#medieval parade

[jabberwick]

Writhing, King of wyrms

(she/her)

Writhing is the king and mother of wyrms. She is an important character from my story.

[fallbabylon]

The Midsummer Watch Festival in Chester is a historic parade and festival that takes place in Chester, England. It is one of the oldest festivals in the country, dating back to the early 14th century. The festival originally began in 1498 and was initially organized by the city's guilds and the clergy to celebrate the feast of St. John the Baptist on June 24th, which coincided with the midsummer solstice.- Chester, UK

[sickfreaksirkay]

Sir Kay, Seneschal of King Arthur's Court, Harold J. Herman / Illustration from the Mabinogion / The Quest for Olwen, trans. Gwyn Thomas and Kevin Crossley-Holland / The Story of Merlin, trans. Rupert T. Pickens / Illustration from The Quest for Olwen, Margaret Jones / Wace's Roman de Brut, trans. Eugene Mason / The Mabinogion, trans. Lady Charlotte Guest

a collection of sir kay and sir bedivere: companions/lovers/worse, for @queer-ragnelle's may day parade

[artschoolglasses]

Parade Saddle, made with staghorn, limewood, rawhide, birchbark, metal, and paint, Central European, ca. 1400-20

From the Met Museum

[feydrawings]

May King Mordred for the prompt Morbid Month of May of @queer-ragnelle 's May Day Parade 2024 !

Mordred as the May King: not a symbol of rebirth and of life, but of death and destruction. The rise of the new king comes at the expense of the old king, the old year has to die to allow to the new year to come, the corn grows only to fall under the scythe of the reaper, the flowers blossom only to die. And like corn spikes, countless men fell in the war between Arthur and Mordred.

[please click on the picture for a better resolution. unfortunately tumblr likes to destroy the quality of uploaded drawings]

[armthearmour]

Book Review: Henry of Lancaster’s Expedition to Aquitaine

Henry of Lancaster’s Expedition to Aquitaine, 1345-1346: Military Service and Professionalism in the Hundred Years War serves as a detailed study of the army and campaign of the Earl of Derby in Aquitaine, a prelude to the famous Crécy campaign of King Edward III which was to follow. It is the fame of Edward’s campaign, Gribit argues, that has caused Lancaster’s Aquitaine campaign to be overlooked by historians. It is this lacuna which Gribit seeks to fill with this book.

This book is organized in nine chapters, which are divided into three sections with an additional introduction and conclusion. Part I, which consists of chapters one through four, is entitled “Henry of Lancaster and the English Army: Soldiers, Payment and Recruitment”, and provides a detailed account of the army serving under Henry of Lancaster. Chapter one contextualizes the situation which had been brewing between France and England, tracing the tensions back to the acquisition of Aquitaine by Henry II in the mid 12th century. From this beginning date, the author briefly outlines the history of violence between England and France up to the beginning of Edward’s war. Gribit then provides a detailed biographical account of Henry of Lancaster’s life up to the events of the Aquitaine campaign.

Chapter two examines the composition of the army led by Henry in Aquitaine. The indenture entered into by Henry and Edward stipulated that Henry’s force should be 2,000 men: 500 men-at-arms, 500 Welsh infantry, 500 mounted archers, and 500 unmounted archers. However, Gribit calls into question the traditional historical view of armies as being composed of either infantry or cavalry, stating that this distinction does not hold true for the method of English warfare in the fourteenth century. As such, he sets out to define each of these troop types, as well as examining the composition of Henry’s army from the point of view of troop type. Gribit also examines military rank and social status. The authors argues that the archers should be understood as comprising two different social strata, i.e. those who were mounted and those who served on foot. Archers are divided into mounted archers and unmounted archers, with it being noted that mounted archers seem to represent a distinct social class unto themselves. He also argues that mounted archers did not join battle on horseback, but rather used their mounts for transportation and the chevauchée. Finally, the Welsh infantry are described as either bowmen or spearmen, and as the lowest paid troops in an Edwardian army, represent the lowest social class.

Chapter three focuses on the logistics of raising an army. Gribit identifies two primary methods of recruitment used by the English crown in the fourteenth century: indenture and the commission of array. Indentures are described as the most useful form of recruitment when the King and his Wardrobe are not present. The indenture system allowed captains such as Henry of Lancaster to raise and administer an army as specified by the terms of the indenture to fight independently of the King. Gribit identifies this system as pivotal to the multi-front war that Edward waged in France. He draws contrasts between the indenture model and the raising of troops through a commission of array, which was the “traditional” method of raising troops. This method uses local officials to raise a large number of infantry from their area of influence, however Grubit states this method was rarely used for bringing troops to France after 1369. The raising of personal retinues and pardons as recruitment tools are also discussed before tables for the composition of Lancaster’s army are given.

The fourth chapter, and final chapter of section one, considers financial administration. In particular, Grubit seeks to reconstruct a schedule of payments and trace the path money took from the King’s coffers to the pockets of the soldiers. Certain benefits of service are examined, such as the regard, an extra payment which was given to captains of men-at-arms, and horse restoration. The particular role of the exchequer in accounting for the military is also considered.

Part II of this book is entitled “The English Expedition to Aquitaine, 1345-46.” It contains chapters five and six, and provides a detailed, chronological account of Henry of Lancaster’s two campaigns in Aquitaine in 1345 and 1346 respectively.

Chapter five focuses on the first campaign of 1345. The account begins with the arrival of Henry’s army at Bordeaux on the 9th of August, 1345. Gribit follows Henry’s movements in detail, paying particular attention to the capture of Bergerac and the battle of Auberoche. The campaign (and the chapter) ends with the onset of winter, which Henry spends in La Réole.

