#six jewel rivers

[archangeldyke-all]

arranged marriage between royal!Sev & royal!reader pls 👁️👁️

OOOOOOHHHHH

men and minors dni

your betrothed does not seem happy about the situation at hand.

to be fair, up until five minutes ago, you weren't either.

apparently, being a grown unmarried woman is more shameful to your parents than your attraction to women. so they've scoured the world for another unmarried royal woman who shares your proclivities as they call it, and sent a letter to her father.

all without your knowing, of course.

you weren't aware that your visit to the foreign nation of zaun was anything more than a show of alliance until last night, when your parents revealed their ruse to you.

apparently, you are to be married.

the only reason you aren't screaming and trying to flee the wedding currently happening, is because you've caught sight of the woman you are to be marrying in three minutes.

she's gorgeous.

you're shocked into silence, all your protests and complaints about the morning evaporating the moment your eyes land on the woman scowling at the end of the aisle.

your mother chuckles beside you, and you glare at her.

"y-you didn't tell me she was--"

"what? good looking? you didn't think i'd marry you off to some inbred asshole, did you?" she teases.

"well..." you trail off. you kinda did. your mother giggles.

"you'll be happy to know that she's incredibly intelligent, she's her father's main military consult, and she spends most of her time in her own estate in the mountains about mile away from the palace."

she just keeps getting better and better. you suddenly feel... inadequate. an entirely new anxiety settles in your stomach, your fears of not liking your bride-to-be evaporating at the sight of her.

"w-what if she doesn't like me?" you whisper.

your mother snorts, and then the music swells.

you're walked down the aisle by your parents, the three of you glittering in jewels and gold.

your fiance stands at the end of the aisle, a small frown on her lips as she watches you approach. you feel like you might throw up. she looks like she's being held hostage.

when you reach the altar, you stand awkwardly in front of your bride as her father's voice bellows to the crowds gathered in the palace. "we are gathered here today to celebrate the love of our next generation of leaders..."

"fuckin' bullshit." your bride mutters.

you snort grossly under your veil. your mother elbows you hard, but your fiance's eyes spark, just a bit.

"i... i take it you didn't agree to this either?" you whisper.

the princess-- sevika, you've been told-- smirks, just a little. you wouldn't be able to tell if you weren't standing six inches away from her. "you could say that."

you almost gasp when she reaches forward and grabs both of your gloved hands. you manage to catch yourself, realizing that she's just following the wedding proceedings, and then try to put your head on straight as you gently thread your fingers through hers.

she's studying your hands with a furrow in her brow. you squeeze her, and her eyes dart up, her eyes squinted as she tries to make you out through the veils over your face.

"so..." she whispers as her father blabbers on. "how do you like zaun?" she asks awkwardly.

you choke back a laugh, and her lips twitch a bit at the muffled sound. "it's lovely. i was given a tour by boat yesterday-- the water here is beautiful."

"you'll like my estate then. or... our estate, i guess." she mutters. "it overlooks the spot where the river opens into the ocean. it's..." her eyes are soft and affectionate as she talks.

"beautiful." you whisper.

her lips twitch again, and she nods. the crown on her head tilts forward just a bit, and you gently reach up and straighten it for her, tucking a stray strand of her hair behind her ear before bringing your hand back down to hers.

the crowd rustles with an awkward silence. both you and sevika look around, trying to figure out what's happened.

"lift her veil." silco-- sevika's closest advisor-- hisses out from over her shoulder. sevika blinks rapidly, then bites her lip to keep from laughing.

you almost smack her hands away when she reaches forward.

you're a princess, sure, and you'll be married regardless of what she thinks of you-- but you really want her to like you... because it's starting to feel like you might like her. and you've only known her for five minutes.

for one horrifying moment as sevika focuses on tucking your veils over your crown, you wait to see her reaction.

but then, her sparkly silver eyes flick down to yours, and a surprised little smile breaks out across her face.

