#bay street capital | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

mmgwritings · 11 months

Text

I'M GONNA TAKE MINE OF YOU WITH ME

Character: Kaz Brekker / Wife! Reader

Prompts: There is a word for children who lose their parents, but there is none for parents who lose a child.

Warnings: Canon divergence; Angst; Character death; Grief; Kaz suffering; i'm sorry :(

Never trust the Saints; they give and take away.

Initially, a curfew was imposed. Without prior warning, patrol officers closed all clubs, brothels and merchant mansions, causing a commotion among the population that was soon violently suppressed. Later, when the disease spread from the interior of Kesh to the suburbs of Ketterdam, the healers' homes became crowded, and before long even the healers needed the assistance of the Grisha in the merchants' hospital.

Thus, Ketterdam remembered how to act. They had faced an epidemic before and would face this one with the same practicality. The funeral bells echoed incessantly throughout the day, while the bay south of the city was used to transport the bodies, piled on fishing vessels confiscated by the Council of the Tides. The former party town, Ketterdam, has transformed into a highly efficient funeral operation.

Burials were strictly prohibited. Thus, when the boats failed to remove bodies from the city quickly enough, in less favored neighborhoods, residents were forced to dispose of their loved ones on improvised pyres in the middle of the street.

This was the first scene we saw upon arriving in Ketterdam through the northwest gate, when the carriage had to make an abrupt stop in front of a pile of twisted ashes, which at first glance appeared to be the remains of slaughtered animals. However, horror soon hit us when the coachman, in a state of shock, vomited and exclaimed: “They are people, Saints, they are people!”

From the windows of the houses along the street, I could briefly see thin faces peering through the cracks in the windows. They were, without a doubt, the relatives of those poor burned creatures. Their looks were blank, as if they had already resigned themselves to the idea that the remains of their loved ones would end up on the street. I hastily closed the windows to hide the cruelty, but it remained etched in my eyes even when I closed them.

The trip was quick and extremely stressful, from Lij to the capital it was just two days of march that lasted the longest a lifetime. The exhausted horses showed visible signs of fatigue when the coachman left us at the hospital doors. However, as quick as it was, it apparently wasn't enough. The little girl was remarkably pale, her lips were dyed purple and her eyes were trembling under the weight of nightmares caused by the fever. My dear girl, a gift bestowed by the saints, the reward for any act of benevolence I have done in this world.

My mother used to say that the saints' mercy was unfair to mortals, because, as divine beings, they no longer understood the pain of any sacrifice, they no longer understood what it was like to lose someone. They were above everything and everyone. But I was a stupid young woman, I ignored my poor mother's advice because I thought it was the condescending words of a woman with pagan customs.

“Mommy,” she whispered, her voice hoarse with exhaustion, her eyes barely opening.

"I'm here my love. It’s going to be okay,” I whispered as I took her small, feverish body into my arms. At the beginning of the year, I could barely hold her on my lap for long, she was growing fast and turning into a beautiful, healthy five year old. Now, feeling how light her body was in my arms, my heart squeezed with pain.

Despite it being the early hours of the morning, a small crowd was sitting on the steps. They were probably sick people, but not sick enough to get a bed inside the hospital. I was trying to carefully pass between them, when, at the door, Nina appeared.

She was dressed in the black clothes of the doctors, with the distinctive blue apron of the merchants' wing, stained with small drops of blood.

“Y/N, come this way, sweetheart. I’ve already prepared everything for her,” said Nina, her kind face and caring voice leading me down a corridor to the east of the main hall. She was different since the last time I saw her, during the holidays. She looked sterner than ever.

“Any news from him? Did Kaz send any letters? Do you think he will arrive today?” I asked as I followed Nina through a corridor packed with doctors, heartrenders, healers and all sorts of people. I must admit that, little by little, the composure I had managed to maintain during the last two days of the journey from Lij to Ketterdam was starting to crumble. Felt like I was on the edge of an abyss, spiraling into darkness.

Nina looked at me with sadness as she led me into a small, but well-lit room with a comfortable bed, where I rested my daughter. She was in a restless sleep and quietly muttering nonsense words, the fever must be getting worse.

“Kaz didn't send any letters, none of them. Y/N, they must be on the way,” Nina reassured me. “Now, I need you to stay calm for her, please. We will examine her immediately, but you also need to undergo tests. You could be as sick as she is.”

“No, you don’t need to. I'm not going to leave her alone here” I said, freeing myself from Nina's hands the moment when a tall, tired-looking man entered the room, he seemed to be middle-aged, even though he was visibly a Grisha.

Nina walked over to him and they started talking in whispers, probably discussing the situation. It was not uncommon for merchants and their families to seek privileges in cases of calamity, but being Kaz Brekker's family, these privileges often extended to any kind of perk. Obviously, by now, the entire hospital knows that the wife and daughter of Ketterdam's biggest criminal are looking for help.

I sat next to my daughter, holding her soft hand and massaging her temple with my fingertips. Just like she is my joy, she is Kaz’s world. The gravity, the humanity, the warmth that keeps him alive. She looks much more like him: her light eyes, her dark hair and even her pert nose. At times, they seemed to share the same thoughts, to the point where I felt like I was somehow invading their space. She was his world.

Kaz would be able to destroy cities to protect her from her enemies, but that would not be enough to protect her from death.

Death came. It invaded my life so abruptly that I didn't even have time to cry for mercy. One moment, my daughter was in a restless sleep, and the next, she was convulsing, with blood pouring from her eyes and nose... The harrowing sounds were the most terrifying, they seemed to echo endlessly in my mind; it was the sound of her choking as she tried to breathe through vomit.

When it was all over, as my daughter lay on the bed with her head at an awkward angle, a horrible sound filled the room, resembling a wounded animal. I couldn't take my eyes off her to find the source of that sound. Only then did I realize that I was the one issuing it.

Once, when I was a child and still enjoying my hunting adventures with my brothers, we witnessed a fox with its cub in a trap set by my father. The cub was trapped, one of its paws shattered between the iron teeth of the trap, it was still too small to understand human antics, and its mother, whether out of compassion or instinct, killed it before we could get closer.

In those minutes when I was afflicted with acute pain, I reflected on that fox mother facing the suffering of her cub. I thought about how I didn't have the same courage as her, about how I would rather rip my own legs off with my teeth and offer myself to the hunters in exchange for freeing my cub from his torment.

Later, when Nina released me from her embrace with a pale, tearful face, speaking words I could barely understand, I considered how naive both I and the hypothetical fox were being in placing our faith in the benevolence of a superior, divine being. Tearing out my legs, my heart, begging, crawling – would that make any difference? Probably not. Yet even so, I would be willing to sacrifice myself for centuries on end in exchange for my daughter's life.

When I got up from the ground, with shaky legs and still immersed in a painful lethargy, I walked over to my daughter. The heartrender had cleaned her face, but there were still bloodstains on the collar of her blue dress, the same one she had received as a birthday present from her father and which she loved because it made her feel like a fairy.

When I held her little face between my hands she was still warm, it seemed like at any moment she would wake up and smile and tell me it was just a trick. But it wasn't, I spent a long time holding her face waiting for this trick to end and it didn't happen.

When I placed a kiss on her forehead, my tears fell on her face. It was an eternal kiss, I didn't want it to end, I didn't want it to be the last. However, when I pulled away, Nina wrapped me in a comforting hug. Finally, she retreated to a corner of the room, leaving me alone to watch over my pain.

I held my daughter in my arms, I ran my fingers through her hair, her face, memorizing every little detail of her. Finally, when she was starting to feel cold and heavy, I moved closer to give her another kiss, and this time, it was Kaz's goodbye kiss.

It was outside the hospital that Kaz found me. Nina took me outside when a team of healers told us they needed the room. In Ketterdam, the city of death, they are very practical about sorting things out. I was sitting on one of the steps, trying to catch my breath and looking at nothing, when Kaz, Inej, Wylan and Jesper arrived in a grain truck.

I didn't understand what emptiness was, nor how distressing it could be. I had no idea that it could be deafening, that the blood would rush through my veins and that everything around me would feel cold to the touch. Emptiness was the absence of all emotions, and at the same time, it contained them all. And the pain of emptiness made it extraordinarily difficult to notice anything around me other than the image of Kaz.

He was disheveled, his black coat was dirty with dust, and his hair was messy, as if he had spent the last few hours pulling out the strands. His usually restrained blue eyes were showing all of his emotions. A shadow hovered over them, something I had never seen before: fear. And I didn't know how to act other than getting up, walking a few steps, and finally succumbing at Kaz's feet in the hope that the ground would swallow me.

My breathing is heavy and shallow, sobs tear from my throat. There were no more tears, it seems that I was no longer able to produce them, however, a rain began to fall on us, as if it could cry what I was unable to. Above me, Kaz was standing still. He was like a wall that refused to fall under a storm, under the weight of reality. He refuses to vocalize whatever he's thinking, I think he's also feeling empty. It's as if any trace of humanity has been drained from him.

Would he become Dirtyhands, being all practical while he waits for the poor creature I've become at his feet to pull herself together? Or would he become the fox cub caught in the trap, hoping I could rip his throat out when he, for the first time in his life, didn't have a plan to get around the situation?

“Y/N, darling,” whispered Inej, as if calling my name could tie me to the ropes of the earth again. Besides, what else could she say?

Is this the moment when I would hear the lamentations, the pity, that would follow me for the rest of my life when they found out about the daughter I lost?

“She's gone,” I said, lifting my head and looking at Kaz. “We were waiting for you... but she got worse, so I came to Ketterdam. I really thought she would get better, but she's gone, Kaz” my voice broke completely.

I think whatever strength had kept Kaz up until that moment was gone. He turned his back on us, walking toward the side of the building, his steps swaying as if he were drunk, until finally he collapsed. A scream tore through his chest, a scream of rage, of frustration and sadness. But above all pain.

There is a definition for children who lose their parents, but there is none for parents who lose their children.

What are we now? A mother without a child? What would I do now? Just go home and put all her things together in a box like party decorations?

I got up and walked over to Kaz, hugging him from behind. We lay huddled in the rain, me holding Kaz's body as he thrashed about in a horrible cry. I offered whatever comfort I had: I kissed his head, whispered empty words, held him close to me. If I wasn't a mom, then Kaz wasn't a dad.

He would never hold her in his arms again, he wouldn't smile when she played with his gloves, which were too big, and he wouldn't stand by her bed on sleepless nights, watching her sleep.

“Kaz, she loves you more than anything” I said. Loved, whispered my treacherous brain. Then, fighting the lump in my throat, I said, “They've already put her with the dead people.”

Kaz shuddered, the crying became silent. The vision no parent, least of all Kaz, wants to imagine. Like any other death in Ketterdem, whether of the poor or the rich, our daughter's would be treated with little ceremony. No mourning, no funeral.

She, who was always warm, was now alone in the cold of the Harbor.

On the days when Kaz couldn't bear any touch, she was the one who defied him by clasping her little hands around his neck. Or on the worst days, when he came from the Barrel with someone's blood on his sleeve, she covered him with kisses and smiles. Kaz loved her the moment he saw her, covered in blood, wet, crying... and warm. When she was a baby he treated her like porcelain, if he could he wouldn't even let me touch her.

My hands met Kaz's, he was clutching his chest as if he wanted to rip out his own heart. I held him, afraid that he would somehow disappear under the weight of his own grief. If he leaves too...

“On the trip, when she was awake, I told her that you love her. That you love her so, so much,” I whispered in his ear. Then, the worst. “I gave her your kiss goodbye”

How can we survive this?

“No, Y/N,” Kaz said in a pleading tone, “I’m sorry, please. I'm so sorry"

When we lack words, guilt appears. It's our fault? Were we really that horrible?

The Saints. They give and they take.

#mmgwbrekker #kaz brekker x reader #six of crows #grishaverse #kaz brekker

213 notes · View notes

exitpursuedbyavulcan · 4 months

Text

The Silver Dragon (6)

The Funeral

As the Targaryen and Velaryon households gather on Driftmark to mourn the late Lady Laena, Arianwyn is anxious about meeting not only her half-sisters, but her father for the very first time.

Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x OC (Daemon and Rhea's daughter)

Warnings: none

Author's Note: 😬

Series Masterlist - Previous Chapter - Next Chapter

Emrys let out a primal roar, the sound reverberating over the waters of Blackwater Bay. He huffed with agitation as he flew his rider toward Driftmark. Sunfyre and Dreamfyre flew ahead of them, the king’s ship sailing below. As dissatisfied as he was with their slow pace – a necessity to prevent them from arriving at their destination hours before the ship – it was the roiling emotions he sensed from his bond with Arianwyn driving him mad.

Arianwyn had not slept the night before, her mind and heart racing with anxiety about the coming day. Today, after more than ten years of total absence on his part, she would meet her father – Prince Daemon Targaryen.

As she tossed and turned in her bed, she considered each story she had ever been told about the man—the picture painted by one was often immediately contradicted by the next.

The man who rebuilt the city guard of King’s Landing, at last raising the capital from lawlessness. But he achieved this through unprecedented brutality; rumor claimed that on his first night as Lord Commander of the Gold Cloaks, multiple carts were required to haul away dismembered limbs and extremities.

The man who defeated the Crabfeeder almost single-handedly, restoring Westerosi rule to the long-besieged region. But his triumphant victory came mere hours after he beat a young squire to death, apparently without remorse, for the crime of delivering a message from King Viserys.

The man who, according to most, heroically swept into the Vale to rescue his helpless damsel of a wife. Whose heroics were so great that his wife could not help but finally succumb to him, eschewing nine years of barren marriage.

But Arianwyn knew the truth.

Daemon had not saved his wife – he killed her.

For beneath all his outward charms, the Rogue Prince was a man of selfishness and cruelty. A man who all but abandoned his firstborn before she was even born when he refused the Dragonkeepers offer of an egg for her cradle. Only weeks after Rhea’s death, he flew across the sea to start a new family with a new wife. Years later, he sent grand proclamations back to Westeros announcing the births of Baela and Rhaena, along with formal requests that dragon eggs be sent for their cradles.

Arianwyn’s heart clenched painfully as she remembered another story she’d been told. Just after Rhaenyra was named King Viserys’ heir, Daemon fled King’s Landing for Dragonstone. Six months later, he snuck into the Dragonpit to steal an egg for the child his mistress – some whore from the Street of Silk – supposedly carried. Fortunately, the princess was able to retrieve the egg safely. And in the process, discovered that the purported pregnancy had never been real.

Daemon had done more for the theoretical bastard of a whore than he ever had for his real daughter.

For Arianwyn, his only act of fatherhood was the rape of her mother.

In the days preceding their departure for Driftmark, her Septa had instructed her on what to say and how to act when she met Daemon.

She would do none of it, she decided.

The man never once spared a thought for her. She would happily return the sentiment. Let him defame her as he did her mother or beg her forgiveness for all his sins. She would not care. She would give him naught but the same cold indifference he had shown her for ten years.

But despite her determination, Arianwyn had still shaken with trepidation when she went to mount Emrys that morning. The trip across the Blackwater would be long, leaving her alone with her anxious thoughts.

She tried to have Aemond ride with her so he could keep her mind on other things. Emrys even seemed excited when the prince climbed aboard the saddle. But alas, the queen moved hastily to forbid it, and Aemond was forced to sail with his parents aboard the ship. He was likely being sick at this very moment.

So Arianwyn rode alone, almost thankful for Emrys’ restlessness – guiding him in circles around the ship helped divert her mind from what would happen when they finally landed on the island that was coming into view.

Driftmark had no Dragonpit nor caves or tunnels for the beasts to nest in. Instead, Aegon, Helaena, and Arianwyn landed their dragons half a mile from the castle High Tide on a rocky cliff overlooking a beach. Moondancer, Caraxes, and Meleys were already there, perched on some of the larger boulders as they lay in the sun.

The dragonriders were met by a small number of Velaryon guards, who quickly escorted them to a carriage sent to take them to the castle itself. The path they took was treacherous, winding uncomfortably close to the edge of the island’s cliffs. Each time the horses came too close to the sheer drops, Helaena would gasp, squeezing her eyes shut as she turned from the carriage windows.

Aegon scoffed, “You are a dragonrider, sister. Surely, a mere cliff should not scare you.” In the days since their betrothal was announced, his attitude toward his sister had soured. He no longer ignored her more peculiar tendencies, but seemed to take each as a personal insult.

Arianwyn was utterly exhausted by him. “The drop may be short, cousin,” she said, “but you forget that our carriage does not have wings.”

The prince huffed, blustering to find a witty response, but neither of the girls in the carriage paid any mind to his grumbling as they continued on to the castle.

By the time they arrived in the courtyard, the party from the ship had disembarked. Viserys, already visibly tired from the trip, sat in a cushioned chair servants had brought out for him. Lord Corlys stood before him, deep in hushed conversation with the king. Alicent and Rhaenys stood to the side, engrossed in their own discussion. Aemond stood by himself, leaning against a stone wall.

Daemon was nowhere to be seen. Neither were Baela, Rhaena, or Princess Rhaenyra and her children. But it wasn’t the idea of meeting them that had Arianwyn’s heart racing.

Reminding herself again that she did not care about her father, Arianwyn walked with her cousins as they joined the rest of her family.

At the funeral, Arianwyn stood not with her father and half-sisters, but with the King and Queen.

It made sense, she told herself. She had never met Lady Laena. It was not her place to mourn the woman alongside those who had known and loved her. But still, she noted the stares from the gathered nobility on the cliffs above them, and their questioning whispers about why she was not with her father or sisters.

She took comfort in the fact that those whispers were quiet. At least, they were compared to those of Rhaenyra’s children.

They, too, had never met Laena. But still, they wept. It had only been days since Harwin Strong’s gruesome demise. Their tears were interpreted by many as those of sons mourning their father, serving only to confirm their long-held suspicions of their parentage.

Arianwyn pitied them. Ser Harwin had always been kind to them, bringing them gifts from the docks of King’s Landing and training with them in the castle’s yard. He would be dearly missed. Besides, she would have happily switched places with them, exchanging a loving bastard father for an absent, true one.

