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timmymyluv · 2 years

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Hey there! Just saw your opening requests, and thought I'd ask for a Paul Atreides one where reader is highborn, and Paul's jealous of the attention she's attracting in court. Take your time, feel free to change it up a bit, and good luck with your finals!

oh my god hello my love, thank you so much for this!! i love love writing for paul. so sorry this took so long but i put in so much love with this. i hope u enjoy it!! please keep sending me requests y'all i love it - im on a paul binge rn hehe

i'm all about fluffy paul rn but i am thinking of digging into darker! emperor paul like hmmmm 👀 throne sex? breeding kink when it comes to heirs? no who said that ? jk jk kdj

tysm for this!!

You tighten your grip around Paul’s forearm, growing more conscious and embarrassed at your debutante ball. Palms sweaty, heart rate increasing - it takes everything in you not to run away.

In a strategically, body fitting yet still tasteful and respectable gown in the latest fashion chosen by your ambitious mother, you feel like throwing up. The colour suited you perfectly, bringing out your eyes and emphasized your beauty.

Growing up, you never put much importance in your appearance, enjoying the wildness of the outdoors, riding horses and walking barefoot. No one had expected you to blossom into the stunning beauty that you became, slender yet curvaceous, a womanly frame that attracted the attention of every Duke and Prince that came your way.

“Can you hold on to me any tighter, Y/N?” Paul murmurs, looking around not to gain suspicions but speaking only for you to hear.

If it were any other occasion, you would’ve smacked him for being your escort at your debutante ball, your official introduction into the galactic high society you were groomed to be in. You felt ridiculous, like a show pony up for sale, makeup thicker and cakier on your fine features and your hair put up in more pomp and decadence than you would be found dead in.

“This ball will determine the rest of my life, you idiot - You’ll never understand.” You spit out almost disdainfully, regretting the hurt you let out even in your furtive whispers, yet its too late. He frowns at you and brushes his gloved palm against the side of your waist.

“You have nothing to worry about, Y/N. You’ve rehearsed for this all your life, that you can do this even in your sleep.”Paul assures you sincerely, and a part of you calms down.

“Lady YN of House Lavendaire, Planet Xanadu. Escorted by Lord Paul Atreides of the Planet Caladan ” The host reads your name off the printed card, and you gracefully follow Paul’s lead as he walks you down the grand staircase.

With a pleasant smile and perfect curtsy, your countless hours of rehearsals and etiquette school paid off, and every eligible bachelor and their parents, powerful and influential lords and ladies are enchanted by you.

As tradition, the first dance of the ball was a quadrille with your designated escort. You never asked him to be your partner for the night, only that it was heavily suggested and schemed by your mother and Lady Jessica. A lady never asks, your mother said. She only waits for a proposal if you she wants to be a promising catch.

Paul nonchalantly asked you while you were walking to dinner, and you accepted, without a second thought. Later that day, you were delivered mail from dozens of other eligible lords and dukes coming to the ball, all too late as you had already promised to go alongside Paul.

Taking a deep breath, you feel a calloused hand around your waist, another holding your free hand as the music started to play. You remember years ago when you would keep yelling at each other when you would step on each other’s foot practicing during etiquette classes, whether accidentally or purposefully to piss the other off.

You know Paul like the back of your hand, having grown up from the cradle beside one another. Yet as you sway to the sweeping orchestra, you carefully drown in his hazel eyes, pensive and full of secrets, the freckles on his face, his usually unruly curls carefully groomed - you almost miss a choreographed turn if only the muscle memory in you had been ingrained - too consumed by the fluttering of butterflies in your stomach, your heart beating a little too fast that you can hear it in your ear drums.

Paul swiftly wavers with his eyes glancing at your glossed lips, before frantically looking away when he notices you looking back. You separate as the crowd splits in rows, with the female debutantes twirling around before returning to meet with their partners once they have switched directions.

You interlock your palms around his neck for the final steps of the first dance, as he gently lifts you in the air before the string quartet plays their final note and you both curtsy as the dance finishes. He stares at you with a blank, yet knowing look. No words are exchanged but you know something had changed between the two of you. And there’s no going back.

…

As refreshments and cocktails were served, you were immediately flocked by a crowd of lords and dukes desperate for a moment of your time. You were not used to this attention, being admired for your beauty, your exquisite figure and your family’s excellent standing in the Empire.

Through years of careful alliances and political decisions, your family was an old noble family that had been in power for generations, with an astonishing record of making barely any enemies and fighting close to no wars in the process.

One lord in particular, from a nouveau-riche trading, mercantile family approached you quietly while all the louder, more established noble lords frantically hoped to catch your eye. He was tall, blonde with piercing cerulean eyes and dressed in a fine grey suit.

He shared with you an interest in traveling and horse riding, sharing his recent travels and excursions, some souvenirs, what he would recommend and what trips he would rather never name again. You wanted to part from him sooner than later, knowing never to spend too much time with one gentleman at risk of alienating other marriage prospects but you were enchanted by his soothing voice and gentle, yet commanding demeanour.

As a servant passed by with a tray full of cocktails, he was about to hand one off to you, but Paul came rushing in, smacking his hand away and getting in between the two of you.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Paul roars, becoming the source of entertainment at the ball as the audience gasps and chatters at the sight.

“I was just going to get her a drink, Atreides. What is wrong with you - picking fights for no damn reason?” The blond retorts, annoyance on his face as he wipes off the spilled cocktails on his pressed suit.

“Paul, will you stop making a big deal over everything? I can’t even have my fun without you coming in to ruin it!” You scream at him, pulling him aside by his sleeve to a secluded hallway.

Paul breathes heavily, the veins on his forehead protruding from his anger and concern.

“He tried to put something in your drink, YN! He could have poisoned you if you weren’t careful - he was going to take advantage of you” He reasoned, full of concern, hands hovering around before he tried to put them around your shoulders, but you brush it off.

“I don’t need your protection all the time, Paul! I’m a grown woman, can’t you see that?! I’m finally having something for myself, finally the centre of society, the Diamond of the Ball, but you can’t stand at the sight of me having something that you can’t!” Screaming at him until your throat feels raw, it felt so good letting that out.

“I’m in love with you, goddamit YN! I’ve had feelings for you since we were younger, and you never seemed to notice that!” He shouts back, as the both of you stare in silence.

“You did?” You ask, hesitantly. Your voice lowers to a whisper, the anger and frustration second thought now.

“Yes. Always. I have never imagined anyone to be by my side but you. I understand if you do not feel the same, but one word from you and I will never speak of this again-”

You lunge at him almost, placing a palm on his cheek as your lips meet his. He pauses in shock, not entirely sure he was seeing things right, but he kisses you back with the same fervor and passion. You would never do this in public, but for that moment, it was only the two of you.

“I feel the same, Paul. I only entertained advances from others because I didn’t think you would even consider me a possible bride. That I would marry some man who would love me at least a fraction of how I felt for you. I only did it to make you jealous.”

“And it worked, YN. You know me too well, don’t you? The thought of seeing you marry someone else would drive me crazy.” He smirks teasingly at first, but lets out a genuine grin and you can’t help but smile back.

“You owe me a proper marriage proposal, Atreides.”

“Oh, you bet. A lady like you only deserves the best.” He promises haughtily, before leaning in for another all-consuming kiss.

#paul atreides imagines #paul atreides #timothee chalamet imagines #timothee chalamet x reader

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istumpysk · 3 years

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Hi! I just read a post of yours where you mention that GRRM based Arya on the women who rejected him and gender norms in the 70s and I was wondering if you have a source? I don't remember reading that in any interview, which is to be expected, considering my memory is unreliable, to put mildly 😩 I'd love to read that part of the interview 😈

Thanks a lot ❤️❤️❤️

Hey, I have to apologize, after retrieving the source for you, I realized I misrepresented what he said.

In 2019, Maisie Williams and Sophie Turner were featured on the cover of Rolling Stone. George appeared in the article speaking on both characters.

Sansa -

Martin set his story in a world where dragon breath is a weapon of mass destruction and undead White Walkers are a civilizational threat, but he modeled its less-fantastical elements on medieval Europe, the constrained roles of women very much included. “The Middle Ages was very patriarchal,” Martin says. “I’m wary of overgeneralizing, since that makes me seem like an idiot — I do recognize that the Middle Ages was hundreds of years long and took place in many different countries — but generally, women didn’t have a lot of rights, and they were used to make marriage alliances. . . . I’m talking highborn women, of course — peasant women had even fewer rights.”

At the same time, he notes, “this is also the era where the whole idea of courtly romance was born — the gallant knight, the princess. In some sense, the Disney-princess archetype is a legacy of the troubadours of the romance era of medieval France.”

Arya -

Arya was always meant to be the opposite, “a girl who chafes at the roles she was being pushed into, who didn’t want to sew, who wanted to fight with a sword . . . who liked hunting and wrestling in the mud,” says Martin. “A lot of the women I’ve known had aspects of Arya, especially when I was a young man in the Sixties and Seventies. I knew a lot of young women who weren’t buying into ‘Oh, I have to find a husband and be a housewife,’ who would say, ‘I don’t wanna be Mrs. Smith, I wanna be my own person.’ And that’s certainly part of Arya’s thing.”

So yes, partly inspired by women in the 60s and 70s he knew, that resisted traditional gender norms, and didn’t aspire to be someone’s wife.

As for the part about him being rejected by those women, I realize now I remembered it incorrectly. He never suggests those women rejected him.

With that being said, I knew I had read or at least spoken to someone regarding George and the continuous rejection, and heartbreak he experienced in the 60s and 70s, and how it largely influenced his work. So naturally, I went to @kellyvela, and she had all the answers like always.

Among several places, she pointed me towards Dreamsongs Volume I, which is a collection of some of his shorter stories accompanied by insights into his career and life -

“A Song for Lya” is the oldest of the six stories in this section. It was written in 1973, during my days in VISTA, when I was living on Margate Terrace in Chicago’s Uptown, sharing a third-floor walk-up with some of my college chess cronies, and working at the Cook County Legal Assistance Foundation. I was also in the midst of the first serious romance of my life; it was not the first time I had ever been in love, but it was certainly the first time my feelings had been reciprocated.

He touches on this a few times. As far as women go, he had a pretty rough go of it during this period of his life.

You might be more familiar with this classic, where he’s admitted as much -

Now and again one of my readers will ask me why I don’t write sad stories of unrequited love any longer, the way I did so often in the ‘70’s. Parris is to blame for that. You can only write that stuff when your heart is broken.

(oof my jonsa heart flutters)

So yeah, somehow I mixed up the knowledge of all the heartbreak, sadness, and rejection he experienced in the 60s and 70s, and conflated that with the women he knew in the 60s and 70s that partly inspired him to create Arya. Oops!

Now it’s probably safe to assume he actually was rejected by a woman like that once or twice in his lifetime, but it’s definitely not something he’s ever explicitly said that I’m aware of.

Thanks for the ask. :)

#princess-in-a-tower #oops #grrm #stumpy ask

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megsironthrone · 3 years

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Stay or Go?

Based on this request: Hey, could you please write something for Thoros of Myr x Tyrell Reader. The Reader is Loras twin sister and is both a warrior but also a lady like her sister Margaery. She is meant to marry some Highborn lord bit doesnt want to. She runs away to the woods and comes across the brotherhood where she and Thoros slowly fall for eachother. She stays with them for a while but both of them know that she has to return to Kings Landing and her family. Its up to you if it ends in heartbreak or if she stays with the brotherhood and Thoros.

Here you are, lovely! *Characters are NOT mine!*

Warnings: Fluff and angst. First time writing Thoros

Pairings/Characters: Thoros of Myr x fem!Tyrell reader, Beric Dondarrion

In hindsight, running away from King's Landing and leaving behind your sister and grandmother probably wasn't your best idea. But you would be damned if you sat around waiting for the day Cersei convinced your father to sell you off like cattle. So, you ran. The moment you'd heard word of the marriage your father was trying to arrange, you packed a few things along with a sword and some gold, and you hightailed it out of King's Landing. Little did you know that you would end up finding your greatest adventure.

You should have been paying closer attention to your surroundings. Maybe then, you wouldn't have run into them. The Brotherhood Without Banners had a reputation after all. Still, what's done was done and here you were, face-to-face with Beric Dondarrion.

"Well, Lady Y/N Tyrell. It's strange seeing you out here. What brings you to these woods?" You glared at him, but didn't reply. You held your head high, causing him to chuckle. "You needn't worry, my lady. You are in no danger from us so long as you pose no danger to us. Has someone done something to you? Kidnapped you?" You shook your head. "No."

"Then you are running," another voice joined in the conversation. You turned your head and were met with a striking pair of eyes. They studied you intensely. "My lady, allow me to introduce Thoros of Myr. He is a servant of the Lord of Light." You looked at him warily, but curtsied all the same. "As are we all. The Lord welcomes you, Lady Y/N. He has great plans for you." You didn't know if that should frighten you or excite you. One thing you did know for sure was that Thoros' eyes were going to haunt your dreams.

*time skip*

You spent months with the Brotherhood. Unintentionally, of course. You had meant to move on, but there was something about that band of men that made you feel safe and at home. They became, truthfully, like brothers to you. Well, except for one of them. No matter how you tried, you couldn't think of Thoros as a brother.

After your initial meeting, you had begun spending time with Thoros more than anyone else. You weren't even certain as to why. There was something in the way he spoke and carried himself that intrigued you. Plus, he made you laugh. The two of you grew close. Very close. It didn't take long for you to fall for him and you would never forget the night you told him.

*flashback*

Everyone else was already sleeping. You, Thoros, and Beric were the only people left awake and you had made up your mind that you were going to tell Thoros how you felt. You had never been a coward before and you certainly weren't about to start now. You stood from your spot on the ground and walked over to Thoros. He smiled up at you as plopped down across from him.

"Thoros," you greeted, trying to keep yourself calm. It was clear he saw right through your façade and he smiled. "How may I be of service, my lady?" Everything you'd planned on saying to him flew out of your mind and instead, what came out was, "IknowIshouldn'tbutIloveyou." You felt your face grow hot, like someone lit another fire right next to you. Somehow, however, Thoros seemed to know exactly what you'd said.

"And why shouldn't you?" You blinked in surprise, but the smile never left his face. He was looking at you in a way you'd never been looked at before and you couldn't place it. Taking a deep breath, you answered, "You are a priest of the Lord of Light. He has chosen you for a great task. L-Love isn't it. I suppose there is no room for love during times like these." You moved to stand, but Thoros placed a hand on your knee to stop you.

"The Lord of Light is a god of justice and retribution," he began. You were hanging on every word despite the fact that your heart was slowly breaking. He gently took your hand in his and gripped it softly as he continued, "But he is also a lord of love. I believe he lead you to me so I too may have love in my life on this earth." Thoros leaned forward, resting his forehead on yours. "I love you, my Y/N."

*end*

Now, nearly a year later, you sat with Thoros' cloak wrapped around you and smile on your face. You leaned into Thoros, resting your head on his shoulder. Things weren't perfect, but they were probably as close as you were ever going to get in Westeros. Still, there was that nagging feeling in the back of your head.

You'd been hearing about everything going on in King's Landing. Of how the High Sparrow had made Cersei walk through the streets of the city, stripped of her clothing, while the people threw disgusting things at her. Of how your twin and your sister were being kept prisoner in the Sept of Balor until they confessed to their crimes. It worried you and part of you wanted to return to them, if only for a little while.

"It is time for you to leave us," Thoros whispered just loudly enough for you to hear. You sat up and looked at him in confusion. "What?" Thoros gave you a sad smile. "I know you are worried for them. They need you now. You should return to King's Landing and ensure that they are safe. After that, the choice is yours. Stay with them or come back to me."

"The choice is mine regardless, Thoros. What if I wish to stay with you?" He held your hand and kissed your forehead. "Then I would cherish every moment. But your family needs you. If the reports we are receiving from the capitol are correct, then your siblings are undoubtedly frightened and need your guidance and support."

You knew he was right. He usually was, but you said nothing. That was enough for him to know that you'd made up your mind. "I shall wait for you until my dying breath, my Y/N," he told you later that day after you'd packed up your meager belongings. You turned to face him with tears in your eyes.

"I will come back. I love you." You grabbed him by his tunic and pulled him to you, kissing him with as much passion as you could muster. Your tears began to fall, but neither of you seemed to care. Nothing could break you apart in that moment. It wasn't until you needed to breathe that you pulled apart. Once more, Thoros rested his forehead against yours. "Ride safe and if you must fight, strike true. And carry my love with you, wherever you go." After another kiss, you were off to King's Landing.

It was weeks later that another message found Thoros. He sank to his knees upon hearing it. The Sept of Balor was in ruins. Blown to bits and burned to nearly ash by wildfire. The end of House Tyrell. Olenna was the only living Tyrell left, according to what he'd heard. You were gone. The one person on the earth Thoros loved more than life itself and you were gone. Dead. Nothing but a pile of ash.

A hand on his shoulder stopped Thoros from crying out. "We are not far from Highgarden. We should pay our respects to the Lady Olenna. She would want to know that her granddaughter died loved by the only man truly worthy of her." Beric didn't wait for a reply, but after selecting one of the brothers to watch over the others for a few days, the two of them headed off.

In his hand, Thoros kept a pendant you had given him. A lovely little trinket with your house sigil carved into it. He wore it close to his heart, knowing that, even as Highgarden drew close, he would never look upon your smiling face again. He only hoped Lady Olenna would have a solution for his broken heart.

(a/n: I hope you like it!)

Forever Tags: @fizzyxcustard @brewsthespirit-blog @etherealpotter @line-viper @frozenhuntress67 @cd1242 @gruffle1 @smalltownbigheart @igotmadskills

#george r.r. martin #game of thrones #thoros of myr #thoros of myr x reader #thoros x reader

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guileheroine · 3 years

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a sky full of song, chapter two

As her friendship with the Princess continues to deepen, a road trip to the Earth Kingdom compels Asami to reflect on her place in the world / Korrasami royalty AU / ao3 / chapter one

Asami exchanged eager glances with Miki and Khiem. Silaq stood by the door with his arms crossed casually, but they were all invested. As soon as the rickety panel separating them from the magic chamber slid aside and Korra emerged out, Miki caught her arm.

Asami caught the other one. "So what did she say?"

"Hey! That's between me and Mistress Meng." Korra winked, while Asami rolled her eyes. "Your turn, quick. She was meant to close fifteen minutes ago but I gave her a little extra so she'd do everyone. At the behest of the princess and all."

Asami almost expected her to wink again as she pushed her through the door. "We'll get dinner and head for the inn afterwards," she heard her say to the others.

Everyone meant the three waiting after Asami, so Korra must have paid the old woman handsomely indeed, and Asami expected to be rushed through the process. Instead she found herself in a smoky little tearoom, at the pointed end of a gaze glittering with curiosity.

"And who are you when the Princess isn't around?"

Asami coughed, eyes smarting in the smoke. "A blacksmith at the palace. One of her companions."

"I see. Married yet?" Mistress Meng posed the question as discreetly as possible, after her eyes had surreptitiously scanned Asami for any telltale glints of yellow gold.

"No, madam. I only wish." Asami bit the inside of her cheek and humoured the woman. This region of the Earth Kingdom was mighty superstitious, and the lady was smart to make a decades-long vocation of it. If Asami could see straight through it... well, Mistress Meng needn't know she was impervious to her airs.

"Very well." Mistress Meng pulled up her voluminous sleeve. "Drink of this vial and place your palm out for me."

Asami swallowed the sweet concoction she was handed and closed her eyes to protect them, while Mistress Meng put a papery hand under hers. She settled comfortably on the cushions, wondering what her fortune would hold.

Already life had taken a turn for the wondrous. They had been on the road for the better part of a week now, though it felt longer. The wedding of the Earth Prince was in another ten days, and Makapu Village here was one of their nightly stops on the great east road that would bring them to Ba Sing Se. Korra had convinced her to come along with her small hand-picked party, rebuffing the Lotus Guard that King Tonraq had offered. In the end, all Asami had to do was rush the final week of her apprentices' training and visit the palace dressmaker in between to have a couple of fancy gowns made—although Korra whispered in her ear, distractingly enough, that the finery was only for Ba Sing Se and they would wander free the rest of the time. So they had, riding down through the great forests of the north, crossing the choppy sea by ship, and camping in the mountains of the northern Earth Kingdom.

"My wisdom for you, dear," Mistress Meng pronounced dramatically, snapping Asami out of her reverie, "is that seeking true love is like asking for the moon…"

Asami's first faintly irritable thought was, that's not a fortune. The second, later that evening, quieter, would be, tell me something new.

"But," Meng drew the word out in a long croak, closing the other hand over Asami's, "it cannot come down from heaven, if you do not find the courage to ask."

Asami made a mental note, because the others would want to hear something as extravagant as that.

Early the next morning, they were dallying on the benches in the yard, mulling over whether to take a detour to the lake as they prepared to depart.

"Too cold to swim," said Miki dismissively, chewing on some berries she had brought out from the breakfast table, "even for me. And that one will freeze to death."

She had been chosen by Korra as part of the entourage for being one of the more intrepid and easygoing members of the staff, and they were good friends besides. She tossed a few nuts to Asami, who pulled her hand out from beneath her shawl just in time to catch them.

"You with the reflexes," Miki whistled, satisfied.

On the bench across from Asami, Silaq, bodyguard to the Princess (that was his official capacity), clasped his broad hands together over the map he had laid out. "Well, Mistress Meng did say I need to take some risks today." He winked at Asami, who scrunched her nose teasingly. He was a large and genial man, and had been kind to her since he was first tasked with helping haul her iron to the smithy from the ships that visited Agna Q'ela from the quarries.