"o-oh." she whispers. you gulp, and her father's voice booms. something about loyalty and honor and the unity of two nations. you're only focused on her, though. "hi." she says shyly.

you let out a relieved laugh, squeezing her hands in yours again. "hi." you giggle. sevika's tiny little smile only grows, crinkles forming around her eyes and an adorable gap-tooth revealing itself. "y-you..." you look over your shoulder at her father, blathering on. "you're very beautiful." you whisper.

sevika's responding grin makes your knees wobble. "it's funny you say that, i was just thinking the same thing about you." she says.

you gulp, looking down at your intertwined hands and then back up at your future wife. "i-i was much more upset about this whole ordeal ten minutes ago." you admit.

sevika opens her mouth to say something, but then she's cut off. "and now, as a seal of their love and commitment to unity, the brides shall kiss." her father's voice booms. she grins, and leans forward, kissing you softly.

you drop her hands, wrapping your arms around her shoulders. sevika hums into your mouth, her arms reaching out to hold your waist, pulling you closer and closer and closer--

"ahem!" your mother coughs, nudging you.

you and sevika pull apart, gasping for air and giggling at all the shocked, gawking faces in the crowd. "whoops." she whispers.

you lean forward and bury your giggles against her shoulder as your parents and her father exchange gifts and shake hands.

sevika leans down while the focus is off the two of you, and whispers in your ear. "so, are you wearing white 'cause you're really a virgin?"

you giggle against her shoulder and nip her earlobe, beyond thrilled at the way she squeaks and jumps a bit. "you'll just have to find out, won't you?"

"fuck-- you think we can skip our own reception?"

"no, but i do think we can find an empty room in this big ass castle to sneak away to. get to know one another a little better." you tease.

sevika barks a loud laugh, inturrupting her father's rambling, before she swoops in to kiss you again.

the scandalized gasps from the crowd are entirely worth it.

behind you, you hear your mother tiredly mutter something under her breath to sevika's father. "oh, fuck. this may have been a horrible mistake."

taglist!

@fyeahnix @lavendersgirl @half-of-a-gay @thesevi0lentdelights @sexysapphicshopowner

@shimtarofstupidity @chuucanchuucan @badbye666 @femme-historian @lia-winther

@ellsss @sevikaspillowprincess @emiliabby @sevikasbeloved @hellorai

@glass-apothecary @macaroni676 @artinvain @realgreeniebeanie @k3n-dyll

@sevsdollette

[syndrossi]

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.

[scotianostra]

On St Andrews Day 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 is now in it's new home, not far from it's former home, Scone in Perth Museum.

[lucygxybaird]

12 Days of Christmas - Day Six

You study Coriolanus Snow’s photo in the paper, putting a fingertip against the newsprint so that it covers his face. You haven’t read the story, so you don’t know what exactly he’s done to merit press coverage. But the Hunger Games are coming up again soon, and he was the last mentor to win before Dean Highbottom’s mysterious death. The scandal surrounding those Games has yet to die down, although now it’s morphed into a rabid fascination with this young man with the impeccable lineage and undeniable charisma.

This morning, your father told you that he’s meeting with Snow to arrange — or attempt to arrange, at any rate; word is that Snow has been rather finicky about the whole process — a matchbetween the two of you. 

Although it would be more accurate to refer to it as a merger, considering it’s noting but business. 

Snow wants access to your family’s vast wealth, to augment his own. And your father wants you married to a man on the rise, one who can not only provide you with the lavish lifestyle you’re accustomed to, but is going to make a name for himself. Despite the fact that you’ve yet to meet him, you do read the papers often enough to know that Snow fits that criteria. He’s well on his way to becoming the next President of Panem.

Which, you suppose, will make you the First Lady someday. If he says yes to your father’s overtures, of course.

It’s strange, to think you might marry a man simply because it’s beneficial for him and your father. Your own feelings won’t be taken into consideration at all. Even if you absolutely hate him.

You move your finger and look at his picture properly. At least he’s handsome, in an aristocratic, off-with-your-head sort of way. You’ve heard his voice, too, when he’s been interviewed during the annual Games coverage — it’s deep, surprisingly warm, and you think (although you would never say this out-loud, lest anyone accuse you of tender feelings) it rather suits him. 

You’re still studying his picture, trying to decide if you can imagine yourself next to him, when you hear a flurry of commotion downstairs. You tiptoe to your bedroom door and crack it open, allowing a river of sound to come through. It’s your father’s voice, bubbling and rushing with excitement. The current is so fast that it’s difficult to pick out more than a few words, but they’re enough. 

The deal went through.

You are going to be Mrs. Snow.

Going to perch on the edge of your bed, you wait for a servant to appear and call you to your father’s study. It doesn’t take long. There’s a polite knock on your door, and when you open it, you find a maid standing there.

“Your father would like to speak to you, madam,” she says. “Please follow me.”

You trail behind her down the hall, wait for her to tap on the study door, and then step inside once she pushes the door open for you. Your father is sitting at his desk, his normally stoic expression broken up by a grin that keeps surfacing no matter how much he tries to push it down. 

“Come here,” he says, and you approach, stopping on the other side of his desk.

