#tantamount to treason

[surrealisticduvet]

Album Review: Tantamount to Treason Volume 1 (1972)

Easily in my top three favorite Mike albums, although I didn’t appreciate it at all until my second full listen - I think if you experience this one casually, or as background music, it doesn’t quite “click.” After Nevada Fighter, Michael disbanded the First National Band and made a Second one - retaining only himself and his beloved Red. Although the album is officially titled “Volume 1,” a second volume has never been released and Michael stated that one was never planned to be released; whether or not we can trust this is another matter, but I’m not really ready to go full tin-hat about it.

Favorite parts of the album:

The keyboards on this album are just incredible - the solos in “Mama Rocker” and “Wax Minute” are enough to knock your socks off. The same feeling of mellow, slightly psychedelic sound you saw being developed in Loose Salute is fully fleshed out here, especially through “You Are My One” and “In the Afternoon.” There is a generally warmer, heavier tone to this album than was felt in MS/LS/NF and it is pretty safe to say that this is no longer “country” rock, although Michael always sort of exists within his own genre.

(continued under the cut as this one got a little long)

Still, his covers of “Talking to the Wall” and “She Thinks I Still Care” add all the lonesome moroseness of good country music without feeling too out of place. The base album is great on its own, but the re-release bonus tracks (including a jam-session style version of “Listen to the Band,” a cover of “Six Days on the Road” that just makes you rev your engine, and the deliciously catchy instrumental “Tan My Hide” - there’s also a version of “Circle Sky” that sounds like a better version of the revamped track which ended up on Justus in the ‘90s.) “Wax Minute” deserves its own full sentence - although he didn’t write this one (Richard Stekol did, and I don’t see that any other artist has recorded it officially - it almost seems as if it was written to sound like a song written by Mike, and from that outside angle it is so plainly complex, not over-wrought, just tenderhearted contemplation) - it is a fan-favorite for a very good reason - it is one of the best and most passionate songs he’s ever recorded and he always sounds so good doing it live, even if he gripes and moans that it’s too hard to sing. Get over it!

Critiques:

“Bonaparte’s Retreat” is not my favorite song - I like it well enough on its own, but I wish it was on an album like Magnetic South that is better suited to that sort of twangy sound. Also, some of these songs need to be about 3-4 minutes longer, minimum. For the base album to cap out at 37 minutes is criminal - he had all the makings of an excellent prog rock artist, but what can you do.

Conclusion:

I go back and forth about whether this is my favorite of his albums, and I still can’t tell. I guess that will be revealed as I finish this review series - maybe I hesitate to call it like it is because I know in my heart it’s the truth. Plus the liner notes have a homebrewed beer recipe from our own Papa Nez, so… like, yeah, it’s a winner.

[kangals]

I met a new Collie owner at a show this weekend who decided to leave her puppy's ears pointy and was feeling bad because obv a lot of show Collie people are very anti-pointy, but I showed her a picture of Stellina (the cutest ever) and she thought she was absolutely adorable :^) I hope you're having an alright day ❤️

🥺 !! we love a pointy-eared collie! i think stellina's breeder is mildly disappointed in me for letting her go pointy, but by her own admission she just has ears that would never tip anyway, so she's been polite and not commented on it lol. some people definitely get very uppity about it though. i know i'm biased but i love the pointy ears! they look so alert and mischevious! plus with the right bases they're super upright and triangular and it just looks very aesthetically pleasing IMO. i'll probably let Next Dog's ears go pointy too unless they talk me into a show prospect.

[monkeesrevolution]

Michael Nesmith and the Second National Band

I have wanted to write about Tantamount to Treason Vol. 1 for a long time, I have quite a bit to say about it. I feel especially inspired to talk about why this album version of Circle Sky is my favourite out of all the different recordings of the the song out there.

I love Circle Sky no mater when, where, or how he does it- but this 1972 version really knocks me out the most. I have been thinking on why this might be, and I realized it's because it's the most Him recording of the song. Michael was in charge and there was nobody telling him how to do it- he had all the creative control to bring his song to life in his own imaginative way.

