#Treason's Harbour

[leona-florianova]

Nevertheless he reached across and took the piece of chalk, saying 'Will I tell you about my bell, so?'

'Oh yes!' she cried. 'I am longing to hear about your bell.'

'This, you must understand, is the bell seen sideways,' he said, drawing on the lamplit floor. 'Its height is eight feet; the window at the top is a yard across, as near as no matter; the width here, where the bench runs across, is a little better than four feet six; and the whole contains fifty-nine cubic feet of air!'

'Fifty-nine cubic feet?' said Laura Fielding: she had had a very long, very hard day, and a more attentive ear might have caught a note of despair under the bright, intelligent interest.

'Fifty-nine cubic feet to begin with, of course,' said Stephen, drawing two dwarfish figures on the bench and adding in parenthesis 'There sat the worthy Captain Dundas, and there sat I- elbow-room galore, as you see. But naturally as the bell sank, as it was lowered away a couple of fathoms, the water rose, compressing the air, so that we felt a certain pringling in our ears. When it reached the bench we raised our feet, thus,' - setting his own on the sofa - 'and plucked the cord, the signal for the barrel.' He drew the barrel with its two bung-holes and its leather hose travelling down guidelines to the lower edge of the bell, explaining that it was not quite to scale. 'Down it came, the good barrel, compressing its own air as it came, do you see? We seized the hose, and the moment we raised it above the surface - the surface of the water in the barrel, you understand - the compressed air rushed into the bell with inconceivable force and the water sank from the bench to the lower rim! And so the barrels came down one after another and so the dear bell sank, the light growing a little dim, but not too dim to read or write, oh no. We had lead slabs to write on with an iron stylus, which we sent up with a string; and to let out the vitiated air, so that it was always fresh, there was a little cock at the top. Will I draw you my little cock?'

Eventually he brought the bell to the bottom, and making a last effort she said 'The bottom of the sea, Mother of God: and what did you find there?'

'Worms!' he cried.'Such worms. Marine worms in great abundance… It was there that I made an inconsiderate step into the fetid mud of ages, yet it scarcely disturbed any but the nearest. These were of the plumed kind known as…'

At the beginning of his account of the Maltese annelids he noticed that her bosom was heaving. He knew very well that it was not heaving for him but he did not realize that grief was the cause until he reached the bizarre mating habits of Polychaeta rubra, when to his intense embarrassment and distress he saw tears coursing down her cheeks. His exposition faltered; their eyes met; she gave him a painfully artificial smile and then her chin trembled and she broke into passionate weeping at last.

--Treason's Harbour

[the-meri-rose]

"'Which we ain't got no drummer, sir,' said his loblolly boy. 'All the jollies was left at Malta.'

'Very true,' said Stephen. 'But a drum I must have.' He was not very good at drawing teeth and he liked his patient to be deafened, amazed, stupefied by a thundering in his ears."

- Treason's Harbour

Stephen, what the hell!

[m-n-chr-me]

Treason's Harbour by Patrick O'Brian

A Personal Annotation. | DNF

Note: This is strictly for fun and to put my thoughts somewhere while also welcoming outside perspectives or guidance if I've missed anything. So come along, listen to my thoughts if you wish.

God, this book was a struggle to read. First DNF of 2025, but not necessarily because the book was bad.

To say this book is lengthy would be an understatement. I felt like I was only ever learning about Captain Pullings, Maurtin, and the other captain for 15 pages — which I normally enjoy! But for some reason, this book was too much. I felt like I was starting to force myself through the pages; found myself getting lost and forgetting what point I was at, only to realise I already read that paragraph and tried to find my spot again.

I would've maybe drew a line or folded it or something similar, but it was a borrowed book from the library. I should invest in a tool to help me keep track in the future; but for now, I'll put this book on the shelf and look for something else. I want to try and find more nautical books that'll be easier to digest or easier to find my spot at least.

[hms-lurking-latinist]

kind of want to reread The Mauritius Command but also if I encounter the Clonfert storyline again I might start setting things on fire

[ltwilliammowett]

Treasons Harbour, by Geoff Hunt (1948-)

[desireangel]

- 💋Masterlist!

A collection of fics penned by little ol’ me for all of you to enjoy xx

- Key:

🥀 • oh, the angst!

💋 • she’s so sexy!

🍓• it’s fluffy!

🌹• a oneshot wonder!

- Aemond Targaryen:

Series + Multipart fics:

Infernal Desires

When your family is caught up in treasonous scandal, the Prince Regent makes an offer that is impossible to refuse. To avoid what certainly would have been death by his sword, your family promises you to a man who is followed by whispers of violence and sin.

Part One • Part Two

💋.

Dark Cherry

After months of a marriage that hardly harbours the passion that you'd dreamed about, you stumble across the reason for your husband's indifference and decide enough is enough. Aemond will learn just exactly what he's been missing out on.

Part One • Part Two • Part Three • Part Four • Part Five

🥀💋.

Honey & Venom

In exchange for an escape from his death, the curse upon Aemond had seemed an easy price to pay for an eternal life of strength and power. But when the time comes for his debt to be collected and a mysterious illness sends you to the doorstep of the reclusive and fearsome Lord of Harrenhal's century-old castle, Aemond is faced with the other half of his soul and the agonising realisation that perhaps the cost of his salvation will also become his downfall.

Series Masterlist

🥀💋. vampire!Aemond.

Oneshots:

Bad Things

Aemond is plagued with doubts and seeks refuge in the one place where he is at peace with himself; between his beloved wife's legs.

🌹💋.

A Good Girl's Reputation

It was the last place you wanted to be but nonetheless, you found yourself pulled along to a party you hosted by none other than the Targaryen's, only for spilled wine to force you into Aemond's shirt. A sight that had him dragging you to his bed, eager to corrupt the well-behaved girl who had set him ablaze with desire.

Modern!Aemond. 🌹💋.

xoxo, kisses! <3

[shini--chan]

Hello! Would it be alright to request a world war scenario for Yandere Germany where his s/o asked England for protection? (Bonus points if England is also a yandere) If you do not feel comfortable with this, please ignore this ask :)

Yandere Hetalia (England, Germany) - Spoils of War

For simplicity's sake, I would say that this would happen in the middle of the war. While Ludwig’s knee jerk impulse would be to start a war to regain you, his more practical side would lead to him dispatching a small extraction team at worst. He wouldn’t really start a war because of you. So, you would probably flee from Ludwig after being disillusioned with him after all the atrocities he would commit in the first few years of the war - Operation Barbarossa, Generalplan Ost, the beginnings of the Holocaust. Thus, you would likely stumble upon some of the feelers that Arthur put out. 

Arthur would be delighted at the chance to reel you in and do so willingly. It would be killing multiple birds with one stone in his case, since he would mine you for intelligence and also use you to taunt Ludwig. In the moments where he would be feeling particularly petty, then he would convince you to write a letter to Ludwig in order to rub salt in the wound. 

