#edelweiss bloome

[xsoteria]

Playing story-based games really is the funniest thing to me as a roleplayer, because it really reveals which of my ocs would actually comply with canon to stand there listening to plot/monologues from enemies and which would actually use that time to fucking beat the shit out of them, lmao.

Kate, Liana and Einar would not be having it at all ahsdgshgd. They would only comply with canon for actual, strong threats because being impulsive and reckless will make it worse. But small-fry? Nah, get tf out of here with that bs, lmao.

People do try to physically restrain them, though, at times. Mainly because there might be information to be had, but wow they won’t be happy in the slightest. They have murder in their eyes and will use that to intimidate as much as possible. Kate is the easiest to stop because she’s small and doesn’t have the physical strength to stop most people. Liana is the hardest. That absolute 7′3″ queen is built, you need maybe 3-4 grown men and even then she might still have strength enough to take slow, weighted steps.

[thebooklovebot]

The Next 6 Books I’m Planning on Reading

Sometimes I like to play too close to the sun and get burned, more specifically, the lack of self-control I seem to have regarding ARCs. I see something I like or could potentially like, I request. Which thanks to the feedback ratio on Netgalley is really not good.   So my ARCs tend to build up, making it incredibly stressful. I take full responsibility and I’m working on it. Now let’s talk…

[whatsheread]

Novel Nuggets - July 2022 Releases

Novel Nuggets – July 2022 Releases

We are now moving on to July releases. After the stellar reading that defined June, July was bound to be less exciting. Still, any month that includes Blake Crouch and Ruth Ware isn’t too bad! Upgrade is another intense science fiction thriller by Blake Crouch. This time, his focus is on gene modification and its ethics. As you would expect from Mr. Crouch, the action is intense and…

[revivemyreverie]

"One day, I'll find my savior, and they'll save me from this world of witches."

Twisted from: Prince Florian (Snow White)

Aldrich Edelweiss

ベーガス・キャスティヤ

CV: Shouta Aoi (蒼井 翔太)

Technical info.

Gender: Male

Birthday: 04/27

Age: 19

Height: 5'7

Hair Color: Cinnamon Brown

Eye Color: Black

Hand Pref.: Right

Homeland: Edelweiss Empire

College Info.

Class: 2A Set 5

Club: Track and Field

Favorite Subject: Biology

Other.

Hobby: Hunting

Likes: Camellia Flowers

Dislikes: "Witches"

Favorite Food: Chocolate

Hated Food: Apples

Specialty: Navigation

UM: One Song

Can mimic the voice of another for exactly 3 minutes and 25 seconds.

A So-Called “Hunt”

An old poster that was once strewn across every wall in a certain kingdom. Now, it’s like it has been forgotten.

Royal Decree

Due to unforeseen circumstances and the tragic passing of Lady Rosetta, the Ceremony of Eternal Vows has officially been canceled. Additionally, a candlelight vigil hosted by Prince Valentine Edelweiss will be held in his fiancée’s honor tonight.  A new curfew will be instated on XX/XX/XXXX. All citizens will be required to return to their homes by 7 pm, sharp. Similarly, all magicians must now be open to being investigated by the Witch Hunting Corps. Wands and other means of magic not officially registered under the kingdom’s database will be confiscated and destroyed. Anyone with information regarding possible leads to Lady Rosetta’s death is to report their findings to Crown Prince Aldrich Edelweiss. Failure to follow any of these orders may result in the following: -Confiscation of all magical items -A fine up to 150,000 Madol -Arrest & Jail time -Exile -Execution We understand this may be very stressful and difficult to adapt to. However, to ensure the safety of this kingdom, it is of utmost importance that all citizens remain calm and orderly. The witch is to be caught soon, and justice soon served.

May the Flowers Bloom in Eternity

Edelweiss Royal Crown

[folkloresthings]

thinking about fernando & reader who also loves flowers. imagine him coming home from a triple header to the house looking vibrant & beautiful & it warms his heart that the house feels truly like a home ❤️ i could also see reader sending his favorite flowers to his hotel when he’s away too & writing him cute notes to go along with them

FULL BLOOM. ❨ fernando alonso x florist!reader ❩

"statistically, eighty-eight percent of men don't receive flowers until their funeral."

it was what you had said to fernando during your first date, as an explanation for the bouquet you had just handed him. he had brought you some roses, too, but they were nothing compared to the coordinated bundle you had brought. though stunned, a smile crept onto his lips.

you were a florist, he discovered, and owned a little shop just down the street from his favourite coffee shop -- where you had met just days before, bumping into each other accidentally and ending in exchanging phone numbers. it made sense, now. your perfume was slightly floral, and your whole demeanour seemed to fit your occupation. soft, pretty, elegant.

it took three months into the relationship for fernando to give up on bringing you flowers, his often falling short of the ones you created every day. you didn't mind -- you worked with the plants all day long; you had enough to last you a lifetime. other presents ensued: chocolates, jewellery, trinkets that reminded him of you. still, you kept bringing him bouquets. he loved the new decoration of his house, suddenly much brighter than it had ever been. little pieces of you at home with him.

"you may as well move in." fernando shrugged one day, glancing at your personal touches across the rooms. "you stay here when i'm at races, and i don't like it when you leave."

it was an easy decision in the end, and most of your belongings already lived in his house. once you had settled and the space became shared, what was once fernando's bachelor pad became a home. every other day, you arrived home from work with a new bunch of flowers. and every time, fernando would sit down and listen to you list off what each one meant.

"i thought it could use a little sprucing up," you told him when he came home to carefully chosen flowers littered from room to room. fernando only crossed the room to kiss you, squashing the roses in your hands between you both.

only when he went away for races without you did he realise just how much he appreciated your floral arrangements brightening up his days. at home, even when you weren't around, he could look to one of the vases and think of you. two days into his time in jeddah and he was almost sick with missing you. the time difference made it difficult to keep up with calls, one of you just waking as the other fell to sleep.

fernando was dragging his feet back from a terrible qualifying session, pushing past the team to get to his hotel room as quickly as he could. he didn't want to talk to the press, he didn't want to see the engineers, he didn't want to hang out with the other drivers. he just wanted you.

his tiredness almost had him miss the delivery sat on the table of his suite as he locked the door behind him. a stunning bouquet of flowers in the centre, basking the room in a new light. tucked inside was a small envelope and he recognised your handwriting straight away.

"edelweiss for courage. lavender to keep you calm. and tulips, for my love for you."

fernando felt himself relax, as if you had just wrapped your arms around him and held him close. he smiled to himself, grinning like an idiot all alone, and flipped the card in his hands.

"a little bit of home to keep close by."

a little bit of home, he thought, running his fingers over the delicate petals he knows you probably spent an hour arranging. a little bit of you with him, even while you were so far away.

[mimymomo]

For people interested in learning the meanings for each of the flowers on Fearne’s new outfit! I googled them!

Edelweiss: symbol of strength, adventure, sacrifice and courage. Also a symbol for alpinism, for rugged beauty and purity associated with the Alps and Carpathians

Borage: a symbol of emotional fortitude and joy. Its star-shaped blue blossoms have carried the weight of courage since Roman times, believed to embolden warriors on the battlefield

Bird’s Foot Trefoil: prosperity and lasting bonds but also revenge

Cherry Blossom: symbolizes both life and death, beauty and violence. As the coming of spring promises new life, so the blooming of cherry blossoms brings a sense of vitality and vibrancy. At the same time, their short lifespan is a reminder that life is fleeting

Magnolia: nobility, perseverance, and love of nature/nature of people

Pink magnolia flowers-youth, innocence, and joy.

Purple magnolia flowers- good luck and health.

Green magnolia flowers- joy, health, luck, and good fortune

Gardenia: White gardenias specifically symbolize love, purity, refinement, innocence, harmony, and gentleness. This symbolism makes them a wonderful way to celebrate new beginnings and great achievements — events that evoke hope. And can also symbolize secret love

Wisteria: resilience, love and sensuality to mystery and spirituality. A potent symbol of new life

7 flowers — 7 members of Bells Hells 💐

[shakingparadigm]

(this is copy-pasted from a ramble I had in sleepy's dms like months ago so please forgive the inconsistent grammar/punctuation etc!)

till's feelings are akin to an edelweiss, persevering despite the horrid conditions and all the forces that should have brought it down. it's around the same meaning as the clematis flower. both flowers are defined by their ability to bloom in harsh conditions, which mirror the behavior of loving and finding meaning within each other amidst an inhumane society. edelweiss are more associated with devotion though, and in My Clematis the clematis is seen as a source of hope and strength. mizisua and till to mizi are symbolized by flowers because they have (or, well, had) hope. their feelings bloomed as a result of an extremely human response to seeking some sense of companionship, connection, some belonging in such a strange and otherworldly civilization where it's incredibly easy to feel used and alone. which is why it interests me that even though he has this same desire, ivan's love is symbolized not by an earthy, organic piece of life, but by pieces of cosmos, falling stars. meteor showers are ivan's signature. (putting on my pretentious cap because once again I am going to apply meaning to something that probably isn't that deep)

Ivan is incapable (quite a strong word for it, but it's their words, not mine) of feeling proper human emotion, that much is stated in the patreon posts regarding his character. Why? I have no idea. I theorize it to be his harsh and ruthless upbringing that caused him to close himself off completely in order to protect himself. it started off very early too. or maybe ivan just had no concept of proper human emotion in general. I imagine that while he was growing up, there wasn't exactly any room for the humans he was surrounded with to exhibit any emotion lest they were targeted or punished somehow. Or maybe he was just born that way. anyway it's established that ivan is different from the other humans in this way, that's a similarity he shares with only one other character: Luka (Luka actually does have a stated reason as to why he seems so artificial however). It's why Ivan just goes limp in the grasp of the alien that held him over the edge, despite tears welling in his eyes he remains emotionally vacant and quiet. This moment is his first sight of the meteor shower. Ivan associates meteor showers with very significant experiences in his life (mainly near-death experiences according to the posts). Perhaps those meteor showers gave him some sort of relief, too, an escape from the hell he was living in. maybe he was just fascinated by them, the way they were so far beyond his reach yet burned so brilliantly. just like Till. he saw till's incredible resolve, his refusal to back down and remain passive. Ivan goes through the motions of his "life" doing whatever it is someone wants him to do. they want to sell him? okay. they want to throw him off a building? okay. sing this song, enter this competition, behave and pose for the picture. okay. But Till would rather be beat over and over again than to have his autonomy taken away. He doesn't even sing the songs he's assigned for the competition, he writes his own. His individuality is a blazing, passionate thing that's only bolstered by his natural talent. And to once again refer to the posts: Ivan is deeply fascinated by those who have qualities that he lacks. When he saw Till pick himself up off the ground, he saw stars in him. He saw the blazing fire, the brightness, the fascinating qualities that were far beyond his grasp, something he could only ever admire and hold onto in his hardest moments, but never to hold.

