#lymond chronicles spoilers

[thecrenellations]

Oh, you married the older sister (?) of the friend/crush you connected with on a dangerous adventure as a teenager? She has some gender stuff going on and was pretty much the only person who could get through to him when he was extremely ill after one of the most traumatic experiences of his life? On a scale of Jerott Blyth to Sounis Sophos, how well did it go?

#these four are VERY different people #WITH VERY DIFFERENT MARRIAGES #and yet #lymond #lymond chronicles #the queen’s thief #sophos #eddis helen #marthe #jerott blyth #something i #mwt #dangerous adventure is a weird way to describe a battle but I couldn’t think of anything better #lymond chronicles spoilers #hi qt fandom … sorry for potentially spoiling you for several lymond plot points when mwt reblogged this #amazing

[unhelpfulfemme]

CHECKMATE SPOILERS DON'T READ IF YOU HAVEN'T READ CHECKMATE

Hot take: Francis’s insistence on not being able to control himself in Checkmate is a textbook example of intrusive thoughts and shouldn’t be taken at face value the way so many people do. He has OCD tendencies throughout the entire series (perfectionist neat freak, moral OCD as well), and they’re clearly coming to a head as his mental health deteriorates, so he tries to excessively police his own and others’ behaviour to alleviate the anxiety that comes with the intrusive thoughts. The way OCD sufferers do. (And I mean, you know it’s bullshit because if you actually pay attention to the last couple of pages of the book, he checks in with her or waits to be absolutely sure she won’t pull back before reciprocating or escalating every time. He’s very clearly 100% capable of controlling himself.)

I for one love the Sevigny chapters because I just love vicious cycles where people’s mental illnesses feed into each other and this section is an A+ example of that. You have a person with PTSD caused by sexual trauma and zero non-traumatic sexual experiences and then you have her partner, the only person she’s interacting with, repeatedly and obsessively emphasize how she must always be on alert and on her best behaviour because he’s a disgusting uncontrollable monster a hairbreadth away from basically raping her if she makes the wrong move. Of course she will be constantly MASSIVELY TRIGGERED by this and of course at some point her healing would plateau or even regress. She’s constantly tense, her HPA axis is in overdrive, she can’t relax because one wrong move = more sexual trauma. According to the one guy she trusts and connects with. And of course her lack of progress will feed back into his own issues, because if she's scared and repulsed by his desire that confirms that he is Bad and that he must stop desiring her and thinking about her in a sexual way, which intensifies the intrusive thoughts and his attempts to control them.

And the situation is set up the way it is because one of his fears (as stated during their afterparty fight at his place in Paris) is that they won’t be able to let go even if they become bad for each other. So now you have a situation where they are undoubtedly bad for each other and they do, actually, let go of each other and separate because they deem it best for them both. The structure of Checkmate reminds me a bit of a really nasty game of Tetris where the weird shapes are just stacking up and it seems unsalvageable but actually it was all being arranged for one piece to come in and solve 5 rows at once.

#I mean there's also a big element of that meme where the text goes #“why don't you open up?” #and the picture behind is that glass cupboard with all the plates about to fall out if it's opened #and I also think he's somewhere vaguely on the aro spectrum (Kathi genes) and isn't used to the vulnerability that comes with feelings #but those are my headcanons and aren't necessary for the section to work #lymond chronicles #lymond chronicles spoilers

[sophosthewisebunny]

Reading the Lymond books for the first time, please appreciate this collection of mental breakdowns I’ve had in the last 26 hours

#lymond chronicles #Lymond chronicles spoilers #Lyta’s Lymond blogging #I’m only 67% through disorderly knights no spoilers past then please #yes I have a normal amount of emotions about Oonagh why do you ask #the last one is in response to Will’s death btw #which #despite it being a real thing I knew would happen since you know #he was a real person #is still the worst thing Dorothy Dunnett has done to me thus far

[whataliethatwas]

OK Lymond fans, I've got a new reader to the series looking for a fic of Lymond and Will hooking up after Game of Kings, but before Will gets married. They're reading through Disorderly Knights right now.

Any favorites or suggestions?

