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#two pearls and a rose Quartz
yannarrose · 8 months
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“my pearl”
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tama1313 · 3 months
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My forbidden dream would be hosting a crossover/comparison map between Houseki no Kuni and Steven Universe
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birdinabowl · 3 months
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Still obsessed with the idea of Pink not wanting Pearl at all when she first got her because she wanted Volleyball back. Especially since Pearl acted like a Pearl vs Volleyball who seemed to have somewhat of an actual friendship with Pink.
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briarquartz · 2 years
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Steven Universe Rewatch
Season 2 Episode 9
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My Diamond / My Pearl
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livefromtheloam · 9 months
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The reason I don't dive too deeply into fandom is because the entire landscape is littered with people who intentionally misinterpret the message and then blame the media for not fitting nicely into their absolute stinker of a take.
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wilted3sunflowers · 8 months
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Pink Pearl: SOLD
Always thought of as a simple minded pearl who honestly to many outsiders never thought she was that great at being a quiet and follow you from behind type. Yet never seemed to be reprimanded much from Zebra Agate whom she was entrusted to. Currently she's thriving in this new Era 3 and on earth in Empire City. She was the one among this group to actually start the whole animal pattern print...kind of. Though technically it could be argued the pattern started with Zebra Agate but Pink Pearl conciously chose leopard print from seeing them on models in store window advertismenet and could not be more interested. On Homeworld theres very little patterns, only really lattice work or stripes of any kind or diamond checkerboard. No one really thought out- no one thought to look to organic beasts for fashion. Humans are so fascinating. Maybe thats what that Rose Quartz truly saw in them. How creative and vibrant they are. Comes with a past form too on toyhouse
Design Notes on Grey and Pink Pearl: Inspired first by Pink pearl's interest in 'animal pattern' which Grey is a pearl who excelled at being 'a pearl' sure she was never the most emotive, sing song-y type of pearl for entertainment yet what Zebra Agate needed was a pearl more of a secretary of keeping things on schedule and taking calls and what not. I also decided for this story a conscious effort that Pearls don't wear patterns. They're not of importance they are here to be simple, more softer colors typically and just to show they're a pearl. not some combination of gem type wearing another gems pattern. Also decided the same of course for Pink pearl for them being simple, run of the mill pearls even if Grey has a bit more to her past design it was only for the more authoritative feel that a pearl might have being under an *Agate* that terrifies Design notes on Pink lace: Due to corruption she is a lot more faded- not just from corruption but because her gem was more like that of the sand gem. Embedded in an object and only ever facing the sun. bleaching her gem of colors with too much exposure. She's a lot more polished in her currently look- i had a design ready for her just out of corruption look but then that would leave Zebra agate without a past form and decided to let the two non pearls without past forms. She of course used to be much more vibrant.
Design Notes on Zebra Agate: purposefully the inverse of typical zebra pattern on her clothes. with white stripes on black you can see that her hair itself is a regular part of black stripes on white like a typical zebra. also her design on her bodysuit is specifically to mimic a ribcage with zebra stripes
Zebra Agate: [Sold] "An Agate Terrifies" That's what Agates do. That's who Agates are. Subjugate those out of line and whip them into shape. They're here to make everyone stay in their proper places and follow rules. However I took her to completely go into the other direction of dealing with rules. The Punk movement appealing to her- if this is Era 3 and there is no need for her job role. Why should she keep trying to force a terrifying agate lifestyle? She may not be the kindest or most sweet Zebra Agate is however sentimental and more thoughtful than many- even pink lace considered her much more cold and rigid to expectations of what used to be common of gem society. While shes not an anarchist she has been delving into punk fashion but also the subculture to help her adjust to her new world and its views. She had always needed to follow rules blind and enforce them but due to the new order change. How else was she to find something that even acknlowedges no structure is perfect and many are flawed- even so her diamonds were flawed. Nothings perfect and nothing is without work to adjust.
Grey Pearl: SOLD A muted personality. What do you do when you used to know everything you were supposed to do? Living not in just a new era but an entire new world where you're allowed a lot more freedom that you never actually craved before. She's known Pink Pearl for thousands upon thousands of years and while there are some feelings of envy she would consider Pink Pearl to be her only friend. It's a complex mix of emotions like anyone would have especially towards Zebra Agate and the peculiar softness she seems to have for Pink Pearl that she has with no one else. Whilst never treated harshless it always was more of a cold wall from Zebra Agate that Grey Pearl felt. That this was strictly business relationship. Agate never even asked her to sing or dance- two components that make a pearl a pearl in many's eyes. Yet she's asked Pink Pearl to sing for her, and never stopped her from dancing without being asked. Grey Pearl may not have much of a relationship with Faded Pink Lace however she almost projects a sense of kinship of feelings left behind with her. In fact it was after Pink Lace Agate came back with those curated corruption spots that she decided to have some own markings herself. Humans have tattoos and while she can't get a traditional tattoo from humans she herself worked to get those marks on herself. She was the last one in the group to reform to this new Human lifestyle. Comes with a past form too on toyhouse
(Faded) Pink Lace: SOLD During the gem war she of course fought for homeworld and even was was part of the last charge. Of course, while she is more of the carefree type even she could see the dangers. Zebra was part of the task to pull out more of the aristocrats and Pink Lace part of the ground troops. Anything could happen so just as a precaution she sent her pearl away to Zebra Agate. Honestly, she expected that terrifying Agate to reset Pink Pearl for herself. It was a peculiar feeling for Pink Lace recognizing her pearl- even if it took only a moment before her Pearl recognized her. All so unevenly spotted and with sharp spiked growths coming out of her. She was a mess...Just how Zebra Agate used to scold her about. Her pearl still so lively and a bit oblivious to others feelings but even now so creative- such unique spots on her dress...theyre not even diamond shaped. Pink Lace at least knows to go with the flow of things but a good deal perceptive.
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nephelasium · 2 months
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Steven Universe but Steven is the host of a polyfragmented DID system and the entire setting of the show is his inner world with the entire cast as his headmates and Pearl is a gatekeeper between the earth layer and the homeworld layer safeguarding trauma memories of the two previous hosts (Pink Diamond and Rose Quartz) until Steven and the rest of the alters are emotionally ready for them press send
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Steven Universe told from the perspective of other characters
Garnet: A story of gay empowerment from start to finish. As a book it would be titled either Made of Love or Stronger Than You and feature Garnet's gauntlets with her wedding rings on them as cover art.
Amethyst: A seemingly wacky coming of age story that drops the most heartfelt moments when your guard is down. The cover resembles kids' detective stories, the kind where the whole gang is looking around for clues to the mystery.
