#perhaps there will be a fluke in which BOTH fit then i shall keep both

[dapurinthos]

i know everyone was all 'y2k is back in fashion' but i know it's still 90s fashion because i just bought two pairs of velvet trousers.

[coffeeandcalligraphy]

Bad Vegetarian | Feeding Habits #1

Hey People of Earth!

As you can see from the title, not only do we have a new series of writing updates, we have a new series of writing updates for a whole new novel that was! not! supposed! to! happen!

For any of my friends who miss Moth Work (aka myself), guess who started writing a sequel literally no one asked. :)

I’ve had ideas for spinoff stories for Moth Work (as if MW wasn’t enough of a spinoff) and was peer pressured into starting this novel by @sarahkelsiwrites​ and I’m really happy about it! I have yet to come up with a title, but the moment I do, shall inform you, but for now, we’re calling this MW2!

This book (if it even ends up being a book) starts with chapter one, Bad Vegetarian. Unlike MW, MW2 starts in Lonan’s POV (not sure I’ll switch but I’m sure it’ll be inevitable), and I’m here for it!

I’ve been wanting to explore Lonan and Eliza’s relationship in more detail since having them come together in MW by complete fluke, and oh! is the tea piping!

This chapter really illustrates how truly dysfunctional this relationship is on both sides. Here’s a break down by scene:

Scene A:

Lonan is paint shopping with Eliza who has just gone vegetarian (which is the def the most normal thing she’s spontaneously done lately). Eliza feels like celebrating by painting their entire kitchen red.

Lonan particularly is drawn to blues, but since this ain’t what Eliza wants, they go with a brilliant red.

Scene B:

Lonan lines the kitchen with painter’s tape as Eliza bothers their neighbours for paint rollers, while trying to convince himself this relationship is still somewhat okay.

While doing this, he gets his weekly call from Unknown Woman who he’s been in contact with for the last few weeks. What for? We don’t know! They talk in code, and he realizes Unknown Woman’s situation is getting worse, and impromptu, tries to do something about it.

Scene C:

Lonan and Eliza bump into each other as he’s exiting the apartment and she’s entering, and have a short, strained conversation about why he’s leaving (she’s not aware of top secret phone calls that make this book feel lowkey like the old dystopians!)

Scene D:

Lonan attempts to drive to Unknown Woman but only knows she lives in Arizona (not great for directions lol). While in the car, he realizes it’s essentially impossible to get there without knowing where he’s going, and eventually gives up and heads home.

Scene E:

TW: blood

Lonan re-enters the apartment only to find Eliza “bleeding” in the kitchen. She’s actually just being wild and this “blood” is wall paint.

Scene F:

If we haven’t already seen the dysfunction, oh does it get worse! As Lonan and Eliza try to have a *moment* Eliza has a conversation by herself and gets a lil gaslighty.

Halfway through this, Lonan gets a phone call from Unknown Woman who we finally find out is his ex-girlfriend Glenne. Sounds like tea but he’s genuinely only helping her out of her toxic situation (which will be clarified later) though Eliza’s skeptical.

This chapter was a lot of fun to write! I wrote a majority of it today, and am really happy to have a *chill* project. While I love my other books (the three I am apparently now working on at once), it’s nice to have a place to dump my ideas with characters I know very well in situations I’m comfortable in whenever I feel like writing but don’t have tons of time/ideas/energy.

Excerpts:

Here are the opening three paragraphs! The first sentence sets up the POV a little weirdly, but I think it works with a later sentence that sort of mimics this “reminder” kind of style:

There are no rules, just remember, Eliza is vegetarian. She’s into earth tones, neutral tones, leafy greens, root vegetables. It’s all new. The day she announced her diet change, she also announced a desire to repaint the kitchen, to fit the new aura, to fit the new ethics, but she wants to paint the kitchen blood red, and Lonan is still a meat-eater. He reminds himself: there are no rules, just remember, Eliza is vegetarian.

In the hardware store he thumbs paint chips. They’re set up in an array, almost like checkers, dissolving in a gradient from reds to purples. Eliza wants red, “Not necessarily earthy, but the root of organism, of life,” so Lonan looks at the blues. They’re all a variant of a seaside theme—Sea Breeze, a cloud-like blue, Beach Umbrella, a wispy aqua, Seafoam Serenade, muted like the soft side of a turquoise. Repainting the kitchen matters little to him, and so do the blues, but the red section, devilish, makes him shuffle his blue deck faster.