I love The Monkees songs, clearly... but Nesmith does mention that his creativity could be stifled by the recording and producing taking place in those studios. His 70s work is a real testament to him proving just how talented and creative he really is unrestrained.

Circle Sky features many notes of the musical influences in Michael's life- it has qualities of hard rock, country, old rock and roll/rhythm and blues all paired with his unique lyricism. An unlikely combination that blows my mind every time... the talent and creativity is astounding. This track really feels like a piece of Michael Nesmith and who he is.

Circle Sky is one of those iconic monkees songs, the kind of tune that really defines the band for many fans. When I listen to this TtTv1 version I really feel through the song just how much The Monkees and The First National Band grew and shaped Nez as an artist! These songs to me, demonstrate how these experiences brought him to higher and higher musical levels and highs. There is a maturity and freedom to the record that I just love, I could talk about this masterpiece for hours.

I really think this whole album is horrifically underrated, it's got to be one of my favourite records in my collection... and I mean how pretty is this 50th anniversary edition ;)

[decarbry]

maybe the real reason Yabureme was watching was because he was using his quirk to prevent Shiggy from decaying the game and throwing a fit again.

This would be a logical explanation if Yabureme wasn’t programmed to never ever use Erasure on an ally

[transgenderbobdylan]

christmas presents from my grandma fuck yesssss

[libramooon]

top 5 Mike nesmith songs :)

ooohh!!

1. Mama Nantucket (I’m basic but she’s my best friend)

2. Wax Minute

3. Magic

4. Talking to the Wall

5. Some of Shelly’s Blues

[imeminemp3]

🔀

:)))))) yeeaassss

[goodlookingforagirl]

✨🧡🌙 SEND THIS TO TEN OTHER BLOGGERS YOU THINK ARE WONDERFUL. KEEP THE GAME GOING ✨🧡🌙

Thank-you! 💞💞

[p0orbaby]

Meet Cute

summary: it was always meant to be

warnings: just fluff for this one

a/n: probably my favourite pairing of mine to write

word count: 1.4k

-

Leah Williamson is not your type. This, you decide the moment you spot her from across the ballroom, swiping a glass of champagne off a passing waiter’s tray.

You’re aware she’s famous, which is typically a red flag for you. Infamous in your world, where all the proper names are whispered behind manicured hands and anything resembling normalcy is held with the same disdain as a counterfeit handbag. Leah Williamson is an athlete, which in your circles is roughly akin to being an overpaid circus act.

But what really gives you pause is her haircut.

Short, blonde, not-quite-pixie. She looks like she’s wandered in here by mistake, a traveler who’s taken the wrong exit on the motorway and ended up in a place where the speed limit is fifty miles under what she’s used to. You half-expect her to pull out a map and ask someone the quickest way back to civilisation. Instead, she tips her head back and downs the champagne like it’s water, wipes her mouth with the back of her hand, and you’re immediately in love.

Of course, you won’t admit this, even under threat of being forced to wear last season’s Chanel. Love, in your world, is about as fashionable as pleather.

Your grandmother, God rest her weary soul, once said, “You’ll know it’s love when you’re willing to risk wearing nude tights for them.” Nude tights, in her book, being one of the greatest crimes against humanity. You’re not sure you’re there yet, but the idea doesn’t fill you with as much dread as it would have this morning.

But you digress. You’re here at this godforsaken gala because your father insists on parading you like a prize cow before other old-money families, hoping you’ll marry someone with a suitable lineage. You’re twenty-six and your father has begun to suspect you might have, as he put it, “alternative preferences.” This is his way of reminding you that lineage is everything, and falling for someone without a trust fund is tantamount to treason.

So here you are, in a dress that costs more than most people’s cars, standing next to the dessert table and pretending the caviar blinis don’t taste like expensive regret. Across the room, Leah is now juggling her champagne glass and a miniature beef Wellington, and she seems to be losing.

You decide to rescue her. Or rather, you decide to rescue yourself from having to listen to Lord Farnsworth’s lecture on the importance of preserving the family crest for the fifteenth time this evening.

