#the siege of the north part two

[zukosdualdao]

“she’s a firebending prodigy, and everyone adores her.”

while zuko definitely does not have the most unbiased perspective (since we will come to understand how she treats her friends, crew, and servants and how at least some of them probably do not, in fact, adore her) i do find this moment really interesting (especially because he doesn’t just say their father adores her, but everyone) and it makes a lot of sense from zuko’s perspective. because… in zuko alone, he just straight up does not seem to have any friends of his own in the fire nation. we don’t know how much of this is like, a natural inclination toward introversion, but i think it’s clear it weighs on him (as evidenced by the fact that he holds onto what aang says about wondering whether they could have been friends and brings it back up in book three.) with that in mind, i think it’s at least conceivable that this was partially because he doesn’t have his father’s favor—and people know it. he also grew up somewhat sheltered and isolated due to palace life, and while azula reacted to that by finding friends she could (eventually) use her status to control, zuko seems to stayed pretty isolated, especially after ursa’s disappearance.

i think the disrespect fire nation officers feel entitled to show zuko in the series during his banishment is like, ramped up to 11, but again—i don’t think ozai’s disdain for him was a particularly hidden thing, and i wonder how that affected him when he was still at court before being banished.

[cdragons]

No Hope - Robb Stark x Lady-in-Waiting!Reader

Summary: You ended it. It killed you to do so, but you had to do it. Soon, it won't matter anyway - you were set to travel with Lord Stark and Lady Sansa as her lady-in-waiting to King's Landing. It's not as if you two will ever meet again. How wrong you were...

Warning(s): Hard Dom Robb, OC is cold, Robb is dark AND delulu, Canon divergence, hard smut, slight BDSM, KIng's Landing criminal justice system, etc.

Note: HAPPY BIRTHDAY DIPPY!!! I know I'm three days late, and I swear I meant to finish this on your actual birthday, but I ended up overwriting, and then I had to be at the DMV for about 7 hours and then had to pack up my house yesterday 🫠. ANYWAY, thank you so much for being such an amazing friend! It really has been such an honor to see how much you, your writing, and your blog have grown! Here's to another year of friendship and great writing!

The siege against King’s Landing was a success, resulting in an overwhelming victory for Stannis’ campaign as the new King of the Seven Kingdoms.

House Lannister, despite the arrival of reinforcements from House Tyrell, led by Ser Loras, was no more. While it was a clever ruse on House Tyrell’s part, neither house would have expected men from the Riverlands to join Stannis in his fight, resulting in an overwhelming victory. As a result, the futures of two of the ancient Seven Great Houses of Westeros now rest in the hands of a new ruler—King Stannis of House Baratheon, a figure whose emergence will undoubtedly shape the course of Westeros.

Despite being a wheelhouse dozens of miles away from King’s Landing at this point, the shouts and cheers of Stannis’ men rang clear in your ears. Inside were three young women transported to the Westerlands—to Robb Stark, the Young Wolf and King of the newly independent North.

The thought of seeing him again after the way the two of you left things off made the ride all the more unpleasant.

You remained silent and softly stroked your lady’s head as she rested her head on your lap. Tried as she could to stay lucid and awake, but it seemed that the stress and terror from being trapped as King Joffery’s former betrothed before being sold to his dwarf of an uncle had taken its toll. As she slept, you took in her features and noted the changes from the child you knew in Winterfell to the young woman trapped in King’s Landing. Her gorgeous red Tully hair lost some of its splendorous luster, appearing more matted and unkempt than you had ever seen it after years of being in Lady Sansa’s lady-in-waiting. Despite being in the South for over a year, her ivory skin seemed to pale until it was translucent. While the court believed her pale fairness to result from her Northern birth, only you and Shay knew that it was from Sansa’s inability to stomach more than a few meager bites off her plate during her mealtimes.

“The circles under her eyes have darkened further,” you thought as Sansa gripped your skirt – tightly clenching her fist as if she were a small child still terrified of the dark. “She’s grown too thin – she’s barely improved since I’ve returned by her side.”

It terrified you when Shae, who took your place as her handmaiden, informed you that her mood had improved tremendously since Lord Tyrion’s success in releasing you as a wedding gift to his new wife. Knowing that Sansa, to which your previous liege lord entrusted her care to you, was in such a state for months broke your heart. The bright and cheerful smiles you adored had become so rare since you returned to her side. But you hoped that due to recent events, your red-haired wolf would soon smile as brightly with all the more radiance as she did as a child.

“Do you think Lord Tyrion will be alright?”

You looked up to see Shae sitting across from you on the other side of the carriage. Her expression, while usually impassive and unreadable, was fraught with unease about the uncertainty of the future—hers and her lover’s.

“Stannis Baratheon is not one who shows mercy,” you answered truthfully. “It is likely that he will face the same fate as his nephew, as well as his sister and father.”

Perhaps your tone was too blunt, judging by the slight flinch Shay gave when you referred to Joffery Lannister. But, it would not help anyone, much less her, if you spoke anything less than the truth – that was what Ned Stark taught you since you were a child, and it was by that faith you would remain steadfast no matter what. She deserved nothing less than the truth; it was what you owed her. After all, from what Sansa spoke to you, she helped protect her however she could when you were not by her side.

And for that, you were most grateful.

“However,” you continued, “perhaps Lord Varys will vouch for him. The Master of Whispers holds Lord Tyrion in high regard, and out of all his family, your lover is admittedly the best of them. If nothing else, maybe he’ll pledge loyalty to Stannis and convince Tommen to do the same.”

 She grew flustered, “He is not…we are not–”

“You will not find judgment from me,” you assured her with a bitter chuckle. You looked down at Sansa, her sleeping figure sparking a twinge of guilt in your heart. “Believe me, I am the last one to preach about the sins of an affair between a lord and his servant.”

It was a joyful reunion between mother and child. Before the wheelhouse fully stopped, Sansa flung open the doors and leaped out, racing into her mother's arms. Lady Stark was just as eager to hold her daughter – forgetting all forms of propriety and etiquette when she picked up her skirts to run. Both were a mess of wide smiles and joyful tears, and you don’t believe you’ve ever seen Lady Stark act so young. Seeing the two embrace – one who lost a husband and two sons and the other who lost a father and two brothers –made for such a beautiful scene that it made you weep in relief.

“I did it, my lord,” you silently prayed out, “I’ve kept my promise.”

You swore you felt your liege's gratitude by the gentle breeze that blew through the field. But unfortunately, the joy you felt would only further load the weight of the shackles of your guilt and self-loathing that refused to release you. Even if someone as good and honorable as Ned Stark could find it in his heart to forgive you – you couldn’t help but feel you don’t deserve his forgiveness.

…No…you knew you didn’t deserve it, and knowing that made the shackles heavier than you’ve ever felt.

Sansa was absent since Lady Catelyn insisted that her daughter remain by her side for the night. Shae accompanied her, and you remained alone as you lay on the cot set for you. A squire announced himself before entering the tent the men had set up for you and Shae. He called out your name and informed you that you were expected to wait in His Grace’s tent.

“His Grace requested a moment with you,” he explained, “he wishes to thank you for your service and loyalty to Princess Sansa.”

“Well, you can tell ‘His Grace’ that he can thank me here,” you scoffed. “Because I’m not fucking moving.”

You dismissed the young man without a second thought. Seriously? Did he genuinely expect you to come so quickly to him? Honestly, the nerve of that man.

It was not long before the squire returned.

“H-his Grace insists that you meet him,” he stammered.

The poor boy looked terrified, like a little puppy caught by its master for doing something it wasn’t supposed to. Seeing his discomfort was almost adorable – it nearly made you smile.

“And I insist that he let me rest,” you raised your brow and cocked your head to the side. “Or is he, in fact, ordering me to meet him? Ahh, and after such a long journey – honestly, he acts so spoiled sometimes, such a typical highborn born with everything.”

“Please, my lady,” he pleaded.

You impassively stared at the poor fellow briefly. His cheeks were flushed bright red underneath the dirt and grime, and his eyes looked close to crying. Gods, Robb – what in the Seven Hells kind of tongue lashing did you give the poor boy? Surely, he wasn’t so desperate to see you, especially considering how the two of you left things off.

“Fine,” you sighed, “I suppose I could spare him a moment. But it won’t be before I’ve had a bath – I’ve already called for hot water; it won’t be long.”

“Oh, thank you, my lady,” he sighed in relief. “His Grace will be most grateful to see you once he is finished speaking with his council in the war tent.”

Fuckin’ son of a–

You swore you felt a vein on your forehead pop. Did that idiot really summon you to his tent while he was in a council meeting?

The walk from your tent to Robb’s was a battle in itself - your mind dreaded what your heart longed for.

You had just finished your bath and changed into a simple linen dress (plain but clean) when you decided you kept His Majesty waiting long enough (two hours, give or take). You were just about to enter when a particularly irritatingly slow clap stopped you in your tracks. There was only one person who could bring out your ire in such a short amount of time. You turned around to see Theon Greyjoy – standing and smirking like the arrogant bitch you fought and played with since you were just a girl.

“Well, aren’t you a vision?” he smirked. “Makes you wonder how the men of King’s Landing kept their hands to themselves when they saw you.”

“Wouldn’t know,” you wryly replied, “after all, I spent most of my time there in a dark, damp cell. I barely had enough food and water to survive, let alone to be a vision.”

Although Theon still joked and teased like he always had, you could see the war had taken its toll on him. He grew thinner. His body had lost weight, and his muscles appeared leaner and more taut. His shaggy curls were more closely trimmed and no longer tickled his shoulders. But his eyes—how they looked so haunted and tired—made your heartbreak.

“He’s missed you,” he whispered. There was no need to state a name – you both knew who he was referring to.

“He got married,” you replied while looking away. To a Frey, no less.

“She's dead, and he never loved her.”

“That makes it better?”

“It does when you were the one who broke his heart,” he retorted.

You sharply turned back, “That is not–”

Light poured out of the tent behind you as the front flap opened. You heard your name being called out in that tone that always made your knees buckle—revering and filled with longing with an undertone of authority. It beckoned you to look at him, and when you did, you swore you felt your heart leap into your throat by him.

“You’re late,” he grunted.

Robb Stark, with his crystalline blue eyes not once looking away from you, shifted to the side and let you in. His gaze moved to Theon and narrowed when he noticed the lack of distance between the two of you. Saying nothing, you silently bowed your head before heading inside the warm tent. However, you remained close enough to hear the brief exchange between the Greyjoy and Stark. But after being away from Robb for so long, you couldn’t focus on any words between the two men.

Taking a deep breath, your body tingled as you took the familiar notes of fine leather and freshly burned smoke. You glanced at his bed and longed to lie in its furs without the hindrance of clothes. Your mouth watered at the idea of wrapping yourself in them. The idea of pressing your nose against the furs made your center throb and grow wet, as the idea of the scent of his hot sweat mixed with his musk trapped in those hides was almost too much to bear.

You were so lost in your thoughts that you nearly missed Robb calling out your name. You responded by regaining your composure as quickly as possible so as not to betray any lustful thoughts swimming in your mind.

“What did you and Theon talk about?” he bluntly asked, standing impassively as you remained silent.

“Was the journey smooth?” he tried again. Nothing.

“I hope my men–”

“Idle prattle doesn’t suit you,” you tiredly sighed. “Just tell me whatever you waited so long for, and then I can return to my tent and finally rest.”

Robb clenched his fists and stared at the ground. How cruel, how unfair – one word from you, just hearing your voice, struck every word on his tongue dead. War made him lax. He, of all people, should know how you could drive good men to insanity.

Yes – it felt like he was going mad.

He looked up from the ground and wanted to weep. There you stood – looking as beautiful as a fresh layer of snow and just as cold. It took everything in him not to reach out and pull you close. He wanted to feel your body close to his, to revel in the softness of your hidden warmth. He wanted to go back to Winterfell – to simpler times with his father and brothers alive and laughing, to when Jon was by his side and his brother and best friend, and to when you would look at him like he was your world.

How you used to look at him – how he still looked at you.

Robb tried to start a conversation to loosen the tense atmosphere, but it was clear you weren’t having it. You even cut him off on his third attempt. Your voice was so cold that it burned him like ice. He wasn’t even sure if you were looking at him or just at a corner of the tent so you could maintain that cold, domineering façade you had perfected since childhood. It was obvious to him that you were trying to goad him into losing his temper – giving you the perfect excuse to leave and ignore him again.

Why else had you sent his squire back to him after he requested your presence to wait for him at his tent? Furthermore, why else did you make him wait two hours for your bath?

“I wish to thank you for your loyalty towards my sister during her time as the Lannisters’ hostage,” Robb calmly said, keeping his voice steady but firm. “You acted bravely.”

“No,” you shook your head. “I acted as anyone else would have in my position. My loyalty to your sister and family is not something to be admired or coveted.”

“That’s not true,” Robb argued. “Your loyalty to my family is nothing short of admirable. It’s only right that–”

“Robb.”

It was infuriating how regal you looked, carrying the air of a queen.

“My loyalty will always belong to House Stark, that’s true – but,” you stared deep into his gaze, “all I cared about in that damp, rotting cell, where I was given barely enough water and food to survive, was whether my lady was well.”

Please stop it.

“I didn’t endure because my lady was a Stark,” you continued, “I endured because it was Sansa.”

He couldn’t bear it any longer.

“Is it only for Sansa that you’ve suffered?” he rasped in anger.

This wasn’t good; he just got you back. If he doesn’t properly utilize this chance, you’ll be gone from him forever. He knew you’d never leave Sansa’s side. Your loyalty to her, even when she still acted like the spoiled little princess of the North, drew him to you. As the eldest daughter, Sansa was the one closest to their mother. However, as the second eldest child, it also meant that she had to understand she could not always have their parents’ attention. Before Jeyne Poole, before Septa Mordane – you were Sansa’s first and constant companion. You were someone whose loyalty ran deep and remained unwavering in the worst times.

He collected himself enough to apologize for his outburst when your voice returned – regal and imposing, cold and distant.

“Not just Sansa,” you stated. “…I also made a promise to Lord Stark.”

Something in him snapped. Robb considered himself a good man, an honorable man. One whose father instilled lessons of honor and duty in him since he was old enough to walk. A father who he missed, whose absence was painful. But hearing you speak of him, of his father, it was like a bucket of ice water was poured over him, and it awoke a bitter memory he had long forgotten.

“Is it true?” Robb demanded unannounced after storming into his father’s private study. His father sat at his desk, appearing as tired and weary as the day of his departure from home to the vicious South treads closer with each passing day. Ned set down his quill and sighed deeply. He knew it would not be long before Robb would come in to demand an explanation. He supposed that, as his boy’s father, he owed his eldest son that much… if for not his own sake, then for the sake of closure. “…What may you be referring to, Robb?” he asked, despite already knowing what this was about. Robb furiously shook his head, “Do not pretend with me, Father. Did you or did you not plant the idea of a future engagement between her and me as treason against you?” “…Before I answer that,” Ned began carefully, not wanting to upset his son further, “am I to understand that when you mean ‘her,’ you are referring to a particular lady-in-waiting favored by your sister?” It frightened Ned how quickly Robb’s anger was snuffed out. He whispered your name with reverence and veneration fit for the Maiden. But just as soon as his heir’s fury went away, it came back at a speed and quantity tenfold. Ned could see it in his eyes. Robb may have inherited his Tully mother’s eyes, but the cold storm raging in them could only belong to one whose blood belongs to the Old Gods of the North. “Sansa requested her to accompany us while she learns to be Prince Joffrey's future queen,” Ned explained. “Robb… your sisters need people they can trust – now more than ever with Bran’s accident.” “And she’s agreed to this?” Robb interrogated. “You expect me to believe that?” “Yes,” Ned solemnly nodded, “because it was brought up to me by her…”

Robb didn’t believe it then, and he still didn’t believe it now. He refused to entertain the idea of you, of all people, who would propose to his father that you leave him. You, who Robb loved with a love more fervent and true than any fanciful tale sung by the bards in Southern courts. You, who listened to all of Robb’s deepest fears and worries since you and him were still small children. You, who whispered promises of love and devotion to Robb night after night since he first warmed your bed.

You, who cried tears of joy when he secretly proposed to you underneath the blood-red leaves and snow-painted branches of the weirwood tree, swearing his love to you before the Old Gods and New.

…No…no, no, no—it wasn’t true. It couldn’t be…but what other explanation was left?

“Robb…?” your voice gently called out to him. “If that’s all you wish to say to me… then I must be heading back to my–”

He walked forward and tightly grasped your arms, making you unable to escape. Robb felt your feeble attempts to pry his fingers off with your delicate hands. But it was to no avail.

“Why…?” Robb rasped, letting out all the pain and longing he had been keeping locked inside since you dissolved you and his affair. “Why did you leave? …Why did you leave me?”

“Damn you,” you thought. “Damn you, Robb Stark.”

It was pathetic… how easily this man broke down your walls. One word… one word from him was enough to make you want to surrender everything.  

“I…I-I… only did what I thought was best,” you stammered. “For us…and for you…”

Robb scoffed because why wouldn’t he?

“For me…?” he rhetorically repeated. “Leaving me – no, abandoning me… that was for my benefit? Do you really expect me to believe that?”

You shook your head, “Belief is secondary to truth,” you explained. “And I am telling you the truth. I’ve never lied to you.”

“Right, of course – that’s why you ran off to King’s Landing with my sister,” Robb raged. “Yes, certainly that for my well-being. You, being paraded and courted by knights and nobles with their pretty words and fine silks – what a relief to know that you endured all that for me…”

Oh, this son of a – gods, how could one man be so beautiful, yet so infuriating?!

“Did you ever love me?” he asked, his voice a little rough from choking back tears. “Was it ever real? Any of it? Or was it all a lie?”

“I believe I told you I was expected to wake your sister for her early celebration…” you looked out the window, “…right now…? It would seem…?” It was the morning of Sansa’s eleventh birthday. Lady Stark planned to surprise her daughter with a splendid spread of leek pottage, freshly baked bread, slices of smoked meat, and a cup of sweet Dornish wine. She entrusted the duty of waking the little princess of the day to you, Sansa’s most entrusted companion. It was expected that you would take the role. After all, everyone in the castle knew what an absolute nightmare Lord Stark’s eldest daughter was in the early mornings. …But…it would seem that Lord Stark’s eldest son and heir did not understand the gravity of your role today…considering he remained insistent that you spend your morning with him… in his bed… without any clothes on your person. While usually, you’d be much more cross at his insistence… you couldn’t deny how delicious it felt waking up in his arms after a night of gloriously intense lovemaking. And the way he further convinced you by tracing feather-light kisses down your neck and collarbone was downright sinful. “I believe…” he momentarily nuzzles his nose into the crook of your neck, causing you to softly shriek and giggle. “…I told you never to speak of my sister or any member of my family while in bed with me.” His lips trailed further down to the valley of your breasts. “Stay here…with me…and let’s forget the world this morning.” Gods, it’d be so easy to give in …to remain hidden from the world within the arms of your beloved…but life was hardly so easy. “You know I – can’t…!” you sharply gasped at the feel of his lips around your teat. You pitifully whined his name. “Robb, please…” “Shhh—careful, my love,” he huskily whispered, “unless you want all of Winterfell to know how even one of its coldest women is powerless against her wolf…” You held his chin to press a soft kiss against his lips. Gazing into his deep pools of sapphire, you knew this was the only man you could ever give your heart to. “My wolf…” you corrected, “and only mine…” “Yours…” Robb agreed as the two of you got lost in each other all over again.

Instinct and fury blinded rationality and composure as a sharp crack rang within the tent as your palm made contact with Robb’s cheek. Hot tears spilled from your eyes as the wet trails streamed down your cheeks.

“Fuck you, Robb…” you grit out.

Did he not think you haven’t craved him and his love as much, if not more, since your separation? Was he so obtusely… thick in the skull to think that you hadn’t cursed yourself for plunging you both into the cruel depths of a life without the other? Had he not realized that what saved you from falling into despair… from the moment you were thrown into the Red Keep’s dungeons… was your sweet memories of him?

You angrily swiped away your tears on the back of your hand before shoving him aside so you could make your way out of the tent. You couldn’t stand to be so close to him, not anymore, not when it cut you so deeply.

What was the point? Of being so close to one when they cannot have the other?

But it seemed your king did not agree with your sentiments as he grabbed your wrist and pulled you back toward him. Your chest collided against his, and you felt the hard planes of his muscles and wanted to sink to your knees while stripping him of all barriers that blocked his glorious body.

Robb growled as he felt the tremulous rhythm of your beating heart, effectively giving away all your true feelings and desires toward him – the same he felt to you.

“You’re a cruel woman…” he growled as he forced you to look into his deep, blue eyes by holding your chin, “but you’re my woman.”

