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rockingbytheseaside · 6 months ago

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I love your art and headcannons! I was wondering if you can do a headcannon for the harbingers with reader helping them with their work. Like helping pantalone with papers in his office or dottore with experiments or just passing tools to him?

✦ You help them at work (or how they just want you to stay around)

Pierro, Capitano, Dottore, Scaramouche, Pantalone

✧ You felt heartbroken whenever Pierro relentlessly toiled as the Fatui Director. Hours spent at the imposing meeting halls of the Zapolyarny Palace or engaging in arduous negotiations for the organization's cause could hardly be enjoyable. Thus, concerned for your beloved’s well-being, you resolved to take on a more proactive role and assist The Jester on his behalf.

“Today you will sit back and rest, Pierro. I will conduct your meetings… No buts or ifs.”

The Harbinger blinked at you in wonder. Not because he disapproved of your presence, but because he vowed to work for your safety and comfort. However, you remained unyielding. Standing defiantly, with your hands on your hips, you announced that his stubborn protectiveness of you won’t change your mind. And who is he to deny you anyway?

It seems you are the Fatui Director today.

In his office, you meticulously tended to every minute detail. Whether it's preparing his tea, reorganizing essential documents, or double-checking all the archives and schedules. Any attempts from Pierro to assist would be met with you scolding him. And although he obediently stood back, he couldn’t help but smile fondly at your endearing sternness. If you take the lead, he is your loyal servant. Besides, whenever you conduct business negotiations on his behalf, things would always go accordingly (just don’t mind Pierro looming behind you, his icy glare threatening anyone you are talking with into obedience.)

Once all was set and done, a sense of pride welled inside you, while Pierro mirrored your warm smile. You worked so hard to aid him… You just don’t have to know that he settled all difficult tasks in advance before you even entered his office. He was several steps ahead in everything, after all. Besides, he won’t argue when the result is him admiring your presence in his workplace. What truly matters now is the luxury of time to savor your love and hold you close without any worries about Fatui duties.

✧ When Il Capitano heard your suggestion to help, he felt worried. His work as a Captain required extreme physical exercise and was bodily taxing, regardless of the slower days when he overlooked the training of his specialized troops. Not only that but training under the strict regime of the 1st Fatui harbinger meant enduring a military-like attitude. And yet here you were, casually waving his worries off, promising to be an additional mentor training his soldiers.

“As long as you don’t wear yourself out, my loved one. It’s not just the fatigue and muscle soreness I worry about, but the attitude of my soldiers. They might not be as… lenient as you.”

You soothed his concern every time he caressed your shoulder with worry or checked in on you. He was so tender when he was worried, you had to firmly hold his helmeted face and tell him sternly that everything would be alright. And how can he be worried when you smiled so easily at him?

Thus, on the day of the soldiers’ training, Il Capitano introduced you as his equal and the additional instructor for today’s workout. You were such a stark contrast to the hard-faced troops who got used to battlefields and warfare. But you just stood there, waving casually… Perhaps you would fare well as the “forgiving substitute mentor”.

Alas, that was Capitano’s first mistake.

Not an hour in, the group of soldiers you overlooked returned with bruises and distressed faces. Their gazes looked as if they saw unfathomable horrors, clutching their newly formed pains within their joints; the once stoic Fatui soldiers now flinched like children. When the Harbinger arrived to inspect, it seemed his worries were misplaced. Instead of you he should’ve been concerned about, he was now witnessing his troop being subjugated to merciless yelling from you as if his men never knew how to hold a weapon.

That day, The Harbinger’s soldier begged him to never bring you as a substitute trainer again. At the very least, they never slacked off after that, in fear you might be brought back. Although secretly, The Harbinger could not deny his admiration. Who knew someone as cheerful and easygoing as his beloved would turn into a war machine when required? Your prowess never alluded him, but it definitely reminded him of your hidden allure to the smitten Captain.

“My moon and star, I am uncertain whether I can bring you back to my work once more. However, you must display your teaching methods in a spar for me in private, one-on-one.”

✧ It wasn't at your suggestion that you found yourself in Il Dottore's laboratory, nor did he seek your assistance directly. Instead, it was one of his subordinates who came knocking on your door, bowing low. You were well aware of your beloved's tendency to hyper-fixate on his scientific endeavors, not welcoming any outside help that might divert his attention from his work. Nevertheless, a scowl crossed your face as you observed the desperate plea of the Fatui worker, imploring your aid.

“Please, I know I have no right to ask for anything, but you must help. The Doctor snaps at anyone who even breathes the wrong way. One wrong move and a scalpel will come flying straight at them. There is no other way to persuade our Lord Harbinger!”

You hummed wistfully but nodded - “I mean… I can help. Just bear in mind, I am no lab assistant. My aid will be minimal, but if it’s for Dottore, then I see where the issue lies.”

Thus, you found yourself paying an unexpected visit to your sweet Doctor’s lab. Precisely at the moment when one of his fiery reprimands was being delivered, a series of loud crashes reverberated from the imposing lab gates. Dottore was in the midst of an enraged explanation to his subordinates on why the rare Phlogiston from Natlan must not be wasted in excess when experimenting, his hand crashing on the metallic counter loudly.

“And if I found that any of you fools mishandles the Phlogiston, you will-”

“Will what?” Your voice interrupted, the Fatui assistant saw you approach from behind the Harbinger with your hands clasped behind your back. “What will happen, you said?”

Dottore froze. At your familiar voice, he casually turned to check on you, as if your mere presence in his workplace was an anomaly. Whatever lab tool or flask he was gripping was carefully put in its place. “Nothing. Nothing will happen, dear.”

Hence, you chose to remain and offer assistance this time. Or rather, you quietly oversaw his laboratory work, providing minimal help without disrupting the actual scientific processes. You might argue that you hardly did anything that day, but the Fatui assistants? They were silently praying to the Tsaritsa’s merciful act of bringing a saint over here. Because the second your presence was known in this bleak, desensitized lab, Il Dottore’s attitude changed by a mile.

He no longer snapped, slammed his fist onto counters, or even spoke loudly to his underlings. He suddenly turned tame. If he commanded something, and you interfered with his words, he would obediently change his mind as if you were the indisputable superior here.

“This testing is insufficient. We must retry it and double down on the sample for quicker efficiency-”

“Well, no, it's already late and it will be better to revise this experiment tomorrow.” - you stated simply, to which Dottore parroted with no hesitation.

“You're right. It is late. The experiment will be revised tomorrow.”

It's safe to say, the Fatui subordinates were left gawking that day. The formerly harsh and impatient doctor had transformed into a compliant child, allowing himself to proceed at a leisurely pace and follow your lead. Moreover, a simple touch on his shoulder from you or a soft smile would swiftly dissipate all his tension whenever he felt agitated. Not to mention you coaxed him to finish shift earlier for everyone.

You should visit more frequently.

✧ Scaramouche hated having you help around in his work as a Lord Harbinger. Not because of your genuine consideration and effort, but because now he has to witness his foolish Fatui soldiers act all naive and joyous when you were around.

Amidst a bustling workday of handling documents, gathering information, and conducting training sessions, time flew by effortlessly whenever you took charge. And the rest of the Balladeer’s subordinates adored you. You were easier to talk to, provided clear guidance, and attentively addressed any concerns affecting the mission or the staff. This stood in stark contrast to the Balladeer's snarky commands and derisive demeanor.

Alas, this is not why Scaramouche was standing with crossed arms, clenching his fists. One of the Fatui skirmishers was getting too comfortable with you as commander. Worst of all, your graceful smile was bestowed upon them, not him when he literally stood behind you.

“Today's work has been completed.” - Lord Harbinger Scaramouche stated to his underlings. “You're dismissed. Now scram before I see any of your faces.”

As the day progressed, you barely had a second to sit down, before a pair of slim arms encircled your waist tightly. Perhaps too tightly. Scaramouche’s face hung low on the crook of your shoulder, while his body pressed to your back with a mumbled grumble. - “Hm? What is it, Scara? I thought you were satisfied with the work done early.”

"Don't waste your time helping the lazy fools. You’re supposed to stay with me a little while longer.”

✧ Upon offering your assistance in advance, Pantalone's joyful grin would expand tenfold, reminiscent of a schoolboy eagerly welcoming his crush into his home. He would excitedly pace around, discussing arrangements to ensure your comfort. He'll bring your favorite beverages, perhaps some snacks, cancel all meetings so you'll have his undivided attention…

“Pantalone, I said I will be there to help. Not go on a date.”

But his head is not listening. Because once the day arrives and you begin to stride around in his office, he would remain stationary. Watching you with an adoring smile, hands clasped together. Whatever paperwork he was supposed to analyze was forgotten, and suddenly the 9th of the Fatui Harbingers forgot his own signature when you're around.

“Pantalone, are you listening? I reorganized these financial reports. And don't forget to reread the clauses in these receipts too… Are you still with me?”

Yet all he could do was sit there and smile at how fondly you looked as a boss in his office. “...Yes dear.”