“Having fun?” you ask when you reach her, which is a stupid question because of course she isn’t. Nobody is having fun here.

She turns to you, and for a moment, you’re convinced she’s going to hand you her beef Wellington like you’re the help. Instead, she gives you a smile so dry you could use it to exfoliate.

“Are you?” she asks, and her voice is lower than you expected, with that clipped accent that tells you she’s from somewhere north of where people have indoor pools.

You shrug, because you don’t really know how to answer that without resorting to a level of honesty that would make your therapist proud but your mother faint.

“I’ve had root canals that were more enjoyable,” you say, and she laughs, a short bark of a sound that seems to surprise even her.

“Fair,” she says, and you feel like you’ve passed some sort of test.

“So what brings you to the seventh circle of hell?” you ask, watching as she abandons her beef Wellington on a passing waiter’s tray like she’s releasing a burden into the wild.

“I was invited,” she says, as though that explains everything, and maybe it does. Maybe she’s been told, like you have, that there are some invitations you just don’t turn down. Even if they come with the risk of being cornered by Lord Farnsworth and his endless tirade about how the current generation is ruining the art of fox hunting.

“Ah,” you say, because you understand that language. “That explains the face”

“What face?”

“The one you’ve been making all night,” you say, trying to demonstrate by contorting your own face into what you hope is an accurate imitation.

She grins again, and it occurs to you that Leah Williamson might be one of those rare people who looks more attractive when they’re amused. Most people, in your experience, become grotesque when they’re laughing, all exposed gums and teeth that are never as straight as they should be. But her face lights up in a way that suggests she doesn’t find the world half as disappointing as you do.

“And what face have you been making?” she asks, leaning in a little closer, and you catch a whiff of her perfume—something that’s probably advertised with shots of people running through fields of lavender, but on her, it smells like trouble.

You gesture vaguely. “It’s somewhere between ‘bored out of my skull’ and ‘I can’t believe I’m not getting paid for this’”

“I’ll have to try that one,” she says, glancing over at Lord Farnsworth, who seems to have set his sights on you again, the poor man. “But I’ll need some pointers”

“First, you need to perfect the art of the disinterested nod,” you say, demonstrating. “Like you’re listening, but you’ve also just remembered you left the oven on”

She mimics you, and it’s terrible, but you applaud her effort anyway.

“Close enough,” you say. “Next, you have to practice the well-timed yawn. Not too obvious, but just enough to suggest you’ve heard all this before”

She pretends to yawn, and it’s so exaggerated that a few people around you turn to look.

“Subtlety is key,” you remind her.

“I’ll work on it,” she says, her grin widening as though she’s actually enjoying herself now, which is against all logic.

“And finally,” you say, feeling suddenly bold, “you have to perfect the getaway”

“The getaway?”

“Yeah,” you say, glancing at Lord Farnsworth, who is now being temporarily distracted by some poor woman in pearls. “Like this”

You grab her by the arm and start walking, weaving your way through the crowd with the precision of someone who has been doing this their whole life. She doesn’t resist, though she does give you a curious look as you lead her past your father, who is deep in conversation with someone equally dull.

You find yourself in the courtyard, where the air is cooler and the moon is doing its best impression of a romantic comedy backdrop. Leah stops and looks up at the sky, as though she’s surprised to find it there.

“Nice,” she says, and you can’t tell if she’s talking about the view or the escape route.

“Much better than listening to Lord Farnsworth,” you say, and she turns to you with that smile again, the one that’s starting to feel dangerously like an invitation.

“So,” she says, as if continuing a conversation you didn’t know you were having, “what’s a girl like you doing in a place like this?”

The question is so cliché it should make you cringe, but it doesn’t. Instead, it feels like the most natural thing in the world, and you find yourself saying, “I’m here because I lost a bet with Satan”

She chuckles, a low rumble in her chest that makes you feel like you’ve won something. “And what did you bet on?”

“That I could get through this evening without wanting to jump into traffic,” you say, and she laughs again, this time a little louder.

“I think you lost that bet the moment you saw the guest list,” she says, and you nod in agreement.

“So what about you?” you ask, genuinely curious now. “Why are you here?”