Without another word, he seized you by the arm and threw you onto his bed. He tore off his tunic before gripping your ankles with both hands and forcing them wide open before he forcefully pulled your body to the end of the bed. Not wasting another moment, he clutched the neckline of your nightdress and tore it open, leaving you exposed and defenseless against him. You felt the peaks of your breasts harden against the cold air and tried to cover them with your arms, but Robb slapped your hands away and pinned your hands above your head.

“And I’ll make sure you learn your place by the time I’m done with you…”

Time meant nothing inside that tent. The only things that mattered were Robb Stark, young King of the North and recently widowed, and you, his precious whore he loved so dearly. It could have been an hour, it could have been five –you couldn’t tell. All you knew was that your former lover was currently cementing his claim on you as his bitch-in-heat by making you cum twice with his fingers and thrice more from his cock.

“You *huff* …really…expe- fuck…!” The sound of skin slapping against skin filled the air, interrupted by the squelch of your juices mixed with his as he moved in and out of you. He loudly groaned when he felt your walls clamp down on his still-hard shaft. “Fuck – how are you still so fucking tight…?”

You didn’t answer him; you couldn’t – at least not with words. Each of Robb’s thrusts hit that spot inside you that made you lose all sense of logic and rational thought. All you could offer was broken garbles and moans of your ecstasy as your insatiable wolf continued to feast on your pleasure. And this only seemed to further incense Robb into driving himself deeper inside you, as if he had not already caused you to peak three times since he first pushed into you. Your vision became blurry as your eyes crossed, but he brought you back by delivering a hard slap against your bottom, the stinging pain quickly shifting to ebbing pleasure.

“Well?” he tauntingly jeered, thoroughly enjoying your sharp tongue could only be quieted by him fucking you dumb. “I expect an answer…!”

“Ah-ah-ah – FUCK…!” you cried out after he delivered another harsh slap on your bottom’s other cheek, making you sharply gasp and continue to slather your drool and tears into his bed’s furs. “I don’t know…!”

Robb cruelly smirked, “Don’t know…?” He grabbed the front of your neck and pulled you until your sensitive back was pressed flush against his hard chest. “Don’t lie to me… you know… don’t pretend that you don’t – but do you want me to tell anyway?”

Fervently nodding, you felt him grin as his hot breath panted against your neck, causing goosebumps to prick across your skin covered in bite marks.

“It’s because…” Robb quickened his pace from rough to erratic as your mind nearly blanks from feeling more and more of him hitting the entrance to your womb, “we both know that cunt belonging to such a cold whore like yourself…could only be thawed with cock like mine and only mine.”

The war changed him. The Robb you knew and loved would never dream of speaking to you in such a filthy and vulgar manner. Before, your Robb always made love to you sweetly with the gentlest touches, and as far as you could tell and feel, he was gone. In his place was a wolf with a voracious appetite who could only seem satisfied with your humiliation from his rough squeezes and unforgiving pace. The evidence was plain to see by how he littered your body with purple love bites down your neck, red bite marks over your breasts and inner thighs, and deep indents of his nails from gripping your hips too hard and too long.

And the worst part of it? You loved it. Every bit of his ministrations was a piece of heaven. If this were torture, then you would only crave pain for the rest of your existence. Everything hurts so good, from the way his thick, throbbing cock stretches your walls to the way his rough, calloused hands manhandle your body with his bruising grip. You weren’t sure if there was anything left of you that Robb didn’t already possess. Your eyes glazed over the veins in his arms bulge as you barely register the rasped grunts and growls leaving his lips. If you looked down, you were sure to see the outline of his cock bulging from inside you as he continued to split you open.

He stilled for a moment and whispered in your ear as you cried out your frustration and begged him not to stop.

“I’m going to cum in you,” he rasped with perverse glee, “and afterward, I’m going to make sure my seed takes root in your womb.” He pushed your face down to the furs and forced your hips to meet his thrusts without mercy. “You tried to… escape your fate by leaving. Well, *huff* let me tell you right now… that’s never going to happen – I’ll lock you… in the tallest tower in Winterfell and chain you to the bed if I have to…”

One of his hands left your hips and went below you as his fingers deftly sought out the sensitive bundle of nerves between your legs that was your clit. You tried to protest, not sure if your body could take even more pleasure, but all that came out was a warbled cry as he pressed down and circled your bud. The overstimulation was proving to be too much as your body started shaking. You felt a cord tightening more and more until it just *snapped*, and you screamed out your release as your entire body trembled.

Robb refused to let up his pace, and he continued to thrust in and out of you as you felt him stiffen and – gods, how did he get even bigger? Before he released his seed inside you, he bottomed out – making sure that there was nothing of him that was not inside your sopping cunt. Your vision went white as he let out a loud and powerful groan from his release, and you could feel his hot seed painting your inner walls with his essence.

His peak seemed to drain him of all his energy as he gathered you in his arms without pulling out and resolved himself to finally rest. His sweaty forehead rested against your shoulder as he panted. Between each labored breath, he planted a kiss across your shoulders – your body still twitching from the intensity it endured as you, too, tried to catch your breath.

All was silent until you found yourself speaking, “…There was no hope, was there…?”

Robb lifted his upper body on one arm to hover over you. You repeated your question, to which he gave you a relaxed smile and tucked a stray piece of hair stuck to your temple behind your ear.

“No, love…” he confirmed. “But you must have known that from the beginning…I would have never let you go.”

…How does one respond to that?

You tried to search for the answer in his eyes, but all you saw was love… love, and madness. It was always there inside him; you’ve known that from the beginning… only you were blinded by his beauty and your love for him. But your lord knew the truth; he saw that obsessive love from the start; after all, Robb was his son. He warned you, but you didn’t listen. It wasn’t until you saw him beat a poor knight bloody and broken on the ice-covered ground – all because you made the mistake of smiling at him.

That’s why you ended your secret engagement. You had hoped that time and distance would ebb away the insanity flowing in his blood, or perhaps he would find someone else and eventually forget you – whichever came first.

But that was a fool’s dream; you knew that now.

Wordlessly, you nodded, to which Robb gently pressed his lips to yours, just as he had back in Winterfell. With each second, you began to respond more and more to the kiss. You wrapped your arms over his neck as his lips trailed down your next again, and you felt your sore body humming for more despite its sensitivity. Your fingers gripped his unruly, dark auburn curls as a tear trailed your cheek.

Forgive me, my lord…I’ve failed.

But you know you were secretly glad of it. After all, how could you not be? Life was growing inside you at that very moment.

Tagging: @dipperscavern, @ethereal-athalia, @axelsagewrites, @rise-my-angel, @anewpersonthatexists, @sublimepenguinpeach-blog, @lenasdmns, @justmymindandstuff, @aoi-targaryen, @vyctorya, @metalblindbitch, @h34rts-4uu, @aphroditesmoon, @dreaming-for-an-escape, @sylasthegrim

[sayruq]

Al Jazeera has obtained a copy of the Gaza ceasefire proposal that Hamas said it accepted on Monday. The deal, which was put forward by Egypt and Qatar, would come in three stages that would see an initial halt in the fighting leading to lasting calm and the withdrawal of Israeli troops from the Palestinian territory. The proposed agreement would also ensure the release of Israeli captives in Gaza as well as an unspecified number of Palestinians held in Israeli jails. Israel has said that it does not agree to the proposal but that it will engage in further talks to secure an agreement – all while pushing on with its assault on Gaza. Meanwhile, the United States, which is also involved in the negotiations, said it is reviewing the Hamas response. The basic principles for an agreement between the Israeli side and the Palestinian side in Gaza on the exchange of captives and prisoners between them and the return of sustainable calm. The framework agreement aims at: The release of all Israeli captives in the Gaza Strip, civilians or military, alive or otherwise, from all periods, in exchange for a number of prisoners held by Israel as agreed upon, and a return to a sustainable calm that leads to a permanent ceasefire and a withdrawal of Israeli forces from the Gaza Strip, its reconstruction and the lifting of the siege. The framework agreement consists of three related and interconnected stages, which are as follows: The first stage (42 days) [Herein] a temporary cessation of military operations between the two parties, and the withdrawal of Israeli forces eastward and away from densely populated areas to a defined area along the border all along the Gaza Strip (including Wadi Gaza, known as the Netzarim Corridor, and Kuwait Roundabout, as below). All aviation (military and reconnaissance) in the Gaza Strip shall cease for 10 hours a day, and for 12 hours on the days when captives and prisoners are being exchanged. Internally displaced people in Gaza shall return to their areas of residence and Israel shall withdraw from Wadi Gaza, the Netzarim corridor, and the Kuwait Roundabout: On the third day (after the release of three captives), Israeli forces are to withdraw completely from al-Rashid Street in the east to Salah al-Din Street, and dismantle military sites and installations in this area. Displaced persons (unarmed) shall return to their areas of residence and all residents of Gaza shall be allowed freedom of movement in all parts of the Strip. Humanitarian aid shall be allowed in via al-Rashid Street from the first day without any obstacles. On the 22nd day (after the release of half the living civilian captives in Gaza, including female soldiers), Israeli forces are to withdraw from the centre of the Gaza Strip (especially the Netzarim/Martyrs Corridor and the Kuwait Roundabout axis), from the east of Salah al-Din Street to a zone along the border, and all military sites and installations are to be completely dismantled. Displaced people shall be allowed to return to their places of residence in the north of Gaza, and all residents to have freedom of movement in all parts of the Gaza Strip. Humanitarian aid, relief materials and fuel (600 trucks a day, including 50 fuel trucks, and 300 trucks for the north) shall be allowed into Gaza in an intensive manner and in sufficient quantities from the first day. This is to include the fuel needed to operate the power station, restart trade, rehabilitate and operate hospitals, health centres and bakeries in all parts of the Gaza Strip, and operate equipment needed to remove rubble. This shall continue throughout all stages.

Exchange of captives and prisoners between the two sides: During the first phase, Hamas shall release 33 Israeli captives (alive or dead), including women (civilians and soldiers), children (under the age of 19 who are not soldiers), those over the age of 50, and the sick, in exchange for a number of prisoners in Israeli prisons and detention centres, according to the following [criteria]: Hamas shall release all living Israeli captives, including civilian women and children (under the age of 19 who are not soldiers). In return, Israel shall release 30 children and women for every Israeli detainee released, based on lists provided by Hamas, in order of detention. Hamas shall release all living Israeli captives (over the age of 50), the sick, and wounded civilians. In return, Israel shall release 30 elderly (over 50) and sick prisoners for every Israeli captive, based on lists provided by Hamas, in order of detention. Hamas shall release all living Israeli female soldiers. In return, Israel shall release 50 prisoners (30 serving life sentences, 20 sentenced) for every Israeli female soldier, based on lists provided by Hamas.

The United Nations and its agencies, including UNRWA, and other international organisations, are to continue providing humanitarian services across the Gaza Strip. This shall continue throughout all stages of the agreement. Infrastructure (electricity, water, sewage, communications and roads) across the Gaza Strip shall be rehabilitated, and the equipment needed for civil defence allowed into Gaza to clear rubble and debris. This shall continue throughout all stages of the agreement. All necessary supplies and equipment to shelter displaced people who lost their homes during the war (a minimum of 60,000 temporary homes – caravans – and 200,000 tents) shall be allowed into Gaza. Throughout this phase, an agreed-upon number (not fewer than 50) of wounded military personnel will be allowed to travel through the Rafah crossing to receive medical treatment, and an increased number of travellers, sick and wounded, shall be allowed to leave through the Rafah crossing as restrictions on travellers are lifted. The movement of goods and trade will return without restrictions.

And that's just phase one. Read the rest of the article for the rest of the ceasefire proposal approved by Hamas.

[ma1dita]

when the curtains close

a 'partners in crime' installment - luke castellan x dionysus!reader prev -> love me dry | next -> asking for trouble words: 5.3k summary: (post-tlt) The one where you lose two people in the Labyrinth that day. All strings are cut. (Pollux, Annabeth, Percy, and Mr. D find out the biggest difference between you and Luke.) (Luke Castellan x fem!Dionysus!reader) a/n: yeah to me this fic sounds and feels like that tiktok of the girl humming to her microwave. depictions of the titular battle of the labyrinth at CHB, some blood/gore, death & grief. the usual. you forced me to by lizzy mcalpine. references to cat on a hot tin roof by tennessee williams if you squint (posted 5/14/24)

—

The first time Pollux has a panic attack, time seems to stop and the world keeps moving on without him.

He’s reminded of a time when you rambled on about how anxiety takes possession of the senses like a moment frozen in a snapshot meant for you to identify. In the memory, you had your feet kicked up on the dash flipping through a DSM-5 while he and Castor took turns speeding up and down Farm Road (totally normal older sister behavior from you, and when a cop pulled you over, the three of you narrowly escaped a ticket by talking in riddles and godly smoke that smelled like grapes). Pollux still remembers the sound of laughter in the car blending like three different chords to an archaic melody (or squawking crows in the strawberry fields)— the bond between you three laid out before time knew limits and was always meant to be.

It’s still his favorite song. You’re their favorite (and only) sister, they love to joke. These are facts that will never change.

“You two have each other, and well, I’ve got this,” you had said, the Zippo flicking open and closed against your thumb in the blossoming darkness of the car. Pink and purple rays of waning light blanketed the old hatchback as it steadily made its way back towards Half-Blood Hill, comfortable silence shared in the way only siblings can stand to be quiet—when there are no words needed to get a point across. But you’ve always set yourself apart from the pack, not needing anyone like how they need each other.

Not since Luke left, at least. The growing distance between you three since your untimely resignation from camp was proof enough. Pollux’s eyes met Castor’s in the rearview mirror as they both noticed your sad smile. His brother’s voice broke through the silence then, having always been the one blunt enough to say what was on his mind, “You’ve got us too if you let us see you more often.” Your fidgeting stops.

“It’s not you two, it’s just hard to be back here sometimes. I see things for what they used to be instead of how they really are now. Now it’s just… it has to be all business.”

Pollux cracked a smile, “S’what you get for growing up. Soon we’ll just be annoying voices in your head like you are to us.” Shutting your textbook, you turned to look at them from the passenger seat, eyes that match theirs darting between their blond heads, “All of us have to grow up eventually. Except maybe you two— I prefer you in my nightmares like the kids from The Shining. Whenever you get sick of Dad, come see me. Gods know that camp deserves a break from the two of you too.” Your knuckles knocked against both of their heads affectionately as he put the car in park, “My built-in bodyguards, huh? Always looking out for me.”

All words and meaning escape Pollux now as he stands in the greenery of the North Woods with battle gear ill-fitted to his large frame. It’s the first siege he’s ever taken part in, the first time he’s had to use battle strategies outside of Capture the Flag and the first time he’s slashed his way through monsters and demigods with the intent to try and kill or be killed. Sword and Shield could have never prepared any of them for this—as his eyes meet Castor’s and then yours with all of you thinking the same thing, the three of you join the sea of iridescent orange through mind-numbing black moving like a sharp three-pronged sword.

This type of stuff isn’t typical for him, he thinks. He and Castor are used to being comedic relief— being the source of laughs and juice boxes for pesky little campers instead of facing the real world outside the boundaries of the Mist. Perhaps your father babied them to make up for the time he lost with you, but there’s a moment where he wonders how being kept soft will keep him alive in a world as harsh as this one.

Childlike innocence is ripped away from them in the bubble they’ve inhabited until this moment. Home is now a warzone and like lambs set up for slaughter, the twins both turn to look at you as a shuddering gasp leaves your mouth at the carnage in your surroundings, monster blood and fallen friends and enemies at your feet. Breaking away from formation to take a deep breath, he looks at the sky and wonders where your father is, but smoke and soot fill his lungs and he coughs desperately for a breath of fresh air.

Pollux thinks he must have stopped breathing before Castor took his last breath. It wasn’t supposed to be a competition, but sometimes life was just funny like that.

5, 4, 3, 2, 1.

Just like you told him.

Castor was always the more manic one while Pollux knew how to endure. Children of Dionysus are forced to befriend insanity before it makes an enemy out of them—twisting the ugly into what’s real and creating something beautiful out of the deranged. You’ve shown the boys how you detach from emotion by recognizing the details—separating fact and fiction, a methodical process only describable by the blood that runs through your veins. Pollux doesn’t know where to start—everything happens so fast but it plays out in front of him like someone put the pieces together to a stop-motion animation.

He sees Castor’s sword fall to the ground when he gets slashed on the forearm and sees him get clubbed over the head with a metal weapon he’s only seen bad renditions forged for theater practices and hanging on the walls of the armory. Castor falls first to his knees, and then into the dirt with a thud. He never knew there could be that much blood coming out of a person, much less a mirror image of himself. Pollux sees your face come into his line of vision, deep maroon splatters on your face glittering with hints of ichor and then you’re moving because he can’t. The enemy is coming back for him now, and for a moment he wonders if Castor will be mad if he lets him. He sees you turn in an instant, swinging your sword down on the neck of the aggressor, a teenager not much older than he and his brother are—were. It’s funny how his brain immediately makes the switch to past tense, and how he can’t stop thinking about how he’ll now and forever be older than his twin. Pollux then sees you catch the body of the boy you just killed as life seeps out of him slower than it did for Castor.

It doesn’t make him feel any better, though.

His knees hit the ground next to his twin, touching the sludge of dirt soft like quicksand and moist with what he hopes is not blood, but Pollux is not quite sure of what else there is to hope for. His fist is wrapped around Castor’s shirtsleeve, touching faded orange and sweat as he holds on for dear life. Maybe if he tries hard enough his soul will still be intertwined with his. Your hand touches his shoulder, five fingers reaching out to brush the back of his neck and the feeling of your skin helps him refocus a bit, even if you’re saying something he can’t make out. Then the metal of your Zippo lighter feels cool to the touch within his palm and he knows what he needs to do.

The battle isn’t over, but for the three of you, everything stops here. There is no going forward without your brother. You were never meant to be children of war.

Pollux hears the sound of his heartbeat thundering through his ears, blood rushing through his veins and can’t help but notice the silence amid the chaos. There are no words fit for this—and even if there were, Castor and you were always the more talkative ones. He hears the spark of the purple flame between his fingers, blowing the smoke over him and his brother’s body, and their father’s powers blanket them like how you used to tuck them into bed, warm and safe. This is what your family is—unconventional and unending even in different realms of existence. And then Grover’s scream of panic echoes through the air and everyone hears that. Hysteria ensues as monsters and demigods alike run amok, and Pollux realizes he’s stopped shaking.

In his father’s domain, he will always find comfort.

You stand above him now directing campers calmly with a free hand—a brewing storm crackling underneath your skin that he now understands. Hidden by the illusion of smoke, Pollux’s tired bones rest alongside his brother’s dead ones— together as they always were meant to be.

The three of you together, his little family—that is a fact he hoped would never change.

The smell of grapes envelops him as he leans his forehead against your muddy leg… when did the battle end? It almost masks the scent of death that rips through the air as your hand brushes through his sandy hair. Pollux stinks of sweat and you stifle a laugh as you see him smell his armpit. You three were always the same type of fucked up. He doesn’t look down at Castor laid across his lap but knows he would’ve found it funny too. Ignorance of reality even for a moment serves as a comfort. Purple meets purple as he looks up at you with a smile that doesn’t fit his face anymore and he croaks, “Wonder what dad would say about our first battle…”

Glory was never meant to be this bittersweet—it tastes like blood in his mouth until he wipes it away from his cheek and realizes it’s Castor’s. In a way, it’s his too, everything about him and within him is exactly the same down to the star stuff the fates wove them from.

“I’ll be the one to tell him. You take care of Castor,” you answer, as if there’s anything else he would want to do and then he realizes you’re crying— and he’s seeing all of the pieces put together in front of him in this photograph in his mind.

Pollux blinks slowly.

Suddenly the image he has of you is more defined— there is new meaning to the sadness you could never shake off all these years, and he is too young to lose his greatest love, which makes him realize then that so were you.

How long does this have to go on? he wonders, grabbing onto your hand with an eagerness only comparable to the feeling he got when you and Luke whisked him and Castor away from Florida all those years ago. This punishment of living while half of his soul does not—what is he supposed to do next? This was supposed to be the safe place. There is nowhere left to run. His thumb rubs circles into the back of your shaking blood-soaked hand, a secret within the smoke.

Pollux thinks there will always be a part of him frozen in time now, a memory of this day hung up in his mind like a portrait as he holds Castor’s cold hand in his warm one.

—

Annabeth finds you in the middle of the strawberry fields before the sun sets. She knows you won’t be sleeping tonight, not if you can fight it— not when there’s so much to do. You’ve long grown out of your ripped-up and tie-dyed camp shirts, and the one slung on your frame is newly pressed and starchy from the storage room of the Big House, still stiff against your freshly washed skin. When she’s close enough to touch you, you’ve been scrubbed clean of today.

