#this gold castle STINKS

[daezedglownut]

@l1zardl1ps Sylvando energy lmfaoooo

[fourmoony]

Hi! I don’t know if you’re taking requests right now but your writing is so beautiful and genuinely so captivating!

I was hoping for a possible angst / fluff kinda fic! With Remus x reader

Starting off how the two met in school and how they became friends so fast + the rest of the group…going onto how the two began dating in their 3-4th year at school…onto when they left school into a proposal and marriage.

Then when the war begins again is when the angst slips in..maybe how Remus finds reader under some rocks or even them protecting Remus..for them both to be together at the end with their hands holding and it’s all angsty!

If this isn’t your cup of tea that totally okay! <33

Hi lovely!! Thank you so much for requesting!!

this is heavy on the angst, little on the fluff, hope that's okay!!

remus lupin x reader | masterlist - 1.9k words

from the vaults, since writing gives me the heebies rn

cw - death

Remus remembers the day he met you; your pristine, fresh pressed Hogwarts robes, and your swotty attitude, charging down the Express like a tyrant, wielding confidence he sorely lacked. You'd been on the hunt for whoever set off the stink bomb just outside the carriage you were in (it was James, showing off to Sirius, their friendship quickly and surely bonded together with the residual smoke of that foul little rock). Remus remembers you, often, that way. Always ready to take responsibility - or force it onto others, for their actions - and do what you believed to be right.

He knew in that exact moment, with the soundtrack of James and Sirius' hysterical laughter, the smell of pure, unbridled dung lingering in the air, that you were the bravest person he'd ever known, that when the sorting hat was sat atop your head mere hours later, there'd be no pause, no debate, you were Gryffindor through and through.

The only thing Remus hadn't accounted for, was that he, too would be placed in Gryffindor - with his nauseous stomach, shaking hands, and scars that made him feel small, rodent like, a glint of gold in the window that catches the eye long enough to peak interest, but amounts to nothing worthy of attention; rather, disgust.

Remus still sees a lot of that up-tight, bossy attitude in you, now. But more than anything, your bravery prevails. The war has taken a lot from you, from everyone he holds dearest. The first time, it was hard. Bearable, because James and Lily were alive, because Sirius wasn't locked up and losing his mind in Azkaban. There was hope, because they had Harry, and nothing was going to happen to any of them because everyone had to live to see Harry grow up.

Fools. The lot of them had been fools, he realises. This time, it's different, harder. There are no friends, no family left. It's you, and it's Remus. It breaks Remus' old, cobwebbed heart to see everything that has been taken from you both. The innocence, the joy. All that's left of you, these days, is bravery. Bravery that shines so bright, like a leading light, bravery that holds him together on the bad days, bravery that pulls sad, scared Remus out of his cocoon of dread and fear, forces him into the light. You've always been good at that - at love, at protecting the people whom you love.

It's what you do. They hadn't known it at the time - and really, how could they have? - but James and Sirius set off a stink bomb outside the carriage of a young muggle-born girl, terrified of her new school, her future, what this change would do to her. The stink bomb went off and Mary MacDonald had dissolved into hysterical tears. From the moment you came into Remus' life, you've been a protector. Your heart is your leading light, your entire being, a soul so pure it'd make angels weep.

He shouldn't be surprised. Really. The minute it the south wall of the castle blows up, Remus should know the lengths you'll go to. The things you will do to make sure the people you love are safe.

There's dust and rubble everywhere, clouding his vision, choking him until he can't breathe, and in the minute before the wall crumbles around you, your body taking ninety percent of the blast, hands fast in pushing Remus so hard he has no choice but to stumble back, away, in a daze, he sees your eyes. They're calm. So calm it's unnerving. He knows everything that people will say you never got the chance to tell him. He's known since he was sixteen everything you feel for him, the love, the gratitude, the admiration.

You've had a life together. Not all of it has been good - war and death, losses and pain so unimaginable Remus wonders how either of you ever got through it. But the quiet moments, the happy moments, not marred by battle, or grave stones, weeping, or bone crushing sorrow. The moments where all that mattered was both of you, the love, the happiness; the joy Remus felt with you is nothing he ever thought he'd get to experience, would ever deserve.

He knows. He knows you love him, he knows you're okay with the choice you've just made. But he's surprised.

In all the years you've spent together - all the funerals you've attended together, planned together - he always thought that when the time came, you'd both go together. Asleep, old and decrepit. Something peaceful, after the life you'd shared.

But the blood is still thrumming in his veins, the cogs in his brains till whirring as he stares at the pile of rubble that's fallen around you. He thinks, rather foolishly, and only for a second, that you may have survived. He thinks your sheer will and determination could still be pulsing in your heart, the bravery you wear so honestly wrapped around you like a coat of armour. But the bond that ties you to him, the mating bond, the marriage bond - Remus has never known which is which, it's all an overwhelming amount of love, to him - pulls taught. It snaps, like wisps of smoke between you, and Remus breaks with it.

He breaks so fast and so hard that the world crumbles around him and he loses track of where he is, what he's fighting for. It comes out of nowhere, a flash of light, of bright green light and Remus is grateful to be spared of the agony, because it's barely been two minutes and he had already felt like he was dying, anyway. The pain is nothing, in comparison to losing you, to live in a world without your laugh, your smile, your hard-headed attitude. He couldn't have done it, and so he feels peace as he crumples to a heap on the ground.

Maybe a silly part of him thought that you'd be waiting at the other end. In a way, you are. But, also, you're not. Because he's watching you as you charge down the Astronomy Tower stairs, the fourteen-year-old version of himself hot on your heels. He remembers this like it was yesterday. He'd kept his secret from you so well until that year, when the growth spurt started and the wolf got bigger and the scars ran deeper, in more noticeable places. The one that ran across his face.

You'd been horrified, he remembers. The look of unbridled fury as you demanded to know who on earth had done such a thing. You were never horrified of him. No. Just the mere idea that someone had hurt him, and it made Remus feel loved, protected. You made him feel loved and protected.

He watches as you reach the bottom of the steps, twirling to face him with your signature unimpressed scowl. He feels fondness like a ball of sunlight in his chest, mouthing the words 'you're a dirty liar, Remus Lupin!' along with you, the sound of your posh swotty accent ringing in his ears.

He'd went back to his dorm that night and made the decision to tell you, came up with a plan, the easiest way to break it to you. You arrived at his door two hours later, half way through his idea list, and told him you'd figured it out. He knew then that he loved you. For all you were bossy and uptight, he loved you, your impatience, your brain, your heart. Remus was in love.

You fade from his view and Remus steps forwards as though he might be able to grab you, keep you there. But the sound of your voice ringing out turns him on the spot, and you're by the black lake, picking daisies with Sirius to make daisy chains. The memories come flooding through, reliving his life through the good moments and the bad. He watches you both fight, cry, makeup. Getting together was a long, painful process, too many miscommunications, missed opportunities. You never did nail down how to express any feelings other than anger and frustration.

But the moment he had you, Remus never let go.

He watches the memories flash by, remembers every one with a heart so full it could burst. A beautiful life, is what he had. Painful, marred by coldness and death and a beast in his heart that he could never tame. But it was beautiful, and it was full of laughter and love, and joy because he had you.

There's your first kiss, heated and mid argument - because back then, Remus had to rile you up enough to snap just to get a lick of emotion from you. You were brave in many ways. Emotions were not one of them. All the milestones are there, flitting past faster than Remus would like. The end of O.W.L. exams, the party that followed, the frantic, unpracticed hands that flitted over each other's bodies in a secluded hallway that night. Summers at the Potter Estate, lounging in the meadows by the cool stream, fires and empty cans of cider, laughing until his bones hurt and his eyes shone with tears.

Your first flat, old and dingy, but you'd danced that first night in the kitchen for so long that the broken heater didn't matter. You'd made it a home.

The day Remus proposed, terrified out of his bloody mind, shaking so hard he dropped the ring box and you'd yelped as the silver banded ring went flying. He saved for years for that ring. You'd said yes, tears of joy and love and elation at spending the rest of your life with him, and spent the next hour looking for the ring in the grass with the help of Padfoot.

You walking down the aisle, a vision of pure beauty, that signature smile you reserved only for Remus, who was waiting at the end wondering what on earth he ever did to deserve you.

Snippets of a life well-spent fly past in a hurry, the blink of an eye, and Remus begins to feel melancholy. The rest of eternity as a conscious soul, reliving all of his best memories, but missing you still. He wonders if you feel the same, if you're watching the best parts of your life fly by, wishing there was more time, more words, more everything.

"We wasted so much time forgetting what life was like, then." Your voice is soft, wistful.

Remus turns and you're there, lips pressed in a thin line, looking very much like you're ready to scald him for following you this far. But Remus Lupin decided a long time ago that he'd follow you to the ends of the earth, so what is death, to that?

"I never forgot. It just got hard to get back to that, I suppose." He wants to reach out and touch you, see if you're real, or a figment of his imagination.

You hum in pensive agreement, "I was always happy with you. You know that, don't you."

How could he ever doubt it? "Down to my soul."

That smile. That mischievous, knowing, loving smile that Remus knows like the skin and bone of his body. Your hand extends to him, as real as the day he took yours in his, and promised to love you until death parted you both. Your chin jerks to the white plane ahead, Remus has no idea how far it stretches or where it goes, but he follows you, anyway, hand in yours.

"Everyone's waiting for us." You tell him.

So, Remus follows you home.

[marthawrites]

The Post-Flying Gift

Daemon Targaryen x Rhaenyra Targaryen x fem reader

Can be read as a one shot but reads best to pt 3 to "Whore, Pet, Lover"

Word count: 2.2k+

About: A rare fully sunny day beckons Daemon and Rhaenyra to fly their dragons above Dragonstone for hours. You are more than happy to watch them in flight. When they return, their dragonblood runs hot.

Includes: Continued slice of life plot, canon incest (this is canon Daemon and Rhaenyra), f/f, pet play undertones, dumbification understones, pussy eating, vaginal fingering, Daemon is stealthy, m/f, implied dick sucking, implied facefucking, aftercare

Note: Hello lovely reader! Apparently it's been nearly a year since I wrote "the gift that keeps giving". WILD. I definitely wanted to revisit this little mini series because my Daemyra brainrot is always real. As always, reader is non-descript. Please, enjoy! ♥

-

A warm sun glinted off Caraxes’ crimson body as he flew above the ocean of Blackwater Bay with Daemon at his reins. So red, and so swift was he against the blue sky, that he appeared to rend the sky with each passing by. Chasing and playing with the Blood-Wyrm was Rhaenyra upon the yellow-scaled Syrax who shone like burnished gold in the sunshine. They’d been flying at least two hours now–perhaps longer.

You had a perfect view of the Black Queen and her Prince Consort from where you stood upon their private balcony overlooking all of Dragonmount. Castle Dragonstone was as much your home now as your previous home had been. You were a birthday gift for the Queen. Deemed “the prettiest whore in all of Westeros” by Daemon Targareyn. A whore you were, then, and now, their little pet. They’ve never treated you badly. You’d never given them a reason to. Oftentimes in the sweet afterglow of your shared pleasures you daresay you are their lover: more than a whore and more than a pet.

Turning inside, you tidied their martial chambers and made sure to have clothes laid out for them for when they return from dragon riding. They both had special garb to fly in. Dragon smell was a very distinct thing, and in your experience even the most skilled servants had a hard time fully ridding the stink. A platter of herb roasted fish, tart berries, and salted root vegetables also sat awaiting their return. 

With a goblet of wine in hand, you returned to the balcony to watch them in flight. Scanning all over where your eyes could see–and double checking–you didn’t see, or hear, them anywhere. They might finally be done, you thought, and a smile twinkled up to your eyes.

A windswept Rhaenyra was the first to return. Silver strands of hair fell from her once neat braid giving her a wonderfully disheveled appearance. “Your Grace!” You said excitedly.

Rhaenyra grinned, beginning to take her leather riding gloves off. Her eyes were bright and wild. “Hello sweet love.” Flight had a way of elating her like none else could. Her riding garb was a mixture of wool and leather, both ash in color, and embellished with black dragonscales. Silver accents paled only in comparison to red gems highlighting the whole set up: coat, tunic, gloves, pants, boots. Aside from her rich Targaryen gowns, this was her favorite attire. “Did you enjoy watching my husband and I fly together?”

“Always! I could watch you both all day from the balcony.”

Matching Rhaenyra’s eyes, a wild smile took over the rest of her features; something dark and mischievous alike. A challenge and a dare. Proud and amused. “Out of all the gifts my husband has ever gotten me… you are my favorite. By far. My darling little pet,” she cooed as she opened the front of her coat and began unbuckling her belt. She sat in a chair and bent to work the lacings of her boots loose. Kicking them off, she sighed contentedly. “Mayhaps one day I will take you asaddle with me on Syrax. Would you like that?”

If watching your Queen begin to undress didn’t get your blood pumping, then her suggestion of flight surely did. “You mean it?” You asked, half dumbfounded by her proposal. “I would love nothing more!”

Her legs were bare, now, and she tossed her coat over to a nearby chair. The only thing she wore was her linen undershirt and smallclothes. She leaned back comfortably against the chair, legs outstretched and crossed at the ankle, and  she beckoned you over with one hand. “Come,” she said with a tilt of her head.

The sly little smirk upon her mouth had your belly doing flips as you walked to her. She was so lovely, and radiant, and tension sparked in the air between you two as you stepped between her legs. “Shall I redo your braid?” You asked softly, doing your best to keep your eagerness at a reasonable level. You really didn’t want to seem completely pathetic. Though, Rhaenerya knew how pathetic you could get for both her and Daemon; the glint of her expression told you she noted your anxious yearning.

Leaning up and forward, she gently cupped your face between her warm palms. With fluttering lids she pressed her lips to yours. Soft. Devious. “Not yet,” she whispered between sensuous kisses. “I don’t think that’s what you’re really interested in right now, is it?” 

Between Rhaenyra and Daemon, you didn’t know which one enjoyed making you blush more. She could see right through you. And, assumedly due to the thrill of flying, she wasn’t shy of putting you right on the spot. You shook your head and sighed blissfully against all of her kisses. You could kiss her until your lips were chapped and still kiss her more. “Not really…”

Her laugh was warm honey dripping down your spine. “I didn’t think so. Good girl for being honest about it.” Once again she leaned back against the chair as she looked at you with pride. But, the darkness of lust shadowed her features. “Flying is truly magnificent. It makes me feel… powerful. Invincible. And free.” As she spoke, one hand curled into your hair and began to gently urge you down. “It makes me feel good,” she added, raspy. “Be my good pet and keep making me feel good.”

Any thoughts you might have had going on in your brain were quickly shut down upon Rhaenyra’s request. You kept your eyes on her and shuddered with delight. You followed her downward push until you happily knelt right there in front of her–right between her parted legs. You pressed both hands up her thighs while planting kisses all along the smooth insides. “I love making you feel good,” you said to her, and she answered with a curl of her fingers inside your hair. You smiled; thoughts already dissipating from your brain.

“Such a pretty, sweet thing looking up at me like that,” Rhaenyra cooed approvingly. She shifted her hips slightly, just enough to make your ministrations easier.

The Black Queen smelled like a dragon. On anyone else you’d hate the sharpness of it. The stink. But on her? Somehow, it was perfect. Between the salty sea air on her skin, unclouded sun rays in her hair, and saddle leather where you knelt, she was the Dragon Queen. Tension rolled through your body until it left the buzz of excitement behind in each place it lingered. You were humming from the inside out. Purring. Rhaenyra’s pretty pet. Leaning down, you sat on all fours in front of her, now. You kissed her covered cunt where you knew her clit was.

The softest of a sigh left Rhaenyra’s mouth. “Tease me any longer and I’ll forbid you from watching us for the next fortnight,” she threatened.

“Yes, your Grace,” you simpered. Curling your fingers beneath the waist of her smallclothes, you pulled them fully down and off. Now there was nothing stopping you from what you both wanted. You repeated those same kisses over her pearl; each longer, softer, your lips parting more and more with each until you tasted her on your tongue. 

“There you are,” she rasped. Looking down at you she smirked triumphantly. She ran her fingers through your hair and said, “keep going. Keep making me feel good.” 

A whine broke from you and your tongue slid up through the fullness of Rhaenyra’s slit. When you saw how her head tipped back in bliss, your own head went brainless–focused now only on her pleasure. You lapped, and circled, and gently sucked, over and over again, your whole attention solely on her and her pleasure. Each of her whines, moans, and inhales of breath sent goosebumps pebbling atop your skin.

Make her feel good. Make her feel good. Make her feel good.

You loved the way she tasted. You loved the way she reacted to you. You loved the way she idly stroked through your hair, or pulled it, or held onto your ears. She was never shy in her passions, and neither were you. 

You lavished her clit until your jaw ached, but you never let it stop you. Rhaenyra’s sounds of pleasure were coming quicker now, sharper, and you knew she was getting close. It was then you delicately slipped a finger into her and began to work her from the inside, too.

“More,” she half stammered.

You added a second and moaned against her. It was only then that you realized how wet you were. How utterly soaked and needy your own cunt was. It clenched around nothing, your bud practically throbbing, your thighs pressing together to give you some minor relief from the pent up tension knotting in your belly. Yet never once did your own hand wander to that incredibly yearning space between your thighs. Your eyes were rolled closed. Only Rhaenyra’s building climax mattered. 

More. More. More.

She shuddered when she came undone around your fingers and upon your mouth. Her orgasm was sweet against your tongue; you dripped with self-satisfaction. It continued to roll through her in waves until the aftershocks had her panting softly. But, even still, you gently licked over all of her. Not enough to overstimulate her, but enough to keep her peak going as long as it could. You moaned softly all throughout; purring.