To your surprise, he reaches across his desk and takes your hand. Your father certainly is not a particularly touchy-feely sort of man, but you think — you could be wrong, granted, but you’re fairly certain — that his eyes are over-bright.

“My dear girl,” he says. “You are the jewel of this family, and I always knew you would go on to make a great path into the future for us. Today, I asked Coriolanus Snow if he would take your hand in marriage, and he said yes.”

You expected this news, but not the way he’s delivered it. The emotion in his voice, in his eyes, the way he’s holding your hand. You clear your throat and manage to say, “Thank you.”

He squeezes your hand before he lets go, leaning back behind his desk. “There are a few I’s to dot and T’s to cross, of course, but essentially, everything has been settled,” he says. “You’ll be married in the new year.”

“Will I meet him before then?” you ask.

Your father’s lip twitches in amusement. “No, I was thinking of using the Rapunzel method,” he says dryly, and you can’t help but smile yourself. “You know, locking you up in a tower before the big day.” He shrugs. “Mr. Snow is a very busy young man, and I have my own schedule to see to. But if you would like to arrange a meeting yourself, you’re more than welcome to do so.”

Before you can say anything to that — maybe a quip about checking your schedule, which is a joke because you don’t have one that your father doesn’t approve first — your father leans down, bringing his briefcase up onto the desk. 

“Oh, this is for you,” he says, flipping the briefcase open and pulling out a small, beautifully wrapped package. “From your intended.”

You take it, studying the little parcel as you hold it in one hand. The scarlet foil wrapping is impeccably folded, the flaps on either end so pointed you could probably cut glass with them, a glittering gold bow situated on top. You spare a moment wondering if he wrapped it himself before deciding that it’s very unlikely. 

“Well?” your father says. “Aren’t you going to open it?”

You shrug. “I suppose.”

What does it matter? It may be a nice enough gesture, you think, but whether you like each other or not is immaterial. Your fate has already been decided, by the man in front of you and by one you have yet to meet.

Still — a present is a present. 

Sliding a thumbnail under one of the flaps, you peel away the wrapping paper to discover a small velvet box, one that fits perfectly in your palm. You flip the lid, and despite your intention to remain aloof, you gasp.

A little crystal bauble, the size of your thumbnail, hangs from a delicate gold chain. Inside is a perfect, tiny replica of an iris, your favorite flower.

“Did you tell him?” you blurt out, looking up at your father.

“Tell him what?”

The blank look on his face is answer enough, so you just shake your head. “Never mind,” you say.

You close the box and turn to go, your father already bent over the paperwork spread out over the desk. Shutting the door behind you, you study the little jewelry box in your hand again, wondering. 

Is it just a coincidence? Did your father tell him — maybe idly discussing bouquets — and then forget? 

Did Snow do research on you? 

You can’t decide if you find the thought flattering or alarming.

When you’re back in your room, you find yourself gravitating toward your little desk, set under your window. You sit down and pull a piece of stationery toward you, picking up a pen. You nibble at your lower lip as you consider the blank page. 

Dear—?

No. That’s too…intimate. Or saccharine, which is worse.

To—?

No. 

Finally, you just write, Mr. Snow—

Thank you for your kind gift. It’s a beautiful piece.

You pause, tapping the end of your pen against your lower lip. 

I look forward to—

What? Meeting him? Marrying him? Hopefully in that order. 

—hearing from you soon.

Yours—

And then you quickly dash off your name. Before you can think better of it, you fold the note over and stuff it into an envelope, writing Snow’s name on it and hurrying downstairs to find the maid. “Can you make sure this gets to Mr. Snow?” you ask.

You don’t have to clarify who you mean. Mr. Snow is now a very important name in this household.

Perhaps think it’s a love note, the maid blushes and actually giggles. “Yes, ma’am, I’ll make sure of it.”

She’s as good as her word. By the time you come downstairs for breakfast the next morning, there’s an envelope and another small package waiting by your plate.

You decide to open the envelope first.

His handwriting is, frankly, beautiful. It borders on calligraphy. Like his voice, you think it fits him. 

My betrothed—

You take a sip of orange juice to try and drown the flutter you feel in the pit of your stomach.

There’s something old-fashioned about being addressed this way that, surprisingly, doesn’t appall you. You’ve never really thought of falling in love as anything but a fairytale, and yet that’s exactly what the word brings to mind — you, as a princess, him as a handsome knight. 

I’m very glad you enjoyed your first gift.

First?

