#i love muck warfare man

[ficsilike-reblogged]

Blood in the Rivers: IX

A/N: Apparently I cannot write short chapters. Thank you for your patience and for all the likes and reblogs and kind comments on the last chapter. I love you all so much. Special shout-out to @starlight-starwrites​ for listening to me whine about this chapter.

Pairing: Oberyn Martell x Ellaria Sand x F!Reader (Tully)

Rating: NC-17, for acts of warfare (blood, guts, and gore--our Tully is a little mean), Face-sitting, fingering, using sex to go to sleep, a few kisses

Word Count: 14.2k ( ¯\_(ツ)_/¯)

Read Chapters I-VIII here! Or on Ao3!

Chapter Nine: The Monster, The Maiden

King’s Landing still smelled of piss and soured bread.

Robb’s missive had come just after they had set the Lannister fleet alight at Lannisport. Yara and her fleet would be left to sack Casterly Rock with a majority of Y/N’s small band of men while Obara and Arya and a handful of Riverlanders set off toward the capital with Y/N.

Cersei had grown desperate and crazed. Growing only more bold and paranoid after she was crowned Queen.

King Tommen was dead. Margaery had been thrown into the Black Cells under suspicion of his murder and the new queen had pulled nearly all of her loyal bannermen to protect the city. Obara surmised that it was a Faceless Man, sent after the king after the Iron Throne refused to pay their debts to the Iron Bank of Braavos.

So much had changed since she had left the safety of Sunspear’s shadows. And yet not enough. The Lannisters still called themselves the rulers of the Seven Kingdoms and the Realm still suffered.

Obella’s tactics had kept all but a handful of the men under Y/N’s command alive. The Westerlands had been put to the torch and their gold and silver mines plundered in the dark of the night. The small band of Riverlanders hid in the dense forests and picked off the Lions’ bannermen when the roads forced them to march two-by-two. She, Arya, and Obara had been welcomed as guests at Pinkmaiden and settled there as their first command stronghold. When asked why she did not think to travel to Riverrun, Y/N’s answer was simple. “I have asked men to leave their homes to fight. I do not go home until they do.” They had never stayed in a location for longer than two days, moving from target to target with brutal efficiency.

But now she was back in the gods-forsaken capital that she had narrowly escaped.

“Has it always smelled like this?” Obara asked, nose crinkling as the wind carried the putrid stench up to the high hill above the city.

“Yes,” both Arya and Y/N answered.

The men at their backs looked grim and anxious in their cloaks, trying to hide their armor. While the Northmen and Dornish were still marching toward the capital, the Reach knights and cavalry had been the first to arrive at the gates of the city, demanding the release of Margaery—the rightful queen. It provided a well-enough distraction.

Y/N slipped off Qēlos’ back and patted the mare’s side in thanks. The beautiful horse had earned her weight in apples a thousand times over in this terrible war. She handed the reins to Lord Blackwood who promised to keep her safe until she returned.

“But are you certain-”

“Lord Blackwood, my answer has not changed since the last time you asked. I thank you for your concern but it is unwarranted.”

The older lord’s face colored with an embarrassed blush and he dipped his head. “Of course, my lady.”

Arya barely concealed a laugh as she, too, dismounted but Obara was stone-faced as her feet hit the damp grass. Patrek Mallister was quick to offer his hand to take her horse’s reins. (In truth, he’d been quick to do anything Obara needed. When they were still setting the Westerlands ablaze and picking off their infantrymen from the cover of forest, Y/N noticed that the majority of men under Obara’s command were either half in love or half terrified of the eldest Sand Snake. Patrek was decidedly the former. His time as a captive of the Freys after the Red Wedding had stripped him of the wandering eye he was known for.)

Obara and Arya stepped to Y/N’s side and they each took a deep breath.

“May the Warrior protect you,” one of the men whispered at their backs.

But Y/N could scarcely hear it over the thudding of her heart. No matter how many times she had readied for battle and shadowed warfare, her heart always leapt into her throat. And maybe that kept her alive, the slight-panic keeping her senses heightened.

“This way,” Arya said, leading them down, down, down. While Tyrion’s crude drawing of the placement of the wildfire around the Red Keep and King’s Landing was safely tucked into Y/N’s small pack, Arya was the one leading them into the mouth of the passages beneath the city. She had warned them about the smell.

It did not help.

Once pleasant and cool water gave way to stink and muck that had Y/N retching. Arya shushed her above the lapping brown water as one of Euron Greyjoy’s longboats neared where they had been treading against the waves. And then, much to her horror, it became clear that they would have to submerge themselves in the muck to avoid detection as the boat sailed by. Through the brown water and with burning lungs, Y/N watched the boat sail across the surface and she nearly vomited when they quietly crested, feeling the disgusting water line her mouth as she clutched her pack to her chest.

“Nearly there,” Arya whispered, starting a slow swim toward a dark corner of the wall.

They were quiet as they hoisted themselves up into the stone hole, gurgling with more sludge. But Y/N could not hold back her retch any longer as they finally curled around a jagged corner. It echoed in the dark and she winced when she heard it.

“Come, Little Fish, do not let your stomach fail us now.” Obara’s words of encouragement were stilted as she tried to keep her own rolling stomach contained.

“The worst is behind us,” Arya whispered with a small smile, murky water on her lips.

Both Obara and Y/N sighed at the girl’s unflinching (if not dark) optimism they quickly set off after the young Stark, following her steps in the dark, twisting tunnels and up the tight steps of uneven stone stairs which led to more tunnels and more stairs. They walked in silence for a long stretch of time, the squish of their soaked boots the only sound they heard. But dim light soon trickled down from some unseen room above to light the path Arya led them on. With the light came the realization that they were surrounded by dragon skulls, damp and dusty with the passing of time.

“I once thought they were monsters,” Arya whispered, a far-off look on her face.

“Is this what you found when you disappeared for half a day?” Y/N asked, skirting around a skull with teeth as long as her arm. It all seemed like a lifetime ago that she had been worried about where Arya had hidden away and Ned had sent Y/N and half his guard out into the city to look for her. When Arya arrived back at the Tower of the Hand, reeking and dirty, near dark, Ned had been both relieved and furious with his youngest daughter.

“It was,” was all Arya said, voice sad. It had been a lifetime for her, too.

And now they were here, in the bowels of the castle that had tried to rip their lives asunder and had very nearly succeeded. But now it was their turn.

The dim light only grew a fraction brighter as Arya finally slowed to a stop—but the noise grew, too.

The first voice was unmistakably Cersei; “the Red Keep has never fallen.”

“Our own father helped it fall. Have you forgotten everything?” Jaime near-snarled in return.

Y/N crept closer to light on quiet feet and followed it so she could more properly hear the conversation. Any bit of information was valuable, even if she was soaked in muck down to her skin. She pivoted so she could look up into the room above, a tiny sliver of stone crooked in its place. She recognized the carved pillars and marble lions of one of the interior courtyards even through the small field of vision the stone allowed.

“Father is here—he will never allow-”

“Our father is not a god despite your best efforts to make him one in your heart of hearts. And neither are you.”

“He will keep us safe. I am Queen of the Seven Kingdoms! Let them try to take my crown.”

“They will try!” Jaime pressed. “The Tyrells are at the gates and the wolves and Martells are coming. What will you do when they arrive and Father’s plans fail you? Yara Greyjoy’s fleet have taken Casterly Rock. There are whispers of Riverlanders picking our bannermen off from the trees after torching most of our bannermen’s lands. What will you do?”

There was a pregnant pause and Y/N felt Obara tug on the back of her jerkin, trying to get her to move.

“Let them have ashes.”

Obara tugged again and Y/N let herself be pulled away this time as she fumbled to grab the wax-coated map of Tyrion’s wildfire storehouses from its hiding place in her pack, unhearing of Jaime’s reply. “We must be quick.”

Arya huffed. “You were dawdling.”

But the three of them set off in search of the glowing jars of fire and found them almost exactly where Tyrion had said they would be and quickly—and carefully—started to move them, hoping that Tyrion’s map proved accurate again. It took hours of cautiously shuffling in the dark to move the cracked glass jars and half-filled barrels they found to where they needed them for this plan to work. They did not have the time to completely empty the city of its wildfire caches and knew there were still piles of them in secret coves and shadowed corners of the city’s underbelly.

Through more thin walls and cutaway stones, they heard whispers. Whispers of the forces outside the walls. Whispers of movement of the gold cloaks and Kingsguard around the city. Whispers of doom with the arrival of the Northmen at the gates.

Whispers whispers whispers.

When her arms ached and her clothes had dried, they moved the last little jar into their pile. But the tiny jar refused to settle and tried to topple from its perch. Y/N thrust her hands out and caught it before it shattered on the floor. A single drop leapt from the jar’s depths and missed her hand before it spattered on the ground, hissing and smoking against the stone.

“We have to go,” Obara said. Even through the thick walls, they could hear the din of movement along the balustrades, readying for battle. Obara had a small barrel in her arms, too. The second-to-last piece in their plan.

Y/N froze for only a moment before she tore off the sleeve of her tunic and shoved it into the top of the jar in as a makeshift stopper. She could use it later, she reasoned to herself, as she stuffed it into the small bag at her back.

Arya was pressing her ear up to the slab of stone at the end of a squat, dead end tunnel. She only needed to stand on her tiptoes to reach it, face tight with concentration. “We’re good,” she whispered before reaching up to move the stone. A whoosh of cooled night air came with it.

Obara started to slowly pour out the contents of her barrel, leaving a sickly green trail from the pile of jars up to Arya’s side. “You first, Pup,” she said, crouching to avoid hitting her head on the ceiling.

Arya then leapt and scrambled up into the dark. Her little hands reached down for the barrel Obara was holding and Obara followed her path up once the barrel was out of her grasp.

“Little Fish,” Obara whispered, “come. We’re nearly finished.”

Y/N glanced back at the pile of wildfire. It looked so much smaller from a distance. She hoped it was enough. Obara held out a hand for her and Y/N took it, needing the help to get out of the tunnel. They were just outside the city now, right at the edge of one of the Old Gate. The grass was damp beneath their feet with early-morning dew as Obara took the barrel from Arya and quickly emptied its contents down into the hole and then trailed it away to leave a smoking green puddle. She discarded the barrel as they crept toward the sparse forest, hoping the growing sun would provide enough cover so the guards on the walls would not see them. The murmur of a city ill-at-ease crept over the high walls and gave a beat to their retreating steps.

Tytos and Patrek were hidden behind the first handful of trees, looking more worried than Y/N expected.

“The Tyrells have retreated for the moment. The archers on the walls have kept them from battering down the Lion Gate,” Tytos said as he handed over the reins to her horse. “And the Northmen have arrived.”

“Have they seen you or our men?” Y/N asked as she rifled through one of the saddlebags for a canteen and a scrap of cloth and quickly wet it, wiping it across her face.

“I do not believe so, my lady.”

Y/N nodded and then tossed a fresh and damp cloth to Arya and Obara, letting them clean their faces, too. She then grabbed a small canteen of ale and swished it around her mouth before spitting it out. “Raise your banners. It is time we made our presence known.”

Tytos nodded once again and signaled toward the men lining the dark of the trees.

Y/N hurried to pull on her armor and huffed out a thanks when she felt Obara’s rough fingers tightening laces or adjusting the pauldron over her shoulder that she had skewed in her haste. Arya’s armor was impeccably placed even without help and Obara slapped at Patrek’s hand when he tried to assist her.

The banners of the Riverlands started to rise as they stepped out of the tree line. Shouts came from the wall when they were spotted.

Y/N patted Qēlos’ flank as she pulled her bow and quiver from the horse’s tack, sending the mare further into the woods to wait.

“Archers!” Some gold cloak yelled from his perch. “Archers!”

Y/N nocked her arrow and Arya lit the end. Dirty fingers pulled the string tight for just a moment as she angled it up into the sky and then let it loose. It sailed through the air and hit the small puddle of green at the base of the wall.

A terrible crack and boom filled the sticky dawn air and Y/N nearly lost her footing as some invisible force shoved her back. Green flames filled the air and the city wall erupted into a storm of broken brick and black dust.

“The wall!” someone cried, muffled against the ringing in her ears. “They’ve breached the wall!”

Y/N righted herself and watched as her small band of Riverlanders and Obara and Arya surged forward in a wave, quickly followed by men in copper armor, pressing into the city’s wound as the green flames of the wildfire continued to eat at the wall and screaming soldiers.

The Dornish had come.

She nocked another arrow and let it fly, tearing into the neck of a distracted solider at the top of the crumbling wall. Another pushed an archer taking aim from his perch. Again and again she picked off the remaining soldiers on the balustrade above the hole in the wall until her quiver was empty. But then, even over the din of the battle, she heard a distinctive crack. Metal breaking and smacking against stone and brick.

“The gate! Defend the gate!”

And now there were two.

Y/N slung her bow across her shoulders and drew the pair of small blades from her belt and pushed forward, trailing behind the press of Dornish and Riverlands.

The city was in chaos. Gold Cloaks and Kingsguard and Westerland bannermen were scrambling over the rubble and wreckage, swords clashing against the invaders. But the Reach and North had pushed their way through the Lion Gate.

There would be no escape.

A man in red and gold armor screamed as he ran at her, spear thrust out in front. Y/N was able to dodge it but his feet could not be stopped and she sank the end of one of her blades through the eye slot of his helmet. She knew she needed to keep moving. Her armor was not meant for full-scale combat like this. But she would not leave her men, Riverlander or Dornish, to fight alone.

But the battle raged. Her small blades were coated in crimson and her arms ached as they pushed forward toward the Red Keep. Toward Cersei.

She caught sight of Arya in the skirmish ahead. The little wolf was holding her own for the most part against some City Watch brute but a well-timed kick to her stomach had Arya falling to the ground, her little sword slipping from her grasp.

“Arya!” Y/N screamed as her heart leapt into her throat to strangle the air from her lungs. “ARYA!” She pushed through the pulsing group, watching the Gold Cloak sneer and stalk toward Arya who struggled to get to her feet. Y/N fought against the crowd, dodging an ax at her throat and a sword at her stomach with a desperation and savage grace a person could only conjure for someone they loved. But she knew… She wouldn’t get to her in time. She wouldn’t make it. The man raised his sword, sweaty face pulled tight with glee and ready to strike the life from Arya Stark and then-

A golden hand caught the sword just as its reached its crest and Jaime Lannister shoved the man back before driving his sword through his belly.

Y/N slid to a stop on her knees as she reached Arya’s side, pressing Needle into Arya’s grasp again and urging her to her feet and back into the near-safety of the advancing crowd. Jaime gave them both a look as they stumbled back, unreadable and…sad. But then he was gone between the swarm of swords and shields.

The Bells did not ring. There would be no surrender. She expected nothing less from the queen.

But perhaps she should have remembered Cersei’s cruelty, her need for control, and Cersei’s own words. All Y/N could think about was finishing this—finishing this war, this stupid war that had taken too much from everyone she cared about.

As the sun started to settle high in the sky, she heard a rumble. Even over the roar of the growing battle, she heard it. Felt it shake the stones beneath her feet. And then the city burst. Green flames and thick smoke filled the air as brick and wood rained down like a terrible storm, ripping through Westerland armies and invaders alike. Dirt clouded her mouth and she tasted fire as her ears started to ring with an intensity she had never experienced, pushing her back and on unsteady feet. With dazed eyes, she watched a man in a gold cloak stumble forward, mouth open in a silent scream as the emerald flames blazed across his armor.

Someone’s hands grasped at her arm and tugged her to the side, finding a bit of refuge behind the fallen remains of an inn. Arya was looking up at her, covered in soot and blood and Y/N watched her mouth move for a few moments, unable to hear anything but then it came back in a wave.

“-taking the Red Keep.”

“What?” Y/N asked, tongue heavy in her mouth.

Arya frowned. “Did you hit your head? Robb is about to take the Red Keep. Cersei must have sent someone to light the rest of the wildfire.” Arya turned to look at something over her shoulder and stiffened. “Come on. We haven’t finished this yet.” The younger girl pressed Y/N’s blades back into her hands. She hadn’t even realized she had lost them. And then Arya was striding away through the rubble, disappearing into a haze of smoke as green flames continued to lick at the wreckage.

Y/N shook herself, trying to free her mind of the buzzing and sluggishness and opened her pack, making sure that her own stash of wildfire had not started to crack or bubble. It was intact, thankfully, and it gave her enough momentum to push forward. Another gold cloak ran into her path a few steps later. His armor was blackened and charred, and buckled when she kicked at his chest to knock him toward the ground before driving one of her blades into the small gap between his cuirass and helmet.

It was easy when they staggered and stumbled or looked too long at the green flames. It was easy. When had it become so easy?

But it didn’t matter when she kept Obara from falling to some red cloak’s sword through her back or when Tytos was knocked from his horse by a City Watch soldier. It didn’t matter that it had become easy when she was keeping her people alive. The ground continued to rumble as more small pockets of wildfire roared to life and burned everything it could. But she kept moving forward, her steps trailing behind Obara’s as they pushed up the steps toward the Barbican of the Keep. It had been reduced to chunks of splintered wood and twisted metal, trampled over by the advancing armies. Y/N turned as she reached the top—just for a moment—to see the destruction the war and wildfire had brought upon the city. Almost a quarter of King’s Landing was gone, swallowed into the maw of black smoke and broken stone. The Red Keep was still burning. More green flames had reduced most of its outer walls to piles of smoking rock and ash. Only the Holdfast still stood tall. If Cersei’s plan had been to burn the advancing armies in the streets—she failed. But a sizeable group of Kingsguard and Gold Cloaks still stood between them and the crown that sat on Cersei’s head.

And they pushed and swung their swords and battered their shields, driving the loyalists back or into the ground.

But then something caught Y/N’s eye. Drew her attention like the Stranger had placed their hand upon her head and turned it.

Tywin Lannister was standing outside the smoking Tower of the Hand. His sword was bent and his helmet fell from his fingers with a clatter. His guards had abandoned him; his grand army reduced to only a handful of men. But his face still hardened when his cold eyes raked over her. Even as the battle had clearly been lost, he held his head high and pointed his sword toward Y/N with a sneer. “Come along, girl. Let us finish this.”

Equal parts dread and joy stoked her soul then. And her heart thundered in her chest even as she knew that the time was short. As Tywin took a step toward her, she threw one of her blades, aiming for his throat—and he deflected it easily, as she knew he would. But her hand dove into her pack and her fingers found the warm glass. Y/N threw the jar at him, uncaring of how her shoulder popped and ached with the sudden movement. All she could do was smile when she watched it smash across his chest plate, dripping green. His eyes grew wide as recognition flickered across his face. She bent to pick up a piece of burning wood and threw it at him, watching the green flames erupt.

Fire makes people dance. And Tywin was no exception. He screamed through the green.

The scrape of a sword against a sheath gained her attention.

It was Oberyn. Dark eyes alight with want and fury and, with a single stroke, took Tywin’s head from his shoulders. It still burned as it rolled across the stone, spitting green embers in its wake. The body slumped to the ash-covered ground, plate armor smacking against broken stone. And then Oberyn was marching toward her, sliding his bloodied sword back into its sheath. With his usual brutal grace, he wrapped his arm around her waist and slanted his mouth against hers, uncaring of the grime or dirt. Y/N quickly reciprocated, pressing her lips firmly against his. Months of separation, months of wondering if she would see him again despite her promise, months of yearning poured out of her as she grasped at the back of his neck to pull him closer, uncaring for the moment of the surrounding destruction. All there was, was Oberyn Oberyn Oberyn and his beautiful mouth that she had missed too much.

He only pulled back to breathe before he took another kiss, smiling against her mouth. “Blood suits you, my moonlight.”

And it suited him, too.

**

Tywin’s head looked large as it sat next to Cersei’s. Most of it had escaped the wildfire because of Oberyn’s quick removal but half of it was still charred.

The man and woman who had destroyed her family had been reduced to silent heads on a soot-covered floor.

Robb was sitting on the Iron Throne, Widow’s Wail across his lap and a hammered bronze and iron crown settled over his dark auburn curls. The grime and blood of battle still streaked his armor but he looked every bit the portrait of a king with Grey Wind sitting near his feet, gnawing on something that looked suspiciously like someone’s arm. The remains of the Throne Room were filled with dirt-smudged commanders and lords who had sacked the City. Oberyn found all of it tedious and had slipped away with a kiss to her temple to help his men settle into camp for the night.

The sun was setting, casting the entire room in the warm glows of pink and orange over its broken walls and melted windows, like the gods were presenting them all with a bit of beautiful quietness for their victory. Their dead would be tended to later, before the city would be looked over to see what could be salvaged. The story that Cersei had set the stashes of wildfire alight as a final effort to kill the advancing armies was already being whispered throughout the smoking city. No one needed to know that the only reason why more destruction had not been reaped was because of Y/N, Obara, and Arya’s actions in the winding tunnels. It was their secret to keep and hold.

As Robb started to hold court, presiding over the captured Lannister forces and learning Euron’s fleet had turned and run when the wildfire had started, fleeing East toward Essos, Y/N excused herself, trying to fill her lungs with something more than soot. She walked through the winding halls, some half broken and others still filled with groups of injured needing a healing touch. And perhaps it was muscle memory, but Y/N found herself standing outside the door of her old room before she could remember turning that corner or walking down this hall. Her fingers brushed against the wood. The wound from Gregor’s sword had not been patched and it splintered under her touch when she pressed against it. For a moment, she thought of opening the door and walking in and seeing what else had changed or stayed the same. But her hand retreated. Her life was not here anymore. There was no need to step into a place of terrible memory just for memory’s sake.

Movement out of the corner of her eye caught her attention and Y/N’s heart leapt into her mouth at the sight. “Jon?”

His face morphed from anger to surprise to joy and then he was running toward her with outstretched arms.

She met him halfway and threw her arms around him, uncaring of the blood or dirt and grime. He still smelt of fresh snow and pine even over the stench of battle. His gloved hand found the back of her head and he held her close—like he was afraid she would disappear from his grasp if he let go too soon. “Your hair is so long now,” she murmured into his shoulder.

And his answering laugh sounded choked in his throat. “I have so much to tell you.”

“We have all the time in the world.”

But then Mace Tyrell cam huffing and puffing into the hall, still clad in his gaudy golden armor and red in the face. “My lady, Lord Snow, His Grace is requesting your presence.” He then turned and half-ran back toward the throne room without an ounce of grace and his tarnished golden armor untightened and slapping against his extremities with each step. Y/N hid her laugh behind her hand until Jon nudged at her shoulder.

“You have not changed at all, Y/N,” Jon quietly mused.

“Oh, I have changed quite drastically, dear cousin. But not the parts that matter.”

Jon shook his head with a small smile. “I will hear your stories one day.”

“As I shall hear yours,” she promised just as they walked through the broken threshold. But the respite was torn away the moment she noticed who had been lead in chains in front of Robb’s new throne. A handful of Freys were on their knees and snarled at her as she walked past when Robb waved her forward to stand at his side. They were surrounded by the small band of men she had brought to King’s Landing—every one of them looked hungry for blood. And if there had not been an audience, Y/N would have let them slake that need.

“House Frey has refused to bend the knee,” Robb said, his light eyes cold and hard as his gaze moved to the men at his feet.

“Usurper-!”

Whatever insult the Frey had wanted to spout was silenced when Tytos cracked him across the face with a closed fist, his dented gauntlet still covering his hand. “Silence!”

He turned and spat blood. A tooth clinked against the floor. “Bitch.”

Tytos raised his hand again to claim the rest of his brown teeth but Robb stood from the throne and strode down to the man and grabbed the Frey’s greasy hair and yanked his head back to expose his throat. The edge of Widow’s Wail pulled a thin line of crimson from his throat as he gulped. “Tell her what you confessed. Tell her, braggart,” Robb seethed, making sure to angle his face to look at Y/N. But every other person was staring at her, too.

