#tyto the swift | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

thebelugawhalefriend · 1 year ago

Text

The Men Before The Rose - Yan!Royal Harem x Reader

PART ONE

CW: RELIGIOUS THEMES, EXECUTION MENTIONS, Homophobia

Note: This is a sequel to the first story! An expansion into Rose's heritage and how the world works for them. As someone pointed out, it's rather sudden how the homophobia shows itself and comes off as unartful. So! This will mostly dive into the division about same sex couples.

Months passed before you could consider yourself okay again. The isolation from your family and friends was something you slowly had to overcome the pain of. It still stings like an arrow to the heart, but living on was the least you could do for yourself.

In the meantime, you decide to busy yourself with finding the history of the royals. Rose isn't too excited to share in his own history, only providing you one book. Even given the sparse information Rose would provide, his family's long time rule was no mere feat to scoff at. What draws your attention most is his direct father, Aquila. Upon seeing his name on one of the pages, you turn to read the chapter dedicated to his reign.

Before our red haired king had assumed the throne, Aquila Florian sat upon the gilded seat of power. Hair as golden as the rays of sun, eyes a similar shade. No man nor woman could even compare to his mere size- Murals along the castle walls could only paint his figure from the top of his chest if they wished to paint his face!

By his side was his appointed wife that he named Tyto. Her previous first name has been erased from our records, but his command ruled that her name be changed to fit his rigid structure. In fact, much of his rule came from...

The book quickly proved itself to be a rather boring account of events. But, there is perhaps another way to experience the story. You close the leather book in your hands and set it onto the dresser, lifting up and wandering out of the bedroom.

"My Lady, to where shall I accompany you?" You're well aware of the guard outside of the room, and yet he never ceases to surprise you when you step out. "I told you before, you can call me (Y/N)..."

"Not when you've been wed to the king. I've been ordered to call you Lady and nothing more."

"Then... Alright, I don't wish to cause you trouble. Do you think you could guide me to Rose's study?"

The iron clad guard pauses for a moment, "His... His study is more than private, Your Grace. I wouldn't be allowed to lead you there- much less fulfill my duty to your care."

You shake your head a little. It's always been this excuse time and time again, "Is it a sin to want to know more about the man I married? About the family I am part of now?"

"With all due respect, not even Queen Florian has ventured within the study. I cannot let you violate the trust of the king- nay, your husband..."

"He's violated my own trust the day he commanded I stay within these walls and never see anyone I care for again. I'm not just asking as a..." You struggle to utter the mere words, "As a royal, but as a confused human being... Please, I must see the study."

The walk to Rose's study was short, but the tension made it seem like hours. Charles is anything but a hard hearted man. A tender gentleman just above your own height. While he was commanded to keep watch by the threat of death, he couldn't bear to see another moment pass with you longing for more.

"Thank you... Thank you so so-"

"Please make it swift, My Lady. Rose will return in a few hours."

You nod, easily slipping into the unlocked study.

Creeeaaaakkk....

The oakwood door moans as it reveals the room to you. It took your eyes but a moment to adjust to the darkness inside, but there's no mistaking what you're seeing. The eerily large room holds plenty of large murals that paint the elongated walls. Moonlight mixed with dim flames of the torches just barely illuminates the inside from behind you, but God almighty you want to see more.

"I'll need light..."

Closing the door carefully, you snatch yourself a candle from one of the nearby side tables and hold it to a lit torch. After all, no noble could leave their castle barren of a lighting system. It takes you little time to slip right back in and start to walk along the hall of artwork. Strangely enough, this didn't feel like a study. No, this felt like a room dedicated to telling the tale of their rule. You can animate in your head just what each painting told...

Men upon horses trample over others of their own kind. White stallions proudly sported iron clad warriors upon their backs, while at their hooves were unarmored and weaponless men. Swords glowed a beaming sun yellow to declare a holy victory to claim the land they fought for.

A man with white hair stands over a crowd of adoring people and dogs. What's strange is that the dogs stand on hind legs and praise him as if they themselves are human. Horses behind the crowd also cheer for him, but all four hooves stay connected to the ground.

A single long line connects a chain of kings, each one holding a link within a golden chain. Most sport blonde hair and blue eyes, but the last king stands as an outlier. He holds golden eyes and curled red locks. Under them each is a name, but most of the older ones were too faded to read. 'Raven Florian/Lady Mourn - Aquila Florian/Lady Tyto - Rose Florian/Lady Azalea/Lady (Y/N)'.