When your father first brought this match to my attention, he showed me your picture to assure me his praise of your beauty was more than paternal pride. I thought the iris would bring out the blue in your eyes. 

Another flutter that you try again to suppress, this time with a few bites of French toast.

I hope you also enjoy this second parcel. Please feel fret write to me again and let me know your thoughts.

- Coriolanus Snow

PS: you have lovely penmanship.

You set the letter aside and open up the second gift. This, too, is beautifully wrapped, this time with green paper printed with little fir trees done in sparkling silver. The box is small and flat, and you pry the lid off, folding back silvery tissue paper.

Nestled inside is a cashmere scarf, the exact color of a freshly fallen blanket of snow. You carefully wipe your hands on a napkin before lifting the scarf out of its box, and as you do, you think you catch the faintest scent of roses. 

You realize there’s another little note tucked in amongst the tissue paper.

I thought this would look lovely with your alabaster skin, not to mention your future last name. - Coriolanus

You wrap the scarf around your neck, practically purring at the sensation of the luxuriously soft material against your (alabaster) skin. After a few moments, you get up and go into the hallway, where you drape the scarf over your hair, admiring the contrast of the ivory cashmere against your dark hair.

Later that morning, you write another note for him; this time, you use his first name, although you don’t address him as Dear. Not yet.

Coriolanus — 

Thank you for the scarf. You were right — it does look lovely against my skin. And my hair, for that matter. 

You hesitate only for a moment before you rummage in your bedside drawer for a photo album, pulling out a picture of yourself from an autumn gala a few months earlier.

I’m not sure how old the picture was that my father showed you, so I’m including a more recent one. If you would like to base any further gifts on my features, now you have an even better view.

You aren’t sure how you know this, but you have a feeling this line is going to make him laugh. 

Before you have even sat down to dinner tonight, you have a reply, along with another gift. You find yourself biting at your lower lip to keep from giggling. You feel, all at once, utterly foolish and yet strangely giddy.

The box is larger than the previous two by far, and you open it up to reveal — you can’t help yourself, letting out a soft groan at the beauty of it — a luxurious, floor length coat, with a dress tucked inside and earrings tucked along the collar, precisely where they would brush against it if they were dangling from your ears.

You realize, upon brushing a finger over the lapel, that the coat, like the scarf, is cashmere. It’s ash gray, with the lining a pale white, and the dress is a rich burgundy that matches the garnet stones dangling from little ropes of diamonds in the earrings.

“I could get used to this,” you murmur, a faint smile touching your lips.

My betrothed—

Again, that flutter in the pit of your stomach.

Thank you for the photo. It was very helpful in choosing these gifts for you. I hope they — and your other gifts — make you feel as lovely as you appear. And I hope to see you in them soon. It would be delightful to see just how well they suit you in person. I can only imagine how bewitching the beauty in this photo must be when it is close enough to touch. 

— Coriolanus.

You glance at the clock, your lower lip catching between your teeth. No, it wouldn’t do to go tonight, you think; it’s getting rather late, the hour growing intimate rather than social. You know your father would never forgive you if you presented an untoward image of yourself to the press. 

But tomorrow?

You swallow a rather unexpected frisson of nerves at the thought — of waking up in the morning, doing your hair, your makeup, slipping this deep red dress over your skin, adding the coat, the earrings, perhaps the scarf and the necklace. Of presenting yourself to him, a gift wearing all of his gifts.

You find it almost embarrassingly difficult to fall asleep that night, just thinking of it. But eventually you do.

Despite the fact that you didn’t bother to set an alarm before you drifted off, your eyes snap open precisely at 7 a.m. as though there’s one blaring right in your ear. You sit up and immediately ring the bell to call for your maid. “Find the address for Mr. Snow’s office,” you say. “And then get me ready.”

It takes a few hours for your appearance to be exactly how you want it, and then you fasten on the earrings, slip into the coat, arrange the scarf over your shoulders. Your maid accompanies you, of course, as is proper; but you hardly even speak to her as the two of you slip into a town car and head toward Coriolanus’s office.

You take a deep breath, seal your lips together for a moment, and then release the breath through your nose. Your maid gently pats your hand. “He’ll love you, madam,” she says. “Don’t you worry.”

Are you worried? About love?

Nervous, certainly. That’s normal, isn’t it? You’re meeting your future husband for the first time. But love hasn’t crossed your mind. That’s never been part of this.

Has it?

You finger the hem of your dress as it peeks out from your coat. He took the time to choose these gifts, ones that suit you, to make you feel lovely. He even, somehow, stumbled upon your favorite flower with his first gift. You aren’t one to believe in fate, but — if you were — that surely would have to mean something.

