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onemilliongoldstars · 4 years

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a crown seldom enjoyed - chapter 27

To maintain the fragile peace between north and south, Clarke of House Tyrell is sent to live in Winterfell as an act of faith between the two kingdoms. There, she is put under the protection of the first queen in the north, Queen Lexa of House Stark, Daughter of Wolves. A woman draped in steel and silver, wolves at her heels and rumoured to be a manifestation of the fury of the old gods; Clarke refuses to be awed be her quiet violence and cold smile. Instead of fostering unity, the meeting of the wolf and the rose lights a spark that spreads through the rest of Westeros, threatening to burn it to the ground.

27/33

clexa game of thrones au

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Book Three: Chapter 6

The south almost falls to ruin in the few days following King Finn’s death. Lexa is saddling a horse in the stables, her Queensguard working fervently beside her, when the bells begin to ring, a feverish, furious clang that stops them all in their tracks. For one horrifying moment she thinks that Pike has ordered the gates shut to kill them all, but a frantic stable boy stumbles inside, reeling from drink and fear and says, his voice garbled.

“The king! He’s dead!”

Later, Lexa is ashamed that her first thought is of the king’s new bride, but in that moment all she can do is stride across the stables and grab the boy by the shoulders to demand.

“The queen?”

The boy shakes his head, almost mute with fright. “Alive, but weak.” His voice drops, trembles. “They found her in the bed with him, covered in his blood.”

The stories have only grown worse since then, becoming bolder and more horrifying with each tale. There are many that whisper that Clarke was involved somehow, that her hands are covered in blood. Those with more daring mutter that the new queen should be deposed at least, beheaded at worst, but with no other obvious heir in sight they do not raise their voices. Others wonder whether the southern lady is cursed somehow, with the death of her father and now her husband looming over her like a dark cloud. For her part, Lexa refuses to leave now. She expects a fight from her Queensguard, wonders whether Anya will forcibly drag her back to the north, but instead she is surprised to find that her cousin only nods grimly upon hearing her decision.

In utmost secrecy, she sends two of her Queensguard north in the dead of night to order Aden to prepare for the worst, and has her own guard and that of Lady Tris doubled. She sleeps lightly, with a dagger beneath her pillow and spends much of her nights staring at the canopy above her bed, stifling in the southern heat, wondering whether Clarke too is staring at her own canopy.

In the early days that follow the killing of her husband, the kingdom is not wholly sure that Clarke herself survives. The Grand Maester will let no one in to see her, and only reports that she is weak from her injuries and distraught by her loss. They are left with only whispers and rumours, and Lexa feels like a trapped wolf, pacing the corridors as she waits to hear of Clarke’s condition. Several times she walks by the chamber doors of the royal suites, but Octavia Snow stands guard every time, her expression dark and she will not let even her queen past to see her injured lady.

By the third sunrise, Lexa fears Clarke has waited too long. By all accounts, Lord Pike is holding court in Tower of the Hand with the wealthiest and most powerful lords and ladies in Westeros. He terrifies them with talk of a land unprotected and overrun by enemies and refills their wine goblets until they are too drunk to argue with him. Though he has not yet said so publicly, Lexa is sure he is plotting Clarke’s deposal or demise and the thought of enough to curdle her blood.

For her own part, several southern lords and ladies even go so far as to court her favour in this time of unease. Some she knows well: Lord Marcus is welcome company, though she suspects his level headed and empathetic words would be best spent in Clarke’s support elsewhere; Lord Jonathon Tully, brother of Lady Abigail Tyrell, is a fair minded man with a blunt, easy manner, and the Princess Arianna is a surprisingly fervent supporter of her new queen. Many are frightened away by the wolves pacing at her sides and the dangerous expression that she so often wears when she is troubled, and for that Lexa is glad. As little as she likes waiting for word on Clarke, it is even worse to do so with southern prattle about her.

The sun is only beginning to paint the sky with its tangerine tones when a hurried knocking comes to her door. Lexa, barely asleep for more than a moment, wakes slowly and with heavy eyes, squinting through the darkened room to find Anya pushing open her door. Her hand, which had been groping for the dagger beneath her pillow, falls down, and she groans softly, rubbing at her eyes.

“What is it?” Her voice is slurred with sleep. “What’s going on?”

“It’s Clarke,” Anya hurries to light the candle beside her bed, ushering in one of Lexa’s handmaidens to stir the fire into life. Lexa shoots up at the words, her heart suddenly thundering, but Anya holds out a hand. “She is well, she is hosting her first audience.”

“An audience?” Lexa pushes herself from the bed with none of her earlier reluctance. She hurries to the carafe of water on the stand in the corner, pouring it into the waiting dish and hurrying to wash herself despite its frigid temperature. “At this time?”

“I expect she wants to say her piece before Pike does.” Anya intones, grimly.

Lexa is half in a daze as she allows herself to be dressed by her handmaiden, her hair pulled back into a simple braided crown, her real crown placed within the curls as she is urged into dark hose and a tunic embellished with fur and silver embroidery. Her sword is strapped to her waist, several small daggers slipped into her high boots.

When she steps from her rooms Honour, Sage and Valour fall into step beside her, their presence comforting at her side. The sun has risen as she’s been dressed, though its light is still watery. From the courtyard, she can hear the sounds of the city beginning to wake up, as merchants call their fresh catches and the hammers and anvils of the city’s blacksmiths groan into life. The servants of the castle are bleary eyed and startled to have so many nobles rushing from their rooms, and already the soldiers that man the city gates are having to open them for the few lords and ladies in the city who the word has reached.

With the wolves at her side and her Queensguard at her back, Lexa moves through the hustle and bustle with ease. People scatter out of her way, half bowing, still unsure of the protocol, and she doesn’t deign to meet their curious gazes. Instead, she keeps her eyes set on the doors to the Great Hall, which stand wide open to allow in the streams of nobles entering. As she takes her place at the head of the crowds, closest to the dais, Lexa feels the eyes of the south upon her and wonders how far Pike’s vicious rumours have spread. It is only the thought of seeing Clarke that keeps her in her place. If she weren’t so desperate to see the new queen, or so confident that Aden could handle the north in her absence, she would have saddled a horse that first night and fled this poisonous city.

