#golden wheel king

[violetmoondaughter]

In neopaganism the horned god is seen with two different faces representing the duality of nature and the changing of seasonal cycle. The theory of these two aspects of the god was debated by Sir James George Frazer in The Golden Bough and by Robert Graves in The White Goddess.  

According to these theories old religions were fertility cults that revolved around the worship and periodic sacrifice of a sacred king. Frazer based his thesis on the pre-Roman priest-king Rex Nemorensis who was ritually murdered by his successor. The king was the incarnation of a dying and reviving god, a solar deity who underwent a mystic marriage to a goddess of the Earth. He died at the harvest and was reincarnated in the spring. This legend of rebirth is central to almost all of the world's mythologies. Some examples of this archetypical figure are the gods Dionysus, Osiris, Tammuz, Dumuzi, Adonis, Janus, Attis. 

 The two aspects of this figure take the names of Holly and Oak king. 

The Holly King is seen as an old version of the green man, ruler of winter, death and darkness. He starts his kingdom at summer solstice when, after the longest day, ruled by his opposite king the oak king, the days start to get darker and shorter entering in the dark half of the year. The holly king is so called referring to the plant that is fruitful during the winter season.  The holly king is also referred to as a black knight and is also connected with the dark aspects of many pagan gods. 

Counterpart of the Holly King is the Oak King that is usually seen as a young green man, ruler of summer, life and light. He starts his kingdom at the winter solstice, when after the darkest night a new light is reborn, signing the beginning of the light half of the year. The oak king is called over the name of the plant that is fruitful during the hot season. Opposite to the Holly King, the Oak King, relates to the light aspect of many pagan gods and its sometimes referred to as a white knight. 

According to the theory these two kings may be seen as two brothers fighting for the throne or as a father and son passing the kingdom to each other in a perpetual cycle of death and rebirth. This cycle of life and death represents the seasonal cycle of death and rebirth of the sunlight and vegetative world.

#witchcraft #witchblr #witches of tumblr #paganism #pagan witch #oak king holly king #horned god #green man #winter solstice #yule #the golden bough #wheel of the year #darkness and light #winter #strega #italianwitch

[yoga-onion]

Legends and myths about trees

Trees in Buddhism (3)

The Golden Wheel King – Maitreya appearing once every 3,000 years with the the flowers of the udumbara (Ref)

His body colour is gold, crowned with a crown of seven treasures, and light emanates from its entire body. He makes a sign and sits in the full lotus position on a lotus flower decorated with the seven treasures. The lotus flower on which he is seated has a jeweled crown and a treasure pond beneath it.

The most outstanding of the Wheel-Turning Kings, the Golden Wheel King, has an extremely superior merit of the buddhosnisa (the superior brain of Tathagata, the divinity of the intellect to save people).

According to the description in the Buddhist scriptures, the concept of the Wheel-Turning King (Pali: chakravarti, Skt. cakravartin) was roughly as follows.

The world goes through cycles of prosperity and decline. In times of prosperity, the human lifespan is 80,000 years, but as human virtue is lost, the lifespan becomes shorter, and in the age of darkness, when all good is lost, it is 10 years. Thereafter, human virtue is restored, and once again we enter the age of prosperity, when the lifespan is 80,000 years.

It is during this age of prosperity that the transmigration of the Wheel-Turning King will emerge, as a result of his good deeds in his previous lives. He has the same 32 auspicious signs (Ref), signifying a great being like the Buddha, and rules the earth up to the four oceans with the power of the law, without using force of arms.

There are 4 types of Wheel-Turning Kings: the Golden Wheel King, the Silver Wheel King, the Bronze Wheel King, and the Iron Wheel King. The Iron Wheel King has the Iron Wheel and rules over one of the 4 continents that were considered to exist on the earth in the ancient Indian worldview. Likewise, the Copper Wheel King has the Copper Wheel and rules over two continents, and the Silver Wheel King has the Silver Wheel and rules over three continents. The Golden Wheel King, the highest Wheel-Turning King, has the Golden Wheel and rules all 4 continents. For this reason, the Golden Wheel King, like the Wheel-Turning Kings, is surrounded by his seven attributes.

The seven treasures and four divine virtues of the Wheel Turning Sage King:

Chakraratna wheel: rolls in all directions and makes the king level the earth.

Elephant treasure (hatthiratana): a pure white elephant that also flies in the sky.

Horse treasure (assaratana): pure white horses that also fly in the sky.

Octagonal gem treasure (maniratana): jewels whose luminous emanations can reach as high as 1yojana (7mi/12–15 km).

His queen (itthiratana): a dutiful and chaste queen with good looks and fragrance.

Finance minster (gahapatiratana): wealthy citizens who support the state.

General treasure (parinayakaratana): a wise, capable and skilled general.

They are also said to possess the four divine virtues:

good looks

long life

Fewer illnesses, fewer worries

Respect from Brahmin Gahapati and compassion for them

木にまつわる伝説・神話

仏教の樹木 (3)

金輪王 (こんりん‐おう) 〜 3000年に一度、うどんげの花（参照）とともに現れる弥勒菩薩

体色は金色で七宝冠を戴き全身から光を放つ。印を結んで七宝で飾られた蓮の花の上に結跏趺坐する。座っている蓮華の下に輪宝、さらにその下に宝池がある。

転輪聖王のうち最も優れた金輪王は、仏頂尊 (如来の優れた頭脳、人々を救済する知性を神格化したもの)の霊験が極めて優れている。

仏典の記述によれば、転輪聖王 (てんりんじょうおう、転輪王とも)の概念とは大まかに以下のようなものであった:

世界は繁栄と衰退の循環を繰り返し、繁栄の時には人間の寿命は8万年であるが、人間の徳が失われるにつれて寿命は短くなり、全ての善が失われた暗黒の時代には10年となる。その後、人間の徳は回復し、再び8万年の寿命がある繁栄の時代を迎える。

転輪聖王が出現するのはこの繁栄の時代であり、彼は前世における善行の結果、転輪聖王として現れる。ブッダのような大いなる存在を意味する32の希少で特別な身体的特徴（参照）を持ち、4つの海に至るまでの大地を、武力を用いる事無く、法の力を以って統治する。

転輪聖王には金輪王、銀輪王、銅輪王、鉄輪王の4種類がある。鉄輪王は鉄の輪宝を持ち、古代インドの世界観で地球上に4つあるとされた大陸のうち、1つの大陸を支配する。同様に銅輪王は銅の輪宝を持ち、2つの大陸を、銀輪王は銀の輪宝を持ち、3つの大陸を支配する。そして最上の転輪聖王である金輪王は、金の輪宝を持ち、4つの大陸全てを支配するという。そのため金輪王の周りには、転輪聖王が従えるという七つの宝が配置されている。

転輪聖王は七種の宝と徳性を持つと言う：

輪宝 (ﾁｬｯｶﾗﾀﾅ): 四方に転がり、王に大地を平定させる

象宝 (ﾊｯﾃｨﾗﾀﾅ): 空をも飛ぶ純白の象

馬宝 (ｱｯｻﾗﾀﾅ): 空をも飛ぶ純白の馬

珠宝 (ﾏﾆﾗﾀﾅ): 発する光明が1由旬(12–15 km)にも達する宝石

女宝 (ｲｯﾃｨﾗﾀﾅ): 美貌と芳香を持つ従順かつ貞節な王妃

居士宝 (ｶﾞﾊﾊﾟﾃｨﾗﾀﾅ): 国を支える財力ある市民

将軍宝 (ﾊﾟﾘﾅｰﾔｶﾗﾀﾅ): 賢明さ、有能さ、練達を備えた智将

また四種の神徳を持つと言う：

美貌

長寿

少病少悩

バラモン・ガハパティからの敬愛と彼らに対する慈愛

#wheel turning kings #golden wheel king #maitreya #buddism #7 treasures #4 divine virtues #trees in buddhism #udumbara #golden hall #Chusonji-temple #philosophy #nature #art

[willowshimmer]

Man poor Yellow Tusk...

My man is now a sixth wheel in the brotherhood.

Like Ironbull, Shadowpeach and Inkyfeathers like my poor guy.

But hey at least he a good wingman!

#lego monkie kid #lmk azure lion #lmk peng #azure lion #lmk demon bull king #lmk pif #lmk sun wukong #macaque lmk #shadowpeach #ironbull #inkyfeathers #sun wukong x macaque #azure x peng #azure lion x golden eagle #lmk yellow tusk elephant #yellow tusk is now the sixth wheel #lmk season 4

[perlelune]

Training Wheels | Coriolanus Snow | v.

Your mother's macabre work never appealed to you as you always preferred the comfort of your books, but when her apprentice takes a special interest in you, your safe, quiet world is flipped upside down.

Warnings: DUB-CON, NON-CON, Gaul!Reader, Shy Reader, Manipulation, Parental Neglect, Drinking, Peer Pressure, Hazing, University set, Loss of Virginity, Dumbification, Insecurities, Abusive Relationship, Degradation, Suicide Attempt

This is a dark story. Heed warnings before reading under the cut.

𝖘𝖊𝖗𝖎𝖊𝖘 𝖒𝖆𝖘𝖙𝖊𝖗𝖑𝖎𝖘𝖙

You flinch as you enter Livia Cardew’s house, the attention drifting towards you causing your stomach to knot. 

You suck in a lungful of bravery. 

What a strange sight you must make, strolling in with Clemensia Dovecote and Coriolanus Snow of all people, her arm twined with yours while his hand rests on the small of your back. Your heart pounds in your chest, the urge to retreat and run outside radiating from every cell in your body.

You don’t belong here.

They will laugh at you.

Silly girl playing dress-up.

Tendrils of doubt creep alongside the walls of your fretful brain. You feel assessed, and perhaps found to be lacking, with every step you take. 

“Don’t look down, angel.”

A sharp exhale flies from your lips as your chin is tilted upwards. You drown in the ocean beneath Coriolanus’ furrowed brow. His intense focus tugs you back to the present. 

“Sorry,” you mumble. 

“It’ll be fine. You look stunning,” Clemmie assures, bumping your shoulder with hers. 

You give a shaky nod. It’s true. After all, Clemmie put so much effort into your appearance. You should at least hold your head high and act normal.

Livia comes up to you. The dim candlelight reflects in her bouncy golden curls. Her bright red lips stretch in a wide smile as she gauges you.

“You guys came together?” 

Despite her perky inflection, you don’t miss the slight narrowing of her eyes, or how they track the position of Coriolanus’ hand on your back.

“I drove them,” Coriolanus informs.

“Oh,” she says, nodding. She opens her arms. “You guys should get a drink, make yourselves comfortable.”

“I actually don’t…”

Clemmie flashes you a reassuring smile. 

“It’s fine. We’ll get you something else.”

They both bring you to a table where an intense game of cards is in progress. You hear Festus curse and bang his fists over the table after seemingly getting a bad hand. The others around him laugh, one of them reshuffling the cards.

Some faces you recognize from the University and others you don’t. You feel their intrigued gazes when Coriolanus pulls a chair for you. As you take a seat, he and Clemmie do the same. Your eyes roam over the table. Piles of chips, row of cards and red dices. Clemensia mentioned games. You supposed she meant card games. And from the looks of it, money appears to be on the line. You suppose when they are not betting on the lives of children, these are the kind of things Capitol kids are up to.

With money and time to spare, it makes sense you suppose. Your head has always been buried so far in your books, you have never stopped to wonder what the future leaders of Panem are up to.

A sliver of fascination flutters through you as you soak in the scene at the table. 

“Snow. Clemmie. Took you long enough,” Ivy says.

“You cannot rush perfection,” Clemmie replies, flicking her glossy raven locks above her shoulder. 

Ivy rolls her eyes while Coriolanus grabs a set of cards from the draw pile. He frowns at them, a look of displeasure spreading on his face. A King, a queen and two aces. You don’t know how this particular game is played but you gather from his expression that he must hold a bad hand. 

Dices are thrown. Despite not understanding the rules, you try to follow along. When someone offers you a set of cards, you politely decline.

The dark-haired stranger cocks his head as he scrutinizes you. 

“So, you’re her daughter, right?”

Confused, you cast him a puzzled look.

“Gaul,” he specifies. 

You shrink. Wherever you are, you cannot escape the overwhelming reach of your mother’s shadow. Twisting your fingers in your lap, you give a mumbled reply.

“Yeah, she’s my mother.”

He shifts in his chair, letting out a quiet whistle.

“Wow. She always gave me the heebie-jeebies.”

Clemmie groans before scolding him. 

“Well, she’s nothing like her mother so shut up and play, Octavius.”

Another girl sitting across from him pipes up.

“All those snakes in the arena, just crawling around and climbing over that girl.” She shudders. “I still get nightmares about it.”

The boy turns to Coriolanus.

“What happened to her anyway, that songbird of yours?”A smirk blooms on Octavius’ lips, his eyes locking with the blond’s. “She was yours, wasn’t she, Snow?”

An eerie quiet falls over the table. Even the soft piano notes playing in the background dwindle as every eye travels to Coriolanus. You shift in your chair, curiosity driving your gaze towards him as well. 

A tight-lipped smile decorates his handsome features, his icy blue eyes zeroing on Octavius. 

Your blood chills as his cool baritone rises.

“It’s your turn to play,” Coriolanus says, completely ignoring the question. 

You swallow the lump in your throat. Everyone knows Lucy Gray Baird, the beautiful, sharp-tongued tribute who belonged to Coriolanus Snow, is a subject that should never be brought up in his presence. No one exactly knows what happened between the two. Perhaps they reunited during his time in District 12. Perhaps they did not. Coriolanus wouldn’t speak of it. And the rare times you witnessed him being asked about it, there was a coldness in his blue eyes that unsettled you. Like now. 

Whatever happened between him and the singing girl would remain a mystery. The only certainty is that he came back to the Capitol changed, with an aura around him that made everyone wary. 

You can only assume he and that Lucy girl did not last. So the subject must still be a sore spot. 

Octavius flinches under the blond’s stare, showing his cards for the entire table to see. 

The blond’s brow arches. Scoffing, he displays his own hand. 

Octavius curses under his breath as laughs erupt. He begrudgingly slides his entire stack of chips towards Coriolanus. 

Victory glints in the blond’s cobalt orbs.

“Perhaps you should focus on your game,” he says. “Instead of blathering about ghosts and district rats.”

Slack-jawed, you stare at Coriolanus. His expression before had you believe he drew a terrible set of cards. Obviously it wasn't the case. He somehow fooled you and everyone else at the table. 

The game continues. More chips are exchanged. Coriolanus’ pile keeps getting higher. It’s clear he’s an expert at the game. Everyone at the table tries to read him but his collected demeanor concedes very little.

“You must be my good luck charm, angel,” he says, sending you a smile that has your stomach fluttering. 

Luck…as you note the staggering amounts of chips he’s collected thus far, you wonder if that’s what this is. If there isn’t more to it. Coriolanus seems terrifyingly adept at luring his opponents with a false sense of comfort. He’ll make a bad hand look like a good one, and a good hand look like a bad one. Set a trap and watch as others confidently walk into it. 

Growing overwhelmed, you rise from your chair. The clamor of your heart fills your ears, the weight of others’ attention making your head spin.

Coriolanus’ head slants.

“Where are you going?” he asks.

The words leave your mouth in a breathless heap. “I just need a minute.”

“Is everything alright?” Clemmie inquires, concern scrunching her pretty features.

You shift and scratch your arm.

“I’m just gonna get a drink.”

“I could get you one,” he suggests.

“No, you guys stay and play,” you say, shaking your head. “I’m fine on my own.”

You ignore the way his eyes linger as you walk away, that itchy prickle over your nape that ripples down to your spine.

Swallowing thickly, you shuffle across Livia’s living room. An Avox maid offers you a glass on the way but you turn her down. 

You ask for an alcohol-free drink and the maid tosses you an apologetic look. Your shoulders slump. 

You peer around and find a spot at the bottom of the stairs. You sit, relieved to finally have a moment of peace. Being around so many people at once is still a novelty. You lean against the wooden railings. Was coming here a mistake? You can’t help but wonder. You noted someone pulling a bottle of morphling earlier and Ivy swallowing a handful of pills. At this point, everyone has imbibed, indulged, or both.

The thrall of oblivion is often strong in the Capitol. Too many things need forgetting. Too many sins. Too many horrors.

In that moment, as laughter from the living room rings inside your ears, you feel acutely out of place. 

“Sorry. I only have posca, wine or whiskey.”

You lift your head. Your eyes widen when you realize Livia Cardew’s standing in front of you. “Well. I swiped that last one from my dad’s stash,” she adds with a small giggle.

You shrug. “It’s fine.”

You’ve probably overstayed your welcome anyway. This isn’t your crowd. But Clemmie insisted and you had no idea how to refuse. How do you even refuse something you have painfully yearned for all these years? 

Livia scrutinizes you for what seems an eternity before speaking again. 

“He’ll throw you away once he’s done with you, you know?”

You blink, dismayed by her abrupt statement. “I’m sorry?”

She lets out a weary sigh, a look grazing sympathy flickering on her face. It vanishes quickly. Her mouth tightens. 

“Snow,” she groans, frustration evident in her tone. “He doesn't care about anyone or anything but himself.” Your brows knit. “I’m just trying to warn you.” She chews on her bottom lip, seeming to hesitate before bending closer to whisper, “Just…watch out, okay?”

Stumped by her sudden display of concern, no word leaves your tongue. You fold your arms, shifting on the stairs. Can you even trust any word coming from Livia’s mouth? Without Clemmie’s interjection, you’re fairly sure you wouldn't have been allowed into her home. Ever since she met you, she’s considered you with such blatant disdain. As if you were a stain that won’t let itself be erased.

You struggle picturing her delivering helpful advice.

“Liv, I hope you’re not giving her a hard time again.”

You let your body sag, grateful for Clemmie’s impromptu appearance. You get to your feet. Livia whirls towards the brunette, feigning innocence. “I’m being a gracious host,” she chimes.

Clemmie’s gaze narrows. 

All smiles again, she turns to you as Livia stomps away.

“Don’t worry about her.”

You nibble your bottom lip.

“Maybe it’s best if I head out.”

She frowns. “But you just got here.”

“I suppose…” Your mind scrambles for an excuse. You blurt out the first thing that springs inside your head. “I need to go feed Walter anyway.”

Curiosity fills her onyx stare.

“Walter? Who’s Walter?”

“My cat.”

Silence stretches for a long minute before she bursts out in uncontrollable laughter. 

Hand draping over her mouth, the brunette says, “Is that your excuse? You need to go feed your cat?”

Heat rushes to your face. Said aloud, you concede it sounds silly. Akin to a lame, hasty excuse. While there are bits of truth in your response, you can’t deny you’re craving for a way out. 

Clemmie cradles your face.

“The first time is always a bit awkward. You’ve got no idea what you’re doing, what is even going on…” She beams at you. “But you can’t back out. Not when you’re already here.”

You mull it over.

After all, wasn’t it what you wished for? Being seen, included. For years, longing twisted inside your chest while you watched your classmates form bonds and forge lifelong friendships. Meanwhile, you withered in a corner, making yourself smaller and smaller everyday. Clemmie has been nothing but kind. And Coriolanus…while his presence plucks at your nerves, you have to admit he’s been a gentleman so far. Offering to drive you home, carrying your books, and berating every guy who said something mean to you or brushed you off. No one’s ever stood up for you like that before.

