#the king's grey mare

[planetmaven]

i fear mare barrow's aura is so big she has not one, but TWO NEW fmcs "inspired by her"

[horsefigureoftheday]

Can you explain the "breyer horses are stylised" thing you said a while back? Not because I don't believe you but because I don't know enough about horses to see it (besides the mane and tail)

All artistic representations of a horse will be somewhat stylized. Humans can't help it, they imagine details, even when referencing photos or live animals. A swayed back gets exaggerated, sickle hocks are overlooked, the face becomes more expressive, because to a human who loves a horse, and who expresses their own emotions with their face, the horse's face just feels more expressive.

Take a look at this horse from Peter Paul Rubens' "Wolf and Fox Hunt" (1616) and how it compares to a photo of a horse

The artist was clearly familiar with horses, and most likely referenced off a live horse. And yet its face is much more expressive than a real horse's face - it's neotenous and borderline anthropomorphic, with its huge sorrowful eyes, and the short muzzle that puts the mouth in closer proximity to its eyes (making its expression more readable).

I think a lot of people see what they want to see when they look at a horse, and they reflect that in their art. Is the horse an independent agent or a tool of its rider? Is the horse an unthinking animal or a soulful creature like yourself? Does the artist admire animals, in spite of painting them in terrible war-like scenarios? Does the artist paint animals in these scenarios because he admires them? Is the horse meant to elevate the status of its rider, by being depicted as a soulful creature that nonetheless submits to its rider? (You can probably guess my own opinion from these questions)

Earlier art saw horses almost an afterthought, depicted from memory while their rider was drawn reverently. All those art pieces of emperors and kings on horseback, where the horse looks like a cartoonish oaf, use the horse as a symbol of power, with no regard for the animal itself. Even when the horse is beautifully rendered, it's nothing more than a vehicle to carry its rider. The artist has depicted the horse as expressionless, beastly, and soulless.

Even when you get into portraits of horses in the 17-/1800s, they are still stylized, though now you're just as likely to see a lithe and graceful companion, as you are a muscled working horse or a faithful old friend. Horse breeding really took off around this time, as did theories of animal minds, so adoration of horses-as-individuals became more widespread. Examples are "Lustre" (1762) by George Stubbs, "Mare and Foal in a Stable" (1854) by John Frederick Herring Senior, and "A Grey Horse in a Field" (1873) by Rosa Bonheur.

All this is to say that horses will always be stylized in art. Humans can't not twist the horse the suit their own tastes, and that's fine. I actually think it's kinda beautiful. The way horses are stylized can give you insight into the artist's opinion of horses. An artist with a neotenic, expressive stylization probably has more respect for horses-as-individuals than an artist who depicts them as inexpressive, powerful, willing beasts of burden.

Breyer horses have an airy painterly quality to them. Even the draft horses seem almost weightless. Compare Breyer's "George" with the self-released resin horse "Gustav," both sculpted by Brigitte Eberl.

George has much longer hooves and smoother curves in his legs - you could draw a near perfect curve from his hind knee to his toe -, giving him a flowing appearance with very little weight behind it. Gustav, on the other hand, has sharp edges and corners. He feels heavy. I'm a big fan of wrinkles and muscle on model horses, but the muscles on George seem like he's been through a rock tumbler. They're smooth and soft-looking, except for the extremely deep crevices between them, which are probably there to better catch paint and enhance the shading (an effect that's especially noticeable on George's thigh). Gustav, on the other hand, has very subtle muscling and virtually no wrinkles (he deserves neck wrinkles, give my boy neck wrinkles!!). He looks like a working horse with a solid layer of fat over his muscles. George's stylization is, for lack of a better word, smooth. Flawless. A bit too perfect for my liking. George is like the platonic ideal of a visually appealing draft horse. A horse like him can't exist.

I think resin horses by master craftsmen are the closest we'll get to depicting horses exactly as they are in life. The stylistic choices are extremely subtle, and seem more like a consequence of the medium than a deliberate goal on the artist's part (e.g., you can't make a realistic mane out of resin, so you have to compromise).

I love both the stylistic trappings that humans fall into when depicting horses and the endless quest for the perfect artistic representation of the horse. Both are beautiful. All horse art is beautiful.

(Obligatory disclaimer that I'm not an art historian or anthropologist, I literally studied bugs at university, so if you think I'm talking out of my ass you are MORE than welcome to add to this post!)

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Winter's King 15

No tag lists. Do not send asks or DMs about updates. Review my pinned post for guidelines, masterlist, etc.

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as noncon/dubcon, cheating, violence, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: You are a maid to the Duke of Debray, a lord of the Summer Kingdom. That is, until the king of Winter appears with his particular air of coldness. (Medieval AU)

Characters: Geralt of Rivia

Note: One more day and I'm a homeowner

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me.

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!) Please do not just put ‘more’. I will block you.

I love you all immensely. Take care. 💖

You slow to a crawl amid the retinue of carts and horses. The sun beams down relentlessly on the summer fields. As you laze in a sheen of sweat, Bryce works to tie a swath of linen over the cart in a makeshift canopy. You thank him for his effort, his own brow slick with sweat as he tugs at his mail. 

“I admit my winter’s hide is not made well for this sun,” he utters as he reaches to pet Daisy, the loyal steed tied to his new one as he rides in step with her. “Let’s hope we might reach the tundra in due time.” 

“Mm, it is rather hot,” you murmur, exhausted from the endless blaze. It’s three days thus far and many more ahead of you. 

“Little maid, cannot complain even when you should,” he tuts. 

The cart rolls on, rocking your body as the hooves clomp down on dusty grass. As the train passes over the lands, they leave a trodden path in their stead. The progress is steady but sluggish. 

The wheels creak and lurch to a halt as Bryce reins in both horses. You sit up and peer ahead, unable to see more than horse tails and overloaded carts, the helms of soldiers shining under the sun. The knight on his dark steed sits up straighter, alert as he leans forward. 

“Eh, maid, keep watch on the mare,” he tosses the reins at you as the royal party comes to a halt. 

His horse kicks up dirty as he gallops around the edge of the train. You watch him bend over the beast’s long neck and hurdle ahead of the clog of vehicles and bodies. Something is amiss. 

You wait, nervous, as other servants cluster together and wonder aloud. Soldiers mill up and down the winding retinue, themselves sharing no more than looks. You climb out of the cart and walk on your cramped legs. You stroke Daisy’s head as she huffs through her nostrils and nuzzles your shoulder. 

“I don’t know either,” you tell her softly. 

The pause stretches on and Bryce returns, his horse in a lather. He swings off and lands solidly on his feet. He looks between you and the grey mare. 

“Some hold-up, nothing to worry for,” he explains, “enough time to find some water for these beasts.” 

He takes Daisy’s reins and hands them to you, “come, there is a river near. I can smell it.” 

You peek ahead and squint. You don’t know that you believe it is nothing though you can’t find a reason to argue. You nod and tug on Daisy’s bit. 

The soldier leads you across the grass, well away from the front of the train. Others disperse to sit in the meadow and chew on their rations. You continue into the trees and the trickle of the promised water has Bryce proudly exclaiming. He weaves his way around the trunks to come upon the bank, putting his dark brown horse to drink. As the larger stallion laps noisily, Daisy lowers her head and patiently gulps up the ripples. 

“Where did you find Chestnut?” you ask. “He must be a castle horse.” 

“Aye, he was locked away in some stall. They said he is vicious. Due to be horse pie.” 

“Horse pie? But he is fast.” 

“They did not lie. He likes to nip,” Bryce warns as you step between the horse, “watch your fingers, mouse.” 

“Perhaps he only did not like being locked up,” you suggest and gently touch the horse’s long mane, working out a tangle in the hair. He doesn’t seem to notice. 

“Chestnut?” Bryce says, “you’ve given him a name of your own.” 

“You didn’t say if he had one,” you brush your hand over the fine short hairs along the horse’s shoulder. “I thought it suited him.” 

“Mm, I might call his Hellion but Chestnut is kinder, I s’pose.” 

You chuckle. The horse lifts its head and you near the river’s edge. It turns to sniff you and Bryce reaches for your arm. The horse drips water onto you as it sniffs your neck. It lifts its lip, showing its square teeth, then touches its nose to yours, turning back to the water to nicker. 

“Mm, you do have a way of taming the wildest creatures, eh,” he muses as he lets you go. “Come, I saw some berries back in the bush.” 

You leave the horses near the water and follow the soldier between the trees. As he squats to pluck out dark blackberries, you sway on your feet and glance back toward the road. 

“Why have we stopped, sir?” You ask. 

“Told ya, no matter to worry for,” he stands and offers you a handful, “be thankful for it. We’ve found a nice horde and it will do ya good to be out of the sun. And to eat.” 

You accept the bounty and frown. You know he isn’t telling you all but you know he wouldn’t do so without reason. You stand and pick at the berries, biting in hungrily as the juices coat your mouth. The soldier eats as he picks, plucking a few into his purse as well. 

“How do ya like squirrel meat?” He stands again, “I could find us a morsel for the evening fire. Perhaps a hare if I can.” 

“If you like, sir,” you accept. You chew your lip and search the trees. “Is there truly nothing wrong?” 

“I told ya not to worry,” he growls. “So don’t trouble yerself.” 

He beckons you back towards the river. You follow, not asking any more questions. It’s expected that the road won’t be easy, something just feels awry. 

⚔️

The party makes camp at the point of the delay. You return to the road as Bryce grumbles about the evening warmth. The dry heat lingers in the air even as the sun begins its descent. 

“Come, you will need look in on the queen, I’m certain,” he ties the horses to the cart and urges you along. 

You notice less soldiers as you stride through the train. It’s not so crowded as before. The missing bodies add to your uneasiness. Still, the queen’s tent has been erected and guards keep vigil right outside. You enter and find her alone. She has a veil over her hair as she taps the brim of a cup with her fingernail. 

“Alas, a maid!” She snaps as she sees you, “I’ve been calling for wine all night and those damned soldiers only bring me water.” 

“Your highness,” you back out of the tent. The soldiers do not move. 

You go to the luggage and search for a bottle. You grab one and return to the tent. The soldier at your right extends his arm before you can enter. 

“No wine,” he snatches the bottle, “king’s orders.” 

You blanch and look ahead at the silken flap. You nod and thank the soldier as he keeps the wine under his arm. You blow out between your breath and once more push through the draped fabric. 

“Your highness, there is to be no wine. The king has commanded it,” you say meekly. 

“Pardon me? Who are you to refuse me?” She stands and snarls. “My head is on fire, I need wine.” 

“Yes, your highness, but the king--” 

“I am the queen. My order is a good as his. Bring me wine. Now. You little twit.” 

You stare at her unmoving. 

“They won’t allow it, your highness--” 

A flurry of veil and skirts rushes towards you. Before you can react, a scalding heat radiates over your cheek, the force behind the queen’s slap rattling your head. You stagger back and clutch your head between your hands. 

“You stupid girl! I am the queen! You are a dumb maid!” She strikes you again, her hand glancing off your forearm, “stupid stupid twit!” 

She continues to hammer you with blows, closing her fists as she hits your shoulders and stomach. You shrink down, curling into yourself as you keep your head shielded. She huffs, tired from her assault, and twirls away. 

“I don’t want to see you unless you have a bottle in hand,” she snarls and kicks over the stool. “Go before I have you gutted.” 

You wine and stand straight, lip quivering. You turn and hold your left shoulder as it thrums. You step into the night air, aware that the soldiers could no doubt hear the queen’s fit. They say nothing and you don’t either. 

You continue through the train of bodies. You feel your cheek pulsing and your brow swelling. You keep your head down and as you reach the cart, you relieved to find it alone but for the two dozing horses. You climb up and turn towards the wooden wall, hiding against it as you hug the cushion. 

It isn’t so different from Debray, only that you don’t have Merinda to hold you, to share in your pain. You always preferred that it was you who faced the rather of the ladies. You only hope Lady Rezlyn isn’t issuing the same displeasure upon your companion. 

⚔️

The morning comes with the tweeting of birds and a distant rumble. You sit up and look towards the sky. There are no clouds to forewarn a storm. You stare into the horizon where the thunderous noise rolls over the plains. 

You see the figures on their approach. Men on horses. As soldiers rush to confront them, their alarm is eased by the wave of a familiar banner. It is the king and his party. 

Bryce grumbles as Daisy sniffs him and the coughs into his hand. He shakes his head as you lean out of the cart, watching the specks on the tapestry of green grass. You gasp as you feel him grip your wrist. 

“Eh, mouse, what’s happened to ya?” He demands as he pulls your attention back from the distance. 

You look at him and the tenderness in your cheek reminds you of the queen’s wrath. You wiggle free of his grasp and sit back against the side of the wagon. You shake your head. 