The sound of horns pulls her from her reverie, and she blinks up at the dais as attendants step out. There are only servers and handmaidens at Clarke’s side when she steps out onto the dais, and she cuts a stark figure. Alone but for her attendants, she wears a dress so dark she appears white beneath it. A heavy chain is slung around her neck, and her golden crown shines open her head, but otherwise she is utterly devoid of decoration. There is something simple and mournful and strong about her appearance, and a hush falls through the waiting crowd as she makes her way to the front of the dais. Lord Pike, Lexa notices, is absent from proceedings. She wonders whether the hour is simply too early for him with his late night revellers, or if he refuses to acknowledge the authority of his new queen. Either way, she suspects it is what Clarke hoped would happen and she finds her own breath baited as she waits for Clarke to speak.

Clarke looks down upon them all, regal and stern, and when the chattering finally quiets she begins to speak.

“By now I am sure you have all heard what has happened to my husband and our king.” Another wave of murmurs runs through the watching nobles, but Clarke does not allow it to stop her. “I do not need to tell you of my grief, I am sure you all feel similarly. The king was a strong, wise man and he was my husband.” Here her voice breaks, just slight and when she pauses to draw in a steadying breath, there is no denying the way her eyes shine. Several ladies cling to their friends and husbands, padding at their eyes with handkerchiefs at her words. When she speaks again, her voice is strong and steady. “I would not assume to sit on our king’s throne without your consent,” Here, she seems demure and retiring. “But there is no immediate heir to take his place, at least, not yet…” She glances her hand over her stomach so briefly it seems instinctive, but Lexa knows in one heart stopping moment that it is as rehearsed as every other moment of this speech.

“My lady,” A lord bedecked in gold and black steps forwards, his dark brows furrowed. “Do you mean to say…” He pauses and flushes, “Did you and the king know each other intimately before his death?”

Shocked gasps and scorning looks follow his question, several ladies offer him outraged glances and touch at their cheeks and head, but many more eye Clarke with undisguised curiosity. From her place on the dais Clarke nods somberly, passing her hand over her stomach again in a gesture that is much more considered.

“I cannot say for sure, of course.” She raises her gaze and looks out over them, bathed in the light of the rising sun she looks ethereal, like the Mother herself. “But the king and I felt afterwards that there was some chance,” Her voice stutters again. “That’s why I- why I hid for so long when the assassin came. The king bade me to protect our heir.”

Another round of muttering follows her words. There has been much talk of how the king died, but to hear Clarke speak of it so frankly astonishes them all.

Clarke continues as if she cannot hear them. “Our king was a good and noble man, and if the gods see fit to bless me with a son, I know he will be just as good a king as his father was.” She looks out over them all and Lexa feels as if she could fall into her blue eyes. “I was not crowned before my husband was killed, but he did choose me to help him lead. For those of you who truly loved him I hope that that is enough to support my claim to the throne of the south.”

A gasp runs through the crowd and Lexa feels a prickle of fear run through her. It is a bold thing to say in her first audience since her husband’s death, and with no one else on the dais to show their support she seems isolated and vulnerable. A moment of silence passes as people exchange glances, but then Princess Arianna steps forward, unsheathing her sword, and she places her weapon at the steps of the dais, near Clarke’s feet.

“Dorne is with you, your majesty.”

Clarke looks down at her and when their eyes meet something unsaid passes between them, before Princess Arianna bows. Lexa eyes the dark haired princess with curiosity, she knows that the woman is only the daughter of the true Prince of Dorne, a man confined to the south by his many ailments, and she wonders what authority the princess has, or expects to soon have, to make such a pledge.

“King Finn was noble, as you say,” Another lord from the Stormlands steps forwards, grizzled and old, but he stands tall. “He chose you as his queen, always said you were good and wise,” He glances back at some of his compatriots. “I trust him, your majesty, and I trust you.”

Something close to a smile, but laced with sadness and regret flickers over Clarke’s face and she nods as the Stormland knights call their agreement and step forwards to lay their weapons at her feet.

One by one, more knights of the south make their way forwards. Among their like is Lord Marcus, who bows so deeply Lexa fears his nose will brush the ground, and the lords of Riverrun and Highgarden. Lexa says nothing, but her presence and unwavering gaze upon Clarke she knows are enough to show where her support lies. As a queen, she has no need to pledge her loyalty to Clarke publicly and regardless she knows that Clarke already has every part of her that truly matters.

“Thank you all,” Clarke says at last, when only those loyal to her remain. Enough have slipped away to be noticed, but the Great Hall is still crowded with eager nobles. “If the gods will bless my reign, I will sit the Iron Throne for you until someone more suitable is able to take my place.”

The waiting crowd let out a great roar of agreement at those words and Clarke bows her head, slipping away through the door at the back of the dais like she is made of mist.

The King in the South lies in state for three days and three nights before he is buried. His body has been cleaned up well, and there is still a boyish youth to his lifeless face that only makes proceedings worse. Still, when Lexa approaches to show her respects, she can see beneath his high collar the hastily stitched wound that ended his life. The city is filled with crying women and drunk men, and the city mourns for their king so fiercely one would think he had been upon the throne for years rather than weeks.

His funeral takes place on the fourth day after his death, a dismal affair filled with long sermons from the Septon and the ominous presence of the Silent Sisters. Clarke stands at the front of the Sept, close to her late husband’s body, and she appears drawn and tired, but strong. She is not yet crowned, but nobles still bow in her presence and the dark veil she wears is held in place by diamonds that sparkle within her hair and give the illusion of a crown. Lexa watches her as inconspicuously as she can, wondering at how she remains so composed and stoic. It is only the twitch at her lips and the corners of her eyes that give away her despair.

