#queenly month of may

[liminalpsych]

A very, very roughly sketched, unedited scene that wouldn't leave me alone this morning and demanded to be written (....oh hey @queer-ragnelle! I accidentally made a Lusty Month of May / May Day Parade contribution!):

The week they arrive at Sorelois. Perhaps even the day. Guinevere is half-mad with rage and grief, reeling from Arthur's betrayal, the loss of her marriage, of her court. It's the usurping of her entire life.

It makes her bold. It makes her want to be cruel. It makes her want to strike back or to take what she wants or to rebel in some small or large way. It makes her want to hurt Arthur in turn, or transgress since she has already been spurned from society and convicted for something for which she's innocent.

"There is something I wish to see," Guinevere says, there in the somber quiet of the receiving room with Lancelot, Galehaut, and Lady Bloie of Malehaut. An announcement to the air, undirected.

Lancelot responds first, of course, as expected. He kneels before her, the picture of earnest devotion. "Whatever you wish, my queen, I will strive my utmost to bring it to you."

Across the room, towering nigh to the ceiling even leaned against the wall as he is, Galehaut watches her with a carefully neutral expression. Unblinking, unsmiling, and there's the barest tightening around his eyes. He is wary of her still, and senses her mood.

The Lady of Malehaut is a different kind of unreadable entirely, lounging next to her with a spot of embroidery to keep her clever hands busy. Her full mouth is always a breath away from smiling, like she carries with her a trove of private amusements at all times. She observes from beneath half-lidded eyes, her needle flashing through cloth more by touch than sight.

Guinevere lifts her loyal knight's chin with a touch of her finger. His lips part, eyes wide and wondering. She smiles. "I want to you to give Galehaut a kiss."

Ah, if only she dared to watch Galehaut's expression in that moment! Yet she must keep her focus on Lancelot. His face pales. His breath catches in his throat. His pulse thrums against her finger like a trapped and frantic bird. "M-my queen?" he stammers, gaze darting side to side as if for an escape.

Her smile sharpens, serpentine. "Do you not wish to?"

"I— I am not—" He's breathing rapid and shallow now, on the edge of panic. It's a pretty quandary she's put him in, one with no known safe answer, and he's reeling under it.

(She feels more steady by the moment, her control re-establishing in the small sphere she still possesses.)

Galehaut steps forward. There's the edge of fury in his warning, in the creak of leather and the rattle of maille. "My lady," he rumbles.

Now Guinevere looks his way, and she lifts a graceful eyebrow at the storm in his countenance. Lancelot quivers beneath her touch, unmoored by the loss of her pinning gaze. "Will you tell me truly that you don't want this, Galehaut?"

He halts. His jaw works; the stormclouds thicken. He glares, proud and silent.

Guinevere laughs. It's a free, bell-like sound—as playful as a day a-Maying. Lancelot stills and his breathing steadies, soothed by her apparent merriment. She makes a show of taking pity on him, releasing his chin to stroke his cheek. "Do you wish to kiss me?" she murmurs, leaning closer.

His breath catches again, no different than before. He nods.

She kisses him, sweet and soft; he returns it with a small desperate sound against her lips. (It tastes like power.) He's breathless when she pulls away, and she smiles down at him, indulgent. "I know Galehaut desires a kiss from you as well," she says, "and he is the one who brought us together, yes?"

Another nod, and Lancelot seems more dazed than panicked now. Swaying towards her, and glancing shyly towards his boon companion, who draws a sharp bracing breath.

"It is not as if he's a lady," she says with a wink. "So it is not being untrue to me. And it is my request, is it not?"

"Y—yes, my lady...?"

"Do you not want to kiss him?"

"I..." Those expressive eyes flicker from her lips to Galehaut's and back again. His breath quickens again, but this time it is a little less panicked. "My lady, you ask hard questions," he says at last, helplessly.

She laughs again, darkened with satisfaction. "Kiss him, then," she commands, "and then tell me if you want to do it again."

"My lady," protests Galehaut, strained—oh, and there is longing so sharp that it is agonized, bare and naked in every rigid muscle and the aching furrow of his brow. He looks at Lancelot like a man starving. He looks at Guinevere like a man betrayed.

To give Galehaut what he so desperately desires, when he knows it is something she can take away at any moment? To receive a kiss from his Lancelot, but only on the order of Lancelot's lover-queen? For Galehaut to touch his companion in the way he desires, but only so long as Guinevere allows it, never knowing truly if Lancelot would have initiated on his own, never being certain of Lancelot's desire?

It's a power like none she's ever wielded before.

Lancelot stumbles to Galehaut on unsteady legs with a last hesitant glance over his shoulder. Guinevere smiles encouragingly and nods her approval. One last nudge—and still, Galehaut could refuse Lancelot. Galehaut is sworn to neither Guinevere nor Arthur; he needs not obey her. Galehaut could save the last unconquered edges of his heart and maintain this last barrier of distance. He could still refuse himself what he wants so badly.

Galehaut tenses, and Galehaut wavers, and Galehaut's heaves great draughts of air as if he's in the thick of a melee.

Lancelot reaches out, and Galehaut surrenders.

[wonder-worker]

I've been thinking about the tragedy of Elizabeth Woodville living to see the end of her family name.

I don't mean her family with her husband, which lived on through her daughter and grandson. I mean her own.

Her sisters died, one by one, many of them after 1485. When Elizabeth died, only Katherine was left, and she would die before the turn of the century as well.

All her brothers died, too. Lewis died in childhood. John was executed. Anthony was murdered. Lionel died suddenly in the peak of Richard's reign, unable to see his niece become queen. Edward perished at war. Richard died in grieving peace. For all the violence and judgement the family endured, it was "an accident of biology" that ended their line: none of the brothers left heirs, and the Woodville name was extinguished. We know the family was aware of this. We know they mourned it, too:

“Buy a bell to be a tenor at Grafton to the bells now there, for a remembrance of the last of my blood.”

Elizabeth lived through the deposition and death of her young sons, and lived to see the end of her own family name. It must have been such a haunting loss, on both sides.

[aegonstradwife]

conception | aegon targaryen x reader

summary: anonymous requested; you and aegon have 4 daughters. while aegon is in a meeting they discuss the fact that the king doesn’t yet have a male heir. otto suggests aegon taking a second wife to have a chance at producing an heir. it pisses aegon off that otto would even suggest that.

warnings: talk of general misogyny, established relationship, smut. (riding, creampie.)

a. note: link to the original request.

It's a warm day, perfect for taking the girls out to play in the courtyard. They are glad to be free of their daily lessons, and you of your queenly duties.

One day away from such responsibilities couldn't hurt, and the sun shining down on your grouping had you in higher spirits than you had been for months.

Until you spied your husband stalking his way through the corridor toward you.

Initially, you lit up as you saw Aegon, as did your daughters upon seeing their father; he is so often away from them in council meetings or tending to other kingly duties.

For Aegon, seeing his wife and daughters makes him happier than he's been all day. It's a rare sight, seeing him smile so warmly, especially these days. But sadly, it doesn't last long.

The girls may not notice, as Aegon scoops the youngest into his arms, but you sure as hells do.

That menacing look, the red rimming his eyes. Telltale signs that Aegon isn't feeling his best, which unfortunately have been more prevalent of late.

"Aegon?" You lay a hand on your husband's arm, squeezing. "What's the matter, love?"

His violet eyes lay upon your hand squeezing his arm, and he tries to keep his terrible mood in check, so as not to take it out on you or the children. "There's nothing wrong, my dear."

But he refuses to meet your gaze as he presses a kiss to your daughter's forehead.

"Nothing?" You raise your brows, studying him. Something is wrong. Perhaps something you'd better not discuss around the girls....

"Ladies, why don't we break for lunch?" You announce, herding your daughters to one of the maids nearby.

With one last kiss to her chubby cheek, Aegon sets the youngest down and allows her to waddle off with the rest to the kitchens.

"Talk to me, my love." Once alone, you run your hands up Aegon's arms to his shoulders, kneading. "What happened? I thought you were meant to be at council all day...."

The king grumbles, frustrated to be questioned by you, but at the same time relishing the feeling of your talented hands kneading the tension out of his shoulders. Of which there is a lot.

His gaze meets yours, and there's a hint of annoyance in it, though whether at you or other matters, you can't initially tell.

".... Otto has brought a most pressing matter to the council today."

The breath he takes next is measured, trying to keep his composure, though he finds doing so much easier in your presence.

"What?" You frown, any number of terrible things flashing through your mind. All of them ending with the palace in rubble, your family ruined as Rhaenyra takes the throne. "Is it her? What awful thing has she done now?"

You dig your fingers ferociously into Aegon's shoulders.

A small pained noise escapes him, though he tries not to wince as he places his hands over yours to loosen your grip.

"It's not Rhaenyra." He continues to stare at you, his eyes full of an exhaustion you wish you could wipe away. "It's Otto."

You smooth your fingers apologetically over his shoulders, soothing the hurt. "So you said. What did he say?"

Aegon closes his eyes, that furrow between his brows relaxing for just a moment, as your fingers stroke him, before returning. He pauses, unsure how you're going to take the words that must next fall from his lips. Knowing they might hurt you. "He said we need a son, that we desperately need a son and soon...."

Your stomach falls. You knew this was coming - for years now you've only been able to produce girls. With every birth, Aegon's joy only grew, and your worry along with it.

What if you couldn't produce an heir at all? What if -

"We'll keep trying," you say resolutely. "I know I can give you a son. Just let's keep trying, please...."

