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[fanficsiwillneverwrite]

On my umpteenth rewatch of lok, I had a sudden interest in old Zuko…. And let’s just say another wip is brewing in my brain now about Zuko and his involvement in book 3 :/

Zuko looks in the mirror and sees only a face he no longer recognizes: old, long past its prime. An old wound haunting him, even how many years later. It happened so long ago; only yesterday. Shaky hands rub the rough skin as the memory takes hold. It was for the better, he once told himself long ago. It led him on the path of good, toward the light. But the thought of giving such a punishment to Izumi… He admittedly was not perfect when it came to raising her, but he was no Ozai.

Through the reflection, he sees Akari, the Firelord’s senior aide, emerge from the golden doors. “Lord Zuko,” she says with a respectful and low bow. Her voice is distant, muffled, despite being so near. Just a reminder of his aging body. “The Firelord will see you now.”

He nods, acknowledging her, but his focus remains on the stranger–no, the old man–staring back at him, copying every move he makes. Akari backs away to give him space. And he touches a few wrinkles. Uncle always said they were a sign of living, far better than the alternative. His laughter still echoes in his mind; the steam of hot tea still lingers around him.

He moves away from his reflection and into the throne room where his daughter sits high above him in all her glory. Zuko smiles as he bows–and his old bones crack as he bends. Another reminder that the old man in the mirror and the boy who thought his destiny was to capture the Avatar were one in the same. “The Firelord has requested an audience with me. I would be interested in knowing what for.”

“Hello Dad,” greets Izumi gently as she stands. She approaches him, a familiar look of care mixed with concern permanently captures her face each time she looks at him. He knows it well. Old age brings on pity. No, Uncle would say, old age brings on care. They hug and, suddenly, he is drunk with the scent of familiarity. Once Mai’s favorite perfume worn now by a grieving daughter who wants only to keep her mother close. “How are you?”

“I am fine, daughter,” he assures, his hand squeezing her shoulder as if to emphasize the fact. Sadness lingers around them with Mai’s passing just over a year ago. “Though, perhaps it is I who should be asking you that very question. Avatar Korra has led us into a new age where spirits and mankind must now live together in harmony. As the Firelord, it is your duty to make her decision a reality. With some guidance from me, of course, if it doesn’t interfere with my nap time.”

She rolls her eyes as a smile forms. “I think sometimes I can make better sense of your snoring than your political babble,” she teases.

“Be careful what you say next, daughter,” he shoots back. “I still have claim to the throne, you know.”

“Like I’d give it back,” she tells him playfully. But her face turns serious. And like a stuck bandage, the news of why she has summoned him is ripped open quickly to ease the anticipation: “I’ve just received word from President Raiko in Republic City. It seems… Harmonic Convergence has brought back the Airbenders.”

His heart feels as if it has sunk. The Fire Nation’s greatest burden, their deepest regret—now, so suddenly, fixed? He would have to see it to believe it, especially if Raiko is the one reporting it. All the man cares about is the votes. “What?”

“I haven’t yet received word from Tenzin, but there has been at least one Airbender sighting in Caldera alone. Most, it seems, are in the Earth Kingdom.”

“That could mean trouble.”

The Earth Queen remains bitter over land now the United Republic of Nations and everything surrounding it, Air Temple Island included: Earth Kingdom territory, she makes false claims. While her father was timid, mostly oblivious as a leader, Hou-Ting is loud, demanding, and a complete tyrant.

Zuko turns, hurrying out the room. There is no time to waste. “I’ll head straight to Ba Sing Se—”

His daughter is quick to stop him. “The Fire Nation should not have any involvement there, dad. You know this.” His intent would be to liberate this new wave of Airbenders from the grasps of great tyrannical power, but the world might view it as another Firelord’s attempt to again dismantle the Air Nation. He blinks, seeing clearly now as his daughter faces him again. “Furthermore,” Izumi continues cautiously; they’re always dancing around his state of retirement. The nation is hers–it is her birthright–but he makes diplomatic trips around the world to assure peace, to continue what he and Avatar Aang started so long ago, yesterday. “A man your age should really be fretting over pai sho and gardening. Not the state of the world.”

The man she is describing is Uncle. Not him, never him. “I will not turn my back on the world when it still needs me,” Zuko insists. His reflection shows an achy old man with a story long ago completed, but as long as his heart still beats and the fire still burns, he can be useful.

“I know,” she says, “but… you can only do so much before it becomes too overwhelming for you.” She adjusts her glasses as a sigh escapes her. “Dad, I care only for your safety–”

“I am still capable–”

“–which is why I think it perfectly sensible for you to take in a ward.”

He stops, hurt–offended. “A-a ward?”

“One of Master Muromachi’s young pupils,” she continues. “Someone who can be your companion. Someone who will watch your back and defend you when you’re unable.”

Zuko huffs, rubbing his forehead in frustration. His daughter thinks him unable, an invalid of his craft now just because of a few wrinkles. Spirits! He is Lord Zuko, Leader of the Fire Nation and the Avatar’s Firebending Master. And she thinks he needs a sidekick? Some noble boy defending his honor? “No, absolutely not. I don’t need some child protecting me.”

Izumi rolls her eyes. “This isn’t a suggestion, dad. Master Muromachi is expecting you. We’ll go down there this afternoon.”

He stomps away stubbornly, like a child not getting his way. The roles were reversed long ago, just yesterday when he was still in charge, when he was still capable. “I can choose my own ward, can’t I?”

“Of course–”

“Then I’ll go on my own, if it pleases the Firelord.”

He exits before she can answer. Anger boils within him. He hates being the man who is old, the man who needs help. Most of his friends are gone now and this new generation is perfectly competent, his daughter being one of them, but the fire still burns inside him. The face in the mirror is the face he saw long ago–yesterday–when there was no scar.

The Fire Nation Academy for Gifted Boys is a secondary school for sons of nobles. It teaches Nonbenders how to fight through the art of swordsmanship. Only the best, or most wealthy, can attend. And the training is rigorous, not for the faint hearted. Tom-Tom became one of the academy’s pupils when he came of age, mastering sword fighting at the age of fourteen. Firelord Ozai always dismissed the school’s teachings, saying Nonbenders could never truly be masters without the ability of bending. In his final years, without his bending, his father learned the way of the sword, though he never tried to understand the relationship between a man and his blade, thus never becoming a full master of the craft.

These days the school is just as rigorous with Master Muromachi, a stern and, dare he say, cruel man, in charge of this new generation of fighters. The boys stand straight in a line when Lord Zuko arrives. Eyes forward, not one hair out of place, not a single crease in their suits. Their movements are in sync as they all bow low when Muromachi introduces him to them.

“You have honored this school with your presence, Lord Zuko,” Muromachi says with a bow of his own. He moves aside for Zuko to properly examine his students. “Please, choose anyone you think is worthy.” He gestures to the tallest of the group: tan skinned and golden eyed, Zuko sees a darkness in him that brings only suspicion. The way the boy eyes him; it’s not like the others. “Eigo here is our star pupil.”

“Is that so?”

Muromachi gestures again and Eigo assumes a fighting stance as he draws his sword. He dances with it around Zuko–impressive but, still, there is something about him that he doesn’t quite like–before returning to his spot in line.

“Very good,” Zuko tells him, “though I find your lack of moderation rather… unsettling.”

The boy’s expression darkens at the criticism. Not suitable for his company at all. Muromachi moves on without a visible reaction: “Pao,” he calls. And the next boy moves skillfully around the room with his blades. A mindless routine, practiced over and over again until perfection. He does what he is told and nothing more.

“Your moves, though highly skillful, lack originality,” Zuko notes. He will find something wrong for each of them. He does not need a protector, nor does he want one.

Muromachi becomes more tense as they move down the line, each boy weaker than the last. This Academy is a show and these so-called warriors are nothing more than performers this day in age, not like how they used to be, he will tell his daughter later over tea. That is why he did not choose a child today. That is why he should not have a ward.

Finally, they arrive at the last: the smallest of the group. A softness exists within him that the other boys do not have. Short hair above his ears cut in a wonky bowl shape and fierce blue eyes with a sparkle in them that shows he is ready, not to win but to fight for what is right—he knows those eyes. It hits him, suddenly. A girl, disguised as a young boy.

“Lee!” orders Muromachi, sweating profusely at this point. Zuko instantly understands the name is false, an alias to hide her true nature.

And the girl disguised as a boy begins her dance around Zuko. Her movements are hesitant. She nearly trips over her own two feet. Her two swords do not move together as one but rather as completely separate entities. An amateur compared to her peers. Muromachi is visibly appalled by her performance, but remains silent out of respect for his guest. Zuko, admittedly, is intrigued by the girl. Why would she openly go through such turmoil?

#zuko #prince zuko #lord Zuko #old zuko #fanfiction #fanfic #ao3 fanfic #legend of korra #lok #lok fanfic #atla #avatar the last airbender #also like I’m sorry for all the wips I’m pumping out but life is just up and down right now so

[ladyandthewalrus]

Social Class and Income Levels of IDV Characters

I’m back again with a long, intensive IDV post, this time regarding the quality of life most of Identity V’s characters would likely have led before coming to the manor. This list is not definitive and is based on a little guesswork in some areas, and also doesn’t include every single character, as I couldn’t find relevant information for every career, but I think provides an interesting look at character backgrounds, the sorts of resources they would have access to, and what life was like in the 1890s.

This post assumes that the vast majority of the characters live in the United Kingdom and that most of them were born there. As discussed in an earlier theory post, Oletus Manor is 100% in England and the DeRoss Couple and their daughter were English aristocrats. It also refers to fairly readily available information that can be found in various characters’ deduction systems, seasonal events, background and official videos, and birthday letters.

Lots- and I mean LOTS- of info below. 

First, a few notes about the class system in the late Victorian United Kingdom:

- Class was highly stratified, and moving up the social ladder was extremely difficult.

- Class was not necessarily just tied to income. Upbringing, family background, etc were just as large a determinant, which is why you might have an impoverished aristocrat with tons of property but no income who would still be welcome in elite social circles, whereas an up-and coming business owner bringing in £3,000/year would be shunned. Class was who got invited over to dinner; class was whether or not you’d been educated, and if you had to work with your hands.

The Upper Class/Aristocracy/Nobility:

- The top of the class system under the royal family (boo). Men might hold political positions, but members of this class would not have careers, as such. These characters likely have a passive income from investments or land owned and generational wealth. hey own one or more homes and employ extensive live-in household staff, including maids, butlers, drivers, cooks, gardeners etc.They can travel widely and partake of various entertainments, having time to cultivate talents in the arts.

Mary: She is, or believes herself to be (??), Marie Antoinette, an Austrian princess and the Queen of France. Antoinette was infamous for her lavish lifestyle and voracious appetite for fashion.

Joseph: He is referred to as a Count, but French nobility does not actually use that exact title. It’s possible he is a Comte, which is the equivalent of an Earl/Count in England. Either way, this is a middle of the ranking noble title. In the 2021 Christmas Event, he mentions his family owning several manors, so the Desaulniers family has, or had, a considerable amount of property.

An interesting thing that makes me wonder if his family’s wealth is depleted is that he consistently dresses in extremely outdated clothing, but I believe that speaks more to his sentimental obsession with the past than anything else.

Chloe/Vera: The real Vera had the capital to open a store front to sell Chloe’s perfumes. There is no mention of either daughter working prior to this, and the family employs several maids. Presumably, Chloe’s perfumes were a good money maker, as the 1890s marked the “Golden Era” of perfume production and sales. It is unusual, but not impossible, that an upper-class woman would own a business.

Melly: A successful social climber who began as a maid before marrying her employer, who owned a manor. She is well educated, to the extent she has been invited to lecture at a college or university.

Edgar: Edgar does not paint to generate income. His family was able to afford a long-term art tutor for him, and he is not interested in the prize money offered by the manor because his family’s wealth is more than sufficient. He is squarely in the aristocrat category, and enjoyed a lifestyle most of the other characters could only have dreamed of, at least in a fiscal sense.

Galatea: Another individual who pursued art as a passion or hobby rather than actual trade.This would simply not be realistic for anyone outside the upper classes.

Memory/Alice DeRoss: Her father possessed the title of Baron. Her mother is depicted in TOR with an upper-class English accent. Her parents own Oletus manor, which they were able to purchase, and employ two known servants (Burke and Bane). Running such a large estate would require an army of maids, cooks, gardeners, etc, who are not directly mentioned but implied.

Keigan: In her background video, we see her family in very formal dress at a large, lavishly set dinner table. Her brother holds the position of judge at a major court, which brought with it a great deal of respect and import. The average clerk made very little money, but it’s implied she is acting as his unofficial assistant/helper due to sisterly obligation, and does not want for money.

Jack: a bit of conjecture, but Jack at least played at being an artist, and takes on the role of a gentleman. It does not appear he needed to work to support himself.

Annie: Her father is a painter of some note, and her mother was a noted society beauty who left her a considerable inheritance that her father and fiancé conspired to get their hands on.

Luca: A fallen aristocrat with a mother of noble birth. His interests include piano, books, and experiments, all of which point to a privileged upbringing. Only someone with resources could run experiments and futz about with specialized equipment, which is why so many scientists from past eras came from upper class or even noble backgrounds. His father, Herman, blew through their fortune, and after Luca’s incident with Alva, he would not be a socially accepted individual.

The “Educated” Middle Class:

-Individuals or households with an income up to around £1000/ year. The wives do not have to work, but see to the home (oversee staff) and partake in social obligations, plan parties, and help educate the children in the arts. Daughters may become teachers or governesses if they don’t marry or prior to marriage, or in wealthier families, not work at all. They own their home and have live-in staff, such a cook and maids. ( see model yearly  budget for a man making £700/year here.) Vacations, domestic and abroad, and high-end entertainments are accessible. They have some time for hobbies, and probably play a musical instrument if also from a culturally upper-middle class family, such as a piano, violin, harpsichord, etc. Guitars, flutes etc would not be counted here, as they are more “common” instruments. These individuals might move in some of the same social circles as the aristocracy.

Emily: A well established Doctor working in a city hospital could expect to make up to £1000/ year, putting them at the upper end of the middle class. However, an independent Doctor would make much less, and in rural areas, would often be paid in food or services. Given Emily’s difficulties keeping her clinic open, she lingers in the border between being a member of the middle class “culturally”— we know she came from a middle class family and is educated— but she struggles with money and lacks for stability like some of the folks in the lower middle and many in the working classes. Despite a low income, her education would mean she’d be welcome in polite society.

Freddy: A top-payed Lawyer could make £1,200/ year, but Freddy is a bit of a failure. His actual financial status cannot be determined, but he is, like Emily, culturally middle class due to his education and white-collar job.

Aesop: Aesop Carl? relatively loaded, actually. The Victorian era was great for the funeral industry. The elaborate rituals surrounding mourning meant that those in adjacent careers were always busy, and it was fashionable to send off a loved one in great style. The lower classes imitated the lavish funerals of the wealthy, often bankrupting themselves in the process, because it was considered shameful to be unable to lay someone to rest properly, and reputation and respectability were of vital importance in the Victorian United Kingdom. 

As with today, there was an outcry about the funerary industry driving up prices and taking advantage of grieving people to line their pockets even more.A nice funeral, modest but respectable, cost about £11, and embalming services were an additional £10. A funeral with all the bells and whistles would fall at £21. A skilled Embalmer is capable of tending to several corpses in a day. Even if Aesop and Jerry only handled 50 corpses a year, they’d be making £500.  A modern mortician handles about 150 bodies a year, so that’s a cool £1500/year for them. This would mean a nice house with a garden, a maid, and a cook at the very least, presuming Jerry risked having staff around that could possibly catch him on his bullshit. (Though I guess he could just kill them too and replace them with someone who didn’t know better. Fucking Jerry). At least even if he was emotionally starved and groomed into becoming a murderer, he was still eating well, could have nice clothes, and take vacations? 

Another downside though is that then as is often true now, people did not want to socialize with someone who worked closely with dead bodies, and funeral industry workers were often ostracized, making his position here a little tenuous. 

His mother’s family appears to have been upper or middle class, as suggested by Aesop’s dance emote, in which he performs a pirouette. Ballet was an upper-class entertainment, and formal dance training would not be accessible to children of poorer families, and I doubt Jerry was enrolling him in a lot of extracurriculars, meaning he must have learned while still in his mother’s care.

Jose: A First Officer could make around £900/ year. His family was employed by the Queen, and once had a stellar reputation. Although sailors worked with their hands, a high-ranked officer on a ship was seen as fairly respectable.

Orpheus: Some conjecture here. Orpheus is, like Melly, someone who successfully moved up the social ladder, first being adopted by the aristocratic DeRoss couple and then making a name for himself as a novelist. His Survivor version is well-dressed in neat white clothes that would require maintenance and be antithetical to manual work that would dirty them.

Luchino: As a professor, he is educated and respectable, even if his methods are unconventional and his manner of dress hardly appropriate for the classroom.

Alva: He was a student together with Luca’s father, Herman, at an institute of higher education, meaning he is most likely from a family who could afford the expense of educating him.

EDIT: @ivy0309 pointed out that in the Mandarin version of Alva’s first deduction, the language states he comes from an impoverished place, meaning he was probably granted a scholarship and is another case of a successful social climber.

Ann: Ann’s deductions mention she wore exquisite and ornate mourning clothes after the deaths of her parents, suggesting her family had the money for funerals with pomp. She is also left land and at least two houses after her father’s passing.

Manually Laboring Middle Class:

Income wise these careers are middle class, being able to net £1000/year, but there was a difference between enjoying a good quality of life and being socially accepted. Iif you worked with your hands, no matter how skilled you were, you were still a laborer and seen as lacking in culture.

Tracy: A clockmaker made up to £400/year, which jumped to £840/ year if they also worked on watches as well. Her father, Mark, would have netted them enough money to fall into the working middle class, and this is before Tracy’s mechanical genius became evident. If Tracy’s life had gone differently, it is possible she could have become what was known as a Master Mechanic, a skilled worker who could earn £1000/ year, guaranteeing a high standard of living. 

Demi: As a Barmaid alone, Demi would make about £150/ year, which would be difficult to survive on; however, she and her brother own their establishment. Their bar could make about £1000/ year, giving them a comfortable life in terms of amenities, but Barmaids were not respected and often suspected of being easy; many young women in major cities who worked in shops and restaurants took up sex work to supplement their meager incomes.

Leo: At one point appears to have owned two factories, both his initial textile factory and the doomed arms factory. 

More or Less Stable Working Class

Emma: A gardener would make, at a maximum, £400/ year, and a young gardener like Emma would certainly not be able to earn that much. In her previous life as Lisa Beck before Leo made a bad investment, she was likely very comfortable, as Leo did own a presumably successful textile factory. She may be especially nostalgic for her childhood with her father because her situation changed drastically very rapidly, going from living in a pleasant environment with two parents, plenty of toys, good food and clothes/household with a steady income, to being placed in a Victorian orphanage and eventually becoming a manual laborer.

