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kristinakyidyl · 2 years

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s1e9 Trailer

So, in my ongoing quest to get better at guessing things and also for fun, the e9 trailer!

As per usual, this WILL CONTAIN BOOK SPOILERS. At the end of e8, Viserys died (I got that right! Even the bit about seeing Aemma, although not in the way I thought.). The next episode is called "The Green Council". In the book, when Viserys is discovered dead, Alicent hides it and gathers the small council. During this council they decide to crown Aegon the Elder, creating him Aegon II Targaryen. And, yes, he's just as much of a piece of shit in the books.

We start with a dark, empty, cold throne room. A huge contrast to how it was warm and lit up for the welcome feast for Rhaenyra's wedding - although likely still as violent. However, this scene is lit in a way that feels cold and empty. Just as when Aemma died, so too does Viserys's death bleed life out of the Red Keep.

Next, we have the three usurping assholes. As I mentioned, when Viserys dies, the Greens keep this information to themselves. They don't even allow the Silent Sisters to tend to the body (this is probably the purpose of showing them this week - so we can see the immediacy and purpose of their work.) and it begins to rot...well, you know, more than when he was alive. :P Instead, they call together the small council, and that's what we're seeing here. They've been dragged out of bed and into the room, and the balls are on the plates, and so it's in session, and the small council is being informed of the King's death.

Look at Alicent. She looks horrible. She looks so unhappy to be there whilst Otto and Crispin look unbothered. Her grief here appears to be genuine. It appears that she's feeling the weight of everything...her husband's death, what she thinks is going to happen, the decision she has to make...all of it.

Next shot is a Kingsgard cleaning his sword. I'm assuming it's Criston, but it's meant to symbolize the upcoming war in the trailer. I think what it actually shows is swords being cleaned before another shot we see later on that is from Aegon's coronation.

Alicent saying "he told me he wanted Aegon to be king" to someone, presumably her dad. She's crying here, so it's likely this is right after Viserys is found. I'm not sure how seriously I think she's going to take Viserys's last words, but it looks like it's her turn to make some really bad decisions. Whether she does that because of his last words, her father's influence, her own ambition, or a combination of those is more what I think we'll find out.

These next two shots are likely of the same scene, and I've circled what was pretty much the only hint as to what they're looking at. It's a Kingsgard. This is clearly after the scenes in the actual green council, because those happen at night and this is a daytime scene. My guess here for these two is that it's Aegon's coronation, although it seems like the crowd here is moving quickly and is either upset or scared about something. Maybe they're excited. I think possibly upset though because in the book it says that the dragon pit was chosen as the coronation site d/t the strong, defensible doors. Maybe the city riots when Aegon usurps Rhaenyra.

Next we have another pair of scenes, and this shows some people kneeling and bowing to Otto and others standing. I am assuming this is part of the event where Otto rounds up all the Black supporters and either jails them or beheads them. So those who remain standing are unwilling to swear to Otto and Aegon. Lord Caswell will be among them. I'm sure someone better at identifying actors can do better than I can with telling who these characters are. Like I know I've seen that guy on the bottom, but I can't remember who he is.

Now we go back to that meeting of the Green Council right after Viserys's death, and we have Otto saying "This door remains shut until we finish our business". We'll come back to this in a second, because there's more shots from this scene.

This is a shot of Aegon - crown on his head - in the foreground, Aemond in the background, and Crispin's arm to the right. The voiceover are the last two words of the previous sentence, implying that "our business" is crowning Aegon. A side note, that I'll get into at the end - Aegon isn't crowned with Viserys's crown, he's crowned using Aegon the Conqueror's crown, as it hadn't yet been lost in Dorne at this point. The reason I know that's Crispin's arm is that it's Crispin that physically crowns Aegon at the coronation, which is another reason why book readers can't stand the guy.

Now, this is where the trailer starts to get interesting. This is Otto saying "no one can known who you are or what you seek", to a man whose identity I don't know (But my best guess is Arryk Cargyll.). However, given his previous shady dealings with Mysaria, I think that that storyline is going to bear fruit. What is he seeking, you might ask? I think it's one of Aegon's bastards (he's known to have had several.). More on that later when we get some images of a tow-headed child. It also could be when Otto tells the Kingsguard to summon the Small Council. Seems like "seek" is odd phrasing for the small council tho.

This is the next scene, presumably the same man leaving Otto's chambers. I'd thought maybe it was Crispin, but he doesn't have a moustache. Arryk does, though. So if that is a member of the Kingsguard, it's probably him. For clarity: Arryk and Erryk Cargyll are twins on the Kingsguard. Arryk stays with the Greens, and Erryk goes to the Blacks.

As I was writing this blurb for the next one I think I figured out what was going on. I'm think this is Rhaenys (I know it could be Rhaenyra, but she has Rhaenys's fairly distinctive hairstyle.) trying to get into Viserys's room to say goodbye to her cousin the morning after her vigil over Vaemond's body. When she can't get in, she is immediately sus. There's always been some confusion over how Viserys's crown is smuggled out, and so I think maybe Rhaenys finds the door locked, asked someone why it's locked, and figures out about the green council. She then finds someone - I think Harrold Westerling - and they leave KL.

The next two images are from different parts of the trailer but they should be taken together. The first is Talya accompanying some scared looking royal nurses (IE, the kind we're constantly seeing around the kids.) and an equally scared looking tow-headed child to the black cells. The second is said child in the black cells. Now, initially I was confused by this. I *thought* he might be one of Aegon's bastards, but I was kinda confused as to what he was doing this early on, and this kid is too old to be Gaemon IMO. However, since I'm a little late on this week, I saw on Twitter that he is Gaemon Palehair. He's a minor character towards the end during the Targaryen pretenders before the Hour of the Wolf that is put forward by whores in Flea Bottom. He ends up being spared on account of being very young (like...6?), and becomes food taster for Aegon III (Rhaenyra's Aegon.). He...really has no purpose in the larger war, and dies later on when someone tries to poison Aegon III. So I still think it's weird that he's being rounded up and put in the black cells or even present this early on, but I'm less confused as to his identity now.

In any event, I think Otto sends Arryk out to get him, and finds him via the connection to Mysaria. IDK why Otto wants him or cares, but I guess we'll find out. Maybe a stand-in for Jaehaerys during Blood and Cheese?

This is a well-dressed woman in one of the black cells, with a guard walking past her door, and what looks like fire outside? Could just be the light. Anyway, due to the cutout in the dress on her arm and the hair over the shoulder, I think it's Talya. Probably in the cell with Gaemon. So it's fairly likely that Aegon finds out that she's been spying for Mysaria, or possibly that Mysaria gives her up because Mysaria has been loyal to Daemon all along. In any event, it seems like she is locked in the black cells when Otto cleans house of the Black loyalists.

Alicent rubbing her temples and saying "what of Rhaenyra?" during the green council, so it seems she might not be as set on her course as is otherwise implied. Or she at least has enough remaining care that maybe she doesn't think they should be hiding Viserys's death from her. Maybe she just wants to know how they'll handle her, idk.

Next we have a Kingsguard with a satchel over his shoulder and a smaller, slighter figure next to him. The guard has long, brown hair, so it's probably Erryk Cargyll with Viserys's crown, escorting Rhaenys to safety. She's grabbing his hand, probably telling him to run, so honestly either a riot breaks out in KL or they're rushing to the dragon pit for the coronation and these two are trying to disappear in the crowd. I'm not exactly sure, but there's a lot of shots from this scene in the trailer, including those ones I posted above of the KG on a horse and the rushing crowd. I'm leaning more and more towards riot.

This next one I genuinely have no idea and so I'm submitting it to you guys for guesses. It's small figure being blown backwards into a hole of some kind by fire and explosions, so I think dragonfire. I lightened it as much as I could without it becoming nothing but artefacts. I'll be honest, my brain immediately read the objects in the foreground as dragon eggs and this as the pit, but I don't think that's right. It doesn't match up at all. So what do you guys think? The cloak isn't helpful bc there's a few people wearing murder cloaks in this episode.

Larys saying to Alicent "I've found out something you should know". At the last two words, it switches to the shot of the child I posted above. Now, there were rumors in the books that some of the bastards, like Trystayne Truefyre, were by-blows of Viserys, even tho it's way more likely that they either weren't Targ bastards, or they were Aegon's and Daemon's. But maybe Larys is the source of those rumors, and he's deceiving Alicent here and telling her the kid in the cells is Viserys's. He might have nothing to do with the kid, but the cut implies that he does. Plus...he's the shady one, so, makes sense.

Ok, again, this one is a bit confusing to me. I am adding it in case you guys have suggestions. If this were any other show, I'd think this was two kids in a paid fight (followed by people are either winning or losing bets.). It's obviously someone small hitting the other person and making that blood, but I honestly have no idea. Maybe an atmospheric shot for something more important happening at this establishment? Someplace belonging to Mysaria? That person getting punched looks like they have targ hair, but who knows...

Aemond in a murder cloak he borrowed from his hero Daemon. IDK what he's doing here, but I have a feeling it's during the chaos seen earlier in the trailer. He might be out looking for the missing crown and the missing Kingsguard. And in shot 2, it seems that the person whose back is to us is, indeed, the missing Kingsguard. I don't think he's going to die here, because he shows up on Dragonstone with the crown later on in the trailer.

Crispykins threatening Harrold Westerling with the murdered Beesbury (who was Team Black and then murdered during the Green council for it.) slumped over behind him. Some people theorize that this is when Harrold dies, but I don't think so. He seems to be in that picture of the Black Council, so it's unlikely he does. I'm pretty sure he's in the background of Viserys's crown being presented to Rhaenyra in this shot from the weeks ahead trailer:

Turns out the only reason Crispy wasn't willing to be Alicent's thug last episode was the fact that Viserys was standing right there. This is gonna be the episode where show watchers find out why book readers hate this guy so much.

Beesbury, who is telling Alicent it's treason to put Aegon on the throne - which it is - and then being murdered for telling the truth. Pour one out for the only person in that room with ethics.

This is Aegon's coronation, hopefully in the dragonpit with Sunfyre nearby bc I want to see Sunfyre. Such a shame that one of the biggest shits in this story has one of the coolest dragons.

This one is another confusing one. Erryk and Arryk together, so this is before Erryk goes to the Blacks, and out of uniform. I think it might be wherever that fight takes place? So maybe I'm right, and that is a fighting ring added for atmosphere for whatever's taking place with the twins. I'm thinking maybe the sequence of events is Otto assigning them the task of retrieving this bastard right after the Green council but before informing anyone of the treason, they go to this fighting ring to get him, and then he's returned to the castle and put in the cells, then Erryk leaves. Although I have a feeling that their confrontation with Aemond happens on their way out of this place, and maybe instead of it just being Erryk in that scene, it's also Arryk, and it ends up being 2 v 1 and that's how they win.

This next one is one of the twins chasing down someone who is probably a really rough-looking Aegon inside the sept (the ring of candles that Rhaenyra and Alicent prayed around is in the next shot.). In the books he says he doesn't want to be king, and can only be convinced when Alicent tells him that Rhaenyra will kill him and his siblings (almost certainly untrue; Rhae lets *Alicent* live.), so this is probably him trying to outrun his responsibilities. Actually...now that I'm thinking about it, maybe Otto *wasn't* sending the twins out to get the bastard, maybe they're being sent to find *Aegon*, who is drunk in whatever tavern or hidey-hole that fight is happening in. I wonder if he makes more of a protest than I'd been thinking he would about taking the crown.

The conqueror's crown!!! It's missing the rubies tho. =(

So that's this week's trailer. TBH it's a lot of shots from a few scenes, so I get the feeling that tons happens in this ep. ^_^ Should be fun!

#hotd #asoiaf #a song of ice and fire #got #game of thrones #house of the dragon #house targaryen #westeros #asoiaf fandom #targaryens #hotd spoilers #hotd trailer

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solatgif · 10 months

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TGIF: Roundup for July 7, 2023

SOLA Network is grateful to offer a free one-day event for church leaders thinking about the possibility of a long-term home for their church. Wednesday, August 2, at Living Hope Community Church in Brea, California, 9:45am – 12:30pm. Learn more and reserve a spot!

Save the date! “Writing the Next Chapter,” the 2024 Asian American Leadership Conference, will take place on April 23-24 in Orange County, California. More info coming soon.

This newsletter is one of the many ways you can keep in touch with us. Find us on Facebook, Twitter, and Instagram. For more, check out my Asian American Worship Leaders Facebook group and TGIF Playlist on Spotify. You can reach me on Twitter and Instagram.

Aaron Lee, Editorial Curator

Enter to win these excellent books! Thanks to Crown & Covenant Publishers for providing these books for our giveaway, in partnership with my newsletters for @diveindigdeep and FCBC Walnut.

Grassmarket Press is a new imprint from Crown & Covenant Publications that aims to provide readable resources on Reformed and Presbyterian theology and practice—for regular people.

What is Love? is an encouragement to stop and listen, to consider that which the Scriptures call the lightning flash of the Lord.

I Have a Confession is an introduction to confessions and what they’re supposed to do (and not do), focusing on the Westminster Confession of Faith.

Worship, Feasting, Rest, Mercy makes the case that the Christian Sabbath is not about what we’re forbidden from doing, but what we get to do: honor and enjoy God’s gift of rest, and share it with others

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Connie Nelson: Back to Basics: The Beauty of the Ordinary in Relational Discipleship to Gen Z Students

“With a prevailing attitude of love that seeks to see and understand our students, we become a wordless witness that frames and reinforces the very gospel message we speak.”

Brett McCracken: ‘Past Lives’: Mature Wisdom in an Indie Romance

“It’s a very un-Hollywood love story, upending the predictable script (“Follow your heart”) that has long dominated romantic narratives.”

John Piper: My Most Influential Teacher: A Tribute to Daniel Fuller (1925–2023)

“There was absolutely no academic gamesmanship. This was life and death.”

Our new Books and Reviews page is your one-stop resource for all of your reading needs. It features Asian American authors and issues, book recommendations, and interviews.

Books, Podcasts, Music, And More

9Marks: On the Strategic Value of Missions Work in Global Cities

Mack and Ryan interview Scott Logsdon and Will Sutton on the strategic value of missions work in global cities.

TGC Glo Podcast: Pursuing Biblical Community in a Digital Age

Blair Linne, Aixa de López, Sharon Dickens, and Soojin Park discuss the trend of online church engagement, why some of us might find online church more comfortable, God’s design for connection and community, and why isolation is dangerous for our hearts.

Aaron Lee: Related Works

Book Review: Worship, Feasting, Rest, Mercy: The Christian Sabbath by Daniel Howe. Listen to our TGIF playlist on Spotify. Join my Asian American Worship Leaders Facebook group.

For Father’s Day, check out our Dads & Fatherhood collection! Featured authors include Cory Ishida, Daniel K. Eng, Tom Sugimura, Larry Lin, David J. Park, and P. J. Tibayan.

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SOLA Network: SOLA Book Recommendations for College Students (and Beyond)

Book recommendations on Seeking Faith (or I Have a Lot of Questions); Finding My Faith (or I’ve Grown Up In Church, but I Still Don’t Get It); and Growing My Faith (or Being a Christian is Hard).

Peter Lim, Jason Min, Kevin Yi: Reflections on the White House Listening Session with Asian American Christian Leaders

Jason Min: Most Asian American churches I’ve been a part of have been fairly apolitical usually because of a fear of being perceived as too political or a general unfamiliarity with navigating topics like these. At least within our community, it’s clear that the younger generation desires to have more of these kinds of conversations in the church and seeks a faith that is more civically engaged.

Young W. Yi: How To (and How Not To) Pray for Our Country and Leaders

“I will pray for the way of Christ to shine bright and above all other ways — whether American, cultural, or religious — for only the way of Christ can bring salvation to man.”

SOLA Network: The Best Christian Books by Asian American Authors in 2022

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The SOLA Network: A Resource for Parents and Youth Pastors / Deuteronomy for the Asian American Christian / “Who Lives, Who Dies, Who Tells Your Story?” / The Next Generation: Forming Middle and High School Students for Lifelong Faith / Comforting and Empowering the Poor Through Christlike Love

General disclaimer: Our link roundups are not endorsements of the positions or lives of the authors.

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bards-anonymous · 3 years

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Me when my DM and I have the exact same idea about where my character is going as well as how they think AND THEN my DM uses that information to put my character in heart wrenching situations:

#this is about this weeks feasting on a lord session #my DM knows my character very well and it makes menso very happy #I trust him to do what he needs with Harriett. he has yet to do her wrong #d&d #d&d 5e #dungeons dragons #dnd #ttrpg #d&d stuff #d&d shenanigans #d&d 5th edition #d&d story #d&d memes #d&d character #ttrpg stuff #dishonored ttrpg #ttrpg character #ttrpg memes

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mythologymondays · 4 years

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It’s that time again, the time where we all gleefully sit down on the nearest mound and regale ourselves with totally normal Welsh tales of magical women and horses and enchanted bags, because that’s just how the Mabinogion is. Fun sources and FACTS beneath the cut, as always.

Press J on your keyboard if you hate stories about Medieval etiquette, liminality, and magic mounds.

The Prince and the Horse Girl: a temporally disconnected romance for the ages

So, the last we heard of Pwyll, he had successfully cockblocked himself into becoming best friends with Arawn, the Lord of the Underworld, which sounds like a pretty average Friday night in Cardiff, let me tell you. Anyway, Pwyll at this point is just kind of riding high on the fame that being best pals with Arawn brings, and he’s showing his friendship bracelet to everyone he meets and saying stuff like “yeah, it’s great to have the Lord of the Underworld Arawn-ed whenever I need him,” and everyone just sort of rolls their eyes good-naturedly and thinks about death.

One day, Pwyll is at his court at Arbeth, which is one of his most important courts. There’s a huge feast in front of him and all of his courtly pals are there, just chewing the fat. Pwyll tears off the leg of another whole roast pig, probably his eighth of the session, and he’s about to bite into it when he realises that everyone sat around the table is staring at him, so he puts down the pig leg really gingerly and says, “do I have hog spleen around my mouth or something?” and one of his courtly crew, who doesn’t get a name in the original text and so will henceforth be known as Brad, says, “no, my lord, but you do have practically an entire herd of pigs in your stomach, so maybe it’s time for a walk?”

Pwyll blinks at him and he’s like, “I don’t really see why I would want to go for a walk in the yucky outside when I could be sitting here and savouring delicious morsels of tenderly roasted flesh,” and Brad shrugs and says, “well, I read an article about nutrition in this scientific journal last week, and apparently it’s not actually that good for you to just eat constantly and never go outside ever,” and Pwyll is like, “no, but it’s super fun,” and Brad sighs and he’s like, “look, I wasn’t going to tell you this, just in case you got too excited, but there’s actually a mound outside,” and then Pwyll’s eyes go as wide as dinner plates and he cries, “a mound? Seriously? You’re not just fucking with me to get me to go outside?” and Brad is like, “no, there’s seriously a genuine, 100% organic mound outside, and it’s only a short walk away,” and so Pwyll pushes his chair out from under the table and he’s all, “lead the way, pal, I can’t believe you didn’t tell me sooner that there was a fucking rad mound outside, you know how much I love mounds.”

So, they all traipse outside on horseback, and lo and behold, Brad wasn’t lying. There really is an absolutely incredible mound outside, all earthy and hilly, and… look. I’ll level with you. It’s hard to get excited about a mound, but Pwyll manages it. I have no idea how. God knows I’ve tried. But anyway, he leads his merry band of lads up to the top of the mound, and they’re all about to sit down when Brad puts out a hand and stops Pwyll from doing so. Pwyll is like, “dude, stop crushing my vibe, I’m about to become sedentary on this sediment,” and Brad just shakes his head and he’s like, “bro, I need to tell you something about the mound, because I may have undersold it.”

Pwyll is obviously in complete disbelief at this point, just like, “mate, there’s no way you undersold it. It can’t get any cooler than this. It just can’t. Have you seen it?” and Brad is like, “yes, it’s a really interesting geological formation, and the topography also makes it look a bit like a butt, which is obviously super rad, but I didn’t tell you that it’s also a magic mound, because if a nobleman sits on it, one of two things will happen: either he’ll see something absolutely fantastic, like the original The Mummy film starring Brendan Fraser or a cool dog, or he’ll get maimed and mortally wounded. It’s 50/50, to be honest with you.”

Pwyll just blinks at him, and he’s like, “dude, those are two very different things, but you know, I really can’t pass up the opportunity to see a cool dog,” and Brad says, “I need you to know that the dog was just a random example, I make no canine promises here, I can’t stress that enough,” and Pwyll just shrugs and scoffs, “whatever, dude. Anyway, if I do get totally maimed, I’ve got my posse here, and you’ll do first aid on me, won’t you?” and Brad just sort of nods nervously, because they haven’t even invented antiseptic in Medieval Wales and all their bandages are just, like, old socks drenched in ale, and they don’t have St John Ambulance to teach them all first aid because there isn’t even a J in the Welsh alphabet, and then Pwyll grits his teeth and sits down.

Almost immediately, this brilliant white horse just zooms past them, and Pwyll is like, “oh, that’s fucking sick, my dudes! I thought a dog would be cool, but a horse? Are you kidding me? It doesn’t get much better than this! Equestrian displays are my jam!” and then Brad rolls his eyes and he’s like, “my lord, did you not notice that there was a phenomenally sexy and almost certainly magic lady in gold riding that horse?” and Pwyll is like, “honestly, no, I was kind of distracted by the fetlocks, but now you come to mention it, she’s pretty attractive, I guess. Hey, do you think I could catch up with her and ask her where she got her cool horse?”