There's also the fact that meteor showers are fleeting. They're beautiful, ethereal spectacles, but they don't last. They're not meant to be held gently in your hands and cultivated like a flower. They appear in bursts of light and leave a lasting impression on whoever sees them, but eventually they disappear. Just like Till leaves Ivan behind, the palm of his hand disappearing from Ivan's grasp, his departure leaving a lasting impression. Ivan knows what they have together will not last, he knows Till's heart belongs elsewhere, yet he clings onto the imagery of the meteor shower because it's all he has. Even if Till doesn't love him back, he's the sole reason Ivan is able to feel to this extent at all. It's a blessing and a curse, so even if it hurts, Ivan continues to hold on. He even includes meteor showers during his performance in ROUND 3, sparkling gloves seemingly made of stardust reaching out to them as he desperately sings to his very own star. VIVINOS and QMENG said themselves that Ivan was persistent. He holds no anger towards Till's feelings for Mizi, he won't drive a wall between them because he respects Till's feelings and Mizi as a person, but he won't let go, either. Falling stars are fleeting, but the impact they leave behind? Not so fleeting at all. That feeling could last forever if it truly meant something to someone.

[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

Now I’m Covered In You [Chapter 8: Ante Meridiem]

Series summary: Aemond is a prince of England. You are married to his brother. The Wars of the Roses are about to begin, and you have failed to fulfill your one crucial responsibility: to give the Greens a line of legitimate heirs. Will you survive the demands of your family back in Navarre, the schemes of the Duke of Hightower, the scandals of your dissolute husband, the growing animosity of Daemon Targaryen…and your own realization of a forbidden love?

Series title is a lyric from: Ivy by Taylor Swift.

Series warnings: Language, sexual content (18+), dubious consent, miscarriage, pregnancy, childbirth, violence, warfare, murder, alcoholism, sexism, infidelity, illness, death, only vaguely historically accurate, lots of horses!

Word count: 8.1k.

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

Taglist: @borikenlove​ @myspotofcraziness​ @teenagecriminalmastermind​ @quartzs-posts​ @tclegane​ @poohxlove​ @narwhal-swimmingintheocean​ @chainsawsangel​ @itsabby15​ @padfooteyes​ @arcielee​ @travelingmypassion​ @what-is-originality​ @burningcoffeetimetravel​ @randomdragonfires​ @anditsmywholeheart​ @aemcndtargaryen​ @jvpit3rs​ @sarcastic-halfling-princess​ @flowerpotmage​ @ladylannisterxo​ @thelittleswanao3​ @elsolario​ @tinykryptonitewerewolf​ @girlwith-thepearlearring​ @minttea07​ @trifoliumviridi​ @deltamoon666​ @mariahossain​ @darkenchantress​ @doingfondue​ @atherverybest​ @namelesslosers​ @skythighs​ @moonlightfoxx​ @partypoison00​ @bellameshipper​ @coffedraven​ @greenowlfactif​ 

“We should hide in my rooms,” Kunigunde says. She’s already heading there, her gown—like yellow jasper, like sunset, like firelight—swishing over the wooden floor, her face flinty but unrattled. She has an aura of invincibility around her, a halo, a cool fog like steel. It’s not difficult to imagine where she gets it from. She’s the Holy Roman Emperor’s daughter, raised in a far more formal and affluent court than yours or Nico’s. The idea of anyone putting their hands on her in violence is unthinkable; the animal instinct to lash back is missing from her pure-white, righteous bones. She’s not especially afraid of Daemon. She’s inconvenienced by him—because him being here is a reminder of how you triumphed where she (thus far) has failed, of the child you carry and your consummated marriage and, surely, the fact that your death would destabilize the Greens in more ways than one—but she does not fear him. You have the impression that she sees all of this as ‘men’s business,’ unpleasant and yet ultimately existing beyond her, gold coins at the bottom of the ocean, stars high above her earth. But Kunigunde doesn’t know Daemon. She knows who he is and what he’s done, but that’s very different from knowing him.

“Maybe he won’t be able to get inside,” Alicent says hopefully. The Duke of Hightower’s hands are on her shoulders, his brow cut with deep troughs of worry. Just outside the palace, there are clashes of metal and shouts and, you notice now, the gruff barking of dogs. Daemon’s Scottish deerhounds, you think. Trained to chase and to kill. “Maybe the guards will be able to stop him.”

“Maybe,” the Duke replies, but he doesn’t sound confident.

Kunigunde whips open the door to her rooms and pulls you inside, her hand closing around your wrist. Her sweet, feather-light edelweiss perfume blooms in the air. You look at her, stunned. She stares back stoically, without shallow jealousy like a child’s, without confliction. She will protect you because you’re a Green and now she is too. She will shield you because regardless of the sins of your past, the heir you carry is the future. She ushers you through her rooms—ensuring that Sir Criston closes and locks each door behind you—until you’re all huddled in the corner of her bedchamber: you, Kunigunde, Nico, Alicent, the Duke of Hightower, Sir Criston. The large rectangular window, luminous with the golden promises of early summer, overlooks the royal stables.

You ask Kunigunde with sudden inspiration: “You practice archery, don’t you?”

She’s confounded. “Right.”

“Do you have a bow in here?”

“What, in my rooms?! Of course not. Why?” Your only answer is the swelling noise of men killing each other outside. She understands and gasps, blanching, scandalized. “Well I couldn’t shoot a person with it!”

You exchange a glance with Nico. A wild, nervous giggle tumbles out of her; it’s the most impolite thing she could have done. You smile without realizing you’re doing it, a drawn, macabre smile.

“Yes,” Nico says, her eyes flicking down to where your hand rests on the hilt of the sword Aemond had made for you. “You might just get your chance to use that today.”

“Daemon wouldn’t dare,” Kunigunde murmurs fiercely. But now the screams are inside Westminster Palace; they echo through the corridors, off stone and wood and glass. Nico’s hands—trembling uncontrollably—grab yours.

“Where can we go, Father?” Alicent asks; but she’s looking at Sir Criston. He gazes back with large dark eyes swimming with panic. “If he finds us?”

The Duke of Hightower is trying to think. Ideas pass behind his blue irises like fish beneath water. “Westminster Abbey, perhaps. It is sacrilege to spill blood on consecrated ground, it is a tradition that is ancient, that long predates the Targaryen Conquest. Even the Northern noblemen hold it sacred. I don’t think Daemon would break the right of sanctuary.”

“He’d break it for me,” you say. You look out at the royal stables, separated from you by a twenty-foot drop from the window and a hundred yards of grassy field. There are only two horses housed there currently, yours and Nico’s. Kunigunde’s Andalucian is still in transport, probably being loaded onto a ship in some bustling port of the Continent. “I need to get to Midnight.”

Nico recoils, puzzled. “You can’t ride her. It’s dangerous for the baby.”

“So is Daemon beheading me.”

Now there’s a woman screaming downstairs, pleading, blubbering in words that it takes you a moment to match to a face. It’s Joanna Montford, the mother of Aegon’s bastard son. There is a great commotion and the crying of an infant. Then the cries abruptly cut off and Joanna wails, and wails, and wails, like she’s the one who’s been gutted. But it’s not her. It’s the helpless little white-haired boy who might have—in ten or twenty years—been put forth as the Greens’ claimant to the throne. Now he’ll never have banners or armies raised in his name. Now he’ll never grow up to be anyone.

“Oh, oh my God,” Alicent stammers. “Was that…was it really…?”

“The window,” the Duke of Hightower says frenziedly. He pushes open the twin glass panels and peers down, assessing the distance of the fall.

“We can’t,” you tell him. “Not without a rope. We’d snap our legs in half.”

Criston’s eyes dart around the room and land on Kunigunde’s bedsheets. Then he begins stripping them. “Help me,” he says, and all of you rush to collect the linens and knot them together, fashioning a crude ladder to ease your descent to the earth. As the growing cord of white cotton threads through your palms, you think of all the nights Aemond’s wife has spent tangled up in them—tasks left unaccomplished, sleep fitful with loss—and feel a curious pang of sympathy, envy, guilt, rage. There is no escaping it: when Aemond returns from war, he will have to lie with her, learn every last curve and freckle, breathe in edelweiss and grace, build up a store of secrets to share with her. He will have to produce children with her.

If he survives. If any of us do.

The sounds of Daemon and his soldiers are now very loud. They are going from room to room flipping furniture and tearing open closet doors. There are sickening, wet jabs when anyone resists them, groans and death rattles. They are just down the hall.

Sir Criston searches for something heavy enough to secure one end of the makeshift rope to. He decides on the leg of Kunigunde’s bedframe closest to the window and stoops low to tie the knot. Alicent is whispering to him, saying prayers, saying goodbye. The rest of you start stacking up furniture to block the door, chairs and trunks and nightstands.

“What if we can’t make it to the stables before Daemon catches us?” Nico asks you.

“I need to get to Midnight,” you repeat. “If Daemon has the chance, he’ll kill her. I can’t let that happen. Aemond gave her to me.” Alicent and Criston cast you an awkward glance. Kunigunde pretends she didn’t hear it; she’s helping the Duke of Hightower slide a desk against the door.

Nico’s eyes slip down to your belly. “I’m worried you can’t run that far.”

