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[exitpursuedbyavulcan]

The Silver Dragon (19)

The Petition

When Vaemond Velaryon petitions the Crown to grant him succession of Driftmark, Arianwyn is faced with her worst fears.

Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x OC (Daemon and Rhea's daughter)

Warnings: Partial beheading

Series Masterlist - Previous Chapter - Next Chapter

Arianwyn was woken the following morning not by Brynna, but by her half-sister Rhaena, who had snuck into her rooms to lay a gown at the foot of her bed. Unfortunately, Arianwyn was so unsettled by her father’s threats from the night before that even the gentle sound of fabric on fabric startled her from sleep.

“I'm sorry," Rhaena said, wincing when Arianwyn burst awake and scrambled out of bed, banging her knees against the stone floor. "I didn't mean to wake you. Rhaenyra asked that I bring this dress for you to wear today, and I couldn't find Brynna."

With her heart still pounding, Arianwyn shook her head. "It's fine. I… I was having a bad dream."

"Do you like it?"

"Like what?"

"The dress."

"Oh," Arianwyn had, in truth, been so startled that she hardly processed Rhaena's words, much less see what she was holding. Then, pulling the sleeve of her nightgown back over her shoulder, she stepped to the end of the bed to examine the dress.

It was one she recognized – a red gown with open, flowing sleeves and gold wrist cuffs. Rhaenyra had favored it when her children were young, but Arianwyn thought it had been retired when the brocade had begun to fray. Indeed, when she looked closely, she could see where hasty repairs had been made. But, from a distance, it looked as beautiful as ever.

"She wants me to wear this?"

Her half-sister smiled, holding the gown up to try and see how it would look. "Isn’t it sweet of her?”

Arianwyn grimaced. As she had sent a message to the court with her gown yesterday, Rhaenyra would do the same today. To clothe her in a dress that once belonged to the princess would indeed create the image of a united family that Rhaenyra desired to present to the court.

Rhaena was still waiting for an answer, but Arianwyn could not say anything she knew her sister wanted to hear.

“Red doesn’t suit me,” she said instead. Not an agreement, but also not an insult.

“Well, I think it will look beautiful on you,” Rhaena chirped, far happier than Arianwyn had ever been so soon after waking. “May I help you dress, or shall I find Brynna?”

Begrudgingly amused by her sister’s unrelenting cheer, Arianwyn smiled and nodded. “I think Brynna would appreciate a morning to rest.”

Rhaena immediately set to work, beginning with her hair. Having been born with even thicker curls than Arianwyn, she had become quite an expert in caring for wily hair. And while she tried very hard to convince Arianwyn to let her use a new braiding technique she had learned, she eventually relented to her desire to wear her hair unbound.

Arianwyn’s warming mood waned when she donned the dress. It was far from a perfect fit. Her well-developed curves were apparently inherited from the Royce line rather than her father’s blood, for the gown strained around her chest and hips but hung loosely over her waist.

A shame. She had been hoping the dress would not close.

After giving herself a distressed look in the mirror, Arianwyn turned back to Rhaena. “See, I told you I would look horrid in red.”

“I have never seen a person look so pale,” Rhaena agreed. “It is as if you’ve been rolled in flour.”

Both girls immediately gave in to laughter, wheezing and snorting in a very unladylike manner.

It was then that Brynna finally entered the room, mouth falling agape at seeing the girls in such a state. “By the Seven, what are you doing?” she asked, failing to keep her voice stern. “And Aria, why in the world are you wearing such a wretched dress?”

Arianwyn’s laughter immediately stopped, and she glanced self-consciously down at herself. “Princess Rhaenyra requested that I wear this today.”

Brynna gave her a pitying, understanding smile. Rhaenyra’s ‘request’ was to be obeyed as an order. “I’ll see if I can find a belt somewhere, try and salvage some semblance of beauty.” With that, she gave a quick curtsy and went back through the door.

Sitting back at the vanity, Arianwyn fiddled with the gown's sleeves. The heavy cuffs on the wrists were already grating at her patience, and she would surely be cold all day and have to resist the temptation to cover herself with her arms. But the awkward dress was the least of her problems. After what Daemon said to her the night before, she did not know how he would react when Otto Hightower called her to the throne to petition for her release. Her hand trembled as she brought it up to her neck to finger a necklace that was not there.

Rhaena stepped up behind her, placing a gentle hand on her shoulder. “What did our father say to you last night?"

Arianwyn met her sister’s violet eyes through the mirror. “Do you really want to know?”

“No,” Rhaena answered. Daemon had long been the one source of discomfort in their relationship. “But if it is the reason you are so nervous this morning, I must.”

“They scolded me for being alone with Prince Aemond,” Arianwyn admitted, “warned me of the consequences should rumor spread.”

It was a very generous summary of the conversation. Long ago, perhaps Arianwyn would have given her the unvarnished truth. Taken a cruel pleasure in seeing Rhaena’s perfect image of their father shatter to reveal the monster beneath. But the scratches she had once inflicted upon her had long since faded.

Neither of them were the same girls they had been in that tunnel. Those girls would hate each other forever. But now, Arianwyn and Rhaena were sisters.

And that meant that Rhaena could tell when her sister was lying.

“Was he very cruel to you?” she asked, though, from the look of dread on her face, it was clear she already knew the answer, or at least suspected it.

Arianwyn nodded, blinking tears from her eyes. “Even more than usual.”

Rhaena surged forward, clutching her sister in a tight embrace. “I am so sorry, Aria. I wish there were something I could do.”

“There is nothing I would ask of you,” Arianwyn assured. “Just know how much I have valued your kindness – your sisterhood. And that I love you. I truly do.”

“I love you too, Aria.”

Rhaenyra was the last to arrive in the Throne Room, likely a strategic move on her part. Aemond only saw it as arrogant and disrespectful, though not nearly as much as placing Aria in the back of the procession. From her letters, he knew that it was just another of Daemon’s small cruelties. She had even told him that when little Aegon and Viserys were present, she was made to walk behind the nursemaids carrying them. Still, it stoked enough anger in him that he had to cross his arms behind his back to conceal his clenched fists.

Once Aemond saw Aria, it was hard to look away from her enchanting beauty. It took him a moment to recognize the dress she wore from his youth, when Rhaenyra would visit the nursery. Why was Aria wearing it now? He knew she didn’t like to wear red – or rather, Brynna did not like it – and she must be freezing with her shoulders and arms bared.

Several other men were watching her as she followed Rhaenyra and Daemon to the front of the room. Logically, Aemond knew it was perfectly normal for men to enjoy the sight of a beautiful young woman, especially one dressed so ostentatiously. Still, it felt like they were lusting after something that was his.

