#the merchant's son

[istumpysk]

Operation Stumpy Re-Read

ADWD: The Merchant's Son (Quentyn I) [Chapter 6]

Adventure stank.

You have no idea.

+.+.+

"If the captain smells anything like his ship, he may mistake your vomit for perfume," Gerris replied.

That's an amusing new take on foul things smelling sweet.

+.+.+

Quentyn was about to suggest that they try another ship when the master finally made his appearance, with two vile-looking crewmen at his side. Gerris greeted him with a smile. Though he did not speak the Volantene tongue as well as Quentyn, their ruse required that he speak for them. Back in the Planky Town Quentyn had played the wineseller, but the mummery had chafed at him, so when the Dornishmen changed ships at Lys they had changed roles as well. Aboard the Meadowlark, Cletus Yronwood became the merchant, Quentyn the servant; in Volantis, with Cletus slain, Gerris had assumed the master's role.

[...]

Quentyn cut a poor figure by comparison—short-legged and stocky, thickly built, with hair the brown of new-turned earth. His forehead was too high, his jaw too square, his nose too broad. A good honest face, a girl had called it once, but you should smile more.

Everyone meet Quentyn Martell.

He has low self-esteem.

+.+.+

Smiles had never come easily for Quentyn Martell, any more than they did for his lord father.

Imagine someone as cautious as Doran Mortell, with tons of self-doubt mixed in.

I understand they don't know Daenerys's nature, and I understand Doran hasn't spent much time with his son. Regardless of those things, Quentyn is so ill-suited and unprepared for this task, I can't believe it's the plan.

+.+.+

"How swift is your Adventure?" Gerris said, in a halting approximation of High Valyrian.

This is the perfect ship for Arya.

+.+.+

Tell me, my Westerosi friend, what is there in Meereen that you should want to go there?"

The most beautiful woman in the world, thought Quentyn. My bride-to-be, if the gods are good. Sometimes at night he lay awake imagining her face and form, and wondering why such a woman would ever want to marry him, of all the princes in the world. I am Dorne, he told himself. She will want Dorne.

Poor little thing.

+.+.+

Yet twenty days had passed, and here they remained, still shipless. The captains of the Melantine, the Triarch's Daughter, and the Mermaid's Kiss had all refused them. A mate on the Bold Voyager had laughed in their faces. The master of the Dolphin berated them for wasting his time, and the owner of the Seventh Son accused them of being pirates. All on the first day.

Only the captain of the Fawn had given them reasons for his refusal. "It is true that I am sailing east," he told them, over watered wine. "South around Valyria and thence into the sunrise. We will take on water and provisions at New Ghis, then bend all oars toward Qarth and the Jade Gates. Every voyage has perils, long ones more than most. Why should I seek out more danger by turning into Slaver's Bay? The Fawn is my livelihood. I will not risk her to take three mad Dornishmen into the middle of a war."

How do you send your son into a war zone with five companions, some gold, and virtually no other support or resources?

+.+.+

Quentyn had begun to think that they might have done better to buy their own ship in the Planky Town. That would have drawn unwanted attention, however. The Spider had informers everywhere, even in the halls of Sunspear.

What should I do with this information?

Love how this omnipresent Spider and his wealthy Essosi partner have no idea Daenerys has taken up residence in Meereen. You're only as powerful as the author needs you to be.

+.+.+

The cart lurched along behind her, the driver hooting at sailors and slaves alike to clear the way. It was easy enough to tell one from the other. The slaves were all tattooed: a mask of blue feathers, a lightning bolt that ran from jaw to brow, a coin upon the cheek, a leopard's spots, a skull, a jug.

Close your eyes and try to think of which character would be most deserving of this type of tattoo/branding.

You may just get your wish.

+.+.+

Maester Kedry said there were five slaves for every free man in Volantis though he had not lived long enough to verify his estimate. He had perished on the morning the corsairs swarmed aboard the Meadowlark.

Quentyn lost two other friends that same day—Willam Wells with his freckles and his crooked teeth, fearless with a lance, and Cletus Yronwood, handsome despite his lazy eye, always randy, always laughing. Cletus had been Quentyn's dearest friend for half his life, a brother in all but blood. "Give your bride a kiss for me," Cletus had whispered to him, just before he died.

Fantastic, they've already lost the heir to a major house. Five companions? Make that two.

Go home, Quentyn.

+.+.+

"One of you should say some words for your dead, before we give them to the sea," the captain said. Gerris had obliged, lying with every other word, since he dare not tell the truth of who they'd been or why they'd come.