“You don’t have to come with me. Go to Westminster Abbey with Alicent and the Duke and Kunigunde, you’ll be safe there. You’re not the one Daemon wants.”

“I’m staying with you.”

“Nico—”

“I’m staying with you,” she insists stubbornly.

Men are pounding on the bedchamber door. Sir Criston tosses the rope of bedsheets out of the window; it reaches nearly all the way to the emerald grass below. The Duke—with fretful care that looks very strange on him—helps Alicent escape first, steadying her as she crawls through the window frame and shimmies down the rope. Then he follows after her. You and Nico are waiting by the open window with Criston shielding you from the imminent intruders, ready for your turn to descend.

The door crashes open and the piled furniture goes flying in every direction. Daemon stands there in his steel armor and his cloak of blood, his sword dripping beads like rubies, his hair in one long silver-red braid. Jace and Luke peek out from behind him, clutching their own weapons but with more trepidation than malice; you are struck by the impression that they have been brought along as observers more than anything else. This is their first taste of warfare; they’re cutting their teeth on women and babies instead of Aemond and Vhagar. Baela, tall and radiant beside her father, is distinctly not an observer. She is in light armor and carries a sword—small like yours, but sharp and nimble—that is coated with blood.

With a few words from Daemon in a language you can’t understand (Scottish? Old English?) two enormous Scottish deerhounds bolt across the room and pounce on you. Sir Criston spears one with his sword as it lunges for your face. The other’s jaw locks around your dominant hand and bites down, wrenches, rips. The pain is explosive, gunpowder and boiling water, needles and flames. The dog drags you down onto the floor as you fumble for your sword. Nico is screaming and beating at it with her fists; Criston kicks it hard enough with his boot that it goes sprawling and retreats with a whimper. And it’s only now that you realize Kunigunde is still standing by the bedchamber door.

She’s commanding Daemon, holding no weapons but her lineage and her pride: “No, you must not enter! You have no right to be here, you have no cause, there is no honor in this!”

“Move,” he says, low and serrated.

“No!” she roars up at Daemon with formidable conviction, and you think: She and Aemond really would have been good for each other. In another place, in another time. In a world where I didn’t exist. “This is against the rules of warfare, you must not enter!”

Daemon raises his sword to swing, but Kunigunde doesn’t flinch. She doesn’t think he’d harm her: a woman, a noncombatant, a daughter of an emperor. And that might be true of another man. But she doesn’t know Daemon.

“Not that one!” Jace cries, as if relaying something that has been imparted to him with great urgency. Daemon takes no notice at all.

“Kunigunde, get away from the door!” you shout at her. “Get away from the door—!”

Daemon’s blade cuts through the air, opens her throat, slits it to the bone. When she crumples and spills across the floor, you can see white glimpses of her spine through gushing scarlet arteries. The woman who was Aemond’s wife convulses like a crushed spider, her once-bright, knowing eyes going vacant and glassy. The puddle of blood beneath her expands into an ocean. Nico is shrieking, mindless, horrified, raking her face with her own fingernails. You practically shove her out of the open window.

“Go, Nico, go go!” you yell. She scrambles down the rope as Criston crashes into Daemon and his soldiers, his sword swinging and clanging, buying you necessary spare seconds. You maneuver as carefully as you can—thinking of the baby, three months along, that small vulnerable bump and dreams of a boy who looks so much like Aegon—through the window and down the length of knotted bedsheets, rubbing raw spots into your palms, staining the linen with rusty smudges like the one Kunigunde once contrived to protect Aemond’s honor. He’s a world away, gathering soldiers and provisions at Castle Rising in Norfolk, entirely unaware that his wife has been slain and that you are in mortal danger. When you near the ground, Nico and the Duke of Hightower catch you and put you safely on your feet. Alicent is staring up at the open window and begging for Criston to come down next, to flee to momentary safety like the rest of you have. The clanks of metal inside are shrill and innumerable.

The Duke grips her forearm. “Let’s go, Alicent, we have to go—”

“I can’t leave him!”

“Sir Criston!” Nico calls through cupped hands. “Sir Criston, hurry!”

But he can’t follow us, you realize. If he climbs down the rope Daemon will be right behind him. And then when Sir Criston glances from the open window you shout: “Cut it!” And then you mime catching something with both hands.

He understands and severs the linked bedsheets with his blade; the cord falls to the grass in an untidy spiral. Alicent sobs, thinking he has abandoned any hope of his escape. As the sword fighting continues upstairs, you begin frantically trying to untie one of the knots between sheets. It’s too tight, and your fingers are hopelessly shaky. You remember your sword and cut just before the knot on each end of the sheet.

“Unravel it,” you say, and Nico, Alicent, and the Duke of Hightower each grab a fraying corner. You stretch out the small square of linen below the window. “Sir Criston! Now!”

He pitches his sword as far as he can—so it won’t injure any of you in the drop—and then dives out into open air. The sheet doesn’t quite enfold him, but it does break the fall enough that he rolls away groaning but uninjured. You and Nico pull him upright and then sprint towards the royal stables; Criston pauses just long enough to snatch his sword off the ground as he passes it. The Duke of Hightower and Alicent veer left in the direction of Westminster Abbey and soon vanish from sight. As you, Nico, and Sir Criston reach the stables, you can hear the distant rumble of horses rounding the palace; they must have been tied up near the castle entranceway. Daemon and his soldiers are minutes from you, if not seconds.

Criston careens into the stables and rips two bridles from where they hang off nails on the wall. He gives one to Nico, who rushes to put it on her mild-mannered white mare. Then he throws open Midnight’s stall door. She rears up and paws at him with her massive black hooves, huffing and snorting, her ears flattened.

“I’d better do it,” you say, taking the bridle. Criston watches, petrified, as you glide into the stall. Midnight settles, her volcanic-glass eyes on you, one hoof pawing at the straw beneath her. You slip the bridle over her head and fasten the straps. Then you notice that Criston has knelt and cupped his hands so you can use them to step up and mount Midnight. “The saddle…?”

“No time.”

You place one foot into his interwoven hands and then swing your other leg over Midnight’s broad back as Criston lifts you like wind fills sails. Then he hurries off to help Nico onto her mare and, presumably, ride double with her. You grip the reins, trying to get your balance, to remember how to do this. You haven’t ridden a horse since you left Navarre almost two years ago, never without a saddle and certainly not while pregnant; there is an unpleasant tension that surfaces in your hips, waist, spine, thighs. But Midnight is listening to you. Her ears swivel back to capture your words. When you shift your body to the right, she does as well; when you tilt left, she mirrors you. And when she clops out of her stall, she does so slowly, gingerly, giving you precious fleeting time to acclimate to her plodding gait.

“Stay close to me,” Sir Criston orders. He is astride the white mare; Nico has her arms locked around his waist and is holding on for dear life, wide-eyed, nauseous with terror.

“I’ll try.”

“We’ll lose them in the forest.” Then Criston kicks his heels into the mare’s sides and flies out of the stable. You loosen your hold on the reins and Midnight takes off after them, your fingers ensnaring in her glossy black mane, her sinew surging seamlessly beneath a coat like spilled ink. She’s not as fast as Nico’s mare, nowhere close to the light-footed speed of Sunfyre or Syrax or Caraxes, but she is stronger, and she is yours. As Midnight plunges through the windswept June field towards the tree line, you look back over your shoulder to see Daemon and his men on horseback, rapidly closing the distance between you. Baela is there too; her own horse, Moondancer, keeps pace with Caraxes.

Midnight follows Nico’s mare into the forest, the same forest where you and Aemond spent your first afternoon together eleven months ago. Life had been horrible for you then, but in some sense easier; it is a dangerous thing to taste the possibility of better days. It is a dangerous thing to have hope. Trees whiz by like cannonballs, faster than you could count them; branches tear at you like claws. You duck your head and cling to Midnight and trust in her instincts, her prey-animal premonition that to be caught by your pursuers means something worse than death. Sir Criston steers the white mare into a sharp turn, and then soon after another. Nico lists without the benefit of a saddle—her arms constricted around Sir Criston’s waist and her eyes pinched shut—but wisely bites back her screams.

Caraxes is faster, you think. But if we can outfox him, the countryside beyond the forest is thick with farms and estates. We can take shelter and hide there until Daemon is driven out by Green loyalists. A few days at most, perhaps by sunset. We have a chance. We still have a chance.

When you glance back as Sir Criston leads his mount and Midnight into yet another erratic swerve, you realize that you can no longer see any of Daemon’s soldiers. After another moment, you can’t hear their shouts or galloping over the hammering of Midnight’s hooves. The forest rolls by like a curtain of stars cycles through the night sky and then you break out of the trees into a field of young June wheat. Midnight tramples the sprigs of green, soaring over the earth and taking you with her, her muscles like silk, her heart drumming, her lungs huge and efficient in the nest of her ribs; it’s like riding a beast from one of Aemond’s myths, a ghost, a demon, a dragon.

Sir Criston doesn’t stop at the first farm you pass through, nor the second, nor the third. He rides until Nico’s white mare is lathered with frothy sweat and rasping noisily, and only then does he rein her up at a humble stone house surrounded by pens of pigs and sheep. Grey smoke pipes from the chimney. There is a small wooden stable attached to the right side of the farmhouse. Sir Criston leaps to the ground and helps Nico off her horse as a woman opens the front door and wanders out, wiping her flour-speckled palms on her apron, curious, tentative.

“Dear sweet baby Jesus,” the woman says, shielding her eyes from the sun, now resting a few minute-hand ticks after noon. “I know you. You’re Sir Criston Cole.”

“I am in need of your assistance.”

“You have it, good sir,” she agrees instantly.

“The horses must go in the stable out of sight.”

“Yes sir.” She takes Nico’s white mare by the bridle and leads her away. Sir Criston approaches Midnight and—apprehensively, but with determination—assists you in dismounting. He stares at your belly as if he could peer through your gown and skin if he tried hard enough. His face is an ocean of worry, his cheeks and forehead lashed with thin slivers of blood from the forest’s needle-like branches. You touch your own cheek and feel heat stinging there for the first time, see your fingertips come away maroon with blood.

