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isfjmel-phleg · 3 months

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Constellation of Six [Revised]

The December Josiah turned seven, his brother Mikaiah was born, his mother died, and a new companion named Tamett came to live in the royal household. But let’s flash back to late summer before all that, when the family dynamic was rather different, when six-and-a-half-year-old Josiah had other concerns on his mind…

The intended point of this story was to offer insight into why Josiah is the way he is. This isn't his complete origin story, but a glimpse into what he has since lost. We see his relationship with his family (especially with his beloved mother), how Nyella and Odren parented him, the beginnings of traits that would become more ingrained as he gets older, the source of habits of behavior and thought still present later. The relationships among the rest of the family are also important and should explain the dynamics we see in Books 2 and 3.

I've made some modifications from the previous version. These include:

using "Josiah" instead of "Josia" for clarity and consistency (I didn't want to use Liennese spellings for every name--Ayra would be spelled "Era," for instance)

adjustments to wording

expanded passages of dialogue

clearer indications that Nyella is already pregnant with Mikaiah

additional passages of Josiah's inner monologue

So here's the revision! How does (or doesn't) it work for you? How can I make it better?

Josiah hazarded one foot out of bed, certain the very furniture could hear the floor as it creaked beneath him. By daylight, the chairs, cupboards, and tables of his nursery were a solid, comforting presence, but now, utter darkness had transformed them into vague shapes impossible to rely on. Josiah hated nighttime. Nothing stayed the same. Never had he been more betrayed by his world than tonight.

Which was why he needed to be his very bravest and venture out into the corridor. He wiped his face with his sleeve, set his jaw, and stumbled across the room, trying his best to tiptoe. The crunch of the carpet with each step made him shudder. At last he found the doorknob—or rather, it found his face—and slipped out.

He had never been in the corridor by himself in the dark before, and he expected further unknown terrors. But a few dimmed lights shone high on the walls, reminding him why he needed to continue. If anyone caught him, he might get sent back to bed—and he couldn’t sleep in that nursery without a light, he just couldn’t!

So he ran—ran as he never had before, as if he had never been forbidden to run indoors, as if all the creatures of the night were at his back. Perhaps they were. He dared not look over his shoulder.

Nor did he slow down once he reached the stairs. He remembered to safely hold the rail, but he went bumping dangerously down each step until he burst out downstairs.

He didn’t need to count the doors. Even in his sleep his feet would have remembered the exact one he needed. It was open a crack, as if he were expected, and he let himself in. The empty room at first sent the beginnings of a sob through him, until he saw the open door to the balcony.

There sat Mama, her eye to one of her long telescopes in its three-legged stand and her hand rapidly writing or sketching something. Josiah flung himself at her, buried his face in the soft white ruffles of her loose gown, and broke down immediately.

At once, her arms were around him. “Yozi? What’s wrong? What are you doing up?”

“I couldn’t sleep,” he choked out. “My nightlight isn’t lighted.”

“Did it go out?”

“Ayra didn’t light it!” he announced with smug dissatisfaction. “She left me alone in the dark.”

“And where is she now?”

“I don’t know. She and Ateva wouldn’t let me go with them.”

“So you came here all by yourself to find me? That’s my brave boy.” She kissed his forehead. One last sob shuddered out. “Oh, no need for that. You’re here now. I think you’ll live, don’t you?”

He sniffed and nodded solemnly.

“I’ll speak to Ayra later,” she added in a very different voice. “But there’s no point in being awake and not enjoying it. Come and look with me. Let’s see some stars. Up with you. I think you can still fit.”

Josiah nestled unsteadily onto her knees. There had been less and less room for him lately in her lap, and it wasn’t the most comfortable seat, but he had no intention of budging. The dark couldn’t get him when she was there.

“See,” said Mama, “the dark’s really nothing to be afraid of. Not when there’s a sky full of stars. You’re never alone beneath them. They make the night beautiful.”

He had never thought of it that way before, but she was right. The summer evening warmed him through till he couldn’t tremble if he had wanted to, and the friendly lights in the sky warded off the darkness. A final trickle—the last trace of his cry—dripped from his nose. He swept it away with the back of his hand.

“Now,” said Mama, “what would you like to look at first?”

“I want to see the brothers!” he said.

“Who? Oh, the twins! I don’t think they’re out this time of year. But there are other constellations out. Do you want to see a dragon instead?”

“Dragons aren’t real.”

“No, but this is one from a story. He’s right next to a warrior who’s going to fight him.”

That sounded like a very silly story. Josiah knew all about real battles from the books in Papa’s library, and they were nothing like that. “I want to see what you’re looking at.”

She put the telescope to his eye, and he squinted at the array of twinkling lights. They seemed to be sprinkled through the sky at random. Important stars that people gazed at made pictures. He tried to imagine the lines that might connect these stars into something sensible, but all he could see was clustered meaningless dots, like an ink splatter that earned one a scolding.

“I can’t see it! There’s nothing there!” he cried. “I’m looking at the wrong ones.”

“Do you see the stars? Then you’re in the right place. That’s exactly what I’m looking at. These don’t form any particular constellation. But they’re very bright, so I’m thinking about exactly what kinds of stars they are.”

And she told him about how not all stars were the same, how they came in many colors, how some were hotter and some colder and some farther away, and how there were ladies (“and some gentlemen too,” she added) at the university right now who were thinking up new ways to put the different stars in order.

“Like your books, Yozi. You like to line them up a certain way—by title, right? But someone else, like Ateva, might arrange books by color, or size.”

“The wrong way,” he said.

“Not wrong, but different. All the astronomers have different ideas about types of stars, so they talk about it and try to figure out the best way to do it.”

“Who’s winning?”

Mama laughed. “Everyone. They’ll probably use a little bit of all sorts of ideas.”

“I want to be the one to find the right way.”

“And perhaps you will someday. They can call it...the Yozi system.”

He glared at her reproachfully. “No, it’s the Prince Josiah system. Because it’s important.”

“Oh, of course, pardon me.”

“But,” he conceded, “the Prince Josiah and Mama system would be all right too.”

“After me? I’m honored.”

He returned to the eyepiece. “There are...six stars,” he announced, holding up fingers to reinforce the point. He might as well embark on his grand career at once, for Papa always said that one couldn’t begin achieving excellence too soon.

“There are. And do you want to make up a constellation out of them?”

“Can we?”

“Of course! That’s how all constellations start.”

“But you can’t make them up. They come with the sky.”

“Perhaps this one hasn’t been discovered yet. And we’ll be the very first ones.” As he bounced with excitement, she shifted him forward a little, away from her front. “What are you going to call it?”

“Six People.”

“That sounds very...factual.”

“The dots are their heads. You can’t see the rest of them because they’re wearing black.”

“Why are they wearing black? Are they in mourning?”

“No. They just like it.”

“I see. And who are the people? Constellations need proper names.”

He counted them off. “Josiah, Mama, Papa, Ateva, Ayra, and my brother.”

She hesitated before saying brightly, “Your...imaginary brother?”

“No. The one I’m going to get.”

“Really?” She readjusted the folds of her gown. “What makes you think that?”

“I want one.” That was usually enough reason, wasn’t it?

“What if it were a sister?”

He wrinkled his nose. “No, we already have too many of those. I want someone to play with me.”

“I see. Well, let’s talk to Papa about it.”

“Talk to me about what?” The other door off the balcony opened, and Papa emerged from his private study in his shirtsleeves, wearing his spectacles and clutching a bundle of papers. His tie was missing. “Josiah,” he said, “what are you doing up? You need your rest, and you shouldn’t bother your mother.”

Josiah shrank back. “I didn’t mean to bother her.”

He started to slide off her knees, but Mama held him back. “He wanted to stargaze with me tonight. He’s like me, can’t sleep when the heavens are so beautiful.”

The conversation, once Papa bent to kiss her and murmur something in her ear, ceased to interest Josiah. Finally Papa patted his shoulder and said, “Don’t stay out too late then,” and Josiah knew he could stay as long as he liked.

“This young man,” said Mama, “would like a brother.” She paused, as if she had just made a joke. Josiah didn’t know why. There was nothing funny about his urgent need.

“Well, if our clever little plan works out…” said Papa, bending down to put a long arm around her waist and whisper in her ear again. Mama turned pink and smiled.

“I was thinking that we might try finding him a friend. Someone his age to keep him company. He’ll be starting with the new tutors soon, and there’ll be no one else in the schoolroom. Perhaps not for several years,” she added quickly, glancing down at the studiously listening Josiah.

“We can’t bring in just anyone, though. There are so few who would make a suitable companion for the Hope of Lienne. Did you have anyone in mind?”

“Not off the top of my head, but I hardly know anyone’s children here.”

“I do,” said Papa grimly. “And I envy you. We can’t afford to let in any bad influences, especially at this stage. I’m sorry, Josiah, but you do perfectly well on your own, don’t you? You don’t need anyone to do lessons with. No one would be able to keep up with you anyway.”

Josiah put out his lip. “I want a brother,” he said in a dangerously petulant tone, prepared to explain more emphatically if they still didn’t understand.

“Prince Josiah,” began Papa sternly, but instead of scolding, he checked his pocket watch and turned back toward his study, saying, “Nyella, would you talk sense to him?”

“Odren? Where are you going?” said Mama.

He held up his papers. “Business, darling. You’ll have to excuse me.”

“Oh, that can wait. You’ve been at it all night. You’ve earned a rest. Shall we ring for chocolate and make a regular gazing party of it? We can talk about this another day.” She laid a long-fingered, soothing hand on Josiah’s and squeezed it, as if wringing out his temper. He remembered to take a slow breath and blow the last of it away. There was no need to be angry. Mama understood, and she would see to it that he got what he wanted.

“Tempting, darling, but—” Papa hesitated. “Wait for me?”

“You have exactly...” She fished out her watch brooch from among the ruffles. “Forty-three minutes before the invitation expires.”

Papa’s eyes glinted at the challenge. “Thirty-five at least, see if I don’t.”

“Do it in thirty and I’ll…” She stopped herself. “Well...you’ll be glad you did.”

Once he had dashed away, Mama rang for the chocolate and some biscuits. “No sense in making you wait for it, Yozi,” she said. “I get cross when I haven’t had my chocolate either. Oh,” she said to her maid, “if you see the princesses, send them in please. I want to speak to them.”

Ayra came shuffling in shortly afterward, hands in her pockets, with Ateva in her wake, forehead furrowed, babbling a flow of garbled apologies. Mama nudged Josiah off her knees and pushed herself up slowly by the arms of her chair to look down at the girls from her full height. She was only a few inches shorter than Papa (who went on for miles), and next to her Josiah’s elder sisters looked as insignificant as they really were.

“I understand,” said Mama in her sweetest tones, “that you thought it was a fine idea to leave your little brother alone in a dark room. Would you care to tell me more about this, ladies?”

“I’m so sorry!” cried Ateva. “We didn’t mean to, only we were in such a hurry and your brothers were waiting and I really didn’t want to leave him like that but—”

“I have no doubt it wasn’t your idea, Ateva, but then,” said Mama, crossing her arms, “you were not the one asked to see that he was put to bed.” She turned to Ayra.

Ayra met her gaze sullenly. “I wasn’t the one engaged as his nursemaid either.”

“I’m sorry that one task was too much to ask on a night when his nurse is off and I had an important meeting.”

“Must have been rather a short important meeting. If you have time for this.” Ayra raised her eyebrows at the telescope.

“What I do with my own leisure time is none of your business, young lady. And I was unaware that your timetable was so full.”

“It was, in fact. Full of entertaining your brothers. But I did put him to bed, no thanks to them, so I don’t see what the problem is.”

“You neglected his nightlight. And goodness knows what else.”

“I forgot. It was an honest mistake. And if he needs it so badly, he can light it himself.”

“I’m not allowed to play with fire,” said Josiah virtuously.

“You’re also not allowed to stay up past your bedtime fooling around with your uncles.”

He was almost certain Ayra had made up that rule. Only Mama and Papa could tell him what to do, so he needn’t listen to her.

“Your brother,” said Mama, “is six years old. You were the one given a responsibility. He needs your help, and you left him alone in the dark to cry. I hope that’s not how you plan to treat your own children someday.”

Ateva gave Ayra a pointed look, but Ayra said nothing.

“Show her the watch,” said Ateva. “Show her.”

Ayra fished a reluctant hand out of her pocket and uncurled her scratched fingers to reveal a mound of pocket watch insides and shards of glass amid the wreckage of their former home.

Once when Josiah had been taken for a walk in the royal park, he had nearly stepped on a bird that some cat had left in the path, with all its feathers and bits strewn about. He couldn’t look at it without feeling sick, and the sensation returned at the sight of the once-beautiful watch. Its polished gold was engraved with delicate curling designs on both sides around an ornate O and an inscription inside that Josiah hadn’t been able to read since it was in Faysmondian. Besides, the watch hadn’t been in his hand long enough.

“Josiah broke it,” said Ateva. “He took it from Ayra when she told him to go to bed and then he dropped it on the floor. And I’m sure he probably didn’t mean to, but—it’s awfully important, it was Mama’s, and he didn’t even say he was sorry and it’s just not fair to Ayra. She wasn’t going to mention it but I thought you should know.”

Mama surveyed the damage. “Did you break it, Yozi?”

Technically, the floor had broken it. He had barely touched it. He had never expected a drop to the marble floor would so thoroughly destroy the watch. Although Mama would likely understand, Papa might not when he heard, and it might distract him from Ayra’s crimes, which were far worse and required swift justice.

So Josiah widened his eyes in shock and said, “No!”

Ateva gasped.

Ayra clenched the ruined watch back into her fist. “Well, someone broke it, and I know I didn’t.”