So he gets back on his horse and he tries to catch up with the lady, but even though Pwyll’s horse was sold to him as being the fastest ride on four legs, he can’t even come close to her. He walks back to his lads, his metaphorical tail between his actual legs, and he’s like, “dudes, we’re going to formulate a plan tonight,” and then a random guy in the posse is like, “oh cool, I brought Sharpies,” and they go back to Arbeth Court and spend literally all night just drawing diagrams and equations on a tapestry of England, because that’s probably the best use for it.

The next day, they put their plan in action. Pwyll gets his youngest, fittest lad, plops him on his biggest, muscliest horse, the one that’s like an equine version of that man in Game of Thrones who keeps breaking weightlifting records and is almost definitely earmarked to play Atlas in some big budget Greek myth film, and sends him after the lady. But still, no matter how fast they ride, she’s always one step ahead of them. At one point, they almost catch up with her, but when Pwyll reaches out to stroke her silky blonde hair in a totally normal and cool way, she pulls forward again and he just fucking eats dust. It’s humiliating.

And this goes on for three days, because princes don’t have, like, hobbies in Medieval Wales, or apparently any princely duties that would make galavanting after a magic horse woman for half a week kind of inconvenient for the general populace, and gradually, Pwyll’s men all bow out one by one, probably because they’ve all developed an absolutely stonking case of piles from being on horseback for three days solid, and then Pwyll is alone in his romantic and also literal pursuit.

Exhausted, starving and probably desperate for the loo at this point, Pwyll throws his head back and howls, “what the fuck is going on on this day? I’ve tried everything! I’m absolutely stumped. I don’t know what to do about this. I’ve considered it from every possible angle. I chased her, and that didn’t work. I got my wingman to chase her, and that didn’t work. Those are my only two options in the entire world. I just don’t know what else I can do. It’s completely fucking futile, I wish I’d just seen a dog instead,” and then a flash of inspiration comes to him, and he just calls out to the woman, “erm, could you maybe just, like, stop?” and, like a miracle, she does.

When he catches up to her, she glares at him, and says, “I’ve literally been waiting three whole days for you to just ask me to stop, why did it take you so long?” and Pwyll is like, “I sort of thought that it was implied, to be honest with you, what with all the chasing and me crying loudly about my unending solitude and the futility of love,” and she shrugs and says, “well, if we’re to be marred, we really have to work on our communication,” and Pwyll is like, “wait, what, who said anything about marriage?” and she just rolls her eyes, like, “look, I’m a sexy Medieval maiden and you’re a prince with some land and gendered expectations, so of course we’re going to get married,” and he’s like, “well, if we marry, that means I get to ride your horse whenever I want, right?” and she nods, like, “yes, that’s definitely the primary appeal of marriage.”

But just as he’s about to get down on one knee, she looks at him again, and says, “I should just tell you something super quick, in the name of true love and Medieval marriage etiquette,” and he’s like, “what, your name?” and she says, “no, not that, although it’s Rhiannon, but mostly I’m thinking of the fact that you actually have to wait a whole year to propose to me, because I’m almost engaged to someone else, who I hate, and I need to sort that all out first.”

Pwyll frowns and says, “hang on, is this going to be another one of those weird magic things where I have to wait a whole year and then conveniently murder someone in a previously determined location?” and she’s like, “what the fuck, no, there’s not going to be any murder at all, just a lavish engagement feast and some nuptials and probably some awkward standing around with the in-laws to-be,” and he’s like, “so why do we have to wait a year?” and she just waves her arms around and says, “temporally disconnected Otherworld shit, my love, I don’t make the rules. Just come to the court of Hyfaidd Hen in exactly a year, and we’ll do the whole ball and chain thing. It’ll be great.”

So he agrees, because of course he does, and the next thing he knows, it’s a year later, and he goes to Hyfaidd Hen and Rhiannon’s there in this beautiful McQueen wedding dress, looking all Kate Middleton but without the colonial royal associations, and there’s an absolutely exquisite feast laid out, with a whole array of delicious Medieval food, like unseasoned meat pies and room-temperature ale that looks like piss, and Pwyll just thinks to himself how cool it all is, but he also secretly harbours a lingering regret for the previous year, where he was forced after a blunder of etiquette to kill a random man in a duel, and although he feels bad about it, a part of him longs for the decadent adventures of his bachelorhood, when murder was more than just a six letter word.

They’re all just kind of milling about on the dancefloor, listening to the bards spit some absolute club classics like Y Gododdin by Aneurin, which really gets the toes tapping, when this random dude with a chiseled jawline and a playful glint in his eye comes up to Pwyll and extends his hand for Pwyll to shake. Pwyll, who is completely head over heels for manners and etiquette, shakes the man’s hand, and says, “hello, new friend! What can I do for you?” and Rhiannon elbows him in the side, and hisses, “be careful, fiancé dearest, don’t let him tangle you up in a web of etiquette from which there is no escape,” and Pwyll waves her off, saying, “my sweet darling, I am a prince of Wales; manners are my middle name,” and he turns back to the man.

The man grins at him, and he says, “I’ve come to ask a favour of you, Pwyll, prince of Wales,” and Pwyll, still enamoured by this man’s manners, is struck by an overwhelming desire to just do whatever this perfectly polite man wants, so he spreads his arms wide in a benevolent gesture, conveniently using it as an excuse to set down his glass of lukewarm piss ale on a nearby shelf, and says, “literally anything you want, my friend, I’ll give you!” and then the stranger’s grin turns into a smirk and he says, “by your word?” and Pwyll is like, “fuck yeah, man, by all of my words, as God and all these noble guests are my witness!” and the stranger is like, “sick bro, I want to marry Rhiannon, and I also want your wedding feast.”

And Pwyll has no idea what to say to that, because he just promised this man anything he wanted, so he decides that maybe silence is his best bet here, and the man grins at him, and stalks off, knowing that there’s literally nothing that Pwyll can do now except reconsider all of his life choices up to this point.

When the man has left, Rhiannon groans, “you phenomenal dick, that man was Gwawl and he’s the complete bag of dicks that my parents tried to marry me off to, and you just got me affianced to him!” and Pwyll just grits his teeth and hisses, “well, dear, you might have told me that before I told him I’d do whatever he wanted,” and Rhiannon sighs and says, “you’re right, but look, we can work through this. Here’s the plan. Firstly, we’ll tell him that he can’t have the feast, because it’s not yours to give, but mine, and we’ll prepare him an equal feast instead. Then, we’ll tell him that he can marry me a year from today, but here’s the thing - on the day of the wedding, you’ll secretly turn up in disguise with a very tiny magic bag and you’ll ask him, very reasonably, for just enough food to fill the bag. He’ll obviously say yes, because even he can’t turn down something that reasonable, but the bag will be enchanted to never be filled, so you’ll just take all the food, until he asks you how he can help you fill the bag, and you tell him that a fine nobleman has to step on it to seal it, and then he’ll step on it, and then you jump on him and pull the bag over his head and tie him up in the bag and hang it from a rafter, and then you’ll blow your hunting horn to summon your posse of lads and you’ll all beat him to a bloody, pulpy death in the bag.”

Pwyll just blinks at her, and says, “sweetheart, love of my life, light of my existence, did you perchance dream up that oddly specific plan a while ago, because if not, then your imagination terrifies me,” and this small, maniacal grin plays on her lips, and she says, “darling, you know how you asked me last year if you’d have to wait a whole year and then conveniently murder someone in a previously determined location, and I told you no?” and he’s like, “yes, I do remember that,” and she says, “well, ask me again,” and so he says, “babe, do I have to wait a whole year and then conveniently murder someone in a previously determined location?” and she’s like, “yes, sweetheart, but I’ve got it in the bag,” and then they high five each other and do a vengeful murder jig for like ten minutes.

And of course, a year later, they do it all over again, this time with a tiny enchanted bag and a goddamn point to prove, but that’s a story for another time.

My other retellings can be found here, and my Mythology Mondays Facebook page is here. My book is here. Yay.

I’m going to level with you: I typed out a whole bunch of super cool academic stuff and then my turdwallet of a laptop crashed and deleted all of it, and I honestly want to perish very slightly at the prospect of typing it all out again, but in a nutshell:

Some people think that Rhiannon was a horse goddess who was undeified by the Christian dudes who wrote down the pagan Welsh myths all those years later. While the Christian dudes did almost certainly sanitise the source material, we just don’t have any real proof of what they left out. The main argument for Rhiannon being a horse goddess is that she’s a woman and there was, erm, a horse. Not the most compelling argument. Some people also think she may be a cognate to the Gallic horse goddess, Epona, but this is basically extrapolated from the fact that they’re both female and somehow linked to horses, which I don’t think would fly in a court of law.

If you’re wondering why Pwyll didn’t just tell Gwawl to fuck off, it’s because he’s bound, as a nobleman, by a very strict code of honour and morals. By giving Gwawl his word, even before he knew what he was agreeing to, Pwyll made a binding promise. If he goes back on his word, Gwawl is well within his rights to challenge the fuck out of him.

Welsh myth and the Otherworld is super interesting. The Otherworld was generally believed to only be accessible at certain times and via certain places, called ‘liminal spaces’, such as bogs, bodies of water, and caves. Liminal spaces are essentially a sort of sacred space which exists in the in between, where the boundaries between worlds are porous and can be crossed, provided certain ritual conditions are met. The mound in this particular narrative is likely a portal to the Otherworld, which explains why Pwyll was able to access the magical realm of Rhiannon through it. The Otherworld, although not explicitly an Underworld, does have links with death and the afterlife, as do mounds, so that strengthens the connection. Bet you never knew mounds were so fucking cool.

Primary sources:

Davies, Sioned (2007) The Mabinogion, New York: Oxford University Press

Secondary sources:

Goldwasser, Michele (1994) What Drives the Mabinogi? Proceedings of the Harvard Celtic Colloquium, 14, 49-57

Linkletter, Michael (2001) Magical Realism and the “Mabinogi”: an Exercise in Methodology, Proceedings of the Harvard Celtic Colloquium, 21, 51-63

Wachsler, Arthur (1975) The Elaborate Ruse: A Motif of Deception in Early Celtic Historical Variants of the Journey to the Other World, Journal of the Folklore Institute, 12(1) 29-46

#mythology mondays #celtic myth #welsh myth #pwyll #rhiannon #mythology #mabinogi #mabinogion

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rubyversetransformers · 2 years

Text

The Matrix Arc, Chapter Four

Megatron had excused himself from the feast, leaving his officers to continue the festivities as he descended into the fortress. With Ramulus gone, he had quickly moved to ensure that all those living in the slums of Tarn had been moved to the empty living quarters in the main city. Tarn’s own capitol building had been repurposed as the home base for the Ascenticon party. After travelling the halls, Megatron turned into the room he had chosen to use for himself and dismounted his arm drill, leaning it against the wall. He turned to the wash station and looked at himself in the mirror. He saw his hands clenched into tight fists. He saw his face and arms stained with the energon. He saw the rage in his eyes as he had hurt Orion and killed… He saw Zeta’s dying face in the mirror behind him and turned around, frightened, to see…

Rubble.

“You okay?”

A few million solar cycles ago, after his shift in the mine, Megatron had found an abandoned sparkling trapped under a collapsed section. He had rescued it, of course, but due to his assigned caste, he couldn’t officially have children. So, Rubble, as she had been christened, became Megatron’s secret child. He had been good with taking care of her for millions of cycles, but then, just over a week ago, Ramulus had caught him trying to sneak extra rations for Rubble, for what they at least celebrated as her forgeday. Terminus had taken the blame, saying he had asked Megatron to steal extra rations for him. And that led to- Well, Megatron didn’t want to think about it. In the past 10 days, Megatron had shed more blood than he had in his whole life.

“You okay?” Rubble repeated her words, snapping Megatron out of his trance.

He kneeled down to be more level with the bed she stood on, and set down the tray of food he had taken for her. “Yes, dear. I’m fine. Just preparing for my interview tomorrow.”

“Oshkay!” Rubble responded, despite already shoving the food into her mouth.

The door to the room slid open, and Megatron instinctively moved to hide Rubble.

Shockwave stood at the door, bearing repairs and upgrades he and Starscream had been working on since he returned from the Sea of Rust. “Ah- Sorry to interrupt, Lord Megatron. I did not realize you were preoccupied.”

“No, it is alright. I am just used to having to hide… Her… “

Megatron moved aside, revealing a wide-eyed Rubble, still with handfuls of food ready to be shoved into her mouth. Shockwave remained motionless.

“This is Rubble, my daughter.”

“Shello!”

“Greetings, sparkling.” Shockwave did a small bow, a gesture of respect from his days as a senator. “I am called Shockwave.”

“I am shcalled… Shrubble!” Rubble threw her arms in the air, excitedly.

Shockwave returned to his full standing position, and turned to face Megatron. “Are you prepared for your session?”

“Ah, yes…” Megatron stood up and patted Rubble on the head. “I have to go for a while, okay? If you need anything, you know to call Soundwave or Grimlock.”

“Yup!”

Megatron picked up his drill, and gave one last warm look to Rubble before leaving with Shockwave to head to his lab.

#transformers #fanart #fanfic #megatron #rubyverse #the matrix arc #rubble #shockwave #decepticons #megatron is a dad #orion pax

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duskandstarlight · 3 years

Text

Embers & Light (Chapter 26)

Notes: Enjoy! And let me know if you’d like to be added to the tag list...

Chapter 26 Nesta

Solstice approached with terrifying speed. Somehow, Azriel managed to carve out time in what Nesta imagined to be a busy schedule to oversee her training when she was in Windhaven. Nesta did not know if that was simply because Rhysand did not want to hold true to his promise to train her himself, or if the Shadowsinger was doing them all a favour by keeping the two of them separate for a little longer.

Nesta could not say that she was disappointed. Whilst there had been a slight shift in the air between them, Nesta was not deluded enough to think that her sister’s arrogant mate had found it in himself to let go of the grudge he so obviously held against her. From the moment they had met in the Human Realm, Nesta had sensed his disdain and simmering anger towards her. Had dissected what he thought was a flawless exterior as something too careful, too polite. It had not quite been as if he was treading on eggshells, but as if he was having to use all of his power to reign in his own temper.

Yet, to Elain... that resentment and hatred had faded into acceptance and forgiveness over time. The same could not be said for he and Nesta. Even though it had been she who had fought and sacrificed her life in the war. Even though she had saved Cassian from the Cauldron’s blast. And even though it had been she who had killed the King, tracked the Cauldron and acted as Emissary, Feyre’s mate had been unable to hide the anger that Nesta had allowed her sister to provide for them when they were young.

So, Nesta had made it worse, testing the waters of that night eternal power to see how far she could go until he snapped completely. If their High Lord wasn’t going to bother to try and see the effort Nesta had made, then she would make life hell for him when she started to drown. She spent his coffers, banished her sisters and wrapped her words in thorns of steel. For some, it was not unlike the work of a petulant child desperate for a reaction. For Nesta, it was a method of slow, numbing destruction until she became nothing but a husk. It had been far more dangerous and much deadlier then any of them had imagined, and now Nesta was out of the other side, she understood why Cassian had look so ravaged when he had searched her face and assaulted her with words that should have been like spears to the heart but never hit home.

Even so, Rhys’s hatred of Nesta was a punishment she believed was deserved. Nesta knew that. And she would not take job offerings which were given out of loving duty and obligation to one’s mate. Nesta would only work for a court she did not view as hers if it was because she had worth and use. If she was needed rather than an irritant one wanted to banish.

This time had been different. The Illyrian cause was greater than the shattered pride Nesta would endure by assisting someone she did not want to be around. And Nesta had vowed to step out of the past and into the present. Had decided she would try with her sisters and start to rebuild who she wanted to be. Nesta did not want to be someone who selfishly stood on the sidelines whilst others suffered. It was true that she had been a victim and made others a victim of her trauma, but she was done weighing up old grievances and her many errors. She would bite her tongue and step forward into the present. And if that meant learning to be civil then Nesta would do it for the females and for Cassian, who she could not bear to make life harder for.

To think that Nesta might cause him to ache made it hard to breathe. So, should the situation demand it, Nesta had decided she would rise above it. She was strong. She was resilient. She was powerful.

She would protect and heal.

Nesta supposed her goals were the same as the rest of the Inner Circle, after all.

When it came to mastering her ability to read others emotions, Nesta found the power now came to her as easy as breathing. With the acceptance of her magic - the understanding that it was part of who she was and who she wanted to be - Nesta found it far easier to lower her walls.

Identifying and concentrating on one target was where she had difficulty, but in the end, even Azriel gave more and more praise in that solemn, cold way of his rather than constructive criticism.

“It’s all down to practice now,” the Shadowsinger had told Nesta after their last training session, as they walked through the camp back to the bungalow. “You know how to do it. It’s just a matter of tuning out the unwanted emotions of others and focussing on those that matter.”

“That’s easier said than done,” Nesta had replied, biting back a grimace. Sometimes she found the background ‘noise’ so overwhelming she wanted to vomit.

“It’s nothing you can’t master,” Azriel replied dismissively, in the way that Nesta had learnt to be a compliment. “As long as you hold on to something as a tether - something to ground you that will always pull you back and stop you from becoming overwhelmed - you will be fine.”

Nesta had glanced sideways at the Shadowsinger as they stepped up to the backdoor of the bungalow. Azriel often stayed for dinner after their training sessions, and Nesta found that she did not mind him joining she and Cassian’s shared space, mainly because it gave her the opportunity to witness the brothers relationship up close.

Whilst Cassian and Azriel might not have been related by blood, their interactions were bound in a way that melded them by flesh and bone regardless. And to Nesta’s surprise, she found that in a smaller group the Shadowsinger was not so quiet. He had a dry wit about him that often had Nesta biting back a smirk, especially as it was usually directed at Cassian, who would either gape in surprise or let out an unabashed bark of laughter that was so lovely it made Nesta want to both stare and look away.

“Do you have a tether?” Nesta asked Azriel curiously as she held her palm to the door. It was a blunt question that she only dared ask because she had no doubt that Azriel would swiftly cut her down if he did not want to answer.

“Of course,” Azriel replied as they stepped into the kitchen.

Cassian was by the sink, the sleeves of his tunic pushed up to his elbows as he washed some grains under the tap. He dared to wink at her as she entered, but he didn’t offer any other formal greeting.

Her blood heated and she ducked down to untie the laces on her boots.

“What is it?” She demanded.

Ariel had already made quick work of his boots, but he flung his wings out of the door to rid them of melted snowflakes. “What’s yours?” he had countered in that chilled way of his, knowing that she would not dare tell him. Would not tell anyone.

So, she had merely snorted in response, quickly disappearing in search of a hot shower before either of them could guess what she was thinking, dare her mask slip and render her readable.

On Solstice morning, Nesta found herself naturally rising with the dawn, even though Cassian had told her that it was the one day of the year that Illyrian’s did not train. Crawling out of bed to open the curtains, Nesta had sat in the window seat to stare out at the ethereal, low mists that shrouded the mountain pass and horizon in moving fog. Not for the first time, she wished she were already halfway up the mountainside; a part of the natural scenery rather than separated by glass, so she could see unhindered, the dusky streaks of colour painted across the sky and the yellow strip of light that signalled the sun was ready to start the day.

Nesta was first to breakfast. Cassian had been in Velaris the evening before and Nesta had not been awake to see him arrive back in Windhaven. He smelt distinctly of stale alcohol as he joined her in the kitchen, dressed in a pair of low slung pants and nothing else but wild hair and endless tan skin licked with ink that made her skin itch.

Sleepily, Cassian batted Nesta away from the stove as if she were an irritating fly, but she only hissed at him with such malice that he barked a hoarse laugh. When she thumped a mug of coffee by his side moments later, she did it with much more force than she usually mustered so early in the morning, and she caught his features soften for a fraction of a second, before he made himself busy at the stove.

They ate eggs and smoked salmon on toasted rye in relative silence, and Nesta watched Cassian proceed to eat two ginormous portions with a mixture of disgust and awe.

When Nesta loftily gave in to the temptation and asked Cassian whether he had considered saving himself for the Solstice feast, he had just snorted and told her that he was stretching his stomach. After that, Nesta was certain that he ate a third portion just to spite her, but even she couldn’t help but slide another piece of smoked salmon onto her plate, much to her chagrin when Cassian’s eyes glinted triumphant.

It was an hour later when a knock sounded at her bedroom door. Nesta was in the process of pinning her hair with the golden leaf pin Elain had sent her all those weeks ago, and she answered the door with one hand whilst the other held her hair in place.

“Are you ready?” Cassian asked as soon as the door opened.

For once, he was not leaning against the doorframe, but standing upright in a wide stance which highlighted just how broad and tell he was.

There was a look of impatience on his face, but Nesta paid it no heed and took a moment to survey how different he looked from usual. Today’s festivities had turned him out in dark pants and a shirt, the collar of which sat just below ink which whorled up the right side of his neck, stopping a few inches below his ear. The clothing made him appear the most human Nesta had ever seen him, if it had not been for the apex of his huge wings which he was holding high behind him.

As if they sensed her attention, his wings flexed in a movement that usually told Nesta that Cassian was either uncomfortable or nervous. They spread wide enough for Nesta to notice how magnificently they shone, as if they had been thoroughly scrubbed and cleaned for the occasion. Even Cassian’s hair gleamed, as if he had run a brush through it before it had scraped it back into a loose bun.