“Princess, are you alright?”

“I think so.” You grab Midnight’s bridle—you don’t think she’d tolerate Sir Criston doing it—and she follows you placidly into the stable. You put her in an empty stall next to Nico’s mare, and then the woman guides the three of you into her home through a creaking wooden door that adjoins the stable to her kitchen. She wets cloths with a pitcher of cold water and hands one to each of her unanticipated guests to dab at their shallow wounds with. Your hand, the one Daemon’s Scottish wolfhound mauled, is in agony; you are only relaxed enough to notice it now. It radiates heat like a fever and throbs like split bones.

“A nasty bite, that is,” the woman notes. She pours red wine into a kettle and places it in the fireplace to boil. She is perhaps only Alicent’s age, but she has aged much harder. There are deep furrows in her face, dusty grey strands in her hair. “What got you? A wolf?”

You lower yourself into one of the chairs placed around the table, flexing stiffening, swollen fingers. “Just about.”

Criston asks the woman: “May I have your name, ma’am?”

“Sabina Webb, good sir.”

“And do you live here alone?”

“I do, sir. For now. My husband and sons are fighting for the Greens in Norfolk. If God wills it, they will be home again soon. I pray for it every morning and every night. And sometimes in between, as well.”

“You have done the crown a great service,” Criston says solemnly. “Your hospitality will be amply rewarded. We will find positions for your sons at court and titles for your husband.”

The woman—Sabina—looks to your belly and then to your gold ivy leaf necklace and finally back to your face. “You’re her, aren’t you? Aegon’s wife. The princess from Navarre.”

“I am.”

“She’s the queen,” Nico corrects, pride in her voice. She’s nursing a particularly long, bloody scratch on the side of her neck.

“Of course,” Sabina says, bowing deeply. “My sincerest apologies, I meant no offense. Old Viserys was king for so long…and at my age change is increasingly difficult to get used to. Please forgive me, Your Majesty.”

You smile. “There’s nothing to forgive. It doesn’t feel real to me yet either.”

Sabina turns to Nico. “And which one are you?”

“Nico.”

She crinkles her nose in confusion. “Who?”

“Nicolosa of Milan,” you say.

“Oh yes. Daeron’s betrothed. Well, aren’t you lucky? Everyone knows he’s a fine boy. Amiable and daring. And handsome too. The most handsome of all the Targaryen men.” You have your qualms with that particular characterization, but you keep them to yourself.

Nico beams, glowing. “I’m well aware.”

Sabina wets a cloth with boiling wine, lets it cool for a moment, and then sits beside you to clean your mangled hand. Steam floats up and tangles with comets of dusk that wheel in the afternoon sunlight. When you wince, she soothes you with the sympathetic hums of an experienced mother. “You shouldn’t be riding horses when you’re with child.”

“I know.”

“I suppose it couldn’t be helped. I suppose a great danger brought you to my door.” Her voice softens as she inquires: “How many babies did you lose?”

You close your eyes and see the dates carved into the bark of the cedar tree. “Four.”

She nods. “I lost three myself. God saw fit to take my children from me. But the devil took yours.” Her eyes go steely and vengeful. “Everyone knows what he did to you. We speak of it as we work, as we barter in the marketplace, at church. Prince Daemon is a ghoul escaped from the fires stoked below our earth. My family and I would sooner burn our own fields and empty our veins than surrender to him.”

“He’s searching for us,” Criston says. “For Aegon’s wife and heir, in particular. He’s here in London. He’ll be driven out soon, but he’s here now.”

“You can stay as long as you need to. Anything I have to give is yours.”

“Daemon murdered Princess Kunigunde. He cut her down in her own bedchamber, unsuspecting and unarmed.”

“God in heaven.” Sabina crosses herself. “The emperor might kill us all.”

“We should stay until nightfall,” Criston tells you. “Then we can move somewhere safer. More defensible. Just until Daemon is forced North again.”

“Alright,” you say quietly. Your hand aches terribly, and you can’t stop seeing Kunigunde bleeding out onto the floor, and you can’t shake the guilt of knowing you deprived her of any comfort in her last weeks in the land of the living. You worry for your unborn child. You miss Aemond; you feel the absence he’s left behind like the gory void of an extracted tooth.

“I have to feed the pigs now,” Sabina says. “I’ll be right outside. And if I see anyone coming this way, I’ll hurry back to let you know.”

Nico clasps her hands together wistfully. “Oh, I’ve never fed a pig before! Could I help you?”

“We have to stay hidden, Nico,” you remind her with a tired smile.

She sinks. “Of course. Never mind. Perhaps another time.”

“You could help with the bread baking if you’d like,” Sabina offers, and Nico perks up again like gardens after rain. “Would you like me to show you?”

“Yes please!” Nico trills. “Oh, you’re so very kind…!”

As Sabina teaches Nico how to mix the bread dough and let it rest, Sir Criston bandages your hand with clean linen. His expression is a landscape of jagged anxiety, of thinly-veiled fear.

“You look terrified,” you say.

“Yes. I am.”

“Fear not. I suspect I’ll live.”

He shakes his head. “This will scar, you won’t be able to disguise it. Aemond will be furious with me.”

“I’ll assure him you saved my life several times over today.” Then your words drop low and gentle. “You love him.”

“He’s the closest thing I’ll ever have to a son.”

“I can empathize. He’s the closest thing I’ll ever have to a husband.”

Sir Criston looks at you, startled; not so much by the sentiment, perhaps, but by the fact that someone finally said it out loud.

When he finishes bandaging your hand, he goes to the stable to feed and water the horses. Midnight and the white mare are the only two animals there; all the rest were taken to war by Sabina’s husband and sons. Fortunately, she has two spare saddles—old and worn, but still usable—to offer Sir Criston for when the time comes for you to leave under the cover of darkness. He says you’ll have to assist him with saddling Midnight so she doesn’t murder him. In the meantime, as the three of you wait restlessly for afternoon to turn to dusk, you try to help Nico with the bread—she is oddly enthused by the opportunity to masquerade as a commoner—but you only have the full use of one hand and your mood is heavy and dark like the ocean. She swiftly realizes the futility of it and urges you to sit down at the kitchen table and rest…for your own sake, of course, but also for the baby’s.

You gaze listlessly out the window as Nico tries to distract you, chattering about her August wedding and the horses and the weather, and, eventually, what kind of king Aegon will be.

“He doesn’t want it,” you say distractedly.

She sighs with sad, pretty longing. “Yes, that’s unfortunate. Aemond would wear the crown more naturally, I’m afraid. But it can’t be helped …” She kneads the bread dough eagerly and at last says through the fog that’s thick and gloomy in your skull: “Remember back before anyone knew you were being poisoned and people were talking about shipping you off to Navarre?”

“Yes, why?”

Nico shrugs, smirking. “Well, it’s a shame we couldn’t do something like that for Aegon.”

It’s a ridiculous idea, but something about it snags in your mind and clatters there like an echo, growing louder, less ludicrous, more clear. Your jaw falls open and you blink at Nico, stunned.

“What?” Nico asks. “What did I say?”

Without answering her, you dash from your chair and go out into the stable. Sir Criston is brushing down Nico’s white mare as she guzzles water from a bucket. You clutch your ivy leaf necklace as you approach him without being aware that you’re doing it. Midnight watches from her own stall, chewing calmly on a mouthful of hay, her long wavy forelock shagging over her eyes.

“I need you to take me to Castle Rising,” you tell Sir Criston.

He glances over at you dismissively, as if it’s not even worth consideration. “I’m tasked with keeping you out of the war, not rushing headlong into it.”

“But I know how to help us. All of us. Aegon, Aemond, me, the entire realm. And I have to be there to arrange it in person.”

“No. I can’t willingly endanger your life. If something happened to you, Aemond would never forgive me.”

“What has this all been for if not a better future?” you demand, your voice fracturing and tears welling up in your eyes. Criston puts down the brush and studies you. “A better future for England, yes, but also for us. If Aegon could be happy, wouldn’t you want him to be? If Aemond could do more good for the world, wouldn’t it be a sin to prevent that from happening? And what about me, Criston? What about me and the children I’ll risk my life to give birth to so they can repeat this same fucking torment all over again? We serve and we endure and we bear the burdens as best we can, but shouldn’t we have a chance at a better future too?”

You dissolve into exhausted, heartsick sobs and go to Midnight, throwing your arms around her titanic neck and burying yourself in her warmth, her unshakeable strength. She allows this with an ancient sort of patience. Sir Criston observes you with profound yet noncommittal pity. “I’m sorry,” he says simply, offering nothing.

You rest your injured, pulsing hand on your belly and think: Please, God, let him live. Let this one live. And let me give him a future worth living for.

From inside the house, you hear the shattering of a bowl. There are voices, more than just Nico’s; there are thumps and hisses. You are closer to the door than Sir Criston, so you get there first. As you tear it open, a woman says: “Get out of the way, I’m not here for you—!”

“No, but you found me!” Nico howls as she battles the intruder, hurling her against the kitchen wall. She grabs a heavy iron pan off the table and swings it with both hands. And that’s when Baela rips her sword from its scabbard.

“Don’t!” you scream, and before you’ve crossed the room Baela has thrust the blade upwards into Nico’s abdomen, twisted it, yanked it free. Nico staggers back into the table and then collapses, knocking over several chairs.

You act without thinking. Your sword is in your bandaged hand, it is piercing through Baela’s left eye, it is making sick, wet popping noises as Baela shrieks and stabs clumsily at you, blinded by pain and blood and the inescapable truth of her impending ruin. Seething, inhuman, you drive the blade deeper until it’s in her brain. You wrestle Baela to the floor and clamp both hands over her mouth so no one will hear her screams. Kunigunde’s words about ivy—once spoken to the Duke of Hightower just before her wedding—ring in your mind like tolling bells: But it kills. It smothers everything else. It must be tamed.

She’s dead. Daemon’s daughter is dead. The one most like him, the one he was so proud of. And there is no part of you that feels sorry for it. You turn to Nico.

