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spider-stark · 2 months

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PRECIPICE

Aegon II Targaryen x Sister!Reader

Summary - Forced to attend a stuffy ball, you find yourself hiding beneath a table with Aegon.

Warnings - implied targcest as always

Word Count - 4.5k

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The delicious aroma of roast mutton is wafting over you as you pass one of the many long serving tables lining the walls of the ballroom. Your gaze drags along the vast spread that has been prepared for tonight; a variety of artisan breads, cooked meats, and candied desserts are laid out upon silver serving dishes.

As you reach the end of the first table, a pile of lemon cakes snag your attention. Neatly stacked atop an ornate porcelain platter, the cakes are coated in a thin glaze that shimmers in the light. Your mouth instantly begins watering at the sight, your stomach growling in a way that would be deemed improper for a Lady.

Beside you, holding a plate that has been loaded with mashed potatoes and honeyed chicken, Jace turns his head to cock a brow at you.

“Hungry?” He asks, chuckling softly.

You suck in a deep breath before forcefully tearing your gaze from the cakes. “Extremely.”

It takes an enormous amount of will power to turn away from the serving table while still empty-handed, but you somehow manage to do just that. Having hardly even walked a few steps, though, Jace is abandoning his plate to rush after you, softly seizing your wrist to keep you from moving any further.

“If you’re hungry, then you should eat.”

His concern is obvious, not only through his tone, but his expression as well. With his furrowed brow and tight-mouthed frown, you’re fairly certain that he’s already considering the consequences of dragging you back to the table and feeding you himself if need be.

Jace had always been that way—not only with you, but with everyone. He was kind hearted and considerate to fault.

“I would,” you smile, shaking your head slightly to dismiss his concern, “but I’m afraid that if I do, I might very well pop right on out of this ridiculously tight corset.”

You wave an idle hand down to your waist, unnaturally cinched by the intricate lacing and boning of the garment beneath your evergreen gown. His eyes follow the motion, tracing along the intense curve, lingering for a moment too long.

The explanation seems to wash away much of his concern, relieved to know that discomfort was the only reason you had chosen to abstain from the treats being served. Even so, a touch of empathy remains, accompanied by the faintest hint of desire gleaming in his amber gaze.

Amber—an unusual color for a boy of Velaryon blood. His eyes were one of the many reasons that your mother, the Queen Alicent, felt so confident in labeling Princess Rhaenyra’s boys as bastards behind closed doors. And, if you were being honest with yourself, you knew that there was likely truth to her claims. Your nephews probably were bastards—but you didn’t particularly care.

Jace was nice to you, and that was all that had ever mattered to you.

He clears his throat, realizing that he had been gawking at your body for far longer than he should. “It looks uncomfortable,” the words spill out without permission, and you nearly laugh when his eyes go wide. “That didn’t come out right, nothing about it actually looks uncomfortable—it looks stunning! I mean, you look stunning! It’s just that, I don’t know, I imagine that having something squeeze you so tightly might be-”

“Jace, it’s okay! Truly,” you interrupt his rambling with a soft giggle. “You should know that I’m not so easily offended,” you playfully chide. “Besides, you’re right. It is quite uncomfortable!”

Actually, quite felt like an enormous understatement. But you didn’t figure that Jace was particularly interested in hearing about how your breasts were aching from being roughly shoved up by the tight garment.

Jace looses a breath, his shoulders sagging in relief. “Then why bother wearing them? Many noble-women go without corsets. Even my mother hardly ever wears one—she believes they’re vile things that only aid in the objectification of ladies.”

Your brows rise, agreeing with the claims of your half-sister. But then you let your attention shift to the dais, meeting the rough stare of the reason why you had been forced into the tortuous garb—your mother.

She’s already watching you when you meet her eye, her lip curled as she sends you a pointed look, silently urging you away from your nephew. It takes a great deal of effort not to shrink beneath the weight of her attention, and you’re beyond grateful for the group of women who shuffle past you towards the dance floor, giving you an excuse to break the hold she has on you.

“I wear it because my mother wishes for all of her children to look their best,” you answer, shifting your focus back onto Jace. “And who am I to disappoint the Queen?”

He notes the sudden callousness of your tone, as well as the way you clasp your hands together at your waist, fidgeting with the golden ring on your index finger. He doesn’t bother asking if you’re okay, however, knowing well enough that you were not—and already knowing why, as well.

You imagine that Jace doesn’t much like your mother; both for her part in the rumors spread about him and his brothers and for the way she has treated his mother.

It makes you upset in a strange way, a part of you always wishing to defend the Queen, no matter how abhorrent her actions. After all, she was your mother—whether you like it or not—and you knew very well that if someone were to try to hurt you or your siblings, then she would gladly lay her life on the line for you.

You were thankful for her; even if her protection hurt, even if her maternal love only exists when your life is at stake.

“Speaking of your siblings,” Jace suddenly notes, veering slightly off-subject as his own stare drifts towards the dais, “how did Aegon manage to weasel his way out of attending tonight?”

Your brows snap together before letting your head snap back towards the dais, managing to avoid your mother’s nasty stare this time by looking to her right, taking note of each of your siblings.

Aemond is sat directly by her side, his posture rigid as his eye scans across the room, alert and on-guard as usual. Next to him is Helaena, leisurely picking at her plate of food and mindlessly bobbing her head along to the symphony being played for court musicians. Daeron, who your mother insisted fly Tessarion here from Oldtown so that he might be present for tonight, is sat next to your empty chair, making idle chatter with those around him.

But Aegon’s chair, sat between yours and Helaena’s, is vacant.

A knot forms in your stomach when you look back at Aemond, his piercing violet eye catching yours, gleaming with a silent order—find our imbecile brother before he makes a fool of us all.

You give him a curt nod before looking away, head whirling as you begin searching the crowd around you for any sign of your eldest brother.

“Simple,” you huff, “he didn’t.”

Jace hums his understanding as you politely excuse yourself, turning away from him to begin shoving through the throng of people filling the room.

You decline invitations to dance and spout excuses as to why you can’t stop to chat as you push past noblemen-and-women from various Houses, trying to maintain the pleasant persona your mother favored while still moving fast enough that you might find Aegon before he finds any new ways to publicly bring shame upon the Targaryen name.

It’s exhausting work—and by the time you have shoved yourself to the other end of the room without finding him, you nearly consider giving up. Your chest hurts and your scalp is itching from being poked and prodded by a dozen or so pins, all of which had been meticulously placed by servants to arrange plaits into a fanciful half-updo.

In many ways, you look like your mother; with your elaborate hairstyle and green dress, the look is tied together by a pendant of the Seven-Pointed Star dangling from your neck.

And, in many ways, you hate it.

Much to the Queen’s dismay, you’ve never much liked the elegant styles preferred by many women at court. No, instead you spent much of your time donning mail with your hair lazily pulled back, joining Aemond for practice in the training yard.

She hated how unrefined you were, how indelicate you were; fearful for how others at court might view you for it, for how much attention you might draw to yourself.

You blow out a sigh, resisting the urge to pull all of the pins from your hair as you will yourself to keep walking, to keep looking for Aegon. A table overflowing with carafes of arbor wine and flagons of ale catches your attention, setting off alarm bells in your mind.

If Aegon were going to choose anywhere to hide at this godsforsaken ball, then it would certainly be in close proximity to the alcohol.

A cacophony of laughter and clinking goblets surrounds you as you approach, scanning over rows of bottles and skimming the faces of those nearby. Spinning your ring on your finger, you walk along the entire length of the long serving table, disappointed when you reach the end of it and find that your brother is still nowhere in sight.

Chewing on your cheek, you fight the urge to pour yourself a drink when you notice a carafe of blackberry wine. The plum colored liquid seems to call your name, singing promises of sweet oblivion, an escape from the restless feeling clawing at your chest.

You’re out of place here in court, and you always have been—you know that, and you worry that everyone around you knows, too.

Sensical enough to recognize that alcohol would likely just exacerbate your current ill-feelings, you shun the carafe and turn towards the grand entrance. Lifting your chin and squaring your shoulders, you try to appear more composed than you feel as you saunter towards the large wooden doors.

If Aegon had snuck off with one of the serving girls, then there was a good chance that he was still somewhere in the hall, either flirting or feeling up their skirts. And, if you were wrong, then at least he had provided you with an excuse to slip away from this mess of a ball.

As you pass by the last serving table, the platters and dishes atop it already thoroughly picked over, you feel someone tug at your dress. You whirl around, a fiery retort already falling off your tongue, fully intending to rip into whoever had found the audacity to touch you without permission—only to find yourself insulting the air.

There was no one there, at least not close enough to have touched you.

For a heartbeat you begin to reel, wondering if you’ve started to lose your mind before feeling the sensation again. A sharp tug at the fabric, just by your knee. Your head snaps down towards your dress, covering your mouth before a gasp can slip your lips.

An arm is peeking out from beneath one of the finely embellished tablecloths, and a well-groomed hand is clutching your skirts. You instantly recognize the hand as Aegon’s, having become intimately familiar with your brother’s touch throughout your life.

Taking a step closer to the covered table, you try to look natural as you hunch over it slightly to get closer to his level, feigning an interest in a half-eaten roast duck.

“What in the Seven Hells are you doing, Aegon?!” Your voice is hushed, not quite a whisper, but low enough so that no one other than him might hear.

Releasing his hold on your skirts, Aegon lifts the tablecloth a little higher, revealing his face. “Get under here,” he tilts his head, motioning for you to join him beneath the table.

“No!”

He swiftly presses a finger to his lips in response to your incredulous shout, shushing you. You stiffen, nervously flicking your eyes to each side, checking to ensure that no one had heard you. Fortunately, the courtiers around you appear far too invested in their conversations and drinks to notice how you appear to have shouted at a roast duck.

Aegon’s lilac eyes are wide, pleading as he shoves the tablecloth up higher, giving you more room to slip beneath it. “Would you just shut up and come?”

It’s the sheer urgency of his tone that piques your interest, although you wish that it hadn’t. You huff out an annoyed sigh, taking another look around the room before gathering up your skirts and sinking to your knees, crawling underneath the table.

Once you’ve successfully sat down beside him on the stone floor, he drops the cloth, shielding the two of you from any prying eyes. The material is thin enough that it allows some light to pass through it, very dimly illuminated Aegon’s grinning face, all urgency having suddenly vanished.

“Welcome,” he almost sounds breathless, the word airy—and utterly unnecessary.

You can faintly see the rosy coloring of his cheeks, a few messy silver waves tumbling across his face, and you’re immediately willing to bet that he’s extremely buzzed. “What are you doing, Aeg?”

Your tone is firm, but there’s a certain gentleness to it that was specially reserved for your eldest brother. While you maintain that you love all three of them equally, it’s undeniable that your relationship with Aegon has always been… different.

He reaches to his side, lifting a carafe from the ground beside him. “Having a party,” he says, raising it towards your face and playfully swirling the garnet colored liquid.

“I’m unsure if you’re aware,” you motion towards the cloth shrouding you from the bustling ballroom, “but our mother has already planned quite the celebration for tonight—and she likely does not wish for it to be ruined by her drunkard son ducking beneath tables like an imbecile!”