Helena: She wishes to attend college, but cannot afford to do so. We aren't exactly sure what her father does for work, but he is likely in the working class, as many middle class families could reasonably afford to educate at least one of their children, and Helena is, to our knowledge, an only child. They seem to have enough money to provide her with certain accommodations, like spectacles and her cane, though these may have been gifts from Sullivan.

Kevin: the lifestyle itself would be rough, but he could make  around $480/year (sorry for the currency change, but he lived and worked in the USA, and England did not have cowboys).

Bane: A game keeper often had a relatively low income and would by that definition actually fall into the below category, but housing was almost always provided to men who held this job, taking a stressor off his plate. Steady employment/staying at a position for several years was also common, providing general stability.

Working Class and Extremely Poor:

-Families or households often struggling to scrape by on under or around £300/ year, sometimes with individuals making as little as £25/ year. A frugal family at the top end of this budget would overlap with lower middle class and would be able to employ a maid, putting appearances first and sacrificing other luxuries. There is less money for entertainment, and almost all of the income goes to food and housing. Little or no savings. The vast majority of the population falls in this category because things never change, with only 7.7% of workers making £340 or above, and 42.9% £192 or under.

Norton: Coal miners earned around £260/ year. Norton was looking for gold and gems, but it’s safe to assume his standard of living would have been about the same as a coal minder. Compared to some jobs, this wage may have seemed decent, but mining was brutal and incredibly dangerous. Miners typically lived in housing camps operated by mine owners, and had to buy their daily essentials from in-camp stores and commissaries. 

Victor: I had to conjecture a little here, but senior postal service employees were making around £200-300/ year, and newer employees a starting annual wage of £90 so we can guess Victor falls around here as well. We also do not know about his family’s class background.

Andrew: Andrew probably wishes he really was a Train Conductor. In that job, he could have made £900/ year, granting him membership the middle class. Being a Grave Keeper or Grave Digger was an awful job, physically demanding and badly compensated. Cemeteries often stank of rotting bodies, and Grave Diggers had a low social standing because they worked so closely with corpses. I could not find concrete information about how much he would have made, but it would definitely fall below the £300/year mark that is the ceiling for entry into the lower middle class, given that the other Survivors with physical/ unskilled labor jobs seem to peak at the £200ish range.

Worth noting though not necessarily tied to class is the common misconception that Andrew is illiterate, which he certainly isn’t. His dedications include a diary entry he wrote in which he tries to justify to himself his bodysnatching activities, and he also received letters from Percy’s assistant. He might have a little trouble with small print due to his bad eyesight, but he can absolutely read and write. Most people, even the poorer classes, were at least somewhat literate in this period in the United Kingdom.

Outsiders/I Have No Idea

-These are characters with either extremely vague and mysterious pasts or who have extremely unconventional professions.

Patricia: A Voodoo practitioner, it is unclear if she performs the work of a Voodoo priestess, which could be lucrative. Marie Laveau, on whom she is allegedly loosely based, was very financial successful, but to be honest, I think the IDV writers have a very shaky grasp on actual Voodoo practices and beliefs (as do most folks probably who have no idea that a lot of practitioners are also Catholic. It's a syncretic religion so yes, Patricia’s nun costume actually makes some sense.)

Fiona: It is openly stated she comes from an unknown class. There aren’t really historical precedents I could find in my research for occultists of her stripe earning an income, as there’s no indication she goes around giving exhibitions or overseeing seaances. Many Victorians dabbled in the arcane as a hobby, but those who were able to fully devote themselves to their studies tended to come from very comfortable backgrounds, such as Helena Blavatsky and Aleister Crowley.

Kreacher: He is a thief. Nothing else to say.

Eli: Another character with an ambiguous background. We have little information about his family life, but he is considered in his write-up by the organizers of the manor games to be unemployed.

EDIT: @ivy0309 informed me Eli is listed as coming from a middle class background in the official setting book.

Ganji: He is likely extremely poor. I could not find anywhere what a professional athlete might have been paid, but we do at least know he cannot afford travel home to India.

William: He is presumably from a middle class family, given that he attended university. As with Andrew above, I have a seen of lot people claiming William is less intelligent/educated than he is, when he’s actually at least one of the most educated characters in the game. He may have made a poor decision drinking the poisoned wine and come off as a muscle head, but he is far from a himbo. I don’t know what his current social class could be considered, as professional athletes in the Victorian era were not the same was they are now, but William does appear based on his clothes to be a rugby player more or less full time?

Performers/Entertainers

-This is another tricky group to get a handle on, because the role of the entertainer in society meant that one could be exalted and idolized while also not being welcome in polite society. I cannot speak to actual income amounts for these characters, but can provide a few general notes of interest. Also worth noting is that a top-billed musician like Antonio would be treated very differently than the Hullabaloo performers, who were certainly seen as impolite and indecent.

Margaretha/Natalie: Female performers were often characterized as promiscuous and sexually available, and therefore sneered at. Margie is wearing the costume of an exotic dancer (for those who may not be aware, this doesn't meant actually foreign or exotic, it explicitly means a dance intended to arouse or excite). She is not doing well fiscally after Sergei’s death, and is implied by the description of her animal tamer costume to dance/busk for tips.

Her uncle and aunt who raised her lived in Lakeside, and Natalie is described as wearing a cheap cotton dress in a photograph of her  living under their care. Her background then would likely fall under manually laboring/working class.

Mike: Mike is one of the circus’ most popular performers, so he makes more than Margaretha, but that's all I can guess.

Joker: He is less popular than Mike and Sergei, but is allowed his own tent because either he has enough status in the Hullabaloo or nobody wants to room with him.

Violetta: Her family abandoned her, and she was seen as an asset by Max. Likely has little to no money of her own.

Servais: He at least considers himself middle class and respectable, and his dress does suggest he is financially solvent.

Antonio: A musician welcomed at court who played for upper-class audiences. Antonio was raised to be a money-maker by a stern father and did receive royal patronage, but based on his personality traits I am willing to bet he has poor money management skills. His real-life inspiration, Niccolo Paganini, died in debt.

Murro: Treated as a possession by Bernard and then living on the run, it's hard to imagine he had any way of earning money after fleeing the circus, nor the necessary knowledge to exist within society.

Willis Brothers: I believe their situation would be similar to Violetta’s. Disabled sideshow performers could occasionally have quite lucrative careers, but this was rare.

This is far from comprehensive, but thank you so much for taking the time to read this far! If you have any questions or wish to discuss anything here, please feel free to talk to me!

A great resource for approximating the income ranges used above is this database,  this is invaluable for looking at things like average wages, housing costs, price of goods in different countries (mostly the US, UK, and Western Europe) across decades and eras.

#identity v #idv #idv lore #idv speculation #William Ellis #Fiona Gilman #Edgar Valden #Melly Plinius #Norton Campbell #Servais LeRoy #Patricia Dorval #Annie Lester #Aesop Carl #Victor Grantz #Ganji Gupta #Eli Clark #Kreacher Pierson #Alva Lorenz #Luca Balsa #Emma Woods #Emily Dyer #Joseph Desaulnier #Vera Nair #Galatea Claude #Alice DeRoss #IDV Keigan #IDV Jack #Freddy Riley #Jose Baden #IDV Orpheus

[motherodysseus]

Ptolemaea - Chapter 1

Pairing: Daemon Targaryen x Original Stark Female Character (Alysanne Stark)

Warnings: Violence, language, sexual innuendo, length of text (lol)

Summary: Lady Alys remains behind as her brother rallies support from the lords of the North. On her nameday, a tourney for her hand ensues, one she intends to win. But danger is around every corner. Will she survive long enough to unite with her Velaryon cousins?

Author's note: Sorry this took so long. Turns out, editing your own work is liable to engender insanity!!! This one is a bit of doozy in length (I swear, I cut plenty), but hey, there was a lot to set up! Could I have split it into two chapters? Maybe. But where's the fun in that!? Besides, we have a Rogue Prince to meet. I hope you enjoy, and, as always, your comments, thoughts and feedback are most welcome!

“My lady, we must hurry. Your Uncle will be cross if he finds you’ve been away too long. We were only supposed to take a ride, after all.”

Alys rolls her eyes. Mikken Reed is a kind boy, if not a bit irksome. House Stark’s newest ward, the future heir of Greywater Watch is young, only having nine summers on him, and tiny yet; he does not even clear her chest. This has not deterred the boy from latching onto her skirts, thinking himself her gallant knight and protector. Alys is quite capable of protecting herself, but she is happy to indulge him. Usually. Here in her meadow, however, the real world and all its accompanying burdens have no place. This makes his reminder most unwelcome. 

Found in the heart of the Wolfswood, the glade is dotted with wildflowers and the occasional oak and rowan tree. A brook cuts through like a vein, water trickling over the stones and strewn branches from trees long since fallen and rotted away. The sweet perfume of honeysuckles and primroses, and the dew that coats them each morn, are Alys’s favorite scent, second only to the winter rose.

Alys was but eight summers when she discovered this place, after running away from her lessons with Muña. At the time, she had no interest in learning to sew, or to dance, or to play the harp, or to manage a household. She’d much prefer to be in the training yard with her brother – a place she was barred from, on the unfortunate account of her being a girl. 

Alys was never one to care for rules, especially ones that made little sense. While the boys would practice at swordplay with Vayon Cassel, master-at-arms, she would sneak into the armory to fetch a bow, and teach herself how to shoot. Each time she was caught, she would be brought before her father. She’d beg and plead with him, but the yard was no place for a lady, he said, sending her from his solar back along to her mother, with red knuckles and a sore heart.

Indignant and embittered, Alys decided to prove herself.  She stole a bow and quiver full of arrows, had Nan the cook make her a picnic, saddled her pony Wynafryd – a beautiful black courser gifted to her by her Uncle Corlys – and galloped straight out of the safety of the Keep’s walls. 

Once she found this place, she built a shelter from fallen branches she found along the forest line, weaved a crown of wildflowers and named herself Queen of the Wolfswood. She held a coronation feast for one, gorging herself on the treats Nan provided. 

It took her parents a night and day to find her. When the Lord and Lady Stark finally laid eyes upon their wayward daughter, they were shocked to find the little kingdom she had created. 

“There is no denying it, my lord husband,” Valaena said, dropping down from her horse and scooping Alys into her arms, hugging her close as she brushed brambles from her dress. “Your daughter has the wolf’s blood in her. Or perhaps this is not our daughter at all; rather, some little fae creature we have on her hands. Tell me, riñitsos, are you a changeling or mine own daughter?”

“I’m no changeling, Muña. I am your daughter, the Queen of the Wolfswood! See?” Alys asked, pointing to her crown, slightly wilted and askew, tangled in her mass of dark curls from a night spent abed the soft grass. Valaena laughed again, peppering her face with kisses.

Rickon dismounted so that he could join his wife and daughter in a much-needed embrace; the search having frayed his nerves. “Aye, that you are, Your Grace. But a Queen cannot simply disappear without informing her loyal subjects.” Alys scrunched her face, turning from her father to hide in the crook of her mother’s neck.

Rickon brushed the back of her head softly, reaching in between mother and daughter to cup her cheeks and bring her eyes back to his. “You had your mother and I worried sick, Alysanne. You must swear to me never to run off like this again.” 

Alys’s lips quivered, but she did not back down. “I will swear it, but only if you swear you will allow me to train, Papa. Else, I shall be forced to make my home out here, and you shan’t look upon me again.”

Rickon locked eyes with Valaena over Alys’s head. Sighing, he pinched the bridge of his nose. “You drive a hard bargain, little wolf. After you serve your punishment, I’ll see what I can do.”

Alys, true to her word, served her punishment without complaint. She swore a full commitment to her lessons with both mother and Maester, and suffered through two moon turns without riding or sweets, nor playing with Holly, her closest companion. Not that Holly was interested, for she was quite cross that Alys would dare to run off without bringing her along. Nothing could mend the rift until Alys agreed to make a blood oath, swearing to never again adventure without her. The scar is still visible on her palm, and it is one she cherishes. By sharing blood, they were made sisters. Alys, though she loved her brothers dearly, had always wanted a sister.  

Her father, true to his own word, allowed her to train – though she never was welcome in the training yard. He would make time each week to take Alys and Holly out to the meadow. He taught them how to carve their own bows and string them, and trained the two how to shoot himself. When their skills surpassed his own knowledge, he sent for an archery instructor from across the Narrow Sea, swearing him to secrecy so the girls could continue to learn.

Shaking herself from her reveries, she looks back to the boy. “Oh, a pox on my uncle, Mikken! And what have I told you? You need not call me ‘my lady’ or ‘Lady Alys’ outside the Keep. Here, I am simply Alys.” She turns to face her fiery-haired friend. “Now, Holly, what say you? One more round of roving marks?”

“I say the little lord makes a point. No time left for all that – let’s aim once more for the target and then make our way back to the Keep.”

“Fine,” Alys huffs. “First one to hit the center gets their pick of dessert from the kitchens?”

“Challenge accepted, your Ladyship,” she says, leaning in with an exaggerated bow.

Holly herself never much cared for the pageantry of lords and titles, preferring to poke fun whenever she could. They are not her way, for she was born North-of-the-Wall to a wildling mother. When Holly’s mother was put to the sword, the Lady Valaena protected the girl, insisting she join her daughter’s household. Holly never forgot the kindness, even if she often forgot herself in the face of nobility and their “silly Southern customs.” 

Bennard thought Holly a bad influence, attempting to separate them when he took over the regency of Winterfell. But the Lady Valaena stood firm. “Woe be to any man who would tear apart sisters,” she said, “whether they be borne or made.”  

Bastard, thinks Alys, Should he ever try to take her from me, I’ll show him what a Lady is truly made of.

The girls nock their arrows, aiming for the mounds. “Mikken, count us down,” Alys insists.

“But, my lady, we will get in trouble if– ”

“‘Tis not an invitation to argue, Mikken! And what did I say about titles? Now, if you would please count us down.” 

“Yes, my lady – I mean, Lady Alys. I mean, Alys!” Mikken squeaks, as his hands twist the reins of their horses. Poor lad. I am too harsh. It is not fair to unleash my nerves upon him. 

“Loose your arrows on one! Three, two…”

Alys takes a breath, and eye falling shut as she narrows on the target. 

“One!” Mikken shouts. Alys has already released her quiver, as has Holly; neither girl is above a bit of treachery when they compete against the other. Their arrows whistle through the air. Alys squints, holding a hand over her brow to shield herself from the sun’s glare, attempting to follow their trajectory. She loses sight for but a moment, until she hears the telltale thwap-thwap. 

“I cannot tell from here, it’s too far to see clear, and the arrows too close to call a winner,” Holly says. “Should we send your little squire to check?”

Alys considers it, but the sun is nearing its midpoint; they are cutting it close. “Nay, I think he has suffered enough this morn. Let us make our way back. You may choose the dessert; I care not.”

“You care not because you know Nan is already preparing all your favorite sweets,” Holly says, bumping her shoulder. “Oh to be a Stark girl on her name day!” She declares, twirling about in some mockery of a dance, pulling Alys along with her. 

“Almost name day!” Alys says, giggling as she joins in. She turns and twirls with head upturned to the sun, following the tune of the brook behind her and the magpies overhead. There is a bite in the air, despite the fact that it is the twentieth day of the sixth moon of the year. Under the warmth of the sun, however, she can close her eyes and pretend that summer will last forever. Or, for a little while longer, at least. 

As she steadies, reality finally forces itself upon this once inviolable space. Her stomach twists, mood blackening instantly. If all does not go to plan, this could be my final name day as the ‘Stark girl.’ Steeling herself, Alys puts on a smile, giving Holly a little shove as she makes her way back to the tree line. 

She approaches Mikken. Up close, she can mark the strain her words put upon him in his creased brow and his slim shoulders that now rest firmly next to his ears.

She bends down to meet him. “Mikken, I owe you an apology for the way I spoke. It was unbecoming and cruel; I’m sorry for it. I know that you were only trying to look out for me.” 

His bottom lip juts out, eyes fixed firmly on his boots. Alys places a hand to his shoulder, giving him a squeeze. “You know, it takes a brave man to stand up to those in power when he knows they are in the wrong. You will make a fine knight one day, and an even better Lord. It is an honor I do not take lightly, to watch you grow into both.”

“Do you truly mean it?” he whispers.

“I am not in the habit of saying things I do not mean, Mikken,” Alys whispers back conspiratorially. At this, he cracks a smile. “There he is,” Alys says, knocking his chin so that she can see his eyes. “Now, what say you to a little race back to Hunter’s Gate? Whoever makes it through first, can have the first bite of sweets. I heard a rumor that there will be apple tarts and stewed plums.”

Mikken brightens at this, and rushes to untie the horses. 

“You are good with him, Alys. Your mother would be proud,” says Holly, who has snuck up to her side. Gods, she’s silent as a wraith when she wants to be.

“Thank you for saying so. Though, I wonder if she would be proud of the spectacle I shall be forced to make of myself tomorrow,” she muses, turning back toward the clearing. 

Holly grabs her hand, the scars upon their palms brought together. It is a gesture of comfort, and she relishes in it. She knows me better than I know myself, as all sisters do.  “Aye Alys, she would be proud, and you know it. These are nerves talking, not reason.” 

“Perhaps,” is all Alys could muster. 

Holly studies her closely, but decides not to push. A first. She takes Alys’s bow from her, and goes to hide it in the brush alongside her own. Task complete, she turns back to her friend. “Come, if you think I shall let you win this race because you’ve decided to mope, you’re sorely mistaken.”

This jab is enough to make Alys smile. “Pray tell, Holly – when have you ever let me win?”

Holly ponders for a moment. “I’m certain there was a time or two, but I can’t recall them just now. Now, will you mount or will you give me a head start?” she asks, as she takes her palfrey’s reins from Mikken. 

“Take it, Holly, for you shall need it anyhow!” Alys crows. Holly laughs as she mounts her horse, whom she named – Gods, of all things –  Squirrel. Alys did attempt to reason with her, pointing out the absurdity of such a name, but Holly would not be moved. “'Tis is a funny name for him, but it fits. Squirrels are quick and agile. Is he not those things, too?”

Alys takes one last look upon her meadow. She cannot help but feel that today is an ending of sorts. She sighs, turning to Mikken. He hands her riding gloves over. Newly made for her, they are black as night, as is the rest of her new wardrobe. It may be her name day tomorrow, but she is still deep in mourning. 

Mikken is bursting with energy. He bounces on the balls of his feet, anxious to join the race. It is his eagerness that deals a final blow to Alys’s melancholy. “Come, I’ll help you mount.” 

She approaches Wynafryd, now as tall as any Lord’s war horse. Folding her hands together, she bends down to give him a boost. He scrambles into the saddle as Alys places a foot in the stirrup, launching herself behind him. She bundles Mikken tightly to her front, reaching around him for the reins. 

“Are you settled, Mikken? We have ground to make up, it seems.”

“Aye, Lady Alys! Make haste!”

