rise, and allow me to see my eldest child’s face.” Her mother’s voice is a lullaby from a distant memory, the comfort of stories told when tucked into a feathered bed, the remnants of a midnight dessert sweet upon her tongue. For all her fear over the fate of her betrothal, nothing can surmount the nostalgia over days when her mother was her entire world and the lady who stood guard between her and the monsters curling in shadowy tendrils beneath her bedframe. And who is the lady besides a mirrored reflection of the light from her mother’s shining glow, bound by blood and womanhood, made evident beneath the brightness of each full moon.

Her eyes are raised slowly, alongside her body, fluttering lashes indicating a hesitation and vulnerability in Lady Tyrell’s countenance. The sight of her mother’s face invokes a soft yearning in her bruised and broken heart, the organ giving a weak fluttering at the familiarity that trickles like a cooling stream through tired veins. How exhausted the lady has become, putting up each fight so fiercely for her survival over the duration of the past three years. A desire for a simpler time, for suns under which she would run with sparkling teardrops to her mother’s skirts and have all her pains and fears soothed, nestles its way beneath her skin. Her voice lodges itself into the sides of her throat before she is able to compel it out of her mouth quietly. “I am pleased to welcome you to the Red Keep again after so long, mother.”

Elinor Tyrell beholds her daughter’s visage with eyes that betray nothing of her thoughts, a soft ambiguity resting upon her high cheekbones and daintily arched brows. The Lady of Highgarden is a vision herself in a gown of a delicate shade of gold that reflects within her eyes. There is a youthful beauty to her despite her age, perhaps from the graceful manner in which she carries herself. “You have grown even more beautiful since I last saw you.”

At the soft murmur Lady Tyrell gives another dip of her head, pleased to at least have presented herself in a manner deserving of her mother’s praise. Any further thought is skillfully hidden at the approach of the Lord of Winterfell, Elinor Tyrell’s attention turning subtlety to the man as he makes his way across the courtyard. He gives a respectful nod, standing by the lady as Cassia regards him with slight worry and her mother with quiet intrigue. Cregan’s presence at her side is that of a beacon upon a moonlit hill, ever-grounding and drawing her towards him as if they belong in each other’s orbit.

“I am honored to welcome you to the Red Keep, Lady Elinor, Lady Cassia,” His rumbling voice retains a noble quality as he extends his formal greeting, met with a gentle nod from the lady’s mother and a soft curtsy from her sister. The sun has begun to shift towards the height of the sky, illuminating rays descending from the clear blue expanse. Lady Tyrell’s attention is intentionally kept away from Cregan, not wishing her mother to catch a glimpse of the warmth he extends to her reflected in her own eyes. “I am Lord Cregan Stark of Winterfell. If there is anything I might do to assist during your stay, do inform me at once.”

“That is quite kind of you, Lord Stark.” A voice as fresh and lovely as field grown flowers, yet Cregan cannot say he underestimates the Lady of Highgarden to any degree. The drifting of voices from the courtyard as the remainder of the traveling party dismounts their tired horses and begins to stretch after the long journey distracts the Lady Tyrell momentarily, before she brings a soft and saccharine smile to her lips and gazes up at Cregan pointedly.

“Perhaps you might accompany my sister about the halls whilst I show my mother to her chambers?” It is a delicate question, referencing an earlier conversation they had in which the lady had asked for a quiet moment alone with her mother prior to anything else that is to occur that day. Cregan holds her gaze, seemingly searching for the truth upon her state of mind, but readily accepts her request. His arm is extended to Cassia, who blinks in soft concern and casts her eyes to her elder sister.

“Lord Stark shall be a perfect host, I assure you.” Lady Tyrell consoles the girl in a hushed tone, her hand reaching forth to take Cassia’s comfortingly. “You must be aching to stretch your legs after so long in the confines of the carriage. Go ahead.”

After a moment of gentle hesitation, Cassia agrees with a delicate nod. Her hand wavers slightly in the air but she takes Cregan’s arm as gingerly as she can and offers him a wary yet grateful smile. Both the lady and her mother watch Cregan lead Cassia towards the archways of the inner doors, his deep voice floating through the air behind them as they walk.

“There is someone I wish to introduce you to, my lady…” Attempting to not smile softly at Cregan’s leading of her sister over to the young Lord Blackwood, whose face has gone quite red at the sight of the girl approaching, the Lady Tyrell returns her attention to her mother who is staring after Cregan with a thoughtful look upon her face. With a soft breath, she looks down and does her best to conceal any traces of true affection from her mother’s watchful observation. Yet there is no need to hide physical indicators of the truth of her feelings, not when she has written the depth of her trust for Cregan all over the rocks and pillars of the courtyard in messy script by entrusting him with her sister. 

The exchange of words between the two women during their walk to the guest chambers of the castle is pleasant and easy, most of it revolving around the young Lyonel Hightower who will soon be turning four years old. The lady is filled with a soft melancholy to hear of the milestones her brother has been meeting in her absence, a flickering of regret over missing nearly all of his young life burning tightly in her chest. There had been no way to escape to Highgarden during the war, not when it meant abandoning Helaena and her children, and thus she had been unable to return to her younger siblings. Only once has she seen the little boy – with a sickening sadness she realizes that the child will likely not recognize her the next time they meet. 

As they enter the guest chambers, the door closing behind them with the softest clicking of the metal latch, Lady Tyrell lets out a slow breath. Her back remains pressed to the deep oak of the door as she watches her mother survey the chambers with a neutral expression, the woman’s hands folded delicately at her front in the very same manner that Lady Tyrell always does. Waiting eyes track each step her mother takes, studying the way she carries herself as if the lady has not done so more than a thousand times in her life. Her shoulders instinctively lower to mimic the Lady of Highgarden as the woman stops to select a single white rose from a porcelain vase, twisting the stem elegantly within her hands. Each thorn is skillfully avoided. 

“You have tamed the Northern wolf rather well.” Any sweetness from Elinor Tyrell’s voice has faded away, slipping from her mouth like dripping honey down the bark of a tree. Instead, the lady is met with low and quiet observation, certain and deliberate. As her mother’s eyes remain cast to the rose, the lady lets out a quiet huff of breath. There is an understanding of necessary practicality between them, yet the lady cannot say she has been nearly as practical as she ought to be given the precariousness of the power balance at court.

“I would hardly say so.” She breathes back in response, her gaze dropping to stare at the wooden floorboards that had been polished that morning for the arrival of guests. They shine with such pristineness that the lady finds them almost mocking as her own distorted reflection is whispered back to her. Her plan to manipulate Cregan had all but imploded, leaving in her a vulnerable situation with the Lord of Winterfell that her mother will certainly have an opinion upon. While she trusts him, the Lady of Highgarden will want insurance regarding this trust being rightfully placed and the lady cannot offer much save for his kindness to her and her own instinct. 

“Nonsense, child,” Elinor Tyrell muses coolly, setting the rose down gently among the others in the pearl vase. The woman’s gaze returns to assessing the room she shall be residing in during her stay at the castle. “I must admit I am surprised at your success in the matter. I had read your reports and yet the situation appears far better than I could have imagined.”

It is a compliment, as clear as she might hope to receive from her mother regarding the issue. Elaboration does not need to be made upon the failing of her initial plan, and so she merely taps her fingers in soft rhythm against the wood of the door she rests her back upon. While she wishes to seek after Elinor Tyrell’s opinion upon Cregan Stark, it is a matter that holds little importance when the setting sun of her maidenhood draws lower in the sky. If only her mother held more hope for Cregan, perhaps she might set her attention to a marriage pact that the lady would genuinely wish for herself. But she knows well where the Lady of Highgarden has set her sights.

Sea rather than snow.

“But that is not what you wish for me, is it mother?” A quiet phrase, spoken through heavy lips and accompanied with gloomy eyes. Her mother turns at this, a spark of amusement in her gaze at the sharpness retained in her daughter’s mind over the larger game at play. The woman observes Lady Tyrell calmly, taking careful note of the dullness of the lady’s expression regarding the line of questioning. It is no surprise to Elinor – while most young ladies would have been ecstatic to be engaged to a prince, her child had never seemed to care much for her match to Daeron Targaryen. Another Targaryen had long ensnared the innocence of her young heart, but Elinor had hoped the revelation of the boy’s true character had woken her daughter from childish notions of romance and love within a marriage. 

“You wish to know of my plans for your betrothal then.” The Lady of Highgarden purses her lips softly before she lets out a long sigh, shaking her head at her daughter. It is marginally more difficult to convince a daughter who has since reached twenty years of age to marry as her parents see fit – Elinor had been considerably annoyed when Prince Daeron had died and broken off a sixteen-year-long engagement. 