Even if the third one isn't the last, you take a long pause to look upon the names. Your new marriage has quite literally been set in stone. Painted with your name under the striking red haired man. Yet, you keep going. You must know more about them! What stops you is the hall widening into a rather quaint room. Now this looks a lot more like a study, with a large red chair sat in the midst of bookshelves and a messy desk of papers and a journal. It's the desk you're drawn to first, picking up the most worn out journal upon it.

"Blank?" You look on the cover. The only thing even describing what could be inside were the initials AF written on the leather cover's corner. "What could you be hiding?" You set your candle close and sit down, starting to read the pages inside.

Day of 30th, December, 1201

Today has transpired like any other. My breakfast was rather lean, but I can't complain when dinner is to be grand.

You laugh softly at such an inconspicuous entry. Maybe this would be a silly little journal of thoughts. Most follow such an idea, but some entries catch your attention more than others.

Day of 14th, April, 1202

Joanne of Jonstown has been captured.

Your eyebrows knot in confusion, turning to the page behind it.

Date of 12th, April, 1202

A grand disturbance has taken place at Noble Stewart's wedding. A strange rogue appeared and objected to the union, disgracing the ceremony to declare a disgusting lust for his wife. Any sane man would have wrung her neck on the spot, but the rat got away before he could catch her. It's no matter to him now. I have hired Jasper and his men to bring her to justice. With any luck, he could receive his own spot here by my side...

Date of 15th, April, 1202

Her execution has been dated for three days from now. I suggested we string and quarter her for her sins, but my royal advisor suggested I treat her not as a mere criminal. Rather, we could give her the same treatment as we do for suspected dark arts users. Not only will this serve as a painful death one like her deserves, but will also set the further precedent for what is to come of unlawful relations. If one is to partake in disturbing the union of a man and a woman for their own desires, they are to be burned at the stake. I have no quarrel with what the royal advisor pointed me to, and have let him write the law. It's on her execution day that I shall decree this law and set it into swift motion.

With an uneasy hand, you turn it to one of the final pages.

Date of 18th, April, 1202

The law has been set, and all was well. Not a single soul objected to the law while the spectacle took place. The

"Have you no respect for my personal space?" You immediately shift your eyes from the book to see those familiar golden eyes looking upon you with scorn. Dim candle light in his hand flickering and lighting up the underside of his displeased face. His figure draws closer as you retreat into yourself.

"I-I'm sorry, Rose! I wanted to know more- I-"

"My father's words are about as much history as murderers are innocent!" He practically roars, snatching the journal away and towering over your frame. "I gave you the resource you wanted... I gave you all you could ever want to know. This?" He holds up the book, "These are the ravings of a madman that no person should EVER learn from!"

"Learn from?" You start to rise from your position, a little offended by his assumption, "I wanted to learn ABOUT your family! Is it not my right to know what my children will be born into? What I tie myself to?"

"My father's words and thoughts have died with him. There is no need to continue learning from his example."

Standing up from your position, you place a finger to his chest and start walking him backwards. "You can't hide what your family has done to innocent people! Your father was a horrible-"

"I KNOW!"

His right hand drops the journal, latching onto your shoulder to allow his anger to set deep within. The glow from his candle dims to let the dark features of his anger settle in.

"I know he was a horrible man. He ordered the execution of many people who did not deserve it. If he knew of what I have now... He would surely kill me." Rose sighs, letting you go and setting down his fading candle. "I come from a line of men who claim to know their faith. Who hoped that persecuting the innocent would cure them of their own sins. You want to know what I think?" He looks to the book on the desk with a wicked snarl. "I think they're all burning in hell for the rest of their days. My father, his father, and the ones who came before. The men he hired that still work in the castle? They too will burn for being so stuck in their ways..."

You place a hand under his chin, bringing him to look at you. "It's no use to hide the history of your lineage. You are the result of those men, whether you like it or not." He tries to butt in, but you're quick to pause his interruption. "But what they've done doesn't make you a horrible man. It's what you do now that truly matters, does it not? You wouldn't have executed them. You let my mothers live in peace despite the law your father put into place..."

With a hefty sigh, he cups your face and finally draws out a smile upon his own. "You still violated my trust, dearest. I didn't want you to wander..."

