#vassal treaties

[imsorryimlate]

the terror, 1x09 “the c, the c, the open c”, 1x10 “we are gone” // the vassal-treaties of esarhaddon, lines 450–451 (trans. d.j. wiseman)

[anghraine]

I was searching for an unrelated-to-the-Ascalonian-grudgeblogging GW2 thing, but ended up reading a grumpy recap of the core storyline from someone playing a Charr Vigil member. Surprisingly, they were like, "you know, honestly, all these people wondering why Ascalonians still have a grudge against Charr kind of need a slap in the face. Also, why do Krytans have so much say over what happens to Ebonhawke, anyway? Does it have sovereignty or not?"

I do support slapping every person who is like "why don't they just get over a 250-year long attempt to eradicate them? What a silly grudge" but I don't often see actual players saying so!

I also find the sovereignty issue genuinely interesting.

My impression is that Ebonhawke is nominally an independent city-state, but the alliance with Kryta has been critical enough (esp recently) that they weren't in a position for direct conflict over this "regent of Ascalon" business. So the people of Ebonhawke don't accept Jennah as sovereign—there are even Ascalonian residents of Divinity's Reach who don't—but they also can't afford an open break with Kryta and this is where a lot of their resentment is coming from.

Ebonhawke drawing so much of the Charr's attention in the war was pretty beneficial to Kryta, so I suspect their support was not purely altruistic even without the claim to sovereignty. It's made clear in various storylines that Ebonhawke falling would be disastrous for Kryta. Additionally, the Krytan government offered valuable support and supplies to Ebonhawke, but couldn't really spare much direct military support, so Ascalonians are also conscious that they suffered most of the direct casualties of the war, to the benefit of Kryta. So it makes sense that the relationship is complicated and ambiguous!

Honestly, the tensions surrounding the Ebonhawke-Kryta alliance, the various political maneuvers involved, and the effects of all this on the Ascalonian diaspora are some of the most intriguing aspects of the game to me. The writing is definitely skewed towards the Krytan perspective, to be sure—PCs of any background will remark that Kryta is generous(!) to allow Ebonhawke its own representative in the peace negotiations, for instance. But it's not so skewed that you can't see why Ascalonians insist on their independence from Krytan rule.

[rin-tezuka]

It's like with Irish Americans - it's a version of putting on a green hat and getting blackout drunk at a st paddies day parade that one can attach Good political feelings to, and ties in with the general misunderstanding of class structure vis-a-vis populations outside the US. Like, the IRA was never a progressive, universally good monolith. Pearse was definitely somewhere on the political right. O'duffy was part of the Pro-Treaty IRA, and he led fascists to Spain. The Free State existed as a pusedo-theocracy until the 1960s, and then slowly angled to being another EU vassal to dump durasteel and glass offices of companies that end in German abbreviations on, and still exists as such. Hell, you really only gotta look so far as to how Irish Travelers and migrants are treated to see that the Free State is nowhere near some post-race utopia, and one only needs to take a boat ride down the Liffey to see that the Free State is nowhere close to being decolonial.

[justaghostingon]

How to be a Bad Husband without Shijie getting Mad at You

A guide by Wei Wuxian

An arranged marriage au because i’ve been reading to many of them recently.

Just after the sunshot campagin, the jiang are still rebuilding, and jiang cheng realizes he has a problem

The jin want to marry jin zuxian to yanli, and take the jiang in as a vassal state, which he doesn’t want

And wei wuxian’s rep isn’t doing them any favors

He needs to rebuild his alliances, establish themselves, and do it fast

So when the lan’s offered a new treaty he said yes immediately, before reading it

He really should have read it, because it wasn’t a treaty, it was lan xichen, tired of his brother’s pining, offering an engagement deal between lan zhan and wei wuxian

Now jiang cheng can’t back out without losing face, and in this state he really can’t afford too.

So wei wuxian finds himself engaged to lan zhan, counting down the days towords their rapidly approaching marriage

As you can imagine, wei Wuxian is not happy about marrying someone who he thinks hates him and his cultivation methods

He complains bitterly to shijie and jiang cheng

Jiang cheng is as annoyed as he is but he can’t think of a way out without rhe lans drawing out first

Wei wuxian says he’ll just drive lan zhan away! Make him want to divorce!

Then yanli steps in, and scolds wei wuxian fiercely,

See lan zhan is marrying out, coming to yumeng to live to a culture he doesn’t know among strangers.

Jiang yanli, who was engaged to do the same once upon a time, has been trained on what to expect, a s knows exactly how hard it can be for someone who doesn’t have her husband’s respect

So help her, her brother will not be one of those faithless dogs!

Neither jiang cheng nor wei wuxian have ever heard yanli call anyone “faithless dog,” and in that moment she looks too much like her mother for either of them to cross her

But wei wuxian’s not out of the game yet.

No one knows lan wangji better than him

This goody-goody is here to play martyr, to play cleansing and keep wei wuxian from his wicked ways, but he doesn’t really like him

He’s hear to be a jailer, not a husband.

All wei ying has to do is treat him like a husband, with all the affection, touch, and teasing that comes with it! Lan Wangji’s three least favorite things!

Lan wangji will be screaming for divorce in a week!

Wei wuxian doesn’t get to put his plan into action until after the wedding, as he isn’t allowed to see lan wangji until then

But once its over, he puts his plan in full swing

First step: cuddling. Lan Wangji hates touch, wei wuxian loves it. So naturally to drive lan wangji mad, he needs to touch him constantly, sitting in his lap, holding his hand, cuddling at night, etc

This does not work. Lan wangji was a little hesitant at first, but now he seems to be tolerating it with only the slight reddening of his ears to show his rage

He even seems upset when wei wuxian isn’t sitting in his lap!