Radio from the store’s intercom tins through the speakers, dampened by the hustle of carts, the thud of bodies against the concrete flooring. He holds many cards up to the light, Secret Getaway and Parisian Summer almost the exact shade, but still he flicks through, until half the pile is indistinguishable, and the other half are blues he likes and not reds, like Eliza’s asked.

The next excerpt sort of highlights the last six months of Lonan’s life as he’s been on this whirlwind of keeping up with all the things Eliza has tried. I have added kudzu pudding and other kudzu food just for my pals @sarahkelsiwrites​ and @shaelinwrites​ (rlly want kudzu pudding):

Her sudden vegetarianism is not confusing to him. Eliza tries new things all the time, something he’s learned after living with her for half a year. One time, she brought home four different kinds of dried beans to make into tea, and together they drank it atop the balcony, the Vegas strip across them somehow tasting better. One time, they ate a variety of kudzu foods for a week because Eliza said invasive species had to be killed somehow, and so they spooned kudzu pudding into their mouths, kudzu root powder into their water, kudzu salads with salted almonds. One time, she put them on a warmth ban, and they ate only frozen peas, potatoes, raspberries, turned the thermostat down until every surface crackled. She liked the feeling of subtle frost on the countertops, how it jolted her when she touched it accidentally in the morning. He found her many mornings awake before him, transfixed to the table with both palms soldered to its surface, like she’d forgotten she wasn’t a part of it. One time, she paid to have the furniture in the house rearranged, not good enough for her spirit, and then reverted it two days later. “The couch doesn’t like being so close to the refrigerator,” and he could’ve asked “did you ask it?” but said, “Understandable. It shouldn’t be forced to catch a draft.” So her vegetarianism is normal. Already, she’s switched their meat supply to beetroots, chickpeas, tofu she rips apart bare-handed. For the last three mornings, they’ve both taken a shot of spinach and gingerroot, a liquid that burns to make you feel alive, as if you weren’t already.

The next excerpts kind of surprised me with their amount of humour! Not something I expect from Lonan, but I’m glad he has some sass back lol (CW: some upsetting animal imagery):

There is nothing wrong in this relationship. Everything is Eliza’s new favourite adjective—stunning. Everything is scrubbed with kitchen bleach, glittering like a plasticky pool float in the shallow end, stunning. Everything is planned, put in a calendar, a notebook, a flitter of receipts, but always planned, stunning. Everything is better, even better than better, a better that can only be described as stunning.

Lonan uses this word frequently now, rolling out a strip of blue painter’s tape and trying to find different ways it stuns. Sticks when he sticks, peels when he peels, keeps its edge when it needs to keep its edge, so it’s stunning. The bubble television is turned onto a channel about sheep, and as he lines the baseboards, outlets, catches glances of a sheer buzzing against skin, sometimes a hunting knife slicing until there’s blood. 

Eliza is asking a neighbour for paint rollers because they bought four cans of wall paint, two paint trays, a box of garbage bags, three rolls of painter’s tape, and a small paintbrush each for both of them but forgot the rollers. Stunning.

The following excerpt highlights that Lonan has a cellphone! Is Fostered just a bizarre alternate reality of a time period that doesn’t exist? Perhaps! (CW: some upsetting animal imagery):

Today, they’ll prime the cabinets, the walls, and tomorrow, scroll a coat of red onto both. The kitchen will look more like the inside of an anatomical heart, the sinks and drawers like ventricles, but this is Eliza’s vision—her tastes come alive.

The sheep are being herded by a collie. As Lonan rips another strip of tape with his teeth, he stares at the screen mounted in the corner, at the almost-naked sheep dashing across a field. How many will be slaughtered, he doesn’t know. The narrator must’ve said that, but there is no plan, really, for death. Even for sheep.

He kneels toward the kitchen vent, the tape roll linked around his wrist, and smooths a line of tape down. Eliza doesn’t want to paint the vent—it wouldn’t complete her vision—and so it will remain the original wall colour, a square of cream so worn, it’s almost grey.

Here we have some hints at Eliza’s weirdness:

He straightens and looks at her. She’s bundled in her fur coat even though she has always insisted she’s good at even Vegas’ warm winter. Since going vegetarian, she’s insisted it’s fake, even though he’s read the lining tag—100% mink. He doesn’t know why she’s needed her coat when she’s only walked up a few flights of stairs but doesn’t care to ask.