"Wait, didn't she say that to everyone?" Korra piped loudly, directing her attention to the table and away from the innkeeper's son on her hip.

"She said that to everyone," Khiem said simultaneously. He had just finished saddling up their packs, and he stood tickling the reinmule's belly for a moment. Khiem took care of the Princess's dogs at home, and the pack animals on the road.

"Anyway, lake," Korra said with finality, and then softened it with a, "We're not in a rush, are we?"

It was settled. It wasn't that Korra was used to having the last word so much as everyone was generally in accord with her decision. Asami pulled the thick shawl around her, enjoying the crisp air. She had missed this—the kind of morning chill that made you shiver in relish rather than fright.

Korra had turned back to the innkeeper's son, who was being introduced to her mare. The child and the white-coated elk horse regarded one another with mutual caution. Asami sympathised with his wariness. It had taken her a while to warm up to the elk horses, who turned restless with cabin fever aboard the ship soon after Asami had first met them. But since then she had taken to the mount Korra and Khiem brought for her, a sable stallion who liked when Asami rested her face in the scoops of his ostentatious antlers.

"A show-off, like you," Korra said later, as they rode abreast, the lake behind them. "That's why I chose him."

Asami scoffed and laughed, not quite dismissively. She tugged the towel from her hair so that the midday sun could dry it. Asami had taken an inadvisable, yet irresistible, dip in the lake; her scream upon contact with the frigid waters had echoed through the forest bounding them, scattering the birds. Korra and Silaq, the resident waterbenders, had dove in without hesitation. It took a little extra effort to warm the waters as they swam, but polar people did it by instinct. Miki the non-bender had fought the cold valiantly, while Khiem abstained, laughing them off from the bank.

"I'm only moved by the spirit of adventure," Asami said, tossing her wet hair to her back.

The others rode a way ahead of them on the current path, a wide trail shrouded on either side by trees twice as tall as any at the north pole, strewn with their needles. The smell of spring came strong from the woods. Summer crept close on their tails.

"I wonder how they're doing back at the shop," Asami mused.

"You're not worried, are you?" Korra said, and before Asami could answer she corrected herself. "No, you're not. You've been having way too much fun this week."

Asami stared at her with a soundless laugh.

"And to think I had to drag you!"

"You didn't drag me! It's just that I was worried. But I didn't realise how much of a break I needed until we left." Over the week, Asami had provided some minor wheelwrighting services to those they met on the road, but for the most part she was blissfully free of strenuous work. Breathing in the clear air beyond the royal forge, she was sensible to sights and sensations she had largely been shut off from for a year, her escapades with Korra notwithstanding.

"Did you always know you wanted to be a blacksmith? I mean, did you choose such a gruelling trade?" Korra said.

"Oh," Asami said, staggering on the question while she caught up to Korra's thinking. "Um, actually, I'm not sure I ever thought about it—maybe I should have, huh? It's just what I was always supposed to do, growing up with my father."

"I know what that's like…" Korra sucked air through her teeth. Then she cocked her head. "For what it's worth, I'm sure there's a lot you'd be great at, if you ever wanted to switch things up."

Asami gave her a humble little mock curtsey, as far as possible on horseback. "And you? Have you wondered who you might be if you weren't the Princess of the North?" That was the title that always went before their company in these parts.

"Ah, not really." Korra sounded recalcitrant, like she didn't want to entertain the trail of thought for fear it might leave her wistful.

It wasn't a mood Asami wanted to encourage. "Well, then let me. First of all, it's quite easy to imagine the improvement on your personality we'd have if you weren't highborn—"

Korra wasn't hard to rile. "You're awful!"

Distraction achieved, Asami backed down. "And luckily, you really aren't," she countered without a beat, smiling her deference. She felt her own eyes soften when Korra returned the smile, disarmed and placated. Then Asami was humbled in sincerity, at the instant enhancement she had made on Korra's mood.

"You'd make a good princess," Korra said. "Better than me."

"No," Asami returned, "that's not true."

Though she meant it, she sounded less convincing to her own ears this time, because she was willing the bittersweetness out of her voice. "Your people love you," she added. "They don't see the slow parts. They see a warrior, passionate and big-hearted. And I know their trust means the world to you, even if you get impatient sometimes."

Some of the levity had dissipated, the air with all its scents was heavy now, and Asami wondered if she had overstepped. "Me," she continued, "I can't talk to someone on the street like I've known them my whole life."

After a long second, Korra said, "You could do the three hour round tables." It wasn't a counter to Asami's statement but a submission; and in responding so, Korra was gently accepting her kindnesses as well.

Asami concurred with a sigh. They would make a good team, then. They did .

The path was widening out now, but so were the trees, prickly branches curving into their way. A pleasant breeze rustled in them, softening the hard sunlight into an ideal haze. They both closed their eyes against it for a while.

"Well," Korra said, snapping off some needles from the branches pushing against her, "enjoy this while it lasts, because we'll probably have to sneak out at night if we want any freedom in Ba Sing Se."

"Uh-huh." Asami eyed her, brow arched. "Could it be that that's why we're taking the long route?"

Korra's eyes crinkled. "It's not a secret, Asami."

"Shh."

Korra threw her clump of twigs and needles at her, and they both laughed.

"You're kind of dreading it, aren't you?" Asami said. "Why… You'll be a great envoy for the tribes regardless of whatever the Earth elite think of us. And the King can't be too concerned if he let the council delegate to you... I mean, how hard can it be to attend a wedding?"

"You know, my mother's hoping it's going to provoke something in me."

"The mission?" Asami shielded her eyes as she gazed ahead to see where the others were. Accustomed to trips with Korra alone, she had forgotten to keep them in account.

"The wedding."

Asami turned back to Korra. "Is that right?" She pouted sympathetically. "She says that all the time. She's hoping everyone you meet with will magically infuse you with dreams of courtship."

"Well, this time, it's my dad, too."

"Oh… "

Korra gave her an exasperated look; Asami laughed, shaking her head.

"I mean, it's a funny thing to tell you when you're literally about to run away."

"That's what I thought! But I guess at least it means he thinks my sense of diplomatic responsibility has improved."

Asami got the impression that it wasn't that much of a bright side to Korra, and it coloured the air strangely again, but then she was startled into distraction. A butterfly had alighted on her nose, appearing from nowhere. It had been a long time indeed since she had seen one. Korra turned sharply at her gasp of delight. Gently, Asami coaxed it to crawl onto her hand, which she held out to Korra.

"These were my favourite! I used to plant flowers just to attract them."

"I see. So was that hard for you? Not being attractive enough for them all on your own?"

It took Asami a moment to understand her meaning, and then she sniggered. The butterfly wove around Korra and her stallion before flying off, and once they had watched it go, she said, "Hey, why are you in such a mood today?" She waited for Korra to return her pointed glance. "Tired of me already?"

Korra shook her head, sweeping her hand through the stallion's fur. "What? I adore you."

They did not look at each other then. Asami's knuckles tightened on the reins while the thrill of the words rose and abated. It was just a second in their familiar repartee, a long and blistering second. Korra fiddled with the bridle on her mount.

"Alright, well, since you're feeling so belligerent, why don't you race me?" Asami shifted on her mount. "We should catch up to the others."

It was for the best, because the farther they traveled from the Water Kingdoms, the keener the sense of possibility became, and the softer and more yielding the boundaries Asami knew, which meant all the more that she couldn't risk prodding them. And since the excitement she felt was for the fresh and familiar landscapes, not just from them, Asami directed her mind to that. Korra's spirits had been high and easy, too, from the advent of their journey—until today, it seemed. It occurred to Asami that Korra had never actually mentioned what Mistress Meng had divined for her.

In the town of Tenduk, it had been arranged for Princess Korra to open a new museum. Asami knew that cutting ribbons wasn't one of Korra's favourite activities, as it usually preceded a lot of sitting through—or worse, making—formal speeches. But the palace had arranged it upon request by the town, after the mayor learnt that they would likely be passing through that part of the kingdom when the museum was scheduled to open.

The night before, they arrived at the town's finest guesthouse. It was jam-packed, owing to the impending ceremony, but they offered Korra the final single room. Miki, however, was nursing the final strains of a back injury from a snowshoeing accident in the winter, and Korra insisted she take it with its softer bed. It left her to accompany Asami in the shared room. When they sat on the plentiful cushions over a nightcap of strong tea, they agreed it recalled Korra's apartments at home. Except the night outside was darker than it ever got with snow and ice around, and beyond was a foreign land that held them to no account, far from any castle, the room they lodged in belonging to neither of them. That made it different in a way they couldn't quite discuss aloud.

Once Korra was ready for bed, Asami shut the window, where she had been listening to the cicadas chirp in the moonless night. Korra turned out the smelly lamp. It was cool inside now, and the dark almost too eerie to sleep in. From the other side of the bed, she heard Korra sigh.

"Excited for tomorrow?"

"Sure. Asami?"

She was about to say princess, into the dark and thrumming night, but the circumstances might have carried it to an unfamiliar place, so she bit her tongue. "Hm?"

"Would you stay here, if you could?"

Here? Asami thought, before it dawned.

There was a beat before Korra spoke again. "In the Earth Kingdom. You miss it, don't you?"

"It's been a long time since I lived here. It was a long time before the war, even."

But it was a notion Asami hadn't realised she was nurturing, until Korra put it to words. It was true that the north was not the only place she could have made her post-war life—she'd simply taken the first chance that befell her to escape her father's legacy. In any case, the future certainly held other options, if the future looked the way she thought it might.

Korra didn't push, though Asami waited to see if she would ask again. Instead all there was was the dim whir of the cicadas, and the space on the bed between them.

"Maybe one day," Asami said finally. "Who can say?"

"Of course," Korra replied softly. The way she said it made Asami wonder, and suppress the immediate urge she had to reach out for her.

Korra cleared her throat. "Are you sleepy? I'm not."

"No." Asami sprang on the word, overhasty.

"Let's walk in the garden." Korra was out of bed no sooner than Asami had heard her words. "It looked so nice, and we probably won't have time tomorrow."

After a breakfast that included the fried cicadas Korra had begun to inquire about not five minutes into their stroll, they were led to the museum. Streamers hung from the building with the banners of all four kingdoms on them—it was the first public collection to open that brought cultural displays from across the world, a gesture of harmony after the war. After Korra cut the ribbon on the flagstones in front of a politely buzzing crowd, Asami and the others hung behind while she led the first patrons that had queued up inside. The impromptu tour that ensued, they later heard, had not been a part of the plan, but it proved a hit with the audience, who hadn't expected to hear the Northern Princess regale them firsthand.

"It must have been nice to put your royal history education to use for the first time ever," Miki commented, while they sat together picnicking afterwards. Korra spluttered her agreement, laying back on the mats they had loaned from the guesthouse.

"I just did the Water wing," she said, "so, um, the other hundred books could have been more useful."

"You can put some more of it to the test for the Earth Queen," Khiem said dourly, "impress her a little."

Korra struggled up and reached to steal some flatbread from his plate. "You want to feed me to the wolves!"

Asami giggled and followed suit, tearing some bread. Korra had done well, made the event her own. She was skilful now at knowing when to put her touch on things, how the line should be toed; a sense that served a figure such as herself well. Her mood, in turn, was vibrant today. Asami took the effort to gaze up at the sunset, away from Korra reclining in its glow.

Silaq was cutting persimmons from the trees around them, with permission from the warden that had scouted this spot outside the town for them. Some of the surrounding trees were blooming, while others were fat with fruit.

"Shake them!" Asami called. "You just have to shake them, and they'll fall."

Some of the fruit hit their heads on the way down. Asami took one of the blossoms in her lap and put it in Korra's hair as a token of congratulation, and Korra caught her hand for a moment as it left, beaming. As Korra stood to join Silaq in gathering the fruit, Asami thought that perhaps their moods had switched today. Korra's words last night had imparted an itch in the back of her mind. She bit into a persimmon and the silky cinnamon taste only intensified the nostalgic pang.

She turned to Khiem, who was a rare earthbender who had been born at the North Pole. "Khiem, how did you end up in Agna Q'ela? Did I ever ask?" She offered him the fruit.

"Same as you, I suppose," he laughed.

What did that mean? At Asami's creasing brow, he took a bite from the persimmon and continued.

"My father moved there from Yousheng prefecture to breed elk horses. The wild elk horses in the north… They're not suitable as mounts. When the King wanted elk horses for riding, my father was hired to take animals from the continent to breed with them so they could be domesticated, and to teach the royal stables how to keep them."

"Wow," Asami said. "I see—"

"Like your foundry."

"Yes, I got it," she laughed. "So he never came back?"

Khiem shook his head. "He fell in love with a northern girl." He handed the persimmon back; it was Asami's turn. "Are you planning to return? I hear your apprentices are shaping up."

"I haven't thought about it," Asami admitted. "But I think that thought will be due soon."

"Well, it's not an easy place to settle unless you grew up there. I doubt you have everything you want in the Water Kingdoms…"

No, indeed.

It was midday when they arrived in Ba Sing Se, sweaty and hungry. At the east gates of the Lower Ring, they were met by a representative of the Earth Queen, and another from the Water consulate here in the city, who took them up into the palace and housed them like all the other guests that had been filtering in from all four kingdoms. The wedding was tomorrow, and tonight they would soiree with the other guests, but they took their lunch with the Water consul in the Upper Ring.

The consul received them eagerly, and served them fresh seasonal fare, introducing the latest goings-on in the city.

"All the festivities down there are beautiful," Korra enthused. The party was already in full swing in Ba Sing Se; they only had one prince, after all.

"Wait until you see the fire show tonight," the consul said. "There's more than just gold in the Earth Queen's coffers. Gunpowder! They have the finest technicians working on it. That will be something to behold for us northerners."

Korra's face lit up at the mention of fireworks. Asami was ready to return her grin when she sought her gaze, as she passed her the bowl of sauteed greens. She smiled behind her cup as Korra told the consul all about her pyrotechnics.

"Your Highness," he said, when they sat in the veranda office and rested afterwards, "there is the matter of the wedding gift, and venue, and the list of attendees for the ball tonight with the Queen and the Prince… There are a number you should definitely meet with, the others I will leave to your discretion. The wedding itself will be at the Summer Palace in the morning... doubtless the Earth royals will be preoccupied, so make your acquaintances tonight and then enjoy the day, I say..."

While the consul engaged Korra on these matters, Asami turned to Silaq. "Will we all go tonight?"

"Yes, I think so. It's a party, not a meeting. Remember your titles, though."

"Titles? How will I know—"

He patted her shoulder. "For Korra, I mean. In the palace, in company, it will be your highness —or my lady, or miss if you're feeling brave… And we'll be her household, since we're all in the employ of the palace."

"That's kind of fun," Asami said, and they shared a quiet laugh.

Their rooms at the Royal Palace were lavish. Asami and Miki hurried through the halls once they were clear of any staff, admiring the thick tapestries and the ornaments of silver, jade, and cinnabar. Each object and surface seemed to heave with ancient grandeur. They slipped into their second finest dresses, the Water folk in shades of stunning and patriotic blue. Asami kept her hair down. She had been taking every chance to, since it was an impossibility when she was at work. The gathering commenced in a series of massive drawing rooms, the largest boasting a high, golden vault carved with star maps and scenes from legend. Asami could have spent all evening gazing up. While Korra met with various nobles, she and the others clung close to one another, drinking careful amounts and milling with the looser guests. After a while, they fell into a game of hunting the aristocrats, pointing and guessing discreetly from the seating map who each of the fanciest guests were. When it was time, however, they all had to be introduced to the man whose wedding they had come for.

"Princess Korra! You , my lady, look ravishing ."

Korra and Prince Wu bowed to one other; a shallower and stiffer movement than the one Asami was used to seeing in Agna Q'ela. He had removed the tasselled crown he first entered in, leaving his mantle of green silks to shine, which he wore over a matching tunic lined with gold brocade. If not for the top-notch tailoring, they would have swallowed him.

Korra held her hand out for him to kiss, and then when she kissed his cheek as customary, a look of daze befell the Prince that made Miki clinch Asami's arm and snort. In fact, Prince Wu kissed the hands of all the ladies once Korra had named them to step forward and bow—decorum be damned—and he even offered Silaq a rather shy pat on his solid arm. Korra's eyes were narrowed, lips pressed tight, caught between irritation and laughter. Korra didn't like the Earth Prince. Asami didn't think she would either, but he was certainly a character.

The prince's betrothed, on the other hand, while he did not turn heads, left a more curious impression. He was modestly but finely dressed—the seemingly plain cut shirt clearly made from the finest weave upon a second glance—but he spoke little and did not seem to capture any of the guests for long. Naturally, he was the first topic of conversation when they sat for a bite. Korra's party shared their table with a couple chatty ladies, daughters from some southern freehold, who seemed to know all there was to know.

"That man is a commoner," one of them hiccupped over her sweetmeats. "Nothing but a beautiful, common commoner."

Korra's head rose instantly and she set her chopsticks down halfway to her mouth. "Oh, really?"

"Rumour has it," her sister to her left leaned in with a conspiratorial tone, "he was born in the slums in the Lower Ring and abandoned by his hussy mother. He would have died if one of the maidservants here didn't rescue him and raise him as her own."

The final southern woman, clearly the elder, cast them both reproving looks, as if she was disappointed that they would relay this gossip before the Princess of the North..

"One of the staff I was chatting to in our foyer said he used to be the Prince's bodyguard," Miki said. "Far to go, huh?"

"Or close, I guess," Khiem said, next to Asami, elbowing Silaq suggestively. Korra scoffed at him.

"I wonder what the Earth Queen thought of that," she said.

The older woman answered cautiously. "I'd wager the Prince just pitched a fit until she relented. Love him or hate him, not having his way is a foreign concept to His Highness."

The youngest girl was bored of this now. She turned to Asami, who had noticed her hawkish gaze on her once or twice. "Are you from the Fire Empire, Miss? You have a look."

"I am," Asami said. "Though I was born here in the Earth Kingdom. But I'm a blacksmith in the north now."

"A blacksmith." The girl repeated. She looked ahead, and her chin turned up a fraction as she sipped. "My sifu defeated the master arrowsmith for the Yuyan Archers during the war, and he says Fire Empire smiths are deadly warmongers."

Asami's heart sank in a flare of regret. From the corner of each eye, she saw the girl's sister shooting her a warning glance, and Korra clenching her jaw. Korra, of course, was not above invoking her station to put an enemy in their place.

"It's alright," Asami said quickly. "He's correct, unfortunately. But I haven't been with them a long time. I'm making amends."

Korra grazed her arm under the table. She already felt guarded here and she knew that Asami felt doubly conspicuous in these grand halls. At least the young lady had the good sense to look contrite.

"You look like... a goddess of the forge," Korra said, her cheek in her palm, leaning back to assess the gown.

Asami snorted, her sharp stance before the mirror failing. They had risen early and were mostly ready by the time the sun was fully up. It would take a half hour by rickshaw to reach the Summer Palace, and they would need to get there long before the prince in his palanquin.

"Nooo, don't go all red. See, it's gone now."

"Well, it's warm in the forge," she retorted. "Are the others ready?"

"Almost. Khiem's shining his shoes." Korra rose up onto her elbow reluctantly, yawning. She turned to the little box of jewelry she had brought, which lay open on the bed. "Hey, come here. Do you want to wear some of this?" She held up an elaborate necklace of pearl and pink ruby. I think this matches you better… And you know, they like seeing this stuff, at least the Earth Queen does."

"Right, the heavier the gold, the more highly she'll think of you," Asami said, bungling a mantra someone at the party last night had mentioned. She smoothed her dress one last time, glancing at Korra. Korra was arrayed in deep and regal teals, stretching the dress code a little only as a comely and commanding young princess could. The code for the wedding was simple: green, the colour of the Earth Kingdom, the colour of spring. Asami's own jade gown was embellished with pink spring blossoms. It was oddly exhilarating for them to be in summer garb, and Asami, for her part, couldn't recall the last time her arms had seen the sun.

She knelt on the bed and examined the jewels in Korra's hand. Asami's own gold had been paid in reparations, along with most of the other assets her family had held, after the war. All she kept were a few pieces that had belonged to her mother. Asami cleared her throat.

"Is it alright for me to wear this?"

Korra nodded mildly no sooner than she'd asked. "Of course. It's mine. Turn around."

She climbed to her knees behind Asami and unclasped the necklace, pausing first to sweep her hair from her shoulder. Asami's skin pebbled before the cold metal touched it, and she made her exhale soft. Though she said nothing, Korra must have noticed because she placed a hand over Asami's shoulder while the other straightened the chain at the back of her neck.

"You wear it really well." Korra placed her other hand on her too now, almost down at her own hand. "You look beautiful."

Asami didn't dare look up into the mirror; instead she felt the cove of Korra's shoulders, tucked around her own, close. When she had rescued her voice, she managed, "Thank you." She knew what she had to say next— which one are you going to wear? —but it was impossible not to defer it another second, two seconds—

There was a pointed cough at the doorway. Korra's hands dropped; Asami turned and sat on the bed, retracting to one corner.

It was one of the palace staff; wearing the doormen's colours, albeit in what looked like a special silk for the occasion. She gazed in the middle distance and rattled off, flustered. "Your Highness and our esteemed guests are expected in the reception rooms in twenty minutes for departure." Before they knew it, she had bowed vaguely and scampered.

Miki materialised where had been. "Oh, good. We're almost done, no?"

"Yes," Korra said, searching for Asami's eye, and Asami nodded blankly.

"I'll—go put on my shoes then."