She chuckles. My, is he not an imperious little lordling when competition is afoot. She gives Wynafryd a gentle kick, and clucks at her. “Onward, girl!” They race through the wood, Mikken whooping all the way. 

As soon as Hunter’s Gate comes into view, Alys spots Holly. That hair could be seen miles away, kissed by fire as it is. She leans in, forcing Mikken to do the same. “Come on, girl!” she shouts as she nudges the horse into a gallop, pushing her full tilt towards the gate. 

It is not long before they overtake her, barreling through the gate a few yards before she does. Really, it is not fair, even with the extra weight. Squirrel may be quick but he is no match for Wynafryd, in size or speed. Mikken’s cheer is contagious. Alys’s cheeks hurt from grinning, flushed as they are from activity. She slows Wynafryd to a trot, making her way past the kennels and kitchen, around the Library Tower, and toward the stables. 

She leads her horse into the paddock, as the stable boys rush in to aid her dismount. She passes Mikken down first, before swinging her leg over and leaping to the ground. Holly and Squirrel enter the paddock soon after.

“It was a close race, Alys. One of these days, Squirrel will overtake Wynafryd, I’m certain of it.”

“Aye, and the pigs will sprout wings and take off in flight,” Alys snorts.

Mikken interrupts them. “May we go to the kitchens now, Lady Alys?” 

Alys rolls her eyes, but her smile does not abate. “Aye, Mikken, we may. Run along ahead, and tell Nan I’ve sent you. You were first through the gate, which means the first sweet is yours.” The boy does not need to be told twice; quick as a rabbit, he runs back toward the kitchens. 

“It seems you’ve had an eventful morning, my lady.” Alys turns to see Maester Lymon leaning against the paddock fence, green eyes twinkling. A genial old man, Lymon is like another father to her. He is a grounding presence in her life, always encouraging her learning and supporting her throughout any trial. The Citadel may not allow women into their ranks, but her Maester does not share their qualms about the fairer sex. 

“That I have, Maester. How did you know I was gone?”

His tone is firm, but his eyes remain warm. “I didn’t, that is until I saw you flying through the gate from my solar; like a bat from the seven hells, no less.” 

Alys pulls her gloves from her hands, and makes her way to him. “I had no choice – Mikken would have been aggrieved if we had not won the race. Apple tarts were on the line, so he cannot be blamed for it.” 

Lymon laughs. “No, I suppose he can’t. You, however, can. We still have much to discuss ahead of our guests’ arrival. I’ve come to escort you to the Library so that we may talk logistics. Perhaps the boy will be kind enough to save you some sweets for when we are finished?”

“I think it unlikely,” she grumbles. My respite is at its end, it seems. “Holly, go on ahead to the kitchens without me. And do try to ensure Mikken does not take advantage of Nan’s good nature to eat his weight in sweets – Vayon will be cross with me if I’ve slowed down his newest recruit.”

“Aye, I can try, but I’ll make no promise of it,” Holly says, handing Squirrel’s reins to the stable boy and making a quick escape. She doesn't mind the Maester, but she was never one for lessons. “I’ll learn by doing, not by reading,” she said once, never returning to be taught thereafter. 

Alys and Lymon walk in an amiable silence as she takes in the din of the grounds. Nearing noon, Winterfell is alive with activity, its inhabitants bustling about in preparation for their incoming guests. The stable boys are bucking hay, and burly men roll barrels of ale toward the Great Hall. Maids flitter about, bringing fresh linens and candles to the Guest House, gossiping all the way.

It is Lymon who breaks their silence. “I’ll not ask where you were, my lady, but may I make the rather safe assumption that you were preparing for tomorrow’s contest?” 

“Aye, you may,” she concedes.

“And did you consider the risks, should you have been caught?”

“Aye, I did.” She pauses, before continuing in a hushed tone. “I found the necessity outweighed the risks. Besides, Bennard has been quite occupied these last few days, preparing to welcome my future husband, ‘whomever he may be,” she scoffs. “As if we are all unaware of his preference.”

Lymon hums in agreement. “We shall speak more on it in the Library.” Alys nods– it would not do to have one of Bennard’s lickspittles overhear. He banned her several summers ago from training, after all. If he were to be made aware of my rebellion, especially before the contest; well, it simply would not do. 

The pair climb the steps outside the tower. She allows Lymon to go first so that she may keep an eye on him. Now reaching an age where stairs become a struggle, he takes them slowly, grumbling as his bones creak. I worry for him. If I manage to succeed tomorrow, it would be best to take our lessons in the Maester’s Turret, or mayhaps the Glass Gardens; the warmth would be better on his joints. 

They arrive at the top, entering into the cavernous space which holds a thousand and one tomes, covering every inch of the rounded walls. She runs her fingers over the weathered spines, inhaling deep. The smell of leather, old parchment and dust soothes her. 

The Maester also shares her love of this place, if not for the sheer delight in the library’s collection, then for the privacy it provides. No one enters this tower but the two of them. Bennard and his degenerate sons are far from learned, having preferred the training yard as most Northern second sons – and sons of second sons –  seem to. It is one of the only places within Winterfell in which they may speak freely.

Lymon does not beat around the brush. “‘Tis a dangerous game you play, my lady. I worry for you. With your brother not yet returned from Last Hearth, there is no one here who may protect you, should you fail.”

“Come now, Maester – have you such little faith in your favorite pupil?” she asks, attempting a jape. It falls flat. Lymon grunts as he sits at the table, chains clinking. He motions her to join him before unfurling a parchment that holds a map of the North. He reaches into the wide sleeves of his robe, pulling out game pieces. Nay, not game pieces – they are direwolves. 

“Let us review again, Lady Alys. We’ve secured allegiances for your brother’s cause from Houses Reed, Karstark, Manderly, Mormont, the Flint’s of Widow’s Watch, Hornwood, Cerwyn and Forrester,” he states, positioning a direwolf piece over each of the respective holdfasts. “I think we can assume he will succeed with House Umber, for they have always answered the call.” He places a direwolf over Last Hearth before moving back to his sleeve, this time pulling from them not direwolves, but sheep.

“But that leaves several houses in Bennard’s camp,” he says as he scatters the sheep across the map, “the strongest and most dangerous being House Bolton. Should Lord Bolton’s son Mervyn succeed in the tournament tomorrow, it would not be a shock if your Uncle were to force you to marry him that very night, to ensure their allegiance to his cause.”

Alys huffs. “First – it is simply inconceivable that I would marry a man named Mervyn. Besides, Mervyn will not succeed. I am sure he is fine with a bow, but I am better. Second – the other houses attending who are sworn to us would not stand for it.” Her voice is confident, but the direction of this conversation is beginning to unnerve her.

“‘The houses will not have a choice in the matter,” Lymon hisses. “Your brother took his most loyal men with him to ‘settle disputes amongst the great houses.’ Bennard is not stupid, he knows that Cregan is rallying support. Without the men, or your brother to lead them, they will not interfere. You also risk insulting those who have sworn fealty, should you beat their sons in this contest. The lords are loyal, but they are also prideful. If they take offense, Bennard will fan the flames.”

Alys rubs her hands down her face, groaning. “That is unfair! It is not as if I asked for any of this!” She regrets the childish words, for they incense the Maester instantly. 

“You did ask for this, Alys! You did!” His palm slams against the table, several pieces tumbling.

“Maester –”

“No, do not deny it! I know your hand was forced, Alys. To attempt to announce an unagreed-upon betrothal at your lady mother’s funeral was, is, a travesty. But you stood up in front of Gods and men at that feast, and offered your hand to whichever lord could best you on the archery field. Rather than practice logic, as I have taught, or patience, as your lady mother taught, you reacted with your emotions. You asked for this.”

Tears prick her eyes. How is it that a proper scolding can make me feel as if I am not but a tall child? Lymon is not one to raise his voice, and it pains her to have aggrieved him so. It also pains her that he is right. 

“I apologize, my lady,” he mutters. “I did not mean to shout.”

Alys waves him off. “‘Twas not undeserved.” 

She twists her mother’s signet ring, staring at the carving of her entwined sigils. I cannot tell if this grounds me, or if it upsets me. I wish she were here with me, she would know what to do. “So what you are telling me is in either scenario – win or lose – we still lose. Do I have that correct?”

“Yes, that’s the long and short of it,” Lymon sighs. 

Alys swallows. “Well, fuck.” 

The curse shocks them both, for Alys seldom uses profanity. Lymon snorts, and the sound alone is enough to send her into a fit of giggles. They tumble together headlong into hysterics. As soon as one wrests control back over their senses, they make eye contact and the fit begins anew. It only ends when they are firmly out of breath, sides pinching and tears streaming. 

“Is there not a chance that they might be impressed by me?” Alys asks, wiping her eyes and righting herself. “For winning back mine own hand, which was already supposed to be mine by rights?” In truth, she knows the answer, but is desperate enough to ask.

“I suppose a small one,” Lymon considers. “Several houses have, or have had, ladies lead them. And most still recognize your father’s word as, if not law, then bond. But – whether we agree with them or not – most still see a lady’s place as in the home. Wedded, producing heirs,  keeping house; not besting boys in the art of war. Or, one of the arts, at least. We will have to count ourselves lucky if they perceive it as a rebellion against your uncle –”

“Which it is,” she counters.

“Yes, but it is as likely, if not more so, that they will take offense. We can’t presume that they will see it for what it truly is: a disavowal of Bennard’s unlawful hold on Winterfell,” he concludes.

Frustrated, Alys drops her head into her hands, fingers tugging at her hair. She wishes to growl, to scream, to rip at her hair or slam her fists on the table. To do anything to act upon her feelings. Instead, she takes a deep breath, then another, working to calm the tumult of her emotions. Perhaps one more breath would do. 

She sets her hands back on the table, folding them together to keep from fidgeting. “Is there any other option?” she asks. “Any possibility of getting through this unscathed?” And unwed?

“There is one. You will not like it,” says the Maester, lips drawn thin. 

“Tell me.”

“You run. No, do not interrupt,” he insists before Alys can speak. “I know you have been in near constant contact with the Lady Laena and your Aunt, the Princess Rhaenys, since your mother’s passing. I am the one who sends your letters, after all. I took it upon myself to send my own raven to your Uncle, Lord Corlys, making him aware of your plight – something you neglected to share with him, or any of them, it would seem.” 

Aye, because until this moment, I assumed that I had this in hand. Arrogant, mayhaps, but it is the truth. Lymon must find her silence encouraging, for he pushes on.

“He and the Princess Rhaenys have agreed to take you in as their ward. It is not customary, I know, but they are one of the most powerful houses in the Seven Kingdoms; soon to be made more so with the wedding of Laenor to the Princess of Dragonstone. They will have the security of the Crown behind them, and they can protect you until Cregan secures his seat. You would also be in a position to advocate for aid, if not from the Crown, then from your uncles. Docking the Velaryon fleet at White Harbor would be a show of force, and discourage the lords that back Bennard against a coup.”

Alys takes in Lymon’s counsel. My Maester has been hard at work, it seems. It is a clever, nay, brilliant plan. But it is an unacceptable one.

Alys sighs. “If I abandon my house, and my brother, what message does that send? And, should I run, what is to stop Bennard from closing the gates to us? A few hundred men can hold Winterfell, even if ten thousand set upon its gates. Winter is Coming; all he’ll need to do is wait us out.” 

She looks upon the signet once more, brushing a finger over the seahorse. “As tempting as it is to call upon the Velaryons, to ask for interference from a Southern house – kin or no – feels tantamount to admitting Creg cannot hold the North. This would bolster Bennard’s claim that he is unfit, unready. My brother would not allow it, nor can I.”

“All fair rebuttals, my lady,” Lymon shifts forward in his seat, looking Alys straight on. “But, so caught up in his efforts to seize power, Bennard has not properly prepared this Keep for Winter – no stocking of grain, nor movement made to repair Winter Town for the inevitable influx of smallfolk. And the Night’s Watch continues to send disturbing reports that your Uncle has all but ignored. Wildlings are attempting to cross The Wall in droves. Those that succeed have been raiding villages in their push southward. They’re desperate, enough so to claim to have seen the Others, not that those wives' tales stop them from losing their heads.” 

A chill courses down Alys’s spine. The Others are ghost stories meant to scare little children; a mere allegory for the coming of Winter itself. In any event, they have been gone for thousands of years, if they existed at all. ‘Tis a monstrous excuse to use to rape and pillage defenseless villages. But what if there is more to it? There may be no White Walkers, but it is possible the wildlings are running from, not toward, something. I shall have to ask Holly. 

Lymon’s voice pulls her from her thoughts. “There is a chance, a high one I should think, that the vassals and smallfolk would turn on him. But to allow yourself to remain here is to risk not only your future, but your very life. If Bennard grows reckless, he will use you as a weapon against your brother. He has always seen you as a tool. And what is a weapon but a tool used to maim; to kill?”

Alys sucks in a breath – this cannot be happening. This is my home. This is my family’s home. And am I to leave as it is torn asunder? Am I to abandon my brother, my kin, my people when they need me most?  Her mind is made up. 

“And what if I am a weapon, Maester? After all, a knife cuts both ways.”

“Alys, I beseech you–”

Alys holds her hand up, halting his speech. “Maester, I am grateful for your counsel; even more so for the care you have shown me. But I will not leave my home and people to be picked over by carrions who call themselves wolves. I have made my bed, and I mean to lie in it. I will write to my Aunt and Uncle to thank them for their hospitality, but to inform them that it is unnecessary. For I am a Stark; I belong to the North.”

Lymon slumps in his seat. “As you say. But I urge you, do not hasten to send that raven. Wait until the tourney ends, at least.” 

Alys nods as she rises from her seat. “I should go. I must prepare for the welcome feast, and Bennard expects me to greet my suitors.” 

“Tread carefully, my lady,” says Lymon as she reaches the door. The double meaning is not lost on Alys. She quickly exits, turning the conversation over in her mind as she picks her way down the stone steps. Unsettled and disquieted as she is, she allows herself to be led by instinct. Rather than turn toward the Great Keep as she ought, her feet move forward, straight into the Godswood. 

Alys sighs; it is as if a stone has been shed from her shoulders. In the forest, she is as free as a snow shrike, alive and unfettered; but it is here in the Godswood where she finds true peace. 

The three acre grove is as old as the land itself. It smells of damp earth and pine, with only the sound of crunching needles underfoot and the caw of ravens for company. She walks deeper, trees rising and tangling around her as she makes her way through.

Her feet stop as they alight upon their chosen destination – the Heart Tree. The world quietens here, for this is where the Old Gods keep house. Its weeping eyes are ever watchful. Carved into the snow white bark by the Children of the Forest eons ago, many have sworn to feel them follow. This never unsettled Alys – those eyes make her feel seen, held, safe. 

Alys keeps the Old Gods, just as every Stark has. Nameless and faceless, they are found in the twisting of roots, the bends of streams and sturdiness of stones; in the eyes of the Heart Tree, too. 

Still in her riding leathers, the chill of the afternoon cuts through easily, but she scarcely feels it. Dropping to the grove’s floor, she makes her home where she always does — curling in between the roots of the tree, hand gripping the root. She closes her eyes, leaning her head back against the tree as she listens to the wind moving through its branches, blood-red leaves rustling as they reach for the heavens. 

Time suspends itself as she begins to pray. She prays for her brother’s swift and safe journey home. For Holly and Mikken, for her Maester. For her Mother, Father, and brother since passed. For the health and safety of the Northern folk. For an easy Winter. For herself.

Once her prayers are complete, her mind drifts. She is so tired – tired of fighting, tired of fearing, tired of feeling too big to be small and too small to be big. She is simply tired. Her body seems to agree, for her eyes droop, and consciousness slips away. 

She dreams, though it feels as real as breathing. In her dreams, she is a wolf. She runs through the forest on unsteady legs, as if she were but a pup. She dashes about, sniffing and climbing and bounding through to a clearing. It is her meadow; she recognizes it instantly. She turns just as another pup tackles her, nipping and wrestling and rolling in the grass. They frolic and play until a howl cuts through the Wolfswood.

Alys awakens with a jolt, disoriented. Something has hit her shin. No, not something, someone. Her cousin Benjen stares down upon her, eyes beady and black. His hair is greased back with animal fat, and he is dressed in such finery, it is as if he were a Lord’s heir himself. I suppose he and Bennard like to think so.

He knocks her shin with his boot once more. “Get up. You’re late. Again.” 

She rolls her eyes. “How can I be late to mine own feast, Benjen?” He curses at this. Alys should know better than to bait him, but cannot help herself. “Now cousin, is this how you speak to a lady?”

He kicks her again, harder this time. “I see no lady, just an insolent brat. One who is finally getting what is coming to her. It’ll be a relief to be rid of you,” he sneers.

“So sure of yourself. Fortunately, so am I,” she fibs. He doesn’t need to know I’m out of my wits with nerves. “I’ll succeed, my brother will return, and you will be back to doing whatever it is the first son of a second son does. Shoveling horse dung, I assume.” 

Alys moves to stand — too slowly, for Benjen grabs her by the elbow, squeezing tight as he lifts her. She knows immediately it will bruise, and stifles a whimper. Her cousin has always been a cruel, violent sort. As a child, he would bludgeon animals for sport; kicking cats, strangulating squirrels, beating dogs. Nothing was beneath him. The maester would often chase him from the rookery, for he would try to break a raven’s wings for no discernible reason other than to relish in their agony. Now a man grown, he’s moved from animals to men. And women, it seems. Creg’s absence emboldens him.

“You think so, cousin? You know, Father doesn’t pay close enough attention to you. ‘What time do I have for some halfbreed girl?,’ he says, ‘She is pretty, and she has our name. 'Tis all that matters.’”  

This particular revelation does not surprise Alys. Bennard has never been above othering her or her mother for their Valyrian heritage.

“Father thinks you dotty, yes, but dutiful,” Benjen continues. “A silly little girl whose own father gave her too much freedom. He thinks he curbed that, and that you will go quietly to your marriage bed, even with the stunt you pulled. But I know better, Alys. I watch you running off with your little wildling to the woods, and whispering in corners with your Maester. You are dangerous, as are all girls who do not know their place. But soon, your husband will teach you. ’Tis a shame I am not part Valyrian; perhaps I’d have the honor of breaking you.”

Alys’s stomach drops. She attempts to extricate herself from his grasp, but his grip tightens as he pulls her in. Her nose crinkles as his hot, rancid breath covers her face.

“You know, I’ve spoken to Mervyn of your proclivity for impertinence. He assures me that the Boltons have a particular method for dealing with untamed wives.” He leans closer, whispering into her ear. “Considering the rumors of their continued predilection for flaying men alive, I can imagine it’s quite painful. Do you think he’d let me watch?” 

Alys cannot seem to speak, tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth. How dare he speak like this in front of the Gods. She remembers the Maester’s scolding. Logic, patience – I must practice them.

“You and Mervyn seem quite confident in his ability with the bow,” she says, forcing her tone into one of casual indifference. “But I hear Lord Manderly’s sons are truly gifted. If the ravens are to be believed, I could be the next Lady of White Castle.” Alys does not know if this is true; it likely isn’t. She doesn’t even know the boys’ names, let alone if they have any skill with the bow. But it’s enough to get what she needs from Benjen.