“I went to... the bushes to relieve myself, sir. I tripped.” 

He squints at you, his square jaw gritting. He stares daggers at you. You’re not a good liar but you can’t tell him the truth. 

“Tripped?” He echoes as his thick brows furrow. 

“Yes, sir, it was dark,” you say. “I’ll be alright.” 

“Mm, you look as if you were caught by a bear.” 

“Really, sir, I am well,” you put your head down. 

He growls under his breath and turns away. He fiddles around with his saddle bag before he returns to the cart. He reaches over the top, holding a folded cloth with an acrid smell roiling off of it. 

“Put it on ya face,” he demands. “It’ll soothe ya, make you a little less puffy.” 

“Thank you, sir.” 

“You don’t go trippin’ no more. If ya do, ya let me know,” he scowls. 

You nod, sinking into a tense silence. You both know it’s a lie but neither of you will admit it. You put the cloth to your cheek and exhale. It cools your skin though the smell burns your nose. 

⚔️

That night you don’t return to the queen’s tent. Bryce claims there’s no need for it. She needs her sleep, as do you. It’s another lie you won’t call out. 

Several days pass in the cart. Short nights followed by sweltering days. It’s as if there is no end to the road or the heat. 

You sit on your knees, looking ahead as Bryce chews sweet leaves and spits onto the ground. Daisy’s tail sweeps behind her as she keeps a steady trot. You watch the progress with impatience, each moment feeling more and more trapped in the cart. 

“...down in Debray...” you hear a voice drift back. 

“...don’t like traitors, suppose...” another returns and you search over the carts to try to place the speakers. 

“Careful, mouse,” Bryce warns, “you’ll fall under the wheels. 

You sit back and face him, holding onto the side of the cart, “sir, what happened?” 

“What do ya mean? We’ve been riding,” he sniffs. 

“No, days ago, when we stopped. Something... in Debray?” 

He grimaces and spits out the leaves completely. He shakes his head, clearing his throat. 

“Nothing a maid needs worry about,” he girds. 

“I know, sir, my apologies. I’m only curious...” you hang your head, “I... I was raised there, is all.” 

He hums and rocks with the motion of Chestnut’s steps, “skirmish up a ways. Party on their way to the castle. Certainly, you know your former master’s deceit has bought him little good will.” 

“A skirmish?” 

“Ah, so it was, but nothing very dire. The king returned in good spirits, that rat lord—the duke with him,” Bryce explains, “course, it only suits that the lord should see to the defence of his own castle.” He chortles, “shouldn’t tell ya, maid, so ya keeps your lips sealed, but the duke meant to hide in the queen’s tent.” He shakes his head and sighs, “in the Hinterlands, them sortsa lords aren’t lords for long.” 

“Mm,” you purse your lips thoughtfully, “but... but the duke, he helped end the war.” 

“By betraying his kingdom. We didn’t come to conquer; we came to unite. Turns out, there’s more fractures than those between winter and summer. Shoulda know by Yellow Waleran’s deeds.” 

“Yellow?” You wonder. 

“Mouse, it is a lot you needn’t worry for. All I can say is a king isn’t much of one if he don’t keep his word,” he sighs, “any lord or man lacks substance if he melts like ice.”  

You look down and watch Chestnut’s legs. You slant your lips. 

“King Geralt, did he have some agreement with Waleran then?” 

Bryce snorts, “too clever. Promises. Broken promises. Deadly things.” 

You nod and hold your chin, “and King Geralt, he is a good king?” 

“Do you not know by now?” He asks with a smirk, “he is a man who keeps his word. A man who fights for his people, not for gold and a name. No good winter lord would kneel to a man built on coin. Blood, that buys crowns. It buys loyalty.” 

You lower yourself onto your bottom and draw your knees up, “for his people?” 

“You heard him say it, you summer’s blood are one with us now. Once he has his heir, it will all be set in flesh. A prince to join the realm,” Bryce says, “let us hope he comes soon. The king’s done his part, he’s fought his battles, now it is up to your queen to claim her victory.” 

[farity]

Let’s Pretend

Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x you

Summary:  You suggest a pretend betrothal 

Warning:  Future Smut

.

“She is quite accomplished,” his mother was saying, listing every skill the young woman, currently pretending not to be aware of their conversation, was said to have. 

A servant took his empty dinner plate and Aemond noticed a small strip of paper left next to his wine cup.  He didn’t react, but looked around to see if anyone seemed to be expecting him to read it.  

There were visiting nobles, but other than the girl his mother clearly wanted him to speak to, he saw no one else that would pique his interest.  Pretending to be listening to his mother, he turned the little strip of paper over.

“West terrace, in grey.”

The handwriting was small and neat.  Feminine.  He crumpled the paper in his hand, felt for his dagger at his hip, and waited for a lull in the conversation to excuse himself.

“My prince?”

He turned to Ser Criston Cole, always alert for his family’s safety.  “Nothing to worry about, stay with the queen.”

He walked around the opposite side of the courtyard so he could survey the west terrace at his leisure and saw only one person sitting there.  She was writing something and not really paying attention but she was wearing a grey gown.  

* * * * * 

You saw the shadow falling over your notebook, then looked up into the face of prince Aemond Targaryen.  “Oh good, you made it.”

“Who are you and what do you want?”

You told him your name, ignoring the rudeness in his tone.  “I have an idea that may solve both our problems.”

His expression, a mixture of boredom and disdain, didn’t change, and he didn’t say anything in reply.

“I know the queen wishes for you to marry, yet you do not seem to be inclined to court anyone.  I want to be left in peace and quiet but after last month’s wedding, I am the last daughter left in my house, and soon they’ll trot me out like a prized mare at auction.”

When he still said nothing, you thought maybe this had been a bad idea.  But you’d started this conversation, and apparently you’d have to finish it.

“I suggest we form an attachment, only in pretense, of course.  Once it is known we are betrothed, the pressure will be off both our backs and we can continue our lives without the intrusion of others.”

He sat down facing you, looked from your face to the notebook where you’d been drawing.  “And why would I, a prince of the realm, in line to the throne, be betrothed to someone from a minor house, when we can gain much from a better alliance?”

You took a slow, deep breath, trying not to give into the urge to slap him.  “I am highly accomplished and learned, I excel at all the gentle arts - I embroider, weave, sing, dance, and play, I-”

“And draw,” he added, condescendingly.

You slammed your notebook shut.  “What I mean is, it is a perfect plan.  We live far apart, so it could be a long betrothal, and while I might be from a small house, we are an old lineage and have a very competent army..”

He leaned back, crossed his arms.  

Fine, if he didn’t want to go along, he didn’t have to.  “The prince wishes for his attentions to land on more exalted territory, I see.”

Aemond shrugged, not denying it.  “I am the son of the king.  Brother of the future king.”

You rolled your eyes.  “That is never going to protect you from being saddled with some obnoxious wife for the rest of your existence.”  There was nothing to it, then.  “But, I understand.  I only ask you keep this to yourself, as I have other names on my list and only two more days here to figure something out.”  You stood, gathering your pencils and eraser and took a step toward the staircase.

The prince’s hand shot out and grabbed your wrist.

* * * * * 

He remembered her now.  He had met her before, the smallest of five children, one boy and four girls.  She was usually trying to catch up to her siblings and Aegon had pulled her hair once.  

Aemond knew well he was expected to marry, and to do so for the benefit of his house.  He would do his duty, of course, but none of the ladies at court, nor the visiting nobles, had made a good impression on him.  Not to mention half of them could barely manage to look at him and keep the fear and disgust from their expressions.

Her plan was a sound one, except for the part where sooner or later they would either have to marry, which would ruin the purpose of the whole thing, or end their betrothal, which would put them back at the beginning. 

But it would buy him time.  Time to maybe find a suitable wife.  Time for Aegon to find his way.  Not that he ever expected that to happen, but time might help.

He pictured her on his arm, standing next to him, underneath him in bed, and made an impulsive decision.

She looked down at the hand around her wrist and then back at him.  “Prince Aemond?”

“You will burn your list,” he said, the sudden thought of her on anyone else’s arm making his stomach twist.  “and I will make it known I am courting you.”

“How are you going to make it-”

He pulled her to him, grabbed the back of her head with his other hand and kissed her.  Her lips were soft and sweet, and she made a little sound of surprise that went straight to his cock.  He heard her book and other things falling to the floor, as well as the whispers of people witnessing the scene.  He was still holding on to her wrist but he felt her other hand touching his face, the side with the scar.  For a moment he panicked, wondering if this was where she’d realize her mistake and run away, and he deepened the kiss, his tongue sweeping in to taste her while he could.

Instead of running away she pressed herself against him, and Aemond realized he had to stop.  He grabbed her arms and ended the kiss and saw the confusion in her eyes when he pulled back.  “Take my arm and come with me.”

“My things,” she said absently.

“I’ll send a servant.”

* * * * * 

By the time you retired to your chambers, it was all over the keep.  People were looking at you, whispering, pretending to ignore you.  The queen kept giving you appraising looks while the princess Helaena waved at you and smiled.  

“My daughter, have you something to tell me?”

Your father’s voice startled you as you finished an earlier sketch.

“Father,” you said, “it appears I have caught the attention of Prince Aemond.”

“As long as that’s all you’ve caught.”

“What?”

“What?”

Your father shook his head.  “How long has this been going on?” he sat next to you, his expression kind as always.  “He should have spoken to me before he approached you.”

“I think rules are different for the Targaryens. father,” you hated lying to your father, but you weren’t going to be married off to some strange lord who might be an abuser or worse.  “I am sure he will speak to you soon.”

He kissed your forehead, then started heading out.  “But tell me this,” he said suddenly, turning around, “do you like him?”

Oh good gods.

“Father, I do not think one likes Aemond Targaryen.  One may respect and appreciate him, and you know me, I much admire learning.”  You smiled at him, hoping he was convinced.

“Uh-huh.”

“Good night, father.”

You waited until the door closed behind him to exhale.  Two days.  You just had to get through two days and then you would be back home.  You stared down at your notebook and scratched out the drawing you’d been working on.

* * * * * 

“The Queen wishes to see you.”

You knew this was coming but to be summoned to the queen’s presence was unnerving enough that you had to take a couple of deep breaths before walking in.

The queen sat behind a desk, her father standing to one side, Aemond to the other.  Your father stood across the desk, and he nodded at you as you came in.

You curtsied deeply to queen Alicent, then took the chair next to your father’s.  

“My son has shared with me the affection and admiration he has for you,” the queen began, “something he has, clearly, managed to keep completely secret.”

“Your father has agreed to the terms and the dowry he will provide on the day of the wedding, as well as the vow to provide military support if needed.”  Ser Otto Hightower looked at your father, and continued.  “Prince Aemond wanted to present you with a betrothal gift before you depart tomorrow, and you are expected to dine with us tonight.”

Oh.

Aemond walked up to you, opened a small box that revealed a pendant with a sapphire in the center.  “May I?”

You smiled up at him, “of course.  Thank you,” you turned, lifting your hair so he could place the delicate necklace on you.  You felt his fingertips brush against the back of your neck and barely managed to contain a shiver.  

“It is beautiful,” you added, looking down to admire the sparkling jewel.

Aemond took your hand and kissed it.  “It suits you.  Will you walk with me?”

You nodded, and left the room on his arm.

Once the door closed behind you you blew out a breath and let him lead you outside the main building. 

“Do you think they believed you?”

“I do not care,” he shrugged, “all that matters is that they accepted my request and made the necessary arrangements.  You are still leaving tomorrow?”

Did he want you gone already?

“Yes, of course.”

You noticed the looks from people you passed, deferential toward Aemond, and a mixture of pity and confusion toward you.  Frankly, you didn’t care.  Your plan had worked, you could enjoy a few months of freedom, and then you would figure out what to do.

Aemond guided you around a corner and past a series of statues.  “In a few weeks I will visit you.  It would be appropriate and we can talk more about how to proceed.”

“Dear brother.”

Aemond stopped and you turned at the sound of prince Aegon’s voice.  He was leaning against one of the parapets, half shielded by the side of the wall.

“You’ve been keeping this little morsel hidden.”  His eyes went from the top of your head to the bottom of your dress, lingering on your breasts.  “I can see why.”

“Your Highness,” you said politely, your fingers tightening on Aemond’s arm.  

“This is all very sudden, isn’t it?” Aegon added, then glanced at your belly.  “Do not tell me you are in a delicate state.”

Aemond stepped forward.  “Of course not.  If you will excuse us, brother.”

You could feel Aegon’s eyes on your ass as you walked past him, resisted the urge to turn around.  Aemond pulled you closer to him.  “Is that what people think?  That I am with child?” you asked as you turned a corner onto an empty hallway.

“Does it matter?”

You stopped, letting go of Aemond’s arm.  “Well, yes, but eventually people will know it is not true,” you mused, and caught him looking down at your stomach.  “What?”

