#no flints mints needed | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

anubislover · 2 months ago

Text

A Black Candle and A Broken Star

"Yeah, I know Rackstraw. He's the reason I left the law." "Is that right? I noticed your star. I didn't wanna say anything. But you're not a lawman no more." "Not anymore."

(A fanfic on how Silas Flint's badge got broken.)

It was a quiet day in the town of Last Hope’s Reach. Admittedly, such days were becoming a more consistent trend. What had once been a bustling, close-knit community had dwindled to practically nothing. There were understandable reasons for that��one of the springs had recently dried up, and there had been a series of cattle thefts that had discouraged the local ranchers. That had driven off a fair few folk, but it wasn’t the only thing.

No, a shadow had been creeping over the town, and it was getting people scared to leave their homes. Or if they did, they didn’t plan on coming back. An ominous sensation hung in the air like dust, settling on the shoulders of the townsfolk if they didn’t keep moving. At this rate, Last Hope’s Reach would be a ghost town before the year was up.

But the town wasn’t empty yet, and one lawman was determined to protect the good people who resided there.

Sitting in his office within the county jailhouse, badge shining golden in the late-morning sun, Sheriff Silas Flint looked over the warrants and bounty posters on his desk. They were for the usual crimes—cattle rustling, fraud, disorderly conduct, selling whiskey to Indians, and horse theft. He grimaced at the last one, moving it to the top of the pile. He barely understood why anyone would want a horse, and even less why someone would steal one, but it was a hanging offense regardless, and the law needed to be carried out. The horse’s owner had been greatly inconvenienced by the theft and hadn’t taken too kindly to Silas trying to convince him that he was probably better off without the beady-eyed beast. Damn thing probably even conspired with the thief, to boot. So it was best if the co-conspirators were found and brought in quick, before they could go on a crime spree together. Horses couldn’t be trusted, no matter what Boone or anyone else told him.

Speaking of, Deputy Boone walked through the door, a freshly polished saddle slung over his shoulder. “All the horse tack’s been polished, repaired, and accounted for. Anything else I can help with, Sheriff Flint?”

Silas attempted to look up from his work, but the motion caused his hat to slide down over his eyes. Damn thing always did that, though he was too stubborn to get a new one that fit better. Still, it had its benefits. Like now, he could pretend his scowl had to do with that instead of the presence of the newly minted deputy. Boone had been begging to join up for years, but frankly, Silas never really felt he had the right attitude for it. His mind was too malleable, in Silas’ opinion. Like wet clay, his opinions were easily shaped by others. A man of the law needed to have an open mind, sure, but also conviction in his own beliefs. He shouldn’t be too easily swayed by others.

Rackstraw used to agree with him, even though the man practically worshipped the ground he walked on. Said while his ambition was admirable, Boone wasn’t quite ready to join his posse. And yet, just last month, the Marshal had gone and deputized him. Said his loyalty and faith were virtues they couldn’t afford to overlook anymore. So, Silas was stuck keeping him busy until Rackstraw got back so they could actually talk about what the hell they were going to do with the man. At least he was able to take care of cleaning the stables and feeding the horses so Silas didn’t have to.

“The prison cells clean?” Silas asked, a bit of a grumble in his voice as he lifted up the brim of his hat.

“Yes sir. Considering how we haven’t had any prisoners in the past few weeks, they didn’t need more than a light dusting.”

“Then do me a favor and ride out and check on the pastures. Make sure no more cattle are getting taken from honest folk.”

It was a fairly pointless task—no one with half a brain would steal cattle in the middle of the day—but it would keep the other man busy and out of his hair. Otherwise, Boone was liable to hover around him like a persistent fly. One Silas would be far too tempted to give a good swat. His fuse was notoriously short, and on days like these it was easy to get him riled. Thankfully, Boone either understood this or genuinely thought checking the pastures was a good idea, so he nodded, eager to get back to work. So eager, in fact, that he nearly knocked over a coat rack with the saddle when he turned to leave, pace picking up even more at the annoyed shout of his superior and the paperweight that went sailing through the air after him.

Silas sighed, dragging a calloused hand across his face. This job wasn’t an easy one, but he swore things were getting worse every day in both big and little ways. Boone doing the job he signed up for shouldn’t bother him so much. Perhaps he was just pissed because of how Rackstraw had handled the situation. Just made a major call about who should be a lawman in his town without taking his opinion into account. He’d been doing that a lot, lately. Sure, the Marshal outranked him, but that hadn’t been an issue before. They’d been collaborators. Partners, even. They’d worked together to uphold the law in a wild and often lawless frontier, and Silas had even looked up to him.

Oh how things change in a short time.

Focusing back on the task at hand, Silas moved “selling whiskey to Indians” to the bottom of the stack of warrants. Honestly, he didn’t get why that was against the law, and why the charges were so high for it. A $250 dollar fine at the minimum and possibly up to 20 years in prison? That was just outrageous! The saloon owner who was being charged was an honest man, and if an Indian had the money, why shouldn’t he be permitted to buy himself a drink? And why should the bartender be sent to prison for serving it? Just didn’t make no sense to him.

A lot of things weren’t making sense anymore, really. Silas had always had a strong sense of justice. Laws were put in place to protect good people, and it was a lawman’s job to uphold them and make criminals face the consequences of their actions. But there were limits. The punishment had to fit the crime, otherwise it wasn’t justice, was it?

Another thing he and Marshal Luthar Rackstraw had once agreed on. At least, until he’d found that damn candle. It seemed impossible for something as small and as simple as a candlestick to cause such a great change in a man like Rackstraw. But something was going on with him. It had been subtle, at first, but over the past few months, it was like Silas was working with a different man.

Once, Rackstraw had been one of the most noble men Silas had ever met. He was a man of faith and conviction. He was as well-versed in the Bible as he was in the law and could be heard informing criminals that even if they escaped him, sooner or later they’d be judged by the Lord, and He could not be bought or bargained with. Yet he’d at least been able to acknowledge that his jurisdiction was in the law as the government penned it—just because something was a sin didn’t mean it was illegal, so he had no right to haul a man in for, say, taking the Lord’s name in vain. And he’d been fair, bringing in the criminals he was sent out for back alive so they could be given a fair trial.

Yet ever since he found that damn black-flamed candle, Rackstraw had been different. Silas didn’t even know where he’d gotten the thing, but it never seemed to leave his side. Rackstraw had claimed it was a symbol, no different than the cross he wore or Silas’ badge. Yet as wild as it seemed to blame his behavior on a simple candle, it was the only real outlier. Because Rackstraw had become a zealous stranger as far as he was concerned. Confusing sins for infractions of the law was bad enough, but the last three times the U.S. Marshal had gone out with a warrant to bring in a criminal, he hadn’t been bringing them back for judgement.

No, he’d been bringing them back for a burial.

Jaw clenching, Silas paused in his paperwork. Carefully, he unpinned the badge that indicated his office from his vest. The metal had been polished just that morning, and the six points of the star were as straight as an arrow. Wearing that sheriff’s badge had always been a point of pride to him. Unlike a U.S. Marshal, a county sheriff was chosen by the people. And despite his temper and phobia of horses being well known, the townsfolk had faith in Silas’ morals and judgement to give him this position of authority. Sure, it was often a thankless job, and the pay was shit, but knowing his neighbors trusted him to protect them and dole out justice…well, that warmed his heart and made him all the more determined to keep the peace. Even if the number of people had shrunk, he’d do everything he could to protect them, no matter the cost.

His thoughts were interrupted by commotion outside, and Silas stood up, ready to investigate and potentially put the hurt on anyone who was causing a ruckus. A muscle in his jaw twitched when he heard Boone’s voice, until he made out that the deputy was calling to him from the doorway, grin so wide it nearly split his face.

“Sheriff Flint! Marshal Rackstraw’s back! And he’s got a prisoner!”

Behind him, Silas could see Rackstraw hauling a large man into the jailhouse, practically tossing him into a cell. The marshal was an older man, with a steel-grey beard that nearly matched the cross that hung around his neck, but he was still as broad and strong as ever. Still, manhandling a full-grown man over his shoulder was an impressive feat, considering how he did it all one-handed—his left hand was occupied by a candle that burned with a black flame. The damn thing barely so much as flickered as Rackstraw moved.

Yet for once, Silas was barely thinking about the candle. His smile was wide and bright as he strolled out of his office to greet his old friend. “Well I’ll be damned! Did you actually bring a criminal in alive, Luther?” he asked. For a moment, he felt hope. Maybe the man he’d admired was still in there. Maybe the past few months had been a phase of some kind. A midlife crisis or something that had knocked a few screws loose in an honorable man’s head. Rackstraw had been sliding down a slippery slope, straying less from the path of justice and more towards a sort of fanaticism, but maybe, just maybe, the marshal had found his feet again. Maybe that candle was nothing more than a candle, and everything could go back to normal.

“I did, Silas,” Rackstraw replied, taking a seat at an empty table and setting that strange candle down. His voice had grown raspier as of late. It had worried Silas, and he’d begged his old friend to see a doctor about it. It could be a sign of some terrible ailment, and he’d hate to see a good man taken too soon. Yet Dr. Williams had proclaimed there was nothing wrong with him. Nothing physical, at least. “I felt this sinner had a bigger part to play, and needed to be brought in alive to repent properly.”

That had Silas’ brow furrowing again. Peering into the cell, his fist instinctively slammed against the bars of the cell, making them rattle at his strength. Rage flowed through him, even as the prisoner pressed himself against the far wall in fear. Silas recognized this particular criminal: Emmett Martin. The young man had walked into town six months ago looking for work. He’d found it as a farmhand for a newly-married couple, Cody and May Sawyer. But two months after he’d been hired, he’d murdered Cody, assaulted May, and robbed them both of their valuables before vanishing into the night. For weeks Silas had led the hunt for the bastard, sending out every able-bodied man and woman to find him, but Martin had managed to get enough of a head start to buy himself a train ticket out of Silas’ jurisdiction, and had been a ghost ever since.

Even four months later, Silas’ blood still boiled anytime he thought of the state he’d found May in. He’d known the woman for years, and he’d even been in attendance to her and Cody’s wedding. She and her husband were some of the kindest, most hardworking folks he’d ever met, and they’d clearly been deeply in love. Theirs was a fairytale story that had seemed destined for a happy ending. So finding poor May bloodied and beaten, dress torn, face bruised, barely able to move or talk or do anything more than pathetically sob over the corpse of her husband…it was a damn good thing her brother was the town’s doctor. Otherwise she might not have even made it through the night. And as if that weren’t heartbreaking enough, it came to light that she was pregnant.

The sheriff forced himself to step away from the jail cell. If he didn’t, he knew his temper would get the best of him, and he’d end up giving Martin a beating so bad May’s would look like a pillow fight.

It was ironic; the one man Silas would have been ok with Rackstraw executing on the spot was the one he’d brought back alive and well.

“This is indeed Emmett Martin, correct?” Rackstraw’s question broke through Silas’ thoughts, and he turned to face the marshal. “Accused of aggravated assault, murder, robbery, and more. He fit the description you gave me, but I wanted to confirm with you and the woman.”

“No need to make May look at ‘em,” Silas growled, glaring down at Martin. He clenched his fist so tightly one of the points of his badge pierced his palm. In the commotion, he’d forgotten he’d even been holding it. A trickle of blood seeped between his fingers and dripped to the floor. But the pain at least kept him grounded enough to not rip the cell door off its hinges and go after the man who had hurt two innocent people under his watch. “I can tell ya that’s him. If you need extra confirmations, call Dr. Willaims. He’d be able to identify his brother-in-law’s murderer.”

“That’s what I thought,” Rackstraw sighed, taking off his black hat now that he knew there was no need to head out again. His dispassionate gaze flicked between the jail cell and the black candle. The flame burned steadily, and he seemed satisfied. “I found him while I was out west. He was actually in jail already for drunk and disorderly conduct. However, remembering your…passionate calls for his arrest, I had him turned over to my custody.”

“Well, that’s mighty good of ya, Luther,” Silas stated tersely, turning around to take a seat across from Rackstraw while Boone ran off to fetch them all something to eat and drink. Gingerly, he placed his badge down on the table opposite the black candle while he inspected his palm. The cut was thankfully shallow, so it wouldn’t need much more than to be cleaned up and bandaged so it wouldn’t get infected. But it would need to be cleaned soon—infections and rot spread quickly if you didn’t catch it early. “We’ll have to call in a judge from one of the other counties since ours has moved on. Suppose even scum like this deserves a fair trial.” The hard part would be keeping the townsfolk from forming a lynch mob once they heard Emmett Martin was back in town. Not that he could blame them for wanting Martin to pay with his life, but there was a process that needed to be followed, for better or for worse.

Yet it seemed Rackstraw disagreed. “There will be no need for a trial. I’ve already determined how he shall atone for his sins.”

“The hell are you talkin’ about, Luther?” Silas snapped. “He’s not atoning for anything. He’s a murderer and more, and just about any one of his crimes would call for a hanging. Hell, I’m being nice letting a judge pass down the sentence, and even that I’ll have a hell of a time justifying to the town. They’ll want blood for what this monster did.”