“It has been on my mind as of late.” The lady does not need to possess any fantastical ability to know her mother finds her having an opinion upon the matter of her own marriage rather tiresome. It is tradition, longstanding and binding, for ladies to have their husbands selected by their parents. The intense glare her mother fixes her with only serves to agitate her further, and she remains drawn against the door.

“If you must know,” Her mother begins with another shake of her head, exasperation written as if in stone upon her face. “I believe you shall marry Lord Corlys Velaryon’s heir. A bastard, in truth, but he has been legitimized and will be the next Lord of the Tides. Being the Lady of Driftmark would suit you, and Lord Alyn’s fleet would be an excellent ally to possess.”

Repressing a sardonic breath that threatens to escape her lips at the confirmation of her suspicions, the lady feels her nails digging into the wooden door. After a moment of composing herself, gaze remaining downcast to the floor, she speaks in a measured tone. “Have you arranged it already?”

“The matter has been proposed to Lord Corlys, but the betrothal will be solidified once he is freed.” It is said with such certainty that a heaviness pools about her stomach, her eyes closing briefly as she attempts to reason with herself over the marriage. It could be far worse – she had briefly wondered if her mother mind demand she marry Lord Corlys himself, despite the man being over seventy years of age. She knows little of Lord Alyn, save him not being a trueborn son of the Sea Snake nor a dragon rider. And while she is frustrated at this decision, her true worry is for another.

“And Cassia?” Her eyes finally meet her mother’s with a stubborn glint as the question leaves her lips, searching to find if yet another of her hunches shall prove true. 

“Lord Lyonel Hightower is in need of a wife, so it would seem.” Upon this matter, the lady cannot prevent the disapproving click that bounces from her tongue, fixing her mother with a glare of equal ferocity. She is nothing if not Elinor’s daughter after all. As she crosses the room towards the other woman, the reasoning she has spent many long nights sorting out is finally given voice.

“The Hightowers are already your bannermen. You need not vie for more power in their House, not when you have reminded them of the true strength of Highgarden,” After the realization that Garmund Hightower’s position as a ward of the Tyrells places the Hightowers in a delicate situation, the lady doubts any rebellions shall be happening in the coming years. Not when Lord Lyonel is still quite young and wholly inexperienced in battle. Additionally occupied with seducing his stepmother, whom he is rumored to be terribly obsessed with, and being altogether horrid to his serving staff. Surely, her mother cannot be eager to send Cassia to such a horrendous fate. Not when there might be more to be gained elsewhere. “If you use this rare opportunity to secure an alliance with a Northern House, it will extend our influence.”

Elinor gives a scoff at this, her stare hardening as her daughter’s stubbornness is presented to her once again. While the lady has rarely argued upon orders given directly to her, she is so very insistent regarding her sister. As it has always been, the Lady of Highgarden is both impressed and annoyed by the fierceness with which her eldest child is devoted to her siblings. “Cassia does not possess the skill needed to manipulate influence so far from Highgarden.”

“She is young, she will learn.” The lady reasons with a soft shrugging of her shoulders, her frown deepening as she attempts to persuade her mother against such a decision. As they had taken their leave of the courtyard, the lady had noticed the gentle way Lord Blackwood had lifted her sister’s hand to his lips, and the soft delight upon Cassia’s face at the meeting. After years of searching for an acceptable match for the girl, the lady will be damned if her mother sentences her only sister to life at the mercy of an ill-tempered and spoiled lordling. 

“You were fully prepared to manipulate those in court at her age.” With a look of disbelief cast coldly to her daughter, the Lady of Highgarden squares her shoulders and tilts her head in a manner the implies she does not mean to be argued with upon the topic. Given usual circumstances, Lady Tyrell would then have lowered her eyes and her voice and deferred to her mother’s wishes. But after witnessing Helaena’s marriage, and the marriages of other ladies within the castle, she knows all too well that it is not only Cassia’s heart that is in danger. The physical suffering resulting from matches made with cruel and violent men shall last the entirety of the union. Still, blatant attitude will not convince her mother of anything. The lady’s voice simmers to a softer note.

“Cassia is…she is less like you and I, mother.” There is a fondness in her voice she cannot hide, but fear decorates the edges of her words like lace stitching. The lady cannot lose another. It would surely kill her, if she is not already dying slowly from the grief that snaps heartstring after heartstring, plucking her damaged heart like a harp. Let her bear the burden of being born a daughter, so that her sister shall not.

“She is naive.” Elinor dismisses with a wave of her hand, eyes closing with weary ache as she thinks after her more tenderhearted daughter. How she birthed two girls who are so very different from herself, she could never understand. 

“I will speak to her.” Lady Tyrell’s brows have drawn together, her lips pressed together tightly as her hands are folded in front of her skirts with elegant poise. Yet her gaze remains stubbornly set, insistent and certain as carved marble. “I simply believe it to be in the best interest of our House.”

“Of our House, or of your beloved sister?” The question is wielded as sharply as a dagger, burrowing up to the hilt in the lady’s mind as her mother regards her with thinly veiled disappointment. There is a heavy silence that falls within the air of the room as the women regard each other with equally intense stares. Long gone are the days when she would hide at the sight of her mother’s cold glare, her heart plummeting at the very thought of letting down the only parent who paid her any mind. For so long has she obeyed every order to the utmost, earning her place as her mother’s darling and trusted spy at court. But the war has shown the lady what is truly frightening in this world, and no amount of lingering childhood guilt can convince her to abandon her sister to the hands of a senselessly violent man.

“Both can be true, can they not?” She speaks finally, a quiet reaffirming of her stance. Elinor’s shrouded gaze remains cast to her daughter, repressing the urge to remind the lady that their House only remains standing because of the effort she has put in to keep it from falling. Instead, she shakes her head, her lip curling slightly.

“Do not forget what a crucial time this is. I would hate to see your emotions stand in the way of our ambition.” Elinor’s voice is reminiscent of the rattle of a snake slipping through tall grasses, fangs withdrawn but always present. Venom that has been used before, to keep House Tyrell alive and strong.

“…Yes, mother.” 

The warning is as clear as any.

The matter of an imminent betrothal weighs as heavily upon Cregan’s mind as it does on the Lady Tyrell’s. Despite the flurry of tasks he is swept up in as the newly appointed Hand, the concern lingering in the corners of his thoughts does not cease nor waver. It is with no surprise that after he has finally concluded the last issue of the day, his steps carry him with a heavy quickness to her chamber door. So familiar has he become with the carvings of the wood upon it, with the cool touch of the metal latch. With the way his knocks resound in hollow bursts through the thickness of it, and the soft adjusting of metal as she pulls the door inwards to herself. Each time she gazes upon him with such soft surprise, even if she should not expect anyone else when the crescent moon is so high in the inky darkness of the night sky. 

But as she opens the door to greet him, she is given momentary pause by the intensity of his eyes, gazing down into hers with such needing questioning that she is left silent for a second after she catches sight of his stoic visage. Unsure of what has him in such an agitated state, the lady blinks up at him with a quiet wondering. Cregan could give a breath of relief at the sight of her, not already swept up into the arms of some lord who might not take note of the way she adds three sugars to her morning tea or the glimmer in her eyes when she finds something amusing yet does not wish to show it. It burns within his chest like a raging wildfire then, the crux of weeks of learning her person and finding himself taken by each detail he has seen.

“I apologize for the lateness of the hour,” Cregan murmurs, the depth of his voice sending her stomach rolling about softly. There is a certain hum to the manner he speaks when it is only them alone that she cannot quite place, but the physical effects of it have only grown stronger in the hours spent in only each other’s company. “I had wished to come earlier but there were a number of pressing matters and time soon slipped away from me.”

Lingering in the torchlit hallway, she cannot help but allow her eyes to soften at the way the edges of his noble silhouette turn gentle and golden in the warm glow. Her lips melt into the smallest ghost of a smile, her lids lowering as she gazes up at him with knowing eyes. She too has been hoping for his company, having grown used to receiving it several times a day. 

“You need not worry. Being Hand of the King is an involved position, I am sure.” Easy does the speech flow from her lips, rich and sweet as dessert wine when she presses one hand to her doorframe. Her lithe fingers curl about the wood delicately, and the crackling of the hearth can be heard from inside her ambiently lit chambers. A nightgown of ivory coloring adorns her body once again, scarcely obscuring anything from Cregan’s wandering eyes. She does little to hide herself, the hauntings of a smile widening in delighted amusement when a thick swallow is forced down his throat at the sight of her chest draped in such delicate silks. When his eyes flick up to hers again, she casts her gaze down so he might not see.