The sixth chapter, which examines the second campaign of 1346, begins with the siege of Aiguillon. After the siege, Lancaster embarked upon a lengthy chevauchée which would take him as far as Poitiers before returning to La Réole.

Part III consists of chapters seven, eight, and nine, and is entitled “Military Service and the Earl’s Retinue for War.” In this section, Gribit provides a detailed analysis of Lancaster’s army in 1345, as well as a general consideration of military professionalism in the fourteenth century.

Chapter seven focuses on the formation and structure of Lancaster’s 1345 retinue. Lancaster’s retinue represents the largest known military retinue from the first half of the fourteenth century, and is also exceptional in that the names of every man who served in the unit are known. Gribit begins his consideration of Lancaster’s retinue with an examination of the knights, retainers, and esquires who served in Aquitaine, and the men who served under them. He follows this with a detailed discussion on Lancaster’s knights banneret, and then the royal knights and valets Lancaster brought with him. Gribit then examines the Aquitanian knights who served under Lancaster, and finally lower status archers and attendants who accompanied the army.

Chapter eight seeks to analyze the cohesion and stability of Lancaster’s Aquitanian force. The author states that these factors were fundamental to turning Lancaster’s army into the formidable, effective fighting force that it was. In an attempt to understand the continuity of service provided by the men fighting under Lancaster, Grubit turns to an analysis by Kenneth Fowler, however Grubit disagrees with many of his findings. While Fowler argues that only a small minority of men who served with Lancaster in Aquitaine had served with him in the past, Grubit successfully argues that in fact a large majority of the men present with Lancaster in 1345 had served with him before. Some had been fighting alongside Lancaster since his service in Scotland in 1336. Grubit goes on to examine the effects camaraderie, kinship and marriage ties, and feudal obligations had on the stability of Lancaster’s force.

The ninth and final chapter of this book concerns broader questions of military careers and patterns of service. Grubit seeks to answer these questions through the service of important men who served under Lancaster in Aquitaine. In particular, Grubit examines the military histories of the many high ranking men who fought with Lancaster, and traced the number of campaigns they had served in up to 1345, the number of captains they had served under, and the earliest known date from which they had been campaigning. Grubit set his parameters for military professionalism as having served in four campaigns, and found that approximately 25% of the knights under Lancaster had met this criterion by 1345. After 1345, approximately two-thirds of Lancaster’s men would eventually serve in four or more campaigns. Grubit therefore concludes that a majority of Lancaster’s men were of a status which he considers professional.

The main body if the text is followed by a brief conclusion, an appendix which includes an transcription and translation of Lancaster’s indenture, another appendix which catalogs the men in Lancaster’s retinue, and finally a bibliography and index. This work relies very heavily upon primary documents, particularly Lancaster’s muster rolls and Edward’s exchequer rolls. A substantial body of English and French language scholarship is also referenced.

Grubit provides an intriguing analysis of an army which is generally overshadowed in modern scholarship by the more famous escapades of Edward III. His examinations are thorough and incredibly informative, however the order of the three parts of the book is somewhat confusing. Separating the two discussions on the composition of Lancaster’s army with an account of the Aquitaine campaigns was an odd choice, and the account may have been better placed at either the beginning or end of the work. Despite this modest critique, the book is a valuable work and should be enjoyed by professional historians and well read enthusiasts alike.

[eelproficiency]

the curse of doing historical research for art is that you’ll find stuff that looks sick as hell but from entirely the wrong time period/purpose. may god forgive me but i’m going to take Artistic Liberties

[the-punforgiven]

Man I went to a rad little medieval festival and it really hammered home how much of an awful fucking salesperson I am but it was very nice hearing the knights in full plate walkin around

[icterid-rubus]

Why do I take romance novel suggestions from tumblr.

[ernestdescalsartwok]

FIRA DE L'AIXADA-ART-PINTURA-MANRESA-PARADES-MERCAT MEDIEVAL-PERSONATGES-MERCATS-CATALUNYA-PINTOR-ERNEST DESCALS por Ernest Descals Por Flickr: FIRA DE L'AIXADA-ART-PINTURA-MANRESA-PARADES-MERCAT MEDIEVAL-PERSONATGES-MERCATS-CATALUNYA-PINTOR-ERNEST DESCALS- Personajes en el MERCAT MEDIEVAL de la FIRA DE L'AIXADA de MANRESA, las calles del Barri Antic de la ciudad se llenan de paradas y pequeñas tiendas en los que exponer y vender artículos relacionados con las costumbres de la Edad Media, en esta escena el vendedor nos muestra su atuendo con tintes medievales. Pintura del artista pintor Ernest Descals sobre papel de 50 x 70 centímetros, pintando el aroma histórico y a sus protagonistas.

[leftistfeminista]

Gaza's women are just like any other women: they are wives, lovers, partners and feminine beings with desires, interests, drives and needs. The mocking of their lingerie by dozens of IDF soldiers isn't just a depraved and childish act; it's indicative of a dehumanization trend in which Palestinian women are viewed as entirely alien and otherized - that the presence of lingerie in their bedroom drawers is so shockingly surprising & unexpected, it is worth playing with and showing off as battlefield souvenir. I remember vividly how widespread lingerie stores were throughout Gaza City and how they were such a casual thing. In fact, I remember numerous instances of seemingly religious men with beards and the Quran playing in the background having or operating underwear and lingerie stores and stands, with their wives or female salesladies even helping them with customers.