“I’m fine,” she says, one hand pressed to the dark stain spreading rapidly across the front of her gown. She clutches for the kitchen table and stands upright with some difficulty, takes a single confident step, and then falls to the floor moaning like a trapped animal.

“Nico!” You crawl to her on your hands and knees and drag her into your arms the same way Aemond once held you when you were the one bleeding out in agony.

“August,” she gasps. “I have to be alive then. I’m getting married in August.”

You grab wet cloths from the table and press them against the gushing hole in Nico’s flesh. Blood pours out faster than you can staunch it, far, far faster. It drenches your fingers, your knuckles, your wrists. “Do something,” you say to Sir Criston. And then you strike at his chest with one bloodstained palm. “Do something!”

He kneels there with you and smooths back Nico’s hair, comforting her, but he shakes his head. There’s nothing anyone can do.

“Listen,” she says, reaching for you. Her voice is wavering and frail, flooded, drowning.

“No, Nico—”

“Shh. It’s alright. I’m not upset. I’m not scared. I wanted to help. I helped, didn’t I?”

There’s rain on her face: tears, yours, clear and hot and leaving clean tracks through dirt and blood and flour. Blood bubbles from her lips. “Yes, Nico. You helped.”

“I have to tell you…”

“You’re going to be okay, we’re going to get you help and you’re going to be okay, just hold on until we can find—”

“Listen,” she pleads again, in a whisper this time. Her eyes stare vacantly past you, but she knows you’re still there; her fingertips ghost across your cheekbone. “Tell Aemond to watch out for him. To take care of him.”

“Who, Nico?”

She smiles. Her teeth are red with blood. “Daeron.”

And then her hand falls away, limp and empty. She was once Daeron’s betrothed and she’s not anymore. She was once your only friend here and now she’s nobody. She’s a name in a letter of condolence, she’s a gravestone, she’s a memory that’s already fading. She’ll never laugh again, or dance, or ride horses, or talk about her wedding until you wish she’d stop. You hate yourself for every second you ever spent annoyed with her. You hate yourself for not making her seek sanctuary in Westminster Abbey with Alicent and the Duke of Hightower.

“Why did I let her come with us?” you ask Sir Criston, dazed and weeping. It hasn’t really hit you yet, but it will, and you can feel the horror of it growing inside of you like a doomed pregnancy, like a stillbirth.

“It wasn’t your fault.”

“It was. It was.” You close Nico’s eyes and watch her like you’re waiting for her to wake up. It seems impossible that she won’t.

“We have to leave now,” Criston says. “If Daemon is sending out scouts, someone else might find us. And he’ll come looking for Baela when she doesn’t return to him. Whatever he had in mind for you before, it will surely be worse now.”

You’re not hearing him. You’re still holding Nico. “We need to bury her. What are the burial customs in Milan?”

“Princess,” Criston implores you, despair glistening in his umber eyes, large and kind like a doe’s. “We have to leave now. We have to keep moving.”

I can’t save her, you realize all at once. There’s nothing more I can do for her. But there are still people I can save. And she died so I could try. “I’m not a princess,” you say. “I’m the queen.” And then you stand, wiping the tears from your face with the sleeve of your gown, green like a cedar tree, like leaves of pennyroyal, like ivy. “Now take me to Castle Rising.”

Outside you find Sabina Webb face-down in a pen of pigs, a circle of crimson marking where she was stabbed between her shoulder blades. The animals have already begun to devour her. You also discover Baela’s horse Moondancer—a temperamental Arabian like Caraxes, but a pale misty color instead of blood bay—pacing with her ears pricked forward and her bulging eyes anxious. She sees you and Sir Criston, paws uneasily at the ground a few times, then canters away before you can think to lock her in the stables.

And by the time Baela’s riderless horse makes her way back to Daemon and his men, you and Sir Criston are already ten miles north of London.

Castle Rising is not an especially large or extravagant fortress, but it is close to the sea and easy to defend. There is a deep gorge dug all the way around its perimeter with a stone bridge serving as the sole entranceway. After two nights of riding and two days of sleeping in shifts under shrubs, you and Sir Criston Cole cross it on horses with slow, exhausted gaits and their heads hanging low. Your gown is ripped and stained, your body covered with dust from the road, your skin scraped in a million different places, leaves and dirt in your hair. You’ve scrubbed your hands in rivers and creeks, but there are still traces of Nico’s blood trapped beneath your fingernails; you can still smell its coppery sweetness. Your nightmares are full of it.

It’s shortly before noon, ante meridiem, just like it was when Daemon stormed Westminster Palace on the first day of June to kill you. The flocks of soldiers gathered around the castle camp under Aegon’s banner, or the flag of Milan, or the Holy Roman Empire, or Navarre, or Castile where Helaena now calls home. No one knows what has happened in London yet. You and Sir Criston are the first carriers of the news to arrive here. When you reach the end of the bridge, he appears, his face filling with ecstatic shock. You haven’t seen him in nearly two years, but he’s exactly as you remember him: curly dark hair, stocky, charismatic, fantastically loud.

“Hermana!” Alonzo booms, and you climb down from Midnight’s saddle to meet him. He embraces you, spins you around, kisses both of your cheeks without shying away from the dust or the thin stripes of dried blood left by thorns, brambles, branches. Alonzo doesn’t shy away from anything and never has. “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, what happened to you? Have you been neglected this severely? Perhaps I am raising my swords against the wrong people.”

“I’m well,” you assure him, but you don’t sound like you are. Sir Criston dismounts and tethers both horses to a nearby post. Midnight has at last developed a working rapport with him. “I need to speak to Prince Aemond. Do you know where he is?”

“I do.” Alonzo looks you up and down, whistles to himself, shakes his head in wonder. “Mi amada…not that I’m not thrilled to see you…but why the hell are you here?”

“I’ll explain when I see Aemond.”

“Well, let’s go then.” He leads you and Sir Criston into the castle through the main door and up a flight of stone steps. On the upper levels, there are open-air walkways around the interior of the castle; as Alonzo traverses them with dizzying speed, you peer down to see a small courtyard with a well from which the castle draws drinking and bathing water. Your eldest brother ascends a spiral staircase, crosses another open-air path like an aqueduct of Ancient Rome, and shoves open a heavy wooden door with both hands. Inside a fireplace crackles and pops and war plans are being passionately debated. Aemond is pointing to various locations on a flurry of maps that cover a vast table, arguing back and forth with an officer who wears the vivid red of Navarre. Other officers stand around them nodding and offering commentary; Aemond is winning. This doesn’t surprise you at all. Aegon is also present at the table, seated in a shadowy corner and staring morosely down into his wine cup. His face is mottled with bruises, his lower lips is split; he’s been in the fighting, and he’s been brave. He is the first one to notice you. He glances up and his eyes go wide, his mouth falls open.

“Oh my God,” Aegon says, and everything stops. The men whirl to gawk at Alonzo, Sir Criston, a pregnant woman with sticks and leaves in her hair. Aemond’s eye goes to you and stays there. He’s dressed in black leather, half of his hair pulled back from his face. Slowly, he stands up straight, lifting his hands from the maps on the table. When he finally speaks, his voice is low and steady.

“Everyone out.” And then, when Aegon bolts for the door: “Not you.”

The officers disperse, gossip flitting between them like fireflies through summer night air. When only you, Aemond, Aegon, Alonzo, and Sir Criston are left in the room, Aemond’s composure cracks like glass. He runs to you, touching your face, your arms, your throat, your belly, examining you for wounds, asking over and over again if you’re alright. The others avert their attention awkwardly; Alonzo’s thick eyebrows rise so high they disappear under his mess of curls.

“I’m fine, Aemond, I’m okay, I promise, I’m just muddy and tired, I’m so tired—”

“What happened to your hand?” He unravels the bandage, revealing flesh that is healing but irrevocably marred. Then he looks to Criston. “What the fuck happened to her hand?”

“Sir Criston saved me. More than once. It wasn’t his error.”

“Then what—?”

“A Scottish deerhound.”

The pieces shift behind Aemond’s pale blue gaze and then fit together. “Daemon?”

“He took a small group soldiers and led a raid of Westminster Palace. They murdered Joanna Montford’s bastard son. They tried to murder me. They…they…” But you can’t force the words to leave your trembling lips: Kunigunde. Nico.

“She stabbed Baela to death,” Criston says reluctantly.

“Oh God,” Aemond moans, knowing that Daemon’s wrath will now swell from a blaze to an inferno.

“Through the eye,” Criston adds, a little impressed, you think.

“Jesus!” Aegon hisses, rubbing his face and wincing.

You say to Aemond: “Alicent and the Duke of Hightower went to seek sanctuary in Westminster Abbey. As far as I know, they’re still there. And…and…”

You’re still trying to figure out how to tell him when Daeron strides blithely into the room, the sun peeking out from behind clouds, a constellation on a backdrop of abyss. “Your Majesty!” He greets you, beaming. He sweeps a dramatic bow. “Why, what a marvelous surprise! But what has brought you such a long way? Is Nico with you?”

And the room fills up with all the words you don’t say until the silence becomes a roar.

The fire has burned down to embers. Daeron doesn’t speak, doesn’t move from his chair. He gazes into the glowing coals with miles-away unseeing eyes that leak tears in a continuous, silent stream. Aemond is sitting beside you at the table, propping up his head with one hand. Aegon drinks endlessly. No servants enter or exit, so he has to pour it himself. When you break down as you describe what happened to Nico, he fills you a cup as well and slides it across the table, his mouth twisted into a grimace of disgust, dismay, dread. Criston stares down at his folded hands and adds details only when you can’t supply them without sobbing. Alonzo runs his fingers through his tangle of curls over and over again, a nervous habit of his, as you know and have known all your life. He had heard about Daemon, of course. He had heard about the poison and the scheming and the brutality that is legendary in the same way that the Plague is. But to slaughter women and babies…that is something rarely done in broad daylight.

“So you came here to tell us about the attack on the capital,” Aemond says. “About Nico. About Kunigunde.”

“No. There’s something else.”