He looked unforgivably, heart-stoppingly handsome, not that Nesta would ever admit it out loud.

Ignoring the unusually apprehensive expression on his face, Nesta frowned and secured the pin at the back of her head. “Am I late?”

She had thought she had given herself plenty of time to get ready, but her half coronet had taken longer than usual. It appeared that three months of only wearing a simple plait had her out of practice. At least she had worn a loose braid overnight, which meant that her hair already hung in soft waves down her back. She knew that the Night Court dressed up on Solstice, and Nesta liked Lorrian and Frawley enough that she did not want to offend them.

Nesta had stayed with them twice since the kerit attack at Windhaven, where she had spent her days learning the art of the bow with Lorrian and practicing her healing powers with Frawley.

And the bow… Nesta loved it. It felt right in her hands, the way her muscles strained and trembled as she pulled back the string. Cassian and Lorrian had her working hard on her upper arm strength to the point that they felt constantly sore, but she did not care. Lorrian and Frawley had even taught her how to fly on Caerleon, with Lorrian insisting that when she was more able, they could practice shooting a moving target. Nesta had the sneaking suspicion that both of them had quickly realised that she hungered for the skies, but she did not mind that they had read her so easily. Being on the back of Caerleon, her fingers buried deep in the mane at his neck, was the most liberated Nesta had ever felt, to the point that she had laughed when the manticore had sent her into a nose dive and the wind had howled so fast around them that Nesta and Caer had become a part of the element rather than separate from it.

When Nesta had not been training with Lorrian, Frawley was teaching her how to harness her healing power. The witch had Nesta look inwards to her two strands of her magic, until Nesta could pick them apart with ease, summoning either silver or white at her palms. When she had mastered that, Frawley had plucked flower after flower from the forest floor, had them wither in her open palm and ordered Nesta to bring them back to life.

It wasn’t so much bringing things back from the brink of death that Nesta struggled with, rather it was knowing when to stop. The key, Frawley had told Nesta, was to constantly observe the patient as she healed. To understand what injuries were fresh and required immediate life-saving attention and what was old enough to be left well alone. The former always shone with a pressing light when Nesta’s magic passed over it, whereas the latter took on a dull, shadowy quality. There was also the matter that Nesta’s power reserves could swell to unprecedented levels, of which the bottom was determined by the energy she had sequestered.

The solution, Frawley had told Nesta, was to know what her reserves felt like, so that when her magic started to give out Nesta would know to stop.

That had been easier said than done, and it had taken Nesta hours to reach into herself and travel down, down, down to scrape the bottom of her own power.

“You will know when you reach it,” Frawley had only told Nesta with an infuriatingly mysterious air that had Nesta wanting to snarl.

But she had. It tasted like the last, bitter dregs of tea and metallic blood. It felt wrong and life threatening, enough for Nesta to pull away so sharply that Frawley had patted a shaking Nesta on the shoulder and passed her a steaming mug of energising tea.

But what Nesta hadn’t told Frawley was that she didn’t just sense white and silver when she looked within herself, but something else. Something hidden behind a veiled curtain which she couldn’t quite touch. A terrified part of Nesta wondered if it was the chunk of the Cauldron she had taken. The piece of inky black which sung of darkness and terror. Nesta had not found the words to ask Frawley about it. Was too scared about what it meant. That perhaps there was something rotting inside of her that would taint her soul and those around her.

It sung to her, the veil. It whispered reverently when she brushed against it. Her name over and over: Nesta, Nesta, Nesta.

She had stayed well away from it, after that, but sometimes she heard it whisper softly, the sensation like her power turning over in her veins.

Like now, as Cassian stared at her rather than reply, his hazel eyes darkening as his pupils widened and pressed against his irises.

Nesta tried and failed not to feel self-conscious. She smoothed down her midnight blue dress and walked past him, her back straight.

“You’ll need to shield my hair,” Nesta clipped, as she headed to the hooks by the door and slipped on her coat.

When she turned, Cassian was still staring at her with something that Nesta almost wished was longing.

She wanted to bite her lip, but she wouldn’t allow herself to do it. “Aren’t we going to be late?” she clipped.

Slowly, Cassian blinked. Then, his gaze dropped to her feet. “Are you going to wear those shoes?”

Nesta scowled. “Yes.”

“They’re not practical for flying.”

“I’m not flying, I’m being carried. And is it not custom to dress nicely for Solstice?”

She stiffened as those sharp eyes dragged over her body with such intensity Nesta felt as if her skin were entirely bare.

“It is custom,” Cassian agreed eventually, his voice so impossibly low she felt it rumble through her bones. Even as there was a bite to his words that suggested he was holding something back.

Perhaps how she had not bothered the year prior.

Nesta nodded as if to indicate that the matter was settled and wound a scarf around her neck. “Don’t set me down in any mud or snow and I won’t find it in myself to set you on fire.”

A derisive snort but no jab or jest as he opened the front door. Cassian stepped onto the concrete step just beyond the threshold and with a flare of his siphons, light-weight armour clicked into place scale by scale over his dark clothes, the action like a ripple of water.

He held out his hand to her. Nesta glared at him but squeezed onto the step beside him. His hands wrapped around her, gathering her to his impossibly warm body and the steady, reliable beating of his heart. He smelt wonderful — of woodland and bracing blue sky which sung Illyria. Begrudgingly, Nesta held on to him, absorbing herself even more in his scent as he shot them into the sky.

They travelled in silence for a long while, Cassian unnervingly quiet. Usually it was he who struck up conversation and Nesta found it disconcerting to be yearning to speak with him rather than the other way around.

She twisted her head up to look at him: the dark eyebrows that always made his hazel eyes stand out so brilliantly; the tan, freshly shaved face which took the ruggedness out of his features; the ebony hair pulled back into a casual bun that she had come to favour on him.

To his credit, Cassian had listened to her about her own hair, casting a shield that was void of the gentle breeze he usually allowed to filter through. Instead, Nesta was warm, the

gentle pulse of his siphons indicating that he was expelling his magic to alter the temperature for them both.

“You look clean,” Nesta observed, when she knew she had studied him for too long. He was deliberately not acknowledging her blatant staring. “Is this your first and only bath this year?”

Cassian snickered. “Very good, sweetheart. It’s good to see that the festivities haven’t smoothed over your sharp edges.”

“I wouldn’t want to bore you,” Nesta remarked drily, watching the craggy terrain; the snow capped mountains and the stretch of pine ahead of them. “Consider it a Solstice present.”

A laugh then, soft and throaty. More like himself. “You’ll have to save that fire for the lords tomorrow, sweetheart. It is no way to speak to your beloved.”

Sharply, Nesta craned her neck up to find him smiling down at her. It was a wicked smile that Nesta suspected he had willed into existence solely to stoke her fire.

“What,” she spat. Demanded.

Cassian’s canines flashed. “Consider me your Solstice present. I’d have wrapped myself in a bow, but we were in a rush.”

Nesta glared at him with such ferocity she imagined him burning into cinders. “And when were you planning to tell me that I have to pretend that we’re...” She trailed off, suddenly at a loss to carry on.

“Dating? Courting? Fucking?” Cassian said the last word with a grin that turned feral.

Nesta snarled at him with such savagery that Cassian choked on a laugh. His hazel eyes flared amber.

“If you start smoking I’ll have to drop you,” he warned, as silver sparked from her fingertips. “And I planned on telling you now,” he admitted. There was no apology in his voice, if anything it only carried amusement and a faint layer of… something else. “I thought it best to tell you when we were suspended in midair for my safety.”

“Insufferable,” Nesta muttered under her breath, irritated that she could not let go of him and cross her arms over her chest. “Not only am I to be stuck in a room full of Illyrians, but I have to pretend to be bedding the most irritating of them all.”

“Feel free to boast about my technique to those assholes at any point,” Cassian snickered wryly, but then his playfulness dropped at his next words. Nesta suspected he’d glanced down and seen her solemn expression, “Think of it as an unpleasant few hours for the sake of finding out more information.”

“Who do you usually take?”

A beat of silence followed her demand. Then, “Nobody.”

A disbelieving frown pinched between her eyebrows. “Ever? Not even your friends?”

She craned her neck to look up at him.

“It’s partners only,” Cassian explained, but he was looking ahead of them with an intensity that told Nesta he was deliberately not meeting her eye. “I very rarely have one and never one who I think could hold their own amongst the vultures.”

Some tension bled out of Nesta. She would have thought that Mor might have accompanied him at some point. Those lines were so blurred Nesta had no idea what to make of them other than that she hated it. Would never not hate it.

The amusement had faded from Cassian’s features and a muscle ticked in his jaw. He suddenly seemed angry and Nesta didn’t know whether it was her reaction or another memory. And perhaps her reaction to pretending to court had wounded him, especially given their turbulent past. Sometimes Nesta did not know where they stood with the other. The bond strung between them made everything so complicated, so much more difficult than other narratives. To understand what was fact and fiction. Lust and love.

The thought of pretending they were together, even for two days made it difficult to breathe. It was another twist in their storyline - another complicated strand, which warped what was honest and true.

“Don’t worry, Illyrians aren’t big on public displays of affection,” Cassian assured her, breaking her out of her worrisome thoughts. His dark eyes found hers again, and they looked a little sad, as he admitted, “The males here don’t cherish females the way they should.”

It took everything in Nesta to suppress the shiver that wanted to crash over her body and remain silent. They were tiptoeing around today, using banter and sharp words to cover up what had happened last year. How she had dismissed him so brutally… so effectively. How she had heard the water splash and ripple as he threw her gift in the river. How he had followed her anyway until she lit a light in her apartment, his wings a steady beat as she sunk to the rickety, splintered floorboards utterly numb.

It was not Cassian’s cruel words from that evening that haunted her — not even hers did — but it was oddly the vulnerability in his expression as he finally let her leave that repeatedly churned in the forefront of her mind. That made her think that perhaps Cassian had been genuine. That he wasn’t embarrassed of her, even if his actions — the way he ignored her when his friends were around — insinuated that he did. That he truly had wanted her, enough to swallow his pride and follow her. To continue to flirt and fight for her, even now.

But when Nesta remembered how he had laughed as he held up the satin undershorts from Mor, red slid over her vision.

Cassian seemed to sense that displeasure, remaining silent for the duration of the journey.

Caer trotted out to meet them as soon as they landed outside Lorrian and Frawley’s, his tufted tail dancing in the shape of a question mark. Smoke billowed from the crooked chimney of the cottage and the smells that wafted towards them on the soft breeze were so divine Nesta’s stomach grumbled.

Frawley met them at the open stable door, and to Nesta’s surprise, she bent to place a swift kiss on each of Nesta’s cheeks. She was wearing another dark dress the colour of smoke, the underskirts laced with a misty tulle that shimmered beautifully in the light.

“Happy Solstice, Nesta,” Frawley said brusquely. “We’re being thrown to the wolves tomorrow so we’ll have to make today a pleasant one.”

Cassian’s laugh was low in Nesta’s ear. “If past experience is anything to go by, I’d predict that Nesta will be the wolf and they the sheep,” he corrected, as they both stepped into the warmth of the cottage.

Lorrian appeared behind Frawley as he stepped into the hallway from the living room. His chuckle was deep and delighted. “I’m looking forward to witnessing that.”

Frawley’s grin was terrifying as she levelled her gaze with Nesta’s. “Surely they do not still think you’re a witch after the kerit attack?”

“No,” Nesta said slowly, thinking of Devlon’s begrudging acceptance of her. How the Illyrians no longer looked as if they might spit at her. At the distance the males gave her, as if she were finally a threat rather than a pawn in their game. “They don’t know what I am.”

“That probably terrifies them more,” Cassian told Nesta with a devilish grin as they followed Lorrian and Frawley into the living room.

Like the rest of the house, fresh greenery had been wound into garlands around the room. Beautifully arranged teardrop swags hung beneath the faelights on the white-washed walls: bundles of pine, cones, holly and its ruby berries, ivy and honeysuckle vines.

“Mulled wine,” Frawley told Nesta, thrusting a large mug into her hand. “I’ve magicked it to remove the alcohol. It practically tastes the same. Lorrian likes it, anyway.”

“It’s the closest I’ve had to the real thing,” Lorrian told Nesta with an easy grin as he finally moved forward to greet her. He bent to kiss both of her cheeks in an air of heat laced with sandalwood, the close cut of his stubble rough against her skin. “You look beautiful, as usual,” he told her.

Nesta’s snort was a soft dismissal, but she was secretly pleased. The dress she was wearing had hung off her months ago. She’d still had Mas take it in a little, but she saw her outfit as a symbolic triumph, having finally gained back the majority of the weight she had lost so dangerously after months and months of denying herself sustenance.

“Come,” Frawley beckoned to Nesta, “I’ve put your armchair close to the fire. You’re as bad as Caerleon. Sometimes I think he’d sit on top of the hearth if he could.”

Nesta’s lips twitched but she didn’t comment. It was true that now Nesta could light fires of her own, she could enjoy sitting by the hearth without fearing that it might send her into a downward spiral. Not that Frawley hadn’t taken care of that herself the two times she had visited, and as expected, the fire was already silently eating the glowing wood that had been stacked into the grate.

At the mention of his name, Caerleon padded towards Nesta just as she took a seat in the armchair and pressed his large head into Nesta’s lap. Burying her fingers into the beast’s soft, shaggy mane with her spare hand, Nesta huffed a laugh as the manticore let out a low whine in greeting.

“How do you usually celebrate Solstice, Nesta?” Lorrian asked conversationally, as he seated himself in the twin armchair opposite her and stretched out his long legs.

Nesta didn’t have to glance at Cassian from where he had settled on the low-back couch to know that his expression had turned tight. She felt the trepidation in her stomach. The more and more she dropped her emotional guard, the more keenly she felt him, even through the shield of fire he had resurrected around himself.

“Solstice isn't celebrated in the Human Realm,” Nesta replied in a way that she hoped came across as unaffected.

“Of course it isn’t,” Frawley interjected, glaring at her husband with an intensity Nesta was glad she was not on the receiving end of.

“Well, the good thing about Solstice is the food,” Lorrian told Nesta with an easy grin. “If you need a motivation to start celebrating it.”

Nesta harrumphed in the back of her throat. “I’ll bear that in mind.”

“Speaking of food...” Cassian started hopefully.

Frawley rolled her eyes but dumped a plate of pastries unceremoniously into the warrior’s lap. “Lorrian made these solely to tide you over until dinner.” She tutted as Cassian began to tuck in with gusto. “I’ve never witnessed anybody eat so much and I live with an Illyrian. Did you train this morning?”

“No,” Cassian said around a mouthful of pie. His voice was incredulous — offended, even. “It’s Solstice, witch, or have you forgotten in your old age?”

“I would not put it past you to train three hundred and sixty-five days of the year,” Frawley snapped in retort, “for fear that one day off would have those muscles of yours shrinking.”

When Frawley’s ice blue eye rested on Nesta, it was not sparking with anger but amusement, even as her face remained impassive. She and Cassian often bantered like this; with Frawley seemingly infuriated and Cassian prodding insults. “Am I wrong, Nesta?”

Nesta did not try to fight the slight curve of her lips, she was too amused by Cassian’s mouth which had gone slack. Thankfully, it wasn’t full of food. “No, he preens and puffs like a rooster.”

Lorrian threw his head back and laughed. Frawley snorted with delight. Grinning, Cassian stood to offer Nesta a mince pie with twinkling eyes.

Surprised, Nesta cocked a challenging eyebrow at him.

What she had said wasn’t true. Cassian’s physique was all to do with being a cut above the rest. He trained with an intensity that sung of a determination to prove that he was worthy. He allowed his body to become battered and bloody, his knuckles bruised and his hands calloused. He wore scars as if they were armour… as if they were akin to the black tattoos that licked up his body. Symbols of luck and glory and proof that he would endure, above all else.

So much of Cassian was worn on the surface if you chose to look.

And she certainly wasn’t complaining about his figure. Even if just staring at the corded muscles of his body made her fill with a liquid heat that both embarrassed and thrilled her… She had wondered on more than one occasion what it might feel like to straddle the vast width of him… to allow her fingernails to bite into his sizeable shoulders as she sank down onto him. The way he’d groan, the sound guttural in the depths of his throat. She had dreamt about it more times than she’d like to admit. She knew what it felt like to have his phantom lips bruise her skin and his teeth scrape at her pulse point. Knew what it felt like for that relentless drive to hound her blood, each throb of her veins pulling her towards him.

But if her blood was desire, her mind was logic and she knew why she felt like that. Why he felt like it too, sometimes.

So she kept her ribcage close around her heart. It was a shield rendered with gaps but it worked just fine if she fortified it with ice.

Those glowing amber eyes did not leave hers as she took a sweet pastry dusted with sugar from the plate. For a terrified moment, Nesta thought that he knew what she had been thinking, but then he turned to Frawley and said with such casualness it took her a moment for the words to sink in, “Not all of us can look as effortlessly devastating as Nesta.”

Cassian didn’t look at her for a while, after that.

The day was not like the previous Solstice: full of gifts and banter that she was not a part of. Nesta did not spend her time shying away in the corner for fear that the fire would make her power finally roar.

There was food. Lots of variety without being excessive. Roast meat, potatoes and steamed vegetables. Battered savoury pudding, gravy and pigs in blankets. Nesta ate more than she usually would, each dish so delicious she could not help what she piled onto her plate until she was practically bursting at the seams.

Afterwards, Nesta helped Frawley to carry the dirty dishes back to the kitchen. Lorrian had done the majority of the cooking and Frawley had woefully admitted that meant it was her job to clean up. Nesta had risen without thinking and in a blink of an eye she had her hands submerged in water and bubbles.

Frawley was telling Nesta that it was she and Lorrian’s anniversary the day before Solstice. That they had decided to become chroi on that day many years ago, and had the magic seal their intents a few hours later.

Despite Frawley’s fierce edges, the witch softened when she spoke of her husband in a way that told Nesta that the love ran deep. Not that Nesta couldn’t see that plainly before her whenever the two were in a room. They had a way of moving together that was completely at ease: respectful and kind and pure and accepting.

It made Nesta hungry for the love she had read about in her books. But she knew better than to believe she was deserving of it.

“How did you know Lorrian was the one?” Nesta asked curiously, as Frawley detailed how they had decided to intertwine their lives the same day in front of the other witches.

Taking a plate from Nesta, Frawley began to dry it with a seriousness that told Nesta that she was thinking hard. “I’ve lived a long life,” Frawley said eventually. “After a while, night and day become repetitive. Boring. I didn’t realise I’d fallen into a rut until I met Lorrian. He made me feel alive again.” She shrugged, the action unlike Frawley as she pinned Nesta with both her eyes. “And Caer liked him. Caer has always been an extension of me in some ways, so I knew that Lorrian was right. We fit like two puzzle pieces. We didn’t try to change who we were for the other, but our love made us happier, more content, even in the face of great challenges.”

Nesta wondered if Frawley was referring to their lost witchlings as well as Lorrian’s arm. She could not imagine losing something so precious. The thought made her heart ache with such intensity she wanted to run away for a moment, before she reminded herself that emotion was part of life. It was better than being numb.

Nesta wanted to see the world in colour, not in black and white. Training with Azriel had taught her that.

“It must be nice,” Nesta observed after a moment, “to know you both chose one another. That you had a choice.”

Both eyes swivelled to rest on Nesta’s face. The effect was alarming. Nesta was used to them moving independently rather than together. “Everyone has a choice in love, Nesta.”

Nesta opened her mouth to speak but then Lorrian and Cassian entered the kitchen laden with more dirty dishes. Lorrian mentioned a dessert he needed to take out of the larder and Frawley turned to help him.

Whilst Nesta’s stomach was full in a way that was uncomfortable, her ears perked up at the thought of something sweet, as if it would cut through her savoury food coma.

“I have something I’d like to show you,” Cassian said into Nesta’s ear, as Frawley batted away her husband with a tea towel. He was trying to take the pudding she was carrying from her. “Will you come with me?”

Nesta cast a look at Lorrian and Frawley, but they were still both fussing over the Christmas pudding to notice them. So she nodded and followed him out the back door and into the crisp night air. Already a layer of frost dusted the greenery on the forest floor and pine needles, but Cassian quickly cast a bubble of warmth around them. It had not snowed, a rarity for this time of year Cassian had told her earlier, especially in Illyria which was usually deep in blankets of snow by now.

Gesturing to the outbuilding to the left of the cottage, Cassian walked ahead of her, his large wings bobbing behind him as he moved. They flared slightly as he slid open the huge wooden door, before quickly tucking themselves back in, no doubt to protect them from the bitter cold wind which was doing its best to cut through his shield.

It took Nesta’s eyes a fraction of a second to adjust to the darkness, her Fae eyes gifting her with far better sight than her human body ever had.

She stared around the barn — the bails of hay, the wooden rafters…

She twisted to look up at Cassian, a frown on her face. “What am I looking at?

“There," Cassian said with a jut of his chin. Nesta followed the direction he had pointed in and then her eyes went wide.

There, on a makeshift bed of hay was a manticore. It was not like Caer. There was no orange mane, only beautiful sandy fur and a handsome, elegant head, large ears and huge, almond eyes. Her leathery wings were smaller than Caer’s but in proportion to her body and tucked in tight.

Her amber eyes glowed in the dark, that regal head cocking as her gaze clicked into place with Nesta’s. That one look had Nesta’s heart thumping in her chest. It was not from fear, but utter awe.

“Do you know the associations surrounding manticores?” Cassian asked. His voice was low in her ear. Intimate.

