#filed: holdfast

[saddleups]

Low honor Arthur with a darling who got daddy issues? Please?

★ 𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓 . . . 4.7k

★ 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐓𝐔𝐒 . . . request , complete. LOW HONOR ARTHUR MORGAN X F!READER !! 18+ SMUT MDNI !!

★ 𝐂𝐖 . . . low honor arthur isn't the nicest guy. breeding, i couldn't help it. you're his best girl and he wants you to know that. p_rn w/o a plot !

★ 𝐀𝐔𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐑'𝐒 𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄 . . . actually proud of this? since working on my short!fic i've been trying to "mimic" arthur's voice better. oddly enough, it's easier for me to do it when he's low honor. he's a bastard and he says the meanest things but good grief! he sure knows how to make it up to you! thanks for requesting, i hope this captures the vibe <3

Sitting alone, waiting. The fire crackled low in the dark, casting faint shadows. There was something raw in the silence—an emptiness that lingered after him whenever he left. Arthur Morgan was no husband, not even close. Hell, he wasn't a boyfriend either. To others in the camp, you were just the "pretty little thing" he kept nearby for his own satisfaction. Sometimes you wondered if that's all you were to him too. Regardless, you stayed, because Arthur was all you had. And for as much as he was a bastard, he was your bastard.

Just as the embers started to die, you caught sight of him stumbling into camp, the night clinging to him like an old friend. He was battered—blood crusting over his knuckles, his face marred with fresh scratches and fading bruises. Each scar, each wound, he wore them like badges of honor, proof of the wild life he led. Yet here he was, staggering over to you with a look in eyes that was almost…needy.

Underneath normal circumstances, you'd run into his arms. Feet gravitating off the floor as Arthur wrapped you up in his arms, you'd sear your lips into his. The groans of commune fading as you stumble into your shared tent. Instead, you remain watching him stumble toward you.

"Hey now," he murmured, his voice thick and gravelly, reaching out for you as he sat down heavily on the tree stump nearby. "C'mon, pretty girl… ain't ya glad t'see me?"

You said nothing, just took a rag and dipped it in the bowl of water beside you. He was watching you, eyes soft in a way they rarely were.

"Oh. That damn look," you say just above a whisper.

"What look, baby?"

Arthur's fingers twitched, reaching toward your hip, but before he could make contact, you slapped his hand away without a word.

“Ow, darlin’,” he muttered, though there was a hint of amusement in his voice. “Ain't no way t’treat a man who's been out fightin’ fer ya, is it?”

You ignored his words, the charm he tried to wrap around them like some fool’s gold trinket. You pressed the damp cloth to his forehead, dabbing at the blood smearing his brow and cheek in silence, ignoring his exagerrated winces and whimpers. His eyes searched your face, almost expectant, but you kept your expression steady, unwilling to give him the satisfaction of your love.

"Well, if yer not gonna say nothin'," he drawled, smirking in that way that made you ache and hate him all at once. "Guess I'll have t'find other ways t’make ya sweet again."

You clenched your jaw, finishing your task with swift, controlled motions. When you were done, you stood, turning away without another word, leaving him alone with nothing but the faint warmth of your touch and the silence that stretched in your absence.

Arthur watched you go, the easy grin slipping from his face as he sat alone on that stump, his fingers curling into fists, reopening wounds he hadn’t let heal.

The firelight flickered as you walked away, leaving Arthur sitting alone on the tree stump, though you hadn’t taken more than a few steps before you felt his presence behind you. His hand wrapped around your arm, firm yet careful, pulling you back against his chest. The scent of leather, smoke, and faint blood clung to him as his low, gruff voice sounded near your ear.

“Where d’ya think yer goin’, princess?” His grip was taut, but there was a warmth to it, a kind of possessiveness that he wore as naturally as the rough coat on his shoulders. “Thinkin' you could just walk away like that, after all I’ve done fer ya?”

You felt his arm snake around your waist, drawing you closer. His calloused fingers grazed your side, holding you there against him, reminding you just how easily he could keep you where he wanted.

“You know better than that,” he murmured, his lips just brushing your ear. “You’re mine, ain't ya? My pretty girl. Ain't nobody else in this world who’d take care of ya the way I do.”

A shiver ran through you as he tightened his grip, his voice dropping even lower, carrying that familiar mix of harshness and something close to tenderness. “Now, how ‘bout you show me a bit of that sweetness I been missin’? Not gonna act like you don’t want me just as much as I want you.”

You turned, meeting his gaze. There was a flicker in his eyes, something unspoken yet undeniable, and without waiting for a reply, he leaned in, his mouth pressing against yours, claiming you in a way that was rough and yet familiar. And as much as you wanted to pull away, his hold kept you grounded, unable to deny the undeniable pull he had over you. His lips felt oddly sweet, despite his demanor. He must've ate those peaches you packed for him. He must've thought of you, right?

Parting from the kiss for air, Arthur's grip remained firm. In response, you twisted in his arms, anger flashing in your eyes.

“Do you even know how worried I’ve been?” you snapped, shoving against his chest. “You disappear for weeks, not a single letter, not a damn word. I thought—” Your voice broke, the fear and frustration spilling out despite yourself.

Arthur’s brow furrowed, his grip loosening as he stared down at you. “Now, don’t start on that,” he muttered, the words defensive. “I been busy, doin' what needs doin'. You know how it is.”

You shook your head, unable to hide the hurt that had been festering in his absence. “What I know is you think you can just vanish and expect me to sit here like some fool, waiting on you. You don’t even care what that does to me, Arthur. Not one bit.”

His jaw tightened, eyes hardening. “Careful now,” he warned, but then, almost like he couldn’t help himself, he muttered, “Guess that’s why you’re so needy, huh? Daddy wasn’t around either, if I remember right.”

The words cut deeper than any bullet. You flinched, the anger giving way to something raw and wounded. A part of your history that was shared in confidence, not as possible ammunition in an argument. Lashes flutter as you look up at him, tears flooding in the rims of your eyes. At the first sight of tears, Arthur’s expression shifted the second he realized what he’d said, the regret visible in the tight line of his mouth as he loosened his hold. He attempted to wipe a tear, you refuse his touch deepening the guilt he felt.

“Hey now, darlin’,” he murmured, voice softer, and this time, he gently took hold of your arms, his touch almost tender. “Didn’t mean it like that. Just… you know I ain’t the best with words.”

You tried to pull away, but he held on, his thumb brushing over your shoulder, almost apologetic. “Look, it’s just—” he took a breath, gathering himself. “You mean more to me than anythin’. I know I’m gone a lot, and maybe I don’t always say the right things, but I keep you here ‘cause I can’t let go. Don’t wanna lose ya, alright?”

His eyes met yours, a hint of vulnerability in them that you rarely saw, and he pulled you closer, his forehead resting gently against yours. “I need ya. Ain’t nobody else who can put up with me like you do.”

The anger softened, though the hurt lingered. Arthur’s hands drifted to cradle your face, his thumb gently brushing your cheek. “Forgive me, darlin’. I’ll do better. I swear it.”

You stood there, the words he’d just said still echoing in your mind, but you didn’t reply. Instead, you reached out, taking his wrist in your hand, and without a word, you began leading him toward the small tent the two of you shared.

Arthur chuckled low under his breath, shaking his head. “Oh, so now you’re givin’ orders, huh? Didn’t take ya for the bossy type, sweetheart.”

You shot him a look over your shoulder but said nothing, and his smirk faded as he followed you, the quiet between you both heavy and unspoken. Once inside, you gestured toward the thin pallet on the ground, barely even glancing at him.

“Lay down,” you instructed, your voice steady.

Arthur’s eyes lingered on you for a moment, the usual glint in them softened by something else, something almost vulnerable. He held your gaze, his expression shifting as he took you in, then, without a fight, he lowered himself to the bedroll. Arching himself up on his elbows, Arthur watches you in silence, as though waiting for you to make the next move.

You settled yourself on Arthur’s lap, your hands resting lightly on his shoulders, watching his surprise turn into something far more expectant as his eyes drifted over you. He looked like he was already expecting something else entirely.

“Listen close, Morgan,” you said, voice low but firm. “Tomorrow, you’re going into town and buying me a new dress. Something nice. To make up for the way you talked to me.”

Arthur raised a brow, a lazy smirk curving his lips as he streched his back, hands drifting to your hips. “Oh, so now I’m runnin’ errands, too? What’s next, princess—gonna have me pickin’ out your fancy shoes?” he teased, voice dripping with sarcasm. His fingers tightened on your waist, and you could feel the shift in his grip, the weight of his gaze that said he wasn’t too broken up about you being here, right where he wanted you.

You held his gaze, unflinching. “If I wanted new shoes, you’d be buyin’ those too. Lucky for you, I’m only askin’ for a dress.”

He chuckled, low and dangerous, his fingers tracing small circles along your waist as he looked up at you, clearly relishing the control he still felt, even if he was playing along. “You’re somethin’ else, y’know that?” He let his hand drift up your side, a smug grin spreading as he spoke. “Bossin’ me around, actin' all high and mighty. But let’s not pretend that dress is all ya came here for, darlin’.”

He looked at you, his eyes dark with that rough, insistent need he barely tried to hide. But you kept your cool, leaning in just close enough that he could feel your breath against his skin.

“You’re goin’ to town tomorrow, Arthur,” you repeated, each word soft but unwavering. “And if you want me to be sweet for you, you’ll come back with what I asked for.”

For a moment, he didn’t answer, his eyes narrowing as if he were weighing his choices. Then, with a quiet grunt, he leaned back, his smirk fading just enough to show a hint of compliance.

“All right, all right,” he muttered, feigned reluctance in his tone. “But don’t go gettin’ any ideas ‘bout makin’ this a habit.”

You gave a small, satisfied smile, and though you could tell he wanted more, he held back, just this once, watching you with that defiant glint in his eye and the promise of what was to come. It was almost like he was relishing in your newfound dominance, proud of his girl for standing up against a bastard like him.

However, his impatience had gotten the better of him. Arthur’s hands tightened on your hips, his fingers digging into the soft fabric of your dress as he pulled you closer. He sat up with ease, adjusting your frame atop his. The rough texture of his calloused palms sent a shiver down your spine, and you could feel the heat radiating off his body, mingling with the tension that hung heavy in the air between you both.

“You sure know how to keep a man waitin’, sweetheart,” he murmured, his voice low and gravelly, like the scrape of stone against steel. His eyes locked onto yours, dark and piercing, filled with a mixture of hunger and something deeper—something possessive that made your heart pound in your chest.

You swallowed hard, meeting his gaze without flinching, unwilling to reward him so easily. “Maybe I just like seeing you squirm, Morgan.”

Arthur chuckled, a deep, gravelly rumble that vibrated through his chest and into yours. “Oh, I’m squirmin’ alright, darlin’. Just not the way you think.”

His hands shifted, one sliding up your back while the other drifted lower, fingers brushing boldly over the curve of your rear. “Ever thought ‘bout what it’d be like if I didn’t come back one day? Hmm?” His voice dropped, the hint of a challenge in it. “If I just disappeared, left ya here all alone like some poor, helpless damsel?”

Your breath caught for a moment at his words, but you forced yourself to stay steady. “Don’t flatter yourself, Arthur. You’re not that important.”

His lips curved into a slow, wolfish grin. “Liar,” he muttered, leaning in until his forehead pressed against yours, noses almost touching. “You wouldn’t be stickin’ around this long if I wasn’t.”

You could feel his breath warm against your face, tempting and maddening, but you held your ground, refusing to give him the satisfaction. Instead, you let your hands trail down his chest, feeling the solid muscle beneath his worn shirt.

“Maybe I just like having someone to boss around,” you murmured, fingers tracing the edge of his belt. “Or maybe…” You paused, biting your lip before continuing, “Maybe I just like seeing you beg.”

Arthur’s eyes darkened at that, a glint of challenge sparking as he tilted his head back, his smirk widening. “Beg?” he drawled, mockingly. “You think you got it in ya to make me beg, princess?”

You shrugged, playing it cool despite the way your heart raced. “Guess we’ll see.”

Before he could get a word in, you moved swiftly, straddling his lap and pinning his wrists down. His brows shot up, surprised, but he quickly narrowed his eyes, a thrill of excitement glinting in their depths.

“Goin’ down on me?” he asked, voice low, thick with amusement.

You shook your head, leaning in until your lips were just a breath away from his. “Not yet. First, we need to talk.”

He groaned, exasperation clear in his tone. “Damn it, woman, I said I’d get ya the damn dress! Don’t tell me we’re really gonna do this talkin’ thing now,” he muttered, the frustration in his voice barely masking the eagerness simmering underneath.

You ignored his frustration, instead focusing on the way his chest heaved beneath you, the steady rise and fall of his breath. “How many times have I told you to be careful out there?” You asked softly, punctuating each word with a gentle nip to his earlobe. “How many times have I begged you to come back to me safe?”

Arthur’s jaw tightened, his eyes flashing with something that looked like guilt. “I know, darlin’,” he muttered, his voice gruff. “But sometimes it ain’t up to me.”

You nodded, understanding but not willing to let him off the hook so easily. “I get that, Arthur. But that doesn’t mean I’m not allowed to worry.”

He sighed, closing his eyes for a moment before opening them again, looking up at you with a strange mix of vulnerability and strength. “I’ll try harder, alright? For you.”

There was a sincerity in his tone that made your heart swell, but you knew better than to let him off too easy. “We’ll see,” you said again, this time with a hint of a smile. “Now… how about we start with you showing me just how sorry you really are?”

Arthur’s eyes gleamed with a dangerous light, his smirk returning full force. “Oh, you want to play games, huh?” He flexed his wrists, testing your grip, but you held firm. “Alright then… what do you want, pretty girl?”

You leaned in closer, your lips brushing against his ear as you spoke.

“First… I want you to watch.”

As you rise to your feet, the tension between you and Arthur charges the air. The fire outside casts flickering shadows through the thin canvas of the tent, playing across your body. You unbutton your blouse slowly, teasingly, the fabric whispering against your skin as it parts. Your eyes never leave Arthur's, watching the way his breath hitches, his gaze darkening with desire.

You let the blouse fall to the ground, revealing the simple chemise underneath. Your movements are calculated to draw out the anticipation. You reach behind your back, slipping the straps down your arms, letting the chemise join the blouse on the ground. Arthur’s eyes follow every inch of exposed skin, his fingers twitching as if ready to touch but restrained by some invisible tether.

Next, you hook your thumbs into the waistband of your skirt, glancing down at Arthur with a coy smile. “Like what you see?” you ask softly, your voice barely more than a whisper.

Arthur’s throat works as he swallows, his voice rough when he finally replies. “Damn right I do,” he growls, his eyes burning with intensity.

“But don’t think for a second that this is just about lookin’.”

You lower the skirt, step out of it, leaving you in just your undergarments. The cool air touches your heated skin, causing goosebumps to rise along your arms and legs. You stand there, basking in his hungry gaze, feeling powerful and desired.

Arthur’s hands flex on the bedroll, his restraint evident in the tenseness of his muscles. “C’mere,” he murmurs, voice thick with want. “Let me show you how much I need ya.”

You move closer, your hips swaying with each step, drawing out his impatience. When you’re within reach, Arthur’s hands snap out, pulling you down onto the bedroll. He rolls over, positioning himself above you, those same calloused hands roaming over your body with a reverence that takes your breath away.

He kisses your neck, teeth grazing gently before his lips press a tender kiss to the spot. “M’gonna take care of ya,” he whispers, his voice vibrating against your skin. “Keep ya safe, make damn sure nothin’ ever hurts ya again.”

His mouth moves lower, tracing down your collarbone, his tongue flicking out to taste the salt of your skin. His hand cups your breast, thumb brushing over your nipple. “And I ain’t just talkin’ about buyin’ a dress, darlin’. I’m thinkin’ bout buildin’ somethin’ real with ya.”

You arch into his touch, feeling the heat pooling low in your belly. His words send a shiver through you, stirring emotions that go beyond physical desire. “What do you mean?” you ask, your voice trembling slightly.

Arthur lifts his head, his eyes locking with yours. There’s a raw honesty in them that makes your heart ache. “How ‘bout you change that name of yours to Mrs. Morgan?” he drawled, a teasing grin spreading across his face. “Get rid of that man’s ugly name, show the world ya got someone who ain't ever gonna walk out on ya.”

He kisses the valleys between your chest, his warm breath all too familiar. His hands firmly grip your thighs, massaging the flesh as he punctuates his words.

“I wanna marry you,” he says simply, as if stating a fact. “Make you mine proper, not just in name. And…” He pauses, swallowing hard, “I wanna give you a baby. Our baby.”

The weight of his words settles over you, heavy and warm, filling the hollow places inside you that had ached so long. You reach up, tangling your fingers in his hair, pulling him closer. “You promise?” you whisper, your voice breaking.

“I swear it,” he answers, his voice fierce. “On my life, I swear it.”

With that vow hanging in the air between you, Arthur kisses you again, deeper this time, his tongue seeking entrance to your mouth. The world narrows down to just the two of you, the heat of his body, the roughness of his beard against your skin. He shifts slightly, maneuvering until he’s positioned between your legs, his hardness pressing against your core.

You tilt your hips up, inviting him closer, the friction sending sparks of pleasure through your body. Arthur groans, the sound muffled by your kiss, his fingers digging into your hip as he grinds against you. The pressure builds, a slow burn that you both feed with desperate motions.

Arthur breaks the kiss, his forehead resting against yours, his breath hot and ragged. “Tell me you want this too,” he rasps, his voice strained with need. “Tell me you want me to be your man, to give you everythin’.”

You nod, unable to speak past the lump in your throat, your body trembling with the force of your arousal. With a swallow, you shudder into his mouth, "I'm yours...and you're mine."

Arthur’s grip tightens, and he enters you with one smooth thrust, filling you completely. The coarse hairs of his pubic region scrape against your tender skin, sending jolts of both pain and pleasure throughout your body. You gasp for air, your lungs struggling to keep up with the overwhelming sensations.

"Take all of me," you beg, voice rough with desire. "I want to feel you deep inside."

As he sinks deeper into you, your wetness engulfs him, slicking his shaft and creating a slippery rhythm. Every thrust is like fire, burning through you until you can no longer contain your moans. The thought of maintaining composure for the sake of the camp is a distant memory as you give in to the primal urges consuming you.