She approaches him with her thumb out, and when that thumb presses into his eye socket, he flinches.

“What happened here?” she smooths the dip of his under eyes, her fingertips cold. He smells her perfume, different today, always different, a smell like cloves and lavender. “Are you sleeping?” She presses onto her toes, examines the other side, and her frown deepens. “This doesn’t look like eight hours.”

“I’m sleeping,” he says, though they both know this is a lie. It’s taken her two weeks to notice.

��I can run to the pharmacy,” she says. “If you need a refill.”

“I’m sleeping.”

“I didn’t notice this morning—I would’ve given you another energy shot.”

Here’s a line I like because of a) skin and b) sun:

Lonan goes nowhere. This is not his plan. Asphalt whips under the skin of each tire, the setting sun wringing him blind. 

Fully sharing this for the verb zags (and also because I accidentally roast cities tho I love them I am one of these blink-less people):

He doesn’t know where he’s going. Arizona is the only thing he knows about her, doesn’t know if she lives in an apartment, a duplex, a house—fully detached, semi-detached. As he pulls into a residential neighbourhood somewhere along the vague line he’s drawn on the map from Las Vegas to Arizona, he watches for all these options. In the distance, a jogger zags across the street with her golden retriever, children play basketball on a driveway, still in their school uniforms, another woman clips the wilted stems off a magnolia bush. 

It’s when he gets closer to the apartments that the sameness is noticeable. High-rises with pearlescent windows that go pinkish in the sunset—all of them identical. Each building evenly spaced, more like a board game than a place to live. Even the space around each building is the same—the same rose hedges, the same iron fence, the same people bustling in and out, all wearing some variation of the same pantsuit, all holding some other hand—child, partner, lover. The same haircuts, smiles, eyes like marbles, as if there’s a store somewhere that sells copies, a catalogue for eyes that don’t blink. He’s been looking into the sun for too long, there must be a difference, but the longer he looks, the more indistinguishable they become.

To get out of explaining where he wants to go when he and Eliza bump into each other, Lonan says he’s visiting his sister (Reeve), and because she’s iconic and must make an appearance, here’s a line ft. our queen:

He could make the lie true. Reeve is somewhere in the country, he imagines, dancing in a faceless city, living in a motel room, tipping everyone well. 

(^^ all true)

Here we have Lonan identifying with the animals more than anything else for the second time in one chapter (TW for more blood imagery):

Lonan hooks the car keys onto the lanyard by the front door and slings his coat across the couch. The television is set to the same channel as before, though the program has switched from sheep slaughter to birdwatching. On screen, a heron perches by a riverbed, opalescent in the sunshine.

“Did you hurt yourself?” he asks, the heron now frisking up the white bark of a tree. He glances at the fluorescent red dripping between her fingers, pattering against the tile.

“I was opening the paint cans.”

“With a kitchen knife?”

He gestures to the blade on the counter, blood-free, newly sharpened.

“It’s all I had on hand.” She pulls her wrist closer to her, runs her index finger along the injured area.

“It’s clean.”

“I washed it, Lonan.”

This next one has some blood imagery so TW for that!

The heron has moved closer to the riverbed. It watches the water knowingly, its subtle simmer of movement, and after a moment of watching, strikes its beak down so it spears a trout. He misses the part where it eats. Eliza’s clicked off the TV from behind him.

She slams the remote onto the counter so hard, its back clatters off and onto the tile. “I cut my arm with a kitchen knife while opening paint cans. It happens.”

“I don’t see a cut.”

“Why would I make that up?”

“I don’t see a cut.”

She walks toward him. He expects her to shove her wrist in his face, but she doesn’t. She just holds it, some of the blood fluorescing pink, splashes onto her toes.

“You got to see your sister?” she asks.

“She cancelled.”

Eliza clucks her tongue, examining her wrist, and then she extends her arm, revealing the full patch of pale skin gone red.

Lonan takes it, and with his fingernail carves a line through the red to reveal the healthy patch of skin, painted, uncut.

And finally, here’s the last line of this excerpt that essentially explains where the title comes from ft. predator VS prey symbolism:

He’s reminded once more of the heron, how it plunged into the riverbed with ease, and the trout dangling in its beak, its commitment to life most fervent the moment before being consumed. 