“Nothing.”  He offered his arm again and you took it.  

“I will see you at dinner, then.”

Aemond looked down at you before stopping close to your chambers.  “Wear the pendant from now on.”

“I have some other jewelry that will be more suitable-”

He stopped and pulled sharply on your arm, making you turn around to face him.  “If I say wear the pendant, then you wear the pendant.  It is a gift from your betrothed and if we are to signify that you are mine then you must be mine in every way that can be perceived.  You will wear the pendant every day, back home and here, you will write to me every other day and you will speak of the love you have for me to every person you fucking meet.”

Your eyes widened as he pressed you against the stone wall.  “You wanted this and while I agreed, I will also make sure that you do things the way I want them done.  I have done my part to ensure the news was made public-”

“By kissing me,” you said curtly, and his eye went straight to your mouth.

“Yes,” he said, lowering his voice.  “It was quick and efficient, was it not?”  He leaned in, the tip of his nose brushing against your cheek.  “The work of but a few seconds and an hour later the whole keep knew.”

He was warm, impossibly warm, his body almost covering you completely, and he began nuzzling your neck.  “They will say they one-eyed prince has found happiness at last,” he murmured, and you closed your eyes.  “The prince without a dragon now has both the greatest dragon of all and a beautiful wife.”

When he raised his head, you looked up at him and it was the most natural thing in the world to let him kiss you.  

* * * * * 

He had to stop.  He kept telling himself just a few more seconds, but it kept getting more difficult to let go of her and in the end he had to shove away from her.  Her cheeks were pink and she was breathing hard and now that he knew how she tasted he wanted more.  

“Go change for dinner,” he said sharply, and turned to leave.

Aemond made his way to his chambers, throwing his weapons down with more force than necessary as he changed clothes.

She’d be gone tomorrow and he wouldn’t have to worry about her.

He sat by the hearth, realizing he didn’t want her to go.  He threw off his jacket, disgusted with himself.  He barely knew the girl, was this really going to be a problem?  She was the fourth daughter from a barely relevant house, she wasn’t particularly beautiful or tall or graceful or had any distinctive feature that put her above other ladies.  Once she was gone he wouldn’t think about her, wouldn’t recall the sweet taste of her lips or the scent of her skin.

He sat there for a few minutes before he realized he had been rubbing his fingertips over his lips for who knew how long, and wished it was already tomorrow.

* * * * * 

Dinner was eternal, you decided later as you let the maid help you with your dress.  Aemond had stared at you as you had walked in, and you had no idea if he was pleased with how you looked or thought you looked like a nightmare.  He didn’t say anything, either, which didn’t help.

Your father seemed to enjoy himself, which at least made the whole thing just slightly worth it.  

You’d go home tomorrow, which frankly, would be a respite from all the pretense and lies and all of it.  You’d write to Aemond as he’d requested, that would be easy enough, although what you were supposed to write you had no idea because you barely knew him but you would think of something.  He hadn’t said if he would write back, though.  

As you slipped under the covers, you thought back to the kiss he’d given you this afternoon and the harsh way he’d ended it.

* * * * * 

“We will be expecting you back for Aemond’s name day,” the queen said, “it will be good for you to become familiar with court life, being from such a faraway land as you are.”

She made it sound like you were from Essos, but you smiled and curtsied and then went up to Aemond, who was standing by the carriage with your father.

He extended his hand as your father walked into the carriage and you took it.  He kissed your cheek, a chaste kiss unlike the previous two you’d shared.  “When I get back to my mother’s side I want you to stop the carriage and run up to embrace me.”  He pulled back and helped you get inside next to your father, and then began walking back.

You waved at everyone and sat back, keeping an eye on Aemond.  The carriage started and once he was almost at his mother’s side, you hit the ceiling of the carriage.  “Stop!”

You race out of the carriage toward Aemond, who catches you as you throw yourself at him and wrap your arms around him.  You hear a sound of disapproval from the queen and ignore it completely, because Aemond’s mouth is on yours and he’s holding you tightly and now you really don’t want to leave.

But he pulls back and when he looks at you, he only nods, so you smile and turn around to get back in the carriage, and wonder if what you are feeling is going to get much worse.

* * * * * 

@arryn-nyx​   @  girlwith-thepearlearring    @greenowlfactif  @hydrationqueensworld    @megzdoodle   @melsunshine  @queenofshinigamis     @throughgoeshamilton   @travelingmypassion    @watercolorskyy

@hb8301   @kaemond-zafiro    @arcielee

[whyisaravenlike-awritingdesk]

Hold Me Like A Knife (i) (ao3)

In the words of our lord and saviour Taylor Swift, it's been a long time coming but... presenting, for @nessianweek day 4, viking!Cassian 🖤

After a decisive battle forges a peace treaty between the king of the West Saxons and the leader of the viking horde, Anglo-Saxon Nesta Archeron is brought north for the first time in her life when the king’s court travels to Jorvik to settle the terms and draw up boundary lines. After centuries of bloody raids, she should be terrified of the invaders from across the sea— after all, tales abound of their violence and their brutality. And yet quickly she discovers that there are some things about the heathens that she can’t help but be drawn to… especially when a chance encounter brings her face to face with one viking in particular. 

Jorvik, 884 AD

In nomine patris, et filli et spiritus sancti.

With each step of the horses’ hooves beyond the borderlands of Wessex, the priest muttered those same words; a prayer offered at every turn, the sign of the cross made with stiff hands and a darkened brow as mile after mile gave way beneath their feet. Through the countryside and long grass, beneath the grey sky that loomed heavy above, the king’s court made its way north— and all the while, Osbert the Holy Man whispered. 

In nomine patris, et filli et spiritus sancti.

Like the ground itself was cursed, and only his prayers could save them. 

It was maddening.

With a scowl, Nesta Archeron cast her eyes to the sky, rolling her eyes as Osbert began another rotation of prayers, his fingers tripping over the rosary at his neck. 

She hadn’t ever wished to head north.

It was full of wild-men, her father used to say. Wild-men with bloodied swords and even bloodier hands, invaders who set fire to the coast and laughed as it burned. Men from across the sea, who spoke in strange tongues and worshipped strange gods, who murdered priests and monks and nuns only to revel in the violence. From the places civilisation had forgotten to reach, he said, they made their home beneath grim skies on stolen Saxon land.

Nobody wanted to head north these days.

Even the horses had slowed their pace, like after days of traveling they were reluctant, now, to reach their destination. Nesta scanned the landscape with narrowed eyes as her grey mare shook her head, the reins she’d held so loosely for the past hour becoming taut, and though Nesta hadn’t spoken to her father in two whole summers, his words came back to her now, as if carried by the wind that blew cold towards the south. Aedwulf had said many things over the years that Nesta had stopped believing in, but he had gotten one thing right. The skies were grim up here, overcast and heavy, the clouds like a swathe of slate rolling in from across the sea. The April sun was well hidden, and as the bite of the wind numbed her cheeks, it made her think of the depths of winter rather than the first breaths of spring. With another scowl aimed at the sky, Nesta pulled her fur-edged cloak more closely about her shoulders, the tips of her fingers aching as she clung to the fabric.

For what must have been the hundredth time, she cursed the day they’d left Wessex.

Ahead of her, as the sun made a rare appearance from behind the clouds, the gold of the king’s crown glinted weakly, like a spark attempting flame. She wondered if anybody else had noticed that the garnets studding the band about his temples gleamed dark like pools of fresh blood; reminiscent of the battles that had brought them here.

Their side will be known as the Danelaw, the king had announced after the last pitched battle; the one that had ended with weapons on both sides laid down, a tentative peace agreed as the Norse leader had the sign of the cross traced on his brow with holy water. They will have their own laws and customs, but their leader will be baptised a Christian.

With that hammered diadem about his brow, King Alfred led his court north now, chasing peace as they neared the city of Jorvik, where the pagan lands were to be ratified; the boundaries between their peoples hammered out like a sword fresh from the forge. The women, Alfred had insisted, were to be present too - to add ‘an air of civility’ to the proceedings, like he thought the Danes might stay their hand and sheathe their blades in the presence of ladies. 

Nesta had barely been able to suppress her snort at that.

They’d all heard the stories— gruesome ones, of the pagans and their rituals. Tomas had even taken great pleasure, once, in describing to her, in detail, the horrifying blood eagle. The way the Danes delighted in breaking a man apart, in snapping bone and twisting ribs until they spread apart like wings.

If the treaty between them wasn’t enough to ensure peace and prevent violence, Nesta doubted the presence of a handful of noblewomen would be enough to convince the Danes to behave.

And yet as the wife of the king’s right hand, Nesta had no refusal she could offer, and no reason good enough to keep her in Wessex when the king insisted that his court accompany him north— to that lawless place, where even the soil was saturated with Saxon blood.

Or so it was said, anyway. 

“We used to call it Eoforwic, you know,” Tomas muttered from the space beside her.

Her husband’s voice was a scathing rasp barely even audible above the sound of a hundred horses’ hooves. He looked ahead at the horizon, nodding to the city walls before them now, piercing the sky in a great wooden structure, stark against the grey of the countryside. Even from a distance Nesta could see that the ramparts were topped with wooden spikes, sharpened to a point that, she suspected, would be lethal if climbed. And yet, riding at her husband’s side, Nesta Archeron said nothing.

“And then the heathens took over,” he finished through gritted teeth. 

The heathens.

The word was almost enough to drive fear into the heart of any proper Saxon woman, but as they approached the gates in the long train behind the king, Nesta didn’t feel so much as an ember of it stirring in her breast. After all, for almost two full decades now the heathens had occupied the city that had been Eoforwic, and yet by all accounts the city behind those walls wasn’t lying in ashes like the monasteries scattered along the coastline.  No— it was flourishing. The men from across the sea that had raided these shores for so many years, to murder and pillage and burn, had settled. Renamed the place Jorvik, set down roots. And as the gates before them opened with the sound of creaking wooden beams, Nesta waited for all the signs of such infamous brutality to hit her— the smoke and dead silence, the smell of rotting flesh. The empty eyes of the people living behind those walls, the cruel smiles of the men from across the sea.

Without pause her horse crossed the threshold. She looked up— saw the symbols carved into the gate posts, the sharp lines of an alphabet she didn’t recognise. 

And still, she waited.

There were no screams, no rivers of blood pooling in the streets.

Instead, Jorvik stretched ahead of them, the roads wide enough for carts to pass two abreast.

Wattle and daub houses lined the roads, old Roman tiles decorating the walls of a select few— as well as old bricks and white stone, repurposed and used again, like the Danes hadn’t destroyed the city at all, merely… expanded on what they had already found. Woven fences separated buildings, clothes hung on lines strung in the narrow alleys between houses, and all around them the air was filled with languages that landed strangely on the ear, tongues both harsh and soft that Nesta had never heard before. Not the Saxon she was used to nor the Latin she heard in church, but something else, something that felt richer, somehow. And as she watched with a slackened jaw and widened eyes, her attention followed the sound of those voices, her focus dragged towards the river where the ships came in, laden with goods imported from all over the continent and beyond. 

Nesta had only ever seen her corner of Wessex before, but here— here it seemed like the entire world opened up before her. 

And though she knew she shouldn’t…

She wanted to see more of it.

With her eyes fixed on that river, on the horizon that seemed to hold so much in the way of promise, a kind of longing rose within her, and suddenly Nesta thought she understood just a little of why the Danes chased their home on the seas. 

Beneath it all, in the distance, there was the tell-tale sound of a forge at work too, the clatter of a hammer against an anvil. As it rang through the winding streets, she couldn’t help but wonder what kind of blade the smithy was beating into shape. Would it be great and heavy when it was done— as grand as the king’s own sword, kept in its sheath until battle called? Or would it be practical and small, light enough for even her own hands to wield—

“Nesta,” Tomas hissed at her side, little more than a scold as he leaned over and took the reins of her horse in his gloved hand. The horse whinnied, like even the mare couldn’t stand his closeness. “Did you hear a word I just said?”

“No,” Nesta shrugged, her eyes drifting back to the river, to the lines of ships gathered there. Ships that sat low in the water, heavy with stock. Ships that were wide and flat-bottomed, so unusual she couldn’t look away.

“I said, the pagans are too brazen. This was a Christian city.” 

He pulled away, shoving the reins back into her hands as he sat back in his saddle, his lip curling in disgust. His features twisted into a grimace; a sneer that held as his eyes roved over Jorvik’s streets. 

“Barbarous,” Osbert muttered, scowling as he rubbed a thumb over the cross he wore at his neck. “A violent and brutish people.”