As the Maester spoke, Arianwyn watched her father. She could find nothing of herself in his face. She had always been praised for the softness of her features; Daemon was all sharp angles and straight lines. His mouth was small, whereas hers was plump. His nose was large and straight, while hers was small and curved upward slightly. The only similarity lay in the color of their hair, but where his fell straight as bone, hers curled in wild, elegant wisps around her face.

She, at last, turned away when the Maester finished his prayers. Vaemond Velaryon stepped toward the coffin as soldiers of his house began to fasten ropes to the steel anchors embedded in the stone.

He spoke in High Valyrian. “Tubī Velario Lentro Ābrāzme Laene iēdrarta mōrqittot, māzīlarē tubirri Elēdrion ziry umīsilza luo dāriot, hannagon Embrurliot gierūlti.”

Arianwyn looked at her half-sisters. Baela leaned against her grandmother, Rhaenys, while Rhaena stood beside them, fists clenched at her sides. They, too, looked little like their father. From the sweetness of their faces, Arianwyn imagined that her stepmother had been very beautiful indeed.

Vaemond continued. “Solion tolijor zijosy pradarose, Ābrāzma Laena rāeniot hen eglio ilvot lanto taloti hembis. Pōja muña hen zȳho solio āmāzīlus daor, yn ānogrosa gierī ozletaksi humbilza. Velario ānogro rȳ lopor ojāris. Īlvon qumblī iāris. Īlvon drējī iāris. Se dōrī vajiñagon īlvon bēvilis.”

Daemon laughed then. A light, blithe chuckle – wholly out a place at such a solemn occasion. All in attendance turned their attention to him, even those who had been closely watching Princess Rhaenyra.

Arianwyn’s blood ran cold. As Vaemond had said those pointed words, “Īlvon qumblī iāris. Īlvon drējī iāris. Se dōrī vajiñagon īlvon bēvilis,” Ours runs thick. Ours runs true. And ours must never thin. Daemon had not been looking at Rhaenyra. Nor his wife’s coffin, nor even his daughters by his side. As those words were spoken, he laid his eyes on Arianwyn for the first time in her life.

And he laughed.

That afternoon, amongst the solemnity of the funeral reception, Arianwyn was seething with unquenchable rage. She knew she might face indifference from her father but had also entertained other possibilities. He may have taunted her as he did her mother or insisted she was a bastard. She had even thought that he might seek forgiveness for his years of neglect, repentant now that he had lost another wife.

Never once had she considered that he might find her laughable. Indeed, as he walked past her after the coffin had been lowered into the sea, an amused grin quirked on his face, though he did not turn his eyes to her. Nor had he approached her since.

Instead, Arianwyn sat with Helaena on the far end of the balcony, watching her cousin gently turn over a large spider in her hands as she recited words that seemed to have no meaning. She wanted to grab the spider and crush it in her hands just so she could make something hurt in the same way she did.

But she did not. Doing so would hurt not only the spider but Helaena as well. Arianwyn could never do that. So, she sat on the cool stone, anger crackling through her veins like lightning.

She knew Aemond was a few feet away, watching Helaena as well. But he did not approach, not even after Aegon left to chase after one of the servant girls. She wished he would. That he would say something – anything to make her feel better. But silence was his way. He would simply remain by her side as long as she needed him, as she had done for him countless times.

It was Princess Rhaenys who finally rescued her from her thoughts – and the presence of the spider. “Come, girl,” she said, her voice raw from days of weeping for her daughter. “It is high time you meet your sisters.” The Queen Who Never Was led Arianwyn carefully through the crowd, Aemond following discreetly behind them.

Baela and Rhaena sat on the other side of the balcony, hands entwined, on a stone bench and talked with Jace. Arianwyn instinctively dropped her gaze as they approached.

“Girls,” Rhaenys whispered, kneeling before her granddaughters, “I would like you to meet Arianwyn, your sister.”

Both girls’ eyes, brimming with tears, lifted to look at Arianwyn. She stood still and silent as they examined her, searching for familiarity in her face. Finding none, they mustered what smiles they could and murmured a greeting.

Arianwyn returned the smile, “You have my sympathies for the loss of your mother. I regret that I was never able to meet her.”

Rhaena nodded. “I’ve wanted to meet you for a long time.”

“Me too,” Arianwyn answered.

Baela tried to respond but only gave in to her tears, her sister following swiftly behind. She and Rhaena fell into their grandmother’s arms, sobbing. “I don’t want Mother to be gone,” she cried.

Sensing that pressing the introduction further would only be unkind to the girls, Arianwyn dipped her head in place of a farewell and walked away, mourning that her first meeting with her sisters required such a tragedy.

When she turned, she saw Aemond standing across a brazier from Jace. The corner of his mouth turned up as if he were about to speak, but he said nothing. Rather he nodded and turned away from his nephew.

“What did he say to you?” Arianwyn whispered as she took his arm and led him away, her protective instincts rising like the hackles of a threatened beast. Before he had left the Red Keep, Jace had begun to taunt Aemond even without Aegon present to egg him on.

Aemond shook his head. “He said nothing. I was going to offer my condolences for Ser Harwin, but I couldn’t think of how to say it without… you know.”

Arianwyn smiled, at last feeling her anger begin to subside. “That was very kind of you.”

Aemond had only just squeezed her arm when Alicent approached them. Her face was grave.

“Come with me, Aria,” the Queen said, her hand extended. “Your father is waiting to meet you.”

#aemond #aemond fanfic #aemond targaryen imagine #aemond targaryen fanfic #aemond targaryen #aemond one eye #aemond imagine #prince aemond #aemond x oc #house of the dragon aemond #house of the dragon #hotd #hotd aemond #aemond fic #hotd fanfic #aemond xf!oc #aemond x original female character #aemond x original character #the silver dragon

100 notes · View notes

hannahmanderr · 7 months

Text

Before we get into the chapter, a HUGE platonic smooch for @duchi-nesten who took the time to draw the Ancients from this story with bribery from me and @scarletsaphire I'm absolutely screaming over them still, they are just UGGHHH SO GOOD

From left to right is Zunje, Babel, Pele, and Kala!

Anyway, onto the chapter! It's an important one! ------------------------------------------------------------------------------ Everything begins. Everything ends. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Jazz flinched as another wayward blast of ectoplasm exploded into the wall of the office building across the street, reducing it to little more than rubble. The battle was becoming more and more destructive as time bled on, and her nerves were really starting to get to her. She needed to get back out there and put a stop to it.

Unfortunately, there was the slight complication of her parents.

She’d tried to play dumb when Frostbite slipped up, but it had been pointless. Frostbite had been all too happy to explain that the Great One was, in fact, the ghost hero known as Danny Phantom.

Perhaps if it had just been her dad there, she would’ve been able to distract him, or figure out how to explain it away, but as luck would have it, her mom had pulled up shortly after the ghost king’s arrival.

It didn’t take them long to put two and two together. At least, that’s what she assumed.

Even more unfortunate was that her concussion had spontaneously decided to rear its ugly head, causing her to lean over and throw up in the middle of the road. Mom and Dad were far less than keen on letting her continue fighting after that. She’d protested of course, pointing out that the all-powerful ghost king was about to raze Amity Park to the ground, but they wouldn’t have any of it.

She had been forced to take shelter behind a large pile of rubble, along with her parents and Frostbite, as the battle intensified. Pariah Dark’s question about Danny had been met with a brutal attack from one of the four-armed Ancients, and the battle had progressed from there. At some point, the little lava-haired Ancient had taken over the direct combat with the ghost king, aided by the gnome and the four-armed ghost with a cloak of clouds. The last Ancient - Pandora, if Jazz remembered correctly - had engaged the black-armored knight. Sam and Tucker were still out there, somewhere, working to keep the thrall army at bay.

And that was just the fighting. Overhead, in the sky, the rip that had heralded Pariah Dark’s appearance still gaped over Amity Park. The air seemed to vibrate with its intensity; Jazz could feel it prickling at her skin, making her feel foreign in her own body. Like reality itself was beginning to fail.

In short, things were Bad-with-a-capital-B.

Jazz leaned over to peer around the rubble protecting them. “We should really be out there,” she muttered, even as her head throbbed worse.

“You’re not going anywhere, young lady,” Mom said. “Not while you’re injured.”

“I told you, I’m fine! I got it out of my system, I’m good to go.”

“I may not know many details about human biology,” Frostbite said, arching an eyebrow at Jazz, “but I have enough experience with the Great One to know that head injuries are serious in humans.”

Jazz didn’t miss how her parents winced hearing about “the Great One” and his injuries.

They hadn’t said a word about Danny - Fenton or Phantom - since Frostbite’s slip-up. It only put her that much more on edge. Sooner or later, Danny would return, and if Mom and Dad were going to flip out and shoot him on sight, she wanted to at least have the chance to warn him.

As it was, she couldn’t tell what they were thinking. Her mother’s poker face was nothing short of perfect, and her father, though he often wore his heart on his sleeve, was strangely stoic about it all. If there was one thing Jazz hated, it was not knowing things, and not knowing their thoughts on Danny was killing her.

She could only hope and pray. The fact that they weren't actively trying to gun down Frostbite was a good sign at least.

But for the time being, she pushed those thoughts away. “Believe me, I know plenty about head injuries. I wouldn’t be wanting to go back out there if I thought it was serious enough.”

“I don't think the person with the concussion should be making that judgment ,” Mom said. “You won't be going anywhere until we know you're safe.”

Jazz frowned. Was that a hint of hysteria in her voice?

Yeah, that couldn't be a good sign.

Still, her words gave Jazz an opening. “Alright, fine! Whatever! It's not like the world is ending or anything, in case you haven't noticed. Why aren't you guys out there, at least?” Maybe if she could convince them to go back to the fight, she’d have a chance to catch Danny before they saw him. Maybe she’d have a chance to warn him.

Her parents didn't answer. They exchanged a glance that Jazz couldn't read, and Dad’s shoulders sagged. He opened his mouth. “We -”

“What's going on here?”

Jazz’s eyes snapped up to see Valerie hovering just behind her parents and Frostbite; Wes clung to Valerie with his eyes screwed tightly shut. Her parents turned at the sound of Valerie’s voice, and though Jazz couldn’t see her mom’s eyes behind the red-tinted goggles, she could only imagine the look on her face.

Her dad, however, beamed widely. “The Huntress!” he exclaimed, grabbing at Mom’s arm like an overexcited child.

To her credit, Valerie avoided wincing too strongly. “Yeah, that’s… me.”

“Did you find him?” Jazz asked. She didn’t bother to hide the anxiety in her voice.

Valerie frowned, but nodded. “Yeah, but he’s… well…”

“Can we maybe have this conversation on the ground?” Wes asked shakily. Valerie responded with a roll of her eyes, practically shoving him off her. He stumbled the short distance to the ground and collapsed spread-eagle on the street. “Thanks,” he muttered.

Dad’s nose crinkled in confusion. “Uh… is this the backup you were talking about, Jazzy-pants?”

Jazz ignored him. “What do you mean? Where is he?” she asked Valerie.

“It’s okay, I’m here!” a voice called out. A moment later, Danny - as Phantom - pulled up beside Valerie. “I’m here.” Jazz’s breath caught in her throat. She had known, of course, that Danny had gone to get the Crown of Fire, but for some reason, it hadn’t crossed her mind that he would have to wear it. Granted, the crown on his head now was most definitely not on fire, but she thought the frosted look complemented him much better than fire. The way it sat on his head, and the way the cloak he wore rippled in the breeze and caught the light…

He looked regal. Like he really was a king.

It made her heart swell with pride. Her baby brother… he had come so far. She’d never doubted his leadership abilities, not really. His common sense could be… debatable at times, but her brother had a good heart. He was still young, of course, and the thought of him being a monarch had never occurred to her, but in that moment, Jazz couldn’t help but think that the role suited him.

She must have shown it on her face, because Danny caught her eye, and his hand flew up to the back of his neck. “It’s a long story…” he muttered sheepishly, his cheeks growing green.

Jazz opened her mouth to respond, but Dad stood up abruptly, cutting her off. Mentally, she kicked herself. She’d gotten so distracted by his arrival, she’d forgotten about their parents.

Danny instantly paled. Whatever he saw in Dad’s face, it couldn’t have been good. Jazz tried to stand, to intercept him, but Frostbite gently held her down. “Easy,” he rumbled quietly. “Do not act prematurely.”

Of course, she wanted to protest that, but she quickly became distracted by her father’s slow approach towards Danny. Her mother wasn’t too far behind.

Danny’s hand twisted into the cloak, and he averted his gaze. “Look,” he began shakily, “I… I get it if you hate me, and - and I… I’ll let you hunt me down or tear me apart or whatever you want, but please, you have to let me stop all this first, or there isn’t gonna be a world for you to tear me apart in. I just need to - mmph!”

Jazz squeaked and clapped her hands to her mouth as Dad lunged forward. She pushed Frostbite’s paw away to stumble to her feet. She had to get there first, had to stop him from hurting Danny -

- but her heart stuttered to a stop as Dad wrapped Danny in a tight embrace.

“Danny,” he said, his voice cracking. “We were so worried… You have no idea…”

A stunned Danny returned the hug as Mom pulled down her hood and glommed on to his other side. “You don’t… hate me?” he asked, his voice muffled by their dad’s burly form.

“Listen to me, Danny,” Mom said, peeling him out of Dad’s arms and holding him by the shoulders. She looked him firm in the eye. “No matter what you do, no matter what you are, we could never, ever hate you. Never, do you hear me?”

Jazz could see the tears glistening in the corners of Danny’s eyes even from where she sat. His lower lip quivered the slightest bit before he threw his arms around Mom’s shoulders. “I’m so sorry,” he said hoarsely. “I should’ve told you forever ago, but I just…”

“It’s okay, sweetie,” their mom said, rubbing circles into his back. “It’s okay. We’ll have time to… to figure it all out.”

“Yeah, assuming the world doesn’t end first,” Wes snarked from his position on the ground. Jazz shot him a heated glare.

Valerie simply looked away and folded her arms across her chest. Jazz frowned. Something clearly wasn’t sitting right with her, but…

“Wait,” Dad said, furrowing his brow, “what’s this about the world ending?”

“It’s okay,” Jazz said. “The world isn’t going to end. Danny’s going to make sure of it.” Maybe she’d have felt more sure of her words if there hadn’t been a gaping hole in the sky threatening to rip reality apart, but someone had to look on the bright side.

Their parents glanced between the two of them. “What do you mean?” Mom asked slowly.

Before either of them could answer, another wayward ectoblast flew overhead, crashing into the roof of the building right above them. Huge chunks of rubble broke off of the building and began to plummet straight towards them.

Valerie reacted quickly, pulling Wes up by his shirt collar and grabbing Jazz to drag them to safety. Danny and Frostbite reacted just as quickly by throwing up ectoplasmic shields. The rubble slammed into them, then slid off the shields and away from the rest of the group.

Valerie whipped her head towards the battle. “I think I’m… gonna go help them,” she said. She flew off before Jazz could say anything, leaving nothing but a cloud of dust in her wake.

“I need to go help too,” Danny said thickly. He stared after Valerie. “It’s… that’s what I’m supposed to do. If I can beat him, everything will go back to normal… Mostly, anyway.” His hand twitched up towards his head.

Mom whipped her head in the direction of the battle. “Him?” she asked, nodding to where Pariah Dark and the lava-haired Ancient were still fiercely fighting each other. To Jazz’s horror, the Ancient seemed to be losing ground.

“Precisely,” Frostbite said jovially. How he could manage such a tone in these circumstances was beyond Jazz. “Once the Great One is able to defeat Pariah Dark, he can assume the throne and put the Heart of the Infinite Realms at ease! It’s quite simple, really.”

“Assume the - wait!” Wes shot upright. “You’re telling me that dumb crown isn’t just some weird costume?”

Danny flushed green, and his hand flew up to the back of his neck. “I, ah… like I said, it’s a long story.” He glanced at Mom and Dad. “I’m really sorry, believe me, I wish I could’ve told you differently, and I definitely wish it wasn’t the case, but…”

Jazz watched as Mom’s gaze drifted up to the crown on Danny’s head, as if she were just now noticing it. “What throne?” she asked weakly.

“Um… it kind of maybe sort of might be… the throne of the entire Ghost Zone?” Danny replied with a sheepish grin.

Dad scratched his head. “When did this happen?”

Danny’s face grew sober again. “I don’t know. I only just found out a few hours ago myself.” His eyes flicked away from their parents, down at his feet.

A pang of sympathy struck Jazz’s heart. Sure, Danny looked the part of a king, and somehow, she had no trouble believing he was the king, despite her earlier confusion, but somehow it had escaped her that he had barely had enough time to process everything. That everything was happening so quickly.

And their parents… it had to be equally difficult for them to process. They had only just learned their son’s true identity less than an hour ago, and now they were finding out he was essentially the heir to the throne of a world full of the same beings they had once sworn to annihilate. It would be a lot for anyone.

And so it nearly brought Jazz to tears when she saw Dad fight to plaster a smile onto his face. He placed a gentle hand on Danny’s shoulder. “Hey,” he said in a tone entirely too quiet for Jack Fenton, “it’s okay. Like your mother said, we’ll have time to figure it all out.”

Danny still didn’t look up. “Yeah,” he said, barely audible. “We’ll have time.”

His tone told Jazz he didn’t believe that in the slightest.

An ear-splitting roar shattered the moment. Everyone slapped their hands over their ears. Jazz only just managed to catch a glimpse of Danny gasping and hunching in on himself, clutching at his sternum.

A wave of hot air washed over Jazz. Trembling, she peered around the rubble, only to gasp in horror at the sight of the little girl Ancient bleeding lava all over the four-armed Ancient. She was still alive - as alive as a ghost could be anyway, but it was evident even from a hundred yards away that she was fully incapacitated. Pandora still fought with the knight, but everyone else - Sam, Tucker, Valerie, the other Ancients, even the thrall army - had practically frozen in place.

The most terrifying sight of all was the evil ghost king, looming over the street, staring straight at her.

No, staring straight at Danny.

“Come and meet your fate, little Prince!” he called mockingly. His voice reverberated over the street, causing buildings to rumble ominously. “Or will you take the coward’s way out?”

For a moment, the only sound that could be heard was the humming of the rip in the sky. Jazz held her breath as Danny glanced at their parents, then gently pushed Dad’s hand off his shoulder and took to the air.

