#george glass is not betrothed

[jdsquared]

Kiddushin 64b

[fictionadventurer]

It's so interesting to me that "the hero saves the damsel" in distress is pop culture's idea of a "traditional fairy tale", yet I can think of very few fairy tales that center around a hero rescuing a damsel in distress. There are several where he goes on quests for her sake--climb the glass hill to win her hand, or find the Water of Life to cure her illness--and plenty where she's a reward for success, but that's not the same thing as seeing the princess in trouble and heading out to save her from immediate danger. The closest ones I can think of are "Sleeping Beauty", and things like St. George and the Dragon. In "Snow White" he comes too late and saves her by accident. In "Rapunzel", he doesn't rescue her--he just keeps coming until he gets caught, and she winds up saving him. I suppose "Jorinda and Joringel" involves a man saving his betrothed, but "working for years as a shepherd until he gets the answer in a dream" is a much different structure than the "knight on a white horse saving the princess from a dragon" that we think of as the "tradtional" type of fairy tale. Meanwhile, I can think of several tales that involve a woman questing to save a man--"The Wild Swans", "East of the Sun, West of the Moon", "Tam Lin", "The Black Bull of Norroway", "The Snow Queen"--but this trope isn't nearly as commonly known.

So where does the "fairy tales are about men saving women in distress" come from? Is it a product of Victorian medieval romances--Ivanhoe and their ilk? Is it a trope from other classic tales? Because the gender balance of heroism is much more equal in traditional fairy tales, and it rarely takes the form of "noble prince riding to the rescue of the helpless maiden".

[imagine-that-one-thing]

The manuscript || Chapter One

This manuscript, previously known as Her Majesty, now titled The Glass Veil, represents countless hours of revision and transformation. Scenes and characters, along with their entwined plots, have been reshaped and refined. It's my hope that you, as a reader, derive as much joy from experiencing this story as I have found in crafting it.

In the opulent yet perilous corridors of the royal palace, a story of love, deceit, and power unfolds with Anastasia at its heart. Once a commoner, her sudden and secretive betrothal to Harry promised a fairy tale ending. But behind the gilded doors lies a web of intrigue. Her Father and Parliment, cunning and ambitious nobles, expose Anastasia's sanity as a strategic deception aimed at barring her ascent to power. As her coronation approaches, Anastasia finds herself ensnared in a political chess game with the throne and her life at stake. Each player is ruthless, each move more dangerous than the last. With her legitimacy questioned and enemies closing in, Anastasia must navigate the treacherous waters of royalty to prove her worth not just as a monarch but as a leader worthy of her people's loyalty. In this gripping tale of betrayal and survival, the line between ally and adversary blurs, and the crown's weight tests the bounds of love and loyalty. Will Anastasia rise to reign as queen, or will the machinations of those around her lead to her undoing?

Word count: 3,230

Master Link || Chat with me

•••

Two-hundred and nineteen thousand— That's how many hours it has taken to get to the inevitable dreaded moment— a moment of despair.

During my childhood, I spent countless hours exploring the vast gardens and hidden rooms of the magnificent manor. It was a world of endless wonder and excitement, for a kid, where every corner held a new adventure. The privilege of having the latest fashionable clothing and receiving a top-notch education added to the enchantment of my upbringing. An enchantment presumed by those looking in, an enchantment viewed to me as a disservice. By the age of five, I was already considered bilingual, a testament to the extraordinary opportunities that surrounded me. Growing up among influential individuals, including parliament members and future leaders, painted my world with shades of prestige and influence. As the seasons changed, so did our abode, and one of my fondest memories was residing in Hillsborough Castle, nestled in the picturesque County Down. The sprawling 100-acre gardens became my playground, where I would lose myself in nature's embrace. Even though my security team might have groaned at my endless playfulness, those moments of freedom and exploration shaped the essence of my childhood.

Picture this: a glorious manor with gardens that stretch as far as the eye can see. Every nook and cranny of those rooms held secrets waiting to be discovered. The secrets that those rooms hold are rarely spoken of, nor have they been fully disclosed. There are hidden nooks and crannies, stumbling upon forgotten artefacts and family secrets. Some rooms have secret passageways, concealed behind bookshelves or ornate tapestries. Others hold hidden compartments, revealing long-lost letters and intriguing history. The Palace is like stepping into a world of intrigue and adventure, where every corner whispers stories of the past, both good and bad. Secrets that slowly reveal themselves in the worst of lights.

Then there's Windsor Castle, established on an immense hill next to the River Thames, 20 miles west of London. My time spent at Windsor is normally during Easter, during Royal Ascot and the Order of the Garter in June, and during Christmas, depending on my parents ' schedules. Windsor is old, Windsor Castle is the oldest and largest inhabited castle in the world, to be quite frank, it creeps me out. There are over 10 royal monarchs buried in St. George's Chapel, which is located in the Lower Ward of the castle and it bothers me every time I have to stay there. There are dungeons at Windsor Castle that were used as bomb shelters during WWII. It's hard to believe there was a time when the empires were under attack and Windsor stood tall with its war chambers. Chambers that were also used for torture.

Everything is mapped out on the palace grounds, everything besides the war chambers. Not many people are aware of the chambers, only the King, Queen and security personnel know where they are. I know by default, a story I will not dive into right now.

The role of the chambers in facilitating torture has been neglected for centuries and overlooked by many. Torture was used to extract confessions from those accused of crimes years ago, they were also used as hostages to barter amongst other nobles. Torture was more highly organised and more widespread during the Spanish Inquisition times. Torture is what we are going through but in a more modern era.

Prisoners could be tied to chairs and cut or pierced with implements, they could be stretched on a rack or submerged in water, and some methods even included exposing a victim to the elements or making use of rats.

Despite the endless travel, the odd childhood perspectives, and the random knowledge of the castles I have collected over the years, things have been relatively tranquil and extraordinary-ish.

Up until now...

I am surrounded by members of royalty, including dukes, princes, princesses, duchesses, and baronesses. They have all gathered here at my mother and father's request, particularly my mother who enjoys hosting informal meetings in the palace. While many people find joy in hosting events, I am not one of them. I have been involved in hosting events since I was a child. I remember sneaking away from the maids and staff to peer over the stairs and admire everyone's beautiful attire. I used to dream of the day when I could be the centre of attention. However, now that I am in that position, I long for simpler times when I could run freely in the gardens without worrying about what hat was appropriate for each occasion. I know what is about to happen, I may be naive, but I know all too well how this is about to go. "Kensington Palace can now publicly announce additional details about the forthcoming tour of Belgium this spring. We now know that the tour will begin in April. The visit to Belgium will allow us to continue a relationship between two Royal Families by meeting The King and Queen. This tour, coming shortly will also allow, Princess Anastasia Annette, Duchess of Edinburgh, to begin her royal duties as soon to be, her Royal Highness, Queen of England."

And there it is, the epitome of a surprise welcoming to my reign.

I stare at my Father as he announces the plans for the next few weeks, plans that are about to change my life. By my father, the King of England, expressing his not directly worded and unknown, abdication means that I will be reining sooner than I had thought, sooner than I had wanted. I thought I had years to go. Most Kings rule until their deathbed. I stand statue-like, unaware of how it is deemed okay to announce the news without telling me first. It isn't even direct, I have to read between the lines to see what he is doing. I am sure they had to go through the Kensington Palace publicist to do this.

Then again, the King outranks everyone and can deem anything acceptable.

I hadn't intended to begin my royal duties so soon. I don't want the duties of Queen at all. I don't want to be Queen, I thought I made that relatively clear. My Father was misguided by my responses and unwilling nature to detour this moment with every moment possible.

Everyone has this impression that having a royal title is a blessing and an achievement everybody who isn't born into it desires. Every girl dreams of becoming a princess and wearing the tiara. Still, royalty isn't about carrying a crown and parading around in lovely gowns that cost more than the average apparel. Being born into royalty and not having a typically normal life, in my opinion, is more of a curse than a blessing.

As someone with a title, I've had to mature faster than most. My tea parties were not like those of other children; mine included teddy bears and a security guard keeping a close eye on me. I'm held to higher standards and there are days when I wish those expectations would lessen. I don't want to follow royal protocol for every occasion or ensure that my hair is perfectly brushed for the Queen's Sunday morning breakfast. I don't want to constantly be shadowed by a security team or use secret tunnels to move around the palace unnoticed. I never asked for my title, and while it comes with power, I don't want to be defined by it. Unfortunately, I have no choice but to represent the family name within the monarchy.

It would have been more considerate to inform me in another manner, but the king and queen felt this was appropriate. Sometimes, they forget that their roles as monarchs should not interfere with their duties as parents.

After my father's speech, the guests mingle and discuss various topics. I often overhear interesting conversations, but amidst the glamour and formality, it can be difficult to find genuine connections.

I smile graciously as my father and Uncle come towards me. For a moment, I think about travelling in the opposite direction, but I know I can't, it would be too informal and cause too much of a scene.

God forbid the princess ever makes a scene.

"Anastasia," my father grins, giving me his signalled glare that is a good indication that he wants me to stay and not run off like my thoughts want me to.

"Father," I respond courteously, my eyes side-eyeing towards my security guard who is observing intently as he stands with his back to the wall, his hands folded in front of him as he stands tall with nystagmic eyes. I swear his eyes never miss a beat.

"Princess Anastasia, it's an honour to see you again," Syrus smiles sarcastically.

Syrus isn't the typical Uncle who chased me around the fields and played hide and seek— Well, he did— But it was not accompanied by a doting uncle full of love for his niece. It was more hatred and disgust. His hide and seek included leaving me hidden in a storage room for an hour.

I hold back the heavy sigh that's desiring to escape my lips and I force myself to proffer him a genuine smile, "It's nice to see you." I lie through my teeth to save myself from having to listen to my father express his disappointment in me.

"I hear you're becoming Queen soon." He mutters bitterly.

"She is, and every Queen needs a King by her side." My Father presses.

"Actually—" I begin, but I stop when I see my father's eyes narrow to crinkled stilts and his lips purse into a fine line. I am forced to bite my tongue on my true thoughts, "Actually, every good Queen needs a well-fitted crown," I half-heartedly joke, attempting to recover from the fact I want to tell him a Queen doesn't require a King, it's merely just suggested a Queen has a King.

My Uncle chuckles, "I'm sure they'll see fit to your crowning needs." ... "I think you are doing fine to stay single."

"Mhm," I hum, unsure of what more to say.

I swallow hard the moment my father and Uncle walk away and I finally have a minute to breathe and process the things that have occurred.

I make my way around the crowd of individuals and wander out of the ballroom area, I must escape. If I flea now, I could probably leave the Palace before I am stopped. "Princess," I hear my name being called but I don't want to turn around and face the music. Damnit, he is always on my fucking heels. "Princess," the voice again summons and I can't help but disregard him.

"Princess Anastasia, stop right there," the tone of voice my bodyguard uses causes me to stop, and it's not out of fear or because of the fact he only has to say one word before the whole palace is in lockdown and I can't move. It's because I know that tone of voice anywhere, it's sincere and it's laced with nothing but concern.

I turn around on my heel as my bodyguard shifts his eyes around, "Where are you going?" He knows exactly where I am going— anywhere but here.

I lift my shoulders into a shrug. I don't have a destination— it is more so me hammering my heels against the marble flooring until I find some common ground where I can ultimately breathe again. "You know you can't roam the palace right now."

I don't think he understands I do not care about protocol and the boundaries inflicted upon me.

"Yes," I sigh, "I know the rules and the protocol and the safety precautions," I murmur with a heavy breath. Fuck the precautions. Fuck this monarchy.

His eyes relax, and he glimpses around to make sure we are alone before he clears his throat, "What's wrong?"

I inhale a deep breath and blow out slowly, "I can't talk about it here," I respond in a whisper, my eyes already beginning to gloss over as the rippling thoughts of everything hitting me all at once.

He nods and examines the area around us, "Come with me," he instructs, tenderly urging his hand to the small of my back before escorting me away.

We stay reserved as we walk a few halls and pass several doors to various quarters while he keeps his integrity and stays alert.

We stop at the all-so-familiar place of the balcony, and he opens the doors and enables me to step out before he is right behind me and closes the doors. "We aren't allowed here."

"Never stopped us before," he responds, "Everyone is down in the West Wing. This is the East, and there's a guard right below us. I'm trained, you know?"

I nod and chuckle, I am aware he is trained for a reason, the man is trained in the use of firearms and unarmed combat, advanced driving and emergency first aid as well as close protection basics; I have all faith in him. I shouldn't, but I do.

There's a reason he's my bodyguard, he's intelligent, he has swift reflexes and he knows every position of every security member in every residence of ours. Let's not forget I have seen him practising with the 9mm Glock 17 pistols— the man is more accurate than my father— and my father has quite the shot.

I take a moment to lean against the balcony railing, my gaze fixed on the gardens below. The moonlight dances on the petals of the flowers, casting a dreamlike shimmer. The tranquillity of the night envelops me for the first time, and I can't help but feel a sense of awe at the beauty that surrounds me. It's a scene that feels straight out of a fairy tale—- a fairytale that I don't want to be in.

"Congratulations on becoming Queen so soon." He is sarcastic and raises a brow, "Didn't know that was going to come up, did you? Thought I'd be told."

I shake my head, "No, I didn't. Thank you for your concern, I don't need your judgment, too."

There's too much involved with it. I don't think I can physically do this. It's easy for someone to say they want to be a Princess or a Queen because it's made out to be a glamorous lifestyle but it comes with harbouring a lot of stress and responsibilities.

I can't expect anyone to understand what's surging through my thoughts at the concept of reining a country. But I can expect him to be a little bit more understanding. We all knew the inevitable was coming,

"Anastasia, I will never fully understand this world, but—"

I cut Harry off, promptly, "There are no buts, Harry!" I raise my voice. "What do you think comes after he hands me the damn crown? A Queen who reigns alone? No. They don't want me to rule, they want to roll the stone and push me into silence."