"That's not all that was mentioned." It looks like it physically pains Aegon to tell you this. "The matter of a second wife was also raised, to try and help produce a male heir...."

You know husbands - especially kings - often take second wives when the first is unable to birth a son. Gods, it will about kill you if Aegon turns to that ...

At a loss for what to say, and feeling tears threatening to spill if you utter so much as a word, you cling speechlessly to Aegon, hoping for him to make it all better.

His hand is under your chin, cupping gently, forcing you to look at him. "But.... what if.... what if I don't care for a son?"

Shaken by this declaration, all thoughts of crying banished in worry, you clap a hand over your husband's mouth and glance around for any passing servants. "Do not say that, Aegon! What if someone were to hear...?"

A determined hand encircling your wrist, he pulls your fingers gently from his mouth, a grave look on his face. "And if they did? Why is it so important they think we care about a son? Why.... why couldn't one of our daughters be queen? Rhaenyra seems to think she has some claim to the throne. Why not our eldest?"

That intense stare does not waiver as he continues to peer at you.

"Aegon, please, not here..."

The cogs in your head are turning, as you grab him by the hand and pull him along into a spare room, Aegon following silently along.

It seems he, too, is thinking about what he's just said as he closes the door behind you. His expression is still earnest when he turns to face you.

You turn to face him at the same time, arms crossed. "You're saying you would name Syryn as your successor, as queen?"

"Yes," comes his simple yet fervent reply. "If Rhaenyra believes Viserys named her heir, then surely I can do the same?"

You chew thoughtfully at your cheek. "Otto will never accept it. I doubt the smallfolk would either. Isn't that why we're in this situation in the first place?"

"You think they won't accept it?" Aegon asks, cornering you and placing his hands on your shoulders. "I'll make them accept it. I'm the king, damnit. I don't want a son, I don't need a son. I have everything I need already."

The conviction with which he says it almost makes you believe it. "And.... you don't want to at least keep trying? For a son? Or even another daughter?"

Seeing your husband all worked up like this is making you feel.... things.

Aegon notices the immediate change in your expression, the way you look at him, your need for him.

"We will keep trying.... but not because I want a son."

His hands relinquish their hold on your shoulders to instead grab for your hips, gripping them firmly and pulling you flush against him. That earnest look in his eyes is now dark with desire, gaze roaming hungrily over your body.

Your hands come to sweetly cradle his jaw, humming contentedly as your body is pulled to his. "I love hearing you talk about our family this way. I love knowing you love us and will do anything to protect us, as king."

Twining a lock of his hair around your finger, you look up at him through your lashes. "I would love to give you another child, Aegon. Son or daughter."

He purrs as your fingers weave further into his hair, his hands tightening their grasp on your hips, pulling you ever - impossibly - closer.

Aegon leans down, breath hot against your ear, and breathes, "Then you'd better be prepared to keep trying.... over, and over and over again."

You can't help but grin, ecstatic at Aegon's joy over your family. You wrap your arms tightly around his shoulders and kiss him; a biting kiss, teeth clashing, tongues sliding over each other.

"We should try now," you gasp, tugging at the back of Aegon's jacket. "While the girls are at lunch and you have some time away from the council."

Aegon groans agonizingly into your mouth before he pulls away, gaze now even darker.

"Such a desperate little thing, aren't you? Wanting to take advantage of your husband while he can spare the time," he teases, pulling off his jacket and tossing it aside.

Even just those words - Aegon calling you desperate, seeing you for what you truly are - are enough to make your legs tremble.

"Oh please, Aegon. Right here, I need it here."

The room you've found yourselves in is bare, with naught more than a fireplace and a few suits of armor dotting the perimeter.

As such, you pull him back toward the wall and lean yourself against it, fingers dipping under the collar of his exposed tunic. "I need to feel you, my king."

Aegon presses you back against the wall, your back aligning with the cool stones, his body now pressed firmly against yours. His lips find your neck with a huff of hot air, kissing and nibbling, hands grabbing for every bit of you they can reach.

"You're always so needy, so desperate," he mutters. "I'll give you what you need, my wife. I'll give you everything you desire."

As his hands work their way over you, yours do the same over him. His body has the perfect amount of cushion to it - being held against him is the most comfortable feeling in the world.

"Aegon...." You whisper, lifting a leg to wrap it high around his waist. "Give me another child. Please."

A deep growl escapes him at the wrap of your leg around him and he presses forward, wanting to make sure you can feel every searing inch of him against you.

"You want another child, do you?" His lips blaze a scorching path to the collar of your dress, which he tugs out of the way with his teeth. "You want me to fill you up and give you what you need?"

In a hurry to have him inside of you, you gather your skirts and pull them up with a quick nod. "Let's not waste too much time. Someone will be looking for one of us sooner or later."

He whines as your gown is hiked up, revealing the smooth, creamy skin of your legs and the heat between them. He runs his hands over those legs, leaving burning trails in their wake.

"So impatient," he murmurs, "but I have to agree with you."

He hunches down, positioning himself properly between your legs, and curls his hands around the backs of your thighs. "Wrap your legs around my waist, love, and hold on tight."

With your back still anchored against the wall, you wrap your legs tightly around your husband's hips and allow him to lift you from the ground. Your hands are still moving all over him, eventually skimming down to his trousers, which you start to undo the buckle of.

Aegon grunts his approval, allowing you to unbuckle his breeches. His gaze never leaves yours, though, as his breaths grow shallow.

"Gods, you're going to be the death of me one day," he sighs, hands squeezing at your thighs. "You always know how to drive me absolutely wild."

At this angle, it's hard to get your hand all the way inside the opening of Aegon's pants. But you do manage to circle your fingers haphazardly around your husband's half-hard cock and give him a few solid pumps to bring him to full hardness.

"And the way to drive you wild is to ask you to fill me full of your babies, isn't it, Aegon?"

His breath hitches at the feeling of your hand around him, a frustrated groan falling from his lips. His entire body quivers with desire as he leans in. "You know me too well. The thought of filling you with my seed, of giving you more children.... it's enough to drive any man wild."

"Any man?" You 'tsk.' "Doesn't the thought of just 'any' man getting me pregnant make you jealous, my king?"

With your legs already around his hips, it's hard to get the waist of his trousers low enough to allow his erection to pop out and Aegon has to help you, shoving the constricting material down so that the head of his cock can nudge at your folds. "I'm wet for you.... can you feel it?"

Though he doesn't say it aloud, he feels a sharp pang of jealousy at your words, a possessive need surging through him. He growls, hands gripping your thighs even tighter, eyes practically blazing with desire.

"Don't play with me. I know you're teasing, but it's enough to make me lose control." He leans in even closer, breath blistering against your skin. "Put me inside, my love. Let me feel you."

Arching your back away from the wall, you position yourself so that Aegon's cockhead is pressing insistently at your opening. "…. should I make you beg to fill me up?"

That simple question sets his body quivering with yearning for you. His fingers dig into your skin as he tries to hold on to his composure, but failing all the while.

"Please…." He groans, his voice low and hoarse. "Please, my love, let me fill you up. I need it, I need you."

"Good boy," you sigh, and after a quick peck of a kiss to his nose, you begin to relax the muscles in your back, allowing your wet cunt to slide down on Aegon's cock, welcoming him inside of you.

Aegon's eyes roll back in overwhelming pleasure at the feeling of your warm, wet heat around him. With a sharp inhale, he redoubles his hold on your thighs, pulling you down onto him as he begins to move with you, matching your rhythm perfectly. The sound of skin slapping against skin echoes through the room, mingling with your moan and Aegon's desperate grunts. Aegon's face finds your neck again as he continues to drag you down onto him with abandon, deeper and harder with each thrust.

"You feel so good, my love." His voice is tremulous, hands beginning to shake where they hold you up. "I'm not going to stop until I get you pregnant again."

And it all feels so dirty, the hem of your gown trapped around your waist as your husband pulls you down by your hips, driving himself into you. Your hands try to grapple for purchase at the wall beside your head, but then settle for resting your wrists at Aegon's shoulders, tips of your fingers clawing and scratching at the back of his neck.

"Please, Aegon…we don't have long. Someone might come looking soon…" At this point, you don't even care if you climax, as long as Aegon's seed finds its home deep inside of you.

In response, Aegon nods, hips now moving even faster as he feels your nails digging into his neck. He can feel his own release building, evidenced by the way his chest heaves and his face has gone pink all over. The need to give you what you want is overwhelming for him.

"D-Don't worry, my love," he gasps. "I won't last long like this."

And with that, he gives one final, powerful thrust, burying himself deep as he empties himself inside of you, shouting your name like a war cry.

There are few things in this world you enjoy more than the feeling of Aegon's warm seed splashing inside of you. You hum, eyes rolling back, as the king spends himself inside you.

He pulls you close, holding you tight against his chest. "I love you," he gasps, with a kiss to your temple. "And I love our daughters. Fuck a male heir. Syryn will be queen."

Capturing his lips in another kiss, you run your hands gladly up and down his chest. "Syryn will make a great queen. She already bosses the other girls around like it's her job."

Aegon chuckles, pulling back to look down at you with a gleam in his eye. "I think she takes after her mother in that regard."

[queer-ragnelle]

Tumblr's May Day Parade 2024!

Calling all Arthurian creators!

This May 2024 let's celebrate Arthurian Legend in all its bloody spring time glory with our unique creations and contributions to this ongoing tradition. Artforms of every variety welcome and encouraged. The May-themed prompts are...