So lost in bliss, and so focused on your Queen, you hadn’t noticed anything else. You didn’t hear the door open or close. Never did you hear the soft scruff of leather on stone. Nor did you take note of a presence behind you. It was only when you felt fingers pressing into you that you paused to think. Those weren’t your fingers. No. They were too big and felt entirely different than your own. You gasped; desperate. Looking over your shoulder you nearly crumbled.

“Valzȳrys” husband, Rhaenyra whispered with half-lidded eyes.

“Ābrazȳrys” wife, he answered. “You two are having all the fun. Have you any idea how fucking wet your little pet is right now?” As if to make a point, Daemon worked his fingers just right to make you squelch. It was borderline obscene.

Your face was hot and for a moment you thought you’d come right then and there. Your spine dipped lower, presenting yourself to him as he knelt behind you.

“Oh… and how pretty she moans.” Daemon crooned, easily sliding two fingers in and out of you at the most devastatingly wonderful pace. “Did she make you feel good?” He asked Rhaenyra, continuing to finger fuck you from behind.

Rhaenyra grinned wide and smiled breathlessly. “Very.”

“That's our girl.”

You shamelessly pushed back against his hand. You were so slick he could have easily slipped a third in. Despite how well you did, however, you didn’t want to seem greedy, and so you took all that you could from those two fingers. 

“Shall I let her come, or do you wish to see her tears first, my Queen?” 

Dread dropped in your stomach because you knew exactly what he meant by that. Rhaenyra fucking loved to watch Daemon edge you until you were crying and begging for release. It was one of the darker games they liked to play with you. If at any time you wanted the game to stop–everyone knew–all you had to do was ask. Yet, never once had you brought the edging to an early end. As much as you hated it, you also fucking loved it. And so did Daemon. 

Rhaenyra shook her head, still basking in the afterglow of climax. “She did extremely well today. Let her come as she pleases.”

That’s all Daemon needed to hear. He indeed pressed a third into you and gave you exactly what he knew you liked. The tension in your belly sunk deeper, and wound tighter, and had you blabbering near gibberish until it snapped. Liquid warmth filled all of your limbs. Storm static clung to each of your nerves. Your pulse pounded in your fingertips. The force of your peak had you collapse forward until your cheek lay flat on the rug-covered stone floor. You panted, dizzy. 

Daemon gave your backside an approving smack. “A very good girl.”

You smiled softly at both of them relishing in the adoration they had for you, and you had for them. Leaning back up, you gently laid in Rhaenyra’s lap and allowed your eyes to close for a few moments. It wasn’t until Daemon called you that you woke. How long had you dozed off?

“Hm?” You asked.

“Crawl to me,” he said from where he sat in a chair, nude from the waist down with his doublet open. He was already hard.

You didn’t have to be asked twice.

You crawled to him and knelt between his thighs, looking up at him sweetly, obediently.

“Now it’s your Queen’s turn to watch. You know how much she likes watching. I don’t have to edge you to make tears fall from those pretty lashes, hm?”

Shaking your head with a tiny smirk, you knew exactly what he meant. With the sweetness of Rhaenyra’s climax still on your tongue, you took the Rogue Prince deep into your throat. You let him fuck your mouth how he wanted to until tears and saliva smeared your face, and and his seed overwhelmed the taste of your Queen.

It was in the sweet afterglow of these pleasures, where you all laughed, drank wine, and shared meals, that you truly felt like their lover.

-

Thank you so much for reading! If you enjoyed, please consider a follow, and/or reblog, and/or letting me know as it all makes me vvvery happy! ♥

I am redoing my taglist! If you wish to be tagged in any of the fics I write and share (main, aemond, daemon, rhaenyra, harwin, daemyra) PLEASE let me know! Thank you! ♥

Masterlist

[ghost9whore]

Lightning’s Reign and Thunder’s Roar VI

Male oc x house of the dragon

This one’s for you @jamieclearwater2314

His soft mews were enough to make any man lose his head.

The way his body moved under mine made heart race.

The loss of him would start a war

(Rhaenys’ P.O.V)

“It’s the King’s tournament for his heir and your father is on the king’s small council.” I told my youngest son

“I understand that but why do I have to go?” My son asked back

“It’s rude for you not to go and you’ll be able to see your cousin Rhaenyra” I countered

“No that’s not what I mean it’s just, Queen Aemma has had 4 pregnancies in the past year every one of them has died” Caserys remarked

“Sigh I know but we still have to go for your father and the king.” I finally spoke

That seemed to get through my youngest’s head. He agreed to go but however became excited for it when he learned Daemon would be coming as well.

The Next Day

I decided to accompany my husband on the boat instead of riding Meleys and racing Caserys on Rayraxs. Caserys had struggled in taming his dragon but, one day it seemed like they had clicked. Rayraxs listened to Caserys and Caserys only. My son had still refused to hold his dragon in the dragon pit but didn’t ask my husband and I to make a space for him. They flew together with a speed that is unmatched. Meleys and I were once known as the fastest but upon inspection at my son we were quickly outmatched.

(Caserys’ P.O.V)

King’s Landing hasn’t changed it still has the same stink it always does. The smell of wine and sex an unforgiving scent. I wished to ride on my dragon however Rayraxs had to stay on the far side of the kingdom as to not frighten the people and because I still refused to hold him in the dragon pit.

I was walking around the halls of the King’s Castle when I stumbled upon my cousin Rhaenyra. She hadn’t seem to notice me. She was lost walking away from her mother’s room. I swiftly walked up behind her to spook her and make my presence known.

“Hello dear cousin” I started

“Hello Caserys you startled me” she responded

I linked my arm under hers as we continued to walk.

“How are you doing cousin?” I asked her

“I’m well excited for the tournament” she replied

“Haha I mean with your mothers pregnancy. You will not be the only child anymore” I continued

“I’m happy that my father will finally have his son and I hope that my mother doesn’t have to continue having children.” she confessed

Her confession did startle me. Normally it would be considered treasonous for someone to wish the queen would stop having children and it’s uncouth for the princess to admit that. She as well seemed startled.

“I’m sorry I don’t know why I told you that please don’t tell-“

“Rhaenyra it’s ok I won’t tell anyone” I cut her off comforting her

Rhaenyra’s face soften at my statement. She thanked me and told me she had to go as she was late for her father’s meeting. I didn’t believe we were close enough to share things like that. So why did she tell me that?

(Daemon’s P.O.V)

Walking up the steps of the Castle of King’s Landing feels much better knowing the gold cloaks and I made this city much safer and that this castle would one day be mine.

Entering the throne room I see my prize. What everything I have done has been for, my seat, my power. The Iron Throne. Sitting on this throne feels even better I connect to the seat as if it was made for me. Reveling in my throne I’m interrupted as my niece walks in.

“What are you doing uncle?” she asks me in High Velaryon

“Sitting” I chuckle responding back in Velaryon

(Caserys’ P.O.V)

The cliff near the back of the king’s castle were the only space big enough that could hold Rayraxs as the dragon pit wasn’t a suitable option and he desired to be close to me. I had told him to stay yet if I was in danger he would destroy the entire city trying to look for me. My mother instructed me to greet my father and the king after their small council meeting. Then, after I was to ready myself for the heir’s tournament my mother said that the king was never truly a dragon rider so dragon back wasn’t his favorite scent.

Getting closer to the small council room I hear speaking it’s coming from the council room. I investigate the sound to find a small crack in the wall near the room. This crack is not guarded and is secluded enough that no one could see me here. I begin to listen to the conversation so that I’m able to hear

“Queen Aemma must have this child, If the realm is left to Daemon it will devolve into madness.”

“Daemon is the king’s heir and until this child comes he will stay the king’s heir”

“I can offer a different solution for a different heir.” This voice I recognized as my father

“Corlys you would have your wife as the heir?”

“Rhaenys was stepped over but has produced two male heirs. The throne should go through us.” My father responded to the man

“Enough because you sit as the King’s table does not make you his equal. You forgot yourself Corlys.”

“Your son Caserys would make a better whore than king” another man said

That statement about me was something I had heard before as well as my father. However, that still didn’t hold his anger I could hear him stand up and slam his hands on the table as he stood up.

“Silence do not speak ill of Lord Corlys’ son. My son will be born soon and I will not hear anymore of this until he is” The voice spoke that I recognized as King Viserys

The meeting was coming to an end I needed to leave to be able to greet my father and the king. I slipped out of the crack and walked a few steps down before walking back to see my father exiting the small council room. He looked a little disturbed his hand reached for my arm as he pulled me away before anyone else could see me.

“What are you doing here?” He asked me angrily as looked around

“I had to come to greet you and the King” I told him

“Not here you can greet the King at the tournament” he spoke to me

I could tell he was angry at the the man would made the whore comment at me but I didn’t want to bring it up as he would be angrier that I was listening. I couldn’t help but shake the feeling that the man was right.

I would make a better whore than anything…

The tournament felt as a cover. That their was an underlying issue that wasn’t being spoken about. King Viserys had left halfway. The first tournament player has asked for my mother’s blessing calling her the queen who never was a restraining title. Daemon had asked for Rhaenyra’s friend Alicent’s favor which felt like he was mocking me and the last player named Criston Cole had asked for Rhaenyra’s favor. In the end Criston Cole had won the tournament but the news spread of Queen Aemma’s death and suddenly no one could care for the tournament. Rhaenyra, Alicent, and Daemon had all left my parents as well.

The news was found out to be true. Queen Aemma and her son Prince Baelon had passed away. Their funeral were to take place in the morning. How quickly this joyous day has turned sad. Rayraxs had been staying away as he wouldn’t stay in dragon pit but wasn’t allowed free reign. The funeral was to be as expected. Rhaenyra seemed more angry at her father than mournful with him.

Daemon spooked up behind me.

“Such a tragic what happened to the King’s Heir” he spoke in a whispered manner but I felt the bits of malice in his voice.

He spoke and walked away before I could response to him walking towards Rhaenyra. His expression changed and softened when he spoke to Rhaenyra it seems his words continued to fuel her anger towards her father. Syrax was waiting on top of a rock near Queen Aemma and Prince Baelon’s bodies. Rhaenyra looked to her father to say the word but he was too choked up. That seemed to anger her more and she spoke the command words instead of her father.

“Dracarys” she said with tears in her eyes.

And with the fire went King Viserys’ heir

The whole castle was in mourning of the Queen and Prince’s death or so I thought.

I heard that Daemon rented out an entire whore house in the street of silk to celebrate his new throne. His entire city watch in toe.

Listening to my father speak about Daemon’s actions made me wonder how the King reacted. It didn’t take long before I learned that Daemon had been disowned as heir. He had no heir so my father told me that Otto Hightower had recommended another person. My father told me this because she was my friend and cousin. He felt that our houses should have been united and we should keep the Targaryen’s close.

The King’s heir is

Rhaenyra Targaryen

A/N: it’s been a while and I’ve been very busy with finals but now it’s over and I have something else in store that I’m excited to share

[delightingintragedy]

Sun Correspondences

From Christian Astrology by William Lilly

(It is mostly word for word. I tried to format it to fit into a nice correspondence list, but the information itself is untouched.)

Zodiac: Rules Leo. Detriment in Aquarius, Exalted in Aries, Fall in Libra.

Nature: Naturally Hot, Dry, but more temperate than Mars, is a Masculine, Diurnal Planet, Equivalent, if well dignified to a Fortune.

Profession: Kings, Princes, Emperors, & Dukes, Marquesses, Earls, Barons, Lieutenants, Deputy-Lieutenants of Counties, Magistrates, Gentlemen in general, Courtiers, desirers of Honour and preferment, Justices of Peace, Majors, High-Sheriffs, High-Constables, great Huntsmen, Stewards of Noblemen's houses, the principal Magistrate of any City, Town, Castle or Country Village; yea, thought a petty Constable, where no better, or greater Officer is; Goldsmiths, Braziers, Pewterers, Coppersmiths, Minters of Money.

Sicknesses: Pimple in the Face, Palpitation or Trembling, or any Diseases of the Brain or Heart, Tympanies, Infirmities of the Eyes, Cramps, sudden swoonings, Diseases of the Mouth, and stinking Breaths, Catarrhs, rotten Fevers; principally in man he governs the Heart, the Brain and right Eye, and vital Spirit, in Women the left Eye.

Colours: Yellow, the colour of Gold, the Scarlet or clear Red, some say Purple.

Savours: A mixture of Sour and Sweet together, or the Aromatical flavour, being a little Bitter and Stiptical, but withal Confortative and a little sharp.

Herbs: Those Plants which are subject to the Sun do smell pleasantly, are of good savour, their Flowers are yellow or reddish, are in growth of Majestic form, they love open and Sunshine places, their principal Virtue is to strengthen the Heart, and comfort the Vitals, to clear the Eyesight, resist Poison, or to dissolve any Witchery, or Malignant Planetary Influences; and they are Saffron, the Laurel, the Pomecitron, the Vine, Enula Campana, Saint John's Wort, Amber, Musk, Ginger, Herbgrace, Balm, Marigold, Rosemary, Rosa solis, Cinnamon, Celandine, Eyebright, Peony, Barley, Cinquefoil, Spikenard, Lignum Aloes, Arsenic.

Trees: Ash tree, Palm, Laurel tree, the Myrrh tree, Frankincense, the Cane tree or plant, the Cedar, Heletrepion, the Orange and Lemon tree.

Beasts: The Lion, the Horse, the Ram, the Crocodile, the Bull, Goat, Nightworms or Glowworms.

Fishes: The Sea Calf or Sea Fox, the Crabfish, the Starfish.

Birds: The Eagle, the Cock, the Phoenix, Nightingale, Peacock, the Swan, the Buzzard, the fly Cantharis, the Goshawk.

Places: Houses, Courts of Princes, Palaces, Theatres, all magnificent Structures being clear and decent, Halls, Dining Rooms.

Minerals: Gold

Stones: The Hyacinth, Chrysolite, Adamant, Carbuncle, the Etites stone found in Eagle's nests, the Pantaure, if such a stone be the Ruby.

Weather: He produces weather according to the season; in the Spring gentle moistening Showers; in the Summer heat in extremity if with Mars; in Autumn mists; in Winter small Rain.

Winds: Eastern Winds

Element: Fire

Angel: Michael

Planetary Alliances: His Friends are all of the Planets except Saturn, who is his Enemy.

Week Day: Sunday

Correspondence posts for the other planets: [Moon] [Mercury] [Venus] [Mars] [Jupiter] [Saturn]

[studentinpursuitofclouds]

"Dumb question"

A little one-shot where Julian thought he connected the dots, but he didn't connect crap. With Farmer Miranda! @amishasp

Got inspired by this art and comment about Miranda and Isaac. Also this OST will definitely play when Julian being dummy with his questions 😆

_____________________________

For some, autumn is not a very desirable season, as it brings dampness, rain and melancholy and sadness about the past warm summer days. Others welcome the cooler weather with open arms, rejoice in the nature that has painted the trees in all shades of red, orange and gold, enjoy warming drinks and show off their stylish seasonal outfits.

For farmers, autumn always means hard work and a bountiful harvest.

Miranda and Julian wasted no time picking apples from the trees they had planted a year ago in the small dugout that used to serve Pelican Town residents as a community garden. Lewis offered both farmers a small plot of land with the hope that they would transform the overgrown, unattractive dugout into something that would at least not be an eyesore. Miranda had suggested to her friend that they plant some apple trees, so that they could pick sweet fruit all autumn long. The blond boy had agreed at immediately - apples were his favourite fruit. Miranda had slightly different plans for the apples...

The juicy, ruby-red, sweet fruit fell from the branches as soon as the two farmers started shaking the trees. After putting all the apples in the large baskets, Miranda took one of them, washed the dirt in a barrel of water nearby, and with a knife cut off one part of the apple, dividing it into two small pieces. She held one out to Julian, to which he gratefully put the apple in his mouth immediately, chewing slowly.

"Mmmmm... Sweet as honey. Great harvest," Julian said happily, wiping the apple juice from his lips.

"June's sure to love it..." Miranda realised she'd said it out loud, and at Julian's questioning look, pointed the knife she'd just used to cut the apple in his direction. "You heard nothing." Julian smiled slyly, and showed with a gesture of his hand a "zipping" on his lips, promising that he would take that secret to his grave.

The two farmers, with baskets full of apples, strolled towards home, sharing along the way who would do what they would do next with the large crop of sweet autumn fruits.

"I only recently sold a lot of pumpkins, so I'm thinking of keeping the apples for myself. Jam, cider, pies, that sort of thing," Julian retorted, already tasting homemade apple & cinnamon pie.

"I'll sell most of it after all. Only keep some fruits for... my own use," Miranda blushed a little, and a plan was already in her head about a "chance" meeting with a pianist who really liked apples...

They didn't immediately notice Isaac and Lance, the adventurers from Castle Village, walk past them, not far from the Saloon. The pink-haired man greeted the two colleagues with a polite nod, when all Julian and Miranda heard from the adventurer with the scar was a short snort. The girl turned around and wanted to shout something not too polite to Isaac, only Julian stoped her, explaining that it wasn't worth it.

"I didn't think that prick would annoy me any more than Mr. 'I'll come to your place at the earliest possible hour and bang on the door'. Who the heck does Isaac think he is," the girl flicked her long curls off her shoulder a little irritably. She was itching to point the middle finger at the adventurers.

"Trust me, he's like that to everyone," Julian said, then added: "Heh, you two look alike in some ways, by the way. Both a little explosive and impatient."

Miranda laughed.

"Bullshit." With her free hand, she took an apple from her basket and began eating it. Julian understood the sign, and the two farmers continued on their way in silence.

