#thread: the weeping lady

[octoboltflash]

While Albedo's suggestion was one she had previously considered, the likelihood of gaining answers in a peaceful manner seemed next to zero. If conflict was to be avoided, then… it seemed the next best option fell on her shoulders.

"I… can't promise that I'll reveal as much as you'd like. I've never tried anything like this before. I don't know the repercussions, nor the plausibility of this plan. I know only of my own experiences with this blade's memories-- nothing more."

Acheron had braced herself for an outpouring of dissension from her peers, but became pleasantly surprised by the general acceptance of her outlandish plan. Sure, it was a shot in the dark-- she had never tried something like this before, and there wasn't even the guaranteed chance of it working. But as time dragged on, the more they all became tired. Exhausted. Less strength to fight back with, in the event that combat became inevitable.

Crossing his arms, Wriothesley glances from March 7th to Sampo, then to Acheron. ”I can’t imagine what kind of power your blade possesses, but the girl seems up for trying your idea. Which is… what exactly?”

A nearly imperceptible gesture of uncertainty, the fingers of her free hand tap a disjointed beat on the hilt of her weapon.

"Any sort of a hint pushes us in the right direction. I don't know what ails this place, but perhaps a glimpse of the past will give us more to work with," She muses, borderline desperate for any semblance of information to free them from this prison.

"These two… I would wager that they cannot speak, rather than will not. Or so it seems. Regardless, there lies only one path before us. If she's able to wield the blade in a similar manner to me, then… I don't see why it wouldn't work. With my assistance, of course."

"… In theory."

Acheron never minces her words. Her intentions are cut and dry, with no flourish to her statements.

Were she capable of feeling the immense amount of pressure on her shoulders, perhaps her stomach would churn. Agreement from the remainder of her cohort was the last push she needed, and she carefully removed her sword from its position at her hip.

A deep breath breaks her otherwise serene demeanor, eyes falling closed as the Self-Annihilator willed herself to maintain her concentration.

Think, remember, feel the beating heart of those who came before-- and those who would come after. The remembrances of fleeting lives that vanished before she had a chance to cherish their company.

With deliberate intent, Acheron began to draw the katana from its saya-- the immaculate, unmarred surface of the blade catching the little bit of light in a mesmerizing dance of reflections. Every inch further exposed the presence of white strands of hair stretching down the length of her locks, consuming every bit of purple in its wake. Where her skin had previously remained smooth and unmarred, an expanse of crimson bloomed across its surface, winding marks stretching across her abdomen and down her thigh.

Acheron's eyes opened, revealing a calm resolve within their depths that were now tainted ruby red. Regardless of the fact that she was doing this with a neutral demeanor, the Emanator wouldn't be surprised if the traits managed to catch her companions off guard.

Such was the price of power, she supposed.

Knelt in a gesture of supplication, Acheron made a swift yet graceful motion to lift the katana in a presentation to the goddess before her. The hilt was worn from where her calloused hands had wielded it with deadly precision, and the steel remained cool to the touch-- the saya's pattern etched into the lacquered scabbard matched some of the designs stretching across her coat.

"This blade-- Consider it an extension of myself," Her tone remains low, barely loud enough for the others to hear. "I... am sorry. For what you've been through, and for what you'll continue to experience."

acheron draws her blade, and though the girl appears fearful, she dips her chin in a determined nod. trembling hands outstretch, awaiting far worse than a blade. there is a long moment of silence, of mounted anticipation eager to crack, and then there is nothing. the girl blinks, slow, then looks down to her palms. along each of them is a line drawn in gold, and she watches, expression unmoving, as liquid begins to drip down the sides of them, each drop rippling the pool beneath her. "oh." fragment of purity takes -1hp, and you should be grateful your normal attack is only level 1 LOL

Sweat trickled down her brow, fingers clenching and unclenching around the saya in her hands. Memories, raw and unbidden, flooded her mind like a torrential downpour-- betrayal. Loss. Shattered dreams, broken bonds; all intertwined in an ocean that sought to drown her within its depths. The overwhelming dread from horrors past conflicted with the warmth of fond memories racing through her consciousness, and she slumped forward slightly before making a move to pull the blade away from the person before her.

"Damn it," Comes a strained curse under her breath, teeth grit as Acheron felt the last tendrils of familiarity release their hold on her mind.

Some memories clung to her like chains, never failing to drag her deeper into the abyss.

That meant.... Only one thing left to do.

With a steely gaze and a steady hand, Acheron pushed herself to her feet before raising her katana high above her head-- while it no doubt looked like she was going to strike the girl, she tossed a look over her shoulder at the others. "Forgive me for this rash decision-- but your path of fate is not meant to end here. While your lives are fragile and short-lived, this place is not your tomb," She speaks in an even tone, sucking in a sharp breath. The smallest hint of a smile is her last offering to the members of her entourage, biceps tensing as she readies herself for her strike.

"May we meet again, this time under a clear sky." The hush falling over the serenity of their surroundings lasted for only a moment before she lashed out in a single fluid movement, bringing her sword down through the air. The blade sliced through the expanse of their domain with a crackling sound that sent sparks of thunder scattering about at an alarming pace-- it took a second strike for the horizon beyond to shimmer and then fracture, as if it were glass splintering under the force of her strike.

Her determination unwavering, Acheron continued her onslaught with a second slash that ripped through the ground beneath them all; every strike laced with precision and purpose. Her sword-- always an extension of her will-- glinted with a silvery sheen, revealing the edge sharpened not to just cleave through flesh and bone... but to slice through the very fabric of reality itself.

A final, decisive slash is the last catalyst for the void to begin to crumble in large chunks as everything around them began to collapse. While she'd normally be worried... This wasn't a physical realm, it seemed. Regardless of what happened here, they would be fine, wherever they ended up.

She lowered her katana, its blade shimmering with the remnants of her energy. Acheron was well aware that her task was not yet complete, but she turned her attention to the goddess with a solemn resolve. Only a few moments remained before she was inevitably taken away, but ...

"I'll come back for you. At duty's end, we will meet again. We will."

A wistful smile is the last thing she can offer before the remainder of her surroundings collapse into itself, drowning her in a sea of black that reminded her of all the time she had spent ushering souls wading through the river of Nihility.

Except... there were no hands to drag her out. She would have to rip and tear her way out of the nothingness, dragging herself onto the shore of reality once again.

Briefly, Acheron only hoped that it wasn't as difficult for the others. They had each other, and the comfort of company; her path was one of solitude, a journey of silence. Such was the existence of a self-annihilator.

Yet despite the expected solitude... a strange warmth shrouded her in its embrace, a soulful energy stirring a sense of comfort and companionship within her. Maybe, at the end of her road-- she'd find a silent companion in her travels.

@dukemeropide @mrch7th @huuuugestmoney @spidergourmet

do you desire the truth? even if it could be more painful than what you were told? — “i have sat here for a thousand years alone,” her voice wobbles, “i would like to understand why.” i see. then allow me to bring it to you.

albedo has his gaze trained upon the serpent, smiling back at him with its unsettling eyes. deception in the flesh—and albedo is no stranger to subduing such a thing.

how, then? how to wring this 'truth' from what fragments and unreliable accounts they have?

just as he begins to mull on his options, the others gather. march, with her optimism; wriothesley, with his sense; acheron, with her well-deserved vitriol. mr. koski, with his...fascinating company.

he does not wish to cut anyone down, no. he does not desire it. a soft sigh leaves him then, the din of footsteps striding across what was once a marble floor. albedo stands among wriothesley, march, and sampo. there is still much he does not know of their abilities, let alone the proclaimed properties of acheron's blade.

"she had wished to know the truth in any case," he says. "i have my suspicions about what occurred. to confirm them, i had considered coercing more from her tight-lipped guards, but if miss acheron's power can reveal more..." well, their course of action is quite obvious, isn't it?

[pescastories]

DARCY LEWIS TAG DUMP (1/?)

[bubbles-for-all-of-us]

Even if the sky was falling

Part I

a/n see I’m a nice person, I listen… sometimes.

••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

It felt as if the sun was snuffed out as Azriel unleashed all of his shadows. Clawing and ripping at everything they found in their way, they drank in all drops of light. They were weeping alongside their master. The screaming returned as everyone around tried to escape the wrath of a man who no longer had anything to lose. A man who had nothing else to fight for. A man who was finally in so much pain he no longer could handle it.

“Azriel”, a voice called him but Azriel didn’t move. How could he move when his arms were wrapped around your limp body? “Brother”, that’s when he felt Rhys’s arms reaching from behind him as the high lord wrapped the two of you in the darkness of his own. “There’s still a heartbeat”, Rhys muttered, “She’s alive but you need to let a healer close, Azriel, do you hear me?”, his voice seemed foreign and far away, yet Azriel still pulled back slightly so he could look at your face. “Don’t take her away”, a sob slipped past his lips and even Rhys had to tilt his head up so the tears would not flow down his face. Because he had his suspicions. You do when your brother who had been cold as stone starts walking around with a hint of a smile. “Let Madja and her healers take her”, Rhys urged him, pulling at his arms that were wrapped around you. “Rhys”, Azriel grunted trying to fight back but Rhys didn’t let go, pulling his arms behind him, right as Madja slipped through the shell of darkness, her arms replacing Azriel’s. “No”, Azriel trashed against Rhys, “I’ll kill you all, you hear me?”, he howled, watching as Cassian picked you up following the orders Madja was giving him. “Let me to her”, Azriel growled his shadows ripping at the walls Rhys had built around them. “You’re not thinking brother, we are not the enemies here”, trying to send calmness down the mind threads Rhys was trying to latch on to. “It’s because of your fucking kid this happened. You and your plans, you would sell us all if it meant you were the one happy”, deep down Rhys knees that Azriel didn’t mean it. Deep down Azriel knew better but not now. Not when his palms were soaked in your blood. Not when there was a wound the shape of you in his chest, eating at him. “I’m so sorry, Az, you got to know that I’m sorry”, Rhys muttered, his palm coming to brush over Azriel’s eyes and in a blink of an eye everything went dark.

Azriel had no recollection whatsoever of what had happened when he woke up. To his left, he saw Feyre, curled up in an armchair. He knew that Rhys had been in his head. He always felt the aftermath of it. The ache and that dirty feeling as if someone had rummaged through parts of you they had no right to see. Yet the strongest feeling was the depths of loneliness. As if longing for a limb you never had in the first place yet you felt it as if it was yours. He stood slowly, not feeling like interacting with anyone so in need of keeping Feyre sleeping.

But bumped into Madja almost as soon as he slipped out into the corridor. “Oh, Az, you should still be in bed”, the elderly lady muttered. Azriel didn’t meet her eyes, couldn’t. “Where did you bury her?”, his voice didn’t even sound like his own as he spoke. “Who, my dear?”, Madja asked, clasping his hand. “My Y/n”, he breathed and the name alone was enough to make his eyes sting. “Come”, was all Madja said as she squeezed his palm. He wanted to tell her that he didn’t want to see you yet. He just wanted to know where. Seeing you would make it real and for now, he wanted to live in a sense of delusion. Azriel tried to push the smell of medical herbs out. The smell of incense burning. His body walked but his soul was no doubt knees deep on the grass by the school still.

“I’ll get you something to sit on”, Madja muttered, before reaching for the door. Azriel knew there was no going back from this after he stepped in. But the door opened. Madja ushered him inside and the moment his eyes got used to the dim light he saw. And his knees buckled once more. “No”, he breathed out. Rhys halted, putting the spoon down. “Azriel”, it was so weak, barely a kiss of the wind but there and it was yours. “Get out of my head Rhys”, Azriel growled, shaking his head. “This is real-world brother”, Rhys reassured him, his hand moving to squeeze yours. But your tired eyes were on Azriel. And that was enough to make him crumble.

“Baby”, you whined, pushing to sit up only to be met by Madja’s firm palm, “You will rip the stitches, stay how you are”, she breathed. Yet your hand still pushed back, reaching for Azriel who was on the floor, head in hands as he cried. “Please, I… Come closer”, you begged, needing to feel him. “You were dead in my head, you were… I lost you”, he shook his head.

“Come closer, please”, you choked out, fingers grasping at thin air, “Azriel, please”. It was unbearable to hear his cries. To feel his pain. It was as if someone sent crushed glass down your bloodstream and told you it was fine. Each blood cell called for him. Ached for him. You knew he wouldn’t heal your scars. He wouldn’t make the pain go away. But you were sure that feeling him, sensing him would bring you peace like no other.

Azriel practically crawled towards the bed. Mindful of the stuff around the push tables, his hands first grasped your legs before he pulled himself closer. Hands moving to cup your cheek as you leaned into him. “Y/n”, he muttered, waiting for you to fade into nothing. But no matter how many times he blinked you didn’t go away. “I’m here, it’s me”, you whispered, letting your palm brush over his, “And I love you”. Your words made Azriel halt before a little smile spread onto his lips.

“I was ready to end the whole world for you”, he mused, “I wasn’t gonna stop till…”, “But you don’t have to and you will never have to”, you cut in, reaching out to pull his face closer, “Cause the way you pulled me out of my darkness, I’ll pull you out of yours”. Azriel let his eyes soak you up, the slight rosy tint that had crept back onto your cheeks. “Lay with me”, you muttered, trying to tilt to the side only to hiss in pain, Azriel’s shadows instantly swirling around you in worry. “I don’t think it’s a good…”, he had started. “Do as the girl wants”, Madja huffed, “Do it while I’m here so I can make sure it’s all decent”. Rhys snorted from the corner making Azriel shoot him a look.

Madja ushered Rhys over as they carefully lifted you up, letting Azriel settle onto the bed, before they carefully laid you into his arms. You both let out a sigh of relief in unison. As two puzzle pieces finally clicking together. “Rest”, Azriel muttered, brushing a strand of hair away from your face. You reached for his hand, draping it over yourself, right above the tender skin of your abdomen. “Can you sing to me?”, you tilted your head up. “All night long, my love”, Azriel mused, kissing the top of your head.

••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

[yandere-wishes]

‧ ₊˚✧ Do Not Weep Hydro Dragon ‧ ₊˚✧

Summary: There's a crack in Neuvillette's heart that bares your name. He sheds a tear for you each day. Yet once you return to Fontaine with your fiance. The cracks and tears begin to grow. 

Warnings: Yandere behavior, stalking, arranged marriages, affairs. 

Author's note: I'm sorry 😭💔😭💔

There've been rumors circling around Fontaine. Ghostly whispers floating between coral-tainted lips and fervid ears. The rumors spoke a bittersweet name. One Neuvillate had long since buried. At first, the notion of your return had felt like a bad dream. like the roar of a tsunami before it crashes on shore. Terrifying yet, ultimately unreal. He'd summed the rumors up to some traveler who bore your mien. To an erroneous article by the steam bird. Anything. anything at all. 

Anything that wasn't you.