So that’s going to be it for this update! I don’t know how frequently I’ll be writing this, but it’s been a lot of fun so far. I’m excited to explore more relationships I haven’t turned over in a while as a little side project while I do other things! Hope y’all enjoyed!

--Rachel

[mostfacinorous]

A Milder March- Massage

From the #A Milder March prompt list: 

Massage

Touch was something they were still both so painfully unaccustomed to. Sure, they walked among the humans, but not really with them, you know. 

Which was just to say that Aziraphale thought about touch often, and for long periods of time. Some would say he yearned for it, if that wouldn’t be a fairly unangelic thing to do.

He’d been grateful when he’d learned that Gabriel didn’t frown upon human grooming techniques-- he was of the opinion that Aziraphale showing care for his body was good maintenance. It didn’t undo his ‘pudge’, but it certainly wasn’t going to get him punished. 

And so he’d taken up manicures, and getting shaved, and having his hair cut. Little casual encounters that would help span the time between touches. And he was an angel, after all-- he worked miracles, and occasionally received some small gratitude for it-- hugs, he found, were his favorite. 

But Crowley, he realized with some concern, had never found his own ways of getting touch. 

He miracled his own hair and clothes and nails to perfection-- or whatever you called the opposite of a miracle. He didn’t do gratitude earning acts of good. In fact, he was far more likely to be beaten for his troubles, if anyone realized what he got up to. And Aziraphale suspected he had been, at least a few times. 

It wasn’t until the world (nearly) ended, and they were able to spend more time together, without fear of their sides seeing, that Aziraphale realized that they hadn’t touched more than hands. The first time he’d patted Crowley on the shoulder as he passed him by to make tea, Crowley had jumped. 

Aziraphale had thought it was a fluke-- tensions still running high and whatnot. Adrenaline. 

The next time it happened, Aziraphale had patted his cheek, because he’d been cheeky, and it had been endearing. 

Crowley actually took a step back, froze, and then fled, and Aziraphale did not see him for a few days. 

It was, admittedly, a small sampling, but it was enough to tell him there was a problem. And It was one that, when he spent a little time thinking about it, nearly broke his heart. 

So he rang Crowley up. 

“... Do it with style.”

“Oh, come now Crowley, I know you’re there. Answer me, won’t you? There’s no need to be embarrassed, I completely understand. And… I can stop touching you, if you like. I’m very sorry to have made you uncomfortable…”

“No.” 

Aziraphale exhaled, glad that Crowley had answered after all. 

“No?” He prompted.

“No, I don’t… want you to stop. ‘M sorry.” Crowley took a deep breath, and Aziraphale was uncharacteristically silent and patient while he waited for what came next. 

“I’m just… bad at it.” Crowley finally finished, and Aziraphale could just picture him deflating in his mind’s eye. 

“You aren’t.” He assured him. “Only out of practice. You were fine with Warlock, after all.” And that was the thing, he realized-- with Warlock, it had been constant, and then with the sudden lack… “Crowley, I suspect you’re touch starved. And perhaps, if you’d like, we might figure out a way to get you used to it again.”

“It’s no big deal, Angel. I can figure it out on my own. I just didn’t want you to think-- you don’t make me uncomfortable.” 

“Does the concept of asking for-- or accepting-- help make you uncomfortable?” Aziraphale asked, feeling quite brilliant for having cottoned on so quickly. 

Crowley made a sort of muffled squawking sound from the other end of the line. 

“Ah.” Aziraphale said sagely. “In that case, what if you just come over, that I might spring help on you? Is that amenable?” 

This time, Crowley’s choking noise sounded distinctly amused. 

“I-- yeah, I s’pose so. I’ll be over shortly, then. You want anything?” 

“Only your company.” Aziraphale answered, though he couldn’t help but think he should very much like to hug Crowley. 

They would need to work their way up to that, though. 

Crowley arrived, slouchier than usual-- trying harder than ever to look cool and unconcerned, but only managing something on the side of ‘overcooked noodle’. Still, Aziraphale fancied himself too kind to say so. 

“I’ll just close up, shall I? You pick the drink of choice, today.” He nodded him towards the back room and took care of locking up and flipping the sign. 

By the time Aziraphale had made it to him, Crowley appeared to have downed a quarter bottle of tequila. 

“Goodness, that bad is it?” Aziraphale asked, forgoing his usual seat in favor of settling in beside Crowley, carefully pressing their knees together before he reached for the bottle. 