May 1-5: Morbid Month of May {May King Mordred}

“Know that he will be born the first day of May in the kingdom of Logres.” —Post Vulgate

May 6-10: Queenly Month of May {May Queen Guinevere}

“Seeing it now, this crown of swords...Guinevere is the only one who knew where it was.” —Alliterative Morte

May 11-16: Lusty Month of May {Free Space/Flower Festival}

“Tra la! It's May! The lusty month of May! That lovely month when ev'ryone goes Blissfully astray.” —Camelot Musical

May 17-21: Grumpy Month of Kay {Seneschal Celebration}

“Sir Kay, the Seneschal. Is that your name?...Now wit ye well that ye are named the shamefullest knight of your tongue that now is living.” —Le Morte d'Arthur

May 22-26: May le Fay {The Anti-Queen Morgan}

“Now come forward and see a king's daughter wield a sword.” —Post Vulgate

May 27-31: May Day Melee {Violence is Romance Enacted in Blood}

“A melee quickly ensued in which a large number of knights took part; spearheads and broken shafts soon covered the ground.” —The Crown

✧✧✧

Rules: Each prompt allows 5 days except for free/flowers which is 6 days. All mediums accepted: Illustrations, paintings, writing, music, videos, gifsets, webweaves etc. No AI generated content.

Remember to tag #May Day Parade and @queer-ragnelle so I can reblog your creations! If you have any questions feel free to ask. :^) Good luck!

[semisolidmind]

Okay, i have to ask, is Peaches a workaholic? Or at least someone one who has to stay active less they get a bit angsty when stalled out? Not mention a bit of an overachiever? I imagine she is since not only has she worked for a merchant noble family but also has to deal with two very clingy, not quite sane, lovesick monkeys and a whole kingdom. (Though, i guess Wk and Mac would be a bit more involved in the last one than her)

Like how would Wukong and Macaque keep her busy? or get her to take a break?

Wk: Peaches. My darling wife, my loving mate, my beautiful queen who i oh so adore with my entire being.... What. Are. You. Doing?

Peaches with the upmost seriousness: Cleaning. I was getting a bit anxious just standing around so i decided to help the servants clean.

Mac: Cleaning?... You're cleaning... a kitchen... made of STONE? STONE MY DEAR! YOU'RE CLEANING STONE?!

Peaches: Yes.

it's definitely an adjustment for reader to go from working nigh constantly to... little to no responsibility. the first few months of her capture were mostly spent trying to escape or taking depression naps, but after that passed she began to feel anxious about not working. her former employers weren't cruel, but they definitely expected a certain level of punctuality and diligence from reader. to suddenly have nowhere that she needs to be and nothing she has to do was tough to get used to.

so, reader began to help in the kitchens. though the kitchen staff insisted that she didn't have to, when they saw the look on their queen's face...they took pity on her. she was allowed to help clean or to take turns stirring pots. then, once swk allowed her to go outside, she would go over to the orchards and ask to help harvest fruit. again, the monkeys set to harvest the fruit were hesitant. surely their queen wouldn't want to dirty her robes climbing trees—oh wait she's already doing it, ok I guess she's helping us now! reader may not be as adept at climbing as her subjects, but she's determined. and despite not being as fast, reader fills several bushels of peaches on her own.

the warlords are initially unsure about allowing their peach to work; she's a queen, and part of the reason they took her was so she wouldn't have to work. but...she seems very happy after a day of assisting the servants. she's tired in the evenings, but happily tells the boys about what she did that day, who she worked with. it's the most spirited she's been in months. so despite their hesitancy, wukong and macaque continue to allow reader to help at her leisure. unless they have plans for her, in which she will be carried away from whatever chore she's doing to attend to her queenly duties (ie paying attention to her husbands).

all in all, reader's efforts have (unbeknownst to her) thoroughly endeared her to the servants of the palace kitchens and orchards.

[kashilascorner]

New entry for @queer-ragnelle's May Day Parade!

May 6-10: Queenly Month of May {May Queen Guinevere}

This post has been haunting my mind ever since I read it, so here goes another angsty short story from yours truly ❤️

cw for death mentions and (implied) drowning

Edit: you can also read it here ^^

It's May again and I wonder what she's doing. Did she raise the maypole? Does she make her maids run around it until, dizzily, they stumble one over the other, all dressed in white, like drops of falling snow? Does she make her knights play games, like a living chessboard? Is she dancing? No, not now, it's the middle of the night. She must be braiding her hair. Does she do it herself? Perhaps Brangaine is doing it. She will dance in the morning.

I brush my hair over and over and over again because my hands have nothing else to do, and I think of those hands, his hands, that have steadied me, cherished me, so many other times. Where are they now? They are gone. They are ready for another woman to fall, they are eager to assist someone else.

This game of mirrors sickens me.

I used to have a mirror, a wedding gift, made of pure silver, so polished that it reflected everything with astonishing precision. Some treatment, or perhaps an enchantment, kept it from darkening and rusting. It's the best mirror I've ever known, so little deformation and loss of color in its image that I have come to know well what I look like. I spent a lot of time in front of that mirror, looking at every single inch of my skin, worrying when I felt my flesh coming down as years passed, pleased when my face looked good and unblemished, happy to see my braided hair. I loved that mirror. Or perhaps I just loved myself. Perhaps my biggest sin was vanity, and this is my punishment for it.

She is perfect. She is just like me, and yet more perfect than I could ever be. Her skin is softer, her eyes brighter, her arms firmer, her frame slightly lovelier. She's a me I lost in that mirror many years ago, when I was still young, and beautiful, and more hopeful. More hopeful. When everything was possible, and nothing was denied.

I think of my aching skin, my cold bed. I wake up with the feeling of a brush of his lips, the scratch of his beard on my cheek, the weight of his hands on my waist, only to find myself alone. Only to remember that he is touching her. I don't have the strength to feel tortured by it anymore. All I can feel is a void, a sense of unreality. I live in a dream, wake up in a nightmare, fall asleep in a trance. I'm not real. I am real. She's not me, but she has what I have. She has all that was ever mine. What is someone, if not their possessions? There is still the self. But what is someone who cannot be seen? What am I if I am not perceived, not recognized as myself? I'm thin air, I'm nothing.

I'm absence, an abundance of silence: nothing.

Is she really so much like me? Does she have my same cursed womb, all my wasted useless love, all the secret longings that live under my skin? Does she hate like I do, love like I do? Does she try to love her enemies only to find herself failing? Does she keep it all in order, the dogs and the garden, and the maids, and the bookkeepers, and the dresses organized by color? Did she remember to request the butter pastries for his birthday, the ones that he loves so much, with dried plums on top of them? His favorites... I ate dried plums on his birthday, just to remember the taste of his smile. The smile I still adore. The smile I hope to not forget.

Lancelot has come today. He has looked at me and talked to me.

He reminds me that I have a voice. It's been so long since I last spoke that my lips hurt when I open my mouth. He has worry in his eyes and wears his desperation like a mask. My brave, brave, Lancelot, you do remember me, right? You do see me, don't you? I'm not a shadow, so don't look at me this way. Am I this pitiful? Or is it that you don't love me anymore? Have you fallen for her too? Where do you go, where does life lead you, so far away from me that you can't guard my nights, that you can watch over my sleep? Maybe I am a ghost and you are the only one who can see me, and my dead face scares you. When I get close to you, you take a step back. Do you hate me so, for all the things I've made you do? For all the love that festers in your heart, the heavy burden of our unspoken desires rotting within you like this flesh I live in rots by the moment?

I would beg you to hold me, but I have no strength for begging. Not when you look at me this way. These walls will be the death of me, and now I know how that girl felt, the girl who died for you, the girl who died because her love was bigger than her life, your absence harsher than death itself. What was her name? I don't remember.

I don't remember so many things.

I wonder what she is doing today, at the party. My May Day Party. I picture her dancing. I used to love dancing. And then I think of Lancelot's girl, floating in the water, her body moved by the waves seems to me a lot like dancing. What was her name?

If I can make it through another day, I hope I can be blinder than I am today. I hope I can't make sense of the light, or the flowers. I hope I can't see so I can't remember. I hope you do not come and remind me that I'm still myself, but not myself, never myself; never again.

You have brought me berries today, black berries and I eat them, but I can't taste them. She must be tasting them, the one that looks like me.

I don't think I will stay awake tonight, I'm so tired from this walk, so tired from this talk, but I don't know what you are saying. I can't hear you very well, your closeness is as remote as your distance. Nothing feels real until you hold my arm. The touch reawakens me, makes me dizzy. I could crumble in your arms, become dust, fly away. Dust you are, and dust you shall become, and my time is due to fly.

The girl, what was her name? I keep thinking, it feels crucial to remember. I try to find her name deep within me, among all this decay –the ruins of my mind.

Guinevere, I hear you say from afar. Your lips brush my forehead and I think “Guinevere: such pretty name for such pretty girl.”

[horizon-verizon]

The show gives Rhaenyra's characteristic nervous habit of playing with her rings to Alicent in having Alicent shows her nerves through picking her fingers' skin, sans rings. But Rhaenyra/Emma D'Arcy, has no obvious outward expression of anxiety, whilst Young Alicent/Emilia Carey does (but not Olivia Cooke? where is the consistency?).