Britain has had several monarchs through the centuries, though far more Kings than Queesn have ruled. There have been eight reigning Queens.

How many of them ruled without a King?

One. Elizabeth I, Queen of England and Ireland.

Harry grows withdrawn for a moment, his eyes fading to grey as he comes to realise just what I'm trying to tell him. Me becoming Queen abolishes mine and his relationship.

He's not royalty.

The monarch and the people wouldn't regard him as fit to be King, they don't regard me as fit to be Queen.

"Well, do you want me to propose now or later?" Harry questions in a joking way. His humour perhaps being the only thing to come to mind with this matter.

I roll my eyes, "You are not ready for that torture."

"You sure? I might have a torture kink," he responds cheekily and I shake my head.

It is over now. It was fun while it lasted.

"I guess this is where it ends," I heavily sigh, looking over at him with regret.

Regret is one hell of a hard pill to swallow. It sinks itself in the bottom of my heart, occasionally twisting like a knife, a grave reminder that wearing my heart on my sleeve and putting emotion over logic is tragic. I shouldn't have started this. I should have been wiser, and more diligent with my emotions and how I decided to spread them between us. I should have had more sense than drag him into something he cannot be accepted into.

Harry's hand falls to the small of my back, "Do I get a say in any of this?"

"No," I respond, holding back a small smile.

He chuckles, "You've lost your damn mind if you think I don't," he whispers in my ear quietly.

Before I can respond, his hand moves swiftly from its position on my back, and I feel his body shift. I glance over my shoulder to see my mother standing in the doorway, a martini glass in her hand. "Did I interrupt?" she mischievously smiles, gliding the olive off her toothpick with her teeth before indulging in the flavour of it. A stout vodka martini with an olive— her signature drink.

"Always," I respond with a smile. This woman is always lurking in the shadows, she sees everything and she knows everything— I am not fully convinced that she isn't aware of the fling between me and the security personnel.

She raises a brow before looking Harry up and down, "You're with me," she points towards him, "I don't like who's on my service. He keeps taking my drinks," she informs us.

"What makes you think I won't?" Harry questions.

"You're higher up in command, you're handsome— not stupid," my mother responds. "Chop-chop, I have a bartender waiting, and a crowd of people I need to pretend to like."

My mother is a quiet Queen consort. She is loved by everyone in the public, and she attends almost all events, but she chooses to stay quiet. She's the one who is usually sipping on gin or vodka in the corner, watching and observing. A lot of the time, dignitaries and higher-ranking officials choose to gravitate towards my father and me— they leave her alone— much to her liking, at least that is how it seems.

Why she remains so silent, I cannot say. She is a brilliant woman, one whose potential is vast enough to command a reign so formidable she would be feared across lands. Yet her quietude suggests a subtler strategy, a silence imposed not by her own choosing but by the machinations of those who fear her ascent to power.

"Come on, Princess, it's time to go back," Harry opens the door for me with a warming smile painting across his lips. He's cheerier than I am. "I'll burn this monarchy to the ground before I let it destroy us," he whispers just for us to hear. While he gets to watch my mother sip vodka and slither towards the back of the crowds undetectable by most, I get thrown into the lion's den, head first.

Will he really burn it down for me? I hope so. I would like to see it burn and end it all.

♔♔♔

[patiencetakestyme]

The Betrothal in the Brothel, Chapter 1

A/N: I took the weekend off, but I'm back! This is my third fic in a series of three.  You can find the links to the other two in my profile, “What She Deserves,” and “A Fair Price to Pay.”  But you do not need to read the other two to read this one; it stands on its own.  

I saw a post theorizing what it would look like when Lucy, Lockwood, and George started to lose their Talents and were forced to retire.  Needless to say, it prompted a question that left me contemplating an answer.  This fic is my answer to that question, and it's my final happy ending for the Locklyle I have maintained throughout this series.  I hope you enjoy reading it!

Lockwood was the first to lose it.  His eyesight faded, eventually becoming so poor that he required yearly eye exams and glasses.  

Next was George.  He barely noticed it at first; towards the end of his days as an agent, he spent far more time in the archives than he spent in a haunted house.  

Last, surprisingly, was Lucy.  It was surprising, given that she was actually the oldest of the three; the difference in their ages was only a matter of a few months—so few that they could be counted on two hands—but, still, it felt noteworthy, especially to George and his curiosity, which, of course, knew no bounds.  

It took time—years, even, after the debacle at Fittes.  The Problem had, theoretically, been fixed.  The barriers in place on the Other Side had been removed, by none other than the agents at Lockwood & Co.  Lockwood had not trusted anyone else to do the job and do it well, and Barnes, in his desperate need for help, was not in a position to object or make a counteroffer.

Being uniquely and singularly qualified—as the only living agents to travel to the Other Side previously and live to tell the tale—they had finished the work and had been compensated nicely for their efforts.  Ghosts, for the most part, were now free to pass on to whatever awaited them after death.  

However, just as it had been prior to Marissa Fittes actively attempting to use the Other Side to prolong her life, sometimes, ghosts simply chose to remain behind; while there were far fewer ghosts plaguing London in the time after the Problem, it was still, in some ways, a problem.  

They continued serving as agents for as long as they could.  Lockwood was twenty-five when his Talent completely disappeared, several years older than Kipps had been when he had already completely lost his Talent.  Lockwood was never one to hesitate to remind them all of that.  Still, he only chose to issue this reminder once he actually started openly admitting to the fact that he was losing his Talent.  

He started noticing it around the time of his twenty-fourth birthday, but he kept quiet on the matter for quite some time.  At first, he told himself that he couldn’t be certain that he was losing his Talent—that that was truly what was happening—but, while he wanted to categorize this as a misunderstanding, he knew enough to call it what it was:  willful ignorance.  

His whole life had been built around being an agent.  He literally couldn’t remember a time prior to picking up a rapier.  

And worse yet, his relationship with Lucy had been, thus far, nearly completely defined by their status as agents.  They had always worked together:  fought together, protected each other.  What would happen when he was no longer able to carry his weight?  

He feared the impact it would have upon their relationship.  They had been together since the days that had followed the debacle involving Marissa Fittes—idly, an internal reminder went off in the back of his mind; their seven-year anniversary was approaching, and he needed to do something about it—but was that likely to change once she knew the truth:  once she knew he had lost his value to her as an agent?  

He dreaded telling her, but, ultimately, she reacted as he—well, not as he expected her to, but as he should’ve expected her to.  

One evening, upon returning home to Portland Row after a case, he decided the time was right to tell her.  The house was quiet; George, Holly, and Kipps were still out on an assignment, Kipps equipped with the goggles Lockwood himself would soon require to successfully carry out his duties.  

There had been a close call on this given night.  He had sensed a ghost—he could’ve sworn he had been able to feel it—but he couldn’t, for the life of him, see it.  He could sense when it moved, but he could not see the actual glow of the thing.  It was horrifying; it was as if he were seeing a movie on a several second delay, and he was constantly stuck a handful of frames behind the rest of the audience.  

Lucy had very nearly paid the price.  The ghost cornered her, and it was only through the directive actions of her trained eyes that he was able to position himself to make a counterattack.  

It was time to tell her, and he knew it.  There could be no more avoiding the matter.  

“Luce,” he called out to her as she exited the attached bathroom.  She had been sharing the master bedroom—his parents’ old room—with him for quite some time.  He could hardly remember a time, now, that she hadn’t called this room home.  Like every other evening they spent together, she emerged from the bathroom dressed in her pajamas and ready for bed.  

He was already tucked in, under the comforter, waiting for her to join him.  Already, from the tilt of her head and the quirk of her eyebrow, he got the sense that Lucy had questions.  It was uncommon for him to be in bed before she even got out of the bathroom, unless, of course, he was in a bit of an emotional state, which happened from time to time:  when he thought back on all the hardships they had faced, when he thought back on all the family members he had lost, when he thought back on their time spent on the Other Side.  Really, there were a plethora of options, when it came to their trauma.  Still, he wasn’t one to dwell, and, even if he was in such a state, he wasn’t one to show it often.

So, she probably knew to be concerned.  But did she suspect what he had to tell her?  It was hard to hazard a guess; Lucy could be a tough one to read.  

“Yeah?” she asked, pulling the covers back and crawling into bed so that they lay facing each other.  

His eyes trained on her face.  He loved her so very much.  The last thing he wanted to do in the world was disappoint her, and he feared he was about to do just that, but there was simply no other choice:  he was losing his Talent, and she deserved to know.  

“I’m sorry about tonight,” he started, knowing that apologies always helped ease the awkwardness of a situation.  “I…I wasn’t there for you when you needed me.”  

“What are you talking about?” she asked, her smile tugging at the corners of her lips.  “You came through when I needed you.”  

“That’s not—it wasn’t—” he stuttered:  yet another action that was unlike him.  He released a deep breath and attempted to start again.  “I’m losing my Talent, Lucy.  I couldn’t see the ghost—not fully.  It was barely a shadow to me, and I couldn’t follow its movements to save my life—or yours, apparently.”  

Even he could hear it:  the self-deprecating nature of his tone.  He hated himself in that moment, and in a way he only allowed himself to express in Lucy’s presence, he let the full-force of that dislike push through.  He trusted her in a way he didn’t trust anyone else; he allowed himself to be honest in front of her in a way he didn’t in front of anyone else.  

“I know,” she answered, her eyes not stirring from his.  She didn’t seem worried or judgmental or even angry that he had waited to tell her; she, honestly, just seemed as if she wanted to take some of the burden off of his shoulders.  “I’ve been waiting for you to tell me.”

“How long have you known?” he asked.  Abruptly, he moved to elevate his head so that he could see her better; he brought a hand up to cradle his head and used his elbow to prop it up.  

“Since…” she trailed off, her eyes squinting, as she seemed to try to remember the specifics.  “Maybe the Brixton Banshee case?  Although, I’m still not happy with the paper for assigning that particular name to that particular case,” she meandered, her eyes coming back to his.  “Just because the ghost was a wailing woman, crying over the loss of her children, doesn’t mean she deserved to be called a banshee.”

“You’ve come so far, Luce,” he started, and even he could hear the irony in his tone.  “From your screaming match with Holly in Aickmere’s.”  

“I’ve grown, truly.”  She saw his bit of irony, and undeniably raised him.  “Anyway, you didn’t hear her, which isn’t exactly uncommon for you, but I noticed that you missed a few easy jabs at her with your rapier, which is uncommon for you.

“I don’t think I walked away from that case knowing you were losing your Talent.  I can’t pinpoint an exact moment when I felt that way, if I ever felt that way,” she continued, shaking her head.  “But I just remember being concerned about you—about whether you were maybe sick or off your game.  And then, one day, it just…clicked.”  She paused; her eyes found their focus, as she seemed to return to the present—to the conversation at hand.  “Can you see them at all anymore?”

He nodded, but he could admit that he felt a lump developing in his throat.  “It’s exactly as Kipps used to tell us:  I can sense them, but I can’t see them, and that’s somehow even more terrifying.”  Pausing, he worked to gather his thoughts; he knew he had more to say on the matter, but it was almost as if it were evading him.  Ultimately, he knew his issue:  he feared being brutally honest about it.  

His inability to see ghosts rendered him pretty useless as a leader.  Lockwood had always been their leader.  To face down not being their leader…  He wasn’t sure what his next steps should be, and that was utterly terrifying.  

“Luce,” he started again, his eyes coming back to focus on her.  Seeing her there, laying in front of him, in the bed they had shared for nearly seven years at this point, he started berating himself:  if he couldn’t be honest with her, who the hell could he be honest with?  “If I can’t see ghosts, I can’t be the leader.  I can’t lead us properly when we’re out on a job.  I can’t do anything.  My purpose, my entire life, has been about fighting ghosts.  If I can’t fight them, what am I to do now?”

She shrugged, her expression as casual as ever.  “Retire.”

“Retire?” he asked; his tone was dripping with indignation.  “Lucy, that’s—”

“I mean it,” she cut him off.  The lack of irony in her tone had him hesitating.  “We’ve worked hard, Lockwood.  We’ve done our fair share.”

He continued to hesitate.  There was an implicit conclusion to be drawn from her statement, but he was nearly afraid to ask for verification.  Knowing he had no other choice—he needed to know—he found his courage.  “We?”

She shrugged, again.  He found that he was beginning to hate the maneuver; it was far too casual to competently convey the complexities of the current conversation.  “I’ll retire with you,” she stated, as if it were obvious.  “I’m certainly not going out and looking for another agency to join.”

“Certainly, your loyalty to me has rendered you unwilling and unable to join another agency—” he started, with a fresh batch of irony.

“Oh, I suppose,” she interrupted, with a feigned and dramatic sigh, and he found himself marveling at just how well she was able to top him in packing a punch in a conversation.  “But truly,” she continued, imitating his posh accent—badly; at the very least, it appeared he was not the only one to struggle with mimicking accents.  “What if this hypothetical other agency employs a supervisor?”  She scrunched her nose and shook her head in distaste.

He laughed, temporarily unable to resist the pull of the conversation.  “Of course.  That would truly be the worst of fates,” he responded, doing his best to simply focus on her use of irony and neglect the fact that he had, on some level, been looking for some genuine promise of loyalty in this conversation.  

It was strange; he almost felt as if he had fallen ill.  His inability to see ghosts left him feeling vulnerable, and when he felt vulnerable, he locked things down; he wanted his friends—his family—nearby, closer than ever before.  He had been looking for a reassurance of her loyalty in this conversation, but he understood that Lucy, by nature, tended to avoid that sort of sentiment.  She would listen to him while he expressed his emotions, and she could even express her own on occasion, but she did tend to go for diffusion over compassion.  