“It is,” He acquiesces, seeming rather weary from such a long day. But no amount of exhaustion or concern over the trials occurring tomorrow can keep Cregan from her doorstep, not when she might be betrothed at any moment. “And yet I still wished to see you, my lady.”

Her heart is sticky candle wax beneath a wick that has been set aflame, dripping into the cavity of her chest warmly. The Northern practicality that others might view as brashly straightforward heats her body as no other words can. There is little she can do to stop her smile from blooming fully upon her face as she steps back slowly, her eyes holding his with a quiet reflection of his own desires that she is sure he does not miss.

“You may come in, Lord Stark.” It is a hushed murmur, spoken to him before her back is turned and he is left to stare after her retreating figure once more. Taking a slow breath, Cregan finds himself closing the door as he has before. But this evening, there is a crackling of electricity in the air as there has not been during other evening meetings. An understanding seems to be on the precipice of being reached, yet Cregan cannot help but wonder if she knows the depth of his affection.

Slowly, he makes his way into her chambers. She has returned to the task she was attending to before Cregan had arrived – fixing her hair for bed in front of a full mirror the shape of an oval. With some hesitation, he follows her to the far side of the room and sinks slowly into the edge of her bed, watching the gentle movements she makes with half-lidded eyes. His gaze meet hers within the mirror, and he lowers his chin quietly as he speaks. 

“Has your mother arranged a match for you yet, my lady?” It is as direct as she expects him to be, and yet an amused breath is taken through her nose as she breaks her eyes away from his. Her hands make their way through her hair as a soft, tired smile finds its way to her mouth. The firelight from across her chambers casts the room in a warm yet dim glow. 

“She has her sights on Lord Alyn Velaryon,” The lady informs Cregan with a pointed resignation, attempting not to sound too annoyed or frustrated by her mother’s decision. Her fingers slow in their movements as she attempts to imagine a life at Driftmark, by the sea and sand. She has sent her spies out to learn more about Alyn, yet she does not imagine she shall receive information about his character until far later in the week. Whether for Cregan’s sake or her own, she attempts to reason out the circumstance. “It could be far worse. He – is of my age and has a good title.”

“Do you wish to marry him?” The quickness of the serious reply has her closing her eyes for a moment. She has half a mind to turn upon Cregan and ask if he imagines she wishes to marry a stranger she has never met nor has any concept of at her age, but it is not his fault nor is it fair of her to take out such frustrations upon him, he who is so very kind to her and has enchanted her so.  

“Not particularly, no,” She begins truthfully, unable to stop the honest words from fleeing her chest. Cregan has a way of rendering her all but incapable of lying when he has gotten her alone, which is both refreshing and concerning. “But I have evaded my fate for far too long. I must fulfill my duty to my family.”

Cregan cannot tear his attention from her, his heart striving with sharp pull in his chest as he watches her quietly accept that which she herself has said she does not wish for. Her chin tilts down, her hands running softly through her hair to arrange it delicately atop the silk of her evening slip. Gazing at herself softly, she cannot help but smooth down a portion of the fabric, her hand running across the silks that cascade over her breasts and down to her stomach, fingers embedding a slow trail down the map of her body. His jaw tightens, his lips twitching slightly as he stares at her figure, her back turned to him as she busies herself with her hair. The fierce spirit he has seen her wield to fight for Cassia and Jaehaera – will she truly not utilize it for herself? Cregan Stark is sure in this instance he is not a fool. Surely, she must know as well.

“And your duty to your heart?” His eyes do not waver. There is not need to elaborate further, not when he is sat there upon the edge of her bed, not when he has been allowed into her chambers at this hour before. As he has been allowed past the thorny towers of her heart, as he has been allowed the soft trust she has placed in him. He shall ignore it no longer. The lady’s body goes rigid, her lips parting dryly as she stares down at the curved foot of the mirror with wide, unblinking eyes. While she too has grown keenly aware of this fire they share, she had not imagined he would speak so brazenly of it. But Cregan is of Northern blood and custom, to his last. 

Cursed heart, flickering to life only to be put to the sword once again.

“It is but a dream.” The edges of her voice break upon her lips, glass and a ghostly whisper that lingers in the space in front of her as it falls from her tongue. Her heartbeat has become a steady thrumming in her ears, pulsing wildly beneath the skin of her wrists and beneath her collarbone. Her chin is softly lifted to meet Cregan’s stare through the mirror, and her breath is taken from her lungs by the intensity of his eyes. He shakes his head slowly, never breaking their shared gaze. An almost painful need to speak has lodged its way into his chest.

“If it is a dream then I do not wish to be woken from it. I cannot no longer hide what your discerning mind surely already knows when you look upon me.” The last word is spoken as a deep breath, as if he cannot fight with his own self-control for a moment longer. His brows draw lower, furrowing to show the weight of the longing and aching within his body that he cannot rid himself of. She can do little but stare at him, lips parted, a sweet wariness melting in desperate uncertainty upon her face as he continues.

“Your being consumes my every thought, my every breath. It is your eyes I search for in every room, your presence I long for at my side, you who has captured my heart and my soul wholly and without question. I came to this castle as a conqueror and instead find myself subdued completely by you, at your mercy and willingly upon my knees,” His eyes are anchored to her visage as a ship in a storm seeks a lighthouse, every word spoken with careful intent and heavy honesty. There is nowhere else he can look to, not even in a hall of thousands. It cannot be undone. “For but the chance that you consider another for your husband.”

A soft exhale of breath puffs through her parted lips, the flicker of firelight tracing the curves of her hips and thighs, nearly visible through the sheer gown. Burning fear and want has pooled in her eyes like golden starlight as a timid whisper is barely heard in the silence of the room. “Please do not jest.”

“I am not.” The words are low and instantaneous, rolling off his tongue like thunder from a long-brewing storm, clouds low and grey as the hues of his lidded eyes. Heat has spread from his chest to the tips of his fingers, settling warm and aching between his thighs as his intense gaze tracks her every movement, her every breath. Each rise of her chest is watched hungrily, earning him an expression similar to that of a wolf who can no longer hide its raw and heady desire. One of his tightly closed fists is flexed slowly, fingers extending by the digit as he attempts to maintain what little control he has left. It is not enough to prevent him from rising from her bed, the plush feathered mattress indented in his wake, his steps heavy and intentional as he crosses to stand at her back. She can see his reflection in the mirror, his chin lowered as his eyes rake across her figure with such evident need that a soft heat pools between the curves of her thighs. A large hand finds its place upon her lower back, sliding itself into the slot where her hips begin to curve as she turns to meet his gaze, eyes wide and waiting. 

Cregan’s fingers curl softly into the silk, bunching up the pearl fabric within his hold as he presses his hand more firmly into her back, drawing her attention completely. Heat rises to her cheeks at the possessiveness of the action, despite the clear manner in which he is giving her room to draw away. His presence is imposing behind her, broad shoulders looming over her frame, but he does not corner her. The gesture is an asking, a sacred offering, a holy promise of the reverence he will use if he continues to hold her body beneath his hands. So hot is his touch, she expects to see a burn like a brand when he pulls his hand away next. But she does not wish him to. Caution curls in hesitant tendrils within her hollow chest, but they are waved away as mere wisps of smoke. If he gazes down at her with any more softness, his expression might melt beside the flames flickering in the fireplace. It is then that she realizes she has never been looked upon with such obvious love and devotion, by someone whose every action serves to reinforce this certainty. His voice breaks upon the whispered repetition of his own words, as if he is almost afraid of the need he betrays by speaking once more. “I am not.”

Her own palms are hesitant as they reach forth cautiously, wanting yet wary, head against heart. Curling into the softness of his clothing, she presses her hands to the swell of his chest as she turns, her back to the mirror as she faces him fully. Fear has been dissipated, scattered to the delicate night breeze slipping in through the crack in her window. Cool and fresh, laced with the salt from the sea. No sooner than when her fingers bend to take tentative hold of the fabric of his shirt, her eyes flooding with approval as she dips her head – yes, I want this, I want you – does he kiss her.

His mouth parts her wanting lips with a desperate yet constrained hunger, emboldened by the soft gasp against him and the tightening of fingers into his clothing rather than pushing him away. Her brows furrow sweetly as she allows Cregan to press his lips against her own in open-mouthed kisses, deep and messy with the overflowing from weeks of repressed desire, dispelling any sense of propriety and sensibility. As his other arm wraps tightly around her back, he solidifies his hold upon her waist by grabbing firmly at her hips, allowing her figure to melt against his as he holds her upright. As the curves of her breasts meld into his chest, a resonant hum escapes the back of his throat and lowers into a growl when he coaxes her lips further apart, sliding his tongue hotly overtop of them before it slips into the plush softness of her waiting mouth. This earns him another whine, sweet and breathless, that has Cregan hardening faster than he might care to admit. To soothe her, one of his hands pulls her in closer to him, briefly pausing the conquest upon her lips to lift her up into his arms.