These images by IDF troops will have long lasting consequences and will undermine de-escalation and de-radicalization efforts, particularly in a conservative society that views female-related spaces, items and topics as particularly sensitive and private/sacred. This isn't about worn out soldiers blowing off steam during battle; it is a sick lack of discipline & lackluster standards & operational security protocols. These images are deeply disrespectful and offensive and further alienate a civilian population that is paying the price for circumstances over which it has no control.

A Revolutionary Feminist Hip Hop collective released this diss track to the IDF. Inspired by the fierce lioness dignity of PFLP women commanders who have had their underwear publicly displayed. The IDF pigs have been hanging the lingerie of Marxist-Leninist women from the PFLP and DFLP to distance them from their Islamic comrades. Women from the secular leftist revolutionary organizations of Palestine have had their underwear especially targeted. The IOF had worked very hard to "otherize" Gaza as medieval, playing down Marxist-Leninists like PFLP who showed solidarity with Heather Heyer and BLM. They want to distance Gaza from western leftists. But women Marxists who dress like western women have their underwear paraded by IOF.

Yes it is mortifying for Marxist-Leninist PFLP commanders like Shireen Said to be waging guerilla war in the ruins of your homeland. While IOF pigs taunt that they can taste your juices on your stolen underwear. But she fights on with more determination in spite of it all. They can't take away her revolutionary dignity. And even if her panties are something very private, personal and intimate to the proud Marxist commander. It has been the IDF chauvinist pigs who have been more shamed before the world by their behavior.

Shireen Said's brave, dignified, courageous response to the IDF's attempt to humiliate her with her stolen panties, was turned into this hip hop anthem.

[writers-potion]

Writing Weapons (3): Staffs, Spears and Polearms

Staffs

The staff is inexpensive and in the hand of a skilled fighter - deadly.

Particularly useful for entertaining fight scene, or for spontaneous fights.

A seasoned fighter can fight with a broomstick or garden hoe.

Useful for petite heroine: much lighter, long enough to fight at a distance so that he can't tackle or grapple

Spears

In most period, spears were the most common weapon for warfare

spears are cheaper than swords (better for large armies&peasants)

Spears can be tipped wth metal, stone, or anything at hand (bone, glass shards), or simply have one end sharpened to a point.

The Throwing Spear

An army would throw lots of spear at the enemy to do as much damage as possible before closing in

Each soldier may hold multiple throwing spears

The 'atatl' is used for loading the spear on the shoulder and catapulating it forward. This sllows women to hurl a spear with as much strength as a man.

Some spears are designed so their tips break on impact to prevent re-use.

Throwing spears are fairly lightweight. It is sometimes called 'javelin'.

The Thrusting Spear

The main weapon for peasants pressed into military service

Very long, often made from farming implement

The first row of soldiers kneels with spears low in hand. The second row kneels with spear at hip height. The third row stands with spears at waist height. The fouth holds the spears at shoulder hieight and the fith holds them above.

The thrusting spear is sometimes called 'lance'. If it's very long, it's called a 'pike'.

A warrior can hold a spear in the right and a shield in the left.

Polearms

Polearms are thrusting spears with cleverly designed, large heads which can stab, cut, hook, twist, cleave, push or pull.

Can be used as lances or as staffs

They serve best at a distance (preventing a sword-armed fighter), but can use them close-up as well. Some are even designed to pry open plate armour.

Can add authenticity to a medieval fight scene.

Poleaxe

spear with a tip for thrusting combined with an axe-blade for cleaving.

Billhook

Originally an agricultural tool, a hook-shaped blade for clearing brush.

Billhook has a long handle, a long sharp spike as a tip, and a pronounced hook.blade which serves to pull and cut the enemy's legs and ankles.

Halerd

Axe-blade on one side and a hook on the other

Developed to repel horses and to stop swordsmen getting close.

It became a ceremonial weapon, sometimes worn by guardsmen on parade

Blunders to Avoid

Medieval battles where every soldier fights with a sword

Soldier carrying polearms and not using them

adapted from <Writer's Craft> by Rayne Hall

[80linesofvirgil]

I'm Joe. An illustrator from Colchester, England. With 'Tales From A Gay Fantasia', I am able to combine my love of illustration, creative writing, and design with a lifelong fascination with medieval fantasy. My current goal is to create an illustrated collection of interwoven queer romance and adventure stories within a beautiful and diverse fantasy world.

All my links

You can find links to the individual tumblr posts for each piece of artwork at the bottom of this post or just deep dive into the #gayfantasia tag :D

Artwork links in order of appearance:

"Sword & Shield", "The Look That Stopped The Blade",

"Tip Your Bard", "Spring's First Gift", "You Summoned Me?",

"A Touch Of Light", "A Chance Slipping Away",

"The Magic That Binds Us", "Sword-Crossed Lovers",

"Mersi's Delivery Servie", "Sanctuary", "The Prince, The Mage, & The Unicorn",

"First Date", "I Got You Baby", "Take Your Himborc To Work Day",

"The Parade (Colour Bleach)"

"Admiration", "The Knight & The Ranger", "The Mage & The Knight"

"Restoration", "Trepidation", "Reunion"

"The Rogue & The Bard", "The Paladin & Her Sorceress", "Reciprocity"

[fionacreates]

My Illustration for Classics but make it Gay vol 3! The book is on pre order now at http://novaandmali.com/shop full of more queer history fun!

Medieval Pride! I know I have probably missed some folks 😭 but I hope you enjoy the pride gone Medieval parade full of colour coded clothing, doggos, horses and a little zodiac fun cos you know how we all love a little horoscoping!

The original is Les Treis Riches Heures de Duc Barry month May (because alas the june image wasnt as fun for a pride set up!)