The thought, however, did not leave the young man. Isaac and Miranda had very similar looks, and from the 'stink eye' Miranda and Isaac gave Lance...

"Say, do you happen to have any relatives from Castle Village?"

Miranda tossed the apple stump into the nearest trash bin, then gave Julian a small but painful flick on the nose to stop her friend from asking stupid questions.

"Don't be ridiculous," Miranda said, quickening her step slightly as Julian stood rubbing his poor nose. He grabbed his basket and ran after his friend, trying not to get left behind.

[francesminos-tt]

greens!wins au

Jacaerys is sent to the Wall and becomes a black cloak, Lucerys is sent to OldTown, and Joffrey becomes Daeron's sworn protector.

Daemon is apparently dead and Alicent begged Aegon to have Rhaenyra and her children sent to a faraway place, making her swear that she would not return to kings landing

Or Joffrey becomes "protected" in OldTown?! 👀

You can decide!

But the point is, Joffrey hates the greens but he swore to his mother to be loyal and not do anything stupid.

And so he grows up, he's not Daeron Targaryen's friend, he's a prisoner.

but anyway they fuck hehe daeron is an idiot sometimes but he has a crush on the boy joff! he hates joff's mocking laugh when daeron asks him to stay after a night of sex, he hates knowing he's not the only one joff fucks, he hates how quick joff is to lash out with cruel words, he hates that joff knows how much daeron wants him but doesn't give a shit.

daeron is an asshole sometimes and makes joff do things just because he has the power! most of the time it's because he's a jealous idiot lol

you can write something about them plss 🥺☹️ thank you in advance:)

Joffrey Rivers was not a knight, though he acted like one, fought like one, spoke like one, and dressed like one. He was only a squire of Daeron the Daring, a heroic knight who earned his name by bravery and valor in battle. Daeron was also a prince, while Joffrey was officially declared a bastard and stripped of all titles and privileges. He was kept in King’s Landing as a prisoner, while his brothers, also declared bastards, were sent to the Wall and Old Town respectively. Jacaerys was made to join the Night Watch, and Lucerys was sent to study in the Citadel. Joffrey was made Daeron’s squire, and was to live under his uncle’s supervision.

The lords and smallfolks alike praised for King Aegon’s mercy towards his half sister and her unholy bastards. Rhaenyra was in exile, never to set foot in King’s Landing again. His mother and his older brothers were all gone, so it was on Joffrey to look after his younger brothers, Aegon and Viserys, who were the King’s wards.

Joffrey cleaned the horse dungs and began to wash the steed for Daeron. It was not his job as a squire to prepare the horses, but Daeron made him do it as a punishment for Joffrey ‘dishonorable behavior’.

Hypocrite. Joffrey cursed silently as he brushed the white horse. The reason why he had to so the stable boy’s job was because Daeron caught him kissing the stable boy, and made a fuss about it.

If you like stables so much, you can stay in here and tend to my horse. Daeron said after he dismissed the stable boy. The poor lad was immediately thrown out of the castle with nothing but a gold dragon and the lingering feeling of Joffrey’s lips.

Joffrey didn’t like the stable boy much. He was just bored and the boy was conveniently there. Not many people could resist Joffrey’s charming smile and teasing touches. Joffrey had grown up beautifully, his jaw softer, his cheeks plumper, his lips fuller, and his eyes dark like the deepest of sea. Few could resist Joffrey’s eyes. One glance from these obsidian orbs was enough to drag men into the abyss of Joffrey’s charms.

Joffrey had taken to bed so many knights that he had lost count. Those knights were called merry knights of the bastard, as they all competed for Joffrey’s affection.

Joffrey took extreme effort to make sure Daeron was one of them.

“There you are.” Daeron’s mocking voice came from the entrance, “I thought you had drowned in horse dung.”

“Sorry to disappoint, but I have not, my prince.” Joffrey continued to brush the horse, sparing no glance at the regally dressed prince.”

“You still stink.” Daeron whispered in Joffrey’s ear as he wrapped one arm around Joffrey and buried his nose in the brunette’s nape, “Like a stable boy.”

“That’s what you get for sleeping in the stables.” Joffrey replied coldly.

“Are you playing hard to get now?” Daeron tightened his arm and slapped Joffrey’s ass hard with his free hand.

“Are you the only one allowed to flirt with a stable boy now?” Joffrey half turned his head to spit at Daeron, “You can harass me but I can’t kiss a boy?”

“You are not a stable boy.” Daeron declared, tilting his head forward to lick Joffrey’s mouth.

“No? I have slept in the stables for the past week and done the work of a stable boy. If that doesn’t make me one, what else does?”

“No.” Daeron’s tone was calm compared to Joffrey’s outburst, “You are too high to be a stable boy.”

Joffrey’s breath caught as Daeron’s face came dangerously close.

“I am too low to be your plaything, my prince.” Joffrey threw Daeron a death glare, “Let go of me. I am your prisoner, not your toy.”

But Daeron didn’t let go. Joffrey didn’t know if Daeron was doing this out of spite, or his youngest uncle truly took a liking to him. Daeron grabbed Joffrey’s wrist and dragged him to the corner of the stable, where lay a stack of hay. He turned Joffrey over roughly before taking a hold of the brunette’s ass and began to grope.

Joffrey tried to push him away, but Daeron the Daring was no ordinary knight. He had trained hard and sharpened his skills during these years, and now he had become stronger and more skilled in arms than Joffrey. He was a true prince, while Joffrey was a loser and a bastard.

“I can kill you now.” Joffrey whispered, pulling the dagger he kept in his boots all the time.

“Be my guest.” Daeron shrugged before sliding his finger into Joffrey, a confident smile on his lips.

Joffrey moaned as his grip loosened on the dagger.

[addamvelaryon]

Just thinking about the similarities between Rhaenyra and Daeron, the eldest and youngest children of King Viserys I Targaryen...

Both are known for having beauty and charm:

At the center of the merriment, cherished and adored by all, was their only surviving child, Princess Rhaenyra, the little girl the court singers dubbed “the Realm’s Delight.” Though only six when her father came to the Iron Throne, Rhaenyra Targaryen was a precocious child, bright and bold and beautiful as only one of dragon’s blood can be beautiful.

— Fire & Blood, Heirs of the Dragon: A Question of Succession

His little brother, Prince Daeron, was the most popular of the queen’s sons, as clever as he was courteous, and most comely as well.

— Fire & Blood, Heirs of the Dragon: A Question of Succession

Amongst their siblings, they are the only ones to serve as cupbearers:

At eight, the princess was placed into service as a cupbearer…but for her own father, the king.

— Fire & Blood, Heirs of the Dragon: A Question of Succession

When he turned twelve in 126 AC, Daeron was sent to Oldtown to serve as cupbearer and squire to Lord Hightower.

— Fire & Blood, Heirs of the Dragon: A Question of Succession

It should be noted though, that despite their bright and charming personalities, they have a darker nature underneath that shows itself when they grow angry. In the midst of their anger, they can act in a way that might be viewed as beyond reason:

Then Queen Rhaenyra grew most wroth, Septon Eustace writes. In a voice as cold as ice, she commanded Ser Luthor Largent to take twenty gold cloaks to the Dragonpit and arrest Ser Addam Velaryon. “Question him sharply, and we will learn if he is true or false, beyond a doubt.” As to the girl Nettles, “She is a common thing, with the stink of sorcery upon her,” the queen declared.

[...]

Therefore, let a command be sent at once to Maidenpool, but only for the eyes of Lord Mooton. “Let him take her at table or abed and strike her head off. Only then shall my prince be freed.”

— Fire & Blood, The Dying of the Dragons: Rhaenyra Triumphant

When Lady Caswell appeared on the ramparts of her castle to ask for the same terms Lady Merryweather had received, Hightower let Prince Daeron give the answer: “You shall receive the same terms you gave my nephew Maelor.” Her ladyship could only watch as Bitterbridge was sacked.

— Fire & Blood, The Dying of the Dragons: Rhaenyra Triumphant

I think it’s also worth considering the impact their living situations might have had on them, re: them developing some type of abandonment issues. The early years of her childhood were a happy time but Rhaenyra ends up losing her mother at a very young age. After Rhaenyra’s father remarries to Alicent, the environment at court becomes a hostile one for Rhaenyra. The grown men around her have dubious intentions as well. When Rhaenyra finally manages to find a safety net for herself in the mini court she creates at Dragonstone, it doesn’t last long and Laena/Laenor/Harwin all die in quick succession. Once the war starts, Rhaenyra ends up losing her children one by one as well. Rhaenyra’s fear about losing her loved ones is a big part of her characterization and influences many of the actions she takes during the Dance. As for Daeron, he is the only one amongst his siblings to be sent away far from home. Even if being fostered with his maternal relatives was something done for his own good, it doesn’t change how a child his age might have felt being shipped off to live in an unfamiliar city while the rest of his siblings remain in the capital with their parents. Not to mention, Daeron is depicted as being a more capable individual than his older brothers but at the same time, he’s described as being always in their shadow. That discrepancy is bound to affect him. No matter how dutiful a person is, there will always remain that underlying feeling that all your efforts will never make you good enough in the eyes of your family.

These two siblings are also the emotional type. However, it’s a trait that does leave them feeling helpless when faced with the violence of war:

Rhaenyra was still so griefsick over the death of her son Lucerys that she absented herself from the war council, giving over her command to the Sea Snake and his wife, Princess Rhaenys.

— Fire & Blood, The Dying of the Dragons: The Red Dragon and the Gold

Septon Eustace and Grand Maester Munkun both assert that Prince Daeron was sickened by all he saw and commanded Ser Hobert Hightower to put a stop to it, but Hightower’s efforts proved as ineffectual as the man himself.

— Fire & Blood, The Dying of the Dragons: Rhaenyra Triumphant

My most favourite passage from the book connecting these two, however, is the following quote:

Yet the greatest threat to Rhaenyra’s reign was not Aemond One-Eye, but his younger brother, Prince Daeron the Daring, and the great southron army led by Lord Ormund Hightower.

— Fire & Blood, The Dying of the Dragons: Rhaenyra Triumphant

It greatly exemplifies the tragedy of Rhaenyra’s reign. Daeron is the sibling that’s most like Rhaenyra, and he’s the one who’s positioned as being the biggest threat to her. It could almost be interpreted as Rhaenyra’s downfall being not just because of outside forces but also internal self choices. When she finally came into power, as the Queen on the Iron Throne, she’s in the least ideal situation a monarch could be in: empty treasury, frightened smallfolk, nobles of uncertain loyalty. At the same time, her actions over the course of her reign are presented as the reason people ultimately turn against her (eg. condemning the Dragonseeds and overtaxing the citizens of King’s Landing). 

[iztarshi]

Febuwhump - assumed dead

Fandom: Rise of the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles

Notes: A raised by Draxum AU. He's a terrible parent, but he does care.

The Barracks is in its usual state of colourful chaos when Draxum enters. His weapons, his glorious creations, are, when off duty, the messiest creatures Draxum has ever had the displeasure of seeing. The floor is scattered with a layer of huge cushions, food wrappers, game pieces, and outlandish human skateboards. He drew the line at action figures — his creations will not exalt humans. The television itself was a mistake.

Despite this the turtles are standing in a perfect line, all wearing their black outfits and horned half-masks, weapons sheathed neatly. There’s been some squabble, though. Raphael’s fear stink is in the air and Michelangelo is shifting from foot to foot, flicking glances at Leonardo.

“Today, we will emerge in Central Park,” Draxum announced. “Michelangelo and Raphael will corale the puny humans for my oozequitos. Donatello and Leonardo will destroy any enforcers of law who approach.”

Leo leans his weight back on one leg, ruining the neat line as he twists sideways. “So, same as usual?” he whines. “Maybe I’d like a change, you know? Do some coralling, round ‘em up like a cowboy.”

Draxum huffs out a sigh and grabs Leonardo’s shoulders, pushing him back into his place in line. “You are my creation and you will fulfil your role as it has been assigned,” he barks.

Leonardo’s eyes meet his from behind the mask, glinting with something hard. “You’re the boss,” he says.

Huginn leans forward from Draxum’s shoulder, getting in the kid’s face, “Yeah, he’s the boss.”

Draxum steps away, the last thing he wants is Leonardo getting into an argument with one of his gargoyles again. That can go in circles for hours.

Draxum opens his portal and says, “Go. Conquer this petty park.”

The turtles go.

The crowd panics. This is usual, humans are panicky creatures, prone to fleeing at the slightest pain. Michelangelo’s chains and Raphael’s huge form are always enough to block them and turn back the tide.

Except this time he hears Michelangelo call, “LEO,” despite the volume without too much alarm, and when he looks there is a thin figure in black and gold, trying to move against the crowd. Draxum waits for him to make a portal, more frustrated that Leonardo has let this happen to himself than worried, and then the figure falls.

Draxum’s vines shoot out, pushing the crowd aside and he sees the turtle sprawled out on his back, leg bending at the wrong angle and head lolling, black clothes soaked with blood. Leonardo is not moving and that, more than anything else, is wrong.

The other turtles panic. Raphael’s projection and Michelangelo’s chains vanish in the same moment, while Donatello throws himself into the crowd in a way that only stirs it up to further madness, people trampling even over Draxum’s vines as they scramble away from Donatello’s drill.

One of the police officers has a gun trained on Michelangelo where he is standing, frozen. Draxum strangles the human with a vine before calling, “Retreat!”

The turtles charge through the portal he opens, Raphael dragging Michelangelo. Draxum stands in front of it, vines whipping the crowd aside once more. There is no body. Have the police officers now standing among the civilians taken it? Where is Draxum’s creation?

With one last roar of frustration he thrashes his vines through the park, heaving up the ground in jagged plates.

Then he turns and walks through the portal.

The mood in Baron Draxum’s castle is strange in the weeks that follow. He thinks his creations must be grieving, but if so they do not do so in front of him. They barely talk to him at all. Perhaps they blame him for the loss of their brother and perhaps they are right. Draxum had been impatient, had put his creations to work before they had even attained their full strength.

Leonardo will never reach his full strength, his full size. Draxum remembers when he was small enough to carry around in a pocket, when Draxum frequently did carry him around in a pocket because he was the best behaved little turtle imaginable as long as he was pressed against Draxum in some way. His sly and difficult Leonardo had been so easy as an infant.

The small shrine Draxum built to comfort the others is rarely visited by them but he finds himself there daily. He places blue flowers, Leonardo’s favourite colour, and remembers Leonardo trying to argue that his mask should be blue. Perhaps Draxum should have allowed it.

The turtles were made as obedient weapons, so why does he regret saying ‘no’ to them more than he regrets giving them leave to search dumpsters for movies and giving them all their gaudy cushions? Why does he regret putting weapons on the battlefield more than letting them enjoy their time away from it?

He rubs his eyes and pulls his mask on to hide his drooping ears.

“The plan has changed,” Baron Draxum announces. “Despite your strength and tenacity I was wrong to place you in battle before you had attained your full growth. We will not be attacking the humans of New York again until you are ready.”

“Isn’t it a little late to stop now?” Donatello asks. “Both the Hidden City police and NYPD are after us. Delaying the plan for a decade on our side won’t make them delay it on theirs.”

“Donnie, not helping,” Michelangelo and Raphael chorus in what they probably think is a whisper. Draxum can see the relief on both their faces and his heart squeezes hard in his chest for reasons he doesn’t understand.

“My decision is final,” he says.

Then he leaves them and returns to Leonardo’s shrine.

The soft footsteps of the smallest turtle approaching are enough for Draxum to gather himself. This shrine was intended to bring comfort to them, he will leave if one of them wishes to use it.

“Um, Draxum,” Michelangelo calls, stopping in the hallway outside. “Can I talk to you?”

“Of course.”

Michelangelo is the hardest of his creations to see as a weapon, with his soft eyes and rounded features. Now, though, as he draws himself up and hesitance falls away there’s a flash of predatory intent in his eyes. Draxum braces himself for questions about why he put them on the battlefield so soon only to change his mind so late.

“Why have you never asked me and Raph to kill anyone?” Mikey asks.

Draxum blinks. “You were more useful in a defensive role.”

“Really?” says Michelangelo. “‘Cause Leo has portals. He could put everyone back where you wanted them in an instant.”

There’s a heavy silence. Draxum feels pinned under a gaze that will not accept a lie. Which is ridiculous. The Baron Draxum fears nothing and tells no lies to begin with.

“I made you all as weapons,” he says. “But Raphael and yourself did not seem to have quite the spirit, the hardened nature.”

“I don’t think Leo did either,” Michelangelo says. He swings himself up to sit on the shrine and Draxum clenches his teeth at the disrespect but dares not interrupt. “He hasn’t been the same since we started this. Donnie hasn’t either, but he says he’s fine, says it gives him a chance to really use his abilities. Even though it changed him.” Tears spill down Mikey’s cheeks. “But Leo hasn’t been okay for a long time. Not since you made him do this.”

“Are you telling me that child allowed himself to be trampled to death on purpose?” Draxum draws himself up in horror. His bright flame of a creation, as curious about people as Donatello was about plants and machines, full of ideas and foolishness. Snuffed out without Draxum even realising the fingers closing on the wick were his own.

Michelangelo’s confidence seems to desert him and he squirms before finally blurting, “Leo’s not dead! He said he couldn’t do this anymore and he was leaving. It was all fake, we’ve been meeting up with him. I wanted him to talk to you first, but he didn’t think you’d listen, and then he almost tried and you didn’t.”

Draxum lowers himself to sit on the floor, legs shaky as a newborn lamb’s. “Leonardo is alive?”

Michelangelo nods.