You sighed deeply, knowing well he wouldn't accomplish any work today. However, after some gentle persuasion and the passage of time, you miraculously managed to guide your beloved into a state of complete concentration on his work. He sat behind his desk, engrossed in paperwork and skimming over documents. Adjusting his silver glasses, he then beckoned to you.

“Sweetheart? Could you step over here for a moment? I need you to review the numbers on these financial reports before I approve them. And your attention to detail has always been exceptional.”

You casually obliged, stepping next to his mahogany desk to look over the figures in the paper. Leaning over, you began reading, but Pantalone had other ideas.

“Oh, this might be uncomfortable for you, dear. Come, sit here.”

Before you know it, you're pulled right over his armchair to plop comfortably onto his lap. And while you managed to determine that there was nothing faulty or inconsistent in the financial reports he is holding, you discerned his clever ploy - “Pantalone, these papers are already signed. There's nothing wrong with them.”

However your beloved only beamed in triumph, his hands putting down the papers and coming to secure your place in his lap.

“Oh, Is that so? Well, you’re already sitting here and it’s so comfortable. You can’t blame my longing for your continued presence, darling.”

I’m still alive, I swear! Just busy exploring Natlan. Hope I didn’t sway too far off from the main suggestion with this fanfic. Thank you for reading ❣

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veritasforward · 2 years ago

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The Power of Collaboration: How Financial Advisors Complete the Story for Tax Professionals

By Eric Runge, Advanced Planning Lead In the world of finance, CPAs, EAs, and LTCs are revered for their technical prowess and meticulous attention to detail. They possess a wealth of knowledge and expertise that provides a solid foundation for their clients' financial well-being. However, there is a weakness that often hampers tax professionals—their tendency to focus solely on technical aspects rather than proactively implementing new ideas. The key to overcoming this challenge lies in recognizing the power of collaboration and understanding how the unique nature of financial advisors perfectly complements the strengths of accountants.

The Limitations of Technical Expertise:

As a tax professional, you have honed your skills in things such as accounting, taxation, and auditing, becoming a master of your craft. Your clients trust you implicitly with their financial matters, and you diligently navigate the complexities of regulations and compliance. However, our greatest strength is also our greatest weakness: too much reliance on technical expertise can sometimes lead to a reactive approach, addressing issues as they arise rather than anticipating and proactively implementing beneficial new strategies.

The Role of Financial Advisors:

Financial advisors possess a distinct set of qualities that can serve as the perfect offsetting strength to a CPA's skillset. They bring a unique perspective driven by a proactive mindset and a deep understanding of market trends, investment and business opportunities, and financial planning strategies. The right financial advisor is adept at identifying potential for growth, mitigating risks, and crafting comprehensive and holistic plans tailored to each client's goals and aspirations.

Collaboration: The Path to Success:

To take your practice out of plate-spinning mode and achieve the status of most relevant advisor, it is essential to embrace collaboration with a strong financial advisor. This collaboration is fundamentally about recognizing and owning your own weaknesses and understanding how the strengths of financial advisors naturally complement those weaknesses. At the same time your strengths will also complement the weaknesses of most financial advisors, to everybody's mutual benefit. That's how all good partnerships work.

By joining forces with a financial advisor, you can leverage their expertise to:

1. Proactively Implement New Ideas: Financial advisors excel at identifying smart strategies and opportunities. They can help your clients navigate the ever-changing financial landscape and implement proactive measures to minimize risk and maximize growth for your clients.

2. Create Holistic Advanced Plans: Financial advisors are go-getters, and a forward thinking 21st century advisor will connect to teams of professionals who possess deep understanding of investment options, estate planning, business advisory, legal, tax planning, and risk management. Those levels of expertise complement your technical prowess, allowing you to become instantly much larger and provide your clients with comprehensive advanced plans that encompass all aspects of their financial well-being.

3. Build Stronger Client Relationships: By adopting this mindset of synergistic collaboration with a financial advisor, you can offer your clients a more proactive and holistic approach to their financial needs. This partnership allows you to deepen client relationships with your best clients. You become the most relevant go-to advisor who not only ensures compliance but also guides your clients toward achieving their financial goals and dreams.

Conclusion:

As a CPA, you hold a unique position of trust in the financial world. By recognizing the value of a 1+1=3 synergistic partnership with a good financial advisor, you can begin to maximize your full potential and become the highly respected and revered advisor your clients are looking for. Begin to embrace the proactive and strategic mindset that financial advisors naturally possess to complement your technical expertise, and together, you will create a compelling story that propels your clients toward financial success.

Embrace your strengths, acknowledge your weaknesses, and embark on a journey to becoming the most relevant go-to advisor in your clients' financial lives.

If this is compelling and you'd like to explore it further, schedule a time to meet with me. I'd love to learn about your practice and what's keeping you up at night. Schedule With Me Website Linkedin

#tax preparation #tax #cpamarketing #cpa training #business advisory #collaborators #financial advisor

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acctbusol-blog · 2 years ago

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supreme-leader-stoat · 10 months ago

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In front of you are five doors, each concealing one of the following: a random man, a hungry grizzly bear, a walrus, a fairy, and a car. Each door has something different behind it. The game show host, who knows what is behind each of the doors, has you select one of the doors at random and does not reveal what is behind it. Whatever is behind the door will pass into your ownership without taxes. After you make your decision he opens one of the doors of his choice which is not the door you picked and which he knows conceals neither the fairy nor the car. You have now eliminated either the man, the walrus, or the hungry grizzly bear from the pool of unknowns.

The game show host then offers you a chance to either keep your current door, or switch to another one of your choice, with a catch. A train full of your loved ones is currently hurtling down a track at high speeds towards another one of your loved ones, who is tied up on the tracks. If you change your choice of door, the train will be redirected away from your loved one and to another track with a man you do not know, a hungry grizzly bear, a walrus, a fairy, and two clones (complete with memories) tied up on it. One of the two clones is yours. The train is sturdy enough that neither option will cause it to derail.

At the same time, another person is playing an identical game, and if you both change which door you have picked, your trains will divert onto the same track in a head-on collision, killing many of both of your loved ones as well as everyone tied up on that track. As part of the game show, the studio is prepared to pay out money to you equal to the life insurance policies of any of your loved ones that die as part of the show.

Before you make your decision, the game show host hands you a gun. You must shoot one other person in the problem.

#if you see this reblog this version instead #I accidentally left out the fairy on the tracks when I first posted and people started reblogging before I caught the error

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literaryvein-reblogs · 4 months ago

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more words for your fight scenes (pt. 2)

Arrive

admission, alight, appearance, arrival, billow, butt in, come in, cross, disembark, embark, enter, foray, get back, get on, go ahead, immigrate, influx, intrude, invasion, lance, light, lunge, penetrate, pierce, progress, reach, return, stalk, trespass, turn up

Illegal behavior

assault, backstab, bleed, break, bribe, buy, conspire, contravene, delinquency, disobey, extortion, felony, foul, graft, hara-kiri, holdup, imposture, infringe, intrigue, kickback, larceny, loot, misconduct, misdeed/misdemeanor, offense, pick, piracy, poach, rip off, rip-off, robbery, shenanigans, smear campaign, speculation, stick up, take, theft, treason, victimize, violation

Join physically

link, merge, mingle, piece, splice, tuck, unite, weld, yoke

Jump

bounce, clear, dive, gallop, hop, lunge, plunge, rear, recoil, skip, start, vault

Leave

abandon, back, blow, bolt, break, break out, cringe, dart, depart, desert, deviate, digress, disappearance, distance, draw back, ebb, embark, exit, fall back, flee, fly, get along, get out, goodbye, go out, jilt, light out, maroon, parting, push off/push on, quit, recoil, renunciation, resign, retire, run, scram, segregation, shake off, shrink, strike out, takeoff, threads, trousers, vacate, withdrawal

Prepare physically

acclimate, accustom, braid, brush up, bundle, coat, disguise, domesticate, dress, embattle, fine-tune, fix up, fortify, gear, gild, gloss, grease, habituate, knit, make up, modulate, overhaul, pad, plaster, polish, prepare, preserve, primp, reform, refrigerate, regenerate, rejuvenate, renovate, round, set, shine, smear, square, strain, toughen, training, weather

Pull

drag, extract, lug, pluck, schlep, strain, tow, twist, wrench, yank

Push

advance, back, barge in/barge into, billow, blow up, bulge, burst, compress, crowd, crush, depress, drive, extrude, force, indent, insinuate, jam, jolt, knead, mash, mob, notch, poke, prod, protrude, pump, repel, roll, shove, slam, squish, tax, tip, trample, wrestle, wring

Weapon

A-bomb, armament(s), arrow, atom bomb, battery, bullet, catapult, defense, explosive, firearm, gun, missile, nuclear weapon, ordnance, rocket

NOTE

The above are concepts classified according to subject and usage. It not only helps writers and thinkers to organize their ideas but leads them from those very ideas to the words that can best express them.