"It's been too long," you whisper breathlessly. "I've missed you..."

But Arthur only grunts in response, lost in the ecstasy of being buried inside you again. "Missed ya too, darlin'," he manages to say through gritted teeth. "Missed how tight you always get around me." He pauses, making sure you're okay before beginning a steady pace, each movement deliberate and calculated. "I'll protect you," he growls. "Love you and our baby better than anyone else ever could."

Your nails dig into his back, anchoring yourself to him as waves of pleasure wash over you. His words feel like promises that could actually come true in this moment, surrounded by his love and strength.

Despite the prolonged desire that built up inside Arthur while he was away, he kept his movements rhythmic. Though he was eager, the sensation of you around him was one he wanted to drown in. Your body trembled underneath him, frenzying for release. "Come inside me," you gasp, eyes locked with his.

Arthur's calloused hands moved with surprising gentleness as he took your leg and lifted it, placing it over his shoulder. The shift in position allowed him to angle his cock deeper inside you, making you gasp at the sudden fullness. His thumbs pressed against your inner thighs, spreading your folds apart, revealing the glistening pink of your arousal. He was mesmerized by the sight, Arthur couldn't help but to stare at the way his cock disappeared into you.

"You’re so pretty," he murmured, his voice rough with need. "So beautiful when you take me like this. Just imagine how pretty you'll be when yer my wife, carryin’ my child."

What a thrill it was, the thought of it all. More than a bastard, but a husband too? Right now, all that mattered was the way he filled you, the way his thrusts grew more insistent, drawing gasps and moans from deep within you.

"That’s it, darlin'," he encouraged, his grip tightening on your thigh. "Take it. Take all of me. You’re doin’ so good, so damn good for me."

His praise fueled your arousal, making you push back against him, accepting every inch he gave. The pleasure was building, coiling tighter and tighter inside you, every thrust bringing you closer to the edge. Arthur’s breath was ragged, his chest heaving as he watched you, his own pleasure evident in the way his hips snapped forward with increasing urgency.

"Look at'cha," he whispered, his voice thick with admiration. "You are perfect. My perfect girl, takin’ me like a pro. Soon enough, you’ll be wearin’ my ring, feelin’ my baby growin’ inside you."

The intensity of his words, coupled with the way he was driving into you, made your vision blur with tears of pleasure. You could feel the warmth pooling low in your belly, the pressure building to an almost unbearable point. Arthur’s hands shifted, one still holding your thigh steady, while the other moved to cradle your face, his thumb brushing away a tear that had escaped.

"Almost there, sweetheart," he said, his voice a low growl. "Gonna make you come hard, just like you deserve. Just like I promised."

His fingers dug into your skin, not painfully, but possessively, as if he were branding you with his touch. The sensation, combined with the relentless rhythm of his hips, pushed you over the edge. Your body stiffened, muscles clenching around him as wave after wave of ecstasy crashed over you. You cried out, your voice trembling with the force of your orgasm, your nails digging into his shoulders.

Arthur grunted, his own climax nearing as he continued to thrust into you, milking every last drop of pleasure from the moment. His hand left your face to press against your lower back, urging you to stay close, to keep taking him until he was spent. The combination of his praise and his unrelenting touch was too much, sending you spiraling through another wave of pleasure even as the first one began to wane.

"That’s it," he growled, his voice breaking as he finally reached his own peak. "Come for me, darlin'. Come hard, just like I know you can."

His words, laced with raw emotion and possessive heat, pushed you over once more, your body convulsing around him as you rode out the storm of your climax. Arthur followed soon after, his body tensing as he spilled himself deep inside you, his release marked by a guttural groan that echoed in the small tent.

For a moment, neither of you moved, locked in the aftermath of passion. Arthur’s breathing slowly returned to normal, his hands still resting on you, holding you close as if afraid to let go. You could feel the sticky warmth of his release between your legs, the evidence of his claim mingling with your own wetness.

"Damn, darlin'," he muttered, his voice still thick with satisfaction. "You never cease to amaze me. Always takin’ me so good, always wantin’ more."

You looked up at him, your heart pounding in your chest, the mixture of love and frustration swirling within you. Despite everything, despite the arguments and the hurt, there was no denying the bond between you, the way he owned every part of you, body and soul.

"Don’t get used to it," you managed to say, your voice shaky but defiant. "I ain’t some doll you can play with and put away whenever you please."

Arthur chuckled, low and dark, his fingers tracing lazy circles on your hip. "Oh, princess, trust me. I know exactly what you are. And I wouldn’t have it any other way."

His words meant something to you, the implications clear. He wasn’t just talking about tonight, about this moment. He was talking about forever, about the life you would build together, the family you would raise. The thought both thrilled and terrified you, leaving you breathless and aching for more.

But before you could respond, before you could decide what to do next, Arthur’s hand shifted, moving down to cup your ass, pulling you closer. His cock, already softening, twitched inside you, a reminder of the connection that refused to break.

"Now," he murmured, his lips brushing against your ear. "How ‘bout we see if we can make that baby together, just like we talked about?"

You shivered at the suggestion, the thought of carrying his child both exhilarating and daunting. But before you could answer, before you could even form a coherent thought, Arthur was already moving, adjusting you on his lap, positioning himself for another round.

"Let’s make sure," he whispered, his voice a seductive promise. "Make sure that when I come home with that dress, there’s somethin’ else waitin’ for me too."

[rt-gift-exchange]

VOX TRANSMISSION // OUTBOUND ORIGIN: DARGONUS // RED-NET LOCKED AUTHENTICATION: Magos Pasqal Haneumann DIRECTIVE ENTITY: Codename ‘OMEN’ TIMESTAMP // 17.42 STANDARD INTENDED RECEIVER: Lucin’s Breath – Sub-Orbital Holdfast Inbound signal acquired — latency: 12.0s. Line stability: nominal.

[Data-packet outbound: verified] [Resonance: high-fidelity] // Logged Vox-Fragment: SINGULUM-LAMB.06 // Unlock Sequence: Rite 774-A // Cipher Substring: A-S-H-3-S // Authorization Node: OMN-991-HANEUMANN

VOX CHANNEL OPEN: COMMENCING…

Confirmed: Warrant-bearers en route. Vessels designate: high-charter, legacy-grade—purity seals validated. Convergence authorized under direct invocation by Entity Codename: 'OMEN'. Tactical coordinates in queue via encrypted burst-transmission: Magenta-Priority. Audio-fragment contains augmetic overlay—predictive resonance detected. Sanctioned: interpret with due reverence. Transmission integrity: verified by Magos Haneumann. Vox closed under seal-pattern: TRIA-NULL-991. 

LAYMAN FILE ATTACHED…

[ivory--raven]

day 7! angelfish femslash thingy. Continuing directly on from yesterday but this time more in Dagon's head.

“Let me take care of you,” says Michael, reaching out. Dagon falls into her, desperate, aching, needing. It’s been too long. Has she always needed her like this?

“Do you have a… living space, somewhere?” Michael asks.

Dagon lifts her face from where it’s been buried in the angel’s neck and gestures to the back wall, which is almost entirely made up of cabinets. It’s not really the wall, though - there’s a gap, and she maneuvers them both through it, still clinging to Michael like a limpet. “It’s a bit - sorry.”

Michael slides both arms around her waist and holds her. “Dagon, my own, this is terrible.”

Behind the false wall of cabinets is the pocket of room Dagon lives in, when she bothers to stop working, the part she’s barely left lately. There are clawlike marks gouged into the floor. Papers are scattered everywhere, all destroyed, and the moth eaten blanket she’d been curled up in looks filthy now she’s abandoned it. It’s picked up all the crumbs and grease from the floor. 

“This won’t do at all,” says Michael decisively. “Listen. Jeanne has that house, now. I know these aren’t ideal circumstances, but how about you come there now?”

“Here’s fine,” says Dagon, even though it’s not, she sees that it’s not. She wants to come.

“It’s really not. Need anything?”

Dagon shakes her head, clings closer. You, she doesn’t need to say. She needs Michael. She has Michael.

“Okay. I’m going to just…” Michael snaps her fingers. They emerge with a gust of cold wind on a field, some sort of wild meadow with a pond and a house, its slanting roof covered with moss. “Jeanne said no nepotism, and she filed everything herself - you’ll be proud - but if they were incentivized to hurry her things along, well…”

“Of course you did,” says Dagon. She doesn’t expect any less of her.

“I’ve seen it once,” says Michael as they reach the door, which is painted a rusty red, “there are some things I think you’ll like.”

The house seems bigger on the inside, but maybe that’s just how everything is laid out. There’s a spiral staircase, twisting up and around like a snail shell, elegant and wooden with iron railings. It doesn’t look much like Hell. The colours are vaguely familiar - if Hell was cleaner, kinder, home - but it’s not. Is Heaven like this? Dagon remembers being young, being new - and then the feeling is gone, like it was gone then, the fight for justice, the war, the Fall, plunging into something new and strange and scary and dark, the bleeding, broken bodies, still alive because death was more mercy than they deserved.

(Michael won’t -)

The fear is an urchin, gnawing on the holdfast of her heartstrings. It’s got teeth and claws and spines, but Dagon’s teeth are sharper and scarier and stronger.

There are sweet-smelling rushes on the floor. That’s a very human thing, Dagon thinks, Hell never cared to keep the place nice and she can’t imagine Heaven, now, as anything but the cold sterility that clings to Michael’s clothes. Jeanne is human. So perhaps the rest of the house is human, too. Earthly. It’s Earthly.

“Jeanne?” calls Michael. There is no response. “She must be out.”

Michael sounds unhappy. Jeanne is a competent girl, and she’s a good leader, a strategist, a speaker, she’s very aware of her surroundings, but she is these things because she was a soldier in the thick of battle and then she was a prisoner and then she was dead. Martyred. Michael knew her for six dangerous years of her dangerous life, and now she has to let her go.

Jeanne is nineteen, has been nineteen for some time. She’s old enough to handle herself. She’s capable of handling herself. She’ll come back soon. Dagon trusts her. 

Of course Michael doesn’t.

“Nevermind,” says Michael, shakes herself out of it. “She’ll be pleased to see you when she comes home. In the meantime, come upstairs.”

They do, together, because Dagon isn’t ready to let go. “Jeanne’s room, she means to bring her sword collection,” says Michael, “a sitting area by this window, in the sun, and here - this one’s for us.”

It’s a beautiful room. It’s very elaborate. The walls are paneled, the bedposts are carved, and there’s a canopy hanging like an umbrella over the bed. It’s really more a sequence of rooms - Michael ignores the bed, which Dagon would very much like to collapse onto.

Then she sees it.

It’s not a swimming pool, and it’s not a fishtank, and it’s not a bath, but it reminds her of all those things. There are stairs leading into it, it’s full of water, and it’s big enough to stretch all the way out in and not touch either side.

She loves it.

Michael snaps her fingers, and it’s warm, has Dagon’s body always been this achey, this needy? “Get in,” says Michael, and then as Dagon takes a haltering step towards it, transfixed by the lights reflecting on the surface, “take your clothes off first! Honestly.”

Dagon obediently peels her clothes off, looking back at Michael. Michael narrows her eyes and makes a displeased humming noise, which is entirely the wrong reaction. Dagon must be making a face, because Michael raises her eyebrows. “The scales on your back are in a horrible condition. Get in the water and wait for me.”

Dagon slides into the water. It’s warm and welcoming and it fairly sings to her, so she dips her head underwater and lies on the bottom. The only thing missing is Michael. She trusts Michael will come back soon. Michael is okay. Closing her eyes, she can feel her hair is snarled in a tangle behind her head. She cracks her neck and feels the gill slits she has there opening.

A hand brushes her shoulder. Michael. She surfaces and opens her eyes. Michael has with her an assorted collection of creamy looking things in jars and brushes and combs and rough-looking tools. Michael is also mostly naked.

“Be good,” says Michael, as if Dagon isn’t a demon, as if she can. Nothing she does is ever good by definition. Still, she’ll behave because Michael is asking. For now.

Michael scrapes the peeling, flaky bits off Dagon’s scales, rubs the dry skin around them with careful fingers. Dagon is in silent bliss. Michael’s touch feels right. She knows her body, knows how to make it stop hurting in places Dagon didn’t realize there was pain. Mostly, she thinks, it’s good that Michael is here. Michael is okay. They’re both okay. They’re all okay.

[tauforged]

You have an oc you ship with Lodun and Cavalero? Could you tell us more?

HEHEHE YESSS!!!! Laz is my tenno oc (not the operator OR the drifter but a secret third thing (fusion of both that happened by accident)) and he and his husband seem to be on a quest to collect guys who just objectively kinda suck, with varying degrees of success. in duviri, laz got pretty lonely and at some point decided he was most likely to get attention by bothering lodun and pissing him off on purpose. it wasn’t long before laz got genuinely attached to the bastard, but his attempts at conveying affection seem to make him just as angry as teasing him did. lodun is in denial LMFAO but he’ll come around he just needs to be like… socialized. not used to having genuine friends, let alone anything further. he’s like a feral cat. he needs to be held until he stops biting. why don’t you get some hugs from a beautiful idiot and then maybe you’ll calm down

cav and laz had a similar dynamic going on at first, but by the time they reach a max-holdfast-rank point cav is a little more mellowed out and appreciates laz’s company a lot more tbh. they started off just like sparring and play fighting for fun (mostly boredom and pent up energy on cavs end, but laz just does this sort of thing for fun. beating the shit out of eachother is a time honored bonding activity btwn him and other tenno in his clan and to him it only naturally extends to anyone else he considers a friend) but well um. you know how it can get when you’re wrestling with the homies. guys being dudes, we’ve all been there.

i was digging for more art of them and realized that i started this silly little series of doodles AGES AGO and never properly finished it and now im mad at myself because the file is on my computer and i can’t get to it right now… but i shall let the wip free for now, i suppose. it’s been cookin for too long

a lot of laz and rigels respective boyfriends don’t really overlap (the polycule is. complicated. it includes a few other ocs. i ahve a chart about them in fact)

BUUUT laz and rigel both (affectionately) bother cav equally… angel and devil on his shoulder who are both probably going to make him worse <3

[killer-orca-cosplay]

Planetary File: Cascadia (Lancer)

Figured I'd drop this here to keep it somewhere cause if I don't write it, its going to vanish into the holes in my brain and never be seen again. I present the backstory for the homeworld of my Lancer Miles Jeager, for the campaign of In Golden Fire Im in.

The planet Cascadia shows up in Union records only once; in reference to a just-as obscure mech design, noted by Seccom as being "pro-anthromorphological" and therefor worth funding and incorporating.

What the mech actually WAS is not listed. Its name was scrubbed at some point during Thirdcom's rise, alongside most of Seccom's more anthrochovanist records and beliefs. All that is known is that it was capable of form-shifting from bipedal machine to aircraft, and that it was made by a company on Cascadia.

Cascadia does, in fact, exist however. Unknown, forgotten about (or perhaps undiscovered yet? Time is strange after all especially when paracausality comes into play), or otherwise unnoticed, the planet continues.

In terms of geology, Cascadia is considered an ocean world; 85% of its surface is liquid ocean, with large polar ice caps at both ends, and large sections of deeps that would swallow even the Mariana's Trench upon Cradle. What dry land can be found is almost all entirely mountainous; enormous ranges of rugged peaks rising from the sea in the form of long island chains forced from the sea floor by ancient geothermic action, which is still ongoing to this day. Settlers arriving from Cradle during the Expansion of humanity, before the collapse, settled on these spots of dry land, and very quickly expanded into an aquarious lifestyle, with great aquaculture farms exploding outwards and undersea arcologies coating wherever could be found, as the mountains were turned into way-stations and light houses and reenforced survival shelters against the titanic storms that the proximity to the systems star, the rapid rotation (each day is just over 9 hours, compared to Cradle's 24) and mass of ocean produce each local year with alarming regularity.

When contact was cut with the rest of humanity, factionalization formed; each nation had their Holdfast, as these rock fortresses were called, and they laid claim to sections of the world and the resources that were there, as humans with no overarching control have a want to do.

Calcification resulted; adaptation as well. And with it, of course, war.

Though on a planet that was almost all water, conventional land combat was a near impossibility; the peaks of the islands far too tall for open combat to happen with normal vehicles, the insides of them clustered tunnels too small for any form of heavy armor.

Instead did battle become a dance under the waves, slow and methodical, where death came less from your fellow man and more from the harsh enviroment itself (or from one of the introduced or native super-species, such as the dreaded ultrashark, and the violet whale, a genetically manipulated blue whale that was 6 times the size of its predecessor and in some cases was used as a mobile arcology to some of the more nomadic civiliations)… But also, the sky.

The air above Cascadia, when the storms weren't blowing, was a completely blank canvas, and into it did the Cascadians throw their ingenuity and what technology they still had from their settlement.

Planes became the tool of conquest and resource acquisition; if you owned the sky above the land, the land was as good as yours. The pilot became the sword of nations, and the ace the point of those spears. Thousands of names made against others, as machines evolved from simple jet engines with straight wings that could barely crest some of the smaller mountains to four-engined fusion belching behemoths that carried entire wings of missiles and bottomless cannons fed by mini-printers capable of producing storms of metal in seconds.

Cascadia became a world of air combat. And through that equal ground, the arena of the air, did a sort of peace eventually come to be.

