#the rook ( alfred. )

[stillresolved]

something more modest, something grander

alfred's business, the rook's roost, while serving as a front for his (illegal) information brokerage hub and his (illegal) vigilante activites, serves both as a coffeehouse and a mut.ual aid center.

the coffeehouse is the main way alfred and team checkmate make money legally. here, they serve coffee, tea, and baked goods and have a pay-it-forward system meaning if someone wants to, they can pay for their own meal and if they're feeling generous, they also pay for another person's meal.

the mut.ual aid center, is more informal...paid for out of pocket, these are services that alfred, nell, and myungdae provides their community (newcomers are always welcomed though- they get a lot of students) for free. examples of mut.ual aid that they practice include:

nell fixing phones & laptops and other electronics ( and making fake ids if you need one )

myungdae tutors in reading, writing, and basic math

alfred keeps a pantry stocked with canned foods and kimchi in case someone needs food

once a month they host a mut.ual aid event in which they make a large batch of hot food for the people around to share and eat together. often other businesses in the area will come around and also offer their services for free ( ex. the hairdresser- this is usually when alfred gets his hair cut )

in return for their work, usually alfred never has to call a mechanic to fix the machines because,one of community members does it for him

another example is that when it comes to myungdae's adopted kids, they never need to worry about getting a babysitter because one of the moms in the community is always happy to look over them

as a result of years of doing this, rook's roost has established itself as a cornerstone, respected both by the community and ( we can plot this but i'm hoping also ) for the local gangs in the area. they don't discriminate amongst the poor who to help- someone is always guaranteed at least a warm meal and coffee. so if someone does try to mess in public with the coffeehouse...well there's a bunch of people who will not be happy.

because it's mut.ual aid, not charity, they don't accept donations....if you give something, they will be obligated to at least give you coffee in return.

there have been rich people and politicians though who have attempted to profit off of their work....alfred was quick to scare them off.

should something happen to the coffeehouse though....i like to think that the community would help alfred rebuild it <3

[angeltism]

So Rook what I'm getting out of this is that Beastars is just discount Zootopia

HELLO ?? Alfred and people I know interaction continues. I think Rook is asleep and I don't know if I should tag him in this uh.

[clemencetaught]

myungdae is the kind of person who would come back to work ( aka the black knight ) in crutches, would insist that he'll be just fine by getting off the crutches and stamping his injured leg multiple times to prove it his full recovery, only to bow over in complete pain like ten seconds later

nell would call him an idiot and alfred would get the pain killers :'DDD

[ofgentleresolve]

just a reminder that even if myungdae is the black knight and has gone through more than his fair share of life-threaten situations, he is, in fact, kind of a coward when it comes to getting hurt-

aka the first time he needed to get stitches for his wounds as the black knight, it took alfred ( and nell on the sidelines ) about an hour to get him to just sit down so his wound could be taken a look at :'D

[jonathan5485]

Christmas and Snow

Somebody once said that the only way to enjoy the sight of snow is when looking at a postcard or a painting.  I have spent a number of Christmas Days in hot climes such as Karachi and Melbourne and know that Christmas is not Christmas without snow.  So for this Christmas blog I want to look at some of the beautiful winter landscapes created by famous and not-so-famous artists to remind me of a…

[nebulaafterdark]

The Succession (Part 2)

Summary: After the battle of Rook’s Rest, Queen Y/N is forced to rule alongside Prince Regent Aemond, in an attempt to keep her children safe and eventually seat her mother, Rhaenyra, on the throne. While attending her husband, on what appears to be his deathbed, she begins to unravel the dark truth of his near passing.

Aegon Targaryen x Velaryon(Strong)!Reader

Part 1

Y/N wakes to a knock at the door. Rubbing sleep from her eyes, she sits upright. Aegon is still there, unmoving beside her. “Come.”

“Good morrow, your grace.” Her lady in waiting, Chérie, bows her head upon entry; a powder blue gown draped over one arm. “You must break your fast.”

“What ungodly hour is it?” The Queen grumbles, stretching both arms above her head.

“Nearly midday, my Queen.”

Y/N nods, taking her hand. “I need a favor of you.”

“A bath?” Chérie smirks.

Y/N stares down at herself, nightgown stained with blood and gods know what else. She huffs a laugh, “that as well.”

“I will ready the tub.”

“Chérie?”

“Are you seeking comfort, your grace?” She has lost her grandmother and her husband’s good health, “I could tend you.”

“No.” Y/N stares down at her hands.

“Forgive me for assuming.” She takes a step back, “I only want to help.”

Y/N moves forward, closing the space between them. “It was kind of you, Chérie. I appreciate your devotion, more than you know. There is something different I need of you.”

“Name it.”

“You know things…I must know them.”

“What is it you need know?” Chérie wonders.

“The truth of what happened at Rook’s Rest. I do not pretend to understand Aegon’s motivations. Gods willing, I may be able to ask him one day. But for now, I need know what befell him. Cole dances around it, the Hightowers will never be truthful with me.”

“Is there anything you do know? A talking point that might be of use as I consult the servants?” Chérie wonders.

Y/N leans in. “Helaena and Aemond stood at the foot of his bed last night. She asked if it was worth the price. Aemond denied any knowledge of what she meant. Still, Helaena does not speak to cause upset, she speaks when she has something to say. If he’s done this…the whole of our line may be in danger.”

Chérie sighs, “somedays I am glad to’ve been born a commoner.”

“For that I do not fault you.” Y/N forces a smile.