“His leg was broken.” The crumpled figure, the way the leg had bent.

“Raph was furious. He wasn’t meant to take it that far, he was meant to go into his shell for the actual trampling part. He said he needed to make it convincing.”

“And you do not believe that was the true reason?”

Michelangelo shakes his head firmly. “It was spite. He said he didn’t believe you cared about him at all, but I think he must have known you did at least a little. Or he wouldn’t have hurt himself just so you had to see it.”

There was that ruthlessness that Draxum had seen in Leonardo, that had convinced him Leonardo would be a fine warrior, would be untouched by the necessities of war. “I was born a warrior,” Draxum says. “I was fighting at your age. Alongside my parents.”

Michelangelo slides off the shrine and gives Draxum one of those hugs Draxum never manages to respond to correctly. “I’ll take you to Leo if you promise you won’t make him fight again,” he says.

“We’re here,” Michelangelo says. They’re perched on a roof, indistinguishable from any other roof as far as Draxum can see. “He’ll be here soon.”

“This is a pre-arranged meeting?”

“Yeah, he’s on the move a lot so he portals in to meet us. It’s my turn to rend-ez-vous tonight.” Michelangelo is jittery, excited or nervous, feet and hands moving constantly. He grabs and lets go of Draxum’s arm at random intervals until Draxum tries patting his head. Michelangelo lets out a breath and beams up at him.

The bright blue of a portal spills over the neon stained darkness of New York and Leonardo steps out. He’s limping slightly, but his leg isn’t in a cast and he can clearly put weight on it. He’s wearing an oversized hoodie with a straw hat and no pants. He’s the best thing Draxum has seen in weeks.

Leonardo jolts to a stop as the portal fades and holds his sword in front of him in an attack stance. “You brought him here?” There’s betrayal in his voice. “Now he’ll never let me go!”

“Leonardo,” Draxum says, raising his hands in what is meant to be placation. Possibly it still seems like looming because Leo shrinks back and raises his sword higher. “I have no intention of forcing you against your will.”

“Yeah? Isn’t that what I’m for? Your perfect weapon. Like I ever had anything against humans, or wanted to pop out of nowhere and kill people who didn’t even believe in me like some kind of movie monster.”

“I did not intend to hurt you like this. I believed you had a warrior’s spirit…”

“Sorry to disappoint you,” Leonardo spits. Leonardo’s sword is shaking in his hand, at any moment that tension will translate into the flick of a wrist, into a portal. And Draxum cannot find the right words to make him stay.

Michelangelo steps out of the shadows and takes Leo’s arm in both his hands, gently lowering the sword and Leonardo glares at him. “He’s been mourning you.”

“You’re imagining things.”

“He called off the plan until we’ve reached our full growth.”

“Forever,” Draxum chokes. Both turtles turn to look at him, Michelangelo with an encouraging nod and Leonardo with desperate suspicion. “If you do not wish to take part in it I will no longer require that of you.”

“Then what are you even here for?” Leonardo demands. “You want me back to do what? Skateboard? Lounge around reading comics?”

Draxum shrugs. “If that is your will then yes.”

There are many things Draxum has done wrong in raising his creations but he has never lied to them. Leonardo slowly lowers his sword. “Mikey,” he says. “What the hell did you do to him?”

Michelangelo pats Leonardo’s head and then flits over to rub his face into Draxum’s cheek. “Lots of people rethink their priorities after the death of a loved one.”

“Yeah, but…” Leonardo looks into Draxum’s eyes and despite the mask Draxum finds himself completely unable to meet his gaze. He hunches, folds his arms against his chest and looks at the ground. It’s a deeply analytical gaze, measuring and reassessing. “Heh. Guess I’ll come back for a few days, but I’m keeping the sword close.” He takes Draxum’s other arm, grin too wide and obnoxious to make it a friendly gesture. “And you can think about how you’re going to make this up to me. Because you have a lot to make up for.”

It’s in Leonardo’s nature to press an advantage until something snaps and Draxum can already foresee there are going to be a lot of comics and ice cream in the next few weeks. He hopes he isn’t the thing that snaps. It would hurt, to lose Leonardo again. Draxum rubs Leonardo’s head the way he would Michelangelo’s and is startled by the way those calculating eyes go wide and wet.

“Come on,” Draxum says, opening a portal of his own. “For the time being, let us go home.”

“Yeah, come on,” says Michelangelo, taking Leo’s arm. “I have got to show you the shrine.”

[sage-wilde-va]

Gargoyles X TMNT: The Shadows of New York Chapter 9: Hitchhiking

The eldest of the Wyvern Clan’s rookery children had a gift that set him apart from his brothers; Pycnofibers. Primitive hair-like feathers veiled the scales of his leathery wings, which let him glide and soar like an ancient pterodactyl. Not even Goliath could match his ability to gain altitude and stay airborne. His 20-foot wingspan and flexible tail could catch and direct even the finest and weakest of air currents. 

Unfortunately, there was absolutely no wind tonight. Not that height would help him smell out the stranger who had vanished into the night. His eyes, glowing the faintest white, peered through the brush of the meager little tree that stooped over the road. The branch underneath him creaked softly, all four of his claws clutching tightly and his tail wrapped around the trunk behind. He kept his wings caped, trying to shrink his profile as much as he could.

He sniffed again. There was a human with the stranger now. He smelled the two of them coming well before he saw them. Hunkering low, he tried to melt into the night. 

Two pairs of footfalls pounded towards him. “The hell did you say to piss them off, Casey?!” His quarry huffed. His friend–rich with the stink of a human–replied, out of breath, “I told them LA has better sushi, California's for rich softies, and naming yourself after miners is stupid.” “Where’s the van?” “There!”

They dove into a white van, disappearing from sight. He growled, thoughtful. “So that’s how you’ve been getting around.” He murmured. 

The snap of the van’s doors was quickly followed by the thundering of more feet.

“Where’d they go?” “I dunno, but I’m gonna find that damn Yank and put his head on a pike!”

A knot of humans, clothed in black and gold, swarmed down the street. Five, all male, some elders, but mostly young. He remained as still as possible, slowing his breath. After a few minutes of searching, one of them called out to the others, and they vanished further into the parking lot. 

Well, that was a clear enough signal for him. Now, it was his turn. 

He leapt from the tree to the lamppost, slithering up its height like a lizard to perch from the arm of the light. Balancing carefully on it, he removed the streamer from his belt. Attached to the other end was a small rock. He whirled the streamer in a pinwheel at his side, letting it spin up a blur of green-and-silver momentum, before releasing the foxtail straight up into the air with a snap of his wrist. 

The shimmering streak wouldn’t have meant much to others. In fact, it was likely that most humans wouldn’t have seen it. But he knew that to his smallest rookery brother, a single flying streamer was as vivid as the falling star of a ship’s flare at sea. 

The stone clattered into the road, empty and devoid of vehicles or people. Then, suddenly, he saw two shapes fast approaching him from the air above the stadium. In a moment, his brothers had landed in the darkness of the trees, on the outskirts of the parking lot. He swooped to join them in the dark, tucking down his wings into a more stealthy cape. The three stooped down behind a tall juniper hedge that ringed the checkerboard field of car hoods.

“You found a way out?”

“Yeah.” The eldest jerked a thumb at the van. “You remember that time we snuck out of the castle in a hay wagon?”

The youngest blinked those huge eyes of his. Then he squeezed them shut. “Please tell me I don’t have to hide with the pigs again.”

The eldest wriggled his eyebrows. The smallest groaned. 

“We’re hitching a ride?” The broad one asked.

“We’re hitching a ride.” The red one smirked.

The small one rubbed his eyes. "We are gonna be grounded to the Rookery for another millennium after this."

-

Raphael didn't have time to leap back out of the van. He yanked off his ski mask, giving Casey a wild look. He grabbed him by the collar and yanked them both down and out of sight of the small mob of miners. He put a finger to his lips. His radiation-green eyes, framed by the stripe of his red mask, were saying only one thing; don't make a sound, Casey. Raph pointed to his phone, turning the ringer down to nothing. Casey, seeing this was a good idea, did the same.

They pressed themselves down as tightly as they could under the bucket seats of the van, curling up tight. The metal bars of the seats dug into their backs as they waited. Casey risked just enough movement to remove his mask, pulling it to the side to show his face. He gently spat his mouthguard out into his cupped hand. Casey silently mouthed his condemnation; Poor choice, Raphael.  

Raph winced and groaned inwardly, knowing Splinter was going to say the exact same thing to him later. As soon as they got out of this, at least.

Just as they were about to get up and exit the van, they heard more footsteps again. This time, slower and more casual. Peoples’ voices. Raph risked just enough breath to utter one single curse as the door to the van popped open. Two guys, deep in a conversation in a language that may have been Portuguese or Italian, took the seats up front. They started the van, and Raphael’s stomach plunged when he realized they were suddenly driving away. 

Now, Donnie was prepared for everything. He was sure that if his brother were here he would be doing two things: One, scolding him mercilessly and fretting over him like a frazzled mother. Two, pulling out the GPS that he kept in his bag to tell him where exactly they were going. But, he didn’t have that. He did, however, have a distress beacon linked to it. The question was, did he want to use it and absolutely get his reputation destroyed by his brothers for squealing for help? Or did he want to prove that he and Casey could really take care of themselves and save face?

Poor choice, Raphael.

He and Casey stayed hunkered underneath the seats, legs beginning to fall asleep as the two men started reaching around to the driver’s side pouch to retrieve their road map. The man in the passenger seat continued idly chattering, while the driver cracked open the window and lit a cigarette. 

Raphael closed his eyes to focus. He strained his ears for any familiar words, of any kind. Hackensack. River. Secaucus. Weehawken. His heart ticked down a few beats, not hearing any mention of the word ‘Turnpike’. But he didn’t quite get his hopes up yet, until he heard them say one more word he could understand; Lincoln Tunnel.

Holy shell. Raph quietly thanked anything or anybody listening at that moment. He couldn’t believe their luck. This van was going right back to Manhattan. He looked over at Casey, catching his friend’s eyes. Casey looked relieved too. He grinned, giving his turtle friend a very quiet–but no less enthusiastic–thumbs up.

-

The tarp covering the bed of the truck flapped loudly in the high wind as it cruised down the highway. One’s sharp eyes kept a close watch of the windowless white van ahead of them on the road, ears flapping in the stiff breeze in spite of his hard-fought attempt at staying low. His dorsal digits kept his arm-sails folded tight against his body. Another was hunched low under the wall of the cab, wings caped, carefully making sure his hair was still tied and wouldn’t suddenly fly up like a white flag advertising their position. 

The third was curled underneath the pile of assorted junk in the truck bed, smiling and making funny noises to the huge, fluffy brown dog that rode with them. Clearly having no care for guardianship duties, the dog had promptly begged them for affection upon seeing them. The largest one always had a very soft spot for animals, so he did not complain about the shared ride.

And what a ride it was! Never in all their years had they ever traveled so far, so fast on the ground. If it weren’t for the fact that they needed to stay hidden, they would have been having all kinds of fun. But just watching the lights of the city flash by at impossibly fast speeds was exhilarating enough.

Soon, as the knot of cars drew closer and lingered more, the two sought refuge under the tarp and amidst the junk with their big brother. The traffic began to slow more and more. The smallest risked a peek. 

“It looks like it’s a toll road.” He whispered. “Man, these must be more efficient now than they were back in our day.”

“Yeah.” The white-haired one grumbled. “Because there are a lot more people using them. We’ll never get out of here unseen like this! If we haven’t been spotted already.”

“It looks like we’re about to go into a tunnel.” The large one continued petting the dog, whose lolling tongue was wrapping itself around his talons. He pointed ahead past the toll booths, to a white brick facade and three deep dark throats lined with tiny points of light. “If we get in trouble in there, we aren’t getting out of it.”

“Too late to turn back now.” The eldest said, just above the roar of traffic. “Once we make it out to the other side, we’ll cut the tarp and let it loose. At the same time, we’ll lift off and let the wind from this thing give us some height. Hopefully, the cars behind us will be so distracted by the sheet that they won’t see us take off.”

“Are you sure we’ll be moving fast enough to catch the wind? What if we run out of speed and get dragged back into the traffic?” The green one fretted. “You know my wings aren’t as strong as yours.”

“Hey. It’s just like the downhill slides we used to take when we were hatchlings. Just faster.” The oldest patted his younger brother’s shoulder. “I can carry you up to gliding height. I promise, you won’t get left behind. You trust me, right?”

“I trust you.” He said, hugging his brother close. “I just don’t know if I trust this wagon...”

It was with this that the Lincoln Tunnel engulfed them. 

They looked up and around in awe, their eyes wide as the rows and rows of lights that lit the tunnel whooshed behind them. The roar of the traffic and the ventilation fans inside it drowned out all words that could have been had, the flicker of passing strips of light painting the world in black-and-white strobe flashes. The slick tile of the roof, low and close, reflected the tail lights of the vehicles ahead of them like streaks of red cinders in the night. The dusky reflection of the tunnel in that arching tile roof was like looking up at the sky from underwater. They felt like small fish, being carried along that enormously powerful current of steel, asphalt, and light that all vanished into the tiniest point in the distance. 

Two of the rookery brothers folded their hands over their ears to shut out the noise, keeping their eyes fixed on the floor of the truck bed and holding onto the dog for comfort. But one kept his eyes ahead, soaking in the sight. The eldest breathed softly in reverence at this impossible spectacle. 

“Whoa…”

For a moment, he wondered if this is what it must feel like to be thrown beyond the stars.

Suddenly, he realized this beauty was fading as the car slowed down. To his dismay and horror, he realized that the traffic was beginning to clog the way ahead. The beautiful wind, the thing that would have ensured their escape, faded around his ears. No. No, no, no! We need speed!  

He panicked, tucking his head back down below the height of the truck’s siding. A row of blinking red lights stuffed the tunnel ahead of them. He could still see the windowless white van ahead, but the air hung heavy with the stench of exhaust and old rubber. If his quarry left, he didn’t know if his nose would be able to follow. 

He ducked down, making eye contact with the green one. He tapped his beak, shaking his head. He pointed two claws at his own eyes, to his brother, and then to the van. The smallest nodded, eyes hard and lips thin. He opened his arms for his brother, and the smallest one clambered into them. The broad one nodded, his massive bulk still hidden under the tarp. His claws hooked into the blue plastic, ready to rip it away. He petted the dog’s head one more time.

It looked like they were going to have to run for it.

-

Raphael took a breath, nudging Casey with a finger. He pointed up ahead. Casey nodded, noticing the same thing; traffic stopping, and the light growing brighter. Now would be a great time for them to make their move and escape. Raphael slowly, like a worm through the dirt, reached his hand to his belt pouch. His fingers closed around a single white eggshell, scowling an angry face that was squiggled in marker with a wax blot on one end. He mouthed to Casey; smoke bomb. Don’t breathe.

Casey nodded, popping his mouthguard back into his mouth and pulling his mask back across his face. He closed his eyes, and then nodded. 

Within the span of a second, smoke bloomed in the van with a sharp bang! The back of the van burst open, and the two of them quickly sprinted across the road. Casey planted a hand on a car hood, sliding across it without slowing down. Raphael tucked a front flip, leap-frogging off the roof of the same car as they both made their mad dash to the sidewalk. More smoke spilled out of the back of the vehicle, the men coughing and shouting, horns screaming and beeping at them as they ran. 

They pounded with their feet straight around the corner, down the road. “This way! I took the subway!” Casey cried. Raph followed, letting Casey lead him a few blocks at a dead sprint. As they ran, Raphael frantically jammed the ski mask back on over his head, hoping his up-raised elbow protected enough of his face from being seen. 

Raphael knew that they’d been seen. In disguise, yes, so it wasn’t that bad. But once again, that twinge, that feeling that he was being followed. It struck him again, like an electric tingle that stopped his heart and fluttered his eyes. 

The last thing any of them needed was for the Foot Clan to know they were back in New York.

Casey steered around the corner. Raphael looked over the subway entrance, and spotted exactly what he was hoping he would see; the maintenance hatch for the 42 St - Port Authority Bus Terminal. He skidded in its direction, and Casey turned to follow. Raph found the lip of the manhole cover with his fingers, and he heaved. With a grunt of effort, the heavy iron lid lifted. Casey’s hands found the ladder, and he started skittering down. Raph hauled the manhole cover aside, and quickly followed Casey down. 

Raphael’s feet splashed into the thin, slimy puddle that had built up at the base of the ladder. And for the first time since the game, he allowed himself to relax. He pulled the ski mask off of his head, gasping for breath. Casey was doubled over, his breath making a weird buzzing wheeze through the grills of the skull-like Jason Voorhees mask.

Raph let the humid air of the underground kiss his skin, and his nerves started to ease. Finally, back in the Manhattan underground. His turf. He could relax now, he was safe.

He clapped Casey on the shoulder. They started walking in the direction of the C-Line, back to the warren of tunnels that Raphael and his brothers knew like the knuckles on the back of their Sensei’s hand. “Man, Jones. Starting a fight at a football game? Really? Just how freaked out were the guys findin’ out I was gone?” 

“Freaked out?” Casey looked at him. “The last time you guys went topside, it was the night Leo almost died!”

“Casey, I–”

“Raph, what is the matter with you?!” Casey reeled on his friend. “You guys have spent the last six months at my grandma’s farmhouse keeping Leo on life support in a bathtub! You promised that we wouldn’t do any of the crazy stuff until after you were ready to fight the Foot again!” He shoved Raphael’s chest roughly. 

Raph felt the fire that burned at a low smolder in his chest flare at that remark. “You think I don’t know that?!” He roared. He rolled back his sleeve and elbow pad to show Casey the mark in the crook of his elbow. “I was the one who matched his blood type! I know exactly what he went through!” He snapped the sleeve back down in a huff. 