It was not supposed to end like that for them. "This will be a tale to tell our grandchildren," Cletus had declared the day they set out from his father's castle. Will made a face at that, and said, "A tale to tell tavern wenches, you mean, in hopes they'll lift their skirts." Cletus had slapped him on the back. "For grandchildren, you need children. For children, you need to lift some skirts." Later, in the Planky Town, the Dornishmen had toasted Quentyn's future bride, made ribald japes about his wedding night to come, and talked about the things they'd see, the deeds they'd do, the glory they would win. All they won was a sailcloth sack filled with ballast stones.

If I existed in this story, and someone started talking like this around me, I would cover my ears and run.

+.+.+

As much as he mourned Will and Cletus, it was the maester's loss that Quentyn felt most keenly. Kedry had been fluent in the tongues of all of the Free Cities, and even the mongrel Ghiscari that men spoke along the shores of Slaver's Bay. "Maester Kedry will accompany you," his father said the night they parted. "Heed his counsel. He has devoted half his life to the study of the Nine Free Cities." Quentyn wondered if things might not have gone a deal easier if only he were here to guide them.

Go home, Quentyn.

+.+.+

"New Ghis is an island, and a much smaller port than this. We would be closer, yes, but we could find ourselves stranded. And New Ghis has allied with the Yunkai'i." That news had not come as a surprise to Quentyn. New Ghis and Yunkai were both Ghiscari cities. "If Volantis should ally with them as well—"

Guess what happens!

+.+.+

"Do we have enough gold to buy a ship?"

"And who will sail her? You? Me?" Dornishmen had never been seafarers, not since Nymeria burned her ten thousand ships. "The seas around Valyria are perilous, and thick with corsairs."

Look who's back, and doing familiar things.

+.+.+

"The demon road is dangerous, and too slow," Quentyn said. "Tywin Lannister will send his own men after the queen once word of her reaches King's Landing." His father had been certain of that. "His will come with knives. If they reach her first—"

"Let's hope her dragons will sniff them out and eat them," said Gerris.

+.+.+

"Well, if we cannot find a ship, and you will not let us ride, we had as well book passage back to Dorne."

Crawl back to Sunspear defeated, with my tail between my legs? His father's disappointment would be more than Quentyn could bear, and the scorn of the Sand Snakes would be withering. Doran Martell had put the fate of Dorne into his hands, he could not fail him, not whilst life remained.

Doran Martell putting the fate of Dorne into your hands is him failing you.

+.+.+

Truth be told, girls made Quentyn anxious, especially the pretty ones.

When first he'd come to Yronwood, he had been smitten with Ynys, the eldest of Lord Yronwood's daughters. Though he never said a word about his feelings, he nursed his dreams for years … until the day she was dispatched to wed Ser Ryon Allyrion, the heir to Godsgrace. The last time he had seen her, she'd had one boy at her breast and another clinging to her skirts.

Lmao.

+.+.+

More recently, the youngest of Lord Yronwood's daughters had taken to following him about the castle. Gwyneth was but twelve, a small, scrawny girl whose dark eyes and brown hair set her apart in that house of blue-eyed blondes. She was clever, though, as quick with words as with her hands, and fond of telling Quentyn that he had to wait for her to flower, so she could marry him.

There's even an Arya!

+.+.+

That was before Prince Doran had summoned him to the Water Gardens. And now the most beautiful woman in the world was waiting in Meereen, and he meant to do his duty and claim her for his bride. She will not refuse me. She will honor the agreement. Daenerys Targaryen would need Dorne to win the Seven Kingdoms, and that meant that she would need him. It does not mean that she will love me, though. She may not even like me.

Maybe there is a Sansa chapter in this book.

+.+.+

The street curved where the river met the sea, and there along the bend a number of animal sellers were clustered together, offering jeweled lizards, giant banded snakes, and agile little monkeys with striped tails and clever pink hands. "Perhaps your silver queen would like a monkey," said Gerris.

If that's a monkey demon joke, I'm going to die of laughter.

+.+.+

Quentyn had no idea what Daenerys Targaryen might like. He had promised his father that he would bring her back to Dorne, but more and more he wondered if he was equal to the task.

I never asked for this, he thought.

Go home, Quentyn.