She doesn’t have to be a daughter of Athena to know that you know that she’s there even if you can’t see her, but for once she feels like she has to hide. For once, Annabeth Chase doesn’t know what to say. How can she explain the feeling of guilt that coils around her brain like barbed wire—how can she even begin to apologize for the thing wearing her brother’s skin, knowing that it killed yours? For once, her hubris is crushed by the sinking feeling of humiliation.

“Was your first quest all you thought it would be, Annie?”

As she takes her navy cap off, silver braided strands around her face wave in the wind as a reminder of what Luke put her through. Though as she looks at you now with your berry-stained fingers plucking at stems one by one instead of using your powers, she thinks that your mind is elsewhere—anywhere but here, where everything is a painful reminder of your five years as a camper.

Five years with Luke.

Mourning him isn’t a new feeling for either of you, even though he comes in and out of your lives like a poltergeist you want to bash across the head, just always out of reach. But he’s a constant, even when he’s not here and he’s what binds you two together as you huddle hidden away from the rest of camp.

“He did this for you.”

It’s not a question, more so a fact out of Annie’s mouth when you finally meet her eyes and sigh, “Luke’s always had a way going about things. The most stubborn man to ever live.” You toss another strawberry into the crate at your feet. No one’s working right now, trying to tend to the injured and the dead. Everyone’s doing their best to chase away the nightmares that are bound to come, and she knows you’ll be making rounds with her on the night shift to ease everyone’s anxieties. But there’s a thought so strong it makes her head hurt, bursting at the seams until she can’t stop with her last-ditch effort to fix her found family.

“Maybe if we find him, we can save—”

“He’s been out of time for a while now, Annabeth. We both knew that,” you say, voice firm and unwavering. You’ve never sounded so monotone before, and it hits her as her mouth falls agape, “You’re giving up on him? Why… why would you give up on him?” Anger courses through her veins like fire and she’s mad that she’s at the center of this prophecy, of Hermes’s anger for his doomed son who will love you until the ends of the earth.

And what of her?

What of the hope she has in happy endings, how is it that you’re so damn calm? Annabeth kicks at the crate, strawberries rolling out in different directions and your jaw tightens as you let her be petulant, let her scream and yell until her inner child can catch up with the reality of the world around you.

“How could you?”

Your name echoes as she repeats it, grabbing at your shoulders and she’s as desperate as the truth that shakes her when you cup her face in your hands and wipe her tears.

“You’ve carried the weight of the world Annabeth– you know what it feels like to let it go. It’s time to let him go. There’s nothing I can do or say to fix this.”

Then it hits her that you knew of his fate and yet this was still the outcome. There was nothing else to do but watch him be puppeteered by a Titan and have to fight evil while it wears his face.

“He came to you after he saw me, didn’t he? Why didn’t you tell me? Why don’t you love him anymore?”

Because it wouldn’t have changed a thing, your eyes say. Instead, you grimace as you say, “Wouldn’t that be funny if it were true?” You lean down and pick up the fallen berries, some bruised and covered in dirt, and then you look at her again with teary eyes.

“Some prophecy huh? To lose a love to worse than death. What could we have done besides love him until the end?”

“He’s still in there. I know you know that too. Don’t talk about him like he’s not,” Annabeth insists, and a sad smile settles upon your face. It’s as gentle as the kiss of the breeze on your cheeks.

“I lost a brother today, Annie.”

“Me too.”

—

The funny thing about planning funerals is that with all the fuss it takes to organize one, you still find extra time on your hands. Barely getting any sleep and dragging yourself out of your dad’s bed, Pollux snores loudly next to you after hours of working on Castor’s shroud. Sleep wasn’t expected for either of you, but being unconscious was the only way of giving your brains a reprieve. The both of you have been busy doubling down on the preparations, even if it means Mr. D won’t be back in time while he’s out rallying gods for war.

The faster Castor’s earthly body is reconnected with his soul, the easier his trip will be into the Underworld, Nico says, and it’s funny how comforting the little emo pipsqueak can be when it comes to matters of death.

Perhaps this is the solace you bring to others with things you’re able to control—keeping camp afloat is something you were always good at, and helping every traumatized child that comes up to you for a juice box or a lullaby eases the guilt that follows you. Walking around Camp Half-Blood for more than a weekend made you feel like a judge, jury, and executioner. Though most of the campers from almost five years ago have either aged out, defected, or died—the ones that remain still look at you like you’re trouble.

Perhaps you always will be.

You even found yourself with the time to pray to Hermes last night for your brother’s safe passage into the afterlife, though if he’s angry at Annabeth, he must hate you for letting Luke go. Dinner didn’t seem appetizing enough anyway, so your whole plate was tossed into the hearth. You hope he likes chicken and rice.

But if a god can’t fight fate, what did he expect you to do?

The Iris Message to your dad last night was difficult, to say the least. Pollux’s hands shook as he continued to paint grape vines onto the silk cloth and the both of you didn’t say anything when your father started to cry. He out of all of the gods knows what it’s like to be tested to the limits—to endure pain and it’s a gift you and your brother are grateful for in times like these. Watching the god display the human emotion that either of you couldn’t as freely made it more real though.

There was also the interesting predicament of Chris Rodriguez being locked up in the basement of the Big House. Replacing screaming fits with serenity was almost second nature, and your gentle hands were what got Clarisse to truly respect you again for the first time in years. You could hear her sneak downstairs and talk to him while he slept (and the look in her eyes when you’d greet her with a cup of coffee made it known to you that she finally understands what it means to love someone who’s lost—two demigod daughters filled with a lot of rage and hurt were more alike than they think).

So the morning of your little brother’s funeral, you found yourself on the shoreline of Canoe Lake, setting your Redbull against the post of the dock and looking out onto the water.

You needed to do something with your hands. In the past few days, if your fingers were not occupied by pen and paper, a guitar, supply crates, or anything else that was helpful to others and all the more distracting for you, it’s been so easy to pick at any little thing. Perhaps it was your subconscious trying to reflect the damage on the inside, but today, your nail polish was chipped beyond belief. A small price to pay to not lose it without a signature boyish smile to ease your worries and amber eyes that could help you escape from the routine.

Running camp was always easier back then with your runaway boy and his scarred cheek.

How pathetic.

Crouched over in the sand, you plucked stones and filled your pockets with them. They knocked against each other — weighing your pockets down as you walked closer to the dock. Swinging your feet off the side and chucking them into the water, you could barely achieve a ripple.

It’s so quiet that you end up wondering if the rocks in your pockets would weigh you down to the bottom of the lake. It must be nice down there, to exist away from everything.

Bubbles surface slowly in front of you, then Percy’s head bobs in the water as he squints at you through sunlight.

“You chucked a rock at my head!”

A smile tugs at your lips, almost indiscernible but definitely there, “I was trying to skip them. Didn’t know you were doing water tricks in there, kid.” His grin gleams like freshwater pearls, pulling himself up onto the dock as his hand clasps yours. Shaking his sopping hair, Percy’s gangly frame sits next to yours like a wet bag of sand—all wrinkly and misshapen and sprinkling you with lakewater.

“Maybe next time don’t pick rocks the size of your fist. How many have you got in there? Your aim is scarily accurate,” he laughs and you huff and shake your head when his hand sticks into your pocket and takes out a few smooth ones to roll around in his hand. You mirror him, watching him skip a few stones into the water that reach a good distance before sinking into the depths of the lake.

There’s something sad about feeling comfortable to trauma dump on the teenage son of Poseidon, but with the way he grabs your arm at your third unsuccessful toss of a rock, you can’t do anything else but sigh.

“Why didn’t any of you call me, Percy?”

He was waiting for this question—it’s been banging around in his head since the beginning of Annabeth’s quest, and perhaps her talk with you yesterday didn’t go as expected so once again he’s left with the difficult part.

Things happen to turn out pretty difficult for him a lot, he's noticed.

Many things could have been made easier in the past few weeks: Ariadne being your stepmother and her blessing to you would’ve made the Labyrinth easier to navigate, and having another demigod to fight alongside him instead of a mortal girl would’ve been a plus too. But he looks at you with ocean eyes and a smaller smile that reminds you of how he looked at you when you dropped him off in Montauk the summer you met him and quit your head counselor job.

“You’ve already made a lot of difficult decisions. We weren’t sure if…”

The rotten wood beneath you creaks under your shifting weight as you turn to him, tucking your legs underneath your bottom.

“Didn’t think I could handle it?”

He shakes his head, “The opposite, actually. Annabeth has this notion that you’re the only one that can save him. You know, back on my first quest I met Luke’s dad and he told me something…”

You swallow instead of answering. There’s no way Percy is giving you Hermes’s advice right now. Somehow this feels like karmic retribution after years of spiting that asshole, and what he tells you next is more of a sign that it must be true.

“He said, ‘Do you know what that feels like? To be so close to someone you love knowing neither of you has any choice but to keep hurting each other?’ I didn’t get it then, but I do now.”

“With Luke and his mom?” you ask, picking at the remaining slivers of varnish on your thumbnail.

“With you and Luke. I didn’t call you, because… why would I want to see you hurt after everything?” Percy says this like it’s something he would do for everyone.

Perhaps it is, but the knot that forms in your throat feels as heavy as the boulder you almost sunk into his skull. He’s tall enough to lean your head against now, and you don’t mind the water spots that will form along the side of your funeral outfit. The shape of him it leaves will remind you of the little brother you gained through so much loss.

“Plus he has a new girlfriend. Absolute horse of a girl,” he jokes. It slips over your head but you still giggle, “I could’ve taken her.”

“I know, that was Grover’s worry. You’re prettier anyway…” Percy pauses, and then clears his throat, “You’ve always taken care of this place, y’know? Even after….I just think someone ought to take care of you.”

Your shoulder bumps against his as you finally skip a rock. It only bounces across the water twice and you think Percy might have had something to do with it, but you’re not bothered by the help this time around.

—

You wake up in the dark of night to see your dad looming in the doorway to his office. With drool and a post-it stuck to your cheek, he comes over to ruffle your hair in amicable silence.

“Hard at work or hardly working?” he chuckles, leaning over your shoulder to scan over the paperwork sorted into piles for him to sign from his absence.

“Hm. You wish,” you scoff, leaning against your arm as you look at him. He’s not in his usual eyesore of attire, wearing a clean-pressed suit with his hair slightly slicked back.

“You look good. The meeting went okay?”

“Grover will be fine. The Council of Cloven Elders? Not so much. Neither are the gods ready to take sides. Putting out little fires everywhere as we speak.”

The wheels of the office chair roll as you swing your feet, and if you both listen closely enough you can hear Pollux snoring upstairs. Chiron loved the earplugs you gave him.

Your father’s face smooths out a bit at the sight of you and the sound of his son’s breathing upstairs and he asks, “Are you? Good?”

A shrug slides off your shoulders, “How does one be good in a world like this one?”

A startling scream echoes off the walls of the Big House, rattling the floorboards from below as your father grimaces.

The work is never done for you two.

“Don’t look at me like that. It was worse when he first came here.”

“Don’t doubt it,” he mumbles, brushing lint off your shirt before he notices you’re donning neon orange. “Didn’t do laundry, princess?”

“Pollux and I haven’t gone back to our cabin since... I can wake him up if you—”

Mr. D shakes his head and goes to toss his body onto the couch against the window, shutting his eyes and taking a deep breath.

“Dad? Do you think Chris is a bad person?”

A beat passes and you think he may have fallen asleep, but then his voice sounds like gravel scraping up his throat.

“I don’t think anyone can be bad, kid. I think it is more often that people get lost. What Rodriguez needs is someone to take hold of him gently, and hand his life back to him—you…Clarisse… that’s what we’re giving him.”

Now you’re silent, staring at the dust on his name placard at the edge of the desk.

“Do you think otherwise?”

He calls your name again, and you look up like you’re about to lie to him but don’t have the energy to.

“Princess, do you think you’re a bad person?”

He stands up and walks around to your side of the desk, sitting on the edge so you have to look at him.

“I killed someone. During the battle. Didn’t even think twice about it, slashed his neck as soon as Castor went down and…” you sniff. “I kill monsters, Dad, not children. How does that make me any different?”

The last time blood was on your hands like this it was Luke’s in the Garden of Hesperides. All these years later you ended up being right— the only person you vowed to get bloody for is Luke Castellan, and now in a twisted turn of fate, you’ve bloodied your hands because of him.

“Because you did it for your brother. There are no other explanations needed.”

He sees the exhaustion in your eyes, the drop in your shoulders, but your dad also sees the strength in your bones that spans generations and he knows you and Pollux are strong because you are both his.

“Humans believe in life everlasting—glory, as some call it, but they’re too focused on achieving it on earth instead of enjoying what life has to offer,” he scoffs, “Everyone has the guts to die, but no one has the guts to truly live. How sad.”

“His name was Rowan. Son of Hecate. I taught him how to whistle the summer I left. This is all my fault, Dad,” you say shakily as he comes near and pulls you into his side. He shushes you but you relent.

“Luke’s killing all these people to fulfill a promise he made for me. I’m just fucking disgusted with myself for being the cause of it all. What good life can I deserve when wherever I go I leave a trail of blood?”

Love and addiction must be so alike; to know that to be sober you can’t indulge in the vice ever again—not only does it hurt you, but others around you. But through the years you’ve always kept the taste of his name in your mouth, the feeling of his skin under your fingertips, and the knowledge of why he’s destroying the world so he can make you a better one. Insanity stems from fighting for so long that you embrace the pain; feeling something so intensely that when it consumes you you’re able to walk out the other side and wear it as armor.

Not everyone is hardwired to persevere.

There are moments like a night like these where it would be easy to give up. Instead, you pour two glasses of whiskey you’ve conjured and hand one to your dad. You both sip on your drinks slowly, embracing the crawling feeling of the burn.

“Liquor is one way out and death is another,” your dad sighs blissfully. He almost looks rejuvenated by the alcohol he knows he’ll hear about from Zeus later, but perhaps the death of his son is a good enough pardon.

“For some of us, we don’t have to think about the answer.”

Mr. D grabs a pen off the desk and starts signing papers to do something with his hands, and then you speak again, “I think I’d rather die for people I love,” and your dad’s attention whips to your blank face staring at the moon outside the window. “Instead of killing for them. I’ve never been a good soldier, Dad.”

Mr. D looks at you thoughtfully and wonders where all the time has gone that you sit there in front of him with more knowledge than him at your mortal age before saying, “You’re my daughter. You’re a fighter. Death is for chumps anyway.”

He lifts you by the arm to try to usher you up the stairs but you stay in his office chair swatting his hands away.

“Got work to do, you and I. Not getting rid of me until it’s done.”

“When are you going home?” he asks, pulling up a chair next to yours.

“I am home.”

You don’t look up from the papers you were filing, stubbornness leaking through your voice.

“If there is a war coming, I want to be home as much as I can. I’m finishing my last semester and I’ll be here before and after classes. You can’t stop me, dad.”

And he knows that too.

There is no such thing as leaving Camp Half-Blood for you.

Never for too long. Your love for it is scattered everywhere campers can see.

—

In all these years, you never believed I loved you. And I did. I did so much. I did love you. I even loved your hate and your hardness. - Tennessee Williams

[ashwantsafreepalestine]

The ethnic cleansing of northern Gaza as part of the so-called "Generals' Plan" isn't new, but the only thing standing in its way is the will of Palestinians to stay in the north and refuse displacement.

The core of the General's Plan is to stop humanitarian aid reaching northern Gaza; and using starvation as leverage. It has two stages:

The first is the "evacuation of the population from the northern Gaza Strip". AKA, the ethnic cleansing of over 400,000 Palestinians.

Once Palestinians have been removed from northern Gaza, which the plan anticipates will take a week, the second phase can proceed: the transformation of northern Gaza into a closed military zone. The area will, says the plan, be subject to a “full and tight blockade, which includes preventing movement to and from it, and preventing the entry of supplies, including food, fuel and water”. 

Testimonies from the brutal siege on the Jabalia refugee camp in northern Gaza describe massive air and ground assaults, including killer quadcopter drones, that are destroying infrastructure and causing catastrophic humanitarian conditions.

(source)

[booasaur]

Last night was momentous for Gaza: for the first time in Palestine's history, people who had been mass expelled were allowed to return to their homes.

From the start of the genocide, in October 2023, northern Gaza was especially targeted. The news covered the huge "evacuations", where everyone was told to go to the south, a million people given hours to take everything they had to go south, which as it turned out was also not safe.

As the months went by, north Gaza was squeezed further, receiving scant aid, people eating grass, any person still left treated as a combatant. The IDF created the Netzarim corridor and controlled the area between the north and south, killing many of the people who tried to pass.

As bad as things already were, in October 2024, they got even worse. This is when the General's Plan was enacted in all but name, a siege that trapped and starved and bombed and destroyed so much, with the eventual goal of cleaning out the area of Palestinians so Israelis could settle there. This was a brutal thing to follow online, in conjunction with the US elections, as people in the north begged daily for any kind of help at all.

Part of the ceasefire deal that started last Sunday was for people to finally be able to return the north this Saturday, but a dispute delayed that, so for two nights, people slept on the ground and the roads and waited.

And then, finally:

Three years ago, children in Gaza were asked their dream:

[novaursa]

A Lion's Folly (the choice)

- Summary: A story where a lion falls for the eldest daughter of Lord Eddard Stark, you.

- Pairing: stark!reader/Jaime Lannister

- Rating: Explicit 18+ (descriptions of blood, gore, violence and death)

- Previous part: the hill

- Next part: the hunter

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @oxymakestheworldgoround @butterflygxril @lordofthunderthr @mrsnms @itisjustwhatitis @urdxrling @meowmeowmothermeower @nen-nyy @nestvrn

The battle for Riverrun was over before the night had fully passed, but its echoes would linger far longer than the screams that had filled the air.

Jaime rode through the fallen gates, the banners of House Tully torn down, trampled beneath the boots of Lannister and Frey soldiers. The castle’s defenders had fought fiercely, but they had been outnumbered, outmaneuvered, and—worst of all—betrayed.

The sight of Edmure Tully, standing with the Lannister banners at his back, was almost as bitter as the blood on the stones. The Blackfish had refused to surrender, refused to kneel to the man who had once been his nephew but was now only a pawn of the lions.

Jaime dismounted near the courtyard, his golden hand catching the firelight as he surveyed the remnants of the siege. Bodies lay scattered in the mud, the crimson of their wounds blending with the red of his family’s sigil. The air was thick with the scent of iron and smoke, and from the walls above, the banners of House Lannister and House Frey now hung where the Tully fish once swam proudly.

And then he heard the fighting.

The sounds of steel against steel, of men shouting in short, sharp bursts—one final skirmish near the eastern tower.

Jaime turned sharply, following the sound, his soldiers parting for him as he made his way through the ruined corridors of Riverrun.

There, in the dim torchlight of the keep, he found him.

Ser Brynden Tully, the Blackfish, stood amid the bodies of two fallen Frey men, his sword slick with blood. His breath came in ragged gasps, but his grip on his blade was steady, his stance unyielding.

Across from him, a handful of Lannister soldiers hesitated, their own swords drawn but their confidence shaken.

Jaime stepped forward. “Ser Brynden.”

The Blackfish turned his head just enough to look at him, his deep blue eyes burning with hatred. “So, the Kingslayer comes to watch a man die.”

Jaime exhaled slowly. “Riverrun is taken. It’s over.”

Brynden let out a breath that might have been a laugh, bitter and raw. “Nothing is over, Lannister. You think this ends with a castle? You think this ends with one last river of blood?” He spat onto the stone, his lip curled. “You don’t know the first thing about war.”

Jaime studied him carefully, his fingers flexing at his side. “It doesn’t have to be this way. Lay down your sword. You can—”

The Blackfish lunged.

Jaime barely had time to react before steel flashed in the torchlight, the Blackfish moving with the same deadly precision he had wielded on countless battlefields. Jaime stepped back, reaching for his sword, but before he could even unsheathe it, the Lannister guards surged forward.

It was over in an instant.

One blade found its mark in the Blackfish’s side. Another cut across his shoulder. A third drove into his chest, deep and brutal.

Brynden Tully staggered, his breath hitching, but he did not fall.

Instead, he turned to Jaime, his lips curling into something that was neither a smile nor a grimace—something full of defiance.

“You Lannisters,” he said, voice thick with blood, “you always think you win.” He exhaled sharply, his grip loosening on his sword. “But you don’t. Not really.”

Jaime took a step forward. “Ser Brynden—”

The Blackfish spat blood onto the ground between them.

“Your father thought he could take the North,” he rasped, his voice fading but his eyes still burning. “He thought he could tame the Riverlands. But rivers don’t break. They bend, they twist, and they carve through even the hardest stone.” He coughed, blood trickling from his lips. “Your victories are built on sand, Kingslayer. And one day, the tide will come for you.”