They gave Rhaenyra's canonical black/red dress reveal-and-entry to Alicent in her green-dress moment of episode 5. Rhaenyra's entry in canon is: her declaring political opposition to the already formed green faction; autonomous monarchial claim against Alicent and Otto's attempts to lessen the legitimacy of that; where she draws that claim from (the colors representing her house, her blood connection, and Viserys choosing her); AND her defying Alicent's domestic attempts at ruining her self esteem or disconnect her from her roots. It was her first real moment of triumph. Whereas canonically Alicent is one of Rhaenyra's antagonists; Alicent was the one who independently and intentionally used female chastity (a principle of sexual repression for women) against Rhaenyra to tarnish her reputation and public image in order to raise dissent against her and her prospective reign. And make her son seem even more desirable...which didn't work, as she continues and eventually has to imprison people to make way for herself and Aegon the Elder.

Second, not only does what HotD did steal most of Rhaenyra's agency and boldness to give to their diluted version of Alicent and incorrectly center her as if she were the protagonist of this story, it makes Alicent, of all people, the one who experiences the a central problem of this story: societal misogyny. It removes Alicent's accountability and suggests that Rhaenyra is the problem. That whatever Show!Alicent perceives Rhaenyra to have done (lied to her, didn't stay "chaste" like her by sleeping with a person outside of marriage, didn't recognize her queenly authority how she thinks she should...when all that actually matters is Viserys' word AND it is actually Otto who put her in the position she is in to fear absolutely knowing what that portion entails [as he thinks]), that is the wrong being done here....when it is really Show!Otto's ambition.

Some may say, after watching this show, that Rhaenyra should have observed her friend's anxiety as she was "talking" with Viserys...but Rhaenyra 1) lost her mother just a few months (presumably) earlier 2) is just coming into her heir duties and activities, one of which was her choosing her personal guard in the various candidates Otto tries to present to her, and we see in that particular point that she also had to come up against people doubting her, questioning her...why? because she is both young and female. It does not require much imagination to figure out that Rhaenyra was going through her own stuff that justifiably draws her attention away from Alicent, who could have also told her what was going on but didn't. 3) By principle, Rhaenyra was also developing her own life and growing into her own adulthood -- making a life for herself.

Where would she have the emotional bandwidth to catch everything going on with her friend in the face of all mentioned?! In relationships, we take turns to support the other. Rhaenyra is the one with less room to do something since her fears, duties, grief, loneliness, and prerogative to live all are present and probably emotionally overwhelming, understandably making her less aware of others when the are not either the focus or means to accomplishing those ends of monarchial duties or alleviating misery. Alicent is fully aware of what's happening and knows that it would hurt Rhaenyra' emotional and political position even worse to follow through without resistance...yet chooses not to tell her and maybe thinks of ways to resist, even with Rhaenyra.

And again, even that ambition is being denied to Alicent herself, who canonically drives much of the green cause by attacking Rhaenyra since the latter was 10 before the war begins until her grand moment of calling the green council.

Thirdly, all of these changes...just to ultimately create confusion in narrative direction and switch/reduce the philosophical and political priorities (are we against misogyny or against others having what we want but deny ourselves because we actually like the patriarchy that has actually victimized us?). We have fallen from criticizing how women with internalized misogyny target other women to gain whatever power a patriarchy seems to bestow them to what HotD gives us -- a woman not being rewarded by being "good" and compliant with the patriarchy, as if compliance is the answer to escape the suffering caused by the oppressve forces one is told to comply with and obey! So the message is that we should always follow and conform with unjust social hierarchies?!

The fourth problem with what HotD did is that in the writers' probable justification of not giving Rhaenyra her dress moment because viewers should already know that red and black are her families colors and that they will deduce that the blacks' name come from that, they reduced all of what I point out the moment meant in canon to it being "obvious" why the blacks are called the blacks.

Fifthly, the Hightowers' colors are not even green. If anything it would be silver or grey! And the firelight the Hightower tower basis the usual red, orange, and yellow in real life and in their sigil. So not only did they remove Rhaenyra's agency-practicing moment, they moved away from the fact that Alicent chose green independently as her own faction and cause' color. She was staking a claim herself, for herself! And as @mononijikayu says in the linked reblogs, green-as-the-color-Alicent-chooses thematically works to show how her own envy, greed, ambition, and tyranny subsequently has her lose all of her children and die alone and delirious. Similar to how Jaehaerys I's tyranny and misogyny against his own family causes him to be completely alone the day he died, as Saera was his only living relative aside from Viserys, Daemon, and Aemma Arryn, who all did not seem to care about the man one way or another nor were raised close to him.

This user/anonymous asker told me how some green stans give Daemon's narrative of self sacrifice for family and faction to Aemond.

The show refused to give Mysaria and Daemon his and Mysaria's grief over their baby's loss and a justification of anger against Viserys other than not being made his Hand, but it will very likely give Aemond an arc of passion with Alys Rivers and a pregnancy partially to mimic the "children having children" arc they gave to Alicent and partially to facilitate the idea of him making mistake after mistake from him maybe choosing "fuck duty", or just running from it (Ryan Condal's "theory of reactions and accidents") as this other user contemplates. Meanwhile, Mysaria and Daemon were always in a consensual relationship even if he was definitely exploiting her being in SW....and Alys was Aemond's war prize and sex slave, so there was no consent there--to all the shippers of the latter. (And if she did have visions, and she told Aemond that he should meet Daemon and where to find him....it is also very possible that she saw Aemond die....such a situation leads me to believe that this was not the sunshine and roses relationship many green stans like to think.) [8/30/23] AND the show cheapens Daemon's contention with Viserys after his habitation in Dragonstone to his just fucking around to fuck around, as this Twitter user named Branwyn the Half-witch says:

Mysaria’s pregnancy and subsequent miscarriage (which hardened Daemon’s heart against his brother) to Daemon just messing around for no reason. It removes any sympathetic or human motive Daemon has for his rebelliousness, and ditto for Mysaria.

Yes, Daemon loves his chaos to a degree…but that is to a degree and circumstantial. Viserys definitely committed wrongs against Dameon, which motivates Daemon to "act out" or ignore/defy him. Plus, as hamliet explains, there is a pattern of Mysaria being concerned or affected by the loss of children from her own loss of a child by Viserys forcing Daemon to abandon her. As a sex worker, she's not "allowed" to grow a family or obtain some sort of self-sustenance outside of the exploitative sex industry embedded within this patriarchal system. Thus, it is likely she targeted Nettles, arranged for Blood & Cheese to kill either Aegon or one of his kids, & gave away the information about Maelor to Heleana (triggering Helaena to kill herself) to strike back against any Targ...perhaps. [check out hamliet's breakdown of Mysaria's motivations for doing all she did after being exiled HERE] NUANCE!

The show made it much easier to see Rhaenyra as the aggressor against Criston....meanwhile it's too arguable that even as young as Rhaenyra was at the time (15), she'd ever go for Criston when you read the account (in order: HERE, HERE, HERE, and HERE). That it was most likely Criston who wanted Rhaenyra and she rejected him while he tried something. It is especially important to note this part of the text I didn't include that is between the last two quotes I do give:

However it happened, whether the princess scorned the knight or he her, from that day forward the love that Ser Criston Cole had formerly borne for Rhaenyra Targaryen turned to loathing and disdain, and the man who had hitherto been the princess’s constant companion and champion became the most bitter of her foes.

Thus relying more on Mushroom's (the arguably most unreliable narrator and source for the events pre and during and post-Dance -- those who will try to make anything sexual and exaggerate just to self-aggrandize and attention) account of how Rhaenyra and Criston fell out......sure.

It refused to insert or to imagine any of Aegon and Aemond's pre-Dance misogyny towards Rhaenyra (an example) that would have existed following Alicent teaching them all how to view her. Or any of his pre-Dance viciousness: "Two years later, she produced a daughter for the king, Helaena; in 110 AC, she bore him a second son, Aemond, who was said to be half the size of his elder brother, but twice as fierce ("A Question of Succession"). Aemond's probable bullying of the V boys made into Aegon, his own brother, being one of his bullies despite this quote and its emphasis that no matter what Viserys tried, all five boys couldn't get along and that the green boys resented the V boys for taking what they thought was theirs.

But sure, we get Show!Daemon obviously kill his wife with a rock -- not even an assassin -- despite the fact that he was at the Stepstones, still fighting and preoccupied, when Rhea died and it took a few more days after the nine it took for her to die for him to even be notified of her death and travel to the Vale AND what we know about horses (reblogs of @the-king-andthe-lionheart's post....forgot to credit and tag). The same woman who would have, if she had been able to sit up and talk, immediately name foul play with her canon dislike of Daemon.

As I mentioned before above, this show even removes Alicent's biggest and game-changing, plot-driving, self-determined act to convene the green council while purposefully leaving Viserys' body to rot over to the council members acting under Otto and ignoring her until she has to yell at them, and even that is ignored as we see her wrestle against Otto to bring Aegon in. Instead of them working together to do so, illustrating further how a woman can work with patriarchal authorities and use the power the system allows her to block another woman. The most memorable thing adult Show!Alicent did was to gives her feet over to Larys to drool over in a very disturbing voyeuristic scene, just so she gets information...this show is even more misogynist and unrealistic towards Alicent than the book/the maesters could ever be, for the sake of making Alicent a victim instead of a woman who decided to use power for power's sake. Because apparently that's an anomaly or a sexist take...that women could hurt themselves, their children, the children of others, and other women who arguably are in similar sociopolitical positions for power.

And because they aged Alicent down, her kids are all supposed to be aged down, so that in itself can and has drawn more sympathy (whether intentional or not) for the greens for what will happen in the next season to them. And I mean for locals who've never read the book or just its account of the Dance.