It is with utter ease that he raises her from the ground, the muscles in his arms flexing as he leans in to kiss her hungrily once more. Her legs wrap naturally atop his hips as he settles her there, barely preventing them both from stumbling backwards and shattering her mirror, yet still bumping the dark wooden armoire and sending the trinkets atop it shaking. As she begins to meet his eagerness, discovering how she might endeavor to match the passion which with he moves his mouth against her own, neither one seems too occupied with the state of the furniture. His hands have settled into the plush skin of her upper thighs, grasping handfuls of fabric and flesh as he kneads deeply into her warmth. Her hands reach up to tangle in his locks of reddish hair, running through his soft strands and twisting themselves thoroughly. So long has she wished to touch, to brush, to hold. Cregan gives a small groan at the sensation of her fingers pulling his head back, momentarily ceasing his conquest once more to gaze into her eyes, lidded and with pupils blown wide from newly released lust. Her own eyes melt at the sight, at the beauty of him, at the depth of the affection and desire within her heart. One hand trails down to caress his cheek, cupping it tenderly in her hold as their eyes search each other’s for confirmation of the mutual desire for continuation. When Cregan is certain that her need matches his own, he is quick to shift her weight in his arms, crossing back to her bed in a few large strides. 

As he bends his knees to kneel upon the end of her mattress, one hand reaches up to cradle her head gently as he lays her down before him, hair spread out beneath her and her cheeks rosy from the exertion of kissing him. Her chest heaves in labored breath, nightgown skewed upon her figure as she gazes up at the Lord of Winterfell with blossoming desire. Never able to deny her, she who blooms within his world as a rose amongst the snowiest peaks, Cregan lowers his body overtop of hers as his lips find her mouth once again. 

The glowing fire burns low in the hearth, casting golden light upon their joining bodies in the soft satins of her poster-framed bed. The sheer silk canopy does little to hide the sounds of sweet and aching desire released from her lips as Cregan shifts his weight up onto his arms, trailing his lips and nipping teeth along the curve of her jaw and down her neck. At this, she tilts her head to further expose herself to his ardent kisses. The feeling of a mouth upon her skin is new, yet she feels far less anxiety than she might have expected. So long as it is Cregan Stark whose hands and mouth forge untaken paths onto the expanse of her body, lips pressing against sensitive pressure points as her pulse thrums beneath in hot pools, there shall be no fear in her heart. 

Just as it had been before, her given name is a sacrosanct promise birthed upon his reddening lips. She breathes his in return, wholly as sacred, reverent and reminiscent of a vow. 

Lady Tyrell’s hands once more find their way into his hair, raking fistfuls of soft locks into her grasp and tugging just so, earning her another delicious groan from his chest and a stuttered rocking of his hips against air. The action spurs him on further, as he pushes himself up by straightening his elbows and shifting back onto his knees. With his now free hands, he curls his fingers into the thin silk of her evening slip. The fabric gives way pliantly in his strong grasp. Another gasp falls from her open lips as the clothing tears, her breasts dipping slightly as they are exposed to the warm air of her bedchamber. Cregan does not give her a moment to consider embarrassment or worry as he immediately lowers his head, capturing one of her nipples with a deep kiss around the peaking bud. His eyes close at the taste of her upon his tongue, the other breast attended to with his hand as he kneads and pulls at the soft flesh with a feeling of near relief. 

On many an occasion his eyes have been drawn to the lowness of her neckline, plunging precariously atop her breasts that bounce as she walks and turns to speak to him. Finally, he can lick his tongue across the rounded nipples as he has been desiring to, his cheeks blown as his head lowers and raises from the intensity with which he sucks at her. Her back arches at the feeling of his warm mouth over her sensitive chest, suckling from her as he pulls her body closer. The ache between her thighs is a demanding flutter that grows bolder with each movement of his tongue, echoing in yielding moans and whines.

Cregan rolls his hips against hers tentatively – needing more yet wishing to be tender with her, wishing to treat her as devotedly as he can given the heat that has pulsated into his throbbing cock – as he switches to lavishing attention to her other breast. Lady Tyrell squirms beneath his touch, yet her own waist lifts to meet his as she feels the prominent outline of him straining against the material of his pants. The silks of her nightgown have bunched up about her hips, leaving her cunt covered only by the thin fabric of her small clothes akin to a flower whose petals have curled back to allow the sun to reach its depths. As he continues to map out each plane of her figure with his mouth, descending to the soft skin of her stomach after he rips at her slip further, his fingers slowly reach through the fabric to brush against her wet core. Her head falls back against the satin sheets, a sweet sound filling the air that only serves to encourage Cregan further.

“Cregan please,” Her whine is far more desperate than she wishes it to be, but the neediness causes Cregan’s cock to twitch within the constraints of his clothes. The dampness of his fingers, feeling the physical manifestation of her desire even through cloth, has him leaning back, wrestling to free himself of his pants and breeches. The lady presses her thighs together in an attempt to relieve some of the aching throbbing that has been caused by him before reaching down to wiggle her hips and slide her small clothes down the smooth expanse of her legs. But he shall not leave her wanting, not when he can alleviate the pressure with his own fingers that resume their ministrations once he gently moves her thighs apart. 

“As you wish, my lady.” An instantaneous agreement in a tone that rumbles with burning desire, pulled from his chest with no resistance. If she were his enemy, she would surely render him all but helpless – a knife to his neck at her mercy, if only to keep a tear from ever falling from her eyes, save the ones she sheds from the pleasure he might bring her. Her folds are wet and pliant as he massages his fingers into them softly, spurred on by the lovely sounds dripping from her lips as an ambrosial substance. His mouth returns to eagerly press kisses to each moan, tongue diving past her lips as he rubs small circles into her clit. 

With each movement, she is willing to spread her legs further apart for him, hips fluttering to meet the calloused pads of his large fingers. The scent of him is in every breath – heavy musk and sweet pine, hints of leather and the distant memory of fresh fallen snow. As he draws back for air, she lifts her head to his neck, mimicking the hungry kisses he had lavished upon her collarbone. When her teeth sink into the juncture of his throat, his hips jerk sharply and he drops his head, hair falling over his face. Soothing a sweet kiss to his skin immediately after, she presses her mouth repeatedly to the sensitive skin as Cregan slides his thick fingers across her wet pearl. Her hips roll as ocean waves against his touch, her mouth leaving reddening marks akin to bruises upon the skin of fresh fruit, laying claim to the Warden of the North as he has allowed her to. As she begins to feel flush across the entirety of her body, Cregan aligns his hips with hers to lower his cock to rub against the wetness of her cunt, sliding easily across her as she takes a sharp breath. His head hangs above hers, eyes longing to see every expression that flickers across her visage as he rubs himself against her, catching upon her clit and dipping into the pliant folds only just so. 

Never has Lady Tyrell been touched in such a way, but she is not ignorant of how the act is performed. Only, she had not believed it to be so pleasant nor so hot, burning as a raging wildfire within the lower realm of her stomach as Cregan groans from the feeling of his cock sliding against her wetness with such ease, a clear indicator of the pleasure she experiences from his touch. It had seemed like a chore, a burden forced upon ladies in order to create heirs. Even if she had not been instructed on the sequence of events during the process, she knows she would instinctively crave Cregan within her at the sensation of him rubbing with such strong and deep strokes against her. But he does not press inside of her, remaining atop her folds as his breathing grows labored.

“Please, I need you,” She breathes, hating the whine that escapes upon the last word, eyes nearly teary from the pulsing ache between her thighs where her body believes his cock should be. Cregan feels his self-control slipping off a precarious cliff at her insistence, struggling to deny her anything when she asks in that lovely voice, coated in such genuine desire and passion. But he is an honorable man, who cares for her far too much to claim her maidenhead before he marries her. Inhaling a sharp breath, he continues to roll his cock against her wet cunt with long strokes. “I need more.”

Cregan might die within her bed. His voice breaks as he rasps over his words.

“I cannot,” It is meant to soothe her, spoken in a deep and gentle voice, but only elicits a soft whine of displeasure from her as she begins to move her hips to match his. Each time he rubs against her clit, or her aching entrance, her mind grows hazy and soft. “I wish to, truly, but I cannot.”