But she was not his to protect, as he was reminded when Daemon met his eye. His uncle dared to flash a smug grin, setting Aemond’s blood aflame. Clutching his fists tighter, he suppressed the urge to go to her, to shield her from both her father and the leering eyes of the gathered men.

He turned back to Aria, hoping to catch her eye, to no avail. Her gaze was trained on the ground, eyes flitting back and forth as they always did when she was nervous. One of Daemon’s other daughters stood next to her. Was it the one that had wounded her face? No, that was the elder, who now stood with Princess Rhaenys. This was the younger, Rhaena, who had endeared herself to Aria in the past years.

Indeed, Rhaena was holding Aria’s hand. How he wished he could do so. That he was the one to stand by her side and comfort her, stroking the back of her hand with his thumb, leaning in to whisper something in her ear.

When Aria smiled shakily at whatever her sister had said, his fantasy shattered, the lust clearing from his vision in an instant. Gods, she was afraid.

Her free hand trembled, even as she bunched it in her skirts. Her bare shoulders were taut with tension as they rose and fell with each quick breath she took. The ease and grace she showed when they were together yesterday were gone, replaced by barely concealed fear.

What had Daemon done to her?

Whatever it was, Aemond would make him regret it.

But before he could move to her or speak, his grandsire called the court to order.

“Though it is the great hope of this court that Lord Corlys Velaryon survives his wounds,” Otto boomed from atop the dais, “we gather here with the grim task of dealing with the succession of Driftmark. As Hand, I speak with the King’s voice on this and all other matters.”

Daemon scoffed as Otto Hightower sat upon the Iron Throne.

Arianwyn raised her eyes from the floor to watch the proceedings, shaking as she tried to steady her breath. She had nothing to fear, she reminded herself. In less than an hour, she would be free to cross the throne room to stand with her true family – with Aemond.

“The crown will hear the petitions,” the Hand continued. “Ser Vaemond of House Velaryon.”

Vaemond stepped to the center of the room. “My Queen,” he said, bowing his head toward Alicent before facing the throne. “My Lord Hand.”

“The history of our noble houses extends beyond the Seven Kingdoms to the days of Old Valyria,” he began. “For as long as House Targaryen has ruled the skies, House Velaryon has ruled the seas. When the Doom fell on Old Valyria, our houses became the last of their kind. Our forebearers came to this new land, knowing that were they to fail, it would mean the end to their bloodlines and their name.”

In the corner of her eye, Arianwyn saw Daemon and Rhaenyra exchange a look. She shuddered to think what it might mean.

Vaemond dropped his arms, standing tall and proud even as Daemon scowled at him. “I have spent my entire life on Driftmark defending my brother’s seat. I am Lord Corlys’ closest kin – his own blood. The true, unimpeachable blood of House Velaryon runs through my veins.”

“As it does in my sons,” Rhaenyra interjected, “the offspring of Laenor Velaryon. If you cared so much about your house’s blood, Ser Vaemond, you would not be so bold as to supplant its rightful heir. No, you only speak for yourself and your own ambition.”

Arianwyn clenched her jaw as she glared at the back of Rhaenyra’s head. She was fast approaching her limit on her stepmother’s hypocrisy. Had she not lied to the court about the true parentage of her sons for years to protect her ambitions? Only last night, had she not stood idly by as her husband revealed his intention to whore out his own daughter to further their shared ambitions for the throne?

Perhaps sharing Daemon’s words would sway the court in both Vaemond's and Arianwyn’s favor.

But before Arianwyn could even loosen her jaw, the Queen spoke. “You will have a chance to make your own petition, Princess Rhaenyra,” Alicent scolded. “Do Ser Vaemond the courtesy of allowing his to be heard.”

As Vaemond turned to face the Princess, Aemond, at last, caught Arianwyn’s gaze. But rather than smile, as she expected, he frowned, widening his eye as if to ask if she was well.

She smiled softly, nodding her head. Though nervous, she was well. Aemond’s shoulders drooped slightly with relief, and the corners of his lips turned upward. Something about that smallest of smiles made Arianwyn’s stomach turn loops.

“What do you know of Velaryon blood, Princess?” Vaemond asked Rhaenyra, who refused to even look at him. “I could cut my veins and show it to you, and you still wouldn’t recognize it. This is about the future and survival of my house, not yours.”

With an angry glance at Luke, Vaemond again turned to the throne. “My Queen, my Lord Hand. This is a matter of blood, not ambition,” he declared. “I place the continuation of the survival of my house and my line above all. I humbly put myself before you as my brother’s successor. The Lord of Driftmark, and the Lord of the Tides.”

“Thank you, Ser Vaemond,” Otto said from his seat atop the Iron Throne, dismissing the knight. “Princess Rhaenyra, you may now speak for your son, Lucerys Velaryon.”

Rhaenyra rolled her eyes, striding lazily toward the center of the room as if she had been asked by her nursemaid to clean up after herself rather than formally address the Hand of the King as he sat the Iron Throne.

“If I am to grace this farce with some answer,” she said, her boredom and disdain clear in her voice, “I will start by reminding the court that nearly 20 years ago, in this very – ”

Her words were cut off when the throne room doors burst open, and the King, with a gold mask covering half his face and leaning nearly all his weight on a cane, began to hobble into the room.

“King Viserys of House Targaryen, the First of His Name, King of the Andals, and the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm.”

No, Aemond wanted to shout as he watched his father enter the Throne Room. He wanted to storm up to him, seize the cane, and watch him fall and delight in it. The old fool had not left his rooms in weeks, yet now he emerges, walking under his own power?

Any hope of Driftmark now passing to a rightful Velaryon heir was gone, as was Aria’s chance to escape Daemon.

Aemond had needed nothing from the king. Had asked him for nothing. But it did not matter. Rhaenyra had obviously done so.

Viserys would summon a miracle for his eldest daughter and her bastards.

Yet for his other children, he couldn’t even do nothing.

Arianwyn could not tear her eyes from her once-beloved uncle as he made his way, ever slowly, toward the Iron Throne. His back was so deeply hunched that he now stood no taller than herself. What little hair he still had hung in long, limp tendrils around his sunken, blemished face. He gasped for breath as he walked, revealing his many missing or rotted teeth.

This was not the king Arianwyn remembered. Seeing him in this state, she understood the exhaustion and worry on the queen’s face.

The king was dying. Had been for a long time, it seemed.

He stopped at the base of the dais, facing Otto Hightower, who had come down from the throne to meet him. “I will sit the throne today,” he rasped.

“Your Grace,” Otto said, nodding as he stepped away from the throne. It seemed the Hand was as surprised as anyone by the appearance of the poorly king and nearly as reverent.

When Viserys stumbled on the first step of the dais, Ser Erryk Cargyll leaped forward to catch him. But the king waved him away.