Two national blocks formed; the Northern Alliance (NA) and the Southern Federation (SF). These were loose titles, with no central command; the designation of difference was entirely by where on the equator you were. If you were south of 90 degrees, you were SF. North of it, NA. If you wanted to change that position, you had to take land from someone else by force. Easier said than done, of course...and so the lines became more or less stable. There were wars of course, but mostly they were saber rattling. Small skirmishes, with only a couple thousand aircraft on both sides, often fought at the two "Round Tables" along the equator; the sections of island chain that crossed the equator, where both sides could meet over dry land instead of the hungry ocean. The Northern Alliance slowly began to gain dominance; they had more of the local "cordium" fuel avalible, giving their planes and ocean going vessels an advantage in power to weight ratio, range, speed and endurance over the far less refined and powerful standard helium-fueled fusion reactors of the Southern Federation. In the various saber-wars, the NA came out on top more often than not. The power balance tipped, slowly, in their favor, and worries among the SF began to grow that, if something wasn't to change, then the NA would drive them to exctinction, and unite the entire planet under the NAs rule. Then Seccom arrived. Quite unnannounced, and without warning of any kind, their ships dropped out of trans-light and communications were opened, standard Union procedure. The SF, seeing their salvation and not caring that the offered help might be a posioned challace, for they had nothing to loose now, eagerly agreed to join Union; the NA, who were doing "quite fine on their own thank you very much" and CERTAINLY didn't like the idea of suddenly being placed under someone else's watchful eye and rules after working so hard to take what they deemed THEIRS, resisted. Seccom made an ultimatum; either the planet would be unified as one and agree to join, or they would be left alone for another millenia to sort it out. This, of course, had the desired effect; an instant, violent, world war over the right to join Union. The NA had the technological and resource advantage, with the largest and most rich islands to themselves and deep sea mining of cordium and rare minerals for advanced construction and printer fabrication. But the SF had Union's quiet support, and with Union, the megacorps. "Trial lisences" poured into the SF, and soon the ground was equal almost. NA ingenuity and equipment against Harrison Armory heat sinks, SSC advanced weapons, and even Horus Paracausal equipment (though records note that the NA had help from Horus too; if it was the same cell working both sides, two cells working together for the same goal or two entirely unrelated cells fighting each other on a proxy field, we will likely never know) But even with those advantages, with the less than subtle support of Union...the SF just was not capable of breaking the lines or spirit of the NA. Their pilots were too well trained, too vicious in the blue, and their equipment refined to a point of near perfection, each machine a work of art more so than a vehicle of war even. But then; the Furball The single largest engagement of the war, literally thousands of aircraft in the sky at once, turning the very air of the entire planet a sickly orange with cordium fuel trails and Maser Particulate spread, resulting in the fighting driving down to knife-fight range, to single dog-fights among a darkening blood-drenched sky. The only remaining image of that grand duel, and even of Cascadia itself, is a pair of fighters roaring skywards on plumes of energy; the first, a brilliant red NA machine with standard markings, indicating it to be the flight lead of Crimson Squadron, the NAs elite. The second; a strange hybrid mech, a Monarch melded into an aerospace fighter.

Both machines are shedding excess equipment, empty weapon pylons, and resistor veins; speed is king in this race for the sky and their engine plumes boil so bright that the camera can barely pick them up. The only other notable piece on the image is the strange weapon strapped to the Monarch Flight Type (as it has been unofficially designated), between its main engines and on the centerline hard point; it seems to be a normal 500lb ordinance canister, but the air around it is twisted, warped. The camera cannot easily discern it. That image is the last anyone has heard of Cascadia. The planet, its people, its machines, all vanished. Those two peices of flimsy, held in a Thirdcom DOJ/HR vault alongside dozens of other "lost" worlds, is all that is left to the modern union to know.

At least. Until recently.

Reports from the Dawnline Shore indicate the presence of a non-standard ASF-style mech operating within the Hell's Gate station facility. A machine in the yellow and green of the Northern Alliance, with a brilliant red stripe marking its side…

[mustardyellowsunshine]

a little WIP Challenge! tag, you're it!

rules: “post the names of all the files in your WIP folder regardless of how non-descriptive or ridiculous. Let people send you an ask with the title that most intrigues them and then post a little snippet of it or tell them something about it! And then tag as many people as you have wips. (You can make your own post or reblog this one!) I have deemed that this isn’t just for writing either. Sketch titles? Comics? DND campaigns? If you have an unfinished project, it counts!!”

Hey, thanks for tagging me! 💕

Current WiPs ahoy!

When the End Comes, chapter 7

YAMS, chapter 4

Since You've Been Around, chapter 2

To Protect, chapter 4 (oof, ancient relic)

All Things Go

Grief is Not Chronologically Correct

Holdfast

Spoils of War

Forest Goddess

Untitled Document

I got 10 WiPs, so I'll be tagging: @superpixie42 @elkonigin @anisaanisa @ruddcatha @artistefish @mamabearcat @keichanz @coquinespike (👀👀 I haven't forgotten the snippets of WiPs you shared before) @lostinfantasyworlds @lavendertwilight89 and honestly anyone who wants to join should hop in, just say I tagged you. 👍

[black-kitties]

Worldheart - Chapter 13

Start reading at Chapter 1

Black Canary and Green Arrow had emerged out of the elevator shaft to an unguarded corridor. They reached the unmistakable glass corridor the kid had described. Jutting out from the middle of it was Maxmellius’s office suspended in the air above the factory floor.

“Wait.” Canary held out her hand to stop Arrow, “Where are the guards?”

“You think it’s a trap?” Arrow scratched his head, “They must’ve rushed off to deal with the cause of all those explosions.” He shrugged, “Besides, anything comes, and I got your back.”

“You mean I’ll save your hide while you stand back looking for your bow?” Canary countered. They approached the office, Canary on high alert for any signs of a silent alarm being triggered.

“Hey!” Arrow chuckled, “I’m just as good with my fists as you.”

“Right, and we’re ten-zero because you let me win, is it?” Arrow cleared his throat, changing the subject.

“Judging from the oversized chair the guy must be compensating for something.” He smiled seeing Canary’s eyes roll. She sat down in the huge chair while Arrow stood watch, keeping an eye out down the corridor as well as the factory floor. He watched her work at a thread on her jacket, undoing the seam to reveal a small thin metal plate that she inserted into the computers USB. The screen went black before a bunch of red symbols appeared. A moment later, ‘ACCESS GRANTED’ appeared on the screen and Canary went to work.

“That’s a nifty trick.” Green Arrow peeked over Canary’s shoulder.

“I asked Cyborg to make it for me. In case it gets in the wrong hands he made it with only three uses, but it can hack anything in the world.” Canary explained.

“So, we only have two uses left then, we can work with that.”

“One. I used it on a mission before this.” While she worked, Green Arrow noticed the nameless sidekick drop down from a vent and begin scrambling across the factory floor.

“Kids got spunk.” When he noticed how poor her hiding skills where he chuckled, “But she’s got a lot of training ahead of her.”

“Ollie, look at this.” Arrow turned from the window back to the computer screen.

“Wait, is that..?” On the screen was an image of Superman bound to an operating table with a red kryptonite crystal strapped above his chest. Tiny machine arms with saw blades, alligator forceps, lasers and the like were hovering over him. He looked like he was struggling under the red glow.

“It gets worse. Looks like they captured him using Kryptonite, and they were experimenting on him with it too.” Canary began transferring the files onto the stick, “He’s here still, and I know where.”

“Then let’s go find him.”

“Let’s.” Canary agreed. They’d made it halfway down the hallway when a giant form crashed into it from below, smashing through the glass and damaging the scaffolding that supported the hall and office. The walkway underneath them tilted towards the beast as the entire hallway began to fall. Canary lost balance, falling forward towards the new foe. It snapped at her, but she twisted her body out of the way just in time landing wit her feet on its shoulder using it to launch her between the scaffolding to safety. She landed on her hands, carrying her momentum into a roll until she was on her feet facing the crashing hallway. Green Arrow had managed to grab onto a holdfast, leaping through the windows of the office just as the impact caused them all to explode in a rain of glass. He rolled to a stop beside Black Canary taking cover behind one of the larger machines. The beast that had attacked them didn’t get out in time as metal scaffolding and glass buried it.

“Arrow! Canary!” Jaz had rushed out of a side room they hadn’t noticed before, “Over here!” Their attention returned to the heap of metal on the floor. Several machine arms had toppled over and the remaining hallway that the office was connected to began to fall to the floor, burying it even further. There was no sign of movement. “You guys ok? Did something attack you?”

“Whatever it was, I don’t think it’s getting back up.” Green Arrow said as they followed Jaz into the cell room.

She gave a worried glance outside the room, “Alright. Well, your bow’s here, inside that.” She pointed to a guard booth that overlooked the cell room. Black Canary had rushed to Icon’s side, checking his pulse and asking him questions. “The notepad inside has all the codes, I got a couple cells open but I need to get inside to see the other pages. Everyone seems fine, just really weak.”

“Good job, kid.” Arrow slapped her on the back. He could tell she was scared and putting on a brave face.

“Mind if I leave them to you guys? I still haven’t found Hero.” Arrow noticed she kept giving worried glances outside the door.

“Don’t worry about what’s out there, we have things under control. Know where Hero might be?”

“I have a feeling he’s just beyond that door. I’ll be right back,” Arrow nodded, watching her disappear down the back hall.

Green Arrow turned his attention back to the guard cubicle. He punched it with all his might, but the glass just warped and vibrated from the hit. “It’s reinforced.” He was searching the room for something to throw at it when another voice spoke up.

“Maybe I can help with that.” Out from one of the unlocked cells Huntress strode forward, though she stumbled and leaned against the cell wall.

“Huntress! It’s been a while.” Black Canary stood, approaching her to offer a hand.

“Wish it was under better circumstances.” She leaned on Canary, “The drugs they forced in us have left me too weak to be of any help, but I know they keep the key in that locker there.” She pointed to the third one in from the edge of the wall beside the cubicle.

“These guys sure know security,” Green Arrow joked. The locker door bent in half under the force of his elbow, and he easily slipped the lanyard and key off its hook.

“Well, you get what you pay for.” Huntress said, wincing. “Or don’t pay for. Guy was going to have a mutiny on his hands soon if you two hadn’t taken out the power when you did.”

“That wasn’t us. More importantly though, are you hurt? How long have you been down here?” Canary helped Huntress limp towards Icon at the center of the room.

“I don’t know, days at least. Weeks maybe. Hard to keep track of time down here.” While Huntress rested beside Icon, Canary unlocked the remaining cells using the notepad, helping carry several small-time heroes to the center of the room. Green Arrow began rifling through the chest, shouldering his own bow and quiver with a sigh before handing Huntress her crossbow and the rest of the equipment out. “But… If those explosions weren’t you then, who?”

The sound of shifting metal caught everyone’s attention outside, joined by the echoing noise of a dozen metallic footsteps entering the factory floor. “They’ve found us! Anyone strong enough to fight, we need all the help we can get.”

“Can’t you just use your Siren song?” Huntress chimed in struggling to stand.

“Not this time, they got to me too.” Black Canary retorted.

“Wait.” Arrow held out his hand, stopping them from engaging. The sound of gatling guns erupted just outside. “I’ll go check it out.” Sure enough, the metal lizards weren’t here for them. They had surrounded the scrap pile and were unloading bullets into it. Underneath the hellfire the metal framing was shifting until a massive beast burst forth unfazed by the bullets pelting its fur, it lunged at the nearest Raptor soldier, biting it in half before leaping at the next. “They won’t buy us much time. Let’s go see if theres a back way out, shall we?”

Through the back hall they found Jaz sitting in the center of a glass cylinder holding a small furry form in her arms. There was a layer of dog kibble all over the floor that crunched under Black Canary’s feet. “He won’t wake up.” Jaz looked up; tears had welled in the corner of her eyes.

Black Canary held her hand just in front of his nose and mouth, “He’s still breathing, but its faint.” Canary searched the floor, “I don’t see any water nearby, he might be severely dehydrated.” Arrow grabbed a water bottle left on one of the desks surrounding the cylinder tossing it to Canary. She cupped her hand underneath Hero’s muzzle pouring the fluid between his teeth. Jaz tried to tilt his head so it would pour down his throat. The dog began to cough, blinking its eyes. “Hero!” The dog tried to stand slipping on the kibble on the floor, “Shh, just drink. Focus on drinking, I got you.” Jaz took a shaky breath, smiling as she watched the dog begin to lap up the water.

Meanwhile, Green Arrow began yanking on one of the unpowered sliding doors at the opposite end of the room. Another set of hands grabbed onto the other door, and with their combined force the doors finally slid half open. “Icon? You shouldn’t push yourself.”

“I’ll be fine, this much I can still do.” Icon held his hand up stopping Arrow from helping him. “Worry about the others, they need it more than I.” He returned to help another Hero to their feet, shepherding them through the small opening they’d made.

A roar erupted through the hall they’d just come through, followed by the broken torso of a Raptor that smashed into the glass hard enough to crack it. Black Canary cursed, making sure the rookie was able to scoop the dog into her arms. She shielded them, getting them both out of the cage as the form of the beast leapt into the room crashing into the glass shattering it. Huge shards rained down on the party, forcing Heroes to duck under tables or jump out of the way of a particularly large piece.

“Get in! Everyone through the door!” Arrow yelled, helping shove the remaining Heroes through, practically throwing one through the crack before realizing Canary and the rookie had taken cover on the wrong side of the room. The beast reared up about to pounce on Canary who’d put herself between it and the kid when it was slammed into the wall by one of Green Arrows explosive shots. It turned its attention on him. He jumped out of the way as the beast smashed into the desk Arrow was standing on a second ago, splintering the wood and destroying the tech on it. “Canary! Rookie! Get through the door while I distract it!” Arrow yelled, raining three more explosive shots on the Beast. They each exploded against its side, forcing it to stumble back but leaving no damage otherwise.

On the other side of the room Canary grabbed onto the rookie’s hand, pulling her towards the door. Seeing this, the beast turned its attention back to Canary. Arrow cursed, shooting another explosive shot at its head to distract it but the beast simply caught this one in its mouth, letting it explode through its teeth before it launched itself at her. She shoved the kid backwards, making her fall on her butt across the floor while Canary dodged forwards doing a barrel roll out of harms way. Half a second later and the beast had crashed into the spot she’d just been, sliding across the kibble lined floor into the wall. Canary jumped, landing a kick to the beast’s head smashing him further into the wall. She gave the Rookie time to get up and run, except she was running in the wrong direction to the exit.

“Kid, this way! Focus on getting to the door, I’ll deal with the Beast!” Arrow commanded. He shot another arrow right at the beasts face as it reared up. It exploded in the air blanketing the creature in a thick net. As it struggled against the net the ball bearings underneath did their job wrapping around each other, tightening its grip. “Come on!” Arrow held out his hand, grabbing onto the Rookie’s arm, pulling her alongside him as they raced towards the door again. Canary was already waiting for them there. The Beast bit into the net, stomping on one side and tearing it enough that he could leap at them again. He landed in front of Arrow and the Rookie blocking their path to the exit. Arrow pushed the girl behind himself, shooting another arrow at the creature that burst into a spray of pepper mist. It shook its head, recovering immediately to slam a paw into Arrow’s chest knocking him away from the kid. It turned from her, lunging at Green arrow again.

Green Arrow slid across the kibble coated platform, knocking an arrow a moment too slow. Just as the beast’s jaws were about to close around Arrow’s leg Black Canary landed another flying kick knocking it of course, instead biting uselessly at the kibble on the floor. It still slammed into both of them sending them sliding into the far wall. Just as Green Arrow hit, he loosed a rope arrow that pulled him up to the platform overlooking the room grabbing Black Canary on the way.

With them out of the way, the beast turned its attention back to the girl who was once again making a break for the exit. It lunged in front of the exit, blocking her way. Green Arrow managed to disarm it again with his final net arrow before swinging in on a rope arrow to slam down on top of the creatures back with Canary. He quickly shot three more rope arrows that he pulled tight, pinning it to the ground on either side. “That outa hold.”

Canary hopped off the beast, placing a hand on the rookies shoulders, “Let’s get out of here now.”

The beasts eyes blazed golden as it unleashed another deafening roar. The ropes pulled taught against the strain of if trying to stand until one tore; slapping into Arrow knocking him off its back. Canary once again pushed the girl behind her before she kicked up off the wall to her right, grappling on the beasts neck. She’d grabbed the loose rope, wrapping it around his snout trying to use it to contain him. The other two broke a second later allowing the beast to rise up. It swung its head wildly trying to shake off Canary.

Arrow reached behind his back, hitting the beast with several normal arrows but they barely stuck beneath its fur. It managed to shift Canary off the back of its neck to its side, swiftly smashing her into the wall. Her grip finally released but it kept her pinned. Arrow taunted it, hitting it square in the eye with a boxing glove arrow. It lunged towards Arrow, releasing Canary to slide down the wall. Its teeth grazed his boot as he barely escaped using another rope arrow.

Not willing to leave Canary unprotected, Arrow had shot the arrow behind the beast after luring it to the center of the room. He pulled her to her feet before training one of his last remaining arrows at the creature.

“Guys! Go on ahead without me!” The girl called from the hallway. They were right beside the exit, but she was once again on the wrong side of the room, having run there to avoid the fighting.

“What? No! That’s suicide!” Arrow protested.

“Being a hero doesn’t always mean you need to lay your life down! You can still make it if you run behind it!” Black Canary pointed around behind the beast where there was a clear path towards them.

“No! Guys, its ok. The beast is Timber Wolf, he’s not in control when he’s in his Furball form. Haven’t you noticed; he keeps attacking you guys when you try to help me escape with you.” It moved itself to block their view of the rookie, almost as if to protect her.

“This is the hero you’re the sidekick for?” Arrow asked incredulously.

“He’s in a rage right now, yeah. I swear he’s normally nice. Well. Sort of.” She shook her head, “Don’t worry about me. You get the others out, we’ll find another way.” Furball growled at Canary and Arrow, lunging again. Grabbing Canary’s hand Arrow pushed her through the half open door, escaping through not a moment too soon as the beast slammed into the metal denting it easily.

Arrow swore, “I’m taking that as a promise! I better see you on the outside kid!”

“See you!” Arrow watched through the opening as Furball turned to face its sidekick. He trained an Arrow at it, waiting for it to attack… But it didn’t. He watched the rookie begin backing up down the hallway, Furball following close behind. He waited until both figures had disappeared before he lowered his bow. “We’ll I’ll be. She was right.”

“Arrow, look.” Black Canary sounded shocked. Turning to see what was up, Arrow took a step back himself. At the center of the room, suspended in red glowing liquid and with a red shard embedded in his chest was Superman. “We’ve found him.”

[ritasanderson]

Ie the Baro mod... It uses Skittergirl's audio files. So is Skittergirl potentially an extension of the MITW? It's fun to think about.

Won't be surprised tbh, I still think Yonta is way closer to the Wally then the others from the Holdfasts

[waitingforwinterwinds]

A Clash of Kings - 09 ARYA III (pages 124-131)

Arya and co. continue northward, find some lowkey and not so lowkey hostility, traces of the war, and two traumatized survivors, one of whom even survives the chapter.