Pearl: Everything up to Rose's death is an ancient literary classic titled The Ballad of Rose Quartz, illustrated with intricate inkbrush paintings. Steven Universe season one to three is the kind of introspective life after tragedy novel you pick up to look sophisticated reading. It's probably titled Without Her or something similiar. I don't have a title for season four and onwards, but the blurb is "it's not easy to manage twenty girlfriends, two life partners, a son and a dark past at the same time!" It's much more lighthearted than the previous two, but still prone to punching you in the emotions with little warning.
Connie: A magical adventure series just like the Unfamiliar Familiar! It centers Steven the magical boy with his best friend and eventual love interest Connie as the female lead. The tone gets a little darker after the first book/season, but less so than the original Steven Universe (let alone Steven Universe Future).
Greg: First a coming of age story, but unlike Amethyst this one is about breaking away from toxic people in your life. This story gets its happy ending when Greg finally finds someone he can be himself with in Rose. The time until Rose's death is a romantic comedy titled My Girlfriend, her Girlfriend and Me and conists mostly of shenanigans. After Rose's death and Steven's birth, it turns into something more bittersweet centering Greg's worries about being an adequate father to his magical son.
Peridot: It's titled How I learned to stop worrying and join the Rebellion and is easily the most lighthearted installment here. Our dorky protagonist is very obviously a somewhat unreliable narrator, but in a funny way. She encounters a few struggles, but they are quickly overcome with the power of friendship.
Lapis: This is just multiple whump fics. They're in a collection titled Bad Things Happen Roulette. Steven Universe the Movie is a pretty standard fantasy adventure with a group of powerful heroes though, and Steven Universe Future is the fluff fic with a smidge of angst you'd read as a pick me up after Bad Things Happen Roulette.
Bismuth: The war is a good vs evil sci-fi story with lots of social commentary. The Diamonds are definitely irredeemable here. I don't know what to do with the few episodes of the original Steven Universe she was in, but the movie is an empowerment narrative against systemic oppression titled Still Standing, or something in that style. Steven Universe Future however is a romantic comedy.
Rose: This is just a straight (well, bi) up tragedy. Our protagonist desperately tries to recover from her childhood trauma and be a good person, but is ultimately unable to escape the prison of her own mind. The book wins several literature prizes, but very few people actually read it because it's just too depressing.
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Group A, Round 2, Poll 7:
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Propaganda under the cut
Anevka Sturmvarous
Anevka is a master manipulator who killed her own father to further her goals. Plus, she’s a hot robot, what’s not to love?
Rose Quartz/Pink Diamond
Starts an intergalactic rebellion then fakes her death then has lots of sex with humans (she's an alien) then decides to get reborn as a human baby
she waged a war against herself. only pearl, her knight/lover/servant, knew that the so called colonizer and the rebel leader were the same person. the war lasted one thousand years and at the end of it she faked her death by pretending to have killed her evil self. she thought her family wouldn't care about her death but they retaliated with an attack that basically killed most of the rebels (only rose and her two closest friends survived). she was bisexual and had an unlabeled relationship with pearl. she made pearl physically unable to talk about her old self (she had the power to bc pearl was her servant). she had relationships with other people (pearl was aware but jealous). at the end of her life, she decided to have a baby with greg. to have a baby she'd have to die bc they couldn't exist at the same time. so she died and her son was raised by pearl, greg and two of her other friends. she also imprisoned one of her friends during the war bc of ideological divergences and then said they had actually died in battle and never told anyone about her whereabouts. and she also abandoned someone by tricking them and saying she'd come back without ever actually intending to come back (they waited for thousands of years). anyways rose gave every single character abandonment issues and she was at the core of the show. every single thing that happens leads back to her.
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correlance · 12 days
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Rewriting Vaggie's Character Arc and Backstory in Season 1 of 'Hazbin Hotel'
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One of my biggest issues with Season 1 of Hazbin Hotel, and the Charlie/Vaggie relationship, was how Vaggie's character and arc for the season were written - or, specifically, the lack of solid, thoughtful writing, as well as character and relationship development for Vaggie.
First up are the two main songs in Season 1 that feature, or relate to, Vaggie specifically: "Whatever It Takes" in Episode 3 ("Scrambled Eggs"), and "Out For Love" in Episode 7 ("Hello Rosie"). Both notably feature Carmilla Carmine, who serves as a foil for Vaggie in the show.
I've seen "Whatever It Takes" compared to "Do It For Her" from Steven Universe, except the latter has several seasons and dozens of episodes' worth of character development for Pearl, as well as the exploration of her relationship with Rose Quartz. Meanwhile, "Whatever It Takes" comes in just Episode 3 of Season 1 of Hazbin Hotel, and the song feels really out-of-place. It sounds like a song that should be later in Season 1, or even in Season 2, and not Episode 3, which I feel made the song seem shoehorned in due to the fast pace of Season 1, and lessened its impact, for many fans and viewers.
We also have no prior character development for Vaggie that would explain how and why she is singing those particular lyrics, especially for first-time viewers who never watched the original pilot episode. This is a big problem for the song itself, and its notability, overall.
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The way the song is written and framed also gives off the impression that Vaggie and Carmilla have some sort of prior connection, or that Vaggie may be one of Carmilla's daughters...only for this not to be the case in Episode 7. Even Carmilla's song, "Out For Love", in Episode 7 makes a lot more sense, if you consider the possibility that Vaggie may have been originally written to be one of Carmilla's daughters in early drafts of the show. Many also assumed as much from the song.
However, once Vaggie's backstory was changed, the songs were still kept in, which led to highly confusing lyrics which make no sense. This is because we're never told what Vaggie's motivations actually are, outside of her wanting to be a protector for Charlie in Episode 3. However, this is also a problem, because it reduces Vaggie's character to just being "Charlie's girlfriend", with no other attributes. I think Vaggie could've been written to be a more compelling person.
Here's what I think Vaggie's original character arc in Season 1 was, prior to rewrites due to a short episode count: Vaggie was one of Carmilla's daughters, and a moth sinner, as opposed to an angel. The angels went after Carmilla and her daughters, and Vaggie killed one of the exorcists to protect Carmilla and her sisters. However, Adam and Lute are now hunting for Vaggie, so Vaggie has to go into hiding.
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The Hazbin Hotel provides the perfect opportunity for Vaggie to do so. Vaggie doesn't believe that sinners can be redeemed, though she does befriend and fall in love with Charlie, and helps her with her project.
Vaggie and Charlie bond over how much the exterminations suck, but Vaggie wants revenge on Heaven, and hates Heaven, for murdering so many sinners in cold blood, and is more militaristic - wanting to use Carmilla's angelic steel weapons to fight against Heaven - whereas Charlie is all "eat, pray, love" and "kumbaya", and wants to find a peaceful solution (redemption of sinners) with Heaven instead.