Arianwyn turned away from the heartbreaking sight. She had held on to her anger at the king for so long – for his treatment of Aemond on Driftmark and for allowing Daemon to take her. But she had never wanted to see him suffer – certainly not like this. She had loved him dearly, once.

She looked to Aemond, hoping to find answers or reassurance in his gaze, but he did not look at her. His eye was focused on his father. Though his expression remained unreadable, Arianwyn could see the rage simmering within his eye – the hatred.

The clattering of metal drew their attention back to the throne. The king’s crown, the same his grandsire wore when he was king, had slipped from his brow onto the stone steps.

Arianwyn tensed as Daemon stepped forward. With Dark Sister at his side, he could easily kill the king here and now and place his wife on the Iron Throne. But he did not, and the steel remained sheathed.

Daemon knelt by his brother’s side and picked up the crown. He wrapped his arm carefully around Viserys and guided him up the steps to the throne. And with a tenderness Arianwyn had never seen, her father crowned the king and retreated from the throne.

Seeing that her father was capable of love, that he had the capacity to be gentle and kind to those he truly cared for wounded her long-damaged heart. To know that when he could be so caring, he still chose to hate her so fiercely.

When Daemon again took his place beside Rhaenyra, Arianwyn felt a familiar cold settle in her veins. But, this time, she was sure it was there to stay.

“I must… admit… my confusion,” the king rasped. “I do not understand why petitions are being heard over a settled succession. The only one present who might offer keener insight into Lord Corlys’ wishes is the Princess Rhaenys.”

“Indeed, your grace,” Rhaenys answered as all eyes turned to her. She gazed with a guarded expression at Vaemond before stepping to the throne.

“It was ever my husband’s will that Driftmark pass through Ser Laenor to his trueborn son… Lucerys Velaryon.” the Princess’ voice held hesitation, though few noticed it. “His mind never changed. Nor did my support of him. As a matter of fact, the Princess Rhaenyra has just informed me of her desire to marry her sons Jace and Luke to Lord Corlys’ granddaughters, Baela and Rhaena. A proposal to which I heartily agree.”

Arianwyn turned to Rhaena. “Did you know about this?” she asked.

Rhaena shook her head, genuine shock in her eyes. Though she did not seem displeased by the prospect.

The king smiled. “Well… the matter is settled,” he declared. “Again. I hereby reaffirm Prince Lucerys of House Velaryon as heir to Driftmark, the Driftwood Throne, and the next Lord of the Tides.”

Silence fell over the hall. Arianwyn’s own heart sank as she realized what the decision meant. The king was still as stubborn as ever. He still favored his firstborn daughter and the cost of the plain truth. Even if Arianwyn pleaded with him as she had planned and shouted the truth of Daemon’s crimes for all to hear, she was sure he would deny her and send her back to Dragonstone with her father.

Where Daemon would be free to punish her for insulting him in front of the court.

But Arianwyn was not the only one crushed by the King’s choice.

“You break law and centuries of tradition to install your daughter as heir,” Vaemond Velaryon spat, stalking towards the throne as a lion to its prey. “Yet you dare tell me who deserves to inherit the name Velaryon. No. I will not allow it.”

“‘Allow it?’” Viserys hissed. “Do not forget yourself, Vaemond.”

No one in the room dared move, or even so much as breathe as they stood in wary anticipation at what the would-be heir would do next.

 “That,” Vaemond shouted as he turned on Lucerys, pointing an accusing finger at the nervous young boy. “Is no true Velaryon. And certainly no nephew of mine.”

Rhaenyra stepped in front of Luke, “Go to your chambers. You have said enough.”

“Lucerys is my true-born grandson,” Viserys said with a strength greater than his withered body would suggest. “And you are no more than the second son of Driftmark.”

Pity burst within Arianwyn’s heart. Vaemond was right. They could all see it. Rhaenyra was stealing his birthright in broad daylight, and no one would defend him.

“You,” Vaemond barked at the King, “may run your house as you see fit, but you will not decide the future of mine! My house survived the Doom, and a thousand tribulations besides! And gods be damned, I will not see it ended on the account of this…” He bit back his words as he turned to Rhaenyra, righteous anger twisting his face.

“Say it,” Daemon whispered. A challenge and a threat.

It pushed Vaemond over the final ledge.

“Her children are bastards!” he screamed, “And she is a whore.”

A furious whisper echoed around the room. No one had dared voice such an accusation for years, let alone so brazenly in front of the King. Aemond smiled – an involuntary gesture. Surely Vaemond was not so foolish as to think Viserys would ever admit the truth. He had learned that for himself the night he lost his eye. The left side of his face seemed to pulse with pain as a reminder.

Indeed, the king raised himself from the throne and brandished his Valyrian Steel dagger in a shaking hand. “I will have your tongue for that.”

Aemond’s smile fell when he heard Aria scream.

Her shriek pierced the ears of everyone in the room, drawing their eyes not to her but to Daemon. And the near-headless body of Vaemond Velaryon falling at his feet.

“He can keep his tongue,” Daemon quipped.

Aemond did not see his sister clap her hands over her ears and turn away. He did not hear Otto shout for Daemon’s disarmament. He did not see his father collapse on the throne. He did not even see the growing pool of blood on the throne room floor.

All he saw was Daemon wiping the blood from his blade as he turned back to his family, eyes locking with Aria’s. He saw her face blanch and her lips tremble as she fought her tears and the bile rising in her throat. He saw the hope fade from her silvery eyes as she turned and ran from the room.

Not caring who saw, Aemond pushed past his brother and followed.

Aemond caught up to Aria as she fell to her knees in an empty courtyard far from the throne room. He could hear the clanging of the metal cuffs on her wrist as they scraped through the gravel, and his heart wrenched as she listened to her agonizing sobs.

“Aria,” he whispered as he knelt beside her, gently laying a hand on her bare shoulders. “Aria, I’m here.”

When she turned to face him, her face softened with relief. But when he laid a hand on her cheek to wipe away a tear, another cry tore through her. He took her in his arms as she fell into him, and before he could stop himself, he bowed his head forward and laid his lips on her soft cheek, kissing away another tear.

But she did not recoil from him. Rather, she seemed to melt into his touch. Grasping the side of her face in one hand, Aemond ran his nose along her face, unwilling to break the connection, and pressed another kiss to her forehead.

Aria leaned into his chest, wrapping her arms around his neck like he was the only thing keeping her anchored to the ground as her tears came harder and faster. He did not know what to say, how to calm her from her frantic state. So, he simply pulled her closer, cradling the back of her head and whispering sweet words into her ear.

After a long while, her breathing finally slowed. She tightened her arms around him and whimpered against his neck, “He killed Vaemond.”

“I know,” Aemond said, gently rocking her in his arms.

“In front of everyone. He killed him. And no one did anything.”

“I know.”

“What will they do when he kills me?”

