#Rowan gold tree

[nanshe-of-nina]

Legendary Heroes GIF Sets → Rowan Gold-Tree

ROWAN GOLD-TREE, who was so bereft when her lover left her for a rich rival that she wrapped an apple in her golden hair, planted it upon a hill, and grew a tree whose bark and leaves and fruit were gleaming yellow gold, and to whose daughters the Rowans of Goldengrove trace their roots.

[thesims4asoiaf]

~Ts4 Game of Thrones/House of the Dragon/ ASOIAF Lookbook +CC Links~ DAWN AGE/AGE OF HEROES

•Garth Greenhand and his daughters•

As always, they are up in the gallery! EA ID: FaePorcelain

Skin, pores, lashes, uncurled lashes, eyes, teeth, skin tones

Garth Greenhand

Hair, beard, eyeliner, eyeshadow, eyebrows, sleeves, outfit, crown, rings, nosemask, cheeks, face markings

Florys The Fox

Hair, dress and necklace, hair beads, roots and armband, boots, face markings, lipstick, eyeliner, blush, nosemask

Maris The Maid

Hair, blush, hand tattoos, dress, island living necklace, flower crown, lipstick, face markings, forehead symbol, eyebrows

Rose of Red Lake

Hair, dress and feathers, bracelets, necklace, earrings, face makeup, lipsticks, blush

Ellyn Ever Sweet

Hair, dress, earrings, necklace, hand tattoos, arm bands, lipstick, face marking, nosemask, eyebrows, eyeliner

Rowan Gold-Tree

Hair, vines, blush 1 2, necklace, dress, boots, eyeliner, flower crown, forehead symbol,basegame brows and freckles

[agentrouka-blog]

there’s a theory that Rowan’s lover was Foss the Archer, the founder of the Fossoways, because he would shoot apples off the heads of women he admired. Sure it is half-sibling incest but so is Brandon of the Bloody Blade/Rose of Red Lake and there’s meta about them

Pertaining to this ridiculously lovely fanart by @palominojacoby

(Have one of Foss, as well)

Thank you for that theory! It would certainly create an even more powerful image for Rowan to turn her grief over lost love into a renewal of the symbol of that love. To feed love to the world where it had been denied herself for greed.

It also makes the origin story of the greenapple Fossoways even better. The turn from something corrupted back toward something closer to its ideal.

"My pardons, ser. I needed to make a small change to my sigil, lest I be mistaken for my dishonorable cousin." He showed them all his shield. The polished golden field remained the same, and the Fossoway apple, but this apple was green instead of red. "I fear I am still not ripe . . . but better green than wormy, eh?" (The Hedge Knight)

Which leads to this tragic image:

Everywhere steel rang on steel. Raymun and his cousin were slashing at each other in front of the viewing stand, both afoot. Their shields were splintered ruins, the green apple and the red both hacked to tinder. 

No matter how good your apple, war doesn't care for idealism. It always destroys both sides to a degree.

Going back to Rowan, by the imagery of the weirwood tree, with its bright red leaves that look like bloody hands, and the history of blood sacrifices made to heart trees, it seems like she chose a better way to feed a tree: heartbreak turns into apples.

Arya grabs an apple from a tree sullied by the corpses hanged there. She eats it worms and all.

Robert thought this of Lyanna:

"She should be on a hill somewhere, under a fruit tree, with the sun and clouds above her and the rain to wash her clean." (AGOT, Eddard I)

I don't know. Maybe, in its own way, this image applies to the Starks. Walk through death, bury the pain and grow life from it, eventually.

[greenwitchcrafts]

August 2024 Witch Guide

New Moon: August 4th

First Quarter: August 12th

Full moon: August 19th

Last Quarter: August 26th

Sabbats: Lughnasadh/Lammas- August 1st

August Sturgeon Moon

Also known as: Barely Moon, Black Cherries Moon, Corn moon, Dispute Moon, Harvest moon, Herb Moon, grain moon, Mountain Shadows Moon, Red moon, Ricing Moon, Weodmonath & Wyrt moon

Element: Fire

Zodiac: Leo & Virgo

Animal spirts: Dryads

Deities: Diana, Ganesha, Hathor, Hecate, Mars, Nemesis, Thot & Vulcan

Animals: Dragon, lion, phoenix & sphinx

Birds: Crane, eagle & falcon

Trees: Alder, cedar & hazel

Herbs: Basil, bay, fennel, orange, rosemary, rue & St.John's wort

Flowers: Angelica, chamomile, marigold & sunflower

Scents: Frankincense & heliotrope

Stones: Carnelian, cats/tiger's eye, emerald, fire agate, garnet, jade, moonstone, peridot, red jasper, red agate, sardonyx, topaz & tourmaline

Colors: Dark green, gold, orange, red & yellow

Energy: Abundance, appreciation, authority, courage, entertainment, finding your voice, friendship, gathering, harvesting energy, health, love, pleasures, power, prophecy, prosperity, vitality & wisdom

The name Sturgeon Moon comes from the giant lake sturgeon of the Great Lakes & Lake Champlain; this native freshwater fish was readily caught during this part of summer & an important food staple for Native Americans who lived in the region. At one time the lake sturgeon was quite abundant in late summer, though they are rarer today.

• August's full moon is the first Supermoon of the year, which means that it will appear bigger & brighter than the full Moons we have seen so far!

Lughnasadh

Known as: Lammas, August Eve  & Feast of Bread

Season: Summer

Element: Fire

Symbols: corn, grain dollies & shafts of grain

Colors: Gold, golden yellow, green, light brown, orange, purple, red & yellow

Oils/Incense: Aloe, apple, corn, eucalyptus, safflower, rose & sandalwood

Animals: Cattle (bull & calf)

Birds: Chicken/Rooster

Stones: Aventurine, carnelian, citrine, peridot, sardonyx & yellow diamond

Food: Apples, barely cakes, berries, berry pies, breads, colcannon, cider, corn, grains, honey, lamb, nuts, potatoes, rice, sun-shaped cookies & wild berries

Herbs/Plants: Alfalfa, aloe, blackberry, bramble, corn, cornsilk, corn stalk, crab apple, fenugreek, frankincense, ginseng, goldenseal, gorse, grape, medowsweet, oak leaves, pear, rye, sloe & wheat

Flowers:  Clyclamen, heather hollyhock & sunflower

Trees: Acacia, apple, myrtle,oak & rowan

Goddesses: Aine, Alphito, Bracacia, Carmen, Ceres, Damina, Danu, Demeter, Ereshkigal, Freya, Frigga, Gaia, Inanna Ishtar, Kait, Persephone, Sul, Taillte, Tea & Zaramama

Gods: Athar, Bes, Bran, Dagon, Dumuzi, Ebisu, Ghanan, Howtu, Liber, Lono, Lugh, Neper, Odin & Xochipilli

Issues, Intentions & Powers: Accomplishment, agriculture, challenges, darkness, death, endings, release & transformation

Spellwork: Abundance, bounty, fire magick, rituals of thanks & sun magick

Activities:

• Bake fresh bread

• Weave wheat

• Take walks in nature or along bodies of water

• Craft a corn doll

• Learn a new skill

• Watch the sunrise/sunset

• Leave grains and seeds in a place where birds, squirrels and other small animals can appreciate them

• Eat outside with family/friends/coven members

• Donate to your local foodbank

• Prepare a feast with your garden harvest

• Give thanks & offerings to the Earth

• Trade crafts of make deals

• Gather and/or dry herbs to use for the upcoming year

• Celebrate/honor the god Lugh by hosting a competition of games

• Participate in matchmaking or handfasting ceremonies

• Decorate your altar with symbols of the season

• Clean up a space in nature

• Plant saved seeds or save seeds to use in the future

Lughnasadh or Lammas is a Gaelic festival marking the beginning of the harvest season. Historically it was widely observed throughout Ireland, Scotland & the Isle of Man. Traditionally it is held on 1 August, or about halfway between the summer solstice & autumn equinox. In recent centuries some of the celebrations have shifted to the Sunday nearest this date.

Lughnasadh is mentioned in early Irish literature & has pagan origins. The festival is named after Lugh the god of craftsmanship. It was also founded by the god Lugh as a funeral feast & athletic competition/funeral games in memory of his foster-mother Tailtiu. She was said to have died of exhaustion after clearing the plains of Ireland for agriculture.

• Tailtiu may have been an earth goddess who represented the dying vegetation that fed mankind.

• Another tale says that Lugh founded the festival in memory of his two wives, the sisters Nás & Bói. 

In the Middle Ages it involved great gatherings that included ceremonies, athletic contests (most notably the Tailteann Games which were extremely dangerous), horse racing, feasting, matchmaking & trading.

• With the coming of Christianity to the Celtic lands, the old festival of Lughnasadh took on Christian symbolism. Loaves of bread were baked from the first of the harvested grain & placed on the church altar on the first Sunday of August. The Christianized name for the feast of Lughnasadh is Lammas which means “loaf mass”.

Some believe this is the time where the God has weakened & is losing his strength as seen in the waning of the day's light. The Goddess is pregnant with the young God who will be born on Yule.

Sources:

Farmersalmanac .com

Llewellyn's Complete Book of Correspondences by Sandra Kines

Wikipedia

A Witch's Book of Correspondences by Viktorija Briggs

Encyclopedia britannica

Llewellyn 2024 magical almanac Practical magic for everyday living

[writtenonreceipts]

Rowaelin Month Day One: Long Distance Surprise @rowaelinscourt

Month Masterlist // AO3

Notes: drabbly and quick (poor edits), most of my energy went into different prompts, haha. But I wanted to write for as many as I could this year!

Warnings: none, ~1k words

.*.*.*.*.

Thinking of You

A chill clung to the air as Aelin stepped from the English Department building.  It was late and cold and all she wanted to do was go home and change into her pajamas and not have any type of responsibility until next week.  Unfortunately for her, she was in Grad School and taking a break didn’t exist in her routine functions. In fact, she probably wouldn't know what a break was until she was graduated with a degree in hand.

Adjusting the strap of her backpack, she took off for the other side of campus.  If she kept a quick pace, she could be safe inside her apartment in under half an hour. She didn’t live too far from the school, something she’d insisted upon when moving to Adarlan.  While she refused student housing, she still wanted to be close for events, classes, and her internship.  Thankfully, she’d gotten all her wishes.  Well, all except one.

When her phone buzzed in her pocket, she fumbled for it.  She caught it on the third ring, pressing the screen to her ear.

“Hello?”

“Fireheart.” Rowan’s voice was a balm to her soul, washing over her with warmth and affection.

“Hi,” she said again, trying to fight off the emotion that burst in her chest just by hearing his voice.

“Are you back at your house yet?” Rowan asked.

He always called her around this time, knowing it was when she got out of her last workshop of the day and was leaving campus.  He always said it was a coincidence but Aelin suspected he didn’t like her walking alone and in silence.

“No, just left,” she sighed. “Things ran long.”

More words threatened to spill out, but Aelin bit them back.  It wasn’t worth bringing it all out now.  She ducked down a path that cut between the administration offices and south parking lot.  The path was lined with maple trees, their canopies hanging low with gold and yellow leaves.  It would only take another sudden drop in temperature before all the leaves would fall away leaving behind bare and empty branches.

“How was your day?” she asked, hoping to push any attention away from her. “Did you get funding for your project?”

Rowan, over a thousand miles away, had accepted a prestigious job at a museum in Terrasen.  With his degree in Ancient Slavic History and Languages, he was invaluable to his team.  He was working towards his own master’s degree with this internship. Which meant different schools.  It was remarkable what he’d been working on over the last few months.  And even though she missed him more and more each day they were apart, she as insanely proud of him.

“Yeah, I did,” he said.  Aelin could hear the smile in his voice. “We’re going to be able to work on a new display with access to those journals from Germany I was telling you about?”

Aelin couldn’t help her own smile as she listened to him talk about his project.  It always sparked warmth in her chest to hear him talk about his passions.  It was a comfort to, just hearing his voice.

They’d met on their first day of undergrad classes in a biology course.  Despite their names being on opposite ends of the alphabet, they’d been partnered together through the entire semester.  It had gone horribly from day one.  They hadn’t gotten along, in fact, all their lab assignments ended in an argument and a threat from the TA to flunk them both.  Why they weren’t separated, Aelin would never know, but she was grateful for in nonetheless. 

Somehow in the chaos of it all, they’d become friends.  And then more.

“Aelin?” Rowan’s gentle prodded broke her from her revere.

“Yeah, I’m here,” she said.