Things come to a head in Episode 6, when Vaggie has a fight with Charlie over where the Hotel is headed - as redemption isn't working - and how they should handle Adam, Lute, and the exterminations. Vaggie's hatred and self-loathing eventually lead her to Carmilla's doorstep, where Carmilla then sings "Out For Love" about how Vaggie should fight because she loves Charlie, and not hates Heaven.
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There, I just wrote a better and more interesting character arc for Vaggie than just "hurr durr, let's just copy the most popular fan theory about Vaggie, something something, lazy and boring writing".
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hyenalover2630 · 8 months
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Blue Diamond x Diamond Reader (Platonic)
Requested by “Anonymous?”
-You and Pink diamond were really close friends. Until she was “shattered” by a Rose Quartz soldier.
-This made your heart break, but you weren’t the only one who took it hard, Blue Diamond did as well.
-You were the smallest of the diamonds so you didn’t like chatting with the other diamonds unless it was pink. She understood you more that the others could ever. But now she was gone. And you were alone. Well, that’s what you thought.
-You heard faint crying from your room and decided to check it out. You were more in the kind side and cared deeply for other gems. But when you found the source of the noise, you saw someone you didn’t think would be there. Blue Diamond.
-She was sobbing and you could hear her faintly mumbling something about Pink. And you couldn’t help but feel bad. You know how it feels. So, you walked over to her and put your small hand over on her big legs.
-She was surprised at first but calmed down after she realized it was you. You hopped up on her throne chair and asked if she was alright. Of course she responded with a sob and this ended up making you shed a tear since she can make people cry.
-You ended up comforting each other for that night, and you grew rather close. Closer than before.
-Before Pink was gone, you and Pink would play games and TRY to entertain Yellow, Blue and White. Yellow and White found it annoying sometimes, but Blue always loved it.
-Now that Pinks gone, you try your best to cheer her up with the same things you use to do with Pink, and it always works.
-She would be more protective now. She doesn’t want you to get shattered either and is always telling you to not get to close to other gems.
-You two definitely have a day or so every few hundred years to just cry and comfort each other. Yellow agreed to let you two do that since she says you guys “Can’t handle your emotions “.
-When Blue is busy, you hang out with her pearl. And you’ve grown quite fond of her pearl. You don’t exactly have one since your the youngest out of the 4, well now 3. But she promises you’ll get one soon.
-One of the worst things about homeworld though is that the other diamonds either shattered or bubbled all the Rose quartz gems.
-Blue doesn’t let you have a colony though . She doesn’t want the same thing that happened to Pink also happen to you.
-Overall, Blue cares deeply for you and is like an overprotective mama.
Hello! Sorry this took like a month. Hope you enjoyed it! Its not very good or long. Tell me if you want me to remake it or not.
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vivi-designs · 7 months
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CA CUPIDDD
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Pic/comb , water bottle, two pink eyeshadows, blush / highlight pallet, Brown lipgloss and another dark pink lipgloss, Greek coins, podcast mic, phone with pearls, headphones, lollipops, Greek strawberry candy, various potions that both her and Eros made for luck, positivity, and love. Ambrosia is the pink one. Candle , chocolate. School note journal Ca and Blondie use. tamagotchi that hopper gave them. Dice, rose quartz. Missing love letters that randomly appear in her big from around the world. Briar’s brand of lipgloss and perfume.
Her bag is inspired after vintage valentines, I saw one in an Alvin and the chipmunks movie when I was 7 and my life hasn’t been the same since they’re so cute and pretty.
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“you just can't handle toxic queer ships or morally grey queer characters, you want queer representation to be perfect and unrealistic.”
no, actually. one fictional ship that i really like is rose quartz/pink diamond x pearl from steven universe. yes, it's toxic but it's also interesting. and most importantly, it is not romanticized.
it definitely seems romanticized at first, because we were hearing the whole story from pearl's perspective, who was hopelessly devoted to rose. as the plot progresses, we see how unhealthy their relationship was and how much pearl's self-worth depended on what rose thought about her. how much she was willing to sacrifice for rose.
this is a toxic relationship that was written well, in my opinion. apart from pearl's unhealthy behaviour, rose being pearl's master also added a layer of toxicity and power imbalance. and none of this is romanticized. we aren't led to believe that these two characters should have gotten together.
and in time, pearl learns more about what kind of a person rose was and she begins to work on being independent and learning to love herself. by the end of the series, we know all too well that this ship was toxic, despite being complex and layered.
similarly, i talked about malachite or jasper x lapis in another post too. this was another toxic/abusive ship that was done quite well (minus a few hiccups) and was not romanticized or justified in any way.
rose quartz is also an example of a morally grey and problematic character whose actions were not justified by the narrative. she grew up in an abusive family, just like catra. she had her trauma and tragic backstory too. but her actions were still framed as being wrong and the writers don't try to woobify or coddle her.
(there were other examples of problematic characters in SU who got off scot-free like catra did, i'm not denying that at all btw, i'm mad about it too.)
so yeah. we don't hate representation of toxic ships or characters, we just dislike it when toxicity and unhealthy behaviour is promoted in a kids show.
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Now I’m Covered In You [Chapter 6: Dawn]
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Series summary: Aemond is a prince of England. You are married to his brother. The Wars of the Roses are about to begin, and you have failed to fulfill your one crucial responsibility: to give the Greens a line of legitimate heirs. Will you survive the demands of your family back in Navarre, the schemes of the Duke of Hightower, the scandals of your dissolute husband, the growing animosity of Daemon Targaryen…and your own realization of a forbidden love?
Series title is a lyric from: Ivy by Taylor Swift.
Series warnings: Language, sexual content (18+), dubious consent, miscarriage, pregnancy, childbirth, violence, warfare, murder, alcoholism, sexism, infidelity, illness, death, only vaguely historically accurate, lots of horses!
Word count: 6.4k.
Link to chapter list (and all my writing): HERE.
Taglist: @borikenlove​ @myspotofcraziness @teenagecriminalmastermind​ @quartzs-posts​ @tclegane​ @poohxlove​ @narwhal-swimmingintheocean​ @chainsawsangel​ @itsabby15​ @padfooteyes​ @arcielee​ @travelingmypassion​ @what-is-originality​ @burningcoffeetimetravel​ @randomdragonfires​ @anditsmywholeheart​ @aemcndtargaryen​ @jvpit3rs​ @sarcastic-halfling-princess​ @flowerpotmage​ @ladylannisterxo​ @thelittleswanao3​ @elsolario​ @tinykryptonitewerewolf​ @girlwith-thepearlearring​ @minttea07​ @trifoliumviridi​ @deltamoon666​ @mariahossain​ @darkenchantress​ @doingfondue​ @atherverybest​ @namelesslosers​ @skythighs​ @moonlightfoxx​ @partypoison00​ 
Let me know if you’d like to be added! 💜
She’s worse than you could have ever imagined.