And Y/N wished she had Oberyn to stand with—to feel his steadying warmth at her side when the man’s hard stare ripped across her face. But Arya was a comfort too, moving to stand at her side with a snarl of her own. “We found your father outside Pinkmaiden. He tried to bargain, said the Red Wedding did not have to stain all of our hands.”

Y/N could feel her heart stutter in her chest but fought to keep her face neutral. “But you did not care to treat with my father.”

“We dragged him to Harrenhal,” another man said with a laugh. “Took his head and gave the rest to the bear.”

Y/N felt her stomach roll. Bile was rising in the back of her throat in a terrible wave as she curled her into fists behind her back. Grey Wind rose from and licked his bloody chops, baring his sharp teeth and the man cowered and shriveled. “You boast of your own damnation. Have they never taught you of what becomes of men who do not heed the gods’ warnings? Or have the gods never touched The Twins?”

The Freys bellowed, screaming and hollering this and that but all she could hear was a dull roar in her ears, watching their dirty faces contort with their own simple rage.

She dragged her gaze to Robb. “I have heard what they had to say, Your Grace. What else would you have of me?”

Robb stood straight, ignoring how the prisoners still fumed. “I would have nothing of you, my lady. You and your house have paid a high price for your loyalty.”

Robb’s words pushed something both cold and soft against her fragile heart. She nodded once, knowing his words meant more than their simple meaning. “House Frey has wronged more than just me and mine, Your Grace. You know that better than anyone. Do with them what you will. I do not care for their mortal coils and the gods will not care for their souls.” And she watched, a little entranced as they were dragged away, one by one, and slowly the Freys’ screaming was snuffed out. Y/N noticed a bit of tension leech from Robb’s posture as the quiet settled over the crowded room and he retook his seat.

But it was quickly washed away as the next prisoner was brought in, chains singing with each step. A quick kick to the back of his legs brought Jaime Lannister to his knees in front of Robb. And the last living lion in the city actually smiled. “Stark, we must stop meeting like this.”

Maege Mormont started to draw her sword when Robb held up a hand. “You once made my mother a promise. An oath. To return her daughters to her care.”

“I did.” His green eyes flickered to Arya at Y/N’s side.

“You failed.”

Jaime clenched his jaw. “I did.”

“And then we find you fighting alongside your sister.”

“To be fair, it seemed your sisters were already in the care of your cousin so my oath-”

“My sister is the only reason your head is not on a spike,” Robb seethed. “She told me of how you saved her life.”

“Is this true, Lady Arya?” Some lord from the Reach asked. He was quickly met with looks of derision from the surrounding Northmen for questioning her or Robb. (“Of course it is true! She’s no reason to lie!”)

“It is true,” Y/N said, stepping in front of Arya who looked ready for the ground to swallow her whole. Her pride was a fearsome thing. “I saw it with my own eyes. Against his own bannerman, he raised his sword to keep Arya safe.” Murmurs started to slide through the assembled crowd and Robb’s jaw ticked to the side but all Y/N could see was Jaime’s soft, sad smile when he looked at her, like he was remembering how she cried and asked him not to tell anyone. A quiet kindness repaid.

“Your brother has been granted exile.”

And Y/N watched Jaime’s eyes widen, almost hopeful, as Robb continued to speak.

“You will have until sunrise to find a way out of my kingdom. If I see you again, your head will be thrown into Blackwater Bay.” Robb waved his hand and the chains encircling Jaime’s wrists and ankles were released. “A life for a life, Lannister. I suggest you make the most of it.”

**

“Perhaps they’ll have a song about my father when this war is truly over and the city is rebuilt. They can call it the Fish and the Bear.”

“I would hope the bards would grant him a more fitting song. He had more tales to tell than the way he left this plane, my moonlight.” Oberyn wrapped his arms around her as they stood on the balcony of her room, watching the city settle in for the night and she pressed her ear over his heart, listening to its beautiful beat and letting it steady her own.

It had been nearly a week since they had taken the Red Keep and Robb had been proclaimed king. Everything was slowly being rebuilt. Northmen and cavalry from the Reach were staying to help the city’s smallfolk resettle and survive, creating a sense that all would be well. The gold taken from the Westerland mines settled the Iron Throne’s debt with Braavos. Margaery had been surrounded by the maesters and healers the Tyrells had ferried with them in the war, making sure her time in the Black Cells had not permanently injured her, but had been presented to Robb just this morning and he had gladly accepted her as his queen. It was all a show, of course. The alliance between Robb and the Reach had been forged in the shadows long before he ever set foot in the city. The plan that Oberyn and Ellaria carefully crafted had unfolded beautifully. There were a handful of pieces left to move but Oberyn and Dorne were thankful for a bit of respite and Y/N was grateful for his arms to fall into when she felt that insidious ache once again grow in her chest. Oberyn made it easier to bear. He had kept her close when the other lords and ladies started to learn of her campaign in the Westerlands and what she had done—looks of horror and morbidly curious whispers disappeared when Y/N was in his arms. She only wished that Ellaria was there, too. It had been far too long since she had them in her arms. She needed them both.

“You are being called back to Sunspear, are you not, my prince?” A raven had arrived from Dorne just after they had broken their fast.

“We are being called back to Sunspear,” he mused before pressing a kiss to her forehead. “But you are not coming with me.”

Y/N had not said anything to give him that inclination. But Oberyn always knew. She felt him breathe in the scent of her skin as she sighed, burrowing a little closer to his warm chest. “I have to finish it.”

“I know, my moonlight, I know. And I will never keep you from your wrath.” He leaned back to gently cradle her face in his warm hands. “But I will have you promise me, again. Promise me that you will not forget us. Come home. When you are finished, come home.”

**

“Tell me something, Arya. Something good.”

“I met a boy. Named Gendry.”

A dense fog had settled over the damp grass, curling its ghostly fingers around the trunks of the trees that sheltered Y/N and the armed men from any eyes that might be scanning the land from the safety of their chambers.

Arya spoke, unhurried but succinctly, about her time disguised as ‘Arry’ with Yoren and then the Brotherhood without Banners, as Y/N waited for her men to finish a perimeter check. Most she knew, having gleaned it from conversations with Arya back in Dorne when they took breaks at the training grounds with Obara. But it seemed she placed the secret of Gendry a little closer to her heart. “I thought I saw him in King’s Landing before we left. Working as a blacksmith again.” Arya almost sounded wistful. “I didn’t ask or get too close. I wouldn’t… I wouldn’t know what to do if it was him.”

“I think we have both learned that fear gets us nowhere, Arya,” Y/N said softly. “If he makes you happy, makes you laugh, try. Seven know you deserve some joy.”

Arya’s mouth tilted up in a small smile and she looked out toward the formidable fortress of The Twins, seat of House Frey. A strange location for such sentimental talk but it seemed the pair both needed a bit of respite. The handful of Riverlands men who had gone with her to King’s Landing were accompanying her for one last mission. And a small band of Northmen who were heading home were given leave by their king to help Y/N if they chose—and they did.

Ghost, Jon’s white direwolf, trotted to her side on silent feet and Qelōs whinnied in greeting. Y/N had met Ghost after taking King’s Landing when she found Jon wandering the ruins of the holdfast, trying to find a kitchen so he could feed Ghost. The direwolf was decidedly quieter than Grey Wind but no less protective of his chosen Stark or anyone Jon seemed fond of.

And where Ghost was, Jon always appeared. She watched Jon slide through the trees to stand at her side.

“Twelve guards on the perimeter. Five archers in the Water Tower.”

“Inside?”

“No more than forty.”

Y/N nodded and tightened her grip on the reins. She knew most of the Freys and their allies had been in King’s Landing and had been disposed of in battle or by the ax.

But she wanted all of them.

“They seem to be gathering who they can. Must’ve heard whispers of us marching North.”

But the Freys had few allies left. They were the only house in the Riverlands who had not sent forth supplications and oaths of fealty to the new king and queen of the Seven Kingdoms. And the simple bit of parchment in Y/N’s saddlebag was all the protection and fodder she needed to fan the flames already consuming the dark part of her heart that had led her here. It read simply; House Tully was once again Lord Protector of the Trident and the liege lord of the Riverlands. Any and all actions House Tully made on behalf of the Crown to secure allegiance and peace were sanctioned and accepted.

Perhaps Robb did not know what Y/N meant to do. But maybe he did, letting her loose on the House that had caused both her and her sweet cousins so much pain. She had kept her wrath contained while at war. It burned and raged under her skin but she had pulled it back like a tiger on a chain, knowing that if she had let herself be blinded by her need for vengeance, she would have only caused herself and others more heartache as her men would fall to the sword and ax because her plans would have left them vulnerable instead of safe. But now they were safe. This was the final piece. And she could let it finally burn.

A window pushed open and caught Y/N’s eye. A glint of metal, a cage, was revealed in low candlelight. The rookery, it would seem. Y/N watched a raven fly and pulled an arrow from her quiver. She nocked it and pulled her bow taut, listening to the string sing under her fingers. The arrow flew and took the bird from its flight. They would have no support.

Y/N drew another arrow and turned to Jon. “Give the signal.”

**

“Your father would be proud, my lady. You are a force, just as he.” Tytos was still filled with compliments even as he let a maester stitch up a gash on his arm.

Y/N managed to smile and dipped her rag into a bowl of fresh water and dragged it across her blood and dirt caked face and neck as she glanced out the window. For a moment, she doubted Brynden Tully would be proud of her. Letting loose a band of men still raging from victory and anger from the betrayal of the Red Wedding onto enemy territory and giving them permission to do whatever they wanted and needed to take the fortress was not honorable or something he would have ordered. But he was gone and she still breathed. She was a survivor—and she knew he would be proud of that.

Portcullises crumpled and arrows flew. Swords ran red and the fortress burned. The siege had lasted all of a handful of hours—just long enough for her to spend her quiver of arrows as she picked off fleeing Freys as they ran across the bridges. But it was finished. Almost.

Y/N grasped Tytos’ uninjured shoulder and squeezed, telling him to rest as Patrek ran into the room and told her they had finished gathering the Freys as she requested. He led her out of the damp, dark castle and onto the grass just on the edge of the Green Fork. A band of about twenty men were on their knees as the Northmen and Riverlanders created a circle around them with dirtied swords kept them from wavering.

The last of the Freys. All of them were guilty. Every single one of them knew of the plot and drew their blades when the time came. Each one had benefitted in some way from the slaughter of the Red Wedding and murder of her father.

Patrek continued on as Jon separated himself from the group and touched her arm just before they reached the group. “This will not bring them back,” he whispered, dark eyes pleading. He had seen enough bloodshed.

Y/N pushed his hand from her arm and stepped forward. “No, it will not. But blood begets blood. And I shall bathe in it. There shall be no root or stem left.”

Patrek had dragged a large stump from the tree line and set it at her feet. She watched a few of the men nervously glance between the stump and Y/N, knowing what was coming.

“Your men have refused to swear fealty to King Robb, the rightful King of the Seven Kingdoms. Your House has refused to bend the knee. Guest Right was violated for greed.” Y/N held her hand out for the ax Lord Cerwyn had across his back and he gave it readily. “I have learned that if you pass the sentence, you should swing the sword. I gave the order.” The weapon was heavy in her grip as she remembered Ned’s words. She’d just been a girl when he had said them and his eyes were sad. But she knew the words to be true and just. “Bring me Lord Walder Frey.”

Two Northmen darted into the group of Freys and pulled a snarling man, still in his sleeping clothes, up and then dropped him to his knees at Y/N’s feet.

“Little Lady Tully,” Walder sneered with rotted teeth. “If your cousin had been half the bitch you are, she might still be breathin’.”

“The gods gave you a chance to be true when they sent Lady Catelyn to your door. They gave you another when your men found my father. You and your wretched family betrayed mine. Now you must reckon with me.”

Walder’s face contorted and splotches of red dotted his grey cheeks. “You-”

Y/N swung the ax and buried it into his neck but it caught on this spine. His eyes grew wide as blood spurted and oozed from the wound. Walder’s mouth opened and closed with silent curses and stained his brown teeth red. She yanked the ax back and watched the Frey crumple down onto the stump before finally cleaving the man’s head from his shoulders. “Bring me the next,” she called out over her shoulder. “I should like to finish this before nightfall.”

She needed a new ax after the third Frey. And a damp cloth to wipe the blood from her face and hands.

“Bring me the next!”

A tall man was then shoved to his knees in front of her, brown hair thin and greasy as it stuck to his sweaty face. He snarled up at her, as a handful of others did before.

“Name?”

“Raymund Frey.”

And that gave Y/N pause. “Arya!” Arya came running, a stranger’s blood streaked across her cheek but still bright-eyed. Y/N handed over the ax. She took it with a frown and glanced at the Frey. “This is Raymund Frey.”

Realization dawned on the young Stark’s face and her grip tightened. If the Freys had not been so fond of bragging, perhaps they would not have known he had been the one to slit Catelyn’s throat at the Red Wedding. But they knew. And so, Y/N watched Arya bury the ax into the man’s neck.

And when all of them were gone, bodies left out to be pecked by hungry carrions, Y/N walked out into the river and washed the blood from her hands. It was finished. The blood in the rivers had washed her clean.

**

Riverrun had managed to survive a handful of sieges and a brief Frey occupation without losing its integrity. Jon and Arya accompanied her to her family’s seat and she invited the Northmen to rest in its halls for a fortnight before continuing North.

Houses from the Riverlands descended upon Riverrun when they heard of her return and Edmure’s release from the bowels of Casterly Rock. And Y/N was not sure if they had heard of her campaign at the Twins or in the Westerlands but a handful of them stuttered and avoided eye contact when they once again swore fealty to House Tully and bumbled through lathing compliments for King Robb as if he were standing beside her. It amused Arya endlessly who poorly concealed her giggles behind her hand until Jon nudged at her shoulder.

But Edmure had been much changed since his time in Casterly Rock’s dungeons. He walked with a limp and was in need of a cane. The fingers on his left hand were crooked, healed broken and at strange angles. And his vigor had left, his pride, too. Whenever anyone asked for an edict or command, his blue eyes flickered to Y/N and she found herself answering.

Settling feuds, giving instruction on how to rebuild, granting clemency, and doling out justice when needed. Through all of it he seemed to look to Y/N for guidance, to answer for him. She had only planned to stay long enough to make sure the Riverlands were at peace but Edmure gave her pause.

It was exhausting and confusing and Y/N, more often than not, found herself in the familiar kitchens late at night in search of wine. While she had anticipated that being within Riverrun’s familiar halls would finally grant her some peace, all she found was longing for the warmth of the Dornish sun and the gentle touch of Ellaria and Oberyn. The sound of the little ones laughing in the Water Gardens while Obara hollered out formations at the training field. Riverrun was so…quiet. Had it always been so quiet and cold? A small comfort was taking her father’s childhood rooms as her home. It was a way to feel close to him but the ache that had settled in her heart grew a little easier to bear with each passing day. And receiving a raven from Winterfell made her smile, too. It was from Sansa, stating that she had sailed North from Sunspear and had settled back into Winterfell without issue, a small band of loyal Northmen at her call. She had been named Warden of the North by her brother Robb and Y/N remembered how the broken throne room had been filled with cheers at the news, even if Sansa had not been present to hear it. But her own troubles persisted.

Jon found her the night before he, Arya, and the Northmen were to depart for their homes. She poured him a large glass of wine and ushered him into a seat in the dark room and finally pried his story from him. He spoke of betrayal and death and love and loyalty until the sun rose with the next morning.

“Out of all the Starks, you were the most prone to finding trouble.” She reached out to grasp his hand and squeezed, matching tired smiles on their faces. “But you survived. That is all that matters to me.”

He laughed and rubbed at his eyes as she smiled. “If you ever tire of the snow, come to Dorne. I will always have a place for you.”

And then she led him out into the sun to join the rest of the Northmen and bid him goodbye with a tight hug and a kiss against his head and she turned to Arya who begrudgingly gave back the Sand Steed she had stolen before hugging Y/N with a ferocity only she was capable of.

“Find your joy, little wolf,” Y/N whispered into her hair as she held Arya tight. “You deserve it. Now, stay safe.”

Arya nodded and sniffled once before clearing her throat as she pulled back. They both whispered soft goodbyes to each other as the morning light continued to grow. And then Y/N watched them disappear on the horizon with a heavy heart, knowing she was strangely alone now in the place she had called home. As she stepped inside, she nearly bowled over Roslin. Apologies tumbled from Roslin’s mouth as she cradled her son to her chest, almost shaking.

Y/N bit back a sigh and plastered a smile on her face. In truth, Roslin was a genial and gentle woman. Pretty. Loyal. So unlike the rest of her family. Y/N saw how she constantly looked to Edmure with love in her eyes and was met with a broken smile in return. And when the news had come of what had been become of her family, Roslin almost seemed relieved. It made Y/N wonder what she had endured while under her father’s thumb. “It is nothing, my lady. My fault. You are Lady Tully now. Apologize for only what is necessary.”

Roslin froze for a moment, as she always seemed to do whenever Y/N spoke with her, but then nodded with a small smile of her own. “Of course, my lady. Thank you.”

The pair spoke for a little longer, Y/N asking after the health of her babe, a boy nearing his first nameday and named after Edmure’s childhood idol and pride of their house, Kermit Tully, who had led House Tully to the height of their power during the Dance of Dragons. Yes, Y/N supposed, Roslin would grow to be a fine Lady Tully.

If only she could ensure Edmure would become the man she needed him to be.

Y/N eventually found herself slipping away after bidding Roslin a good day and walking up toward the rookery, she wanted to send a raven to Sansa to ask how she was faring. The ravens cawed in greeting as she stepped inside. They always recognized her, the intelligent little beasts. But it was the open window that drew her attention. A white raven cawed as it turned to watch her approach. The noise came again as she brushed a finger against the bird’s back and it fluttered its wings, showing the slip of parchment tied to its leg.

Y/N already knew what the missive would say – white ravens only appeared with the changing of the seasons.

The raven cawed against and nuzzled against her finger as she untied the parchment before flying away. And she was right – “winter has come” was all the Citadel had written, probably in haste to finish the hundreds more needing to be sent.

When she asked Edmure what should be done, finding him sequestered away in Hoster’s old rooms, he gave her another tired smile and asked her to make sure the other Riverlands houses were informed and cared for. Yet another obstacle. Dorne had never seemed so far away.

Y/N ordered the overfilled storehouses of the Twins be emptied to make sure the houses beleaguered by the long war would not starve and wrote to Willas and Olenna in Highgarden to secure a few hundred bushels of grain and barley as well. Even with the war, the Reach had enough to spare. And so, more weeks slipped through her hands. Lords and ladies from across the Riverlands came to Riverrun to receive what House Tully could give them and continue to ask for guidance from their liege lords.

An envoy from House Vance was the latest to arrive and it was then that Edmure seemed to finally show some of his former self. He smiled and greeted them, welcomed them, and helped them settle for the handful of nights they would be housed at Riverrun. And a breath Y/N did not realize she was holding finally pushed its way out of her tired lungs. He would be fine, she told herself. He just needed time.

Even Roslin seemed to settle more into her role at Edmure’s side. It was comforting to know that House Tully was secure once again. She sent a raven to Dorne, telling Oberyn and Ellaria she hoped to leave within a fortnight and arrive before the first snow of the new season. It put a certain spring in her step to think that soon she would be back in Dorne. She would be married and-

“Y/N!” Edmure called her name and snapped her from her pleasant reverie before the evening meal. She walked to his side in the hall and offered a small smile. “I have a gift for you, cousin.”

Before she could ask what the gift was, they were ushered into the hall for the meal. Edmure then pointed out Lord Vance’s third son and prattled on for a majority of the meal. Kirth Vance was handsome, she supposed, and he spoke kindly to servants and squires alike and tended to his horses and hunting dogs with care and doted on his nieces and nephews—if Edmure could be trusted. But every word nearly turned her stomach and she resorted to pushing her food around her place in a poor attempt to look like she was eating.

Ser Kirth was almost bashful as he met her gaze and quickly ducked his head with pink cheeks. “He thinks you are the most beautiful woman he has ever seen,” Edmure continued to whisper. “Kirth is not one to overstep—he would listen to your commands and see them through as a faithful consort to you here at Riverrun.”

And then she saw what this was.

“I would have the room,” Y/N said, rising from her seat. While most everyone quickly scurried away, including Roslin and her babe, Edmure signaled for Kirth to come closer. “No, no, Ser Kirth. My dear cousin has misread my intentions. I would speak to him alone.” Another ruddy blush took over his cheeks and he tipped his head before all but running from the hall. When the door firmly shut, she rounded on Edmure. “How dare you.”

Edmure stood, cane clacking against the floor. “Y/N-”

“If you think for a moment that you have the ability to coerce me into staying by offering me a man like that, you do not know me at all.”

“You led the Riverlands to victory. Not me. Not little Robb. You, dear cousin. You raised the banners and called on their loyalty and oaths. You bled alongside them.” Edmure pulled in a shaking breath and pressed harder onto his cane. “Riverrun should be yours.”

“I do not want it.” Y/N turned away from him, trying to hide her disgust. “Is this why you have shunned your duties? You believe you cannot serve your people.”

“I know I cannot.” And he sounded so defeated that she almost turned to comfort him. But rage kept her still.

“Then the Lannisters have won. They sought to strip you of your will and pride and make you a soulless creature of their making.” And Edmure was quiet and that was what had her turning. Her once near-boastful and handsome cousin had all but curled in on himself, face warped and scrunched like he was near tears. “Don’t let them win, Edmure. They are gone. You are still here. You are the man who led men into battle without flinching. You are the man who sheltered smallfolk here, in your home, because you knew they were scared.” Her voice cracked, broken in her throat. “You are the man who read me stories when I was a child. You are a good man. True, brave, and honest.”

Edmure shook his head and a single tear escaped his eye. “I cannot be that man again. I am tied to the family that imprisoned me, killed my sister-”

Y/N reached out to place her hand over Edmure’s on the head of his cane. “The Freys are dead and at my hand. I would gladly do it again. But that woman loves you—loves your son—despite your best attempts to spurn them. The gods have given you a fine wife, Edmure. Do not squander it.”

“She-”

“Is your wife. The mother to your heir. You were once a man of honor. Be so again. No one shall claim the Twins. Let it rot if you wish. Roslin loves you, chose you over her family. There is no ill will in that woman’s soul toward anyone. Just love.” Y/N sighed. “We know love in any form is rare, Edmure. You have found it in Roslin. I have found it-”

“In Dorne,” Edmure grumbled. “Yes, I have heard of your betrothal to Prince Oberyn and your dalliances with his paramour.”

Y/N pulled back her hand and crossed her arms over her chest, a sad shield against the wound he had cut. “I am happy. They love me. I love them. Why can you not see-”

“He has daughters older than you, Y/N. All of them bastards. Do you not believe you could find someone more suitable to call husband?”

“And you think Kirth Vance would be suitable?” She bit out, anger replacing the hurt. “I would give Oberyn eight more bastards if the gods allowed!” She bellowed as something protective struck at her stomach, even if the targets of her cousin’s ire were thousands of leagues away. “He loves me and I love him and Ellaria. He fought beside me, for me—for the gods-forsaken pile of brick and mortar because he knew I once called it home.”

“It is your home!” Edmure yelled in return. “You are a Tully-”

“I am Prince Oberyn Nymeros Martell’s wife in all but name and I am going home!” Her chest heaved and she wiped a hand across her face, trying to calm herself before said anything else. “You are the Lord of Riverrun. Lord Paramount of the Trident. You are not a child. Your life has led to this moment. Do not forsake Hoster’s teachings for your learned meekness. He named you as his heir—be the man he knew you to be. Because I cannot and will not be.” And then she left, leaving Edmure alone.