Frowning, Nesta dragged her eyes away from the manticore with regret. “They are an apex predator known to devour their prey whole,” Nesta said, reciting what she had been told since she was young. “They are vicious and deadly and cannot be overcome by man.”

But even as she said the words, Nesta knew them not to be true, because she knew Caer. Knew his empathetic heart and the way he had comforted her when she was sad. “Obviously, that’s another human myth that holds no truth,” she finished with a lift to her chin, daring him to laugh.

But Cassian did not mock her, he only nodded. “Yes. Manticores are ruthless creatures and because of their ability to kill with such ease they have been labelled as bringing strife and suffering to the world. But that is not true. Manticores are rare and hard to come by because they are born from the blood of true sacrifice.”

Nesta wondered what Frawley had done to earn Caer’s loyalty. For him to serve her above all others. From what Cassian had told her, Caerleon had been with Frawley for so long even history could not pinpoint an exact date.

“Rhys found this manticore in the spot where you healed Mas.”

A long, long silence. “Frawley took her back to The Steppes to raise her. Manticores grow incredibly quickly, as you can see, but are incredibly vulnerable when they are young, largely because their wings are not fully developed. Fae and humans alike also have a nasty habit of trying to kill young manticores as it is when they are at their weakest. They try to damage their tails so they cannot take life from range and injure their wings so they never develop.

The thought made Nesta’s stomach roll. To harm something so beautiful and pure.

“Sala is only two weeks but she has already taken adult form. Only a fool would try to take her down now.”

“If manticores are so deadly, why isn’t she trying to kill us?” Nesta breathed, her gaze again connecting with the beast’s.

“Because we believe that she is yours, if you want her.”

“She’s mine?” Nesta asked sharply, too surprised to arrange her expression into one of indifference. “How do you know?”

At the words, the manticore raised her beautiful, beautiful head. Golden eyes settled on Nesta as leathery wings unfurled from the beast’s back — stretching — as if she had woken from a long sleep. She rose until she was on her haunches and then her four huge paws.

The beast padded towards them, her hips slinking, her head low and assessing. Yet none of it was threatening. Instead, Nesta only felt a rush of calm as the manticore moved towards them. She stopped in front of Nesta, so close that Nesta could feel the warmth of her breath on her skin, could see that close up the shimmer of gold in Sala’s eyes, the dotted muzzle and the long, pointed incisors.

And then, the beast hopped up onto her haunches, her impossibly large paws coming to rest on Nesta’s shoulders. Despite the enormity of the animal, Nesta remained grounded without having to brace herself. Mesmerising gold filled her vision. It was an ancient, omniscient stare that sung of wisdom and knowledge, of years lived and lived and lived.

And then Nesta saw herself: a reflection of silver-grey; of elegantly pointed ears; of pale skin and pink lips; as if she had become a part of the beast, their lives entangled. Bowing her large head, the manticore closed the distance between them and rubbed her forehead against Nesta’s.

The action was gentle — a familial caress — and when the beast was done, she kept her head against Nesta’s, the gesture solicitous and binding. They breathed together, their chests moving at the same time, and Nesta revelled in the softness of Sala’s fur and the affection that laced the movement. The implication behind it.

“A manticore chooses an owner it deems worthy. Someone pure of heart.”

Cassian’s voice was a low rumble as Sala dropped to all fours. When Nesta twisted around to look at him she found him leaning against the barn, as if he had stepped away to give she and Sala space. His smile was crooked and so beautiful Nesta wanted to touch it; to trace the lines of his mouth where it curved upwards. But most of all, to draw the lines that creased around his eyes that softened the wildness of his features.

“The tuft of her tail is made of silver fire, which is also a giveaway,” Cassian mused, his hazel eyes glowing with what Nesta dissected as amusement. Had she been staring at him a little too long? “Manticores take on elements of their partner.”

Nesta hadn’t even noticed Sala’s tail, but now she could see the trail of silver flame as the tip flicked slowly from side to side in the dark.

The ice that protected everything creaked and cracked at the sight.

Nesta let it. She wanted to refute it — to tell Cassian that he was wrong and Sala wasn’t hers — but the moment Sala had rested her heads on hers, she knew that they were bound together. The manticore made her blood sing, as if their paths were irrevocably entangled in such a beautiful way that Nesta daren’t question it. It was a similar feeling she had encountered when Cassian had delivered the letter in the Human Realm; that compelling pull of destiny.

After the war, Nesta had thought they were done. That she and Cassian had made history and were now travelling on parallel paths of a forked road. But now she was not so sure. She had not been sure for a while now.

“And what if I were of bad intention?” Nesta asked, smoothing her palm over the manticore’s head. The fur was as soft as the finest silk; the touch so divine that Nesta wanted to bury her face in the beast’s ruff and breathe her in again.

A frown worried itself onto Cassian’s expression. Nesta pushed it to the periphery, keeping her attention focussed on Sala.

Nesta had thought revenge would be sweet. Thought that killing the King would have rendered her new and swept away all of the regrets and the pain of the past, but it had only set a deep fear within her. What if her palms only sung death and destruction? What if she was evil and cruel and a thorn in the side of everyone she met? What if she was bloodthirsty and she would not stop until she had quenched that thirst?

But when she had dropped to her knees in front of Mas, Nesta had felt a different hum of power; a magic that had been pushed down and quieted but was wholly good. And as Nesta had forged herself anew, she realised that her magic had presented her with a choice. She could be death if she wished. She could cause destruction and wreak havoc but she could also protect and heal. And whilst Nesta had decided who she was, the knowledge that she had the ability to take away life as she pleased still terrified her. The kerits were different. They were not Fae or human. They did not look like her, did not think like her, did not have conscious thought. Their heads did not tumble right, and whilst life disappeared from the depth of their eyes, it was not akin to the way her father’s eyes had faded, his very being sputtering out until there was only vacant emptiness.

Nesta did not want to take life. Not unless she had to.

She was not a killer.

Scar-flecked fingers tilted her chin and urged her to look upwards. Nesta had not heard him move, but she registered his warmth and saw his earnest expression as she stared up into Cassian’s tan face.

“You are not of bad intention,” Cassian said, as if he somehow could sense her self-deprecating thoughts. His voice had dropped; the tone soft, like a brush stroking tenderly against a canvas.

“What would happen?” Nesta insisted. She needed to know. Needed to understand as surely as she needed to understand that she would wake tomorrow and he would still be there; her steady presence.

“Then Sala would disappear into the ether, as it were. An allegiance can be changed, after all. Manticores are highly intelligent creatures.”

Nesta did not know what to say. Yet, whilst she had no words, she knew with a fierce conviction that she would not allow herself to lose Sala. This beast… she was a gift. Sala was the first true blessing that Nesta had been granted in a life that had only been bleak and cruel.

Sala was hers just as she would be the beast’s. A companion in the grey of her life. Another flicker of light in the dark.

“I thought she would give you more freedom around the camps.”

Nesta blinked. Cassian had dropped his hand but remained close to her. His warmth seeped through her clothing, the sensation welcome in the shadows of the barn. Sometimes Nesta felt as if his warmth was directed solely to heat her limbs.

“I know you must feel limited in where you can go,” Cassian elaborated, stretching his wings slightly. He kept the one closest to her outstretched; a barrier against the cold.

To Nesta’s surprise, Cassian’s cheeks stained a faint pink and he looked away. “I can’t imagine being in Windhaven and not being able to fly,” he confessed. “Sala can carry you about if you want to taste the wind. She can also fight alongside you should you ever need it, both on ground and in the skies.” Another crooked smile as those dark eyes rested back on her, as if he were making himself do it. It nearly knocked the breath from her lungs, the vulnerability in his expression. “She’s not a steed, but perhaps she will become a close second.”

Nesta didn’t know what to do with her body. She felt self-conscious beyond belief, thrown completely by the repeated offering — of freedom. Cassian knew of her growing love of flying. He had truly listened when she confessed that the air rushing around her made her feel alive. That she hungered for it — desperate to gobble up the adrenaline that for the short time, made her feel awake. The rush was akin to an orgasm; the sensation of hot, silky skin sliding against hers as the wave crested and shattered on the shore. Better in some ways. Healthier. More attainable.

Even though words flashed through her mind, Nesta only asked, “Sala?”

Cassian’s lips turned up at the corners as if he were accessing a memory. “It means fire in Illyrian. A temporary name should you wish to call her something else. Although she is rather attached to it, as you can see.”

Indeed, the manticore’s round honey-coloured ears had pricked forward at the sound of her name. She tilted her head slightly at Cassian, as if she were waiting for him to give her a command.

Nesta bent to scratch behind Sala’s ears.

“But where will she stay?”

It seemed a stupid question to ask, but the words blurted forth anyway.

Cassian shrugged but the gesture appeared relieved. Had he thought she would turn Sala away? He must have asked Frawley to keep the manticore secret so he could show her the beast himself. “She can come into the bungalow if she likes. Manticores are needy creatures who bond fast to their chosen companion. She’ll like to exercise and hunt, but she’ll always want to come home to you. It is in her instincts to protect and serve.”

Silence fell. Nesta brushed her knuckles across the beast’s muzzle, just as she’d seen Frawley do with Caer. Sala’s purr was loud and she dropped to the ground as if she were in heaven, rolling onto her back and stretching her legs out.

Nesta mouth widened into an unstoppable smile at the sight — of the open display of trust and affection which Nesta found so difficult — and squatted down beside the manticore to ruffle her ears.

“Do you like her?”

Cassian’s words caught her, reminding her that he was watching her. His eyes were soft and wide when she twisted to look up at him. The faint ghost of a smile was still hovering on her lips.

“Yes,” she said, in a way that she hoped didn’t come out stiffly. “Very much.” Then she frowned. “What if I’m made to go back to Velaris.”

It was a possibility Nesta couldn’t cast from her mind. Even though Feyre had insisted Nesta could leave Illyria should she want to, Nesta could not help but fear that some event would call her back to their City of Starlight before she chose it herself. That her involvement in court matters would demand her presence.

Cassian’s expression hardened, showing a hint of the warrior she had been privy to earlier. “I promise you don’t have to go back there if you don’t want to.”

“But what if—"

“I don’t care if it’s demanded of you, Nesta. You never have to go back if you don’t want to.”

The way Cassian spoke was short and dark… and troubled. He truly meant it.

Another creak reverberated in Nesta’s ears as ice tumbled from a glacier. Cassian’s words had reminded her of what she needed to do — what Nesta had known for a while but did not want to admit. It was another path that had been cleared of vines and brambles, but remained laced with thorns. It was not an easy route, but it was what she had chosen. “I do want to go back.”

Everything stilled. The air went taut around them and Cassian’s angry expression shifted into something else entirely.

Nesta watched him open and close his mouth, the movement small but enough to indicate that she had stunned him. Eventually he said, “Ok.”

Another long, long pause. She watched him swallow, the column of his throat moving up and then down as he looked away. “We can move you back, if that’s what you want.”

Arrows formed between her brows as she frowned. Did he think…?

Stupid bat.

“I have no intention of moving back there permanently,” she clipped. “I have things I need to take care of. I’ll go back with you. You said you were going for New Year’s Eve.”

Again, Cassian’s lips parted. “You want to visit?” he asked with a disbelieving frown. “I’m going for a few days. I’ll return New Year’s Day.”

Dread twisted inside of her but Nesta did not let it show. Determination won out. She would not stray from her path. Her intention was bigger then her fear to return back to Velaris, to undoubtedly have to face member’s of the Inner Circle in their home — their territory. Where she had been broken and lost and so numb she could not remember the year that had slid by in a roll of bare flesh and the burn of alcohol.

“Yes, for a visit,” she confirmed. Then, she added, “As long as I don’t have to stay in that wretched new house.”

Cassian looked away from her. “Your apartment is still there.”

Worrying her lip between her teeth, Nesta thought of that cold and dirty apartment with its four locks on the door. She had never felt safe there. And it was not a place for her now. A different Nesta had lived there … and Nesta was not that Fae any longer.

“Where will you stay?” she asked.

“I usually stay with Rhys and Feyre or at the House of Wind.”

“Why don’t you have your own place.”

Cassian laugh was rough and throaty and it made the hairs on her arm stand on end. “Why, would you want to stay there?”

Nesta scowled, even as she asked, “How insufferable would you be if I said yes.”

“Very insufferable,” Cassian assured her, his eyes twinkling.

“No, then,” Nesta replied … and Cassian laughed. The sound was bright and so, so delighted that she couldn’t help the twitch of her lips.

“Shall I send word ahead that you’re coming?”

Nesta shrugged. “If you like.”

A pause.

“Elain will be pleased.”

“Yes,” Nesta said tightly. Already she was starting to backtrack, the thought of heading back to Velaris too much. But then she thought about her purpose and the courage it gave her made her stand that little bit taller. Stiffer… but taller.

“How about this,” Cassian offered, as if he sensed her trepidation. “We won’t send word ahead until the night before. Then you have the night to sleep on it. If you decide you don’t want to go back, nobody is any the wiser and it means you won’t overthink things.” His expression was carefully neutral. “You could even have Sala come to meet you,” he added. “The journey would help to strengthen her wings.”

Armour. He was offering her armour amongst her fire.

Nesta loosed a slow breath and played with Sala’s soft ears. “Ok.”

Then she looked up at him, those stormy eyes suddenly clearing to blue as a small smile crept onto her face — she was still in too much disbelief to control it. “She’s really for me?”

Cassian reached a hand downwards. It hesitated in midair, but when she did not move away his thumb brushed the dimple in her cheek with such reverence something inside of her glowed hot.

“She’s all yours,” Cassian assured her, his expression so soft he looked as young as her. “We can bring her inside now if you like. We’ll have to watch Caer, he’s taken a shine to her.”

Nesta woke the next morning in the small bedroom she had been allocated at the cottage with Sala spread out on the bed beside her. The manticore’s body was deliciously warm and Nesta raised a hand to scratch behind the animal’s ears.

Already the beast was Nesta’s steadfast companion.

Sala let out a deep rumbling purr that continued to vibrate as she knocked her head gently against Nesta’s in greeting, and Nesta allowed herself a moment to rest her forehead against Sala’s, holding her close and breathing her in.

The night of festivities had bled into the early hours, and Nesta had only dragged herself to bed when her eyelids had become so heavy she could barely keep them open.

Blearily, Nesta dragged herself to join her friends for breakfast before heading back upstairs to get ready to fly to Ironcrest. She was just finishing weaving her hair into a coronet, when a knock sounded at the door.

Cassian was wearing elaborate leathers that she had not seen before. He had scraped half of his hair back into a top knot tied tightly with leather and red cloth. The rest hung to his shoulders in gleaming ebony, as if he had deigned to run a brush through his hair yet again.

Nesta considered making a comment about how he had brushed his hair two days in a row but stopped herself at the last minute. There was a tense set to his shoulders that she had not expected to see given yesterday’s festivities. She doubted it was because he was hungover. Nesta had noticed that he had not gorged himself on wine like he had the year prior, only enjoying a few glasses over the course of the day, as if he knew he needed his wits about him for the luncheon. And, she imagined, so as not to drink excessively around her. Not that she hungered for a drink, any longer. She hadn’t for a long time.

The solidity to Cassian’s frame was the sort that he used to wear when she first arrived in Velaris. It was a stance prepared for barbed words and insults, even as he feigned casual joviality. A stance ready for a fight he did not want to participate in.

Perhaps he was worried about today… That was a possibility. She had heard him tell Rhys ‘no’ when he asked them to stay the night at Ironcrest. There had been no contemplation, just fierce, adamant refusal…

Nesta had a feeling it had nothing to do with his safety but her own. And even though Nesta had her silver flames and her beginner’s training in combat, she was still the female who craved four locks on a door before she could go to sleep. The bungalow was different, it had a magical protection that Nesta had cause to doubt, but in a camp where the General and their High Lord were out of favour…

Even as her power moved restlessly beneath her skin, Nesta hoped she and Cassian were sharing a room. She would gladly pretend to be seen as a couple if it meant she would not sleep alone in a strange place. Just the thought of it made her fire want to roar, even as the thought of sleeping beside him made her want to self-combust.

Oblivious to her thoughts, Cassian bent to scratch behind Sala’s ears with a large hand. “Ready to go?”

Nesta’s eyes snagged on the chain dangling from his other hand and her magic gushed through her veins as if it were a flood.

“What’s that?” Nesta asked with a scowl.

For a moment, Nesta actually thought Cassian was going to turn on his heel and leave. A muscle feathered in his jaw, but in the end, he only stepped so close to her she almost had to take a step back to steady herself.

Sala came to sit by Nesta’s side. The manticore stared up at them with her beautiful, almond eyes that shone gold as Cassian thrust a hand out. “Here.”

Nesta stared at the silver chain that dangled from his fist and the pendant that hung from it. It was so odd to see an impossibly broad warrior holding something so delicate that Nesta wanted to laugh — the first time the sound wanted to desperately bubble out of her in his presence— but she knew to do so would be a fatal move; a wound that could not be healed. So she swallowed down the sensation and tilted her head to study the necklace instead.

She hoped that he couldn’t hear how fast her heart was beating in her chest.

When she opened her mouth to speak, Cassian swiftly changed tactic, steering her around so her back was to him. The movement was abrupt and uncontrolled, designed to stop her speaking and laced with something that Nesta thought she detected as panic.

The firm touch of his hands on her skin made everything hiss, like steam as water hit a hot pan on the stove. And once she had her back to him and the room stopped spinning, everything slowed. Hyper-aware, Nesta felt the movement of air against the arch of her neck; felt the way her body betrayed her and covered her in goosebumps as his calloused fingers brushed her neck. The pleasure at being touched coursed through her and she stiffened, suppressing the shiver that wanted to sweep her away.

She hadn’t been touched intimately in months. Hadn’t been touched tenderly ever and she found she craved for it.

The comprehension made her both sad and angry: a double-edged sword plunged into the gut.

“What do you think—” she started to snap, but she broke off as a light weight nestled on her sternum, a few inches below her clavicle.

For a moment, the stone was cool, but then it pulsed against her skin, as if it were a heart and it had been kicked into life for the first time. The pendant was a colour Nesta had never seen before - not quite gold and not quite silver. Understated but undoubtedly beautiful.

Nesta snapped her gaze up to Cassian as all seven siphons on his ornate armour glowed softly.

He was staring at her with apprehension… and he looked strangely vulnerable, as if he were ready to take a step back. As if he were about to take a hit.

Despite that, Nesta couldn’t help to stamp out the intimacy of the moment, even as her mind chanted for more. His head was bowed slightly towards her and she was so consumed by his scent that too much derision flooded her voice, “You’re giving me jewellery? I’m touched.”

“Very good,” Cassian snickered. His wary expression was suddenly replaced with determination, the shadows shifting on his dark, untameable features.

“I know you don’t usually wear jewellery,” Cassian said with forced lightness, “but I thought you might make an exception. The stone is made of pyrite. Pyrite is revered in Illyria for its protective properties—it’s very rare. It provides a level of protection over the wearer.”

Nesta fingered the beautiful pendant, the stone which was still warm against her skin. It reminded her of safety: of being curled up by a silent fire with a storm raging outside; of a hot meal settling in a stomach carved out hollow from weeks of barely having enough to survive.

She should accept the necklace and get him to leave, Nesta knew that, but her curiosity had been piqued even as something warned her to remain quiet, “When did you have time to hunt down a rare protective charm?”

A muscle feathered in Cassian’s jaw. Suddenly he was not looking at her again but past her, as if something had captivated his attention on the wall. “A while ago.”

And somehow she knew from those three words exactly what this was: the Solstice gift he had tried to give her.

All the fight bled out of her, because somehow Nesta knew that he had found this for her so she would feel safe. So when she closed the door to her apartment at night with the four locks or walked home well after dark in an inebriated state, that it would offer her protection. That even though she had rejected him and he knew that she was fucking male after male, that no harm would come to her.

At the time she would have been furious at the gift — at the audacity that he thought he should protect her. But that wasn’t it at all. It was because deep down, despite all her sharp words and his confusing actions, he had cared. And whilst post-war Nesta would have been so blinded by rage and numbing grief that she would have been unable to see the gift for what it was… the Nesta here and now - the female who was slowly emerging out of the dark - felt as if dawn was peeking on the horizon.

A lump formed in her throat. Had Cassian dived into the Sidra to retrieve it? When she had been so cruel to him and he so cruel to her? When she had lashed out because he would not listen. Because he had ignored her and flirted with Mor in front of her face as she felt discarded in the corner.

“It will provide you with an added layer of security during our trip,” Cassian told her.

Even now, Nesta did not want to discuss what they had been. What they could have been. So she said, “You think I need it today?”

“I think that I don’t trust Illyrian males, especially Illyrian males from Ironcrest. I think that you are stronger and more powerful than any of them, but I would rather die than have something happen to you on the off-chance that they got closer than you’d like or if they teamed up on you.” His words were a low vigorous rumble that shook her bones.

Then he hesitated. “And Illyrian males give a piece of jewellery to females they are promised to — it’s a symbolic gesture. For the sake of today’s pretence, it would be good if you wore it.”

A long, long silence where Nesta could feel Cassian’s pulse thumping against the skin of his neck. For one true beat, their eyes locked. His eyes were so dark and intense that Nesta couldn’t bare it.

She was thankful when they shifted slightly to stare right past her rather than tunnel far inside of her.

“It’s beautiful,” she conceded, unable to voice what she wanted to say. There was too much churning around in her mind, so she stared down at the teardrop pendant that glimmered against her pale skin.