Chérie steals a glance at the king. “Will he live?”

“We’ve no way of knowing. I pray to the gods for his recovery, but it is a long road. He will never be as he was, so long as he lives, it matters naught to me.”

————————————————————————

“There’s been word from King’s Landing.”

Rhaenyra’s head snaps up.

“Aegon has fallen, the stranger looms over his head. With Vhagar weakened in the attack, now is the time to act.”

“And what of my daughter?” The Queen ticks a finger against the table. “Has she been spotted since Aegon’s coronation?”

“We believe the princess lives, your grace. But upon second hand testimony, smallfolk in the streets, we cannot say for certain.”

“What was she doing?” Rhaenyra wonders, “my girl, when they saw her in the streets?”

The lords look to each other, “she marched beside the carriage with Aegon’s body.”

“That is proof enough. I must send word to her, she cannot think we have turned our backs on her. With Aegon gone, she may very well be Aemond’s next attempt.” Rhaenyra is sick over it.

“You must trust, as we have, that Aegon will care for her.”

“He cannot care for her, upon his deathbed. Should he pass, we leave her to whom? Aemond and Alicent? She will be put to the sword.” Rhaenyra shakes her head.

“Meleys was our largest dragon, your grace.” Ser Alfred reminds her.

“Which is why I must go.”

“You cannot, my Queen. You are the crown.”

“I will go.” Jacaerys fists the hilt of his sword.

“No,” Rhaenyra scoffs. “It is out of the question. You will be taken or slain.”

“Would you rather my sister or me?” Jace squares his shoulders. “Those are your choices.”

————————————————————————-

Y/N forces her meal down, spending the evening in her children’s rooms.

“Mama,” Visera calls to her, “I’ve made something for father.”

“I helped!” Dahlia chimes in. “Laenor wanted to, but he rubbed his hands all over it. The painting was nearly ruined.”

“Say it isn’t so, my loves.” Y/N lifts her eldest son onto her hip. “Shall I kiss his head off?”

“Yes.”

“Do it.”

Y/N smiles, peppering Laenor’s sweet face with kisses as he squeals, thrashing wildly in her hold.

Dahlia and Visera giggle, entertained for the moment.

“And you, my prince, best have learned your lesson.” Y/N says, releasing her son onto the floor.

He scampers away, still screeching with glee.

“Mother?” Dahlia tugs at her mother’s skirts.

“Yes, my darling?”

“When will we see father?”

Y/N sighs, “come, sit with me.” She pats the cushions on either side of her.

Her daughters look to each other, then join her on the settee.

“Do you remember what Papa told you about sickness? How it is a war we wage alone, within our bodies?”

“Is he ill?”

“Not exactly,” Y/N explains, “nevertheless, his body is at war now. Battling to repair itself from great wounds, some we cannot see. Every hour, he is fighting his way back to us. But he must remain abed for now, in a state of sleep.”

“May we watch him sleep?” Visera wonders.

“I fear you might be saddened by it.”

“Why, Mama?”

“He looks a bit different, on the outside. But on the inside he is the same.” Y/N says, fighting for composure, “we mustn’t touch him, lest we cause more pain. And it is hard to keep our distance, when all we truly want is to wrap him in an embrace.”

“Mayhaps when we see him, we might hold each other instead.”

Y/N looks to her eldest daughter. “On the morrow, after his bandages are changed, I will bring you. And if it is too much for you, there is no shame in saying so. We love him dearly and he knows it.”

“That is what matters, I think.” Visera says, “if I were waging war, I would want to know someone loved me.”

————————————————————————

Y/N sneaks down to the kitchens for a bit of cake, heading to Aegon’s apartments to eat it. The doors open onto Aemond, leaning over Aegon’s body.

“What are you doing?” She has no weapon, if she’s to kill him now, it will be with her bare hands or a serving spoon.

Aemond turns to her, with sly smile. “My brother was asking for you. He woke in pain, I was merely supplying him with milk of the poppy.”

Y/N forces her mouth to turn upward, “very kind of you, I thank you for looking in on him.”

Aemond nods, setting the empty cup on the bedside table. “Of course.”

“When he asked for me, what did he say?” She wonders, lying her plate of cake beside it.

“Only your name.”

Y/N nods.

“You have been a good and faithful wife to him. Aegon is blessed to have you.”

“Aemond,” Y/N breathes, “might I ask you something?”

His eye flickers about her, “of course, sweet niece.”

“What do you think was his undoing?” She motions to Aegon, “if you had to say?”

“Vanity…pride.”

“It would be suited,” Y/N forces the awful words past her lips, “for someone to take that from him.”

“You should not say such things, my Queen. The thought alone is truly depraved.”

“Of course, forgive me.”

“What befell my brother is nothing short of a tragedy.” Aemond purrs, “you must keep your wits about you.”

“Were they locked in battle?” Y/N asks, “when my grandmother gave Meleys the order?”

Aemond purses his lips, “when dragons fly to war, it is men who burn. Aegon is not the first, he will not be the last. You should be grateful he returned to you.”

“I have lost a brother to war.” Y/N says, as if he needs reminding. “I know its cruelty.”

“A shame, indeed.” Aemond hums.

“I hope it was worth the price.”

“Y/N.” Alicent calls, “Aemond, what are you doing here?”

The prince looks to his mother, “I was merely checking in on our king.”

“You are kind to do so,” Alicent swallows, “as his wife is now here, you are relieved of said duty. Unless you wish the three of us to hold vigil.”