She made it to the main road, streetlamps bright as day.  This side of campus was always well lit, even as it neared ten.

“You sure you’re alright, Fireheart?” Rowan asked. “I know the start of a new semester is hard.”

“Yeah,” she said again, “yeah, I’m fine.”

She tried to lighten her voice and stay upbeat, she didn’t want him to worry.  Rowan already had enough to worry about.

“Aelin.”  Rowan shifted on the other side of the phone and Aelin heard a door shut and what sounded like a beer opening. “I know you.”

Aelin blinked back the tears that started burning behind her eyes.  She would not cry.  She hurried through the courtyard of her apartment complex, cutting a direct line to her apartment.

“Hold on, I’m almost to my door,” she said.  She really just wanted a second to collect herself, especially while on the phone with Rowan.

“Good,” Rowan said, “there should be something waiting for you.”

“What?” 

His words didn’t register until she was hurrying up the stairs that led to her door.  As soon as she reached the landing she found a large box waiting on her welcoming mat.

“What did you do?” she asked.  She unlocked her door, pushing it open so she could toss her bag in. “Hang on, I need two hands.”

After dropping her phone on the couch, she returned back outside to grab the box.  She carried it to the kitchen before returning for her phone.

“Buzzard, what did you do?” Aelin pressed again.  She put the call on speaker so she could open the box a little less chaotically with a pair of scissors.

“I thought you could use a pick-me-up,” Rowan said.

The box wasn’t a simple little thing either.  Aelin started pulling things out—fuzzy socks, candles, bath salts, and chocolate.  So much chocolate.  In fact, most of the box was chocolate.

This time, Aelin couldn’t hold back the tears. Hot tracks rolled down her cheeks as she stared at the items now laid out across her counter.  It had been ages since anyone had done something like this for her since she’d felt loved.

“Ro—” she began.

“I wanted to come down myself but we got the approval—”

“Rowan,” she chuckled, shaking her head as she lifted the phone closer to her mouth. “I know.”

She sniffed, wiping her nose on the collar of her shirt.  Dealing with emotions had never been her strong suit.  It had taken nearly a year to tell Rowan she loved him for hells sake. 

“I know you won’t listen, but try not to eat all that chocolate tonight, yeah?” he said.

“Ha-ha,” Aelin mocked.  She rolled her eyes and cracked open the hazelnut truffles. “I make no promises.”

Rowan let out a laugh. “Hmm.  You going to tell me how your day really went?”

“No,” she said. “It doesn’t matter anymore.”

And it didn’t.  because now at least, she could talk to him.  She could listen to him ramble on about whatever new quirk he’d learned in his studies.  She could listen to his steady breathing.  She could simply spend a few minutes with him. 

It wasn’t until she was drifting off to sleep with the phone tucked between her ear and her pillow that they finally disconnected, Aelin whispering a soft I love you and Rowan promising to see her soon.

She hated this routine of theirs but soon…soon they’d be reunited.

[breelandwalker]

(Spawned by this post and done separately bc I didn't want to derail.)

Folk magic traditions and folk medicine, historically speaking, tend to rely heavily on regionally-available resources. Whatever was growing in their particular biome was what got used. So we see many many plants with overlapping usages or correspondence. And it may SEEM repetitive in an age where we can source pretty much whatever we want or need from the internet or from local stores that import herbs and spices.

White sage and palo santo are excellent examples, but we can also look at things that are closer to home. Consider, for instance, the humble peppercorn.

Native to the India, black pepper is one of the oldest known spices in the world, with usage records going back over 5000 years, and is a staple ingredient in most household spice cabinets. Even the blandest, most white-bread kitchens will at least have salt and pepper on hand, and pepper has a plethora of magical uses from protection to cleansing to fertility to warding off bad luck and malefic magic.

AND YET. Black pepper used to be the most expensive spice in the western world. Literally worth its' weight in gold in the ancient, classical, and medieval periods. It was used by physicians to treat a variety of digestive complaints and was believed to reverse the effects of certain poisons. It was so valuable, people used to pay their rent with it, much in the way that Roman soldiers once received salt as part of their wages. It wasn't until the Renaissance that black pepper started to be affordable for an average household as trade expanded and other substances like coffee, cocoa, and saffron gained in popularity.

So we might easily reach for a courtesy pepper packet for a quick banishing or protection ritual today, but that's not something the average medieval English peasant looking to ward off bad luck or keep evil spirits out of their house would have access to. But what they DID have was rowan trees. And we see many references in the folk magic of the British Isles to rowan boughs or rowan berries being using for protection, fertility, cleansing, and the warding-off of misfortune and magical harm.

So instead of going right for the white sage or palo santo, why not try smoke-cleansing with rosemary and bay leaf? They have the same magical properties and are much more affordable and readily available, plus that added bonus of, yanno, avoiding culturally appropriative or overharvested plants.

Anyway, point is, widespread availability is all well and good, but you'd be surprised just how much you can find in your own backyard and how useful it can be in your craft.

[cryptidclaw]

Cryptidclaw's WC Prefixes List!

Yall said you were interested in seeing it so here it is! 

This is a collection of mostly Flora, Fauna, Rocks, and other such things that can be found in Britain since that’s where the books take place! 

I also have other Prefixes that have to do with pelt colors and patterns as well!

Here’s a link to the doc if you dont want to expand a 650 word list on your Tumblr feed lol! the doc is also in my drive linked in my pined post!

below is the actual list! If there are any names you think I should add plz tell me!

EDIT: I will update the doc with new names as I come up with them or have them suggested to me, but I wont update the list on this post! Plz visit my doc for a more updated version!

Animals

Mammal

Badger

Bat

Bear

Beaver

Bison

Boar

Buck

Calf

Cow

Deer

Elk

Fawn

Ferret

Fox

Goat

Hare

Horse

Lamb

Lynx

Marten

Mole

Mouse

Otter

Rabbit

Rat

Seal

Sheep

Shrew

Squirrel

Stoat

Vole

Weasel

Wolf

Wolverine

Amphibians

Frog

Newt

Toad

Reptiles

Scale

Adder

Lizard

Snake

Turtle

Shell

Birds

Bird

Down

Feather

Albatross

Bittern

Buzzard

Chaffinch

Chick

Chicken

Coot

Cormorant

Corvid

Crane

Crow

Curlew

Dove

Duck

Dunlin

Eagle

Egret

Falcon

Finch

Gannet

Goose

Grouse

Gull

Hawk

Hen

Heron

Ibis

Jackdaw

Jay

Kestrel

Kite

Lark

Magpie

Mallard

Merlin

Mockingbird

Murrelet

Nightingale

Osprey

Owl

Partridge

Pelican

Peregrine

Petrel

Pheasant

Pigeon

Plover

Puffin

Quail

Raven

Robin

Rook

Rooster

Ruff

Shrike

Snipe

Sparrow

Starling

Stork

Swallow

Swan

Swift

Tern

Thrasher

Thrush

Vulture

Warbler

Whimbrel

Wren

Freshwater Fish 

Fish

Bass

Bream 

Carp

Dace

Eel

Lamprey

Loach

Minnow

Perch

Pike

Rudd

Salmon

Sterlet

Tench

Trout

Roach

Saltwater fish and other Sea creatures (would cats be able to find some of these? Probably not, I don't care tho)

Alge

Barnacle

Bass (Saltwater version)

Bream (Saltwater version)

Brill

Clam

Cod

Crab

Dolphin

Eel (Saltwater version)

Flounder

Garfish

Halibut

Kelp

Lobster

Mackerel

Mollusk

Orca

Prawn

Ray

Seal

Shark

Shrimp

Starfish

Sting

Urchin

Whale

Insects and Arachnids

Honey

Insect

Web

Ant

Bee

Beetle

Bug

Butterfly

Caterpillar

Cricket

Damselfly

Dragonfly

Fly

Grasshopper

Grub

Hornet

Maggot

Moth

Spider

Wasp

Worm

Trees

Acorn

Bark

Branch

Forest

Hollow

Log

Root

Stump

Timber

Tree

Twig

Wood

Alder

Apple

Ash

Aspen

Beech

Birch

Cedar

Cherry

Chestnut

Cypress

Elm

Fir

Hawthorn

Hazel

Hemlock

Linden

Maple

Oak

Pear

Poplar

Rowan

Redwood

Spruce

Willow

Yew

Flowers, Shrubs and Other plants

Berry

Blossom

Briar

Field

Flower

Leaf

Meadow

Needle

Petal

Shrub

Stem

Thicket

Thorn

Vine

Anemone 

Apricot

Barley 

Bellflower

Bluebell

Borage

Bracken

Bramble

Briar

Burnet

Buttercup

Campion

Chamomile

Chanterelle

Chicory

Clover

Cornflower

Daffodil

Daisy

Dandelion

Dogwood

Fallow

Fennel

Fern

Flax

Foxglove

Furze

Garlic

Ginger

Gorse

Grass

Hay

Heather

Holly

Honeysuckle

Hop

Hyacinth

Iris

Ivy

Juniper

Lavender

Lichen

Lilac

Lilly

Mallow

Marigold

Mint

Mistletoe

Moss

Moss

Mushroom

Nettle

Nightshade

Oat

Olive

Orchid

Parsley

Periwinkle

Pine

Poppy

Primrose

Privet

Raspberry

Reed

Reedmace

Rose

Rush

Rye

Saffron

Sage

Sedge

Seed

Snowdrop

Spindle

Strawberry

Tangerine

Tansy

Teasel

Thistle

Thrift

Thyme

Violet

Weed

Wheat

Woodruff

Yarrow

Rocks and earth

Agate

Amber

Amethyst

Arch

Basalt

Bounder

Cave

Chalk

Coal

Copper

Dirt

Dust

Flint

Garnet

Gold

Granite

Hill

Iron

Jagged

Jet

Mountain

Mud

Peak

Pebble

Pinnacle

Pit

Quartz

Ridge

Rock

Rubble

Ruby

Rust(y)

Sand

Sapphire

Sediment

Silt

Silver

Slate

Soil

Spire

Stone

Trench

Zircon

Water Formations

Bay

Cove

Creek

Delta

Lake

Marsh

Ocean

Pool

Puddle

River

Sea

Water

Weather and such

Autumn

Avalanche

Balmy

Blaze

Blizzard

Breeze

Burnt

Chill

Cinder

Cloud

Cold

Dew

Drift

Drizzle

Drought

Dry

Ember

Fall

Fire

Flame

Flood

Fog

Freeze

Frost

Frozen

Gale

Gust

Hail

Ice

Icicle

Lightening

Mist

Muggy

Rain 

Scorch

Singe

Sky

Sleet

Sloe

Smoke

Snow

Snowflake

Soot

Sorrel

Spark

Spring

Steam

Storm

Summer

Sun

Thunder

Water

Wave

Wet

Wind

Winter

Celestial??

Comet

Dawn

Dusk

Evening 

Midnight

Moon

Morning

Night

Noon

Twilight

Cat Features, Traits, and Misc. 

Azure

Beige

Big

Black

Blonde

Blotch(ed)

Blue

Bounce

Bright 

Brindle

Broken

Bronze

Brown

Bumble

Burgundy

Call

Carmine

Claw

Cobalt

Cream

Crimson

Cry

Curl(y)

Dapple

Dark

Dot(ted)

Dusky

Ebony

Echo

Fallen

Fleck(ed)

Fluffy

Freckle

Ginger

Golden

Gray

Green

Heavy

Kink

Knot(ted)

Light

Little

Lost

Loud

Marbled

Mew

Milk

Mottle

Mumble

Ochre

Odd

One

Orange

Pale

Patch(ed)

Pounce 

Prickle

Ragged

Red

Ripple

Rough

Rugged

Russet

Scarlet

Shade

Shaggy

Sharp

Shimmer

Shining

Small

Smudge

Soft

Song

Speckle

Spike

Splash

Spot(ted)

Streak

Stripe(d)

Strong

Stump(y)

Sweet

Tall

Talon

Tangle

Tatter(ed)

Tawny

Tiny

Tough

Tumble

Twist

Violet

Whisker

Whisper

White

Wild

Wooly

Yellow

[goodqueenaly]

Hi and I hope you are well! I don’t know if this is a weird question, but I’m always fascinated by the legends of the Reach particularly regarding the children of Garth Greenhand, and how that connects to the Faith in those areas. I think I saw a post you wrote some time ago about how for example Rowan Gold Tree’s story might have been adapted by the Faith into a parable about the Mother (apologies if I’m mistaken). I guess my question is, do you think Rowan and the others might have been actually worshipped as gods before the Faith, like Garth might have been? Also if I may ask a second question: do you have thoughts about Floris (my personal fave) how her story fits into Westeros’ patriarchal attitudes towards women? Does the fact that she founded three houses mean that she’s not vilified by the Faith for being non monogamous? Thanks and sorry again for weird questions!!