It wasn't until after a particularly grueling trial that he'd witnessed the truth behind these rumors. There you were in all you're glory. Gleaming akin to the finest pearls laying dormant in the primordial sea. Your expression, when he could catch it, was gleeful, delighted, A drastic contrast to his last unfortunate memory of you. His eyes follow the delicate movement of your gloved hand as it stifles a cheery giggle pouring from your cherry lips. It's only after noting your delight that he becomes conscious of the gentleman accompanying you. A ginger with bloodthirsty eyes and a soul that reeks of carnage.

A splash of heat rolls down Neuvillet's cheek. Right before a splash of cold splatters across his temples. his attention narrows on the sky, as the

clouds begin to weep. What once was a peaceful sunny day shatters like a wine glass on porcelain tiles. Humidity threads through the air robbing him of his breath. 

It's raining.

How fitting, Neuvillette thinks as he watches you and your companion run to find shelter. 

Neuvillette recalls your smile almost as clearly as he recalls your pulse under his teeth. The taste of your flesh as his teeth left bloody love bites in every wrong place. He remembers saying I love you, albeit there was more to it than that. It had started with I love you and ended with every truth he'd forgotten how to tell. He had shed his human masquerade, in the hope of finding true love. You had screamed that night. You had screamed every night since. 

Neuvillette thumbs through his memories. As the rain outside grows more ferocious. He remembers you standing by the sea, he remembers you telling him the phobias that ran deeper than blood. 

You hadn't been from Fontaine, not originally. A fallen gear from an ancient automaton whose kin resided across the sea.

You'd been raised in the ways of the hydro court. Even if 'raised; was too generous a word. Morphed or sculpted may have been more appropriate synonyms. You grew up clawing at your own skin, trying to find who was underneath the layers of mindless expectations. You'd been raised as a lady and grew into a harrowing beast that feasted on the stars. 

Yet even creatures of unparalleled strength had their weaknesses. Even ever-blessed vision wielders bore a certain Achilles heal. 

Yours so happened to be your incompatibility with your foster nation. Or rather with the water itself. 

When people asked, as some had tended to do. You'd weaved them tales about serrated Pisces and dorsal-finned leviathans with open maws awaiting their prey. You don't tell them about the vastness, the dark blue landscape that feels all too wide and all too endless. You don't tell them about the things you swore you've seen lurking beneath the infinite waters of Fontaine. And you most certainly leave out the parts about the creature who engraved fear upon your bones many moons ago before you even knew how to walk.  

Neuvillette remembers your eagerness to leave. That had, ultimately, been your bonding point. He'd been an outcast. The supreme justice was ever only relevant when he upheld the law. And whilst Supreme Justice Neuvillette was revered and adored by all. Plain Neuvillette was nothing more than a shadow of evaporated water that hunted the streets of Fontaine. You had never wanted to mingle with the people. Keeping everyone at arm's length. Maybe it was fate that had brought two lonely souls together all those moons ago. Maybe it was something else. 

He had loved you. He swears it on the Hydro archon ( or any other Archon who lacks Furina's fickleness) He'd tried to show you that the waters of Fontaine meant you no harm. He'd even shown you his true form, the utmost assurance. Maybe that's why you fled. Maybe that's why you'd left him heartbroken one morning when the sun didn't rise. 

It had rained that day. As well as the following days. Until the surrounding islands ceased to exist. 

You'd left him hollow and alone.

Yet your return made the cracks in his heart fester. 

 Neuvillette had taken it upon himself to cloak you in his watchful gaze.

He'd come to notice how you and that dreadful Fatui Harbinger you'd come to associate yourself with. Rather liked taking long walks

 where the sea kissed the shore. He'd also noticed a ring of Snezhnaya Alexandrite perpetually wrapped around your finger. 

Neuvillette's footsteps are heavy as they collide with the concrete. He's closer today. So close he can practically smell the scent of citrus and eucalyptus. If he reached out with his powers he could surely touch you, feel the warmth of your body bleeding into him, just like old times. He misses you, yet a part of him pities your return. Neuvillette's grey eyes follow your desolate gaze. It rips open one too many wistful wounds. 

"So then Teucer said...Hey darling are you listening?"

Childe's eyes follow your frozen glare, tracing your line of sight straight to the menacing waters that refuse to part from your side. You hear your lover mumble a faint 'right'. Before you feel his silk-clad fingers dance across the back of your neck. Flirting with the chilling fear that rolls off you in waves. You pin your body to him, finding comfort in the familiar scent of his cologne as you bury your head in his neck. 

"I'm truly sorry for this darling" Sincerity rolls off his tongue, percolating into the tender kiss he presses to your temple. "I've just been feeling...down lately. Like this inexhaustible sadness is going to swallow me whole. Fontaine was the only place I could convince the Tsaritsa to transfer me for a short while. I just, I need a break from it all." You answer him in a low melodic hum. You get it, truly you do. Sadness is a poison, acidic in nature. It engulfs one's soul. Melting away their purpose, their resolve. Eating away until it reaches their hearts, their desires. It leaves behind empty shells and broken pieces too fragile to ever fully mend. 

Who better than you to understand the pains of being soulless, bereft? A mere shell awaiting a miracle that had died long ago. 

There's a voice, carved from velvet and silk. It rolls across you like a tidal wave. Potent yet soft. It whispers your name and calls out in hopes of mending broken hearts. You turn to look behind you. All you see is the endless sea. 

It's only on the fourth day of your visit that Neuvillette permits you to see him. Actually, see him. It's no longer his ghost that haunts you nor the empty waves that he commands beckoning you by name. It's him, really him. His glare is relentless as he leaves a prolonged kiss on your knuckles. You're in the middle of a conversation with that dreaded harbinger. Something about his older sister wishing to take to shopping upon your return to Snezhnaya.

"My darling it's been all too long, how fare thee my-"

He's cut short, how rude. Yet far be it from him to expect proper mannerisms from the Fatui.

"Hey, I'm having a conversation with my betrothed. Don't interrupt." Childe's eyes morph into his own glare. One which promises blood and violence. The fates of those caught on the other end of said glare are never pleasant. 

"As the chief justice of Fontaine, I have to right to interrupt any conversation I see fit."

Despite yourself, you let out a laugh. Choke the fear down with a cup of Fonta and ask Neuvillette to join the two of you. It's the nostalgia talking really. Some remnants of the past collide with the present causing your heart to adopt an unsteady rhythm. 

It's after that event that Neuvillet permits his presence to be seen by you and your "lover". He's always a mere breath away, following under the guise of being a gracious "tour guide". But tour guides do not wrap their arms around a lady's waist when her fiance isn't looking. Nor do they sneak kisses behind open parasols. You haven't protested about any of this. Maybe your fear of the hydro dragon has perished, replaced with a yearning for your former lover. He prays to every star in Tyvat for this to be true. 

It's on the day of your departure that you receive the bad news in the form of an army of Gardemeks. Childe is being arrested, something about a serial disappearance case. Something about a trial. It's a ruse you feel it in your bones. Neuvillette personally appears at the docks and holds you in his arms as you weep. He assures you this will all be cleared up soon. That you have nothing to fear. 

But you do, you have all so much to fear. Neuvillette permits you to stay at his house whilst the trial takes place. He traces the shimmering blue of your veins with his lips. He says he loves you, that he refuses to let you slip from between his fingers ever again. He'll keep you here. Keep you safe. Away from the Fatui. 

Away from Ajax. 

How he wishes he could tear the universe apart with his teeth. Part the oceans and bury the two of you under it. He dreams of keeping you by his side away from everyone else. Neuvillette is the chief justice of Fontaine, it's a prestigious role, one that demands trust. Yet maybe, just this once. He'll have to find the accused guilty regardless of the evidence. 

Tag list: @rebeccawinters @fangirl-katwithclaws @starshiningsirius

[ewanmitchellcrumbs]

Fire on the Mountain - Chapter One

Pairing: Otto Hightower (House of the Dragon) x OFC (Lia Costayne) Warnings: Canon typical death and mild angst. Word count: ~8.4k

Chapter summary: Lia suffers bitter disappointment at the king's tourney, and finds herself uncertain of her future in the wake of an unexpected shift in dynamic.

Series masterlist

Author's note: Header by @vampire-exgirlfriend who also beta read this for me - this story would be nothing without you. Thank you for the care and attention you have put in both myself and my writing. I love you.

The wheels of the carriage squeaked and rattled over the bumpy roads of King’s Landing, accompanied by the thumping of the horses’ hooves that pulled them towards their destination. Lia shifted uncomfortably, repositioning against the plush cushions that she sat upon. It was not the instability of their short journey towards the Dragonpit that irked her, however.

Click. Click. Click.

She cast her gaze down towards Alicent’s fingers, the sound of her nails moving against her skin was audible even over the din of the wheelhouse. The flesh was red, raw and bloodied, and Lia had to force herself to suppress the way her lips attempted to curl in disgust, instead leaning forward to place her own hand over top of Alicent’s, squeezing gently, a comforting gesture that halted her friend’s nervous habit.

Alicent smiled softly at her, but Lia could tell from the way she lowered her eyes that she was embarrassed at having been caught outwardly expressing her anxiety. Lia could not help but pity her, she had plenty to feel worried about herself, but had never allowed it to manifest itself in such an unseemly manner.  House Costayne was sworn to the Hightowers, and so it was no question that Lia, youngest daughter of Lord Owen Costyane, would serve as a companion to Lady Alicent, the young daughter of the Hand of the King. Whisked away from the Whispering Sound at the age of six, the two years in Oldtown had been extraordinary—the largest port in the Reach, full of bustling excitement and things to see, all temptations to a precocious and formerly sheltered little girl. When King Viserys took the throne, Lord Otto called his daughter to the capital to be a companion to the young princess and of course, Lia joined as part of Alicent's household.

At the age of fourteen, she had spent more of her life away from her family than with them. They were leagues away, and the memory of the castle in which she was born was but a distant memory. The silver chalice and black rose that adorned the Costayne House sigil felt more tangible to her than the faces of either her mother or father.

She could not pretend that she had suffered in their absence though; she had had every luxury she could ever desire at her disposal, and though her family were far away, at least they still lived. Alicent had suffered through the loss of her mother, and had to keep her composure through all of it. The royal court was no place for the weeping and wailing of a young girl. Lia supposed that if she had been forced to endure that, then she would likely have taken to picking her nails bloody too.

The death of Alyrie Florent had brought Lia and Alicent closer together, and with it their shared bond with Princess Rhaenyra had blossomed too. Lia helped to bring Alicent out of her shell, allowing her an outlet for behaviours that were otherwise considered unseemly for a young lady at court; they gossiped, laughed loudly, and did so with the unspoken bond of secrecy that runs like an invisible thread through the fabric of friendship. Alicent had a calming influence on both Lia and Rhaenyra, serving as the voice of reason that helped to keep them out of trouble–most of the time. Oftentimes, it would take but a look from Alicent for both girls to know they had gone too far, a trait she had doubtless inherited from her father. It had taken just a simple widening of those big brown eyes to halt Lia and Rhaenyra’s ascent up through the branches of the Heart Tree in the Godswood; a foolish attempt to gain a vantage point in order to spy through the higher windows of the Red Keep, that would likely have resulted in broken limbs. Rhaenyra shared Alicent’s knowledge of propriety, though not her love of it, and the wild, adventurous side of her played well with Lia’s, her status as The Realm’s Delight allowing them a margin more leniency than most would be afforded. 

The three girls were inseparable, yet in the unwavering foundations of their bond, Lia had never felt more uncertain about her own future. Otto clearly had plans for Alicent, and Rhaenyra’s comfort was secured in her position as the King’s daughter, however, no such fate awaited Lia. She was every bit the spare part, aware of the fact that her destiny is one she will have to build on her own. As such, she delights in being Otto’s confidant, sharing news of the movements of Rhaenyra and Alicent in exchange for his favour. It had begun innocently enough, a fatherly figure taking an interest where the patriarch of her own family was unable to. She had taken pride in recounting her lessons to him, beaming up at him with girlish exuberance as he had listened carefully, amusement glittering in his eyes. It had never occurred to her that he had any ulterior motive, and so the unspoken vow of secrecy she afforded Alicent slipped in front of her father, allowing him to be privy to the gossip they indulged in and the adventures that they embarked upon with Rhaenyra within the walls of the Red Keep. As Lia had grown older, she had started to suspect that Otto’s questions served a deeper purpose than simple interest, however, it did not deter her; acting as a confidant to the King’s Hand would not be without its advantages. She hoped that when the time was right, the loyalty of both her and her family would not be forgotten.

The wheelhouse pulled to a shuddering stop just outside of the Dragonpit, and Lia moved to push the door open, stopping as they were plunged into sudden darkness. A forceful gust of air shook the carriage. They had arrived just in time for Rhaenyra’s return on Syrax. Lia and Alicent hovered apprehensively by the door, waiting until they heard their friend’s dragon thump heavily against the earth, before tentatively peeking out. Lia was brave enough to descend the small set of wooden steps to the ground below, while Alicent opted to remain in the safety of the wheelhouse, standing in its doorway.

She could not help but feel envious of Rhaenyra, watching as she slid gracefully from the back of her golden dragon, pulling her riding gloves off with her teeth, staring up at the great beast in admiration as it was coaxed back to the pit by the dragon keepers. Lia longed for the sense of adventure and freedom that the princess experienced high above the clouds of King’s Landing, the walls of the Red Keep felt as much a cage as they were an extravagance at times.

Though as Rhaenyra drew closer, the sulfurous stench of dragon radiating from her leathers, Lia wrinkled her nose in repulsion, deciding that if she were to experience freedom then she certainly had no desire for it to be atop the back of a dragon.

“Syrax is growing quickly,” Alicent commented, nodding towards the dragon’s retreating form. “She will soon be as large as Caraxes.”

“That’s almost large enough to saddle two,” Rhaenyra replied with a grin.

“I believe I am quite content as a spectator, thank you,” Alicent quipped, the gentle smile reserved only for Rhaenyra spreading across her mouth.

“And you?” Rhaenyra regarded Lia with a raise of her eyebrow.

“I prefer to keep both my feet firmly on the ground, I am afraid.”

Rhaenyra tutted. “Cowards, both of you,” she jested, stomping up the carriage steps.

The three of them huddled together on the same seat on the way back to the castle, talking excitedly about which knights they expected to be in attendance for the tourney being hosted by King Viserys in honour of the impending birth of Queen Aemma’s second child.

Their laughter carried through the Keep’s corridors as the three of them walked back towards Rhaenyra’s chambers, linked arm in arm, Rhaenyra sandwiched between Alicent and Lia.