Rackstraw turned his gaze from the candle to the sheriff. His expression was stern and almost patronizing, like a tired father who had to explain something to a stupid and stubborn child. “May Williams. She’s with child, yes?”

“May Sawyer is about four months along, according to the doctor.”

“Then it’s a good thing I found Martin as quickly as I did. She’s had her time to mourn, and now she can be made an honest woman again before the birth.”

Brown eyes widened in shock as Silas’ jaw dropped, utterly flabbergasted. “The hell? You talking about her getting married again? May loved Cody!”

“While I don’t doubt that, it is a necessity that she remarries before she comes to term. And as Emmett Martin was the one who wronged her, I’ve determined that he is to be the one to set it right.”

“Are you…proposing that May marry Martin?!”

“If he doesn’t marry her, the woman will have her child out of wedlock. That’s a grave sin in the eyes of the Lord, and she’ll need to be punished for it. As the sin was not completely of her own doing, I’m showing leniency by allowing her the chance to rid her soul of the taint by remarrying.”

“I’m pretty sure you’d be punishin’ her worse by having her marry her husband’s murderer, Luther!” Silas shouted, banging his hand on the table in fury.

“I’m making him atone for his sins.”

“At the cost of an innocent. No, two innocents, countin’ the baby! What child’s safe bein’ brought up by their pa’s murderer?”

Rackstraw fixed him with a cold look. “I have my doubts that Cody is the father. You said she’s four months along, yes? The night he killed Cody Sawyer was also four months ago. When I questioned him, Emmett Martin confessed to me that the woman had enticed him to lustful thoughts and actions. He is a murderer, but she is an adulteress, and the child may very well be his.”

“You’re accusin’ May Sawyer of committing adultery? With the man who killed her husband, beat, robbed, and left her for dead?!” Silas couldn’t contain his anger. He saw red, slamming his bleeding fist down on the table again, this time so hard one of the legs cracked. The candle rattled in its holder from the force, but the black flame persisted, burning steadily and almost hypnotically.

“I am. She is as much a sinner in the eyes of God as Martin, and either they marry to correct their sins, or they should both hang.”

“You’ve got no proof except a criminal’s word an’ your own biases! And given the state I found May in, I can tell ya, any ‘lustful actions’ were completely on Martin’s side,” he snarled. Silas wasn’t a squeamish man, but he’d held off thinking that poor May could be carrying anyone but Cody’s baby. Her love story had already turned to horror—she deserved a happy ending, damn it! Deserved to see the man who had taken everything from her be found guilty by a judge, sentenced, executed, and live out the rest of her life with that last little piece of Cody she’d been blessed with. Deserved to not be failed by the system and live out the rest of her days in peace.

The marshal remained unmoved. “I have no proof that he’s lying to me. I also have no doubt that if I were to question her, she would claim to be virtuous, but lying is easy for a sinner. I am trying to save the woman’s soul, Silas. Her’s and the baby’s. A bastard child is already tainted from birth, and an adulteress is doomed to burn in hell. If anything, I am sparing them from damnation. I am following God’s will.”

Something snapped in Silas’ mind at hearing those words. His mind went blank, and all he saw was red. He could barely feel his body fling itself across the table, nor his hands grasp for Rackstraw’s neck.

Yet instead of landing on top of the marshal and choking him, Silas felt his back make impact with the table, the wood cracking and shattering beneath the force, collapsing to the floor. Gasping, the sheriff came back to reality to find Marshal Rackstraw standing above him, black candle in hand, looking down at him with such disdain. How had the older man done that? That speed and strength…it was almost inhuman!

“You disappoint me, Silas Flint,” he said, voice cold and even despite having just slammed another man through a table. For a moment, the candle seemed to glow a bit brighter, and his voice took on a strange quality. It slithered through Silas’ mind like a snake, coiling around his brain, silencing him. “You claim to be a righteous man, yet your temper makes you as violent as a common criminal. You claim to be a man of justice, and yet I know you pick and choose which law you feel are worth upholding. You’re a sinner, a hypocrite, and the people suffer for it. The people of this down elected you as sheriff and you’ve failed them. Why should you be the one to decide whether my decision is just?”

It was a struggle to get enough air back in his lungs to retort. Not just because of the blow, but because of the question. All Silas could do was stare up at Rackstraw. The man he’d once admired had well and truly lost his marbles. He’d more than strayed from the path of justice; he was making a mockery of everything they’d once believed in.

And yet, was he right? Right about Silas, and his view of justice? About his flaws and how they made him unfit to be a sheriff? The town was dying. People kept getting hurt under his watch. They’d elected him, and yet he kept letting them down. Did these people need him, or did they need a man like Rackstraw?

Gritting his teeth, Silas gingerly got to his feet, the words that echoed around in his skull holding him back from attempting to strike Rackstraw again. That, and the way the other man’s free hand rested on his gun, ready to draw if another attempt to attack was made. Silas wasn’t fully sure if he planned to shoot to kill, but the chances were too high that he’d end up a dead man.

So, despite the anger and the hurt and the disappointment that surged through him like a hurricane, Silas backed down, holding up his hands in defeat.

This seemed to please the U.S. Marshal. For the first time since he arrived, a ghost of a smile crossed his face. It was almost gentle and paternal, and for a moment, Silas’ heart ached. “You may have failed this town, Silas, but you’re a strong man. A man who wants to do what’s right. There’s hope for you yet. The Lord is giving you a second chance, and I’m here to guide you.” Hand leaving his pistol, he held it out to Silas. “I want you to join me out there. Together, we can do great things. We can save souls and punish sinners. We can uphold the law of a higher power.”

Despite the doubt Rackstraw’s earlier words put in his heart, Silas’ answer didn’t even need to be thought about. Looking between the pistol, the candle, and Rackstraw’s face, the words that left his mouth were clear and unwavering. “Not a chance. You’re out of your damn mind, Rackstraw,” he growled, retrieving his hat and badge from where they had landed on the floor. “You’re out of your mind, and I want you out of my town. Our partnership is done, you hear me?”

For a moment, Silas thought he saw a flash of hurt in the other man’s steely gaze, but perhaps it was simply a trick of the candle’s odd light. Either way, his hand dropped back to once more rest on his holster. “I’ll leave in the morning, once the priest I’ve called on has arrived. He’ll marry Emmett Martin and May Williams in the eyes of God, and I’ll be off to punish other sinners.”

“That’s your choice. I’ll have no part in it.”

“I don’t need you to. I don’t only serve a higher cause—I outrank you. Even in the eyes of the law, my standing is above yours, Sheriff Flint. Do you understand?”

He did, as much as it churned his stomach. A sheriff was elected by the county, but a U.S. Marshal was appointed by the Attorney General. In terms of status, he was an ant next to a tarantula. In the eyes of the law, what Marshal Rackstraw says goes. Sheriff Silas was powerless.

“Yes sir. I do,” he finally grunted.

The hand on the gun didn’t move, but the tension in Rackstraw’s shoulders did ease slightly. “Good. Get yourself to the doctor, Silas. I imagine that cut on your hand needs tending to, and I don’t quite trust you alone with Martin.”

A valid concern, given the rage and unpredictability of the sheriff. With a final glare that bounced between Rackstraw and the black flamed candle, Silas limped towards the door. “When you leave, take Boone with you. You deputized him; he’s your responsibility.”

“I already intended to do so. He’s a loyal man, and he’s already taken to the gospel. He understands that sinners must be punished. You…you’re like a wild horse that needs to be broken in before it hurts itself and the people around it.”

The horse comment had his blood boiling, and Silas knew it had been an intentional metaphor. A deliberate dig at both his phobia and his temper. It was so tempting to turn around and clock him right in the jaw, but it was clear he was outmatched. So, back aching, palm bleeding, and pride wounded, Silas left the jailhouse to visit Dr. Williams and his sister on the other side of town.

XXX

The cut on his palm bandaged and a salve applied to his bruised back, walked about the field outside of the doctor’s home, deep in thought. Dr. Williams had taken the news of his sister’s impending nuptials better than he had, in that he hadn’t attempted to attack anyone. He had a stronger hold on his temper, plus the whole “do no harm” schtick doctors had. Still, Silas had little doubt there would be innocent blood spilt if he didn’t do something about this debacle. Likely the doctor’s, or possibly even May’s, if she found out and decided that she’d rather join her husband in death than suffer the hell of being married to a murderer.

But what could he do? His authority was a joke compared to Rackstraw’s. In a fight he’d been outmatched. For a second, he imagined leading a posse of townsfolk to storm the jailhouse, but quickly squashed that idea. He wasn’t sure if Rackstraw was so far gone that he’d fire on the crowd, but he couldn’t risk it. His job was to protect the good people of the county, not put them at risk.

He couldn’t get them killed. Rackstraw was right; he’d failed this town. Martin had killed a man on his watch and assaulted a good woman. Maybe if he hadn’t been so afraid of getting on a horse, he could have caught up to the bastard before he’d escaped. Others had been suffering, too. Cattle going missing, horses being stolen, warrants being put out on bartenders who were just serving thirsty customers. The people had put their faith in him, and he’d failed.

Yet at the same time, he couldn’t bring himself to believe Rackstraw’s methods were the correct ones. How could his old friend have sunk so low? Did he really believe he was doing right by God? Did the Lord actually condone his actions? Was it the candle that had put these thoughts in his head? Or had he always had this kind of madness simmering within him, and Silas just wanted something to blame?

Those thoughts troubled his mind as he stared down at his badge. One of the star’s points had been broken when he’d been thrown on the table. He didn’t much believe in signs from God, but given Rackstraw’s belief that what he was doing was approved by a higher power, was this meant to be a sign? That the laws and justice of man were brittle and weak compared to the will of the Lord? Was the marshal right?

Looking up at the sky, Silas decided he had nothing to lose by asking the big man himself.

Slowly, he got to his knees and addressed the heavens. “Lord. I know I ain’t been the most believin’ man. But this is your chance to prove me wrong. Rackstraw…he ain’t right, is he? What he’s doing can’t be your will. You can’t be alright with these deaths, these wrongs bein’ done in your name. You can’t be alright with a good woman being a sinner and atoning by marrying a monster. Just…he’d believe you. You send Luther some kind of sign, right now, he’ll realize what he’s doin’ is wrong. That it’s not your will. I’m not sayin’ he has to be struck by lightning, but maybe…snuff out that candle of his. You can do that, can’t you?” Yes, the candle. The damn thing had become an obsession, and if that black flame went out, surely that would convince Rackstraw that it wasn’t some holy item. It was just some weird but otherwise perfectly normal candle, and the flame was no more a symbol than anything else. That would convince him, wouldn’t it?

Pausing for a moment, he bowed his head and closed his eyes in supplication. “And if that’s too much trouble, hell, give me a sign. A sign that you agree with me. That you don’t approve of Luther’s version of ‘justice.’ That I’m not the failure he claims I am. Just one little sign, Lord, and I’ll at least know that we’re on the same page. That you’re listenin’ and don’t condone what he’s doin’. I’m not askin’ for anything big or flashy. Just a clear sign that I ain’t crazy, Lord. That you believe in justice. That’s not too much to ask, is it?”

Opening his eyes, Silas looked around, keeping watch for any kind of sign. Yet the air was still, and nothing around him changed. No bushes suddenly caught fire and started talking to him. No clouds appeared in the clear sky. No angels descended from on high, nor did any visions of a great man with a beard appear before him. There wasn’t even a talking donkey or a second pair of footsteps in the sand. Just…nothing.

Rage rose within him, and Silas once more raised his head, screaming and cursing at the sky.

XXX

The next day, by the time the sun rose over Last Hope’s Reach, May Sawyer and her brother were gone, their stagecoach headed east to hopefully find sanctuary with relatives on the other side of the Mississippi River. Silas sat in the back of the coach, keeping watch for Rackstraw in case he caught their trail. With luck, they’d gotten enough of a head start in the dead of night to be safe. Silas had even hedged their bets further by sabotaging all the jailhouse’s saddles and bridles Boone hadn’t properly put away, ensuring that they wouldn’t be able to ride the damn horses after them.

Silas sighed, glancing back at the woman as she rubbed her pregnant belly. What he was doing, defying a U.S. Marshal and all, might have been against the law, but it felt right. He was giving an innocent woman her happy ending. He owed it to her for failing to catch her husband’s killer the first time, and for not putting a stop to Rackstraw’s madness sooner.

Turning back to the road, he considered his future. His badge was once more pinned to his shirt, the broken point at the top conspicuous but the metal still bright. He had no real legal authority as a sheriff anymore, but he refused to abandon his sense of justice. In his bag were the stack of bounty posters and warrants he’d been looking over, stolen from his office along with his dual Colt Peacemakers. He refused to leave those for Rackstraw to find, lest he continue his unholy crusade against others under the guise of enacting the law. It was the least he could do. Watching the horizon and leaving behind his home and duty, Silas Flint hoped that if he ever crossed paths with Luther Rackstraw again, he’d have the strength to put an end to his madness.