For all his flourishing desire, primal and raw as it may be, the love he has come to harbor for her within his heart and his adamant desire to protect her outweighs his natural instinct to take her, to lay claim to her, to have children by her as he so desires. He cannot besiege her cunt as if some cruel conqueror, not when he has made no promises to earn him that right. Cregan Stark shall do right by her, as soon as he might be able to, as he should have done the moment he laid eyes upon the truth of her soul. One hand reaches down to rest softly over the gentle curve of her stomach, his hips jerking in a sloppier rhythm against her as the idea of her carrying his heirs fills his mind once more. To make her Lady of Winterfell, to give her the family she spoke of wanting, to protect her until the end of his days within his ancestral homeland – the desires he has been harboring in secret can no longer be denied.

Lady Tyrell does not argue further upon the matter, wholly desiring to honor his wishes and make Cregan feel as comfortable as he has made her, but the distress must show upon her face for he leans down. Pressing a loving kiss to her temple, his lips murmur softly against her forehead to calm her tenderly. “I am sorry, my sweet rose. It is only that I wish to have you as my wife.”

Her eyes widen at his voice, at the slight pressure he applies to her stomach as he keeps his hand pressed firmly to her skin. It is not long after the words are spoken that he rocks his hips forward, angling them so that he might rub against her clit in heavier strokes. When he captures her lips once more into his, she feels him groaning into her mouth as liquid heat pools between her thighs with a sudden stutter of his hips, coating her folds in his seed. Her own release is hot as it washes over her, her entrance contracting in rapid flutters as a warm burst of pleasure flutters through her nerves. 

As her pleasure simmers beneath her exhausted muscles, she fears briefly that he may simply leave her there alone, as she has heard tale of men doing after seeking pleasure. But the Northern lord slowly rolls off of her body, eyes closing briefly as he presses a soft kiss to her lips and pulls her gently into his arms. His hand brushes hair out of her face, her cheeks shining with sweat from their passion, as he murmurs sweet praises into her hair until she feels sleep claim her. 

a/n: i am going on vacation for the next 2.5 weeks so this series is going on a mini-break! perhaps i'll write oneshots while i am in the airport or something similar but i am not sure yet. anyways comments and asks and reblogs are always appreciated and thank you to everyone who has read everything so far!

[broomsick]

List of interesting ressources pertaining to norse paganism, scandinavian folklore and history, and nordic religions in general

These are sources I have personally used in the context of my research, and which I've enjoyed and found useful. Please don’t mind if I missed this or that ressource, as for this post, I focused solely on my own preferences when it comes to research. I may add on to this list via reblog if other interesting sources come to my mind after this has been posted. Good luck on your research! And as always, my question box is open if you have any questions pertaining to my experiences and thoughts on paganism.

Mythology

The Viking Spirit: An Introduction to Norse Mythology and Religion

Dictionnary of Northern Mythology

The Prose and Poetic Eddas (online)

Grottasöngr: The Song of Grotti (online)

The Poetic Edda: Stories of the Norse Gods and Heroes

The Wanderer's Hávamál

The Song of Beowulf

Rauðúlfs Þáttr

The Penguin Book of Norse Myths: Gods of the Vikings (Kevin Crossley-Holland's are my favorite retellings)

Myths of the Norsemen From the Eddas and the Sagas (online) A source that's as old as the world, but still very complete and an interesting read.

The Elder Eddas of Saemung Sigfusson

Pocket Hávamál

Myths of the Pagan North: Gods of the Norsemen

Lore of the Vanir: A Brief Overview of the Vanir Gods

Anglo-Saxon and Norse Poems

Gods of the Ancient Northmen

Gods of the Ancient Northmen (online)

Two Icelandic Stories: Hreiðars Þáttr and Orms Þáttr

Two Icelandic Stories: Hreiðars Þáttr and Orms Þáttr (online)

Sagas

Two Sagas of Mythical Heroes: Hervor and Heidrek & Hrólf Kraki and His Champions (compiling the Hervarar saga ok Heiðreks and the Hrólfs saga kraka)

Icelandic Saga Database (website)

The Saga of the Jómsvíkings

The Heimskringla or the Chronicle of the Kings of Norway (online)

Stories and Ballads of the Far Past: Icelandic and Faroese

Heimskringla: History of the Kings of Norway

The Saga of the Volsungs: With the Saga of Ragnar Lothbrok

The Saga of the Volsungs (online) Interesting analysis, but this is another pretty old source.

The Story of the Volsungs (online) Morris and Magnusson translation

The Vinland Sagas

Hákon the Good's Saga (online)

History of religious practices

The Viking Way: Magic and Mind in Late Iron Age Scandinavia

Nordic Religions in the Viking Age

Agricola and Germania Tacitus' account of religion in nordic countries

Myths and Symbols in Pagan Europe: Early Scandinavian and Celtic Religions

Tacitus on Germany (online)

Scandinavia and the Viking Age

Viking Age Iceland

Landnámabók: Book of the Settlement of Iceland (online)

The Age of the Vikings

Gesta Danorum: The Danish History (Books I-IX)

The Sea Wolves: a History of the Vikings

The Viking World

Guta Lag: The Law of the Gotlanders (online)

The Pre-Christian Religions of the North This is a four-volume series I haven't read yet, but that I wish to acquire soon! It's the next research read I have planned.

Old Norse Folklore: Tradition, Innovation, and Performance in Medieval Scandinavia

Children of Ash and Elm: A History of the Vikings

The Penguin Historical Atlas of the Vikings by John Haywood

Landnámabók: Viking Settlers and Their Customs in Iceland

Nordic Tales: Folktales from Norway, Sweden, Finland, Iceland and Denmark For a little literary break from all the serious research! The stories are told in a way that can sometimes get repetitive, but it makes it easier to notice recurring patterns and themes within Scandinavian oral tradition.

Old Norse-Icelandic Literature: A Short Introduction

Saga Form, Oral Prehistory, and the Icelandic Social Context

An Early Meal: A Viking Age Cookbook and Culinary Oddyssey

Runes & Old Norse language

Uppland region runestones and their translations

Viking Language 1: Learn Old Norse, Runes, and Icelandic Sagas and Viking Language 2: The Old Norse Reader

Catalogue of the Manks Crosses with Runic Inscriptions

Old Norse - Old Icelandic: Concise Introduction to the Language of the Sagas

A Companion to Old Norse-Icelandic Literature and Culture

Nordic Runes: Understanding, Casting, and Interpreting the Ancient Viking Oracle 

YouTube channels

Ocean Keltoi

Arith Härger

Old Halfdan

Jackson Crawford

Wolf the Red

Sigurboði Grétarsson

Grimfrost

(Reminder! The channel "The Wisdom of Odin", aka Jacob Toddson, is a known supporter of pseudo scientific theories and of the AFA, a folkist and white-supremacist organization, and he's been known to hold cult-like, dangerous rituals, as well as to use his UPG as truth and to ask for his followers to provide money for his building some kind of "real life viking hall", as supposedly asked to him by Óðinn himself. A source to avoid. But more on that here.)

Websites

The Troth

Norse Mythology for Smart People

Voluspa.org

Icelandic Saga Database

Skaldic Project

Life in Norway This is more of a tourist's ressources, but I find they publish loads of fascinating articles pertaining to Norway's history and its traditions.

[keeksandgigz]

Chapter 1: Les Usurpateurs

Part 1 of Words are Futile Devices- A Steddie x Reader Call Me By Your Name AU

Somewhere in Northern Italy, 1983

cw: ~3k words, no smut (yet), EVERYONE IS OF AGE!!!, a lot of unnecessary description for the vibes, reader is a bit of a cunt

notes: I'm back (I think)

Despite the lack of smut in this chapter, this and all my works are 18+ minors do NOT interact

There was something of a quiet intimacy in hearing the summer sparrows in the morning. Nothing but the gentle hum and chirp buried in the ripe peach trees. Thus marking the beginning of your yearly summer stay in Italy, of doing nothing but lounge around and savor the crickets at night, lying down on the couch of the villa your mother had inherited from her great grandparents. 

What you liked about your summers in Italy was that time seemed to go slower, at your leisure, spending it between the lake with your friends, the town just a short bike ride away or staying home buried in the pile of books you had brought over just to keep in your room, a bit overgrown, but unable to make it “too yours” because of the guests you’d have to concede your room to a mere four weeks after your arrival at the villa. 

Every summer, your father would host literature and art history students at the villa, aspiring professors, authors, archeologists, to help with their dissertations. They’d come with their american ways, obnoxiously disturbing the peace that you had created for yourself in the idyllic world you’d surrounded yourself into. Like that was a different astral plane you’d projected into, with the same friends as always, the same views, the same places to go. A different guest you’d have to surrender your room to for ten weeks, while you were banished to the communicating room, divided only by a shared bathroom. A small twin bed, an old desk and chair, a big enough window to let a good amount of light in, so you don’t suffocate and turn into a vampire. You despised that room. 