Silently, over the top of his glasses, Crowley gave him a baleful glare before taking another healthy swig, and then, finally, passed the bottle over. 

“Thank you.” Aziraphale said primly. He took the smallest sip, grimaced, and set it on the table just out of Crowley’s reach, so that if he wanted it he would have to lean past Aziraphale to get it-- thus touching him more in the process. 

“Bastard.” Crowley groused, and Aziraphale smiled. 

“Just enough of one, if I recall. Now. I was thinking-- contact clearly makes you tense. What would you say to my using touch to relieve some of that tension?” 

Crowley’s eyebrows, usually hidden behind his glasses, shot up above them quite suddenly, and his mouth fell open to splutter out some nonsense syllables. 

It took a moment for Aziraphale to figure out why, and then it was his turn to gawp like a fish. 

“A- a massage, Crowley! On your back, I meant, a back massage!” His words came out rather more like squeaks than he’d intended, and he could feel his face heating up. 

Crowley cleared his throat. 

“Ah, yeah, right, yeah-- course. Yeah.” He stood up. “I uh-- where’d you have in mind?” 

Aziraphale looked around, then stood himself and gestured towards the sofa. 

“You seem comfortable enough here-- only, without your shirt, I should think?” 

Crowley didn’t hesitate quite so much as Aziraphale would have expected, and pulled his jacket, tie, and shirt off quickly enough. He didn’t seem to mind being looked at-- save for that he wouldn’t meet Aziraphale’s eyes. 

He threw himself face down across the couch, which grew obligingly to fit him on it. 

And only once he was on his stomach did he take his glasses off, cross his arms, and hide his face in the crook of his elbow.

Aziraphale stood watching for a moment, almost bemused, until Crowley lifted his head a bit and glared out at him from between strands of his hair, the gold of his eye striking through the gingery locks. 

“Well? Get on with it, I guess.” 

Aziraphale nodded, glanced around, and pulled a bottle of massage oil out of nowhere. He knelt beside the couch, grateful for the sudden thickness of the rug beneath his knees, and poured oil down the mountain range that was Crowley’s spine, standing in stark relief against the flat plains of his back. 

Crowley yelped and squirmed before settling, and Aziraphale laid a hand on his back to keep him from spilling the oil on the upholstery. 

“Sorry,” He said sheepishly. “I didn’t think it might be cold. Won’t happen again.”

Crowley grumbled mutinously, but kept it under his breath and muffled by his arms, for the most part, so Aziraphale ignored it. 

Now that his hand was splayed out over Crowley’s back, it seemed the most natural thing in the world to move it-- small circles at first, then wider ones, and he got his other hand on him as well-- 

And felt as Crowley relaxed, seeming to sink into the couch until he was almost in danger of becoming part of it. 

Aziraphale didn’t have much practice at this, but he could feel his heart singing the longer he was allowed to go on without Crowley objecting, or pulling away, or calling a stop to it. 

It was just touch. Nothing sensual, really, nothing particularly skilled or special. But it warmed a part of his chest that he hadn’t realized was somewhat chilled, and by the time the oil was nearly all absorbed into the skin and scales, Aziraphale had decided he never wanted to stop. 

That didn’t mean, however, that he could keep going forever. Eventually, Crowley turned his head, so that his face was propped up on his arm, and just stared back at Aziraphale for a long moment. 

“Thanksss, Angel.” He said quietly, his tongue flickering between his lips, looser than Aziraphale had ever seen him be without half a dozen empty bottles between them. 

“My pleasure,” He managed, his voice oddly pinched. 

He looked down, retrieved the bottle of oil, and was working on getting to his feet when he heard Crowley’s offer:

“Your turn next?” 

Aziraphale pressed the bottle to his chest and all but beamed. 

“Oh, yes please-- if you don’t mind.”

[minmeemaw]

That was Rhaegar's dagger?It is confirmed?I hope so because that battle was weird

Hello Anon, Thanks for the ask & sorry for the delay in responding. I’ve been grappling with my disappointment with s8e3.

First of all, am a woman who isn’t misogynist and isn’t troubled by the fact that Arya Stark was the one to kill the Night King.