#silas flint #luther rackstraw #oxventure deadlands #oxventure spoilers #deadlands rpg #oxventure #silas will probably never elaborate on his backstory more than he has so it's up to my brain to speculate with a fanfic #rackstraw hitting silas with the enigma spell and making him question a lot of things about himself #but he at least knows where he stands in terms of doing right by people

10 notes · View notes

silvr-skreen · 1 year ago

Text

im. i had to make all these damn transparent pngs

anyways some of these can't accurately be described and got left out sorry, sometimes the pink indicates a QPR

Specific notes under cut bc there's a lot of them:

Jason and Kaddie (club president) are both cryptids who claimed BBHQ as their home turf (and despite sharing bc they dont wanna piss off craig who they both respect) they hate either other and want to kill each other. and have TRIED to kill each other

Chip and Kaddie QPR. Chip's aroace to me but he'd happily hold hir hand. Kaddie just likes the attention.

Pepper (mint supervisor) is like the CFO's teenage daughter by association. He respects her and she's like a familial figure to him. Cathal is his son and he and the VP are like divorced ish? They're on cordial ENOUGH terms but it's a sore spot for them both.

Barry and Mary are both fish monster things and they're not like. This one is hard to describe but it's a species specific thing. They're not exclusive though, but it's pretty frequent to see them just fucking sitting in water and hanging out/looking at stuff down there. (By association they fucking hate Will and Des. Sorry guys you cant throw that shit in the ocean.)

Misty and Courtney are so mean to each other and FOR WHAT. They have no reason for this. (My interp of Misty is slightly mean bc she's woobified sometimes) so she just. thinks Courtney is stupid (for something Courtney didnt even fuckin do. It was Barry's fault and got resolved anyways.

Prester is Atticus's uncle (Sads is Prester's son i couldnt fit him or the satellites) and Winston is his cousin on the other side. Prester doesn't like the vampire bros bc of the dumbest reason ever. Thus Misty hates HIM. (she's a distant relative of theirs. so distant i didnt include it.)

Yes Saul (butch lesbian saul For the win) knows Flint. Yes that is every bit as terrible a friendship as it sounds. Went out with a bang and lots of hysterical crying on both ends. Neither will admit it.

Because I couldnt fit the satellites I cant include the absolute HATRED Erclaim and Styx have for one another. Erclaim's father thought Styx's mom was a very pretty lady and she reciprocated and Styx is an affair baby is what im getting at (Both sets of parents were married btw) and Erclaim blames Styx for fucking up his family. Erfit thinks Styx is alright though. His baby brother needs to chill the FUCK out.

Atticus is the guy who seems really nice but is secretly wishing everyone's heads would explode and they'd die 1000000000000000 painful deaths (he survived in our au but he was very mentally unwell as a result of the trauma of almost dying and watching what happened to clancy)

Half of William's enemies either don't know he thinks of them that way or don't care. Desmond however actually respects him a lot and tries REALLY HARD to get William to like him but Will's a hater.

Another sad fact that comes from no satellites is the fact I can't show the links between them and the Head Attorney but they're all family. Actual relatives those 5 (and related to the HA to boot lol) hydra develops crushes on anyone who can crush THEM. token allo.

#there is more but i am tired ive worked on this for like 4 hours #(making the transparent pngs of some cogs and just. everything.)#toontown #toontown corporate clash #ttcc #corporate clash #toontown cogs

14 notes · View notes

highrollersrolls · 1 year ago

Note

Opinions on ALL of the cog managers and i guess the higher ups

(this is gonna be long folks so just sit tight with it) *was given the list of literally everyone by the creator of this account* lets starteth off with skelecogs i suppose.. ...factory foreman, eh they cool since they with the VP and everythineth Mint supervisors are a bit...strict... Head attorney, their silly i like themeth :D Club president...i'd honestly care less about em..sorryeth hmm.. William Boar is uh...ok i suppose...he's hard on the outside and soft in the insideth

Alton is also silly me like em a loteth :D he's a sweetheart if you aint a toon..

Winston is also silly, i try to take care of em since he needs that love and comforteth and he's a bit like me neutral with toonseth

Tawney is just very sleep so i dont know much about em..

Spruce however is how i know about chip!..he's a cool guy as well always teaching me about the wild lifeth

Flint is..hot NOT IN THAT WAY but liketh he's literally fire..i also cant be around em much since my feathers are flammable...but he's alright i guess..again i dont know much about someth managers so bare with me

Belle, is a sweetheart if i had parents i would visit her a lot shes so niceth makes my tail wag honestly ^^

Ben...the british, im honestly fine with em he makes some good tea in my opinioneth

Holly, i dont really know about so i dont really have anything to say about her..

Mary, is very sweet yet protective i can tell she careseth about the cogs and her boardbot employees

(we aint gonna talk about buck because its gonna be VERY confusing to yall about my HR headcanon lol, unless ya really wanna know then ya know what to do)

(same goes to dave)

Brian...oh dont even start...i fucketh hate him..yea he knows a lot about stuff but...he's strict and egotistic and i honestly want flint to light him on fireth...wait thats a good idea..thats going into my show idea book!

Misty, honestly i love her..platonically she's so sensitive but she's such a sweetheart i feel bad for what happened with her..and now she probably has some built up trauma...with her and bessie..

Prester, honestly i like em, just because of how he takes his job seriously, THAT AND HE KICKS ASSETH!! LIKE COME ON MAN HE'S COOL!!

Cathal..i dont really know about much besides that he's the VP's soneth

Cosmo..again i dont really know about em and his satellite investors..i just know he's short like the chairman..very..very....puntable...

Ch-chip..eheh..um..i-i like em...only a little YEA JUST A LITTLE!! hehe..dear god im having difficulties explaining why...you know what lets just skip my opinions on chip...

Graham, i also dont really know much about i just know that flint is with graham and graham is also egotisticeth...so lets just assume i also hateth him..

now the..i suppose "scary" teameth... *clears throat*

Mundle..scary honestly, not much a fan of gators..dont know much about em nor do i want too..

Courtney..im sorry but who the fucketh names a cog courtney...its like naming a newborn toon Karen...or Caroline..like what the fucketh?? i know sometimes i dont fucketh with the law but..why? just why?...anyways i dont have opinions on her much

Barry, just reminds me if he was the principle in the school house, but other than that no opinionseth on em

Kilo, honesty i know he's a grown goat but he acts like a brat and or a bully and i dont really like em, in other words...he can go fucketh himself...

now before we get into the 'higher ups' as yall sayeth im gonna put my opinions on the other 2 contractors..

Count Erclaim..eh i dont really get a long with vampires..same with his brother..Count Erfit, as much as they are buff and swole, i dont really give two flying fuckseth about them two honestly i just see them more as competition and enemys..them 2 can also die in a ditcheth for all i care..

i know the rest of these contractors are no more..unfortunately..i still wanna talk about em..whether they went somewhere or they got scrapped by cogs inc and turned intoeth something else...

Redd H. Wing i really do miss, he was a great friend of mine..until they disappeared...god i miss them..i wish he was here again..

Sads i dont really know what they were referencing from but.. all he ever did was make constant puns and it was annoying..i can only handle a few jokes and puns but not it being constant..

the Witness Stand-in was also a cool guy its unfortunate that he's scrapped though and made into probably someone else..he was a cool skelecog to hang out with at the bar..its sadeth that he's gone now...

Clerk i didnt really know much about so no opinion on em

ah yes..both of the directors of public relations and land acquisition, i mean technically their still here their just managers and not contractors anymoreth so i still get to hang out with em even if their just managers

now for what all of you have been waiting for..my opinioneth on the 'higher ups'!!

Allan is a cool guy, i know he takes pride in his work but other than that he's a chilleth guy i like em he's just like..he makes the sellbots have it easy ya know and i like that..i'd rather see cogs enjoy their work than seeing them stressed and suffer during their work ya know?

Chris is uh..a greedy son of a bitcheth the truth had to be said sorry, but ya are a greedy son of a bitch, Chris..however he is the one that manages the money sooo, he's a greedy son of a bitcheth but he's useful..so i'll deal with it i suppose..

..Diane..me and Diane do not mix well..now i try not to fucketh with the law but...she's strict as hell..i dont really vibe with her..now if i were to go to court i would win, if i were to go to jail i would escapeth...im not saying jack on how thougheth...

Craig can go suck a dicketh in my opinion he's a straight on bitch, i dont give a shit if HES FUCKING "USEFUL" OR NOT HE CAN GO DIE FOR ALL I CARE GOD I FUCKING HATE HIM!!..sorry anger got to me..

now the best for last..

Robert Cyger..i also hate him a fucketh ton but he is very puntable and that is the only thingeth i like about em is that he is short and very easy to kick, like a football if you willeth

that was a lot..now excuse me im gonna go drink something so my throat can heal..from all me talkin..

13 notes · View notes

lebuc · 2 years ago

Text

12 cents

* 12 cents left upon a store bench; in the day i'd have made a play, now i don't even flinch

skin flints & bad sense don’t really pay & my kin never raised me that way but hey - a dime ain't even a dollar worth swiping, out this mess like wes, so stop your sniping

12 cents was bus fare in my heyday riding publlc trans’ trying to earn a payday not talking bout the candy bar but the cheddar -or lettuce if you will - put in a mason jar with loose change & crumpled dollar bills.

that was past tense, now incomparable today the way inflation's made prices immense & crime pay - but who's to say if things can stop, go back like they used to be - i don't know; but you still need to check your booster in ‘23, that’s fo sho -

as for me, fully vaxxed, no cap; i'm not a rapper, ...out of here with that; just maxxed with a chat & flow, OG in the undertow - understand - from the 'Go, 'round Lincoln's lay of the land...

never bringing a bullhorn to a mike stand, commanding ovations with pen, avant among men, en garde against the yang & its ‘yen’;

read/listen again if you miss ‘em: rhymed common sense in vents prepped so sweet you wanna kiss 'em tout suite - without the mints; penny for your thoughts tho, mon ami; better yet, 12 cents.

* 7/23 - lebuc - 12 cents

24 notes · View notes

msb-lair · 1 month ago

Text

Dragon: Lucian - Wildclaw Cirrus Male XYY

First Record Second Record Third Record

(Smirch scroll applied on 2024-04-08) (Tri-Color Scatterscroll x34) (Cirrus scroll applied on 2025-05-27) (Chorus scroll applied on 2025-05-27) (Choir scroll applied on 2025-05-27) (Blossom scroll applied on 2025-05-27)

Purchased For: 950,000 treasure Hatched On: 2013-11-05 ID: 1205178

Parentage: Quateara/Citroen Flight: Lightning

Primary: Grey Ruby Tiger Basic Chorus Secondary: Navy Thicket Shimmer Basic Choir Tertiary: Goldenrod Thicket Basic Smirch Basic Blossom Eyes: Common

Comments: Time to start a new scatterscroll project, as the previous one hit tree colours I’m willing to work with last Monday, and is now lounging in hibernal waiting on a new breed to come along. Found this first-two-million-dragons guy going at a price I was willing to pay. He’s continuing the ongoing tradition of most of my scatterscroll projects needing smirch thrown at them so I can see the tertiary colour.

May keep him as a wildclaw after he rolls colours I like; I have very few of them and am currently trying to increase my percentage of modern dragon breeds.

Nope, he's becoming Cirrus. His primary is just a little outside the colour range I usually look at for tree dragons, so I'm not counting him as one, but it's close enough for breeding purposes.

Lucian is the name he came with.

Original Colours: Grey-Navy-Goldenrod Scatterscroll #1 (2024-04-08): Garnet-Jungle-Oilslick Scatterscroll #2 (2024-04-15): Raspberry-Eggplant-Cantaloupe Scatterscroll #3 (2024-04-22): Cinnamon-Red-Periwinkle Scatterscroll #4 (2024-04-29): Shale-Ivory-Jungle Scatterscroll #5 (2024-05-06): Amber-Tarnish-Crimson Scatterscroll #6 (2024-05-13): Carrot-Mint-Pear Scatterscroll #7 (2024-05-20): Aqua-Overcast-Sky Scatterscroll #8 (2024-05-27): Moss-Bubblegum-Algae Scatterscroll #9 (2024-06-03): Buttercup-Ruby-White Scatterscroll #10 (2024-06-10): Smoke-Antique-Chartreuse Scatterscroll #11 (2024-06-17): Pink-Sand-Berry Scatterscroll #12 (2024-06-24): Slate-Marigold-Clay Scatterscroll #13 (2024-07-01): Latte-Navy-Brown Scatterscroll #14 (2024-07-08): Denim-Buttercup-Tarnish Scatterscroll #15 (2024-07-15): Plum-Cornflower-Leaf Scatterscroll #16 (2024-07-22): Maroon-Obsidian-Thistle Scatterscroll #17 (2024-07-29): Cerulean-Abyss-Garnet Scatterscroll #18 (2024-08-05): Shadow-Chocolate-Buttercup Scatterscroll #19 (2024-08-14): Teal-Orange-Lemon Scatterscroll #20 (2024-08-21): Cream-Moss-Red Scatterscroll #21 (2024-09-02): Mantis-Peach-Metals Scatterscroll #22 (2024-09-16): Terracotta-Platinum-Silver Scatterscroll #23 (2024-09-24): Orchid-Honey-Mint Scatterscroll #24 (2024-10-08): Indigo-Platinum-Swamp Scatterscroll #25 (2024-10-14): Gold-Spruce-Magenta Scatterscroll #26 (2024-10-21): Banana-Dirt-Crimson Scatterscroll #27 (2024-10-28): Smoke-Lead-Terracotta Scatterscroll #28 (2024-11-04): Tomato-Ivory-Lavender Scatterscroll #29 (2024-11-11): Mist-Tangerine-Sunshine Scatterscroll #30 (2024-11-18): Tangerine-Olive-Grapefruit Scatterscroll #31 (2024-11-25): Fern-Umber-Flint Scatterscroll #32 (2025-01-27): Orange-Steel-Fog Scatterscroll #33 (2025-02-09): Orchid-Pearl-Periwinkle Scatterscroll #34 (2024-02-17): Ruby-Thicket-Thicket

Apparel: TBD

Familiar: Girin

Progeny Testing:

[Test] Luciel

Broods:

Mated with Luciel on 2025-05-27, 4 eggs [Clutch]

Bred with Luciel on 2025-06-16, 2 eggs [Clutch]

#Lucian Dragon #Dragon Record #Dragon Sire #Cirrus Male #Cirrus Breed #Green Pool #Ancient Dragon pool #XYY #Ruby #Chorus #Chorus Ruby #Thicket #Choir #Choir Thicket #Blossom #Thicket Blossom #Lightning Flight #Common #Girin

1 note · View note

fortressofserenity · 8 months ago

Text

The Prodigal Daughter

This story references both the Prodigy, where the late Keith Flint (the Italian word for flint is selce) spent time in Egypt before returning to Braintree, and Dalida whose real name is Iolanda Cristina Gigliotti, who was born in Cairo herself.