Tomas hummed his agreement. The priests’s white robes fluttered in the wind, and Nesta glanced at the mud-spattered hem as the priest ran a thin hand over his tonsured head. His face was stark, all bloodless cheeks and dark eyes, and though she hadn’t ever been able to put a finger on it, there was something about the holy man that unnerved her, made her shudder whenever she found herself too close to him.

And she had been too close to him for days now.

Osbert had been by the king’s side almost as long as Tomas, and had struck up a companionship with her husband that meant the priest was frequently lingering in their rooms at court, never too far from the side of either the king or her husband. Both men rode directly behind King Alfred now, in a position of prominence that spoke to their influence, and as the streets of Jorvik grew even wider, leading them easily to an open courtyard close to the centre of the city, Nesta wondered how easy it might be to slip from her horse and disappear through those streets, never to see either of those men again.

Before she could let the thought take root, the king stopped his horse.

Ahead of them a great hall loomed; a towering wooden structure with two floors, its thatched roof a meeting of two large, carved wooden beams at the front— two serpents twining at the apex where they crossed.

The lord’s hall.

They could get no closer— the door was closed, the windows of the ground floor shuttered. Nesta frowned, taking in the crowd that had gathered before that closed door, assembled in a circle to leave a great space empty in the centre of the courtyard. At least fifty Danes she counted, all of them waiting, she thought, for the arrival of the King of Wessex.

But then there was the sound of steel ringing out upon steel, and as the crowd before them parted to let the horses through, Alfred’s trail of Saxons caught their first glimpse of the spectacle taking place just a stone’s throw from the lord’s hall and it’s resolutely closed door. As the spectators closed the circle behind them, she realised that the Danes weren’t there for Alfred at all. 

At the centre of that circle, two Danes prowled around one another like wolves. Nesta felt her eyes widen— her knuckles tighten on her horse’s reins. 

The nearest Dane towered above the rest, his skin like burnished bronze even in the dim grey light. In one hand he held a great steel sword— in the other, a short-handled axe. A seax. He wore a thin tunic, already clinging to his skin, and his hair curled haphazardly to his shoulders. Around his neck a silver pendant hung in the shape of a hammer, and when he lunged it danced, catching the thin light as much as his sword. The second Dane was similarly built, yet lighter on his feet and a touch more lithe, and as a manic grin split across the face of the first, a whisper rippling along the gathered crowd as coins exchanged hands, Nesta realised that the crowd had gathered to place their bets— to watch the fight like one might listen to a minstrel. 

The second Dane tilted his head, his raven hair cut short, and when he turned Nesta saw the smile that pulled at his mouth, like the fight… excited him.

Like there was no malice in it.

Like it was… fun.

The first was handsome in a rugged kind of way, a single scar splitting through his eyebrow and a hundred more littering the arms laid bare by his rolled-up sleeves. Tattoos snaked their way across his skin, shifting with each flex of muscle, and it was an effort to tear her eyes away from him, like somehow she needed to discover just how he’d earned each and every one of those scars. 

As the second Dane moved into her line of vision, she noticed that he had scars too— far more brutal ones that consumed both his hands, like he’d been caught in a fire. Like perhaps he’d started the kind of fire his people were so infamous for, burning down monasteries up and down the eastern coast. 

Nesta blinked once. Twice.

The first Dane dropped his sword to the ground, letting it clatter against the packed earth. He flipped his axe, clever fingers wrapping around the hilt as he crooked the fingers of his other hand in invitation. He murmured something in his native tongue, and Nesta tilted her head as he grinned again, shifting his weight and readying himself to make the next strike. The second smiled grimly, and even though both were already marred with blood - and a thin cut left a trail of blood weeping along the arm of the first - neither seemed particularly concerned. Like a little bloodshed was nothing.

The first wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and grinned as that, too, came away smeared with blood. 

“Barbarous,” the priest muttered again.

“Brutish,” Tomas agreed, an echo. 

The sun broke from behind the clouds, briefly illuminating the fighters in gold. They wore no armour, and Nesta’s mouth felt dry as she watched the first one fight, his arms corded with muscle that she suspected could break a man’s neck with ease. And he did make it lookeasy, the way he lifted his axe. The way he swept forward, dipping low enough to the ground to pluck up his discarded sword. 

The second warrior held his own, just as adept, but when the first landed a kick to his thigh that sent him stumbling—

Within a breath, the first Dane had his blade levelled at the neck of the second.

For a moment, Nesta’s heart was in her throat.

Here was the bloodshed— the easy violence that made the Danes so fearsome.

Would the first one cut the second’s throat with that smile still plastered on his face? Would he make that look easy too, when he opened his fellow countryman’s neck? 

Nesta held her breath.

Waited.

But after a moment, the first tossed his head back and laughed, grinning at his victory as his curls spilled across his shoulders. Then he extended a hand, helping the second to his feet even as the latter muttered something under his breath that Nesta couldn’t understand— something she suspected might have been good-natured grumbling after a fight lost between friends. 

Their hands clasped; all blood-stained skin and scars. 

“Next time,” she heard the second warrior say darkly, his chest rising and falling rapidly after the exertion of the fight. “Next time, It’ll be you on the floor.”

The first grinned, his victory lining his face with mirth. He opened his mouth, his dark eyes shining, but before he could speak, the doors to the hall behind them opened. Silence fell as a figure filled the doorway, dressed in deep black that almost made him one with the shadows of the hall behind, and as the warriors sheathed their blades, Nesta noted how the smile on the mouth of the first refused to fade, even in the presence of what was surely his lord.

“King Alfred.” The figure in the doorway stepped further into the grey light, his voice smooth and lilting beneath his accent, and as the weak sunlight glanced off the sharp planes of his face and illuminated the angular cut of his jaw, he looked like a man entirely content with command. His hair was smooth and black, kept short, and the deep black of his tunic was interrupted only by the silver rings on each of his fingers and the silver torc about his wrist.

“Lord Rhysand,” Alfred answered, his voice tight even as they met under the banner of peace. Tension wove through them like a breeze; the treaty between them hardly stronger than a reed in the river. Animosity was buried too deep, mistrust a currency of its own between their peoples. No matter what peace their leaders had agreed, Nesta hardly thought any of them were fooled.

Peace was a powder keg, just waiting for a spark.

Still, the leader of the Danes made a show of flashing a smile towards the Saxons. 

“Ignore my brothers,” he said, flicking a hand towards the two warriors they had witnessed sparring. “As Danes, the fight is embedded in our blood. We train for hours against one another,” he continued as he moved with purpose down the three steps that led up to the hall’s imposing door. His eyes glinted with something like arrogance as he canted his head, slowly, to the side. “To achieve the kind of prowess that wins our battles.”

Unease whispered through the gathered crowd, the smile on the first warrior’s face dropping to a darkened smirk as he looked up at the assembled Saxons from beneath his eyelashes. His hand shifted— fingers twitching towards the handle of his seax.

There was a threat there, Nesta thought, left so thinly veiled by Rhysand’s words. 

Alfred said nothing, only nodded sagely before glancing back, briefly, at his priest. Osbert’s scowl had deepened, his lips pressed so thin they were almost entirely invisible, and yet with a nod, both men’s horses stepped forwards anyway. The King of Wessex slid to his feet when his horse stopped in the centre of the courtyard, opening his arms in a show of perfect companionship as he walked towards the Danish lord.

It was a display Rhysand echoed, clasping Alfred’s hand as they embraced. The silver of his rings contrasted the gold of Alfred’s, and though no crown encircled Rhysand’s brow, authority rippled from him in waves. The warriors he had called his brothers took up a position on either side of their lord, like dark shadows that threatened violence, and as the rest of the crowd dispersed and serving men stepped forward to take their horses, they watched.

Smoothly, Nesta dismounted and handed her reins to a waiting groom. Beside her, Tomas still scowled, like just breathing the same air as the northmen was an affront to him. But then again, Nesta thought silently, most things proved an affront to Tomas Mandray. Even being one of the king’s right-hand men wasn’t enough for him. That scowl was permanently etched across his brow, like nothing and nobody was ever truly good enough.

Lifting her chin, Nesta straightened the silver rings that wound around her fingers. A sure sign of wealth— as sure as the belt at her waist decorated with gold, and the gold and garnet-inlaid brooches that held her cloak together at her collarbone. Tomas’ proximity to the king might not have given him land or a real title, but at least it had given him some wealth, and if gold and garnets were the only thing Nesta was to get out of this godforsaken marriage… well. 

She smoothed a hand down her cloak. 

So be it.

He left her standing alone as he drifted towards the king, a Saxon in a Norse stronghold. His gait was heavy as he stormed forwards, his hand on the hilt of the sword at his hip, and as their leaders spoke together with heads bowed, voices too low for Nesta to hear, all she could do was clasp her hands and wait for somebody - anybody - to show her to their lodgings. It took effort, sometimes, to keep her tongue behind her teeth. To keep from screaming as the rest of the king’s court moved to make way for the men, whilst the women lingered in the dust. 

She looked forward, cast her eyes over the Danes that remained standing before the lord’s hall. The warrior with the curling hair and scar-split brow glanced up, a soft breeze shifting those loose curls back to reveal both the high cut of his cheekbones and the curve of his ear, studded at several points with silver rings. His arms were folded over his broad chest, and when his eyes flicked to hers, Nesta felt his attention as sharply as the blade of the seax he had tucked into his belt. 

He was from another world— one so foreign to her that she didn’t know what to do when their eyes met, and yet there was something warm in it when he smirked again, a base heat that gathered at the bottom of her spine, constricting her lungs as she kept her head high. With a jolt that sent lightning forking down her spine, that mouth of his split into a grin as he inclined his head towards her in greeting.

“Come,” Rhysand announced, his voice echoing through the courtyard as he drew away from Alfred. With a sweep of one arm, he motioned broadly to the open door of the hall. “Let us get the business over with. The sooner it is done, the sooner we can drink.”

Several of the Danes let out a low cheer at that, more than one of them lifting an arm into the air as if to appease their gods. Skol, one of them proclaimed loudly, hammering a fist against his chest. 

Nesta didn’t pretend to understand, but as Rhysand led Alfred through that door, Osbert and Tomas in tow, she lingered in that courtyard, even as the cold air nipped at her skin. And as Tomas looked back over his shoulder and called her name with irritation lining each syllable, she looked back to the Dane that had snared her attention and watched as his lips kicked up at one corner, his head tilted as he looked at her with the full force of that determined gaze.

And as she watched, the Dane winked.

“Skol,” he echoed. 

Taglist: @asnowfern @podemechamardek @c-e-d-dreamer @lady-winter-sunrise @starryblueskies7 @melphss @sv0430 @that-little-red-head @misswonderflower @fwiggle @tanishab @xstarlightsupremex @burningsnowleopard @hiimheresworld @wannawriteyouabook @hereforthenessian @valkyriesupremacy @kale-theteaqueen @moodymelanist @talkfantasytome @pyxxie

[ihatebottles]

hi! happy season 8!!! or 11 if you go by broadcast

i made a list of all the programming bender scrolls past on their TV in episode 141:

Cosinefeld

Jupiter’s Next Top Model

Shatner’s Creek

Friends Reunion Reunion

The Steady-State Universe Theory

Unexplained Friday Night Lights

Mets vs. Godzilla

Next Week Yesterday

The [“A” in Alien Language 1]-Team

TruthBusters

Regular Ghost: Coast to Coast

Downton Crabby

Wide Wide World of Quarks

Star Trek: The Original Reboot

Disenpantment

The Mare of Neutropolis

Better Call Cthulhu

A Quiet Place: Live!

The Queen’s 8-bit

Plaid Programming

The Marvelous Mrs. Poopenmeyer

Buckminster Full House

Fonfon Ru Crashers

Stanley Tucci: Searching for Alderaan

The Sex Lives of Amazonian Women

π‘s Company

Melllvar Place

Alien vs. Predator vs. Bluey

Queer Eye for the Straight Line Segment

America Lacks Talent

Say No to the Overalls!