#Lymond chronicles spoilers #lc spoilers #lymond chronicles

[cassandrva]

#out of everything in part 4 chapter 3 this is the paragraph that made me cry the most #lymond chronicles #the game of kings #lymond spoilers #AAAAAAA you're everyone who ever loved you!!! you're everyone you ever loved!!!!!! #fuck right off i'm experiencing a Feeling

[softieghost]

i know in my heart of hearts theyre putting this man in saw traps on ao3

#i want to look but must diligently avoid spoilers #lymond chronicles #lymond

[notasapleasure]

(Sorry prepare to be asked about many Lymond fics lol) But…. St Seb? Jerott whump? Feelings?👀👀

Hmm, this is one of those where I think I had a lot more of it 'scripted' in my head than ever actually made it down into the notes file. Some of it made it into bullet points, but I think I could never quite reconcile the 'way in' I found - the outsider perspective of young Walter Scott with the desire to show the Big Feels of Jerott and Francis's conversation first hand.

The idea was that a relative of Austin's heard Jerott was back in the country anyway, and decided to take his own revenge - with arrows because it's quieter than gunfire and Jerott does hang about with a lot of rather accomplished military men.

Mainly I wanted to put Jerott in a position where he has to tell Francis he loves him, then put Francis in a furious flap about not wanting to have heard that (because of the circumstances precipitating it and the fear that having unburdened himself Jerott might not fight so hard to live) with the guilt at being the reason Jerott came back to a place where Grays were seeking vengeance >:3 I think it also involved Danny angst as he supposed Jerott's feelings for Francis were going to override anything else, so when Jerott is actually recovered enough to expand on his admission it's to everyone's surprise and delight that what he admits feeling for Francis is something he's reconciled himself to in a way that he doesn't imagine acting on, and actually it's something he needed to get off his chest so he could deal with the more immediate problem of being in love with Danny. (yeah ig Danny sure is Irene)

Notes and what was written beneath the cut.

Gathering kine from a hot trod with young Scotts (Walter Scott, 4th Earl Buccleuch, b. 1549, Queen's captain 1566)

J sends Scott back and goes to round up stragglers himself

Someone has spread salt to distract them by a woodland

Jerott suspicious but confused, sword drawn to herd cattle with the flat of the blade

Young Grey gets him first, from close, neck/shoulder

Bend to horseback to make himself a smaller target, starting to back away before he wheels

Second shot to chest/side

Gets his pistol, remembers Austin, left-handed shot that would be on target if not for concurrent third shot to the leg

Wounds Grey who flees, shot alerts Lymond

Rides back to group, manages to loose stirrups so when he falls he's not dragged

Lymond makes some comment about overkill and strong tempers, rides back with young Scott

Sees Jerott's horse and flips (subtly)

Goes straight for woods after shouting Archie etc to where J fell

Danny has to fetch him: J is calling for him

Scathing about what he can do for him, everyone perplexed by his venom

But he goes and is quite soft at first, trying to find out who fired the arrows

J wants to tell him something else, F knows and won't let him - Archie etc think it's hard because they think he's not going to make it

Francis : "He's been taking orders his whole life, he'll take this one too."

Jerott still makes him hear it though Francis says he'll regret it when he comes round in comfort at St Mary's

Francis storms round in more of a mood than anyone has seen in an age, swearing vengeance on the Greys with uncharacteristic fury

Until J comes to, is able to stand by what he said and defuse some of F's anger

The fourth Baron of Buccleuch, a lank lad in his mid-teens, reined in his horse and let his exasperation be known. He was to be a commander of men, and in his troop that fresh day were soldiers who had seen more of fighting than even his widely renowned grandfather. Veterans and mercenaries, counts, generals and chevaliers, each had submitted to the orders of young Walter Scott, son of William of Kincurd.

Under Walter's direction, a solid threescore of Scots kine had been recovered before the English border and were now being driven back to their accustomed byres. Surrounded by their rain-hardened, hairy flanks, by their lowing and their shitting and the clanking of their bells, Walter should have been able to wallow in the sensation of success.

Instead, he glanced over his shoulder at the stragglers who had peeled away towards a little copse. He wished to be a commander of men, not of cattle, and some of the Scottish animals had evidently discerned this, choosing to test his control by asserting their independence.

Red curls framed Walter's face beneath his polished steel bonnet, his heavy covering of freckles defied the colour staining his cheeks, and he raised his leather gauntlets to his chest as his mount reared its head under pressure of the bit. He shouted after the kine, but they did not change their course. He prepared to ride back for them, knowing full well that this level of responsibility had come to none of the other men so young, and all had first cut their teeth on the roundup before earning their captaincies. If he asked another of them to go on his order, he would deserve to be told to learn the dirty work for himself first.