“Perhaps another time, mother.” Aemond nods, “I’ve more pressing matters to attend.” He brushes past them, closing the door to Aegon’s bedchamber behind him.

“What were you thinking?” Alicent demands, in a hushed whisper. “My son pleads for your life and you stand here tempting the very man who-”

“The very man who what?” Y/N dares her to say it. “Killed my brother? Or are you referring to some other atrocity I am not privy to?”

“Your children are in danger, my grandchildren, let me help you.” Alicent reaches for her.

Y/N bats her hand away, “don’t you touch me! My children are in danger because of you.”

“You know what Aemond is.” Kinslayer. Alicent swallows, hard. “My only concern is keeping you safe. What is to stop him from taking out the whole of Aegon’s line to make room for his own? The smallfolk riot in the streets, demanding we open the gates. Even they wish to flee, it is all going to ruin. They need to see you.”

“They will see me as you parade my body through the streets after my murder, not a moment before. I will not betray my mother or her claim.”

“I am not asking you to stand against Rhaenyra, I am asking you to stand for my son. Before it is too late. You owe him this. You forced him onto that saddle as much as I forced him upon the throne.”

“I?” Y/N snaps, “I am the one you blame for this? You think I would have my husband reduced to ash over a fucking chair?”

Alicent presses her lips together, “all Aegon has done is in your name. He rose and he fell for you alone.”

“I wanted this to be peaceful, you know. I truly did and my mother did, then again and again I was taken for a fool.”

“Aegon loves you. He went to meet Rhaenys for you, in hopes of creating new terms with your mother. Mayhaps others have used you, like a pawn to carry out their own agenda, but not Aegon. He never plotted, he never wavered, even in his condition, you are the agenda.”

“And I love him for it, but please know I did not ask him to meet with her. I would have gone myself rather than risk his life. That is why I have not fled, or stole away with my children to Dragonstone. Aegon is equally important to me.”

“You must ready yourself then, in the color of our house.”

“No,” Y/N narrows her eyes, “this is for my husband, who hangs precariously in the balance of life and death. I will attend this procession in the color of mourning, not Hightower green.”

————————————————————————

In the absence of Daemon, Rhaenyra turns to Mysaria for counsel. “You know the ins and outs of King’s Landing better than any. I need an in.”

“Criston Cole made a mistake, parading a dragon’s head through the streets, like a prize of war. The people see an ill omen.” Mysaria tells her.

“Yes, as do I.”

“They are afraid, bread is scarce. The king has fallen, they whisper to each other that when Viserys lived there was peace.” They question the succession.

“But will whispers tear down stone? Break shields?” Save my daughter?

“Do not underestimate them, to the discontented, rumors are feed.” Mysaria continues. “What you cannot do, let others to do for you. There is more than one way to fight a war.”

Part 3

Series Taglist: @oh-you-mean-me @barnes70stark @lovelyteenagebeard @niyahnotnia @narwhal-swimmingintheocean

[stillresolved]

the hound. → "OH, SO YOU DO ACTUALLY TALK." It's a joke, of course, and it is rather stupid to do so in the presence of The Hound- a loan shark so notorious amongst the others that he needed a nickname so that they wouldn't invoke his name unnecessarily.

And there are a lot of loan sharks in the area.

But Alfred is also, again, rather foolish. Not foolish enough to leave his debts unpaid, but certainly foolish to again, snark at a man who could potentially off his finger. "I don't know, man– all that death makes me think life is real fragile, you know? Makes me want to make sure at least my people are safe. Don't you have people you want to at least make it out?" He holds his hand out. "You got a lighter?"

Smoking is not a habit he takes part in habitually. Still, old habits die hard. He pops one out of his own box. "Revenge. Huh." The word sits heavy on his shoulders- there's still that to contend to even after all these years. "Well, getting it should be the main goal; no point in thinking about afterwards if you don't actually have it." He leans back, head resting against the wall. "It helps to have a side project or two though. You can't be spending all your time brooding, can ya?"

"There's no point in pretending to value life when all I collect around me is death. Ironically, the idea of revenge keeps me alive. Every morning, every night, all I think about is that one day, when I can finally satisfy the need." He pauses, his voice low, smoke curling from the tip of his cigarette. "What happens after I kill them all? I don’t care." He takes a slow drag, the ember glowing in the dark. "What about you? What keeps you going? Same thing?"

               open starter.

to: anyone. idea: y/m and kim have a chat. maybe they are getting closer after months of kim being pretty closed off / or a common ground lead them to this talk. maybe they both dab in crime and just talk about their lives in the dirty sides of the city.

[backjustforberena]

Rhaenys Targaryen being perceptive as HECK:

Devotion has never sat well with him. Where he goes, he wishes to be his own master. [...] Not as such (will he challenge her). But neither can he allow her to command him.

"Neither can he allow her to command him." - We never see Rhaenyra actually order Daemon's flight to Harrenhal. Not directly. It was his choice to go when he did, it was his plan to being with, at the start of the whole thing - to create a toehold in the Riverlands. It was Daemon's instincts and feelings. He follows his own path.

Again, Jaehaerys's murder was done without Rhaenyra's sanction, he chafed against staying on Dragonstone whilst she searched for Luke's remains, and he took charge of the war council and drew his sword against Otto without waiting for her leave to escalate. He addresses Otto's terms before she does. Whilst he shows loyalty and believes his motives to be selfless and his allegiance as true, it's not true deference. He seeks power/independence where he can.