Iolanda Selce was often goaded by her father, Edoardo, into supporting and working for his leather making business. She’d acquiesce to this by ordering any sort of leather from sellers such as deer leather, elk leather and cattle leather, turning them into a variety of items like bags, shoes and belts. But she also prefers to make and sell her own items, often handmade and plant-based. For awhile, she didn’t get along with her dad over something.

‘But Dad, I want to sell dresses.’

‘You could always make leather dresses.’

‘No! I want to make and sell cotton dresses!’

‘Why not?’

‘F--- you!’

She packed her belongings, including her fabrics, patterns and sewing materials, with her to Egypt and stayed there for a few years. Learning Arabic along the way and then quickly adapting to the Egyptian market, she developed a habit out of making and selling more modest garments. Abayas, qabas, shintiyans, galabiya bi sufras, telli dresses and caftans, you name it and she’s done those as often as before. Lately, she’s creating a pattern on paper, then cutting it out before layering it over a 90 cm cotton fabric. She starts outlining the pattern with tailor’s chalk, before cutting it out and sewing it by hand herself.

Using multiple needles on the same garment, she sews it as fast as she can. Using a variety of threads to get the job done as quickly as possible, she picks out a 100 m thread and a 1000 m thread together, cutting the threads and then inserting them into her needles. Needing to take a break from all that sewing, she makes herself a sandwich using rumi cheese and then slicing an eish fino bread almost in half just to insert the cheese and meat with. She then slices it into several pieces to share it with her adoptive family, including her adoptive mother Basma.

‘Do you want one, Basma?’

‘Sure I do, Iolanda.’

Then she gives it to her and she eats it.

‘Thanks!’

‘You’re welcome.’

She makes mint tea both for herself and Basma, talking about her home country.

‘What’s like in Italy, Iolanda?’

‘To be honest, I left it because I don’t want to make something with leather anymore. My dad kept on making me do it, but I’d rather make something out of cotton instead.’

‘You do leathermaking?’

‘I used to do it because my dad does it. He used to pay me in the thousands for it, he’s got a decent leathermaking business.’

‘Why don’t you help him with it?’

‘I do, but I want to sell the stuff I make.’

‘Don’t be so disrespectful to your father.’

‘But I want to do the things I want to do, especially for myself and myself alone.’

‘You should help him out.’

‘I did, but I don’t think he respects my decision to sell what I want to sell and it’s selling clothes based on cotton and linen. The plant-based fibres.’

‘Okay, you really want to make and sell the things you wanted to do.’

‘Precisely.’

After eating, drinking and chatting with Basma, Iolanda returns to sewing. She gets the folded garment out from the treasure box and resumes sewing it, as soon as she unravels a string a cat wants to play with it but she removes it from the room leaving it with Basma instead. There she sews uninterrupted, in fact she spends hours solely sewing it herself. After finishing the dress, she moves onto one of the sleeves finishing it as quickly as she can. As soon as dinner arrives, she cuts out the thread and needle, putting both of them in her metal box and then folding the garment (including the other sleeve), placing it in a treasure box and after doing this, she eats with Basma again.

Basma puts out the shashouka for them together, taking turns getting from it until there’s no more. Basma then gets two pieces of pita bread, puts falafel balls into both of them and gives each to herself and Iolanda. Then both of them eat, whilst everybody drinks water. Basma then gives some meat to the cat to eat, and leftovers to their dog outside. Once everybody’s finished with dinner, Basma and Iolanda go to the bedroom together. Basma sleeps on one bed, Iolanda on the other. The following morning, Iolanda wakes up and turns on the lamp, opens her stuff from both boxes and resumes sewing. She cuts and sews the other sleeve, finishing it as quickly as she can before Basma wakes up.

Once Basma wakes up, Iolanda has already finished it. She takes a look at it and is marvelled by it.

‘That’s a nice looking dress, may I have it?’

‘I feel…mixed feelings about it.’

‘Why?’

‘I’m planning on selling it to someone else.’

‘You may sell it to me instead.’

‘Well.’

Iolanda eventually sells the dress to her for 200 pounds, thus getting as much as she can and puts the money in her wallet. But later on this morning, she receives a message on her phone. It’s something from none other than her own dad.

‘Iolanda, it’s me. I want you back in Italy.’

Then she starts typing.

‘You want me back in Italy? Why, Dad?’

‘Sorry for not letting you sell the clothes you wanted to make, I’ve changed my mind.’

‘Why?’

‘I’m selling items based on plant-based leather these days.’

‘Really, Dad?’

‘Yes, customers want more plant-based items. You’re free to make and sell cotton garments.’

‘I don’t know what to say.’

‘Please come back, Iolanda.’

‘Okay.’

Iolanda starts packing all her belongings, she goes planning on returning to Italy to be reunited with her father in four years. Seeing that Iolanda is leaving, Basma goes near her, looking teary-eyed she comforts her.

‘Please don’t leave me.’

‘But my father’s telling me to go back to Italy, he’s changed his mind and he’s selling plant-based items this time.’

‘I’m going to miss you, so when are you going to return to Egypt?’

‘I won’t leave you, Basma. I’ll go back to Egypt, so don’t cry.’

She wipes the tears off her eyes as she pats her on the back. Then the two hug each other.

‘I’m going to miss you.’

‘It’s okay, I’ll come back to Egypt. I promise I will.’

‘I don’t feel good losing you.’

‘I’ll always be there for you.’

Eventually Basma stops crying as soon as Iolanda heads for the airport, bringing along her passport with her. Once she goes there, she shows her passport and then pays for the ride. She takes a seat, listening to music once the plane takes flight. Going from Cairo to Florence, she meets her father again.

‘Iolanda, it’s good to have you back.’

‘There’s someone in Egypt who misses me and she’s Basma.’

‘Who is she?’

‘She’s one of my friends and my host mother. I stayed there for four years straight.’

‘Four years? That’s a long time.’

‘I kind of overstayed my welcome there.’

‘Welcome back then.’

The two reunite and then head to their house together, there Iolanda is free to make cotton dresses. But her father reminds her of something.

‘Iolanda, I don’t think Italians are into those sorts of dresses.’

‘But that’s what I did in Egypt.’

‘The average Italian isn’t Muslim.’

‘I could always sell it to Muslims here.’

She did like what she told him she would, but she also learnt to observe fashion trends in Italy again in years. So the day after selling those dresses to Muslims, she’d sew clothes for non-Muslims based on what’s hip and current in Tuscany. After living in Egypt for four years, Iolanda got weirded out by the multitude of scantily-clad Italians that she had to make the outfits skimpier to sell it to them. But Edoardo’s glad to have her back and Iolanda’s willing to make items based on cactus and fruit peel leather this time.

#egypt #italy #fiction #literature #short story #writing #the prodigy #dalida #dressmaking #sewing #fashion #keith flint

0 notes

sweetsbfreex · 3 years ago

Text

the super seller patch!

Warning: none

Pairings: dad!mafia/gang!steve rogers x wife!reader

“Mommy’s gonna make sure you get your patch!” You tell your five-year-old daughter, Elysia, while you fix her blue, decorated vest.

You’re kneeling in front of her small form, silently swooning at how adorable she looked in her uniform. Dressed in her blue beret, matching blue skirt, a white collared shirt, her favorite sneakers, and a white, polka’d fanny pack to store the cash.

She was excited and fidgety as you explained exactly what she would do. But she smiled up at you, her front tooth gone, as she listened to you intently.

“Okay, mommy!”

You stand up after kissing her full cheeks, guiding her to Steve’s office door. She looks back at you one more time, as her tiny fist stands parallel to the door. Eyebrows furrowed in uncertainty.

“Go ahead” you whisper, smiling.

She nods and smiles in return before her knuckles rasp against the wood door.

The room's attention is taken by the Jacobean stained door. Steve smirks knowing that knocking pattern anywhere. He couldn’t count on one hand how many times a day he’d hear it on his door. Followed by an “Are you almost free daddy?” while one of his favorite faces poked through the gap.

“Come in” Steve ushers in, a soft smile on his face when his little girl toddles in groaning softly at the weight of the door, but as always she steps in the room.

“Hi daddy!” She bobs on her tippy-toes, causing her pigtails to bounce as she waves her arm at her father (who sits at the head of the table.)

“Hi baby doll, how can I help you?”

“I’m— I’m trying to get my S-super seller patch.”

She tells him everything he needs to hear, smiling at how adorable she looked in her outfit.

“That’s great, baby, go ahead,” he tells her with an elbow set on the table while his bearded chin sits in his palm, watching the heir in her come out as she starts her rounds at the table.

“Hi!” She stops in front of a buff, grumpy man; his hair is pulled back in a bun and the sides shaved. “I’m Elysia, I’m selling cookies to earn my super seller patch, would you like to buy cookies?” She recites, and quickly after pops a smile so her dimples are displayed. She may only be five, but she knew exactly how to work her cuteness to her upper hand.

The man, Wong, holds up his hand and shakes his head softly, “No, thank—“

Steve clears his throat, eyes going flint-eyed towards the new recruit. He still had a lot to learn and this was one of them. Under his rule, Elysia was a princess; if she wanted a piggy back ride you’d agree, if she wanted a tea party you’d agree, and if she wanted you to buy some cookies you’d definitely agree.

“Actually,” he starts, smiling nervously at the Girl Scout and glancing at Mr. Rogers as he takes the clipboard and pen, “I’ll buy 15 trefoils.”

“Thanks!” She beams, taking the clipboard back once he’s finished and stashing the cash in her fanny pack.

She continues, no one has the guts to say no to her and she lights up inside when she’s handed big bill after big bill.

Mr. Laufeyson purchases twenty boxes of Savannah Smiles and three boxes of trefoils. This information causes the sound of snickering to flow in the room.

“What?” He snaps,when he turns his head everyone is quick to hide their smiles and laughter.

“I never would’ve pictured you as a Savannah Smiles guy,” chuckles Mr. Strange.

Mr. Kent purchases forty-five boxes of thin mints. Mr. Wade orders fifteen thin mints and fifteen do-si-dos.

She steps in front of her uncle

“Hi Uncle Sam!”

“Hi Princess, I see you’re selling cookies?”

“Yea, would y’wanna buy some?” She holds out the clipboard, a smile on her face.

“Are you kidding me, hand that over” he smiles, his gap on display. Without a second thought he writes the number 75 next to his name. It didn’t matter what he got, as long as he put a smile on his co-god daughter's face (yes, ‘co’ because Bucky and Sam wouldn’t stop arguing over who her Godfather would be, and you and Steve weren’t sure if you wanted any more kids.)

She takes the clipboard and the cash, eyes blowing wide at the double digit number, “seventy-five!! Thank you so much, Uncle Sam!” Throwing herself into his arms.

“No problem” he smiles, squeezes her, then kisses the top of her head.

She skips her way to her Uncle Bucky.

“Hi Uncle Bucky! I’m selling cookies to earn my super seller patch, would you like to buy cookies?”

“Of course, skipper, I couldn’t leave my goddaughter hanging like that could I?”

By his name he writes the number 80 and hands it and the cash to Elysia. Her eyes grow even wider at the number. There were a lot of things Elysia hadn’t learned at the ripe age of five, but one thing she did was that 80 is larger than 75.

“Eighty! Thank you so much!” She hugs her uncle tightly. Who smiles down at her and kisses her head also.

“Leysia, you mind if I see that clipboard,”

She looks up at him with concern in her eyes, before handing the clipboard over. Before she knows it, he’s handed it back to her. The number seventy-five is crossed out and its place is ninety-five. One thing each man could not stand was being upstaged by the other, especially in front of their goddaughter.

Bucky snatches the clipboard from his hands, taking a pen from the pocket in his suit jacket. Crossed off is the number eighty and its place one-hundred. Sam takes it back quickly writing another, and the cycle continues three more times before they finally call it a truce.