He knew this, of course—knew her well enough to know to expect it.  But he could still lament the loss of that reassurance he so desperately needed.  Regardless, he had no choice; he would proceed with the conversation, because that was what he must do.  “And becoming a supervisor,” he carried on, trying to find his footing in this conversation once more.  “The next natural progression in our careers—”

“Isn’t something I’d even consider,” she finished for him.  “Sending kids into death traps, monitoring safely from a distance…” she shook her head, her eyes going out of focus, but only for a moment, as she visibly cringed.  “I could never do it.”  

He nodded, agreeing whole-heartedly.  

“Besides, to do either of those things, I’d have to leave Portland Row—leave during the day…or night, whatever—and go work somewhere else,” she started again, shrugging once more.  Her eyes ran to take in the whole of the room before coming back to meet his, which had snapped up to meet hers sharply.  Was it possible his dose of compassion was forthcoming after all?  “Leaving you and George?” she asked, with another shake of her head.  “I left once.  I’m never doing it again.  No, it isn’t in the cards for me.  So, yeah, if you’re ready to retire, I’m retiring too.”  

He didn’t know how Lucy managed it, but she always did come through in the end.  She’d lead him astray in a conversation, and he’d think he was done for—that he wasn’t going to hear just what he needed to hear, or that she wasn’t going to reach out and grab his hand at just the moment he needed it.  And, somehow, she’d come through at the eleventh hour; she’d say just the right thing and reach for him just at the right moment.

He knew, partially, that this evasive behavior was simply a product of her poor childhood.  She had never properly learned to experience and express her emotions.  He had no real room to talk in that area, but he did consider himself at least advanced in the awareness he had with his emotions.  It was expressing his emotions—particularly when it involved people other than Lucy—that was the bother for him.  Either way, they both had something to learn here, and they were both working on learning it—together.  

“We have the money,” he started again, mirroring her preferred method of expression in this conversation:  a shrug.  “Barnes paid well, considering we ended the Problem, and all.  And we’ve been quite frugal.  With all of our successes over the years, we have quite a bit saved up.”

“Enough to account for George’s monthly Arif’s budget?”

Lockwood winced.  “George may have to restrain himself, but only slightly.  After all, we’ll all have to make some changes.  That’s what one does when they retire.”  

He smiled, but it was false—misleading.  He spoke with confidence, with charm—as he always did.  But what did he know?  His parents had never lived to see retirement.  Hell, he had never anticipated living long enough to see retirement.  He was doing nothing if not playing a guessing game.  But, alas, did he ever do anything different?  As long as he appeared to have everything under control, he knew those around him would follow.  He had to keep strong—for them.  

“We will be fine,” he continued, as much for his benefit as for hers.  “If all else fails, we can always engage in some freelance work.  We do have the best Listener in the country, after all,” he continued, his irony returning to the conversation.

But she didn’t seem to be having it; she shook her head, the severity of the subject matter still clear upon her face.  “If you’re done, I’m done.  I’m not working without you.”  

He wouldn’t exactly say that he had been baiting her with his comment, but, if he had, and if it had been a test, she would have passed with flying colors.  

He loved her in that moment.  He loved her in a lot of moments—they were, after all, in love.  But especially in that moment, he loved her.  

[gratelove]

I Think I Love You

Peter (The Great) x Reader

I am on season 2 of The Great and I am so in love with Peter. So here’s a cute fluffy Peter fanfic I’ve been daydreaming about.

This is a long one

Warnings: fluff, sweet Peter, cursing, kissing

You were promised to Peter by your father, and since you’ve arrived you’ve been incredibly disappointed. You believe you can never love Peter. The night before your wedding everything changes, making you rethink what life will be like with Peter.

You were betrothed to Peter, the Emperor of Russia, by your father to end the war between your regions. You knew as it was your duty to follow through to save your people, as you were losing the war. Though you did not want to marry the Emperor, you must. You believed he was a cruel and violent man. You watched so many boys come home from war severely injured, missing limbs, or not even returning at all. You had a job to protect your people; to make sure sons, husbands, and fathers would be able to come home to their loved ones.

When you first stepped off the ship, the rocks of the shore crunched under your blue heels, and you were hit with the wonderful smell of the ocean and the trees. You may not be happy about your marriage, but at least Russia is breathtaking. You hoped that you could make a positive impact on its people and government.

You were taken to a carriage, and after a short and bumpy ride, you arrive at the palace. It is more luxurious than you could’ve imagined and you realize your mouth is left open in awe. A guard helps you out and leads you through the halls. Your heels click on the shiny marble floors and you see serfs cleaning up broken glass and fixing pieces of broken wall. You are told to wait in an empty room and the guard closes the large double doors behind you.

A few moments later a young gentleman in a wig walks in with several men following.

“Hello wife.” The young fellow grabs your shoulders and kisses your cheek.

“Hello. You must be Peter.” You curtsy.

“You are sweet. Our wedding will be in 2 weeks. Lots of planning. Must be on your best behavior to make sure I end the war. You French Fucks are losing after all.” You ball your hand into a fist. Be a lady. Control yourself. Do it for your people. You think all of this to yourself, and release your fist.

“I will be on my best behavior, husband.” You force a smile.

“Amazing. I think we’ll get along great. Huzzah.” He throws his hands in the air. “I shall leave you. Settle in and meet the ladies at court. You’ll love them. You can talk about the latest hats and throw balls on the lawn.” He gives you another quick peck on the cheek before exiting.

——

Later that evening your serf, Margaret, helps you dress in a beautiful, baby pink gown. You slip on matching heels and are directed down several flights of stairs and halls until you reach a magnificent ball room. The large doors open before you and present people in elegant attire dancing, laughing, and drinking.

“Ah wife!” Peter grabs your breasts and jiggles them in his hands. Disgusting. What am I? A bag of meat? “Tonight we drink, dance, eat, and later we fuck.”

“I thought we wouldn’t lie together until our wedding night?” You ask, hoping you can push off any sexual actions as long as possible.

“I’m the Emperor. I fuck who I want, when I want.”

“Actually, wise Emperor. Though you can do what you want, when you want. According to the church, you should be married before you lie with the Empress.” An old man with a long beard chimes in. Thank you old man.

“Shut up Archie. But, the Emperor must be one with God, so fine. I’ll just fuck George instead.” What a pig. Peter hands you a small glass, matching the one in his, and he swallows the drink in one swift head tilt. He then pushes your glass up. You smile and take the shot. The burn runs down your throat and you wince. Peter then grabs your hand and pulls you to the dance floor.

——

In what feels like hours of dancing, mingling with the ladies at court, and forced drinking, you have discovered that women cannot read, and are not allowed to. They don’t know what art or science is. They don’t know Voltaire. You have a lot of work to do here.

Finally supper is ready. You sit at a table with just Peter and you. The other members at court sit at tables on the sides, facing the head table. A large pig is laid out in front of you. You envy the pig right now.

“Before we eat, to my wife.” Peter stands from his chair and raises his glass. “To our marriage, to the end of the war, to lots of fucking, and to soon getting a little Peter. Huzzah!” He takes a shot and smashes his glass on the ground. The court follows his actions. “Huzzah!” In unison and the sound of glasses smashing crowd the dining hall.

“To ge-“

“You don’t talk. Sit. Look pretty, wife.” Peter interrupts your attempt at a speech. The more time you spend with him, the more you hate him. He’s rude, filthy, childish, and overall just a prick.

After dinner is done you immediately head to your room, wanting to escape Peter. His presence makes your blood boil. You make it to your room. Margaret helps you change and you are finally able to sleep, although not very well.

——

It’s been a week since you’ve been in Russia and it is incredibly dull. All the ladies ever want to do is roll balls on grass and wear their stupid wigs as hats. You had an outburst on Lady Svenska for whipping a serf in the hall for accidentally spilling a drink on her dress. You put an end to it immediately, and now hide in the library where no one will ever find you. No one comes here, and everyone hates you for defending a serf. The court believes they are property and not people.

You hear the door creak open and you shut your book. You peak around the side of a shelf to see Peter looking around.

“I know you’re in here.” You stand up and smooth out your dress.

“I’m here.”

“Grigor just told me that you yelled at Lady Svenska in front of all the other ladies at court. I told you you need to behave. Make friends with the ladies. You’ll only make your life harder. Besides, it’s a fucking serf. No need to get upset over a fucking serf.”

“They’re people too.”

“Not here. Serfs are property. You need to get used to the Russian way, or else you’ll never find happiness here.”

“I’ll never find happiness being married to you.” You spit. He has only sexualized and told you what to do since you’ve been here. He’s hasn’t asked one question about you. Hasn’t tried at all to get to know you.

“I have only been fucking nice to you. Besides, I am Emperor. I do what I please. You are only here to make my heirs. Think about your next moves, or I’ll bring you a French Fucks head for dinner.”

“You’re a prick.” As the words come out of your mouth, you know it’s a mistake. Peter’s face goes red and he grabs your wrist tight. “Let go of me!” You yell and try to shove his hand off. His grip gets tighter and as you try to push your heels into the ground to stop movement, he is much stronger than you. You lose your footing and fall to the floor, but Peter doesn’t stop. He continues to drag you down the hall by your wrist as you kick, scream, and squirm. You make it to your room and he picks you up and tosses you in there.

“You can stay in here until you decide to be a good fucking wife.” He slams the door as you run towards it.

“Let me out you fucker! I’ll fucking kill you! You can’t keep me trapped in here!” You yell and bang on the door.

“I’ll visit you tonight and see if you’re in a better fucking mood.”

“Peter! Dickhead!” There is silence and you know he is gone. You are locked in your room, with no books, no friends. You are completely alone. Only a quill, some paper, and your thoughts. Tears stream down your cheeks, and you decided to sit at your desk and write your heart out.

——

You awake, dry tears on your skin, your hair a mess. It’s dark outside and you raise yourself on your elbows to see a figure sitting at your desk. You rub your eyes and let them adjust. You realize it’s Peter sitting at your desk, reading all your angry thoughts.

“Peter?”

“Is this really what you think of me?” You try to recollect what you had written.

“Yes, from what I remember.”

“But everybody loves me. So there is obviously something wrong with you and not with me.”

“Or maybe everyone just pretends to love you.” You can see a hurt look on Peter’s face.

“Elizabeth told me that I have to make you love me.” You snort. You do like Elizabeth. She’s Peter’s aunt and she has been very kind to you since you arrived. She has told you a little of Peter and his parents. In a way you feel sorry for him. His parents sounded cruel, his mother more than his father. From what Elizabeth has told me, she hated Peter. “Why are you laughing? It is not a jape.” His eyebrows furrow in confusion.

“Peter, I could never love you.”

“Well, why not?” He stands and makes his way to your bed, sitting on the edge.

“Because you are heartless. You care not for others and only love yourself. I could never love a man as cruel and selfish as you.” You say honestly.

“What… Tell me something about yourself.”

“What?”

“In your writings, you say I know nothing about you. I have not gotten to know you. Tell me something.” You ponder for a moment.

“Back home, I had a Dutch Hound named Truffle. He was my best friend.” Peter’s eyes light up like a little boys, and it makes you smile for a moment.

“I have a dog Zeus! And truffle season is my favorite! Shaving it over bread and butter. It’s the deepest of autumn.” He looks off in the distance, remembering a past truffle season.

“My father used to take me every winter.” You smile at your own memory.

“Our love of truffles and dogs. We’ve found something in common. Huzzah.” He says, and I giggle.

“Huzzah. This does not make me love you.”

“You call me cruel, but you seem to have no love in your heart. Like I said, everyone loves me.”

“You dragged me down the hall by my wrist and locked me in a room like a prisoner. You haven’t gotten to know me, even an ounce, and you continue to talk about all the French you killed like it is a jape.”

“Killing French Fuckers is pretty funny.”

“Those are my people. What if I joked about murdering Russians?”

“They were happy to give their lives for me, for Russia. If you were a man you’d understand.” You roll your eyes in annoyance.

“That’s the other thing. You think woman are here to open their legs and close their mouths.”

“Because they are. The women in court know their place. You’ll learn yours soon enough.”

“That’s what you misunderstand. I will never learn my place.” You stare at one another and you feel tension rise.

“You’re fiery. It makes my cock rock hard.”

“The idea of your cock in me makes me wretch.”

“You have not seen or felt it yet. I am of massive cock. You will love it, as well as me.” Peter pats your leg and stands to leave.

“Am I free to go?” Peter’s hands are on the door knobs as he ponders for a moment.

“You do not love me yet. I’ll be back tomorrow. We shall have breakfast together.” He walks out the door and you hear the lock click. You throw yourself against your pillow, grabbing one and holding it over your face. You scream the loudest scream.

——

The next morning you wake and throw on your pink, silk robe. You tidy up the mess of papers on your desk. You wait for a small time until the door finally opens. You hurry to stand and Peter walks in. He has on a fur hat and his red and gold robe.

“Good morning wife. Sit.” He point to the chair across the small, circular table. A serf walks in, laying out fruits, bacon, eggs, and small cakes.

“Tea?” I nod my head to the serf and he pours some in my cup. I take a sip and close my eyes at the feeling of the warmth going down my throat.

“You are pretty. You look as if you were the sun itself.” I open my eyes to see Peter smiling at me.

“Why are you being nice to me?” I ask.

“Well we are to marry in 6 days. I must get you to love me.”

“Do you love me?”

“Well, you do make my cock hard, that’s for fucking sure.”

“Making your cock hard and your heart soft are two completely different things.” You raise your brows at him and put a strawberry in your mouth

“That is true. Tell me something about yourself.” Peter shovels eggs into his mouth.

“I’ve thought about killing you.” You smile at Peter and he begins to laugh.

“I’ve thought about killing you too. This is why we are perfect together. My father always said ‘if a woman tries to kill you, you’re in business.’ Deep down I know you love me.”

“Tell me about your parents.” Peter stops eating his breakfast and sits for a time in silence.