**

Y/N pulled her fur-lined cloak a little tighter about her shoulders as she strode out to the stables. Qelōs was being tended to by the stable hand and her tack was waiting to be placed on her gleaming back. Full saddlebags were ready for one last journey South. Y/N had spent the last night in Riverrun’s Sept, praying for guidance and for her father’s soul one more time—another quiet goodbye. She thought it would be fitting to do it here, in his former home. And as the sun rose the following morning, it was the most at ease she had felt in almost a year.

“I am never coming this far North again,” Obara said, moving closer to her to try to get a bit of body heat. The large fur cloak and gloves were not enough, it seemed. Obara and Oberyn had led an envoy to the Riverlands to collect Y/N and ensure she was safely delivered back to Sunspear. Frost had started to stick to the grass around Riverrun, thin sheets of ice collected over patches of the rivers and Obara had been distraught about the temperature since she arrived with her father two days ago. Ellaria and the rest of the Sand Snakes had stayed in Dorne. Loreza and Dorea had apparently caught a bit of a fever with their first Winter and Oberyn and Ellaria both wanted to keep the rest of their daughters healthy. The little ones would be fine, but Ellaria and Oberyn always wanted to be sure.

Y/N chuckled at Obara’s plight and pulled a thick wool stole from one of her bags and wrapped it around Obara’s shoulders, making sure to tuck it high around her neck. “What of your plans to see Seagard? Hm? Lord Patrek will be devastated.”

Obara sniffed and looked away. “He must wait for Winter to end if he wishes to have me at his home. I am of Dorne. He-”

“Is in love with you, Obara. And Lord Mallister is amiable to the match if you wish it.” Y/N assumed tales of Obara saving his heir’s life and fighting beside the Riverlanders may have something to with Lord Mallister easing his views on who could be a possible match for his son. That, and Oberyn Martell being her father, a Prince of Dorne and the man who took Tywin Lannister’s head from his shoulders was a definite bargaining point. Y/N finished tucking the stole around her frigid companion. “But I am happy to simply see your face again.”

“Sap,” Obara said with a small smirk. “If I have to hear Father wax poetic about your eyes the entire ride to Dorne, I will be forced to murder you both.”

“Oh, I expect nothing less.”

They spoke a little longer, watching their horses be readied for the ride before one of the stable hands said, “Oh, Lord Tully! Good morrow!”

Y/N turned to see Edmure at the mouth of the stables. Roslin was at his side, a small smile on her delicate lips. Something was bundled in his left arm, his right still holding his cane. It had been a tumultuous two weeks within Riverrun’s halls. Edmure had stumbled when regaining his duties but fulfilled them with more confidence with each day. He had kept his conversations with Y/N at a minimum and had steadfastly refused to speak to Oberyn more than necessary when he first arrived. But Edmure softened. At almost an alarming rate. But perhaps that was simply Oberyn’s charm. His pervasive magnetism that could draw nearly everyone to his side if he wanted them. Edmure was no exception. And that gave Y/N a little comfort, to know that Edmure did not hate her betrothed as he had tried. Knowing her two families, no matter how different, were coming together was a solace. Riverrun would survive under Edmure’s lordship.

The pair stepped closer and Roslin helped Edmure press the bundle into Y/N’s arms. “It is a gift for you. A reminder of… of Riverrun.” Not of home. Not anymore.

Y/N looked down at the bundle and watched it move, the tip of the fabric peeling away to reveal a fluffy snout. Y/N quickly unwrapped the dog with a huff of a laugh as it wiggled in her hold. The pup fit comfortably in her arms and had the most beautiful black fur with a tuft of white on his chest.

“He is of the Riverlands, hearty and loyal. Even if Riverrun is no longer your home, I’d like… I’d like if you still had a piece of us with you.”

The pup squirmed in her grasp and raised up on unsteady legs to lick at her chin with a happy yip. A fortuitous distraction for both Edmure and Y/N as they tried to clear the tears from their eyes. Y/N nodded and pressed a kiss to the dog’s head before leaning up to kiss Edmure’s cheek. “He’s wonderful. Thank you, Edmure. A treasure to be sure.”

It was not an apology, not an outright one anyway. But Y/N accepted it just the same. It was a soft ending to a hard chapter.

But she was ready to start a new one.

And as Oberyn walked into the stables, a soft smile on his face, she knew it would be a good one.

**

The distance between Riverrun and Sunspear seemed so long and so short at the same time. Each night was spent in Oberyn’s arms, trying to reclaim the time she had lost. They would whisper about their plans for the future, of how they both wished Ellaria in their arms when the nights grew colder and colder.

But it was good. It was soft and gentle and eased the ache she had held against her heart like a shield since she had left his arms. It was good.

The pup had grown astonishingly fast. He often squirmed out of her grasp in the saddle to trot alongside their horses. If there were ever a body of water near the road, he quickly jumped into it to wet his fur and then happily scampered back into line, proud of himself.

“He is a little bear,” Oberyn once griped as the pup’s sharp teeth nipped at his leg when Oberyn had moved to help Y/N down from her horse. The pup seemed a little insistent on having Y/N’s attention at all hours and he only grew bolder as the distance from Sunspear grew shorter. Obara found her father’s frustration with the pup endlessly entertaining and would also lathe attention on the pup at any moment. She followed her father’s lead in calling him a little bear, much more affectionate in tone. And Y/N supposed the name just stuck. She called him her little river bear in High Valyrian, but settled on just calling him Gryves for short.

As they crossed under the stone arches of Sunspear and the crowds cheered, little Gryves happily pranced next to Qelōs and snapped his jaws, catching the flower petals the people of Sunspear had thrown into the air in celebration of their return. Ellaria and the Sand Snakes were waiting on the steps of the fortress and Y/N dismounted before Qelōs even stopped and raced up the stairs. Tears were in Ellaria’s eyes as Y/N wrapped her in her arms and she could taste them as she pressed her lips to hers again in again in a fevered frenzy as an incandescent warmth bloomed in her chest at just the simple touch of Ellaria’s skin. And it took Ellaria holding her still, gentle hands on the side of her face, to realize she was crying, too. “No more tears, my Tully,” Ellaria whispered. “You are home.”

A happy shriek had them pulling apart to see Dorea and Loreza bowled over on the steps being licked by Gryves whose entire fluffy body was shaking with how quickly he was wagging his tail.

Oberyn stepped to their side and kissed Ellaria soft and slow before pressing a kiss to Y/N’s smiling mouth.

Yes. She was home.

**

Gryves huffed for the third time, disturbing her attempt at sleep. Or maybe the dog knew she couldn’t sleep and was sharing in her plight. Y/N gave up after she heard him huff again and slipped out from under her blankets and padded over to her balcony, letting the cool breeze wash over her as she pulled the doors open. Gryves’ nails tapped against the stone beside her and they both walked to the railing, looking out over the still-bustling fortress.

Her wedding was tomorrow. Her dress was carefully hung and her maiden’s cloak alongside it. Daisy had been bouncing in each step in the last week, happy to have her friend back safely and to “finally see you married to your prince, my lady!” Daisy and Daemon’s own ceremony would be held the following day. People were buzzing about down below, readying for the festivities. While the ceremony would be small, Doran insisted on letting them have every finery they wanted. Y/N did not care if she had to marry in a threadbare sack and in bare feet and they only had blood oranges for their wedding dinner—she simply wanted to be married.

Gryves placed his front paws on the railing and looked out over the small crowd, too. He let out a soft ‘boof’ as he watched. He was still growing, his head now coming to her waist but he was still as playful as ever—and patient. Loreza had fashioned him a hat that looked peculiarly like an otter and he let the girl set it on his head and sat still long enough for the girls to coo over him before getting distracted by a gull he promptly chased into the sea. He was doted on by almost everyone who resided in or worked around Sunspear. (Oberyn was still trying to find a way to get the dog to like him and stop nipping at his leg whenever he tried to kiss Y/N.) Sarella was home (“For only a moment!” she insisted.) from the Citadel and the Sand Snakes were all together again and Y/N found them all to be wondrous company. Daisy and Daemon were still steadfastly in love, perhaps even more so that Daemon had returned unharmed. All of it was so idyllic. So perfect. And for a moment, Y/N once again wondered if the world was about to crash around her—but she quickly dismissed the thought and she thought of Ellaria telling her that happiness does not have limits and that she had the ability to choose every joy and happiness that was placed at her feet. And Y/N wanted to seize every last opportunity.

A knock at her door had her turning and Gryves kept to her side as she walked back into her rooms to open the door. Ellaria was on the other side with a soft smile and Gryves darted around her and into the darkened halls, probably in search of Loreza or Dorea. Y/N stepped back to let Ellaria in and softly shut the door behind her. Before Y/N could ask what she was doing, Ellaria had grasped at her face and pushed her lips to hers, easily delving into Y/N’s surprised mouth to lick and explore. Y/N faltered for a moment before letting her hands slide around Ellaria’s waist, bunching the silky fabric of her dressing robe between her fingers. Ellaria pulled away for a moment to press soft, wet kisses against Y/N’s cheek and down her neck, humming as she felt the thrumming pulse beneath the skin.

“I knew you would not be sleeping, my Tully.” Another kiss to Y/N’s panting mouth. “And I will have to call you something else after tomorrow, won’t I?” Ellaria’s laugh was light and her fingers started to trail up and down Y/N’s arms, raising goosebumps in their wake.

“You can call me whatever you desire,” Y/N said, tone breathy.

“And if I simply wanted to call you mine?”

“I am already yours.” Y/N leaned forward to press her forehead against Ellaria’s as her hands gently grasped Ellaria’s hands in hers, wrapping her fingers around her wrist. “I am yours and you are mine,” she whispered the vow against Ellaria’s lips. It was no Sept. There was not a Septon in sight nor any other trappings of the ceremony. But Y/N meant the vow as seriously as she would tomorrow with Oberyn.

And then Ellaria was kissing her again, tightening her grip on her wrists like she wanted to brand her touch to Y/N’s skin. “I am yours and you are mine.” Ellaria then dragged Y/N forward and spun her around before pressing a hand to her chest and pushing. Y/N didn’t even realize they had come so close to the bed until she fell onto it with a laugh, greedily grabbing at Ellaria’s legs as she climbed over her and stole another kiss against her smiling mouth. “You need to sleep, yes? I have two options for you.”

“Oh?”

Ellaria nodded and trailed her lips across Y/N’s chin, nipping at her jaw, before sliding down her neck again and letting her tongue dip into the notch between Y/N’s collarbones. “I can have you brought tea. Or…”

“Or…” Y/N played along, letting her hands slide up from Ellaria’s legs to her hips but her grip stuttered when Ellaria’s mouth suddenly pressed over her chest, tongue finding her nipple even through the cloth and teasing it to a hardened peak. When she was satisfied with one, she quickly did the same to the other.

“Or I can tire you out myself,” Ellaria said, situating herself with ease so she could lay her cheek against Y/N’s chest, undoubtedly listening to her fluttering heart. “Which would you prefer, my Tully?”

“You. Always you.”

Ellaria’s smile was bright even in the dark of the room as she sat straight and shuffled down the bed while signaling for Y/N to center herself in the blankets. She gracefully stretched out beside her slowly pushed the edge of Y/N’s chemise up, up, up until it exposed her lace-edged small clothes. “You’re always so pretty for me,” Ellaria mused before her fingers trailed over the front of them, already coaxing a moan from Y/N’s lips. “It has been too long since I’ve been able to touch you like this. You are never to leave us like that again.” She leaned down to kiss Y/N’s lips again, licking into her mouth. “Swear to me.”

“I swear it,” Y/N said, last word a breathless gasp as Ellaria’s talented fingers slipped beneath her small clothes and found her heat, ready and wet for her. Y/N had not even realized she had become so wet, only able to focus on Ellaria.

“Good.” Ellaria dragged the damp small clothes and dropped them to the floor. “So pretty,” Ellaria whispered as her fingers started to push through Y/N’s folds, gathering her slick before trailing up to her clit and circling it with just the right amount of pressure to have Y/N’s hips lifting from the featherbed. Again and again, Ellaria would push through Y/N’s folds, barely dipping into where she needed her most, as she pressed lazy, open-mouthed kisses against Y/N’s panting lips.

“Please,” Y/N near-pleaded. “Please.”

“And always so polite.” And then finally—finally—Ellaria curled her fingers into Y/N’s pussy in one single motion and delighted in Y/N’s high pitched whine and how the younger woman fisted her hands in the silk sheets at her sides. Ellaria leaned up just enough to seal her mouth over Y/N’s, all teeth and tongue and heavy, warm breaths as her fingers started to move, dragging in and out even as Y/N’s fluttering walls tried to pull them tight.

The familiar coil was starting to grow and unravel at an embarrassing rate and Y/N heard herself nearly wailing as it snapped and that delicious wave of pleasure washed over her. But Ellaria did not stop. Her fingers continued to curl inside her, Ellaria’s other hand pressed down against Y/N’s belly and pinned her to the bed. Y/N cried out at the burst of pressure she felt bloom and the coil started to wind itself again, now with an unfamiliar bite and sting that sang with each movement of Ellaria’s fingers.

“Oh please,” she said, words choked in her throat. She reached out to grasp at Ellaria’s wrist, pushing her further, letting her fingers brush against the spot only she and Oberyn could reach.

“That’s my good girl. Take what you need.”

Even through her hazed mind, Y/N keened at the praise. She wanted to be a good girl.

Ellaria licked across her panting mouth and bit at Y/N’s spit-slicked lips, smirking the entire time. Y/N’s walls fluttered around her fingers and she pressed her thumb against her clit with enough pressure to have Y/N cry against her mouth. Slick soaked her hand but she did not cease her movements, pushing her fingers into her until her hips pressed up against her grip and Y/N’s fingers clawed at her shoulders.

“El-Ellaria I-”

But she pressed her down to the dampened blankets and smiled. “So beautiful,” she said. “Give me another. My good girl.”

Her thighs shook, nearly clamping down over Ellaria’s arm as wave after wave of terrible pleasure wracked her body. The room blurred as her arms slid down Ellaria’s back to pull her close as if she were not the one inflicting this delicious torture. The sounds that came from Y/N as her fingers continued to move could only be described as lewd. Wet and frenzied.

“Give it to me,” Ellaria said, steady and low against her heated skin.

Y/N cried out as another jolt of blinding pleasure shot through her, hips finally lifting from the featherbed as her vision went white. Her heart continued to roar in her ears. Ellaria’s fingers slowed their assault before pulling out, leaving Y/N feeling empty and spent even as her body shivered with residual tremors. Ellaria’s glistening fingers dipped between her kiss-bitten lips and her tongue twisted and slid to gather everything she could. When she was finished, she shuffled down Y/N’s body to press a kiss against her wet cunt and Y/N let out a broken moan. Her dark eyes sparkled when she looked up at her. “One more.” She licked a broad stripe up from her hole to her clit and Y/N keened, nerves alight and near painful. But the long strokes of Ellaria’s tongue continued, broken up by little kitten licks against her clit or dipping inside. Every flick of Ellaria’s glorious tongue brought Y/N closer to the precipice but it came sooner than either of them anticipated, dribbling out of her with a broken sort of cry and a new puddle between her thighs. With a final kiss, Ellaria rose and walked to the vanity near the open balcony and pulled a golden cloth from its pile before dipping it into the small basin of water Daisy had left for Y/N to wash her face earlier. She slid onto the bed again and wiped between Y/N’s still shaking thighs with a gentle touch, delighting when she shivered. “Are you all right?” Ellaria asked as her tongue peeked from between her lips out to clean the shining mess from around mouth.

Y/N sighed with a tired smile. “I am perfect.” She reached out toward Ellaria’s soft skirts and felt the silk slide between her fingers. “But I would like to please you, too.”

Ellaria smiled and dropped the damp fabric to the floor. “Are you sure?”

“I am. But I hope you do not mind guiding me.”

Ellaria slipped back onto the bed and her knees bracketed Y/N’s thighs as the younger woman gently pulled the skirt up to reveal Ellaria’s uncovered mound, shining in the candlelight. Y/N’s hands slid from her waist to the backs of her thighs, urging Ellaria up toward her face. Ellaria had taught her many things, one of them being how to give her pleasure with just her fingers and Y/N had delighted in the taste of her love. But, in truth, Y/N had been fascinated by watching Oberyn make Ellaria cum with his wicked tongue. She wanted a taste from the source, too.

“By the gods, you are perfect,” Ellaria murmured holding her skirts higher so she could look to see Y/N’s face between her legs. She reached down to curl her hand around the back of Y/N’s head, pulling her up to meet the crux of her thighs.

Y/N quickly licked a short but firm stripe from Ellaria’s hole to her clit, earning a soft sigh in return. The bitterly sweet taste of Ellaria was heavenly and Y/N quickly, selfishly, licked again and then wiggled her tongue against Ellaria’s hole, trying to collect as much as she could.

“That’s it.” Ellaria’s grip tightened on her head and Y/N licked again and again before taking a chance and pulling her clit into her mouth and sucking. They both sunk into the pillows.

Y/N reached up and around to grasp at Ellaria’s hips as her licks grew bolder, encouraged by Ellaria’s moans. They grew louder as her tongue started to delve and lick and press. Ellaria would sometimes murmur instructions, “to the left” “right there” “a little harder, my darling” and Y/N followed each with wild abandon and squealed when Ellaria pressed down onto her mouth and moved her hips, grinding against her tongue.

“So good,” She panted. “So good.”

Y/N ate her out in earnest, sloppy and spit sliding out of the corner of her lips between covetous licks. Ellaria could suffocate her like this easily—and Y/N would die happy.

Exploring fingers slid down and Y/N simply pressed against the bundle of nerves and smiled when Ellaria wailed in response, head tilted back to press the sound into the sticky night air. Her hips moved faster. Y/N did all she could to keep up, to give Ellaria as much as she had given her. The hold on her head tightened and Ellaria suddenly stilled above her with a groan. The thighs on either side of Y/N’s head shook and the taste of Ellaria flooded her mouth. Y/N pulled her fingers away from her clit but gave a few final licks before Ellaria pushed off and then sat beside her on the pillows.

Ellaria caught her breath with a laugh and then leaned down to press a kiss to Y/N’s lips. “I cannot wait to teach you everything I know.”

Ellaria kissed her again before Y/N rose and wet her own bit of cloth to wipe between Ellaria’s thighs. She lathed a kiss against each of Ellaria’s legs before pulling her skirts down again as she lounged on the featherbed. “I will be a dutiful student.”

The laugh Ellaria let out was tired but joyful. And they spoke for a few more stolen moments, Ellaria constantly checking to make sure Y/N was not overworked or feeling strange as they shared slow kisses in the moonlight. “Will you be able to rest now?” Ellaria asked as Y/N yawned.

“You have thoroughly exhausted me.”

Ellaria’s smile grew and she kissed Y/N one more time before she slipped off the bed again. “Then I shall see you in the morning, Princess.”

Y/N smiled at the sound of the title. “In the morning, my love.”

A/N: Please let me know what you guys think! I really appreciate it. :)

Beautiful people who asked to be tagged: @roxypeanut​ @lostinwonderland314​ @fandomreblogsnoshame @arianawills​ @nyrnerosmartell​ @5hundreddaysofsummer​ @honestlystop @huliabitch​ @youhavemyfantasticbeasts​ @karmezii​ @thesadvampire​ @sarcasmisakindofmagic @alexa4040​ @paintballkid711 @huliabitch​ @stitchers-in-stitches​ @iellaren-uodo-rian​

#oberyn martell x reader #oberyn martell imagine #oberyn martell x ellaria sand x reader #game of thrones imagine #oberyn martell #game of thrones #asoiaf

[ialwayscomewhenyoucall]

Tea for Two

It’s Tuesday, Neville thinks. Tuesday morning, and I’m walking down the lane, on my way to my favorite cafe instead of double Potions or Transfiguration or out to the greenhouses for Herbology.

He looks at the ordinary English street, filled with Muggles going about their lives. It’s been five years, he thinks. Will I ever get used to not being at Hogwarts?

Probably not.

It doesn’t help that he doesn’t actually do much. He studies advanced herbology from home, and has extensive greenhouses of his own. He’s doing research on plants with healing properties, specifically those that may possibly have effects on long-term brain injuries. He’s got a personal stake there, of course, but no one’s arguing with him yet. And he also grows a lot of flowers and vegetables; there’s no magical reason, it’s just soothing to be in the garden. Plus it’s nice to eat the things he grows, and the flowers just make him happy. His parents even seem to like his tomatoes and peppers, even if they don’t quite say as much, and the flowers he brings add a bit of life to their room.

So he’s actually doing rather a lot, he just doesn’t do much that involves other people. Harry and Ron pushed him towards auror training after Hogwarts, but he’d had enough of warfare and fighting. He likes the quiet of his gardens. The thought of being at the Ministry day after day gives him a stomachache.

But today he doesn’t have to think about all that. It’s just an regular Tuesday morning, and he’s just going to have tea at the cafe, because he likes their scones and Katy always smiles and greets him by name, and sometimes they talk about her kids and sometimes they talk about his plants.

Ordinary things for an ordinary day.

* 

“Hi Neville!” Katy smiles at him when he pushes open the cafe door.

He smiles back, pushing aside the somewhat melancholy thoughts of his walk. “Hi Katy,” he says. Nodding behind her he adds, “Looks pretty busy this morning.”

“Every table’s taken!” Her smile falls, just a bit. “Do you mind sharing? Your favorite table, the one by the window, has only one gentleman sitting at it. I don’t think he’d mind; he’s quiet, but he’s a polite sort. I don’t think either of you would be bothered too much. You probably wouldn’t even have to talk with him, he’s reading a book–”

Neville stops her with two raised ‘I surrender’ hands. “It’s alright, Katy. I’ve shared tables before, I’m sure it won’t ruin my morning tea.” He winks. “Just so long as there are still some of Becca’s blueberry scones left. If not, I’m back out the door.” He turns to leave, an exaggerated, slow turn that has Katy laughing again.

“Plenty of scones for both of you,” Katy says. At Neville’s questioning look, Katy says, “They’re his favorite, too.”

She leads him to a table where a young man with white blond hair sits, staring out the window and sipping tea, a book open on the table in front of him. There’s a leaden feeling in Neville’s stomach. It can’t be, Neville thinks. It just can’t. Didn’t he go to Azkaban? But no, that’s not right, Not Azkaban. Something else for this one. Neville can’t remember. But it doesn’t matter, because it can’t be him anyway–

But then the young man turns, and of course it is him, Draco Malfoy, Neville’s one-time tormenter, one-time enemy, and now….

Now. What exactly is Draco Malfoy now?

Katy speaks quietly to Draco, who in turn smiles and nods sympathetically. Neville sees the words of course on his lips, and Katy turns to Neville and ushers him to the empty chair. Neville hesitates, but only for a moment. He can handle this. He’d survived the Carrows. He’d survived Snape. He’d survived the Battle of Hogwarts, all the Death Eaters, and Voldemort himself.

Surely he can survive tea with Draco Malfoy.

And then Draco looks up and sees him, and he feels like running away.

It’s only for a moment, just a fraction of a moment really, but he feels like that little boy learning to fly again, the one afraid of the blond boy who stole his rememberall, the one who fell off his broom and broke his arm.

But it’s only a moment, and then he sees something behind Draco’s confident exterior, something unexpected.

There’s worry in Draco’s eyes, too.

So he sits, and when he speaks he uses the tone he learned from Luna, the one that says I’m your friend even when the words are talking about everything else. “Hello, Draco. It’s been awhile, you look well.”

Startled, Draco says, “That’s the first time you’ve ever called me Draco, Longbottom. To what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?”

Neville’s taken aback at this. It hadn’t even occurred to him. “We’re not kids anymore, are we? Maybe we’ve grown past all that.” He shrugs, a little like the old Neville after all. “We can try anyway.”

They sit in silence for a long moment. A shuffling noise beside them nearly makes Neville jump; he’d forgotten about Katy. She’s got an odd look on her face, and he can see that she’s wondering about the rest of the story. He’s going to get an earful later, he knows.