“Aye, but Mervyn has the distinct advantage of training with the best archery master in the North. You may recall him; he was sent from Winterfell some years ago now, for conspiring to train you in secret.” 

Benjen must see her blanch, for he begins to cackle. “Come along, cousin. You must make yourself pretty for your husband.” He shoves her forward as they make their way to the Great Keep. 

Alys remains in a daze as she prepares for the feast. At once, she is bathed and dressed in a gown of black. It is made of velvet and soft as sin, with trumpet sleeves and a square neck trimmed with ermine and silver brocade. A direwolf belt is swung low around her hip. When she looks upon herself, all she can see is Muña’s lilac eyes boring into her. It is a haunting sight. I look as if I am attending another funeral rite; in a way, I may be. 

Holly attempts to engage her in idle conversation while she plaits her hair, but it is no use. Alys twists her signet and stares off. She thinks more on her dream, wishing it were as real as it felt; how she longs to be as free as that pup. 

So overcome, she does not notice Holly’s look of concern. “You do look lovely, Alys.”

“Thank you,” she mumbles. The girls lock eyes in the mirror, and Holly turns her from the vanity, taking her hands in hers. 

“I wish you would tell me what is troubling you so. Is it the Maester? I’ve told you, too much thinking addles the mind.” Alys lets out a huff, and Holly smiles. “Tell me, what has you all worked up?”

She tells Holly everything — from the Maester’s concern and push to send her to her cousins in the south, to Benjen’s cruel behavior and the information he let slip. Holly listens intently as she unburdens herself. 

“Aye, I can see now why you’re so troubled. This is quite the dung pile we’ve found ourselves in.”

“That I’ve found myself in, Holly.”

She holds up her scarred palm. “Thought you’d learn by now that we’re a package, you and I. Now, let’s talk it through, shall we?” Holly moves to the bed, patting beside her, encouraging Alys to join. “I think the Velaryons are a good fallback. If your mother could sail herself away from the south to Winterfell to marry your father, can we not go the other way? If it comes to that tomorrow, we'll leave.”

“I don’t know if we can, Holly. I’m needed here. There must always be a Stark in Winterfell; certain, Bennard does not count. I just – I don’t see how we can leave our home.” Alys’s lip quivers.

“If Bennard, his shite-for-brains sons — I’ll kill Benjen, by the way, and use his bones to pick my teeth — and his shite-for-brains Bolton cronies have their way, Winterfell won’t be home any longer,” Holly says, grabbing her hand. “You don’t belong at the Dreadfort, Alys. You have to think of yourself for once; what use are you dead or hidden away in some rotten Keep? And speaking on the Boltons, so what if he’s been training? So what if he’s good? You’ll be better.” Holly rubs her thumb over Alys’s knuckle to soothe her, just as Muña used to. It serves its purpose— Alys lets out a watery sign and hugs her friend close. 

“Thank you,” she breathes as Holly rubs her back. 

“Don’t thank me. I’m only telling you what you already know; you just got caught in your nerves again. Now, we should get to the feast,” Holly rises, and Alys moves to join her. 

“Oh!” she exclaims. “ I forgot — Cregan left you a gift for your name day. He told me not to let you open it until the day of, but he’s not here, is he? It’s under your bed. Do with that information what you will.” Holly smiles beatifically, as she always does when causing trouble.

“Will you give me a moment then? I have a present to unwrap,” Alys grins. Holly nods, and closes the door behind her. 

She drops flat to the carpet, with no thought or care for her dress, rummaging under her bed. Not once does she think to wait, for she hates surprises. Creg should never have trusted Holly to keep a secret from me, anyhow. 

Her hand alights upon a box, and she slowly pulls it from its hiding place. It's large, and carved from rowan wood, with her House’s sigil burnt into the grain. 

Alys gets up and places the box upon her bed. There is a note attached; one she is tempted to bypass entirely in her eagerness to open her present. Patience is a virtue, I suppose. She sighs, plucking the note from its ribbon. She cracks her brother’s seal to see his scrawl, short and sweet. 

Father told me I’d know when you were ready. Shoot straight. 

Your brother, 

Creg

She sucks in a breath. Father told me I’d know when you were ready. Hands quaking, she opens the box.

Inside is the most wonderful sight she’s ever seen – a beautiful bow and quiver set, made to size. The bow itself is bone white, carved from weirwood; Alys would recognize it anywhere. The arrows are carved from the same, with its feathers a startling crimson, akin to the leaves of the Heart Tree. But it is the arrowheads that truly dazzle, for they are not of any metal she has encountered. In truth, she only recognizes it from her lessons, for they are dragonbone. So sharp, they would draw blood at just a touch. She picks up the bow, testing the string's tension, the weight of it, how it feels in her hand. It’s perfect, it's perfect, it’s perfect. 

She does not know how her father came into possession of such a treasure. Dragonbone is not an easy material to come by, nor an inexpensive one. And to have a perfectly carved weirwood bow – it is an honor he’d entrusted her with it. He believed in her, as did her brother; her mother, too. They may not be with her, but they are behind her, as they always have been. She does not know whether to laugh or cry. For the first time in an age, she feels hope; not just hope, but a sense of surety. Holding the faith of her family in her hands, Alys knows now what she must do, and how she can win.

She attends the feast, light as air. Nothing can spoil her good humor – not Benjen’s leer, nor her uncle’s very presence, which often serves to put her off her appetite. In truth, she is ravenous, nearly inhaling her roast pheasant and potatoes. 

Soon, the minstrels begin to play. Alys takes care to dance with each Lord’s son. Lord Manderly’s boys, Jonnel and Joseth, prove exceptional dancers, even if they’re impossible to tell apart. She takes Mikken for a spin on the floor, much to the delight of everyone present. She even allows Mervyn a dance; when his hand moves too low to be proper, she steps on his feet with particular verve. Here’s hoping it cripples him, but I would settle for a lost nail.

When she retakes her seat at the head table, dessert is being served. There are apple tarts and stewed plums as promised; even the rare lemon cakes make the rounds. Once full, she sits back and watches the hall. Many of these men are allies and competitors in one; some are outright enemies. It matters not to Alys. She smiles at them all – for she is a wolf, and she does not fear sheep.

“It seems you have made some peace with your lot, niece,” Bennard slurs. A drunkard and a fool, may the Others take him. 

“I was always at peace with my lot, Uncle,” Alys sniffs. “It was ensuring that I marry a man worthy of me that put me on edge over the prospect.” 

“Well, you have a peculiar way of choosing that man. Not that you should be choosing at all, but your father will get his way, as he always does,” Bennard glowers as he sinks deeper into his cups. “Archery, pah! I know you think yourself a savant because Rickon indulged you as a child, but you will learn the truth of it tomorrow. The Boltons are a powerful family, and you will be lucky to join their house when Mervyn proves himself.” 

Alys bites her tongue, once again remembering Lymon’s counsel. “As you say, Uncle.”

“As you say, Uncle,” Bennard mocks. “Do not be impertinent, especially in the face of my generosity. This feast and tourney cost me a pretty copper, as will your dowry. You ought to be grateful.” 

Her blood boils, but she tamps it. Best to let it fester so that I may use it on the field tomorrow. 

“Of course, Uncle. I am ever so grateful,” she says through her teeth.

Bennard hums again, too drunk to notice her ire. “Good. Now, to bed. You must look fresh-faced for your husband tomorrow. Men like their women pretty, after all. They also like them demure. I suppose I shall leave it to your husband to teach you the latter, if it’s not a lost cause already,” he chuckles mirthlessly. “Begone from my sight, Alysanne.” 

Alys squeezes her fists, nails cutting into her palms. Yet, she arises gracefully as her mother taught. She bids her Uncle and cousins a good night, though she does not mean it. Benjen runs his tongue over his teeth, like a bloodhound who caught the scent. Ignoring him, she beckons to Holly, and they leave the Great Hall. 

She helps her undress in silence, untying her stays while Alys works at her plaits. With mere hours left until dawn, she knows she will sleep little. Holly offers to stay with her, but, as it might be her last night abed alone, she declines. I should enjoy the space while I am able. They bid one another good night, and Alys buries herself under the covers. 

She tosses and turns for what feels like an age, until sleep finally claims her. Again, she dreams she is the wolf. She is warm, safe, cuddled against fur. She turns her head, to see the same grey pup that had tackled her, now fast asleep. Perhaps the mother is on the hunt. She gets up, stretching her tiny limbs, and makes her way from the den, dirt soft under her paws. She looks up at the moon, and howls. 

As dawn breaks, Alys arises from her bed. Despite the chill, the rooms remain warm. Not for the first time is she thankful for the ingenuity of Bran the Builder. Piping water from the hot springs into the stones for certain has saved me a toe or two. 

She dresses slowly in her leathers, somehow managing the stays herself. She then places her mother’s signet upon her smallest finger, and her archer’s ring upon her thumb. Once finished, she sits at her window, watching the sun rise.

Holly and the maids enter not long after, bringing tea and food to break fast. Alys forces down some bacon and bread, despite her scant appetite. She watches in the mirror as Holly tames her hair into an intricate five strand plait.

“Do you like it?” Holly asks.

“More than like it,” Alys says, marveling at her handiwork. “It almost looks as if it is a chain.” 

“Aye, that was the aim. For you will not break this day, I know it in my heart.” Alys warms at her steadfastness and faith, sending a prayer of thanks to the Gods for bringing Holly into her life.

They sit in silence for a time, and she lets Holly inspect her new bow. “It is impossible to fail with a bow as nice as this. You can feel the love that was poured into its making, and yet there is something deadly in it. It will protect you, I think.” 

“I think the same,” Alys says. Too soon, there is a knock upon the door, and she begins to shake. “You may enter.” 

It is Mikken, and for this kindness she is thankful. Better than my cousin, that is for certain. “Lady Alys, it is time,” he says. 

Alys takes a deep breath, and tries to calm her trembling hands. “So it is. Mikken, will you stay with Holly and me? I could use a lad like you to keep an eye on my back.”

Mikken sputters. “I would be honored, Lady Alys, but perhaps someone bigger would be best?”

“No, sweet boy, you misunderstand. I want someone whom I trust to stand with me, and that’s you. Consider it part of your training if you must, but in truth, I would just appreciate you there as my friend.”

She watches the blush creep up his cheeks. “I’d be honored, my lady!” 

“Good, now, let us make haste. I would not put it past Bennard to start without me in an attempt to void my participation.” She takes her bow from Holly and straps the quiver to her back. Stealing one last look in the mirror, she’s pleased to find she cuts an unearthly and imposing figure. Let these men shiver when they see me. 

Flanked by Holly, Mikken and several guards – sent by Bennard no doubt, to ensure I do not run – they march from the First Keep and through to the North Gate, outside which an archery field is constructed. At least a dozen mounds are set in a line. Alys breaks into a grin. Mere target practice. Not roving marks, nor splitting the wand. Bennard underestimated me. Good. 

The archers check their names upon the roster, and Alys does the same. The Maester was right, many of the most noble houses of the North have sent a son to participate. She sends up another prayer before making her way to her designated marker. Mervyn is to her left, and a Manderly – Jonnel? Or is it Joseth? – to her right. And the line goes down, faces blending. 

She walks the paces, gauging the distance between marker and target. She crouches down, and picks up grass and leaves, crumbling them to see which direction the wind blows. She heads back to her marker as she stretches her arms, ignoring the eyes upon her. Finally, the trumpets sound.

“Esteemed lords, ladies and guests! Thank you for your attendance on this day; the day my beloved niece turns seven and ten!” Bennard shouts from his spot on the dais. He has made himself and his sons little thrones to sit upon, above all the other lords and vassals. Alys rolls her eyes. They look foolish. 

“The Lady Alysanne is now a woman grown, and it is time for her to choose her bridegroom. And so she has; the one who succeeds her in this tourney shall be the lucky man! Not too hard of a task for such strapping Northern men, I should think.” A cheer rises from the crowd, and she can feel the eyes of all the archer’s boring into her. Let them think they have me. “Now, at the crier’s call, let our tourney begin!” 

Alys nocks her arrow, breathing deep as she closes her left eye to aim at the target’s eye. The first arrows loose at the crier’s call. She hits near dead center. It must be the nerves. She sneaks a peek at her competitors – only a few have come as close as she has.

One by one, round after round, the men are eliminated. The crowd, who had once cheered for her future husband, now turn their love to their Lady, becoming more raucous as each arrow is loosed. Alys does not dare to look upon her Uncle. She can feel his ire well enough, and does not need the distraction. 

Finally, the last Manderly boy – Jonnel, if the crier is to be believed –  is eliminated. “You are a worthy opponent, my lady. I am undeserving of the honor of your hand,” he says, placing a kiss upon her knuckle. She smiles and thanks the man before he makes his way back to his brother. 

Only her and Mervyn remain at the butts.

“He may be undeserving of your hand, Lady Alys, but I certainly am more than up to the task,” he scoffs. “I shall even give you my sword as well, as many times as you ask for it and more.” Her rage is set aflame by his words, hotter than dragonfire – so hot, it burns cold. I am going to enjoy this.

The crier calls for them to nock once more. Inhale as you pull, exhale as you release, easy as breathing. She hears him shout loose, so she does. The arrows whistle through the air, and she knows before it  lands it will be dead center. She looks over at Mervyn’s target, and his is centered. But not like mine. They send a judge – Lord Mormont, by the looks of it – out to check. Another – Lord Ryswell  – joins him. The crowd hushes as they deliberate. Coming to an accord, they summon the crier.

“The Lady Alysanne Stark is our winner!” the crier shouts, and the crowd is insensate. They stomp and cheer and cry for Alys, so loud she can scarce hear herself think. She turns to Mervyn, whose mouth is agape.

“It seems your sword is unworthy of my sheath, Bolton,” she quips over the din. “I wish you and your future lady wife luck; Gods know she’ll need it!” She laughs as Holly and Mikken barrel into her, bundling her in an embrace as they jump up and down. 

She looks over their heads – the lords and their sons are shocked, but do not seem angered by the result. Relief begins to set in, until she hears a commotion coming from the dais.

“No, no, no! This is not how this was supposed to go!” Bennard yells as he stomps toward her, mouth foaming. He rips her from Holly and Mikken’s grasp. “You little ingrate! Worthless fucking trollop!” 

Before she can react, she hears a crack as her head whips violently. Blood pools on her tongue, tainting her mouth with the taste of copper. He’s hit me. Gods, he’s truly hit me. 

The crowd is silent as he grabs her plait, twisting painfully. “You disgust me, you halfbreed whore. Your flagrant disrespect is at an end. I command you to marry the Bolton boy this very night. I don’t care if I have to hold you at sword point to see it done!” His spittle flies in her face. 

“Everyone knows that marriage will not be valid in the eyes of Gods and men, as no marriage under threat of the sword is,” she says, voice projecting loud enough for the crowd to hear. “I’ve won, Uncle, fair and true; this contest is at its end. A Lord would take it gracefully, but you are no lord. The real lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North rides from Last Hearth, to take his rightful place on the Winter Throne. I’m certain he will be fair when he metes out the King’s justice.” She smiles menacingly as blood coats her teeth. 

He shrieks as he throws her to the ground, kicking her once, twice, thrice in the gut. She coughs, curling into herself in agony. The crowd, regaining its senses, hisses and jeers. The hair-raising sound is enough to pull Bennard from his rage. He turns back to find the Lords in the North looking upon him with disgust, and a crowd so enraged they are near riot. 

“Guards! Take the Lady Alysanne to her rooms and bar the door. If she is to act a child, she will be treated like one.” The guards hesitate. “Now!” Bennard shouts. The crowd grows restless as the guards grab her under her arms and drag her back to the keep. She’s begun to grow faint, so she does not hear what Bennard says to try to appease them. Whatever it is, she hopes he fails.

Once she is unceremoniously thrown into her rooms, she begins to laugh. It hurts, terribly, but she cannot help it. Her wretch of an uncle proved as foolish as she always thought. Perhaps the Lords would have been upset at her winning, if they had not been made indignant at her ill treatment. Their beloved Lord Rickon's only daughter, beaten by her uncle in front of Gods and men. And the crowd, filled with small folk and all manners of vassals, loathe him. Now, they all see him for what he truly is. A usurper cunt.  

She forces herself up, and gingerly makes her way to her bed. She does not bother with the door, knowing that it will be locked, with guards posted outside it. She does not know what has happened to her bow, and can only pray that Holly or Mikken managed to save it from her Uncle’s wrath. 

Consciousness begins to ebb and flow – like the tide. I should have taken the Maester at his word and fled to High Tide. She swears she hears Lymon attempt to gain access to her, but cannot tell if she is dreaming. If it happened in truth, he is clearly denied. Perhaps Bennard means to starve me, or hopes I bleed out internally.  She goes back under, and comes to when it is long since dark. 

She winces as she attempts to rise. Her ribs and stomach are especially sore, so movement must be made carefully. Once standing, she creeps to her window to look out at the moon. By its placement, she guesses it's the hour of the owl.

Suddenly, she hears a quiet scuffle at her door. She panics, searching for anything in her room that can be used as a weapon. She pockets a letter opener and grabs an iron candlestick for good measure. 

Alys braces herself as she hears the lock click. The door opens; all she discerns are shadows and black cloaks. She raises the candlestick, preparing to fight to the death. Then, a hood drops, revealing long, fire kissed hair. She crumbles in relief, and Holly catches her before she hits the floor. 

“By the gods, Alys! What did you mean to do with this thing, and in your state?” Holly asks, pointing to the candlestick. 

“Hit you with it,” she wheezes, “though I’ll admit, I am not in the best fighting shape. Had hoped I’d get a second wind, but alas.” 

Holly shakes her head, busying herself with cataloging all her injuries. Alys looks over her sister’s shoulder, trying to decipher just how she took down the guards. It seems she did not succeed by herself. Mikken holds open the door as the two Manderly brothers pull the unconscious guards inside. Nan the cook steps gingerly over them, basket in hand, with Vayon Cassel and his son Rodwell taking position at the door, which Mikken quietly closes behind him. 

“What is this? I don’t understand,” she says. “Where is Maester Lymon?”

“They locked him in his turret, but not before he gave us marching orders,” Holly says. “We’re getting you out, tonight. First to White Harbor, then on a ship to High Tide. Your Aunt and Uncle have been informed of your arrival. Seems the Maester had a contingency plan.”

“He tends to have several,” she quips, wincing. Holly rolls her eyes, before turning back to the Manderlys. “Ribs bruised, not broken. Severe bruising on the abdomen, but doesn’t seem fatal. It’ll be painful, but we’ve got to go by horseback.”

“Aye, I’ll go prepare them now,” says – Joseth? – before making a quick exit. 

“Holly, how do we know we can trust them?” she asks. 