“Well, father was… great. He is Peter the Great. He was a wondrous fighter and fucker. Mother, she was cruel. She loved me, but Igor always used to tell me his mother was much better than mine. Elizabeth used to hold me and tuck me in, while mother-she…” his voice fades off and I see tears fighting to pour. In this moment he’s like a little boy who got his ball taken from him. He looks so innocent and sweet. I haven’t seen Peter like this since I arrived. Elizabeth told me his mother would lock him in a closet for days by himself. Little Peter would go mad in there all alone. He sniffles and I reach my hand out to lay it on his. I think this is the first time we’ve touched in an honest way. Not drunkenly being thrown around in a dance or groped in public. Peter looks at my hand and then at my eyes. We stare at each other for a long moment.

“Fuck.” Peter states.

“What is it?” I ask, removing my hand and putting it in my lap.

“I think I love you.”

“Peter, you’re sweet.” I smile at him.

“Do you love me?”

“No.”

“Breakfast is over.” Peter stands and heads for the door.

“Can I come out?”

“Will it make you love me?”

“No.”

“Then no. I’ll be back for dinner.”

——

It’s been 4 days of being locked in your room. The wedding is tomorrow and Peter comes and visits every day, two to three times a day. He professes his love every time, asking if you feel the same way. As the days have gone on, Peter has really tried to put in the effort to get to know you. He gave you some books, asks lots of questions about you, and has even tried writing you love letters. Though they are terrible and incredibly sexual, you do find them sweet and comical.

“We’re having pork belly and moose lips for dinner!” Peter squeals in excitement as he takes a seat at the table. You sit across from his and he takes your hand.

“You look lovely wife.” He raises your hand to his lips and kisses your fingers softly. “I have a surprise for you after dinner.”

“That’s very sweet. I can’t wait.” You nod. You go through dinner with some small talk about Peter’s day. He rants about Velementov losing the war with the Swedes and how annoying Orlo is.

After dinner he tells you to cover your eyes. You follow his instructions and wait.

“Open.” You open your eyes to see a brown Dutch Hound in his arms. He has silky hair and the sweetest brown eyes. You gasp and run to him, giggling.

“Truffle!” You squeal and grab your pup in your arms, showering him with kisses.

“I had him shipped all the way here from France.” A small tear runs down your cheek. “Fuck, you’re crying. Did I make you sad?” You sniffle and put Truffle on your bed.

“No. I mean, I do miss home, but this gives me tears of joy. Thank you Peter.” You hug him tightly. Your cheeks rest against his maroon velvet coat. He smells of trees and soap and you take in his scent. You’ve never smelled him before, but you love it. You also just now noticed the recognizable height difference. He is over six feet tall and as you lift your head to look up at him your met with his blue eyes. You’ve never noticed how bright and beautiful they are. They do sparkle. He is smiling down at you and you feel a tingle in your lower belly. You find yourself gravitating closer toward him until finally your lips are touching. His are so soft as they brush against yours.

You come to a realization of the moment and move yourself off of him. What am I doing?

“Are you okay?” Peter moves toward you and you back away, putting your hand out toward him.

“No. I-I need lots of rest for the big day tomorrow.” You need some time to think about what just happened.

“Y/N, I’d like-“

“Peter, please leave!” You say harshly, and louder than you meant to. Peter expression turns to a sad one. He grabs his wig and throws it on over his short brown hair, storming out of the room. You lay on your bed, staring at the canopy of gold cloth that hangs above you. You think about this kiss. You think about this past week, locked in this room with Peter. Locked in this room!

You shoot up and look at the door. You shove your feet in your slippers and run for the door. You slowly grab the knob, turning it. It’s unlocked. You laugh to yourself and shove it open, running down the hall. You make it down the stairs and push through the front doors. You take a deep breath of fresh air. You look up and stare at the moon and the stars. It’s beautiful out tonight. You’ve missed the fresh air. It’s only been a week, but it’s felt like an eternity. You start to run through the front lawn, letting the cold air flow threw your hair. You stop when you’re out of breath and sit in a bench in the garden.

“Y/N?” You look at the voice that called you and see Elizabeth pulling her garments up as a guard pulls himself out from her dress. “You may go.” She shoos him away. She comes and sit next to you on the bench. “I see Peter let you out.”

“Or forgot to lock the door.”

“I told him not to lock you in there. He does love you, you know. In his own, odd sort of way.”

“I know. He tells me daily.” She smiles at you.

“And how do you feel about him?”

“I’m not sure. I came here hating him. I imagined killing him in all honesty. He locked me in a room, said hurtful things about my people, and dragged me down a hall.” I stop and stare at my hands.

“But,” Elizabeth inquires.

“But, I kissed him.”

“Peter is a sweet boy. I know he is hard to love, but once you give him a chance, you see he is full of love. His mother was cruel, and he didn’t receive much as a child. I believe this is why it is hard for him to show love to others. Maybe you have seen this side of Peter not many get to see, and you have fallen in love with it.”

“But it feels wrong. I feel as if I am going against myself by letting myself love him.”

“How is it going against yourself if it is you that wants it?” I juggle her words in my head for a little.

“Maybe you’re right. You are a true friend.” You hug her.

“And you.” She agrees. You both stand and you head back into your room. You lay in your bed and dream of your wedding tomorrow and if you will decide if you love Peter or not.

——

The next morning you are awoke by Margaret throwing open your bedroom curtains. The light burns your eyes and you cover your face with a pillow.

“Good morning Empress. It’s the big day. We must get you ready.”

“Five more minutes Margaret.”

“Sorry Empress. We must get started.” You groan and throw your blanket off.

——

After several hours of getting your hair done and getting multiple layers of your gown on you finally slip your feet into your white heels.

“The final touch.” Margaret places a gold crown atop your head. It is littered with diamonds and shines in the sun that’s coming through the window. You look in the mirror and see your gorgeous wedding gown. The white silk glistens. “You look beautiful. It is almost time. Are you ready Empress?”

“I’m ready Margaret.” You nod and take a deep breath. You head down the hall until you reach the top of the stairs. At the bottom of the steps you see Peter in a blue velvet suit with gold accents, with his teal sash across his chest. His back is turned towards you and he does not realize you are there. You hear a small gasp from some women in the court and the Emperor turns around. His mouth falls open at the sight of you and he takes a deep breath. Your stomach fills with butterflies. He looks so handsome. You grab the sides of your dress and make your way down the stairs with elegance. You meet Peter at the bottom and he holds a hand out to you. You take it and smile.

“Empress.”

“Emperor.”

“You are breathtaking.” Peter whispers and you giggle.

“As are you.” Peter’s cheeks flush.

“Shall we get fucking married.”

“We shall.” You both turn toward the arch bishop and your ceremony begins.

——

“You may now kiss the Empress.” The arch bishop says. Peter grabs both your hands and leans in slowly. Your lips touch and you feel a spark you’ve never felt with Peter before. As the kiss ends you wish for more.

“Huzzah!” The whole court yells. Peter and you laugh.

“Let fucking party!” Peter shouts.

——

The rest of your evening is spent drinking, laughing, and dancing with your husband. You never thought you would feel this way for Peter, but feelings changed so quickly within a week. So quickly you are unsure of what happened.

“It’s now time to consummate the marriage.” Archie, the arch bishop, tells both of you. You tense a little. You’ve been thinking about this moment and have been terrified of the thought. You are a virgin, which is a requirement for women before they marry. Peter is definitely not a virgin. You have seen and heard him fuck Georgia in the halls. You hear her screams of pleasure and it makes you nervous. What if I am not as good as her? What is this makes him not love me?

Peter grabs your hand. “Let’s go, wife.” You are led to Peter’s bedroom, which you have never seen before. It is a large room with a massive bed. You turn around and Margaret unlaces your corset and pulls it off of your shoulders. “I got it from here.” Peter excuses her. You take a deep breath as Peter turns you around to face him. His fingers find the ties of your dress and pulls at the strings, loosening it around your shoulders. The top half of your dress falls down completely, and it’s about to expose your breasts before you catch it. “What is wrong?” Peter asks, concern in his eyes. “Does the thought of my cock still disgust you?” You chuckle and shake your head.

“No. No.” Is all you can say.

“Then what is it?”

“Peter, I-I’m nervous.” He brings his warm hand to your cheek and caresses your face. You lock eyes and he leans in to kiss you. Your lips meet and you feel those butterflies once again. You pull back for a moment.

“Y/N, stop resisting me. I know you love me. You kissed me last night.” His warm breath hits your cheeks, and you know he’s right. You find it so hard to admit it to yourself, but he’s right. Elizabeth is right.

“I do think I love you.” Peter smiles and it fills your heart with warmth. You reconnect your lips and feel lighter than you ever have before. You kiss for a what feels like so much time, yet no time at all.

“I love you, Y/N.”

[stelly38]

First Words Meme

Rules: post the first lines of your 10 most recent fanfics.

Not quite ten, but here we are.  The first of these is still being written.  Thanks to @nervousladytraveler for the prompt.  

1) The second the door claps shut behind him, Ross knows he’s overreacted.  The glass panes rattle in their wooden frames, and the sharp slam echoes off the closed doors up and down the hallway.  -The Initiate.

2) The dress lay crumpled on the floor in a heap, at the side of the bed where it had fallen the night before, when Ross loosened the ribbons that held it together, and the garment slid from her trembling frame.  -The Morning After

3) “I don’t like it, not one bit,” Jud slurred as he took a swig of rum from the bottle.  “She too big fer ‘er boots, she is. I says to Mast’ Ross that first day ‘ee brung ‘er here, she looked like trouble was a-brewin’ in that ‘ead o’ hers.”          -Interval

4) The pretty red head sitting at the computer squinted at the screen before clicking onto another page and scrolling to the bottom. She tapped her pen against her chin and scribbled something down in her notebook, then stood and stretched her tall, willowy frame. -Like Montana Sapphire

5) Ross and Dwight stood, talking quietly, at the foot of the bed where Demelza was tucked under the covers. It was a chilly November night, and candles chased shadows from the corners of the bedroom, and added to the warmth from the fire Ross had set.  -Nampara Autumn

6) Demelza stretched under the covers and opened her eyes to unfamiliar surroundings. It took her a moment to remember she was in London, in Ross’s apartment. The covers on his side of the bed were rumpled and there was a shallow depression in the mattress from where he’d slept.  -Number Six George Street

7) The coach bumped and lurched to a halt, jolting Ross awake. He didn’t know how long he’d been sleeping, but he heard the coachman dismount from above, and just then, the door opened, and the driver poked his head in, “Last stop, sir. This is Truro.”  -Gilded

8) Demelza jumped as Ross banged into the house through the kitchen door. She’d been sitting by the fire, doing some mending, when the door flew open with such force that it hit the wall before being slammed shut by her husband. It was fair to say he looked like he’d had a bad day.    -The Lesson

9) She heard the hoof beats before she saw him. Demelza was in the garden, cleaning up weeds and cutting herbs for the evening’s supper when she heard the horse approach. She stood up in time to see Ross ride through the gate of Nampara, and wondered why he was home so early. It wasn’t yet three o’clock. As he neared, she could see his arm was wrapped up and he was holding it gingerly.  -Bandages and Betrothal

[ominouspositivity-or-else]

Drop those book recs for lunar chronicles fans tho 😛

yes indeed i can!!!

The Princess of the Midnight Ball series by Jessica Day George. If you like the fairytale aspect of TLC, you're going to love these. The romance is wonderful, they're creative and brilliant adaptions of the stories, and I really really love them. The three books are titled Princess of the Midnight Ball, Princess of Glass, and Princess of the Silver Woods, and are retellings of The Twelve Dancing Princesses, Cinderella, and Little Red Riding Hood, respectively. The magic system is fantastic, the books are well written and developed well, there are knitting patterns in the back, it's just genuinely really fun to read these. Of these, my least favorite was Princess of the Silver Woods, by they were all memorably enjoyable.

If you want the more sci-fi fusion sort of book with darker twists and turns, I recommend Glitter and it's sequel Shatter, by Aprilynne Pike. They're fairly dark, but highly entertaining, and involve a very strange mix of Marie Antoinette's Versailles and LSD-like drugs called "Glitter" that the main character uses to try and deal her way to freedom. They're fast paced and definitely PG 14+. I don't remember? Any? Particularly spicy scenes? Then again, it's been a minute. Also, I was kind of dark as a young reader, so while this might have been right up my alley, it may not be your cup of tea.

Anything by Shannon Hale is going to be good, but The Book of a Thousand Days is one of my favorites by her. 10/10. It's about two girls locked in a tower for a thousand days, one of them is a lady and one is a servant. The lady is betrothed to a man she doesn't want to marry, so she and the servant switch places once they get out... and life is highly uncomfortable for the servant who is falling in love with the betrothed of the lady, and is y'know. Impersonating nobility.

I'm sure you've already had this recommended to you, but if you can stand the main characters, The Selection Series might be for you! It's got a lot of similar elements to the lunar chronicles, I suppose, definitely leaning more into the romance side than the political war, but it is my personal opinion that literally no book can ever match what the Lunar Chronicles was. It's a decent read. I didn't mind it, but then again, I can tolerate a lot of shenanigans from my protagonists.

If you'd like a more adult classic sort of recommendation, Future Home of the Living God by Louise Erdrich would be a fantastic adult read for TLC enjoyers. It's an apocalyptic novel about a world where pregnant women are slowly losing their ability to give birth to real babies, and the main character is pregnant.

Lmk if you'd like more recs! I have many books i could recommend. Sorry it took me so long to get to this!