Aegon pokes his bottom lip out into a pout. “Why must you assume that I am drunk?”

“Because you’re you,” you drone, cocking your head at him, “and you are always drunk.”

Rolling his eyes, he sits the carafe down on the ground between you. There are only mere inches separating the two of you, both of you squeezing your limbs close to your body to avoid having a foot peek out from beneath the table. Sitting this close to him, you can smell the sweetness of the arbor red of his breath—as well as the faintest hint of sulfur, a sign that he had clearly gone riding on Sunfyre earlier and had failed at washing off the dragon’s strong scent.

You take another breath, inhaling the smell of him into your lungs. It was familiar—comfortable, urging your taut muscles to slacken in his presence.

“And what if I told you that I am sober right now?”

A snort escapes you, sparing him an incredulous look. “Then I would call you a liar,” you tell him, tapping a finger against the rim of the half-empty carafe.

His stare drops down towards it, watching as the liquid ripples when you pull your hand back. When he looks back up, he’s wearing a crooked smile that makes your heart flutter. “Mostly sober, then.”

It’s nearly impossible to stifle your laugh, clamping a hand over your mouth so that you might muffle the sound and prevent passersby from becoming suspicious. The sound only makes his smile grow wider and more genuine, an expression that he graced very few people with.

“I’ll ask again,” you say, speaking only when you're confident that no more laughter will tumble out. “Why are you down here? If mother finds out then she will be furious and-”

Aegon tosses his head back, cutting you off with a groan. “Mother will be furious no matter what,”

Disdain drips from each syllable, thickening the air around you. He didn’t like talking about her much, and you couldn’t blame him for it. Of all your siblings, Aegon had been dealt the worst hand, simply by being born first. He got the brunt of your mothers vile behavior; and you hated that, too.

“Because,” lazily rolling his neck so that he can look at you again, he answers, “I’d rather spend my night under here,” he flicks a hand up, lazily gesturing around himself, “than be forced to sit through even one more tedious speech from some ancient Lord of gods-know-where!”

You bite your tongue, holding back another laugh.

“And,” he continues, nodding in your direction, “I am now saving you from the same mundane fate. You’re welcome.”

“What makes you think that I needed your saving?” You ask, brows rising.

Aegon purses his lips, placing a finger against his chin as he feigns contemplation, studying the intricate styling of your hair, the modest long-sleeved gown, and the Star resting against your covered breasts. “Perhaps it was that our mother has you dressed up as though you’re an aspiring Septa.”

Thinking of the plain women, with their simple gowns and traditional head coverings, you nearly laugh again as you ask, “How many Septa’s do you know that wear corsets and jewelry, brother?”

“None,” he admits, shoulders lifting into an indolent shrug. “Though, if they looked more like you, then I might finally have a reason to attend prayer. Beautiful women would be more than enough to turn me into a pious man.”

A warmth creeps up your neck as blood rushes to your cheeks, unsure if his statement was meant as a compliment—was he saying that he found you beautiful? If so, it shouldn’t have been a particularly shocking revelation. After all, Aegon had complimented you before, many times.

In all fairness, however, most of those times had been when he was thoroughly besotted. He had a habit of sneaking into your rooms and practically draping himself off of you, muttering drunken nonsense about how breathtaking you were. You had never placed much truth in the statements though, assuming that Aegon likely didn’t even recognize who he was speaking to, much less whose bed he had crawled into.

But even if this was a genuine and mostly sober attempt at complimenting you, the flattery of it doesn’t last nearly long enough. Your own insecurity washes back over you far quicker than you like, reminding you of just how unlike yourself you currently feel.

“I do not believe that anything would be capable of turning you into a pious man,” you joke, trying and failing to cover up the melancholy that has settled into your bones. “Not even beautiful women.”

“You could.”

The answer comes far too quick, spilling from his tongue with an eagerness that even seems to catch him by surprise.

“Though, I must say, for as exquisite as this dress makes you look,” his hand reaches across the short expanse dividing you, mindlessly running his fingers along the fabric covering your shoulder, “I much prefer the way look in armor—sweaty skin, messy hair, sword in-hand—all of it.”

Your breath catches in your throat as his touch drifts towards the center of your chest, fingers dragging along the thin chain leading to your pendant, lifting the Star into his palm. He stares at it for a moment before yanking it roughly from your neck, grinning when you yelp. “But this,” he lifts the Seven-Pointed Star slightly, “I absolutely hate.”

With that, he tosses it from underneath the table, sending it skittering across the floor beyond the tablecloth.

Your jaw drops open, a hand pressed against the now-sore spot along the back of your neck. Despite yourself, your lips start to curve into a playful smile. You try fighting against it, try pressing them into a firm line, but fail. “Mother will not be happy about that-”

“She’s never happy,” Aegon interjects. His own expression shifts, the line on his forehead deepening as he says, “Do not let yourself bear her misery. Life is too short—and you deserve more than that.”

A palpable silence is thickening the air, and your breathing seems to synchronize as you simply stare at one another.

Slowly, nervously, you say, “I’m not sure what it is that I deserve,”

“You deserve,” he pauses, lips still parted despite the absence of speech. Then, swallowing back the words that had been building in his throat, he says, “you deserve whatever it is that you want, sister.”

Your hand falls from your neck into your lap, and you avert your gaze, watching your fingers as they fidget with your ring. “And what if I do not know what I want?”

Once, you had thought that you wanted a life like Jaces. A happy life, with a mother that knew how to love you and siblings that hadn’t been raised in fear of their half-sister ascending the throne, taught that their very existence was a threat to her power. But, suddenly, you felt as though you were no longer sure.

Aegon hesitates, watching you carefully. His lilac eyes appear as though they’re searching for something within your own—a hint of recognition, or reciprocation. If he found what he was looking for, then you were unaware. “Then you’ll figure it out,” he sighs, his smile not reaching his eyes. “You have all the time in the world to decide.”

There is something reassuring about his statement, making it resonate with you in a way that you hadn’t expected. You look up, holding his gaze for a heartbeat, then two, and you almost swear that you can see it—the silent invitation, the plea to delve deeper into his words, to decipher exactly what it was that he was promising you.

You have all the time in the world—all the time in the world to decide if he might ever be something you want.

Suddenly you find yourself dancing on the edge of a precipice, chest tightening as you grapple with the idea that, maybe, something more might exist between you and Aegon.

That, maybe, he had always known who he was complimenting and what bed he was slipping into.

That, for him, it had always been you.

“Aegon, I-”

He shakes his head, cutting you off before you have a chance to say something that he fears you may regret. Then, sliding the carafe between you to the side, he scoots closer. “If you plan on staying under my table,” he teases, clearing his throat, “then we need to do something about your hair.”

“I thought you said I looked exquisite?” You stay still as he starts toying with the strands, trying to swallow the tumult of your own emotions.

Aegon’s plucking various pins from your hair, tossing them to the ground. “Yes, but I also said that I prefer your hair when it’s messy. It’s more…” he sucks in a breath, unable to hide the admiration swelling in his chest when he finally exhales, “you.”

Your cheeks are burning hot, and you’re suddenly very thankful for the lack of light around you. On instinct, you almost tell him how your mother wouldn’t agree—but then you think better of it.

“You’re… generous.”

Something about your voice sounds foreign in your ears. You sound nervous—and you’re not used to feeling nervous around Aegon.

His fingers are combing through the plaits forming your updo, his brow drawn taut, framing his lilac eyes, shining bright with concentration. “Generous,” he snorts softly, nails raking lightly against your scalp as he shakes the strands loose, “I don’t hear that one often.”

“Well perhaps you’d hear it more if you weren’t such an ass,” you shoot back, slowly trying to slip back into your usual self.

“Me? An ass?” He’s untangled the final braid, scooting away from you slightly now as he presses a hand to his chest, feigning innocence. “Never.”

Now falling in loose waves, free of those incessant pins, you brush your hair over your shoulder. “Just earlier I heard you telling Lord Grover that if wisdom were measured in wrinkles that he would be named Grand Maester.” You point out, unable to mask your amusement while recalling the old man’s shocked expression.

“Is it not true?” Aegon smirks. “The man is nearly seventy, and his age certainly shows.”

“Lord Grover is only two-and-fifty, brother.”

His brows shoot up, gaping at you. “Tell me that you’re not serious!” When you nod, confirming that you are, he sucks his teeth. “Wow—how unfortunate. He looks positively dreadful for his age, then. I thought that he surely had one foot in the grave by now.”

“Aegon!” You rebuke through your own sputtered laughter, shaking your head at his insolence. “See? This is what I was talking about! If you weren’t so crude then you might get more compliments.”

Swinging his arm back to grab for the carafe, Aegon’s nose scrunches slightly. “Why bother?” He implores, a hint of mischief in his tone. “My crudeness is what you like most about me, is it not? Without it, dear sister, your life would be quite boring.”

Just before he brings the carafe to his lips, he inclines his head towards the tablecloth, emphasizing his words. A reminder—that, without him, you would still be out there, sitting miserably amongst your siblings and being forced to dance with Lord’s twice your age.

There was something more beneath the veil of humor and arrogance, however. A craving that had him tipping the carafe back, hoping that the stinging of the alcohol might numb his gnawing desire for validation—to hear you say that you yes, my life would be boring without you.

“I suppose you’re right,” the admission has him pausing, the carafe lingering against his bottom lip. “Truth be told, I had never put much thought into it before, but you do have a way of keeping life interesting, Aeg. So, I must agree that, without you, my life would be positively dreadful.” Staring at the ground in-between you, you smile before adding, “After all, who else would be able to convince me to risk our mother’s scorn and crawl beneath a table to drink wine and fix my hair?”

There’s a slight tremor in his voice when he speaks, trying to mask the warmth swelling in his chest, “You have yet to drink a single drop.”

“Then I suppose that is the next thing you’ll have to fix,” you say, sticking your hand out towards him, urging him to pass you the carafe. He hands it to you while biting back a grin.

“Careful,” he warns, “drink too much and you may end up like your drunkard brother.”

“I don't mind,” You mirror his expression, your own lips curving as you raise the glass upwards, the strong scent of the arbor red stinging your nostrils. “I quite like my drunkard brother.”

His gaze burns against your flesh as you tilt your head back, allowing the alcohol to slip over your tongue, and you suddenly realize that you are no longer standing on the edge of that precipice.

You’re falling.

a/n - i was honestly just thinking about jude and cardan hiding under a table in the cruel prince and ended up with this? so yeah, definitely inspired by jurdan content (but y'know... no coup d'etat lmao).

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aphroditelovesu · 6 months

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Hello. Can you write yandere husband Jaehaerys i Targaryen ?

❝ 🔥 — lady l: I got a little carried away, I'm not going to lie. I hope you like it and forgive me for any mistakes! 💚

❝tw: none, just fluff and soft!yandere.

❝🔥pairing: yandere!jaehaerys i targaryen x female!reader.

Jaehaerys married you before he became King. He had known you for a long time and your house was noble enough that he could marry you without any problems or many complaints and he did so as soon as you were both old enough to do so. He couldn't wait any longer to have you for himself.

Normally he should marry his sister, but he didn't want to. He wanted you. You had known each other since childhood and Jaehaerys knew that he could not marry any other woman but you. Not when he already loved you from that time. And you were perfect for him, not only was your lineage noble and good but you were good for him.