They all consider you, even Aegon: a sideways, brooding, resentful, drunken look. Daeron peers vacuously in your general direction as if at something a great distance away, a ship on the horizon or the shadows of the moon.

“What?” Alonzo asks, opening his hands, perplexed.

“I know how to fix things. How to make everything better for both us and the realm. The answer has been right there in front of us the entire time, we just never recognized it for what it was. But now I understand. And Nico helped me to see it.”

“You’re going to throw me out a window,” Aegon guesses, raising his wine cup, then cackles morbidly.

You say instead: “Navarre.”

Aemond furrows his brow at you, indignant. “I’m not sending you away.”

“No. Not me.” You turn to Aegon. He gapes back, startled.

“Me?”

“You could start over there,” you say. “We could tell the realm that you died in battle—Aemond, Daeron, Criston, Alonzo, they would all speak to it—and you could dye your hair or cut it off and sail across the Bay of Biscay. Navarre is beautiful, Aegon. There are mountains and deserts, villages, cities, castles, lakes and forests, you could go wherever you want, become whatever sort of man you choose. And Alonzo would ensure you always had a place at court there if you wanted it. Right?”

Alonzo is astonished but amenable. He likes Aemond, you can tell that already. He trusts him. And he has no incentive to advocate for your marriage to Aegon. “Sure. Absolutely.”

“You could be some distant relation, some cousin from a minor house, someone with no maligned past or suffocating obligations. Someone who would never be expected to sacrifice for other people’s ambitions.”

Aegon blinks numbly. “But I’d be alone, wouldn’t I? Everyone I’ve ever known would be here.”

“Not alone,” you say. “You’d have Sunfyre.”

He’s thinking about it, even through the haze of the wine; the wheels are spinning, the clock ticking. Then he speaks with his rare, beautiful breed of tenderness. “Who would take care of you and the baby?”

Everyone looks at the same person, at Aemond, solemn and still. He bows his head in acceptance, in assent, trying to hide how much he hungers for it like a starving man.

“Right. Of course,” Aegon mutters, but he sounds more thoughtful than bitter.

“It makes sense,” Daeron says, almost too faintly to hear. It is the closest thing he can offer to a blessing.

“There are Bible passages that forbid a man from taking his brother’s wife,” Sir Criston warns. He’s not endorsing them, but he’s making sure everyone is aware of the reality of the consequences. “Then again, there are others that compel a man to shelter a widow and children if his brother leaves them behind. The English people will have both to build their judgements upon.”

Alonzo snorts and rolls his eyes. “In this age of flagrant homicidal-uncle-fucking, I doubt they’d have such harsh words to level against Aemond and my sister.”

“If the child is a boy”—and he lives, you think grimly, against your own will—“he will inherit the throne and Aemond will act as regent until he comes of age. If it is a girl, Aemond will be crowned king. In either case, he will rule England for at least the next two decades. I believe this is a responsibility that he is suited for and wholeheartedly desires.”

“I do,” Aemond agrees softly.

“Aegon,” you say, and you don’t continue until your husband meets your eyes. “If you decide to stay, I’ll stand by you with everything I’m made of. You’ll have me and the baby. I’ll be the best wife I can be to you, because that’s what I was sent here to do. England is my home now. The Greens are my home now. And you’re a piece of them. And…” You hadn’t planned to add this part, but you find that it’s true. “And I love you. Not in the way that a wife is supposed to love her husband, perhaps…but as family. As someone who I want to find happiness. You deserve that. You don’t know it yet—because no one has ever told you before—but you do.”

Aemond is silent, but he frowns down at the table, tracing infinitesimal grooves in the wood with his fingerprints. Aegon watches you with an expression you’ve never seen from him before: bewildered wonder, forbidden hope.

“You’ve never had a choice, Aegon. Not once in your life. But I’m giving you one now. Stay with us and fight to be the king…or die and become free.”

Aegon Targaryen—beaten-down shoulders, watery blue eyes, bruises on his face like smudges of ink—stares at you for a long time. And then, slowly, more dazzlingly and purely than you ever knew he could…he smiles.

[cultofdionysusnet]

𝓣𝓱𝓮 𝓛𝓪𝓷𝓰𝓾𝓪𝓰𝓮 𝓸𝓯 𝓕𝓵𝓸𝔀𝓮𝓻𝓼

It's spring and the flowers are blooming! Take a walk through a cultivated garden or a wild meadow to inhale the wonderful medley of aromas provided by mother nature. But with each blossom and bundle of pollen is always an underlying meaning. Whether you're broken hearted, attempting to explain your feelings, or simply looking for subtly-worded revenge, flowers can be your language.

°˖✧✿✧˖°MUST INCLUDE! mentions of flowers, gardens and spring

°˖✧✿✧˖°You must also pick a flower from the prompts provided and utilize the meaning somewhere within your fic

°˖✧✿✧˖°Minimum word count is 500

°˖✧✿✧˖°deadline: June.19th

°˖✧✿✧˖°must be a member of our net to participate

°˖✧✿✧˖°all network rules in regards to posting applies

°˖✧✿✧˖°please use the hashtag #codn: spring24 for all posts submitted for the event

The Prompts:

Amaryllis- Shy

Anemone (white)- Sincere

Ambroisa- Pious

Aster Tataricus- remembrance

Black Lily - love, curse

Bluebell - grateful

Cactus (flower) - lust, sex

Camellia (red)- in love, perishing with grace

Camellia (yellow) - longing

Camellia (white)- waiting

Carnation - fascination, distinction, love

Cherry Blossom - kind, gentle, transience of life

Chrysanthemum (yellow) - imperial

Chrysanthemum (white) - truth

Four-leaf Clover - lucky

Daffodil - respect

Dahlia - good taste

Daisy - faith

Edelweiss - courage, power

Erica - solitude

Forget-me-not - true love

Freesia - childish, immature

Gardenia - secret love

Hibiscus - gentle

Honeysuckle - generous

Iris - good news, glad tidings, loyalty

Jasmine (Arabian/Spanish) - friendly, graceful

Lavender - faithful

Lily (white) - purity, chastity

Lily of Incas - such strong connection that language is limited when trying to explain it

Lily (orange) - hatred, revenge

Lily of the Valley/ Spider Lily - sweet

Lotus - far from the one he loves, purity, chastity

Magnolia - Natural

Mistletoe/holly - looking for love

Morning Glory- willful promises

Narcissus- self esteem

Pansy- thoughtful, caring

Peony- bravery

Poppy (red)- fun loving

Poppy (white)- rejoice

Poppy (yellow)- success

Rose (red)- love, in love

Rose (white)- innocence, silence, devotion

Rose (yellow)- jealousy

Rose (pink)- trust, happiness, confidence

Spider Lily (red) - never meet again, lost memory, abandonment

Sunflower - respect, passionate love, radiance

Sweet Pea- goodbye

Tiger Lily - wealth

Tulip (red)- fame, charity, trust

Tulip (Yellow)- one sided love

Verbena- cooperative

Violet- honesty

White Egret Orchid - purity, delicateness, "I'll be thinking of you even in my dreams"

Zinnia- loyalty

Like always, have fun with our first seasonal event of the year, may you be blessed with the muse, and The Fates look forward to your submissions~!

[princefado]

I'm going a little insane over the symbolism in ROUND 3 of Alien Stage, so here's a (not-so) little visual analysis.

When I first watched this video, I was ecstatic, and not just because Ivan is my favorite. But I was also ecstatic to see once again the flowers that have been showing up very subtly throughout the series.

First, in the series theme, we see Till holding small red flowers behind his back. Then in ROUND 2, we see Till clutch them again, and then Till watch as Sua places a crown of red flowers upon Mizi's head. And then in ROUND 3, we see the flower crown itself, up close.

From what I can tell, these are either some kind of poppy, or maybe specifically poppy anemones/Anemone coronaria. I can't find any academic analysis for a common meaning, although the ever-unreliable flower meaning blogosphere associates them largely with forsaken love. But it doesn't really matter what the cultural meaning is, so much as the textual meaning.

Ivan's eyes are very clearly shown to be a visual inverse of these flowers. His eyes are black, deep black, and when his face is neutral we see no other color but black. But when he's experiencing intense emotion, we see that his irises are actually red!

This happens first in the introduction, when he gazes at the stars (another heavily repeated piece of symbolism).

As he falls backwards, and the shadow of his former owner passes over him, his eyes become black once again, and remain black until he witnesses Till standing up against the creature with Mizi.

His iris swells red. Shooting stars flash across the sky, and in his eyes. As we cut back to his song in the present, his irises are still red. Stars shoot behind him now as he sings.

A flashback again, to Till. This time, the sky is warm, aflame; the glittering stars replaced by falling fire. Till's irises are also red now. But once Till turns back (presumably to go look for Mizi), his eyes return to their green color, and Ivan's become pure black once more.

Except in this last shot. This last shot, where, if you look closely, even beneath the shadows, you can see that his irises are once again inflamed with red.

The previous two songs mention flowers by name; clematis in ROUND 1, and edelweiss in ROUND 2. So I thought it strange that no flower appears within the lyrics of Ivan's song. Then I realized; a flower does appear in the lyrics, just not in the way you would expect!

At the end of this story There is only a cold spot stained with blood, and Such black, black sorrow

The flowers are red; stained with blood. They have a white ring in the middle; a cold spot. And their center is black; black sorrow. The same is true of Ivan's eyes; they reflect the coldness of space, except for the very center, a spot stained with blood, surrounded by black sorrow.

I wonder if we'll continue to see the flowers throughout the series, as they interconnect the relationships of Sua and Mizi, and Till and Ivan. Sua gives Mizi a flower crown as representative of her love. Till chases down and catches the flower crown as representative of his love for Mizi. And Ivan watches from afar, desire growing, as flowers bloom within his own eyes.

I've noticed also the repetition of red "eyes" throughout the series so far. First on the collars, which go from a bright green to red when locked. Then in the series theme, we see the red eyes of the soldiers. In ROUND 2, we see red lights around the stage, as well as in the security cameras in Till's room. Finally, in ROUND 3, we see red "eyes" several more times. Beyond Ivan, which I have already discussed, we see that his former master has red eyes. And, most importantly, we see them repeated throughout Ivan's flashback in which he fell in love with Till, and tried to escape with him.