Jaime felt something cold settle in his chest.

The Blackfish chuckled, though the sound was weak. “Tell me something, Lannister.” His voice dropped lower. “When she looks at you, when she truly looks at you—does she see a man? Or just another stone waiting to be broken?”

Jaime clenched his jaw. “Enough.”

The Blackfish smirked—smirked—even as the strength left his body.

Then, at last, he collapsed.

Jaime stood there for a long moment, staring at the blood pooling beneath the Blackfish’s still form. The Lannister men around him shifted uncomfortably, waiting for orders, but he said nothing.

The weight of what had just happened settled over him like a mantle of iron.

Riverrun was his.

The war for the Riverlands was over.

And yet, as he turned away from the body of Brynden Tully, Jaime had never felt less like a victor.

The air inside the war tent was stifling, thick with the weight of everything that had led to this moment. You sat rigidly on the edge of a wooden chair, your fingers curled tightly into the fabric of your tunic as the distant clash of steel, the shouts of men, and the unmistakable roar of battle filled your ears.

For hours, you had done nothing but listen.

Listen as Riverrun fought.

Listen as your mother's uncle and his men held against the inevitable.

Listen as the world you had once known crumbled beyond the thin canvas walls of the tent that contained you like a prisoner.

Winter lay close to your feet, his blue eyes flickering toward you every time you shifted, his body stiff, ears twitching as he, too, listened to the sounds of war. He knew. He had always known. The same way he had sensed your restlessness back at Casterly Rock. The same way he had stood beside you when you had made the choice to ride straight into the enemy’s camp in a foolish, desperate attempt to stop this from happening.

But there had never been stopping this.

You clenched your jaw, exhaling slowly as you ran a hand over Winter’s thick fur.

Then, at last, the horns sounded.

The call of victory.

The signal that it was over.

Riverrun had fallen.

You inhaled bitterly, your breath catching in your throat, but you did not let yourself dwell on it.

You stood.

Winter followed suit immediately, his large frame rising alongside you as you made your decision.

If Riverrun was lost, if Jaime had chosen war over reason, if there was nothing left to stop this—then you would do the only thing you could.

You would leave.

And this time, you would not be stopped.

The tent flap swayed as you pushed through it, the cold night air biting against your skin as you stepped outside. The Lannister camp was alive with celebration. Soldiers shouted to one another, men cheered, laughter rang across the battlefield like the mocking cry of crows picking at the remnants of the dead. They had won. They had done what they came to do.

And no one noticed you slipping into the shadows.

No one, except Bronn.

The sellsword had been standing near one of the campfires, a flask in one hand and an easy smirk on his face as he listened to a group of Frey men boast about their inevitable plundering of Riverrun. But when his eyes flickered across the camp and landed on you—moving quickly, quietly, with Winter at your side—his smirk vanished.

“The fuck—” he muttered, straightening immediately.

But you were already moving.

The stables were not far, and the horse you had arrived on from Casterly Rock was still there, untouched. A trusted beast, trained well, fast. You reached for the saddle, tightening the straps, adjusting the stirrups, all while your heartbeat pounded in your ears.

Behind you, Bronn cursed loudly.

“Shit.”

You swung yourself into the saddle.

Bronn turned sharply toward a few of the nearby Lannister soldiers. “Oi!” he barked. “Stop her!”

The words barely reached you as you dug your heels into the horse’s sides, spurring it forward just as Winter bounded beside you.

A few heads turned, but no one reacted fast enough.

The Lannister men were too caught up in their own victory, too full of wine and arrogance to truly process what was happening until it was too late.

You were already gone.

Bronn swore again, watching as you and your direwolf disappeared beyond the camp, the sound of hoofbeats fading into the night.

He ran a hand down his face. “Seven fucking hells.”

He turned on his heel, already marching toward the keep, already dreading the conversation he was about to have.

Jaime was not going to like this.

The fires of Riverrun still burned when Bronn found Jaime.

The castle had fallen, its defenders scattered, its walls breached, and its banners torn down. Lannister and Frey men roamed the halls like carrion birds picking at the remains of a battlefield. The once-proud stronghold of House Tully was now nothing more than another conquest for the lions of the West.

But Jaime felt no victory in it.

The words of the Blackfish still echoed in his skull, lingering like the bitter taste of cheap wine. You always think you win, but you don’t. Not really.

He stood in the great hall of the castle, gazing at the remnants of House Tully’s legacy, his good hand resting against the hilt of his sword, his mind lost in thoughts he wished he could banish.

And then Bronn entered, his boots heavy against the stone floor, his expression carrying that particular brand of exasperation Jaime had grown all too familiar with.

Jaime barely acknowledged him, his thoughts still tangled in the memory of steel meeting flesh, of the Blackfish’s final words, of the taste of defiance on your lips when you had told him you would never stand by and let this happen.

Bronn didn’t wait for pleasantries.

“Well,” the sellsword drawled, rubbing a hand over his face, “I’ve got some good news, and I’ve got some really bad news.”

Jaime sighed, finally turning to face him. “I’m not in the mood, Bronn.”

Bronn scoffed. “Yeah? Well, neither is your wife.”

Jaime’s brow furrowed. Something in Bronn’s tone sent a prickle of unease down his spine. “What about her?”

Bronn hesitated for a moment, rolling his shoulders. Then, with a sigh, he spoke.

“She’s gone.”

Jaime stilled.

The words didn’t register at first, or rather, they did, but they didn’t make sense.

Gone?

Gone where?

His jaw tightened, his fingers twitching at his side. “What do you mean, gone?”

Bronn exhaled sharply. “I mean, while you were off taking Riverrun, she saddled up and rode the fuck off. Took that wolf of hers and vanished into the night. I tried to stop her, but I was a bit late to the party.” He gestured vaguely toward the camp beyond the castle. “And the rest of your fine soldiers? Too busy getting drunk and celebrating to even notice.”

Jaime’s breath left him in a slow, measured exhale. His heart, steady and tempered for battle, suddenly felt as though it had been thrown into chaos.

You left.

You had warned him.

You had told him.

"You will have to kill me first."

Jaime had chosen war.

And you had made your choice in return.

Bronn was watching him closely, his usual smirk absent, his gaze filled with something that almost resembled understanding. “So,” he said after a moment, “what’s the plan, Kingslayer?”

Jaime said nothing at first. He turned his head slightly, looking toward the open doors of the hall, where beyond them, Riverrun lay broken.

For so long, he had only ever followed orders. Tywin’s orders. Robert’s orders. The crown’s orders. Even when he had taken command, even when he had led battles, there had always been a shadow over his choices, a hand at his back, guiding him down the path expected of him.

But now?

This was his decision.

Slowly, deliberately, Jaime straightened, his expression unreadable.

“She rode for something,” he murmured, more to himself than to Bronn. “She wouldn’t have left without a purpose.”

Bronn snorted. “Yeah, I’d wager that purpose is making your life as difficult as fucking possible.”

Jaime exhaled sharply.

He wasn’t wrong.

He turned back to Bronn fully now, his jaw set.

“We’re going after her.”

Bronn blinked. Then he let out a low chuckle, shaking his head. “Of course we are.”

Jaime ignored him, already stepping forward, already moving as if something deep inside him had snapped into place, as if something had finally become clear.

You had made your choice.

And now, so had he.

The wind howled past your ears, a sharp, biting force that did little to slow you down. The steady rhythm of hooves pounding against dirt and stone was the only sound anchoring you to the present, a metronome in the chaos of your thoughts. Behind you, Winter kept pace with effortless ease, his massive form a blur of silver and white under the moonlight. His breath was steady, his eyes ever watchful, but he did not try to stop you. He never did.

You didn’t know how many hours had passed.

You didn’t care.

The further you rode from Riverrun, from the Lannister banners, from him, the lighter your chest should have felt. The weight of Casterly Rock, the suffocating presence of Tywin, the ever-present shadow of Jaime—all of it should have eased. But it didn’t.

Because Jaime had never been the true cage.

You had been running long before you ever rode into the lion’s den.

Your hands tightened around the reins, your fingers stiff from the cold, but you barely noticed. The memories burned hotter than the wind that cut against your skin.

Jaime had meant to protect you.

That was the bitterest truth of all.

He had meant to save you—from Roose Bolton, from Tywin’s machinations, from a fate worse than the one he had offered. He had taken you from one prison and placed you in another, believing it was mercy. Believing that by chaining you to him, he was keeping you safe.

But a cage was still a cage, no matter how gilded its bars.

You had fought him from the moment he had told you of your fate. You had raged, spat venomous words, swore you would never be his, never be tamed. And yet, over time, something had changed. Or maybe he had changed.

Jaime Lannister had been so many things in your eyes—an enemy, a liar, a man who had tried to kill your brother, a knight with no honor. And then, one day, he had been something else.

A man with ghosts. A man with regret. A man who had spent his life bound to someone else’s expectations, not unlike you.

You had not wanted to see him. Had not wanted to understand him.

And yet you had.

And that was what terrified you most of all.

You should hate him. You should hate him.

You had told yourself that if you ever got the chance, you would run. That when the moment came, you would seize it without hesitation.

And now, here you were—riding beneath the endless sky, no banners at your back, no chains around your wrists.

But why, then, did it still feel like you couldn’t breathe?

Winter let out a soft huff beside you, as if sensing the storm in your chest.

You glanced down at him, your lips pressing together. “I don’t know where I’m going,” you admitted softly.

The direwolf flicked an ear, his blue eyes glinting in the moonlight.

“I just needed to leave,” you continued, your voice quieter now. “I couldn’t stay. Not after…”

Not after the things you had said to Jaime. Not after the way he had looked at you.

You had made your choice.

And yet, some part of you still felt as if you had left something behind.

No.

You would not think of him now.

You straightened your shoulders, tightening your grip on the reins. “It doesn’t matter,” you muttered. “We’ll find somewhere safe.”

Winter let out a low rumble, but he did not argue.

And so, you rode.

You did not look back.

But gods help you, you felt it—felt the invisible tether still wrapped around your ribs, stretching taut even as you tried to sever it.

Because no matter how far you ran, no matter how fast your horse carried you into the unknown, you knew—deep down—you were not the only one who had made a choice.

Jaime had made his, too.

And soon enough, he would come for you.

The night was cold, the kind of cold that seeped through even the finest of cloaks, wrapping itself around the bones of the men who rode under the crimson banners of House Lannister. The moon hung heavy above them, casting its pale glow over the winding road as the search party pressed onward, the distant howls of the hounds leading them toward a trail that was slowly growing fainter.

Jaime rode in silence, his golden hand resting against the reins, his face set in a mask of determination. He had led many hunts before—hunts for outlaws, for traitors, for men who had wronged his house. But never had he hunted her.

Bronn, ever the opportunist, rode beside him with a lazy sort of ease, his eyes flicking toward Jaime every so often, waiting.

The sellsword had been quiet for most of the ride, but Jaime knew better than to believe it would last. And sure enough, after another mile of tense silence, Bronn finally spoke.

“Well,” he drawled, shifting in his saddle, “I suppose turning back empty-handed isn’t really an option, is it?”

Jaime ignored him.

Bronn smirked. “I mean, imagine that conversation with dear old Tywin.” He deepened his voice in mockery, his expression exaggerated. “‘Apologies, father, but I seem to have lost my wife. She rode off in the dead of night while I was too busy taking Riverrun. Oops.’”

Jaime’s jaw tightened.

Bronn continued, undeterred. “I reckon that wouldn’t go over too well. Hardly befitting the heir of Casterly Rock to misplace his lady wife so soon after tying the knot.”

Jaime's fingers flexing against the leather of his reins. “She is not misplaced.”

“No?” Bronn snorted. “Funny, because last I checked, we were following hounds into the fucking woods, hoping they’d sniff her out like a lost pup.”

Jaime shot him a glare. “Do you ever shut up?”

Bronn grinned. “Not when I’m having this much fun.”

Jaime clenched his jaw, his mind racing as they rode. The trail was fading. She was clever—he had always known that—but this, this was something else. She had left behind barely a trace, had taken nothing that would slow her down, had vanished into the night like a ghost.

She hadn’t run blindly. She had planned this.

The realization settled like a stone in his gut.

“She’s not going back,” Jaime muttered, more to himself than to Bronn.

Bronn let out a low whistle. “No shit. She rode off in the middle of the night with nothing but that wolf of hers. You really think she’s looking for a way back?” He scoffed. “Nah. She’s running. From you.”

Jaime’s grip on the reins tightened.

He had known it, of course. He had felt it in the way she had looked at him before she left, in the words she had spat at him in that tent, in the fire in her eyes when she had told him she would never stand by and let this happen.

She had made her choice.

And he—gods help him—he didn’t know what to do with it.

Bronn must have caught the flicker of something on his face because his smirk faded slightly, his gaze focusing. “Go on, then,” he prodded. “Say it.”

Jaime didn’t answer.

Bronn exhaled, shaking his head. “Fuck me, you really don’t know what you’re doing, do you?”

Jaime’s chest tightened. His patience, already stretched thin, finally snapped.

“I don’t know what I’m doing!” he bit out, his voice biting, his emotions exploding in a way they never had before. “I never fucking did! I made my peace long ago with not being a husband, with not being a lord, with not being this!” His breath came fast, his left hand clenched into a fist at his side. “I was supposed to die with a sword in my hand, not chase after a woman who doesn’t want me.”

Bronn was silent for a moment, watching him with something almost close to pity.

Then, after a long pause, he spoke.

“Maybe she can’t love you,” Bronn said, his voice flat. “Maybe she never will. Not like you want her to.”

Jaime exhaled sharply, his heartbeat loud in his ears.

“She’s not Cersei,” Bronn continued, shrugging. “She won’t love you the way she did. Won’t bend to you the way she did. Maybe she never will.” He tilted his head slightly. “So what, then? What’s the fucking point of all this?”

Jaime swallowed hard.

What was the point?

Why was he doing this?

Why had he made the choice to go after her instead of returning to Tywin, instead of claiming his victory at Riverrun and moving forward as the heir of Casterly Rock?

He didn’t have an answer.

Or maybe, deep down, he did.

Maybe he had always had it.

But gods help him, if he said it out loud, if he admitted it—even to himself—there would be no turning back.

[jessmalia]

Mal's Avatar: The Last Airbender rewatch: The Siege of the North, Part Two 1.20

[trudemaethien]

Kyrimorut

I’ve just done another reread/skim of the repcomm books for details of Kyrimorut for @ossidae-passeridae, who encouraged me to do a write up for reference. Some of these facts are explicitly stated, scattered throughout the series, and some are my own surmises. (My main conclusion is that KT considered architecture just about as carefully as the TCW creators did the GAR ranking system. lolsob)

So. In this essay I will

Kyrimorut, Kal Skirata’s refuge for his clone sons, was called a bastion, and frequently described in siege terms. It was also referred to as a homestead and a farmhouse.

“It was yaim—part barracks, part hotel, part married quarters, part farmhouse, the archetypal Mandalorian clan home.”

This stronghold was located in the heavily forested northern hemisphere of the planet Mandalore, a few hours flight north of Keldabe City, within 100 kilometers of a small town called Enceri, and just south of a lake. It boasted a main house and numerous outbuildings, including at least one medical laboratory, animal pens, and a hangar large enough for multiple craft.

Rav Bralor, another of the Cuy’val Dar, rebuilt it at Kal’s request during the war, and it was finished enough by a year in, to house some members of their group temporarily, but was still undergoing renovations up to the last moment before they moved in. She used droids to aid in the construction. The building was composed of brick, wood, stone, and rammed earth, and the (probably local, veshok) planks were joined with interlocking joints. The interior walls were plastered and painted, likely with naturally derived mineral paints; one room was mentioned to be “honey-colored.” The windows were narrow, described as arrow-slits, and the doors were unpowered hinged wooden slabs. The whole thing was large, and the rooms were characterized as airy and roomy at various points.

The layout seems to have been vaguely circular, or a circle of chained hubs, with a central karyai. The lobby was another hub, and there were both surface and underground passages connecting the hubs, radiating out like “the spokes of an eccentric wheel.” For this reason I think there were two floors in the main house with one above, the other underground. There was also a sheltered circular atrium off the main hub, with a roof that slid back, where they roasted meat.

The house had gutters and down-pipes to deal with snowmelt and rain, and given the nearby lake, they would have to have a good vapor barrier for the underground portion. Since the place was rural rather than urban, it was largely quiet, and the homestead's acoustics were such that sound carried well. This indicates to me that likely only the exterior walls were fortified of heavy stone and rammed earth; interior walls were more likely built of wood and plaster and easier to modify if they had some need. Power was unreliable in such a remote setting, so they used wood fires for heating and cooking; everything smelled of wood-smoke. The entire structure was designed to be unnoticeable from the air, and the clearing was not visible until the last moment upon aerial approach.

The karyai was the main living room. In one scene, Kad played on the floor with toy animals (nerf, bantha, shatual, nuna, jackrab, vhe’viin) Atin had carved from veshok wood, Wade Tay’haai played a purple-painted bes’bev (sharp flute), and Rav Bralor brought throat-searing tihaar for everyone. She lived on her own clan’s farm a few kilometers away, and had brought Yayax squad, who mostly stayed there, to visit Kyrimorut. They were learning carpentry from manuals, as one does.

People had their own rooms for sleeping, with couples sharing, along the corridors. Arla and Uthan’s rooms both had exterior windows. Quarters were pleasant, plain but comfortable, with generous mattresses on the beds and a table for personal use.

Then there was a room Etain thought of as the interrogation room, so that’s uhhh lovely.

It’s unclear whether the large table where they gathered for communal meals was in the karyai, the kitchen (which was separated from other areas by a door), or some other room. Wherever it was located, it was possible for someone seated at the table to lean back without getting up and fetch a bottle of tihaar from where it was stored. The table was made of a single large slab of veshok wood, and was big and sturdy enough to use for surgical operation, dismantling engines, or seating a whole clan of armored Mandalorians. They sat in chairs around this table, and Kad sat in a highchair. They used porceplast plates, and mugs for ne’tra gal, a sweet black beer. The head of the household summoned everyone to the table for meals.

The kitchen contained a fireplace and hearth, a chair (where Kal slept), ovens and stovetops, a conservator, enough workspace for at least four people at once, and an adjoining storage area. The kitchen could be a busy, noisy, bustling place, but it was separate from other living areas; people sometimes went there to avoid others.

The 20-30 occupants ate constantly and prodigiously, and never seemed to be lacking. The food was described as filling but not elegant, and was heavy on the protein. They consumed a lot of game; Lord Mirdalan the strill was an animal native to Mandalore and a hunter. Roast shatual, nerf, and roba were mentioned, and they would leave a joint of meat on the table to be eaten all day down to the bone (I shuddered in food hygiene). Fish from the lake were fried in a pan, and they made broth from gihaal, dried smoked fish with a pungent aroma stored in metal containers, one of the staples of Mandalorian ration packs because it kept for years without refrigeration. Also what Kal called Kaminoans, but that’s another story!

We were worried they only ate meat for a while until we came across some vegetables. Kad had pureed kaneta at one point, and for breakfast boiled grain porridge and shirred eggs were on offer. Jilka diced amber root for some dish. Mealbread rolls were also plentiful, and there was a vat of stew at one point. Listed imports via Ny Vollen included flour, grassgrain, pickles, powdered milk, sacks of denta beans, soap, dried fruit, and a bantha bone which was hard to get on Mandalore. The roba they raised themselves.

The roba pen had multiple animals witht at least one boar and one sow with a litter, and despite having veshok posts and walls, the gate was left open. I’m extrapolating that these animals were semi-domesticated and allowed to forage for food but came home to their pen for safety at night. There were rail fences, crop fields, and plans for raising nerf on the property as well. Outbuildings were mentioned frequently, but this was one of the few actually described.

Notable native species mentioned were the large, ancient veshok trees, which were evergreen, hardwood, and straight enough that the table slab was cut out of one large piece. They were ice-glazed and dripping in the spring thaw, so presumably had some defenses against freezing and exploding, or breaking under the weight of the ice, and they populated all the way up to the the polar cap. There was underbrush and bushes, and groundthorn weed, which was very stubborn and difficult to remove entirely. The roba would have helped with uprooting this as they foraged. Vhe’viine were small rodents with white winter coats that lived in burrows in the fields.

The medical laboratory behind the main house (it was necessary to walk around the bastion after exiting to approach it) was a mobile genetics lab/agricultural trailer of the sort usually used for breeding livestock and at racetracks. It was occupied first by Ko Sai and later by Ovolot Qail Uthan. Mereel acquired it, and Mij Gilamar stocked it with stolen/black market medical equipment. When Uthan took over, they built her more lab space. There were rural veterinarians in the community as well; Etain mentioned getting a cryocontainer for a sample from a neighboring farm.