Korra put on a necklace and a glimmering silver coronet. Asami picked up the shawl that matched her dress. They were finished in minutes, ready to head for the foyer. Asami shut the door of her suite firmly behind her as they left.

#korrasami #korrasami fanfiction #lok fanfiction #legend of korra #**#asfos

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trensu · 4 years

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Episode 48: The One where JGY and SS Host a Pity Party and Everyone Wishes They Hadn't

The show just dunks us right into yunmeng bro feelings again

jc's all should i get on my knees and thank you?

and wwx is like i never wanted your thanks

and now jc is just spilling his insecurities all over the place

Blah wwx was always better than him blah blah everyone liked wwx more blah blah DADDY ISSUES blah blah blah

and wwx just looks more and more hurt as all this bitterness is pouring out of his little brother 😞

i mean even jl was like hey uncle, maybe don't do that???

lwj is glaring at jc the whole time ofc

and jc gets so mad he tries to start a physical fight EVEN THO HE HAS A GAPING STAB WOUND IN THE CHEST

which is actually quite hilarious if you ignore how utterly heartbreaking the yunmeng bros relationship is

thankfully jl and lxc hold him back (not that he could've gone very far bc again GAPING STAB WOUND)

and ofc lwj has to throw in his two cents

lwj: clan leader jiang. Discretion

oh lwj, a man of few words

Oh no, ohno, oh nooooo, jc’s starting on their oath oh god

“YOU SAID THAT I WOULD BE THE CLAN LEADER AND YOU WOULD BE MY SUBORDINATE. YOU WOULD ASSIST ME FOR LIFE”

“SO WHAT IF THE TWIN JADES OF GUSU ARE THERE. WE WERE THE TWIN HEROES OF YUNMENG”

*GROSS SOBBING*

CAN I TOO GET A GAPING STAB WOUND IN THE CHEST BC I'M PRETTY SURE THAT WOULD HURT LESS

OH GOD WWX'S EYES ARE ALL RED

"YOU DIDN'T TELL ME ANYTHING. YOU TREAT ME LIKE A LITTLE FOOL."

OH THIS HURTS SO MUCH

that last bit, tho. i can't even hold that against him bc wwx DID lie to him. he DID neglect to trust him and his judgement.

he took jc's choice away and made it for him, and that's not cool.

and, like, i get it, I do bc i would probably want to do the same thing wwx did if i were in a similar situation with my own siblings

BUT STILL

jc: shouldn't i hate you? can't i hate you?

WHICH REALLY JUST TELLS ME THAT HE DOESN'T HATE WWX

HE WOULD NOT BE THIS TORN UP, THIS TEARFUL MESS, IF HE DIDN'T STILL LOVE HIS BROTHER AND WANT HIM BACK

this whole time jc is inching towards wwx, getting closer and closer until he's close enough to punch him if he wanted

Jc does make a sudden sharp movement towards wwx

Which obvs has lwj jolting forward to protect wwx

But wwx IMMEDIATELY puts a hand on lwj's knee

jin ling darts forward to hold his uncle and is like, hanguang jun, my uncle's hurt!!

BC JC IS THE ONLY NOT EVIL AND/OR DEAD FAMILY HE HAS LEFT

AND EVEN JL KNOWS THAT LWJ IS SO VERY WILLING TO HURT ANYONE WHO HURTS WWX

I AM HAVING TOO MANY EMOTIONS

jc's angry and hurting and is like i'm not afraid of lwj, come at me bro

lwj GLARES at him, brow furrowed and mouth pinched

jc: why? why wwx? why didn't you tell me?

oh god, he's not even yelling anymore, he's just fucking crying and i'm crying and there's just wet icky tears everywhere

wwx takes a shuddery breath and tells him it's bc he didn't want to see him like this

JC: you said i would be clan leader and you would be my subordinate. you would assist me for life. you'd never betray the jiang clan. you said it yourself

HE'S NOT YELLING. HE'S NOT EVEN ANGRY

his voice is weak, and shaky, and weepy and he's just so, so hurt

AND I'M A SOBBING MESS

and wwx swallows passed the lump in his throat but his voice still sounds a bit raw when he speaks

wwx: i'm sorry. i broke my promise.

FUCK

FUCKING HELL

MY YUNMENG BROS

jc: we've reached this point. i don't need your apology now. i'm not that delicate

STFU JC, YOU BALD-FACED LIAR, "NOT THAT DELICATE"

YOU'RE AS MUCH OF A SOBBING WRECK RN AS I AM

GET A THERAPIST JC

"NOT THAT DELICATE" I'M GONNA PUNCH YOU IN THE FACE IS WHAT I'M GONNA DO. GOD. NOT THAT DELICATE

JC: i'm sorry

*sobsobsobsob* MY YUNMENG BROS

wwx: don't apologize to me. that's what i owed the jiang clan.

here wwx closes the distance between them to place a hand on his brother's arm

HUG HIM GOD DAMN IT, LET MY YUNMENG BROS HAVE A PROPER HUG

wwx: as for this matter, please don't keep it in your heart.

and he goes on to say smth like i know you probably won't let go, but it's water under the bridge, that was all stuff that happened in my past life

AND THEN HE REACHES UP AND GENTLY WIPES AWAY JC'S TEARS WITH HIS THUMB

AND GIVES HIM A SWEET LITTLE SMILE

AND I'M DYING. MY HEART HURTS SO MUCH I'M DYING

I SHOULD'VE KEPT A BOX OF TISSUES NEAR ME, MY SLEEVES ARE ALL SNOTTY AND DISGUSTING NOW, DAMN IT ALL

AND THAT WAS ONLY THE FIRST 10 MIN OF THE EPISODE WTF

I’VE BEEN REDUCED TO A SNIFFLING WEEPING MESS IN 10MIN FLAT WTF

yunmeng bro moment ends (thank god) and we cut to the next scene where nhs is oh so conveniently regaining consciousness

now all the diggers are screaming to remind us that oh yeah, there's like Plot Stuff here, it's not just about the yunmeng bros

ss gives jgy some meds bc he's hurt or smth, who gives a damn

our boys follow jgy back to the dig site for Plot Reasons

and SURPRISE!! we have nmj's no-longer-headless dead body!!

lwj and wwx look at each other like WTF??

oooooh boy, nhs gave jgy the dirtiest look

wwx is being Clever again and pointing out Plot Relevant Things

ss gets all offended and holds wwx at sword point

but there's lwj with bichen in its scabbard, one step in front of him and ready to block anything ss sends their way bc lwj is not gonna let wwx get hurt if he can help it

ss is all like wwx you set him up! And wwx’s face is like, i aint even bovvered

wwx: i'm saying this with all modesty, but if i were the one who set him up, i'm afraid he wouldn't have just gotten one arm hurt

HOT DAMN

LOVE MY SUNSHINE BOY

and here my sunshine boy is being all Clever again and laying out all the facts and explaining how there's a 3rd party involved in all this

LOLOLOL HE'S REALLY PLAYING THIS UP FOR JGY TOO

he's like, there might be a predator behind you, the guy who's been spying on you this whole time...HE MIGHT NOT EVEN BE HUMAN

oh wwx, so Dramatic™

but hey it's working bc jgy looks spooked as hell

LOLOLOL

HE SEES JGY START FREAKING OUT AND HE LOOKS OVER TO LWJ AND GRINS AT HIM LIKE, HEY LAN ZHAN, SEE WHAT I DID, LOL, I SCARED THE SHIT OUT OF THIS LOSER, DID YOU SEE?

oh, now wwx and jc are bound by the wrists but not lwj, for some reason?

Which, rude, why deny lwj the chance to be tied up? Let him try new experiences! What if he likes to be tied up?

NOW HE’LL NEVER KNOW BC YOU DIDN’T LET HIM TRY IT

jgy and ss have a moment that i don't care about but i have to mention it

bc RIGHT AFTER we see our precious beautiful sunshine boy lean WAY into lwj's space to talk shit about them

like, seriously, just a couple inches more, and wwx would be resting his cheek on lwj's shoulder

IT'S WONDERFUL AND I WISH HE'D GET EVEN CLOSER

shockingly, lwj is NOT as distracted as i would be having wwx that close

bc he's studying ss and SUDDENLY SEES HE'S GOT THE HUNDRED-HOLES CURSE ON HIM

which btw, EWW?? THAT'S THE GROSSEST THING EVER

I REALLY WISH THEY'D STOP SHOWING IT SO MUCH BC IT MAKES MY SKIN CRAWL

he tells ss to turn around to get a better look and wwx sees it too!! he's like, IT WAS YOU!!!

and for the audience's benefit, nhs goes to lxc and is all what's going on???

lxc and jc gives some exposition about blah blah blah stuff we know about already

amidst all this we keep getting shots of wwx looking stunned and hurt (but still oh-so-beautiful)

wwx: jgy, i didn't do anything against you back then. we were not even that familiar. you wanted to kill jzx. why did you push that on me?

HE LOOKS SO HURT AND ANGRY AND CONFUSED BC WHY DID IT HAVE TO BE HIM? WHY DID JGY HAVE TO USE HIM??

and lwj is watching wwx while he shouts this and god how can he stand watching his soulmate be hurt over and over and over again?? HOW DOES HE COPE?

jgy does a mini Rant of Evil Explanation and ss does a rant about classism

which, if said by literally anybody else, i'd say hm, yes, you have a point

but bc it's said by ss, a spineless coward who never takes responsibility for his own actions, i'm like STFU SS

omg lolololol

ss: would i have been swept out of lan clan like a pile of leaves [if I were highborn]??

AND ICE PRINCE LWJ ANSWERS ALMOST BEFORE SS COULD FINISH ASKING

lwj: Yes.

AND THEN HE LOOKS SS DEAD IN THE EYE

lwj: betrayers won't be tolerated by the lan clan

HELL FUCKING YEAH

YOU WEREN'T KICKED OUT BC YOU WERE LOW-BORN, SS

YOU WERE KICKED OUT BC YOU'RE A TRAITOROUS COWARD

and like, i need to point out that lwj is sitting cross legged on the ground right now (along with wwx, ofc) and ss is standing over him while ranting

and YET, the way lwj holds himself and the way he speaks, does in no way indicate that he's at a disadvantage here

dude's unflappable. JADE OF LAN, INDEED

ss is like i am so sick of your condescending attitude

then he's like just bc i made that one little mistake you could never forgive me!!

FUCKING EXCUSE ME???

LITTLE? LITTLE MISTAKE???

HOW MANY PEOPLE DIED BC OF YOU SS?

HOW MANY DIED BC YOU BETRAYED THEM??

ss continues to rant and starts to go off his rocker

and then wwx starts to laugh but it's not a happy laugh

it is, in fact, a laugh very similar to the laugh we heard in The One where the Moonlit Rooftop Betrays Us

ss is like, what's so funny???

wwx: nothing. i just didn't expect...

AND HE'S GETTING TEARY HERE EVEN AS HE LAUGHS

WWX: i didn't expect you to get so many people killed just for...just for this

HE LOOKS SO DISILLUSIONED

MY POOR PRECIOUS SUNSHINE BOY

THE WORLD KEEPS DISAPPOINTING HIM

omg i want to RING JGY'S NECK WITH ZIDIAN

HE'S GETTING ALL UP IN WWX'S FACE

TELLING HIM THAT NO MATTER HOW KIND OR CHIVALROUS HE IS, HE WILL ALWAYS BE BLAMED FOR ANY BAD THING THAT HAPPENS, THAT NO ONE WILL EVER BELIEVE OR TRUST HIM

FUCK YOU JGY I HATE YOU SO MUCH

MY POOR SUNSHINE BOY IS TREMBLING WITH RAGE

bc he knows it's true. ppl really ARE always going to suspect the yiling patriarch.

oooh, jc just defended his brother! sort of.

But it has the unfortunate side effect of drawing jgy’s attention

so now jgy is cutting into jc

god jgy talks a lot. stfu jgy.

wwx has been teary eyed on and off this entire episode so far but hasn't actually cried

but jgy is now belittling all of jc's work, all the effort he put in to rebuilding lotus pier, implying that he wouldn't have been able to do if not for wwx

and that's the breaking point, that's what makes wwx finally shed a tear.

lwj is watching wwx, as always, and sees wwx cry

he must feel utterly helpless

ooooh, MY CLEVER SUNSHINE BOY

EVEN AMIDST ALL THIS TERRIBLE EMOTIONAL PAIN, HE PICKED UP ON JGY'S TRIGGER WORD(S)

wwx: just a "son of a whore" made you talk so much

oooh jgy tries to leave but wwx stops him in his tracks by asking him how he killed nmj

and then he's like "aren't you afraid?"

CHILLS, MAN, I'M GETTING CHILLS AT HOW HE DELIVERS THIS

SO CALM, COOL AND COLLECTED YET TINGED WITH A THREAT

jgy: afraid of what? (lol he whirls around angrily like the Drama queen he is)

wwx leans forward and looks him dead in the eye

wwx: afraid of him coming back to you

AND THE SMIRK HE WEARS

THAT'S THE SMIRK OF THE YILING PATRIARCH

He smirks and leans back against the pillar, all easy and relaxed while jgy looks freaked the fuck out

and then

THEN

WWX STARTS TO WHISTLE

RESENTFUL ENERGY COMES IN TO STROKE AT JGY'S ARM ALL MENACINGLY

I'M GETTING CHILLS ALL OVER

THIS IS SUCH A BADASS MOVE ON WWX'S PART

and also, holy shit do i enjoy those close up shots of wwx's eyes and his beautiful beautiful lips

the sound team did a great job making those whistles sound super eerie, btw

i can't get over how cool and confident wwx looks here

he's not worried or bothered AT ALL, this is him doing what he does best

Wait, do i have a competency kink…?

LOL JGY JUST GOT BITCHSLAPPED BY RESENTFUL ENERGY, LOVE IT

wwx has stopped whistling now, which is unfortunate bc that means no more extreme close-ups on wwx's gorgeous features

jgy: yiling patriarch, you're worthy of your title, aren't you?

YOU’RE DAMN RIGHT HE IS!

Okay yeah, i guess i have a competency kink now, THANKS A LOT WWX

FUCKING SU SHE JUST TRIED STABBING WWX

LWJ TO THE RESCUE, HELL YEAH

OUR MAN HANGUANG JUN LEAPS TO HIS FEET AND NOT ONLY BLOCKS THE STRIKE

HE FREAKING SLICES SU SHE'S WEAK ASS SWORD IN TWO

THEN FOLLOWS UP WITH A SLICE AT SU SHE'S WRIST

I LOVE YOU HANGUANG JUN

Lwj calmly goes over to wwx and slices off the ropes that were keeping his wrists tied and does the same to jc

wwx goes up to jgy (who's held at sword point by lxc) and calmly takes his weapons

wwx: jgy, hand it over. it's not of much use in your hands.

with a deceivingly dainty clink, Plot Device 3 rolls out of jgy's sleeve and into his hand

then he lets it fall to the ground bc he's a petty bitch that way

we get to see wwx being all Smart Detective and revealing just how long jgy has been planning all this

jgy’s all like even between me and xy we could only create Plot Device 3 half as powerful as Plot Device 2

LOLOL THAT'S BC THE TWO OF YOU ARE WORTHLESS HACKS.

WWX HAS MORE SKILL AND TALENT IN HIS PINKY FINGER THAN THE BOTH OF YOU COMBINED

man there's a lot of Plot Exposition happening and lxc is having Feelings about it.

DON'T FUCKING LOWER YOUR SWORD LXC WHAT ARE YOU DOING

look lxc, i don't mean to sound cruel or heartless or whatever, but omg i do NOT CARE about your complicated Emotions right now

NOT WHEN IT'S GIVING JGY THE OPENING TO MANIPULATE AN ESCAPE

jgy is now being like "oh, i was wrong" and acting all pitiful and TOTALLY PLAYING LXC FOR A FOOL (AGAIN)

wwx: hey, jgy, can't we stop talking? let's just fight? can we just start killing each other?

LOLOLOLOLOL

HE TOTALLY SAW THAT JGY WAS MANIPULATING THE SITUATION AGAIN AND IS LIKE, NOPE, NOT DOING THAT AGAIN

LESS WORDS MORE SWORDS PLZ

LIKE, MY BOY IS JUST DONE. HE IS DONE WITH THIS. LET'S GET TO THE FIGHT NOW THX.

jgy ignores this and keeps talking to lxc AND OMG WWX'S FAAAAACE IS CRACKING ME UP

GOD WORDS ARE NOT GONNA DO IT JUSTICE

HE JUST LOOKS AT JGY FOR A SECOND LIKE, SRSLY BRO? BEFORE ROLLING HIS EYES AND SCRUNCHING UP HIS EYEBROWS LIKE "CAN YOU FUCKING BELIEVE THIS GUY, JFC"

IT'S SO FREAKING FUNNY OMG

meanwhile jgy continues to throw a pity party that no one likes and the episode ends

There really wasn’t much wangxian time in this episode, fucking jgy and ss decided to HOG ALL THE SCREEN TIME, THOSE PATHETIC WHINY ASSHOLES

but we got a lot of Yungmeng Bros which was painful but waaaay better than anything jgy or ss has to offer

Return to Masterpost

#WangXiantics #wangxian #the untamed #cql

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shipmistress9 · 4 years

Text

FTLOAP: Chapter 48,5: Interlude 6: Traitors

For The Love Of A Princess Masterpost

Alpha/Co-author: @athingofvikings

Taglist: @drchee5e @hey-its-laura-again @thepixiedustfactory (If you want me to add you to this list, just let me know. ^^)

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If you want to support me you can buy me a coffee. I love coffee 😊 (Ko-Fi)

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AN: As promised, here’s an interlude, and a slightly quicker update, too. It’s a tough one but also one I’ve been waiting for for a long time now. It will shed some light onto a character… that’s been simultaneously over- and under-estimated so far. And I’m incredibly curious for how you’re all going to react.

Also, this chapter comes entirely unbetaed. I’m sorry if there are more mistakes than usual. ^^“

***Shoutouts***

Again, thank you all for your lovely comments! They mean the world to me, especially now where the fandom seems to shrink with every week and the responses overall become fewer and fewer. To everyone who still comments, you are my heroes! ^^

. o O o .

With his eyes on the immaculately-kept garden outside, Thuggory stood at the large window in his study, with a disdainful look on his face. “So, tell me,” he sneered in his usual bored tone and without turning around. “Did anything worth mentioning happen today?”

Behind him, the servant nervously shuffled from one foot to the other. ��No, your Grace. It was just the same as yesterday. The fighting grounds were filled with men practising their skills, but aside from one slight injury and a few cuts, nothing happened.”

“Idiots, all of them…” Thuggory huffed under his breath. For two days now, all these stupid men were preparing for the King’s ridiculous Dragon Hunt. As if that was anything but a complete waste of time. “Who got injured?” Maybe he was lucky. Maybe it had hit the right man again.

“Erm…” The servant took a moment to think. “Nobody important, I think. It was a man named Gregor, the firstborn son of the Baron of Greenbridge. But it was just a shallow flesh wound on his shoulder, nothing fatal.”

Grunting, Thuggory nodded. For a moment, he’d hoped that Eret had conveniently taken himself out of the game after all. But of course, he wasn’t that lucky. Besides, he surely would have heard about that already.

“So what did the ducal heirs do?”

“Sir Snotloud is still indisposed. Rumours have it that he won’t participate in the Hunt at all.” Thuggory nodded for his servant to speak on. The Westhill boy wasn’t of much interest to him anyway. “The Sirs Dagur and Eret were again practising in the fighting grounds, but just like yesterday, they were going at it lightly. It is assumed that they will only participate in the Hunt for show and all their training now is just so Sir Eret can regain his strength after the attack. Some even jokingly commented that his squire was working out harder than his master.”

Thuggory snorted but didn’t comment. Of course, the highborn heirs wouldn’t get their hands dirty and crawl through the forest for this pointless Hunt. Why would they? They had no use for a measly county somewhere far off their hometown. The same was true for Thuggory, of course, but in opposition to them, he at least had the decency to not even pretend that he would take part in this Hunt.

Although, they probably had no choice in the matter, he mused, grimacing. They held no power of their own, after all, always had to do what their fathers wanted. They had to participate in the King’s charade, if only to give it more significance.

Besides, if the latest rumours were true then the two Sirs were going to use this time away from the public eye in other ways anyway. Just thinking about that brought an angry sneer to Thuggory’s face. If that horse-loving fool really preferred men over women, then he deserved her even less.

Not that Eret should have any right to her in the first place…

“Was the Princess there, too?” he asked through gritted teeth. He already knew the answer, but he had to ask.

“Yes, your Grace. She arrived shortly before noon, joined the ducal heirs for lunch, and then stayed for a couple of hours to watch her betro– uhm… I mean, her soon-to-be betroth–”

Growling angrily, Thuggory whirled around, interrupting the man.

“She’s mine!”

With one furious motion, he wiped a sideboard nearby clear off everything, a carafe of wine and some glasses lading on the ground. They shattered with loud clangour, shards scattering everywhere and wine seeping into the carpet.

The servant winced but didn’t move. “Y-your Grace?”

But Thuggory didn’t reply. He just stared at his fist, anger making it tremble. Astrid was supposed to be his, always had been! Thuggory had known that since the day she was born, drummed into his head by his otherwise useless father. Sure, rumours had it that the King had made arrangements for her to marry one of the ducal heirs. But the grand dukedoms already were close allies of the crown, where was the point in handing the crown’s most valuable possession over to one of them? No, the only logical, only sensible, only possible option was to give her to him, to a powerful rival to buy his support.