(I was mistaken, I think it was actually about Rowan’s story as a parable about the Maiden, like that her hair turned into a tree as a sign of being favored by the Maiden? I don’t quite remember who wrote this post.)

I have a vague memory of a post I wrote along similar lines a very long time ago too, but I couldn’t find it, so either I never did or I deleted it. Anyway, I do very much like to headcanon that the myth of Rowan Gold-Tree was co-opted by the Faith during its early establishment in the Reach as a myth about the Maiden - that Rowan, abandoned by her love for a richer rival, prayed to the Maiden in her heartbreak, and the Maiden, guardian and benefactor of virtuous maids, gave Rowan her golden tree, almost Cinderella style, perhaps as a sort of dowry to show that maidenly virtue was literally worth more than gold.

Whatever the particular relationship between the Faith and the myth of Rowan Gold-Tree, do I think that some or all of the legendary children of Garth Greenhand may have been worshiped as gods themselves? Very possibly. We know that there was at least some tradition of Garth being worshiped as or at least considered a god by Westerosi: Yandel notes that “[s]ome even say [Garth Greenhand] was a god” and that “[a] few of the very oldest tales” present Garth as a “considerably darker deity, one who demanded blood sacrifice from his worshippers to ensure a bountiful harvest” and a “green god [who] die[d] every autumn … only to be reborn with the coming of spring”. Yandel also compares Garth to fertility gods and goddesses worshiped by “[m]any of the more primitive peoples of the earth”, as Garth not only “taught men to farm” and “showed them how to plant and sow, how to raise crops and reap the harvest” but also scattered a seemingly divinely plentiful bag of various seeds and “brought the gift of fertility” to people and crops alike. Nor was this early history of Westeros an era without the worship of local deities beyond the old gods: the myth of Durran Godsgrief features a sea god and a goddess of the wind, the people of the Three Sisters worshiped the Lady of the Waved and the Lord of the Skies, and of course the ironborn believe in the eternal divine struggle between the Drowned God and the Storm God.  

So I could see where, depending on the era and the location, various individuals among Garth’s legendary children might have been worshiped as gods or semi-divine heroes themselves. If Garth Greenhand was worshiped as a god for teaching the First Men to sow, cultivate, and reap, might Gilbert of the Vines have been similarly worshiped by the people of the Arbor for teaching these people “to make sweet wine” from their island’s lush native grapes (and indeed, might there have been some local tradition that Gilbert had inherited his father’s fertility and made these grapes grow “so fat and lush across their island”)? If Garth was treated as a god for his apparently mystical and/or divine ability to bring and cultivate life from the land, might Ellyn Ever-Sweet, Rowan Gold-Tree, and/or Rose of Red Lake have been similarly worshiped by the locals of Beesbury, Goldengrove, and/or Red Lake, respectively, for their supernatural, perhaps also seemingly divine, connections to and power over the natural world? If the earliest worshipers of Garth Greenhand offered him blood sacrifices in return for bountiful harvests, might worshipers have given Bors the Breaker similar blood sacrifices in return for grants of strength and courage, since he himself had supposedly drunk the blood of bulls to gain the power of 20 men? If Garth’s divine power included the gift of specifically sexual fertility so strong that he “[made] barren women fruitful with a touch” and caused “[m]aidens [to ripen] in his presence”, “mothers [to bring] forth twins or even triplets when he blessed them”, and “young girls [to flower] at his smile”, then might Harlon and Herndon have been similarly worshiped for the seeming eternal fertility they apparently enjoyed and represented as husbands to their woods witch wife, or Foss the Archer worshiped as a similar roving fertility god casting a welcome eye on maidens as his father had done (with his arrow and apple exploits perhaps a sort of sexual euphemism)? Again, these are just a few creative examples, but the larger point is that I could very well see where Garth’s children may have been seen not only as extensions of his own legend, but gods in their own right who took over aspects of the worship of Garth Greenhand. (To say nothing of whether any of them might have been worshiped for their own persons and/or deeds - if, say, John the Oak, Owen Oakenshield, and/or Brandon of the Bloody Blade might have been viewed as a sort of proto-Warrior or god of war, or if Maris the Maid became a sort of mother goddess for Oldtown and House Hightower.) 

As far as Florys the Fox goes … eh. I think that strict monogamy was not an entirely consistent or mandated practiced among the First Men before the arrival of the Andals, including in the Reach: not only do the myths of both Florys and the twin ancestors of House Tarly feature as their protagonists participants in polygamous (and, indeed, polyandrous) marriages, but King Garland II successfully brought Oldtown into the Gardener kingdom by putting aside his wives, plural, to marry Lymond Hightower’s daughter. Nor indeed should we ignore the fact that Florys seems to have been considered clever not just for having three husbands but for keeping each a secret from the others - a suggestion, perhaps, that the expected (read: patriarchal) order of the universe, playfully subverted by the literally extraordinary Florys, was that a woman should be the submissive partner to a single man, rather than the dominant mistress keeping three men at her nuptial leisure. So I think the pre-Andal Reach may have accepted two beliefs as true at the same time - namely, a patriarchal world in which women were expected to serve and obey men and also a pro-polygamy world in which a demigod/heroine/goddess figure could be lauded for having kept multiple husbands simultaneously without being caught. 

Too, I think it’s possible that just as septons and maesters downplayed the mythology and divinity of Garth Greenhand in later accounts - with Yandel noting that legends of Garth Greenhand, “though cherished by the smallfolk, are largely discounted by both the maesters of the Citadel and the septons of the Faith, who share the view that Garth Greenhand was a man, not a god” - so these same post-Andal Invasion academics may have deemphasized the myths surrounding Florys the Fox, including her celebrated polyandry. Perhaps dynastically persnickety maesters or septons argued that Florys had not really been married to three men, but rather that the myths had conflated her marriage to the ancestor of House Ball/Peake/Florent with marriages by other women, or perhaps remarriages by Florys, to the ancestors of the other two Houses. Perhaps the myth was bowdlerized to have Florys merely be courted by the founders of each of these Houses, rather than having her marrying each, with Florys perhaps then serving as more of a spiritual or romantic ancestress rather than a literal matriarch of this bloodline. Of course, it’s also possible that septons did look down on and preach against Florys for her polygamous marriages, branding her a “wanton” - though to what extent they could or would do so, while also looking to convert these powerful aristocratic families of the Reach, is speculative at best. 

[sacrifesse]

┣▇▇▇═─ AUTUMN iD PACK 〰️

🍁 ︵︵ REQUESTED BY ANON ᶻ 𝗓

🍁 ︵︵ TAGGiNG @id-pack-archive ᶻ 𝗓

✙ ︵︵ SYSTEM NAMES : the court of fallen leaves , the fallen leaves (system/collective/etc.) , the cozy crew , the amber hues system/collective/etc. , the harvest system/collective/etc. , the sweater system

✙ ︵︵ NAMES : amber , redd , harveste , aspen , hazel , forrest , hunter , maple , rowan , asher , aster , marigold , sienna , archer , ash , birch , branch , casper , cedar , crimson , eve , goldie , hawk , juniper , leaf , lilith , linden , luna , maize , november , oakley , october , opal , pine , poe , raven , rory , sabrina , september , willow , crow , raine ¹

¹ names that certain alters of the darling stars use

✙ ︵︵ PRONOUNS : red reds , orange oranges , yellow yellows , amber ambers , hazel hazels , maple maples , syrup syrups , apple apples , cider ciders , branch branchs , gold golds , leaf leafs , corn corns , maze mazes , raven ravens , crow crows , pumpkin pumpkins , warm warms , pie pies , rain rains , sweater sweaters , 🎃 🎃s , 🍁 🍁s , 🍂 🍂s , 🧣 🧣s , 🧶 🧶s , 🍎 🍎s , 🌽 🌽s , 🥧 🥧s , 🕯️ 🕯️s , 🍄 🍄s

✙ ︵︵ USERNAMES : crims-n , crimsonne , junipurr , cozycider , rainydreams , amberain

✙ ︵︵ TiTLES : prn who is cozy , the cozy one , the one of autumnal hues , prn who talks to the aspen trees (in the dead of night) , prn who plays in the leaves , the wind that shifts the autumn leaves , the master of the corn maze , prn who is as sweet as maple syrup

✙ ︵︵ LABELS : sofition , autumn bigay , autumn conceptum , autumn sapphic , autumn uranic , autumnlovestelic , autumnforestscenestelic , autumn lesbian

✙ ︵︵ GENDERS : autumngender , autumnbeastgender , autumn coyote , fallcandlic , rusticfoxgender , autumnbeastic , autumntempic , sumtumngender , autumnpupgender , foilagevisuic , autumnosic , autumngender , autumngender / fallgender , fallgender , fallgender , tsukic , autunottpio , pervigilogender , snorpupcomfic , ntumnedzian , bleedautumnine , autumnraingender , cardiautumnale , autumnlexic , fallexic , pompoenian 🍄🍁🍂emojic , autumnameic , fantasmookean , pictibarkbor , autumnactioconic , shuunomugender , tomnanian , corvautumnaesic , autunostic , autumnian , pompoentjean , autumncolesic , occasfestic , naturautmnale , mutfolesque , ponciaesic , genderarryire , fallbloomic , autumnlunashroomale , kaffeebohnegender , auttemografiaen , tortumnset , autumnauraix , autumncatgender , autumnwristoryian , autumndirtbagian , fallcat , autumnfoxic , autumness

[PT: autumn id pack. requested by anon. tagging id-pack-archive. system names. names. pronouns. usernames. titles. labels. genders. /END PT]

[prestonmonterey]

AMBROSE BASSFORD NECKLACE

we'll see if i remember to take pics of the full cosplay tomorrow (probably not)

it looks a little orange in the second image TwT but i prommy its red and gold :(

gotta make matching earrings and the collapse into bed and fall asleep :P

@sifs-rowan-tree @allieswithbenefits

[jaimeslanisters]

the pawn in every lover's game (part ten)

Aemond Targaryen x Lannister!Reader

When you’re ten, your father sends you to King's Landing to befriend a princess and woo a prince. A lioness growing up amongst dragons is a dangerous thing indeed.

crossposted on ao3 masterlist word count: 6.4k notes: late update which is 100% on me so my bad! but anyways, a lovely and beautiful anon made a playlist for this fic so give it a listen! here's a nice reprieve after the drama of the past chapters (:

Once, as children in your library, you had tried to convince Aemond to read the tale of Lady Jonquil and Florian the Fool. He had scoffed at you - it wasn’t the usual history or philosophy the two of you poured over together. It was a silly romance story, nothing to do with the important matters of state he was obsessed with understanding, but you had pressed it upon him to read.

You can still remember pushing your book of songs over his own book about the maesters of the Citadel, determined to present your case. ‘It’s not quite as serious as everything you like to read but it says something about men, I feel. Ser Florian may have been a fool but he was wise where it counted.’

‘Singers and bards are invested in us thinking that, my lady, but I don’t think it’s true,’ he had responded, rolling his eyes, but he had taken your book and read it. He had never once talked about it with you though, simply returning the book to you the next day and distracting you from asking him about it by dragging you into a debate over whether or not Lann the Clever was the bastard son of Floris the Fox or even Rowan Gold-Tree, a topic sure to rile any Westerlander, leaving you to completely forget about silly love songs as you had argued over your ancestor’s own ancestry.

‘I am as great a fool as ever lived, and as great a knight’ Ser Florian had told his lady when he had crowned her. ‘All men are fools and all men are knights where women are concerned.’

With as much love as you have for the songs, you never could quite believe that line, could never make it quite click in your head.

But now, with the screaming all around you, as Aemond stands at your side, arm in arm and having crowned you with a crown of bloodied roses, you wonder if he’s remembering the songs as well as you are, if he’s realizing that maybe the singers were right in some respect.

“Are you hurt anywhere?” You ask, pushing away your thoughts of the Lady Jonquil and her fool of a knight, in favor of looking over him anxiously. He’s bloodstained but you can’t tell how much of it is his and how much of it belongs to his opponent. His dark armor hides most of it, preventing you from picking out any clear wounds or injuries, and, out in the open like this, you can’t glide your hands over him to try and feel any out.