Maybe you ought to try harder to fit in, be normal.

Giving a slow nod, you surrender.

“Alright. I guess I can stay a little longer.”

“You know what you need?” Her eyes twinkle. “Liquid courage.” She grabs two glasses of wine from the Avox maid’s tray. “Let’s just drink. To your first party. One of many, I hope.”

She tries to place one in your hand but you resist. 

“Clemmie, I told you I don’t-”

“I know. I know…but don’t you want to mark the occasion?” She tilts her head sideways, sympathy etched on her pretty face. “Come on, do you want to be that girl who finishes Uni and hasn’t tried anything new? The girl who’s never taken a chance?” She holds your gaze, pressing the drink between your fingers. “Sad, alone, not a single experience to reminisce…Is this really  what you want?”

“No, it’s not. You’re right,” you mutter, your fingers tightening around the glass. 

“You came here to be someone else. So be someone else.”

Her words embolden you to take a large swig of the drink. When there’s still some of it left, she encourages you to finish it. Then, she nudges you to have another glass, sliding a tiny yellow pill inside your other hand.

You scowl down at your palm.

“What’s this?”

“Morphling extract. It’ll help you relax.”

You look at Clemmie. Excitement sways in her eyes.

You toss your head back and gulp down the pill. She congratulates you. It catches in your throat and you wash it down with more alcohol. 

The effect is near instantaneous. 

Your muscles uncoil, your fear melting away. Soft, fluffy clouds replace the foggy cluster of your thoughts. A pleasant buzz spreads through your veins. 

“Come on, let’s join the others,” she says, seizing your hand and tugging you along. 

You end up on the sofa, wedged between her and Coriolanus. 

He drinks you in, a subtle smile blooming on his lips.

“You seem happy.”

“I am happy.”

Your sharp, immediate answer broadens his smile.

“What are you guys doing?” Clemmie asks. 

Livia sighs. “It’s a stupid game we haven’t played since the Academy.”

“Hey, it’s not stupid. I like it,” Ivy protests. She grabs a bottle of posca and begins to pour some in everyone’s glass. “You take a drink when there’s something you haven’t done. Simple right?”

The game is indeed easy. It also makes you want to crawl inside a hole and never come out as the night gets further along. A myriad of questions is flung at the group. Each of them grows the well of embarrassment pitting in your stomach. 

You’re forced to take a drink when Ivy asks who’s had sex, who has done it with more than one person, who has kissed a boy or girl. 

Many times, you are the only one grabbing your glass, exposing your lack of experience to the entire group. You hear a stifled laugh somewhere besides you. Your face ignites. 

You bolt upwards, shooting the group an apologetic look. 

“I’m gonna get some air,” you say. 

You stumble away. However after just a few wobbly steps toward the exit, you keel over and almost collide with the marbled tiles. 

A pair of strong arms slither around your waist, preventing your collapse. 

“Are you alright, angel?” Coriolanus whispers against your temple. 

You raise shaky fingers to your face, or what you think is your face. Your fingertips are like cotton, nothing beneath them feeling as it should. 

Your brows crumple.

“I can’t feel my legs. I-I can’t feel my face.” Your mind swirls as you look up. The room bends off its axis around you. Panic rushes through you. “I have to go home.”

“I’ll take you then,” he says.

You shake your head. Even that tiny motion makes you want to puke. 

You swallow the surge of bile in your throat. 

“No. You should return to the party. I couldn’t, I can’t…”

Coriolanus’ brows furrow. 

“I’m not letting you go home by yourself at this hour and in this state,” he says, practically carrying you out of Livia’s house as you slump against him. 

“What about Clemmie?” 

He smiles at you as you hobble alongside him. 

“She can find her own way home.”

#dark!coriolanus snow #coriolanus snow #coriolanus snow x reader #the ballad of songbirds and snakes #hunger games #tbosas fanfiction #dark!coriolanus snow x reader

[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

When The World Is Crashing Down [Chapter 2: Choose Love Or Sympathy]

Series summary: Your family is House Celtigar, one of Rhaenyra's wealthiest allies. In the aftermath of Rook's Rest, Aemond unknowingly conscripts you to save his brother's life. Now you are in the liar of the enemy, but your loyalties are quickly shifting...

Chapter warnings: Language, warfare, extreme babygirl energy, violence, serious injury, Larys Strong, alcoholism/addiction, references to sexual content (18+), Crab Family lore.

Series title is a lyric from: "7 Minutes in Heaven" by Fall Out Boy.

Chapter title is a lyric from: "XO" by Fall Out Boy.

Word count: 5.5k.

Link to chapter list (and all my writing): HERE.

Let me know if you'd like to be tagged! 🥰💜

A moment of clarity, something he’s having more of lately: eyes glassy but open, voice husky, words slow. His vast bedchamber in the Red Keep always smells like honey and rose oil and the brackish golden air that blows in off the ocean. Sounds float weightlessly through the open windows like feathers on waves, music and shouts and creaking wagon wheels, gull cries and sails cracking in the wind. Late-morning daylight is an aisle across the stone floor, a river, a channel. Aegon’s bed has been moved away from the windows; when his wounds are uncovered, direct sunlight can ravage him in minutes, fresh blisters, thickening scars.

Aegon winces as you sit behind him and knead warm rose oil into his back and shoulders. His flesh is a grisly mosaic: pink and crimson and white, knots of burgeoning scar tissue, spots that are still raw and weeping. “It itches like hell, does that mean it’s infected?”

“That means it’s healing. Do you want more?” You mean the goblet of pearlescent milk of the poppy on his bedside table. It’s always there, and refilled frequently.

Aegon shakes his head, groggy, slumped, white-blond hair loose and disheveled. “I should probably be sentient on occasion. You haven’t been helping me piss into chamber pots or anything, have you?”

You smile. “No. You’ve got servants for that.” Although they report their findings to you; Maester Arthur of Claw Isle once taught you that organ failure is a common cause of death for burn victims, even if they survive the risks of shock and festering. All appears well enough on the outside, and then they start pissing blood or their skin goes yellow as their innards lose their secretive divine cadence, that vital rhythm, and then the poor soul is gone within days.

“Thank the gods,” Aegon says. “A speck of dignity remains. It’s tragic enough that I now closely resemble an overcooked meat pie.”

You chuckle as you massage rose oil into his wounds, keeping the scars moist and supple so they do not split open when he moves, so his joints are not locked in place. He will need them when he is out of bed again. He will need them if he truly is the king. “I don’t think you look that bad.”

“Because you’re used to sifting through guts and corpses all day. I’m an improvement. I’m only half dead.” And just weeks ago, he was pleading to be all the way dead. He glances back at you, brow knitted into thoughtful furrows; you can see it between the messy locks of hair that shag over his face. “What made you want to study something like this? It’s gruesome. It’s miserable, thankless work.”

“I was never good at anything,” you tell him. “My sisters were, but I wasn’t. I couldn’t dance, couldn’t sing, couldn’t embroider patterns unless they were humiliatingly simple, and even then I loathed it. My father grew so desperate he encouraged me to try archery with my brothers. I accidentally put an arrow in the foot of a squire and that was the end of my bowwoman career.”

Aegon laughs, then groans at the pain it causes him. He turns around so he can look at you, clumsily repositioning himself on the feather mattress, propping himself up on his palms. He squints down at his left hand where his ring should be: gold wings, jade eyes. You will have to remind Aemond to give it back to him. “I was never good at anything either.”

You can’t imagine that to be true, and yet it’s what you’ve always been told, that he was gifted at drinking and whoring and nothing else. You cannot reconcile those stories with the man in front of you. You keep trying, keep failing. You slather your palms in rose oil again the then begin massaging it into his chest. Aegon watches you with muzzy, drugged interest, eyes like cold ocean currents. “Then, five years ago, my brother…” You hesitate. A real name, an imagined one? You decide there is no harm in this small truth. Aegon will not remember the name of a younger son of a Crownlands house; he barely recalls the men of his own Kingsguard, who now spend their days trotting around the castle after Aemond. “My brother Everett was burned very badly, just like you were, although his wounds were mostly to his legs. And we all thought he would die. People advised us to show mercy by giving him enough milk of the poppy to kill him. They said it would be a sin to let him suffer so terribly. Yet our maester believed he could save him. My father and eldest brother had other responsibilities to attend to, and my mother and sisters could not bear the sight of Everett’s injuries. But I watched the way the maester worked on him, and I just…I thought it was the most captivating, beautiful thing I’d ever seen. The way a body can be taken apart or put back together like stones in a wall. Place one here, remove one there, and then like magic you’ve changed the course of someone’s life. Our maester taught me how to clean burns and change bandages, and when Everett was well again, he taught me about broken bones, fevers, childbirth, wolf bites, dry drowning. I read every book on the subject of healing in my father’s library. He kept having to order me more from the Citadel. I think I would have liked to be a maester myself, but…”

Aegon grins. “You have to go marry your mystery nobleman.”

“And women can’t be maesters.”

“They made me king of the Seven Kingdoms but you can’t be a maester? Fucking ridiculous.” He studies you as your fingers—tenderly, carefully—press rose oil into the red scar that creeps up over his right cheek. “Why won’t you tell me who he is?”

He means your betrothed. Aegon keeps asking about him in his moments of lucidity. You quip: “I don’t want you to have him murdered.”

“That would solve your problem.”

“I preserve life, I don’t take it.”

“I’ve noticed,” Aegon says with a soft, tired smile. Very slowly, he reaches up with one hand to pat at his silvery hair. “Can you give me my braid back? It seems to have been washed out again.”

“Of course.”

“Why did you start doing that?”

What is the truth? Something you can’t tell Aegon. No matter how often I touch him, I want more. “It’s a war braid. You’re a warrior. You’ve earned it.”

“So I am good at something after all,” he murmurs. You rebandage Aegon’s wounds and help him lie back down again. You give him a sip of milk of the poppy, which by now is badly needed; Aegon’s face is sweated and pale and agonized. Then you clean the rose oil from your hands and begin weaving a small braid into his hair. He gazes vacantly towards the open window, bright warm light he cannot walk into. “I assume Aemond is…handling things.”

“Yes, he’s…” How will Aegon take this? Is it a relief, or a slight? There was a great ceremony. You did not attend; you were here tending to the Greens’ broken king. It’s where you spend most of your time. “He’s been made Prince Regent and Protector of the Realm.”

Aegon nods, his expression unreadable. “How’s Sunfyre?”

“Still at Rook’s Rest and gaining strength. He was climbing the cliffs as of a few days ago. But I’ll ask Aemond when I see him today.”

Now Aegon smiles again. “Sunfyre is fierce. He is extraordinary.”

“You both are,” you say as you fashion his silver braid; and Aegon stares as if he couldn’t have heard you correctly.

Her steps are so light that at first you aren’t aware she’s entered the room. You see her out of the corner of your eye and immediately stand, moving away from the bed, from Aegon. You feel strange touching him this way—unnecessarily, self-indulgently, greedily—in her presence. She is his wife, after all.

“Your Grace,” you greet Helaena, bowing. She does not look at you. She looks vaguely in Aegon’s direction instead. She is wearing a turquoise blue dress and her long hair pulled back from her face. The servants have dressed her, or Alicent; she cannot do it herself anymore. In her hands she holds a large glass jar of sticks and leaves.

“Hello, Helaena,” Aegon says, more like a sigh than a welcome.

She scurries towards him and sets the jar down on his bedside table with a clunk, right next to the goblet of milk of the poppy and a number of other drinks, things you ply Aegon with to keep him hydrated. Then Helaena speaks, her eyes on the contents of the jar. There is something else in there, you see now: a fat wriggling green creature, a caterpillar inching along the length of an upright stick. "For you."

“It’s very nice,” Aegon tells her, in a tone like a parent losing patience with their child.

“It takes nourishment and then rests,” Helaena says. “It is wrapped in a cocoon and stays there for a long while. But when it emerges, it is not just well again. It is greater than it was before. And it can fly.”

“Oh, I understand now.” Aegon makes no attempt to touch her—not even her hand, not even for a moment—but his words are kinder. “I am the worm. Thank you, Helaena. This comforts me.”

She is satisfied. She turns to leave.

“Your Grace,” you begin, and hold out your hands to her. She does not take them. She does not meet your eyes; she stares instead into the golden luminescence of the open window behind you. You can hear crashing waves and the screeches of swooping gulls. “I wanted to express…I cannot even begin to tell you…I am so, so sorry for your suffering—”

She spins away from you and sweeps out of the bedchamber. You are left looking at the empty place where she stood, heartsick and sorry. What did I do wrong? What should I have said?

Aegon offers you an apologetic smirk, but his eyes are sad. “It’s not personal. She doesn’t really like touching anybody.” This is an irony, and one that must read on your face. A king and queen—by definition, by necessity—do an inordinate amount of touching. He invades, she endures, they knit heirs together out of threads of blood and sweat. “What we have between us, it’s not…romantic. It never was.”

This is not something he should be telling you. It is not a jest but a spilling of deep, sacred truths. “I didn’t ask.”

“No. But you were wondering.”

You were. You return to the bed and sit down beside Aegon, finishing his braid. You choose your words precisely before you speak. “I don’t believe I have a right to know certain things, but that doesn’t mean I don’t care about what you’re thinking.”

“Then let me unburden myself so there is no confusion,” Aegon insists, drowsy but fighting sleep. “There was no joy in it for me or Helaena. I tried to make it as quick and painless as I could, but still, her disdain for the task was obvious. It happened just often enough to conceive the children. And we haven’t even tried in months, not since…” He doesn’t need to say it. Everyone knows, Greens and Blacks alike. A son for a son. The murder of Jaehaerys, six years old and utterly powerless, in exchange for Aemond slaying Luke.

Do you think such a thing was just? No, of course not, how could anyone? Very few things that happen in this world are just. They come with passionate defenses but no mercy, no vision for a less violent future. The wheel goes around and around, and everyone takes their turn being crushed. “Aegon, I’m so sorry,” you tell him softly.

He shakes his head. He will not discuss it. Aegon’s remaining children, Jaehaera and Maelor, do not ask about him; on the rare occasion that Alicent brings them to his bedchamber, they do not seem to know who he is. In fairness, Aegon does not seem to know them either; he regards them with a dull sort of bewilderment, like one might peer down at a page written in a foreign language. In the hallways of the Red Keep, the children clutch at Alicent and Otto, and sometimes Aemond will take a few minutes to play with them, stacking wooden blocks or arranging cloth dolls in a miniature castle. But if ‘mother’ and ‘father’ are words the children know, you’ve never heard them spoken aloud. “Can I have some wine, please?”

“Did you finish your goat milk?”

“Resentfully.”

“Then yes. I’ll get it for you.” You pour Aegon a cup of red wine and then tilt it against his lips. He slurps the cup dry before his eyes dip closed. You set the empty cup on the bedside table, feel his forehead for fever—longer than you need to—and then rise to leave him. You are almost to the door when you hear him say: “Thank you for changing my mind.”

You turn back to Aegon, puzzled. “About what?”

“About wanting to be dead.” He grins and waves, a weak miniscule motion of his left hand. “Come back soon, angel.”

“I will,” you promise.