“Good,” Cassian said, moving away from her with such abruptness it was almost military with intent. “Put it on and come downstairs.”

Tags: @arin1030 @superspiritfestival @sayosdreams @perseusannabeth @mylittlebigplanet @biggestwingspan-az @bellsqueen @ekaterinakostrova @bookstantrash @prophecyerised @rainbowcheetah512 @awesomelena555 @wannawriteyouabook @iammissstark @lovelynesta @melphss @nestalytical @darkshadowqueensrule @laylaameer01 @a-trifling-matter @grouchycritic7794 @thalia-2-rose @champanheandluxxury @swankii-art-teacher @princessconsuela02 @lavendergoomsltd @little-diyosa @princessofmerchants-reads @jeakat @sjm-things @imwritingthesewords @nestable @inejbrekkxr @silvernesta @inyourmindeye @amelie775

#embersandlightfic #embers and light #acotar #acowar #acomaf #acosf #acofas #nessian #nessianfic #nessianangst #nesta x cassian #cassian #fanfiction #acotar fanfiction

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isamijoo · 3 years

Text

Antidote

Written for @gameofdrarry Exploding Snap 2021. My card was:

Write a Drarry fic of 987-1625 words following this prompt: Immediately after the Battle of Hogwarts, Draco and Harry are advised to go to therapy or to see a Healer to help them develop appropriate coping strategies. How do they feel when they run into each other unexpectedly?

Title: Antidote

Author: isamijoo

Rating: T

Word Count: 1612

Tags: Hogwarts Eighth Year, Talks about Healers and Therapy, Invisibility Cloak, Astronomy Tower

A/N: I did have some trouble with this. I'm not comfortable writing about therapies so you can see how I avoided that and instead focused more on the boys, namely Draco. I purposely kept it short because of the word limit. I included bits of what I wanted to include, so the fic ends up feeling like random scenes thrown together, which doesn't sound really appealing. But I feel satisfied with how it turned out. Thank you to @sky-is-torn for the beta!

READ ON AO3

~~~

After the Battle of Hogwarts, the administration wanted to ensure the returning students would continue their education feeling secure and safe in all aspects. Thus, at the beginning of term, staff noticed a new door next to the Infirmary. The door, the Headmistress explained during the welcoming feast, led to the offices of two Mind Healers, Healer Park and Healer Algot.

Every student was required to meet either one of the Healers at least once. The first session was marked on each student’s schedule; skipping the session would cost house points and incur detentions.

Draco Malfoy was forced to return to Hogwarts as part of his sentencing. He joined the other Eighth Years, though he kept mostly to himself. Draco rarely sat in the Eighth Year Common Room because it was often taken up by Gryffindors, who made up a majority of their year.

Harry Potter was always around, but Draco never knew what the Saviour was up to.

Potter had cut his hair short, though still untamed and unruly. He was clean-shaven and sported a new pair of round-rimmed spectacles. He had also grown since sixth year. Perhaps now that the Dark Lord was dead, he finally had time to eat properly.

Sometimes their eyes would meet during classes or meals — silver with green. Potter would stare at him, unblinking. Draco was always the first one to look away.

~~~

When it was time for Draco to visit the Healers, he went without putting up a fuss.

He halted at the door when he saw Potter in the waiting room. Potter was seated in one of the two armchairs, slouched and flipping through a magazine. He hadn’t noticed Draco yet.

Draco walked to the registration desk, which was manned by a thin woman with greying hair. There were two white doors beside her, each labelled with the name of a Healer.

After registering, Draco was instructed to take a seat. The only available one was beside Potter, who now had his gaze fixated on Draco, magazine forgotten.

“Malfoy, how are you?” Potter smiled.

Draco lowered himself onto the armchair, back straight and hands folded in his lap. “I’m fine, thank you,” he said stiltedly.

“It’s good to see you here,” Potter said. “What are the odds of the two of us having a session at the same time? Maybe they arranged the timetable in alphabetical order."

Draco tilted his head and regarded Potter curiously, which made the other wizard chuckle nervously.

“You know, like the Sorting. I went directly after you.”

“The Sorting in first year? You remember that?”

Potter shrugged, mumbling, “I remember a lot of things about you.”

“Look, Potter,” Draco muttered wearily, cheeks warm. “Why are you talking to me?”

Potter rubbed the back of his neck. “We’re not children anymore, Malfoy. The war is over.”

Before he could retort, Draco was called to meet Healer Park while Potter went into Healer Algot’s office. Healer Park was a middle-aged gentleman with kind brown eyes. Draco wasn’t too forthcoming, so the Healer just asked him harmless ice-breaking questions. After an hour, the Healer gave him another appointment slip for the following week.

Potter got the same slip too.

Before they exited the waiting room, Potter suggested they grab some snacks from the kitchens. Draco grudgingly agreed; he was feeling bleak and could use some sweets to lift his mood.

As Potter led the way, Draco observed Potter’s gait. If Potter stood straight, he would be almost as tall as Draco. But now he walked with his shoulders hunched, as though the act of saving the wizarding world had also thrust its problems onto his teenage shoulders.

Draco wondered how much Potter knew about legends of the Greek Titans, of Atlas and the globe on his back. If Draco offered to tell the story, would Potter place his head on Draco’s lap and listen attentively, like Draco had done with his mother when he was a child?

In the kitchen, they sat together on a wooden bench, surrounded by treats and desserts. Potter talked openly and happily, as if enjoying Draco’s company. He remained this way — treating Draco in a friendly manner — until they reached Draco’s private dorm. He was the only Slytherin who had returned for Eighth Year so he had a room to himself.

“I had a great time, Malfoy.” Potter beamed. “I’ll see you around.”

Draco said nothing as he watched Potter walk away.

~~~

The following week, they met in the Healers’ waiting room again. Potter talked while Draco listened, basking in his attention and drinking in Potter’s bright green eyes and straight white teeth.

When Draco sat in front of Healer Park, he opened his mouth and, as though channelling Potter’s energy, shared his deepest regrets with a stranger with kind eyes.

~~~

The Healer had advised Draco to seek forgiveness.

Draco apologised to Potter at the Astronomy Tower, overlooking the school grounds while the cool breeze chilled him to the bones. Once the words were out, he couldn’t stop. His mind yanked at each of his mistakes, uprooting all his flaws from his first year, from the first time he spoke to Potter, from the moment he was born until he felt raw and sick.

He hadn’t noticed that while he spoke, Potter had gently guided him inside and sat them both on the steps. Potter was silent as tears streaked down Draco’s face.

When speech finally failed him, Draco wiped his face with a sleeve. Potter slid closer and engulfed Draco’s thin body in a hug.

Potter apologised for sixth year, for the scars on Draco’s chest, for failing to help when he could’ve.

Their first kiss, clumsy and laced with longing, tasted like rainwater.

~~~

Draco’s obsession with Potter was insatiable.

Potter was like an addictive potion. If you’d never had it, you could live and die happily, not knowing what you had missed. But once you get a taste, you’d want more and more and yet, it’d never be enough.

Draco couldn't count the number of times they dragged the other inside alcoves or empty classes for a snog. Potter’s lips were warm, delicious, sometimes even sweet. He kissed with a passion Draco envied, with his whole body leaning in and his hands all over Draco like a starving man.

Being the centre of Potter’s attention was like standing on the surface of the sun. Draco’s skin burned at every contact with Potter’s hard body, but with the heat came pleasure.

Draco was infatuated.

And maybe, just maybe, it was the same for Potter.

~~~

The first time Potter pulled off his Invisibility Cloak in front of Draco, the blond had yelped in surprise and accidentally banged his head against the headboard.

Potter climbed into Draco’s bed, clad in only a pair of shorts and a T-shirt. “Are you afraid of people finding out about us?” he asked, his warm body pressed to Draco’s side.

Draco shrugged. His father was in Azkaban, his mother was sentenced to home arrest for 15 years, his family name tainted, his family fortune would deplete quickly if he didn’t take over the family business once he graduated.

Draco didn’t want to think about the outside world. It was too scary.

But having this with Potter wasn't any less terrifying. Nobody would be pleased to learn that The Saviour was sharing a bed with a Death Eater. Any animosity would certainly be directed at Draco. He was a criminal, after all.

Potter had nothing to lose, while Draco would lose everything.

Suddenly his vision blurred and he found himself looking through a layer of translucent fabric. Potter had spread the Invisibility Cloak over them.

“There.” Potter sounded smug. “No one can see us now.”

Draco’s body shuddered with laughter as Potter rolled on top of him. The cloak cascaded down Potter’s head and Draco’s fingers brushed its velvety texture while they kissed under its cover.

Was taking pleasure in The Chosen One’s embrace a crime?

~~~

“You shouldn't have saved me,” Draco murmured one night, mouth pressed against Potter’s jugular as they both lay breathless, sweaty and sated. “You should have left me in the fire.”

Potter’s arms tightened around Draco's bare body, pulling him until his long pink scars kissed Potter's brown skin.

“I left you once,” Potter whispered, lips brushing Draco’s temple. “Never again.”

~~~

“Do your friends know about us?” Draco asked when Potter took his hand on their way to the Healers’ office.

“Er, yes,” Potter admitted sheepishly. “I’m bad at keeping this a secret. Are you upset?”

Draco glanced at their clasped hands pensively. “I’m not sure. I’m not sure how I feel about this. About us.”

“Maybe we should talk with the Healers,” Potter suggested when they reached the waiting room still holding hands. “Get their advice.”

“You want to ask them for relationship advice?” Draco said incredulously.

“Why not?” Potter grinned. “Although, I should tell you before we go in…" He stepped closer, and Draco couldn’t avoid gazing into his emerald eyes. “I really like you, Draco. I think I’m in love with you.”

Rasps escaped Draco’s throat as he struggled to respond.

Potter didn’t wait for any reply. He just smiled and kissed Draco's knuckles before entering his Healer's office.

Draco stood frozen for a good five minutes before he finally went into the other office and took his usual seat on the sofa opposite Healer Park.

"How are you today, Draco?" the Healer asked gently.

"I think…" Draco closed his eyes, picturing Potter's joyful smiles and hearing his own heartbeats loud in his ears. "I think I'm in trouble."

Healer Park appeared concerned. "How so?"

Sighing, Draco leaned back. "I'm falling… for Harry Potter."

#gameofdrarry #exploding snap #isamijoo #drarry fic #draco x harry

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psychewithwings · 3 years

Text

Let Them Watch: Shika NSFW

The most illegal thing I’ve written so far... oh boi

NSFW 18+ : Nasty talk, vulgar speech from third parties, degradation, exhibitionism, breeding, jealousy, revenge fuck, arranged marriage, dub con????? just because the situation is forced.

Alt. Un. Very inspired by the fact that when 1700s royals were married people would watch them have sex on their wedding night so they knew the marriage was consummated.

“I loath you,” you muttered under your breath to Shikamaru. You stood next to Shikamaru at the alter. Your whalebone corset was digging into the flesh of your waist, making this situation, if possible, even more uncomfortable. “Well don’t think I’m happy about this either, it’s a fucking drag.” You rolled your eyes and smoothed the large skirt of your wedding gown. The leader of the ceremony droned on and on, reading the fine print of the agreement. You could feel the eyes of all the observers boring into your back. The royalty from the Land of Fire, the elders, and of course, the Feudal Lord himself, had all come to oversee this arrangement. “You think I asked for this? This is the last thing I wanted,” he added. Your eyes narrowed, “what the hell is that supposed to mean?” you hissed. “Hey, I thought you loathed me, why does it matter what I mean?” You hated how he always made a point that was difficult to argue. “I’m just saying, you could do worse than me… the last thing… tch-” He chuckled under his breath, as he raised his arm, winding an elaborate gold ribbon around it. He then clasped your hand and wound the ribbon down and around your arm, tying you to him forever. His grip was tight and he pulled the ribbon, causing it to rub and somewhat burn on the flesh of your arm. “It doesn’t matter, we weren’t given a choice.”

Shikamaru had a point there, you weren’t given a choice. You were only told about this union two weeks ago. Your clan informed you that due to your unique abilities, the Feudal Lord had paid a hefty sum to have you married off to the most intelligent man in the village. As soon as you’d heard that, you’d known it was Shikamaru. Shikamaru had been a nuisance since you were classmates with him in the academy. He was always slacking off and being lazy, but he got away with it because he was smart enough. While you were intelligent, you still needed to train heavily to maintain your maximum power levels. Shikamaru excelled without having to put in any effort at all, in fact he slept through most training sessions. It was infuriating to watch, not to mention, he was always calling you a “troublesome woman” because you actually wanted to work hard.

Every mission you ever went on with him, since your days at the academy, was strangely fluid, (even though the slacker had managed to become your boss practically). They were filled with good conversation and even better team work. You were assigned together, just the two of you often enough. You made a very powerful duo, this was true, but he infuriated you constantly, with little things... Like how he made you feel warm when he was too close, examining a map, and how flustered you felt when he would see your expression, smirk down at you and coyly ask, “what?” He knew what, he was being a tease, always trying to play with your feelings it seemed, because he was bored and intelligent enough to pull it off. He was always doing something to get your attention; brushing his hand against yours before giving a half hearted apology; staring at you from across the room with lustful eyes; calling you pet names just to see you sneer. But then he’d suddenly be calling you “troublesome” and criticizing your strategy plans again, and it was back to arguing. The truth was, you didn’t loath Shikamaru, not at all, it was the fact that he was constantly teasing you with his games of push and pull that made it impossible for you to accept how you really felt… you were crazy about him.

You begrudgingly looped the ribbon around the piece that Shikamaru was holding. “And now, with this knot the union is made, and will now be sealed with a kiss.” You could feel your blood boiling beneath your skin, this kiss would have you spending the rest of your life with him. You turned towards him slowly and were met with that Shika smirk you knew all too well. He was always so cocky. His hands brushed down the sides of your face, softer than you’d expected. He leaned in and his lips brushed against yours as he gently enveloped your bottom lip. A soft sigh escaped your lips, and he tilted his head to deepen the kiss in response. His fingers gripped your waist and you could feel his nails digging into your flesh even through the corset bodice of the dress. His tongue brushed against your bottom lip before he nipped it softly with his teeth. As he pulled away you stared into his eyes. You were stunned and confused. Your breath fell out of your mouth in shallow pants. Part of it was the constricting bodice of the dress, but the truth was that no one had ever kissed you like that before.

Shikamaru undid the knot and gave the ribbon back to the ceremony leader. He took your hand, admiring the shock on your face. If you only knew how long he had wanted to do that. Maybe it was too much, kissing you like that when you were already stressed about this arranged wedding. But it was about time he told you how he felt. He didn’t have a choice in marrying you, that was all true, it was just his luck that he was betrothed to the girl who had stolen his heart so long ago, that first week at the academy. You were so powerful and yet you worked so hard, it impressed him; he admired you. He often slept in class hoping he’d dream of you, since you detested him for his lack of effort in school. He in turn called you “troublesome woman” not for your fiery temper, but because you were his biggest distraction. But now, as the fates would have it, you were his, though it was a drag that it had to be this way. Shikamaru had hoped to make you his on his own one day and he kicked himself for not making a move sooner.

He lead you down the isle of the ceremony space, the watchful eyes of the spectators following you both. He made sure to keep his grip on your arm gentle, supportive, the way he wanted you to see him. He lead you out the doors and into the corridor to head towards the second part of the ceremony, the feast. Your silence worried him that you were truly miserable with the arrangement and so he moved his hand from your arm to hold your pinkie with his. He was surprised when you moved to interlace the rest of your fingers with his. You paused just before reaching the doors of the great hall. “Shika… I-“ He waited patiently as you gathered your thoughts. “I don’t hate you,” you said and his cheeks flushed. A sly smile crossed his lips and he spun you into his chest, tilted your chin up with the knuckle of his index finger and kissed you again. This time, he didn’t hold back. His tongue delved between your parted lips, just before he grabbed hold of your bottom lip with his teeth and sucked. You whined and pressed your body closer to his. He growled in response and pushed you against the nearest wall. Shikamaru pulled away and leaned against the wall, his arm resting on the ancient stone. “I wanted to do that without the audience, so you’d know I meant it,” his breathing was ragged through his speech. “I- yo-you like me?” your eyes were wide and he couldn’t help but chuckle. He brushed his hand down your arm and held tightly at the elbow, meeting your eyes. “More than you could know,” he said and then turned to hold open the door for you to enter the great hall.

You were confused to say the least, he liked you? Was he playing a cruel joke? You would have thought so for sure, but it was the kiss that had you feeling differently. You watched him closely throughout dinner, and made conversation. You figured, even though you knew him quite well already you should deepen the surface level relationship. You wanted to ask him 1000 questions about how he felt about you but the Feudal Lord was giving a self indulgent toast. “May this couple bear many children and may they grow up to be exceptional ninja for the Konoha…” You rolled your eyes and glanced to see Shikamaru watching your face with concern. “We are just a baby factory to him, aren’t we…” Shikamaru leaned closer to you, “I’m afraid so.” You rolled your head to look at him while the Feudal Lord droned on. “And that massive brain couldn’t think of a way out of this?” You smiled at him finding solace now, in the fact that he was familiar… and being forced into the strange experience. He had hardly let go of your hand since the ceremony, a silent understanding falling between the two of you, and years of buried emotions rising to the surface. “Sadly no, Lord Kakashi informed me that the Feudal Lord threatened to cut all funding from the village if these arranged marriages didn’t take place.” He paused before thoughtfully adding, “I asked him if I could ask you on a date instead, marriage seemed like a lot so fast.” You laughed and sipped your glass of champagne. A date would have been much preferred to the current situation. “Why didn’t you?” you asked. Shikamaru adjusted his posture, clearly he had been waiting for you to ask something like this, although it seemed he still hadn’t found a way to word his answer. “Honestly, I didn’t think you’d say yes… I… thought you hated me,” he said it with a smile but you could feel the underlying pain. You widened your eyes in shock,”I thought you hated me!” You both laugh looking at each other, the hatred now boiling down to something else entirely. “Well, tell you what, I’ll agree to the date if you can shut him up,” you gestured to the Feudal Lord with your glass. Shikamaru smirked, “still so feisty, are you this feisty in bed?”

His question caught you off guard and your breath hitched in your throat. You were looking for an answer or clever retort when he added, “cuz’ they’re gonna love that.” “W-what?” the realization dawned on you, “no, wait! I thought that was just a rumor.” Shikamaru glared to where the Feudal Lord continued to ramble on trying to justify his new decree by telling a story about his parent’s incredibly successful arranged marriage. “I thought so too, but Kakashi told me that marriages can be annulled if there is no proof of consummation… they watch for proof… or that’s what they say at least.” Your corset was suddenly too tight, and your heart felt like it was beating out of your chest. You were stuttering, wracking your brain for the best way out of this. “Listen, there isn’t a way out, but I do have a plan…”

Step One was to try and get Shikamaru as drunk as possible in hopes of whiskey dick. However that plan was foiled quickly due to the lack of alcohol being served in either of your direction. Step One revised was simple enough, encourage everyone else to drink as much as possible, in hopes that they would pass out and there would be less viewers to the spectacle. The dancing ensued and large bottles of champagne were uncorked and devoured. It was strange however, that the Feudal Lord refused glass after glass that was offered to him. He was prepared to see this till the end.

Step two, was to make the act as boring as possible for them. They might force it, but they would not get to enjoy it.

The large bed was elaborate, plated in gold, with floral designs winding up all four posts. A single white fitted sheet was the only linen used to drape the bed. The bed sat on a raised platform, with two entrances on either side, like a stage… it was a stage. You had been given a set of white lingerie to wear. It was a corset, but this one left your breasts exposed, cupping them and pushing them up. A strip of fabric they had the nerve to call underwear was the only thing you wore below the waist. You were dressed, hair fixed, and makeup applied by two ladies in waiting, who were absolutely given strict guidelines by the Feudal Lord. The makeup was minimal, but almost too perfect. It made you look almost unreal, but resembling a doll more so than an ethereal being. You were the star of his sick fantasy. But you wouldn’t be alone Shikamaru would be there too, and you had a plan.

Unfortunately, the plan was failing, while you both had encouraged others to drink, the Feudal Lord must have encouraged them to drink water. The crowd was perfectly rowdy and as you entered onto the platform, hoots and hollers echoed around the large room. The seating was raked, and eyes appeared all around, above and below the platform. You sat timidly on the edge of the bed, doing your best to ignore the grotesque words of a few of the audience members.

“Look at her gorgeous tits.” “Fuck that corset is doing wonders, baby!”

Shikamaru joined you shortly there after, dressed in a pair of tight white shorts. You patted the bed beside you awkwardly. Shikamaru shuffled over and sat down beside you, trying his best to ignore the crowd. You took him in, in his designated ceremony outfit. His muscular thighs were showcased perfectly and his abs were well defined. As you examined his body, he surveyed yours, and you couldn’t help but notice the growing bulge in his pants. You felt your breath hitch in your throat, he was big… fuck. You were already rubbing your thighs together in anticipation, but now was not the time to drool over him. You had to look bored, act bored, disinterested. You sat there awkwardly side by side not sure how to start things off. You swore you could hear the Feudal Lord laughing from his designated seat. He was enjoying your discomfort and the awkwardness of the spectacle.

The jeering from the audience grew louder as the crowd grew impatient, the alcohol in their blood making them fidgety and restless. “Let’s see some action pretty boy!” “Yeah, put your fingers in her pussy… I wanna see her squirm.” You knew it was wrong that their lewd suggestions lit a fire in you, but you couldn’t help imagine Shikamaru doing those things to you. Your desire was becoming overwhelming.