Aemond looks down at you, his eyes soft as he takes in your worry. “No, not hurt. Bruises here and there, some cuts and scrapes that my mother will drive herself insane worrying about, but nothing serious.”

You sigh in relief, leaning against him slightly, wishing you could wrap your arms around him and pull him close. You allow yourself a moment there, pressed against the hard armor, before you pull back, conscious of the eyes of all of King’s Landing watching the two of you. There’s a flicker of disapproval on Aemond’s face when he notices, his jaw tightening just a tick, and he shoots a baleful glare at the crowd.

It reminds you all too much of the way little Loren’s face would scrunch if anyone tried to pull his blanket away from him, right before he let out loud screams and wails that sent the entire household running to his side, and the odd comparison makes you laugh out loud.

Aemond’s brow furrows but his gaze softens once more as he watches your obvious glee.

“My father will be chomping at the bit to arrange a meeting with your mother,” you say after a while, smiling fondly as you look back toward the crowd. The royal box is emptying out and you know you only have moments before both of your families descend upon the two of you. “I wouldn’t be surprised if he tries to secure an… understanding for right now. At least, until Cerelle’s marriage is public knowledge and Tyshara and Lord Tarly announce their own betrothal.”

Aemond huffs, showing a flash of impatience that makes you beam. “Hasn’t there always been an understanding? It’s been his and your goal ever since you came to the capitol.” You blink, confused for a moment, before shame and horror blossom on your face as you realize he knows. His eye watches you, openly amused, and he leans down, mouth by your ear, voice so low you can barely hear him over the still-roaring crowd. “You’re clever, my love, but it’s only in recent years that you’ve become skilled at deception and manipulation. I’m afraid that I was onto you right from the start.”

Heat explodes in your cheeks and you pull away, gaping up at him openly. He smirks at you, infuriatingly smug, and, suddenly uncaring of the eyes around you, you open your mouth. To say what - you’re not entirely sure. A denial? An explanation? An apology? No matter what you plan to say, you still want to say something but you’re cut off when Aegon all but slams into his brother, knocking him from your grasp, and sending the two of them skidding slightly in the dirt.

“I’m a rich, rich, rich man,” Aegon crows, arm flung around his younger brother as he gives him a firm shake, looking elated. Right behind him, Daeron is excitingly bouncing on his heels, looking like a little boy in all of his joy.

“Haven’t you always been a rich man?” Aemond snipes back, no real bite behind his words, and Aegon merely grins wider, looking impossibly pleased as if it was he himself who had fought and defeated all the opponents his brother had faced.

“Yes but now I’m a richer man,” he corrects, even as the rest of his family arrives to crowd around you all, forming a wall between you and the rest of the world. “That was family wealth, brother. This is personal wealth now - mine entirely.”

You watch them, torn between laughing at their interaction or panicking at the fact that Aemond knows, before Helaena tugs on your hand to call your attention. When you turn to her, you jerk back slightly as she reaches up to your face with a handkerchief, wiping at your chin gently. When she pulls it away, you blink at the blood staining the white fabric.

Aemond’s hand. When he grabbed me earlier.

It should horrify you but instead, something in you roars with satisfaction. In front of all of King’s Landing, he had claimed you and he had crowned you and he had marked you. It calms you but only barely.

He wouldn’t do this if he didn’t care for me too. If he didn’t think I was honest you try to reassure yourself but it’s still difficult to convince yourself of it. A part of you wants to be indignant at the idea he could judge you for seeking him out in marriage - the two of you had always agreed about the importance of marrying for your house rather than personal pleasure. You had just been lucky that for you, those two desires managed to be one and the same.

A larger part, however, is just scared. You can still remember, plain as day, the little boy who had seemed baffled that you wanted to spend time with him, that you even cared to speak to him. Aemond is grown now, more confident and sure of himself than he had ever been as a child, but you don’t want to hurt him. You never have.

You need him to know that. To know that you’ve always been honest in wanting him and only him.

Helaena knocks you with her shoulder and you startle, looking at her with wide eyes. She smiles, soft and gentle as always. “Don’t get lost in there,” she says, reaching up to tap at the side of your head.

You manage a smile. “I won’t, princess,” you promise, fingers itching for something to grab and squeeze in your nerves.

She eyes you and you know that she can see right through you.

You wonder who else can.

There’s a slight commotion and you look up in time to see the Queen descend upon Aemond. Unlike you, she’s well within her rights to brush her hands over him, searching for any wounds that he might be hiding. She looks equal parts relieved, exasperated, and proud as she crowds her middle son and, though you’re too far to perfectly hear her quiet voice over the still rowdy crowd, you can only imagine that she’s scolding and congratulating Aemond.

You only get a moment to watch their interaction when someone drags you into their chest in a facsimile of a hug and you let out a loud yelp. Aemond immediately turns at the sound, hand flying to his sword, only to have to force himself to relax when he catches sight of who it is.

“Your prince did well, sweetling,” Jason murmurs in your ear, giving you a tight squeeze, and you swat him away, fighting down a pleased smile. When you turn to face your father, he reaches up to touch the crowd on your head and, when he pulls his hand away, his fingers are tinged with red. “A Queen of Love and Beauty crowned twice in one tourney by two different men. You’re in rare company now, sweet girl. Not even Lady Jonquil can claim that honor.”

You laugh, feeling your cheeks go hot. Behind him, Tyland walks up, having been speaking with Lord Ormund. Even he looks victorious. “Are you talking about how our little lady and the Dragon Prince have ensured that the singers will be well-fed for the next few months?”

“Hardly,” you retort, knowing as you say it that it’s a lie. Victor and Aemond both crowning you, a Queen of Love and Beauty twice over, the Dragon killing the Fox. Individually, they were all things that would invite the singers to write their songs. Combined? You’d be lucky if it ever stopped. The bards must have been frothing at the mouth during the tourney and now that they’ve been given their perfect story, there is little doubt in your mind that they will take every advantage.

You wonder if centuries in the future if the songs would still mention you and Aemond like they mention Jonquil and Florian. You wonder what they would say.

I hope they’re beautiful songs, you think, feeling a girlish sense of joy spread throughout you, something you haven’t felt in quite some time.

“Now,” Jason says, grinning as he squeezes you again. “I have to speak to the Queen. See about arranging a meeting.”

“Not tomorrow,” you warn. “Helaena is to spend the day preparing for the wedding and I’m to assist her with it. It’ll have to be after the wedding.”

Your father laughs. “I doubt we’ll have a problem if we postpone a little, sweetling. Like Lord Tarly, Prince Aemond strikes me as an exceedingly patient man.”

You bite your lip as you think about the look in Aemond’s eye at the moment after he had crowned you - when he looked as if he wanted to devour you.

No, father, you think as you watch Jason walk to the Targaryen princes and their mother, his gait slow and confident like a predator that has finally cornered his prey. I don’t think Aemond is very patient at all.

“What did the court say?” You finally ask, tearing your eyes away from them to meet your uncle’s watchful gaze. “Positive? Negative? Will I be tarred and feathered during the feast tonight?”

He sighs, rubbing at his beard. “Excited, to say the least. There’s little the court loves more than scandals such as this one. This will sustain them for some time and I wouldn’t be surprised if some especially nosy ladies reach out to organize teas or take you out riding and hawking just to try and pry some gossip from you. I’d keep an eye out for it.”

You smile, shaking your head. You open your mouth to ask for more detail when there’s a screeching wail, loud enough to reach your ears but not quite loud enough to call the attention of the rest of the grounds. You look over and freeze, feeling as if someone has poured ice water over you, dowsing and chilling you completely.

Two servants stand awkwardly to the side as a woman sobs over Victor Florent’s body, her dress soaking in blood, staining its delicate blue beyond saving. A man is holding her, pulling her back, his own cheeks streaked with tears as he stares with despair down at the broken body of what once was a knight.

And Erren Florent stands, almost perfectly still, eyes boring into Aemond and his family.

His brother and good sister you realize as you watch their grief, your stomach twisting into knots. For all his faults, they must have loved him something fierce.

You want to look away, want to look and see anything else, but your body won’t let you. Is it penance? Is it a poor attempt at an apology?

You crush the thought as easily as it arises. Not an apology. Never an apology. This was a tourney. This was the melee. Men died as easily as flies and Aemond had been well within his rights to kill Victor. If it hadn’t been Victor, it would have been Aemond and his life is worth all of the lives of the entire Florent line. You’d rather have to personally rip their House out from their seat of power, root and stem and seed, than have to face what could have been today.

No. Not an apology.

Guilt.

If Victor Florent was the only victim, you would sleep easy. You would sleep happily. But he had a family. You didn’t care about Erren Florent - the man deserves to be knocked down like this, deserves to see his ambitions lying pitifully in the dirt - but his brother and good sister were innocent. Their only crime was loving their family.

You don’t even want to imagine the state you would be in if you lost one of your siblings. If Helaena or even Daeron or Aegon had paid the ultimate price.

If Aemond.

As much as you don’t want to think about it, the thought rises in your mind and you know what you would feel, what you would want, if you were in the position of Victor Florent’s loved ones.

Because of that, you turn back to your uncle, finally pulling yourself free from the Florents’ show of grief. “Send them our condolences,” you say, voice quiet but firm. Hardened. There can be no room for doubt. “But see if we can pay a servant in their party to loosen their tongue. If they decide they want more than our well wishes… We will move from there.”

Tyland watches you, careful and analytical. He’s looking into you, peering around as if he’s looking for something. You meet his gaze with determination, lifting your head up, and eventually, your uncle smiles. It’s a gentle smile even as his eyes flash with satisfaction and pride. “Of course, little one,” he replies, holding his arm out for you to take. You take it and he does you the favor of ignoring the slight tremor in your body. “Your will is my command.”

I am a Lion of the Rock and foxes cannot frighten me.

——————————–

Unlike the dinner before, you dress in your house colors tonight, shining in a gown of deep maroon with veins of an even darker red embroidered on the thick fabric. A corset forged out of gold, more decorative than serving any true purpose, cinches at your waist, a lion’s head embossed onto the delicate metal.

No one is looking at your dress, however. They hadn’t looked at your dress when you had entered or when you had bowed before the royal family. Even when you sit down to eat, your family all around you, your cousins and distant uncles don’t look at your dress or even your face.

Instead, they all stare up at your crown. You’d been near obsessively careful with it on the journey back from the grounds and, when your handmaids had been helping you dress and fix your hair, you had insisted on being the one to handle it. When one of them had suggested cleaning it, to ‘make the gold shine, m’lady’, you had had to bite your tongue to hold back from lashing out in anger.

Gold isn’t the only color of my House, you had said, firmly and without room for doubt or misinterpretation. I mean to do them both honor.

The crown of golden, bloodied flowers sits on your head, pristine and perfect. It’s a clear message. It’s a loud message.

When you had greeted the royal family and Aemond had seen that you were still wearing it, he had very nearly smiled, his face brightening up - not to the point that anyone else would recognize but so glaringly obvious to you. The Queen and the Lord Hand had personally congratulated you and Aegon and Daeron had even toasted you. Their acceptance of you as a Queen of Love and Beauty along with your clear preference for one crown over another has essentially tied you to Aemond publicly even if no betrothal has been announced.

An understanding, indeed You think to yourself.

It was truly no wonder that the eyes of the court stayed focused on your crown rather than you yourself.

There was one member of the court, however, who was not staring up at the red and gold flowers. Instead, Erren Florent was staring right at you.

There’s no expression on his face. Not grief, not rage, not even annoyance. His face is blank, an expressionless mask, and it was all focused on you. He sits alone. His son and good daughter must have sat out to mourn in peace but he had come.

He had come to watch you.

His gaze is heavy, oppressive, but you refuse to let him see you flinch. Instead, you straighten up in your seat, throwing your hair back, and meet his eyes coolly. His gaze sharpens, cold and cruel, and you know that if he could, he would leap across the throne room and slit your throat himself.

But he can’t. Not here, in a room where the most powerful people were allied to you. It must rankle his nerves, agitate his very soul.

How hateful, you think, to have to watch your son die while the world cheers around you.

You’d feel pity if you didn’t already dislike the man. You’d feel guilty about his pain if you weren’t cautious about the look in his eyes; the wild, crazed, desperate look.

You and Aemond have made your beds and burned down any chance for anything resembling friendliness with the Florents. Now you would have to lie in it, in the ashes of what the two of you had done.

Erren finally looks away, turning his gaze to some poor well-wisher that’s approached him to offer his condolences, and you join your cousins’ conversation. Still, you remain sitting straight, your posture so perfect that you’re sure that your old septa is somewhere beaming with pride, lest he turn his stare back on you.