And only then does he surrender to blessedly numb unconsciousness, the only place in the world that doesn’t hurt.

~~~~~~~~~~

You find Aemond in his own rooms. He is sitting in front of the large circular mirror on his vanity. His hair is long and straight and painstakingly neat, his tunic made of black leather. He is wearing the crown of Aegon the Conqueror. Rubies fracture the sunlight and scatter it against the walls; Valyrian steel glints.

Aemond marvels, knowing that you’re here: “It looks better on me than it ever did on him.”

“I need more rose oil.”

In the mirror’s reflection, his lone blue eye darts to you. “You always ask so politely.”

“I didn’t want to waste your valuable time. I can be more loquacious, if you prefer.”

“That won’t be necessary.” He stands, taking off the crown and placing it—gingerly, with both hands—on his vanity. “I’ll see that you have everything you require.”

“I am eternally appreciative.”

Then he does something that he thinks is amusing, a little joke you share. He grabs for your arm and you yank it away just before his fingers can close around your wrist. This makes him smile; it’s one of the only things that does. “Now follow me,” he orders, striding past you and through the doorway.

You hurry after Aemond, dashing through corridors and archways. You know where he is going; this has happened before. As you ascend a staircase, Alicent is leading Jaehaera and Maelor down to the gardens. She has one tiny hand gripped in each of hers; the hem of her emerald green dress drags on the stone steps. She keeps losing weight. You stop to scoop Maelor up and hug him—he giggles, squeezing at your cheeks as you smack kisses onto his face—and then turn your attention to Jaehaera. She has just learned the rules of curtsying and loves to practice. You bow to her, and then she does the same to you, and while her head is bent low you ruffle her silvery hair until it is in hopeless disarray and Jaehaera is laughing hysterically. Then you kneel down so she can sabotage your hair however she sees fit. She pulls strands out of your sensible low bun until you give up and shake it all loose. Alicent—large dark eyes, demurely veiled auburn hair, somber and suffering—gives you a grave, grateful smile. Aemond has waited at the apex of the stairs for you. When you rejoin him he continues onward to the council chamber.

Inside men are taking their seats and already beginning to quarrel: Criston Cole, Otto Hightower, Grand Maester Orwyle, Tyland Lannister, Jasper Wylde, Larys Strong, the knights of the Kingsguard. Sir Rickard Thorne pays no attention to you. Aemond once mentioned off-handedly: ‘Sir Rickard, I believe our healer is a distant relation of yours.’ The knight had glanced at you and produced some noncommittal reply, oh, indeed, sure, is that so. You had met before, you realized when you saw his face, years ago, at some event that brought together the houses of the Crownlands, a wedding or a funeral or a feast. He has a hazy recollection of you, but he cannot pin it down; he spent the evening with boisterous young men like your eldest brother Clement, while you had spent it with other noblewomen. Sir Rickard’s mother or sisters could probably identify you as a Celtigar. To Rickard himself, you can masquerade as some unimportant cousin he is ashamed to have forgotten. You assume your usual place in the council chamber: standing in a corner, trying not to be noticed, only there in case specific questions involving Aegon’s medical treatment arise.

“Is he dying?” Otto asks Aemond. “He must be. He has no interest in whores.”

Aemond raises his eyebrow at you. “Actually, I’ve been informed he is improving.”

Maester Orwyle beams at you. Upon your arrival in King’s Landing, he had confirmed to Aemond and Criston what you already knew: that while the Citadel’s guidance several decades ago was indeed pork lard or cow dung to treat burns, now there is a growing consensus that vinegar, honey, and oil for scar tissue are the best available remedies. You nod back. You are natural allies; the Greens’ king is under your joint care. You both have much to lose if he dies.

Now Otto Hightower addresses you. He is a stern, weathered, shrewd man. He reminds you of your father, though far more humorless. “When will he be able to fight again?”

“Fight?” you echo, stunned. “In battle? Months at least, my lord. Perhaps a year.”

“A year!” Otto bellows, then turns his wrath on Criston and Aemond. “I told you, I told you! I urged him to exercise caution, over and over again I warned him of the danger, and while I was penning letters to every possible ally you were pouring poison into his ears, convincing him that I wasn’t doing enough. Now look at him! Look at this goddamn fucking mess!”

“How fares the dragon?” Tyland Lannister says.

“I received a raven from Rook’s Rest today,” Aemond replies. “Sunfyre is eating well and ambulatory.”

“Useless,” Otto hisses. “Can’t fly. Can’t be moved. A waste of the livestock he’s being fed.”

“We may yet find a purpose for him,” Aemond says.

“Two dragons!” Otto explodes. “Can you count them?! We have two dragons capable of combat, and one of them is ridden by a fifteen-year-old. The Blacks still have Syrax, Caraxes, Vermax, Tyraxes, and Moondancer. And gods help us if they find someone to ride any of the other unclaimed beasts on Dragonstone. Seasmoke, Vermithor, Silverwing, Grey Ghost, the Cannibal…”

“I hope they try to tame the Cannibal,” Criston mutters. “If we’re lucky, he’ll eat them all.”

“My lord,” Larys Strong says to Otto, clutching his cane; he has a habit of lacing his fingers overtop the handle and resting his chin on them. Larys is a watchful, quiet man who speaks rarely yet with great consequence. He is the Master of Whisperers, he is the Lord of Harrenhal, and aside from that he is an enigma to you. “I hate to be the bearer of unfortunate tidings, however I must speak plainly. I have just obtained reports that the Blacks are pursuing precisely the course of action that you fear. Jacaerys Velaryon is offering land and knighthood to any man who can mount a dragon and join their cause. The realm is littered with Targaryen bastards, I’m certain it is only a matter of time until they find at least a few candidates suited to the task.”

Otto slams his fist down on the table. You startle at the noise; Aemond glances over at you. “No king. No Sunfyre. Dreamfyre in the Dragonpit, who Helaena cannot fly into battle. A fucking disaster.”

“We have Vhagar,” Aemond says confidently.

“She is worth two full-grown dragons,” Otto pitches back. “Not four or five.”

“Daemon is the real threat. If I can eliminate him, the war is over.”

“Daeron should be prepared for combat,” Jasper Wylde says. “He is travelling with Lord Ormund Hightower’s army in the Reach, but he can easily be called back to King’s Landing. He could assist Prince Aemond in his pursuit of Daemon and Caraxes.”

“I don’t need his help,” Aemond replies darkly.

“Then perhaps he could safeguard the city once you’ve gone.”

“We cannot sacrifice military strategy on the altar of personal vendettas,” Criston says. “Dragons are best used on the battlefield against soldiers and castles, not on meandering quests to find one lone enemy, that’s a needle in a haystack, it’s a misallocation of precious resources.”

Aemond counters: “But if I can kill Daemon, nothing else matters—”

“It does matter, Aemond!” Criston roars. “I matter, the armies matter, winning the confidence of the houses you hope to rule matters!���

“How is Corlys Velaryon handling all of this?” Otto asks Larys. “The defeat at Rook’s Rest, the death of his wife?”

Larys answers: “He blames Rhaenyra for the losses. He has taken it badly. It is my understanding that he intended to withdraw his support from the Blacks, and was brought back only by Jacaerys giving him the title of Hand of the Queen. I am under the impression that Corlys may be willing to reconsider his allegiance if the circumstances were right—”

There is a knock at the council chamber door, not a knock but a pounding, not a pounding but a frantic drumming like the marching of soldiers’ boots. Sir Criston Cole unlocks and opens the door. Alicent stands there with her face flushed and shiny with tears. Instantly, Criston is at her side asking what is wrong, one hand resting protectively her shoulder, the other on the hilt of the sword he wears everywhere he goes.

“Come quickly,” Alicent begs you, only you. “Please. It’s Aegon.”

You race with her to Aegon’s bedchamber, hearing the screams long before you reach him. This doesn’t make sense; he shouldn’t be in pain this severe, not yet, not for hours. You are aware that there are footsteps thundering behind you, Aemond and Criston rushing to see if the king really is dying this time. In his bed, Aegon thrashes and moans. He needs to stop moving so violently; he will split his scar tissue like burst seams. Already you can see blooms of crimson appearing on his bandages where the wounds beneath have reopened: his neck, his waist, his ribcage. He is out of his mind. He is destroying himself.

He is shouting for Sunfyre, for Aemond, for Criston. He is back at Rook’s Rest being roasted alive in his own armor. Not dying, then; just having a nightmare. You kneel at his bedside and smooth his hair back, his braid threading through your fingers, and whisper to him that it’s alright, that he’s safe, that he needs to wake up now. Alicent is weeping, both hands covering her mouth. Aemond and Criston are watching you, mesmerized, transfixed.

Aegon’s oceanic eyes fly open, wide and panicked. “Where am I?”

And you smile down at him, your palm cradling his unburned left cheek. “The end of the world.”

He blinks. He remembers. His lips stretch into a grin. “There you are,” he tells you, voice gravelly and low. “I dreamed everyone was gone and you were too.”

“I’m here.”

“You aren’t in a hurry to abandon me for your burly betrothed?”

Cregan Stark must think I’m dead. “No, Aegon.”

“You can’t leave without telling me.”

Everett, Clement, my father, my mother, Piper, Petra, Penelope, they must all think I was burned to ash on the battlefield or murdered and tossed into the sea. “I know. I won’t.”

“You can’t leave,” he says again, a half-awake whimper as he sinks back into unconsciousness. You give him more milk of the poppy, enough to make his sleep deep and black and dreamless.

You reclean and rebandage Aegon’s wounds. It takes hours. Aemond fetches Maester Orwyle to assist you. Criston comforts Alicent, wanting to do and say far more than he can. When it is done, only Alicent remains in the bedchamber with you. She visits Aegon frequently, but she does not know how to speak to him; she always stands there clasping her own hands together, praying and stalling, desperate to show him love and yet incapable of it.

“Thank you for what you’ve done for him,” Alicent says, tears glistening in her umber eyes. “Not just the hours, not just the medicine. For everything that you’ve done.” And she embraces you, and when she does you hold her like she wishes her own daughter could.

~~~~~~~~~~

In the night you see it repeating like a chorus of a song in the shadows that crawl across the ceiling: one year ago, stray snowflakes in your hair, stars in a black sky and air like metal.

The Celtigar fortune is older than the Targaryens’ conquering of Westeros, older than the Doom of Valyria. Where did the money come from? Friends of the Celtigars would say distinctively cunning maritime trade; their enemies would say piracy. Perhaps the two are not always so different. Is there any mechanism of accumulating great wealth that does not involve stealing in one form or another, of wringing out some other soul like a wet cloth until every drop of them disappears down your throat? Your ancestors did not tame dragons, but they had a different sort of gift: for every coin, they could find a way to make two or six or ten. Repeat that process for centuries and there are vaults filled to the ceiling with gold coins like pieces of the midday sun.

When Daenys the Dreamer had a vision of the Doom over a decade before it left Valyria a smoldering, fragmented wasteland haunted by demons and plague, only three Valyrian houses heeded the warning. Her own family, the Targaryens, relocated to Dragonstone. The Velaryons, having already long occupied Driftmark, resolved to stay there. And the Celtigars—merchants to some, pirates to others—crossed the Narrow Sea to settled on Claw Isle.

Crispian Celtigar served as Master of Coin to Aegon the Conqueror. Alton Celtigar was his Hand of the King. Edwell Celtigar was chosen to be Hand of the King to Maegor I, and later Master of Coin to Jaehaerys I during his minority. The Celtigars have never been far from the Iron Throne…though perhaps none were ever as close as you are now.

One year ago, your father embarked upon a trade mission to White Harbor. Never a man to squander an opportunity for new business, he added stops in Oldcastle, Cerwyn, and Winterfell, and brought along his four maiden daughters to stoke the desires of Northerner lords. Piper fancied a son of Lord Manderly, Petra caught the attention of a Cerwyn boy. But no offer was advantageous enough for Bartimos Celtigar’s liking; no deal could be struck.

In Winterfell, Lord Cregan Stark was already married. His wife, a childhood friend before she was a bedmate, trudged around the castle heavily pregnant and dragging layer upon layer of furs to guard her against the cold, often biting even in summer. Lord Cregan took little notice of your giggling, gossiping sisters, and even less of you…until his sparring partner broke his arm in the castle courtyard. As the other women fled with nauseated faces back to their needlework, you asked Winterfell’s maester if you could watch how he set the fracture and managed the man’s pain. The maester was delighted—Northerners, as a rule, lack intellectual curiosity—and even allowed you to help bandage the wound once the split bone had been popped back into place. And it was only then, as you knelt there with your forehead creased with determination and blood coating your hands to the knuckles, that Lord Cregan Stark began to see you.

You have a fear of marriage, not a general aversion but a specific and powerful dread. When you were fourteen, you asked your mother if she enjoyed lying with her husband, and you had known as soon as she spoke with a careful sort of reticence—‘I enjoy feeling close to him, I suppose’—that the answer was no. When you were sixteen and your cousin Theodora married into House Bar Emmon, you went with the other noblewomen to inspect her bedsheets the next morning, and were horrified by how they chuckled at the large rust-like stain and recalled their own initiations into sex, this unavoidable rite of passage, this ultimate surrender. At breakfast, the men toasted wine and hooted and sang, while Theodora stared down with glazed eyes at her untouched bacon and duck eggs and said when Piper asked how the night went: ‘He wanted me three times. Is there anything I can do to make him stop?’ And you had thought: Aren’t unions like this supposed to be holy? What the hell do the gods have to do with it? Are they in the sweat, in the bleak resignation, in the linen of the sheets? Do they fill the man with blind lust like an animal’s, do they help hold the woman down?

Your eyes close as you lie in bed in the Red Keep, your room adjoining Aegon’s, and suddenly you are back in Winterfell again. You are making notes as the maester shows you the herbs growing in the Glass Gardens when Cregan finds you. He is tall and broad, made more so by the furs that engulf him like mist drapes the stony cliffs of Claw Isle. His voice is booming, thunderous, cataclysmically formidable. He is used to being listened to. He has never been expected to sit quietly as other men charted out his life like the route of a trade ship: here you will go, here you will be emptied of every scrap of value. He says he will give you a tour of the Library Tower. It is not an invitation; an invitation can be declined.

You walk together through the Godswood—dark water, blackberry bushes, crows squawking, gods you do not believe in—and Cregan tells you fond memories of his childhood. He likes hunting and archery. He spars in the courtyard for hours each day. He never stays still, he never goes quiet. He wants to know where you learned to marvel at the ghastly art of piecing broken bodies back together again. He wants to know why you are so different from other women. And he inquires with great fascination about the legendary treasures of your house, not just gold but rubies, jeweled cups, Myrish carpets and Volantene glass, a horn said to summon krakens from the sea, an axe made of Valyrian steel.

Winterfell’s library is sparse and dusty, cobwebs in shadowy alcoves. Cregan Stark thinks you will not notice. As he slips books about anatomy and herbology off the shelves to show you, you cannot help studying his hands, large and calloused and always stained with black patches of ink or soil or soot. They make yours look tiny and defenseless, skin of silk and bones like glass. You picture him claiming you, owning you, climbing into the marital bed knowing that you cannot refuse anything he asks for. You envision him forcing your thighs apart with those huge filthy hands, leaving smudges like ash. You imagine him tearing his way into a part of you that feels so small, so vulnerable; you imagine the suffocating burden of his interminable weight.

A moment of clarity, in the library beathing dust and Cregan’s scent, a woodsmoke musk, a wolflike wildness: I don’t know this man. I don’t trust this man. I’m glad he’s not free to marry me.

This was before the war began, before Cregan’s wife Arra Norrey died birthing their son Rickon, before Jace Velaryon arrived in Winterfell to forge the Pact of Ice and Fire. And when Cregan agreed to support Rhaenyra’s claim to the Iron Throne, and Jace pledged to marry his firstborn daughter to Rickon, the Warden of the North decided there was one last thing he wanted inked into the covenant. He wanted an ally in the South, bottomless wealth, his future children to have Valyrian ancestry. He wanted a woman with vigilant, unflinching eyes and blood on her hands.

He wanted you.

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[mowu-moment]

ranking food tokens by how much personally i want to eat them

- Throne of Eldraine -

i have reason to distrust this meat pie thing, not only because of its wails of anguish but it also seems to have burst a bit in the oven. still not honestly opposed, at least the dishes are clean. 5/10.

how does one unpeel a curly banana? why are there sliced-open fruits on what appears to be a stone in the woods? where is the light coming from? i'm going to be taken by the fae and it's not even gonna taste too good while i'm at it, these things look dirty. but idk i don't mind someone else taking the wheel of my life rn. 2/10.

again, concerns about the floor food, but at least it looks more like some deliverygirl got eaten by a wolf and dropped her basket than a trap. someone already took a bite, though, maybe i should leave it be. 4/10

i have been invited to the Goblin King's Feast and while i don't fully agree with his choices i will certainly partake. boar looks wonderful apart from the hair. 7/10

- Commander 2020 / Strixhaven Commander -

i'm pretty sure cattails are poisonous to humans (not to mention the actual poisons in there) so i unfortunately can't oblige gyome's swamp soup. that crusty bread looks pretty nice though. i'll pick this thing apart like high school cafeteria lunch. 3/10.

- Modern Horizons 2 -

i at least know who cooked this one, and i trust asmor a decent bit, but this is still food for demons, so maybe it's not too good for me. goddamn do i wanna know what it tastes like though. 4/10.

- Unfinity -

i'm considering these two together. as a filthy american, i am allured by these fat-filled foods, but as a lad with a tiny stomach, i doubt i could eat enough to feel good about not wasting it. astrotorium's about excess, goddamn. the only funfair burger i've had was the best thing i had eaten in months, but it also made me ill the rest of the day. i really do want some infinity fries though, those look like the golden mean between a steak fry and a curly fry. 6/10.

- March of the Machine Commander -

meanwhile this looks like a texture nightmare. like i respect it, i imagine it's filling and fulfilling, but i don't think i ever could eat more than a bite or two. bread looks a little worse than gyome's but only a little. 5/10.

- Lord of the Rings: Tales of Middle-Earth -

my white ass loves a charcuterie board. and i'm not going to be intimidated out of it by not eating enough, since it's all in snack-sized bits already. definitely gonna overindulge this sucker. i'm nervous about some of those spreads though. 9/10.

this looks like i'm in a dream, is it actively cooking? or still hot? i can't identify what's in that pan anyway. i'm leaving it alone out of respect. wouldn't mind a drink though. 2/10.

this is not food. for humans. 0/10.

- Wilds of Eldraine -

this is a king's feast i am properly intimidated by. i'm more into it than the Goblin King's, particularly that triple-layer blueberry pie or whatever that is, but i'm going to have to be as polite as possible lest i get a face full of flaming beer. 8/10

i'll probably be eaten before this can eat me, and it barely looks like food, but at least i go down with sugar in the mouth. 1/10.

ogh. that egg looks divine. the bread looks amazing, there's a full glass, i've got like beans or mermaid tears everywhere. we've even got seasonings back there. the best damn breakfast i'll ever have. 10/10.

i would still probably eat this over nothing. there's onion, at least. i will either be hexed or violently ill, but like i could at least get it down. and maybe the witchmother is testing my strength and she'll reward me after slurping an eyeball. a convenient lie to tell myself. 2/10.

- Doctor Who Commander -

y'know, four, i think i would like a copyrighted candy. they look sad and british, which is on point. but like it's not actively killing me like half of these. i think anyway. i don't know doctor who. 6/10.

what is this? i have no idea. custard? raw batter? giant dunkaroo? is he dipping fishsticks? it doesn't look like it's done cooking, like do we need to put it in a fryer again? i'd say it's inedible but it's not poison stew so i have to be nice. 4/10.

get AWAY from me. this is a PERSONAL vendetta. i would rather try to eat spiderwebs. plus he's already eaten half of it. -10/10.

- Fallout Commander -

i can't be too mean since this is literally apocalypse food. i think i prefer this over poison stew? like i recognize it at least, even if it's foul and moldy. man has to eat something. 3/10

i'm not convinced there's actual soda in here. is this just a perspective shot or is this a giant prop soda? i don't like cola anyway. again, worth it in an apocalypse i suppose. 4/10

this soda i trust even less. it glows? does this give me magic powers in the fallout world or does it just kill me slowly? i think it'll kill me slowly anyway. i need fluid to survive in apocalypseland but damn i hate for it to come to this. 2/10.

#mtg #i haven't had breakfast yet today so this is driving me a little looney

[ranilla-bean]

The Iconoclast: Appendix

This is the appendix for my fic The Iconoclast, in which I will discuss some of my cultural and historical inspirations for the worldbuilding.

Disclaimer: I'm certainly not an expert on or practitioner of all the cultures I took inspiration from. In outlining my influences I hope to show my admiration and give appropriate credit to them.

Contents

Intro

Religion

Martial culture

Talent show

Miscellaneous

The Iconoclast is set in the same world as ATLA, about 800 years before the era of the cartoon. I was inspired by 10th-11th century societies; the Fire Nation is inspired by the Khmer empire, Kyoshi Island is inspired by Heian period Japan, and so on. Of course, the aesthetics of Hari Bulkan are heavily inspired by Angkor—Virtual Angkor was a huge help in visualising the city. 

The immense population of Angkor was sustained by intricate water management techniques. The Khmer built reservoirs to collect water and sustain agriculture through the dry season. However, the impressive structures of Angkor had a dark side: they were built by enslaved labourers. Enslaved labour was extracted through human trafficking and debt bondage. In The Iconoclast, I integrated the institution of slavery with the caste system.

The exception to my adherence to periodisation was in the Inuit traditions that inspired the Southern Water Tribe, as the 10th-11th centuries appear to have been a period of migration eastwards across the Arctic for Inuit people. In addition to this, periodisation in Inuit history is more difficult to reconstruct due to the colonial destruction of knowledge. As a result, I took broader inspiration from pre-colonial Inuit culture.

Religion

The Fire Nation is based on the Khmer empire, which in this period adhered to Hinduism before the uptake of Buddhism. The cult of the Devaraja (lit. “god-king” in Sanskrit) arises from the specifically Southeast Asian branch of Hinduism. The Devaraja is regarded as the avatar (in this case, a human incarnation) of Vishnu. The Khmer king was marked out by dress: he wore a golden crown, or a wreath of flowers. His palms and the soles of his feet were stained red. He wore a sampot patterned all over with flowers—the more flowers, the higher the status.  

I conceptualised Zuko as being seen as an incarnation of the sun. Following Hinduism, this would be Surya. Fanon tends to use “Agni”, in fact the god of fire. Either way, as a non-practitioner of this religion, I’ve personally avoided using gods still worshipped today in my worldbuilding. My inspiration has largely been in the philosophy of religion.

Such philosophical ideas include: dharma, avatara, ahimsa, and brahman vs. atman. I found the Bhagavad Gita highly informative in developing these concepts—themselves debated in Hinduism—as well as ideas about the dilemma of Arjuna and the imagery associated with Krishna. I had an enlightening conversation with my friend Tana, who convinced me of the need to address the legacy of caste and casteism arising from the text. Ideas of caste carry certain baggage in the western world that I wanted to pare back, hence the differing terminologies of “in-” and “out-caste” used in The Iconoclast.