+.+.+

Across the wide blue expanse of the Rhoyne, he could see the Black Wall that had been raised by the Valyrians when Volantis was no more than an outpost of their empire: a great oval of fused stone two hundred feet high and so thick that six four-horse chariots could race around its top abreast, as they did each year to celebrate the founding of the city. Outlanders, foreigners, and freedmen were not allowed inside the Black Wall save at the invitation of those who dwelt within, scions of the Old Blood who could trace their ancestry back to Valyria itself.

That has to be some sort of historical real-world reference.

+.+.+

"The triarchs are neither kings nor princes. Volantis is a freehold, like Valyria of old. All freeborn landholders share the rule. Even women are allowed to vote, provided they own land. The three triarchs are chosen from amongst those noble families who can prove unbroken descent from old Valyria, to serve until the first day of the new year. And you would know all this if you had troubled to read the book that Maester Kedry gave you."

Lots of Valyria nonsense happening here, but there might also be a few Great Council hints.

+.+.+

In the center of the square, under the cracked and headless statue of a dead triarch, a crowd had begun to gather about some dwarfs putting on a show. The little men were done up in wooden armor, miniature knights preparing for a joust. Quentyn saw one mount a dog, as the other hopped onto a pig … only to slide right off again, to a smattering of laughter.

Hey Penny.

+.+.+

I am eight-and-ten, six years younger than you, Quentyn thought. I am no old man. Instead he said, "I have no need for comic dwarfs. Unless they have a ship."

Is anyone else having Daenerys ACOK flashbacks? A whole chapter of worldbuilding, and finding a ship.

+.+.+

Windblown, Quentyn knew. The serjeants were looking for fresh meat to fill their ranks before they sailed for Slaver's Bay. And every man who signs with them is another sword for Yunkai, another blade meant to drink the blood of my bride-to-be.

Do you ever get the feeling Daenerys will be stabbed?

+.+.+

"Westerosi?" the man answered, in the Common Tongue.

"Dornishmen. My master is a wineseller."

"Master? Fuck that. Are you a slave? Come with us and be your own master. Do you want to die abed? We'll teach you sword and spear. You'll ride to battle with the Tattered Prince and come home richer than a lord. Boys, girls, gold, whatever you want, if you're man enough to take it. We're the Windblown, and we fuck the goddess slaughter up her arse."

A serjeant from a mercenary company that's fighting against Daenerys for the city of Yunkai just said that.

Both sides thinking they represent freedom. . . the jokes write themselves.

+.+.+

"Do you have a better way?" Quentyn asked him.

"I do. It's just now come to me. It has its risks, and it is not what you would call honorable, I grant you … but it will get you to your queen quicker than the demon road."

"Tell me," said Quentyn Martell.

Spoiler alert, they're joining the mercenary company, and planning on defecting.

I wonder if another Dornish heir will ever side with a mercenary company against Daenerys.

Final thoughts:

I feel kind of stupid for never questioning how easy it was for Daenerys to get to Dragonstone.

To get to Dragonstone, her fleet has to sail close to Yunkai, Astapor, Valyria, Volantis, Lys, Sunspear, the Stepstones, Tyrosh, and Estermont.

Surely there will be a few problems? Where will they replenish?

-> return to menu <-

[youssefguedira]

the color green + joenicky

N. The color green.

Joe doesn't notice him right away, too caught up in fiddling with the buttons on his shirt sleeves, which means for a few moments Nicky can just lean against the doorframe and watch him for a while. It doesn't matter that it's been nine hundred years: he's still so beautiful Nicky can't find the words for it.

He's in green because Nile's in green, and they're posing as the kind of people who would coordinate their outfits. It fits him perfectly, which Nicky had known because he'd taken the measurements for it, then he and Joe had adjusted it together, but knowing it in the abstract isn't the same as seeing how well it fits him. He's wearing black trousers and a white shirt with it, tie abandoned on the dresser.

Nicky is in a black t-shirt and black jeans, because his job is security and backup tonight. It was Joe's turn, anyway: Nicky wore the fancy suit last time.

Nicky clears his throat, just to make Joe turn around and smile at him, lighting up.

Nicky's not nearly as flowery with his words as Joe is; all he says is, “You look good.”

Joe raises an eyebrow, teasing, with just the hint of a smile. Is that the best you can do? “Oh, yeah?”

Nicky pushes off the doorframe and crosses the room towards him, picking up the tie as he goes. “Yeah,” he says. “Green suits you.”

The first time Nicolò ever saw him in something this fine was in Alexandria, after everything, because Yusuf was a merchant's son and had wanted something for himself, something that fit him properly, rather than whatever they could find when the clothes they were wearing became too bloody and full of holes to be recognisably garments anymore. He'd come back from the tailor in a deep green tunic that had caused Nicolò to forget his words in any language for a good while.