The hangar was situated in a shallow slope to the north of the main house, half-buried in the soil and disguised with netting. It was large enough to house several craft at a time, including Ny Vollen’s ship, Mereel’s speeder, and the Aay’han, among others. Swabbing down the compartments of the Aay’han, replenishing stores, and prepping the ship for the next flight managed to occupy most of an afternoon for four men.

The lake was also to the north, and I believe it was a very large lake, functioning as a heat-sink. It had not fully frozen despite the bitter winter, described as minus eight and thirty degrees colder than tropical (although the temperature scale is not mentioned, it’s likely celsius because of the author’s background). There was ice extending from the shore like a pier, but also mist rising above it in the early morning and frost on the shore, even though layers of snow deep enough for feet to crunch through the surface were mentioned elsewhere at various times. This led my friend to speculate that there could be geothermal activity in/under that lake. Kal and Walon Vau were planning to build a memorial on the near lake shore featuring the armor tallies of fallen clone soldiers.

There was granite in the area, which also gave support to the concept of historical volcanic activity. Their yard sported four chunks, each large enough for at least two people to climb up and perch upon, which had erupted from the surface long ago and been worn down to a weathered polish. Winds came in off a nearby plain. A clear (muddy) area large enough to play mesh’geroya was also near the house.

Enceri had at least one cantina, there was a landmark grain silo at the edge of town, and it was big enough to host a bustling market square, despite being described as more of a trading post than a town. There they could buy, among other things, preserved vegetables, engine parts, and local triple-distilled tihaar, which could double as degreaser for said engine parts.

If they needed more than Enceri had to offer, they could go south to Keldabe. Landmarks of note there included the River Kelita and the Oyu’baat tavern. The Imperial garrison was located near Keldabe.

“But then Mandalore itself was one big contradiction, with heavy industry and shipbuilding sitting cheek-by-jowl with farms that hadn't changed in centuries, sophisticated electronics and ancient metalworking skills side-by-side in the same suit of armor.”

Established clan homes seem to be the usual way of things despite Mandalorians supposedly being nomadic. Their “temporary” structures being wattle and daub also indicates the nomad thing to be a bit of a fallacy. Even so, they had planned a possible relocation for Kyrimorut in the worst case, a bolt-hole on Cheravh. Jaing had taken to calling it offsite hot standby.

So that’s Kyrimorut, which means Final Haven, where Kal Skirata and his chosen family hunkered down in the aftermath of Order 66. My friend says it’s basically Aberdeen, down to the detail of players getting plastered mid footie limmie game. I gathered these details from four books (Hard Contact does not mention Kyrimorut) and compiled them for anyone who’d like to make use of the rundown. Oya!

[j-k-writes]

Blood Upon the Snow

Summary - The King in the North, Y/N Stark, is half alive and bitter. There's a madness in his cold eyes that makes his bannermen, loyal as they are, wary. He starts to fear that perhaps he'll never be fully human again, but then Winterfell gets some unexpected visitors.

Warnings - General GOT warnings, canon character death(s), mention of past death and resurrection

Might do a part 2 to this.

He doesn’t sleep much anymore, not since Dondarrion and his fire god got his hands on him. It’s not that he can’t sleep, he can and has, but he simply doesn’t feel tired anymore. Nor does he feel hunger, or the cold that he knows is seeping through the walls of his family’s castle. The Lords are wary of him, he can feel their lingering gazes as he walks through Winterfell’s halls. He doesn’t blame them, if he was the same man he was three years ago he would be, but he’s not. 

He knows logically he’s alive, he breathes and moves as the rest of the people who surround him do, but he still feels dead. His wounds from the Red Wedding have healed and scarred over but he swears he can still feel them as his chest rises and falls with his breath. He’s buried his father, mother, and twin brother but he swears sometimes he can still see them watching him out of the corner of his eyes, no doubt judging him for the choices he’s made in the wake of their deaths and his life. 

He doesn’t regret the blood he’s spilled. But the death of the Freys and the death of the Boltons haven’t reversed the death of his family, having their blood on his hands had not cleansed him in the way that he had hoped. 

A soft knock at the door jolted the young King out of his thoughts, and Y/N sighed to himself pushing himself up and out of his bed. He gave the person behind the door permission to enter as he dressed himself. 

“Your Grace.” Y/N immediately relaxed at the sound of Lord Reed’s voice, giving the man a soft smile as he turned around. Howland shut the door softly behind him, his expression tight. “I am sorry to disturb you, but there is a group approaching Winterfell.” 

“A group?” Y/N raised an eyebrow, hastening his pace in dressing himself. 

“A couple hundred at least.” Y/N sighed, tightening his last boot before grabbing his scabbard and tying it around his waist. He groaned as he stood, the bones in neck cracking as he stretched. 

Howland turned on his heel, and Y/N followed him through the halls of Winterfell silently. He offered small grunts of affirmation every so often to show Howland he was listening but his thoughts strayed throughout the journey. Winterfell was still recovering from the siege against the Bolton’s and Y/N feared his people were not ready for another attack. With winter steadily approaching his focus could no longer be on warfare but on survival, the Bolton’s had ransacked his ancestral home and the villages had been bled dry throughout the War of The Five Kings. If he wanted his people to make it through the winter he needed to be focused on food not blood. 

“Get me a mount.” Y/N called out as they reached the gates of the castle. He frowned at the vague people like shapes in the distance. The stable boy returned with two horses and Y/N raised an eyebrow at Howland who shrugged. 

“You are not riding out there alone.” 

“I am not a boy-” 

“No you’re a king.” Howland interrupted, swinging himself up to mount. “You’re our king, and you will not be going alone.” 

Y/N huffed, swinging himself up with a glare, albeit one with no heat behind it, at Howland. He kicked the horse into motion, making his way toward the party. As they approached it became obvious the group had sent their own messengers ahead, and Y/N could not help the dread that pooled in his stomach. His grip on the reins tightened, and his posture stiffened. 

One of the messengers paused as they got in sight of the two northerners. At the sudden stop both Howland and Y/N also paused in their trot, before the person jolted climbing down from their horse in a frenzy. Y/N tensed, hand reflexively going for his blade before the hood of the person, no woman, fell down revealing a bright head of hair. 

An auburn the same shade as his mother’s. 

Without thinking Y/N practically leapt from his saddle, ignoring the protest his knees gave him as he hit the ground running. As the faster of the two Y/N reached Sansa first, colliding with his sister in a way that knocked the breath from his lungs. Sansa wrapped her arms around his neck, now tall enough to reach, practically collapsing into her elder brother’s arms. 

“I thought you were dead.” Sansa practically sobbed, and Y/N couldn’t help the laugh that burst from his lips. He pulled back enough to look her in the eyes, taking her face gently in his hands. She was older, no longer the sweet girl he watched leave Winterfell with his father three years ago. 

“I got better.” 

She scoffed at the jest, before burying her face into his shoulder. He smiled, placing a soft kiss on her temple. 

“Y/N?” He turned at the voice, stilling at the face that accompanied it. 

“Jon?” The man nodded, staring at Y/N with wide eyes full of surprise. 

As a child, he was always closest with Robb, as one would expect twins to be. But as they grew older, their personalities began to differ, and Robb began to spend his time with Theon, whereas Y/N started to find himself seeking the company of his half-brother.

They were just boys the last time they'd seen each other. Jon was on his way to the Night's Watch - at his mother's insistence, Y/N was sure - and Y/N left behind with Robb in Winterfell.

But Jon had grown, face no longer fresh with youth. His hair had grown wild and untamed, no longer forced to cut it by Catelyn and Ned. His face was covered in scars, one above his right eyebrow and three perfectly parallel lines across his left eye as if from claws. He barely registered the man’s movements, and Sansa stepping away from him, before his arms were full of Jon. 

He laughed at the unusual display of affection, returning the gesture and delighting in the fact that after all these years he still was taller than Jon. 

“They said you were dead,” Jon said breathlessly. “The Red Wedding-” 

“Not here.” Y/N said, and Jon quieted. Howland had dismounted, as had the other man in Jon and Sansa’s riding party. Y/N motioned to the group of people waiting for them at the edge of the woods.  “Who are they?” 

“Free Folk.” 

Y/N blanched, “Wildlings?” 

Jon nodded, “It’s a long story.” 

Y/N looked between Sansa and Jon, biting his lip as he thought over his options. He could not speak freely with them surrounded by so many strangers, and as much as he wished to be able to blindly trust his siblings, as he knows he would have if this decision was being made by the Y/N of three years ago, he could not shake the paranoia that has carved a home in his mind since the Red Wedding. 

“We do not have enough supplies to house this many people, Jon.” He sighed. “The war with the south and the Boltons have-” 

Jon touched his shoulder gently, “I understand, the Free Folk can sustain themselves.” 

Y/N turned to look at Howland, who was conversing with the strange man that had accompanied his brother and sister. He motioned for the men to join them. 

“Your Grace.” The man nodded and Y/N frowned at his accent, Flea Bottom. Southern. 

Howland seemed to pick up on the sudden unease that plagued the young King, and he cleared his throat. “Your Grace, this is Ser Davos Seaworth.” 

“Thank you,” Y/N spoke, placing his biases in a box in the back of his mind to unpack later. “For bringing my family back to me. I am forever in your debt.” 

Davos blinked, “Oh, your Grace, I was simply there. Jon and Sansa did everything else themselves.” 

Y/N felt himself smile at the statement. “Well, you still have my thanks.” 

Davos let out a laugh, and the chill in the air turned his breath into fog. The sight of the fog reminded Y/N that they were standing in the cold and snow, he sighed deciding to let his paranoia fall away to give room for joy. Even if it was just for a few hours he was determined to revel in the fact that his brother and sister had returned to him. Just moments ago he was convinced he was the last of the Starks, and now there were two more watching and waiting for him to invite them in. 

Y/N turned to his brother, nodding toward the Wildlings. “Do you vouch for them?” 

“Aye.” 

“Then they are welcome.” Y/N smiled. “Come.”

He made Jon and Sansa tell their stories first. 

He felt ill as they both spoke, Sansa first and then Jon. 

He’d heard rumors and whispers of Sansa’s treatment in Kingslanding before the Red Wedding, too focused on bloodshed and revenge after it to truly care about keeping up with the whispers of the realm. He regrets the choice as Sansa depicts Joffrey’s death and being stolen away by Littlefinger. He shifts between wanting to flip the oak table in front of him and feeling ill as she tells them of her marriage with Ramsay. Y/N takes joy in telling her exactly how he took care of Bolton’s bastard. 

Jon speaks next, and Y/N can tell he’s only getting half of the story. He nods along to Jon’s recounting of his time beyond the wall, offering sympathies as he hears of those Jon lost. He imagines his father’s reaction to Jon becoming Lord Commander when he was barely a man. He can practically hear his father’s laugh and proud words as he reads the letter to him and Robb, overjoyed with his son for rising up in the world despite the odds being stacked against him. There’s a gap in his story as he tells Y/N that he’s been relieved of his duties as Lord Commander to help the Wildlings, the Free Folk as Jon and Sansa have taken to calling them, and to prepare for the war against the White Walkers. 

Ice floods Y/N’s veins as he hears of the Long Night and the White Walkers. The urge to call Jon a madman for believing in stories bubbles up inside of him, but he can’t bring himself to do anything but to believe every word out of the man’s mouth. Y/N has seen impossible things throughout the last three years, he himself was an impossible thing, the Long Night being more than a story Old Nan told to the children brought no surprise to the young King. 

Anyone else would have taken Jon’s reasons for being relieved of his vow at face value, but Y/N knew Jon. He’d known him from birth and would hopefully know him till death. He could tell there was a piece of the story he was missing, and he could tell that Sansa knew but was keeping her mouth shut for Jon’s sake. So he decided he would do the same. 

Dread pooled in his gut as the time to tell his story came around. He wished to keep the horrors of his journey to the throne hidden from his siblings so that they would still see him as the boy they left behind all those years ago. But he knew that even if he did not tell them the truth they would never see that boy again. And so he spoke. 

He didn’t look at them as he recounted the last three years, for he feared he would go silent if he saw the disgust that crossed their features as he spoke. 

He was the last one to die at the Red Wedding. The knife and arrows that struck his abdomen during the chaos had been enough to knock him off his feet but not enough to take his life. He had to watch as Robb gave up on escaping and took Roose’s knife to his gut before collapsing into a puddle of his own blood. His mother had been next, throat slit to the bone. Roose had kicked him as he laid there, and the groan Y/N gave as the strike landed directly on one of his wounds had alerted the Lord that there was still a Stark alive in the hall. 

Roose’s whispered ‘Say hello to your Father.’ was the last thing Y/N heard before his life ended. 

The Brothers Without Banners told him that the Freys had him thrown in a bog along with his mother. His direwolf, Shadow, had been killed along with Grey Wind and he would forever thank the Gods that the Freys didn’t give him the same treatment as they did Robb. 

He spent weeks between worlds in that cave. His wounds stitched themselves back together and he learned how to pretend like he was alive. The first time he realized that he would never truly feel alive again he begged Thoros to take his God's gift back. He’d rather be dead with his father, mother, and brother than live a half life. He eventually accepted that what was done was done and there was no going back. He made use of his new found inhumanness, spending weeks without sleep and food as he plotted his revenge against the Freys and Boltons. 

Y/N spared Sansa and Jon the brutal details of his journey to King of the North, giving them the synopsis of how he’d taken his revenge and how their father’s bannermen, his bannermen, rallied to his side when they realized who he was. When he was finished speaking the room fell into a tense silence, and he forced himself to look his siblings in the eyes. 

Sansa had tears in her eyes, and Jon was staring at him with his mouth half open. He opened his mouth to speak, to say what he did not know, but Sansa stood abruptly. She crossed the room to where he was seated and wrapped her arms around him in a tight hug. 

“I am so glad that the Gods brought you back to us.” She spoke, and Y/N could do nothing but hug her back and return her sentiment. 

Sansa left the room shortly after, wishing to see what had become of their family castle in her absence, leaving him alone in the room with Jon. With a Jon who still had yet to say a word. 

Y/N averted his eyes, turning his attention to the piles of parchment that awaited him on his desk. There was a shuffle of movement, Jon probably taking his leave, and Y/N kept his attention firmly on the parchment in front of him. A soft touch on his shoulder grabbed his attention, causing him to jump and turn his gaze toward Jon who was now standing directly next to him, a soft yet sad smile on his face. His hand was warm against Y/N’s shoulder despite the layers separating them. The feeling of warmth after years of numbness was so startling to the young King he couldn’t do anything but melt into the touch. 

He did not meet Jon’s eyes, too aware of his half humanness that drove his bannermen away from him. He did not want Jon to see just how different he was to the boy he once knew and loved, just how wrong. 

“I am glad you are alive.” Jon said, squeezing his shoulder. “Our family has suffered too many losses, and despite everything you may believe your life is a win.” 

Y/N breath caught at the words, and he could not help the bitter laugh that escaped his lips. He and Jon had spent too many late night’s confessing secrets to each other in the Godswood for them to be able to keep secrets from each other now. Just as Y/N could tell Jon was not telling him the whole truth of his journey, Jon could spot the holes in Y/N’s story. 

“I have missed you. My nights have been lonely without your company.” Y/N said, covering Jon’s hand with his own. “Come to the Godswood with me tonight?” 

Jon smiled, cheeks pinking slightly. He nodded, and Y/N squeezed his hand in thanks. Jon took his leave shortly after and Y/N watched him leave silently, content and warm for the first time in three years.

[biconickyoshi]

Mannn can y’all imagine if NAtLA had just aged up the characters to all be around their late teens (like the LoK characters)? Because IMO there’s no reason for Aang and Katara to be as young as they were in the show when so much else has been altered.

If they had aged Aang up to say like 15-16 (and probably Katara as well bc I think Zuko and Sokka’s NAtLA ages are fine) I not only think the story would work better for the gritty live action they want, but this would make things a lot easier for shippers in general lol.

I’m making this post specifically in response to the amazing chemistry Zuko and Aang have in NAtLA. Like these two have much more chemistry in one episode than Aang has with either Sokka or Katara in the entirety of the rest of the show.

Like imagine all the Zuko and Aang interactions from NAtLA, but Aang is only a year or two younger than Zuko. Two young men who are on opposing sides of the war, but who are also two halves of the same coin, yin and yang, whose destinies are intertwined?? The amount of Zukaang shippers that would bring about would be astronomical!

Anyways if y’all are interested in reading a slowburn enemies-to-friends-to-lovers rewrite of the original series in which Zuko discovers Aang in the iceberg right after he’s banished at age 13, check out my fic The Avatar and the Fire Prince on ao3 (28 chapters currently posted, most recent being The Siege of the North, Part 2)

[zukosdualdao]

i feel for ursa a lot in zuko alone because just think about terrified she must be. she orchestrates this plot that gets her banished for the sake of zuko’s safety, and yet, even as she’s doing so, she’s aware the risks to her children aren’t suddenly gone—the most imminent physical danger was just currently taken care of. and she had to leave, probably with a terrified understanding that it might not even protect them for all that long.

because once again: abuse very often leaves the victims and witnesses with no good options, and in this case, ursa is actually both. and the fear i think she must feel here—because i read a lot of panic in her goodbye scene with zuko—is not unfounded! they’re not safe with ozai! he will continue manipulating them and teaching and encouraging inappropriate behaviors! the agni kai and zuko’s banishment happen just three years later!

which is why i really see ursa’s words to zuko —“never forget who you are”—as advice meant to encourage him to protect himself. earlier that day (? i think. it’s certainly not long before), she told him he was someone who always kept fighting, even when it was hard, and in reminding zuko of that as she’s leaving, she implies she thinks zuko’s going to have to rely on that skill a lot—and considering the context, i think it’s safe to say she thinks that because she thinks he’ll have to fight to continue to survive. (she’s not wrong!)

just wanted to say this because i was scouring the tv tropes page for zuko alone today and it lists his remembering his mother’s final words before getting back up into the fight, surrounded by flame, and revealing his true identity, as “dramatically missing the point” and i don’t think that’s quite right. or if it is, it’s not for the reasons they think.

the troper listed that moment under this trope because he forgoes the values of kindness and compassion his mother tried to instill in him, but i don’t connect the “remember who you are” line to that, and i don’t think zuko does either. (he’s also not foregoing kindness here: he’s doing what he’s doing to help a family in a town where the local authorities are abusing their power.) she reframes what he sees as a failure when he struggles showcasing his firebending as an attribute, something that makes him who he is—someone who doesn’t give up when things are hard, someone who gets back up and keeps trying anyway. that’s what she’s reminding zuko of in their goodbye.

and i think zuko understands that pretty clearly, actually—he doesn’t know for sure what she’s protecting him from (and doesn’t let himself think about it too hard) but he definitely knows that she is because she tells him as much. so he integrates her final words of advice to him into his core self-perception—his monologuing in the siege of the north part 2 makes this pretty evident. “i’ve always had to struggle and fight, and that’s made me strong. that’s made me who i am.”

so i would argue that it’s not that zuko is missing the point of what ursa is telling him, but rather that it can’t actually be appropriately applied to every situation. and even when it can, zuko struggles to balance it with his other values and desires.

zuko is doing what ursa encouraged him to do in the north pole—he’s not giving up even though it’s hard, even though there’s a blizzard and he has no resources and nowhere to go and the odds are completely stacked against him. he’s doing exactly what she said! and ursa would be horrified because the whole reason she said it was to protect him, and now he’s throwing himself into this dangerous, potentially fatal situation, and he’s doing something harmful by capturing aang in an attempt to go back to ozai. he’s doing it because he’s a desperate kid under the thumb of ozai’s manipulations and abuse, of course, but i think ursa (like iroh) would be saddened and scared that he’s going to these lengths and harming both other people and himself when his literal survival doesn’t call for it. (but in zuko’s head it does, because a) the survival of the old life he’s still holding out hope he can get back to depends on this and b) he’s been conditioned to not feel safe if he doesn’t do the things he believes ozai expects from him. that’s the Trauma (TM).)

the situation when he’s fighting in zuko alone is different, though, because he genuinely does have to get up and keep fighting in order to survive. and while i think ursa was mostly, you know, talking about ozai when she encouraged him to protect himself, i mean… of course she would encourage him to stand and fight when he’s been knocked back down and an opponent is approaching to make the final blow! i don’t think she would encourage him to just, like, not defend himself and instead let some guy kill him. nor would she discourage him from defending a suffering town.

the issue here is not that zuko misunderstands her or even that he’s inappropriately applying her advice in this instance—the situation does call for him to get back up and keep fighting! it doesn’t necessarily call for the Extreme Amounts of Fire though, nor does it call for his revealing his true identity, and that’s where i think the real issue lies in this moment: he can’t remember one part of who he is without remembering the rest of it, too, and that includes his fire, his family, his history. there’s no disentangling those aspects of his identity. balancing them with both the survival mechanism his mother encouraged in order to protect him and the values she tried to instill in him is the struggle.