For Ivan, red represents his desire, and his love. But within Alien Stage, red is also representative of control and authority. Ivan loves Till, yes. But he also wants to control him, and to monopolize his affections. Which is why I am so, so thoroughly excited to see what a Till vs. Ivan round will look like in the future.

[modeus-the-unbound]

I would like to imagine Thorn has buds that flower routinely on the vines in her hair and across her chest. What kind of flowers depend on her overall mood since the last time she bloomed.

In fact...lemme flex my flower knowledge. When she and Long Quiet first leave the Cabin together, she bloomed into Aloe, Chamomile, and Rhododendron blossoms. But after living together for a few weeks she blossomed again, this time it was into Majoram, Gardenia, and Edelweiss.

[xsoteria]

Every time I look at Kate and Liana, I am just...reminded that if they both hadn’t become pyro bc of who and how they are, then Kate would have def been anemo and Liana geo.

Liana in particular, even as a pyro user, WILL grab giant ass rocks and throw them at her enemies. A 7′3″ buff woman being geo would have been so damn good. Watch her throw an entire mountain to win, preferably on fire, too. Lmao.

[mirrorthoughts]

How to woo your Jester

@oblivionsdream Soooo... that ask you had finally kicked my muse and before I intimidate myself out of writing or posting again, have that thing I wanted to write the whole time about your adorable Jester and Knight 💕 Because I love those two!

"You've already given me flowers yesterday. You don't need to give me flowers each day?" The knight hesitated at the frown on his Jester's face. Well. Not his Jester. Not yet at least. After all the little book that Sir Pomeroy had lend him was pretty strict about the timeline: First he would bring his beloved flowers each day for a week. Then it would be something more personal, in his case maybe books with stories and jokes? Or maybe more parchment and ink so the Jester could write down his own ideas and tales. He wasn't yet sure enough about this part of the timeline. But the book said to use the daily flowers as a means to get to know your beloved better and at the end of the week and answer - or rather multiple - would surely have presented itself. After that… well, he would see what to do once he reached that day. "Do you not like them?" he asked, suddenly uncertain. Sir Pomeroy had promised him that whoever he was interested in would love his devotion of bringing them flowers daily. He even had asked Sir Green for the flower book he had seen him with, deep in thought as to which flowers to bring first to his lady love. Today he had brought his Jester a bouquet of Edelweiss as a means to praise the Jester's courage and to show his devotion, his interest. His, maybe not love, but not quite far from it either. The Jester stared at him, confused. "They are beautiful, of course I like them! But you don't have to do this. I already like you, too, dear knight." The knight paused in surprised. He had hoped to be right in his assumption that the Jester might like him more than other people he liked to flirt with. He'd sometimes almost felt bad about how often he watched his Jester, jealousy burning in his chest, as he flirted with almost anyone, be it the king, the maids, the guards, foreign guests or even the dogs of the palace. He knew the Jester was an incorrigible flirt, that it was part of his performance, that it just was who he was. And he did his best to be okay with that. Especially since he seemed to be one of the few the Jester sought out on his own accords. Just so they could share a short conversation, a moment as short or long it might be, each day. At least if he hadn't approached the Jester first. This time though, the Jester's usual bravado seemed to fail him as the knight smiled at him in answer, bowing slightly, his hair falling in front of his eyes at the movement. "Then I will bring you more of them, tomorrow, if you like them. Because that is their sole purpose. To brighten your day and make you smile." And blush. He oh so dearly adored to see the blush on the Jester's face as he was seeing it now, when he finally accepted the flowers, looking at them and taking a deep breath. The smile on his Jester's face was definitely worth it to spend the morning in search for the right flowers. "Thank you. Though I'm speaking the truth: You don't need to do this, dear Knight." The Knight smiled. "I am, also, telling you the truth, dear Jester: I want to. It brightens my day to see you smile." The blush on his Jester's face bloomed like the warmth in the Knight's heart. More beautiful than even flowers.

[lenafromthenordiccoven]

Yes, ma’am | Bob x f!Pilot!reader - Snippet

You know the drill 😂I've got a little snippet for you for the next Bob x f!reader oneshot. Planning to have this one up by Friday, Feb 9! Just gotta do some fact checking and, uh, finish writing the smutty part.

Anyway, enjoy this little snippet of a super self-indulgent oneshot I didn't even wanna post originally, cause I'm not sure about it being a) self-indulgent and b) reader's gonna have parts of my own background and plans for the future?

Six years. You’d been waiting for this moment for six years. Had worked hard for it. And now, as officers, family and other invitees were applauding and two of the Typhoons soared overhead, you were officially being dismissed as a Second Lieutenant for the first time. The first female Typhoon driver in the Austrian Air Force. And yet, it didn’t feel real. Not the way your classmates, other pilots with the rotary wing or other fixed-wing aircraft, clapped you on the back as they cheered. And certainly not the way your boyfriend of almost seven years, who’d been there for you every step of the way since you’d told him you wanted to try out for the Air Force when you’d first started dating, was grinning at you. No, he was positively beaming.

The fact that your parents hadn’t been able to make it to your graduation might’ve dampened your mood, if Bob wasn’t looking at you with so much love and pride, it made your own chest swell. You’d done it. Despite what everyone else and your own mind had been telling you from time to time, you’d made it. And, to be honest, you’d been terrified of Selection Day. Scared that even after already three years of consistently being top of the class and adamant about wanting to fly the Typhoon, your superior officers would tell you, they’d assign you to the helicopters or air transport.

Your heart was pounding in your chest, blood roaring in your ears as you pushed through the crowd and finally reached Bob. You were trembling by now, the adrenaline slowly wearing off, the world coming back into focus. And with it, the thought that you had to get Bob out of here as soon as possible. He’d chosen to wear his dress whites, while you were in your dress uniform with its grey jacket and grey pants (thank god, they’d actually let you choose whether you wanted to wear a skirt or pants and nobody had pitched a fit when you’d gone for the pants, explaining that you would “stick out like a sore thumb as is”, you didn’t want to add to that by being the only person wearing a skirt. The other female cadets in your class had all chosen the pants as well.) – and the new golden edelweiss on your collar. Fuck, if he didn’t look like he’d stepped off the pages of one of the romance novels you’d been devouring recently.

“Congratulations, darlin’. ‘m so damn proud of you,” he murmured before bending down to press his lips against yours in what had to be the most chaste kiss of the century. But you were still in sight of your superiors, so you couldn’t go too far. Especially since your relationship had already sparked enough gossip – and a three-hour briefing on what you could tell your boyfriend and what you couldn’t, not that you hadn’t figured out most of the things with you usually being on the receiving end of Bob’s professional silence. You didn’t feel like adding fuel to the fire, even though you positively ached to kiss Bob the way you really wanted to and to stick your hands in his hair and mess up that gelled back hairdo he was sporting.

You could feel your cheeks heat at the thought of how you didn’t even want him to take off his uniform. You just wanted to get him home and have him fuck you while he was still wearing his dress whites. “Thank you, baby,” you finally replied to Bob’s praise.

He raised an eyebrow and slightly cocked his head at your reaction, but you saw recognition bloom on his face when you lightly bit down on your bottom lip. He leaned in close to whisper in your ear. “Do we still have to go to any official dinners or parties, or do you think, we can jus’ sneak off?” His voice was rough, lower than it had been just a minute ago, and it sent a delicious shiver down your spine.

You briefly closed your eyes before you looked back up into those light blue eyes of his, trying to look as innocent as you could muster. “I’m afraid, there’s one more we have to go to. My new squad leader’s paying, and it would probably be good to get to know them a bit before next Monday. But I’m sure, they’ll understand if we don’t stay for too long.”

“Whatever you say, Lieutenant.” His lips stretched into a smirk, the kind of which you imagined only you saw on the regular, as another shiver raced down your spine and left goosebumps in its wake despite the June heat. Damn it. You knew, how much he liked it when you called him by his rank. But this? This was new. And you loved it. “You wanna take the lead when we get home?” He wrapped an arm around your waist and drew you in closer as you nodded.

“Hell yeah, I do.” You both chuckled at your response. Usually, you had no problem handing over control to Bob, especially in the bedroom. But sometimes, especially if things had been stressful and since you’d joined flight school, you liked to be the one to make him whimper and beg for a change. Tonight would not be any different. You grinned as your mind was already busy conjuring up ideas.

[lorei-writes]

Loreeeeeeeei~ Congrats on 1k followers!! I'm so proud of you 🥺💜

As for the RQs... look, I'll try not to make 3 for Clavis, but I won't make any promises 🙈

So, what about Clavis + kisses + fluff/comfort 🙈💜

Love you and thank you 😊💜

You know I'd never stay around here for so long without you and all my other friends <3 Thank you for always being a source of good advice and support ;--; <3

I think I've leaned into comfort? It's a little bitter-sweet, perhaps with a little bit of hot sauce.

»All the things we choose to share«

Clavis x Reader Fluff/Comfort ~500 words Content Warnings: none

Scent of Lavender

You smelled of lavender; of broken promises, of things seemingly innate and common sense that were betrayed. You smelled of invisible scars, of marigolds, of unsafe safety, of willow’s cries and endless fields. Of edelweiss, of its persistence and devotion, of sunflowers’ golden warmth. You were a bouquet of emotion and experience.

His goldenrod.

His good fortune.

Clavis’ back hit the ground, your arms and his will both pushing against the ill-natured inertia. Soft grass tickled at your calves as you pinned him down, violet hair strewn around his head in periwinkle halo. Horses neighed at the distance.

You didn’t care.

Why should you?

“Hey —” Clavis whispered, his lips barely parting for the sound to sieve through. It was irrelevant, you assumed, or perhaps it was both irrelevant and necessary to say something in this situation. To resist you despite his obedience, to disobey you in face of attraction… To dominate rather than be dominated, to state his purpose, to perform, to smile, to —

But he did not want to.