While Alicent and Lia reclined comfortably on couches, nibbling on candied lemon slices, Rhaenyra went to change out of her riding gear. The two exchanged a surprised glance as she reappeared in a yellow gown, much too quickly to have bathed. Lia could not imagine being allowed to conduct herself at court smelling quite so pungent; it was a privilege only afforded to royalty. Her and Alicent had to always present themselves as clean and well groomed, a necessity that Lia did not mind at all. She was well aware of her own beauty, and took a level of care with her appearance that bordered upon outright vanity. She would never dream of being seen outside of her chambers without her long, dark curls having been meticulously brushed and styled. Whereas Rhaenyra, Lia often thought, could have been mistaken for one of the scullery maids were it not for the finery she dressed it. She was lucky she was pretty.

Rhaenyra swept into the Queen’s apartments, leaving her friends to stand awkwardly in the doorway, looking in on the queen and her ladies. They both greeted Aemma courteously, and she responded with a polite hello and a strained smile. 

A sense of unease crept over Lia’s flesh at the sight of Aemma, fanning herself as she lay on the settee by the open balcony windows. She looked more uncomfortable every time she saw her. It was not a state she wished for herself, though it was an inevitability. Such was the role of a woman, though Lia hoped her fate would be one more fortunate; she was all too aware of the fruitless pregnancies that Aemma had endured prior to this one.

“Take a bath, you stink of dragon,” Aemma gently scolded her daughter.

Lia bowed her head, concealing the way her lips curved upwards in amusement, suddenly pretending that the golden stitching of her ivory coloured gown was the most interesting thing in the world. She kept her blue eyes fixed upon the cuff of her sleeve, her fingers absentmindedly fiddling with the delicate golden rings upon the fingers of her left hand. At last, someone was saying it aloud. A statement only a queen could get away with saying to a princess.

Rhaenyra ignored her mother, settling beside her. “Did you sleep?”

“I slept.”

The princess huffed. “How long?”

“I don’t need mothering, Rhaenyra.”

“Well, here you are, surrounded by attendants all focused on the babe. Someone has to attend to you.”

“You will lie in this bed soon enough, Rhaenyra. This discomfort is how we serve the realm.” The queen’s voice was tired, though of the pregnancy or of this oft repeated conversation, Lia could not tell.

“I’d rather serve as a knight and ride to battle and glory.”

“We have royal wombs, you and I. The child bed is our battlefield. We must learn to face it with a stiff lip.”

Lia lost herself in her thoughts as Rhaenyra conversed with her mother, continuing to twist the rings upon her fingers and shifting uncomfortably from foot to foot, as her mind conjured scenarios she would prefer not to dwell upon. She wished for a secure position in life, but did not want to be confined to the birthing bed. She longed for power, to have authority, over herself, surely, and perhaps over others, yet did not share the princess’ desire to fight in battle. Her days of climbing trees and skinned knees were well behind her.

She was roused from her thoughts as Rhaenyra hurried past her.

“Where are you going?” Alicent called after her.

“I am late!” She replied over her shoulder, running in the direction of the Small Council chamber.

Lia propped herself up on her elbow, lying on her side as she watched Alicent carefully stitch delicate powder blue flowers into the fabric suspended within her embroidery hoop. Her own lay discarded beside her, she had given up when the thread had become knotted, in no mood to attempt to fix it.

“Alicent…” she began slowly, “do you ever think about why your father wanted to bring you to King’s Landing?”

Alicent kept her eyes upon her needlepoint, her tone matter of fact as she continued her work. “To instruct me in what is expected of a highborn lady.”

Lia huffed, leaning across and tugging Alicent’s sleeve to get her full attention. “Yes, but why?”

The other girl sighed, lowering her embroidery hoop into her lap and fixing Lia with an exasperated stare. “To give me the best possible opportunities in life, so that an appropriate match may be made for me.”

“And that is enough for you, is it? To simply be married off to a man who is not of your choosing?”

She lowered her gaze, her voice soft. “My mother did not choose my father, and yet they were very happy.”

“But is that what you want?”

“What is it that you are trying to get at?”

Lia hummed, flopping down onto her back against the plush rug that they sat upon in the solar, clasping her hands across her front as she stared up at the vaulted ceiling. “I am unsure of my own purpose, what it is that I want.”

Alicent nodded in understanding. “Well, there will be plenty of eligible knights at the upcoming tourney. Gwayne is going to be there,; he is competing in the jousting.”

She scoffed, recalling the gangly boy of ten, a mop of hair the colour of rust, that they had left behind in Oldtown all those years ago. “Ah, yes, how fares your older brother?” she asked, turning her head to the side to look at her friend.

“He is a knight now,” Alicent said proudly, “and quite handsome too.”

“Handsome?! How would you know?”

“He tells me so in his letters.”

The pair burst into peals of laughter, stopping abruptly as Otto stalked into the room, casting a disapproving glance at both of them. “Do the pair of you not have lessons to attend this afternoon?”

“We were waiting for Rhaenyra, so that we might all go together,” Alicent said apologetically, scrambling to her feet and smoothing the skirts of her dress down.

Lia rolled her eyes, knowing their fun was over, and rose to her feet too, running her fingers through her dark curls, rumpled from having laid upon the floor.

“Well, the Small Council has concluded its business for the day, and with it Rhaenyra’s duties as cupbearer, so run along. Do not keep your septa waiting.”

“Yes, Father,” Alicent said quietly, making her way out of the solar. The skirts of her pale blue gown swished behind her, the cascade of her auburn hair down back appearing as Autumnal leaves against a cloudless sky.

Lia readied to follow suit when Otto reached out, gently grasping her forearm and halting her movements. “I trust you are behaving yourselves?”

“Always,” she said with a saccharine smile, moving to pull away from him.

He tightened his grasp, and Lia lifted her eyes to meet The Hand’s, his gaze steely and unblinking, apparently unaffected by the mischief that glittered within her own. “The Princess is…spirited. Do not allow her to lead you or Alicent astray.”

She slipped away from him, pausing once in the corridor to look back over her shoulder at him. “You have raised a well mannered young woman, Ser Otto. She will heed your wishes, though I cannot say the same for myself.”

Lia did not know why, but she had always enjoyed testing how far she could push Otto Hightower. He seemed to have more patience for her misdeeds than that of Alicent’s, and there was a certain thrill to watching his features pinch into annoyance. Perhaps it was because she allowed him to be privy to the secrets of her and her two friends, and he did not wish to sever that connection with too harsh a scolding for misbehaviour. She still remembered when he had taken it upon himself to instruct her in the art of handwriting, claiming that hers looked as though “a spider had fallen into the inkwell and then scurried across the page.” She had taken her quill and flicked the end at him, watching as spots of black had splattered across his doublet. He had scowled, snatching up her wrist, but then she giggled. His grip on her had loosened and his expression had softened. If she did not know him better, she would have sworn she saw the ghost of a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

Rhaenyra did not turn up for lessons, leaving Lia and Alicent to endure the presence of the stern Septa Marlow without her. Lia would not have minded, except for the fact that that day’s lesson was history, her least favourite subject. She endured a scolding for not remembering that Princess Nymeria departed Rhoyne for Dorne, and by the time the hour was over she felt tired and irritable.

Alicent had always been more studious than she was, her ability to focus surpassing Lia’s, who was far too easily distracted by the world around her. The comings and goings of the Red Keep’s staff was far more interesting to her than what was contained within any book. She preferred to focus on the whisperings found within darkened alcoves of the castle, than the monotonous drone of Septa Marlow.

“Come,” Alicent said, pulling a thick historical tome from the library shelf. “We shall study in the Godswood, the fresh air will help you to remember.” There was no heat in the subtly pointed look she directed at Lia, so she followed without complaint, merely returning a glare of her own.

They had been seated beneath the heart tree in the Godswood not five minutes when Rhaenyra arrived, quickly settling herself between them, as was her customary place within the confines of their group. She placed her head in Alicent’s lap, and her legs across Lia’s, letting out a sigh as she gazed up at the clear blue sky through the branches of the tree.

“You did not attend lessons today,” Alicent said to her, hefting the book onto the grass beside her.

“I did not,” Rhaenyra replied simply.

Lia spied the Valyrian steel and ruby necklace that now rested around Rhaenyra’s neck. It had not been there earlier. She leant over, lifting the pendant delicately between two fingers.

“A gift from your father?”

Rhaenyra furrowed her brow, as though she found the idea ridiculous. “A gift from Daemon.”

“He’s back then?” Lia’s interest is piqued. Daemon had never paid her much attention. As a ward of House Hightower, she was of no consequence to him. However, he was endlessly fascinating to her; his volatility and reckless behaviour served an endless supply of gossip.

“Mmmm,” she hummed, “to take up his position as Lord Commander of the City Watch, and compete in the tourney.”

“And give you gifts,” Lia teased with a smirk, letting the pendant drop softly back against Rhaenyra’s clavicle before settling back against her palms upon the grass.

A look of worry flickered across Rhaenyra’s face, her mouth turning downwards as her gaze grew distant. She studied her fingers for a moment, then asked “So what did I miss today?”

“History,” Lia said bitterly, “Princess Nymeria’s escape from Rhoyne.”

“Have you read it?” Alicent asked her.

“Of course I have read it,” Rhaenyra said, “there was no need for me to be there.”

“Then when Princess Nymeria arrived in Dorne, who did she take to husband?” Alicent silenced Lia as she opened her mouth to answer. “Not you, you actually turned up today,” 

Rhaenyra groused, shrugging her shoulders as she continued to lay across their laps. “A man.”

Alicent scowled, her tone clipped with annoyance. “And what was his name?”

“Lord something,” Rhaenyra replied petulantly.

“Gods, if only you had been there today,” Lia giggled, “you would have made me look good. Septa Marlow was furious.”

Rhaenyra smirked, playing with the rings upon her fingers. “She is funny when she is furious.”

“You are always like this when you are worried,” Alicent commented softly.

“Like what?” snapped Rhaenyra.

Alicent did not hedge her words, the only one to speak to their princess in this way. “Disagreeable. You are worried your father is about to overshadow you with a son.”

“I only worry for my mother. I hope for my father that he gets a son. As long as I can recall, it is all he has wanted.”

“You want him to have a son?” Lia asked.

“I want to fly with you both on dragonback, see the great wonders across the Narrow Sea, and eat only cake.”

Lia snorted as Alicent clicked her tongue. Lia did not mind the idea of seeing the great wonders, or existing solely on cake, however, the notion of taking flight on Syrax made the prospect seem far less exciting.

“We are trying to be serious,” Alicent protested, glancing warily at Lia, “well, at least I am.”

“I never jest about cake,” Rhaenyra said with a smirk.

“You are not worried about your position?” Lia asked, her curiosity piqued, masking the envy she felt that Rhaenyra possessed a position that could be threatened in the first place.

“I like this position,” she told Lia, wiggling her feet in her lap, making her laugh aloud, “it is quite comfortable.”

“Rhaenyra! Lia! It is impossible to have a serious conversation with either of you!”

The princess groaned, moving out of their laps and sitting cross legged in front of them. “Princess Nymeria led her Rhoynar across the Narrow Sea on ten thousand ships to flee their Valyrian pursuers. She took Lord Mors Martell of Dorne to husband and burned her own fleet off Sunspear to show her people that they were finished running.”

Lia raised her eyebrows, impressed by her knowledge, glancing over at Alicent to gauge her reaction. Before Alicent could respond, Rhaenyra leaned across and tore the page free from the book, letting it flutter into Alicent’s lap.

“So you remember.”

Alicent chewed her lip nervously. “If Septa Marlow sees this book–”

“Fuck the septa!” Rhaenyra interrupted.

Not for the first time, Lia felt envy burn acrid in her chest. Only a princess could get away with defacing a book from the Crown library and not have to suffer the consequences. She wondered if Rhaenyra had any awareness of the power she yielded over both her and Alicent. And if she was aware, would she even care?

Lia meandered through the halls, slippered feet quiet on the stone floor as she made her way to the library the next da She looked up, her attention stolen by Otto walking in the direction of the Small Council chambers. Changing course, she fell into step beside him, taking in the way his features were furrowed into annoyance. There could be only one explanation for it.

“So, you have heard that Prince Daemon has returned to the Capital?” she asked with a wry smile.

Otto paused, eyeing her carefully before ushering her into a nearby alcove. “What do you know?”

Lia shrugged. “Little and less. He gifted Rhaenyra a necklace, Valyrian steel.”

“An empty gesture,” he remarked bitterly, an exasperated sigh escaping him as he adjusted the collar of his forest green doublet. He cast a cursory glance over his shoulder to ensure they were not being watched, before fixing her with a heated stare.

“Oh, I am not so sure, you would be surprised at what people are willing to share if one is generous.” She reached up, tapping the bronzed hand that was pinned to his breast, as if to punctuate her point.

Otto’s much larger hand clutched hers, enveloping it, though it did not pull hers away. Her eyes shifted to where their hands now rested upon his chest, the gesture stirring something within her that she could not quite identify, filling her with both warmth and unease.

“I know a girl as clever as you cannot be swayed by trinkets,” he said softly, the low timbre of his voice vibrating through their connected hands.

Lia swallowed thickly, slowly pulling her hand back and letting it drop to her side, though still able to feel the place where his palm had rested. She felt an overwhelming need to push back against whatever had transpired, and so doubled her efforts to be cheeky. “If you are not feeling generous, perhaps Prince Daemon may have additional trinkets to spare.”

Otto straightened, his expression turning stony.

There it was, the annoyance that she felt much more at home with.

“You should not covet the actions of that brute of a man. Keep away from him.” He glared down at her, a silent warning before leaving her alone in the alcove, as he continued on his way.

Lia smiled to herself. Provoking Otto suddenly seemed much more appealing to her. If she could capture the interest of Daemon, then perhaps the Hand of the King would be more forthcoming in furthering her position at court, and making clear his plans for her.

“My dearest Lia, 

It is with deep regret that I must inform you that your mother and I will be unable to attend the King’s tourney. Your mother is suffering a fever and we did not wish to risk the journey to King’s Landing when our efforts must be spent upon ensuring her recovery. Your mother has requested that your brothers stay here at the Whispering Sound, as she fears her worry over them both competing will worsen her condition.

We have passed along our apologies to the Lord Hand, however, please send him my regards. I hope that life in the capital is treating you well and that you are behaving as befits the royal company that you keep.

Warmest wishes,

Your loving father, Lord Owen Costayne”

Lia gripped the parchment tightly between her fingers, having lost count of the number of times she had read it since it was brought to her by the maester two days prior. She lost herself in the words, the din of hoofbeats and roar of spectators fading to nothing as her eyes flitted between the letter and the lists, as though if she concentrated hard enough she could will her brothers into attendance.

Rhaenyra sat beside her, equally morose, her brow pinched in worry. Shortly after the tourney began, King Viserys had announced to all in attendance that Queen Aemma had begun her labours. It was obvious that Rhaenyra would rather be at her mother’s side than watching this display. However, it had not been allowed.