“Because I was invited,” she repeats, but this time, there’s something else in her tone, something that makes you think she’s not just talking about the gala.

You want to ask her what she means, but you don’t. Instead, you reach out and take her hand, surprising both of you.

“Let’s make another bet,” you say, feeling a strange kind of thrill, like you’re standing on the edge of something.

“What kind of bet?” she asks, her eyes narrowing slightly, but there’s a glint in them that makes you think she’s game.

“That we can get through the rest of this evening without wanting to jump into traffic,” you say, squeezing her hand just a little.

She considers this for a moment, then grins. “You’re on”

And just like that, the evening shifts. The gala, the people, the expectations—they all fade into the background as you and Leah step into something that feels suspiciously like possibility.

You don’t know where this is going, but for the first time in a long time, you’re excited to find out. And maybe, just maybe, you’re willing to risk wearing nude tights for her. But only if you lose the bet.

[ltc-henry-blake]

I was tagged by @hoppkorv Hey thank you for tagging me!! 😊

Rules: answer + tag 9 people you want to get to know better and/or catch up with .

favorite color: Green!

last song: Wanted For Love by Jerry Jeff Walker

currently reading: Song of Susannah by Stephen King (almost done with the Dark Tower series!)

currently watching: I haven't really been watching a lot of shows lately mostly just stuff on youtube and random episodes of Seinfeld. The last full series I watched was The Sopranos and I'm literally already thinking about a rewatch.

currently craving: A deeper connection with the people and world around me. Or something idk.

coffee or tea: I enjoy tea but I'm obsessed with coffee.

Tagging @carmichaelthepolarbear @brian-mays-hair @warrenzevon @someguywriting @tantamount-treason @ninetimesbluedemo @bluehairandproverbs @fr0ggi3b0i (if you'd like to do this!)

[allyriadayne]

a bit puzzling to see people saying this is the first time jace has ever externalized his anger in regards to his identity issues and rhaenyra's role in them. granted, in s1 he expressed them towards other people like aemond and aegon esp when the subject was explicitly brought up like in 108, but it's very clear to me that was just another way To Not Get Mad At Mom, It's Fine Actually.

jace has been going on a realization journey since "am i a bastard?" in 106, one where he is going from thinking there's something fundamentally different in him and that it was his fault to maybe it was not his fault but then whose is it? to me it seems like jace can't bear to blame rhaenyra directly at all. she has been his champion, and jace hers in return. to blame rhaenyra is tantamount to treason. "my ruler is my mother and i do not wish it otherwise" because he /can't/ imagine otherwise either. he believes in her claim and that means she has done this for a reason.

in s2 this gives way to a more flawed rhaenyra in jace's eye. she leaves dragonstone without telling anyone twice, doesn't share her plans, doesn't act against the greens, lets daemon go, doesn't call daemon back, doesn't listen to jace, and on top of it all: lets a prophecy on targaryen supremacy lead her when her less than wholly targaryen son stands before her. it has always been rhaenyra's fault and he can't bear it and even to the last he still tries to believe her, denying she would ever do anything to undermine him.

X

[imfromthemiddlekingdom]

People who don’t understand how feudalism works and tries to shoehorn in our modern sensibilities into said world with very clear world building and set rules in place are the bane of my existence.

In ASOIAF, bastards cannot inherit anything unless legitimized and have no trueborn relatives to inherit their seats. It doesn’t matter if they are “recognized” as trueborn by their parents if other people doubt and have ‘convincing’ proof that they are bastards. And being recognized as trueborn does not equate to being legitimized because in order for someone to be legitimized, they have to first be acknowledged as baseborn to begin with.

The books are more ambiguous since Rhaenys had Baratheon black hair and purple eyes, but even she had the purple eyes of her father. But no matter how people might interpret the Strong boys’ appearance, it was made pretty damn clear that they were bastards. The parallels between Rhaenyra/Harwin and Cersei/Jamie, cannot be made more clear with how both of them are present when their paramours were birthing their child. Harwin was present during the birth of Lucerys and Jamie was present for the birth of Joffrey. It literally cannot be more of a parallel between the three golden Lannister bastards of the Queen and the three brown haired bastards of a Princess.