Married with Pupae

The Sims’ Sons

Infomercial: The Bowflexo

Fleaborg

Pimp My Hovercraft

Grey Alien’s Anatomy

The Botfather

Family Gorn

Will and Grkrk

0.999 [repeating] Full House

Sandcrab and Son

All in the Phylum

Look Who Glorbin’ 2

30 Rock from the Sun

American Holo Story

Back to the Present

M*A*T*H

The Best Dental Dam Show Period

CSI: Ceta Alpha Ⅴ

Just Disruptor Blast Me

News at √11

The Lego NewsHour

Rick & Morky

Everybody Loves Raygun

Halitos15

Blasterpiece Theatre

Frank Herbert’s Name That Dune

TCU Hypnotoads vs. Georgia Bullfrogs

Two and a Third Mutants

SporkCenter

Fargo But In Space

Quantum Nonlocal News

Smizmar Island

NYPD Ultraviolet

Yak Chat

Monday Night Rollerball

and the stuff that’s onscreen when fry is looking at fulu:

People Who Enjoy Mediocre Dramas Also Enjoy…

Slurm Dog Millionaire

Stranger Fonts

Smelly in Paris

Geiger King

The Clampmaid’s Tale

Things We Claim Are Trending

How I Met Your Smizmar

Only Murders in the Hoverdome

The Great Neptunian Bam-Off

The Scary Mirror

Humorbot 5.0 Stand-Up Special

Top Hits

Blob’s Burgers

Head Lasso

Real Housecats of Thuban 9

It’s Always Sunny on Mercury

Green-ish

[atomic--peach]

Her Grace's Handmaiden

Imagine being Queen Cersei's favorite handmaiden Pt.2

AO3 VERSION: https://archiveofourown.org/works/48276340

(Cersei x fem reader, slight Sandor x fem reader if you like it like that. I've decided this is going to be a series that will go into smutty territory eventually, but it'll definitely be a slow burn)

The ride north was an unforgiving one. Being lowborn, you had only admired horses from afar before being expected to ride in the Queen's entourage. Side saddle riding protected your modesty and spared your thighs the chafing that the Male riders suffered, but your lower back and shoulders ached all the same.

The queen rode in a lavish carriage with her three children, guarded closely on either side by Ser Jaime and Sandor Clegane.

Due to your inexperience riding and your new found favor with her grace, you were instructed to ride along side The Hound, who was under orders to keep any eye on you and intervene if the mare beneath you proved too rowdy.

It was clear that The Hound resented this duty, already having to keep an eye on the young Prince Joffery, who alternated between riding in the carriage and mounting his own steed. A bright white and rowdy gelding that was the torment of the other horses in the party. It nipped and whinied, trotting circles around the group in a foppish, showy manner.

The Hound, on the other hand, mounted a broad bodied horse that was black as midnight with a coal grey mane named Stranger.

As the prince took another lap, the white gelding nipped at the hindquarters of your mare for what must have been the fifth or sixth time that day. The mare, tired and frustrated with this harassment, finally decided to voice her displeasure by baying loudly and bouncing her back legs enough to bounce you around.

"No, no Girl. Whoa, stop stop stop" you squealed, pulling at the reins with as much force as you dared but the horse was too fed up to mind.

"Stop! Stop the carriage" a firm and regal voice put a halt to the party as Clegane snatched the reigns from your grasp and managed to settle the mare back into submission.

"Mother's Mercy!" A gruff voice growled, accompanied by the heavy trot of hooves. King Robert's face was red as a cherry from drink and frustration as he glared at the queen. "If you keep holding us up, Winterfell will be snowed in before we even get there!"

"I apologize, Your Grace" You bowed your head, face flushed with embarrassment. "It was my fault, I failed to control my mount. My deepest apologies."

Robert's eyes rolled nearly back to his skull with a begrudging sigh before flinging a finger at Clegane.

"You, Hound, let the girl ride with you and have that beast tethered to a wagon"

He tossed a glare back at the queen, a look which said 'you just had to bring her, didn't you?' Before returning to his place in the party.

"I'm sorry" you nearly whispered, tailing the gargantuan man as he tether the horse in brooding silence.

Heading back to Stranger, you nearly cried out as Clegane snatched the softness of your arm and all but dragged you up onto the horse in front of him. His grip was bruising and you had to force yourself not to rub the part where he snatched you like a hawk snatches a rabbit.

"Not one word" he growled "or I'll toss you from this horse and let you walk to Winterfell."

You rode until dusk, and your body didn't relax until you were safely once again on solid ground.

Once again, The Hound dismounted first before he gripped you by the waist, hard fingers pressing into the soft flesh under your riding clothes, and all but dragged you off the horse where you landed with a wobble of your knees.

"Y/N, To me" your mistress called and you rushed to her side immediately.

"Yes, Your Grace" your curtsey suffered from the weakness in your legs, but the Queen hardly seemed to notice.

"You had us worried there" She looked down at you with unreadable eyes, "You'll have to improve your riding if you wish to keep up"

"I will, Your Grace. Thank you"

"Take my things inside" she motioned vaguely to the inn at which you had stopped for the night. "Just follow King Robert's squire, he'll show you. Then come back for the children's things"

"Immediately, Your Grace"

The work was arduous, and by the time you finished it was past dark. The inn provided food and housing for the higher members of the entourage, but at The Queen's insistence you were to sleep at the foot of her bed as you did in The Red Keep.

Robert was apathetic to this. Ser Jaime, to your surprise, seemed genuinely disappointed by this and approached the queen when they thought they had a moment in private, not knowing you were settling the queen in as they spoke

"Don't worry" Cersei assured him "I'll just send her out"

-----------

After dinner, you tended to your queen with great care. Standing behind her as she sat on the edge of the plush feather bed, you gently pulled a comb through her golden locks, picking out any snags with extreme tenderness.

"Y/N, tonight my brother will be coming by to discuss some family matters and I want you out of the way."

"Of course, your grace." You complied, satisfied with this explanation. Of course she wouldn't want you around when they discussed Lannister matters.

"And..." She turned slightly, looking up at you through her lashes in a way that made your breath catch in your chest. "Be a good girl, and don't mention this to anyone. It's my business, and I expect you to keep it that way"

"Not a word, Your Grace" Your face began to flush as her long, slender hand grasped your small, common one.

"Not even to The King"

"The King?" You paused, confused why the king would inquire about such a thing in the first place. "Yes, your grace. Not even to the King. I swear it"

Cersei's face softened at this and, to your great shock, raised your hand to her face and allowed it to stroke her cheek gently.

"What would I do without you?" She breathed before letting your hand drop back to your side and turning back around so you could finish combing out her hair.

You carried the high of her touch through the evening and even when she sent you away. You curtisied to Jaime primly before slipping outside back to the wagons.

Aimless, you went to the stables where the horses had been bedded down for the night, glancing into each stall curiously until you found the mare you had ridden earlier.

Her tawny coat had been brushed and her white snout was buried in a pail of oats.

"Hello" you greeted her in a small voice. "I'm sorry about before, it wasn't your fault"

The horse snorted at you in an apathetic manner, flicking the flies off with her tail.

"Don't talk to horses" a gruff voice scolded you from down the stable hall.

You jumped, having believed you were alone, before craning you head to see who spoke.

"Why not?" You eyed The Hound with flushed cheeks, embarrassed to have been caught.

"Because it makes you look mad" he grumbled. "No one wants a mad handmaid"

"Well" you sputtered as he approached you from Stranger's stall, "It wasnt her fault. It was that gelding that kept biting her"

"It wasn't her fault, you're right" he stopped, towering over you like a shadow. "It was your fault"

"What?"

"That mare is the most patient thing in this barn, trained to handle children and unskilled little fools like you." He leaned against the wood of the stall with his arms crossed firmly. "If you'd just kept your calm like any person with half a brain would, she would have listened to you"

"I do so have a brain" You raged. Where did he get off being so disrespectful when all you'd been was polite?

"Doubt it" The hound scoffed "The queen does all your thinking for you, she's got your brain tucked away in all those trunks somewhere."

"Why I-" you gasped "All I have ever done is my very best for Her Grace's comfort and happiness. If My Lady has any issue with the way I serve her, she will not hesitate to let me know"

"I'll bet" a cruel smirk spread across Sandor's face. "And they call me the hound. What a well trained little bitch she has in you."

The slap came on reflex, fueled by indignant rage that fled your body as quickly as it came. The blood drained from your face as the Hound's gaze trained on you with a low growl.

"You get one of those. Only one. Next time you even think about raising hand to me, I'll tear it off and beat you with it"

You nodded slowly, closing your eyes as if bracing for a strike until Clegane let out a slow exhale.

"Run back to your mistress, little girl. And don't let me see your face until morning."

You did exactly that, hovering in the hallway of your lady's room until Ser Jaime slipped out quietly and tried to sneakily return to his own before stopping in his tracks at the sight of you.

You curtisied and kept your head down until your chin was jerked up suddenly, making you flinch. Jaime's eyes studied your face, smoothing his thumb over your cheek to wipe away a stream of tears. You'd been crying and didn't even realize it.

"Do I need to do something about this?" The head of the kingsgaurd asked, knowing you fully got his meaning.

"No" you shook you head and wiped away what was left of your tears with your palm. "No Ser, I am fine. Thank you'

Jaime nodded. "My sister is waiting for you"

"Yes, Ser" you breathed, trying to right yourself before letting your lady see you. "Thank you, Ser"

You watched him go, steadying your breath and wiping your eyes one last time before returning to your post

[smolvenger]

Also, I can't say no to blurbs and especially not to something extraordinarily fluffy like "Touch her and you die", tehehe... Perhaps with Henry V? 🤭

Hiiii bestie! I'm going to make the blurbs shorter and simpler if you don't mind!

His Queen (Henry V x fem! Reader blurb)

Your boat docked right on the shores of France. So while your husband, the king, was determined to fight there- you had to see him.

Henry had waited with his whole army on the shore of a cliff. Then he dismounted his horse and ran up. It was a reminder of his youth- the young, firey, springy king. He easily bounded through the little beach and the plank right as you stepped up to get off the boat. Before his army and the guards, he embraced you passionately and you back.

"How are you, my sweet wife?"

"Weary from the journey though it was smooth," you confessed.

"For such a lady as you, even the seas and winds themselves would still and become gentle for you to cross," he said.

He hugged you again, peppering a kiss onto your cheek as you laughed, feeling the tickle of his facial hair and re-acquainting yourself with his lips.

He gestured to one of the lords. The Lord of York brought forth a beautiful white mare and you gasped.

"A gift for you, my lady," he offered.

You thanked him and he helped you to mount her. She accepted you- gentle was her demeanor and what a good companion she would make here in France.

"Why, the seas were quite misty- I should call her Mist, for she reminds me a little of it," you cooed, petting her mane.

"A noble, strong, yet sweet and beautiful thing, much like my dearest queen and lady," Henry said.

"My, what words roll off your tongue now! They shall call you a poet, not a ruler," you teased.

"Then it means I am an artist, and you are the muse then for such words. And if I must continue my pen, then my muse shouldn't be kept too long from me," he bantered back lightly.

He got up on his own horse- a white stallion quoting yours. You felt like a fairy queen, not a mortal one, as she trotted over the grass.

And you were led to ride and sit on your horse before the army. Dressed in their greys and blacks and scraps of leather, their eyes were big.

"This here, is Her Majesty, the Queen of England," announced Henry.

You smiled, though part of you went stiff. A few looks seemed to be borderline leers. How long have these men been deprived of a woman's presence?

Henry noticed, and his voice turned a darker tone, a fiercer one.

"She is both your ruler and a lady, and you must respect her as you do both. She is also my wife, I must remind you..."

His eyes darkened. The army stiffened, turning pale and attentive like naughty schoolboys caught by their teacher.

"You must guard her and listen to and follow her as you do Harry of England. She is England's Woman and it's most precious jewel. And should any miscreant or bully among you dare lay a finger on that precious jewel, I shall condemn you at once to hang. Remember the fate of Bardolph- one of your own who greedily robbed a poor church of its dearest sacraments- and she here is the greatest sacrament of England. And if none of you want to share worse than his fate, then cool your lust elsewhere...or I shall execute you myself." Henry threatened all of them.

The soldiers bowed their heads and complied. You gave him a smile. Though the only woman there, you were unafraid.

You were ready to join your husband and support him without fear.

A03//My Ko-Fi//My Etsy Shop//Masterlist//Wattpad

Taglist: @asgards-princess-of-mischief @jennyggggrrr @five-miles-over @fictive-sl0th @ladycamillewrites @villainousshakespeare @holdmytesseract @eleniblue @twhxhck @lokisgoodgirl @lovelysizzlingbluebird @raqnarokr @holymultiplefandomsbatman @michelleleewise @wolfsmom1 @cheekyscamp @mochie85 @fandxmslxt69 @skittslackoffilter @mischief2sarawr

[cuckoo-on-a-string]

Promises Five: The Hunt

Dark!Morpheus x (female)reader, fantasy/medieval AU, 18+

Master List

Dream of the Endless had been promised a bride.

A/N: I'll offer song recs to folks who are interested in asks! Still dealing with some mental health issues, but pushing through. HOLY SHIT THE NEXT CHAPTER. 0,0 Liking is sweet, commenting is divine. Talk to the lonely hermit, people. Her dog is tired of her shit.

The hounds sang after the hinds, and their masters followed them under the trees.

In the distance, the high castle sat like a toy house from which all the dolls had escaped, spreading their games and pageantry through the forest with bells and horns to warn away the deer and fox. Huntsmen released other deer, fox, and fowl from prearranged cages out of sight of the king and his swarm of courtiers, so the dolls could play pretend at feats of skill.