England might take you along with him in order to tie you closer to him and to make it more difficult for Ludwig to get you back. If you wouldn’t be hardy already, then this chance to make you jump into his arms out of fright. He would coo at how cute you are in that case. Aside from that, he would use the war and the prospect of you being kidnapped by German agents to make you oblivious of his red flags. If that fails, then at least be more accepting of them. Even if you would recognise all his toxic tendencies, where would you go? Back to Ludwig? Back to a genocidal maniac losing the war? He would point all this out should you start harbouring second thoughts, maybe even frame it as you contemplating treasoning and being no better than Ludwig.   

When the war would end, he would downright flaunt you off to Ludwig. Perhaps he would even requisition the house you shared with Ludwig, and invite Ludwig for tea now and then. Or even coffee, in order to pointedly remind Ludwig of his lack of real coffee in the reconstruction years. And his lack of you, and that you chose to be with the more moral man.

[ola-na-tungee]

Treason's Harbour

[irregularincidents]

In the early hours of the morning of 11th September 1851, a federal marshal approached the home of escaped slave William Parker in the town of Christiana, Pennsylvania.

Thanks to the Fugitive Slave Act of 1850s, it was now legal for people from slave states to travel into states where slavery was illegal to kidnap former enslaved people (or people whom they could claim to be escaped slaves to sell in the Southern States, such as what happened to Solomon Northup, of 12 Years A Slave fame, albeit prior to the Act itself) to return them to their "owners", in addition to the Act introducing harsh penalties for those harbouring escaped slaves or assisting in their escape and requiring free state officials to assist in the slave hunters' activities.

Now, the town of Christiana had a population of mostly freed and escaped African American people, and as such was subject to frequent raids by Southern slave hunters and their Northern collaborators, and for the past twenty yeas a successful resistance movement had formed to repel these attempts to kidnap people, with the current leader of the resistance being the aforementioned William Parker.

It was due to this resistance movement, an agent of the Special Secret Committee as Thomas Slaughter's 1991 book Bloody Dawn: The Christiana Riot and Racial Violence in the Antebellum North called it, Samuel Williams, spotted slave owner Edward Gorsuch recruit two Philadelphia police officers as he was gathering a posse as he planned to come to Christiana to kidnap four of Gorsuch's escaped slaves.

So when Gorsuch, the cops and his other slave hunters arrived at Parker's home, he found the home both heavily fortified and filled with heavily armed African American folk with their white Quaker neighbours and allies. Gorsuch, perhaps predictably for a racist, assumed that the Parker's white allies were actually the people in charge and tried addressing them in an attempt to say that, legally, they had to hand over his "property".

One of the aforementioned escaped folk, Samuel Thompson, was then physically confronted by Gorsuch, with Samuel promptly clubbing him to the ground, where he was swiftly shot to death. Gorsuch's son, Dickinson, attempted to rescue his father, only to get shot multiple times too, and had to be dragged to safety by a member of the slave hunter posse, who then fled under a hail of bullets.

Following the Christiana Incident (or Riot or "Tragedy" if you're from a slave state), Parker, the escaped slaves, and some of the other black resistance members fled to Canada, with Parker making a stop at the home of Frederick Douglass along the way. The response of President Millard Fillmore was to call in the marines, where they arrested 36 blacks and five whites, and promptly charged them with treason in an attempt to make an example of them.

The government decided that Castner Hanway (sometimes spelled Hanaway), one of the white men charged, was "obviously" the ringleader... only for the jury to find him not guilty after 15 minutes deliberation (with some interpreting this as meaning that the anti-slavery group's use of violence was justified, and others arguing that they it was absurd to argue that a bunch of poorly armed Quaker farmers had decided to wage war on the United States). Likewise all of the other people, including the black people, were also acquitted.

The Christiana Incident is held up as one of the many, many contributing factors to the start of the American Civil War (with Southerners being angered at the North for not convicting/executing anyone for Gorsuch's death, while the Northerners arguing that a slave owner being able to enter a Free State and commandeer a bunch of cops by force to help him kidnap people as an example of the Southerners' political over reach), but a direct link to the wider history of the United States comes after Gorsuch's youngest son, Thomas.

Thomas was also present at the Christiana Incident, and would bitterly complain to his friend and classmate, a member of a famous acting family by the name of John Wilkes Booth, about his family being "robbed of justice" over the matter of his father's death. Some, such as the podcast Last Podcast on the Left, highlight this connection to Christiana as the possible point where Booth was radicalised the actor from being just another petty racist among many to being the kind of petty racist who'd murder people in defence of the idea of racism.

[yerimsdreams]

Duty is Sacrifice

author's note: chapter 2 is finally here! sorry for the wait, I had an exam period, but that is finally over!

cregan stark x oc (she/her pronouns)

warnings: swearing. sentencing. mention of death and murder. spoilers for fire&blood.

The council chamber was dimly lit by the morning light filtering through narrow windows, casting long shadows across the stone walls. The air was thick with the scent of parchment and the muted rustle of cloaks as the nobles took their seats. Cregan sat at the head of the table, towering above everyone else. 

Benjicot, Oscar and Kermit cautiously observed him. Kermit's fingers lightly drummed against the table as his brother and friend awaited the words of the Lord of Winterfell. 

On the other side of the table, the brothers Leowyn and Corwyn Corbray of the Vale sat with anticipation. They'd only arrived that morning in King's Landing after they had received word from Lady Arryn, who occupied a place at the opposite end of the table, her sharp gaze never leaving Cregan. 

He let the silence stretch, allowing it to settle over the room. He knew what was coming, the resistance he would face, but he remained fixed. 

''Unworthy as Aegon the Usurper might have been, his murder was high treason. Those responsible must answer for it.'' He spoke clearly, his hands clasped in front of him. 

The others remained quiet at his words, exchanging uneasy glances with one another. It was a sentiment that most did not share, but none were eager to challenge the northman so directly. 

''My lord,'' Benjicot dared to speak up, ''no one here disputes the crime that was committed, but we must consider the realm. Pursuing vengeance will only breed more unrest.'' 

''What of those who still hold Aegon the Elder's banner? What if they decide to seek a vengeance of their own in response to those imprisoned here?'' Lord Leowyn asked, shifting in his seat. 

''There are still pockets of resistance, but they are of little consequence, my Lords.'' Lady Jeyne Arryn responded to his concerns, before Cregan could. 

Lord Tully spoke up for the first time, scratching his voice. ''The Dance is done. The war is over, and the realm is in shambles. It is time to make peace.'' 

The Warden's eyes flicked to Kermit, studying the young boy's tired features. The desire for peace was palpable in the room, but so was the fear of what Cregan might do if his demands were not met.