She’s dignified and graceful and courteous, stunning like an opal or a pearl, a portrait in motion. She has hushed footsteps and large bright eyes that dart around taking in every detail. You can tell she’s intelligent, everyone can tell, and that’s worse than all the rest of it; as she and Aemond stroll together through the gardens, she asks him questions about history and hunting, and then has clever retorts to his answers. Their conversation has the seamless, pacific quality of language between people who have known each other for years. It’s just like the Duke of Hightower said it would be. She is precisely the sort of woman Aemond would have chosen for himself.
The Duke prattles on about various features of the palace and its grounds, inflating favorable attributes like a seller at a horse auction whose children are waiting hungry at home. It’s not difficult to imagine what fuels his freneticism. The king, unresponsive and reeking of decay, lies dying in his bedchamber. Rhaenyra is keeping a vigil there. She must genuinely love him, as there is nothing more to gain from cooling his forehead with damp cloths or clasping his feverish hands. The Greens have no such tender heartache brewing within them. They mourned King Viserys long ago, not his death but his dreadful, interminable absence.
Rhaenyra refuses to leave her father, and Daemon refuses to leave her here in London unprotected—though he should be riding north to command soldiers pledged to the Blacks—and so the two factions circle each other like snarling dogs. The second the king dies, the war will erupt, and everyone knows this. The court is a powder keg. Letters are scrawled, noblemen are dispatched to raise their banners, no one eats or drinks anything unless it is brought to them by a lifelong loyalist. In the past 48 hours, there have been twelve fistfights, seven sword duels, and no less than five deaths, six if you include the poisoning servant who (allegedly) threw himself from a window of the Tower of London before he could be racked. And for once, the Greens’ supporters know exactly what to say to you. They fawn over your health and mourn your losses, all four of them, as if they happened only yesterday. They never tire of expressing their horror. They vow that the treacherous, murderous Blacks must not be given any further opportunity to endanger you or the child you now carry. You are not just—at long last—a true Green. You are a beacon that draws ever more allies to their side. You are a talisman. You are an example of how mercilessly low Daemon will sink to devour his adversaries: a serpent, a wolf, a butcher who no man of honor could count among his friends.
You are walking behind Aemond, Kunigunde, and the Duke of Hightower with Nico and Daeron, trying to remember how to smile, how to speak about trivial things like fabrics and feasts. Nico is hoping that even considering the haste with which this wedding must take place, the kitchens will manage to whip up some famous Austrian dessert, cheese strudels or Linzer tortes or Marillenkuchen, a sort of apricot cake that is renowned throughout the Continent. You can’t follow her phrases; your hearing goes in and out like a tide. Late-April rain, cool and benign, falls in large sporadic droplets.
The Duke is rambling: “You’ll see that we have here in the gardens all manner of herbs, angelica, feverfew, St. John’s wort, betony, chamomile, rosemary…” He does not mention pennyroyal, a word that now brings tears to your eyes. “There are a plethora of roses, of course. Bluebells, daffodils, wisteria, tulips, lavender. And calla lilies, a symbol of matrimony, I believe. Perhaps you would like to use some in your wedding bouquet.”
“Do you grow any edelweiss?” Kunigunde asks in a voice like windchimes.
“Edelweiss…?”
“It is found in the Alps,” Aemond explains. “Small white blossom that thrive in rocky limestone soil. It cannot survive in England, regrettably.”
“A shame,” Kunigunde says with what you would guess is well-disguised homesickness. “It’s my favorite flower. That’s what’s used in my perfume, you know.”
“A splendid scent!” the Duke chirps, and he is not a man inclined towards chirping. He is a child on Christmas morning, a hound who’s found the trail of a fox. “We shall arrange to have edelweiss perfume shipped here directly from Austria for you.”
“Ah! But I see you have an infestation.” Kunigunde points at the grasping emerald vines that are spilling from the grey stone walls of the palace down into the gardens.
The Duke follows her eyeline. “Oh, ivy, yes. Well, there’s no stopping that. A stubborn weed. It would cover the whole world if it could.”
You and Aemond glance at each other, like a reflex, then immediately look away. His cheeks flush a deep hectic pink.
“But it kills,” Kunigunde says. “It smothers everything else. It must be tamed.”
“We’ll have it ripped down,” the Duke assures her, then leads you all into the royal stables to escape the rain.
Kunigunde drifts down the aisle, inspecting each stall. She moves swiftly past Caraxes; he kicks at the walls when she comes near, flattens his ears and glares with bulging black eyes. Kunigunde’s gown is not the sunlike gold of the Holy Roman Empire nor the green of the family she is marrying into. She wears a harmless unaffiliated color, a pale watery pink that makes you think of the organs of a gutter bear: a lung, a kidney, the deflated globe of a stomach. She’s not trying to prove that she’s anything. She doesn’t have to. Everyone knows exactly who she is: the only daughter of a kingdom far larger, wealthier, and more stable than England. As the wife of the second son instead of a third, she will outrank Nico. As a superior partner in every conceivable way, she will eclipse you.
Sir Criston Cole arrives, hauling Aegon along like an errant child. Your husband keeps running away and hiding in stairwells, in trees, behind curtains, under beds. He knows people are always searching for him now, wanting to meet the almost-king, trying to coax him into discussions of alliances and war plans. He sighs and bows to Kunigunde, his white-blond hair uncombed, his ocean-blue eyes groggy.
“Welcome to England, princess. And, uh, I presume you have a nickname of some sort…?”
Kunigunde blinks bewilderedly at him. “Why would I require a nickname?”
“Jesus Christ,” Aegon mutters, and wanders away to pet Sunfyre.
“We’ll purchase you a horse of your own,” the Duke of Hightower promises Kunigunde, papering over the mishap. Aemond has migrated to Vhagar, stroking the white blaze of her face, ticking her velvety muzzle with his expert fingers that you wish you could stop staring at. “A gift to commemorate your marriage. Any color and breed that you wish. Perhaps a golden Akhal-Teke like Sunfyre, or a mighty Percheron like Tessarion, or a breed from your native Austria if you’d prefer…”
Kunigunde stops at your horse’s stall. She marvels at her—gleaming black coat, vast muscles, defiant eyes—and gasps in delight. “Meine Güte! What is this one?”
