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syndrossi · 1 month ago

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October Trick or Treat Fill #11: Daemon overhears an upsetting song

There were some great prompts for mad!Daemon and I...ended up taking little pieces from a few. (I started with "Daemon punches Cole" but ultimately stopped because we might get there at some point in the main story.)

So at long last, here are 3.6K words of Daemon experiencing all the emotions, which definitely include anger.

x~x~x

“Why is this so difficult?” Daemon snarled as they stepped back into the busy street.

“Because you are making it difficult,” Laenor said. “Why did you ask me along if you refuse to heed my advice?”

That was six shops along the Street of Kings visited, none of them offering anything remotely worth gifting to his sons. He had only given them two years worth of name day gifts, and each time it grew more difficult to decide upon a worthy one.

He had hoped that Laenor might have insight to offer, but his sons were years younger, while Daemon’s sons often seemed older than their own years. The wooden ships he had gifted Jon had seen some limited use when their cousins visited, but otherwise collected dust on the shelf. He doubted they would show any more interest in wooden knights or horses.

“It must be perfect,” Daemon said, frustration rising.

When his sons’ belongings had arrived from the Gates of the Moon, and Rhaegar had excitedly reached for his harp, Daemon had been met with the harsh realization he still did not know half of the things his sons were interested in. And when he had learned that Jon’s short sword and Rhaegar’s harp had been gifts from an unnamed “benefactor,” he had needed to excuse himself for a rare visit to the yard, where he had hacked a target to pieces with Dark Sister.

Realizing that Otto Hightower had known his sons’ preferences better than he, to have sent the perfect gifts, had filled him with fury at first, but when his energy had finally been spent in the yard, it had turned to hollow grief. I should know these things. I should know their favorite color, what foods they loved as infants, what joys they clung to for comfort in that joyless place.

That Jon had been forced to seek solace in weapons, in bashing training targets to gain some sense of control with he and his brother at Allard Royce’s mercy, while Rhaegar had turned to song to soothe their pain—

Daemon spun away from Laenor, breath hissing through clenched teeth as he fought to master his fury when every part of him screamed with the impulse to burn, to destroy.

“I know where we can go!” Laenor said, voice tight with the forced cheer Daemon had heard him use before to stave off one of Joff’s toddler meltdowns. His cousin raised his arms, palms flat, in a placating gesture when Daemon turned, ready to snap at him.

He exhaled then. Laenor was not the enemy. The man he wished to burn was in the Vale. “Where?”

“Children like secrets, hidden things. Like Jon’s sheath, the one you said Rhaegar gave him.”

That was true, though it set his chest to burning once more at the reminder of another enemy who still drew breath. Rhaegar’s first gift had been taken from Jon the night of their attempted escape, when Crayne had broken bones and threatened him with death, and discarded. His younger son had asked for aid in having a new one made for Jon, who had been moved almost to tears at the gift.

“What do you have in mind?”

“There is a shop nearer to River Row that sells such things. Jeweled boxes with false walls where they can keep their treasures, pouches with hidden pockets that can hide letters or other small things. Oh! There were some fetching brooches and hairpins that conceal tiny knives.”

His sons did enjoy both intrigues and martial pursuits. And although both had their bronze knives now, Rhaegar wore his openly rather than concealed. He might enjoy the novelty of a weapon hidden within a hairpin. It went without saying that Jon would gladly welcome any excuse to be further armed. He had already started to pester Daemon about when they would be considered old enough to wear a sword at their side.

“That sounds promising,” he admitted, earning a smile in response.

The shop in question was so close to the River Row as to nearly be in it, just barely skirting the edge of the sphere of affluence that radiated outward from the base of Aegon’s Hills, where the wealthiest of the city dwelled. The man who greeted them seemed to be a jeweler by trade, but there were enough works of leather that Daemon assumed he had a partner who specialized in such.

It had all that Laenor had described and more, and the jeweler, upon recognizing that he had royal visitors, brought out some richer pieces for their perusal. There was a beautiful pin of garnet and gold, fashioned into the shape of a red dragon that Daemon was immediately drawn to, the head rearing back and wings splayed wide, as though preparing to breathe dragonflame.

It had considerable heft to it, the pin itself wide and tapering to a point, to serve as a sheath for the hidden blade. The hilt and guard were hidden behind the dragon’s head and wings, secured in place to a pair of hooks by leather straps on either side of the guard that could be worked free.

The dagger could hardly be called that, its delicate hilt barely long enough to pinch between his thumb and forefinger, and the blade itself thin, tapering to a needle’s point. But it could stab a man’s flesh, should the need arise, and bleed him capably enough if aimed somewhere vulnerable.

“Can you make two more in this style?” Daemon asked, running his finger over the jewels that formed the scales. “One of sapphire on silver, and one of onyx on bronze?”

Jon did not often wear his hair styled into braids, but he might consider it with a Shadow hairpin that could transform into a tiny blade. The bronze would stand out against his dark hair, just as the blue of the sapphire would in Rhaegar’s light hair.

“For your sons?” The jeweler’s smile faltered for a moment at Daemon’s suspicious frown. “Tales of their hatchlings have spread throughout the city! It would be my honor to fashion pins in their likeness. Would my prince prefer the pins without a blade?”

“No,” Daemon said. He tested the red dragon’s blade with his thumb, which proved acceptably sharp. “It should be just like this one.”

“I can have it completed within a moon, if that is acceptable,” the man said with a bow. “Should I set aside the red dragon pin for when they are complete, or would my prince like to take it with him today?”

Daemon looked at the hairpin, heavy in his hand, and hesitated. He had not planned on seeking any trinkets for himself, but the red of the scales combined with the warm yellow of the dragon’s topaz eyes were too alike Caraxes not to be tempted.

“Here,” Laenor offered, taking the pin from his hand.

He wove the pin through one of Daemon’s side braids, then through the center braid. With just the pin, it would not have been especially stable, but the wings themselves extended into the teeth of a comb, allowing the decorative top piece to be partially secured in place. Daemon turned his head from side to side, then gave a small hop, testing its hold. It would be better served by some center braid knot, with the pin and comb akilter above it, but he could seek suggestions from Rhaenyra when she finally returned.

“It is very fetching,” Laenor said.

“Set it aside,” he said. One for each of us. It would not do to spoil the surprise early by revealing his own.

He added a pair of belt pouches with secret compartments to his purchase, and even took Laenor’s final suggestion, dictating a design for a pair of jeweled boxes with a clever mechanism for triggering the false bottom to spring up when pressed, revealing the hidden space below.

It was not an inexpensive trip, but Daemon had spent little of his royal allowance over his time in the Stepstones. He looked forward to someday bringing the twins with him to the shop, certain they would find other trinkets to their liking within. Once the matters of Volantis and the Stepstones are settled.

They were near enough to a woodworker’s shop that Daemon agreed to one more stop. Laenor had, for once, been inspired by his gift choices and wanted to find some wooden ships for Jace and Luke.

“He also carved their wooden dragons,” Laenor said. “If you’d like any for the twins. His Caraxes was quite a good likeness.”

As they turned onto the next street, they spied a small crowd gathered around a singer who was plucking his lute as he sang a melody Daemon hadn’t heard before, too distant yet to make out the words themselves. They had taken no more than a few steps when Laenor turned abruptly.

“I did not take note of the hour,” he said. “We should return to the holdfast. I can stop by another time.”

The swiftness of his speech spoke to a sudden agitation, and Daemon regarded him with suspicion, not moving to follow. “What is it?”

“Nothing,” Laenor said, shoulders slumping after a few seconds of Daemon’s unblinking stare. “I—there is someone I wish to avoid.”

Although his words held the ring of a lie, his gaze did stray toward the singer. Daemon squinted through the crowd to catch a better glimpse of the man. Short, with short brown hair and a plain face. Far from his cousin’s usual type, which was lean, handsome, well-muscled and preferably knighted. And he could think of no other reason Laenor would wish to avoid some singer of common origin.

“Why—?”

“I can explain later.” Laenor grabbed his arm. “Come.”

Daemon easily twisted his arm free, and Laenor’s final protests trailed off as he approached the crowd gathered around the singer. The song was flowery tripe about a pair of Targaryen princes, with two entire verses devoted to their beauty. Such hyperbole was not uncommon in songs about their house.

The song turned slightly ribald then, switching to the lascivious Free Cities of Lys and Myr, whose loveliest slaves could not compare in a verse where their shortcomings were enumerated, with heavy innuendo. A few stretches of broken and butchered Valyrian were sprinkled into the verses, presumably to emphasize the foreign nature of the Free Cities, as the owners of the richest pillow houses conspired to steal away the “hidden jewels of the Iron Throne.”

“You see?” Laenor hissed at him. “It is nothing. We should return.”

Daemon turned to follow, willing to concede just this once, only to halt as the singer moved on to the details of plot, where the “jealous witch of Runestone” struck a bargain with the Lysene slavers.

My sons. Daemon spun back to the singer, too stunned for a moment to hear much of the next verse. It is about my sons.

A purse of fifty-thousand dragons was offered and accepted, and the young twins—fair and dewy-eyed in their innocence—escorted south to Gulltown by a man named Crayne, where the slaver ships awaited. Much was made of his sons’ helplessness, and the slavers’ delight when inspecting their find.

It did not matter that Daemon and Caraxes were made the heroes of the tale, swooping in for a daring, last-minute rescue. Hearing his sons spoken of thus, as objects of desire, as fodder for a Lysene pillow house, brought his blood to a roar in his ears.

“Daemon—” Laenor whispered, seizing his arm once more to halt him from drawing Dark Sister.

“My sons are eight,” Daemon hissed, mind shying away from the knowledge that the pillow houses across the Narrow Sea were notorious for training their pleasure slaves young.

“It is only a song,” Laenor said, straining with both arms now to hold him back. “Nothing happens to them, even in song.”

Laenor’s caution was no match for his fury. Daemon dragged him several steps before his cousin released him at last, and the crowd parted around him as their eyes fell upon his hair, then his unsheathed sword. The singer spotted him last, glancing up from where he had stooped to pick up his earnings, and Daemon lifted him in a single motion, shoving him back into the wall, bringing Dark Sister’s blade to rest just below his jaw.

The man stared back, terrified recognition in his eyes. “My prince. I—”

“Is that song of your creation?” Daemon demanded, the heat of his blood growing with every second he dwelled upon its ugly lyrics.

“No!” the singer gasped, desperately angling his jaw upward to put space between it and Dark Sister’s edge. “There was a singer in Flea Bottom, I learned it from him! And he had learned it from another.”

Daemon searched his gaze for signs of a lie, finding mostly terror, and he turned his head aside, spitting the vilest curses he knew in Valyrian. It has spread then. “What is it called?”

The man swallowed, clearly reluctant to answer. “‘The Pillow Princes.’ I did not name it!”

Laenor had made his way through the crowd after Daemon and put a hand on his shoulder. “Daemon.”

Daemon’s arm strained with the effort of not opening the singer’s throat to spill upon the cobblestone. “If you wish to keep your tongue, then you will not sing it again. And you will spread my warning to others who might do the same.”

The man gave the barest of nods, mindful of the blade. “Yes, my prince, of course! I will spread your words far and wide!”

Daemon lowered his sword, then his elbow, which had pinned the singer in place. The man bowed once, twice, even lower, and stumbled over his lute as he backed away, feet jarring several of the coins that had been tossed his way, which he now ignored to stumble further, not daring to turn his back until he was fully out of view.

When Daemon looked behind, he found that the crowd had dispersed entirely, as though fearful of receiving similar treatment for having listened to the song.

If it has made it through the city, it is only a matter of time until it finds its way into the Red Keep. The thought of his sons hearing it themselves, even if they did not entirely understand the uglier parts, made his fists clench. The part about Rhea will hurt them.

Rhaegar especially. She had given his younger son reason enough to doubt her love, he knew from speaking to Ser Perkins on the matter.

Crayne’s inclusion in the song made it clear that word had spread of his bounty, and inferences had been made from that as to the intentions behind the kidnapping attempt. That the singer behind it had chosen the vilest of possibilities, rather than the more obvious interpretation that one of the Free Cities sought dragons, spoke of malice.

I shall have every gold cloak on alert. Any who dare sing it—

“Forbidding a thing only increases its allure,” Laenor said.

Either he had read his thoughts, or Daemon had spoken aloud without realizing. Denial rose in his throat, and he swallowed it, jaw clenching so hard that it ached. Laenor was right. And if the song had made it to River Row, then it had almost certainly found its way to the harbor, and from there—anywhere.

I cannot protect them from anything. Every failure loomed before him, taunting him. Crayne’s continued freedom, wherever he had fled. The warlock’s candle that continued to haunt his sons. The reward offered by Volantis for their capture, unopposed and uncontested by the Crown.

Even the Stepstones remained unconquered, merely the seeds of victory being planted, with the harvest unassured. And the true horror of the song was that if not for the protection offered by Volantis’s reward, he could very easily imagine the Triarchy hatching such a plot to punish him for all that he had done to oppose them.

He did not sheathe Dark Sister, the walk back to the Red Keep a blur of bitter rage and despair, his thirst for violence, for bloodshed, unquenched. The temptation to mount Caraxes and set out for the Stepstones was nearly overwhelming. Let Caraxes rain fire from above. He would join the chaos of the melee, find release in the spray of blood.

Anything was better than yet another day spent on planning and logistics, on useless whispers and fruitless investigations. I am a blade left sheathed for too long.

Laenor departed once they reached the yard, and Daemon hacked at one target, then another, and another, but the destruction only further fueled the fury in his heart, until he felt as though he might choke on it. I am useless. I shall only fail them, as I failed them for so long.

“Daemon.”

That was his brother’s voice. Daemon blinked, finding his sword stuck partway through the top beam of the wooden fencing along the edge of the yard. His hand throbbed from the repeated impact of metal against wood, carried up the blade to the hilt.

There were a dozen knights in the yard, keeping either a respectful or wary distance from his swath of destruction, and two Kingsguard flanking his brother, and yet all Daemon could feel was a vague sense of threat. As though he were surrounded by only the illusion of safety, and it could vanish within an instant, trapping him, trapping his sons—

You cannot protect them.

He released Dark Sister’s hilt, the fire gone even more swiftly than it had built, without even embers to warm him. He felt cold as he looked to the setting sun, then back at his brother.

“Is there not a small council meeting?”

“Laenor fetched me,” Viserys said. He nodded at Ser Harrold, who strained for a few pulls before wrenching Dark Sister free of the fence and handing her to Daemon, who stared at the sword a moment before sheathing her. A hand found his back, resting lightly there. “Daemon, you worry me. What is the matter?”

There was a concern in his voice that Daemon desperately wanted to believe. “Am I one of your problems again?”

His brother heaved a heavy sigh, which seemed answer enough. “I should not have said that before. I am sorry.”

I am sorry, but we cannot risk open conflict with Volantis while we war against the Triarchy. I am sorry, but you must wed, even if you do not wish to. I am sorry, but I do not trust you enough to explain. I am sorry, but your children must remain here, blood to be spent.

“Daemon?”

“I do not want your apology,” he said. The screams he had strangled before had still somehow left his voice raw.

His brother fell silent for a few long seconds, though his hand remained on his back, a subtle pressure between his shoulder blades. “What do you want?”

“I—” So many things all at once that they might as well be nothing. Daemon swallowed. “I want my sons.”

Viserys’s head moved, and Ser Harrold spoke. “Their arms training is finished for the day. They should be back within the holdfast.”

“Come, then.” Viserys’s hand pushed gently, spurring him into a walk. “We shall find them.”

“Are you not needed at the small council meeting?”

“Are you not needed?” Viserys prodded back, only to quickly add as Daemon’s steps faltered, “They shall manage without us.”

Daemon was escorted to his apartments, and the two Kingsguard and the knight standing vigil outside the door were then ordered a few paces back by Viserys, who continued to study him, his small frown only serving to make him appear even wearier.

“Will you not tell me what troubles you?”

Everything. “It is nothing you can help with,” Daemon said. Nothing you would help with.

“Laenor told me about the song,” Viserys said, hands squeezing his shoulders. “I shall have it dealt with.”

Daemon was startled to find that it had almost completely slipped his mind. The embers of his fury earlier flared briefly, but as he reached for their warmth, they faded once more. “Thank you.”

“Would you do something for me in return?”

He should have expected a price. Daemon’s hands flexed. “What is it?”

“Would you stop slipping your household knights when you leave the Red Keep?” Viserys’s frown deepened. “It is not safe for you until the Triarchy is dealt with.”

He does not wish to let you beyond his reach.

Daemon gave a halting nod in response, and Viserys pulled him into an embrace, pressing a kiss to his temple before releasing him, pulling back to arm’s length, gaze roving over him once more, seeking something that he did not seem to find. “Thank you.”

The sound of laughter rose from within his apartments, and the constriction that had found its way to his lungs eased. Jon. He reached for the door, overcome by the need to see them, hold them. “I must—”

“Go on. We can speak later.”

The flutter of apprehension in his chest settled as he pulled the door open to the sight of his sons staring at one another across the room, their hatchlings positioned between them in some unknowable game. All four heads turned to him, and within moments he was swarmed by all four, warmth seeping through the cold at last.

#resonant trick or treat #resonant trick or treat fills #why do only bad things happen in river row? who can say #spent way too much time researching hairpins and drawing dragons really badly

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two-white-butterflies · 1 year ago

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coaxed you into paradise - c. 25

Description: The life of Saera Targaryen told in four acts. She was her father's forgotten daughter, cast aside as she looked nothing like her mother. Her younger days were spent beside her uncle. Years following her marriage with Ser Harwin Strong, she catches him in an affair with her older sister. She returns to seek solace in the arms of her uncle, that she's loved all her life.

(Coaxed You Into Paradise and High Infidelity Rewrite.)

masterlist for this series

Chapter Twenty-Five: Bastards of House Targaryen

Alyssa found the river calming - it was enough from the city that its waste couldn’t potentially harm her, but still close enough for her to visit. The river was her home - the closest thing to a clean beach. She exhales deeply, allowing her body to be fully submerged in the river.

“It’s not safe here, princess.” Ser Aran, a member of the gold cloaks, reminded her - holding his sword close to his body. This was the route of the bandits, and despite being seasoned in warfare - he was no match to their large number. Alyssa closes her eyes, water barely reaching her neck.

“Don’t be a coward, Ser.” She rolled her eyes knowing that no harm would come to her - not when her mother’s husband was the Rogue Prince. “We must head home, princess.” he pleads - watching her relax under the harsh pulse of the water. Alyssa looked like a river nymph, whose beauty could enrapture the gods. A true jewel of Kingslanding.

A chuckle escaped her lips, toes gently kissing the rocky soil. “You would rather return to the messy capital?” she teased, a sigh escaped his lips. Alyssa was petulant and mischievous. Only Princess Saera could control her.

He looked at the sun, it was early in the morning - no harm would come from a bit of strolling. “We may stay, my lady - but we have to return in a few minutes.” he gave in, her smile deepens - watching as his figure walks away, allowing her privacy.

Ser Aran has been in her kepus’ dispense since she was born. Alyssa valued his company - and appreciated his soft-heartedness. She allows her body to be submerged in water again. Queen Alicent often told her that she was as green as summer grass, knowing nothing but the warmth of the sun.

A person clears his throat, and she is sharply reminded of reality. She turns around, meeting the eye of the One Eyed Prince. “You’ve arrived,” she smiled - offering her hand for him to join her. “I apologize for being late, my lady - I had to greet Princess Saera.” he smiled, quickly shedding his coat and making his way to the river. “You are slow, my lord - Ser Aran was about to send me home.” she teased, waiting for him to make his way beside her.