“Lets get this over with,” he said and smiled at you, taking your hand and then squeezing it. “It’s gonna be fine, I’m right here with you okay? And I’ll take good care of you.” You nodded and squeezed back, taking solace in his presence. He reached for your face and pulled you to him. The way he kissed you was becoming comforting, and strangely addictive. You were already wanting more, but this was not the time. He trailed his hand up from it’s hold on your waist to the bodice of the lingerie and his fingertips traced the top of your breast, moving down again to lightly pinch your nipple.

You softly mewled at his touch, grateful that the platform put space between you and the audience and that their shouting was drowning out any sounds that escaped your lips. He moved down kissing your jaw and finding his way to your neck. You inhaled sharply and gripped his exposed thigh, he was far too good at this. “I thought we weren’t gonna give ‘em a show,” he whispered in your ear, then bit down on it. A soft whimper left your throat in response. “I’m not trying to- it’s just, you’re playing with me too much.” “I have to make you wet so I don’t hurt you,” he explained. You could feel him smiling against your neck, “so, you like me playing with you?” He sunk his teeth into your neck and suckled the soft flesh, pulling it with his teeth, creating a purple splotch for all to see. “Shika-ah- now is really not the time- mmhh- to play.” His hand trailed down your torso and stopped at the waistband of your underwear. “I know, but I like making you make these cute little sounds.” Shikamaru pressed the pad of his finger, rubbing up and down your clothed slit. “Oh fuck,” you sighed, he growled in response and captured your lips in a searing kiss. He was rubbing more desperately, listening to the sounds of your moans. You began to stroke his cock through his shorts and he let out a hiss. Shikamaru pulled the cloth of your underwear to the side and slowly slid his middle finger into your tight heat. You whined in response as he began to slowly thrust and curl his digit inside you. Your hand reached down and you began to palm his dick in return. You could feel the wet patch of his pre-cum on the cloth of the shorts. You moaned into his mouth, he was so hard already, and you were wiggling your hips with need. You did your best to still them, to follow what you’d agreed with Shikamaru, but your resolve was crumbling.

“Just fuck her already.” “Just shove your dick in!”

You pulled away from his lips and moved to his neck. “I guess it’s working,” you whispered relieved. But with the way his finger was curling inside you, you were wishing you didn’t have to be boring. Your eyes glanced into the crowd of drunken rowdy royalty. Something about the sea of eyes you were met with had you clenching around him. “Shit…” he hissed in response and began to pump his finger faster. “I wanna feel you cum all over my hand,” he growled before pressing another finger inside, stretching your walls. You moaned, louder this time than you had meant to. The crowd cheered in response, shouting more of their explicit ideas of what Shikamaru should do to you next.

You pulled his shorts down, and your mouth watered at the sight of his thick cock slapping up against his abs. A large drop of pre-cum oozing from the tip. You used your thumb to circle the head, spreading the pre-cum around. Shikamaru’s breath hitched in his throat, his fingers slowing inside you, your teasing proving to be quite the distraction. “If you keep that up, I won’t be able to hold back as easily,” he said, his breath moving in and out of his lungs more rapidly. Your eyes flicked to the crowd and then back to him. “Shika… don’t hold back, I need it so bad,” you ground your hips down into his hands, begging for more. “Are you sure? they’re all gonna see…” he questioned before his gaze darkened, “or is that what you want?” The guilt spread all over your face, before you confirmed his suspicions.

He didn’t waste time flattening you to the bed and climbing on top of you. “Shit, I didn’t actually think you’d get off on being watched,” his tone becoming darker as he lifted your leg and ran his tongue from your ankle to your inner thigh. He bit down on the soft flesh, sucking another dark purple mark into your skin. “You wanna put on a fucking show? You like them all watching you?” He sat up and landed a sharp smack to the bruise he’d just sucked into your skin. “Yes, ah- a show, let them watch, just please fuck me,” you pleaded. He laughed deviously, “oh not yet princess,” his devilish eyes sparked and glowed with lust. He held himself over you, and licked a stripe across your breast. He settled on sucking your nipple into his mouth, pulling at it with his teeth. He took the other in his hand and began to twist and pull it with his fingers. He released your nipple, “you wanna show off?” Your eyes widened at his implication. “Wh-what are you gonna do?”

Shikamaru climbed behind you and faced you towards the crowed. He held you up on your knees, one hand around your neck and the other on your breast. “Look at her pretty fucking tits huh?” The spectators cheered and began yelling obscenities. He pulled you down on your ass to where you were sitting in front of him and he pried your legs apart with his own. “And see her pretty little pussy?” The crowd was again loud with approval. This was now becoming the show they wanted. “Yeah well take a good long look now because she is all mine.” His tone was filled with lust as he said it and he spread you open with his fingers, allowing everyone to drink in the sight of your exposed core. He began to circle your clit slowly while, everyone watching whistled and cheered, your body grinding into his hand, seeking further friction. You hated how much it turned you on, having all these people watch, but it did. The way their eyes were hungrily taking in your body on display while Shikamaru played with you like a toy.

He moved to where he was over you and you were laying on your back. “You want this?” You mewled, longing for his touch again. “Yes, I do, I need it.” He laughed over you, “why don’t you ask nicely hmm?” “Please, Shikamaru, please.” His thumb traced your lips before delving into your mouth. “You’re so cute when you beg,” he growled before slowly, inch by inch, easing his cock inside of you. “Ah- ohhh fuck,” you breathed, your nails digging into his shoulders. “Does my cock feel good?” He began to move but teasingly slow. “Oh it’s so good Shika,” you whined. He slowed his thrusts even more, “is it better than Kiba?” he whispered in your ear. Your eyes grew wide, “wh-what?” He started fucking you with deeper strokes, each one his cock is hitting your cervix. “Oh you didn’t think I knew about that? Thought I had no idea you were fucking Kiba all these years?” he growled. His jealousy was pent up, from watching you from the side lines, running off with his comrade into the wood, or sneaking off during missions for a quickie. At the time, Shikamaru was unable to express himself for the sheer reason that he was sure you hated him. But now you belonged to each other… he didn’t have to hide anything anymore. “Do you have any idea how much I liked you?” The way he said it was full of regret and relief. You looked up at him with wide eyes, you’d thought he detested you until today… you’d had no idea how he really felt. “So think of this as revenge… I wanna hear you screaming my fucking name,” he smirked and gave you a particularly hard thrust making you cry out. “And I think they wanna hear you scream it too.”

Shikamaru was aware of the watching crowed and while he wasn’t thrilled with their prying eyes, he was aware of how the humiliation made your cunt clench around his cock. He slowed his thrusts till he was practically still inside of you. You whined and pulled at his shoulders, wordlessly begging him to continue. “You’re all mine now, so I can do what I want with you, right?” he asked, thumbing over the sweat that had collected over your hairline. “Please Shikamaru, it’s so fucking good,” you lowered your voice before adding, “it’s way better than Kiba.” He smirked upon hearing you say half of what he wanted to hear but he didn’t move. You tried your best to push your hips up to get any kind of friction you could but it was no use, the way he lay on top of you, you were pinned. “I’m all yours now, all fucking yours, please just move, I’m begging you.” That was all he needed to move inside of you, and he resumed his long deep strokes. You moaned, your jaw going slack with pleasure. This time when he spoke, he didn’t address you but the crowd. “See how my pretty pussy sucks me back in? Even her body is begging for my cock.”

You looked over to the crowed. You were met with the sight of royal men and women coming undone, fisting their cocks or shoving their hands beneath their silk dresses watching Shikamaru fuck you senseless. You groaned at the spectacle they were now making out of themselves. “I bet you’re all fucking jealous of me, but she’s mine.” His fingers were digging into the flesh of your thighs, leaving bruises in their wake. He held himself up with one hand while the other was sadistically shoving fingers in your mouth. “Suck,” he commanded, and you complied willingly, becoming too fucked out to resist anymore. He pulled his fingers out with a slick pop, still fucking you relentlessly, and he trailed his wet fingers down your body to tease your clit. With the pace he was fucking you, and the slew of onlookers who were now touching themselves to you, you were already on the edge. “Shik-a-ah, I can’t ta-“ “Oh you’re gonna take it, slut, whether you like it or not,” he laughed. The pleasure was overwhelming and it wasn’t long before you could feel the white hot sensation of your impending orgasm. Shikamaru could feel it too, the way you were clenching around him like a vice. “Are you really going to cum all over my cock with all these people watching you?” he chided and then added, “go on, show all these people how much of a slut you are for me, I dare you.” It was then that the coil broke and your nails were scraping down his back in a desperate attempt to cling to reality. But he didn’t slow his thrusts, nor did he remove his fingers from your clit.

“Such a good fucking girl, cumming for me in front of all these people,” he praised. Your eyes were rolled back and your mouth was hanging open. “Awww she’s drooling, look how fucking pretty she is.” He was so sadistic, addressing the audience, getting their attention. He pulled his cock out abruptly and leaned down, licking one long stripe up your sloppy cunt before sinking his cock back into you. “You taste so good, pretty, taste,” he commanded before spitting into your already open mouth. “Good right?” you mewled in response, unable to make words. “I bet you’d like to taste my cum, but that’s for another time, for now, I’m going to cum deep inside this pretty pussy, and claim you as mine.” “Please,” it was a single word but it was all you could muster.

But Shikamaru wasn’t forgiving or understanding about your current state. “What was that? We can’t hear you, slut,” he growled addressing the audience. “I think I wanna see you beg again.” Your head was reeling from the intensity of your last orgasm, yet another one was approaching already. The way Shikamaru was treating you was pushing you closer to the edge, and he knew it too, the cocky bastard. But it felt so good that you wanted to oblige him, behave for him, just to get more. You needed more. “Please, Shika, please c-cum inside me, please, deep- i-ah-inside,” you begged and tears started to form in the corners of your eyes. “I like you like this, ya know? Messy.” He rolled his hips into yours with such skill, his cock brushing against your walls hitting every spot possible. “You want me to fuck my cum deep inside you?” He reached down and began to rub at your clit again like he did before. “Please Shika, fuck, please c-cum in m-me,” your breath ragged through your words. “But if I do that, you could get pregnant, couldn’t you?” His tone was painfully sarcastic, you knew what he wanted, and you were going to give it to him. “Yes, but I don’t care, I just want your cum, please, Shika,” you pleaded, meeting his eyes. “You all hear that? The slut doesn’t care if I get her pregnant.” You were humiliated by his harsh speech but you were even more humiliated that those were the words that pushed you over the edge, forcing your orgasm out of your already spent body. Your high pitched cries echoed around the large room and your cunt clenched around his cock. “That’s it, milk my fucking cock,” he praised, “gonna cum deep in your pretty pussy.” It was the last thing he said before he painted your walls white with his cum. It felt warm, pouring out of him and into you and you moaned softly in delight. He stilled inside you and used his forefinger to to turn your head to face him, from where it drooped against the mattress. “You’re all mine now,” he said, but this time he said it lovingly. He kissed your face, paying special attention to the places that were covered in sweat, tears, or drool. It was as if he was appreciating the art work you had become by allowing him to make a mess of you.

He pulled out of your aching cunt and you felt the aftermath of your sex spilling out on the mattress and your thighs. “Oh no, don’t waste it, love,” he chided and used two of his fingers to pick up the moisture off your thighs and push it back into your sopping pussy. “That’s my girl, take all my cum,” he praised as he watched it drip out once more, then repeating the process. You’d not only been wed to this man, but marked by him as well. No one had ever fucked you so good in your life, and now he was all yours. You could have him whenever you wanted and better yet, he wanted you. So many thoughts were spinning in your head but all you could think of was wanting Shikamaru to lay down with you. Instead he got off the bed and undid the fitted sheet, wrapping you up inside of it. “That’s it, shows over,” he announced to the crowd as he redressed in his singular garment. “Can you sit up okay?” he asked you sweetly, and held your hands to help you.

You sat up and your head was spinning but his hand on your face was bringing you stability, especially with the way his thumb was tracing your hairline. He grabbed the edges of the sheet and wrapped it around you tighter, shielding you from the prying eyes. The eyes… you’d been in such a state of bliss this time, you’d completely forgotten. Looking up was a sight to behold. The royals looked just as spent as you felt. Their breathing ragged, hair and clothes a mess. Some having stained their own clothing from their own personal activities. A few of the royals had paired off and some were still having an event of their own. In the middle of it all though was the Feudal Lord, a horrified look on his face.

Now in all the marriage nights the Feudal Lord hard witnessed thus far, he had never seen such a graphic display of possessive affection. No one had even dared address the spectators, much less spur them on during such an intimate act. Things normally went how he preferred them, an awkward and short lasting session, where the couple are red faced and looking away from the crowed and each other… he got off on watching their embarrassment, a sadist in his own right. The Feudal Lord was not only furious that things hadn’t gone as he planned but that you and Shikamaru had created a show, not only worth watching but worth participating along side. He was seething in his throne watching the two of you caress each other lovingly. He’d been told you both hated each other and figured it would be the most perfect pairing for an awkward sexual encounter. What he didn’t know was that you and Shikamaru equally had strong feelings for each other that were buried underneath a mountain of falseness, built independently to protect against rejection. The sexual tension just building for years without any knowledge until the kiss at the alter had awakened everything. The Feudal Lord could see it all clearly now, and cursed himself for setting up two people’s forever happiness instead of their unending sorrow. Now he couldn’t force a divorce, that would be too obvious, he’d just have to choose better next time, and in the mean time figure out what to do with the rest of his cum soaked court of royals who were still panting in the makeshift theatre’s velvet seats.

Shikamaru smirked as he kissed your forehead, “I guess we didn’t follow the plan but it seems the Lord is even less happy with us now… maybe he will finally put an end to these forced marriages.” You doubted this would stop him from carrying out his will but, what you were grateful for was that you’d been paired as well as you could have. “I’m just sorry it has to be this way, I don’t want you to feel forced or-“ You kissed him then, gently. Shikamaru fell into the touch and closed his eyes. “I also wish we’d started with dating… but I’m just glad that if I’m forced to marry anyone, it’s you.”

#shika #shika fic #shikamaru #shikamaru nara #nara clan #naruto #narutoverse #naruto oneshot #shikamaru oneshot

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a-libra-writes · 3 years

Text

Salt & Snow - Chapter 5

Ships: Ned Stark x Reader, Brandon Stark x Reader

Summary: The daughter of House Caspian begins to realize her place in a world of strict tradition and hierarchy. A tragedy strikes Winterfell, bringing her closer to the Starks.

The brush slid across the thick paper, making a beautifully straight line. The black paint was bold against the paper, which wasn’t completely white, but it was the closest she’d seen, almost as white as snow. What a wonderful birthday gift. Y/N had a thin wooden palette that she perched on her lap, allowing her to take the paper anywhere and paint what she saw. She already had ideas of what to send Ned, although transporting a painting without damaging it would be troublesome. Maybe it was best to just keep it in Winterfell until he came back? He had to return soon, he was seventeen. It had to be soon.

It’s what Lyanna talked about often, and Y/N didn’t blame her. She wanted him back too, though maybe for different reasons. She was pleased he still kept writing to her, entertaining her childish whims, although she didn’t feel childish anymore. They didn’t talk about ‘childish’ topics, either, it was always… all sorts of things. Y/N could write to Ned about anything on her mind, and he did the same.

I hope we can talk as easily. What if he comes back and I don’t know what to say? Y/N wondered if that was a silly thought. She refocused on her painting, dabbing a small brush into the paints she’d set up beside her. There weren’t many colors to work with, but that made it an interesting challenge. The training yard was busy this late, so she had plenty of subjects to observe. Painting moving figures was a new challenge. It wouldn’t be a perfect still life, instead, she’d try her own composition of movement and action.

Y/N hummed to herself as she worked. She had only two hours before the sun would set, but she was confident she could finish the rest of it in her room.

“Don’t most girls paint flower fields and vases?”

“I’m a lady,” Y/N responded. She didn’t look up from her painting right away, wanting to finish a few more brush strokes. “You should always be gracious to a lady, especially if you’re a future ‘Lord Stark’.”

Brandon grinned. “I was going to scare you, but I decided to be nice instead. That’s very gracious, I think.”

Now you sound like your little brother. Y/N set her brush down next to the paints. She observed Brandon was still in his traveling clothes. “When did you return?”

“Just over an hour ago. It was a slow ride, Ser Roderick wouldn’t let me go ahead of the escort.”

“There’s a reason for that.” Y/N smiled at his impatience. “How was the Rills?”

“The same as always. Next week I’m going to see Lord Manderly. While I’m there, I could stop by your family’s castle. Perhaps I could bring a gift to them.”

“That would be wonderful. You know they would love to have your company, my lord.”

Brandon’s smile was infectious, Y/N had to admit. Thank the gods he was over that irritating phase he had before, acting like he was too grown-up and superior to bother with Y/N and his younger siblings. Well, he could still be irksome to Benjen and Lyanna, but they paid him back tenfold with their usual mischief. Y/N was just pleased he acted like the lord he should be around her. Pleasantries made things easier, and it really would be kind of him to bring her father a pelt or her mother a rare book.

Right now, he was leaning over to see what she was painting, as he’d often been doing the past year. She knew he had no interest in art, but he still made a point to ask about what she was working on.

It’s good for him to at least feign interest and learn about others. Maybe all those scoldings from Lord and Lady Stark are finally sinking in. Y/N thought. She showed him what she’d been working on, groups of men at swordplay. “They’re finally used to my sketching, I think. At first they gave me peculiar looks.”

“It’s because you were staring.” That charming smile turned to an amusing pout. “You shouldn’t be staring at strange men, Y/N, or drawing them.”

“They aren’t strange at all! I know their names, and they’re sworn men, besides. Are you just upset I haven’t drawn you?”

She was teasing like Lyanna and Benjen did, but he didn’t respond like she thought. Brandon actually huffed. “Better me than some old guardsman.”

“Sit down, then.” Y/N gestured to the seat next to her on the bench, the side not covered in paints and paper. “Portraits are always good practice.”

Brandon looked at the spot, only waiting a moment before taking a seat. He was still windblown from the road, smelling like horses and leather, but it wasn’t too unpleasant. Y/N fought the urge to smooth out his hair — it was such a mess, but he wasn’t a boy. Even Benjen was getting too old for her fussing.

“So you know, I’m not the sort to embellish.” Y/N said, her hand darting across a blank piece of paper. Messy sketches were fine for something like this. “So I will be drawing that unruly hair and those red ears.”

“They aren’t red,” Brandon grumbled and rubbed at the ears in question.

Y/N didn’t look up from her drawing. “They are. So are your cheeks. Are you cold?”

“I’d be a poor Stark if weather like this got me cold. Shouldn’t you be concentrating?”

“I am.” Y/N had to glance up to make sure the eye shape was right. Brandon had such an amusing expression, it was making her work difficult. “If you could be still, it would be easier.”

Brandon said nothing to that, only furrowing his brows further. It was startling how much he looked like Lord Stark, while Lyanna took after her mother. Benjen was a clear mix of the two, but all of them had that long face and dark coloring. She pictured Ned’s face in her mind, trying to remember the last time she saw him. Gods, was that three years ago? Maybe four? He must look so different now. Taller, with a proper sword and the skills to back it up - and what about those grey eyes? Would they be darker or lighter? Did he finally cut that brown hair, to better fit in with the Eyrie, or did he keep it long and Northern?

“What are you smiling about?” Brandon asked.

“Oh, nothing.” Y/N said Someone in the distance drew her attention away, which she was grateful for. She waved at him. “Ben!”

Brandon scowled at his little brother walked up. Benjen was already taller than Y/N, thanks to his spindly limbs. He looked around at the art supplies and Brandon’s awkward posture. “I hate it say it, but you’d be better off with a different subject, Y/N. There’s only so much you can do with this one.”

Benjen dodged out of the way of his older brother’s grip. His reflexes were nothing to sneeze at. “Big words from a skinny rat!” Brandon said, getting up to grab at his brother again, but Benjen was too quick. The older Stark may have been as big as his father now, but he had a certain … lack of grace. No doubt he was tired from the trip, too.

“Should I use smaller words?” Benjen easily danced around him.

“Do this somewhere else!” Y/N laughed. That was the end of the little sitting session, then. Brandon couldn’t be still after getting riled up; he was like a dog in that way. “Be careful, would you?”

“I’m just going to teach him a lesson—!” Brandon said, finally getting Benjen in his grasp. He cursed when his brother easily twisted out of his grip and hit his nose. It wasn’t a real punch, but it still hurt, and Brandon shook his head while Benjen unhooked his sword from his belt.

“Thanks!” Benjen scurried off, carrying the sword that was too heavy for him to actually wield. Y/N rolled her eyes at how Brandon predictably ran after him with a fresh new string of curses. He had only been home a few hours before he was going back to silliness with his brother. Lyanna would have joined in too, had she been here. Their latest pasttime was stealing the beautiful new sword Brandon was so proud of. Benjen just liked to stir up trouble, but Lyanna was sour she couldn’t have steel of her own.

What has she been doing today? Y/N hadn’t seen much of her friend today. Lyanna didn’t enjoy the last feast, which was a small affair - only half a dozen families were there, and not all their members - but she was still put off. Y/N hadn’t known Lyanna to retire before her, but that night, she did. It was usually the fatigued Lady Stark that was the early departure, not her fiery daughter.