While we get no other scenes of how Alicent and Rhaenyra even interacted and how their relationship became nothing (ignore Alicent of episodes 8-9, this is such a terrible switch up because it makes no psychological sense) during the time between the 6th and 7th episode, how Alicent would have a isolated, victimized, antagonized, and pressured Rhaenyra as we saw her do at the 6th episode's council. Because, apparently, these women can still theoretically become friends again even after all of this AND Lucerys' and Visenya's deaths?

But then you can't tell a good or fair story about a feudal family, about "generational conflict"...without showing how two of those generations....fought each other at home AND then at war.

[bitchwhoreofastorm]

.

"Are you awake?" she asks when she cracks open the door.

His room is dark, he is tangled in his own bedsheets, his face half-buried in a pillow when he replies, "Indubitably."

The door opens fully, then shuts again, and a few moments later Sotha Sil feels Almalexia crawling into his bed. He tries to remember when she started doing this, simply inviting herself into his space without permission, and he realises that she's been doing it since they were children, and it's far too late in their lives for him to reprimand her on the concept of personal space. He feels her arranging herself in his unwashed blankets, feels a strand of her Queenly hair fall over his pillow and hit the back of his neck. He waits patiently for her to make herself comfortable.

"How long have you been in bed?" she finally asks. "It reeks in here."

"Twenty-six hours and thirty-seven minutes," Sotha Sil replies. "Excluding brief excursions to attend to basic bodily functions."

"Why are you talking like an arcane manual?"

"Only those of insufficient intellect find my locution abstruse. Contemplate acquiring a thesaurus."

"Sil." And he feels her roll over to face him. "You're the one being abstruse."

"Incorrect utilisation of that lexeme."

"You're an incorrect utilisation of a lexeme."

"A clumsy attempt to flirt with me, if that's the purpose for which you've intercalated yourself within my location of slumber."

"Go outside," Almalexia complains. "See the sunlight. Interact with a woman. Or let me bring you something to read that's not a dictionary."

"I'm still practising my Dwemeris," Sotha Sil rebuts, though his voice has sunk down to a sleepy mumble again. "Perusing the dictionary is a credible use of my temporal imprisonment within the mortal sphere."

Mercifully for the both of them, Almalexia lets him lapse into silence.

And it's almost cozy, the two of them lying there, even though they do not touch.

And finally Almalexia asks, "Does staying in bed help you?"

"It's not meant to help," Sotha Sil replies.

"Would you like me to take you somewhere?"

"You'll carry me-- where, the council-room? I wouldn't be a welcome sight in a meeting, like this."

"There's no meetings, the council won't be in session for a few months yet. We have nothing to do."

"I'm content here, thank you."

And, funnily enough, she seems to be, too. She does not move, but she does not argue with him either. Though the bed is not large, they still do not touch.

"You're welcome to experiment," Sotha Sil finally says.

"Experiment."

"With lying here. See what the outcome might be."

"You said it doesn't help."

Finally, he finds a modicum of life somewhere in his tired dead limbs. Finally, he rolls over to face her. He's surprised to find that Almalexia has been lying very close to his back, her face is now only inches from his. As if skeptical of her existence he presses a thumb gently against her cheek, and finds it warm, and a little damp, and real.

She mistakes this investigation for an invitation; she draws him into an embrace, folds him into her chest. He feels her breath in his greasy hair, and her sharp fingernails somewhere behind his shoulder-blades. He settles his face into the space under her neck and feels very resigned.

"I'm going insane again," Almalexia confesses.

She admits this with terrible reluctance. Sotha Sil can only assume it's quite frustrating for a megalomaniac to be betrayed by her own mind, just as he, the artificer, is endlessly frustrated by the betrayals of his own body.

"I know," he says.

"I thought I'd lie here with you, until it… resolves itself."

"Insanity is not influenza." Sotha Sil mumbles into her chest. "I doubt the ailment may be rectified by a little rest. Start with a different hypothesis."

"I'm not expecting it to help... What would you say if I confessed that I'm scared of hurting someone?"

"I would be flattered that you chose me as acceptable collateral."

She doesn't even bother to reassure him as to his collateral status. "Just," she begins. Then she pauses. Then she says, "Please stop me if I do try to hurt someone."

"I don't care if you do," Sotha Sil replies.

"Seht."

"Hurt everyone in the world if you wish. The world allowed House Sotha… it doesn't matter to me who suffers, I am incapable of caring about that or anything else."

Almalexia lets out a sigh so heavy that he feels her body sag around him. She holds him a little more tightly, shoves her Queenly face into his unkempt head and inhales.

"That's why I came to you," she admits, miserable. "I knew you'd give me permission."

[starfall-spirit]

Heavy Rests The Crown

HRTC Masterlist

Summary: Respectively ruling land and sea, the newly appointed High Lord and young merqueen find themselves pressured to marry. Their solution-a union their advisors would never approve of. Not that they can do a thing about it now.

Word Count: 1, 760

Chapter I: A Queen's Duty

Feyre

Feyre knew her tension was obvious as she stepped into the council chamber where her head advisor waited for her. “Your Majesty.” Though she no longer wanted to flinch at the title—though the crown she wore felt marginally lighter—she despised the title her oldest sister was meant to inherit.

While faerie monarchs passed their title to their most powerful heir, as long as anyone could remember the power of the merking or queen had always passed to the eldest child. And Feyre was the youngest. Untrained, compared to Nesta. Even compared to Elain.

No, Feyre hadn’t so much as thought of the queenship. Not when she was the graceless wild child. No one could tell her why she had been selected as the next monarch when Nesta was the oldest—the one prepared to do this.

So the queenly crash course began.

She met the eyes of the male who had verbally addressed her entrance. “You called for me.”

“Yes. There was a matter that we failed to address when we gathered this morning.”

This morning had covered everything from food sources, to sending a representative to the surface to discuss the route of shipments into Velaris, to rebuilding where a recent hurricane had damaged the reefs and housing. Being so inexperienced, these past few weeks had felt rather daunting. Whatever they were about to bring up, she was in no mood to hear about it. Pushing that down, she smiled.

“And what matter would that be?”

“Your marriage.”

She stiffened. “Pardon me?”

“You'll need to marry by your next birthday. You are the queen. You have no children—”

“I have no intention of marrying for some time.”

Not for decades if she could help it. Not for centuries if it took her that long to find her mate. “I realize you may have been permitted notions of mating when your sister was the presumed successor.”

Nesta never held romantic fantasies. She’d always told Feyre and Elain their fantasizing would only get them hurt in the end. She was bound for a political match and it wasn’t an unlikely outcome for the younger sisters, had their father lived long enough to push them into society for an advantageous match.

Feyre could only begin to imagine what “ideal” suitors the male before her had in mind.

“Unfortunately, that opportunity can no longer be considered. I have a few potential matches prepared, all of whom I hope you’ll agree to attempt courtship with. I—”

“If you’ll excuse me, I’d prefer we finish this discussion another day.” She was gone before he could answer. She didn’t particularly care if he knew exactly where she was headed.

Feyre knew it pissed her advisors off when she swam to the surface. It was bad enough she did so as a princess, but since her fathers power transferred to her rather than one of her elder sisters the offense became a thousand times worse. The fae of Prythian and the merfolk occupying their waters had been at peace for decades now, both parties permitted above and below the waves. But she was the queen. As long as she remained unmarried and heirless, it would a concern for them. Even one she could understand. But she wasn’t getting married.

She sighed as she emerged from the Sidra River, where her territory and the Night Lord's connected. She was hardly a rare visitor, but she had been on a tight leash since the shift of power and hadn’t set foot on land in almost three months. Her queenship was a mere rumor, just as the death of their High Lord was a rumor to the mer. The staring of those who weren’t too busy to notice her were understandable.

“Feyre!”

The stunned crowd dispersed as one of her favorite Illyrians approached where the land and water met. Cassian’s grin was infectious and had her sour mood left to the sea as he pulled her from the river, watching her silvery-blue scales and torso wrap turn to skin and a simple dress, only the more permanent scales framing her face remaining to mark her as a creature belonging below.

“We’ve only had a couple of mer surface lately. What’s been—” She watched as he noted the diadem nestled in her hair. She’d been in such a hurry to flee her council and their lineup of suitors she hadn’t thought to take the thing off. “So its true. The title didn’t go to your sister.”

She pulled the crown free and dropped it into the dress’ skirt pocket before wringing the water out of her braid and tossing it over her shoulder. “Don’t make a big deal of it. I’m still just Feyre. I needed a quick escape from my advisors, is all.”

“Alright.”

“Speaking of power shifts, what happened to the High Lord. We heard…”

His expression was pained. “As normal as everything down here seems, with the trade ships and all…” She followed his gaze to the city proper. Dark mourning banners covered the shops, housing, and what laid beyond, sobering the hustle and bustle of the docks they were leaving. “The High Lord wasn’t exactly beloved, but Victorie and Avyanna were.”

With the constant disagreements and the late High Lord’s fear of Rhysand’s rising power, the heir was more often present in the Illyrian camps than in Velaris. Feyre didn’t even know his birthday or favorite color, but the lady and princess… Feyre had known them well. “I’m so sorry. I can’t imagine.”

“I’m sure your father—”

“My father only thought to care for Nesta and me on his deathbed. It isn’t the same,” she all but snapped. Then practically whispered, “How did they die?”

His jaw clenched. Feyre knew Victorie had taken him and Az in as sons to her. The rage coming off of him… Whoever had hurt them deserved his wrath. And that of his brothers. The general’s voice was low as he eyed the surrounding citizens, distracted once again. “Two months ago, they were traveling to meet Rhys. They were murdered by the Spring royals. Rhys and his father returned the favor.”