''The realm must heal,'' he conceded, though his tone remained firm, ''but it cannot come at the mercy of justice. The killers of King Aegon II cannot be allowed to walk free, lest we invite more treachery.'' 

Kermit Tully’s drumming fingers stopped abruptly. He leaned forward, his expression serious, any trepidation that had manifested itself around Cregan gone. ''Let it be on your head, Stark. I want no part of this, but I will not have it said that Riverrun stood in the way of justice.'' 

Cregan nodded, somewhat relieved they would stop fighting him on this, even if it was done with heavy hearts and lingering doubts. 

''Aegon the Younger will have to make you Hand, my Lord. No lord has the right to put another lord to death. You will need the King's authority to act in his name.'' Ser Corwyn reminded him. If Cregan were to put sentences on the kingslayers' heads, he will at least do so according to the law. 

The Warden gave an unimpressed glare to the Corbray knight. He had no desire to undermine the authority of the King, nor to cast doubt on the justice he sought to dispense. The law would be his shield as much as his sword. 

''Then it will be done,'' Cregan declared, ''I will seek the King’s authority, and with it, the traitors will be judged.'' 

The room fell into a heavy silence. The lords and Lady Arryn exchanged uneasy glances but did little more than nod. They could sense the determination in Cregan, a man who would not easily be swayed from his course. Even if they harboured doubts, they understood that any attempt to change his mind would be futile. Cregan held the authority in court now, whether they liked it or not.

''Where is Visenya?'' Bloody Ben asked. He had waited all meeting for her to walk into the room and join them, her empty seat now gathering dust as the council continued without her.

The question hung in the air, drawing the attention of the assembled lords. Cregan looked over to the Blackwood boy, his keen eyes narrowing ever so slightly. It was not only the inquiry that caught him off guard, but the casual way Benjicot referred to Visenya - by her name alone, without her title. Cregan knew that the young lord had fought alongside her, sharing the burdens of war in ways that few others could understand. But even so, the breach in formalities did not sit well with him. 

Before he could even think of a response, Jeyne's voice had him beaten again. ''It is curious, isn't it?'' She mused, her tone deceptively light, though her eyes gleamed with sharpness. ''The Princess is not one to retreat without reason.'' 

She did not know why Visenya had confined herself to her chambers for days on end, speaking to no one but the young King Aegon. However, she had her suspicions, and they pointed directly to the man sitting at the head of the table.

The lords around the table exchanged puzzled glances, not fully grasping the weight of her words, but Cregan understood. Her pointed comment was as much a question as it was an accusation, a way of nudging Cregan to acknowledge his own part in whatever had driven Visenya into isolation. 

But Cregan would not allow her to unsettle him in front of the others. ''The Princess will join us when she is ready.'' He replied, emphasising her title as he glanced at Lord Blackwood. 

''Or when you are ready for her to join us?'' She'd leaned forward as she asked, further provoking the Warden of the North. 

It was uncomfortable to watch, to say the least. The Maiden of the Vale the only one brave enough to somewhat challenge the Wolf of the North. Cregan would respect it if he was not the object of her sharp words. He knew she was testing him, trying to see how far she could push, but he was not about to give her the satisfaction of a reaction. 

''Whenever that may be,'' his voice was surprisingly calm, ''the council will continue its work. I suggest we resume our other duties now.'' 

The finality in his tone left no room for further provocation. Jeyne, though clearly unsatisfied, leaned back in her seat, her eyes still fixed on him, as if weighing his resolve. 

One by one, the lords rose from their seats exchanging quiet murmurs as they made their way out of the council chamber. The clatter of boots and swords filled the air, the heavy atmosphere easing as the chamber slowly emptied. 

Cregan lingered for a moment more, staring at the parchments in front of him. He realised his control over the court was slipping out of his hands. His plans to march on Casterly Rock, Storm's End, and Oldtown had been cast aside, undone by Visenya and Corlys's pacts of peace sent before his arrival. The trials for the traitors in the dungeons was the only thing that remained to him, and he would not let go of it. 

The room had emptied, save for one. 

Jeyne Arryn had no intention of letting him leave without a final word. She rose from her seat and approached him, her steps slow. There was an air of quiet authority about her, the kind that came from years of ruling her own domain with both strength and wisdom. 

''Lord Stark,'' she addressed him, ''a moment, if you would.'' 

Cregan paused, turning to face her with a guarded expression. He was not in the mood for more of her probing comments, but something in her demeanour told him it would be a bit different. 

''What is it you wish to discuss, my Lady?'' He acknowledged, standing up from his chair that scraped against the floor. 

She held his gaze, the silence stretching between them for a heartbeat longer than was comfortable. And then, with a tone that was both knowing and subtly accusatory, she spoke a single name.

''Visenya.''

Cregan's breath hitched for a moment, not expecting such an outright answer. The name hung between them like a drawn sword. 

''What of the Princess?'' He replied, his voice carefully neutral, though he knew it was a futile attempt to shield himself from whatever insight Jeyne was about to lay bare. Cregan could feel his pulse quicken. 

Jeyne tilted her head slightly, a look in her eyes that seemed to see through his composed exterior. ''No one has seen her or spoken to her in days. The court has taken notice, as have I. One might wonder what has driven her to such isolation.'' 

His jaw tightened, the recurring mention of her absence stirring emotions he had tried to bury. He had thought of little else but her in those silent days, his thoughts a storm of conflicting feelings. 

''Perhaps the Princess simply needs time for herself.'' He said, his voice low, though the uncertainty in his tone betrayed him. He didn’t sound sure of himself, and he knew it. 

The Lady's gaze softened, feeling somewhat pitiful for him. ''When the council is in need of her mind, she precludes herself? My cousin's daughter does not run when her presence is required by others.'' 

Cregan's expression remained stoic, his face a mask of controlled indifference. He wasn’t about to let Jeyne, or anyone else, see any sign of doubt or guilt. ''War has taken its toll on all of us, my Lady. I trust the Princess knows what is best for her.'' 

She noted the evasiveness in his voice. She had seen many men in positions of power adopt this same diplomatic tone, a way of deflecting blame while maintaining an air of authority. But Cregan Stark, despite his best efforts, was not fooling her. 

Jeyne's eyes narrowed, her earlier pity giving way to a sharper curiosity. ''Of course,'' she replied, her voice laced with just enough doubt to make it clear she wasn’t convinced, ''But Visenya is not one to retreat, as you have seen for yourself, I am sure. She has been through more than most can bear, yet she always finds a way to press on. So I ask again, what of the Princess, Lord Stark?''

His composure faltered, just for a heartbeat. It was a moment so brief that most might have missed it, but Jeyne Arryn was not most. ''As I said, Lady Arryn,'' he quickly recovered, ''the Princess is taking the time she needs.'' 

''She is not a woman to be underestimated, my Lord. Nor is she one to leave herself out of decisions that deeply affect her family, such as a potential execution of Lord Corlys Velaryon.'' 