Thinking about it now, Lyanna was unusually quiet through breakfast this morning, and she had been riding most of the day. Y/N considered that maybe she should have gone with her, even if being near a horse still made her shudder. She could have at least sat on the edge of the riding field and watched Lyanna. Maybe she wanted to be alone. If she really wanted me there, I know she would have dragged me.

With all her art supplies carefully packed up, Y/N returned to the castle and planned to find out what Lyanna’s mood was. I could be overthinking everything. We’re women now, four and ten years, we don’t have to cling about each other anymore.

Y/N nodded to the servants and guards when she saw them, giving a smile to those she knew well. They had long been familiar, pleasant faces that she relied upon. It recently occurred to Y/N that she knew them better than the servants of Whitetide, whose faces were rapidly disappearing from her memory. Maybe if her parents didn’t visit twice or thrice a year, and if she didn’t love them so much, she’d begin to lose their faces, too.

Their shared bedchamber was warm from a low-burning fire in the hearth. Y/N set her supplies down on her desk before shedding her thick cloak. It was fastened with a lovely silver manta ray that had a tiny pearl for an eye, a gift from Lady Stark herself. Y/N’s name day had passed a few months ago, and while her parents couldn’t visit, her second family was right there beside her. Lady Stark’s hands had become pale and thin, but she still wanted to fasten the pin herself after presenting it to Y/N. Then she patted her head like adults did to children, but Y/N couldn’t mind it.

Y/N was so caught up in turning the little manta ray in her hands, she didn’t hear the bedroom door open and close. The stomping of feet made her jump, and she swiveled to see Lyanna yanking off her riding boots and shaking the snow off them in the most unladylike way.

“So you were riding all day,” Y/N said, setting the pin into her modest jewelry box. She offered a smile. “Did you enjoy yourself?”

Lyanna didn’t respond right away. She pulled at her cloak instead, tossing it on one of the chairs by the hearth. Y/N’s smile fell. There was an obvious dark cloud around her friend. Lyanna kicked her boots aside and huffed as she sank into an overstuffed chair. She was becoming too leggy to curl up into it like a child.

“Why in the seven hells can I not wear riding trousers?” She said irritably. “I’m sure the washerwomen are sick of cleaning the smell out of my dresses.”

Y/N sat in the chair across from her, settling herself into it. “And the horsehair.”

“It itches terribly. If I had a tunic, it wouldn’t be so bothersome, nor would the branches in my way.” Lyanna picked a leaf off her sleeve. Trouble was brewing in her grey eyes. There was fire in them even without the hearth lighting her face, a natural energy that possessed her entire person. Lyanna was more wolf than any of them, and when she hunched in the chair with her long legs drawn to her chest, she looked like a trapped one.

Y/N waited for her to speak first. There was something on her friend’s mind, but she had to find the words. Once she had them, Lyanna said, “You weren’t bothered at that feast. The last one, with the Karstarks and Glovers and Cassels.”

It was strange for her to bring it up now, but Y/N had just been thinking about it as well. Overall, Y/N would dare to say she enjoyed herself, even if the Karstark boys were too blunt in their desire to dance with her.

“I wasn’t too bothered. It wasn’t as crowded as it usual; I could hear the music for once. I was able to dance for a while, and the lords and their sons behaved.” Y/N didn’t know what else to say. “You left early. You didn’t want to dance?”

“Of course not!” Lyanna responded so sharply, it startled her old friend. “Why would I? Why would you?”

Y/N had no idea what Lyanna meant by that. That embarrassing dance with Roose Bolton a year ago had made her self-conscience of how clumsy her movements were. Lady Stark was delighted that Y/N took an interest in learning grace and how to carry herself better; and didn’t it make sense to test it out? Now that she didn’t overthink the steps, she could enjoy the exercise and the music. The company was good, and when she was tired, she japed around with Benjen and little Jory.

With all those racing thoughts, Y/N simply said, “I enjoy dancing, if that’s what you mean. What’s the matter with that?”

Lyanna shook her head, her brown hair falling farther out of a braid that was already coming undone. She’d lost another set of silk hair ribbons. “I don’t know how you stand it. You’re just a prize to them, you know, a bauble. You shouldn’t even amuse them. Neither of us should.”

“Who are you talking about?”

“The men! The lords or their sons, whichever! We’re just stupid little brides to them. Didn’t you notice them looking at you? Shoving their sons at you? Lord Karstark had them all lined up! And even if they’re married, they’ll leer!”

“That’s… that’s ridiculous, Lyanna,” Y/N stammered. “Where did this come from?”

“Y/N, we’re women grown now!” Lyanna was bursting with energy and frustration that she couldn’t get out fast enough. “My mother married at six and ten! It’s nearly time for us, time for arrangements! Soon every lord will be nibbling at my father’s heels to take me off his hands, and no doubt your own lord father has received letters from all the ones you danced with.”

“Lyanna. Did someone tell you something?” Y/N asked. She was already trying to avoid thinking of the future, and Lyanna had never discussed it with her. She thought her friend didn’t think of it at all. “Before you, Brandon will marry, and that hasn’t even been discussed.”

“Of course it has! Why would they tell us? They can marry me off without finding him a bride, and without asking what I think.” Her cheeks were burning with red anger now. “I’m a Stark, so I can’t stay in the North. They’ll send me away somewhere — somewhere South, because where else? I’ll have to leave Winterfell, while my brothers and everyone I love stay!”

Y/N went to Lyanna, taking her hands in her own. She squeezed them tight. “Where did all this come from? Have your parents been talking?”

“No one needs to tell me. It’s the truth, isn’t it?” Lyanna said, looking Y/N right in the eyes. “That’s what we’ve got to look forward to, Y/N. The feasts aren’t meant to be fun for us. Maybe for the men, but not for us. We’re there to be picked and chosen, like prize fillies.”

Lyanna squeezed their hands tight, so tight it hurt right away. She stared at Y/N’s clean nails and smooth palms. Except for the occasional smudges from paint, they were always like this. Lyanna looked at her own, already becoming calloused at the palms and thumb, often edged with dirt around her nailbeds.

Y/N was at a loss. Her friend’s harsh words were true enough; she was well aware of what their duties as women were. It crossed her mind now and again, the thought of marriage and that she’d have to return home eventually so her parents could begin to plan. She’d push those thoughts away, hoping the day would come slowly. She didn’t want to leave Winterfell, or her dear friends.

Still, she said, “It… It has to happen eventually. Our parents aren’t cruel, they wouldn’t give us terrible husbands, and they’d talk to us before any arrangement. When we have to leave Winterfell —”

“You won’t.” Lyanna pulled their hands apart. “You’ll be staying here, Y/N, and I’ll be sent away.”

“What? No, when my parents are ready arrange a match, they’ll call me back to Whitetide.”

“You aren’t going back! Isn’t it obvious? You’re going to marry one of my brothers!”

After that statement, the only sound in the bedroom was the crackling of the fire. Lyanna didn’t back down. In this light, her Stark eyes weren’t grey at all, only hot steel.

“How do you know that?” Y/N said. With the loss of Lyanna’s hands, she nervously tugged at end of her long sleeves. “Did … did someone say —?”

“No one has to! I thought you knew! You’re fourteen, a woman grown, and my parents haven’t sent you back, nor have your’s asked for you. When they meet, they’re always whispering and glancing around. Brandon will marry outside the North, as the oldest son, and Ned will marry inside, as the second. Benjen will serve Winterfell. It’s how these matters are done, Y/N.”

Y/N’s throat closed as she choked up. Her blood was rushing in discomfort. She didn’t want to fight, she wished they could just change the subject. What brought this on? She’d never seen Lyanna in a mood like this. “You don’t — you don’t know that. Maybe my parents will send for me in a month. We don’t know.”

“Maybe they will, but when it’s time for you to leave, they’ll send me away, too. There’s a reason mother doesn’t care if I spurn the lordlings here.”

Lyanna’s anger had broken again, now it was just frustration and sadness. The two girls stood in silence. The flames of the fire made shadows in the room, and that was the only thing that moved for some time. The shadows seemed to grasp at the two of them, little fingers reaching for their dresses and hair. Y/N was the one who stepped forward, wanting to make it better.

“We’ll always be friends,” Y/N said, trying to keep her own choked up voice steady. “No matter what. I won’t ever forget you. I’ll write you a dozen letters a month if you get sent to the south.”

Lyanna was tired. She couldn’t attempt a smile, but she said, “That’s more than you write to Ned. If he ended up in a green field instead of a mountain, would you have sent more?”

“No, the dozen is only for you.” Y/N said, even if she cursed the slowness of her letters to the Eyrie so many times, it felt like a mantra. She touched Lyanna’s shoulder. “Let’s ready for supper, Lyanna. You’ve been riding a long time.”

Lyanna only reluctantly went along with her. After dinner, they changed into their nightgowns and brushed each other’s hair, as usual, but there was no laughter and joking this time. When they huddled under the furs, Lyanna faced away, still deep in her thoughts. Y/N didn’t know what else to say, if anything at all would help, so she closed her eyes.

“What are you reading?” Benjen’s long hair swung back and forth as he hung upside down. Y/N looked up, wondering when he managed to scramble right above her. Just a few minutes ago he was struggling to get on the first branch.

“A letter,” Y/N said, “Although I think you already knew that.”

Benjen grinned. “I did, and I know who it’s from.” He swung back up on the branch and easily moved himself to a standing position. He reached for another branch and lifted himself with ease, starting his disappearance into the leaves. With each branch he climbed, a few leaves fell down. Y/N pulled one from her hair.

She rested against the trunk and returned to her letter. Ned was writing about Robert’s attempt at jousting. He much preferred the melee, but ladies preferred the jousting, he said. Y/N was pleased Ned stayed out of all that. He also tried to doodle a little manta ray, in response to the direwolves and cats and deer she often drew on the margins of her letters. They were… arrow-y looking. Close enough.

I’ll have to pick up some skills from you the next time we meet. I don’t think I’d be a good student, but just watching you paint with my own eyes would be enough. You’ve written about it before, but I think hearing you talk about it would be much different. I want to you to tell me.

Y/N closed the letter hastily, wondering if her beating heart and sweaty palms were showing on her face. She glanced around and caught eyes with Brandon. She kept noticing his staring in the past hour, even though he was across the training yard trying to practice. It was a little strange. Are there leaves in my hair again? She touched her hair from the top of her head to her pearl. Brandon seemed annoyed, so she’d prefer he kept his gaze to himself.

The tree branches shook above her, and she heard feet scuffling around. “Ben, be careful!” Y/N called upward. “You shouldn’t climb so high!”

Benjen either didn’t hear her, or was pretending to not hear. Y/N sighed, folding her letter, stashing it in her belt and standing up. She craned her head, trying to spy the wiry boy through the leaves. He may have been a year younger, but she fretted over him from time to time, thinking of her little brothers back in Whitetide.

“Maybe he’ll climb high enough to catch a cloud and float away.” Brandon was beside her before she knew it, and Y/N was glad he didn’t seem as bothered as she thought. On the contrary, he was amused.

“Maybe,” Y/N giggled. She heard more rattling, but it didn’t sound like leaves. It was metal chains, and coming from a different direction. Behind the two of them, the maester approached them as fast as he could, the old man breathing hard as the chains swayed around his neck. He didn’t seem to care about the mud dirtying the end of his robes.

“What’s happened?” Brandon asked while the maester tried to catch his breath. In all the years she’d been here, Y/N had never seen the man so harried, and it seemed neither had Brandon. For a panicked, irrational moment, Y/N thought there was a raven from Whitetide. Dark wings, dark words.

“Lady… Lady Stark has … a … an illness.” The maester took a deep breath, attempting to compose himself. “She has been … weak, as you know, but … it’s far worse than I thought. She needs to be kept apart from everyone else at the Keep. When was the last time you spoke with her, children?”

Brandon took a moment to respond. “This morning, I talked with her, she— she hugged me, but —”

The maester shook his head. “And you, Lady Y/N?”

“Last night, at dinner,” Y/N said quietly. “She took my hand…”

She remembered the kind gesture, and now weary and pale Lady Stark looked. That night, her eyes looked especially tired. She’d begun to hold onto her husband or one of the servants when she walked to and from her room, the place she stayed in the most nowadays. No one seemed to want to talk about her worsening condition, not even the Lady herself. Out of respect to her, no one mentioned it openly.

The leaves danced around them as Benjen swooped down from a low branch. “Can’t we see her?”

“I just said you cannot,” The maester said. “She will be kept away from here on, and we will burn her things and anything she has come in contact with. Now, if the three of you will come with me, I’ve already spoken with Lord Stark and Lyanna…”

Lady Lyarra Stark died within a week. The children heard of the passing suddenly, as her husband was the only one who could visit her through her last days. No amount of guards or a maester’s lecturing would keep Lord Stark from her bedside.

Y/N stood next to Lyanna at the funeral, allowing her friend to clutch her as they all prayed in the godswood. Lady Stark’s bones had been kept in a beautifully engraved wooden chest, and they would be moved to a place of honor in the crypts, but that was little comfort to the children she left behind.

Y/N said some prayers aloud, mouthed others, but kept her head down the entire time. She heard the servants of Winterfell crying and praying, and clearer than that, Lyanna’s crying into the fur draped around Y/N’s shoulder. Her voice was muffled, but Y/N could still feel her body shaking. Y/N herself was trying to keep her tears from rolling down her face. The warmth of them stung her cold cheeks terribly.

Benjen was quiet on the other side of her, staring up at the red leaves like he was in a daze. Brandon seethed beside his father, who was as old as the stone lords in the crypts. Y/N was anxious to see Lord Stark’s expression, knowing it would either scare her or make her tears come faster.

The Starks stayed behind to keep vigil while the servants and guards returned to the keep. Y/N didn’t know how long she stayed kneeling in the snow. She listened to Lyanna’s quieting tears and remembering the kindnesses Lady Stark had given her. Anytime Y/N missed her own mother, Lady Stark was ready to speak with her, to teach her something, or hold her for a while. Y/N couldn’t imagine how the others felt. She thought of her mother now, safe in Whitetide, and desperately wished she could see her.

“Return to the keep,” Lord Stark said after some time. Y/N still didn’t know how long they’d been outside. “All of you.”

“Father —” Brandon started.

“Go.”

Their lord father’s voice was hoarse and hard. He didn’t look at any of his children as they slowly stood around him. Y/N’s legs had gone completely numb from both the cold and kneeling. She wobbled, and Lyanna tried to help her stay upright, no doubt just as weak-legged herself. Benjen found his way to his sister’s side, holding onto her like she held onto Y/N. It reminded Y/N of when he was younger, tagging alongside the two of them.

Y/N glanced back, noticing that Brandon was still trying to linger by his father. She didn’t know if they exchanged words, but eventually Brandon caught up to them as they walked back to the keep.

They all walked slowly, and the Winterfell that greeted them was eerily quiet. The kitchen staff worked with no cheer or haste, the smith’s anvil was quiet, there were no carts or wagons being pulled through the gate. At the feast hall, the candles were burning low, and there was only one servant tending to the cleaning the floors. Her scrubbing was interrupted by intermittent sniffling.

Ned couldn’t be here, Y/N thought not for the first time. Her heart sunk into her gut, making her feel sick. She knew the others were thinking the same. What could I say? What could I possibly say?

She mechanically walked to the main parlor, sitting down at the windowsill. Lyanna sat by the hearth, Benjen sat beside his sister, and Brandon had split off from them quickly. Y/N looked out the window, glad it faced away from the Godswood. She had a feeling if it did, she’d see Lord Stark still kneeling in the snow. She recalled Ned told her the Eyrie’s godswood was more of a little forest, and her heart ached even further. It almost made her cry again. How are the gods supposed to watch over him? Or hear him when he’s in trouble?

She would wait for Lord Stark to send word, if it hadn’t already been done, then she’d send a letter to Ned herself. She’d paint something, too, something special. She’d do anything, if only she knew what that was. Why couldn’t he be here? Y/N rubbed at her raw eyes and rested her head against the cool glass of the window, letting the chill hit her dizzying, exhausted head.

Y/N stirred and sat up slowly. Her head was aching from the awkward angle she fell asleep at. She squinted out the window, but there was only darkness. Across the room, the fire was low, and a chill was settling in the room. Y/N pulled her fur cloak closer around her and shivered. Where was everyone?

She slipped off the windowsill and wandered the halls. If it was dinnertime, no one woke her up, and she didn’t smell meats cooking as she entered the great hall. Y/N stepped outside into the fresh snow, wondering if the day had all been a terrible dream.

It wasn’t, though, and she couldn’t hide from it. People died all the time, especially women and children. If it wasn’t this sickness, Lady Stark may have died in childbirth. That was a far more common fate, something Y/N would have to worry about herself one day. Some day soon.

She sighed heavily and hesitated at the edge of the godswood. The darkness was all around her, with the warmth and light of Winterfell far behind. She took a step forward, letting her boot sink into the snow. The moon was waning, giving off the slightest light. The white bark of the trees and the snow glowed on a full moon, but tonight, they disappeared.

One foot in front of the other, the snow crunched below Y/N’s feet. She kept thinking about Ned, imagining his expression, what he would say — she would never know, of course, and that made it worse. She could only write and draw, there was no holding and comforting. The thought of holding him hit her so strongly, her body ached. Lady Stark held her when she worried about her uncle at sea, when she caught sick or when she hurt herself. Y/N wanted to hold Ned like that, even if he was far bigger than she. Maybe this was a stupid, girlish, childish thought. Maybe it was, but stupid words on paper didn’t seem like enough.

There was a clear path that let to the heart tree, but the darkness didn’t help her navigate, a strange noise did. It made her jump at first, but there were no wolves in these woods. She listened carefully. There was the distinct sound of someone shuffling around in the snow, like they were standing up. Y/N anxiously wondered if it was Lord Stark. No, he can’t be here still. It’s been half a day …

She jumped out of her skin when she heard a voice call out, echoing off the snow and the trees. “Who goes there?!”

“I-It’s only me,” Y/N started, ready to apologize to Lord Stark, but the voice sounded off. Too young, too angry. “…Brandon? Is that you?”

The person didn’t respond, but she heard boots trudging clumsily through the snow. She felt a presence next to her, and finally she could see his outline. Y/N reached forward and was surprised to not touch a fur cloak or thick surcoat, but a fairly thin tunic that was frigid cold, and the stiff muscles underneath it. Brandon didn’t flinch away from her, so she kept her hold on his forearms.

“Brandon, come inside.” Y/N said. Her own voice was weak, she realized, and she was already shivering. “It’ll get colder, and it’s already so dark. How long have you been here?”

Brandon sniffled, both from the cold and the tears, she assumed. “Father hasn’t come in. I was waiting …”

Y/N shook her head. He must have come right outside after realizing it was dark and Lord Stark still hadn’t returned to the keep. “You can’t stay out here all night. Come inside. Please?”

Brandon didn’t seem easy on his feet, and he was trying to keep his teeth from chattering. “I-I have a vigil to keep. I have to — father is, s-so I should at least try…”

“You’re cold, and exhausted, besides. You ran out here without anything, you fool. Why aren’t you wearing a cloak?”

He mumbled something in return. Y/N pulled the tall boy toward her, wanting to urge him toward the light in the distance. She was ready to give him her modest cloak, just enough to serve until they reached the warmth of Winterfell, but then he wrapped his arms around her. Y/N let out a noise of surprise as his head slumped on her shoulder. Brandon was heavy, but she kept steady. For a moment, it was all still: The godswood around them, Brandon in her arms, the night above them.

Y/N was about to speak, but then she heard a noise, like a deep gasp. Brandon shook from the cold and his own emotion. Y/N wrapped her arms around his shoulders and let him cry.

Robert shook his leg impatiently, causing the thick heel of his boot to tap against the floor again and again. Normally Lord Arryn would chastise him for his restlessness, but the two of them had been quiet for days. Robert didn’t like quiet, or gloominess. He didn’t want to stay like this a minute longer.

“Has he left his room yet?” Robert asked for the third time.

“Be patient, Robert.” Lord Arryn replied expectedly. “Recall that terrible day you endured.”

He didn’t have to recall his own parents’ demise. Robert thought about it often, a wound that was still fresh, and it only closed up when he drank enough or when a pretty girl sat by him. It’d come back afterward, though, and then he had Ned to talk to.

He shouldn’t have to go through the same thing, Robert thought irritably. The worst part is, he knew Ned wouldn’t want a drink or a pretty girl, or a fight, or a new horse. He would just sit in his own sorrow, brooding in that way he did. The young Baratheon huffed, shifting his restless energy to tapping his fingers on the table. Ned was always talking him out of trouble and listening to his worries — the only person he’d ever spoken to about them. But what did Robert ever do for him?

The Baratheon heir growled in frustration and stood from his seat abruptly. Lord Arryn only glanced up a moment, but Robert was already gone.

He barged into Ned’s room, and was half disappointed Ned wasn’t there — he’d been sitting vigil at the Eyrie’s godswood for too damned long, but that made this next part easier. Ned had several of his girl’s paintings up around his desk, where anyone could see them, but Robert knew where he kept the letters. He opened the bottom drawer and in a wooden box with the direwolf sigil, and there they were.

Robert had read some before. Sometimes Ned would read things aloud, sometimes Robert snuck in here, but they were never that exciting. Always talking about Winterfell or what the horses were doing, nothing salacious like a proper love letter should be. Still, they made Ned happy. Robert picked a few out and tucked them carefully in his doublet.

The grass crunched under his boots as he entered the godswood. The fiery red leaves and snow-white bark looked out of place amongst the rocky Eyrie, he always thought, especially when there was bright green grass and regular trees around the weirwoods. He spotted Ned at the same place he’d been for hours, kneeling. His head was lowered slightly, some of his long brown hair falling around him, and Robert wondered if he was asleep. Then Ned raised his head and turned it.