Walter was surprised then, when the new man called over and waved to Walter to ride on. He was some friend of the Count's, broad-shouldered and hazelnut-skinned, with a great sword that had shed the blood of the infidel and a sardonic, severe look in his eyes.

"Are ye certain?" Walter bellowed over the sound of the herd.

The other man shrugged and turned his horse laconically, though no movement of his hands on the reins or his legs at the sides had been visible. "It's been a long enough night. I may be out of practice, but I'll still have them back faster than you, lad."

Walter paused, mouth gaping in annoyance. Then he decided that it wasn't a task worth squabbling over and nodded in what he presumed was an authoritative manner. "Thank ye."

The man, Blyth his name was - originally from some mercantile family who had long since left the country - raised a bare hand in acknowledgement as he rode back towards the copse. He'd come from Malta, they said. Had fought for the cross and battled pirates. It left Walter a little in awe, but he wasn't sure how much he could believe it, after all - why on earth would a man like that choose to come back to the borders to police families tussling over livestock?

-

It had rained through the night but the morning had come meek and clothed in the sun's silvery rays. The sky was gauzy: delicate satins overlaid by lacy clouds, a curtain that trailed its misty hem across the hills and moors. Long and rich, the grass was aquamarine studded with dewy pearls, darkening where hooves trampled through it. The Borders smelled of life.

Jerott Blyth took in greedy lungfuls of the wet air, happy to feel the chill of it in his arms. He squeezed his knees to the saddle and his horse swished its tail and broke into a trot, and he felt the dew from the grass spatter his cheeks as it was cast high by his horse's passing hooves.

The cattle, three twist-horned old milkers, red and white patched and better travelled than their young captain Buccleuch, had settled to graze on the edge of a straggling copse made up of thin aspens and holly. Jerott pushed the brim of his helmet back with a thumb and hailed the cows, clicking his tongue for their attention and thinking how much simpler this would be than organising panicked farmers among the ruins of St Elmo's.

He slowed his horse to a walk and circled the stubborn grazers. Something had certainly captured their attention among the wet grasses and cowslips, worth rooting out between the strong scented leaves of ramps and their nodding white flowers. Jerott gave a shout and was rewarded with a stare from a single pair of impassive brown eyes, raised momentarily from grazing, and no sign of intent to move otherwise.

He bit his tongue and rolled his eyes, and with a smooth gesture drew the great hand-and-a-half sword at his side and slapped the flat of it against the nearest beast's hindquarters.

The cow flinched, its legs jolting and head raised. It took a couple of steps though, and Jerott rode between it and the edge of the trees, turning it in the direction Buccleuch's party had ridden. He cast a frown at the trampled, muddied grass and noticed crystalline points of white among the greenery. It looked like salt, chipped from a block of lick and scattered down here where passing beasts might scent it.

Jerott looked about to discover the extent of the trail, and hefted his sword, thinking to give the beast another encouraging blow.

There, beneath the overhanging boughs of aspen with their fluffy pink catkins, a gust of wind shielded Jerott from all other sounds. The limbs of the trees sighed and the holly leaves scratched drily against one another and the bark of surrounding saplings. A magpie let out a cackling cry and the wings of a wood pigeon clattered desperately against the wind.

The shuff of metal and wood and grey goose feather rending the air was camouflaged. Jerott's eyes were on the puzzle of the chips of salt, his mind was on the broth waiting at St Mary's and the dry clothes in his chamber and the things he would discuss later with Francis and Danny and Adam and Archie. He was surprised to hear himself grunt, did not know why he raised his free hand at first, why it seemed worth dropping the reins to do so.

There was a shadow in the corner of his eye, like a tree-branch come too close, and it was accompanied by a deepening, spreading pain in his shoulder. He could not turn his face towards it: agony clamped hard on his muscles and he realised that he had been shot.

The arrow shaft pointed skywards, a freakish protrusion from Jerott's collar. His fingertips discovered the entry point, which grew hot and liquid with welling blood. It set contrary waves of cold pumping over his body, shock gnawing on his nerves and his concentration, and Jerott tried to draw a deep breath to counter it.