“Then why do this, man?” Casey stopped walking. “Why risk that? You know what the Shredder will do to you once he finds out Leo’s still alive? Finds out that you guys came back? He’ll come after you again! He’ll come after us! ” Casey put his hands on Raph’s shoulders. “Look, Ma’s not doin’ so hot right now. Doc says she can’t be goin’ through any unnecessary stress. You know what this is, Raph?” Casey gestured to himself, dressed like Friday the 13th and the Fourth of July had a baby. “This is me, breaking my promise to my mom, breaking my promise to Splinter and April, to come after your dumb ass!”

Raphael wanted to say something. He wanted to roar, rant, rave, scream, punch his friend in the face. Because he was right.

“I just wanted things to be normal again.” He whispered hoarsely. "Same as everyone else in that stadium."

Casey blinked at him. It was the kind of blink that Raph knew meant he was pretending he couldn’t cry. “Yeah. Me too, Raph. I wish things could be normal again too.”

They walked down that tunnel in silence for almost an hour. Quietly, Raphael turned the ringer on his phone back up and checked his messages. Almost forty missed calls. Most of them from Leo. He felt his heart sink like an old tin can to the bottom of the Hudson River, and he cursed himself for being an idiot. Again.

He stopped. He straightened up, muscles quivering in his hands.  Casey looked over at him. Raph snarled, shoving Casey down further towards the tunnel. That feeling was back. And it was even stronger. “Casey, we got company!”

The two bolted, splashing through the dry storm pipe on a mad dash away from whatever was following them. Sure enough, Raphael heard a shout–or was it a howl?–and the splashing of at least three more pairs of feet. He veered left, prying his sai underneath a maintenance cover, rushing into where he knew was an abandoned subway line. His feet found concrete and railroad track, and the tunnel opened up into a station. The placards read at the fork: Brooklyn and Points South, 7th Ave - Broadway Station, Lexington Ave - Grand Central Station. 

“You take that one, I’ll go this way!” Raph shouted. “I’ll meet you back at April’s!”

“Got it!” Casey acknowledged. 

Five pairs of pounding footsteps echoed through the tunnels, each going down one of three lines. But none of them knew exactly where they were running to, or who was partaking in this little race.

They just knew that they had to run.

[sadnesslaughs]

The king is hailed as a hero by the poor people of the kingdom for his reforms that improve their lives. What they don’t know is that the king hates poor people above all else; how they look, how they smell, everything. To him, the reforms are simply a way to have fewer poor people.

(A response to a writing prompt)

The king stood on his balcony, like he did every morning. The jewels and gold that coated him, glistening in the sun’s glorious light. He was a figure of god, a man blessed by the heavens. Luck didn’t determine someone’s birthright. No, you had to be chosen for the position. Men like him were the only ones worthy of being called king.

Those heavy arms tucked behind his back, peering at the city below. A beautiful city he had created. Sure, workers had slaved away to make it, but they did so under his orders. If he hadn’t given those orders, they would all be still drinking themselves stupid in taverns. He gave them a purpose, and what did they give him in return? A pitiful display of their mortality.

Lower, outside the castle gates, stood a broken family. A dear and loved mother lowered into the ground, returned to the goddess’s embrace. By the grave kneeled two children, both adults, but still children in the eyes of their recently lost mother. The elderly father clutched his children’s shoulders, trying to be a symbol of strength, even when his soul had broken upon finding her cold in the morning.

As they grieved, all the king could do was grimace. “Disgusting.” He told his guard, who jolted upright, not even being aware of the display. The guard turned, feeling a stabbing in his heart as he saw the family. A funeral, a human sight, one that often stirs memories buried deep in our minds. He thought of his own mother, biting his lip, not daring to make even a sniff before the king.

The king gripped the elegant purple railing, peering down at the group. “I give them everything and they can’t even have the decency to die away from my sight. Even a cockroach finds a corner to scurry to before rolling onto its back.”

“Yes, sir,” was all the guard said, looking now at his greaves. He couldn’t bear the grieving family, the sight too sad to look at. So, he kept his gaze elsewhere. While the king’s words were horrible, one couldn’t deny the impact he had made on the peasants’ lives. Slowly, people were leaving the slums, able to afford a living thanks to the tax reforms. Poverty being slowly reduced, all thanks to a man who was disgusted by the very thought of their existence. Despite his personality and reasoning, he was a great king.

“Look at them, wailing because the person who birthed them died. How many children are born a day? It’s hardly anything special.” The king met the gaze of the father, who looked stunned to see the king of all men looking over their funeral. The father couldn’t help feeling a great deal of comfort after seeing the king, feeling blessed that the man was watching over them, almost protectively.

“I would call them animals, if animals weren’t more important. You can get meat, hide and other miraculous things from animals. What do you get from a peasant human? A bunch of bones that stink up a holy cemetery. Ugh, the thought of sharing the same ground as them turns my stomach. I must go inside or else I’ll be unable to eat my breakfast.”

The father tapped his children, the two stopping their grieving, watching in awe as they saw the king tuck his chin towards his neck in a look that could be interpreted as grief. The king raising his shoulders as he took a deep breath, hurrying inside, unable to keep his disgust hidden any longer.

Though, to the grieving peasants, they thought they saw a shared grief. A man that loves his people so much that he cries with them. That moving even the father to tears, as he hugged his children, praying not only to the goddess but also to the king. Asking them both to grant the special woman in their life a safe passage into the afterlife.

“Hendrick!” the king snapped, in a tone that Hendrick had come to recognize. The tone said, I’m about to give you an important order, so listen up.

Hendricks’ body stopped. Even his breathing softened as he waited on the king’s words. “Sir.”

“You go down there and tell those peasants that they can drag their dead hag out of my ground. We are building them their own cemetery, one away from my gaze. They can go leer at their dead away from my sight. Is that understood? Once you tell them, have the men work on it at once. I don’t want to see a sight like this again.”

“Yes, sir.” Hendrick nodded, rushing to meet the peasants, not wanting to miss them. When he arrived, he told them a very simple version of the king’s orders. Leaving out the part about the dead hag and such. In the knight’s words, they were building a special cemetery, one that would be easy for them to access without having to make the trip close to the castle grounds.

The family was stunned. Not only had the king shared their grief, he had been so moved that he now wanted them to be closer to their dead. They had heard such horrible rumors about the king, being told by others that he was a man who hated the common person, despised them even. Yet, all he had ever done was help them.

Guilt washed over them. To think they had ever let themselves believe such lies about the man. They wailed in thanks, raising their hands towards the castle, while the knight remained silent, watching the gesture, wondering how they would feel if they knew the truth.

As the king went to put a piece of bacon into his mouth, he paused, lowering his golden fork. “What is that awful sound?” He hissed. “Every day I’m forced to listen to their stupid wails. I can’t wait until they're all gone. One day, you won’t be able to distinguish a peasant from a common man. I dream of such a day.” He smiled, continuing his meal.

[hbnotthepencils]

Lots of public transport

Well, lots of trains, subways and buses today as we flitted around the length of Kyoto in search of temples and tranquility.

First on the agenda was one of the most famous, revered temples in all of Japan - Ruriko-in. We caught a couple of trains up into the mountains north of Kyoto, and couldn’t really believe our luck - we were the only people there!!

Unfortunately we were the only people there because everyone else probably knew it was closed. ho hum never mind, off to the next one. Wandered through of few old favourites up north before heading back into town to do some of the more touristy spots. The Silver Pavilion is quite famous (not quite as famous as the Gold Pavilion), and it wasn’t too busy, so that was nice. Epic sand-castle! 

Encouraged by the low tourist numbers, we decided to head to the single most famous Kyoto landmark - the Fushimi Inari Taisha (with the 1000 vermilion gates or Tori). BIG MISTAKE. All the tourists that weren’t at the Silver Pavilion were there stinking up the place, so we beat a hasty retreat.

Off to the Art exhibition next - “Kyoto’s young artists”. A few nice pieces (some exquisite carvings and textile pieces), but a lot of ho hum. I thought it was a bit unfair that they were exhibiting in the Shosein Gardens, in the middle of Kyoto. Very pretty, and the location outdid the art quite easily.

We are thoroughly on holiday time now, so sort of forgot that it is Saturday night now. Huge queues at all the food places for dinner, until we stumbled upon a cheap and cheerful ramen place that delivered a humungous bowl of yum in about 5 minutes flat. Very tasty with a beer to wash it down.

Bed soon. Big day tomorrow - heading in to the first day of the Kumano Kodo trail. Should be an epic couple of days. Not sure if I will get a blog in - we shall see what the time, energy and wifi situation looks like at the end of the day.

Cheers.

Stay well and behave

M&D

[charnelhouse]

the way u write frank castle .... pls im yearning ...

A/N: Frank Castle x F!Reader. Bathroom sex. wound care. hurt/comfort.

Frank goes to Sister Margarets more than he should. He’s a frequent patron - addicted to its grime and the way the bartender doesn’t fret over spilled blood. He’s always bloody. It is as if he can’t screw the faucet shut. He bleeds and bleeds and his bones shatter and his lungs collapse, but he does not flinch or waver.

The injuries he receives in a fight are good. They blossom under his skin until he has a map of bruises from forearm to abdominal muscle to his inner thigh.

Honestly - he likes pain. He's a sadist. Maybe.

There’s a girl, too. A girl who is another fixture at Sister Margarets. He can’t tell how old she is because she is a multitude of contrasts. She is always clad in short, pleated skirts and navy sweaters that fit her like a second skin. A starched white button-up. Plum-berry lipstick. She would have been his porno fantasy a lifetime ago when he was stationed in the desert or those random nights when he felt like jacking off to a plastic-neon images he could envision between doctor appointments or soccer practices.

She is all of these things on the outside, but when he gets up close he sees a rift in her candy-pink shine. Her eyes are melancholy - aged and sharp and knowing.

He isn’t sure who or what she is, but sometimes she’ll sit next to him at the bar and they’ll sip their drinks in silence.

Sometimes they’ll fuck.

***

The bar’s bathroom is small and brown. The walls are papered with old newspaper clippings of St. Margaret’s patron’s affairs: the death of crime boss Raymond Reynolds, the capture of Kingpin, the battle of New York, etc.

Frankie fucks the girl with the same bruising roughness he utilizes to fight. He grabs her hard by the hips, hitches her white panties to the side, and plunges into her from behind. He gets a hand around her throat and squeezes until she bucks into him. There’s not a word shared other than grunting, the slap of skin, and brittle demands rippled in a low voice. Touch yourself. Arch your back.

She flashes her eyes at him - flutters her lashes. His cock shears through her slippery heat and it’s as if every stroke hits the rear of her throat. It’s crude - obscene and desperate and it’s perfect for Castle.

***

“You’re bleeding,” she remarks - casting him a sidelong glance. Her fingertips look as if she’d dunked them in a pot of gold powder. They glow faintly. It’s the first time she’s ever said a word to him that isn’t harder, faster, thanks.

“It’s nothing.”

“It’s dripping on the floor.”

He shrugs and downs his drink - enjoying the warm brush of the alcohol. She stands abruptly - leaning close so that her breast knocks against his bicep. He can smell her perfume - it’s sugary and floral and gives him a faint headache.

“Bathroom,” she orders and he goes because of course he does.

***

Once inside, he grabs her fiercely by the waist.

“No,” she protests softly. “I didn’t mean that.”

That - the word that captures their dirty public restroom fucking.

“Take your shirt off,” She pushes his jacket off and then her fingers slide under the hem of his t-shirt. He stinks of blood - the iron swell of it clashing with her candy perfume.

He let her wrestle his shirt off. She doesn’t gasp when she sees the seeping parted flesh over his ribs. There is a new wash of red running into his jeans. She tilts her head - chewing her lower lip thoughtfully. He wants to lunge forward and take it between his teeth.

“Lean back.”

He does - his lower spine glued to the cold edge of the sink. She places her hand on his ribs and finally, her eyes meet his. She is very pretty - disarmingly so because he can’t read her well at all. Then again Frank Castle doesn’t try to read anyone. He doesn’t have the energy - the wherewithal to care.

“You must be fairly trusting,” she says.

“I don’t trust.”

She taps her fingers against his skin, her expression is curious. “You trusted me to do this?”

“I wouldn’t call that trust,” he shrugs. “I just don’t really give a shit.”

“What if I came in here to hurt you?”

“We haven’t used this bathroom for anything, but fucking. I made an assumption.”

“I suppose.”

She slides her tongue over her mouth. There’s the waxy sheen of her lipstick. “You don’t care if you get hurt,” she states, but it could be a question. He’s beginning to sweat.

“Not particularly.”

Then there is silence - the conversation is cut short. Her palm begins to heat and there’s a sharp, throbbing pain where the wound is. He ignores the sting because he’s had worse - a thousand times worse. But then he notices that her jaw tightens - her nostrils flaring like she’s the one in pain.

He glances down and there is a clean plane of skin over his abdominal muscles. She removes her hand and staggers back and he lunges for her - gripping her waist and letting her lean against his chest. “Sorry,” she pants. “I get a little woozy.”

She’s got her brow shoved up against his jaw. His chin is nudging the top of her head. It’s a strangely intimate position and yet he does not release her. She might fall.

“Did you feel it?”

“Feel what?”

“The knife wound.”

She chuckles, but it sounds empty. “Is that what that was?”

He grunts. She’s quiet for a long moment as if she is considering his question. “I feel it for a few moments. It’s the cost of being able to heal pretty much anything.”

“You shouldn’t have wasted it on me.”

“Why?”

“I don’t need it.”

“Alright,” she murmurs.

Frankie regrets his indifference. He should thank her. She had done him a service and now he wouldn’t be wasting a week trying to shut the wound with staples and risking infection.

“Sorry,” he mumbles in a gruff voice. He sounds miserable.

“You don’t like people taking care of you.”

“Is that a question or a statement? I can’t tell with you.”

“An observation. No one who comes to Sister Margaret’s likes to be taken care of - most of us have nowhere else to sulk.” Her cheek is still firmly pressed to his bare chest - her breathing is even and slow.

“Why’d you heal me then?”

“Maybe I wanted to give you something.”

“You didn’t have to.”

“You said that already.”

He shifts - rearranges his arm so that it slides around her waist - his hand finds her hip. He doesn't push her away or tell her to get off of him. He just lets her use him as long as she needs.

[istumpysk]

Operation Stumpy Re-Read

ADWD: Melisandre I (Chapter 31)

Welcome to ADWD, the book where I'm forced to write a meta every god damn chapter.

Get in loser, it's girl in grey time (plus so much more!).

The cobbler told them how the body of the Butcher King had been disinterred and clad in copper armor, after the Green Grace of Astapor had a vision that he would deliver them from the Yunkai'i. Armored and stinking, the corpse of Cleon the Great was strapped onto the back of a starving horse to lead the remnants of his new Unsullied on a sortie, but they rode right into the iron teeth of a legion from New Ghis and were cut down to a man.

"Afterward the Green Grace was impaled upon a stake in the Plaza of Punishment and left until she died. 

<- Daenerys V

Before we get started, I have to thank @agentrouka-blog for spotting something I overlooked.

In the previous chapter we learn a High Priestess was butchered for false visions of a saviour. Maybe something to keep in mind when Melisandre has the next chapter.

On we go.

+.+.+

Three tallow candles burned upon her windowsill to keep the terrors of the night at bay. Four more flickered beside her bed, two to either side. In the hearth a fire was kept burning day and night. The first lesson those who would serve her had to learn was that the fire must never, ever be allowed to go out.

I am reminded of Jaime's flame.

"The flames will burn so long as you live," he heard Cersei call. "When they die, so must you." - Jaime VI, ASOS

This is going to sound stupid, but I have to ask. If the fire goes out does she die and/or does the glamor break?

+.+.+

One more time. She had to be certain. Many a priest and priestess before her had been brought down by false visions, by seeing what they wished to see instead of what the Lord of Light had sent. 

You're such a funny little witch.

+.+.+

I'm going to break up the vision, but some might find it more helpful to see it in its entirety.

Here's a link.

+.+.+

Stannis was marching south into peril, the king who carried the fate of the world upon his shoulders, Azor Ahai reborn. Surely R'hllor would vouchsafe her a glimpse of what awaited him. Show me Stannis, Lord, she prayed. Show me your king, your instrument.

Visions danced before her, gold and scarlet, flickering, forming and melting and dissolving into one another, shapes strange and terrifying and seductive. She saw the eyeless faces again, staring out at her from sockets weeping blood. Then the towers by the sea, crumbling as the dark tide came sweeping over them, rising from the depths. Shadows in the shape of skulls, skulls that turned to mist, bodies locked together in lust, writhing and rolling and clawing. Through curtains of fire great winged shadows wheeled against a hard blue sky.

Visions danced before her, gold and scarlet, flickering, forming and melting and dissolving into one another, shapes strange and terrifying and seductive.

Descriptive language.

She saw the eyeless faces again, staring out at her from sockets weeping blood.

The Weeper captures three rangers, removes their eyes, and impales their heads on spikes for the Night's Watch to find.

We're supposed to consider this vision solved, but I do sometimes wonder if she's actually seeing weirwood trees. We'll return to this idea later.

Then the towers by the sea, crumbling as the dark tide came sweeping over them, rising from the depths.

We'll get more information later in the chapter:

I saw towers by the sea, submerged beneath a black and bloody tide. 

This is similar to Jojen's Greyjoy vision in ACOK.

"I dreamed that the sea was lapping all around Winterfell. I saw black waves crashing against the gates and towers, and then the salt water came flowing over the walls and filled the castle. - Bran V, ACOK

Moqorro has a vision of Euron sailing on a sea of blood.