“I’m sorry,” he hummed - burying his face on her neck.

“Did you tell my muña?” Alyssa questioned, feeling the fear creep up her throat. She’s spent six-years alone in the capital - her uncle the only ally that she could be true with. “I-I could not, she’s scary, Isa.” his face flushed into a crimson hue, and a childish giggle escapes her mouth.

Aemond could be a scary creature but he was a coward when it came to Saera and Daemon. “- but she’s one of the few people that would understand us.” Alyssa reminded, tracing her hands on his back. “We’ll say it at the same time then,” he offered - and it was her turn to flush crimson. “What?” her eyes widened - a small laugh escapes his mouth.

—

“Viserra,” Saera gently calls, attempting to pry the small dragon away from her daughter. The child crosses her arms with a huff, running away to the other part of the room. “It is past your bedtime, my sweet girl.” Saera cooes, holding the small dragon in place. Viserra was her most difficult child - the child was a mixture of Daegon’s ambition, Alyssa’s petulance and Daelon’s sensitivity. She was difficult - but her parents loved her.

“No,” the girl rolled her eyes - quickly bolting to the other part of the room. Daemon enters the room with Daelon in his arms. “Is our Princess unable to sleep?” he inquired, giving his wife a small smile.

“Kepa!” the child ran to her father, wrapping her small arms around his legs. “I don’t want to sleep yet,” Viserra complains with a pout. “How else will you grow?” her mother inquires while taking Daelon away from her kepa’s hands. “I don’t want to,” Viserra crosses her arms.

Daemon began to regret naming Viserra after Viserys and his aunt (with the same name.) It seems like the child has inherited all of their persistent features. “You wish to be small forever?” he inquired with an unamused stare. Viserra was staring at him too - not wanting to break their little contest.

“I’ll take care of our little dove,” he whispered, quickly kneeling to the child’s level and picking her up without a second thought. That was when Viserra began to giggle, laughing as she was placed on her father’s back and carried to her room.

A sigh escapes Saera’s mouth. Viserra is going to be a headache once she’s grown.

—

“They’re finally asleep,” Daemon breathed a sigh of relief, slumping on his chair and pouring his wife a goblet of wine. “They remind me of you,” he added with a small chuckle, wrapping his arms around Saera. “I do not remember having personality as a child,” she tilted her head.

“You were always running around, refusing to listen to your kepa.” he remembered, smiling at the thought of his wife. He didn’t know that she’d be his wife, then - and he does not wish that he knew sooner. “Our children can hear us, but they refuse to listen.” she chuckled, knowing that the children preferred to have their own opinions.

“It’s a sign of an intelligent mind,” he praised - only seeing the best in his creations. “I wonder where they got it from,” she hummed, leaning her head on his shoulder. The Princess was about to fall asleep, but a knock on the door springs her back to life. “Open the door,” she commanded - and Daemon stands up from his seat, opening the door slightly to peek his head and stare at the unwelcome visitors.

To his surprise it was his daughter, Alyssa, and his nephew, Aemond.

“May we come in?” Alyssa inquired, he nods - and opens the door.

“Who is it?” Saera asks, placing her goblet on the table. Daemon finds his way beside her, sitting on the chair and staring at the children accusingly. He had his doubts about them. He analyzed the way they spoke when around each other. It reeked of love. “Muña,” Alyssa smiled, gently nudging Aemond.

“I wish to ask for your daughter’s hand in marriage,” Aemond spoke, keeping his eyes on his sister. “What?” Daemon raised his voice, in shock that either of them would have the audacity. “If it is what Alyssa wants - I do not see why we should disapprove.” Saera looked at her husband - seeking his permission. “Your kepa did not ask my father for my hand in marriage, and I am relieved that you found the time to inform us.” Saera smiled, but deep inside - she was fighting a battle.

Was it going to be the best choice?

Shouldn’t she betroth Alyssa to Tygos Hightower or Cregan Stark?

Was Alyssa going to be happy?

“It is what I want, muña.” Alyssa nodded, holding her beloved’s hand. “Then, we give you our full blessings.” she hummed - smiling as her daughter beams in joy.

—

Daegon opens the door to Helaena’s solar, his eyes moving back and forth from her children to her. “Hel,” he greets and she continues inspecting her signature centipede. “Dae,” she replies in a low tone, allowing her children to play with the beatles. “I wasn’t aware that you’d be returning,” she added, and he began to sit down on the floor beside her.

“We didn’t announce our arrival,” he smiles and she hands him Jahaera. The little girl looked like his sister, she had big bubbly cheeks and coarse white hair. It was clear that she was a Targaryen.

He holds the baby gently, remembering the times where he had to take care of his own siblings. He pities Helaena, as rumors tell him that her husband isn’t a good person. “Are the dreams better?” he asks, basing the conversation off the letters that they sent each other. She shakes her head, placing the bugs on their jars. “No,” she whispers - her attention remained plastered on the insects. “What are they about?” he asks, finding beauty in her dreams.

She was a perfect poet - the way she delivered her poems. He loved listening to her.

For the first time, she turns her head to look at him.

Her mouth was pressed into a thin line. Her attention would have remained on him, if not for her son who babbled and tried to reach her hair. “Spools of White, become Spools of Green. Spools of Black, become Spools of white.” she rambles - her eyes zooming off. The Dance of the Dragons was about to begin.

next chapter>>

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talonabraxas · 9 months ago

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Green Tara: Feel Her Wisdom and Love Talon Abraxas

A fully enlightened female buddha, Tara is the actuality of compassion and wisdom. Meditating on her, says Lama Palden Drolma, can awaken our own buddhanature.

Meditation

1. Settle your mind Let your mind settle, resting in natural open awareness. Then take refuge in the awakened ones and generate the motivation to awaken yourself for the benefit of all sentient beings. Recite: “Until awakening I take refuge in Buddha, dharma, and noble sangha / By the merit of my acts of generosity and other awakening qualities / May I attain full awakening for the benefit of all beings.”

2. Visualize Tara Think that everything dissolves into emptiness/openness. Then visualize that in the sky in front of you, from her seed syllable TAM, Green Tara instantly appears, sitting on a full open lotus and moon seat. She is blue-green, the color of a mountain lake. She is arrayed in silks and jewels, symbolizing the six transcendent perfections (paramitas) and full awakening.

3. Invite her wisdom Radiate light from your heart center. Imagine that it purifies the phenomenal world, makes offerings to the enlightened ones, and invites Tara’s wisdom awareness to be present with you. Visualize that this happens through numerous small forms of Tara raining down into the main form you have visualized. Think that the Tara you have imagined becomes inseparable from her actual wisdom awareness.

4. Receive her love Repeat her mantra, OM TARE TUTARE TURE SOHA, and visualize that from her outstretched right hand comes a river of wisdom elixir, turquoise-green in color. This removes all fear, gives protection, removes obstacles and obscurations, and transmits enlightened awareness to you. Make prayers to Tara. Pour out your heart to her and receive her love and blessing.

5. Become Tara Then imagine that Tara dissolves into light, and dissolves into you. Think that your mind is inseparable from Tara’s enlightened mind. See yourself in the form of Tara, appearing as a body made of light—emptiness and form inseparable. In your heart area is a blue-green TAM. From it, light radiates out joy, compassion, loving-kindness, strength, and equanimity to all beings. Repeat her mantra while your heart is radiating these qualities.

6. Dissolve the visualization When you have finished repeating the mantra, gradually dissolve the visualization until there is just a drop of turquoise light left in your heart area, the essence of your wisdom and compassion. Then this dissolves into space, like a rainbow disappearing into the sky.

7. Dedicate the merit Rest your mind naturally for a few minutes or longer. Then dedicate the merit of your meditation practice to all beings: “Through this goodness may awakening spontaneously arise in our streams of being / May all obscurations and distortions fall away / May all beings be liberated from suffering, and the stormy waves of birth, sickness, old age, and death.”

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emilykaldwen · 8 months ago

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

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

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

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

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Warnings: Sexual shaming, physical abuse from a parental figure

CHAPTER NINE - LEAVE YOU IN PIECES

Reality is a slap in the face, and the River Lords finally arrive to King's Landing.

Mid-morning in the Red Keep meant that the gallery Aegon found himself in was illuminated with bright morning sun. It was three stories with floor to ceiling windows on the north side and smaller windows that could not be opened on the south, letting in natural light that would filter through them the entire day. It was his mother’s pride and joy, and he recalled the hours she’d thrown herself into its decoration and design when he was small and her smiles more frequent, her touch more caring. This was where she eagerly brought visiting nobles and dignitaries; this gallery was where his mother shone as Alicent Hightower, a girl with dreams that he watched fade from her eyes until piety and desperation and anger took hold of her.

His mother told him that she came to the sept to feel close to her own mother. Aegon came to the gallery to feel close to his. He was trying not to think about that too much as he watched Abrogail Strong pause in front of the intricate carving of the ship that the Targaryens brought to Dragonstone.

His gaze was fixated upon the spray of freckles along Abby’s bared shoulders. More importantly, it was that her shoulders were bare at all that was drawing his attention. The samite gown she wore was of the palest blue, the top edged with a broad band of silver. He’d watched her painstakingly embroider all the little decoration on it in front of the fireplace in the evenings. In the sunlight streaming through the windows, he could see the golden threads in the silver banding that also encircled her upper arms glimmer and reveal the hidden golden dragons sewn within. She said something but Aegon paid no mind to it on his approach, too focused watching the way her red curls glowed molten down past her pale shoulders and how the freckles dotting them were like cinnamon sugar on the sweet breads she’d eaten earlier.

It had been two days since he crept into her bed. Two days since they had the chance to be truly alone and he was going mad with it. Her throat was bare and never had he thought he’d want to drape a woman in jewels, but the idea of a necklace wound around her throat, mayhaps with rubies, appealed to him. A symbol that declared she was his and his alone.

Abby’s fingers, so dainty, so strong when they dove into his hair and gripped him like a lifeline, reached up to tuck her loose hair behind her ear and the bruise, deep and dark red, was revealed just there in the softness below her ear and along her jaw.

He closed the short distance between them, his arm snaking around her waist, hand splayed across the smooth curve of her belly to pull her against his chest. Aegon had been letting her set the pace, but here beneath the shaft of sunlight, the treasure she presented was too much for him. He pressed his face against the top of her head where she fit perfectly beneath his chin (if only just, for height eluded him and found his brother instead). He inhaled the scent of her hair, the orange and lemon of the bergamot oil she used for her curls.

“Your Grace,” she whispered, and he sighed, fingers flexing against her stomach, fabric bunching slightly beneath his touch, forcing himself to be still, to not beg for more.

To not take more.

“Your Grace, we shouldn’t,” she tried again, but this time, Abby’s voice shook with the little giggles he adored and he shut his eyes when she reached up to delve those fingers into his hair and hold him close. It was his turn to shudder at the feel of her nails lightly scratching his scalp, as if he were her cat laying across her lap. Aegon felt the heat rush through his veins, from the top of his head down to his toes that curled within his boots.

“I thought you were dragging me in here for the same purpose you had last night after dinner,” he countered. The memory of her hands grabbing him and hauling him behind the tapestry on the way toward Helaena’s room the night before made him giddy and ache. His rabbit had been possessed and he’d been a hungry dragon happily accosted by her. In the fortnight since they had first kissed, she was still clumsy and unsure, but her eagerness had delighted and ignited him. It was with that heady kiss, and the feeling of how perfectly her pert bottom fit his hands beneath her simple frock that had fed his dreams that night and left him craving, as always, for more.

Abby giggled again and he tilted his head back only enough to allow her to turn in his hold. She kissed his nose, and then his cheek. Peppering her way along the curve of bone to the soft skin behind his ear where his jaw met, she suckled and nipped with the softest sound that went straight to his cock. Aegon’s eyes fell almost shut and he brought his other hand up to cup the back of her head to keep her close. Her own fingers remained in his hair with their infernal tugging, drawing soft groans and his own wanton and needy whimper.

‘Touch me, touch me for here I hurt,’ he thought. ‘Touch me and make it all go away until it’s only you.’

“Do you like that?” she whispered against his ear, and it struck him how genuinely curious she was, how guileless the intent was in her explorations. It was intoxicating in a way he couldn’t describe and Aegon’s arm tightened around her waist, his fingers diving into her hair. Her arm had come up around his own waist to mimic him and he found it adorable how she took her cues from him. What he did, she did, and he rewarded her studious nature with a nip to her ear.

Her fingers tugged on his hair and he felt her teeth nip along his jaw. His cock twitched and he angled his hips back so she wouldn’t feel it, not wanting to frighten her. “I asked if you liked that.”

Abby’s bold teasing drew a high pitched laugh of his own. “Are you demanding answers from your prince, my Lady? What liberties you take.” From his view of her throat and the succulent curve of her shoulder, he watched the blush bloom like the malvales flowers in his mother’s solar. She shook against him with her giggles and Aegon felt like he was soaring to be the one to pull such joyous sounds from her with his japes. It was heady, like the most exotic of wines he’d been given that left him floating, but this? This flamed him instead of making him feel numb. This had his heart racing and his body tingling and Aegon laughed with her. He laughed in the way he hadn’t for so long, free from the anxiety and the fear, from the nervous notes that plagued the sound.

He met her eyes and felt like he was freefalling from Sunfyre’s back to drown in the rivers. They were so endlessly, beautifully blue and crinkled from how brightly she smiled. Her blush meant it was Aegon’s turn to reach up and cup her face in his hand and pepper kisses from the top of her forehead down the delicate line of her nose to the sweet, heart shape of her mouth. There were too many kisses to count; little needy kisses like he could capture the taste of her and hold it inside. They were both laughing, breathless and needy. Aegon ached with it, feeling the desire stir in his belly. Abby pressed against him and his breath caught, kisses pausing as there was no hiding what she was doing to him.

Abby stilled against him and Aegon felt more than heard the soft sound low in her throat. The gentle vibration of her mouth where she rested it against his. The taste of cinnamon sugar and sweet cream had already been devoured, leaving whatever taste of her that hid beneath for Aegon to glut on.

He didn’t move to press further against her no matter how his body begged to rut against her like a damned kennel dog, but his mouth continued to brush against hers, mouth catching along her lower lip, teeth nibbling along the fullness of her pout. “Abs,” he murmured. “Ñuha hunītsos.” She answered with the tentative touch of her own tongue against his as if she hadn’t eagerly returned such affection before. Aegon brushed his thumbs along the curve of her cheeks and felt the heat of her blush beneath his touch. Abby pressed closer into him and his breath caught at the pressure of pressing against her belly. He didn’t care about the layers of fabric between them, it felt just as good as if they were both bare as babes.

Seven hells, he wanted to taste her again. Just thinking about it had him salivating and Aegon’s hands moved further to cup her head properly when the striking sound of cane hitting the flagstone floor echoed through the gallery.

“Lady Strong!” came the horrified shout and Abby gasped, and they sprang apart - or would have, had Aegon’s hands not been caught in her hair and her ruby curls caught on the ring he wore. She yelped in pain and Aegon cursed low under his breath as the Septa strode towards them, her cane echoing off the floor with each strike.

“Hold on,” he consoled, helping her turn her head so he could work on getting her hair free. “Septa Lyserra,” he greeted nonchalantly, the smile he forced came out as a grimace. The fierce look on the woman’s face was enough to sap any desire from him. She had been a fixture for years, the Septa of his sister and Abby, who guarded the girls like a hound. Heleana struggled more beneath the woman’s gaze, but overall did not seem too bothered by it. Abby, as always, simply said that the Septa was strict, but well meaning. Aegon thought her suffocating, more austere and stringent than even his own mother. The woman before them was barely older than the queen herself, and so Aegon couldn’t fathom why she needed a cane since she seemed to have moved quickly across the gallery.

“Your Grace,” the woman demurred with a curtsy before she wrapped a slim hand about Abby’s bicep. “I apologize for the interruption, but the lady is late for her lessons.”

“Apologies, Septa,” Abby quickly cut in, and Aegon knew the warning glance from her when he saw it. Carefully, Aegon was working the curl out of his ring, and Abby let out a familiar pained sound as the hair tore, little strands of it still stuck in the gold. Her fingers tugged at his. “Here, just get it off your hand, I’ll fix it and give it back,” she said, breathless and flushed, already being tugged away from him by the persistent bitch who’d interrupted them. Aegon wanted to snarl at the Septa, demanding she leave, but Abby was letting herself be pulled away from him and mayhaps it was for the best. The intrusion had nearly killed the arousal he was feeling and watching her walk away from him, gazing back with her large blue eyes and kiss swollen mouth, it was everything to keep him from going after her, ensnaring her back in his arms.

So instead, he gave her a little wave before pulling his fingers through his hair in frustration of what to do with himself now. He supposed he should go and see himself to the training yard. He was reluctant to admit that Cole had been right, and that the physical exertion has been a good distractor - perhaps that was one of the not so honorable reasons Aemond spent so much time studying the blade. It wasn’t as terrible as he had feared, either. In just a few weeks, his body had remembered the moves he’d used to hone so well, reminding himself that he did have some natural ability that Aemond was once madly jealous of. The prospect of participating in the tournament was an enticing one. For once, he thought to prove himself worthy of praise, to show that he was good enough.

To see Abby fuss over any perceived injury, and swoon over his skill like he’d seen maidens do towards his uncle, Gwayne.

A soft, sharp cry, familiar to him, reached his ears and Aegon’s footsteps quickened. “Abs?” he called out, hurrying out into the hall, wondering what was the matter.

But the hall was empty, his rabbit nowhere to be found. Aegon frowned, turning in a circle to see what he may have missed, but it was only servants and pages making their way to wherever they needed to go. An uneasy feeling settled in his stomach, and he could feel Sunfyre responding through their bond, concern thrumming through his chest. “All seems well,” he murmured, to himself and to his bonded brother in the dragonpit. Sunfyre settled but the uncertain feeling remained.

“How is Lord Tully settling in, Lysa?” Alicent asked, her focus on the parchments in front of her. The menus had been finalized for the welcoming feast that night and now she was going through everything else that demanded her focus; orders for fabric and carriages, menus for Aegon’s nameday feast and the following celebrations, a missive to the High Septon for the wedding, among numerous other things that Lysa Fossoway was incomparable in helping her handle. Her other ladies had already been sent on errands and she was grateful for the quiet in her solar. A painful pulse had started behind her eyes and it was barely mid-morning.

Lysa was in the process of sprinkling the pounce powder on the last missive and did not pause in her work. Her apple green damask dress glimmered with golden thread, the gown low cut across her shoulders. “He is well, Your Grace. The Grand Maester visited him upon his arrival to ensure he had an easy rest and as of this morning, he is hale and hearty.” She paused, cocking her head. Her light blonde hair was caught in cauls on either side of her head, the nets a thick weave of flat golden lace and the fillet that wound around her head was gold and green. It was an older look. Princess Rhaenyra had made bare heads popular in court, but Lysa preferred her cauls to hide the graying of her blonde hair.

Alicent reached up to brush away a loose auburn curl, her long hair still braided loosely as she had no one to entertain that morning. It was vanity to let her hair flow free and uncovered, but it was a vanity she clung to, her hair one of the things about her that remained untouched and untainted.

Her mother had the same thick deep auburn curls that she recalled sitting on a little plush stool when she was small, watching Cybell Reyne’s maid gently brush and curl it.