Jaehaerys had made all the right preparations. He had checked your background and was always meticulous about you. He loved you, but he would be King one day and he needed to be careful about his marriage and his future Queen.

He wanted to establish a bond with you, something emotional so that your marriage didn't depend solely on politics. Jaehaerys used to send you letters, telling you stories about the Targaryens and about him. And in return, you were give him letters about yourself and stories that you read in books.

Once the arrangements were made, he was very satisfied. You could become his wife and he your husband. He was eager for you to officially become his. He couldn't wait to start having children with you.

The wedding was grand, as expected of a future King and you looked absolutely stunning. As a future Queen should be.

Handmade, your dress was made with lush fabrics and intricate details, it exuded an aura of romance and tradition. Delicate embroidery adorned your bodice, reminiscent of the patience and skill of dedicated artisans. Your skirt flowed like a dream, with layers of tulle and lace that danced in the wind, while your train dragged along the floor, leaving a trail of stories of eternal love wherever you went.

The wedding night had been good and pleasant for both parties. Jaehaerys delighted in taking you as his wife, in touching you and giving you pleasure while also hoping to impregnate you. The way his kisses were sweet and his fingers touched you left you breathless.

The marriage with Jaehaerys was pleasant and you learned to love your husband despite his possessive and protective behavior. You assumed this was how a husband who loved his wife was supposed to behave, so you didn't mind. You were happy and your husband seemed perfect.

So kind and passionate, there wasn't a day that went by where he wasn't looking at you with heart eyes, his purple eyes sparkling when you caught him looking at you. He loved it even more when your face was red, not knowing what to do with the looks of your husband. So innocent and so his.

You were spoiled and pampered to no end, he doesn't have any kind of financial care to spoil you, you were his wife, nothing more fair than fulfilling all your desires and whims. Everyone must obey your orders without blinking or they will have to deal with Jaehaerys.

Once he became King and you officially received the title Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, you played a large role in his politics. You presided over his council and gave your opinion, to the chagrin of some lords and the delight of your husband who trusted you completely.

You were not only his wife, someone who was only supposed to bear him children, but also an advisor, a Queen, valued by Jaehaerys, collaborating with him in matters of state and being a shrewd mind behind the important decisions of the realm.

Jaehaerys showed his affection in subtle ways sometimes, such as leaving little surprises for you at unexpected times, like flowers in your chambers or gifts made especially for you, showing his affection in subtle and discreet ways.

You took time to travel together, exploring the lands of the Seven Kingdoms, strengthening your bond not only with each other, but with the other Lords, and creating precious memories outside of royal compromises.

Jaeherys was your perfect husband, he put you above everything else and did whatever you wanted. He loves you deeply and just wants you to be happy. He trusts you like no one else and you have all the power over him. Even more so when you get pregnant with your first child.

You have the King on his knees for you whenever you want. He is yours and you are his. He was always yours.

#a song of ice and fire #asoiaf #house of the dragon #yandere house of the dragon #yandere hotd #hotd #yandere asoiaf #asoiaf x reader #jaehaerys i targaryen #jaehaerys i targaryen x reader #yandere jaehaerys i targaryen #yandere jaehaerys i targaryen x reader #yandere headcanons #headcanons #yandere jaehaerys i targaryen headcanons #yandere a song of ice and fire

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thesimline · 3 months

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By the 1500s we start to see the broad and square silhouette come into fashion for men. This impressive shape was achieved through the use of over-the-top sleeves, balloon-like pants and overcoats made from layers upon layers of billowing fabric. Wealth and status were communicated through rich fabrics and opulent ornamentation, with some English and French lords even bankrupting themselves to pay for these wardrobes.

You can find more of my historical content here: 1300s ✺ 1400s ✺ 1500s ✺ 1600s

OUTFIT RESOURCES

Page: Hair | Outfit | Cloak | Hose | Shoes (City Living)

Citizen: Hat | Hair (retired - direct download) | Facial Hair | Outfit

With thanks to some amazing creators: @simverses @plazasims @natalia-auditore @satterlly @chere-indolente @wiccandove @oydis @notsooldmadcatlady @batsfromwesteros @daylifesims @simsregalia @regina-raven @bobnewbie @ilkup @diosasims @shandir @jools-simming @igorstory @ice-creamforbreakfast @glitterberrysims @imvikai @veigasims @lehgames

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janearts · 9 months

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Roisia Lydgate: Character Overview

This is really more of a background introduction to her character, but I'm trying to put as much information in one place for future reference or for anyone who wants to get a better idea of her character. Details underneath the cut!

Meta-Knowledge

Roisia is my Source Hunter from Divinity: Original Sin, but I recreated her in Baldur’s Gate 3 as a way to continue her story albeit in a completely different universe. The story and events of DOS have since become part of her backstory, and tweaked to fit the world of Faerûn.

Name Pronunciation

I’m honestly none too fussed about pronunciation. Her name is an 11th century mediaeval name that would later become “Rose” in Middle English. Roisia is probably meant to be pronounced something like /ɹɔɪːsiːɑ/ (Roy-see-ah) based on other name variants found around the same time. Her nicknames, as given to her by her parents, include: Rose, Rosie, petal, pet, rosebud, bud, so on and so forth.

Personality

Roisia is charming, adventurous, with a voracious curiosity, and a deeply analytical mind. She believes that taking care of the dead and providing a voice for the dead is her life’s calling. She was formerly raised to be a Cleric of Kelemvor, but believes that her god has disowned her since she reanimated her father. She now believes herself to be deemed among the Faithless. She’s compassionate to those in need and is willing to break rules (and the law) to help others. While she is generally a law-abiding citizen, she is dogged in pursuing the whims of her curiosity and will likewise do whatever it takes to solve a puzzle, a mystery, or a murder… or simply answer a question that has occurred to her. She is sociable, prefers when everyone gets along, and will try to talk her way into and out of most situations. This includes charming, reasoning, intimidating, and/or deceiving others to get her desired outcome. Ultimately, she finds solace and comfort in the company of animals, the dead, and books. Her favourite animal is the noble spider, and she breeds and raises some species in her spare time.

Spells and Such

I tried as best I could to replicate Roisia’s DOS character. In DOS, she was classed as a Witch. Witchcraft spells in DOS are a mixture of Necromancy spells and Enchantment spells, and I chose my spells in BG3 to imitate the ones that you get in DOS. As a witch in DOS, Roisia also had the ability to talk to animals and summon a spider. (I cheesed this in BG3 with the Find Familiar spell—technically a Conjuration spell—and having her drink a potion after every long rest.) To be more in keeping with her backstory, I gave her a Guild Artisan background and invested skill points in skills like Medicine.

Backstory

Roisia grew up in Eastway of Baldur’s Gate. Her father worked in the Gray Harbor shipyard as a shipwright and her mother was a Mortarch, running the Eastway Cemetery & Lydgate Funeral Service. She was raised to follow in her mother’s footsteps as a Cleric of Kelemvor, and specifically as a Mortarch, from an early age. She assisted her mother in managing the burial customs and rites for the Lower City’s diverse community (from embalming to ritualistic cannibalism to poisonings), comforting grieving family members of the deceased, and tending to the dead buried in the cemetery.

Her life took an unexpected turn when her father drowned during a sea trial. Grieving for her father, Roisia made her first attempt at Necromancy. She unwittingly used a wish spell in the process and reanimated him as a skeleton. Because it was the wish spell, not her first attempt at a necromantic ritual, that bound the soul of her father to his bones, Roisia is determined to master the School of Necromancy and truly resurrect her father.

She is interrupted in her early studies by the appearance of Eustace, who recruited her into the Source Hunters, an organisation dedicated to eradicating dangerous magic users (like… Necromancers). “We need you,” he said. “… and you need us.” Roisia & Eustace (or Roy & Stacey as they became known to each other) investigated the mysterious murder of a town counsellor and uncovered a Necromantic cult in the process. As they adventured together, Roisia began to develop feelings for Eustace, but as their adventure concluded and they returned to the Source Hunter Academy, Eustace did not return those feelings. Dejected, Roisia left the Source Hunters and returned to her home in Baldur’s Gate.

To “cure” herself of her heartbreak, Roisia drew up a list of lifelong goals for herself. They are:

1. A cemetery or plot of land of her own to oversee. 2. “Tenants”/”Residents” (aka The Deceased) to house and tend to on this land. 3. To master Necromancy such that she can extend indefinitely her own life and the lives of her loved ones. 4. One (1) Spouse (*not of the squeamish variety) 5. Children (*ideally 3-5)

Refocused aggressively on her list, Roisia returned to her duties during the day and her studies during the night. She was abducted by the nautiloid one night while she was off to dig up a new test subject.

Playlist

#BG3 Roisia #Roisia #taggin #tatterings #here you go!#rosecanons #roisiacanons #Spotify

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lunastrophe · 3 months

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Drow Lore 🕷️ Gender Roles

About gender roles in a Lolth-sworn drow society, based mainly on Drow of the Underdark:

🕷️ Gender Stereotypes - drow females are seen as "stronger, smarter, and more emotionally controlled than males"; males are viewed as "spiritually, intellectually, and physically inferior, useful mainly for physical and skilled labor, and for breeding". A male drow may be seen as superior to a member of any other race, but he is inferior even to a female drow of lower status.

🕷️ Way Of Lolth - Queen of Spiders has, "over the course of drow mythology and history, taken multiple consorts, all of whom have been eventually discarded". It is unclear if this is the cause of Lolth’s opinion of males or a symptom of it, but according to Way of Lolth, female drow are seen as holier and more devoted to the Goddess, and much more worthy to be her servants.

🕷️ Parenting - in a Lolth-sworn drow society, mother has the sole right to decide the fate of her child, including the right to kill it if she deems it weak or incompetent. Drow mothers, especially in noble houses, typically have little to no affection for their children and they rarely raise them (especially their sons) themselves. They usually assign this task to their older daughters or to other females with lower social status.

Male drow generally do not participate in raising children and they are not even permitted to perceive the child they sired as "theirs". Some "weak-minded males might enjoy playing with their spawn," but they are allowed to do it only in presence of female nurses or servants who "keep a watchful eye on them" (Dragon Magazine #298) - most likely to make sure that the male and the child will not get attached to each other too much, and that the child will not be influenced by him in any significant way.

When a male child becomes old enough to start his training as a wizard or a warrior, his mother may appoint his sire as his mentor. Female children are not obliged to treat their sires with respect and they are usually mentored by other females.

🕷️ Career - typically, female drow are trained to be clerics of Lolth and to hold positions of power, especially if they are highborn. Priestesses "interpret and disseminate the will of Lolth, conduct rites and rituals to honor the dark goddess, and technically have the authority to demand anything in her name."

Male drow often hold little power, but not all of them are mere property (even if many females see them as such). Some of the most skilled crafters, warriors, and arcane casters among the drow are male. Since males are constantly at risk of being discarded by their female leaders, only those with skills and abilities that are not easily replaceable can be relatively confident of their positions. This inspires, or maybe rather forces many of them to excel.