‘Oh but Laenor claimed them as his own!’ So did Robert. ‘Corlys had no problem with Luke being heir of Driftmark!’ And Tywin upheld that his grandkids were legitimate until he died. Plus even overlooking Corlys’ ambitions, have you gave any thought to how things would pan out if he came out and said that the kings favorite child cuckholded his heir? Viserys wouldn’t stand for any slander against Rhaenyra as proven by the Driftmark incident and his inaction after Vaemond was fed to his daughters dragon and the silent five so what makes you think that he would over look Corlys ‘slandering’ his daughter?

If Corlys came out after Jace’s birth and denounced him and Rhaenyra, not only would his life be forfeit, his house’s legacy would be completely ruined. There’s no doubt that Viserys would commit terrible injustices to protect Rhaenyra, seeing how he was one of the three candidates for the culprit of the Harrenhal fire. He’s ambitious not dumb and going against the favored child of the king and the favorite niece of the person who wields dark sister and rides one of the largest dragons alive would be like volunteering to put your head and all of your loved ones heads on the chopping block.

If he had doubts about the Strong boys’ legitimate cannot do anything about it. Not when Viserys is so protective of Rhaenyra.

Bastards cannot inherit unless legitimized and to be legitimized is to proclaim to the realm that they were born out of wedlock to begin with. The Strong boys have not been legitimized since they were never declared to be illegitimate but anyone with eyes can tell that they aren’t trueborn.

Within the confines of GRRM’s world building, passing illegitimate offsprings as legitimate is a crime punishable by death or a life of servitude to the faith. Within royalty, it’s tantamount to high treason with the only punishment being the death of the adulterer. The only reason Rhaenyra wasn’t penalized by law was because she held the favor of a king. But that doesn’t mean she wasn’t penalized by the masses because she was shown to be an oath-breaker. Because that’s what adultery is in ASOIAF, it’s oathbreaking. (Literally the whole reason Catelyn and Ned’s marriage was so fraught with tension in the beginning was because she thought Ned broke his oath.)

Sure in modern day society, if you and your husband consent to an open relationship which results in children and he adopts them, then in the eyes of the law the child is his legitimately and he is their father. But once again, in a feudal setting, adoption, especially as a noble, doesn’t exists.

Blood matters a whole lot in ASOIAF, Robert was not only able to take the throne through right of conquest but also right of blood through his grandmother. Legitimacy was tantamount. You can make the argument that Jace would’ve been fine to inherit the Iron Throne through the blood of his mother that was running through his veins but Luke had no Velaryon blood in his veins bar what’s left of Alyssa Velaryon which was four generations ago. It’s like saying Jon can inherit Runestone since his great-great grandmother was a Royce.

Even if Rhaenyra ascended the throne without opposition. She shot Jace in the foot with her remarriage to Daemon and subsequently producing two trueborn sons. If the dance of dragons didn’t occur between the black and greens, somewhere down the line, some grasping lord unsatisfied with a bastard ruling them would push to get Aegon on the throne no matter the cost.

[songsofadelaide]

In the summer of your seventh year, as your parents hosted a high-ranking guest in your home, a silver-haired boy stole a kiss from you under the blooming trellis in your family's sprawling garden. Your family called him a little god reborn and warned you to steer clear should your path ever cross with him again. ("He might steal more than a kiss the next time around," your older brother told you.)

There was no avoiding him, though, especially when he has taken quite an interest in you. Your kind, noble parents disliked his entitlement, but who were they to refuse the wily whims of a godling so besotted with their daughter? Their refusal would be tantamount to treason, even more so when the council elders and the oracles deemed you his other half. ("The stars said that you were born for me specifically... Or something like that," said Gojo Satoru, the Crown Prince, a little god from a house much higher and older than yours.)

His boyish presence filled your family's estate for many summers to come after he stole that kiss from you, his eyes so clear and blue and steadfast and he knew better than to lie to you when you asked him if he really liked you. ("I like you this much," he said, tracing an immeasurable, invisible line from his heart to yours.) The confirmation came in a formal declaration, on paper, that you were to be his bride when you both come of age.