“How could you?” said Ateva. “I saw it happen. Ayra’s telling the truth, Your Majesty. You have to believe her!”

Josiah pitied her. A twelve-year-old should be embarrassed to make such a dramatic spectacle of herself. He knew better, and he was only six and a half.

“Ateva,” said Mama, “I can’t blame you for trying to defend your sister. But honestly, Ayra, at your age this is ridiculous. A pity about your watch, and we can see about having it repaired, but must you blame Josiah? Surely you have more pressing concerns than making my little boy miserable?”

“You’re doing what?” thundered Papa’s voice. At the commotion, he had burst out of his study to investigate.

Ayra and Ateva, raising pleading eyes to him, both tried at once to present their side, but as Mama stepped in to explain that Ayra hadn’t been fulfilling her responsibilities, their faces fell in obvious guilt.

“Come to my study,” Papa said in a terrible voice. They trudged behind him through the door. Ateva’s hair ribbon draggled over her slumped shoulders, but Ayra’s narrow frame had stiffened to resemble a walking clothes rack. The study swallowed them up with a slam of the door.

Mama patted Josiah’s shoulder. “Your father will take care of them, don’t worry. I know you wouldn’t lie to me. Now, where were we?”

His face burned and his stomach knotted as he returned to her knees. He had lied to Mama. But if he admitted it, she wouldn’t think he was a good boy anymore. Josiah was good. He had to be. He had a perfectly good reason to lie.

And with his eye to the telescope again, the beauties of the heavens flooding his vision, and Mama’s voice surrounding him like an embrace as she told him stars’ names and how far away they lived, he soon forgot any discomfort. He nearly forgot his sisters, except when the muffled rumbles of voices drifted from the closed study.

Once the chocolate and biscuits arrived, his attention was entirely diverted. The golden-brown biscuits were stacked double, cut in star shapes in the middle to reveal gobs of raspberry jam within. They crumbled in the mouth, smooth and buttery, answered by the tart, squashy sweetness of the berries. Through increasingly sticky fingers, he demolished three biscuits and washed them down with the chocolate. Despite the warm evening, the heat running down his throat with a stripe of cool cream refreshed him.

He paused mid-sip, surprised, when Papa brought out the girls and lined them up in front of Mama.

“What do you say?” he growled.

“I’m sorry, Mother,” recited the girls. Ateva ducked her head, but Josiah didn’t miss her red nose and eyes. Ayra’s face had gone blank, and her mouth buttoned shut as soon as the words were out.

And of course Mama graciously forgave them and favored them with a smile as she sent them back to their room without offering them any biscuits and chocolate. The girls exited as they were told, though Ateva glanced over her shoulder at the partially filled tray. Josiah consumed another biscuit with satisfaction, for, as a good child who didn’t need a scolding, he had earned it.

“Do you see what I mean, Odren?” said Mama.

“I’m sorry, love. If they ever give you any nonsense again, send them straight to me.”

“Oh, I would anyway, but I think a certain someone really could use some company his own age.”

Josiah surfaced from the chocolate glass to remind them. “What I want is a brother. Not a stranger.”

“Perhaps you’re right,” said Papa. “I’ll start investigating tomorrow. Doesn’t Böllingfurt have a son about the right age?”

“Three years older, I believe Erna said.”

Papa shook his head. “No more than a year older, if at all. I’ll ask around.” But his unfinished business demanded attention, leaving Josiah and Mama once more together at the telescope.

“Yozi,” she said, “if you were to have a brother, or a sister—if—I can’t promise anything, he or she would be a baby. It would be a long time before that baby would be old enough to play with. And by then— Well, you might be away at school. And he—or she—would be at home.”

“I don’t want to go away to school.”

“Your father wants you to, but not till you’re much older. You’ll want to go by then. And of course you and your brother would love each other and be good friends, but...it wouldn’t be quite like what you’re expecting.”

Josiah struggled to wrap his mind around this. As far as he could tell, the whole situation was the result of gross negligence. “I should have been a twin, Mama. Or we should have had a brother much sooner.” He took a long sip of his chocolate and eyed her over the rim of the glass.

“There wasn’t anything I could do about that, even at—oh, Yozi!” Her serious tone turned into laughter. “Look at you!”

“What did I do?” She shouldn’t laugh; he had raised a perfectly reasonable point.

“Cream on your nose! That’s not where it goes, silly!”

Josiah permitted himself a slight giggle while she wiped it off with her handkerchief.

“Trying to have a moustache like Papa too, I see,” she said. That got a real laugh out of him. “See? That’s something you could do with a friend that you couldn’t with a baby: sharing chocolate. And you could play together and do lessons and practice your music and have adventures together. You can’t do that with a stranger. But you can with a friend—more than that, a—a companion. Wouldn’t you like a companion?”

He nibbled another biscuit and thought it over. “I might.”

“I know it would be new, and new things often frighten you. They’re strange; you don’t know anything about them or what to do. But sometimes new things are much better than you expect. We gazed at stars tonight that are new to us, didn’t we? And our household is like that. We discover new members, and they make everything more beautiful. So you’re going to be brave and try it, won’t you? You’ll be kind to your companion and use your best manners and make him feel at home?”

He nodded hesitantly.

“That’s my good boy.” She kissed the top of his head and offered him the last biscuit.

“Perhaps,” he said, committing to a mouthful before he could admit to himself that he didn’t really want a sixth biscuit, “he would like to see the brothers constellation with us when it comes back later.”

“I promise you, Yozi,” said Mama, “we’ll do exactly that in December. It can be a birthday treat.”

“And you won’t forget?”

“I won’t if you won’t.”

“I won’t. Never ever ever.”

Once he filed away the promise and locked it in his brain for future reference, he couldn’t lose it. December was such a long time to wait, months and months, but he could count on the stars to plod their way through the heavens on time, and Mama to keep her promise, and perhaps even his new companion to stay by his side and listen reverently as Josiah related his astronomical discoveries.

Perhaps he didn’t really want a brother after all.

#The Blackberry Bushes #The Blackberry Bushes short stories #Constellation of Six #my writing #Josiah Callon #Nyella Callon #Odren Callon #Ayra Callon #Ateva Callon

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i-did-not-mean-to · 8 months

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Big problems

Ah, another Bagginshield before the month is out. This time for @sunnyrosewritesstuff...

Part II of Irvel's magic! -> Part I

AU Prompt: Shrunken (Tiny)

Dialogue Prompt: Everything went according to plan

Words: 1310

Characters: Thorin x Bilbo

Warnings: A potion gone wrong right!

Trembling with trepidation, Ori led the king and his consort into the secluded, hidden cave in which the elusive sorceress abided.

“Irvel?” he called tentatively, wondering whether it was naïve of him to expect her to be in the same exact spot as the last time he had sought her out. “I have brought you new petitioners.”

A subtle chiming noise resounded, and then a hazy being—all wreathed in light—stepped out from behind a boulder.

“Ori, the ever-beautiful,” she cried joyously and rushed towards him. “I had barely dared hope that you’d come back. After all, you seemed rather displeased with my services the last time we’ve spoken.”

Grimacing, Ori waved a trembling hand at his companions. “This is Thorin II, the king of the Longbeards, and his consort, Bilbo Baggins from the Shire.”

Looming over them, Irvel bent at the hip to inspect her curious visitors more closely. “Indeed,” she hummed with vivid interest. “What can I do for you then?”

“I—we have come to ask you for a feat of magic,” Bilbo piped up bravely before any of the others could say anything. “As you can easily see, I am considerably shorter than my husband.”

“And that is problematic? Why?” Irvel inquired, her eyes drifting back to Ori pensively—apparently, she had never considered height differences to be a reason for strife or dissatisfaction. The thought seemed to intrigue and fascinate her, though, for she cocked her head and waved her hand, inviting Bilbo to continue his exposé.

“Yes,” the valiant Hobbit murmured, somewhat shamefaced. “In certain situations, it can be quite tedious! Anyway, if it is within your powers, I’d beseech you to make me grow beyond the natural size of my people so that I may be a worthy and imposing consort to my beloved king.”

For a while, Irvel merely regarded Ori dreamily as she was lost in deep thought.

“So be it,” she finally declared. “As you can imagine, there will be tasks and challenges for you to fulfil before I can—in good conscience—bend my mind and powers to your peculiar problem.”

Thorin nodded tersely—Ori had warned him that the services of the sorceress would not be free and that all the gold under the Mountain could not buy the favour of one who did not want for any material possession.

Thus, they all listened spell-bound to Irvel’s demands—Thorin and Bilbo were asked to ferret out old friends of Irvel’s who had been scared underground by the encroaching darkness, to find a hidden cave on the other side of the hill and depose a beautiful gem on a natural dais, and to root out an infestation of huge hornets in the nearby woods.

As soon as they tackled the first of their trials, they realised that they would have to work together to succeed—thankfully, they were by now so bonded in trust and love that they did not hesitate one moment before meeting the ambitious challenge head-on.

Undaunted by danger and potential death, they put their experience and their combined wits to good use.

When they finally returned to Irvel’s cave, they found the lady entertaining Ori with fascinating stories. Neither Bilbo nor Thorin truly appreciated the fact that their friend was being served sparkling wine and fed golden berries while they were covered in grime and hornet goo.

“My King,” Ori squeaked and sprang to his feet to bow, feeling instinctively that he had not made the best impression, idling around, and enjoying the enchanting company of a woman who didn’t stop telling him how utterly gorgeous he was.

“I see you have not failed,” Irvel purred, visibly pleased. “Come, sit and relax. I shall have the potion ready promptly.”

Without further ado, she retired into the bowels of the cave.

As Bilbo and Thorin partook in the lavish feast that had been laid before Ori, they heard distant rumbling and smelled the occasional whiff of something spicy and sweet filling the air.

Before long, Irvel returned, holding two tall glasses which she handed to her new guests. “Drink,” she encouraged.

Wary, Thorin gave the ominously bubbling beverage a sniff; as he looked over though, he saw that Bilbo was already throwing back his glass and—not wanting to be called a coward—the king promptly joined him.

Unlike after Ori’s wish, there was now a definite and rather immediate change—the air seemed to thrum and sing around them, and then, there was a loud rumble swelling into a sonorous bang.

When the dense fog of magic that had suddenly filled the cave cleared, Ori’s eyes bulged out of their sockets.

“Oh Irvel!” he cried in dismay. “You’ve made both of them smaller. This is not what we agreed upon!”

“Everything went according to plan,” Irvel replied calmly, a cryptical smile hovering on her sensual lips. “They’ve successfully—and rather quickly, if I may add—fulfilled tasks that might have stumped a giant. It seems to me that the change they need is entirely in their minds rather than in their bodies.”

The outraged exclamations of protest and anger from her customers were, unfortunately for them, changed into barely audible, irritated chirps on account of Thorin and Bilbo not being much bigger than young bunnies.

“Thorin?” a worried, flustered voice resounded from the mouth of the cave, far above them. “I do not think that this was such a good idea, and you have been gone for so long!”

“That is Balin,” Ori whispered nervously. “He’s certainly come to retrieve his king. How are we to explain this?”

By this time, he was seriously distressed. As a matter of fact, he was afraid that—as he had been the one to lead his king into this disastrous magical catastrophe—he would be held accountable for the results.

“Worry not,” Irvel smiled placidly. “The spell will only last until the next full moon. It seems to me that these two are highly strung and under a lot of pressure. Maybe, spending some time worrying about all the minute things they master so easily in their daily life will teach them more appreciation for the blessings they’ve got, instead of hankering after irrelevant alterations.”

Seeing the wisdom in her words, Ori bowed his head reverently, but his spine still tingled with discomfort and guilt as Balin burst into the inner chamber.

His eyes were wide and wild, and his hair was in total disarray.

“What has happened here?” he asked explosively as he took in the unusual scene. “What did you do to our king, witch?”

Shrugging, Irvel scooped up the two shrunken royals and handed them over to the old dwarf as if they were coins. “I’ve made sure that they got…a change of perspective, so to say.”

Seeing how distraught the newcomer was, her smile mellowed. “It’s not for long, I promise. Just keep them safe and warm. Give them a puzzle or something.”

“A puzzle? They are the rulers of our people…” Balin tore at his hair in despair. “What are we to do now?”

Letting her luminous, wise gaze sweep from Ori to Balin, Irvel let her head drop to the side in a quizzical expression of mild amusement. “They are not dead,” she commented dryly. “I am sure there are many competent dwarrows to convey their meaning and will to their people—moreover, this might teach you to truly listen to the words they speak rather than to be cowed or amused by their physical presence.”

“Witch!” Balin grunted, but his voice held a distinct undertone of humour and begrudging admiration. “Very well. May I remove them from your esteemed presence then?”

Nodding ponderously, Irvel rose to her feet and gave Thorin and Bilbo a fond pat on the head. “Be good,” she warned, “and do come visit me very soon!”

@fellowshipofthefics: Here's the second to last for this month!!!

Thank you, @sunnyrosewritesstuff for trusting me with these 2`!!!

#og post #FOTFICS AU-gust #fotfics august challenge #Bagginshield #Thorin x Bilbo #Shrunken (tiny)#Everything went according to plan #IDNMT writes #fanfiction #writing #tolkien writing #jrrt

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littleperilstories · 1 year

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The Prince of Thieves: I'm Not Lost, This Fate Was Mine to Choose

Mood Boards | Chapter Titles | Also on A03! | Playlist | Story Intro

Warnings: Mention of jail/police, mention of firearms, mention of death, angst

Historically (for a while), the term 'guns' meant artillery and not 'small' firearms like muskets etc. but I used 'guns' in here bc 'small arms' sounds very stilted in dialogue to a modern ear ok byyyeee

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Word count: 1872 || Approx reading time: 8 mins

I'm Not Lost, This Fate Was Mine to Choose

Teaser: “I still can’t believe this is happening.” It’s foolish to speak when the rest of the world is still so quiet; my voice carries through the morning air. Worry twists my gut so ferociously, though, I have to say something to take my mind off it. If I don’t, I might burst.