The bard kept to the back, holding a tight rein on her grey mare – who didn’t understand why she couldn’t stop and graze if the bard insisted on moving so slowly – in the company of the ladies Alder. Eilwyn, who’d visited the bard’s chamber two nights past, glimmered and glowed, illuminated like a piece of art in the dappled sunlight and the eyes of a few dozen would-be suitors. Officially, no one could pay court until the Endless had his pick. Unofficially, Eilwyn had received six declarations of love, five bad poems about her eyes, one good poem about her hair, and an uninspired puzzle box containing a gaudy necklace without a single gem of value.

Eilwyn loved it all, of course.

But as the younger woman amused herself snaring hearts for her collection, the bard conversed with the Dowager Alder, Eilwyn’s grandmother.

“The city lights are unbearable,” the elder Alder insisted. “My eyes are bad enough as it is, but when every street and tavern glows like the moon, I can hardly make out the planets with my telescope, let alone the fainter stars. With the travel time, I’ll lose whole weeks of work, and gods know if I’ll be alive to note my calculations this time next year.”

Manly shouts and howling dogs suggested something ahead had died, or was about to. The bard wondered how many of these fools in their fine furs would discover the material cost of bloodsport when they couldn’t scrub the stains from their velvets in the morning.

“You say that every year.”

The Elder Alder, on her aged palfrey, squinted at the green canopy shielding her beloved sky and tutted.

“And one year I’ll be right, like I always am in the end.”

The woman was an astronomer, a mathematical magician, and the idea of death hadn’t scared her since the bard first met her as a young maid. The wheel of the heavens moved before her, and it would move after, and that was well enough if she could just understand the damn thing before she shuffled off this mortal coil. She’d written books, and papers, and more books, and the bard wondered if Death would really hold off until the universe held no more mysteries. It wouldn’t be the first time.

“Of course, Lady Alder.”

Arthritis had long-since gnarled the lady’s hands, and they twisted over the saddle pommel and a hank of her horse’s main like knobby cypress knees, straining with the roll and sway of her palfrey’s gait.

“How far is the damned camp?”

Another lady – one of the fools hoping to wed her daughter to the Endless riding very far ahead near the king – seized the reins of her precious child’s horse and passed the odd trio. She did not look to the side. She did not look at anything. She lifted her nose far too high. And she nearly trotted over her own servants in passing.

The bard waved, and the daughter gawked with wide eyes as she was spirited away from poor influences and dangerous words. Really, any damage was already done, and fleeing the scene of battle only showed weakness. What kind of lesson would the girl really learn besides the fact that her mother enjoyed making a spectacle of her piety? Parents really had the strangest ideas about children.

“Grandmother!” Eilwyn exclaimed, clearly delighted.

The bard, equally delighted, couldn’t help herself. “Such language from so fair a lady. Shocking.”

The Dowager shifted in her saddle, face puckered in discomfort. “Hush, the both of you.”

Oh, if only she could. She laughed to imagine how much pain and trouble might’ve been saved. And how many adventures missed. They never would’ve been friends at all if the bard kept her own counsel.

“You expect a bard to hold her tongue?”

“The sun will freeze first.” The Dowager made a point of staring down her granddaughter, though, and her granddaughter made a point of smiling very prettily in reply. A lord several lengths ahead called for Lady Eilwyn’s attention, and she brokered an armistice by riding out of her grandmother’s line of sight entirely, leaving the two old companions to fight their own wars.

“My old bones are not made for riding.”

A jolt of pity seared the bard’s belly like the pain after eating a rotten fish. She’d rather purge it and be done, but the prickling discomfort would only grow with age. There was no course but to swallow it down and imagine it hurt much less than it would in time.

“Why didn’t you take the coach then? It could’ve brought you in comfort.”

Swollen knuckles flexing, the lady scoffed. “With the rest of the invalids? Don’t insult me.”

“But it’s so much fun, old friend.”

“Old,” Lady Alder muttered. “Yes. I am that.”

The bard shifted in her own saddle, wondering if she could stomach any of the inevitable banquet awaiting them.

“That wasn’t the word I’d hoped you’d echo.”

An eye sharper than any hawk’s pinned her from the side, and she felt like a child caught sulking. “If you need reassurance as to that, then you are not half so clever as you make yourself out to be.”

She seized on the opportunity for levity and smiled with all her teeth. “You’ve known me for a fool many years, have you not?”

“Aye, but a clever one.” The lady considered. “Most days.”

“Such praise you give me.”

“You fished for it so often the lake is empty.”

“Unfair but not untrue.”

The lady hummed her affirmation, welcoming in a moment of calm as they road in the wake of the hunt’s chaos.

Ahead, those most eager to prove themselves brought down smaller prey on their way to the day’s camp. Once all had a chance to refresh themselves with wine as their horses grazed, most would sally out again in the name of dead beasts. Dusk would bring them back, and they’d spend the night drinking, feasting, and debauching one another just outside the safe ring of torchlight, pretending to be very daring and wild for fucking someone in a bush.  A bit more hunting in the morning for those who could still sit straight in the saddle, and then all would return bloody and victorious to the castle.

The bard struggled to understand those who found the prospect of a royal hunt… thrilling. None worried to go home hungry, and the creatures they met in the wood came hobbled, with teeth filed and tusks blunted.

Rushing down a winding stair risked greater peril.

Bored by the day’s excitement, she let her thoughts spin out in wider and wider passes, circling the crux of the drama.

What did the King of Dreams dream of?

Revenge, she suspected. Vengeance on the king that may boil over on the land he ruled, and she must guide her favorites out of the flood’s path. Those practical answers satisfied the part of her that always craved a direction, a purpose, the next challenge to conquer, but the Dream King’s retribution sat like a wax seal over a longer letter. She would very much like to read that letter, even if it was dangerous, and unwise, and entirely reckless.

The Prince of Stories must have depths unfathomable, millennia upon eon of secrets and experiences carved into his bones. She wanted to dismiss her curiosity as nothing but interest in a vision of her future. Would she be like him in another thousand years? No. She’d still be human, and he was Endless. All the lifetimes of the Earth couldn’t teach her to understand one such as him.

But that didn’t mean she had no desire to try.

From farther up the line, a runner came jogging, peering up at the faces of the mounted company. He looked from one to another, seeking the right address to receive his message. The bard paused, recognizing the Everard house colors on servant’s tabard. Her horse stamped, whickering around the bit as her rider leaned out of the saddle to catch the young man’s eye. He saw her and darted to her side quick as an arrow.

“Is all well?” the bard asked.

“My lady Alis Everard and my lord Tomas Everard request you ride with them.”

The bard looked to Lady Alder. She hardly needed her friend’s permission, and none of the Alders were the sort to cherish grudges over perceived slights. But the bard didn’t want to leave her to ride alone, either. She needed good conversation and someone who cared enough to notice if she swayed on her horse.

“Oh, go tend to your nervous foal.” Lady Alder waved her off. “My own proud filly will see you pass and return to keep me amused. We favor different arts, but she has a sharp enough eye to see trouble riding by.”

“Thank you.” The bard pulled out of the column of riders, careful to avoid the servant at her side. “I’ll see you at the camp.”

Whatever Lady Alder replied was lost to the wind. Finally given her head, the bard’s mare leapt into a canter, her hooves thumping a second heartbeat that rattled up and through her rider. Old loam and the sharp green scent of freshly broken twigs gathered around her like a cloak as she moved just left of the path, removed from the rock and dust of the road.

The bard knew what colors to look for, and she let all definition blur as she moved past lords, ladies, knights, and their scores of attendants. They all looked so strange and out of place in the tunnel of green woods, dressed to stand out in a part of the world where blending in more often preserved life.

Near the front of the cavalcade, she found the Everards. Alis stared with wide eyes as the bard pulled even with her, mare prancing and snorting in frustration as her run came to an end. Her dramatic entrance pulled other eyes, and the king – only a few riders ahead – glanced back with frustrated disgust. Perhaps she should apologize that she wasn’t a stag. For all of the ruckus she’d heard from afar, she saw precious few carcasses dangling from the hunters’ belts.

“Thank you for coming in such haste,” Lord Everard said. Stifled amusement plucked at his lips, trying to lift them into a broad, laughing gale. It would be bad manners to laugh too loudly too near the king over a jest to which he wasn’t party, but Everard clearly struggled.

She answered with the grin he’d tried to school away. “Best way to travel. Now, what is the matter?”

Lord Everard gestured to his daughter, and she in turn tried to sink into the mud of the forest track. She hunched low, like she could melt into her boots. Her complexion had gone pale, despite the flush of embarrassment creeping up her neck, and her gloves creaked as her dainty hands squeezed into fists. The bard let the merriment fade, looking and listening beyond the girl’s silence.

Alis’s doe eyes flicked towards the shadow who rode beside her king, and the bard understood.

Dream of the Endless wore his customary black, with the blood-red ruby shining on his breast like a heart he’d ripped from his prey. His nightmare mount had teeth where it ought to have eyes, and it laughed with a man’s voice. He carried a raven on his shoulder rather than a hawk on his glove, and anyone who hadn’t met his sister may mistake him for an aspect of Death. Or something worse, perhaps.

Lord of Nightmares indeed.

“He frightens me,” Alis whispered, leaning close. “I’ve had nothing but bad dreams since I came to the castle.”

As she should. A glance at her father confirmed he thought the same. Just because he’d been forced to bring his child to this storm didn’t mean he didn’t fear the lightning. He had too much sense for this farce and too big a heart to let the girl suffer. If his wife were not busy running the estate, she’d be here to shelter and comfort their little girl, but in her absence, he must ask the bard to fill the role, and she gladly pulled Alis’s attention from bad dreams to simpler truths.

“And you’ve never had a nightmare before?” She didn’t chide. She reminded. Even in the security of her own bed in her own home, the girl had touched the darker shores of the Dreaming. Its king would not reach out to swallow her now, even though he prowled so near in the Waking. “Alis, believe me, you are safe.”

Alis pulled her spine straight, taking a deep, intentional breath that shuddered on the way in and trembled on the way out.

“Do you promise?”

“I promise that if I’m wrong, I’ll find a convenient sword to fall on, and you can say you told me so. Does that make you feel better?”

“A little.” Realizing what she’d said, Alis blanched and rushed to add, “But only because I know you’d come back!”

This time her father did laugh, and the bard reached to reassure her with an honest to gods giggle, when chaos erupted at the front. The king and his companions came to a dead stop, and without warning or order, those who rode behind struggled to halt in time. Rearing horses and shouts of alarm rolled down the line like a breaker, and in the wave of confusion that followed, the bard once again left the road to circle forward.

They’d reached the camp.

A glory of golden stitching over swaths of emerald, the vast tents might cover an entire town, and smoke rising with the smells of rosemary and stewed venison hinted at the delights within.

The display paled behind the entity waiting at the edge of the woods, however.

Golden eyes like licks of flame from the sun’s heart smiled over ruby lips. Welcoming and menacing and all-too pleased with themselves.

Power perfumed the air, like honeysuckle and ambergris, clashing with the winter-cold snap of Dream’s clear displeasure. The King of Dreams had lost the veneer of humanity, and he set himself against the intruder like the deepest hour of the night resisting the dawn.

Few creatures could stand up to the king’s guest. Even fewer commanded the presence of function beyond personification. The bard did not know who the stranger was, but she knew what they were.

Another fucking Endless.

Every inch screamed of passion, romance, obsession. Golden hair and loose-fit silks that flowed like water into a garment that was neither tunic nor gown inspired sensual curiosities. They rode a unicorn, a bay mount with cloven hooves, a lion’s tail, and a goat’s beard. The russet horn glinted with flecks of gold, like treasure winking through a smear of blood.

The King of Dreams sneered, lip curling as he shared a frigid greeting.

“Sibling.”

The Endless in their path laughed, bright as bells and smooth brandy. It sounded to the bard’s ears like trouble. “I hope you don’t mind if I join in your hunt. Big brother.”

[theaskew]

Lyrics

Spent my days with a woman unkind Smoked my stuff and drank all my wine Made up my mind to make a new start Going to California with an aching in my heart Someone told me there's a girl out there With love in her eyes and flowers in her hair

[Verse 2] Took my chances on a big jet plane Never let 'em tell you that they're all the same Oh, the sea was red, and the sky was grey Wondered how tomorrow could ever follow today The mountains and the canyons start to tremble and shake The children of the sun began to awake (watch out)

[Verse 3] Seems that the wrath of the gods Got a punch on the nose, and it started to flow I think I might be sinking Throw me a line, if I reach it in time I'll meet you up there where the path runs straight and high

[Verse 4] To find a queen without a king They say she plays guitar and cries and sings… La la la la Ride a white mare in the footsteps of dawn Tryin' to find a woman who's never, never, never been born Standing on a hill in my mountain of dreams Telling myself it's not as hard, hard, hard as it seems, mm…

Songwriters: Jimmy Page/Robert Plant

[garden-0f-eden]

FREE I • DR King Schultz

• ☆ •

The niece of Calvin Candie finds herself in desperate need of saving, when two men approach her uncles farm looking for fighters, she see's them as a prefect opportunity.