Oh, yes, Astrid had been his since her very first breath. But she and everyone else refused to acknowledge that. All she’d ever done was mock him, during their youth and now as well. But, oh, she would learn her place! As soon as she was his wife and he could finally teach her some manners, she would never forget it again.

Thuggory took a deep breath to calm down again, just as the door opened and another servant poked their head in. They hesitated, probably taking in the mess on the ground, but were smart enough not to comment.

“Your Grace? Your… erm… your guest arrived. Where should I lead her?”

He smirked. Now, wasn’t that perfect timing? “Send her into the garden,” he ordered. “And clean the floor again in the meantime.”

He didn’t wait for an answer, instead turned on the spot and walked outside. It was an unusually warm night for this time of year; maybe he would just stay here after his guest was gone. Although, it surely would rain later that night, judging by the clouds and humidity.

“Good evening, my Lord,” came a pleasant and familiar voice from the darkness behind him.

One side of his mouth tipped up into a lazy smirk. “Come here.”

The woman obeyed, came closer and bowed deeply before him. She was an Ástir, the same one he asked for every time. She was not from the main Temple that Fyrir Mala supervised but from one of the smaller district temples at the edge of the city. It was a temple that was specialised in a certain… taste. Thuggory wasn’t allowed to hurt her for real and if she put a stop to his actions, he had to abide immediately. Sometimes, like today, he loathed these rules, but he had to stick to them nonetheless. For now…

The Ástir not coming from the main temple also meant that she didn’t officially play a specific role. But she knew what he expected of her and had prepared herself according to his usual requests. She had some braids woven into her blond hair, and with her slim frame and grey-blue eyes, she was sufficient enough. His imagination could fill in the rest.

“Undress for me,” he ordered, and watched transfixed as she slowly slid off her elegant blue dress. He never looked at her face; that would have ruined the illusion. Instead, his eyes clung to every bit of bare skin she revealed, her shoulders, her breasts, her shapely backside, and he wondered whether Astrid’s curves would be equally appealing once she was his.

What followed was the same fantasy he always acted out when he summoned this Ástir. He made her kneel between his legs and worship his cock until it was hard and leaking. Then he grabbed her head and pushed her down. Tonight, he particularly enjoyed making her choke. The way her body seized, the lovely sounds she made, and the sporadic tears his actions inadvertently drew from her eyes – it all helped to curb and calm his anger. He wanted to come across her face, but that would only remind him that she wasn’t really Astrid. Instead, he made her swallow him down, her face hidden against his abdomen. After that, it was his turn to give her some attention. He made her get down on all four and slap her backside until it was glowing and his hand stung. Then he knelt behind her, fucked into her with his fist in her hair to keep her in place, and pumped her full of his seed, groaning in satisfaction.

Oh, he couldn’t wait until he could do this to Astrid.

Until she was his!

The woman’s legs were wobbly when she got up and got dressed again. He liked to watch her as he enjoyed a fresh drink, liked to see his come slide down her legs and soil that pretty dress.

“Aren’t you tired of this game yet?”

The Ástir threw a curious look at the newcomer, but upon Thuggory’s gesture, she quickly left the two noblemen alone.

“Jake,” Thuggory greeted the other man with an unnerved sigh. “Can’t you wait until after my entertainment is over?”

Lord Jake of Blackshire laughed and lounged down into another chair on Thuggory’s ample terrasse. “Why? Isn’t it always the same anyway? Although, I understand your frustration. It doesn’t seem like your plan is working. Your precious princess is about to marry Sir Eret,” he sneered, “and after that first failed attempt, they won’t risk him getting killed again.”

“I know,” Thuggory growled. “But he promised I would get her as my bride if I fulfil my end of the bargain. And I have! The riots are spreading over the entire kingdom. Soon, the King will be too busy with an open civil war to care about any other threats.”

Jake snorted, audibly rolling his eyes. “Oh, the mysterious man in the shadows. Seriously, who is he that he can make such promises?”

“That’s none of your concern. You can’t betray information you don’t have; the less you know the better. All you need to know is your part.”

Jake leaned forward, his brows furrowed. “And I did my part,” he hissed. “Your old man is gone and you took his place.”

“And you got your promotion, didn’t you? Captain?”

Jake growled. “That was only half of the bargain. What about my father?”

Thuggory waved him off. “All in good time. And don’t you forget your place, son of a baron.”

He could hear how Jake gritted his teeth and swallowed his pride. “You’re right, Milord. Please forgive my impertinence.”

Nodding, Thuggory accepted the apology. Jake was one of his most loyal supporters, maybe even someone he would call a friend. He just had to make sure the man didn’t forget his place from time to time.

“Anyway. He said he would take over the Kingdom when the time is right. And that I can have her then.” He snorted. “Not that she’ll be of any political worth then anymore, that stuck-up bitch! She should be betrothed to me now! Seriously, what are they even thinking up there in the castle? It’s so obvious, their downfall will be their own fault!”

His hand tightened around his drink, the glass nearly breaking again. How could the King reject his marriage proposal for Astrid? As Duke of Meathead, he was one of the most powerful men in the entire Kingdom, with his Dukedom of not small influence and so close to the capitol. The King couldn’t afford to not have him as his ally! Oh yes, all the riots and problems in the Kingdom were the King’s own fault. If only he’d agreed to give his daughter’s hand to him, then the peace could have been maintained.

Oh, but she would pay for her father’s mistakes! With the Ástir, he was bound by law to abide by these boring rules. But once it was Astrid as his wife in his bed? Then nothing would keep him from using her like he longed to. Oh, he couldn’t wait to make her scream.

“If only that loser had managed to kill Eret during the tournament,” he grumbled, downing the rest of his drink. “Then they might come to their senses after all.”

Jake chuckled. “Were you able to find out why he tried that attempt by now? Do you know who instructed him or whether his family got an unexpected payment? Or did he really just do that on his own?”

“I don’t know.” Thuggory shook his head. “Him doing that just on his own makes little sense, but I wasn’t able to find any connections, no-one who could have ordered him to try that attempt. Were you more successful in finding out anything about that rumour about Eret and Dagur?”

Jake leaned back in his seat and grimaced. “No, I wasn’t. I couldn’t find out who started it; in fact, it seems like it started at more than one place at once. Some leads point toward the servants’ market, others to a tavern that’s popular with soldiers, and some even hint that they started at some tea party one of the higher noble ladies held. So, whoever really is behind it, they are good. And as for whether the rumour is true… Well, there’s no proof, obviously. But either way, the princess doesn’t seem to care whether her future husband prefers playing the flute over the violin.” He accompanied his words by outlining a distinct curvy form into the air.

Thuggory snorted. “Too bad. But then she wouldn’t even have a clue about what it means. It was a long shot anyway.”

“I could try to get proof,” Jake offered. “Officially, Eret and Dagur are participating in the Hunt, but that’s just a front, obviously. What would they need that county for? So, if these rumours are true, then they will spend the days in some inn and fuck each other senseless. And if some of my men accidentally storm the room when they hear screaming…” He grinned menacingly.

Thuggory laughed, once. He knew why he kept Jake around. But then he shook his head. “Tempting. But he ordered me to keep my hands off the ducal heirs. He must have plans for them, though he wouldn’t tell me what they are.”

Jake snickered. “So his high and mighty Grace, the Duke of Meathead, doesn’t know everything, either?”

“Oh, shut up,” Thuggory muttered. “I might not know everything – for the same reasons that I won’t tell you more too – but I still know enough. I know that this summer is going to see a lot of changes and that for the next Midwinter Nights, the Gods will witness another kind of sacrifice .”

“Let me guess. Will it be a more… royal sacrifice? Oh, I’d love to see the Prince bleed out. He overlooked me a few too many time and–”

“Quiet!”

Thuggory’s voice was sharp, silencing Jake in an instant. He held up a hand to keep him from asking any questions, as his eyes focused on a bit of shrubbery in his garden. It had moved just now, and he could swear that there’d been a noise, too. Something of a gasp.

He gave Jake a sign who nodded and they both stood up.

“Yes, it really was a shame how you’ve been ignored for all this time,” Thuggory lamented. He walked around and rummaged about with a new drink, covering up any noises Jake might make. “And all that just because you misbehaved a few times here and there. It really wasn’t your fault that this tavern got destroyed now, was it?”

It happened with a swiftness and accuracy Thuggory couldn’t help but silently salute. Within only seconds, Jake had reached into the shrubbery and dragged out the cretin who’d dared to spy on them. “Ha! Got him!”

“Very good,” Thuggory sneered as he came closer. “The Prince was indeed a fool to disregard your talents.”

Jake grinned.

“But now, who do we have here…” Thuggory let his eyes roam over the young man. In the dim light of the night, he wasn’t able to see much, only an untidy mob of dark hair, clothes too simple for a nobleman, and a face that seemed vaguely familiar. “I know you, don’t I?”

The man pressed his lips together and glared at him in a useless attempt to look threatening, despite the knife at his throat. It was almost cute. No, this was no man; calling him a boy was more fitting.

“You certainly have,” Jake snorted. “He’s a squire of one of our beloved ducal heirs.”

A dark grin spread over Thuggory’s face. “Oh right. Now, what are you doing in my private garden? You wouldn’t be here to spy on me, would you?”

The boy was trembling now. Though Thuggory couldn’t blame him; Jake was pressing his knife against the skin at his throat now so he wouldn’t get any ideas and yell for help. Everyone with at least a little bit of sense would be scared.

“I-I heard what you said about Prince Daniel,” he squeaked, terror in his thin voice. “But you won’t get away with that! Not now that I know about what you’re up to! I’ll go straight to the King and…”

Thuggory gave a bored sigh and nodded at Jake who hurled the boy around back into the shrubbery. A moment later, the gurgling sound of a cut throat could be heard, then a body slumping to the ground.

“I know it’s too late now,” Jake commented casually as he wiped off his blade in the grass. The coming rain would wash away all traces of blood. “But I thought you were supposed to keep your hands away from the ducal heirs.”

“The heirs, yes. Nobody ever said anything about their squires.”

Jake snorted but otherwise didn’t seem to be concerned in the slightest. “So, what shall we do with him?” he instead asked, nodding at the shrubbery.

“Just get rid of the body, I don’t have any use for it. Although…” Thuggory paused, then stepped to where the dead boy lay. He kneeled down and after a quick inspection took a heavy ring off the boy’s finger, a decorated knife from his belt, and a handful of coins from his pocket. The fact that he’d had these things in the first place revealed his simple clothes to only be a charade. “Make sure the body won’t get found right away, but also don’t make it too complicated. Let it look like someone was running out of time.”

Jake nodded, a cruel smile spreading across his face. “I know just what to do. And what’s this for?” He gestured at the boy’s belongings in Thuggory’s hand.

“Oh, this.” Now, it was Thuggory’s turn to smile cruelly. “I’ll use these things to cause a little chaos. I might not be allowed to harm Eret directly, but that doesn’t mean I can’t have a little fun.“

. o O o .

AN: So…Thuggory really is an asshole! Abusive, violent, deluded, and just Evil.

But! He didn’t plan the attack on Eret and neither did he spread the rumour about Eret and Dagur. In fact… he’s not that much of an evil mastermind at all…

So… where does that leave us?

…

On a side note. Many of you guessed that Daniel would die in this chapter or that it would be revealed that he’d died some while ago already. And I just want to say… I don’t consider Daniel to be a minor character at all.

And last but not least: There’s a phrase I used in this interlude that I’m very fond of… but that sadly isn’t my own creation. It’s the part about "him preferring to play the flute over the violin.” I can’t say for sure where it comes from, but I know that I read it in the “Die Legende von Askir” series by Richard Schwarz.

* - . - * - . o O o . - * - . - *

If you want to support me you can buy me a coffee. I love coffee 😊 (Ko-Fi)

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Next chapter

#FTLOAP #For The Love Of A Princess #Hiccstrid #fanfiction #httyd #Hiccstrid Medieval AU #medieval au #royalty au #hiccstrid royal au #Minor Character Death #tw: abuse mentioned

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crapitskizaru · 5 years

Text

Kidbad™️ x Reader (Sinbad!Eustass Kid)

I thinks after many glorious kidbad edits we need a scenario with his s/o from the movie 😂.Maybe the part when the island comes to life when they stoped to repair and arguining I can see them doing that.

Warning: dumbass kiddo cuz this is how im trying to comfort myself after dino disaster™️

Word Count: 1,6k

He caressed the ship’s side with affection, as if he was sharing an intimate moment with his lover.

“How did one person do so much damage?” he muttered more to himself than to the dog but Spike responded anyway, wiggling his tail enthusiastically.

“You like them, don’t you?” Kid couldn’t help but pat the dog’s back. “You damn traitor.”

The island they temporarily stopped at seemed promising - at least from afar. They determined there should be enough wood to repair the damages; even though Kid knew the ship would have been fine without any renovations, his eyes hurt whenever they landed on broken pieces of once-impressive and, far more important, expensive mahogany carvings lying around the deck.

“All right, listen up. We’re here for ten minutes,” Killer announced. “You get lost, you get left.”

With a deep sigh, the captain gathered himself from the floor. His crew was already leaving the ship, mostly to feel a steady ground beneath their feet. Repairing their captain’s beloved ship was one of the lowest points on their list of priorities, but Kid couldn’t complain - as long as they brought the essential materials.

“So I’m going to need a full set of chisels, the jack plane, and about a cord of cut wood.”

“You heard the captain. Find some logs and be quick about it.” Killer grabbed a bucket and started getting off the ship himself. He wanted to add some comforting words at the sight of Kid’s pained expression when the man discovered yet another scratch on the ship’s side.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake!” Your voice made Kid flinch halfway through patting the damaged railing. “You only need a little tree sap, and she’ll be as good as new.”

“When I want your advice, I’ll-” he stopped abruptly when you jumped onto the island’s ground, ignoring his words, a bucket in hand. “Hey, hey, hey! Where do you think you’re going?”

Kid tried to suppress the incoming wave of anger when all of the response he got from you was silence - and your back turned to him.

“Well, fine. At least take someone with y-”

Words got stuck in his throat and got smothered away as soon as he spotted the rest of his crew surrounding you, stupid grins plastered on their faces.

“Why, thank you,” you chimed, putting on a little act just to see the hateful expression of your captain’s. “How nice to see some men haven’t forgotten a little common courtesy.”

Killer was about to leave the ship but he stopped at the sound of someone gritting their teeth.

“Common courtesy,” Kid muttered. “Not so fast, Killer.”

“But you know they’re right. The tree sap would be perfect for-”

“Just. Stay with the ship.”

Kid didn’t like the suppressed sigh of his first mate - this kind of sigh a parent lets out when their child keeps whining to get a new toy. Kid didn’t like the island either; the sun was shining just too brightly, the trunks of trees too thin to make use of, the ground far too dry.

And them. Still accompanied by Kid’s dumb mates, they wandered around with that annoying, innocent expression on their face. Kid struggled to keep up on the steep hill of the island.

“I already said ‘thank you’!” he yelled after the group. “That’s what this is all about, isn’t it?”

“It’s about repairing the ship.” You approached the first tree you could lay your eyes on. “If I break something, I fix it. Um, knife, please.”

“Oh, yeah, like I’d give you a weapon?”

Never before had Kid felt so betrayed by his crew than at that moment. The knives they always spent so much time on sharpening were now eagerly offered up to literally the worst person that ever walked on the planet.

“Thank you, Heat,” you smirked flirtatiously and grabbed his knife. It took a lot of effort, but eventually you managed to cut through the tree’s bark and catch the flowing stream of its sap into the bucket.

“You know, you really need to be more courteous, captain. He, he.” Heat didn’t get a chance to react when his captain’s fist landed directly on his face, sending him backward.

“Oh, great,” Kid murmured. “Now I’m getting etiquette lessons from a fried bilge rat.”

“Well, they did save the ship, captain.”

“Why, thank you, Wire.”

“And now they’re helping to fix it!”

“Very handy, I say. And brave-”

“This...disaster of a person wouldn’t know how to fix a broken fingernail!” Kid snarled, waves of heat circulating through his chest. They already destroyed his ship, stole his crew, even his dog, with their stupid remarks and bravery. And charms. And their quick wits. And-

“Honestly, you’re the most boorish, pig-headed man I’ve ever met,” they complained, piercing him with a glare.

“Oi, kitten. I’ve seen the highborn boys your type hangs out with...and I’m the only man you’ve ever met.”

By the shocked gasps his crew must have faked, Kid figured he may have gone too far - his worries evaporating in a speed of light as soon as a bucket hit the back of his head, cold, slimy liquid running down his spine.

He turned around with a smirk. Did they really want to start a fight with him?

“Oh, no. No, no-” You had to stop and close your mouth so that you wouldn’t swallow a missile of stinky mud which hit your face with surprising strength, making you stumble.

He was unbearable. He was awful. He was just the worst.

“You...you...” You searched for an accurate adjective while wiping the mud off of your face. “Egoistical...”

“You spoiled...”

“-disrespectful,” A particular, and also quite unfortunate, lobster crawling around seemed just right to be used as a projectile so you picked it up. “Pretentious, pompous-”

“Deluded!” Kid shook his goggles to get rid of the tree sap inside of them. “High and mighty...”

But you were already too pumped up to care about anything he wanted to say, now throwing every little, or not so little, thing that had been unlucky to lay within close proximity. “-self-centered, untrustworthy, ungrateful, impossible, insufferable...”

“At least I’m not repressed!” Kid yelled, finally stopping your rant.

“Repressed?” The question ended up being gritted through your teeth. “I’ll show you repressed!”

You snatched a plank from the ground - it must have been attached to a root, but the boiling anger in your gut gave you a surge of strength as you lifted it up and was about to poetically slap your captain across the face and knock away that stupid expression.

But before you made your new dream come true, the ground shivered underneath your feet.

“What the...?”

All the trees and bushes suddenly disappeared, as if sucked into the island. You were blinded by a sudden light and a lantern, a huge ball of white, moved towards your group.

“Put it back,” Kid ordered, separating the words, and for once - you listened.

If the island turned out to be an enormous sea creature...Your chances of making it back to the ship were dropping with each second.

The ground moved again, revealing an eyeball the size of a swimming pool; and it was staring straight at you.

“Ew!” you couldn’t help but flinch.

“Ew!” Heat grimaced as he lost his balance and fell right onto the eye, landing on a slimy substance. “Ew!” he exclaimed once again when Spike started to lick the mucus with awful enthusiasm.

“Run!” Kid’s roar snapped you out of the paralysis as all of your crewmates - including you - suddenly discovered their hidden talent in sprinting with the speed of light. “It’s a fucking fish! Killer!”

You were far too scared to care about Kid practically shouting into your ear, your legs seemingly lifting you off the ground and into the air, gusts of wind blowing around your whole frame.

Kid noticed the gap between the fish’s flipper and its body before you did. “Jump!”

And so you jumped, not paying attention to how wide the gap was - for all you cared, it could be the size of the Grand Canyon and you would have still taken a leap - what mattered was getting to the ship in one piece and sailing away.

You lost your balance on the other side, stumbling forward and into the arms of the most annoying man on Earth. But he did soften your landing, so you sent him a thankful smile.

He was about to say something but you were soon whooshed away by the rest of the crew making it through the precipice, all of you sliding down the fish’s side - you were blinded by speed, tearing up, the rush of air knocking the breath out of your lungs.

With the corner of your eye, you noticed Killer guiding the ship in your direction.

Thank you, God, for Killer, you managed to think before you were once again launched into the air.

You were already starting to worry about getting your face smashed into the wooden deck before a pair of arms caught you, and you found yourself in the embrace of the worst captain the world had ever seen. But you wouldn’t ever swap him for any other captain, no way.

Landing on two feet beside Killer, you and Kid watched in awe as the giant fish moved from its previous spot, preparing to swim away and sending a whole wave of salty ocean water into the deck of the ship.

As the fish submerged, only the creaking of the railing and the annoyed groans of the crew disturbed the silence.

“I don’t know about you,” Kid panted slightly, taunting you with a raised eyebrow. “But I ain’t ever doing this shit again.”

#eustass kid #kidbad #one piece #xoxobb #one piece scenario #eustass kid x reader #one piece imagines #one piece imagine #op imagine #op imagines #killer #heat #wire

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exalok · 5 years

Note

Psst hey hey if you take kisses prompts, 48 for corvodaud?

(friend, this monster got way out of hand. have 7000 words of two dudes who’re really bad at this kissing a lotwarnings: canon-typical violence, injuries, not-quite-nsfw, and heaps of miscommunication)

—

The first time Corvo came within reach of the assassin—in Rudshore, exhaustion and the after-effects of poison cutting him at the knees, the world swinging whenever he made a movement too sharp for his aching eyes to follow—he thought everything must have tilted again, the floor slanting under his feet, for the back of the Knife’s head to be level with his nose. A stumble nearly cost him the upper hand.

The second time, there had been no urgency: only him again, waiting on the Tower rooftop. He turned when Corvo came through the door—almost expectant, as though they had agreed to meet here under silver and black. In the dark, backlit by the moon, he looked once more the hulking danger, as large as Corvo had thought he remembered through Coldridge and three more cold months.

He didn’t straighten. Hunched, eyeing Corvo’s approach. The square block of his shoulders only just crested Corvo’s sternum.

A silence grew, measured, swelling with the quiet of a city on the edge.

“Weren’t you leaving?” Corvo asked—like he had forgotten the blood on those hands, like he wasn’t going to dream of that scar and that coat whenever he next fell asleep.

A twitch, a flicker of the eyes: the Knife caught unawares. He hadn’t been expecting this.

“She’s sleeping just below,” he said, redirecting, and for a moment Corvo wondered that he would choose her to focus on, rather than what bad blood already rested between them. “Your Empress,” he added, as though anyone else could matter.