“She’s an Andalucian,” you tell her. “From Navarre.”
“Your homeland,” Kunigunde notes gently, like someone who knows the pain of being exiled from the same earth that grew you.
“Yes, princess.”
“She’s beautiful,” Kunigunde declares. “Gorgeous. Formidable. What do you call her?”
“Midnight,” you reply, then steal a glimpse of Aemond to test his reaction. He pretends not to be listening, but again his cheeks color with a fleeting wash of scarlet. His betrothed—in a few short hours, his wife—observes this thoughtfully. It’s nothing as low as suspicion; it’s an intelligent, acute sort of awareness. One can look at her face and see gears and levers shifting, hear the ticking of a clock.
When the Duke continues the tour to show off the archery fields, Kunigunde insists that he begin without her; she will have you escort her there shortly. As soon as the rest of the group is out of earshot, she leans into you and takes your hand, painting the air with her fresh, lively edelweiss perfume.
“Is it awful?” she asks in a conspiratorial whisper.
You genuinely have no idea what she’s talking about. “What?”
“His eye,” she says. “Prince Aemond’s lost eye. A grisly thing, surely. The scar is bad enough, but the eye? I can’t imagine having to stare at it while…while…well, you know. While he’s lying with me. Fortunately, I have been assured that I won’t ever have to see it. But I’m sure you have. I’ve heard that you’re very good friends.”
“I’m afraid I can’t be of much help to you. I haven’t seen it myself.” You’ve wondered about it, though never with such scandalized revulsion. There’s nothing about Aemond that could disgust you. And then you say to comfort her: “But he’s well worth it.”
Kunigunde smiles hopefully. It’s the first time you’ve detected genuine vulnerability from her, but it’s there. “Is he?”
“Yes. He’s very clever and chivalrous. He has no vices, drinking, gambling, idleness. He loves history and sword fighting. He always smells of smoke and leather and hard work, like a blacksmith’s forge. He always has ink stains on his hands. And he writes poems.”
“Poems? Really?” Kunigunde says. She’s pleased, but she’s something else as well. There’s that watchfulness in her face again, too many layers for you to sift through. “Have you read many?”
You reply briskly as you lead her out into the scant rain: “Only one.”
An hour later—when the Duke of Hightower has concluded his ever-so-slightly-desperate flaunting of Westminster Palace and turned his attention to the hurried wedding arrangements—you return to the royal stables to see Midnight. You brush out her coat, feed her handfuls of oats from your palm, wrap your arms around her colossal black neck and rest your head against her, feeling the radiating heat of her body and the thudding of blood in her veins.
“I don’t think I can do this,” you tell Midnight. She nickers in reply, a low sympathetic rumble.
You hear footsteps in the aisle. Anxious—you really aren’t supposed to be going anywhere alone until the Blacks have left the court—you step out of Midnight’s stall to see who it is. Aemond is waiting there, his silvery hair wet from the light rain, wavy and dripping.
“What do you want?” you pitch at him.
He speaks with hesitant, quiet words. “I just wanted to express…I’m aware that…I’m sure this is difficult for you.”
“What an astute observation. I hope your tutors were well-compensated.”
“Ivy, I know how you feel—”
“Do you?” you snap. “Have you ever had to feign pleasure as some drunken stranger was invading you? Have you felt that your entire worth was whether or not you could produce a living son—an endeavor that might kill you, by the way—and then been vilified when you could not do it because you were being poisoned, all that sacrifice undone like someone pulling out a loose thread from a tapestry, all those nights of forced smiles and premeditated moans wasted? Have you stolen seconds of happiness, your first in a year, only to watch the person who gave them to you marry someone who is not a pitiful failure by any possible metric but a godsend who surpasses you in every way? Have you felt what it’s like to carry one man’s child when you desire another? No, you haven’t, and you never will. You have no fucking idea what this feels like.”
“We need to end this,” Aemond says. “The Holy Roman Empire must support the Greens’ claim to the throne. All our lives hang in the balance. Yours, mine, Aegon’s, my mother’s, Daeron’s, Nico’s. Everyone’s.”
“Right,” you hear yourself tell him.
“My wife…” And you flinch as he says it, like he’s hit you, a palm crashing against your face, a wave of flesh and bone. “She has to be happy here. She has to have a real marriage.”
“Unlike mine.”
He closes his eye. “Yes.”
“Then go,” you say, biting back sobs. “Go and get ready for your wedding.”
“You don’t think I’m being ripped apart by this?” he demands, striking a fist against his chest. “You don’t think I’d like to have some choice in the woman I’m bedding? For once in my life? You don’t think I’ve spent hundreds of hours wondering how our lives would look if the timing had been different, if you could have been wed to me and Aegon given the emperor’s daughter?”
“She’s perfect, she’s…” Your voice breaks off, bitter and fracturing.
“Yes. She must be, everybody agrees. Even the Blacks are in awe of her. They’re petrified by the advantage this match gives us. But I can’t see it. Because I’m not the man I was before and I can’t get him back. Because now I’m covered in you.”
You clean tears from your cheeks with quick, aggravated swipes. “I’m sorry our momentary indiscretion has become such a source of regret.”
“I don’t regret it.”
You look at each other from across a chasm of silence like a miles-wide torrent of dark cold water, a river, a channel, an ocean.
“I’ve made something for you,” Aemond says, kindly now.
“You’ve had it made, you mean.”
“No.” He shows you his hands. He made it himself.
“I don’t want it.” But you’ve made something for him too: a tunic to wear as he takes Kunigunde’s hand in marriage, deep forest green with bears and horses and roses stitched into it with gold thread. You’ve already given the tunic to Daeron so he can present it to his brother this evening. You won’t be there when he’s getting ready. You wouldn’t be able to bear it anyway. “I won’t accept it.”
“Then I’ll leave it in the box where you keep your sword.”
“Aemond, you don’t have to pretend,” you say. “I know you’ll spend the rest of your life avoiding me. You can start now.”
He comes to you and lays his hand on your belly; you’re not showing yet, but everyone knows you carry Aegon’s child. And now that the sinister cause of your previous losses has been revealed, there is no reason to believe that this one won’t live. “I will always protect you. And the child.”
You reply cynically: “Because if it’s a boy, he might be the king someday?”
Aemond shakes his head. “Because whether boy or girl, it’s a piece of you.”
He turns away and walks out into the rain, a grey spring afternoon hurtling towards night.