In the summer of your sixteenth year, Gojo Satoru asked for your hand in marriage. ("I know it's been declared and all, but I'm asking you for myself now because I truly care for you— and I want you to know that what we have is more than just a simple arrangement by those old farts in the council," he told you with a smile so tender that you thought you were fast asleep on your feather bed, dreaming this all up.)

On that very same summer, a bounty is placed on the Crown Prince's head. A coup is declared against the head of your homeland, the Empire of the Six Eyes, and foes from within the imperial noble circle claim the prince to be a threat to the already fragile peace between the many high and noble houses. ("They cannot touch me, of course," he told you with a chuckle as he brought your freezing knuckles to his lips, warm and ablaze. "I am the strongest. And with you by my side, I will be invincible.")

Years passed and the internal struggle did not relent, even when the instigators were brought to light. The Crown Prince, now the Emperor they loathed and feared made manifest, permitted their existence in court, for he didn't want to be the tyrant they made him out to be. You wondered where you fit in the equation— the Empress— one born under an auspicious star so similar to her husband. ("You need not wonder where you belong, my heart. By my side is your place, always," he whispered to you in the midst of a banquet, as though you were the only two people on earth.)

("By your side, I'll remain then, my heart," you whispered back to him, and he responded to you with a face flushed with glee and a laugh that let on just how nervous he still was when it came to you.)

He called you his heart, but neither of you knew that the oracle lied to the Imperial family, that you were not his heart, not his other half, but the very sword that would pierce his heart instead. Neither of you knew that the true enemy— and the downfall of the Empire— was far closer than you expected.

When your brother became the lord of your noble house, he once asked if the Emperor was ever unkind to you. It was a question you vehemently rebuffed, for Satoru has been nothing but kind to you throughout your marriage. ("And even from before," you reminded your lord brother with a smile. "Have you forgotten how deeply he cherishes me so?")

And when the coup reared its ugly head once more, you couldn't believe your eyes when you saw the leader of the fray— your kind brother, his eyes alight with a vengeance you couldn't recognise. Your digging through the Imperial archives proved fruitful when you finally realised the depth of his rage. ("—Eyes led the annihilation of the ⬛ family, the decimation of their bloodline, save for two of their house's offspring—" said the words on the weathered book.)

As the Imperial castle burned down at dawn, your brother dragged you out kicking and screaming in the pretence of rescuing you. Satoru searched everywhere for you and saw the ensuing struggle, so he rushed to you. He was faster than your brother and had his blade at the ready, but he did not expect your jewelled knife to be the one to pierce him first.

You thought he was going to kill your brother.

"My heart," he mustered with his laboured breath. "I suppose this is a fitting end for a liar like me."

The knife was for your self-defence. It fell from your hands the moment they were stained red. "You knew?"

"I knew," he nodded at you. "I knew and yet was still so foolish to think that I could change my... our fate."

In the summer of your twenty-eighth year, the Empire of the Six Eyes fell to the hands of other high houses. The young Emperor perished in the onslaught and the Empress was nowhere to be found. (In the summer of your twenty-eighth year, Gojo Satoru is lost to you. He does not know about his parting gift to you, and neither do you. The grief that burdened your heart nearly stole it from you, too.)

The coup concluded but the internal war for the throne raged on for many more years to come, and it came for you and your peaceful life, too, in the summer of your forty-fifth year.

A silver-haired boy enters the fray, wielding an ancient power thought to be long gone. He says he will take back what is rightfully his, what was stolen from his parents, and he will not be as kind as his father was before him. ("Perhaps the oracle was wrong," he stated before the men who cowered under his cold gaze. "Perhaps...")

[dearlyfetching]

The Curious Case of Criston Cole

Something that's missing from these discussions about the perception and reaction of Criston Cole as he is characterized in House of the Dragon, is how there's evidence within the source material of Fire & Blood that could've offered a better perspective for why Criston reacted as negatively as he did regarding his involvement with Rhaenyra.