The remaining Manderly brother kneels before her on the floor. “My lady, my house is loyal to the one true Lord of Winterfell, your brother Cregan. We owe everything we are, our lives and our very home, to House Stark. Beyond house ties, I am here of my own accord. I would pledge my life and loyalty to you, my lady, if you will have me. Allow me, as a knight of the Seven Kingdoms, to swear fealty to you, so you know me to be loyal and true.”

Alys is overwhelmed by the gesture. “Your kindness and loyalty are noted, Ser, but I cannot accept. Your father would be most aggrieved to lose a son and heir in service to a Lady.”

“I am but the second son, my lady. My brother Joseth is the heir, with another brother who can play spare until he takes a wife and begets a son.” 

Flabbergasted, all Alys can think is: Oh, so this is Jonnel. “Are you certain, Ser?”

“More than anything. Will you permit me?” he asks, reaching for her hand. She acquiesces. 

“I, Jonnel of House Manderly, offer my services to the Lady Alysanne of House Stark. I will shield your back and keep your counsel and give my life for yours if need be. I swear it by the Old Gods and the New.” 

Alys swallows, overcome by the earnest show of devotion. I shall cherish his loyalty always. For he is my sworn shield, and I protect what’s mine. 

“I, the Lady Alysanne of House Stark, vow that you shall always have a place by my hearth, and meat and mead at my table. And I pledge to ask no service of you that might bring you dishonor. I swear it by the Old Gods and the New. Arise, Ser Jonnnel.” He beams at her for but a moment, before acting upon his vows. 

“We must move quickly, my lady,” Jonnel says. “Your cousins have been locked in their rooms, and your Uncle drugged with milk of the poppy. Enough to put him to sleep for a few hours, but no more.”

“And the lords of the North? What of them?” she asks, watching as Holly quickly packs the necessities.

“The lords have seen all they needed to this day; enough to look the other way at your leaving,” says Jonnel. “The vassals, too, are in an uproar. Your brother can expect their support. Aye, your Uncle will not have an easy time of it once he awakes.”

Alys attempts a smile, bruised cheek smarting. “Good. That’s good. What of the guards?”

“Since tonight’s feast was canceled, the Maester thought it smart to have me send the remaining barrels to them directly," says Nan, speaking up from her place in the corner. "I happened to agree – good autumn ale like that shouldn’t be wasted. Outside of these lads, most are too drunk to stand. Though I suppose they’re not standing, neither.” 

Alys, with help from Jonnel, walks to her, pulling her into a gentle embrace. “Thank you, sweet Nan. I will not forget this kindness.” 

“You are our Lady. No matter where you go, Winterfell is always with you,” the cook says, wiping a tear from Alys’s eye. “Now, I’ve packed provisions. Should be enough for the journey there. But you all need to move now, there’s not much darkness left.” 

Mikken steps in front of the door, distraught. “I’m coming, too, for I promised to protect you first! I know I failed, but I won’t again, I swear it!”

Alys's eyes water. “You did not fail me, Mikken. You could never,” she says, gentling the boy. “But I have a new task for you. I need you to protect Nan and the Maester until Cregan or I return. They’ll need you more than I will, and I can trust no one else but you.”

The boy begins to cry, and rushes to hug her. She tries not to flinch, not wanting to hurt the boy further. “I don’t want you to leave,” he hiccoughs.

Alys stiffens her lip, hugging him back. “I do not want to leave you either, sweetling, but I must. We’ll be reunited soon, you’ll see. Can you be brave for me until then?” She feels him nod. “Good lad.” 

He wipes his eyes, and moves to Nan’s side. Alys turns to them one last time, offering a parting wave before Holly bundles her in a black cloak and Jonnel hurries them from her rooms. Vayon and Rodwell fall into step behind them. Quiet as ghosts in the crypt, they move through the Keep. They reach the stables with no interference, where Joseth and a stable boy have their mounts prepared. 

Jonnel lifts Alys into Wynafryd’s saddle. Holly grabs a bow and quiver, one set of two, from the saddle bag – my bow, Gods be praised. She passes the bow to her before strapping the set she nicked from the armory to her back. The rest of the group races to mount their horses. If anyone spots them from Brandon’s Tower, they raise no alarms. 

Alys looks up at the Maester’s Turret. It is dark, so she is unable to discern any movement through the window. She gives a wave anyway, hoping that Lymon can see. She pours her gratitude, and her grief, into the gesture. He knows, he must.

In a flash, they are out the East Gate and barreling into the hills outside. Avoiding the Kingsroad and camping will make the journey safe, but long. With her injuries, it will be many days until they reach the White Knife, and more yet before entering the safety of White Harbor. 

Alys ignores her pain as best she can, making it a few hours before it becomes unbearable. As dawn starts to crest, they stop to set up camp. They share some bread and mead amongst them before Alys must rest her eyes. Jonnel offers to take first watch, and the others are happy to oblige.

In a trice, Alys is jostled awake. “Quietly, my lady,” Jonnel whispers. “There is something in the tree line. Prepare yourself.” She moves stand. As Jonnel unsheathes his steel, she moves to grab her bow. Body laid low, she does not even know if she has the strength to nock an arrow, but the weight is a comfort in her hand. 

The leaves rustle further, putting everyone on high alert. Finally, they break, out of which come two of the largest wolf pups she has ever seen.They are fighting; no, they are wrestling. One grey, one black, they playful pair are clearly siblings. Alys sucks in a breath. 

“They are direwolf pups,” Vayon whispers under his breath. “The sigil of your house, my lady.”

“Impossible,” Rodwell says. “Direwolves haven’t been seen south of the wall in at least a century.”

Until now. Alys quietly moves forward, so as not to startle them. She hears a chorus of “Be careful, my lady,” and “Alys, stop.” Shushing them, she squats low, holding open her palm. The wolf pups stop, and cock their heads. The grey one is more leery, preferring to watch, but the black comes right up to her hand, nudging it before rolling over to expose her belly. 

“Hello, my girl. Have you been waiting for me?” Alys coos. The wolf pup’s orange eyes cut through her. I dreamt you. You’re mine, and I’m yours. She rubs her pup’s belly, watching her tongue lob as she smiles.

Alys turns back toward her companions, ignoring their shock. “Joseth, Vayon, search the wood for any sign of the mother. Based on the feel of this one, it has been some time since she ate. I assume the mother is dead, but we must be sure.” Joseth and Vayon nod, and make their way into the tree line. “Holly, check to see if Nan packed some milk for the first night’s journey. If she hasn’t, we’ll stop at the next town. They look nearly weaned, but it's best to be safe.” 

“Alys, you can’t mean to keep them!” she hisses.

“Holly is right, my lady,” says Jonnel. "A direwolf is no pet. Even a pup can tear a man’s arm clean from his shoulder.”

“I do not mean to keep them, Ser. I only mean to keep the one. Rodwell,” Alys says, turning toward the lad, “come closer so that you make the grey pup more familiar with your scent. When your father returns, you both will take it toward Last Hearth. You should meet my brother along the way. Present it to him, for it is his by right.”

“Alys!” Holly exclaims. 

“I dreamt them, Holly,” Alys says firmly, tone brokering no argument. “They are the sigil of our house. They are meant to be ours; mine and Creg’s.”

“You dreamt them?” she whispers. Alys nods. Though perturbed, Holly complies. 

Alys picks up her pup, who burrows into the embrace. She grabs some meat from the provisions, and gives her a bite before gently laying down to rest. She trusts Jonnel and Holly to ensure her orders are followed.

Her pup curls up against her on her mat. She smiles, petting her back. “You’ll be called Frenya,” she whispers as the direwolf snuggles in closer. “We will always protect each other, you and I. Always.”

Alys shuts her eyes. When she dreams, this time it is not of wolves, but of the sea. 

#fanfic #hotd fanfic #hotd daemon #house stark #hotd angst #hotd smut #daemon targaryen #the rogue prince #original character #daemon targaryen angst #there must always be a stark in winterfell #house of the dragon #ethel cain #daemon targaryen x stark!reader #ethel cain core #Alysanne Stark #the prince who was promised #winter is coming #winterfell #house velaryon

[leblancdamoiselle]

Hi! Can I request soul mate au with chuuya? With a mafia reader? Hope this Is ok <3

☆.｡.:*𝗙𝗿𝗲𝗮𝗸𝘆 𝗙𝗿𝗶𝗱𝗮𝘆.｡.:*☆

𝙖/𝙣. Hiii sorry it took sooooo long :( and the story is also long here, there will be part 2 because if i put everything in here it will be too long hehe. I also insert a lot of real life references (in italic font) so you can like yk feel it, anyways enjoy!! <3

𝙘𝙤𝙣𝙩𝙚𝙣𝙩 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙩𝙖𝙜𝙨. Mentions of violence & guns, harsh words

𝙥𝙖𝙞𝙧𝙞𝙣𝙜. Nakahara Chuuya x mafia!Reader

𝙨𝙥𝙚𝙘𝙞𝙖𝙡 𝙢𝙚𝙣𝙩𝙞𝙤𝙣. @96jnie

"Port Mafia will go down,"

Hundreds of men kneels before you—their fate remains unknown as for tonight; the objective is to infiltrate Yokohama and tear Port Mafia.

You were escorted to your wagon; a rather shiny and costly one. One that smells like French perfume inside.

"Chief are you ready?" The driver asks

"Yes, go ahead,"

You rest your head to the windscreen, the luminescent sunset caught your eyes

The sky is beautiful. You wonder how the sky has witnessed bloodshed many times, but it still lingers on innocently. You envy the sky for that, you wished you can erase all the sins and earn your sanity and morality back.

Many believed that the ability you are born with is; something miraculous. It's stupid—you thought. You hated your ability, the ability to see one's biggest trauma and psychologically torture them (and yourself) with it.

You always feel like you wanted to throw up by your own ability, it's sickening.

It's an hour drive from Shinjuku to Yokohama. After years of building your own empire—the empire of the underworld, at last you are to bring vengeance.

The city of Yokohama has changed to a great extent. The city is alive now, no more blood on the street but radiance by the lit skyscrapers. One thing that hasn't changed is perhaps the noises from ships sailing from the port.

"Tell the head-unit to part ways, just don't look too... flashy—while entering the city grounds," you ordered Miko, your valet, who then sends the information with her telepathic ability

The car dropped you at a hotel, with a view facing the Cosmo Clock 21 directly. Just a few metres away from the Port Mafia base, offering you to observe it candidly.

By all means, the first thing you do is to inhale an ashy fume down to your lungs, blowing the excess out afterwards. Nothing is more relaxing than a cigarette, wind sweeping your hair and a dazzling view.

"Such a waste this city has to fall down to the hands of Port Mafia," you said to yourself.

Three days earlier, invitations are sent to the Port Mafia executives for a dinner in the hotel's fine dining, surely bathing in luxury you are.

The door to you room clicks as someone enters. At the corner of your eyes you see a figure of a shorter lady with raven hair—Miko.

"These are the executives of Port Mafia, ma'am," as she handed you papers

"Mori Ogai, Ace, Paul Verlaine, one unnamed personnel called 'Colonel', Nakahara Chuuya, and... Ozaki Kouyou," You reached the end after flipping every page.

"As for the attendees will be; Mori Ogai, Nakahara Chuuya and Ozaki Kouyou—"

Your brows furrowed "That's it?" The suited girl nodded in response.

Miko looked over her Swiss-made hand watch, "You have 3 hours from now until the dinner, Chief," she finished her sentence.

"Alright, let me know when they're here—dismissed," you shrugged, blowing another grey mist to the air,

The poker-faced girl left the room soon after.

All in three hours; enough for you to bathe in scented rose water while the colour splendors of bustling Yokohama Cosmoworld pleases your eyes, getting dolled up with a ritzy French handmade dress.

You never go anywhere without a sidearm. Thereupon the United Kingdom Wembley Mk VI sits gracefully inside your clutch.

Miko is back at your door, knocking, "Chief, 10 minutes until the guests arrive."

The timing can't be any more precise. You open the soaring rosewood door; finding Miko bowing, ready to court you.

Inside the elevator, Miko felt an unrecognizable aroma. She thought it is rather; unusual for your scent to be strong,

"Interesting choice of perfume, Chief, did you wear something different tonight?" She cleared her throat. Miko's questions were genuine, however you are a bit perplexed by it.

"What do you mean? I didn't..." You sniff over your shoulder where you sprayed some scented liquid earlier just to trace hints of the exact perfume you used

"You're smelling something else, Miko—besides I'm certain I used the Yves Saint Laurent Libre Intense we bought the last time we were in Paris, don't you remember?"

"Y-yes, I remember..."

Despite your argument, Miko stands still with hers about you to smell unusual. It's really.... Masculine?

The glass doors opens before you; revealing the dim yet lit by the city view dining, exactly how you like it. The conversation tonight need to be kept confidential, hence you rented the whole floor.

3 minutes forward, your second valet came to announce the arrival of your long awaited guests, "Chief," he bowed to greet you before stating his matters, "Port Mafia's Mori Ogai, executive Nakahara Chuuya and Ozaki Kouyou."

"Good evening—it would be rude to not introduce myself," you greeted the three person entering the room; those who are behind Yokohama's politics and economics, those whose name is feared.

"(L/n) (Y/n)—" before you could finish your sentence, the man shaking your hand grips to it tighter, "(L/n) (Y/n), the Empress of this country's Mafioso Empire—I am Mori Ogai," the long haired man's pupils dilated.

You pleases them to sit at their reserved spot. The grown-haired men sits right across from you, his back facing the giant glass barrier, though you can only see his silhouettes. His executive occupies the seats by him, one on the left and one on the right.

The feasts are served by Michelin Star chefs, with a wide variety of origins; from European, Western to Oriental.

"How do you like the wine?"

One with red hair lifted his glass to toast; "Fantastic," he responded.

"Cabernet Sauvignon—cheers," you grinned at the fine man.

Then it comes down to the real business of the underworld.

You cleared you throat to gather the attention, "Mr. Mori, you may have acknowledged that going backwards to 6 years in the past—the vandalism Port Mafia had caused,"

Mori stiffened, pausing himself to deliver the juicy sirloin steak to his mouth, "I have no clue to what are you talking about, Miss (L/n),"

"Don't play coy with me, Mr. Mori," your tone straighten, turning the air unpleasant,

"Miss (L/n)... mind to elaborate?" The graceful woman in kimono joined.

You took no time to, taking one deep breath before answering, "Property destruction, massacre, blackmail," you place down the cutlery; making a slight cluttering sound

"What happened 6 years ago was not my deeds, Miss (L/n)." You thought Mori sounded so annoying, he sounds far older than his physical appearance.

"It was the previous boss," he tried to assure you,

"Whom you slaughtered by your own filthy hands."

"He was already dying!" The veins in his neck are throbbing.

The Lady Ozaki Kouyou squint-eyed stare at his boss. What everyone in the Port Mafia knew is that the previous boss died out of old-age; and sickness. As to what Mori Ogai had apprised.

"You kill them, you carry their sins, no?" You hide your gun under the table, on your lap, "I want what the Port Mafia had taken from me back."

"And that is?" Kouyou tilted her head. "I do remember my father being shot thrice—my mother and sister lost inside an 'accidental' fire."

"We almost went bankrupt, of course I am the successor but I am only six," cynically said

Mori knew the previous boss held a grudge against the ruling mafioso of Japan; your late father. It was simply out of envy. "How do I redeem?" Mori raised his head

"Your life—give me your life,"

"Do I have an option?"

"Give me Port Mafia,"

Mori is led to such burdensome situation. Life and death situation no more—rather it is death and death.

Either way you are to execute Mori, the poor man didn't really have a choice to begin with.

"I'm sorry, I need to—" Chuuya's words are cut off by his own hands covering his mouth,

"Chuuya what's wrong?" Kouyou frowned, she stood up to give Chuuya a hand.

He ran hurriedly to the restroom, slight knocking the table hence the silverwares blaring to the floor. Kouyou excuses herself before tailing after Chuuya.

The vampire-like man was left alone with you in the room, motionless. A situation like is is just perfect, highly beneficial for you also.

You pull out the gun gifted by your late father—the same gun that brought you to glory in the criminal world; victoriae et sceleris.

"You'll regret it," the lanky man grit his teeth,

"Oh I doubt it." standing up to point the gun across where Mori is, "My forces are more impactful than yours, Mr. Mori... if you were to declare a war."

The first bullet went straight into his neck, "One, for my family,"

Following after, you shot precisely to his heart, "Two, for Yokohama,"

To finish off and the final blow, "And if necessary, for my misery," the last bullet stays still on his forehead,

"Miko—Aakinori," your loyal valets understood their work; to clean up the scene. They were quick to move the body and wash up all the excess blood, "Where do you want him to be buried, Chief?" Miko asked as she remove her gloves,

"Send him to Romania, he reminds me of a vampire," you cringed.

"Chief, the Port Mafia executives," Aakinori added,

"Don't fear it, they'll be on my side soon," you smiled at Miko and Aakinori.

As the two valets prepare the corpse to be shipped, you went searching for Kouyou and Chuuya—the executives.

You found the kimono-wearing lady standing by a vague glass door, "You killed him, didn't you?"

"Mori? Yeah," in a direct way you replied, she thought you were so casual about it; about shooting Port Mafia's president to death and feel absolutely nothing.

She was about to stop you to enter the men's restroom as Chuuya is inside it. "What are you doing?"

"I didn't rent the whole floor for nothing, I'm going in,"

You searched for Chuuya from one stall to another. A single stall was locked, you were positive that he is inside. "Can you open?" You knocked

The door made a tick sound before it swung open, Chuuya is completely knocked out. "Woah, man are you a lightweight?" You offered him a handkerchief

"You're (Y/n)?" He weakly spoke

"Uh... who else am I supposed to be?"

"I see why you resent the Port Mafia so much," He uttered

"Okay and?" You fairly did not understand

"Quit playing dumb, you're trying to make me sympathize with your will,"

"What the heck are you talking about, I'm literally trying to help?"

"I get it now that you survived that fire, stop showing me the same shit over and over again,"

You fell into a ponder, trying to solve which part of Chuuya's story is relevant to you. It was so silent that you can hear a heartbeat.

No it was not yours, it was someone else's.

"Did you hear that?" You looked back to him.

Chuuya's expression dropped, his eyes widened, not answering at all,

"Executive Nakahara?" You try to snap him out.

"What's your ability?" Nakahara Chuuya stared at you, dead serious.

#bungo sd #bungo stray dogs #bungo stray dogs imagines #bungo stray dogs x you #chuuya imagines #dazai x y/n #chuuya x you #chuuya x y/n #chuuya x reader #chuuya nakahara #bungou stray dogs chuuya #nakahara chuuya #nakaharachuuya #nakahara chūya #bsd x reader #bsd chūya #chuuya hcs #chuuya fanfic

[santoschristos]

Golden Age of Atlantis

The natural resources of Atlantis were apparently limitless. Precious metals were mined, wild animals domesticated, and perfumes distilled from its fragrant flowers. While enjoying the abundance natural to their semitropic location, the Atlanteans employed themselves also in the erection of palaces, temples, and docks. They bridged the zones of sea and later dug a deep canal to connect the outer ocean with the central island, where stood the palaces And temple of Poseidon, which excelled all other structures in magnificence. A network of bridges and canals was created by the Atlanteans to unite the various parts of their kingdom. Mahaboka, m/j

[activeuksstuff]

Shop Online for the Lowest Prices on Perfume, Makeup, and Cosmetics - Active Care Store

With an emphasis on beauty in its DNA, Active Care Store is an online shop for the lowest prices on perfume, makeup, and cosmetics established in the United Kingdom that sells a variety of items.