It was, in part, created to turn an idea into a specific word. By linking together the main entries that share similar concepts, the index makes possible creative semantic connections between words in our language, stimulating thought and broadening vocabulary. Writing Resources PDFs

Source ⚜ Writing Basics & Refreshers ⚜ On Vocabulary ⚜ part 1 Writing Notes: Fight Scenes ⚜ Word Lists: Fight ⚜ Pain

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inthedayswhenlandswerefew · 4 months ago

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Cannibals [Chapter 2: Roses and Forget-Me-Nots]

Series summary: You are his sister, his lover, his betrothed despite everyone else’s protests; you have always belonged to Aemond and believe you always will. But on the night he returns from Storm’s End with horrifying news, the trajectories of your lives are irrevocably changed. Will the war of succession make your bond permanent, or destroy the twisted and fanatical love you share?

Chapter warnings: Language, sexual content (18+ readers only), violence and murder, bodily injury, Aemond needs comfort, Helaena needs to make a choice, Aegon needs revenge, Red needs stitches.

Word count: 6.4k

❤️ All my writing can be found HERE! 💙

Tagging: @themoonofthesun @chattylurker @moonfllowerr @ecstaticactus @mrs-starkgaryen, more in comments 🥰

🦇 Let me know if you’d like to be added to the taglist 🦇

Too much to drink, blood on your teeth; you stumbled going up the Grand Staircase and bit your lip and now all you can taste is warm copper. It’s the past, but the recent past. Viserys isn’t dead yet, but not far from it either, an unquiet ghost who groans from rooms cloudy with incense. Criston oversees Aemond’s training and Grandsire sits the Iron Throne when petitioners come begging for relief from taxes or the requisitioning of their livestock. Helaena plays with her children in the garden. Larys Strong dwells in shadowy corners of rooms, lurking, listening. Mother lights candles for her husband in the sept, tries to forgive herself for being so repulsed by him she shivers when her skin brushes his and comes away damp from the weeping sores.

It’s Criston’s nameday, and the court is celebrating as if it is a prince’s. Mother has ordered the kitchen to prepare his favorite foods—lamb marinated with figs and blood oranges, a myriad of olives, spiced wine, roasted eggplant, dragon peppers stuffed with cheese and onions—and the musicians to play Dornish ballads. In the midst of the festivities in the Great Hall, Aemond has been pulled aside by Grandsire to discuss a pressing concern: an idea, proposed by Master of Ships Tyland Lannister, to split the royal treasury and hide it in several different locations should a war of succession break out after Viserys’ death. No one knows what will happen when Father dies. Everybody is moving invisible pieces on an imaginary board, trying to convince themselves they are prepared.

Now the hour is late and guests are vanishing, and everyone seems to be drunk, the world warm and spinning, and you are going to your chambers to wait for Aemond. What you have together is new and exhilarating, and your pulse is thudding in your ears as you stagger down the hallway. You are going to take off all your clothes and wait for him in bed beneath blankets Helaena has stitched with red bats. If Aemond asked you for everything tonight, you’d give it; but you’re beginning to like his idea to wait. You will never fly a dragon into battle like Aegon the Conqueror’s wives, but this is one war you and Aemond can fight together: thwarting all other matches, at last claiming a victory that the realm must witness. Aemond wants a Valyrian wedding ceremony. He has no fear of your blood.

You are passing Helaena’s chambers when you hear muffled voices inside, things you should not listen to but are too drunk to politely ignore. Helaena is whimpering quietly. Aegon says, sounding like he is close to tears: “I know, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m almost done…”

You should leave, but you don’t. You are trapped there by the poison that slows your thoughts, by the horror that blooms in you like roses, thorny and maroon. You’ve never had to experience intimacy that feels like a violation. You never will. And you’re the only one of Alicent’s children that’s true for: Aemond’s first experiences were with a middle-aged prostitute on the Street of Silk, something Aegon mistook for a favor; Daeron will have to bed a Baratheon girl he barely knows.

After a few minutes the door opens, and there is Aegon swimming in a white nightshirt stained with red wine. He startles when he sees you, then averts his watery eyes. He is ashamed. He says weakly, his hair hanging in his face: “I try to make it good for her.”

“I know you do.”

“She loves the children,” Aegon explains, although you haven’t asked. “She wants more, and she understands how that happens. Now I only lie with her when she invites me. But that doesn’t mean she enjoys it. I just don’t want you to think that I’m…I’m…that I’m a monster.”

You shake your head, profoundly sad. “No, Aegon.”

“How do you not get…?” He rubs his own soft belly, then makes an arc through the air, miming a pregnancy. “We’re fertile stock. And I can’t imagine Mother allowing Orwyle to ply you with moon tea.”

You smile faintly. “We don’t do that, just everything else.”

A raised eyebrow; Aegon is intrigued. “Really? How adventurous. I’m surprised. About Aemond, not so much you.”

“We’re saving it until after our wedding. Something to look forward to.”

“Unless Grandsire and Mother eventually succeed in marrying you off to a painfully uninteresting, Andal-blooded lord with a formidable army or some nice ships or whatever.”

“And then Aemond will murder him.”

Aegon laughs, recedes again and becomes remote, goes out to sea like low tide. “It’s ironic, isn’t it? My marriage is built on obligation, and yours will be the opposite.”

You say like a confession, something you seek forgiveness for: “I’m so sorry, Aegon.”

“No, no, I didn’t…I wasn’t trying to…I mean…” He sighs, then looks at you, dazed drunk childlike honesty. “You and Aemond being miserable wouldn’t make my life better. I have no wish to disrupt your happiness.”

You don’t know how to respond. Aegon doesn’t expect you to. He gives you a drowsy little smirk, then meanders down the hallway. When he spots a maid, he snaps his fingers at her and orders: “Draw a bath for the queen.”

You retreat to your own chambers, where you walk right past your bed—you now feel no desire at all to creep naked into it—and kneel beside the roost by the open window. Most of the bats you call your babies are out flying, but Kingfisher clings to the dark blue velvet you keep draped over the large wooden box. He peers at you with clever black eyes, his ears perked straight up, and when you offer your palm Kingfisher scrambles into it. You pet him as your thoughts wander, slow, dizzy, morose.

Aemond breezes into the room, first swift and famished, then bewildered as he nears you. “Why are you sad?” And then, because he gets glimpses into your mind as well: “Something with Aegon.”

You shrug, not looking away from Kingfisher. You are trying not to cry. “I just wish the world was different.”

Aemond stares at you for a while. And you’re a little afraid, because if he grabs you and you tell him to stop, you don’t know if he’ll listen. But Aemond doesn’t grab you at all. Instead after a moment he says: “I’ll be right back,” and he leaves your bedchamber. He must go all the way to the kitchen across the courtyard of the Red Keep, because when he reappears he is carrying a small glass jar with a piece of honeycomb inside. He sits down beside you and opens the jar, wets his fingertips with honey, and holds them out to Kingfisher so he can lick them clean.

You smile at Aemond. “What are you doing?”

Instead of answering, he motions for you to dip your fingers in the honey too, and together you feed Kingfisher and watch the others swoop and glide outside, snatching insects from the starlit air like stolen coins.