Sitting on the other side of Rhaenyra, Alicent had picked her nails bloody once more. A combination of worry for both the Queen and her older brother, Gwayne, who would be competing in the tourney.

Lia crumpled the parchment between her fingers, stowing it up her sleeve as she leaned forward, looking out across their elevated position on the stands, eager for a distraction.

“Who is that?” she asked, nodding towards a young man she did not recognise.

“The Tarly squire?” Rhaenyra responded, clearly as keen to focus on something else as she was.

“Mmhmm,” Lia affirmed, glancing back at her.

“Lord Massey’s son, I think. He is promised to Elinor Stokeworth, they are to be married as soon as he wins his knighthood.”

“Best get on with it,” Alicent chimed in, leaning forward conspiratorially, “I heard that Lady Elinor is hiding a swollen belly beneath her dress.”

Lia and Rhaenyra gasped, the three of them quickly falling into fits of giggles, though she was pulled out of her mirth when she felt a firm hand upon her shoulder. Looking back, she saw Otto seated directly behind her. He leaned in close enough that both his breath and his beard tickled softly at the shell of her ear as he spoke quietly, isolating her from the huddle of her two friends.

“I thought you might offer your favour to Gwayne.”

She pulled back, regarding him impassively, before speaking much louder than he had to her. “Actually, I intend to offer my favour to Prince Daemon,” she said with an amused smirk, “I have not yet had the pleasure to welcome him back to the capital.”

Otto’s nostrils flared in obvious annoyance, his gaze unblinking as he exhaled heavily, sitting back against his seat beside the King, though his focus remained upon her. His eyes raked carefully over the delicate manner in which she had pinned up her ringlets, revealing the slender slope of her neck. Lia suppressed a laugh as she turned back towards Rhaenyra and Alicent, pleased with her efforts, and the three of them continued to share gossip about those participating in the lists.

She eyed the knights carefully, wondering to herself if any of them would be a suitable match for her. There was no denying that Daemon cut every bit the imposing and extravagant figure, the plume of his dragon shaped helmet blood red and striking against the grey of the stone walls. It was a pity he was already wed, albeit unhappily, to Lady Rhea Royce. Daemon’s presence within King’s Landing had always been so sporadic, coupled with Lia’s being too young to appreciate what a handsome man he was, that she supposed he was never destined to be a suitor for her anyway. A pity, but it would not stop her from expressing interest, if only to incite the look of irritation on Otto’s face that she had grown to enjoy so much.

So engrossed in what was going on, she did not notice when King Viserys slipped away from his seat. Daemon rode towards the stands, a cocky grin upon his face as her, Rhaenyra and Alicent rushed to the railing to greet him.

“Lady Lia,” he drawled with a courteous nod, “a fine young woman you are growing into.”

She felt her skin flush at the compliment, glad of the fact she had opted to wear her house colours for the occasion; she knew that the gold and black of the gown complimented her complexion. It was an effort to resist the urge to both giggle and look behind her for Otto’s reaction.

“You flatter me, my prince,” she responded sweetly, “I wish you luck, though I am not sure you will need it.”

“I am confident that I can best my opponent, but I would ask for the favour of the Lady Alicent Hightower to ensure my victory.”

Lia’s face fell, her heart sinking in disappointment. She watched Alicent move sheepishly back towards their seats, meeting her father’s eye as she took the intricately woven band of flowers and ribbon. She knew from Otto’s sour expression that it was merely a ploy from Daemon to further upset the King’s Hand, having already beaten his son spectacularly in the lists. However, the rejection stung all the same. She wanted it to be her favour that Daemon had asked for.

As she took her seat again, she grasped her own hoop of feathers and twine, half turning to toss it haphazardly into Otto’s lap. “Here, you might as well have it,” she muttered sullenly, “I have no one else to give it to.”

Misery clung to Lia like a black shroud as she leaned back in her seat, visibly sulking and crossing her arms, as she watched the tourney, but did not really see it. She had hoped that the day would prosper a potential match for her, though, with Alicent’s favour already given away, Rhaenyra was her only rival. There was no way she could compete with a princess.

Her lips twitched with smug satisfaction when the mystery knight with the red and black spotted shield bested Daemon; a small retribution in Lia’s eyes for having snubbed her favour for Alicent’s. She did not bother to join her friends when they rushed back to the railing, both eager to greet the man who managed to unhorse The Rogue Prince, not even swayed by Alicent’s gasp of “he’s Dornish.” What was the point? She saw the way his dark eyes glittered with interest, but it was not interest directed at her; no, they glittered only for Rhaenyra. 

Lia knew that she could be the most comely of maidens in all of the Seven Kingdoms and it would do little to sway a suitor when presented with a Targaryen Princess. She could not help the jealousy that swirled like a maelstrom inside of her as she watched Rhaenyra throw her favour down towards him.

The smile that graced the princess’ fair features as she returned to her seat only faltered as Otto touched her delicately on the shoulder, the colour draining from her face as he whispered to her. As the news spread throughout the royal box, Lia’s eyes remained fixated upon the floor of the stands where her favour now lay, trampled under foot as people rushed back towards the Red Keep. It was crushed, and with it her hopes for the day.

Queen Aemma was dead.

The wind whipped Lia’s dark curls around her face as she stood upon the clifftop, the bite of the icy sea breeze nipping at her cheeks. The wrapped bodies of both Aemma and her short lived son, Baelon, laid prone upon the pyre that stood before the modest crowd gathered for the funeral. Syrax looked over them from her perch, awaiting Rhaenyra’s command, her neck undulating with discomfort under the feeling of her rider’s grief.

She could not imagine a more brutal death; cut open like livestock in the birthing bed, and for naught. The babe that had been tugged from the Queen’s womb had lived but for a few hours after her passing. Her heart ached for Rhaenyra, who choked on the command of “drakarys!”, the word faltering with unshed tears as she ordered her dragon to engulf her deceased mother and brother in flames.

Lia knew she felt pity for Rhaenyra, but was she truly sad that Aemma was dead? She did not know. She knew it was proper to express condolences, but she did not think she was experiencing grief. Would she feel sadness at her own mother’s passing? She was as much an acquaintance to her as the Queen had been, considering how many years had passed since she had last seen home. It was a disquieting thought, and one she was eager to push from her mind.

She desperately wished she had a hand to hold, to squeeze for comfort, and could not help but notice the way that Alicent gripped her father’s with such intensity that her knuckles were white. Stood to the other side of him, Otto had ensured that Lia’s arm linked through his, a gesture which she found oddly mature in comparison to the childlike manner in which Alicent’s fingers entwined with his. Perhaps it is just because she is not family, she pondered, though memories of the intimacy with which he had held her hand to his chest just a few days prior linger at the back of her mind. She was being treated as though she was a lady, when she had never craved more to be comforted as though she was a little girl.

A cavernous void opened between Lia, Alicent, and Rhaenyra in the weeks that followed, filled only by loss. Lia spent much of her time alone, not knowing how to comfort Rhaenyra in her grief, for it had made her angry. Her tone was curt whenever Lia attempted to engage her in conversation and she had withdrawn so far into herself that she did not know how to coax her back out. Deep down she knew that her friend was justified in her bitterness towards her father, for he had killed her mother in his desperate attempt for an heir, an heir that barely lived long enough to draw his first breath.

Lia wondered what her own expression of such grief would look like, had the circumstances befallen her.

Otto had become more protective of Alicent. He sought Lia’s company less often, instead looming over his only daughter like a shadow, summoning her to his quarters to speak to her of things that Alicent would not allow Lia to be privy to. In all of her years in King’s Landing, despite missing her family, she had never felt lonely. Now it was a feeling that overwhelmed her with such potency that she had picked up a quill more than a dozen times, hurriedly scrawling a plea to her father to allow her to return home. Each time she had thought better of it and tossed the balled up parchment into the fireplace. She had yet to find her purpose within King’s Landing, but she knew in her heart that her fate was not to run away like a mewling child, simply because her friends were preoccupied.

Deciding she could bear her own company no longer, Lia emerged from her quarters, seeking the comfort of a familiar face. She found it in Alicent, but as she was about to call out to her, she faltered, thinking better of it. There was something strange about the way her friend carried herself, her gaze downcast, trepidation in her step. Lia slipped into an alcove, peering out discreetly from behind the wall. Alicent was not dressed as she usually was, the royal blue gown she now wore was much too grown up. She narrowed her eyes as she studied the fabric. It was a dress that had belonged to Alyrie.

Curious to see why Alicent had suddenly taken to wearing her late mother’s clothes, Lia quietly followed behind her, mindful to keep her steps light and maintain her distance, so as not to get caught. She froze as she saw Alicent slip through the door of the king’s apartments, a feeling of dread forming a pit in her stomach. Rhaenyra had not spoken to her father properly since the passing of the queen, so what possible reason could Alicent have for keeping such close company with him?

It was with this question in mind that she stormed into Otto’s quarters the next day, a seething and lingering anger bolstering her. She did not knock, though her intrusion was met with only the slightest raise of an eyebrow by the king’s Hand as he looked up from his writing desk.

“Lia, to what do I owe the interruption?” he asked, his tone friendlier than she had been anticipating, causing her courage to waiver as her outrage quelled slightly.

She opened her mouth to speak, stammering over her words as she struggled to get them out. Why on earth was he not annoyed by her just bursting in? She had been prepared to be met with resistance, and it completely unraveled what she had planned to say. Closing her eyes and exhaling heavily, she shook her head as if to clear her mind and tried again.

“Alicent has been visiting the king.”

Otto pursed his lips, carefully placing his quill back into the ink pot, before he leaned back against his chair. “She has,” he said matter of factly, “the king is alone in his grief. Alicent has been of great comfort to him.”

Lia blinked rapidly, a wave of nausea churning her stomach, as she realised that this was not only information that the king’s Hand was already privy to, and he did not have an issue with it, but he was also the one that has arranged these visits in the first place. She narrowed her eyes as her shock and disgust turned to sudden anger, simmering hot beneath the surface of her skin.

“So it would not be an issue were I to offer him comfort also?” Lia asked, her jaw jutting out defiantly.

Finally, a flicker of annoyance passed across Otto’s face, his brow furrowing as he clasped his hands upon the desk. “You shall do no such thing. And you will speak of Alicent’s visits to no one.”

“Or what?”

“Or,” he began, rising from his seat, suddenly towering over her, “the pleas to return to the Whispering Sound that you crumple into the fireplace may just find their way to your father.”

Her blood ran icy cold as, simultaneously, her cheeks blazed with heat. She opened her mouth to speak, but no words came to her. Tears of humiliation pricked her eyes. He knew. Of course he knew; the Hand had spies everywhere, she had acted as one herself on many occasions.

Otto’s expression softened as he took in her look of upset, and he sat heavily back in his seat with a sigh. “There is no need for tears, you—”

“Why am I even here? You may as well return me home,” she interrupted, her voice thick with emotion.

His features remained gentle and impassive as he regarded her silently for a moment. He then reached into a drawer of his writing desk, pulling out her favour and holding it out for her to take. Each feather and intricate loop of twine was undamaged, in seemingly pristine condition. She examined it in wide eyed wonder as she accepted it from him. It was as good as the day she had made it, no longer crushed as it had been when she had last laid her eyes upon it.

“How? Why?” She whispered, disbelief and confusion causing her brow to furrow.

“You may have need of it yet. Your time here is far from over. Now run along, I have important matters to attend to.”

She wanted to protest, to press him for further answers, but instead the authority in his tone had her obediently turning and leaving with more questions than she had initially arrived with.

The late afternoon sunshine beat down upon Lia as she sat on a stone bench in the gardens, the soft rays warming her skin, casting the last of its amber brilliance in the hours before dusk. She held her favour delicately, fearful that too tight a touch might cause it to break apart again, as she studied it for imperfections, wondering how it could have been so expertly mended, and why.

“I would have thought you would have given that away at the tourney.”

Lia startled slightly, lifting her head at the sudden sound of Rhaenyra’s voice. A playful smile graced the princess’ lips as Lia watched as she came to sit beside her. Rhaenyra reached out a delicate finger to stroke across one of the favour’s feathers.

Lia returned her smile, though it did not meet her eyes. “I found no one I liked enough to give it to.” It was a half truth, but admitting that Otto had it repaired and returned to her would have raised questions that she is unable to answer.

Rhaenyra hummed in acknowledgement, before facing forwards, her eyes fixed upon the row of rose bushes planted into the flower beds in front of them. The two girls sat in uncomfortable silence, until Lia could bear it no longer.

“I am sorry I have not been there for you, it is not an easy thing to lose your mother,” she said softly, glancing sideways at Rhaenyra.

Rhaenyra shook her head, turning to face Lia, gripping her hand in one of hers. “It is me that should be sorry. I have not made it easy for you, for anyone, to comfort me. I was just so, so…”

“...angry?” Lia offered, intertwining their fingers. The warmth was soothing, and she had not realised until this moment just how dearly she had missed her.

“Hmmm. Did you know that Father sent Daemon away?”

Lia’s eyes widened, though it was no surprise that Daemon, prone to coming and going as he pleased, was no longer in the capital. Tt was a shock to her, however, that this time his absence was at the command of his own brother. “What for?”

Rhaenyra swallowed thickly, averting her gaze. “My father would not say, but I have heard whispers. He made a jest about my brother to a crowd in a pleasure house, apparently.”

“And your father banished him?”

“I am sure there is more to it than that, especially considering that Daemon has been removed as my father’s heir.”

Lia raised her eyebrows, her lips parting slightly as she struggled to take in the information. It appeared she had missed an awful lot in the weeks that she and Rhaenyra had not spoken. “So, who will be his heir now?”

“He has asked me to be.” Rhaenyra appeared less sure of herself than usual as she said this, her voice quiet and uncertain, as though she felt simultaneously crushed by the weight of the responsibility, but also terrified it would be taken away from her again.

Lia smiled at that, a gesture of both gentle comfort and genuine happiness, though she could not help the pang of envy she felt at both her friends having secured their futures. Alicent’s own advancement under the watchful eye of Otto, and now Rhaenyra’s succession to the Iron Throne.

“You will make a fine queen.”

Rhaenyra gave Lia’s hand an affectionate squeeze. “So, where is Alicent?”

‘With your father, most likely.’

Lia knew she should not say; it would have devastating consequences for their friendship, and Otto would be furious. Yet she could not help the pang of guilt she felt at withholding such information from Rhaenyra.

“I am unsure. Does she not know yet?”

Rhaenyra shook her head. “I had hoped to find the two of you together. I will need you both to help ready me for my proclamation. I feel too nervous to allow my lady’s maids to do it.” She paused, her fingers tightening once more, twisting their hands together further. “Lia, I need you, I need my friends.”

Lia’s heart ached for her, and she leaned in, resting her forehead softly against Rhaenyra’s in silent assent. The two girls remained like that, the void between them bridged by a desperate need to cling to the other for support.