They always arrived on the first day of July, when the weather seemed to turn from needing a light pair of jeans in the evening  to clothes being unbearable. If you were in your room you’d limit yourself to a long enough shirt to keep you decent for the ghosts in the villa. There were no ghosts, but Giovanna, the housekeeper, would pop in from time to time to drop off your clothes– washed, ironed and folded. They smelled like citrus. 

You were reading The Count of Monte Cristo when the guest arrived. The rippling sounds of the gravel under the heavy tires of the car sounding like an alarm. You placed your book face down on the page you had been reading and ran to the window. Curious to see what the tide had brought this year. Maybe someone whose English wasn’t very good. Or some lunatic who could only stay inside because of his pollen allergy. You wondered what they would have looked like. Tall? Ugly? Obnoxious in the sense where you could hear them play shuffle and slam and bang doors and cabinets and drawers in the morning when getting ready? 

The car came to a stop in front of the door, right under the window of your room. The driver’s door opened, Giuseppe, the groundskeeper of the villa went around to open the trunk. Your heart thumped as you saw the passenger door open. It was a man. He was wearing a pair of white linen shorts, a blue flouncy short sleeve button- up shirt and gold- rimmed glasses. He pushed them up as he placed two hands on his hips, quickly removing one in favor of running his hands through his hair, styled and coiffed like he had not just come off an eight- hour flight. 

“You must be…” You’d heard your father say, placing a finger on his bearded chin, the name of the boy must have slipped him. 

“Steve. Piacere” the boy said, in an Americanized Italian, sounding like he had a hot potato in his mouth. 

“Ah! Steve, Benvenuto” your father said, bidding his welcome and shaking the boy’s hand. Your mother extended a delicate hand as well, introducing herself with a bright smile. At the same time, the opposite passenger door opened. Another boy. 

This one had long, frizzy hair. His face was framed by the bangs that stuck on his forehead. He was wearing a black t- shirt of a band you’d never heard of before tucked inside a pair of cutoff denim shorts held up by a belt, a chain clinking at the boy’s side as he stepped off the car. He wouldn’t let Giuseppe take his bags, insisting he could have done it himself. 

Your father followed the boy with his eyes as he carried what appeared to be a duffel bag and a beat up suitcase towards your father. 

“And this must be Eddie, then” your father said, as Eddie released his suitcase to shake your father’s hand. 

“It’s a pleasure to meet you” the boy said, and from this new angle you could see that he sported three chunky rings on his left hand and a chain necklace around his neck. Your father saw you peeking out the window and motioned for you to come down. 

“Shall we go inside? Show you around before dinner?” He motioned towards the boys as Eddie picked his stuff up once again and followed inside. You rolled your eyes. That was your cue to put on some pants and come downstairs. 

Your father’s office was just on the right at the bottom of the stairs, as you hopped down the marble steps. You heard chatter. 

“Oh there she is” you heard your father announce as you leaned against the doorframe of his office. You tended to dislike his theatrics “Boys, this is my daughter” the two guests turned around, reaching their hands to squeeze yours, as you firmly told them your name. 

“Hey, I’m Steve,” he said, fixing his glasses with his other hand. He was soft, but his handshake was firm. Hands bigger than yours. 

“You’re the archeology and history nerd” you quipped, a slight curl of your mouth followed it. 

Steve didn’t seem to like the name, as he let go of your hand, mouth in a straight line. Embarrassed. Put off. You needed them to know that they weren’t welcome here. 

“Hey, what’s up I’m Eddie” the other guy said. His hand was much more rougher and calloused than Steve’s, likely a guitarist. 

“You’re the soon to be failed author?” you tilted your head at him,

 you tilted your head at him, you heard your mother gasp, the indignation dripping from her mouth as she said your name. Eddie chuckled, a bit taken aback, but amused. 

“How do you like daddy’s money, hm?” It was your turn to be indignant. You heard your father snicker behind the boy, followed by Steve. Your hand brusquely retracted from Eddie’s, as your mother poured springs of apologies on your behalf. 

“She’s not like this, usually,” your mother said. Which was a lie. You were always like this. Rude, witty, sour. 

You heard the disappointment in your dad’s tone “Go show them their room” he said, an intimation for you to leave. 

“Make yourselves at home,” he said, before you guided them back upstairs. 

Eddie huffed up the stairs. You didn’t offer to take his bags, as he seemed to not need nor want any help. 

You opened the large pinewood door. 

“You guys are gonna sleep in here. This is my room, but it’s gonna be yours for the rest of your stay. I’m gonna be in the next room over. Unfortunately we’ll have to share a bathroom” You could see sleep calling to them, as their eyes opened and closed slowly at the sight of a made bed. 

Eddie dropped his bags and thumped on the bed, sleep immediately overtaking him. 

“You have to excuse him, this is the first time he’s traveled outside of the States,” Steve said, sitting on the bed, leaning to take his shoes off. 

“Nervous or what?” you asked, examining your bookcase in case you wanted to steal a book to take to your room. 

“Just not as lucky as many” Steve shrugged, laying himself down on the mattress “this is his big shot. If your dad likes his stuff it’s all uphill from here” Steve groans, voice full of sleep “thanks for lending us your room, let us know when dinner is.”

And that was that. The boy fell into the arms of slumber.  

And when Giovanna rang the bell to announce dinnertime, once again you peeled yourself away from The Count of Monte Cristo. You wondered if they were still sleeping. 

You wandered into the bathroom and towards the door as you shot a quick look at the two sleeping bodies on the bed. Eddie was snoring. You were unsure if you should have woken them up. 

You toyed with the bathroom door, swinging it between your hands. A grin decorated your face as you decided to slam it. Steve jumped awake, annoyed and scared. 

“Dinner’s ready” you muttered, reaching for the handle of the door. 

“I’ll pass, thanks” Steve said, shaking Eddie from his almost comatose state. The boy mumbled a semi- discernible “huh?” 

“Dinner, Ed. ‘m not going, but you can feel free to” Steve said to the other, but he just turned around and sleepily muttered an “‘mgood, thanks.”

“He’s good. We’ll apologize to your mother in the morning” Steve said, laying back down, ignoring you completely. 

Where’s my apology? 

You were thankful for the lack of guests at dinner. That way you were able to silently eat and then slither back into your room. Back into your book. Lulled by the crickets, and the whisper of the trees in the weak evening breeze. You ended up falling asleep. 

In the morning, Steve was already outside having breakfast with your parents. He looked like he had showered, but you didn’t recall the faint sound of the water running. He was wearing another pair of shorts, another flouncy shirt. Fumbling with a slice of toast, buttered with jam as he talked to your father about the morning paper. 

“This is gorgeous by the way” Steve admitted, looking around “your orchard?” he looked at your mother, who was smiling proudly at the compliment. 

“We grow a lot of fruit here, Giovanna makes apricot juice fresh every day” she smiled, biting into a slice of bread.

“You had a lot to say yesterday, now you’re a quiet little mouse?” your father teased, elbowing you lightly as you rolled your eyes. 

“It’s okay, she apologized” Steve said, an assuring look in his eyes “she didn’t mean that stuff. She told me, it’s just her welcome wagon” he chuckled, and you felt yourself grow red. Why would he save you like that?

Eddie popped out from the door, hair in a bun, changed out of his shirt in favor for a new one. 

“You should show them around some time, dear. Take them into town, maybe at the lake, I hope your father is not gonna keep them cooped up in his office for ten weeks” your mother giggled. 

“Yeah, no we’d love that. Maybe I’ll get some inspiration for the book” Eddie sat down at the breakfast table, between you and Steve as he fumbled with a soft boiled egg Giovanna had to crack open for him. Embarrassment was veiled on his face. 

You looked at his ringed hands, fumble with the small spoon. Did it always look so small? 

“We’re not gonna start until the beginning of the week, but I might ask you to go get some supplies into town today and take these two with you. Eddie’s gonna need some nice paper for his typewriter, won’t you?” your father gave him a heavy pat on the shoulder, at which he smiled. 

“Have another egg” your mother encouraged the boys. Eddie dug into the pot again, getting more confident with the way he spread the runny yolk on a slice of toast. Some of the runny egg dripped in between his fingers.

Just not as lucky as many.

Steve passed. “I know myself too well, if I have a second, I’ll just have a third and a fourth and a fifth and then I’m just gonna have to get rolled outta here” he joked. I know myself. Self- assured, cocky. You wondered what it felt like to really know yourself, to have everything figured out like he did. 

You lent Steve Giuseppe’s old bike, Eddie got an old one of yours, the squeaky rusted tires alerting the two strangers’ presence. You were afraid you would have been pressured into giving one of them your own bike, seeing as you had already surrendered all of your possessions to them. 