The only time Aemond touches you that night is to thread your long, silver braid through his hands; and why did you ever begin wearing your hair in a braid at all? Because you heard the reverence in his voice when he told you about Aegon the Conqueror’s wife Visenya.

~~~~~~~~~~

Now you are on the floor of your bedchamber crushing seashells, and the afternoon light cascades in hot and golden, a day that feels more like midsummer than autumn. With each whack of your tiny steel hammer—a gift from Criston on your nameday several years past—a shell breaks into irregular shards to be arranged on the board and then glued down; you have a jar filled with paste made from boiled animal bones and a paintbrush to apply it with. You collect and boil the bones yourself. Helaena and the children went with you to the beach to search for shells this morning, an arduous task as you were on the hunt for rare specimens: blue to mimic Tessarion’s scales. This mosaic is for Mother, a vision of Daeron to hang on her bedroom wall. He was sent away so he might turn out differently from the rest of you, but he will be home again soon. The Hightower army is marching across the Reach to King’s Landing, your youngest brother and his dragon safeguarding it from above.

You don’t have to be in the small council chamber to know that Grandsire rails against Aemond, that Criston struggles to defend him. Killing Luke was a disastrous mistake, no sane person could disagree. Now they debate how to proceed. Grandsire writes his letters: to the Lannisters, to the Baratheons, to the Triarchy. Aemond sees to the gathering of soldiers and supplies, moving tokens around the map laid open on a table in his bedchamber. Aegon wants to fly into battle. Criston tries to negotiate between them, and relays their feuds to Mother. Larys Strong shares the whispers he has heard of the Blacks’ machinations: Rhaenyra sick with grief and struggling to manage her forces from Dragonstone, Daemon abandoning her to take the haunted castle of Harrenhal in the Riverlands. Rhaenyra is a weak queen, and the Rogue Prince cannot stomach bowing to her.

You drop the steel hammer again—whack!—and as the cobalt-colored seashell shatters, Aemond steps into your bedchamber and closes the door behind him. He takes off his sword and his dagger, leaves them on the dresser, then drops to the floor and crawls on his hands and knees to you. He grabs your ankles and drags you under him; you giggle as your hammer tumbles out of your grasp and you wrap your legs around Aemond, pulling him in closer.

Aemond kisses you insatiably, his tongue parting your lips, his long silver hair spilling down to the floor. Then he says: “I have to go away.”

You know this has to happen. He has trained all his life for war, and now it is here. “For how long?”

“A week, maybe. Or a month, or a year. Nobody knows.”

“A year?” You’ve never been away from him for more than a few nights at a time. It is impossible to imagine.

Aemond takes off his eyepatch and flings it aside. His sapphire eye—cold, sharp, glittering fire—unnerves others, but to you it is a talisman of his faithfulness. In the boardgame you played as children, you were always the red bat and Aemond the blue wolf. It was a game of ambition, of cruelty, but sometimes mercy as well, and there were always exactly five players until Mother sent Daeron away to Oldtown. Blue is Aemond’s place in the family. He is cunning, he is arrogant, he is difficult at times…but he knows where he belongs. He would cease to exist without the rest of you. “Rhaenyra is bedbound on Dragonstone,” Aemond says, skating his thumb across your cheek. “Still recovering from childbirth and broken by Luke’s death. Daemon is far away in the Riverlands doing gods know what, there are rumors he’s taken up with some girl there. Now is the time to bring the Crownlands under Green control. House Thorne is already with us, next we will take Massey, Bar Emmon, Rosby, Stokeworth, Byrch, Harte, Hayford, Staunton, and Darklyn. They will bend the knee to Aegon, or they will burn. Rhaenyra will be encircled, and then we can do whatever we want with her.”

“What about the Celtigars of Claw Isle? They are Valyrians, they should honor tradition. The firstborn son always inherits. And Rhaenyra has defiled the bloodline with her Strong boys.”

“They must not see it that way. I’ve heard Bartimos Celtigar is her Master of Coin.”

“Traitors,” you hiss, and Aemond beams and kisses your forehead.

“Don’t worry, I have plans for them. Crabs are delicious when boiled alive.”

So Caraxes is at Harrenhal, Syrax is unable to be ridden and not inclined towards battle anyway, Vermax and Moondancer are both too small to be much of a threat to a dragon as ferocious as Sunfyre, let alone Vhagar… “Where is Meleys?”

Aemond chuckles. “Rhaenys won’t strike on her own. She doesn’t have the courage.”

“She might now that you’ve killed her grandson.” A pause. “Alleged grandson.”

“Luke wasn’t her blood, but Baela and Rhaena are. I’m sure she wants to live to see them grow up. I can’t imagine her flying to war for Rhaenyra and Daemon, the people who murdered Laenor so they could fuck on his grave.”

“He was buried at sea.”

“It’s a figure of speech.”

“I wish I could help,” you tell Aemond, feeling small and fragile, feeling worthless. If you had a dragon, you could follow him into battle like Visenya.

“Not everyone is meant to have wings,” Aemond says gently, and you wonder—as you have countless times before—if part of him is glad that he’ll always know that you are exactly where he left you, that you’ll always be defenseless. Then he distracts you. “Do you remember how you chased Vermithor all over Dragonstone?”

Of course you do: a trip to the mist-swept volcanic rock arranged while Rhaenyra and Daemon were travelling elsewhere, Grandsire fervently hoping that one of the wild dragons would bond to you and add to the Greens’ arsenal. None of them did, not even the Bronze Fury, the beast you had dreamed of riding as a girl, whose stories gave you a sensation like flying, like falling. “I wanted him so badly.”

“And to show his appreciation, he almost incinerated you.”

You smile up at Aemond, touching the scar that cuts down the left half of his face. After his maiming on Driftmark, he developed a phobia of needles. If he saw Helaena embroidering, he would become nauseous and unsteady on his feet. So he had the maesters teach him how to stitch wounded flesh, and after months of bloody observation and practice he was cured. He is not a man who lets others break him. He makes himself whole again, one brick at a time. “You saved me.”

“I couldn’t have you reduced to charred bones. I like you warm…and wet…and willful.”

Aemond wrenches you over and onto your belly, presses his hips against yours, crushes you into the floor with his weight. His left hand covers yours, your fingers interweaving; his right hand slides under your waist and stops between your legs, stroking you through your scarlet gown. You move with him, laughing, moaning, feeling the chill of the stone floor bleed into your skin.

Aemond whispers: “I need to be inside you.”

It’s a statement that is actually a question; he’s asking for permission. No, he’s begging for it. But you want the same thing. He’ll be gone soon, for a week or a month or a year. “Then do it.”

“Right now?”

“Right now.”

He lets you up and as he takes off his tunic and trousers, you crawl into your bed, a crimson canopy, curtains that billow in the wind blowing off the ocean. Now Aemond is here too and he’s tearing off your gown so he can possess you: not the sort of coupling that could result in a child, the other way. It’s a sin, of course, but so is incest, and so is murder, and so are pride and envy and wrath, and so at this point what’s one more transgression tossed onto the heap? You aren’t sure if you believe in the Faith of the Seven anyway. Rhaenyra is one of the most immoral people you can think of, and yet she has been abundantly blessed until now: married to the man of her design, absolved of all wrongdoing by Viserys. Why would the Seven shower gifts upon Rhaenyra while your own mother is so cursed? If they exist, they must be brutal masters.

You are lying on your belly on the soft feather mattress, reaching back to touch Aemond’s face and his hair as his lips claim your neck, your collarbone, your shoulder. You lift your hips so he can reach under you more easily, where wetness is pooling for him. His right hand caresses you with rough, insistent motions, making you ravenous and breathless, making you need him. With his left hand, he slips two fingers effortlessly inside; and then, once they are slick and dripping, he pulls them out and travels farther back. There is pressure, resistance, and then: a glorious, forbidden fulness that draws a moan from deep in your throat. Your fingernails bite into your pillows, your body moves in time with Aemond as his fingers thrust into you, first slowly and cautiously and then faster as he feels your muscles relax around him.

“Now,” you plead helplessly.

“Not yet.”

“I’m ready, I promise.”

“No, no, you’re not,” he purrs, and when you turn your face to his, he kisses you in a way that is slovenly, bestial, natural like the dark moist earth or the sea. No one else would understand this. No one else will ever need to.

Aemond’s fingers work on you until there is hardly any tension, then he yanks open the drawer of your nightstand to get the jar of Dornish olive oil he keeps there for exactly this reason. He drenches himself with it—his hardness, his thickness, his length—and spills oil all over the sheets in the process. Then he settles behind you again. It was your idea to try this the first time, one humid sunlit morning when you were desperate for each other, when you had an emptiness inside you his fingers alone could not cure. You needed him closer, just like you do now. And your climax was so intense it felt like it would snap your bones and unspool your muscles like loose threads.

As Aemond’s right hand strokes you—coaxing you closer, flooding your bloodstream with sweltering riptide lust—he positions himself and pushes in slowly, so so slowly, and at first there is a burning like there always is, but the oil eases his entry and your muscles are swift to accommodate him, they are supple and trained, and as he fills you there is an indescribable intensity as his heat melds with yours, and when you are this close to him it’s like you can feel everything he’s feeling, hear every thought that flits through his mind, and he knows exactly when to pause to give you more time, when to begin again, until he is all the way inside and he moans and rests his head between your shoulder blades, drinking you in through his lungs and his pores, his long silver hair whispering over your ribs.

When Aemond is sure he can last, he moves in you carefully, divinely. The fingers of his right hand—still circling, still pressing against you with commanding force—have you panting and powerless. It’s overwhelming, the fullness, the closeness, the warm blossoming euphoria…and if you’re sore tomorrow, you won’t care. Aemond could be gone by then.

“Harder,” you plead.

“No, Red, no, I’ll hurt you.”

Your hips quicken the rhythm, jolting back against him, and as Aemond gasps—taken by surprise, trying not to finish yet—a torrent like a wave of scalding blood rolls through you, and instead of dissipating to a froth like seafoam it keeps going, unraveling you, ruining you, until you can’t stand it anymore, and your spine and ribcage ache, and there is pain where Aemond is thrusting into you as he shudders and cries out in a low rasping voice midway between ecstasy and agony, like someone has buried a blade in him, like maybe he’s dying.

“Enough,” you sigh, and Aemond knows what that means. He withdrawals from you, gingerly and very, very slowly. Then he rolls you onto your back as you gasp for air, staring up at the distorted afternoon shadows on the ceiling. He kisses the side of your face again and again, murmuring through your hair in High Valyrian. Has Aemond ever said that he loves you? Not that you can remember. He acts as if he does, but still…sometimes you wonder.

When your pulse is calm again and the sweat cooling on your belly and your chest, Aemond rises and shuffles to the door, still naked. He opens the door and looks out into the hallway until he spies a maid and beckons her over. You see her silhouette just beyond the threshold.

“Fresh linens for the bed,” he says. “And a bath.”

“Yes, my prince.” The maid peeks in to where you are naked on the oil-stained sheets, and you cannot find it in yourself to act shy or ashamed. You aren’t. You smile wickedly at her and she skitters away, blushing and wide-eyed.