Meanwhile, after serious deliberation, the Reader has decided that anyone who leaves toxic comments or stan fighting in the comments or reblogs, will be blocked. I am not here for it.

-

Then he'd go off to polish his helm. It was a beautiful helm, rounded and curved, with a slit visor and two great metal bull's horns. Arya would watch him polish the metal with an oilcloth, shining it so bright you could see the flames of the cookfire reflected in the steel. Yet never did he actually put it on his head.

Something about the way the reads, had me thinking he's basically always off polishing his helm, and that if he's not careful he's going to wear the metal out.

Outside a holdfast called Briarwhite, some field hands surrounded them in a cornfield, demanding coin for the ears they'd taken. Yoren eyed their scythes and tossed them a few coppers. "Time was, a man in black was feasted from Dorne to Winterfell, and even high lords called it an honor to shelter him under their roofs," he said bitterly. "Now cravens like you want hard coin for a bite of wormy apple."

I for one would be interested in reading about the decline of the Night's Watch, its withering popularity and respect. Where there certain rulers who had part, certain events? What did cause this cultural shift of opinion? One thing? Lots of things? Just time?

"I'm scared," Hot Pie murmured, when he saw the one-armed woman thrashing in the wagon. "Me too," Arya confessed. He squeezed her shoulder. "I never truly kicked no boy to death, Arry. I just sold my mummy's pies, is all."

Ahh, bonding.

The one-armed woman died at evenfall. Gendry and Cutjack dug her a grave on a hillside beneath a weeping willow. When the wind blew, Arya thought she could hear the long tailing branches whispering, "Please. Please. Please." The little hairs on the back of her neck rose, and she almost ran from the graveside.

Well this is reminding me of things. Msotly Ned and his "promise me" flashbacks. and also a folktale I can't really remember about a king's mistress who was murdered and had her body buried on the river back where reeds grew to cover all traces, and a traveling musician who cut a reed to make a flute which played no music only the whispers of the dead woman "the queen has killed me."

This is one of those things though, that, while horrifying in actuality, delightfully blurs the line of "Starks had greenseer/wolf blood, Arya might actually be hearing a ghost" and "Arya's been listening to this woman's pleas all day and is trying to suppress the trauma but her brain is stuck on the audio file."

Then she saw the eyes shining out from the wood, bright with reflected moonlight. Her belly clenched tight as she grabbed for Needle, not caring if she pissed herself, counting eyes, two four eight twelve, a whole pack... One of them came padding out from under the trees. He stared at her, and bared his teeth, and all she could think was how stupid she'd been and how Hot Pie would gloat when they found her half-eaten body the next morning. But the wolf turned and raced back into the darkness, and quick as that the eyes were gone.

Kinda gotta wonder if they knew Arya through Nymeria, and that's why they left her be. I mean I assume this is one of Nymeria's packs, the group is close to the Gods Eye at this point, where the packs are roaming.

The sourleaf had turned his spit red, so it looked like his mouth was bleeding. ... "Been bringing men to the Wall for close on thirty years." Froth shone on Yoren's lips, like bubbles of blood. "All that time, I only lost three. (...) Three in thirty years." He spat out the old sourleaf. "A ship now, might have been wiser. No chance o' finding more men on the way, but still... clever man, he'd go by ship, but me... thirty years I been taking this kingsroad." He sheathed his dirk. "Go to sleep, boy. Hear me?" She did try. Yet as she lay under her thin blanket, she could hear the wolves howling... and another sound, fainter, no more than a whisper on the wind, that might have been screams.

🏴‍☠️🏴‍☠️🏴‍☠️Oh wow, look at all these deathflags, it's almost like the group is hurtling headlong into death, and bad times at the not-okay-corral. 🙃

[empressofmankind]

The Lion in Winter - Part I: Departure - 03. Jaime I

Fandom: A Song of Ice & Fire Major Character/s: Kevan Lannister, Jaime Lannister, Barristan Selmy, Loren Lannister (mentioned), Tywin Lannister (mentioned), Cersei Lannister (mentioned), Tyrion Lannister (mentioned) Minor Somebodies: Brynmor Royan, Jared Swyft, Berick, Mathilde, Karl, Mirbelle, Clerrance Manning, Florance Manning, Tanda Stokesworth, Falyse Stokesworth, Balman Byrch, Lollys Stokesworth, Jacyntha Bywater, Jocelyn Bywater (mentioned), Lloyd Royan (mentioned) Location/s: King’s Landing Premises: King Robert insisted he throw little Kevan a party for his squiring, and what a party it is Mood: Jaime vicariously living through his little brother Warnings: On-the-nose allusions to sex / sexual innuendo (conversation with the Household guards at the barracks), Teen appropriate NOTE: Part I of The Lion in Winter is set shortly before King Robert Baratheon, Queen Cersei Lannister and their family set out for Winterfell. It therefore takes place a little bit before the start of the first book, ‘A Game of Thrones’. The Lion In Winter - Part I: Departure - 01. Kevan I // 02. Loren I //  

O   O   O

Jaime took Kevan back to Maegor’s Holdfast and the royal guest quarters. The grand, red-stone stairway to those lofty third-floor private spaces was worn from thousands of feet across hundreds of years. Carved stone pedestals draped with the battle standards of the Great Houses lined it on either side. Jaime remembered how they had borne statues of dragons on top of their ancient folds.

“Did that standard belong to King Loren?” Kevan had halted beside a pedestal on their left hand. Amid folds of fragile, scorched crimson a familiar cloth-of-gold lion glistened despite its great age.

“It did.” Loren the Last. The King of the Rock who had bend the knee and risen a Lord. He had lived, though, unlike plenty others. Jaime had never taken much note of the old standards, they’d been a backdrop to his daily routines as much as the throneroom’s dragon skulls had been. Yet his chest swelled with pride when he saw Kevan gingerly touch the lion and felt the chasm to the distant past bridged by that simple gesture. Loren may have been the last King, but he hadn’t been the last Lannister. “I believe your Mother was named for him.”

“Mother wouldn’t have minded being a Queen,” Kevan said. Jaime didn’t doubt that neither would their Father being a King. Kevan turned to him, a grin on his face. “Helaina would have loved being a real princess.”

Jaime chuckled. “She would have, wouldn’t she?”

They continued their way up the stairs and then down the wide corridor at the top, to the bedroom Kevan shared with their little sister.

“A light tunic and sturdy trousers will do,” Jaime said as they entered. The two Lannister household guards that accompanied them filed in after, taking up positions on either side of the door. Jaime saw Helaina’s bed was empty, the sheets tucked in almost straight. She couldn’t have gone far as her toy horse sat on her pillow.

“Helaina?” Kevan called.

“She must have gone to your Mother,” Jaime said. Unlike Kevan, the little girl tended to stay put. Kevan looked from her bed to the open door and back, a thoughtful frown creasing his brow. “Kevan.”

“Yes, Ser.” Kevan dutifully went to the hutch chest at the foot of his bed. It was a sturdy, wooden affair with a raised bottom. A pride of frolicking lion cubs decorated its lid, their goldwork scuffed and dented. Kevan pushed the lid up, knocking it against the foot of the bed. Jaime waited as his little brother rummaged for clothes and put them on.

When Kevan was finished, Jaime beckoned him to follow. Once more they crossed the covered bridge over the dry moat out of Maegor’s Holdfast. “From now on, you’ll don your armour where our sworn swords do.”

“The barracks?” Kevan’s tone pitched as his eyes widened. He glanced at the man and woman walking behind them, dressed in the boiled leathers and red cloaks typical of their household guard. The woman winked, drawing a grin from the boy. Jaime put a hand on his shoulder, turning him in the right direction before descending the serpentine steps to the lower bailey. The Red Keep was waking up around them. Servants went about their tasks and men-at-arms set to their duties. The scent of freshly baked bread wafted towards them, drawing an emphatic growl from Kevan’s stomach.

“I wonder if there are any bread crusts left?” Jaime said.

Delight lit up Kevan’s boyish face, dimpling his rosy, freckled cheeks. He glanced up and the morning light hit his green eyes just so, setting a sparkle to them as if flecked with gold. Jaime could barely recall the last time his Father’s eyes had smiled at him like that. A small hand touched his lower arm, and he flinched out of his thoughts.

“Jay?” Kevan looked at him, and the thoughtful squint of those eyes made their likeness worse still. 

Jaime forced a smile. “Just the thought of those crusts is enough to stun me.”

Kevan nodded, but the frown remained.

“I wonder what kind they might have?” Jaime stifled the urge to look away. “Maybe there’ll be cake crusts too.”

“Ma doesn’t approve of sweetcakes before breaking my fast.” Kevan’s tone was solemn, and Jaime wanted it to go away.

“Ah, but they aren’t sweetcakes, are they? They are crusts.” To his relief, Kevan’s frown disappeared when his words sank in, and a grin returned in its place as they walked onto the kitchen courtyard. It was busy here already. A butcher’s boy struggled with a hog intent on the garbage two young men were piling onto a cart. Three milkmaids stood giggling further along, evidently as intent on one of the young men as the hog on the trash. Porters carried caskets of Southeron wine, no doubt for the King’s unquenchable thirst. And a young girl, not much older than Kevan, stood with a basket of sweetcakes looking rather lost. No one took note of them, except a scrawny dog that knew a source of pets when she saw one.

The mutt jogged towards them, tail wagging half-mast. She had a dirty beige and white coat spotted like a cow. One ear stood up while the other flopped down, making it seem as if she were surprised. 

“Are you hungry too, Snout?” Kevan let her press her wet nose into his palm and then petted her snout. 

Jaime wasn’t sure if the dog was a stray or belonged to a servant. He looked about the courtyard as Kevan played with the animal. Some distance away, he spotted who he’d been looking for and started towards them. “Come with, Kev.”

Kevan patted his thigh, making the dog bark and bound after him as he ran to catch up with his big brother. 

As they approached, they overheard the royal larder steward scold a kitchen boy. The basket by his feet and the mess of quail scales and egg yolk on the cobbles made it clear what the problem was.

“—for egg-in-a-crust for the Queen herself, young man.” Mirbelle was a short, lean, pale woman in her mid thrice twenties who favoured sturdy trousers over the skirts usual for women of the kitchen staff. She reminded Jaime of the septa Loren had brought with her to Casterly Rock. 

The boy hunched his shoulders. He couldn’t be more than six or seven. “S’cuses ma’am,” he peeped in the smallest of voices.

“That will not unbreak the eggs, Sten.” Mirbelle pursed her lips. “Mind where you put your feet from now on.”

The boy nodded vigorously.

“Run along, quickly now,” Mirbelle said when she caught sight of the lordlings approaching her.

“Good morning, Mirbelle. Trouble afoot?” Jaime said once they reached her. The thought of his dear sister having to forgo her favoured breakfast, amused him. Pity be upon whoever befell the misfortune of having to inform her.

“A good morn to you too, Ser.” Mirbelle shook her head at the mess on the cobblestones. “And none you need spend your valued time on.”

“Hello!” Kevan popped up between the adults, drawing their attention. “Can we have bread crusts?”

“Kevan.” Jaime’s tone was stern but not unkind.

When Kevan stole a glance at him, he indicated Mirbelle with a small flick of his chin and eyebrows. 

Kevan gave a curt nod, then turned back to Mirbelle. He drew himself up, his expression serious. “Can we have bread crusts, please, ma’am?”

“Mayhap. We must ask Karl.” Jaime could tell Mirbelle was suppressing a smile. She indicated a side corridor and inclined her head. “This way, younger Lord Kevan, Ser Jaime.”

They followed Mirbelle into the warren of close-leaning buildings that formed the kitchens. Boys and girls busied to and fro, most of them a few years older than Kevan. She led them through a dim room where women stood beating grain or sat grounding it into flour with rotary querns. They crossed a narrow alley where men loaded bushels of weed from a cart and passed a butcher’s workshop where a large, heavyset man slaughtered an equally large deer. 

Kevan stopped, perhaps wanting to take a closer look. 

Jaime grabbed his shoulder and steered him away. “Ask Lord Tywin if he will show you, next time your parents have gone hunting.”

Kevan dropped his head but said nothing. Jaime wondered if he’d already asked and received a resounding ‘No’.

The sweet smell of sugar and the spiced scent of baking bread reached them long before they entered the bakery. An older man, thin and corded like a whip, stood before a brick oven turning fist-sized round bread that lay baking. A sleek, black cat sat near his feet, lazying in the comfortable heat.

“Morn, Karl,” Mirbelle said.

Karl glanced up as they entered, then resumed his work. “Breadcrumbs for the princeling, yes?”

“Just so,” Mirbelle said. “Ser Jaime.” She inclined her head and left, no doubt to marshal the contingency plan for his sister’s lost breakfast. Jaime had dropped an egg-in-a-crust once on his way from the kitchen and had given it to her anyway. He smiled. That was years ago, now.

Kevan pulled his head back, a hint of a pout on his lips. “I’m not Prince Joffrey.”

“Aren’t you?” Karl turned the last of the bread.

Kevan shook his head vigorously. “I’m Kevan Lannister!”

Karl cleaned his hands and came towards them. He had a face as thin as the rest of him and his dark hair, tied into a neat bun, was streaked with grey. “You seem to have shrunk, Ser Kevan.”

Kevan’s frown acquired that particular look children got when they weren’t quite sure if you were pulling their leg.

“Let me look at you.” Karl sat down on his haunches to be on eye-height with the boy and overacted a good, examining look at him. “Ah! Now I see the son instead of the brother. Then your height is just about right.”

Kevan beamed.

“Tell me, what can I do for the littlest Lord of Casterly Rock?”

Are you taller than Tyrion yet, little brother? We ought to put you back to back when next we run into the Imp. Jaime struggled to keep his expression neutral. He didn’t want Kevan to think he was laughing at him.

“Can we have bread crusts, please, mister?” Kevan stole a glance at Jaime that reminded him of a dog expecting a pat for good behaviour. He inclined his head in acknowledgement.

“You certainly may.” Karl beckoned Kevan and led them to the back of the bakery. A young woman, a little younger than Lady Lynara if Jaime had to guess, sat cutting baked bread into thick slices. She discarded the crust from either end and wrapped the slices into the waxed paper before packing them into a large crate. The bread crusts she tossed into a small, tattered arm-basket that sat next to her on the bench.

“Apologise me courtesies, milords,” Mathilde said as she raised her flour stained hands and indicated herself.

Kevan nodded. “I allow it.”

Jaime suppressed his amusement at the thought of their Father’s face, had he been here. Would you have demanded she gets up instead, little brother?

“Most gracious, weelord.” Mathilde reached for new bread and continued her work. “What can Mathilde do for one so little from up so high?”

“We would like some bread crusts, miss Mathilde.” Kevan’s tone was earnest, but his eyes looked longingly at the fresh, crispy brown crusts piled into the tattered basket. Though it lasted an instant, Jaime caught the look between the kitchen maid and baker. Hers one of displeasure and his rather quelling. She was smiling a heartbeat later, but it no longer reached her eyes.

“And what if I say I have none?” Mathilde looked at Kevan as she spoke, her hands so used to their task they no longer needed her eyes to coordinate.

Kevan frowned and looked from her to the basket with its delicious crusts, and back. “But you do,” he said, his tone indignant. ‘You can give us some!”

Before Mathilde could reply, Karl sat down on the edge of the table and drew their attention away from the young woman. “A bold demand for a Lord so small. Tell me, by what right do you claim these fresh crusts?”

Kevan puffed out his chest. “I am Kevan Lannister of Casterly Rock.”

Jaime and Karl exchanged an amused look. “So you claim,” Karl said.

“So I am! Ser Jaime of the Kingsguard can vouch for me.”

Jaime nodded. “Indeed, this is my younger brother Kevan, son of Lady Loren Lannister of Lannisport and Lord Tywin Lannister of Casterly Rock.”

“Ah, Lord Tywin?” Karl frowned as if he had to think very deeply on who that might be. “Warden of the West and liege lord of the Westerlands, yes?”

Kevan nodded vigorously, drawing himself up.

“Though we aren’t in the Westerlands, are we?” A hint of teasing crept into Karl’s tone. “Your Father is no longer Hand to the King. What claim do you have, here, outside your fief?”

Kevan’s expression screwed up in thought. Several moments passed before a grin returned to his small face. “Queen Cersei is my big sister and King Robert is liege of the Crownlands, Storm’s End and all of Westeros. I am the King’s brother-in-law, and you must pay the bread crust tithe, to me, in his name.”

Karl chuckled and ruffled the boy’s tousled curls. “Your Father will be pleased to know you’ve studied your lessons and came up with such a clever riposte so swiftly.” He took a piece of waxed paper and put bread crusts from Mathilde’s basket into it, stacking them end to end. “Here’s your tithe, little Lord.”

Kevan beamed as he accepted the bulging package.

Jaime put his hand on his shoulder. “Come, we must make for the barracks.”

“Ah, it's your big day, isn’t it?” Karl said as he winked at Kevan. “That explains the inordinate amount of fruit cakes on today’s tally.”

At the mention of fruit cakes, Kevan’s grin managed to become a little wider still.

“Go on, now, don’t make Ser Jaime wait.”

Kevan turned to follow Jaime. However, when they crossed the threshold out of the kitchen, Kevan pulled Jaime’s sleeve. Jaime glanced down at him and saw Kevan hold up the package to him. Jaime accepted it from him and meant to remark on making him carry it, but Kevan had turned and ran back into the kitchen. He climbed onto the table and scooted towards Mathilde.

“Many thanks, miss Mathilde,” Kevan said and kissed her cheek before hopping off and hurrying back to Jaime.

Karl and Mathilde watched them leave. “Bread crust tithe? Hah!” Mathilde huffed as she glared at the empty doorway. “Presumptuous little brat, taking what little I have.”

“You’d do better not to say such things out loud.” Karl shook his head. “The boy carries no malice in his heart, but his brother might inform their Father. And very, very, few things in this good world are worth garnering Lord Tywin’s ire over.”

Mathilde packed the last of the bread crusts in her basket, glaring at the dent in the previously modest pile. “I don’t care.”