#perfume #makeup #cosmetics

[abookishdreamer]

Writeblr Intro!!!

A quick run down & random facts (lol!):

My name is Paulina. I'm 26 and I’m a fellow Brooklynite!

I'm black (Haitian-American)

Red velvet cake is the best cake out there! No one can convince me otherwise!

I'm an aspiring writer with dreams of being traditionally published one day.

I have too many WIPs to count! (50 or so, to be exact)!

For a potential follower, if you like diverse, nuanced, complex character driven stories with plots galore, I'm your gal!

I'm also a mythology nerd (my fav. being Greek mythology), but I'm interested in learning about other mythologies out there! (Norse, Japanese, Mayan, African, etc...)

Night owl, bibliophile, bookworm- that's ME!

I'd totally wear a book scented perfume!

I love reading YA & Adult books. My go-to genres are contemporary (love, love, love character driven stories that pack an emotional punch! I'm also a sucker for love stories (fav. tropes include, but not limited to- enemies to lovers, best friends to lovers, found family, second chance romance...), literary fiction, historical fiction (pirates, queens, royal intrigue, vikings, major historical events- the world is my oyster!), historical fantasy, fantasy (I love extensive realized worlds!!!), & science fiction (cyborgs, A.I., robots, oh my!)

On this blog, I'll share character profiles, worldbuilding stuff, and snippets of my WIPs. I'm also a fan of reblogging fashion, gorgeous artwork, & other images that I connect with! I'm looking forward to getting to know more people in the writeblr community & hopefully getting more followers as well! My ask box is always open!

Some of my WIPs:

My main WIP is a YA contemporary fantasy series titled Kingdom of Ichor (new & improved title!!!). Think Greek mythology mixed with the TV show Euphoria & a small dash of Gossip Girl. It's a modern retelling or "remix" of Greek myths. Each book will be dual POV, third person. I'm currently working on a 1st draft on the first book- Of Flowers and Darkness, a Hades & Persephone retelling

My Life is a Telenovela!- a standalone YA contemporary following the misadventures of an aspiring screenwriter named Lucia at her performing arts high school in Miami. Her parents are well known telenovela stars.

The Rat Pack- a standalone YA contemporary about five Florida teens (who are best friends) that go on a road trip across the United States before going their separate ways for college.

Gorgeous Gems- a YA contemporary companion series following three sisters (who are also identical triplets!) and their lives in Cleveland, Ohio. The first book will follow the eldest triplet. The title is Shine Bright Like a Diamond!

Kissing in the Dark- a YA historical fiction story following a gay Jewish teenage boy named Max. It takes place in 1969 in NYC against the backdrop of the Stonewall Riots.

The Zenith Chronicles- a YA science fiction trilogy that's set in the futuristic cyberpunk city of Zenith. The first book is gonna be a retelling of Little Red Riding Hood titled Savage Red.

One of my Adult WIPs is about a young Mexican woman who makes the drastic choice to work for a ruthless cartel, bringing forth all her dark & deadly desires. The working title is Sicaria.

#writers on tumblr #aspiring writer #aspiring author #writeblr #writeblr community #new writeblr #new writers on tumblr #writing #writing community #my writing #writers of tumblr

[goldencherriess]

Waterloo || Loki x Mortal! Fem! Reader

Pairing: Loki x Mortal! Fem! Reader

Word count: 2.7k

Summary: Loki finds her again and suddenly the skies turn blue.

Warnings: a sprinkle of angst that's basically insignificant because the whole chapter is fluffy and romantic

A/N: dropping an author's note here, before you start reading, just so I explain something. This chapter takes place during the silver jubilee of the queen, in the 70s. In no way did I do that on purpose, as she died recently. It's just pure coincidence. I needed a historical event that happened in the 70s in UK, and this one seemed to be perfect, as it could build up to a meet-cute. This is just a piece of fanfiction and it should be treated as such. Other than that, have fun reading xx

Previous part || Series masterlist

6 February 1977

London was a city of cloudy skies and rainy days. But the rare moments in which the sun decided to smile through them, brought sunshine into Y/N's heart.

She just let the sunrays kiss her face, as she took off her sunglasses and put them on her head. There were several United Kingdom flags fluttering in the wind that day. They were adorning the street lights and corners. The traffic was frozen, the boulevards letting open space to take over. People milled around her in groups, smiling excitedly and if she could pay close attention, she could hear the static sounds of the TVs and radios being carried by the breeze through the windows and balconies.

Today marks the Silver Jubilee of Her Highness, Queen Elizabeth II. Celebrations are held in front of the Buckingham Palace...

A cold wind picked up and she suddenly regretted for leaving the house without a jacket. Despite the sun shining through the clouds, the winter was still in full swing. She tightened the woolly, red scarf around her neck before she let her feet carry her forward to the crowd applauding in front of the Palace.

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

Loki hated crowds. It made him feel dizzy and breathless. Why did he ever come at all when all he got was a pounding in his head after some girl's way too sweet perfume tickled his nostrils when she passed by him? It twisted his stomach in notches.

But he knew why. He searched for her in every crowd, in every face. His heart broke a little bit more every time he couldn't seem to find her eyes, to see her sparkle in them. Sometimes, when he laid in bed at night, his mind would drift off to that fateful Christmas morning and he wondered if things were to be different if he was just awake. Aware. Present. But then, he scolded himself. It wasn't worth thinking about it. Because recalling that morning hurt like shards stuck in skin.

But she would always be worth the heartbreak.

The stomping of the horses' reached his ears and his gaze slipped towards a carriage. He recognized her from the magazines and the newspapers. The mortals called her a queen. She was waving towards the crowd, smiling. He breathed in, turning away from the scene when the wind blew, a red scarf hitting his face.

''Oh, that's mine, sorry!''

Music to his ears. Her voice. Loki could recognize her voice in sleep and in daydreams. It was at that moment that he started to believe in fate. There was no denying now. He could find her even at the end of time, but she still would be his. An underlying truth. A predestined moment.

He took away the scarf from his face and his eyes met hers. They were the same, even after all these years and he wondered if she was a beauty frozen in time. No matter how many times they'd meet, how many times her eyes would look into his, Loki would always feel mesmerized by her. As if he would saw for the very first time.

He handed her the scarf and she started smiling. ''Thank you.'' And then her eyebrows scrunched. ''Uh, pardon me, but do I know you from somewhere? You look familiar.''

Déjà vu.

''Maybe from another life.'' Loki replied, the corner of his eyes crinkling in a smile. She wore the sunrays around her head like a halo and it almost blinded him.

She laughed, shaking her head. ''Maybe.'' She then held her hand to shake his and Loki felt electricity flowing through them, pinching his skin. ''I'm Y/N.''

I know.

''Loki.''

''Would you like to get out of this crowd, Loki? Go somewhere nice?''

''Yes.''

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

The heels of her boots were clinking against the pavement, almost in a drum manner. Her steps reflected one of those songs he heard the other day in passing. A reckless serenade. Loki glanced at her from the corner of his eyes and saw her shivering. He took off his own jacket and put it on her shoulders gently. ''You looked cold.'' he shrugged when she looked up at him questionably.

''Then you should take this.'' She took off her scarf and wrapped it around his neck, standing on her tip toes. She was close enough for him to inhale her perfume. Sweet with a hint of musk. ''A trade.'' she added as she took a step back.

Loki touched the scarf, the wool biting him slightly. The red of it stood out to him, screaming at him to remember something. And then he did. She wore it the very first time he ever laid eyes on her, all those centuries ago. Funny how fate weaves life into a full circle. He lifted his head and locked eyes with her. Her nose was slightly red from the cold. ''Thank you.''

She threw him a soft smile before her gaze drifted off to a shop in the corner of the street. Her face lit up and she took him by the hand, dragging him across the road. ''Do you drink coke?''

Loki's eyebrows pinched together. The word didn't ring a bell. He stopped trying midgardian things as they didn't bring him any joy without her besides him. ''It would be the first time, actually.'' he said in a meek voice.

''Then, you totally should try it!''

The sliding doors of the shop opened and she excitedly ran to the fridges, still holding his hand in hers. She opened one fridge, the cold hitting her and Loki in one freezing wave. Her flushed face cooled off and she took out two bottles, but Loki's hand on hers stopped her in her tracks. ''Just take one.''

Confusion overtook her features. ''Why?''

''Maybe I won't like it. Better safe than sorry.''

Her eyes studied him, searching for an answer, before she let a smile bloom on her lips. ''Yeah, okay. It's cheaper.''

And she was off to the cash register, leaving a rather starstruck Loki near the freezing refrigerators.

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

The drink was bursting colours and aromas on his tongue. It exploded. The coke was fizzing, pinching on his tongue, and swirling around. It was a sweet drink, much different than anything he had ever drunk before. It reminded him of cold afternoons and afire sunsets.

Y/N's eyebrows were raised as she watched him for a reaction. ''Well? Do you like it?''

Loki chuckled. ''It's a fun drink, certainly.''

She put her hands on her hips, looking up at him. ''Is that a yes or a no, mister Loki?''

He laughed again, looking deeply in her eyes. ''It's a yes.''

She squealed in triumph, before snatching the bottle from him. She wrapped her lips around the rim, taking a sip, her gaze never wavering from his. ''Say, where are you from?''

Loki's smile dropped. ''What?''

''Well, I mean you're not from here, are you?''

He avoided her gaze, as he took a few steps forward. The clinking of her heels told him she wasn't too far behind. ''How'd you figure that one out?''

''It's the way you hold yourself. Almost royally like.''

He stopped walking, turning to her. Her familiar words struck him. Even after all this time, he would still be surprised at how things repeated themselves. As if they were a broken record. As if he was a character stuck in a movie and Y/N was just playing herself over and over again. Or maybe he was just a spectator and the movie would end soon. He gulped thickly. ''I'm from far away.''

She hummed, content with the answer. ''I'm not. Born and raised in London. At least that's what I know. I never met my real parents.''

''Who raised you, then?'' he inquired even though he already knew the answer.

Y/N suddenly became shy, putting one hand in Loki's jacket and taking another sip of Coca Cola. ''His name is Garwin. I call him father, though.'' She nervously laughed. ''And I don't really know why I'm telling you all this. It's just- I feel like I can, as if I know you. Does that make any sense?''

Loki's heart swelled up. ''It does.''

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

The sun was now slowly dipping down the horizon and Y/N was holding Loki's hand with a familiarity that warmed her soul. Every now and then, she would glance at him only to find him already looking at her. In that moment, blood coloured her cheeks in red and she had to avert her gaze just so she could remind herself how to breath again. She brought the drink to her lips, the rich aroma of it washing away some of her nerves.

''If you could, would you freeze time?'' Loki asked, taking his eyes off of her for the first time that day and looking at the sun setting through the buildings.

''No.'' she answered without hesitation.

''No?'' he turned his head towards her in surprise.

''No, why should I?''

''You'd get to live any moment forever. Wouldn't that be sweet?''

She shook her head, strands of hair falling into her eyes. ''It would lose its meaning. It's not a moment anymore. It's just... a tiresome eternity. Life's about living in the moment. Carpe diem, you know?''

Loki hummed, thinking, his thumb caressing the back of her hand. ''And if you had eternity?''

''I wouldn't want that either. It sounds lonely.''

Lonely.

A pang went through his chest. If she only knew how much he had missed her these past years, how he felt nights as heavy blankets crushing him and days like ovens burning his soul alive. If she only knew how she was the only remedy to all his misery, how with just a smile she soothed all his pain. How after all this time, he still chose her.

''I suppose you're right.'' he whispered into the evening.

''I'm always right.'' she joked, winking.

Then, a few musical notes travelled to them, through an open window and Y/N raised a finger to his lips, ears listening in. ''Wait, you hear that?''

Loki furrowed, slightly dazed by the feeling of her finger against his lips and he had to fight the urge to press a gentle kiss on it.

My, my

At Waterloo, Napoleon did surrender

Y/N gasped, eyes lighting up and grinning. ''ABBA! Oh, I love this song, Loki! Dance with me, please?''

Oh, yeah

And I have met my destiny in quite a similar way

Loki let out a chuckle escape his lips at her eagerness and took the bottle out of her hands, drinking from it one last time before throwing it away in a bin. Meeting her eyes, he gently clasped her left hand in his and lifted it to his lips, caressing it where a ring would be.

The history book on the shelf

Is always repeating itself

He twirled her around to the beat of the song, her laugh rising into the air.

Waterloo

Promise to love you forever more

Y/N then brought him closer, their chests touching. She smiled up at him before twirling him, standing on her tip toes as he was much taller than her, even when wearing heels.

Waterloo

Knowing my fate is to be with you

The street was spinning and his heart almost beat out of his chest. Loki met her gaze as she took a few steps forward and two steps back, hips moving and he tried to meet her moves, the cold air getting to his head.

So how could I ever refuse

I feel like I win when I lose

If he could close his eyes and listen in, he could hear the beating of both their hearts, hands holding, skin on skin. She glided towards him, hugging his waist with her free hand. He opened his eyes and looked down at Y/N. The sunset was casting orange hues over her face. She was glowing.

Finally facing my Waterloo

She tilted her head slightly towards him, noses touching. Their chests rose up and down, breathless and her eyelashes tickled his cheeks. ''Let me walk you home.'' he whispered against her lips.

''Alright.''

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

The stars were twinkling in the sky, emitting a silver lining against the dark streets. Y/N was humming under her breath a song, swinging Loki's hand in hers back and forth, eyes fluttering shut in exhaustion.

He turned to look at her, admiring the way her hair bathed in the low silvery light of the stars. He thought she was only missing a pair of angel wings. A ghost of a smile was painting her lips and Loki felt his own lips curling up.

Her giggle broke through the silence, eyes opening. ''I just realized something.''

''What did you realize, darling?'' replied Loki softly.

''Out of everyone who could have caught my scarf, you did. It could had been anyone, really. But it wasn't.

''It must had been fate, then.''

Her eyes crinkled happily, the shadow of a smile. Silence settled over them both, the moon high in the sky. They passed by a tailor shop and Y/N abruptly stopped, looking through the windows. Loki turned to look at her, but didn't dare to break the tranquility. Her eyebrows were scrunched up, a look of longing in her eyes. ''I want to buy a sewing machine.'' she eventually said, not taking her eyes off of the mannequins and fabrics. ''I want to learn how to make dresses, and pants and those beautiful blouses that only rich people seem to afford, but it's only the fabric's quality giving that illusion.''

''You'd be great at it.'' said Loki, sure of his words. Because she had done it before, her hands were made to convert textiles into exquisite clothing, to play them into shimmering dreams.

''You really think so?'' Y/N asked, meeting his eyes, emotions swirling in them.

Loki nodded. ''I know so.'' He really did. How could he not when he saw her doing it before? Les petites mains. Her hands worked magic with a sewing machine and a few velvety fabrics.

She smiled. ''When's your birthday, Loki?''

''Why do you ask?''

Y/N shyly shrugged. ''So, maybe I can make you something. A green scarf. It would suit you.''

''That's very sweet of you, darling, but I'd rather much prefer you spending time with me.''

A pink dusted her cheeks. ''I'll still make you something.''

''As you wish.'' he smiled.

She skipped a few steps, before stopping in front of him. ''My birthday is on 25th of December.''

Loki froze. 25th of December. ''That's-''

''On Christmas, I know.''

On Christmas.

''What year?'' he asked shakily.

''1950. Why?''

1950. 25th of December 1950. The same day she died, hitting her head on an icy street. The same day he lost his heart again, only to somehow find it twenty seven years later. An ironic laugh threatened to escape his lips. Time and fate. Fate and time.

''No reason at all, darling. Just happy to find you.'' he replied, taking her hand.

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

Her house was one covered in ivy vines. A few cracks broke through the smooth surface of it and Loki realized it was an old one. A house that saw many centuries, perhaps. He quickly came to the conclusion that it was the same house her father's banquet was held in all those centuries ago.

She stopped walking in front of the door, turning her whole body towards him. ''You can't come in, my father's home.''

Loki swore he saw a hint of a blush on her cheeks. ''That's alright. Wasn't expecting to get invited in, anyway.''

Suddenly remembering his jacket draped over her, she hastily tried taking it off, only for Loki's cold hands to stop her. ''No, please, keep it. It's yours now.''

She lifted her head to meet his gaze, before her eyes slid over to her scarf around his neck. ''Then, you keep the scarf.'' She stood on her tip toes, planting a kiss on his cheek. ''A trade.'' she whispered.

Smiling ever so lightly, she opened the door. ''Good night, Loki.''

''Good night., darling''

And then, he was left alone on the porch, cheeks red and eyes sparkling.

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

A/N: And so they meet again... Dancing definitely became their thing, as I wrote a dancing scene in every chapter so far. Also, can you imagine Loki wearing one of those high waisted and flared, 70s pants? Cause I can't lmao.

Thank you so much for reading! I hope you liked this chapter. Any kind of feedback is greatly appreciated. If you want to be added to my main tag list or the series tag list, comment under this post or send me an ask!

Main tag list: @bohemianrhapsody86 @andreead

Series tag list: @mischief2sarawr @mochie85 @strrvnge @salempoe @xorpsbane @huntress-artemiss @123forgottherest @glitterylokislut @lokidbadguy

#Spotify #loki x fem!reader #loki x female reader #loki x reader #loki #x reader #marvel x reader #mcu #mcu x reader #reincarnation au #soulmates au #reader insert #fanfic writing #writing #my writing #masterlist #laura writes #time after time

[gwendolynlerman]

93 English words that derive from place names

This is not a comprehensive list and focuses only on Europe and Mediterranean countries. It excludes cheese and wines.

All definitions taken from Wiktionary, excluding definitions that refer to nationalities.

academia (the Academy, Greece, an Athenian gymnasium where Plato taught): the scientific and cultural community engaged in higher education and research, taken as a whole.

afro (Africa): hairstyle characterized by tightly curled locks and a rounded shape.

alpine (the Alps): of, relating to, or inhabiting mountains, especially above the timberline.

Alsatian (Alsace, France): a German shepherd dog.

angora (Ankara, Turkey): an angora cat; a goat of a domesticated breed that produces mohair; a rabbit belonging to the Angora rabbit breed, one of the oldest domestic breeds of rabbits in the world, raised chiefly in Europe for its silky and long hair (a subspecies of the European rabbit, Oryctolagus cuniculus).

Armageddon (Tel Megiddo, Israel): (Christianity, Islam) Mount Megiddo, the site of a prophesied final battle between the forces of good and evil; (by extension) the battle itself.