The day is unusually drawn and clouded, and when the rain begins to fall proceedings are cut unceremoniously short for the sake of the many people, nobles and smallfolk alike, gathered outside the Sept and in the streets. Nobles hurry back to the castle, eager not to get wet or ruin their finery, but Lexa lingers on the street. The rain feels good upon her skin and soaking into her hair, and her northern clothes are made to withstand much worse. The streets empty, and it is as if the downpour is cleaning away the filth of the city, leaving it open and fresh for the first time in years.

Returning to her rooms, she dries off at the insistence of her handmaidens, and settles beside the fire. The castle is quiet today, as people retire to their quarters to contemplate the lost king and what will come next. She calls for wine and food, but when it arrives touches little of it. There are letters from Aden, who assure her that all is well in the north and as there is no sign of secret code for an attack or danger she believes him. He is well guarded and has sent letters to families he knows are loyal to warn them to be on their guard, but with Lord Bolton dead Lexa wonders whether the head of their northern snake, at least, has been cut off. Other letters and scrolls remain to be read, but nothing interests or engages her. Instead, she is plagued by memories of the young king, and though she had not known or particularly cared for him she is saddened by his loss. She wonders what he knew of Pike’s plots, or whether he was simply a piece to be played with and manipulated. Her eyes go to the tapestry on the wall, from whence Clarke had once appeared as if by magic. The day after she had had Anya and her Queensguard help her manoeuvre a heavy oaken wardrobe in front of the hole, to ensure it was safe.

When her thoughts will not quiet she sighs and pushes herself from her seat. Her cloak hangs over clothes horse near the fire, but it is still a little damp when she swings it about her shoulders. Her sword at her hip, and Faith, Honour and Sage padding along beside and behind her, she steps out into the hall. Anya stands to attention at the sight of her, her eyes narrowing as she sees that Lexa is dressed to go out. Nevertheless, she falls into step behind Lexa and when they reach the end of the corridor she beckons two Queensguards to accompany them and leaves two more stationed at Lexa’s door.

The rain has lightened to a mist that hangs in the air, curling the stray tendrils of her hair. She had thought to walk to the library and find herself something more engaging to read, but her feet carry her past the library and across the courtyard towards the Godswood.

It is only when she has taken a few steps over the soft grass, slick beneath her feet after the day’s rain, that she spots the dark figure kneeling at the base of the heart tree. She pauses, her guard hesitating around her, and feels her heart constrict when the person turns a little to glimpse them and reveals her ever familiar profile beneath the hood of her cloak.

“Guard the entrance,” She tells Anya, quietly, and though her cousin’s eyes wander between the two of them, she doesn’t protest. The wolves stay at her side when she starts forwards again, Faith loping slightly ahead when she catches Clarke’s scent in the air.

The rain still hangs in the air like a fine mist, softening the sharp edges of everything. The low clouds linger, caught by the tall tree tops like a bird in a net. Like this, the rest of the world seems to shrink away from them, the city turns to white and they are suddenly alone together.

From where she kneels before the blood red face carved into the white bark, Clarke’s cloak pools like dark wine around her body. She doesn’t look up when Lexa lowers herself to the ground beside her, and around her the wolves settle their bodies like sentinels, Faith sitting at her shoulder. For some time they sit in silence and Lexa lets her eyes wander to the heart tree and the face of the old gods staring out at her from it. She remembers quite vividly the misty mornings spent sitting with her father before the heart tree in Winterfell, as he sharpened his blade and talked of the power of the old gods. She had thought of those conversations many times since his death, thought on all he had taught her, but she knows that nothing he said about the importance of war and battle formations will help her now.

“I saw him die.” Clarke’s words startle her, pulling her from her reverie, but her attention is immediately fixed to the girl beside her. Clarke has not moved, she still remains knelt before the heart tree, her eyes downcast. Lexa cannot pull her eyes away from her and she realises for the first time that Clarke’s hands are curled in the damp grass beneath them, twisting the stems until they break and turn her fingers white. The silence fills the air for a few moments before she continues, her voice low and toneless. “On the bed, when I first stepped into the room, he was dying.” Lexa says nothing, isn’t sure what sort of response Clarke wants. “I didn’t think to help him, I only thought of myself.”

“Clarke-”

“I lay on that bed with him for hours, hoping that he would wake.” The grass snaps beneath her fingers. “He was a good man, he deserved a better wife than me.”

“He adored you.” Lexa says, ever so softly. “That was clear to anyone.”

Clarke snorts, disdainfully, and her words crack. “A cruel trick of fate.”

“Clarke-”

“You shouldn’t be here.”

A beat of silence passes between them as Lexa tries to decipher her true meaning.

“I couldn’t leave until I knew you were alright.” Lexa shakes her head, finally, her voice low.

“That isn’t-” Clarke’s voice breaks over her words and she swallows heavily, but continues, as if she is worried that if she doesn’t speak now she will lose her voice entirely. “That isn’t what I meant.” There is a rough, guttural note to her words that makes them seem all the more forceful.

“Then what?” She is almost afraid to ask, afraid that she knows what Clarke will say.

“You shouldn’t be here with me, you shouldn’t be anywhere near me!” Clarke’s voice is rising, taking on a note of hysteria.

“No one can see us Clarke, my guards are posted at the gate and the wolves are here. We are safe for now.”

“Don’t be obtuse,” Clarke’s brows twist, somewhere between fury and anguish. “You think I don’t know what they have been saying about me? That I’m cursed, that all who love me die.”

“Clarke-”

“They’re right.”

“They’re not, Clarke,” She reaches out and clasps Clarke’s fingers within her own, pulling them from where they are tangling in the grass stems and digging in the dirt. Carefully, she encloses them in her own, folding around the cold digits like a parent swaddling a babe.

“How can you say that?” Finally, Clarke meets her gaze, and her eyes are deep pools of stormy blue, sad and angry and despairing. “My father, Thelonious, and now Finn… I loved them all in some way and now they are all cold in the ground.” A tremble runs through her at her words, and Lexa can feel it in her fingers. “I’m cursed.”