[astralnymphh]

𝐂𝐎𝐎𝐋 𝐊𝐈𝐃 𝐆𝐎𝐍𝐄 𝐋𝐎𝐒𝐄𝐑! ★

content: prodigy!abby x nerdy!reader, childhood friends, university-based, fluff (for now), romance + tension (little bit angsty), drabble length but switching up the small caps (experimenting. heh), mainly jotting an idea, not a certified abby expert.

It was an absolute murder to discover that she could not fufill this one off her bucket list.

Fucking video gaming?

Exactamundo! Abby can outstand everybody in nearly anything, being everything from a virtuoso violinist, to a glorified part-time fisherman, and a damn gourmet chef as well. She paraded around the entire campus pursuing a name in every elective and Olympic hobby you could ever think of. Name it, chances are she's done it. Actually, more than done it, all things considered.

But video games? Guess the esteemed Abby Anderson had finally tumbled downhill and suffered defeat; looking you up out of all computer-smart people felt treasonous to her, but seemed high-priority to the eye of the beholder, the eyes in question even rolling. You don't need an in-person class course on fucking Skyrim. Look at the tutorials!

“So, how the hell do I shorten my speedrun times?”

None of it made a lick of sense. Well, the wanting to do speedruns part, you see the appeal in a medieval-inspired game. Speedrunning sucks the fun and the atmosphere out of a truly gorgeous game such as the forenamed. Yet, it's not like you haven't experimented in closed-world speedruns after immersing yourself in collecting all the achievements; Firewatch takes the cake.

But, still, coming to you—a forgotten, childhood friend whom she ghosted—makes no logical sense. Games are easy-peasy. Literal pieces of cake!

You scrunch your nose at the reclined blondie on your bed, confused. “Um, by watching a tutorial?” Almost laying back into a condescending tone, maybe even a little. “Did you even think to do that before knocking in the dead of night?” Her mordant, stick-up-the-ass kind does the same thing to you, so, you can gripe at that game all you desire.

“Hey,” she pouts, sounding out mock-offense. She scoots up from her prone position on the bed to face you—so proper. “Everything has more to it than what you see.” Sure, philosopher. “And there definitely is with video games. I keep losing. Besides, if I can't stomach skydiving or rock-climbing, then this is next on my list.”

“Pft—”

“What? You know I don't do heights.”

Oh, my god. “'You keep losing?'” Is she a prodigy at radical honesty?

Pond-blue eyes toss in a perfect, resentful circle. She scoffs, “Why do you think I came over here?” Complaining right hand flicking with attitude.

“I don't teach beginners.”

Your sarcasm flies not even an inch under her radar; it was always a retreat tactic back in highschool—when this imitative facade first hardened. “Oh, okay.” She bites you back with it too. But it never even occured to her that you might just be serving a tablespoon of teasery. Being old friends, having lonesome yearns, even stubborn prodigies can be painted in a rosy picture.

Still can see those young, faded freckles. Lovely ones.

“This was a mistake, wasn't it?” An unpleasant question. Drops from her lips almost wantonly.

It strains your chest cavity.

Is seeing her a mistake?

Not really. You hope not really. Once, there was a time where she was suddenly rude, dismissive and up every aspiring valedictorian's ass, but all paths lead back, you believe. Somewhere underneath that porcelain facade—and hot, rocking bod—is a clean crack in her over-achiever matrix; softness is bleeding out. You can see the beginning brooks of it like a kingly ichor. Possible smiles that aren't contemptuous.

What next, an apology?

“Can I at least.. say sorry, before going?”

Sorry—going? Fuck, you majorly zoned out. “What?” You loom in closer, throwing the one-brow raise. The proximity barely even occurs to you.

“For being a jerk, for blowing you off, ..” The list implies endlessness as her voice fades out. In a way, you expect her to pick up and continue. But, after the gestures and head-tilts, she pauses. Reinstates eye contact, pauses, and works her lips again. An awkward, prefacing breath skims. “And I guess, 'm also sorry for.. this?”

Before comprehension hits, it is too late. Darkly, a warmth brushes your cheek and a silence catches your lips, blocking your eyes out. It makes you feel blindsided, this short-lived kiss, one you suspend wide eyes for, tilt your neck for, accept without question. A strange deja vu rushes to your nape.

You shiver.

It even ends before you understand it, Abby pulling away with light-glossed eyes you swear are stones of aquamarine in disguise. She cracks; dints a smile in her cheek. Proud, anticipating. Having her this close made your inhales excessive; you needed all the air in the world to function right now. Deep breathing.

She smells like the outdoors.

Naturally.

“Good?” She has to reassure herself.

“Yeah,” you quickly spout, croak even. Wherever in the world your head is, it's not here. “Not really a prodigy at kissing, so..” And while it is somewhere, the remnants of her kiss are phantom. They have not stopped yet.

An amused chuckle greets in gusts across your lips, from your radical honesty, the moment itself, whatever. Crowns you the jokester anyways. “Guess we both have something to learn then.”

Wonder what future that comment entails.

[seafarersdream]

Could I request Ewan Mitchell X reader :)

Maybe something where they work on set together and he hears that reader likes rock music so they go to a concert together?

Birds of a Feather (Ewan Mitchell x Y/N)

Y/N L/N plays Alys Rivers, but off-screen, it’s Ewan who’s getting bewitched. He thought he’d spark some chemistry for the cameras, but he’s in deeper than he planned. Word count: 4,2k

TW // Strong language and profanities, smoking and alcohol use, mild sexual content.

“Fuck, is that Rage I hear?”