[xkitcharmont]

♛┈⛧┈┈•༶      NEXT GEN FACTSHEET       ( created: oct 2022 )

featuring : JACQUELINE “JACQUI” CHARMONT ( aged 28 ), crown princess of ulstead, eldest daughter of king kit charmont

inspiration : hilary banks ( bel air ), regan crawford ( bachelorette ), drea ( do revenge ), marie antoinette ( marie antoinette 2006 ), regina george ( mean girls )

first impression : immediately, she’s too busy for you. she will judge you but she will talk to you. i hope u like being stepped on in heels :// but like lovingly :// mostly ://

( HER BIO CAN BE FOUND HERE ) ( CONNECTIONS BELOW! :3 )

GENERAL

full name. jacqueline constantina sahasra charmont preferred nickname. jacqui !! date of birth. 6 september age. 28 years old. gender. female. pronouns. she/her abilities. fencing, horse-riding

sexuality. bisexual. place of birth. ulstead, france. current residence.  ulstead.     occupation.  princess, queen-in-training.    education. walt university (age 20-25 yrs old)

APPEARANCE

height.   5 ft 4 in (162½ cm) hair colour/style. dark hair, cut just above her shoulders. eye colour. dark-brown piercings. ear piercings.         tattoos. little flowers drawn by her family (inner fore-arm), dragon on her upper-right thigh.      notable markings. n/a glasses/contacts? n/a       faceclaim. naomi scott.

PERSONALITY

tropes. the beautiful elite, city mouse, cool big sis, daddy’s girl, alpha bitch, the social expert positive traits. intelligent, fashionable, protective negative traits. calculating, cold, holds grudges usual mood. resting bitch face, but will talk to you *annoyed sigh* interests/likes. paris, history, sparkling things, pretty things, art, shopping, city-life, coffee, fashion, GOSSIP, being pampered, organisation, things going the way she planned them to, her family, independence, honesty dislikes. bullies, two-faced people, lying (excluding white lies she says herself oop), unexpected dirtiness, tardiness, people asking her why she’s not betrothed yet or dating or married bad habits. impulse-buying to make herself feel better (shopping therapy), drinking excessively during parties (but its all fuuuunn mostly)

RELATIONSHIPS

mother. ????????  father. kit charmont. siblings. marcel charmont, marguerite charmont. significant others. ??

friends. 

liam charmont : cousins ( fave cousin )

seth charmont : cousins

rosalie charmont : cousins

cosima charmont : cousins ( fave, eldest kids need to stick together )

odette charmont : cousins

basil charmont : cousins

tzeitel arnadalr : friends ( annoyance (affectionate) )

lachlan arnadalr : friends ( annoyance (derogatory), especially when with geri >:// )

caesar reyes : alexa play ‘mastermind’ by taylor swift ( she flirts, he plays along, one of them falls, both of them falls, it’s all unexpected, also bodyguard trope EEEEEEEEP )

dixie reyes : friends ( the princess mia to jacqui’s queen clarisse, the karen to jacqui’s regina george; dixie sees that jacqui has a warm heart under her cold exterior )

matteo hamato-seara : EX ( they dated for way too long and were so incompatible everyone was thankful they broke up ; now they annoy each other when they can )

TESTS

zodiac sign. virgo hogwarts house. gryffindor.

SKILLS & STATS

languages spoken.  english, french, ASL drive? yes. jump start a car? no. change a flat tire?  no.   ride a bicycle? yes. swim? yes. play an instrument? no, she said ‘dad i dont wanna ://’    play chess?  yes. braid hair? yes.      tie a tie? yes. pick a lock? yes. (royal liquor cabinet)     sew? no ew.

[ WANTED CONNECTIONS ]

FRIENDS, ENEMIES, EXES, LOVERS, LET’S GOOOO

jacqui spends most of her time in ulstead or paris, but she did complete her studies in walt university. she’s assumed to be quite judgmental and cold, easily annoyed. she’s the warmest to her family and family-friends, but takes a while to warm up. she’d be friends with anyone who isn’t intimidated by her and isn’t too annoying rip. like kit she feels lonely sometimes but is unsure how to get out of that. she doesn’t know how to be more likable, she doesn’t want to sacrifice her identity as a queen-to-be.  she would have had only maximum 2 long-term partners lmao, but perhaps there was a one-night stand here and there. she is also a bit of a flirt, but don’t expect anything.

[ao3feed-tywin]

The Old Words

read it on the AO3 at https://ift.tt/TSIPyhs

by megmeg654

Fighting between the Lannisters and the Starks lasted for many years after Roberts death, taking a toll on the men of the north- forcing the honorable Ned Stark to make the ultimate sacrifice… His daughter sold off to a Lanister bannermen. She was to marry the fearsome Hound, Sandor Clegane- Lord of Clegane’s Keep and Commander of an awe inspiring army… Move away to a foreign land and pray to any god that was listening to help her towards a safe and happy life.

Preview:

“Hungry, my Lord?” Sansa asked while pouring him a glass of dornish red. “Yes, wife.” He growled out, his dark mood irritated by her obvious question, “I see you’ve got all the greenboys eating out of the palm of your hand already…” Without acknowledging his tone, she continued to serve him a plate from the food she had asked the maids to leave out, “Well, from what I've heard they hardly know you, and besides…” Sansa shot him a wicked smile, “I've got a friendlier face, I ask for things with a smile- you grunt, and they go running…”

Words: 1325, Chapters: 1/?, Language: English

Fandoms: Game of Thrones (TV), A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin

Rating: Not Rated

Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings

Categories: F/M

Characters: Sandor Clegane, Sansa Stark, Ned Stark, Catelyn Tully Stark, Tywin Lannister, Arya Stark, Robb Stark, Bran Stark, Joffrey Baratheon, Gregor Clegane, Cersei Lannister, Rickon Stark

Relationships: Sandor Clegane/Sansa Stark

Additional Tags: Alternate Universe, Clegane Keep (A Song of Ice and Fire), Marriage, betrothal

read it on the AO3 at https://ift.tt/TSIPyhs

[sniperjade]

The Red King

Hermione looked over at the love of her life. King Ronald Weasley, the first of his name, standing next to his new husband King Draco Malfoy of France. They were both handsome, regal and possessed of a dazzling smile. It filled her with hatred to the point of bursting.

Curse Ron’s stupid warmongering older brothers. They tore the Kingdom apart. King Bill Weasley the first, falling for a Veela whore, bringing strife to the lands when he refused to honour the treaties made with other Kingdoms. Charlie stood steadfastly by his side, but Fred and George rode out to fill the lands with battle cries and blood. When the dust settled the only ones that were left were Ronald and Ginevra.

It was the saddest moment of her life when he came to her in the garden. His lips were full of empty words and his eyes gleamed with promises. She knew their love was doomed from that moment forward. He was betrothed to the King of France. An alliance of great strength. The French army was capable of protecting English lands from the traitorous hands of the Prewetts. They needed to be strong even though they were weakened by civil war. It was inevitable. It was necessary, and she hated it all the same.

The two Kings turned and offered each other their wine glasses. She clenched her fist as she watched them look deeply into each other eyes, and sip from each other’s cups. When the goblets fell, red wine wet on their lips, King Draco leant in to lick the liquid off Ronald’s lips. Hermione clenched her teeth with rage.

continue on Ao3:

This is my first Dron! I haven't tried this pair before but it was a lot of fun. Since my favourite theme is angst they were a no-brainer really. I wrote it for the Dumbledore's Armada Flashcomp and it won most Outstanding Drama and tied for Best Commercial and Best Limited Series.

[isadomna]

If time and the partisan bitterness of a revolution have dulled the memory of Catherine’s relations to her poor commons, they have also almost obliterated the traces of what was perhaps the most important service of all her peaceful years as Queen: her encouragement of the new learning, and fostering care for the classical Renaissance in England, so short-lived. Her patronage of learning was not ostentatious, and much of it was bestowed indirectly, through her husband.- Garrett Mattingly, Catherine Of Aragon

The Horenbout was a family of Flemish artists who gained international acclaim during the late 15th and first half of the 16th centuries. The patriarch Gheraert rose to become court painter to Margaret of Austria, regent of the Netherlands. It is convenient to remember that Margaret was one of the most recognized artistic promoters of the period and her bond with Catherine of Aragon was always close and of mutual collaboration.

Gheraert trained three of his six children in his Ghent workshop, two of whom, Susanna and Lucas, went on to have successful careers at the English court. The family specialised in manuscript illumination and were pioneers of the miniature portrait. In 1522, at Henry VIII’s invitation, the Horenbouts arrived in England and set up a workshop, where they produced portrait miniatures, royal portraits, designs for glass, tapestries and ecclesiastical vestments, and manuscript illuminations deifying the Tudors.

There are references to Queen Catherine's work as promoter of commissions such as illuminated prayer books and evidence that Catherine commissioned works to Susanna and Lucas Horenbout. Upon her arrival in England, Susanna was assigned to the household of Catherine of Aragon where missing chamber records make it impossible to know her original title or wages. Both Susanna and Lucas were creating miniatures for the king and queen as early as June 1522 when the miniature of Princess Mary at the age of six was painted to celebrate her betrothal to Charles V. All this points to a relationship of artistic promotion of the queen with these artists and, specifically, with the first woman Renaissance painter in the Tudor court. Evidence shows that Henry’s first queen, as with his later ones, presented small portraits of herself to members of her chamber.

The Horenbouts undertook was a deep understanding of diplomacy and the ability to work for competing factions at court while keeping above the political fray. Susanna Horenbout was producing illuminations for Wolsey and Catherine of Aragon while her brother and her father were chosen to create public statements of authority for Anne Boleyn.

Susanna seems to have embarked on a project for Cardinal Wolsey, the illuminations for the EpistleLectionary and Gospel-Lectionary commissioned between 1528 and 1529. These years at the end of his life were particularly fraught ones for the cardinal, who was caught in the crosshairs of the king’s efforts to force the papacy to agree to an annulment of his marriage with Catherine of Aragon. And on folio 40 r of the EpistleLectionary, tucked into a crowd of the Blessed, flanking the pope wearing a blue cope decorated with Brears’ ringed-pellet design, are the personal portraits on the left of Wolsey, supported by St. Lawrence, patron of the church in Ipswich where he was baptized, and the king, supported by St. George, together with Catherine of Aragon in a red gown standing next to St. Barbara, patron saint of Aragon, on the right.

Sources:

Susan E. James, The Horenbout family workshop at the Tudor court, 1522–1541: Collaboration, patronage and production.

Emma Luisa Cahill Marrón, Catalina de Aragón (1485-1536), del análisis biográfico a la promoción cultural y artística: un estado de la cuestión

[honeyapplepi]

The Knight’s Court

warnings: none

royalty au, in game au,

> As soon to be ruler of their kingdom, Y/N L/N is newly appointed with knights to protect them. Y/N quickly comes to find out it’s hard to fall in love with someone you’re not supposed to especially when you’re betrothed to another.

a/n: I’ve already written the first couple parts so those will be coming out in the next couple days, but after that I don’t really have a schedule.

sapnap x gn!reader, wilbur x gn!reader (later on)

masterlist | part two

You were standing on your balcony looking out onto the kingdom. It was getting late, so dinner would be soon. Your servant, George would come in any minute to tell you. You were slightly nervous since your father told you he had an important thing to discuss. With your coronation coming up in a month it was most likely to discuss that. As much as you loved being royalty, which truly you did, you were nervous about becoming ruler.

The neighboring kingdom, L’Manberg had a new king, and people were beginning to compare his rule to your father’s. Maybe that’s what he wanted to talk about. You didn’t have much more time to think before George came in.

“Y/N, dinner is about to be served,” George said. As your servant, he was supposed to call you “your majesty”, but you didn’t like it since the two of you were actually close. You just nodded and muttered a thank you before quickly going to wash your hands.

After you were finished getting ready, you walked down the staircase and into the dining hall of the castle. Your father was sitting at the head of the table waiting for you. Once you sat down the servants put down plates of salad in front of you and your father.

“What did you want to talk about?,” you asked. You weren’t trying to be impatient, but you were very curious about what it was.

“We’ll talk about it afterwards,” your father answered. You now wanted to rush your entire meal, but you knew that would do no good as your father had to be finished too.

You ate your salad as you usually wood. The servants bringing in your main course, steak, after both you and your father were done with your appetizer. Once you were both done the servants quickly picked up the plates and took them back to the kitchen. They didn’t come back and your father quietly told the butler to leave for a moment.

“Y/N, as you know, your coronation is coming up soon, and with a new rule in L’Manberg who knows what could happen. That is why i’ve hired two knights to be your guards until at least a month after your coronation,” your father said. It wasn’t as bad as what you thought, but you were still very confused by the news.

“What does L’Manberg’s new king have to do with my coronation?,” you asked.

“Well, I’m quite worried. Their king has only been ruling for a month or two now and there are already rumors about him wanting to take our kingdom,” your father said. Your father quickly started speaking again when he noticed the worried look on your face.

“Now, don’t worry. We don’t know if these sources are credible, but just to be safe,” you nodded at your father’s words. Surely the rumors couldn’t be true. The new king was the old king’s son and the old king wanted nothing but peace between the two kingdoms.

“They will be arriving tomorrow afternoon and I expect you to greet them with me at 7pm sharp. I’m also going to be giving you a new curfew. Now, you’ll have to be home by 9pm,” your father continued.

It had been thirty minutes since you left the dining hall. Now you were laying on your bed with George explaining the conversation you had earlier.

“You really had no idea?,” you asked him. Most the time news travelled through the castle quickly.

“Nope. Well, I heard something about the possibility of new guards, but nothing about them being for you,” George told you.

“Did your dad tell you anything about them. They might be cute,” George said.

“No, he didn’t, and I doubt it. They’re probably, I don’t know, thirty year old men,” you answered George. The likelihood of your guards being cute or even your age was very slim.

“Well, we’ll find out tomorrow. Anyways, it’s getting late I better be going to bed,” George said sitting up. You gave him a look before looking at your clock.

“It’s only 9:46,” you told him.

“I need my beauty sleep,” George answered before standing up from your bed and leaving.

You rolled your eyes before saying a goodnight to George. A few minutes after George’s leave you went to un-light all your lanterns besides the one on your bedside table. Before lying back down on your bed you closed your glass doors that led out to your balcony.

The idea of having guards following you around was a little weird. Your father had a pretty chill reign. The servants were allowed to call you by your name, and the only guards were at the front door. You were hoping that whoever the guards were were chill. You really didn’t boring stoic people just following you around all day.