Aemond froze, utterly paralyzed as he heard his worst fear spoken aloud. The world seemed to disappear, leaving only him, Aria, and her horrible words.

He felt his jaw twitching as he struggled to appear calm, for Arianwyn’s sake. “He will not kill you,” was all he could bite out.

“He will,” Arian declared. “He said so himself.”

Aemond pushed her back so he could see her face. Her cheeks were flushed, and the rims of her eyes deeply red. Tears still fell from those beautiful eyes, and her lip trembled as she stared back at him.

“He told me that all I was worth was my ‘virgin cunt,’” though her voice was shaky and weak, she did not stop when Aemond hissed at her words, “and that if I did anything to jeopardize him selling me off, he would have no reason to keep me alive.”

She didn’t give him even a heartbeat to reply before she grabbed the collar of his coat and whispered, “He killed my mother.”

“What?”

“He hated her. He wanted her gone. So, he killed her.” She was rambling madly, the story spilling forth without control like fire from a dragon’s maw. “He paralyzed her, broke her back and so many bones. And he raped her. It was his final insult. He raped her, and then she bore me.”

Aemond brought his hands up to cup her jaw. Her gentle voice and the feeling of her blood flowing beneath his palms were the only things keeping him from racing back to the throne room and gutting anyone who stood between him and Daemon.

“Gerold and her Maester offered her moon tea,” she halted when Aemond’s hands tightened on her cheeks. How could she even say such a thing? That a single decision made the difference between him having Aria here, with him, and her having never existed made his stomach hollow. What would his life have been without her?

“She refused,” she explained, and he relaxed slightly. “She knew she would not survive the birth, but she did not want him to forget her. So, she had me as her revenge. That is why he hates me. I am a living reminder that he could not break her.”

Aemond growled, leaning forward to press his forehead into Arianwyn’s. “You are not a revenge nor a reminder,” he rumbled. “You are a person. A beautiful, wonderful, kind, and unbearably good person.”

He stood, raising her with him and wrapping his hands around her waist to hold her steady. “You are so much more than…” he could not bring himself to repeat Daemon’s cruel and crude words, “than whatever your father says you are. You are the Lady of Runestone and a daughter of House Targaryen. If anyone dares harm you,” he hissed, all his hatred and rage alight in his eye, “I will burn them to ash. I would reduce the whole world to embers to protect you, Aria.”

Aemond’s declaration shocked her into silence, though she was unsure why. He had made many such threats when they were children, once even promising to feed her future husband’s head to Emrys if he dared hurt her. But somehow, this threat felt different.

It felt real.

Because it could be, she realized. He was no longer a dragonless little boy playing at ferosity, but the warrior prince who rode the largest dragon left in the world who had helped Aegon and his sisters conquer the continent. If he wanted, he could follow in their footsteps and conquer whatever lands he wished.

Perhaps it should make her afraid, that he was capable of such violence. But it only made her feel safe that he would do so on her behalf, and proud that he was now the man he always wanted to be. She stepped forward, resting her head on his chest, saying with her touch what she could not say with her words. Thank you.

Neither she nor Aemond noticed Princess Rhaenys stalking toward them. Not until she grabbed them by the shoulders and tore them apart.

“By all the gods,” she scolded. “Can the two of you not even try to act as though you are guided by your minds and not your…” she examined Arianwyn with an appraising gaze.  “Your hearts,” she finished.

Aemond released one hand from Arianwyn’s waist as he stepped protectively in front of her, his free hand drifting over the dagger he had strapped to his belt. His mouth was a hard, straight line, and the fire in his eye could have boiled the Narrow Sea to vapor.

“Oh please,” Rhaenys scoffed. “If you really think she has anything to fear from me, you’re even stupider than your drunken fool of a brother. Aegon, obviously. I hear Daeron is quite well-behaved.”

When the attempt to defuse the tension with her wry humor did not sway Aemond for a moment, Arianwyn pressed against Aemond’s shoulder, pulling his hand back from the pommel of his dagger. After only a moment of hesitation, he relaxed from his defensive posture, leaning back into her touch.

 “What is it you want, princess?” While his voice was soft, Arianwyn could still hear the threat buried beneath his words.

“I would like to speak with Arianwyn,” she answered. “Privately, if you would permit it, my prince.”

Aemond glanced down at Arianwyn and every so slightly raised his brow. A question. Depending on her answer, he would either stand aside or whisk her to safety. She squeezed his arm, giving him a slight nod and a weak but reassuring smile. A moment passed, and she nodded again, a harder set to her grey eyes. Then, hesitantly, Aemond released her from his hold and, after a moment spent looking at her with an intensity that made her heart race, stepped away.

Arianwyn did not say anything or even move until Aemond was out of sight. When she finally turned to Rhaenys, she felt her eyes start to water once more, though she did not know why. “What is it you wanted to speak to me about, Princess?”

Rhaenys held her arm out for Arianwyn to take, “Come, let me walk you to your rooms.”

The women walked in silence through the long halls of the castle. Whenever they passed courtiers who tried to stop and engage them in conversation, Rhaenys masterfully brushed them aside without insult, allowing them to make it through the doors of Arianwyn’s rooms without ever breaking their stride.

With the door shut and locked behind them, Rhaenys deposited Arianwyn on the edge of the bed. Still silent, she began tracing the walls of the room with her hands, brushing curtains and tapestries aside in her search. When Arianwyn was finally about to give in to her curiosity and ask what her cousin was doing, a muffled “thud” echoed throughout the room.

Turning to her with a victorious smirk, Rhaenys pushed gently on the stone next to the vanity. Much to Arianwyn’s surprise, a large section of the wall seemingly detached, swinging open a hidden door into a dark tunnel.

“What is that?” she asked, unsure whether to be impressed or afraid.

Rhaenys gestured for her to stand and examine it for herself. Arianwyn obeyed, drawing her arms around her when a cool wind from inside the tunnel swept into the room.

“Maegor had these tunnels built throughout the Keep,” Rhaenys explained. “I’m not sure whether it was genius or paranoia, but they have proven very useful to me in the past.”

Arianwyn looked at her cousin with a questioning gaze. Rhaenys chuckled, “I don’t know where most of them lead. The only path I have committed to memory is from my old quarters to the kitchens. I was not sure there would be an entrance here, but I am glad there is.”

“Why are you showing this to me?” Arianwyn asked, though she was fairly certain she knew the answer. Though Rhaenys had sided with Rhaenyra and Daemon at the petition, she had done so reluctantly. And after Vaemond was killed…

Her ever-collected expression fading into worry, Rhanys cupped Arianwyn’s cheeks in her hands. “Rhaena told me that something happened last night. Something that made you terrified of Daemon.” Her eyes hardened, and her lips tightened. “I know what he is capable of, more than most. I will not let what happened to my children happen to you.”