When Joe catches his eye now Nicky knows he's thinking about the exact same thing. Instead of saying anything, he loops the tie around Joe's neck and fastens the knot.

“Nile was asking for you,” Nicky says matter-of-factly, like he doesn't know exactly what the look Joe's giving him right now means. He keeps his expression neutral. “I think she wanted a second opinion. We have to leave soon, anyway.”

“Nicky,” Joe says.

“What?” Nicky asks, feigning obliviousness. He can't help laughing at the betrayed look on Joe's face.

“After,” he says. “Go do your job, habibi.”

[mossmanismoss]

Redesigned Callisto for the 8th time

[ervona]

brand new Vinnie lore such as she probably has kids that I haven't even considered because she would be a deadbeat mother anyway canon. I'll need some time to develop her family now brb

[domwitch]

If I can't find a boyfriend by the end of this week I'm gonna just kidnap someone >:(

[nostalgia-tblr]

started reading about the shakespeare authorship thing and the first argument from a literary person to say Willy S couldn't have written them is "he didn't go to university," at which point i went "oh wow i didn't realise THIS was the level of 'evidence' people meant"

[permanentstyle]

https://www.permanentstyle.com/2023/05/the-state-of-independent-menswear-in-the-uk.html

The state of independent menswear in the UK

[allpromarlo]

ravens 12-3 and my fantasy team is in the final life is goooooooood

[sanity-jester]

Todays Treasures

[cchocolatekat]

with the entirety of the cut content with merchant kale and his people unjustly imprisoned, and miquella confirmed by another cut content that he was St.Trina, WHERE are my fics about these interactions between best boy and the merchants. 

im shaking, crying, rattling the bars of my cage.

[sentofight]

"I think you should pick the other jacket--the color and design suits you better." as a textile merchant son, well 100 more so years ago, he knows a thing or two about colors and what suits people the best. "Ah! Uh, sorry for the intrusion. Erm, I just thought it would be a waste to buy something that wouldn't look good on you."

[hpdabbles]

Oooo I really like your new story! How will Harry and Voldemorts first meeting go? Will Harry meet Neville soon? I’m hooked already!

Neville Longbottom heard of the florist weeks before he met him due to his parents. The family business had always been trading; his parents kept this alive by joining the village traveling merchants. Their village is small, but it is a two-day trip to the capital, so the village would make their wares and send it off with the merchants to sell bi-monthly.

A small fee would cover the traveling merchants' pay for selling other villagers' wares. There were only two ways to join on the trip, one could prove their worth in combat and be a well enough merchant that impressed the guild, or one had to be part of a legacy like Neville.

His ancestors were one of the original twelve families that settled in the village, so they had special privileges. Alice, his mother, is in the first category- earning her place through her swordsmanship and hair accessories. His father, Frank, is in the second category learning how to be a traveling merchant on his mother's knee.

The Longbottoms have always been wood carvers, and so Neville learned how to cut a bird out of wood before he learned how to ride a horse. His parents always beamed in pride whenever Neville showed them his latest carving after their return.

Whenever they left on one of their trips, Neville stayed behind in the village with his grandmother to man the shop. He took lessons in everything from sales to navigation using the stars, just as his father did.

Neville counted down to his eleventh birthday when he would finally be old enough to go on a trip, as per tradition.

About a month ago, his parents return with bewildered expressions and flowers so vibrantly breathtaking Neville had made them the subject for a few of his practice blocks of wood.

"A new merchant in the capital market," Frank said that night as every settled for dinner. "A florist." Been going for a month now, and he has almost everything in grandfather's flower book."

"Where in the world did he find so many flowers?" His grandmother asked in surprise. "The last time the empire's soil could support floras like that was when I was a child!"

"Was that before the curse Gran?" Neville asks, gently tracing his fingers over the petals of a pale pink flower. It's one of the prettiest things he's ever seen.

"Yes, child. When I was about your age, the surrounding hills bloomed with flowers. Different colors, as far as the eye could see, danced in the wind. The air always smelled so sweet, like candy." Gran replies, tone wishful, staring out the window to the mentioned hills.

Neville turns to look, trying to image the green grassy hills he knew looking like the flowers on the dinner table. He couldn't.

"That was before the Curse stop them from growing. Thankfully it didn't harm the trees or the grass, but any flower would wilt and die." Alice sighs. "My mother's family were florists once, but now only a few nobles can have flowers. They need magic to make them grow."