The whole idea of needing guards was kind of scary. Especially because of what your dad had said. You didn’t know too much about L’Manberg’s new king. His name was Wilbur, and apparently you would play with him and his brother Technoblade when you were around 6, but you don’t really remember anything.

No offense to your kingdom, but you couldn’t really see the desire in wanting it. It wasn’t the highest in economy, and it didn’t have a lot of weapons or an army. It wasn’t even that big. You decided to un-light your last lit lantern and go to sleep not wanting your worry to ruin your sleep schedule. 

The next morning your servants woke you up as usual and helped you get ready. Once you were ready you made your way to the dining hall for breakfast. Your father was already seated and waiting for you, and almost as soon as you sat down a plate of food was sat on the table in front of you.

“Any plans for today?,” your father asked which was slightly suspicious since breakfast was usually silent.

“Niki and I plan to have picnic later. That’s about it,” you said before going to take a bite of your food.

“Hmm, well be safe,” your father told you. You responded with a nod.

Once you were finished with breakfast you left the dining hall and went back to your room. You had awhile before you would go to meet Niki and decided to read to pass the time. After a few hours passed, you readied a basket and went to meet Niki at her bakery.

[teddy06writes]

Through Thick And Thin

requested by this anon: “If you are still doing requests, could you maybe do a royal AU of a Knight! Awesamdude x royalty reader? Thanks!” 

Awesamdude x reader

trigger warnings: some swearing, mentioned character death

premise: royalty au; you are heir to the throne of the dream smp lands, Sam is the knight who has been sworn to protect you. When L’manburg, a rising power begins to attack, Sam stays by your side, even as the kingdom falls

{also I did my best to keep this gender neutral, but it might’ve ended up leaning for feminine, sorry about that}

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Do you take one lump or two?” You forced a polite smile onto your face. 

“Two, with lemon, not milk,” Bad said, “Try not to look so bored, you may be able to pull a smile on your face, but your eyes wandering about this room betray you.” 

Etiquette lessons were something you had finished long ago, but your mother had arranged for a brush up, seeing as the ambassadors of L’manburg would be arriving Wednesday. 

You nodded, quietly filling his tea cup with what he requested, and sliding it across the table too him. 

“Now, serve the tea cakes.” Bad instructed. 

As you cut the sponge cake into pieces you let your eyes drift again, look to where Sam stood beside the door. 

He bit back a smile, scrunching his nose at you. 

It took all your willpower not to giggle, regaining composer as you passed the plate across the table. 

~~

“I just think its stupid shit,” You said, tapping the toe of your shoe against the gravel path, “I already know how to poor tea and address nobles.” 

Sam chuckled, looking around the garden, “I suppose you do, but brushing up on those things never hurts.” 

“I did my time learning tea and titles, and dances and all that. I don’t see why I should have to do it any more. You should help me sneak out of lessons.” 

He laughed again, “I don’t know if I can partake in helping you get out of your duties.” 

“You used too.” You fake pouted, moving to sit on one of the benches lining the path.

“Yes well that was before, this is now. I’m not a stable boy any longer. We both have different duties to attend to.” He said, turning to look at you. 

You frowned, “I thought your duties were to protect me.” 

“They are.” 

“Then you’d have to go with me if,,, say I snuck away to go down to the shore tomorrow. Where we used to go in the summer.” You grinned cheekily. 

“Yes, I would have to,” He admitted begrudgingly, “But, considering you have to handle preparations for the ambassadors stay, I would be forced to suggest waiting till after they leave on Friday.” 

You chuckled, “I like the way you think.” 

~~

The morning of the ambassadors arrival came all too quickly, and you woke early, carefully dressing. 

There was a knock on the door, around 9:30, to which you sighed, “Come in.” 

Sam appeared in the door, holding a glass box, “His highness says you must wear this.” 

You look wearily at the small crown he was holding, then back at him, “You’re joking me.” 

He shook his head, “Dream insisted.” 

“Oh for XD’s sake.” you muttered, taking the box, and moving to set it atop your desk.

Slowly you extracted the crown, setting it gently atop your hair, adjusting it slightly in the mirror before turning to Sam, “How’s it look?” 

“Heavy.” He laughed. 

“Oh shut up,” You grumbled, moving past him into the corridor, “How long until the ambassador arrives?” 

“Half an hour or so.” He reported.

~~ Negotiations had began the moment Wilbur Soot and his cabinet members walked in the door, hardly leaving any time for introductions. 

You sat uncomfortably in your chair, these men were not like the ones you were expecting to be meeting. 

They were loud, harsh, and in the young blonde boys case, quite rude.

“Simply put, we don’t want to start a fight if we don’t have to, with you or any of the other neighboring  kingdoms.” Wilbur finished. 

Dream crossed his arms, looking at the treaty that had been placed in front of him, “You want our land?” 

“No, we only want a small piece of your land, just the farms that are technically within L’manburg’s borders,” The young Lord Tubbo clarified, “The original treaty clearly designates them to us.” 

“With all due respect, Mr. President, His Highness never agreed to the original terms.” Bad pointed out. 

George nodded, “Your nation has grown separately, never attached to us, the farms have never been yours.” 

Dream couldn’t help but chuckle as he cocked his head, “Your here for something else, aren’t you?” 

Wilbur sighed, “Yes, I suppose we are. Well, gentlemen, I should come clean. I come here seeking power. Something to put me at an advantage. I came here to ask for (y/n)’s hand in marriage.” 

“Excuse me?” You snapped, eyes wide. 

“You heard me. I wish to make you my betrothed, lord knows its the most you could accomplish in a life time.” He repeated, something malicious in his voice. 

The Dream SMP’s side of the table grew very tense. 

“I reject your proposal,” You stared him dead in the eye, “I would never marry a man like you.” 

Before anyone else could speak, you stood, “Perhaps you’ll work out a different arrangement. If you’ll excuse me.” 

With that you gracefully glided out of the room, loyal knight on your heels. 

It wasn’t until you reached the safety of the farthest garden from the castle that you felt like you could breath again. 

“I’ll kill him,” Sam muttered, pacing along the path, “No one speaks to you like that and gets away with it.” 

You sank onto a bench, pulling the crown from your head and running your hands through your hair, “He’s vile! The whole lot of them are!” 

“They’ll never get away with this. Everyone knows you’re mi-” He stopped himself, shaking his head. 

“Why, for a moment did it look like Dream was actually considering it?” You muttered, tears springing into the corners of your eyes. 

Sam quickly sat beside you, taking your hands, “Hey, I won’t let it happen. You’re- you belong here.... with me.” 

You looked up at him, with wide eyes, “Sam- you really mean that? With you? Truly you’d allow it?” 

Practically the whole palace staff had known since you’d first met Sam that you’d fallen for him. It had seemed like you were always destined to be together. 

“Yes, if you would.” 

You nodded, resting your forehead against his, “I would.” 

For a moment, the world seemed right. 

For a moment, nothing was wrong. 

For a moment, it seemed like there was a chance. 

Until a loud explosion rang through the castle, ripping through the tranquil morning.

Distantly you could hear screams of pain, yells of triumph and fights breaking out. 

Sam quickly stood, turning to the castle, where all the other guards seemed to be running too. 

“Sam...” 

Your shaky voice broke him from his almost trance, “What wrong dove?” 

“Sam they all had gladiolus flowers on there lapels. They all- the all had gladiolus on there lapels.” 

How you hadn’t realized it before you weren’t sure. 

“What?” 

“Gladiolus means ready- or armed.” You said quietly.

Sam stared at you for a moment, before someone else entered the garden, “You really shouldn’t have turned down that proposal (y/n)!” 

“Run!” Sam yelled, grabbing your hand to pull you along with him. 

You ran blindly with him, down the paths and toward the back of the garden. 

Sam pushed you toward the gap in the hedge, “Go! Down by the shore, where we used to go in the summer. Go! I’ll be there as soon as I can, lock yourself inside, and only open up for me.” 

You barley had time to think before he shoved you through the hedge, turning and drawing his sword to face Wilbur. 

~~ You stumbled along the path, you were almost there- almost there- almost to the abandoned light house. 

The sounds of fighting faded behind you as you tripped once more, picking yourself up and going even faster as the sea came into view. 

You threw yourself against the lighthouse door to get it to open, quickly closing it behind you and locking the door. 

You leaned against it, struggling to catch your breath. 

After a moment, your eyes adjusted to the light, and you looked around at the dusty space. 

When you were young, this had been Sam and yours special place, somewhere to avoid lessons. 

The only servant who’d known about it had helped you move furniture out there long ago, and the space seemed semi inhabitable. 

You fumbled to light a lamp, then found your way to a cabinet, looking for a cloth, or rag to clean with. 

Soon you were busying yourself with fixing the place up, desperately trying to ignore the fact that Sam was taking a very long time to get there. 

Once you finished the first floor you climbed the stone steps to the next, and began working there. 

Night had nearly fallen when you heard a rough knock at the door. 

Armed with a small paring knife you’d found in the old kitchen you crept to the door, peaking out the small window to check who it was. 

Quickly you unlocked the door, throwing it open and pulling Sam inside, “Holy shit Sam you had me so worried!” 

He grunted, moving to sit at the table you had turned upright, as you locked the door again. 

“Are you hurt at all?” 

He shook his head, “Just tired, I came the long way, to make sure no one was following. Are you alright?” 

You sighed with relief, “I’ll be okay, long as your here.” 

Sam smiled, “I’ll be here through thick and thin.” 

[butterflies-dragons]

"Happy families are all alike; every unhappy family is unhappy in its own way." This is the very first line of Anna Karenina by Leo Tolstoy and GRRM is very aware of these words; so far he has mentioned it in reference of Sansa Stark and Jon Snow:

Arya was one of the first characters created. Sansa came about as a total opposite b/c too many of the Stark family members were getting along and families aren’t like that. Thus, Sansa was created; he ended by saying they have deep issues to work out. [Source]

An interesting question was “Why are there so many sons who are unloved by their fathers, like Sam, Jon, Tyrion and Theon?” I watched George’s reaction carefully (I was sitting close to him) and he did not take issue with the assumption that Jon Snow is part of the “unloved sons” (obviously the dynamic talked about is Jon/Eddard, not Rhaegar). He nodded at the question and said that he does not have the full quote with him, but the great Russian writer Tolstoy once said that happy families are boring  - this was followed by a big round of applause cause every Russian knows this quote very well (the quote by Tolstoy is: All happy families are alike; each unhappy family is unhappy in its own way. [Source]

And recently I found another similarity with Tolstoy's work and Sansa.

In spite of the obvious differences, Sansa Stark, the betrothed of the Crown Prince Joffrey Baratheon, showing her evident crush and concern about Ser Loras Tyrell's safety during the Hand's Tourney, reminds me of Anna Karenina making evident her illicit affair with Count Vronsky in front of everyone, her husband Alexey Alexandrovitch Karenin included, during the races:

She flew over the ditch as though not noticing it. She flew over it like a bird; but at the same instant Vronsky, to his horror, felt that he had failed to keep up with the mare’s pace, that he had, he did not know how, made a fearful, unpardonable mistake, in recovering his seat in the saddle. All at once his position had shifted and he knew that something awful had happened. He could not yet make out what had happened, when the white legs of a chestnut horse flashed by close to him, and Mahotin passed at a swift gallop. Vronsky was touching the ground with one foot, and his mare was sinking on that foot. He just had time to free his leg when she fell on one side, gasping painfully, and, making vain efforts to rise with her delicate, soaking neck, she fluttered on the ground at his feet like a shot bird. The clumsy movement made by Vronsky had broken her back. But that he only knew much later. At that moment he knew only that Mahotin had flown swiftly by, while he stood staggering alone on the muddy, motionless ground, and Frou-Frou lay gasping before him, bending her head back and gazing at him with her exquisite eyes. Still unable to realize what had happened, Vronsky tugged at his mare’s reins. Again she struggled all over like a fish, and her shoulders setting the saddle heaving, she rose on her front legs but unable to lift her back, she quivered all over and again fell on her side. With a face hideous with passion, his lower jaw trembling, and his cheeks white, Vronsky kicked her with his heel in the stomach and again fell to tugging at the rein. She did not stir, but thrusting her nose into the ground, she simply gazed at her master with her speaking eyes.

“A—a—a!” groaned Vronsky, clutching at his head. “Ah! what have I done!” he cried. “The race lost! And my fault! shameful, unpardonable! And the poor darling, ruined mare! Ah! what have I done!”

—Anna Karenina, Part Two, Chapter 25 - Leo Tolstoy

Everyone was loudly expressing disapprobation, everyone was repeating a phrase someone had uttered—“The lions and gladiators will be the next thing,” and everyone was feeling horrified; so that when Vronsky fell to the ground, and Anna moaned aloud, there was nothing very out of the way in it. But afterwards a change came over Anna’s face which really was beyond decorum. She utterly lost her head. She began fluttering like a caged bird, at one moment would have got up and moved away, at the next turned to Betsy.

“Let us go, let us go!” she said.

But Betsy did not hear her. She was bending down, talking to a general who had come up to her.

Alexey Alexandrovitch went up to Anna and courteously offered her his arm.

“Let us go, if you like,” he said in French, but Anna was listening to the general and did not notice her husband.

“He’s broken his leg too, so they say,” the general was saying. “This is beyond everything.”

Without answering her husband, Anna lifted her opera-glass and gazed towards the place where Vronsky had fallen; but it was so far off, and there was such a crowd of people about it, that she could make out nothing. She laid down the opera-glass, and would have moved away, but at that moment an officer galloped up and made some announcement to the Tsar. Anna craned forward, listening.

“Stiva! Stiva!” she cried to her brother.

But her brother did not hear her. Again she would have moved away.

“Once more I offer you my arm if you want to be going,” said Alexey Alexandrovitch, reaching towards her hand.

She drew back from him with aversion, and without looking in his face answered:

“No, no, let me be, I’ll stay.”