~~~~~~~~~~
You hide in the stables for as long as you can. When it grows so late that you know people will start looking for you—Nico wanting your opinion about her dress and her hair, the Duke of Hightower ensuring that the vessel carrying Aegon’s heir hasn’t gone missing—you take Midnight and trek down to the edge of the forest. She’s as good as any guard who might escort you; she’s been known to bite and kick at anyone besides Aemond and Vhagar who ventures too close. You use the spade you keep stabbed into the earth there to dig up the pink ivory wood box your sword is stowed away in. The soil is already soft, recently disturbed. There beside the blade, on velvet the same color as the flag of Navarre, is a thin gold chain with a charm attached to the center. The charm is a leaf with three distinct points like little mountains, like a crown.
“Ivy,” you tell Midnight, showing her the necklace. “He’s carved a leaf of ivy.”
Midnight only peers at you, onyx-black eyes attentive, ears pricked forward, chomping on the mouthful of lush wet clovers.
You put on the necklace—feeling traitorous, feeling heartsick, feeling comforted somehow—and then pick up your sword. You take it to the base of the tree to carve the dates you’ve left there ever-deeper, keeping them alive in a way that your first four children never will be. You locate the small imprints in the bark, and then you stare at them in puzzlement, the sword in your hand abruptly unnecessary. Someone else has already revived them recently. Someone else has traced over the dates so they won’t fade.
Aemond’s words come back to you like rain after a spell of drought: Because whether boy or girl, it’s a piece of you.
You press your knuckles to your trembling lips and sink to the dark damp earth, embers burning in your eyes and your throat.
“I’m in love with him,” you say aloud for the first time. “I don’t want to be. But I am. And I don’t know how to stop.”
And you stay there for what feels like a lifetime before you return to the palace to ready yourself for his wedding to the Holy Roman Emperor’s daughter.
~~~~~~~~~~
The ceremony is almost ludicrously simple in its haste, in the Duke of Hightower’s urgency to get the marriage finalized before King Viserys’ death. Aemond and Kunigunde recite their vows in the tiny private chapel, the same place you found him after you lost your last child, after you read his poem.
It’s like I’m reliving everything between us, you think as you look down at the wooden floorboards, unable to watch him linked by the hands with the woman he will share his life with. The stables where we first spoke, the chapel where he gave me the name that only he knows, where now he pledges himself to be someone else’s husband. The beginning and the end.
Aemond wears the tunic you made for him. Kunigunde wears a delicate and impassive pale blue. You wear the gold ivy leaf necklace and a gown green like envy. There is no sunlight streaming in through the stained glass windows today. Even if the sun had not already set, the sky is thick and churning with rainclouds. There is thunder somewhere, distant, ominous. Hundreds of candles illuminate the chapel like a pinpoint inferno in a world full of darkness.
In the Great Hall, the Greens sit at the high table together: the Duke of Hightower and Queen Alicent, you and Aegon, Nico and Daeron, Kunigunde and Aemond, Sir Criston Cole pacing restlessly, seeing threats in every shadow. No Blacks attend, nor would they be welcome to. Their great defender lies dying on the other side of the palace as the Greens stitch the final thread into their design. This is the Greens’ triumph to revel in. Everyone knows it will be their last glimmer of joy before the bloodshed begins. The English countryside is blooming with banners: green roses, black roses, but none in the proper color. You are the only one whose homeland is red. You have already written to Alonzo that the war is imminent, that the Blacks have slaughtered your children and risked your life. Soon ships, soldiers, archers, horses, and gold from Navarre will be arriving in London. You fold your hands together over your belly, wondering if the war will be over by the time you deliver your child, how many lives it will claim, what sort of king Aegon will be.
Beside you, your husband drains cup after cup of wine, but he cannot escape the inevitable. When the Greens wage war, it is his claim they are fighting for. And as long as he lives, it is he who must wear the crown. Aegon glances at you, smiles tiredly, dark patches around his eyes like a badger’s. He reaches over to touch you fondly, your hair and your cheeks. He drapes an arm across the back of your chair and rests his head on your shoulder, one hand on your belly. Aemond watches this, his eye sharp and glacial, then departs with his new wife to dance.
“How are we tonight?” Aegon asks. Meaning both of you, you and the baby.
You twirl messy locks of his white-blond hair around your fingers. “Well enough, all things taken into consideration.” And you wonder, as you do with increasing frequency, what sort of man he might have been if he hadn’t been beaten black and blue by the demands placed upon him since infancy. “Aegon, when are you happiest?”
“I don’t know,” he says, as if he hasn’t ever considered it. “Never.”
“Never? Really?”
“When I’m with Sunfyre,” he decides. “And when I think about the fact that I’ll always have you.”
He can’t mean that. He’s spent most of the past twenty-one months ignoring me.
“I miss you,” he murmurs. “I miss being with you.” He turns your face to his and kisses you sloppily. The Duke of Hightower rolls his eyes—this is far from decorous feast behavior—but is otherwise content to ignore it. Across the exuberant hall, the Montfords hang their heads in resigned disappointment. Aegon’s murky gaze skates over your body: green velvet, gold metal. “I was always uneasy about it because of the pressure to give the Greens an heir. But now…you are already with child. And neither of us were at fault for what happened before.”
He kisses you again, his tongue darting between your lips, wine and drowsy desire. And you think, through a fog of melancholy and self-loathing: Could I find some happiness with him? If Aemond will spend his life with Kunigunde, if Nico will know true passion with Daeron, if Rhaenyra will have Daemon’s single-minded devotion until it destroys them and their children too…could I have something for myself that makes the burden of existence lighter? Could I even learn to love him? If I tried for months, for years, for decades?
“I understand if we can’t lie together,” Aegon says. This is a stipulation you have been clinging to; it is more of a recommendation from physicians than a decree, a guideline that many couples break without consequence. It is a convenient excuse for an unenthusiastic wife to neglect her marital obligations. “But when you’re ready again…I want you. No one else. I want you so fucking badly it’s killing me. It’s all I can think about.”
It's just an escape, you think, you know. It’s a port in a storm for him. And yet…perhaps it could be the same for you. You push back his hair and touch your lips to his forehead. “You can have me, Aegon. If you’re gentle.”
He beams at you, dazed with wine and reckless optimism. “I always am.” And he’s right; he is. “Shall we dance, wife?”
“I don’t think I’m supposed to. And I’m certain that you are not capable of it at the moment.”
He takes your hand and staggers to his feet. “Let’s walk then.”