There is an in-universe incident which saw both Jaehaerys and Alysanne discharge one of their kingsguard for not only having sex, but wedding and siring children from 3 different wives! Once the secret was revealed to everyone including the wives and children who weren't made aware of this until it was too late, this man was not only fired and stripped of any prestige he had, but castrated by his former kingsguard members and sent to the Wall. He may not have been executed, but violating his oath had severe repercussions not only for himself but for the women who were involved with him and even their children.

Fire & Blood, pg. 300

Jaehaerys left it to his queen to deal with the three families. Alysanne decreed that Lucamore's sons might join their father on the Wall, if they wished. The two oldest boys chose to do so. The girls would be accepted as novices by the Faith, if that was their desire. Only one elected that path. The other children were to remain with their mothers. The first of the wives, with her children, was given over to the charge of Lucamore's brother, Bywin, who had been raised to be the Lord of Harrenhal not half a year earlier. The second wife and her offspring would go to Driftmark, to be fostered by Daemon Velaryon, Lord of the Tides. The third wife, whose children were the youngest (one still on her breast), would be sent down to Storm's End, where Garon Baratheon and young Lord Boremund would see to their upbringing. None were ever again to call themselves Strong, the queen decreed; from this day they would bear the bastard names Rivers, Waters, and Storm. "For that gift, you may thank your father, that hollow knight."

Oaths aren't just meaningless in Westeros. Look at how often Jaime Lannister is scorned for being a kingslayer, despite the dramatic irony of readers knowing why he broke his oaths in the first place. Jaehaerys had already denied the service of kingsguard who broke theirs to turn against Maegor, stating that he didn't want men who couldn't keep their oaths because he felt they were untrustworthy. So, who was this infamous kingsguard anyway? Lucamore Strong.

Yes, Strong.

A member of the kingsguard from House Strong broke his oaths and secretly fathered children across 3 wives. The scandal led to him being derided as "Lucamore the Lusty" long after he was dead. His descendant, Harwin, would also go on to secretly father bastards on the crown princess of the realm and heir presumptive decades later.

As it stands, Criston has justifiable reasons to feel disgusted and embittered at his situation. He is a lowborn (son of a steward) dornishman who obtained knighthood and was then elected as a member of one of the most prestigious positions outside of a lordship. Breaking his kingsguard oath would've resulted in castration and disgrace at best or execution at worst. Criston knows that if the truth were ever to be reported to the king (who would attack his own brother scenes later for allegedly deflowering Rhaenyra), he would be summarily punished. As Lyonel Strong himself said:

"Your intimacy with the Princess Rhaenyra is an offence that would mean exile and death. For you, for her, for the children!" -Ser Lyonel Strong, House of the Dragon S1E06

Not only this, but Criston is stuck serving a lifelong occupation wherein he must exist in the same proximity as the employer who propositioned and coerced him, and for years witness her committing what is tantamount to treason (if not scandal at the very least) with another man by violating her own marriage vows as opposed to getting them legally dissolved in the absence of a trueborn heir. This isn't even taking into account what might happen to him once Rhaenyra ascends the iron throne. He was forced to confront the horrific realization of being subjected to the whim of a Targaryen and see that all his efforts of adhering to rules and societal standards meant nothing to the people with authority greater than himself. To boil his character down to a "thug" or an "incel" without attempting to understand his motivations or the broader context surrounding them is utterly reductive.

[searchingforgravity]

Graceland Experience Masterlist

PART 1

PART 2

PART 3

PART 4

PART 5

PART 6

PART 7

PART 8

PART 9

PART 10

Tag List:

@horrorgirl4life @goldobsessionsworld @tantamount-treason @peaceloveelvis @father-of-2cats @sissylittlefeather @elvisalltheway101 @littlehoneyposts @atleastpleasetelephone @ccab @msamarican @presleyhearted

[doctorbrown]

DOCTOBER '24 ⸺ 「 3 / 31 * STORM 」

July 16, 1945

Were he a religious man, one who caved to unforeseen hands meddling about in human affairs or one who believed in the existence of a higher power, he might have taken this storm as a warning. A final message from on high as the heavens tear themselves asunder, lashing out in a show of–until now–immeasurable power meant to keep humanity from grasping at things their fingers could never truly hold on to.