It reminded Karl she was barely more than a child herself. He took her by the shoulder and caught her gaze. “There is no outcome in these things where you can win, girl. Either you go hungry a day, or you go whipped and hungry a day. Do you understand me?”

She pursed her lips, angry still, but nodded. 

Karl gave a curt nod in return. “Better we amuse the boy, might that something good reach his Father’s ears, too.”

Jaime and Kevan walked by the castle its orchard on their way to the barracks. Women chatted as they picked apples, balancing upon tall wooden ladders with baskets on their arm. Children ran among the trees, chasing a hoop.

“Can I have a bread crust?” Kevan said.

“They’re your tithe, aren’t they?” Jaime unfolded a corner of the package and held it down.

Kevan chose a large one with a thick crust. He took a bite and smiled in delight. “Don’t you want one?” he said, chewing.

“Don’t speak with your mouth full.” Jaime picked a bread crust as well and wrapped the packaged closed again. They were outstanding. Soft and warm still, their crust crunchy and spiced.

“Sorry,” Kevan said, with his mouth full.

Jaime shook his head. Had he been like that? He couldn’t remember. No doubt it had driven their Father up the nearest wall. 

The barracks were located beside the Tower of the Hand. Though Lord Tywin hadn’t been Hand for some time, the Lannister household guards still garrisoned here. Previously, they comprised a twoscore men-at-arms, there for the Queen to call upon should she require them. However, when Lord Tywin and Lady Loren had arrived last week for the tourney on Prince Joffrey’s twelfth name day, their number had quadrupled. Lord Tywin had taken less than a fifth back to Casterly Rock. The building itself was sturdy and ancient, its wooden beams black and hardened with age, its limestone walls plastered many times anew. Some said that the beams had acquired their distinct colour because Maegor Targaryen had kept his mother’s dragon Vhagar here, rather than confine her to the Dragonpit. 

The noise of the old barracks met them halfway across the training yard: the ring of swords wielded in practice matches, the tinkle of chainmail and the clang of armour plates. Talking, too, and laughter. Men in the red of House Lannister sat on benches or stood about, discussing news and sharing bawdy jokes.

“Bloody Seven, lads, my armour shrank! Again!” Ser Brynmor Royan’s roaring laughter carried above all others at his own jest. The halberdier struggled to find the right fit of his breastplate over his ample stomach. He was a man in his middle five-tens, his skin a leathery brown and his dark hair and bushy beard thoroughly greying. Though he had always been large, build like the Westerland hardwood trees, he had gotten near as wide as he was tall since last Jaime saw him. Ser Brynmor was the half-brother of Ser Lloyd Royan, the petty Lord of Westerbridge, a backwater less than a day’s ride north of Castamere.

“Should have left that last shank alone, Brynmor.” Ser Jared Swyft sat on a nearby bench, whetting his blade. He was of an age with Jaime and had been part of the Lannister Household guards stationed here at King’s Landing for as long as he could remember. Pasty, ill-proportioned and as chinless as his uncle, Jared was the younger brother of Jocelyn if Jaime recalled correctly. One of his sister’s insipid ladies-in-waiting.

“Oh, what’s one more shank on half a dozen?” Ser Brynmor guffawed. “Jousting is hungry work! No, it’s the age, you see.” He patted his belly for emphasis. “Didn’t use to get the chance to stay.”

Ser Jared’s hand stilled for a moment, his dull grey eyes almost managing a glimmer of wit as he looked up from his chore. “Age? Lord Tywin’s your age and gaunt as the spikes he loves so well despite dining better than the lot of us combined.”

“Hah! If I had a comely little wifey half my years with a rear like that, I’d be damn lean too,” Ser Brynmor snorted with amusement.  “Berick, give us a hand, boy.”

“She seems happy to polish the rust off his sword,” Berick Vikary said as he assisted Ser Brynmor, holding his breastplate in place. A pock-marked seventeen-year-old with hair the colour and texture of straw, Berick had overstayed his welcome as Ser Jared’s squire for some time, evidently in no rush to be his own man. “What’s his excuse to be choleric with a keen lady warming his bed?”

Ser Brynmor leaned towards the younger man, miming a confidential tone. “Imagine what he was like before.”

“She ain’t no kitty-cat. I saw her make the Queen feel her claws at the tourney, had retracted them before anyone else saw ‘em, too,” Jared said.

“She’s taken right well to the reigns, she has,” Ser Brynmor agreed with a chuckle. He fastened the straps of his breastplate with effort. The way the leather had been stretched thinner where the clasps sat a testament to their struggle to confine his bulk being anything but recent.  “Those of the Westerlands as much as our benign Liege’s.” 

Ser Jared made a derisive noise and resumed his chore. “I bet she rides him sorer than a courier horse and he has nary a say in it.”

“Be that envy, I hear?” Ser Brynmor gave him a shove as he reached for his surcoat, emblazoned with the silver bridge on blue of House Royan. “If seeding her fields gets too much for him, he only need say and I will provide aid to our Liege in his time of need as is my sworn duty as his loyal banner.”

“He’d sooner die trying, tenacious prick,” Ser Jared scoffed.

A tug at his sleeve as they approached diverted Jaime’s attention away from the conversation. He glanced at Kevan, who had halted. A thoughtful frown creased his small face as he chewed the last of his bread crust. “Why is Mother’s butt important?”

Articulated reason flew out the window the second the question hit Jaime’s ears and his thoughts sped back to the tourney of their own accord. She’d worn that dress, the one with the lions salient and the cloth of gold panels winking between the crimson folds of its skirts as she walked. He distinctly remembered the way the sunlight had caught the expensive cloth as it shifted into view with the movement of her rear. He tried to banish the image from his mind’s eye.  What in the Seven was he supposed to say to that? 

“Ser Jaime!” Ser Jared’s hail freed him of the need to answer the question, for now. “Been a while since you graced us here.”

“I can’t seem to get the red dye to stick to this cloak,” Jaime said with good humour as he gave his white cloak a tug. The two men clasped each other’s shoulder in greeting.

“Kill brigands more and guard fat kings less.” Ser Jared grinned. His gaze fell on Kevan then. “There’s the little knight of the hour. Old Bryn wasn’t lying when he said you came out a billet of the old lion’s mold. That’s right lucky for your pretty mama, what with how quick you came, eh?”

Kevan’s frown creased deeper and he pursed his lips in an unpleasantly familiar manner. “Lady Loren,” he corrected, his tone quiet. 

Ser Jared flinched, Jaime caught it, though the knight tried to conceal it. Ser Jared ruffled Kevan’s curls. “Apologies, little Lord.” 

“Is this proud armour I saw yours, then?” Ser Brynmor smiled his wide, genial smile. He indicted the distinctly child-sized armour on a nearby armouring stand. “I thought it’d be a shade short for Ser Jaime.”

Kevan’s eyes widened. “Real armour?”

Jaime nodded. “You’ll be a squire, no longer a child. You’ll need real armour.”

“T’is a fine little suit,” Brynmor said as he made way for Kevan, who had eagerly come forward to see.

Jaime agreed. With its red lacquered lamellae and matte gilded sunburst rondels it was unmistakably a child-sized copy of their Father’s armour and by the look of it every inch as finely made as the original.

“Lord Tywin spared no expense in seeing you properly armoured up,” Jared said.

Kevan beamed, never taking his eyes off the brand new armour sitting on the too large armour stand.

“Aye, that must have cost a pretty penny.” Ser Brynmor inspected it with a critical eye. The Royans were petty Lords, at best, but the coal mine on their modest fief had brought them some wealth carting the black stones to Casterly Rock’s smelters and he was therefor not unfamiliar with steel grades.

“It comes from our own forges,” Jaime replied. Tailyn, Loren’s queer sister, had overseen its forging. He had known she maintained the arms and armour of his Father, Loren and his uncles and had therefor assumed she must be a skilled blacksmith. The fine quality of the small armour before him confirmed that conclusion. How long did you work on that with Father breathing down your neck? Rather you than me, Tay.

“Still, good steel is good steel, and craftsmanship,” Ser Brynmor said.

Father would still forge that little armour if it needed the last scrap of Valyrian steel in the known world, Jaime thought.

“Can I put it on?” Kevan’s hopeful tone made Jaime smile.

“You have to put it on.” Jaime had barely said it or a whoop of cheer left the boy. 

Kevan clambered onto the bench and lifted his arms up. “Ser Brynmor, assist me, please!”

“You almost have it down,” Brynmor said. “Now say it like you mean it, serious as the Grey Plague.”

Kevan’s face screwed up into a frown. When he spoke again, he dropped his tone an octave and sharpened it to a verbal point.  “Ser Brynmor. Assist me.”

“Yes, my Lord.” Brynmor inclined his head, suppressing a smile as he took the small chestplate off the stand. “Much better. Your Lord Father would approve.”

Jaime didn’t doubt it. He wondered if Lord Tywin had arrived yet. He must have.

Kevan grinned at the knight, stretching his arms higher as the chestplate was fitted around him.

“Hold in that fat fruitcake belly of yours,” Ser Brynmor jested as he fastened the equally little arming straps in place. Jaime watched the household knight armour Kevan with practised ease. He must have familiarised himself with the small suit. It was atypical in its fastenings, more sophisticated, like their Father’s.

Kevan gave Brynmor an askance look, though he sucked in his stomach regardless. “You’re fatter than me, Ser Brynmor.”

“Me? Fat? I’m slender as a breeding sow.”

Once armoured, Jaime and Kevan made for the Red Keep’s throne room where the squiring ceremony would take place. A dozen household guards, including Ser Brynmor, Ser Jared and Berick, followed them as a honour guard. Kevan walked beside Jaime, pretty as a picture in his new armour. Under his arm, Kevan held the smallest of great helms. It was crested with a lion, like his Father’s. However, his was a seated, ruby-eyed cub with its first tufts of mane, a paw lifted in defiance.

When they entered the throne room, Jaime was surprised by the amount of people there. At a glance, he recognised several Houses of the Crownlands, both great and small. A banquet had been laid out upon long tables with crimson runners and golden tassels, rampant lions embroidered on their ends. The centrepiece dish was a roasted dragon fashioned from what looked like the rump of a suckling pig and the front of a capon with the wings of larger fowl sewn on. A glazed bread lion cub sat triumphant beside it. Minstrels performed on a dais beside the Iron Throne. It towered over the gathered crowd, its looming shadow not quite dispelled by the festivities. Jaime avoided looking at the empty seat.

“Ser Jaime Lannister and Kevan Lannister, the Younger, of House Lannister of Casterly Rock!” A herald in the yellow and black of House Baratheon announced as they entered. King Robert had insisted he arrange and pay a fete for his littlest brother-in-law in honour of his squiring. Though it would seem he hadn’t hewn particularly close to Loren’s acquiescence of ‘a small feast will more than suffice’. It was small only by the King’s usual standards. The treasury had been overflowing with gold when Lord Tywin resigned but the new King’s extravagance had beggared the realm. Do you know you’re footing the bill for this, too, Father? Jaime thought. No doubt, Lord Tywin had realised it the moment he clapped eyes on this fine spectacle. Though Jaime saw neither his Father nor lady Loren among the gathered crowd. They must have retreated after his arrival and would soon come down. It was still early.

As they walked down the hall, a woman in a blue and argent gown came towards them. She was tall with deep-set eyes amid porcelain skin and raven hair. It took him a moment to recognise her: Jacyntha Bywater, sister to Ser Jacelyn Bywater, an officer of the City Watch. She wasn’t stunning, but there was something about her. The Bywaters had a modest manse up on the High Street near the Old Gate, in the older and stately part of King’s Landing. Jacyntha lived there with her lady-in-waiting. He’d forgotten her name, a dainty Dornish thing of sweet courtesies. The two maids had been close friends for years.

“My Lords.” Jacyntha courtesied. Kevan made a neat bow in turn. “May I be the first to offer my congratulations and a humble gift?”

Kevan glanced at Jaime, who inclined his head. Go on, little brother. These are the shenanigans our Father has so diligently heeled you for. Show them you’ve learnt, even if they aren’t here yet. 

“You may,” Kevan said.

Jacyntha beckoned forth a servant, who carried a pillow covered by a silk kerchief with the Bywater arms of argent fish above alternating bars of argent and azure. The servant bend his tall frame deeply and humbly to hold it at eye-height for Kevan. Jacyntha whisked the cloth aside with a flourish of her painted nails. Upon the pillow laid a castle-forged dagger, its wooden hilt inlaid with an enamel lion rampant and its keen edge catching the light. Beside it, a scabbard of tooled leather.

A fine gift, no doubt forged to order. Jaime thought as he watched Kevan pick it up and weigh the blade. That will have cost Jacelyn his pay twice over.

“Do give your Lady Mother my best wishes, and those of my brother, Ser Jacelyn,” Jacyntha replied, lightly stressing her brothers name.

Kevan gave a curt nod. “Many thanks, miss Bywater.” As she left, Kevan turned to Jaime. “Can I wear it?”

“You may.” Loren might not approve of live steel, but Kevan was nearly ten and the dagger but a small blade. Jaime didn’t see any harm in it. Berick helped Kevan secure the scabbard properly to his belt as a rotund man in his middle fourties with a whisp of a woman at similar age came towards them. They were followed by a young girl approximately Kevan’s age. She wore a splendid crimson dress with red on red sealions. For an instant, Jaime thought them relatives of Loren’s that he hadn’t met before. However, when they properly stood before them he saw it wasn’t the golden sea cat of Lannisport that greeted him.

“Lord Clerrance Manning,” the man said with a bow so deep and fluid you’d wonder how a man his circumference managed to bend that well at the waist. “And my dear lady and daughter.”

Manning of Clearwater Breach. A fortified watchtower, and that was being generous. Jaime wondered why they were so keen. The old tower keep sat in an inlet of Blackwater Bay, due south of King’s Landing, at the mouth of the Wendwater river and the edge of the Kingswood. A bay within the bay. In older times, it had been a harbour point but had long since been overshadowed by King’s Landing. 

“We too, humbly seek to honour,” Lord Clerrance said. As on cue, the girl who must be their daughter stepped forward from between her parents, carrying a polished wooden box. She made a careful courtesy, holding the box level as she did. She smiled very sweetly when Kevan bowed in turn. Jaime didn’t like the smug look on her Lord Father’s face.

“My name is Florance and I am honoured to meet you and present this gift, Lord Kevan of Casterly Rock.”

Berick appeared at their side once more, this time to accept the box. He sat down on his haunches, level with both children. Florance showed how to open the box. Within it sat a toy model of a trading ship, finely crafted. It had two little flags on the stern. One, clearly the pennant of House Lannister of Lannisport. The other, no doubt of House Manning, with its proud, red sealion on argent.

“Can it sail?” Kevan’s tone was serious, as if discussing a real vessel. He gave Florance a look that expected an answer, rather than her Lord Father.

“Certainly, milord. It’ll float where you will, its sails set proper.” Florance indicated points where the miniature riggings might be adjusted.

“I like it,” Kevan decided with a smile as he closed the box. Berick rose but kept standing beside them.

“We are humbly pleased you do, my Lord,” Lord Manning said. “We are most honoured you allowed us your time. Come, Florance.” They all but bowed their way back into the crowd before turning and leaving. As they left, Jaime noticed Kevan’s gaze trailing the young Lady’s. She stole a look over her shoulder at them.

“Maybe Mother can invite them for supper, some time.” Kevan glanced up at him.

Not bloody likely, Jaime thought. Your Mother will run them off the grounds faster than our Father can hang them for the insult. He better find a moment to inform Loren. Unwilling to dunk Kevan’s mood, he said: “You never know.”

The woman that approached them next, Jaime knew well. It was Lady Tanda Stokesworth and her daughters, and what must be her son-in-law Ser Balman Byrch, a renowned tourney jouster. No children with them. How long had Lady Falyse and Ser Balman been married? Two-years-and-ten? There’d been some noise when Elvia Lantell, a maiden cousin of Loren’s, had a bastard boy. It had put a mark of Loren’s two-score-and-ten nameday tournament and overshadowed her own daughter’s birth.

“Ser Jaime, little Lord Kevan.” Lady Tanda’s tone was genial and familiar, as if she were their grandmother. In keeping with that, she carried a delicate golden basket with hard candy. Caramel drops from far Essos. Easily more expensive than the basket they sat in. Some of Kevan’s favourite, too. Jaime eyed her and then Lollys. Right away, Lady Tanda ushered her youngest daughter forward. It was no secret his Father didn’t want him in the Kingsguard. Would you agree to the match if you learned Cersei schemed to bleach my cloak to white? Jaime thought, amused, as he regarded Lollys. A sharp lesson, indeed.

Kevan’s bow was stiff and his stern expression made him seem older than he was. Jaime didn’t think his little brother had met the Stokesworths before but it seemed he’d caught the scent of incompetence cleaving to them.

“Our beloved Queen once mentioned that you were very fond of these,” Lady Tanda said. Cersei would sooner suck a steer than suffer your company. Lady Tanda held the basket out to Kevan, who didn’t move a muscle, every inch their Father as he watched her face fall. Berick accepted the gift in his stead. 

“How is your dear Lady Mother? And your uncle?” Lady Tanda enquired.

“Lady Loren is well.” Kevan’s tone was measured, reserved. Kevan had many uncles; some as old as his Father, some younger than Jaime himself. However, the boy seemed to know precisely which uncle was meant: the unwed one. “Uncle Damon is sailing the trade routes north.”

Lady Tanda didn’t give up yet. “When might he return?”

Kevan remained silent.  

Trade routes north? Did your Mother say that? It sounded like something Loren would say to as presumptuous a question as this.

“I would love to invite him for dinner.” Lady Tanda added as she clasped her hands together. “Lollys would love to hear his tales of bravery and adventure, wouldn’t you, Lollys?”

Lollys took a timid step forward and courtesied to Kevan. “I would, very much, my Lord.”

Jaime struggled to hide his amusement. No doubt he’s sticking his sword in every bear and wolf he comes across, and them in him. Mighty fine tales for a lady, those will make. 

Kevan observed them and the silence stretched on.

“It was a delight to meet you, Lord Kevan,” Lady Tanda said as she took her daughters by the arm and slunk away. Jaime fondly imagined them as curs with their tails thoroughly between their legs.

Kevan’s gaze wandered to the great wooden doors of the throne room before he turned to Jaime, his hands clasped behind his back. “I didn’t know I would receive gifts.”