“No,” Lexa shakes her head, and she cannot hold herself back any longer. She hitches closer and lifts herself up a little to wrap her arms around Clarke’s stiff body, holding her close. “No Clarke.”

“The gods are punishing me.” The hitch in her voice tells Lexa that she is crying now.

“This was not the gods’ doing,” Lexa insists fiercely, her anger burning in the pit of her stomach. “This was a man’s doing, Lord Pike.”

Clarke melts into her embrace and Lexa wonders how long she has been carrying this shadow upon her shoulders, letting it weigh her so heavily. “Even so, if he finds out…” She trembles again in Lexa’s arms and Lexa feels tears prickle in her own eyes. She clings more tightly, and for a moment she wishes their lives had not panned out this way, that they could simply give themselves to each other without the fear of vengeful lords or the duty of their families and countries weighing them down. “Please, please,” Clarke presses her face into the crook of Lexa’s neck, not entirely sure what she is begging for.

When Lexa speaks again, her voice is raw with emotion. “Not even the gods could keep me from loving you, Clarke. Some southern lord certainly won’t.”

---

The fire crackles in the place, though the day is hot and the sun pounds down upon the streets. It streams in through the window of her chambers, forming a bright square upon the cold stone underfoot. If she stretches her foot out she can reach it and feel the heat of the day upon her bare skin. This room has always caught the morning light nicely, glowing with warmth under the sun, and she tries not to think on where she will be sleeping come nightfall.

Her robe is light around her shoulders as Harper’s nimble fingers tug and pull at her curls, pinning them into intricate, twisting forms with the expert hand of someone who has been doing this for some time. She has been working in silence since she began and Clarke has appreciated the peace, what feels like the first she has had in days.

Despite the rumours, her days after Finn’s death were not spent in bed recovering from grevious wounds. When she thinks of her wedding night now, everything feels very distant and far away. She barely remembers the assassin’s face, though she does remember it sliding away to reveal a second the moment the last breath had escaped him. She doesn’t remember the wounds to her legs and stomach, which are still bandaged tightly and throb with pain at every breath. She remembers the smell of blood, and the feeling of the blood soaked cotton beneath her fingers. She remembers how it dried beneath her as the night went on, turning stiff and dry like corn kernels. She remembers Finn’s wan, shallow face, and his unseeing eyes staring back at her, at once adoring and accusatory.

The Grand Maester had come only when Faith had been howling outside the doors to the bedchamber for so long that one of the guards had run to find him. He had wrapped her wounds, given her milk of the poppy, and in her drowsy, drugged state she had fallen into his familiar arms and wept her story of Pike. If before she had been unsure whose side he was on, she had been certain at the sight of uniminitable horror on his face as her tale unfolded. He had seen to her wounds, had the king’s body wrapped and taken to the Sept, and put her to bed. When she had woken the next morning, the ache in her heart stronger even than the ache in her body, he had asked her to tell her story again.

“Can you stand, your majesty?” Harper asks, quietly, and slowly, with her handmaiden’s help, Clarke struggles to her feet. Harper unwraps her robe and sets to dressing her.

On the morning after her cursed wedding, Harper had come at the Grand Maester’s command, and set about bathing her as gently as one would a newborn babe. Though her fingers had trembled, she had not backed away when the Grand Maester had offered to fetch another. With gentle determination, she had brushed Clarke’s hair and braided it back, dressed her in a soft nightgown and her periwinkle blue robe, so that when the first of the visitors came, she was presentable.

Lord Marcus was the first, at her request, slipped into the chambers through the secret tunnels. His face pale, he had set by her bedside, her hand in his, and listened without interruption to everything she had had to say. When she had asked that he send for her mother, he had bowed his head over their clasped hands, until her knuckles brushed his forehead. Lady Arianna had followed him, her brows drawn tight as she listened to what Clarke told her, Lord Marcus at her side. Clarke hadn’t been able to finish her tale before Lady Arianna spat at the floor and cursed Pike’s name.

“Of course you will have my backing, your majesty. Anything over that treasonous cunt.”

A knock comes to the door, and Clarke calls entry. Octavia steps through the door and gives a low bow.

“Everything is ready, your majesty.”

“Thank you, Octavia.”

Octavia had burst through the doors to her room that day with the ferocity of a wild jungle cat from Essos. She had glowered at them all, taken several steps to Clarke’s bed, bowed and said. “I will be taking over the queen’s protection from now on.” No one had thought to argue.

After Princess Arianna had come a whole slew of other nobles. The lord of Riverrun, her uncle Lord Jonathon, had eyed her with a new sort of respect and promised to stand at her side if the time should come.

Her father’s brother had been less easy to convince. Lord Arthur had stared down at her in the bed as if he thought she was finally where she ought to be, and crossed his arms, ignoring the glare of Lord Marcus and Octavia at her sides.

“This is just what you deserve, reaching higher than your station.” He had shaken his head, his lip curling. “What can you be thinking, to take on the Lannisters? They are the most powerful house in the land, they have the most money and the most arms.”

“Not against us all united, uncle.” Clarke had told him, as carefully as she could.

“You are a foolish child, playing at these games.”

“I am no child, uncle.”

“You will get us all killed, our house will never know another generation!”

“I am your queen,” Her voice had become steely. “And I am asking for your allegiance.”

“Lord Pike will tell anyone and everyone that you are no true queen.” Her uncle had sneered at her, and she had risen a brow.

“If I am not your queen, then I am still the head of our house, and your opinion does not matter.” Her uncle’s face had dropped, and she had watched as he struggled for the right words.

Eventually he too had bent a reluctant knee, and she had four of the great houses at her command.

“It’s time, your majesty.” Octavia steps into the room again, and Clarke lets Harper surveys her one final time, before nodding her approval. She is escorted from the castle to the Great Sept with a tight, loyal group of guards at her sides and she can hear the cheers of the waiting small folk as if from far away, though she is only in her carriage.