Horror swept in. Not only at what brutality her mind conjured of the dead royals, but the political ramifications of it all. With the entire Spring family wiped out where did the power go? She’d educated herself on Prythian’s government as well as she could, spending so much time on the surface. But how did the power transfer? “The entire family?”

“Tamlin claimed the title of High Lord. Rhys couldn’t bring himself to kill him, but there’s no repairing their friendship. He was the only one who knew when and where they’d travel.” It was clear he was done with the topic. She reached to squeeze his hand—one last act of condolence. “Where are we headed?” she asked instead.

“With Rhys and Az home we have more family dinners now. Care to join us? You might actually get to share a conversation.”

“Dinner sounds great.”

“Alright. To the House of Wind, then.” Chuckling as Feyre grumbled about merfolk belonging on the ground or below, he swept her into his arms and shot into the sky, perhaps going slightly faster than he knew she was comfortable with.

“Ass,” she grumbled as he set her down in the foyer, instantly tugging her deeper into the house.

“Is that Feyre?” An unmistakable squeal met her ears and she held back a grunt as Mor flew into her arms. Amren didn’t move from her seat in the large living space. “Cauldron, Feyre, it’s been months! Where the hell have you been?”

She snorted, freeing herself enough to fish the diadem out of her dress’ pocket. “Dealing with years worth of training our officials assumed only Nesta would need. And overprotective advisors who won’t let me above the surface without an armada. I humored my main advisor until he started going on about marriage and heirs, told me mating was a luxury for anyone but a queen.

"I know that, of course. Nesta always accepted such things. Cauldron, she would have made a perfect queen--and convince them to push off the marriage for a few years, I'm sure."

“And what's your deadline?” Mor ventured.

“They want me married before my next birthday. I’m an immortal. Why would I need to get married at twenty-two? I’ll be utterly miserable for centuries if I pick one of their snobby lords.”

“I feel you there,” she muttered, reminding Feyre she had barely escaped such an arrangement herself, and paid a steep price for it. Feyre had yet to meet the Autumn heir and had no desire to.

“Moving on, Feyre insisted. I hear you have your own rising royal?”

“Indeed,” an unfamiliar male behind her confirmed. Rhysand, then. Turning, she met his eyes, slowly taking in the rest of him while simultaneously checking her mental shields. She had forgotten how attractive he was. She hadn’t forgotten his daemati gift and had no interest in sharing her thoughts with him. He inclined his head.

“Welcome to my home,” he said as if she hadn’t seen the place dozens of times. “Feyre, isn’t it?”

“That’s right.”

Tucking away her crown again, she aimed to shake his hand. The shadowsinger behind him snorted as his High Lord tilted her offered hand inwards, leaning down to brush his lips against her knuckles. The proper means of greeting a queen, and yet she hadn’t expected Rhysand to partake in such formalities, especially as he had acknowledged her by her name a moment ago.

“Cassian invited me for dinner when I surfaced,” she explained, freeing the hand he held as she mastered her slight breathlessness at the touch of the male before her. After just rambling about being unwilling to marry, she refused to fawn over a fairie royal who upheld a reputation for his arrogance and unabashed womanizing. Whatever that little tug in her chest meant, there was no sense in trying to acknowledge it.

“Of course. It seems the ladies have already broken into the good wine.” Mor swatted his shoulder before pointedly downing what was left of her glass and flouncing towards the dining room. “Help yourself.”

“Thank you.”

The stiffness of the conversation was nearly unbearable, leading Mor to break the following silence with a loud clap, her wine presumably set over her plate in the dining room as Feyre trusted hers would be. “I’m starving. Let’s have at it.”

And as the group fell into an easy banter over their meal, Feyre couldn’t help but wonder why the High Lord’s tension remained.