It was a pleasant day. Not too incredibly hot to be embarrassed if the two boys were to see you, face riddled with uncomfortable beads of sweat, breath heaving irregularly from the dry air of July. Instead, a nice breeze came through the mountains, as you debated on going for a swim later in the day. 

That’s what you liked about your summers there. A swimsuit was always the wardrobe of choice under your summer clothes, the freedom to subsist in a plane of existence where your obligations began and ended within the span of a few miles of green grass and honeysuckle flowers. 

The two boys followed you down the graveled road into town, which seemed to be deserted, families abandoning their houses in favor of driving to the beach for the weekend. 

You asked them if they wanted to get a coffee, as you dismounted your bikes and parked them in front of a coffee place. 

You sat outside as you sipped from your espresso cups. 

“So” Steve broke the silence “What does one do around here?” you put down your book, the device you so desperately tried to ignore them with, trying to drown them out. 

“Wait for the summer to end” you mumbled carelessly, going back to the words on the page.

“Ok and then in the winter you wait for the summer to start?” Eddie snickered. 

“Seriously though, what do you do here the whole summer?” Steve interrupted, taking you away from your book again, as you tossed it on the table. 

“I read, mostly. Play music, swim at the lake, go out” you huffed out annoyedly, reaching for the book. Eddie preceded you.

“Kafka? What happened to Monte Cristo?” he flicked through the yellowed pages.

“I finished it. How’d you know I was reading that?” you snatched the book back from his hands. 

“It was on your bed before I slammed onto it. You should read something a bit more substantial,” he said “Kafka isn’t gonna teach you shit, why don’t you read Dorian Grey instead?” it annoyed you how patronizing his tone was. 

“I read that last year, thanks for the help” you retorted, taking the book back from him with a roll of your eyes. 

“Your dad seemed to make it abundantly clear that you need to be nice to us” Steve intervened, whining like a petulant child. 

“Or what? You’ll snitch on me?” you snapped, the two boys looking at each other. 

“Listen, sweetheart,” your nose curled at the nickname, “we’re not your enemies or whatever you think you’ve made us out to be. We really don’t want to be a nuisance to you” nothing about what he said seemed sincere. You rolled your eyes in response.

“Well,” Steve stood up from the metal chair with a violent noise, Eddie following suit “we’ll see you later,” as the both of them mounted their bikes and left. The creaking noises of the rusty old bikes followed in their pedaling. 

They finally got the hint. 

You spent the rest of your day at the lake, not really in a mood to interact with Chiara or Alessandro, two of your longtime friends. Instead, you made the slushing of the water current your friend, staring at the words on the page. Meaningless words. Kafka didn’t seem so enticing after all. 

When you got home it went back on the dusty shelf. Your hand lingered on the spine of Dorian Grey for a moment. The cover was brown and worn, it was your mother’s before it became yours, your heart picked up at the words on the spine, gold lettering. You thought about what Eddie had said earlier. 

You picked up Heart of Darkness instead. 

Read Part 2 Here

tagging: @littlexdeaths, @xxbimbobunnyxx, @aphrogeneias, @rowanswriting, @stveharringtn, @impmunson, @strangerstilinski, @lavendermunson, @rebelfell, @bimbobaggins69, @cryingglightningg, @thornsnvultures, @jamdoughnutmagician, @take-everything-you-can, @eddiesxangel, @ali-r3n, @emxxblog, @corrodedcoffincumslut, @str4ngergirlw0rld, @yujyujj, @gregre369, @subconsciouscollapse, @aol19, @cooljadejacksonthings, @maeneedsabreak, @eddiesguitarskills, @freak-of-hawkins, @eddiesghxst

[thepromptfoundry]

Calling all history nerds, period piece connoisseurs, and fans of time-travel plots! Decades December is coming up here at The Prompt Foundry!

This list is being posted a little earlier than usual because historical work can take some time. The list has some reference points for you to jump off from. Show off your special interest in a particular era or event, or start a wiki walk from the the Wikipedia page for each decade to learn something new!

Have fun exploring resources like @thetimelinesofslang, the Fashion History Timelines from NYSU's Fashion Institute of Technology, or the fashion plates and historical photos from blogs like @omgthatdress or @historical-fashion-polls!

If you use this list, please tag me here @thepromptfoundry, I’d love to see your writing and art!

Feel free to combine different days' prompts with each other, or combine them with other events! Use your OCs, your favorite characters from media, your own experiences, whatever tickles your fancy.

Respond to as many prompts as you want or as interest you, don’t worry about missing or skipping any. Remember, this is supposed to be fun!

If you have any questions or musings, check our FAQ, and if you don't find your answer, shoot me an ask.

Plain text list below the cut:

1) 0010s Xin dynasty in China, Caesar Augustus in Rome

2) 1900s Edwardian era, Russo-Japanese War, release of the first feature film The Great Train Robbery

3) 300s Teotihuacan flourishing in present-day Mexico, writing of the Kama Sutra

4) 1910s World War 1, the Russian Revolution

5) 1440s Late Middle Ages/Early Renaissance in Europe, the hangul writing system is introduced in Korea

6) 1920s Prohibition in the US, rise of fascism in Europe, earliest sync-sound movies

7) 0070s Roman Epire, destruction of the Second Temple in Jerusalem, eruption of Mt. Vesuvius and destruction of Pompeii

8) 1930s The Great Depression, the Declaration of the Independence of India, art deco, color film

9) 1090s The First Crusade, the Liao, Xia, and Song dynasties in various parts of China

10) 1810s The Napoleonic Wars, the Regency era in England

11) 1940s World War 2, post-war rebuilding

12) 1000s BC The Iron Age, King David of the Israelites, development of the Phoenician alphabet

13) 1950s Baby Boom, Red Scare, the Korean War, rock'n'roll, zippers and television both become commonplace

14) 1340s The Black Death in Europe, decline of the Mongol Empire

15) 1590s Late Elizabethan Era in Europe, William Shakespeare, Imjin War between Japan and Korea

16) 1960s Moon landing, hippies, mod fashion, Chinese Cultural Revolution, Stonewall, Star Trek, the Civil Rights movement

17) 1770s The American Revolution, founding of the real Illuminati

18) 1860s American Civil War era, late Edo period in Japan

19) 1970s The Sexual Revolution, disco, the first video games, end of the Vietnam War

20) 2200s Whatever the future holds!

21) 1980s End of the Cold War and fall of the Berlin Wall, beginnings of the World Wide Web, the First Intifada in Gaza

22) 1660s Part of the Golden Age of Piracy, the English Restoration

23) 1990s Internet access becomes widespread, grunge, the Gulf War, the Troubles in Ireland, height of the AIDS crisis, Princess Dianna, first Pokemon games

24) 1230s University of Cambridge founded in England, beginnings of the Mali Empire in Africa, rein of Emperor Shijo in Japan

25) 2000s The “War On Terror”, rise of Big Tech, Y2K fashion, emo culture, cell phones become commonplace

26) 1880s Gilded Age, the first skyscrapers, electrification of cities, first household electrical appliances like fans and irons

27) 1640s Qing dynasty begins in China, the First English Civil War

28) 2010s Hipster culture, height of video streaming, YA lit boom

29) 500s Liang and Northern Wei dynasties in China, Heptarchy period in England, height of prosperity of the Mayan Empire

30) 2020s Present day!

31) 3130s Whatever the future holds!

[priestess-of-the-north-west]

It's great to be able to show that runes were being carved in the Netherlands. This is one of the 23 currently known Frisian rune findings: the Westeremden (a location in the North-East of the Netherlands) yew stick, found in 1918 and dated 5th-8th century.  It can be seen in the Groninger Museum. 

Made of Yew (Dutch: Taxus, or IJf) which is not a tree that generally could be found in this area. The inscription reads like a blessing or spell for luck/happiness. To me, this is Frisian galðr:

ophæmujiBAdaæmluþ wimœBæhþuSA iwioKuPdunale:

(Source: de Gruyter.)

Elmar Seebold (in 1990) reads:

ophæmu givëda æmluþ: iwi ok upduna (a)le wimôv æh þusë

Tineke Looijenga (in 1997) reads:

op hæmu jibada æmluþ : iwi ok up duna (a)le wimœd æh þusa

(Source) Interpreted as something like:

luck (amluþ) stays (gibada) at home (op hæmu); and (ok) at the yew (iwi) may it grow (ale) on the hill (up duna); Wimœd has (æh) this (þusa)

Modern Frisians translate it into:

op de boerderij (heem) blijft voorspoed; laat het groeien bij de ijf (taxus) op de terp; dit is (eigendom) van Wimoed (Source.)