“Of course he will,” is all you say, but your confident smile trembles at the corners, just a hair.

When you arrive, you have to wait only a few moments in the lobby before an impeccably dressed man arrives, clearing his throat. “Madam, please follow me,” he says. “Mr. Snow is looking forward to seeing you.”

You follow the man down the hall. You keep your chin up and your posture correct, despite the fact that you feel as though legs are feather-light, barely able to move, let alone support you. The man opens a thick oaken door at the end of a hallway, and ushers you inside. Sitting behind a desk is the man you’re meant to marry.

Coriolanus stands up at once, stepping around the desk. You think idly that his picture really doesn’t do him justice. His finely carved features are even more handsome up close, and what’s more, the way he moves is leonine, confident, powerful.

It’s — well — attractive.

“My dear,” he says, and you can’t help but smile. When he reaches for your hands, you extend them; he tuts. “Ah, I knew I forgot something. A necklace and earrings, but nothing for your fingers.”

It takes you a moment to find your voice. “Well,” you say, “we are engaged, at least on paper. Perhaps you should start with a diamond.”

He looks up from his examination of your hands, and when his eyes meet yours, your heart gives one very firm, heavy thud before beating as rapidly at a hummingbird’s wings. “Of course,” he says. “But not for Christmas. Your engagement ring should be an event in and of itself, and I can assure you, it will be.”

And then he smiles at you. 

“I’m very glad you visited,” he says. “It would have been rather awkward had we met at the altar.”

You can’t help but giggle. Coriolanus smiles again. 

“I think so, too,” you say. “I wanted to come in person to thank you for all your gifts. They’re lovely.”

“As you deserve.”

He leads you to the window, where a pair of overstuffed arm chairs flank a small table, holding a tea set with two faintly steaming, fragrant mugs. As he guides you into a chair, you can’t help but sigh inwardly, even as your smile doesn’t flicker one bit.

You’ve just realized that your maid might be right — love could, quite possibly, be involved in this after all. 

[two-white-butterflies]

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]

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.”

[emilykaldwen]

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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Tumblr Masterpost

Chapter One | Chapter Two | Chapter Three | Chapter Four | Chapter Five | Chapter Six | Chapter Seven | Chapter Eight

AO3 Link

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]

[isadomna]

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

[princesssarisa]

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

[drops-of-moonlights]

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.

[thatscarletflycatcher]

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.

[bootyshaker900o]

“Playlists of my unhealthy obsessions/Simping”

These men have caused such a brain rot- that like they are my whole personality. I made a little playlist of songs for them

Dave/William Afton (🧍‍♂️ I have problems)

Jocelyn Flores - XXXTENTACION

Can You Feel My Heart - Bring Me the Horizon

Yandere - Jazmin Bean

Sex, Drugs, Etc. - Beach Weather

R U Mine? - Arctic Monkeys

Play Date - Melanie Martinez

Perverted - Elita

The Neden Game - ICP

Stalker’s Tango - Autoheart

Say My Name - Alex Brightman

Imma Kill You - ICP

Blow My Brains Out - Tikkle Me

CHOKE - I DONT KNOW HOW BUT THEY FOUND ME

Ryn, Rabinit Run - Flanagan and Allen

Boogie Woogie Wu - ICP

Donnie

Dirty Harry - Gorillaz

Me and Your Mama - Childish Gambino

Hell of a Ride - Bo Burnham

Family Jewels - Marina and the Diamonds

I’m still standing - Elton John

Puppet Boy - DEVO

Afraid - The Neighborhood

Reflections - The Neighborhood

Fluorescent Adolescent - Arctic Monkeys

One day - Lovejoy

The Ending - Hobo Johnson

Trouble - Hazel Bloom

Teen Romance - Lil Peep

Alien Blues - Vundabar

Team - Mag.Lo

Bad - Michael Jackson

Orphan Tears - Your Favorite Martian

Draxum

Problems - Mother Mother

Zydrate Anatomy - Paris Hilton

Toxic - Britney Spears

Liquid Smooth - Mitski

W.D.Y.W.F.M? - The Neighborhood

Trom Cat - Tyler, the Creator

E.T. - Katy Perry, Kanye West

Molly - MSI

Enemy - Imagine Dragons, JID

Never Satisfied - CORPSE

Desire - Meg Myers

Venom - Little Simz

Daddy AF - Slayyter (don’t ask)