Among non-nobles, male and female drow can hold similar roles: they can be household servants, shopkeepers, warriors or artisans, regardless of their gender. "The males tend more toward physical labor and the females toward skilled crafts - not because females are weaker, but because they often have more opportunities to choose their own path than males do - but this is only a tendency, not a societal constant."

For more of my drow lore ramblings, feel free to check my pinned post 🕷️

#drow #drow lore #dnd lore #lolth sworn drow #drow culture #dark elves

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brabblesblog · 6 months

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Ch 1: Whither is thy beloved gone?

Astarion has ascended, and she has stayed with him. Life in the Crimson Palace isn’t as idyllic as it seems. Is there a chance for their relationship to go back to how it was? Or is it too late for the Ascendant and his consort?

This series is about Ban, my Tav, and the Vampire Ascendant. Will be angst and smut, with sprinkles of fluff.

This fic is a softer take on Ascendant!Astarion and of the changes he undergoes after the rite. Can Ban handle the change, and if a chance came, would she choose to run? And can the Ascendant win her back in time? Inspired by the concept of vampire wives and that IGN interview with Larian that discussed the ascension.

Professionally edited by @editing-by-night

A small scene at breakfast that sets up the situation in the Palace for the past six months.

Read on AO3

Masterlist.

Ban opened her eyes to yet another dawn; a shaft of sunlight peeked through the gap between vermilion curtains, shining on her face. Her hand moved, reaching for the empty space beside her before she stopped herself. There was no need to check - there never was, not for months now.

She made her way out of the gigantic four-poster bed she and her lord sleep in. Her silken robe awaited her, draped over the luxurious couch, and she slipped it on wordlessly. The servants all murmured soft greetings as she passed them on her way to breakfast, but Ban paid them no mind. The days and nights all blended for her, days of meetings and nights of wheedling their way into the high society of Baldur’s Gate. And sex, of course, but even that had become stale to her now. Not that her partner wasn’t a consummate lover - far from it - but the souring of the love she has for him tainted even the most pleasurable of moments.

The doors to the dining room were held open for her, and as she walked in, he looked up. He shot her a wry grin and crossed the room, taking her hand and pressing a soft kiss to her knuckles. Every morning he did this; it would have made her swoon six months ago.

When he was different. When he was the man she’d loved.

“I had to rise early, love,” he began, as if he didn’t do so every damn morning. “Preparations for renovating the… basement area are finally underway, and I did not want them missing any single detail of what I have planned for it.”

The basement area. The dungeons. He couldn't even bring himself to say the word; he refused any reminder of his past self. If he had his way, people would think he sprang into existence some six months ago. She allowed him to lead her to the ridiculously large table. As always, he was seated at the head and she to his right.

He offered her a tart, which she waved off; it wasn’t as if she could actually enjoy it. Mortal food had been tasteless since she’d turned. Instead she reached for the bottle of blood on the table, warmed just before it was served.

“I’m surprised you even bothered with touching the dungeons,” she said, smiling placidly as her use of the word was rewarded with a glare.

“The basement,” he hissed, “is the most neglected part of the house. It is- never mind.” As expected, Astarion refused any mention of what the basement used to be. “Besides. The artisan guilds are clamoring for space to rent, and as you suggested, I entertained their request.”

It was Ban’s turn to roll her eyes. Astarion was right - she had asked him to focus his attention on not just the patriars, but also the artisan guilds, a calculated decision designed to win more people to their side, to sink their claws deeper into the heart of the city. It made sense to not only win over the very cream of the crop, but also the people slightly below it. At worst, it would be a waste of time and of negligible resources. At best, it would help curtail the surprising resistance the Ascendant had been encountering in his efforts to win over the nobility.

The Szarrs had been a well-known family with noble roots, and so Cazador had the name to match his wealth and status. Astarion Ancunín, however, had no such privilege. Thus, when he’d emerged as the successor to Cazador’s estate, there had been more than a few raised eyebrows. Added to that, Astarion hadn’t had to plan anything in two centuries, so the task of ingratiating them with the city’s gentry had mostly fallen to Ban. Well, the planning and scheming, anyway. The Ascendant acted as the face, charming and manipulating his way through the meetings and parties, while his consort laid out their strategy, playing the perfect lady-wife and hostess.

Plans for a future she'd never desired, but sought for his sake anyway, ambitions and schemes that were all too similar to what her father had groomed her for. It had all come back to her with a distressing effortlessness, the machinations as natural as breathing. She hadn’t seen fit to let Astarion know this, not now. Before the rite, there had been the potential of so much time together that she hadn’t felt any urgency to share the circumstances of her early life with him. After the rite, things had just been... different.

“If it’s for the artisan guilds, then do it,” Ban said, pouring the warmed blood into her glass, taking a sip. “Gods know you need all the support you can get from them, especially considering how tenuous your position has remained with the patriars.”

Astarion scoffed, but didn’t reply to her taunt. Instead he took a long, slow bite of his tart and made an exaggerated gesture of delight, reminding her exactly what she’d been missing out on.

“Well, my treasure, it worked. There will be a ball held a tenday from now, with all the guilds attending.” Pride at managing to pull that off without her aid or knowledge tinged his voice.

Ban narrowed her eyes. All the guilds? Generally she would consider that a significant success, but the fact that she may have to face her family there gave her pause. She took a long pull from her goblet at the thought.

“All the guilds…” she repeated, for a moment not bothering to mask her feelings, her horror bleeding through.

“You’re now reduced to parroting what I say? Pet, I didn’t take you to be so dull,” Astarion sneered, taking the opportunity to strike. He wasn’t stupid; he’d always been aware that things had changed between him and his consort.

It had been a whirlwind of events since he’d ascended. At first, there’d been an overwhelming sense of power, of endless possibilities. He had everything - power, freedom, riches. He had her by his side. The following days had been battle after battle as they’d slowly approached the Netherbrain. There hadn’t been time to reexamine their relationship, other than to realize it was failing. Hells, there had barely been time for him to explore his new abilities.

Then, just as quickly, the brain had been defeated and they were finally alone together. Just the two of them and Cazador’s palace. My palace, he reminded himself. Not his.

They were finally, truly together, the Absolute vanquished at last - it should have been a wondrous time. They should have been happy in each other’s arms, at the start of their shared eternity. But she’d become cold after the rite, a chill that had yet to thaw. She flinched from his touches, from his lips. Her smiles never met her eyes, and all she did was help him lay out plans for his dominion. At night, she yielded to his every desire. Every night he made love to her, as he had been doing since the first night after his ascension. She only played her role, saying the right words, moaning the right way, but he sensed the absence there. None of it ever reached her.

At first, he’d attempted to take whatever emotions she’d shown at face value. She’d seemed to like planning their conquest of Baldur’s Gate, seemed to have taken to heart the words he’d so casually thrown out during their journey, so he’d acted just as enthusiastic about it. She’d seemed to react positively whenever he’d asked for suggestions regarding their schemes; he not being well suited to formulating detailed plans and her proving knowledgeable, he tended to follow her advice. Initially these things had seemed to at least elicit a response in her that wasn't hollowness. As time passed, however, even they had seemed to lose their luster, the emptiness in her eyes becoming more and more prominent.

He had never seen her in silks or in anything expensive throughout their time fighting the Absolute. The moment he’d gotten access to Cazador’s wealth, he’d bought her everything he’d wanted to give her before: gowns, shoes, jewelry. All she had to do was glance at an item once, and it was hers. But the emptiness only grew.

He’d attempted to convince himself he couldn’t understand how they had ended up this way, but truthfully it was that he couldn't admit to himself what he knew the root cause to be. That initial confusion had slowly turned into resentment. Deep down, he knew where he’d gone wrong, of course, but really, was leaving the palace such a big deal?

That had been their first major argument. Astarion had come back from a meeting one day to find Ban gone, the servants explaining she’d left the palace to walk around the city. He had refrained from going after her, but he had been worried. What if someone took the Ascendant’s consort as a hostage? What if she roamed too far, and somehow the extension of his powers failed? Then what? The image of her burning in the sun had filled him with an impotent, all-consuming fury. He had told her not to wander!

When she had finally gotten home, her hands full of pastries she had bought for him, he had flown into a fit of rage.

“How dare you sneak off like that, Ban! Without asking! Without me knowing!”

Ban had flinched. She’d held up the pastries. “I bought them to surprise-”

He’d almost shoved them out of her hands, but had stopped himself. Barely. “Have I not told you, pet, not to stray too far? What if you were hurt? What if you burned in the sun?” His eyes had glinted then, the fires of worry mixing with anger.

“You are mine, and I do not like not knowing where my things are.”

She had tried to argue about having the freedom to go where she pleased, but he’d shut her down the moment she’d begun.

“Do I not buy you everything you wish for? Anything you ask? You merely have to give voice to what you desire, and I shall have it procured for you. But you do not leave. Not without my express permission.”

It had only gone downhill from there.

Astarion snapped back from his reverie when he noticed Ban had ignored his verbal barb. He watched her, realizing this was the first genuine shred of emotion he’d seen from her in weeks. Something was bothering her about having the artisan guilds over for a party, and it piqued his interest. His concern too, of course. But he would never admit that. Even to himself.

He sat up straighter, aiming his words carefully. Precisely.

“My little love,” he cooed, “What… exactly is the issue with our soon-to-be guests? I had assumed you would love to have them over, considering it was your idea to reach out to them and form alliances in the first place.”

Ban froze. Her eyes widened as Astarion asked her this question. While he had yet to compel her to do anything, there was no evidence that he couldn't. Perhaps he already had, and she was unaware. Compulsion was the thing she was most terrified of, because the moment he started - the moment he considered it necessary to keep her - would be the moment she’d lose what little of herself she had left.

So she decided to be honest.

“I never told you where I came from, did I?” she said.

He shook his head. “I doubt you had humbler origins than I did, but no. You have not.”

Ban laughed bitterly and braced herself, pouring out another glass of blood.

“I came from one of the guild’s artisan families.”

His eyebrows rose, surprised and rather pleased, despite himself. They hadn’t had an actual conversation that wasn’t about Baldur’s Gate, its people, or their schemes in weeks. He reined in the venom he’d been wielding so often these days, letting his curiosity take over for the time being.

“Which one? Ca-” he bit his lip, “My former master knew a lot of these guilds. They helped maintain the palace and procured items for him. I have never heard of your family name, nor seen it.”

She laughed again, a real one this time, and his eyebrows rose even further, intrigued.

“We dealt in ornate mirrors.” That explained it. Of course Cazador would not have bothered with that.

The Ascendant huffed in response. “Ironic. Well. You’ll be glad to know I have yet to speak to any mirror-makers. I hadn’t decided on what type of mirror I want for our bedroom, or how grandiose it should be. Shall I ask your family?”

The last sentence was less a taunt and more a genuine question. She seemed to dread seeing them, but if she wanted them here - for whatever reason at all - he would be more than happy to oblige her.

In truth, all he really wanted was her happiness, to bask in the glow of her smile again. He just seemed to have lost sight of how to inspire it ever since he became this version of himself.

Ban took it the wrong way, of course, and visibly stiffened.

“I do not want to see them. I-” her voice cut off, hesitant, “I left years ago. They probably don't even know if I’m alive.”

The Ascendant felt an odd twinge in his chest, a familiar but long-forgotten sensation. None of it was visible on his face, however. He smirked. “Very well, pet.”