Pain drove its claws deep into his chest when he did so. It felt like the gesture somehow drew the missile further into his flesh and a cry of discomfort was yanked from between his gritted teeth. Around him, the cattle twitched their ears at the sound, but did not let it interrupt their feasting.

Jerott's body sagged over his horse's neck, and he dropped his left hand to catch himself on the saddle pommel, his sword achingly heavy in his other hand. He made himself suck in air, he drove the blackness from the edges of his vision with one determined thought, and he reminded himself that as the arrow had not finished its work then neither had he.

Training shut down panic with the ruthlessness of a portcullis descending. His body shook but he did not acknowledge it or cede to its demands. Energy rushed through the courses of his body, driven by the need to act.

His attacker had to be close for the shot to have penetrated the fabric of his plate-lined jack. The bracken had died back and the aspens were bare of leaves, but there was cover among the holly. Jerott did not worry about the number of his assailants or their motives for now - what he needed was distance, and the protection of his own cover. The rest of the hot trod would be too far to hear him hail, so he needed to manage this on his own. Jerott regathered the reins in his left hand and flexed the fingers of his right, though the grip of his sword still slipped in his palm before he secured it.

He turned his horse to face the trees and guided it in a sideways, circling trot as he searched the greens and browns for anything amiss. As he moved, he hoped to increase the tree cover between him and the archer, or to force the archer into revealing themselves.

The next shot he dodged, assisted by an impatient gust of wind that took the arrow away to his right. He knew then that they had expected one hit to suffice and that they lacked a great deal of experience in the matters of ambush: Jerott pinned his eyes on the spot the arrow had been fired from and tried to lift his sword, suspecting that a charge would flush them out in a panic. If he could get there quickly enough. His legs tightened on his horse's sides and he rested his right fist against his thigh, forcing the sword blade into the air.

The breeze swirled and he felt it cold in his wound, but it benefitted the archer this time, and though he twisted his body away from the missile, his movement was slowed by his stiffening shoulder. Jerott anticipated the impact, knowing the jack would take the brunt of it, but he had been travelling towards it this time, and his curse was swept up by the wind when he felt iron pierce cloth and plate and flesh below and his body was knocked backwards in the saddle.

He controlled his breathing as well as he could, but with a second arrow shaking in his chest it was more difficult to keep regret from seeping into his thoughts. He had come back to Scotland to settle an account on a topic that he still did not know how to broach, he had survived war and rout and siege only to have the possibility of closure snatched by some green coward intent on stealing a handful of old milch cows.

Pain pulling his mouth into a sneer of disgust, Jerott let his shoulders hunch forwards. He made his body look heavy, though his heart felt like a hare trapped behind his ribs. He slackened his fist and the sword's leather-wound handle stuck momentarily to his sweaty palm before falling heavily to the mud-churned grass. He reached for the arrow in his centre and shook at the agony in his shoulder as he did so.

When, faltering, he let his right hand drop to the saddle, he knew that then the activity of both hands was hidden from the treeline by his horse's neck. He fumbled single-mindedly with fingers grey and shivering in the pouch at his belt, extracting a bullet as his other hand loosed his gun. Loading it was a messy process, between his feigned swoons and the genuine ones, but then, still hunched in pain, he cast his head back to view the woods again.

The archer had stepped from the holly bush. A lone figure in clothes that were plain but smart, holding his bow strung as he squinted at Jerott, he did not look like a rustler, nor an assassin. He was unfamiliar; a no one.

Jerott's exhausted grimace turned into a grin as he raised his pistol left-handed and fired.

The archer's eye's widened and he raised his bow.

Bullet struck and arrow struck, and Jerott's gun dropped not far from where he had lost his sword.

-

The sound of a pistol shot reached Walter Scott and the men under his command. Walter pulled his horse up short and turned, his hand at his sword, his eyes round as marbles.

It was the Count who reached him first, his exquisitely fine features wearing an expression of mild peevishness.

"What was that?" Walter asked him, and the Count of Lymond and Sevigny looked him up and down with gentle bemusement.

"I should say it was gunfire, but there are surely more pertinent questions."

Walter swallowed. "Yeah, who?"

"Why?" The Count added. "Have you seen any sign of pursuit?"

"No," Walter hesitated, realising he had not been looking for it. "The only ones after are a few kine that went over to that copse we passed - yer friend Blyth offered to go after them."