He was right. A distance below the parapet, her window stood dark and shuttered.

“She is,” Corvo answered, and knew that Daud, in his peripheral vision, was watching his hands fail to go for his sword. “I’ll go down to her when the nightmares come.”

“I might be here for her.”

“You aren’t.”

“I might— I might have a contract for her head,” he said, and faltered—not as though the idea was repulsive, no, Corvo remembered the stories people had told about the Knife and knew that at least half of them were true, but because there was a wall of certainty in that answer he hadn’t expected to run straight into.

Corvo looked him in the eye.

“You don’t.”

This time, he drew himself up: stiff, nearly stone-carved. His eyes were pale.

Below the concealing thickness of his coat, Corvo let himself relax. He really was nothing like the horror in his dreams.

“It’s no mercy, you said.” The rest of him was a little easier to see, now, picked out in dim lines instead of hidden in his own overhanging shadow. One of his sleeves hung empty, the arm tucked against his side where Corvo had run him through.

“Nor forgiveness,” Corvo added, his own words still sharp in his mind.

Daud made some low acknowledgement. “Then why?”

He was too tired, even now—now most of all, perhaps, too tired for too long to be angry at a man left alive and demanding explanations, and what did he deserve to know?—but instead of fury a distasteful wash of pity rose in the cavern of his chest.

“You were all tools, more or less. Campbell, the Pendletons, the Lady Boyle—Burrows used them.” Corvo shrugged. “But you were furthest from the crown. You had no stake.”

“My stake was coin.” The words were harsh, spat between them like broken teeth. “Some would call that worse.”

“You were one of many knives he could have used to cut her down.”

“You ruined them,” the assassin snarled, jerking forward, and instead of attacking Corvo pushed him back with a hand in the center of his chest. “But you do nothing to me?”

He was no longer pushing; Corvo let his arm drop.

“You were the knife in his hand.” Daud sneered, and turned away. “But I heard what you said, when you thought no one was listening. I saw the dead in Rudshore.” His shoulders came up like he might curl in on himself, become shadow and dust and vanish into the Void. “You wanted to be something else, by the end.” You were already a ruined man.

“What end?” he growled. “Here I am at the top of your tower and you still haven’t killed me.”

“I don’t need to.”

“What if I tell you I lied? That I’m not leaving. Killing is my trade and I made myself a name here. Why should I leave any of it behind?”

“You can’t lie to me, Daud,” Corvo said, steady, eyes unerring.

The Knife stared at him in silence. In the inside pocket of Corvo’s coat, the Heart beat twice, a cold pressure against his ribs.

A month later, Corvo would wake to the stirring of the guards, and find the escaped perpetrator of a bomb attack on a Watch outpost, left hamstrung on the Tower steps, alive.

Rooftops, and black nights. There hadn’t been sign of him for weeks, and for the last few days Corvo had wondered whether he had finally allowed himself to leave—whether by boat, or by the Void—but as he moved to shove aside the rest of his never-dwindling paperwork Jessamine’s whisper rose from his breast pocket.

He is still full of sharp things. Her voice had been fading, lately. He could barely hear her now. Though he no longer wears a blade.

The assassin was crouched in the darkest corner he could find, staring through the high wall of the throne room. Construction had started on the secret space behind what had become Emily’s bedroom; high up, at the top of the Tower, she felt a little safer. She was sleeping there now.

Daud turned to face him.

“You have a leak,” he said, without reserve. “I don’t trust your staff. Wouldn’t have come here otherwise.” His eyes caught on the heavy box under Corvo’s arm, then rose to his face again.

“I hear the Whalers are still at it,” Corvo returned, devoid of accusation.

Daud’s gaze flicked away, his lip ticking up. “They’re under new management.”

“The Overseers were disappointed to find the music no longer worked on them.”

He looked worn, even with the dark blurring the worst of it out: bruising under his eyes, a heaviness to his movements. Too much of the muddled anger and concern he felt at the news showed on his face.

“They’ve been asked to leave the gangs to the Watch,” Corvo added, and let himself smirk at Daud’s suspicious glance, “Since the rumors of heresy no longer seem to hold.”

“Doubt they appreciated it.”

“No.” Corvo set the box down. “What did you come to tell me?”

The assassin, still crouched, dug around the inside of his coat and drew out a thin sheaf of papers. Corvo couldn’t see the handwriting, but imagined it was the same spidery kind he’d found inexplicably mixed with the Watch reports for months now. “Speaking of heresy.” Then, he heaved himself up with a grunt, knees cracking, but didn’t stop for longer than a shake of his leg before he held the notes out. “Talk of moving against the Academy, now the papers are spreading word of your pet scientists being close to the cure. Some kind of cult. They think the plague is a curse from the Void and should run its course, wipe out Dunwall and its corruption.” He grimaced. “Still haven’t found a base of operations.”

Corvo tucked the package away, and before Daud could vanish off into the night he slid the box forward with a shove of his foot.

A questioning look, shot at an angle like a dog still uncertain the hand meant to touch or to strike. “What’s this?”

“Gold and silver,” Corvo answered. “Consider it backpay for your work.”

For a moment he didn’t move—then he jerked back, the words hitting, teeth bared.

“I don’t want it,” he gritted out, moving to kick the box back, but Corvo was already there, blocking it with his boot, hardly an arm’s length left between them.

“You’ll take it.” Daud had drawn himself up, teeth no longer glinting but his jaw and neck a tense series of lines, half retreating, half threatening a charge. “Pay your Whalers with it. Gathering information, courier missions—better that than petty highborn squabbles.”

“They’re no longer mine,” he rasped, eyes flicking away and back like he might see them, all the way across the city.

Corvo huffed.

“Take the money, Daud.”

They did not speak of trust—what trust could be found here, when recent history had seen betrayal rip this place apart?— but Daud delivered him the city’s secrets and Corvo followed up, chasing down leads, still the Empress’s hound though he now had a pack of spies and guards at his back. Daud didn’t show his face again, relaying information through hard-faced messengers or the trussed-up suspects he still sometimes left in the courtyard—

Not until winter came again, tearing winds and sleeting rain, and he opened Corvo’s office window and climbed in, the ends of his coat dripping grimy water. When his feet touched the ground and he turned, the hair plastered to his face not enough to hide the scar, Corvo’s hand moved away from the gun.

It was trouble in Slaughterhouse Row: protestors turned saboteurs, moving earlier than planned. Charges in one of the factories.

“They’ll be delayed back to the old schedule, maybe later,” Daud said. The puddle at his feet was beginning to grow; Corvo motioned him to the bench, but he only stepped away from the darkening edge of the carpet. “I disarmed most of the charges.”

“Good work.”

A twitch in his cheek, like he’d been about to grimace. “One of them went off.”

His breaths were too shallow. Corvo finally picked up on the rougher edge to his voice.

“You need a medic?” he asked, and Daud’s mouth tightened.

“I know one.” His eyes darted around the office. “… Here was closer. Think I left some shrapnel in.”

From the slaughterhouses to Dunwall Tower was far enough; if there was metal in him, it had already had the time it needed to shred him from the inside. Once he was sat in the desk chair, the lamp pulled close, he took off his dripping coat. Underneath, the whole of his left side was torn, the shirt black with blood.

Hesitation as his fingers hovered over the handle of a narrow knife. His eyes were strange, staring at Corvo’s work spread out over the desk. The room sinking in. The light. Corvo had closed the window and come back around.

Daud jerked at the hand that pressed into his shoulder, then settled, his back stiff.

“Do what you need to,” Corvo said.

For fifteen minutes Daud dug the shrapnel out of his side; blood welled, slow then quickening as he breathed, and fell in sheets down his side. His shirt, rolled and stuffed in his belt, bore the brunt of it. By the time he took up the needle, his hands had started shaking—the cold, the blood loss, the eyes on him—and Corvo handed him the elixir he’d taken from his desk drawer, wordless.

Neat stitches; five lines of them. Some of the blood had soaked through the shirt and onto the chair, dark trails down its legs to the floor.

“Dock it off my pay,” Daud grunted, pulling the coat back on, and the corner of Corvo’s mouth curled up despite itself. At the window, one foot on the sill, he hesitated; glanced at the unfinished letters on Corvo’s desk, and cast a dark look at the tall clock by the bookshelf. It was half past one in the morning. His eyes, when they came back to Corvo, were all strange again. “Thanks,” he said.

Then he was gone.

There were other days—evenings, rather, sometimes late nights—not all of them, not even most, ending in blood. Corvo wondered, in the hours where he couldn’t sleep, that an assassin at his window would evoke so little fear.

The visits became what could almost be called a habit. Ten pm sharp, a knock at his window. Corvo grew used to keeping it unlocked. Quiet, he watched Daud move from the sill to the floor, then out into the room, a little further every time, eyes wandering—though when Corvo crossed his gaze, he would always return to the window and stare out with all of his predator’s focus, as though impatient to be dismissed.

He came with excuses, of course—notes, intel, names—but as with the window he would also always glare at the clock and its hands inching forward, and eye the growing piles of paperwork across Corvo’s desk. (They were sorted into three: very urgent, urgent, and maybe later. He hadn’t touched the last one in weeks.)

A few months in, as Daud swung open the pane, Corvo stood, withdrew the bottle of Old Dunwall from his topmost desk drawer, and poured a finger. He held it out. Daud, a wary slant to his gaze, padded forward and took the glass.

“How’s the weather out there,” Corvo asked, and Daud huffed, the tilt of his eyebrows sardonic.

“Balmy,” he answered. The slick of frozen rain across his hair was only just beginning to melt. It hung from the tips of his hair in heavy drops, threatening the whiskey.

“You don’t drink?” Corvo poured another, this time for himself. The glass remained untouched in Daud’s hand.

Daud shrugged. “Not often,” he said, but took a sip. Corvo let his own mouthful sit on his tongue until the burn reached his nose, and swallowed; like a wave, warmth followed. He let a moment pass, the clock ticking quiet in the background. On the other side of the desk, Daud took another sip—looked down at his glass, the alcohol rolling—savored. It was good whiskey.

“Reporting in might be easier if you weren’t coming through the window,” Corvo said, and Daud glanced up to him sharp.

“I can go back to sending messengers.” The words were neutral. A suggestion.

“I meant that I have a door,” he answered, light, and Daud’s expression twisted into doubt.

“Your guards wouldn’t let a face like mine through.”

“They would if I told them to.” He drank again, but when he looked up the rest of his words stopped, curled in his tongue.

It wasn’t distrust, what overshadowed the man’s face, nor entirely anger; maybe something closer to disbelief. Daud’s gloves were pulled tight across his knuckles, his hand clenched around the glass. Corvo set his own on the edge of the desk.

“Don’t you know, by now,” he rasped, “Not to let in people who can hurt you?”

They had already had this conversation, Corvo thought, putting the bottle of Old Dunwall away, on a dark rooftop more than a year ago, and he didn’t particularly care to have it again. Daud watched him sift through the newest letters a minute, dividing them across the piles.

“How’s your Empress sleeping these days?” he asked, pointed. Corvo looked up and met the challenge in his eyes. His lips tightened. Unimpressed. It would be funny, how little threat and how much worry he could hear in those words, if the assassin didn’t know exactly where to stab.

“She’s sleeping better.”

“You always leave her alone at night?”

He was pushing; elbow propped on the desk, hip out and eyes half-lidded, the essence of a gangster. Corvo leaned forward, hands spread in the middle of the mess of paper, uncaring for what he smudged or wrinkled.

“Do you fear for her safety?” he asked, and though pride was far from his personal sin he felt a curl of it rise at the absence of strain in his voice. “Would you like to see her? Go up, and tuck her in?”

Daud stared at him, jaw loose, until the shock in his gray eyes trembled into anger and he swung away—teeth bared, making no noise—tension ratcheting in his shoulders, his head jerking with the biting back of words—

His glass cracked down on the desktop, and he was back at the window with a few long, heel-stomping strides.

Like an afterthought, he took the latest pack of intel from his vest and threw it to the bench. On the sill, he turned on his heel and, pointing, red-faced, snarled:

“Go to sleep.”

Then he was gone.

The clock ticked on. It wasn’t even eleven yet.

Corvo sat at his desk, and poured Daud’s glass into his, glancing down at the letters he’d been sorting. He took a sip, then another, thoughts turning like cogwheels just beyond his reckoning.

He went for one more draught but his glass was already empty. A glance at the clock. Just past eleven.He went to bed.

Weeks passed without word—no visits, no messengers, and only one anonymous tip about something going on in the Distillery District. Corvo had looked at it, and wondered whether the unfamiliar handwriting was a Whaler’s; then, for most of the day after, questioned why he so badly wanted it to be so. He wasn’t even certain Daud had decided to follow his advice and hire them. His only lead was how fast they had seemed to fall out of public interest.

It hailed and rained for seven days in the middle of Hearths, no end in sight. A hailstone the size of a child’s fist broke through Corvo’s office window in the night; the hole was still there, papered over to keep out the wind, when on the evening of the eighth day the window clicked open.

His hand didn’t even twitch for his sword. He looked up, and Daud, scar throwing a crooked shadow down his face, flicked a glance around the room—and met his eye.

Corvo stood from his chair. Set aside, careful, the pieces of the crossbow he’d been cleaning. Came around the desk.

Daud hadn’t moved, still crouched there on the sill—wary like something unsure of its welcome. The leather of his boots creaked as he shifted in place. Corvo came to a stop just a foot away.

“Come down from there,” he said, quiet. “You’ll leave tracks.”

His lip curled and he muttered, “I’m not a dog in from the rain,” but he unfolded himself onto the floor.

“You’re right,” Corvo said, smirking a little. “The rain was yesterday.” He took in the sight of him.

Gray eyes, face lined. A new cut in the hem of his coat, well-mended. Back straight. Thick arms crossing over his chest—and as Daud tilted back a fraction to look him in the eye Corvo found himself entertaining the thought that he might, with some effort, be short enough to fit under his chin.

Corvo turned away.

“Send word if you’re going to disappear,” he said, coming back to the desk and lining up his filing system. “I like to know you aren’t dead. You’re useful to me.”

For days, Corvo thought back to that first real conversation at the end of the interregnum. Emily sleeping sound, the city and the Tower theirs again, it had felt like an end to a year of torture—the chair, the dark of the cell, the attic and all of their frantic forward movement—

Control, again. Certainty. He was hungry, but he would eat. He was tired, but he could sleep. Nothing could touch him—and so, nothing would touch her.

Cornered animals bite, he knew—but the assassin had been left free, bleeding but alive, free to go.

Certainty. Clarity. The clarity of dreams, faded by morning. Corvo had known, to the bones of him, two things: that Daud would not hurt his daughter, and that he very badly wanted to leave.

The assassin had stayed.

(Still, searching his own heart, Corvo found no fear.)

On the twenty-fifth of Songs Corvo put Emily to bed in the safe room, kissed her forehead and held her hand for the five minutes she allowed herself now that she was twelve and too old for childish things, Corvo, though not too old to want cake for dinner. He turned the lamp low, warm oil-fire casting everything in edges of gold. The rest of the letters were still waiting in his office.

Daud was there. Waiting by the open window. Corvo knew before his fingers found the knob of the whale-light and flicked it on.

Daud said nothing, the glow reflected in his eyes.

There had been times, before, where Corvo had looked into that face and seen that exact expression: a lurking, expectant intent. Wanting to wound, and knowing it would only be inviting the knife. Fleeting, mostly—until it crystallized, the night Daud pushed where he shouldn’t.

There had been times, since, where he had gone quiet or sharp, and Corvo had seen that look in the backs of his eyes.

It was there now. Corvo walked, slow, to the middle of the room.

I didn’t expect you this early, he thought, and opened his mouth to say the words, but Daud had already crossed the rest of the distance and was looking up at him, and his hands were weaponless but the honed edge of his focus could be mistaken for nothing less than a blade. When he stopped, and a second passed, it was not hesitation.

Corvo’s breath caught like a fishbone in his throat at the touch of a hand on the back of his neck. Light-fingered, then bold, the flat of Daud’s palm a hot stamp on his skin. In the moment before Daud yanked him down he wondered whether this was another one of his idle dreams.

Their lips crushed together, Daud’s searing and stiff—

and in the next moment Corvo had a hold of Daud’s forearms and pushed him back, wide-eyed, a damp, cooling line across his mouth. Daud had locked into place as though braced for an impact, gaze fleeing; when Corvo only held him still, his eyes narrowed and flicked back—wary, confused.

“Aren’t you going to defend yourself?” he rasped into the silence. Corvo let him go.

“… What was that?” he asked.

“What was that,” Daud repeated, snide, but in the cutting of his tone there was a crack that showed the shrivelled, rotting inside. “That was a man taking what he sees, when he deserves nothing but to pay the debt he owes. You as good as called me ruined, two years ago,” he spat. “Remember?”

“Of course I do.”

“Whatever you saw, it wasn’t half of all I have coming to me.”

There was something almost frantic to how he glanced down at Corvo’s hands, so still, so very far from the handle of his sword, but Corvo was at a loss for what to say.

He had known there was a shell there, one made from necessity; it had seemed less important than the fact that Daud still showed at his window, and forgot, sometimes, to bristle or bark—all shells wore down in time.

Here it was, worn. The thing inside held all the fear he had never bothered to feel.

Faced with a searching look edging on concern, Daud took a step back.

“If it’s the killing you’re against,” he said, voice flat, “The Fugue is in three days.”

Had he shock left to feel horror, Corvo would have balked.

“What am I meant to do with—” He gestured, sharp and uncontrolled. With this. With you. Daud leaned in, eyes as close to fervent as they’d ever been.

“Finish it,” he said. “Ruin me.”

Corvo stared down into the bone gray of his eyes—took hold of his shoulders—and kissed him.

Over the long hours of the Fugue, Corvo would think only of this: Daud’s mouth, snarling at first; the rough tips of his fingers digging bruises in Corvo’s arms; how he had growled when Corvo bit his bottom lip, and said, “Fine,” through clenched teeth, and surged up to meet him, drawing his body into a taut, solid line and fisting his hands in Corvo’s hair. He would think of how terrible Daud had been at kissing, and how bitter for it, throwing himself into the act with the violence of a sword fight.

He would think of what he had imagined then. The meeting of more than their mouths. What Daud’s short, harsh breaths might turn into, when he was pulled over the edge.

(The rest—Daud breaking away, and the untender furl of his brow as he stepped back onto the sill—he put aside for later.)

Daud returned on the second day of the new year.

Corvo looked up from a considerably slowed influx of correspondence, blinked, and blurted out, “I expected you’d be gone longer.”

Daud paused in the middle of stepping down, one leg still curled on the sill. “I thought it’d be unwelcome,” he said, voice neutral in the way that meant he was carefully picking his words, and put the other foot down. “Since you find me useful.”

Corvo watched as he padded close, slow, to lean a hip against the desk. One hand came to rest on its edge. He cast barely a look at Corvo’s work before meeting his eyes with singular focus.

It was, all in all, an artless seduction. Corvo discovered he was hopeless enough to be charmed.

He stood, moved to grab the lapel of Daud’s coat—and stopped. A furrow drew itself between Daud’s eyebrows.

(He had kissed like a man expecting to be struck down, and finding no sword at his neck, looking for one to throw himself onto. Some time ago, Corvo had let himself admit to wanting him, but he refused for desire to leave him blind. What he was getting was not exactly what it seemed.)

Corvo slid fingers around his nape instead, thumb pressed to the angle of Daud’s jaw. Daud’s eyes fixed on Corvo’s mouth. Corvo kissed him, light and close-mouthed, at the apex of his upper lip.

The frown back threefold, Daud took hold of the fabric at his shoulder and pulled him in.

It was all teeth and pressure, an irritated huff as Corvo first tried to gentle the clashing of their mouths, Daud coming back at it with a vengeance like he meant one of them to bleed—an especially rough yank on Corvo’s shirt slammed his hip into the desk and he bit down on a grunt, but when Daud tensed and pulled away Corvo brought his other hand up to frame the man’s face and draw him steadily back in.

For just a moment, Daud was still enough that Corvo hoped he might have calmed—but he jerked back, tearing out of the hold, and turned away. His hand twitched up, then stopped, mid-air but steady. It dropped. His face was at too far an angle to see his expression.

“The Fugue kept me busy,” he rasped, and Corvo imagined some of the rugged to his voice was because of him.

Daud reached into his coat. Searched a little lower. Switched sides.

“Must’ve dropped my notes,” he said, irony sliced cleanly away. “I’ll ask someone to bring them in.” He looked back, just once before leaving. His eyes were flint—then, like some strange alchemy, the color softened. “The letters will keep. Go to sleep, bodyguard.”

For a while Daud kept his distance, and the messengers reappeared, their faces a little less dour when they crossed Corvo’s path—but he never went too long before showing at the window again, though he was careful not to stray more than a foot from his exit. The one time Corvo stood to move closer, he whipped out his report from an inside pocket like he might parry an attack with it.

What were a few steps back, Corvo thought, throat thick with disappointment as he sat down again.

One evening, Daud watched him in silence for a quarter-hour while he struggled through an answer to a demand regarding the restoration of Rudshore. It was late, and his sleep the night before had been uneasy.

“Don’t you have people for that?” Daud asked from where he sat on the sill, smoking a thin cigar. The wisp of silver smoke wound around him and out into the night.

“I do.”

“Why not leave it to them?”

Corvo smirked, and glanced up. “Then there’d be no reason for you to come visit.”

Daud looked him in the eye. The end of his cigar flared red-white as he pulled in a breath, and when he breathed out the smoke poured, thick billowing plumes, from his nose. He took the cigar between thumb and forefinger.