Wei wuxian thought at first that this was because they were inside their house and home, but when he plopped himself down on lan zhan’s lap at a sect conference, in fromt of everyone…lan zhan put his ARMs around his WAIST like this was NORMAL

Now wei Wuxian is the weird one who’s tucking his head into lan wangji’s neck, embarrassed

From this experience wei wuxian realizes something: Lan Zhan’s a secret cuddle bug!!!

He just never got the chance thanks to all those stuffy clan rules

And well, wei wuxian can’t leave a fellow cuddle bug hanging can he? Think about all thr hugs lan zhan has missed that he needs to make up for! He’ll just have to think of something else.

Step Two: presents. Lan zhan never liked any of the porn or alchol wei wuxian tried to give him before, so clearly he’s gonna hate it if wei wuxian gives him that and more!

Wei wuxian starts piling lan wangji with gifts. Porn! They’re married now so he can’t refuse! Alcohol, the best of the best! Spicy food he made himself! This pretty ribbon he saw at thr market and thought of lan zhan! This lantern with a bunny on it! That silk with bunnies…this painting of bunnies…

He might have gone a bit overboard with the bunnies

No matter what he gives him, lan wangji takes it with solemn grattitude, and tries it out. This proves a problem when lan wangji keeps eating the spicy food even as it clearly hurts him

Shijie frowns disaprovingly at him once while watching lan wangji guzzle water, and wei ying swore to do it never again

The less said about the alcohol incident the better

There is one more serious gift he gives lan wangji, one he knows he won’t dissaprove of. Smuggled among the presents and clothes, he brings in new “attendents” who look suspiciously like those wen remandents who seemingly vanished into thin air from their containment camp.

Lan wangji takes them in gravely, and soon their home is filled with the sound of laughter as a small boy runs after lan zhan

So clearly gifts aren’t working. Time for step three: sex

…..

…..lan zhan won.

Maybe all those gifts of porn were a bad idea, sullying such a pure mind

At this point Wei Wuxian is getting desperate, nothing he does is making lan wangji less willing to marry him. Its time for desprate measures…

Step Four: tell the truth. He’s never going to stop demonic cultivation and return to the sword path. He can’t.

He needed to tell him anyway, with all the touching they do, it was only a matter of time before he figured it out himself.

Lan Wangji says nothing as wei wuxian explains how he lost his core (still not mentioning how, he’ll take jiang cheng’s secret to the grave) how he was in the burial mounds, how its gone, gone gone and this is all he has left!

Before he knows it he’s a sobbing mess, tears and snot trailing down his face.

Not a very pretty picture for a husband huh?

Lan wangji only opens his arms, and pulls wei wuxian close, letting him cry himself silly in his arms.

It hurts, but it also feels good, safe, like lan zhan is a rock who will stay steady even against the tide of his own emotions

Still, it was a lot, and once he calms down he thinks this time, for sure, lan wangji will leave. He was kind in the confession, because that’s his nature, but surely, surely he doesn’t want to stay chained to a man who can’t even cultivate.

Jiang yanli asks to speak to lan wangji privately, to check in on how he’s adjusting, and wei wuxian sneaks in to listen, bracing for the worst

…when had the worst become lan zhan leaving?

Yanli asks if he has any complains, wei wuxian tenses, and lan zhan…

“I’ve never been so happy,” lan zhan says, because lan’s do not lie.

Wei wuxian is so shocked he tumbles from his hiding place. Yanli frowns with exasperation at him but all his attention is on lan wangji

Do you mean it? He asks

Of course,” lan wangji nods, then adds, “i love you” as if it were the simplest thing in the world.

Wei wuxian is laughing, he’s crying, he has an armful of lan zhan and the taste of his lips and well…

Maybe this marriage thing is pretty great actually.

The end

[sumwan]

/dsmp rp

I've talked before about how frustrated Dream is that other server members call him evil and a villain and blame him for everything. But what I didn't touch upon is how early this frustration already started. And how it's the underlying cause for much of Dream's secrecy during the Manberg/Pogtopia era.

Dream first meets Techno with an offer of resources, telling him, "I support you guys but I can't get involved I have to be in the SHADOWS." He explains the reason why he can't involved in the Tyrant book that he leaves for Tommy:

During the L'Manberg vs Dream SMP War, Dream tried to "take a stand on behalf of the Dream SMP" in an attempt to keep the server together. He is very much aware that this was twisted (mainly by Wilbur) into him being seen as a tyrannical ruler and as the whole reason why "L'Manberg was not allowed to have freedom".

To prevent this from happening again, Dream now has to seem uninvolved, or else he will get blamed again. On the next page of the book, he writes:

Dream suspects that if he is seen breaking the peace treaty with Manberg by helping Pogtopia, this will get twisted into him being responsible for the war between the two factions and him being "touted as the villain" yet again.

And the funny thing is that he's right! Despite Dream (weakly) arguing against it, Wilbur tells Tommy during the Vassal discussion, "Dream only gave you that gear so that you could cause this conflict. Dream doesn't want us to win. Dream just wants both Pogtopia and Manberg to be weak!" The blame for the conflict is already shifting towards Dream regardless of his attempts to help "from the shadows".

No matter Dream's approach, no matter whether he stays in the background or gets much more overtly involved, this narrative of him as the villain just never changes. The server needs its scapegoat. And Dream is an easy target, one he remains until the very end.

[mynnthia]

hypothesis on the ethnic/cultural background of izutsumi's mom

[disclaimer: i am not a professional ethnographer, nor of any of the ethnic groups mentioned in the post. this post was written based on research done over the course of a day.

if you have any corrections, feedback, etc, please feel free to inform me! my inbox/dms are open. if there is any misinformation present, i aim to correct them] ----------

idk if anyone else into dungeon meshi has noticed this, but i think izutsumi's mom (and therefore, izutsumi herself) might've been of Nivkh (indigenous east Siberian) heritage?