Lia stood on a wooden step stool to the side of Rhaenyra, the tips of her fingers sore from the sheer number of pins she had had to press into the princess’ intricately braided hair, simply to keep her headdress in place. She pulled back to admire her work, a small smile pulling at her mouth. The intricate gold and black halo was positioned perfectly upon Rhaenyra’s head. Satisfied, she stepped down to move towards the bureau to fetch the jewelry.

Alicent stood behind her, helping to drape the heavy black cloak around Rhaenyra’s shoulders, beaded gold and red dragons adorning the lapels. It was not until Lia moved back towards them that she noticed Rhaenyra’s sombre expression in the looking glass.

She stood rooted in place, running her fingers over the smooth gold of the earrings, not quite knowing what to do.

‘We could run away from all of this.’

‘Let us cross the narrow sea on dragonback and eat only cake.’

It appeared that Alicent had also noticed Rhaenyra’s sadness, as her hands had stilled upon her shoulders, her gaze soft and sympathetic as it met the rincess’ in the reflective surface.

Wordlessly, Rhaenyra tugged Lia towards her and the three girls embraced, as much a gesture of comfort for them as it was for her. A silent reassurance of ‘I am okay. I must do this.’

Lia clung tighter, part of her wanting to reassure her friend, another simply wanting to smother the voice in her mind that raged in jealousy over the fact that Rhaenyra would one day rule the Seven Kingdoms, yet somehow had the audacity to feel sad about it.

As Lia entered her own chambers to ready herself for the ceremony, her eye was immediately drawn to the emerald green fabric that lay across her bedspread. As she drew nearer, she saw that it was a gown, long sleeved with a plunging neckline, and intricate golden thread in the seams. She ran her fingers over the material. The brocade felt expensive to the touch, far grander than anything she had worn before. There was a note sealed with wax resting atop it.

“A trinket, and a gesture of generosity - O.H”

Lia did not need to peer into a looking glass to know her cheeks had turned scarlet. A gift from Otto, and with the timing of when it was delivered to her, she knew he would be expecting her to wear it to the proclamation. 

She felt far too grown up, the dress accentuating dips and curves upon her body she was unaware she even had until she had put it on. Yet another step away from girlhood, but towards what she had no idea.

Lia had never felt self conscious before, but she was certain that, as she walked through the corridors of the Red Keep, she shone like a beacon, a lurid invitation for all that she passed to stare at her. She longed to run back to her quarters, to tear off the dress and change into something more unassuming, but knew that a refusal of such an extravagant gift from Otto was a line that even she dared not cross.

As the lords of the Seven Kingdoms gathered in the Great Hall of the Red Keep to swear fealty to Rhaenyra as the heir to the Iron Throne, she looked every bit the future queen in her Targaryen finery, and it was not until Lia saw this that she understood the significance of Otto’s gift.

Her friends were ascending towards womanhood, and she must too.

Lia watched on, with Otto stood between her and Alicent. She wanted to feel pride for her friend.However, it was hopelessness and uncertainty over her own future that held her firmly in their grasp. She stood in the presence of two future monarchs, but what was to become of her? 

“You look lovely,” Otto leaned down to murmur in her ear, his breath ghosting across her neck.

And as she felt the warmth and weight of his hand come to rest upon the small of her back, it seemed as though the walls of the castle closed in around her as tightly as the bodice of her gown.

[sunny-mercya]

Grievance

Shikamaru Nara x Male Reader

Fandom -> Naruto

Masterlist

With all these dark clouds—so full, like soaked sponges or washed sheets, with gallons of water stored in them, already dripping with leaks and ready to be drained empty—clustering up the once clear blue sky with its formable bricks, Shikamaru wonders—more like a bet with himself—if it was either you or mother nature, which had released such heavy downpour of thundering rain.

Perhaps—Shikamaru thinks, going over his self placed bet and coming to a truce—it was the both of you, who caused such weeping havoc upon the realm above and brought it down onto the earth—sending the riverbanks into a flooding and causing more corp losses than necessary.

Puffing out another cloud of smoke—tobacco still tasting bitter and unpleasant, even after it being the third cigarette already—Shikamaru looks at its form, trying to make out a deeper meaning of it—a sense to life and the supposed way of Ninja, if there even is one.

Another loud rumble of thunder, followed by a unusual lightning and Shikamaru knew it's solely you who causes such chaos filled weather.

You still were grieving and Shikamaru could understand your pain as he too grieves the loss of Sensei Asuma—whose death Shikamaru (with Ino and Choji) had witnessed firsthand and heard his last few words of dying breath—but it had hit you the hardest.

After all, Sensei Asuma was your Uncle and the closest—besides the Oni Demons, Sensei Isamu and former (rest in peace) Hogake 3rd—of being family, a parental figure, than your actual family, to you—so with Asuma being gone now too, the last few remaining chains of stability—to hold your sanity together—were starting to break into crumblings and if these chains ever happen to snap, a monstrosity of destruction would come free.

Shikamaru doesn't know what to do—neither how to comfort you either—he doesn't feel sad anymore, not like before when he cried with the rain—because he doesn't want his friends to see such weakness—only a slight grievance with philosophical thoughts remains and yes, perhaps a slight twinge of sadness was indeed still bedded in his heart.

He know grief is important to feel and death belongs to the life of a Ninja, but Shikamaru—if being honest—doesn't want to, because if he really starts the process of grief properly—like you're doing right now, although you're definitely a bit way too emotional and Lady Tsunade might send you under heavy medical supervision if you keep going like this—because if he does, he would feel a sort of pain, way worse than a stab or chopped off limp, he never wants to experience.

Another released puff of cigarette smoke, the first drops of new upcoming rain—like baby teardrops—tapping gently on his face and one of Asumas last lines echoed in his thoughts—nagging at him like Ino had done an hour or so ago.

„You and [Name] are like two shogi pieces, meant to be together. I give you my blessing.“

Shikamaru sighed loudly, such a bothersome hassle—this whole human complex concept of emotions—he thinks—but extinguished his cigarette anyway, getting up from the roof he's laying on.

Time to crease the storm into a pitter patter.

~~~

Walking through the graveyard, you were easily to find—as you still haven't left the spot, even when the funeral ended hours ago, kneeling down in front of Asumas grave and weeping your soul out, the darkest clouds of rainy thunderstorms hung directly above you like a unlucky thread.

Shikamaru, when stopping behind you, looks up to Raikou—who stood with crossed arms, like a bodyguard, next to you—barely giving a glance of acknowledgment back, only nodding curtly at Shikamaru and ascending back into you.

»I think it has rained enough.« Shikamaru holds his umbrella above you as well, but you only shook your head as if to tell him otherwise.

»There can't be enough rain for Uncle Asuma. Heaven should weep as much as I do.«

»You're right. It never is enough, but for today it is.«

It had been a saying, which Shikamaru had heard Asuma often say to you—whenever you caused too much weather troubles or going stubbornly overboard with the training—and it seemed to work once more.

You turned your head, looking up to your boyfriend—the umbrella he holds, it's black colour, reminds you of the of vague face of death itself—and Shikamaru, upon seeing your tear soaked face with the aching hurt expression written on it, had to bite onto his lower lip—feeling a upcoming choking sob tingling in his throat—as it pains his heart as well (just like Asuma's death had and still does) to see you, his boyfriend and fiance—so broken, so emotional vulnerable and sadness filled—like this.

»Come on,« Shikamaru begins, bending down—discarding the umbrella—wrapping his arms around your midsection and pulling you up, holding you in his arms,

»let's go home. It had been a long day.«

~~~

Within the comfort of the bed and under the warmth blankets, Shikamaru's and your limps a tangled with one another—creating a proximity only lovers are able to do so.

While you two laid in bed, reminiscing in memories of Asuma—Shikamaru couldn't hold it off any longer, his own aching heart sank itself finally into the grievance and the first sobs escaped over his lips, followed by more till he too cried himself free of the painful sorrow.

And Shikamaru came upon the realisation of why grievances were so important to experience.

[fancyfeathers]

Yandere Childe (Normalized Yandere AU)

Based on a reblog thread with @writing-genshin-obsession where they mentioned the idea of every relationship in Snezhnaya being yandere because of the heavy emphasis on family. So I just started picturing a darling who was in the Fatui but defected and left because she could not stand the idea of being trapped in such a relationship, being backed into a corner like a little helpless animal just waiting for something to bite down and she has to be happy instead, no thank you, so she fought back instead. (Link to the original post and thread)

Also slight inspired by a conversation @yandere-wishes and I had in the comments of a post about it being hot when you are at the winner’s whim in a fight, specifically with Childe so…

Imagining Childe with a traitor reader again, he never met her when she was in the Fatui, he was sent to track her down because she betrayed the Fatui. He had been hearing stories about her being ruthless when taking out Fatui camps, he’ll she probably even was asked by Lady Ningguang to help in the fight against the Overlord of the Vortex because the Fatui were involved and his darling carries such a hatred for them she was glad to lend a hand.

Then in his investigation he visits her family. They live in a small village in cold nation, just like how he grew up. She had a number of younger siblings who she still writes to and when Childe is reading over her letters it reminds him of how he writes to his siblings back home. Her parents are disappointed in her (not only because she betrayed the Fatui but because of her views on love in their nation, believing in the love that was encouraged in their nation was wrong. How preposterous) but more than anything they are terrified for their little girl and beg the harbinger not to kill her when he finds her. He gives them his word, he would never kill her.

Which leads to where they end up, locked in battle, both of them fighting for her life just in different ways. She is strong but just not strong enough, one wrong move gives the harbinger an opening to sweep his leg under her own, knocking her to the ground. Her head bangs against the ground with a loud, which most likely resulted in some manner of head injury. The world is burly and she tries to pick up her blade but it is kicking away from her. All she can process now is the clicking of boots as the harbinger comes to kneel next to her form that is fading in and out of consciousness.

“For what it’s worth, you have quite the fight… Shhh rest now, you’ll be okay, I am taking you home.”

He does, he takes her back to her family to recover. Her parents weep in gratitude to see that their daughter’s life has been spared and give the harbinger their heartfelt thanks. While she is resting in her bedroom, along with her sibling who had all piled in alongside her, Ajax talks to her parents…

When she wakes up, she is back home, like he promised and her siblings are all asleep beside her. Her body is sore but she hears conversations from the living room. She slips out, ever so silently and ease drops from behind a corner. Her heart sinks when she hears her mother speak…

“Love, I know you were once a spy but I am your mother, I know when one of my own are snooping.”

She steps out from behind the corner and her mother waves her over to the conversation, and clear as day her parents seem overjoyed with the harbinger. Her mother smiled at her and tells her…

“You are going to be Ajax’s wife, his darling.”

She tries to refuse but it is all in vain. In the end, not even a month later she is dressed in white and is walking down the aisle that was made in the throne room in the Zapolyarny Palace, only best for her majesty’s harbingers. As she walks down the isle she gets looks from the darlings that rest on the arms of the other harbingers that are just so pitying, they know what it is like to be in her situation and it does not get better.

(Side idea but but now I am picturing all the harbinger’s darlings and the darlings of other high ranking Fatui officials getting together at Pantalone’s manor (of course his darling asked his permission and he said yes) when he is off on business. I am kinda picturing that once scene from Bridgerton where it is a party for the married ladies thrown by Lady Danbury, I’ll put the YouTube video to the scene I am talking about)

[themotherofblood]

chapter 5 | RIVER OF FIRE | blood runs thick | d.t x reader x r.t

masterlist | series masterlist | previous chapter

synopsis: the aftermath of Alicent being wed to Viserys.

~ “Did you think it all true, all these things will catch up to you now.” ~

It truly wasn’t much of a bother, was it. Here you were, threading together a bouquet with gold silk threads and next to you paced Rhaenyra, cursing practically anyone that would dare interrupt her maniacal pacing. Five steps she would walk forward, mutter curses under her breath and then she would turn, walk five more. The antechamber almost grew hot, burning along with Nyra’s ire, the dragon flames within her burnt so bright, you feared for the Queen’s life.

She was just next door, being readied for her wedding by her Hightower cousins, you could hear the rambling and muffled giggling and jangles of gold bangles and necklaces. Her wedding to Viserys - by the gods - even now brought bile to the back of your mouth coating it with bitter thickness. It wasn't unheard of but perhaps when the bride bleeds from so close to home, one might truly weep for her virtue. Even if she were to be the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, a girl and a grieving King. What bore far more pain was that she hid it, for months she hid her ongoing relationship with the King, from you, from Rhaenyra. Being unable to aid Rhaenyra through her grief to which Alicent sewed parts of Rhaenyra back together with such ease. She is wise, truly wise, yet she hid this. Rhaenyra believes her a traitor now, for weeks she voiced the fear of Aemma’s memory fading if Viserys were to remarry, Alicent listened and yet said nothing.

You were pulled from your thoughts as the doors to Alicent’s bed chambers opened, ladies poured out one by one, bowing to you and Rhaenyra before heading for the Grand Sept, the bells had begun to ring, marking the King’s arrival to the Sept.

A girl of six and ten turned into a woman, Alicent stood at the door with a stunning ivory gown, her cape sleeves curving around her figure and intricate gold metal work placed on her shoulders to mimic dragon wings, her beautiful brown hair pulled up. She was radiant as always, you couldn't help but smile at her, it was her wedding day after all.

Alicent’s eyes flicker to Rhaeyra, expecting to find some warmth within the purple of her eyes, Nyra gives Alicent a once over, taking in what had seemed like a nightmare come true.

“You look lovely, your grace” the hint of sarcasm coated thick in Rhaenyra’s voice as she bowed to Alicent before taking her leave.

You pitied her, the smile you gave her after screamed so, the Queen loved by all but the one closest to her. You walked her, reaching out to fix an untucked ribbon and then handing her the bouquet.

“Is there no way that I might mend this?” she sighed, sorrowful and guilty.

“Not today.”

She looked defeated as you fussed with pinnings of her wedding dress.

“Not today, because today is about you, our petty problems will be with us tomorrow too, my lady.” you give her a once over before once more smiling at her “today you become Queen.”

This time she matches your smile, a long breath shaking away the sorrow weighing upon her shoulders. You walked behind her, lifting her long train with both arms as she proceeded to walk.

There was this joy, your friend was being wed, a momentous event but you couldn’t breathe past how terrified Alicent looked, and torn over how perturbed Nyra appeared to mask her strong need to sob. Your lover and your companion, both bleeding from the wounds of court and you could help but one, a side that you had to choose. She had ripped through two dolls, sobbing over the one gown she managed to steal from her mother’s chests. She didn’t want a stepmother but most of all she didn't want to have to lose a friend so cruelly. No matter how tightly you held Nyra through the nights and gave her comforting touches, the dark shadow of doom that seemed to follow never left her, it loved her more than you could. More than the sunshine could cast a shadow, it persisted. At supper and at tea, it pained you to watch her so.