“It doesn’t have to be this way,” he called back. “Just… give me the Ring before things get worse.”

Pariah laughed, a menacing sound that sent chills down Jazz’s spine. “Why should I surrender what is rightfully mine?”

Danny's eyes flared. “That power’s not yours. It’s mine.”

Jazz blinked at the sudden shift in Danny’s tone. It was still his voice, yes, but there was something about it…

Pariah roared wordlessly again. “Never!” he snarled. “Kilaris is MINE!”

With a guttural yell, he launched himself at Danny. Jazz could’ve sworn she saw a bright white light flare from the crown on Danny’s head, just momentarily, but when she blinked, it was gone, and Danny too had charged forward. The two collided in a blinding explosion of red and green.

Mom and Dad moved to follow Danny, but Frostbite held a paw up. “No,” he said, his voice somber and heavy. “This is not a fight you can help him with. He must win this by his power alone.”

“Listen here,” Mom snapped. “I don’t care how you do it in your world, but I will not stand by and watch my son fight some impossible battle on his own! I - we are going to help him, whether you like it or not!”

“I understand.” Frostbite flinched and threw up a shield just in time to stop another huge chunk of building from crushing them all. “But though you may not be able to help him in combat, there are other ways you can help him.” He glanced at Jazz. “Keeping your daughter and his friend safe, for one.”

“Pfft. Me? Friends with Fenton? Fat chance,” Wes scoffed.

“He will be able to fight with a sound mind if you help him protect yourselves and the other humans,” Frostbite continued, ignoring Wes. “And I must go and help my colleague.”

Mom turned, watching the battle with helpless eyes. “But… Danny -”

“ - will be just fine. But we must give him a fighting chance by helping elsewhere.”

“He’s right,” Dad said quietly, taking Mom’s hand. “We have to help get Jazz out of here. It’s getting too dangerous.”

“I told you, I’m fine! I can help too!”

Another explosion rang overhead. Jazz yelped and ducked as an enormous bolt of green energy flew over her head. It came close enough that she could feel its cold aura graze the top of her scalp.

“Y-you know, on second thought, I think I’m with Yeti Man over here,” Wes muttered, cowering behind a fallen wall. Jazz had to resist the urge to roll her eyes.

Her attention, however, quickly turned back to Mom. Again, she found herself wishing she could read minds. She could see the gears turning in her mother’s head after all, but Mom’s stoic face didn’t give her true thoughts away.

Jazz hated not knowing things.

Then Mom’s jaw tightened, and Jazz’s heart fell. She knew that look. “We’re getting you two to safety,” Mom said. Then, giving Frostbite a pointed look, she added, “And then we’re coming back to help Danny.”

Frostbite closed his eyes. “You will only distract him from what he needs to do. It is not wise.”

“That might be what you think,” Mom said as she bent down to help Wes stand, “but he's my son. I've let him struggle alone for too long.” Her voice cracked. “I have to start… making it up to him…”

“I assure you, the Great One does not bear any ill will towards you,” Frostbite said, frowning in sympathy. “This is not the time to begin ‘making amends’, though.”

Mom opened her mouth to retort again, but Dad laid a hand on her shoulder. “C'mon, Mads. We can figure it out later. Right now, we've gotta help these two.”

It was strange seeing her father being the rational, calm one, but Jazz chalked it up to the weirdness of the day. It was the only way she could keep it all straight in her head.

Mom shot Frostbite one last hard glare before leading Wes towards the RV sitting down the road. Dad scooped Jazz up into his arms and began carrying her to the RV, much to her embarrassment.

She opened her mouth to protest, but he cut her off. “Don’t you worry, Jazzy-pants!” he said. His tone was bright as always, but Jazz could tell it was at least somewhat forced. “Soon as you’re safe, we’ll get right back out there and help Danny kick some evil ghost king butt!”

Jazz bit her lip. “What about what Frostbite said? About… interfering?”

Her dad hesitated before answering. “I’m sure he’s wrong. You can’t trust a ghost, after all!” His face froze as soon as the words left his mouth. “I mean, uh, not Danny of course! He’s different.”

She didn’t quite know how to respond to that. That… was a misconception they’d have to clear up sooner or later.

As she peered over Dad’s shoulder, back towards where Danny was fighting tooth and nail against Pariah, she hoped there would actually be a sooner or later.

“Be careful, little brother,” she whispered to herself. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------ The thread flickered.

Clockwork frowned as he allowed it to flow across his hands and in between his fingers. This certainly was the correct timeline, he knew that without a doubt, but its flickering concerned him greatly. It had been so strong when Vlad Plamius made the decision to allow Danny the Crown, but now…

He closed his eyes as he sifted through time. Before, the future had been as clear to him as any other. Now though, he could only see up to a certain point before it was obscured behind what felt like a thick wall of mist. There was still a future there, yes, but not one he could see.

It was, in a word, unusual.

“My dear Kilaris, what are you up to?” he murmured as he let the thread of the timeline slip from his fingers and back into the broader tangle of Time. Its flicker became swallowed up by the combined glow of the cluster of timelines, but Clockwork knew it was still present.

His eyes drifted to one of his time windows. The same image of Danny exiting the portal that he had watched just an hour or so ago played out again, this time in real time. A thin trail of frost followed in his wake as he flew to meet his family. The frost shimmered briefly in the ethereal light of the rip in the sky above, leaving a silky, glowing strand, almost like -

- ah. Of course.

“Must you always be so overdramatic?” Clockwork said aloud, the semblance of a grin pulling at the corners of his mouth.

He rested his hands on top of his staff. He knew what needed to happen now.

It was only a matter of time. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Fighting Pariah was nothing like it had been the first time around.

Before, Danny had been fighting in a clunky mech-suit. True, it had helped enhance his powers (until it tried to kill him), but it had made his movements equally clunky and stiff. He’d needed to adapt to the added weight and size quickly, but it still cost him when he took a few crucial hits.

This time he was not bound by any suit. He was free to move as he pleased, using the advantage of his smaller form to move with agility and speed that Pariah did not possess. He could dive in close for a punch or a kick, then turn on a dime and dart away. He wouldn’t have been able to do that in the Ecto-Skeleton.

There was also the fact that he had the help of the Ancients. True, it looked like Pele had taken some nasty hits from Pariah and would be down for the count, but the others were still going strong especially with Zunje now, keeping the Fright Knight and the thrall army at bay. He didn’t like seeing Sam and Tucker down there in the fray, so close to his own battle with Pariah, but there wasn’t much he could do about it.

And then there was the Crown. It remained secure on his head, feeding him a power that buzzed through his veins and his core, making him feel like he’d just taken six shots of espresso mixed with pure ectoplasm. It was an exhilarating feeling, one that made him wish he’d actually used the Crown when he’d had the chance, during his first fight with Pariah.

(A wish he immediately scolded himself for.)

Danny gritted his teeth as he threw up another ectoplasmic shield, this one with a thick coating of ice thanks to the power of the Crown. It helped protect him from Pariah’s elemental attacks, which ran much hotter than his own.

Ectoplasmic fire exploded across the shield, and Danny could feel its heat as it curled around the edges towards him. He had to dig his heels into the air to brace himself against the sheer force of the hit.

Pariah didn’t give him a chance to fire back. No sooner had Danny lowered his shield did he see Pariah lunging for him, fangs bared and a fiery, maniacal look in his lone eye. Danny yelped and darted to the side, just barely missing Pariah’s fist.

Danny tried to respond with his own blast of ectoplasm, the Crown’s power coursing through him, but Pariah deflected it easily with his mace. The blast ricocheted off of it and into the street. Danny gasped as it flew right over Jazz’s head, just barely missing her by a foot.

That turned out to be a mistake. He should’ve known better than to let himself get distracted. It gave Pariah the opportunity to take another swing with his mace, catching Danny in the gut and sending him crashing into the ground.

Danny gripped his stomach and swallowed down a cry. The mace’s sharp spikes were not just for decoration, it seemed; they’d dug mercilessly into his torso, leaving him with deep, ragged gashes. The fall into the street hadn’t been too kind on his ribs, either. He could already feel the Crown diverting some of its power to the injuries, trying to heal him as quickly as possible.

Pariah roared as he dove for Danny, fire exploding to life around his fist. Danny managed to roll out of the way, and Pariah’s fist slammed into the street, cracking it even more. In any other fight, Danny probably would’ve tried to make some snarky comment about how the potholes in Amity Park were already bad enough and they didn’t need more, but he was still struggling to get air back in his lungs. Not to mention he found it much harder to crack jokes in the middle of his more serious fights, mostly because he had to concentrate on not getting beaten to a pulp.

As Danny rolled, out of the corner of his eye, he saw his father scoop Jazz into his arms. Mom helped Wes up, and they ran towards the RV, which was still parked haphazardly down the road. Miraculously, it was still standing.

He could almost breathe a sigh of relief. He still didn’t know if Sam and Tucker were safe or if they were still out there fighting the skeleton army, but knowing his family (and Wes) were safe offered him a little bit of reassurance.

Focus. Do not lose sight of the goal.

Right. The Ring. He still had to get that. Somehow.

It was going to be much easier said than done. Getting it off of Pariah’s hand seemed impossible, especially with the relentless drive of the king’s attacks. Danny barely had the chance to recover and launch his own attacks, let alone come up with a plan to swipe the Ring.

He forced himself up and into the air. His cloak flared with cold energy as he allowed ice to gather in his hands. That was another advantage he had this time around - the help from his elemental core. His ice attacks were some of his strongest, and he silently thanked whatever unseen force had granted him an ice core as he loosed the energy all at once, freezing Pariah’s entire arm to the street.

You’re welcome, little Prince.

Danny almost stopped in midair. That remark definitely sent a flurry of questions flying through his head, but he had to keep his attention on Pariah. We’re not done with this, he still thought back.

Of course not. You still have much to learn.

He didn’t think the Heart meant it as a dig, but he still mentally stuck his tongue out. Even if he didn’t have time to ask questions, he could still be sassy. No one could take his sass away.

It was strange how much clearer the voice in his head seemed now that he had the Crown on. It had been clear before, but there was a new clarity to it, like when his eye doctor gave him a new prescription for his contacts. He supposed it made sense; now, he had that direct contact.

It still didn’t explain why the voice sounded like his own train of thought sometimes.

Even stranger was the feeling of the power offered to him by Kilaris. It was stronger than the power he’d had while wearing the Ecto-Skeleton, and that had probably been the time when he was the most powerful throughout the past two years. It helped that unlike the Ecto-Skeleton, the Crown did not drain him of his energy as he used it; instead, it continuously fueled him, pouring more and more power into his body, like it could never run out. It was thrilling, this feeling of endless energy. His core practically vibrated from it all.

At the same time though, fear nagged at him. This was how it felt with just the Crown on. How much worse would it be once he got the Ring too? The thought sent a chill down his spine, and he found himself subconsciously beginning to suppress his core. Suppress the ceaseless power flooding into him.

Why stop the power you are meant to have?

Danny swallowed.

That’s exactly what he was afraid of.

It all passed through his mind in the few seconds it took for Pariah to begin trying to melt the ice securing him to the ground. “Why you little -!”

More ice pooled in Danny’s hands. “Sorry,” he said as he re-froze Pariah’s hand to the street. “You just looked like you needed to chill out.”

Pariah bellowed, and the ice cracked and shattered. “Impertinent child!” he sneered. “When I am in control once more -”

“Save it!” Danny fired off a round of concentrated bolts of ice in quick succession, forcing Pariah to retreat a little. “I already told you, the Heart’s not yours anymore! It hasn’t been for a long time!”

“And you dare presume it is yours?” Pariah said. He quickly gained back the ground he had lost by leaping at Danny again.

Of course, Danny easily flew out of the way. “I don’t ‘presume’ anything!” he shouted. “I already know!”

It probably wasn’t the smartest thing to say, and he really didn’t like the taste the words left in his mouth, but if he’d learned anything throughout his career as Danny Phantom, it was that his opponents got sloppy when he riled them up. Snarking at them just happened to be the easiest way to do so.

Is it truly “snark” if you speak the truth?

In spite of himself, Danny almost laughed. If you’re gonna be stuck with me, you better get used to the snark, whether it’s true or not. We come as a package deal.

He ducked out of the way of another punch. He didn’t recover quick enough; by the time he managed to turn around to face the king, an entire wall of red energy was surging at him. There wasn’t time to fly around it. It struck him with a force so strong, he was thrown back more than a hundred yards.

His ribs groaned in pain as he slammed into the concrete and skidded back a few more yards for good measure. Nausea churned in his stomach from the blow, and he had to resist the urge to lean over and throw up. All too soon, Pariah was on top of him again, swinging his mace.

Knowing there was no way he could move in time, Danny turned intangible and allowed himself to sink into the ground. He counted to three, just enough time to get his nausea under control, then called ectoplasm to his hands. With the Crown’s power, the energy’s green glow was so bright, it almost seemed white.

It wasn’t difficult to track Pariah’s hot ecto-signature underground. Danny lined himself up underneath him, then sprang from the ground. His blazing fists collided straight with Pariah’s jaw. It didn’t push Pariah back like he had hoped, but it distracted him long enough for Danny to fire his ectoplasm in one long, continuous blast.

Pariah growled under Danny’s onslaught before finally bringing up a red shield. “You truly think this will be enough to stop me?”

Danny didn’t let up. “I’ll do whatever it takes to stop a monster like you from hurting the Realms again.”

“Really now?” Pariah twisted his shield into a blast of his own. It pushed against Danny’s, and he once again had to dig his heels into the air behind him to keep from being thrown back again. “Then why don’t you?”

Danny’s heart skipped a beat, and his attack faltered for the briefest of moments. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I think you do,” Pariah said, laughing. “I have seen you. I have seen your fears, your doubts…”

“You don’t know me at all!” Danny yelled. Frustration distracted him, and he unwillingly drew on the Crown’s power to fuel his blast. “Just ‘cause you got in my head once doesn’t mean anything!”

“Poor little Prince,” Pariah cooed mockingly, as if Danny hadn’t even spoken. “This is why you are weak. This is why you will fail to protect everything you stand for. You are nothing more than a scared child.”

Danny couldn’t stop the anger-fueled energy pouring into him and, subsequently, pouring out of his hands. The Crown was all too happy to supply it. It just responded to him too easily. It responded to his resentment of Pariah, his frustration at the tyrant king’s insinuation that he was a coward, his rage at the fact that Pariah refused to hand over what was rightfully Danny’s -

Danny screwed his eyes shut tightly. That last one, he knew it was the Crown’s influence, but he couldn’t stop it. It was all coming too hard, too fast, too strong, and it was thrilling. The power flooding through the Crown just felt so right, like maybe he really was meant to have it all along.

He wanted to throw up.

The power demanded a release. It thrummed against Danny’s skin, coursing through his core, making his green ectoblast grow brighter and brighter until it was nearly a blinding white. It would not remain bound for much longer.

And so with a guttural yell, he unleashed it.

He wasn’t entirely sure what happened - the rush of energy leaving him all at once had left him overwhelmed and disoriented - but when he opened his eyes, the whole block had a thin layer of ice covering it, sparkling in the ethereal light of the rip above. Large branches of the trees in front of the buildings had frozen and cracked off the trunks, shattering on the ground below. He could see at least one downed power line.

Pariah had fallen to the ground, into a huge crater Danny swore hadn’t been there before. Crystals of frost coated his hair and his cape. He slowly sat up, rubbing his head, clearly just as disoriented as Danny.

Danny stared at his hands in horror. Did I really do that?

The Heart didn’t answer him. He couldn’t tell if that was good or bad.

Probably bad. For him, anyway.

And in that moment, he swore to himself he’d never allow the Crown to give him that much power ever again. Never.

(No matter how right it had felt to control it.)

Pariah’s cough caught his attention. “You…” he muttered before stopping abruptly.

Danny’s breath caught in his throat as Pariah’s lone eye fell on the Crown sitting on his head. For just a brief moment, the world seemed to screech to a halt around them, and a silence filled the air, so thick it left a dusty taste in Danny’s mouth. Even the rip in the sky above seemed to pause in its yawning.

Then a fire sparked to life behind that one eye and a wave of heat crashed over Danny, nearly knocking him over. The roar Pariah let loose chilled Danny to the bone and left a whiny ringing in his ears. He didn’t even bother to try and stand his ground against a rage so strong; he simply turned and rocketed off in the other direction.

Just in the nick of time too, it seemed, as Pariah lunged after him. In an instant, a flurry - no, a storm of scarlet ectoblasts surrounded Danny. He twisted and ducked and dived and put all his flying skills to the test trying to dodge them all. It was difficult, since the blasts were all coming from behind him, but strangely enough, he felt as though he could sense them in the air as they flew at him, like he could just tell where they were without looking.

“Is that you?” he asked as he narrowly avoided yet another attack.

On the contrary. It is you, little Prince.

“That makes zero se- agghh!” A blast clipped Danny’s side, sending a flare of white hot pain up his ribcage. The blast was strong enough to send him careening off course, and he couldn’t stop himself from colliding with a building and plummeting to the street below. His head hit hard enough to cause his vision to go black.

He groaned pitifully as he laid on the road. The pain shooting through his side felt as though it was trying to burn straight through him, even in spite of the cloak and Crown’s efforts to heal him. Something sticky and wet pooled underneath the hand gripping his side.

For a minute, he just laid there, fruitlessly trying to will the pain away. Unbidden memories of being in a very similar pain in a very similar fight began to well up. He forced them back down. Not right now.

A blood-curdling scream had his eyes flying back open.

Vision half-blurry from the fall to the ground, Danny pried his head up off the street and looked. In front of him was the elementary school, surrounded by a shimmering green ghost shield. Normally, he wouldn’t have cared, since it was after school hours and the building would normally be empty, but his eyes landed on a small crowd of civilians, hovering near the inner edge of the shield and watching the battle with fear in their eyes. The scream had come from a little girl no older than six, covering her mouth in horror and pointing at him.

No, pointing behind him.

With a grunt of pain and a tremendous effort, Danny took to the sky again, wobbling in midair. Pariah’s boots slammed into the street not a second later, right where he had been laying.