[details and explanation under the readmore, its slightly long]

when dungeon meshi chapter 59 came out (~2019), i saw a few people speculating that izutsumi's mom might've been Ainu because of how her clothing style notably differed from typical Japanese clothing.

while the Nivkh robe's trim features a different pattern style (swirly) than what izutsumi's mom wears (triangular), the Nivkh robe still looks to be a closer match than Ainu robes, especially in the collar/neckline & sleeve cuff areas.

note how the Ainu robes (image 2) have a different neckline style and wider sleeves:

heres more images of the robes, but from the past this time, found in Wikimedia Commons:

image 1: Nivkh robe from 1871 image 2: Sakhalin Ainu girl (left), Nivkh boy (center), Hokkaido Ainu girl (right) in 1912

Nivkh people have had interactions with Japan dating back centuries too. heres an exerpt from wikipedia:

"For many centuries, the Nivkh were tributaries of the Manchus. After the Treaty of Nerchinsk in 1689, they functioned as intermediaries between the Russians, Manchu and Japanese, and also the Ainu, who were vassals of the Japanese. Early contact with the southern Sakhalin Ainu was generally hostile, although trade between the two was apparent"

(sorry historians for quoting wikipedia as a source here. a lot of the more reputable sources are 20-200+ page papers, and not concise enough to put on a tumblr post)

the English language wiki doesnt have much more detail on Nivkh-Japan relations unfortunately, but there seems to be more info on the Japanese language version of the page.

i've also seen at least 1 speculation that izutsumi's mom might be Mongolian, as her robe somewhat resembles a Mongolian deel. in my opinion, the robe's neckline trim having patterning makes it resemble the Nivkh robes more. this – combined with the fact that prior to the 1900s, Japan-Mongolia relations consisted mostly of Mongolian forces trying to invade japan repeatedly – makes me think Nivkh (or some other indigenous east Siberian) heritage is more likely.

i wont rule it out entirely though, as i don't know how much Ryōko Kui cares about historical-based cultural relations. regardless, here are various deel styles across different Mongolian ethnic groups, if that is of interest to anyone:

i dont really have a profound conclusion for this post tbh. i wanted to document what i found, and figured i might as well share it to tumblr.

theres limited amounts of easily accessible information on traditional eastern Siberian clothing out there, but here's 1 source i found that goes over a few groups (including Nivkh):

[warsofasoiaf]

Aegon I being a generally nice guy doesn’t suddenly mean that the military structure he needed to placate was anything other than Balerion. He had power because of the dragons, everything else was just him playing nice with his new acquisitions. The only Targaryen that made any real pretense of the existence of a feudal contract before the Dance was Jaehaerys I and he only did that because he was a usurper and was desperately trying to pretend otherwise. Why do you think Aegon V was so desperate to get the dragons back? He knew that he had no power without them and it was only a matter of time until people realized it.

Also, Daeron II cracking the masquerade resulted in multiple wars. His existence supports my assertion. You can treat him as the point where things started to go downhill for the Targaryens and their absolute monarch ethos but it was still mostly intact by the time of Aerys II.

First, that’s not what you said. You said, and I quote: “The Targaryens didn’t break the feudal contract because it didn’t really exist.” The idea that “dragons are a critical source of power for the Targaryens” does not equate to “there is no feudal contract and House Targaryen is an absolute monarchy.” 

Second, Aegon I did not solely rely on draconic power and in fact relied on the military power of his vassals. When the Sisters rebelled, he charged Torrhen Stark to put it down, he didn’t fly over there on Balerion. He had multiple viceroys of Dorne, all of whom had unfortunate ends, who used human military power. 

Third, we specifically see enumerated powers and rights of vassals. Aegon is mentioned to have maintained the laws and customs of the pre-existing feudal structures of Westeros before Jaehaerys consolidated them into a single unified legal code. Walder Frey mentions a specific oath-swearing ceremony that he had as befits a lord. Dorne is mentioned enjoying privileges by treaty the other kingdoms do not. This isn’t “Aegon playing nice,” this is an explicit mention of a feudal structure.

-SLAL

[crazerk]

Her father sending her to the shah's harem as part of a peace treaty was a bitter pill to swallow. Nyserin feels like a prisoner in a gilded cage, her pride chafes at her new status.

Though a foreign princess from a conquered rebel kingdom, Zahra carries herself with regal bearing even in defeat. She was sent to the shah's harem to ensure her people's continued subservience, a role she deeply resents. Zahra views the opulent palace as a symbol of her homeland's humiliation and suffering. 

[Zahra] and Nyserin's similar backgrounds lead to an unlikely friendship.

I wonder if Princess!MC could find kindred spirits in these two? It seems like the Shah is collecting resentful princesses...

It’s the way Kaz gets a new wife whenever one of his vassals misbehaves.

Princess MC could totally join the resentful princess club! While your background can make it easier for you guys to relate, your actions will ultimately determine if they like you.

[whencyclopedia]

Polycrates

Polycrates (r. c. 535-522 BCE) was the tyrant of Samos who established Samian naval supremacy in the eastern Aegean and strove for control of the Aegean Sea and mainland towns of Ionia in the 6th century BCE. Polycrates had a successful career until the Persian Oroetus (r. c. 530-520 BCE) lured him to the mainland and had him crucified.