So much so, she wrote to Daemon, begging him to return, to stop this madness, speak some sense into his brother but what was done couldn’t be undone by a banished prince, now could it?

You reached for Nyra’s hand as you stood amongst the people, watching the Targaryen cloak draped over Alicent taunt her. All would be well, all must be well, you prayed. A marriage for the stability of the Realm, even with an heir, the lords never truly seemed satiated.

As Alicent and Viserys turned with their heads held high, the crowds cheered, roared in an out pour of joy. A new Queen had blessed the Realm, soon she would bless the Realm with a son.

A son, you looked to Rhaenyra. The whites of her eyes had gone red, moist.

“She is no Queen of mine.” she angrily whispered to you.

In the vast toll of things, one thing you had expected less. Rhaenyra had charged her ladies to be so frigid to the Queen. You sat with her and her ladies, leisurely pushing your needle through the fabric and then back out, every now and then glancing at Alicent and the growing mound of her belly hidden behind the plush blanket she sat under.

A rabid dog with a mustard collar, that’s what you were to her. Shielding her from the bitch-like behaviour many of these courtly ladies had directed towards her. Loud mouthed wenches, snickering behind her back, most of them had expected to be Queen– now they lick their wounds, playing those half cooked political games to gain Alicent’s favour. Most of all, you shielded her from Rhaenyra’s wrath, raging just as hot as Syrax’s fire, burning all those who might to diminish it, though you– immune to the brunt of it all, both figuratively and literally. The Targaryen in you kept you Valyrian-clad, and Rhaenyra’s lover in you kept you protected.

You looked out the window this time, you were sure she was up there– somewhere so high where if she was to let out rageful screams, she would be the only one to hear. Well– her, Syrax and perhaps a vulture or two. You and her had talked about it at length, while Viserys saw the possibility of a spare, all Rhaenyra saw was an heir, to overshadow her, to depose her before her father sold her hand in marriage to the highest bidder. A castle? Gold? Armies or perhaps a foreign political connection, casting her away. Just as Jaehaerys’s daughters suffered, so would she.

Your mother Daenereys was probably the most fortunate of the lot, along with her sister Alyssa. Both women married the men their hearts desired, Alyssa and Baelon producing the purest of Targaryen children and your mother bringing Dorne into the fold by marrying your father Allyrion Martell. You however bleed Martell through and through, unlike your brother that possessed purple eyes, the ravenous features of a true Dornish woman embraced you as you grew, full lips, sun kissed glow, a distinct head of loose curls, leaving but a few streaks of white, just like Princess Rhaenys.

That was besides the point that even with the macabre tradition of the Dornish and the contumacy of Targaryen traditions, you couldn’t fathom admitting that you indeed wanted Alicent’s child to be a boy, for that little child to be heir so you and Rhaenyra could fly east, just like you always dreamed of, marry and live in a quaint little hold with servants purchased from sold jewellery and a farm of your own. Yet once a prey tastes blood, it can only want for more, Rhaenyra’s purpose was this, to be Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, she found power within the title bestowed upon her and just as demanded flaunted his oddities with immunity so would she, you could do naught but follow her, obey her commands and prepare for the day that she would sit the Iron Throne– with a husband on her back instead of you.

You couldn’t give her heirs of her blood, no blood magic nor prayer could change that you too were born a girl, and the unnatural pairing of the two of you would lead to carnage.

“Princess?” the voice of Enorah standing by the doorway tore your attention, you looked at her, momentarily stunned– returning to the world of the living “The Princess Rhaenyra has demanded your presence in the Godswood.”

Demanded

Rhaenyra knew at the cusp at which she played at, your afternoons were Alicent’s by the King’s “suit,” you turn to Alicent apologetically.

“My Queen if I may…”

“Go on, I have my other ladies to keep me company, perhaps I might return to my chambers for some respite.”

You looked around the ladies scattered across the chamber floors before neatly putting away your embroidery ring, you stood, back straight and shrouded in formality. You bowed to your friend before taking your leave.

You knew how you find Rhaenyra in the Godswood, hair mussed— stinking of dragon on the rage of the fourteen flames in her eyes.

“Why must you be with her?”

Something so sacred but irreparable, such a bind of sisterhood never found again. Squandered yet again by what you knew to be the ugly politics of lords in their ivory towers. What irked you the most was the price paid was you— your companions barely old enough to bleed let alone be pawns to whatever bargains were being struck in the Great Halls of the Red Keep.

You remembered the fight they had so vividly, almost envisioning it as you entered the Godswood.

“Rhaenyra, slow down!” You huffed, hiking your skirts to chase behind her.

Viserys had just announced his proclaimation, you stood there. Among the choices he had, along with Laena. Alicent too was— oddly among the lot. It wasn’t a surety until he said her name.

You were sure Rhaenyra felt it harder than you did, right in your gut. A dagger wound, you should have seen this coming. She looked torn, regrettably so, but why? She would be Queen.

Thus you chased out Rhaenyra, down the stairs and to the Godswood where she wiped at her angry tears.

Dear gods

When the realization set it, your closest friend had lied to you, through her teeth. Under the disguise of consolement and wise words of religion and perhaps comfort. She hid her “affairs” with Viserys.

For her sake you wished that she would steer clear of Rhaenyra but such fate was beyond her for she too followed.

“You!” She whipped her head furiously towards Alicent.

“Why? I wept to you, afraid for my mother’s memory and you betrayed me!”

“Rhaenyra truly—“

“You do not speak! You do not breathe near me.”

“Ever again…”

[starsreminisce]

SJM likely won't have Elain and Azriel be together until she fully processes her mating bond with Lucien. This implies that there will need to be a substantial conversation between Elain and Lucien that delves deeper than a few sentences.

Their current awkward interactions are attributed to Elain's trauma from the cauldron, her breakup with Graysen, and mourning for her father's death. None of these factors suggest that they are ready for a new relationship, a sentiment echoed by Mor herself.

However, Elain's ability to hear Graysen's name without bursting into tears and her willingness for Azriel to kiss her indicate a readiness to move on. Both males rejected her because of her mating bond, indicating that she needs to confront and resolve this issue before pursuing a relationship with someone other than her mate.

So, good luck to her trying not to fall for Lucien when:

Then at us, their eyes widening further as they noted Lucien’s cruel beauty.

I gave Lucien a subtle, pleading look, and he barely hid his smirk as he sauntered over to me. Our dispersing party watched as he braced my waist in his broad hands and easily hefted me off the horse, none more closely than Ianthe.

He’d always had a casual grace about him, but here, tonight, with his hair tied back and jacket buttoned to his neck, he truly looked the part of a High Lord’s son. Handsome, powerful, a bit rakish —but well-mannered and elegant.

Lucien loosed a heavy sigh and slid an arm around my waist, the other threading through my hair to cradle my head. “I’m sorry,” he murmured. “I’m sorry.” He held me, stroking soothing lines down my back, and I calmed my weeping, those seawater tears drying up like wet sand in the sun. I lifted my head from his sculpted chest at last, my fingers digging into the hard muscles of his shoulders as I peered into his concerned face.

“If I offer you the moon on a string, will you give me a kiss, too?” “Don’t be an ass,” Tamlin said to him with a soft snarl, but Lucien continued laughing, and was still laughing when he left the room.

Look at him. The nose is the same, the smile. The voice. Even Lucien’s skin is darker than his brothers’ ... But Helion gave her the same bow he’d offered me—though his smile was edged with enough sensuality that even my heart raced a bit. No wonder the Lady of Autumn hadn’t stood a chance.

[wordslikesilver]

There’s a scene I think about when I want to start just screaming, crying and bawling my eyes out. I think about Maliketh howling outside his temple in the rain. I think about his last words after he’s brought the final piece of Deathroot.

“Marika… Is this what it is to sin? Will things never be the same?”

I could write ten thousand words on this quote and it will probably keep coming up on my blog because think about what he’s feeling. He did his task as best he could. Why does it still ache in his body? Why is destined death a mere shadow of its former self? He put it all back together, why isn’t it the way it was? Is this what it is to sin? Is this the TRUE nature of sin? To change and never be able to go back to the way things were? Maliketh’s life feels like such a long endless cycle of tragedy and failings one after another from a beast who simply wanted to do his very best for the people he loves. Again and again he laboured and loyally sacrificed EVERYTHING that he is for Marika, for the Greater Will, for the dejected who dwell outside his temple still and guard his life for the service he showed them.

And yet he still sinned, and he was set up to sin and he KNOWS he was set up to sin and still, he howls and yearns, why wasn’t he enough? The pain inside him is so bottomless. He’s responsible for it all. The death of Godwyn. The theft of Destined Death. Marika, doing what she did. If only he’d been more. If only his loyalty and his entire life in service to her were enough. And maybe, if he collects it once again, if he protects it the way he was SUPPOSED to the first time, it can all go back to the way it was before. But it can’t. It will never be the same. That is what it means to sin. Marika needs him one final time to collect Destined Death, as much as he can, even if it’ll only be a fleeting shadow of its former glory, so that we might wield it ourselves. Why covet Destined Death? To kill what? Hewg says it best, truly. To kill a god. He collects it piece by piece, EATING it, as punishment and penance for his failure. It rots him from the inside out. He feels this hunger, this never ending cursed hunger to reunite Destined Death and this time he’ll protect it with his own god damn body if that’s what it takes. The agony of his sin will never fade. The appetite, the hunger, will never subside. Things will never go back the way they were.

But WHY, WHY couldn’t Maliketh be trusted the way Godfrey was by Marika? Why couldn’t Blaidd be trusted? It HURTS and it makes me weep so hard for them both. In dark souls 3, slave knight Gael did what he did KNOWING he had to die for his plan to work. He entrusted everything to us, to kill him once he’s gone hollow and deliver the Dark Soul of Man to His Lady. Maliketh has no such choice. He’s gone mad, just as Blaidd goes mad, hanging on by a THREAD, a singular purpose that directs him always. Collect and safeguard Destined Death. And this madness makes him too dangerous now. Marika knows he’s suffering. She can’t do anything about it. Maliketh knows that she arranged for Death to be stolen, but the greater will has triggered his madness as punishment for Marika’s betrayal. He can’t know that she intends to kill a god. This is the kindest thing she can do for him. One last time, take up your blade for me, O Shadow of the Eternal. As he dies, he dies believing he’s failed Marika one last time. A truly miserable end. And yet, he played his part perfectly and succeeded in the task he holds above all others. Live and die in service to Queen Marika the Eternal.

I want to hold him with all the tenderness in the world as he passes away, comforting him and telling him that Marika sent me, that he did his duty and made her proud. That he’s forgiven. That I will never forget his sacrifice. I love Maliketh with all my heart and truly, he deserved a happier end.

[octoboltflash]

A wave of satisfaction washed over her as the boy took the opportunity of distraction to time his strike-- it was obvious that the young man was rather intelligent, based off of the limited amount of time she had observed him for. Concise, to the point, and most importantly, quick-witted. On the other side of things...

Kind. Empathetic. A little too much for the battlefield, a little too much to be able to engage as needed. Somehow, for better or for worse, it reminded her of several of her companions from both the past and present. Maybe Albedo would have gotten along well with them, as Acheron was certain that there'd be quite a large amount of common ground; the Trailblazers always held their own moral compass, but a commonality amongst them all was their overwhelming compassion for the people surrounding them.

And just like ■■■■■ who had occupied such a large part of her heart and soul before...

Her next breath is a sharp inhale as her world reoriented to the sudden movement taking her further away from him; the presence of "lamb" in the place of Temptation immediately caused alarm to stir her heart into a faster pace, brows furrowing as she clenched her jaw. A cheap move, certainly, but Acheron wasn't surprised in the slightest-- if they were willing to lie to circumvent any responsibility in the matters at hand, it wasn't too far-fetched to believe that the 'guardians' would employ underhanded tactics in combat.

His hesitation is nearly painful to her. It's conflicting, she knows, but he can't falter here. "You made the decision to draw your blade, there's no going back once you choose to strike," Acheron's raised voice was rather uncharacteristic of her normal demeanor, the smallest hint of a wild look flickering in the depths of her eyes. His reluctance could get him killed, and she cursed the fact that all she could do was watch helplessly in that moment. "You won't get a chance to help anyone if you're dead. Follow through!"

[3d4] Roll: [3, 1, 1] || 2 damage to Bind.

A rough jerk of her arm managed to give her even the smallest amount of wiggle room, gloved fingers digging into the flesh of the serpent coiling around her. Though it wasn't enough to free her, Acheron's hand managed to reposition itself on the grip of her sword. A little more, and maybe...

She wasn't going to lose anyone here due to her own incompetence. Stranger or not, the boy's soul held a warmth that many didn't-- such a flame didn't deserve to be extinguished.

@dukemeropide @mrch7th @spidergourmet @huuuugestmoney

by the end of sampo's exchange with the spirits, albedo has retrieved the lyre from its pedestal. lamb has flinched at the serpent's dismissive words, and something akin to light disdain sets in his features.

but a few more things have been revealed for it.

"so in the same fashion of mortals, the beings here are entangled in some tale of treachery."  he plucks a gentle note or three from the lyre; easy, smooth. he parses over a piece of lamb's words and decide to echo them.  "you speak of kindness to your lady, as if your fealty lies with her. with all due respect, i find it odd that you would sooner take orders from a new master than let her tell her own story. unless..."

another strum.  "you have some hand in this cycle of betrayal?"

“we have no hand,” temptation answers, “we have only our lady’s best interest in mind, as does her captor. why must one pledge loyalty to only a single sister?” a new voice, low and gruff, interrupts ”it lies.” you can guess it to be wolf’s, as lamb’s follows closely after. “it does.” only albedo would hear the latter two

strum, strum. albedo doesn't flinch, no visible tell to what he's just heard.

"you are the one called temptation."  he comments, not inquires, because he has pieced as much by now from march and lamb's conversation in the woods. he casts the snake an unmoved glance. this one is not like fate, and a lack of need for air does not mean albedo will waste his breath.  "how fitting."

so albedo turns to the fox, eyes less aloof in some degree. hope can only be given to those who accept it. one last chance, then.  "and you, salvation. must you fear the serpent?"

salvation speaks when spoken to, tail swishing behind it. “i do not fear my partners in this realm, this is our shared duty.”

"shared duty to your lady, or to the final subjugator?"  disappointing, but not surprising.

bells fall silent, ashamed.

ah. just as he suspected.

“before this place,” lamb’s voice is quiet, a whisper, like she does not want to say what she knows she must, “they were dear friends of ours. we knew one another well, but… “these are strangers.”

"then you must know what it may come to,"  albedo murmurs back to lamb, even gentler than those bells on the wind. like a eulogy, an apology, because even now, it still brings him no joy.

in fluid notes, an afterthought of a melody comes to his fingertips as they strum the lyre.

miss lady definitely seems to have stopped crying by the time you start playing, but she’s not seemed to become any more aware of the world around her. she’s pretty damn glued to that harp.

still nothing. it becomes clearer what they must do.