“Don’t think you’re so clever,” he said, jabbing it in Corvo’s direction—but he stayed sitting there, for half an hour more, and when Corvo looked to him again and forgot, for an excusable minute, the letter under his hand, he did not look away.

At the end of the night, Daud spoke up again.

“I have someone who could help.” The cigar had long burned out; he had squashed the stub in the palm of his glove. “Has a way with politics, and loyal to a fault.”

“Loyal to you,” Corvo answered, though it wasn’t a reproach.

Daud’s gray eyes fixed on his. “You underestimate yourself.”

Corvo didn’t know whether he meant as a leader, and a man capable of inspiring trust—or something else, infinitely more precious. Wishful thinking, he imagined. The coldest of comforts.

“Do I know him?”

“You’ve seen him. Blond, curly hair. I sent him here a couple of times.”

“I remember.” Quiet; observant, but unobtrusive. “A Whaler?”

Daud hesitated, seemed to deliberate something—then huffed a barely audible breath. “My second-in-command, actually. Is that a no?”

“That’s a maybe.” Daud’s eyes flicked up and found Corvo’s on him, steady. “Send him here. I’ll see how he does.”

He nodded, and vanished from the window.

In the morning, Corvo could not remember why it had been so easy to agree—but neither, he found as he stared at the dark slats of the ceiling, did he regret. His bed was lonely, but it was warm. The thing he could feel growing like a creeping vine around his heart might be called trust.

By the time he was lacing up his boots, he was giddy enough to think of it as faith.

Emily watched him all through breakfast, blue eyes sharp.

“Did you sleep well?” she asked.

“I always do,” Corvo answered, and in speaking realized he’d had a smile tucked into the corner of his mouth. For once, the reassurance wasn’t exactly a lie.

She hugged his side before they went on their separate ways, her to her lessons and him to convene with the Watch over patrols around Holger Square, and he held her close—too tight, like he could feel the morning’s light-headed excitement threatening to blow him away, but instead of squirming she held him tighter, too. When Callista, not seeing Emily arriving, had to come fetch her charge, she said nothing.

He managed; and when night fell, and he returned to his office, Daud was waiting. It was impossible, seeing him, not to remember another night like this, hardly a month ago.

Daud looked up at the sound of the door.

“Attano,” he said, and though his eyes held as much strength as they always had the gray in them was soft. Corvo’s hand settled on the doorjamb. He wasn’t sure whether it was to stop from going forward, or to steady himself. “Come sit with me.”

“That windowsill wasn’t made for two people,” he answered, mouth quirking.

Daud’s lips pinched, and he snorted. “We’ll fit.”

They did: hips boxed in by the frame and touching, inevitably, though not as close as Corvo had both dreaded and hoped. Daud drew a case from one of his many pockets and offered him a cigar. Corvo declined. The match he struck flashed white in the dark.

The minutes stretched; above their heads, the brightest stars were only just coming into sight.

“I came into this with the wrong idea,” Daud said, cutting deftly through the silence. The outline of his nose and chin were highlighted in gold-ochre. He flicked the cigar, ash crumbling into the wind. “For that, I’m sorry.”

Corvo observed Daud’s profile—the broken arch of his nose, his always-beetled brow, the exact shade of his eyes in this light, just in case—and carefully considered his words.

“Are you sorry you kissed me?” he asked, and saw the pause in the movement of Daud’s hand.

“Shouldn’t I be?” he returned, not looking at him, and Corvo said,

“Please,” low and strained and sounding so much more vulnerable than he expected to be, “Just answer the question.”

From here, he could see how Daud’s eyes flicked side to side, just barely touching on the shape of Corvo’s knees. His thumb tapped the cigar despite there being no ash. He swallowed.

“No,” he rasped, and Corvo reached out a hand, fingers on the cold edge of Daud’s jaw, thumb at the line of his cheekbone. He kissed him: a single tender press, and withdrew. Daud’s hand clenched in the side of his vest kept him from going far.

“I don’t understand how this happened,” Daud said. He was close enough for Corvo to feel the hot wash of his breath, and his eyes were a little wild, the cigar forgotten in his other hand.

“Do you need to?” Corvo asked, and kissed him again, just because he could. Daud made some small unwary noise; it took Corvo a time to remember the rest of what he’d meant to say. “Sometimes things happen. I’ve heard it called fate, or the work of the Outsider.”

Daud grimaced. “He doesn’t care who’s fucking who.”

Corvo’s look sharpened. When he moved to get his knees on the sill and Daud stiffened, caught between turning to him and backing away, Corvo grabbed a hold of his thigh and said, “Don’t move.” His breath caught. It was the only sound Corvo could hear. “And don’t fall out.”

Then he came in close, kneeling and arched over him, and applied himself to finding out every sound a former assassin might make under the right kind of pressure.

It was a blessing, Corvo decided, that he was allowed this.

The blond Whaler took to the job well—Thomas, though if it was his given name or a pseudonym was anyone’s guess—and though Daud did not come to his window every night, when he did—

Words like all his came to mind, but Daud was not a man to be possessed, holding inside him a distance Corvo was well-placed to recognize. It was a bittersweet reminder in many ways. Still, the knowledge never stopped him, going from searching surface kisses exchanged on the windowsill to coaxing Daud inside the office, warm even as the city went cold again, then pushing him up against the wall and distracting him from the arms around his head by kissing him deeper, opening his mouth with his tongue.

Daud breathed in short little gasps through his nose, and his hands traveled up from Corvo’s back to his shoulders and his biceps. When Corvo stretched up further to feel Daud’s body go hard against him as it strained to follow, Daud pulled like he might heave himself up by the strength of his arms.

“You like feeling tall, bodyguard?” he asked, relaxing back against the wall having bitten Corvo’s lip in retaliation.

Corvo smirked. “It doesn’t take much. You’re so short—”

“What?” Daud snarled, and his outrage was too much for Corvo not to dip down again. He got bitten a second time for his trouble.

“If it weren’t for your boots I’d have almost a head on you,” Corvo said, muffled by the hand he’d pressed against his swollen lip. Daud glanced down as his tongue flicked out to lick at the split, then looked up again, irritated by his own distraction.

“Your soles can’t be that thin.”

“I’ll show you.”

They both unlaced and stepped out of their shoes. Corvo’s feet were bare; he’d taken off his socks, too, and was stretching his toes out on the floorboards, trying not to smirk as Daud, glaring at the top of his head, was forced to acknowledge a difference in height.

He grunted. For being non-verbal, the sound was remarkably reluctant. His eyes strayed down to Corvo’s bare feet, paused, and turned away.

Corvo watched him—fox-eyed, full up with satisfaction. The delight only grew at the sight of the red starting to peak at the back of Daud’s neck. Daud glanced at him, eyes narrowed, and growled.

“Put your shoes back on.”

“Or,” Corvo returned, smile stretching and sly, “You could take off your coat.”

Later, when the open window had cooled the air and Daud lay in his bed with his breeches pulled haphazardly askew, Corvo stretched and rolled onto his side. Daud looked back at him, quiet.

He had something specific in mind, but there was too much of the man here not to distract. Corvo traced a finger down the line of his clavicle, and dipped in to swallow Daud’s answering huff.

“There’s something I want to give you,” he said once he’d surfaced.

“What more?” Daud muttered, but when Corvo made a questioning noise he shook his head, and told him to continue.

Corvo reached out an arm across Daud’s chest and propped himself up on both elbows, wideset around Daud’s broad shoulders. He had let his hair keep growing, though it was well-cared-for now; it hung like a veil around them. Concealing. He held Daud’s gaze like that might be the hook that kept him in place.

“A place,” he said, “Here, in the Tower.”

Daud stiffened—but though he could have, he did not slide out from under him. His hands rose and clenched by Corvo’s shoulders like he might want to grab on, then dropped, falsely lax, to the mattress.

“Your daughter sleeps here,” Daud said, somber but not angry.

Corvo risked a palm against Daud’s cheek, a thumb brushed under his eye. He pushed into it, but his gaze shyed away.

“Won’t she be safer with more people like us by her side?” he asked. Daud swallowed.

“How many times have you been betrayed?” he demanded, stiff-jawed and evading again, and Corvo took hold of both sides of his face then, bending, leaned their foreheads together.

“Do you plan on betraying me?” he asked, looking straight into Daud’s eyes.

His breath had gone short. “You know I don’t.”

It was strange, how ruined he sounded. Twice as much as he had, once, almost three years ago. Corvo pressed their mouths together, hungry with longing, and Daud gave himself to it entirely.

There were still nights where Corvo couldn’t sleep; where three years of relative calm were not enough to settle him, and he lay, a live wire, in sheets that felt like waiting restraints. Most times, Corvo would throw off the blankets, pull on the clothes he’d discarded and reread, feverish, the bits and pieces of correspondence that had hit him as wrong.

Once, Daud came to him.

“I saw the light on,” he said, stepping down from the sill, to Corvo’s questioning look, which meant he’d been out too late on another mission. The hypocrite. “You’re not at the letters again, are you?” Coming up to the desk, he hesitated—then came around to Corvo’s side and slid a hand in his hair, fingers digging in and scratching. Corvo leaned into him with a rumbling sigh. The coat was cold, but the solid body underneath was enough of a comfort. He squinted up at Daud’s pinched face, bleary.

“Let’s run the rooftops together,” he said, pushing into the hand. Daud would be tired, but no more than he was; certainly they could dash across the neighborhood without falling to their deaths.

“Nostalgic now?” Daud obliged him and scratched again, from the dome of his head to his nape. “How long have you spent behind this desk? You couldn’t keep up.”

Corvo glared up at him through a mess of tangling hair.

“I’ll make you eat those words,” he said. The challenge in Daud’s eyes made the blood thump through him.

It was an exhilarating race—but one where they didn’t go further than three buildings away from the block of the Tower, and one where neither was ever far from the other, whoever was ahead always taunting, the both of them flashing across the void between roofs neck and neck.

The wind stung Corvo’s face, whipped back the tails of his overcoat. Daud, always careful, didn’t laugh—but Corvo caught the flash of his grinning teeth in the moonlight. On their circle back Daud caught his sleeve and backed him up against a chimney, rising to take his mouth—

And he transversed away, Corvo confused then snarling after him.

Daud was the first to climb back through the still-lit window, and when Corvo reached the ledge below it he leaned out, hands catching Corvo by his lapels both to keep him from falling and to keep him there, chest barely clearing the sill, Daud towering above him.

He showed his teeth, panting and sharp-eyed, the smile a little nasty.

“How does it feel to have the tables turned?” he asked, and bent, slowly, at the waist, down, down, until he was close enough to brush their noses together. Corvo, still wheezing from the race, strained up on tiptoe to lip at his mouth until he deigned, magnanimous, to close the last of the distance.

When he withdrew, long enough after that Corvo’s legs were starting to hurt (never, never long enough), his lips were red from kissing and his pupils turned to deep black pits.

“Daud,” Corvo said, shoulders flexing like he might climb up to the sill, but when Daud’s hands tightened to help him up he said, “Again,” and Daud groaned somewhere deep inside his chest.

In Corvo’s bed, the lights turned off and the blankets hot around them, Daud would turn on his side and his fingers would touch, light as moths, the skin of Corvo’s shoulder.

“I think I understand now.” Daud was not a delicate man, but he could be gentle. He was gentle now. His voice echoed through his chest into Corvo’s arm.

What do you understand? Corvo might have asked, there in the dark. Wanting to be small? Wanting to enfold? Wanting, and maybe having, simply?

He asked no questions; neither those, nor others, less easy to put into words. To be understood was enough.

#dishonored #corvodaud #writins #it's got fade-to-black boning

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samaraclegane · 5 years

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hey! i have a gendrya prompt for you : post war, arya and gendry keep seeing each other during the night. gendry wants more, but arya is having a hard time admitting her feelings. thanks :)

author’s note: ooh i love these sorts of tropes! and with one of my favourite ships too. got to give this a try! :)

-he’s at winterfell. he’s back with arya, they’ve had their reunion, and things are looking as good as they realistically can when the army of the dead are at your front door. he should be happy, and for the most part he is, but there’s just something not quite right and it’s keeping him up at night… literally.

-when it started, he figured it was just one of those things. in his history, he hasn’t exactly had the best experiences with sleep and such, so for the first couple of times he’s just mildly irked by it, but figures there’s nothing he can do.

-the first few times, he tries to force himself back into sleep. this is, of course, one of those things that has the opposite effect than the intended one: the more he tries to sleep, the less tired he becomes.

-it’s nights like these that he starts going out, just for a walk in the fresh air, hoping the contrast in temperature between the outside and his covers will provide some sort of aid to help lull him into a drowsy state - the kind that he misses so dearly recently.

-he does this for a few nights and, though it doesn’t seem to have much of an impact, he continues to do so.

-whenever he’s unable to sleep, he’ll sit up, run his hands over his face to fully wake himself up, and he’ll dress and head outside. he normally just walks about on the wooden platforms, seeing what he can see (which, nine times out of ten, is absolutely nothing), but other times when he’s especially bad he’ll go all the way to the godswood.

-he’s never been one for religion. not really, anyway. he doesn’t think he’s the one to say there’s nothing - hell, what does a bastard who works all day at a forge know anyway? - but he knows whatever there might be has never helped him.

-since his mother’s abandonment by his father, to his mother’s death, to his betrayal at the hand of the red woman, to losing arya for what he thought would be forever… it had just gotten to him, he supposed, and he felt it best to leave religion alone.

-even still, something about the tree felt homely. he felt comfortable to sit until his feet went cold and he was forced back inside. he’d think of various things, such as the war with the dead and his family. but then, every so often, a recurring thought would pop up, and he couldn’t rid himself of it.

-shortly after his arrival, he and arya had became as close as they had been before. actually, there was part of him that claimed they’d become even closer, and this was proven right when, one seemingly average day at the forge, they shared their first kiss.

-actually, at the same occasion, they shared their first night together, and arya’s first night with anybody.

-some part of him had felt guilty, at first. arya, no matter how she loved to deny it, was a highborn lady, who had the blood of a stark and a tully coursing through her hot-blooded veins. she deserved a lord, somebody with wealth and status, but also somebody who could treat her how she deserved to be treated.

-not that gendry felt she should stay at home and rear children whilst her husband did all the work - gods forbid, such a talent as arya simply had to be out and about, killing as she so pleased - as other ladies did for their lords. still, something whispered to gendry that he’d never be good enough - that arya deserved something like her mother and father had had, with a love built over decades between two important figures, two heads of houses - not a mild bastard boy.

-but then, arya had chosen him. she had wanted him… hadn’t she?

-if that was so, why had he not seen her since their encounter? this was the internal battle he had been waging against himself, ever since she disappeared into what seemed like thin air. if it had been the right thing for him to do - to give in to his long-withheld urges - where had she gone?

-he prayed to the gods to give him a sign that he hadn’t defied them - that what he had done was the right thing, that he hadn’t failed himself and arya, leaving their relationship to crash and burn.

-just then, out of the corner of his eye, he saw something. just a flit of movement, but enough to make him turn his head in its direction. he rested a hand on the weapon at his hip - it wasn’t his most ideal choice, but it was something to defend himself with it needs be.

-at that moment, a sound caught his attention, sourced behind him. what sounded like a twig snapping send him whirling around, hand still on his small dagger, ready to defend himself until the very end. and that, right there beneath the godswood, ready to inadvertently kill her, was when he saw her.

-arya, eyes wide like she’d been caught doing something she wasn’t meant to be doing, stood meters away, watching him intently. she looked ready to run at any given moment, and gendry had a sudden pang through him that told him that was the last thing he wanted.

-letting go of the dagger, he raised a hand. he wasn’t sure if it was meant to be a greeting gesture or a motion of surrender, but whatever it was scared arya away. in the blink of an eye, she was gone, and he didn’t see her for days.

-the next night his insomnia grew severe, he immediately rose from his bed and slipped out of the door, already having been wearing sufficient clothing that he would die a terribly embarrassing death in the cold. he headed out for the godswood, but didn’t quite make it before he stopped, looking down from the top of a wooden bridge.

-there, in the center of a snow-covered square, stood arya again. this time she seemed unaware of his presence, as though she was the one being watched first this time, and gendry seized the moment while he had it.

-the girl was no longer a girl, though he often referred to her as such. she had grown since he had last seen her, primarily in chest and hips, not so much in stature. her face had aged - not a ridiculous amount, as he didn’t quite see her as a wise old septa yet, but enough that he no longer felt sibling attraction to her - and she often looked at him differently.

-the last time she looked at him in such a way, however, he had ended up giving in to her - giving in to himself. gods, when did arya - arry - get a force of seduction about her? and why now, of all times, did he feel it whenever he saw her?

-even now, stood high above her, watching her watch seemingly nothing, he felt inexplicably drawn to her. he wished she could see him and would greet him as she had when she was little, only now he did not want her to hug nor beat him. well, the former was still preferable, but now each time he saw her, he longed for her to kiss him again, as she had that time ago.

-he recalled how she had tugged him down to a kissable level. gendry had never really considered ‘height differences’, but now that he had experiences such a severe one, he didn’t think he could ever go back. after all, there were endless possibilities, new experiences to be sought, among many being the variety of ways he could kiss her.

-in that moment, he considered a number of scenarios. one, he would pick her up, leaving her breathless at how weightless she seemed in his strong, blacksmith arms. two, he would push her gently against a wall and stoop his head down, meeting her mouth gently with his. three, he would let her take control, and she would all but jump on him to draw him down to her, wanting him to kiss her so badly it felt like she might die without his lips on her

-overcome by these visions, gendry was mindless when he set off across the wooden ledges to the nearest set of stairs, and then worked back on himself to find the square where he had seen arya just moments ago.

-there, he found nothing.

-as though the woman he had kissed, the woman he had made love to, the woman he - dare he say - loved was a ghost, she was gone. the only trace of her to prove she ever existed was bootprints in the snow that he knew he could have easily followed, but figured that was hardly the point.

-if arya was running from him, it was for a reason. and, even if that reason broke his heart, he could accept rejection. he only hoped that they would remain friendly, or at least communicate on a military level.

-he resigned himself back to his chamber and found himself even more restless than he had been when he’d left.

-a full two weeks after the kiss, and gendry’s considering making it an official anniversary. a solemn event, on which he’s prepared to mark the blossoming relationship a failure before it had even begun.

-at least, he thinks, trying to remain positive, we had the one night together.

-even so, he can’t help but feel dejected. so it’s no surprise when, that night, he can’t sleep once more. he tosses and turns, figuring that if he leaves his bed one more sight he’ll probably just see arya for a moment until she vanishes again, not to be seen in the daylight or for more than four whole seconds.

-he settles best on his back, looking up into the pitch blackness of the room. he sighs, feeling weighted, and throws a hand to rest above his head. now he feels like one of those silly maids, the ones he’s heard about in the songs for so long. it’s as though he’s waiting for his prince to come and save him and, by this point, he might as well be the damsel in distress.

-there’s a silent beat, until a creaking door and sudden influx of light in the room sends him jumping up, grasping wildly for his weapon that’s just too far out of reach. he’s readying himself to fight with his bare hands when, lit by the soft candlelight that he can now recognise as safe, he makes out arya’s face.

-”arya,” he sighs, unable to take the twinge of annoyance out of his face in time, “what are you doing here?”

-she doesn’t look at him as she navigates the room and finds a home for the candle. once it’s safely resting on the table beside gendry’s bed, she turns to look at him, eyes both sheepish and cold.

-”i wanted to talk to you.”

-he shrugs, then moved over, somewhat grateful for the distraction, though nonetheless loathing her ominous choice of words. those were the words he so often heard as a boy and into his young adulthood. his mother said them to him sternly, when he’d done something wrong. the armorer he had been an apprentice for for so long had introduced his overarching message of ‘you’re being sold’ with that precise sentence. to him, it meant only bad things, and so he broke out into a cold sweat.

-”what about?”

-arya inhaled, clearly having to brace herself for her next words.

-”about how i’ve been acting. i’ve been… weird, lately, i know.” she kneeled on the bed beside him, not seeming comfortable enough to lie down as he would have so easily let her. “i’m just… new, to everything.”

-the humorous part of gendry forced him to laugh, as pitch in, “not everything. i doubt you threw those three knives perfectly in line by accident.”

-arya gave him a look that warned him not to make such jokes again, but this was thrown off by the relieved chuckle he earned from her. he decided this was an entirely neutral - if not good - sign.

-”i mean… things with you,” she explained rather slowly, seeming to be talking to herself as well as him. “thing like… well, you know what. unless you’ve forgotten already, in which case this would all be very embarrassing.”

“i remember,” gendry interjected, shifting just an inch closer, signalling that he wasn’t being standoffish whilst talking about such a subject.

-”oh,” arya looked genuinely dumbfounded, “good.”

-”it was.” he smiled goofily, knowing she’d hate him for saying it, but also knowing it was the whole truth.

-to his surprise, she simply nodded, a twinkle of jest in her eyes as she looked down at the furs splayed across his bed, and she went on.

-”what i mean is i don’t know how these things go, but i know i don’t want to push you away, either.” she finally met his eye, having said what she had come here to say.

-”you aren’t pushing me away,” he said, ignoring the fact that it was only half in earnest because she didn’t need to hear that much. however, he did, as an afterthought, ask, “but… do you want things to change?”

-”i still want to do things, like what we did.” arya sounded almost like a lost child, the way she spoke so plainly. it was a little bit of an ego boost when gendry found himself able to reduce arguably the greatest assassin to ever live to such a state. it was undeniably cute.