Devotion and love don't sit well with him, though he has great capacity for it - we see him struggle with those feelings and the warring sides of his nature during Harrnehal: his brother, his niece, his second wife. His ignorance of his daughters. There is a corruption to his love. An acidity.

"Where he goes, he wishes to be his own master" = he goes to Harrenhal, and wishes to be his own master, and even King.

He doesn't not challenge her "as such" = he never raises banners against her, never pushes for his own claim other than in private conversations. Still, his behaviour causes Rhaenyra to have doubts in herself as Queen and others to have doubts in her as well.

It absolutely challenges outside perceptions of her rule - his lack of communication creates fractures in her council, leading, amongst other things, Alfred to question her suitability. It also makes her strategy wayward as they cannot be sure of ground support for any campaign. She's doing things she shouldn't have to do because of his behaviour.

His behaviour also challenges her because the things that he does impacts how her cause is received. Her name is cursed in King's Landing because of what he enacted, leading to the death of Jaehaerys. They blame her for what he did in her name.

Otto Hightower would never have allowed this. Hotter blood has prevailed, I think. The young men have taken the bit in their teeth. They wish to punish, to avenge. Soon they will not even remember what it was that began the war in the first place.

Otto Hightower did, indeed, not allow or know anything about sending Arryk to assassinate Rhaenyra, leading to the death of both twins. In fact, Otto was appalled by the scheme.

It was, as Rhaenys surmises done on the orders of the "young men" (Aegon, and the less young Cole) - as punishment and revenge for the death of Jaehaerys.

Aegon has "declared" war following the death of his son and has seized on offence. He did this whilst his blood ran hot: a scene where he is smashing up Viserys's model.

We teeter now at the point where none of it will matter. And the desire to kill and burn takes hold and reason is forgotten.

The deaths of the children (Luke & Jaehaerys) in the scene with Alicent and Rhaenyra, ultimately don't affect the idea of peace or war. Alicent does not change her behaviour due to the loss of a grandson, and Rhaenyra does not for the loss of her son, either to make war or peace more or less likely. The road is already set. They reach a point where it doesn't matter.

Rook's Rest represents a point of no return. They pass the point.

Rhaenys sees "the desire to kill and burn" take hold over reason in close quarters - she sees Aemond burn his own brother. That is the kind of savagery: the unforgivable. The bloody war between dragons and the hateful act of kin against kin. It's chaos.

Rhaenyra’s council is wayward. She has a hard task. I must hope she will rise to it, but I fear she’ll need you by her side sooner than late.

After Rhaenys dies, Rhaenyra has one council session, where each of the men around her have individual ideas - they argue amongst each other but none of them have no true plan to offer her. There is no progress.

Nor does she rise to command them: they continue to ignore her, shoot her down, not work with her, leaving her isolated. As Rhaenys fears, she needs Corlys. Rhaenyra soon offers Corlys the role of Hand.

[nerdanel01]

Exquisite

Emmrich Volkarin/F!Rook 2.5k+ wc | SFW Agnes tries to find a way to express to Emmrich how much he means to her. EXCERPT: Behind her, Emmrich was speaking lowly to Alfred, paying her no mind. She heard the clink of beakers and flasks, and the low hiss of reaction as two elements came together. Before Agnes could reconsider, she drew the small box she had been carrying from her skirt pockets, and set it delicately on the table next to Emmrich’s cup. 

Almost as soon as she had set it down, everything within her was screaming to take it back, to snatch it up and shove it back in her pockets before Emmrich caught sight of it. Somehow, incredibly—despite how deeply she had grown to care for Emmrich (could barely admit to herself: had fallen in love with him ) and despite the fact that they worked alongside each other almost every day, Emmrich seemed just as unaware of her true feelings towards him as he had always been. What did she have to gain, by putting that safety at risk now? What if it backfired on her? 

9:40 Dragon

Agnes could not remember the last time she had felt this nervous. 

It was after dinner, but the night was yet young; not so late that it would have been inappropriate to call upon Emmrich. That she would visit him at such a ripe hour in the day was not, in itself, unusual or out of the ordinary. Though he had been her mentor first, and her charge second, in the time since he had also grown to be her dearest friend, her confidant. Agnes liked to think that Emmrich thought of her as a close friend in return. They had spent many a pleasant evening together in his study, sharing kettle after kettle of hot tea, their discussion of death and the arcane continuing far into the small hours of the morning.

Tonight, however, as Agnes walked down the long narrow corridor to Emmrich’s study, she felt the small wooden box in the pocket of her skirts striking against her thigh with each step. Her stomach was twisted in knots; Agnes might have feared being sick, if it were not so clearly the symptom of her anxiety. She wrung her hands, then lifted them to smooth them over her black hair, which was braided and twisted neatly back behind her head. 

As she arrived at the study door, Agnes straightened her shoulders, tried to calm her racing heart to no avail. Then—before she could reconsider, before she could flee—she rapped her fist on the door, three quick knocks of her knuckles on the wood.

Agnes stood there. Holding her breath, practically forgetting to breathe. When no answer came from beyond, she frowned, and raised her hand to knock again—and then, at last, she heard Alfred’s characteristic moaning within, followed by Emmrich’s muffled encouragement:

“Excellent Alfred, very good, just like that—now turn it in your grip, the other way…”

The brass knob of the door gave a pathetic little jostle, but the door did not budge. Another plaintive moan. “Oh, don’t be such a defeatist, Alfred, you’ve nearly got it!”