She was figuring him out despite Cregan not giving anything away, it aggravated him. ''I do not underestimate her, my Lady,'' he said, keeping his tone respectful, ''I know full well what she is capable of.'' 

Jeyne studied him, letting her eyes wander over his figure. ''Do you?'' She challenged, again. 

A flash of frustration crossed his face before he masked it with his usual composure. ''If you are implying something, Lady Arryn, I suggest you say it plainly.'' 

She chuckled softly, a sound that was more calculating than amused. ''Do not let your sense of duty blind you to what is right in front of you, my Lord.'' Her tone was gentle, more advice than accusation. 

Jeyne did not press further, sensing she had said enough. She offered him a faint smile before leaving. The sound of her footsteps echoed softly as she made her way out of the chamber, leaving Cregan alone with his thoughts and maps. 

As the guards closed the doors behind her, Cregan stared at the empty room and the large table in front of him. She had seen something in him, something he was not ready to admit to himself yet. 

The Great Hall of the Red Keep was eerily silent, the weight of the impending judgments pressing heavily on all present. The Iron Throne loomed in the background, a jagged, forbidding monument to the power that had been fought over so bitterly. But today, it was not the Iron Throne that commanded attention, it was the man sitting before it, on a simple wooden bench, that captured all the eyes in the room. 

Lord Cregan Stark, newly named Hand of the King, though it was less an honour and more a necessity born from the young king's fear and the absence of his formidable aunt, sat in judgement of all the turncloaks and kingslayers that had been arrested. 

The next criminal in session was Ser Perkin the Flea, a man of no great birth but of infamy enough to fill the hall. His shoulders hunched slightly, his gaze shifting nervously as he was brought forward to stand trial. The man who had once risen so high through treachery now looked small and pathetic. 

''Ser Perkin,'' Cregan acknowledged the traitor, ''you rose up in rebellion against your lawful queen and helped drive her from this city to her death. You raised up your own squire in her place, then abandoned him to save your worthless hide.'' 

The Flea opened his mouth to protest to plead his case, but Cregan continued, his voice growing colder with each word. ''The realm will be a better place without you.'' 

Desperation flared in Perkin's eyes. ''I was pardoned for those crimes, my Lord! I was forgiven!'' 

The Warden's expression did not change as he delivered his final, damning words. ''Not by me.'' 

The weight of that statement hung in the air as the Flea was led away, his fate sealed by the undaunted judgement of the Lord of Winterfell. 

Next came Lord Corlys Velaryon, the Sea Snake himself. The room seemed to hold its breath as the old man was brought forward, his chains clinking softly with each step. Unlike Perkin, Corlys did not cower or plead. His gaze was steady, though weary, as he faced Cregan. 

Cregan observed him for a long moment, his thoughts unreadable. The Sea Snake had been many things - an ally, a traitor, a hero, a villain - but now, he stood accused of murder, and that was all that mattered. 

''You stand accused of murder, regicide, and high treason. How do you answer these charges, Lord Velaryon?'' His deep northern accent boomed through the Great Hall. 

Much to everyone's surprise, Corlys did not attempt to hide his guilt. ''What I did, I did for the good of the realm. I would do the same again. The madness had to end.'' 

Cregan remained silent for a moment, his gaze steady, measuring Corlys’s resolve. The old man had seen countless battles, navigated treacherous waters, both literal and political, and yet here he stood, admitting to regicide without a flicker of regret.

As he stared into the Sea Snake’s eyes, Cregan’s mind drifted, if only for a heartbeat, to Visenya. Their bitter words echoed in his memory, and he felt the sting of her absence more keenly than ever. Seven days had passed since they had last spoken, seven days of not having even seen a glimpse of her. It was a wound that festered, a silent torment he could not afford to indulge.

His gaze faltered for a brief moment as those thoughts consumed him, but he quickly steeled himself. This was not the time for doubt. Corlys Velaryon had committed murder, and murder demanded justice, no matter the cost.

''I declare Lord Corlys Velaryon guilty of murder, regicide, and high treason. For his crimes, he must pay with his life.'' Cregan decided, every word a hammer blow. 

The old man stood silent, accepting the verdict with the same calm he had displayed throughout the trial. His granddaughters watched in horror as their grandsire was escorted away back to his cell in the dungeons, now a sentenced murderer and traitor. 

The price of peace was high, and today, it had claimed the Sea Snake.

The halls of the Red Keep were quieter now, the echo of recent trials still lingering in the air. The heavy weight of the verdicts hung over the castle, settling uneasily in every corner, as if the very stones themselves were absorbing the gravity of what had transpired. 

Cregan walked the corridors alone,his thoughts occupied with the day's grim duties. He was heading towards the courtyard, seeking his men, when a sudden presence halted him in his tracks. 

''You cannot do this,'' Baela's voice was steady, her expression fierce, her hand gripping the hilt of a sword, ''Aegon pardoned my grandsire. He granted him mercy, and you cannot simply take that away.'' 

Beside her, Rhaena lingered, her gaze troubled but determined. Cregan could see that while she did not entirely condone her sister's approach, she had chosen to stand by her regardless.

The Warden regarded her for a moment, the corners of his mouth twitching in something that was almost a smile. He recognized the fire in her eyes, a familiar Targaryen resolve that demanded to be heard. But her words, her challenge, it amused him more than it angered him.

''And you intend to force this pardon with that sword?'' Cregan asked, his voice laced with a hint of mockery. 

Baela tightened her grip on the sword, her expression remaining fierce. She had made a show of defiance, but deep down, she knew she would not raise her blade against him. Cregan saw it too, the internal struggle playing out behind her determined gaze. 

He let out a low, rumbling laugh. ''You will not use it, Princess. You are not here to fight me,'' Cregan respected Baela, she had been Jace's betrothed and his late friend had always spoken of her in high praises, ''you are here because you think you can sway me with a threat, but we both know that is not going to work.'' 

Baela clenched her jaw, her pride wounded by his dismissal. Rhaena, who had remained silent until now, finally spoke. ''My sister only seeks what was promised by the King. It is not too late to honour that, Lord Stark.'' 

His laughter faded, replaced by a more serious expression as he looked between the Dragon Twins. ''The King may have offered pardon, but I have not. Your grandsire committed crimes that cannot be overlooked. What’s done is done.'' 

Baela's grip did not falter as she held it up to Cregan, her eyes blazing with a mix of fury and desperation. She could see that her words alone weren't enough to sway him, so she aimed for what she hoped would be a weak spot. 

''Is that what you told Visenya, Lord Stark? Or did you wish to court her, but she rejected your Northern beastliness, and you had her imprisoned like you did our grandsire?'' 

Cregan's eyes flashed with anger at Baela's words, a fire igniting within him that he struggled to keep in check. Her comment had struck deeper than she could have known, but he would not let her see how much it affected him. 