Astarion leaned over, fingers tilting her chin up to meet his gaze. Crimson eyes bored into Ban with an intensity that only seemed to unnerve her. “And don’t fret about them. The only family you’ll ever need is me.”

Ban had to look away. She couldn’t stare into those eyes and listen to that voice talk about her family. She had always envisioned this conversation to be one where she’d spill all her secrets to him, and he’d hold her, stroke her hair and tell her everything would be alright. That he understood and loved her anyway. But that time had passed, and so had that man she’d loved. What remained of him was a pale specter.

She had often asked herself if he was even the same man. She’d observed him, and with Gale’s assistance had studied books on the matter. In the end she had come to one painful conclusion: he was Astarion. His worst traits turned up and his greatest strengths diminished, but it was undoubtedly him.

There had been one night when he’d seemed like his old self. One night in the past five months that had given her some small glimmer of hope that he hadn’t completely changed.

She had woken up in the middle of the night to the sound of weeping. Astarion had been lying beside her, arms taut, hands clenched into fists, sweat soaking into the sheets. His face a rictus of pain, his cries a mix of unintelligible words and whimpers. She’d instinctively rushed to hold him; he’d woken up at her touch and his eyes had found hers.

They were his eyes.

“You’re okay, you’re here,” she had crooned, the same words she had repeated in the old days. They’d come back like no time had passed; as if he wasn’t what he was now. Like he was just her Astarion.

He had leaned into her touch, head resting on her chest.

“I’m sorry to wake you, darling,” he’d said; his use of her old nickname had almost made her sob. “He… I saw him again. I’d thought this would be over.”

She’d kissed his forehead then, holding him close. His conscious mind may have tried to deny it, but it seemed like his subconscious was still haunted by Cazador. He had clung to her for dear life that night; she had tried to stay awake, to stop time, so that perhaps he would stay that version of himself forever. But in the end, sleep had won, and as she’d drifted off she had heard him say something which she’d attributed to her own imagination.

“Thank you for still being here,” she’d thought he’d whispered against her chest, “I love you.”

They were spoken with such tenderness that she had doubted it was real. In the morning, he’d been gone from her side, already eating breakfast. He’d acted like nothing had happened in the night, and so she’d had her hopes dashed away; fleeting as they were she had still yearned for it to be real, wishing it had lasted longer than those few moments he was in her arms.

Ever since then, she had attempted to catch any glimpse of her Astarion in the Ascendant. There occasionally seemed to be some hint of him, but it was always too quick, too subtle, and after so many months she’d all but given up. Gone were the days when she’d known which of his honeyed words were lies and which were truth; it felt as though she was back in those days in the Grove when she couldn't read him. Even now, as her lord called himself her family, she found herself wincing internally.

On the outside, she offered him a smile.

“Thank you, Astarion. That means a lot.”

The Ascendant smiled, a toothy grin that would have looked at home in a shark’s maw.

“Of course! And we shall be a bigger family, if only you’ll let me-"

“No,” Ban said, and she was firm. This was another argument they’d constantly waged. He wanted to create an army of spawn, claiming that they would keep her company and serve her and their ambitions. He had promised to procure his spawn ethically, from willing subjects, but she had said no, refusing to doom anyone else to the same fate.

His eyes hardened, fingers twitching on her chin, but he let go. She released the breath she had been holding, worried that this would be when he’d hit the end of his rope and force her obedience.

He exhaled. “Fine. You’ll come around, once you’re alone and bored for a decade or so more.”

Astarion pushed away his breakfast. This hadn’t gone the way he’d wanted it to, and to be frank? Every day since that argument about her leaving the house and having her freedom had gone the same way: to barely veiled insults and chilly indifference. He hated it. He hated what they’d become.

At night when he made love to her, he imagined they were back in that clearing where it all began. At dawn, he watched her sleep and pretended they were back in the Shadow-Cursed lands. Fruitless reminiscing, but it was all he had to hold onto. Memories, each holding the ghost of their love, leaving him to wish it back to life.

He brushed those thoughts away. They were the thoughts of a much weaker man, and he was anything but.

But then why did his newly beating heart ache so much whenever they did this venomous song and dance?

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racefortheironthrone · 8 months

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Hello, I’ve a part asoiaf part medieval history question. So despite the strict gender roles, we know that women (at least noble women) can enjoy some “male” activities like horse riding and some kinds of hunting (Cat says Arya can have a hunting hawk). Are there any other “male” activities women can partake too without being judged about it, or even encouraged to do so (both in Westeros and real world)?

So as medievalists and historians of gender have pointed out, ASOIAF is far more restrictive for women than actual medieval Europe. I'm actually going to leave aside the situation of noblewoman for a second, because the vast majority of women were not nobles and their experience of gender would be radically different.

What counted as "male activities" for example would vary enormously by location (rural vs. urban) and thus occupation (farmer vs. artisan). Among the peasantry, while men tended to work in the fields and concentrated on cereal-crop production and women tended to do the manifold work of maintaining the home, the reality is that the irregular nature of agricultural labor meant that in times of high demand (especially spring sowing and autumn harvest) it was a matter of survival for every single member of the household to work in the fields. So women absolutely knew how to work a plow, and swing a scythe.

As for the urban worker, while there was also a high degree of gender segregation by occupation and guilds could often be quite misogynistic when it came to trying to masculinize trades (especially those involving higher rates of capital investment), it was also true that the entire household was expected to contribute their labor, so that wives, daughters, collateral female relatives, and female servants picked up the trade alongside their male counterpart. Moreover, as biased towards men as guilds could be, they were even more committed to the principle that guild businesses were family businesses, and so in situations where a master artisan had only daughters or died childless or died with underage heirs, it was absolutely routine for guilds to admit daughters and widows as guild members, indeed usually at the rank of master, all so that the business could remain in the same family. This is why medievalists can point to so many examples of women who worked in skilled trades, often at a high level.

That's what I think GRRM's portrait of medieval society is missing: an entire world of women in business, working elbow-to-elbow with men to make a living.

As for noblewomen, part of the difficulty is that a big part of being a noble was not doing stuff - not working for a living, chiefly - and instead engaging in leisure activities as much as possible. And women were very much a part of those activities (indeed, for many of them the point was to mingle with eligible people of the opposite gender), whether that's feasting, dancing, hunting, hawking, theater and other entertainments, fireworks, tourneys and jousts, etc.

However, women were also engaged in the main "occupations" of the nobility - estate management and politics - way more than GRRM really takes note of. To begin with, as even GRRM acknowledges to some extent, the lady of the house was expected to take an active role in running the house, which meant managing servants, keeping track of accounts payable and receivable, making sure the supplies arrive on time and in the right quality and quantity, keeping an eye on maintenance and repairs (with the help of servants, natch), etc.

Given that even the manor houses of the nobility were units of economic production, the lady of the house would also be responsible for oversight of how the house was doing with its pigs, goats, chickens and pigeons and geese, bees (because beeswax and honey were really important commodities), sheep, and so on, and what kind of figures they were pulling down at the mill and the weir, and so forth.

As medievalists have known for a long time, this list of duties got even longer whenever the lord of the house was away at war or on business, when the lady would be expected to pick up all his work too - which means making sure the rents and taxes get paid, deciding which fields to distribute manpower to and when, dealing with legal disputes in the manorial court, and so on. And if the war came home, the lady of the house was expected to lead the defense of the castle and there are many, many examples of noblewomen who had to organize sieges that lasted months and even years.

However, we also have to consider the impact of inheritance by birth and the inherent randomness of sex at birth - as much as they tried to avoid it, plenty of noble houses ended up with female heirs or in the hands of widows. Most of the time in most countries, women could and did inherit (or at the very least their male children and relatives could inherit through them) titles and fiefdoms, and while their husbands would often take on overlordship de jure uxoris, unmarried women and widows very much exercised their authority as the Lady or Baroness or Countess or whatever, and history is also full of women who were extremely influential in medieval politics and backed up their influence by any means necessary.

#history #medieval history #feudalism #history of gender #westerosi feudalism #westerosi gender roles #asoiaf #asoiaf meta #race for the iron throne #historical analysis

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gracefireheart · 2 days

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Got DnD on my mind, so here's Demoman as an Elf Blood Hunter, Medic as a Tiefling Cleric, and Heavy as a Half-Orc Barbarian 💃

Btw, if you haven't already, please go and sign the petition for #FixTF2 that's on this site right here: https://save.tf/

A few side notes for these three drawings:

If you're wondering what race and class (and maybe subclass) I chose for the rest of the squad, you can read the post I made right here. And since making that post, I also tried assigning backgrounds as well (that comes with the basic DnD Player's Handbook). Demoman would be (as you can obv see) a Sailor, but moreso specifically the Pirate variant. Medic meanwhile would be a Sage (that was actually pretty well respected, but then did something that got him kicked out). And I thought that Heavy would probably be a Hermit. As for what I picked out for the others; Soldier is a Soldier, Spy is a Criminal (Spy variant), Scout is a Charlatan, Sniper is an Outlander, Engineer is a Guild Artisan, and idk what to pick for Pyro between Folk hero, Urchin, and Noble.

At first, I was a bit iffy what to pick for Demoman between him being an Elf, Half-Elf, and a Minotaur. But then I said "Fuck it. I don't care if Elves are supposed to have lighter skin and straighter hair or whatever, let this handsome af man be an Elf with long, curly hair." I like it :)

I had such a struggle trying to figure out how to color Medic's outfit o(-( At first, it was going to be a lot of off-white colors with a bit of red, then some off-white along with some red and black, then darker colors with some red, so on and so forth. Ngl, it tired me out a lil' orz Oh, and his holy symbol is an amulet he has hidden away in his clothing.

The staff Medic's holding is something I tinkered around with quite a few days ago riiiight here. Idk, I just really liked how the staff looked :')

Imo, I was a bit lazy with Heavy's outfit orz Mostly 'cause I have no clue how to spice up Barbarian clothes besides "give it a bit of fur."

#I was going to draw Sniper (who would be a Firbolg Ranger). but my energy was getting pretty low. so I decided to not draw him #Sorry to the Sniper fans óvò #my art #Team Fortress 2 #TF2 Fanart #TF2 Demoman #TF2 Medic #TF2 Heavy #FixTF2

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cirilla-fiona-riannon · 8 months

Text

Translations may not always capture the exact nuances or tone of the original text. Expect grammatical errors.

Blank, ageless, and suspicious blogs will be blocked.

The party was bustling with several guests as they mingled and enjoyed drinks together.

(Where is Emma now?)

She and I were separately entertaining the guests, but the merchants would notice me whenever I occasionally glanced at her.

Merchant: "You still seem to be getting along well with Lady Emma."

Merchant: "Speaking of which, I have an offer that she might like. Would you be interested?"

(These kinds of talks have been increasing lately.)

Silvio: "Alright, if you're so confident, show me."

The person who approached me was a skilled merchant who had gathered together a group of talented tailors.

He spread out before me the design of a gleaming, gem-studded dress.

Merchant: "This is a masterpiece crafted by a skilled artisan."

Merchant: "We also have matching earrings designed to complement the dress."

Merchant: "I think it would suit her."