But the knob only gave the faintest twitch, less vigorous than the first. 

“It’s alright, nevermind, let me get it…”

Emmrich answered the door wearing his dragon leather apron and gloves, his green-lensed safety goggles lifted to rest on the crown of his head. a fine waft of arcane-smelling steam billowing out from the room behind him. On the laboratory tables, flasks and alembics were madly boiling away.

“Agnes!” he greeted her, delightedly. “Good evening.”

“Hello,” Agnes replied, then glanced pointedly at the experiment in progress in the room beyond. It was a cowardly move, to be sure, but now that she was facing Emmrich, she found herself second guessing all the decisions that had brought her to his door. She would not refuse so readily an excuse to retreat, not when it was sitting there practically staring her in the face. “I hope I am not interrupting anything. If this is not a good time, I can come back.”

“Not at all, not at all! Alfred and I are nearly finished.” Emmrich held the door for her, beckoning her inside. “Come in, have a seat. I will join you in just a few moments. I apologize for keeping you waiting—I thought Alfred might be able to greet you while I continued our work, but, well…”

“Still struggling with his grip, is he?”

“He’s getting better,” Emmrich said, although he sounded less than confident. “Would you like some tea?”

“Yes, please. Is the kettle still hot?”

“Cold, I’m afraid, and half empty.”

“Finish up with Alfred, then,” Agnes said, with a small smile. “I’ll manage the tea.”

“Thank you, dear,” Emmrich answered, gratefully. “I’ll be with you before it’s fully steeped.”

Agnes was thankful, then, that he had turned back to the laboratory tables and whatever bubbling concoction he was preparing, as a familiar warmth began to creep up the sides of her neck. ‘Dear.’ A recent development—Agnes wasn’t sure she would ever get used to it. It made her flattered and wistful all at once. Though she supposed she ought to be grateful she was dear to Emmrich at all, rather than disappointed she was not as dear as she may have liked to be. 

Emmrich’s kettle had been left to grow cold on the serving tray beside his equally cold cup of tea. It looked like had managed no more than a sip or two before abandoning it, probably distracted by whatever experiment was at hand. Agnes carried the kettle to the spigot on the wall, emptying first the cold, bitter tea down the drain and removing the sieve before throwing the lever and filling it with fresh water. Then she carried it back to the heart, and set it hanging from a hook above the roaring flame. As the water warmed, she fetched two fresh, clean tea cups and saucers. These she set on a small table, sandwiched between two plush armchairs arranged comfortably around the hearth’s warmths, before settling into one of those chairs herself. 

Behind her, Emmrich was speaking lowly to Alfred, paying her no mind. She heard the clink of beakers and flasks, and the low hiss of reaction as two elements came together. Before Agnes could reconsider, she drew the small box she had been carrying from her skirt pockets, and set it delicately on the table next to Emmrich’s cup. 

Almost as soon as she had set it down, everything within her was screaming to take it back, to snatch it up and shove it back in her pockets before Emmrich caught sight of it. Somehow, incredibly—despite how deeply she had grown to care for Emmrich (could barely admit to herself: had fallen in love with him ) and despite the fact that they worked alongside each other almost every day, Emmrich seemed just as unaware of her true feelings towards him as he had always been. What did she have to gain, by putting that safety at risk now? What if it backfired on her? 

But worse than the fear of being found out was the fear of losing him. Of something happening to Emmrich, or Agnes herself, without her ever having expressed at least some fraction of what he meant to her. Though she had only been a child when her mother had died, that did not mean she had no regrets—that Agnes did not wish every day that she had told her mother more often that she loved her. And Emmich was too good. He deserved better than that. 

It wasn’t the first time she had tried to tell him. Once, several years past, she asked him for his birthday, that she might express her appreciation for him on that occasion. The strong Orlesian influence on Western Nevarra, where Agnes had been raised, was evident in the fact that she had even thought to ask. And Emmrich—fully Nevarran to the very core—had refused to tell her. He hewed strictly to the orthodox traditions in that respect.

“Remember and honor my Death Day, instead, once I am gone and interred in the Memorial Ossuary below,” he had told her, plainly, as if that were the most normal thing in the world—not some bizarre, morbid tradition practiced only to their homeland. “I will be much more in need of the company then, I suspect; and much more grateful for it.”

An awful, repulsed shiver had shook through Agnes at the thought. The Memorial Ossuary was a marvel, a true wonder of the Necropolis in its own right: the place where those who served in the Mourn Watch were laid to rest after living their lives in service of it. 

But not immediately. They were interred, first, in a smaller chamber, one meant to accelerate the decay of flesh. When all that remained was bone, those bones were gathered, and stacked in extravagant, mind-dizzying formations within the Ossuary. The skull alone retained the distinction of individuality, the only indication of to whom the remains belonged: each one was inked along the brow with the deceased Watcher’s name and a blessing to Andraste, the crown of the skull decorated with a motif meant to honor the deceased for their deeds in life. Arbor Blessing for valor, perhaps. Prophet’s Laurel for unwavering faith. 

Agnes found the whole idea horrifying. In fact, the thought of one day descending into the Necropolis to set out offerings and a remembrance meal for Emmrich—staring into the hollow sockets where his warm eyes used to be, at teeth that would never again offer her his charming grin—filled her with a primal dread that was unmatched by any other fear. 

Still, at the time, she had managed to reply to Emmrich, dryly: 

“Do not worry, Volkarin. I will not let your dusty, painted bones grow too lonely down there.”