Your fingers interlaced, his grip on you strengthened. Clavis stared at you from below, golden irises drinking in your incandescent glory. Setting sun crowned your hair with copper wire coils, painted you in shadows, its death your scorching resurrection and your lips a piece of flint. You smiled, released him… Caressed his cheek. Delicate. Smouldering. Tender. Branding. All that he had ever wanted. His.

“Yes?” you asked, part for yourself, your selfish desire to hear him say it, part for his own sake.

“Do with me as you please.”

“Anything?” you coaxed.

“Anything.” A shiver zapped through Clavis, lightning spilling from your fingertips as you caressed his neck, your nails grazing his Adam’s apple. “I’m yours, my dearest darling.”

Yours.

Hypnotiser hypnotised, you set his skin aflame at his own request. You sucked at the side of his neck, bruising him with you attention, your mark growing just above the collar of his shirt. He would not be able to cover it with innocently white linen, would not conceal it underneath a similarly purple cravat. Clavis was yours and it was for others to see. Utterly intoxicated, you shifted your grip, your hands sliding to his wrists.

“You asked for this,” you remind him, clinging onto the last of your reason.

“I did. Show me how much you love me, my hmm —”

You stole the words from his lips, utterly voracious of anything that he had to give, generous in your own care. The grass around you swayed, honeyed scent of nectar dissolving in the early evening dew. Yet Clavis was sweeter, unparalleled in the heaving of his chest and the jerking of his hips, growing all the more saccharine as your tongue slipped into his mouth and whetted his need. You slid your fingers through his hair, allowed him to embrace you… saw your world turn upside-down from the safety of his arms.

You smelled of lavender, of broken promises and grief, of disappointment and cold hurt. You were the marigolds and he was your ivy, ramping, coiling over any of your broken parts. Your lotus, your rebirth, your angelica-inspiration… Your love, and you did pull him down, the both of you blooming together under the starlit skies.

You've seen a typo? Let me know!

Tag List: @lancelotscloak @starlitmanor-network @violettduchess @pathogenic @fang-and-feather

@tele86 @rinaririr @keithsandwich @cheese-ception @bis-enti

@claviscollections @queengiuliettafirstlady @sh0jun @lucyw260

Tell me if you'd like to be added to my tag list :)

[frostfires-blog]

Bleach Hanakotoba Analysis Part 2 ~ ED31: Saihate

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-> Rukia Kuchiki: Cherry Blossom

In the extended version of Bleach’s 31st ending theme song, Rukia Kuchiki is pictured with branches of the cherry blossom tree. The cherry blossom (Prunus serrulata) is also known as the Japanese cherry and is the unofficial national flower of Japan. Its Japanese name Sakura (桜) has been derived from the word “saku” which means “to bloom”.  Its meanings in hanakotoba are “beauty of spirit”, grace, chastity, excellent beauty, gentleness, good education and the “transience of life”. In Japan, cherry blossoms are also a symbol of the “beauty of impermanence”—a Shinto concept better known as “mono no aware” (物の哀れ) as their falling petals are a reminder that although life is short, it is beautiful and should be savoured. The Japanese concept of “natsukashii” (懐かしい) likewise emphasizes the fleeting nature of cherry blossoms. This concept refers to the happy-yet-wistful nostalgia for times and things that we will never be able to go back to. We will never get to experience those moments again, just like the ephemeral cherry blossoms, which makes them even more significant. Cherry blossoms bloom from March to April which is the start of the new fiscal year in Japan. As a result of this cherry blossoms have also come to symbolise new beginnings and springtime. Given that feudal Japanese soldiers associated cherry blossoms with honour, discipline, and dignity—falling flowers were thought to be symbolic of a Samurai's death. In Western floriography, cherry blossoms herald the changing of the seasons and symbolise renewal and rebirth. They also symbolise the fleeting nature of life, tenderness, forgiveness, strength, beauty, love, confidence, peace, friendship and gratitude. Rukia Kuchiki presents herself as a cool, restrained and stern warrior with firm convictions, however occasionally she breaks out of her shell and is kind. She tends to keep her emotions to herself, unless she is irritated, and finds it difficult to confide in others. This ties in with the cherry blossom’s meanings of grace, discipline, chastity, honour and dignity. Throughout the series, Rukia is constantly improving herself and growing not only in strength but also in confidence. This complements the cherry blossom’s meanings of confidence, strength, new beginnings, springtime and the changing of the seasons. One of the cornerstones of Bleach's development is the connection between Ichigo and Rukia. Ichigo was able to protect his loved ones and become involved in the affairs of the soul society thanks to Rukia's initial transfer of her abilities to him. Since then, they have often come to each other's rescue and have developed a strong sense of gratitude, admiration, respect, and trust for one another. This ties into the cherry blossom’s meanings of strength, gratitude, friendship and love. Cherry Blossoms also tie into Rukia’s connection with her adopted brother, Byakuya and her sister, Hisana. Upon her death, as she looked at the first cherry blossoms of the season, Hisana asked Byakuya to find and protect Rukia as she regretted abandoning her years ago and felt unworthy of being her sister. This complements the cherry blossom’s meanings of forgiveness, love and the fleeting nature of life.

-> Uryū Ishida: Edelweiss

Edelweiss (Leontopodium nivale) is known as Ēderuwaisu (エーデルワイス) in Japanese. Its meanings in hanakotoba are are courage, power and precious memories. Its name translates from German to mean "noble white". Edelweiss is only found in white-blooming variants, unlike most other flowers. These reasons are the basis for the flower's symbolic connotations in Western floriography, which include innocence, purity, renewal and wishes for peace. The flower also represents integrity, excellence, elegance, noble courage, and boldness. Edelweiss flowers are well-adapted to high-altitude environments with frigid temperatures, harsh sunlight and low oxygen levels and have thus come to represent rugged beauty, strength, nobility, adventure and perseverance. The Edelweiss flower also represents intense devotion, sacrifice, care, and deep love. One of the most well-known stories about the edelweiss is about a young man who, in an act of bravery and love, risks his life to climb a mountain’s steep rocky face to gather edelweiss flowers for a woman. Uryū Ishida is typically reserved, independent, and solitary—however, he tries to act cool when among other people. He has a strong sense of justice and is incredibly intelligent and chivalrous. These attributes greatly complement the Edelweiss’ meanings of integrity, excellence, elegance, boldness and noble courage.

-> Renji Abarai: Sasanqua Camellia

The flower Renji is pictured with is the sasanqua camellia (Camellia sasanqua) which is a species of camellia native to both China and Japan. It is a different species than the camellia pictured with Byakuya Kuchiki in this ending (Camellia Japonica). The Camellia Sasanqua and Camellia Japonica are primarily differentiated by the former’s earlier blooming season (early fall to early winter) as well as its smaller leaves and flowers. In addition to this, Camellia Japonica’s flowers fall whole, while Camellia Sasanqua's petals fall apart. The sasanqua camellia is known as the sazanka (山茶花) in Japan. Its meanings in hanakotoba are dedication and overcoming difficulties. In Japan, red sazanka represents humility and beauty, white sazanka represents charm and rejection and pink sazanka represents eternal love. In Western floriography, the sasanqua camellia represents desire and passion. It is said that the sasanqua's meanings of "overcoming difficulties" and "dedication" are derived from the fact that flowers bloom in early winter when the cold intensifies. Renji Abarai comes across as dynamic, eccentric, brash, and stubborn, yet he is also incredibly dedicated and determined, willing to fight and die for his convictions. This ties in with the sasanqua’s meanings of passion, dedication and overcoming difficulties.

-> Yasutora Sado: Canna Lily

The Canna lily (Canna) is known as kanna (カンナ) in Japan. Its meanings in hanakotoba are passion, cheerfulness, eternity and delusion. In Western floriography, the canna lily holds the meanings of beauty, protection, purification glory, power, hope, confidence and confiding in heaven. The flower also holds the negative connotations of paranoia and suspicion. The vigour and beautiful appearance of its flowers, which can withstand the midsummer sun, are thought to be where its meanings of passion and cheerfulness are derived from. Yasutora Sado is a quiet but incredibly brave, strong, and kind person who is also extremely loyal. These traits tie in with the canna lily’s meanings of passion, power, confidence and protection. Additionally, canna lilies originate from Latin America and tropical Asia and are exotic and vibrant with a rich cultural and symbolic history. This ties in with Sado’s half-Mexican heritage. In mythology, it is said that a demon who was envious of Buddha’s strong spiritual power threw a large boulder down on him from above. However, most of the rock shattered at Buddha’s feet without hitting him with only one fragment hitting his toe. Where the blood from his wound dripped onto the ground, a red canna lily blossomed, and the devil was swallowed by a rift of the earth due to its wrath. This legend is reminiscent of the scene where Sado was struck by a falling steel beam, which fractured but did not injure him as well as one of his fullbring powers, named “Left Arm of the Devil”.

-> Orihime Inoue: Glory-of-the-snow

Glory-of-the-snow (Scilla section Chionodoxa) is known as yukigeyuri (雪解百合) in Japan which translates to “snowmelt lily”. Its meanings in hanakotoba are purity, innocence, hope, modesty and compassion for friendships. It is also considered a sign of spring as it blooms when the snow melts. In Western floriography, it symbolizes glory, camaraderie and toughness. Although she comes out as naive and ditzy, Orihime Inoue is better described as being sensitive, caring, amiable, funny, and optimistic. This strongly complements the glory-of-the-snow’s meanings of purity, innocence, hope and compassion for friendships. Furthermore, the star-shaped, six-petaled flowers of the glory-of-the-snow closely resemble Orihime's flower hairpins that her late older brother had given her.

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[If you liked this post, check out part 1 (here) and part 3 (here)... Also, here's the link to my directory of other hanakotoba analysis posts (here)]

[P.S. Here is the continuation of my hanakotoba analysis on Bleach as promised... Thank you to @jushiro-ukitake & @elyonholic for reminding me about the flowers featured in the extended ending. Given that the flowers are black and white, it was difficult to identify them—so if I misidentified any of them, I apologize; I did my best. Also, I had to put the Gotei 13 squad flowers in a separate post because of Tumblr's image limit...]