This was bad. This was really getting bad. He was injured, and though the Crown and the cloak kept his energy levels high enough for the most part, he was devoting too much energy to the fight to focus any towards healing himself. Energy didn’t exactly help when it was his physical body that was damaged.

And now there was the fact that he had a slew of people behind him, huddling underneath a ghost shield. True, it would protect them from Pariah, and it would protect them from stray blasts, but rubble could easily go flying in, or someone could step out of the protected radius. It was too dangerous to keep the battle this close to them.

(Not to mention he saw more than one cell phone out and recording, and that definitely set him on edge.)

He tried to dart away from the shield, but Pariah managed to snag his collar as he whizzed by. He gagged and his hands flew up to his throat.

“A coward!” Pariah cackled. “That is who you are! Fleeing from the battle? Fleeing from those under your protection?” He threw Danny into yet another building. “And Kilaris dares deem you worthy?”

“So you admit it,” Danny coughed. His hand gripped his side again. “That the Heart wants me over you.” Not that he was crazy keen on that fact.

Pariah’s face morphed into a dark frown. “The Heart’s opinion is worthless!” he snapped. “It is I who controls Kilaris! Its will bends to me!”

In spite of the pain and every instinct telling him not to, Danny shot Pariah a cocky, albeit weak, grin. “Bet.”

He had to keep from laughing at the stunned look on Pariah’s face. It was clearly not the response he had been expecting to his declaration, and the fact that Danny had been able to catch him off guard that badly was priceless.

The humor didn’t last long, though. In the blink of an eye, Pariah was charging at him again. This time, Danny anticipated it enough to be able to phase back through the building. He emerged at the ground level, underneath Pariah, who was still looking for him.

Danny moved to leap up once more, but his ribs screamed in protest. He hissed as he tried to keep from doubling over.

The cloak’s interior had to be sub-zero at this point, it was working overtime. Another layer of frost was beginning to glaze over it. The Crown too grew colder on his head, feeding pulse after pulse of energy into him.

You have been holding back, little Prince. The power has the capability to heal you and aid you in battle simultaneously, but you must let go of your fears if you are to use its true potential.

Danny didn’t answer. He was too distracted barely dodging Pariah’s mace and firing up a barrage of ice at him to do so.

There was also the little fact that he didn’t want to answer. He didn’t want to… couldn’t acknowledge…

Yet he couldn’t deny just how badly his core wanted it. The memory of how that power had felt just those few minutes ago burned through his head, and his core jumped in earnest.

He gritted his teeth and forced his core to quiet. It would be fine.

It had to be.

As soon as the ice left his hands, though, he collapsed in on himself once more, clutching his bleeding side. It was long enough of a distraction for Pariah to slam his feet into the street, causing enough of a quake to knock Danny off his feet and to the ground.

Okay, so maybe it wouldn't be so fine.

Pariah swung his mace down again, and Danny responded with a green shield. It was too hasty, not properly formed, and it shattered underneath the force. Danny yelped and tried to roll away, but the mace still clipped his back, tearing open the skin there.

Yeah, definitely not so fine.

The temptation to give in and let the Crown flood him once more was growing by the minute. Danny didn't know how long he could sustain himself with all these injuries, let alone how he could win the fight and take the Ring. His core ached to be filled by the Heart's power. He knew that if he let it happen, it would almost guarantee his victory.

But his eye caught the ghost shield behind him, where the crowd of civilians stood watching him with horror painted on their faces. He remembered just how badly he had destroyed the block over when he'd let the Crown's power overwhelm him, and his stomach flipped. No way could he put his people in that sort of danger.

You can control it, little Prince. You are more than capable.

Again, Danny didn't respond. The battle consumed too much of his focus. Gasping against the flare of hot pain, he took to the air once more to avoid yet another swing of Pariah’s mace. It missed him by a hair. He raised his hands once more to answer with an attack of his own, and -

“Danny!”

It was instinct. He turned his head at the sound of his mother calling his name.

It was the worst mistake he could’ve made.

He met his mom’s eyes for just a moment, but it was a moment enough for Pariah to make his move. Danny didn’t register the heat moving behind him until it was too late. He turned around just in time to see Pariah’s hand flying towards him.

Reflexively, he turned intangible in the nick of time. Pariah’s hand sailed harmlessly through his head and out the other side. His tangibility returned, and he reached out to return the attack.

It wasn’t until an emptiness unlike any other hit him like a brick wall that he realized it hadn’t been him Pariah had been gunning for.

Danny immediately dropped to his knees and doubled over in pain as his core cried out. Just like at Vlad’s, his core felt like it had been ripped straight from his chest and drained of all its energy. Cold air surrounded him as his cloak flared to life, trying desperately to compensate for the lost energy. The only sound was his frantically pulsing heart in his ears, and he couldn’t catch his breath enough to shout.

It hurt. Ancients, it hurt.

And unlike at Vlad’s, the emptiness pressed on.

Danny managed to look up as panic bubbled to the surface. His stomach only churned worse when he saw Pariah standing in front of him with a wild grin, holding the Crown that had been sitting on Danny’s head.

“You should’ve surrendered when you had the chance, little Prince,” he said.

Danny tried to respond, but couldn’t. It was too much. The void inside him felt like it was about to swallow him whole, just like the void above was threatening to swallow Amity Park.

Please, he begged in a fit of desperation, help me!

The Heart didn’t respond.

“It cannot help you now, child,” Pariah Dark laughed, as if he had read Danny’s mind. “Not when it is finally back in the hands of its true master.”

And as Pariah laughed once more and raised the Crown to put it on his head, Danny lifted a feeble hand towards him, trying to call up his ice, his ectoplasm, his anything, anything that could stop him. He couldn’t feel his power, he couldn’t feel his core, he couldn’t feel his Heart -

Pariah roared in pain. Danny’s head snapped up to see him drop a steaming Crown. It landed on the street with a loud clatter as Pariah held his also-steaming hand close to his chest.

“You!” he bellowed, glaring daggers at the Crown. “You will yield! That power is MINE!”

Danny ignored him. He had zeroed in on the Crown and begun to drag himself toward it. Somewhere in the back of his head, he realized he probably looked absolutely ridiculous right now, and it pained him to think about how badly he wanted - needed to get the Crown back, but he didn’t care.

He couldn’t tell if he was simply imagining it, but he could almost feel a little tendril of power, reaching out to him, trying to hook into his core, trying to pull him closer.

Pariah roared again, and Danny had to retreat back into the cooling comfort of his cloak as a wall of heat crashed into him. “No!” he snarled. “If you will not bow to me, then you will have no one!” With a shout that shook Danny to his bones, Pariah snatched the Ring from his finger and threw it down next to the Crown with such force that it formed a little crater.

Danny’s heart began to pound even faster. This was it. This was his chance. He just had to move -

But he never made it. Pariah unleashed a terrible scream, and then hot, red energy poured from his hands.

Straight onto the Crown and the Ring.

If losing the Crown had hurt, Pariah’s attack on it was excruciating. Danny gripped his head and his core, unsure if he was the one screaming or if it was someone else or if he was just imagining it.

“Stop!” he managed to gasp. “You - hurting…”

But Pariah paid him no mind. Instead, he yelled louder, and another barrage of energy slammed into the Crown and Ring. Danny reacted as though he had been the one to get hit, falling to his stomach and crying out soundlessly.

He could barely see the Crown and Ring through Pariah’s onslaught, but when he finally gathered the strength to lift his head and look, his entire being froze.

A crack appeared in the Crown.

And now he was sure he wasn’t imagining the scream of pain because it definitely had to be him with how his core cracked too, and there was definitely another voice screaming in harmony with his and Ancients, of course it would be screaming, with the way Pariah -

“I am the power of the Realms!” Pariah roared, and another crack appeared in the Crown.

Danny reached out one last time, but he knew it was fruitless. There was no way…

Danny cried out.

The Crown and Ring cried out.

Kilaris cried out.

And then

Kilaris

s h a

t t

e r e

#danny phantom #danny fenton #ghost king danny #fanfic #danny phantom fanfic #hannah writes #supernova #jazz fenton #pariah dark #i have no clue what else to tag this

61 notes · View notes

littjara-mirrorlake · 3 months

Text

Daily Life in the Phyrexian Spheres (Dross to Seedcore)

Previous: Facade to Furnace, Maze to Bays

The Dross Pits, much like its previous incarnation in the Mephidross of Mirrodin's surface, is a sphere rife with intrigue, double-crossing, and back-alley deals. The social structure is feudal, with lords ruling over masses of serfs and slaves, and thanes make up the top of the social pyramid. Dark, towering citadels of flesh and bone rise out of the necrogen mists, which bathe the entire layer in an eerie green glow. Large swathes of territory are controlled by thanes, lords, and magical creatures such as blight dragons and archfiends.

This sphere is densely populated, with the vast majority of its inhabitants making up the servant classes that live and die under feudal lords. Compleated Mirrans begin at the very bottom and most have little hope of ever ascending past this station, as the Steel Thanes' obsession with Phyrexian purity leads to heavy discrimination against those who are not Phyrexian-born. This obsession extends to a scrutiny of every Phyrexian's pedigree--the further removed a person is from their last non-core-born ancestor, the purer their bloodline is considered, leading to a higher chance of social advancement. As such, first-generation core-born Phyrexians (born to compleated Mirrans) are only barely considered truly Phyrexian and share their parents' meager social standing. As Phyrexians are immortal and have no need for heirs, faction members produce scions to serve their own advancement, not to eventually succeed them. Of course, said scions are rarely happy with this arrangement, seeking to usurp their parents and seize their assets instead.

Magically and technologically, the inhabitants of the Dross Pits largely focus on emulating Yawgmoth-era techniques gleaned from scrying the glistening oil. Due to the heavy emphasis on ichor magic and intrigue, glistening oil from individuals of interest--and the intelligence it contains--is an invaluable commodity in the Dross Pits. Bloodsuckers like necrosquitoes and pistid swarms are often employed to this end, fueling an illicit trade of stolen bodily fluids.

Much like the Furnace, the Dross Pits do not have an overarching system of governance or standard of law, and political allegiances vary widely. Pockets of the Dross Pits are strongholds of the Phyrexian rebellion, though they are severely handicapped by the loyalist spheres blocking them both above and below. Every thane has at least nominally allied with either Elesh Norn or the rebellion, though they are ultimately beholden only to themselves and care little for the ideals of either side.

The Fair Basilica is the innermost inhabited sphere and the de facto capital of New Phyrexia, where Elesh Norn rules from her palace and the majority of the Phyrexian military is housed. In the heart of Norn's empire, every aspect of daily life is carefully regimented and monitored; people are marched in orderly rows down alabaster bridges, flanked constantly by armed enforcers and their swarms of patrol mites. Flights of angels keep constant watch in the skies. Staggering acts of brutality are committed against any who display signs of deviance, and commoners are all too used to keeping their heads down and trying not to watch as their peers' oil is scrubbed from the streets.

Every resident of the Fair Basilica is expected to devote a significant portion of their time to worship, and the rest to assigned duties like patrolling or working the flesh-vats. Those who need to sleep do so on strict schedules under the watchful eyes of supervisors. Newts are raised by the state, rigorously educated on the Orthodoxy's religious tenets, and often apprentice under cenobites, which continues after their compleation; Mirran aspirants commonly join them.

Though it relies heavily on other spheres for commodities like raw material and technology, the Fair Basilica is at least self-sufficient in growing its own porcelain metal, which spreads in a fungus-like manner on recently dead flesh. It is mass-produced in giant growth vats, alongside Basilica inhabitants' germ offspring and seedpod centurions for the invasion (often bodies without minds, hollow for puppeting via ichor magic).

Rebellion is most difficult in the Basilica due to its oppressive environment and authorities' vested interest in controlling the flow of information--and oil--into and out of the sphere. The news fed to residents is tightly curated, requiring workarounds to even hear of the rebellion's presence at all. That said, dissident spies have managed to infiltrate even the innermost of the loyalist spheres.

The Mycosynth Gardens form a natural barrier between the populated Phyrexian spheres and the Seedcore, and passage through them is controlled exclusively by Elesh Norn herself. The Gardens themselves are uninhabited by sapient Phyrexians, though fauna like inkmoths and skitterlings roam the silent lattices, and the mycosynth itself is known to create lures or other, more cryptic structures that mimic passersby.

The Seedcore, the innermost layer of New Phyrexia, is the domain of Elesh Norn alone, where she keeps the World Tree sapling Realmbreaker imprisoned and firmly subjugated under layers of mind-altering magic. Very rarely, Norn holds the most confidential of her audiences here with her inner circle or other crucial allies. The sphere is heavily warded against incoming divination, telepathy, and any other possible interference with Norn's plans, but here lays Norn's crucial oversight: there are no such protections against communication going out, allowing Realmbreaker's telepathic distress call to pass through into the Multiverse.

And that's it for overviews of the nine Phyrexian spheres, from the perspective of a far more average commoner Phyrexian than we're used to hearing about. There's always more to be said about each of them, of course, and I hope this helps get people started thinking about their own expansions, headcanon, or additions!

#mtg #magic the gathering #daily life in the phyrexian spheres #new phyrexia #phyrexian #worldbuilding #dross pits #fair basilica #elesh norn #mycosynth gardens #seedcore #realmbreaker #eight #vorthos

49 notes · View notes

wanderersrest · 4 months

Text

An Abbreviated History of Mecha Part 3.2: Condition Green (1986-1990)

Welcome back to An Abbreviated History of Mecha! Last time, we covered the first half of the 80's with a bit too much of a focus on the works of one Ryousuke Takahashi. If you remember from the last post, I also covered one series in particular: Legend of the Galactic Heroes. I'm bringing it up here so that it'll be fresh in your head: Galactic Heroes would be one of many Original Video Animation (OVA) series that would be released in this time.

It should also be noted that, unlike last time, there would be a new medium for mecha stories to flourish in: video games! While video games existed at least since the late 70's, it would be in the 80's where they would become mainstream.

Anyways, let's get down to business. Now, before I throw each and every one of you into the bay!!

The Five Star Stories (1986)

Created by Mamoru Nagano, the Five Star Stories would be his first major solo project after leaving Sunrise due to the higher-ups constantly blue-balling him. Covering at least five books and a couple of OVAs, the Five Star Stories is one of the true classics of the canon of mecha.

Now if you want to get an inkling of what he did before the Five Star Stories? I'll cover that next time.

Metal Armor Dragonar (1987)

Coming off the heels of Mobile Suit Gundam ZZ, Sunrise was eager to fill in the void that Gundam left in its wake. And that's where Metal Armor Dragonar comes in. While I felt weird referring to Layzner as being Gundam-like, here I don't. Dragonnar was made first and foremost to fill in for Gundam, especially after the lackluster performance of ZZ.

Robocop (1987)

Also in 1987, we would see the release of Paul Verhoven's Robocop. Robocop is a part of that generation of 80's films where the original movie's deep scathing criticism would be watered down by corporate America's need to constantly make money off of each and every remotely popular series. And while that may be true, the original Robocop still holds up as a scathing criticism of American capitalism in the 80's.

Rockman/Megaman (1987)

(I just found this gif on Tenor. If anyone knows who to source it to, please let me know.)

1987 would also see the release of Capcom's Megaman, one of the icons of the halcyon days of gaming. Sporting his arm-mounted Mega Buster, Mega Man would run through multiple stages in an attempt to stop Doctor Wily and his army of Robot Masters. Megaman would become one of the more iconic of Capcom's roster of characters, though over time he'd be left behind in favor of other characters like Ryu from Street Fighter, Dante from Devil May Cry, and my personal favorite, Rathalos from Monster Hunter. Fortunately, the Blue Bomber would never truly be forgotten, especially with the surprise release of Mega Man 11 in 2018.

Warhammer 40,000 (1987)

Man, 1987 was a packed year for mecha, wasn't it.

In 1987, Games Workshop would release the first edition ruleset for Warhammer 40,000, the sci-fi spinoff to their popular Warhammer Fantasy setting. The grim dark future of the 41st millennium is filled to the brim with all sorts of mechanical monstrosities, from the hulking Imperial titans, to the crimson-robed tech priests of the Adeptus Mechanicus and the mechanical hordes of the Necron.

A fun thing to also note is that, due to both series having a big modelmaking scene, Warhammer 40k tends to see an overlap in fanbases with Mobile Suit Gundam. It certainly helps when both peddle in plastic crack, and as someone who is addicted to the Gundam variety, game respects game.

Patlabor (1988)

Created in 1988 by the collective known as Headgear (which includes famed director Mamoru Oshii among its ranks), I would consider Patlabor to be one of the greatest love letters to mecha ever created. Patlabor is a series where a lot of worldbuilding was added to justify the existence of the giant robots that the creators love so dearly. Something to take note of while watching Patlabor is the general optimism the series brings to the table, even though the series is often grouped together with shows like Armored Trooper VOTOMs.

Most of the series would release between the the end of the decade, but one entry in this franchise would release during a rather rough moment in Japanese history. I'll cover it at some point when I get around to the 90's. Let's just say that if you know what the phrase "Kill Wyvern" is, you'll probably recognize what it'll be.

Also, not to toot my own horn or anything, but I did a write about Patlabor back in the day. So feel free to check that out as well if you have the time.

Cyberpunk 2020 (1988)

(Footage from Cyberpunk 2077)

In 1988, Mike Pondsmith would release the first edition of the Cyberpunk 2020 ruleset, because this is the 80's and tabletop RPGs are kind of the thing (Satanic Panic notwithstanding). In a move that will surprise no one, this series would help to codify a lot of tropes associated with the cyberpunk genre, including at the very least the concept of cyber psychosis.

In 2012, former Internet darling company CD Projekt Red would announce that they would be working on a video game adaptation of Cyberpunk called Cyberpunk 2077. Let's just leave it at that, as I don't really have nice things to say about CD Projekt Red.

Dragon's Heaven (1988)

From mechanical designer Makoto Kobayashi comes 1988's Dragon's Heaven. This extremely stylish and artistically unique OVA is a product of what happens when you give someone who's career started with building garage kits the budget to make an OVA. You want to know where the budget went to? It went into making the models for the main mecha of the OVA. Don't take my word for it? Here's Kenny Lauderdale talking about exactly that.

And in case anyone's wondering, Makoto Kobayashi has, in fact, worked on Gundam before. He's the one who designed Zeta Gundam's Baund-Doc and The O.