Your cousins are predictably talking about the tourney - they’re gossiping about the melee and all of the handsome knights that, while unable to win the event, had proved themselves to be skilled and capable. A few of the more confident ones scheme about how to bump into the knights to see if they could manage to coax a dance or even a tea out of them. All of them keep cooing over your crown, most of them tactfully ignoring the blood staining the golden roses.

Surprisingly enough, however, Jocasta is the only one to bring it up. “Our House colors,” she quietly murmurs, still skittish under your gaze. “The Gods must have blessed Prince Aemond so he could be the one to give you this crown.”

She doesn’t meet your eyes but you smile warmly at her regardless. She’s a sweet girl, after all.

The actual feasting part of the feast wraps up fairly quickly and, when the dancing begins, you excuse yourself from your family and walk up to the royal table. This time, no one stops you and no one gets in your way and, soon enough, you’re sliding into the chair next to Helaena, smiling at her and Aemond both.

An awkward silence descends on the three of you - you’re not entirely sure on how to act now, not in this new reality where your and Aemond’s intentions have all been laid bare. Hours away from any Targaryen have calmed your anxieties - he’d never have crowned you if he hated you for the truth - but now you’re unsure how to approach talking to them, unsure if you should bring up the rather big elephant in the room.

“Are you ready to spend all of tomorrow in prayer?” You ask Helaena, grasping for a topic to talk about, and she sighs in response, her hands coming up to play with the ends of her hair.

“It should be a nice reprieve, to be honest,” she says after a moment. “It’ll be quiet. Relaxing.”

You nod, finding that you agree. “It will be nice to get away from the chaos of the rest of the wedding. Pity that we’ll miss the archery event though - Tygett seems pretty confident that he’ll win in that event.”

“Is he a skilled archer or are Lannisters naturally inclined to succeed when there’s gold on the line?” Aemond asks drolly and you shoot him a glare, ignoring how your cheeks warm when he chuckles at your dark look.

“I don’t say why we would be,” you say in your most haughty voice, tapping your fingers against the table. “We’re already richer than every other House in Westeros.”

“There is no limit to Lannister pride or ambition,” he quips back and you preen. You had heard the phrase lobbed at your House in the past, usually used to insult or scorn, but coming from Aemond, it feels more like a compliment than it ever has in the past.

A companionable silence falls over the three of you and you turn your attention back to the throne room, watching as the court mingles. This late into the night, people are slowly drowning deeper and deeper in their cups and you begin to wonder how anything ever gets done. It’d be easier to list everyone who isn’t drinking and it’s nothing short of a miracle that people are able to wake up in the morning in order to even attend the wedding festivities.

You’ve never particularly liked alcohol and usually could only tolerate a goblet or two of wine before begging off and asking for water. Aegon seemed to be somewhat invested in getting you drunk at least once but, as you watch your father flirt with a coquettish Lady Tyrell as her increasingly annoyed husband stands at her side and watches, you wonder why anyone bothered.

“If the feasts are already like this, I can hardly imagine how the actual wedding is going to go,” you grumble and Helaena laughs.

“Aegon will start drinking tonight and he won’t stop until after the wedding. I’ll thank the Seven if he manages to make it down the aisle.” She says, amusement evident, and you turn to smile at her even as your stomach squeezes at her response.

She’s fine with it, you remind yourself, wishing that the reminder would bring you any comfort. He’ll keep to his practices and she’ll keep to hers. It’s duty. There’s honor in doing your duty.

Aemond sighs. “Aegon will be there, Helaena. I’ll personally ensure it.”

“No choice,” she responds, almost chirping. “No choice at all.”

You watch her, heart beating fast in your chest, before she shakes her head firmly. She blinks hard before rising to her feet.

“I’m tired,” Helaena says, not sounding very tired at all. “Shall we leave?”

“So early?” You ask, looking over her carefully as you rise to your feet, suddenly anxious that she’s grown uncomfortable and you haven’t noticed. “Should I inform the Queen?”

Helaena shakes her head again, smiling. “No. I’m sure Mother will understand - getting an early jump on prayer and contemplation and all of that. Perhaps we should head to the gardens, actually. Enjoy the night air.”

After a moment, you nod, glancing over to see if you can spot the Queen regardless. She’s with her father, speaking to Lord Borros Baratheon, her emerald dress making her stand out even deep in the crowd like she is. “Of course, Helaena. I imagine the gardens are lovely right now.”

“Either way, I’ll inform Mother. I’ll also let Lord Lannister know as well, my lady,” Aemond says, glancing at you, and you quickly thank him, giving him a small smile as he nods his head at you.

“Join us after, brother,” Helaena calls out after Aemond has already made his way down to the ground, and, though her brother made no indication that he heard her words, she beams as if he’s already agreed. She turns to you, light entering her eyes and making her seem more like the little girl the two of you used to be rather than the women the two of you were. “Shall we go?” She asks, holding out her arm for you to take, and, after a moment, you loop your arm with her, grinning.

——————————–

The gardens are, predictably, empty with not even a token servant wandering its grounds. The moment you step into the cool night air, Helaena pulls free from you and, tugging at her skirts from the side to pull up her gown, darts into the maze-like hedges, her long silver hair streaming in the air behind her.

“Helaena!” You call out, immediately chasing after her, but the princess only laughs, delighted. For a few minutes, the only sounds in the garden are her giggles, punctuated by your cursing at your own gown as it snags and snares on every stray piece of foliage you pass. Mercifully, she finally slows to a stop, near the paved terrace that overlooks the rolling waters of Blackwater Bay.

Helaena sits, perched on the wall that separates the gardens from the rocky cliffs that jut out beneath it, face turned towards the waters. Slowing to a halt, you stop next to her, trying your best to calm your breathing from the sprint she had dragged you on.

“Look,” She says after a moment, pointing out towards the rocky outcrops in the middle of the bay, far in the distance. You follow her finger, eyes straining against the dark, until it lights up like day.

There’s a brilliant burst of flame, bright and hot enough that you can feel the heat crash against your body as if it was a physical wall ramming into you. A massive body, larger than anything could have the right to be, crashes into the water, sending up a massive wave that could swallow most ships you’ve seen whole.

Vhagar is hunting.

You watch, mesmerized with wonder and fear, as she rises up into the sky, clutching a whale in her claws. It’s a colossal thing, big enough to seemingly drag Vhagar down back to its home in the deep, but the Queen of All Dragons is stronger than that. The leviathan is writhing in her grasp, fighting with all its might to escape, but Vhagar’s claws are longer and sharper than any spear any man could ever hope to hold. She curls her talons in and you can hear the whale’s wail even from miles away, can see the rivers of blood that fall through the air like rain.

Vhagar flies up, up, and up into the sky where even her tremendous size can appear small, disappearing into cloud cover. Even in the dark, however, the moonlight casts her shadow and she looks monstrous, even hidden from view how she is. You watch until you can’t anymore until she finally disappears into the inky darkness of the night.

“Where does she feed?” You ask Helaena, hands coming down to the wall so you can lean, pressing deeper in the cool air as if you’ll be able to see her if you stretch.

“At an island deeper in,” Aemond’s voice answers and you nearly topple over in your shock, spinning around to see him smirking at your surprise. Next to him, Daeron is pinned under Aegon’s arm, both seemingly trapped by his older brother and also being the only thing keeping him from falling to the ground. Aegon, for his part, looks mighty pleased, a wine bottle clutched in his hand.

Aemond walks closer, standing by your side and looking out towards the Blackwater. His eyes are focused, narrowed, and you get the idea he knows exactly where he’s looking at. “It’s a small island, past the spears of the merling king. From what I can tell, it used to be covered with trees but she’s razed most of it down to make her roost.”

“She’s far too big for the Dragonpit I suppose,” you reply, curling your fingers against the stone.

“She was too big a hundred years ago,” he hums. “Vhagar could fit - if she had any desire to. Once Balerion the Black Dread passed, she never returned to it. The island is her home now.”

You smile sadly at the thought of Vhagar leaving the Dragonpit forever once her brother had passed. Perhaps it hadn’t been her size that had driven her out but rather her grief. It seemed strange that such a creature, as ancient and destructive as she was, could feel such emotion, such heartbreak, but somehow that little detail has warmed you up to her more than anything else ever had in the years since Aemond has claimed her.

After a moment, you glance up at her rider. “How do you summon her?” You ask, feeling slightly embarrassed that the simple question had never once occurred to you in the near decade since Driftmark. Vhagar had always been an abstract figure in your mind - the prize that Aemond had bought with his eye. You had never stopped to think about the simpler details of her bond with the prince.

Aemond, noticing your sudden curiosity, gives you a half smile. “She always knows. My lady Vhagar will come flying if she senses I have a need for her. She’s always in my mind like I’m always in hers.”

You frown, looking back over the bay. Vhagar is no doubt far from here now but you can still see her in your mind: a massive beast that took up the entire sky. You wonder if, even as deep in her meal as she surely must be, she can still feel Aemond’s presence in her mind. “How does that work? What if you’re chilly one night and offhandedly think that you’d fancy a fire to keep you warm? Would Vhagar come bearing down on us and crush the Red Keep beneath her?” You question jokingly, laughing slightly.

“A dragon is not something you can call accidentally. You can try to summon one but it’s not some dog that’ll come running at your beck and call. Dragons will only serve those they want to serve,” his words are heavy with intent and, sharply inhaling, you meet his ever-watchful eye.

I’m afraid that I was onto you right from the start.

“Was I really that obvious?” You breathe out, heart pounding in your chest. Your voice is low, quiet enough so that the other Targaryen siblings, lost in their own conversation, cannot hear you, but he can hear you perfectly. The look gleaming in his eye tells you all you need to know. “How long have you known?”

He smirks in response, looking rather like the cat that finally caught his prey. “Since you arrived. Lannisters notoriously stick together and daughters of the Rock are usually treasured rather than shipped off. If your uncle wanted company from his family, he would have sent for some distant cousin or another and not his ten-year-old niece. You only would have come to marry and, with your family pushing for you to be Helaena’s companion, there were really only two real targets.”

You sigh, feeling your cheeks flush in shame and embarrassment. “Are you angry?” Do I need to apologize? Do you want me to spill out my heart here?

“After I got over the fact that a pretty girl actually wanted to spend time with me, I wanted to ignore you, but Mother made me promise that I’d give you a chance,” he says easily and you openly wince, feeling a pang of regret shoot through you. “You were difficult to avoid, however, always showing up at the library when I was studying, always willing to talk to me about whatever book you were reading. It wasn’t hard for you to worm your way into being my friend.”

You ruefully smile, shaking your head. “It wasn’t as if it was a chore, my prince,” you respond, the truth coming to you easily. “If I didn’t like you for you rather than the prince my father wanted me to claim, I wouldn’t have read nearly as many books as I did. I certainly wouldn’t have given you the sapphire necklace. That… It was the first gift my father ever gave me himself. During all my earlier name day celebrations, his gift would be mixed in with the ones from everyone else and sometimes he’d look as surprised as I was at whatever it was he had given me. I’m sure his old steward was the one always picking it out for him. But that necklace… It’s tradition, you see, in House Lannister, to give a maiden jewelry when she begins her search for a husband.”

“And you gave it to me,” Aemond says, no question in his voice - only the absolute truth of it.

“And I gave it to you,” you echo. “At the time, it was the only thing of value I could think to give you. That and my word. A promise from a Lannister is as good as any jewel.”

Aemond laughs at that. “Your word is as good as any jewel, my lady. Better even.”

You grin, relief washing over you when you realize he isn’t upset. “Perhaps. Maybe Lannister words aren’t worth as much as I say but all of us take our debts very seriously and your debt is mine.”

“And yours is mine,” he replies, as steady as the Red Keep itself.

I am yours and you are mine.

Before you can say anything, however, the too-familiar call of your nickname calls your attention and you look over to see Aegon waving his bottle of wine in the air, narrowly missing smacking poor Daeron in the skull with it.

“Brother! My shining Lady of Lannister! Come join us for a drink!” He shouts as if you’re across the Blackwater Bay itself rather than standing only a few scant feet away.

You can practically hear Aemond’s frown in his voice. “‘Join us’? You’re the only one drinking.”

Aegon laughs gleefully. “Come now, Aemond, we should be celebrating your victory! You may not be able to claim the true prize yet without bringing an entire kingdom down on our heads for defiling a lady of the Rock but you can drink!”