“You did well,” Jaime said. Except for that slip of a girl, he thought. Kevan wouldn’t be a boy forever. The look of budding interest on his small face had been unmistakable.

Kevan turned to Ser Brynmor next. “Ser Brynmor, find Lady Florance Manning. I should like to spend time with her.”

Damn it, there you had it. Think quick, Jaime. Jaime’s gaze hunted around the room. Lord Guncer Sunglass. Jenia Buckwell. Ser Trystane Velaryon. Where by the Seven were his Father and Loren?

“Can do, Lord Kevan,” Ser Brynmor said and turned to look for the girl.

Jaime considered outright overruling his younger brother’s command. Lord Tywin disapproved of public dissent. Jaime caught sight of Ser Barristan Selmy just as he was about to countermand. He raised his hand to hail the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard. “Look, Kevan. Ser Barristan is here as well.”

Kevan’s eyes lit up as he turned to look. Jaime caught Brynmor’s gaze and shook his head, barely more than a chin movement. The household guard inclined his head and fell back in line.

“Ser Barristan!” Kevan called and waved. He looked back at Jaime with a broad grin.

Jaime smiled, pleased with himself. Not quite big enough yet for girls to eclipse everything else. He should tell Loren. Let her handle their Father.

“Ser Jaime, younger Lord Kevan.” Ser Barristan was a tall man, his long hair and neat beard cloud white since as long as Jaime could remember. His eyes were pale blue as a summer sky, his face creased with age. Though he was only a few years older than Lord Tywin, it made it seem more. The latter’s bushy side whiskers yet retained the ochre hue they’d always had. Though he’d kept his head clean shaven ever since his golden mane had started to thin. A problem Ser Barristan evidently didn’t face.

Kevan’s bow was precise. “Ser Barristan.”

“You look ready for battle.” Ser Barristan smiled as he looked Kevan up and down, appraising his new armour.

“I wish there was a battle. Nothing has happened in an age.” Kevan’s lip puckered as he fingered the pommel of his new dagger.

Barristan and Jaime shared a look. “Take it from an old man who’s seen one too many,” Ser Barristan said. “T’is a poor thing to hope for.”

Kevan’s brow furrowed, his gaze moved to the throne room’s massive doors. “Father says wars are necessary.”

“He’s not wrong,” Ser Barristan agreed. “Sometimes, they are, but they are a sad occasion, always.”

“Yes, smallfolk go hungry,” Kevan said after a moment. “Or die.”  

Kevan’s frown creased deeper at Ser Barristan’s curt nod. Jaime didn’t like how Kevan’s somber mood lingered. I wanted you to distract him, not depress him, Jaime thought. “A diligent squire might win honour at a tourney,” Jaime said.

Kevan’s eyes widened and the eager sparkle that Jaime loved so well returned. “Mother’s nameday is in less than a year.”

Lord Tywin hosted fetes at Lannisport for all their namedays but across the past decade Lady Loren’s had gained pre-eminence.  It was popular with the smallfolk for its public banquet and rich pageantry, and the jousts held in her honour attracted knights from across the Seven Kingdoms. It also featured a grand melee for squires.

“A tight training regime will see you do well in it,” Ser Barristan said. Jaime had no doubt that their Father had already drawn up a schedule.

“Can you teach me?” Kevan’s voice was full of hope as he looked up at the old knight. 

“Kevan.” Jaime caught his gaze.

“I’m flattered, don’t worry, Ser Jaime.” Ser Barristan gave Kevan’s shoulder a squeeze. “Though very busy, as well.”

Kevan’s face fell. “Please?” The shimmer appearing in his eyes reminded Jaime that he was only nine, and that their Father had not quite heeled children’s tendency to beg out of him.

“I have a gift instead, if you’ll accept it,” Ser Barristan said.

Kevan’s expression lit with curious surprise. It seemed to Jaime that he’d forgotten all about training at the mention of a gift from his hero. 

Ser Barristan produced a small pouch, its once rich velveteen worn with age. There was a design on the cloth though Jaime couldn’t tell what it was. Barristan emptied it unto his palm with care. A pendant fell from it, followed by a thin, discoloured chain. “It’s not much but I like to think it served me well,” Ser Barristan said as he lowered his hand to give it to Kevan.

Not much? Jaime stared at it. On the knight’s palm laid a strip of Valyrian steel, its vertical edges irregular. Fitted crookedly in it sat a square cut ruby, larger than a thumbnail and alight with the firelight around them. That is a princely gift, no matter how poor its fitting, Jaime thought. It would easily pay for this modest fete five times over. Surely, he knows? 

Kevan touched it gingerly, a fingertip at a time. “It’s pretty.”

Jaime couldn’t tear his gaze away. Its pidgeon blood luster sparkled with promise. It was almost as large and fine as the twin rubies set in the lioness pendant. It probably came from a hilt or scabbard, by the look of those jagged edges. Jaime tried to imagine the whole piece it might have come from. Small wonder it had been pried into pieces.

“That it is.” Ser Barristan smiled. He went down on a knee to hang the pendant around Kevan’s neck. “Perhaps, it is old wives’ tales, but I like to think it has kept me on the lucky side of safe a few times.”

Kevan pressed his chin against his chest to be able to see the pendant.  “Don’t you need it?”

“I am an old man, Kevan. I’ve lucked out enough. You are young yet, with many a danger before you.”

Jaime squinted. From anyone else, that would have been a threat. However, the old knight smiled still and seemed genuine enough. His stance was open, not just to Kevan but to Jaime, too. Knelt as he was, there was no way he could draw his blade before Jaime was at his throat.

Kevan took the pendant in his hand, watchingt it wink as he held it upside down, tilting it this way and that. “Rubies are Pa’s favourite earthbones.”

Kevan’s understatement twitched the corners of Jaime’s lips up. He remembered well the fool that had given Lady Loren a fine diamond pendant when she wed his Father. Lord Tywin had rather famously remarked that ‘the only use for diamonds was to see if rubies were real.’

A curious look appeared on Ser Barristan’s weathered face at the boy’s choice of words but he didn’t ask. “Wars may be fought for diamonds but the ruby is the king of precious stones.” He mused up Kevan’s hair as he rose. “A gemstone suited to a lion, I should think.”

Kevan puffed out his chest, the ruby gleaming in its queer setting. The dark reds and muted gold of his armour seemed to funnel all light to it.

“It looks splendid on you, little Lord,” Ser Barristan added.

The heavy croak and scrape of massive wooden doors sounded above the murmur. Kevan glanced up as the throne room’s great doors sighed open. His face lit up as he turned to them, and fell so abruptly and completely a moment later that Jaime felt his heart plummet into his guts. He turned just as the herald called:

“His Splendid Majesty, King Robert Baratheon,  First of His Name, King of the Andals, the Roynar and  First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm. Her Grace, Queen Consort Cersei Lannister, First of Her Name, Light of the West and Grace of the Realms.”

Jaime tuned out as she started listing the children, all their titles, and no doubt a score of prominent courtiers after, and turned his attention back to Kevan. Kevan’s shoulders sagged, his gaze dropping to the floor as his hand fell from his dagger to hang listlessly alongside him.

“Kevan?”

When Kevan looked up moist gathered around his green eyes, making their light flecks wink as finely as the ruby around his neck. The dissonance of seeing tears gather in his Father’s eyes twisted Jaime’s gut. He pushed the discomfort away for his little brother’s sake. Kevan was barely ten. Jaime put a hand on his slim shoulder, giving it a firm squeeze. His little brother. “He’ll be here.”  

O   O   O  

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[7deadlycinderellas]

if the summer of lives could just come again, ch24

AO3 link

 Dragonstone

Tyrion doesn’t have the most extensive experience with queens. When the ruling monarch's consort for half of your life has been the sister who despises you, one learns to take even that experience with a grain of salt.

So, to say he’s apprehensive about meeting this so-called Dragon Queen, is putting it lightly.

“Any word from King’s Landing as of late?” he asks Varys one day when they’re still waiting about the castle. The keep had been nearly deserted when the pair had made the journey. Stannis had taken a number of his men, and his wife as well, when he sailed north.

And many more of them had been pulled away, Tyrion learned, when the men from the Iron Islands had begun attacking Storm’s End. Despite their feud, Tyrion knew Stannis would consider it his duty to aid his brother’s men.

Now the only people who remain at Dragonstone are the beleaguered castellan and a handful of household servants. These people hadn’t even spared Tyrion and Varys a second glance when they had arrived. It was nearly perfect.

“Word is that our queen has given birth to a healthy baby boy. She has named him Gerold. The smallfolk have taken to calling her Good Queen Margaery, and her child the golden cub.”

Tyrion nods. It’s a good pick. Suitably kingly and honoring a Lannister remembered as clever and fair. There were too few of those lately.

“Do we have any idea of what our impending visitor will mean for her?”

Varys’s expression is solemn.

“One would not expect good things to come to a regent when someone who feels they have a birthright to the throne returns. “Usurper” is the word I would expect to hear thrown around.”

Tyrion takes a deep breath. Varys’s assessment is indeed accurate.

“Whatever our dear queen’s cunning ambitions leading her to the throne, I must say her rule has been nothing but benevolent for nearly everyone. She shouldn’t be held responsible for the present or future behavior of her husband or his hand.”

“Do you think she will be?”

Varys smiles, though a bit uncertain.

“Our queen is a clever woman indeed, though I do hope she’s not too clever by half. There are many stories that have made it across the narrow sea about Danaerys Targaryan, Mother of Dragons. One tells that she had a husband and child, both of whom were lost to her. Others say that she believes herself to be barren.”

Tyrion is shocked by that. Targaryan or not, a royal needed heirs.

“If I was still an advisor to the queen, I would suggest her best course of action would be to throw herself on the Dragon Queen’s mercy and hope they can find some common ground. “

That might be best. As hard as she worked to put herself on the throne, Tyrion can’t imagine Margaery giving it up easily. This is what he’s still thinking about when the wind begins to change, and he sees movement on the horizon over the water.

Tyrion is awash as the creatures come towards land out of the mists. The stories could never do dragons justice. His imagination as a child had not been enough.

But his eyes are soon drawn away from the figures circling the skies. He doesn’t even catch a glimpse of their rider.

He’s been distracted by the small fleet of ships on the bay below her.

“Are...are those Ironborn ships?” he asks Varys.

Varys’s eyes are actually uncertain.

“It appears they are. Perhaps this story will have a few more complications than expected.

 Winterfell

Robb, his siblings all muse, is quite possibly one of the only men in all of Westeros, who could go into a holding facility for a group considered ‘savages’ and come out with a politically advantageous betrothal.

They at least had notice, Ned having sent a raven with the news, before they returned so the rest of the Starks could react.

The woman in question was named Val, she was Mance Ryder’s goodsister. Her own sister and goodbrother had been killed in one of the assaults on Castle Black, but her and a small group had managed to flee south, when they had been captured at the Last Hearth.

We know they don’t give her any kind of importance to her position, Ned writes them. They chose Mance to lead them, they didn’t choose her. Despite this, they do listen to what she says, and they seem to think we’ll lend her some kind of weight to her family connection. They think the alliance will mean more to us because of it.

 I’ve spoken to Robb alone, he’s fine with this choice. He hopes she will get along with her as well. This could play a huge role when the rest of the seven kingdoms find out about the Free Folk coming south of the wall.

This is the first thing that’s come there way that has genuinely shocked any of them.

Arya asks Bran if he remembered anything about Val from before.

Bran frowns before answering “Not much really. She was blonde, fought with a dagger. She and Dalla were both killed when Stannis’s men ambushed Mance’s camp following the assault on Castle Black.”

Arya’s face is curious, a combination of concerned and apprehensive.

“She better be worthy of him.”

Robb and Ned are still a few weeks from returning to Winterfell, so there’s not much to do but continue shoring up the weapon and armor stores, prepare the shipments of both to other holdfasts and continue training.

This particular morning, however, Arya doesn’t feel much like doing anything. So when most of the others are in the training yard practicing, she sits on one of the walkways looking down at them.

After a bit, Meera comes and sits beside her.

“Need a break too?”

Arya nods.

“Sansa and Mother should be getting home later today. Thought I’d save my energy. “

Arya’s face looks pensive and after a moment, Meera asks.

“Are you worried about your brother’s marriage?”

After a bit, Arya nods.

“Robb getting married before led to disaster. He must have known it was wrong, marrying someone else when he was betrothed to a Frey. Betrothed for a fucking bridge. I was too, but I didn’t know that for years later, after I’d slaughtered House Frey.”

Arya suddenly shifts, and she wonders if Meera had ever been told that particular bit of her background.

If she hadn’t been told, her face doesn’t show it.

“If you’re expecting horror from me, you’re not going to get it. The Freys have been nothing but a thorn in my house’s side for generations. I’m actually a little bitter they’re alive again.”

Well at least there’s that, Arya thinks.

“This, an arranged betrothal to someone he’s barely met for the sake of a politically necessary alliance, regardless if he was twice my age or a brute or we hated each other...this was the sort of thing I always thought was the future for me, and that it was set in stone. That’s what I grew up thinking marriage was.”

Meera purses her lips.

“I always meant to ask what it was that made you change your mind about wanting to marry. Everyone here seems to think you had basically sworn to never do it.”

Arya laughs. It’s so strange in retrospect.

“Honestly? When I was traveling north to return to Winterfell, I ran across a couple of Lannister soldiers. I was frightened at first- I’ve seen first hand how soldiers often treat vulnerable women- but they were kind. Shared their fire and their food with me. And one them- he kept going on about his wife at home. Told me about how they were expecting a child, and how he wanted a girl. And it- after everything? It sounded so nice. Peaceful. So different from what I always thought it would be and also nothing like the songs of romance Sansa loved. Being able to marry without worrying about politics must be one of the nice things about being lowborn.”

Meera’s lips quirk into a small smile.

“I was always a little frightened of marrying myself. Not that I was worried about being sold off like you- no one bothers making political alliances with the crannogmen.”

“There are a few minor houses in the Neck aren’t they?” Arya asks her. She never spent much time paying attention in lessons, and Jojen and Meera don’t talk too much about the other people from their home.

Meera nods.

“We can’t just marry within them though, or we’d all be Targaryans by now. My mother isn’t of noble blood- I’ve seen how my parents’ marriage was written down. ‘Jyana of the crannogmen’.”

Arya files that little bit of knowledge away. She should ask Meera to tell Gendry that. Maybe they might even be able to meet her someday when this is all over. All these years and he still occasionally got attacks of insecurity because of his birth.

“But I had been raised that my duty was the carry on our house line, so I knew I would have to marry eventually.”

She makes a face.

“Even though it was more likely I would have known the boy I would end up marrying since childhood, there was also always a chance I would have spent my whole life thinking he was a shithead. And while I didn’t really think I would ever be forced to do it, I knew I might have been pressured...especially if Jojen died young like many people seemed to think he would. I was sixteen when we left Greywater Watch before, and I thought it was a blessing that I got to put the topic off for a little while.“

Arya thinks a bit before she asks her next question.

“When did you realize you and Bran were, I mean- you’re nearly as much older than him as Gendry is than me.”

Meera smirks.

“More actually, nearly six years. Gendry and I have had a couple of conversations on this very topic - the two of us are actually only a couple of moons apart.”

She blinks a bit, lost in the past before continuing.

“I’m pretty sure Bran was taken with me pretty early. Your brother wears his heart on his sleeve, he’s not good at hiding things like that. I tried to ignore it, because he was so young, and I was sure his interest would fade. But then time went on and we both got older and it didn’t seem like our age should matter as much as it did before.”

She blinks again, and Arya wonders if she’s blinking away tears.

“After we fled, I pulled him until I couldn’t. He didn’t even wake up from the visions until I couldn’t run anymore. My legs felt like jelly and I could barely feel my feet at all. I fell and tried to get back up and then fell again. When I couldn’t do anything else, and I was certain we were going to die, I wanted to kiss him senseless. “

Meera’s eyes stare off, faraway, but she’s got a tiny smile as well.

“And then when your uncle saved us, it didn’t go away. I thought that maybe when we made it back south things between us would...it seems like such a damned joke. That when I finally began to return his feelings, he no longer cared.”

Wiping her face and sniffing, Meera is suddenly desperate to change the subject.

“I hope your uncle can make it back from the wall. He saved our lives, before, he deserves some happiness too.”

Their conversation is broken by the sound of a horn announcing an arrival.

Arya pulls herself to her feet.

“That must be Mother and Sansa.”

It’s not even been a whole turn of the moon, but seeing both of them again is fantastic. Even with both bits of news they have to break.

Sansa looks as disquieted by the news of Robb’s impending marriage as Arya had been. Catelyn merely nods, acknowledging that it really was time Robb found himself a wife anyway.

It’s after she leaves that Arya reaches for Sansa’s arm and holds her tight as she grits her teeth and mutters.

“Robb’s entire future could hinge on this. If he- if she...I wish I had realized before what a bunch of bullshit the idea of marrying for the greater good is.”

Arya squeezes her arm. She’d always disliked the idea, but Sansa had first hand knowledge for how the resentment and anger these bonds caused could fester and grow and spill over. How they could transform into deceit and underhandedness and backstabbing. These could threaten the safety of the realm far more than by having one that was not united. As much as she could pray that this marriage worked out, she looked at every such possibility and wondered if it would breed another Cersei.

But when Arya tells her that the Wall had been breached by Others, than with nary a word, Sansa is all business again.

“Is Ser Davos at Winterfell now?” she asks.

Arya nods, a little confused. She follows Sansa up to the little study in between all of the Stark children’s chambers. This was where the Septa had given the girls their lessons, and before, where Old Nan had kept an eye on them when they couldn’t be wandering about. Arya hadn’t spent much time in this room in years.

“What are you-” she asks as Sansa rummages through one of the desks. She removes a letter she had stashed away.

“Lord Tyrion sent me a contact to reach out to near Castle Cerwyn which could provide us with wildfire to use against the Others. It won’t be safe to use it once they get past the wall, so I should seek them out as soon as possible.”

Arya’s eyes go wide.

“Wildfire doesn’t go out easily,” Sansa muses, “Even detonated over the ocean, it still burned, burned nearly all of Stannis’s fleet...I don’t think even the worst of winter blizzards will do much to its effects. I won’t risk the destruction of our home by burning it on this side of the wall.”