"a word, if i may."  striding back to the bubbling fountain, albedo speaks for those who will listen. he does not mince words in his rendition of events, of the voices unheard to all but albedo.

A subtle, nearly imperceptible twitch of Acheron's brow is the only indication of her thought process. Despite the assistance from her companion, the charged tension of the area didn’t seem to change— once again, they’re all at a stalemate, and it’s becoming… rather irritating. There’s certainly one way to move things along, she supposed. Acheron didn’t always like being reckless, but this particular situation didn’t seem to offer her any choice. A quiet sigh escaped her as she slowly lowered the intricate lyre back to its proper place; she made absolute sure to position it as it was before, nearly feeling a bit guilty for disturbing the immaculate platform designed specifically for that instrument. Considering her current plan, though, there would be a lot more disturbed in this garden… “I’m quite tired of talking in circles,” Acheron spoke in a low tone, narrowing her eyes at the guardians situated before her. A gloved hand rests at the hilt of her sword as she begins to pace forward, lithe fingers tightening around the grip. “None of this adds up, and it’s clear that the key lies with that girl. You have one chance to step aside— I recommend that you take it.” Of course, before there’s any reply, she’s well aware of what the answer is. A shame, really. Though a sword is destined to cut someone (or something) down, she still preferred to avoid it if possible. “You don’t want to keep us here, yet you make no move to let us go. That’s fine. I’ll make that final decision myself.” The aggression shown to her doesn’t dissuade her from her approach, and the swordswoman detached her katana from being slung around her waist. It wasn’t quite time to brandish the blade yet, but it was only inevitable. temptation lunges, though there is no bite of its fangs. instead it moves lightning fast, body suddenly miles longer than you remember. ivory scales wind around your ankles and constrict your arms to your sides. the serpent’s nose brushes dangerously against your throat, and you can hear its laughter. “fool.” A growl of frustration tore its way out of her throat, and her fists balled tightly enough to hurt— despite her best strength, biceps flexing with the effort, Acheron found herself completely stuck. “What, don’t have the intention of actually striking? Leads me to believe you’re stalling for something.”

it is ironic that acheron's remark does some stalling, itself, and albedo does not hesitate within that window. his blade flashes into his grasp in all but an instant, and he swings for temptation with a lunge to end it all.

"so, you wish to make this place your tomb?" as albedo lunges for temptation, the image of it and acheron flicker. in its place stands fate, weapon drawn before you. there are cracks along lamb's mask, and you can see where her fingers have begun to tremble on her bow. "we are sorry," she says. it is not her own will that she obeys.

albedo's grip twitches; teal eyes widen.

"it is only fitting, then, that our dearest fate be your executioner."

[gomzdrawfr]

[oc rambles - call of the ring au]

Thoughts are all over the place but this idea sprung to me from the concept in Tolkien lore where elf are immortals, but can die from several aspects (oh yeah angst ahead but with a sweet ending I promise)

One is violent physical harm, the other is grief, and the third one (which is not technically death) is fading where their body becomes less connected to the world

[I have done zero research and the following are made up other than the canon lotr lore + not proof read grammar and english are terrible + I am live writing this]

But you know how Gandalf died in lotr?? Im thinking about that and how Raven felt it

— her body shook uncontrollably as she staggers and falls to the floor, it was as if the very axis of her balance were off and her world was spinning, heavy and tight was her chest—

“Mithrandir”, she whispered out harshly, clutching her chest, it twisted and turned, a sickening feeling bubbling up from within— it claws against her rib cage, like a beast wallowing in pain and sorrow, escaping her lips as she lets out a shriek, tears streaming down her skin

“No, it can’t…i-it cannot be—he promised!“

Something something Raven gets hits with such immense grief and mourn for Price, and slowly starting fading

[making this up once again]

Raven who spent her days and night in her chambers, stood as still as a statue under the moonlight, closing her eyes as she wondered to the stars above

Those who dwindles and seek solace in a far away place often leave pieces of their souls there

Lingers in the night sky, around stars and clouds, doesn’t want to go back— to the empty room, to face the silence, the heartbreak

The fair elf lost its once witty remarks, moving along the scrolls and the great halls with no aim, fair skin as white and bright as the snow darkened to a pale, dull complexion

“Loss is so loud,” she weeps quietly, holding a shiny jewel in her palm, “I had so much I’ve yet to tell you” the Froststar glimmer between her fingers, yet it only seemed to mock her misery “should’ve given it to you, maybe it would’ve helped, but you’re ever the stubborn wizard…” The pendant shines brighter, damp and slippery, “now I tell my secrets to the stars, in hopes it may reach you”

((Froststar is just Evenstar but in ref to her name, Eira which meant snow))

Just as the days only grew impeccably longer, something changed for once. It’s the ache again, around her chest, but it wasn’t suffocating, nor was it crushing—

It’s faint, like a flutter of a moth

She gasped out, holding the pendant tightly, “Price”

Stumbles out her bed, rushed straight to Lady Laswell (Elrond), begged and asked about anything and everything, and got a confirmation that the Grey Wizard, might have returned after all

((Rejoice! She’s not going to insane after all!!!))

The exhaustion finally catching up on her as she falls into a deep slumber that night, and she doesn’t thread through the night clouds in search for stars no…

He came to her, and suddenly, she was reminded of the words from Laswell

“We do not know if he truly is back…he may return a different being, thread carefully, Raven”

Froze on the dark chasm of her dream, she stayed rooted at where she stood, and she sees it

He does look different— white, his robes and staff are white, his beard is white (and oddly rather soft looking)

Has he ascended? Or is this merely a figment of what her exhausted bird brain has conjured up as a cruel joke? He looks the same actually beside the whole white look— what’s with the get up? Isn’t Saruman the White Wizard? Wait— did he took his place—

“Eirwen”

That pulls her out of her mind, and she released a breath she didn’t know she was holding, and trembled slightly

“Mǐrathra…”

She whispers back, tearing up immediately, watching as the familiar figure strides forward, those blue eyes who she has longed to see— yet felt so different—

“Gwael nǐn…you’ve gotten thinner…”

She sniffles, sobbing a bit

“Y-you’re not real”

“But I am, I’ve come to see you…”

“Y-you— I felt it—“

“Yes…yes I was”

Price reaches forward, brushing his knuckles on her cheeks, it felt ghostly, like a wind, but it always felt warm

He was always warm

“Im sorry, meleth nǐn, you’ve suffered a lot from me…”

“N-no…i-it’s fine— I…are you back…i-is your—“ she gestured his white robes and all “what…?” Myriad of questions, yet words failed her

Price laughs quietly, gruff yet fondly, staring at her with those crinkles around the corner of his eyes

“You need not think about those…” leans forward and presses his ghostly palm over her chest, and for a moment she felt it, the warmth seeping into her cold, frail body

“I will see you soon, so please…” his palm wafts through her chest, as if he was reaching out for her and held it dearly

“Keep that heart beating for me”

—she wakes up with her face wet once more, but not with an empty, void in her chest, as her heart beats once more

((Eirwen is her Sindarin name, literally it means white snow, Mǐrathra meant jewel, theres no direct translation for Price so this will do))

((Gwaleth nǐn: my bird, meleth nǐn: my love))

Anyhoo that’s basically the gist of it HDJFJSHS sorry if its messy as hell and the format’s weird, but yeah Raven nearly dying and fading from grief but Price returns and yippiieeee

[mintytealfox]

You used to teach people how to pan for gold?

I did LOL the very simplified version of it and it was always hot as frick outside so hiding the fool's gold in the cool water down in the sand felt nice LOOOL (until fall would hit then my hands would be FREEZING AH) If I am remembering right we also had this hella creepy display where you would look down the glass window and you would see this miner down there with a canary with him, I can't remember if it slowly moved or not XD but I kind of remember the sound of this motor sound down in the basement where we would have lunch in the room next to him LOOOL we even had a 'prospector pit' for the kiddos and I thought it was lame as hell LOOOOL, but fun for kids, they would 'dig' in these rubber bits to get 'gems' 🙃🤣🤣🤣 The geologist, at the time, would get so excited about his rock and gem collection lol (I remember having to fight off the mean Geese up there, those things were HORRIBLE) (AND DON'T GET ME STARTED ON THE CHICKENS THAT WOULD FIGHT ME ON THE WAY TO THE RESTROOM AAHHH I would have to run for my life through the gardens and slip through the little opening in the fence to ESCAPE LOL)

I also taught mock school at the school house to show people what school life was like in the late 1800s I had to ring the bell every hour! I actually legit hated that cause it was so LOUD when right next to it ah my ears are ringing just thinking about it ah and that heavy as hell mallet 🤣🤣 but it would be a different subject for each hour in the morning and then repeat for the afternoon.

And spinning thread (I was so bad at it oh my gosh) Talking about wool and the dying process 👍

and quilting (so now I know how to hand sew but the sewing machine still makes me scratch my head LOL)

and leather working (I would just talk about the types of leather and the process of tanning, I didn't do it myself that was for the experts. And I would only fill in when they needed an extra pair of hands 👍)

Taught some of the old dances too, but I hardly remember them now though -weeps-

and cooking in the old cast iron wood burning stove (where I got heat exhaustion cause there is a reason they would just cook outside or had a 'summer kitchen' during the summer months oh my GOSH) and I burnt EVERYTHING cause my pyromaniac self would make the fire too HOT LOL There were ladies who made THE BEST food in that thing though! like TOP TEIR BEST EVER! There is something about it that is just AHH SO EXTRA GOOOOD but anyway scraping out the ash afterwards was pretty satisfying and chopping more wood for the next day was liberating after dealing with some of the ANNOYING visitors (It was this dull as hell light little hatchet so it was all brute force and magic (finding where the log will likely split easiest) to pop those suckers in half oh my GOSH) This was also where my SEETHING, LOATHING, HAAATTEEEE for churning butter came from 😤😤 (cleaning that junk with freshly boiled water was the ACTUAL WORST, but at least I was allowed to use dawn dish soap and properly re-clean everything after closing for obvious reasons PFF)

This is only SOME of the stuff I did and had to learn so I could teach and perform LOOOOOL

//at least the laundry was fake but beating the rugs was one of my least favorite things like BRUH now all that GARBAGE DUST Is all over ME NOW AAAAAAA

lol whenever I hear 'oh man living in the 1800s would be fascinating' I say 'NO IT WOULDN'T, IT SUCKS, DON'T' 🤣🤣🤣

and the GHOSTS THERE I SWEAR I WAS ABOUT TO FIGHT SOME SUPERNATURAL RAAAAAAH

[rmelster]

INTROITUS: THE FAREWELL OF A DAUGHTER, 1444.

Many years later, Isabelle would recall the only occasion she had seen her mother weep. It happened a forgotten day of the year 1444, and the memory of her tears would follow her to the grave that she untimely came to rest in.

That fateful night, she was eight years of age and her heart was heavy with anguish as she restlessly laid on her bed; her beloved sister, Marie, had been wed to Jean, the young Duke of Calabria, and parted with him to his domains, leaving a void where she had once been that Isabelle felt like a grievous wound. Even at that young age, the little girl knew what it meant: Her sister would never see Bourbonnais again.

The betrothal and wedding had been result of the Duchess of Bourbon’s cunning. Seven years had passed since she had offered the hand of her firstborn daughter to the heir of the Duchess of Calabria; seven years until both the bride and the bridegroom grew to an agreeable age to be wed. Isabelle had never thought that a wedding would occur; but it did. The bride was fifteen and, dressed in a heavy dress of golden cloth and a cloak ribbed with marten, she proved the fairest of all the daughters of Bourbon; the feast, the merriment, the dances… It had all all passed like a hazy dream, until Marie had came to kiss all her siblings goodbye.

When it came time for her to bid farewell, Isabelle had pulled her sister into an embrace; her eyes were full of tears.

“Promise me that you won’t forget us.”

A sad smile curved the lips of the now Duchess of Calabria: “I promise” she had said, pinning in her hair one of the flowers of the wedding, as red as the blood of a dragon, “And hereby I make the oath that, if it is in me, my first daughter shall have your name.”

And, just as she had been by her side for years, she left.

That night, Isabelle couldn’t sleep. Dream refused to free her from the sorrows of the vigil and, after what seemed like centuries, she decided not to wait, She had slipped off the bed, light like a young bird, wrapped in her nightshirt, tiptoeing out of her bedchamber, careful not to awake her maid.

The little Isabelle found his mother in a chamber, far from her own. She wandered through the solitary halls of the castle, looking for her mother. Duchess Agnès was, together with the guards, the first in rising from bed, and the last to return to the bedchamber for the night; in light nights like those, one could see her dwelling in a empty chamber, reading her precious book of prayers, making arrangements and reading letters, or silently embroidering near the fire; she was the image of virtue and dedication, of what a duchess had to be.

She still wore the beautiful gray gown ribbed in ermine fur and embroidered in silver thread that she had worn during the ceremony, but her necklace was resting over the table, and she had made her old maid disassemble the complicated veiled headdress that she used to wear, her long, flowing auburn mane falling gloomily on her back. At her feet, a little black-wooled lap dog slept soundly. Her white hands, those hands that Marie had too, with thin and agile fingers, were eagerly embroidering a delicate piece of tapestry.

"What death doesn't take away from me, a man will do," she heard her murmur.

Her father entered the room, dressed in a simple tunic and trousers; he no longer could be considered a young man, for his black hair was now stricken with silver, and wrinkles had made their nest around his raven eyes, but he still presented himself formidable like an oak and healthy as a man younger that his years. The shadow of concern veiled his ruddy face as he inched closer to the women with whom he had shared his life.

"My lady” he said, “The hour is late, and the day has been long. Thou must return to the bedchamber.”

The duchess denied.

“The Duke of Burgundy has sent a herald to Bourbonnais today. He says that his wife is looking for girls and maidens of serving age, so that she can foster them in their court. I have to send our Isabelle; I am aware that doing so, I am giving her so many opportunities and yet...”

A long, woeful silence followed; Isabelle tiptoed closer and pressed her cheek against the wall, her heart fast with inquiry. Even though she had never met him, she knew who her noble mother alluded; Philippe, the Duke of Burgundy, who the duchess’ brother, and the master of one of the wealthiest courts in Europe; fair and wise like none other, it was no surprise that his courtiers, from the Burgundian France to the Netherlands, had given him the name le Bon, “the Good”. His duchess, Isabel de Portugal, was also very known among their subjects, for she was not only a capable lady, but a famed matchmaker; any lady that came to her court and earned her favour could expect to be married to the best eligible prospect, from counts to rich merchants, and even kings and emperors.

That was a great opportunity, indeed; but the Duchess of Bourbon looked as if grief and exhaustion were breaking her will.