To her great shock, at her answer, Emmrich had taken her hand between his—a thing he had never done previous to this occasion, nor since—and squeezed it, gratefully. 

“Thank you.”

Agnes was nearly crushed beneath the weight of sheer relief in his voice. Did Emmrich really imagine that no one would think of him, after he was gone? That he would be so quickly forgotten? The vulnerability in his gratitude could have broken her heart. And she knew at that moment that her answer (given half in derision, half in jest) was now as god as a promise. An oath.

‘I will not leave you, even in death.’

The whistling of the kettle pulled Agnes out of her reverie. She stood from the armchair and pulled on a set of mitts to keep from burning her hands, then removed the boiling kettle from the hearth, setting upon a rounded trivet of green, silver-veined marble. She took the perforated sieve she had removed from the kettle earlier and refilled it with the smoky blend of black tea that Emmrich favored, then lifted the kettle’s lid and submerged it in the boiling water to steep. 

“What’s this?”

Agnes stiffened. Emmrich (apron-less, waistcoat-less, shirtsleeves rolled past his elbows to reveal his fine forearms) was settling into the second armchair, examining with great interest the small wooden box Agnes had set out on the table.

Her stomach flipped. Well, this was it. 

Agnes turned back to the tea. “It’s for you,” she answered, not as loudly or as confidently as she would have liked. 

“For me?” he repeated quizzically. Then he read aloud from the handwritten label: “‘To Emmrich, from Agnes.’ Emmrich! How unusually intimate for you.” Which was a fair accusation. After all this time, Agnes could probably count on one hand the amount of times she’d called Emmrich by his given name. A few years ago he had given up insisting. “What is the occasion?”

Out of deference and habit, Agnes poured Emmrich’s cup of tea first. She could feel another embarrassed flush beginning to creep up her neck as the steam rose from his cup, and was thankful for the high, black lace collar of her blouse that concealed it. Thank Andraste she had not signed the inscription ‘Yours, Agnes,’ as she had toyed with at the time. 

“Nine years ago to the day,” Agnes told him, pouring out her own cup of tea and keeping her gaze fixedly on the steaming amber brew, “you gave me a gift, to celebrate my first completed year in the Mourn Watch.” 

A low huff from Emmrich, perhaps disbelief. “Maker, has it been ten years already?” 

Agnes nodded, returning the kettle to the marble trivet and perching herself on the edge of the available chair. She barely settled into it, keeping her posture perfectly straight, tension running through her body. “Ten years that I have been a Watcher, ten years that we have been working together.” ‘ Ten years that I have held my love for you, secret and sacred and safe, pressed deeply into my heart.’ “I do not think, in those past ten years, that I have adequately expressed my gratitude for all that you have done for me. My hope is that this gift may rectify that, somewhat.”

“Agnes, that was wholly unnecessary,” Emmrich said, kindly. His fingers worked at the catch, popped the small box open. “You owe me no gift at all; not even the gift of your continued partnership, though I welcome it. You—”

Emmrich froze, his eyes fixed on the opened box in his hands. Agnes could hardly bear to look at him, but it was worse not to. She tried to read the play of emotions on his face. 

Shock, certainly. Soon gathered under a put-upon stoicism. He pulled his lips back, baring his teeth, shifting uncertainly; his free hand came up to his face, and forefinger and thumb began to worryingly smooth along the line of his pencil mustache. 

“Agnes, this is…” Rush of exhalation while he gathered his words. “It is exquisite. And entirely too much, I am not sure I can accept it.”

All the same, he pinched the ring out of the little velvet cushion it had been set up, lifting it out of the box to better examine it. Yellow gold embraced a labradorite scarab, the shoulders of the setting carved to look like lotus petals. The blue scarab flashed as Emmrich turned the ring over, capturing brilliant blue gems of light within its facets. 

“Lovely vintage details in the late Van Markham style,” Emmrich spoke aloud, turning it over in the firelight. “It dates from the Steel Age, doesn’t it?” Another little huff of breath, something not quite merry enough to be a laugh. “How transparent I must have become to you in ten years, that you were able to devise a gift so entirely inappropriate and yet so absolutely irresistible to me.”

Agnes thought she might faint, she could hardly breathe. “You like it, then?”

“That is an understatement,” Emmrich said, gravely. “It is a breathtaking piece.” 

“Would you put it on?” Agnes asked him, hoping she did not sound too eager. “Please.”

But Emmrich knew just as well as she did that once he yielded to the temptation to put it on, it would be very, very difficult to take it off. He had few weaknesses, but fine jewelry was certainly one of them. “Agnes—”

“I have no family,” Agnes told him, seeing the imminent refusal on his face and cutting him off. “Or at least, I no longer have any family that cares for me. You know that. Just as well as you know that I never had any intention nor desire to join the Mourn Watch when I came here.” She dropped her eyes to her teacup, still steaming, counting the grinning black skulls that had been painted into the porcelain around the rim. “But I have cherished every hour I have worked with you since I arrived. Everything we have experienced together, everything you have taught me. You are my dearest friend.” The truth of the matter was, “Who else in my life would I give such a gift to, if not you?”

Emmrich was gazing at her; Agnes could not meet his eyes. She did not think she could bear it if he was looking at her with pity. But out of the corner of her eyes, she saw his fingers shift their grip on the gold band. And then she did turn—her insides giving a sick, drunken, giddy lurch as she watched the ring slide over fingertip, first knuckle, second, until it came to a rest, snug at the base of his left middle finger. 