“Could you just bring my usual, Katy? Extra scones today, I’m quite peckish.” He tries to make his smile reassuring. He’s not sure if he’s relaxed enough to succeed.

After Katy bustles off to fetch his tea and scones Draco, regarding Neville with his refined eyes, says, “So you come here often then? Often enough to know Katy and to have a regular order?”

“How do you know Katy? I’ve never seen you here before.”

“Katy knows everyone who comes in here,” Draco says, as if that explains everything.

Neville can’t help the thread of exasperation that slips into his voice. “I’ve been coming here three or four mornings a week for the past two years. I stopped in once a few days after I moved to town, had one of Becca’s scones, and I’ve been coming back ever since. Once or twice a week I bring Katy flowers for the counter.” He nods at the vase of daisies and roses near the cash register.

“Those are yours?” Draco sounds surprised, and impressed. “I complimented Katy on them once a few months back. Lilacs, I think, and pale pink roses. She told me one of her favorite customers kept her in flowers. Said he fell in love with Becca’s scones and…” He trails off, just looking at Neville. Finally he says, “They’re beautiful. Do you grow them with magic? I’ve never seen flowers so perfect.”

Neville shakes his head, unsure if he should smile or not, unsure how to take the compliment. “No magic. Just a greenhouse for some of the roses in the winter, and a decent knowledge of how to take care of plants.”

“Only some of the roses?”

“I let a third of them rest each winter. Plants get tired too, if you make them bloom all the time. Most of my flowers I keep on their normal cycles, but I can’t help it with the roses. They’re my…” And then he remembers who he’s talking to, and he gets a bit flustered. “Well. I like them, is all. They keep me company in the winter, give me something to do.” He almost adds someone to talk to, but that’s too much like confiding.

“Do you only grow flowers?” Draco sips his tea, watching Neville expectantly for his answer.

It suddenly hits him that he’s having a conversation with Draco Malfoy. About something as ordinary as gardening. And it’s–well, it’s nice. He risks a small smile at Draco.

“Not just flowers. I have vegetables too, in summer. But I spend most of my time on my magical plants. Mostly I just cultivate and sell some things to a shop in Diagon Alley, but I’m also working on– oh, sorry, you don’t care what I’m working on.” His tea and scones have been in front of him for a few minutes now; he absently takes a drink of his tea and barely notices that it’s too hot.

Draco looks surprised. “Of course I do. I asked, didn’t I?” He gestures encouragingly. “Go on then.”

So Neville explains about his healing plants, and his focus on brain injuries. “I don’t know if I’m being useful or just mucking about, but it’s keeping me busy.”

Draco’s giving him a look like he’s never seen him before. “Do you want to be a healer?”

Neville shakes his head. “I want to be what I am, a herbologist. I want to do research and dig in the dirt and make things grow. And possibly help some people along the way.”

“I had no idea you liked herbology.”

Neville laughs, a short bark of a laugh. “Draco, you never knew anything about me.”

Suddenly Draco, always so calm and cool, seems almost flustered. “I’ve no idea how to speak to you, Longbottom. We spent seventeen years on the opposite sides of an uncrossable line. Or seven, at least. And I wasn’t exactly kind. Not to your friends. Not to you.”

Looking Draco directly in the eye, Neville shrugs. Not an ‘it meant nothing’ shrug, but maybe a ‘we can get past it’ shrug. “Are you still a Death Eater?” He doesn’t know where he’s finding his boldness.

Draco actually snorts. And how is it possible to make a snort sound attractive, Neville wonders, but he pushes the thought aside. Or possibly buries it under a rock in a deep, dark wood.

“I’m not allowed a wand,” Draco says, as if it should be obvious. “If I need magic done I need to ask someone to do it for me. Mostly I don’t, though. I live on my own, practically a muggle. Did you know I have the Trace on me again? The Ministry did it up special. They say it’s not forever, but…” His tone tells all; he never expects to do magic of his own again.

Neville feels a pang at this. An actual pang of sympathy for Draco bloody Malfoy. Because he understands what it’s like to have to live without magic. He’d been thought a squib for so long, and even when he’d gotten his wand he’d been so rubbish at magic he mostly avoided doing it. The DA helped with that.

Standing up to Voldemort didn’t hurt either.

“I’m...I’m sorry, Draco.”

Draco starts to laugh, but when Neville’s expression doesn’t change the laugh stops on a breath. “You– Merlin, Longbottom, you actually mean it, don’t you.” He shakes his head, a short, well-bred shake. “Never thought I’d hear one of your lot apologize to me for anything. You should be laughing in my face. Kicking me when I’m down, that sort of thing.” There’s not a hint of irony, not a drop of self-pity in his voice when he adds, “It’s what I deserve.”

Neville pushes away from the table and storms away in one smooth motion, his chair clattering to the floor in his wake. He ignores the stares of the others in the cafe, doesn’t even acknowledge Katy’s whispered, “You alright, Neville?”

The only sound–besides the whispers–is his own frustrated breathing. No footsteps besides his own stomps.

Draco isn’t coming after him.

He’s a block away before his head starts to clear. He’s still a jumbled up ball of emotions, but at least he can think a little bit about why. Draco had sounded so much like “little Neville” he’d felt an almost physical ache inside. Neville is a different person now, mostly, but he still holds that little boy close. He can’t ever forget what it feels like to be looked down upon, to feel unworthy of everything, and to know that–somehow–it was all his fault. The grown, somewhat wiser Neville knows that’s rubbish, knows no one deserves to be treated that way…

And yet.

Some wounds will never heal, not completely. All it had taken was a few choice words from Draco Malfoy, of all people. And he hadn’t even been talking down on Neville, he’d been talking down on himself.

He walks as he thinks, and without direction his feet take him to his favorite bench in his favorite park; he sits and almost smiles, feeling his burdens lift just a bit to see the small rose garden all in bloom. It’s blurry though; he swipes at his cheeks, surprised to find a few tears have leaked from his eyes. “Good thing Draco didn’t come after me,” he mutters. “That’s all I need, him seeing me crying in the park.” Not that there’s anything wrong with crying. Not that he cares at all what Draco thinks of him.

He sits up at the thought. Had he wanted Draco to come after him? Yes, he’d been under the impression that they’d been having a nice time, enjoying their tea together, having good conversation. At least at first. But it hadn’t been anything more than that. It’s not like they’d been on a date or anything.

Neville is staring at roses, all red and yellow, pink and white, but all he sees is intense grey eyes.

And he wonders when, exactly, his stomach had started fluttering at the thought of Draco Malfoy focusing that intense gaze on him.

And then he feels it. He doesn’t look round, but he knows absolutely that Draco is there.

Looking at him.

“I wondered if you’d come,” Neville says softly.

There’s an almost imperceptible rustle of fabric. Maybe a shrug. “I paid for the tea. And the scones. Katy didn’t want to let me, but I insisted.”

“I have a running tab,” Neville says. He’s still looking down, looking away. Avoiding Draco’s gaze.

More rustling fabric. Another shrug? “Just seemed the right thing to do, after I chased you off like that.” The tone is so self-deprecating it’s almost like a blow.

“You didn’t chase me off, I ran away.”

“Isn’t it the same thing?”

Neville lets out a breath. He doesn’t want to argue. “I don’t know. Maybe. It doesn’t matter.”

Neither of them moves for a minute. Two. Finally Neville says, “It wasn’t uncrossable.”

“It– what?” Draco sounds completely lost.

“The line. It wasn’t uncrossable. You crossed it. You were at the Battle of Hogwarts but you didn’t fight. I saw you there, huddled in a corner with your parents.”

“Oh for– Longbottom, that wasn’t crossing a line. That was staying neutral to save our skin!”

Neville looks up for the first time, lets the corner of his mouth quirk up in an almost smile. “Are you truly going to stand there and argue semantics with me, Malfoy? When I’m clearly giving you an out?”

Draco throws his hands up in the air in an overly dramatic gesture. “Thank Merlin, you’re calling me Malfoy again. Hearing you call me Draco was just too weird.”

Rolling his eyes and fighting back a grin, Neville says, “Sit down, Draco. I do not like looking up at you.”

Draco sits, and rather closer than Neville had been expecting. “Here,” he says, shoving a white bakery bag towards Neville.

It’s heavy with scones, and still warm. He almost reaches in and grabs one then and there. “This is more than I had,” he says slowly.

“Mine are in there too. I thought, maybe...” Draco says, his tongue tripping over the words.

Standing up, Neville says, “Come on, then.”

Draco looks up, unsure.

“I’m not far from here, we can walk. I’ll show you my gardens. We’ll have tea.”

“But didn’t we just–”

“You’re English, Malfoy, there’s always time for tea.”

Draco actually smiles at this. “Alright.”

After a moment’s hesitation, Neville offers his hand. Draco, after a brief hesitation of his own, takes it.

Draco’s hand is warm, and comfortable, and surprisingly calloused. He must actually be working somewhere. They’ll talk about it later.

“This doesn’t mean I’ve gone soft, you know. Don’t expect me to start calling you Neville.”

Chuckling softly, Neville squeezes Draco’s hand. “The thought never crossed my mind.”

Draco gives him a curious look. “When did you get taller than me?”

Neville’s laugh bursts out, he can’t help himself. “Somewhere around fourth year. But in case you forgot, I was terrified of you. I generally stayed as far away as possible.” Draco looks embarrassed, like he’s about to apologize, so Neville stops him. “Please don’t. Maybe we can agree to not talk about school? At least for today?” He’s looking at Draco when he says it, and sees understanding flash in his eyes.

“So there might be…” Draco seems unable to finish.

“Tomorrow? Yes. And possibly even another day after that. But let’s just have tea for now, yeah?” Neville doesn’t quite look, but he can see Draco’s soft smile from the corner of his eye.

“Yeah, okay.”

 *****

BONUS SCENE:

(Because this was in my head but I couldn’t make it fit anywhere in the story. Enjoy!)

They're sitting on a blanket in the grass in Neville's garden, eating scones. Conversation flows like summer breeze, light and easy.

"You work in a bookshop?" Neville can't hide the surprise in his voice.

Draco grins. "A muggle bookshop."

Neville's eyes widen. "Your parents must hate that."

"Oh, they've got no idea," Draco says. "I tried to tell them I was looking for work and they told me 'A Malfoy does not labor, Draco.'" He gives a derisive snort. "I've no idea what they think I'm doing for money. Maybe they think I found a way around the trace and I'm magicking money somehow? Who knows." He waves dismissively. "We don't see each other much. Our ideals have...shifted."

They just look at each other for a moment. The words are understood, they don't need to be spoken.

"But I like my job. I unload the books and put them on the shelves, and it feels good to do something. And when there's down time I can read whatever I want–don't look at me like that, I actually like to read, though I kept that hidden at school. I had a reputation to uphold." Neville laughs. Draco smiles, actually blushes slightly. "The best part of my job is helping customers find books. It's why the owner lets me read so much of the inventory, so I can connect people with the right books. Maybe what they came in for, maybe something unexpected. Turns out I'm pretty good at it." He shrugs. "At first it was just a job, a way to get money to live. But now..." They both let the silence go for a long moment. Then Draco finishes. "Now, I think I'd miss it. If the Ministry came and gave me my wand back tomorrow, I think I'd still keep working there. I think that's who I am now."

Draco looks away, suddenly very interested in the grass just beyond the edge of their blanket.

Neville reaches across the small space between them, takes Draco's hand in his. He feels the callouses against his palm, calluses earned carrying boxes and shelving book after book.

"I'm glad you found yourself," he says.

And I think I'm glad I found you, too, he thinks to himself.

#lirael writes #draco/neville #draco malfoy #neville longbottom #harry potter fic #chance meetings #light angst #hopeful ending #so very soft #soft boys being soft #i've loved this pairing for soooooo long #i'm finally writing it for myself #(why do i always fall for the rarepairs???)

[pytas-poetry]

Tired

Is anyone else exhausted by all the violence?

The needless and senseless bloodspatter patterns that decorate my television walls and the wallpaper of my brain.

From the procedural made commonplace turning horrific crime to daytime entertainment for the lonely and alone at 2pm on a weekday contrasted and compared with the graphics and lies projected on channels with three letters and a failed promise to tell the truth.

A battle rages in my living room, the combatants painfully familiar to each other yet only one is aware of the war going on. The other believes it merely youthful idealism soon to be squelched by the tint of age and cynicism. 

The man medicating with food and numbing the pain of a capitalistic hedonism born lack of hope with the gunshots and head wounds of his favorite "more stuff blows up" drug. And me, the far from peaceful activist cooking and tuning out his chosen coping mechanism with my own, music played louder and louder, that preaches a similar method with drastically different goals. 

One child resigned to nothing, so preemptively tired of the fight that he wishes not to engage in the warfare at all. Running, constantly distancing himself from the truth that another whom he loves totally disregards the pains and existence of others whom he lives in concert with. Those the child sings and dances with, those he performs alongside creating spectacles of beauty and emotion to make the world feel again. 

The other dedicated to the fight long before she even knew there was a war. Desperately trying to explain why and how to care for other people to the ones who first taught her the very empathy she attempts to raise in their hearts. Running towards the fight at home and the fight on the front lines. 

I am tired of sighting, tired of fighting, tired of seeing the tension so broadcast and obvious and yet having the same conversations over and over and over fruitlessly watching those on the other side slowly slide into the muck and drivel they are fed from the very hand that bites them. 

I wish they would choose love, 

or at least

choose me

#my poetry #jmb #musings #yes this is political #there is singing in the dark times and there is singing about the dark times #this is singing about the dark times #also how I happen to feel 90% of the time

[yakocchi]

The Bewitching Full Moon // Count

smh they’re never gonna release points-based event cards ever again are they guess I gotta make my own 5-min headers

This event is another one of those “His POV” events. I guess the reception on those has been very positive (which, good, bc I like them too) so they’re pushing them out more and more. They’ve also been pushing the envelope on these ooh lala so sexi ma gah stories with these scandalous avatars. yea sexy ok w/e but are they fashionable? idk abt that one chief... and according to the twitter surveys the community has been comparatively lukewarm too. I mean if they’re gonna make event avatars harder to get why are they getting uglier man

also holy crap the resulting doc for this thing got really long i hope tumblr doesn’t destroy me copypasta

edit: here comes me “slept on it” day after edit, fixed formatting issues and grammar errors that stuck out. if it made it even worse imma cry-

Spoilers under the cut! Please credit if you take any of it, thenk u (･ω･*) image-heavy!

Under the full moon, which shimmered with an ominous violet light - a single stagecoach wheeled through the city. (I wonder how many times it has been where I’ve left the manse like this with her.) I sneak a glance to my side, and gaze at Kara’s dress-clad form. (Dress, shoes, gloves, necklace, hair ornaments...) (I give you every single object, article to wear - and with that you are dyed in my color.) (I experienced that joy even before, but...) Now that we have become lovers, that joy is becoming more and more difficult to come by. (Whenever I look at you, there is this emotion - one that is difficult to put into words - that surges within me.) (Frankly, I try my best to simply suppress it.) (...Well, there is particularly something that is too much to entirely subdue.) I recall that sweet sensation of the very moment where I get to strip off the dress I give her– While deep in my thoughts, a smile cracks my features.

count: the joy from dressing her up is becoming rarer me: ? o whys that count: bc the horny supersedes it me: sir

[Kara]: “Count?” (Oops- if she learned of the things like the carnal passions I bear, she would surely grow disillusioned with me.) [Count]: “It’s nothing. You are just so stunning that a smile eased onto my face.” [Kara]: “D-Don’t play around, please…” As if to hide her face, she lightly puts her hands on her cheeks. She takes small breaths, apparently to temper her heart, before looking up again.

[Kara]: “Um… Tonight’s banquet is opening quite late, isn’t it?” The typical banquet opens its curtains at approximately sunset, where the usual routine is to have dinner together before taking pleasure in dancing and chitchat. However, the time now is already past 10. (Will this be your first time going to this type of evening gathering?) [Count]: “There are nobles who grow tired of the same old pattern of the typical party.” [Count]: “So occasionally, evening parties with fascinating themes appear.” [Kara]: “Fascinating themes’?” [Count]: “Costume parties, calling on an acrobat…” [Count]: “Which reminds me of this one gathering where all the lights of the mansion were to be off. It was quite the fascinating party, yes.” [Count]: “Well, now I’m wondering what tonight’s party will be like.” [Kara]: “Hehe, I’m looking forward to it.” (Whenever you so innocently accept the circumstances at hand like this– because it’s you, I get worried. But...)

With a hand I quietly turn her waist towards me, and bring my lips to her ear. [Count]: “I don’t mind if you enjoy yourself, but I would like if you could firmly avoid being careless.” [Count]: “As in these kinds of parties, the dangers lie hidden.” [Kara]: “What do you mean by ‘dangers’…?” She quietly stares at me, visibly failing to catch the meaning behind my words. [Count]: “In a space separated from everyday life, reason easily crumbles away.” [Count]: “And when instinct conquers reason, the floor changes into a hunting ground for love.” I smoothly stroke her back and hug her waist. [Kara]: “Coun-…“ [Count]: “I do not have even the slightest intention to present my adorable lover to such wolves.”

[Count]: “Because you only belong to me, after all.” [Kara]: “—Nn,” I wrap my arm around her body that had slightly jumped, and as if to engrave my touch I press my lips against hers. [Count]: “…So that you will absolutely not separate from me. Understood?” [Kara]: “…Under, stood…” [Count]: “—Good girl.” I narrow my eyes in satisfaction at her answer, and intertwine our hands against my knee.

(Back before we became lovers, I feel that I still had my wits about me.) (So it was quite unexpected of me to become brimming with emotion like this from simply spending time after time together.) (But, tonight… it has become more difficult than usual to tie down…) I shift my gaze to the window, and the moon that floats in the sky above radiates this violet. (—It couldn’t be… Well.)

When we step inside the noble’s mansion, a different world stretched before us. The saloon was colored a brilliant red, and several tables had been arranged in a line where aristocrats entertained themselves with card games and roulette.

[Count]: “So you’re surprised by the casino.” [Kara]: “Wow… I’ve seen Arthur and the others play these sort of games, but this is the first time I’ve ever set foot in a place like this.” [Kara]: “So there can even be things like casinos in the parties of nobles, huh?” [Count]: “In the beginning, gambling was an activity popular within the elite. So it has been as much as a long time for me too.”

“get it cuz im old as fuuuu”

Her eyes swelled of fresh expectations as she looks around the saloon. (We came here to enjoy ourselves, so yes, I would like you to have fun. To be honest, I would rather not teach you how to play the more dubious games, but…) (If it’s just something like cards, there shouldn’t be a problem.) While I survey the surroundings, right in the direction of the bar counter a voice calls out to me.

[Baron]: “Ah, the Count. It has been a while.” [Baroness]: “After this we’re playing a bit of poker, but would you like to join us?” I turn my eyes to see a baron who I was acquainted with and his wife beckoning me over. [Count]: “Kara, would you like to try?” [Kara]: “I only know the very basic rules, but I’ll try.” [Count]: “I’ll teach you, then.”

[Count]: “…And with that, I have shown you more or less the fundamental rules– but is there anything else that you may be confused about?” [Kara]: “I think I’ll be okay from here…!” [Count]: “Then, let’s put it into practice.” [Kara]: “Please go easy on me.” [Baron]: “Well, young miss, when it comes to winning or losing there’s no such thing as leniency.” [Baroness]: “Oh, you! You shouldn’t scare such an adorable little lady like that.” During our pleasant chatter, the cards are dealt before the four of us and we each check our individual hands. (A King, another King, a Three, a Seven, and a Jack… With only these, I can form One Pair with my Kings. A rather mediocre hand.) (Or, I could discard the other three cards and aim for a Three of a Kind?) (Well then. And Kara…?) While maintaining a poker face, I slide a glance and— [Kara]: “…” Within the tension her cheeks were slightly flushed red, and her mouth was shaped into a faint smile. (It appears that good cards have come to her.) (…But I probably should have also taught her the techniques of forming a poker face.) Though subtly smiling bitterly, I pleasantly watched my beloved to whom I shall compete with in her first poker game – She was fixated on the five cards in her hand before suddenly lifting her eyes. The moment our eyes met…—

(Huh…?) Almost in slow motion, my fingers move… [Count]: “—kgh,”

My fingers pick out the two Kings from my hand and throw them into the muck without a moment's hesitation. (Why, am I acting like…) (For a moment, it was almost as if someone had taken over my body—) Akin to a marionette, my actions had disregarded my own will. In my centuries of living, it was the first time I had ever experienced anything like that. (Just what on Earth was…) 

[Baroness]: “My, it’s rare for the Count to lose his poker face like that.” [Count]: “Perhaps it’s also all just an act?” [Baron]: “As you’d expect from the Count, you can’t underestimate him.” While playfully exchanging banter, my consciousness was once more preoccupied with some thorough reflection. What rose from my mind was the suspicious moon that had risen in the sky. (—The “purple moon”.) Much like tonight - once every several centuries, there is a night where moon gives off a violet light. (That moonlight sharpens the vampiric senses, and additionally…) (On the night of the shining purple moon, vampires cannot oppose their loved ones.) As for my loved ones, it is undeniably Kara. (In other words, tonight my body is – controlled by Kara.)

If this is the case, then it would explain the cryptic behavior from just a minute ago. (If I cannot go against her wishes…) (Right when I met her eyes, it is highly probable that she had wished to beat me.) I turn over the new cards that were dealt to me in exchange for my discarded ones. (An Eight, and a King.) (If I hadn’t thrown away those Kings, I would have formed a Three of a Kind...)

[Count]: “…It appears I’m out of luck.” I line up my random assortment of cards by suit and place them down on the table. [Baroness]: “Hehe, I have One Pair.” [Baron]: “I also have One Pair.” [Kara]: “I have a Three of a Kind.” She breaks into a cheerful smile and reveals her hand. [Count]: “It seems that Lady Luck is smiling upon you.” [Kara]: “Hehe… it seems like it.” From that carefree smile, a sweet feeling spreads within the depths of my heart.  (The real thrill of poker is supposed to be the psychological warfare, but) (When you are so innocently delighted I seem to forget all about that.) (This is not entirely the way I would have wanted it, but I got to see something lovely.)

And so, as the game continued— …In the end, I was unable to outplay her. [Baron]: “It surprised me to see the Count so clumsy at poker.” [Baron]: “Are you up for another round?” [Count]: “Please forgive me, but I cannot afford to display such an unsightly side of myself in front of my beloved anymore.” [Baroness]: “Miss Kara, I had fun with you tonight.” [Kara]: “Me too. Thank you for inviting me to play.” We leave the table, and I call on a waiter dressed in black to halt for me. [Count]: “May I have two glasses of champagne?” Receiving the pair of flutes, I hold out one of them to Kara. [Count]: “For your victory.”

[Count]: “So, for the occasion, shall we have a toast somewhere?” [Kara]: “Yes, of course… Um, where are we going?” [Count]: “How about someplace like the balcony?” [Count]: “With your first poker victory, it is a special night.” [Count]: “I want to have a quiet toast between just the two of us.” [Kara]: “O-Okay…”

Between the two of them, the honey-colored champagne sways in the glasses as if to mark the beginning of a sweet night…

Clinking our glasses, the champagne bubbles rise to the surface. [Count]: “Congratulations. Even to the end, I just couldn’t beat you.”

or rather “Congratulations - For I couldn’t win (over you) even at the end.” but that sounds kind of shady hm

[Kara]: “Thank you, but I definitely just got lucky there.” [Kara]: “I guess there really is such a thing as beginner’s luck, huh.” [Count]: “You say that, but you still seem rather happy about it?” I set my glass down and stroke her grinning cheeks with my fingertips to poke fun at them. [Count]: “Are you really that pleased about besting me?” [Kara]: “This is the first time I’ve ever won against the Count with something, so naturally I’m happy about it…”

lol i know they mean by “winning” in the general sense but i like to think they’ve played several types of games together and he just never lets her win

(You are truly not wearing a poker face of any kind right now.) (Even when you do try to hide it, it’s clearly apparent when you are thinking about something else.) [Count]: “But that’s not all, is it?” (I know that you wanted to beat me because the light of the purple moon had affected my body to do so.) (You so deeply wanted, from the bottom of your heart, to win - so I want to know the real reason behind it.) [Count]: “Come, truthfully confess to me.” [Kara]: “I can’t let anything slip past you, it seems…”

She’s at a bit of a loss for words before slowly looking up at me to possibly gauge my expression. [Kara]: “The truth is… back from when you kissed me in the carriage, I had been thinking about it.” [Count]: “That you wanted to beat me in something?” [Kara]: “Yes. At the time, while I was trying my hardest to calm my heartbeat…” [Kara]: “You, however, maintained your composed, collected face, right?” [Kara]: “That moment today wasn’t the only time it’s been like that; ever since we’ve become lovers, it has happened so many times that it’s impossible to count…” She tightly bites her lip. [Kara]: “I just can’t compete with someone like you.” [Kara]: “But then I thought with something like poker, I could perhaps win with luck on my side.”