“Robert?”

“Brought you something.” Robert said. Ned wasn’t getting up, so he awkwardly knelt beside him. Gods, it was murder on the knees, and even in that position he was far taller than Ned. Robert retrieved the letters from his doublet and handed them over.

Ned looked at them with hope, then confusion.

“They aren’t new,” Robert said, chuckling. “I just … I remembered you liked these ones. Y/N was writing something about a festival? And Lyanna stole a sword off your brother. Y/N wrote about her dress, and something about a horse…”

He trailed off, wondering if this was a stupid idea. He was terrible at this. These were the letters with the most pictures, giving life to what Y/N wrote about, as clear as any maester’s history book. Ned stared at the papers in his hands, lightly touching a rare self-portrait Y/N had done of her new gown.

I worked on it for two weeks, although your lady mother helped me several times over. It’s the first one I’ve sewn by myself, and I hope I do it justice. This may not be interesting to you, but I’m proud. It’s cerulean and white.

Lyanna wanted me to draw her with Brandon’s sword. She thinks it’s very funny. ‘How can he call himself a lord when he can’t keep hold of his own sword?’ I thought Benjen was the thief, but Lyanna can be just as clever. It took him all day to realize she’d replaced his with a dull training sword.

Do you remember when you found my pearl? You couldn’t forget, I know, but I still think about it when remove it to brush my hair. I’ll never forget that kindness, Ned.

He smiled for the first time in a week. To Robert’s excitement, he made an expression for the first time in days.

“You can go back home,” Robert offered, wanting to keep the mood up. “Even if it’s just for a short time.”

They were men grown, ten and seven years old. If anything, they should have left the Eyrie by now. Both of them knew it was only a matter of time, though Robert didn’t want to go back to Storm’s End after all these years, having to finally take his lordly duties seriously. Ned was a second son, his duty would be commanding the household guard or visiting with minor houses.

Robert had a feeling if Ned left now, he wouldn’t come back to the Eyrie.

“Perhaps.” The Stark said quietly.

Their easy days had to end eventually. Why did it have to be on such a damned sad note?

Robert looked up at the heart tree. Its eerie, foreign face stared down at him. He had no prayers to give, only a quiet request that when Ned returned to Winterfell, it would be safely. The only noise for a long time was the wind rustling the branches of the white trees and the shuffling of the letters as Ned re-read them.

#ned stark x reader #game of thrones x reader #salt & snow #libra fics #i just realized all the summaries of this fic hint at something sad happening LOL

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purble-turble · 3 years

Note

WHat would've happened if Wukong hadn't shown up to break MK and King Red's reunion? I can just imagine Red ordering his servants to prepare the welcome home feast while dragging a frozen, terrified MK to the bridal chamber he had prepared in order to have him dressed.

That’s probably the worst case scenario tbh. Not only did MK go off by himself to face this anonymous demon lord but he didn’t tell anybody that he was going, and if Wukong wasn’t following to keep an eye on him, that probably means that MK never had that talk with him about being concerned by the spike in demon attacks.. so Wukong doesn’t suspect that Red Son has made a return and is after MK.... so nobody even knows to start looking for him right away.

Sure they’re probably all a bit overly sensitive to MK not showing up to something when he says he will, y’know since he was missing from their lives for six months, but I think all of his friends would not want to panic the moment MK doesn’t come back to the noodle shop or meet Mei at the arcade or whatever it was he had next on his schedule. Of course they SHOULD be worried.. and by the time they realize something is terribly wrong it’s probably a little late.

On the other side of things, this is a dream come true for King Red. He has MK in his palace being dolled up by his servants, outfitted in his fancy new wardrobe as well as the immobilizing bracelets he had created for just this occasion... MK is frozen in terror for the most part, probably shocked that this is even happening to him a second time and screaming internally to fight back but not quite able to overcome the fear and make himself move. Eventually he struggles, but it’s too late by then, he’s already been dragged into the palace and is thoroughly surrounded.

Since in this scenario MK is captured so quickly and there’s no real resistance or impending threat of him being snatched away by his allies, Red probably takes his time getting a ceremony together for them to be married.. he may have been having his servants start making preparations, but this early on, before he’s even fully revealed himself to MK, he hadn’t quite got his hopes up enough to have the whole thing ready yet... He gives his servants a full week to have the whole thing prepared, and to give a chance to send invites to his allies who helped build his court and make this possible. Also it gives him a week to get MK adjusted to his new home and catch up on lost time these last few months... MK spends most of the time huddled in on himself trying not to scream while Red fawns over him and doesn’t even notices his discomfort.

Meanwhile, MK’s friends spend the week losing their minds in a panic as they scour the city for him. Last time MK disappeared, the Demon Bull King attacked the city the same day and it painted a pretty clear picture of what happened when Red Son had appeared by his father’s side without MK. This time there was nothing. No trace of where he might have gone or even who took him.. they don’t know that Red is even still alive to blame him. Sun Wukong also wouldn’t have known MK was missing until a few days after the others. He came to look once MK missed their weekly training session and learned from the others that he’s gone missing again. Wukong is definitely the one to figure it out.. he doesn’t have a lot of friendly connections to the demon underworld anymore, but the ones he does have get the job done. He hears rumors that the remaining demon kings have come to stay in the city, having received invitations to a wedding..... he puts together the pieces from there.

#ask #spicynoodleshipping #dark spicynoodles #demon king red #AU of an AU

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blysse-and-blunder · 3 years

Text

in lieu of a baseball game

april 10, 2021, 9pm

the housemates and I are on the couch watching the nats/dodgers game; baseball aficionado G is instructing our resident brit on the finer points of watching the great american pastime*

* (while I, having a carefully romanticized view of baseball thanks to a lifetime in new england and a few movies, am laughing in 'i once took nearly thirty pages of notes on this sport for a fic I never wrote')

reading got back to isabel allende's the house of the spirits for a bit this week, and this may just be a better translation than the one i was reading this summer but it captured me again in a big way? there's just something about magical realism, even though the content of this section of the book is dark as hell... but then, again, midway through this week when my brain was exceptionally fried, i dipped back into grace of kings and was suddenly grateful for the same 'simple', 'detached', 'not as poetic' writing style i'd been maligning earlier this winter!

watching baseball is better on the radio. yeah, i said it!! that being said, i am enjoying watching this; it is a good feeling to share a live sport with people. also, through a series of poor decisions including signing up for prime student and a starz trial in the heat of the moment last night, i now have a month to watch black sails? watched the first two eps last night; it feels too early to have Thoughts, but-- they sure did choose what wondrous love is this for the max/eleanor theme, didn't they? that, strangely, gives me a lot more hope-- or at least, curiosity-- about that particular relationship is going to develop, because, it doesn't look good right now...

listening back to my grading playlist in a big way this past week, which, according to the spotify stats thingy someone reblogged earlier, has obliterated my previous listening. either i have listened to these songs, in the first four months of the year, more than the songs i've been listening to consistently for an actual decade, or that stats thing was a little screwy. anyway, i put barenaked ladies' odds are on my 'oh lord its 2020' playlist last year, and it continues to be a necessary and revitalizing bop.

youtube

playing no dnd this week, our DM had Things, and this ended up being a good thing because of the bandwidth i absolutely didn't have for a longer session. instead, a few of the party members and i decided to hang out on boardgamearena and we ended up playing hokkaido which! is charming?? similar play-style to PARKS but...gentler, somehow. i lost super hard (ran out of money early and never got a chance to recoup any, bc i have awful friends) but had such a nice time.

making i missed a roundup post last week so i didn't get to fill everyone in on the lampshade saga, but! i had a fit of mad genius last week and hot-glued my lampshade back together. it's lumpy; it involved frantically pawing through my gift wrap collection for some matching ribbon; this all happened at like 9pm at night one weeknight; i'm actually super proud.

for this week, it's been about coming up to speed with my new (to me!) cast iron skillet! it came in the box of kitchen accoutrements i was shipped from my grandparents' kitchen after the funeral this spring; i officially broke it in today with this truly amazing, thick-cut, maple-smoked bacon. gurl. there was so, so much extra grease in that pan, after that, so i ended up frying eggs, and potatoes, and bread, and tomatoes...! yes, this was in the service of continuing to season the pan-- and it was all rustic at first, black coffee and cast iron, i felt like the rancher my grandfather was-- but with all the additions, and the fact that the potatoes had rosemary in them, it turned into a Fancy Feast (with the good china and the tiny milk jug!)

working on attending a virtual conference thurs-sun this week, which has been stressful but also sort of a nice break from my regular grind, and i'm genuinely enjoying seeing the regular attendees and feeling reconnected to this org and its community. but friday was a marathon of multiple sessions/unrelated meetings and zooms and workshops; i gave up that afternoon and lay down with a warm washcloth over my face rather than attend the last session, tbh.

i feel like everyone i know is in grading hell; i therefore feel morally obligated to also be in grading hell, even though i don't actually have as rough a go as i think a lot of people, and i don't yet have a clear deadline so i'm not...rushing...and as long as i do a bit every day, i'm okay (this is what i'm telling myself). but now i have to write a third bhpc practicum proposal, apparently, and also knock out the final hours for my two ra-ships before april 15, and also somehow do more reading than i have been as we enter the last month pre-fields. it's all. fine. it's fine.

#food mention #there's a fairly in-depth discussion of bacon under the cut; if eating animals bugs you #in lieu of a commonplace book #weekly roundup

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blankdblank · 4 years

Text

Acorn Castles Pt 4

All –

@himoverflowers, @theincaprincess, @aspiringtranslator, @sweeticedtea, @thegreyberet, @patanghill17, @jesgisborne, @curvestrology, @alishlieb, @jogregor, @armitageadoration, @fizzyxcustard, @here2have-fun, @lilith15000, @marvels-ghost, @catthefearless, @imjusthereforthereads, @c-s-stars, @otakumultimuse-hiddlewhore, @mariannetora, @shes-a-killer-kween, @ggbbhehe4455

Hobbit/LotR – @abiwim, @jotink78, @pastelhexmaniac

x Thorin – @evyiione, @deepestfirefun, @queenoferebor

@bun-bun-the-rabbit

“We will fortify, none shall pierce these walls.” Low and rumbling Thorin growled in another circle of the cot that had been fashioned for your unconscious body. Left to the small vest underneath the outer robe singed to ruin that was tenderly peeled off the burned skin underneath and boot free enabling the knee length pants to grant access to the blisters on the soles of the bandages feet matching the bandages folded ever so gently around the similarly blistered palms laying around your hips. Much hotter than the Balrog the dragon was drained and left to ash in the hall just outside the roaring flame filled forged still cooling to where the Dwarves could enter them not far from where you were discovered. Atop the ledge near to the hoard the makeshift cot was settled to ensure between checks on bandages and creams Oin could join the others in continuing the search.

Two days of nothing but searching while Thorin paced and paced scouring the mountain slipping deeper into his sickness while in his mind each useless room empty of herbs or ingredients to help shift your healing faster. Useless and disheartened sleepless to keep from staring all night at you he would drape himself on his throne muttering possible places Smaug might have missed scavenging.

No matter what the others said he couldn’t slip free, there had to be something he could do to heal his greatest treasure and gain another peaceful smile from the innocent creature he wished to nestle safe within these walls far from danger or need to face such flames again that such immaculate skin should receive another burn. Each burn and bruise he could feel them all along with each plea from his kin who received nothing but barks to search and search to ensure that his throne would not be risked nor his position of protection over this peak.

Every so often flashes of the glowing forest around the mountain would flicker in his mind as if it was trying to whisper to him in a tongue he never knew. Mornings every tree would give off a golden hue with silvery white to light through the night coated in leaves sharing light of their own even if removed from branches sharing light through each tiny tunnel to channel light in from the sky above to aid in lighting what the few torches yet to be lit left to the dark. Memories of the attack and his life before losing Erebor long gone replaced by his single goal of uncovering something, anything to change what he feared to be a never ending sleep.

“Five days,” Ori whispered after helping Oin to change the bandages on your nearly healed feet feeling the weight of a full week of constant stress to search and thought focused on their own tries to lull you from this endless sleep.

Back to the gold Thorin went and for his daily bout of growling what was meant to be comments to lull you from your sleep, however lately these past few days his commentary shifted often to doubts on those around him and their wishes to stun his happiness and future try to court his hopeful intended. “Liars, all of them. Desperate...useless...selfish...”

Darker with scowl and glare darkening barely a whisper the body beside him rang near to unintelligible to his ears, “Can I borrow this?”

The pauses and whispers with nods his way had Thorin snarling in his shadowy seat or boiling rage unaware of the body moving on his right. Small columns of golden walls were built and up and up in a painful prop up with hold of the back of his hand a fistful of pearls and rubies were gathered in a steady motion to be laid around the constructed golden castle. Lowly he growled realizing his hand was moving against his will and to the castle his eyes fell onto with a puzzled glare. “What is that?” Glimmers trickled sparsely into his mind of the various villages you had built in a try to build up some courage to face Smaug only worsening the pain that his hand would betray him in crafting something so innocent that only his mind attributed for you to have the right to construct in its current state.

“It’s a castle,” the voice had those darkened eyes shift to the hand laying over the back of his still luring them up to the heart quickening source of it. “See, you built it with your bare hand,” bright and shimmering as ever those eyes he ached to see open were locked in his with a comforting grin, “I know you can beat this.”

Holding his gaze on yours the feel of the hand over the back of his grew stronger. Faint at first and the flex of subtle fingers to press under his palm must have hit a hidden switch that shifted his entire being. Shattered his delusion fell under the relieved watch of his friends and kin plopping down into the gold exhausted after so much work from each to break him and you free. Bright eyed again Thorin pulled his hand free, if only for a moment to shrug out of his coat that was flung around your back at the faint tremble of your exhausted self. Realizing now where he had decided they leave you in this drafty hoard with only spare coats to cover your scantily clad self in front of an un-trusted mortal who dared to look you over upon rising to stir Thorin from his ordeal.

“This is no place for you,” harshly the chest plate of his absurd armor was rigged free and dropped to sink into the gold below enabling him to stand easier lifting you into his arms in a turn to head deeper into the mountain. “Come,” he barked to the others who stirred again tense at first then relaxed as he said, “We make for the Royal Wing. This is no place to camp.” Nestled against his chest he could feel you were close to drifting back to sleep and in the heavy fur coat warmed by his body heat fueled by his sour mood it was a perfect cocoon to keep warm on the long walk.

Bags gathered deeper the company went with Ori ensuring to grab your moose Thorin had ordered polished to shine better for display on the mantle he now would ensure the lavish apartment all would freshen up for you housed. Dusty at first around the bed he settled you into a fire spread light and warmth for the Company to clean as others cooked and Bard took his kids to nap in an apartment down the hall offered to him after a long night until supper would be ready. Stripped to trousers and a simple tunic he joined the others sharing apologies and remorse for moments he could remember while they shared the few things he did find that had helped to improve the major wounds on the still bandaged palms and soles of yours nearly to perfection again.

“Anyone sent word to Dain yet?”

Balin’s lips pursed a moment only freeing Fili to say, “You ordered the few raven here to search for herbs. They are resting in their old messenger hall.”

Kili, “Should be up soon, usually check in this time of day.”

Balin, “None of them wished to leave either way, if you remember the forest that has grown around us a great number of creatures have been fleeing these lands. Wished to grant a longer window for a safe trek to those peaks.”

Thorin nodded, “We will give them a few more days. I have no doubts those glowing trees will guard our peak until and Dwarven force could aid us in enforcing it. No word from the Elves?”

Dwalin, “None get, but the ravens have heard horses entering our borders two days past. Slow and timid.”

Thorin replied, “Tomorrow perhaps,” again his eyes shifted to you and he muttered, “I hoped to be stronger. Now what impression could I make as King?”

Bilbo patted him on the back, “No means of consolation but scores better than her former Fire Lord.” Widening Thorin’s eyes a moment before they traveled to your body shifting onto your side in your sleep. “She woke up and helped you, the lot of you knocked her around in training showing her each weakness to build on then helped her up, Smaug knocked you down. Let her see, she took your hand and helped you.”

Fili nodded to Bofur’s saying, “You are a fine King in her eyes, should hear what she had muttered about you from time to time between training sessions day one to now.”

Kili, “We gave her a home, we all stumbled and felt down time to time. Nothing new, we all bleed and need you here. Not home without you.”

Fili, “You saw that, when you came to, we don’t need the stone you got us here.”

Thorin wet his lips and Nori added, “Under your rule Moria was saved and now coated in glowing trees just like around this one.”

Gloin, “Not mentioning the best and only escape from those Elven halls on record.”

Thorin, “Pluto,”

Dwalin, “For you and all of us, protected us in return for protecting her.”

Bombur, “Couple days more and we can give a proper tour, before the Elves get here and no doubt try to get us back for their feast.”

Redressed in a tunic from your time in Greenwood and warm you sat at the table for dinner at Thorin’s side listening to everyone on all you had missed and how they hoped in a couple days to send word to the Iron Hills to have their kin return home again. Long and thorough while you rode on Dwalin’s back to remain in Thorin’s view the tour stretched on. Sharing a good list of possible jobs you might take up near to the Council to keep you close and take you across the mountain on a few tasks to grant you also a wide view on the subjects Thorin hoped you to take to. Including glimpses from looking points for guards on the outer wall at your asking to see the middle of the trees disguising there was a mountain here at all branching all the way out around Dale’s now lit up ruins and the former borders beyond all now nestled safely underneath the glowing trees.

Bed however found all the Company asleep in your sitting and guest rooms on the spacious beds you had no idea how you would ever find company to make them necessary.

In front of the fire however Thorin sat lost to his own thoughts staring at the tapestry lying across the chair from him with the names of his kin to be easily read with every one reminding him of their faces and the last time he had seen them. “Must miss them terribly.”

The voice on his right turned his head with eyes following your steps closer to his side, “It has been decades since we were all together. They will be honored to meet you upon their arrival.”

“Hmm, pity you won’t be there,”

“Oh?” he asked with brow raised.

“Not if you don’t get to bed. Even Bifur is asleep and you know how he paces.” Lowly Thorin chuckled and you said, “Still room in my bed even with Bilbo and your Nephews across it.”

“Your bed?” He parroted back and wet his lips to clarify, “You are certain?”

“My bed, that giant plushy still slightly dusty mattress able to fit half the Company on it, yes. Come sleep unless you prefer your chair.”

Timidly he did come to the offer of your hand and on the other side of Fili on the opposite end of the bed he laid out with the trio of males under spare furs while you slept under the covers. No risk of crossing any lines, none of them ever dared to give that impression and at the hint of fear in your eyes to being left alone all had caved to filling the apartment to lull you to their own realized fact that one day soon there would be more than an arm’s distance between you all. A fact no doubt heavier on you with them all wondering how to aid you in those nights. All the same he had a chair, so you had named it, inside your apartment he had a place and it gave him hope of one day sharing more.

Distant horns drew focus from the books on the shelves you were peering up at wondering about the secrets they held in the Dwarf runes littered across the spines the elders had promised to teach you once the proper books had been located by Ori and Dori in the library far below. Balin and Nori with them gathered all the records to prepare the returning Dwarves to regain what was left of their losses. Curiously to the hall you went finding Thorin and Dwalin rallying the remaining Company members to head to the gates. Turning to you Thorin rumbled, “Fili, Kili, stay here with Pluto while we speak to the Elves.”

Truly it didn’t take long until into your seating room the Lords were led with wide grins, “Simply marvelous, Miss Pear.” Raving comments on the spectacular event they had witnessed now spreading glowing forests around two former darkened beast filled kingdoms came before the tentative request they had worded so carefully on the trip over. “Miss Pear, all of us, were rather curious, might we be granted permission to collect some blossoms and seeds for sprouts of some of those precious glowing trees of our own.”

“As long as the parent trees are unharmed and you don’t go chopping all of your trees down seedlings should be perfectly fine.”

Celeborn, “Thank you, truly, we imagine it should take some time to grow them to any substantial size, we would never harm our forest in the process. Far too precious a balance.”

“I don’t know if we’d ever have animals here, far too bright now I think.”

Elrond chuckled answering, “The Valar Orome shall tend to their eyes, animals shall come. The glow is not too off putting and with proper housing of their making a great many creatures shall nestle safely within this new forest.”

Thranduil, “Perhaps once Radagast arrives we might tempt him with a few to offer the Ents of Fangorn. Might do them some good to see seedlings of old.” His comment came in a turning stroll around the room where he took notice of the polished moose on the mantle.

“Seedlings of old?”

Maedhros, “Seedlings of the great Teleperion are white, though none gave off their own light as yours have before. Even Gondor who house the final white descendant from that line would be amply envious of your treasured gift.”

Sheepishly you admitted, “I never tried to grow trees, merely created a ball of light absorbing flames from the Balrog and Dragon.”

Maglor, “Perhaps not, though this was the intention of the Valar. To aid in the healthy express of all those flames to birth something magnificent to protect you.”

From the mantle the King turned asking, “Where is the necklace?” At that the Dwarves tensed a moment until he gestured to the moose, for the neck and antler adornments.”

“Oh, there wasn’t any.” You answered and his brows furrowed quizzically.

“We will replace that and the chains then. Return it to its former state before it was gifted to the former Lord of Dale.”

Pt 5

#Fallen to Middle Earth #Thorin x Reader OC #Hobbit #lotr #Fire Bender

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