''Whispers of the court do not concern me, Princess.'' He brushed it aside, though his voice was dangerously low, his temper barely restrained. He knew she was trying to provoke him. 

Baela's eyes narrowed as she noted his reaction. ''But they seem to concern my cousin, and what concerns her, concerns us, Lord Stark.'' She said, her tone dripping with disdain. 

His temper flared, but he forced himself to maintain his composure. ''Put the sword down, Princess. You know as well as I do that you will not be making use of it.'' 

Baela refused to back down, the fire in her eyes only growing more intense as she stared him down. ''Do you think so little of us, Lord Stark?'' She asked, her voice venomous. ''You dismiss our concerns, our family, as if they are beneath you. You should know better than to dance with a dragon.'' 

''I do not underestimate anyone,'' he retorted, the same way he had said to Lady Jeyne in the council chamber, ''least of all your cousin. Your grandfather was complicit in the poisoning of a King, even if it was the Usurper. A crime he will be punished for.'' 

Her hand slowly dropped from the sword, the fire in her eyes dimming, replaced by a mixture of frustration and resignation. Still, she was not ready to let him have the last word.

''You might believe this is justice, but there will be those who remember this as cruelty.'' She said quietly, only loud enough for him and her sister to hear. 

Cregan nodded slightly, acknowledging her words without conceding to them. ''History will judge us all, Princess.'' 

With that, he stepped past the two women, leaving them standing in the corridor. He did not slow his pace, even as doubt clawed at the edges of his mind. 

Baela's grip on the sword slackened further, her shoulders drooping as she exchanged a look with Rhaena. Her twin put a comforting hand on her shoulder, guiding her away from the cold emptiness of the corridor. 

The castle was draped in silence, the kind that only settled over King's Landing in the dead of night. The corridors were empty, save for the occasional torch flickering in its sconce. Outside, the air was cool, a stark contrast to the stuffy warmth inside the castle walls.

Visenya moved quietly, her steps light as she made her way through the Great Yard. She had been to see her dragon, Sōnax, seeking solace in the dead of night when sleep eluded her. The moon cast a pale light over the paths, guiding her through the maze of hedges and flowers that had once been so meticulously tended. Now, they seemed as weary as she felt, their blooms drooping in the darkness. 

She passed the godswood, pausing against the heart tree. She took a deep breath, letting the cool air fill her lungs, trying to ease the tension that had settled in her chest. 

It was then that she heard the faint sound of footsteps, slow and deliberate. She turned, instinctively reaching for the dagger she kept hidden in the folds of her gown ever since the start of the Dance, but she relaxed slightly when she saw who it was. 

Cregan emerged from the shadows, his tall figure illuminated by the soft glow of the moon. He had been patrolling the grounds, unable to sleep with the weight of the day’s decisions pressing down on him. The trials, the confrontations - it all swirled in his mind, leaving him restless.

They had not expected to see each other at this hour or even at all until the Lord of Winterfell would ultimately return to the North. 

The pair stared at one another, neither moving or speaking. The tension that had manifested itself in Visenya's chest had been lifted from her body and into the air between them. Cregan's dark eyes met hers, and for the first time in what felt like forever, Visenya did not look away.

''Princess.'' He finally greeted her, his voice rough from the lack of sleep. 

''Lord Stark.'' She nodded, her tone equally guarded. She could see the weariness in his eyes, the lines of fatigue etched into his face. It mirrored her own exhaustion, the strain of everything they had endured. 

He loosened the grip on his sword as he took a few steps closer. ''What brings you here at this hour?'' He asked, though he already suspected the answer. 

''I could ask you the same.'' She replied, her tone neutral, careful.

Cregan let out a soft breath, almost a chuckle, but it lacked any real humour. ''I suppose neither of us has found much comfort in sleep lately.'' 

Visenya nodded, her gaze turning back to the large tree behind her. ''The nights are long when ones thoughts are troubled.'' 

''And yours are troubled, Princess?'' He asked, taking a step closer, though still keeping a respectful distance. 

Her eyes flickered back to his. ''They are. As are yours, I imagine.'' 

Cregan did not provide her with an answer right away, instead watching her. He looked at her, really looked at her, and he could see the toll that the last few days had taken on her. She was still beautiful, even in all her fatigue and unrest. 

''Yes,'' he said, his voice thoughtful, ''there is much to ponder about.'' 

''The trials, I suppose.'' She was leaning against the tree, observing every step and move he made. 

Cregan stopped his pacing and turned to face her. ''Indeed.'' 

''I know what you think of his actions,'' Visenya sighed, '' and I agree that poison is a coward's weapon.'' Her gaze became distant, as if dreaming. 

The Wolf of the North nodded along, his expression one of contemplation.

''When I flew to King's Landing, I only had one purpose; to kill my half-brother, to kill him as he had my sister, by burning him alive and feeding him to my dragon. You can imagine my anger when I arrived here and I am told that the Usurper is dead, and by poison of all ways,'' she chuckled, though the sound was devoid of real mirth. 

''However, I am glad he got a coward's death. My sister died like a true Targaryen, in fire and blood. Her death will be a grand story told for centuries, but no one will remember his. The story of his demise will fade because it lacked the valour and the strength that he lacked,'' She admitted, almost sounding proud. 

Cregan nodded slowly, understanding the fierce loyalty and pride that Visenya held for her family. 

''But there are others who acted not out of cowardice, but out of duty to the realm, to their family. They deserve a different fate.'' She met his gaze again, sorrow in her eyes. 

Cregan's eyes narrowed slightly, sensing where the conversation was leading. ''Lord Corlys Velaryon?'' 

Visenya nodded. ''I ask you one last time to reconsider his sentence. Yes, he made a choice that many would condemn, but without him, Aegon would not be alive today.'' 

He remained unreadable, though his eyes softened slightly. ''You ask much, Princess. The law cannot bend every time someone believes their cause is just.'' 

She stepped closer to him, her violet eyes locked onto his.''If not for the stability of the realm, if not for the honour of my nephew, if not for the sake of peace, for me. A personal boon.'' 

Cregan studied her, the sincerity in her voice piercing through the walls he had built around himself. ''And if I were to grant this boon, what would you offer in return, Princess?'' There was a hint of curiosity, the first time the mighty Warden of the North could actually sound like his conviction could be persuaded. 

''In return, I will give you whatever you desire, Lord Stark.'' Visenya answered, her voice strong despite the tremor in her earlier plea. 

He could see the desperation in her eyes, the way she held herself with a dignity that was both regal and vulnerable. The offer she made was not one to be taken lightly. 

''What I desire?'' He repeated, almost as if testing the weight of those words. He looked down, thoughtful, then back at her, his gaze piercing through the darkness. ''What if what I desire is not something you are willing to give?'' 