Bree

Dawn comes too soon, creeping up on us with stealthy, nimble footsteps. One moment, I am curled near the hearth, James Wardrew’s coat thrown over me like a blanket; the next, I’m shambling across the floor and blinking sleep from my eyes, blearily following the smell of just-brewed tea, nursing a deepening sense of horror as I remember exactly why we’re up so early and where we’re going.

And then we’re shivering in the early morning air, skulking through town the long way, two groups approaching the meeting point from different angles—me and Spider together, James and Geoff dragging Hatchett through the woods.

“I still can’t believe this is happening.” It’s foolish to speak when the rest of the world is still so quiet; my voice carries through the morning air. Worry twists my gut so ferociously, though, I have to say something to take my mind off it. If I don’t, I might burst.

I glance up at Spider, waiting for her to shush or glare me into silence, but she simply nods and, after a moment, speaks too. “I hate this.”

Although she and James have found an odd, tenuous peace between the two of them, they’re still tense. Uncomfortable, sharp with each other. I don’t know either of them very well, but I can tell it hurts both of them to be so at odds. She’s been stiff and quiet since the moment it came out that she was there when Will was flogged, which seems to be the source of their conflict, as far as I can tell. Stiff, quiet, and guilty.

You shouldn’t feel so bad. The words have been on the tip of my tongue so many times. Aren’t secrets sometimes for the best? Don’t we all keep them sometimes to avoid hurting others more than necessary?

More than that, though, it’s fucking rich of James Wardrew to be guilting her so heartily about hiding things, because he’s been doing the exact same thing to everyone else.

You got my message, then.

It was impossible to tell from what I overheard what was contained in the message James sent to Hatchett, but I gleaned enough from their muttered conversation: James promised something in an effort to negotiate Will’s release.

A message—a note. The signature was what gave Hatchett the information to start puzzling together Will’s name and identity—all because of me, when I told him, like a goddamn idiot, that if he had the name of one brother, he could find the name of the other.

All Will had to do was say a single word—his surname—that matched a name in Hatchett’s notes, and the game was over.

Despite being on Spider’s case about being secretive, James is keeping it hidden that he sent that letter at all.

I wanted to say something—to him, to Spider, to Geoff.

I’m a coward, though.

Instead, when James stepped outside once he was done talking to Hatchett, and I scrambled away from the door to look as if I were just approaching—and hadn’t had my ear pressed against the wood mere moments before—I said, “I wasn’t throwing myself at anyone.”

Good god, the look he gave me. He didn’t even seem to remember that You were throwing yourself at him like the slut you are was what Hatchett said to send me soaring across the room to slap him across his horrid face.

“Well…that’s good, I suppose?” he said, scratching behind his ear, appearing to gather his patience from a well that was running dry.

I cringe now at the memory. Anything else would have been better than saying that.

Most of all, however, I wish I’d been brave enough to tell him, You don’t get to be mad at her when you’re keeping an even bigger secret from everyone else.

But I held my tongue—once a coward, forever a coward. Hiding from confrontation. Hiding from the truth.

Awaiting a sign that it’s time to move, Spider and I sit in shadow. Tall, luxurious manors loom over us, the lavish structures brimming with silence and, for me, memories of a childhood in a place not much different.

So far, there have been no constables patrolling this area, but no doubt they’re around somewhere.

“I wish…” Her voice trails off, and when she glances at me, I can see what she’s thinking: Perhaps you’re not the right person to talk to about this.

I pull my “borrowed” shawl closer around me—Spider found one somewhere, and though I’ve no idea where it came from, I can guess it wasn’t originally hers—hoping the hurt doesn’t show on my face. I’ve ended up in yet another place where I don’t belong, where I’m not truly wanted. “Wish he wouldn’t go face them himself?”

She nods, her mouth pressed into a grim line. “He’s being a fucking idiot. Reckless. Acting like…”

My throat aches. I know how to finish this sentence for her. “Like Will.”

She agrees, drawing in a long, angry breath.

“They might see his face,” I say. “Or catch him. Arrest him, too.”

“I told him that.”

“They could kill him.”

“I told him that.”

I gulp at the next thought that slips out, one we’ve been dancing around for the last day but have been powerless to do anything about. “What if they have…guns?”

In the prison, where every altercation was at close range, the constables favoured their batons. Now, in the dread-soaked minutes before a meeting that’s as likely to turn into a bloodbath as not, I think of the cracks that broke through the darkness the night I escaped, the salty tang of gunpowder in the air. The machines of death that they could wield today if they wanted. If they really wanted to make sure none of us escaped with our lives.

“It’s likely.”

I shudder. “He doesn’t care?”

Spider takes a long moment to respond. When she does, her voice cracks. “He cares.”

He cares about saving his brother.

But for god’s sake, he can’t die. Seeing him—that was the only thing Will wanted, the only thing he truly cared about. I know that now. If James doesn’t make it out today…

Flicking a dead beetle that’s somehow stuck to her shoe into the dirt, Spider says, “He just keeps saying there’s no one else.”

Somewhere down the street, voices swell. Constables? The early morning bickering of a family? Servants in these enormous, wealthy households making plans for the day, risen so early to perform the jobs for which they are paid mere pennies?

“No one else, what?”

A cold breeze ruffles her dark curls, rustles the layers of her skirt. “No one else who can be the one to meet the constables and make the trade.”

When did they even have this conversation? The hunting cabin is so small, surely I’d have heard it, unless I was asleep. Doesn’t the inner circle ever rest? “That’s bullshit.”

Her mouth twitches. “Mmm hmm. But I think, mostly, he wants to be the one Will sees when the trade goes down.” She falters. Quietens. “And he doesn’t want to risk anyone else getting grabbed or killed.”

He was playing the hero again, you know.

“They’re exactly the same,” I say.

With a sad smile, as if she can tell who I mean even though I didn’t clarify, she says, “I suppose, in some ways, they are.”

I glance away from her, turning my head so I can brush a finger against my eyes. Too many times I’ve burst into tears in front of her and James and Geoff, these last few days. I won’t do it again now.

There’s no one else. The words go around and around my head: persistent, irritating, unyielding. No one else.

If James goes in for the trade, assuming they don’t just shoot him right away, he risks destroying everything he’s worked so hard for—destroying all the good IA has done, possibly forever.

What, again, of his mysterious message? What was in it? What if, when James gets there, the constabulary tries to hold him to whatever he said?

And if he gets arrested or shot or beaten to death…

There’s no one else.

But of course there is. Someone whose face the constables already know.

Someone who has nothing to lose, who has had nothing to lose for a very long time.

When the sun is creeping up the horizon, painting a swath of light across the sky, there’s noise and movement in the distance. Wheels. A terse command or two. And then footsteps—that of heavy, iron-studded boots.

They’re here.

Before James or anyone else can step out from the woods, I slip from my hiding place and walk directly into Junior Constable Michaelson’s line of sight.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Spider’s voice fades as I hurry away from her. I pretend not to notice; I don’t need to hear anything else. This is a terrible idea, I know.

But if it keeps James out of the line of fire long enough to set Will free…

Michaelson stares at me for a long moment, his face purpling. “This must be some ridiculous joke.”

“No.” I want to say something smart, something rude and irreverent, something Will would say. My mind has gone blank.

This man—he cut open my skin and watched me bleed.

He held a knife to my throat.

He whipped me until my back was covered in welts and bruises.

Michaelson’s lip curls, the expression far too Hatchett-like for my comfort. “Well. This is how it goes, then. The little viper returns. Came back for more, did you?”

“Where’s Will?” I do not trust myself to keep conversation with this man. All it took the other day for me to lose control and slap Baden Hatchett across his wicked face was a single word.

I cannot afford to lose my wits today.

“Where’s the constable?”

“You’ll see him soon enough.” I feel naked under his glare, just as I did the first time I stood in his leering gaze. Such a short time ago, and yet it feels like a lifetime.

I am not the same girl as I was that day.

“You’ll see him,” I repeat. There is no need to fear this man, I tell myself. He will not touch me until Hatchett is safe—and Hatchett won’t walk free until Will is out of their clutches. “Not yet. Not until you give back Will.”

I do not need to be afraid, because I have nothing left outside of this moment, this aching body, these clothes I wear that are not even mine. Hatchett knows it, he told me so, and I, too, know he’s right. No family and no friends beyond this family I am now trying so desperately to protect. No one who will miss my wretched, worthless, insignificant life.

If I die today, I’m leaving behind nothing except the deeds I did while living.

So I must make sure those deeds are the right ones, until the end. I must make sure—if I die today—my last act is saving IA. Saving James.

Saving Will.

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Tagging: @starlit-hopes-and-dreams, @gala1981, @kixngiggles .

[Banner ID: A narrow horizontal, rectangular banner featuring a barred archway. The bars and the stone walls evoke the feeling of a dungeon or prison. There are burning candles on either side of the archway. The title of the story, The Prince of Thieves, appears in white text in the centre of the image. The author's username, abbreviated to LPS from littleperilstories, appears in the bottom right corner in partially transparent text. End ID.]

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ugetelynx · 21 days

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20 questions for fic authors!

Was tagged by the lovely @wisecrackingeric-2 thanks eric <33

1, How many works do you have?

I only have 12 posted for now mainly cause I’ve been struggling to finish fics but I PROMISE I have a TON of content when I get around to finishing them :)

2, Ao3 word count?

94,524 lmao 😭 didn’t think it’d be that much with only 12 fics considering most are only around 1-4k in length with the occasional 6k (with 28-29k from my two multi chapter fics)

3, What fandoms do you write for?

Resident evil mostly, with the occasional genshin thrown in :)

4, What are your top five fics by kudos?

1. It Starts With Love (And It Ends With You)

2. We’ll Be Alright

3. Wake Me Up When It’s All Over

4. Blissful Body Worship (NSFW) (You need an account to read)

5. Tension (NSFW) (same thing, sorry but I try and limit the people who see my nsfw fics lmao)

5, Do you respond to comments?

Not at all the time!!!! 90% of the time I don’t know how to reply but TRUST I see EVERY SINGLE ONE <333 I may not respond but I can guarantee I’m probably giggling like a kid over it

6, What is the fic you wrote with the angstiest ending?

I’m gonna have to say Love Me Like We Have It All on this one, while one fic has canonical character death in it, I’d still say this one is more angsty cause the other one is grief focused and this one is just ouchie at least to me!!

7, What is the fic you wrote with the happiest ending?

It’s gonna be We’ll Be Alright but it’s still a W.I.P so I’ll say my re4r rewrite (It Starts With Love (And It Ends With You)) has the happiest ending instead lmao

8, Do you get hate on fics?

Surprisingly no! Even when I wrote trans luis sex I’ve gotten nothing but support lol. One day though I’ll get to frame my first hate comment 🙏

9, Do you write smut?

Who do you think I am? Of course I do lmao. My only two published/finished nsfw fics are Blissful Body Worship and Tension, but I do have an re6 serennedy smut in the works along with a Great Gatsby x Serennedy au smut (same with some scaraxiao smut)

10, Crossovers?

Never done one, never plan too 🙏 I’ve made aus and such (points at my great gatsby x resident evil au) but i’ve never done crossovers nor plan too. Too much headache for me lmao

11, Ever had a fic stolen?

Not that I know of

12, Have you ever had a fic translated?

Nope

13, Ever co-wrote a fic before?

Yes actually! My friend and I have been working on a genshin au fic but its currently on pause due to our irl lives

14, What’s your all time favorite ship?

*Looks up from my fifty serennedy drawings* Huh

15, What’s a wip you wanna finish but doubt you ever will?

My mermaid au that was supposed to be for @hamartia-grander’s serennedy week :(

I lost so much motivation during that time and despite being SO excited about my mermaid au I just couldn’t push myself to finish it and whenever I go back to try and finish it my mind blanks on where I wanna take the fic :(

Really sucks cause I adored the concept and my initial thoughts for the AU

16, What are your writing strengths?

I have. No fucking idea my friends can answer this one for me they read my fics before BAKCNSKC

17, What are your writing weaknesses?

Not knowing when it’s.. too many words. Or too little words 😓

I love have long descriptions cause they’re fun to write but I’ve been told it gets too much, but I also get told if I don’t write descriptions and such it makes it feel too short

So I struggle to find a medium if that makes sense

18, Thoughts on writing dialogue in another language?

I’m learning Spanish for this exact reason :) I love having Luis speak Spanish in my fics so I’m learning both to better write it and to be able to communicate with my friends easier!

Big thank you to @mooseonahunt for helping me now and again with it!

19, First fandom you wrote for?

Resident Evil :) my first ever fic was my resi4make rewrite

20, Favorite fic you’ve written?

Not to toot my own horn but my current favorite fic is my how to train your dragon x resident evil au :) it’s a wip right now, and might even turn into a multi-chapter fic who knows! But so far I’m really proud with what I’ve got going!