“He just wants to congratulate you,” Daeron rushes to say, no doubt recognizing the stormy look on Aemond’s face after Aegon’s less-than-subtle insinuation. “You’ve won a great victory and brought yourself much honor.”

“The hand will hold the iron,” Helaena sings even as she kneels down on the ground to play with a passing millipede.

“If you do not want a drink, though, it'd make you much more enjoyable to be with,” Aegon continues, shaking his head as he moves closer to you and Aemond. “Then your Queen of Love and Beauty will drink for you.”

You huff, sidestepping the bottle stretched out in an offer and gamely holding yourself back from smacking him away when his free hand reaches for your crown. “I thank you, Prince Aegon, but I’d rather not enter a full day of prayer and contemplation tomorrow sick from drink. I’m supposed to be praying for a blessed marriage with your sister after all.”

Aegon scowls at the reminder and you instantly wish you had chosen a different word to call Helaena. She’s his sister and his betrothed. Both are true no matter how much we all wish they weren’t. “If you’re praying for children for us, there’s nothing prayer could accomplish than a cask of the finest Arbor Gold could not.”

“Enough of that,” Aemond snaps, no doubt displeased with his brother’s blasphemy. “No one else will be drinking.”

“Daeron had a drink,” Aegon replies mutinously and Daeron’s eyes go comically wide. You laugh at his almost bug-eyed stare as you sink to the ground next to Helaena, sensing that Aegon will not allow anyone to leave before his fun is finished. Helaena beams at you as she grabs the millipede, bringing it up uncomfortably close to your face to show you.

“I had one,” Daeron hotly protests, no doubt missing how his older brothers, despite their discord, exchange amused glances at his overly forceful defense. “And you made me do it.”

Aegon grins. “I don’t know, little brother… You did trip on a rock on our way here.”

“Because you tripped,” Daeron shoots back.

“Mother would be disappointed to see how her baby dragon’s turned out,” Aemond says, voice as serious as if he’s discussing policy with the Lord Hand. “She had such high hopes for you.”

“But I-”

“I saw him wobble a little just now,” Helaena volunteers from the ground, not even looking up from the millipede crawling all over her hands.

Daeron whines, sounding like a little boy rather than the near-grown man that he was. “I didn’t!”

You grin up at him, shaking your head. “It’s alright, my prince. As long as you can hold your drink better than Prince Aegon, the Queen would find no fault within you.”

“There’s not much hope of that if he’s like this after one,” Aemond replies, quick as a whip, and even he cracks a smile as Daeron loudly protests his innocence.

The five of you stay in the gardens long after Aegon finishes his wine, basking in the glow of the moonlight.

[multidimensional-trashcan]

why is this open? did i want to make a post? well, i most definitely forgot what i wanted to write so you'll get nonsense instead:

It was a dark and stormy night* when Wendell Grotzplotz decided to sit down and have a nice cup of tea. This would not have been a strange occurrence in any other household in the neighborhood but Wendell hated tea with a fierce, and some might say foolish, passion. There were few things in life that Wendell hated more than tea which were 1. his own name, 2. people who unironically used lightyears as a measuring unit for time and 3. cattleprods. The distribution of his hatred for these things was everchanging but after a thorough study he had gathered that his hatred was proportional to the proximity of aforementioned things. He had thus decided to avoid farms, conversations about space and talking to his father at all costs. He had also decided to never conduct a study ever again lest he experienced another series of events so embarrassing that not even Rowan Atkinson would re-enact them in a movie. Despite his efforts to forget everything that transpired his brain had taken to replay the events in a frankly concerning level of accuracy every time he closed his eyes.

This was at least partly the reason why he was adamant to enjoy a nice cup of tea this evening. He had heard that tea had a calming effect and hoped that deciding that he liked tea would 1. be enough to make the experience enjoyable, 2. lead to a scenario where he closed his eyes and would not see a man wildly gesticulating with a cattleprod in his hand in a way that violated several geneva conventions had the cattleprod been an AK-47 and not a cattleprod. Unfortunately for him and fortunately for the man with the cattleprod (who had probably paid a lot of money or done some dark magic rituals to ensure he'd haunt Wendell forever) Wendell had no idea how to actually prepare tea. If he granted himself the very novel experience of being honest with himself, he would even have to admit that he didn't particularly know what tea even consisted of, really. Sure, water had to be involved somewhere and hadn't his aunt always talked about tea leaves? Wendell briefly contemplated stepping outside to collect some leaves from the trees that were standing outside but a ferocious gust of wind making the trees dance a rather abysmal approximation of the Macarena made him reconsider. He liked the rain, he really did, but only if it consisted of water and not 300-million-year-old-millipede-fossil-size branches. Instead he started rummaging around in his kitchen for anything green and leafy. His first cursory rummaging (rummage?) did yield no findings save for his glasses which he had, not without some pride, put on the countertop for easy finding and promptly forgot about. He had been reading books with much squinting and holding in front of him at arm's length for a good 2 days now. After some light cursing and then, after this had not made him feel better, more heavy cursing at his lack of object permance that every toddler would envy he conducted a more thorough rummaging. After opening about half of the cupboards he discovered a wooden puzzle he had gotten for his 12th birthday. After two hours he had finally solved the puzzle and remembered the rubik's cube he'd stashed... somewhere. Another two hours later he had found the rubik's cube (and 10 old science magazines, an old sketchbook, a rather new sketchbook (no improvement to be seen), a rubber duck, paper clips and 51 playing cards) and successfully brought it into a, in his professional opinion, completely unsolvable state. Frustrated, Wendell put the cube on the counter for his sister to solve should she visit some time and embarked on a new (or rather 4 hours old and temporarily forgotten) mission: Rummaging around in his kitchen in search for something green and leafy. He rummaged so expertedly that he would have won Olympian Gold in rummaging if there was an Olympian rummaging category. Alas, there was not so he persevered without price or fame and continued his extraordinarily unsystematic search of the kitchen. He briefly considered if the green paper he found in the refrigerator was green and leafy enough, then marveled at the two playing cards he found inbetween two plates bringing his card deck to an unexpected 53 cards and finally discovered a clump of what seemed to have been fresh coriander once upon a time. He allowed himself a good half second of unrestrained joy then remembered the time and anxiously listened for any signs of disturbed neighbours for 10 minutes. Fortunately for him and his dislike for longwinded conversations everything stayed quiet. He took a deep breath of relief and started studying the bundle of coriander with an intensity people usually reserved for groundbreaking, Nobel prize worthy dissertations or early 2000s TV shows with questionable quality. Having aquired a suitable component had - to his chagrin - not made a pop-up detailing the further necessary steps of his quest appear in thin air. Thus he was rather at a loss as to what to do. Something with water. Hot water? Wendell was on his way to retrieve a saucepan to heat the water and coriander in as his salvation appeared in his view.

His salvation stood gleaming and majestic on the countertop, a symbol of hope in the dark and stormy night, a beacon of practicality. And it's number was six hundred, four score and ten and it's name was 'Gilbert' (in reality it was named Exclusivo Deluxe Barista 690 but Wendell had decided that if he had to endure having such a ridiculous name then his coffee machine had to suffer the same fate). It had just occured to him that coffee basically was tea with beans instead of leafy stuff, so what what could possibly be better at cooking tea than his beloved coffee machine? Wendell crushed the leafs and put them in the compartment for the ground coffee. Triumphantly he pressed the On button of the machine. The machine informed him that the water tank needed to be refilled. Wendell refilled the water tank and pressed 'continue'. The machine started a cleaning process. Wendell used the 5 minutes of cleaning to glare at the coffee machine, fail to solve the rubic's cube and aquire a sudden earworm of 'O flower of Scotland'. The machine informed him that the old coffee grounds and drip water had to be emptied. Wendell emptied the tray and put it back in. The machine informed him that he had to put the tray back in in order for the machine to function. Wendell pulled the tray back out and pushed it back in. The machine informed him that he had to put the tray back in in order for the machine to function. Wendell pulled the tray back out and pushed it back in with a bit more force. The machine informed him that he had to put the tray back in in order for the machine to function. Wendell pulled the tray back out and pushed it back in even more forcefully. The machine informed him that he had to put the tray back in in order for the machine to function. Wendell performed the tried and tested ritual of screaming at the machine inventing a few new curse words in the process. The machine decided that, actually, the tray was already put in, oops. Wendell gently pushed the button for espresso (the more concentrated the tea the more relaxing it is). As this didn't lead to an immediate reaction, he started hammering on the button. With a noise that could have easily been featured on Pink Floyd's Ummagumma the machine started making the first of the eight tea espressos (tespressos?) he'd ordered and Wendell realised at the same time that he had forgotten a cup. Unfortunately he had also forgotten where he normally kept his cups so he just grabbed the nearest object. While the plastic bag steadily filled with a liquid of rather unfortunate colouring, Wendell allowed the anticipation of a good night's sleep to rise. Finally he would be able to close his eyes in peace. With the gurgle of a dying unicorn the machine finished its job. Wendell raised the bag to his lips, took a small sip - and then immediately flung the bag into the sink. A small tsunami of 'tea' engulfed counter and floor. Wendell turned and sat down on the couch. Exhausted he closed his eyes.

Rays of sunlight danced over Wendell's face as he opened his eyes again. He was lying on his couch in the living room and the position of the sun told him that it was approximately 9 am. With a start he realised that he hadn't had one dream about cattleprods this night. Maybe he really should be making tea every evening from now on.

*the night was dark because night's generally were pretty dark except for the one's way north and south, which desperately tried to hold back their darkness for half a year because they wanted to feel special, only to fail at it spectacularly in the second half of the year making the darkness bleed into the day. the night was stormy because of ~vibes~

[mariaofdoranelle]

I saw these two ex to lovers prompt and I can't choose so if you like them you can pick one or both idk ahaahaha

- sending their ex a book a day, the first word of each title spelling out an apology.

-ten years after their breakup one receives a letter inviting them to their exes wedding with a “help me” written in a tiny font on the bottom.

You Still Would’ve Been Mine

Written for my Drabblefest

I wrote both, but with a twist (not exactly an apology and it’s ten months instead). I hope you like it 😆

PS it’s canonverse

960 words, no warnings

⨯ ⁺ ✦ ･ ｡ﾟ⨯ ﾟ♡ ✧* ･｡* ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆

If Rowan listened to one more word about Terrasen or Adarlan, he was going to lose his mind.

He wasn’t even a useful prince, he had no idea what he was doing in Sellene’s Throne Room.

“The merchants won’t stop complaining ever since Adarlan made these new trade deals,” Uncle Ellys explained, “Terrasen’s goods got into the Adarlanian market like the plague.”

“Enda,” Sellene called from her throne. “send word to our spies.

After every other family member was dismissed with an assignment to do, it was just Rowan and Sellene there.

“C’mere.” She kindly requested him to come closer. “Rowan, we are losing Erliea’s biggest kingdoms. The Fae from Adarlan now have access to Terassen’s Fae liquor, magic hospitals, magic schools, every month is a new thing. And now this.” Sellene took a deep breath and rubbed a hand on her face, letting her shoulders drop for a moment. “I know you don’t talk about Terrasen, but I need you to tell me what you saw.”

“I saw nothing,” he answered with a neutral face, masking his tense body.

It was true. It was supposed to be a trip with Fenrys to visit Galan, and they ended up being guests in the Ashryver party to visit Terrasen.

Rowan’s presence wasn’t political, and the only thing he saw was walls ornate with gold, silk bedsheets and the top of pine trees when he was flying, using his hawk form to sneak in and out of the crown princess’ bedroom.

Rowan’s ground his teeth, his pulse racing. Well, that was before she not only backstabbed him, but his entire country as well.

“Okay, I got it,” Sellene said when she sensed the growing notes of rage in his smell. She bit his lip and fiddled with an envelope in her hand. “This came in for you.”

Rowan snatched it from her hands. “I thought the mail interceptions were over when Maeve died.”

Sel grimaced. “Lorcan gave me this one because he thought it was an exception, sorry. I didn’t open it, though.”

An exception indeed. Rowan opened the seal with one of his blades, wishing he could use it to stab the wedding invitation instead.

The King and Queen of Terrasen request the pleasure of your company—Rowan rolled his eyes—at the marriage of their daughter, Aelin Ashryver Galathynius, to Duke Perrington, blah blah blah.

Rowan was once told it would be his name instead, but those promises were long gone.

I’m yours, she said, her smile lit through the darkness. Tell Sellene to request an official political alliance with a marriage proposal, and I’ll be officially yours.

Rowan was on a boat home the next day.