The Count did not blink. If his lips paled one could not be sure under the bright morning sky, and the languid shift of his shoulders might have betokened anything.

His voice was smooth as ice, too. "Tell Hislop and Blacklock. Get Archie Abernethy from the front."

Walter frowned, sensing that he had ceded command, though Lymond generously left its illusion in his hands.

"And tell them what?" Walter tried not to let panic into his voice, seeing the Count's keen blue eyes had shifted to the horizon and would not be moved as he gathered himself and his horse. "It was just ane shot, it might not even ha' been Blyth."

The Count did not look at him as his horse broke into a trot. "It was. And he's not likely to be taking pot shots at the magpies."

Easing into a faster pace, Lymond rode off, leaving Walter to face the rest of the hot trod, which was now a messy column of men and cattle, some looking at him, others pointedly gazing elsewhere, two or three with eyes on Lymond, their accustomed commander, as he left.

"I need Hislop, Blacklock and Abernethy," Walter shouted, though his voice cracked as he did.

The men were already making their way towards him. The mercenary Danny Hislop shook his bare head of fine, fluffy curls and smiled sweetly. "It's nice of you to say so, Sir Walter, but we know it's Francis who called."

"Where's Jerott?" Blacklock - pencil thin, dark-haired, with a permanent air of unease - arrived at a trot.

"Well, that's it," Walter said uneasily. What was it that he was about to tell these three men about their friend?

"Ye, ah, ye heard the gunshot?"

"Stupid bastard," Hislop cursed immediately, wheeling his horse in the direction Lymond had ridden.

"How?" Blacklock breathed, but the question in his eyes was for his fellows. "It's a simple hot trod, what's he done?"

Only Archie Abernethy remained steady, his broad brown brow furrowed like a walnut. "Tell us what ye ken, lad."

Walter's shoulders sagged in relief. Abernethy was capable of reassuring even when one did not know what one might have done wrong. He related the conversation with Lymond and emphasised that Blyth had volunteered to ride back for the stray cattle.

"Is that his horse?" Hislop interrupted, just as Walter was starting to feel he had a handle on the situation once more.

Blacklock swore, and when his quiet - and, to Walter, astonishing - stream of invective ended, he heard Lymond's voice calling from the other side of the ridge they had just crossed.

Blyth's tall bay horse was ambling uneasily across the grass, its reins trailing and head down. Now and then it paused and glanced back, as though confused to find itself alone.

No command could have stayed the other men now, and Walter was left flapping his heels against his own mount's flank as he tried to keep pace with Hislop, Blacklock and Abernethy. He paused to sweep up the reins of Blyth's horse and turned it back to wherever it had left its rider.

Walter could now see the other men converging on a spot about halfway up the gentle rise of land below the ridge. At the bottom of the valley was a narrow, rocky stream, and the copse sprawled darkly on the opposite bank. The young Scott let out a sound of exasperation when he saw that the three errant cows remained busy at their grazing, unconcerned with the human drama they were witness to.

A man, it had to be Blyth, lay flat on the wet grass. Lymond bent over him, and as Walter watched, the Count pulled a binding tight about the prone man's leg, stood and snapped something at Abernethy, then re-mounted and rode away to the woods.

Blyth must have lived yet, but the Buccleuch could not say how. When he got near, Walter counted three arrows in Blyth's body: shoulder, abdomen and thigh. The latter had released a great deal of blood, and Abernethy was in the process of reinforcing the tourniquet Lymond had applied. The chevalier's dark skin had paled to a sickly green reflection of the vegetation that soaked his hair and clothes, and his hands lay open and bloodied at his sides.

Blacklock took one of the limp sets of fingers and held it in his grip as Abernethy assessed the damage done by the other arrows. Hislop dismounted, but would not go near, and paced uneasily at Abernethy's back, his white face turned towards Blyth's unresponsive expression.

#wip ask meme #my fics #my wips #lymond chronicles #post-canon #lymond spoilers

[semicolonsandsimiles]

#lymond chronicles #lymond spoilers

[liraleinil]

So. I finished reading the Captive Prince trilogy in three days (just the novels, not the short stories) and I am feeling a lot of things, but mostly I'm feeling vaguely frustrated. It's hard to articulate how I feel. I enjoyed the books while I was reading them, even though some parts made me cringe. But that's not the problem.