She saw now that from the place of Vronsky’s accident an officer was running across the course towards the pavilion. Betsy waved her handkerchief to him. The officer brought the news that the rider was not killed, but the horse had broken its back.

On hearing this Anna sat down hurriedly, and hid her face in her fan. Alexey Alexandrovitch saw that she was weeping, and could not control her tears, nor even the sobs that were shaking her bosom. Alexey Alexandrovitch stood so as to screen her, giving her time to recover herself.

“For the third time I offer you my arm,” he said to her after a little time, turning to her. Anna gazed at him and did not know what to say. Princess Betsy came to her rescue.

“No, Alexey Alexandrovitch; I brought Anna and I promised to take her home,” put in Betsy.

“Excuse me, princess,” he said, smiling courteously but looking her very firmly in the face, “but I see that Anna’s not very well, and I wish her to come home with me.”

Anna looked about her in a frightened way, got up submissively, and laid her hand on her husband’s arm.

“I’ll send to him and find out, and let you know,” Betsy whispered to her.

—Anna Karenina, Part Two, Chapter 29 - Leo Tolstoy

* * *

When the Knight of Flowers made his entrance, a murmur ran through the crowd, and he heard Sansa’s fervent whisper, “Oh, he’s so beautiful.” Ser Loras Tyrell was slender as a reed, dressed in a suit of fabulous silver armor polished to a blinding sheen and filigreed with twining black vines and tiny blue forget-me-nots. The commons realized in the same instant as Ned that the blue of the flowers came from sapphires; a gasp went up from a thousand throats. Across the boy’s shoulders his cloak hung heavy. It was woven of forget-me-nots, real ones, hundreds of fresh blooms sewn to a heavy woolen cape.

“His courser was as slim as her rider, a beautiful grey mare, built for speed. Ser Gregor’s huge stallion trumpeted as he caught her scent. The boy from Highgarden did something with his legs, and his horse pranced sideways, nimble as a dancer. Sansa clutched at his arm. “Father, don’t let Ser Gregor hurt him,” she said. Ned saw she was wearing the rose that Ser Loras had given her yesterday. Jory had told him about that as well.

“These are tourney lances,” he told his daughter. “They make them to splinter on impact, so no one is hurt.” Yet he remembered the dead boy in the cart with his cloak of crescent moons, and the words were raw in his throat.

(...) Gregor Clegane killed the horse with a single blow of such ferocity that it half severed the animal’s neck. Cheers turned to shrieks in a heartbeat. The stallion went to its knees, screaming as it died. By then Gregor was striding down the lists toward Ser Loras Tyrell, his bloody sword clutched in his fist. “Stop him!” Ned shouted, but his words were lost in the roar. Everyone else was yelling as well, and Sansa was crying.

—A Game of Thrones - Eddard VII

This similarity could be nothing of course, but I can't help myself finding Sansa in everything I read, like it happened with Eugénie Grandet by Honoré de Balzac.

Also Count Vronsky's mare Frou-Frou, somehow reminds me of Lady.

[salazarslytherin]

happy days (f.w x gn!y/n)

requested: nope! send in your own requests here!

summary: in which fred takes y/n on a special date

cw/tw: like maybe 0.5% angst, 99.5% fluff

word count: 2.9k

🃛 masterlist!

a/n: i'm pretty sure reader is gender neutral in this one! i made sure not to use any pronouns or prominent mentions to y/n's body or anything. i really hope y'all like it, i don't really ever write fluff so i hope it's good! please leave a comment, like or reblog to help boost xx

“Jump!”

“What?! Are you insa-”

⚔︎.

It was probably a bad idea to be doing this. Actually, it was most definitely a bad idea to be doing this. But when has a ‘bad’ idea ever deterred the infamous Fred Weasley? In fact, the thought of anyone calling one of his ideas ‘bad’ just spelt encouragement in Fred’s mind.

You’d learnt that lesson two months into meeting the Weasley twins, and it’s only engrained itself in your mind further since. There’s never been a point to try to dissuade Fred, it’s best to just go along and hope the ride isn’t too bumpy along the way. After dating Fred, these bad ideas had expanded themselves to different categories- risky places to be intimate, weird ways to cheer you up with confessions of love, and dangerously stupid dates.

The last category was where today’s bad idea landed.

⚔︎.

Three days ago, Fred had the “most ingenious, marvellous, uniquely exciting date idea Hogwarts has ever seen!” He’d disappeared in the middle of lunch, dragging George along with him, mumbling to himself, “I can’t believe I didn’t think of this sooner!”, leaving you confused, sat alone in the Great Hall.

“Where are they going?”

Harry, Ron and Hermione popped up behind you, seating themselves down in the twins’ now deserted seats.

“I have absolutely no clue.”

⚔︎.

That’s how you found yourself here, two days later. A Saturday, you were all set to go on a Hogsmeade trip with some of your Ravenclaw friends when Fred ambushed you. Popping up out of a closet and scaring the living lights out of you, he dragged you behind him, laughing as you shouted at him.

“Freddie! What are you doing? I’m supposed to go meet Renee and the others right now!”

Regardless of the fact that Fred was making you miss plans you’d already made, you were beaming from ear to ear.

“Georgie’s already told ‘em you can’t make it. Now hurry up

This being your OWLs year, you’d hardly had the time to see Fred this term, busy studying while he went off doing whatever it was he did when you weren’t around. Being a year younger meant he had already studied everything you’d studied, and while he offered to help you a lot, you’d rather he go have fun than sit around revising old material with you.

Combined with the Triwizard Tournament and the fact that the twins saw this as the golden opportunity to sell products to customers other than Hogwarts student, you’d only had three dates in the almost three months since school had started.

“Where in the name of Merlin are you bringing me, Fred!”

“You’ll see soon enough darling!”

⚔︎.

Soon enough turned out to be ten minutes later, the two of you panting as you’d finally made it all the way across to the other side of the castle and up the stairs to the Astronomy Tower.

The sun was shining brightly down upon the two of you, the tall windows welcoming the late November winds into the room. A chest sat next to one of the ledges, Fred finally letting go of your hand for the first time in ten minutes, reaching down to open it.

He took a piece of cloth out, closing the chest before you could sneak a peek at the contents, tucking the wooden box under his arm.

“Is this the brilliant date idea you were talking about the other day? I’m not going to lie to you Freddie, cloth doesn’t really scream ingenious to me. In fact, it seems like you brought me up here to clean.”

Raising your eyebrows at the ginger, you gestured at the fabric in his hand as he laughed at you, stepping up onto the ledge.

“Fred? What’re you doing?!”

The boy turned towards you, holding out a hand.

“Come up here.”

Your eyes widened.

“No! Are you insane?”

Fred’s hand faltered a bit, arm relaxing against his body as he looked into your eyes.

“Do you trust me?”

Silent, you stepped up next to Fred, clinging onto his hip and arm, knees shaking slightly at the height you were at.

“I trust you with my life.”

Adjusting the chest under his arm, Fred pulled you into his embrace.

“That’s good to hear. Because it’s time.”

He looked down, dropping the piece of cloth, before tilting your head up to look at him, stepping one foot off the ledge and into the skies.

“Jump!”

“What?! Are you insa-”

You were cut off by screams erupting from your mouth as the ground disappeared below you- Fred pulling you with him, laughter bubbling from his chest.

“Oh my God, I’m going to die-”

You reached the ground a lot quicker than you’d thought possible, your eyes squeezed shut, bracing for the imminent death that would come.

Instead, you felt a weird, soft surface, almost like a water bed, rippling under you as you landed on your knees.

“Am I in heaven?”

Your eyes opened slowly, eyes meeting the clouds around you, only for a shadow to cover the sights surrounding you.

“No, but I think I am.”

A kiss landed on your lips as you fell back on the odd surface, Fred falling on top of you.

The kiss was short and sweet, but quickly forgotten as you remembered what had happened moments prior, hitting Fred on the chest as you took in your surroundings.

The surface you had landed on wasn’t a surface at all- in fact it was, a rug? It looked eerily similar to the cloth Fred had thrown off the tower earlier, only, about thirty times bigger, and flying.

You looked at Fred, confused. The tall ginger boy beamed back at you, gesturing grandly.

“Welcome, to your very own magic carpet ride!”

⚔︎.

After lecturing Fred on how incredibly dangerous the start of the date had been, you finally had the chance to process the reality of the date.

“Where are we going, then, on this magic carpet ride?”

The boy hummed, pulling out blankets and a pillow from the, now enlarged, chest, spreading them around the carpet that was hovering near the tip of the Astronomy Tower, awaiting further instruction from the two of you.

“Well first, I was thinking we could stop by Hogsmeade to get some snacks, maybe buy some of the Christmas gifts you wanted to go get today, then we’re flying off to explore Scotland! Well, the part of Scotland we’re in, anyways. Just for a few hours, then we’ll be back to watch the sunset.”

He looked at you for approval, which you granted with a wide smile.

“That sounds beautiful Fred.”

⚔︎.

Walking around Hogsmeade, Fred had shrunk the rug and tucked it into his pocket, the chest shrunk even smaller than it had been the first time you’d seen it.

“Alright, so I think you’ve gotten enough sugar quills to last you a lifetime. Where to next?”

Chewing on a sugar quill, you scrunched your nose in his direction, pulling him into the quaint little jewellery shop you liked to frequent.

The little old lady who owned the place was one you’d become acquainted with over the past five years, Mrs Kingston never minded that you rarely bought anything, understanding that most of her second-hand jewellery was still quite pricey for a student to afford.

Still, you tried your best to save up and buy the pieces you really liked. Recently, you’d been eyeing a necklace, a simple Celtic knot on a thin chain that shone brightly no matter how much light lit up the room. Mrs Kingston explained to you it was an old betrothal necklace, oft seen in pureblood families back in the Victorian era. It’s now seen worn by a lot of the heirs of these old families- in fact, you’d spotted Draco wearing an heirloom similar to it.

“Mrs Kingston!”

“Hello y/n, how are you?”

Fred nodded at the woman as he shuffled around the shop, looking in the display cabinets with vague interest whilst the two of you made small talk.

Your eyes wandered the familiar glass cabinet, landing on the soft velvet that was empty of the familiar Celtic knot, furrowed brows returning to meet Mrs Kingston's clouded eyes.

“The necklace!”

The woman nodded sadly, looking just as dejected as you felt.

“I'm sorry dearie. A boy came in a while ago to buy it. Might've been one of the ones you came with a few weeks back.”

Your head hung low, muttering out a soft 'oh' as she explained to you, nodding in response.

“It's okay Mrs Kingston. I'll see if there's something else I'd like to save up for instead. Thanks, see you next time!”

Thinking back to the last Hogsmeade trip when you'd come down to the shop, your heart lifted a bit, a smile returning to your face as you turned to face Fred.

“Alright, let's head to the bookstore.”

⚔︎.

The ginger's hand clutched yours tightly, the two of you cuddling under the thick blanket as you flew around mountains, pointing out animals, both magical and non-magical, that you'd seen around the place.

Fred looked at you quizzically. Since leaving Mrs Kingston's, you had seemingly forgotten the necklace. Even more, it seemed like you'd gotten happier since finding out someone had gotten the necklace. During the lunch you two had gotten at the Three Broomsticks, the both of you finding Madam Puddifoot's a bit nauseating, you were practically bouncing on your heels as you spoke to some of your friends about the upcoming Christmas celebrations.

“I thought you'd be more upset that the necklace is gone, I remember you talking about how much you liked it last time.”

You shrugged, a wider smile gracing your lips as you looked at him, nuzzling further into his chest.

“I love it! That's why I'm so happy Cedric got it for me. ”

Fred halted, pushing you away from him.

“I-, what! Why would Diggory be getting you a betrothal necklace?!”

You looked up at your boyfriend, furrowing your brows at his outburst.

“What! You know Ced's one of my best friends. Remember when we came to the shop a few weeks back? You, George and Lee were goofing around and then just bolted while I was telling Ced about the necklace. I guess he just came back to get it for me.”

Fred huffed, rolling his eyes as he heard you talk about Cedric, pulling away from you more.

“How could you be this blind!”

You looked at Fred, a bit hurt that he'd lost his temper at you for no reason.

“Why are you getting so worked up over this? It's not like he's proposing to me!”

The boy scoffed, throwing his hands up into the air.

“Well, it's clear that he'd do it without a thought! The boy's in love with you! That's the only reason why anyone would get you something that expensive!”

You laughed frigidly, shaking your head at how irrational your boyfriend was being, pushing the blanket off of you to move away from him.

“What, he can't just have gotten me the necklace because I'm a good friend? Merlin Fred, he's the only one who's actually been with me to go see the necklace, and is the only one who would logically know to get me the necklace.”

You turned to look him in the eye, your jaw clenching as he turned red.

“Besides, Cedric knows me best.”

Fred let out a frustrated 'ugh!', and grabbed the wooden chest that he'd charmed to stay in one corner, grumbling under his breath.

“You think Diggory's the one who knows you best? You think that he's the only one that could have gotten you the bloody necklace?”

A velvet box was brandished from somewhere deep in the chest, Fred propping it open to reveal a dazzling silver necklace, reflecting the afternoon sun into your eyes.

“The. I don't understand. But how?”

Fred snapped the box shut, moving to kneel in front of you.

“As I said just now, I know you best.”

He popped open the box again, this time moving to remove the necklace from the velvet, lifting it fully into the sunlight.

“I was listening when you were talking to Diggory, and even though I'd run away that day, I knew exactly what you wanted.”

He shuffled behind you, unclasping the necklace to bring it around your front.

“I said that he's in love with you, which I still think is true, by the way, and that's the reason why he would have possibly gotten it for you, is because I love you, and that's why I got it for you.”

The chain clipped around your neck, the cool metal contrasting your warm skin as Fred leaned down to press a kiss above the clasp, sending a shiver down your spine.

“Freddie, I had no idea.”