“What are you saying?” Arianwyn asked, wrapping her hands around Rhaenys’ elbows.

“I have never believed, not for one moment, that Ser Qarl killed Laenor on a whim.” Speaking of her son, her confident air began to waver. “Laenor was a good man – loved by his men. None of them would have turned on him like that without someone else pulling the strings.”

“My father.”

Rhaenys nodded. “Daemon lusted after Rhaenyra for years. Laena was his second choice, and he treated her as such. Once she was dead, only my son stood in the way of what he had long desired.”

Arianwyn’s heart sank, realizing the deep pain she had always felt was not hers alone, but one shared. “Ser Laenor was not the first to die.”

“I always suspected Rhea had not been injured by accident,” Rhaenys said as she pulled her hands from Arianwyn’s face. “I am so sorry you have had to live with that burden.”

“It is not my burden to bear,” Arianwyn replied. “I had as little choice in the matter as my mother. I was seeded by his cruelty. Now, it seems I may die by it as well.”

As she said the words, Arianwyn was surprised to find they no longer sparked tears or a sense of dread. Rather, they nearly brought a sense of peace. After all, it was a good story, if tragic. It was one she could imagine among the gilded pages of a storybook. She always wanted to live a fairy tale, though she had hoped hers would have a happy ending.

Rhaenys grabbed her again, harder this time, her fingers digging into Arianwyn’s skin. “No!” she hissed. “Do not resign yourself to that fate! There are too many people who care for you too much to see you gone so soon.”

Her eyes darkened as she continued, “Our family is heading for dark days, Arianwyn. We will not lose one of the few lights we have left.”

“So what do I do?” Arianwyn begged. The king would surely not grant her release from Daemon. He could hardly walk on his own, let alone stand against his brother. After what he had done in the throne room, she was sure that if Alicent or Otto tried to grant her release, she would face a fate similar to Vaemond Velaryon's.

Rhaenys turned the girl to face the tunnel. “Escape! Follow these tunnels until you find yourself in the city. Keep your hair covered and find a market. Sell your jewels, your clothes even. Make yourself unrecognizable. As soon as you can, leave King’s Landing. Go to Runestone. I will write to Ser Gerold to expect you, and we will find a way to keep you hidden until you are of age. But you must go. Now.”

Arianwyn’s mind raced. She could not deny the appeal of Rhaenys’ plan, of disappearing until she could actually wield the power she needed to fight her father. But even as her legs itched to race through the tunnel, her heart pulled her back into her rooms.

“I can’t,” she whispered, all too aware of the disappointment on her cousin’s face. “I cannot leave Aemond again.”

Rhaenys scowled, “Would you rather him weep over your corpse?”

“No!” Arianwyn shot back. Just the image caused her heart to ache without ceasing. “But if I disappear without him knowing, I cannot predict what he may do. I will not see him hurt, or worse.”

“Fine,” Rhaenys said, biting her lip. “Say your goodbyes. Say whatever you need to.” But promise me that you will run at the first sight of danger.”

Arianwyn steeled herself, trying to show confidence she did not feel. If she did run, would she even be able to find her way out of the castle? Would she survive just one night alone in the streets of King’s Landing? Would she make it to the Vale without being caught, or worse?

Would she be able to bring herself to leave Aemond?

“I promise.”

[alex99achapterthree]

Phantom Friday...

...crosses the ramp.

Our FAA F-4K is back from his sortie, about to pass over the dreaded "ramp" or "round-down" at the rear end of the ship. Our RAMP STRIKE post the other day shows the disastrous consequences of coming in too low and hitting it. The slang term for doing that is "putting one in the spudlocker".

The rather unusual vantage point here is from the space at the very back of the ship below the end of the flight deck, called the "spudlocker". Origin of that term is lost in history, tho legend has it that early vessels stored foodstuffs (including potatoes) there. On modern carriers the jet engine shop is at the rear of the hangar bay and repaired engines can be rolled back here on their work stands for test runs out the back of the ship. Here's what that looks like...

The rear edge of the flight deck is at the top of the picture.

This would be a good spot to watch landings from were it not for the risk that an aircraft could end up on top of you. Generally this area is off-limits during flight ops for that reason.

Oh, just one more thing. Notice the much cleaner exhaust behind the F-4K. One major difference in the F-4K built for the Royal Navy and the RAF F-4M was to substitute more powerful Rolls Royce Spey engines for the GE J79 in the regular Phantom. The Spey burned much cleaner than the J79.

[bronzefuryfic]

Bronze Fury

When the only child of Daemon Targaryen and Rhea Royce is brought to King's Landing to meet with the rest of her family, she finds herself caught in a crisis of succession. The Greens battle for her support... and her affections.

Chapter Four: The Crown’s Crime / Previous Chapter / Directory

Rhae joins Aegon, Aemond, Helaena, Jacaerys and Lucerys in their studies of their shared Valyrian heritage. During lessons, Rhae learns far more than she bargained for. 

The next morning, Rhae awoke with a new purpose. 

She was awake long before Grandmaester Orwyle came to change her bandages and re-apply his ointments. As he worked, a servant came to deliver breakfast. Rhae ate slowly, the meal tasting stale in her mouth, as she watched the Maester work. He helped flex her joints, which had begun to tighten as the skin tried to repair itself. Some scabs cracked and oozed when he did so, and Rhae quickly lost her appetite. 

As they approached the late morning, Beth arrived to lead Rhae to her first lesson. 

While they walked, Rhae wondered how she'd ever learn her way around the labyrinth of a castle. She did not recognize any of the turns, and kept getting distracted by the view of King's Landing just outside. She had not seen a city so sprawling before—Runestone was not so populous.

The study room was large and sun-filled, drapes dancing airily as an ocean-breeze passed through large arched windows. Cushions and tables littered the room—Rhae spotted Helaena in one plushy armchair, flipped upside as she buried her nose in a book. Her hair fell and pooled in silvery puddles on the masonry. 

At a table behind her, Aemond also had a book open. He had half the page covered with his hand as he seemed to recite words to himself. As he did so, he kept rolling his eyes toward a slumped over Aegon, who looked to be asleep on his cushion.

When Rhae had come close enough to catch his attention, Aemond waved Rhae over. 

"What're you working on?" She asked, taking a seat on his side of the table. From her new position, she could see Helaena's feet stick up over the top of her chair. 

"The Maesters gave me new conjugations when we arrived this morning," Aemond said, pushing the book towards her so that she could see. She stared at the page, but could glean no meaning from it. The entire text was in High Valaryian. Aemond rattled on excitedly. "These are fourth conjugation verbs. This one, ' dinagon', has several meanings. A lot of-"

" Aemond, " came an exasperated voice from the floor. Aegon propped up on his pillow, pushing his hair from his face. "We haven't even started the lessons yet. Must you inflict us with your tortures so early?"