"You assume I'd be content staying in one room for the rest of my years." Your teasing is bold, but his laugh was moreso. "I suppose you're right. Come then, I guess I owe you a proper tour of our home." As you both approach the doorway, you pause for a moment in thought.

"What is to become of Charles?"

"Ah... Him. He can't go unpunished for disobeying my order, my dear."

Your blood runs ice cold, but Rose is quick to try and soothe your tense worry, "Calm yourself! He's not going to be executed- Lord almighty, did you forget my whole point of not being my father? He'll spend some time thinking over his betrayal and punished as severely as the crime calls for. Which... Isn't too cruel."

"Will he continue to serve for us?"

"That remains to be seen. Come! I'll show you to the bottom floor!"

#yandere #yandere x reader #reader insert #x reader #yandere crush #imagines #yandere x you #yandere x y/n #yandere x darling

120 notes · View notes

flugmunk · 1 year ago

Text

-[DESCRIPTION: tyto the swift leaps forward, flourishing the sword with a great swing. while on the shoulders the little pet fang sits perched.]- (april 30 2024) GIGANTIC GAME IS BACK BAYBEEEEE though is no longer called "go gigantic" its now called "gigantic: rampage edition" which.... eh sounds less cool. oh well. BUT ITS BACK

#go gigantic #gigantic game

15 notes · View notes

jozor-johai · 1 year ago

Text

okay I don't know if this sounds crazy, but there's something in that Arianne II TWOW chapter that has me like 👀 leaving it under the cut for people avoiding TWOW spoilers

Arianne goes into that cave searching for Elia Sand, and then:

And all at once she found herself in another cavern, five times as big as the last one, surrounded by a forest of stone columns. Daemon Sand moved to her side and raised his torch. “Look how the stone’s been shaped,” he said. “Those columns, and the wall there. See them?” “Faces,” said Arianne. So many sad eyes, staring. “This place belonged to the children of the forest.”

A forest of stone columns? With faces in them?

Whenever I see people talking about this, I always see people talking about how the idea that the CotF carve into stone is new information with new layers of implications, but I think they have it all wrong.

After all, we're given the means to interpret this another way, by Tytos Blackwood in an offhand comment:

"The Brackens poisoned it," said his host. "For a thousand years it has not shown a leaf. In another thousand it will have turned to stone, the maesters say. Weirwoods never rot."

I don't think these are naturally occurring columns that the CotF have carved faces into. I think these are Weirwood trees that have turned to stone—an entire Weirwood forest, actually, which we ought to have been clued into by Arianne calling it a "forest" of columns.

And in that possibility, I think it has much more interesting implications, actually, than the suggestion that the CotF carve into stone, too. Instead, it means we might question whether any number of other cave systems that we see in Westeros—because Westeros has a lot of caves. How much of Westeros might be built atop ancient Weirwood forests that have turned to stone? How much of Westeros might be connected underground by the passages that remain underneath these stone canopies?

It's not the first time we've seen a maze of stone columns, after all:

She took a torch and went off that way," Grigg the Goat told him, pointing toward the back of the cavern. Jon followed his finger, and found himself in a dim back room wandering through a maze of columns and stalactites.

It's not lost on me that columns might be a natural product where there are caves and water, and especially alongside stalactites, but Arianne's faces make me reevaluate this passage... and wonder if these columns are meant to be noticed in particular.

It would certainly give one possible explanation for Leaf's words:

"Men should not go wandering in this place," Leaf warned them. "The river you hear is swift and black, and flows down and down to a sunless sea. And there are passages that go even deeper, bottomless pits and sudden shafts, forgotten ways that lead to the very center of the earth. Even my people have not explored them all, and we have lived here for a thousand thousand of your man-years."

If a dead Weirwood turns to stone in only two thousand years, then a thousand-thousand years is plenty of time to live in a forest even as it turns to stone around you and becomes the foundation for a new world overhead.

Perhaps it even explains Gorne's way, or even the strange depths of the Stark's crypts, which get older as they go deeper.

#jozor thoughts #asoiaf theories #twow speculation

9 notes · View notes

chim-aera · 2 years ago

Text

winter

I want to bleed my colors dry. to wither and writhe into nothingness, palid skin stretched too thin like canvas portrait, like feathers over a wing bone.