You loll together in a hot bath—Aemond drifting off as he leans against the back of the tub, you dozing with your head on his chest as soap bubbles pop in your hair—then he just barely manages to throw on some nightclothes and stagger back into your bed, not wanting his own room but yours, and he is asleep in just minutes. Outside the sun is setting and the sky is turning from flames to indigo, and the bats are venturing out of their roost to feed. You spend a while with them and then, starving, leave Aemond to rest while you go down to the kitchen to scavenge a plate of dinner, something hearty and satiating: bread, butter, venison pie, an apple tart, a pint of ale. You eat alone in the garden as your bats circle overhead. The members of the small council—with the exception of Aemond, dead to the world—are dining together, and Mother is eating with Helaena. You are avoiding Mother for now; after you and Aemond have sinned, you always feel like she can smell it on you, or see it, or hear the echoes of your moans, and there is such pitiful disappointment on her face you cannot bear to meet her eyes. She deserved a different husband, and children who she could recognize as her own.

When you return to Maegor’s Holdfast, you pass Aegon as he is trotting down the Grand Staircase, a goblet of wine in his hand and escorted by Sir Willis Fell. Aegon grins at you and says: “Aemond is practically comatose. You’ve exhausted him.”

“Well, he does most of the work,” you reply mischievously. “Where are you going?”

“To get my armor fitted. Aemond will have to have his finished tomorrow, I suppose. If he’s recovered by then. Try to keep him off you for a few hours, I know it’s a lot to ask.”

“I’ll let him know about the armor. But I don’t think he’ll want to wear it in the saddle.”

“Try to convince him. It could shield him from dragonfire in combat.”

“Right,” you say, and all at once your mood plummets, because this is real: the war is descending like a storm and your brothers must fight in it, must leave you, must risk their lives. Aegon waves goodbye and strides off to the armory across the courtyard of the Red Keep, Sir Willis Fell in tow and looking disturbed but trying not to show it.

Upstairs, Helaena is in the hallway with her children, and you can tell she’s overwhelmed by them: Maelor is yowling in her arms, Jaehaerys and Jaehaera both shouting and tugging at the skirt of her lemon-colored gown. Helaena is looking around for someone, perhaps a maid; uncharacteristically, she is unable to find one.

“Well hello there!” you say, kneeling and opening your arms so the twins can barrel into you. “What are we playing, huh? Hide and seek? Chase? Tame the dragon?”

“We’re trying to find Aemond!” Jaehaerys answers exuberantly.

“Oh, is that right?” You glance at Helaena, and she smiles awkwardly and shrugs. She must know where he is and is attempting to distract them so he can sleep.

She says, a bit flustered: “Mother went to the small council chamber after dinner, and the maid…I don’t know where she’s disappeared to all the sudden…”

“It’s alright, I’ll help them find Aemond.”

“Really?!” Jaehaera says, overjoyed.

“Of course!” Then you wink at Helaena, and she is relieved. “Let’s go check his bedchamber.”

“But we’re not allowed in there,” Jaehaerys says uncertainly.

And no, they usually aren’t; Aemond has too many relics they might break or maps they could rip or stain or knock his tokens off of. “It’s okay if I go with you. I’ll make sure we don’t touch anything important.”

“Yay!” the twins yell together, and then Maelor joins them between chomps on his own fingers, even though the details of the expedition elude him.

You swish in your gown—a pale drained pink, your wet hair in a fresh braid—towards Aemond’s rooms. Jaehaerys and Jaehaera dash after you, and Helaena trails behind them carrying Maelor. You hold the door open so the children and Helaena can enter, then follow them into Aemond’s bedchamber. The hearth is lit and crackling; papers litter his desks and tables, the wooden shelves are heavy with books. Mosaics you’ve made since childhood freckle the stone walls like birthmarks. You pick up a candle, light it in the fireplace, and begin igniting wicks around the room so the children will have more light. Helaena sets Maelor down so he can wobble after his siblings.

“Aemond, where are you?” Jaehaerys calls with a beaming smile.

You say: “Let’s check in the closets, and under the bed, and behind the curtains—” Then you scream and drop the candle, because there is a man in this room, and he has lunged out from the shadows. He traps you against the wall with a blade at your throat. Another man—huge, broad, towering—has cornered Helaena and the children. He holds a butcher’s cleaver in one monstrous fist. Blood drips from it in dark, viscous threads down to the floor.

He nods to Helaena and tells you: “Scream again and I’ll put this through her windpipe, and we can watch her try to learn how to breathe blood.”

You shake your head franticly. “I won’t scream, I swear I won’t.” You are thinking: Criston and Grandsire and Mother are in the small council chamber, and Aegon is in the armory, and Aemond is sleeping so deeply he can’t be roused…so who is going to save us? Who the fuck is going to walk in and stop this?

“Quiet,” the large man growls at the children. “No noise or Mummy dies.”

“Jewels,” Helaena says, taking off her necklace and earrings. The children cling to her, trembling and sniffling, weeping but trying not to make a sound. “We can give you these.”

“We’re not here for jewels, you dumb bitch,” the smaller man sneers. “We’re here for a boy. A son for a son.”

“No,” you whisper, realizing what he means.

“Aemond killed Lucerys Velaryon,” the large man says. “We’re here to kill Aemond. But Aemond doesn’t seem to be around at the moment, is he? Fortunately, any son of the Greens will do.”

Helaena shoves the children behind her, shielding them with her willowy body. From the Dragonpit, you hear Dreamfyre’s shrill screeches. “You can have me instead.”

“You’re not a son.”

“So which one do you choose?” the small man asks Helaena, raking the point of his blade back and forth across the front of your throat, leaving shallow nicks that glow sharp and searing.

Helaena doesn’t answer—she can’t, of course she can’t—and so the large man reaches around her and drags out Jaehaerys and Maelor. He pushes them to the floor and they cower there, clasping each other and tears streaming down their cheeks. There’s a dead maid over by the bed, you notice, the same one who saw you naked in bed earlier; she must have had the misfortune of stumbling upon the intruders. There is a gaping black hole in the wall on the opposite end of the room, the entrance to a secret passageway to the beach, an escape hatch that almost nobody knows about. But Daemon would.

“Which one?!” the large man demands, glaring hatefully at Helaena. “Choose or we’ll kill them both. We’ll kill all three.”

Helaena covers her ears with her hands and shrinks into herself, trying to disappear. Jaehaera hides behind her mother; Jaehaerys is petrified; Maelor, mercifully, doesn’t fully understand. If he was struck on his tiny blonde head, he would be gone before he had time to comprehend that his short life was over.

The men are assailing Helaena: “Choose or we’ll kill them all, we’ll kill them in front of you, we’ll kill them slow.”

“Helaena, pick one,” you sob.

She shakes her head. “No, no, no, no, no.”

Aemond, can’t you feel how afraid I am? Aemond, you have to wake up.

“All three?!” The large man taunts. “Alright, that’s fine, we can do it that way!” He raises his cleaver above the boys’ heads, and Helaena attempts to stop him.

He’s going to murder her too, he’s going to sever her arm or cut her throat.

“Maelor!” you burst out. “Maelor, the little one, she chooses Maelor!”

“What?” Maelor says, gazing up at you with vast shimmering eyes. And instead, the large man seizes Jaehaerys by his hair and hacks his head off his shoulders.

Blood spurts like a fountain, blood flows over the floor, blood soaks Helaena’s gown when she bundles her dead son into her arms. Forgetting the knife at your throat, you try to get to her; the blade drops and slits your flesh from your collarbone down to the top of your left breast. A river of red flows in a sheet down the front of your gown. Everyone is screaming—you, Helaena, Jaehaera, Maelor—but it doesn’t matter now; the men throw Jaehaerys’ head into a burlap sack and vanish together into the blackness of the passageway.

“They can’t get away,” you say numbly, and then you bolt after them. You grab a flickering candle off Aemond’s writing desk and plunge into the tunnel. There are blooddrops on the dusty floor, a trail of gore. Jaehaerys’ head must have bled through the sack. You aren’t thinking, you don’t know what you’ll do if you catch up to them. But if there is a boat waiting to ferry the men and their grisly trophy to Dragonstone, somebody must prevent them from escaping.

Jaehaerys can’t be dead, he can’t be, be can’t be, he was just here and he was smiling—

Someone catches your wrist and you shriek, but it isn’t the strange men. It’s Aemond, still dressed in his nightclothes, his sapphire gleaming, blood all over him and clutching his dagger in his other hand.

He tells you, taking the candle: “Go back to my bedchamber.”

“Aemond, they…Jaehaerys…he…they…”

“I know,” he says hoarsely. “Go back to where it’s safe.”

Obediently, knowing that he needs you to, you flee; you are passed by several knights of the Kingsguard with torches, their swords drawn, in pursuit of the murderers. In Aemond’s bedchamber is a nightmare you can’t wake up from: Aegon is wailing and collapsed on the blood-soaked floor with the mutilated body of his son in his arms, Helaena is slumped and paralyzed against the wall, Mother is weeping as she embraces Jaehaera and Maelor and takes them out of the room, Criston has just appeared in the doorway and stands there horrorstruck. You go to Aegon and lay a palm on his shoulder, the words impossible. Without looking—he already knows it’s you—he reaches up to grip your hand, so forcefully it feels like he’ll crush your bones.

“What the hell is…?” Grandsire says when arrives. Then he sees the blood, the body, and he sways and his knees buckle. Maester Orwyle sweeps in behind him, carrying a small wooden trunk of remedies. He comes directly to where you are standing.

“Princess, your mother asked me to tend to you.”

“What?” you reply dully, and he gestures to the bone-deep gash on the left side of your chest. Abruptly, agony flares there. “Oh. Of course.”

Orwyle leads you patiently to the chair at Aemond’s writing desk, then begins to clean your wound. He pours a small amount of milk of the poppy into your mouth, and you accept it passively. You are barely aware of it as his needle pierces your flesh and begins to stitch it back together.

“Is this what your letters have bought us?!” Aegon is shouting at Grandsire, who doesn’t know what to say. “Not safety even here in our own castle, but killers who breach our walls and butcher my son?!”

There are echoing footsteps, and Aemond emerges from the darkness, crossing into the rage-colored firelight of his bedchamber. “We got one of them. The guards are still searching for the other. We’ll find him, I swear we will. There was a boat in the sand, but we’ve taken it.”

“It’s your fucking fault!” Aegon screams at him. “They were here, they were looking for you, you killed Luke so they killed my boy, he was only six years old, he…he…” Aegon breaks down in sobs, then he crawls across the room to Helaena and clings to her, his head in her lap. Despite her shock, Helaena’s hands come alive again and she holds him.

“Aegon, it’s my fault too,” you say.

“What are you talking about?! You didn’t kill Luke Strong, you didn’t start this war!”

“I’m sorry,” Aemond says, almost too quietly to hear. “Aegon, I’m sorry.”

“Enough letters,” Aegon seethes, hatred splitting out of him, bloodlust that can never be satisfied. “You’re done, Grandsire. I relieve you of the burden of being Hand of the King. It never sat right with you anyway, did it? Enacting the plans of a degenerate like me. Well, now you can just watch them happen. Criston, we will go to battle now, no more delays. You will lead the infantry and I’ll be in the sky, and when we drag Rhaenyra from her sickbed I’ll let Sunfyre eat her, one limb at a time.”

“Yes, my king,” Criston says, still stunned, gaping at Jaehaerys’ small, headless body.

“I’m going with you,” Aemond tells his brother.

“I don’t need your help.”

“Yes you do. And I would never let you fly into battle alone.”

Aegon sniffles and wipes the tears from his face with his bloodied palms, leaving stains of clotting crimson there. Then he stands, touches his forehead to Helaena’s as a goodbye, and stumbles towards the door.

“Where are you going?” Grandsire demands.

“To torture that man to death,” Aegon says, and is gone.

Aemond turns to where you are sitting at his writing desk, Orwyle just beginning your stitches. Your eyes—glazed and drugged, grief-stricken and horrified—meet his, and you know that he is thinking that had the blade hit just a few inches higher, you would have bled to death. Aemond approaches. “Move,” he commands Orwyle.

Maester Orwyle meekly retreats; but first, he hands over the needle. And Aemond finishes mending your flesh, one painstaking, practiced stitch at a time.