It looked so fine on him. Looked as if it had been made for none other than him. That was partly why she had been unable to stop herself from buying it.

Emmrich held his hand away from his face, thumb curving to stroke the inside band of the ring while he admired it. “You are incorrigible,” he said at last, barely above a whisper. “I take it this is your way of getting back at me for all of those absurd, missed ‘birthdays.’”

“Indeed,” Agnes said, in a dry tone that often made it difficult for others to tell that she was joking, “if you had simply let me buy you a cake once a year, we likely would not be in this situation.”

Emmrich shook his head again, a smile twisting his lips. For a moment, Agnes thought he was going to remove the ring, and refuse it after all. Instead, he chuckled, softly, under his breath. 

“It is too exquisite.”

But then he was rising from his seat, drawing near, bending at the waist—explosive panic, Agnes was not quite sure what was happening—before drawing his face close to her to press a soft, chaste kiss to her cheek.

It was over in the blink of an eye. Emmrich was back in his seat so quickly Agnes might have thought she had imagined it, were it not for the riot of reaction in her body: heat in her chest, in her face, in the bowl of her hips. She had felt the rasp of his mustache hairs against her cheek, as he kissed her. She had not thought to imagine that, not considered how incredible it would feel. 

“Thank you, Agnes. Let’s make the next ten years just as spectacular as the first decade, shall we?”

[stillresolved]

"This is mu*tual aid, not charity." He slides them a cup of coffee. "On the house. Drink it or else."

[clemencetaught]

i need to showcase this post on my blog so in case the ppl are not reading the comments here are myungdae's two options to taiquinn's bullying anatagonizing ( with more detail here ):

a. he stabs them both lightly with his sword; the black knight in the arthurian legend had no morals and no king to serve under, who's says myungdae can't do the same ( even the man with infinite patience has a limit; we'll see who's laughing at the end jflksdjfkl )

or unfortunately the more likely option:

b. he pathetically curls into a ball under the covers of his bed and complains bitterly to hyuk ahem i mean team checkmate about having no break, no time to rest, can he please just take a f*cking nap and not have to worry about someone else's well being for once ( maybe he should ring up naeun for tips on how to get them to leave him alone :'D )

re: @uroborosymphony & @clemencetaught 's comments on this post because I had to— !!!

okay but Taiquinn setting a government building on fire and Tai chuckling to himself leaving a fancy note that's like, ' to the black knight, thinking of you, yours always xoxo 🖤🐈‍⬛ ' . they can't have Black Knight thinking of anybody else except his favorite vigilante duo on his nights off, now can they? 🤍❤️ : )

( and if that seems flirtatious, that's because it's supposed to ) Tai trolling as usual when he and Quinn are in the middle of a fight with Black Knight like — " — anybody else feel that?

I'm sensing some unresolved sexual tension in the air; ( 'guess that's a real thing; I thought that only happened in comic books . . . )

now THIS guy could be our third. right, Quinn? " sorry, Naeun. ( not really, though; he still won't share Quinn with anyone; not that Myungdae wants to ajsjaj he just wants to get under the Black Knight's skin 8] )

[clemencetaught]

nell: his least favorite questions are 'who, what, and why'- alfred: but he also hates 'when, where, and how'. myungdae: *glaring* i can hear you both 😒

[ofgentleresolve]

alfred jinwoo choi. 35. barista/bodyguard. the rook.

[ao3feed-brucewayne]

The Dark Knight and the Azure Rook

by Azur3Rook In this reimagined world where comic lore intertwines with reality, the story of Amilia—rescued from darkness and nurtured into her own form of strength—opens a chapter full of potential. As she keeps seeking a return to her reality, the question remains: will she choose to go back or continue her journey as a hero in the DC Universe? The tale spins on, with heroism born from hope, resilience, and the unbreakable bond forged between a girl and a legend. (I had writers block on this sooo bad. So the summary is AI generated, but worked well as a writing prompt ) Words: 2486, Chapters: 1/?, Language: English Fandoms: DC Extended Universe, DCU, Justice League - All Media Types, Young Justice - All Media Types, Batman - All Media Types, Arrowverse CW, Aquaman (Schnider), Green Lantern - All Media Types Rating: Not Rated Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Categories: Other Characters: Bruce Wayne, Dick Grayson, Tim Drake (DCU), Jason Todd, Barbara Gordon, Damian Wayne, Alfred Pennyworth, Cassandra Cain, Casey Kelly, J'onn J'onzz, Megan Morrz, Connor Kent, Kaldur'ahm | Jackson Hyde, Wally West, Artemis, Clark Kent, Selena Kyle Relationships: Bruce Wayne/Daughter!OC, Batfamily Members & Alfred Pennyworth via https://ift.tt/BeQbou6

[ofgentleresolve]

the british guy ( @ashbtten ). ➜ Guys like him, Alfred is more than familiar with dealing with. No matter which country he’s in, these kinds of guys, the ones who walk with purpose and act as if they own the place, are, however unpleasant to deal with, Alfred knows well.

Granted, this guy doesn’t really walk with purpose so much as he proceeds with caution. But the vibe is similar, nonetheless- it’s just not one that Alfred finds in the front of the house. No, if the customer ( foreigner- perhaps European? He doesn’t quite have that swagger Americans will carry across borders... he's British actually- it's the accent ) really wanted to blend in without changing anything about himself, he would come in later in the day to the back of the house. That’s usually where Alfred would deal with those kinds of people.