The problem is the Lymond Chronicles by Dorothy Dunnett. I feel like at least some people who liked the Captive Prince books would love Dunnett but I've found that recommending the books rarely sticks. 

If you're expecting an epic gay romance, you won't find it in Lymond. But a lot of the other elements in the Captive Prince series are there, along with great writing, a complex cast of characters, and plots and ploys abound. I don't read much historical fiction, but Dunnett was so good, it sucked me completely in, despite knowing very little of the history and setting. (Not so different from reading fantasy, really.) 

Anyway! Spoiler warnings for all the Captive Prince novels and the Lymond Chronicles, though it's less explicit for the latter.

Let's get the obvious thing out of the way. My favourite book series is the Lymond Chronicles by Dorothy Dunnett, six historical fiction novels set in the 1500s, spanning from Scotland to Europe to Turkey to France, featuring a blond-haired, blue-eyed, minor Scottish nobleman known as Francis Crawford of Lymond. I'm sure other people have pointed out the similarity between the two series and the characters Laurent and Lymond and there has been analysis by people much more eloquent than me. 

I started reading Captive Prince one afternoon and finished it before midnight. I went on to read Prince's Gambit simply because Laurent was acting so Lymond-like that I had to find out what he was up to. I immediately suspected he knew who Damen was from the start because that's the sort of annoying leaps of logic Lymond makes, with his cornflower blue eyes glittering with malice — that's how similar they are.

I'm not one of those people who can't enjoy a book because something like it has already been done before. I'm always looking for books that could bring me back to that same kind of excitement I found when I first read the Lymond Chronicles. One of the reasons I picked up Captive Prince was because of the comparisons made to Lymond.

It's just that I feel a bit cheated that, despite all the similarities, I don't think it would be easy to get people to read the Lymond Chronicles after getting into Captive Prince. It's too dense, too full of historical references, too many quotes in too many languages. Too clever. 

Who knows whether the parallels in the two series were intentional or not. At the start of the first book, The Game of Kings, Lymond gets drunk before he goes off to rob his mother, Sybilla, and set her castle on fire. Here's part of his conversation with her. You can see why everyone around him wants to stab him. He's more loquacious than Laurent, at any rate.

Yes, he even has an older brother. Lymond goes and antagonises Richard almost immediately after this. I think that was the point where I started wondering, This is the man we're supposed to get behind? Quite the antihero, Francis Crawford of Lymond. 

There are other things. They don't play the same part or advance the narrative the same way in both stories, but the fact that they are there just … I'm not even sure what to say. Imitation is the best form of flattery? There are disguises with hilarious consequences, trials where every single piece of evidence is disputed, exhilarating chases over the rooftops of Paris, whips and whipping posts, royal hunts that don't end well, ridiculous acrobatics on horses, babies of indeterminate parentage, your favourite characters ending up dead, Will Scott's mix of hero worship and wanting to strangle Lymond at the same time, and Jerott (I don't even know where we should toss Jerott). 

Sometimes it's just a line, and I end up raising an eyebrow at it because it sounds so Dunnett. I'm not disparaging Pacat here; as I said earlier, I'm frustrated, because I feel more people should enjoy the Lymond Chronicles and Dunnett's writing, but they're not going to, because Dunnett was too clever and made the books too dense and witty and difficult.

If you do start The Game of Kings, though, I ask you to try to get at least to page 100 or so before giving up. That was where I decided that yes, this was definitely worth the effort. 

I don't suppose I'm making much sense, but apparently I feel so strongly about this that I need to make a Tumblr post in an otherwise empty account. Go me.

PS: I liked Megan Whalen Turner's Queen's Thief series as well, though the first book is, uh, somewhat disappointing? I don't know if I had too high expectations or what. I loved the later books, though. For some reason, I still haven't read the last book in the series. I suppose I should remedy that.

#captive prince #c.s. pacat #the lymond chronicles #lymond #lymond chronicles #dorothy dunnett #books #books and reading #book recommendations

[bloody-wonder]

Hello, this ask is just for fun.....