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sparatus · 2 months

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4 & 7 for that one ask game and then 12 so you can rant about grandpa I already know that’s the answer

you know me so well

choose violence🔥

4. what was the last straw that made you finally block that annoying person?

genderbending saren to make kryterius m/f like a fucking coward*. tagged me in wip games featuring her sharterius work when i am very openly and vocally an aggressive hater of that ship and also wrote saren horrifically ooc. other annoying crimes. finally rbed a post from me and tagged it as being about "milf saren" and i lost it and blocked goodbye

*note: i enjoy a good gb fic myself, there's a few from ye olde kmeme that i still like, but she ONLY wrote kryterius as gb m/f and didn't ever interact with my stuff for them that was m/m which reeks of bad implications to me. go away straight

7. what character did you begin to hate not because of canon but because how how the fandom acts about them?

kaidan. kaidan kaidan kaidan. the ONLY way i managed to save him for myself was retreating from fandom and finding a few sane shenko mutuals (they know who they are). he's a good fun character! i enjoy writing him! he's my friend! but my god shenkos (and frankly ESPECIALLY mshenkos) make me hate him so much.

garrus also started to suffer this fate but tragically there are no sane shakarians only ex-shakarians who migrated to the niche corner (mwah) so instead i had to just ship him in a rarepair nobody likes but me, quite literally i'm making the fucking tag, that's the only thing that's saved him and tbh i still kinda worry im not writing him in character

12. the unpopular character that you actually like and why more people should like them

i mean really. is there any other character i COULD talk about. look at my entire brand here.

the councilors in general have WAY more character than they're given credit for, especially the original three who have 3 games of dialogue to work with instead of just 1 for the replacement three, and i could honestly do an entire essay for each of them, but let's stick to grandpa for now. putting this under a cut i went insane

this man is the ONLY councilor who's actually DOING HIS FUCKING JOB CORRECTLY. he's the one who's always trying to stick to the law and uphold it, tevos's hand-wringing about diplomacy be damned, especially in the first game. he's a representative of the people and he CARES about the people, every SINGLE time he scolds you in the first game and when he makes his dramatic entrance in udina's office in the third he's specifically concerned with the public at large:

after feros he's concerned that you only intervened because it's a human colony, and wants to be certain you aren't going to just ignore non-humans and will protect the galaxy at large, not just humans

after therum he's reasonably worried that liara is working with her mother and you've just helped a huge threat to the galaxy walk free

after noveria, if you killed the rachni queen he's reasonably concerned about why you just acted without any sort of "yo heads up" call or advice, whereas if you saved her. YEAH NO SHIT HE'S WORRIED ABOUT THAT ACTUALLY did you hear all the reasons the rachni returning should be a much bigger deal than the game treats it of course he's like "that's extremely fucked up why would you do that"

at the start of me3 he is the ONLY one of all 4 councilors to actively, directly state that people are scared and it's their duty as galactic leaders to stay calm and protect their people, indirectly calling out udina for calling him a coward because udina demanding help for earth and ignoring the alien worlds is doing the exact same thing he's complaining about them doing in turn

keep in mind that from his perspective in me1 YOU ARE LITERALLY A POLITICAL POWER PLAY. you literally get the job because udina wants a human spectre and it's convenient to send you after saren, you didn't actually go through the proper process to be vetted and confirmed, for all they know you're every inch as human-centric and unconcerned with aliens as every other alliance twat they've met at this point. and the alliance, via hackett and anderson's attitudes, REGULARLY prove that all they care about is having somebody who can ignore the law! and depending on how you play the game you can in fact confirm that you shouldn't have been given this authority and are just doing shady shit for hackett that he can't do on the level! you can in fact PROVE SPARKY RIGHT! high-renegade shepard actually fucking proves why sparky was right to vote no on you i will die on this hill

he's also the only one to actually fucking help you in the third game right away. literally goes behind the others' backs to do it. they just voted "nah we have to worry about our own people first" and he swooces right around with a solid first step for you to take and a clear understanding that everyone has to work together regardless of udina being a lil bitch. everyone who likes those mods/edits of doing air quotes and "ah yes, reapers"-ing him back to mock him in this scene is my enemy and also a fucking idiot you don't mock the person who is 1) actively trying to help you and 2) YOUR LITERAL BOSS SHUT UPPPPP

speaking of ah yes reapers. he's justified in saying that. i dont care what whiny little princesses your shepards are. he's been dealing with anderson for TWO FUCKING YEARS who has literally not shut the fuck up about it, when inciting galactic panic is the LAST thing they should be doing. of course he's tired. of course he's annoyed this is coming up again. the man has been putting up with this for two fucking years he wants to go back to bed.

ALSO in the opening scroll in 2 it's in fact strongly implied they DO believe you but are keeping quiet to avoid a panic ("the official story") and then the archives in citadel dlc confirm it with the secret spectres-only edition of sovereign's entry. they're not fucking ignoring you or dismissing the threat they're trying to avoid GALAXY-WIDE PANIC YOU FUCKING MORONS

also he has some BITCHING quotes, these two are my favorites they're burned into my brain:

[in response to udina saying he and the council are scared and trying to save their own asses] "Our people are scared, and we're looking out for them the best we know how."

[if you save the rachni queen on noveria] "I hope you're right, Shepard. Our children's children will pay the price if you're not."

also his facial scarring is badass and implies there's so much more to him than just "consummate politician" like bioware's little bio of him implies, and his "children's children" line strongly implies he actually has children's children which lines up with him being visibly older and more aged than the turians we're usually running into in the games and im sure ill think of more stuff later on but that's my unhinged rant for the day

also if you ship him with shepard i am loading my shotgun

#press conference #korblez #sparatus tag

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fleursbending · 1 year

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hiiiii me again!

can i dump my opinions about avatar here?? cuz im about to- if you don't mind hehehhe

jake with the whole tough love thing kind gets to me at times everytime i rewatch the film.

like i get that he has to do that given the kind of world they live in coz of the sky people but, there would be times where i just go "man, cut your sons some slack."

ESPECIALLY WITH LO'AK.

"you brought/bring shame to this family."

"you've done enough."

im not kidding when i say that this film trigger my daddy issues the whole way through, and I'm just ARGHHHHHHHHHHHH.

and i know that eventually it kinda get resolved with the whole "i see you, son." but still doesn't make me less pissed.

Anyways...

I STILL LOVE THE FILM THO, JAKE SULLY IS STILL THE DAD I NEVER HAD AND LO'AK IS STILL COOL.

byeeeee! sorry you had to see this ehehehe

-🍸🍸

okay😭😭 second times a charm. this is not gonna be as concise as the first time but tumblr deleted it andddd i have a lot to say so,

it personally took me a two rewatches to fully see jake and why he is the father he's become. yes he isn't the picturesque parenting 101. yeah he is definitely harder on his kids than the usual parents.

but considering the unique set of circumstances, raising his children of war was not easy. and he purposefully let it settle that way. he knew his children would become too much like he had been before, reckless and irresponsible.

lo'ak still managed to slip through the cracks because he still became jakes carbon copy. he sees so much or his youthfulness in lo'ak it scares him to no end because for jake - that's the heart of weakness. and so he didn't let up on lo'ak, if anything he made things even more harder for him. why? because everything lo'ak had to lose is what jake already had forcefully come to terms with.

he guided 15 clans to victory, as toruk makto. but its clear as day that weighs on him negatively more than you could ever know. his dear friends, his brother - he's lost so much and came to terms with it because he had no choice.

he was hoping he could prevent it with lo'ak. but he still ended up becoming just like him.

losing a brother, his life being threatened, survivors guilt, a very distinct hatred for himself. it sounds familiar for a reason.

"you've done enough" for me, can be interpreted in two ways.

1. you've done enough. you made a mistake that you must now carry with you for the rest of my life, and for that i'm sorry son.

2. you've done enough. i'm so sorry that the guilt of your actione are going to follow you for as long as you let it. please stay with your brother now or you will regret it.

another layer to it is that he knew lo'ak was too emotionally distraught, if jake brought lo'ak with him - it would have done more harm than good. so even if the dialogue sounds backwards, he was still doing everything in his willpower to protect his children even if all his body language didnt convey that.

lo'ak and neteyam are like that in a sense, both hard headed and the same exact amount. i just think lo'ak feels and fears so greatly. it's so saddening. and i apologise forrrrr rambling sm 1!

i am rahhhhxhsb1!!1

#⇢ ˗ˏˋ junie just got mail ! ✩ ࿐ྂ #— °˖➴ 🍸 anon !#𝒇𝒍𝒆𝒖𝒓𝒔𝒃𝒆𝒏𝒅𝒊𝒏𝒈 beloveds 🫂💌!!#atwow spoilers #avatar the way of water #james cameron avatar #avatar 2009 #lo'ak sully

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lakemichigans · 1 year

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new tlou episode woo

i know he's on the brink of death, but i wish joel was a bit more convincing/angry when telling ellie to leave

i wish riley fake bit ellie in the beginning, this wasn't the best intro to her character imo

i loved the escalator scene awww my baby girl ;-;

i liked the set up to the mall, the old building, the parkour, it gave them time to talk, but the pacing didn't drag at all

you can really tell what type of person wrote ellie's dialogue about fedra ughh i hate the whole "people start killing and losing their minds without the right person leading them" and this is the second time we got to see that anti revolutionary rhetoric (kansas city) and there are so many implications with that ugh i hate it i hate it

the reveal of the mall lights was so cute, riley knows ellie loves to be surprised <3

all the wonders were cute i'm not gonna write "cute" every time lol

i didn't really feel the chemistry between the two of them, idk maybe riley was a bit too reserved? i watched this ep with my mom who didn't play the game and she agreed. i think bella did a great job portraying the tween crush energy, but i think storm was a little too distant imo

i didn't cry as much as i thought i would, but who knows maybe i'm just worn down by the amount of crying i did in every ep so far lol

the ending was great, i really feel the bond between joel and ellie, maybe even more than at this point in the game?

i wonder what this means for the david plot, are they going to cut it to be shorter, cut it entirely? idk i can't wait for next week but also i want there to be 20 more eps

tell me more of your thoughts i need to know everything <33

really? i think i (respectfully) disagree with a lot of your opinions here jfkjsds but that's okay!! i don't want to sound like i'm just arguing with you at all, because your interpretation is just as true as mine :')

i thought joel was really convincing in the short time we saw him. he doesn't want ellie to leave, but he needs her to. the guilt of knowing that he's holding ellie back is more painful to him than the wound he sustained and the threat of death, but, in a very human way, he doesn't want to be alone :( i also think he knew it was pointless to argue with ellie, because nothing he said would change her decision. i thought he did a great job showing those conflicting emotions

i liked the way the introduced riley! it's actually one of the only changes i appreciated. riley saying "in my head, that went well and you thought it was really funny" was a cute nod to how that scene went in the game! it captured the same awkwardness from riley and poorly contained hurt from ellie that the game displayed

i actually hard disagree with hating the FEDRA dialogue. in my opinion, that was spot on for where ellie's character was in that moment. she grew up with FEDRA since she was literally an infant and she never had any other sort of family to base her world view upon. all she's ever known is FEDRA. ellie was clearly favored by the guards and was treated better than someone like riley, who was too rebellious for such a straight laced faction - it's why riley felt such a sense of belonging with the fireflies, in a way that she hadn't felt since she lost her family. it's clear that ellie doesn't agree with FEDRA if she thinks about it for more than 2 seconds, but she's been trained to trust them her entire life. her gut instinct is to defend them. she's only 14 and propaganda is a powerful thing! i disagree that the show is trying to say that people need a leader to survive, because we saw the exact opposite in jackson. they are the only community we've seen be happily thriving, and they're communists fjksjds and the show made it very clear that kansas city is not a desirable place to live. one corrupt government was overthrown to make way for another corrupt government. maybe i'm misunderstanding what you said? let me know!!

i felt like riley and ellie had a lot of chemistry. ellie's crush was obvious, but riley is a much more subdued and private person, not just in relation to romance, but in everything. she didn't even want to tell ellie she joined the fireflies, a HUGE life change, and she can't put it into words why. she was afraid to face ellie for months. so it made complete sense to me that we wouldn't know whether or not riley feels the same way; she keeps everything close to the vest, especially a crush. but it's obvious she cares deeply about ellie, or she wouldn't have gone to all these lengths to make her happy. she could've left without ever speaking to ellie again, but she couldn't bear it. i think that's all we really needed to know. her actions spoke much louder than words

in the preview for next week's episode we see david! it'll just be one episode, which i think is plenty of time to get through that plot. if you really think about it, 80% of that story line is grueling gameplay, so it'll fly by without that. i'm ready to be emotionally destroyed 👍🏻

#tlou spoilers #the last of us spoilers

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menageriemadness · 11 months

Text

Pancho’s Myopic Movie Review - II : Dungeons and Dragons - Honor Among Thieves

Part I: I Roll to Seduce the Dragon

Ah! At last, a true fantasy flick that would make Roger Corman eat the script out of sheer jealousy knowing that he himself, the king of schlock, would not be able to replicate it even with a trillion monkeys plunking away at hypothetically hyperbolic typewriters.

Yes, dear readers, it is once again time for a Myopic Movie Review from your humble narrator, JP Pancho, fresh from overseeing a new batch of films delivered to the Menagerie via semi intelligent rocks rolled downhill toward a small Tibetan village.

2023 gave us many thrilling and unexpected outcomes, Zelinsky, hallowed be his name, kicking Putin in the teeth, an indictment of a former president, and Paramount producing what is likely the be the best fantasy flick of the decade - D&D: Honor Among Thieves.

Our story takes place in the D&D campaign setting of Faerun ie the Forgotten Realms. Actor turned director Frankie “the Destroyer of Box Offices (and orifaces)” Daley teams up with small time director Jonnny “Boi” Goldstein and deliver a pithy, action packed, and simple adventure that harkens back to the golden era of 1980s schlock with a modern flair for comedy, on screen table humor, and a real multi million dollar studio budget.