[Kara]: “Since I’ve always been the one being toyed with…” [Kara]: “Tonight, I thought… that I wanted to see the Count’s– see Abel’s, restless face…”

At that moment, I realized the consequences I had wrought from my prying – but it was already too late. The instant she shot through me with those eyes blurred with shyness, I could hear the sound of my reason shattering into pieces…

[Count]: “kgh—” (—I cannot fight it.) (Kara, I want to… No, I need – to take you.)

So I changed this entirely bc there’s no English equivalent. The original line can be literally translated as “Kara, I want to take you… no, take you.” What he does is change the pronoun he uses for “you” (kimi → omae) to signal the change in the level of intimacy. With most people (mansion residents, people in general) the Count uses “kimi”. Though with those who know him at a closer level, like Leonardo and Vlad, he uses “omae”. (Mostly) men are only really supposed to use “omae” with people they’re close to or it comes off as rude. This is significant with the Count and MC’s relationship because he begins to refer to her as “omae” when they’re alone together (and thus wants to make a point about how personal it is) once they reciprocate their feelings in Chapter… 24(?). The writers are more than aware of this, because all of the Count’s His POV stories in his route are titled 「君○○」 “kimi ____” but the His POV titles for the Endings use “omae”.

[Kara]: “—gh, Abel…” When I strongly embrace her, from the corner of my eye I catch sight of the moon in its sheen of purple light. Paired with this boiling sensation in my blood, I once again realize the meaning of my existence. [Count]: “…As you desire, I shall become just a man for you.” [Kara]: “A, bel…? —Mn, nn…” I steal her lips, as if to take away all of her warmth. (Just simple touches are not enough.) I draw her head closer and entangle our tongues to steal those lips even deeper. (What’s this - it’s sweet… from the scent, the touch, and the taste…) However, my hunger was not sated even by this kiss. (More - I want to taste you, more…) I pull her waist towards me and capture her tongue that had attempted to escape in a fluster. Dominated by instinct, like a starved beast I devour her lips.

(…Seeking her in this way, in an unknown place where someone could come, what in God’s name is wrong with me?) The remains of my reason murmur from the edge of my mind. But, contrary to those feelings, there was a certain kind of a pleasure intoxicating my heart. (The sense of my reason being thrown aside… is this sweet, hm…?) My fingertips, in their longing for her, slowly ride up the hem of her dress.

sir this is a community balcony i’m gonna need you to take yourself out

[Kara]: “Ngh… A, bel…”

[Count]: “Whether to accept or refuse me, is up to you.”

PREMIUM ENDING

The “purple moon” sharpens the vampire’s senses, and additionally– a vampire’s body that basks in its moonlight shall be dominated by their loved ones. [Kara]: “Since I’m always the only one being toyed with…” [Kara]: “Tonight, I thought… that I wanted to see the Count’s– see Abel’s, restless face…” —A loved one’s wishes, for tonight, can be granted under this moon that emits this mysterious light. My fingertips, in their longing for her, slowly ride up the hem of her dress. [Kara]: “Ngh… A, bel…” [Count]: “Whether to accept or refuse me, is up to you.”

Releasing her lips from our deep kiss, I securely hug her from behind and place her hands against the balcony. [Kara]: “Abel, what are…?” The eyes that look over the shoulder quiver in confusion. (Right now, as instinct overwhelms me... I want to take you.) [Count]: “Show me that disheveled form of yours some more.” A hand glides upwards to approach her chest, and wraps around her breast through the silk of the fabric. [Kara]: “Nnn… Abel,” [Count]: “It’s all right. I shall hide you in a way that no else can see.” [Count]: “Even for myself, I do not intend to show that sweet expression of yours to other men.” [Kara]: “That’s not the…” Her eyes were widened, and moistened with shame. [Count]: “And just who was the one who said that they wanted to see my restless face?” [Kara]: “That’s...” The adorable figure of my beloved, trapped with lowered eyes, also makes a bewitching pleasure sharply simmer within me. (If I happened to look into a mirror right now… Without a doubt, I would see that the face I’m wearing is far from that of a gentleman.) [Count]: “I know that you also want to learn of these indecent pleasures, hm?” [Kara]: “I…—nn,” To cut off her words, I rub the peaks of her breasts against the silk with the pads of my fingers. [Kara]: “ah- Mn…” [Count]: “To the point where I can find that out immediately— harden them for me.” [Count]: “Not wanting to know this pleasure... you don’t seem that way at all, or am I mistaken?” (Because of the purple moon, I cannot go against her wishes tonight.) (If she truly didn’t want this, I wouldn’t be able to even lay a finger on her.) (Since I am able to touch her, this means—)

[Count]: “…You truly, want me to forcibly take you, don’t you?” Burying my face onto her nape I move my fingers to agitate her, her body trembling within me. Desperately biting her lip, she stifles her sweet voice. (Whatever it is that you are thinking, I will quite distinctly know what it is.) (Because the one controlling me, is you yourself…) I rub her with my fingers again, and she twists her back with a shudder. [Kara]: “Hah, ah…” [Count]: “It seems that you are feeling it more than usual.” [Count]: “To seek a thrill like this, what a bad girl you are.”

[Count]: “But, if you don’t keep that voice down, you will be heard, no?” [Kara]: “Ha, ah- But… I can’t… hold o-…” [Count]: “There’s no other choice, then.” The corners of my lips raise into an elegant smile before I lift her chin. [Count]: “I’ll stifle it for you.” [Kara]: “Mn, uhn…” Continuing to lovingly caress her breast in one hand I press my lips to hers, providing even more heat. A voice laced with temptation spills out from her wetted lips. [Kara]: “A…bel… if you do, any more than this, I…” [Count]: “Then if I do any more than this, what will happen?” [Kara]: “Don’t bully me…” Her lovely voice cries out between the light brushes of our lips, and my chest sweetly tightens from the sound. (This appetite will not be satisfied until I make her wholly mine.) [Count]: “Do you take me for a man who only teases and leaves you unfulfilled?”

[Count]: “I shall stain your entire body with pleasure.”

…In a certain room. I slip off my coats, vest, tie, and finally shirt to reveal my bare skin…While I fling them onto the sofa one by one, I lead Kara in the direction of the bed. (The part where I drive her to the corner like this… is exceptional tonight.)

[Kara]: “Ah…” Hitting the edge of the bed, she casts her eyes down as there is nowhere else to go. [Count]: “…Got you.” I capture her beloved body into my arm’s embrace, and slowly push her down onto the bed. [Count]: “In here, you can be as loud as you like.” [Kara]: “But… is it okay to use this room as you please…?” [Count]: “When we arrived tonight we had talked about the themes of evening parties, correct?” I move my hand from stroking her blooming cheeks to press a fingertip against her lips. [Count]: “For those who wish to indulge in something rather risqué for the night, they prepare rooms like this.” [Count]: “So I shall receive this room for use with my humble gratitude.” I unravel the ribbon on the back, and the silk dress almost seemed to glide off her shoulder as it fell down.

(I do like to beautifully dress you up – but stripping you down with my own two hands also sends my heart racing.) [Kara]: “gh…” I seize her hands that were about to cover her chest and pin them to the sheets. [Count]: “Without hiding anything, show yourself to me.” Her exposed skin became shamefully dyed with the hue of roses before my very eyes. This color, teeming with vitality, made my vampiric instincts ache painfully.

[Kara]: “n-no… It’s embarrassing…” [Count]: “Then, if I stop looking… I shall have a taste instead.” I meet her breasts and crawl the tip of my tongue along the peak. [Kara]: “Ah, aah… Abel… Mn,” She pushes against my chest in light resistance. But before long her resistance had ceased, and gradually changed to that of her disheveled sighs and sweet gasps. [Count]: “It seems that you’ve become quite honest with yourself.” [Kara]: “To be loved like this – I have no choice but to be honest, right…?” [Kara]: “As tonight will be the only time I’ll get to know of your ferocious emotions…”

My mind is suddenly drawn to her wording. (Does she know about the purple moon…?) But I cannot imagine that she would know about something like a rare phenomenon that occurs only once every several centuries. I stare at her as if to look into her heart, and our eyes meet.

[Kara]: “More… Please, lose yourself to me, more…” (If she does know about the purple moon, and thus is purposefully provoking me, then…) [Count]: “What a naughty girl. Do you want to ruin my composure that badly?” [Kara]: “Yes…” The Count’s body is completely, sweetly steeped in her words, and as if it were alcohol his reason gradually dissolved. (Right now, even the words that I always shower her with will not come out.) For his heart was dominated only by the instinct of a vampire, and only by the instinct to love her as a man. [Count]: “I want to cast away my morality and reason, and just love you.”

FIN

this guy…………is a lot. i thought maybe everyone would be like this for the event but no, leo only gets weird bc essentially his mc was dumb enough to try to pick up broken shards of glass with her bare hands (im not trying to shame her… but i am) and then it’s not really isaac’s fault when he already has the worst bloodthirst out of all of them so sir step into the paddy wagon, the horni police will question u shortly

anyway tl;dr the sweet ending has the mc reveal to him early that she knew what the purple moon does to vampires in terms of the heightened vampire senses and crud but not the obedience to loved ones so he tells her blah blah romanceu talk but he still wants to bone and so they go home to do it instead. 

Make sure to purchase the Epilogue when you have the chance! It’s good stuff ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)

So, thanks for reading! (`･ω･´) Sorry if it’s hard to parse through. there’s a reason why editing is a job people get paid for orz

#idk wat the engl tags are idk #like do they call him comte #how french do we get #ikemen vampire #ikevam #comte de saint germain

[azure-steel]

@mercyxkilling​ said: “can i kiss you?” other crew members be damned, she didn’t care. let them have their show if they wanted to watch. Send "Can I kiss you?" to see how my muse responds - No Longer Accepting

Pls accept and enjoy this lil ficlet about these babs. Because of you my adoration for this franchise has be revived TENFOLD and I just can’t get enough of these two being so disgustingly adorable together.

I adore you and your amazing muse so much, and I should tell you more   (ﾉ◕ヮ◕)ﾉ*:･ﾟ✧

It All Happens In The Mess Hall~Cloud x Mercy a Mass Effect Story.

It was possibly the one place aboard Mercy’s ship where Cloud spent the majority of his time, that and this was where his relationships with the rest of the crew members began to gain any real traction. A neutral ground where it became so very apparent that almost every member of this ragtag group was here for the same reason. To earn a few credits and perhaps sate a thirst for a little adventure. 

And they all loved their captain with every fibre of their being. 

Cloud had spent the initial weeks of his time amongst the crew largely by himself, but this was nothing really new; naturally coy the task of attempting to relate to others was laborious at best. Even as a member of T’Loak’s court had he been a man one on his own, not that there was any love lost there whatsoever. It had never truly been a problem, not when alcohol and red sand was in copious supply and enough of an escape from the arduous day to day life living amongst the rest of the filth occupying the Omega station. Moreover this environment was so wholly different, wholesome almost, to a fault, and the longer he spent on the outside of this tight-knit collective, the longing to be included began to eat away at him. Often would he remove himself from the hall when the crew would filter in, sensing all those eye puncturing the flesh between otherwise broad shoulders. They didn’t trust him, and they had every reason to be wary.

Shotgun - a battle worn Krogan mercenary - was the first to approach him here in the mess hall, though it was after Cloud had all but shit himself believing this guy was about to pop his head like a zit (Listen... this bastard is BIG and looks very angry almost always, can’t blame a guy for feeling just a tad intimidated beneath his shadow) that he came to realise Shotgun was very interested in the firearm he was servicing at that time. 

A rather worn and very well loved M-300 Claymore - A Krogan weapon. 

A common ground was established in that moment, taking root and from that grew an unlikely friendship between them, and for a time the pair were seemingly inseparable. It was the first time in a long while in which Cloud was reduced to fits of laughter at the Krogan’s many stories, and, boy, did he have a lot of those. Maybe some were a little far fetched and embellished, but it really didn’t matter. The guy was hilarious, and Strife very much enjoyed his company, even if the guy liked to overshare on occasion. Discovering that male Krogan have four testicles dangling between their legs was enough nightmare fuel to keep the blond awake for two nights straight after the fact. And needless to say maintaining eye contact with Shotgun had been a little more difficult than usual for a few days until Strife had eventually gotten over himself. At least he knew where the term ‘QUADS’ originated now... 

No wonder Krogan were so pissed about the Genophage, all things considered of course; these guys were clearly breeding machines as well as living breathing tanks, evolved over millennia for the very purpose of brutal warfare, civil or otherwise. It seemed the Salarians and the Turians had a lot to answer for.  

Still, oversharing and absurd knowledge about alien reproductive organs aside, the mess hall, and Shotgun’s kinship was the beginning of Cloud’s gradual unification with the rest of the team. As far as he was concerned, Mercy had very little to do with that aspect, though he knew very little of the woman and what gears she was working behind the scenes. He was, unfortunately not privy to the private smiles she kept hidden in the shadows when she would spy his social development amongst the men she cared so deeply for; he had no true reason at that point to believe she even cared about it. Though Cloud had every reason to figure that simply having him onboard, despite the toxic levels of contention his presence here initially - and unsurprisingly - wrought, was enough for her men to decide that he was, at the very least, useful; a first for him really. 

But Shotgun had done well to push open the door left ajar by their comrades and gave Cloud a golden opportunity to further still this usefulness he’d never been able to appreciate before now. He would help Vinnie during meal prep even if Cloud was only the busboy for the most part, setting tables, clearing them, washing dishes; all part and parcel of mucking in as it were and it seemed the older guy appreciated the aid. And the Turian Brothers - Adavixus and Artisius - would sometimes invite him to play in their tournaments of Numerfictil whenever Cloud was present in the mess; a game very similar to dominoes where decorative tiles with strange symbols were used to beat those already placed upon the board. It took a while for Strife to learn what each symbol meant, but the brother’s persevered with the highest level of patience. Other crew mates would join on occasion, bringing to the table cloudy bottles of homebrewed lager fermented from alien fruits beneath one of many heating vents on the ship; often pungent, almost always violently potent in which contests between the humans were born to see who could stomach the most ‘poison’ in one sitting. 

Cloud almost always lost those bets and would suffer greatly for them the following day. Though never would he complain, even when the hangover rendered him practically useless and crumpled agonisingly deep in the darkest recesses of the communal shower block. To be gathered amongst comrades around the smallest table in the mess, to be shunted playfully via the shoulders and included in the guffaws and jests from the mouths of men hailing from all walks of life and the far reaches of the galaxy, he’d be stupid to trade it in for anything else. They’d dubbed him Strifey - and he liked that more than he cared to mention. To be included, to form meaningful bonds, for all of his sorry life, that was all he’d ever wanted and it had taken him until now to even realise it.  

He was beginning to like it here, along with all the colourful people surrounding him. How strange it felt to begin associating a star-fairing ship as home. 

The trust was building, and for the first time for as long as he could even dare to recall, Cloud was being greeted with welcoming nods, hard slaps to the shoulder and raised hands on his commute to the days tasks either in the mess or the engine room where Darius resided, a rather strapping Italian-American man honing a booming voice but with the patience of a doting father teaching his son how to maintain the family vehicle. He was beginning to enjoy the eyewatering stink of engine oil and general man stink, and Darius was all about teaching his new protégé everything he could about ‘Nova’s’ inner workings and how to maintain her. 

Even his relationship with the previously emotionally elusive captain had begun to flourish. In the beginning Cloud was under no illusion that his biotic abilities were of some great interest to her. She honed similar attributes even if her gift was granted to her under very different circumstances. Yet Mercy would pick at him, complain about the state of his armour - as shoddy as it was but fit like an old favourite slipper hence his reluctance to do anything about it - though with an air of comedic affection laced from an otherwise viciously sharp tongue. On occasion she would reprimand him when his performance was lacklustre, when his actions or lack thereof became detriment to the collective of her crew. He didn’t like those days, to be reminded of his flaws and failings, and yet, from those instances began what could be considered a strange flurry of respect for a woman deemed hostile from anyone on the outside looking in. Because never in those instances did she beat him down, but drove into him how she didn’t believe he was better than what he was giving, but that she knew it to be true. Another instance where, for the first time, he was given food for thought, something to chew and improve on. 

Some hard lessons were learned this way, and her methods were brutal often resulting in volatile spats the whole ship could hear, yet somehow Mercy seemed to know that a firm hand was needed to keep the newest member of her team grounded, and no mistake was ever repeated twice. Yet after all of that, apologies for her hard hitting words would be delivered mostly without fail, once again, in the comfort of the mess hall. Cloud, of course, would take them with the upmost humility. She was the captain after all, her word aboard her ship, was as good as the word of any God. 

Despite all of this, with every mission Strife would be on the front lines with her, standing down heavy fire from the enemy and teaming up with this formidable and outrageously powerful woman to deliver precise and deadly attacks. And it was the culmination of that power, coupled with the harsh demands to be better where a whole new problem began to develop deep in the recesses of his cluttered head. Cloud didn’t recognise it at first, all he knew for certain was he was frustrated, and Mercy’s presence seemed to aggravate that issue exponentially. It wasn’t until she invited a stranger into her cabin some weeks after that the penny finally dropped. 

He was falling for her. And the sight of her bringing that man into her intimate space was a pain like no other, so much so that it fractured something inside of him he wasn’t sure he could even fix.

White-hot jealousy began to override his good senses, unable to shake the notion that it wasn’t him occupying the spaces in her bed, and throwing himself into work was doing so very little to alleviate the devastation of - once again - being on the outside looking inward. Wishing to be a part of something so very far out of his reach. 

But what could he do? Cloud knew of other crew members trying their luck and getting knocked back. He didn’t think he could handle that level of humiliation, and so he settled into a foul gloomy limbo of wanting her and never being able to have her. Residing to live vicariously through his own sexual fantasies and fucking his pillow whenever he was alone. Pathetic didn’t even come close to how he viewed his own behaviour, when he was reserved and snippy with her, yet utterly miserable was much closer to the truth than he truly wanted to admit, even to himself. Strife had even tried Mercy’s methods of attempting to deal with his predicament, inviting attractive tail onto her ship with the intent of getting his end away in a bid to alleviate the intolerable pressure building in his loins. A failed attempt at best when all he was able to talk about was his disdain for his captain and how she made him feel so damn desperate. Needless to say that instance was a flop at its very finest. 

It was Mercy he wanted, not some loose broad dragged in from a club. No one else's interest could even come close to what he wanted from her. 

Though it wasn’t long after that instance that things began to change; where he would catch her watching him only for her quickly turn away when their gazes locked. Where she would begin to make excuses to touch him, softly, so tenderly, be that with fingers through his hair in the guise of innocent curiosity, or the slow sensual dances illuminated by the strobe lights of every bar and club they’d visit. Where hands roamed over broad planes of covered flesh and set his soul on fire. Where times spent simply talking in the observation deck had drawn them closer, noses bumping together while he’d begin to drown in the warm honey of her eyes, swept away on the winds of every exhale, unable to fight against the gravity of her, and relishing how his heart pounded against the walls of his chest in eager anticipation of that very first kiss. 

Cloud was so fucking ready to fall in love with her, to plummet beyond that point of no return only encouraged by her imploring hands and those heavy lust filled hues. To kiss her, touch her, make sweet love to her and make her his. Even if they were interrupted each and every time by convenient obstacles in the form of Benny and Vinnie. 

It all came to a head during one of their many sparring sessions, tensions released as they fucked like animals on the cold floor of the training room, where she’d cried his name and nothing in the galaxy had ever sounded so sweet, where the sharp grazes running across his shoulders had never hurt so good, marked to claim him as hers together with the sensual rocking of hips and desperate pleading moans. And there on after Cloud was common presence in those spaces in her bed, peeling away the layers, touching her in her most intimate places, securing hot wet kisses against scorched flesh while she straddled his waist and rode him beyond that sheer edge of rapture itself. No amount of booze nor substances could compare to this addiction, just her hands on him was enough to make him hard, just her lips moaning his name hotly against the shell his ear enough to make him cum, for her and only her over, and over, and over again. 

Wild and untameable was she, and he wouldn’t change her for all the credits in all of Citadel Space; no finer feeling had he ever experienced to know that she, this apparition of everything Cloud knew to be beautiful, inside and out, had chosen him in the end.  

Keeping their relationship from the rest of the crew was impossible, they were too obvious with how they merely looked at one another, the way they had started to protect one another in battle, how they were caught so many times locking lips within the shadows of corridors. Yet even then, everyone knew, if the knowledge of their relationship wasn’t widely accepted as being out in the open, it was still very much common knowledge. And for her men at least, harbouring that information was insufferable. 

Until one day, in the usual place where the crew gathered, where she would muscle Shotgun out of his seat next to Cloud to claim it as her own, and she looks at him from beneath those long dark lashes and the words “Can I kiss you?” oozed from her lips like the finest syrup. Cloud gazes back, baby blue’s dropping to her mouth before flickering upwards once more to meet with those gorgeous honey glazed eyes. He doesn’t offer an answer, least not a verbal one, choosing instead to close that distance, his mouth enclosing those glorious luscious lips with the softest of coquettish sighs. 

And much to the gleeful appreciation of the crew sat amongst them, jeering and whooping in a sort of celebration for this affection they’d found in the most unexpected of circumstances. 

Because like everything here aboard the Nova, it all happens in the mess hall. 

#mercyxkilling #{This feeling's so volatile it must be love - Cloud x Mercy} #{eezo stained - Mass Effect AU} #this is HELLA long #but I worked ALL DAY on it #and loved every second #I really hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it <3

[freudensteins-monster]

Fic Ideas I'll Never Finish #666a: Nanny Ashtoreth's Home for Wayward Children

Good Omens x Miss Peregrine's Home for Peculiar Children.

Crowley's always had a soft spot for children and has been saving them from the machinations of both sides since the Great Flood. Aziraphale has never reported him for it, and never technically lied, because he's always conveniently looking in the opposite direction whenever Crowley decides "to hell with orders" and starts rounding up the children most at risk from the next round of ineffable bullshit.

Occassionally he discovers strange, slightly more-than-human children and does his damndest to keep them hidden from the agents of Heaven and Hell, who would want to either smite them on the spot or weaponize them for their own ends, depending on the child. He's not always successful. Aziraphale is always there comfort him when he loses one but it's not until the Great War that Aziraphale takes on a more active role in Crowley's acts of rebellion and child rearing.

While both sides are distracted, busy preening over their involvement in horror of modern warfare, Aziraphale and Crowley miracle up a safe haven; a moment frozen outside of time.

Crowley reaches out to all his special children and asks them to join him in London. He's incredibly anxious about them all being together in one place, exposed for the first time in centuries, but when they converge on an unassuming street corner in Soho he can't help but smile.