Supermassive Black Hole - Muse

Such A Whore - JVLA

Six Forty Seven - Instupendo

Silco

Daddy issues - The Neighborhood

Genius- Sia, Diplo, Labrinth, LSD

Same Old Love - Selena Gomez

Guys My Age - HEY VIOLET

Life of the Party - The Weeknd

High Enough - K.Flay

Government Hooker - Lady Gaga

Why don’t U - Father, ABRA

New Americana - Halsey

Do You Even? - Jorge Aguilar II

Sugar Daddy - Qveen Herby 

Royals - Lorde

I Feel Like I’m Drowning - Two Feet

New Person, Same Mistakes - Tame Impala

Cold - Maroon 5

Come As You Are - Nirvana

Fantasy - Bazzi

Raph (my sweet baby boy 😭)

Dark Red - Steve Lacy

Somebody To Love - Queen

Careless Whispers  - George Michaels 

Her - Tyler, The Creator 

Are We Still Friends? - Tyler, The Creator

Trumpets - Jason Derulo

Hold On, We’re Going Home - Drake

Rodeo - Lil Nas X

Ms. Jackson - Outkast

EARFQUAKE - Tyler, The Creator

Mine - Bazzi

Die for You - The Weeknd

Love on the Brain - Rihana

Crazy In Love - Beyoncé, JAY-Z

Lucifer

Gooey - Glass Animals

Love Me Dead - Ludo

The Distance - CAKE

Like A Stone - Audioslave

Luxurious- Gwen Stafani

Applause - Lady Gaga

Please Me - Cardi B, Bruno Mars

Take Me Out - Franz Ferdinand

Alejandro - Lady Gaga

Love Is a Bitch - Two Feet

Aint no Rest for The Wicked - Cage the Elephant

Animal - Sir Chloe

Mr. Saxobeat - Alexandra Stan

Judas - Lady Gaga

Livin La Vida Loca - Ricky Martin

White Flag - Bishop Briggs

River - Bishop Briggs

Blurred Lines - Robin Thicke

Sway - Michael Bublé

Juicy

Monster Energy Gun - KevinKempt

Chop Chop Slide - ICP

Get Low - Lil Jon

Crazy - Gnarls Barkley

Star Shopping - Lil Peep

Never There - CAKE

Shake That - Eminem, Nate Dogg

Everywhere I Go - Hollywood Undead

Revenge - XXXTENTACION

POLTERGEIST! - CORPSE

My Mom - Eminem

Asshole - hooligan chase

Under the Influence - Eminem, D12

Shots - LMFAO

Him and I - G-Eazy, Halsey

The Hills - The Weeknd

my boy - Billie Eilish

Leo

Ain’t Shit - Dojo Cat

Feel Like God - Gazy

Nightmare - Halsey

Good-Old Fashioned Lover Boy - Queen

Mujeriego - Ryan Castro

Sweet Dreams - Eurythmics, Annie Lennox

Let’s Groove - Earth, Wind, and Fire

Pizzazz - Akintoye

Slumber Party - Ashnikko

INDUSTRY BABY - Lil Nas X

Milkshake - BBY KODIE

Bad - Michael Jackson

Pony - Ginuwine

Death of a Bachelor - Panic! At the Disco

Blah Blah Blah - The Oozes

Everybody Loves Me - OneRepublic

Joker (Joaquin & Heath’s) (don’t ask- please dont)

Purple Lamborghini- Skrillex, Rick Ross

Fame - David Bowie

Wolf is Sheep’s Clothing - Set It Off

To Catch a Predator- ICP

Back in Black - AC/DC

Tentative - System of a Down

Rainbows and Stuff - ICP

Hokus Pokus - ICP

Murder Go Round - ICP

The Juggla - ICP

HAHA - Lil Darkie

Broken - Lund

I Hate Everything About You - Three Days Grace

Criminal - Britney Spears

Cradles - Sub Urban

Loki

Mind Games - Sickick

I’m A Slave 4 U - Britney Spears

Who is She? - I Monster

A Pearl - Mitski

Cigarettes Out the Window - TV Girl

Redbone - Childish Gambino 

All for Us - Labrinth, Zendaya

Sucker For Pain - Lil Wayne, Imagine Dragons

My Ordinary Life - The Living Tombstone

Bubblegum Bitch - MARINA

I Write Sins Not Tragedies - Panic! At the Disco

Partition - Beyoncé

Suit and Tie - Justing Timberlake

Jealous - Eyedress

Yellow - Coldplay

My Oh My - Camila Cabello

[gatheredfates]

SYSTEMS, ENGINES & RECONNAISSANCE SERVICE | Evelyn Rivers

Do you want to read all of my FFXIVWrite prompts? You can do that here!