The younger brother's face fell, and he looked nervously to Rhae, as though he expected her to tell him the same. 

"We're not all as wise and all-knowing as you are, Aegon," Rhae said coolly. "Aemond offered to help me catch up, and I accepted. "

Aegon's mouth hung open slightly, seemingly unprepared to be sided against—Rhae suspected it did not happen often. She turned instead to Aemond, who was smiling sheepishly. 

"You were saying?" 

"Right," Aemond turned back to his text, pointing to the same word as before. " Dinagon has two translations. The first means 'to marry', or 'to wed.'"

"And what's the other?"

"The other is a lot less common," Aemond explained, tracing the page with his finger. "It can also mean 'to chase away.'"

"Those two meanings sound like opposites," Rhae said, crinkling her nose. As if learning another language wouldn't be challenging enough. 

"I think they go hand in hand," Aegon snorted, now sitting upright in his seat. Rhae was glad to see he had the tact to join the conversation this time, rather than trying to change it again. Better yet, Rhae thought he raised an interesting point. Aegon continued: "There's a few like that, but you can usually understand which they mean in context. Irughagon is another—it means both 'to give' and 'to abandon to'. The same thing really, but the Maesters will want you to identify which the text really means, anyway."

The two brothers rattled off a few more vocab words, but Rhae lost track of them quickly. She nodded along with the conversation, but her mind lingered on the difference between "giving" and "abandoning to". A trio of newcomers broke Rhae from her trance and relieved her from feigning understanding the conversation happening in front of her. 

"Who's that?" She asked in a hushed tone, watching a dark-skinned man with white dreadlocks speaking with the Maesters. Besides him were two boys she thought must be pages.

"That's Laenor Velaryon," Aemond said, hardly looking up from his book as he searched for more examples. "And his two sons, Jacaerys and Lucerys."

Rhae peered across the room at the three. 

"Those two?"

Rhae moved her head, trying to spot if there were two more children hiding behind the ones she could see. The two boys with Laenor looked nothing like him. They were missing the signature silver hair of Valyrians, and in Rhae's opinion, looked alarmingly pale next to their father. 

Aegon watched Rhae as she studied the Velaryons, his eyes flickering between her and a pair of Maesters that whispered behind her back. 

"Rhae!" Aegon hissed, and she tore her gaze away. She opened her mouth to question him further, but Aegon kicked her hard beneath the table. He gave a slight shake of his head— not now.

Rhae shut her mouth, turning back to Aemond and pretending to read off of the page he had open. He was too immersed to notice Rhae's near-fatal mistake.

But Rhae's eyes still danced around the room, from Laenor to his children to Aegon and to the book she could not read. Surely she'd misheard Aemond—those boys could simply not be Laenor's children with the princess. Another thought occurred to her, as Aegon gave her looks she could not decipher—perhaps the boys were playing a trick on her. Surely all the realm would know if Princess Rhaenyra had mothered— oh.

Realization drew on Rhae just as Laenor approached the center of the room with his "sons". They spoke cheerfully with Helaena, who'd finally spun upright in her chair to greet them. 

Rhae's cousin Ser Jon had told her of a treasonous secret that all knew, but none spoke. Could he have meant anything other than this? Rhae felt her face warm—he had said she wouldn't need much more than eyes to figure it out herself. He couldn't have given a clearer hint? She would have a few choice words for Jon when she saw him next. 

"Study hard, train harder," Laenor was saying, now making his way for the exit. Jacaerys and Lucerys waved their goodbyes. With everyone present, the Maesters wasted no time breaking everyone up for their lessons, giving Rhae little time with this new revelation. 

The lessons lasted two hours, but Rhae felt she learned little in this time. Over the course, her mind kept wandering elsewhere. 

One pairing was Helaena and Aemond, who Rhae figured must be at a similar level, despite Helaena's being two years older. She thought it likely Aemond was ahead in his curriculum—he was the least distracted of all the children, always working diligently when Rhae looked over. Helaena's eyes were most often transfixed on the windows, but the Maesters did not call her attention back with any urgency. She seemed entranced by something the others could not see. 

Rhae wished she could join their table—the Maesters had her sat with the Velaryon princes instead. The boys were nice enough in their introductions, but they were very young. She understood why she was placed with them. Lucerys was still learning basic nouns, as she was now doing—but given he was 9, Rhae couldn't help but feel embarrassed sitting beside him doing the same. 

To make matters worse, Jacaerys, who'd just started learning second conjugation verbs, also seemed to be embarrassed to sit with the two of them. When the Maesters insisted Jacaerys pay attention to the other two's lessons as review, Rhae heard him mumble how it felt unnecessary. 

As the morning passed, Jace's interest in the review waned further. His efforts were re-directed to trying to catch the attention of Aegon, who was receiving private lessons across the room. Whenever Aegon would look over, he'd contort his face in such a way that they could read his distaste for his studies from a far distance. There was a great deal of exaggerated eye-rolling and fake gags. 

Jacaerys would dissolve into a fit of giggles when this happened, distracting Lucerys and Rhae. Despite her embarrassment over her study group, when Rhae caught on to what Jacaerys was laughing at, she too could hardly suppress a grin. Aegon knew how to put on a show, and his ability to correct his behavior just in time so that the Maester's wouldn't spot him was admittedly impressive. 

Lunch was brought to the room at noon, and they all ate in content silence. Rhae had not forgotten the many questions she had about the Velaryons, or her anger over the Queen's words last night... but that was for another time. Jace and Luke seemed alright with her. 

When they finished their meals, and they had a few moments to spare, Jacaerys began speaking enthusiastically to Aegon about the dragon pit. 

"Will they be going there today?" Rhae asked Aemond in an undertone, to which he nodded.

"Jace and Luke go near-daily," Aemond said, his voice low. He eyed his nephews enviously. "Their dragons are young and need a lot of attention. Helaena and Aegon don't have to go as frequently, but they often do."

"Do you ever join them?"

"Aemond's our most devoted admirer!" Aegon had disengaged his conversation with Jace, was grinning devilishly. Rhae furrowed her brow—she was detecting a pattern from the eldest. "It's true, ask anyone."

As he said this, he nudged Lucerys, who nodded enthusiastically.

"Aemond always comes to watch!" 

Across the table, Helaena nodded amicably, but Rhae was not sure if she was really listening. Her gaze was still towards the window.

"Watches with two," she muttered, seemingly in agreement. No one paid her any mind, but Rhae thought she heard her say something else shortly after. "But he soars with one..."

Aemond seemed to fight to maintain a neutral expression, but he would not make eye-contact with the others. His hands trembled in his lap. 