Ancient Samos

Greek tyrants originally arose in the 7th century BCE from conflict between aristocratic families seeking total authority over the communities. They employed appealing propagandistic policies to gain the favor and regard of the general public. This tactic may also be seen in modern times when dictators use populistic appeals to the lower classes to conceal other heinous crimes. The Greek tyrants were numerous, some of the most worth noting were Cypselus of Corinth (c. 657-627 BCE) and Peisistratus of Athens (c. 600-527 BCE).

The strategic location of Samos was crucial for the rapid generation of wealth by the local elites. The favorable geographical position of the Samos and its surrounding islands endorsed the Samian control of the merchant ships passing by, capturing the majority of the cargo transported from the eastern Mediterranean Sea to the Aegean Sea and the Hellespont. Thus, since the 8th century BCE, the dawn of Archaic Greece, Samians had created a plundering mentality to survive. That lifestyle of plunder was fused with a strong affinity with the goddess Hera, whose stone temple must have been erected after 800 BCE. With its impressive length of 30,5 meters (100 ft), this temple was one of the earliest and biggest temples found in the archaeological records, reflecting Hera's central role in the local community. The construction of a new Hera temple is almost the only other event that can be traced back to the reigns of the pre-Polycratean rulers.

The scene for the tyrant Polycrates' reign is set by the invasion of Cyrus II (c. 600-530 BCE), the king and founder of the Persian Achaemenid Empire. According to Herodotus, when Cyrus looked towards the west, he must have had a significant numerical advantage against Croesus (r. c. 585-546 BCE), the king of Lydia, despite the fact that Croesus had signed a treaty of hospitality and alliance with Sparta. After Cyrus' presence in Lydia was established, it appears that the Greeks dispatched no troops to Sardis, the capital. Cyrus struck in the midst of winter, catching the Lydian army off guard, and planned a fight at the Battle of Thymbra near Sardis in 547 BCE. Croesus was obliged to seek refuge in the citadel, but the city fell within 14 days. When Cyrus entered Sardis, Croesus surrendered and became Cyrus' vassal. As a result, the aspirant Achaemenid king controlled Lydia, a neighboring area of Samos. The western expansion of the Persian ruler forced the Samian elite to change their economic policy and redirect their plundering assaults toward the west.

Continue reading...

[gracethyomen]

HOTD S2 Spoilers under the cut read at your own risk.

Bawling my eyes out watch Jacaerys Velaryon try to report to his mother and Queen on treaties he made with vassal houses while choking on his own tears because he received a raven at the Wall that his baby brother is dead…

One episode in and this show is already gutting me. I’m not ready for ‘Blood and Cheese’.

[mapsontheweb]

Spanish presidios in northern Africa, 15th-18th century.

“Atlas de Historia de España”, Planeta, 2005

by cartesdhistoire

The presidios were fortresses located along the Mediterranean coast that housed a military garrison. In some cases, Spain entrusted them to vassals, such as Tripoli with the Order of Malta. They were to serve as a base for future Christian expansion into enemy Muslim territory up to the Holy Land. But the presidios soon turned out to be only a strategic issue in the defense of Spanish or Italian coasts, threatened by the Barbary Corsican and Turkish power (also directly attacked as in the campaigns of Kefalonia in 1500, Korón in 1532 or Lepanto in 1571).

According to historian Fernand Braudel, each monarch had a different response. The first was the Fernandina (1492-1516) which was the continuation of the Reconquista: military campaigns in which Pedro Navarro stood out, embodied in the capture of strategic points on the coast from which the nearby towns were controlled. The second was Carolina (1516-1559) which would lead to a gradual decline of the Spanish presence. The absolute ruin of African politics would come in the third stage: the Philippine one (1559-1577), with the failure of Los Gelves (1560) and the loss of Tunisia – including the sacking of the Citadel of Menorca (1558); After the annexation of Portugal in 1580, the king would focus his ambitions on the Ocean.

After the independence of Portugal in 1640, the Ceuta nobles requested to continue belonging to Spain. In 1668 a treaty recognized Spanish sovereignty over Ceuta, including the island of Perejil.

In the middle of the s. XVII, the Moroccan dynasty of the Alawites began the assault of the squares. Only Ceuta, Melilla, the Alhucemas Islands and the Peñón de Vélez remained in Spanish hands in the 19th century. XVIII. In 1774, Melilla was subjected to an unsuccessful three-month siege by Sultan Sidi Mohamed.

The Oranesado remained Spanish for almost three centuries: 1509-1708 and 1732-1791; In 1791, the Councils decided to cede Oran and Mazalquivir.

[ricardian-werewolf]

Chapter 3: Strangeness and Charm

MASTERLIST

Chapter I

Chapter II

______________________________________________________________

Summary:

Cecily-Anne is put into the hands of Team Black during a prisoner exchange, and settles into Dragonstone. She also meets Prince Jacaerys Velaryon, and takes stock of what she must do to survive.

TWs:

Mentioned/Referenced SA, trauma, grief, loss of family.

Tag list: @lordbettany, @fauxraven, @rmelster

Being a prisoner at the hands of the Greens had broken Cecily-Anne irreparably. As she stood in the vast entrance of Dragonstone, wrapped in merely a travelling cloak and her stained bedrobe, she was truly conscious of her frailty. Once more, she was a leaf in a gale, tossed hither and fro without a care. Despite her favour at court as Halaena’s lady-in-waiting, her dark hair and blue eyes; her northern accent and lack of understanding of Westerosi culture had put her into a precarious position. Now, she was being exchanged as a prisoner of war. Aegon had assumed her to be a member of the Stark family or some other Northern family (she’d heard rumours of her as a Mormount bastard). Since it had seemed like these Starks were pursuing an alliance with the Targaryens, Aegon wished to have her stuffed into a cell. Unlike most men of his court, he cared not for her highborn legitimacy. Whatever Alicent saw in him was severely misplaced.