-”things like…” he couldn’t stop his smirk as he reached out a hand to brush back her hair, tucking it behind her ear before resting his hand on her cheek, “this?”

-she nodded eagerly, then absent mindedly keened her face into his touch. she breathed in deeply, eyes closing momentarily as she did so, but then she was back with him.

-”what about…” he inched closer to her, admiring her features all the way, until he sat right before her, resting the hand not on her face on her waist, their breath mingling and their lips almost touching. “this?”

-”yes,” she sounded breathy, like this was what she’d been wanting for a long time, and frankly it was what gendry had wanted, too.

-he dropped his face impossibly closer to hers, but still refused to touch their lips and give them both what they wanted. his voice fell husky, barely above a whisper this time, as he asked, “this?”

-she shut her eyes and he heard her mumble a quick, “oh for god’s sake, gendry,” before she was upon him, kissing him with such abrupt force that he was almost knocked straight off of the other side of the bed.

-she touched him everywhere she could manage, and when he went to remove his hand from her waist she forced it back there, desperate for the contact. she moved to straddle him as she had done before, but he stopped her.

-”tonight, arya,” his only frustration came from being annoyed with himself, for having had to break the kiss, “tonight, will you stay with me?”

-she watched him, eyes darker than usual, as though she was wary he was being insincere. then, finding no evidence to prove such, she nodded, dipping back in to lay one more, lonesome kiss onto his lips.

-”only if you stay with me, too.”

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therealcalicali · 4 years

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This has been bugging me for w while sorry if its incorrect If Athelred were to become King the reader would've been married to him (because shes a genuine princess) Cassandra is I don't even remember tbh. The second the reader was married to alfred Alfred's king I'm sorry. Ragnar had to have planned to marry her to the future king right!? If Cassandra seriously thinks Judith is going to let her become queen she's even more delusional than I thought.

Hey doll.🍀😄

Yes, Ragnar paired Reader with Alfred for two reasons. First, he liked his character and felt he reminded him of Athelstan. Second, he knew from how Ecbert spoke, that the younger Prince would be King.

Thus, regardless of how things went with the war, Reader would always live well.

As for Cassandra, she's a highborn Lady; distant relations to Judith. So despite being married to Aethelred, she's still not a Princess. King Ecbert would have to bestow the title since she's not of royal birth. But I highly doubt he would never do it.

P.S. Aethelred's children will likely be conferred Duke/Dutchess titles. Because only the ruling monarchs children were considered Prince/Princess. (Or the heir apparent's children.)

#answered questions #answered asks #asks and answers #answers

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my-arya-underfoot · 5 years

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Titles in Westeros

I know D&D are Just Don’t Care but the shitfest of the Stark’s titles in s7-8 makes my head hurt. I.e.

Jon = King in the North? But not legitimized as a Stark?

Sansa = Lady Stark? Even though Bran is technically Lord of Winterfell?

Bran and Arya = Siblings of a King, still nobles, but hey no titles for you guys?

Lord/Lady of Winterfell = Separate from Kingship? Who the fucks knows.

According to GRRM, he roughly modelled titles off the English style of peerage and they are used consistently in the books – and hell even in the show for a while. But the whole treatment of the Starks at the end, totally upends that because hey, what’s one more piece of crap in this monstrosity.

Because D&D apparently need it and for any fans who want to be accurate, here’s a crash course in how titles in Westeros (apart from Dorne) work:

For Women

Born title for women = Lady + first name.

E.g. Lady Arya, Lady Sansa, Lady Catelyn before she was married, as the daughters of lords.

Married title for women = Lady + surname.

E.g. Lady Stark after Cat is married; Lady Arryn after Lysa married; Lady Baratheon after Selyse married Stannis.

If ladies marry an untitled guy, they still get to be Lady + first-name.

To compare to the system they’re based on, see how these titles operate in Downton Abbey – Cora is addressed as Lady Grantham because she’s married to the Earl of Grantham. Her daughters are Lady Mary, Lady Edith, Lady Sybil etc. not Lady Grantham – in the same way Arya and Sansa were never called Lady Stark as children. When Sybil married common old Tom Branson, she was still Lady Sybil even if she didn’t want to use it.

So overall: If Arya never married, she’d still get to keep Lady Arya for the rest of her life; if she married a titled Gendry, she’d become Lady Baratheon; if she married an untitled Gendry, she’d be Lady Arya.

For Men

Interestingly male nobles don’t automatically get called Lord + first-name, if they’re the sons of lords. If they’re a first-born, they’ll inherit the title lord when their father dies. If they’re a second, third born etc., they don’t technically get anything. However, they may become knights and get Ser.

Title of ruling lord = Lord + First-name and Surname

E.g. Lord Ned Stark, Renly Baratheon, Leyton Hightower and Wyman Manderly as lords of the North, Stormlands, Hightower and White Harbour respectively.

First-born sons of ruling lords = Lord + First name and Surname after their father’s death

E.g. Robert became Lord Robert Baratheon, after Steffon Baratheon died; Robb would have become Lord Robert Stark had he not become King. Edmure became Lord Edmure Tully but he got hella told off by Catelyn for referring to himself as Lord before his father died

Not first-born sons of ruling lords = technically no Lord title

E.g. Bryden Tully is never referred to as a Lord.

Knights = Ser + First-name Last-name

E.g. Ser Bryden Tully, Ser Loras Tyrell, Ser Barristan Selmy.

UNUSUAL CASE: Daughters as heirs = Lady + First name and Surname (and pass through matrilineal line)

E.g. Lady Lyanna Mormont in the show; Lady Wynafryd Manderly (once her father dies)

Seats

Titles are attached to seats.

Seats: E.g. Hightower, Casterly Rock, Hornwood. The titles and seats come with lands to rule over and in some cases vassal houses.

E.g. Garlan Tyrell initially wasn’t Lord of anything and became Lord of Brightwater Keep and all its lands, thus getting to be Lord Garlan Tyrell

Great houses ruling over entire areas of Westeros = Lord Paramounts

It seems to be the Great houses get Lord Paramount, though that’s a bit hazier.

E.g. Ned is Lord Paramount of the North and Lord of Winterfell (his seat); Jon Arryn is Lord Paramount of the Vale and Lord of the Eyrie.

There’s also Wardens of the North, East, West etc. but that’s another thing.

Interestingly GRRM said his one regret around titles was not giving the ‘Great’ Houses a separate title from Lord and Lady to make it clear they were a step up from normal nobles.

When the North seceded from the Seven Kingdoms Robb became King in the North instead of Lord Paramount but was still Lord of Winterfell.

It’s very unusual for seats to get separated from their lands - who becomes Lord Paramount of the Riverlands and who gets Riverrun as a seat is a massive headache for the Lannisters to sort out in the books. And in that case the separation is forced.

Generally

Complicating things further is all nobles are generally referred to as my lord or my lady or some version thereof, by commoners. Because, your average Westerosi peasant sees a highborn and uses their common sense. Whether their current Lord, or first-born Lord-to-be, or second-born Lordless; first-name Lady or last-name Lady sure as hell doesn’t matter to them, they just want to get on with life.

Back to whatever the hell happened to the Starks in s7 and s8

So, following the established laws of the universe. After the Starks defeat the Boltons, their titles should be as follows:

Lord Brandon Stark of Winterfell/Lord Paramount of the North

Lady Arya

Jon would still be titleless

Sansa is a weird case – she’d be Lady Sansa as she was born to the title; but she was technically Lady Bolton so could still hold that title. (And that’s not even getting into her marriage with Tyrion – her legally not being allowed to marry Ramsay is a whole other thing).

Instead, as said at the beginning we have King Jon Snow; Lady Stark and titleless Arya and Bran. *face palm* *deep breath*

Let’s break this down:

The Northern lords making Jon, King in the North means two options:

Option A: By making Jon King in the North, he also becomes Lord of Winterfell so –

He could legitimize himself as a Stark – then arguably Bran, Arya and Sansa all become Princes/Princesses as younger siblings of a King, as with Robb. (Tbh, this seems like the most logical option, as he was made King on the basis of being Ned Stark’s son, as King could legitimise himself and having a Snow as a King would set a lot of teeth on edge. This also makes sense to keep Lord of Winterfell and King in the North linked, due to the above mentioned importance of ancestral seats. But whatever).

House Stark is officially off the table and House Snow is now ruling the North and Winterfell. (In this case, his half siblings have lost their ancestral home and have zero titles).

Option B: Jon is King in the North but has…no seat, no land, men or vassal houses and it’s effectively a meaningless title. The Starks are still Lords of Winterfell and hold their lands, while he’s King Snow of Nothing except fickle lords. What’s he meant to do? Go pick some land and build his own castle I guess.

But anyway, logic aside (ha), the show seems to suggest it’s Option B?

But in this case, Bran would be Lord Brandon Stark of Winterfell. However, we get Sansa being referred to as Lady Stark even when Bran is alive, instead of Lady Sansa.

Even with Bran turning the title down, there would need to be some sticky, legal means of that happening – Sansa wouldn’t just be called Lady Stark on whim. There aren’t many examples of titles being given away while the person is still living – they’re either forcibly stripped of them or go into an order than removes them from succession (become a Maester or member of the Nights Watch).

Plus, given the sexism of the Northern lords and their deafening rejection of Sansa as leader at the end of s6, it seems unlikely they’d be fine with her stealing her brother’s birthright once he turned up. (Especially as Bran would be seen as an easily controllable puppet). The most likely thing is Sansa would be acting Lady of Winterfell – but she’d still referred to as Lady Sansa, just as her sister is Lady Arya. (No matter how much Arya complains about the title).

Then again, when has logic come in to anything?

No wonder Arya was hella confused when she turned up at the door and they said Lady Stark was ruling.

#House Stark #anti game of thrones #anti d&d #I don't know why I bother #when the writers don't #but fanfic writers care #asoiaf meta kinda

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primusparry · 5 years

Text

Glymera Party (With @GlymeraPunk

Parry:

*Looking myself over in the full length mirror in my bedroom, I nod in approval. My hair in a sleek updo, subtle makeup, and dressed in a teal satin evening gown, I look every inch the highborn glymera daughter that I am. Although, it does feel a little weird now to wear something other than denim and leather, but I have to make sure that I’m properly attired. No motorcycle jackets and combat boots tonight! My father is hosting a ball and asked me to come, since I hadn’t been to a similar event for a while and he thought I should make a point of attending, at least for a little while. I love my sire, and I’m glad for the chance to spend some time with him. The rest of the glymera, however… I could probably happily never lay eyes on most of those pretentious jerks ever again, but I can suck it up once in a while. The best part of this whole thing tonight is that Peyton’s coming too, so I know that at least I’ll have one other person here besides my dad that I actually like. And Peyton and I had agreed to attend the party together as each other’s dates, since neither one of us are seeing anyone else right now. When I hear a knock on the door, I run a hand down my torso to smooth out the material of my dress and walk over to open the door. Seeing who’s on the other side, I grin up at my best friend.* Hey Pey! You look great. Are you ready for this?

Peyton:

[How in Dhund did I let myself get talked into this? Even as I scowled at my reflection, all trussed up in this monkey suit, I had to roll my eyes. I knew exactly how. Because Paradise had asked, and I was a sucker. Well, a sucker for her at least, although at least I'd hoped, through our time in training that I'd tamped down on some of my more pathetic attempts for attention when it came to her. I was still trying to convince myself that I could, for once, be the better male and settle for her friendship over not having her in my life at all. Still, the two of us attending a full on glymera shindig was its own brand of torture. A glimpse into the path we could have had if we'd just fell in line like mindless robots and done as our parents wanted. But that wasn't in the cards for us, and wasn't what either of us truly wanted. Still, we could play the part, appease our parents, turn a few heads, and start a few rumors. The night would be a total loss. At least that's what I was telling myself. Hair buzzed and quaffed, bowtie perfectly symmetrical, I looked damn good buttoned up in a tux. My father would hate that I could so easily fall in line, so that was all I more reason to attend. Chuckling to myself, my wallet, phone and keys went into my pockets before a pre-rolled joint got tucked behind my ear. I opted for the Alpha Romeo tonight, revving the engine obnoxiously as I pulled down the drive and peeled out on the street. I really couldn't help being a dick sometimes. My father's reactions just made it too easy. Sparking the joint, I puffed away as I made my way through the elite streets of Caldwell, and kept right on toking as I handed my keys off to the doggen playing valet. Strolling my way up the long walk to the Abalone estate, I resisted the urge to stab the joint out on the pristine white door jamb, and opted for the bottom of my polished Cole Haans. My aloof expression in place as I knocked at the door bloomed into a genuine smile when it was Paradise and not another doggen who opened it. Letting out a long, low whistle of appreciation, I dragged my eyes up her gorgeous body slowly, not because I was a creep, but because in a dress like that, she was begging to be looked at.] You look amazing, Paradise. Your father shouldn't let you out of the house. [Smirking as I stepped over the threshold, I offered my best friend my arm.] I'm as ready as I'll ever be. Let's do this.

Parry:

*I feel a slight blush rise to my cheeks at Peyton’s compliment- not to mention the way he was looking me over. It can be disconcerting to be the focus of such blatant male appreciation, but it can still be nice to know that someone finds you attractive- even though there’s nothing romantic going on between us, as much as Peyton might still be wishing otherwise.* Thank you. And thank you for coming tonight. I don’t think I could handle this crap without someone I actually want to be around being here too. *I smile and kiss his cheek before I twine my arm through his, ignoring the faint whiff of weed I can smell clinging to his clothes. As we enter the ballroom and the doggen announces us, I glance around and note that only about half of the invited guests have arrived sofar. I smile and wave at my father before turning back to Peyton.* How about we get something to drink before we start making the rounds?

Peyton: You are absolutely the only one that could get me back to one of these things, Paradise. [Chuckling when her arm is wound with mine, I patted her hand as the doggen made a big fuss about us walking into a room. I swear, the glymera were something else. Once upon a time, I'd been fully immersed in this life, but I knew better now and so did Parry. There were real issues in the vampire world outside of who attended what parties and who's mate was having an affair with who, and we were a part of the solutions. As graduates of the Brotherhood training program we patrolled the city to ensure civilian safety and exterminate the enemy. Everything else paled in comparison. Nodding as my gaze scanned the room, noting familiar faces and ex friends, I bought my gaze to hers.] Scribe, yes. Several. And I apologize in advance for any scene I may or may not make with my father.

Parry:

*Chuckles.* No need for an apology, Pey. I know what your sire can be like. *We get our drinks and start going around chatting with guests as the ballroom continues to fill up, and I am quickly bored out of my mind. Why can’t these people ever talk about something that actually matters?! Who the hell cares who is wearing what, or who’s dating who? Sweet Scribe, I’m so glad that I’ve left this whole lifestyle behind, for the most part. There are so many more important things to worry about, beyond what color a female’s dress is, or how much a male paid for his shoes!! For starters, the survival of our entire freaking species!

Peyton and I end up out in the gardens, hiding out for a few minutes for a breather. We sat in a little nook, out of sight of any passersby to avoid getting sucked into another inane conversation. Then I hear footsteps, and voices approaching.

“..... is our host’s daughter…”

“But dressing as she does, training, actually going out to fight in the alleys and gutters of the city? I don’t know how she ever expects to find a hellren like that!”

“Exactly! What male would want such a shellan? Paradise is glymera, she should act as such. Not like some gutter rat!”

As the voices fade away again as the speakers continue on their way, I find myself standing up with my fists clenched, trembling as multiple emotions fight for dominance within me. Insult, anger, hurt, humiliation… Torn between wanting to scream, or cry, or chase after those vicious cows and give them a piece of my mind, I turn to look at Peyton* What the hell?!

Peyton: [The alcohol and pre-snoozefest joint helped me from keeping my eyes from rolling so far back in my head they got stuck that way as we made our way around the room. Only a handful of the guests even wanted to engage in more than small talk or a formal greeting with either of us. Word had spread about where we'd been spending our nights, and let's just say that while the upper class was glad to know that the race was being protected, they were none too happy to be losing sons and daughters to the cause. Pity for them, I couldn't care less. But, this was Paradise's home and I didn't think she deserved to be disrespected in it. After one too many sidelong glances of disdain, I escorted her out to the gardens. We both needed a breath of fresh air after so many blowhards filles the ball room. Besides, I was a sucker for the way she looked in the moonlight. Ever the gentlemale, I draped my tux jacket over her shoulders as we settled on a tucked away marble bench and was just about to pull some mundane topic from thin air, and a joint from my pocket, when we heard the other guests. The last of their words were drowned out by the growl rumbling my chest, the only thing that kept me from launching over the hedge was the fact that Paradise was already on her feet. One of us had to keep our heads, and as it was her house, she got first dibs on the beat down, or at least that's what my reaction would have been. Pushing to my feet, I gave my best regal bow, gesturing with one arm towards the unknown focus of our joined ire.] Shall we show these neophytes exactly what a female of your station and skill can do, my lady?

Parry:

*I could see that Peyton’s nearly as upset as I am- snarling, fangs bared, looking like he wants to rip the throats out of those who had spoken. But he pulls himself together as he stands up and gives me an exaggerated bow, the move almost, but not quite succeeding in getting me to smile. At his words, I nod* Yes, I believe we shall. *I take off his jacket and lay it neatly on the bench. Then I lead the way out of the alcove and follow the path in the direction my detractors had gone in. We turn a corner in the path, and there they are. Yeah, I recognize them, it’s just who I’d thought it was from their voices. I decide that enough is enough, I’m tired of all the derision, snubs, and bad attitudes. Fuck this, it’s time to let my anger have its say and put some of these morons in their place. I square my shoulders and clear my throat* Good evening, ladies! *I smirk as they turn, slight blushes rising to their cheeks, and surprise and guilt in their eyes, quickly covered up. That’s right, you ridiculous bitches, you got busted!* I have a question: How dare you? How fucking dare you come into my father’s home- into MY home- and speak that way about me? You, who have never done a single damned worthwhile thing in your shallow, vapid lives, dare to look down on me?! I’m doing something good with my life, something important and vital. While you’re all sitting in your daddies’ mansions worrying about your hair and clothes and other such superficial nonsense, I’m out there night after night literally risking my life to protect our race, to help try to prevent our extinction. I’m a warrior, and you’re nothing but useless, brainless dolls. I’m extremely proud of what I’m doing, what I’ve become, and I thank the Scribe Virgin that I’m nothing like you anymore! *As I pause my tirade to take a couple breaths, I feel Peyton lay a hand on my shoulder- not like a male comforting a female, more like a gesture of camaraderie and support, friend to friend and soldier to soldier. I lay my hand on his as I turn to him.* Let’s go, Pey. Our present company is beginning to turn my stomach.

Peyton: [Taking my position at her back as she walked with purpose through the garden, I tried really hard not to notice that glint of the moon reflecting off the satin rounding her ass as she walked...and failed miserably. If she could ever read my mind, she'd rip my throat out. Pulled from my musing by the f-bomb she dropped when verbally tearing into the ignorant females, I stood my ground, just behind her and to the left, my military stance engaged, features stern, all the while thankful for the loose drape of my tuxedo slacks as she tore them to shreds. If this wasn't the hottest thing I'd ever witnessed, don't know what was. Throat. Out. Internally chastising myself, I took one step closer when she stopped to breathe, laying my hand on her shoulder, as my gaze narrowed on the females standing gobsmacked before us. Letting a slow, sinister smile curl my lips, I let my fangs show, a move that would appall the glymera. How dare I let my animalistic nature free.] Sapphire. Jade. I think it's time you have a doggen show you out before I let slip to your mahmens and fathers that I bore witness to your insults to the beloved daughter of the king's first advisor, in her own home, no less. [Flicking the tip of my tongue to the point of my fang in a blatant threat, I slid my arm around Paradise's shoulder, nodded once, and steered her away from that garbage, addressing her, but loud enough that they'd hear.] You have never been anything like them, Paradise. They aren't worthy enough to clean your toilet. [The gasps at our backs as we moved away had a grin stretching as I tipped a wink in her direction.]

Parry:

*I grin back at Peyton as he delivers his parting shot and winks at me as he leads me away from the dumbfounded females I had faced down. I suggest that we go back inside and tell my father about the incident so that, as host, he’s prepared to handle any fallout. As we walk, I feel lighter and lighter- I don’t think I fully realized how much I was holding in, how much I was bothered by what the rest of the glymera was saying about me and the rest of my trainee classmates. But now that I’ve let loose some of those bottled up feelings, I feel better. I also realize that it really shouldn’t matter what the glymera thinks of me, so I won’t let it. Why should I? Forget them! By the time we get back to the alcove to get Pey’s jacket I feel downright giddy* Oh, that felt so good! Did you see the looks on their faces?! *I start laughing, and throw my arms around him. Then, following an impulse I don’t understand but also don’t think to question, I pull his head down to mine and kiss him. Lost in the moment, in the sensations of his tongue dueling with mine and his hands gripping my waist tight, I don’t really think about what I’m doing. But then it hits me- and so does the embarrassment. I pull back as heat floods my cheeks, and I find myself barely able to meet his eyes as I stammer* Pey, I- I’m so sorry! I don’t know what got into me just then…

Peyton: [My grin was huge as she practically skipped back to the alcove where my jacket waited. It didn't bother me one way or the other if we told her father, but I understood why she'd want to. Nodding along as she spoke, I chuckled as Paradise, in her own Paradise way, cursed the females without uttering a profanity.