The lords of the Stormland had needed a gentler touch. A land steeped in the history of traditions and knights, the Stormland lords had become used to one of their own sitting the throne and the privileges this afforded them. She had had the room emptied, but for the Grand Measter, and when Lord Mertyn, now the most powerful Lord in the Stormlands stepped into the room he found a wan, pale woman confined to a sick bed.

“My Lord,” She had offered him a seat, and graciously accepted his bow. Her voice had taken on a breathless, anxious quality. “I am so glad you came, I don’t know who to trust.”

“Your majesty, I am so sorry for your loss.” His sincerity had touched her. “His majesty…” He trailed off, shaking his head, and she brushed at a tear that escaped down her cheek. “We are glad that you at least were spared.”

“Thank you for your kind words,” She had touched uncertainly at her covers, “Many do not feel similarly, I fear.” At his curious look, she had continued. “I am not safe my Lord,” She hesitated and brushed at her stomach again, lingering long enough for him to notice. “We are not safe.”

His eyes had widened and he had stuttered. “You mean to say…”

“A woman knows, my Lord.”

He had pledged his support moments later, stating, “You are a Stormlander now, my lady.”

Now, as the door to the Great Sept swings open, she walks to her place on the dais certain that no one of any importance will rise to object to her. Her knees settle against the velvet cushion and as the High Septon speaks the ancient words, she feels the eyes of the kingdom resting upon her shoulders. Each one of these people will fight for her if they must.

“May the Warrior grant her courage, may the smith grant her strength.” The Septon concludes and glances down at her, his eyes cold. She knows he hates crowning a woman more than anything, but the Most Devout, who give voice to the wishes of the Seven in this world, have always had a good relationship with the Tyrells. Her father's frequent visits to Oldtown, where they gathered, had seen to that.

“Arise, your majesty.”

She stands, and the dark gown falls in waves against her, the golden embroidery and carefully selected sapphires heavy against her bosom.

“In the name of the Seven, I now pronounce Clarke of House Tyrell, first of her name, Queen of the First Men, Protector of the Realm.”

The crown settles upon her head and she feels her shoulders straighten, her chin tilt up. As she looks out over the watching congregation, she knows that no one will challenge her now that she is queen.

Particularly with Pike of House Lannister rotting in a black cell far below the castle.

—-

#clexa #clexa gotau #clarke griffin #commander lexa #clexa fic

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sarcasticcynic · 5 years

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First, some general background:

“I was disappointed that the State Department prevented me, at the last minute, from testifying earlier on October 8, 2019.”

“I am a lifelong Republican.”

“I worked with Ambassador [Marie] Yovanovich personally during my first official visit to Ukraine in February 2019, and I found her to be an excellent diplomat with a deep command of Ukrainian internal dynamics, the U.S.-Ukraine relationship, and associated regional issues. She was a delight to work with during our visit to Odessa, Ukraine. I was never a part of any campaign to disparage or dislodge her, and I regretted her departure.”

“In my time working with Ambassador [William] Taylor, I have found him to be an insightful, strategic, and effective representative of U.S. interests. He cares deeply about the future of Ukraine and is a dedicated public servant.”

“The Ukraine Mission worked hand in hand with Special Envoy Kurt Volker, another experienced diplomat with a special remit to address the ongoing conflict in Eastern Ukraine and Crimea. Mr. Volker is an exemplary professional.”

The highlights:

“On May 23, 2019, three days after the [Ukraine President Volodymyr] Zelensky inauguration, we in the U.S. delegation [Sondland, Volker, and Energy Secretary Rick Perry] debriefed President Trump and key aides at the White House. ... We asked the White House to arrange a working phone call from President Trump and a working Oval Office visit. However, President Trump was skeptical that Ukraine was serious about reforms and anti-corruption, and he directed those of us present at the meeting to talk to Mr. [Rudy] Giuliani, his personal attorney, about his concerns. It was apparent to all of us that the key to changing President Trump’s mind was Mr. Giuliani.”

“Secretary Perry, Ambassador Volker, and I were disappointed by our May 23, 2019 White House debriefing. We strongly believed that a call and White House meeting between Presidents Trump and Zelensky was important and that these should be scheduled promptly and without any pre-conditions. We were also disappointed by the President’s direction that we involve Mr. Giuliani. Our view was that the men and women of the State Department, not the President’s personal lawyer, should take responsibility for all aspects of U.S. foreign policy towards Ukraine.”

“I did not understand, until much later, that Mr. Giuliani’s agenda might also have included an effort to prompt the Ukrainians to investigate Vice President [Joe] Biden or his son [Hunter] or to involve the Ukrainian’s directly or indirectly, in the President’s 2020 reelection campaign.”

“On July 25, 2019, President Trump called President Zelensky ... But let me emphasize: I was not on that July 25, 2019 call and I did not see a transcript of that call until September 25, 2019, when the White House publicly released it. None of the brief and general call summaries I received contained any mention of Burisma or former Vice President Biden, nor even suggested that President Trump had made any kind of request of President Zelensky.”

“I understood from President Trump, at the May 23, 2019 White House debriefing, that he wanted the Inaugural Delegation to talk with Mr. Giuliani concerning our efforts to arrange a White House meeting for President Zelensky. Taking direction from the President, as I must, I spoke with Mr. Giuliani for that limited purpose. In these short conversations, Mr. Giuliani emphasized that the President wanted a public statement from President Zelensky committing Ukraine to look into anticorruption issues. Mr. Giuliani specifically mentioned the 2016 election (including the DNC server) and Burisma as two anti-corruption investigatory topics of importance for the President.”

“My understanding was that the President directed Mr. Giuliani’s participation, that Mr. Giuliani was expressing the concerns of the President, and that Mr. Giuliani had already spoken with Secretary Perry and Ambassador Volker. ... Please know that I would not have recommended that Mr. Giuliani or any private citizen be involved in these foreign policy matters. However, given the President’s explicit direction, as well as the importance we attached to arranging a White House meeting between Presidents Trump and Zelensky, we agreed to do as President Trump directed.”