He ushers his children (the sole surviving Nephilim, a gorgon with protective glasses fashioned after Crowley's own, and a young boy who may have been the inspiration for Wilde's Dorian Gray or maybe Well's Invisible Man for starters, (and maybe later on a girl who can see the future and a boy who makes anything electronic explode)) into a dusty old bookshop and introduces them to kindly Mr Fell.

They escort the children to a doorway hidden behind a bookshelf in one of the back rooms. They step through the doorway and find themselves in the parlour of Nanny Ashteroth's Home for Wayward Children. The sprawling Victorian manor sits on the outskirts of the idyllic village of Tadfield, and it is always the 6th of June, 1906.

Back on the other side of the door the world continues to move forward. Crowley discovers a few more special children in need of his particular brand of protection and Aziraphale is always there to welcome them with a smile and a cup of cocoa. Some of his children decide to return to the world outside, and Crowley doesn't have it in him to deny them their freedom. Once in a while one of them will show up on the bookshop steps unannounced with a friend in tow, someone in need of a guardian demon, and Crowley fears he might discorporate from sheer pride.

Inevitably the Antichrist is delivered into Crowley's possession and the countdown to Armageddon begins. One glance at the basket's contents and Crowley knows what he needs to do.

An hour later, after pulling a few jedi mind tricks over some chatty nuns, he introduces the Adversary, Destroyer of Kings, Angel of the Bottomless Pit, Great Beast that is called Dragon, Prince of This World, Father of Lies, Spawn of Satan, and Lord of Darkness - Adam for short - to a slightly less certain Aziraphale. It doesn't take much - less than half a bottle of wine - to get the angel on board with his plan.

11 years later the Antichrist is a no show.

"It's not my fault," the demon Crowley protests when he's summoned Below for sudden performance review. "I delivered him to the nuns like I was told to. If they mucked it up that's hardly my fault. We could ask them what happened that night, and who else the child could've ended up with, but some toad-wearing-an-idiot disbanded them and then set fire to the whole bleeding hospital!"

Suspicion diverted and consequences avoided for now, Crowley returns to his perfect moment outside of time where a three year old Adam* plays with his newly acquired dog, Dog.

*Time doesn't pass in Tadfield, so not even Nanny's more mortal charges age, but looking after a squalling infant grows old (metaphorically speaking) so Adam spends every weekend with Aziraphale in the flat above the bookshop. They'll cut it back to a weekend every other month once he's finally potty trained, and then just a sleepover here and there until such time as he's mentally old enough to understand what's going on and voice his own opinions on the matter.

11 will come sooner or (much, much) later, but Crowley's not worried. Adam's got two parental figures who love him, who defied Heaven and Hell for him, who stopped time for him, and a house full of weird and wonderful siblings that make every day, even a neverending one, an adventure. Even Aziraphale stopped fretting after the first century.

#fic ideas i'll never finish #freudensteins fics #good omens #crowley #aziraphale #adam young #miss peregrines home for peculiar children #i wrote this instead of sleeping

[turtle-paced]

do you think ned loved catelyn? that was the impression i very much got from the books and the show. my friend disagrees though and says while cat clearly loves ned, ned doesn't love her as much as she does him in the books.

Ned loves Catelyn very much. He’s a family man through and through (well beyond the point of political utility), and his relationship with Catelyn is absolutely essential to that.

Cut for length.

Catelyn I, AGoT, immediately establishes familiarity and affection between the two. One of the first things we learn about their relationship is that this is a mixed-faith marriage, and despite Ned’s own dedication to his faith, he had a sept built for Catelyn in Winterfell.

Catelyn II starts with Catelyn and Ned alone together. Having sex, in fact, which Catelyn thinks of as lovemaking rather than duty or, worse, assault. The scene-setting makes it very clear that Ned spends quite a bit of time in Catelyn’s rooms.

The warmthreminded her of Riverrun, of days in the sun with Lysa and Edmure, but Ned could never abidethe heat. The Starks were made for the cold, he would tell her, and she would laugh and tell himin that case they had certainly built their castle in the wrong place.

So when they had finished, Ned rolled off and climbed from her bed, as he had a thousandtimes before.

Yeah, if Ned’s spending that much time in Catelyn’s rooms and grumping about how warm they are while she pokes fun at him for being a delicate Northern flower, he’s not there just because he wants another kid. Hell, if he’s staying around long enough to chat and for them to have running jokes, he’s not there just for the sex either. He’s there for Catelyn.

That scene continues on with Ned arguing “I want to stay in Winterfell,” against the solid political logic Catelyn advances. It’s pretty clear that the draw of Winterfell is his family. When he caves, though, and starts sketching out how the family will be split,

Ned kissed the tears from her eyes before they could fall. “Thank you, my lady,” he whispered.“This is hard, I know.”

Tender. Intimate. Again, this points towards a mutually loving relationship. We see that sort of casual physical intimacy between the two again, in Eddard IV.

Inside, Catelyn was waiting. She cried out when she saw him, ran to him, and embraced himfiercely.

“My lady,” Ned whispered in wonderment.

“Why?” Ned asked. He saw her hands then, the awkward way she held them, the raw red scars,the stiffness of the last two fingers on her left. “You’ve been hurt.” He took her hands in his own,turned them over.

Ned’s head jerked up. “But… who… why would.”

She put a finger to his lips. “Let me tell it all, my love. It will go faster that way. Listen.”

“As you say, my lord.” Catelyn lifted her face, and Ned kissed her. Her maimed fingers clutched against his back with a desperate strength, as if to hold him safe forever in the shelter of her arms.

“It will not come to that,” Ned promised her, praying it was true. He took her in his arms again.

These are all from the end of Eddard IV. I honestly cannot come to any conclusion but that these are two people who enjoy physical contact with each other, seek it out, and draw mutual comfort and strength from such contact. It’s also quite clear that the nature of this relationship is romantic.

Eddard IV is also the chapter that gives us this:

Ned Stark dismounted in a fury. “A brothel,” he said as he seized Littlefinger by the shoulderand spun him around. “You’ve brought me all this way to take me to a brothel.”

“Your wife is inside,” Littlefinger said.

It was the final insult. “Brandon was too kind to you,” Ned said as he slammed the small manback against a wall and shoved his dagger up under the little pointed chin beard.

When Ned and Catelyn are apart, he still thinks of her and wants to be back with her.

Not for the first time, he wondered what he was doing here and why he had come. He was no Jon Arryn, to curb the wildness of his king and teach him wisdom. Robert would do what he pleased, as he always had, and nothing Ned could say or do would change that. He belonged in Winterfell. He belonged with Catelyn in her grief, and with Bran. 

- Eddard II, AGoT

Hell with politics, he should be home with his wife and son. 

That said, when it comes to politics, again, they’re on the same page. Ned’s thoughts on Catelyn politically speak of respect and trust. He trusts her to rule Winterfell in his absence, he trusts her to raise the armies of the North. When she arrests Tyrion, Ned’s got her back, sight unseen and precise circumstances largely unknown to him. He backs her up rather than cutting her loose. 

“Abductions on the kingsroad and drunken slaughter in my streets,” the king said. “I will nothave it, Ned.”

“Catelyn had good reason for taking the Imp-”

- Eddard X, AGoT

On Catelyn’s part, it’s crystal clear that she and Ned talked about warfare and politics. In some detail.

“Gods have mercy,” Ser Brynden exclaimed when he saw what lay before them. “This is MoatCailin? It’s no more than a-”

“-death trap,” Catelyn finished. “I know how it looks, Uncle. I thought the same the first time Isaw it, but Ned assured me that this ruin is more formidable than it seems. The three survivingtowers command the causeway from all sides, and any enemy must pass between them. The bogshere are impenetrable, full of quicksands and suckholes and teeming with snakes. To assault anyof the towers, an army would need to wade through waist-deep black muck, cross a moat full oflizard-lions, and scale walls slimy with moss, all the while exposing themselves to fire fromarchers in the other towers.” She gave her uncle a grim smile. “And when night falls, there aresaid to be ghosts, cold vengeful spirits of the north who hunger for southron blood.”

- Catelyn VIII, AGoT

How like his brother Robert he was, even in that… only Robert had always had Eddard Stark totemper his boldness with caution. Ned would surely have prevailed upon Robert to bring up hiswhole force, to encircle Stannis and besiege the besiegers. That choice Renly had denied himselfin his headlong rush to come to grips with his brother. He had outdistanced his supply lines, left food and forage days behind with all his wagons and mules and oxen. He must come to battlesoon, or starve.

- Catelyn III, ACoK

The latter is Catelyn’s own analysis, but done with knowledge of what Ned would have done - when she’s never personally seen Ned at work in the field. That level of analysis did not come out of nowhere. Catelyn and Ned talked, about topics of mutual interest and concern. (And how many men in this series talk about warfare in this level of detail with their wives?) No, it’s clear, Ned and Catelyn had a relationship that extended beyond sex and duty.

Even so it’s very clear that no, seriously, hell with politics, Ned would rather be at home with the family.

When he had gone, Eddard Stark went to the window and sat brooding. Robert had left him no choice that he could see. He ought to thank him. It would be good to return to Winterfell. He ought never have left. His sons were waiting there. Perhaps he and Catelyn would make a new son together when he returned, they were not so old yet. 

- Eddard VIII, AGoT

Going back to Winterfell to see his sons and his wife…maybe have another kid. Note that Ned thinks of it as making a new son together, and that this is perfectly in line with Catelyn’s thoughts about having another kid in Catelyn II. Speaking of simpatico:

His regency would be a short one, he reflected as the wax softened. The new king would choose his own Hand. Ned would be free to go home. The thought of Winterfell brought a wan smile to his face. He wanted to hear Bran’s laughter once more, to go hawking with Robb, to watch Rickon at play. He wanted to drift off to a dreamless sleep in his own bed with his arms wrapped tight around his lady, Catelyn.

- Eddard XIII, AGoT

As she slept amidst the rolling grasslands, Catelyn dreamt that Bran was whole again,that Arya and Sansa held hands, that Rickon was still a babe at her breast. Robb, crownless,played with a wooden sword, and when all were safe asleep, she found Ned in her bed, smiling.

- Catelyn II, ACoK

Those two passages look quite similar in essence. I think, all in all, it’s pretty clear that Ned and Catelyn are on the same page regarding their personal happiness. It involves their family, and each other.

#ASoIaF #ned stark #catelyn stark #a game of thrones #a clash of kings #backstory #asks

[schmidtchristmasmarket]

106 years ago this Christmas something happened near the beginning of the “War to End All Wars” that put a tiny little blip of hope in the historical timeline of the organized mass slaughter that is war.

The event was regarded by the professional military officer class to be so profound and so important (and so disturbing) that strategies were immediately put in place that would ensure that such an event could never happen again.

“Christian” Europe was in the fifth month of the war of 1914 – 1918, the so-called Great War that finally ground to a mutually suicidal halt after four years of exhausting trench warfare, with all of the original participants financially, spiritually and morally bankrupt.

British, Scottish, French, Belgian, Australian, New Zealand, Canadian, German, Austrian, Hungarian, Serbian and Russian clergymen from church pulpits in those Christian nations were doing their part in creating a decidedly un-Christ-like patriotic fervor that would result in a holocaust that destroyed four empires, killed upwards of 20 million soldiers and civilians, physically wounded hundreds of millions more and caused the psychological and spiritual decimation of an entire generation of young men whose spiritual care was supposed to be the responsibility of those clergymen.

Christianity, it should be remembered, began as a highly ethical pacifist religion based on the teachings and actions of the nonviolent Jesus of Nazareth (and his pacifist apostles and followers). Christianity survived and thrived despite persecutions until it became the largest religion in the Roman Empire by the time Constantine the Great became emperor (in 313 CE) and usurped the religion’s leaders into becoming OK with the homicidal violence of warfare. Ever since then, the nations that professed Christianity as their state religion have never allowed the mainline churches to truly exercise the radical peacemaking of the original form of Christianity as Jesus had taught.

So, contrary to the ethical teachings of Jesus, most modern Christian churches have refused to become active resisters to its particular nation’s militarist or imperial aspirations, its nation’s aggressive wars, its nation’s war-makers or its nation’s war profiteers. Instead, the church has, by and large, become a bloody instrument of the satanic in support of whatever sociopathic warmongers and sociopathic corporations are in power.

So, it shouldn’t come as much of a surprise to see that the religious leaders on both sides of World War I were convinced that God was on their particular side and therefore not on the side of those professed followers of Jesus that had been fingered as enemies by their nation’s political leaders. The incongruity of believing that the same god was blessing the lethal weapons and protecting the doomed sons on both sides of No-Man’s Land) failed to register with the vast majority of combatants and their spiritual counselors.

So, early in the war, pulpits and pews all over Europe reverberated with flag-waving fervor, sending clear messages to the millions of doomed warrior-sons that it was their Christian duty to march off to kill the equally doomed Christian soldiers on the other side of the line. And for the civilians back home, it was their Christian duty to “support the troops” who were destined to return home dead or wounded, psychologically and spiritually broken, disillusioned – and faithless.

A mere five months into this frustrating war (featuring trench warfare, artillery barrages, withering machine gun fire, and, soon to come, unstoppable armored tanks, aerial bombardment and poison gas), the first Christmas of the war on the Western Front offered a respite to the exhausted, freezing and demoralized troops.

Christmas was the holiest of Christian holidays and every soldier in the frozen trenches was slowly coming to the abrupt realization that war was NOT glorious (as they had been led to believe). After experiencing death, dying, hunger, frostbite, sleep deprivation, shell shock, traumatic brain injuries and homesickness, the traditional spirit of Christmas and its expectations of peace and love, had a special meaning for the troops.

Christmas reminded the soldiers of the good food, warm homes and beloved families and friends that they had left behind and which – they now suspected – they might never see again. The soldiers in the trenches desperately sought some respite from the misery of the rat, lice and corpse-infested trenches.

Some of the more thoughtful troops had begun to suspect that even if they survived the war physically, they might not survive it psychically or spiritually.

Trench Warfare in 1914

In the excitement leading up to the war, the frontline soldiers on either side had been convinced that God was on their particular side, that their nation was pre-destined to be victorious and that they would be “home before Christmas” where they would be celebrated as conquering heroes.

Instead, each frontline soldier found himself at the end of his emotional rope because of the unrelenting artillery barrages against which they were defenseless. If they weren’t killed or physically maimed by the artillery shells and bombs, they would eventually be emotionally destroyed by “shell-shock” (now known as combat-induced post-traumatic stress disorder – PTSD).

The soldier-victims that witnessed a multitude of examples of battlefield cruelty logically suffered various depths of depression, anxiety, suicidality, hyper-alertness, horrifying nightmares and flashbacks (which was usually misdiagnosed as a “hallucination of unknown cause”, a reality that would condemn millions of future soldiers to be mistakenly diagnosed with schizophrenia and thus mistakenly treated with addictive, brain-altering psych drugs).

Many World War I soldiers suffered any number of traumatic mental and/or neurological abnormalities, including traumatic brain injury (TBI), which only became a diagnosable affliction several wars later.

Among the other common war-induced “killers of the soul” were the starvation, the malnutrition, the dehydration, the infections (such as typhus and dysentery), the louse infestations, the trench foot, the frostbite and the gangrenous toes and fingers. If any of the tormented survivors got back home in one piece, they would not really appreciate being treated as military heroes in memorial day parades staged in their honor. They knew – if they were being totally honest with themselves – that they were not actual heroes, but rather they were victims of a sick, delusional, greedy, militarized culture that glorified war and killing and then abandoned the deceived, wounded survivors that made it home alive. Standard operating procedure in every war.

Poison gas attacks from both sides, albeit begun by the scientifically-superior Germans, began early in 1915, and Allied tank warfare – which was a humiliating disaster for the British innovators of that new technology – wouldn’t be operational until the Battle of the Somme in 1916.

One of the most stressful and lethal realities for the frontline soldiers was the suicidal, misbegotten, “over the top” infantry assaults against the opposition’s machine gun nests. Such assaults were complicated by the presence of shell holes and the rows of coiled barbed wire that often made them sitting ducks. Artillery barrages from both sides commonly resulted in tens of thousands of casualties in a single day.

The “over the top” infantry assaults sacrificed hundreds of thousands of obedient lower-echelon soldiers in the futile efforts to gain ground. Those assaults were stupidly and repeatedly ordered by senior officers such as Sir John French and his replacement as British Commander-in-Chief, Sir Douglas Haig. Most of the old-timer generals who had fought wars in the previous century refused to admit that their outdated “horse and sabre” cavalry charges across the muck of No-Man’s Land were both hopeless and suicidal.

The general staff planners of the various disastrous attempts to end the war quickly (or at least end the stalemate) were safely out of the range of enemy artillery barrages. The national war-planners were safely back in Parliament or hiding in their castles, and their aristocratic generals were comfortably billeted in warm and dry headquarters far from the hot war, eating well, being dressed by their orderlies, drinking their tea and claret – none of them at any risk of suffering the lethal consequences of war.

Screams of pain often came from the wounded soldiers who were helplessly hanging on the barbed wire or trapped and perhaps bleeding to death in the bomb craters between the trenches. Often the dying of the wounded would linger for days, and the effect on the troops in the trenches, who had to listen to the desperate, unanswerable cries for help was always psychologically distressing. By the time Christmas came and winter hit, troop morale on both sides of No Man’s Land had hit rock bottom.

Christmas in the Trenches

So on December 24, 1914, the exhausted troops settled down to their meager Christmas meal with, for the lucky ones, gifts from home, special food, special liquor, special chocolate bars and the hope for peace, if even for one night.

On the German side, a magnanimous (and deluded) Kaiser Wilhelm sent 100,000 Christmas trees with millions of ornamental candles to the front, expecting that such an act would boost German troop morale. Using the precious supply lines for such militarily unnecessary items was ridiculed by most of the hardened officers, and nobody suspected that the Kaiser’s Christmas tree idea would backfire – instead becoming a catalyst for an unplanned-for and unauthorized cease-fire, orchestrated by non-officers and unheard of in the history of warfare. The mutiny was censored out of mainstream history books for most of the next century.

The Christmas Truce of 1914 was a spontaneous, unauthorized event that happened at a number of locations all along the 600 miles of triple trenches that stretched across Belgium and France, and it was an event that would never again be duplicated, thanks to the war-profiteers, professional militarists and saber-rattling wannabes in the media, parliament and Congress who glory in their nation’s “pseudo-patriotic” wars.

Joyeux Noel

Twelve years ago, the movie Joyeux Noel (French for “Merry Christmas”) received a well-deserved Academy Award nomination for best foreign film of 2005. Joyeux Noel is the moving story that was adapted from the many surviving stories that had been told in letters from soldiers who had participated in the truce. It was almost a miracle that the truth of that remarkable event survived the powerful censorship.

As told in the movie, in the darkened battlefield, a German soldier started singing the beloved Christmas hymn “Stille Nacht”. Soon the British, French and Scots on the other side of No Man’s Land joined in with their versions of “Silent Night”. Other Christmas songs were sung, often as duets in two tongues. Before long, the spirit of peace and “goodwill towards men” prevailed over the demonic spirit of war, and the troops on both sides began to sense their common humanity. The natural human aversion to killing other humans broke through to consciousness and overcame the fear, patriotic fervor and pro-war brain-washing to which they had all been subjected.

Soldiers on both sides courageously dropped their weapons, came “over the top” in peace to meet their former foes face-to-face. To get to the neutral zone, they had to climb over barbed wire, walk around shell holes and over frozen corpses (which were later to be given respectful burials during an extension of the truce, with soldiers from both sides helping one another with the gruesome task of burying their comrades).

The spirit of retaliation had been replaced by a spirit of reconciliation and the desire for real peace. New friends shared chocolate bars, cigarettes, wine, schnapps, soccer games and pictures from home. Addresses were exchanged, photos were taken and every soldier who genuinely experienced the emotional drama was forever changed. Suddenly there was an aversion to killing young men who deserved to be treated as they had been taught in Sunday School: “Do unto others as you would have them do unto you.”

And the generals and the politicians back home were appalled at the unexpected Christ-like behavior of the front-soldiers.

Fostering Peace on Earth in Times of War is an Act of Treason for Conscientious Soldiers

Fraternization with the enemy (as well as refusing to obey orders in time of war) is universally regarded by military commanders as an act of treason and a serious crime deserving of severe punishment. In most wars throughout history, such “crimes” were often dealt with by severe beatings and often firing squad. In the case of the Christmas Truce of 1914, most commanding officers feared mutiny if severe punishments were carried out so, instead, not wanting to draw public attention to an incident that was potentially contagious and could stop the war, they censored letters home and tried to ignore the episode.

War correspondents were forbidden to report the incident to their papers. Some commanding officers threatened courts martial if fraternization persisted. They understood that getting to know and befriend a supposed enemy was bad for the carefully-orchestrated killing spirit of war.

There were punishments that were carried out against some of the most conscientious soldiers who refused to fire their rifles. The troops of French Catholic and United Kingdom Protestant persuasion naturally began questioning the moral legitimacy of the decidedly un-Christlike war and so those troops were often re-assigned to different – and less desirable – regiments.

German troops were either Lutheran or Catholic, and the consciences of many of them had been revived by the truce. Refusing to obey their orders to kill, many of them were sent to the Eastern Front where there were much harsher conditions. Separated from their Western Front comrades who had also experienced the true spirit of Christmas, they had no choice but to fight and die in the equally suicidal battles against their Russian Orthodox Christian co-religionists. Very few Allied or German soldiers who experienced the Christmas Truce of 1914 survived the war.

If humanity is truly concerned with the barbaric nature of militarism, and if our modern-era false flag-generated wars of empire are to be effectively derailed, the story of the Christmas Truce of 1914 needs to be retold over and over again – and taken to heart.

The satanic nature of war became obvious to the ones who experienced the Christmas Truce in 1914, but war-mongers and war profiteers have been trying to cover it up ever since. Flag-waving patriotism and telling exaggerated stories of military heroism have worked well to glorify what is blatantly inglorious.

Both ancient and modern wars have been glorified in every nation’s history textbooks but, if civilization is to survive, war needs to be exposed as demonic. Violence begets violence. Wars are contagious, universally futile, and never truly end; and their extremely high costs always results in a very poor return on investment – except for the banks and the weapons-manufacturers.

Modern American wars are now being fought by thoroughly indoctrinated, post-adolescent, Call of Duty-type first person shooter gamers who liked the adrenaline high of killing virtual “bad guys” in a video game. Sadly, unbeknownst to them, they are at high risk of having their emotional and spiritual lives negatively and permanently altered by the physical, mental and spiritual damage that always comes from participating in actual homicidal violence.

Combat war can easily doom its participants to a life overwhelmed by the wounds of war (PTSD, sociopathic personality disorder, suicidality, homicidality, loss of religious faith, traumatic brain injury, malnutrition from the highly processed military food, autoimmune disorders because of the military’s over-vaccination programs with neurotoxic aluminum-containing vaccines (especially the anthrax series) and addictive drug use [either legal or illegal]). What is most important to realize is that all those lethal effects are totally preventable.

Christian Church Leadership has an Ethical Duty to Warn it’s Prospective Cannon Fodder Soldiers About the Potential for Spiritual Suicide if They Participate in Combat

It seems to me that it would be helpful if moral leadership in America, especially its church leaders and its Christian parents, would discharge their duty to thoroughly warn the children and adolescents in their sphere of influence about all of the serious consequences of being in the killing professions. Jesus, who commanded his followers to “love your enemies”, would surely approve.

Without such countervailing truths being told by a nation’s moral leadership, war planners have an easy time keeping potential soldiers from recognizing the humanity of those that are accused of being enemies, whether they are Syrians, Iranians, Iraqis, Afghanis, Russians, Vietnamese, Chinese or North Koreans. I have been repeatedly told by military veteran friends of mine that military chaplains – who are supposed to be nurturers of the souls of the soldiers that are in their “care” – never bring up, in their counseling sessions, the Golden Rule, Jesus’ clear “love your enemies” commands, his many ethical teachings in the Sermon on the Mount or the biblical commandments that say “thou shalt not kill” or “thou shalt not covet thy neighbor’s oil”.