Top 5 (or top 3) Favorite female characters :

Top 5 (or top 3) Favorite male characters :

Top 5 Favorite series (media) :

Series (media) you are currently enjoying :

Series (media) that exceeded all your expectations :

Top 3 Unpopular series (media) you really love :

Favorite romance :

Favorite action :

Favorite fantasy :

Favorite sci -fi :

Favorite drama :

Favorite comedy :

Top 3 Favorite movies :

Next in your watch list :

Next in your read list :

Top 5 (or top 3) Favorite antagonists:

Top 5 (or top 3) favorite ships (can be canon or non canon) :

The series, movies or type of media can be anime/manga, books, or tv series....

Thanks 🌻

thanks for the ask! this is how i felt filling out the questions😅

top 4 favorite female characters: ianthe tridentarius (the locked tomb), cersei lannister (asoiaf/game of thrones), mizu (blue eye samurai), a secret character from a secret book i can't name bc the gender reveal is a major spoiler

top 6 favorite male characters: francis crawford of lymond (the lymond chronicles), the phantom of the opera, captain jack sparrow (pirates of the caribbean), tyrion lannister (asoiaf/game of thrones), alastor (hazbin hotel), severus snape (harry potter)

top 5 favorite tv series: game of thrones (seasons 1-4), sherlock (seasons 1-3), house md, avatar: the last airbender, what we do in the shadows

top 5 favorite book series: the lymond chronicles, all for the game, a song of ice and fire, harry potter, captive prince

top 3 favorite movies: the pirates of the caribbean trilogy, van helsing (2004), d'artagnan and the three musketeers (1978)

top 3 unpopular media i really love: unpopular as in not many people know it - confusion by stefan zweig, gentlemen and players by joanne harris, thrill me by stephen dolginoff. unpopular as in people know it and hate it - harry potter, bbc sherlock, a little life by hanya yanagihara.

top 5 favorite antagonists: graham reid malett aka gabriel (the lymond chronicles), azula (avatar: the last airbender), milady de winter (the three musketeers), lord voldemort (harry potter), xue yang (the grandmaster of demonic cultivation)

top 5 favorite ships: radioapple (hazbin hotel), andreil (all for the game), wangxian (the grandmaster of demonic cultivation), viravos (the dragon prince), sangwoo/jaeyoung (semantic error)

series that exceeded all my expectations: first of all i absolutely did not expect to get so obsessed with hazbin hotel and secondly recently i decided to watch the most popular girls in school just for shits and giggles but it ended up on my best feral teen girl media list, up there with heathers and do revenge🤯

favorite romance: the gentle art of fortune hunting by kj charles

favorite action: the first three pirates of the caribbean movies

favorite fantasy: a song of ice and fire/game of thrones

favorite sci-fi: the murderbot diaries

favorite comedy: son in law (1993)

next on my watch list: i want to finally watch hadestown

next on my reading list: when i'm done with the sunshine court i'll start the stolen heir - so funny that both these series that contributed to me rediscovering my love for reading back in 2020 got spinoff continuations four years later

#after spending too much time trying to choose the fifth girl i decided to do top 4 girls and top 6 guys instead🤷‍♀️ #(couldn't choose between marthe fleabag and atla girls) #top 3 characters who defy the gender binary: murderbot the fool and hedwig from hedwig & the angry inch #btw i skipped a couple of questions where i was confused or didn't know what to answer #book tag #tv show tag #movie tag #musical tag

[leojurand]

spoilers for the lymond chronicles or whatever

i'm rereading the part in checkmate where lymond and philippa are at sevigny and. their romance here is like, pretty words! gorgeous words! i feel none of it tho.

all these paragraphs about self meeting self, the immensity of their love, they don't need words because their minds are as one,... they don't hit at all for me

unsurprising because i'm just not a fan, but i actually really enjoy their romance scenes before the awful shit that happens to philippa? (except when she threatens to hurt herself in the library. wtf) they range from fun to extremely melodramatic, but they're very good!!

but in sevigny it's like. reading a pretty poem but the meaning just doesn't reach you

and this is probably another consequence of me not being a fan of this romance but i'm always surprised by how much lymond and philippa don't feel like husband and wife to me. ever. especially compared to nicholas and gelis, and thorfinn and groa, who are so Married. but i feel like i should talk about this in another post dedicated to dunnett romances

#lymond #i have never tried so hard to love a romance and failed so spectacularly lol

[thecrenellations]

I love this image of them facing each other, and there’s just … so much that’s true and untrue in his statement.

Marthe is correct: Francis ran off with her girlfriend and the Dame de Doubtance was more than okay with it.