Aegon accompanies you around the perimeter of the hall, clumsy and stumbling, yes, but also proud, his palm on your belly, presenting you to various Green-affiliated noblemen and their wives, daughters, sons. They are warm and compassionate to you, appalled by your now-infamous suffering, mindful of the fact that if their faction wins you will soon be the queen; and with a husband like yours, the people closest to him will be more influential than the king himself. Among the dancing couples, Daeron spins and giggles with Nico. Aemond revolves with Kunigunde—she’s almost as good a dancer as you are, almost, though as far as anyone besides you and Aemond know she’s the best at court—but his eye follows you and Aegon around the crowded room, betrayed even though he has no right to be, incensed by the only honorable choice you can make. Aegon’s wine sloshes out of his cup each time he trips over his own feet, leaving a trail of maroon puddles on the floor. You sip mead now, weaker than wine and sweet with honey. You cannot stand the thought of apple cider; even the scent of it makes you nauseous and unbearably sad.
The Duke of Hightower, red-faced with frustration, appears as Aegon clutches the wall to keep his balance. “For the love of God, go eat something! Sir Criston?” The Duke waves the knight over. “I command you to take Prince Aegon back to the high table and do not permit him to leave it until he has consumed no less than one full plate of bread and meat. Is that understood?”
“Does the apricot cake count?” Aegon slurs.
“Fine,” the Duke agrees, and Aegon is ushered away. You and the Duke of Hightower stand together without speaking, watching Aemond and his wife dance together, two flawless figures with their hands resting lightly, sheepishly on each other, speaking in clandestine voices that no one else can hear. It knocks the air out of your lungs once, twice, again. This is going to kill me, you realize. I can’t drown out the memory of his voice with Aegon’s. I can’t stop wanting him.
You say with dark disdain: “My beloved grandsire-in-law. Did even you ever dare to dream of a future this bright?”
“He should be groveling in appreciation for this arrangement and so should you.”
You glare at the Duke and echo something you once heard Aemond say to him. “You care nothing for love.”
The Duke of Hightower turns to you; his voice cuts like jagged, rust-laced metal. “I loved my wife more than you could fathom, princess. More than the future or the past. More than my titles, more than my children, more than myself. And yet over the course of five days I watched her die of fever—insane, in agony—and there was nothing I could do about it. Nothing. There was no amount of money to pay or men to cut down with a blade. The wheels of the world turn again and again, and we’re all just running on top of them until it’s our turn to be dragged screaming below and crushed into oblivion. None of us own anybody. Not even the ones we’d kill for. All we own is our legacy. That’s all we can salvage from the maelstrom of this life. And this…this…this affinity between you and Aemond? It has no place in a future where we could win.”
You study Kunigunde—the daughter of one emperor, the sister of the next, the wife to the man you love, the future mother of his children—and marvel at what you would give to be her. Anything, everything.
“If you love him, you will not imperil him,” the Duke says. “You will not jeopardize our ascension.”
“I love him,” you confess in a splintering whisper.
The Duke of Hightower frowns at you in disappointment, in disgust. “Learn to hide it better.” Then he sweeps away to make his rounds among the noblemen, to ensure their banners are rising and their loyalties unfaltering.
Nico, in exuberant spirits as always, finds you and joins you in observing the newlyweds. She reads the words in the lines of your face, the wonder in your eyes. The princess from Austria is beautiful, brilliant, flawless. She is entirely worthy of him.
“Yes, she’s certainly the next best thing, isn’t she?” Nico says cheerfully.
You furrow your brow in confusion. “Second to who?”
Nico grins. “You, of course.” And then she sees your horrified expression. As usual, she’s hit just a bit too close to the mark, to the truth. Nico stammers an explanation. “I mean, you know, because you’re such good friends, and you understand him, he’s so odd to most people, so unnerving, but you like him as he is and he’s clearly smitten with you, and if you weren’t already married to Prince Aegon you’d be his choice for a wife, I’d imagine, but since it’s impossible…”
“Very impossible,” you say flatly.
“Right,” Nico capitulates, anxious. “I didn’t mean to offend you.”
“I’m not offended, Nico.” You lay a hand on her shoulder and then her flushed cheek, forcing a smile. “I’m sorry. I’m just tired. I’m very tired.”
“You have had a very eventful few days.”
“I’ve aged centuries.” Sometimes I think I’m already dead.
“Would you like me to come back to your rooms? We could read, or do needlework, or just sit and talk by the fire…”
“No, you stay. You’re having such a good time. I don’t want to ruin it for you.”
“It’ll be ruined if I fear you’re unhappy.”
“I’m happy,” you insist. “I’m happy, Nico.” I’ll never be happy again.
Courtiers are beginning to tease the newlyweds good-naturedly, shooing them off to bed. Kunigunde flashes her audience a timid, demure smile. Aemond is stoic; he wears no emotion that you can decipher. He raises his wife’s hand in the air, and there are whistles and applause. Then the couple retires to Kunigunde’s bedchamber, flanked by a flock of servants who will ready them for the essential next step: cleansed bodies, prayers recited, blood on white sheets. The room is spiraling around you; all the air in your lungs evaporates; your vision is speckled with dizzying splotches of darkness. In the midst of the cheers, you flee unnoticed from the hall. As you pass by the high table, you see that Aegon has laid his head down beside his plate and is practically unconscious. You fly through the corridors and take refuge in your bedchamber, a sanctuary, a prison.
You don’t even let your ladies undress you. You send them away and kneel down on the bearskin rug and stay there waiting for nothing, time crawling over you, prickling and slow and murderous like ivy. As the bells toll and the hours pass you imagine what they mean, you envision it, though you wish you couldn’t. Now he is taking off her nightgown. Now he is combing out her long lustrous hair with his agile fingers. Now he is admiring the glow of her bare skin in the firelight. Now he is tracing the slope of her jaw with the lightest touch—entranced, reverent—and tilting up her chin to kiss her. Now his hands are on her throat, her breasts, her waist, her thighs that have never been stained with the blood of another man’s child, parting them, reaching between them, angling himself to enter her. But he won’t rush; he won’t want to cause his lover pain. For all of their innumerable differences, he and Aegon have that in common.
You stare into the flames until they blur and bleed together, your eyes brimming with tears. And suddenly it feels like the fire is inside rather than out: your throat, your lungs, everything you’re made of, searing through vertebrae and veins. It feels like you could burn until there’s nothing left but echoes, threadbare ricochets of memory, a murmur of ash. Aegon does not appear. He’s probably not fucking some Green loyalist’s daughter, you concede that much, but he’s gone nonetheless: passed out under a table, or in a stairwell, or in the garden, or in Sunfyre’s stall in the royal stables. Aemond is bedding his wife and Nico will dance with Daeron until the sun rises but you are here alone, alone, alone, and you always will be. When Aegon drinks himself to death you will be widowed. When your child is born it will be given away to wetnurses and governesses. Nothing here is truly yours. Even if the Greens win, there’s no scenario in which you do.
I should have gone back home to Navarre when I had the chance. I should have fled from here like a sheep from wolves. And now I’m trapped. I’m so fucking trapped.