Ghost in the Shell (1988)

Also releasing in 1988 is the manga Ghost in the Shell. Created by Masamune Shirow, Ghost in the Shell would become an important series in the worlds of cyberpunk and anime, especially with the film that would release in 1995 directed by Mamoru Oshii. Specifically, this movie along with Akira would be some of the first anime that would really show that people outside of Japan had an interest in anime. Ghost in the Shell would also come to be one of the more influential works out there, as it would be the basis for the Wachowski's iconic movie The Matrix.

Mobile Suit Gundam 0080: War in the Pocket (1989)

1989 would be greeted with the introduction of two (of many) culturally important mecha OVAs. The first is Mobile Suit Gundam 0080: War in the Pocket, which is also the first Gundam series to be directed by someone not named Yoshiyuki Tomino. War in the Pocket would be a great reminder of why Gundam works as a story, but it would also be one of the Gundam stories with, in my humble opinion, the strongest anti-war messages of the franchise.

Gunbuster (1989)

The other would be Studio Gainax's first official (meaning not the Daicon short) animated series, Gunbuster. Arguably one of the most hot-blooded mecha series out there, Gunbuster is a series that tries to ground itself with real world physics before going "eh," throwing it all in the waste paper basket, and deciding that all we need is HOT BLOOD. This would be the first of many of Gainax's hits, and it would be the first of what I'm going to be referring to from here on out as Gainax's Elite Four.

Conclusion

We've covered a lot of series, but you might be asking yourself things like: "What was going on with Nagano?"

Don't worry, my friends. We still have one more part for the 80's. And in case you're wondering why I saved this part for last, it's because Tomino's output in the 80's is pretty legendary due to how iconic pretty much every series is. Granted, not everyone talks about these series in this day and age, but anyone who's talked about mecha in any capacity will more than likely be able to recognize at least one of these series.

You will see the tears of time.

#anime and manga #mecha #patlabor #gunbuster #ghost in the shell #metal armor dragonar #the five star stories #dragons heaven #robocop #megaman #rockman #megaman classic #cyberpunk ttrpg #warhammer 40k #war in the pocket #mobile suit gundam #gundam 0080

20 notes · View notes

ladystarksneedle · 1 year

Text

Her dreams are a maze she glides through.

Across the cloudy skies, over the glittering bay, through the lush trees lining the Keep to the gardens amidst the rocky fortress abutting the jagged coastline. Through the markets and alleyways of crowded capitals to fish towns and bustling trading ports nestled beneath the tide. Through the cobbled streets, the archways of wisdom, to the sanctity of the pious and the glowing emerald tower, threads binding each destination irrevocably.

Spool of black, spool of green, a web weaved through time. A lone dragonfly observes the Widow at work, breathlessly awaiting her fate.

#house of the dragon #helaenacore #helaena my beloved #helaena the dreamer #queen helaena #helaena targaryen #hotd helaena #hotdedit #hotd imagine #helaena imagine #zae's fics #helaena fics

45 notes · View notes

whiteravengreywolf · 9 months

Text

A Kiss for a Gift - a Wolfwren Christmas fanfiction

A/N: Hello everyone! Merry Christmas! As advertised multiple times I've posted a Christmas one-shot set in my High School AU. Here is the beginning and if you want to read the whole story the link will be at the end!

The Life Day Market of Capital City was the biggest in Lothal. The whole plaza at the foot of the central tower was taken over by lights, wooden chalets and all the Life Day decorations the place could handle, green and red and gold everywhere the eye stopped. People lined up for warm drinks and hot treats. Vendors displayed jewelry and paintings and socks, the perfect gift for your family on Life Day. And Sabine had had the terrible idea of letting Hera sign her up as a volunteer, again.

All the streets leading into the plaza had been closed off except two, the entrance and the exit. A banner hung above the entrance, welcoming everyone into the market. If it wasn’t enough, however, Sabine was the extra welcome. She sat in a tiny wooden box at the corner of the entrance, too cramped up to move. She was supposed to give additional information to the people, but she wasn’t even sure what information she could give them. There was no map to the market, it was made up of two concentric circles of cabins and impossible to get lost in. The time the market opened and closed? They had a big sign near every entrance for that. People walked by her without sparing her a glance, probably as confused by her presence as she was annoyed by it. She scrolled on her phone, draining the battery to keep boredom at bay. She’d brought a pad and pencil to draw but she barely had the space to move her arms.

At least she had avoided the role of one of the droids in the Santa Clause factory like the year before, she thought as Ezra brushed his way back to her, dressed in a poor man’s droid’s costume.

“Why did I have to be a droid?” he complained as he leaned over the small counter of Sabine’s booth.

“I don’t know what’s more cramped. This box or your droid costume.”

“It’s the costume, trust me.”

He tugged on the sleeves yet they continued to hike up past his wrists.

“Anyway, Hera is asking if you want a snack.”

Sabine sighed. The only privilege of working for the market was that they didn’t have to cue twenty minutes for a crepe. Still, with her legs cramping up and her elbows rubbing against wood all day, it didn’t feel worth it. And if the PA system behind her played that stupid Life Day song again, she was going to take it down herself.

Ezra stared at her, waiting for an answer. Her gaze migrated away from her brother to the familiar blonde who had just squeezed through the crowd at the entrance. A big smile appeared on Sabine’s lips as she spotted Shin. She waved at her. Shin gave her a small smile and brushed past the crowd to get to her.

Full Story Here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/52519663

#wolfwren #fanfic #shin hati #sabine wren #sabine x shin

24 notes · View notes

headfulloflettuce · 2 months

Text

The Human Who Fooled All of Prythian

13. Welcome to Winter Court

Cosette and Ophelia had been very confident in their decision to travel to the Capital of Winter Court, until they stepped outside and got covered in snow by some wind. It was then the two realized they were actually extremely underdressed for the weather; the adrenaline and panic the night of their getaway had kept the feeling of cold at bay. Cosette hugged herself, trying to preserve as much heat as possible, as she and Ophelia walked through the town to a clothing store.

On second thought, I was most likely getting stared at for going outside today in a basic maid uniform. No wonder the Winter fae stared at me as though I was crazy.

The clothing shop was thankfully not far, marked by a very simple sign that said, ‘Clothing store’. In Cosette’s humble opinion the place received points for its efficiency and lost none for its lack of creativity.

Ophelia and Cosette breathed a sigh of relief once inside.

Neither of us were built for this weather.

The two dispersed across the store, searching for cheap, warm cloaks. Cosette, still trying to understand fae currency, would select cloaks and then bring them to Ophelia for approval.

While the Autumn Court palette had been a range of bold red to light orange hues, Winter Court’s clothes leaned into the blue color scheme. From baby blue to gray, various designs of cloaks hung around the store. Eventually the two had settled on their outfits, Cosette selecting a light, sky blue cloak and Ophelia a blue-gray one.

I wonder what differentiates Night Court’s blue tones from Winter Court’s hues…

Cosette stood back to the side as Ophelia haggled with the store owner over prices, the fae’s eyes practically sparkling from excitement as she debated with the poor bloke. Cosette smiled, watching Ophelia expertly disarm the owner’s arguments for higher prices; something about the state of the town, and the fabric quality being subpar.

Her potential is wasted working as the maid to the Lady of a Court. She’d be amazing as a manager, or the head of an HR office. Granted, maybe that is exactly why she was hired for the position.

Within fifteen minutes the two were out in the street, fully dressed and ready to continue their journey.

“That was amazing.” Cosette complimented.

“Oh, thank you.” Ophelia blushed lightly, “I could normally resolve those kinds of disputes within five minutes…”

“Wow, humble brag much?” Cosette shoved her gently.

“Hmpf!” Ophelia shook her head, putting on a pair of thick boots she chose for herself. She then shoved a pair of boots with high heels into Cosette’s hands, “Put these on.”

“Um, why do mine have heels? We’re about to hike through a forest.” Cosette stared at her. The path to the Winter Court’s Capital from the outskirts was not well defined, but certain roads existed to preserve the safety of cargo when it was transported to the center cities from Lesser Fae or animals. It was enough that the two of them shouldn’t get lost.

“Exactly, this is your first lesson. Walking.”

“I know how to walk Ophelia; I am not a baby.” Cosette retorted but slipped on the boots anyways.

“First off you’re in your twenties, which makes you a toddler by faerie standards.”

“A toddler!?” Cosette squawked.

“Second, you walk wrong.”

“First you call me a child, then you insult my walk…” Cosette muttered, stomping ahead.

“Not my fault you have the maturity of one.” Ophelia smiled, following after her, “Your walk is fine for a human Cosette, but a fae walks differently. It’s cleaner, smoother, more perfect.”

“I think you just have a sadistic side to you, Ophelia.” Cosette snarked, “Want to watch me suffer in high heels?”

“For your information the high heels will help you fix your human-like walk.”

“Okay…fine.” Cosette conceded reluctantly, already imagining how painful walking through the forest parts of the trail would be.

Thank goodness the shoes are at least boots and are suitable for the weather.

“Think back to Eris or Beron.” Ophelia said, “Did you notice how they move elegantly?”

“I don’t know, I was too busy fighting for my life.” Cosette remarked dryly, “Though, Eris always had a way of sneaking up on me.”

“Exactly! Faes walk quietly, with poise and agility. We can’t give you inhumane speed, but we can have you smooth out your walk.”

Cosette nodded, walking awkwardly through the snow-covered road, casting one final glance back. The strange emporium-like store stood as if it was waiting for something, its windows dark with no customers in sight. She shook her head, turning her back to it, ignoring the chill that ran down her spine.

It was just the cold, nothing more.

The sounds of the town quickly fell away behind them. Tall pine trees rested along the road’s edges, with small cedars peeking out, surrounded by bushes. Despite the snowfall, it was obvious the road was frequently used by traders, cart marks were visible where the snow was spotty.

“See?” Ophelia pointed.

“See what?”

“The way you step on the ground. It’s too aggressive. Too desperate. Even the footprints you leave behind are messy.” she pointed to her own neat marks, “Look, mine have an even shape while yours scatter pieces of snow everywhere.”

“Huh.” Cosette took several more steps, very slowly, trying not to disturb the ground beneath her.

“There! That’s better. Now do the same thing without staring at the ground.”

Cosette kept walking, trying to follow Ophelia’s instructions, stumbling slightly.

“Think of walking as a deliberate act. The more powerful the fae the less animalistic and connected to nature they are. For example, High Fae lack a lot of the more aggressive and abrasive tendencies Lesser Fae have, however, their behavior isn’t casual. It’s deliberate. It emanates power.”

Cosette nodded, taking another step, putting thought and intent behind it, “Doesn’t the power that we feel from High Fae come from their actual magical abilities?” She really doubted that the power she sensed from the nobility of Autumn Court came from their walking habits.

“Well yes, to some extent. High Fae have a natural authority over other faes and humans but take Bero-No, Eris for example. He doesn’t activate his abilities every time he walks into a room, yet you can feel a sense of regality emanating from him. Such traits and behaviors are drilled into High Fae from birth, for average or Lesser Fae a part of it comes naturally, just in a less extreme form.” Ophelia explained, carefully jumping over a couple pieces of logs on the road, “You’re human and thus have no powers, meaning that you will only be able to create a facade of a fae’s aura. Don’t underestimate a good walk, it can fool people into thinking you’re more than you are.”

This all sounded like interview advice I’d hear back home.

Cosette’s foot got caught on one of the logs, causing her to nearly trip. She quickly recovered, resuming her previous attempt at emulating a fae’s walk, doing her best to make her movements as smooth and fluid as possible.

“Hmm.” Ophelia hummed, watching her closely, “Straighten your back and try relaxing a bit. You’re too stiff when you move.”

Cosette took a deep breath, listening to the sounds of the birds and rustling of leaves.

Imagine you’re walking to your favorite coffee shop.

She exhaled, walking once more.

“Much better.” Ophelia smiled, “You look like you’re in your element now.”

Cosette kept walking, a small bounce appearing in her step.

“You need to act more entitled.”

“Pardon?”

“Entitled.” Ophelia repeated, “You need to show everyone that you have something you want and aren’t afraid to get it. I can’t see that in your walk right now. Sure, it has confidence, but it doesn’t scream fae entitlement. It doesn’t scream control.”

“The person you’re describing just sounds like an asshole. Besides, I have standards for how I get things done.”

Unless I am really desperate. Then survival is prioritized.

Ophelia laughed, “Well…faes are notorious for being jackasses, although that’s not my point. What’s most important is conveying the idea that you are in control of yourself. Don’t be a spoiled prick, obviously. You simply need to have confidence that is ‘otherworldly’, as you humans would say. Also, you’re slouching again.”

“Otherworldly...” Cosette muttered, straightening her back, “You sure you were a servant and not a teacher? You’re really good at nagging.”

“I am sorry, who asked to teach whom?” Ophelia raised an eyebrow.

Cosette shut her mouth, not wanting to piss off her only access to fae knowledge.

Ophelia seemed to sense her pause, laughing at her expression, “No need to look like that Cosette.”

“Like what?”

“As If I’ll turn around and leave.” Ophelia’s brown eyes met Ophelia’s green ones, “Because I am not planning on it.”

Cosette and Ophelia had stopped at one of the many towns they encountered during their hike. Even though the road went through the forest, it also crossed many rural villages and farms.

“Wow, they have farms in Winter Court?”

Ophelia nodded, adjusting her boots while they took a break, “Some species of plants can survive on the outskirts deep under the snow. Farmers grow them out here and then import into the central cities where it’s too cold to grow food.”

“Interesting.” Cosette handed Ophelia some dried turkey that she had brought from one of the inns they stayed at. Cosette was now responsible for their food bag as Ophelia nearly got sick from overeating on a previous day, her body unable to handle the mass of food after years of neglect.

“How do they get the plants out of the ground?”

“My partner mentioned that they dug it out using some custom that had been passed down for generations.” Ophelia bit into the turkey slowly.

Cosette approached a farm that was close to the road, its entire field covered in snow. A man was walking along it, crouching down every now and then to check something. Looking up he noticed Cosette, his expression turning cold instantly.

Ah, the iconic Winter fae’s welcoming scowl.

“Hello!” Cosette waved.

The man hesitantly approached, crossing his arms, “The nearest inn is down the road.”

Damn, straight to the point.

“I had a question about the farm.”

“What?”

“How do you grow the plants when they’re so deep underground, and how do you get the plants out once they’re fully grown? Since they’re buried deep under snow, do you use any tools? How do you know when they’re ready for harvest?” Cosette rambled, the man staring at her in slight surprise.

“We use ancient techniques passed down from our predecessors, traveler.” The man’s expression remained unchanged, but his voice didn’t sound mean, rather it was more hesitant, “The plants are native to this land, we only help them grow by sometimes making additional holes in the snow to give them access to sunlight.” he gestured to the small holes in the snow, “That’s also how we check to see if they’re ready.”

“I see.”

“As for the process of extraction, we offer a small treat to the spirits that helped the plant grow and then dig it up.”

Okay straightforward-wait, spirits?

Cosette nodded along, deciding not to question him.

“Wouldn’t it be easier to use something to pull the plant out?”

“Hmm…some people try to use nets but those result in less fruitful harvests.”

“Why?”

“The net makes it harder for the spirits to get access to the fruit or plant. They also get stuck trying to leave at times.”

“Interesting…”

“Now, if you will excuse me, I need to get back to work.”

“What are you doing right now?”

“Do you ever stop asking questions?” his annoyed tone returned once more, but seeing Cosette’s curiosity the man sighed, “Checking how many of the plants are still viable for harvest.”

“Viable for harvest?”

“If any predators ate the plants or anything of the sort.” he clarified.

“Ah I see.” she nodded, waving goodbye as the man went back to looking at the little holes in the ground. Cosette walked back to Ophelia who had finished eating and was waiting for her.

“Did you berate the man enough?”

Cosette rolled her eyes, “Ha, ha, I just asked him a couple questions. By the way, he mentioned spirits? Do spirits help plants grow?”

Ophelia looked at her, “Sometimes I feel like you crawled out from under a rock.”

It’s not my fault I didn’t read the books in detail! Though I for the life of me cannot remember spirits besides for the Starfall event.

Seeing Cosette’s perplexed expression Ophelia sighed and began explaining, “Spirits are responsible for various aspects of the natural world, contributing to it when they can. He was probably referring to the spirits that help pollinate plants.”

“Aren’t those just bees?”

“They’re more than bees, they help spread necessary nutrients and use their power to ensure a good harvest.” Ophelia shook her head at Cosette’s ignorance, “Seriously…we’re gonna need to get you some basic history books at this rate.”

“That would probably be ideal.”

“Good, your walking has improved.”

“Yay!” Cosette cheered. She and Ophelia had resumed their journey to the Capital, the farming fields disappearing as a forest replaced their surroundings once more.

“Now onto your manner of speech.”

“Oh no!” Cosette jokingly cried out, maintaining her posture, making sure to keep even spacing between her steps.

These heels were going to be the death of me.

Cosette cried internally. Last night Ophelia had her soak her feet in hot water to help the calluses, putting some padding into the boots to keep her from hurting her feet further. Cosette eyed Ophelia’s shoes enviously.

Sadistic fae woman…making me walk in high heeled boots.

Cosette, however, couldn't stay mad at Ophelia, as she was currently the only person on her side. So really, Cosette couldn’t complain.

“‘Oh no’ indeed. You’re very casual when you speak, I honestly cannot wrap my head around how you survived the nobility of Autumn Court.”

Cosette’s expression fell slightly, replaced by a neutral mask, “I am smart enough to keep my mouth shut if I don’t have anything better to say.” her voice came out sharper than intended.

They like their prey to put up a fight before they fully kill it.

Ophelia laughed, the sound strained, “Well, that is half of the task is it not?”

Cosette nodded, her body relaxing a bit.

“Ahem, when talking with regular civilians you can speak normally, although it’s good to use terms such as sir or ma’am for elders or people in a respectable position, such as an innkeeper.”

“Basically, use those honorifics towards people I want to suck up to.”

“Yeah, pretty much.” Ophelia laughed, “When speaking to nobility you already know the gist, use terms such as ‘Your Highness’ towards heirs, or ‘High Lord’ towards the ruler. ‘Sir’ or ‘my lord’ are also acceptable depending on if the person you’re talking to requests them.”