Warnings: Mentions of abuse and slavery, fem!reader

°•.•°•.•°•.•°•.•°•.•°•.•°•.•°•.•°•.•°•.•°•.•°

You sigh as you lay hidden within the overgrown, green grass, far away from the house, the plantation, your family. Far away from every part of you that you hated.

You open your eyes and stare up at the summer sky, clouds drifting aimlessly overhead, birds singing distantly. For once, you felt at peace.

You hear slow, gentle footsteps behind you, before the gate squeaks open. "Miss Candie?" You hear Estie say softly, you sit up and look over your shoulder at her, "Your uncle wants you back at the big house, some guests are here." You nod at her, smiling half heartedly. You push yourself up off the grass, straightening out your skirt.

You stumble through the overgrown greenery and slowly head back to the plantation, following closely behind Estie.

Estie was your friend, a relationship disliked by your family, not that you cared, you would protect her from your Uncle and his workers punishments. She was a young, short girl, maybe around late teens. You enjoyed her company more then anyone elses on the plantation, youd always sneak her food and old clothing. She was your only friend.

As you approach the big house you catch the tail end of an argument between Steven and Uncle Calvin, "In the damned big house..." he mutters angrily as he heads inside. You walk up the steps and stand beside your mother.

You look up at the men before you, an older looking man with a short graying beard, wearing a matching grey suit and hat, beside him, a darker man on horseback. The other man wore a green shirt tucked into brown trousers, he wore black sunglasses and a brown cowboy hat. Both men held their reigns with black leather gloves.

"Dr Schultz," Uncle Calvin addressed, "This attractive southern belle is my widowed sister, may I present to you Lara Lee Candie-Fitzwilly." You mother does a southern bow, smiling at the doctor. Calvin then places a hand on your waist, pulling you towards him making you jump slightly. Schultz frowned. "And this beautiful, young mare, is my niece, Y/N Candie-Fitzwilly." He pulled his hand away from your waist, the doctor lifts his hat to you, his gaze lingering prehaps a little too long, he then clears his throat.

"I am Dr. King Schultz, this is my second here, Django." The man on horseback beside him tips his hat, Schultz then gestures to the two horses, "And these are our horses, Tony and Fritz." The horses bow, making you and afew other women coo and giggle.

Your mother was staring at the doctor, a blush on her face, you roll your eyes as she batts her eyelashes. "Well arent you gentlemen charming. You're not from around here are you?" She asks with a grin.

"Actually, I'm from a far off land, Dusseldorf to be excact." Ah. That explained the accent.

"Ah! This smart, beautiful lady here can speak some German herself!" You uncle exclaims proudly, squeezing your shoulder roughly, you flinch and move out of his grip discreetly. Schultz looks at you with a raised eyebrow, before looking back to Calvin.

You zone out as your mother, Uncle Calvin and Schultz engage in boring conversation. Something about fighters...

You refocus when the door squeaks open, Stephen now joining the conversation, "Actually Monsieur Candie... Theres somethin I ain't tole you yet..." Stephen says guilty.

"What?"

"Hildis in the hotbox."

You notice how Schultz and Djangos head now snap up.

"Well what's she doing In there?!"

"What 'cha think shes doin in there? Shes bein punished."

"What she do?"

"She ran away again."

You watch as Djangos hand moves towards his gun holster, resting on his thigh, he notices your gaze yet dosent move.

"Lucky for her the dogs were busy huntin some other slave, she only a little beat up, but she did that to herself runnin through all them bushes."

His hand now moves away from his pistol, and back to his reigns, you sigh, heading inside towards your room. You walk up the stairs, passing past afew women in the corridor before pushing open your door.

You run yourself a bath, laying in the hot water for what felt like hours, the warmth putting your aching muscles at ease. The scent of cherry and coconut filling the room.

You open your eyes as you hear a soft knock on the door, you sigh, moving the bubbles to cover yourself up, "Yes?" The door opens slightly, your mother pears around the corner, smiling gently at you, "You uncle wants you to get ready for dinner in an hour..." You nod, a sigh leaving your lips. She leaves, closing the door behind her.

[pisspope]

Storm Warning (zeke x reader)

word count: ~1.5k (5 minute read)

cw: fem!reader, mention of suicide (extremely brief), general misogyny and themes of abuse (it's a 1400s knight au)

He’s… not who you expected to win.

Not that you expected all that much when your father, the king, had announced a jousting tournament for your hand. You were his first child, but his only daughter, and your claim to the throne was tenuous compared to that of your younger brother. So of course the most logical answer was to marry you off for political advantage, give your innocence away to the highest bidder like a prized breeding mare. And you swallowed it, accepted it, because what other choice was there?

You watched the proceedings with feigned interest, waved your embroidered kerchief at potential suitors as they wiped grease from their visors, everything that was expected of you. But your heart wasn’t in it, because how could it be, knowing what awaited you? A future of pushing out heirs to some backwater fiefdom, watching in the mirror as your youth deteriorated along with whatever shreds of joy remained in your pathetic existence. Maybe you should just take a letter opener to your neck before it was too late.

But part of you remained morbidly curious, you supposed. You wanted to know who cared enough, who was devoted enough, suicidal enough to risk their neck for the taste of you. So you took your seat, left hand of the king, and watched as silvered men maimed each other for the glory of your hand.

You didn’t think the victor would be Ezekiel Yaeger.

You knew Zeke quite well, actually. Son of a major lord, smart as a whip, beautiful flaxen hair, absolutely fucking insufferable. You had spent a good portion of your childhood in the same study as him, vigorously writing mock political treaties and debating them in front of your tutor. Even now you could see the raw anger in his eyes when you caught him in a fallacy, the way his jaw would clench when you found loopholes that made his ideas obsolete. It was honestly a great joy of your childhood, to see his cheeks heat up in embarrassment, to be allowed to be more than just a pretty face, to use your tutelage in political affairs in a way that felt more worthy of your intellect. And his anger felt like an affirmation, that you were his equal in every way that mattered.

So to have him fight for you as if you were an object, not a person deserving of respect, angered you more than even you had expected. Had a stranger won, had someone who didn’t know you like he did win your hand, it would’ve felt less like an insult. Then you could keep your wits to yourself, request a private study or a library and never let him into that secret, bright part of you that made other men turn in disgust. Men were barbaric, distrustful of a woman whose understanding matched or, God forbid, surpassed their own, and you had long ago learned to keep that part of you hidden. But Zeke predated that revelation; you knew he could ruin you.

So now you’re here, confronting him in the stables after the tournament, dismissing servants and stablehands to make sure this conversation is private. And he looks different, baby face gone and covered by a scraggly beard, grey eyes skeptical instead of optimistic. He’s become a man, you realize, that boyish anger replaced with a simmering rage that he will always do his best to contain. Until he can’t, you think, until you become the object that he will vent his frustrations on, giving you bruises and beatings that you will try to ignore as his dutiful wife should.

“I can feel your eyes, you know,” he says, startling you from your spiral. “Always could.”

You breathe in, peek from behind a wooden beam, and strengthen your resolve. Your thoughts leave your mouth, unbridled and unfiltered.

“Why?” you snap, words pouring from your mouth in a steady stream. “Why would you, of all people, compete for my hand like this? Do you know how insulting that is?”

Zeke turns to you, puts down his helmet next to the stable door, and takes only three steps to meet you. He’s gotten much taller. He crosses his arms, looks down his nose at you, and sneers.

“This is sad. You’ve become a fool since the last time we spoke.”

You suck a breath in, try not to react to his words, but you already know by the look on his face that he’s clocked your anger. And he is reveling in it.

“You dastard. I thought you, of all people, would respect me enough not to fight for me like some sort of prize to be won.”

“Oh?” he says, pulling off his gauntlets finger by finger, feigning disinterest. “And do you think any of those Neanderthals would ever see you the way I do? Would deserve you, even as a trophy?”

You want to retort, but you’ve had the same thought yourself. A life hiding felt like an inevitability, but that didn’t mean it was something you were comfortable with. But a life with the boy with whom you did nothing but argue? Surely that was no better.

“I wouldn’t want to be bound to a tormentor, either.”

He snickers, flexes his bare hand. “I’ve grown since we last met, princess.” Then he grins, a hunger in his eyes you’ve never seen. “I can torment you in different ways, now.”

And you know what he’s insinuating, know it in parts of you that you pretend are untouched, and yet you let yourself fall for it.

“Yes? Like what?”

He takes your face in his naked hand, caresses your cheek with the pad of his thumb. Every second passes slowly, that little touch reverberating through you like a bolt of lightning. He brings the finger to your chin, presses enough for the bolts to feel like a whole storm, and leans in.

“Like this.”

Zeke presses his lips to yours, and if his touch was a thunderstorm then surely this was Noah’s flood. You can taste the salty sweat of the tournament still lingering in his kiss, the adrenaline of the fight pulsing in his heartbeat. His other hand, still in a gauntlet, pulls you close, the clank of his armor echoing in the empty stable.

And, to your chagrin, he’s good at this. Kisses you in just the way you need, his tongue just barely darting past your lips, teasing at what else he can give you if you just relent. And you want to, God do you want to, but you can’t let him have this, not so quickly. Your relationship with Zeke has always been a give and take, and the last thing you want is to give in so completely, to lose to him once and for all.

Blessedly, he breaks away before things can escalate further, his eyes the color of the storm raging in your chest. You know immediately from his expression that his claims to torment you are a double-edged sword; that the clouds in his eyes reveal the tempest in his heart.

You look up at him, your eyes daring, challenging.

“Coward,” you spit. “Torment me again.”

And Zeke has always loved a challenge.

[iomalatesta]

Spent my days with a woman unkind Smoked my stuff and drank all my wine Made up my mind to make a new start Going to California with an aching in my heart Someone told me there's a girl out there With love in her eyes and flowers in her hair

Took my chances on a big jet plane Never let 'em tell you that they're all the same Oh, the sea was red and the sky was grey Wondered how tomorrow could ever follow today The mountains and the canyons start to tremble and shake The children of the Sun began to awake (watch out)

Seems that the wrath of the gods got a punch on the nose And it started to flow, I think I might be sinking Throw me a line, if I reach it in time I'll meet you up there where the path runs straight and high

To find a queen without a king They say she plays guitar and cries and sings: La-la-la-la Ride a white mare in the footsteps of dawn Trying to find a woman who's never, never, never been born Standing on a hill in my mountain of dreams Telling myself it's not as hard, hard, hard as it seems

[adracat]

Prospera 2: Ruler of the Sea

For my initial Prospera and mythology analysis chk here

After a deeper look and another rewatch, I realized there's another god Prospera is harking to. Bear with me, I swear there's evidence. First off, let me start with the obvious. Shin Sei's corporate logo looks a bit like permet, but also clearly a trident and what seems to be a wave. Neptune.

Obviously, GWitch has nothing to do with water on the surface. But it is a Tempest adaptation with Prospera as the storm conjuring magician. Considering the intro with our leads floating in a Pisces formation and Elnora and Eri reinacting its mythological parallel in Prologue, Space = Water.

Delling may be the 'king' of Benerit, thus an easy Zeus parallel, but Prospera is the ruler of the sea. As she proves in her domination of S2.

Neptune isn't just the sea king, Neptune/Poseidon is Ennosigaios (Earthshaker). The cause of earthquakes, and the bringer of the great flood that destroyed all of life in Roman myth. Her havoc on Earth and in the 'sea' is demonstrative of this.

This also gives poignant weight to Earth House's symbolism as the dove that soars above the waves and returns with an olive branch to the Ark. Life restored to earth.

This was alluded to with the establishment of GUND-ARM in S1

For this parallel, Miorine is playing Athena/Minerva (which isn't hard to believe since she's both the princess of Strategy, coded with Wisdom repeatedly, and grey-eyed like the goddess) The myth of the establishment of Athens says Athena was in a competition with Poseidon to see who could give the most impressive gift to the people. Poseidon struck the ground and created (accounts vary) horses or a spring. Athena created the first olive tree. In the show, their competition leads to the establishment of the peace-bringing GUND-ARM

Another epithet of the sea lord is Kyanochetis (Blue or dark-haired) which could explain the reason for her change in coloring from the shining Elnora. And yet another is Hippios (of the Horses). Considering horses for this universe are mobile suits, Prospera as a horse lord is appropriate.

Now, the next bit is faily speculative but considering there's so much already indicating Prospera was affiliated with Notrette, I'm going to be a bit cursed.