But what Cecily had learned as Helaena’s lady-in-waiting in those first few months had been invaluable. Like the England of her world, a highborn lady wielded considerable power. While unable to take up arms and fight, a highborn lady and her retinue wielded serious fiscal and political control over the realm, vassals and any tenants her husband or her own lands were serviced by. With Helaena as Queen and Alicent as the Dowager, their retinue of ladies in waiting were evenly split between the major households of the south and the houses of Essos who had gone with The Greens. 

House Velaryon had gone to the Blacks, due to Queen Rhaenyra having wed the father of her three sons, Jacaerys, Lucerys and Joffrey many years earlier. With her had been Princess Rhaenys of Targaryen and Baratheon lineage - the Baratheons had been split in going with the Hightower off-shoot of Targaryens - what Cecily coined as “Rhaen-garyens,”. She had come from a world where boys were commonly all named Edward, or Richard. Women in her own lineage were named Anne or Cecily. Common denominations to keep that in check included nicknames such as “Nan,” or their “Of the castle/town of birth,”. Because last names were not a common signifier in England (unlike Westeros, which were a sign of pride or scorn), Cecily had had a horrific time trying to keep track of just the names of the people within the household of the Hightowers.

She hadn’t even had a chance to unravel the mysteries of the small council. What she did know was the “Hand of the king,”, some form of official status in the king’s circle that she thought was similar to the chief advisors of her father’s days. He was signified by a literal chain of metal hands that acted as a chain of office. 

Lord Chamberlain of England.

Cecily was not a stupid girl. She had been raised all her life, from her very days in swaddling cloth, to be a noblewoman. She could balance an accounts book from Michaelmas to Michaelmas, keep track of stores, manage an army of small-folk servants. She knew what her own terms of marriage had been to Manuel - she’d assisted her parents in drawing them up and providing her father with what she needed as a good, catholic lady of fortune. She spoke Portuguese, Latin and French. Now, she was taking in the languages of Westeros through simply sitting with her embroidery as Helaena held court with her ladies and hearing of their troubles in places such as the Riverlands. Her dowry was sizable chunks of the north of England. Men certainly made war, but the women of the nobility often negotiated secondary treaties to the first, or interceded when trade deals went awry. 

Now, she stood in another court, in another castle. Her third one in three months. A part of her hungered for her tongue of her people, for the familiar smells and voices of a mummery composing ballads. She longed to stare up at the banners and see the Bear and Ragged Staff; the Lovell wolf and the Sunne in Splendour crowning it all. But instead she stared up at the Targayen red two-headed dragon on black canvas, and the Velaryon sea-horse against a teal backing. These houses had stood against the Greens, taken up arms against them. A similar story to her own - over the right of inheritance of a throne. 

The game of thrones simply changed locations and times, yet was eternal. Stretching her chained hands, Cecily sighed. She allowed the guards to lead her through the stone corridors that leached the heat from one’s body, and looked up at the slit-windows. The rumble of the sea crashed like distant thunder, and despite the fact that Cecily was once more a prisoner, she was too tired and too angered to fight. She didn’t want to remember what had happened at Aegon’s hands. 

Sin had corrupted the greens like rot and crept all the way up. Cecily gnawed at the inside of her cheek with her back teeth. The pain focused her, allowing the memories to fade. She did not make conversation with her guard, nor plead the man’s mercy. Instead, she stepped into the small councilroom and took in the great stone map of Westeros. Illuminated by candles under its feet, the work was a piece of masterful masonry. It showed in all of its true geographic features the expanse of Westeros from end to end, and she could see the sigils of each house carved into the rock.

“It is obsidian.” A voice at her elbow murmured and Cecily turned to stare into the ink-black eyes of Prince Jacaerys Velaryon. His mother’s heir and bastard, his face was the same pale of his Targaryen forefathers but his hair was undoubtedly the colour of Harwin Strong. A member of the Black council, he served as his mother’s voice of reason and sword to enact her will. Not a hand of the Queen by any means, but a powerful boy. Distantly, Cecily felt grief stir in her.

If Ned had lived, this would be him. A prince, honourable, inheriting great titles. The sword-point that could have brought down Tudor. Instead, Ned had died and Cecily had lived. She was the useless one, the one packed off to marry a Portuguese prince - all for naught. Now she was in another time, another place and worse off than ever.

“I see.” Cecily inclined her head. “Thank you, Your Grace, for inform-”

“You are not some common wench.” He raised a brow. “No. It would seem not. You are too well fed, under those ragged robes. You hold your head too high. So.” Jacaerys cast his gaze towards his mother’s councilmen and ladies, who exchanged glances.

In low tones, he leaned over and murmured: “And you are welcome. It was I who arranged for your release.” 

With that cryptic statement shared only between them, Jacaerys straightened, and examined his gloved hands. “Shall we begin, gentlemen, your Graces?”

Cecily straightened, confusion running through her from the tip of her tongue to her toes. Shock painted her face. She was not being passed judgement, nor being hauled away to some cell. At the head of the table, Queen Rhaenyra signalled to her guard. A key was produced and the shackles removed from her hands and feet. Attempting to step forward, Cecily stumbled. Jacaerys’s gloved hand stuck fast around her elbow. “Come now. Not even a noble lady such as yourself would dare tread upon her own skirts?” He teased. She glared at him, rage burning anew in her eyes. Was he as bad as Aegon? Would this all be some jest, only for her to be thrown once more into some dank cell? Would he do as Henry Tudor had done and spit upon her form? Dare imply that she was naught more than a whore insufficient for bedding? He had already called her no wench. What was worse? 