You cover your mouth with both hands. You don’t want anyone to hear you sobbing and decide to investigate, to piece together what has caused you such distress. Tears pour down your cheeks like spring rain. And you know now that if you are ivy to Aemond, then surely he is the same to you: a merciless trespasser, vines that have grown through your palms and into your bloodstream, scraping along the path of ruby arteries until they strangle the heart. There’s no point in trying to rip him out of you. There’s no way to return to the person you were before.
The bedchamber door flies open and slams shut, so quickly it’s over before you register what’s happening; hurried footsteps travel across the wooden floor. You whirl to find Aemond standing in the stone-heavy silence, in the firelight. You’ve never seen him like this before. He’s still wearing his eyepatch, but his long silver hair hangs free and wild, strands obstructing his face. He is dressed in only loose trousers and a white sleeping shirt that has been unbuttoned down to his navel. He’s backed himself against the wall. He’s trembling all over.
You rise and go to him. “Aemond…?”
He pushes your hands away when they settle on his forearm. “Don’t,” he pleads in a whisper.
“Alright,” you agree immediately. He won’t look at you, his blue eye darting everywhere except your face. He runs his fingers through his hair, shaking his head, breathing rapidly. Perspiration gleams on his bare chest, etchings and basins and steppes you’d only ever imagined. You ask him softly: “What happened?”
“I couldn’t do it,” Aemond says. At last, his gaze catches on yours, as if he’s surrendering, as if a gap in a page has been filled. “Not with her.”
Oh God, what is going to happen to us? What the hell is going to happen?
Before you can ask him, Aemond’s palms are on your tear-streaked face, and he’s kissing you with an intensity that cuts through all the strings that were knotted around you just minutes ago: hopelessness and solitude and bone-rattling terror. Your hands debate stopping him; instead, they come to rest on his salt-damp chest, exploring hungrily, a feast after famine. He’s begging for you in every way but words. There’s no question as to what your answer will be. There should be, but there isn’t; you need him in a way that is inescapable, like the seasons, like time.
You take blind steps backwards until your bare feet meet the bearskin rug, downy black fur of a beast that was killed for you. You stumble down onto the rug together, Aemond on top of you and tugging impatiently at the laces of your gown, you pulling up the hem, unable to wait, unwilling to lose the mindless rush of this moment. The necklace he made for you is a stripe of frost against your sweltering skin. You nip teasingly, ravenously at his neck, tasting smoke and paper and ink and leather, leaving flairs of red that vanish within seconds like dissipating smoke. Your fingers snag in his long white-blond hair; you lift his shirt from his back, inhaling a split-second hint of his wife’s edelweiss perfume as you toss it away. Aemond yanks off his trousers. He’s big, you knew he would be; bigger than his brother, bigger than you are confident you can endure.
Please let this be everything I hope it can be, you think fearfully. Please don’t let it be the way it was with Aegon. Please don’t let it be nauseating, tiresome, lonely, painful. The trepidation must show on your face.
“I won’t hurt you,” Aemond swears. “I’ll never hurt you.”
He retreats, hooks his arms beneath your thighs, and drags you towards him, burying his face between your legs; you bite down on your wrist to keep from crying out in pleasure. Beneath the gathered layers of your gown, his lips and tongue—greedy, dominating, starving for you—find the place where you are most sensitive, most aching. He licks, circles, licks again, sucks gently until you can feel that powerful wave of heat, bliss, finality building in your muscles and your nerves.
Not like this, you think. I want him closer to me when it happens. I want him inside of me, one with me.
“Aemond, come back,” you moan. “Please, please, come back. I need you. All of you. I need you right now.”
He rises obediently, his lips and chin dripping with your wetness, and kisses you deeply, intoxicatingly; you can taste yourself on him, minerals and desire, love and earth. He’s positioning himself between your thighs, two fingers of his right hand slipping effortlessly inside of you, working to ensure that you are prepared for his thickness, his length. You’re nodding as your hips move with his rhythm, gasping in air like you’re drowning, lost in a lust-red haze of helpless desperation. “Are you ready?” he asks in a ragged whisper.
“Yes, yes, Aemond, yes.”
His lips traverse your throat, the arc of your jaw, your cheek. “Stop me if you need to, okay?”
“Okay.”
“We’ll go very slowly.”
Kissing the side of your face, his left hand smoothing back your hair, Aemond begins to ease himself into you. There is pressure—tremendous, delicious pressure—but no pain yet. He stops to give you time to adjust; and perhaps it’s for him as well, shaking with euphoria and anticipation, trying to last long enough to please you. The first tentative rays of dawn are bleeding in from the slits between the curtains. And then there’s a sound that at first you don’t recognize: a creaking, a draft of new air. It’s the bedchamber door opening.
It happens too quickly for you to push Aemond away, to make any attempt to disguise your treason, your lethal weakness. There is only time to turn your face towards the open door to see who has discovered you. Perhaps it is the newlywed Kunigunde searching for her absconder husband, or the Duke of Hightower ready to drag Aemond back to consummate the marriage, or Daemon coming to murder you, or a servant or a guard or Queen Alicent or Sir Criston Cole. Each would be horrific in its own way, legacy-shattering, life-threatening.
But the intruder is none of these people. It is the one silhouette you didn’t even consider. You had assumed he wouldn’t be here. He’s almost never here.
The person in the doorway is Aegon.
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BEST LONG-TIME PINING SHIPS: ROUND 1 MATCH 10
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Why you should vote for each ship under the cut!
Pearlrose: When Pearl was given to Pink Diamond thousands of years ago, it was just as she had been given her first colony, the earth. The moon base is where she looked over everything and saw the emergence of the first new gems. When Pink wanted to meet them, but knew she couldn’t as herself, Pearl proposed that she take the form of a Rose Quartz to blend in and meet the new Amethyst soldiers. After spending time among the Quartz soldiers in the Kindergarten and then exploring more of the earth, she realised that by invading earth and using the life of the planet to make more gems, she was taking it from everything else that could have existed there. This revelation allowed Pink to realise the damage. And when the other diamonds refused to let her release the colony, she became Rose Quartz and formed a rebellion. So the earth wouldn’t even be around except as a completed colony (not something humans could survive on) if not for this pair. Reguri: imagine u have a rival for life and have been rivals ever since u were born and are the closest to each other but then your friendship kind of breaks apart due to competitiveness and your own jealousy but you still really love them despite it all. and then they disappear for two years leaving you to yearn and pine over them and stand in front of volcanoes on an island that got destroyed and talk about how life is fleeting or whatever. and then some few years in the future when he comes back and you've both sorted out your issues you go on a honeymoon vacation. like can u imagine
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