Armagnac (Armagnac, France): a brandy made in the region of Armagnac.

attic (Attica, Greece): the space, often unfinished and with sloped walls, directly below the roof in the uppermost part of a house or other building, generally used for storage or habitation.

badminton (Badminton House, an estate in Gloucestershire, United Kingdom): a racquet sport played indoors on a court by two opposing players (singles) or two opposing pairs of players (doubles), in which a shuttlecock is volleyed over a net and the competitions are presided by an umpire in British English and a referee in American English.

balaclava (Balaklava, Ukraine): a type of warm headgear covering the neck, head, and often part of the face, with apertures left as necessary, often made out of wool.

bayonet (Bayonne, France): a pointed instrument of the dagger kind fitted on the muzzle of a musket or rifle, so as to give the soldier increased means of offense and defense. Originally, the bayonet was made with a handle, which needed to be fitted into the bore of the musket after the soldier had fired.

bedlam (Bedlam, United Kingdom, alternative name of the English lunatic asylum, Bethlem Royal Hospital): a place or situation of chaotic uproar, and where confusion prevails.

beyond the pale (The Pale, Ireland): of a person or their behaviour: outside the bounds of what is acceptable, or regarded as good judgment, morality, etc.

Bible (Byblos, Lebanon): the main religious text in Christianity.

bohemian (Bohemia, Czech Republic): an unconventional or nonconformist artist or writer.

bolognese (Bologna, Italy): an Italian sauce made of ground meat and tomato.

bugger (Bulgaria): a heretic; (Britain law) someone who commits buggery; a sodomite.

Byzantine (Byzantium [present-day Istanbul], Turkey): overly complex or intricate.

cardigan (Cardigan, United Kingdom): a type of sweater or jumper that fastens up the front with buttons or a zipper, usually machine- or hand-knitted from wool.

Caucasian (Caucasus): of a racial classification pertaining to people having certain phenotypical features such as straight, curly, or wavy hair and very light to brown pigmented skin, and originating from Europe, parts of Northern Africa and Central, South, and Western Asia.

chartreuse (Chartreuse Mountains, France): a yellow or green liqueur made by Carthusian monks; a greenish-yellow colour.

coach (Kocs, Hungary): a wheeled vehicle, generally drawn by horse power.

cognac (Cognac, France): a brandy distilled from white wine in the region around Cognac in France.

cologne (Cologne, Germany): a type of perfume consisting of 2-5% essential oils, 70-90% alcohol and water.

copper (Cyprus): a reddish-brown, malleable, ductile metallic element with high electrical and thermal conductivity, symbol Cu, and atomic number 29.

cordovan (Córdoba, Spain): a leather from Córdoba originally of tanned goatskin later of horsehide.

cravat (Croatia): a wide fabric band worn as a necktie by men having long ends hanging in front.

Dalmatian (Dalmatia, Croatia): one of a breed of dog with a short, white coat with dark spots.

damask (Damascus, Syria): an ornate silk fabric originating from Damascus.

Danish (Denmark): a sweet and flaky yeast-raised roll made from a dough using butter or margarine and filled with remonce (butter and sugar) or custard.

denim (“de Nîmes” [from Nîmes], France): textile often made of cotton with a distinct diagonal pattern.

derby (from the Epsom Derby horse race, in Derbyshire, United Kingdom): any of several annual horse races.

dollar (Joachimstal [present-day Jáchymov], Czech Republic): official designation for currency in some parts of the world, including Canada, the United States, Australia, New Zealand, Hong Kong, and elsewhere. Its symbol is $.

duffel bag (Duffel, Belgium): a large, cylindrical, duffel cloth bag used to carry personal gear, especially by soldiers. 

fez (Fez, Morocco): a felt hat in the shape of a truncated cone, having a flat top with a tassel attached.

frankfurter (Frankfurt, Germany): a  moist sausage of soft, even texture and flavor, often made from mechanically recovered meat or meat slurry.

frankly (the Franks, France and Germany): in a frank or candid manner, especially in a way that may seem too open, excessively honest, or slightly blunt.

geyser (The Great Geysir, Iceland): a boiling natural spring which throws forth at frequent intervals jets of water, mud etc., driven up by the expansive power of steam.

jeans (Genoa, Italy): a pair of trousers made from denim cotton.

jersey (Jersey, United Kingdom): a garment knitted from wool, worn over the upper body.

hamburger (Hamburg, Germany): a hot sandwich consisting of a patty of cooked ground beef or a meat substitute, in a sliced bun, sometimes also containing salad vegetables, condiments, or both.

hollandaise (Holland, the Netherlands): an emulsion of butter and lemon juice using egg yolks as the emulsifying agent, used in French cooking.

italics (Italy): letters in an italic typeface. 

laconic (Laconia, Greece): using as few words as possible; pithy and concise.

lesbian (Lesbos, Greece): (of a woman) homosexual, gay; preferring mostly or exclusively women as romantic or sexual partners.

limerick (Limerick, Ireland): a humorous, often bawdy verse of five anapestic lines, with the rhyme scheme aabba, and typically having a 8–8–5–5–8 cadence. 

limousine (Limousin, France): an automobile body with seats and permanent top like a coupe, and with the top projecting over the driver and a projecting front.

magenta (Magenta, Italy): a vibrant light purple, purplish-red, reddish-purple, or pinkish purple color obtained by mixing red and blue light (thus a secondary color), but primary in the CMYK color system used in printing.

magnet (Magnesia, Greece): a piece of material that attracts some metals by magnetism.

Maltese (Malta): a small breed of dog with a long silky coat.

marathon (Marathon, Greece): a 42.195 kilometer (26 mile 385 yard) road race.

mausoleum (Mausolus, ruler of Caria, Turkey): a large stately tomb or a building housing such a tomb or several tombs.

mayonnaise (Maó, Spain): a dressing made from vegetable oil, raw egg yolks and seasoning, used on salads, with french fries, in sandwiches etc.

meander (Büyük Menderes River, Turkey): one of the turns of a winding, crooked, or involved course.

muscovite (Moscow, Russia): a pale brown mineral of the mica group, being a basic potassium aluminosilicate with the chemical formula KAl2(Si3Al)O10(OH,F)2; used as an electrical insulator etc.

muslin (Mosul, Iraq): any of several varieties of thin cotton cloth.

Neanderthal (Neandertal, Germany): old-fashioned, opposed to change.

Nokia (Nokia, Finland): a phone produced by the Nokia company.

Olympics (Olympia, Greece): an international multi-sport event (inspired by the ancient festival) taking place every fourth year

ottoman (Turkey): an upholstered sofa, without arms or a back, sometimes with a compartment for storing linen etc.

paisley (Paisley, Scotland): a motif of a swirling droplet.

parchment (Pergamon [present-day Bergama], Turkey): material, made from the polished skin of a calf, sheep, goat or other animal, used like paper for writing.

peach (Persia [present-day Iran]): a tree (Prunus persica), native to China and now widely cultivated throughout temperate regions, having pink flowers and edible fruit.

pilsner (Pilsen, Czech Republic): a pale, light lager beer.

polonium (Poland): a rare, highly radioactive chemical element (symbol Po) with atomic number 84.

Pomeranian (Pomerania, Germany and Poland): a breed of small, fluffy, energetic toy dogs in the canine family of spitzes. 

quince (Kydonia, Greece): the pear-shaped fruit of a small tree of the rose family, Cydonia oblonga.

romantic (Rome, Italy): of a work of literature, a writer etc.: being like or having the characteristics of a romance, or poetic tale of a mythic or quasi-historical time; fantastic.

Rottweiler (Rottweil, Germany): a very large muscular breed of dog of German origin with black fur and tanned markings.

rugby (Rugby, United Kingdom): a form of football in which players can hold or kick an ovoid ball; rugby football. The ball cannot be handled forwards and points are scored by touching the ball to the ground in the area past the opponent’s territory or by kicking the ball between goalposts and over a crossbar.

samaritan (Samaria, Palestine): a person who gives help or sympathy to someone in distress.

sandwich (Sandwich, United Kingdom): a dish or foodstuff where at least one piece, but typically two or more pieces, of bread serve(s) as the wrapper or container of some other food. 

sardines (Sardinia, Italy): any one of several species of small herring which are commonly preserved in olive oil or in tins for food, especially the pilchard, or European sardine Sardina pilchardus (syn. Clupea pilchardus). The California sardine Sardinops sagax (syn. Clupea sagax) is similar. The American sardines of the Atlantic coast are mostly the young of the Atlantic herring and of the menhaden.

sardonic (Sardinia, Italy): scornfully mocking or cynical.

scotch (Scotland, United Kingdom): whisky distilled in Scotland, especially from malted barley.

sienna (Siena, Italy): a form of clay containing iron and manganese.

solecism (Soli, Turkey): an erroneous or improper usage. 

spa (Spa, Belgium): a health resort near a mineral spring or hot spring.

spaniel (Spain): any of various small to medium-sized breeds of gun dog having a broad muzzle, long, wavy fur and long ears that hang at the side of the head, bred for flushing and retrieving game.

spartan (Sparta, Greece): austere, frugal, characterized by self-denial.

spruce (Prussia [present-day Germany]): any of various large coniferous evergreen trees or shrubs from the genus Picea, found in northern temperate and boreal regions; originally and more fully spruce fir.

suede (Sweden): a type of soft leather, made from calfskin, with a brushed texture to resemble fabric, often used to make boots, clothing and fashion accessories.

swede (Sweden): the fleshy yellow root of a variety of rape, Brassica napus var. napobrassica, resembling a large turnip, grown as a vegetable.

tangerine (Tangier, Morocco): any of several varieties of mandarin oranges.

tarantula (Taranto, Italy): any of the large, hairy New World spiders comprising the family Theraphosidae.

Trojan horse (Troy, Turkey): a subversive person or device placed within the ranks of the enemy.

turkey (Turkey): a bird in the genus Meleagris with a fan-shaped tail and wattled neck, especially the wild turkey (Meleagris gallopavo, now domesticated).

turquoise (Turkey): a sky-blue, greenish-blue, or greenish-gray semi-precious gemstone.

tweed (River Tweed, United Kingdom): a coarse woolen fabric used for clothing.

vaudeville (Vallée de Vire [valley of the river Vire], France): a style of multi-act theatrical entertainment which originated from France and flourished in Europe and North America from the 1880s through the 1920s.

volcano (Mt. Etna, Italy, believed to be the forge of Vulcan, the Roman god of fire): a vent or fissure on the surface of a planet (usually in a mountainous form) with a magma chamber attached to the mantle of a planet or moon, periodically erupting forth lava and volcanic gases onto the surface.

wellies (Wellington, United Kingdom): Wellington boots

wiener (Vienna, Austria): a sausage made from beef, chicken or pork.

#langblr #english

[wilderebellion]

Rewatching Seeds of Conflict

NOTE: I had this in my drafts still while Episode 3 released and I'm bolding some stuff that's REALLY RELEVANT

Deli's greatest weakness and boldest strength is his open heart.

Ariana's making good use of that right now, likely stringing him along for political information about the clans, and guiding him towards unifying the Meat Lands.

Probably to assist Foccacia's political plans based on that insight check? I can't imagine Ariana actually cares about the people of the Meat Lands. One leader to target instead of three, maybe?

I wonder if the Katzens fall out of leadership because Deli realizes he was used, or if it has anything to do with the possible Bulbian agenda. We know Basha Myaso ends up leading and claims to be of the faith.

I know there was a whoopsy with Ariana and Angela, but now my confusion is this: who is the intended one that Matt wants to call "matronly"? Is the age difference why Deli and Ariana are secret, or is it possible conflict of interest because of their political positions?

Also, I can't imagine Amangeaux having been to the Ceresian Senate in Deli's youth is a coincidence. The only context we have around that event, though: it was before Deli's bread mama died, and shortly after Amangeaux's marriage. If the FDA designs events to happen.... I wonder if one or both of them fell under their purview.

The Packages

Colin's package: already in his room on the bed

Karna's: dropped nearby her (while still in disguise?) by someone who tripped, then seemingly ran away

Delissandro's: Left at his bedroom door

Amangeux's: Left at the foot of her bed within her large, queenly suite

Raphaniel's: package on the windowsill within his modest but Bulbian-adorned bedroom

Karna finds "a wrinkled four-inch carrot wrapped in a band of corn silk silver. Not a carrot on its own, for you now make out the knuckles that bend ever so slightly across this withered finger, the ring adorning it displaying a simple stylized kernel, the brand of Ja Cru Dites. The finger of Ja Cru Dites."

Delissandro: "a small box that contains a strange garment. A soft, verdant dress. A negligee of smooth wheat weave trimmed in lace. And as you unfold, a strong perfume fills the air like a sweet caramel and oats. Perfume you smelled not but earlier this afternoon. It has accompanied every letter that Ariana has sent you. It suffuses the pasta twists that fall from her head to her lower back, her teasing notes and promises of grand partnership, should you be a good, ambitious boy in your mind."

It's weirdly intimate that they nabbed some of Ariana's lingerie when she hasn't slept with Deli yet. So is she banging someone else on the side, or is she like, in on this whole thing? Did she recommend/recruit Deli specifically?

Karna observes the cloak has deep brown and gray patchwork texture to it, elements having almost a yellowish-tan coloration as well, like a calico. On the face, a reflective mask possibly made of some sort of odd vegetable iron that has been rusted to the point where there's kind of a deep brownish-red coloration to it.

5, 10, 15 figures in dark browns, also dull tans and golds and grays and blacks. These calico cloaks and robes, these strange shiny masks on their faces."

The Architects

Some of their spiel reminds me of that other group of Bulbians that were mentioned but I don't THIIINK we ever saw them on-screen in A Crown of Candy? Sanctis Putris?

"Shadow of destruction looms over all of the six kingdoms.."

"our forefathers united under a common cause"

"we deign the necessary conflicts that serve our cause and engineer their doing."

"As Architects, we seek no prestige. We seek no gilded praise, coin, or glory."

"Away from the true terrors and threats that most do but choose not to see, and build a bright, sustainable future."

Interesting... Deli described himself as an architect earlier to Ariana

#the ravening war #trw spoilers #dimension 20

[eemcintyre]

Random one-shot alert

A/N: This absolute unit was inspired by Oliviaalee's playlist on YouTube called "You're the hero waltzing with the villain, realizing they were right all along." Highly recommend listening to "Remembrance" by Archibald Joyce, "Expectation" by Herold Kittler, "Daydream" by Benno Ebann, and/or "The Snowstorm: II. Waltz" by Georgy Sviridov while reading for the full 4K 3D Imax experience.

TW: noncon touching, a knife makes a brief appearance @ the end; overall lowkey enemies-w-benefits vibes (?)

Princess Jacqueline’s parents, the king and queen, always knew how to put on a truly grand event. She noted this as she observed the festivities of the palace ballroom from afar. Hundreds of the kingdom’s highest ranks twirled across the floor in their finery. Gilded chandeliers punctuated the vaulted ceilings, which were adorned with paintings of otherworldly beings among the clouds. The air was thick with the warmth of the large gathering and the sickening perfume of the flowering trees that drifted inside from the open balcony doors.

All of this fanfare, and Jacqueline had almost entirely forgotten the occasion- some beloved Count’s milestone birthday perhaps. Something in that vein that seemed rather foolish and frivolous to be commemorating during a time of such instability and strife as the kingdom was currently immersed. Unable to get her mind off of the riots in the streets and the verbal altercations in the court that were occurring with increasing frequency and ferocity, Jacqueline stared blankly ahead from her isolated spot, a corner by one of the exits. She wondered if she was the only one at the event who felt that something in the atmosphere was off.

“Your Highness, may I have the pleasure of sharing the next dance with you?” A familiar voice ripped her from her reverie; the voice of a person who was unwelcome to approach her. Edward, the young Duke of a nearby territory, who had recently assumed the role upon the untimely death of his father. He had always carried the reputation of being a troublemaker, or at least a loose cannon with a knack for stirring the governmental pot- someone with bold, challenging opinions who now had the power to act upon them and had thus become less of a mere nuisance and more of a danger.

Jacqueline had known him for several years at this point, due to his appearance at many such palace events. Though they held differing outlooks on life and politics, she was irritated to admit (only to herself) that he was strikingly good-looking and that his way with words could be charming. But that had been on other evenings, when she had less on her mind and the political stakes were low enough that their disagreements could be playful, bordering even regretfully on flirtatious. Now that he, his colleagues, and what they all stood for was starting to fuel real trouble for both the people and her family’s rule, she knew she had to fight her immature longing for him and put a stop to their mutual games.

“I’m sorry, I’m not much for dancing tonight,” she answered coldly, and he frowned, surprised, but not lowering the hand he had outstretched.

“Pardon my impertinence, Your Highness, but I must insist,” he tried again, his voice briefly taking on a harder edge. “It would be a pity to let such a grand event and such a beautiful dress go to waste.” His eyes roved over her sparkling gown, and she felt mostly repulsed, but also the tiniest bit wanting. She took his hand and he led them to the dance floor.

“Pardon my bluntness, but what is it you really want, Edward?” She tried to avoid his gaze, but it was difficult since they had begun waltzing.

“What makes you think I want something? Aside from the privilege of enjoying your company?” He did his best hurt and offended expression, tilting his head, furrowing his brows, and pouting his lips ever-so-slightly.

“Don’t insult my intelligence.” The rest of the crowd danced and chatted merrily all around them, oblivious to the alternately tense scene that was unfolding within their midst.

“Very well, I can see you are in no mood for pleasantries,” Edward sighed. “There is something I’ve been wanting to discuss with you. But there was once a time when we could at least be civil toward one another. I’m not even sure what it is I’ve done to earn such immense disapproval.”

Jacqueline shot him an appalled look, finally meeting his gaze with wide eyes. “Please get to your point, whatever it is. I don’t enjoy being this close to you.” She had to actively try to keep her hands, which were growing clammy, from shaking.

“Do I really repel you that much?” His maddening smirk made its first appearance, as if he enjoyed this revelation. “I thought we had a kind of amusing, dry repartee thing going between us.” The conversation briefly paused as the dance called for everyone to spin. “Look, I know you think that we’re enemies just because we go under different labels, but really, we’re two sides of the same coin. Both of our intentions are good and our goals are the same. We both think this ball and the entire production the kingdom is putting on pretending that everything is fine is ridiculous, not to mention distasteful. You’re appalled by the plight of the people and the unrest in the government just as much as I am, but for some reason you still hold out hope in diplomacy, while I’ve grown up and accepted that confrontation is the only way out.”

Jacqueline’s face remained stoic and still as the next song, a more melancholy tune, commenced.

“I agreed to one dance, that dance is over…” She lifted her left hand from his shoulders and attempted to free her right hand from his grasp, but he would not release her just yet; he had not said everything he had to say, and he was growing frustrated by her resistance. When he spoke again, he leaned in closer to her, at a hushed volume but with the edge returning to his tone.