I wish I could go cold. ice smooth, snow soft, perfection.

I want to blot out the ink that seeps into my skull and stains my soul I want to be pure. not chaste, not demure, but tooth sharp and glistening.

but I am a creature of earth, clay, metal. rotting leaves and broken bark, branches creaking, snapping underfoot like brittle bones I'm all autumn sunlight fading and dying out in a blaze of glory I am not winter moonlit or owl calls, or perhaps I'm neither.

soft.

gossamer and down fluff, the peeping of a nearly hatched fledgling, moonflowers kissed by frost.

I've always found a solace in the quiet, in the emptiness of winter's solitude.

sharp.

like wolf teeth, like talons, icicles dripping frigid waters into my lungs, let the fragments crystallize into my diaphragm like shining shards of sunlight blessed by holy hands.

I want to be wind quick, light like downed leaves fluttering to surface, but I am down trodden and dead set to the center of the earth with this horrid heaviness that sets into my spine.

let me unwind it, uncoil, go still and pliant like a snake unfurling it's body before it is about to strike.

but I do not long for violence, perhaps, sometimes I wished I was sinking my bite into an enemy and not always myself but at every chance I have I shrink away and bow my head.

I do not want to be Ouroboros, how am I the enigma, the paradigm of Laelaps chasing her quarry endless for eternity. I am my own Teumissian fox. will I always be prey?

no. I am something else. soot smoke blackened, crescent moons hanging so low it seems you could leap and take a bite out of them. let them glint and glimmer in my teeth like the metal I never used, like the perfection I never achieved or even tried too. watch as it drips and trickles down my chin through the gaps and sharpness of my molars, like an overripe orange.

oh there are so many metaphors.

I am haunted, but not like a church or a graveyard, no, haunted like a forest is. all fox bark laughter all shining eyes too cold, too pale, too dead. all bonfire embers, stamped into molten melted marrow, a maudlin cry for a swift end or a bitter truth. like Icarus all golden and glowing and bloody and bruised as he descended from the heavens.

oh I speak of that a lot, don't I? I am but some hollow nesting screech owl, some tyto with her wings are ruffled pulling out my own down yet sobbing for softness.

I am all raccoon claws, cautious and clawing, a deer with it's antlers on wrong. rubbing into oak trees and hawthorn, a meager attempt to shed my misery but shedding my skull instead.

I am not some diaphanous figure all mirrors and marbles, I am fractured like glass, like ice too thin, like dirt mixed in snow, soil, dark and earthy, the sharp stinging scent of evergreens and torch light. of burning books and candles with their wicks cut too short.

burning bright, but oh, oh so fast.

someone take these words from my mouth they rest heavy, heavy on my tongue like a sinner's prayer. oh I've been pleading since creation by some divine hands, Mother, do you take me?

I feel I've been seeking to be Persephone but I'm forever fated to be Cailleach instead. a bitter irony really. Crone, show me your ways.

I am chasing my own tail again. tracing my steps and my spell circles, the rings on my fingers feel like extra bones, like battle claws, like power. on cold, withering, trembling skin.

I'm so pallid recently, maybe I really am washing myself dry of any color or clause. a useless conjunction of a cacophony of condolences and curiosities.

I am all sharp eyes, smudged smoky, copper hair, breaking, brittle, bleeding into sunsets, maybe morrow. maybe flames. maybe nothing.

I am not all wheat soft, Ceres, mother. I've always been a volatile little thing, soft spoken yet sharp toothed. grinning like a Jack o' lantern, lost like a rambler, oh how I do ramble, waiting for some Willow o' Wisps to guide me, to fate or future, death or demise, I'll let them decide.

what am I? I'm folk tales, child, something old and young, something creaking and clawing, yet aching for some gentleness, quilt soft and blanketed in snow and snapdragons, but I will try, try oh so hard to be gentle, like a bear folding in its claws so they stab into its pawpads.

or maybe I've never been fierce. maybe I'm a rabbit, crying wolf at the moon until Diana takes pity and gives me my own set of fangs.

a deer who's been shot too many times that the arrows form spikes, turned eldritch and ethereal by my own suffering.

maybe I was never a beast. a creature, perhaps, a ghost. a memory, an illusion.