Visenya stiffened slightly, her heart pounding as she anticipated what he might say. ''Name it.'' She said, though there was a hint of apprehension in her voice. 

Cregan took another step, closing the distance between them. ''What I desire is all of you, forever.'' 

Visenya felt the air catch in her throat as Cregan's words hung between them. It was as if the entire world had paused, waiting for her response. His dark eyes, intense and unwavering, held hers captive, and for a moment, she found herself unable to speak.

''All of me?'' She managed to whisper. She was not sure if it was a question or an incredulous statement.

Cregan nodded, his expression solemn. ''Yes. Your hand in marriage, your loyalty, your trust - everything that you are, everything that you could be. Not just for a night or a season, but for as long as we both shall live.'' 

She searched his eyes, looking for a trace of jest or manipulation, but found only earnestness. The Warden of the North was not a man to make light of such things. The very idea was preposterous - her, a Targaryen, bound to the North? Yet, in that moment, it felt as though he was offering something more than a mere proposal. It was an invitation to a different kind of life, one far away from King's Landing. 

She let out a small, breathless laugh, one that held no humour. ''Are you mad, my Lord? A Targaryen in the North?'' 

Cregan's lips curved into a faint smile, though his eyes remained serious. ''Perhaps I am, my Princess. But madness and greatness often walk hand in hand, do they not?'' 

Visenya regarded him, the idea swirling in her mind. It was mad, audacious, and yet... "You would truly ask this of me? To marry into the North, where winter reigns and dragons do not fly?"

He nodded, his expression unwavering. ''I would. The North may be a land of ice and snow, but it is also a land of honour, of strength, and of loyalty. It is a place where bonds are not easily broken, where words are not just spoken but lived, my Princess.'' 

''It is no place for dragons, nor for those who carry their blood.'' She shook her head. 

''And yet, here you are,'' he countered, ''a dragon in King's Landing, a place that has brought you nothing but pain and loss. What has this city given you that the North could not? What has this life offered you, other than endless war and treachery?'' 

She opened her mouth to respond but found herself at a loss for words. His questions struck at the heart of her fears, her uncertainties. The life she had known was one of fire and blood, of power plays and betrayals. But what had it truly brought her? What had it cost her?

Everything. 

Cregan took her silence as an opportunity to continue. ''I offer you more than just a marriage, Princess. I offer you a chance to build something new, something not tainted by the ghosts of the past.'' 

Visenya felt a chill run down her spine, though she was not sure if it was the cold night air or the weight of his words. For a moment, she allowed herself to imagine it - a life in Winterfell, far from the scheming of King’s Landing, the endless battles for power. A life with a man who, despite his stern exterior, had shown her a kind of respect and understanding she had not expected. 

But the thought of leaving everything behind, of binding herself to a man she barely knew, was terrifying. ''You ask much of me, my Lord.'' She remarked, her voice slightly trembling. 

''And you asked much of me, my Princess.'' He retorted gently. 

''You are right,'' she chuckled, ''I did ask much of you.'' 

Visenya looked down, her thoughts a tangled web of doubt and longing. She had always been a Targaryen, defined by her name, her blood, her dragon. But what had that brought her? Loss after loss, betrayal after betrayal. 

''What of my dragon? Sōnax is a creature of fire and sky, bound to me as I am to her.'' She could not leave her behind, she'd seen how Seasmoke had acted when Laenor left. She did not want Sōnax to be subjected to the same fate. 

''She would find her place,'' he assured her, his eyes not leaving hers, ''The North may be cold, but it is also vast, with endless skies and mountains that reach the heavens. She will not be confined, just as you will not be.'' 

It did not feel real to her. As a young girl, she had imagined how her betrothal would go. She figured it would be much like her sister's, one to strengthen alliances and no regard for what either the bride or groom want. There was no room for dreams or desires. It was all about duty. 

Despite asking him for a favour, his proposal almost felt like a choice. It felt foreign, strange, like something she was not accustomed to. To have a choice in something so monumental felt both liberating and terrifying.

''And if I say yes, if I agree to this... I want to be your equal. I do not wish for you to rule, while my only purpose would be to squeeze out heirs like a broodmare.'' She was firm and resolute, no room for arguing. 

Cregan took her hand, engulfed by his. ''You would be my equal in every way, my Princess. We do not see women as mere vessels for heirs. I already have one, my son Rickon. We value strength, wisdom, and the ability to lead, regardless of one's gender.  If you stand beside me as my wife, you will be a Lady of Winterfell, not just in name but in action.'' 

Visenya felt the warmth of his hand enveloping hers, a stark contrast to the cool night air that surrounded them. Her heart raced as she met his gaze, his grey eyes filled with a depth of sincerity she had not encountered before. 

With a deep breath, she nodded, her decision crystallising in the quiet of the night. ''I will marry you, Lord Stark. A hand for a head.'' She agreed, grinning. 

A genuine look of joy and relief crossed Cregan's face. He lifted her hand to his lips, pressing a tender kiss to her knuckles. ''Then it is settled,'' he said, his voice warm with emotion, ''I will have my men release Lord Corlys from his cell when the sun rises.'' 

''Thank you, my Lord.'' She expressed quietly. 

''Cregan.'' He corrected gently. 

''What?'' Visenya blinked, caught off guard by his sudden informality.

''You may call me Cregan.'' He repeated, his smile softening. 

Visenya hesitated for a moment before nodding, a small smile forming on her lips. ''Then you may call me Visenya.'' She offered in return. 

The familiarity between them, though still new, felt strangely comfortable. 

''I will be leaving for Winterfell once the sentences have been carried out.'' Cregan informed her, still holding onto her hand. 

She nodded, the gravity of his words not lost on her. ''So soon,'' she murmured, squeezing his larger hand as if to hold onto the moment a little longer, ''I will have to stay here longer. For Aegon, he needs me here for the time being.'' 

''I know,'' he mumbled back, ''your duty to him comes first. But when your time here is done, Winterfell will be waiting for you...and so will I.'' 

There was a tenderness in his words that made Visenya's heart ache. She gave him a small nod, her grip on his hand tightening for just a moment before she finally let go. 

''We will discuss the formalities once we both have found some rest. I am retiring for the night.'' She announced, suddenly feeling the exhaustion of the past week catching up with her as she leaned against the tree. 

Cregan noticed the weariness in her posture and stepped forward. ''Allow me to escort you to your chambers, my Princess.'' He offered his arm, for her to support her weight. 

Visenya smiled softly, touched by his offer but aware of the distance between their quarters. ''You are kind, Cregan, but your chambers are far, and you need rest as well. We have both endured enough for one night.'' Her words were gentle, her refusal a considerate one. 

He hesitated for a moment, then nodded, understanding her reasoning. ''As you wish,'' he accepted, ''goodnight, my betrothed.'' She could see a hint of a smirk on his face. 