Elysia collects the money with pure giddy, at this rate she’d get way past the super seller patch!

Finally, she trots over to her father who lifts her onto his lap, kisses her cheek before tickling her a little bit as she squirms in her lap giggling.

“Let’s see how well you swindled these chumps,” he jokes, looking over the paper as he calculated the numbers in his head. “295 boxes! All right doll” he nudged her chin with his knuckle. “You’re well on your way past the super seller patch, you might even get the top cookie seller patch,” he grins.

“Really!”

“Really” he answers, “You head back to mom, okay, I’ll see you guys at home later.”

“Okay, see you, love you” she wraps an arm around his neck before kissing his bristly cheek.

“I love you too”

He just walked through their bedroom door right when she slipped on her navy, silk nightie.

“You” he points at her then crooks it back and forth.

She sauntered over to him with a meek smile on her face, throwing both arms around his waist.

“Yes,” she answers sweetly.

He had to keep his mind on track, but the smell of her lotion was doing things to him.

“You.” He takes her cheeks in his palms, pulling her in for one kiss, “You are diabolical, you know that?”

“Well” you hum, “You call it diabolical, I call it networking.” You shrug. “She was freaking out over the patch, how much did she end up getting.”

“Two-ninety-five” he grins.

“Awhh, was she happy?” You ask.

“She was ecstatic,” he motions with his hand.

“You’re such a good dad,” you hum, eyes going low as your finger trailed the side of his jaw then over his eyebrow.

“You’re a terrific mom” he responds, leaning so his lips locked with yours. He pulls back, “Is this night ending how I think it will”

“Maybe?” you answer, pecking his chin.

Before you know it, everything is upside down and a stinging pain on your ass.

#steve rogers #mafia steve rogers #steve rogers x reader #avengers fanfiction #steve rogers fluff #steve rogers drabble #steve rogers blurb #steve rogers x fem reader #steve rogers x you #chris evans x reader #marvel fanfiction #dad steve rogers #captain america x reader #captain america x you #captain america fluff #steve rogers imagine #steve rogers fanfic #steve rogers one shot

4K notes · View notes

inthedayswhenlandswerefew · 3 years ago

Text

Have You No Idea That You’re In Deep? [Chapter 4: Under The Heart Tree]

Aemond is a fearless, enigmatic prince and the most renowned dragonrider of the Greens. You are a daughter of House Mormont and a lady-in-waiting to Princess Helaena. You can’t ignore each other, even though you probably should. In fact, you might have found a love worth killing for.

A/N: I wanted to take a moment to give a heartfelt THANK YOU to everyone who has fallen in love with this series!!! I read (and go back to reread) every single comment, reblog, tag, and message I receive, and they mean the absolute world to me. I truly don’t have words to express how appreciative I am of you all. With the end of Chapter 4, this series is officially halfway over; there will be 8 chapters total. I hope you continue to enjoy it. 💜

Song inspiration: “Do I Wanna Know?” by Arctic Monkeys.

Chapter warnings: Language, witchcraft, a wild Aegon appears, drama, pregnancy, a tiny bit of sexual content, mentions of death and violence (per usual), cryptic Helaena prophesies, Sir Criston being a supportive stepdad, found family feels, one (1) still jealous boi, more drama, lots of shouting, this fic is for readers 18+!!!

Word count: 6.5k.

Link to chapter list (and all my writing): HERE.

Taglist: @crispmarshmallow @tclegane @daddysfavoritesexkitten @poohxlove @imagine-all-the-imagines @nsainmoonchild @skythighs @bratfleck @thesadvampire @yor72 @xcharlottemikaelsonx @mochimommy2002 @loverandqueenofdragons @omgsuperstarg @endless-ineffabilities @devynsshitposts @vencuyot @ladylannisterxo @ariesbabycitlaly @itzwhatever123 @cranberryjulce @abcdefghi-lmnopqrstuvwxyz @liathelioness @mirandastuckinthe80s @haezen @fairaardirascenarios @penteknati @darkened-writer @weepingfashionwritingplaid @signyvenetia @abrielleholland @crossingallmine @burningcoffeetimetravel @itzwhatever123 @yummycastiel @lol-im-done @lovemissyhoneybee @nomugglesallowed @witchmoon @yoshiplushie @404slayer404 @sunafterthethunder @torchbearerkyle @sweetashoneyhoney @quartzs-posts @lauraneedstochill @nctma15 @queenofshinigamis @rapoficeandfire @hinata7346 @curiouser-an-curiouser @eleganttravelercloud

💜 Please let me know if you’d like to be added to the taglist! (Also I’m sincerely sorry if Tumblr refuses to tag you!!!) 💜

“What do you need?” Aemond asks—his voice tender, the back of his hand testing the heat of your cheeks—and you tell him. He gathers everything: foxglove, sorrel, mint leaves, sticks of cinnamon, snakeskin, bloodstone, clear quartz, a blue candle, black tar rum, blood from a living bull. He does this swiftly and without any hesitation. He knows that only you have the power necessary for a cure.

In the dead of night, the prince half-carries you to the heart tree in the godswood of the Red Keep. You try to grind the dry ingredients into dust with the mortar and pestle, but your hands are weak and trembling. Aemond takes the tools from you and finishes himself. He sets the candle on a gnarled, ancient root and sparks it to life with the dagger and flint your mother gave you before you left Bear Island. Then he pours the dust into a pitcher and slowly mixes in the rum and the bull’s blood. The candlelight dances on his face: shadow, light, shadow again. All the while, here where the Old Gods can hear you, you chant this over and over: “Mend the bones, fill the veins, stitch the flesh until it’s whole again.”

Aemond grimaces as he stirs the contents of the pitcher with the dagger blade. “You don’t have to drink this or paint it on your bedroom walls or something, do you?”

You smirk wanly. “Not quite.” And that’s fortunate, because you haven’t been able to drink anything in days.

Back in the Red Keep, the servants to fill your bathtub with water so hot it clouds the room with steam. Once they’re gone, Aemond helps you into the tub and then adds the pitcher’s crimson brew. You steep in a shimmering, blood-red sea and feel the sickness sweat out of you: the nausea, the tremors, the pain, the repulsive bone-deep weakness. Aemond perches on the rim of the tub and braids your hair to keep it tucked neatly away, singing softly in High Valyrian, words you haven’t learned yet.

“I don’t deserve you,” you murmur in the dreamlike haze of blood and heat and relief, nearly asleep. Your cramped muscles have unraveled like loose threads. The anxious, scratching demons that live in your skull are blessedly chained at the moment.

“You do,” he replies. When he leans down to kiss the crown of your head, you can hear the smile in his voice. “You always will.”

~~~~~~~~~~

Sleep recedes from you like a waning crescent moon. Sounds of the morning breathe in through the open windows: birdsong, faraway voices, clops of horse hooves, wind in the leaves. You stretch, tentatively measuring the strength of your body; there is no aching, no fragility, no absence of strength like smothered embers. Your spell worked. You are cured. The triumph swells through you, a dazzling sort of fever. And then when you open your eyes, you see him.

You yelp like a startled animal. “What—?!”

“Good morning,” Aegon says brightly. He’s cross-legged on top of your writing desk and brandishing a cup of wine in his right hand.

You sit upright with a groan. “You need to stop doing this.”

“I have things to say that you should hear.”

“What?” you reply crossly.

Aegon sips his wine. “My mother has formally invited Borros Baratheon and his daughters to court. She did it a while ago, actually, but she’s been keeping it quiet. She didn’t want to give Aemond too much time to brood, I think. They are arriving in one week. There is going to be a feast. Lots of dancing, lots of diplomacy, and—my personal favorite—lots of drinking.” He raises his cup in a mock toast.

“Fantastic,” you say flatly.

“The thing is, Jason Lannister heard about this little development all the way out in Casterly Rock, so now he’s sending his daughters to court too. And so are the Arryns, and the Starks, and the Tullys and Tyrells, and Greyjoys too, if they can find anyone who counts as a lady. Maybe even the Westerlings and Swyfts and Swanns, you know…just in case they can pull an upset.” He takes another swig of wine. “It’ll be just like a horse market, except that all the horses walk on two legs and wear dresses.”

“One week…” Everything in you sinks. I knew this was coming, of course I did…but does it have to happen so fucking soon? Then again, maybe any time would feel too soon, months or years or decades. Maybe eternity with Aemond wouldn’t be long enough.

“No matter which horse wins, the result will be the same,” Aegon continues. “An engagement will be announced and my brother will soon wed in the Great Hall and set about the glorious task of producing heirs.”

“Okay. What do you want me to do about it?”

“I thought you might benefit from having the opportunity to prepare yourself. To devise an exit strategy. To…” He considers this next word carefully. “Cope.”

“Oh,” you realize, staring at him. You’ve never been able to get a handle on Aegon Targaryen. He’s not attentive to Helaena—she gets companionship from Aemond, from Alicent, from Otto, from you, but not from her husband—yet to your knowledge he’s never been cruel to her either. He does not ridicule her many peculiarities. He does not criticize her. On the rare occasion that he shares her bed, you overhear no sounds of mistreatment, no weeping or shouting or coercion. Aegon never leaves marks of violence on his wife, which is more than you can say for your own father. He neglects his duties, but he does not rebel against them. He’s done horrible things, surely, blatantly; and yet somehow he does not strike you as a particularly horrible person. “You’re not here to torment me. You’re trying to be helpful.”

Aegon smiles, but there’s very little humor in it. “You can keep that to yourself. No one would believe you anyway.”

He hops down to the floor, guzzles the last of his wine, and leaves the empty cup on your dresser before vanishing through the doorway like a ghost.

~~~~~~~~~~

The gardens are buzzing with bees and gossip. You sit in the midst of a stiflingly mundane tea party and try to remain present enough to smile and nod at the correct moments. You wring your pendent—moonstone gem, silver chain—as Helaena eats lemon cakes beside you, humming contently. She is technically the host of this gathering. It’s meant as a welcome to the noblewomen who have already begun to arrive at court, an opportunity for them to mingle and sample the luxuries of King’s Landing and prove themselves as future wives and mothers. So far, all they’ve proven themselves as is vapid and shallow and frustrating; although perhaps you only feel that way because one of them might be destined to marry the man you love. Aemond hasn’t mentioned the feast to you yet. He never mentions anything related to his impending marriage to some other woman. You’re afraid to bring it up. You’re afraid to break the euphoria you’ve been living in with him like a spell.

As your attention wanders, you notice a spot of blood on the sleeve of your dress. Before the tea party, you and Helaena had been watching Aemond and Sir Criston spar in the courtyard. That particular exchange had been bloodless, but then Ivar Kellington had broken the nose of some hulking Arryn man deluded enough to challenge him. The droplets had sprayed into the crowd like burgundy rain. The match lasted about twelve seconds.

Look at me, having some illustrious gilded blood after all. Ha ha ha.

Across the table, several noblewomen have veered into a covert discussion of one of King’s Landing’s greatest scandals: the indiscretions of Prince Aegon. You can’t catch every word, but you can catch enough of them. Which means Helaena can too.

“A handmaiden…that’s what I heard…yes, I know…what an embarrassment…well you can’t give them all moon tea, now can you?”

You glare at them—a Tyrell girl, you observe now, and a Lannister and a Tully—but they continue their prattling. Helaena rises from her chair and hurries off into the foliage with tears sparkling in her eyes.

“Hey,” you begin, but still the ladies take no notice.

“Little blond children all over the city…more brothels than you could…and the fighting pits…”

“Hey,” you say again, leaning over the table. Now they look at you. “Shut the fuck up.”

“Excuse me?!” cries the Tyrell.

“How dare you!” says the Lannister.

The Tully blubbers: “It’s not like she understands anyway—”

“She does understand.” Your voice is fierce and black and low. “She understands everything. She is your future queen and you’ve upset her with your stupidity. She’s too kind to tell you that to your faces, to make you pay for it. Her kindness is chronic and all-consuming. But I suffer from no such affliction.”

“You seem to suddenly think very highly of your station,” the Tyrell notes. “I wonder what has instilled such confidence in you, Lady Mormont.”

“Yes,” says the Lannister. “Has your family recently acquired some new lands…or titles…or armies…or anything?’

“No.” The Tyrell grins viciously. “They still just have poor little Bear Island. I wouldn’t even be able to find it on a map.”

“Perhaps that isn’t something to brag about,” you say, and storm away from the tea party before she can puzzle out what you mean. You can feel their narrowed eyes following you, cold and conspiratorial.

You find Helaena by a towering butterfly bush. Winged insects in a hundred different colors swoop around her like snowflakes. Silent tears stream down her ruddy face.

“Helaena…” You move to comfort her, then think better of it. She can be very particular about being touched. “I’m so sorry,” you offer, not knowing what else to say. It’s not like the girls were lying. Their words were terrible, and they should not have been said in earshot of Helaena; but they were true.

“Dragons do not speak our language,” Helaena says haltingly, deliberately. A sapphire-blue butterfly lands on her outstretched hand. “But still, they understand. To think they don’t is a mistake.”

“Yes,” you agree.

“They are not stone. They feel as deeply as we do.”