The philosophies of Hinduism overlap with and develop in slightly different ways in Buddhism, which I explored through Choden. One instance is the Hindu notion of the Chakravarti, an ideal universal emperor (lit. “the one whose wheels are turning” in Sanskrit). A non-secular Chakravarti would in fact be a Buddha, someone who has reached enlightenment. Since Choden is the one who introduces this concept, I used the more literal term “the Turner of the Wheel” to disambiguate from “Buddha” (which immediately draws certain connotations), and also to draw a more direct relationship between the Arjuna imagery associated with Zuko.

This religious worldview stands in contrast to animism of pre-/early Shinto Japanese religion and Inuit spirituality, as reflected by Suki and Sokka. Princess Mononoke was in fact a huge inspiration! I conceived of the kami in the context of Shintoism before the major influence of Buddhism; Suki also worships at a kamidana shelf.

For the Inuit, all things have anirniq, “breath/soul”, which lingers even after death. Therein lies the tension: between the need to hunt for survival and the vengeful soul that the act of killing liberates. The website I used as my source has a great quote on this: “the great peril of our existence lies in the fact that our diet consists entirely of souls.” These souls must be placated through ritual and observance of taboo. 

Importantly, I was interested in how each practitioner of religion approaches that philosophy in their individual ways, so none of the characters are perfect “representatives” of an ideal embodiment of that religion. Zuko is wary of his god status. Choden’s obsession with Zuko as Chakravarti makes her an outlier among the airbenders. Sokka trusts his “material” technologies of survival (i.e. weaponry) over spirituality, even though he practises the rites still, such as the smearing of lampblack and ritual words.

Martial culture

Sokka’s weapons generally mirror the ones he had in the show, with some additional embellishment. The snow knife is used to cut snow, but applied into a martial context by Sokka. The metal is sourced from a meteorite and cold forged; my inspiration was the Cape York meteorite, which Greenlandic Inuit used to fashion tools. Sokka’s club is made of jawbone, the strongest bone and stronger still from a herbivore. I combined the caribou and wombat into the “caribombat” for this, a nod to both an important Arctic animal to Inuit culture and to Sokka’s antipodean roots.

Suki is based on early samurai. She uses the fans from the show, but instead of the katana (which we see her wield in “Appa’s Lost Days”) she uses a tanto, which is a kind of predecessor of the katana and can be used as an offhand blade or a weapon in its own right. Women could also carry a smaller version of this blade for self defence. Her armour is Heian period do-maru armour, which was a lighter development on older styles of armour, made of scales of lacquered leather. I was particularly in love with the idea of her having a helmet and a men-yoroi mask, which was used as facial armour.

Zuko’s fighting style is inspired by bokator, a Khmer boxing style. He uses the short sticks instead of the dual dao, which can become truly dynamic weapons!

Talent show

Suki’s performances are based on the Japanese tea ceremony and bianlian from Sichuanese opera. The preparation method of the Japanese tea ceremony—whisking powdered tea—is in fact borrowed from the Chinese Song dynasty, which fits the time period of the world. Bianlian involves a performer very quickly changing a series of masks to a secret technique. It’s way more fun to watch on video than to read, I admit!

Osha’s dance is… meant to be the royal Cambodian ballet. The dance evokes the apsaras, dancing celestial beings in Hindu culture (incidentally, they are depicted on the walls of the fire temple on Full Moon Island). And just like western ballet, it takes years of training and skill to master!

Miscellaneous

Druk is, in this conception, a naga instead of… whatever unholy mix of cultures’ dragons LoK drew him as. Nagas are found across South and Southeast Asian cultures, and in Khmer culture they are typically represented as serpents—sometimes with multiple heads. They are associated with water, prosperity, and various other positive connotations. There’s a whole rabbit hole I don’t really want to get into about why I’m putting a water-associated creature in the Fire Nation (East Asian dragons are associated with water too!) but I do want to point out that there is a natural phenomenon on the Mekong called “naga fireballs” so… I’m running with that. 

Full Moon Island is Crescent Island… before the eruption that turned it into a caldera.

Osha’s name is not a health and safety pun; I’m not American and I call it WH&S, it was a total coincidence. It means “shining” in Sanskrit—apt for a Fire Nation character, I think. 

And finally… Mo Liudou’s name is a Cantonese joke! 冇料到 means “lacking results”. And the place where he comes from, “Mo Gwaiyong” (冇鬼用), means “no bloody use”. So he's Lacking Results from No Bloody Use.

#read chapter 5 first! #zukki dp wip #atla #my fic #yeah ok i know im a nerd no one @ me #putting my 2 ancient history degrees to good use

[katsutora]

— HOMESICK

ft. isagi yoichi ; itoshi rin ; nagi seishiro ; bachira meguru ; chigiri hyōma ; itoshi sae

summary: them picking you up after a trip

note: i’d like to be everyone’s weekly teeth rotting fluff provider but then i remembered i dont have it in me to serve content every week LMFAO i lack prompts besties

⚘ ISAGI YOICHI

ㅤㅤhas a relatively normal reaction as he sees you approaching him, but is actually trying his best not to freak out. he smiles at you softly as if he didn’t almost explode from all the excitement. once you’re in the car, he doesn’t let go of your hand the entire trip home. can’t stop staring at you too (a huge simp, good for you) because it’s been a while since he last saw you in person and it’s still kind of surreal to him. hmm, what was that? hands on the wheels, eyes on the road? yoichi, seriously, pay attention oh my god. you better promise you’ve tried everything and that this really is the last resort. “kaiser is in the middle of the street.” oh? oh. oh shit. “i'll run him over.” i mean... you gotta do what you gotta do to snap him out of it, right? (no)

⚘ ITOSHI RIN

ㅤㅤhe’s definitely in a sour mood. seething. most likely scared every single person who passed by him. the fact that he’s rapidly gaining fame doesn’t help at all (prayer circle for that one poor kid who only wanted to ask him for his autograph). he’s leaning against the wall, looking super annoyed. the root of the problem? not the fact that he has to be there of course, more like why the hell haven't you arrived at the gate yet (calm down rin it’s only been like ten minutes lmao). misses you as hell but won’t tell? that rhymes. immediately wraps you in his coat as an excuse to hug you tightly. “t’s not that cold, rin.” refuses to let you go. he’s clinging onto you for dear life as if he’s finally found you after a lifetime. “i know. just a little longer.” his grip only tightens when he notices people looking at you two. gee, they’re just trying to get to the exit gate, stop blocking it smh.

⚘ NAGI SEISHIRO

ㅤㅤit’s almost comical how he suddenly turned into a lighthouse as soon as he spotted you. people are putting on their sunglasses indoors, someone help. mandatory bear hug (but there’s a 50% chance that you’ll both fall to the ground because he can be clumsy like that). “that was so cringe.” “you love it, though.” “i love you.” ugh sappy. if somehow you survived that acrobatic act, he’ll bend his 190cm ass after putting you down so you can kiss the top of his head! if you don’t, well, he's not gonna stand up any time soon because it’s “comfy” and definitely not because getting up is a hassle. gets super chatty all the way home. “did you know shidou decked rin again today?” “barou planted his face on the ground yesterday, king who?” “i told choki to watch the food in the oven btw.” says it in the most casual manner; you can’t tell if he’s joking or not. “mhm. wait WHAT?”

⚘ BACHIRA MEGURU

ㅤㅤa pinball. will not hesitate to break through a crowd, bumping into everyone and everything. should be classified as a hazard to society. no jk. but he did almost tackle a kid when he was running towards you. has his arms wide open and ready to tackle you too embrace you. “you’re back! welcome home!” “i’m home!” “welcome home!” “i’m home!” don’t you have anything else to say besides that lmfao (it really went on for a solid five minutes). falls asleep on your lap in the car since he already spent all his energy on that whole “embodying a golden retriever” thing back there. looks so peaceful and angelic like that. also sleep-talks. “y’re hmm”. you didn’t expect him to remain this quiet but it’s the best nap he’s had in a while so uhh “karaoke night?” karaoke night he said. good luck to your poor neighbors tonight.

⚘ CHIGIRI HYŌMA

ㅤㅤladies and gentlemen, him. a runway model. is he picking someone up or is he going somewhere? with looks like that, no one will ever know. forget the elegant saunter; the moment he saw you, he full on sprinted. the type that brings you flowers and your favorite snacks. seems like someone who knows what he’s doing right? but when you pat his head in response to his warm welcome, he short-circuited because you just stole his line. “i’ve missed you.” immediately softens and melts in your embrace. you think it’s all calm and that until his sister arrives out of nowhere, calling out both of your names and the next thing you know, she’s taking pictures of you as if this is your graduation day. “lookie over here, you two!” you’ve never seen someone speedrunning five stages of grief in record time.

⚘ ITOSHI SAE

ㅤㅤmans turning the airport into a red carpet premiere smh; cameras flashing everywhere, people eager to ask him questions, etc. he’s learning that looking down on his phone isn’t a good enough disguise, and that his bored face isn’t scary enough to fend off his fans. oh finally, he thought as he spotted you amidst the crowd. “over here, sae!” “oh my, it’s itoshi sae!” but he has his gaze fixated on you and only you. don’t worry, of course he’ll notice if you grow uncomfortable with all the attention and will immediately wrap his arm around your figure. !! breaking news: itoshi sae quits the world of football and is now becoming a personal bodyguard. navigates through the crowd while mumbling “fall under my spell.” boy what they’re not shidou (narrator: they did, in fact, fell under his spell). “give me your number!” uhh? “move in with me!” wow it’s not your sae, huh? it’s everyone’s sae.

© 2022 katsutora ; do not repost and/or translate and/or claim my works

#blue lock #blue lock fluff #blue lock x reader #blue lock x you #bllk x reader #bllk x you #yoichi isagi #isagi yoichi #itoshi rin #rin itoshi #nagi seishiro #seishiro nagi #bachira meguru #meguru bachira #chigiri hyoma #hyoma chigiri #itoshi sae #sae itoshi #isagi x you #isagi x reader #itoshi rin x you #itoshi rin x reader #nagi x you #nagi x reader #bachira x you #bachira x reader #chigiri x you #chigiri x reader #sae x you #sae x reader

[ghost-proofbaby]

SPARKS FLY💜✨ - STEVE HARRINGTON PLEASE

sparks fly (steve's version)

warnings: mentions of issues at home for steve, talk of fear in the future

wc: 2k+

a/n: i need steve harrington to just show up to my house and kiss me please please please

Steve Harrington was tired of pretending.

He was tired of pretending his parents weren’t goddamn strangers on their worst days and roommates on their best ones, he was tired of pretending that it didn’t affect him that everyone seemed to believe he had peaked in high school of all times, he was tired of pretending like he wanted the picket fence life set out for him by the adults that had groomed him into their own vision since his youth. But most of all, he was tired of pretending he wasn’t head over heels in love with you.

It was a fight with his parents that triggered it. Another rejection letter had come through from another college, and his dad had resorted to only kicking him while he was down. The one time he had the misfortune of both parents being home, and it was only being used for them to express all their disappointment in him. His father’s tasteless yelling, his mother’s crocodile tears, everything he tried to say back being ignored – he couldn’t fucking take it. He’d left the house with no destination in mind, just jumping into his driver’s seat and knowing he needed to get as far from that godforsaken house as he could.

Distance. He needed distance. And apparently, in his mind, the one place that could take him farther from a house that would never be a home was you. 

His tires had squealed during several of the turns taken until he was flying down your street. It’s storming, a nasty and unforgiving rain coming down in sheets. He should really be driving more carefully, but he can’t. His head and heart alike are racing, and every single nerve ending is just screaming for you.

You, with kind and nonjudgmental eyes, who had always supported him. You, who had never paid much mind to all that he once was when he bore the title of King Steve. You, who had somehow captivated him and had been filling this hole within his chest, one shovel-full at a time. With your laughter, with soft bumps of your shoulder when his mind took him too far from you, with patient ears during every single one of his raging rants about his parents. 

He wasn’t parking in your driveway this late at night to trouble you with another rant. 

His knuckles turn ghostly white from how hard he’s gripping the steering wheel. This is a bad idea. A terrible one, his worst one to date, but he can’t. He doesn’t have any choice in all the other pretending; he could never get through to his parents, to anyone who had these preconceived notions and expectations of him. Tonight had proven that much. But with you…. With you, a change was possible. He didn’t have to keep biting his tongue when it came to you. Every time he’d look at you when you two hung out during dusk and the golden hour painted your every feature the prettiest shades he’d ever been witness to, he didn’t have to choke back down that pathetic confession of adoration. Every time your hand brushed his while walking to the local diner, he didn’t have to pull it away rather than weave your fingers together. He didn’t have to keep denying himself all these simple pleasures – interrupting kisses he’d fantasized about and holding each other on stormy nights just like this one that he had only dreamt of. 

But if he tells you, if he fucks it all up, he loses you. And Steve Harrington doesn’t know if he could handle that.

“Just do it,” he mumbles, trying to privately hype himself up, “Just get out of the car, just go knock on the front door, just-” 

He’s nearly hyperventilating. There’s only two endings to his night. He either returns back to his house, crawls into bed and licks at the wounds left by your rejection, or he doesn’t. Either he kisses you, and you pull him in from the storm raging on or you don’t. 

Two options. It’s only two options, two possible paths. The world doesn’t end, regardless of which one he’s forced to take tonight. 

Were all of his longing glances not returned? Had he not caught you staring in his direction more times than he could count on one hand? 

His fists drop from the wheel, landing on the door handle and throwing it open before he could freeze up again. 

Had you not whispered to him how he was your best friend, your favorite person, even more times than he had caught you staring? Over phone lines, in private corners of busy parties, sitting on his bed and doing nothing more than enjoying each other’s presence while his parents were out of town. 

The rain soaks him immediately. Down to the bone, he’s drenched, the unforgiving winds whipping around him only making him shiver. He can’t even feel the discomfort of his jeans turning to plaster as he takes the long strides up to your front door. 

Had he imagined that time you’d kissed his cheek at the county fair? When he’d won you that obnoxiously large teddy bear, almost too big for you to carry and adorning the most ridiculous sailor’s outfit either of you had ever seen, and you’d so affectionately nicknamed it after Steve’s place of employment – Scoops the Bear, Captain of Flavor. And had you not called the sailor’s outfit cute the moment Steve made the comparison to his own uniform? 

He knocks hard enough that his knuckles sting, and he doesn’t care. The sting doesn’t reach him, his mind only flashing over a reel of memories with you. All he can feel is that ghost of an ache that always haunts his cheeks when he’s around you, the way his chest feels just a little bit lighter and he feels a little more himself when in your presence. You bring out the best in him – you make him want to be a better man, all while never making him feel as if he isn’t good enough. All he ever feels around you is wanted.

Had your eyes not shined as you looked up at him, all the colorful carnival lights and stars reflected in them as Steve tried to (and failed) to hide his vibrant blush? Had you not smiled soft enough to send sparks flying through his chest, threatening to catch fire at any given moment? 

He hadn’t imagined it all – he couldn’t have imagined it all. You’d looked at him like he was the only boy in the world. You’d looked at him as if you could have spent the rest of your night there, feet planted in the grass and a bear nicknamed after him being crushed in your arms. It had been as if you could have stood by his side for the rest of your days, the rest of the world continuing to move on and the two of you left there to decay hand in hand, and it would have been a life well wasted. For both of you.

“Steve?” 

Your front door swings open, and there you are. Still looking adorable while dressed in your most comfortable pajamas for the night. Even beneath the confused and worried first glance, that look from the fair is still there. Your eyes still shine without the lights. 

“What’s wron-” 

You can’t finish your question – before either of you can process what’s happening, Steve’s lips are on yours. He’s overeager and nowhere near graceful with it, his nose nearly taking out your eye as he throws himself against you at full force. Everything from the night, the last few months, poured into that kiss. You nearly fall backwards from the force, and his hands are quick to catch onto your hips and tug you back into his orbit. But it only changes the trajectory of your stumble; both of you are suddenly outside your door, the rain now soaking you as well as Steve. 

When he pulls back from the kiss, he can’t breathe. He did it. The taste of your lips are still burning his, and he can’t open his eyes to wager your reaction. He doesn’t think you kissed back, it wasn’t much of a kiss beyond him just needing his lips on yours right that second, but he’s not sure. He isn’t fucking sure. He can’t open his eyes – he can’t risk watching himself lose you in real time.

“Steve,” your palm is warm on his frigid cheek. He jumps at the sudden contact, eyes pinching shut harsher, “Please look at me.”

When you ask him in that soft voice, please with that gentle tone that wraps him up in such comfort, he can’t deny you. 

He opens his eyes. He can’t read your face. 

It’s surprised, surely. Mouth still slightly parted and drops of water running down your cheeks. Your lashes flutter as your eyes dart down to his lips, and he swears to every God that has ever existed that you are the prettiest thing he’s ever seen. Something so precious, so warm, so home. 

“What-” you start, but Steve is on a roll of interrupting you tonight.

This time, it’s his voice and not his lips as he sputters out, “Everything’s wrong. Every fucking thing is just wrong – my parents, my life, my decisions. I have no fucking clue what I’m doing with myself. I’m lost, I-I’m so goddamn lost. Because everything is… wrong and bad and… and just… it’s wrong. Except you,” he takes his first big breath since the ramble began, eyes stinging and he tells himself it’s just from the rain leaking into them, “You are the only right thing in my life right now. You’re… Fuck. I’m in love with you. I’m sorry. I’m sorry, because I know I’m fucking it all up right now. I’m finally letting the one right thing in my life go wrong, because I just can’t do it anymore. I am so fucking in love with you, and I’m tired of pretending I’m no-”

Your turn to interrupt. You surge forward, wrap your hands around the back of his neck and kiss him even more forcefully than he had you. The taste of the rain and your toothpaste mingle as your body collides with him. He almost forgets to react, so caught up in the fire finally erupting so freely in his chest.

And then you bite at his bottom lip, and he feels that beautiful smile, and he finally remembers to do something. His hands find purchase on your lower back and he tries not to laugh in glee as he hungrily kisses you back, lips moving in tangent and perfect synchronicity. 

“We’re gonna drown out here,” you laugh against his lips, finally breaking off and resting your forehead against his. 

“No, we’re not,” he insists with a cheesy grin, “I used to be a swimmer, remember?” 

Another kiss and more laughter, and Steve can’t even hear the thunder in the distance anymore. It becomes clear which path he will be taking tonight. 

“Let’s go inside and dry off, yeah?” you offer, taking a step back out of the torrential downpour, “I’m getting cold.” 

He’s still starstruck as he looks down at you, nodding dumbly, still all consumed by those embers. “Yeah. Yeah, me too.” 

You take his hands in yours, intertwining your fingers with his just as he has yearned for. You pull shyly, continuing to walk backwards until you step back into the threshold of your house before stopping. The rain no longer pelts down on Steve’s shoulders, the ones infinitely lighter now as your grin is directed at him and he knows he’s home. 

“Oh, and Steve?” you question, and he hums, eager to hear whatever it is you have to say. He’ll always want to listen to you. For the rest of tonight, for the rest of the week, for the rest of his life, “In case it wasn’t obvious, I’m in love with you, you idiot.” 

He can’t help it – he pulls you in for another kiss, kicking the front door shut behind him. Steve supposes he should have seen that one coming. He’s never really had to pretend with you, anyways. 