“Or ‘High Lady’.” Cosette added on.

“Haha, yes. Or ‘High Lady’” Ophelia’s tone turned strange.

Was that a hint of condescension?

Cosette looked at Ophelia, “Do you not like Feyre?”

“It’s hard to like someone who has caused so much destruction.”

“Didn’t she save all of Prythian? I thought she was beloved by the people”

“It’s…complicated.” Ophelia sighed, “And how did you even get the idea that she was beloved? She is not exactly popular in Autumn Court.”

“Oh well, I just heard things, you know?” Cosette answered vaguely.

“Uh huh, right.” Ophelia shook her head, “To be honest, most faes don’t have much reason to like her at the moment.”

“She defeated Amaranthe.” Cosette’s curiosity only grew by the minute. The ACOTAR book series was written from a first-person perspective, which made the whole thing extremely biased. When she read the first book and other chunks of the series, she had thought certain reactions were overplayed or left unexplored, but hearing a regular person within this world share their opinions was intriguing.

“Yeah, and what has she done since then? She pretty much obliterated Spring Court which had consequences; refugees flooded other Courts, not to mention the economic crisis. Don’t get me wrong, I am thankful Amaranthe got overthrown. Woo hoo! Down with the queen and all, but things aren’t actually all that great.”

Wow, okay. Didn’t expect that response, though it’s partially true.

“Well, it’s not like Tamlin played no part. Also, isn’t an economic crisis to be expected? It takes time to rebuild.” Cosette couldn’t believe she was defending Feyre of all people. She was never a hater, but she wasn’t exactly the character’s biggest fan either.

“Oh, I am not defending him. However, at least he suffers due to his own actions. According to the guards in the dungeon he is living out the rest of his miserable life in a forsaken Court all alone.” she sighed, “Yeah sure it takes time to rebuild, but how much time will pass before things get better?”

“When the people in charge see the problem with their own eyes.” Cosette answered flatly.

Ophelia nodded in agreement, “You worked in the palace, did the food or anything seem bad or of low quality?”

Cosette shook her head.

“So, until things get so bad that the ruling parties start to suffer, nothing will change.” Ophelia kicked a stone, “Yet, the common folk, Lesser Fae in particular will have to suffer and starve. Did you notice anything about the foods we packed with us that were provided by the inns?”

Cosette thought back to the breakfast Ophelia chowed down on earlier: dried meats, stale greens, dried fruits.

“It’s all mostly dried foods.”

“Yeah, that’s not just because those are easier to travel with, those are easier to preserve. With Spring Court, one of the biggest producers of food, out of the picture the other Courts have taken a hit. No matter how wealthy they might be, eventually their economies will crumble unless they come up with a solution or make peace with Spring.” Ophelia raged.

“Feyre used to be human though.” Cosette was determined to see the positive in this bleak situation, “There is no way she would just sit by and watch all this happen without doing anything. She’s experienced suffering, she knows what it’s like to go hungry.”

The woman literally had to hunt to provide for her family.

Ophelia laughed coldly, “Right, you’d think that would have developed empathy within her, but I am pretty certain that character trait died once she became a fae. Night Court is on the other side of the damn continent; they don’t have to deal with these problems despite being actively involved in them. Feyre is probably living out her life in a palace, not even aware of half of the problems Courts in the South are dealing with.” she leaned into Cosette’s ear, despite them being all alone, “I heard the guards talking about it, apparently Night Court troops had been spotted along Spring Court borders. I wouldn’t be surprised if the inner circle decided to take action on their own and reestablish farms and trade.”

Cosette cringed. Even if the action made political sense, the idea left a bad taste in her mouth. It just seemed petty. No, not even petty, it was more malicious.

“That…sounds icky.”

“It is.” Ophelia nodded in agreement, “So, forgive me for not adoring a woman who completely abandoned all her ideals and became a trophy wife.”

Okay wow, I wasn’t a Feysand stan but like that’s just rude.

“Isn’t that harsh? She’s more than a trophy wife.” Cosette’s tone was reproachful.

“I’ll call her a queen when she does something besides fight or twirl around ballrooms. Rhysand makes half of her decisions for her anyways.”

Cosette frowned. Even if some of the things Ophelia said were true, this woman had spent a lot of time imprisoned. A lot of what she was saying was not coming from a place of educated knowledge, but a desire to blame someone.

Sounds like Feyre is being partially used as a scapegoat.

“Then why does no one speak up?”

“Ha! You try telling her mate these things, he'd flatten you in a heartbeat.”

“Why…isn’t a High Lord lashing out at a Lesser Fae looked down on?”

Ophelia looked at her as if she was an idiot.

“Don’t look at me like that.” Cosette frowned.

“Lesser Faes are viewed as dispensable, there is no reason for anyone to care.”

“That’s not what I mean. I mean that if a Lesser Fae speaks out against a High Lord and he lashes out, how is that not viewed as their fault for a lack of self-control? How are they not looked down at for choosing a weaker opponent?” Cosette clarified.

“The High Fae, especially High Lords, have never been known for self-control.”

“But you said Lesser Fae were more animalistic!”

“Yes, but that doesn’t mean that the High Fae are much better.” Ophelia’s tone was sour, “A Lesser Fae going against a High Fae is an insult to the natural order and therefore a High Fae punishing or putting said fae in their place would be deemed as acceptable. Probably even applauded.”

“That’s…screwed up.”

“It is.”

The two paused their discussion, both deep in thought. The snow crunched beneath Cosette’s boots as Ophelia interrupted the silence.

“You’re slouching again.”

Cosette straightened her back, seizing the opportunity to shift the subject to something less heavy, “Oh, what about palace etiquette?” She had picked up a bit from her time in Autumn Court, but she recognized that what she saw and understood was a very small portion of a larger societal structure.

“I unfortunately don’t know much about that.”

“You worked as the maid to the Lady of Autumn Court though!” Cosette was surprised.

“Okay well, I know a little bit, but it’s pretty much all the stuff I told you now. I don’t know the details of proper etiquette of speaking to a High Fae if you are on semi-equal terms with them.” Ophelia shook her head, “Overall though people tend to follow similar rules, just show respect and you’ll be fine. You won’t have to worry much about this because it’s not likely you’ll get a chance to interact with such people.”

Cosette nodded, not arguing with her local fae expert.

“What do you want to do once we get to the capital?” Ophelia asked

“Oh, I was planning on finding a job, or opening a business.”

“A business? Good luck with that.” Ophelia smirked, though her tone was not unkind.

“Why do you say that?”

“Businesses are primarily monopolized by the High Faes or regular faes who are affiliated to nobility. It’s very hard to maintain a business otherwise.”

“Wow…I…that’s crazy.” Cosette hadn’t even thought of that aspect of the books in detail, but it was true. It seemed that everything of importance was controlled by the Court’s respective leader.

A true monarchy.

“Is that not how it is in the human lands?” Ophelia tilted her head gently, adjusting her cloak to better cover herself from the snow that began falling.

“I…well…” Cosette smiled to herself, reminded of Earth, even if in a negative way, “It’s like that where I came from as well, though I would argue we have it a bit better. My village’s system allows for some degree of mobility within social classes.”

“That’s the first time I’ve heard of humans having it better than faes. Your village really is special.”

Cosette smiled sadly, “It is.”

“Look!” Cosette cried out, pointing at the tall, icy fort walls in the distance. The view from the town they were passing through was breathtaking. The capital was visible, small shimmering yellow lights in the distance against the harsh whites and blues created a surprisingly welcome feeling. Even if most of the Winter faes they had met had been cold, the view was definitely worth it.

Nothing, however, was worth Cosette’s pain. The pads they put into her shoes had helped at the beginning, but her feet still cried in pain, demanding better working conditions.

“Wow…” Ophelia gasped, taken by the sight as well, “It’s gorgeous.”

“And very cold.” Cosette pipped in, quickly beginning to walk again, the chill of the air settling on her

“You get cold quite easily.”

“Are you not cold?” Cosette tugged the cloak tighter around her body.

“No, not really, the cloak is enough.”

Cosette was salty.

“It’s probably because you’re human, you’re less resistant to the low temperatures.” Ophelia noted, “The central regions of Winter Court are known for their cold. Let’s rest for a bit before we go further.”

Cosette sighed, her human nature once again falling short of fae abilities, following Ophelia to a cafe within the town.

A man dressed in armor, a dark blue emblem of a wolf on his chest, assisted a group of farmers to unload goods to the side of the main road. Another guard directed traffic. Cosette’s eyes however focused on the swords on their hips.

Ophelia followed her gaze, “What’s up?”

“Who are those people?”

“Royal guard. They’re mostly located in the capital and the surrounding cities to protect civilians and maintain order.”

“What are the laws in Winter Court regarding weapon use?” Cosette cringed recalling the lack of accountability of abuse in Autumn.

“It’s better than Autumn, supposedly.” Ophelia mumbled under her breath as they passed a guard, approaching a cafe, “Regular civilians are permitted to carry weapons such as knives as long as they’re concealed. Large weapons are allowed for hunting, training or in the case of an attack. Only the nobility and the royal guard are permitted to wear swords openly, but they’re not allowed to use them unless the situation is dangerous.”

Cosette nodded. Everything sounded reasonable except for the last part; who got to decide what was deemed as dangerous?

“Okay, how do you know all this? You’re like a walking encyclopedia!”

“Haha, I only know this because my partner’s brother was in the royal guard.” Ophelia spoke softly, “I never got to meet the man himself, but his brother always spoke highly of him.”

Ophelia grabbed some coins out of their bag and purchased sandwiches since their supplies had run low during their trip. Cosette relaxed in a chair, savoring the warmth of the tea Ophelia brought her. She tried to share with the fae but Ophelia insisted she keep it.

After eating they carefully walked down the hill the town was on, sticking to the pathway that led to the entrance of the city.

“Oh, I was thinking about this as we were walking, but what kind of fae am I? Like what is my identity?” Cosette turned to look at Ophelia, “I need a backstory after all. Do you think I could pass as a fae from a particular court?”

Ophelia laughed, “Frankly we should have thought of that question earlier, before your training.” she sighed, “To be honest, I don’t know. I haven’t met many faes from other Courts, it’s not a common occurrence.” Ophelia smiled gingerly,

“Really? You all don’t travel on vacation or something?”

“Haha most don’t have the money or resources to travel so freely. Those that do tend to because of their job or due to their high standing in society. So, unfortunately, I can’t tell you if you could pass as a fae from a particular Court. You certainly wouldn’t pass as a fae from Autumn, or Winter. You’re too cheery.”

“Hm, guess I could just say I grew up in some village in a forest.”

“No one will believe that.”

“Well, that’s their problem.”

“No…it’s also your problem when they go to investigate your past.”

“Well, do you have any better ideas?”

“Nope.”

“Random village in a forest it is.”

Ophelia sighed, “At least you can pull off an oblivious country bumpkin with how many questions you ask me.”

Cosette felt insulted.

I’ll have you know I came from a semi big city!

“Will they let us in? Considering that traveling is an uncommon occurrence?” Cosette shivered as they steadily approached the small line before the fort. The walls, a misty blue color towered over them. She glanced at Ophelia, who seemed comfortable in her cloak.

How was she not freezing?

“Oh!” Cosette’s eyes sparkled for a second, “As a fae from a mysterious village, what would I be called?”

“Miss.”

“What about ‘Lady’?”

“Never ‘Lady’, that title is reserved for the nobility.”

“Oh…” Cosette’s dreams of roleplaying as an important figure were crushed.

Ophelia cackled at her expression, trying to keep quiet to not draw attention from the people around them as they got in line.

“By the way, don’t say you're twenty-one.” Ophelia whispered.

“I am twenty-two now.”

“Wow, a year has passed since we first met.” Ophelia’s eyes grew misty, before she blinked, smiling at the blonde, “Happy Birthday, Cosette.”

Cosette cringed, reminded of her ‘birthday celebration’.

Ophelia frowned at her reaction but continued as if nothing happened, “Considering your behavior, and lack of knowledge it would be hard to pass you off as someone who is a fully mature adult. It makes sense to keep your age somewhere close to a young adult fae. Let’s say…a hundred? It’s a little on the younger end but regardless of if you were a Lesser Fae or on the more powerful end of the spectrum, you’d still be considered an adult.” Ophelia smirked, “If you want, you’ll be able to find yourself a partner.”

Cosette nodded. She hadn’t even considered the possibility of having a partner.

I am going to leave anyway; they would only be hurt by me.

“Can you explain how fae age?”

Ophelia groaned, wiggling her body, “Anything but that!”

“Why?” Cosette smiled, enjoying Ophelia’s annoyance.

“It’s complicated.”

“Well, I am a smart girl, I can handle it.”

“I am sure you can.” Ophelia ruffled Cosette’s hair, pausing when she felt the small flinch from the younger woman.

“It’s just really convoluted. I’ll explain it another time, okay?” Ophelia was partially lying.

“Alright…but can’t I be fifty or something?”

“No, I am already being generous with the hundred. Unless you're planning on lying about being a High Fae, which I do not recommend, one hundred is considered of legal age for most Lesser Fae.”

Cosette sighed, “I can’t believe I am saying goodbye to my youth.”

Ophelia looked at her, exasperated, “You do realize I am one hundred and seventy?”

Cosette’s mouth dropped, “Wow, hello granny.”

Ophelia playfully smacked Cosette’s arm.

The two halted their whispers as they got closer to the guards. They waited for their turn, listening to the guards berating the people ahead of them.

“What is your reason for visiting?”

“My family.”

“Length of stay?”

“A week.”

“Are they always this critical?” Cosette whispered to Ophelia.

“I don’t know as I haven’t traveled much.” Ophelia reiterated, “But I would assume it’s worse now due to the recent war with Hybern.”

This was giving border checks during international flights.

“Let me handle the talking, okay?” Ophelia whispered to Cosette.

“Sure, but why?” Cosette was itching to test her newly studied behavior on a proper audience.

“This is too important to screw up, and I understand fae better than you.”

Despite wanting to test her capabilities Cosette knew Ophelia was right. It was too important for them to get inside the city, they couldn’t afford silly mistakes. She could practice later.

“No offense Cosette.” Ophelia winked at her.

“None taken.”

The group ahead of them moved into the city, leaving Ophelia and Cosette face to face with the guards.

“Purpose of visit?” a fae with white hair asked.

“We’re moving here from the outskirts.” Ophelia spoke.

“Moving here?” the guard perked up, his eyes narrowing, “Why?”

“Because it’s better here than out there.” Ophelia joked with ease.

The guard chuckled at her honesty, “Well, you don’t look like a person we should be letting in.”

“Why is that?”

“We don’t need any more Lesser Fae waltzing around the streets.” he snickered.

Ophelia bristled, “We come to work, not dilly dally and waste money.”

“That’s what they all say.” the guard glared.

Ophelia glared back.

He sighed, “Do you even have some money to your name?”

“Yes, we do.”

“How much?”

Ophelia paused - she didn’t know as Cosette was the one who carried the money.

“Ha! So stupid you don’t even know how much money you have with you?” he mocked, “I forget they don’t teach you folks math.”

“Look, we’re not here to cause trouble.” Ophelia tried to placate him, but that was the wrong move.

The man smirked, sensing a sore spot, “You barely have powers worth mentioning, what good could you even contribute to the Winter Court?”

Has this man ever met a Bogge? What is with the disrespect towards Lesser Faes??

Ophelia growled, her hands balling into fists, “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Oh, do I not?” the man taunted.

Cosette glanced at Ophelia.

She’s struggling because she let him get under her skin.

Ophelia had gone on the defensive - the last thing one should do in this situation. Not that it was easy to remain calm in such circumstances. Cosette looked around the area, a fairly large line had formed behind them due to the hold up. Ahead of them were several other guards standing next to the icy wall talking to a black-haired man in armor, the emblem on his chest silver rather than blue.

Interesting.

“Say, if you have no money, I have an idea for how else you could contribute.” he leaned into Ophelia’s personal space, running a hand through her hair, “If you’re good for me maybe I’ll let you in.”

Okay, that’s it.

“We have none.” Cosette suddenly spoke up, putting herself between the fae and Ophelia, praying her half-baked plan worked.

“None?” the guard laughed, “I thought you said you had mon-”

“None of your business. That’s how much we have.” Cosette cut him off,

Ophelia stared at her, slightly horrified, tugging at her arm. “Cosette, what are you doing?”

Playing by the rules.

“Excuse me?” the man looked at Cosette, “Who do you think you are?”

“A civilian trying to get to my new home.”

“Ha! Your new home.” the man laughed, “Creatures like you sleep in the forest. Go back to your moss.” He tried leaning in, but quickly covered his face.

Cosette at the moment was a walking stink bomb - partially because neither she or Ophelia had washed properly over the course of the last few days, but also because she had been going out of her way to mask her human scent. Cue the literal dirt baths.

“Holy shit, have you ever thought of washing yourself?” he snarled, “I didn’t realize education was so bad amongst Lesser Fae you hadn’t heard of bathing.” he jeered.

What would piss off an egotistical, narcissistic bastard?

“And I didn’t realize that the Winter Court’s guards were this weak.” she smiled kindly, raising her voice.

“Excuse me?” the man growled.

Oh great, another dog.

Ophelia tugged on her arm, “Cosette, please…This isn’t worth it”

Cosette gently squeezed her hand reassuringly.

“You heard me. Why do you feel the need to berate us this harshly if we ‘barely have powers worth mentioning’ and no money to our name?” she tilted her head, “Your description makes us sound unthreatening.”

The man’s face turned red, “I-That’s not what this is. We don’t just let anyone into the Capital. As far as I can see you’re bad news.” trying to regain the upper hand he continued, raising his voice as well, “Lesser Fae are always just liabilities. Pathetic and weak”

The group behind Ophelia exchanged uncomfortable glances

“Then you should get your eyes checked.” Cosette remained calm, which only served to piss the guard off more. She glanced at the group of soldiers ahead of them, seeing them looking in their direction.

Good.

“You bitch!” The guard looked like he was about to explode. The veins on his neck bulged.

“Ah, and the name calling. Really professional.” Cosette commented sarcastically.

“Cosette!” Ophelia cried out, pulling her friend back as the guard drew his sword.