"I'm exhausted, Charles” she had finally said, and Isabelle had flinched; never had she heard her mother call her father’s name, not even once, “I feel like my strength is failing. I have handed over a very young daughter, and now I hand over another, knowing that she will never be mine anymore, that once de comes to Burgundy…”

The orderly Duchess Agnès, daughter, wife and mother of dukes, who had given birth to ten children of Bourbon in twenty years, and that was with child for the eleventh time; she, who had kept the estate when the duke had sunk in sorrow after the untimely death of their beloved son Philip, who had kept her head high when the constant disagreements of her lord husband with the king had despoiled them of lands and honours that had belonged to their lineage since centuries; she, who was the pillar where the family relied, she collapsed on the duke’s arms.

Troubled, the duke had held his weeping wife between his arms, and pressed in her brow a kiss so light it would had flown with the nightly breeze.

"Here, my lady, thou must not weep" he had cooed, “If thou cannot keep your courage, then I shall give thee mine. Our Isabelle shall be in her court, and we shall visit her as often as we can; we won’t lose her, my lady. We won’t lose any.”

Before Isabelle could even stomach what she was hearing, someone grasped her arm; her maid, Bonne, looked at her with a weary face, as of she was fresh from slumber.

“What are you doing out of bed so late, petite?” she inquired in a whisper, a soft note of concern in her voice. Isabelle looked down.

“I got lost” she lied. Her Bonne seemed not to believe her, but she decided not to disturb her masters with complaints at their young daughter’s behaviour, for she read the sadness in her eyes; instead, she raised in her robust arms, and carried her back to bed.

At last, Isabelle de Bourbon rested.

@lordbettany / @catherinemybeloved / @ricardian-werewolf

[edgessunflower]

Lord of the rings prompts

"Courage is found in unlikely places"

"You can only come to the morning through the shadows"

"All that is gold does not glitter, not all those who wander are lost"

"There is some good in this world, and it's worth fighting for"

"I would have gone with you to the end"

"All we have to decide is what to do with the time that is given to us"

"Even the smallest person can change the course of the future"

"I would have followed you"

"You step into the road, and if you don't keep your feet, there is no knowing where you might be swept off to"

"Deeds will not be less valiant because they are unpraised"

"It is not the strength of the body, but the strength of the spirit"

"The best journeys are always unexpected"

"It is the small everyday deeds of ordinary folks that keep darkness at bay, small acts of kindness and love"

"I would rather share one lifetime with you than face all the ages of this world alone"

"There is light and beauty up there that no shadow can touch"

"Despair is only for those who see the end beyond all doubt, we do not"

"It is no bad thing to celebrate a simple life"

"May you each be a light for one another when all other lights go out"

"The world is not in your books and maps, it's out there"

"Home is now behind you, the world is ahead"

"I will not say: Do not weep for not all tears are an evil"

"Are you going to leave me?" "No, I'm going to look after you"

"Your time will come, you will face the same evil, and you will defeat it"

"But in the end, it's only a passing thing this shadow; even darkness must pass"

"Don't leave me here alone, don't go where I can't follow"

"It is useless to meet revenge with revenge, it will heal nothing"

"The world is indeed full of peril and in it there are many dark places"

"Do not scorn pity, that is the gift of a gentle heart"

"I can't carry it for you but I can carry you"

"Little by little one travels far"

"How do you pick up the threads of an old life?"

"I think I'm quite ready for another adventure"

"The road goes ever on and on"

"Do you remember when we first met?" "I thought I had wandered into a dream"

"How do you go on, when in your heart you begin to understand...there is no going back?"

"There are some things that time cannot mend, some hurts that go too deep...that have taken hold"

"I am looking for someone to share in an adventure"

"Few other griefs amid the ill chances of this world have more bitterness and shame for a man's heart than to behold the love of a lady so fair and brave that cannot be returned"

"Memory is not what the heart desires, that is only a mirror"

"I wish none of this had happened"

[ladyantiheroine]

I’m Hers Now

Summary: Renfield is in love, and Dracula is not happy about it.

Pairing: Renfield x fem!reader

Requested by @kpopgirlbtssvt

You’re walking a dangerous line, Renfield.

Two days had past and Renfield still smelled the blood of Matthew Ryder. He’d been feeding mortals to Dracula long enough that he learned to forget people once they were gone. Exorcise their ghosts before they had a chance to haunt him. But the memories of his most recent kill were still fresh to him.

Because that kill’s girlfriend was weeping right in front of him.

“I just don’t know what’s up with me,” Y/N said. “I mean…I know I’ve talked about him a lot, and I know I haven’t always said the best things about him, but…that doesn’t mean I want to feel happy about his disappearance, right?”

Y/N had attended the support group as long as Renfield had. The common thread in all her stories were the same: Her boyfriend, Matthew. While Renfield didn’t like to judge, none of Y/N’s stories suggested the young man was much a prince. Gaslighting, manipulation, narcissism, every abusive boyfriend cliche wrapped into one man.

And just like Caitlyn’s boyfriend weeks before, Renfield decided he was just the kind of man to feed to the world’s most infamous vampire.

But while Caitlyn seemed happy at her boyfriend’s sudden disappearance, Y/N seemed more torn up. It spoke to the young lady’s good heart that she felt pity even for someone who had hurt her.

It was part of why Renfield was so drawn to her. After living with the lord of darkness for so long, he was drawn to anyone with a spark of light in them.

Y/N sniffled and rubbed her face on her sleeve. Renfield reached into his pocket, pulled out a handkerchief, and offered it to her. She turned to face him, round eyes shimmering.

“Thank you,” she said. She took the handkerchief and blew her nose. “I don’t know, it’s just…I’m not a bad person, right? That I don’t feel terrible that he’s gone?”

“Of course not, Y/N,” Mark said. Everyone else in the group nodded. “You clearly care that he’s okay. His disappearance had nothing to do with you.”

Well, it technically did. If Y/N hadn’t spent weeks telling stories about her boyfriend’s latest assholery, Renfield would have never found Dracula’s next meal.

“Maybe this is an opportunity,” Renfield said.

Everyone in the group turned to him, including Y/N. Despite all the faces, it was Y/N’s that made Renfield feel shy to speak.

“I mean, maybe this is a sign,” he said. “If you feel happier when he’s not around…maybe that’s the final sign that he’s not for you. Move on. Let the authorities deal with his disappearance. Take this time to make plans going forward.”

He shyly brought his gaze to Y/N’s. She was looking at him with soft, soothed sort of gaze.

“That’s excellent advice, Mr. Renfield,” Mark said. “Sometimes, it takes a sudden disruption for us to realize what we need. Sometimes, you need distance from a relationship in order to heal from it.”

Mark glanced down at his watch.

“Well, I’m afraid that’s all the time we have for now,” he said. “Thank you so much to everyone for coming. Same time next week.”

As everyone stood up to leave, Y/N approached Renfield. Despite them being the group for weeks, the two had never spoke one-on-one before.

“Hey,” she said. “I just wanted to say…thanks for the advice,”

“Oh,” Renfield said. “Of course. I’m glad it helps.”

“Honestly, knowing Matthew, he’s probably doing something illegal. If the cops find him, they’ll probably just take him to jail. Then I won’t even have to try breaking up with him.”

Renfield gave a shaky smile.

“Silver-lining to everything, I guess,” he said.

“Yeah.”

A small smile sprouted on Y/N’s face.

“By the way,” she said. “I know it’s a bit late in the afternoon, but…do you wanna get coffee right now?”

~

What the fuck are you doing, Renfield?

It was a real he had set for himself early on: Don’t get close to those close to the target. Murders are often comitted by those close to the victim, so befriending Matthew Ryder’s girlfriend would be like Ted Bundy befriending his latest victim’s sibling. The goal to stay away from the crime scene, not tapdance around it.

And yet, despite all better judgements, Renfield agreed to accompany Y/N to the new coffee shop down the block from the church. More than that, he ended up chatting with her to closing time and nibbling through several croissants in the process. Then, he ended the evening walking her home to her apartment.

He tried to rationalize it. She was still hurt afte losing Matthew, and he of all people owed it to comfort her, right? Not to mention protecting her in case any more trouble came her way. Eventually, she’d move on from Matthew and the two would have no reason to speak to each other again.

That’s what he told himself the first time.

~

Before long, Renfield lost count of how many coffee chats he’d had with Y/N. It became a ritual for them after every support group meeting. From there, coffee chats turned into movie night and trips to the zoo and weekend spent viciously annhilating each other in Mario Kart.

It was official. Renfield and Y/N were friends now.

Best friends, possibly. The first one Renfield had in centuries. It felt so strange. For the longest time, Dracula was only deep relationship he had. The constant travel and surveillance from the vampiric count meant Renfield could never get close to anyone. Lest he risk putting his human companion in danger.

But Renfield ahd managed to keep Dracula fed for the weeks following Matthew’s death. This kept him satisfied enough to not go hunting after Renfield, which was the onyl way Renfield cold justify all the time spent with Y/N. As long as Dracula was appeased, he could separate the two enough for no problems.

It was a risk. But it was one Renfield couldn’t resist. Because he enjoyed his time with Y/N too much to stop, and he couldn’t bare the thought of returning to life of lonely servitude to a cruel master.

So that’s what his life was. Wandering through aquariums after support group with Y/N by day, and hunting and killing innocent people by night for Dracula.

~

Renfield didn’t know when he got off-balance. At what point he started neglecting Dracula in favor of spending more and more time with Y/N. But in what felt like the blink of an eye, weeks more had past and he hadn’t fed Dracula a single drop.

And the worst part? His friendship with Y/N hadn’t faded.

It got worse.

And by worse, he meant he was falling in love with her.

And even worse, she seemed to reciprocate.

One afternoon after group, Renfield and Y/N decided to go watch a movie at his apartment. It was the first time he was letting her see his place, and the occasion felt more momentous than it should have been.

“I didn’t have time to clean the place,” Renfield said. “So, apologies if it���s a tad messy.”

“I doubt you could be messier than me,” Y/N said.

Renfield chuckled, and as they continued to walk, hs fingers brushed against hers. He didn’t mean to, but in the next second, Y/N thread her fingers between his. Her hand was soft and warm and it made her heart flutter. He looked at Y/N, and she gave him a soft smile.

“Is this okay?” she asked.

No. It wasn’t. Do you not know what you’re getting yourself into?

“Yes, it’s good,” Renfield said.

The two reached his door and Renfield slid his room key inside. As soon as he opened the door, he knew something was wrong. There was a scent in the air. A rotten, decaying scent that only came from one person.

Renfield let go of Y/N’s hand. He turned to her.

“What’s wrong?” she asked.

“I…umm…” Renfield said.

He glanced down at the welcome mat by the door. Fuck, the mat. The bastard got in because fo the god damn mat.

Renfield was even stupider than he thought.

“Listen,” he whispered. “I’m sorry, I know this is sudden, but I need you to leave right now.”

“Why?” Y/N asked, her eyes confused and a little hurt. “What about our movie night?”

It crushed Renfield’s heart to see her looking at him like that. But he had to protect her. He’d endangered her enough just getting close. He needed her gone before she joined Matthew in the same gaping maw.

“Y/N,” Renfield said, trying to stay calm. “Listen, you have to trust me, it’s not safe here right now.”

“Why? What’s wrong?”

“I can’t tell you.”

“Why?”

“It’s a lot to explain and…you don’t believe me…”

Y/N looked even more hurt.

“Why would you think that? We’ve told each other everything, right?” She grabbed his shoulders. “Robby, what’s going on? Why can’t you just let me inside? Why--”

Suddenly, there was a gust of wind that pushed Renfield backwards into the apartment and shut the door behind him. He quickly rushed to his feet and and flew open the door. He glanced down the hall just in time to see Dracula, Y/N flung over his shoulders, as he skittered away.

“No!” Renfield cried. “Stop!”

Dracula paused, and turned to face him. His eyes glowed red and his mouth spread into a wicked, toothy smile.

“Such pretty prey you’ve found me, Renfield,” he said. “This will make up for your weeks of neglect.”

With that, the count disappeared into the distance.

~

Maybe she’d been asleep for minutes. Maybe she’d been asleep for days. All Y/N knew was that her whole body ached when he eyes finally fluttered open. The first thing she saw was a window, showing a black sky. She turned her head to see orange walls covered in inspiration posters and a soft pillow under her head.

“What…” she mumbled.

“Oh, thank god.”

Y/N turned her head. Renfield was seated by the bed beside her, his sweater and face splattered with red. Her heart leapt in her throat and she seat up quick.

“Renfield!” she said. “What the--”

Before she could finished, Renfield threw his arms around her. He squeezed her tight, his eyes tearing up and staining the sleeve of her shirt.

“You’re okay,” he whimpered. “You’re okay…I thought he killed you…”

“Who…”

Y/N groped her brain for memories. She remembered arriving at Renfield’s apartment for a movie night. Then, all of sudden, he started panicking and telling her to leave. After that, she saw the wisp of a black shadow and she was floaitng above the air right before she passed out.

Renfield released her and gripped her hands in his.

“Y/N,” he said. “I’m…I’m so, so sorry. This is all my fault.” He inhaled a deep breath, then let it out. “I have a lot to explain.”

~

It was past midnight and on top of being exhausted, your brain was fuzzy from everything you’d been told.

“Dracula,” you said. “As in…the Dracula?”

Renfield pursed his lips and nodded.

“I’ve served him for centuries,” he said. “But I never had the strength to vanquish him until now.” He glanced down at his bloody sweater. “As you can tell it was…a messy process.”

“You killed a vampire,” Y/N said. “That’s…incredible.”

“Well, my good friend Rebecca certainly helped,” he said. He squeezed your hands tight. Despite his pale skin, his touch was warm. “I was afraid to befriend you, because I didn’t want you to get hurt. But really, I should have just been honest from the start. And more so, I should have killed that bastard a long time ago.”

He bit his lower lip.

“Y/N,” he said. “After so long, I thought I had forgotten what it was like to really love someone. Not fear, and not just serve them, but love them.” He lifted his eyes to hers. “You reminded me that’s there’s still something in this cold body of mine. If you hadn’t, I would still be a slave to Dracula for centuries more.”

Y/N’s face burned hot. She was feeling so much as once it was almost overwhelming.

“Renfield,” she said.

He pursed his lips and tugged at his sweater.

“I should change,” he said. He wiped the crimson, copepry smear on his mouth. “This bloody blood isn’t helping, is it?”

Before he could get up and leave, Y/N stopped him. She grabbed him by the font of his blood-stained sweater and pulled his blood-stained lips to her. She tasted the copper on his mouth, but she didn’t care. They sunk into each other, time melting into wax around. When they separated, Y/N pressed her forehead to his.

“I love you too, Renfield,” she said. “And I’m happy Dracula is gone.”

Renfield smiled. A smile of disbelief, of joy, of relief.

“I’m not his anymore,” he said. “I’m yours.