"kiss me on the sidewalk, take away the pain."

#speak now (ghost's version) #steve harrington #steve harrington x you #steve harrington x reader #steve harrington blurb #stranger things

[wardenparker]

The Viper’s Bride - ch 1

Oberyn Martell x female reader x Ellaria Sand x OC Co-written with @absurdthirst​

The second Prince of Dorne has lived under the illusion that he would not be forced to wed for his entire life. He has enough lovers and illegitimate children to make him a legend across Westeros, and the love of his soulmate Ellaria Sand to content him. But a contract between his brother and a lord from the north will catapult him into a match that may prove to be as complicated as it is intriguing. Especially when he learns that you already have a soulmate of your own.

Rating: E for Explicit! 18+ Word Count: 9.9k Warnings: *Blanket warnings for this series: terrible parents, age gap 10+ years, arranged marriage, classicism, cursing, food and alcohol* A slap! Mentions of menstruation, fleeting mention of a suicidal thought, threats of violence, bathing, so much foreplay, vaginal sex, unprotected sex, fingering (anal), MM coupling, MMF threesome, anal sex, oral sex (f giving and receiving), FF coupling, technically this is an orgy. Summary: Upon receiving news of your arranged betrothal, both you and Prince Oberyn of Dorne make your ways to the Red Keep for King Joffrey’s impending nuptials. However, his arrival to the city is significantly more playful than yours. Notes: Welcome to soulmate story number seven! This summer we are getting hot and heavy in Westeros with everybody’s favourite promiscuous prince. Buckle up, my darlings, because this one gets spicy right off the bat 👑💖

Oberyn frowns slightly as the oil slicked hands of the servant press into the arches and joints of Doran’s feet, making his older brother hiss in pain. It must be a harsh day for him, his wheeled chair a near constant as it is now too painful for him to walk even short distances. A far cry from the hale and hearty brother he had grown up with as the youngest of the Martell princes. He knows the oil is warmed, the scent of eucalyptus and mint filling the air as it is worked into the skin, hopefully providing some relief. “I can come back, brother. Let you rest.”

“This is important.” Doran insists, not dismissing either man from his presence. His own discomfort is a stark reminder of the sacrifices that must be made for the throne of Dorne. “You know the Baratheon boy is to marry.” The fact that King Joffrey’s mother is a Lannister makes him an unsavory topic between the Martell brothers, even as Marcella Baratheon plays in the water gardens a mere thirty yards away.

Stiffening instantaneously for a moment before he forces his body to relax, Oberyn despised the mention of anything to do with the Lannisters, including that bastard on the throne. Everyone knows the rumors and with the golden mane of the boy and the tales of evils he has done, he’s inclined to believe it. “Gods be praised.” He murmurs sarcastically, reaching for the carafe of wine and the spare goblet that had obviously been left in anticipation of his visit with the elder prince. “What poor girl is marrying that…king?”

“Margaery Tyrell.” The elder prince huffs derisively before leveling his younger brother with a serious gaze. “You are to attend the wedding in my stead.”

Rolling his eyes, Oberyn sighs heavily. It will be two weeks of hard traveling to reach King’s Landing. All for a wedding he does not wish to attend. “I will extend the Martell family’s feelings.”

"You will be gracious and accommodating." Doran warns, knowing that the Martell family's true feelings are not appropriate in any way to be expressed at a wedding. "There will be some other business for you to attend to in King's Landing which is far more important."

“Yes, there is that wonderful brothel down in Flea Bottom.” Oberyn muses, grinning at the idea of bringing Ellaria there. The last time he had come, it had been two years before he had met her.

"Oberyn." His brother's voice has a warning tone to it. "I beg you not to waste your time in brothels on this trip no matter how enjoyable a pastime it may be. There is someone you need to meet."

He snorts and shakes his head. “I have no interest in meeting boring nobles with their equally boring wives.” He tells him. “I’ll be with Ellaria anyway.”

"No, you won't." Doran jerks away from his servant in frustration and turns to fully face Oberyn. "I will not have that woman jeopardize the contract I have signed when the ink is barely dry. Leave her home, Oberyn. She will be here with open legs when you return."

Oberyn’s brow arches up dramatically. Doran has never had issue with Ellaria, even counting her as a confidant in his absence. She is the mother of four of his children and a member of the family despite there being no vows between them. His soulmate. “What contract?” He growls.

"Leave." He hisses at the young man who was tending to him and he backs off immediately, taking the pot of oil back into the interior of the palace as fast as his feet can carry him. "It was time, Oberyn," he intones seriously. "Far past time, but I have let you have your freedom as long as I was able."

“Let me have my freedom?” His hackles rise and his eyes narrow. “I have my freedom because I wish it.” He reminds his brother. “I am not the head of the Martells like you, and you have your heir.”

"I have one heir." Doran bristles, but the raised tension between the brothers is his own fault. A product of the tension and pain he was already feeling today. "If anything should happen to Trystane, it will be you on the throne. And though I have great love for my nieces, none of them can be a princess."

“Our house will endure like it always has.” Oberyn snorts, dismissing Doran’s concern. “If the time comes, I will marry Ellaria and claim my Sand Snakes as legitimate.” He takes a long sip of his wine, humming at the delightfully floral note.

"The chance for that has passed." It is Doran's turn to be dismissive, sitting back again in his wheeled chair and adjusting a cushion under his arm. "Your objections to marriage have been noted, brother, but it is time to make a respectable husband of you. Ellaria will understand. She is an intelligent woman, and I'm sure would not abandon you as your mistress." Oberyn prefers the term paramour, and though it is accurate now, it will be more complicated once things are settled.

“Brother, what have you done?” Oberyn demands, slamming his goblet down onto the table.

"You know exactly what I have done." There is no chance, in his mind, that Oberyn has not deduced that a marriage contract has been signed, but Doran still sighs heavily. "She is the only daughter of a noble family. The father let her go without a match for some time while her brothers all married, but her portrait is beautiful and he assures me that she is accomplished." Reaching for the wine glass that Oberyn has rejected, Doran takes a gulp rather than a sip. "And she has no marks, blessedly."

“The agreement was my soulmate or no one.” Oberyn hisses, his gaze turning withering. “I will not marry some cow faced northerner.”

"Every place is northern to Dorne," Doran waves one hand dismissively and sets the wine glass back down on the table between them. "The contract is signed, Oberyn. You will not make a liar or a fool of your brother by denying it, and I am not going to try to force you to spend time with the girl or even like her. But you will marry her and produce a legitimate heir." The contract is full of terms to be adhered to, and the fairly enormous size of the girl's dowry includes access to trade routes that will greatly benefit the people of Dorne. There is no downside to this arrangement in Doran's mind, aside from having to have this discussion with his brother.

Oberyn’s lips press together in a firm line and his chair scrapes back as he stands. “Then you fuck the girl.” He hisses. “For I will not be gracing her bed.” Turning on his heel, the prince storms away before he loses his infamous temper.

Doran breathes a sigh, reaching for the goblet again to drown his frustrations in the wine that his maester has instructed him to avoid when he is in pain. "Fuck it," he grumbles harshly. Oberyn is going to make his life a living hell anyway, he may as well be drunk for it.

******

“Marriage!” Oberyn scoffs angrily, pacing in front of the lounge where his paramour is currently sprawled. “As if I am some fresh-faced maiden. How dare he sign a contract on my behalf!”

"I smell Mellario behind it," Ellaria admits, watching him pace back and forth like a caged beast. Oberyn had come careening back into his chamber like a sandstorm and now he was seething. "Doran has never had issue with your arrangement before now, and suddenly he is concerned about heirs? I would not be surprised if her change has come."

“Or he cannot get his cock to rise.” Oberyn winces at the idea of his own cock not working, but with his brother’s declining health, he would not rule it out. “I will not do it.” He decides. “We will leave for Braavos if he decides to push the issue.”

"My love," Ellaria sits up, shaking her head. "If you leave here, I would follow. You know this. But you would still have four daughters you would not be able to see and we both know that would break your heart." His children are the most important thing in the world to Oberyn – everyone knows this – and Doran would certainly use them as a punishment for insubordination. "Exile is no choice, Oberyn. Even self-imposed."

Pausing mid-stride, his robes swish around his legs as he turns to stare at the woman who had been with him and by his side for nearly twenty years. “You would have me entertain this idea?” He demands, surprised she would consider this.

“I would not have you be less of a man than you are.” For all her complexities, Ellaria Sand is not the temptress or the snake that some make her out to be. Her genuine love for Oberyn is rooted in as much respect as it is passion, and their four daughters currently have a father that they can look up to as a good and wise man. “What is the worst this girl could be?” She poses the question carefully as he shifts his weight anxiously in front of her, and she folds her hands in her lap. “Ugly? That is not her fault. The sun and good company can make anyone more beautiful. Cruel? Doran has already said you do not have to spend much time with her. Or perhaps childish? Spoiled? Then you treat her like a child and send her to her chamber without a treat if she misbehaves.” There is anger in his face, which Ellaria hates to see, but she tries to be encouraging. Motherhood has taught her that encouragement can be a balm on almost any wound. “So you would be married. What does that signify? Nothing in so far as you and I are concerned. You are still my soulmate, my love. And the father of my children. She cannot change that.”

“You are my sun.” Oberyn reaches down and takes his lover’s hand to draw her to her feet. Pulling her against his body, his broad hand covers the small scar on her side, a knife wound that he had earned in the fighting pits. “My world.” He promises, leaning in and pressing his lips to hers in a passionate kiss, trying to rid himself of the idea of tying himself to another. Ellaria is his soulmate, which is why he had said that he would only marry the woman who bears his marks.

"And no one will ever change that." She vows just as solemnly, giving herself over to the kiss without restraint. There are parts of his world that she does not stray into, or they would have fought with Doran for the right to marry years ago. The elder Martell brother may not mind her as Prince Oberyn's paramour, but she is not what he would envision for a princess of Dorne, nor does Ellaria particularly want such a title. For Oberyn she might have borne the duty of it all, but he never asked that of her and she was grateful. Now, whoever this girl is that is being thrust into their life will bear that burden instead. Ellaria does not envy her the responsibility.

******

“My love, you must calm yourself.” Within the walls of your chambers, Raeden Stone knows that the two of you are safe. Your maid will not interrupt unless necessary and she is sworn to protect your happiness and well-being above everything else, including your parents. “Stop.” Striding across the room, the sword at his side clanks as he grabs your hands filled with dresses, and takes them from you. “We cannot flee under the cover of darkness like we are thieves escaping the sword.” He knows that if he is caught, he will be killed or sent to the Wall as well.

"I won't do it." The very idea is offensive, leaving the taste of burnt crumbs in your mouth and the feeling of insects crawling on your skin, so that even with Raeden clutching your hand all you can think of is being rid of the horrible sensation. This whole horrible situation. Your eyes are already red from tears, their dried tracks left on your cheeks and down your neck, yet still more threaten to spill over as he holds you still. "I won't marry a stranger and move halfway across the world. I won't leave you behind!"

“You will not need to leave me.” Setting the clothes down on the trunk that is meant to be packed for your journey to King’s Landing and then to Dorne, he cups your cheeks. “I will pledge to accompany you.” He promises, his dark eyes boring into yours. His heart aches but he had known this day would eventually come. “I will ride into all seven hells if need be to stay beside you.”

"Why can we not just tell them?" Your smaller hands wrap around his long fingers, holding tight to him as though he might disappear if you let go. "To marry my soulmate should not be such a shocking thing to do, surely?" Having gone over and over it in their time together, you know why. Status. For a young noble woman to marry a bastard of no consequence, soulmate or otherwise, would be unacceptable in any part of Westeros.

“I have no name to offer you, other than Stone.” Raeden reminds you, aware of his station. He had only become a trusted member of your guard when he had risked his life for you nearly three winters ago. No one knew of the shared marks on your skin. No one could know. “No coin, no land, no future.”

"I could be your future." The argument is an old one. Aged and worn like the stones in your floor. The fact that you would abandon your station and your family for him is moot now that your father has sold you. "Three brothers married wealthy wives and yet I am the sacrificial lamb to be offered up to the lecherous second prince of Dorne." The stories of the man's temperament and deeds preceded him, of course. Lusty and vengeful, the second son of House Martell was to be feared never spoken of above a whisper in polite company. And now you have to marry him?

“I have heard he is handsome.” Despite his own heart aching at the thought of another touching you, he has to make this seem like a good thing. “They say he will treat any in his bed respectfully.”

"He could be the most handsome man in all of Dorne and he would still not be as handsome as you." Soulful eyes the color of chestnut shells, plush lips, and a perpetually mischievous smile when he’s pleased, there is no one more handsome than Ser Raeden Stone. Firm muscles and an impressive strength make him as formidable on the battlefield as they do in the bedroom - a fact which you have kept mum about for years now. Raeden's broad frame and towering height envelope you fully when you wrap your arms around his waist and bury your face in his chest to muffle a sob. "I will never lay with him. Or love him. Not as long as I live."

“You will be his wife.” He swallows as he says those words. “You will bear his children, love or not. And I will protect you.” It will be his own special kind of hell, watching you grow with a child that is not his, marry a man who is not him. “You must not tell him, love.”

"How can you be so calm?" You demand, looking up at him with fear and hurt swimming in your eyes. "My father is sentencing me to stand at the side of another man and you...my love, I cannot believe you are accepting of this?"

“I have no choice but to accept it.” His voice hardens slightly. “If we try to run away together, we will be caught. I will be killed or sent to the Wall.” It rankles, but he had known that one day you would be married off. “I cannot protect you if I am dead or taken the oath.” He growls, shaking his head and leaning in to press his forehead against yours. “I cannot risk leaving you alone.”

"Only cruel gods would have given us to each other as soulmates without ever intending to allow our love." It is an unfairness of life that you have lamented more than once, but right now it feels as though a dagger has been plunged through your heart and twisted violently.

“The gods know of our love.” Raeden knows it, sighing softly. “We are together and we will still be together.” He kisses you softly. “I spend more nights in your bed than my own. It will be the same in Dorne.”

"I will not allow it to be any other way." Despite the fear of the unknown, the thing that you can cling to is the strength of your feelings for Raeden Stone. Since the day he arrived rather triumphantly in your life, he has been a constant and welcome presence and you will not allow any power to steal your soulmate from your side. "No prince from Dorne will ever keep you from my arms."

“There is my girl.” Raeden smiles, happy that you are calm again and he presses closer to you. “Now…do you wish that I take your mind off your worries?” He coos softly.

“I always wish for you.” Though time is precious now, as you leave for King’s Landing in just three days and the road is no place for a romantic interlude. Raeden will not even be allowed to ride in your carriage during the journey. His place as your guard demands that he protect you, not indulge in you. Although he is fully capable of doing both.

The grin that you have said melts you flashes across his face and he pulls back so he can remove his belt and sword. “Then let me make you forget about Dorne, forget about marriage and only think of me.”

******

The painstaking journey feels ludicrous, and your weary mother certainly has not made it any easier with her complaining. The decision for your parents to accompany you was entirely your father’s and even then it was only so that he could brag to his small group of friends that he attended the king’s wedding. If this were only about delivering you to your groom, he would have sent you with your guard and your maid and thought no further on it. As it is, you have spent every day sitting beside your mother’s lady’s maid in the cramped and uncomfortable carriage praying that you might get even ten minutes alone with Raeden before the end of the day. It has hardly happened, and you have found yourself near tears rather constantly. Ignorant man that your father is, he imagines you so delirious with joy that you are weeping for your good fortune. The truth could not be further away.

“Do not fret.” Your mother assures you softly. “We have long had daughters marry in Dorne or Dornish brides sent to us.” She reminds you. “While most will look their noses down at a Dornish man, we know he will treat you well.”

“I still do not see why this marriage is even necessary.” And since no one has offered you any sort of explanation, you’re inclined to just ask. “My brothers married wealthy women. We do not need the favour of House Martell. So I am forced to wonder again why I am being offered to them in sacrifice.”

“Change is coming to Westeros.” Your mother leans in, her words quiet and fervent. “Dorne is the last kingdom that still has royalty. You will not just be a lady, you will a princess.”

"I do not want to be a princess." You inform her flatly, ignoring the way her lady's laid looks aghast at your ingratitude. "My own maid had more freedom than I do. At least someone asked her if she wanted to be shipped south like chattel. And she was even able to say no!" Though Clarey had served you since you came of age, your own maid had been able to marry her soulmate and had recently discovered she was with child. Your father had considered himself quite magnanimous for not breaking up that family to send her to Dorne with you.

“You would have your father break his contract with Dorne?” Your mother asks, appalled at the mere idea. “You were born into a noble house. You have grown up knowing your father would arrange a marriage for you. Most are married at seventeen.” She clicks her tongue in disappointment that you are forever ungrateful for the time your father had allowed you to remain unwed. If you only knew the rumors that had swirled.

"If you always planned to marry me against my will then I wonder that you waited so long." Staring out of the carriage window, you can see Raeden up ahead, face drawn in concentration as he keeps constant vigilance over the route you are traveling. "Why not have signed me away to the Starks when I was born?" The bitterness in your voice is obvious. "Then I would have been a queen."

“You will watch your sharp tongue, or you shall be sent to your room without dinner.” Your mother hisses, sitting back and shaking her head. “Your father wanted to hold out hope for a soulmate.”

"I am not a child, as you so love to point out when it is convenient to you." The threat of no dinner is nothing when you have no appetite to begin with. It would be a blessing not to be stared at over a meager meal. "And you can hardly send me to my room when I haven't one. We will not even arrive in King's Landing before first light tomorrow."

Your mother’s hand strikes out, slapping your cheek with a sharp crack. “You will not shame your father and house.” She hisses. “I have long begged your father to marry you off, to stop giving into your childish notions, but no more. You will marry Oberyn Martell.”

If the impulse to cup your own cheek was present, you don’t give in to it, not wanting to show the satisfaction of acknowledging that she has caused you pain of any kind. At the moment all you can really think is that it is good Raeden did not witness your mother striking you, or he may have given himself away with his reaction. “At least in Dorne I will never again be forced to breathe the same odious air you have exhaled.” No one in all of Westeros could ever have mistaken your mother for your ally if they saw you interact in private – it is only her sickly sweet countenance in public that made others think that she had babied or favoured you in any way. More than once in your life you’ve wondered how such a hateful woman could even grow a babe let alone birth four of them.

“You will learn your place soon enough.” She promises you. “You are a woman, not a man.” Her disappointment in you pours off of her in waves. “Be thankful your father did not choose a fat, aging lord.”

“Fat and aging means he would die faster.” At least antagonizing your mother is passing the time, you decide, staring straight ahead at the pompous boil of a woman who has lorded herself over you for the last twenty-five years. “I think I would do very well as a widow.”

“I wonder if your bravery would falter learning that your guard will not be staying with you.” The sly, evil menace in your mother’s voice is clear.

“Of course he will.” Brazen confidence is the tone which drowns out your panicked fear, and you tell yourself not to look outside and give yourself away. That could ruin everything in less than one heartbeat. “He swore to Father to protect me and Father accepted.” If something had changed, surely Raeden would have told you.

“Hmmmm.” Her smile is acidic, her fingers twisting around her handkerchief. “You think you are soooo clever. That I did not know.”