Rhae knew she came to Runestone to observe, to learn from, and to blend in with her Targaryen family members. But with each instance of Aegon opening his mouth, Rhae found that to be more and more difficult. It had only been a moment, but Rhae felt kinship with Aemond over their dragon-less-ness in the carriage the day before. It wasn't much, but Rhae knew she couldn't betray that. 

But how best to rescue him without stirring more trouble? She fanned her face, feigning warmth, before rolling up her sleeves.

"Lucerys," she said blandly, calling his attention to her. She propped her elbows on the table, her bandages visible. "Have you ever-"

"Woah!" Luke's eyes widened. "What happened to your arm?"

"What? I-" Rhae dropped her hands below the table just as quick, and Luke grew more insistent. Aemond looked from his nephew to Rhae, looking as though he were about to tell Lucerys to leave the conversation alone, but Rhae gave him a quick wink. He looked away bashfully.

"Your arm!" Jacaerys was peering now, too, trying to sneak a peek. "What happened to it? It's all wrapped up!"

"Dragon fire," she said sagely. The whole table stared at her now—even Helaena had turned her attention to the conversation at hand. 

"But..." Jacaerys eyed her suspiciously. "Who ordered their dragon to attack you?"

"No one did Jace," Aegon said with exasperation. "It just attacked her."

Jacaerys ignored Aegon, looking to Rhae for the answer. Realizing he'd lost his crowd, Aegon resigned himself to watching Rhae for her answer too.

"He's right," Rhae said, quieter now. The others seemed to lean in, eager to hear more. "The dragon Sheepstealer, when I tried to claim him."

"You went all by yourself?" Jacaerys asked, incredulous. Rhae laughed. 

"Hardly," she said. Somehow, this was the easiest time she'd ever had recounting the tale since it happened. Telling it to the children felt more impressive than telling it to the Maesters. "He killed seven men... my Uncle Gerold included."

Jacaerys's mouth hung open, casting a look to his own uncle. Aegon rolled his eyes again. 

"No one is feeding me to a dragon, Jace. You can pick your jaw up off the floor."

"But..." Luke looked confused. "The Targaryens and the dragons are allies. Mother says we're bonded by blood!"

"Yeah, well..." Rhae had her bandaged arm resting on the table again. "I suppose blood isn't everything."

But before Lucerys could ask her any more questions, the Maesters had descended upon their table again. It was time to get back to their lessons. 

Rhae studied with Jace and Luke for another hour, before the Maesters gave her some lines to translate on her own. Luke was insistent on peppering Rhae with questions about her encounter with Sheepstealer, and she quickly seized the opportunity to find a seat on the other side of the room. 

Helaena and Aemond were still receiving instruction, so Rhae found a table to herself to settle at. She'd made it to the third line of her translations before someone fell into the seat beside her. 

"Gods, you're relentless," Rhae mumbled, as Aegon's mouth split into a grin. "I'm trying to work!"

"I thought I might help you study," he said with mock assurance. "Since you're into that sort of thing."

"I'm into 'you' and 'being somewhere else'," Rhae said, trying to grab her parchment back as Aegon snatched it from underneath her nose. He marked it with his quill. "Knock it off!" She hissed. 

"I'm just correcting!" He insisted, batting away her hand. "A little thanks would be nice, you know."

He slid the page back, a new note scrawled in the Common Tongue on the margins: I only saved you from committing treason this morning. 

Rhae's face burned, and she slapped her hand over the note quickly. Several in the room turned their heads—even Aemond looked to see the source of the disturbance. Rhae and Aegon both tried to look as though nothing had happened until the Maesters turned back to their own work, but Aemond's eyes narrowed when he saw the two together. 

"Okay..." Rhae said quietly. "Maybe I was wrong. You can help a little."

"If you have questions, all you need to do is ask."

Taking his cue, Rhae scribbled quickly onto the parchment. Who is their father?

"That one is a little obvious," Aegon said. His hand jotted as he spoke. "You could've figured it out if you stuck with it longer."

My sister spends a lot of time with the Commander of the City's Watch. I'd bet my dragon on Lord Harwin Strong.

Rhae pondered this for a moment, taking the page back from him. No one seems too concerned about that.

"Mmm," Aegon tickled his chin with the quill. "Interesting one."

Aegon began sorting through some books stacked at the end of the table. As he did so, it became clear he was building a sort of barrier to further shield their secrecy. Rhae propped one open to avoid suspicion, and Aegon drafted a rather lengthy response. Rhae resisted the urge to peek until he finished.

Mother says many people are concerned about it, Jacaerys being Rhaenyra's heir and all. Everyone thinks the King has gone mad for not seeing it, but I'm fairly certain he just doesn't want to. She's always been the favorite. Also, I was serious about my offer yesterday. You should come with me to the dragon pit tonight. 

Rhae looked around nervously at the Maesters, but none seemed to pay them any mind. The Royces rejoiced when King Viserys named Rhaenyra heir over Daemon all those years ago, and would continue to support the line of succession so long as it kept Daemon further from the throne. But would the rest of her house reconsider their position if Rhaenyra's own heir was a bastard? She didn't think it was likely, but she'd be ignorant to believe other houses wouldn't take issue with it. 

Already there were those that were divided on Rhaenyra remaining as heir given the birth of the boy sat beside Rhae right now. Ser Gerold told her that the rules of succession were necessary to keep the peace. 

Rhae wrote her response.

How do you feel about it?

Aegon grimaced and shrugged, before tapping on the second half of his note. Rhae sighed, picking up the quill once more. 

Do you always flirt when committing treason? 

Aegon smirked, and with one swift motion, knocked over their shared bottle of ink and soaked the page. A Maester was approaching the table. 

"Aegon!" Rhae cried, ostensibly upset. She turned to the Maester, holding the ruined parchment. "Maester Donnel, I believe I need some new lines."

Aegon was shooed to another seat for his disturbance, but he sauntered off, looking pleased with himself. 

Next Chapter: Ch. 5 - Princess of the Bugs

King Viserys is blind to the crimes of those he is closest to. Though he can not see the hurt in his discretions, Rhae makes fast friends with someone who can. 

AO3 | Chapter Discussion

Thanks for reading!

[gallifreyinstituteforlearning]

War Form, Inf-Regen and Weremoths. Why did they not crop up during the Last Great Time War but do during the War? Also what interesting biology facts about them can you tell us?

What are Regen-Infs, Weurmoths, and War Forms?

🔫 Regen-Inf: These are biologically altered soldiers of lesser species, designed to serve in the War in Heaven. They're armed with built-in weaponry and have the ability to regenerate. Their mental makeup is also altered for war-readiness, complete with time-awareness and self-destruct protocols.

🐘 Weurmoths: Weurmoths are specialised Regen-Inf, engineered to act as field carriers for other troops. Picture a humanoid the size of an elephant that went to military school and got decked out with heavy artillery. That's a Weurmoth for you. They're big, they're loaded, but they're also unwieldy due to some laws of physics they can't ignore.