The Church’s Theological Blind Spots When the Pro-War Flag-waving Begins

One theological blind spot about war was nicely illustrated near the end of Joyeux Noel in a powerful scene depicting a confrontation between the Christ-like, altruistic, antiwar, lowly Scottish chaplain and his pro-war over-privileged Anglican bishop. As the humble chaplain was mercifully administering the “last rites” to a dying soldier, he was approached by the bishop, who had come to chastise the chaplain for fraternizing with the enemy during the Christmas Truce. The bishop summarily relieved the simple pastor of his chaplaincy duties because of his “treasonous and shameful” Christ-like behavior on the battlefield.

The authoritarian bishop refused to listen to the chaplain’s story about his having performed “the most important mass of my life” (with enemy troops participating in the celebration) or the fact that he wished to stay with the soldiers that needed him because they were losing their faith in God. The bishop angrily denied the chaplain’s request to remain with his men.

The bishop then delivered a rousing pro-war, jingoistic sermon (which was taken word-for-word from a homily that had actually been delivered by an Anglican bishop later in the war). The sermon was addressed to the fresh troops that had to be brought in to replace the veteran soldiers who had suddenly become averse to killing, and were refusing to fire on the “enemy”.

The image of the dramatic but subtle response of the chaplain to his sacking should be a clarion call to the Christian church leadership – both clergy and lay – of every militarized, so-called “Christian” nation. This chaplain, after listening to the bishop’s sermon, simply hung up his cross and walked out of the door of the field hospital.

Joyeux Noel is an important film that deserves to be an annual holiday viewing. It has ethical lessons far more powerful than the traditional fare of It’s A Wonderful Life or A Christmas Carol.

One of the lessons of the story is summarized in the concluding verse of John McCutcheon’s famous song about the event: “Christmas in the Trenches”:

My name is Francis Tolliver, in Liverpool I dwell.

Each Christmas come since World War One, I’ve learned its lessons well:

That the ones who call the shots won’t be among the dead and lame

And on each end of the rifle we’re the same.

Read more of A Christmas Blog or Shop Now at Schmidt Christmas Market

Licensed from https://brewminate.com/world-war-i-and-the-christmas-truce-of-1914/

[theadmiringbog]

Dismissed as a philistine, a boor, a drunk, and an incompetent, Grant has been subjected to pernicious stereotypes that grossly impede our understanding of the man. As a contemporary newspaper sniffed, Grant was “an ignorant soldier, coarse in his taste and blunt in his perceptions, fond of money and material enjoyment and of low company.”14 In fact, Grant was a sensitive, complex, and misunderstood man with a shrewd mind, a wry wit, a rich fund of anecdotes, wide knowledge, and penetrating insights.

--

He wanted people to discover his strengths, not have them advertised.

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They formed the deep bond craved by bashful men who need the unconditional devotion of one loving, loyal woman.

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Grant insisted the Civil War was “largely the outgrowth of the Mexican war. Nations, like individuals, are punished for their transgressions.”

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James Longstreet served as best man and two groomsmen, Cadmus M. Wilcox and Bernard Pratte, were to join him in the Confederate army; all three later surrendered to Grant at Appomattox.

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“But we will not always be in this condition,” she announced, disclosing that the previous night she had dreamed Ulysses was elected president. “The rest all laughed and looked upon it as a capital joke.”75 Although Julia’s sisters teased her about these exalted prophecies, she never surrendered faith in her husband’s worth and, beset by repeated failure, he needed that unwavering affirmation. Everyone who knew the Grants commented on the power Julia exercised over her husband.

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Before long, Grant smoked eighteen to twenty cigars a day and they

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More than ever the war became a clash between two incompatible ways of life, an effort to remake the nation as well as to save it. Through the proclamation, Lincoln hoped to subvert

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Grant’s soon-to-be brother-in-law Michael John Cramer confirmed that “as the war progressed [Grant] became gradually convinced that ‘slavery was doomed and must go.’ He had always recognized its moral evil, as also its being the cause of the war . . . hence General Grant came to look upon the war as a divine punishment for the sin of slavery.”                

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His great strength was that he thought in terms of sequence of battles.                

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noticed how decisively Grant acted under pressure. When brought a request for a major expenditure, Grant approved it with startling speed. Rusling asked Grant if he was sure he was correct. “No, I am not,” Grant shot back, “but in war anything is better than indecision. We must decide. If I am wrong we shall soon find it out, and can do the other thing. But not to decide wastes both time and money and may ruin everything.”                

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asked for his impressions of Grant. Well, Stoddard, I hardly know what to think of him altogether. I never saw him myself until he came here to take command. He’s the quietest little fellow you ever saw . . . makes the least fuss of any man you ever knew. I believe, two or three times, he has been in this room a minute or so before I knew he was here . . . The only evidence you have that he’s in any place is that he makes things git! Wherever he is, things move!87                

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Lincoln had developed operating theories that dovetailed perfectly with Grant’s views: that the Union army should destroy Confederate armies, not take cities or territory; that it should exploit its massive resources by simultaneous attacks against the enemy across many fronts; that military decisions were inseparable from political goals; and that only one final, savage, protracted burst of fighting could end the conflict.                

--

Sometimes, as at Gettysburg, Lee became too wedded to a battle plan and was deaf to warning voices. Sometimes he trusted too much to subordinates, presiding over them with a light touch and giving vague instructions, but such flaws were inseparable from his deep soldierly bond with his officers.                

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The caricature of Lee as elegant and faultless whereas Grant was a clumsy butcher misses the point that Grant had much the harder task: he had to whittle down the Confederate army and smash it irrevocably, whereas Lee needed only to inflict massive pain on the northern army and stay alive to fight another day.                

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Mark Twain once said Butler was so “drearily homely” that when he smiled, it was “like the breaking up of a hard winter.”                

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87 One soldier, revolted by Butler’s unsightly form, wrote of him: “Call before your mental vision a sack full of muck . . . and then imagine four enormous German sausages fixed to the extremities of the sack in lieu of arms and legs.”                

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Walt Whitman, who ardently followed the Overland Campaign: “When did [Grant] ever turn back? He was not that sort; he could no more turn back than time! . . . Grant was one of the inevitables; he always arrived; he was invincible as a law: he never bragged—often seemed about to be defeated when he was in fact on the eve of a tremendous victory.”47                

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After turning Atlanta into a military garrison, Sherman did not want to have to feed its citizens or assign extra troops to guard a sullen, restive population and ordered the evacuation of all residents. When the mayor pleaded that such an exodus would result in “appalling and heart-rending suffering,” Sherman replied in lapidary prose: “War is cruelty, and you cannot refine it . . . You might as well appeal against the thunder storm as against these terrible hardships of war.”                

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Aside from Grant’s strategic acumen, Sherman credited the telegraph network with “the perfect concert of action between the armies in Virginia and Georgia during 1864. Hardly a day intervened when General Grant did not know the exact state of facts with me, more than fifteen hundred miles away as the wires ran.”28 Grant’s strategic achievements were inseparable from the advanced telegraphy of the Union side, which strung 15,389 miles of wire during the war, operated by an army of 1,500 linemen and operators.                

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This wasn’t a European war, with two mercenary armies fighting each other, Sherman contended, but a civil war where the pride of the southern populace had to be humbled.                

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Sherman’s army largely followed the railroad, plucking up rails as they went, heating them in bonfires, then twisting them around nearby trees or telegraph poles.                

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As soon as Grant saw his old pal, he sprang to his feet, shook his hand, offered him a cigar, and invited him to play brag, the card game they had enjoyed before the war. As Longstreet told a reporter, he was bowled over by Grant’s generous spirit: “Great God, thought I to myself, how my heart swells out to such a magnanimous touch of humanity! Why do men fight who were born to be brothers? .                

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Perhaps the person who best explained Grant’s strategic superiority was Sherman, who stated that while Lee attacked the front porch, Grant would attack the kitchen and bedroom. In his earthy way, Sherman expressed the view that Grant engaged in total warfare that eroded enemy supply lines and infrastructure, while Lee remained tightly focused on the battle at hand, without a long-term strategy for winning the war.                

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During the war he had learned that it was better to let power seek him rather than to pursue it;                

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The mystery of Grant’s presidency is how this upright man tolerated some of the arrant rascals collected around him. Again and again he was stunned by scandals because he could not imagine subordinates guilty of such sleazy behavior.

#Grant #books

[ecotone99]

[HR] Black Flag Prologue/chapter 1

dont typically post much on reddit, mostly just lurking around. A friend and i have been working on a set of novels for a few years now, which were first initiated on the drunk/stoned ideas of our young selves. The novels follow our friend group (which explains the names) over different periods in time. May post this a couple times to get some exposure, and be sure to leave a comment if you feel like reading the next chapter!

Prologue:

A thin trail of smoke escaped Ryan's lips, rising slowly to the lacquered ceiling of the captain's quarters. The men sat, handcrafted pipes in one hand, Spanish women in the other. Not a word had been spoken among them in over 3 days. They were hungry. Hungry for plunder. Hungry for women. Hungry for death. A thick haze had settled into the room, George contributing with a long drag of his cherrywood pipe. Minutes passed, the only sound being George's continued inhalation, and the sound of a ship battling the indomitable sea. The crew of their famed ship "The Silence" had been in pursuit of a supply frigate carrying untold riches, among them the betrothed of Francois custeau, the current king of France. This was a treasure Ryan planned to take for himself. "w-where is the supply ship sir?" Ventured Zack tentatively, fearing the wrathful insanity of his captain. A slow grin crept across Ryan's wickedly handsome face. Only a thick moustache black as the fine tobacco he smoked was visible in the dimly lit cabin. Seemingly moments later, a call was heard from the crows nest. "Ship 5000 fathoms east!" bellowed sascha, his arms bursting with veins as he heaved the main sail. "Blood will be spilled this night." murmured George, exhaling an ungodly amount of smoke. Ryan grinned at the prospect of death, the glint of his golden teeth penetrating the smoke filled cabin. Ryan spoke in a voice so violently masculine, the men found themselves reaching for their weapons. "Raise the flags..." he said. "...tonight...we kill."

Chapter 1:

Their vessel was known and feared amongst all sailors. It's slick hull of red lacquered wood, and the sails, black as darkest night, inspired terror in any living creature on the face of the planet. The ship was built by Ryan and George's bare hands, and was so technologically advanced that it had to be operated by two captains. The crew of "The Silence" were but more infamous. From the tropics of the Caribbean to the exotic ports of Shanghai and Egypt, these men were famed as the greatest pirates of all time. Word of their exploits reached every navy in the open sea, and the men were wanted Not only by all women, But every independent country and state across the globe. Among the two captains of the vessel was Ryan. He was 7 feet tall, and wickedly handsome. He carried a flicker of insanity in his large black eyes, deep as the northern sea. It was said that no woman could resist his gaze. He was a man of ridiculous stature, with a chest comparable to a barrel of rum. His hair, black as a formless void, was kept slicked under his feathered cap. He had gained a nickname on the banks of libya; "the reaper", for where he sailed, death followed. His fourteen flintlock pistols were always kept loaded and strapped to his weathered jacket, and a bludgeon axe hung across his chisseled back. However, his most famous weapon was on his wooden hand designed in the unchartered waters of east mongolia. He lost his original appendage to "noby cock" a white whale rivalling the size of some islands, surrounded in myth and lore. On this wooden hand lay a cannon firing incendiary shrapnel rounds capable of reaching 420 m/s. Captain George was his most trusted accomplice, and the only man whom he always recognized, no matter how violent and clouded his mind became. George found Ryan mourning the death of his parents at the age of six, with them captaining their first crew by the age of eight. He was taller than Ryan, and toned beyond human evolutionary limits. A deep scar trailed down his sun withered face. Known as the greatest scoundrel on the seven seas, there was no woman he couldn't bed, and no man he couldn't best with a sabre. Tales told that he could impregnate a woman with a single wink. He kept his preferred artillery slung from his shoulder, a blunderbuss called "hell's door" which he cared for as his own child. The smooth brass buffed until it shone with the light of stars. On a crocodile skin belt rested his legendary Sabres: "Bloodscythe" and "windshear", engraved with runes and carvings of Egypt. He is recognized widely as the final living “blade”, a famed group of sword-wielding mercenaries long since lost to the unstoppable march of time. The blades were infamous for a secret form of swordsmanship that no man had ever lived to describe. “2000 fathoms out!” croaked sascha’s raspy voice from the crowsnest. Sascha was a wise man, he had been at sea since the beginning of time. Some say his blood was salt water. Sascha had only one eye, losing his other to a polar bear as a child. His remaining eye was clouded like an ocean storm. Sight was not necessary...wisdom guided his senses. He wielded an ironwood paddle, sharpened around the end. The paddle is the weapon of the T'challa, an ancient coastal tribe.He uses techniques long since lost to the sands of time. Sascha's word was highly respected among the crew. “Zack!, man the cannons” demanded captain George. Zack was an expert with explosives of any kind. Growing up on the coast of southern China Zack had mastered the art of destruction, but at a cost. At the ripe age of 17 zack was developing a new proximity grenade designed to explode on impact. However a miscalculation of gunpowder blew his beloved penis into smithereens. He was sleek and nimble. A master of hand to hand combat, he wielded two weathered shanks made of cambodian bamboo he used to murder an entire prison in taiwan. “I want some grub” complained zack before turning to his post. Georges eyes widened. He knew that the cook on board “the silence” was not to be rushed in making his dishes. A hulking figure could be seen lumbering from the lower deck. “FUCK YOU! YOU SHIT BREATHING BASTARD!” Yelled Matt in his thick irish accent, his jowls jiggling as he began to choke the man who had rushed his cooking. They found Matt in a wrecked ship off the coast of Siberia, his entire crew slaughtered. Matt had been living for two weeks off the carcasses of his dead crewmates. Since that day he would forevermore be known as “The Butcher”. Matt’s hanging gut was no reason to dismiss his tactical abilities. His two enormous siberian crafted machetes had seen many battles. Beneath the blubber, Matt had the mighty strength to lift ships out of the water. Matt called, “Charlie, you first! Come get your muck!” Charlie was the ship's most valuable gem. Ryan found him when he was only a baby. He had been pillaging a small village off the coast of scotland. His manic fury had caused him to murder every living soul in sight but one. After murdering Charlie’s mother, he came across the young fetus. Charlie looked at him with an innocent giggle and a loving stare. Ryan knew that boy was special. He decided to search for the speck of love he had in his black heart and take Charlie in as his own. 16 years later Charlie is a dashing young man. Standing 6 feet and 10 inches tall with a chiseled muscular body. He learned the ways of the sea quickly. By the age of seven he killed his first man, and by the age of nine he had laid his first seed. His eyes were blue as sapphires and were said to hypnotize any lady who locks into his gaze. He had mastered ranged warfare with his gold, fire crafted, triple barreled flintlock pistol. Up close, Charlie was infamous for his serrated dagger crafted from the bones of a great white shark he killed with his bare hands.

submitted by /u/an_exess_of_zest [link] [comments] via Blogger https://ift.tt/3jvSElR

#Blogger #Story

[clubofinfo]

Expert: …and the ones who call the shots won’t be among the dead and lame; And on each end of the rifle we’re the same” — John McCutcheon, “Christmas in the Trenches” 103 years ago this Christmas something happened near the beginning of the “War to End All Wars” that put a tiny little blip of hope in the historical timeline of the organized mass slaughter that is war. The event was regarded by the professional military officer class to be so profound and so important (and so disturbing) that strategies were immediately put in place that would ensure that such an event could never happen again. “Christian” Europe was in the fifth month of the war of 1914 – 1918, the so-called Great War that finally ground to a mutually suicidal halt after four years of exhausting trench warfare, with all of the original participants financially, spiritually and morally bankrupt. British, Scottish, French, Belgian, Australian, New Zealand, Canadian, German, Austrian, Hungarian, Serbian and Russian clergymen from church pulpits in those Christian nations were doing their part in creating a decidedly un-Christ-like patriotic fervor that would result in a holocaust that destroyed four empires, killed upwards of 20 million soldiers and civilians, physically wounded hundreds of millions more and caused the psychological and spiritual decimation of an entire generation of young men whose spiritual care was supposed to be the responsibility of those clergymen. Christianity, it should be remembered, began as a highly ethical pacifist religion based on the teachings and actions of the nonviolent Jesus of Nazareth (and his pacifist apostles and followers). Christianity survived and thrived despite persecutions until it became the largest religion in the Roman Empire by the time Constantine the Great became emperor (in 313 CE) and usurped the religion’s leaders into becoming OK with the homicidal violence of warfare. Ever since then, the nations that professed Christianity as their state religion have never allowed the mainline churches to truly exercise the radical peacemaking of the original form of Christianity as Jesus had taught. So, contrary to the ethical teachings of Jesus, most modern Christian churches have refused to become active resisters to its particular nation’s militarist or imperial aspirations, its nation’s aggressive wars, its nation’s war-makers or its nation’s war profiteers. Instead, the church has, by and large, become a bloody instrument of the satanic in support of whatever sociopathic warmongers and sociopathic corporations are in power. So, it shouldn’t come as much of a surprise to see that the religious leaders on both sides of World War I were convinced that God was on their particular side and therefore not on the side of those professed followers of Jesus that had been fingered as enemies by their nation’s political leaders. The incongruity of believing that the same god was blessing the lethal weapons and protecting the doomed sons on both sides of No-Man’s Land) failed to register with the vast majority of combatants and their spiritual counselors. So, early in the war, pulpits and pews all over Europe reverberated with flag-waving fervor, sending clear messages to the millions of doomed warrior-sons that it was their Christian duty to march off to kill the equally doomed Christian soldiers on the other side of the line. And for the civilians back home, it was their Christian duty to “support the troops” who were destined to return home dead or wounded, psychologically and spiritually broken, disillusioned – and faithless. A mere five months into this frustrating war (featuring trench warfare, artillery barrages, withering machine gun fire, and, soon to come, unstoppable armored tanks, aerial bombardment and poison gas), the first Christmas of the war on the Western Front offered a respite to the exhausted, freezing and demoralized troops. Christmas was the holiest of Christian holidays and every soldier in the frozen trenches was slowly coming to the abrupt realization that war was NOT glorious (as they had been led to believe). After experiencing death, dying, hunger, frostbite, sleep deprivation, shell shock, traumatic brain injuries and homesickness, the traditional spirit of Christmas and its expectations of peace and love, had a special meaning for the troops. Christmas reminded the soldiers of the good food, warm homes and beloved families and friends that they had left behind and which – they now suspected – they might never see again. The soldiers in the trenches desperately sought some respite from the misery of the rat, lice and corpse-infested trenches. Some of the more thoughtful troops had begun to suspect that even if they survived the war physically, they might not survive it psychically or spiritually. Trench Warfare in 1914 In the excitement leading up to the war, the frontline soldiers on either side had been convinced that God was on their particular side, that their nation was pre-destined to be victorious and that they would be “home before Christmas” where they would be celebrated as conquering heroes. Instead, each frontline soldier found himself at the end of his emotional rope because of the unrelenting artillery barrages against which they were defenseless. If they weren’t killed or physically maimed by the artillery shells and bombs, they would eventually be emotionally destroyed by “shell-shock” (now known as combat-induced post-traumatic stress disorder – PTSD). The soldier-victims that witnessed a multitude of examples of battlefield cruelty logically suffered various depths of depression, anxiety, suicidality, hyper-alertness, horrifying nightmares and flashbacks (which was usually misdiagnosed as a “hallucination of unknown cause”, a reality that would condemn millions of future soldiers to be mistakenly diagnosed with schizophrenia and thus mistakenly treated with addictive, brain-altering psych drugs). Many World War I soldiers suffered any number of traumatic mental and/or neurological abnormalities, including traumatic brain injury (TBI), which only became a diagnosable affliction several wars later. Among the other common war-induced “killers of the soul” were the starvation, the malnutrition, the dehydration, the infections (such as typhus and dysentery), the louse infestations, the trench foot, the frostbite and the gangrenous toes and fingers. If any of the tormented survivors got back home in one piece, they would not really appreciate being treated as military heroes in memorial day parades staged in their honor. They knew – if they were being totally honest with themselves – that they were not actual heroes, but rather they were victims of a sick, delusional, greedy, militarized culture that glorified war and killing and then abandoned the deceived, wounded survivors that made it home alive. Standard operating procedure in every war. Poison gas attacks from both sides, albeit begun by the scientifically-superior Germans, began early in 1915, and Allied tank warfare – which was a humiliating disaster for the British innovators of that new technology – wouldn’t be operational until the Battle of the Somme in 1916. One of the most stressful and lethal realities for the frontline soldiers was the suicidal, misbegotten, “over the top” infantry assaults against the opposition’s machine gun nests. Such assaults were complicated by the presence of shell holes and the rows of coiled barbed wire that often made them sitting ducks. Artillery barrages from both sides commonly resulted in tens of thousands of casualties in a single day. The “over the top” infantry assaults sacrificed hundreds of thousands of obedient lower-echelon soldiers in the futile efforts to gain ground. Those assaults were stupidly and repeatedly ordered by senior officers such as Sir John French and his replacement as British Commander-in-Chief, Sir Douglas Haig. Most of the old-timer generals who had fought wars in the previous century refused to admit that their outdated “horse and sabre” cavalry charges across the muck of No-Man’s Land were both hopeless and suicidal. The general staff planners of the various disastrous attempts to end the war quickly (or at least end the stalemate) were safely out of the range of enemy artillery barrages. The national war-planners were safely back in Parliament or hiding in their castles, and their aristocratic generals were comfortably billeted in warm and dry headquarters far from the hot war, eating well, being dressed by their orderlies, drinking their tea and claret – none of them at any risk of suffering the lethal consequences of war. Screams of pain often came from the wounded soldiers who were helplessly hanging on the barbed wire or trapped and perhaps bleeding to death in the bomb craters between the trenches. Often the dying of the wounded would linger for days, and the effect on the troops in the trenches, who had to listen to the desperate, unanswerable cries for help was always psychologically distressing. By the time Christmas came and winter hit, troop morale on both sides of No Man’s Land had hit rock bottom. Christmas in the Trenches So on December 24, 1914, the exhausted troops settled down to their meager Christmas meal with, for the lucky ones, gifts from home, special food, special liquor, special chocolate bars and the hope for peace, if even for one night. On the German side, a magnanimous (and deluded) Kaiser Wilhelm sent 100,000 Christmas trees with millions of ornamental candles to the front, expecting that such an act would boost German troop morale. Using the precious supply lines for such militarily unnecessary items was ridiculed by most of the hardened officers, and nobody suspected that the Kaiser’s Christmas tree idea would backfire – instead becoming a catalyst for an unplanned-for and unauthorized cease-fire, orchestrated by non-officers and unheard of in the history of warfare. The mutiny was censored out of mainstream history books for most of the next century. The Christmas Truce of 1914 was a spontaneous, unauthorized event that happened at a number of locations all along the 600 miles of triple trenches that stretched across Belgium and France, and it was an event that would never again be duplicated, thanks to the war-profiteers, professional militarists and saber-rattling wannabes in the media, parliament and Congress who glory in their nation’s “pseudo-patriotic” wars. Joyeux Noel Twelve years ago, the movie Joyeux Noel (French for “Merry Christmas”) received a well-deserved Academy Award nomination for best foreign film of 2005. Joyeux Noel is the moving story that was adapted from the many surviving stories that had been told in letters from soldiers who had participated in the truce. It was almost a miracle that the truth of that remarkable event survived the powerful censorship. Courageous German soldier singing in No Man’s Land (image from Joyeux Noel) As told in the movie, in the darkened battlefield, a German soldier started singing the beloved Christmas hymn “Stille Nacht”. Soon the British, French and Scots on the other side of No Man’s Land joined in with their versions of “Silent Night”. Other Christmas songs were sung, often as duets in two tongues. Before long, the spirit of peace and “goodwill towards men” prevailed over the demonic spirit of war, and the troops on both sides began to sense their common humanity. The natural human aversion to killing other humans broke through to consciousness and overcame the fear, patriotic fervor and pro-war brain-washing to which they had all been subjected. Soldiers on both sides courageously dropped their weapons, came “over the top” in peace to meet their former foes face-to-face. To get to the neutral zone, they had to climb over barbed wire, walk around shell holes and over frozen corpses (which were later to be given respectful burials during an extension of the truce, with soldiers from both sides helping one another with the gruesome task of burying their comrades). Graves in No Man’s Land Mutinous French, German and Scottish Lieutenants The spirit of retaliation had been replaced by a spirit of reconciliation and the desire for real peace. New friends shared chocolate bars, cigarettes, wine, schnapps, soccer games and pictures from home. Addresses were exchanged, photos were taken and every soldier who genuinely experienced the emotional drama was forever changed. Suddenly there was an aversion to killing young men who deserved to be treated as they had been taught in Sunday School: “Do unto others as you would have them do unto you.” And the generals and the politicians back home were appalled at the unexpected Christ-like behavior of the front-soldiers. Fostering Peace on Earth in Times of War is an Act of Treason for Conscientious Soldiers Fraternization with the enemy (as well as refusing to obey orders in time of war) is universally regarded by military commanders as an act of treason and a serious crime deserving of severe punishment. In most wars throughout history, such “crimes” were often dealt with by severe beatings and often firing squad. In the case of the Christmas Truce of 1914, most commanding officers feared mutiny if severe punishments were carried out so, instead, not wanting to draw public attention to an incident that was potentially contagious and could stop the war, they censored letters home and tried to ignore the episode. War correspondents were forbidden to report the incident to their papers. Some commanding officers threatened courts martial if fraternization persisted. They understood that getting to know and befriend a supposed enemy was bad for the carefully-orchestrated killing spirit of war. There were punishments that were carried out against some of the most conscientious soldiers who refused to fire their rifles. The troops of French Catholic and United Kingdom Protestant persuasion naturally began questioning the moral legitimacy of the decidedly un-Christlike war and so those troops were often re-assigned to different – and less desirable – regiments. German troops were either Lutheran or Catholic, and the consciences of many of them had been revived by the truce. Refusing to obey their orders to kill, many of them were sent to the Eastern Front where there were much harsher conditions. Separated from their Western Front comrades who had also experienced the true spirit of Christmas, they had no choice but to fight and die in the equally suicidal battles against their Russian Orthodox Christian co-religionists. Very few Allied or German soldiers who experienced the Christmas Truce of 1914 survived the war. If humanity is truly concerned with the barbaric nature of militarism, and if our modern-era false flag-generated wars of empire are to be effectively derailed, the story of the Christmas Truce of 1914 needs to be retold over and over again – and taken to heart. The satanic nature of war became obvious to the ones who experienced the Christmas Truce in 1914, but war-mongers and war profiteers have been trying to cover it up ever since. Flag-waving patriotism and telling exaggerated stories of military heroism have worked well to glorify what is blatantly inglorious. Both ancient and modern wars have been glorified in every nation’s history textbooks but, if civilization is to survive, war needs to be exposed as demonic. Violence begets violence. Wars are contagious, universally futile, and never truly end; and their extremely high costs always results in a very poor return on investment – except for the banks and the weapons-manufacturers. Modern American wars are now being fought by thoroughly indoctrinated, post-adolescent, Call of Duty-type first person shooter gamers who liked the adrenaline high of killing virtual “bad guys” in a video game. Sadly, unbeknownst to them, they are at high risk of having their emotional and spiritual lives negatively and permanently altered by the physical, mental and spiritual damage that always comes from participating in actual homicidal violence. Combat war can easily doom its participants to a life overwhelmed by the wounds of war (PTSD, sociopathic personality disorder, suicidality, homicidality, loss of religious faith, traumatic brain injury, malnutrition from the highly processed military food, autoimmune disorders because of the military’s over-vaccination programs with neurotoxic aluminum-containing vaccines (especially the anthrax series) and addictive drug use [either legal or illegal]). What is most important to realize is that all those lethal effects are totally preventable. Christian Church Leadership has an Ethical Duty to Warn it’s Prospective Cannon Fodder Soldiers About the Potential for Spiritual Suicide if They Participate in Combat It seems to me that it would be helpful if moral leadership in America, especially its church leaders and its Christian parents, would discharge their duty to thoroughly warn the children and adolescents in their sphere of influence about all of the serious consequences of being in the killing professions. Jesus, who commanded his followers to “love your enemies”, would surely approve. Without such countervailing truths being told by a nation’s moral leadership, war planners have an easy time keeping potential soldiers from recognizing the humanity of those that are accused of being enemies, whether they are Syrians, Iranians, Iraqis, Afghanis, Russians, Vietnamese, Chinese or North Koreans. I have been repeatedly told by military veteran friends of mine that military chaplains – who are supposed to be nurturers of the souls of the soldiers that are in their “care” – never bring up, in their counseling sessions, the Golden Rule, Jesus’ clear “love your enemies” commands, his many ethical teachings in the Sermon on the Mount or the biblical commandments that say “thou shalt not kill” or “thou shalt not covet thy neighbor’s oil”. The Church’s Theological Blind Spots When the Pro-War Flag-waving Begins One theological blind spot about war was nicely illustrated near the end of Joyeux Noel in a powerful scene depicting a confrontation between the Christ-like, altruistic, antiwar, lowly Scottish chaplain and his pro-war over-privileged Anglican bishop. As the humble chaplain was mercifully administering the “last rites” to a dying soldier, he was approached by the bishop, who had come to chastise the chaplain for fraternizing with the enemy during the Christmas Truce. The bishop summarily relieved the simple pastor of his chaplaincy duties because of his “treasonous and shameful” Christ-like behavior on the battlefield. The authoritarian bishop refused to listen to the chaplain’s story about his having performed “the most important mass of my life” (with enemy troops participating in the celebration) or the fact that he wished to stay with the soldiers that needed him because they were losing their faith in God. The bishop angrily denied the chaplain’s request to remain with his men. Christmas Eve Mass, France The bishop then delivered a rousing pro-war, jingoistic sermon (which was taken word-for-word from a homily that had actually been delivered by an Anglican bishop later in the war). The sermon was addressed to the fresh troops that had to be brought in to replace the veteran soldiers who had suddenly become averse to killing, and were refusing to fire on the “enemy”. The image of the dramatic but subtle response of the chaplain to his sacking should be a clarion call to the Christian church leadership – both clergy and lay – of every militarized, so-called “Christian” nation. This chaplain, after listening to the bishop’s sermon, simply hung up his cross and walked out of the door of the field hospital. Joyeux Noel is an important film that deserves to be an annual holiday viewing. It has ethical lessons far more powerful than the traditional fare of It’s A Wonderful Life or A Christmas Carol. One of the lessons of the story is summarized in the concluding verse of John McCutcheon’s famous song about the event: “Christmas in the Trenches”: My name is Francis Tolliver, in Liverpool I dwell. Each Christmas come since World War One, I’ve learned its lessons well: That the ones who call the shots won’t be among the dead and lame And on each end of the rifle we’re the same. A critical scene from the movie is here. Additional scenes from the movie, with the narration of a letter from one of the soldiers involved can be viewed here. http://clubof.info/