That’s what Sansa thinks on when she goes to Davos that night and before they prepare to leave in the morning. She sees the image in her head still of the strangely beautiful green flames, peeking in through the windows of the Red Keep. She also remembers the fighting men set on fire by it running, diving in the sea, trying desperately to put it out, screaming as they burned to death.

She thinks this is what causes the haunted look on Ser Davos’s face when they mount their horses and set out the next morning.

“I’m glad Stannis is at the wall,” Sansa tells him. “There’s not a lot of men I would trust with such a deadly weapon. Too many of the Night’s Watch have spent too long thinking that the Free Folk are the only enemy they are meant to be guarding us against. And they have been trained to not even think of them as humans- they might not think that it’s abominable to use such a weapon against something living. I believe Stannis does understand that.”

As long as Stannis doesn’t get stuck on something involving fire again, that is.

Castle Cerwyn is less than a day’s ride in good weather, but in the snow they barely make it by nightfall.

The guards who lead them to the guest house, Sansa recognizes, as Free Folk. They seem at ease too, but are both wary of her and Davos. Sansa wracks her mind, trying to remember if she’d heard any particular complaints from this holdfast about the decree regarding them. She can’t. House Cerwyn had suffered greatly under the thumb of the Boltons before the Long Night, and had barely been able to send any men to fight at all.

They go out early the next morning in search of the name in the letter.

To say he is strange is an understatement.

He is extremely old, older than the oldest men Sansa can recall meeting. He walks with a hunchback and his voice as a strange quality that makes Sansa think perhaps he has suffered some injury or illness of the throat in his time.

Or, she thinks looking about his workshop, perhaps he drank some concoction he shouldn’t have.

Wisdom Othlelle keeps looking at her out of the corner of one eye and muttering. She sticks close to Davos for more than a few reasons.

She also notices a few young men coming in and out of the shop and files them away in her mind.

When Othlelle inquires as to why they require the substance, Sansa plainly says.

“So I guess you haven’t been hearing any stories of enemies of the north with a particular weakness to fire.”

Sansa and Davos pay him for his services, and he directs one of the younger men to prepare the shipment.

Sansa looks him square in the eye.

“And there won’t be any funny business with the transport. It will only go to the wall, and only be passed into the hands of Stannis Baratheon. I can’t imagine the Alchemist’s guild would think too highly of you training acolytes unofficially this far north.”

He seems taken aback by her tone, so Sansa hopes it’s enough for her words to make an impact.

With that taken care of, Sansa and Davos mount their horses again and take off, hoping it’s still early enough to make it home by the end of the day.

When they’re riding, the wind comes by quickly enough that Sansa wonders at the look on Davos’s face. He’s been moving slower lately, she’s begun to notice the lines in his face more. It’s mostly hidden by his cloak, but she thinks she sees a glimpse of-

When they stop to water the horses, she finally asks.

“You look as tired as the rest of us are. Do you ever think about going home?”

His face is guarded still, but there’s a flicker that makes Sansa think she’s right. She reaches out to touch him on the shoulder.

“It’s fine. You’ve done so much already. You helped get Gendry out of King’s Landing, you’ve spent all these years helping us evacuate the Free Folk to the south. You’re the one doing most of the coordinating with the other houses, not Robb. “

“How am I supposed to go south when I know what’s coming?” he responds, sounding slightly desperate.”How can I go be with my own family when I know I could be stopping someone else from losing theirs?”

Sansa shakes her head.  

“Talk to Father when he returns to Winterfell. You’re not technically in our service, you’re not beholden to any of us-”

“I’m beholden to you all far more than nearly anyone else in all of the realm.”

“And your wife and sons need you. You got them all back, you should spend every moment you possibly can with them, because they might not get you back again.”

Davos’s face falters, and Sansa decides not to push.

“Like I said, we’re getting to the brink of war here, and you’re not a young man. Talk to Father.”

The horses are back at strength, so they remount and keep riding. The snow is blessedly light, and the sky remains bright.

They’re getting nearer to Winterfell, when Sansa’s horse spooks.

“What is it?” she asks her, but only gets a ‘neigh!’ in answer. She tries to spur her on, but she balks. She turns her head to Davos, who’s own mount is acting strange too.

Sansa hears a noise she can’t place, so she halts the horse and draws her bow. She hears the noise again, and turns, trying to spot it’s direction.

Then the noise turns more familiar, it becomes a howl.

A howl that heralds a rush in the snow covered brambles and a light gray figure appearing.

Sansa sees Davos draw his own bow and has to shout, “Wait!”

She loosens her bow.

“Ghost?” she asks.

And watching his tail wag, she hears footsteps and more rustling.

She sees another wolf appear across a clearing, and then another.

And then a group of women.

Well, women, and one man.

Sansa lowers her bow completely.

“Jon?”

She’d recognize the face anywhere. She remembers seeing it for the first time in nearly as many years before.

She hastily stumbles off her horse and throws herself at him, wrapping her arms around his neck.

“Sansa?” he asks her, sounding confused. “What are you doing out here?”

She pulls back to look at him, and then to look at the other women with him.

They’re a motley bunch, dressed in ragged furs and carrying a strange assembly of weapons. And then Sansa spots one of the women, who’s huddling into herself and pale, and feels a pang of familiarity.

“Gilly?”

The girls looks confused at her words, and Sansa steps back.

“This is Ser Davos of House Seaworth. We were just finishing up some business before heading back-  you’re all on the way to Winterfell right?”

Davos has already rushed forward to shake Jon’s hand firmly, with a bigger smile than Sansa’s seen in ages. Jon mostly looks dazed.

“It’s good to see you again, Jon Snow,” Davos turns his attention to the women. “And you too ladies. May I ask your names?”

All of them answer, one by one. The last one is standing nearest Jon, holding a young boy on her shoulders. She looks up and says, “I’m Ygritte.”

Sansa can’t keep her hands off her face, and Davos’s similarly lets loose a noise of shock.

There’s a flash on the other woman’s face and Sansa suddenly wonders if she knows, what she knows.

“How far away are we from Winterfell?” Jon asks.

“Not too far. I can probably take one more person on my horse.”

“Take Gilly,” Henneh insists, “She’s still sick.”

“We haven’t had any issues with bandits-”

“I don’t think they will be a problem,” another voice says. Sansa squints and spies a small figure with an oddly shaped face.

“Sansa, this is Rowan. She’s the last of the children of the forest.”

Sansa smiles. Perhaps she should be more shocked.

“It’s getting a bit late,” she tells them all, helping Gilly onto her horse in front of her, “Maybe we should continue this conversation on the road.”

The road, even with the snow, is far less intimidating with such a group. Jon walks beside Sansa and Gilly. He reaches up and touches her quiver.

“You have a bow now?”

Sansa grins.

“Lots of things have changed since we’ve seen you. I have a bow, Arya has a husband, Robb has a betrothed, she’s a wildling too.”

As they get closer, she reaches down and touches Jon on the shoulder.

“I think you should try and talk to Mother if you can. Father told her the truth...and I think it really shook her up.”

Jon’s eyes go dark, and so Sansa gives him a pat.

“Like I said, lots of things have changed. It’s okay if you have changed too.”

[holdfastharrumph]

The Commonwealth v. Sir Tannley

HOLDFAST — Sir Austin Tannley, Gentleman-at-Arms and famed duelist, declared this afternoon in the Court of Delegates that he would challenge everyone to combat, whomever attempted to vote ‘yea’ on the upcoming bill to restrict sabre-rattling in public.

Sir Tannley’s clumsy choice of words and midsentence pause roused the Court to action, as the delegates had already stopped paying attention to top off their pistols’ priming powder.

Sir Tannley ducked behind the public podium as the entire council barraged him with shot and letter openers, calling him out to “have a go”. The public audience joined in, throwing extra shoes normally reserved for offensive delegates.

“My word! How barbaric!” Sir Tannley exclaimed as he trembled in cover, “don’t they know I only wanted to casually suggest violence to further my own political agenda, at the expense of public security?”

His escape from the hall was foiled when Councilman Rupty Mordlanter defeated Sir Tannley’s right leg with a paper arrow: one folded to a particularly malicious point over the course of the morning’s budget discussions.

Sir Tannley tendered his surrender before the Court with an incoherent moan as he was buried under comfort loafers, old boots, and oxshoes.

“Maybe we got a little carried away,” admitted Treasurer Gondelle Mighthaus as she held the side door open, allowing her fellow delegates to slip out and dodge blame, before constables filed in and trampled Sir Tannley.

“But I think Sir Tannley’s brought the Court a little closer together. Normally, such murderous rage towards our fellows gets diffused into petty, needling policy, like outlawing each others’ pets and children. Obliterating someone else for a gaffe that wasn’t one of ours feels absolutey refreshing!”

Constables warn that some delegates are still at large, at-large, and large.

[5lbsofsmarties]

A Lion Still Has Claws - 5

Word Count: 3329 Game of Thrones AU - Part 5 of ?

From a young age it was quite obvious that large and formal gatherings were not at all something that you enjoyed. More often than not your mother, her handmaidens, and your Septa had to all but drag out out of the Holdfast and down to the Great Hall where you had to be hurriedly put back together in a presentable manner. You distinctly remembered being roughly nine or ten years old when you attempted to run out of the Holdfast to avoid another mind numbing meeting with some Lord and his family that your father had invited to King’s Landing in order to discuss something or other that you couldn’t be bothered to listen to.

You had managed to make it out to the stables when you’d run into someone. You would have fallen back into a haystack had they not caught you and pulled you upright. There in front of you were a pair of pale green eyes topped by a head of bright red hair, the owner of which was a boy not much older than yourself. You had learned that he was the son of the Lord of the Eyrie, the man your father had called an audience with, and he was attempting to find a way out of the meeting as well.

The pair of you were found two hours later by your brothers sitting side by side in the loft of the stable reading and talking.

Welcoming Chad to King’s Landing was always a task that you enjoyed, even as the two of you had gotten older and it became more difficult to sneak away together. At some point over the years your mother had playfully mentioned writing to Chad’s mother and father about arranging a match between the two of you but, thankfully, nothing had ever come of that jest. Through growing up, Chad had become almost like another brother to you; a brother whom you could tell anything to without fear of your words becoming the butt end of some jape or mocked. So, when he had arrived first to the meal you were more than excited to see him.

“Presenting Lord of the Eyrie and Warden of the East, Lord Chad James,” came the booming voice of the court Hearld.

From the massive double doors Lord Chad James came walking into the hall with all of the pride and dignity one would expect of him. He had on a pair of dark grey breeches with a sharp taper at the ankle as well as a deep blue jacket with puffy, wide cut sleeves that narrowed to the wrist. Round, brass buttons lined the forearm of each sleeve, and the inner lining and lapels of the jacket were white, while the strings that tie up the front matched the outer layer. He looked extremely handsome as he approached the king and queen to bow for him and kiss her hand. Chad made it down the line of both Gavin and Ryan, greeting them with firm handshakes and slight bows of the head but when he made it to you all of the pageantry dropped.

“My lady, Y/N,” he laughed as he swiftly placed a kiss to your hand. He dropped your hand almost as soon as he took hold of it and stepped forward to wrap his arms around you in an embrace. “You look beautiful,” he complimented. You laughed and rolled your eyes as you returned the embrace. As you pulled away, you could see the look of agitation written all over your mother’s face. Surely, she was not happy with such a brazen act of perceived intimacy between you and a man that you were not betrothed to - but that fact simply made you smile just that much more at Chad as he pressed a quick kiss against your cheek.

When Chad took a step back was when you noticed there was another man standing just to his left who was looking as if he definitely did not want to be there; a feeling with which you could sympathize. He had nearly wild looking yellow hair and had on a grey canvas jerkin that looked to be almost metallic in coloring, with fastening that went up the chest to tie just below the high neck. His black pants tapered down to his ankle, ending at a pair of sturdy looking front lacing boots. Something about him seemed vaguely familiar but you couldn’t quite put your finger on why.

“My lady, this is Sam Mitchell. He’s been my squire for some years but a good friend for longer. I do not know if you’ve ever officially met,” Chad introduced, stepping slightly to the side to present Sam.

You watched as he took your hand and lifted it to his lips for a less than enthusiastic kiss. “My lady, it is a pleasure to meet you,” he said in a tone that did not convey the meaning behind his words. You bit at the inside of your lip and attempted to hold back a grin at that. It was refreshing to see someone else so bored of all the fanfare that came along with court. When he lowered your hand and looked up at you from underneath the flare of his eyelashes it suddenly dawned on you that, yes, you had met him before.

Years ago, when you father had taken a trip up to the Eyrie to visit with the Chad’s father when he was the Lord. You remembered finally arriving at the Gates of the Moon, and stepping out of the wheelhouse that you’d been stuck inside with your mother for the entire trip, as well as Gavin after he tried to race Ryan through the mountains and your mother became worried about the Hill Tribes, so you were grateful to be out in an open area. However, almost as soon as your feet touched the ground you felt your short leather boot being pulled from your foot into the mud.

You’d stumbled and reached out for the first person you could in an attempt to steady yourself. Once you had wretched your foot free, you looked up to find yourself nearly face to face with a boy of your age and a pair of bright blue eyes blinking back at you. You remembered feeling your cheeks flush and your heart skip a beat before one of your guards had gotten off of his horse to assist you to the castle itself - your handmaiden scurrying behind with a new pair of shoes.

Though, now as you looked at the man in front of you, you were unsure if he would ever even recall such a small meeting from years past. “Welcome to our hall, Ser. Thank you for joining us,” you replied, smiling and nodding your head in his direction, “Please, both of you, be seated. We will hopefully begin our meal soon.” Both Chad and Sam gave you another smile before the pair of the turned and headed off to the long table and took seats near the end across from one another.

Very quickly after that more people began filing into the hall. Lord Jack and his wife Lady Caiti from Bear Island came in, followed by the Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch. As Lord Geoff walked across the hall he had a look of almost disdain etched onto his face but once he came to face to face with your father his demeanor changed completely. “Burns,” he greeted with a playful smirk tugging at his lips, “Looks like you’ve spent too much time sitting on that throne and not enough walking around your Kingdom.”

At his words, your brothers and yourself exchanged glances. No visitor ever spoke to your father like that and part of you expected him to be angry. However, your father merely laughed and pulled the Lord Commander in for an embrace, clapping him on the back as they pulled apart. “Good to see the wall hasn’t frozen over your sense of humor as well as your heart, Geoff,” your father quipped, making the Commander laugh as well.

Lord Geoff moved down to kiss your mother on her cheek, telling her it had been too long since they’ve all seen one another. Before you knew it he was in front of your brothers and yourself. Now that he was closer you could get a better look at him. His blacks looked nearly new and along with his dark hair and beard, his icy blue eyes stood out. “The Burns Brood,” he chuckled to himself, shaking his head, “My, it’s been a long time since I’ve seen any of you. You’re all grown now; last I saw our dear Princess was just beginning to talk. Look at you now!”

You looked over at your brothers who looked just as confused as you felt. Ryan, however, was the first one to recover and find his manners. “It is a pleasure to have you here with us tonight, Lord Commander. Please, take a seat at our table,” he said, motioning over towards the table where the other guests were already seated.

As more people filed into the room, you were sure that you were ready to have a seat yourself. You were growing tired of standing and greeting people with a polite smile that you had to keep plastered to your face. Although, when you heard the announcement of Lord Michael and his Lady wife, Lindsay, you were more than happy to stay in your spot. When they made it down to you after greeting your parents and brothers, you very nearly plucked the babe from Lindsay’s arms to hold her close.

“It’s a pleasure to see you again as well,” Michael laughed, shaking his head.

You glanced over at the pair of them and smiled, “She’s precious, but, my apologies. How are the both of you? Are you enjoying Riverrun, Lord Michael? It must be very different than the Dreadfort.”

“It’s a fair bit warmer in the Riverlands than the North,” Michael said with a slight shrug of his shoulder, “But I am enjoying my time there.”

“I’m very glad to hear that,” you said, smiling before looking back at the baby in your arms who was running a hand over the fur along your neckline, “Do I have to give her back?”

Lindsay laughed and stepped forward, “Unfortunately. You’ve got more princess-ing to do.”

Very reluctantly, you handed baby back over to her mother after pressing a fleeting kiss to the side of her head. Lindsay let out a small laugh as she stepped forward to embrace you and press a quick kiss against your cheek. “We will make sure to call for you before we leave for Riverrun in the morning,” she promised before walking off towards the table with Michael in tow. You shifted a little uncomfortably and looked to your right at your brothers.

“How much longer do we need to stand here? My feet are beginning to ache,” you mumbled softly as you leaned closer to Gavin’s side.

Gavin chuckled and shook his head, “Our jousting champion who took a lance to the face is hurting from standing at court.”

“How the mighty have fallen,” Ryan teased as well, folding his hands in front of him, “Not much longer, Y/N. I believe we’re only waiting for one more guest.”

You narrowed your eyes at both of your brothers and turned your head to look elsewhere around the cavernous Throne Room. Both of your parents seemed to be more than content to be there, chatting quietly amongst themselves. At the table, your guests had been offered drink and seemed to be having a wonderful time talking and laughing with one another whilst partaking in the ale, wine, and other beverages. At the entrance of the hall, you noticed the Court Hearld step inside of the room once more and you could only assume that it meant that your final guest had arrived.

“Presenting the Prince of Dorne, his highness, Alfredo Diaz,” the guard’s voice boomed throughout the room.

Everyone, including those seated, stared expectantly at the double doors at the end of the hall. You were more than a little shocked that your father had thought to invite the Prince of Dorne, seeing as Dorne and the rest of the realm were not always on the best of terms. A man stepped into view and you were slightly taken aback at the sight of him. You had never been to Dorne, or even met anyone from there, and you were immediately intrigued by his garb.

He walked down the length of the room in a cloth-of-gold jacket that full length sleeve and fell below his hips featuring beautiful orange and red embroidered designs throughout the garment. The jacket seemed to be much lighter weight than the piece found in Westeros as it flowed slightly behind him as he moved. His breeches were also seemingly made of a lighter material as the sand colored fabric rippled around his legs with each step. His jacket was not buttoned all the way up as most men with the Kingdom would wear it, but it finished almost halfway up his chest, revealing a triangle of tanned skin.