“Yes,” you say again. She means herself, of course; woven in the womb to speak differently, to think differently, to be so irretrievably different. And yet you find every thread of her wonderous.

She opens her arms wide. For a moment, you don’t understand what she wants; and then you embrace her. She clutches you tightly, digging her fingernails into your shoulder blades, burying her face in your neck. You can feel her tears there, hot and flowing freely.

“It’s alright,” you soothe. “Everything’s okay. You are so loved. You are so blameless.”

“I want to help you,” she says softly between sobs.

“Help me…? Help me with what, Helaena…?”

“I want to help you,” she repeats; and then she plods off, swiping tears from her eyes with both hands, still surrounded by a blizzard of butterflies.

~~~~~~~~~~

“I have to talk to you about something,” Aemond says.

You are sitting together under a juniper tree on Bearstone with a picnic you’ve assembled: breads, cheeses, cherry and apricot jams, glossy red apples, honey cakes, wine for him, pomegranate juice for you. The kitchen staff had shot you sideways glances as you plucked each item from their cupboards. They know you’re Helaena’s lady-in-waiting, but they also know that you’ve been spotted socializing with the royal family with increasing frequency. There are whispers, and there are rumors, but if Alicent and Otto Hightower are aware of them they haven’t mentioned anything to you. Perhaps they feel it’s not even worth mentioning. Perhaps they expect the problem to be imminently remedied by one of those gorgeous, wealthy, well-connected women sauntering around the Red Keep.

“Okay.” You steel yourself for what comes next. You’ve known this was coming since the very beginning, since your arrival in King’s Landing, since before he ever touched you; Aemond Targaryen must marry, and he must marry well. Your hand settles protectively, instinctively over your belly, where your child lives unbeknownst to the rest of the world. You will be showing within a few months. What happens next will not only affect you. The prince’s affection for you is such that you now trust him not to leave you abandoned, adrift…but which path will he choose for you? He could give some lord a generous reward in exchange for marrying and providing for you…although given his territorial nature, this seems unlikely. He could send you back to Bear Island. He could send you to Dorne, where he counts the maesters among his few true friends. He could send you anywhere. He could set up a small household in the Crownlands somewhere, visit you a few times a year, know his child only as a passing thought. Regardless, you will lose him, whether in part or in whole; regardless, he will drain away from you like spilled blood.

Aemond says: “I think we should marry as soon as possible.”

Your mouth falls open. The apple you’ve been holding rolls out of your grasp. “You can’t marry me.”

“Why? You don’t consent?”

“No, I…” You shake your head, staring at him, stunned. You can’t find your words. “I…I’m a Mormont.”

He smiles. “I am aware of this, Moonstone.”

“Then surely you are also aware that there are currently about fifty highly-esteemed noblewomen in King’s Landing prepared to fight to the death for a chance to marry you. And that Otto Hightower and your mother are expecting a prompt betrothal to one of them.”

“I won’t do it,” he says calmly.

“You have to.” It pains you to say it, it flays you alive to say it, but it’s true. “I know that. I’ve always known it.”

“I have met my match in you. I will have no other. And my child must be legitimate.”

“They won’t allow it, they’ve planned this for years, they need this marriage—”

“Then Daeron can do it,” Aemond says. “There is one more son of King Viserys, is there not?” Daeron is younger than Aemond. He’s been serving Lord Ormund Hightower as a squire in Oldtown since he was twelve. You’ve heard that he’s a sweet boy, a compliant boy, more humble than either of his brothers. But he won’t be ready to marry for another few years. Aemond peers out over the ocean, meditative, melancholy. “I have already given enough to this family.” His eye, he means; his eye and his dragon and his swordsmanship and his fierce, efficient loyalty. “They will not take you from me too.”

You watch him, the wheels in your mind whirling. Is it possible? Is it really? When he turns back to you, he is at once himself again, or at least the way he is with you: kind, gentle, alight.

“What do you think, Moonstone?” Perhaps he’s nervous, but he’s hiding it well.

“I think that there is nothing I want more than to be bound to you in every way possible.”

“You must truly consider it,” he warns. “If you are my wife, you are inextricably linked to our side in what comes after. You must fully understand what you are entering into. Nothing can stop me from having you except your own will. If you have rethought your allegiances, or if you cannot bear to face the bloodshed…I can send you somewhere safe. I can make you disappear.”

What comes after. War, he means; the war of succession that will almost certainly follow the ailing King Viserys’ death, whether in a week or a month or a year. On one side will be Rhaenyra and Daemon. On the other will be Alicent’s children. You know exactly where you’ll be standing. “I understand, and I consent. I will shy away from no battles.”

Aemond closes the space between you. He takes your face in his hands and kisses you roughly, deeply, sending dragonfire heat spiraling down to every piece of you: nerves, arteries, bones, heart.

“So you aren’t bored of me yet,” you tease, climbing into his lap, your fingers tangling in his silver hair. Your freshly renewed body fits with his perfectly, effortlessly, like the black of night around the stars.

“Regrettably, I am not even the least bit bored of you.”

“I hope I don’t get you killed.”

“I’m sure you’d have a spell to fix that.”

You laugh, and he kisses you again, grinning, greedy. You respond eagerly, melding into his rhythm. Blood rushes to your cheeks. Your heartbeat races. The ocean wind is strong and tearing, the grass beneath your knees soft.

“Hm. I’m glad you’re feeling better,” your betrothed murmurs, his palms pressed into the small of your back, pulling you in closer.

“Me too.”

“And you’re hungry again.”

“Starving,” you amend, grinding your hips against his, turning his face away with your hand so you can bite the soft white skin of his throat.

“Oh, fuck,” he gasps. His right eye is dazed, rapt, lost in you like a labyrinth; his sapphire glistens like sunbeams reflected off the crests of waves. You guide his hands beneath your dress so he can feel how wet you are. And he whispers slyly as he helps free you from all those cumbersome layers of fabric: “I told you you’d always be mine.”

~~~~~~~~~~

Aemond has studied the marriage rituals of the North. He knows them almost as well as you do. And so what must happen next is clear.

He comes to collect you from your room when the moon is high and the rest of the Red Keep dreaming. He looks the same as he always does—dressed in black, hair long and flowing, stoic and unsmiling until he sees you—and there are no special ornaments for you either. Weddings witnessed by the Old Gods are not strewn with guests or festivities or music or gold. They are vestiges of long, dark, cold winters when survival itself was a triumph. They are bare; they require only the meeting of two honest souls. And a heart tree.

Aemond grazes a thumb across your cheekbone, marveling at you. “Are you ready?”

“Yes.” And you are: completely, absolutely, with every drop of blood in your veins.

He takes your hand in his. He leads you from the room. And then, on the other side of the door, you discover Helaena. Both you and Aemond halt mid-step.

“Can I come too?” Helaena asks timidly. Moonlight glows on her angelic face. “I would like to be there. I would like to see you happy. Someone should be happy…if not me and Aegon, if not Mother and Sir Criston, if not the king…then at the very least you two should be.”

“Helaena…” Your words cut off, choked by emotion. You reach for her. She burrows into your arms with no reluctance at all. “Of course, my love,” you say, holding her. Aemond gazes at you, smiling faintly, immeasurably proud. “Of course. You are always, always welcome.”

In the godswood, under the cold fire of infinite constellations, the three of you arrive at the heart tree. You carry no torches to attract the attention of others. In the darkness, there is no discerning the color of the grass or the bark or the leaves. All the world is a murky, placid indigo; all the world is blind to arbitrary mortal designations of good and evil.

“There’s one thing I should mention,” Aemond says. “I have arranged for us to have a witness. I know they aren’t necessary in the North—the Old Gods themselves are the witnesses, seeing through the heart tree like a window—but I thought it would be wise for us to have someone of widely-regarded integrity to confirm that this marriage occurred. There can be no disputing it later.”

This is sensible. Your palm skates over your belly before you remember to stop yourself; you must get into the habit of giving away no clues of your pregnancy…until your marriage is public, at least. “But who…?”

Sir Criston Cole trudges into the godswood in full armor. “Alright Aemond, you better not be forcing me to help you catch and cut open a bull again, I’ve still got the bruises from last time, good gods…” He stops dead when he sees you. “Oh. So this has been the cause of your distraction.”

“Sir Criston, Lady Mormont and I are to marry.”

Sir Criston’s eyes are wide and blinking. “…Marry…?”

“Yes,” Aemond says. “Immediately.”

“What? Where…?”

“Here.” He turns to the heart tree in explanation.

Sir Criston stares blankly at the three of you, then shakes off his paralysis. “Oh no. No no no. Your mother would murder me.”

“I think we both know that’s not true.”

“Aemond…” Sir Criston begins, petrified.

“I am asking you to serve as a witness because of the love you bear for me and my family,” the prince says. “And I am asking you to keep this from my mother and grandfather. Not for long, mind you. Just until the feast has passed and the nobles have returned home to their own castles. Then I will inform my family in private, and they can soften the blow by offering Daeron’s hand in marriage to whichever house they decide they like best. This is not treason, Sir Criston. It is a mark of the profound trust I have in you.”

“Oh gods. Gods help me.” Sir Criston covers his face with his hands and stays that way for what feels like a very long time. Fireflies illuminate the cool night air like stars. Several land on the sleeves of Helaena’s gown and shine there like jewels. “Okay,” Sir Criston agrees at last. “I’ll do it, Aemond. I’ll do it for you.”

The prince embraces the lowborn knight, perhaps the best swordsman in the realm. “You’re the closest thing I have to a father.”

“I know.” Sir Criston’s mouth quivers. His dark eyes are slick. “Now let’s do this before I lose my nerve.”

You and Aemond join hands under the rustling leaves of the heart tree. Sir Criston stands beside the prince; Helaena stays near you. There is a distant rumbling of thunder. Sparce raindrops begin to fall. Aemond doesn’t know the vows used in a Northern wedding, you realize, and you can’t remember them well from the marriage ceremonies you attended as a child; from what you can recall, they are generic, plain, ‘who comes to take this woman?’ and that sort of thing.

“What should we say, wife?” the prince asks you, smiling, starlight in his eye. Suddenly, you are alone with him here in the godswood. You are the last people in Westeros, in the entire world. Winter has come and gone and left nothing but two ghosts doomed to dwell together here for eternity.

You speak without first thinking of what to say. The words flow through you like a river. “In the sight of gods and men, I bind myself to you. I will run from no battles, I will crave no flesh but yours, I will put no cause before your own. I pledge to you any strengths that I possess and I vow to slay my weaknesses. I am yours, body and soul. Use me as you will, but only out of love.”

Aemond repeats these words, and then he kisses you. Helaena claps; Sir Criston bows his head to hide a small, sincere smile. Rain falls as you all hurry back inside the Red Keep.