Her show avatar has proven herself to be very capable and I think the spar between her and Brienne in season 7 was meant to hint at it. Also, we’ve seen through various seasons in the show that every chance Arya got, she practiced her water-dancing moves. And then when she was in Bravos, she eventually learned stealth & moves that she exhibited during the fight. This book quote about her:

“Swift as a deer. Quiet as a shadow. Fear cuts deeper than swords. Quick as a snake. Calm as still water.”

isn’t unfounded and would perhaps be even more relevant to her character arc in the books. So yeah, she could well deliver the final blow to the Night King.

What troubled me the most are these questions:

1. What was the Night King about? Was he simply suicidal and wanted someone to just kill him? (I’m trying my best to not include sarcasm here but you can assume..)

2. What was Jon’s entire character arc about?

Is his destiny the Iron Throne? Yes, perhaps. But is that the most important thing about him? To gain political power & sit the Iron Throne? If so, the SHOW did a very bad job of proving him capable. They’ve shown him being a sad, unwilling person who is constantly thrust into positions of power and get killed or nearly get killed on various occasions. (I’ll stick to the show version due to REASONS)

3. Imagine what if Jon had remained dead?

- NO ONE WILL BE BOTHERED ABOUT THE ARMY OF THE DEAD.

- Daenerys will at some point return to Westeros and claim & win the Iron Throne.

- Winterfell will remain in the hands of Boltons’ and if by some miracle, the Starks win it back, they’ll bend the knee the moment they see 3 dragons and the six kingdoms marching on them. Cersei’s “no one can hold the North” was in light of the absence of dragons but Dany has 3 of them so… it’s just common sense really.

Sidenote: Dany, a monarch, is listening to snide remarks and taking so much bullshit only because of her respect(love) for Jon. She would not even be there if it weren’t for him. Also, normally, when the KING bends the knee, every twat with a tongue doesn’t get to go behind him and question the Queen whom the said King bent the knee to. I don’t know what the show is trying to convey.

- (Continuing from what if Jon wasn’t resurrected…) If Dany never went beyond the Wall, she won’t lose a dragon & it would have to be Bran’s crossing of the Wall that’ll be its downfall & not an undead dragon.

- Eventually, there would be a war and it might end up the same way. With Arya making the final kill right before everything is seemingly lost.

Also, I haven’t mentioned f(?)Aegon storyline here because even if he’s a Blackfyre, dragonseeds can ride a dragon & Dany might still find a 2nd dragon rider. Besides, I’m trying to think in the show-only-universe.

4. As for the dagger that killed the Night King, the showrunners explicitly stated that Arya hit him in the same place in his chest where the children embedded the dragonglass. First of all, how did she know where to stab him and why was there a gap in the armor (mind you, the Others’ armor has magic is not the regular steel thing, its Ice magic)? Did someone tell Arya where to hit him or was it coincidental?

Fluke of luck, I’d say!

6. Why did Theon have to die? Bran literally asked him to run to his certain death. Like… wtf?!!!

5. To top it all, D&D saying that they did it for shock value/unpredictability was a bit of a wtf moment for me. We’ve HAD 7 seasons and 2 episodes of unpredictability and now was the time for ANSWERS!!! If Bran had spoken SOMETHING instead of sitting and warging into ravens of the Raventree hill (dead tree reminded me of it lol), explained everyone’s role without giving away the ending perhaps but in a way that it would have made sense in the end, I’d be okay really. Something like, “Jon, you’re a watcher, you go watch! Arya, you be NO ONE.” I know, so lame but I didn’t get 2 years to write the scene!!!

For all these reasons and more (but that’s not the point of this ASK, I just realized), you have to forgive me for being critical of the WRITING for this episode.

Now, coming back to the actual ask - why I think the dagger was Rhaegar’s

We saw this image in s7:

The text reads:

When Aegon the conqueror forged his Seven Kingdoms, he and his descendants would often decorate their blades with dragonglass feeling a kinship with the stone. The royal fashion for dragonglass ornamentation soon spread throughout the Seven Kingdoms to those wealthy enough to afford it. Hilts and pommels were and are the most common decoration for dragonglass if too brittle to make a useful crossguard. Indeed, its very brittleness is what relegate it to the great houses and the most successful merchants.

The dagger is Valyrian steel with a dragonbone hilt (black colored) and a ruby embedded in it. Needless to say, it belonged to the Targaryens. We know of only one recent Targaryen who was all about rubies – Rhaegar Targaryen.

“Rubies flew like drops of blood from the chest of a dying prince, and he sank to his knees in the water and with his last breath murmured a woman’s name.”