Once he had made it to your parents there seemed to be a tense sort of exchange between them, but Prince Alfredo smiled brightly and patted your father on the arm before kissing your mother’s hand. He was charismatic to say the least. He greeted both of your brothers warmly, shaking their hands and clasping them at the elbow as he did so; his smile never faltered. When he made it to you, you almost couldn’t form a coherent thought inside of your head. Closer up, you could see just how handsome this Prince was with his dark hair and dark eyes. You realized as he took your hand in his to kiss the back of it that you hadn’t said anything, making your cheeks flare hot.

“It’s a pleasure to have you here with us, Prince Alfredo. I hope that you are enjoying your visit to King’s Landing,” you finally managed to say, smiling back at him.

Alfredo lowered your hand and met your eyes with his own wide grin, “It’s lovely to be here, my lady. It is an honor to have been invited here to sup with your family and esteemed guests.”

“We are most excited to have you here,” you said, your hands absently fiddling with the fur trim of your sleeves, “Please, have a seat and enjoy yourself.”

With one last smile and nod, Prince Alfredo turned on his heel and made his way over to the table with the other guests. Once everyone was seated and comfortable, your father announced that the meal could begin. On any other circumstance, your family would most certainly be seated at a seperate table on a raised platform away from your guest, as was tradition. However, due to the nature of the meal and why mostly everyone had been brought here, you were told to find a seat amongst your guests.

Quickly, you found your way over to where Chad was sitting and he happily slid to the side enough to make room for you, and your gown. You sat yourself down next to Chad and smiled at him, noticing that Sam was across from him you smiled at him as well. Next to Sam was Prince Alfredo who was looking to his other side and talking with Lord Michael, while on your other side was Lady Lindsay and the little babe.

“You looked about ready to walk off of The Wall the longer you stood up there,” Chad said, pouring wine into the cup in front of you.

You laughed and graciously took the drink from him, “I have no idea what you mean, Chad, I am a dutiful Princess who enjoys all of her responsibilities.”

Chad let out a loud laugh and had to duck his head slightly when other people from down the table looked your way. You grinned slightly to yourself and raised your wine to your lips to take a long sip. “Do those responsibilities include being shown off to any eligible man in the Seven Kingdoms?” Sam asked from across the table. Chad’s head quickly shot up and he fixed his squire with a hard glare.

“Sam! That isn’t something you say to the Princess of the Realm,” he scolded.

However, you laughed and lowered your cup to the table. “It’s alright, Chad. He’s not wrong,” you said, looking at Sam, “They do now, yes. Unfortunately, I am of the age where it would be beneficial to my parents, and the Kingdoms, if I were to wed.”

“You could just marry our Lord here and get it over with. You’re already so fond of one another,” he suggested, grinning into his ale.

Both you and Chad turned to look at one another, your noses scrunched slightly. “That would be like marrying Gavin or Ryan,” you said, grabbing your wine once more, “No offense meant, Chad.”

Chad shook his head, “I take none. You’ve become something of a little sister to me over the years, marrying you would be… off putting to say the least.”

“You both act as if marrying one’s sibling isn’t something the Royal family has done in the past. Not your Royal family, of course, my Lady,” Sam said, chuckling lowly to himself.

At that point, Prince Alfredo seemed to have finished his conversation with Lord Michael and looked over at the three of you with an amused expression on his face. “I feel as though I’ve overheard some part of a conversation that I was not meant to hear,” he said with a slight laugh. You only rolled your eyes playfully and shook your head from side to side before taking a small sip of wine and returning your cup to the table. “No, we were merely discussing how Lord Chad is almost like a third brother to me, so marrying him while not a true sin in the eyes of the Seven would feel as much to the both of us,” you explained.

“Well, have you met any suitable men that you could see yourself wedding?” Alfredo asked, sipping from his own cup.

You sighed softly and looked down at the table for a moment before you drug your eyes back up the Prince. “I’ve never much thought of actually getting married until recently, you see. I’ve always been much more interested in learning new things and exploring - having adventures. However, as it’s been explained to me, those are not things a Princess should be doing. So, I’ve met some men who… are nice and I’m sure would make fine husbands, I’m not entirely certain that they would make fine husbands for me,” you offered with a weak sort of shrug.

Chad reached out with a hand to give your back a gentle pat while both Sam and Prince Alfredo nod their head in what seemed to be understanding. Before much else could be said, servers began to file into the room with the first course of the evening. You sighed thankfully for the interruption, not wanting to continue with the topic at hand. Chad was the one to put food on your plate and you could only laugh softly as you playfully swatted his hands away.

“I am a Princess, not a invalid, Chad James. I am more than able to serve and feed myself.”

You could have sworn that you heard a snort of a laugh come from across the table and when you glanced up, you spotted Sam grinning down at his own plate of food. He had to have sensed that you were looking, as he looked up not long after. His eyes met your own and the two of you shared a slight smirk before returning to your food.

[ordo-scriptus]

The mercenary companies mingled, in as much a fashion as such bands often do on the march. They walked in two files, conversation muted by the drizzling remnants of the previous day's rains. The downpour had turned the Traders' Tracks to little more than a mire, progress only aided by culverts worn deep by years of rolling Gorox cartwheels. All else was mud. They opted not to halt at noon. The closest city to Shatteroch was Greywatch Holdfast, one of the Fastness' ancillary forts. It would take a night and a day to reach on foot. They ate on their feet. Not 'til the sun dipped low over the sickly forests did they meet another soul. He waved to them from a folding chair, propped up on the top deck of a battered old Steam Tank. It was hung with as many bones as it was with baggage. The man in the chair was emaciated thin, wild eyed, and spoke without unclenching his jaw. He stood, and struck a pose, his foot planted on the brow of the great dragon skull that was crudely bolted onto the tank's prow. In a halting voice, he welcomed them to the Ghoul Mere. The tank had gone of road, and was stuck in three feet of mud. It's commander, thin and rattling, called himself Boney Jones. It took three hours to dig the tank out of the mud. Boney Jones boiled water, and fed eggs and brackish tea to any who asked. They got going as soon as it was free. Many took a turn riding on the back of the tank. Few minded the bones that shared their ride. They dozed amongst them, and the belching, clattering steam tank rode at the van of the company, as they marched through the night. #paintingwarhammer #gamesworkshop #citiesofsigmar #freeguild #steamtank #warhammer #warhammerfantasy #warhammeraos #ageofsigmar #aos #warhammerdogsofwar #regimentsofrenown #hobbystreak #hobbystreakday20 https://www.instagram.com/p/B3k6mZ2HwGR/?igshid=1uhqngups9vm7

[princesssarcastia]

the wolves have come again (pt. 8)

In honor of this incredibly badass latest episode of season seven– and also, @queen-at-twelve, who just recently went through all previous seven parts.  

Let the plot commence.

All of the north watches as the queen of the south comes to Winterfell.  There have been rumors of correspondence between their King and the Dragon queen, but no one ever thought they would lead to this.  Or they hoped it wouldn’t. 

It snows harder than ever before as the queen makes her way North with her people and her dragons. Daenerys Stormborn seems ironically named to the northerners, because she is forced to stop numerous times at different holdfasts in the North to wait out the worst of it.  Reports reach Winterfell of how much her dragons seem to dislike this weather and they all take a grim sort of satisfaction out of that.

Queen Daenerys doesn’t seem to notice the over-abundance of wolves circling her party, nor the occasional raven flying over their heads, except to remind those around her of the hunting bans King Jon had instituted over the entire North.

When they finally reach Winterfell, the gates are heaved open, the snow that had been piled up that day collapsing inwards.  The Queen herself leads the party, and her entire company is on horseback.  Those faint few who remembered the day Robert Baratheon came to visit nod in approval, because a carriage had been a stupid idea even then. 

King Jon and lady-queen Sansa stand with a few notable members of their council to greet her: Lord Seaworth, Lady Mormont, Lord Manderly, and Tormund Giantsbane, the last of which being less of a council member and more of a representative, because the Free Folk do not kneel.

The new maester had had to dig through centuries old records to find what the protocol was when dealing with a fellow monarch, or a monarch who was not your own.  It was essentially the same, if one didn’t want to start a war.

As Queen Daenerys was announced, the Starks nodded, the Lords knelt, the Lady curtsied, and Tormund did absolutely nothing, simply sweeping his eyes over the rest of the people there, then snorting quietly.  It was made clear over the weeks of their visit that the wildling much preferred the people of the north.

Lord Seaworth announced their King, as well as Lady Sansa.  The Queen did not nod back, the servants scurrying around the yard noticed, and it lit a fire of indignation in their hearts.  They would treat this woman with the honor her station demanded, but they would not respect her, they decided.

They also noticed how their lady-queen’s eyes flickered towards the Lord Hand, and remembered the whispers of her marriage to him down in the capital.

Then the King offered to have them all shown to their quarters, and one by one they filed inside, servants rushing to carry their luggage in after them.

part one. part two. part three. part four. part five. part six. part seven. part nine

[toolsvenue-blog]

Stacking Tool Caddy

A simple-to-build tote, excellent for tool and provides transport.

by Toolsvenue

I designed this stacking tool caddy to carry little components and some tools. It’s comprised of 3 tool trays that stack and interlock along to make one unit that may be carried where required. better of all, it stores my screws, nails and tiny tools therefore they’re o.k. at hand. It’s additionally handy for transporting different items: stitching provides, gear and no matter else you'll hatch.

The trays are joined with half-laps secured by dowels. The dowels not solely add strength however additionally add a pleasant ornamental detail to the project. To lock the trays along, the most handle pivots, permitting access to the individual trays. A depressor acts as an easy spring latch.

Trays 1st The sides for every receptacle are 1⁄2” x 3-1⁄2” poplar (dimensional 1⁄2“x4 lumber from the large box store). to start the development, cut the facet and finish items. It’s very important they're the identical length – if they aren’t, the trays won’t be sq. and won’t stack and interlock properly. A stop-block will aid in creating the repeat cuts accurately. Cut the short receptacle sides, then reset the stop-block to chop the long receptacle sides – you ought to have six of every.

miter saw setup Matching lengths. For clean cuts and an honest registration surface, attach Associate in Nursing auxiliary fence to the stock fence of the miter saw. Also, guarantee consistent lengths by employing a stop-block. With the saw off, live from the blade to the block, and clamp it in situ. begin by cutting the top of the board sq., then place that finish against the stop and build your cuts.

Next, rout a 1⁄4” x 1⁄4” rabbet on each finish of every of the receptacle items for the half-lap joinery. be careful – the router bit encompasses a tendency to fracture and tear out the fibers as you exit the cut, departure a jagged corner. a straightforward thanks to eliminate the blowout is to 1st build atiny low cut with a saw to outline the exit purpose of the bit.

trim router setup Router setup. Use a 1⁄4″ rabbet bit for the joinery. The bit can mechanically build a 1⁄4″ cut wide thanks to the bearing size, however the bit still has got to be set therefore it’s cutting 1⁄4″ down from the bottom plate.

trim router rabbet Rabbet. Rout the rabbets on the ends of each receptacle half. i take advantage of a bench hook to carry the add place and off of the bench.

Next, glue up the trays. It may be tough to carry the receptacle along and glue either side at the identical time. to create it less of a juggling act, use some painter’s tape to quickly hold the joint along whereas you apply glue to the opposite corners.

Before the glue dries, place the receptacle in clamps snugly, however not totally tightened, therefore you'll check for sq.. live diagonally from corner to corner a technique, then the opposite – the measurements ought to be the identical. If they’re off, meaning the receptacle is slightly racked and has got to be adjusted. Once you’ve got it wherever you would like it, slowly and equally tighten the clamps. Check for state of affairs longer before permitting the glue to line up.

With the glue dry, confirm the highest and bottom edges are all flat and flush. If necessary, use a woodworking plane to true them up. Then cut a 1⁄4” rabbet on the highest and bottom edges – you'll use the identical router setup as you probably did for the joinery.

rout receptacle A-one Rout again. Cut a 1⁄4″ x 1⁄4″ rabbet on the within of the highest and bottom of the trays, once the glue dries. The router bit and setting are the identical as for the joints. once routing on the within of a chunk, confirm to maneuver the router dextral – you ought to forever move the router therefore the rotation of its bit is against the direction you’re moving.

The corners of the rabbets are going to be spherical. Use a chisel to stand these in order that the bottoms’ corners can seat totally then the trays nest along during a stack.

Next, cut the 1⁄2” plyboard bottoms to length and breadth. as a result of the rabbets are solely 1⁄4” deep, the plyboard sits below the perimeters by 1⁄4” – this lets the underside register into the highest of the receptacle below. However, rock bottom tray’s bottom mustn't project – it ought to be flush with the facet items. Use the router with the identical bit and depth setting to chop a 1⁄4” rabbet on all four edges of the underside for the bottom receptacle. The rabbets on the receptacle bottom and tray sides can nest along, permitting the underside to sit down flush with the perimeters. confirm once routing the skin of the piece of work that you’re moving dextral round the work. currently glue within the plyboard bottoms.

Next, reinforce the joinery with some 1⁄4” dowels by drilling 3 holes in from the perimeters through every joint. check with the drawings for layout – they're 1⁄4” from the ends, and will be equally spaced. the top grain can wish to blow out throughout this operation – there are some ways that to forestall that from happening. First, place some tape over the corner to bolster the fibers whereas drilling. Also, rigorously live and draw the lines wherever the dowels ought to be placed to avoid obtaining too near the perimeters of the boards. Lastly, confirm the drill is up to full speed before pushing down into the wood, or it'll tend to tear at the fibers rather than cutting them cleanly.

flush cut dowels Dowels. Keeping the holdfast long assures you’ll bottom out on every hole. once applying glue and sound it home, discontinue the surplus with a flush-cut saw.

After drilling all the holes, glue within the dowels. to create positive you've got the proper length of holdfast for every hole, keep the holdfast long and glue it in one hole at a time. place glue within the hole and on the top of the holdfast rod, then faucet the holdfast till it’s seated . With a flush-cut saw, flush the holdfast to the receptacle surface. Repeat the method for all the receptacle sides.

Get a Handle on that The top divider encompasses a tall handle, and therefore the middle divider encompasses a low handle that sits below its walls. From the drawing below, build full-sized templates for the 2 dividers and trace them onto the wood. Use a jigsaw or different applicable saw (such as a bowsaw or band saw) to rough the form.

Start the finger holds by drilling the outer holes, then drill many holes during a line between them. Place a killing piece of wood beneath to forestall drilling into your benchtop. Also, clamp the piece of work to the scrap once drilling – this can forestall blowout on the opposite facet of the workpiece because the bit exits the wood.

Chisel to your layout lines, removing the waste left from drilling. Chop concerning halfway into the work, then flip the board over and end the work. this can offer you higher results as a result of by acting from each side the rear side won’t blow out. File and sand to create the divider’s curves and finger holds swish and cozy to the bit.

To mount the dividers within the receptacle, notice the centers of the receptacle sides and, with the divider clamped in situ, drill 1⁄4” holes from the skin of the receptacle into the divider. Use 1⁄4” holdfast and glue to secure the divider. each dividers are pasted within the same manner.

Before you create the larger exterior handle, build the spring latches and handle stops. The spring latches are made of tongue depressors, that flex to secure the handle vertically. The stops are items of holdfast that forestall the handle from rotating too so much.

chisel out mortise

tongue depressor latch Spring latches. The mortises that hold the spring latches are pared with a chisel command at Associate in Nursing angle to make a ramp, that causes them to face proud. A depressor is simply the proper size and thickness, however any skinny piece of wood can work.

From the plans, lay out the lines for the spring latches on the highest tray’s sides and use a knife to attain deep lines to outline every latch’s mortise.

With a chisel, pare away the wood between the knife cuts at a gradual slope, in order that the mortise angles upward. confirm to check every latch as you chisel its slot – it ought to be proud enough to carry the handle back however straightforward enough to move so much enough to permit the handle to miss. Use glue and tiny brads to secure the spring latches in situ.

The handle stops are 3⁄8” dowels trained and affixed in situ. they must be put in in order that the handle stops vertically, once passing over the latches.

Now, whereas the glue for the spring latches and stops is drying, build the most handle. This handle is mounted to rock bottom receptacle by a nut and bolt through the arm and into the tray. the 2 arms of the handles on either facet are connected by a 3⁄4��� holdfast on top of the stacking trays.

Cut the arms to length and drill a 7⁄8“ hole a part of the manner through the underside of every arm. this can enable the bolt heads to sit down below the surface. On the identical centers, drill through the arms with a 3⁄8” bit, and drill a corresponding 3⁄8” hole into the perimeters on rock bottom receptacle.

Then drill a 3⁄4” hole all the manner through the highest of every arm, through that the 3⁄4” holdfast can pass to attach the 2 arms along. spherical over and swish the corners of the arms with a file or sandpaper.

Place a 1-1⁄2“-long x 1⁄4“-20 bolt and washer through the handle arm on either side. Sandwich another washer between the arms and therefore the sides of the receptacle, then a washer and nut on the within of the receptacle. The around the bend may need a bent to come back loose throughout use, therefore use Loctite on the bolts before threading the around the bend on.

apply loctite Hardware. Attach the handle with the 11⁄2″-long x 1⁄4″-20 bolts. I’m victimisation Loctite to stay the around the bend from loosening – once dry, it acts as a light glue, however may be reversed with some persuasion.

With the bolts tightened and in situ, assemble the stacking trays and move the most handle into place. Glue within the 3⁄4” holdfast for the most handle. Leave it a bit long at now.

With the holdfast in situ, however before the glue dries, build the ultimate changes on the handle. The arms ought to be bolted in situ by the spring latches however still ready to miss them once they’re depressed. regulate the clearance by moving the arms nearer or spreading them other than each other. Once the clearance is correct, let the glue dry, then cut the ends of the holdfast flush to the arms. A nail may be driven through the arm into the holdfast to additional reinforce the joint between the 2.

Lastly, sand and end the components. I used an easy oil/varnish mix – it applies simply with a rag and provides a soft lustre and a protecting end that isn’t too thick. the skinny film prevents the end from breaking or projecting once the trays are stacked along. PWM

Chad is that the host of the “I will Do That” video series, on the market at fasteninghouseatlantic.com