Ewan Mitchell’s voice cut through the noise like a knife. Y/N L/N turned her head, still puffing on her cigarette, her eyebrows shooting up. She pulled one earbud out, letting it dangle against her collarbone.

“Depends,” she said, a teasing grin playing on her lips. “What’s it to you?”

Ewan’s face lit up with a mischievous grin, his eyes bright under the studio lights. “Mate, I’m a sucker for a bit of RATM. Didn’t peg you for a rock fan, though,” he replied, hands shoved casually into the pockets of his worn leather jacket, a faint good ol’ England drizzle making the material glisten.

Y/N chuckled, shaking her head slightly, a hint of amusement in her eyes. “Seriously? You think I’d play a witch in medieval times and not have a thing for rebellious rock?” She took a slow drag from her cigarette, exhaling smoke that curled lazily in the damp Watford air. “I’m disappointed, Ewan. Thought you’d have me figured out by now.”

Ewan stepped closer, his boots crunching on the gravel beneath. The smell of coffee and bacon butties drifted over from the food cart, mixing with the sharp scent of cigarette smoke. The studio lot was buzzing with crew members, some rushing around with props, others laughing in groups, and the usual hum of film equipment humming in the background. But all of that seemed to fade as he locked eyes with her.

“Guess I’ve got a lot to catch up on, yeah?” he said, tilting his head slightly, his voice softer now, almost testing the waters. “Thought we could grab a coffee or something. Get to know each other. You know… build that Aemond and Alys chemistry they’re all banking on.”

Y/N smirked, a flicker of something unreadable in her gaze. “What, you think we need to build chemistry?” she challenged, a playful edge to her tone. “I thought we were just supposed to, I dunno, act.”

Ewan let out a short laugh, shaking his head. “Oh, come on, don’t bullshit me, love. You and I both know this whole on-screen spark thing doesn’t just happen. Gotta work for it.” He took out his own pack of cigarettes, offering one to her. “And who knows, maybe we’ll actually end up liking each other.”

She took the cigarette with a raised eyebrow, tucking it behind her ear for later. “Fine,” she replied. “Coffee sounds good. But if you think I’m gonna pretend to like you just because some big-shot director thinks we should, you’ve got another thing coming.”

Ewan grinned, lighting his cigarette, his blue eyes gleaming with excitement. “That’s what I’m counting on, dove.”

They walked towards the little coffee stand set up near the trailers, the air thick with the smell of rain and the distant rumble of thunder. The crew was still buzzing around, setting up for the next scene, but Ewan only had eyes for her.

“So, you got a favorite Rage song, or is Guerrilla Radio just your go-to for when you’re bored on set?” he asked, genuinely curious.

She shrugged, leaning against the counter as she placed her order. “Depends on my mood. But yeah, that one’s a banger. Bulls on Parade if I’m feeling a bit more… intense.” She shot him a sidelong glance. “What about you, Mitchell? You a poser, or do you have actual taste?”

He laughed, a deep, rumbling sound that seemed to reverberate through the air. “Touché. I’d say Know Your Enemy speaks to me. You know, all that anti-establishment, fuck-the-system vibe. Kind of like me.”

“Wow, deep,” she deadpanned, though her lips twitched into a smirk. “So you’re the rebellious type, huh?”

He leaned in slightly, his voice dropping to a low, conspiratorial whisper. “Depends on who’s asking, love.”

She felt a spark run down her spine, something electric buzzing in the air between them. “Alright, I’ll bite,” she said, taking her coffee from the barista with a nod. “What’s your deal, Ewan? What’s got you all eager to cozy up to me?”

He took a sip of his coffee, considering his words. “Honestly? You intrigue me. The way you’ve got everyone eating out of your hand on set, but still keep this air of mystery. I want to crack that code.”

Y/N’s smile widened, but her eyes stayed sharp, playful. “Good luck with that. I’m not some open book for you to read, Mitchell. You might find some things you’re not ready for.”

Ewan’s grin only grew, a flicker of excitement dancing in his gaze. “Oh, I’m ready. And I’ve got time. Plenty of time.”

She gave a short, amused laugh. “We’ll see about that. But don’t think I’m easy to impress. You’re gonna have to do better than coffee and rock music trivia.”

He raised his cup in a mock toast. “Challenge accepted, L/N.”

Ewan took another drag from his cigarette, letting the smoke swirl around his lips before exhaling slowly. “So, come on then,” he prodded, his voice carrying a low, teasing lilt. “You can’t drop a Rage song and then just leave it at that. What else are you into? Gotta be more to you than just some classic ‘fuck the man’ anthems.”

Y/N flicked ash off her cigarette, eyeing him with a small, conspiratorial smile. “You’re looking at a die-hard Deftones fan, mate. White Pony is my Bible. I swear by it.” She paused, a flicker of excitement sparking in her eyes. “Got the album cover tattooed on my ribs, actually. Wanna see?”

Ewan’s brows shot up, a wicked grin spreading across his face. “Bloody hell, you’re hardcore,” he said, his voice betraying a hint of admiration. “Yeah, show me. I’m not gonna say no to that.”

She laughed, shaking her head. “Cheeky bastard.” But she lifted the hem of her shirt just a fraction, revealing the tattoo of said pony against her ribcage, the ink standing out against her skin. His eyes traveled over the design, appreciation evident in his expression.

“That’s sick,” he said, leaning in a bit closer, his voice lower now, almost a murmur. “Always had a thing for a girl with a good tat.”

Y/N dropped her shirt back down, feeling the rush of cool air against her skin, but his gaze was still warm on her. “Deftones, huh?” he continued. “Got a favorite track?”