“Let me state clearly: Inviting a foreign government to undertake investigations for the purpose of influencing an upcoming U.S. election would be wrong. Withholding foreign aid in order to pressure a foreign government to take such steps would be wrong. I did not and would not ever participate in such undertakings. In my opinion, security aid to Ukraine was in our vital national interest and should not have been delayed for any reason.”

How’s the view from under that bus, Rudy?

Finally, the only things that Republicans will hear:

“I do not recall that Mr. Giuliani discussed former Vice President Biden or his son Hunter Biden with me. Like many of you, I read the transcript of the Trump-Zelensky call for the first time when it was released publicly by the White House on September 25, 2019.”

“I recall no discussions with any State Department or White House official about Former Vice President Biden or his son, nor do I recall taking part in any effort to encourage an investigation into the Bidens.”

“I called President Trump directly. I asked the President: ‘What do you want from Ukraine?’ The President responded, “Nothing. There is no quid pro quo.‘ The President repeated: ‘no quid pro quo’ multiple times. This was a very short call. And I recall the President was in a bad mood.”

Two thoughts, though:

This doesn’t necessarily demonstrate that there was no quid pro quo; it demonstrates only that Trump’s people didn’t want Sondland (or anyone else) to know about it. Which is entirely consistent with them hiding the transcript of the Zelensky call, never mentioning what Trump actually said to Zelensky, and keeping the whole thing as quiet as possible until the whistleblower came forward.

Regarding Trump repeating “‘no quid pro quo’ multiple times”: How many times in his life do you think Trump had ever used that phrase before, say, September 19, 2019? (Hint: Zero.) It sounds a lot more like Trump was making sure to repeat a phrase that had been carefully drilled into his head as very, very important. Which is, again, wholly consistent with a cover-up of Trump’s actual request to Zelensky for a quid pro quo.

TL;DR: Sondland isn’t testifying that Trump did nothing wrong, or that there was no quid pro quo. Sondland is testifying only that he himself did nothing wrong, because he didn’t know about any quid pro quo.

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thisdaynews · 4 years

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‘It was no secret’: Sondland says Trump ordered Ukraine pressure campaign

New Post has been published on https://thebiafrastar.com/it-was-no-secret-sondland-says-trump-ordered-ukraine-pressure-campaign/

‘It was no secret’: Sondland says Trump ordered Ukraine pressure campaign

Ambassador to the European Union Gordon Sondland. | Drew Angerer/Getty Images

President Donald Trump’s top Europe envoy Gordon Sondland told House impeachment investigators Wednesday that Trump conditioned a valuable White House meeting for Ukraine’s new president on his willingness to launch investigations into Trump’s Democratic adversaries, including former Vice President Joe Biden.

“Was there a ‘quid pro quo?’” Sondland — a close Trump ally and longtime GOP donor — said in his opening remarks to the House Intelligence Committee. “The answer is yes.”

Sondland’s testimony, the most explosive to date in a series of public impeachment hearings, portrayed Trump as the driver of an effort to pressure a foreign power to investigate his political rivals. Democrats quickly seized on the bombshell testimony as they seek to make the case that Trump abused his power by conditioning official acts to benefit his re-election campaign.

But it went further than that, according to Sondland, who said the scheme was widely known, understood and discussed at the highest levels of the Trump administration.

“Everyone was in the loop. It was no secret,” said the U.S. ambassador to the European Union, adding that he directly communicated the “quid pro quo” to Ukrainian President Volodymyr Zelensky.

Sondland claimed that senior officials including acting White House chief of staff Mick Mulvaney and even cabinet secretaries were aware of the arrangement — and that it was carried out at the “express direction” of the president. Sondland specifically cited a July 19 email copied to Mulvaney, Energy Secretary Rick Perry, Secretary of State Mike Pompeo and “a lot of senior officials.” In that email, Sondland reveals that he “just talked to Zelensky” and secured a commitment for a “fully transparent investigation.”

Trump on Wednesday quickly distanced himself from his ambassador. “I don’t know him very well. I have not spoken to him much. This is not a man I know well,” the president told reporters at the White House.

In a statement, White House press secretary Stephanie Grisham said Sondland’s testimony was “related to his presumptions and beliefs, rather than hard facts,” and slammed Democrats for relying on “unreliable and indirect evidence.”

During the hearing,Rep. Adam Schiff (D-Calif.), the chairman of the Intelligence Committee, walked Sondland through a chronology intended to make the case that Trump conditioned “official acts” — a White House meeting and nearly $400 million of military aid — on receiving a “thing of value,” his favored investigations. Schiff’s questioning was a nod to the language of federal bribery statutes.

Schiff said Sondland’s testimony “goes right to the heart of the issue of bribery as well as other potential high crimes and misdemeanors,” adding: “The veneer has been torn away.”

Republican lawmakers portrayed Sondland as an unreliable witness.

Under questioning from GOP counsel Steve Castor — who called Sondland a “trifecta of unreliability” — Sondland said he never heard directly from Trump about any pre-conditions for the military aid or the White House meeting. Republicans also sought to highlight Sondland’s claim that it was only his “presumption” that the military aid was part of a quid pro quo, and that he did not take contemporaneous notes.

“President Trump never told me directly that the aid was tied to that statement” about investigations, Sondland said.

In his opening statement,Sondland injected a new wrinkle into the quid pro quo claim: that Trump’s July 25 phone call with Zelensky itself was the product of a quid pro quo for investigations.On that day, Trump spoke directly to Zelensky and referenced his request for a Biden investigation during the phone call, which has become the central focus of the impeachment inquiry.

Sondland told members of the Intelligence Committee on Wednesday that he “later came to believe” that the military assistance — which had been frozen at Trump’s direction over the summer — would not be delivered to Ukraine unless the country publicly committed to pursuing Trump’s desired investigations. When asked if the “only logical conclusion” is that the military aid was part of the quid pro quo Sondland was describing, he responded: “Yup.”

Sondland emphasized that he never heard those words from Trump, but that after multiple conversations with the president about Ukraine, Trump’s intentions were clear to him. “It was abundantly clear to everyone that there was a link” between military aid and investigations, he added.