“Honestly?” Honestly you really did not think for a second that anyone besides your former maid knew anything, but you swallow down the boiling acid in your throat and keep your chin poised to stare your own mother down. “I do not know what you could possibly mean.”

“I birthed you.” She snorts, a very unladylike sound. “You think I do not know when my daughter had decided to spread her legs and become a Stone’s whore?”

Of course the thing that bothers her most is that Raeden is a bastard – Stone, as they are named in the Vale – and not an actual concern of safety or care. “I can assure you, that is not the case.” Though saying it would be a waste of breath, nothing you have done with Raeden could mark you as a whore. Just a woman very much in love with her soulmate.

“At least you just bled.” She scoffs. “Not carrying a bastard in your belly.” She leans in, her eyes flashing with malice. “Behave. Or I will allow your father into my bed for the night and he will do as I say. Including making sure your precious Raeden rides home to the Vale with his lord, your father.” She threatens.

Though you have serious doubts that your mother’s cunt is magical enough to control your father’s thoughts, it isn’t a chance you’re willing to take. If Raeden is ordered to return to the Vale and you are forced to ride for Dorne without him, you are more likely to see the bottom of the seas than your marriage bed. “My Lord Father loves me and wishes to protect me,” is all you say in response.

“Your Lord Father will do what makes me happy.” She promises you with a self-assured smirk. “Especially now that I have convinced him to marry you off.”

“It was you?” You should not be so shocked. Her hatred for you has been obvious from the time you were a child and had never seemed to waver. Your father, on the other hand? Doting and indulgent, always picking flowers for you and bringing you books instead of suitors. Your brothers are strong men with discipline instilled in them. You had been allowed to read and dream and sing and ride at your leisure. Of course his sudden change of heart was down to your bitter, angry mother.

“Who else?” She sneers. “Your father would be content to keep you around until you are nothing but a spinster. You are already past your prime. Luckily enough, the Prince of Dorne already has eight bastards.”

The way her utter dismissal of you makes your blood boil is beyond explanation, but as you squeeze your hands together in the pockets of your robe, only one precious thought floats to the surface. “My only solace is that if I should ever see you again after this week, Mother, you shall have to curtsy to the person you despise most in the world.”

“I will not.” She hisses, glaring at you. “I will never bow to a little whore like you.”

“Oh, but you will.” A victory, even a small one, is enough to grasp at as you square your shoulders again. “When I am Princess of Dorne it will be required of everyone save King Joffrey himself. You included.”

“Bitch.” She hisses, glaring at you. “I should have drowned you the moment you slipped from my womb.”

“A regret you will live with forever.” If Knocking her from her wicked confidence is the best you can do in this conversation, you will not take that for granted, for your mother has always been a formidable enemy. “Now leave me to read, Mother. Lest you earn yourself another wrinkle and find your hair a shade greater than it was when we left home.”

“I will be overjoyed to not see your face every day.” She spits, hating that you don’t seem cowed by her threats. “Dorne will be eye opening for you. And everything you deserve:”

“As you say, Mother.” Without another word, you take the small book of histories from your reticule and open it to the place where you left off last night, too distracted by Raeden’s handsome face to give any more thought to words. False confidence is a thing you learned very well in the face of your mother’s vitriol, and apparently on this one occasion it has actually yielded a victory. You may still be terrified of your future in Dorne, but she never needs to know that.

******

“This city still smells like shit.” Two weeks of travel has left Oberyn irritable, grumbling as he pulls his horse up to the gates of the city. “Let us go find comfort and a bath.” He tells Ellaria, unable to stay in the carriage and deciding to ride ahead of the contingent of troops Doran had sent with him.

“At the brothel, my love?” She smirks at the suggestion, far less uncomfortable from travel than he is. “A bath, fresh food, and a good fuck will restore your mood.”

“Of course.” Oberyn scoffs. “I will not accept chambers in that keep.” He hates even being here and seeing it. Wanting to burn it down, considering his sister, niece and nephew died in that keep.

“Nor should you.” As a prince he should have the most resplendent rooms available, but they both know what would happen if Oberyn ever set foot in the Red Keep beyond the wedding in two days. “We will visit this Littlefinger you have spoken of?”

“I had sent word that we were arriving.” He chuckles, smirking at Ellaria because she knows him so well. “Tell me you don’t want a hot bath and an even hotter cunt?”

“If I am honest, I am ravenous for a cunt to bury my tongue in.” There is never any judgment between them, or jealousy, and Ellaria sighs indulgently at the idea of a slick cunt and perky tits to indulge in. “Will you share with me, lover?”

“Always.” Oberyn waggles his brows. “We will pick out a whore together.”

“A favorite pastime.” Ellaria laughs softly. She has not spoken a word about Oberyn’s intended bride since they left Dorne and she won’t until it’s necessary. His mood is volatile here in the northern capital and she does not relish his moments of anger.

“Silk sheets.” Oberyn groans, not willing to admit that he is weary of travel, but he needs to recover. Especially if he is to be meeting this bride. He had decided that the poor girl deserves to be told in person that he will have nothing to do with her.

“Silk sheets. Roasted meats. Wine. Berries and nuts fresh from their trees.” She giggles when his hand slips inside her dress to caress her skin. “And a pert ass for you to bury yourself in.”

“We could get two. A man and a woman.” He reasons, smirking at the idea. “Perhaps we will have Littlefinger line them all up for us to choose from.”

“As many as you like, my love.” After all, it is not as if the coffers of Dorne lack for funds. They have brought a fortune with them under Doran’s insistence that Oberyn shower his intended with gifts – and a second fortune to pay for the bills his natural extravagance will no doubt incur. “We will have whatever you desire. And when you have had your fill we will rest and then begin all over again.”

“Wine.” Oberyn decides, frowning despite thinking of nicer things as the two of them enter the walls of King’s Landing. “I will need a lot of wine.”

Their destination is not far, but the duo of Oberyn Martell and Ellaria Sand attract attention by virtue of their combined beauty and the onlookers who cluster to gaze at them make their journey last longer. Oberyn sends their driver off with the carriage to find stables nearby and Ellaria wraps her arms around him when he returns to her side in the steps of the building. “Do you hear the false moans, my prince?” She pouts in sympathy for the unsatisfied women inside as they cross the threshold together. “We will make them scream so they never forget us.”

Oberyn smirks, holding her hand with no shame. He does not hide Ellaria, she is his paramour. Much more than that, although that is something that is kept between the two of them, private at her insistence so she does not become a liability to him. “We will, my love. Every whore in this brothel will pout when you leave.”

“Very pretty pouts, I hope.” Ellaria loves a very pretty pout when the time is right. To be begged to come back to bed. To have a lover cry her name with such passion that their heart aches for more. She saunters into the brothel beside Oberyn with her head high and looks around as the prettily dressed woman at the entrance fawns over Oberyn. Everyone fawns over Oberyn, that is of little interest to her.

Oberyn eyes the cunts and tits on display, lifting a brow when he sees earrings through one woman’s nipples. “I see we are in the right place.” He smirks, watching as Littlefinger rushes over to the pair.

“Prince Oberyn.” Though he does not ever bow deeply, he does bow, eyes tracking over to Ellaria with an oily smile. “My lady. What an honour to be graced with your presence. What can we provide for you this morning?”

“My lady?” Ellaria scoffs, making Oberyn smirk and squeeze her hand. “We will be needing accommodations for the duration of our stay in King’s Landing.” Most brothels do not rent rooms and he is sure that Littlefinger’s establishment is no different but Oberyn has learned that his title and the gold of his coin makes things possible when they previously weren’t. “For now, until it is ready, we need baths and whores to join us.”

“The duration of your stay?” The man does not bother to hide his surprise, but smiles broadly like the showman that he is. “I will send someone to ready your accommodations,” he promises, hand on heart. “Our baths are this way,” Littlefinger motions deeper into the building. “Do you have a preference for who should join you or shall I send you a variety to choose from?” There is enough gold dripping from the Prince of Dorne that Littlefinger will unfold the world of pleasure at his feet if that is what he wishes, without worry for his ability to pay what is owed.

“Your choicest men and women.” Oberyn looks over to Ellaria for her approval. “Clean.” He insists, although Littlefinger’s whores are always of a higher caliber than most. “We will send the others away once we have chosen.”

“Leyth.” Littlefinger waves to a tall, buxom girl with orange curls down to her waist. “Tend to the prince and his lady for me,” he instructs her, obviously trusting that she can do the job. “Anything they need, you will acquire for as long as they are here, do you understand?”

“Yes, sir.” The girl called Leyth nods and smooths her thin skirt, looking between the beautiful prince and his stunning lady. “I will be happy to serve them.”

“Good.” The chuckle that bubbles out of Littlefinger is full of approval. “Take them to the baths and then fetch them food and wine.” He smiles at Oberyn, a thing dripping with false charm. “I will send you a selection of company to choose from.”

“Berries.” Oberyn adds, the need for fresh fruit after weeks on the road is great. Ellaria chuckles, well aware of his fondness for snacking, especially when he is fucking.

“Berries.” Leyth bats her eyelashes prettily as she leads the pair down the hall. “Do you prefer sweet things, your Grace?”

“Hmmmm.” He doesn’t answer one way or the other, although his gaze is sliding up and down her form and he reaches out to caress her ass through the sheer robe she is wearing.

She hums right back at him, playful but bidding, and slows her pace slightly to let him touch as they turn the corner to the bathing room. The deep bath in the floor sits full and waiting for paying customers, beautifully tiled with trays of soap and sponges for gently scrubbing skin. The oiled waters smell of flower petals, and two baths are even littered with the things. Leyth walks toward the bath of floral water with a sultry smile and a swing in her hips. “I will wash you with my own hands if that is your wish, after I fetch you food to break your fast.”

“What do you say my love?” Oberyn asks Ellaria. “Leyth and whoever catches our eyes?” He would love to see his paramour’s thighs spread for the orange haired beauty. “Or would you prefer to choose the woman?”

“You are lovely, Leyth.” Ellaria praises, already having decided that she likes this woman’s spirit as well as her figure. “We will see who else catches our eye when they arrive.”

“Show me your tits.” Oberyn commands the woman. Eager to see if they are as perky as they seem or if it is an illusion of the gown she is wearing.

Obedience is necessary to work for Littlefinger, but Leyth is lucky to have been given to this couple she finds so attractive. She slips the ties from her shoulders and lets her silken dress fall to the stone floor with pride. Her body is well worth selling and has given her a good living, so she proudly bares her large tits and curved waist to this prince when he demands it.

“Very nice.” Oberyn groans with a smirk. “They will look lovely bouncing when you ride my cock.” He predicts. “We can undress ourselves.” He promises, turning to Ellaria and pushing aside her own gown so he can cup her bare breast, tweaking an already hard nipple.

Ellaria moans happily when the girl excuses herself to fetch their food, and drops the traveling robe she was wearing to the ground immediately. “Lover…” she sighs, her body arching to seek Oberyn’s touch instinctively. “You were right about this place.”

“Of course I am right.” He teases playfully, leaning in and dragging his nose along her throat. “Now, we need to wash so we can be ready to play when the whores are brought in. I want to feed you fruit while a tongue is buried in your cunt.”

“Leyth is a beauty.” Ellaria disrobes easily and quickly, leaving her things scattered as she steps into the bath built deep into the floor. It is warm and smells sweet, like summer in the Water Gardens. “Pale, but I like her freckles.” She looks up at Oberyn with admiration as he shrugs off his own robes. “I like your freckles better, though.” Especially the one on the inside of his right thigh, high on his muscled leg where she can kiss it before swallowing his cock.

“Just like her tits are gorgeous, but yours have suckled four of my children.” His cock twitches and he kicks off his boots, throwing the loose, pale yellow shirt off and reaching for his leather breeches.

“Hers are bigger than mine.” Ellaria chuckles at the way he loves tits. “Enjoy them, lover. I know I shall.”

“You always do.” He chuckles, thanking the gods that his soulmate is just as adventurous as he is. “Maybe she will be the only one we choose for now.”

“Perhaps.” Sighing as she lays back in the water, Ellaria tilts her head and soaks her hair, enjoying the way she feels cleaner already. “Perhaps we will develop a taste for sun-red hair while we are here.”

“Whatever we develop a taste for, we will indulge in.” Oberyn does not mind sharing her, doesn’t get jealous because she is his sun and world. No one could break their bond.

“Come to me, lover.” She beckons him with both hands, pouting for him prettily. Now that travel is behind them, Oberyn is already cheerier and it lightens her heart. “Soak with me. It has been weeks since we had a bath.”

“With pleasure.” Stripped down, Oberyn strides over to the bath and starts to descend the stairs to join her in the deep tub.

Ellaria moves to him immediately, arms welcoming him home and lips finding his with a deeply satisfied moan. Her legs are around his waist as quickly as his hands find her ass, and his growing cock twitches against her soft skin.

Oberyn turns around, letting his paramour cling to him as he drops down onto the seat under the water. “I love you.” He murmurs quietly against his lips.

“As I love you.” Since the day they first spoke the words to each other they have not wavered, and Ellaria runs her hands across Oberyn’s skin reverently. “My warrior.”

“My sun.” Oberyn squeezes her ass and rocks her onto his hardening cock. “My world.” The passion between the pair has not wavered over the years, growing stronger in a way that could only be because of their soulmate bond.

“Oberyn.” No matter how many times she takes him, the stretch of his cock inside her takes her breath away. Her hands find his shoulders to cling to him as they find their pace, with his grip guiding her as she begins to bounce on his length in earnest.

“Too soon, my love?” He teases, knowing she is far more than adequately wet. She is dripping.

“Never.” She shakes her head before throwing it back, letting her moan ring out through the echoey chamber. “Never. I am always yours.”

Multi-tasking is a gift that Oberyn has. Results of a wandering spirit and a restless mind. It was one of the reasons he had joined the maesters and eventually left after forging eight links. He reaches for the perfumed soap and a rag to wash his lover.

They are fully enraptured with each other when Leyth returns, and she sets the tray down beside them before seeing about pouring two goblets of wine. It’s rare to have pairs of lovers visit the establishment but not unheard of, and she smiles indulgently, watching the passion they share for a moment before making herself known. “I can do that for you, your Grace,” she offers, knowing her employer will be upset if she neglects them.

Even with Ellaria impaled on his cock, Oberyn tears his mouth away from her lips and looks over at the woman. “Join us and bring the wine.” He orders. “Are the others coming?”

“They are right here.” Leyth slips into the water easily, taking the sponge from him and resumes the work of bathing his lady without missing a beat. Four women and two men all of varying ages and looks pour into the room behind her clad in next to nothing looking apprehensive.

“Do not be shy.” Oberyn turns Ellaria’s head and groans when she clenches down around him. “Any who wish to not join us may leave now.” He does not want someone who is timid.

The most tired looking of the women takes the youngest girl by the hand and leads her from the room with a respectful nod of her head, and one of the men bows before stepping out behind them. "Leaving us with five supple bodies to learn," Ellaria groans appreciatively. Between Oberyn's cock and Leyth's hands massaging her back as she washes her, this is surely already one of the seven heavens. One of the girls is the first to step forward, beautiful dark skin on display and bright eyes full of mischief as she easily discards her meager dress and slips into the water right away. She has heard legends of the second prince of Dorne and intends to find out for herself if they are true.

“Eager.” Oberyn chuckles and beckons her forward. “I like that.” His eyes slide past her towards the remaining man, tall and broad. His tawny skin clear and it’s obvious that his cock is starting to harden as he watches. “You—” he motions towards him. “Do you suck cock or like cock in your ass?”

"I like whatever you like, my lord." After all, is that not what he is here for? Being a man with a voracious appetite for pleasure makes him an asset in a place like this.

Oberyn growls, eyeing his cock tenting the loose trousers he is wearing. “Strip and join us if you are going to.”

Spacious as it is, there is not enough room for everyone in the bath, and the last remaining girl lays down bare on the edge after everyone has climbed in and patiently plays with herself while she waits her turn. There is plenty to feast her eyes on until one of them decides to bury their face in her pussy.

Twitching inside his lover, he kisses her gently and pulls her off his cock. “Go play, my love.” He urges her, knowing she wants to do more than just be touched.

"We may learn to enjoy King's Landing after all." Ellaria laughs, happily letting hands explore her skin. Leyth and the man gravitate toward Oberyn, and she is happy to drown herself in a sea of pussy until she is drunk on the sound of women's pleasure.

When he is close enough, Oberyn reaches down and cups the man’s cock firmly. “What is your name?” He demands, squeezing him gently and jerking him slowly.

"Cal, my lord." His eyelids flutter slightly at the firm touch, eager for more. "Or whatever you want it to be."

“Cal….” He smirks and presses his thumb against the head of the man’s cock. “Have you ever been fucked by a Prince?”

The way Cal shudders and his breath hitches is reverent, and he shakes his head as he tries to remember to breathe. "No, your Grace. But I would like to be."

He turns to Leyth, jerking his chin up. “Kiss me.” he orders, stretching his neck out and lets go of the man’s cock so he can slide his hand around him to press between the cheeks of his ass.

The room fills with moans as Leyth eagerly complies, licking into the prince's mouth with surety. She knows her skill and she hopes to impress, even pressing closer to him to wrap her own hand around his cock.

Oberyn hisses, his tongue sliding against hers happily as he finds Cal’s puckered hole quickly and starts to rub around the opening.Hands are everywhere as Cal lowers his head to lay kisses along the taut muscles of the prince's neck, one hand caressing his skin and the other groping for Leyth's breast to squeeze the supple flesh and play with her nipple. They are paired together often, when clients wish for a show, so he knows her body as well as any instrument.

“You are lovers.” Oberyn groans, pushing a finger inside the man’s quivering hole. On the other side of the bath, Ellaria and the ebony skinned beauty are tangled together in a passionate embrace.

"Sometimes." Leyth agrees, leaning over to give Cal a kiss without missing a single stroke of the prince's cock.

The sounds of heavy breathing and pleasure are filling the bathing room and he can feel the way Cal’s body squeezes his finger as he pumps it into him to stretch him out. “So do you want his cock or his tongue while I fuck him?”

"If I have his cock, I will feel every time you fuck into him." She moans at the idea, chest heaving with just the thought. "You will be driving us both wild with pleasure."

He chuckles and nods, pulling his fingers out of the other man. “Then get on your knees and let him slide inside your cunt.”

Kneeling on the bench where he had been sitting, Leyth presents herself easily for both men to appreciate and sighs out loud when the familiar stretch of Cal's cock presses inside of her wet heat. She knows that Cal is truly the one getting spoiled today and hopes the prince lives up to every rumour for his sake.

Oberyn can’t help but reach out and slap her ass and groans when her generous skin jiggles. “I will fuck you after I have had my fill of your lover.”

"He is insatiable," Ellaria offers, chuckling deeply before burying her face in the cunt nearest her talented mouth. Oberyn is not the only one with an endless appetite. It is one of the reasons that they have so much fun together.

“It has been two weeks.” He huffs, rolling his eyes. There hadn’t been any place to stop and fuck while on the road. He was pent up.

"No one here will complain, my lord." Cal promises, burying himself again in Leyth's cunt and groaning at her heat. "The stories of you are legend, and most of us are eager to know if they are true."