She shrugged, taking a sip of her coffee. “Depends on the day. But Cherry Waves always gets me. There’s just something about that slow, seductive build. It’s like… drowning in sound, in the best way.”

Ewan nodded, his smile widening. “Yeah, I get that. Chino’s voice is like, sex in audio form. Never thought I’d meet someone who’d get that vibe.”

Y/N chuckled, but her eyes were sharp, amused. “And you? What’s your poison, Prince Regent?”

He scratched his jaw, the faint stubble rasping under his nails, a self-deprecating grin spreading across his face. “Ah, I’m a bit more basic, I suppose. Metallica’s my go-to. You’ve probably noticed,” he added, tugging at the faded Metallica t-shirt he was wearing.

She glanced at the shirt, rolling her eyes with a grin. “Subtle. But hey, I can’t blame you. Metallica’s the real deal. Those riffs could wake the dead.”

“Right?” Ewan agreed enthusiastically. “And there’s something about those old-school thrash vibes that just… I dunno, lights a fire in you, you know? Makes you wanna break shit.”

“Or at least headbang until your neck snaps,” Y/N added with a laugh. She leaned back, crossing her arms, her demeanor relaxed. “But come on, be honest. How many Metallica shirts do you actually own?”

He scratched the back of his head, looking slightly sheepish. “Too many, probably. Enough that I could wear a different one every day of the week.”

Y/N shook her head, mock disbelief on her face. “Sheesh, you’re such a fanboy.”

“Oi, don’t knock it,” he shot back, grinning. “At least I’m consistent. Plus, you’ve got a Deftones tattoo. I think we’re both in pretty deep.”

She nodded, conceding the point. “Fair enough. So what do you do when you’re not, y’know, worshipping at the altar of Hetfield?”

He laughed, a soft rumble that seemed to cut through the cold, wet air. “Not much, honestly. Hang out with mates, go to gigs when I can. Read a bit, usually some weird existential stuff that just makes me more confused about life.” He paused, studying her. “What about you?”

She shrugged, looking thoughtful. “Same, really. Love a good gig. I read too, but I’m more into the horror stuff. Stephen King, Shirley Jackson, you know the drill. And, obviously, I smoke way too much.” She waved her cigarette as if to prove a point.

Ewan nodded, a spark of interest in his eyes. “Horror, huh? Never took you for a gore enthusiast.”

“Not gore,” she corrected, leaning in closer, her voice almost conspiratorial. “Psychological. The shit that gets under your skin, makes you think. I’m not about blood and guts; I’m about the mindfuck.”

He blinked, clearly impressed. “Damn. You’re full of surprises, aren’t you?”

She laughed, a low, throaty sound that sent a shiver down his spine. “I aim to keep people guessing, Mitchell. Keeps life interesting.”

He tilted his head, grinning. “Alright then. How about a deal? I’ll show you my favorite dive bar in Camden, and you can tell me more about how you like to mess with people’s heads. We can drink, play some pool, maybe even argue about whether Deftones or Metallica is the superior band. Fair?”

Y/N leaned back, considering him, a smile slowly spreading across her face. “That’s a dangerous proposition, Ewan. You sure you can handle me?”

He held her gaze, his smile steady, a challenge in his eyes. “Oh, I’m sure, witch. I’m fucking counting on it.”

The space between them felt smaller, more intimate, and the air around them buzzed. Whatever was brewing between them, it wasn’t just for the cameras.

And both of them knew it.

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The rain had let up just enough for them to venture out of the trailers, and now they found themselves huddled under a flimsy awning, kebabs in hand. The smoky scent of grilled meat mixed with the dampness of the air, a comforting aroma against the steady patter of raindrops. Y/N wiped a bit of sauce from her chin with the back of her hand, her eyes fixed on Ewan as he chewed thoughtfully, the wheels in his mind clearly turning.

“So,” Y/N started, around a mouthful of kebab, “this whole Alys and Aemond thing… it’s twisted as fuck, right? Not exactly a love story, more like—”

“More like two leeches feeding off each other,” Ewan finished for her, wiping his mouth with a napkin and nodding. “It’s not the classic star-crossed lovers bullshit. It’s darker… messier. There’s nothing romantic about it.”

Y/N’s lips curved into a small, approving smile. “Exactly. It’s like, Aemond spares her not because he loves her, but because she’s useful, she’s… an asset. And Alys, she’s not some helpless damsel. She’s got her own agenda. She’s in it for the power, the protection. Maybe even a little revenge.”

Ewan took a deep breath, leaning back against the wall, his expression thoughtful. “And then there’s all that shit about her being a witch or enchantress,” he said. “Bastard daughter of Lyonel Strong, maybe from an older generation… probably served as a wet nurse to Harwin and Larys. Could’ve even been around when Lyonel himself was a kid. Some say she bathed in maidens’ blood to stay young. I mean, fuck, that’s some crazy lore to have.”

“Right?” Y/N leaned in closer, her eyes gleaming with excitement. “And we’re supposed to sell this on screen. The idea that she’s at least forty, but looks young as hell, unnaturally young. There’s all these rumors swirling around her. She’s supposed to be this mysterious figure who might be pulling strings in the background, using Aemond as much as he’s using her.”

Ewan nodded, taking another bite of his kebab. “Yeah, that’s the crux of it. They’re both parasites, just leeching off each other. Alys needs Aemond for survival, for the power he brings as a prince, and Aemond… maybe he’s just fucked up enough to be into that, into her mystery, her darkness. But there’s no love. It’s not tender, it’s—”

“—purely transactional,” Y/N interjected, finishing his thought. “He keeps her alive, she gives him… I don’t know, maybe an edge? A sense of power? She’s like a trophy, a spoil of war he doesn’t quite understand but doesn’t want to let go of either.”