What we are left with is a stunning masterpiece of epic and small scale proportions. Even the stakes, which continually raise throughout the script never turn into saving the planet or the Realms themselves, just saving a single, albeit famous, city from the sinister mechanizations of an evil Thayan scheme. Overall - it’s low stakes, and for that, dear readers, your humble narrator is enterally grateful.

I saw this movie alone after a really rough day of feeling hopeless about the future and frustrated with the creeping walls closing in around me. I decided to go see it, bought the tin bucket hat and bladder buster cup, and tromped inside the theatre to find myself the only familiar in the whole town who wanted to see this movie opening weekend. It was empty.

What I saw blew my mind from the first 10 mins.

I laughed. I laughed so hard I cried. I even teared up a few times at some of the genuinely simple and heartfelt monologues and troubles the characters faced. When we came to the pivotal “all is lost moment” I was completely subverted when they all simply sat on a stump and had themselves a group hug. SIMPLE.

That’s all I have to say about this movie. There’s nothing insanely clever or deep about this plot, dialogue, or characters. It’s simple. Simple. Simple. Simple. And I love it. Theres a Druid who doesn’t like people, a barbarian with a penchant for halflings, a Harper bard who’s given up on life, an uptight Thayan paladin who doesn’t understand turn of phrase, a wizard who sucks at wizardry, and a conman who cons his way right into my heart. Nothing wild, nothing new, but the actors really did a great job making me feel like it’s a motley band of nobodies thrust into plans way above their level range. There’s a giant bridge that they need to cross, but it’s rigged with deadly traps. As the truly bearably unbearable lawful good paladin explains the intricate manner in which they need to cross, someone sets off the trap and the bridge collapses. That’s it, nothing more. No huge danger, only a new obstacle they have to work together to solve - just like the tabletop rpg.

When they see the city in peril and they have a literal ship filled with gold and all Chris Pine can say is “ah, shit,” and turn the boat around (because they all need the xp to level), definitely says it all. I remember my own experiences in rpgs where me and the party did the exact same thing. We turned our asses right back around and we defended the town, because that’s what heroes do.

The simplicity of the plot along with the heartfelt, funny, endearing characters and their clear motivations drives the plot and keeps the action quick. I love that everyone has a moment of defined growth as well, either letting go of something or learning to overcome their own insecurities. It’s never anything truly massively deep, but it’s real problems we all face - imposter syndrome, loss of loved ones, trusting new people, and learning to let go of the past and embrace the now, looking toward a brighter future. There’s plenty of wonderful moments where I can just see a party of adventurers on their own little D&D adventure getting told what epic things are happening in game, but this time we get to see it live action and in person - the obese dragon (great lore reference from Forgotten Realms for all you nerds), the exquisite Druid chase scene, beating up a hobgoblin in prison, Jarnathan’s escape, the old west street battle with the red wizard (and a tumbling basket - lol), a reference to the D&D cartoon during the Games, and seeing Hugh Grant’s face on the Goodyear blimp - chef kiss 😚 it’s a treat.

Speaking of live action and in person, the special effects are absolutely incredible. I haven’t seen such a good mix of CGI and practical puppetry since probably The Sorcerer’s Stone, and Jarnathan and the dragonkin and the furries are all charming and made me almost spit out my popcorn because I wasnt expecting such good puppets and animatronics.

There’s a scene where our heroes get sucked into the ground. I was shocked to discover it was all practical - they literally dug a pit and had them sink in it. Praise Helm!

What more can I say about this incredible film? Much, much more, but unfortunately, dear readers, all good things must come to an end, and your humble narrator needs to be off on a special task for the Menagerie - mucking out the vile Mephits who’ve taken over the water closet.

I give this movie an arbitrary score of one childhood and a late night college D&D session out of 7. If you haven’t seen it, please go watch it. Mind you, it’s not the best movie ever written, it’s not the best acted movie either, but it’s full of whimsy and charm, and I’m pretty sure Roger Corman is hastily writing a script to combat it, if only to cash in on the zeitgeist.

Alas, our time in the Menagerie has come to a close. Until next time, dear readers. I hope all is well in your world, for if it is so, then it is as well in mine.

Your Humble Narrator,

J. P. Pancho

#dnd movie #dungeons and dungeons #fantasy #movie #movie review #funny #sword and sorcery #faerun #forgotten realms #chris pine #dragons #magic #sophia lillis #michelle rodriguez #daisy head #justice smith #Hugh grant

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aboutdragons · 1 year

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the thing about dragons - chapter one

in which Lyra realizes it’s a fucking isekai.

◄○○○►

Dialogues in quotation marks are in Common Westron, in angle brackets in High Valyrian, in square brackets for other. Thoughts, emotions and emphasis are in italics.

Cross-posted on AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/43121373/chapters/108369012

◄○○○►

Read the Summary, Tags & Warnings as linked on the page to know what to expect.

warnings: (more) mentions of violent death (of the protagonist), canon-compliant violence, Daemon Targaryen as a POV character, blood, breaking and rearranging of the book-show timeline

wordcount: 10,089

Read the chapter under the cut.

◄○○○►

When they touch down for a rest stop and set up a small camp, it’s almost like just a normal camping trip with nothing pressing happening. They stop fairly away from any settlements, near to a road, by a small river that feeds into equally small lake, and set up a bonfire and a bedroll for the night. The only tent they need is Caraxes’ wing once he settles down.

They have rations, but they go fishing anyway, having discarded their shoes and rolled up their breeches. Daemon is quick enough to catch a nice-sized catfish with his bare hands. He’s a bit lost on what to do with it later—he always had someone else to prepare the game for him, after all—so Daelyra stabs the fish through the head and shows him how to gut it and then filet it.

Daelyra cocks her head. <I’m not sure. Someone taught me, though.>

The Internet.

The fuck’s Internet?

It’s almost as if they’re not on their way to the capital for Viserys’ coronation, and Daemon isn’t to be considered to be an heir in all but name until his brother manages to make a son.

But he won’t, though? All Viserys will do is bring them to easily avoidable ruin.

That man is a fool.

When the night falls, they lay down on the bedroll, Daelyra tucked in her customary spot under Daemon’s right arm, and they trace the constellations on the dark sky until Caraxes coils around their little campsite and puts his wing over them, shielding them from elements.

<Hey, dad.>

<Hmm?>

<…I suppose so? No, wait, I don’t think so. Not if I’m not even the official heir.>

Daelyra scrunches her nose. <Good. That sounds like a bother.>

Daemon laughs. <Don’t you want to be a princess?>

<No. Why would I? I want to be free to do whatever I want. Running a country would be the exact opposite of that.>

<Huh. I never thought of it that way.>

<There’s many things you don’t think about, dad.>

He pokes her in the side and she squeals, moving away. He knows she’s ticklish! He’s ticklish in the exact same spot! She pouts at him, and he laughs and presses his forehead to hers.

<It means that I packed your socks because you forgot,> she says, still pouting. <Again.>

○

They arrive in King’s Landing late afternoon next day; Caraxes caught a wind current that carried them gliding most of the way, greatly reducing the amount of actual flying he had to do past occasional flap of his massive wings to keep the altitude.

Daelyra says unhappily as they near the cesspit of a city. <Why can I smell it from here? The wind is blowing in the other direction!>

<Dad, I was three.>

<And?>

She rolls her eyes and elbows him in the ribs. <And three-year-olds don’t have much opinion on anything.>

<Well, I’m having plenty opinions, aren’t I?>

He laughs. <That you do!>

○

“What are you doing here?”

Daelyra looks up at Rhenyra—damn her age and height advantage—and blinks placidly at the very apparent unhappiness of the princess. Rhaenyra is being flanked by a servant and another girl, one in pretty blue dress with pretty chestnut hair that Daelyra doesn’t know. She’s taller than them both, lanky in a way only tweens really are when their body mass is yet to catch up to their rapidly growing bones; she’s all limbs, and she looks about twelve-ish. Older than both Targaryen girls, at least.

She’s eyeing Daelyra’s riding leathers with a degree of apprehension, in stark contrast to Rhaenyra’s obvious jealousy.

Alicent Hightower, her mind whispers. Must be.

“Why wouldn’t I be here?” she asks back, and where Daelyra didn’t falter, Rhaenyra does, loosing a bit of her bravado. “It’s my uncle’s coronation day, and my father will likely be named heir soon after.”

The girl-that-might-be-Alicent gently grabs Rhaenyra’s elbow. “Princess, that was very rude.”

Daelyra chuckles and turns to the maybe-Alicent, and greets her with a dignified dip. It’s the best she can do, as a noble lady of higher rank than the other girl. “Excuse my manners, I’ve spent last two days on dragonback. I’m Daelyra Targaryen, nice to meet you, my lady.”

Maybe-Alicent smiles at her appreciatively, her apprehension melting away. Daelyra might have grown in bumfuck nowhere, but she always felt like learning manners was important, and it was serving her well now. The older girl also dips down with much more grace, but also lower on her knees than Daelyra did; the lower the rank, the lower the dip, after all.

“Well met, my lady. I’m Alicent Hightower,” she says with a smile.

Ah, so the maybe-Alicent is Alicent. Rhaenyra huffs and rolls her eyes; Alicent elbows her. Knowing what Daelyra knows, the older girl likely has no taste for courtly manners either.

Daemon takes this moment to walk out of the Dragonpit, taking off his riding gloves. “Apologies for the delay, Caraxes wasn’t keen on nesting in this contraption.”

Rhaenyra’s eyes brighten and she runs up to her uncle, and Daelyra takes no small amount of glee in the fact that he looks at her first before interacting with her cousin. She only waves him away; as his daughter, she can spend time with him anytime she pleases. Rhaenyra, despite what she thinks, can’t. Daemon nods and turns to the older girl as she excitedly chitters at him about dragons.

Alicent sighs. “I can’t imagine travelling on a dragon.”

“It’s a lot like riding a horse,” Daelyra says with a shrug. “Just leagues above the ground. It’s windy and cold, but nothing beats the feeling. Or the speed.”

Alicent looks down at her—and it is a long way down, how is she so tall already?—but flinches, like everyone, when she meets her eyes, and looks away. Daelyra blinks and looks at the ground.

“I apologize, I spent two days with just my father and Caraxes,” she says as if it explains anything. To her it does; it’s hard to interact with prey after spending time with only fellow predators. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“It’s alright,” Alicent says with a strained smile. “Rhae—The Princess does that sometimes, too. I was a little surprised, is all.”

Daelyra nods, though she’s not sure how her cousin can compare to a true dragon. Oh well, she was certain people would stop mistaking Rhaenyra’s stubbornness and lack of self-preservation for dragon instincts soon enough. At least Alicent didn’t chance Daemon first; Daelyra fears her heart would’ve stopped then and there. She at least still has the baby charm that makes her look halfway harmless. Daemon does not.

“Did you want to say something before?” she asks Alicent, and she startles a little.

“What—Oh, not really, no. Just, making small talk, is all.”

She nods and leaves it at that, and runs off to save her father from Rhaenyra. The look of utter fury on the older girl’s face when Daemon picks her up and turns his attention to her brings her joy, and she sees more than hears the snort Alicent lets out in the uptick of her lips and rise of her shoulders before the older girl composes herself again. Rhaenyra, bless her indignant nine-year-old self’s complete lack of situational awareness, notices nothing.

<Jealous, little flame?> Daemon teases, and it’s Daelyra’s turn to snort.

<There’s nothing to be jealous of, though?> she says with faux-innocence and he laughs.

he admits, and she shrugs.

<You’re my dad,> she tells him simply, as if it explains everything. To them at least, it does.

○

Daemon realizes that it’s the first time in moons, maybe even over a year, that he’s seeing Daelyra wear a dress. It’s a nice black one with their house crest embroidered at the right collarbone in red thread, the whole thing chased with gold thread. It’s Rhaenyra’s old dress she’s long since grown out of that Aemma found somewhere on the fly when they realized that Daelyra didn’t actually have a proper Targaryen dress for the coronation, and it fits her perfectly.

(Which is why they’re in Rhaenyra’s dressing room. Its opulent and there’s much too many clothes in both Daemon and Daelyra’s taste; all the items barely fit in one garderobe room.)

With the braids coiling about her hair that Daemon braided himself, she looks like a real Targaryen Princess. Though she isn’t one, or even wants to be one, it is nice to fit in with the family. Aemma certainly gave her an appreciative glance and then proceeded to try to wrangle Rhaenyra into a similar official getup.

While Daelyra merely grumbled and made unhappy faces about the dress, Rhaenyra threw a proper fit. She didn’t like this particular dress, the jewellery wasn’t shiny enough, and also why was Daelyra wearing her old dress? Ignore the fact she’d never fit into that dress again, that was hers. Daemon shot Aemma and her maids a commiserating look and the Queen-to-be didn’t even hide her jealousy looking at his well-behaved daughter.

As if to underline her point, Daelyra gives her aunt an absolutely angelic smile from where she’s kicking her legs in the air on a cushioned couch. Daemon snorts.

Privately, though, he’s beyond relieved. Daelyra may scrunch her nose and make noises of complaint, but he simply cannot imagine her throwing a fit like that. Spoiled as he’s raised her, she always knew how and when to behave.

Hells, sometimes she’d be the one to correct him instead.

As he’s thinking it, she hops of the couch and dusts her skirt.

<What’s wrong?>

<Aunt Aemma needs help,> is all she says before she trots over to Rhaenyra, no doubt to taunt her into behaving properly.

Well—as long as it works.

○

She very carefully never mentions anything about what feels like years and years’ worth of memories and mannerisms that guide her through life.

It gives her unfair advantage on top of already being a magical demi-human half-dragon royalty.

At the cost of remembering her—

What was that?