“Your Grace, are you well?”

“Hm?” Alicent blinked and realized she had grown lost in thought as Lysa had been speaking with her. “What was it you said?”

Lysa pretended not to notice her flight of fancy and Alicent was grateful for it. “Lord Elmo is breaking fast with the Lord Hand this morning and the Ladies Baratheon are settling in well. Princess Helaena has taken quite a shine to young Floris and Lady Cassandra seems to have made her own spot within the court.” A thoughtful purse of her mouth, then, “I am concerned that she does not have true interest in the princess’ company.”

“Lady Cassandra would be an unsuitable companion.” Unfortunate, but not unexpected. A sigh. She would ideally keep the maiden here rather than send her to Harrenhal. Surely with enough time, the elder girl may creep into Aemond’s affection, or at the very least some willingness at being presented with someone who was not his sister. “Has Helaena shown any preference to any other ladies-”

“Your Grace!”

Septa Lyserra was prone to fits of indignation in the way only a believer who cleaved close to the Faith could be. It often took her by surprise that the woman was not much older than herself and yet seemed so ancient in her ways. Her own Septa had not been so stringent, teaching her songs and painting. Sometimes she wondered if she should have sent Lyserra back for one who embraced the arts and crafts the way many other septas did.

“I swear upon the memory of my mother, Daemon never touched me.”

‘But you lay with Ser Criston instead,’ Alicent thought as the long simmering heat curled low in her belly. Her attention turned to the red faced woman and confusion overtook her when she saw Abrogail being dragged in behind her.

There was no helping it, Alicent supposed. Better to be too strict when it came to her children, than too lax.

“What on earth is going on here, Lyserra? Abrogail? Child, what is it?” There was no hiding the confusion but she would not rise to meet the Septa’s conniption fit. The girl’s wrist was clutched in the septa’s tight hand, her eyes downcast and it was not often she had seen her lower lip quiver.

Things had been interesting over the past few weeks since she sat with the child in front of her to make clear what was expected of her. Sweet, meek thing that Abrogail was, there had been a sense of pride in seeing her lift her gaze and speak her thoughts even though Alicent thought they were foolish and misplaced. She was young, and she would learn, just as Alicent had over the last decade, to carve her way and find her voice. It was sweet and endearing the way she cleaved to Aegon, and truth be told, Alicent hoped that the child’s view of her son would come to fruition.

However, Alicent had lived through such betrayals and treacheries that Abrogail Strong had yet to encounter, and to hold onto hope in that way without question was foolish, childish, and naive.

It was stupid and dangerous.

Her heart would only be broken in the end, and if Alicent could save her from it, the way she herself was not saved, then all the better.

“Your Grace, I must apologize for bringing you such upsetting news. I found Lady Strong in a compromising position alone with Prince Aegon.” The last of the statement was said in a hushed, offended way that had Alicent’s stomach curl with unease. Lady Fossoway beside her made a soft sound and out of the corner of her eyes, she could see the other woman work to hold a laugh back. Had it been any other sort of situation, Alicent may have expressed such laughter.

This was Aegon.

This was the future king.

Everything hinged on this.

“That shall be all, Lady Fossoway. I will send for you should I require more of your valuable assistance today. Do check on the Baratheon girls after those items are addressed,” she said with clear dismissal. The following conversation did not need such an audience. In a flurry of deep green silk, Lady Fossoway made for her exit, leaving Alicent alone with the Septa and her soon to be good-daughter.

Alicent let the silence in the wake of the closing door lengthen and she turned to slowly gather the rest of the papers on her desk. It was something that her own father did. The anxiety of it had her tearing at her nails, and she recalled how Gwayne could never stand it, blurting out whatever it was that needed to be said to make the silence stop. She noted that Abrogail did none of this. No, the girl stood still as a statue, eyes downcast, wrist still grasped by her Septa.

“And what compromising position were they found in?” Alicent finally asked, focused on putting away the inks and sealing wax.

“They were in a passionate embrace,” the septa said, disdain and offense dripping from each word. Passionate embrace, you say? Alicent mouthed to herself while her face was turned away. The dramatics of the Septa were something she disliked, almost as much as the news that was being delivered. “They were alone, and I have no idea how far they have gone, your Grace. The insolent girl will not say.”

A soft gasp had Alicent look at the blushing maiden before her. The girl’s eyes had raised, the blue of them large with pain and her own silent indignation.

“Your Grace,” Abrogail said, trying to tug her captured wrist from the other woman’s grasp. “My honor is intact and I was only kissing my betrothed. Tis harmless.” Her voice shook as she tried to find her words and the foolishness of her statement only underscored poor Abrogail’s naivete.

“Is that what Aegon told you?” Alicent asked, voice flat, and stared long and hard at the child until she stopped struggling and closed her mouth. “You told me you know how he is and I warned you of his hedonistic behavior. Yet you brushed me off, and after reassuring me that you were well aware of his nature, I have to hear about the pair of you caught alone?” Abrogail was silent, teeth gnawing on her lower lip and Alicent exhaled. “Septa Lyserra, you are dismissed. I shall handle this.” The woman dropped the child’s hand, curtsying deeply, and excused herself from the room as well, no doubt to go and cleanse herself in front of the Mother in the small Sept.

The moment dragged once more and Alicent watched her, a mouse beneath a cat’s paw. Abrogail’s hands were folded across her waist, eyes averted, and she caught the glint of gold in one of her hands - Aegon’s ring, her thumb running over it.

“You are a foolish, wanton girl, and I am ashamed of the insult you have dealt me this day, Abrogail,” Alicent finally said with all the quiet cutting she knew those words would deliver. “Do you understand how hard I fought against mine own father, your uncle, to give you time to grow up and not be dragged to the marriage bed before your time? A gift that I myself was denied and I would have for you and Helaena. Now I must hear of this! You, who I know have been taught better than to engage in such behavior. I trusted you to behave yourself as is expected, but it seems that I have been incredibly lax in your etiquette, or too lenient with your excursions dragon riding. You assured me they were chaste and harmless.”

“Your Grace,” Abrogail’s voice was small in the quiet of the room, thick with emotion, and the girl crossed towards her as if to throw herself at her lap, but stopped short, remembering herself. “My Queen, I can promise you that Aegon has done nothing more than kiss me. He has not compromised my virtue, he has not - I’ve never…”

Alicent rose then, closing the distance and taking Abrogail’s chin in her firm hand. A soft sound escaped her, but she did not try to pull away. “Were you aware he’d gotten a child on one of my maids barely a moon ago?”

Blue eyes widened, cheeks flushing a deeper red, and she minutely shook her head, Alicent’s grasp not giving her leeway. She hated to break this news to her, but the girl was living in a fairy tale.

“He did. I gave the girl moon tea and money for her to go back home to her family and find a new position, since she was clearly incapable of refuting my son’s advances. Very much like you seem incapable of refuting him-”

“Your Grace, it’s not like-”

“So you’re saying you are seducing him?” Abrogail had no answer for that, and all Alicent could think of was the image of Rhaenyra casting a web, ensnaring poor Ser Criston and his tender, stalwart heart. Capturing poor Harwin Strong, who was far too loyal for his own good. A net taught to her by her Targaryen blood, and the same blood that flowed through her son.

Forcing Abrogail back by the grip on her chin, Alicent shoved her toward the low couch and smoothed her hands on her skirt before leaning down to look into her eyes. “Let me disabuse you of your fantasies, child. You are Aegon’s bride because I believe that you can fix what is broken and infected inside of him. To show him how he should conduct himself so he is ready for what the future holds.”

She drew back in surprise when Abrogail shook her head in the negative. “Your Grace, we’re betrothed, we’re meant to spend the rest of our lives together. Should we not get along? Should we not love and care for each other?”

The slap was sudden, before Alicent could even think.

“I will not have you walk into that Sept with a swollen belly, all because you lack conviction and understanding, Abrogail! You are not his bride so you may ruck your skirts for him without moral hesitation. If you throw yourself around as such, who is to say you are not doing such a thing with someone else. Aegon’s heirs must be without question, so you must be without question.”

Unlike Rhaenyra, swearing on the memory of her beloved mother in the godswood.

Unlike the brood of pug-nosed boys with their dark curls and smiles.

Abrogail’s curls. Abrogail’s smile.

Lyone’s curls. Lyonel’s smile.

Celeste Reyne’s eyes stared back from Abrogail’s face, the river blue of them wet and shining with tears. She watched the girl before her blink, the drops streaking down across the vibrant mottling of her cheek, shaking hands clutching her skirts.

“You needn’t be so harsh with the children,” the memory of the soft voice came, so like Alicent’s own mother it made her chest ache. Celeste’s face, pale and drawn, and still so softly smiling while she wasted away, pressing kisses to Aemond’s cheek while he sat on her lap. “We love them as we wish to have been loved.”

Alicent’s palm tingled and she curled her fist and clasped it against her waist, as if physically holding herself would keep her from reaching and shaking the foolish child before her until her teeth rattled in her skull and sense came in.

“Do you understand me, Lady Abrogail?” Alicent’s voice was not her own. Bile rose in her throat while she watched the trembling thing before her. Her father stood, watching her the same, doing nothing when she said that the king had touched her.

All that was missing was the bloody nails.

The Queen watched in satisfaction, in a detached sense of something raw and aching, a scream stuck in her chest, as she watched Abrogail curtsy low until she was almost kneeling on the rug at her feet. ‘Good,’ Alicent thought, her scream still clawing its way up her throat.

“Yes, my Queen. I pray for your clemency in your goodness and love.”

‘Good.’ Alicent couldn’t breathe. Good that she was learning. Good that Abrogail would come to understand the way she had, with lessons that would not be as harsh as the ones she had to go through.

It was a kindness that she was doing all she could to save this child the way none had saved her.

Aegon’s muscles ached in a comfortable sort of way as he headed down the back staircase towards the Queen’s Ballroom. The apartments above it were currently taken up by the Tully party, so Aegon avoided the gallery, not wanting to be pulled into some conversation about politics. No, he had one focus and that was to find his maiden fair and press a kiss to her heart shaped mouth and escort her in, to show off how beautiful she looked on his arm. To show that maybe she was right, and they liked each other, so this wasn’t a terrible thing. Mayhaps he wasn’t going to fuck it all up.

He tugged on the cuffs of his doublet, his left side black, his right in red with the opposite colored sleeves. His mother had tried to force him into something green as always, but Aegon had tossed that at his brother and went about his way. Let her favorite boy dress in the color she clung to, not he, who she could barely stand to look at since the fight in the brothel. It didn’t matter. Not now, maybe not anymore when Abby looked at him.

Where was she?

“Your Grace, you look lost.”

Aegon turned to see Cassandra Baratheon gliding towards him, her smoky voice echoing against the stone walls. Behind her were two of her ladies, comely and quiet with downcast eyes and furtive glances. The Lady Baratheon was encased in a cloud of gold that nearly shimmered in the rays of evening light and torch glow that illuminated the hall. Her hair was loose, a light golden veil held in place in the way that only women seemed to know how to do.

His eyes immediately took in her low neckline, the delicate gold chain that adorned her. It would be rude not to look at such a display when it was offered so willingly. Even more when she curtsied low before him, a coy smile playing along the lush red of her mouth.

“And now you’ve found me,” Aegon smirked, touching a finger beneath her chin to tilt her face back and withdrew it just as quickly in a bid for her to rise. She was tall, as tall as Helaena, but still his eyes lingered more about the lovely expanse of her chest than her actual face. “I believe that puts me in your debt, my Lady.”

Cassandra tilted her head, teeth bright and sharp in her smile that stirred the familiar, eager ache in his belly. “You give the debt so willingly, my Prince. Are you sure that’s wise?”

Aegon leaned in, close enough to smell the perfume on her skin. A scent of spice, warm like incense, but not cloying. “There are worse debts to be in than that of a beautiful woman, Lady Cassandra,” he told her, voice low with only the tease of a promise. She didn’t seem like the type to be offended by such a thing, and Cassandra did not let him down, even if she delicately pressed her hand to her chest.

“My Prince is too kind with such flattery.” Aegon preened, pulling back and fully enjoying the attention. It wasn’t like he hadn’t had the attentions of beautiful women, and it was always good to allay any of his anxieties before one of his mother’s feasts, when expectations were at hand, and the watchful eye to make sure he wasn’t imbibing any of the wine forbidden to him. Perhaps the lady before him would help in such matters.

“I speak only the truth, my Lady. It’s Cassandra, is it not? Recently arrived from Storm’s End.” A test to see how casual and relaxed she was and again, the woman did not disappoint.

“Yes, that is correct. Her Grace, the Queen, invited myself and my sister to attend to Princess Helaena. Although, I suppose it shall be I who does, as Floris is still so young.” She lifted the hand from her chest to gesture vaguely. “It will be nice to spend time at court, experience new things. I do hope that you might be able to find the time to impart some of your own favorite things to do.”

Aegon’s smirk widened at the implication in those words, and the flash in her dark eyes showed that she very much meant it. There was no shyness in her words or her manner. Cassandra Baratheon was a woman who knew what she wanted.

“Mayhaps that would be the case, my Lady, or perhaps you’ll come with us to Harrenhal and we can be strangers together.” As much as he enjoyed the lady already, he did not think she would get along particularly well with his sister, who had the little Floris trailing after her like a baby duck. That was far more to Helaena’s liking. His Abby got along swimmingly with everyone.

Cassandra’s brow furrowed in confusion and she opened her mouth to speak before his gaze caught on the figure down the hall. He exhaled softly, shifting away from Cassandra with a vague dismissal.

Aegon’s eyes fixed upon Abby and the way the light had turned her red curls molten, even beneath her own soft white veil that was held in place with a delicately wrought silver circlet dotted with pearls. Her dress was elaborate, the twilight blue silk brocade decorated in red and green opened in front to reveal the silver gown beneath. The same twilight blue made up her sleeves, the fabric of the silver gown puffed through the slashes. Her neckline was far more demure, yet no less enticing to him. How beautiful she looked in the colors of her house.

How beautiful she would look in the colors of his.

Yes, he’d had to get her something to decorate the delicate throat, but Aegon wouldn’t deny he enjoyed the unimpeded view. His mouth watered, reminded of the taste of her by sight alone. The sounds she so sweetly made drifted through his memory like a song.

Abby’s eyes were averted, but her lady, that northern wench, Wylla, who had become her guard dog, was watching with steely gray eyes and a pursed mouth. Aegon spared her only an annoyed glance before fixing his attention on the vision before him.

His Maiden still would not rest her gaze upon, and she curtsied with her eyes hidden from him. “Your Grace.”

There was no coy playfulness, no sweet smile, no shy gaze up at him with the bluest eyes beneath her dark lashes. There was soft propriety and a downcast gaze. Not unfamiliar, but jarring given how she’d greeted him that morning. Hells, how she’d greeted him the past several days. Perhaps it was their audience? He leaned down slightly, hands properly folded behind him like a good boy when he wanted nothing more than to snake his hands around her waist, to dive into her hair, to…

A frown slashed across his mouth, and Aegon felt a curl of unease in his stomach. Abby and her courtesies were always sweet and amusing, even when turned on him but this felt strange.

“We have time, if you like, to continue where we left off this morning,” he offered, lilac eyes searching her soft features, the way she resolutely wouldn’t look at him. “What is it?”

“It would be inappropriate, Your Grace, to be found engaging in such things,” came the reply, soft as before, but there was something sharp beneath the words, like the flash of teeth. The shutting of a door.

“Inappropriate.” He drew the word out in a low voice, and while the curl of unease began working its way up his chest, his eyes narrowed. “So you’re telling me that you’re worried about being inappropriate now?” Silence filled the moment, and Aegon lifted a hand to reach beneath her chin but Abby jerked her head back and moved away from him in a whisper of fabric and flushed embarrassment.

“Please.” This time her voice was a little louder, her gaze shifting up and while she looked at him, Abby didn’t meet his eyes. Instead, they danced around to somewhere over his shoulder, to the tapestry of the Riverlands on the wall, to anywhere but him. “I know you hold little concern for your reputation, but not all of us have such luxury.” Stronger. He liked the strength in her voice, but he detested it when turned on him in such a way.

“Please?” Aegon repeated and drew back himself. The curl of unease wound through his ribs like a pair of stays, tugging and tightening. “Please?” he repeated and how dare she throw that at him after their night. A third time, as she whispered in his arms, he blinked at her, quieter now. “Please.”

Three times to make a wish. Three times to make it matter.

Abrogail wouldn’t look at him. “I am a lady, and a member of the Queen’s household. I may be your betrothed, my Prince, but I must lead us by example if you find yourself incapable of containing your desires.”

A rushing sound filled Aegon’s ears. A familiar roaring as the tendrils amidst his ribs tightened and squeezed. His face went hot and cold, then hot again. When he opened his mouth, no sound came out. Nothing. All he could hear in his head was his mother’s voice, Abrogail’s voice.

I didn’t ask for you. She didn’t ask for the lecherous, depraved monster he’d become. No longer the sweet boy his mother loved, that his mother soundly replaced with each increasingly perfect child that came after him. Would Abrogail replace him as well?

“You… I…” Words stuttered from him but he couldn’t string any together that made the slightest bit of sense. Aegon let out a sharp bite of laughter and even that was strangled. The woman before him had robbed him of speech, of sound, of everything. All that was left in his chest was a hollow feeling that not even Sunfyre’s presence could ease.

He lifted his hand to touch his own cheek, wondering if she’d slapped him without him noticing.

The sounds of her cries, her gasps of his name in the quiet of the night when the world had pinpointed to the feel of her against him haunted him, clawing at his compressed insides while she looked anywhere but him. The firelight had shone in her glossy eyes, her mouth rounded with pleasure. Now they were shadowed and dull, mouth pressed into a fine line so very much like his own mother’s disapproval.

Aegon’s fingers reached past his cheek and into his hair as if that was the motion he’d intended to complete. He wanted to tear at his hair and claw at his own face like he could rip the rot of him out and drop it at her feet so she could be satisfied with him once more.

Footsteps sounded in the hall behind him and Abrogail’s eyes focused, a slight smile breaking across her features. “Uncle Simon!” She called in greeting and Aegon’s hand gripped her bicep when she made to skirt around him. The bruises had healed, that much he knew. “Aegon,” she whispered, turning finally to look at him.

They had an audience now. She’d have to put on her pretty manners and not make a scene. Aegon said nothing and it was his turn to not look at her but instead at some unfathomable point in the middle distance.

The moment grew heavy, awkward. Abrogail shifted against him and Aegon thought he should let her go, he should say something. He should shake her until her teeth rattled and her wits fell back into place. Shake her until she admitted that this was a terrible jape and she meant none of it.

He could dive his hand into her sunset curls and yank her back and drag her to his bed like a war prize and make her take back everything she said. Give her a reason to think him monstrous, or a reason he wasn’t. ‘No’, he immediately thought, recoiling at himself for what the angry, poisonous thing inside him wanted to rage into. He didn’t want her to look at him like she was now, or worse, how his mother looked at him, but he was left confused and strangely afraid, unable to tell what was running through her head.

He could not reconcile the woman before him with her avoidance and snapping words to the one who smiled and giggled, who sighed and reached for him as readily as he did her. “Talk to me,” he commanded, voice low for her alone.

“Is everything alright?”

The man’s voice was unfamiliar, and not old, the way Ser Simon Strong’s was. This one was deep and calm, coated in courtesy and the edge of a blade.