Ewan’s eyes sparkled with a strange kind of enthusiasm. “And the weird thing is, that’s exactly what makes it interesting. It’s not some fairytale. It’s raw, it’s real. Like, imagine how we could play that dynamic on screen—two people circling each other, never quite trusting, never fully connecting, but somehow bound together in this fucked-up dance.”

Y/N grinned, her eyes lighting up with the same fire. “Oh, I’m all in. Let’s lean into that. Make the audience uncomfortable. Make them question who’s really in control. Aemond’s got the power, the title, the dragon, but Alys? She’s got her own kind of power. A power that scares him.”

Ewan shifted closer, his shoulder brushing against hers as he leaned in. “Yeah, I see that. Aemond’s not just sparing her because he’s merciful; he’s sparing her because there’s something in her that speaks to the darker parts of him.”

Y/N nodded eagerly. “And Alys—she’s no fool. She knows exactly what she’s doing. She’s playing him, playing this twisted game where she’s both victim and victor. She’s a survivor, and she’ll do whatever it takes to stay alive, even if it means manipulating a prince.”

He laughed softly, his breath misting in the cold air. “It’s almost like they’re two sides of the same fucked-up coin. Both willing to use whatever they’ve got to survive. She’s his spoil of war, but he’s her key to something bigger.”

Y/N tilted her head, her expression thoughtful. “So, how do we show that on screen? How do we make it clear that they’re both… parasites, but also predators in their own right?”

Ewan leaned forward, his voice low and intense. “I think we play with the power dynamic. Like, in one scene, Aemond thinks he’s got her under his thumb, but then there’s a moment—a glance, a whisper, something—that makes him second-guess. Makes the audience second-guess. Is she afraid, or is she playing him? And then in the next scene, she’s the one in control, but there’s always that tension, that threat of violence just under the surface.”

Y/N nodded, her eyes alight with excitement. “Yes, yes. And we need to make it physical too. Not in a sexy way, but in a way that shows their dependence on each other. Like, when they touch, it’s almost painful. It’s not about passion, it’s about possession. And the audience should feel that. Feel the discomfort, the unease.”

Ewan’s grin widened, his excitement palpable. “Fuck, I love this. It’s gonna be wild. People aren’t gonna know whether to hate them, root for them, or just feel fucking sick watching them.”

“Perfect,” Y/N agreed, a mischievous glint in her eye. “Because that’s exactly how it should be. No clear lines, no easy answers. Just two messed-up characters.”

Ewan chuckled, his eyes never leaving hers. “I’ve got a feeling we’re gonna make one hell of a fucked-up power couple on screen, love.”

She smirked, finishing the last bite of her kebab and wiping her hands. “Well, if we’re gonna do this, we better do it right. Let’s give them a show they’ll never forget.”

And just like that, in the middle of a rainy, half-forgotten corner of a studio lot, they laid the groundwork for something undeniably electric. Something that would blur the lines, and the strange, unsettling dance that would soon unfold on screen.

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The neon sign above the dive bar flickered erratically, casting a dim pink glow over the rain-slicked street. Ewan leaned against a brick wall, hands shoved into the pockets of his jacket, his breath misting in the cool night air. He checked his watch, a crooked grin spreading across his face as he spotted Y/N approaching, her hair damp from the drizzle, a mischievous glint in her eye.

“About time, rockstar,” he called out, pushing off. “Was starting to think you’d chickened out.”

Y/N shot him a mock glare, pulling the collar of her leather jacket tighter around her neck. “Not a fucking chance, Mitchell. I’ve been looking forward to this all week.” She stopped in front of him, her breath visible in the cold. “Besides, I’m dying to see you butcher a Sex Pistols song.”

He laughed. “Oh, I’m gonna butcher it all right, but at least I’ll do it with style.”

When they entered Ewan’s favourite haunt, the place was already alive with noise — a crowd of people spilling out onto the street, laughter and shouts mixing with the sound of music bleeding through the walls. The bar itself was a dingy little hole-in-the-wall joint, the kind of place that reeked of spilled beer, sweat, and stale cigarettes — perfect for a night of raucous fun.

Ewan grabbed her hand without a second thought, pulling her through the throng of people, weaving between groups, dodging spilled drinks and overenthusiastic dancers. His hand felt warm and solid around hers, and she felt a thrill run up her spine as he led her toward the back, where the stage was set up for karaoke.

They found a spot near the bar, grabbed a couple of beers, and settled in to watch the chaos unfold. Someone was already up there belting out Anarchy in the UK, the crowd shouting along, half the lyrics lost in the drunken fervor.

“Alright,” Ewan said, leaning close to her ear to be heard over the noise. “What’s the game plan, then? Are we going full-on punk, or are we gonna scare everyone off with some Deftones?”

Y/N laughed, taking a swig of her beer. “Let’s save the Deftones for when everyone’s had a few more drinks. Gotta build up to that kind of intensity.” She tapped his shoulder with a teasing grin. “But I’m down to start with some Pistols. Pretty Vacant? God Save the Queen? What do you think?”

“Pretty Vacant it is,” Ewan declared, slamming his empty bottle down on the bar. “We’ll go up there, make some noise, and show these amateurs how it’s done.”

A few minutes later, they were on stage, the microphone in Ewan’s hand, and Y/N standing beside him, both of them grinning like idiots. The crowd cheered as the opening chords blared through the speakers, and Ewan launched into the song with a reckless abandon, his voice loud and raw, not giving a damn if he hit the notes or not.