He shook his head, his heart constricting as he tried to shake off the memories too. Especially the ones of him learning, right before leaving Doranelle again, that Aelin’s hand was already promised to another.

Rowan’s eyes skimmed through the wedding invitation, until he found something that made his heart stop, the world world narrowing down to two little words in the bottom of the invitation, in a familiar handwriting.

Help me

“What?” Sellene said while snatching the invite from his hands. “Gods, I’m never talking about Terrasen with you again. Your smell gets weirder and weirder and— oh, shit.” She looked up, eyes widened and personal scent tinged with alarm. “Have you been in touch with her?”

“No.”

Sellene sent him a cut-the-bullshit look.

He crossed his arms. “She’s been sending me books. Just that.”

“Not a word? Just books?” She got up when Rowan nodded in confirmation. “Where do you keep them?”

They both shifted into their bird forms and flew out the window towards Rowan’s bedroom, where he kept a small collection of books he didn’t want to store in the Royal Library.

If Sellene heard how fast Rowan’s heart was beating, she didn’t show. His insides were quivering as he scrambled his mind for answers, but nothing came.

Sellene shifted back and frowned at the bookshelf, both hands on her hips. “Just the books, no letters attached?”

“Yes. These ones.” Rowan pointed at the books with one hand, fingers tangled in his hair with the other. “They’re in the order she sent, it stopped a couple of months ago.”

His cousin barely heard him, completely focused on the books. “Havelok the Dane, Erec and Enide, Laxdæla Saga and Piers Plowman.” Sellene’s index finger ran across these four book’s spines. “Side by side like this, as if they were in a box set, it kinda looks like they spell ‘help’.”

“What?” With his heart beating out of his chest, Rowan grabbed a piece of paper and scrabbled the titles there, in the order Aelin sent him.

Havelok the Dane

Erec and Enide

Laxdæla Saga

Piers Plowman

The Divine Comedy

Amadís de Gaula

The Decameron

Sir Gawain and the Green Knight

The Owl and the Nightingale

Lancelot, the Knight of the Cart

Doon de Mayence

Le Morte d’Arthur

Egil’s Saga

His entire world halted when he put them all together, four words tearing down his walls of hurt and resentment.

Help, dad sold me.

Rowan felt dizzy, barely breathing as everything clicked together.

All the trade agreements, scholar exchange, diplomatic alliances between Terrasen and Adarlan he heard of. It was all because Rhoe sold his daughter to the highest bidder.

Over his dead body.

He ran to his room, grabbed his sword and a pouch with enough gold for three intercontinental trips—one to go, two to come back—and tucked his wedding invitation into his jacket’s pocket.

Sellene’s eyes were firm as she clutched his forearm, putting all her Fae strength into her crushing grip. “Do not. Cause. An international disaster.”

Rowan just shifted into his hawk form and flew to the nearest port.

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[renxzs]

to feel alive // rowaelin // 3k // masterlist 

The brazen smile she threw over her shoulder absolutely stunned him. She was the embodiment of reckless beauty. Possessing that undeniable allure of anything wild, and carefree, and always seemingly just out of reach.  “It’s called Chicken,” she called back, ignoring his question. “You stand on the tracks when a train is coming. The first one to jump off is a chicken.”

cw: alluded physical abuse from a foster parent, pining lovesick Rowan, high school au (recent graduates)

--

The sun was beginning to lower in the sky, casting ribbons of oranges and golds through the trees. The warm colors slowly gave way to shades of pinks, lilacs, and blues of dusk. 

An electrified energy swelled and coursed through the little town as Rowan continued his trek toward the outskirts and away from the buzz. It was the evening of a momentous event--high school graduation. Rowan couldn’t believe it. He was officially a graduate, bound for Terrasen University in the fall. A one-way ticket out of this dead-end town he’s worked so tirelessly for.

The majority of his classmates were already revving up for festivities bound to extend late into the night, and Rowan wanted no part of it.

Sounds of traffic and people in the streets gradually fell away with each step he took and were replaced with the buzzing and chirps of insects. Rowan expertly ducked under low-hanging branches, having walked this trail a hundred times before, as he made his way through the shallow thicket running along the edge of town. Down a ways through the wooded area were a few abandoned railcars near the old tracks that cut through main street. It was a place Rowan liked to go when seeking a moment of solitude. 

Upon emerging on the other side of the tree line, Rowan was brought to an abrupt stop, heart skipping a beat.

He would recognize those long golden waves anywhere, always looking like spun sunlight. Belonging to none other than Aelin Galathynius. Otherwise known as the girl he’s spent the last three and a half years carrying a torch for. 

Aelin was a living wildfire, always burning far brighter than what this dreary little town was used to seeing. She didn’t belong in a place like this--never had. Her uninhibited carefree nature and blinding smile had stopped Rowan’s heart the first moment he saw her, and her sparkling laughter consequentially restarted it anew. 

It’s beat for her ever since. 

Aelin looked back at the sound of his approach, and the pretty smile that crawled across her lips when her gaze landed on him warmed him all over.

The old metal groaned softly under the added weight and movement when Rowan hoisted himself up through the open backside of the railcar. Aelin sat on the side that faced out to the tracks with her legs dangling over the edge. Quiet contentment filled her upturned face, the balmy breeze caressing gently against her skin. Her golden strands were ablaze with colors of the dying sun, as if crowning her in a halo of fire. The sight was ethereal.

Rowan blinked and cleared his throat, collecting himself enough to ease to the floor next to her, letting his legs hang freely beside hers. The sun-warmed metal of the railcar flooring seeped through his jeans. 

“Didn’t expect to find you here, Galathynius,” he quipped while nudging her arm gently. Aelin chuckled as she leaned back onto her palms. 

Rowan couldn’t keep his eyes from flitting over her lean form. Couldn’t keep from admiring the way her pretty summer dress fell on her body or how nicely it accented her sun-kissed skin. The dress was likely what she’d worn to the graduation ceremony earlier, but she had since traded the formal polyester gown and academic honors cords for a lightweight, oversized cardigan. The worn pair of combat boots that featured in many of her outfits unsurprisingly cladded her now swinging feet.

When his eyes found their way back up to hers, she was already watching him with a knowing smirk. Heat warmed his cheeks. Smooth, Whitethorn. 

“Funny, as this is my secret hideaway spot.” 

Rowan was mildly surprised by this information. For how often he made the trek out here, he’d never once seen her. 

“Actually, I was under the impression that it was mine.”

Aelin hummed thoughtfully, lips tipping into a smile. Her own eyes taking their fill of him. “It’s a shame then that we haven’t crossed paths sooner.” 

For a suspended moment Rowan simply watched her before surprising himself by murmuring, “A shame, indeed.” 

She looked out toward the tracks again, and he swore a light dusting of pink colored her cheeks.

As they fell into a companionable silence, Rowan couldn’t help but think what a shame it truly was that they hadn’t gotten more moments like this together. But maybe going forward... they still had the whole summer ahead of them. His heart leapt at the possibility.

Aelin casted him a side-long glance, teasing smile playing on her lips. “Not going to partake in the copious amounts of celebratory underage drinking this evening?”

Rowan snorted. He would rather do quite literally anything else than drink cheap beer with classmates he couldn’t stand. Something about the way her pretty eyes glinted led him to believe Aelin already knew this though.

He shook his head nonetheless, taking a moment to consider her. Aelin, on the other hand, was often surrounded by others. A natural side effect, he supposed, of the infectious personality she exuded. People were inevitably drawn to wild, beautiful things--and Rowan was no exception. So why was she here alone now?

“What about you? No special appearances needing to be made?”

Her lips curved ruefully. “While I am quite the commodity” --his low chuckle mingled with the chirping of nearby birds-- “I preferred my own company tonight.” 

Rowan glanced around their surroundings pointedly. “And in a dirty abandoned railcar no less.”

A noncommittal shrug. “It’s apparently the place to be.”

Her eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly, delicate mouth parting then closing again, like there was more she wanted to say but was struggling to put into words. So he kept quiet and waited.

After several long beats, her soft voice filled the space around them.

“I turned 18 a little over a week ago.”

Rowan simply nodded, because he of course knew when her birthday was. He’d actually planned to approach Aelin that day to wish her a happy birthday and finally work up the nerve to ask her on a date…better late than never. But she ended up not coming to school that day, presumably playing hooky. Rowan had lost his nerve by the time she returned the next day.

Aelin slowly let the loose cardigan drop from her right shoulder and gathered her hair to the side. His sharp inhale pierced through the silence, eyes widening at the sight. A medley of horrifying deep-purple and yellowing blotches covered her skin, starting in the middle of her back and blossoming over the expanse of her whole shoulder blade. Traces of swelling still lingered, and lines of rusty brown scabbing implied skin had been broken.

A cruel, bitter smile twisted on her lips. “My birthday gift, courtesy of dear ol’ foster dad.” 

Rowan’s stomach plummeted as his heart rate skyrocketed. White-hot anger flared and burned through him.

Arobynn Hamel. A piss-poor excuse of a man and town drunk. He’s heard rumors here and there about the man over the years. Word always had a way of traveling fast in their small town, no one ever seemingly having anything better to do with themselves than spread vitriol and gossip. But how Aelin came to be placed in Arobynn’s ward during their freshman year, only the gods know.

Rowan had always hoped that Arobynn being a neglectful drunk was the worst case scenario. He never imagined that piece of shit would put his hands on Aelin. And gods, with the way she always carried herself around others, carefully keeping the dark truths tucked away, no one would ever suspect… he hadn’t suspected. That realization didn’t sit well with Rowan.

Aelin shrugged her cardigan back into place. “I’m not exactly overeager to run home to whatever graduation gift might await me there.” She swallowed thickly. “So a dirty abandoned railcar isn’t so bad sometimes.”

Rowan’s gut twisted sourly, fighting back the roiling bile as unimaginable things flashed through his mind. The possibilities of what she’s likely endured over these past years were endless. Gods, he just wanted to hold her, protect her from it all. Kiss away the sadness and pain clouding her desolate features. 

“Aelin…” he breathed, grappling for what else to say but nothing came. He was at a complete loss for the right words. It was jarring to see her looking so… vulnerable and small, her light dimmed.

Rowan curled his hands into fists to keep from reaching out. Unsure if she’d even want his touch, or be comfortable with it. 

“I- please, how can I help?”

Large turquoise eyes lifted to his as she smiled wearily. “This,” she said, placing a hand over one of his tightly balled fists, “is enough.”

Doubt furrowed his brows. It didn’t feel like nearly enough. Nothing would ever be enough until that worthless bastard faced retribution. Rowan’s mouth opened to say as much before clenching his jaw shut. 

Who was he to determine what she needed? If what she needed right now was this--a comforting presence, a safe space, a friend--then that’s what he would give her. 

Rowan slowly unfurled his fist and turned it over to hold her small hand in his.

Aelin’s gaze slid to the sky of deepening purples and hot pinks. Nostrils flaring delicately as she squeezed his hand a bit tighter.

“It’s almost over,” she finally said, voice thick. The building pressure in Rowan’s chest ached. “I’m almost free.” 

A slight quiver in her lips had her pressing them in a thin line. Closing her eyes, she dragged in a long, slow breath. After holding it a few beats, shining eyes reopened and she exhaled in the same fashion. 

“I am going back to Terrasen.” Aelin spoke with a practiced conviction. Like she’s repeated these words to herself hundreds of times in hopes that they’d one day be true. And that realization was fucking crushing.

Her fingers flexed against his palm. “I will claw my way out of this shitty town and this shitty life… and I’m going back home,” voice wavering on her final words. 

“You will.” His fervent declaration had the corners of her mouth twitching upward with a jerky nod. 

Aelin’s gaze burned trails over the planes of his face as she seemed to mull something over. Her focus then fell to their twined hands on his thigh. Rowan tried to suppress a shudder from the gentle touch of Aelin’s fingers tracing idly over his skin. 

“Just once,” she whispered. “I want to know what it’s like to kiss you just once, Rowan.” 

His brows twitched, a bit perplexed, despite his growing smile. She wanted to kiss him. “You can definitely have more than just once, Aelin.” 

Her answering smile was soft, if not a bit sad, and a distant look clouded her eyes for the briefest moment… like she didn’t believe that to be true, no matter how much she wished it to be. A blink, and it was wiped away, leaving no trace of despondence on her face.

Rowan tried to process what it all meant, to make sense of what she hadn’t said aloud. But every thought in his head dissolved as she tipped hers back expectantly. Her words teasing and hushed, “Then what are you waiting for?”