"Have you seen these others in your fires?" he asked, warily.

"Only their shadows," Moqorro said. "One most of all. A tall and twisted thing with one black eye and ten long arms, sailing on a sea of blood." - Tyrion VIII, ADWD

Euron Greyjoy feels like a safe conclusion here.

Towers by the sea? House Hightower, with their white tower coat of arms, and their Hightower seat found in Oldtown is a good guess.

Shadows in the shape of skulls, skulls that turned to mist, bodies locked together in lust, writhing and rolling and clawing.

No clear answer on this one, but I think it's telling it comes between a Euron and Daenerys vision.

Through curtains of fire great winged shadows wheeled against a hard blue sky.

Drogon.

"It were the black one," the man said, in a Ghiscari growl, "the winged shadow. He come down from the sky and … and …" - Daenerys I, ADWD

+.+.+

The girl. I must find the girl again, the grey girl on the dying horse. Jon Snow would expect that of her, and soon. It would not be enough to say the girl was fleeing. He would want more, he would want the when and where, and she did not have that for him. She had seen the girl only once. A girl as grey as ash, and even as I watched she crumbled and blew away.

Whatever that means.

You know what I never noticed? The dying horse vision is back-to-back with Daenerys's pale mare.

Dying horseys delivering two very different things to Jon and Daenerys.

+.+.+

A face took shape within the hearth. Stannis? she thought, for just a moment … but no, these were not his features. A wooden face, corpse white. Was this the enemy? A thousand red eyes floated in the rising flames. He sees me. Beside him, a boy with a wolf's face threw back his head and howled.

Bloodraven and Bran.

I have been many things, Bran. Now I am as you see me, and now you will understand why I could not come to you … except in dreams. I have watched you for a long time, watched you with a thousand eyes and one. - Bran II, ADWD

x

If I was a wolf . . ." He howled. "Ooo-ooo-oooooooooooo." - Bran I, ACOK

+.+.+

The red priestess shuddered. Blood trickled down her thigh, black and smoking. The fire was inside her, an agony, an ecstasy, filling her, searing her, transforming her. Shimmers of heat traced patterns on her skin, insistent as a lover's hand. Strange voices called to her from days long past. "Melony," she heard a woman cry. A man's voice called, "Lot Seven." She was weeping, and her tears were flame. And still she drank it in.

Most people focus on the Melony and Lot Seven, but the entire passage appears to be pointing to her past.

Blood trickled down her thigh, black and smoking. The fire was inside her, an agony, an ecstasy, filling her, searing her, transforming her.

A miscarriage? The Daenerys vibes are strong.

Shimmers of heat traced patterns on her skin, insistent as a lover's hand.

That sounds like slave branding to me.

Benerro's high voice carried well. Tall and thin, he had a drawn face and skin white as milk. Flames had been tattooed across his cheeks and chin and shaven head to make a bright red mask that crackled about his eyes and coiled down and around his lipless mouth. "Is that a slave tattoo?" asked Tyrion. - Tyrion VII, ADWD

Strange voices called to her from days long past. "Melony," she heard a woman cry. A man's voice called, "Lot Seven." She was weeping, and her tears were flame. And still she drank it in.

Sold into slavery.

"Lot ninety-seven." The auctioneer snapped his whip. "A pair of dwarfs, well trained for your amusement." - Tyrion X, ADWD

+.+.+

Snowflakes swirled from a dark sky and ashes rose to meet them, the grey and the white whirling around each other as flaming arrows arced above a wooden wall and dead things shambled silent through the cold, beneath a great grey cliff where fires burned inside a hundred caves. Then the wind rose and the white mist came sweeping in, impossibly cold, and one by one the fires went out. Afterward only the skulls remained.

Death, thought Melisandre. The skulls are death.

The skulls are death? Thank you, Melisandre. Where would we be without you?

This is Hardhome.

Traders reported finding only nightmarish devastation where Hardhome had stood, a landscape of charred trees and burned bones, waters choked with swollen corpses, blood-chilling shrieks echoing from the cave mouths that pocked the great cliff that loomed above the settlement. - Jon VIII, ADWD

Ash and snowflakes mingling is usually Daenerys territory. Yay for more Daenerys & Others parallels!

+.+.+

The flames crackled softly, and in their crackling she heard the whispered name Jon Snow. His long face floated before her, limned in tongues of red and orange, appearing and disappearing again, a shadow half-seen behind a fluttering curtain. Now he was a man, now a wolf, now a man again. But the skulls were here as well, the skulls were all around him. Melisandre had seen his danger before, had tried to warn the boy of it. Enemies all around him, daggers in the dark. He would not listen.

Unbelievers never listened until it was too late.

"What do you see, my lady?" the boy asked, softly.

Skulls. A thousand skulls, and the bastard boy again. Jon Snow. 

His long face floated before her, limned in tongues of red and orange, appearing and disappearing again, a shadow half-seen behind a fluttering curtain.

That's shadow Jon riding his dragon beyond the curtain of light.

I'm sorry, I couldn't stop myself.

Now he was a man, now a wolf, now a man again.

Hints of resurrection.

But the skulls were here as well, the skulls were all around him. Melisandre had seen his danger before, had tried to warn the boy of it. Enemies all around him, daggers in the dark. He would not listen.

Daggers!

"For the Watch." Wick slashed at him again. This time Jon caught his wrist and bent his arm back until he dropped the dagger. - Jon XIII, ADWD

+.+.+

It was an art, and like all arts it demanded mastery, discipline, study. Pain. That too. R'hllor spoke to his chosen ones through blessed fire, in a language of ash and cinder and twisting flame that only a god could truly grasp. Melisandre had practiced her art for years beyond count, and she had paid the price.

Beyond count? Could you ballpark that.

+.+.+

There was no one, even in her order, who had her skill at seeing the secrets half-revealed and half-concealed within the sacred flames.

Yet Benerro has correctly identified Azor Ahai, while you stand next to a bum.

My memory is garbage, but I remember Moqorro being far more accurate with visions.

+.+.+

Yet now she could not even seem to find her king. I pray for a glimpse of Azor Ahai, and R'hllor shows me only Snow. 

That is the misdirection of a lifetime, and the fandom ate it up.

It's undeniable that Daenerys is Azor Ahai. Daenerys was in the vision.

+.+.+

"Thank you." Melisandre took a sip, swallowed, and gave the boy a smile. That made him blush. The boy was half in love with her, she knew. He fears me, he wants me, and he worships me.

All the same, Devan was not pleased to be here. The lad had taken great pride in serving as a king's squire, and it had wounded him when Stannis commanded him to remain at Castle Black. Like any boy his age, his head was full of dreams of glory; no doubt he had been picturing the prowess he would display at Deepwood Motte. Other boys his age had gone south, to serve as squires to the king's knights and ride into battle at their side. Devan's exclusion must have seemed a rebuke, a punishment for some failure on his part, or perhaps for some failure of his father.

In truth, he was here because Melisandre had asked for him. The four eldest sons of Davos Seaworth had perished in the battle on the Blackwater, when the king's fleet had been consumed by green fire. Devan was the fifthborn and safer here with her than at the king's side. Lord Davos would not thank her for it, no more than the boy himself, but it seemed to her that Seaworth had suffered enough grief. Misguided as he was, his loyalty to Stannis could not be doubted. She had seen that in her flames.

Another squire for Stannis Baratheon, Bryen Farring, dies when they're stuck at the crofter's village.

Something about this feels important. I've got this feeling she might come to regret having Devan near her.

It's Devan who is close to Shireen, not Davos. Devan, Shireen, and Edric took lessons together.

Devan? A good boy. He has much of you in him. - Davos IV, ASOS

+.+.+

Devan was quick and smart and able too, which was more than could be said about most of her attendants. Stannis had left a dozen of his men behind to serve her when he marched south, but most of them were useless. His Grace had need of every sword, so all he could spare were greybeards and cripples.

[...]

Having guards about her would no doubt help keep the black brothers properly respectful, the red priestess knew, but none of the men that Stannis had given her were like to be much help should she find herself in peril. It made no matter. Melisandre of Asshai did not fear for herself. R'hllor would protect her.

It doesn't end here, the chapter will continue to overstress how vulnerable she is. She's relying on her visions for protection, but she's horse shit at interpreting visions.

+.+.+

Dawn. Another day is given us, R'hllor be praised. The terrors of the night recede. Melisandre had spent the night in her chair by the fire, as she often did. With Stannis gone, her bed saw little use. She had no time for sleep, with the weight of the world upon her shoulders. 

Can we get Melisandre, Cersei, and Daenerys alone in a room together?

+.+.+

And she feared to dream. Sleep is a little death, dreams the whisperings of the Other, who would drag us all into his eternal night. She would sooner sit bathed in the ruddy glow of her red lord's blessed flames, her cheeks flushed by the wash of heat as if by a lover's kisses. Some nights she drowsed, but never for more than an hour. One day, Melisandre prayed, she would not sleep at all. One day she would be free of dreams. Melony, she thought. Lot Seven.

I don't think this has anything to do with the Others.

Melisandre doesn't like sleeping because she's carrying a lot of trauma from her past.

"Wine helps me sleep," Tyrion had protested. Wine drowns my dreams, he might have said. - Tyrion IV, ADWD

+.+.+

But beyond the Wall, the enemy grows stronger, and should he win the dawn will never come again. She wondered if it had been his face that she had seen, staring out at her from the flames. No. Surely not. His visage would be more frightening than that, cold and black and too terrible for any man to gaze upon and live. The wooden man she had glimpsed, though, and the boy with the wolf's face … they were his servants, surely … his champions, as Stannis was hers.

Melisandre believes the Other is a single enemy with servants. Probably more evidence that's not the case.

Hopefully Bran and Melisandre never meet.

+.+.+

"Does my lady wish to break her fast?" asked Devan.

Food. Yes, I should eat. Some days she forgot. R'hllor provided her with all the nourishment her body needed, but that was something best concealed from mortal men.

As opposed to immortal women?

+.+.+

Snow still chose to dwell behind the armory, in a pair of modest rooms previously occupied by the Watch's late blacksmith. Perhaps he did not think himself worthy of the King's Tower, or perhaps he did not care. That was his mistake, the false humility of youth that is itself a sort of pride. It was never wise for a ruler to eschew the trappings of power, for power itself flows in no small measure from such trappings.

Dippy Melisandre is capable of some wisdom every once in awhile.

+.+.+

While the boy was gone, Melisandre washed herself and changed her robes. Her sleeves were full of hidden pockets, and she checked them carefully as she did every morning to make certain all her powders were in place. Powders to turn fire green or blue or silver, powders to make a flame roar and hiss and leap up higher than a man is tall, powders to make smoke. A smoke for truth, a smoke for lust, a smoke for fear, and the thick black smoke that could kill a man outright. The red priestess armed herself with a pinch of each of them.

That's probably how she mind fucked Jon and Ghost.

+.+.+

The carved chest that she had brought across the narrow sea was more than three-quarters empty now. And while Melisandre had the knowledge to make more powders, she lacked many rare ingredients. My spells should suffice. She was stronger at the Wall, stronger even than in Asshai. Her every word and gesture was more potent, and she could do things that she had never done before. Such shadows as I bring forth here will be terrible, and no creature of the dark will stand before them. With such sorceries at her command, she should soon have no more need of the feeble tricks of alchemists and pyromancers.

Perfect climate to bring the dead back to life!

I'm surprised she never tries to bed Mance Rayder. Hell, maybe she did, I don't know.

+.+.+

The wildling wore a sleeveless jerkin of boiled leather dotted with bronze studs beneath a worn cloak mottled in shades of green and brown. No bones. He was cloaked in shadows too, in wisps of ragged grey mist, half-seen, sliding across his face and form with every step he took. Ugly things. As ugly as his bones.

Huh? This is the glamor right? Why does she find the shadows ugly?

+.+.+

Melisandre felt the warmth in the hollow of her throat as her ruby stirred at the closeness of its slave.

And what would that make you Melisandre?

Let's add Melisandre to the list of characters who need a therapist.

+.+.+

"A few. I was eating bean-and-bacon soup whilst Bowen Marsh was going on about the high ground. The Old Pomegranate thought that I was spying on him and announced that he would not suffer murderers listening to their councils. I told him that if that was true, maybe they shouldn't have them by the fire. Bowen turned red and made some choking sounds, but that was as far as it went."

Does Bowen Marsh not like anyone listening to his private conversations?

+.+.+

Melisandre paid the naked steel no mind. If the wildling had meant her harm, she would have seen it in her flames. Danger to her own person was the first thing she had learned to see, back when she was still half a child, a slave girl bound for life to the great red temple. It was still the first thing she looked for whenever she gazed into a fire. 

Let's go back. What was the first thing the flames showed her?

She saw the eyeless faces again, staring out at her from sockets weeping blood.

I know it's silly to doubt one of the more obvious visions, but I have to question whether she's seeing the Weeper's Work or a weirwood tree. The trees are not her friend!

If it's not that, I can't see any other threat to her life, unless it's Jon.

+.+.+

"The glamor, aye." In the black iron fetter about his wrist, the ruby seemed to pulse. He tapped it with the edge of his blade. The steel made a faint click against the stone. "I feel it when I sleep. Warm against my skin, even through the iron. Soft as a woman's kiss. Your kiss. But sometimes in my dreams it starts to burn, and your lips turn into teeth. Every day I think how easy it would be to pry it out, and every day I don't. Must I wear the bloody bones as well?"

I don't know, maybe we shouldn't play with fire.

A rising heat puffed at her face, soft and sudden as a lover's breath, but in seconds it had grown too hot to bear. Dany stepped backward. - Daenerys X, AGOT

+.+.+

The wildling began to scrape the dirt out from beneath his nails with the point of his dagger. "I've sung my songs, fought my battles, drunk summer wine, tasted the Dornishman's wife. A man should die the way he's lived. For me that's steel in hand."

Does he dream of death? Could the enemy have touched him? Death is his domain, the dead his soldiers. 

Is she terrified of dying? Is that why she won’t let herself die?

+.+.+

Melisandre nodded solemnly, as if she had taken his words to heart, but this Weeper did not matter. None of his free folk mattered. They were a lost people, a doomed people, destined to vanish from the earth, as the children of the forest had vanished. Those were not words he would wish to hear, though, and she could not risk losing him, not now.

Thank god Stannis and Melisandre came to the Wall to save humanity. The two best people for the job, I think.

+.+.+

"The girl," she said. "A girl in grey on a dying horse. Jon Snow's sister." Who else could it be? She was racing to him for protection, that much Melisandre had seen clearly. "I have seen her in my flames, but only once. We must win the lord commander's trust, and the only way to do that is to save her."

Important to note, the vision never revealed to Melisandre that the girl is Jon's sister, and she's fleeing from a marriage. Those are details she added after learning about Ramsay's letters. She made an assumption.

It might end up being true, but it's not a certainty.

+.+.+

"If your stiff-necked lord commander will allow it. Did your fires show you where to find this girl?"

It's never made clear why Mance would help Jon. I don't know if that's poor writing, or whether I should be wary of that.

+.+.+

"I saw water. Deep and blue and still, with a thin coat of ice just forming on it. It seemed to go on and on forever."

"Long Lake. What else did you see around this girl?"

"Hills. Fields. Trees. A deer, once. Stones. She is staying well away from villages. When she can she rides along the bed of little streams, to throw hunters off her trail."

He frowned. "That will make it difficult. She was coming north, you said. Was the lake to her east or to her west?"

Melisandre closed her eyes, remembering. "West."

"She is not coming up the kingsroad, then. Clever girl. There are fewer watchers on the other side, and more cover. And some hidey-holes I have used myself from time—" 

It's time!

I'm not covering a lot of new ground here. Shoutout to The Jonsa Compendium for doing all the hard work.

Who is the girl in grey? We will be examining five candidates. I will try to remain impartial, but obviously I have a horse in this race.

Things We Know*:

*we don't really know, this is dippy Melisandre we're dealing with.

The girl in grey is wearing grey. A girl as grey as ash. However, there is room for error.

At night all robes are grey. - Jon VI, ADWD

The girl in grey is fleeing on a dying horse.

The girl in grey is racing to Jon for protection.

The girl in grey is a clever girl.

The girl in grey is travelling along the east of Long Lake, to avoid the kingsroad, villages, and hunters.

Melisandre claims the girl in grey is Jon's sister fleeing from an unwanted marriage. That is not confirmed.

Behold! A map for reference.

Candidate #1: ARYA STARK

Melisandre is not actually seeing Arya, that's the whole fucking point.

Candidate #2: ALYS KARSTARK

Supporting evidence

Alys is tall, skinny, and coltish. She has a long face, blue-grey eyes, and long brown hair. The Karstarks have the Stark look, therefore it would be easy for Melisandre to mistake her for Jon's sister.

Alys flees Karhold to avoid marrying Cregan Karstark.

Ty and Dannel find a weakened Alys in Mole's Town, riding a dying horse.

"None, m'lord. She come alone. Her horse was dying under her. All skin and ribs it was, lame and lathered. They cut it loose and took the girl for questioning." - Jon IX, ADWD

Counterevidence

Please refer to the map.

Alys Karstark never travels anywhere near Long Lake. The only body of water close to her (hardly) is The Last River. It's a river, not a lake. It wouldn't be still water.

It's a little strange the text never specifies what Alys is wearing when she arrives. There's no grey to be found. The only time her clothing is ever highlighted, she's wearing a Night's Watch black cloak.

The girl was curled up near the fire, wrapped in a black woolen cloak three times her size and fast asleep. - Jon IX, ADWD

Candidate #3: JEYNE POOLE

Supporting evidence

Jeyne Poole is currently pretending to be Arya Stark.