Next

~~~~~

AN: This is set in a different timeline, just a few months after Rhys' family dies. We're gonna say he became High Lord at like 75.

Tagging my usual Feysand list plus the excited rebloggers on the HC post. As usual, tell me if you want to be added or removed, guys.

@shallyne // @faeriequeensuriel // @s-uppertime // @reverie-tales // @goddess-aelin // @pandavelaris //@acourtofwips //@the-lonelybarricade

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[liminalpsych]

A May Day Parade contribution except again I had no time to write ahead of time, so have some excerpts from a Once and Future Court LARP character sheet.

A memory that might be a fantasy or might have been a dream: Helping hands fussed with your clothes, once, and a crown glittered on your brow. All eyes turned your way, gazes and hearts alike. Men quested and fought and swooned for a word, a glance, a touch of your hand or a strand of your hair. You reigned over a court of admirers with an indulgent smile.

(…)

A false sister usurped your place then, too, from a false-hearted father. And your easily-swayed husband, abandoning you, replacing you just like that. A besotted knight and his besotted comrade spiriting you away—for love, they said, all for love. How many times must you hear it? From how many untrue lips?

Wearing a crown means you can trust no one. They all want something from you, and none of them know you. Love professed at first sight, and valiant deeds to prove it, and you know: you are only a symbol. A prize to be won, or a star to reach for. Nothing real.

Yet you are lonely. You want to believe the fervent expressions of desire, love, fealty, friendships. Perhaps a test. A show of cruelty, a moment of grace, and they dance on your strings. Another test. Ah—he failed, again, as badly as your father and worse. Ah—but it was a mistake, a curse, sorcery or a potion, not in his right mind. Of course. Of course he wasn't. And you were only joking when you spoke cruelly enough that he sought his own death. All a misunderstanding.

[nanshe-of-nina]

Favorite History Books || The King’s Other Body: María of Castile and the Crown of Aragon by Theresa Earenfight ★★★★☆

Queen María of Castile, wife of Alfonso V “the Magnanimous,” king of the Crown of Aragon (1416– 58), governed Catalunya from 1420 to 1423 and again from 1432 to 1453 while her husband was occupied with the conquest and governance of the kingdom of Naples. For twenty-six years she had control over the provincial governors, prelates and religious orders, the nobility, the army, the municipal government, and all other subjects regardless of legal status. She could grant constitutions and make laws in accordance with royal authority and could sign letters in her own hand according to her own conscience. She was empowered to carry out justice, both civil and criminal, and to name judges and delegates. Assisted by a royal council separate from the king’s, she had full royal authority in Catalunya.

Such legitimately sanctioned political authority in the hands of a queen is remarkable because María governed Catalunya not as queen in her own right, or even as queen-regent, but rather as lieutenant general (lloctinent general).  In the privilegios that named María lieutenant, Alfonso clearly stated that her powers as lieutenant should be equivalent to his own as king, referring to her as his alter nos. María was clearly more than just a wife offering advice: She held the highest political office in the most important of Alfonso’s Iberian realms and, in political terms, was second only to the king himself. For a medieval queen, this combination of exalted royal status plus official political appointment was not common and may not have existed outside the realms of the Crown of Aragon. But in the Crown a unique contractual form of kingship and government had developed that relied heavily on delegated authority to rule the far-flung constituent territories in the Mediterranean. Established in the thirteenth century, the lieutenancy was both an ad hoc adjunct to the king and a training ground for princes to rule one or more of the constituent realms of the Aragonese crown. The institution was the by-product of innovation brought on by rapid territorial acquisition during the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries— encompassing the kingdom of Aragón, the county of Catalunya, the Balearic Islands (Mallorca, Menorca, and Ibiza), Valencia, Sardinia, and Corsica— that stretched across the western Mediterranean. This widely dispersed geography forced the kings to travel frequently and delegate authority normally reserved to the king to their wives, sons, and brothers. As an official form of co-rulership it is, to my knowledge, unique.

… This bare outline of her reign tells us much about rulership in the Crown of Aragon in the later Middle Ages. But more broadly it makes a compelling argument for a reformulation of our understanding of the place of queenship in the institution of monarchy. María of Castile, and an Aragonese queen-lieutenant in general, may be unfamiliar to most scholars of the Middle Ages, and she may seem anomalous and her experience ungeneralizable to the rest of Europe, but her case exposes the limitations of current explanatory models of queenship. She did not rule in her own right, so comparisons with female rulers like Urraca of Leon-Castile, Isabel of Castile, and Juana of Castile are misleading. Even though she married an Aragonese prince and derived her office as queen-lieutenant from her marriage, she does not fit the typologies that analyze queenly power in the context of marriage and motherhood— queen-consort, queen-mother, queen-regent, and queen-dowager. She had no children and thus could not be queen-regent for them in their minorities and could not exercise a queen-mother’s privilege to act as diplomat when arranging the marriages of her children and grandchildren. She could she serve as queen-dowager because she died a few months after Alfonso and his brother succeeded him immediately. María’s reign typifies the idiosyncratic character of the office of queenship, poised ambiguously between family and bureaucracy.

[latristereina]

The twenty-five months from April 1469 to May 1471 are one of the most dramatic periods of English history. Edward IV had suffered insurrection, disloyalty, imprisonment, and exile, while Elizabeth had experienced the murder of her father and brother, the birth of her son in sanctuary, and had been besieged in the Tower while her husband hazarded his life in battle. There is no evidence that, throughout all this, she behaved with anything but a queenly dignity which won the admiration of loyal contemporaries. No writer saw fit to criticise her, and William Alyngton, the Speaker of the Commons, ‘declared before the Kinge and his noble and sadde counsell, thentente and desyre of his Comyns, specially in the comendacion on the womanly behaveur and the greate constance of the Quene, he beinge beyonde the See’.

Her devotion to Edward was obvious and she had fulfilled her role impeccably. Her beauty had not occasioned any scandal (in striking contrast to two of Henry VIII’s English consorts), and those who has feared the worst in those now far-off days of the 1460s had learned to respect, and admire, a lady who had proved herself to be everything an English queen should be.

- David Baldwin, Elizabeth Woodville

He [Edward IV] was clearly a man of considerable intelligence, equipped with a particularly retentive memory. He had considerable personal charm and affability and by temperament was generous, good-natured and even-tempered. Consistently courageous, he had great confidence in himself and the capacity to inspire it in others, and from early in his career showed natural gifts of leadership.

- Charles D. Ross, Edward IV

Edward IV had ruled England wisely, and despite his warlike upbringing, had devoted himself to peaceful pursuits. He had encouraged commerce and declined war with France, while wisely keeping the money voted by Parliament for the purpose, and at the same time accepting a large sum from Louis XI to leave French soil…

- L. G. Pine, Princes of Wales 

Happy Birthday, Irina! @edwardslovelyelizabeth

[elentiyawhitethorn]

A Dance to Remember

Rowaelin Month, Day 24

A Missing Scene from Canon @rowaelinscourt

CW: none

AN: Thank you to @cretaceous-therapod for giving me this idea, and thanks to anyone else who gave suggestions! This takes place at the end of KoA after Aelin’s coronation. Also, this is my last fic for Rowaelin Month, so I hope you enjoy!

Rowaelin Month Masterlist//Main Masterlist//759 words

Aelin discreetly wiped a tear off her face, her head turned away from the crowd. She took a deep breath to collect herself, then turned back around.

Rowan rubbed her back comfortingly. The gesture said more than any words could. He understood better than anyone what she was feeling so deeply in her bones at this moment: the heavy but welcome weight of her crowns, the bittersweet remembrance, and the utter disbelief that she had gotten to this point.

He understood it all. Every inch of her body, every thought in her mind, every tainted, tarnished edge of her soul, he knew and loved. He was her consort to the throne, her husband, her mate, her other half. Together they made up one being, one love.

Which left Aelin with only one thing to do.

“May I have this dance?”

Rowan broke into a soft grin. “Indeed you may, Your Highness.”

Aelin smiled and pulled him onto the dance floor. As newly crowned queen, she was obliged with leading the first dance. Of course she would choose no other partner than Rowan.

The dance floor was big and open and empty, the crowd staying to the edges to wait until the first dance was completed. Conversations hushed and eyes turned their way as Aelin tugged Rowan to the dead center of the floor.

She grinned, almost sensing Rowan’s thoughts.

I’m sure you adore having all eyes on you.

Aelin straightened her back and placed one hand on Rowan’s arm, the other on his shoulder.

Why shouldn’t I? Aelin retorted. I’m the prettiest lady in the room.

While perhaps not the prettiest, Aelin knew she looked good, the black dress lined with gold she had changed into for the ball making her look as fantastic as ever.

And while her people thought she looked queenly, Aelin knew Rowan was remembering the other black dress she’d worn, the entire back a roaring, golden dragon.

This dress was designed to set fire to her mate. After all, setting fire to things was one of Aelin’s specialties.

Rowan smirked. You certainly are, he seemed to reply.

Then he started moving.

Aelin gasped as she was pulled into a waltz. Rowan… knew how to dance.

His steps were impeccable, his timing flawless, his posture perfect. Aelin knew Rowan was a graceful being, despite his large stature, but never had she imagined him to be the type to dance. And he knew it, too, smirk widening at her shocked expression.

Aelin flashed a wicked grin, her only warning before setting fire to both of their crowns. A few shouts of surprise and delight sounded from the crowd as their queen and consort were bathed in flame, but most everyone else remained silent as they watched their leaders move.

Aelin loved to dance. She always had. It was a passion of hers that she’d neglected for too long, but no more. Now she was moving faster and faster with each step, drawn closer to her mate as they stepped and spun and smiled.

The beat picked up and Rowan dipped Aelin, then pulled her up not a moment later. Each movement on both of their parts was swift. More than swift—they moved like two people enchanted, possessed by the pull of the music and the draw of their magic.

Never had Aelin danced like this before, sparks trailing from her golden shoes. Rowan didn’t lead Aelin—they led each other. Through every spin they lost themselves and found themselves all over again.

Aelin had had experience with magic, of course. She wielded fire after all. But this was the most magical Aelin had ever felt before, emotions of too many names rushing through her very blood and bringing her closer to her mate; not physically, but emotionally. Their souls were bound in this dance.

They moved for some immeasurable amount of time, too lost in each other to notice anything else. And when the music came to its crest, roaring as it hit the final note, Aelin and Rowan came to a stop, perfectly still, not even breathing as silence came over the ballroom. Aelin was almost panting from the exertion, but she kept her head held high.

“Oh, Rowan,” she whispered, so softly no one else could hear.

Then she lunged forward and pulled Rowan into a kiss. Rowan tugged Aelin closer and deepened the kiss, his lips in a passionate game with her own. They only parted when both Aelin and Rowan were smiling too much to continue.

Cheers lit up the ballroom.

———

Tag List:

@aelin-bitch-queen

@evolving-dreamer

@feysand-loml

@flora-shadowshine

@gracie-rosee

@infernoqueen19

@julemmaes

@lemonade-coolattas

@live-the-fangirl-life

@midsizewitch

@morganofthewildfire

@nehemikkele

@realbookloverproblems

@rhysandswingspan

@rowaelinismyotp

@rowanaelinn

@sexy-dumpster-fire

@sleeping-and-books

@story-scribbler

@swankii-art-teacher

@thenerdandfandoms

@yesdreamblog

[donttouchmyasymptote]

A Fair-est Winter - Apple/Darling

This is my gift as part of the @eah-exchange, written for @atomicjuniper!

Hey Kaitie! I also love Dappling and Dexven, so I wrote a fic featuring them. Apple-centric! It’s primarily more on the Dappling side, with some Raven and Apple friendship, though it’s originally based on your prompt of the two ships going on a double date. Here, they’re visiting Snow White’s kingdom for Christmas.

Rating is General.

~*~

Snow fell into the December days, as finals ended and trails of students boarded the carriage cars and trains and portals and private planes and professionally-trained griffins home for the winter. Apple White would normally be one of the first to go, for the current Snow White, in her queenly CEO-frequent-face-of-Faerbes-magazine glory, would never hesitate to make a grand entrance, to remind the students that -- yes, you may be royalty, but the realm this school falls in is still under my jurisdiction, that as long as you study here, Apple is your Crown Princess. Yet, this year, Apple sat waiting on the school steps, suitcases beside, as people filed out past her.