~~~~~~~~~~

Aemond tells you goodbye on a bluff overlooking where Vhagar is waiting for him down on the beach. He keeps you a safe distance away; not only have you no dragon of your own, but the beasts also share an aversion to you, they snarl and slink away like they would in the presence of no other Targaryen. The wind is raging and the sun bright, the sky blue and full of slow-moving clouds. Helaena is curled up in the Dragonpit with Dreamfyre. Alicent is with the surviving children. Maelor shrieks and runs away when he glimpses you.

Under torture, the larger assassin revealed that he was indeed commissioned by a messenger sent by Daemon, and that all he knew of his companion was that he was a ratcatcher. Your brothers paraded every ratcatcher they could find in front of you, but none of them were the man with the knife. Aegon, believing their ranks had nonetheless been perilously infiltrated, ordered all the ratcatchers of King’s Landing to be executed. Now they hang from walls and bridges, attracting crows. Some people weep for the dead men, but many more weep for Queen Helaena, who is known to be gentle and kind. The details have reached every street of the city: beheaded in front of his mother, made to choose between her sons. Rhaenyra has given them yet another reason to hate her. Her mortal enemies grow more numerous by the hour.

“What if something happens here?” you ask Aemond, your hands in his, strands of silver hair raked from your braid by the wind. Under your gown, your bandages loop over your left shoulder and below your right arm; beneath them, your stitches throb and your heart aches. “What if we have to leave the city for some reason? What if when you return you don’t know where I’ve gone?”

“Then I will find you,” Aemond says, as if there is no other possibility. “You belong to me, you always have. That will never change. Here, in Dorne, at the Wall, in Essos or the Summer Isles, anywhere on earth, anywhere you go, you are still mine.”

You smile, and when Aemond kisses you, his long hair trashing in the wind, he is tender and harmless, and you are reminded that he can be this way sometimes. He isn’t always fierce. He isn’t always treacherous. “Take care of Aegon.”

“Of course I will.”

“Don’t come back without him.”

“I’ll carry him the whole way home if I have to,” Aemond says, and then he leaves you, stalking down the hill towards Vhagar.

That night, when you climb into your bed, you find a note there that Aemond has left for you. You unfold the parchment, wincing; each movement pains you, reminds you of the muscles that have been slit by the assassin’s blade. You will carry the scar forever. Aemond’s note reads:

Red,

When you are here…think of me.

Soon we’ll have everything.

In place of a signature, he has finished with a sketch of a forget-me-not in blue ink.

You close the note and hold it to your chest, the parchment scratching against your bandages.

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bittscollege · 7 days ago

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uzumaki-rebellion · 2 months ago

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Spinning the Block Part 3

Pairing: Terry Richmond x Officer Jessica "Jess" Sims

Warning(s): 18+ Animal violence (hunting)

Summary: Jess tries to avoid running into Terry again, but a tip given to her may reveal who killed Mike in prison.

Word count: 4. 4K

"After all that we've been through

I know we'll make it,

I know the way

The question is it true

There is nothing we can't do

I see you along the way baby

The stillness is the move"

Solange – "Stillness is the Move"

Jess spread the bucket of corn on the cob that she soaked for a week on the ground. Dawn broke an hour earlier and the morning sky barely turned a pale peach to match the time of day. She kicked around the ears of corn that soured over time and spread a pungent odor in the air. The perfect bait for wild hogs that roamed on her granddaddy's land.

She lifted her high-powered Marlin 336 rifle onto her shoulder and carried the empty bucket away, stashing it behind a snag tree. Trudging past the bait, she joined up with her father and grandfather. Wild hog hunting had been passed down in her family for five generations. Her hunting knife rested against her right hip for dressing up game on site. Plenty of wild game thrived on the property — deer, turkey, raccoons, rabbit, alligator, wood ducks — but the Sims family loved some good feral hog meat.

Louisiana hog hunting required patience, a talent for shooting, and quick thinking on the spot. In the old days, her grandfather Hebert used trained hunting dogs with her father, Jermaine, and her three uncles. The dogs had all died off over the decades except for a ten-year-old brown and black hound dog named Redbone, the last of his lineage. Jess lived with Redbone and Hebert on the property. Ever since she lost her job with the police department because of its shut down over Terry's case, Hebert's house became her refuge. She took care of him, and he gave her shelter from financial ruin.

Redbone, blind in one eye, rested near Hebert's feet behind the camo netting they used to blend into the surroundings. Hebert stretched his legs in a folding chair and peered out into the trees with his binoculars. His lank gray hair looked thinner pulled back in a long ponytail that touched the middle of his back. She noticed the once sallow coloring of his fair skin had improved. His health hadn't relapsed since she'd been home most days while unemployed. Rheumatoid arthritis wore on him before. Perhaps her presence energized him. He had his good days and bad days with pain in his hands and feet. But today was a good one. Hebert could bend his fingers and shuffle his feet along without wincing.

The hogs roused up early in the morning and stayed active, openly, until full light. Hebert wanted to participate in the hunting, and Jess worried that a long outing would bother him. She found a doctor that prescribed marijuana usage to help his pain management, and since she no longer worked, he shared his weed with her on some nights when inflammation got bad. He toked on a little before they left the house. It pleased her that the effects lasted.