The ambassador, who donated $1 million to Trump’s inaugural committee, also testified that he told Vice President Mike Pence on Sept. 1 that he was concerned that the delay in military assistance was tied to “the issue of investigations.” But Marc Short, Pence’s chief of staff, said such a conversation “never happened.”

Ukraine, lawmakers have noted, depends on military assistance from the U.S. to fight a war with Russia, which has invaded and attempted to annex Crimea. The legitimacy conferred by a White House visit would have also been extremely valuable to Zelensky as he sought to establish his bona fides in a country with a legacy of corruption.

Sondland attributed much of his concern to Trump’s “directive” that his personal lawyer, Rudy Giuliani be involved in any Ukraine effort. Giuliani had been publicly calling for Ukraine to investigate Biden, as well as to probe a debunked conspiracy theory that Ukraine, not Russia, hacked a Democratic Party server in 2016.

But Giuliani wasn’t freelancing, Sondland emphasized.

“We all understood that these pre-requisites for the White House call and White House meeting reflected President Trump’s desires and requirements,” he said. “Mr. Giuliani’s requests were a quid pro quo for arranging a White House visit for President Zelensky. Mr. Giuliani demanded that Ukraine make a public statement announcing investigations of the 2016 election/DNC server and Burisma.”

Burisma is a reference to the Ukrainian energy company for which Biden’s son Hunter sat on the board, and several State Department officials have indicated they came to understand that Trump’s demand for an Burisma investigation was code for going after the Bidens.

Sondland said he has no doubt Giuliani was “expressing the desires of the president of the United States, and we knew that these investigations were important to the president.” He also said he had no desire to work with Giuliani but felt it was a requirement imposed by Trump and would be the only way to conceivably convince Trump to adopt a more productive posture toward Ukraine.

“We had no desire to set any conditions on the Ukrainians,” he said. “I believed then, as I do now, that the men and women of the State Department, not the president’s personal lawyer, should take responsibility for Ukraine matters.”

Wednesday’s hearing was Sondland’s third attempt at providing a complete account of his role in the unfolding Ukraine saga. His closed door testimony to lawmakers last month omitted crucial details that he later added in a written supplement. But his opening statement appears to be a more complete accounting of his activities — and it was quickly picked apart by Trump’s defenders, who once counted him as a potential ally.

Sondland acknowledged that his memory “has not been perfect,” adding that he does not regularly take notes and that the State Department has not given him access to all of his phone records and emails. He said the process would have been “more transparent” if the State Department had provided the documents— though a department official pushed back late Wednesday night, saying Sondland “continues to retain full access” to his documents and emails.

Sondland indicated that the White House only recently confirmed that he did in fact speak with Trump on July 26, buttressing an account by David Holmes, a U.S. embassy official in Kyiv, who recalled Trump and Sondland spoke by phone while Sondland was at a restaurant in the Ukrainian capital city.

Trump has publicly denied the existence of such a phone call. But Sondland detailed the conversation to lawmakers, saying he had “no reason to doubt” that “this conversation included the subject of investigations.”

After the call, Holmes said Sondland revealed that Trump didn’t “give a shit” about Ukraine except as a vehicle to advance the Biden probe. Sondland said he has no reason to dispute that account, though he could not recall some details.

“I would have been more surprised if President Trump had not mentioned investigations, particularly given what we were hearing from Mr. Giuliani about the president’s concerns,” Sondland said. “However, I have no recollection of discussing Vice President Biden or his son on that call or after the call ended.”

Democrats have already questioned Sondland’s honesty, noting that he could not recall crucial moments during his closed-door testimony. Some Republicans, too, have wondered whether Sondland was acting on his own when he muscled his way into meetings on the U.S.-Ukraine relationship.

The questions about Sondland’s credibility came into focus when Rep. Sean Patrick Maloney (D-N.Y.) accused Sondland of evading his questions. Sondland responded by saying he resented the implication, causing Maloney to interject.

“All due respect sir, we respect your candor, but let’s be really clear what it took to get it out of you,” Maloney said.

#campaign #Foreign #Politics #pressure

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96thdayofrage · 5 years

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When the temp agency called to tell me that there was a full-time custodial position open over at a 24-hour facility in San Marcos, Texas, I was both relieved and, to be honest, a little bit indignant. I was going to be able to eat this week, but after having spent the past 14 years of my life getting a bachelor’s degree in English, getting a master’s degree in creative writing, and starting my own entertainment company, I was going to be a janitor.

Amazon workers call the taped-off walking paths that wrap around the building “the Green Mile.” I thought it was a joke at first.

I must have missed the memo: A 2014 study from the Center for Economic and Policy Research revealed that an incredible 55.9 percent of black recent college graduates were “underemployed” and working in a position that didn’t require a four-year college degree. Hence my new position pushing Gaylord boxes back-and-forth in an Amazon warehouse for $10 an hour, 10 hours a day, three days a week. But thanks to this job, I was going to be able to cover my portion of the rent and buy four whole rolls of toilet tissue.

The reality is that in April of this year, I was so far behind on rent that I had to host a 12-hour poetry reading to raise money on GoFundMe. I was embarrassed. After I’d eagerly shared posts on social media about the work I’d been doing with my business, I was now admitting publicly that if I couldn’t raise the money, I would be homeless.

I had pushed for a college education, believing that with it came job security and the freedom to pursue my writing without the burden of poverty. Without familial wealth or a serendipitous set of circumstances, I would need at least a degree to be competitive if I wanted to move up and over the poverty line. But here I was teetering on it.

Amazon workers call the taped-off and safe walking paths that wrap around the building “the Green Mile.” I thought it was a joke at first, comparing the facility to a prison like the one in the movie made famous by Tom Hanks and Michael Clarke Duncan. But I had to admit that the joke was in some ways disturbingly close to the truth about the working conditions I found there. The space, which stretches out across several football fields and up four flights of stairs, does give the illusion of forced servitude. Hundreds of women and men work the line, stowing or picking products and flirting through the metal windows of their stations, checking out all the new hires and the staff personnel who strut back-and-forth, running the floor.