In season 7, when Littlefinger(LF) gave the dagger to Bran, he confirmed it’s the same catspaw dagger that was sent to kill Bran and so Bran should have it. And Bran passed it on to Arya.

This catspaw dagger, as you must surely remember, was taken by Catelyn to King’s Landing where LF vouched that he owned it at one point but he had lost it to Tyrion when Tyrion lost a bet against Jaime.

In books, there’s a very famous Tyrion quote (which leads me to believe in Tyrion-traitor theories)

“Whatever you may believe of me, Lady Stark, I promise you this – I never bet against my family.”

Long story short, Tyrion tried convincing Catelyn of his innocence but she wouldn’t listen and took him hostage.

There’s another Jaime chapter in books where he’s trying to discuss with Cersei who would’ve sent the assassin after Bran and then said that it “used to be” in Littlefinger’s possession but he actually lost it in a bet to Robert Baratheon.

Now before I share my views about how Robert got his hands on that dagger, we have to think how Littlefinger got his hands on that precious heirloom of the Targaryen dynasty. He just took it from the armory.

Robert didn’t really care for gold - where it came from or how it was spent as long as he had enough to support his “lifestyle” (drinking & whoring). And I believe Littlefinger has not only been stealing coins or diverting funds from the Crown, but he was stealing other tangibles assets as well.

“His last letter mentions the rebels only briefly before beseeching me to ship him some old tapestries of Robert’s.”- Cersei: (ADWD)

Here, LF had sent her a request for Robert’s “old” tapestries. OLD? Robert just died, like less than 3 years ago and Baratheons still ruled the Seven Kingdoms even if it’s just in name.

Petyr laughed. “Perhaps I shall. Or better still, to our sweet Cersei. Though I should not speak harshly of her, she is sending me some splendid tapestries. Isn’t that kind of her?”

In this context, I think “old” really meant Targaryen era tapestries that can be found lying neglected in some basement underneath the Red Keep. Which implies, most of their relics are up for taking only if one knew where to look. So, in my opinion, Littlefinger took the catspaw dagger from the royal armory at some point and gave it back to Robert in a public setting where everyone could see it exchange hands & conclude that Petyr was NOT the owner.

Finally, I think that Rhaegar Targaryen possessed the dagger on his person when he rode into the battle at the Trident. I believe it was a combat necessity to carry both- a dagger and a sword. Surely Rhaegar, the Dragon Prince would have carried his Valyrian Steel dagger with him.

As for Robert, he took it from Rhaegar as a winner’s trophy when Rhaegar fell but due to his deep-rooted scorn for Targaryens, never really cared for it afterward.

I hope this makes sense because I’m not really the one for writing metas. I’ve tried to answer your question but I’m too impatient. Lol Lemme know if you have any follow-up questions.

[thisdaynews]

Joshua sensationally beaten by Ruiz Jr

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Joshua sensationally beaten by Ruiz Jr

Joshua suffered his first defeat as a professional in his first fight in the United States

Andy Ruiz Jr produced one of the biggest shocks in the history of heavyweight boxing to rip Anthony Joshua’s IBF, WBO and WBA world heavyweight titles from him and tear up the division’s proposed plot lines.

In a truly remarkable fight at New York’s Madison Square Garden, Ruiz floored Joshua four times en route to a seventh-round stoppage which stunned this famous arena and handed the Briton his first defeat.

Joshua was a 1-25 favourite with bookmakers and will now join the likes of Lennox Lewis and Mike Tyson as dominant champions to suffer losses which brought the sport to a standstill.

“I got beaten by a good fighter,” said Joshua on Sky Sports. “It will be interesting to see how far he goes, but this is all part of the journey.

“He’s a champion for now, I shall return.”

This was no fluke, no punch from the ages, it was the breakdown of a fighter who looked shattered from an early stage.

After flooring Ruiz with a left hook in the third round, Joshua hit the canvas when a right crashed against his temple. By the time a sensational three minutes was up he had been down again thanks to a flurry when cornered.

It created an electric buzz amongst the 19,000 or so in the arena. Just what was happening? Were they going to see the unthinkable?

Ruiz was not even supposed to be here. He took the bout at six weeks’ notice and tickets were being collected by fans 24 hours before the bout which still had the name of Jarrell Miller – Joshua’s original opponent – printed on them.

By the seventh round, when Joshua touched down under a flurry of shots again, the game looked up. Seconds later he was down on all fours again and spat his gum shield out, perhaps to buy time.