👾 War Forms: War Forms are the stuff of nightmares, engineered to look like monsters. They represent the far edge of Gallifreyan military adaptations, offering both terror and functionality in one monstrous package.

Why didn't Regen-Infs, Weurmoths, and War Forms appear in the Last Great Time War?

Well, it's anyone's guess, but here are some ideas:

Theory 1 - Ethical and Temporal Constraints: Maybe the Time Lords had moral and temporal reservations, leading them to sideline these war assets.

Theory 2 - Resource Allocation: Creating these bio-engineered warriors might have been like constructing a Rolls-Royce for every soldier - impressive but impractical and far too resource-intensive for a war that was already draining Gallifrey's reserves.

Theory 3 - Strategic Focus: The Last Great Time War possibly focused more on tried-and-true tactics at times. Perhaps the Time Lords were too busy using the old playbook.

Theory 4 - High Risks: The self-destructive and highly unstable nature of these beings could have been considered too risky to deploy in a war of such high stakes.

What are some interesting biology facts about Regen-Infs, Weurmoths, and War Forms?

🔫 Regen-Infs

High-Tech Scar Tissue: The 'scar tissue' is an organic blend of biological matter and technology. Maybe they have cells that function like nanobots + nanogenes combined, repairing and upgrading armour in real-time during combat, so every time it's hit, it grows back stronger and instantly.

Dimensional Brain Structures: Their brains are altered to have a level of 'dimensional extrusion,' enabling them to perceive time differently, an invaluable asset in war. This is likely to be a neural network that can process multiple timelines, just like Gallifreyans.

Biochemical Self-Destruct: Should a Regen-Inf soldier find themselves in a compromising position, their bio-engineered physiology can enact a self-destruct sequence. This is likely controlled by a biochemical trigger that induces an instantaneous catastrophic cellular breakdown.

Genetic Splicing: In some cases, the genes from these soldiers can interact with other species, as evidenced by Timon, born to a Regen-Inf and a human. This would involve a sort of gene editing on the fly, causing some … unexpected results.

🐘 Weurmoths

Size vs. Stability: Due to their enormous size, they likely possess specialised skeletal and muscular systems to support their mass. This could involve a lattice structure of incredibly dense but lightweight material, bio-engineered for maximum efficiency.

Firepower and Energy Consumption: Housing the firepower of a battalion means that their cells are likely akin to miniature reactors capable of generating immense amounts of energy. Their metabolism would need to be highly efficient, possibly extracting energy from unconventional sources.

Physical Instability: Maintaining bodily functions and actual movement at such a large size becomes increasingly unstable. They might have multiple redundant systems to manage this, including 'backup' organs and decentralised neural networks.

👾 War Forms

Adaptive Physiology: Their bodies could possess some sort of 'adaptive biology,' where their cellular structure can morph in real-time to counter threats. Think of it as an immune system on steroids, capable of changing the physical attributes of the entity to best handle the immediate threat.

Monstrous Design: The 'monstrous' appearance is not just for show; each aspect of their form could be engineered for a specific function. Spines might serve as both armour and weapon, while multiple limbs could offer greater dexterity and manoeuvrability.

Neurological Networks: Given that they are indistinguishable from monsters, their brain structure might be an intricate mesh of networks capable of running multiple operations at the same time. It's feasible that they could operate autonomously or in a hive-mind setting for coordinated attacks.

Genetic Backdoors: It would be reasonable to assume that they contain 'genetic backdoors,' allowing them to be controlled or disabled if they ever go off-script.

🏫 So ...

The biology of these war-time entities isn't just about splicing genes or grafting weapons onto flesh. It's about crafting organisms specifically designed for the horrors and complexities of multi-dimensional warfare. It's about crossing lines that are not just ethical, but also biological and even temporal, to create entities that are truly abominations of science.

On a lighter note, have a banana.

Related:

Is there any prejudice towards individuals stuck in war forms, during and after the war?: Perceptions of genetic alterations during and post-Time War.

Factoid: Could post-War Time Lords have biological hangups from the conflict?

Hope that helped! 😃

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[wandaluvstacos]

So, after acquiring a treadle machine (because I wanted to try treadling), I decided on one more: a 1970s-era Kenmore. They're very boring looking machines, not impressive to anyone who doesn't know vintage sewing machines, and that's why I never really wanted one, but they're known for being one of the last ALL-METAL machines. So while the knobs had switched to plastic, all the interior gears were still made of metal. Since then, pretty much every domestic machine you buy has plastic gears. The reason people like these Kenmores is that a) you get the metal parts inside but b) you also get more modern features from the 70's, like the free arm (the ability to take out part of the bed of the machine so you can sew a sleeve or small area) and the ability to use stitches that aren't just straight and zig-zag, like blind stitches or decorative stitches. So I'll eventually get this thing shipped to me:

I was going to leave it at that because I have probably a year's worth of repair machines at this point, but when I saw a Singer 201 on ebay for $28, I couldn't help myself. So this thing showed up in the mail today.

She weighs like 50 pounds. Look at her size compared to the 30-years-older 15-30:

Singer 201s are much more boring to look at than their earlier counterparts (sadly, Singer did away with cool decals by the 40s/50s), but they're known as the best domestic sewing machines ever made and often referred to as the "Rolls Royce" of straight stitch machines. This one is a little cool in that its a bicentennial 201-- it has a little badge on the front stating it's a 100-year-anniversary machine, which means it was built in 1951. This could help boost its value a tiny bit, but 201s are pretty sought after in general because of their reputation as being indestructible and overengineered. If I decide to sell it, I think someone would definitely want her. She's in decent shape, just very dry and clearly hasn't been used in a long time. Likely it was in a cabinet that someone pulled it out of, as is common with these machines. People find value in the furniture they sit in but not the machine, because no one knows how to sew these days. The 201 is at least modern enough that there is a back stitch (unlike my 101), so it's easier to sew with in that way.

Anyway, everyone should learn how to sew basic things so that fewer of these time capsules end up on ebay for $30.

[greenvincentine]

"In his blue gardens men and girls came and went like moths among the whisperings and the champagne and the stars. At high tide in the afternoon I watched his guests diving from the tower of his raft, or taking the sun on the hot sand of his beach while his two motorboats slit the waters of the Sound, drawing aquaplanes over cataracts of foam.

On weekends his Rolls-Royce became an omnibus, bearing parties to and from the city between nine in the morning and long past midnight, while his station wagon scampered like a brisk yellow bug to meet all trains. And on Mondays eight servants, including an extra gardener, toiled all day with mops and scrubbing-brushes and hammers and garden-shears, repairing the ravages of the night before."

The Great Gatsby F. Scott Fitzgerald

[btreeseo]

https://camauto.ae/