“Oh so now you’re scared?” he sneered.

“What’s going on here?” a deeper voice interrupted, the black-haired man Cosette saw earlier approached.

“C-Captain.” the guard stuttered, quickly composing himself, “These two ladies are insulting the royal guard and threatening public safety!”

“We did no such thing!” Ophelia was infuriated.

“You called us weak!”

The captain of the guard watched the scene before him, a disappointed expression replacing his neutral one, “Stand down officer.”

“But sir-”

“Stand. Down.”

Cosette trembled, the energy around them growing heavy and oppressive.

Did the snow stop falling?

Ophelia pulled Cosette close. This felt just like when Eris sent a course of magic through her.

The white haired fae quickly sheathed his sword.

Cosette felt like she could breathe again.

“Captain, they can’t be permitted to say such things about us!”

“You just proved her claim by getting upset over such a minor comment.”

“But sir, it doesn’t look good to let a bunch of Lesser Fae walk all over us.” the blonde fae hissed.

A flash of rage passed over the captain’s face as he looked at his subordinate.

“Officer, what doesn’t look good is you being provoked into drawing your sword in a public space for no good reason.”

“Yeah, so? We’re at a checkpoint, we can use violence if nece-”

“If necessary.” the black-haired man cut him off, “These two women haven’t done anything. Usage of threats is not permitted to ensure safety along the border.”

“They won’t contribute anything to the Court!”

“I am sure they will contribute plenty since they actually understand our laws, unlike some.” the captain glowered, “You are dismissed officer. I want you on cleaning duty until ordered otherwise.”

The white haired fae stormed away, as the captain turned to face Cosette.

“I apologize for his behavior.”

“I am disappointed in the lack of restraint from your soldiers.” her voice was shaky as she separated from Ophelia, standing by herself.

“I have nothing to say, my officer’s behavior was unacceptable, and he will be punished accordingly.”

“It’s fine.” Cosette shook her head, Ophelia held her hand supportingly. Cosette straightened her back, looking the main guard in the eyes.

This wasn’t over.

“However, I would like to file a complaint.”

The man raised an eyebrow, “Go ahead.”

“Your officer, apart from being unprofessional, also tried to ask for sexual favors with my friend here.”

The man’s eyes widened, “What?”

Ophelia looked at Cosette, a strange expression on her face.

“You heard me. He attempted to proposition us.”

“I-Oh Gods.” the man muttered, “Thank you for telling me this, I will make sure he receives proper punishment.”

“I want proof.”

“Hm?”

“Proof that he will have faced consequences for his actions.”

The man nodded understandingly, “Of course, I can arrange for that. Do you know where you are staying in the city?”

“We will be staying at an inn, though we haven’t decided which yet.”

“Alright.” the man waved over a fellow soldier who quickly brought a piece of paper and pen for him. He quickly wrote something, and signed at the bottom, handing it over to Cosette, “You’re welcome to come by the training grounds, they’re adjacent to the palace. We’ll be able to fulfill your wish there, just show them this and they will let you in.”

“How long will his punishment last?”

“Until the end of the winter solstice, so you can come down until then.”

“Alright, thank you sir.” Cosette nodded respectfully.

“I recommend the Forrest inn. The man who runs it is a good guy, and the place is affordable.”

“Thank you for the advice.” Cosette paused, glancing at him, “May I ask you your name captain?”

The fae’s lips tensed as he kept himself from smiling.

“The name is Aquilo, miss.” he said, stepping to the side, giving Ophelia and Cosette space to pass, “Welcome to Winter Court, may your stay be enjoyable.”

Next: Chapter 14 - Petty Coins

Back: Chapter 12 - The Day Fern Died

Masterlist

Tag list: @rcarbo1

8 notes · View notes

lullabyes22-blog · 1 year

Text

Snippet - Forward, but Never Forget/XOXO - The Council

Silco meets the Council. And ponders his history.

Forward, but Never Forget/XOXO

Snippet:

Hatred rises like a toxic effervescence in Silco’s veins.

(These Pilties, eh, Vander?)

(These fucking Pilties.)

In a city whose lifeblood is old money, they are the crème de la crème: an elite group steeped in Piltover's rich heritage of trade and commerce. A century ago, the city was a drowsy backwater, a middling port of fishing settlements and warehouses. The Council's forefathers were Shuriman midshipmen, Ionian merchants, Noxian brigands and Demacian bureaucrats. Men and women who made their fortunes through sheer tenacity and hard graft.

Then came the boom.

Beneath the settlement lay caverns with rich deposits of minerals. Soon, smelters dotted the waterfront, and shipyards sprang up along the bay. Steel became gold. Iron turned to platinum. The age of industry dawned: Piltover blossomed into a manufacturing metropolis.

Then came the Void Wars. In a trice, the city's population doubled. Zhyunian refugees fled by boat; Noxian merchants came by steamships; Demacian scholars boarded trains and Freljordians rode in on zeppelins. Language diversified; the city grew cosmopolitan.

In the coming decades, successive waves of migrants were swept onto Piltover's shores: from noble families seeking to expand their power across Valoran to small-town traders laden with cheap luggage and big dreams. By the century's end, they'd propelled Piltover into a global megacity of palatial mansions, art deco skyscrapers and pristine streets hosed clean every morning before the business hubs threw open their gilded gates to the bon ton.

The population boom meant more houses to build, more food to eat, more clothes to wear. All of which required labor, capital investment, and raw materials.

All of which came from the Fissures.

In theory, the Undercity should have prospered hand-in-hand with Piltover. Yet little of the riches from the Fissures’ recesses was ever relished by the Fissurefolk themselves. They were cut from a different cloth from their over-the-Pilt brethren. Their ancestors were miners and craftsmen, not shipmasters and merchants. Their culture was a clotted stew of customs and dialects; most didn't even speak Piltovan. They weren't born in the city itself but in its shadow, living in close-knit riverside settlements and twilit caverns.

Physically, they resembled deepwater piranhas compared to their sun-kissed kin—narrow bones, wan skins and sharp teeth. Culturally, they were foreigners. And socially, they were inferiors.

Their economy was a rich relic of the Oshra Va'Zaun empire. Their gemcraft and metalworking industries were well-established. Their artisans were peerless and prolific. Their alchemical scholars were the backbone of innovation. They had a robust labor force, a thriving entrepreneurial class, and a history of keen ingenuity.

Their forbearers traded along a flourishing network of maritime ports and river routes. They bartered with Bilgewater; bankrolled the gold mines in Shurima; forged trade deals with Ionia. They even had stakes in the black markets of the Shadow Isles and the mercenary guilds of Noxus.

They did business with every corner of Runeterra. And they did so proudly.

A century's time would turn the glad tidings into bitter tides.

During the first wave, the Undercity's wealth was a windfall for Topside. The demand for labor and resource was insatiable. But the Undercity's resources were finite. When Piltover's population ballooned after the Void Wars, the Fissurefolk were forced to compete. Lacking the natural advantage of fertile terrain and plentiful sunlight, they had no choice but to cut corners. In a trice, the factories and mines teemed with orphans and the elderly, each one paid starvation wages and offered none of the protections aboveground. By the century's end, the Undercity was squeezed dry, a sweatshop with a single employer.

Piltover.

As the upper-city's wealth quadrupled, mercantile clans rose up, each vying for control over the mineral deposits in the Fissures. These overlords were no friends of the poor. Their purview was profit, and profit meant one thing above all else:

Exploitation.

Their first order of business was stymieing the Undercity's trade routes and keeping its resources under lock and key. The collapse of the old Sun Gates and the flooding of the Undercity’s ports gave them the perfect pretext. The borders were sealed off in the guise of a safety net. The only routes were now through Piltover's Bridge, and each shipment was heavily taxed.

In time, the Undercity’s local markets choked. A slow strangulation of wealth reduced former artisans and alchemists to scavengers. Tariffs trapped them in a perpetual cycle of debt and debasement. Once-proud traders stooped to selling their own daughters for coin. Others tipped over into outright smuggling.

Then Piltover launched its second phase: a systematic strangulation of the Undercity's voice.

Fissurefolk were barred from owning or leasing property aboveground. Their children were denied access to Topside schools. Their customs were deemed barbaric. Their traditions were branded as backward. Their dialect was derided as guttural filth. They were derogatorily referred to as Sumprakers—as if their entire existence was an aberration.

By the century's end, Piltover had transformed from a trading partner into a hegemony. The Fissurefolk were no longer perceived as citizens, but as the Other.

An enemy within.

Soon, Topside began consolidating power by buying up land around the Fissures. Displacing the poor and demolishing their homes, they drove them deeper and deeper belowground, while putting the leftovers to use. Historic districts were privatized. Temples were razed. Marketplaces were shut down. The Undercity was reduced to a febrile womb of raw material, ready to be ravaged.

And ravaged it was.

When the first mining rig was installed, the Fissurefolk rioted. The unrest was put down. More mines followed, and more violence. It wasn't until the Enforcers were established as a body of justice that the tide turned in Topside's favor. These overseers were a law unto themselves, their ranks composed of mercenaries and miscreants. Their uniforms were black; their hearts were blacker. Their methods were a brutal amalgam of medieval torture and modern bureaucracy.

Under the banner of peace, the Enforcers were tasked with quashing dissent belowground.

They did so—brutally.

Piltover's third phase was total dominion.

The first mercantile houses had grown rich off the Undercity's spoils. But the new generation hungered for something more: absolute rule. They were no strangers to political maneuvering. Their forefathers had been shrewd tacticians: men and women who'd honed their wits through war, diplomacy and backroom deals.

They knew how to twist the knife, and keep their own hands clean.

Before long, they'd allied with Piltover’s industrial magnates and the monied elite. Together, they formed a cabal of oligarchs, each as ruthless as they were influential. Thus, the Council was born: a body of seven self-appointed sovereigns charged with regulating trade, enforcing laws and levying taxes.

They saw the Fissurefolk as a means to their own end. Disregarding their petitions for better sanitation, downplaying the contributions of their labor, and turning a blind eye to the rampant pollution, they proceeded to carve the Undercity's soul from its body.

When the Fissurefolk protested, the Council responded with Enforcer raids.

And bloodbaths.

By century's end, the Council had built a wall of bureaucracy between themselves and the Fissurefolk—most of whom were treated with neo-colonial contempt. Meanwhile, their wealth continued to reach dizzying heights, with every merchant ship that sailed through the port's grand arches and every sculpture patronized by celebrated virtuosos in their mansions.

The Hex-Gates only quadrupled their fortunes. With every invention by Talis, investors flocked and the Council’s influence grew. The wealth they had hoarded was now limitless. They could build a brand-new city, if they so desired. But why should they, when the Trenchers had already done the hard work for them?

Today's Council—Hoskel, Salo, Bolbok, Shoola, Medarda, Kiramman—are Piltover's pivotal political force, decreeing laws with a gesture from their grand parlors. They're the ones who decide whether jobs are created or lost, how many schools are funded, what taxes are levied.

They make decisions that affect every citizen in the city—every bloody day.

They are also corruption incarnate. Yearly, they’ve swallowed over one-third of the allocated Undercity budget, without accounting for a single cog. Between them, they preside over an empire of private business interests in everything from real estate to racehorses, stowing away their wealth in Demacian bank accounts, Noxian jewelry splurges and private islands dotting the annexed Ionian shores.

To them, Silco's coal-mining origins are as offensive as a rat turd in their caviar. Among Topside's upper-crust, he's a social climber, a rabble-rouser, and a scabrous opportunist. He wasn't born into privilege: he made his wealth through the cutthroat crudeness of industry.

More offensive still, he keeps a singlehanded stranglehold on his fortune, no different from a smuggler stowing all his coins in his codpiece. He never invests in stocks or allows Piltovans to buy shares in his enterprises. Like his factories, everything he owns belowground—publishing houses, restaurant chains, repair garages, gyms, nightclubs, salons—employs Fissure-bred workers, and is rumored to be a front for funding anarchism.

As if that weren't bad enough, he has no inhibitions in debating money or politics in their glittering ballrooms. Worse, he mocks them for entertainment—all while displaying impeccable manners.

Case in point—

With grave courtesy, Silco bows his head, "Councilors."

44 notes · View notes

mendes-bae · 2 years

Text

A fair exchange – part seven

series masterlist ; part six ; epilogue

Part seven summary: Blacks besiege King's Landing.

Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x (F) Targaryen!reader

Warning: incest, CHARACTER DEATH.

This is not the true ending of The Dance of the Dragons, it's just a reinterpretation ⚠️

Author's note: ENGLISH IS NOT MY FIRST LANGUAGE! this is my first time writing a fic in English, so beforehand, i'm sorry 👀

All the rights belong to the showrunners of HOTD and George R.R Martin, author of Fire and blood & Song of ice and fire series ‼️

Word count: 1530

Velarys descended from the sky on Vaghnar's back in front of King's Landing entrance.

The siege of the capital was carried out by land, sea and air, cornering the Greens in the Red Keep. The armies of the Valley, The Reach, Dorne, and the soldiers sworn to the Targaryen Queen waited at the gates of the city while the fleet of the Velaryon waited in the bay. Queen Rhaenyra's war council had agreed that this was the best strategy to defeat the usurper who called himself king, Aegon, her half-brother.

Syrax, Caraxes, Vermax and the other dragons that the Blacks had been able to recruit flew over the city, Velarys could see their shadow covering houses and roads.

Spies loyal to her sister had confirmed that the Hightower dragons were in the royal pit, so it was Vaghnar and his rider's job to guard the entrance and prevent the beasts from leaving or the keepers from entering to the cave. Vaghnar was twice the size of the other beasts that fought in the Dance with Dragons (a name that many had begun to use to refer to the Targaryen civil war), second only to the legendary Vhagar.

Vaghnar's footsteps echoed from streets away and his footprints left craters in the ground from the force that the animal made when he walked. As he rounded corners his tail struck tall buildings and houses, people who were bold enough to step onto their balconies or peek through doorways were scared away by the roars of the colossal two-headed dragon.

When Vaghnar reached the dragon pit with Velarys on his back, the Targaryen princess swung herself from the saddle and was once again amazed at the power of her dragon: Vaghnar scaled the hard stone walls, his huge claws snagging into the walls of the pit with enough force to keep him and his rider suspended in the air.

He reached the top quickly and both heads roared in the direction of the royal fortress. The white-haired woman could see how panic grew in the city and how the guards began to leave the castle, dressing in their armor in the process, since it had barely dawned an hour ago, the Blacks had taken advantage of the darkness of the night to spend unnoticed and avoid the sentinels, taking the Greens totally by surprise.

The ships of the Velaryon were seen on the shore of Blackwater Bay preparing their catapults and readying their archers, the horses of their allies entered the city gates with banners flapping in the wind, and the dragons of the Blacks surrounded the Red Keep.

Surrender was Aegon's only way out, Velarys thought.

The Targaryen princess had to face soldiers who were either brave or foolish enough to go near the pit and run into Vaghnar. The beast saved her from several arrows directed at her just by lifting one of his thick wings, enraged spitting blue fire and burning the Hightower soldiers.

Perhaps a few hours had passed, she did not know for sure as she had lost track of time, but when she looked at the great castle she could see that the banners of Aegon II had fallen, in their place at the entrances and on each spire at the columns of the castle hung banners bearing the crest her sister had chosen: a quartered with the three-headed dragon of the Targaryens, the falcon of House Arryn, and the seahorse of House Velaryon.

That was her signal: they had taken the castle.

"Sōvegon, Vaghnar" Fly, Vaghnar, Velarys ordered.

The dragon spread its enormous wings and took flight.

When he was meters from the fortress, Vaghnar scrambled down and leaned down so that Velarys could dismount from his back.

The Hightower soldiers were kneeling in rows and their swords and armors are stacked in a corner at the foot of the stairs leading to the palace entrance.

Velarys looked up to see Aegon, who was kneeling at the entrance to the Red Keep with his head bowed and his hands behind his back, while the audience that watched him be crowned in that same city years before would watch him die.

The princess herself noticed the absence of the rest of his family.

"Where are Otto and Alicent?" she asked Jacaerys, who watched from a distance the orders that his mother gave to her soldiers.

"The cowards decided to spend the rest of their lives in prison" Daemon answered before his nephew could say anything.

It was either that or be burned alive by Syrax, his sister's dragon.

She thought in the sweet Helaena who had ended her life last year, the war had ravaged her, and her heart eched.

Rhaenyra approached her family with a serious expression on her face, her father's crown on her head, displaying an aura of superiority.

"What about Aemond?" Velarys asked with concern.

Ever since they had met on Claw Isle that afternoon when she had confronted him about Lucerys's death and told him of the loss of their son, each had returned to their respective sides not entirely sure that continuing this war was the best course of action. But the damage had already been done and everyone's fury had exploded. The best they could do was to intervene so that all of this did not explode in their faces, and it had not turned out that well, because the war had lasted longer than they expected and countless innocents had lost their lives.

"I will not be the one to decide his fate" Rhaenyra said looking at her.

Daemon looked at the sisters with indifference, because if it were up to him, Aemond would have died the moment the guards notified him of the discovery of Lucerys's body.

"What do you mean by that?" asked Velarys surprised.

"As much as I want to kill him with my own hands, I will not be the one to end his life. That would make you a widow" Rhaenyra said firmly.

"You put my husband's future entirely in my hands?"

The Targaryen Queen only nodded once, turned her back straight and walked up to her dragon.

As Velarys watched the execution of Aegon II, she pondered the fate of Aemond Targaryen.

￮ ੭ 𓈒 ˙ 🐉🐉🐉 ˳ ⊹ ˚ 𝅄

Velarys entered the room where Queen Alicent had locked her in when her father had died. Aemond was leaning against the same window she had leaned against spending her days of mourning he daughter watching the banks of the Blackwater Bay.

The prince heard the footsteps of someone behind him and turned to see who had entered the room that he previously shared with his wife.

Velarys had taken off her armor and was wearing a simple black dress, it had no decorations or emblems, only silver buttons that contrasted with the dark fabric.

"Are you coming to take me to my execution?" Aemond asked, since from the window he could see how Rhaenyra cut off his brother's head for being a traitor.

"No" the white-haired woman said simply.

She approached her husband and handed him a neatly rolled scroll.