You spun around to face your boyfriend, pressing a deep kiss to his lips, hands landing on his neck to pull him impossibly closer to yourself.

“Clearly. I had this whole plan! All foiled by your cluelessness. I was going to wait until sunset, with the scenery all around us, then surprise you with it and ask you to be my date to the Yule Ball!”

You looked at Fred, your mouth falling open in shock.

“But you just had to bring up Cedric, and how he 'knows you best'. Maybe you should go with him to the Ball.”

You chuckled at the childishness of the Weasley boy in front of you, the pout framing his lips deepening as you laughed at him.

“Well then maybe you should go with Angie, I'm sure she'd be happy to have you.”

Fred gasped loudly, shocked at the audacity of you bringing up his old crush.

“Don't you even dare suggest that.”

⚔︎.

“How did you think of all this?”

The boy shrugged, opening the chest, to pull out a thermos. You were sat above the Black Lake, watching the setting sun on the horizon ahead, red bleeding into orange and blue.

“Honestly, I’m ashamed it took me so long. Remember this summer when you had me ‘round your place and we watched Aladdin with your parents?”

You nodded, fluffing the pillows to make yourself more comfortable, the setting sun casting shadows on the Weasley boy, making him look even more handsome than usual, if that was even possible.

“At that time, I’d already thought that the magic carpet seemed awfully similar to a broom. Then, that day at lunch some firstie was humming that one song they sang when flying the blasted thing, and I thought, blimey! Why didn’t I think to just recreate the bloody thing! So, here we are.”

While talking, Fred spread the thick blanket to cover more of you, pouring hot chocolate out of the thermos he’d brought into mugs that he’d gotten without you knowing, both shaped in little hearts.

“D’you, um, d’you like it?”

Handing the pink mug to you, a sheen of red descended on your boyfriend’s cheeks, not just from the cold, but also fear and embarrassment, scared you didn’t like the date he’d spent the last three days planning.

“I love it!”

You leaned forward, planting a soft kiss on Fred’s lips, leaving traces of cocoa on them.

“But I didn’t love the part where you made me think I was plunging sixty feet to my death!”

The boy groaned playfully, lying back onto the carpet with his head hanging over the edge.

“I know! I’m sorry! I just thought it’d be exciting! A nice surprise! Besides, did you really think I’d let my lovely little Y/N die? I need you around darling.”

You scoffed, sipping on the hot cocoa as you stared at the Astronomy Tower in the distance, your first and now, final destination of the day, a hand creeping towards Fred’s to hold it in a tight grip, unconsciously afraid he’d fall.

“I don’t know! Maybe this was your ultimate prank! Bring us both to heaven to fight God or something.”

Now it was Fred’s turn to scoff, sitting back up to shove his hands under the blanket, squeezing your hand in return.

“First off, if I ever fought God I’d need George there with me. I don’t think that just the two of us could take him. Secondly,”

Fred cupped your chin with his free hand, bringing you in for a deep kiss, catching you by surprise as you braced yourself on his shoulder with your free hand. His tongue teased your lower lip, making a moan slip out while his tongue entered your mouth. Exploring each other, your entangled hands fell apart- his coming to grasp your neck, bringing you closer to him, yours gripping his hip, drawing circles on the bone.

After what seemed like an hour, but also felt like seconds, the two of you fell apart, breathless as you panted, staring into each other’s eyes.

“I don’t think either of us are making it to heaven darling. Think we’re condemned to hell forever, you and I.”

You looked into his coffee coloured eyes, pupils dilated as he scanned your face, his favourite pastime, memorising every crevice and pore. Your hand found its way to the necklace sitting around your neck, fingering the knot that symbolised eternity in your hands.

“Well if I’m going to burn in hell for an eternity, then I’m glad I’ll be burning with you Freddie.”

[leahmovedagain]

Apparently HBO has a documentary about the unaired pilot and most of the cast and grrm commented about what was wrong with it and George said that he didn't like the Dany/Drogo bedding scene in episode one because in his books is not rape because Dany consented the act. I mean is he aware she's a 13 old girl with grow man???

Yeah I’d like to beat him with a stick for saying it was consensual. Just because she was flushed and her heart was pounding (aka her body responding to his touches), she didn’t want to marry him or consummate the marriage at all.

What’s confusing for me is that grrm makes it very very clear in Daenerys first two chapters that 1) she’s terrified of drogo 2) doesn’t want to marry him and 3) that this is not a simple betrothal, but she’s being sold to her new husband.

Dany could hear the singing of the red priests as they lit their night fires and the shouts of ragged children playing games beyond the walls of the estate. For a moment she wished she could be out there with them, barefoot and breathless and dressed in tatters, with no past and no future and no feast to attend at Khal Drogo’s manse.

[...]

The old woman washed her long, silver-pale hair and gently combed out the snags, all in silence. The girl scrubbed her back and her feet and told her how lucky she was. “Drogo is so rich that even his slaves wear golden collars. A hundred thousand men ride in his khalasar, and his palace in Vaes Dothrak has two hundred rooms and doors of solid silver.” There was more like that, so much more, what a handsome man the khal was, so tall and fierce, fearless in battle, the best rider ever to mount a horse, a demon archer. Daenerys said nothing. She had always assumed that she would wed Viserys when she came of age. For centuries the Targaryens had married brother to sister, since Aegon the Conqueror had taken his sisters to bride. The line must be kept pure, Viserys had told her a thousand times; theirs was the kingsblood, the golden blood of old Valyria, the blood of the dragon. Dragons did not mate with the beasts of the field, and Targaryens did not mingle their blood with that of lesser men. Yet now Viserys schemed to sell her to a stranger, a barbarian.

When she was clean, the slaves helped her from the water and toweled her dry. The girl brushed her hair until it shone like molten silver, while the old woman anointed her with the spiceflower perfume of the Dothraki plains, a dab on each wrist, behind her ears, on the tips of her breasts, and one last one, cool on her lips, down there between her legs. They dressed her in the wisps that Magister Illyrio had sent up, and then the gown, a deep plum silk to bring out the violet in her eyes. The girl slid the gilded sandals onto her feet, while the old woman fixed the tiara in her hair, and slid golden bracelets crusted with amethysts around her wrists. Last of all came the collar, a heavy golden torc emblazoned with ancient Valyrian glyphs.

“Now you look all a princess,” the girl said breathlessly when they were done. Dany glanced at her image in the silvered looking glass that Illyrio had so thoughtfully provided. A princess, she thought, but she remembered what the girl had said, how Khal Drogo was so rich even his slaves wore golden collars. She felt a sudden chill, and gooseflesh pimpled her bare arms.

[...]

“She’s too skinny,” Viserys said. His hair, the same silver-blond as hers, had been pulled back tightly behind his head and fastened with a dragonbone brooch. It was a severe look that emphasized the hard, gaunt lines of his face. He rested his hand on the hilt of the sword that Illyrio had lent him, and said, “Are you sure that Khal Drogo likes his women this young?”

“She has had her blood. She is old enough for the khal,” Illyrio told him, not for the first time. “Look at her. That silver-gold hair, those purple eyes … she is the blood of old Valyria, no doubt, no doubt … and highborn, daughter of the old king, sister to the new, she cannot fail to entrance our Drogo.” When he released her hand, Daenerys found herself trembling.

[...]

She was still looking at this strange man from the homeland she had never known when Magister Illyrio placed a moist hand on her bare shoulder. “Over there, sweet princess,” he whispered, “there is the khal himself.”

Dany wanted to run and hide, but her brother was looking at her, and if she displeased him she knew she would wake the dragon. Anxiously, she turned and looked at the man Viserys hoped would ask to wed her before the night was done.

[...]

Dany looked at Khal Drogo. His face was hard and cruel, his eyes as cold and dark as onyx. Her brother hurt her sometimes, when she woke the dragon, but he did not frighten her the way this man frightened her. “I don’t want to be his queen,” she heard herself say in a small, thin voice. “Please, please, Viserys, I don’t want to, I want to go home.”

“Home!” He kept his voice low, but she could hear the fury in his tone. “How are we to go home, sweet sister? They took our home from us!” He drew her into the shadows, out of sight, his fingers digging into her skin. “How are we to go home?” he repeated, meaning King’s Landing, and Dragonstone, and all the realm they had lost.

Dany had only meant their rooms in Illyrio’s estate, no true home surely, though all they had, but her brother did not want to hear that. There was no home there for him. Even the big house with the red door had not been home for him. His fingers dug hard into her arm, demanding an answer. “I don’t know …” she said at last, her voice breaking. Tears welled in her eyes.

“I do,” he said sharply. “We go home with an army, sweet sister. With Khal Drogo’s army, that is how we go home. And if you must wed him and bed him for that, you will.” He smiled at her. “I’d let his whole khalasar fuck you if need be, sweet sister, all forty thousand men, and their horses too if that was what it took to get my army. Be grateful it is only Drogo. In time you may even learn to like him. Now dry your eyes. Illyrio is bringing him over, and he will not see you crying.”

Dany turned and saw that it was true. Magister Illyrio, all smiles and bows, was escorting Khal Drogo over to where they stood. She brushed away unfallen tears with the back of her hand.

“Smile,” Viserys whispered nervously, his hand falling to the hilt of his sword. “And stand up straight. Let him see that you have breasts. Gods know, you have little enough as is.”

Daenerys smiled, and stood up straight.

[...]

Daenerys Targaryen wed Khal Drogo with fear and barbaric splendor in a field beyond the walls of Pentos, for the Dothraki believed that all things of importance in a man’s life must be done beneath the open sky.

[...]

Yet that night she dreamt of one. Viserys was hitting her, hurting her. She was naked, clumsy with fear. She ran from him, but her body seemed thick and ungainly. He struck her again. She stumbled and fell. “You woke the dragon,” he screamed as he kicked her. “You woke the dragon, you woke the dragon.” Her thighs were slick with blood. She closed her eyes and whimpered. As if in answer, there was a hideous ripping sound and the crackling of some great fire. When she looked again, Viserys was gone, great columns of flame rose all around, and in the midst of them was the dragon. It turned its great head slowly. When its molten eyes found hers, she woke, shaking and covered with a fine sheen of sweat. She had never been so afraid……until the day of her wedding came at last.

[...]

Dany had never felt so alone as she did seated in the midst of that vast horde. Her brother had told her to smile, and so she smiled until her face ached and the tears came unbidden to her eyes. She did her best to hide them, knowing how angry Viserys would be if he saw her crying, terrified of how Khal Drogo might react. Food was brought to her, steaming joints of meat and thick black sausages and Dothraki blood pies, and later fruits and sweetgrass stews and delicate pastries from the kitchens of Pentos, but she waved it all away. Her stomach was a roil, and she knew she could keep none of it down.

There was no one to talk to. Khal Drogo shouted commands and jests down to his bloodriders, and laughed at their replies, but he scarcely glanced at Dany beside him. They had no common language. Dothraki was incomprehensible to her, and the khal knew only a few words of the bastard Valyrian of the Free Cities, and none at all of the Common Tongue of the Seven Kingdoms. She would even have welcomed the conversation of Illyrio and her brother, but they were too far below to hear her.

So she sat in her wedding silks, nursing a cup of honeyed wine, afraid to eat, talking silently to herself. I am blood of the dragon, she told herself. I am Daenerys Stormborn, Princess of Dragonstone, of the blood and seed of Aegon the Conqueror.

[...]

As the hours passed, the terror grew in Dany, until it was all she could do not to scream. She was afraid of the Dothraki, whose ways seemed alien and monstrous, as if they were beasts in human skins and not true men at all. She was afraid of her brother, of what he might do if she failed him. Most of all, she was afraid of what would happen tonight under the stars, when her brother gave her up to the hulking giant who sat drinking beside her with a face as still and cruel as a bronze mask. I am the blood of the dragon, she told herself again.

[...]

And after the gifts, she knew, after the sun had gone down, it would be time for the first ride and the consummation of her marriage. Dany tried to put the thought aside, but it would not leave her. She hugged herself to try to keep from shaking.

[...]

The last sliver of sun vanished behind the high walls of Pentos to the west just then. Dany had lost all track of time. Khal Drogo commanded his bloodriders to bring forth his own horse, a lean red stallion. As the khal was saddling the horse, Viserys slid close to Dany on her silver, dug his fingers into her leg, and said, “Please him, sweet sister, or I swear, you will see the dragon wake as it has never woken before.”

The fear came back to her then, with her brother’s words. She felt like a child once more, only thirteen and all alone, not ready for what was about to happen to her.

They rode out together as the stars came out, leaving the khalasar and the grass palaces behind. Khal Drogo spoke no word to her, but drove his stallion at a hard trot through the gathering dusk. The tiny silver bells in his long braid rang softly as he rode. “I am the blood of the dragon,” she whispered aloud as she followed, trying to keep her courage up. “I am the blood of the dragon. I am the blood of the dragon.” The dragon was never afraid.

Afterward she could not say how far or how long they had ridden, but it was full dark when they stopped at a grassy place beside a small stream. Drogo swung off his horse and lifted her down from hers. She felt as fragile as glass in his hands, her limbs as weak as water. She stood there helpless and trembling in her wedding silks while he secured the horses, and when he turned to look at her, she began to cry.

[...]

He removed her silks one by one, carefully, while Dany sat unmoving, silent, looking at his eyes. When he bared her small breasts, she could not help herself. She averted her eyes and covered herself with her hands. “No,” Drogo said. He pulled her hands away from her breasts, gently but firmly, then lifted her face again to make her look at him. “No,” he repeated.

It’s just gross and confusing to me. I don’t understand why if he wanted to make it come off as consensual, why did he write her to be absolutely terrified of drogo, have her tremble and cry, make it clear she’s a glorified slave for him, make it clear she doesn’t want to consummate the marriage, to just then turn around and say “Well it was consensual.”

Does he know that just because a persons body responds physically doesn’t mean they’re consenting to a sexual act? Does he know that a child cannot consent to a sexual act? It’s concerning and confusing for me.