(It's quite flashy. Back in the day, I might have considered it, but now that I know her preferences...)

Silvio: "Rejected."

Merchant: "Huh?"

Silvio: "It's not about the design. Emma prefers simple dresses."

Silvio: "Having this many gemstones would make her self-conscious."

Silvio: "If you want me to consider buying it, bring something that appears simple at first glance but has intricate, elegant details."

Silvio: "Gemstones are necessary only in moderation. She's already stunning without any extra accessories."

Knowing her preferences, I naturally get enthusiastic about giving orders to the merchant.

(Still, these people don't really understand her.)

(If they observed her usual behavior, they could come up with better proposals.)

As I thought about it, a bitter feeling welled up within me.

(Thinking about it now, I used to do stupid things like this before.)

Silvio: "Well, no matter what dress it is, Emma will be able to pull it off."

Silvio: "Someone as beautiful as her would outshine even the most glamorous dress."

Silvio: "That's why it's pointless for her to dress extravagantly. I mean, who could possibly outshine Emma?"

Merchants: ".........."

Silvio: "What?"

Merchant: "Nothing, we just thought that you truly loved her."

(.............)

I suddenly realized the inappropriateness of my previous statement.

(What the hell did I just say?)

(She didn't hear me, right!?)

I nonchalantly scanned the room and made eye contact with Emma, who had been accompanying the noble ladies.

It seemed like she had heard the conversation as a mischievous smile played on her lips.

(I've made a fool of myself.)

Overwhelmed by embarrassment, I grabbed a glass of wine and downed it in one gulp.

(Damn it. Now that it comes to this, I'll humiliate her even more than she humiliated me.)

Silvio: "Now that we've talked about it, I might as well finish the story."

Silvio: "Emma is not just elegant and refined."

Silvio: "There's something more important than money to her, and she has a strong spirit that isn't easily swayed."

Silvio: "She's a cheeky woman who, despite her small stature, takes on even the toughest enemies."

Silvio: "But that's the noblest thing about her."

Silvio: "Despite being a rabbit, she has the ferocity of a beast when she bites back."

Emma: "P-Prince Silvio! How about getting some fresh air for a moment!?"

Unable to endure any longer, Emma took my arm and forcefully led me to the balcony.

Emma: "Doing that in front of those people is so embarrassing!"

Silvio: "It's not a big deal. It's only normal to show affection."

Silvio: "What? You were grinning like an idiot a moment ago, and now you're embarrassed?"

(But the one feeling more embarrassed is me, you idiot.)

(Especially since everything I said was the truth.)

Emma: "Of course I'm embarrassed!"

Silvio: "........."

Emma: "My heart is racing so much right now. I don't think I can go back inside."

Her whispered words sounded so fragile that they seemed to melt into the sea.

I looked at her as the light sea breeze blew and ruffled her hair.

(Her face is bright red, even in the dark.)

Unable to resist, I instinctively sealed her lips and put my hand on her blushing cheek.

Emma: "Prince Silvio! Are you trying to make me even more embarrassed!?"

Silvio: "You say that, but deep down, I know you're happy."

Emma: "Well..."

Emma didn't retort, and her expression suggested she wasn't entirely opposed to it.

(Another reason to fall in love with you.)

Silvio: "We're alone now, so let me have another kiss."

(If I keep getting these cute reactions, I guess it's okay to be a bit more romantic sometimes.)

Taking her silence as consent, I leaned in to capture her lips again.

We enjoyed a kiss that tasted a bit of alcohol in the hidden shadows of the curtain.

#ikemen prince #ikepri silvio #silvio ricci #ikepri #ikepri jp #cybird #ikepri translations

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coralinnii · 2 years

Text

being reincarnated into a new world as the bad guy pt.2

feat. Azul, Kalim

note: this is kinda a long post, can be interpreted as gn!reader, reader is different for each character, I might write blurbs cuz I like the villain/ess genre

part 1 part 2 part 3

series masterlist

Did the universe hate you? You pondered your past life choices that may have condemned you into this hopeless situation. You didn’t even like this webtoon you unceremoniously got sent to because the main characters were nothing but self-centered idiots. Worse, you got reincarnated as the lovesick betrothed of the male lead, who was going to have their engagement annulled then be abandoned by your greedy family.

Really, the only reason you even kept reading was for the cool if somewhat dorky count who rose from a nobody to one of the successful business figures in the kingdom…Hey now…

So now you were sitting across from the one and only Azul Ashengrotto as he sized you up with a business smile as his servants prepared refreshments. For as confident as you try to be, the ball in his court and your future cushioned life is dependent on him. At least the twin brothers from that marquis family weren't here.

“So, what do I owe the pleasure of your presence?”

“I’m going to let you use me”

“Urk—!”

Ah, you should’ve waited until after he finished his tea.

Aside from your love life, you were winning in every other department. You were a high ranking noble as well as a beautiful social butterfly of high society. You weren’t ahead of the trends, you were the trend and since you knew the story of this world, you knew what were hits and misses in the market.

“I can give you want to know in the high social circle, whatever you have me wear or eat with my appraisal, I can make it the biggest trend of the season. All I want is a cut”

As skeptical as Azul was, he couldn’t disagree with your points and he was sure he could spin this partnership in his favor considering you were thought to be a lovesick puppy (hah, he thought). With a lengthy discussion on the contract (a meager 10% cut on your side? Really, Azul?), the two of you shook on it.

With a smile too innocent to be real, you offered “Should we go on a date?”

Oh, you were going to be the death of this man.

Your “dates” were just spending the day in the village disguised, surveying promising businesses, cuisines, and artisans (though a flustered count is also a win in your books). With your insights and Azul’s careful research, high society was eating out of your hands, waiting to see which business would receive his Midas’ touch.

You kept your contributions hidden as you didn’t want your family to monopolize your share and secretly hoped that your family and fiancé would still care for you even without these merits. Perhaps you were more hopeless than you realized.

While your soon-to-be husband was off somewhere without informing you (though you already knew where he was going, and who he was going to), you paid a visit to your favourite restaurant which happens to be owned by your favourite associates. The more you spend time with Azul and inevitably the Leech twins, the more you yearn for a life with this much joy.

“Hey Mandarin fishy” oh, Floyd is lucky he’s so adorable. “Your future hubby is awfully chummy with that little remora” he noted as he casually slung his legs over your own, sounding nonchalant but you could see the flicker of curiosity in his mismatched eyes. “You ain’t scared the love of your life’s gonna run away?”

You knew the story’s coming to its climax as the “love of your life” is messing around with that baron’s daughter. Soon, he will announce the annulment in front of everyone and you will be “abandoned” for his true love.

Your eyes then glanced over to your business partner discussing the logistics of the shipment of jewelry materials with the other marquis heir. Despite your casual nagging, you did admire the genuine effort the bespectacled businessman puts in. However, you could see the twitch towards your direction, curious of your thoughts as well.

“Cute” you hid your smile as you took a sip of your favourite blend of tea (how considerate of Azul), “If a little remora was enough to convince that idiot to make a fool of himself in front of our families, then I’d count it a blessing to be rid of him”

Floyd laughs at your heartless dismissal while even Jade let out a chuckle under his breath. You couldn’t help but smile at the scene before you, at the people you hope to call friends (and maybe more in the future with a certain someone). You saved enough to buy a quaint home in the capital (Azul recommended a home conveniently close to his own) and there were pre-orders of delectable tea that became a hit when a wealthy traveler from a foreign country offered a sample at the restaurant, being well handled by the fair-haired count in front of you, guaranteed to be ready for your next social tea party.

As you notice the subtle quirk of a genuine smile on your diligent business partner, you feel content with confirmation.

You definitely prefer smart men.

No, no, no, no! This can’t be real!

It’s one thing to reincarnate as a servant of a wealthy family, must you be reincarnated as the servant that gets executed for poisoning the oldest son?!

This was the start of the dramatic novel you just finished where you, a new servant of the Asim family, were in love with a greedy relative, who persuaded you to poison the heir to cause turmoil in the mansion. Your younger sibling was sick and your “lover” promised to give you and your sibling a good life if you succeed. Sadly, you knew you were just a scapegoat in their plan.

It hurts even more that the intended recipient of the poison was your bias, the lovable Kalim Al-Asim who doesn’t have a single bad bone in his body. But what could you do? The poison was in your hand and your execution was practically cemented, whether by the hands of the Asim family or by your “beloved”.

Feeling hopeless, you submit yourself in front of Kalim, his father, and his attendants with the vial in hand. You confessed the plan to poison the heir, how that traitor promised to save your sibling if you followed them. You pray that maybe they would banish you and you could run away with your sibling, for however long you could before that relative would eventually eliminate you.

You didn’t even realize you were crying until the fair-headed heir cradled your face in his hands and wiped your tears from your glassy eyes, his own scarlet eyes watery.

“I’ll save you and your family!”

Unable to change Kalim’s decision, your attempt of treason was overlooked, and Kalim even sent the best doctors to see your sibling.

Shoot, this man sure knew how to capture your heart.

Of course, your testament isn’t enough to prosecute the greedy relative so you offered yourself as a poison tester should they attempt the second time. If the story stays on path, that traitor isn’t going to stop anytime soon.

Since then, you worked to prove yourself a devoted servant to the Asim family, especially to Kalim who brings you around to try every cuisine and street food that tickles his fancy. Even Jamil, who was very skeptical of your motives, deemed you harmless (apparently, he decided he could easily disarm you if you do attempt anything).

What made you and Kalim really close (though Kalim was a fairly affectionate man to begin with) was when you offered to help with his studies. You were familiar with certain subjects as they were similar in your old world and having someone around helps the energetic heir to focus. Every time Kalim would call your name with that bright grin of his never fails to bring out a smile of your own.

Your closeness with the oldest son did not go unnoticed. Soon, the traitorous relative came up to you as you were on your way to see Kalim. They gave you a second chance, to kill Kalim then they would forgive you after your failed poisoning attempt. Obviously, you told them to f*ck off stop their plans and leave before you call the guards.

Suddenly, your vision and body became disorientated as you fall to the floor with a sting on your cheek.

“You insolent commoner! You think anyone would care if you get hurt or even die? Don’t make me laugh!”

They slapped you. Your body is shaking from the shock of such sudden violence. You looked up and saw the traitor standing over you with rage as they raised their hand again. You were too slow to stand so you had no choice but close your eyes and grit your teeth as you anticipated the next hit.

Except it never happened.

Instead you were gently lifted to your feet. You turned to see Jamil assisting you to your feet as guards surrounded you and the traitor, with Kalim standing between the two of you.

You have never seen the usually jolly heir like this. His laid-back demeanor was almost non-existent as he kept his weapon pointed at his relative with a glare that seemed deadlier and sharper.

“You…” you've never imagined such an icy tone from your master, even at his worst until now. “You may be family, but I will never forgive you for hurting my precious treasure”

With his command, you saw the traitor pulled away to his awaited fate. Kalim then turned to you and he worriedly rushed to you, cradling your face in his hands to inspect your injury. It’s funny. It’s just like when you first met him.

“Master Kalim, thank you so much” you wanted to say more but honestly, you couldn’t find the words to truly express how much you love this man.