“They are true.” Ellaria pulls his tongue out of the cunt to purr her vote of confidence.

“Thank you, my love.” Oberyn chuckles and reaches for the oils that are kept on the edge of the bath for things such as this.

"Then we will add our praise to the stories that already exist." Soon Leyth will be able to do nothing but take the thrusts from the two men above her, but for now she meets each movement with a roll of her plush hips.

"We are yours for as long as you wish to stay." It is only half of a promise from Cal himself, having been instructed by Littlefinger himself to give Prince Oberyn whatever he wants, but at least now Cal can make the vow with pleasure.

Oberyn has no doubt that these people have been told to do whatever he or his paramour likes but he will only take what he deems right. “Only if I bring you both pleasure.”

"I cannot imagine you have trouble giving pleasure." Cal moans, bending over Leyth's back to present himself to the prince for the taking.

Coating his cock in enough oil to wash his entrance, the water in the bath sloshes as he shuffles closer and takes himself in hand. Pressing closer and pushing the head of his cock against the other man’s hole and slowly rolls his hips forward to break him open.

Cal curses, eyes rolling back into his head as the prince's girth fills him, and in turn pushes his cock further into Leyth's fluttering pussy. The bathing room may as well be their own private party in this moment, because of the large handful of people indulging in each other no one notices Littlefinger lurking by the doorway. True pleasure is rare in a whorehouse, so this is sure to be a lucrative visit for the proprietor.

Oberyn lets out a lusty groan when his hips are flush against the other man’s ass. “You do not flinch away.” He praises, wrapping his long arms around the man so he can cup Leyth’s generous breasts while he waits for the man’s muscles to relax around him.

“Pleasure is a gift.” Cal’s body shudders as he takes Oberyn fully, the stretch of him making the man pant and reach back to grasp the prince’s hip. “You have a very large gift, my lord.”

Oberyn chuckles quietly, pleased with Cal’s words and leans in to nibble on his ear. Enjoying the way he shudders again. “Let me show you what I can do with that gift.”

******

The Red Keep looms above you when you finally step out of your carriage, trying with all your might to block out your mother’s voice muttering indignities that your party was not greeted by a royal retinue at the city line. What utter nonsense. Your house is ancient and wealthy, yes, but certainly not royal and there is no reason for the royal Baratheons or Lannisters to pay you any heed. At least, outside the carriage, you can finally be more than a foot and a half away from your mother again.

“Alright, pumpkin?” Your father beams down at you before swinging off of his horse.

“Of course, Papa.” Of course not is the truth, but after days of spitting venom you are too tired to put up much of a fight. Besides, now that you know this is your mother’s doing, it is hard to be upset with your father for simply being a fool.

Your father beams at you as he steps beside you and offers you his arm. Not having an opportunity to talk much on the road, he wants to assure you. “I understand you are nervous because you have not been to Dorne, but your grandmother and her mother are from Dorne.” He reminds you. “And there is family in Braavos and across the Narrow Sea.” The long tradition of finding love outside the Vale is common, your father finding the free-spirited prince to be a far worthier match for you than some sniveling little lord grasping for favor. The idea that his daughter will be princess is also a factor.

“I shall visit them all at my earliest ability.” The idea of traveling to see family you have never met sounds infinitely preferable to spending even a minute in the presence of the prince you never agreed to wed, and for a moment you almost relax at the idea.

“I doubt your husband will allow anything other than you spitting out his heirs for the next few years.” Your mother scoffs. “You will be visiting his bed.”

“That is not for you to know or to decide.” You tell her, though the fact that she may be right makes you sick to your stomach. Two steps behind the three of you, Raeden could not have missed the comment but you cannot exactly turn to look at him.

Raeden keeps his gaze down, your mother’s words in his mind as he tries to decide if he had made the right choice. Perhaps he should have run away with you. He’s noticed the captain of your father’s guard eyeing him so he had tried to be as impassive as possible. His heart aches at the idea of you in the Prince’s bed, despite the rumors of his prowess and propensity for men and women, something that he shamefully shares with the Prince of Dorne. He had fought his attraction to the other men around him. Not even sharing it with you.

“My lord. My ladies.” A steward in the hallway bows to you dutifully and opens his mouth to welcome you to the Red Keep, but a swish of skirts and a silky smooth voice cuts him off from behind. “Lollard, I will greet my guests,” she instructs, sounding nearly severe before her voice pitches up to something delighted and seemingly terribly excited. “I was so pleased to see your banner approach that I could not help myself.” The woman declares, and you cannot tell if she means it or not. “Lady Margaery Tyrell,” she introduces herself with a broad smile. “It was I who sent your invitation. Welcome to King’s Landing, and to the Red Keep.”

“You are even more beautiful than your portrait, Lady Margaery,” your mother gushes, simpering to the woman who appeared to be several years younger than even you. “And how thoughtful of you to include our House in your nuptial feast. We are honoured.”

“It is I who am honoured.” She steps toward you with a smile. “To have the future princess of Dorne amongst my guests, and of course the ancient connection between our Houses makes us loving cousins, does it not?” The marriage of a Tyrell daughter into your House was four generations ago, but Margaery has never been one to overlook a string that might be pulled in her favour. At least not after her grandmother pointed it out.

Future princess of Dorne. Raeden’s fists clench at his sides as he tries to ignore the fury in his heart at that simple phrase. You will be a princess, and the gap between your stations will be more vast than before.

“We are flattered by such a personal welcome.” Beside you, your father is talking and patting your hand on his arm, but you barely hear him. Each time another person calls you princess or refers to the man who bought you, you feel closer and closer to being sick all over the floor. Or perhaps sinking in a wasting depression. If both are possible simultaneously, that may be the answer.

“Forgive me.” When you find your voice it almost cracks, but you put one hand to your stomach delicately. “I am delighted to make your acquaintance, Lady Margaery, but I am afraid I feel quite ill from weeks of travel. Would it be possible to be escorted to our chamber so that I might be well enough for a turn around the gardens later?” An ally – any ally – may be worth grasping, and you enjoy the way this young woman made your mother frown by not paying attention to her. For right now, though, you would do anything to be alone so that Raeden could visit you.

“Forgive me.” Margaery bows her head respectfully and gives a small, sincere smile. “My manners have forsaken me.” She gestures towards the keep. “Allow me to show you personally to your rooms. A light repast has been laid out for your pleasure as well.”

“How very kind of you,” you murmur, knowing you won’t touch a thing. The reality of your situation has stolen your normally healthy appetite.

Clever blue eyes catch the subtle grimace when she mentions food and yet she doesn’t comment on it. Sensing that you will have much to talk about, Margaery had invited you to stay in the keep as her guest after learning of your betrothal to Oberyn Martell. “This way.” She smiles and motions towards the left corridor.

Though you might not be fond of the games of society, you were raised in them, and you have sense enough that when the future queen offers you her arm you take it. That is how the first glimpse many guests to court ever have of you is strolling arm-in-arm with the woman who will become queen in two days time. It does not matter that you just met. It does not matter that she is chattering away politely while you simply smile your polite smile and nod. The future queen of the Seven Kingdoms and the future princess of Dorne paint a very pretty picture on their way through the halls of the Red Keep with your family trailing behind. If you weren’t so desperate to be alone with Raeden again and attempt to forget all this is happening, you might more fully enjoy the way your mother is green with envy.

______

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#Pedro Pascal #Pedro Pascal character fanfiction #Pedro Pascal fanfic #Oberyn Martell #Oberyn Martell x you #Oberyn Martell x reader #Oberyn Martell x female reader #Oberyn Martell x Ellaria Sand #reader x m!OC #male OC #female reader #male original character #Game of Thrones #soulmate au #arranged marriage

[ramayantika]

Bade farewell to the Hero

It’s the onset of dawn. The dark night sky transforms into a beautiful shade of cotton white, colored with various hues of purple, blue, and pink. The sun, as usual, is slowly rising on the banks of the dark Yamuna, but today, her ethereal black waters carry a silent grief of her own as well as of the town of Vrindavan.

As beautiful as the dark night sky, lotus eyes as deep as the Yamuna waters, there sleeps the young beloved lad of Vrindavan, Krishna on the lap of the moon-like beauty of the town of Vrinda, Shri Radha.

“Have you taken your flute, Kanha?” Her soft voice, no more than a whisper, causes the young boy’s eyes to open in sudden remembrance.

Radha sighs with a small smile on her lips. Her nimble fingers bring out the familiar bamboo flute decorated with a peacock feather and pearls from her waistband. Her fingers reverently touch the flute for one last time. Radha’s kohl-rimmed eyes flutter close, as her fingers close upon each of the seven holes of the flute. There is no music playing anywhere nearby, but only her heart hears the heart-wrenching tunes of separation.

Krishna’s fingers tremble while holding the flute as realization sets in. The moment the chariot wheels cross the boundaries of Vrindavan, his flute would eternally go to sleep. The city of Mathura has no loving gopikas, adorable cows, and young boys with him to play the flute all day.

“Being a simple cowherd is not your destiny, Krishna.” Radha tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear. As she looks at the tear-laden eyes of her beloved, she steels her breaking heart, her sorrowful eyes now staring at him like a powerful queen going on a battle.

“Your existence is meant for great things. You are to live your life like a king.” She points at the crowd assembled at Chief Nanda’s house, a grand cottage that looks tiny from the heart of the forest where they are in. “You have saved us and this town countless times. The world needs you. You are to be a savior for the whole world. For the whole Yuga.”

Krishna gulps his tears down his throat, which now burns like the fire of separation burning his heart. As a lone tear skids down his cheek, Radha’s voice grows bolder, and for a moment he wonders, how much strength does she silently possess in her being.

“Choose the path that leads you to your destiny, towards your dharma.”

Radha stands up. The golden rays of the morning sun fall on her gentle face coating her fair skin with a powerful glow. Krishna stands in awe of the splendor that adorns her face. Goddess. That’s what she is. That’s what she has been.

“You are the rising sun of Dwapar.” She holds Krishna’s hand and entwines her fingers with his. Walking towards the narrow forest path, Krishna observes Radha’s gait. She always walked with a swan-like grace combined with a little shyness on her face each time she entered the forest to meet him. Today, she walks with her chin raised, her eyes fixated on the path ahead that shall lead them both away from their love-filled carefree times forever.

Within moments, they reach Akrura’s chariot. Radha knows that Krishna hasn’t spoken a single word to her. She knows that he won't be able to do so, nor does she have the capacity to hear his enchanting voice when he is on the verge of departure.

The whole crowd looks at their hero. Krishna looks at the tear-stricken face of his parents. He hears the loud sobs of his lovely gopikas who pampered him with butter and milk sweets. His eyes gaze over the grim faces of his childhood friends. The cows of Vrindavan stare at him, sadness clouding their eyes, but those poor creatures can’t speak a word.

Gulping the last of his tears that clog his burning throat, he steps onto the carriage. Radha smiles. Krishna’s eyes meet her once again and she keeps on smiling.

It will get easier to leave, Kanhaiya. Baby steps.

Radha takes four steps towards the chariot. Handing over Krishna’s flute to him, she slowly moves back, her eyes fixed to the ground. The crowd goes silent. The sobbing gopikas cease crying and keep looking at the scene ahead.

Radha folds her hands and bows her head to Krishna. His heart cracks open at the gesture. He bows down to her all humbled.

“You may leave now. We wish you well on the journey ahead. Make us all proud!”

Radha then takes her position beside Yashoda who is on the verge of losing her consciousness. Nanda holds her shoulders, in case she falls to the ground in grief, but only Radha sees how his fingers shakily rest on his wife’s shoulders.

All this while, not a word had escaped Krishna’s lips. The hero must always promise a return to his loved ones.

“My beloved Vrindavan people, fret not. This separation is only momentary. I shall come back soon to tell you all about Mathura. There’s no escape from my pranks. Go, rest for a while before your loved prankster comes back.”

Radha’s vision goes blurry. Her dark beloved appears to go far from her.

“Such a mischievous liar you are O Shyam…”

The sun is soon to rise for Dwapar, but for Vrindavan, the sun has gone to sleep forever.

***

I am sorry :(

This was a dance idea but I decided to write a fic on this and then choreograph the abhinaya. I have cried while practicing this out too. Let's share tears??

Oh, yes I do love showing Krishna in mortal shades with grief, confusion and dilemma clouding him sometimes too. :)

Tagging: @kaaga-re @ma-douce-souffrance (I AM SORRY SAANJH) @swayamev @krishna-priyatama @krishna-sangini @krishnaaradhika @inexhaustible-sources-of-magic @arachneofthoughts @eugenephosgene @jessbeinme15 @stardustkrishnaverse @krsnaradhika @vijayasena @alhad-si-simran @pulihora @nyxie23 @houseofbreadpakoda @yourfavanxioussunshine @aesthetic-aryavartik @starlitskies0 @navaratna @flowerheadkiller @celestesinsight @kaal-naagin

Oh, and I have written for krishna after a loooong time

#samridhi writes #krishna #gopiblr #krishnablr #krishnafics

[celticcrossanon]

BRF Reading - 21st of March, 2024

This is speculation only

Cards drawn on the 21st of March, 2024

Question: Why is Harry still on the royal website?

Interpretation: Because The King refuses to have him removed.

Card One: The Emperor in reverse

The Emperor represents The King, so this card is talking about King Charles.

In the reverse, the Emperor energy is stubborn, rigid, and domineering. It can also represent a tyrant. I don't think that King Charles is a tyrant, but I do feel that he is being stubborn and insisting that Harry stay on the royal website 'because he is my son'. The energy of this card is very rigid. It is the energy of someone who is insisting on having things his own way no matter what the cost.

The Emperor in reverse is the Emperor person acting out of their shadow side or their worst side. In this case, it is King Charles who is acting out of his worst side. The energy here is of someone who is very spoilt, who is used to getting their own way in everything, and they are tired and cranky and unwilling to consider doing anything that is not exactly what they want. If they were a two year old I would be expecting tantrums and early bedtime, but this is a 75 year old man we are talking about.

This is the first time I have seen a similarity between the King's energy and Harry's energy. The energy this card is giving me is a more refined version of Harry's usual petulant, sulky, spoilt brat energy.

Card Two: The Sun

The Sun is a card of optimism, warmth, positivity, success, believing that everything will be all right in the end. It can also be a card for children.

This card is giving me golden child energy. There is no other way to describe it. The energy is of a child who can do no wrong, who will always be protected, pampered and adored, and who will always be cosseted by his parent. This tells me that Harry is the golden child of King Charles and that the King will do whatever he can to cosset, protect, and smooth the path of his favourite child. This reflects the picture on the card, of the god Apollo, who was the favourite son of the chief god Zeus.

In answer the the question, this card tells me that Harry is the favourite child of King Charles and The King is not removing his favourite son from the royal website. I sense that it was a struggle to get Harry in the last position on the page, as The King wanted him right under Prince William, and only other people insisting on having all the working royals first, and all the royals on the page in rank order, prevented this from happening. So having Harry on the page was a compromise to prevent him being listed under Prince William (I could be wrong about this, but there is definitely an energy of being elevated above all others coming from this card).

Card Three: The Wheel of Fortune in Reverse

This card is about your current position and whether you are rising or falling in esteem. In the reverse, it says that your fortunes are falling, you are declining in esteem, you have no control or are clinging to control, and you face unwelcome changes.

Harry has obviously fallen in public esteem, so this card applies to him - he is not favoured by the public and as per his actions there is no reason to favour him by having him on the website or any higher on the website.

The energy of this cardis of someone facing unwelcome changes. I think this refers to King Charles, who is not happy about Harry being last on the website page. I think he may have had to compromise to keep Harry on the page at all, as per the energy of the previous card.

The reversal of fortune energy of this card could be an argument that was used to have The King agree to have Harry in the bottom position on the webpage - that to have him any higher would outrage the general public, who (quite rightly) have no good opinion of Harry after everything he has done, and the BRF can not afford the hit to their reputation if this happens.

Card Four: The King of Cups in Reverse

The King of Cups is a card that represents Scorpio, and in this reading it represents King Charles, a sun sign Scorpio. It represents King Charles as a person, not in his role as King.

The card being in reverse tells me that King Charles is very unhappy about the changes to the royal website with respect to Harry, not just as a king (the Emperor card in reverse) but also as a person. There are waves of unhappiness coming off this card. King Charles did not get his own way with respect to Harry and he is very upset about it.

The card in reverse also tells me that King Charles as-a-person is operating out of his shadow side in this matter. With the King of Cups reversed that means someone who is selfish, emotionally manipulative, over-emotional, making decisions with the heart and not the head, moody, volatile emotionally, and seeking vengeance on all who he sees as wronging him.

I expect repercussions from the decision to put Harry at the bottom of the page (and not return him to under Prince William). The King will be looking for someone to blame and possibly to punish that person in some way for not allowing his darling boy to be in his rightful place as a prince and son of the king.

Underlying Energy: The Five of Swords.

This is my card for duty. As a general card, it is a card of not being able to win for losing, of arguments, aggression, bullying, conflict, hostility, and stress.

This card tells me two things: Firstly, that an argument about duty was used to keep Harry on the website (maybe something like "He is my son and it is my duty as a father to have my sons on the website"). Secondly, that the decision to keep Harry on the website caused a lot of arguments, that The King got his way by 'pulling rank' or something similar, and that this has caused a lot of hostility from his advisors and perhaps other members of the BRF. The King has won the battle to keep Harry on the website, albeit in a compromise position (possibly), but his behaviour during the conflicts that arose has alienated some of his supporters and advisors. The end result was not worth the hurt feelings involved, and everyone can see this except The King.

Conclusion:

Harry has been kept on the website because The King wants him there. The King is not concerned about how this will appear to the general public, he wants his favourite son on the royal website and that is what happened. The King's insistence on this and his method of winning the arguments over this (riding roughshod over everyone) has caused a lot of hostility among his advisors and supporters.

There are suggestions in the energy that Harry's position on the page is a compromise and the King wanted him under Prince William. If this is the case, then The King is very hurt because he didn't get what he wanted, he is brooding over it (?sulking?), and he is looking for someone to blame and punish in some way.

In this reading The King was acting out of his shadow energy, his worse side, both in his role as King and as a person/parent. He came across as overly emotional, emotionally manipulative, almost a bully (pulling rank to get his own way), stubborn, rigid, and domineering. His energy was of a spoilt brat sulking because they didn't get exactly what they wanted, and very close to throwing a tantrum to get it. It is the first time I have seen the same energy in The King and his son Harry.

[kanmom51]

JK's White day live, JM's Angel pt. 1 and all that's in between...

I keep coming back to this clip today.

This is the third time I'm sharing it here today, lol.

But you see, the brain is working, wheels are turning, old and squeaky but still at work.

JK did this, we all know it.

White day live, while JM was in the US, doing who knows what (we will talk about that in a sec).

He got super excited when JM showed up and didn't want him to leave, but JM had work to do (and like I said, we will be getting there in no time).

JK set up the mood. Played songs from his playlist, one being, surprisingly or maybe not so much, There for you by Troye Sivan. The song that happened to be the soundtrack of GCFT. The singer that happens to sing Angel baby.