He simply did not have it. The bout was waved off and all that was planned for the glamour division was ripped up thanks to a man who had been dubbed unglamorous because of his rounded physique.

Ruiz, from appearance to pedigree, was an underdog in every sense of the word. When Britons wake up on Sunday morning, they will read of a truly iconic upset.

Not the Joshua Britain knows

Ruiz Jr had won 32 of his 33 fights before this bout

Ruiz, American born but with Mexican parents, becomes Mexico’s first heavyweight world champion, just as he said he would.

When Joshua sat down with the media on Wednesday, virtually every question directed at him was about his future, not this bout.

He said he was “seeing the bigger picture” and maybe therein lies the problem.

After six fairly tentative minutes from both men he scored his knockdown from a crisp left hook as the pair boxed up close. Normal order appeared set to play out.

Moments later when he himself hit the deck, we were taken back to his titanic struggle with Wladimir Klitschko. The night was on a cliff edge, simply do not blink.

And from that first knock down, he never appeared comfortable. Whether it be stamina, a lack of focus or a lack of preparation for his late stand-in, this was not the Joshua the travelling 8,000 strong army of British fans had grown to know.

In the sixth round there were warning signs. After a smart left hook and right hand combination from Ruiz early on, he went on to take pot shots at Joshua’s head, with the champion seemingly too fatigued to even muster a guard while his legs appeared confused below him.

And then came the finish, mainly built from punch volume as Ruiz overwhelmed his vulnerable opponent with two knock downs in quick succession. The crowd seemed frozen. Surely not? Yes, it was over.

There will be questions because Joshua is his own biggest analyst. For now, there is only disbelief.

Rematch before the year is over

Joshua was down on two cards and up on one when the stoppage came but, according to promoter Eddie Hearn, he will get his chance to rectify things in a rematch in London, in November or December.

“This will devastate him,” said Hearn. “He will come back. It’s now down to the rematch and winning that fight.

“To get back to the heights he has been, he must win that rematch.”

For now, all talk of facing Tyson Fury or WBC champion Deontay Wilder can stop.

Ruiz, who now has 33 wins and one loss can temporarily bask in the glory of his glorious night. He joins James ‘Buster’ Douglas – who humbled Tyson in 1990 – and Hasim Rahman who beat Lewis in 2001 as men to land colossal upsets.

Lewis of course responded by winning a rematch. Ruiz though showed plenty here to suggest Joshua will have to find plenty to do the same.

Ruiz was calm and calculated in staying away from Joshua’s obvious power early on. When he stepped forward he did so with conviction and threw plenty, ensuring he got shots off to justify the risk of making himself vulnerable.

When he did take shots after being floored, he took them and ploughed on gamely.

This bout changed his and his five children’s lives financially. The rematch will do so even more.

“This is what I have been dreaming about and I cannot believe I made my dreams come true,” he said.

“That was my first time getting dropped on the floor but it made me want it even more.”

From starting boxing aged six, to being taunted and doubted because of his weight, he has now come up trumps to deliver the ultimate ‘I told you so’ moment.

He rightly said “the sky is the limit now”, while Joshua will look back on a US bow which was wrecked.

Reaction

BBC Radio 5 Live boxing pundit Steve Bunce:“Anthony Joshua was a broken man in that seventh round. He spat his gum shield out and went back to the ropes. The referee had no option but to stop the fight.

“Anthony Joshua is not going to be able to get away with saying ‘what a great fight that was – everyone was entertained’.

“That is not good enough.”

Former world heavyweight champion and BBC Radio 5 Live pundit, David Haye:“If Anthony Joshua is as healthy and fit as he says he is, then there is something wrong. He needs something in his camp that he didn’t have.

“I thought it was a fantastic night of boxing and unfortunately the Brit lost his belts, but this is why I love heavyweight boxing because anything can happen on the night.

“His invincibility has gone and he is now just a mere mortal. Now, fighters know they have just got to stick in there against him and keep throwing body shots.”

Former featherweight and super-bantamweight world champion, and Radio 5 Live pundit Carl Frampton:“This is the biggest shock I have ever seen in my whole days in boxing, and it’s live. I liked Eddie Hearn’s honesty by saying Anthony Joshua must win the rematch. Where does he stand if he loses that?”

BBC Sport boxing correspondent Mike Costello:“Anthony Joshua looked vacant in the ring after the fight.”

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