With his show of his signature grin, he replied “Of course, I’ll always save you”

#twisted wonderland #twst #twst imagines #kalim al asim #kalim x reader #azul ashengrotto #azul x reader #villainess au #twisted wonderland x reader #twst x reader

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spacebarbarianweird · 4 months

Note

Hi friend! Dropping by to ask about HC for my fighter Tav!

She’s a human born to a guild family, and ran away from them because they wanted to marry her off.

As a fighter she’s strong and muscular, but feels rather unattractive and masculine.

She also does crafts (guild artisan background) but doesn’t really tell anyone because it doesn’t really fit her fighter persona.

Ok, behold! Hope you won't be dissapointed!

Astarion x f!Fighter!Tav

Your family doesn't come from the Swords Coast.

You come from the Border Kingdoms, a country with much stricter rules.

According to local customs, a woman is a woman. Obedient, submissive, stupid.

Just a commodity to be sold and bought.

Your father, a wealthy merchant, dreams of marrying you off to a noble.

Instead of learning to fight, you learn to dance. Instead of magic, you are taught manners.

And you are punished for not being feminine enough.

But you see the different life in Baldur's Gate.

You see women who are warriors, fighters, sorceresses, pirates.

Everything you dream to be!

Noticing your interest, your mother locks you in the house, forbidding you to go out alone.

And you decide to run away.

You plan it carefully. The Swords Coast is big, you just need to leave Baldur's Gate and disappear among the adventurers.

You find a way to learn how to fight, disguising it as another dance lesson, and how to shoot arrows by lying to your parents that noble women in the Border Kingdoms love casual archery.

You are ready to escape, but on the very day you plan to leave, your father receives news. The royal family has agreed to marry off their youngest son to you.

Your family will also become nobles and be given their own lands.

But your mothers sees your preparations - a travel suit and a sword. She punishes you severely, forcing a wizard to paralyze you till they day you and your family sail back home.

You realize that your life is over. You will be locked in a castle, and you will never be able to walk the roads freely.

Because running away from a rich family is one thing. Running away from a prince is quite another. He will find you.

Worse, he'll get you pregnant, and your life will be over.

You decide it's better to end it al.

You jump into the sea and let the waters take you.

But your will to live proves to be much stronger than you expected, and you manage to stay afloat.

But once you reach the coast, the mindflayers kidnap you.

The tadpole in your brain is creepy and weird, but after meeting the first mercenary who seeks you out, you begin to appreciate this unexpected ally.

You feel strong and free - you can stand for yourself.

You and Astarion have similar fears. And desires.

As soon as you get to Baldur's Gate, your family knows of your arrival.

And so does your "husband."

Powerful mages come after you and, taking advantage of your weakness after removing the tadpole, kidnap you.

Astarion won't let them take you.

Even if he has to start a war against the kingdom to do so.

He goes to the Undedark, begging spawns to help him.

A whole year passes, but he is finally there, ready to enter the castle.

That's where the battle takes place - between the vampires and the knights.

Astarion finds you, tired, beaten, and drugged. He carries you to the dungeons to the darkness and freedom.

But...

The prince, realizing he can't have you, kills you.

Astarion kills him on the spot, but by the time he carries you to safety, it's too late.

You've lost too much blood. You're dying.

Nothing can help you.

Astarion begs and cries, but there is nothing he can do.

You ask him to drain you. You want to die in his hands.

Astarion agrees.

A masterless spawn, what can he do?

He holds you for a day in his hands before letting you rest in your grave.

But there's something Astarion doesn't know about himself, or vampires in general.

When the master dies, vampires cease to be spawns.

They become true vampires. Very capable of creating their own spawns.

You wake up in your grave, mad with pain and hunger.

You crawl out with a dead heart in your chest, a permament bite mark, a hunger you've never known, and a pair of fangs.

An invisible thread pulls you away, forcing you to face your master.

To obey his commands.

Several days pass as you reach him - you cannot hunt because your master has not allowed it, you cannot rest before you face him.

Astarion wakes up and sees you - confused, tired, and hungry.

A slave to his will.

And he realizes that he has unleashed 7,000 full-fledged vampires with the same ability to turn mortals into the undead.

He immediately gives you his blood, freeing you.

You belong to him. Forever. And he belongs to you.

It takes you a while to get used to that. You miss the sun, you can't hunt, and the empty mirrors drive you crazy.

Hunger and cold torment you, and sometimes you curse Astarion for not letting you die (as if it were his fault).

You even try to walk into the sunlight to die, but Astarion manages to drag you back.

You finally make peace with yourself and your condition.

Immortal! Able to crawl on the ceiling! Strong! Eerily beautiful! Immune to necrotic damage!

And through you, Astarion makes peace with himself.

Why bother looking for the cure if you can create a vampire guild and force a "protection racket" on the people of Faerun?

You, a terrible vampire woman, strike fear in some distant village!

Him, a dangerous undead, bothering a rich merchant!

Someone needs to rescue these people. It shouldn't bother them a vampire saves them from another vampire.

Sometimes Astarion "hunts" you, sometimes you "hunt" him.

You have the immortality to share with each other, and you are looking forward into the future.

Tag list

@tugoslovenka @marcynomercy @wintersire @vixstarria @not-so-lost-after-all @ashiro20 @theearthsfinalconfession @herstxrgirl @starlight-ipomoea @micropoe10 @astarion-imagine-archive @veillsar @elora-the-slutty-songstress @fayeriess @lumienyx @tallymonster @caitlincat-95 @tragedybunny @valeprati @lynnlovesthestars @marina-and-the-memes @waking-electric @ayselluna @connorsui @asterordinary @darkarchangel96 @locallegume

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bitchfitch · 7 days

Text

For a nobleman of any rank, the only relationship more politically influencial than a marriage that he could forge was that of mentor and apprentice.

The right wife, might, give him a lifetime of alliance with her family and heirs to succeed him or to marry off to other families to forge further alliances, but the right apprentice would give him a direct line into any family, village, town, country even, that that apprentice might someday lead. The Right apprentice might even prove a worthy heir without the mess blood ties brought. A son killing his father is crowned king, an apprentice knows he can do nothing to his mentor without the community turning on him in an instant.

The right apprentice wouldn't have an unfit older brother that needed done away with first.

The elder demon prince had spent many of his days dreaming of who he would want for his apprentice. A strapping young lad who was clever and brave and as ruthless as he. A boy who took after his heart and would find the beauty in conquest and glory in brutal battle. Strong with a sword, he had to be a match for Pavo himself so he'd feel no shame should the apprentice betray him.

The Cristatus clan, Pavo's own home and current top of the pile with their leader reigning as Demon King, was the obvious source for a boy of a like heart, but there was no point in making an allyship within the people he was already prince of.

He cast his net wider, his father was nearing the end of his life and Pavo wanted his apprentice under his wing before a crown made him too busy to dedicate proper time to making a warrior.

The Galluses, proud as any Cristatus but scrappy in their unrefinement. A boy from their ranks would jump to meet Pavo's expectations just to stay in the luxury of the Cristatus' wealth. His loyalty guaranteed by the nature of his clans need for protection and resources. Little did they offer politically besides bodies to fill the front lines of a battle with, but the image of him as a king for the downtrodden would be worth as much as any proper alliance.

The Ocellatta, Gorgeous artisans with their lands bursting with gems and precious metals. The boy they'd give would be worthless as a warrior, smug and brave with no strength or common sense, but the wealth and trade and beautiful people with their beautiful things would make the creature worth it. Their army was bought and not raised. Expensive yes, but convenient should he need to turn on his apprentices home. He could pay more, and make the boy watch as it all burned.

The Coraxes were shadow bound cowards. Snively assassin's who struck from the shadows and hid behind their mountainous home. Traitors, thieves, conniving, as weak in will as they were in body. Their mountains bursting with silver and rich with gold. Their territory a barrier to conquests of further flung riches.

Their lord a wannabe queen who was biding her time for a single moment of weakness that could allow her strike to be as quick as it was decisive in the fate of their looming war.

It was her, Lady Corvus of the Corax who stood before Prince Pavo the day he'd accept his apprentice.

He'd heard many descriptions of her. Lean with antler like horns and a whip tail that cut light itself. Her shadows so thick that all light that touched her skin vanished into her darkness. He could tell you nothing of her even as his younger brother directed his attention the right way with a hand on the back of his arm.

The silver mirror prosthetic eyes that granted Pavo the vision he hadn't been born with were miracles of magic he'd boast about till the day he died, but they always failed to show him what was hidden and all a Corax did was hide.

"Prince Pavo," her voice was that metered and courtly thing nobles who were ashamed of the blood on their hands used.

"Lady Corax," he returned with the drawl the finer demons hated to hear on their soon to be leaders voice.

Her carriage stood proud behind her, the door open and moving in such a way that implied another of her ilk was bent over the seat and attempting to convince the boy of the hour out from the shadows within.

"He's a bit shy. Clever though." She keeps her tone despite the dawning embarrassment both were being forced to endure.

Pavo shot a look over his shoulder to the company of his warriors and their apprentices behind him. The Coraxes made it look like they came alone, just a family with a handmaid and a driver, but not one of them believed there weren't Coraxes hiding in every shadow along the edges of the clearing between their lands that they'd chosen for this meeting.

The shriek of a child being torn from perceived safety was what pulled his attention back the right way.

The panicked thing thrashed in invisible to Pavo arms, his face streaked with tears.

Every demon stood a little straighter, the smell was what changed their tone from amusement to curious hunger.

The boy was perfectly visible. No shadows clung to him. His skin was flushed but deathly grey, his hair a sort of ink black that Pavo had never seen in the light of day. His eyes though were brown where the whites weren't cried red.

He was too young to have horns, too tiny to be a demon 10 years of age, his whipping tail too short to be seen beyond his skirts. A man who couldn't see color wouldn't have hesitated a second to call him completely human.

The boy lunged to wrap his arms around his mother's legs as soon as he was set down, Pavo imagined he had his face hidden in her skirts from the perspective of everyone else.

He scowled, Truthahn pinched his arm to remind him to keep his temper.

"Esti, this is Prince Pavo, he is to be your master," she pushed him away from her with a hand on his shoulder, her claws making the fabric of his robe pull and drape as she half picked him up to turn him.

"Esti, what a unique name," Pavo crouched down to bring his face near Esti's eye level, the boy flinched away from him. He'd maim Corvus for this slight. He admired her initiative, but to use a child as bait was a crime he'd not forget.

The halfbred bastard son shook. His expression said it all. He knew he'd been brought here so his death may justify a war. A walking martyr too young to have ever had a choice in it.

"It's great joy to finally meet you. I've waited to have an apprentice of my own for many years," he spoke loud and clearly as he held his hand out, the gesture being taken as slowly as he could as to not spook Esti further. Corvus wanted to see her son slaughtered, and he refused to give her so much as a frown of disappointment in the boy. "It'd be an honor to have the privilege to train you, if you'll have me as your mentor." He wished he could see Corvus's face, he hoped the boy could.

Esti's round eyes were wide, the moment not aligning with the terror he'd carried to this meeting. He looked at Pavo's hand like it might be a bear trap.

"Don't be rude, Esti," Corvus warned, the barely there note of irritation was enough to make Pavo break and grin.

"He's making a big decision. Be patient with him," Truthahn spoke for him.