[hopefulidiocy]

Writers block..? SAME! I’ve had this idea for WEEKS and just never write it lol.

So imagine there’s this like legend of The Great Targaryen (reader) who lived before Rhanerya and them and she was called The Great Targaryen because she commanded like 4 dragons instead of one. (kinda like Daenerys)

So maybe she was like so powerful or whatnot a witch (idk if they rly had those back then but like, there’s dragons so bare with me lol) cast her to sleep, saying she’ll only awake in 100 years OR SOMETHING IDK YET.

But anyways, team black realizes that if they want to win they’ll need her or something so they go looking.

The find her asleep in a cave off the coast somewhere and somehow she wakes up (haven’t rly gotten there yet) and they’re all like woahhhh but she has no dragons?

They get to the top of the cliff and she kinda just faces out towards the ocean and stands there, everyone is confused. She raises her arms like A GODDESS and BOOM flying out of the ocean is DRAGONS!!!

Idk it’s a really weird concept but I had a dream like that and that’s where this came from lol.

Watcha think???

The Dragon Tamer

House of the Dragon x OC!Female!Character

Warnings: mentions of child loss, death, destruction and disease.

Characters that are my own: Efflestead the Warrior, Alina the Dragon Tamer/Demon Queen, Jocelyn the Great

A/N: I have never written something like this before and I looooved doing it <3 part two?

MINORS DNI 18+

🐉🐉🐉🐉🐉🐉🐉🐉🐉🐉🐉🐉🐉🐉🐉🐉🐉🐉🐉

🐉🐉🐉🐉🐉🐉🐉🐉🐉🐉🐉🐉🐉🐉🐉🐉🐉🐉🐉

Many tales graced the darkened walls of Westeros. They flew, invisibly, through the air as folk songs or poems; they were words, spoken from generation to generation. Efflestead’s siege on the North, battling it to great victory until all that was left was rubble and dirt and dead bodies. He was celebrated, a day commemorated to him and how he savagely killed thousands of innocents for being in his war path to the Iron Throne. He was crowned on the 10th of the Third Month, creating catastrophe and violence in his stead. But no one remembers that part. They don’t remember how he killed his way to the top, tortured those who dared to whisper in the corners of every house, how he employed spies who could’ve well been your father or brother and they would let loose their secrets and you’d be on the Wall within the hour. Most people remember him as Efflestead the Warrior King, a family man with fifteen children of his own, all just as ghastly as he was, a man of great honour - being with his wife for more than 40 years, but everyone forgot he had mistresses and often beat his wife to the point she lost more than five children. No, people forget the bad parts because they want a story they can be proud of. Efflestead’s children went on to become monarchs, Heiron being the first and rather boring King, contracting Green Fever before the Winter. Jocelyn became Queen after he died, she was a beauty, to all accounts of people who knew her but, of course, when she was murdered in the comfort of her own bed; her own brother, Aegon, was the one who distributed horrific lies and propaganda. She was a witch and bewitched a plague amongst the Smallfolk with her sixth finger and long, hanging nose that drooped over her upper lip. No one remembers that she was kind and generous to the Smallfolk, no one remembers that she cared for the health of her people and sought to change all of it.

History and myth are not kind to those who actually do good, they would rather remember those with an intriguing story that they can pick apart and leave out the bad bits.

There was one though, no recollection in any chronicle of history, no written records, just a song. Sung in the streets of the Red Keep.

A dragon descended upon the River;

His claws long and his mind clever;

A woman with eyes so black;

Came onto the shore with a crack;

She said, “Who hath come to fight?”;

When one man stepped forth, she cackled to the night;

“Is that all you have?” And so she unleashed her fury onto the innocence;

Letting them have her anguish and misguidance;

Four wild beasts arose from the dark;

Fire, blood and fury from their violent arc;

She tried, as she must, to fight with her life;

But the Smallfolk were full of strife;

They killed her with one switch of a blade;

And off her head rolled in the shade;

They rejoiced and called out;

“At last, the Demon Queen is dead! And so she will be forever at rest!”

Of course, the Smallfolk only knew the lines to a wretched song that kids would learn as they grew up in the parks and the bakeries. They would be told the Demon Queen will have you for supper! If they forbade any law. But, of course, the Demon Queen was more than a ruthless woman. First of all, she had a name… Alina Targaryen. Born to the bastard grandson of Efflestead. She was known to be a beauty, long white hair always in a braided crown, dresses that puffed around her and always glided along with her. She was kind, generous and full of wit. Many men wanted to have a slice of her, but she never allowed it, she kept herself neat and tidy for any man that would marry her.

She never did marry.

Instead found her love elsewhere. With multicoloured eggs that she grew with affection and suddenly… she was the most powerful woman in Westeros.

Being so powerful, she became a target. A target for war, for assassination, for love and temptation. But she hid out in the caves, away from human life and settled with her dragons. The song got one thing right, she did tame four dragons, she loyally loved each dragon.

Fate is a funny thing. It is what’s meant for you, even if it’s not what you want. Alina didn’t want to sleep for one hundred years, she was completely oblivious to it until the day came when the waves crashed harshly against the cave, the dragons looked at her with perplexity and so, being the brave soul she was, she opted to explore on foot. The grey waves curled up into the sky with every crash against the rock, she clung to the edge as she watched spurts of water form a woman, no eyes and no mouth, just a plain black face with wispy hair like a witch. Alone and cold, the witch whispered under her breath that sent Alina into a sleep, never to be heard from again. Until Westeros went to shit.

Around the Queens’ table at Dragonstone, Daemon sat with his elbows propped up, chewing onto his fingernails as Rhaenyra stood, stoic and strangely calm whilst Rhaeyna spoke of the dangerous plans the Greens have for Dragonstone.

“He will surely arrive with Vhagar, even with the three dragons we have cannot take her on. We all know that.” She said, sitting straight. Daemon looked up at her worried face before switching to Rhaenyra’s face, she was deep in thought, Jace behind her, pacing up and down.

“Jace, stop. I can’t think right now.” Daemon ordered, but Jace didn’t stop. He rarely answered to his step father, he was deep in thought like the rest of the room. A hanging shadow was hanging over Dragonstone with Aemond’s threat to burn it to the ground. The Blacks may have the Dragon Queen but the Gods themselves couldn’t defend Dragonstone against Vhagar.

“You know…” Jace trailed off, Daemon looked at him disinterested. Rhaenyra turned her head slightly towards him, as he thought of his next words.

“What is it, Jace?” Rhaenyra spoke, slightly impatient.

“Alina Targaryen.” He said. Everyone exchanged glances, some confused, some surprised. They hadn’t heard that name in ages and perhaps some people had never heard it before.

“She’s been dead for 130 years.” Daemon said, matter of fact.

There had been a grumbling amongst the smallfolk, something was occurring and no one had the answer and it was something bigger than Aemond and Vhagar. The grumbling was like something was rising, coming alive and word on the street was Alina was planning to come back to slay all the sinners. She had not yet made an appearance.

“The prophecy. There was a prophecy.” Jace pointed out even though he couldn’t remember the full details of said prophecy.

“Yes. They said Alina was to die amongst her dragons, safe within the caves in the North, to protect the eggs of the future but if she was to come alive we would have to gain dragon fire.” Rhaenyra said impatiently, crossing her arms and not looking at her son. “It could never work, Jace.”

Later that night, Jace awoke in his bed from a fitful dream of Vhagar tearing his home to shreds and he knew he had to do something about it. The prophecy of Alina Targaryen was difficult but it was not impossible. Many people at the time did not own dragons or their dragons weren’t used for warfare, just simple fun, so of course the prophecy would be hard. He wrapped a warm robe around his body, keeping the cold chill at bay, thinking over his plans as his bare feet slapped against the stone flooring. His mind was on Alina, the beautiful blonde that was etched into law scriptures, there had even been an execution method in her style for those less fortunate: partially burned by dragon fire and then strangled over several days. It was a gruesome way to end and many people had been subjected to it.

Vermax was asleep when Jace entered the Dragon Pit, he watched him for a while before whistling to awaken him. Vermax was always grumpy when he woke up but actively being woke up was a whole new level of grumpy so Jace was in for a long, long night. In High Velarian, he told Vermax of the old prophecy, of the High and Mighty Alina Targaryen who could help them from being torn into pieces.

Deep within the breathing caves, Alina was still, flat on her back on a spacious rock table; her hands clasped at her stomach, still in her riding gear; her peach coloured mouth relaxed into a soft line; her halo hair scattered around her like a wave as Jace began commanding Vermax’s fire, miles away from the caves. The walls began to move, shaking ever so slightly at every will Jace gave to his dragon and with that push, Alina began to rouse. Not awaking properly, her eyes hadn’t opened but her toes squeezed against her leather sandals as Vermax breathed his hot rage into a vat of iron; quickly, Jace covered the top, burning himself but keeping the fire closed within the jar. He could’ve sworn Vermax rolled his eyes when he thanked him and ran off.

Rhaenyra hardly slept. It wasn’t uncommon. There was much to think about. She was sat at her desk, rifling through some parchments when her eldest son came battling through the door; evidently struggling with his barrel.

“What in the Seven Gods have you got there?” Rhaenyra asked, standing up.

“It’s a vat of fire, Lady Mother. For the prophecy.” He was so unfit.

“The prophecy won’t work, Jace. Don’t be a fool and fall for it. Alina was killed by a Sea Devil. It is in the history books.” She batted her hand away and sat down, not wishing to listen to him.

“Mother, when I was commanding Vermax, it felt like something awoke within me. I could feel this cold chill run right through me, I’m telling you, I don’t think this prophecy is fake.”

“You felt the cold chill because it’s midnight and it’s cold and you’re wearing nothing. Go to bed. I don’t want to hear about it anymore.” Defeated, Jace dragged his vat of fire back to his room.

Defeated by his mother he may be. But something happened and it was unmistakable. So when day broke, he climbed onto the back of Vermax and rode off into the North.

The cave was located amongst a rocky terrain, hidden behind a jagged rock that had dried blood, possibly Alina’s, coated over the tips. The waves crashed against the rocks as Vermax flew onto the hanging cliff, denying to put himself and his rider in danger on the rocks. Jace sighed, noticing the jagged rock, his vat of fire on his back as he slowly, incredibly slowly, bum shuffled down onto a flat rock just to the side of the cave, trying to find a different way to enter but the gap between the rocks was too small, even though he was a particularly skinny young man, he could not fit between them. So he had to go around, the wind whipped around his hair, flowing it into all directions as he clutched onto the sharp edge of the jagged rock, cutting diagonally across his palm as he hauled himself onto a small foot cove when his toes fit perfectly. The waves crashed against him, throwing him into the rock at full speed, cutting the side of his face. He groaned into the cup of his hand, trying to keep his composure as the pain seared through him. Once the waves had ceased for just a moment, adrenaline shot through him and he jumped from the foot cove onto the flat surface at the entrance of the cave.

There was a few spots of water, deep enough to drown in, due to the land shifting over the century she had been dead. At first it was dark, he couldn’t see his own hand in front of his face but slowly a light was forming in front of him. Two fawn columns created an archway where a beam of yellow light flooded onto a flat rock, washing over the body of a still woman who was wiggling her toes and small groans escaping her pursed mouth.

“Alina.” He whispered, running towards the rock and finding a beautiful woman, forever twenty three in front of him. The Great Dragon Tamer. Alina Targaryen. He opened the vat ever so slowly, wondering what would happen if the fire was to consume her surroundings, whether she would come to life again. The fire cascaded up and above, touching stalactites and flowing over, somehow it did not touch Alina or Jace and he watched as the Dragon Tamer twitched her eyes. He knelt down beside her, watching her intently as her pale grey eyes opened and took in the fire above her.

The prophecy had worked. The second Alina saw Jace, she shot to her feet, her hand on the sword attached to her leather belt.

“Who are you?” She asked, her voice rough after a century of non speaking.

“I’m Jace… Jace Velarion.” He stumbled across his words, straightening to his feet. Her face was thunderous, her lips straight and almost snarling as she took him in.

“You work at sea.” She spat. “Have you come to kill me once and for all, Jace Velarion?” She unsheathed her sword, the glinting point at his face.

“No, it’s not like that.” He cleared his throat. “I am the son of Queen Rhaenyra Targaryen. I have come to ask for help.” Her sword lowered ever so gently as she inquired him with her eyes, narrowing them and looking him up and down.

“A Targaryen Queen? You must be a bastard. Where’s your white hair?” She was vaguely amused by this. In normal circumstances, Jace would not be able to control his anger and although he could feel it bubbling, he didn’t want to say anything; this moment couldn’t be ruined.

“We are under threat. It’s complicated but Queen Rhaenyra is technically Queen of Dragonstone but she is the rightful Queen of Westeros, in the Red Keep. But her younger half brother plotted against her, the Hightowers, and now he is on the throne and there’s a threat Vhagar and his bastard rider will detonate us all. We need you.”

“The Hightowers.” She spat, tucking her sword back into her sheath. “I’ve always hated them.” She slapped her thighs, she was incredibly masculine, and drove herself to the entrance of the cave. Jace watched in awe as she screamed in Old Valyrian, something he couldn’t understand himself and saw four dragons rise from the rocks. They had been disguised for 130 years as these jagged rocks, the ones that Jace cut himself on, they roared and they were ten times bigger than Vermax. The wind blew in at a high speed when Alina turned around, a mischievous glint in her eye and the first smile he had seen.

“Are you ready, Prince Jace?”

[testyqwcde]

Crack non-crack theory on Sauron's masterplan (Siege of Eregion)

Although I really enjoy the show, I can't ignore its plot flaws and inconsistencies. That’s why I try to come up with reasonable explanations for some scenes that don’t sit well with me. I was a bit let down by the Season 1 finale, as I had hoped Sauron had a master plan in motion. I imagined we'd be shocked to learn that everything, including the creation of Mordor, was part of his grand design. The only thing I thought he hadn’t accounted for was meeting Galadriel, who he grew fascinated with and wanted on his side. Instead, Season 1’s Sauron appeared to be a sad goo with self esteem issues (albeit in a charming Halbrand form) flowing with the tides of fates. I had high hopes for Season 2.

The Battle for Eregion was touted as one of the most epic moments in TV history, but unfortunately, it fell short, mainly due to the numerous plot holes that the showrunners seemed to neglect. I really hope that in Season 3, they’ll dive deeper and provide some flashbacks or explanations to clarify what actually happened in Eregion. As I’ve mentioned before, I’m eager to see Sauron portrayed as a manipulative mastermind—a control freak who bends reality and messes with people’s minds. I’m a firm believer in the theory that Sauron was pulling the strings behind the battle from the very start.

Two armies at different locations.

EP 7 starts with Celebrimbor having his morning coffee. When the camera slowly moves, it features the mountain that will soon be destroyed, as well as the sunrise. The shot transitions to the battlefield where Elrond's army is set to arrive.

The sunrise subtly reveals that the main gates of Eregion overlook the east, where Khazad-dûm lies nestled in the high mountains, its snowy peaks visible to the right.

The camera then shifts to focus on Celebrimbor, standing with his back to the path where Elrond will soon arrive. Elrond's arrival from the north-east makes more sense rather than from the north-west where Lindon lies. The choice makes sense, given that Elrond asked for help in Moria before going to Eregion.

and we do see his army coming to fight for Eregion at the dawn. Why at the dawn? Because Celebrimbor told us earlier the candle didn't burn an inch through the whole day.

Elrond's army arrives, but instead of the orcs near the wall preparing for battle, they begin running to the left, away from Elrond’s forces. Why this sudden shift? It's likely they are rushing to face a different threat—an army arriving from the west. Could it be Sauron’s fake army? Illusion cast on orcs? The orcs closer to the wall, who can see what's happening in the West, might mistake the sound of the horn coming from that direction. As a result, the orc army could have been split into two parts.

The woods on the shot 'hides' the main gates, and the scene seems to overlook a more western part of the city, with the snowy peaks of the Misty Mountains rising behind the city.

The detailed breakdown of the scene location can be found in this excellent meta

https://www.tumblr.com/apoloadonisandnarcissus/771115060662861824/elrond-and-adar-in-opposite-sides-of-eregion-in

Another piece of evidence supporting this theory is the sunlight coming from the west, as it is almost dawn—directly opposite to the direction of the sunrise that Celebrimbor faced.

It seems that the battle and the parley took place at different locations.

Where is Gil-Galad??

When Elrond arrives, he glances at Gil-Galad, seeking a silent nod of approval before he begins the charge.

All of them set on galloping in Adar's direction. Nobody is left behind.

Do you spot Gil-Galad? He's wearing mostly golden, armor and the golden helmet while all the elves near Elrond are dressed in silver armor. I can't see him lol

Could it be that two armies are charging simultaneously: the real Elrond alongside Gil-Galad, and a fake Elrond without Gil-Galad? The scene is a blend of these two forces attacking, creating a disorienting effect for the viewer. As the horses gallop at full speed, the camera suddenly adopts an odd angle, making it seem as though we’re observing the action through distorted lenses. This shift in perspective disrupts the sense of reality, leaving the viewer with a feeling that something is off or unnatural.

Hmmmm. Did we something similar?

It could just be an artistic choice made by the directors, but who can say for sure? The next shot shows at least 500 soldiers halting a cavalry charge at full gallop, all because Elrond simply said "Stop!" The way they stop is so perfectly synchronized, it almost feels as if they're being controlled by the same mind. We get Elrond's reaction to Galadriel bleeding and Adar's greeting, but it's a strange decision not to include Gil-Galad in the scene, especially considering his role. Wouldn't it have made sense for him to at least give his approval for the parley?

So why is Gil-Galad absent from the illusionary army? Simply because he never directly faced Sauron or his dark magic. Unlike Elrond and Vorohil who were on paths that Sauron had manipulated, Gil-Galad was outside of his influence. Sauron couldn't craft an illusion to involve Gil-Galad because he lacked the personal connection to him. However, Sauron was able to distort the perceptions of Galadriel and Adar because he had gained their trust and understanding, allowing him to manipulate their reality more easily.

Where is Vorohil?

Vorohil is a member of Team Elrond, so it felt odd not seeing him charging into battle alongside Elrond. We get a glimpse of all the main characters before they launch their attack, except for Vorohil.

I tried my best to find Vorohil but could not, sorry.

I initially mistook this person for Vorohil, but upon closer look, I realized it's not him. Vorohil has a rounder face and shorter hair

Later, we find them both in Adar's tent.

(Love this analysis of the tent scene:

https://www.tumblr.com/apoloadonisandnarcissus/763974317300187136/megathread-all-clues-concerning-elrond-sauron?source=share)

So when they leave, they have a weird conversation about Durin who is coming to help. Vorohil is supposed to be attacking the orcs with Elrond, right? And when Elrond rejoined his army after returning from Moria, shouldn't he have shared the news that Durin would be helping? So why is Vorohil left in the dark?

Furthermore, why Elrond is so certain that Durin will come as he speaks to his people after Elrond left?

My answer to these questions is that because Vorohil isn't real—it's an illusion created by Sauron. And Elrond in this scene is Sauron.

The real Vorohil remains in Moria, preparing for an attack alongside Durin when the latter convinces dwarves to aid elves. This explains why he is missing in the attack and he knows that Durin has recalled his army—not just that the gate has been closed.

The reason this information was shared in Adar's camp is to ensure Adar would be aware and could prepare for a potential attack from the dwarves. This is why the real Vorohil was shot with arrows—because the orcs, anticipating a dwarven assault, had positioned archers in the east.

Sauron masterplan

Sauron is just standing and watching Crimby to finish the rings during the siege and when two of his enemies having a parley? Seriously?

Celebrimbor is chained, he wont escape. Sauron might be dealing with more important affairs on the battlefield while casting an illusion here.

He has been standing there for a few hours when he suddenly woke up as if he was performing his magic tricks

He knew exactly when Elrond will arrive because Galadriel shared this information with Adar. You can find out more in this great meta https://www.tumblr.com/fatcatlittlebox/765976187504934912?source=share

Here is like ' finally, you are here. Why took so long?'

He also knew that Durin will try to help therefore he is trying to stop him by blinding his father with greed and by awakening Balrog.

His primary goal was to prevent Adar from forming an alliance with the Elves, stop Durin from aiding them, and buy enough time to complete the rings.

I really hope Sauron is portrayed as the powerful, calculated force he is, rather than being depicted as a mere pawn of fate, swept along by luck: Balrog got mad at the moment when Durin was about to leave, Elrond got so unusually sassy refusing to make an alliance with Adar ( funny thing, Adar got the ring but gave it back to Gal later) and Glug coming straight to Sauron offering to serve him.