[symbianosgames]

Most players won't play to the end of your game. That's not a tragedy -- that's a feature of video games' design landscape. Ubisoft creative director Jason VandenBerghe explains, in this reprint from the final (June/July 2013) issue of Game Developer magazine.

Argument: As a game designer, you are more free when crafting your ending than you are for any other piece of your game.

First of all, having an ending at all is your choice. Don't want one? All good! Games are loops, and if you want to leave yours closed, you will be in good company. No one has ever "finished" poker, or football.

But for games that do have an ending, only a small portion of your players will ever see it. We are, as an industry and as a culture, still confused about this. We are dismayed at the low finish rates of our games, and a player who puts down the controller before reaching the end is left with a vague sense of having dissed the game team.

Yet, the ability for players to stop playing whenever they feel like it is inherent in the form! This is not a bad thing; this is a good thing. It is part of the game-design landscape. And if you learn to worry less about insisting that everyone who starts finishes, and put your attention on the advantages this fact of gaming gives you, you will not find a more personally liberating moment in game design than in designing your end.

The question is: How will you use that freedom?

For several years back in the late 1990s, I lived with an eccentric friend named Dylan. Dylan was a carouser, a lover of swords and theatrics, a collector of experiences -- and an avid video game starter.

Dylan played dozens, maybe hundreds of games per year, and this was before the Internet, so they mostly came from the store. But, for all his passion, I don't know that I ever saw him put more than an hour into a single one. He would buy them, try them, love them... and then set them aside forever. This was a man who stopped playing Diablo after an hour or so (!). Even more weirdly, he was always perfectly content with his purchases, never showing a single hint of regret at not seeing the end.

He never did this with movies or books. Ever.

Watching Dylan's weird relationship with the games he played taught me that it is absolutely not required to finish a game to appreciate it.

Last year, you may remember that CNN published an article by Blake Snow that regaled the Internet with the news that only 10-20 percent of gamers actually finish the games they started.

No argument. When we see game finish rates over 30-40 percent, we sing the praises of the team and pop the bubbly. Numbers like that imply that we managed to make some seriously compelling content, and smooth out all the bumps along the way. Precious few games reach that goal.

But, I have a beef with an unspoken assumption in this article, and in many articles like it. Here's how the article's author put it:

"Let [this] sink in for a minute: Of every 10 people who started playing the consensus 'Game of the Year,' [Red Dead Revolver] only one of them finished it. How is that? Shouldn't such a high-rated game keep people engaged? Or have player attention spans reached a breaking point? ...Who's to blame: The developer or the player? Or maybe it's our culture?"

My beef is with the idea that failing to finish a game is a bad thing.

Putting down the controller somewhere before the final climactic scene in a video game is not a sin. It is an intrinsic part of our art form.

I never finished the first BioShock, yet it remains a game I thoroughly enjoyed. Grim Fandango? Never finished it. But I sure as hell use it as an example in design discussions! I have never finished a single Z, but, man, they are fun (usually).

There are a ton of games that don't even have endings. Most arcade-style games and most MMOs don't have real endings. The Sims doesn't have an ending. Poker? Chess? Football?

In fact, a broad majority of the world's long-standing favorite games are specifically designed to never be finished. One game of Sudoku leads to another, which leads to another... In game design terms, even putting an "ending" into your game is, clearly, optional. We know this. It's self-evident. So, then, why do we gnash our teeth and tear out our hair when only 20% of players reach the end of our (story) games?

I believe that the idea has its roots in our beliefs about other media. There is an implicit rejection that is present when someone walks out of a movie, turns off a show on TV, or sets down a book unfinished. For those mediums, the message of this action is clear: "I'm not enjoying this story enough to continue."

When someone stops playing a game, however, the possibilities are far, far more varied:

"I'd love to keep playing, but the time commitment is too high for me."

"I enjoyed the beginning, but now it's getting sort of grindy, and that's not for me."

"Love the game, but I'm weary of the player culture, so I'm going to hang out somewhere else."

"My friends stopped playing."

These are not necessarily sins of the designer. Gaming is as much a lifestyle as it is entertainment, and if a game doesn't fit into an individual's life, they are going to put it down. That's not a tragedy. That's a feature of our design landscape.

So, instead of looking guiltily at our completion rates and fantasizing about a world in which 99% of the players who start our (story) game reach the final scene, let's flip it around and see what we can do to take advantage of this fact, instead.

More than half of your players are not going to finish. You know that going in, so think of it as a design constraint! What does that mean to you?

First: The deeper into your game your content is, the more likely it is that the players that are still with you have been having a good time. They're in. They've bought it. You have earned a certain amount of faith capital with them, and they probably want to see what else you've got up your sleeve.

Second: Because your producers and various high-mucky-mucks have seen the finishing stats for other games, they know that dev time spent in detailed iteration on your ending is effort going to a small subset of players. They will prioritize the team's time accordingly. They will thus be more likely, whether through disinterest or lack of time, to let your crazy idea for the end slip through the cracks.

Third: Players themselves already know that arriving at the end is a rare occasion—because they, personally, most likely don't do it very often. Every player has put down the controller on at least a few games. If they do decide to complete the whole thing, they will wear that fact as a badge of honor (we hope). So, they are psychologically primed to receive some kind of acknowledgment for their effort. Bright-eyed, with the end in sight, your players look to the designer expectantly, ready to interpret whatever you present as a kind of reward, while your producers turn a blind eye...

I only have one piece of real advice for you about this moment: Tell the fucking truth.

Whatever it is that is in your heart, whatever it is that has drawn you into making this game in the first place, do that with your faith capital. Spend it telling them that, somehow.

The first Modern Warfare had a great example of this: The final mission was the most over-the-top crazy, punishing, nearly-impossible-to-complete madness-fest in their game. It had almost no explanation, required none ("PLANE! TERRORISTS!"), and it was simply brilliant. The level was a celebration of the game that you had just finished, a self-referential guns-blazing cherry on the cake that was completely unnecessary, but became legendary.

One of the most satisfying endings I have ever played was the ending of The Darkness. It laid bare the truth of the fantasy they had created, and gave me full rights to punish an evil that I had come to loathe. The truth there was consistent with the story, but it was the play that they created that made that last scene true. I hated the villain of that game, and in the end the game did nothing to force my hand (beyond closing the door behind me). When I took my revenge, it was me that did it, and that act stayed with me.

But it is the ending of the first Metroid, perhaps, that best demonstrates the strange liberty we have with this moment. It could have ended with Samus Aran raising a blaster into the air in victory. That would have been satisfying, and it was an amazing game all the way through. Hero pose! Instead, Samus stepped out of the battle suit, demonstrated her gender, and shattered the 8-bit preconceptions of players everywhere. It is still one of the most celebrated endings in gaming history.

Let's say we were to apply these principles to this article.

You've stuck with me this far, so I can perhaps assume that you're interested in what I've had to say so far. We're near the end, so you are maybe starting to think about what you'll read next, or putting down the magazine. Perhaps you are looking forward to the internal satisfactory tick-mark that comes from reading the last line.

How might I use this receptive state of mind? What is my truth about endings, right now?

Speaking of endings, did you know that this is the final issue of this here magazine? Funny story: Through random luck, I've ended up with the honor of writing the final Design of the Times. That's this article, right here.

You know, the first time I picked up an issue of Game Developer was back in 1996, in the offices of Hyperbole Studios. I was a late-20-something, blown away to be suddenly making games after long years of professional wandering.

It was the existence of this magazine that gave me my first glimpse into the murky, somewhat-secret society of game developers. The magazine's professional-looking cover and its interior pages full of post-mortems and dev tricks all were clearly aimed specifically at a readership made up of people who made video games. Flipping through the pages, I gradually discovered that I very much wanted to be part of that target market.

It's much later now. We have internets, game developers are meeting with vice presidents, and 99.9% of people under 25 have played video games. It's a world in transition, and I cannot wait to see what happens next. But I, for one, won't move forward into that future without fi rst pausing and, maybe just for a moment, placing an affectionate hand on the magazine that was the warm face that greeted me as I entered this industry.

Thanks. Thanks for that, and for all the other stuff.

That is my truth on endings: I mark them, I use them to reflect, and if I can get away with it, I give thanks to people who have had an impact on my life.

As a game designer, you are more free when crafting your ending than you are in any other piece of your game. So, in the end, tell the fucking truth. Tell as much of it as you can manage. Tell it as best you can. And see if you can give the world something to remember.

#IFTTT #Blogger

[symbianosgames]

Most players won't play to the end of your game. That's not a tragedy -- that's a feature of video games' design landscape. Ubisoft creative director Jason VandenBerghe explains, in this reprint from the final (June/July 2013) issue of Game Developer magazine.

Argument: As a game designer, you are more free when crafting your ending than you are for any other piece of your game.

First of all, having an ending at all is your choice. Don't want one? All good! Games are loops, and if you want to leave yours closed, you will be in good company. No one has ever "finished" poker, or football.

But for games that do have an ending, only a small portion of your players will ever see it. We are, as an industry and as a culture, still confused about this. We are dismayed at the low finish rates of our games, and a player who puts down the controller before reaching the end is left with a vague sense of having dissed the game team.

Yet, the ability for players to stop playing whenever they feel like it is inherent in the form! This is not a bad thing; this is a good thing. It is part of the game-design landscape. And if you learn to worry less about insisting that everyone who starts finishes, and put your attention on the advantages this fact of gaming gives you, you will not find a more personally liberating moment in game design than in designing your end.

The question is: How will you use that freedom?

For several years back in the late 1990s, I lived with an eccentric friend named Dylan. Dylan was a carouser, a lover of swords and theatrics, a collector of experiences -- and an avid video game starter.

Dylan played dozens, maybe hundreds of games per year, and this was before the Internet, so they mostly came from the store. But, for all his passion, I don't know that I ever saw him put more than an hour into a single one. He would buy them, try them, love them... and then set them aside forever. This was a man who stopped playing Diablo after an hour or so (!). Even more weirdly, he was always perfectly content with his purchases, never showing a single hint of regret at not seeing the end.

He never did this with movies or books. Ever.

Watching Dylan's weird relationship with the games he played taught me that it is absolutely not required to finish a game to appreciate it.

Last year, you may remember that CNN published an article by Blake Snow that regaled the Internet with the news that only 10-20 percent of gamers actually finish the games they started.

No argument. When we see game finish rates over 30-40 percent, we sing the praises of the team and pop the bubbly. Numbers like that imply that we managed to make some seriously compelling content, and smooth out all the bumps along the way. Precious few games reach that goal.

But, I have a beef with an unspoken assumption in this article, and in many articles like it. Here's how the article's author put it:

"Let [this] sink in for a minute: Of every 10 people who started playing the consensus 'Game of the Year,' [Red Dead Revolver] only one of them finished it. How is that? Shouldn't such a high-rated game keep people engaged? Or have player attention spans reached a breaking point? ...Who's to blame: The developer or the player? Or maybe it's our culture?"

My beef is with the idea that failing to finish a game is a bad thing.

Putting down the controller somewhere before the final climactic scene in a video game is not a sin. It is an intrinsic part of our art form.

I never finished the first BioShock, yet it remains a game I thoroughly enjoyed. Grim Fandango? Never finished it. But I sure as hell use it as an example in design discussions! I have never finished a single Z, but, man, they are fun (usually).

There are a ton of games that don't even have endings. Most arcade-style games and most MMOs don't have real endings. The Sims doesn't have an ending. Poker? Chess? Football?

In fact, a broad majority of the world's long-standing favorite games are specifically designed to never be finished. One game of Sudoku leads to another, which leads to another... In game design terms, even putting an "ending" into your game is, clearly, optional. We know this. It's self-evident. So, then, why do we gnash our teeth and tear out our hair when only 20% of players reach the end of our (story) games?

I believe that the idea has its roots in our beliefs about other media. There is an implicit rejection that is present when someone walks out of a movie, turns off a show on TV, or sets down a book unfinished. For those mediums, the message of this action is clear: "I'm not enjoying this story enough to continue."

When someone stops playing a game, however, the possibilities are far, far more varied:

"I'd love to keep playing, but the time commitment is too high for me."

"I enjoyed the beginning, but now it's getting sort of grindy, and that's not for me."

"Love the game, but I'm weary of the player culture, so I'm going to hang out somewhere else."

"My friends stopped playing."

These are not necessarily sins of the designer. Gaming is as much a lifestyle as it is entertainment, and if a game doesn't fit into an individual's life, they are going to put it down. That's not a tragedy. That's a feature of our design landscape.

So, instead of looking guiltily at our completion rates and fantasizing about a world in which 99% of the players who start our (story) game reach the final scene, let's flip it around and see what we can do to take advantage of this fact, instead.

More than half of your players are not going to finish. You know that going in, so think of it as a design constraint! What does that mean to you?

First: The deeper into your game your content is, the more likely it is that the players that are still with you have been having a good time. They're in. They've bought it. You have earned a certain amount of faith capital with them, and they probably want to see what else you've got up your sleeve.

Second: Because your producers and various high-mucky-mucks have seen the finishing stats for other games, they know that dev time spent in detailed iteration on your ending is effort going to a small subset of players. They will prioritize the team's time accordingly. They will thus be more likely, whether through disinterest or lack of time, to let your crazy idea for the end slip through the cracks.

Third: Players themselves already know that arriving at the end is a rare occasion—because they, personally, most likely don't do it very often. Every player has put down the controller on at least a few games. If they do decide to complete the whole thing, they will wear that fact as a badge of honor (we hope). So, they are psychologically primed to receive some kind of acknowledgment for their effort. Bright-eyed, with the end in sight, your players look to the designer expectantly, ready to interpret whatever you present as a kind of reward, while your producers turn a blind eye...

I only have one piece of real advice for you about this moment: Tell the fucking truth.

Whatever it is that is in your heart, whatever it is that has drawn you into making this game in the first place, do that with your faith capital. Spend it telling them that, somehow.

The first Modern Warfare had a great example of this: The final mission was the most over-the-top crazy, punishing, nearly-impossible-to-complete madness-fest in their game. It had almost no explanation, required none ("PLANE! TERRORISTS!"), and it was simply brilliant. The level was a celebration of the game that you had just finished, a self-referential guns-blazing cherry on the cake that was completely unnecessary, but became legendary.

One of the most satisfying endings I have ever played was the ending of The Darkness. It laid bare the truth of the fantasy they had created, and gave me full rights to punish an evil that I had come to loathe. The truth there was consistent with the story, but it was the play that they created that made that last scene true. I hated the villain of that game, and in the end the game did nothing to force my hand (beyond closing the door behind me). When I took my revenge, it was me that did it, and that act stayed with me.

But it is the ending of the first Metroid, perhaps, that best demonstrates the strange liberty we have with this moment. It could have ended with Samus Aran raising a blaster into the air in victory. That would have been satisfying, and it was an amazing game all the way through. Hero pose! Instead, Samus stepped out of the battle suit, demonstrated her gender, and shattered the 8-bit preconceptions of players everywhere. It is still one of the most celebrated endings in gaming history.

Let's say we were to apply these principles to this article.

You've stuck with me this far, so I can perhaps assume that you're interested in what I've had to say so far. We're near the end, so you are maybe starting to think about what you'll read next, or putting down the magazine. Perhaps you are looking forward to the internal satisfactory tick-mark that comes from reading the last line.

How might I use this receptive state of mind? What is my truth about endings, right now?

Speaking of endings, did you know that this is the final issue of this here magazine? Funny story: Through random luck, I've ended up with the honor of writing the final Design of the Times. That's this article, right here.

You know, the first time I picked up an issue of Game Developer was back in 1996, in the offices of Hyperbole Studios. I was a late-20-something, blown away to be suddenly making games after long years of professional wandering.

It was the existence of this magazine that gave me my first glimpse into the murky, somewhat-secret society of game developers. The magazine's professional-looking cover and its interior pages full of post-mortems and dev tricks all were clearly aimed specifically at a readership made up of people who made video games. Flipping through the pages, I gradually discovered that I very much wanted to be part of that target market.

It's much later now. We have internets, game developers are meeting with vice presidents, and 99.9% of people under 25 have played video games. It's a world in transition, and I cannot wait to see what happens next. But I, for one, won't move forward into that future without fi rst pausing and, maybe just for a moment, placing an affectionate hand on the magazine that was the warm face that greeted me as I entered this industry.

Thanks. Thanks for that, and for all the other stuff.

That is my truth on endings: I mark them, I use them to reflect, and if I can get away with it, I give thanks to people who have had an impact on my life.

As a game designer, you are more free when crafting your ending than you are in any other piece of your game. So, in the end, tell the fucking truth. Tell as much of it as you can manage. Tell it as best you can. And see if you can give the world something to remember.

#IFTTT #Blogger