And then her lips were on mine and my brain shorted out. This wasn't just a friendly peck. When I felt her tongue, Scribe yes, I went with it. A low growl rumbled my chest as my body came to life, my hands gripping her hips to keep her again me as I savored my first taste of Paradise. All too soon it was over. Like a bucket of ice dumped over my head, I knew the first would be the last, and damn if her cheeks didn't look good that color. Alright, Pey, whatever you do, do not beg for more. Wanker. With my own version of a pep talk in mind, I groaned internally before lifting my hand, brushing my knuckles over her cheek.] Hey, none of that. You know my lips are at your disposal for insulting glymera, or...those. [Tapping a fingertip to her lips my smirk was cocky, aloof all while I died a little inside. Clearing my throat, I dropped my hand and stepped back.] You know, maybe we shouldn't tell your father. [Holding up surrender hands at the shocked look of betrayal on her face, my statement had done the distracting I wanted it to.] Hear me out! We'd have some to hold over their heads. A card to play if we need a favor down the road? You never know… [Both brows rose as I tried for an innocent look, waiting for her to respond. Maybe she'd kiss me again?]

Parry:

*As Peyton steps back and looks at me with such an indifferent smirk on his face, I feel a stab of hurt. Did he not have romantic feelings for me anymore? Or had I completely misread things to begin with? Even if so, how could he act like the kiss hadn’t meant anything to him? After all the time we’ve been friends, everything we’ve been through together? For just a second during the kiss, I’d thought…. But maybe I was wrong. Before I can process this, he hits me with the double whammy of not wanting to tell my father about the incident after all. Before I can respond in the negative he explains why he thinks we shouldn’t, and I realize that he might have a point, so I nod and agree with him. After all, it might be better to keep those two guessing about what I might do about it, and when. Keep them off balance. I hate to be so calculating and manipulative, but sometimes that’s the only thing those of our class understand. I keep my distance from Pey as we walk back inside, careful not to touch him, for fear of feeling his indifference again. That might actually make me break down and cry- something I absolutely don’t want to do in front of him. As we walk through the doors, I glance at the stairs and think of my room- and, as much as it galls me to do so, I decide to take the coward’s way out and escape.* You know what, Pey? I’ve put in an appearance and made the rounds, and that’s really all I promised my dad I’d do. I think I’m gonna go ahead and just call it a night. See you at the training center tomorrow night… * I go up the stairs, keeping to a moderate pace (I might be running away, but damned if I’ll let him know that!). As soon as my bedroom door closes behind me, I start pulling the pins out of my hair and pull it back into a simple ponytail. Then I change into sweatpants and a t-shirt and curl up on the couch in my sitting area, trying to sort out my increasingly tangled feelings regarding my best friend.*

Peyton: [I could tell she was still out of sorts as we entered her home again, whether it was from the confrontation or the kiss, I could only guess. Was telling her that my lips were at her disposal any time she wanted them even too much? Not that open mouth, insert foot wasn't my usual go to when it came to Paradise, and something we were both used to, but damn that kiss had thrown me for a loop. I knew the fantasies running through my mind weren't even a notion in hers as we walked silently into the ballroom, but I wasn't surprised when she decided to take her leave for the night. It was a relief actually as I caught my father's judgmental stare from across the room, and just as my buzz was starting to wane. Yes, ducking out now was best all around. The only thing that would make it better was if Paradise were to ask me to join her in her rooms, but that was those fantasies fucking with my head again. Never gonna happen, Pey. Nodding as I walked her to the bottom of the grand staircase, I lifted her hand as I gave a half bow, but instead of brushing my lips over her knuckles, I turned her hand over, and pressed a kiss to the pulse point of her wrist. With a wink and a smile that was equally devilish and just plain stupid, I bid my date good night and turned for the door. Thanking the doggen as he held out my cashmere coat, I was sparking the joint I had tucked in the inner pocket before another doggen arrived with my car from valet. The J and replay of that kiss from Paradise would keep me warm for the rest of the night and following day.]

#GlymeraParty #SASBDB

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leviloviatar · 6 years

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I just saw an anti post and they said that gendrya would never work because gendry has expressed inferiority complex multiple times. And they also pointed out how gendry would never challenge her. Have they read they same books? Yes, gendry has his own problems, but so does arya. And I do think he did challenge her enough, especially in the books!! Like comon they wrestled in the dirt, and he wasnt afraid to express his opinion even if he was lowborn.../ Pt1

…He is uneducated but again he didn’t have any choice! And cleverness has nothing to do with education! Gendry never had friends and I don’t expect him to know how to befriend! I don’t think he knows what affection is. Many people joke about Arya’s coldness, but I think she would express her feelings more easily than him! Arya is the only one we see that makes him happy or let him be himself. And I was wondering what do you think?? and if you see this being a problem when they meet again.

Let me tell you something about Antis, child. When the books are published, and the canon is established, the Antis will die, but Gendrya will survive.

Here’s the thing about antis…how do I put this gently? They’re stupid. If someone wants to ship some crack ship they’re entitled to do that I suppose, but to actually do the mental gymnastics necessary to try and deny Arya and Gendry you have to be willfully ignorant of the canon material.

So, let’s address these points one by one.

EDIT: This turned out to be long af so I will put it under one of these

1. Does Gendry have an inferiority complex? Well, first of all, no. To say that someone is acutely aware of the drastic differences in status in a societal structure that is inherently based on social class is not a “complex.” Gendry believes himself to be inferior to Arya because in Westerosi society he is inferior to Arya. This is an incontrovertible fact and one that Gendry is very aware of. Gendry grew up in a slum, being constantly reminded of his place - low-born, poor, a bastard, and ultimately inconsequential. (He was only able to rise to the rank of armorer’s apprentice because he was sponsored - Varys paid a lot of money to put him in that position in the hopes that he would escape notice. If it weren’t for that, Gendry wouldn’t have even risen that far).

Look at the way Gendry speaks to Arry when he believes Arry is a commoner like himself:

“Then you’re stupid.” -ACOK, Arya II

The Bull shook his head. “Promise not to cry if I cut you?” -ACOK, Arya II

The Bull scowled at her. “Why should she want you? You’re nothing but a little gutter rat!” -ACOK, Arya III

Gendry smiled. “You want me to take out my cock and prove it? I don’t have anything to hide.” -ACOK, Arya V

“I would if I knew, Arry … is that really what you’re called, or do you have some girl’s name?”-ACOK, Arya V

Then look how he changes immediately upon realizing that she is nobility:

“Arya.” She raised her eyes to his. “My name is Arya. Of House Stark.”“Of House…” It took him a moment before he said, “The King’s Hand was named Stark. The one they killed for a traitor.”“He was never a traitor. he was my father.”Gendry’s eyes widened. “So that’s why you thought…”She nodded. “Yoren was taking me home to Winterfell.”“I…you’re highborn then, a…you’ll be a lady…”Arya looked down at her ragged clothes and bare feet, all cracked and callused. She saw the dirt under her nails, the scabs on her elbows, the scratches on her hands. Septa Mordane wouldn’t even know me, I bet. Sansa might, but she’d pretend not to. “My mother’s a lady, and my sister, but I never was.”“Yes you were. You were a lord’s daughter and you lived in a castle, didn’t you? And you … gods be good, I never …” All of a sudden Gendry seemed uncertain, almost afraid. “All that about cocks, I never should have said that. And I been pissing in front of you and everything, I … I beg your pardon, m'lady.”“Stop that!” Arya hissed. Was he mocking her?“I know my courtesies, m'lady,” Gendry said, stubborn as ever. “Whenever highborn girls came into the shop with their fathers, my master told me I was to bend the knee, and speak only when they spoke to me, and call them m'lady.” -ACOK, Arya V

He has literally been taught to prostrate himself before the members of the aristocracy (and indeed there could be consequences for not doing so). So no, it’s not that he has an inferiority complex. He has been taught that this is his place in the world. However, his relationship with Arya challenges this worldview as we begin see literally in the moments after this revelation:

“If you start calling me m'lady, even Hot Pie is going to notice. And you better keep on pissing the same way too.”Arya slammed his chest with both hands. He tripped over a stone and sat down with a thump. “What kind of lord’s daughter are you?” he said, laughing.“This kind.” She kicked him in the side, but it only made him laugh harder. “You laugh all you like. I’m going to see who’s in the village.“ -ACOK, Arya V

He quickly becomes comfortable with this high-born girl and returns to their dynamic. She trusts him with her secret, a secret that is quite literally life and death for her. Gendry could turn her in and earn a reward from the queen that is more money than he would ever see in his lifetime normally. Think about what that must mean to him. This girl, this member of the aristocracy, has literally trusted him with her life. This is arguably the most important thing anyone has ever entrusted him with. It’s poignant. More than that, she risks her life to come save him after he gets captured. She could have moved on without him, but she didn’t - she literally risked her life for his.

And despite the fact that Gendry expresses his general distaste for highborns on multiple occasions (one of which clearly being prompted by jealousy of Ned Dayne) he remains close with Arya and comfortable with her.

Arya slithered through the window and leapt down to the floor beside him.He did not seem surprised to see her. “You should be abed, girl.“ -ACOK, Arya IX

Girl, not m’lady.

“You have to help me get them out.”Gendry laughed. “And how do we do that?“ -ACOK, Arya IX

She literally gave him an order and he laughed at her.

“Leave me alone, girl.”-ACOK, Arya IX

And then gave her an order of his own. Still calling her ‘girl.’

Once, when there had been only half as many heads, Gendry had caught Arya looking at them. “Admiring your work?” he asked.He was angry because he’d liked Lucan, she knew, but it still wasn’t fair. -ACOK, Arya X

Being a sarcastic little shit.

At the forge she found the fires extinguished and the doors closed and barred. She crept in a window, as she had once before. Gendry shared a mattress with two other apprentice smiths. She crouched in the loft for a long time before her eyes adjusted enough for her to be sure that he was the one on the end. Then she put a hand over his mouth and pinched him. His eyes opened. He could not have been very deeply asleep. “Please,” she whispered. She took her hand off his mouth and pointed.For a moment she did not think he understood, but then he slid out from under the blankets. Naked, he padded across the room, shrugged into a loose roughspun tunic, and climbed down from the loft after her. The other sleepers did not stir. “What do you want now?” Gendry said in a low angry voice. -ACOK, Arya X

CASUALLY WALKING AROUND NAKED IN FRONT OF HER LIKE ITS NBD AND SALTY AF THAT SHE WOKE HIM UP.

Supper was being served in the hall by the time Arya was all washed and combed and dressed. Gendry took one look and laughed so hard that wine came out his nose, until Harwin gave him a thwack alongside his ear. -ASOS, Arya IV

Laughing at her to her face.

Arya stalked away angry, and would have slammed the door if it hadn’t been so heavy. […] “Arya?” Gendry had followed her out. “Lady Smallwood said there’s a smithy. Want to have a look?”“If you want.” She had nothing else to do.[…]“I look like an oak tree, with all these stupid acorns.”“Nice, though. A nice oak tree.” He stepped closer, and sniffed at her. “You even smell nice for a change.”“You don’t. You stink.” Arya shoved him back against the anvil and made to run, but Gendry caught her arm. She stuck a foot between his legs and tripped him, but he yanked her down with him, and they rolled across the floor of the smithy. He was very strong, but she was quicker. Every time he tried to hold her still she wriggled free and punched him. Gendry only laughed at the blows, which made her mad. He finally caught both her wrists in one hand and started to tickle her with the other, so Arya slammed her knee between his legs, and wrenched free. Both of them were covered in dirt, and one sleeve was torn on her stupid acorn dress. “I bet I don’t look so nice now,” she shouted. -ASOS, Arya IV

SO YEAH HE IS PRETTY DAMN COMFORTABLE WITH HER. Comfortable enough to follow her out when she storms off in a rage, start a tickle fight, laugh at her, and rip her (very expensive and borrowed from another highborn lady) dress.

Look how the others react to this audacity.

Harwin took one look at them and burst out laughing, and Anguy smiled one of his stupid freckly smiles and said, “Are we certain this one is a highborn lady?” But Lem Lemoncloak gave Gendry a clout alongside the head. “You want to fight, fight with me! She’s a girl, and half your age! You keep your hands off o’ her, you hear me?”“I started it,” said Arya. “Gendry was just talking.”“Leave the boy, Lem,” said Harwin. “Arya did start it, I have no doubt. She was much the same at Winterfell. -ASOS, Arya IV

The point I’m trying to make here is that Gendry, being so aware of his status as a lowborn bastard, would never feel comfortable rolling around the floor tickling just any highborn girl. Harwin, who has known Arya since she was a child, defends Gendry in a ‘hey, It’s cool guys, Arya’s not that kind of lords daughter’ sort of way. Despite the heavily romantic connotations, this entire incident is completely innocent in nature, after all, they’re both kids. But Gendry is older (about 5 years or so, the same age as Robb who let’s remember was married and trying to father heirs twice a night) so this is still BOLD AF on Gendry’s part and the author is clearly showing the reader the level of intimacy between Gendry and Arya (and, in my opinion, that Gendry is more aware of his developing feelings for Arya).

And then there’s this:

An old man sat down beside her. “Well, aren’t you a pretty little peach?” His breath smelled near as foul as the dead men in the cages, and his little pig eyes were crawling up and down her. “Does my sweet peach have a name?”

For half a heartbeat she forgot who she was supposed to be. She wasn’t any peach, but she couldn’t be Arya Stark either, not here with some smelly drunk she did not know. “I’m…”

“She’s my sister.” Gendry put a heavy hand on the old man’s shoulder, and squeezed. “Leave her be.”

The man turned, spoiling for a quarrel, but when he saw Gendry’s size he thought better of it. “Your sister, is she? What kind of brother are you? I’d never bring no sister of mine to the Peach, that I wouldn’t.” He got up from the bench and moved off muttering, in search of a new friend.

“Why did you say that?” Arya hopped to her feet. “You’re not my brother.”“That’s right,” he said angrily. “I’m too bloody lowborn to be kin to m’lady high.”Arya was taken aback by the fury in his voice. “That’s not the way I meant it.”“Yes it is.” He sat down on the bench, cradling a cup of wine between his hands. “Go away. I want to drink this wine in peace. Then maybe I’ll go find that black-haired girl and ring her bell for her.”“But…”“I said, go away. M’lady.”

-ASOS, Arya V

Here we have the lowborn bastard boy literally yelling at the highborn lady, and why? Because (to his mind) she just threw in his face the fact that he is not her equal, and it hurt his feelings. Does he bow and bend the knee and beg her forgiveness? No. Gendry is the bull - stubborn, surly, and brimming with that famous Baratheon temper. He throws the word “m’lady” in her face spitefully, lashing out because its her status as a lady that makes her so unattainable for him within the confines of their societal structure. (Note that Arya has never made mention of their difference in class, she is not the one he’s angry at - its the world, society, his place in it that anger him. The author is showing us the depth of his feelings for her here, because its directly proportional to the anger with which he reacts). She will always be out of reach for him. Unattainable, no matter how much he may love her. Why? Because he is, as he says, “too bloody lowborn.” He would never be permitted to act on his feelings towards her. This is not an inferiority complex in the slightest - its an awareness of the significance of their differences in social status. Moreover, instead of responding to her demurely, like someone who truly believed himself inferior might, he responds with anger and lashes out in a way that would never be acceptable for a lowborn to speak to a highborn lady. The author is specifically showing us that even though Gendry is painfully aware of their difference in social status, he is already not behaving according to societal expectations when it comes to her.

Sorry, antis - Gendry’s awareness of his status as a lowborn in comparison to Arya as a highborn and his relationship with her in spite of that is an integral part of his character development and not an “inferiority complex.”

2. Gendry wouldn’t “challenge” her. First of all, what does this even mean? That he wouldn’t challenge her authority because of her being highborn? If so, refer back to point one. Or does it mean that he wouldn’t challenge her intellectually because he’s less intelligent? If so, that is simply not true. Gendry may not be formally educated in the same way a member of the aristocracy would be, but that does not make him less intelligent. Gendry is very intelligent. Moreover, whoever said this is stupid because as you pointed out, clever anon, Gendry has challenged Arya, repeatedly, in the canon material.

In addition to the several instances listed above, take these amusing tidbits for example:

“Gendry,” she called, her voice low and urgent. “They have a boat. We could sail the rest of the way up to Riverrun. It would be faster than riding, I think.”He looked dubious. “Did you ever sail a boat?”“Then there’s oars to row.”“Against the current?” Gendry frowned. “Wouldn’t that be slow? And what if the boat tips over and we fall into the water? It’s not our boat anyway, it’s the inn’s.”We could take it. Arya chewed her lip and said nothing.

-ASOS, Arya II

“I think we’re lost,” she said in a low voice. “We shouldn’t have left the river. All we had to do was follow it.”

“The river bends and loops,” said Gendry. “This is just a shorter way, I bet. Some secret outlaw way. Lem and Tom and them have been living here for years.”That was true. Arya bit her lip. “But the moss …”The way it’s raining, we’ll have moss growing from our ears before long,“ Gendry complained.“Only from our south ear,” Arya declared stubbornly. There was no use trying to convince the Bull of anything. […]She reined up very suddenly. “We are going the wrong way!”Gendry groaned. “What is it, moss again?”

-ASOS, Arya III

Arya herself knows that there is no use in her trying to convince Gendry of anything, so whatever anti said he wouldn’t “challenge” her clearly needs to read the books.

3. Arya’s alleged “coldness”:

Arya? Cold? As in Arya of House Stark? IN WHAT BOOKS? Arya who saves little children? Who gives water to starving, dehydrated prisoners? Who was literally devastated when Gendry left her? That Arya??? Arya “they’re my pack” Stark is ANYTHING BUT COLD when it comes to Gendry.

“The only thing that mattered was that they had Gendry. Even if he was stubborn and stupid, she had to get him out.” -ACOK, Arya V

“[Gendry] was the only true friend she had,” -ASOS, Arya III

This is someone she saw as family. Family. Pack.

“And if we did escape, where would we go?”

“Winterfell,“ she said at once. “I’d tell Mother how you helped me, and you could stay—”

-ACOK, Arya IX

“You can still make swords if you want,” said Arya. “You can make them for my brother Robb when we get to Riverrun.”-ASOS, Arya IV

She is hurt when he decides to stay with the Brotherhood - to leave her. This is much more devastating to her than Hot Pie choosing to stay behind.

“I’ll smith for you.“ Gendry went to one knee before Lord Beric. “If you’ll have me, m'lord, I could be of use. I’ve made tools and knives and once I made a helmet that wasn’t so bad. One of the Mountain’s men stole it from me when we was taken.”Arya bit her lip. He means to leave me too.

-ASOS, Arya VII

As Arya was cinching her saddle girth, Gendry came up to say that he was sorry. She put a foot in the stirrup and swung up into her saddle, so she could look down on him instead of up. You could have made swords at Riverrun for my brother, she thought, but what she said was, “If you want to be some stupid outlaw knight and get hanged, why should I care? I’ll be at Riverrun, ransomed, with my brother."

-ASOS, Arya VII

Oh and let’s not forget that Arya is still pissed about Gendry’s threat regarding that girl at the Peach:

“Why don’t you go back to Stoney Sept and ring that girl’s stupid bells?”

-ASOS, Arya VIII

If she were “cold” she just wouldn’t give a shit. But she does.

I usually assume when people talk about Arya being “cold” or some sort of emotionless killer that they haven’t read the books. As you may know if you’ve read some of my other posts, I have an (unpopular) opinion that certain other faves will become ruthless murderers while Arya, by contrast, will not. Certainly her time in Braavos will change her but I don’t believe it will fundamentally alter her core personality. (Hence why she didn’t give up Needle, she buried it, symbolically hiding her identity, but it is only hidden, not gone forever). One of the many layers of symbolism surrounding her character are symbols of fertility, family, and the feminine (acorns, wolf packs, swans, etc). This is not accidental.

4. Do I see this being a problem when they meet again?

When they reunite I expect there to be a veritable storm of emotions on both sides. Gendry, for one, has been miserable since they were separated. (Compare the way he is when Brienne meets him in AFFC to Gendry when he’s with Arya - laughing, joking, playful, etc). Keep in mind that it was most likely Gendry running after her calling her name when the Hound took her. He in all likelihood believes her to be dead (and/or married to Ramsay Bolton depending on how much intelligence he has received) and probably blames himself for this. I believe he is remaining at the Inn protecting those children and waiting, hoping that she survived somehow. And who is Gendry serving now? Lady Stoneheart. Arya’s mother. Now, of course, she’s the zombie de facto leader of the Brotherhood, and many of them are not cool with her methods. However, she is the closest thing to Arya that he has. So he serves her. And when they reunite again I believe he’s going to have a role to play in resolving the Arya/Lady Stoneheart plot line as well, which is going to be really emotionally charged for obvious reasons.

As for Arya, she’s not going to forget that Gendry chose to leave her. That pain is likely still buried and will surface again the moment she sees those blue eyes of his. But - the other feelings are still there as well. The ones she was still too young to fully understand the last time they were together. And as we have seen from the Mercy chapter of TWOW, she has grown up. So I expect there to be a maturity level that wasn’t there before that will allow her to more fully understand her feelings about Gendry (and vice versa btw, she might be able to understand his feelings if he were to explain to her that his decision to stay with the Brotherhood was largely due to the fact that he understood his own feelings for her at the time and the implications of those feelings).

There will also be #forgesex it is known.

#GENDRYA #gendry waters #arya stark #endgame #anon ask #sorry this is so long but also NOT SORRY AT ALL #because these antis are ridiculous #seriously i can't even believe there are antis to this ship #READ THE BOOKS PEOPLE #love you anon #had to add forgesex in there #THANK YOU ANON for asking me my opinion and giving me a chance to RAMBLE ON AT LENGTH ABOUT MY FAVORITE SUBJECT you are a blessing #i hope amazing things happen to you and all my Gendrya fam today

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