Cold steel in her lungs, blood, so much blood—

She rubs her eyes and goes about her days, and tries to ignore the burning in her lungs and the prickle at her neck.

She’ll be fine.

○

The coronation comes and goes. It drags; first the Septon drones on the blessings they don’t need—not their culture, not their faith, Daemon will never understand why his family bends backwards to accommodate for the Citadel, just raze the thing to the ground and be done with it—and the Lords keep kneeling and swearing fealty.

Daemon thinks back to what Daelyra said, and he can’t help but agree.

The whole performance is bothersome.

But Daemon is a good brother—he tries to be a good brother, for Viserys if no other reason, so he stays and tries not to step from foot to foot. Aemma sends him a commiserating look. She’s visibly pregnant again, so she neds to contend with additional weight.

Daemon can’t imagine it’s remotely pleasant. He lends her an arm when she sways, and she sends him a thankful smile. She’s his family, after all.

○

“Annul my marriage to Rhea Royce.”

Viserys stops, his fingers twitching above his head as he halts in reaching for his crown. He turns to Daemon, looking almost aghast.

“What?”

“You’re king now, so I’m asking you to annul my marriage. Here, I even wrote up an official petition.”

And he has, handing his brother a sheet of parchment. He ensured it looked and was worded officially.

Viserys gives him a look Daemon doesn’t know how to interpret.

“You have a child together.”

“Oh, I’m taking Daelyra.”

“You cannot deny a girl her mother—”

“But she hates Rhea! Rhea can’t even look at her either.”

Viserys takes a deep breath. Then: “no.”

“No?”

“No. It was grandmother’s will that bound you to Rhea, and the Royces are an old and powerful house. They will not be insulted like this, and neither be Good Queen Alysanne’s memory. And don’t bring it up again.”

It leaves sour taste in Daemon’s mouth.

Fuck the Good Queen, senile with age. Fuck Royces, the bane of his existence; they didn’t even have the decency to lean into their First Men roots, embracing the Andal filth wholly.

○

“Annul kepa’s marriage,” Daelyra tells him not even an hour later. Viserys almost trips where he’s walking to his chamber, and looks at the girl who seems to have sprouted from the ground. She’s since changed into clothes boys would wear and her hair was re-twined into two casual braids hanging down her back. She’s looking up at him with those big black eyes.

“What.”

Daelyra blinks up at him, eyes wide. “Kepa said you didn’t listen to him, so I’m trying. I really hate my mother. Pretty please uncle, annul kepa’s marriage?”

Viserys almost says yes on the spot, looking into those big wide eyes—she’s doing that on purpose, entirely on purpose, he’ll realize later—but catches himself last moment.

“Absolutely not! I already told Daemon as much and the matter is closed.” he says instead. “And you shouldn’t listen to your father!”

Daelyra cocks her head in confusion. He really wants to pinch her cheeks, but the downtick to her lip and the displeased crinkle to her eyes tells him that she will bite if he tries.

○

“Daemon, no means no. Don’t send your daughter to convince me.”

“What are you on about this time?”

“Daelyra asked me to annul your marriage.”

“She did? Huh. I need to bring her more treats later.”

“More—Don’t enable her, Daemon! Wait—You didn’t put her up to it?”

“No? I only told her you said no when she asked. I told you; she hates Rhea.”

“I doubt she even knows what annulment means!”

“She knows it means she won’t have to see Rhea ever again. I think that’s quite enough for her, brother. And I’m being serious. We’re both miserable in the Vale.”

“My decision is final, Daemon, and I told you why. Do not push or I’ll send you back off to your lady wife at the earliest convenience.”

“Tsk.”

“And who knows? Maybe you’ll eventually be blessed with another child. Wouldn’t Daelyra like a sibling?”

“I wouldn’t fuck Rhea again if you held me at sword-point. Or gave me all the realms to rule in return.”

“Your loss, Daemon.”

“It really, truly isn’t.”

○

Viserys doesn’t—Daemon isn’t sure what he doesn’t. Value him? Trust him? Want him around?

Point is; after graciously allowing Daemon and Daelyra to remain in King’s Landing, Viserys does little else. Daemon is… He is. He wanders about, doing nothing of consequence. He doesn’t quite mind, exactly, it helps him settle at the new place with Daelyra, and they both complain about the smell because it is horrid. He spends his time with Aemma and Rhaenyra and Rhaenyra’s little Hightower friend who seems afraid of him, he frequents the training grounds and at night when he can’t find any sleep—more and more often—he sneaks out to either Street of Silk or Fleabottom. Most nights he goes, he makes it back before sunrise and catches up on sleep a bit, some nights, he doesn’t.

Every morning he leaves, though, Daelyra has a bath and breakfast waiting for him.

Depending on how sober he is, and how many new cuts and bruises he carries, sometimes also a scolding.

She scolds him often.

He’s not sure how they ended up this way, his daughter effectively parenting him, but it is keeping him afloat and he clings to it. The nights he has no energy to go anywhere, he coils around her like a dragon around a treasure, and waits until her soft breaths lull him to sleep.

But the Viserys issue.

He understands his brother is busy but supposes that is also half the problem.

He should be busy too, with something. Anything. Being Heir, being the Hand—and if that’s asking to much, at least being part of Viserys’ ruling body. Being his brother’s confidant and support and most of all, his protector.

This is what he was born for. This is what their father raised him for, in no uncertain terms told him that. When Baelor would be king and Viserys the heir, Daemon was to be his shield and guard and retainer—

Except Baelor was never king. And Daemon was sold off to the Vale the moment he reached adulthood. And he wasn’t even sure he knew his brother anymore. If he were honest, he hasn’t known his brother for years, now; he was a dragon once, just like Daemon, but—Balerion’s death defanged him, smothered all that fire that Daemon loved his brother for so fiercely, made him soft and round and complacent.

Made him so utterly, uselessly, disgustingly human.

And it was a tragedy, yes, but… But dragons bond to new riders after their old one passes. His mother’s Meleys was with cousin Rhaenys now, Caraxes used to be his uncle Aemon’s dragon. There were dragons available to try to bond, and many eggs turned to stone but some were viable still.

Viserys simply refused to even try.

And now Daemon was listless and angry and hollow because nothing was as it was supposed to be, because he was supposed to be at his brother’s side, helping him with anything that needed help, and he was not.

It left him confused and blindsided

Father said—

Father—

Father’s dead.

○

Instead, Viserys keeps the Hightower cunt as his Hand. Daemon doesn’t like him much.

○

Viserys names him Master of Coin. It’s—something.

Viserys also knows Daemon loathes numbers, especially repetitive and at that scale of calculations. Daemon still tries, does his best, really, because finally, finally his brother entrusted him with something and it almost makes him sob.

He falls asleep at the desk, the numbers blurring together and making his head heavy as the weeks of sleepless nights, alcohol, fights and whores catch up to him.

He wakes up tucked in bed with Daelyra in her customary spot under his right arm.

When he reaches the desk, the accounts are all sorted, labelled, and a spare page of parchment with all the tallied numbers at the top of the stack, with a little note at the bottom.

It reads: ‘I know you hate numbers more than me. You can copy it, or throw it away and do it all over yourself.’

That’s Daelyra’s handwriting, careful big letters written by small hands unused to a quill just yet.

This time, he’s the one to wake her up with breakfast, and takes her to fly on Caraxes after presenting Viserys with the tallied accounts. The Hightower cunt is displeased that there’s no mistakes in the ledgers to complain about.

○

He meets a woman in Flea Bottom, Mysaria. She’s a bit of a special case, he realizes quickly; she catches his attention, which is rather easy to do, because she’s pretty.

She manages to keep it, which, for a whore from Flea Bottom is nearly impossible, because of her shrewdness and wit.

Sometimes he goes to her just to talk but pays for her time all the same.

She seems to know everything that’s going on in the bowels of the city.

○

The elation of having something to do for Viserys is short-lived. Books and keeping of records are not what Daemon was made for; he’s meant for action, not sitting slouched over a desk mulling over numbers for hours. Alas, he bites his teeth and does the work assigned to him.

Daelyra, as always, makes it all the more bearable with her presence and help, but she also stopped him whenever he wanted to use the treasury funds for something more fun. Viserys was fond of his tourneys, balls and feats, and often hosted them, so why couldn’t Daemon have some fun?

He wasn’t even going to spend it all on whores! Just some. Less than half.

More importantly than the whores, though, he was more interested in finding a good blacksmith and pouring some gold in his hands—Daelyra was nearing her sixth name day, and it was about time she got some proper blades of her own, after all.

○

Daelyra never really had a mother from what Aemma gathered from the not-quite-quelled not-quite feud between her husband and her good-brother, with the girl somewhat caught in the middle. After all, if Daelyra was one of the staunchest supporters of annulment of Daemon’s marriage, she couldn’t be too close with Rhea Royce.

Aemma asked her, out of concern. She knew that Daemon largely did whatever he wanted, whenever he wanted it, so it was not impossible that he merely set his daughter against his wife.

The confession she got from Daelyra instead almost had her march and scream at Viserys for not agreeing to annul the marriage instead. Sadly, she knew her husband, and while he could be decisive and stubborn, he usually was at the worst possible times. She couldn’t free Daelyra (and Daemon) from Rhea, but she could at least offer the girl some motherly guidance. Gods knew Daemon had the girl wearing breeches most of the time and hacking the straw dummies until she couldn’t hold the wooden sword anymore some days. She did seem to quite enjoy it, but young lady needed to know how to behave; especially a lady of this high standing, especially at court.

And when Rhaenyra spent time with Alicent, or kept harassing Viserys or, more often these days, Daemon about all things dragon, Aemma would sit with Daelyra and read fairy stories with her, and remember better times, when Viserys wasn’t king, or this obsessed with having a son, and Rhaenyra wasn’t quite so wilful.

○

It was the second time she chose to give up on having a remotely acceptable mother figure.

But Aemma—Aemma is a near thing, she decides. She fills in where her father simply can’t, ties ribbons in her hair and gives her dresses to try and sits with her in the Godswood weaving flower crowns.

This is a dead woman walking.

○

“A spendthrift?!”

Daemon cannot believe what he’s hearing. Otto—that Hightower cunt—is claiming he’s a spendthrift and cannot be trusted with money, and Viserys is looking at him with disappointment. After Daemon sat for hours every day making sure the money flowed properly through the castle and to all the feasts and balls and the tourney Viserys was organizing—

“You spend the treasure money on whores and dealing with the scum of the lower streets,” the Hightower cunt continues. “They call you Lord Flea Bottom.”

Daemon grits his teeth and clenches his fists.

“I am not blowing through the treasury,” he snarls, looking straight at the man. The cunt starts to look uncomfortable, and nervously looks to Dark Sister where she rests propped against the table. “I am only using what is allotted to me, and nothing more.”

“You’re the one allotting the money,” the cunt says smugly. Daemon considers killing him anyway, then and there.

“Otto brought reports to my attention,” Viserys says and Daemon’s eyes snap to him.

“Reports?”

“Of the finances. There are some worrying trends there.”

“Show me those reports—”

He’ll fucking see for himself what the problem is about, and then he’ll fix it—

“There will be no need,” Viserys says, and looks at him with disappointment. It’s enough to make Daemon still. “They’re proof enough. I’m relieving you of your position as Master of Coin and reinstating Lord Beesbury, effective immediately.”

Daemon slams his fists on the table, and leaves before he does something Viserys will deeply regret. His throat is constricting, a scratching heat clawing at his lungs and the back of his neck and he feels as if he might just breathe fire himself. He notices the self-satisfied smirk on the Hightower cunt, and almost turns around to cut him down, but decides against it.

He never sees those reports in the end.

○

He barges in on Daelyra’s lesson. The septa sends him a nasty look, but his daughter brightens up from her bored-to-tears look when she sees him. It helps that hot-ugly-clawing something settle when she runs into his arms and he picks her up. It’s the warmth, the trust, and the smell that always carries a note of ash and brimstone, he thinks.

<Let’s go flying,> he says when he thinks he can trust his voice, but it still comes out as enough of a snarl for the septa to recoil.

<Okay. But you’re telling me what happened!>

“My Prince, the Lady—”

“This lesson is over,” Daemon tells the woman, and she flinches again. Looking at their books, Daelyra’s been learning about the Faith of the Seven. It puts a bad taste in his mouth, but she insisted she needs to know the enemy, and who was he to deny her?

“I need a different septa,” Daelyra says instead. “Nothing wrong with Bredgit but the way she teaches things is so boring I can’t focus at all and I need to read everything all over anyway if I want to learn anything! Like—all she does is just read things back at me! I can do that myself! And faster!”

Bredgit, who’s still standing by the desk, colours and ugly shade of puce. Daemon laughs.

“I’ll find you a better one.”

○

Viserys makes him the Master of Laws.

But what of it, when Otto Cunttower blocks him every time he tries to do anything on that front?

He’s too bloodthirsty. He’s too vicious, too violent, to cruel with his laws.

How dare he make the same laws that apply to smallfolk apply to the highborn.

This time he quits himself.

Cunttower smirks when he does, and this time Daemon punches him.

○

Feeling my way through the darkness

Guided by a beating heart

I can't tell where the journey will end

But I know where to start

They tell me I'm too young to understand

They say I'm caught up in a dream

Well life will pass me by if I don't open up my eyes

Well that's fine by me

○

She stands on stars and ocean ripples above her, and she can hear a distant yet haunting whalesong.

Her eyes are open, but she doesn’t see. The air presses against her unpleasantly, her lungs burn as if she’s drowning, green flames lick at her feet—

[You—]

She wakes up gasping.

Her lungs burn. It’s a familiar pain.

Cold steel in your chest, blood, so much blood—

This is a curse gift.