Now, however, he’s been stopped from returning to Russia/Güzel BY MARTHE, so he sure doesn’t have her anymore! Neither sibling does.

Güzel had him - he was the jewel in her jewel box. He chose to go with her in order to ensure the PiF crew’s safety. He didn’t know if he would survive when he made that promise, and he didn’t want to survive. He only started sleeping with her after being faced with the fact that she was harming someone else in his place. He didn’t love her, he’s in love with someone else, and she sent him Gabriel’s dead body in a sarcophagus.

It’s not like Marthe knows the details of that. It’s been nearly four years. He still stole her girlfriend, right after the turning point in their relationship as siblings, right after she helped him heal with shared poetry.

They’re no jewel and jewel box, but you know whose relationship is also messed up? Marthe and Jerott’s. <3

As Marthe points out soon, she has Jerott! She completed the dysfunctional swap, and they’re still married … so does she arguably have more than Francis has?

Speaking of marriage, Francis is currently married to the person he’s in love with who loves him back and is perfect for him and — yeah okay this whole book is about how much of a mess that is. But still.

AND TRULY. From Marthe’s perspective, her little brother has always had all she does not, for the arbitrary reasons of legitimacy (lol) and gender. She has known this her entire life. And the reader learns that her life will end in place of his, the catalyst to his happiness and meaningful future. This exchange is about Güzel, but even discounting her, as complicated and traumatic as his own life has been, Francis’s statement is laughable.

“the palms of his hands, yielding and empty” … Is there nothing in the cup for me? 😭

He says this mere seconds after kissing her husband and making him bluescreen. Francis….

And as always, I may be wrong and I’m sure there’s even more …

#on the cheeks and Philippa did it it too but … also by the end of the night Jerott’s going to ask if he can return to fight with him again #beating even Marthe’s prediction of the next morning #oh NO the next morning! yikes! #anyway #I love these two #crawford siblings forever #marthe #francis crawford #lymond #checkmate #lymond chronicles spoilers #something i #now I’m just thinking of them continuing to poke at each other about guzel and jerott WHILE MARTHE IS PRETENDING TO BE A GHOST #and also being possessed #but the marriage/mistress sniping coming from that chair is all her #but also she wants the best for him! in a way! her methods and advice are awful sometimes! But she does! #sometimes they’re even more brilliant than awful #and then when camille is cursing him he warns her against harming marthe … I love that too #they really could have had it all #(a less antagonistic relationship)

[unhelpfulfemme]

I love how, even though he's still convinced that she's 12 and feels personally responsible for her safety, he isn't doubting for a moment that Philippa has decent odds against an assassin (and he's right! - the speed with which she deduces all the political plays going on with very little information in this section is impressive!). He always knew that she was a bad bitch. Like recognizes like.

#lymond chronicles #the lymond chronicles #francis crawford #philippa somerville #pawn in frankincense #pawn in frankincense spoilers #lymond spoilers

[sophosthewisebunny]

Thinking about how Marthe “my brother stole my girlfriend so I’ll just marry his sad repressed alcoholic boyfriend who’s still convinced he’s in love with me and not with my brother” Blyth spent an entire book trying to fix said brother’s marriage. Bestie I love you but you’re the last person I’d take relationship advice from

#lyta’s lymond blogging #lymond chronicles #lymond spoilers #marthe’s my favorite #my mean lesbian girlfriend #also I semi rescind the last statement Jerott is the last person I’d take romantic advice from #but Marthe’s second #worlds least functional lavender marriage

[whataliethatwas]

OK, Lymond Chronicles mutuals, is there a Discord server anywhere? I've really enjoyed being in a bunch of Discord book clubs and have looked a few times for a Dunnett group, but haven't found one, although I wasn't super surprised by that.

Given how niche a series it is, I haven't been sure there'd be an audience for one. Would anyone be interested in joining one if one were available? In the case that's a yes, what would you want to see? Channel for a03 fics, fanart channel, spoiler-free zones for hopefully new readers, history or inspiration/aesthetic spaces, etc.

#lymond chronicles #discord

[cassandrva]

the douglas family urge to put a collar on that boy

#the foreshadowing game is crazy #lymond chronicles #lymond spoilers #so what you're telling me is that he did have a collar and chain with douglas in fine gothic letters on the neck? #shocking