For the very first time, Aemond takes you to his own bed, to the room where you cast the spell of protection that saved him in the joust. There are still remnants of dust on the floor; he could not bring himself to erase you. As your clothes fall away, flashes of lightning reveal every line and birthmark and scar. There is no shyness. You know every stitch of each other already. You make love with gentle, exquisite slowness as the storm builds outside: his fingers woven through yours, his thrusts deep, his whispered promises heavy with truth.

~~~~~~~~~~

“I have something for you,” your husband says as you stand together by the fireplace in the privacy of Helaena’s chambers. In the flames, dry wood pops and crackles. “For the feast.”

“We are so well matched you will not believe it,” you reply. “I have something for you too.”

Helaena brings it over: a tunic that you have been embroidering together for days. It is black—Aemond’s preferred color—but decorated with a dragon of silver thread. The beast winds around the wearer’s back and waist and arms, breathing cool glistening fire.

“It’s supposed to look like Vhagar,” you explain. “But…well…I’m not quite as good at embroidery as Helaena is, so the face is a little…and the wings…”

“It’s perfect,” Aemond says, beaming. And then again: “It’s perfect!” He yanks off his plain black tunic and replaces it with the one you’ve gifted him. “Now I will appear especially dashing for all my prospective wives.”

Helaena giggles, blushing a cheerful pink. She is elated to be in on a joke, to have been trusted with information of such consequence. She points at the silver dragon. “Be cautious with her. She will not always listen.”

“Who, Vhagar?” Aemond asks. “She listens well enough. I’ve tamed her. I’m good at taming all manner of beasts…dragons…bulls…bears…” He grabs you by the waist and draws you to him, kissing the side of your face over and over until you squeal and push him away, laughing. “As for my gift…” He calls for the servants and they enter with a gown. They hand it to the prince, casting you a wary glance, and then disappear again. The gown is unlike anything you’ve ever seen before. The color is subtle, shimmering, opalescent, almost…

“It’s…it’s…”

“Moonstone,” Aemond says. He gives it to you. The fabric flows like water. “I commissioned it the day after the joust. No one else will have anything like it. I’ll be able to spot you anywhere in the room.”

“I doubt you’ll have time to notice me. There will be a plethora of views to enjoy.”

“Yes,” he agrees. “But you’ll be the best.”

He leaves to accompany Alicent as she enters the feast while you and Helaena finish getting ready. Helaena’s gown is a vivid greenish-blue, and the stones in her jewelry are turquoise. There are teardrop-shaped sapphires dangling from your ears and a string of them around your left wrist, gifts from the princess. As always, your moonstone pendant hangs from your neck. You are dressed ostentatiously for a mere lady-in-waiting, particularly one from as modest a house as your own. People may wonder about that. You smile to yourself. They won’t have to wonder long.

The Great Hall is radiant with music and conversation and candlelight. The most celebrated houses of Westeros mingle: the men boasting about their lands and their swords (which hang at their belts in scabbards of leather or metal), the women boasting about their wombs, the children boasting about their enviable betrothals. Those who don’t yet have betrothals to boast about are hoping to procure one tonight. No one pays much attention to you—the daughter of an important house, the widow of an unimportant man—unless it is to compliment your gown. You and Helaena dance together with flushed faces, giggling and twirling until you trip and fall into each other’s waiting arms. Meanwhile, Aemond—who, contrary to you, is having a great deal of attention paid to him—dutifully navigates the hall to pay his respects to the Baratheons, the Lannisters, the Tyrells, the Arryns, the Starks, on and on down the ladder. He speaks to each of the families, nodding politely to the clamoring, bejeweled daughters, before moving on to the next. He does this as quickly as he can so he can get it over with. He has never been at ease with strangers. He has never found it simple to trust them. A part of him will always be that overlooked, scorned second son, reserved by nature, suspicious by necessity; it’s just that he sometimes forgets this when he’s with you. No matter where he goes in the room, he keeps you on his good side. He watches you, he covets you.

There is one guest, and only one, who notices you and asks for a dance. Cregan Stark is young and handsome next to the other lords, nearly your same age, and you had met years before as children. He has a natural, kind charisma. He asks you about your family back on Bear Island as he carries you around the floor like a strong wind, tells you about Winterfell, offers his condolences for the loss of your mother. He doesn’t even think to mention your late husband. It is a commiseration between two Northerners in a distant land; it is a comfort to you both. As soon as Cregan Stark drops your hand and departs to awe some other lady, Aemond appears.

“What do you think you’re doing?” he asks good-naturedly as he circles you, gliding his palm nonchalantly over your waist, your wrists, the small of your back. Your skin responds to him, goosebumps rising, lust kicking up like embers in a stirred fire.

“Diplomacy,” you reply primly.

“Hm. Perhaps we should send you to negotiate treaties.”

“I am very persuasive.”

“Yes, I know.” And he takes your hand to spin you around just once before leaving to pretend to consider marrying some other woman.

When Helaena is whisked away to dance with Otto Hightower, you pour yourself a cup of pomegranate juice and nurse it as you stand by the wall, alone. The noblewomen from the tea party toss you venomous sneers. You ignore them. You have everything they could ever want and more. Your hand settles briefly, forgetfully on your belly, and then you snatch it away.

Aegon, very intoxicated, wobbles over to you and props his back against the wall so he can keep his balance. “Hello,” he slurs.

“Hello.”

“I thought you might like to disparage the candidates with me,” he says, then gestures with his wine cup. “Look at that Floris Baratheon. Ears like a fucking donkey.”

You chuckle, hiding your face guiltily behind your own cup. “Shh. She’s not so bad.”

“You seem to be handling this remarkably well. Perhaps my brother has bored you, perhaps you have had your fill of him. Or perhaps you aren’t so heartbroken because he’s planning to keep you around as his mistress. I wouldn’t have guessed that to be his style, but upon second thought, you have thoroughly corrupted him. In that case, he should choose the donkey for sure. Someone stupid and docile. You can have rooms on opposite ends of the Red Keep and there will be no need for you to claw each other’s eyes out.”

“I’m not an animal, Prince Aegon.”

“You’re a Mormont. That’s hardly better.”

You smile. He smiles back.

Aegon leans into you, unsteady but not purposefully intrusive. “You’re worth more than all of them put together. I’m sorry that’s not what matters.”

“Why are you being so nice to me?”

“We are natural allies,” he says, and clinks his cup against yours in a toast. Fortunately, he is too drunk to notice that you’re avoiding wine this evening. That would certainly raise some suspicions. “I know your secret, and you know mine.”

“What…?” And then you understand. Your secret is your relationship with Aemond, that part is easy. Aegon’s secret is a bit more obscure. What perhaps no one else knows is that there is more to him than brash words and wicked deeds and flippant, lazy recklessness. That he loves his family. That—somewhere way down deep, unspoken but alive—he cares.

Aegon shoves himself away from the wall and gives you a parting bow, clumsy and lurching. “Enjoy your evening as best you can. I’m going to go piss on the floor.”

“Cheers,” you reply. He staggers away, leaving you alone again.

As the Great Hall whirls around you like a galaxy, you bask in the warm glow of this moment, this liminal space like a doorway. There will be grumbles, surely, but what you and Aemond have forged cannot be undone. No one can take away your marriage. No one can take away your child. You knew unconditional love once, long ago on Bear Island, safe in your mother’s arms; now you have it again. You belong somewhere again. You took one hell of a detour, but now you are home.

You don’t feel him enter the hall, because he’s not Aemond Targaryen. He doesn’t change the room at all. You only turn because you hear rising chatter, and then elated shouts, and then the thunder of men’s handshakes and pounds on the back. You wonder who is being congratulated, who is being cheered like a soldier returning from war. When you see him, your cup drops out of your hand. Pomegranate juice floods across the floor like blood. He sees you, rushes to you; and it's the strangest thing, because it all seems to be happening very slowly, but not slowly enough for you to flee. It’s like one of those dreams where you’re trying to run but you can’t. You can’t even speak. You can’t even scream.

He is battered and bruised and thinner—harsher—than you remember, but it’s him. His name rings through the hall in a hundred different voices.

“Axel Hightower, back from the dead!”

“He survived the shipwreck! Praise the gods!”

“And now he’s come to surprise his wife!”

You are powerless to stop his approach. You are chained in place by horror. All around you, the life you thought you’d have is crumbling into dust. It’s running out of your fingers like sand in an hourglass.

“Aww, look, the poor thing is in shock! She can’t believe it!” some idiot sighs romantically. There are applause and whistles. On the periphery of your vision, you see Aegon backing away as far as he can from the dance floor. His head whips around, searching for someone.

Axel grips your arm, pulls you into him, and kisses you. It feels like being invaded. It feels like that very first night with him when he—not cruelly, no, but with a dreadful, willing ignorance—forced his way inside you until it felt like you were being sawed in half. You flinch violently; every muscle, every nerve screams to be away from him. You try to push Axel off of you, but he doesn’t budge. Why would he? He owns you, like a castle or a horse. He can do whatever he likes to you. The notion of you having desires to the contrary would never even cross his mind. There are tears bleeding down your cheeks: for you, for your child, for the future whose throat has just been slit in this room. It feels like you’re dying. You wish you were.

There is the shrill whisper of a blade being torn from its scabbard. All the guests fall silent. Axel takes a step back from you, his fingers still clamped around your forearm. Aemond holds the point of his sword to Axel’s throat. Several crimson beads drip from where the steel has pierced the paper-thin surface layer of skin. Aemond’s voice is dark, like nightfall, like onyx. His eye is blazing blue, cold fire. “Remove your hands from her, or you will lose them.”

Axel is too mystified to be outraged. He releases you. You can breathe again. “She is my wife by law.”

“She carries my child!” Aemond’s words ricochet off the walls like shattered glass. The Great Hall boils over with gasps and scandalized jabbering. “And we married under the heart tree. She is mine.”

“You what?!” Aegon blurts out.

“You what?!” Otto Hightower roars.

“Sir Criston?” Aemond calls, summoning him.

Sir Criston Cole steps out of the rabble. “It’s true,” he says. He hides his reddening face from Queen Alicent. “I witnessed it. They are wed.”

“This is an outrage!” Axel bellows, then looks to the crowd for their verdict.

“Bigamy!” someone cries out. A chorus joins them, a sea of jilted noble families who can only benefit from Axel carting you back to Oldtown.

“Whore! Whore!”

“Poor Axel Hightower escapes from the jaws of death to find this?!”

“A mortal sin!”

“Go back to your true husband!”

“Take her to the dungeons!”

Aemond steps in front of you, twirling his sword once, twice, again. “And who would like to be the first to try?”

No one moves to detain you, but the crowd’s sentiment is unmistakable, rabid. The jeers continue to rain down on you: bigamist, sinner, whore. And you can’t even decry them as slander, because they’re true. Otto Hightower is clutching the back of a chair like he might fall over without it. Alicent’s eyes are pooling with stunned, furious tears. Helaena sinks to the floor, covering her ears with both hands. After taking a moment to consider it, Sir Criston moves to stand beside Aemond and draws his own sword.

Ideas flit through Aemond’s mind like arrows. He catches one of them. As Sir Criston watches the crowd, Aemond turns back to you and touches your face with his free hand. “Say you want a trial by combat.”

“Are you sure—?”

“I can beat any man here besides Sir Criston and he wouldn’t fight me, just say it.”

“I demand a trial by combat!” you announce for all the court to witness.

“No she doesn’t!” Otto shouts, trying to drown you out.

“She does,” Aemond insists, grinning madly. “And I will be her champion.”

“Then I shall name my own!” Axel says. Already the court is chattering that there is no great cowardice in this; he is still recovering from his ordeal, far from his physical peak, and Prince Aemond is one of the best swordsmen in King’s Landing. Axel scans the Great Hall for someone, anyone, who could challenge him. Sir Criston could probably best Aemond, but he would never agree to try. His allegiances to both Alicent and Aemond are too great. Who else could there be? Who else could there possibly be?

And then Axel’s gaze lands on him. When Aemond said he could beat any man here, he wasn’t wrong. The giant the court calls Killington hardly counts as a man at all. He’s not a man; he’s a monster. And he’s been thirsty for Aemond’s blood for years. He towers over anyone else in the room; he outweighs them by double. He steps forward, answering a question that has not yet been asked.

Axel’s face splits into a grin. His eyes glint like mirrors, like blades. “I choose Ivar Kellington.”

#aemond targaryen x reader #aemond x you #aemond targaryen #aemond imagine #aemond x reader #aemond targaryen imagine

526 notes · View notes

dsknsk · 2 years ago

Text

Operator names (trends)

(any operator will be mentioned only once, even if they fulfill multiple categories)

The 'Why do I need something fancy, lemme just use my name' operators (more are on this list actually)

Saria

Silence

RockRock (Rochelle Rockwell)

Jessica

Fiammetta

Nearl

SilverAsh

Dorothy

Angelina

Franka

Młynar

Morgan

Astgenne

Astesia

Heidi

Ceylon

Ethan

Ines

Jackie

The Warrior Cats operators

(noun/descriptive word + noun, usually nature-based)

Purestream

Cliffheart

Mudrock

Fartooth

Ashlock

Flametail (she has the name of an actual Warrior Cat. he drowned as he fell through the ice)

Wildmane (when spelled as one word)

Highmore

Firewhistle

Beanstalk

Frostleaf

Aciddrop

Blacknight

Windflit

Goldenglow

GreyThroat

Honeyberry

Heavyrain

Pinecone

Stormeye

Firewatch

Skyfire

The operators who let themselves rather be described

Flamebringer

Steward

Scavenger

Executor

Enforcer

Minimalist

Cutter

Perfumer

Passenger

Courier

The colorful operators

Akafuyu (aka = red)

Schwarz

Mint

Indigo

Projekt Red

Qiu Bai (bai = white)

ShiraYuki (shira = white)

Platinum

Luo Xiaohei (hei = black)

Blue Poison

The operators you can build on

Cement

Gravel

Asbestos

The operators with a famous name

Magallan

Saga

Nightingale

Kafka

Mayer

Beehunter (= Beowulf)

These operators think foreign languages are cool, actually

Ling

Chongyue

Leizi

Shaw (xiao)

Waai Fu

Aak

Hung

Ebenholz

Jieyun

Yato

Mizuki

Lee

Lin

La Pluma

Toddifons

Kazemaru

Sussurro

Gitano

Qanipalaat

Saileach

Pozyomka

Zima

Rosa

Istina

Pramanix

Sora

Exusiai

Gnosis

Yato

Noir Corne

The operators at home in the kitchen

Mousse

Vigna (vigna angularis)

Pudding

Paprika

Absinthe

Tequila

Vanilla