Y/N joined in, her voice harmonizing with his, the two of them bouncing around, pulling ridiculous dance moves and throwing their arms around each other, their laughter spilling over the lyrics. Ewan’s voice cracked on the high notes, but it only made her laugh harder, and she nudged him with her shoulder, causing him to almost drop the mic.

“Oi, careful!” he shouted over the music, his smile wide and infectious.

“What?” she yelled back, still grinning. “Can’t handle a bit of roughhousing, Mitchell?”

He laughed, spinning her around in a playful twirl before pulling her close, their bodies pressed together as they sang, their voices blending into one chaotic sound. The crowd cheered louder, feeding off their energy, clapping and shouting as Ewan and Y/N tore through the song with an unfiltered joy that made everyone in the room feel like they were part of something wild, something free.

When the song ended, they stumbled off stage, breathless and laughing, grabbing fresh beers from the bar. Ewan’s hand found hers again, a reflex now, his thumb brushing against her knuckles.

“You,” he said, panting, “are a fucking riot.”

Y/N raised her bottle in a mock toast. “Right back at ya. Didn’t think you had that much crazy in you, Mitchell.”

He grinned, eyes twinkling with mischief. “Stick with me, dove, and you’ll see plenty more.”

They spent the next few hours hopping back on stage, belting out punk classics, pulling out the most ridiculous dance moves they could think of, egging each other on. At some point, Ewan dropped to his knees, sliding across the sticky floor in a terrible imitation of an 80s rock star, while Y/N howled with laughter, egging him on with chants of “Encore! Encore!”

They took breaks to smoke out back, leaning against the graffitied wall of the bar, their breath mingling with the cold night air, the world spinning around them. Ewan lit a cigarette, passing it to her, their fingers brushing in the exchange.

“Alright,” Y/N said, taking a drag, her voice a little hoarse from all the singing and shouting. “I’ll admit it. You know how to show a girl a good time.”

Ewan’s grin was bright and unapologetic. “Told you, didn’t I? Never should’ve doubted my ability.”

She laughed, flicking ash off the cigarette. “I’m certainly not complaining.”

They smoked in comfortable silence for a moment, the noise from inside spilling out in waves.

Ewan took a final drag and flicked his cigarette away, turning to face her, his expression suddenly a bit more serious, though his eyes still held that glint of mischief. “So, Y/N,” he said, his voice low. “What do you say we make this a regular thing? You and me, beers, bad dancing, and a hell of a lot of noise?”

She smirked, tilting her head slightly. “You offering to be my partner in crime, Mitchell?”

He took a step closer, their faces inches apart now. “I’m offering to be whatever you want, love. As long as it means more nights like this.”

Y/N’s smile softened, her voice almost a whisper. “Careful, Ewan. I might just take you up on that.”

He didn’t hesitate. “Good,” he replied, his voice steady. “Because I was hoping you would.”

And with that, he leaned in, his lips brushing hers in a kiss that tasted of beer, cigarettes, and something new — something neither of them could quite name yet, but both were eager to explore. The night felt endless, the city alive around them.

The sound of the door creaking open was drowned out by the music and drunken shouts pouring from the bar, but the voice that followed cut through the night like a whip crack.

“Oi! Get a fucking room, you two!”

Ewan and Y/N broke apart, breathless and startled, still close enough that their noses brushed. Ewan’s grin turned sheepish as he glanced over Y/N’s shoulder to find a middle-aged man with a scruffy beard and a smirk on his face, a cigarette dangling from his lips. The bartender, Harry, stood there, shaking his head in mock disapproval.

“Christ, Ewan,” Harry drawled, lighting up his smoke with a flick of his lighter. “Have some decency, will ya?”

Ewan laughed, his hand still on Y/N’s waist, a playful glint in his eye. “Can’t help it, mate. Your place has that kind of magic, you know?”

Harry snorted, taking a long drag on his cigarette. “Magic, my arse. More like too many cheap beers and not enough sense.” He nodded at Y/N, eyes crinkling with amusement. “You got your work cut out for you with this one, love. He’s a right handful.”

Y/N grinned, leaning back slightly but not quite letting go of Ewan. “Oh, I’m starting to get that,” she teased, glancing up at Ewan. “But I think I can handle him.”

Ewan chuckled, clearly enjoying himself. “Hey, I’m standing right here, you know.”

Harry gave a mock bow. “Oh, sorry, didn’t mean to interrupt your little love fest. Just came out for a smoke, but if you’re gonna go all Romeo and Juliet on me, at least take it to the alley or something. Don’t need to see any more of your face-sucking than I already have.”

Ewan’s laugh was loud and unapologetic. “Alright, alright, you old bastard, we’ll take it elsewhere. Don’t want to scar you for life.”

Harry grinned, his eyes twinkling with amusement. “Too late for that, mate. But do me a favor — keep it PG-13 inside, yeah?”

Y/N gave a mock salute. “We’ll try our best.”

Harry shook his head, still chuckling to himself as he turned back toward the door. “I’ll hold you to that. And Ewan, you owe me a pint for that little show.”

“Deal,” Ewan shot back, still grinning as Harry disappeared back into the bar. He turned to Y/N, his expression softening just a fraction. “Guess we’ve got an audience now, huh?”

Y/N smirked, her voice teasing. “Seems like it. So, what do you say? Wanna go scandalize the rest of the neighborhood, or…?”

Ewan’s grin turned mischievous again. “Lead the way, love. I’m game if you are.”

They left the warm glow of the bar’s back entrance, stepping further into the night, their laughter echoing down the narrow alleyway as they disappeared into the London streets, leaving behind only the faint smell of smoke and the memory of a kiss that promised many more to come.