“I know you may not want to hear this, and that it may shock you- you’ve been protected from it- but your parents are hardly angels. I could tell you about things they’ve done that would make your stomach turn. The deaths that have been plaguing their ranks are hardly accidental. Your parents can’t accept any difference of opinion in their government. They are cleaning house, getting rid of anyone in the regime who won’t toe the line. So, we do the exact same to them, restoring the constitutional monarchy and freedom of thought in the process. One of those situations where the ends truly justify the means.”

Jacqueline leaned away from him until he straightened his posture and put more space between them again. All playfulness had faded out of the interaction, and she found herself no longer able to control her shaking hands. “I know the last few months have been difficult for you, but I would have thought that you would be above believing such revolting rumors, surely none of which have any proof to back them up-”

Edward wanted to curse her out for bringing the death of his father up, given what he had just told her about who had brought it about, but he refused to indulge the desire, knowing that he must stay on track.

“-We have people inside your father’s inner circles and all the evidence we could possibly need. We have audio, videos, photographs-”

“-All of which can be faked.” Jacqueline cut him off, becoming wild-eyed. “And you can’t fool me with this performance, no matter how dramatic- you pretend to be moved by some sort of noble cause of restoring freedom and justice but, you want to play judge, jury, and executioner for my parents and the loyalists- not very democratic-sounding, if you ask me. You’ve been corrupted by power and blinded by revenge and couldn’t care less about restoring a so-called fair government.”

The movements of their dancing had become sharp and aggressive, and their voices raised. Still, no one seemed to notice over the noise of the orchestral music.

“You know, maybe you’re right. Maybe, for me, it has become more about my own personal motives over time. But what of it? Who, besides you, would blame me? Besides, there are others who are very invested in the cause- and they’ll need someone to lead them.”

And that’s where Edward came in, Jacqueline deduced. Her head started to spin with everything she was hearing, and she felt weak. Their dance was now less of a mutual effort and more him puppeteering her through the motions.

She continued on, stubbornly, desperately. “Even if the ludicrous stories you’ve been telling me were true, that wouldn’t mean you’d have to stoop to their level of violence. It will only turn into a never-ending cycle between the two sides- you know this. Perhaps I’ve never been a huge admirer of yours, but you used to be such a strong proponent of peace. Find that side of yourself again…”

“Your parents killed that side of me when they had my father murdered,” Edward replied flatly. “They and their supporters will have to face the consequences for him, and all of the others, and then, perhaps, we can talk about peace.”

Jacqueline suddenly felt as if his entire face had changed and he was a stranger, and that she was not safe around him. She scanned the room for the nearest exit or a nearby guard.  

“But we digress.” His expression softened slightly, returning to a recognizable state. “What I really wanted to do tonight was to make you a proposition.” He started to lean in again, and this time, Jacqueline was too disoriented to bend away from him. He spoke gently: “Contrary to what you may think, I like you. Apart from your naivete, which in lower-stakes situations is endearing, you are intelligent, graceful, and the people adore you. I don’t want you to have to go through what will inevitably happen when the insurgent forces take over. You’re much too pretty for a public execution.” He brushed her cheek with his fingers and she winced, but he didn’t seem to notice, caught up in his own eager delusions and beginning to ramble. “You should join us. Lead alongside me. Think of all of the good that we could do and how we could restore the kingdom to its former glory-”

Finally, she made a successful attempt to wrestle out of his hold. “I don’t know what good could possibly come from a regime built on murder and hypocrisy, and I will have no part of it. But you are fighting a losing battle- soon, you power-hungry, lying traitors will all be destroyed.”

Edward sighed and shook his head sadly, and Jacqueline almost thought she saw his eyes glisten before he assumed the look of a threatening stranger again. “Well, no one can tell me that I didn’t give you your chance,” he muttered. “I’m sorry for what I’m about to do, all the same. But if you are not with me, then you are against me.”

Before Jacqueline could process what he had said or what he was doing, he had brandished a knife from his suit and thrown an arm around her waist, pulling her against his chest and bringing the knife to hover just above her neck. “Everybody get back!” he roared, and gasps erupted from the startled crowd, who stumbled to back away from him as quickly as possible.

#royalcore #princess aesthetic #princesscore #royal aesthetic #one shot #creative writing #short fiction #fiction #ballroom #ballroom dancing #ballroom scene #enemies with benefits #enemies to lovers

[fashionablyenigmatic]

The Sky King's Dilemma

The doors had just closed, and Alphonse, known as the Sky King, was adjusting his flowing robes with diligence. As the ruler of the skies, he believed in maintaining a presentable appearance at all times. His gaze fell upon an ornate golden obelisk nearby, and he cleared his throat, delicately wiping away what could be mistaken for drool on his cheek. Irma, a red-headed orc, observed the spectacle with an amused smile. She lounged lazily with one foot dangling from a rafter above the Sky King.

"I take it the diplomatic meeting with the King of the Depths went well again, Sir?" she asked, playfully startling the Sky King.

"Good HELL, Irma! You are spookier than my own children!" he exclaimed, his voice hinting at exasperation. "Yes, indeed. The meeting went splendidly. We were discussing ways to enhance trade routes between the underland, surface, and sky. We contemplated the idea of a drill train, you see," he expertly lied, a clear blush forming on his cheek.

"Wasn't that the focus of your last meeting with him, my King?" Irma smirked, a perceptive glint in her eyes. As both a member of the royal guard and a spy, she was always keenly aware of their true intentions. The King of the Depths and Alphonse had been in a secret romantic tryst for decades, hiding the affair behind diplomatic relations and trade agreements.

"Well, these matters do require time and careful consideration," Alphonse swiftly replied, starting his stride down the lavishly adorned hallway. Irma, displaying her elegance, gracefully leapt from the rafters, landing silently behind the king. Despite her imposing and statuesque figure, she possessed remarkable agility, often catching would-be assassins off guard while defending her beloved king and friend.

"You know, Al, I suggest you reconsider your choice of perfumes. That spicy underground maple scent could give away the nature of your meetings," Irma advised, a potential eye roll in her gaze.

Alphonse figuratively and realistically lit up, as the Sky King would glow slightly from embarrassment, though a smile tugged at the corners of his lips. "Is it that obvious?" he asked, chuckling softly. Irma nodded in confirmation. "You two are quite the pair of lovesick idiots, you know. It's about time you made your relationship public. I'm growing tired of having to silence those who dare question your integrity."

"And by 'silencing,' you mean..." he trailed off, leaving the rest unspoken.

Irma replied matter-of-factly, "Vaguely threatening them until they understand the consequences and choose to remain silent." She was never one to mince words or beat around the bush.

"I would be more than willing to make our relationship public, Irma. Transparency is something I desire greatly," Alphonse responded earnestly. "However, we must consider the concerns of our respective subjects, and, well, his are... let's say, firmly entrenched."

"Murderous psychopaths?" Irma interjected, her tone laced with a hint of amusement.

Alphonse frowned, attempting to find a more diplomatic description. "I was going to say... Dogmatically positioned."

"That's what I said," Irma insisted with a playful grin.

"No, you said—"

"Same thing," she interrupted once again, a mischievous glimmer in her eyes.

"Has my son arrived yet? It's nearly noon, and I am famished," Alphonse inquired, his stomach growling in anticipation.

Irma suppressed the retort that lingered in her mind and replied, "I have informed the Archers of his imminent arrival and instructed the Sky spotters to keep a vigilant watch. We wouldn't want them mistakenly shooting him out of the sky... again. He does tend to resemble a Harpy seeking vengeance upon our kingdom."

"He does, but it's not his fault," Alphonse defended. "In fact, I'm immensely proud of his accomplishments in the dark lands. He has united them through skilled diplomacy, worked on repopulating endangered species, and now he wishes to implement sewer systems similar to the ones we have here. He is such a remarkable young man."

"And I suppose this meeting isn't another attempt to coax him into considering marriage?" Irma raised an eyebrow, her tone laced with skepticism.

Alphonse beamed with delight. "Actually, it is. I have gathered quite a plethora of eligible bachelors for him to peruse and consider."

"How do you even describe Cadmus to these would-be suitors?" She asked, giving him the side-eye.

"I'll admit... it is difficult to get the men interested in dating him considering how and where he keeps himself... but you and I both know, he has plenty of good values."

"So long as you learned your lesson from the Ambush Ball you forced on him."

"It would have worked! I had no idea he had sneaked into the castle with a bloody pet gargoyle!"

"It was a wyvern."

"SAME THING, kept it on a leash, walked it around like it was some sort of pet dog, no one wanted to get near either of them. Anyway, I have learned, I'm simply going to give him the list of potential suitors, ask him gently to read it, and then perhaps start a correspondence with any on the list."

"Do you think that will work?"

"Forces, I hope so," he sighed.

#satyrgardens #alphonse monroe #Irma Tempus #Fantasy AU drabble

[popicoooo]

Kingdom of the Supernatural | Elite | Merrian 1

Merrian was born to be perfect. His parents, while never outright saying it, implied as much. Merrian was praised at a young age for his looks, the spitting image of his mother. Her velvet green eyes, startlingly golden blond hair, cheeks that seem sculpted to be held. Attractive, simply put. People also tell him that he inherited his father’s mind, perceptive and cunning even as a child. Merrian himself is of the opinion that the people around him just wanted his family as business partners.

Western Galatra is the business region. There is no changing that, not now and not ever. Merrian’s family was beginning to develop notoriety through his father’s lucrative business deals, as both a marketer and industry man. His parents did not marry for love, per say. They enjoyed each other’s company, sure, but he could never climb into bed and have his father on one side and his mother on the other. Another business deal.

Merrian as a child was gifted from the start. Business families often group their children together for early education, the smokescreen being that it provides more advanced learning. In truth, business ties need to be knotted early. Merrian knew this, but most other children did not. Other boys, particularly, took their communal education as a challenge to flaunt their families wealth. A contest. Children always go through a phase where they are the only people in the world. Merrian never had that phase.

His fellow boys didn’t get along with him in his youth. Girls, however, he clicked with. Girls in the business world seem to mature quicker, a small fraction within an already small population. Merrian gravitated to tea time between girls, discussing market values and business ties their parents had in the simple way children do. The adults called him a lady killer. His father smiled proudly as Merrian told him the latest gossip from the girls. His family’s wealth grew.

By puberty, children are no longer expected to learn together, instead taught by private tutors based on their interests. The boys that fought begin to send formal apologies that seem genuine. Fathers start talking about marriage and business benefits.

His father taught him to seek only what benefits his family. To lie, to pull wool, whatever tactics got them ahead. Anyone with sense would do the same, he would tell Merrian. His mother taught him vanity. A nice smile could fool the clouds into parting was her motto. His mother would bounce from one cohort to the next, even if bad blood muddied the groups. Together, Merrian was raised in a toxic cocktail of self preservation and self aggrandizing. One that Merrian was eager to escape.

——————

It was a busy weekend when Merrian’s father shuffled him into their personal tram with no notice. He felt clouded in the perfume his last tea time host favored, sickeningly sweet, sticking to the roof of his mouth. What he wanted was to simply soak for a few moments, but his father made sure that he knew this trip was non-negotiable by not letting him in the house before leaving.

Merrian smooths out his coat while sitting across from his father. Dark green, gold thread. A gift from his mother for his graduation. Far fancier than what his father is wearing.

His father reaches in the above head compartment and presents a plain pair of leather boots. He slides them to Merrian. He puts them on without protest.

Merrian is familiar with sitting in silence. It was his mother’s favorite trick of theirs, to place him next to her but never acknowledge his presence. Should a man proposition her, she put a hand on his shoulder and suddenly Merrian was the focus of the room. Rinse and repeat.

However, the unscheduled trip with his father irks Merrian incessantly. He is also not a fan of his father’s personal tram. The heating unit is exposed through the floor, separated by wire, and it casts a eerie red glow through out the cabin. The intended effect is to make the diamond decor into ruby, light dancing as the tram buckles. With the curtains drawn, Merrian feels like meat in over fire.

“Where to this time, Father?” Merrian asks, starting to fidget with his sleeves. His father looks at his hands pointedly and he ceases. His father nods.

“The docks.” Is his father’s reply. “A new trading partner, and by the looks of it we are the first to strike a deal with them.” He levels Merrian with a look. The boy knows that the military has commissioned many previous merchant ships into their ranks, the threat of war nearly boiling over. Foreign trade is getting hard to come by.

“Surprised our friends in purple haven’t gotten to them.” Merrian probes. A tradesman who’s ships were deemed unfit for war is not one to be trusted. His father seems pleased that Merrian spotted the problem.

“By my accounts, their ships are all wood.” Merrian’s eyebrows raise a moment before he schools his expression. His father continues, “They’re an old business, roots in the docks as far as I can find. They have good records, dividends, good returns. Run by a widow and his son.” His father then gives Merrian a pointed look. Merrian now understands why his father insisted he come.

“May I ask the return rate?” Merrian asks after a moment. While his role is only to ingratiate himself to the docker’s son, he can’t help but be curious. Wooden ships, in this age? Merrian watches his father’s jaw shift slightly. A small indent in his cheek that means he’s biting it. Hiding his smile. The slightest tick that Merrian knows hides his smug look as he cinches a business deal.

“Perfect. Absolutely perfect.” His father says, the slightest waver of awe and the glimmer of greed in his eyes. “Not a ship or man lost in their entire history.”

Merrian looks at his father, the mad look in the red light. Hellish. He simply folds his hands and turns to look through the curtains.

#oc original character #oc stuff #oc origin story #origin story #writing #writers of tumblr #take a shot every time ‘business’ is used #KotS #Kingdom of the Supernatural

[umadeochake]

Perfume Market Size: Regional Outlook and Analysis 2024-2036

The report provides a basic overview of the industry including definitions, classifications, applications and industry chain structure. The Perfume Market analysis is provided for the international markets including development trends, competitive landscape analysis, and key regions development status. Development policies and plans are discussed as well as manufacturing processes and cost structures are also analyzed. This report also states import/export consumption, supply and demand Figures, cost, price, revenue and gross margins.

The report focuses on global major leading industry players with information such as company profiles, product picture and specification.

Request Free Sample Copy of this Report @ https://www.researchnester.com/sample-request-6022

What are the key findings from the Perfume Market report regarding segment 1?

According to the Product spectrum, the Perfume Market is segmented into Mass, Premium.

Reports include the market shares that each Product segment accounts for in the industry today.

Each of the sub-segments has been given a target valuation by the end of the projected period based on the growth rate at which each category will grow over the forecast period.

What are the key findings from the Perfume Market report regarding segment 2?

According to the End-User landscape, the Perfume Market is segmented into Men, Women.

There is a breakdown in the report of the market share each of the End-User types will account for in the industry.

End-User growth rate and sub-segment valuation have been discussed in conjunction with the growth rate over forecast period for the segment.

What are the key findings from the Perfume Market report regarding segment 3?

Several segments are included in the Distribution Channel landscape, including Offline, Online.

According to this study, each Distribution Channel type will hold a market share in the industry.

Also provided in the report are the growth rates the sub-segments will exhibit over the forecast period and the projected revenue for each sub-segment.

Request for customization @ https://www.researchnester.com/customized-reports-6022

Based on a region, this report helps you identify the opportunities in Perfume Market:

A region of North America consists of the United States, Mexico, and Canada.

The following countries make up Europe (Germany, France, Italy, Russia, the United Kingdom, and the rest of Europe)

The Asia-Pacific region consists of Australia, Southeast Asia, China, Japan, Korea, and India.

The remaining part of the continent, as well as Argentina, Brazil, and Colombia are considered to be part of Latin America.

Saudi Arabia, Egypt, South Africa, the United Arab Emirates, and other countries are included in the Middle East and North Africa region.

A distribution-related study provides more information about the local market, including current business trends and potential business opportunities. Every region of the market is examined for potential revenue streams. Also included in the report is an analysis of the growth of the Perfume Market at the national, regional, and global levels. Additionally, we include key elements such as output, market growth rate, supply-to-demand ratios, and profit margins.

Access our detailed report @ https://www.researchnester.com/reports/perfume-market/6022

About Research Nester-

Research Nester is a leading service provider for strategic market research and consulting. We aim to provide unbiased, unparalleled market insights and industry analysis to help industries, conglomerates and executives to take wise decisions for their future marketing strategy, expansion and investment etc. We believe every business can expand to its new horizon, provided a right guidance at a right time is available through strategic minds. Our out of box thinking helps our clients to take wise decision in order to avoid future uncertainties.

Contact for more Info:

AJ Daniel

Email: [email protected]

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#Perfume Market

[paypant]

10 Online Retailers Offering Free Shipping & Returns

Making purchases via the internet is now a thing. On a daily basis, millions of people place orders for products outside their region or country. However, the costs of shipping these products from one country to another is expensive and discouraging. Fortunately, there are online stores that provide free international shipping to their customers. Here are online retailers that offer free shipping and returns.

The DHGate

DHGate is an online marketplace that sells low quality goods from China to customers around the world. This website targets wholesale buyers around the globe. It also delivers your order to any country of your choice for free. This online store is an excellent place to purchase wholesale items that can be shipped for free.

Newegg

Newegg, a corporation based in the United States, is well-known in the online tech-shopping community. It sells high quality items at cheap prices. Many of the items sold in Newegg are eligible for free delivery. Residents in countries like America, Mexico, and a majority of Europe countries are eligible for free delivery.

YesAsia

YesAsia is an online video game retailer. It sells games, consoles, and other gaming accessories like PlayStation 5, Nintendo, Xbox One, Wii U, and Nintendo DS. When you make a purchase from the site, you can enjoy free shipping. Shipping is free for all items purchased on the site regardless of the item's weight.

Dorothy Perkins

Established in the United Kingdom, Dorothy Perkins is a store that offers a broad collection of children's clothes and women's accessories. In other to qualify for the free shipping offered by this store, you must make a purchase that totals €60 or above. This website only offers free delivery to residents in some countries. Check out the site to find out the eligibility status of your country.

ASOS

ASOS offers men's and women's clothing for people between the age of 20 and 35. More than 80,000 clothing products are available on this online store International shipping is free on this site for a limited number of countries.

Shopbop

ShopBob is an online store acquired by Amazon in 2006. It offers luxury brand items for people of all ages. If you make a purchase that exceeds $100, ShopBob will ship your item for free.

Strawberrynet

Strawberrynet is a good online store for cosmetics. It offers perfumes, cosmetics, skin products, hair products, and more. Strawberrynet will ship your overseas order for free when you make a purchase that exceeds $150.

Feel Unique

Cosmetics, skincare, perfumes, and free electronics products are available for sale on Feel Unique's online store. For orders above between $20 to $100, you can be eligible for free worldwide shipping.

FY

Fy is a marketplace for budding designers to sell their wares. It displays clothes, accessories, Jewelry, bags, wall art, and more All purchases on this site are eligible for free worldwide delivery.

BetterWorldBooks

BetterWorldBooks is an online bookstore that sells new and used books. Located in the United Kingdom, this site provides free worldwide delivery to anyone who makes a purchase via its site. BetterWorldBooks delivers orders within 10 to 21 days. Read the full article