Croissant

The musically talented operators

Bagpipe

Horn

Wind Chimes

The operators who mash two words into one

Blemishine

Corroserum

Whisperain

Lunacub

Whislash

Shamare

The operators you can find on the map

Texas

Lappland

Aosta

Matterhorn

Provence

Eyjafjalla

The operators who refer to their origin species

Tuye (means 'camel')

Cardigan

Dobermann

Beagle

Podenco

Tomimi

Durin

Manticore

Bison

Ptilopsis

FEater (= iron-eating beast, aka panda)

Leonhardt

Glaucus

Weedy

The mythological operators

Ifrit

Surtr

Dusk

Nian

Vulcan

Dagda

Indra

Nightmare

Skadi

Sesa

Mostima

Ceobe (= cerberus)

Pallas

The nature-loving operators

Breeze

Chestnut

Lava

Orchid

Quartz

Humus

Bubble

Haze

Meteor

Meteorite

Quercus (= oak)

Reed

Beeswax

Carnelian

Plume

Folinic

Warfarin

Flint

Rosmontis (= rosemary)

Kal'tsit (= calcite)

Mountain

Aurora

Midnight

Hibiscus

Blaze

Mulberry

#arknights #there's way more but please don't remind me of them

97 notes · View notes

autumn-sweet-fae · 3 years ago

Note

There is a distressingly high number of Elite Four+ level trainers gearing up to fight God in the aftermath.

And i mean distressing for Arceus.

There's Palmer, Raihan, Gloria, N, Iris, Drayden, Volkner, Flint, Bede, Marnie probably some of Palmer's fellow Brains, maybe the BW/2 protags, and possibly others if you decide to throw in any other notable characters from other regions.

They are willing to pull God down from Heaven to make him eat dirt.

Somewhere in the distortion world, Giratina is chortling into the void.

Luckily for Arceus, there’s a chain reaction of telephone from Johanna’s reminding everyone to tell their loved ones they’re not dead. By the end of the next day, everyone who needs to know, knows that the group is alive and somewhere safe, there’s even a press conference that confirms this, although their location is not officially known at this time.

Cynthia and Rowan get a call from Johanna herself to tell them that night. Which is great because Cynthia and Looker had been dealing with one blubbering and damn near inconsolable Mint for the past hour. Though the moment they are informed that the group is alive and well, Mint jumps up and steals Cynthia‘s phone. In the scuffle to take it back they scream over the line that they all better be alive cause Mint are gonna kill them!! How dare they leave them behind! After everything the great Mint’s done for them!!

Johanna is holding her phone far from her ear, allowing everyone in the room to hear Mint’s tirade. Ingo and Akari are trying so hard not to laugh but fail.

#submas wanted au #arceus #girantina #johanna #cynthia #detective looker #mint thornton #Ingo #Akari #pokemon #pokemon ocs

123 notes · View notes

doublehex · 3 years ago

Text

One of those that I am curious about GRRM resolving, if he can ever resolve (and perhaps what other Fantasy writers can learn from this), is how he can deal with the contradictory nature of ASOIAF both saying feudalism is bad while also glorifying the North as a pre-industrial rural nation in contrast with the hedonism of the Westerosi south and Essos.

GRRM tried to cover his tracks in a small way with showcasing that the Northern lords were just as willing to play the political game as the Southern lords were, that they were going to twist out every drip of self advancement they could from the war with the Lannisters, and especially so when it became a war for independence. There is those feast chapters in ACOK where Lord Manderly is trying to push for newly minted coins, and it just so happens that those coins should be minted out of White Harbor. In AGOT, Greatjon Umber is trying to say he should lead the van, which would give him prestige or glory, regardless of his capabilities.

On the other hand, as much as the Northern lords look to their own advancements, that is nothing when compared to the South. I don't really need to give you examples; the book is just bursting with showcases of the South and the Essosi look to their own interests before anyone else. While we got the Flint clans rallying to rescue "valiant Ned's helpless little girl" from the Boltons, we got every lord and knight trying to pick as much meat from the decaying corpse of House Lannister before the whole thing combusts. The Golden Company abandons Daenerys (twice! once before the series starts and again in ADWD) to get a head start on a collapsing Westeros.

So a significant contrast in how these cultures are portrayed. Civilized cultures are corrupt, the pre-industrialized North will rally to the Stark name.

The reason I am raising this point is because the major political theme of the book is that feudalism sucks. It is a shitty ass system that only works when there is a good person at the top, and even then that requires that good person to have supporters that are on their side. And even then, when it does work, it still denies any sort of agency to the common man.

That has to raise the question...how the hell does the Starks taking back Winterfell build up that foundation? The Starks want to take back Winterfell because Winterfell has always belonged to the Starks. Rights by blood. Feudalism. But the series has spent five books detailing that feudalism sucks. If Dany is in some way involved in the destruction of King's Landing, that is also showing how feudalism sucks, except with the added caveat that it sucks even when a progressive reformer at the head of it.

But it doesn't suck when the conservative traditionalists do it?

In many ways, ASOIAF feels like a saga that has been written across generations. George started the series in the early 90s, during the Clinton administration. It came to prominence during the Obama administration, and it became a zeitgeist during the Trump administration. And he is still working on it today during the Biden administration! The expectations of fantasy, and the perspective of fantasy, and the popularity of fantasy, had drastically changed. When George started, the heroic traditionists should be the heroes. The orcs in LOTR were engaged in industrialization, while the valiant ringbearers came from rural backwaters.

If George got this series finished by 2010, people would not flinch at the Starks coming out on top. But now, people are tilting and scratching their heads at the prospect.

It's one of those things where there is no way George can come out with a satisfying ending, just because of the wide generational shift that has happened. You have everything from people clamoring for none of these royal house to survive, a Targaryen restoration, Stark supremacy, and everything in-between. Each of these wants are aligned with a different perspective on fantasy that catered to that generation. Now you have the biggest fantasy story in terms of readers taking so long that many generations of readers have their take on it, and there is no way you can satisfy all of them. That is not even taking into account the way Leftism and Fascism has exploded in the political arena, and all these people are arguing with the conservative Liberals and Rightwingers on their takes of the series.

Let's be clear, this contradiction is one of George's own invention. He created a story that both said feudalism is dehumanizing but also decided on an endpoint that said a conservative noble family should get back what was always theirs. But if George made the damn mess, he can certainly clean it up.

I just wonder if he even realizes there is a mess in the first place.

#asoiaf #stark #game of thrones #lannister #valyrianscrolls

119 notes · View notes

istumpysk · 4 years ago

Text

Operation Stumpy Re-Read

ACOK: Bran II (Chapter 16)

Thank the lords, it’s a simple Bran tax plan chapter.

They went quicker with Hodor's help. Once he had been taught to do something, he did it deftly. His hands were always gentle, though his strength was astonishing. "You could have been a knight too, I bet," Bran told him. "If the gods hadn't taken your wits, you would have been a great knight."

+.+

Their shields and surcoats also set them apart from each other. Little Walder quartered the twin towers of Frey with the brindled boar of his grandmother's House and the plowman of his mother's: Crakehall and Darry, respectively. Big Walder's quarterings were the tree-and-ravens of House Blackwood and the twining snakes of the Paeges. They must be hungry for honor, Bran thought as he watched them take up their lances. A Stark needs only the direwolf.

This immediately brings to mind that conversation between Jon and Arya regarding a mother’s house being equal in honour.

This seems oddly out of character for Bran, no? I’m choosing to read entirely too much into it, and believe this is hinting both Sansa and her husband will share the same sigil.

It’s not so far-fetched if you keep reading!

+.+

He ducked low as they passed through the door. One time Hodor smelled bread baking and ran to the kitchens, and Bran got such a crack that Maester Luwin had to sew up his scalp. Mikken had given him a rusty old visorless helm from the armory, but Bran seldom troubled to wear it. The Walders laughed whenever they saw it on his head.

Maester Luwin held the door open, and Bran hugged Hodor's neck and ducked as they went through.

Describe them walking through a door together one more time, old man.

+.+

In addition to a mint, Lord Manderly also proposed to build Robb a warfleet. "We have had no strength at sea for hundreds of years, since Brandon the Burner put the torch to his father's ships. Grant me the gold and within the year I will float you sufficient galleys to take Dragonstone and King's Landing both."

A man of his word!

Behind the jetty wall, the inner harbor was crowded with war galleys. Davos counted twenty-three. Lord Wyman was a fat man, but not an idle one, it seemed. - Davos II, ADWD

"Perhaps you understand, then." Wyman Manderly lurched ponderously to his feet. "I have been building warships for more than a year. Some you saw, but there are as many more hidden up the White Knife. Even with the losses I have suffered, I still command more heavy horse than any other lord north of the Neck - Davos IV, ADWD

But what will the fleet be used for? 🤔

+.+

He wondered if a cripple had ever commanded a warship.

Of course, Bran. Victarion Greyjoy has a charred blackened hand, and he commands a great fleet.

I’m sure there’s all kinds of captains with mangled hands sailing the high seas.

+.+

Maester Luwin answered. "With no direct heir, there are sure to be many claimants contending for the Hornwood lands. The Tallharts, Flints, and Karstarks all have ties to House Hornwood through the female line, and the Glovers are fostering Lord Harys's bastard at Deepwood Motte. The Dreadfort has no claim that I know, but the lands adjoin, and Roose Bolton is not one to overlook such a chance."

Roughly 90% of this chapter is men attempting to secure a marriage with Lady Hornwood to claim her lands.

I get it, George. I’m reading you loud and clear.

+.+

"Then let Lord Hornwood's bastard be the heir," Bran said, thinking of his half brother Jon.

Ser Rodrik said, "That would please the Glovers, and perhaps Lord Hornwood's shade as well, but I do not think Lady Hornwood would love us. The boy is not of her blood."

Lady Hornwood doesn’t just cosplay as Sansa, she’ll try on Catelyn from time to time.

+.+

"As you will, my prince," said Ser Rodrik. "You did well." Bran flushed with pleasure. Being a lord was not so tedious as he had feared, and since Lady Hornwood had been so much briefer than Lord Manderly, he even had a few hours of daylight left to visit with Summer.

AHAHAHAHAHA

Was it not so TEDIOUS, Bran? What great news for the realm.

Laws are a tedious business and counting coppers is worse. And the people … there is no end of them. I sit on that damnable iron chair and listen to them complain until my mind is numb and my ass is raw. - Eddard I, AGOT

The rest was a tedium the queen knew well. She sat upon her cushions, listening, one foot jiggling with impatience. - Daenerys VII, ADWD

+.+

"Might be there isn't." She grinned. "What are you staring at, boy? Never seen a woman before?"

"I have so." Bran had bathed with his sisters hundreds of times and he'd seen serving women in the hot pools too. Osha looked different, though, hard and sharp instead of soft and curvy. Her legs were all sinew, her breasts flat as two empty purses. "You've got a lot of scars."

All the Starkling boys spy on naked girls in the hot pools. It’s canon.

+.+

A crow had once taken Mors for dead and pecked out his eye, so he wore a chunk of dragonglass in its stead. As Old Nan told the tale, he'd grabbed the crow in his fist and bitten its head off, so they named him Crowfood.

May I request an interpreter?

+.+

Ser Rodrik commanded the man to set aside a fifth, and questioned the steward closely about Lord Hornwood's bastard, the boy Larence Snow. In the north, all highborn bastards took the surname Snow. This lad was near twelve, and the steward praised his wits and courage.

"Your notion about the bastard may have merit, Bran," Maester Luwin said after. "One day you will be a good lord for Winterfell, I think."

"No I won't." Bran knew he would never be a lord, no more than he could be a knight.

Bran would like to Gift some land to the bastard Snow with wits and courage. Tee-hee.

+.+

"It may be so, Bran," Ser Rodrik said, "but I was wed three times and my wives gave me daughters. Now only Beth remains to me. My brother Martyn fathered four strong sons, yet only Jory lived to be a man. When he was slain, Martyn's line died with him. When we speak of the morrow nothing is ever certain."

I love how all these adults are determined to make Bran understand Robb might die tomorrow. Like damn, let him breathe, lol.

+.+

"Beren Tallhart may well be our best answer," he told them when Leobald had gone. "By blood he is half Hornwood. If he takes his uncle's name . . ."

Oh, there’s a plan! Somebody could take their uncle’s name, and inherit Hornwood.

Do you think they may have left out a few major plot points on the show?

+.+

"It may come down to practicalities," said Maester Luwin. "Which lord he most needs to court. The riverlands are part of his realm, he may wish to cement the alliance by wedding Lady Hornwood to one of the lords of the Trident. A Blackwood, perhaps, or a Frey—"

Lord Tywin's look was scornful. "Send her to Riverrun and her mother will match her with a Blackwood or a Mallister to shore up her son's alliances along the Trident. Send her north, and she will be wed to some Manderly or Umber before the moon turns. Yet she is no less dangerous here at court, as this business with the Tyrells should prove. She must marry a Lannister, and soon." - Tyrion III, ASOS

+.+

Finally all of the principal vassals of House Stark had been heard from save for Howland Reed the crannogman, who had not set foot outside his swamps for many a year

Oh, don’t worry, you’ll be hearing from Howland Reed the second they give Ned Stark’s Winterfell to a Targaryen.

+.+

Bran was riding Dancer around the yard when they came through the gate.

Aww, can we just appreciate Bran naming his horse Dancer?…

As if I actually care. I’m only using this space to insist the ship will be named Water Dancer.

+.+

The pain was an axe splitting his head apart, but when the crow wrenched out its beak all slimy with bits of bone and brain, Bran could see again. What he saw made him gasp in fear. He was clinging to a tower miles high, and his fingers were slipping, nails scrabbling at the stone, his legs dragging him down, stupid useless dead legs. "Help me!" he cried. A golden man appeared in the sky above him and pulled him up. "The things I do for love," he murmured softly as he tossed him out kicking into empty air.

One day I’ll make up my mind and finally decide whether I believe Bran and Jaime will ever meet again.

Today is not that day.

Final thoughts:

It’s made explicitly clear in the text how vulnerable Lady Hornwood is without an heir or a husband.

Do you really believe Sansa will finish the story unwed with no prospect of children?

-> return to menu <-

#operation stumpy re-read #acok #bran ii

90 notes · View notes