''Goodnight, my betrothed.'' Visenya echoed, the words feeling both strange and comforting on her lips. 

With one last look, they parted ways, each retreating to their respective chambers. 

As Visenya walked away, the weight of their conversation settled over her like a heavy cloak. She had made a decision that would change the course of her life, and yet, she felt a strange sense of peace. It was not the peace that came from certainty, but the kind that came from acceptance, from choosing a path and committing to it. 

Cregan watched her until she disappeared into the castle, a mix of emotions swirling within him. He had asked for her hand not out of a simple desire for power or alliance, but because he saw how fiercely she protected those who had stood by her sister and their family.

He wanted to be the object of her loyalty, amidst other things. 

taglist: @oxymakestheworldgoround

[giftofgabber]

Foodie History of America 🇺🇸

In 1773, one colonist dumped dumped 3,000 cartons of “Winnie the Pooh” CD-Rs into Boston Harbour. This act of treason was known as the “Pooh Bear Incident”. 🤗

[leona-florianova]

'My coat I can shift, and even my shirt and stockings,' said Stephen. 'But these are my only good shoes.' 'You ought to have put on an old pair, if you wished to go a-diving,' said Professor Graham, who had not studied moral philosophy in vain. 'Or even half-boots. I should not be altogether unwilling to lend you a pair, although they have silver buckles; but they must necessarily be too big.' 'That is of no importance,' said Stephen. 'They can be stuffed with handkerchiefs, paper, lint. So long as the heels and toes press against a firm but yielding support the external dimensions of the shoe do not signify.' 'They were my grandsire's,' said Professor Graham, taking them from a cloth bag, 'and at that time it was usual for men to add a couple of inches to their stature by the means of cork heels.' Stephen's 'cello, though bulky in its padded, sea-going sailcloth case, was not a heavy instrument, nor had he any shyness about carrying it through the public streets. It was not weight or embarrassment that made him pause and gasp and sit down on steps so often, but mere agony. His theory on the size of shoes was mistaken and it had proved to be so within a very short space of time, the evening being uncommonly warm, while his only clean, wearable stockings were made not of silk but of lamb's wool. His feet, already cramped by the unnatural heels, swelled in the course of the first two hundred yards, and began to chafe, blister, and grow raw even before he reached the crowded, cheerful Strada Vescovo. His staggering progress gave the impression that he was drunk, and a little group of whores and street boys kept him company, hoping eventually to profit from this state of affairs.

'Calor, rubor, dolor,' he said, sitting down again at a street corner under the gently-lit image of St Rocco. 'This cannot go on. Yet if I take off my shoes, I cannot carry them and the cello too: on the other hand any of these wicked boys might run off with them, and then what should I say to Graham? Again, I am unwilling to trust the instrument to their careless hands: the bag must be nursed in both arms, like a tender, ailing child. If only there were a good-humoured girl among these trumpery queans… but they seem a hard-faced set entirely. I am on the horns of a dilemma.

--Treason's Harbour

[blasphemousclaw]

Bernahl and the Blasphemous Claw

Bernahl seems to be the most senior recusant at the Volcano Manor; he’s been an agent of the Manor since we meet him in Limgrave (“You are an enigma, to be certain. The Volcano Manor awaits you.”), he’s a seasoned killer on the Manor’s behalf, and he wields a very important weapon to the Manor’s mission — the Devourer’s Scepter, depicting the serpent cult’s prophecy of the serpent devouring the world. Tanith bestows weapons upon the manor’s greatest champions, so it makes sense that she gave Bernahl the scepter as a reward for his exemplary service. This begs the question, though: if Tanith’s goal is to feed Volcano Manor’s strongest champions to Rykard, so they might join the “family” and aid in his growth and power, then why was Bernahl not eaten? 

I think this is because he was entrusted with a special task; by Rykard, or by Tanith in Rykard’s stead. After Bernahl leaves the Manor, the next time we see him, he invades us in Farum Azula, carrying the Blasphemous Claw:

“A slab of rock engraved with traces of the Rune of Death. Can deflect the power of the Black Blade. On the night of the dire plot, Ranni rewarded Praetor Rykard with these traces. Should the coming trespass one day transpire, they would serve as a last-resort foil, allowing Rykard to challenge Maliketh the Black Blade, the black beast of Destined Death.”

Why does Bernahl have this object? Given that we encounter him on the way to Maliketh, and that the claw has the unique ability to deflect the power of his black blade, it’s safe to assume Bernahl is going after Maliketh. On our own journey, after Melina gives herself to the flames, we are transported to Farum Azula, where we defeat Maliketh in order to unbind the Rune of Death, bringing “death’s dark fate” back to the Lands Between and causing the Erdtree to burn. Crucially, Maliketh must be defeated so the Rune of Death can be unbound, allowing the Erdtree to burn… so this must also be Bernahl’s intention in going after Maliketh. This reading is supported by Bernahl’s speech to us before leaving:

“So. You killed Rykard? I harbour you no ill will. The strong take. Such is our code. Even he was prepared to meet a wretched end when he first took blasphemy unto his very flesh. But anyroad, the Volcano Manor is no more. Though we may yet fulfill an old promise. We hunted our own kind, and took what was theirs. And with everything in hand, the time has come to rise, against the Erdtree. O Greater Will, hear my voice. I am the recusant Bernahl, inheritor of my brother's will, and you will fall to my blade. We refuse to become your pawns. Consider this fair warning.”

Bernahl says that now, the time has come to rise against the Erdtree, and he calls out the Greater Will specifically. I think it’s clear that he intends to fight against the Greater Will by first burning the Erdtree. When Bernahl refers to “his brother,” he’s referring to Rykard, in the sense that they are brothers-in-arms in a wider struggle against the Greater Will, and that Rykard’s will has now become Bernahl’s will… in fact, Rykard has actually intended to burn the Erdtree and to go after Maliketh and the Rune of Death for a long time: there are paintings of the Erdtree burning hung throughout the Manor, and Ranni had given him the Blasphemous Claw in the first place so that he could challenge Maliketh, “challenge” implying an offensive attack. 

I believe the “old promise” Bernahl speaks of is not only a promise he made to Rykard and Tanith to fulfill this task, but it might also refer to a promise Rykard himself made to Ranni. Long before the Shattering, the siblings mutually agreed that the Greater Will must be overthrown: the “coming trespass” mentioned in the Blasphemous Claw’s description refers to an open act of treason, one that Rykard and Ranni must have intended to carry out against the Erdtree. I speculate that the two had a kind of agreement, that Ranni would slay her empyrean flesh, then eventually kill her Two Fingers and be free of their influence for good, while Rykard challenged Maliketh and burned the Erdtree, opening the door for a new age free of the Greater Will’s control. Obviously, things went... awry. 