That, and- “I was talking about your shirt actually- what, you get it from a construction site or something?” He nods at the customer’s suit, dusty and covered in debris. Well, that’s technically a lie but hey, that’s part of the truth, isn’t it? “It looks like you need a laundromat more- not coffee. You want a napkin too while you’re at it?”

Still, this customer isn’t one to play games with- for one thing, if he’s able to infer about people using mere observation- “...I take it you’re not just some fancy businessman either then. Bet you’re not from around either- word of advice to you though: don’t mess with the man who pours the drinks.”

Not that he’s spiked the customer’s coffee with anything- he hasn’t shown himself to be a threat and the last thing either Alfred or Nell or Myungdae for that matter needs is another enemy. They’ve got too many to count at this point and perhaps it’s the cynic in Alfred coming out, but he highly doubts this individual will be AN ALLY either. Especially if he’s a foreigner, what reason would he benefit from sticking his nose in?

“If you’re looking for information, come back around later and through the backdoor too. We open around noon.”

@melloreturn​ | “don’t take this the wrong way, but you don’t exactly blend in.” ( from melloreturn for…anyone who wants to meet alfred?? ) more random dialogue prompts

—

It wouldn’t take much to make that assessment but for once Patrick doesn’t mind getting to hear it.

He prefers blending in, that’s the routinised way he approaches life, it’s just easier to disappear in a crowd or act so nondescript to completely vanish out of the general public’s perception. But it’s also… brutally unrealistic.

Appearing bored yet confident enough to not look out of place, to not look as though he has no idea how to behave in a foreign coffeehouse, it would be as strong of a spot as running around the place yelling old-forgotten song lyrics at the top of his lungs. Sometimes, at least. Sometimes people are more trained to pick out the mundane and memorise that, than they are likely to pay attention to the very eccentric.

That and Patrick walked in and sat down perhaps a tad too confidently, as if he’d been here before, as if he’d been visiting this place all his life. A little foolish there, that’s not how con-artistry works, making an unlikely scenario likely doesn’t work if circumstances don’t work in your favour.

The bags under his eyes and the debris dust on his clothes don’t help, either.

Patrick drops his gaze from the barista’s and snorts out a little puff of air over the coffee he’d ordered, aimlessly turning the cup in his hands as if he seems to have next to no intention in actually taking it to a table and drinking it.

He straightens his back with a sigh, drops his elbows on the counter, and his face into his awaiting hands. Well, whatever. “Neither do you, now,” he offers, pushing against one of his cheeks to tilt his head slightly to that side. Corners of his lips lift slightly, slowly, as if… well… whoops, who cares?

He frees his left hand to point at Alfred’s. “You’ve got some rough hands, there. I take it you haven’t been a barista all your life? Unless I’m assuming the job to be less taxing than it is. My mistake, in that case.”

[atopvisenyashill]

had to wait to watch the episode bc my cousin called and started asking clarification questions ahout rhaenyra’s kids (her ultimate opinion was “why do we need to recycle the name so often. there are plenty of other boy names I CHECKED ONLINE I HAVE A PAGE BOOKMARKED why did she have to choose aegon i’m so confused”) so let’s goooooo-

THE LADS THE LADS THE LADS THE LADS THE LADS THE LADS THE LADS

why does kermit not have red hair THATS THE TULLY HAIR COLOR GODDAMIT

i don’t like that rhaenys knows about marilda’s kids. makes absolutely no sense with her established character. what was the point of that scene.

alfred broome is so fucking annoying i need this man to die. why are you constantly picking fights with royal family members who have DRAGONS in PUBLIC.

“king consort” why are they so inconsistent with this

corlys walking in right when people are badgering his wife, i KNOW ser alfred almost pissed his pants lol

“the whore of dragonstone”

“ser criston is marching on rook’s rest” “rook—a pathetic prize!!” THATS WHAT IVE BEEN SAYING ITS SO STUPID THAT THEY RISK TWO DRAGONS, THEIR KING, AND HIS NUMBER ONE ADVANTAGE ON FUCKING ROOK’S REST. AEMOND AND CRISTON U R DUMB BITCHES.

i like that aegon has to be goaded into it, at least that makes sense as to why he’d go for such a useless ficking castle. aemond trying to take control back after being humiliated in the brothel, where even his toxic safe space in sylvi has been violated by his brother. and aegon, ever uninterested in the nuances of ruling and his own culture, can only answer back in halting and unclear valyrian…has to save face by going for a castle he knows is useless.

larys picking up right away on everything alicent is leaving unsaid all while she’s suffering through the equivalent of taking plan b in front of him, and they both know that’s exactly why she’s cramping right now. delicious. sexy.

ITS LAENA HAUNT THAT MOTHERFUCKERS ASS

AGAIN I MENTION THE FIDGET TOY. why is it there. simply to distract aegon? that’s not fair, he’s just a goofy lil guy!!

“what thoughts would you have?” OMG?

it’s really interesting how aegon has been snapping at people or retreating but never really sticking around long enough to REALLY argue. but not only does he let his mother fucking DIG INTO him (as USUAL, it’s almost a comfort, the familiarity with which she sits across from him and tells him how much of a disappointment he is) but he straight up asks her opinion! grasps in the silence, reins in his temper, and asks his mother what she wants from him. and once again her answer is a reminder that he is never enough!

going to walk the doggy i’ll be backkkkk