You are meddling in affairs you cannot hope to contend with. You seek to open Pandora’s Box, and once you do, you will flounder under the weight of the horrors you have unleashed upon the world. 

And We will not be there to round them up for you.

Perhaps even Nature fears the world that will be forged from ash and flame should the test be successful.

A great dragon of pure energy snakes across the sky, leaping from cloud to cloud in the span of a blink, leaving only a blinding purple trail as evidence of its presence. Then, it roars, rattling the earth and the sky and Emmett can feel it rattling every single last one of his jumpy nerves. 

Conversation flits about the room around him, a half-hushed symphony of overlapping thoughts, fears, and hopes, and Emmett misses most of it until somebody else brings up the storm, immediately catching his attention. He whirls around, turning his back as another flash of lightning splits the clouds.

“It’ll start raining within the hour,” a voice behind him says. “It’s practically upon us. Of all the days—”

“You heard what Hubbard said. By morning—”

“And if he’s wrong and the blast goes off? There’s a chance we get caught up in a radioactive downpour carried here by the wind.”

Despite their put-together appearances and their attempts at light humour, a collective cloud of restlessness and unease hangs in the air, thick enough to take a knife to. It strangles the team, coats their every word in a layer of doubt that would be tantamount to treason should they admit what’s really on their mind and drums up the undercurrent of fear that Emmett has been unable to shake for the past two days. 

He was so certain of himself only a few days ago. The picture of confidence.

Now, he feels like a stranger in his own skin, being forced on the slow death march to the tower where he will await sentencing. His executioner looms overhead, dangling, indifferent to 

If this fails… Then what was this all for? We are doing the right thing, aren’t we?

If this succeeds—

“The question we should be asking ourselves right now isn’t will the test happen? It will. I have faith in this.” Oppenheimer quirks a brow, pausing halfway through rolling up another cigarette as Teller continues, “The question we should be asking is how big will the blast be?”

With a smile, Teller makes a show of digging through his pocket and slaps a slightly wrinkled dollar bill down on the table. “I, for one, predict a hell of an explosion. Forty-five thousand tons’ worth of TNT.”

He looks around, meeting the eyes of his fellow scientists as if to say, place your bets, gentlemen, and Emmett is stunned by the almost physical change this one simple action appears to have on the room. He may not be able to quiet the incessant stream of what-ifs and possibilities racing through his mind until he sees the results of the last few years of their hard work for himself, but he finds himself easing the tension in his shoulders. 

It only takes a moment for Oppenheimer to latch on to this lifeline being thrown out and though he attempts to make no real show of fishing out a dollar from his pocket, all eyes are glued to the man in anticipation.

“Three thousand tons.” He states his wager with all the calculated thoughtfulness he’s known for and places his dollar atop Teller’s, forming a cross with the two bills.

“Three thousand! Do you have so little faith?”

Oppenheimer half-shrugs, looking at the two dollars on the table. “I’d rather not jinx it.”

Somebody snorts and Emmett finds himself the centre of attention as his name is offered up next. 

“What about you, Emmett? You’ve been up close and personal with the stuff. What’s your prediction?” Emmett pauses, giving the wager the consideration it was due. To aim too low would be to admit his reservations, his fears that deep in the back of his mind, this test would prove that even they could not achieve the impossible. The war would rage on, the gadget would not detonate, and all of the long days and longer nights that pushed him and the others to their limits would have been for nothing. 

They could not be wrong, not now. No matter what it meant.

And if that means…

“Thirty thousand,” Emmett declares far more confidently than he feels, angling his dollar ever-so-slightly as he covers Oppenheimer’s. 

Someone claps him on the shoulder and Emmett barely has the chance to step back before the next bet of “Twenty thousand!” rings out, eliciting another round of smiles from the previously tense scientists. 

The conversation kicks up as several more bets are added to the pool, thinning the cloud hanging in the room a little more, and Emmett finds himself swept into heated debates, the horizon momentarily forgotten.