His heartbeat thundered in his ears, tongue darting out to wet his lips. Gods above, he was actually going to do it--finally kiss Aelin Galathynius. Rowan’s free hand cupped her cheek, her sun-kissed skin soft and warm. The sweet, intoxicating scent of jasmine curled around him as he edged closer and slowly slanted his mouth over hers. 

Rowan’s entire world crawled to a halt as every sense zeroed in on this magnificent girl and her lush lips on his, her kisses all encompassing. He had never been made to feel anything like this, as if her living flame was filling him, too, by extension--surrounding and engulfing, heating him from the inside out. 

Aelin curled a small hand against the side of his neck, thumb brushing along his jaw, causing goosebumps to spread in her wake. Rowan found his own hand already buried in her hair, gently tilting her head back as his tongue tentatively brushed against hers.

Each pass of their lips a whisper of untold desires and flickering hope for what could come beyond this moment and night--beyond the shackles of her current circumstances. 

Rowan lost track of how long they kissed for, how long he’d lost himself in her, lost himself to the beckoning call of her wildfire--happy to step into the flames if only to be closer to her, to burn for her.

Aelin withdrew slightly, soft puffs of breath fanning his skin. The quiet joy he found in her face squeezed around his heart with a blissfully welcomed ache. 

“You’re so beautiful,” he said softly, brushing back a few stray strands behind her ear that the warm breeze had stirred loose. 

Aelin leaned into his touch. The corners of her lips curving upward as her eyes fell shut. Rowan soaked in the sight of her momentary contentment. Yes, he could at least give her this.

The slightest wrinkle forming between her brows drew his attention, and he fought the urge to smooth it away with his thumb. Instead he watched quizzically as she cocked her head to the side, as if listening closely for something. Then her gaze was on him, lips stretching into a slow, dangerous grin.

“Wanna play a game?” 

That tone. It had Rowan’s stomach dropping to his feet and his skin pricking with unease. But he couldn’t bring himself to heed the warning, enraptured by those bright, wild eyes of turquoise and burning gold.

Untangling herself from him, Aelin jumped out of the rusted railcar and strode with purpose over the rocky terrain toward the tracks ahead. Rowan’s scowl deepened as he leapt down to follow after her. 

“Aelin, what are you doing?”

The brazen smile she threw over her shoulder absolutely stunned him. She was the embodiment of reckless beauty. Possessing that undeniable allure of anything wild, and carefree, and always seemingly just out of reach. 

“It’s called Chicken,” she called back, ignoring his question. “You stand on the tracks when a train is coming. The first one to jump off is a chicken.” 

That’s when he finally heard it, rapidly approaching engines in the distance. Rowan’s head whipped in the direction the train would be coming from. Icy dread twined through his veins as his gaze fell back to Aelin. She was already standing in place at the center of the tracks with a goading smile. 

“Come on, Whitethorn. It’s fun!” The wind rustled long golden strands as her head tipped back on a laugh. 

“Aelin, get off the tracks,” Rowan bit out, failing miserably to keep the rising panic out of his voice. “This isn’t funny.” 

His gaze cut back in the direction of the oncoming train barreling down the tracks. The sound of it roared in his ears, the blaring warning horn piercing when up this close. 

His fear-stricken heart was lodged in his throat, thinning his breaths to shallow inhales. He couldn’t tear his eyes away from her, afraid she might be gone in the next second if he did.

Rowan’s body shook, and he couldn’t tell if he was trembling or if it was the ground around him. 

“Aelin. Aelin!” He screamed above the growing roar of grating metal. “Get off the tracks!” Aelin ignored him with her arms stretched wide, letting loose an exhilarating scream. 

She was fucking insane.

Rowan tore down the rocky incline toward her, still screaming himself hoarse with her name. Gods, the train was so close now it drowned out both of their voices. He pushed himself harder to reach her faster--getting to her his sole purpose.

The train’s warning horn, so loud he felt it in his bones, blared over and over in a frantic pattern. The conductor likely fearful of the impending deaths of two reckless idiot teenagers.

Finally reaching her, Rowan wrapped a large hand around her upper arm in a vice-like grip and yanked her hard against his chest, dragging her entirely off the tracks. Only seconds later was the train barreling past them, roaring and screeching, causing everything around them to quake.

Rowan all but dragged himself and Aelin back up the rocky incline, putting as much distance between them and their near-death as he could. After determining they were a safe enough distance from the tracks, Rowan whirled on Aelin. 

“Are you out of your fucking mind?!”

The faraway look in her eyes and dazed smile only infuriated him more. How did she not find anything about this concerning?

“It was just a bit of fun, Rowan,” she gasped out, trying to catch her breath. “The adrenaline rush makes you feel alive.”

His features hardened into a scowl, roughly shaking her shoulders and hopefully some sense into her. “Alive? It’d be pretty damn hard to feel alive after a rutting train has run you down. Fuck, Aelin.”

Rowan released her to scrub his hands down his face, his heart still hammering against his ribs. She hadn’t made to move once when standing on those gods-damned tracks. Unflinching and unafraid of whatever fate might meet her. 

Right then it struck him like a kick to the chest, the realization of what or who exactly had beaten this careless, dangerous edge into her--for her to hold such little regard for her own safety… because with what Aelin has to return home to each night, what else was there to lose? His throat tightened with rising bile.

She could have died. The thought sliced through him, leaving stinging wounds in its wake. 

He stepped back into her space and grabbed her face between his shaky hands. Her smile had slipped away entirely at the trembling in his voice. 

“That is not the answer. You were just talking about getting out of this shit-hole of a town. And you’re going to do it, Aelin.” Rowan’s piercing gaze met glassy turquoise, silently begging her to hear him. “You’re going to get out, leave this place behind, and do amazing fucking things. I know it. That’s how you live.” He shook his head, voice thick with warring emotion. “Not like this.”

Aelin’s pretty face crumpled, and gods did it still tug something deep in his chest, even when painted with such sorrow.

His thumbs gently swept over her cheeks to wipe away fallen tears. Her forehead dropped against his chest, and Rowan didn’t hesitate to wrap an arm tightly across her shoulders, dimly aware of her injury but she didn’t flinch away and he couldn’t bring himself to let her go, while his other hand buried itself in the soft tendrils of her hair to cradle her head to him.

Fingers curled into balls around the soft cotton of his shirt as her shoulders silently shook. She whispered “I’m sorry” into his chest, the words watery and muffled.

Pressing his lips to the crown of her head, Rowan only held her tighter.

--

tags: @highqueenofelfhame // @perpetuallyperplexed21 // @tecnohourglass // @backtobl4ck

[questionable-chnt-hc]

a two-in-one this time wooo! 3/?

juniper:

-toeing the line between brunette and ginger

-fish hook earrings

-he has the cuntiest clothing items but only wears them in the most atrocious combos

-like five different pairs of glasses (for different occasions, he says)

-ABSURDLY tall . he's like 6'5"

-his face is always :-]

-his hair goes to his shoulders and he loves doing fancy stuff with it

-rowan tree clipping necklace

rowan:

-he's like 5'3" and will kill you if you mention it

-sooo many piercings . all in gold because "it's my color"

-his eyes match the color of the sky (i saw this in an art piece a while ago but i forgot where)

-he wears baggy clothes but he has really muscular shoulders and thighs from his librarian duties. strong man

-he doesn't bind often because it just makes it harder to breathe when he gets panic attacks

-he doesn't dress up often but when he does he's the coolest fucking guy ever

-juniper tree clipping necklace

Buff Rowan truthers unite

[grogusmum]

MAY: Yes, You May (part one)

A Beltane Story

OBERYN MARTELL X f!READER

W/C: 800ish

SUMMARY: You meet a golden robed stranger at the maypole on Beltane. Part 2 will be the smut portion of our story, if you are so inclined.

WARNINGS: None to speak of unless you feel Oberyn needs his own. As always, if you see something, say something. Please let me know in my DMs, and I'll add it.

A/N: Here is the May installment of The Wheel of the Year, my theme for @yearofcreation2023 Organized by the effervescent @oonajaeadira and @writeforfandoms.

Obviously, I had hoped it would be ready for Beltane itself. Many apologies for that, I hope you enjoy it, belated as it is. The POV flips toward the end.

The nine sacred trees Rowan - the wizard's tree; Briar - burn him that is so keen and green; Oak - fiercest heat giver of all timber; Alder - very battle-witch of all woods; Holly - burn it green, burn it dry; Elder - him that furnishes horses to the armies of the Sidhe burn; Birch - burn up most sure the stalks that bear the constant pads; Aspen - burn, be it late or early; and the Yew which is singled out as being sacred to the feast.

Song of Forest Trees

Beltane Bannock Recipe

You see the ribbons flitting on one of the year's first mild breeze before hearing the music, as you make your way into the village proper.

Bathed in oils and dried petals, dressed in your best kirtle and newly sewn shift, beribboned hair with flowers of bluebell, king’s cup, and the little stars of wood anemone wreathing your head- you look forward to the festivities. Humming as you go, with the Beltane Bannock fresh from the fire in your wicker hamper. It warms your side as you enter the common. A tree stripped of branch and twig but for the very top where it was bedecked in flowers and the aforementioned ribbons of red and white stands at the center. Merrymakers call to one another, and young men with flower-bedecked branches make their way to adorn them upon the doors of their lady-loves. You feel a pang, but try to shake the feeling, calling to friends in greeting.

As the festivities ramp up, you join the maypole dance, you bow to your left then to your right, but are brought up short. A dark-haired man you've never seen bows to you with a smile like a cat that got the cream, your face warms under his intense gaze. You begin the dance, and your partner - the stranger dressed in gold, while looking high born and perhaps from a faraway place, dances like he was raised right in the village, making you more and more curious. Then you break from him to weave the ribbons, above and below, you smile and laugh with your family and friends, but every time you reach him his eyes lock with yours. You decide he probably does this with all the women, while the dance is still slow you notice he looks appreciatively at both women and men.

Then music speeds up and the spectators clap in time, and the dance keeps pace and colors blur, faces pass yours, smiling, whooping, alight with the energy of the day. When the dance finally ends you are glowing and breathless from the joy of the dance. You turn again to bow, and the stranger takes your hand and kisses it with a deep bow, his eyes on yours, he too is aglow, his quickened breath fanning over your hand. You can't help but imagine it on your neck or more discreet places. The newcomer smirks as though he is reading your thoughts. In attempt to stave the prickle of embarrassment you bow and make to depart quickly. He let's you go but not before pulling you in close, and that breath is on your neck just as you imagined, he smells incredible of spice and something you don't know, it's bright and fresh.

"I hope to see you later this night, I am thinking our dance is not quite done."

His voice fit him perfectly, causing you to shiver. It's smooth; his words dripping off his tongue like honey.

After the handfasting and feast, the fires are lit with the wood of the nine sacred trees, and the livestock are brought to walk between the two bonfires. You know folk will begin to pair up. Perhaps it is time to slip away. You begin to back out of the firelight and right into someone, solid and broad. You stumble, and he catches you-

“You will not be jumping over the fire?” He still has you around the waist, loosely, not to cage you without choice, but comfortably like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“I-” you stutter, “ I-

He is handsome, beautiful even. You knew this from the dance- but in his arms, the firelight flickering over his features, it is overwhelming. His aquiline nose, jaw sharp as a knife, the column of his neck long and his dark eyes now softer, attentive and his pillowed lips with a natural pout, all breathtaking, a laugh plays at the corners and then the sun comes out at dusk - he smiles.

“Cat got your tongue?”

“No, I mean, yes… she stiffles a laugh. “I was not planning to, no. One must choose wisely in such a small village. I have no beau, and what is understood on Beltane night can be sorely mistaken all the rest of the year.”

Oberyn’s smile widens-

“Yet those fields will not bless themselves.”

At this, she laughs openly, and Oberyn’s interest becomes a need. Oh, she is beautiful, soft, her eyes sparkling with mirth as they did during the dance and her mouth - how he wants to taste it. When her laughter subsides, the sultry look that replaces it lets him know they are on the same page.

“Well, that won't do, will it. What do I call you, good sir?”

“I am Oberyn… of Dorne”, The Prince of Dorne said, deciding not to include his station.

“Well, Oberyn of Dorne, you dance like a Killarian,” she says after introducing herself.

May I join you?"

“Yes you may. Come, let us to the fires.”

💚THANK YOU FOR READING💚REBLOGS AND COMMENTS ARE MUCH APPRECIATED💚

If you would like to read more of my Oberyn fics or any of my writing, you can find my masterlist here and if you care to be tagged for future fics follow this link to my handy dandy taglist form.