“A lady of no standing claiming to be a noblewoman is taken into the Greens court and given to the queen as a lady-in-waiting?” Rhaenyra raised a hand containing a paper that her spies must’ve taken from the Red Keep. Cecily stared straight ahead, seeing nothing. Sweat crowded under her armpits, rolled down her temple. She shook with the effort of keeping herself stationary, from picking up something and screaming as she tore the room apart. She was tired. Tired of having every movement questioned, of moving on what she thought was a clear path. Instead, she found every movement she made caused brambles to tie themselves to her legs and pull her further into the darkness. She was tired of being scrutinised, of having no safe harbour to flee to.

“Who is she?” 

Cecily jerked, her head looking up at last, into the queen’s violet eyes. Her hair, oily and ragged from no washing, was pushed off the nape of her neck as Cecily discarded her shawl and bedrobe. 

Under both, she wore merely a dirty, bloodied shift. Blood still caked her shaking legs. Her hands shook as she bent down to remove from the bedrobe’s pocket her crucifix and rosary. She did all of this with much hesitancy, watching the members of the Queen’s guard and small council with wide, frightened eyes. Prince Jacaerys’s touch reviled her. Fear sat heavy in her stomach and she knew that she would have to say the unmentionable, to make it so.

“I am Princess Cecily-Anne of House Plantagenet. We are a house ruined by war and strife, left only in our male line to a traitor king. We have suffered much, and gained little. I am the daughter of Richard, Duke of Gloucester, and his lady Duchess Anne Neville. My twin brother was crowned Prince of Wales before sickness took him shortly ‘ere his twelfth name-day.” She paused.

“I was taken into the care of Queen Halaena on the basis that her family regarded her unable to care for herself. Ser Gwayne Hightower took-” She coughed weakly into her elbow. “The care to send a letter to her convoy and inform her that I had been found and was in all estimations, a perfect candidate.”

“How long were you in the Queen’s service?” Rhaenyra stepped down towards Cecily, the train of her gown sweeping the floor. Her hair tumbled down her back in long waves and a crown laid atop her head. She bore no signifiers of the fashion of Cecily’s own time, though the sight of her ladies wearing what seemed to be coifs and veils was welcome. 

“S-several weeks, alas, Your Grace.” Cecily averted her gaze, but her breath hitched as Rhaenyra gripped her jaw in hand and turned it toward the light. “Tell me, Princess. Have you suffered much at the hand of that false King, Aegon?”

Cecily swallowed, not trusting herself to speak. She pressed her legs tighter together, and cast her gaze nervously to Rhaenyra’s council, who looked to be in varying states of disgust. Jahaerys’s gaze was locked on her trembling body, and something akin to rage simmered within him.

“You need not ask, Mother. Look at how she trembles. He has ruined her, made her damaged.”

“Is what my son speaks true, Your grace?”

The respectful usage of her title made Cecily nearly weep with relief. Her knees buckled and she sank to the floor, clinging to Rhaenyra's skirts. “Yes.” She cried softly. “Yes, he speaks the truth.” Her face was pressed into the dark stone floor and she shuddered with cold and hunger. 

“But this is not all you wish for, no?” Rhaenyra lifted Cecily’s head. “There is a rage within you that does not extend to Aegon - he is too low for you to dirty your sword with his blood. You seek, it seems, a better quarry.”

Cecily nodded, and spoke softly.

“I seek to kill the man who tore my father’s realm apart, who callously threw his corpse over the back of a steed and marched it through the town of Leicester. I know not what has become of my father’s corpse, but it is an evilty and affront to God.”

She sniffed.

“I seek to sink the blade of my father’s knife-” She lifted the hem of her shift. Tied to her inner thigh on a mere scrap of ribbon was a sheathed knife. “-into the heart of Henry Tudor.”

The room went deathly silent. The guards did not move, but their hands hesitated on their sword hilts. Rhaenrya merely gave a grim smile, and eased Cecily’s shift down once more. She cupped Cecily’s face in her hands.

“Then I shall grant you the sanctuary needed to hunt this quarry of yours, who so defiled your father.”

Cecily’s emotional walls shattered, and she wept without restraint, clinging to the queen who had brought her finally, a sense of safety. Rhaenyra waved off the maesters and her ladies with a gentle hand, and had Jacaerys help get Cecily upright. “Have her washed and clad in something more befitting her station.” She called to her son and the maid gripping Cecily’s other arm.

The maid nodded, averting her gaze.

***

Washing her proved easier than anyone assumed. 

Weeks - no, months of grief with no hope of relief had caused Cecily’s body and mind to stutter to a stop. She was eerily silent and still as the maids cleaned her body and hair. They used soap she would’ve called Castille to clean her hair and the blood from her legs. An elder serving maid tended to her intimate areas, knowing the violation that had befallen the princess. Many a girl of a station lower than hers had suffered such at the hands of invaders or Westerosi man alike. But for a noblewoman, it was sinful. The pride of clean, holy women had carried into Westeros society, yet the violation of such a law called for honour-bound, brutal violence. Violence had already torn the realm of the Seven Kingdoms apart as Aegon had usurped the throne from Rhaenyra’s rightful claim simply for two reasons:

The first that he was a man, and the second was that as Alicent and Viserys’s son, the belief of a firstborn boy inheriting was inherent in the laws of rulership. Cecily herself would never be a powerful enough claim to take the throne. Only through marriage, as her cousin Elizabeth was doing, could she bring the York lineage any closer to the throne. She stirred sluggishly, and focused on the room around her. Blinking, Cecily-Anne squinted.

“Where are my spectacles?”