Arms wrap around her, and Daemon pulls her into his lap as he sits up, and—

Cold steel in lungs, blood pooling under, the cold, you’re—

Oh, right, she’s hyperventilating.

He speaks to her in a low sleep-laden voice and keeps his hand between her shoulder blades. She doesn’t understand a word he says and doesn’t remember anything she said. It feels important, this dream she keeps chasing. Stars under her feet, ocean above her head, cold steel burning her lungs.

It feels like she shouldn’t.

She feels wrung out when she calms down, too tired to move but unable to fall asleep, and Daemon doesn’t seem in a hurry to sleep either. Instead, he gets them both dressed and takes a horse to the Dragonpit.

She feels cold, like all the blood left her body, and Daemon is shaking ever so slightly when he carries her, but he refuses to let go. His warmth would be enough, but he’s cold to, and his heart has yet to calm as he holds her ever so tighter when they ride on horseback in the middle of the night.

They curl up against Caraxes’ flank bundled in furs and blankets, in silence that’s almost comfortable. By the first light, Lyra’s warm again, and her father’s heart has calmed.

Wait, has she ever shortened her name before—?

○

It stirs in the dark where it made its home, this thing of shadow and bone and violence.

Soon, it thinks. Soon I will be complete.

But not just yet.

No. Not just yet.

It waited so long. This, in comparison, is nothing.

○

<…>

<Don’t make that face.>

<But—>

<I… I don’t know. But I it wasn’t. It feels like… It feels like a memory.>

<That’s even more impossible.>

He holds her close and doesn’t let go, and when his hands grip her and press her tightly against his chest, the dread fails to.

○

[Are you certain she can handle it?]

[She must.]

[With that reaction?]

[It was too early—it still might be. We must believe that she’ll be able to handle it.]

[Again with your faith, Shrykos! I’m starting to get sick of it.]

[…she will remember it all, and it will break or make her. We can only watch, and hope.]

[There’s a reason not even the souls in the Afterworld remember how they died—!]

[And what can we do about it?]

[…if the Freehold hasn’t blown itself up, we could have—]

[If the Freehold didn’t blow itself up, we wouldn’t be desperately grasping at straws to be able to stand against Them. But the Freehold was fundamentally flawed.]

[Valyrians are fundamentally flawed. Both too human and too inhuman at once, and finding that perfect balance is damn near impossible—]

[You know what I mean, Balerion. A civilization built on slavery and blood magic was doomed to fall the moment it was established. No matter how much we artificially extended its lifespan, no matter how much we aided it…]

[We should have just let it die when it first started unravelling, you know. Nobody needs city-sized dragons and legions of artificial beastfolk.]

[But we can only say that with certainty because of hindsight, can’t we?]

[Sadly.]

○

“You were supposed to go see Syrax with me today!” Rhaenyra screeches and stops her foot. She’s already kilted out in her riding leathers, and has found particular offense to Daemon, who only now managed to make his way back to the Red Keep. Daelyra is still in his arms, and she feels smaller than ever, and neither of them is in much of a hurry to let go.

Viserys and Aemma are there too to see her off in the morning, both barely awake, but Aemma notices the absolute state they’re both in first.

“Daemon, what happened?” she asks concerned and takes a step forward.

Danger, Daemon’s mind screams and he takes a step back, a growl bubbling at the back of his throat. Aemma stops and looks at him with confusion and a bit of fear. Viserys looks between the two and ever so slowly, his eyes clear of sleep and widen with the realization. When Rhaenyra, unbothered by the growl, makes to stomp over to Daemon anyway, Viserys grabs her by the shoulder and pulls her back, maybe a tad too harshly.

“Father?!”

Viserys kneels down next to her. “I know your uncle promised to take you flying today, but you’ll need to postpone it.”

“What? No! He promised! We’re going flying, now!”

Aemma and Viserys seem to have a whole conversation over the top of their daughter’s head, and then Aemma puts her hand on Rhaenyra’s shoulder too.

“I’m sorry darling, but Daemon is very tired now,” she says. Rhaenyra looks at her with a grimace, and then at Daemon—no, at Daelyra. She stomps her foot again.

“He promised! Uncle, you promised!”

“Adults break promises,” Daemon tells her curtly. Viserys flinches at the tone, and because Daemon looks right at him, as if he means something else.

Rhaenyra’s lip wobbles and tears well in her eyes. Daemon pushes past them.

Viserys calls after him, maybe in concern, but it falls on deaf ears.

○

So wake me up when it's all over

When I'm wiser and I'm older

All this time I was finding myself, and I

Didn't know I was lost

○

“You haven’t visited here in a long time, my prince,” Mysaria says a bit breathless once he’s done with her. He merely hums, reclining on the bed of the semi-private room.

“My daughter has been having nightmares recently,” he says, and Mysaria looks at him curiously.

“The Lady Daelyra?”

“Mhm.”

“…I never really took you for a family man, you know?” she says and sits up. Daemon scoffs.

“She’s a bit special,” he says. “She’s not as needy as other children her age, she understands that sometimes, I just have to go have some fun before I turn violent.”

She raises an eyebrow at him. Daemon coughs.

“She was very upset I beat up a guard to a pulp once, in Runestone. I had no idea a four-year-old could look this deeply disappointed. She stepped on a stool, grabbed my face and—”

“And?” Mysaria prompts, small indulgent smile on her lips as Daemon collects his words.

“She—She scolded me! She just—I got scolded by a four-year-old child for beating up her mean guard!”

Mysaria laughs at him, well and truly laughs. “Oh, I can’t believe this, the great Rogue Prince bested by his tiny child. I’d pay to see that.”

“I don’t recall paying you to laugh at me,” Daemon bites back, and she only shakes her head and sits up.

“You pay me for my time,” she says with a shrug. “Though I must admit, it’s quite endearing when you talk about your daughter. Your eyes get a lot brighter.”

“Hm.”

“Though I wonder, if you are such a great father and she’s been having bad nights, why are you here tonight?”

“She went to bother Aemma tonight.”

“The queen?”

“Mhm.”

“Oh my. She truly does whatever she pleases, doesn’t she?”

“I would expect nothing less.”

“I think I’d like to meet her.”

“Hmm, maybe someday. And certainly not here.”

○

Third time, as Lyra is fond of saying, is the charm. It seems to hold true. After the fiascos that was putting him in the position of Master of Coin and then Master of Laws, Viserys finally, finally gives Daemon a position that he knows he will do well in.

It’s not as close to his brother as he’d like to be, but it’s something. It’s better than anything so far before, because this time, he can actually make change. He can act, instead of sitting in his chair pooling over papers and ledgers.

Lyra, too, says that being the Commander of the City Watch will suit him just fine.

He’s not sure when her approval started to take precedence over Viserys’. No matter.

The issue is, the City Watch is…

“An utter dumpsterfire,” Lyra says, her tiny hand in his as she looks critically at the sorry state of the barracks, the mess, the damage, the lack of equipment. “Quite disgraceful, at that. Who was the Commander before you again? And where did all the funding go?”

Good questions. Daemon remembers allocating the funding to the Watch himself some scarce moons ago when he was Master of Coin. Initially he really did think they were merely underfunded. The money he allocated them should have been more than enough.

This? This was so much worse than underfunding. Someone was stealing the money, there was no other explaination.

He looks down at Lyra. Lyra looks up at him.

“Good luck,” she says. “You have a lot of work before you.”

“I am aware. But it will be worth it. I will make Gods-forsaken city a safe—er, place.”

She pats his elbow, because it’s about as high as she can reach. “I believe in you.”

He smiles. “I know.”

She kicks him in the shin. “You’re supposed to say ‘thanks’, not ‘I know’!”

“I know,” he says like the menace he is, shit-eating grin on his face. She kicks him again, even though he can’t even feel it. Damn her six-year-old body.

○

He’s tall, a little gangly still in a way still-growing teenage boys usually are, with a mop of fluffy brown hair on his head and dustings of a beard of his chin, dressed in what passes for the City Watch armour.

She almost calls him Jace, but not quite. That’s Luke’s hair.

Wait, who the fuck are Jace and Luke?

“I’m Harwin Strong, princess.”

He gives her an exaggerated bow and she laughs. She likes him, she thinks.

“I’m not a princess,” she corrects him. “Just a lady, and that’s bothersome plenty enough.”

He laughs at that.

○

He finds the morons who were stealing from the City Watch first. He’s swift and merciless; thievery is losing a hand, no matter if they’re lords and knights. Law is law.

But they blew all the money, and all that he managed to get back were measly leftovers, so he persuades Lord Beesbury to give him some more funding to make up for what was stolen.

(“This is harassment,” Lyra says with a sigh and shakes her hand, but still helps him draft the documents and tally up exactly how much capital he’ll need to start. “Make sure you don’t give Beesbury a coronary at least, he’s getting there in years.”

He presses his forehead against hers, and even thanks Lord Beesbury later, when his project gets approved.)

First order of business is new armour and weapons, and before long the City Watch is once more properly outfitted. Now they can actually do their jobs, instead of standing awkwardly at corners, pretending their swords and maces and axes aren’t falling apart in their holsters. Still, something, he feels, is missing.

“Give them cloaks,” Lyra says one day when they’re in the barracks. She has bullied employed one of the younger Watchmen to be her pony and is now comfortably sitting on his shoulders, following Daemon around the place. He’d carry her himself, but he needs his hands at the moment.

“Cloaks?” he asks, and she nods, fingers laced on the top of young man’s head. Harwin, Daemon thinks is his name; he looks a lot like Lord Strong, the new Master of Laws. It might be the son he’s been talking about; Daemon remembers him mention the boy was joining City Guard. Barely a man grown, a gangly still but already tall and fit, and likely still growing. A little goofy but honest, and Daemon had no doubt he’ll soon grow into a very fine man.

He didn’t miss how Lyra zoned in on him either, picking him over all the others, and it was more than enough to get the boy Daemon’s attention in turn.

“Yeah. Dye them gold, maybe darken the armour they wear if you can.”

He blinks at her. This—this is a good idea, actually. He’d probably come up with it himself in few days’ time, but that way the can have a head-start at actually implementing it. The guards need standout uniforms anyway, and addition of the cloaks will easily be that. If he standardizes the colour of the armour, too, it will make for a fine, uniform organization that could be easily told apart from the Red Keep guards, mercenaries, and random lordling knights loitering about.

He reaches up—damn, the Strong boy is tall, almost taller than him—and pats Lyra’s head.

“Good idea.”

She smiles. “I know!”

Daemon makes a face. “Now you’re just being petty.”

Her smile turns into a smirk. “I know.”

He squishes her cheeks. Harwin, bless him, actually bends down on his knees to make it easier for Daemon. He finds he already likes him, even when Lyra cries ‘traitor!’ in offense.

○

I tried carrying the weight of the world

But I only have two hands

Hope I get the chance to travel the world

But I don't have any plans

Wish that I could stay forever this young

Not afraid to close my eyes

Life's a game made for everyone

And love is a prize

○

Static in the darkness, like an old radio you didn’t quite turn off.

[…ra, you mu…ake up—!]

Glint of steel aimed at her, wild bloodshot eyes.

Her own fucking kitchen knife. How dare he.

Pain. Cold. Eventually, nothing.

He ruined his life with it, at the very least.

○

She died, didn’t she.

And yet—

wake up

w̸a̴k̶e̸ ̵u̵p̶

W̵A̴K̴E̴ ̴U̸P̷

—she wakes up.

○

Her name was Lyra Clark, thirty-two years old at the time. She had her own flat, an okay-paying job, and a hobby for music she hoped to eventually turn into a career. Rascal, the cat she had since she was eleven years, passed away two months prior, two weeks after turning twenty-one.

And when she was grieving for her best friend, Warren Slater, her boyfriend of then-eight-months finally crossed the line for the last time, so she broke up with him and kicked him out; he had been shifty about his job and income ever since she let him move in, after all, and she wasn’t willing to support him, especially when his comments started to get unpleasantly snippy.

You’re too tall. Too muscular. I don’t like your piercings.

Why is your makeup so dark.

You should remove your tattoos, not get more.

When will you stop fucking around with that guitar.

Why can’t you be more feminine. Wear a dress for once.

She kept him because he was pretty, but when his mouth turned foul not even his sparkling eyes and pouty lips could stop her from showing him the door.

He kept calling, insisting that it was all am misunderstanding, saying he was sorry and can she please take him back. She didn’t.

One week, two, a month—

And just when the blessed silence finally reigned, she came back from work to find him in her kitchen. There was an argument, a screaming match, really, him trying to guilt her into taking him back. She was just about to grab him by the throat and throw him onto the hallway—

There was a knife on the counter. She didn’t put it there, she always kept tidy, so the only explanation was that he prepared it. Put it within his reach.

Premeditated fucker.

Forty-three stabs, she thinks hysterically. She counted.

Forty-three premeditated stabs, and while she wouldn’t have much problems overpowering him otherwise, a knife to the lungs really does knock the wind out of you.

She dies, not quite upset about it but not quite happy about it either. She just met a nice and interested girl at the club yesterday and got her number and wondered if that’d go anywhere. But with Rascal gone and her not being on speaking terms with her parents, and her lack of closer friends… She wasn’t that upset about it. She was only really upset about not being able to do music anymore.

She found glee in the fact that Warren wouldn’t be getting out of it. Her next-door-neighbour was full-on renovating his flat, he and his workers wouldn’t miss Warren. They probably noticed the yelling and the scuffle, too. Someone might’ve gone to check up on her, and she’s a little sorry for the traumatizing sight.

She died, she figures, the way she lived—not terribly upset about it, but far from happy about it, her energy drained from her by someone else.