My roommate was hired as a “picker,” someone who pulls items purchased on Amazon.com and dumps them in a container for packaging. He also has a master’s degree in creative writing but was unable to find a job in his field after graduation. Always the funny guy, he lives for memes and regularly refers to me by my pet name, Rent. When I told him I’d be working in the warehouse with the cleanup crew, he told me that I’d work with the people who are commonly referred to as the laziest and most unnecessary in the building. “You guys just don’t do anything,” he cracked.

I picked up discarded plastic wraps, pulled Gaylords from one side of the floor to the other, emptied the 6-foot-tall boxes, and cleaned out the yellow bins the packers used ceaselessly. We cleaned toilets, wiped down rails, swept, and moved anything that would slow down the employees with “real jobs” out of the way. Every day I had the same thought: I have no idea how I got here.

I grew up in a military family, moving from state to state until my parents divorced and my mom moved us kids to Austin, Texas. I spent my high school years in at-risk programs for low-income families, living in Section 8 housing and waiting on our monthly food-stamps deposit. I promised my family, my teachers, and myself that I would find a way to be more than just another black statistic, and that an education was going to help me do that.

I had pushed for a college education, believing that with it came job security and the freedom to pursue my writing without the burden of poverty.

Today, black women are among the most-educated groups in the country. We’re the only demographic of women who own more businesses than our male peers. But of course that does not always mean we are more successful. A 2016 survey from Consumer Financesshows that degrees for black women are not translating into wealth within our communities. Too many factors outside of higher education are leaving black women jobless and in debt. Upward mobility, a common desire among millennials, is still often thwarted by discrimination in the labor market.

When I left my full-time sales job at a call center last year, several months before graduating from my master’s program, I felt invincible. I thought to myself, I’ll just finish up my master’s degree and start my own company doing what I love: writing and creating opportunities for other artists. I wanted to create a space where emerging visual and performing artists could receive professional development and education, network with local companies and potential clients, and expand their portfolios with themed exhibitions and performance opportunities.

I threw myself into a business plan, applied to art grants and startup-accelerator programs, and even joined an innovative female-owned co-working space, Splash Coworking. I created an artist-in-residence program, facilitating the artist-development initiative through a monthly event series I curated. Those first three months were a crash course in organization, self-care, branding, paperwork filing, and functioning on minimal sleep. I took all the knowledge I had gained throughout my college career and threw it into my business. But while the U.S. Census Bureau states that black-owned businesses like mine are on the rise—an estimated 34.5 percent increase from 2007–12—the rate of success overall for black-owned small businesses in their first two years is still debilitatingly low. It felt like I was losing before I even got started.

In October of 2017, the stress and calls from unpaid creditors forced me to finally give in and file for personal bankruptcy. By January, I had lost my car and cleared my nonacademic debts. I defended my thesis the same month and graduated—happy to have finally attained my life jacket of a degree.

I searched for teaching opportunities that would give me the income and flexibility needed to keep my business going. I applied for jobs in every market in my area. Teaching jobs, specifically for creative writing or English, were virtually nonexistent in my city, and the other positions required Ph.D.s and prior teaching experience. Awesome, I thought. Teaching was out of the question for now. I decided to look for acting jobs or writing jobs in the area. The closest one was in Austin, 30 miles away from me. Without a car, that didn’t seem possible.

“Oh! I see you have a degree!” the interviewer proclaimed.

“Yes, I do.” He nodded slowly.

“Oh. I see you have two degrees.” He peered up over his steamed-up glasses and briefly glanced down at my carefully constructed cleavage. I nodded. I knew that tone. I struggled to keep my face relaxed. It was important that this meeting went well. Rent. Phone. Electricity. Food.

“So, tell me why you want to be a team member here instead of writing or getting a job teaching?” I smiled. Of course I didn’t want to work at the local chicken shack. He knew that. How do I explain this?

The chairs are sticky, the air conditioner is always broken, and the same music plays 24/7 here, but at least there’s food and I don’t have to wait for a paycheck now. If the people I serve like me, they just drop a $5 bill on my table before they drive off to do whatever it is people who can afford restaurants like this do. Buy fancy teacups. I don’t know. If they don’t like me, they rip open their sugar packets and dump them on the table for me to wipe up once they’re gone. And I will wipe it up. Because I’m still hoping the next customer will like me just a little bit better and the rules say I can’t tell customers when they’re being rude.

It’s been three months since Amazon’s “need for temp employees changed,” and I’ve found a job working at a restaurant as a server for $2.13 an hour plus tips. I average anywhere from $250 to $375 a week. The uniform is stiff but the other employees at least try to keep the mood light with gossip about their children or new boyfriends.

Their conversations remind me that real people are working the jobs no one else wants to work. Real people with real bills and medical issues, real hopes and desires. I listen in and try not to think about my degree or my company too much. I’ve worked more doubles in the past few months than I ever have in my life and I’m starting to think I may have busted some important vein in my left foot hustling back-and-forth between the many, many tables of the main room. But despite everything, I’ve found that I actually like my new job. It’s simple and straightforward and I’m surrounded by windows that let me see the sun all I want.

After I got over the physical exhaustion from working at Amazon and got the hang of my new job, I started having more time to pick up my creative work again. The book of poetry I’ve been working on for over 10 years finally found a home with a publisher. I’ve started editing it in between guests and daydreaming about my next book, a memoir about giving my daughter up for adoption. I’ve even started reimagining how my small business could work in a different city when I move after my lease is up.

I’m humbled by the job. It reminds me that no one who has ever accomplished anything of significant value accomplished it easily. Some of my favorite artists were servers. If anything, I’m just following in their footsteps. They were construction workers and truck drivers; they worked at fast-food restaurants and were telemarketers. A few were even janitors. Maybe I’ve been looking at this all wrong. Maybe I’m just getting started.

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