“Here, Your Grace.” One of the maids placed the glasses on Cecily’s nose and she sighed in welcome relief. “Thank you.” Allowing the maids to haul her from the tepid bathwater, Cecily refused to look at herself in the silver-backed looking glass. It was more out of habit than the recent trauma that had befallen her. She knew that stretching across her stomach was a scar of two jagged lines. She knew of their origin, for she and her brother had been born a month ‘ere their predetermined dates. Cecily had ailed and struggled for the first few months, nearly coming close twice. But she did not flag where other children would have, and her parents had considered it a holy miracle.

Now the Holy Mother had sent Cecily to this foreign land where she felt nothing but fear. It scared her to no end. As she watched the maids brush out her hair and apply oils to help it retain its lustre, she found herself remembering her mother’s ladies do the same. Sitting in the vanity chair, her hands in her curls as they gently ran the comb though, Cecily was hit with an overwhelming wave of homesickness. She pressed a hand to her eyes, and spoke hoarsely:

“I believe that is enough. Thank you.”

The maids looked at one another, but did not push the matter. “What else will you need, Your Grace?”

“Nothing.” Cecily replied. “Please, go.” She sighed, and watched them leave from the corner of her eye. Once the wooden door had shut, Cecily walked over and stood in front of it for a good few moments. Finding the latch, she traced the keyhole with a finger. A door with a lock. Not even she’d gotten that as Helaena’s lady in waiting. She’d been waiting so long for the court to approve her, and yet she was still expected to pay favour to the queen and accompany her. It was exhausting, and boring. Because she’d been so closely under guard, any true conversation with Helaena was impossible. Now, she stared at the lock, admiring the raised relief of the dragon carved around the keyhole. She pushed the jamb down, and stepped back, her breath quickening.

Yet not with elation.

Fear. The fear of being hurt as she had by Aegon - or was it Aemond? Her memory was terrible and the fact that she couldn’t truly pin the blame on one man or the other terrified her. It had all been some awful mistake; a break-in into her chambers one night. Whoever of the Targayen boys it had been, was deep into his cups and knew exactly who she was. Why break a highborn woman when the maid-servants were all so willing to be taken for a few coin? 

Because it keeps me silent.

Cecily stepped back from the door again and stared at the wooden frame with unease. It seemed to be made of strong wood, but then again, she knew from experience of sieges from her father’s books. Doors could be picked or broken into. Thieves willing to work dirty jobs with high prices attached were common. Blood and Cheese had broken into a palace and done unspeakable horrors to Helaena’s children. The youngest had been brutally slaughtered, all because Prince Aemond had slaughtered Lucerys Velaryon. 

An eye for an eye, a son for a son.

Why not go for Aemond? She thought hopelessly. Why me? Why Me? Why exchange me as a prisoner? I’m just a girl. A ten-and-five year old girl who has no skill but as a nobleman’s wife and is far out of their league in learning than what is expected!

Cecily reeled back from the door and scrambled toward the bed on shaking legs. She tugged up the coverlet, ignoring the fine silks of the bed-curtains. The blood-red of it all, from the curtains to the woven floor rugs, reminded her painfully of the York Murrey. She hungered desperately, with the madness of a daughter grieving, to be abed in her tower room at Middleham Castle. 

But never again would she see that room. Never would she sit in her favourite window-seat and look out the oriel window to the village nestled in the castle’s great shadow. She would never again hear the calls of servants and squires to one another as her mother reigned with a firm, yet kindly hand. A queen of her own domain, now interned in the great marble and stone prison of her effigy. She should have been buried in York Minister along with Ned.

Oh, Ned… Cecily felt tears form behind her eyes. The night of his death haunted her. Shaking her head, Cecily leaned over in the bed and tapered the candles with the nearby taper. Darkness flooded the room, and Cecily for a moment deceived herself into being home in Middleham, the ocean’s roar being no more than distant thunder. But the sounds of dragons calling to one another sent her once more tumbling from her sanctuary point. Down, into the darkness of endless night and pain Cecily-Anne fell.

For with the darkness of a child’s grief came an uneasy sleep that made her envy, as always, the dead. 

End of chapter 3.

[teenagecriminalmastermind]

blue blood - chapter 4 (an aemond targaryen x team black daughter fanfiction)

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chapter 1: prologue chapter 2: the bells chapter 3: the race

chapter 4: claw isle.

Aemond is delirious with rage. 

That girl, that little bastard brat, not only had the audacity to steal the Crown of Jaehaerys from the very dead body of her grandfather, but then has the unmitigated gall to taunt him and hand it over to his wretched half-sister? He can hear her laughter still ringing in his ears, the sound somehow carrying over the thunder and the rain. 

Impertinent witch.

He cannot go back home yet, cannot go back with the failure of his mission. Not only was his quest to make that treaty with the Baratheons cut short by Lucerys Strong, his bastard sister just had to add fuel to the fire. He has to find some way to fix this, some way to retrieve that crown within time. He cannot go back empty-handed. He lands Vhagar upon one of the uninhabited islands by Storm’s End, the large dragon shuddering to a halt upon the sandy shores. 

He slides off the beast’s back, smashing his fist into the nearest cliff rocks over and over until he feels his knuckles bleed, until the sting of broken skin and blood is enough to calm his nerves. “No, no, NO!” He roars, his dragon sounding just as incensed as him, “that little fucking bitch does not get to do this to me!” He watches his bleeding hand, watches the blood trickle down his fingers and down his palm in swift, dark rivulets as he turns his hand over. Fire and blood. Daella Targaryen will pay, in fire and blood.

He sits on the shore, letting the rain wash away the blood, soaking through his coat down to his bones, his hair a flat curtain that clings to his face. He has to regroup. Think this over. See what he can do next and not what he wants to do. 

What does he want to do? 