Jermaine nudged the drag sled prepared to haul the meat out.

"We'll probably need to take down about three or four…if we're lucky," Jermaine said.

"We're in the best hotspot, Daddy," Jess said.

Jermaine patted her shoulder and slid his hunting goggles down over his eyes. The feral hogs on their land were invasive, and the state welcomed hunters culling their populations. Hebert often gave permission to outsiders to come on their land to hunt for a small fee. He already allowed loggers to remove walnut trees annually for extra income. Any money he made from those two ventures he split among his children and used the rest to pay his property tax.

They perched quietly behind their camo netting for four hours. Jess noticed Redbone's nose twitching, and she slid her wrap-around shades on and peeked through her telescopic sight. Four rotund hogs barreled into view, chomping down on the corn.

Jess lined up her shot. Unfortunately, the wind shifted slightly, blowing their scent toward the animals. A mottled pink one caught the odor of human and hound, alerting the others.

BLAM!

Jess and Jermaine blasted the brains of two hogs, causing the others to scatter. They both used their levers to reload and popped off two more rounds. Jess downed another hog while her father clipped the shoulder of the one he aimed for. Jumping out from behind the camo, Jermaine went after the injured hog to finish it.

"Daddy! Watch out!"

Another aggressive hog appeared from out of nowhere and charged Jermaine. Jess shot it behind the ear, and it dropped a foot away from her father.

"Getting slow," Jess teased.

"Some good shootin', Jess," Hebert called out.

"Learned from the best," she said, and winked at him.

Jermaine killed the injured hog, and Jess dragged over the sled. Her father was a big, muscular, cornbread fed man, and he used that strength to drag two hogs onto the sled. She packed up the camo net and grabbed the bucket.

"Grandpa, I'll get the chair in a minute. You just relax," Jess said.

Redbone jumped around being frisky and followed Jess behind her father. They trudged along the wooded area until they reached Jermaine's truck. She helped him lift each hog onto the truck bed and they headed back to Hebert and repeated the process two more times. Hebert admired the hundreds of pounds of fresh meat piled on the truck.

"Gon' be some good barbecue," Hebert said.

Back home, Jermaine and Jess set about cutting up the meat behind the house. They donned protective covering and surgical gloves to prevent bacterial contamination.

After gutting the pigs, Jess and her father strung them up under their hunter gazebo. Herbert added salt to three large coolers half filled with ice on standby. Jermaine would transfer the meat to his house and a few others covered in the ice, and Jess's mother would prep their share for the big Saturday cookout.

Jess used her big knife to skin the carcasses, and then she dove right in to carve out sections of meat. She deboned joints, cut off shoulders, back strap, ham parts, hocks, and kneckbones. She used a smaller knife to work on the tenderloin parts and ribs once they moved the rest to a work table nearby. The pigs were too lean to carve out bacon, so she worked efficiently to get as much useful meat as possible off the carcass. Jermaine used a lopper to snap apart larger bones, joints, and the heads when needed. It took them about an hour to cut and quarter the various parts needed for Saturday. The rest would go into a deep freezer for winter soup beans and stews. Her father would drop off the unused parts at a rendering plant to be turned into fertilizer. It was a good day of hunting.

She cleaned up the gazebo and work table and then took a shower. Hebert caught up on his marathon viewing of Law & Order episodes in the livingroom. She fixed him an early dinner of baked sweet potato with turnip greens and fried catfish, placing it on a TV dinner tray in front of his recliner. Sitting near him on the couch, she ate with him and quietly watched cops go after bad guys. After Terry's case, Jess couldn't watch the show the same way again.

Terry.

Jess nibbled on her catfish. Was he still in town? She planned on staying away from the town square. No need to tempt fate and run into that man again. He was a past that needed burying.

The landline rang, and Jess answered it. Her friend Melody sounded breathless.

"Jess…girl…come on down to the Pit with me and Alexa tonight. It's Ladie's night and free cover. Alexa doesn't have to work tomorrow, so she's up for some drinking and dancing."

Jess glanced at her grandfather.

"Who is it?" he asked.

Jess covered the mouthpiece.

"Melody wants me to go down to the Pit tonight with Alexa."

Hebert waved his hand.

"Go on and get outta the house. Do you some good to be out with your girlfriends. I'll be okay by myself."

"You sure?"

"I got Redbone with me."

"Promise not to overdo it on the weed?"

"A man runs out of his house naked one time, and now his granddaughter can't trust him to be by hisself," he grumbled.

Jess giggled.

"Okay, I'm in," she said into the phone.

"Oh, good! Dress real cute, because you know Zion is on the prowl for you."

Jess sucked her teeth.

"I wish y'all would stop tryna fix me up with that man."

"Girl, do you know how hard it is to find a fine man that's single, child-free, and looking to settle down right away? He's had his eye on you for the longest."

"With all that's been going on with me, I don't see how he could be interested."

"Jess, hush, now. All that shit is over and done with. Time for a new start… and time for you to throw your hat in the ring before he gets snatched up. Be ready by seven thirty. Cover is free until nine. We get there early and we can get a good booth seat by the dance floor."

"Alright. I'll be ready. But I'm driving there myself."

She hung up and sighed.

"You don't sound excited," Hebert said.

"It's a setup. They're tryna get me with Zion."

"Zion is a nice fella. Decent family. I know his grandfather real well. You not interested in dating?"

"People think partnering up with somebody is going to make me happy now that I'm not working. I need a job, not a man."

"Zion makes good money down at the plant. Let a man spoil you a little bit if he wants to. You ain't gotta marry him or nothin'."

"You right, Granddaddy. You right. I just don't want to feel pressured about it, like I can't get a man on my own…if I wanted one."

She lifted his empty plate and glass from his tray.

"You want anymore to eat?"

"Nah, I'm full. That was a tasty dinner. Thank you."

She picked up her empty plate and piled it on his. While washing dishes in the kitchen, she thought of what to wear.

The Pit smelled like perfumed sweat and chicken grease, a thick country kind of odor that lingered in the air. Jess didn't know if that was a good or bad thing. She flat ironed her hair so that it looked long and silky falling down her back, but by the time she got inside the jumping club, her edges curled back because of the heat. A live band kicked up some fiery zydeco music, and she danced with several men before taking a breather at a booth seat with her friends. Several men bought them drinks, and Jess sulked a bit when she didn't find Zion anywhere. All that talk about him seeking her affections by her friends didn't pan out. She twisted her hair into a high bun and sipped on some bourbon. Revealing some cleavage kept plenty of other suitors barking up her tree.

Shelby Springs men loved big women. The more rolls on the belly and back, the better, too. The women were known to be talented cooks in the kitchen and in the bedroom, and southern Black Creole men had a predilection toward securing one and wifing them up. They liked buxom chests, real asses, and lively personalities.

Jess knew she was a catch.

Men eyed her up and down the moment she walked in the door, displaying her wares and swinging her hips from east to west. Tight booty-hugging jeans. Low cut V-neck top with her good strapless push-up bra. High heel ankle boots gave her extra va-voom. Her breasts were always her best lure, and then the men noticed she had a pretty face to match all the big girl curves. Pear-shaped with a short waist, Jess could use her front and back to attract dance partners.

The Pit was full of Black Creoles and Black Cajuns. There's no real hardcore distinction between the two in Jess's mind. After hundreds of years, they were all a big pot of gumbo culturally. Most of the Black Cajuns descended from the French Canadians that migrated to Louisiana from Acadie. Her great-grandfather used to tell Hebert stories about their white side. That's how Jess learned that Acadians were referred to as 'cadians by English speakers in Louisiana that eventually mutated into 'cajuns'.

The Black Creoles had immigrant French and Italian roots from Europe with some Indigenous heritage that spread out from New Orleans. Many of the Black Creoles had bloodlines all the way from Haiti. Out of the two, Creoles were the wilder by far because they had liberation DNA encoded in them from their African and Native ancestry. There was something about that Black and Red mix that stood out sometimes. Whenever Jess had to be called out as a cop to break up fights or do a welfare check, she could tell how things would go down by the ancestry. Black Cajuns valued communication first before they went off…but the Creoles? Pfft. Those negroes were cayenne pepper. Fists first, questions last.

Terry Richmond was definitely a Creole.

Jess chugged down her drink. The man lingered in her mind like a severe headache. He hugged her, and she knew what those muscles felt like now…the same ones that beat the ass of nearly a dozen men in front of her without using a gun. Pure Creole fury.

He smelled good, too.

Jess stood and walked around with Melody and left their two other friends, Patricia and Alexa, to watch their purses and seats. She tapped her feet to the hot, rambunctious music and searched around for another dance partner.