Aegon finally turned his head to look over his shoulder at the company that had arrived. There was his lady’s uncle, a tall man grown plump as a bloated fruit with age, but the strength still lingered in his sturdy form. There was a strange pang of familiarity in the man’s face that made Aegon prickle and for a mad moment, he thought it was the ghost of Lyonel Strong coming from Harrenhal to strike him down for touching his little girl.

The man who spoke had Aegon instinctively sweeping his gaze over him. Younger by far than Ser Simon, the man had broad shoulders and an angular face softened by the light brown curls that shone gold in the evening sunlight. He was tall, taller than his companion, his two toned doublet, half-black and half-silver with golden buckles accentuated the narrowing of his figure. From the cut of his shoulders and his arms, he was clearly no slouch when it came to weapons.

Aegon’s tongue touched his lower lip, teeth biting in thought as he took this man in. His fingers released Abrogail’s arm and he took a step back. She immediately hurried past and into her uncle’s embrace. “Everything is fine. I’m so glad to see you,” she said, and Aegon swore he heard Wylla hiss at him like a cat beneath her breath when she went to join them.

“Uncle, this is his Grace, Prince Aegon Targaryen.” Ever polite, to hide whatever distaste she suddenly held for him. He approached slowly, the gathered group all bowing in deference, and Aegon breathed slowly through his nose to allay the panic that was settling in, that was threatening to send him running.

He watched the man with the golden hair alight his gaze on Abrogail. “Ser Edmund Vance, Your Grace, of Wayfarer’s Rest.” A bow to him as protocol dictated and his eyes focused on the way he took Abby’s hand, so small and delicate, into his larger one, to press a kiss to it. “Many speak of your gentle beauty, my lady, but even such flowery descriptions could never do you justice.”

Edmund Vance. Ser Edmund Vance.

“Edmund Vance, the heir to House Vance, recently lost his wife. A good man, and part of the Riverlands although a small seat,” his grandfather had said, waving the scroll in hand.

Amidst the cold and crushing pull inside Aegon’s chest, a flaring sensation began. Hot and molten in that warm, safe spot that Sunfyre lived within him; his dragon in place of his heart.

Aegon focused on the golden shine of Edmund Vance’s curls, the shy look on Abrogail’s face, the way she looked at him.

“Condolences are in order, I’ve heard.” Aegon did not give his mouth order to move, had just been utterly speechless in the face of Abrogail’s uncharacteristic harshness.. Edmund’s brow furrowed and Aegon continued on, feeling the spark of annoyance that he had to look up to meet the man’s gaze. Aegon was as tall as his father, even as the king grew stooped with his infirmity, but Edmund held a frustrating few inches on him. “For the passing of your dear lady wife.”

Aegon smiled as the golden man shifted, his face flashing with ill disguised discomfort. ‘Good,’ he thought. ‘Know your place, know that your words mean nothing in the face of your loss, not to her.’ Flushed with ruining the man’s attempts at flirting with his lady, Aegon thought to move back in, to grab her and drag her against his side. To bite his fingers into her until tears pricked her eyes, so she would know the pain she had caused him, and for her to understand that she was his.

For her to tell him why she was speaking so cruelly to him. To tell him what he had done since she’d been pulled from his embrace that morning, to have her reject his touch when she had cuddled into his warmth like the little rabbit she was.

“Your kindness is much appreciated, Your Grace,” came the stiff, soft reply, and then his eyes were on Abrogail again. “I would offer to escort you into the feast, but I think our Ser Simon has the privilege of such a vision on his arm.”

Laughter rolled from Ser Simon and he took his niece’s arm, pulling her away.

Edmund looked at Aegon. Aegon smiled back. Sunfyre growled deep in his chest and Aegon swore it vibrated through his words. “Welcome to King’s Landing, Ser Edmund. I do hope you enjoy your time here.”

Dismissing the man, Aegon continued into the hall. The Queen’s Ballroom was the smallest of the halls of the Keep. Nothing like the Great Hall, and half as big as the Small Hall in their Grandfather’s tower. It was an intimate setting: two long trestle tables took up most of the room without it feeling crowded with the wide aisle between them leading up to the dias where the head table sat. The walls of the room were carved in dark ironwood imported from the north, carved with dragons winding and twisting around carvings of trees. The room was filled with light so bright it could have been out in the gardens. Each wall sconce was covered in beaten silver to reflect the light about and the draperies along the south wall were pulled to the side and the windows thrown open to the terrace that opened up to the gardens below.

His mother stood above it all, a beacon at the high table, and his fear caused his steps to falter. She looked so young next to the ancient Lord Tully seated beside her. The green of her gown shone emerald in the light and he could make out the embroidery that made it seem like she had scales of her own. Her hair was in a low bun at the nape of her neck and the silver tiara she wore rested gently in her hair. Rubies the size of his thumb were fitted along the delicately wrought crown, each one lined with little sparkling emeralds. Fire of the Dragon. Fire of the Hightower.

‘Of Castamere,’ Aegon thought, noticing the lion broach on his mother’s bodice. Rubies for house Targaryen, rubies and silver for House Reyne. The house of the grandmother Aegon had never met. Was it always the loss of a mother and a wife that turned people cruel and cold? The loss of grandmother turning his grandfather into the cruel man he was, Mother into the fearful creature with her lion claws, his own sire too caught in the memory of the woman he’d ordered to die for the promise of a son. Would losing Abrogail do the same to him?

Fuck him, he hadn’t had a proper drink in weeks, and the wheel of his thoughts that he worked so desperately to avoid was threatening to derail him before he could even reach the dias and present himself to his mother’s hidden ridicule. What’s worse, was how he’d actually looked forward to it had Abrogail been on his arm rather than her uncle’s.

Better than being touched by that Vance prick, who had entered behind him but steered clear. Good.

A hand slipped along his right arm and Aegon startled. Helaena hummed and gave him a slight smile. Her silver hair hung freely down her back with a braid wrapped around her head like a crown and woven with a strand of rubies and chips of dark dragonglass. She wore no veil, her dress the same twilight blue as Abrogail’s, although low cut across her shoulders and dipped across her chest. Black embroidery crept along her bodice in the shapes of dragon flame. A simple gold and sapphire necklace hung about her throat, and her lavender eyes were curious and searching his face.

“Do you think I look pretty as well?” She teased him softly and Aegon rolled his eyes.

“You look nice,” he said softly, their heads leaning towards each other while they walked towards the dias. “Mother will have a fit. Who have you dressed up for?” He might have asked if she dressed for Aemond, but after the display in the garden the prior day, Aegon thought that would not be the wisest question. They may not have discussed it, but it hadn’t escaped Aegon’s notice that while Aemond was the one who discussed future marriage with Helaena, how their love was so insufferably true, Helaena’s feelings on the matter were noticeably absent. Little more than agreeable hums and nods and changes of the subject.

“For myself. Some people think their breasts are worth showing off and need to learn their place.” Arching an eyebrow, Aegon followed his sister’s gaze to where Cassandra Baratheon was speaking with some other lord, those breasts of hers drawing his gaze once more. He snorted and Helaena pushed his arm good naturedly. “I’m right, you know. What is a doe to a dragon? No need to give her delusions of grandeur more than she already has.”

“Thought about this a lot this week, have you?”

“Of course. I do not like how she speaks to little Floris, nor Abby.” Helaena paused and squeezed his arm. “You both look terribly upset again. Not that I don’t enjoy making Mother’s face look like she’s sucking on lemons walking in with you, but what’s happened?”

Aegon found himself grateful that Helaena didn’t immediately blame him and the fondness for his sister came back. The sharp edges to his expression softened and he glanced at Helaena and her patient look. Something crossed his face with the softening, because her patient countenance furrowed with concern. He gripped her arm. “Not. Now.”

“You’re angry.”

“You think?”

Mother’s face when she looked upon them did, indeed as Helaena predicted, appear as if she sucked a lemon. Her large, dark eyes darted around the room in the clear search for his betrothed and he gave a short bow, his sister curtsying. “Lord Grover, my two eldest. Prince Aegon and Princess Helaena.”

Grover Tully was an ancient man. His shoulders were stooped beneath the thick, deep velvet of his surcoat, his jowls saggy from a face that was once robust. Pale skin sallow and jaundiced glowed even more yellow beneath the warm candlelight of the hall, but did little to disguise the multitude of liver spots. His hair was thin and wispy against his head, but his watery blue eyes were sharp and bright, intelligent and cataloging even as his body wasted away. Aegon was struck by how his father, who Aegon only now noticed seated on his mother’s left, looked as ancient as a man in his eighth decade.

“Helaena, you look lovely,” their father smiled, his gaze flitting, and Aegon barely held back his snort that he could call their sister by the correct name.

“Thank you, yo- father,” Helaena demurred in a quiet voice.

“They say you ride the great Dreamfyre, Princess,” Lord Tully rasped with a wistful smile. “I had the honor of seeing the Queen of the East, dear Princess Rhaena, may the Seven keep her, fly her about the God’s Eye when I was a wee lad. A sight that still strikes me. So blue as to melt into the twilight sky.” The watery blue eyes shifted towards Aegon now, deceptively sharp and alert. “I hear news that the sun will now bring the dawn.”

“My Lord,” Aegon said, voice stilted, but the courtesies that had been hammered into him kept him from looking the fool. ‘Abby would know what to say,’ he thought, but the boiling hurt rolling through his veins kept him from looking for her and acknowledging the bell of her laughter coming from behind him. “I hope the sight of such a thing will bring you the same fond memory.” A careful confirmation. There would be no official announcement until his nameday feast, but the natural conversation and gossip of the news would rip through the ballroom by the end of the night. The servants were already talking, and he’d overheard the whisper of it when sneaking through the Keep to his nightly pursuits.

The minstrels in the gallery above the hall struck up traditional music of the Riverlands between the popular songs that accompanied the feasts within the Keep. Lord Grover and his grandson sat at the high table with his parents and grandfather. At one of the tables, Wylla sat with her brother, Harrion. The man was tall with dark brown hair compared to the raven wing’s of his sister and a long, stern looking face that broke brightly when he laughed and smiled with Lord Bracken. Abrogail had mentioned he would be marrying the lord’s daughter on his return north.

The meal began in a blur. Aegon barely remembered swiping his bread through the beef potage, nor the spiced fennel and greens, hardly recalling the details of which horse was best for the joust and whether one should wear a heavy plate or lighter mail. He lost himself in the camaraderie that didn’t truly matter, licking juice from his thumb and taking hefty gulps from his goblet like a starving man. There was no drying out on this feast night, not when his mother sought to impress, and Aegon was grateful to finally have his Arbor red coursing through his veins to chase away the heat of his hurt and anger. He was eager to fill up the gaping maw inside of his chest that threatened to break through the tightness. The numbness began to settle in, familiar even though it was not as comforting as it once was.

Cassandra Baratheon had taken the seat beside him, having tried to speak to him, but he resolutely ignored her in favor of diving into the roast boar slathered in plum sauce and the succulent apple chutney. Finally, finally, Aegon began to feel settled with food and wine in his belly. He burped and called for a fresh decanter of Dornish and something stronger for the fine Riverlanders around him, sending up an approving shout amongst them. Let his mother be displeased, he was only doing what he was supposed to. When he turned, his eyes went across the table to the other.

Abrogail was seated with Helaena shining on her left, and on her right, Edmund Vance, who was receiving the full brunt of her bright smile and the earnest way she would lean over as to be heard over the music and merriment surrounding them. He stared at her, a roil curling in his belly as Vance piled her plate for her of the delicately poached salmon and honeyed bread. As if sensing him, her gaze flicked over to his. She should have smiled, tapping her fingers against her chin or goblet. Hells, he should have done it, and her face paled, lovely little mouth pursed. Instead, Aegon glared before turning his attention to far more pleasing things. Let her see that he was not so whipped that her words would have him still beg after her.

“And what lovely thing have I done to be rewarded by you choosing me to sit beside?” Aegon grinned at the Baratheon, resolutely grinning at her eyes than what was revealed by the cut of her gown.

“Your Grace honors me with his flattery, for in turn I do not know what I have done to earn it,” Cassandra said over the rim of her goblet.

“How could I pass up spending what promises to be quite the boring feast when I have someone like you to entertain me?” He raised his eyebrows at her and reached to top up her goblet and his own, resting his elbow on the table. Cassandra hummed and clinked her goblet against his before they swallowed. “Are you normally so preening? I swore I detected a rather enticing scent of confidence earlier.”

Confidence. Surety. Cassandra Baratheon knew who she was and it wasn’t a facsimile of his mother. It wasn’t The Maiden come down meant to judge him and find him wanting with a kiss and a slash of her hidden claws.

Abrogail’s laughter echoed through the hall again and Aegon’s fingers tightened around his cup. Another swig, another refill. It was watered down, but it didn't matter. Aegon could hold his wine well and it simply gave him an excuse to drink. “Tell me, Lady Cassandra, if I have to worry about some young buck coming to steal you away should I ask you to dance?”

“Oh, I do not think anyone would dare cut in should I be in your arms, Your Grace, but…” However the sentence didn't register as he watched Edmund Vance lift his hand to brush a curl from her shoulder. Aegon’s knee slammed against the table as he swept his legs over the bench, hoisting Cassandra up to join others who had gone to the center of the room to dance. Not an infernal Riverlands dance he didn’t know. Something more fucking civilized. Something he knew like the feel of his hand on his cock. He caught the brief flicker of confusion on the woman’s face that smoothed out as the dance began and he preened beneath the attention. He wasn’t drunk, having eaten too much for it to have hit yet, but he was loose enough that it was easy to slide into the steps, to twirl the woman gowned in gold. His favorite color.

They were betrothed and there wasn’t a bit of gold on Abrogail and she always had something golden on her.

Until now.

“Your grace shames me, Lady Cassandra,” Aegon complimented, spinning her back into him as they moved across the parquet floor. “I’ve never had a more agile partner.”

She chuckled low, the heat of her body emanating from their closeness, and Aegon’s hand slid a little lower on her waist than what was appropriate, but it would just be another line on his list of sins that his mother collected. “Have you had many partners, my prince?”

His cheeks were warm from the drink and exertion and the grin he gave Cassandra was slightly feral and full of mischief. “None as high born and beautiful as you,” he answered honestly even while his ribs tightened and the words tasted like ash on his tongue.

“Let me be the only one you touch this way. Aegon? If you want to have me, let it only be me.”

Cassandra Baratheon was the daughter of a Lord Paramount, with Targaryen blood in her veins, niece to Princess Rhaenys. She was more than comely; she was an entrancing woman with hair like a storm and delicately flushed from drink and dancing. The body that her gown clung to was positively sinful. Curves in every place that was ripe for the grasping and he was looking forward to seeing how -

As the pair spun, their partners changed, and while Cassandra flew into Aemond’s grasp, his eye glaring coldly at him over Cassandra’s shoulder, Abrogail’s hands slid into his.

The blood drained from Aegon’s face while his feet continued to move. This dance he knew by heart. This dance they both knew, having practiced it together countless times. She smelled of roses, not like a Tyrell, but something richer, darker, deeper and more primal.

Sunfyre half-grumbled and half-purred in the gaping hole inside of his chest at the feel of her, the sight of her in his arms while they spun through the next dance. Her blue eyes were fixed on his chin, which was better than her full avoidance. A soft gasp escaped her when Aegon’s hold on her waist and hand tightened painfully.

“Your mother thought we should have a turn and sent Aemond,” she explained softly. Aegon scoffed.

“So by the Queen’s command, you dance with me and not of your own volition.” His voice was almost pleasant and jovial as they spun, the music an irritating hum.

The feel of her dainty foot meeting his shin was not a mistake and it pulled a half-manic peal of laughter from him. He caught the look his mother sent from the high table and rolled his eyes. “What do you and my dear queenly mother expect from me anyway? That being betrothed to her little pet will turn me as angelic as baby Daeron?” He lowered his head to her ear and his breath caught. He heard her own soft gasp and instinctively, Aegon pulled her closer. Inappropriately perhaps, if half the hall didn’t already know they were engaged by now. “I’m an awful disappointment. You know that.”

“I know a lot about you, Aegon,” Abrogail said softly with a sour edge to her voice that he found amusing. “I know that you’re better than this. And with Lady Cassandra no less-”

“You know I’m better than this?” Aegon stepped back and held onto her hand, spinning her about so that the skirt of her gown flared, her fiery hair shining under all the glow. The candlelight caught in the little jewels of her circlet, the blue of her eyes warm as she came back into his arms and for a moment, Aegon forgot he was angry when her soft hand curled against his chest. “So my drinking and my whoring and my tavern fights - none of those are me? They’re just the worst part of myself? And here I thought you were the Maiden herself, but I doubt she moans as wantonly as you do. Such lovely sounds you make, or do you deny them now as you deny me?”

They spun apart once more and Aegon ignored the stricken expression that flashed across her doll-like face as his own chest ached with the feeling. He thought she had accepted even these terrible parts of him that shamed his mother and drew her to rage. She never scolded him or chastised him for his dalliances and escapades. When the brawl that had spilled into the streets of Flea Bottom that had nearly gotten him killed before the Gold Cloaks rushed, she had simply tended to his wounds, a simple “What happened?” in her soft voice. Out of everyone, Abrogail was the one who never expected more from him.

Clearly, Aegon had been wrong.

Another twirl, a distracted wink at Cassandra as they passed, and Abrogail was back in his arms, a brittle smile plastered on her face.

“You think I'm the Maiden?” She asked as if there’d been no pause in the conversation. “Not simply me?”

Aegon didn’t understand and he reached down to grasp her waist, lifting and spinning her in time with the music, clapping and moving around one another. “You are her. Were her-”

“Until you touched me,” she said softly, bitingly, her eyes dark and shining.

“Until you acted like I was the one begging, not you,” he snapped.

“You came into my chamber.”

“You said please.”

Another twirl, another spin and Aegon was rougher than he meant to, jerking her back into his chest as the music stopped. Her face was tilted up, eyes red and shining with unshed tears and a furious twist to her mouth, such an angry expression on her face. “And you held me through the night,” she hissed and then the fury melted away to hold that brittle smile once more, her curtsy low and flawless. When she rose, Abrogail drifted closer to him and he could see the tears gathered at the corners of her eyes. He welcomed the bite of pain when she came to cup the back of his neck, her nails digging into his skin. “How filthy are your hands, mo realta geal, that you believe that their very touch has ruined me. That you have ruined me?”

As Aegon turned away he found Elmo Tully watching him and raised his goblet with a slight incline of his head.

“Lord Grover has also written of his interest in you for his grandson,” his grandfather told Abrogail as they sat trapped in that office. “He would take good care of you, and your children would have every opportunity.”

Abby stayed as long as she could at the feast. She laughed with her Uncle Simon, with Lords Bracken and Blackwood both and their sons. Wylla’s eldest brother, Harrion, was kind, teasing her and Wylla both for his sister’s new position. Her bruised and beaten heart ached even further upon seeing the love and care between the Karstark siblings, and felt herself tearing up when she realised that Harwin wouldn’t have been there if he was still alive.

He’d be at Dragonstone, with the Princess. Or perhaps after the tragic death of her first husband, Princess Rhaenyra might have married him. Maybe it would have made things better. Maybe then, things wouldn’t be so bad.

The room felt too stifling and too loud. It felt too big and too small. The scent of sweat and wine and melting beeswax and hair pomade and perfume was making her head spin. Wylla was laughing at something Harrion had said but it sounded distant. Helaena had already gone and Abby couldn’t remember when she’d left.