CLEAR. free of cloud, mist, or rain.

The sun was shining, the birds were singing, and Evelyn Rivers was waking up from a stupor.

Or, if you were to ask her, a bender — to which she would sigh and say not a lot of people bothered, meaning they missed out on her pearls of wisdom such as a myriad of ways to people to fuck off and weird techniques on how to brew moonshine out the back of a boat. Nevertheless, when the announcement rang clear through Ul’dah’s airship hangar that they were expecting a record sandstorm, thus all the air travel was promptly grounded, she seriously considered just how long she might be banned for if she decided to bugger it and break the rules. One quick assessment of both her liquor cabinet and the weather both, a strange kind of common sense broke through that risked her liver rather than her life.

Yes, she knew her liver was connected to her life. Not the point. Something, something, lesser of two evils.

“SERS —” She croaked from beneath a small pile of glass bottles, sea-glass green and tinkling as she moved. When she received no answer, she wet her lips with her tongue and spoke louder.

“SERS! Oh for fuck sake, why do I have this stupid —”

“Hello, Designation Evelyn. How may I assist you?” A small screen to the right of her head illuminated, displaying the pixelated image of a fire. As the AI spoke, the flame wiggled back and forth in time with its tempo.

She tried to smash the first one, not realizing Firelight had installed at least six throughout her ship. Sometimes she liked to moon it, just in case someone was watching. 

“Took you fuckin’ long enough. What time is it?”

“It is exactly fourteen thirty seven.”

“Rhalgar’s fuckin’ nutsack — speak STUPID, SERS.”

“Ah! My apologies, Designation Evelyn. It is two thirty seven in the afternoon, if you’re going off local time.”

It was the afternoon? Huh. Last time she was awake she was singing along to her orchestrion and swinging around on her bed like she was a pole dancer. It was the little things. 

Eve pushed herself into a sitting position, smoothing jet-black hair out of her face as she squinted bleary-eyed at her surroundings. The interior of the Junker stared back, a hodgepodge of titanium, steel and carbon fibre; a physical and literal nest of blankets and shiny objects — most worth absolutely shit all. But they were her things, that was the most important, and she rubbed the sleep out of her eyes and let out a loud yawn.

“Fuck me, m’beat.” Though it felt weirdly still, all things considered. Her brow narrowed.

“SERS?”

“Yes, Designation Evelyn?”

“What’s th’ weather?”

“Today’s weather is warm with clear skies but, the evening should cool —”

“The weather is WHAT?” Her head snapped to attention to the pixelated hearth, not that it had the capacity to feel the knives in her stare. Oh no, SERS continued to speak amicably, as if though she had merely misheard or was unfortunately going insane.

“The weather is warm with clear skies —” “FOR FUCK SAKE, SERS!” Bottles went flying around her like dangerous confetti, clattering harmlessly across the floor as the woman staggered and bolted (as much as one could when they were hungover, though she still did have a bottle in her hand) towards the top deck. “Systems, Engines and Reconnaissance Service my fuckin’ ass cheek—”

“I am very sorry you are displeased with my service, Designation Evelyn. I sounded off the alarm every hour to try and inform you —”

Evelyn didn’t give a rats. Her hand slammed against the railing as she looked out towards the desert, where glittering sand stretched endlessly to a pale blue sky. Below, the multi-faceted jewel of Ul’dah reflected a thousand different colours like light caught in a diamond, and the highlander let out a loud scream of delight and threw her bottle clean off the side of her ship…

…And into a nearby window. Well, shit.

“Oops. SERS! SERS! IT’S TIME TO GO!”

[halloweenvalentine1997]

On Sunday mornings I examined my safeguards, the box of silver dollars I had buried by the creek, and the doll buried in the long field, and the book nailed to the tree in the pine woods; so long as they were where I had put them nothing could get in to harm us. I had always buried things, even when I was small; I remember that once I quartered the long field and buried something in each quarter to make the grass grow higher as I grew taller, so I would always be able to hide there. I once buried six blue marbles in the creek bed to make the river beyond run dry. “Here is treasure for you to bury,” Constance used to say to me when I was small, giving me a penny, or a bright ribbon; I had buried all my baby teeth as they came out one by one and perhaps someday they would grow as dragons. All our land was enriched with my treasures buried in it, thickly inhabited just below the surface with my marbles and my teeth and my colored stones, all perhaps turned to jewels by now, held together under the ground in a powerful taut web which never loosened, but held fast to guard us.