High hopes for Season 3.

[nyxshadowhawk]

I Read The Silmarillion So You Don't Have To, Part Seven

Previous part.

Chapter 18: Of the Ruin of Beleriand and the Fall of Fingolfin In which everything goes to hell. Again.

Remember the Siege of Angband? Yeah, that’s still going on. It’s been roughly two hundred years since Morgoth’s last attack (the first appearance of Glaurung the Dragon), and in all that time, the Elves haven’t made much progress. Fingolfin, the High King of the Noldor, considers launching another assault on Angband; his people are strong, and now they have the Men on their side. What Could Possibly Go Wrong?

Fingolfin by Insant

The other Noldor are less enthused by this idea. For once, things are pretty great. Why risk the peace and prosperity that the Elves currently have for the chance at defeating Morgoth, when there’s bound to be massive loss of life either way? Only the Elven lords who live in the far north — on Morgoth’s doorstep — agree with Fingolfin, since they can’t ignore Morgoth as easily. They’re shot down by everyone else, so, there’s peace for a little while longer.

That’s when Morgoth makes his move.

Morgoth has been steadily gathering his forces throughout all of that time, and he’s also grown more and more spiteful. He doesn’t just want to defeat the Noldor, he wants to defile their homeland. But his hatred has also made him impatient.

One winter, on a dark night, without any warning, rivers of lava suddenly come pouring down the Thangorodrim, which belch poisonous gases into the air, rendering the whole plain of Ard-galen a barren wasteland overnight. Also, unlike with natural volcanoes, the damage is permanent — Ard-galen becomes known as Angfauglith, which means “Gasping Dust.” Instant Mordor, Just Add Lava. Many poor Elves are swallowed up by the lava before they can react.

As if that weren’t bad enough, Glaurung returns, accompanied by Balrogs and entire armies of Orcs — more Orcs than the Noldor have ever previously seen. The ensuing battle lasts all winter, as Morgoth’s forces return fire on the Noldor. It becomes known as Dagor Bragollach, the Battle of Sudden Flame.

Battle of Sudden Flame by Jovan Delic

There are many casualties. Angrod and Aegnor, the brothers of Finrod and Galadriel, both die in the battle. Finrod himself gets cut off in the Fen of Serech, and almost dies, but he’s rescued at the last minute by a Man named Barahir. Finrod escapes with his life, barely, and manages to make it back to his palace in Nargothrond. Finrod pledges undying friendship to Barahir, promises to help him and his family in return if they should ever need him, and gives him his ring as a token of his promise. It’s a ring shaped like two intertwined snakes, set with green stones, and it becomes known as the Ring of Barahir.

Finrod in the Fen of Serech by pansen1802

Incredibly, Fingolfin and co. manage to hang on to their land of Hithlum, but not without heavy losses. Hador Lórindol, one of the Kings of Men who was Fingolfin’s thane, dies in the battle. In the East, Fëanor’s sons aren’t doing great, either — Celegorm and Curufin are both defeated, but not killed; they retreat all the way to Nargothrond and hide there with Finrod. Caranthir’s land is ravaged, too.

Maedhros, however, “burned like a white fire.” He’s been dying to get his revenge on Morgoth for having strung him up on Thangorodrim, and personally slaughters so many Orcs that they start to run in fear of him. He manages to hang on to his fortress, and many people rally to him, including his brother Maglor.

Finrod, Fingon, and Maedhros by star热爱生活呀巴扎嘿

Overall, the battle is really bad. Fingolfin stares out over the ruined lands, sees his family scattered, and realizes the Noldor are done for. He’s filled with rage and despair, but he isn’t ready to give up yet. There’s only one thing to do. He mounts his horse, Rochallor, and rides straight to the gates of Angband. Those who see him think he must be Oromë, the Vala of the hunt, because he burns with fury and his eyes glow. He blows his warhorn, bangs on the gates of Angband, and challenges Morgoth himself to a duel.

That may be the ballsiest move of any Elf so far (and yes, I’m counting Fëanor going up against an army of Balrogs).

Fingolfin’s Challenge by Jenny Dolfen

Now, throughout all this, Morgoth has spent most of his time hiding in his fortress. Sure, he’s a Vala, and technically the most powerful being in Middle-earth, but he doesn’t fight his own battles. Fingolfin calls him a coward who’d rather send out all of his evil minions to fight for him than come and face him like a man. Morgoth can’t ignore that. So, to the surprise of everyone, Morgoth actually comes. And we get this badass description, which I’m going to transcribe, because I can’t do Tolkien justice:

Therefore Morgoth came, climbing slowly from his subterranean throne, and the rumour of his feet was like thunder underground. And he issued forth clad in black armour; and he stood before the King like a tower, iron-crowned, and his vast shield, sable-blazoned, cast a shadow over him like a stormcloud. But Fingolfin gleamed beneath it as a star; for his mail was overlaid with silver, and his blue shield was set with crystals; and he drew his sword Ringil, that glittered like ice.

Oh, it is on!

Fingolfin vs. Morgoth by Marchesi

The Fall of Fingolfin by Wavesheep

The battle is epic. Morgoth tries to smash Fingolfin with his hammer, called Grond (GROND! GROND! GROND! GROND!), but Fingolfin is too quick. Every time GROND hits the earth, it creates a volcanic cleft in the earth. The battle is compared to a thunderstorm, with the strikes of Morgoth’s hammer being the thunder and Fingolfin darting around being the lightning. Fingolfin actually manages to wound Morgoth, seven times! Each time, Morgoth howls so loud that all of the Orcs cringe in fear.

Fingolfin can’t keep it up forever, though. He’s mortal, and he’s going up against something near to a god. Three times, Morgoth crushes him with his shield, and three times Fingolfin is able to pick himself back up again. He doesn’t have much space to move anymore, because the ground around him is full of holes. He stumbles and falls, and Morgoth presses his foot to Fingolfin’s neck. It’s like getting an entire hill dropped on top of him. Fingolfin isn’t going to go peacefully, though — with his last bit of strength, he cuts deep into Morgoth’s foot.

Fingolfin dies, and thus passes the strongest and most valiant of the Elven kings. The Elves are so sad to lose him that they don’t even sing about the battle. The Orcs don’t gloat about it, either, even though Morgoth won — it was kind of a Pyrrhic victory, because it’s embarrassing that a mere mortal was able to do so much damage to Morgoth. The reason why we know what happened, despite the lack of songs about it, is because Thorondor (the King of the Eagles) brings the news to Gondolin and Hithlum.

Thorondor also saves Fingolfin’s body from being desecrated by Morgoth. Morgoth goes to throw Fingolfin’s corpse to the wolves, but Thorondor swoops down and claws him in the face. Thorondor brings Fingolfin’s body to Gondolin, and Turgon builds a cairn for his father in the surrounding hills. For a while, Fingolfin’s tomb acts almost like a charm that keeps the Orcs away. (But not forever though. Because, in case you forgot, Gondolin is doomed.)

Morgoth’s wounds are permanent. His seven initial wounds never heal, he now limps everywhere he goes because Fingolfin damaged his foot, and his face is also scarred where Thorondor got him.

All of Hithlum mourns Fingolfin’s death. Fingon, in his grief, becomes the sole High King of the Noldor.

Fingon by Moimq

There’s an interesting note here: Fingon sends “his young son Ereinion (who was later named Gil-galad) […] to the Havens.” This is an outright inconsistency. In other sources, Gil-galad is the grandson of Angrod, Finrod’s brother. So, it’s legitimately unclear who Gil-galad’s father was. Oh well. Distant legendary past, oral tradition and all that. I’m sure the songs disagree on whose parents are whose all the time.

And, the “Havens” referred to here aren’t the Grey Havens, either. They’re two cities in the southwest of Beleriand. But they’re ruled by the same Elf, Círdan, who would rule the Grey Havens later.

Morgoth is now in control of most of northern Beleriand. Barahir, the Man who helped save Finrod, keeps fighting for some time, alongside his wife Emeldir. But Morgoth destroys their land little by little. That land becomes so dark and evil that even Orcs avoid it, and it gets a new name: Taur-nu-Fuin, “The Forest under Nightshade” (which is cool as hell). This forest is like a proto-Mirkwood. Its trees become tangled with claw-like roots and branches, and it becomes full of angry spirits that can drive travelers mad.

The situation gets so dire that Emeldir leads her people away. They end up in the Forest of Brethil, which is where Haleth, another badass warrior-queen of Men, led her people in a similar moment of desperation. All of Barahir’s men are killed fighting Morgoth except for a small handful (whose names are all listed, of course). The Elves don’t come to help them, so they become desperate, hunted outcasts who live in the wilderness. One of these outcasts is Beren, Barahir’s son, who’s about to become very important.

The Elves managed to maintain control over Minas Tirith, the tower that guards the pass separating Morgoth’s lands in the north from the rest of Beleriand. This tower is maintained by Orodreth, Angrod’s son and Finrod’s nephew. But after two years pass, the tower is besieged by Morgoth’s lieutenant, Sauron.

Sauron by Wavesheep

(Oh yeah I’ve been waiting to dip into my self-indulgent collection of Sauron pictures.)

At this point, the Elves call Sauron “Gorthaur the Cruel.” He has become…

a sorcerer of dreadful power, master of shadows and of phantoms, foul in wisdom, cruel in strength, misshaping what he touched, twisting what he ruled; his dominion was torment.

He’s basically like Morgoth 2.0, and there’s very little left of him that is still Mairon, the Maia smith that he once was. Still, Sauron and Morgoth aren’t interchangeable; while Sauron is certainly very evil, he doesn’t think the same way that Morgoth does. If you’re familiar with the D&D alignment chart, Morgoth is pure Chaotic Evil — he doesn’t have a motive beyond fucking things up as much as possible. Sauron is more Lawful Evil, more like an evil dictator. Morgoth wants to watch the world burn (and just did, a moment ago); Sauron wants to rule over the ashes.

Sauron’s assault on Minas Tirith is successful. (If Sauron had a nickel for every time he besieged a tower called Minas Tirith, he’d have two nickels, which isn’t a lot, but it’s weird that it happened twice.) He conjures a cloud of pure terror that causes Orodreth and his men to panic, and flee to Narthothrond. Then, much like Sauron would corrupt Minas Ithil and Osgiliath eons later, he transforms Minas Tirith into an evil watchtower. Tol Sirion, the island where it’s located, becomes known as Tol-in-Gaurhoth, the Isle of Werewolves.

Lord of Werewolves by Dracontessa

After that, things only get worse. The Orcs spread across Beleriand, kidnapping Elves and desecrating all the land around Doriath. Morgoth sends out a bunch of spies to sow discord in every kingdom, hoping to win a psychological battle. Because of the Curse, most of the Noldor believe the sugary lies. The dirtiest trick that Morgoth pulls is setting free some of the Elves that he took captive, while keeping them under his control. This causes the Noldor to distrust even their own families.

With Men, Morgoth tries a different tactic. He attempts to turn them against the Elves by pointing out that the Men are inferior to Elves, and that the Noldor are inherently untrustworthy and untrusting. He promises the Men that if they come and join him, “the rightful Lord of Middle-earth,” then they’ll have honor and rewards and yada, yada. The Men don’t fall for this, which makes Morgoth even more spiteful towards them.

The Three Great Houses of Men are in complete disarray at this point. The house of Bëor —Barahir and his people — is basically destroyed, with the remainder barely surviving in the wilderness. The House of Hador are all stuck in Hithlum, and Hador himself is dead. The only remaining Men in the rest of Beleriand are the house of Haleth — the Haladin — who live in the Forest of Brethil. They’re one of the last lines of defense between Nargothrond and Morgoth’s onslaught. Hador’s grandsons, Húrin and Huor, are camped out in the Forest of Brethil with the Haladin. Halmir, the current leader of the Haladin, sends for backup, and a small army of Sindar Elves from Doriath come to help defend the forest. With the Elves’ help, the Men drive back the Orcs.

Húrin and Huor are some of our major players among the Men. They’re brothers, and they’re currently teenagers. Back before the battle, their father married Halmir’s daughter, so they’re members of the Haladin on their mom’s side. During the battle, they are separated from the rest of their company, but Ulmo protects them with a magical mist from the River Sirion, and then Thorondor rescues them when they wander near his mountains. Thorondor sends two eagles to pick them up, and the eagles bring them to Gondolin. Húrin and Huor become the first Men to ever see the secret Elven city of Gondolin.

By Mysilvergreen

King Turgon receives them well. He’d gotten a prophetic dream from Ulmo, telling him he’ll need the Men’s help when things get bad, so he takes them in as his honored guests. Húrin and Huor live in the mystical Elven city for a year, and they learn a lot from Turgon in that time. Turgon wants to keep them in Gondolin, not just because of his proclaimation that no one can ever leave it, but also because he genuinely loves them. Eventually, though, they want to go home.

Remember how well that went the last time, with Aredhel?

Húrin reminds Turgon that Men don’t live very long, so he and his brother can’t just wait until things cool off, especially with their family thinking they’re dead. Also, they were carried into the city by eagles, so they have no idea where the entrance is and probably couldn’t find it again on their own. Turgon thinks that this is reasonable, and agrees to let them go, so long as Thorondor is willing to let them leave the way they came, by eagle-taxi.

But Maeglin — remember him? He’s the edgy Elf — Maeglin is happy that Húrin and Huor are leaving, because they’ve been soaking up all the king’s attention. Maeglin snidely tells Húrin that Turgon wasn’t so lenient in the past, like that time he threw Maeglin’s father off the walls.

To pacify Maeglin, Húrin and Huor swear an oath not to reveal anything about Gondolin. As you’ve probably gathered by now, oaths are serious business. I almost guarantee that this is going to bite them in the ass.

When Húrin and Huor return home, their family is overjoyed to see them, because they all thought that the brothers had died in the wilderness. Their father, Galdor, asks where they’ve been, and why they look like princes instead of like they’ve been living in the wilderness for a year. Húrin tells him that the only reason they were allowed to return at all was if they swore not to speak about it, so… don’t ask.

Meanwhile, King Turgon learns that the Siege of Angband is officially over, and Morgoth killed Fingolfin. Turgon doesn’t want to involve himself in the war, at least not yet — Gondolin is a secret safe haven for now, and he wants it to stay that way for as long as possible. It’s like the Wakanda of Elven cities.

However, Turgon also realizes that this is the beginning of the end for the Noldor, unless they can find some outside source of help. He sends secret bands of Gondolin Elves to sail to Valinor. That’s a truly desperate move, since the Noldor are exiles, and Valinor has wanted nothing to do with Middle-earth for centuries. Unfortunately, none of Turgon’s emissaries make it; the western sea has become much more dangerous ever since Valinor cut itself off. The sea is full of enchantments and illusions, and Valinor itself is hidden. There’s no way to get to it. With every failed mission, Gondolin’s doom inches closer and closer.

Guess who hears about it? Morgoth. Morgoth is very interested to know what happened to Finrod and Turgon, because Elven kings don’t just vanish off the face of the earth. He knows they must be somewhere, probably plotting a new scheme to take him down. He knows what Nargothrond is, but not where it is, and he knows nothing about Gondolin. In the Battle of Sudden Flame, he made the mistake of underestimating the strength of the Elves and Men. Although he won the battle, they managed to hit him back just as badly. He’s not about to make that mistake again.

Morgoth attacks Hithlum again. King Fingon is outnumbered, but rescued at the last minute by ships full of warriors sent by Círdan. The Elves win the battle, but King Galdor, Húrin and Huor’s father, dies in the same spot where his own father fell during the Battle of Sudden Flame. Húrin becomes the new patriarch of his house, and serves as Fingon’s thane. He marries Morwen Eledhwen, a woman of the house of Bëor, who fled the Forest under Nightshade for the Forest of Brethil alongside Queen Emeldir.

Húrin by Steamey

The House of Bëor is by this point reduced to only one man, Emeldir and Barahir’s son, Beren.

Chapter 19: Of Beren and Lúthien, Part One In which we hear the greatest love story ever told.

This is the first of what Tolkien called “The Great Tales,” some of the oldest stories in the Legendarium, all of which were ultimately unfinished. To put into perspective just what a big deal this story is, Tolkien and his wife Edith have the names “Beren” and “Lúthien” written on their respective headstones. The version here in the Silmarillion is the most complete, but it’s also an abridged version. This is how Tolkien introduces it:

Among the tales of sorrow and of ruin that come down to us from the darkness of those days there are yet some in which amid weeping there is joy and under the shadow of death light that endures. And of these histories most fair still in the ears of the Elves is the tale of Beren and Lúthien.

Most of my retelling here is paraphrased from the Silmarillion, but I’ve included some details that appear only in the Lay of Leithian, Tolkien’s unfinished poetic telling of the story. It’s really worth going and reading the Lay of Leithian; it’s extremely vivid and evocative, it perfectly imitates the medieval poetic form.

The story doesn’t actually start with Beren. It starts with an account of what happened to Barahir and his remaining men after they fled the Forest under Nightshade. They ended up camping out beside a lake called Tarn Aeluin, which is beautiful and reflects the stars. It was supposedly blessed by Queen Melian, and her magic repels the evil creatures that took over the rest of the forest. Barahir and co. are well hidden there, but Morgoth commands Sauron to find them.

One of Barahir’s people is a man named Gorlim, who has a wife, Eilinel. They love each other even despite the war, but when Gorlim returned home one day after a battle, he found his house empty and Eilinel gone. He still follows his people and hides out near the lake, but he holds out hope that maybe his wife isn’t dead. He periodically leaves the secret safe haven and returns to the empty house, hoping that his wife will be there. One time, he sees the lights on and hears her voice, but it’s a trap — Sauron found him. Sauron tortures Gorlim to force him to reveal the location of Barahir’s secret camp, but Gorlim holds out. That is, until Sauron tells him to name his price. Gorlim asks to see his wife again.

Then Sauron smiled, saying, “That is a small price for so great a treachery. So shall it surely be. Say on!”

Poor Gorlim reveals the location of Barahir’s camp. Then, with a mocking laugh, Sauron reveals that Eilinel is dead, and that he cast an illusion to ensnare him. “Oh, but don’t worry, I’ll still send you to her,” he says, and then kills him. They don’t call him Gorthaur the Cruel for nothing.

By @ayaosguqin

See, this is one of the things that makes Sauron different from Morgoth. Morgoth is spiteful and enjoys sewing discord and causing destruction for the sake of it, but we haven’t seen this kind of calculated sadism from him yet. (There’s not much that’s subtle about busting in with a giant spider and killing trees.) Sauron, having been a Maia of Aulë, has an appreciation for subtlety and craftsmanship. Sauron likes to stick the knife in and twist it. And as The Lord of the Rings makes clear, he’s a master of psychological warfare.

Now that Sauron knows where the secret camp is, his forces attack the men at Tarn Aeluin. They massacre everyone, save Beren. Beren is out on a spy mission when the Orcs attack, and he has a dream in which Gorlim’s ghost appears to him to tell him what happened. Beren rides back, but it’s already too late. He finds his father and everyone else dead.

Beren builds a cairn for his father and swears vengeance. He hunts down all the Orcs, slaughtering them by himself. He sneaks near their camp, where they’re gloating and holding up his father’s hand as a trophy. On the severed hand is a ring, the ring that Finrod Felagund gave to Barahir. Beren swoops in, steals the hand with the ring, and runs off before the Orcs have a chance to react.

Beren lives by himself in the wilderness for some time. He befriends the animals, and becomes a vegetarian as a result. He manages to perform many heroic deeds just in that time, so that he becomes famous. He’s already such a legend that Morgoth puts a price on his head, just as high as that of King Fingon himself, but the Orcs are so afraid of Beren that they avoid him instead of hunting him. Morgoth resolves to send an entire army after Beren, and not just any army — an army of werewolves, captained by Sauron himself.

The werewolves are enough to chase Beren away from the land where he buried his father. He heads south, towards Doriath. He resolves to pass through Queen Melian’s magic wall, for some reason. (Maybe because it’s the only guaranteed safe place?) He travels along sheer mountain cliffs, and through the spider-infested wastes that had been twisted by a combination of Sauron’s magic and Melian’s magic. That land was basically the Mordor of its day, and no one knows how Beren got through it; whatever he experienced there was terrifying enough that he never spoke of it again. When he arrives at the magic wall, he passes right through like it isn’t even there. This event had been predicted by Melian herself: ‘because the power of that Man’s destiny will overcome her own. People will sing about that event until the distant future, when Middle-earth is unrecognizable.’

He finds himself in the north of Doriath, a forest called Neldoreth. He’s exhausted and harrowed, having spent years traveling through a cursed land. But everything in Neldoreth is beautiful, it’s summertime, and Beren sees a beautiful Elf maiden dancing on the grass. It’s Lúthien, the daughter of King Thingol and Queen Melian themselves. Lúthien is the most beautiful person alive. (Like, metaphysically.) Being the child of a Maia, she is more or less a demigoddess.