"Does that mean the florist is a nobleman?" Neville asks and his father scoffs at his bread.

"Like a noble would stoop so low as to work for their money. No, he's probably a spirit."

"Frank," His mother cuts in with a sigh "The boy is not a spirit."

"You don't know that."

"Yes! I do! He's clearly human."

"That's what he wants you to think." He leans towards Neville, wagging his eyebrows. He lowers his voice as if he is sharing a great secret. "The pubs were all saying the same thing. No one knows who is is, where he goes or where he came from. They say he disappears as soon as he walks back into the forest. Like a ghost."

"Frank."

Neville snickers, as his mother wacks her husband on the back of his head. "Enough. The only thing otherworldly about the boy is his beauty."

"Is he handsome?" Neville asks and his mother's eyes sparkle.

"More pretty than handsome. He gives the flowers a run for their money."

Neville tries to picture a boy that is that pretty. He can't.

Then his grandmother mentions how the shop has seen an increase in bridal hair accessories with winter approaching, and the conversation moves on. He doesn't think much about the florist until two months later when his parents return from another trip, this time with more than one type of flower bouquet.

They were so colorful and new that he spent hours just watering them. It drove him to seek his great-grandfather's old books. Before the curse, the Longbottoms had a flower farm, and the secrets of growing them were kept for future heads of the house to study.

Never before had he cared about those old books- what point was there in studying something he could not use?- but the rush of learning of flora was like nothing he had ever felt.

He loved it. He loved the way they looked, loved the way they were described, and what they could do. Remedies, cures, food, and more.

Accident potions that anyone could make, no magic required. Herbology- his great grandfather's book said- is an entire field of plant study that used to save so many lives.

All were lost due to the curse.

For once, he wanted something more than being a traveling merchant.

He wanted to be a herbologist. He wanted to see plants and learn everything about them. He wanted to grow his own.

The day he finally went on a traveling trip, a week after he turned eleven, Neville was more excited to see the florist than he was about leaving his small village.

When he finally saw Bloom- the name the florist gave out he felt his heart shudder to a halt before jumping around like a spooked rabbit.

His mother has lied. Bloom was not as pretty as a flower; Bloom was much more beautiful.

He was also Neville's age, which was unfair. How was Neville supposed to have a conversation with someone so beautiful that was his age? His knees were shaking just being around him.

"Hello," Bloom said when he spotted him staring, shooting the stun new merchant a crooked smile. It shoots liquid fire through Neville's veins. "Would you like to buy some flowers?"

. He held up a pot of the very first flowers his parents bought. Now that he had read his great-grandfather's book of flower languages, he knew they were camellias- the flower of destiny.

Neville would later learn that camellias were a perfect flower for Bloom. The florist would always be in battle with destiny.

Currently, he could only babble his way through the purchase and run back to his carriage to hide his burning face. His father teased him mercilessly about fancying the florist.

[insomniacweebqueen16]

What the hunters did felt like when you are done with washing the dishes. Are moving to dry your hands and go away. And then see someone dump a dozen more dirty dishes in the sink.

[h-i-raeth]

Born to be the head cook in a minor noble's household in a medieval-lite fantasy setting, forced to live in a world with phone calls and paperwork instead.

[fuckingfinwions]

By the way, have you thought about writing Turgon/Maeglin? I love to think about their relationship, but there are too few fanfics about them! How Turgon was practically his adoptive father, raised him, but how Maeglin was needy, he didn't feel accepted in Gondolin, he didn't feel part of the family, he was desperate for love and Turgon was so serious.

So I had some thoughts about, and it kind of went in a different direction, and it became a ficlet. It's still Turgon/Maeglin, but less "adoptive father" than Maeglin seeing echoes of his parent's relationship.

__

Everyone looks to their parents as a model of how relationships and marriage works. Maeglin is no exception, and he heard the story so many time he can't recall when he first learned it, and accepts it as naturally as he accepts that the forest permits no sunlight.

Aredhel was traveling from her home and got separated from her escort. She reached Nan Elmoth, ruled by Eol, mostly by accident, when fleeing Ungoliant's spawn. Eol took the time to greet her in person, and to welcome her into his home. When Aredhel asked to leave, Eol forbade it, and forbade as well the speaking of her birth-tongue, or anything that might cause her to obsess over the world outside. After a few months, they married.