Wylla’s arm slid around her waist and Abby mechanically moved through the motions of good nights and evening well wishes before the elder girl steered her out of the hall. “Not my room,” Abby rasped and her voice sounded distant and thick, choked in her throat. “C-can we go to Helaena’s, please?”

“As if you need to ask,” Wylla scoffed lightly, and the arm around her tucked in further. “Walk with us to the Princess’ chambers?” she asked her brother. “If I run into that peacock, I won’t restrain myself.”

“And they’re going to send you to Harrenhal with him. Will you be locked up for tossing him from a tower then?” Harrion’s deep voice teased softly and Abby felt his hand, warm and heavy, on her shoulder and the familiarity of it tore a soft sound from her throat. She wanted Harwin. She wanted her brother like air. A gentle squeeze and Abby let herself be guided down the hall, her fingers clinging to her skirt and Wylla was forced to guide her because she could not raise her eyes, so focused on the decorated stone before her.

“Abby?” Wylla asked softly against her ear. “Abby? Did Aegon say something else to you?”

Yes, she wanted to say, but she shook her head. He never saw me, he doesn’t see me. Did he ever see me?

“It’s been a long night,” she said instead, feeling the siblings exchange glances over her head but too tired to say anything for it. The walk was filled with tales of rides through the forests of the Karhold, of fox hunts and wolves in the tree. Of young Rickon chasing after Torrhen to learn archery, of Harrion’s impending nuptials to his southern bride. “Thank you for your company, Lord Harrion,” Abby said politely when they reached the hall to Helaena’s rooms. In the torch light, he looked nothing like Harwin, and yet every bit about him was Harwin.

‘Him and the queen are nearly the same age, aren’t they?’ Abby realised. There were a great many years between Wylla and her eldest brother, and she always forgot how young the queen was. How young her brother had been when he was lost.

“Do you understand how hard I fought against mine own father, your uncle, to give you time to grow up and not be dragged to the marriage bed before your time? A gift that I myself was denied and I would have for you and Helaena.”

A soft smile broke across the severe lines of Harrion Karstark’s face and he pressed a fond kiss to the top of Wylla’s head, and brushed a familiar hand over her own hair. It was paternal, affectionate in the familial way, not familiar that made her ache, that made her want to throw herself into his arms to sob as she would with Harwin when she was small and then the doors to Helaena’s room opened and Wylla ushered her inside.

“Whatever is the matter?” Helaena asked, already dressed in her nightgown, The fire was a warm and welcoming blaze in the grate. Wylla made a soft hissing sound at the maid putting away Helaena’s gown from earlier, sending her from the room. Abby gulped down the lump in her throat, and gaped at Helaena like a fool. Her vision had gone hot and blurry, her mouth trembling. She shook as if she was cold, but her cheeks were flaming and she couldn’t breathe through her nose. “Abby!” Helaena was alarmed now and she felt her sister’s hands on her arms and a great, wet hiccup tore from Abby’s throat.

“I-I was cruel to him,” she gasped, clutching at Helaena’s sleeves. “I was cruel and I-I shouldn’t have been, but yo-your mother was furious with me a-and…” Gods help her, Abby could barely breathe as the words came rushing out over heaving hiccups. She felt Wylla’s hands at the back of her gown undoing the spiral lacing while Helaena’s fingers tugged at the laces of her sleeves.

She’d lashed out and was ashamed of it, but then, “He was flirting with that bitch, and dared to be angry w-with me about Ser Edmund and… and I miss my brother.” Abby sobbed, hysterics settled in, and she was a doll in the hands of her friends as they got her out of her gown. Helaena reached for the soft blanket from the settee to wrap around her. It wasn’t the same, it wasn’t what she wanted, but Abby realised she didn’t know what she wanted. So unused to being like this, Abby felt adrift like a leaf in the fountain and no adorable little frog to perch on her and make her laugh.

“Abby,” Helaena whispered and led her to the great bed, Wylla coming to help her up. She felt utterly useless with herself. All she could do was sob like a broken pail streaming water everywhere. Useless and silly and utterly shattered inside.

“I want them back,” Abby wailed, and pressed her face into Helaena’s chest. The comfort she so often gave to others, she sought for herself without even asking.

How selfish and unbecoming.

Her fingers clawed into Helaena’s gown like she could find proper purchase until she finally got her arms around the princess’ waist. She tried to speak again and apologise and explain herself more clearly but words were wind, and all Abby could do was cry and beg for someone to get her papa, her athair, as she called him, and her brother.

It should not be her. It should not be her entertaining the river lords and brokering peace, a pawn, a spy. It should be Harwin taking the seat at Harrenhal, Princess Rhaenyra and their boys at his side.

It should be her athair sitting at the high table next to King Viserys, not the cold, stoic judgement of her Uncle Otto and his cruel words.

The world made sense when they were alive. The world was a safe, warm place, even after the loss of her mother.

‘I want Aegon,’ came the traitorous thought. ‘I want Aegon the way he was before he turned so cruel so quickly. I want the boy he used to be, not the man he is becoming. I want the Aegon who kissed me by the lake.’

Helaena was calling for the maids to draw a bath while Wylla held her this time. She thought of the Sept and weeks of silence, of barely eating, of the frantic and terrible fear that fire would consume them all. She thought of Aegon coming to sit with her as she cuddled Theraxis in her arms. How he wiped her tears and in awkward starts, he had managed to coax a tearful smile from her when recounting the tale of nearly decapitating a training dummy on his own, and how Harwin had taught him how to properly swing. When he showed off for Cole later, he’d been impressed.

Where had her Aegon disappeared to? Gone so far away, and how foolish it was of her to believe that the way he hid himself would not eventually come to bite her.

“Were my dear brother here, he’d bloody well geld him and give me his balls on a platter for treating me so,” Abby said scathingly before she could even think. Wylla looked startled at the violent admission that escaped her before bursting into peals of shaking laughter.

“Where did that come from?” she half accused, half demanded breathlessly, and between her sobs, Abby choked out her own laughter. Helaena joined in the mirth with a shake of her head and began dabbing at her tears with a tender touch normally reserved for her most delicate of creatures. The handkerchief was soft, adorned with little blue and gold beetles.

“I don’t know,” she said as the maids came in with the copper tub lined with linen and buckets of steaming water. Another maid brough the delicate wooden box of bath oils and salts.

Abby let Helaena and Wylla poke and prod through the vials and jars, picking out sweet and calming scents to pour into the water. They only asked her minimal questions, if she favoured something sweet or floral but little else and Abby was grateful for the reprieve. It was a rather novel feeling to let her decisions stop. She didn’t have to think or plan or organise. Helaena and Wylla handled it rather easily, wrapping her long hair up with Helaena’s carved dragon pins and guiding her into the tub. The water seeped into the cold that constantly permeated her bones and her thoughts drifted to the feel of Aegon’s arms around her as they had been in her bed. The warmth of him too had chased away the persistent cold.

She sighed, letting herself sink into the water, and let their voices wash over her.

[Chapter Ten]

#fic: the maiden and the drowning boy #aegon ii targaryen #aegon ii targaryen fic #aegon ii targaryen fanfic #aegon targaryen #aegon x oc #aegon ii targaryen x oc #hotd #hotd fic #hotd fanfic #house strong #aegon x abby

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queen--of--shadows · 2 years ago

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The Wedding

Azriel x Reader

Summary: Azriel and his half-human mate get married.

Warnings: none

Word Count: 2,491

Notes: Thank you to the anon who requested this! I had SO much fun writing this scene and loved adding it as a bonus chapter to Healing Shadows! 🖤 Let me know what you think! Xx

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“Her flowers! Where are her flowers!” Mor shrieked from behind you, pulling your head with her as she turned back with a deathly grip on a chunk of your hair.

“Mor, it’s okay. We still have some time,” you assured her, even though there was only an hour left until the ceremony. With an exasperated sigh, Mor pinned the final piece of hair into place and swiveled your chair around to face her.

She gasped, covering her mouth with both hands. “Y/N, you are…breathtaking.”

Not that you would know. She hadn’t let you see yourself since she started the whole ordeal of getting you dressed and ready three hours ago, promising that the final outcome would be worth the wait.

Tears lined Mor’s eyes as she stepped again to block your view of the vanity mirror. “I would give you a hug, but I don’t want to ruin my masterpiece,” she laughed, dabbing at the inner corners of her eyes.

You gave her hand a tight squeeze. “I love you,” you said, a lump forming in your throat. You cherished your friendship with Mor and couldn’t imagine the past year of your life without her. She had been your rock through everything, along with the rest of the Inner Circle, and your mate.

Your mate.

Soon-to-be husband.

“I still can’t believe you’re getting married,” Nesta said as she entered through the giant white doors leading from the garden of the River House with Feyre trailing behind her. The two sisters and Mor were dressed in matching silk gowns of midnight blue, tiny beaded stars and moons adorning the train that pooled at their feet. Simple, yet devastatingly stunning.

You had asked the three females to be your bridesmaids after the engagement to honor your half-human heritage. They were overjoyed, since mating ceremonies didn’t involve similar traditions.

“Me neither,” you responded distantly as Mor finally moved out of your view of the mirror.

Your breath hitched as you caught the first glimpse of yourself.

A long silk dress, the color of fresh cream, with small flowers and leaves and vines wrapping across your midsection in glistening jewels and sparkling thread. The soft cowl neckline was held up by two thin pearl straps that plunged down the back, allowing your tattoo to be fully displayed, as per Azriel’s request. Mor had curled your hair into loose waves, pinned back with shimmering diamond clips on both sides. The makeup was simple and elegant—your eyes shone under long lashes and gold eyeshadow, and your plump lips were accentuated with rosewood lipstick. Long dangling diamond earrings almost finished the look, but you knew it wouldn’t be complete without your ring.

As you carefully grabbed your engagement ring from the vanity, you reminisced on the most perfect and beautiful week of your life thus far: the day your mating bond was realized, and a few days later, when Azriel asked you to be his wife.

It had been six days of utter bliss—six days since Azriel revealed he was your mate, and you officiated the bond at the cabin. You hadn’t left the cabin since you arrived, and were finally feeling ready to head back home.

“My love,” Azriel muttered against the back of your head, cuddling you from behind as the morning sun crept up over the horizon. You hummed in response, relishing what you knew would be the last moments of peace and bliss you would enjoy for a long time.

“I love you,” he said between kisses, your eyes still heavy with sleep as Azriel made his way out of bed. You groaned in protest, but he assured, “I’ll be right back. Don’t go anywhere,” with another soft kiss.

You snuggled deeper under the massive pile of blankets and throws, awaiting your mate’s return. But he was taking longer than you expected, so you slowly sat up, wrapping a soft blanket around your shoulders.

“Az?” you called out.

“Close your eyes,” he said from the hallway outside your room.

“What?” You laughed, not expecting yet another surprise from your mate.

“Close them,” he said again with his night-kissed voice, so perfect, even in the early morning. You obeyed.

Azriel’s warm, calloused hand wrapped around yours as he pulled you out of bed. “Come here.” You followed as he positioned you in what felt like the living room, judging by the distance he made you walk.

“Az! It’s cold, come on let’s get back in bed.”

When he didn’t respond, you became impatient and finally opened your eyes.

To Azriel down on one knee, a small black box in his hand.

You gasped as your sleep-riddled brain rushed to make sense of the situation.

“Az…”

“Y/N, I’ve loved you from the moment I met you. I knew as soon as I saw you, you were mine. Made for me, just like I was made for you. To spend the rest of our lives together. I don’t know if it was the Cauldron or the Mother or some ancient God that willed our paths to cross. All I know is that I’m forever indebted to whoever brought you into my life. You are my sun, my moon and my stars, my heart and soul and my every breath.”

You sank to your knees, tears rolling as you cupped your mate’s face.

“We already officiated the mating bond, but I want to honor your Mother, your human side.” He opened the small box to reveal the most stunning ring you had ever laid eyes on: a bright, sparkling oval sapphire, the color identical to his siphons, positioned in the center of a thin gold band, surrounded by a halo of tiny diamonds and pearls. You covered your gaping mouth with your right hand as Azriel pulled out the ring and twisted it to reveal a small inscription inside the band. “It says forever. Because you are my forever, Y/N. You are all I need.” Tears lined his hazel eyes. “Will you marry me?”

You pressed your lips against his—your mate, Azriel, the absolute love of your life. You had never known a love so pure, so sweet, so kind. “Az,” you gasped between laughs and sobs. “I love you so much. Of course I’ll marry you.” A shuddering sob went through him as he pulled you into his embrace, wrapping his wings around you. Azriel pulled back to place the ring on your left hand and marveled at the sight.

“It’s perfect. Thank you, Az,” you whispered before kissing him again, this time more passionately. Azriel moaned into your mouth, lifting you from the ground and carrying you back into the bedroom, where he began—

“Are you ready, Y/N?” The excitement and glee in Feyre’s voice tore you from your memories and ushered you back to the present. A quick glance at the clock revealed only a few minutes left until you were to make your entrance.

“Yes.” You squeezed her hand, smiling at your bridesmaids. “You should head out. I’ll be there soon,” you promised, following them toward the doors.

“We love you, Y/N. See you outside,” Nesta said with a quick kiss on your cheek.

You were overwhelmed with gratitude, and said a quick prayer to the Mother for blessing you with the most incredible friends and mate you could’ve asked for.

You grabbed your bouquet off the table by the entrance—a marvelous array of white roses, lilies, and peonies, embellished with sprigs of night-blooming jasmine. A steadying breath helped calm your nerves, but you nearly jumped at the sound of a banging knock on the door.

You were ready to assault whoever was outside with a barrage of curses when you opened it to Cassian and Rhys, grinning from ear to ear.

“Y/N, you look exquisite,” Rhys purred as he sauntered over and kissed your hand.

“You know, I think it’s time Nesta and I have a wedding of our own, if she’s gonna look anything like you do,” Cassian said with a booming laugh, kissing you on the cheek. “You look like a Gods-damned angel ascended from the heavens.” He grabbed a hand and gave you a twirl.

“Thank you, boys,” you said, followed by a sarcastic curtsy.

Rhys offered his elbow. “Shall we?”

Cassian linked his elbow with yours, opposite of Rhys. “It’s time to make an honest man of my brother, Y/N.”

Arms locked with the males you considered your own brothers, and hands nervously gripping the lush white bouquet, the three of you paused at the door until you heard the lilting melody of harps, chimes, and bells from outside—your signal to begin the walk down the aisle.

The doors opened directly to the short path through the garden that led to the gazebo where your mate was standing.

And your heart burst out of your chest as you locked eyes with Azriel.

His black suit was cut perfectly to fit his tall, 6’4 muscled body, fashioned around his massive wings. His midnight blue tie matched the bridesmaids’ dresses, and his black stud earrings glistened in the moonlight against his glowing tan skin. Azriel slicked back his silky dark hair, perfectly showcasing those stunning hazel eyes. Shadows danced and twirled around his feet to the rhythm of the music. He stood with his hands clasped in front of him, and as your gaze met with his, your core began to warm at the waves of love and awe and affection pulsing down the bond. His eyes watered as they met with yours, setting your feet moving towards your beautiful mate.

His essence bloomed stronger in your core with every step—night and sky and shadow, the taste of a salty breeze and morning dew, raw Illyrian power that melded with your own.

It was an intimate ceremony with a few of your family and friends lining the sides of the garden, tossing white rose petals as you walked down the aisle.

And as you reached the end, you near-choked as Madja reached out for your hand, giving it a squeeze, tears lining her eyes. She nodded in approval, and you knew words could never express your gratitude for her.

You halted in front of the alter where Azriel stood to the right, and Feyre, Mor, and Nesta stood to the left. Gwyn looked like a goddess in the center, holding a scroll of ancient wedding prayers, donning an emerald-green gown and a crown of gold ribbons atop her long, silky red hair.

“And who gives this bride to her mate?” she chimed, a playful smile tugging at her lips as she raised a brow at the males on your arms.

“We do,” Cass and Rhys said in unison, beaming as they helped you up the alter steps toward Azriel, who offered his hand. The brothers took their spot behind your mate, and you turned back to hand your flowers to Feyre, finding all three bridesmaids sniffling with teary eyes.

You held Azriel’s hands as Gwyn recited old prayers of love and worship and devotion. In true Night Court fashion, you both decided to get married after sundown, under the open night sky. The stars twinkled brighter tonight, as if they, too, were showing off for the joyous occasion. The light from the crescent moon blended with that of the faelight bulbs, strung across like a canopy, to glaze the garden in an illuminating glow. Bouquets of white roses lined the aisle to the gazebo, which was adorned top-to-bottom in intricate gold lace.

It couldn’t have been more perfect.

Azriel toyed with the engagement ring on your finger while you brushed your thumb along the back of his hand. As Gwyn finished her prayers, she gave a short speech about the special bond between mates and how Cauldron-blessed this fateful wedding was.

You were barely registering her words, wondering if there was any language that had a word to describe what you felt for Azriel.

“Az, do you have any words for Y/N?”

His grip on your hands tightened as he began. “Y/N, my beautiful bride, my best friend, my mate. I thank my lucky stars day and night for you. I cannot imagine living a single second without you by my side.” You had never heard his voice quiver before, raw and tender. Tears slid down your cheeks at his love and affection. “I’ve waited my entire life to meet you, and I would wait another hundred years if I had to. I promise to protect you, cherish and honor you. I will be there for you every step of our journey together, to support you, encourage you, and love you. Every day. For the rest of my life.”

“Azriel,” you breathed. “From the second I saw you, I knew in my very being that we were made for each other. My mate, my match, my equal.” Tears escaped his hazel eyes. “Az, you are kind, considerate, intelligent, beautiful. You make me believe in love, that a story like ours isn’t just a fairy tale.” Azriel leaned down and pressed his brow against yours, his tears dropping onto your chest. “Your sorrows are my sorrows, your joy is my joy. If we fall, we fall wrapped in each other’s arms. I promise to spend the rest of eternity proving to you what a light you are in our world. Wherever we go, we’ll go together.”

You stood pressed against each other, hand in hand, when at last you heard Gwyn say, “Azriel, do you take Y/N to be your wife, to love her, to honor her, to comfort her, and to keep her in sickness and in health, for as long as you both shall live?”

“I do,” he whispered.

“Y/N,” Gwyn's voice trembled now as tears lined her eyes, too. “Do you take Azriel to be your husband, to love him, to honor him, to comfort him, and to keep him in sickness and in health, for as long as you both shall live?” choking out the last few words.

“I do,” you managed, face gleaming with happiness and joy.

Rhys stepped forward and handed Azriel two sparkling rings atop a small gilded tray. Azriel slid the solid gold band down your finger, and you did the same, his band identical to yours.

Gwyn chimed, with her voice sparkling like a thousand flutes of bubbling champagne, “I now pronounce you husband and wife.”

Cheers erupted from the garden as Azriel pulled you in, pressing his soft lips against yours for a passionate yet gentle kiss. He wiped your tear-stained cheeks, while you wiped at his.

Interlacing your fingers, you gave him a final “I love you,” before he lifted you in the comfort of his strong arms, the arms that would never let you fall, and carried you down the aisle, a shower of petals covering you both as husband and wife, as mates, two flames merged together for eternity.

You were home.