Encounter of Beren and Lúthien by Elena Kukanova

Beren is instantly smitten. In fact, he’s literally enchanted by her — just watching her casts a spell on him. When she suddenly vanishes, he literally can’t speak. He wanders the woods like an animal, searching for her. He doesn’t know her name, so he calls her Tinúviel, which means “Nightingale” in Sindarin. A whole year passes, and he sees her in the beauty of nature around him, like she’s a ghost and he’s fondly recalling her memory. A whole winter later, she reappears, and sings a song so beautiful that it brings spring back to the woods:

Keen, heart-piercing was her song as the song of the lark that rises from the gates of night and pours its voice among the dying stars, seeing the sun behind the walls of the world; and the song of Lúthien released the bonds of winter, and the frozen waters spoke, and flowers sprang from the cold earth where her feet had passed.

When he hears her song, Beren can suddenly speak again. He calls out to her, using the name “Tinúviel.” Luckily for him, Lúthien falls just as in love with him upon seeing him. The narrator says that “doom fell upon her” as soon as she loved him back, which could mean either that she met her destiny or that she is going to die for her love. Probably both.

Beren goes to embrace her, but she vanishes again as soon as day breaks. Beren immediately feels a mixture of ecstasy and anguish. He falls into a coma, and has nightmares about groping through the dark to find the

vanished light. (I’m starting to note parallels between Lúthien and the Two Trees, and also the Silmarils.) But Beren’s anguish is nothing to Lúthien’s. Now that she’s fallen in love with a mortal, her fate is inextricably intertwined with his. She’s no longer free.

Lúthien returns to Beren and wakes him from his coma. They walk through the woods together, blissfully in love, throughout that spring and summer. Presumably they talk and actually get to know each other in that time.

A sudden in love by breath-art and aglargon

There’s another person who loves Lúthien, an Elven bard named Daeron. He spies on Beren and Lúthien in the woods. Jealous that Lúthien loves Beren instead of him, he goes and tattles to Thingol about their relationship. (In the Lay of Leithian, Daeron — in his envy — is able to cast a spell of silence upon Beleriand, so that there is no music or even birdsong.) Thingol is immediately furious, because he’s extremely overprotective of his daughter, and he hates Men. He confronts Lúthien about her new boyfriend, but she refuses to say anything until Thingol promises that he won’t hurt or imprison Beren. Lúthien personally leads him before her father’s throne.

Beren and Luthien in the Court of Thingol by Donato Giancola

Thingol demands to know who Beren is, but he’s so intimidating that Beren is stunned into silence. Lúthien answers for him. Thingol tells Lúthien to back off and let Beren speak for himself. What’s Beren’s excuse for entering the forbidden realm of Doriath? Beren’s response is very poetic and eloquent, but basically boils down to “I want to fuck your daughter.”

There’s pin-drop silence in the hall as the assembled Elves wait for Thingol to smite Beren. Thingol immediately regrets his promise not to harm him. Thingol’s response is to fold his hands, smile coldly, and say,

(I mean, it’s not these exact words, but it’s close enough.)

Thingol accuses Beren of being a spy and a thrall of Morgoth, at which Beren takes offense. Beren isn’t afraid of death, but he won’t allow himself to be insulted by any Elf, even a king. His father was a lord of Men and he deserves to be treated like a prince! He has a ring given to his father by Finrod himself, for Eru’s sake! He holds up the ring, and all the Elves see it. This is the Ring of Barahir, which will eventually get passed down to Aragorn. The jewels set in it were originally cut by the Noldor in Valinor itself.

Melian whispers to her husband that he won’t be the one to kill Beren. Beren has a lot more stuff he’s destined to do, but his destiny is still intertwined with Thingol’s. Whatever Thingol does next will seal his own fate, too. Thingol proceeds to choose the stupidest thing possible.

Beren wants to marry the Faerie King’s daughter. So, as is common in fairy tales, Thingol sets him an impossible task that he must complete to earn Lúthien’s hand: He must steal a Silmaril from the crown of Morgoth. Thingol feels like this the nearest thing to a fair price for his daughter. Of course, like most mythological kings, he’s hoping that Beren will die in the attempt.

You can just hear Melian’s facepalm through the page.

As is hopefully clear by now, the Silmarils are like a bomb waiting to go off. Everything about them is fraught — from the fact that they contain the last light of the Trees, to Morgoth’s obsession with them, to the Curse laid on all Fëanor’s sons for their unbreakable oath to get them back, etc. etc. Thingol’s choice to get involved in that shitshow was a dumb fucking idea. It’s not really his place to say or do anything concerning the Silmarils, and he effectively dooms his own kingdom by involving himself with them. In fact, by doing so, Thingol subjects himself to the same Curse that affects all the Noldor — you know, the reason he banished them from his kingdom and banned their language in the first place.

But that’s getting ahead of ourselves. Let’s get back to Beren, who responds to this by literally laughing it off and calling it easy:

“For little price,” he said, “do Elven-kings sell their daughters: for gems, and things made by craft. But if this be your will, Thingol, then I will perform it. And when we meet again my hand shall hold a Silmaril from the Iron Crown; for you have not looked the last on Beren son of Barahir.”

I like the parallelism here: Both Beren and Sauron call something that’s extraordinarily valuable to someone else a “little price” or “small price.” Obviously, we’re supposed to side with Beren in this instance, but I wonder if his pride will be his fall.

Having received his main quest, Beren leaves Menegroth.

Menegroth by David Gresit

Melian tells Thingol what an idiot he is for involving himself in the Main Plot and forsaking his kingdom’s safety in isolation. She can’t protect him from whatever happens next. Thingol is pretty confident that Beren’s going to die, which proves that he’s not Genre Savvy enough to make good decisions from here on out. He should really listen to his wife.

Lúthien doesn’t quite enter “but Daddy, I love him!” territory, but she does stop singing. All of Doriath is eerily silent.

Beren travels west, towards the River Sirion, and then to Nargothrond. Being alone and with no resources, he doesn’t have any other option but to go to Finrod for help. He wisely holds up the Ring of Barahir as he enters Finrod’s territory, because it was originally Finrod’s ring, and his Elf snipers would know not to shoot. Knowing that he was being watched by an army’s worth of hidden Elves, he randomly yells out “I am Beren son of Barahir! Take me to your King!” in the middle of a field in the hopes that someone will hear him and decide not to kill him. After doing this several times, he’s apprehended by the archers and taken to Finrod.

Finrod receives Beren warmly. Privately, Beren tells Finrod about his father’s death and about meeting Lúthien. He cries more over remembering Lúthien than remembering his father. Remember, Finrod promised to help Barahir or any member of his family in need, because they had saved him. So, he has no choice but to help Beren retrieve a Silmaril, even though he knows it will not go well.

Finrod by yidanyuan

He tells Beren, ‘Well, it’s obvious that Thingol wants you dead, but if anyone so much as mentions the Silmarils, the sons of Fëanor are on them like a pack of wolves. Celegorm and Curufin are powerful lords in my court, and I can’t risk antagonizing them. If they find out you want a Silmaril, they’ll kill you. But I made a promise to your father, so I have to help you. In short, we’re all screwed.’

For some reason, Finrod decides that the best thing to do is to be as transparent as possible. So, he summons his court and stands before his people. He tells them all about the promise he made to Barahir, and how he is therefore obligated to help Beren. He asks his lords for help. Celegorm’s response is predictable. He repeats the Oath of Fëanor, reaffirming that the sons of Fëanor will hunt down anything alive that dares to seek a Silmaril. He goes on a tirade as impassioned as the one that Fëanor originally gave to the Noldor back in Valinor. (Like father, like son, I guess.) Then Curufin speaks, more quietly. What he says boils down to: ‘Nice kingdom you’ve got here, Finrod. Would really be a shame if something happened to it.’

Celegorm and Curufin, by Julia Reizen

Curufin’s speech scares the Elves of Nargothrond so much that they avoid open war for decades, preferring guerilla warfare with arrows, poisoned darts, and magic. According to Tolkien, this is less valorous than open combat, and diminishes their whole society.

Say what you will about Fëanor and his brood, they’re damn good at public speaking.

The Elves of Nargothrond begin to murmur amongst themselves that Finrod can’t tell them what to do as though he’s a Vala (even though he’s… y’know… the king), and all of them refuse to help him. The Curse is in full effect: Celegorm and Curufin realize that this is a golden opportunity to send Finrod alone to his death, and take over Nargothrond for themselves.

Finrod reads the room. He takes off his crown, and throws it at his feet, renouncing his rulership of the kingdom that he built. He looks directly at Celegorm and Curufin and tells them that while they may be faithless bastards who will break their oath of loyalty to him, he will not break his own promise to Barahir. He addresses the rest of the room — there’s got to be at least a few people who haven’t been affected by the Curse, and who will follow him, so that he isn’t pathetically driven out of his own kingdom. Right? A grand total of ten people stand up for him. One of them, Edrahil, picks up Finrod’s crown, and says that it should be given to a steward instead of being left for Celegorm and Curufin to snatch. Whatever happens, he says, Finrod is still the true king of Nargothrond. #IStandWithFinrod.

Finrod chooses Orodreth, his nephew (or youngest brother; sources differ), as his steward. Celegorm and Curufin just smile and withdraw from the room, which isn’t creepy at all.

Finrod and Beren leave Nargothrond with their ten loyalists. They travel north, come upon a band of Orcs, and kill them all. Finrod uses a magical illusion to disguise his company as Orcs, and they sneak through the mountain pass towards Angband. Sauron finds them anyway, and intercepts them. Sauron and Finrod engage in — of all things — a singing competition. It’s very similar in principle to “the oldest game” from Neil Gaiman’s The Sandman, in that it’s a battle between dueling concepts that are instantaneously manifested as the singers describe them. Sauron sings about treachery, betrayal, uncovering secrets, piercing through things, and sorcery. Finrod answers with a song about resistance against evil, keeping secrets, maintaining trust, standing strong, and gaining freedom.

Finrod and Sauron by rami-fon-verg

There is something simple, almost childish, about this back-and-forth. I feel like I’ve seen several different children’s shows in which a good character and an evil character sing at each other instead of fighting, with the evil character extoling the virtues of power and the good character singing about the importance of love. (The one that comes to mind is Barbie and the Diamond Castle, in which the two heroines and the villain play good/evil music at each other, and the good music overpowers the evil music, resulting in the villain’s defeat.) I wouldn’t be surprised if several anime have a scene like this, as well. And yet, it is primordially powerful, like Gaiman’s “oldest game.” In Tolkien’s universe, singing was what created the world in the first place, and singing is therefore a direct and powerful means of manifestation.

By Wavesheep

Unfortunately, it does not end the way it would if this were a Barbie movie or an anime. Finrod is a great singer, but Sauron is better — he is a Maia, one of the Ainur, meaning he was there when the original Music of creation was sung. It’s impressive that Finrod manages to hold out as long as he does, but in the end — much like Fingolfin and Fëanor before him — he loses.

To tell this part of the story, Tolkien randomly switches to verse; he quotes a section from the Lay of Leithian. Medieval texts actually do this; lots of them will randomly switch between prose and verse. Texts that do this are called “prosimetric.” For example, in the Volsung Saga (which reads very much like The Silmarillion), when Sigurd meets Brynhild, the text abruptly switches into verse as she lists all the different types of runes and their uses. There’s several other instances in that text when it randomly switches between prose and verse. It prefaces the verse parts with something like, “So saith the song of Sigurd,” referencing poetic versions of the same story that otherwise don’t survive. Tolkien evokes that same structure here, right down to saying “as it is told in the Lay of Leithian.”

The Lord of the Rings is prosimetric, too, but most of the songs are diegetic, meaning they’re actually being sung by characters in-universe. That’s not what’s going on here. The verse part describes the singing contest between Sauron and Finrod, it’s not the actual songs that they’re singing. But it’s really clever of Tolkien to switch to verse to describe this scene, because it sets the vibe! It’s like you’re listening to a distant echo of their songs, passed down through generations of oral storytelling. It wouldn’t be nearly as evocative if he just described the scene flatly in prose.

Thank you for indulging me in that tangent! Moving on: Sauron throws Finrod and co. into a dark pit, and threatens to kill them if they don’t tell them who they are and why they’re there. Periodically, he sends a werewolf to eat one of them (which, I’ll bet you anything, is a direct reference to the Volsung Saga). Still, none of them talk.

Meanwhile, back in Doriath, Lúthien intuitively senses that something is wrong, and asks her mother what has happened to Beren. Melian tells her that Beren is in Sauron’s dungeon. Lúthien resolves to go and rescue him by herself. She goes to ask Daeron for his help, but Daeron refuses to risk his own neck for Beren’s sake. He’s been afflicted with full-on incel syndrome, so out of spite, he snitches to Thingol a second time. (Thingol is so grateful that Daeron keeps tabs on his daughter for him, that he names Daeron a prince. Make of that what you will.) Thingol can’t imagine anything worse than letting his daughter waste away in a dark pit, so he builds a house in a giant beech tree, called Hírilorn. Because the best way to keep your daughter safe from one prison is to put her in another! Logic!

Well, it’s a common trope in myths and fairy tales: The king is overprotective of his daughter and puts her in a tower, or a box with a hole in the roof, or some such. Lúthien, however, is proactive. She doesn’t wait for someone to rescue her from her treehouse. Instead, she tricks her guards and Daeron into sending her a golden bowl of wine, a silver bowl of water, a spinning wheel, and a loom. Then she sings a spell that mentions all the tallest and longest things in the world, which causes her hair to grow extremely long. She mixes the wine with the water, then sings a song of day over the golden bowl, and a song of night over the silver bowl. Finally, she sings a song of sleep. The singing enchants her hair, filling it with corresponding ideas that shape the way Lúthien wants it to behave. (Similar to Sauron and Finrod’s magic songs, singing about an idea causes it to manifest.) She weaves a robe out of her hair, a robe that’s described as being misty and shadowy, like it’s woven from clouds at night. Lúthien weaves a rope out of what’s leftover, and puts a sleeping spell on it. Then she just throws it down onto the guards at the foot of the tree, and they go to sleep, allowing her to climb down the rope and escape.

Lúthien prepares her escape from Hírilorn by Anke Katrin Eißmann

As she leaves Doriath, she comes upon Celegorm and Curufin, of all people. They’re out hunting, hoping to learn something about what happened to Finrod (and probably plotting behind his back the whole time). Among their hunting dogs is a particularly large wolfhound called Huan, who actually came with them from Valinor. Oromë himself, the Vala of the hunt, gave the dog to Celegorm long ago. Huan loyally followed Celegorm into exile, and therefore became automatically subject to the Curse. He’s foretold to die, but only after he faces the biggest and baddest of big bad wolves.

Spoiler alert, the dog’s gonna die!

Huan finds Lúthien, because he’s immune to her enchantments, and brings her to Celegorm. Once she learns that Celegorm and Curufin are enemies of Morgoth, Lúthien decides that she trusts them, and reveals herself to them. Celegorm (or, in the Lay, Curufin) instantly falls in love with her, because… of course he does. He offers to help Lúthien, making a point not to say that he already knows about the quest. Lúthien goes with them to Nargothrond.

Celegorm and Curufin find Lúthien by Elena Kukanova

As soon as they get there, Celegorm and Curufin show their true colors. They imprison Lúthien, take away her magic cloak, and forbid her to speak to anyone else but them. Lúthien escaped one trap, and fell right into another. Now that the brothers know from Lúthien that Finrod and Beren are in Sauron’s prison, they figure that it’s easiest to just let them die. Nargothrond is as good as theirs. And now that they have Lúthien, they have leverage over Thingol — they can force him to give Lúthien’s hand in marriage to Celegorm. That would make Celegorm and Curufin the most powerful princes of the Noldor! [Insert evil laugh here.]

Huan, however, is the Goodest Boy and is too pure-hearted to follow Celegorm (even though Celegorm is his beloved master whom he’s been serving for literally centuries). Huan also fell in love with Lúthien upon seeing her for the first time, but in a decidedly less creepy way. He comes to her prison every night to keep her company, and Lúthien tells him all about Beren.

Huan decides to help Lúthien break out. He brings her magic cloak to her, and speaks to her (he’s only allowed to talk three times before he dies). He shows her a secret passage out of Nargothrond, and they escape together. Huan even swallows his pride enough to allow Lúthien to ride on his back.

Lúthien riding on Huan by Meraclitus

I mean, if you’re gonna be a damsel in distress, a dog is a pretty awesome thing to be rescued by.

(Stopping there, because I'm running up against the max number of images. More to come!)

[scotianostra]

April 27th 1296 saw the first Battle of Dunbar.

After the sack of Berwick-upon-Tweed, which I posted about on March 30th, Edward remained in the town for a month, supervising the strengthening of its defences. On 5th April, he received a message from King John Balliol renouncing his homage, to which he is said to have remarked, more in contempt than anger, “O’ foolish knave! What folly he commits. If he will not come to us we will go to him.”

The next objective in the campaign was the Earl of March’s castle at Dunbar, a few miles up the coast from Berwick. March was with the English, but his wife, Marjory Comyn, sister of the Earl of Buchan, did not share her husband’s political loyalties and allowed her fellow Scots to occupy the castle. Edward sent one of his chief lieutenants, John de Warenne, 6th Earl of Surrey, John Balliol’s own father-in-law, northwards with a strong force of knights to take the stronghold. The defenders sent messages to King John, to the main body of his army at nearby Haddington, asking for urgent assistance. In response the army, or a large part of it, advanced to the rescue of Dunbar. The King, who was showing even less skill as a commander than he had as a king, did not accompany it.

According to the history books The Battle of Dunbar was an action between two bodies of mounted men-at-arms, the two forces came in sight of each other on 27 April. The Scots occupied a strong position on some high ground to the west. To meet them, Surrey’s cavalry had to cross a gully intersected by the Spot Burn. As they did so their ranks broke up, and the Scots, deluded into thinking the English were leaving the field, abandoned their position in a disorderly downhill charge, only to find that Surrey’s forces had reformed and were advancing in perfect order.

The English routed the disorganised Scots in a single charge. The action was brief and probably not very bloody, since the only casualty of any note was a minor Lothian knight, Sir Patrick Graham, though about 100 Scottish lords, knights and men-at-arms were taken prisoner.

According to one English source over ten thousand Scots died at the battle of Dunbar, however this is probably a confusion with the casualties incurred at the storming of Berwick. The survivors fled westwards to the safety of Selkirk Forest. The following day King Edward appeared in person and Dunbar castle surrendered. Some important prisoners were taken: John “the red” Comyn, Earl of Buchan, and the earls of Atholl, Ross and Menteith, together with 130 knights and esquires. All were sent into captivity in England, most would pay homage to the English King and go on to fight in some battles against their on countrymen later in the First War of Independence.

The battle of Dunbar effectively ended the war of 1296 with the English winning. The remainder of the campaign was little more than a grand mopping-up operation. James, the hereditary High Steward of Scotland, surrendered the important fortress at Roxburgh without attempting a defence, and others were quick to follow his example. Only Edinburgh Castle held out for a week against Edward’s siege engines. A Scottish garrison sent out to help King John, who had fled north to Forfar, were told to provide for their own safety.

Edward himself, advanced into central and northern Scotland in pursuit of King John. Stirling Castle, which guarded the vital passage across the River Forth was deserted , well almost, according to the history of some chroniclers there was a janitor who stayed behind to hand the keys to the English. John reached Perth on 21st June, where he received messages from Edward asking for peace.

John Balliol, in surrendering, submitted himself to a humiliation at the hands of The English King. At Kincardine Castle on 2nd July he confessed to rebellion and prayed for forgiveness. Five days later in the kirkyard of Stracathro he abandoned the treaty with the French. The final humiliation came at Montrose on 8th July. Dressed for the occasion John was ceremoniously stripped of the vestments of royalty. Antony Bek, the Bishop of Durham, ripped the red and gold arms of Scotland from his surcoat, thus bequeathing to history the nickname Toom Tabard (empty coat) by which John has been known to generations of Scottish schoolchildren, well those of them goy some Scottish history taught to them. John Balliol and his son Edward were sent south into captivity. Soon after, the English king followed, carrying in his train the Stone of Scone and other relics of Scottish nationhood.

Scotland was more or less in the hands of Longshanks army, and by all accounts, with the exception of Berwick, with little bloodshed, soon after The Comyns, The Bruce's and other Scottish nobles would be free again and given lands and their titles back, after swearing allegiance to the English King, but murmurs of discontent were beginning and the emergence of a rebellion were starting, with the often overlooked Andrew de Moray in the north, and from William Wallace in the south.

Much more detail on all this can be found here https://weaponsandwarfare.com/2017/01/08/dunbar-1296/