Aemond took it and unfolded the paper. Velarys watched as his eye read the delicate handwriting of the Queen's hand.

"That is...?" He asked when he finished reading.

"A pardon signed by the Queen herself"

Aemond's jaw dropped.

"But, I committed war crimes…" she cleared his throat. "And I killed her son. I deserve death."

Velarys played with the only ring that adorned her delicate middle finger, one of her mother's favorites and which she inherited when Aemma died, along with many other pieces of jewelry belonging to her personal collection.

"Maybe, it's your lucky day"

"I don't understand... she want to spare my life?"

Velarys guided her gaze from her silver ring to her surprised husband.

"You want it"

His wife smiled.

"All Rhaenyra asks is that you leave Westeros immediately. You will become an exile.

"She wants me to give up my titles." Aemond turned to look at the scroll.

"It is the only way that no heirs are left and try to take what belongs to her again"

"I will no longer be Aemond Targaryen"

Velarys shook his head.

"Just Aemond"

"And where will I go?" he rolled up the parchment again.

"We could go to Essos" Velarys suggested.

Aemond didn't believe his ears.

"Would you come with me?"

The princess shrugged.

"I have nothing left to do here... I just want to forget"

Velarys walked over to her husband, reached out her arms and wrapped him in a tight hug, her cheek against his beefy chest.

"Make me forget, Aemond" the princess whispered.

The prince rested his cheek on his beloved wife head and then left a long kiss.

"Maybe the Gods will finally let us live a happy life"

Velarys sighed and imagined what her life could be like from now on.

Epilogue

Taglist

@mynameisbaby9 @princessmiaelicia @sustisama @daddysfavoritesexkitten @deeeeexx @zverea @tempo-rary-fix @stargaryenx @filmelunar @yor72 @remuslupinwifee @fuckinglittlekitten @may-machin @kaitieskidmore1 @zillahvathek @marvelita85 @25falsafielisa @solacestyles @polireader @mariaelizabeth21-blog1 @loomipee @leoramage @iiamthehybrid @darylandbethfanforever9 @bregarc @justpassinbxx @sandronebabyy @ms-dont-care @julianaaleticia @nctma15 @isaxbella749 @tivedetek4869 @maviee @gimalo135 @fedeffy

162 notes · View notes

fatehbaz · 2 years

Text

There are three reasons why an international audience should care about the otherwise insignificant Canadian city of Thunder Bay, a community of 120,000 souls 100km North of the American border right in the middle of the world’s second most spacious nation-state.

The first is that, as Canada’s murder and hate-crime capital, with the vast majority of these terrors directed at Indigenous people, roughly 13-20 percent of the population, its example has a lot to teach us about the dire failure of the Canadian model of liberal capitalism, corporate multiculturalism, and half-hearted “reconciliation.”

Second, as a troubled (post-)extractive and logistics-based economy in a “first-world” country — a country that exports and finances extractive industries around the world — its patterns of racist violence reveal something profound about capitalism today.

Finally, Thunder Bay’s problems demand, and are generating, the kind of radical, grassroots solutions that point towards the kind of transformations all communities need to embrace in the years to come to overcome the dangerous intertwined orders of contemporary colonialism and capitalism [...].

---

The isolation, the economic marginality, and the history of extraction and racial resentments all contribute to, but cannot completely explain, the staggering degree of racism in the city. [...] Like many police forces in Canada, officers in the Thunder Bay Police Service (TBPS) have been known to drive Indigenous people out to the outskirts of town, take their shoes and coats, and leave them to walk back or freeze to death. Unlike most police forces in Canada, the TBPS has recently been found to be plagued with profound “systemic racism” by two independent and high-profile reports. [...] The real reason for the investigations was the deaths of seven Indigenous youth, most from remote Northern communities, most in the city to access high school education or medical services denied to them in their communities. [...]

---

As scholars Damien Lee and Jana-Rae Yerxa note, many precedents stand behind these fears. Indigenous people end up dead in Thunder Bay at staggering rates. [...] Just before the most recent police reports were issued, the mayor (a former Police Association president), the police chief (a fool) and the city’s most successful lawyer (a convicted child molestor) were all implicated in a scandal involving a blend of sexual abuse, extortion, and breach of trust. [...]

Meanwhile, just as I moved to the city in early 2017, an Indigenous woman was fatally injured in the street when one of a gang of white teenagers out joyriding threw a heavy metal trailer hitch at her from their speeding car. It took her several agonizing months to die from her internal injuries. [...]

---

The rank, racist and reactionary hypocrisy so common in Canada and in Thunder Bay is, unfortunately, often mistaken for merely a cultural anachronism, which can be solved through better public education, greater cultural sensitivity and more opportunities to celebrate diversity. This has, for instance, been the approach to the problems of racist policing in the city: another “cultural competency” workshop [...].

In spite of a great deal of rhetoric about “nation-to-nation” negotiations by the Trudeau government, it is profoundly clear, as Mi’Kmaq lawyer and professor Pam Palmater warns, that the State does not and cannot accept the idea that Indigenous people would be allowed to say “no” to, for instance, mines, forestry, corporate fishing or pipelines [...].

---

To this day Canada is a key player in a global capitalist imperium that specializes in extractive industries and extractive forms of debt.

The Mining Association of Canada reports that “the Toronto Stock Exchange (TSX) and TSX Venture Exchange accounted for 57 percent of the global mining equity raised in 2016.” As Alain Deneault and William Sacher have noted, Canada has historically structured its laws and commercial norms to empower the theft of indigenous lands to be violently transformed into “resources” for export, a specialization that is now itself exported around the world as Canadian-owned or -funded corporations are called upon to “develop” mines and extractive projects globally.

Every Canadian with savings is necessarily complicit: almost all pension funds, banks and other investment vehicles here are wrapped up in the TSX and therefore the extractive industry. Meanwhile, as Peter Hudson illustrates, Canada also has a long legacy of renovating national, municipal and personal debt into a tool of neocolonialism, notably in the Caribbean where Canadian banks have enjoyed profound influence, even monopolies. [...]

The ruling class and international capital, working hand in glove, have consistently used divide-and-conquer techniques to sew the seeds of racism that undermine solidarity. Thunder Bay is only a particularly poignant example, a place so small and marginalized that it cannot sustain the veneer of polite, civil, cheerful liberalism that is the country’s brand.

---

Text by: Max Haiven. “The colonial secrets of Canada’s most racist city.” ROAR Magazine. 13 February 2019. [Bold emphasis and some paragraph breaks added by me.]

120 notes · View notes

exitpursuedbyavulcan · 2 years

Text

The Silver Dragon (5/?) ARCHIVED

Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x Original Female Character

Word Count: 2261

Story Summary: Lady Arianwyn Targaryen, the Lady of Runestone, was seeded by her father, the Rogue Prince Daemon Targaryen, in an act of unbridled hatred, and borne of her mother, the late Lady Rhea Royce, as a desperate grasp at revenge.

Ignored by her father, and alone following the death of her mother, she is raised in King’s Landing alongside her cousin, Prince Aemond Targaryen. As they grow, the two find themselves indelibly bonded. But their lives are far from the fairy tales they read, and as tensions in the family rise, they find their paths may diverge.

Will they be pulled apart when the dragons dance?

Chapter Summary: As the Targaryen and Velaryon households gather on Driftmark to mourn the late Lady Laena, Arianwyn is anxious about meeting not only her half-sisters, but her father for the very first time.

Warnings: Mentions of rape.

Series Masterlist

The Funeral

Emrys let out a primal roar, the guttural sound reverberating over the waters of Blackwater Bay. The black dragon huffed with agitation as he flew his rider toward Driftmark. Sunfyre and Dreamfyre flew ahead of them, the King’s ship sailing below. As dissatisfied as the young black dragon was with the slow pace they set – a necessity to prevent them from arriving at their destination hours before the ship – it was the roiling emotions he sensed from Arianwyn that were driving him mad.

Arianwyn had not slept the night before, her mind and heart racing with anxiety about the day to come. Today, after more than thirteen years of total absence on his part, she would meet her father – Prince Daemon Targaryen.

As she laid in her bed, she considered each story she had ever been told about the man – the picture painted by one was often immediately contradicted by the next.

He was the man who had rebuilt the city guard of King’s Landing, at last raising the capital from lawlessness. But he had achieved this through unprecedented brutality; rumor claimed that on his first night as Lord Commander of the Gold Cloaks, multiple carts had been required to haul away dismembered limbs and extremities.

He was the man who had defeated the Crabfeeder almost single-handedly, restoring Westerosi rule to the long-besieged region. But his triumphant victory came mere hours after he, apparently without remorse, had gutted a young squire for the crime of delivering a message from King Viserys.

He was the man who, according to most, had heroically swept into the Vale to rescue his helpless damsel of a wife. Whose heroics were so great, his wife could not help but at last succumb to him, eschewing nine years of barren marriage.

But Arianwyn knew the truth.

Daemon had not saved his wife – he killed her.

For beneath all his outwardly charms, the Rogue Prince was a man of selfishness and cruelty. A man who had all but abandoned his firstborn daughter before she was even born when he refused the Dragonkeepers offer of an egg for her cradle – her birthright as a Targaryen. Only weeks after Rhea Royce’s death, he flew across the sea to start a new family with a new wife. Years later, he had sent grand proclamations back to Westeros announcing the births of Baela and Rhaena, along with formal requests that dragon eggs be sent for their cradles.

Arianwyn’s heart clenched painfully as she remembered another story she’d been told. Just after Rhaenyra was named as King Viserys’ heir, Daemon had fled King’s Landing for Dragonstone. Six months later, he had snuck into the Dragonpit to steal an egg for the child his mistress – some whore from the Street of Silk – supposedly carried. Fortunately, the princess was able to retrieve the egg safely. And in the process, discovered that the purported pregnancy had never been true.

Daemon had done more for the theoretical bastard of a whore than he ever had for his real daughter.

For Arianwyn, his only act of fatherhood was the rape of her mother.

In the days preceding their departure for Driftmark, Alicent had instructed her niece in what to say and how to act when she met Daemon. She would do none of it. The man had never once spared a thought for her, she would happily return the sentiment. Let him defame her as he did her mother, or beg her forgiveness for all his sins. She would give him naught but the same cold indifference he had shown her.

But despite her determination, Arianwyn had still been shaking with trepidation when she went to mount Emrys that morning. The trip across the Blackwater would be long, leaving her alone with her anxious thoughts. She had tried to avoid this by having Aemond ride with her. Emrys had even seemed excited when the prince climbed aboard the saddle. But alas, the Queen moved hastily to forbid it, and Aemond had been forced to sail with his parents aboard the ship.

So Arianwyn rode alone, almost thankful for Emrys’ restlessness – guiding him in circles around the ship helped divert her mind from what would happen when they at last landed on the island that was just then coming in to view.

Driftmark had no Dragonpit, nor any caves or tunnels for the beasts to nest in. Instead, Aegon, Helaena, and Arianwyn were forced to land their dragons half a mile from the castle High Tide, on a rocky cliff overlooking a beach. Moondancer, Caraxes, and Meleys were already there, perched on some of the larger boulders as they lay in the sun.

The dragonriders were met by a small number of Velaryon guards, and quickly escorted to the carriage sent to take them to the castle itself. The path they took was treacherous, winding uncomfortably close to the edge of the cliffs that circled the island. Each time the horses turned came too close to the sheer drops, Helaena would gasp, squeezing her eyes shut as she turned from the carriage windows.

Aegon scoffed, “You are a dragonrider, sister. Surely a mere cliff should not scare you.” In the days since their betrothal, the prince’s attitude toward his sister had soured. He no longer simply ignored her more peculiar tendencies, but seemed to take each as a personal insult.

Arianwyn was utterly exhausted by him. “The drop may be small, cousin,” she said, “but you forget that our carriage does not have wings.”

The prince huffed, blustering to find a witty response, but neither of the girls in the carriage paid any mind to his grumbling as they continued on to the castle.

By the time they arrived in the courtyard, the party from the ship had finally disembarked. Viserys, already visibly tired from the trip, sat in a cushioned chair servants had brought out for them. Lord Corlys Velaryon stood in front on him, deep in hushed conversation with the King. Alicent and Rhaenys stood to the side, engrossed in their own discussion.

Daemon was nowhere to be seen.

True, neither were Baela and Rhaena, or Princess Rhaenyra and her children. But it wasn’t the idea of meeting them that had Arianwyn’s heart racing.

Reminding herself again that she did not care about her father, Arianwyn walked with her cousins as they joined the rest of her family.

At the funeral, Arianwyn stood not with her father and half-sisters, but with the King and Queen. It made sense, she told herself. She had never met Lady Laena; it was not her place to mourn the woman alongside those who had known and loved her. But still, she noted the stares from the gathered nobility on the cliffs above them, and their questioning whispers about why she was not with her father.

She took comfort in the fact that those whispers were quiet. At least, they were compared to those pertaining to Rhaenyra’s children.

They too, had never met Laena, but still Jacaerys wept. There had been another death in that particular branch of the family. It had only been days since Harwin Strong’s gruesome demise. The emotional reaction of the boy was interpreted by many as that of a son mourning his father, further confirming their long-held suspicions.

Arianwyn pitied them. Whether or not he was their true father, Ser Harwin had always been kind to them, bringing them gifts from the docks of King’s Landing and training with them in the castle’s yard. Whatever the relationship, it was once that would be dearly missed.

As the Maester spoke, Arianwyn watched her father. She could find nothing of herself in his face. For years, she had been praised for the delicate softness of her features; Daemon was all sharp angles and straight lines. The only similarity lay in the color of their hair, but where his fell straight, hers curled in elegant wisps around her face.

She at last turned away when the Maester finished his prayers. Vaemond Velaryon stepped toward the coffin as soldiers of his house began to fasten ropes to the steel anchors embedded in the stone.

“We join today at the Seat of the Sea,” Vaemond intoned in High Valyrian, “to commit the Lady Laena of House Velaryon to the eternal waters, the dominion of the Merling King, where He will guard her for all the days to come.”

Arianwyn looked to her half-sisters. Baela leaned against her grandmother, Rhaenys, while Rhaena stood next to them, fists clenched at her sides. They too, looked little like their father. From the sweetness of their faces, Arianwyn imagined that her stepmother had been very beautiful indeed.

Vaemond continued, “As she sets to sea for her final voyage, the Lady Laena leaves two true-born daughters on the shore.” A careful choice of words, directed with pointed disdain toward Rhaenyra and her family. “Though their mother will not return from her voyage, they will all remain bound together in blood. Salt courses through Velaryon blood. Ours runs thick. Ours runs true. And ours must never thin.”

Daemon laughed then. A light, blythe chuckle – wholly out a place at such a solemn occasion. All in attendance turned their attention to him, even those who had been watching for the reaction of Princess Rhaenyra.

Arianwyn’s blood ran cold. As Vaemond had said those pointed words, “Ours runs thick. Ours runs true. And ours must never thin,” Daemon had not been looking at Rhaenyra. Nor his wife’s coffin, or even the daughters by his side. As those words were spoken, he had laid his eyes on Arianwyn for the first time in all her life.

And he had laughed.

That afternoon, amongst the solemnity of the funeral reception, Arianwyn was seething with unquenchable rage. She had anticipated indifference from her father, but she had also considered other possibilities. He may have taunted her as he did her mother, or insisted she was a bastard. She had even considered that he might seek forgiveness for his years of neglect, repentant now that he had lost another wife.

Instead, Arianwyn sat with Helaena on the far end of the balcony, watching her cousin gently turn over a large spider in her hands as she recited words that seemed to have no meaning. She wanted to reach out and grab the spider; crush it in her hands just so she could make something hurt in the same way she did.

But she did not. Doing so would not only hurt the spider, but Helaena as well. Arianwyn could never do that. So, she simply sat on the cold stone, anger crackling through her veins like lightning.

She could sense Aemond a few feet away, watching Helaena as well. But he did not approach, not even after Aegon had left, chasing after one of the servant girls. She wished he would. That he would say something – anything to make her feel better. But silence was his way; he would simply remain by her side as long as she needed him, as she had done for him countless times.

It was Princess Rhaenys who at last broke Arianwyn from her daze. “Come, girl,” she said, her voice raw from days of weeping for her daughter, “It is high time you meet your sisters.”

The Queen Who Never Was led Arianwyn carefully through the crowd, Aemond following discreetly behind them. Baela and Rhaena sat on the other side of the balcony, hands entwined as they sat on a stone bench and talking with Jacaerys. Arianwyn instinctively dropped her gaze as they approached.

“Girls,” Rhaenys whispered, kneeling before her granddaughters, “I would like you to meet Arianwyn, your father’s firstborn daughter.”

Both girls’ dark eyes, brimming with tears, lifted to look at Arianwyn. She stood still and silent as they examined her, searching for familiarity in her face. Finding none, they simply mustered what smiles they could and murmured a greeting.

Arianwyn returned the smile, “You have my sympathies for the loss of your mother. I regret that I was never able to meet her.”

Baela tried to respond, but could only give into her tears. She and Rhaena fell into their grandmother’s arms, sobbing. “I don’t want Mother to be gone,” she cried.

Sensing that pressing the introduction further would only be unkind to the girls, Arianwyn dipped her head in place of a farewell and walked away. When she turned, she saw Aemond standing across a brazier from Jacaerys. The corner of his mouth turned up as if he were about to speak, but when he saw Arianwyn, he simply nodded and turned away from his nephew.

“What did he say to you?” Arianwyn whispered as she took his arm and led him away. Before he had left the Red Keep, Jace had begun to taunt Aemond even without Aegon present to egg him on.

But Aemond shook his head. “He said nothing. I was going to offer my condolences for Ser Harwin, but I couldn’t think of how to say it.”

Arianwyn smiled, at last feeling her anger begin to subside. “That was very kind of you.”

Aemond squeezed her arm, about to inquire about her own feelings, when Alicent approached them.

“Come with me, Aria,” the Queen said. “Your father is waiting to meet you.”

Next Chapter

#aemond targaryen #aemond #aemond one eye #aemond fanfic #aemond targaryen imagine #aemond targaryen fanfic #house of the dragon #aemond targaryn x oc #house of the dragon aemond #hotd aemond #aemond x reader

261 notes · View notes