Jeyne is fleeing from her marriage to Ramsay Bolton.

Jeyne is currently on her way to the Wall. Stannis sends Jeyne to the Wall with an escort of 6 men, 12 horses, and Alysane Mormont.

Jeyne is wearing grey roughspun, with a brown cloak. This could be evidence or counterevidence, depending on your point of view.

Clad as serving girls in layers of drab grey roughspun, they wore brown woolen cloaks lined with white rabbit fur. - Theon I, ADWD

Counterevidence

Please refer to the map.

For Jeyne Poole to get east of Long Lake, she would have to pass Winterfell, cross the kingsroad, and then cross the lake itself. That is suicide.

Why are we not seeing Jeyne's escort in this vision? (Counterpoint: They could be dead.)

She's currently wearing a brown cloak.

Candidate #4: ASHA GREYJOY

Supporting evidence

A girl as grey as ash = Asha Greyjoy.

Asha is a prisoner of Stannis Baratheon's. They're in a crofter's village between two smaller lakes that have frozen over.

Her irons clanked as she climbed to her feet and took a breath of the icy morning air. The snow was still falling, even more heavily than when she'd crawled inside the tent. The lakes had vanished, and the woods as well. - The Sacrifice, ADWD

If the vision is accurate, and the girl is travelling solo, it's feasible Asha could survive this trip by herself.

The horses Asha has access to aren't doing so well.

And there was no food, beyond their failing horses, fish taken from the lakes (fewer every day), and whatever meagre sustenance their foragers could find in these cold, dead woods. - The Sacrifice, ADWD

It's possible this was foreshadowed. (Counterpoint: It could have been chapter transition foreshadowing. Sansa had the next chapter.)

"Ten," Asha corrected. "The others return with me. You wouldn't want your own sweet sister to brave the dangers of the wood without an escort, would you? There are direwolves prowling the dark." - Theon V, ACOK

Counterevidence

Please refer to the map.

For Asha Greyjoy to get east of Long Lake, she would have to first escape Stannis, pass Winterfell, cross the kingsroad, and then cross the lake itself. That is suicide.

Asha Greyjoy is our only non-northern candidate. Does she even know how to get to the Wall while avoiding major roads and villages?

Why would a Greyjoy ever flee towards the Wall after escaping from Stannis? That's Stannis Baratheon's home base, they don't take women, they wouldn't help her, and a Stark is the Lord Commander. Seems far more likely she'd go to a coast if she were to escape.

Asha is almost 10 years older than Jon. Is Melisandre capable of mistaking her for a younger sister?

It's not evident from Asha's or Theon's chapters that she's wearing grey.

Despite her forced marriage, she wouldn't technically be fleeing from an unwanted marriage. (Counterpoint: The girl fleeing from an unwanted marriage might not be accurate.)

Candidate #5: SANSA STARK

Oh boy! The last person you would expect.

Supporting evidence

Sansa is Jon's younger sister. For now.

Petyr plans to marry Sansa to himself or to Harrold Hardyng.

Alys Karstark was running from a marriage to her uncle that isn't really her uncle. The man wanted to claim her castle. You might be able to spot a few amusing Sansa parallels.

Grey and white are the Stark colours. It's a colour you often see Sansa wearing.

Sansa threw a plain grey cloak over her shoulders and picked up the knife she used to cut her meat. - Sansa II, ACOK

x

And it was a woman's gown, not a little girl's, there was no doubt of that. The bodice was slashed in front almost to her belly, the deep vee covered over with a panel of ornate Myrish lace in dove-grey. - Sansa III, ASOS

x

. . . and when they come together for his wedding, and you come out with your long auburn hair, clad in a maiden's cloak of white and grey with a direwolf emblazoned on the back . . .  - Alayne II, AFFC

If she was coming from White Harbor, Sansa is the only girl of these five that would travel east of Long Lake.

Sansa is a clever girl. Sansa would not travel along the kingsroad. [She is not coming up the kingsroad, then. Clever girl.]

Dontos chuckled. "My Jonquil's a clever girl, isn't she?" - Sansa IV, ACOK

x

"There's a clever girl." - Sansa VI, ASOS

x

Sers, the Lady Alayne, my natural and very clever daughter - Alayne II, AFFC

x

"What a clever daughter you are." - Alayne I, TWOW

x

"No one told me you were clever." - Alayne I, TWOW

Melisandre sees Stones. [Hills. Fields. Trees. A deer, once. Stones.]

I won't include every example, but this is foreshadowed throughout the rest of the series.

"I never knew a wolf to run up a streambed for miles," said Reek. "A man might. If he knew he was being hunted, he might. But a wolf?" - Theon IV, ACOK

x

The Liddle took out a knife and whittled at a stick. "When there was a Stark in Winterfell, a maiden girl could walk the kingsroad in her name-day gown and still go unmolested, and travelers could find fire, bread, and salt at many an inn and holdfast. - Bran II, ASOS

x

If Dontos and this northern girl helped murder our sweet king, it seems to me that they would want to put as many leagues as they could betwixt themselves and justice. Look for them in Oldtown, if you must, or across the narrow sea. Look for them in Dorne, or on the Wall. Look elsewhere. - Brienne II, AFFC

x

Or would she seek her own blood instead? Though all of her siblings had been slain, Brienne knew that Sansa still had an uncle and a bastard half brother on the Wall, serving in the Night's Watch. Another uncle, Edmure Tully, was a captive at the Twins, but his uncle Ser Brynden still held Riverrun. And Lady Catelyn's younger sister ruled the Vale. Blood calls to blood. Sansa might well have run to one of them. Which one, though? - Brienne II, AFFC

This happened on the television show.

Counterevidence.

Sansa would never willingly ride a horse. I'm sorry, I'll be serious.

Where is her escort in this vision? I love me some Sansa Stark, but she does not have the skill set to travel solo in these conditions for this long of a distance.

Unless the weather is horrendous, it's safer and faster for Sansa to take a ship from White Harbor to Eastwatch-by-the-Sea than to travel through the north. (Counterpoint: the weather is horrendous. Ships are sinking left and right.)

Wyman Manderly is #1 Stark Fan. Why would Sansa leave White Harbor for the Wall when Jon can't truly help her? Why would Wyman Manderly let her go? (Counterpoint: Blood calls to blood.)

In conclusion, it's Sansa. The end.

+.+.+

The day has come, the red priestess thought. Lord Snow will have to listen to me now.

[...]

"Lord Snow has need of me, beyond the Wall." He does not know it yet, but soon …

It would be funny if she didn't even revive him.

I love the idea of her being forever useless.

+.+.+

Queen's men [Morgan and Merrel], at least in name, both had a healthy fear of her, and Merrel could be formidable when he was not drunk. She would have no need of them today, but Melisandre made it a point to keep a pair of guards about her everywhere she went. It sent a certain message. The trappings of power.

They're not great guards, but it will still be difficult to kill her. Unlike, say, Jon.

For the record, Devan spends almost the entire chapter at her side.

+.+.+

The spears were eight feet long and made of ash. The one on the left had a slight crook, but the other two were smooth and straight. At the top of each was impaled a severed head. Their beards were full of ice, and the falling snow had given them white hoods. Where their eyes had been, only empty sockets remained, black and bloody holes that stared down in silent accusation.

[...]

Bowen Marsh's cheeks were red with cold. "We should never have sent out rangers."

"This is not the time and place to pick at that wound. Not here, my lord. Not now." To the men struggling with the spears Snow said, "Take the heads and burn them. Leave nothing but bare bone." Only then did he seem to notice Melisandre. "My lady. Walk with me, if you would."

Update: pomegranate still unhappy.

+.+.+

The priestess did not speak, but she slowed her pace deliberately, and where she walked the ice began to drip. He will not fail to notice that.

I'm laughing because that would creep him out more than anything.

+.+.+

"What of the other six?"

"I have not seen them," Melisandre said.

"Will you look?"

"Of course, my lord."

Alliser Thorne is the only missing man we care about.

+.+.+

"We've had a raven from Ser Denys Mallister at the Shadow Tower," Jon Snow told her. "His men have seen fires in the mountains on the far side of the Gorge. Wildlings massing, Ser Denys believes. He thinks they are going to try to force the Bridge of Skulls again."

"Some may." Could the skulls in her vision have signified this bridge? Somehow Melisandre did not think so. 

The gift this woman has.

+.+.+

"If it comes, that attack will be no more than a diversion. I saw towers by the sea, submerged beneath a black and bloody tide. That is where the heaviest blow will fall."

"Eastwatch?"

Was it? Melisandre had seen Eastwatch-by-the-Sea with King Stannis. That was where His Grace left Queen Selyse and their daughter Shireen when he assembled his knights for the march to Castle Black. The towers in her fire had been different, but that was oft the way with visions. "Yes. Eastwatch, my lord."

The best there is, the best there was, and the best there ever will be.

+.+.+

"When?"

She spread her hands. "On the morrow. In a moon's turn. In a year. And it may be that if you act, you may avert what I have seen entirely." Else what would be the point of visions?

That's definitely not the case in this story.

You can't forestall prophecy. There's no playing god.

+.+.+

"Is it true, m'lord?" said Three-Finger Hobb.

"Who is it?" asked Owen the Oaf. "Not Dywen, is it?"

"Nor Garth," said the queen's man she knew as Alf of Runnymudd, one of the first to exchange his seven false gods for the truth of R'hllor. "Garth's too clever for them wildlings."

"How many?" Mully asked.

"Three," Jon told them. "Black Jack, Hairy Hal, and Garth."

Alf of Runnymudd let out a howl loud enough to wake sleepers in the Shadow Tower. "Put him to bed and get some mulled wine into him," Jon told Three-Finger Hobb.

What? How is a person in the Night's Watch a queen's man?

In a later chapter Alf will be seen sitting with Bowen Marsh and Wick Whittlestick.

+.+.+

The snow fell all around them. She walked as close to Jon Snow as she dared, close enough to feel the mistrust pouring off him like a black fog. He does not love me, will never love me, but he will make use of me. Well and good. Melisandre had danced the same dance with Stannis Baratheon, back in the beginning. In truth, the young lord commander and her king had more in common than either one would ever be willing to admit. Stannis had been a younger son living in the shadow of his elder brother, just as Jon Snow, bastard-born, had always been eclipsed by his trueborn sibling, the fallen hero men had called the Young Wolf. Both men were unbelievers by nature, mistrustful, suspicious. The only gods they truly worshiped were honor and duty.

They both need to work on their interpersonal skills, but that's as far as I'll go.

He does not love me, will never love me, but he will make use of me.

More resurrection!

How much do we love that Jon can't stand Stannis and Melisandre? I wonder if that's telling us anything about the future.

+.+.+

"What are you doing here?"

"Breaking my fast. You're welcome to share."

"I'll not break bread with you."

That's Mance still wearing the Rattleshirt glamor.

Jon wouldn't break bread with Craster either.

+.+.+

"I could visit you as easily, my lord. Those guards at your door are a bad jape. 

We can't go one chapter at the Wall without being told Jon's a sitting duck.

+.+.+

"I heard about your rangers. You should have sent me with them."

"So you could betray them to the Weeper?"

"Are we talking about betrayals? What was the name of that wildling wife of yours, Snow? Ygritte, wasn't it?" The wildling turned to Melisandre. "I will need horses. Half a dozen good ones. And this is nothing I can do alone. Some of the spearwives penned up at Mole's Town should serve. Women would be best for this. The girl's more like to trust them, and they will help me carry off a certain ploy I have in mind."

I'm searching for real animosity between Mance and Jon, but there isn't much other than the above.

The girl's more like to trust them, and they will help me carry off a certain ploy I have in mind.

Why go to Winterfell? Why not camp out near Long Lake? It's like he's asking to die. I don't get it.

+.+.+

He leaves me no choice. So be it. "Devan, leave us," she said, and the squire slipped away and closed the door behind him.

Melisandre touched the ruby at her neck and spoke a word.

The sound echoed queerly from the corners of the room and twisted like a worm inside their ears. The wildling heard one word, the crow another. Neither was the word that left her lips. The ruby on the wildling's wrist darkened, and the wisps of light and shadow around him writhed and faded.

[...]

Jon Snow's grey eyes grew wider. "Mance?"

"Lord Snow." Mance Rayder did not smile.

"She burned you."

"She burned the Lord of Bones."

Covered in the previous Jon chapter, but I'll repeat. We have to be on alert whenever Melisandre's speaking in another person's POV.

"Westeros has but one king," said Stannis. His voice rang harsh, with none of Melisandre's music. - Jon III, ADWD

x

"Ghost." Melisandre made the word a song. - Jon VI, ADWD

+.+.+

Jon Snow turned to Melisandre. "What sorcery is this?"

"Call it what you will. Glamor, seeming, illusion. R'hllor is Lord of Light, Jon Snow, and it is given to his servants to weave with it, as others weave with thread."

[...]

"The bones help," said Melisandre. "The bones remember. The strongest glamors are built of such things. A dead man's boots, a hank of hair, a bag of fingerbones. With whispered words and prayer, a man's shadow can be drawn forth from such and draped about another like a cloak. The wearer's essence does not change, only his seeming."

There's no way she has Davos Seaworth's fingers, but it's enough to make you pause.

A hank of hair was used on the show to help wake Jon, and there's often focus on a dead man's boots, so maybe this is telling us something.

+.+.+

She made it sound a simple thing, and easy. They need never know how difficult it had been, or how much it had cost her. That was a lesson Melisandre had learned long before Asshai; the more effortless the sorcery appears, the more men fear the sorcerer. When the flames had licked at Rattleshirt, the ruby at her throat had grown so hot that she had feared her own flesh might start to smoke and blacken. Thankfully Lord Snow had delivered her from that agony with his arrows. Whilst Stannis had seethed at the defiance, she had shuddered with relief.

What am I supposed to do with this information? Is she going to hurt herself casting spells?

+.+.+

"Our false king has a prickly manner," Melisandre told Jon Snow, "but he will not betray you. We hold his son, remember. And he owes you his very life."

"Me?" Snow sounded startled.

"Who else, my lord? Only his life's blood could pay for his crimes, your laws said, and Stannis Baratheon is not a man to go against the law … but as you said so sagely, the laws of men end at the Wall. I told you that the Lord of Light would hear your prayers. You wanted a way to save your little sister and still hold fast to the honor that means so much to you, to the vows you swore before your wooden god." She pointed with a pale finger. "There he stands, Lord Snow. Arya's deliverance. A gift from the Lord of Light … and me."

That doesn't feel like a great deterrent. Melisandre and Val are aware that's not Mance's child.

"His milk name. I had to call him something. See that he stays safe and warm. For his mother's sake, and mine. And keep him away from the red woman. She knows who he is. She sees things in her fires." - Jon VIII, ADWD

If they know, I lean towards Mance also being aware.

Anyway, beware of gifts.

Final thoughts:

One and done for dippy Melisandre. I'll miss you, you crazy witch.

More and more POVs are ending, and it's making me weirdly emotional.

Brienne

Samwell

Davos

Melisandre

Bran

Of course it's the good POVs.

-> return to menu <-

[grecoisms]

title: as all the heavens were a bell

pairing: aemond targaryen x helaena targaryen

rating: E

summary: "After the coronation, he finds Helaena in her old childhood room, by the window, looking out."

After the coronation, he finds Helaena in her old childhood room, by the window, looking out. Even from the door he stands at, he can see there is a strange strain in her neck, a curve that warns of a headache, her longtime companion since her early days. She had a habit shutting herself off completely when the pain became intolerable, gotten so good at it, in fact, that she mastered being mostly void to the happenings around her. It is a rarity, Aemond thinks, to be so consciously unaware in an environment where most people played chess with themselves and each other, ready to strive and strike at any given moment – ever aware what to do and what to pay to bring the other down. It is a trait he admires in Helaena. It is one of many.

„Aegon told me about your fight” she says suddenly, quietly, into the heart of the room, the silence. Aemond startles despite himself – he thought her in a trance. „Did he really spit on you?”

Helaena turns, her clothes rustling so softly, her body swaying so gently in the dim gold of the dusk. From any other, he would think an insult, but from his sister, this is a simple query. In the stern surrounding of the today and the now she is still someone soft, someone whose softness softens him as well, whenever he is near her.

This room is impossible in this city, in this castle; the air thick with unmitigated tenderness.

Prudently, he looks around, and up and down the corridor before he steps inside, uninvited, but then again, they need not invitation into each other’s lives, they neved did. They simply dwelled there, in each other. They have been, ever since he was born. He likes to think he knows her the most, the best of all. As much as one can truly know Helaena.

Her gaze is still fixed on him when he closes the space between them, slowly, surely – but before he can lift a finger to touch her (and burn, and burn, and burn), she evades him, stepping aside. In the middle of the room, and in between them lies a narrow refectory, dark and modest, where she used to keep all sorts of haberdashery: old coins, torn papers, drawings, buttons, butterfly wing collection from Braavos, sweets and a book on tales of old, worn and faded and so beloved.

It is empty now – stretching between the two of them, her on one side and him on the other – and when he steps to one side, she mirrors him, only it’s all inversed, the opposite.

Helaena’s eyes are always slightly more focused when there is only the two of them, alone. Now they are a shade darker too, dangerous, as if she was angry at him (as if she could be). Still, he stops dead in his track. Shifts his weight from one foot to the other. Waits. Prepares.

„He hid, didn’t he?” her voice is low as if she was telling a secret not preparing to accuse him. „He hid to flee and fled to hide – would have, could have.”

There is a pause. Length of a heartbeat. Aemond doesn’t deem to break it yet.