“Stuck on the steps of the palace?” Ashlynn Ella trailed down from the front door past Apple.

She laughed. “Just waiting on a princess.”

It wasn’t that Darling Charming was late. Apple White was merely early, and hexceedingly nervous.

“Is everything spelltacular on your end, Ash?”

With that, Cinderella’s daughter smiled. “The court physicians have hexcellent news. Mama’s been doing her best in months… we might even get to do a trip this year, she mentioned wanting to go east of the sun.”

“They do throw some of the best balls,” Apple said. “Of course any Cinderella would love to go there!”

Ashlynn giggled. “And Papa knows of Hunter now, so things are looking up all round.”

They kept talking, passing the time until a carriage car managed by a mousy-looking footsman rolled up in Ever After High’s arched driveway.

Cinderella stories, rags to riches. Happily ever afters do hexist, Apple thought, and her mind drifted. Commoners, and even minor nobility, had a freedom in taking a highschool sweetheart to their parents, without much of a fuss. It wasn’t as if the royal teens of Ever After High didn’t date outside of the storybook, it was just that bringing it to the palace was a political move at the most minimum.

It was also why Snow White tardied this year.

Nonetheless, a new page was turning. Ashlynn and Hunter were proof. Maybe she and Darling would be too.

As if on cue, a rush of distinctive perfume and strident footsteps. There she was, Darling herself, carrying not one, not two, but three suitcases, on her arms.

“That’s just flexing at this point!” The sentence was said with a good-natured laugh that Apple knew to be her roommate’s. Raven Queen stood behind Darling, and Dexter behind her. “She insisted, Apple, how could I say no?”

With her own demonstration, Raven waved her hands and moved the suitcases down the steps via purple telekinesis. 

There was the other reason why Snow White tardied that year -- the other set of guests.

Apple adored Raven. They were roommates, best friends, walked hand in hand to Thronecoming together. When Raven shot up in the popularity polls, the only concern Apple ever felt was from that call with her mother. Still, befriend your storybook villain all you want at Ever After, risk the judgement of your peers for that, perhaps -- not that Apple was prone to being demonised --, but bringing it back to the kingdom, where you were the figurehead, the fairytale--

She was overthinking things. Apple knew she was overthinking things. Her mother had said yes to guests over for the Winter, anyway, and yes to these specific ones, too.

To be fairest, it was hard to say no to that one particular Charming branch without risking a political infarction. A queen has trade routes to protect!

“Dexter,” Apple greeted, standing up and giving a proper curtsy. He was nice. Respectful. It never sunk in before that she’d one day get to call him her brother-in-law, but after everything with Darling, it finally did.

“Hey Apple.”

To Raven, Apple dove into her with a warm hug. “Christmas is going to be the best,” she emphasised. “I know it.”

“Would be nice not to get threats from Krampus this year,” Raven cracked a grin.

“Nonsense, does coal from Santa mean nothing to you?”

But when you’re the Evil Queen, here are visits that even St Nick is all too earnest to miss.

The odd couple -- prince and sorceress -- stepped aside. Only one person was left for Apple to properly greet.

“Darling,” and here, Apple was acutely aware of the weight of that name, the endearment intertwined in double-meaning. She reached out a hand. Her destined princess took it, kissed the back of it, beaming like the sun glinting off armor.

This was it, wasn’t it? The fairytale love that maidens go to the ends of the world for.

~*~

The D-Charming branch really undersold Dexter. He would make an incredible dignitary. He held the conversation with Apple’s mother that carriage car ride. CEO does not necessitate engineer, but Snow White’s mines sourced power for some of the latest advancements in spelletronics, which Dex -- fond member of the Tech Club -- could talk on.

He took the pressure off. The girls could chat about next spellmester plans, with Apple and Darling comparing their lunch slots and free periods to determine when they could hang out during school.

Still, there was a coldness, not from the winter outside. If Snow White wanted to know about Raven, the question was directed at either Apple or Dexter, or otherwise…

“Well, what will you do for the rest of your life?” articulated with a saccharine smile.

For any princess, it was simple enough: rule, and rule well. Else, be a consort, run the kingdom, so that your spouse rules well.

“Isn’t that what the rest of my life is for?” Raven had responded with an ease that Apple realised she herself would never have had if put in the same situation.

Arriving to the kingdom, too, the atmosphere of the crowds shifted from whence Dexter and Darling stepped out, to when Raven stepped out. Apple clenched her perfect teeth and thought how Ever After High had created a mental microcosm, that returning home would not reflect the popularity polls at school.

~*~

“I don’t like how they’re treating you,” Apple said. She waited until the servants had finished moving her friends’ belongings into guest rooms, so it was just the two of them.

“It is what it is… not that it should be, but hey. I thought you preferred me as your evil queen.”

She frowned. “You already poisoned me!”

“Not on purpose.”

“But it got me here, got my Happily Ever After… I don’t know why they don’t love you now. I’m happy, isn’t that what matters?”

Raven laughed. Of all things, Raven laughed.

“There’s no story without you! There’s no Happily Ever After without a story…”

“Look, Apple, I appreciate you. I’m really happy for you. That’s why I’m here,” Raven said. “And hey, raised villain, remember? We don’t get safety nets, we know the risks. It’s not like I’m throne for a loop here.”

If she had been assigned a villain role -- Apple once thought -- then she’d take it with a strident pride, put on the facade, get a beautiful princess a happily ever after. “It’s more than just a role, isn’t it?”

“Yeah. It’s very real, and it needs to be fixed. And maybe, hey, on the bright side, if evil were just a role, wouldn’t fairytale love be just a role as well?”

“Good thing it isn’t.”

“I agree.”

~*~

“Well,” Darling said, “Snow White’s kingdom is a lot more Christmassy than ours, which is to be hexpected. This is famously one of the biggest Christmas markets in the world.”

“Rivalled by only the Nutcracker Kingdom’s,” the hint of kingdom pride didn’t leave Apple’s voice. 

The apex of the trip. 

A princess had to be resourceful, and on a night where one was busy stuffing herself with German desserts, Apple would never be caught amiss without a bag to carry them all.

She introduced Darling to all the sweets from her childhood. “Other kingdoms are mad about oranges,” she made sure to point out any regional differences, “but if you ever doubted that the Snow White kingdom would value any other fruit over apples…”

As a kid was a phrase that fell often as the two wandered. This was the stall I went to as a kid. Oh, I played this as a kid. They're singing the songs that I heard as a kid.

“Nothing seems to change, huh,” commented Darling.

“It's reliable,” said Apple. “It's home.” She glanced up at her girlfriend. “This time it's different, though, it's with you. Oo!” A stall caught her eye. “Let's get lebkuchen!" and took Darling over to a stand selling gingerbread.

Nothing seemed to change. But now, with Darling in her life--

“Let's do something unhexpected.”

“Unhexpected?”

“Unhexpected. I showed you my childhood traditions, maybe we should create a new one.”

“Wonderland taught me that you should think of six impossible things before breakfast…” Darling trailed off, fuzzling her brow in thought, “but something unhexpected right now?”

“Oo, maybe I should suggest the unhexpected thing! That'd be extra unhexpected, coming from Apple White.”

A chuckle. “Alright, what have you got?”

Apple frowned, and looked around. This out of the box thinking was not her strongest suit. "Let's…" she said, "climb onto a roof, maybe?" Briar would be proud, she thought.

Darling arched an eyebrow, but didn't question it. "Gotta start somewhere. Let's do it."

So they did. Fittingly, it was a local bakery's roof. The two princesses sat there and watched the lights of the market below them.

"Did you…," Darling seemed to be searching for the words. "Did you ever think we'd end up like this?"

Apple looked up at her, mid lebkuchen bite.

"It's just that, well, you know, my family's… traditional," Darling continued. "Like, not necessarily by the book, or else they'd be doing something different. More like 'Chevalier Belle-Belle is an hexception, not a rule!' traditional? Authors, what am I getting at?"

"Darling, what's going on?"

The other princess laughed and kissed Apple on the cheek. "It's just that, I feel like I've been spending the past months rejecting the way I've been raised so much that, surely, maybe it would affect how I like princesses. Like, scared that associations would mean not being able to fully love princesses that fit the mould. I was scared that I wouldn't like you as much as I wanted to -- or do."

"And I'm certain that you do." And Apple was. "I like being a proper princess," she said. "And I like you, Darling. You make me feel like the storybooks were right, that there is a love to believe in and wait for."

Below them, there were voices in unison from the market crowd. A countdown.

Apple rested her head on Darling's shoulder. "Stollen?" she offered the Christmas loaf to her love. 

Darling broke off a chunk. "Stollen," she repeated. 

Together, from the height, they watched the fireworks.

~*~

The days stretched onwards, and Apple lost herself in countless hours spent with Darling. Exploring the vast private library collections her kingdom held, to sitting on meetings her mother held with other heads of states or company hexecutives, to wandering the orchards that lined the Royal Botanical Gardens.

They drank hot chocolate indoors and watched the snowflakes fall through ebony-lined windows.

But like reigns, seasons too come to an end, and Darling had to hasten home to spend the last week of break with her own family. 

Apple stood at the steps of her kingdom, and waved goodbye to the two siblings, in the practised and poised manner she only knew.

“Hey,” Darling sprinted back. “I forgot something.”

“What w--”

With a wave of her hair, Darling slowed the time around her, and caught Apple’s mouth with a kiss. “That’s what I forgot.”

The Charmings’ carriage car beeped, a frustrated footsman knowing that the children were not going to make it back on scheduled time. 

"Okay, gotta go. Remember that I love you!"

"I love you too."

She’d go to the ends of the world for Darling. She really would. Be one of those princesses who spend seven years, dedicated, searching.

What comfort, Apple thought, being only a border and a carriage car ride away.

[ellayuki]

01052022 - Tsubasa Reservoir Chronicle

just how far we'd travel (both you and I know)

Tsubasa Chronicle Month - Day 1 - Sakura

~

Sakura sees the way the visiting baroness' sharp eyes take her in, sees the way the woman's fingers sink into her son's shoulders and the near-victorious look on her face, and for what is probably the first time in her life, she has to force a smile on her face.

It's not the first proposal for her hand, she knows, though those before had been tentative alliance propositions when Sakura was too young to even contemplate marriage. It's different now, though. She's a young adult, and she's a princess with powerful magic, and will likely be her brother's heir one day, so aristocrats from all over have started eyeing her. 

(She wishes she’d left with Syaoran and the others the last time they visited, she really does.)

She curtsies in greeting when she's presented, plays the perfectly polite and demure princess (not that she isn't, usually, but right now, with the way mother and son both look at her like she's a piece of prized meat, she has to force herself to be as gracious as is normal for her), and makes small talk as is proper throughout the evening.

And then, dinner is over, and the baroness wipes daintily at the corner of her mouth in a way that implies she means to speak, and Sakura swallows down a mouthful of wine. Imagines Fai And Kurogane sitting on either side of her, standing guard. Imagines Syaoran's smile just by her shoulder, and Mokona in her lap. It grounds her.

"Now," the baroness says, turning her sickly sweet smile towards the King and Queen. "There is a matter I wish to discuss, if I may."

Nadeshiko blinks, and Sakura knows her mother's smile. Knows the polite, queenly mask. "Ah, yes. You've mentioned in your letter. A proposal."

"Yes. My son has come of marrying age, as has your daughter. And I know he is no prince, thus somewhat beneath the princess' station, but-"

And really, Sakura cannot listen to this. She cannot. "I apologise for interrupting, Your Ladyship," she says, and raises her eyes to meet the other woman's gaze head-on. (Kurogane nods proudly on her right side. Fai laughs softly on her left.)  "But please allow me to stop you right there."

The baroness sputters, as does her son, who looks like the mere thought of a woman interrupting his mother might make his head explode. "Excuse me? Princess, I do not think-”

Sakura folds her hands in her lap, straightens her spine. Her parents look at her, but say nothing, so she continues, emboldened. "I already am engaged to be married," she says, and feels Syaoran's phantom hand closing gently on her shoulder. "So I am sorry, truly, but we have to decline your proposal."

And with that, Sakura stands, curtsies to her parents, curtsies to their guests, smiles at her brother and Yukito, and head held high, she leaves with a smile before anyone can say another thing.

(Imaginary Fai and Mokona whoop and cheer behind her.)