A man at the bar kept staring at her. He had a lean, rawhide build and purposely kept his baseball cap low on his face to obscure his eyes. Every few seconds, he glanced over at Jess. She sensed he wasn't interested in dancing or checking her out sexually. He studied her. She moved away to see if he would follow, and he did. She positioned herself behind some tall men near the end of the bar, facing the dance floor. Melody went to the restroom, and Jess waited for her. Right when Melody came back, a cute short king grabbed her hand to dance and pulled her away from Jess. Zion appeared then, and Jess forgot all about the man with the cap.

"Where you been?" Jess asked.

Zion grinned, flashing her big teeth. A husky man nearly six feet tall, he had rugged good looks and a flirtatious voice that sounded playful in her ear. Sweat shined up his dark brown skin. A crisp new haircut and fancy fits helped him stand out from the crowd, especially his gator skin boots.

"I've been looking for you, sweet thing," he uttered with sly charm.

"That's what I hear."

"What we gonna do about it, then?"

Jess grabbed his hand and dragged him out to the center of the dance floor, hugging her body tight against his as the ricochet of silver spoons dragging across a metal washboard and a reedy accordion squeezed by a heavyset man singing in French Creole controlled their spinning and grinding in time to the music. Jess snaked her hips and Zion swiveled his. The heat of her crotch rested on his thigh as they wiggled down to the floor and back up, the old school French La La music of her granddaddy's day pushing them to go faster and faster. Zion swung her out in a catch and release move and they yelled their delight at being alive in a sweltering club. God, it felt good to dance her blues away!

They stayed on the packed dance floor for three full songs until Jess begged for a break in her boots. She grabbed her purse and took a breather outside. A quick call on her smartphone reassured her that her grandfather was tucked in bed for the night. He told her not to come home early if she didn't need to, hinting that it was okay to hook up with Zion if she wanted.

She hung up and wiped perspiration from her brow, and noticed the reflection of the strange man behind her from the car window. Digging into her purse, she pretended to put her phone away and reached for her nine millimeter handgun to scare him. He caught her in the blind sight of the club, where no one would see or hear them by the SUV. She spun around and aimed it at his chest.

"The fuck are you following me for?" she barked.

The man held his hands up.

"Easy…I just want to talk to you."

"About what?"

"Terry Richmond."

She narrowed her eyes. Kept the gun on him.

"What about him?"

"I know who you are and I know what those cops did to him…and his cousin."

The man glanced around to make sure no one heard them.

"I have some information and know who killed Mike Simmons. I was at the prison where he was murdered."

Jess drew in a sharp breath.

"You betta not be fucking lying."

"I'm not. I also know the location of the weapon that was used on him. Hid it myself."

"Where?"

"We can't talk here. I'll meet you somewhere safe. You choose where. But I'ma need some money for the information to help me get outta town. It'll be too dangerous for me to stay here once I tell you."

"There's always some catch involving cash."

"It is what it is."

"How much?"

"Ten thousand dollars."

Jess rolled her eyes.

"You think I'm supposed to pay you that?"

"Not you…him. I know he's in town. I saw you with him."

She kept the gun on him and pulled out her cell.

"Give me your number."

"225-342-6863"

She typed and then glared at him.

"What's your name?"

His eyes diverted toward noisy patrons leaving the club in the opposite direction.

"Zeb Chapman."

Jess took a long, hard look at him.

"Zion's brother? How long have you been out of prison?"

"Eighteen months."

She relaxed and put away her weapon. Slinging her purse across her shoulders, Jess stared at him, full of curiosity.

"Call me and tell me where to meet you, Jess. I swear this ain't no con. I shouldn't even be seen with you. If they know I contacted you, they'd kill me."

"They?"

Zeb's jittery moves let her know he was truly nervous.

"Call me."

Zeb scurried back into the club. Jess stood next to her car to gather her thoughts. She assumed the "they" Zeb mentioned must've been the gangsters that had it out for Mike for snitching on a mob boss back east. It was the main reason Terry was vigilant about getting his cousin's bail. An uncomfortable tightness clenched her stomach. She called Melody on her phone.

"Where are you?" Melody squeaked, with the feisty zydeco music cracking in the background.

"I have a headache and went to my car. I'm going to head home early."

"Okay, call me and let me know you made it home safe. Are you good to drive?"

"I'm fine."

"I'm sorry you're not feeling well. Zion is looking for you."

"Tell him I'll catch him on the dance floor another time."

"Will do."

Jess dug into her purse again and pulled out a business card at the bottom. Terry's motel number was a few touches away on her phone. It might be too late to call. Plus, she didn't want him to have her number. She could just drive over there, knock on his door, and give him the information directly. He could pass it off to the authorities and she could wash her hands of the whole thing.

She popped open the trunk and rummaged around for something else to put over her top. Just a gray long-sleeve shirt sat under a pile of plastic recycled shopping bags. She glanced around and quickly yanked off her sexy top and traded it for the gray shirt.

Loading the GPS with the motel address, Jess quelled the anxiousness rising in her chest. Her Durango rode smoothly on the highway and she arrived at the rinky-dink establishment in less than twenty minutes. She parked at the far end of the guest parking and watched the property. Terry's room was the middle one on the bottom floor. The outside light was on and the curtains were drawn. She couldn't tell if the indoor lights were on because the curtains looked dark and heavy. Debating to get out or not, Jess sat in the SUV for half an hour, mustering up the guts to face him. Eventually, she hopped out and strode toward his room.

She knocked on the door and waited.

Knocked again.

No answer.

She closed her eyes, thankful that he wasn't there. It would be better to deal with everything in the morning with the soothing light of day. She turned to go back to her vehicle and bright headlights blasted her eyes. A car pulled in front of the empty parking space facing Terry's door. Summer and Terry stared at her in surprise. They both stepped out of Summer's car and faced her.

"Hey," she said.

Terry's lips quirked up into a half smile. The whites of his eyes looked pink under the overhead light of his room. But the green stayed intense…probing. He had a way of looking at people that unraveled them. Jess glanced at Summer.

"Summer was dropping me off," Terry said.

"Yeah, we just had dinner…dropping him off for the night," Summer said.

Terry took in her uneasy stance. It was after eleven at night. He turned to Summer.

"Thanks for a great meal, and the ride back," he said.

"No problem. Talk to you another time. Before you leave."

Summer awkwardly looked at Jess.

"Good seeing you, Jess."

"Yeah."

"Night y'all," Summer said.

She climbed into her car and drove off. Terry used a motel card to slip inside the door handle slot of room six instead of five. An audible click sounded off, and Terry opened the door wide.

"Come in," he said.

He reached inside and flicked on a light. Jess walked in before he did. Everything in the simple room was neat and undisturbed.

"Sit," he said, offering her the only chair in the room.

He sat on his bed.

"There's no air conditioning in room five. It broke before I went to dinner with Summer, so the manager switched me into this room. I'm glad you showed up. I had no way to contact you about the change. What brought you here so late?"

"A man approached me outside of a club tonight. He's been watching me and said he knows who killed your cousin. He wants to meet in a safe place."

Jess watched the information spread across Terry's features like water rippling across a pond. His eyes bore into hers like a sun blazing through a magnifying glass, causing her to shift uncomfortably in her seat and dart her gaze elsewhere. Like the wall to her right.

"Who is he?"

"He claims to have been in the prison with Mike when it happened. He's scared, and he also wants you to pay him ten thousand for the information."

Terry bolted from the bed.

"Take me to him right now."

He loomed over her, and those damn eyes rooted her to the chair.

"Jess…take me to him."

It was a stern command.

She jumped up.

"I'll give you his number—"

"If he's still at the club, you know what he looks like and can point him out to me. I need to talk to him tonight."

"It might spook him. He said he'll be in danger once he tells you. The money is for his escape from town."

Terry walked around the bed and pulled open the closet door. He dug into a suitcase, pulling out a fresh shirt. He took off the one he had on and replaced it with a form-fitting black shirt that fit his chest like new skin. Jess averted her gaze. His dark chinos and stylish black Moschino boots didn't need changing. He tucked a pair of shades into his shirt.

"C'mon…you drive," he said.

She couldn't protest. The determination in his face and steps forced her to comply and follow him.

Outside, she led him to her Durango.

"He might be gone already."

"Then we'll call him if he is."

She drove him in silence and slid into a parking spot not too far from her original one earlier. He climbed out and she walked to the back of her SUV. She opened her trunk and picked up her sexy top.

"Turn your head, please," she said.

Terry looked away, and she pulled off the long sleeve shirt, switching back to her previous top. She adjusted it and smoothed back her hair. He turned back around and her stomach filled with butterflies. Her cleavage worked its magic despite the circumstances, and Terry showed his hand by glancing at her breasts. He threaded his fingers with hers and tossed his shades on, pulling her toward the club entrance.

"Once we get inside, you play it cool. Understand? We're just on a night out together. When you spot him, whisper in my ear," he said.

The words flew right over her head. His hand was gentle, yet strong, holding hers. She could feel underboob sweat breaking out on her breasts. They reached the front entrance, and Jess took a deep breath. Terry squeezed her hand, reassuring her, and they stepped inside together.

Part 4 HERE.

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