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isadomna · 5 months ago

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The Death of Galswintha

Brunhild’s elder sister, Galswintha, arrived in Frankish lands as Chilperic I of Neustria’s betrothed in July of 568, trailed by even more treasure and finery than her sister had been. At Rouen, Chilperic tripped over himself to provide an even more spectacular reception than his brother had given Brunhild. He marched his army more than one hundred miles west, so they might meet his new bride ‘near the curved bed’ of the river Seine as she disembarked from her ship. Rather than being greeted by a palace hall full of nobles, Galswintha was welcomed by Chilperic’s entire army on bended knee, swearing an oath of allegiance to their new queen. Chilperic never did anything in half measure. And Galswintha was married not in the great hall of a converted basilica, but in the cathedral at Rouen.

Less than six months later, though, a third wedding would take place. No cathedral this time, just a handful of nobles quickly assembled in the great room of a royal villa. A week before this third wedding, King Chilperic and Queen Galswintha had been fighting. As she stormed and raged, messengers were seen riding out from the palace at all hours, delivering missives and pleas to her sister and her mother. Galswintha had caught Chilperic in bed, again, with the slave girl Fredegund. The queen was furious that ‘he showed no respect to her at all’; she was distraught over ‘the insults which she had to endure’. She wanted to return home. Was it truly so unendurable? Yes, to be made a fool of like that. And Chilperic had such a temper! She would return home, even if it meant leaving her enormous dowry behind. One morning, soon thereafter, the palace woke to a horrible scene. Galswintha had been found dead in her bed, strangled in her sleep.

Chilperic did not once address his subjects on the matter of Galswintha’s untimely demise. There were no searches for her assailants or rewards offered for their capture. No one was ever questioned or punished, not even the guards who had been posted at the door of the royal bedchamber that night. It was Fortunatus’s friend Gregory who stated plainly what the whole of France was thinking: ‘Chilperic ordered Galswintha to be strangled… and found her dead on the bed.’

Just months after Galswintha’s wedding, Brunhild had received word that her father had dropped dead, presumably of a heart attack. When the next message arrived, this one from Galswintha’s terrified nursemaid, it was reported that Brunhild went into shock. In less than eighteen months, Brunhild had lost her homeland, her father and now her only sibling. At the news of Galswintha’s death, Spain falls into even greater lamentations, and her grieving mother ‘collapses in distress, her knees giving way’ and faints. The enraged mother of the murdered princess was still a major player in international politics; after the death of King Athanagild, she had married his successor.

The few tears Chilperic reportedly shed shortly after Galswintha’s murder may have even been genuine: he was sad that things had come to this. It was nothing personal; Galswintha was simply no longer useful to him. But Fredegund was. Chilperic was obviously incredibly attracted to her. And his attraction also solved several problems. A low-born woman came without the complications of a powerful family; she would be happy with whatever meagre morgengabe he gave her. Three days later, arrayed in the brightly dyed linens and jewels of her predecessor, Fredegund stood at the altar, smiling up at Chilperic.

Galswintha’s murder has been portrayed in art numerous times throughout the centuries since, and the blame always rests on Chilperic, so much so that illuminated manuscripts and paintings portray the king of Neustria himself, wearing his crown and grinning rakishly, wrapping a cloth around the neck of his sleeping wife. In some versions, Fredegund looks on. Whether Fredegund really urged him on or not, she knew people would always assume that she had, cleverly disposing of yet another rival for the king’s affections.

Source:

Shelley Puhak, The Dark Queens: A gripping tale of power, ambition and murderous rivalry in early medieval

#galswintha #chilperic #fredegund #brunhild #brunequilda #brunhilda #brunegilda #french history #merovingians #neustria

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omgsuperstarg · 2 years ago

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Take to the Sky

Namor x Udaku! Reader

Author's Note: Hey Guys!!! This is finna be my first foray into the Black Panther Universe. I saw Wakanda Forever last Thursday and it was a THRILL RIDE. As with most writers, I got inspired to write my first one-shot based on the movie with Reader chan and everyone's fave agua DADDY NAMOR so let's see how your story unfolds.

Also, I used a translator for the Yucatec Mayan so if it's off. Tell me in the comments

As I offered you to BAST when you were just a little babe, the winds around us blew wildly. Suddenly you were lifted from my arms. The elders were in surprise but the shaman was not surprised for he saw in you a greater purpose as well as a great danger which you are the key to stopping...............

That was your favourite story growing up, the one of your birth. The Ukadu's are Wakanda's Royal family and the guardians of the Black Panther mantle for generations but with you it was special. Your birth was of significance since it was not Bast who visited but the wind goddess who blessed you with bird wings to soar above the clouds. Yet with this power came a great danger which was unknown. Ever since then, you were hidden. Coming out when deemed necessary as well as acquiring the best training necessary from Okoye and the rest of the Dora.

Life for the most part was peaceful, loving and full of happiness for your family and people but it was not meant to last. The last six years being the most painful for your loved ones. Losing your father along with your siblings forced you to conform to the duties of becoming a future leader rapidly. Though you didn't need to inherit the throne for a good while, Queen Ramonda needed the assistance to best lead Wakanda during its turbulence as well as lifting some of the burdens from her shoulders. Not long after the blip's reversal, T'Challa's health deteriorated and eventually, he succumbed and joined the ancestors. Holding your mother's hand with eyes bloodshot red staring off into space, it felt as if your body went numb. The emotions depart with your brother until a hollow husk was left. It was always the 3 musketeers but now it's down to two. You knew it was never truly the end only its beginning.

ONE YEAR LATER............................................................

The sky was a place where you found solace. The impossible fades away and the unknown reigns supreme. Today is the One year anniversary of T'Challa's passing and mother wanted us to take a day to pay homage to his spirit as well as finally put our grief behind us but you couldn't shake the feeling in your bones that something is to occur today and you prayed to Bast that it's not serious.

Mini time skip

You all were sitting by the river's edge, a fire roaring to keep warm as well as a family of elephants to keep companionship with.

"Come girls, we are going to enact the final piece of the grieving ritual", Queen mother states as she surrenders her white garb to the fire, its heat and flames consuming it.

"Buring of the garbs marks the end of the grieving process and how we fully connect with those who have passed on to the spiritual plane.", she says solemnly.

"I can't do that. If I think of my brother too long it's not those clothes I would burn, but the world.", Shuri responds. You can feel where she comes from with being gifted a brilliant mind but unable to save whom she loves most.

Suddenly the elephants sense a disturbance and the Queen Mother goes to investigate with a spear in tow along with your sister. You grab your sword ready to defend your family and that's when a human or what you can describe as human for this male has wings at his ankles that play off of the Greek Messenger God Hermes as well as adorned with many jewels and clothing which also gives off remnants of a lost period of history.

'Who are you!", Your mother interrogates the stranger.

"This place is amazing, the air is pristine. My mother told me stories of a place like this, with people who never had to leave or change who they were. What right did your son have to reveal yourselves to the rest of the world," He says almost deathly calm.

"I'm not a woman who likes repeating herself, WHO.ARE.YOU", your queen mother says with authority.

"I have many names. My people me K'Kul'kan, but my enemies call me NAMOR.'' he says finally revealing who he is.

After laying his case, or more on the lines of his demands for the American Scientist who engineered the Vibranium detector he proceeds to leave but not before he speaks once more,

"To'on yaan k suut kaxtik chan ch'íich' '' and with that, he dolphin dives into the water once more.

"Well that's an entrance,", you say but gasp in horror as your eyes gaze on the underwater machine beside the mini camp setup.

"The council must be alerted immediately", Ramonda says urgently

Meanwhile in Talokan..............................

''Le chan ch'íich'o' ts'o'ok u revelado. Yuumtsilo'ob finalmente in u séen revelado ka sabrá u propósito yéetel le k'iin.'', Namor says while continuing his ancient painting.

#namor x reader #wakanda forever #tenoch huerta x reader #mutant #kkulkan x reader #one shot #short stories #namor x poc!reader #shuri #black panther

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lemony-snickers · 1 year ago

Note

has anyone picked 9 yet? 💕

9. loneliness. also for @succikko-nebulae & one lovely anon who requested the same number. sorry for the delay!

It's raining. Heavy droplets pelting the tree leaves overhead, shattering like glass against the branches and dribbling between the spaces in the bark like miniature rivers through vein-like canyons.

Kakashi watches them, Obito's eye shrining too brightly in the dark, entranced by the paths each raindrop cuts across the splay of his fingers, the way the water pools between his knuckles when he slips his gloves off.

Thunder rumbles, low like a bass drum, and he knows that any moment, the pitch of night will be spliced open by another shuriken of lightning.

It seems a fitting way to ring in the Copy Ninja's birthday.

Kakashi--or Wolf, more precisely--has been on a solitary mission for six straight weeks. It's been tedious work, intelligence gathering requiring stealth instead of brute force.

This time of year, Kakashi prefers the latter. In fact, the longer he remains in the ANBU ranks, the more he prefers physical violence to ingenuity. It's more straight forward. A safer haven for all his misplaced rage.

Lightning breaks the sky open, shattering the darkness. It's too bright for the sharingan, which sees everything always, and he flinches.

He tells himself he keeps the eye open to watch for threats in the dark. Tells himself it is a useful tool for this particular mission since he is alone and has no comrade to cover his blindspots.

But Kakashi knows the real reason he keeps it open. The true motivation for packing the green scarf he has safely stowed in a storage scroll in his pocket--as if winter could possibly lick at his heels when summer has not yet said its annual farewell.

It is an unbecoming thing for a shinobi to admit his limits. To admit that, sometimes, it would be nice to come home to something other than an empty apartment. The eye, the scarf, they are poor substitutes for what Kaksahi truly longs for.

He remembers the way his father's eyes used to light up when he returned from an assignment to find Kakashi sprinting toward him. No matter how weary, how injured, Sakumo was, he lit up in those moments.

Kakashi has never known what it is like to have someone waiting for him when he returns. Even before Obito's death, before Rin's murder, they did not wait for him. They were with him in the field and had their own places to return to once their feet found Konoha's soil.

They sought him out after, upon occasion. Shared a meal once or twice in his too-quiet house before he relocated to an efficiency nearer the Hokage Tower.

A sensible decision, he told himself then, one which had nothing to do with the apparitions of his childhood and everything to do with saving money for retirement.

As if he would ever grow old enough to do so.

Gai would wait for him, probably, if he were allowed. But Cold-Blooded Kakashi has made sure to burn as much of that bridge as possible over the past few years and Gai has finally learned to maintain a safe distance from the typhoon of his old friend.

It's only safe in the Eye, after all, and that is where Kakashi sits now, feeling the rain dissipate into a faint sprinkling. The thunder and lightning in the distance tell him there is more to come, however, and he relishes the anticipation of an even greater destruction.

He could erect a tent, but Kakashi finds it increasibly difficult to be contained by four walls these days. He prefers to sleep in the open, so when he inevitably wakes in a fevered terror, he does not feel so pressed in upon, so claustrophobic.

Being outside makes it easier to breathe.

Kakashi scans the forest with his stolen eye and wonders if, somewhere, Obito and Rin and Minato-sensei can see the way all the droplets of rain sparkle like jewels in the moonlight, glistening as they slide off the waxy leaves of the trees to cascade once more through the air.

The thunder rumbles anew, wind whipping against Kakashi's bare face, and the rain picks up again.

#lemony scribbles #kakashi hatake #kakashi angst #kakashi fanfiction #hbd kakashi #i mean i guesss???? aj;dflasdjf sorry boo

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princesssarisa · 8 months ago

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Cinderella Tales From Around the World has now taken me to Southeast Asia, with tales from the Philippines and Indonesia.

*The book features six Cinderella stories from the Philippines, but all except one are just variations on the same story:

**The heroine is named Maria. The royal man she marries is usually a king, typically named King Enrico, though he can be a prince instead.

**The setting is sometimes given as Hungary, though not always.

**Maria has a stepmother and two stepsisters. In several versions, at the beginning, her father falls in love with the future stepmother while his first wife is still alive, and so he murders his wife by drowning her in the sea.

**Maria befriends a talking crab, who is sometimes said to be the spirit of her mother. But either the stepmother orders Maria to kill it and cook it, or the crab itself asks her to do so. Either way, she buries its shell in the garden, a lukban (pomelo) tree grows from it, and from this tree she gets her finery for church or for a ball.

**In some versions, she also gains either a star or a shining jewel on her forehead, much like in Iran's The Story of Little Fatima.

**Her stepmother and stepsisters tie her up and put her in a sack to hide her from the king when he searches for the golden slipper's owner, but of course he finds her.

**After her marriage, Maria gives birth to septuplets (or in one version just triplets), but the stepmother kidnaps and abandons the babies and replaces them with a litter of puppies. Thinking his wife is a puppy-bearing freak, the king has her imprisoned. But the babies are found and raised by either a shepherd, an enchanter, or a supernatural being, and when they grow up, at their guardian's instructions, they go to the castle, meet the king, and insist on meeting Maria. When Maria sees them, milk flies from her breasts into their mouths, revealing their identity. The family is reunited, and king has the stepmother dragged to her death by "fiery horses." (Some versions leave out this portion and just end the story with Maria's marriage.)

*The alternate Philippino Cinderella is called Abadeja, or Abadeha, and is a simpler tale. Abadeja's stepmother repeatedly sends her out of the house to do impossible tasks, but each time a beautiful woman appears from the river and does the tasks for her. Eventually the woman gives Abadeja the gift of a beautiful chicken, but the stepmother kills it. At the river-woman's instructions, Abadeja buries its legs in the forest, and a tree grows from the spot that bears beautiful dresses and jewelry. One day a rich man's son discovers the tree, picks off a ring and puts it on his finger, but then can't get it off. His father invites every young girl to try to remove the ring, with the promise of his son's hand in marriage to the one who succeeds. Of course Abadeja is the only one who can remove it.

**A footnote mentions that this story can also be combined with the other one described above. In another variant, the heroine's name is Maria, her father drowns her mother so he can marry another woman, and her helper from the water is her mother's spirit.

*The two near-identical Indonesian Cinderella stories seem more closely related to the Chinese and Vietnamese versions, but have their own distinct identity too. In these versions, the heroine is the youngest of seven orphaned sisters. One day she catches a beautiful fish and secretly cares for it, feeding it so much of her own food that she grows thin, until her sisters find out, and either out of cruelty or out of concern for their little sister's health, they kill it. The heroine buries its bones, and an enormous iron tree with silken leaves grows from the spot. One leaf blows off its branch and drifts to the king of Java, who is amazed by its beauty and searches for the tree from which it came. When he finds it, he also finds the girl. The tree identifies her as its owner by bowing down before her, so of course the king marries her.

Next we travel to the USA for some Native American tales.

@ariel-seagull-wings, @adarkrainbow, @themousefromfantasyland

#cinderella #fairy tale #variations #cinderella tales from around the world #heidi ann heiner #the philippines #indonesia #tw: violence #tw: murder #tw: drowning

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drops-of-moonlights · 2 years ago

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Va-mos! Poder Cosmix Reluciente energía Es el poder (el poder) de Cosmix, sí! Y se alzará Contra la oscuridad Brillara yá Es la Luz Cosmix, sí!

AS OF THIS WRITING IT’S BEEN 1007 DAYS SINCE DISCOVERY KIDS WAS SUPPOSED TO AIR THE LATIN SPANISH DUB OF SEASON 8 AND BELIEVE ME I AM STILL AS FUCKING PISSED AS I WAS ON THE FIRST 500 DAYS. WHERE IS S8 DISCOVERY KIDS WE KNOW IT’S FULLY DUBBED, THIS IS NOT THE TIME TO MAKE LOST MEDIA.

My third world problems aside, Cosmix’s re-redesign! I sadly axed the relation to celestial objects with this version, but I’m more content with making them all more generally space-themed. Everyone has a different star they’re associated with with different amount of points! More design details below because this is a lore post and a half tbh:

The wings this time are based on, of all things, the canon Winx Travelix wings, which appeared on the show in S6, as part of the Zenith shepard check outfits. They have the same vibe as the Cosmix wings except actually individualized, and so they felt perfect for this batch even if I mixed up Flora’s and Aisha’s but details. Stella obviously has the eye aura since it’s tailor made for her everything, but Diaspro has a partial eye aura since her way of forming gemstones involves usage of light magic.

For this new version, everyone is associated with a color of the rainbow, per my own earning of Cosmix (Dorana was delighted they were 7 so she could just go straight to the point lmao), based on the river each of the girls drew from. They also all have the astronomical symbols for their realms on their chest! Earth would go insane trying to think of why the fuck realms within the same planet have different astronomical signs, but it’s one of those things that made sense to the Naerys system to further differentiate their sections of the world from each other.

Scintil has a stylized laurel wreath holding a spark, as it was implemented back when they thought the Dragon Aura was “the Dragon’s Flame”, a divine gift of extra powers and not a benign magical condition. (Bloom was sure she was gonna have Earth’s symbol as she still considers it her primary home, and is a bit conflicted on what it might mean for her to bear Scintil’s mark.)

Linphea and Dolona used to share a symbol as Primaveria, a stylized Rose of the Willow with six petals, but after the civil war and the split they each have a 3-petal flower.

Quarzis’s is pretty straightforward, the Jewel of Dawn (a national treasure and ancient magic artifact) being hold aloft by the hands of the first Queen.

Zenith’s mark, while at first glance looks like circuitry, is actually meant to evoke the Aurora Prismatia, a weather phenomena incredibly important to their culture.

Like with Linphea and Dolona’s, Andros’s mark was originally shared with Mareia (and Salett) as the ancient kingdom of Okeane, the shore between the land and the sea. Nowadays Andros’s symbol is the land and the shore, while Mareia’s the shore and the sea.

Melodeus’s is the Giant Diapason, a gigantic sculpture of antiquity that much like Zenith’s Aurora Prismatia is a big part of Melodean culture.

Finally, Solaria’s the most straightforward - the moons and the sun, perfectly aligned.

#Drops's Art #Winx Club #Winx Redux AU #Cosmix #Winx AU Detailing #because I left a lot of shit in the readmore lol

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scotianostra · 2 years ago

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On November 30th 1996 thousands lined The Royal Mile in Edinburgh to see the Stone of Destiny, stolen from Scone by King Edward I of England in 1296, returned to Scotland and installed in the Castle.

At first, the Stone of Destiny appears to be little more than a simple stone, but no other stone could carry so much history and tradition than this one. Despite its simplicity, it has quite a colourful and surprising history.

The Stone of Destiny goes by many names, sometimes called the Stone of Scone, The Coronation Stone , An Lia Fàil or Jacob’s Pillow. It is a simple block of red sandstone that measures about 26 inches by 17 inches.

Both Scottish, English and British monarchs have been crowned on this stone since the ninth century.

Legend dates back to biblical times; the stone is said to have been the pillow Jacob used, where he dreamed of Jacob’s Ladder. It was seen as a sacred object and first went to Ireland and then to Scotland.

No one can pinpoint exactly where the stone came from, with origin stories mentioning biblical stories or the stone being quarried in Scotland. However, geologists proved that the stone was quarried somewhere around Scone, the historical site of the Scottish Kingdom. There is a theory that the Augustine Monks, learning that an English Army was on it’s way to Perth and fashioned a replica from a block of stone quarried nearby, the real stone was either hidden in the River Tay or Dunsinane Hill, my subject of last weeks post, Nigel Tranter himself believed the object Edward took to London was "a lump of Scone sandstone".

As I mentioned in a previous post today, the last Scottish King to receive his coronation on the stone is John Balliol, who is said to have lost the stone to Edward I “Hammer of the Scots” when he invaded Scotland in 1296 The stone was taken as spoils of war where Edward fitted it to his chair in order to try and secure his role as Lord Paramount of Scotland.