But indeed, Bernahl’s message to the Greater Will that “we refuse to become your pawns” is essentially the exact same sentiment as Ranni’s words against her Two Fingers: “I would not be controlled by that thing.” For me, that’s proof enough that Ranni and Rykard’s joint struggle against the Greater Will left a lasting impression. 

[dangerousconnoisseurdonut]

People are probably going to ignore this, but I think writing this out will be cathartic.

Today is the day - when Americans decide who will lead them for the next four years. Trump fans are Trump fans and nothing I say will convince them to be anything but. This post isn't for them - it's for people who are willing to throw their votes away because they hate both candidates.

This is what the Republicans want.

This is a popularity contest and they are counting on you to find both parties conceited jocks but, because one jock has promised THEM protection, they will vote for him.

Yes, the Harris/Biden institution has done questionable and some downright wrong things. But are those wrong things worse than a man who disrespected veterans, has badmouthed Muslims, has stated he will put a nationwide ban on Abortion, remove health care for the elderly and trans people, blamed the nations problems on immigration when there is a well-known lady in the New York harbour that offers the world "Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe freely", and a multitude of other things that will hurt everyone who isn't a White Anglo-Saxon Protestant?

Trump is not for the working man; he's for himself.

He took files concerning the safety of the country home and left them in unlocked rooms such as his closet.

When he lost the last election, he incited people to storm Capitol Hill to overturn the election - an act that is treason by the constitution.

He walked into the changing room of Miss. Teen USA.

Has threatened Marie Yovanovitch.

He threatened Liz Cheney.

He hates homosexuals.

Called Mexicans rapists.

Told people to swallow bleach during the pandemic.

Ordered Pennsylvania to stop counting votes.

Won't allow abortion even in the event of rape - and just a friendly reminder that menstruation can start as early as 8 years old.

And this is only off the top of my head - this isn't who is the best, it's about who is the lesser of two evils.

Please vote. This is incredibly important.

[myreia]

wip wednesday

tagged by @roguelioness, ty! 💖 it's late so i'm not going to tag anyone. here's 500-ish words of my next wolcred fic i am fighting with. endwalker, the night before the ragnarok takes off.

“Still wandering about?” Thancred’s voice accompanies the familiar tread of his feet, boots clunking against the stone pier. “And here I thought you would have taken the opportunity to seek a good night’s rest.”

Aureia folds [Azem's] crystal into her palm, hiding it from view. “Can’t sleep,” she murmurs, glancing over her shoulder. “Too much on my mind.”

“Ah.” He shrugs off his coat and drapes it around her shoulders, then thumps down beside her. He stares out contentedly at the sea, his hazel eyes passing over the moored ships bobbing in the harbour to the hazy isles across the bay and the horizon beyond them. “You spoke with everyone, I take it?”

“Briefly. Yes.”

“And… how are they taking it?”

She squeezes the crystal hard, its edges digging into her skin. “Prepared,” she replies. “Determined. Content, I think. As we should all be, I suppose. We passed Hydaelyn’s test. We proved ourselves worthy. We have a direction and carry our goddess’ faith. We couldn’t have asked for a better outcome.”

Her stomach lurches the moment the words leave her mouth, the bitter aftertaste sharp on her tongue. Will he notice? Gods, how can she even have this conversation with him? With Urianger or Y’shtola or Alisaie or any of the Scions? There has been a hole in her heart ever since she returned from her sojourn to the past, its very shape treasonous to everything they believe. How could she admit to it to those she loves and trusts the most when their whole lives have been have been dedicated to the very thing she has begun to question?

Perhaps this is one last secret she needs to bury, and bury deep. An understanding she shares with herself and only herself, while on the outside she smiles and nods and says all the expected words.

A lump forms in her throat. What would Ardbert say, were he still here? They shared the same soul, after all. Though they had their differences, they were like-minded to a fault—like the twin brother she should have had instead of Kallias. But Ardbert is long gone, and she can no longer share her open thoughts with him.

A gentle breeze swirls across the harbour, blown from far away. How far has it travelled, she wonders? Across the sea, from a continent away? Further? This time tomorrow they will be travelling even further than that, across a whole sea of stars.

“Then how do you intend to spend your sleepless night, Aureia?” Thancred asks, catching her eye. His hand lingers against the small of her back, firm and comforting. “Shall we remain? Or retire? It is as Y’shtola said—as long as we make the most of our time, then that is all that matters.”

The suggestion in his voice is bare, and for a moment it is tempting to fall for it. A final night with him—their last night before the dawn—to make one last memory together, something for either of them to hold on to should the worst happen… It would make up for the time they have lost this past year. Garlemald strained their marriage in ways they could not anticipate, pushing their relationship to the breaking point. If she had known what she knows now, perhaps she would never have let it go that way. They have so much to make up for, and now they are out of time.

It would be so easy to say yes to this. Her heart aches for it, demands it with every beat.

You can’t. You can’t. Not until you say what you need to say, gods damn it.

[ltwilliammowett]

Cooking like a Sailor - Admiral's Flip

A small drink fresh from the galley today. Readers of the Aubrey Maturin books will already be familiar with this one, as he sent poor Pullings to the land of dreams when he had a few too many after learning of his promotion to Master and Commander (Treason's Harbour, 31-2). We are talking about the Admiral's Flip.

Today, a flip refers to a group of cocktails made with fortified wine or brandy that contain egg yolks or whole eggs. Unlike eggnogs, however, neither milk nor cream is added. In the 18th century in North America, a flip was understood to be a slightly different group of drinks: This was always based on rum, mixed with beer or cider and drunk hot. The drink became unpopular after the American War of Independence, when rum lost popularity in the United States. The modern flip probably developed from this group of drinks. Beer or cider was omitted, egg was added instead and the sugar content was increased.

The North American flip, which played a major role in North America for over a century, was first mentioned in 1690. To make the drink, a large jug was filled mainly with strong beer. Ingredients were then added to sweeten the drink. This could be molasses or parts of a sugar loaf, but sweet fruit was also used. Around a quarter of a litre of rum was added. The mixture was neither stirred nor shaken. Instead, a small iron with a ball about the size of an onion at one end was heated in an open fire until it was red-hot. The red-hot iron, a so-called "loggerhead", which was also used to heat pitch, was then dipped into the jug - the mixture not only became hot, but also began to foam strongly. It was then divided into smaller glasses and drunk hot, as mentioned earlier.

The Admiral's Flip works slightly differently and is also drunk cold. It is not known when this type of drink first appeared. However, it seems to have emerged at the end of the 18th early 19th century and was more likely to have been drunk in the Navy.

But let's get to the recipe (Lobscouse & Spotted Dog, by Anne Chotzinoff Grossman and Lisa Grossman Thomas)

Mix 1/2 cup of chilled brandy with 2 tablespoons of sugar until the sugar has dissolved. Then pour in 1 1/2 cups of champagne and flavour with 1 whole nutmeg. Pour into ice-cold tankards and enjoy.