Then JK plays Golden Hour, by JVKE, who happens to have recorded a song together with JM, who happens to be in the US at the time. We are talking 14 March 2023, song to come out on 18 May 2023. A song that has long been recorded, which means JK KNEW very well at this point that these two are connected.

JK stages the table and camera to showcase the JM, and then sings "your the love of my life" with the song. He knows the song, he knows how to time it perfectly. You can see the wheels in his mind working to time it just right.

So let me put this all together for you:

JK came on White day playing a song that he used for his own soundtrack, GCFT, sung by a singer that has a song called Angel baby (which has been linked to Jikook by many Jikookers), GCFT being a showcase for JM, then played a song by JVKE, showed the JM tattoo and sang "your the love of my life".

All this while knowing that JM is collaborating with JVKE on a song called Angel pt.1 and is in the US, and this last part is an assumption on my part, shooting the MV to said Angel...

JK, the spoiler king was doing his thing here.

This is a hill I am willing to die on.

And you know what else?

JVKE was trolling us all, lmao.

TKKs and JKKs and solos alike. Everyone was dreaming of any option possible, except for one that was JM alone.

Joke was on us, and I have zero hard feelings, lol.

I'm loving every single minute of this.

18 May 2023, if you haven't already, put it in your calendars.

Who knows, maybe JK will come around to remind us... fingers crossed.

Oh, and one more thing...

Knowing everything we know today. Do we still think the J over the M still stands for Jungkook???

#Jimin #JM #JM Angel pt 1 #Jungkook #JK #Jikook #Kookmin #Minkook

[stone-stars]

so… i made a list of the first use of every song* in campaign 1 of naddpod, with timestamps. if you're wondering, it's 190 unique songs! * disclaimer: this list doesn't include royalty free songs, only emily's, and it's entirely possible i missed one or two.

i've put the list under the cut, separated by episode! timestamps include ads for eps 1-48, and are from the ad free version for eps 49-100.

(disclaimer that i determined the names of songs by cross-referencing what they were credited as across episodes, so some may be inaccurate. i noted those down in the list)

13 - City in the Clouds, 18:04 13 - Beverly's House, 38:15 13 - The Widow, 53:56

14 - Court of the Boy King, 18:57 14 - The Twinkling Lights of Galaderon, 1:24:27

15 - A Bastard No More, 24:29 * 15 - The Ruins of Cragwater, 2:04:02 * (note: "A Bastard No More" is called "Hardwon Takes the Wheel" after c1e70)

16 - Duergar Drudgery, 4:26 16 - Spooky Shafts, 6:23 16 - Heed the Mushroom's Call, 21:10 16 - Schubert's Song, 25:47 16 - Jolene the Green, 31:30 16 - Farewell to Fungen, 34:39 16 - The Mithril Miner's Shuffle, 38:57 16 - The Mithril's Run Dry, 52:46

17 - The Depths of the Dungeon, 1:11:14 17 - Conspiracy in the Clouds, 1:14:23

18 - The Revenant's Fate, 24:35 18 - A Fate Refused, 25:59 18 - Escape the Boy King's Brunch, 1:31:31

19 - The Purge, 12:13 19 - The Valiant Ol' Cobb, 51:37 19 - At the Last Minute, a First, 1:29:29 19 - Skybound, 1:32:28

20 - The Blows of a Friend, And Not a Foe, 1:03:09 20 - Forsaken, 1:07:20 20 - Apotheosis, 1:08:23 20 - A Haven Away From Home, 1:12:17

21 - Betrayal Below, 19:10 21 - The Gunslinger's Girl, 39:10 21 - A Sign from Melora, 1:04:57 21 - Friend Turned Foe, 1:06:02 21 - Sumpin's a Mess Out West, 1:39:31

22 - Slumber in the Stump, 45:03 22 - The Sultan of Stone, 1:41:25 22 - Block Hop, 1:42:37

23 - The Mountain Meets the Sky, 42:33 23 - Trust the Gust, 1:01:00 23 - The Titan of Air, 1:12:09

24 - Sumpin's Asunder Down Under, 37:53 24 - Baptised, 43:39 24 - Steed of the Sea, 51:12 24 - Cetacean Farewell, 1:13:37 24 - Into the Flame, 1:16:25

25 - The Golden Sword, 55:14 25 - Cured by the Light, 1:00:21 25 - Hospitably Hostile, 1:05:28 25 - Mee Maw's Burden, 1:21:18

26 - The Grand Maw Tree, 9:51 26 - Into the Fog, 55:16 26 - A Hospitable Farewell, 1:01:11 26 - Befuddled and Befogged, 1:05:19 26 - Hazy Daze, 1:09:59

27 - Snake Skirmish, 4:38 27 - Greener Shades, 1:10:49 27 - Moonshine's Stump, 1:14:50 27 - Unknown Tome, 1:27:06

28 - Balnor's Bad Dream, 28:01 28 - Blessings of the Elementals, 1:14:35 * 28 - Elemental Energy, 1:17:39 * * (note: the two songs credited here are actually "Elemental Energy" and "Calling in a Favor", so the second song may be either name)

29 - The Prodigal Sister, 58:37 29 - A Rare Appearance, 1:01:26 29 - Oh, Melora!, 1:02:53 29 - A Tale's End, 1:08:30

31 - A Giant Among Men, 17:47 31 - Back Against the Wall, 28:04

32 - Behold! Treasure, 10:31 32 - Akarot's Letter, 23:50 32 - Shock at the Dock, 37:25 32 - Invisible But Not Invincible, 43:48 32 - Escape from Smuggler's Bounty, 48:56

33 - Tonathan Tinkle, 6:51 33 - Uku's Gift, 1:20:31

34 - Frostwind, 37:04 34 - A Humble Shopkeeper, 47:08 34 - Vinril's Gems, 1:05:26

35 - Balnor the Brave, 1:08:16

37 - Descending, 20:58 37 - A Tempting Offer, 41:40 37 - Desecrated, 51:28

39 - Incriminated, 33:37

41 - Tower of the Winter Wolves, 20:35 41 - Tundra Trudge, 1:26:39 41 - Valley of the Frigid Death, 1:20:03 * * (note: this song is used in ep 38 at 53:45, but not credited)

42 - Prey Don't Stand a Prayer, 42:37 * 42 - Yanoba, 1:10:39 * (note: this song is also used in ep 38 at 1:07:13, but not credited)

45 - The Eye of Akarot, 14:33 45 - Bash at the Gash, 34:43 45 - The Bronzebeard Legacy, 45:15 45 - Kingshammer, 1:45:59 45 - A Sight For Sore Eyes, 1:49:15

46 - Fantastic & Fuddling, 40:32 * 46 - A Soft Landing, 57:53 * 46 - A Humble Farmer, 1:07:22 * 46 - The Court of the Bear Prince, 1:18:46 46 - Wooded Wonders, 1:45:23 * * (note: the four starred songs names are inconsistently used. I tried to go with the names they're most often known by across this arc and other campaigns but it changes. The big thing here is that the song at 1:07:22 is not called “A Humble Farmer” again, but when it’s used later in c1 it’s credited as “Wooded Wonders”, and then in c2/3 it’s “Fantastic & Fuddling”. However, both of those names are more consistently used for the songs I have them labeled as now. The song at 40:32 is called “Fantastic & Fuddling” throughout the Feywild arc, and the song at 1:45:23 is called “Wooded Wonders” in every campaign except HBS, where it’s “A Humble Farmer” Basically— “Fantastic & Fuddling” means the song at 40:32 and “Wooded Wonders” usually means the song at 1:45:23, but this isn’t always the case, and the song at 1:07:22 may be called either.)

47 - Puzzled, 8:40 47 - Mysterious Yet Familiar, 1:08:07 47 - Queen Cirilla, 1:14:02 47 - Frozen in Time, 1:16:35

49 - Gnome Man's Land, 1:03:54

50 - Rolling Deep, 13:10 50 - Neath a Ceiling of Stars, 30:36 50 - Sea Beast, 53:38 50 - Great Crone of the Sea, 1:11:05

51 - Alanis, 3:34 51 - The Nannerfly Effect, 14:35 * 51 - When You Wish Upon A Stone, 20:26 51 - Only the Ocean to Console Him, 45:27 * (note: throughout the Feywild, this song is called “The Nannerfly Effect”, and then later goes on to be credited as various versions of "wish stones")

54 - The Autumn Court, 3:35

55 - The Witch's Den, 58:57

56 - An Innocent Flirtation, 48:02 56 - Goblin Dirigible, 1:04:27 56 - Crash Landing, 1:15:21

57 - Tower in the Distance, 13:18 57 - Angels and Devils, 16:58 57 - King Lestibourne, 1:02:39 57 - All I Need is One Thread to Spin a Web, 1:09:20 57 - Kiss of Life, 1:45:12

58 - Flying Through the Night, 25:18 58 - Bittersweet Sixteen, 59:34 58 - A Hard Goodbye, 1:26:52

59 - Shadowfell, 2:49 59 - Into the Mist, 5:34 59 - Grimhawk, 53:33 59 - Langston, 1:05:56

60 - Deadeye, 6:30 60 - The Fat Monk, 25:13

61 - The Red Fen, 20:54 61 - The Montgomerys, 40:11 61 - Growing Pains, 1:16:21 * 61 - Gutless, 1:29:37 * (note: “Growing Pains” is credited as “Drained” here, but the name changes later and is used consistently)

63 - Montgomery Manor, 1:14:22 63 - Shadowfell Sneak, 1:17:34 63 - Two for Tea, 1:21:08

66 - Unholy Pilgrimage, 22:22

67 - Bastard's Fate, 1:22:05 67 - Bastard's Cove, 1:30:06

70 - Lucanus Aer'Tea, 1:27:08 70 - A Miracle Child, 1:44:43 70 - The Thinking Cap, 1:49:53

71 - The Whisperwood, 27:30 71 - Gladeholm, 29:41 71 - The University, 56:36 71 - Qwiksus, 1:10:04 71 - A Wizard Tournament, 1:30:24 71 - Star Spawn, 2:10:23

73 - Summoning, 11:28 73 - Secret Basement, 32:21 73 - The Objective, 1:31:50 73 - Pandemonium, 1:34:22 73 - Lilith La Trix, 1:37:55

75 - Kingsguard, 22:17 75 - Speaking Stump, 27:19 75 - Irondeep, 1:18:40 - (note: these three songs are only used in this ep in c1)

76 - The Mindflayer's Lair, 59:48 76 - The Multiverse, 1:13:57 76 - Alone, 1:19:50 76 - The Vast Expanse, 1:22:21 76 - Into the Planar Pool, 1:27:28

77 - Deal with a Devil, 21:42 * 77 - Buzzer's Cutters, 25:28 77 - The Posse, 1:07:48 77 - The Bronze Bastard, 1:35:51 * (note: this song is also frequently called “Soul Coins”)

79 - Lust, 14:52 79 - The River Styx, 24:46 79 - Fierna, 32:36 79 - A Risky Gamble, 51:42 79 - The Honey Trap, 55:40

82 - The Seventh Circle of Hell, 14:58 82 - Demigod, 28:55

83 - Ilsed's Secret, 42:05

84 - Hellfire Crown, 1:26:11 86 - Torn Apart, 46:42 * * (note: technically "Torn Apart" is a part of “Hellfire Crown” and plays in ep 84 at 1:17:32, but the two have different instrumentation and “Torn Apart” is credited as such later, so I've split them)

91 - I Just Want to Know You're Taken Care Of, 21:37 91 - The Pact, 47:25 91 - Forest, 1:07:14

92 - Enlightened, 15:26 * * (note: this song isn't credited in this ep, its first credit as "Enlightened" is in ep96 at 36:47)

95 - Hole in the Sky, 1:01:12 95 - Pure Gold, 1:34:39

96 - The Glittering Lady, 15:51

97 - Fabric of Fate, 9:44 * 97 - Selfless, 12:48 97 - A Glittering Reunion, 22:18 * (note: this song is later called "Melora's Boon" in c3)

100 (pt. 1) - The Writing on the Wall, 28:55 100 (pt. 1) - Paradise, 46:04 100 (pt. 1) - A Memory, 1:03:17 100 (pt. 2) - One Big Bed, 1:46:57

#naddpod #bahumia #naddmusic tag #don’t ask why i did this #this is the more normal version of this list #i have one of every single song use including repeats #yes i’ll share it someday but i want to finish the other campaigns first #edit: updated jacked to be the posse. idk why i thought they were different they're the same song lol

[journeytothewestresearch]

Monkey King Misconception

There's a misconception about Sun Wukong that has been going around since at least 2021. It states that Monkey can transform into an even stronger version of an opponent he is facing, thereby giving himself more power and enabling him to win the battle. See the attached examples, one from Quora and two from Twitter. I think this mistaken belief is based on a misreading of Wukong's battle with Nezha in chapter 5.

During their battle, Nezha takes on a three-headed, six-armed form. Wukong responds by taking on a similar form. The battle is finally decided when Monkey creates a hair clone of himself and performs a sneak attack, thus wounding the child-god.

Young Nata grew angry. "Change!" he yelled loudly, and he changed at once into a fearsome person having three heads and six arms. In his hands he held six kinds of weapons: a monster-stabbing sword, a monster-cleaving scimitar, a monster-binding rope, a monster-taming club, an embroidered ball, and a fiery wheel. Brandishing these weapons, he mounted a frontal attack. "This little brother does know a few tricks!" said Wukong, somewhat alarmed by what he saw. "But don't be rash. Watch my magic!" Dear Great Sage! He shouted, "Change!" and he too transformed himself into a creature with three heads and six arms. One wave of the golden-hooped rod and it became three staffs, which were held with six hands (Wu & Yu, 2012, vol. 1, p. 155). [...] They clashed like raindrops and meteors in the air, but victory or defeat was not yet determined. Wukong, however, proved to be the one swifter of eye and hand. Right in the midst of the confusion, he plucked a piece of hair and shouted, "Change!" It changed into a copy of him, also wielding a rod in its hands and deceiving Nata. His real person leaped behind Nata and struck his left shoulder with the rod. Nata, still performing his magic, heard the rod whizzing through the air and tried desperately to dodge it. Unable to move quickly enough, he took the blow and fled in pain. Breaking off his magic and gathering up his six weapons, he returned to his camp in defeat (Wu & Yu, 2012, vol. 1, p. 156).

Both characters obviously have the ability to magically manipulate their bodies. Therefore, this is not the same as copying the magical skills and strength of an adversary.

Source:

Wu, C., & Yu, A. C. (2012). The Journey to the West (Vols. 1-4) (Rev. ed.). Chicago, Illinois: University of Chicago Press.

#Sun Wukong #Monkey King #magic powers #Journey to the West #JTTW #Lego Monkie Kid #LMK #misconception #Nezha #Third Prince #Lotus Prince

[cuckoo-on-a-string]

Promises Four: A Request

Dark!Morpheus x (female)reader, fantasy/medieval AU, 18+

Master List

Dream of the Endless had been promised a bride.

Chapter Track: "Blue" bardcore cover by Cornelius Link A/N: SHORT chapter. A necessary bit before a bigger scene. Obviously not updating as often as I'd like, but I have some mental health stuff going on that's actively interfering with my creativity/ability to write. Your comments and support mean the world! <3

A Request

The bard found her opportunity in the midafternoon.

The court wheeled slow. Too early to dine, too late for anything but quiet meetings over tea. Gossips bartered in corners, warmed by sunlight and conspiracy. The oldest and youngest members of court disappeared for a private rest before the night’s feasting, and the empty spaces they left behind became walls between cliques and families. Everyone found a place and settled there. Or most did, at least. Even the king wandered from his guest to attend to matters of state – his new mistress, rather – and Dream of the Endless sat like a black tear in the golden hangings and wreathed roses.

A cat, perfectly still, intent on everything and nothing as it watched for something worth the bother to hunt. A flicking tail would suit him well.

She’d spent the morning watching his frown cut over the assembled nobles, more judge than hopeful husband, and each failure to notice a pretty girl or answer an eager boy drew a new line in the web she suspected he wove over the court, the trap under the façade. The Endless’s true motive and threat.

She twiddled inoffensive tunes with her lute, banished by her own free will to the minstrels’ corner. Her songs had a purpose, even when played softly. She saved a queen’s reign once, sitting quietly and listening to courtiers sing in traitorous whispers. With busy hands and a clear purpose, she was invisible. Even her friends only remembered her every hour or so, and most knew her well enough to let her be.

The Endless did not leave his seat on high. He did not lower himself to converse with the lowly mortals gathered for his pleasure, and he raised his wine to his lips but rarely. Everything moved like a dull play someone bribed him to sit and watch.

Stealing strings from the growing web, the bard wove a tapestry, working until she could see the shapes and faces, until something resembling sense appeared. The scene in the unfinished fabric looked more like a war than a courtship.

And when the slow hours crept over the castle, and Dream of the Endless sat alone, she turned like the shadows over the wall to settle at on the steps of the royal dais.

“You must enjoy your misery, King of Dreams, to subject yourself to seven full days of this.”

He looked at her, nearer than the rest of court, but still so clearly beneath him, and lifted a brow.

“My misery?” It was the most he’d engaged with any of the lesser beings he sat amidst, and each word weighed heavy, spoken slowly so she’d feel the burden of his attention. “What inspires your assumption?”

Assumption was not presumption, and she took it as permission to continue. He would deign indulge her questions. For the moment. But she must tread carefully, and she continued playing, a gentle ballad a half-step removed from a lullaby.

“Your bearing,” she said, keeping her eyes on the chords. “Your face, your manner.”

Music and mathematics came from the same house. A simple melody and simple addition led to answers most preferred to ignore.

 “You seem terribly bored, majesty.”

A ghost of a smile shadowed his face, a passing eclipse over the moon’s bright face.

“And you would entertain me, little bard?”

“I would not presume to know your tastes, though they clearly do not walk this court.” He didn’t even pretend to show interest. When the king left the room, the Endless’s starry eyes turned flat and cold, proof that the promised bride hadn’t lured him back. Which left only one possibility. To ensure she was heard, she turned to meet his gaze, filling the natural pause of her lute’s tune with her request. “I wouldn’t ask it as a favor, but if you would deign consider it – perhaps whatever cautionary tale you spin will spread farther carried by survivors.”

Now, she truly had his interest. Graceful as a snake, he shifted in his throne. His dark figure blocked the sun, and the only light to creep over his shoulders caught in the ruby at his throat. The bloody glint drew the hair along the back of her neck to stand straight, and she hoped the goosebumps didn’t betray her by running down her arms. She didn’t dare look away to check.

“Do you fear for your life?”

Not at all, and the unnatural confidence of immortality buoyed her courage, lifting a smile from the deep pit in her chest where it sank before she came to sit at Dream’s feet.

“Your sister will not have me, as I’m sure you know.”

The stars in his eyes flashed, and while his shadows didn’t grow any brighter, their knife’s edge softened.

“I’m asking so I might advise a few wiser birds fly the coop before the fox comes calling. They’d make excellent messenger pigeons, if they escape.”

It was too much to hope for a direct answer, and she didn’t wait for one. She rose from the step to sink back down in a far more honest curtsy than she’d offered the mortal realm’s king the night before. Here was a monarch due much greater respect.

And for the second time, she took her leave of him.

#morpheus x reader #sandman x reader #dream of the endless x reader #morpheus x oc #fic: promises #dark!morpheus