Interestingly, this 5th-8th century Frisian Futhorc differs slightly from the more commonly known elder Futhark. (Context: the Elder Futhark in the Scandinavian areas transitioned towards the Younger Futhark in the 7th-8th century).

Here are a few interpretations by different writers:

By Parsons.

By Grimmsma.

By Terpen en Wierdenland.

[archaeologicalnews]

Hoard of Bronze Age jewelry discovered in Poland was part of ancient water burial ritual, study finds

Archaeologists in Poland have discovered a collection of more than 550 pieces of Bronze Age jewelry that were once part of an ancient burial ritual.

Known as Papowo Biskupie, the dried-out lake bed site was occupied from roughly 1200 to 450 B.C. by the Chełmno group, a community from the larger Lusatian culture that lived in northern Europe during the Late Bronze Age and Early Iron Age, according to a study published Wednesday (Jan. 24) in the journal Antiquity.

The Lusatians are best known for their ritual depositions of metal hoards in bodies of water. However, the Chełmno group was not known for engaging in this practice.

But the new jewelry finding, made by metal detectorists in 2023, upends that perception. Read more.

[quotesfrommyreading]

Given that both the Romans and the Greeks used the word ‘Celt’ in an inconsistent – and frequently quite derogatory – way to cover those who lived beyond ‘civilisation’, it can be difficult to see how the term was originally applied and what precisely it meant.

Matters are not helped by the way in which the word ‘Celtic’ has taken on a more political dimension in recent years, being linked with concepts of Welsh, Scottish, Cornish and Irish independence and self-determination. This, of course, causes further confusion, given that both Britain and Ireland were not considered, by contemporary Roman historians and geographers, to be part of the Celtic world.

If, however, we use the words ‘Celt’ and ‘Celtic’ to cover the distinctive cultural, religious, linguistic and artistic styles common across large swathes of pre-Roman Europe, then it is apparent that not only was Britain part of this greater Celtic inheritance, but also that the Celtic style that developed here represented the final flourish of a rich, varied and dynamic culture.

  —  The Celts: Who Were They, Where Did They Live, & What Happened After The Romans Left Britain?

[bantarleton]

Trimontium Roman Fort

A departure from the Early Modern period to do a thread about the Roman fort of Trimontium in what is now the Scottish borders. I visited the museum at the weekend, and it was great! 1/14

Trimontium, now called Newstead, was first built about around 80 AD, during the Roman General Agricola’s invasion of Caledonia. It stood for over a century in an area known as Trimontium – between three hills.

The land had been occupied by native tribes since at least the Iron Age, with multiple settlements existing on the slopes surrounding the fort.

It served as a military base in Caledonia, and seems to have primarily been a cavalry depot for long periods – there are lots of horse remains, as well as these helmets and ceremonial faceplates belonging to Roman cavalrymen.

The XX Legion spent time there (as did the VIII, earlier on), as evidenced by the remains of this plaque.

A Roman soldier’s service record!

The fort’s strategic function shifted over time –it was a bulwark existing beyond Hadrian’s Wall, then after the construction of the Antonine Wall further north it became more of a logistical hub, then resumed being a frontier fort after the Antonine Wall’s abandonment.

Small settlements sprung up around the fort’s walls, and it is likely there were regular peaceful contact with the surrounding tribes. However there is also evidence of conflict. Roman forts came under sustained attack across several periods, and it looks as though when the fort was finally abandoned, it was done so in a hurry.

As per soldiers from the Ancient World to modern-day Iraq and Afghanistan, when the troops move out they leave a lot behind – lucky for the archaeologists and historians.

I am amused by how miserable Roman soldiers must have been after getting assigned to northern Britain. The ends of the earth indeed! I also do scoff at the whole “I think about Rome every day” meme, but I can see the allure, and I find it extremely interesting comparing and contrasting what I know about 18th c. militaries with the Roman Army. There were definitely a fair few things that I think the Romans were better at, especially when it comes to organisation, logistics and efficiencies!

[artifacts-archive]

Belt clasp

Caucasus, ca. 1st–2nd century CE

In the late second millennium B.C., the tradition of lively animal-ornamented bronzes begins in the Caucasus region. Stylized animals with small waists, arched necks and backs are seen on numerous bronze tools including axes and pins, and are found in Georgia, Armenia, Azerbaijan, and the Northern Caucasus by the beginning of the Late Bronze and Early Iron ages.

[jacaeryslover]

the betrothal, a jacaerys velaryon one-shot.

summary: reader father (stark) accepts to make the betrothal between jace & reader official, jace misunderstands. angst (not really) & fluff!

Back in the old days, when you and Jacaerys were still little kids, Princess Rhaenyra proposed a betrothal between you two, having a Targaryen & Stark union would benefit the realm once she became Queen.

But your father denied it, you were both kids, so he told the Targaryen Princess to wait for them to grow to make it official. Both of you knew back then, the Queen spoke about it with Jacaerys, and he decided you deserved to know who you were going to marry.

—Hello, princess— You hear a shy voice coming from the back, it has to be one of the Velaryon boys, you thought, none of Queen Alicent's sons would speak so softly to a Northerner.

You were right, Jacaerys Velaryon was standing behind you, Princess Rhaenyra's oldest son and the next heir to The Iron Throne. You found a very good friend in him the weekends you stayed in King's Landing. The Velaryon boys felt like a breath of fresh air in these foreign and tense lands.

—Hello, my prince. Is everything alright?—Her voice was soothing, comforting, even for her age. Jacaerys thought he could listen her talk for hours. —Yeah princess, I'm quite alright. Actually, I wanted to talk to you about our betrothal.

—Our betrothal?— She asked, clearly confused. Maybe he should've said it differently.

—Yes, my mother talked about it with your father, he said he would agreed once we were of age. I'm sorry if you didn't want this. But I promise you I will take care of you, and you will be my one and only Queen.

Jacaerys was kind, and she knew that. None of the boys in King´s Landing were as nice as him and his little brother, so the thought of marrying him instead of Aemond sounded amazing. Besides, she knew her dad would never allow her only daughter to marry a monster.

—I have to say I did not expected this, nevertheless, my feelings for you are not those of hate, I will be the luckiest girl if I get to marry you in the future, my prince.

Jacaerys could not be happier, hearing those words from the girl he liked so much made him feel sick to his stomach, a feeling he did not hate at all, so he said the words he´d been keeping the last few weekends.

—Since this moment, I am loyal to you, with heart, body & soul, I am solemnly yours.

He knew she had to leave King´s Landing tomorrow, he didn´t want this, he wanted her to stay. But she also had dutties as Princess in Winterfell. So he waited, he waited days, weeks, months, years.

°°°

—Jace, did you hear about it? Your little wolf's father finally agreed to a betrothal.

His pacific temple crumbled, you didn't mention anything about betrothal proposals in your letters. But your father just accepted to marry you to someone that isn't him, he couldn't allow that. Not when he spend all of his life loving you.

—Are you sure?— He asked Aegon, he was known for being constantly drunk, so he wasn't a reliable source of information, and he wasn't the nicest person, so he could easily be just annoying him.

—Yeah, pretty sure I heard father talking about it, I guess you weren't the best option after all.

Maybe he was right, he wasn't good enough, maybe he heard the whispers, the whispers about his birth. He had to do something, he would fight for her once she arrives to King's Landing.

Later that day, she's finally here, in the same room with him, so he talks first.—Is it true? That your father accepted a betrothal?— His face clearly tensed, he felt like he was being stabbed in the chest, directly in the heart, waiting for your answer was agony.

—Yeah, he did. He made it official a day ago. I thought you knew.—

—How could I know? You didn't mentioned it in your letters, I don't know what happens in Winterfell. Tell me honestly, was it because of me? Was it my fault? Did I do something wrong? Is it because i'm a bastard?

—Jacaerys!—She would rarely use his full name, she was mad, or hurt, Jace could not read her right now, he's full with his emotions already.—Don't ever say that again. None of this is your fault. My father made official our betrothal.—Jace could feel her hands caressing his cheeks, he could feel her trying to make him feel better. He was hurt, but he already felt better, how could he forgot that their betrothal was not official yet? He was blind with his loyalness.

—You should´ve known that I wouldn´t agree to marry someone that it isn´t you. You are my only love. I sweared loyalty to you when I was a child and I did not regretted my decision a single time.

The wedding was set in 3 weeks.

She was the most beautiful woman he ever laid his eyes on, she walked to him by her fathers arm. Her dress had beautiful embroidery in honor to her house, but he couldnt wait for her to use the Targaryen colors instead.

—With this kiss, I pledge my love—.