Maeglin travels with his mother to Gondolin. His parents die, leaving him all alone. He is forbidden to leave, but welcomed into the palace. Everyone around speaks Quenya rather than Sindarin. He is told that he should not worry about the world outside, Gondolin is safe no matter what.

It's not hard for Maeglin to guess what will become of him.

Maeglin eats dinner with the royal family every night. King Turgon tells Maeglin that he is part of the royal family as well, and of course that makes sense for the king's fiance.

Maeglin does his best to get to know King Turgon. His course has been set for him, and all avoiding it will do is fill his wedding night with terror of the unknown. He is not so foolish as to disrupt his fiance's work, in his study or in the great throne room or with the council. But even a king must rest, and Turgon spends most evenings reading in his private room by the fire.

Maeglin spends nearly every evening with the one who is his uncle and his fiance and the ruler of the city whose word is law. Turgon is kind, and always welcomes Maeglin with a soft smile even when he does not speak. If Maeglin bring his own book, Turgon will allow him to sit next to him on the sofa, Maeglin leaning against his side. If Maeglin "forgets" to bring a book, Turgon will hand him one from his personal library, and Maeglin will learn about whatever facet of Noldorin society the king wishes him to know.

After a week, Maeglin cautiously breaks the silence with questions. He starts with simple questions that Turgon could brush off if he doesn't wish to be disturbed, what the main grain in the noodles at dinner was, which smith designed Turgon's necklace. Turgon answers them all patiently, but goes into little detail about himself. Instead Turgon will talk about Gondolin, how the harvest went last year, where its best mines for sapphires are. Maeglin soon realizes that the whole city is Turgon's masterpiece in a way, the life's work of an architect and politician rather than a smith. Turgon is delighted to show it to such an enthusiastic audience, who has seen none of it before.

Every evening, Maeglin goes to Turgon's room. Every night, Turgon ends their time by telling Maeglin to "go get some sleep". Then Turgon turns and goes into his bedroom - alone.

It's two months after the death of Maeglin's parents Maeglin's arrival in Gondolin that he brings the topic up. He is not particularly eager to go to his marriage bed, but if he had displeased his fiance it's better to learn before Turgon has to correct him.

Maeglin has asked plenty of questions about Noldorin customs. Hopefully another will be permitted.

"What are betrothals like in Gondolin?"

"They vary just as much as their members, in a way. Some have cast aside all the rituals of Tirion, and go for nothing more than a declaration the week before that they are holding a wedding feast. That seems rather tawdry to me, to be so unmoored from tradition, without even a single gift exchanged."

"Was it more formal in Valinor, then?"

"Much more. The proper term for an engagement is a year precisely, so that the completion of your betrothal is the same as its beginning, recalling the cycles of the seasons that the Valar have instilled. Some people even went for a year without either fiance seeing each other, to prove the depth of their devotion, though I myself found that too cruel a test to contemplate. There are rings exchanged at the start to mark the promise, and again at the wedding. Even without a formal announcement, the rings make the betrothal clear to all who care to know. Other gifts are exchanged as well, more personal to the couple, so they have insight into each other's interests. Does that resolve your question, Maeglin?"

"It does very well, thank you." Maeglin rubbed his fingers together, watching the light play over the ring inlaid with a Finwean sun that Turgon had given him. He thought of the forge set aside for his private use, and the dozens of bracelets sitting in his room, and the elegant robes he was wearing.

He had been neglecting his side of their relationship, however unknowingly. At least there were still ten months to make up for it.

__

Maeglin presented his fiance with a ring and an elegant inkwell five days later. The ring was inlaid with bright sapphires in a twisting silver band like flowering ivy. The inkwell was carved in the shaped of Turgon's throne, with the back as a pen-rest.

Turgon looked at them, and at Maeglin, impassively. He picked up the ring, and watched how the jewels sparkle in the firelight.

"So," the king said at last, "it was not an idle question, how betrothals work in Gondolin."

"It was not. I know there is much I have yet to learn, but I never meant to ignore you, or to be ungrateful for your gifts."

"You were barred from knowledge of our people for most of your life; your ignorance is no fault of your own." Turgon held the ring up a moment longer, and then slid it onto his finger decisively. "Sit down, please. There is no reason to be nervous about my love for you."

Maeglin did so, leaning into Turgon as had become a habit. He was surprised when Turgon tipped his face up instead, though perhaps he should not have been. Kissing was common between couples, whether wed or betrothed.

[donghuamuqing]

I think vecna could be the darkling, but im torn between will and el as the sun summoner. I think will could be a heartrender