„The Stranger is in the house. It is wearing the crown.” she sniffs in the air. „It stinks of power. We will all reek of it soon.”

In the one, faithful moment the crown touched Aegon’s head, Helaena turned away, from it and to him, as if she could taste the sour outlines of bitter disappointment coming in waves off him. As if she could soothe the ache. As if she could see beyond what was happening. That is when she started to whisper, tilting her head towards his, her mouth hovering near the slope of his shoulders – like a willow to wind, like roots to water. It seems her monologue at the coronation didn’t reach its end with the ceremony.

Aemond takes a tentative step again but Helaena is alert, she is moving too.

„Hel” he says, not unkindly. He wishes there wasn’t an edge coloring his voice. „You think it didn’t cross my mind?”

„Cross?” she shakes her head, a waterfall of silvergold. „No, dance. Dancing till we gorge on it. Till it ends, and –”

She is hugging herself now, the night of her mind winning.

In the not so distant past, there were many times her head got so bad she writhed on the floor or heaved helplessly above her basin, temple feverish and body taut. No milk of the poppy would make the voices go away – and so often, ever since he knew himself, Helaena would pour out some half-said, all-meant, never-understood sea of words that didn’t quite fit, didn’t quite comfort – their depth both exceptional and haunting. More frightening still, was the moment of the after when a chronic sort of catatonia would possess her, and she fell into a silence one could only experience in the pinpoint seconds before Vhagar stood up and spread her wings.  

Such was the silence between them now. Heavy and foreign, like a new language. In this room, this light lit by the fire, her eyes are bright, her eyes are dark - an Essos-jewel. Even after their family dinner - where the king unmasked himself for all of them to see, and then he unmasked the others to make sure the ugliness would not stay hidden – he found her more pliable, able to speak their common tongue, not necessarily Valyrian, but the language only they could speak to one another, together.

„Mijegindita lēkia” she says kindly. His breath hitches – she isn’t angry. Poor brother. Helaena pities him. „Doesn’t know what he wants.”

An absolute truth should exist, but Helaena sees only a reflection, halved and hollowed as his eyes. There is a shadow clouding her mind and his now, hers from fright and his from jealousy.

"That is not true" he bites down on the bile coming up his throat. Rabid dog, that's what Aegon calls him of late, wanting it to hurt. But Aemond doesn’t care what Aegon thinks. The same isn’t true when it comes to Helaena.

„What we cannot have, we always crave” she says quietly.

"I said, it is not true."

"Isn't it?" she shots back, surprisingly quick. "What do you wish for?"

Wish... such a gentle word. No, Aemond doesn't wish for anything, nor does he want. It's not a simple craving, it is more like a need, a beast of its own.

„Is it not the throne you want then?” she tilts her head, examines her as if he was one of her beloved bugs, a species of its own. „The power, the adoration, the respect…”

Only the flames echo some whisper in the pause that follows. She is now waiting to land the killing blow, he knows this.

„The love?”

Her eyes are sad and worse, they are far, they look beyond again, through him, as if he was air and not here, as if she didn’t –

It is foolish to step sideways again, so Aemond decides to leap and jump over the refectory, right where she is. She is quick to recoil, like a spring-snake, but he catches her - he has always been there to catch her. On rare occasions, when they are away from court, far from King's Landing on some remote cliff, in a simple garden where everything smells like childhood and home - when the fury dries up in him, he imagines they are plain people with uncomplicated lives. One where he has both his eyes and she is not bound to another. But where is that life?

Helaena has the heart to laugh, but it is desperate and mocking, as he grabs her by the waist, and there is one hand on his neck and in his hair already, pulling, pulling, pulling.

That life is not here. It never was.

"Umbagon, mandia!" he snarls, commanding her to stay still, something feral entering his heart. A queen, the queen of the seven kingdoms, under him with eyes that outshine all, shine only for him. He was the first to be made to kneel when they placed the crown on her head and placed her above all. Little did their mother and their grandfather and even that idiot Aegon know that Aemond has long knelt before her, in the closed spaces of her room or his; in the places where they spoke only through moans and sighs, the telltale beatings of their hearts. The places where only bodies may speak.

Helaena is pulling his hair back now, her hand small and sure, and she makes a movement where it is unclear whether she wants to pull him in or push him out. The sensation of her fingers and the thought of this makes his tongue curl back in his mouth, his blood suddenly hot and heavy. Her face is so very close. Focused in its fight.

He manages to catch her other hand, the one that was crawling on his neck, stretches her palm, and with one, long lap, licks the slope of it.

She whimpers, returning to here and now. The need, the hunger. He can see it in the blackest pitch of her eyes, the sudden slacking slope of her brows.

"Hel" he murmurs gently now, looking down. She has tipped his head back with her hand, so he can see a slanted side of her, a mirage. He can see her eyes, darkened by desire; and her palm, wet from his spit. If he could, he would eat her up. "I need more. You know this. I need it."

There are mere inches between their faces. Up this close, he believes Helaena also wants, Helaena also needs -

"Aemond" she always says his name so uniquely, like a blooming secret. Shuddering, he realizes she knew him by his name before it was given to him. "Brother, how pale you are." She rubs her wet palm on his cheek, slowly, like she wants to memorize. "You look like nobody on this earth."

At last, a permission. And the kiss he gives her is searing, the kind that leaves a mark, that will hurt in the morning.

„Where is he?” he asks, meaning Aegon, meaning Otto, but he cannot quite care, not when he is already lowering her down, body spread, hair spilled – near the fire which they both like to dwell. His breath is laboured, he feels as if he is fighting for his life. Perhaps, in some way, he is.

Helaena, on the other hand, is calmness personified. Absentmindedly, she touches his hair, brings strands of it to her mouth and kisses them.

„They will never come back the same way” she answers between the brushes. „Would you care if Aegon saw us?”

„Please, don’t say his name here.”

She stops.

„Would you care?” her eyes are so clear now, so sharp. He can almost see himself in them.

Aemond has been half-erect since he stepped in her room, and his state has only gotten worse since she got her hands on him. It is such a surprise, he thinks as he lowers onto her body, into its soft form, its heat - kissing Helaena feels like the most natural thing in his life, and yet even after years of melting into her heat is not enough, never enough.

„Hm” he cups her left breast through her sapphire dress, while working his other arm through the layers of her skirt. He prepares to answer her something clever and coherent, just to make her laugh, but his breath hitches when he his fingers finally find her core.

She is soaking wet.

„Gods” he says, but maybe it is her, or he is just thinking it, because he is already inside, three of his fingers sliding so easily his mouth waters. Helaena’s spine goes rigid, as if she was in her trance, as if she was taken, her breath hitching.

„You haven’t answered me” she says in between two sighs, reaching for his breeches, an instict.

„What?” his mind feels empty, his body light. He wouldn’t care if their mother turned up from behind the fireplace with the high septon at her heels.

He’s so hard it aches.

„Would you care?”

She has taken him into her hands and his vision falters a bit at the sensation – he thinks she hears her giggle, a heavenly sound.

„Gods” he hisses again, closing his one remaining eye. She is working him already, and he is impatient, always been, but that doesn’t mean –

„Aemond” her voice is everywhere. He likes to imagine her as some sort of winged animal, her body folding like ten-thousand wings around him. „Answer me.” He hums, but cannot speak, his body numb. Far off, as if from another world, he feels her hand driving into his hair, and his own hips bucking against her palm, powerless.

"Stop” he groans. Forces his eye to open and tears his eyepatch with the other, sapphire on sapphire. From the sheer force of his grip, her dress has twisted up in what seem like smaller knots. „Not like this.”

„Do you need something else?”

And her mouth actually twitches, (oh, she might be about to smirk now, he thinks, equally proud and shocked at her bravado) but there is no time or room to answer, not for real. He turns her around, pushing her down hard against the wooden floor as he sinks inside of her. She is moaning, smile gone, and her muscles flutter around him, and he is moaning too as a reply, burying his face into her silver hair and her golden smell.

She gasps as he settles all of himself, mewling softly.

"I should have done this at the coronation" he says, drawing himself out slowly. It’s a miracle he is sentient enough to talk, but suddenly the words spill out – a confession. "While they burnt father and Aegon kneeled. I wanted to take you then and there, right after the dragon breathed at us and we could see fate so close. Did that cross your mind, my love?”

She whimpers when he speeds his pace. Helaena feels feverish wrapped against him, inside and out, and she is so tight that he grits his teeth to keep from coming before he finishes talking.

But instead, she talks, voice low, voice hoarse.

"You always cross my mind. You are always inside.”

As a reward, his hips slam hard against hers, and she weeps, pain mixed with pleasure.

She turns to speak again but he winds his hand in her hair, mirroring her actions before, pulling it back as he fucks her. Their movements are messy now, uncoordinated as they near release. He wants to say her name, but thinks it only – before leaning down completely and biting her shoulder hard – and she whines, and she tightens and she clenches; and he is gone. He comes with a shout on his lips and his hands on her plum hips.

In the aftermath of coupling, it’s always so vulnerable, so clear. Aemond even lets his eye close in these moments, and he knows Helaena will sleep soon, her mind at peace when his head rests on her chest. Between them, there is no childhood room to hide your face or cover the strange, unsavory part of the truth.

No absolute truth exists.  

Some separate, unknown ones live on though, hidden in the cavities of such moments, rearing their hollow, hushed heads.

A truth: who Helaena lies with at night.

Another: whose children – so dear to some - she bore to a brand new, raw daylight.

[hyacinthyne]

Arya Stark Month 2022 : Day 1: Nature Motifs

Arya Stark + Trees

-

Referred to as a squirrel

"Little one," Greenbeard answered, "a peasant may skin a common squirrel for his pot, but if he finds a gold squirrel in his tree he takes it to his lord, or he will wish he did.""

I'm not a squirrel," Arya insisted.

"You are." Greenbeard laughed. "A little gold squirrel who's off to see the lightning lord, whether she wills it or not. He'll know what's to be done with you. I'll wager he sends you back to your lady mother, just as you wish."

-

The Acorn Dress

And afterward, they insisted she dress herself in girl's things, brown woolen stockings and a light linen shift, and over that a light green gown with acorns embroidered all over the bodice in brown thread, and more acorns bordering the hem.

-

"Riverrun." Gendry put the hammer down and looked at her. "You look different now. Like a proper little girl."

"I look like an oak tree, with all these stupid acorns."

"Nice, though. A nice oak tree." He stepped closer, and sniffed at her. "You even smell nice for a change."

"You don't. You stink." Arya shoved him back against the anvil and made to run, but Gendry caught her arm. She stuck a foot between his legs and tripped him, but he yanked her down with him, and they rolled across the floor of the smithy. He was very strong, but she was quicker. Every time he tried to hold her still she wriggled free and punched him. Gendry only laughed at the blows, which made her mad. He finally caught both her wrists in one hand and started to tickle her with the other, so Arya slammed her knee between his legs, and wrenched free. Both of them were covered in dirt, and one sleeve was torn on her stupid acorn dress. 

"I bet I don't look so nice now," she shouted.

Just like in the song, Gendry asserts that she resembles a “proper little girl” ( For you shall be my lady love, And I shall be your lord), but Arya rejects this image, self-deprecatingly calling herself an oak tree. In the song, the implication is that after rejecting this image of a lady, they share a “forest love”. After Arya and Gendry bicker, she shoves him, he pulls her down with him and they wrestle.

Upon returning to the hall, the Maiden of the Tree song plays, Tom Sevenstrings and Lady Smallwood tease of Arya’s resemblance to the maiden of the song.

Tom winked at her as he sang:

"I have no gowns of leaves," said Lady Smallwood with a small fond smile, "but Carellen left some other dresses that might serve. Come, child, let us go upstairs and see what we can find."

The song is theorized to be about Jenny of Oldstones and Duncan Targaryen.  Jenny was an unconventional girl, who wore flowers in her, was described by some as being mad and was rumored to have been a witch.

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Proxies: Willow Heddle

Willow is, of course, a tree name. This could likely be a nod to the Maiden of the Tree or even to the Brotherhood without Banners finding Arya in a willow tree. Many readers interpret Brienne’s chapter to be suggesting that the inn has a second function: to find Arya Stark amid the children of the Riverlands. 

The common room was crawling with children. Brienne tried to count them, but they would not stand still even for an instant, so she counted some of them twice or thrice and others not at all, until she finally gave it up. They had pushed the tables together in three long rows, and the older boys were wrestling benches from the back. Older here meant ten or twelve. Gendry was the closest thing to a man grown, but it was Willow shouting all the orders, as if she were a queen in her castle and the other children were no more than servants.

If she were highborn, command would come naturally to her, and deference to them. Brienne wondered whether Willow might be more than she appeared. The girl was too young and too plain to be Sansa Stark, but she was of the right age to be the younger sister, and even Lady Catelyn had said that Arya lacked her sister's beauty. Brown hair, brown eyes, skinny . . . could it be? Arya Stark's hair was brown, she recalled, but Brienne was not sure of the color of her eyes. Brown and brown, was that it? Could it be that she did not die at Saltpans after all?

 Willow takes on a role in Gendry’s story that resembles Arya’s.

Septon Meribald answered. "Lady Brienne is a warrior maid upon a quest. Just now, though, she is in need of a dry bed and a warm fire. As are we all. My old bones say it's going to rain again, and soon. Do you have rooms for us?"

"No," said the boy smith. "Yes," said the girl Willow.They glared at one another. Then Willow stomped her foot. "They have food, Gendry. The little ones are hungry." She whistled, and more children appeared as if by magic; ragged boys with unshorn locks crept from under the porch, and furtive girls appeared in the windows overlooking the yard. Some clutched crossbows, wound and loaded.

She is even implied to be his future wife. (*wink wink* á la Tom Sevenstrings)

The children fell upon the supper like wolves upon a wounded deer, quarreling over codfish, tearing the barley bread to pieces, and getting porridge everywhere. Even the huge wheel of cheese did not long survive. Brienne contented herself with fish and bread and carrots, whilst Septon Meribald fed two morsels to Dog for every one he ate himself. Outside, a rain began to fall. Inside, the fire crackled, and the common room was filled by the sounds of chewing, and Willow smacking children with her spoon. 

"One day that little girl will make some man a frightful wife," Ser Hyle observed. "That poor 'prentice boy, most like."

Proxies: Leaf (The Child of the Forest)

The world moved dizzily around him. White trees, black sky, red flames, everything was whirling, shifting, spinning. He felt himself stumbling. He could hear Hodor screaming, "Hodor hodor hodor hodor. Hodor hodor hodor hodor. Hodor hodor hodor hodor hodor." A cloud of ravens was pouring from the cave, and he saw a little girl with a torch in hand, darting this way and that. For a moment Bran thought it was his sister Arya … madly, for he knew his little sister was a thousand leagues away, or dead. And yet there she was, whirling, a scrawny thing, ragged, wild, her hair atangle. Tears filled Hodor's eyes and froze there.

and then later on;

The next he knew, he was lying on a bed of pine needles beneath a dark stone roof. The cave. I'm in the cave. His mouth still tasted of blood where he'd bitten his tongue, but a fire was burning to his right, the heat washing over his face, and he had never felt anything so good. Summer was there, sniffing round him, and Hodor, soaking wet. Meera cradled Jojen's head in her lap. And the Arya thing stood over them, clutching her torch.

I think this is foreshadowing/hinting at something. The Children of the Forest could speak to the dead and Arya interacts with and shows a sixth sense relating to the dead (off the top of my head, she senses Praed’s death, says that she hears the living and the dead as she lies down, Syrio’s voice as she escapes could be interpreted that way... and more). This could just be GRRM pulling at heartstrings but I doubt it.

Weirwoods

Arya follows the Old Gods and has one of the strongest relationships with them of all the characters in the books. Not going to list every mention of that or some shit.The scenes in the godswood at Harrenhal are some of my favorites but they’re also long-ish and rather irrelevant.

... but here’s one of my favorite ‘lil moments.

The next day they rode to a place called High Heart, a hill so lofty that from atop it Arya felt as though she could see half the world. Around its brow stood a ring of huge pale stumps, all that remained of a circle of once-mighty weirwoods. Arya and Gendry walked around the hill to count them. There were thirty-one, some so wide that she could have used them for a bed.

High Heart had been sacred to the children of the forest, Tom Sevenstrings told her, and some of their magic lingered here still.

"No harm can ever come to those as sleep here," the singer said. Arya thought that must be true; the hill was so high and the surrounding lands so flat that no enemy could approach unseen.

Which is followed up by this. No wonder Gendry didn’t like Ned for no apparent reason. Arya took this new squire bloke to their spot. The maiden of the tree? More like the maiden who will take her new guy on a date by your dead tree stump romantic spot. The audacity!

  When Arya saw the shape of a great hill looming in the distance, golden in the afternoon sun, she knew it at once. They had come all the way back to High Heart. 

By sunset they were at the top, making camp where no harm could come to them. Arya walked around the circle of weirwood stumps with Lord Beric's squire Ned, and they stood on top of one watching the last light fade in the west. From up here she could see a storm raging to the north, but High Heart stood above the rain. It wasn't above the wind, though; the gusts were blowing so strongly that it felt like someone was behind her, yanking on her cloak. Only when she turned, no one was there.

and that’s not to forget Bran/Bloodraven’s lil cameo in Mercy which has very little to do with tree symbolism re:Arya but I just thought I’d bring it up because everyone seems to have forgotten.

She took a breath to quiet the howling in her heart, trying to remember more of what she'd dreamt, but most of it had gone already. There had been blood in it, though, and a full moon overhead, and a tree that watched her as she ran.

Anyhow. TLDR: Arya is often refered to as a tree or as of the tree.