Notrette is Anesidora, and firmly coded as the agricultural mother Demeter. Demeter, searching for her missing daughter, runs across Poseidon who lusts for her. She flees in the form of a mare and he pursues the goddess as a stallion. This results in two offspring; Despoina and Arion. Despoina's (The Mistress) true name was lost to history but Arion was the black or red-maned horse of Heracles. You can extrapolate this tale to Prospera 'defiling' Notrette's research/affiliation leading to QZ, uploading Aerial's biometric code, perhaps the creation of Suletta, and her use of Aerial.

There's likely more, and maybe when I rewatch again I'll spot it. But for now, it's definitive to me Prospera is intended as Neptune; God of the Seas and Storms in Roman tradition. It also gives more weight to her coding as Venus the morning star (the romans saw her as a sea diety because she was born of seafoam and linked to Neptune). Just when you thought Mama Char couldn't get more great and awe-inspiring~

Go here for some design speculation that hints to this

[novankenn]

Head Count

/== Master Post List ==/

Pyrrha, Glynda, Weiss and Penny were all standing around a table littered with pictures and dossiers. On the wall behind them were lists, showing the complete breakdown of who was part of the court of the "Red Queen" and "Golden King".

Glynda: So as you can see my Queen...

Pyrrha: Please Glynda we are sisters in this cause.

Weiss: I must object. You are the "Red Queen" spouse to be of the "Golden King" and we are you loyal advisors, and ladies in waiting.

Pyrrha: We are all united in the want to give the King Mother grand-babies. That makes us sisters.

Penny: I am sorry my majesty. You are betrothed to his Majesty Jaune. While we are happy and honored to be brood mare....

Pyrrha: NO! Do NOT speak of yourselves as such! You will sisters wives and the mothers to the greatest family Remnant has ever witnessed. You are NOT broodmares! Do not refre to yourselves as such!

Glynda: Understood, but you must also understand as Jaune's betrothed and the first accepted by his mother... you are the queen.

Pyrrha: We are sisters.

Weiss: Yet you are still our queen.

Pyrrha: Shall we continue? Neo will only be able to occupy Jaune for so long.

Glynda: Yes my queen. Our count is as follows. You and Jaune are not included as you are the progenitors of this family. Neo as well is not included in the listings as her semblance allows her... versatility.

Progenitors : Jaune Arc & Pyrrha Nikos The "Wild Card": Neopolitan

Weiss: So in the BBMs side we have...

Pyrrha: BBM's?

Penny: Blonde Baby Mamas.

Pyrrha: Ah. So then RBMs would be Red Baby Momas?

Penny: Correct.

Weiss: So in the BBM's we have, myself, Glynda, Arslan, Fiona and Dew. So five sisters.

Blond Baby Mamas: Glynda Goodwitch, Weiss Schnee, Arslan Atlan, Dew Gayl, Fiona Thyme

Penny: In the RBMs we have myself, Octavia, Neon, Ruby, and May, which also gives us a total of five

Red-Head Baby Mamas: Ruby Rose, May Zednog, Octaiva Ember, Penny Polendina, Neon Katt

Glynda: So not including myself, we have eleven young women capable of bearing children, with an estimated theoretical maximum of 15 pregnancies each... that is approximately 165 children if each pregnancy is of a single birth.

Pyrrha: Not enough.

Penny: My Queen?

Pyrrha: It's not enough!

Weiss: We estimate if we all start getting pregnant now, including Sister Glynda's age, we should be able to provide Jaune and the King Mother with around 172 children, again if every pregnancy only results in a single birth.

Pyrrha: It's still not enough. We MUST be a family of no equal. A force of our own!

Penny: How many do you feel would be an adaquate number to show our devotion, and be as you put it a "force of its own?"

Pyrrha: 200.

Penny: Then we will require two more sisters, at minimum.

Pyrrha: But the question sis whom. The King Mother has very specific requirements.

Glynda: We are aware. Blonde or Red-haired. But we considered that we may need to expand our ranks... so we have made a list of "potentials"

Weiss: For Blondes we have the following individuals... Robyn Hill, leader of the Happy Huntresses. Harriet Bree of the Atlas Ace-Ops, and possible in a young woman named Trifa, she is a member of the White Fang.

Pyrrha: Her hair appears to be bluish-grey.

Penny: It can be possibly considered as Ash-Blonde... but that is up for debate.

Pyrrha: Keep tabs on her, just in case.

Glynda: For Red-heads we have Deery, she is also a member of the White Fang, but unlike Trifa who is in Mengarie, Deery is here in Vale. We also have Carmine Esclados formerly of Shade and reputedly a member of a group calling themselves the crown.

Weiss: So how should we proceed?

Pyrrha: All of them. We NEED all of them.

Glynda / Penny / Weiss: As you wish.

/=====/ A/N so thank you again to @segmentaldragon for all his suggestions and research in finding "Probably Initiates"

Note on Trifa - if you guys want to "stretch" ash-blonde hair to include shades of blueish-grey... then she'll be brought in.

As for Salem... I'm not sure... yet, and I would need to locate a Red-Head to off-set her... maybe the "Blacksmith"? Don't know... but she's not forgotten.

[anathemafiction]

Q&A

Favorite animal for all the ROs and Beka.

Hadrian prefers dogs. There's just something about them that naturally clicks with him. He never owned one, but, in those rare moments Hadrian allows himself to dream of a different life, of a house somewhere with a garden on the back and rolling hills in the front, dogs are always a part of that fantasy. Little ones hanging from his lap when he's sitting, and large ones sprawled at his feet.

He can't help but smile every time he sees a dog. Their waggly tails are a joy.

Alessa also prefers dogs. They are reliable, loyal, and smart. If she must take an animal as a companion, she needs one she can trust, and she knows she can trust a dog. That they have big, soulful eyes, and adorable ears and twitch and turn when they dream is unrelated. That her lips quirk whenever one goes running like mad when they see their owner is also irrelevant.

'Tis not important how pure they can be. How cheerful. How different they are from her. A sturdy, reliable companion. That's what Alessa would pick, if she had the freedom to. If she led a different life.

Alain likes all kinds of birds. He likes watching them, likes listening to them, likes to imagine what it'd be like to flap a pair of wings and fly wherever one desires. To have the sky as your home. Yes, he wonders, wine in hand, eyes on the ceiling.

He likes all types of birds but, if hard pressed, Alain supposes he prefers those little sparrows. They're not impressively handsome, they don't have flashy colors or large plumes or wings that take up the whole of the sky. Their song isn't very complex, nor is it particularly beautiful. They are just... little beings, flapping around, but it is their voices he hears first thing in the morning. Every day, without fail.

Alain can count on it. To hear the song of the sparrows.

Ysabella adores horses. She adores them. She could spend hours looking at them, eating grass on a hill, running on a track, or simply laying with their big bellies on the ground, tongue lolling, hooves sticking in the air. She adores them.

She wishes she could ride one every day. She envies those that can, the guards that roam the city streets, the merchants that leave on their wagons, and the peasants who ride with their wares. Oh, how she envies them all, standing near her window, looking out onto the world.

It is in her dreams, in their freedom, that she rides one while wearing trousers with her hair free in the wind and a large, unladylike smile on her face. She jumps over walls and races other riders, and, in the end, she sits with her mare beside a creek and shares the shade and the cold water. A friend, a companion. A soul as free as her, in the depths of this dreamland.

"I have no need for little beasts," The Pirate King would tell you, eyes firmly set on the horizon, beard swaying with the wind. His clothes would be swaying too, long coat tails flapping near his chins and a loose shirt covering and uncovering his chest.

He has no need for pets. He doesn't mind seagulls, for they warn when a storm is coming, but their cries are like knives to his ears. Dogs are too destructive, and horses are a nightmare to maneuver. He keeps falling off the saddle, and they never listen to him, and The Pirate has steady legs, but he turns into an awkward halfwit whenever he rides one.

Fish are fun to look at, especially when he comes across the bright pink and blue coral reefs. The Pirate sees the multitude of little fishes there as well as big ones, and fat ones, and ones so long and slippery, it reminded him of tight ropes. Once, he saw a great shark, skin grey and head as large as a boulder, patrolling the shallow waters, and The Pirate supposes that was impressive enough. But fishes rule the seas, and no man has any right to own one.

He has absolutely no need for beasts. Humans are more than enough, he doesn't need anything else on his hands.

But... but. He's been seen, oftentimes, scratching the heads of stray cats on the various docks he travels to. And he thinks their noses, so tiny, can be quite fond to look at. And their eyes, so round and big on their tiny heads, are like the moon on a cloudless night. And The Pirate would never admit it, but the sounds they make have him biting back a smile.

They make so many strange, nonsensical noises. They rumble like birds sometimes or yell like a babe crying for their mother's tits, and there's this one cat, this one black and white stray who he swears he's heard saying "no" once. He swears on all the rings on his fingers.

And the way they wiggle their butt when they're about to tear the throat of a poor mouse has him cracking up laughing.

The little devils. The Pirate has no favorite animal, he's not a soft-hearted fool. But, if he had a sword to his neck, if he had to absolutely pick one... he supposes he'd keep a cat on his ship. At least, until he could find it a better home.

Neia used to rest her forehead against the forehead of her horse. The horse who burned alongside her, the one whose screams she listened to before she started to scream herself. Her horse, Dawn. Her bloody horse.

Neia doesn't have a favorite species, she cares for individuals. She cared for Dawn. That's who her favorite animal was. To hell with anything else.

Lance likes to think of himself as a lover of all animals. Squirrels, rats, magpies, butterflies, cats, pigeons, worms, and even spiders, hanging upside down from their marvelous webs. Once, the same moth kept coming near his night candle for three nights in a row, and Lance mourned when the little thing — which he baptized as Lucy on the second night — didn't return for a fourth.

Lance likes them all, but only one has his heart and that is, naturally, his dear Chouriça. His old lady, the dog that landed on his lap when she could barely open her eyes, and a younger Lance swore then, that he'd be there when it was time for her to close her eyes for eternity. He'll be there in the final goodbye, with a bleeding heart and a crying soul.

But he'll be there.

Rafael likes them quick, clever, and lithe. The kind that escapes, that uses its wits to trump over those who are more powerful and naturally gifted. Fuck that. It's not fun to have it all, you have to earn it. So, Rafael respects the prey who doesn't fall for the predator.

Whether it's rats, too quick for them cats to catch, or rabbits, twisting away from an eagle's claws at the very last second. Or a little ferret, scarring up a tree to escape from a hound's maul. He likes to sit on the ground when he's watching a building that he'll rob later, and leave pieces of cheese on the palm of his hand.

Sooner or later, Rafael will see the little snout of rats sniffing the air, and his lips will twist in the barest of smiles. A long enough watch will have those little buggers coming closer and, the next day, closer still. Until, eventually, they'll take the cheese out of his hand and scurry away.

And Rafael will laugh, delighted. Cute little bastards.

Beka doesn't like dogs. They're friends of the blue-capped pigs, and they guard the pretty houses with high fences full of coin and food and trinkets Beka can only dream of. She doesn't like horses either because they help the guards run faster than she'll ever be able to. She doesn't like cats, those round-eyed creeps, always watching her when she tries to be silent. She dislikes pigeons because they carry away pieces of bread on their stupid beaks, and Beka can't reach them on top of the walls.

She doesn't like... many things.

But she never hurt one of them stupid animals either. Once, the kids were having fun playing with a snail they caught on some leaf. They were trying to separate it from its shell, and Beka knows she couldn't hear it screaming, but she swears it was. She picked up a rock and cracked the nose of the leader. Beka left that fight with a black eye and a busted lip, but the snail had been safe in her palm.

She also found a white puppy once, so small it couldn't walk, freezing in a corner on a rainy winter night. The thing was full of fleas and reeked like hell, but he was shaking and whimpering, and Beka took him in her arms and curled around him until they both fell asleep.

The puppy never woke up. Beka will never admit to the hot tears she had shed, nor will she tell anyone about the patch of dirt she dug to bury him.

Animals are stupid and worthless, and they don't do anything but make her life harder. But Beka would rather cut off her own hand than hurt any of them. They don't deserve it.

What are the ROs thoughts on children and marriage?

I will admit, at this point in their lives, none of the ROs can seriously think about marriage and children or anything ahead of what is the immediate future. They all live... very unstable lives at the moment, and those circumstances don't allow them to think much of what stability can look like.

Hadrian doesn't think of the future much. He doesn't like to. He also doesn't particularly like to dwell on the past. Which puts him in a difficult position, because Hadrian isn't one of those people who can breeze through life with their heads in the clouds, a shrug on their shoulders, and a smile on their carefree lips. Events matter, choices matter, and they matter because they not only affect others, but they affect himself — they affect his future.

(...)

The complete piece is available on Patreon!