from We Have Always Lived in the Castle by Shirley Jackson

[nonagesiiiimus]

GTN peripheral materials pt 1: eden's locked tomb reread

decided to start off with all the periphery in the print edition of gideon.

dramatis personae

i love the little italicized and before gideon's name. in my head it's read like "aaaaand last but most definitely not least.... GIDEON!!!!" like some kind of circus ringmaster. gideon runs out, shaking her clasped hands over her head like she won a prize fight.

all of these descriptions of the houses give me so many questions about the history of them. who is the Centurion of the second? or the shining dead of the third, and what is the procession? is there a physical tome that the eighth hold onto, or is it more metaphorical? (7-9)

also love the hint of abigail's mastery over the river by calling the fifth the "watchers of the river" (8)

the seventh being the rose unblown... the beautiful preservation of something very fleeting. life, beauty, passion.

the titles of people are very interesting to me too. the ninth house is so catholic coded. the fact that the tridentarii are princesses and their cavelier is a prince is super fascinating. isaac is a baron, dulcie is a duchess: it makes me really wonder about the power structures in each house. they're incredibly varying. a baron or duchess isn't normally the highest power in a country- still powerful, but not the same as a king- and yet they are the ones sent as the highest ranking scions of their house. i want to see the organizational chart for each house!

additionally: Rhodes, Tisis, Koniortos Court: are these cities? countries? municipalities? we know the library is the stronghold of the sixth, and it's a compound of sorts- like a miniature city of academia and history. i wish we could see a map of each house.

i want more clarity on what the fourth specializes in. combat for sure, spying is hinted at. FIDELITY, or faithfulness, is such a strong word.

i am also soooo curious about the fifth's structure. we know that they're rich from harrow's comments ("we are not becoming an appendix of the third or fifth houses", p. 58) and their "beautifully made" clothes (p.94) and from abigail, we see they are spirit magicians and "watchers of the river" from the book's opening poem (below). what's up with the koniortos court? koniortos is greek for dust or flying dust, with tracks with the fifth house presumably being on Jupiter. my assumption is that it's more of a royal court? especially because magnus is the "seneschal", which indicates a senior court position (more monarchical than judicial), and abigail is born AT court according to Judith's notes at the end of the book (p. 461-462).

opening poem

Two is for discipline, heedless of trial;

Three for the gleam of a jewel or a smile;

Four for fidelity, facing ahead;

Five for tradition and debts to the dead;

Six for the truth over solace in lies;

Seven for beauty that blossoms and dies;

Eight for salvation no matter the cost;

Nine for the Tomb, and for all that was lost.

no real notes here, except i think this is extremely relevant to each house and how their representatives on the first house act.

dedicating the next post to the Sermon and Judith's notes, as well as the naming guide Tamsyn provides!

[archivist-crow]

On this day:

SUTTON HOO

On June 6, 1939, Britain's most bizarre and fascinating treasures, discovered by landowner Edith Pretty and museum curator Guy Maynard, were revealed to Charles Philips of Selwyn College. At Sutton Hoo, Pretty's estate, the astonished Philips saw a huge open trench revealing a buried boat. The ship had been brought 800 yards inland from the river. It was ninety feet long and had rows of iron rivets every six inches and lines of gray-black powder every three feet where the ribs were. A treasure-packed burial chamber was erected in the ship's middle. Grave robbers had never discovered it.

In the early 1930s, a ghostly figure strolling the mounds on Pretty's property aroused her curiosity. She began working with Maynard, local archaeologist Basil Brown, and her gardener and gamekeeper to excavate the site. At one point Brown was told by higher-ups to stop digging and wait for further experts. He ignored the order and discovered the burial chamber. In seventeen days 263 objects were removed from it, including a gold and garnet pyramid brooch, a solid gold buckle, jeweled and enameled shoulder clasps, bone gaming pieces, and items of fur and feathers. A heap of purple metal, when lifted from the ship and placed on the nearby grass, gave a solid click and sprang open to reveal a nest of ten silver bowls.

No body was ever found in the vessel. The ship may have been the grave of the East Anglian king Readwald, who died around 625. The discovery was strangely similar to that written of in the ancient epic masterpiece Beowulf. Other mounds contained deteriorated and cremated remains of humans and animals. In one, a warrior and his horse in full armor were buried together. But nothing found in the ship explained who its owners were or where they were from.

Text from: Almanac of the Infamous, the Incredible, and the Ignored by Juanita Rose Violins, published by Weiser Books, 2009