○

The world, it seems, wasn’t quite as done with her as she was with it, though.

○

Remembering your death in high definition is a decidedly unpleasant sensation, Lyra decides as she opens her eyes to gaze at—

The ocean?

She sits up startled and looks around frantically, and this is not her room, not her bed, Daemon is nowhere to be found, here is—

She’s standing among konpeitō-shaped glowing pebbles of multiple colours ranging in size from smaller than her nail to as big as her fist, her bare feet on the veritable sea of silky glittering sand the colour of the night sky. Wherever she turns around, she’s met with trees at every side, crystal and bent and far enough away that it would take a longer trek to reach them. Pink glow of the half-hidden sun glows above the trees.

And above her head…

Ocean ripples, water moving naturally as if it weren’t hanging impossibly upside down, taunting her. She thinks she hears a whale sing, but she can’t see any.

Her hands are translucent, so are her feet.

[Hello, Lyra.]

She turns to the side, and then looks up, and up, and up—there, higher than anyone had any business being, two red eyes were peering down at her. Dark eyelashes, cheekbones that could cut glass, glossy black hair, straight and reaching almost to the hips; black-and-red robes, the whole design brought together with silver jewellery in a style that was oddly familiar to her. Vaguely historically East-Asian in cut, but she can’t for shit actually place it geographically—those are ceremonial Valyrian robes, she realizes. Figures; Valyria was on Planetos, not Earth, and it was its own thing.

Human, almost, if not for the black scales on his cheekbones, nose and forehead, vanishing into the hairline or transitioning into black, bony horns curving back, crowning him, and the long, black, ridged tail swishing lazily in the sand. The claws, the slit pupils, black veins on pallid skin, black lips and eyelids.

And the fact that he’s inhumanly tall. Over nine feet, in her estimate. Maybe closer to ten, she has to crane her neck to look at him.

[Do I know you?] she asks though she doesn’t know the language, she doesn’t know if they’re even speaking at all. It feels more like they’re sharing thoughts.

He smiles, his impossible perfect features—doll-like, almost, she’s pretty sure she’s seen a ball-jointed-doll looking like that once, the expensive kind—softening with it.

[I wouldn’t say you know me, exactly,] he allows with a dip of his head. [We never truly met until now.]

She narrows her eyes at him. [You know my name. I don’t know yours, though.]

[You do. I am Balerion,] he says easily. Lyra blinks at him.

And sure, he did carry the exact coloration that Balerion-the-Dragon was said to have, black scales chased with red, glowing red eyes, curving horns of black bone, a perfect mixture of human and dragon, but—but as far as Lyra’s concerned, dragons cannot shapeshift, and Balerion-the-Dragon is dead.

But there is another Balerion, one that her father told her about, back in Runestone, curled under Caraxes’ wing.

[You’re the Valyrian God of Death,] she says, a little awed. [You’re… Tall.]

[Well, maybe you’re just very short?] he asks, and his smile takes on a cocky edge. Lyra grabs the first next konpeitō-shaped glowing rock and chucks it at the god. He merely ducks away with a chuckle.

[I am normal height, thank you very much!]

She’s about to say something more, but there’s a chime and suddenly another dragonoid faceplants into the stary sand, right next to Lyra. This one is mostly pale gold and platinum, their skin a hueless coal-black in stark contrast to Balerion’s creamy porcelain. They get up, dust their white robes off, and look at Lyra; their eyes are glowing orange, like coals aglow in the fireplace, and their skin is littered with golden cracks.

They’re also infuriatingly tall, and with obvious dragon features.

[You actually made it!] they say and brighten up, and Lyra instinctively takes a step back. Their colouring is friendlier than Balerion, but their edges are sharper. Ridged horns, longer claws.

[Um.]

Balerion grabs the newcomer by the scruff and dusts them off. [Peace. I know you’re ecstatic but you’re overwhelming her.]

They blink at him, and sigh. [Right, yes, that’s… Ahem. I am Shrykos, and it’s really nice to finally meet you!]

Lyra blinks up at them, searching her memory. This is definitely one of the fourteen flames, but it takes her few seconds to come up with the domain; beginnings and endings, transitions, doorways. Passages of all kind, really.

[Likewise,] she says a little awkwardly. It’s mostly their height, she realizes, as they loom above her. She’s—

Oh yeah, she’s back in her original form, but her standing at almost six feet is still nothing when she doesn’t even reach Balerion’s elbow.

[Can you guys crouch down,] she asks them as she puts her hands on the hips. They look between themselves and chuckle, but they actually do. Shrykos gets on their knees and sits on the heels of their feet in a proper seiza, and Balerion, the utter fucking madlad, does a slav squat. A proper one, with his feet fully on the ground. It’s surreal. But they are on eye-level with her now.

[Better?] he asks.

[Yes, thank you.]

Awkward silence reigns as they both look at her and she tries to make sense of it all.

And it’s not that hard to make sense of it. She does have all the pieces, after all. She died, and yet she lives, in another world. Balerion is the God of Death, Shrykos is the God of—well, all kinds of transitions, really.

The conclusion writes itself. She died, dimension-hopped, and was born again, and it’s their doing.

[I’m reincarnated as a Targaryen and I don’t even have a dragon,] she says, breaking the silence, and she absolutely does not sulk. [It’s your doing, isn’t it? It makes too much sense for it not to be. Is that why we’re all here now? To—talk it out? My… Well, whyever I’m alive again?]

[Oh thank fuck you can think,] Shrykos says with obvious relief and Lyra startles a little at their wording. [This makes this whole undertaking a whole lot easier.]

[The—uh—Thanks? But also, now that I, you know, remember stuff, it’s a simple conclusion.]

Balerion sighs and pokes Shrykos’ cheek. [Truth to be told, we did not choose you to be reborn. We may be gods, but no power is unlimited, and dragging a whole intact soul through dimensions is no small feat. We could only do it once, and it was impossible to choose. All we could do was cast a net, and hope for the best.]

[That’s… Awfully irresponsible.]

[We know,] Shrykos says with a sigh. [But we were running out of options.]

[Running out of options? Wait, this—Wait. Is this some—That—Is this not your first timeline doing this?]

They exchange looks. Balerion shrugs, Shrykos sighs again, despondently this time.

[No,] Balerion says. [But that is irrelevant. Though your existence disrupted our ability to foresee certain events, as you or anyone like you has existed prior. I am, however, starting to think that it is exactly what we have needed.]

Lyra shrugs and nods. [Fair enough.]

[We did need to ask Meleys for help, though,] Shrykos says with a shudder. [She was very upset with us.]

Meleys. Her domains, Lyra thinks, are motherhood and general reproduction. That does make sense, if they needed a baby to shove a soul into. She’s not very interested in the mechanics of her reincarnation, though; she gets to live again and she doesn’t need to know how.

She would like to know why, though. So, she asks: [Why did you need someone?] She thinks for a moment. The most obvious thing she would be born in time to fuck with would be— [Do you need me to stop the Dance?]

[Close, but no,] Balerion says, and she startles. That is not what she was expecting. [No, we don’t care much for humans and their little civil wars, we don’t even need a Targaryen on the throne, that was all Aegon’s fancy. We don’t care where they are or what are they doing, as long as there are those carrying enough of Valyrian blood still. We need—]

[Dragons,] Lyra breathes, because that’s the next best thing. [You want me to save the dragons from extinction.]

[—precisely,] Balerion agrees, unbothered by the interruption. [We don’t care much for how you will achieve it either, stop the civil war if you feel like it or spearhead it yourself, Hells, grab the crown yourself if you want it; do whatever. It doesn’t matter as long as dragons survive this pivotal moment and thrive after. That is all we need.]

[And if I fail?]

[Two centuries into the future, this world ends.]

[Gee, no pressure, huh?] she groans and rubs her eyes. [You know, for someone set to save dragons, I’m awfully dragonless myself.]

[Yet,] Shrykos chirps. [He’s waiting for you, though.]

She blinks up at them, as Balerion elbows them in the ribs.

[No spoilers?] she asks with a crooked smile.

[No spoilers,] Balerion says with a small smirk. [I want to see your reaction.]

Lyra has a sassy comeback on the tip of her tongue, but the world around them ripples, the konpeitō-stars blinking wildly and the ocean above growing violent as the whole dreamscape bleeds color.

[Our time is almost up,] Shrykos says as their fingertips start fading into gold dust. [We won’t be able to meet anytime soon, between this and bringing you here, what was left of out power is mostly gone.]

[And last important advice before you go, then?]

[Old Valyria,] Balerion says immediately. [Knowledge lost there would be a great boon to you, though it is optional. Be very careful if you do go there, though; that place is an absolute death trap.]

[Don’t trust any gods you haven’t personally met,] Shrykos chirps with a smile. [And trust their followers even less.]

[Organized religion is cancer, I know,] she chuckles as the dreamscape shakes harder. [Tell Meleys I said thank you. Daemon is a pretty good father, really.]

[And trust your judgement!]

[You don’t know me, Shrykos. I may be a dumbass.]

[Yes, but you do have a degree of hindsight, and a much differing outlook on life,] Balerion interjects. [If you want to pull this off, you will need to think outside the box in the way only someone in your situation can. Trust yourself.]

She takes a deep breath, and nods. The dreamscape swims and blurs at the edges, vanishing into glitter.

[Best of luck!] Shrykos says—yells—and it sounds distant, now. They’re almost gone, and so is Balerion.

[We’ll be seeing you sometime in the future,] Balerion says with a nod.

She waves at them as everything turns into static, and then nothing, save for one indignant thought;

It’s a fucking isekai.

○

So wake me up when it's all over

When I'm wiser and I'm older

All this time I was finding myself, and I

Didn't know I was lost

I didn't know I was lost.

○

She wakes up.

That fucker, Warren, stabbed her in the chest forty-three times and she died. She remembers exactly how it felt, cold steel in her lungs, and she will have to live with that knowledge forever. It is a price she will be paying forever, because—

Because she wakes up.

She died and yet she’s here, breathing, alive, warm, though elsewhere. Six years old and impossibly alive, and finally developed enough to recover enough memory to be aware of what actually happened.

There are gaps of course, there are things she doesn’t remember, can’t, maybe won’t. Memories she lost to defence mechanisms that she doesn’t even want back.

But she’s alive all the same, in another world, a Targaryen at the eve of the Dance of Dragons, and—she’s read the books once, and watched the show then it was coming out, and she barely remembers anything from it. Fuck.

She’s always been more of a Tolkien girl to get her fantasy fix, after all.

She rolls onto Daemon’s chest with a groan, using the familiar warmth to ground herself as memories settle, and one conversation she had in a dream stands out. And isn’t that crazy that Daemon Targaryen, the Rogue Prince, is the person she relies on the most? The person she unironically trusts with her life?

He’s an asshole. A villain, chaotic evil, or at least selfish—but she doesn’t for a second, even with the new-old memories, doubt his love for her. That is a bone-deep kind of certainty. He’s the best parent she’s ever had in either life and though the bar isn’t very high, he’s trying his best, and she’s finding that his best is not really bad at all. He’s not, by any means, the best father to ever live, but—he’s good. Attentive, supportive, nurturing, uncharacteristically patient for himself.

He's a good parent, plain and simple, she knows it, especially with hindsight of what her parents used to be a lifetime ago—she cut contact with them for a reason, after all.

Hell, even Rhea was passable in comparison to them, since all she did was severely neglect Lyra out of fear of their Targaryen-ness and dislike for Daemon.

She grabs the book he was reading to her, some tales, and throws it haphazardly on the nightstand. It was on his chest; he must have fallen asleep before putting it down. Daemon startles awake, takes a deep breath, blinks a little, looks at her. His hair is braided loosely and over his shoulder, and he’s wearing that soft cotton shirt she likes to cuddle into.

<What’s wrong, little flame?> he asks her, voice heavily laden with sleep, and she sighs dramatically.

<Oh. Okay.>

And just like that he rolls onto his side and gathers her in his arms and presses her against his chest, the softness of his shirt and the heat of his body and the steady beat of his heart so calming and familiar that she starts dozing off immediately.

The best part, she thinks, is that Daemon is still himself. He’s still violent, vicious, and exceedingly selfish. He still kills for fun and frequents whorehouses and threatens anyone he can get away with threatening, and flies around on Caraxes and occasionally feeds people to him. But he also reads her bedtime stories and braids her hair and carries her around and gives the best hugs and kisses her forehead and spends the whole night awake with her if she’s unwell.

He still, without complaint, cradles her in his arms when the sleep won’t come or dreams haunt her, and runs his hand through her hair as a quiet purr rumbles from his chest, and she doesn’t think she’s ever felt safer, or warmer, or more content.

This side of his, this softness—it’s hers, and hers alone, she knows. It’s her most precious treasure, just like she is his.

<Dad?>

<Yes, little flame?>

She presses her forehead against his collarbone.

And she might be small and six years old, and she might be alive all over again and she might remember her first death and there is and will me trauma there, she just knows it, and this might be a fucking isekai in another world she barely remembers the plot of, but—

His voice is smooth and quiet, barely above a whisper, but there’s a certainty in these words. A promise. A belonging, to somewhere, with someone, freely given. She thinks she should feel bitter that it took her dying to find what she should have always had, but she doesn’t care. Past matters little, save for the knowledge it grants her. Past is the road she’s already walked, a teacher of lessons of life, and this is now, and she’s thankful that she gets to have this in the end.

Enough to be glad to have died for it, even.

Because this, she thinks, this is enough. This is home.

#hotd #house of the dragon #fanfiction #house of the dragon fanfic #original targaryen character #targaryen oc #isekai #reincarnation #daemon targaryen #harwin strong #ttad #the thing about dragons

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