In 1328 England promised to return the stone to Scotland. However, angry English crowds stopped it from actually leaving Westminster Abbey. It remained in England for another six centuries.

The stone was liberated by four nationalist students in 1950, during the theft, they broke the stone into two pieces. Despite this, they managed to bring it back into Scotland when they passed both halves to a senior Glasgow politician; the stone was then repaired by a stonemason.

The government ordered a search for the stone, and the search was unsuccessful. The custodians left the stone in Arbroath Abbey in April 1951. When it was discovered, it was returned to Westminster.

In 1996, the government returned the stone to Scotland. A handover ceremony took place in November 1996 between the Home Office and the Scottish Office. It arrived at Edinburgh Castle to a crowd of around 10,000 people. To this day it sits alongside the crown jewels of Scotland when not used in coronations.

Doubt surrounds the stone all throughout its history, and it is said there are many points in which the stone could have been swapped or lost.

Another belief is that the stonemason who repaired the stone after its damage made several copies and the one returned was, in fact one of his forgeries. The big thing, in my opinion that lets this theory down is would a typical Glesga stonemason take the trouble top venture north to Perth to find a lump of stone?

The true history of the stone and whether or not the one in Edinburgh Castle is the correct stone will never fully be known. I myself tend to believe the story, that the Monks hid the original stone.

The Stone will soon be taken down to Westminster Abbey once more and placed on Edward’s Coronation Chair before being returned to Edinburgh, it will then be moved, eventually to the new Perth City Hall museum, the museum is due to open some time in 2024. The last pic is an artists impression of how it could look.

#Scotland #scottish #England #english #stone of destiny #stone of scone #st andrews day #perth #history #medieval history #theft

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thatscarletflycatcher · 2 years ago

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A Jane Eyre fancast

(Because I have enablers that let me rant about these things)

Bella Ramsey as Jane Eyre

I sometimes regretted that I was not handsomer; I sometimes wished to have rosy cheeks, a straight nose, and small cherry mouth; I desired to be tall, stately, and finely developed in figure; I felt it a misfortune that I was so little, so pale, and had features so irregular and so marked.

Sam Riley as Mr Rochester

I knew my traveller with his broad and jetty eyebrows; his square forehead, made squarer by the horizontal sweep of his black hair. I recognised his decisive nose, more remarkable for character than beauty; his full nostrils, denoting, I thought, choler; his grim mouth, chin, and jaw—yes, all three were very grim, and no mistake. His shape, now divested of cloak, I perceived harmonised in squareness with his physiognomy: I suppose it was a good figure in the athletic sense of the term—broad chested and thin flanked, though neither tall nor graceful.

Robbie Kay as St John Rivers

Had he been a statue instead of a man, he could not have been easier. He was young—perhaps from twenty-eight to thirty—tall, slender; his face riveted the eye; it was like a Greek face, very pure in outline: quite a straight, classic nose; quite an Athenian mouth and chin. It is seldom, indeed, an English face comes so near the antique models as did his. He might well be a little shocked at the irregularity of my lineaments, his own being so harmonious. His eyes were large and blue, with brown lashes; his high forehead, colourless as ivory, was partially streaked over by careless locks of fair hair.

Synnove Karlsen as Blanche Ingram

“Tall, fine bust, sloping shoulders; long, graceful neck: olive complexion, dark and clear; noble features; eyes rather like Mr. Rochester’s: large and black, and as brilliant as her jewels. And then she had such a fine head of hair; raven-black and so becomingly arranged: a crown of thick plaits behind, and in front the longest, the glossiest curls I ever saw. She was dressed in pure white; an amber-coloured scarf was passed over her shoulder and across her breast, tied at the side, and descending in long, fringed ends below her knee. She wore an amber-coloured flower, too, in her hair: it contrasted well with the jetty mass of her curls.”

Olivia Cooke as Miss Temple

she looked tall, fair, and shapely; brown eyes with a benignant light in their irids, and a fine pencilling of long lashes round, relieved the whiteness of her large front; on each of her temples her hair, of a very dark brown, was clustered in round curls, according to the fashion of those times, when neither smooth bands nor long ringlets were in vogue; her dress, also in the mode of the day, was of purple cloth, relieved by a sort of Spanish trimming of black velvet; a gold watch (watches were not so common then as now) shone at her girdle. Let the reader add, to complete the picture, refined features; a complexion, if pale, clear; and a stately air and carriage, and he will have, at least, as clearly as words can give it, a correct idea of the exterior of Miss Temple—Maria Temple, as I afterwards saw the name written in a prayer-book intrusted to me to carry to church.

Emily Watson as Mrs Fairfax

A snug small room; a round table by a cheerful fire; an arm-chair high-backed and old-fashioned, wherein sat the neatest imaginable little elderly lady, in widow’s cap, black silk gown, and snowy muslin apron; exactly like what I had fancied Mrs. Fairfax, only less stately and milder looking. She was occupied in knitting; a large cat sat demurely at her feet; nothing in short was wanting to complete the beau-ideal of domestic comfort.

Kate Winslet as Mrs Reed

Mrs. Reed might be at that time some six or seven and thirty; she was a woman of robust frame, square-shouldered and strong-limbed, not tall, and, though stout, not obese: she had a somewhat large face, the under jaw being much developed and very solid; her brow was low, her chin large and prominent, mouth and nose sufficiently regular; under her light eyebrows glimmered an eye devoid of ruth; her skin was dark and opaque, her hair nearly flaxen; her constitution was sound as a bell—illness never came near her; she was an exact, clever manager; her household and tenantry were thoroughly under her control; her children only at times defied her authority and laughed it to scorn; she dressed well, and had a presence and port calculated to set off handsome attire.

Dakota and Elle Fanning as Eliza and Georgiana Reed

Two young ladies appeared before me; one very tall, almost as tall as Miss Ingram—very thin too, with a sallow face and severe mien. There was something ascetic in her look, which was augmented by the extreme plainness of a straight-skirted, black, stuff dress, a starched linen collar, hair combed away from the temples, and the nun-like ornament of a string of ebony beads and a crucifix. This I felt sure was Eliza, though I could trace little resemblance to her former self in that elongated and colourless visage.

The other was as certainly Georgiana: but not the Georgiana I remembered—the slim and fairy-like girl of eleven. This was a full-blown, very plump damsel, fair as waxwork, with handsome and regular features, languishing blue eyes, and ringleted yellow hair. The hue of her dress was black too; but its fashion was so different from her sister’s—so much more flowing and becoming—it looked as stylish as the other’s looked puritanical.

Emma Mackie and Margot Robbie as Diana and Mary Rivers

I thought them so similar I could not tell where the old servant (for such I now concluded her to be) saw the difference. Both were fair complexioned and slenderly made; both possessed faces full of distinction and intelligence. One, to be sure, had hair a shade darker than the other, and there was a difference in their style of wearing it; Mary’s pale brown locks were parted and braided smooth: Diana’s duskier tresses covered her neck with thick curls.

#Jane Eyre #fancast #Bella Ramsey #Sam Riley #Robbie Kay #Synnove Karlsen #olivia cooke #Emily Watson #Kate Winslet #dakota Fanning #Elle Fanning #Emma Mackie #Margot Robbie #don't shoot me #I couldn't find anyone I liked for Mason and Mr Brockelhurst #and I'm not casting Bertha Mason #so

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mrjoeiconis-blog · 2 years ago

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From the Archive: BE MORE CHILL TRACK BY TRACK May 16, 2018: Hey, hi, hello. My name is Joe Iconis. I’m a writer and performer and, most notably, the person to blame for the music and lyrics of Be More Chill. I wrote the show, a musical adaptation of Ned Vizzini’s novel, with Joe Tracz and it premiered in a production at Two River Theater in New Jersey in 2015. A cast album was made and was enjoyed by the amount of people you’d expect to enjoy a cast album of a musical that played for six weeks in New Jersey. Then suddenly and without warning, after two years of release, people, in particular young people, discovered the show and became obsessed. One hundred million streams of our cast album later, the show made its Off-Broadway debut in summer 2018 at the Pershing Square Signature Center on 42nd Street, before transferring to Broadway!

Before we launch into the madness of a track by track breakdown of the Be More Chill OCR, let’s talk about the Be More Chill score itself, shall we?

The first thing that excited me about adapting Ned Vizzini’s gorgeous book into a musical was the opportunity to write about the issues teenagers face through a sci-fi lens. I’ve written plenty of teens before. I love that they wear their emotions on their sleeve but don’t always have the vocabulary to properly articulate those emotions. But here was an opportunity to not only delve into the minds of young people, but to tap into some of my favorite genre influences: monster movies of the 1950’s, Sci-Fi/Horror flicks of the 70’s and 80’s, and Teen Comedies of the 80’s and 90’s. In short: John Hughes (Sixteen Candles, Ferris Bueller’s Day Off) meets John Carpenter (Halloween, The Thing.)

Be More Chill is a classic musical comedy in disguise. It reeks of technology and is filthy with moderns sounds, problems, references, etc. But make no mistake about it: The show is as traditional as they come. Well, sort of.

The songs themselves are total showtunes; it’s the orchestrations that place us firmly in the genre world.

As I’d write the tunes on piano, I’d dream about what they’d sound like when given the full 80’s sci-fi treatment, and Charlie Rosen’s orchestrations satisfied my darkest, quirkiest musical fantasies. We worked closely on the specific sounds of this score. Our holy grail (especially when it came to underscore) was John Carpenter film scores. John Carpenter has directed countless horror classics, but he’s also famous for writing his own film scores. He was an electronic music pioneer and his work is immediately recognizable.

Other sonic influences included Oingo Boingo, Bernard Herrmann, Weezer, Tangerine Dream, The Offspring, and contemporary musicians with a retro flair like Sky Ferreira, Kavinsky, and Johnny Jewel.

“Jeremy’s Theme” Written at Joe’s 16th Street Apartment 2012/Two River Theater Library, during rehearsals 2015 I’ve always thought of this as the music that would accompany the production logos in a horror movie. The “American International Pictures presents… A Roger Corman picture…” cards. It immediately places the audience in an unsettled place. Something bad is going to happen and that bad thing is going to be otherworldly.

We’re actually cramming a lot of information into 30 seconds. Up top you’re getting the beep-bop-boop of computer circuitry. It’s the technological equivalent of a scary thunder storm in a creature feature. Next, our first synth line arrives. Hello, synth. Nice to meet you. Won’t you please overstay your welcome for the next two and a half hours? I drove Charlie slightly crazy in regards to the specificity of keyboard sounds I was looking for as I desperately wanted to be faithful to the Carpenter/Alan Howarth collaborations that inspired much of the score.

The track culminates with The Squip theme, played gloriously on Theremin by Danny Jonokuchi. The Theremin is a vintage electronic instrument played by the Thereminist moving his hands through the air to control pitch and volume. That instrument was used most often in 1950s sci-fi movies like The Day The Earth Stood Still, usually to accompany the visual of an alien presence.

We’re one of the only musicals to ever use a Theremin in its orchestration. Be More Chill is a show about kids obsessed with all things outdated and unloved and the show itself is obsessed with all things outdated and unloved! How very! (Heathers reference.)

“More Than Survive” Written in Joe’s 16th Street Apartment, 2012 After our eerie mini-overture, the audience expects to be confronted by a demon or a triffid or worse. Instead, we jump cut to the shockingly mundane sight of an average high school kid staring at his computer in his undies. I’m proud that the first event in the musical is our leading man being caught with his pants down. It establishes Jeremy us a decidedly unheroic hero and also kick-starts a theme of pantlessness that continues throughout the entire show.

The “C-c-c-c’mon” motif was one I came up with early on in writing the song. I wanted a repeated phrase that expressed the frustration of wanting things to move at an accelerated speed, and one that could also sound like the chorus of a pop song. I love immediately subverting the expectation of what Jeremy’s waiting for to load—“Is it a major homework assignment? A college application?” Nope, it’s porn! That moment establishes the spirit of Be More Chill right off the bat. It also makes for awkward car rides when kids listen to the album in the car with their parents. Sorry, not sorry.

In the actual show there are even more mini-scenes between Jeremy and the people in his life. I wanted this whole opening to feel cinematic and sweeping and place Jeremy in the center of a world that is swirling around him. Kind of like the “Head Over Heels” sequence in Donnie Darko.

The first person who connects with Jeremy enough to actually earn sung musical material is Michael. Michael brings his own music with him because he’s confident and, quite literally, marches to the beat of his own drummer.

Will Connolly’s voice just kills me on the album. He sounds like the love child of Michael Jackson and Billie Jo Armstrong.

Notice the little synth line underneath the lockers scene with Chloe, Brooke, and Jenna. It’s a quote of “Rich Set a Fire.” The little synth line underneath the first part of Michael’s scene? “Michael in the Bathroom.” The guitar line in the second part? “The Pants Song.” That audience has subconsciously heard so many melodies from the show before the first number is even over! Underscore is sneaky.

It should be noted that “More Than Survive” was the first song I wrote for the show. After sending it to Joe Tracz, I sent it to Jennifer Ashley Tepper, who is now one of our producers of Be More ChillOff-Broadway. She wrote back:

“I tried to listen to the Be More Chill song, got 60 seconds in, and got furious at everyone for all of the noise/ questions/ distractions at work... so I'm gonna go download these on my phone and sit outside or hide in the bathroom to listen. BRB!!!”

Hiding in the bathroom. That’s so Be More Chill.

“I Love Play Rehearsal” Written in Joe’s 47th Street Apartment, 2013 After hearing so much about her in the opening, this is the first time we actually get to hear from Christine herself. Charlie and I wanted her song to sound different from the angular computerized vibe of the rest of the score. Enter recorders!

Everyone associates recorders with elementary school music class and/or Renaissance fairs. That felt correct for Christine, who is warm, strange, confident, free-spirited, and literally dresses like an authentic Renaissance Princess at the Halloween Party in Act II! So much of Stephanie Hsu’s performance informed the song itself—she’s a brilliant actor and a soulful singer and it’s impossible to not conjure up images of her live performance when listening to her on the album.

The placement of this song moved around a whole bunch during our writing process and the eureka moment was realizing that the song’s not literally about play rehearsal. It’s a song about passion and freedom. It’s not the typical way to be introduced to a leading lady in a musical, which makes it perfect for Christine and for Be More Chill, in general.

The original second song in the show was an internal duet for Jeremy and Christine called “Touching My Hand.” It was about Jeremy pining for Christine and Christine wondering if she should go on a date with Jake. There was some nice character material for Jeremy, but it gave us information we already knew and it made the show feel like some cute romantic comedy. It also felt antithetical to the character to have Christine’s first real song moment be about a guy. That’s not her and we needed to respect that.

Note that the original full title of this song was “Why I Love Play Rehearsal By Christine Canigula,” which is very fussy and precious and I loved it but it’s too cumbersome and I knew that someone would inevitably make me change it so I just did it myself. (RIP Fussy, Too-Long Title That Joe Loved.)

“The Squip Song” Written at Joe’s 16th Street Apartment, 2012 It begins as a retro-sounding “cool kid in a ’90s movie” rock song (with some Oingo Boingo horns added in for good measure) and then turns full blown sci-fi/horror fantasia. And it all goes down in a bathroom. There are a lot of bathrooms in this musical.

This song is the first time we hear the “It’s From Japan…” refrain, which repeats ten million times over the course of the show. Gerard Canonico is a powerhouse of the highest order and he turned this song from a serviceable musicalized scene into a show stopper. The optional octave up jump on the second “It’s From Japan” is all Canonico’s doing. We had to add the big ending (including a toilet flush on the final button) just because it was so clear people wanted to clap after Gerard finished doing his thing.

Props to Josh Plotner on the vocoder, yet another retro instrument that’s rarely used in theater orchestration. It’s what makes the weird digitized voice sound. People usually think that it’s a mic effect but it’s all done live! Old school, baby.

For those who care: Gerard’s pronunciation of the word “correctly” is a nod to The Shining’s scary bathroom encounter between Jack Torrence and Delbert Grady.

“Two-Player Game” Written at Joe’s 47th Street Apartment, 2013/Rewritten during rehearsals at Ripley Grier Studios, 2015 I enjoy writing songs where characters have to work through some major personal issue while doing an unrelated task. (Ahem, “The Answer.” Ahem, “Ammonia.”)

Here, the boys talk about self-worth and the desire to be somebody else while playing a video game. Of course, the video game is actually telegraphing the journey they are about to go on but to Michael and Jeremy it’s just another nothing-special hang sesh. When I wrote that little 8-Bit “Apocalypse of the Damned” theme that threads through the song, I was inspired by being a kid and plunking out the melodies to grandiose John Williams orchestral scores on my Casio.

The original version of this song was titled “Level Up” and it did a lot of what “Two-Player Game” does, just not as well. It also sounded exactly like a particular song by The Clash and once I realized how similar the two songs were, “Level Up”s days were numbered.

It should be noted that I am the world’s biggest stickler when it comes to rhyme. I’m super old-school in that I believe things either rhyme or they don’t; none of that “half rhyme” garbage. I think rhyme makes theatre songs easier to understand and actually heightens the dramatic intention of the lyric. Disgustingly, “Two-Player Game” contains an accidental fake rhyme. By the time I realized, it was too late to change the rhyme. Every time I hear it, I cringe, and you can pay me a million dollars but I won’t tell you what it is.

“The Squip Enters” The grand entrance of our antagonist: The Squip. It was important to our radiantly talented director Stephen Brackett that The Squip’s entrance feel larger than life. His staging of the moment was dazzling, and I needed to write a cue that rose to that occasion. The Squip enters to music that is tastelessly huge, appropriately so.

It should be noted that I wrote The Squip with Eric William Morris in mind and I’m so glad his iconic performance of the role is preserved forever and ever on the album.

“Be More Chill – Part 1” Written in Joe’s 47th Street Apartment, 2013 I had a lot of trouble figuring out the musical style of The Squip. First I went down a computer-y road, but that felt too in line with the sound of the rest of the show. Then I tried a sort of 1950’s Dick Dale Surf Rock take. (Mike Rosengarten’s nasty, relentless guitar line is a remnant of that version of the song.)

Eventually, I settled into what currently exists. There’s a timeless cool, laid-back quality to The Squip’s music. It’s approachable and sexy but never too scary or affronting. This is seduction music. The moments where the vocoder is adding the spooky digitized element the melody line (“don’t freak out and don’t resist…”) is where The Squip’s true colors are peeking through the façade just a little bit. By the time we get to “The Play” he’s given up on trying to seduce and is just trying to conquer, so his music sounds different.

The whole “Be More Chill” section is really just a classic “make-over montage” sequence (it’s even set at The Mall!) so I took some musical inspiration from make-over and training sequences as well. Think Karate Kid, Dirty Dancing, The Breakfast Club.

A lot of people are bothered by the harshness of the “everything about you makes me want to die” line. To me, that’s the whole point of the show. The tone may be comedic, but the characters in Be More Chill are actual teenagers struggling with actual problems. I don’t think being depressed or suicidal is a laughing matter, but I do think sometimes people feel like there is a voice inside their head telling them to hurt themselves. It would be insulting and untruthful to pretend that a kid like Jeremy wasn’t struggling with these thoughts.

The humor, the fantasy, and the harsh reality co-exist in every moment of the show. And, in my experience, in every moment in life. It’s about learning how to deal with it and knowing which of the many voices in your head you’re supposed to listen to. But we’re not at that particular song yet.