Esti looked between the two Cristatus brothers, they must look like holy men out of a fairy tale to him.

They were magnificent even by demon standards. Tall and broad, their garb cut to show the heavy muscle they carried. The color of summer sun's bronze warmth with hair of the richest gemstone purple. Jewelry dripping from their horns to their ankles. Truthan with his neatly folded wings and Pavo with his mirrors for eyes.

Esti who came from a land of grey, of deception and betrayal by his own kin, reached his hand to take Pavo's.

"I- uhm," his voice was small, his every muscle tense and shaking as he waited for the trap to spring shut. "I- I - it's an uhm, honor to be uhm- Thank you. For uh, accepting m-me as your ap-rentice."

He hadn't even been coached on what to say should Pavo welcome him. Not a single scrap of silver had been spared to put a thin ring on any of his fingers. No leather for his belt, His very sandals looked as inexpensive and thin soled as could be managed.

Pavo gripped his hand tight to hold him still, and pushed a bracelet worth more than the carriage Esti had arrived in onto the boys wrist. It wasn't part of either of their customs, but it was a necessity to point out how dismissive Esti's own kin had been of him.

"It's official now," Pavo gave the boy a reassuring smile before dragging him forward and off of his feet. He weighed next to nothing, even less than Pavo had anticipated as he hefted Esti up to sit on the shelf his shoulder. Pavo turned to his men a triumphant gesture to show off their newest member.

"Greet him! My apprentice, Esti now of the Cristatus clan!" He was glad he didn't need to coax them any further, the cheering ruptured through the group. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Esti cling to the bracelet instead of the hand on his thigh that kept him safe from falling off. His priority to protect the gift he'd been given over his own body in that moment of shocked joy being such a pathetic instinct that it had Pavo promising to himself the boy would think of his home clan as savages by the summer's end when compared to the grace and glory of his mentor's.

The Coraxes left with as little fanfare as they had arrived. Drifting away while the party to celebrate their unwanted eldest son swelled.

Music and fine food cooked at the village and wine carried by their human servants. The comradery of brothers in battle if not blood filling the forest.

Esti to his credit handled the attention well for a child who'd clearly never so much as been allowed to stand in the corner of a proper revel. Still that manifested as him sitting with a look of war shock under the cover of Pavo's cloak. His small frame hidden easily by his new mentor's bulk.

Slowly the wave of warriors and apprentices that came to greet and introduce themselves to the brown eyed shadow under their prince's arm tapered off. Slower then did the party settle into the rhythm of conversation and relaxation.

The servants cleaned around the demons I preparation for setting up camp for the night, the boy who hadn't spoken a single word since his mother left cowered from them just as strongly as he did the warriors that came to chat as old friends with his mentor.

Gallo, a warrior Pavo had picked from a surrendering army himself, sat on the other side of him, his apprentice off following one of the human servant girls around the camp. The two older men watched the hopeful Cockrel shadow her every step. His smile warm his tongue heavy with promises made light by the wine.

"Ah don't judge the chick," Gallo thumped Pavo's shoulder. "Surely even you remember being young and opportunistic."

"I remember it well. Just as well as I remember never understanding the appeal of a human as anything other than a meal."

"A fuck and breakfast in bed, what more could you want?" Gallo joked. "He's got his airheaded reason you know. I think your little hatchling's got him thinking."

"A first for him?"

"Shut it, your highness. No, no, the boy saw how quick everyone was to start playing so much nicer with you. He's not getting a good demoness to nest with him, so he's thinking he's going to get human to do it and let his brothers do the work of raising up the next generation while he and whichever girl he can sweet talk into it make their fortune selling meat,"

"Is this his new attempt at business?" Pavo sighed. Cockerel wasn't a warrior by any definition. Never would be either, but he thought himself clever enough to make it as head of a merchant empire should he be able to get enough capital to start his ventures with.

"It's his best yet, to be honest," Gallo shrugged, he was right, to an extent, because this was the first time he had an idea for a product instead of vague promises of what the product would be.

"He's looking to get a human bred by him so he can sell off his own as meat."

"Hm hm, I give it oh, a week before he breaks and just chews her open."

"Stop him."

"He's showing initiative -"

"He can show initiative with your heard instead of mine. As is the beasts aren't producing enough for slaughter. I'm not loosing a good and healthy-" The fearful sob from his other side was enough to remind him of Esti's presence. "This is done. Stop him. For the time being no half breeds will be permitted in our flock. My apprentice doesn't need anyone learning a preference for that kind of meat."

"Wait- You're seriously keeping that thing?" Gallo reached aroumd him to grab the cloak away from Esti's back.

Pavo didn't hesitate. He grabbed his friend by the front of his neck and jerked him off of the fallen log they'd been sat on and onto the ground before it. Pavo stood to bring his entire wait down on the soft of Gallo's gut, his heel planted just below to concave of the man's ribs. Gallo hacked and gasped, his claws scrambling at the metal armor over Pavo's boot.

"Apologize to him," Pavo snarled, glad to have had someone volunteer to be the example for the others.

"I'm sorry-" Gallo's words cut off with the crunch of his ribs breaking from the lowest point on his sternum.

"For and to who?"

"Esti- Fuck, I'm sorry. I'm sorry-"

"For?" Pavo lifted his boot to bring it down again with the same force as before,

"For - for-" Gallo struggled to find his error amidst his pain, his air being forced from his lungs with every stomp. "For ask-ing if you'd keep him."

"Esti," Pavo drove his heel down once more before turning to the boy, "Has he earned your mercy?"

Esti looked at him like he were a god in the flesh. Like his act of impulsive violence was divine intervention.

He opened his mouth, a merciful confirmation on his lips, before those human brown eyes lit with the realization of the power he held.

"No, he hasn't, Master."

Pavo's pride could light the fires for a year with how hot it burned.

Gallo snarled at the disgrace of having a halfbred child handed his fate. He struck out to attempt to grab for Esti's leg but Esti, for all his fear, was an agile creature. He moved out of the way with the grace the Coraxes were known for. Perching on the balls of his feet on a rotten branch so thin it should've broken the second someone breathed near it.

"What does he need to do to earn it?"

"Uhm- Cockrel. Cockrel will have his punishment."

"Leave him out of this!"

"No. Y-you insulted Pavo's apprentice, shouldn't- uhm- you suffer the same?" he stops, his confidence wavered, he looked to Pavo for guidance.

"Ah, a clever thing isn't he, hm? He's right. To my face, you dared to imply I'd let harm befall my own apprentice. You must surely be willing to see such happen to yours to even think it a possibility for mine," Pavo stepped off of him, finding Cockerel staring wide eyed from the the crowd that had congregated to watch the show.

Pavo beckons him over, the boy had to be shoved forward by warriors with more common sense than Gallo.

"Please-" Gallo fought to his knees, Pavo had no qualms kicking the side of his head to knock him back down.

The boy rushed to stand between his mentor and Pavo, he held his head high. He shook with fear. Weaselly as he was, Pavo had to admit the boy was a loyal sort.

"What was it, you were going to imply I should let happen to Esti?" Pavo strutted, the fear around him feeding into his sense of showmanship.

"He's a halfbred- I thought you wouldn't stand for the insult of Corvus pretending he was a worth offer."

"Hmm." Pavo hummed, he drew his hunting knife from where it was tucked into his belt and held its handle out to Esti. "Four I think. One for the presumption, one for attempting to touch you, one for attempting to harm you, and one for being too cowardly to fight for his right to take a punishment instead of his apprentice."

Esti took the knife, it was massive in his tiny hands, "Four? F-Four what, Master?"

"Four of something. Whatever you deem Cockerel should take for his mentor's crimes."

Esti nodded, he pushed the bracelet up his forearm until it looped over his elbow. Pavo made a note to teach the boy to not be so precious about things getting bloody.

"Y-your hand, please," Esti's foot steps barely disturbed the soil as he approached the older boy, "Either," he clarified.

"He's a swordsman- he'll have no use to your mentor without his -"

"Six," Pavo interrupted, "If that one keeps talking you will take the whole hand."

Cockerel screwed his eyes shut holding his hand out with his fingers splayed.

Esti wrapped one small hand around one thick finger, the edge of the blade placed under the edge of a claw. He looked to Pavo again seeking approval like a pup. He got it with a nod.

Cockerel couldn't muffle his pained scream, the blade cut clean. Taking his claw and the tip of his finger with a single, unskilled motion.

Esti stared at the dripping wound, a nudge on his shoulder from Pavo being enough to send him after the next. Cockerel fell to his knees, he still stood taller than Esti, his other hand gripping his wrist as he swore and bit back screams through the pain.

Two, three, four more, and the hand before him was declawed in its entirety. Esti didn't give the demon a moment of mercy, or in his mercy he aimed to make this as quick as he could, he grabbed for the other hand and took the claw off it's thumb before Cockerel could even lift his head.

Esti stepped back and to Pavo's side the second the deed was done. All his bravado being pulled under his nervous nature seconds after the act was done. Pavo ruffled his hair with all the affection a demon could muster for another. It was a clever choice. Painful and scarring, but unlikely to be permanent. The boy's claws would grow back, and with the right care, might even be just as straight when they do.

"There. Next time I will decide his punishment, and I won't show nearly as much grace as Esti has today." Pavo dismissed them with a wave of his hand, taking his seat and holding his cloak up for Esti to return to hiding beneath its cover. An offer Esti took as gratefully as he did quickly.

Gallo half carried Cockerel away, smartly keeping his mouth shut until they were far from Pavo's hearing.

He felt Esti attempt to return the knife to its sheath on Pavo's hip, but he stopped him with a hand on his. "That's yours now. The weapon you drew your first blood with is a special thing. May it serve you as faithfully as it served me."

"You already gave me the bracelet -"

"I did," Pavo unclipped another from his own wrist and grabbed Esti's to put it on him, "I'm giving you that one too, and the knife, and the sheath with it's belt when I can remove it without loosing my robes."

Esti gawked, he was really good at that. It made this new game of showing him how a noble boy should be treated so much more entertaining.

"I- Thank you, thank you, of course, b-but why?"

"Why what?"

"I don't mean to be rude but uh- he was right. I-m not worth uh any of this. Not anything."

"Hm," Pavo reached behind his own neck to unclasp a heavy beaded necklace. It would look comical around the column of Esti's neck, as it nearly hung down to hips. "I've decided you are."

"But- why?"

"Because Corvus says your not," he shrugs, "You will learn this quick, but I don't enjoy being told what to do and I don't like people thinking they can play my worst traits to their advantage. Corvus did both when she put you before me."

"She thought y-you'd kill me."

"Hm hm, and I'm glad she did. I might have actually done it if she didn't want me to."

He can tell that was the wrong thing to say within a second of the silence between them dawning. "You're safe, is the point. Don't give me a reason to decide I'm better off with you dead, and I'll protect you like you were my own blood. Understand?"

Esti nods, "Yeah, I uh, I think I do."

#pavo #esti #Corvus is playing 5d chess with a turkey.#She wanted Esti safe and well cared for and the surest way to make that happen was to make Pavo think she Didn't want that #anyways ive decided Esti is the only character who gets to have a name that isnt just a bird #instead he gets to be dipshit<3

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