watching as friends, as acquaintances out grew me, so that I disappeared all fleeting and flurrying like snow that melts too quickly, passing me by with a smile and hand shake and a blossom in my palm like an imaginary friend, I look down to see my hand bleeding and inside my cupped fist in all it's cruel amusement is a bloodied, crumpled forget me not.

let me run. oh gods, let me run. let me run on stumbling shaking legs fleet footed and furious, until the archers cannot touch me.

funny, how I tried to pick up a bow. so maybe, just maybe I'd no longer be prey, but I set it down just as quickly. I always go so soft. so easily.

no brutal backlashes, no cries and screams of terror of rage, of horror and this deep rooted fear that has set its home in my ribcage.

no, where is my anger, goddess? because it seems I am more sacrificial lamb then wolf snapping its jaw as the hunter takes the final blow. I am the deer purposely putting its head into the noose. what? It is better to choose then let myself be slain again.

perhaps I am beastly, but in the way the dragon was, Saint George was not saintly then again it is funny how that word is supposed to mean holy but how far, far it is from that. that story has always left a bitter, putrid taste in my throat like gunsmoke and bile.

a serpent, of course, like Tiamat, Leviathan, watch as she curls into herself, for the knight to plunge his spear into heart, her tongue lolling past fangs, her eyes blazing in fear as the hollowness fills her her pupils.

I have always been that dragon.

a griffin, perhaps. no. more sympathised then dragons, but I have never been one like that. gilded feathers curved beaks shining like rubies and redwood. why are they guarding their treasures, while dragons hoard theirs?

I have always been that dragon, my father's sins, my father's horrors. he sheds his cloak and wishes to drape it over my shoulder so I wear it as my own I shrink back hissing and clawing like an animal cornered.

my eyes glow red in headlights.

there is something wrong with me.

isn't there?

my father is empty and howling like wind through rocks and flames rising as the screams reverberate.

my mother is all hidden battlegrounds, a silent sort of scorn, an inner maelstrom, a pain she inflicts and suffers every breath.

am I both?

but I am no Lich nor Leviathan.

oh call me Seraphina. cut me deep and watch my blood, all silver and shining stain the earth, see the wing bone at my shoulder blade, see the crescents, the moon marks, the scales. oh those god awful scales how I've tried clawing them out but they only set deeper.

what am I?

I've spent so much time creeping hunched through shadows I forget that light stings me. Quasimodo, how I always found solace in him.

I too would fall, but they'd step back, just like they had with him.

oh, there's a sweetness in your sorrow, an endearment in your enigmas. oh? then why don't you stay? instead of disregarding me like some sullied shrapnel of what I could have been.

I'm sorry. I'm sorry.

how the words rot in my mouth like a carcass dipped in honey. my own throat has tendrils, ivy and hellebore, the wolfsbane stains my eyes, the monk'shood is sewn into my being.

I'm all horrors and hilarity. an amusing combination. Baba Yaga and the maiden all rolled into one.

I've been talking for too long, or perhaps I've just forgotten my voice so the words are all stretched thin and snapping as I roll my sentences around on my tongue.

all poisoned sweetness, mellea verba a serpentis lingua.

but I have always been Eve and never Lilith.

the wildness in my veins is tameable, and oh how I hate the duality.

the softness and sharpness tearing at each other's throats. a wolf and a lamb wearing each other's coats.

but yes.

I wish to be soft, and cool, and glistening.

peaceful and preferable, like a cold snap in July.

but I've always been a muddy Autumn's child. so let me wear my crown of fungus let me don my cloak of wool.

revels and merriment, laugh and spit. make your jests of me, go on, but let me do it willingly. I will be your favorite fool, and I will grin at you as you make me your jester.

but I will hold out, no prideful princes or some knavish king. no I'll wait. perhaps the cold will take me, if you lot won't.

I've heard on smoke-plumes and chickadee chatter the Lord of Winter is far kinder, to things like me. so here I'll wait.

and when he comes I'll look up at him, all moon-eyed and mirth full.

"are you cold, my darling?"

my lips, frigid and frozen will nevertheless form a smile, as the breath curls around my forehead, as he removes his cloak and sword, one gesture of a savior, one gesture of my end. the chess move has never been mine, but my answer is but the catalyst, and as I remain, curled against a treetrunk, a willow or pine, perhaps, all shivering and shaking, I'll reply, my eyes dancing with unseen firelight.

"no, not at all, my Lord."

#original poem

6 notes · View notes