“Do You Wanna Ride?” Written in [memory temporarily scrambled] I have no memory of writing this mini-song, it just happened. It didn’t exist and then it did. Look, I made a spicy song about stopping for frozen yogurt where there never was a spicy song about stopping for frozen yogurt.

Lauren Marcus’s interpretation is a gift from the theatre gods and is a testimony to her brilliance as an actor, singer, comedian and all-around magic person. The yodel, the riff at the end, all Marcus. She’s the Goldie Hawn of musical theater.

“Be More Chill – Part 2” When I stumbled upon the idea of the “Everything about you is going to be wonderful” section, that’s when the song really clicked for me. After being berated for all the things he isn’t, Jeremy finally gets teased with the promise of unadulterated love and adoration. It’s the false promise of spam emails about penis enlargement pills or the aspirational Instagram accounts of the Kardashians. The idea of: “If you just do This, everything will be Perfect.” The musical equivalent of “Make America Great Again.” Cheerful, optimistic, secretly sinister. The writing and performance make me think that it’s a theme song for an awful 1980s sitcom that never existed in the first place. “Everybody Loves Squips!” maybe.

Props to Dan McMillan for aggressively hitting that gong at the end for a big finish.

“More Than Survive” (Reprise) Restart! The show essentially begins again and we fast forward through another day at school, this time with notes and instructions from Mr. Super Quantum Unit Intel Processor himself.

The chorus goes into a reggae feel for a few measures at one point. The idea there is that sometimes things are the same but feel a little different and you can’t quite put your finger on why. The familiar feels unsettling. Reggae is a style of music associated with Michael, so I like thinking that maybe Jeremy has Michael on his mind in that one instant before Squip wipes the slate clean.

“A Guy That I’d Kinda Be Into” Written in Ripley-Grier Studios 2015, during rehearsal This was the last song I wrote for the show. I wrote it very quickly on a rehearsal break after not being able to nail this moment for years. I love that Christine gets this unexpected jangly little rock song as her second big number.

Have you ever noticed how the female lead in musicals is often saddled with the most drag-ass songs? Part of my mission in musical theater is to never subject my female lead to an unmotivated obligatory ballad.

It should be noted that Christine ends both this tune and “I Love Play Rehearsal” with an unexpected non-rhyme. Christine is a character who subverts our expectations of her at every turn. Gosh, I like her.

“The Squip Lurks” I’m eternally grateful we got to include this taste of underscore on the album. I’ve heard rumors that this plays in theme parks during the Halloween season. That’s the highest honor I could ever receive.

The track name is a reference to “The Shape Lurks” cue from the Halloween soundtrack. And, yes, “Jeremy’s Theme” is also a nod to “Laurie’s Theme.”

“Upgrade” Written at a Two River Theater writing retreat, 2014 // Re-written at Ripley Grier Studios 2015, during rehearsal

The line “this is my favorite place behind the school” is one of Joe Tracz’s great creations, delivered incomparably by Ms. Marcus. I don’t know why I find it so funny but I laugh every time I hear it. I think it reveals so much about Brooke.

The notes of “Upgrade-upgrade-upgrade” in the first part of the song are the same notes as the pattern that begins “More Than Survive.” They are just a little scrambled up. The melody of “I already know what it’s like to be the loser” is the “Apocalypse of the Damned” theme song melody.

This song is notable as the first time the character of Jake sings in the show. Poor Jakey D. This is the only musical in history where the classically good-looking Prince Charming-type gets the least amount to sing. I still like the guy, though. It’s another testament to the brilliant Joe Tracz that a character like Jake, who could’ve been a one-dimensional asshole jock, is actually a kind, well-meaning popular kid. Dude can’t help that he’s pretty! Jake Boyd’s vocals are so sensitive and approachable and kind of remind me of Mr. Peanut Butter from Bojack Horseman.

The final chorus of the song is the same melody but we lose the swing and make it more of a driving rock. Damn. Things got not cute quick.

This song used to end with a long minor version of the “Na Na Na” theme from “More Than Survive.” It was very musically exciting and too long and did nothing to service the story and was cut.

“Halloween” Written at a Two River Theater writing retreat 2014 The Halloween Party is a mammoth sequence that begins Act II and I knew it needed its own theme song. I wanted to write a chorus that sounded like what it feels like to be shoved around in loud, hot, crowded room. The sort of song that would send anyone with social anxiety into a full-blown panic attack.

The Suburban Halloween Party is such a hallmark of the movies myself and my collaborators were inspired by and we endeavored to do those films justice and make the greatest Halloween party blowout sequence in musical theater history. Please note that when we wrote the show, there weren’t actually any other musicals with Halloween Party blowout sequences, so just by existing, we were automatically the greatest. Now we’ve got some competition. How fetch! (Mean Girlsreference.)

There’s an element of group awareness in the “Halloween” lyric. “Cuz a Halloween party’s a rad excuse to put your body through mad abuse.” That’s because we’re experiencing the party through Jeremy. This is his first big social event and as much as he’s trying to be part of it, he’s still on the outside. He’s got a detachment that allows for a bit of perspective.

The dance break was arranged by Broadway legend Rob Berman! He based the melody line on a part of “Halloween” that was subsequently cut. It’s the “who’s got the peach Schnapps?!” section. I often add it back in when I perform the song in concert.

Props to Amanda Ruzza’s propulsive bass line! Crank it up, crank it up!

“Do You Wanna Hang?” “Do You Wanna Ride?” strikes back! With new lyrics relating to Chloe’s Sexy Baby costume! Katie Carlson is yet another four-leaf clover in our incredible cast of musical theater misfits. Chloe is hilarious and monstrous without ever being a cartoon. She’s trying her best, just like everyone else, she just has… questionable taste. I’m so enamored with the way Katie does the final “Do you wanna stop?!” chorus. I think in that moment Chloe is trying so hard to be Britney Spears circa 1998. Which would almost work if she wasn’t literally dressed as an infant. There’s something charming and a little sad and completely hilarious about it to me.

We never actually address the fact that Chloe is dressed as a baby (well, a “sexy baby”) in the lyric. In two million years all that will be left of this world will be a fat cockroach, a copy of the Be More ChillOCR, and a few confused aliens wondering what she means by “get inside my diaper, boy.”

“Michael in the Bathroom” Written at Joe’s 43rd Street Apartment, 2014 Many times as a kid and even more times as an adult, I’ve fled to the bathroom to escape a social situation. It feels like one of those no-big-deal things that everyone does and those are the exact sort of scenarios I’m drawn to when writing musical theater.

I’ve always been partial to the “Best Friend” characters. I want to know more about them and never understand why they exist only in the context of the lead character. In every show I’ve written I’ve imagined that when a secondary character leaves the stage, they’re walking into another show where they’re the lead. “Michael in the Bathroom” is the moment when the ultimate sidekick is allowed to take center stage and be the star of someone else’s show. I hope it makes the audience think about all the other secondary characters in the show like Chloe or Rich. They’ve probably all had their own “Michael in the Bathroom” moments over the course of the show, we just don’t get to see them. Oh how I long to write “Jenna in Her Bedroom.” Or “Brooke in the Alley Next to Pinkberry.” Maybe for the sequel.

George Salazar’s performance of the song is magic. It’s one of those miracle moments when a song and a performer connect in a specific way. The music and lyrics are a road map, but there are so many people who make the journey of a song like this happen. It all came together through a collaboration between myself and Ned’s characters and Joe’s book and Stephen’s direction and Nathan Dame’s musical direction and Bobby Tilley’s costumes and every other element that goes in to making any moment of theater.

George is the first person to sing “Michael in the Bathroom” in the show itself, but while I was developing the score, the song was sung out of context by a few gents including Jason Tam, Seth Eliser, and Will Roland. They taught me much about the tune and I bow down to them.

I wrote the song in one sitting in 2014 and the content never changed, aside from the cutting of a short third verse right after the bridge. We cut it late in the rehearsal process in deference to the “too much of a good thing can be dangerous” rule of theater.

A few people have questioned my use of humor in songs that are otherwise quite serious. “Why do you have jokes in such a powerful song?” an uptight professor once asked. “Why is this hilarious showtune so stinking sad?” a late-nite comedian queried over drinks at McHale’s. The intersection of the comedy and the tragedy feels true to the human experience. The absurdity of having to work through things at the Worst Possible Moment is something I’ve experienced many times. Things are rarely all good or all bad but things are always messy. You find out you got into your dream school while you’re high at your racist grandfather’s funeral. You have to audition for a role on Stranger Things the same day that a mountain lion eats the family dog. (RIP Spot.) You have a panic attack while wearing a Halloween costume after fighting with your possessed best friend in the bathroom of High School Halloween Party. It’s all so forlorn and confusing and funny. To me at least.

Charlie and I worked closely getting the arrangement just right. We wanted it to ebb and flow and sound like a pop song at first, never giving away that it will eventually turn into this tour-de-force musical theatre mad scene. I like when orchestration is at odds with the content of a song and doesn’t immediately announce what the song is about.

After going on this monumentally poignant journey, Michael undercuts it all with a spot of sarcasm, carrying on the great tradition of musical theatre characters who don’t really mean it when they say “I’m so glad I came.” (Follies reference.) The whole thing ends with the most sardonic cha-cha-cha ever to button a number.

“The Smartphone Hour (Rich Set A Fire)” Written at Ripley-Grier Studios, 2014 Jenna Rolan finally gets her moment of glory, unexpectedly, as the star of a seven-minute dance number. Katie Ladner’s turn as Jenna is so specific and inventive. She deflects the casual barbs thrown at her because she is not letting anyone ruin the time she gets to shine.

I set out to write a song that dramatizes and activates the dangerous world that the Be More Chill characters exist in. We spend so much time with our kind, sensitive protagonists, it’s easy to forget the madness they are living in. It’s hard to be a teenager, especially today. It’s a menacing world where information travels at warp speed. As does gossip, rumors, insults, lies, etc. To me, “The Smartphone Hour” speaks to the ferociousness of modern teenagers and shines a light on the sort of environment that leads to bullying and depression and worse.

It’s also a splashy musical comedy dance number! I wanted it to feel overlong and unreasonably gargantuan. I thought for sure some smart theatre artist along the way would force me to cut this song. I decided I was going to fight for it. It may not cover a ton of story ground, but I felt that it was imperative to have the number in the show. It sets the audience up for the craziness that’s about to happen in Act II and lets us know that things have spun out of control—both in the story and in the show itself. I think subconsciously, the audience thinks: “A dance number about arson?! The rules of the show are changing! I hope nothing unexpected happens to the characters I love! They wouldn’t kill off Jeremy, would they? Well, if I’m watching a dance number about arson anything is possible! Oh no! #SaveJeremy!”

Luckily, I never had to fight for the song. As soon as Chase Brock got his hands on it, he made it longer, in deference to the “too much of a good thing can be wonderful” rule of theater. Rob Berman’s arrangement of the dance break sounds like a sleepover from hell on crack and Charlie’s smartphone sounds bear more than a striking resemblance to the sort of sounds normally associated with the sinister Squip. Gossip is Evil, kids.

I really feel like we made the best Michael Bennett number Michael Bennett never choreographed. The final shouted: “End!” was all Chase’s idea and I love it so much. It’s a moment that lives in the real estate between musical theater Cheese Ball and rock’n’roll Middle Finger. A neighborhood I often hang my hat in.

The notes of the phone buttons that are heard after “he told me cuz he’s my best friend” are, once again, the same notes as the “More Than Survive” intro figure. Just reversed this time.

The title is an obvious reference to “The Telephone Hour” from Bye Bye Birdie. “Rich…” is by no means a parody of that song, but I think they are spiritual cousins. It’s another example of Be More Chill having a foot in the past and a foot in the future.

“The Pitiful Children” Written at Joe’s 47th Street Apartment, 2013 / Joe’s 43rd Street Apartment, 2014–2015 / Ripley-Grier Studios and Two River Theater 2015, during rehearsals Oh, heavens, this song. The lyrics of this song changed a ton over the course of the rehearsal process and I never got it quite right. I love it on the album. It sounds like what would’ve happened if Marilyn Manson and Nine Inch Nails wrote Les Misérables. Alas, dramaturgically, I don’t think I did a great job of telling the story that Joe Tracz laid out. Don’t be surprised if this one gets fiddled with in anticipation of our forthcoming Be More Chill off-Broadway production.

The orchestration of this song is one of my favorites in the whole show. It pushes The Squip firmly into digitized-demon territory. He’s worrying less about seducing people in this number and he’s letting his true colors show. His true colors are cold, industrial, heavy, and militaristic. There’s no question that this Squip has his sights set on world domination.

I like using lyrics that work dramatically and stylistically. The Squip’s “beep-bop-boop” is literally him speaking in his native computerized tongue, but it also conjures up images of an old-fashioned crooner scatting. It’s connected to Jeremy’s “C-c-c-cmon” and the Ensemble’s “Hey hey hey” and all the rest of it.

“The Pants Song” Written at Joe’s Family’s house on Long Island, 2014 My experience writing this song is very much an example of the comic/tragic thing that I often love to write about.

I had tried to write a song for Jeremy’s Dad for the longest time and could never crack it. Joe Tracz said to me: “I just wish Jeremy’s Dad could have a song about the lesson he learns. That if you love somebody, you put your pants on for them.” Essentially, I am an idea thief. I immediately knew that sentence was a song, I just didn’t know how to write it. We were doing a developmental reading of the show and I was feeling the pressure. There was a date I needed to have the song in by and I had nothing. The day before I needed to have the song, I decided that after rehearsal I was going to have a drink with my best friend Jason SweetTooth Williams and then go home and write the song. And then my Grandma died. After a long illness, my grandmother Flora (RIP Flora) left this damned earth at the Iconis home on Long Island. I needed and wanted to be with my family. After doing all the things that you do when a loved one dies, I went downstairs to my family’s basement at 2 AM and wrote “The Pants Song” in one shot. Sometimes you have to write a song about two guys in their underpants on the night your beloved grandma dies.

Paul Whitty starts in such a forlorn, hurt place at the top of this song. I bet the audience thinks this is going to be a perfect-time-for-a-cigarette-break “sad dad” number and then it turns into a total bop. Much like the “We love everything about you…” section of “Be More Chill,” this was another song that I wanted to feel like a rockin’ version of the theme song from a 1980’s sitcom. Only difference is, the mythical sitcom that “We love everything about you…” comes from is phony and corporate and the “Pants Song” show is heartfelt and cool, Must See TV material.

There used to be a song for Jeremy’s Dad earlier in the show called “The No Pants Song,” where he extolled the virtues of not getting dressed. It was a sad, lazy waltz. The whole thing was one-joke, but I did love the final stanza:

ALL THE EXERTION OF PUTTING ON, THEN TAKING OFF JUST TO PUT BACK ON SEEMS TERRIBLY UNNECCESSARY TO ME WOULDN’T YOU SAY? I’M FINE WITH A Y-FRONT COVERING MY FRONT EVERY DAY

It should be noted that many of my musicals feature moments of pantslessness for male characters. This feels fitting as I am often pantsless when I write said musicals. Write what you know, Joe. (ReWrite reference.)

This is the only song in Be More Chill that features a big, in-your-face key change. I’m normally very discreet about my key changes, but a tasteless shift up a step for two men dancing in their undies feels earned.

The in-store music playing in the background of The Mall sequence is actually a Muzak version of “The Pants Song.” The moment I wrote the tune I knew it was destined to be the annoying music played on a loop in the atrium of a mall. The sort of irritating ear worm that slowly drives the employees of Payless and Sbarro’s mad.

“The Play” As a kid who spent hours listening to the big action-packed climaxes of the Sweeney Todd OCR, the Sunset Blvd. OCR, and the Carrie soundboard bootleg (thanks, 1996 Playbill Online message boards for making that one happen!), I’m so thrilled we got to include ours on the album. The underscore is straight-up cinematic, with all the themes of the past two hours crashing into each other like violent zombie bumper cars.

A few people have asked me if the cascading downward piano line in “The Play” is referencing “Suppertime” from Little Shop of Horrors. While the two riffs sound similar I was actually alluding to, you guessed it, John Carpenter film scores. The 5/4 time signature and downward modulation are dead giveaways. But I do agree that the line sounds not dissimilar to “Suppertime,” which is fine by me! Little Shop was my first musical and has clearly influenced me in countless ways as a writer, especially on Be More Chill.

The “Michael makes an entrance” line came late in the game and is a testament to the “sometimes the best thing a writer can do is just musicalize the stage direction” rule of theater.

One of my favorite bits of orchestral business is the twisted music box version of the “More Than Survive” chorus. Hella Danny Elfman. (Shout out to Rich’s Nightmare Before Christmas belt buckle! The 1990’s are alive and well and living inside my musical.)

The “Squip Death” section was hatched by Eric William Morris and myself in the basement dressing rooms of Two River Theater. It’s hard to make out, but as the Squip is destructing he’s speaking Japanese. The Japanese was translated by my bestie-since-fourth-grade Michael Ettannani. We’ve all got our Michaels.

“Voices In My Head” Written at a Two River Theater writing retreat, 2015

The point of Be More Chill is that we’re always going to have voices in our head, both good and bad, telling us what to do. The trick is to figure out which ones to listen to. The fear and doubt and anger and anxiety never really go away, but you can find a way to manage them. At one point in our process Joe Tracz articulated this by saying: “At the end of the show, there are still voices in his head, but the loudest one is Jeremy’s.” Yet again, I am a lowdown dirty idea thief. I stole Joe’s words and turned them into our finale.

Since the show begins and ends with ensemble numbers led by Jeremy, I thought this was a nice opportunity to chart our leading man’s growth. I wanted the vibe of the chorus to be different from “More Than Survive.” It’s more laidback, it’s more confident, it’s more playful. It’s more (ahem) chill. Even when the Ensemble kicks in with the “Na’s Na’s” from the beginning of the show, it’s less aggressive than it used to be. There’s harmony and everyone’s singing together instead of singing at each other.

It was important to all of the creators of the show that the triumph of our show not be that Jeremy gets with Christine. The personal triumph for him is that he’s able to deal with his “stuff” enough to have a normal-person conversation with her. I don’t know if Jeremy ends up with Christine after the events of Be More Chill. Maybe he does. Maybe he ends up with Michael. Maybe he ends up with no one. It really doesn’t matter. What matters is that he has figured out that his voice is one that is worthy of being listened to. And that allows him to get on with his life and move forward. All of the characters being together shouting “C’mon, let’s go!” is a triumph to me. They don’t know what’s next, but they’re going to go through it together. An army of Creeps, taking on the world hand in hand.

Robert Altman used to talk about how he never understood why movies ended with weddings. Why is the story over just because two people kiss? There are no real endings in life except, maybe, death. Musically, I didn’t want the show to end with a big held-out chord or with arms-around-each-other “it’s all gonna be alright!” sweetness. I wanted the very end to feel raucous and alive and like the music is tumbling toward something. Toward the future.

The joke of the ending is that even though the kids at Middleborough deactivated The Squip and prevented a total take-over, chances are good that all of the neighboring high schools have been completely taken over. No one is safe, all we can do is prepare ourselves as best we can. They may offer you fortune and fame. Love and money and instant acclaim. But whatever they offer you don’t feed the… Squips? Sorry, wrong show. Smiley face, lipstick, kitty paw.

#be more chill #jeremy heere #michael mell #michael in the bathroom #Joe iconis #george salazar #will roland #be more chill musical #Brooke lohst

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