He wants to go back to Dragonstone and gut Daella Targaryen like a fucking fish, watch the girl bleed upon his person as he wrenches the crown out of her hands and holds her beating heart in his palm, his face being the last thing her defiant eyes see. 

However, he cannot do that lest he be labeled Kinslayer and truly kick start a war of bloodshed and dragons. No, for now he has to find a different way to win the crown back, or at least force the girl and the crown back into the open and wrest it from her. No, that would not work. No, she has probably handed over the gold circlet to her wretched mother and her father Daemon. Gods, that girl is far too much like her father Daemon Targaryen, in all the worst ways that the Seven could conjure. It is as if they bottled up every single one of his worst impulses and characteristics and poured it into his eldest.  

So what does he do? 

Well, alighting upon one of their smaller vassals with Vhagar would be a good start. It would put the fear of all things holy in them while letting them know that he has not relented, to let her know that this is not over yet. 

Claw Isle is nearest.

Lord Celtigar is steward of Claw Isle. The man is loyal, slightly tough, and not easily cowered. But no one in the Seven Hells can look upon Vhagar and not be scared shitless, and he plans to do just that. “Vhagar,” he speaks to his dragon, voice hoarse after his prior screaming bout on the island, “time to move.” She will feed once they return to King’s Landing, which won’t be too long from now. 

When he lands on the shores of Claw Isle, there is already a small group of soldiers collected, bows aimed at the ready and Aemond has to resist the urge to laugh. As if some measly bows and arrows could incapacitate him and his dragon. “Lord Celtigar,” he says in a cool, even voice, spotting the gruff man. “I come bearing regards from King Aegon.” 

“We only recognise the one true Queen, Rhaenyra Targaryen,” the older man says, steely eyes looking into his own. He tamps down the ire that threatens to bubble over, the prior events still rankling in his mind. 

“My brother holds all the symbols of legitimacy, my Lord,” he says calmly, “He wears the Conqueror’s crown, wields his sword Blackfyre. The Queen, as my half-sister calls herself, wears a stolen crown that she had her craven daughter steal from the Keep.” 

“A crown that is rightfully her mother’s,” the man replies, not budging from his stance. So Aemond is not winning any allies here. “Daella Targaryen did what needed to be done.” The mention of her name is enough to almost send him in another rage, her voice echoing in his mind as she called him a thief, spoke of him stealing her birthright, as if it was ever a bastard’s to begin with. 

“Very well,” he says, plastering a polite smile on his face, resisting the urge to bare his teeth. “Well, my Lord, I hope you let your Queen know that her younger brother has come calling for her. Send a raven to let her know that I shall wait here for the crown to be returned, and that I shall wait for as long as it takes and do whatever it takes. And that if she has any true integrity, she sends the thief her daughter to return it herself.” 

The man takes his message and sends a raven in front of his own eyes, making Aemond wait by the shore. “I don’t mind, my Lord,” he says lightly, “I can wait here by the sea. After all, it should not take long, should it?” 

Hours pass, and it must be far past the witching hour when he starts to doze off, shielded by Vhagar’s wing as he rests by her head. The sound of footsteps on the sand shakes him awake, and he rests a hand on the pommel of the sword on his hip, body slightly relaxing when he sees that it is just a mere messenger. “A message from the Queen Rhaenyra,” the man says, barely keeping his voice even. 

“And?” He prompts the young man, the latter barely older than him. 

“The Princess Rhaenys shall be here to negotiate with you, my Prince,” he says, voice wavering. “Her and the she-dragon Meleys are on their way to speak to you.” Why? 

“And why has she not sent the Princess Daella?” He questions sharply, anger rising up again. So now the little witch intends to hide from him, huh? Seems like cowardice runs in the family blood. 

“The Crown Princess is not in any condition to leave Dragonstone, and the Queen does not intend to risk her Heir’s well being and safety,” he answers. He must have injured the girl worse than he thought then, and a smile of cruel satisfaction lingers on his lips. So she isn’t here not because she is a coward, but because she simply cannot. He wonders how much he made her bleed, whether it hurts for her to take a breath because of him, whether she looks at her hands and thinks of how he is the reason they are stained bloody. 

Aemond wonders how much of a mark he has left on Daella. 

“Very well then,” he says coolly. “If the Crown Princess cannot make it herself, then I suppose her aunt Rhaenys shall suffice.” It does not take his aunt too long to arrive, the Red Queen coming to a smooth stop next to Vhagar as the older woman dismounts, walking towards him tall and proud. 

“Nephew,” she says, giving him a curt nod. 

“Aunt Rhaenys,” he nods back, hands clasped behind his back. “I suppose you are here to do the right thing and return the crown.” 

Rhaenys’ eyes harden, the ghost of an angry smile playing on her lips. “You have quite the delusional belief, my dear boy,” she states. “Such treachery, and that to your own House? To your own sister?” 

“I have only one sister,” he replies, keeping his voice level. “And she is now the Queen Helaena.” 

“Aemond,” she says, “I am here as an envoy, merely to convey Her Grace the Queen Rhaenyra’s wishes. She does not wish to sow further discord in the family, and she wishes to keep her brothers close. She knows you are sensible, and she hopes that you, the honorable and level-headed one of the two, will see beyond Otto Hightower’s treacherous machinations.” She seems sincere in her beliefs, and he cannot believe that the one woman he would wholeheartedly have bent the knee to has bought into this con. 

“You are being led astray by the counsel of evil men, nephew,” she stresses. “Please, consider our words, our side. See sense, and make Aegon see it too. Otto Hightower and Larys Strong are the vipers that seek to destroy the House of the Dragon from the inside.” The nerve to call his own grandfather a viper to his face. 

“Thank you for your sage counsel, Princess Rhaenys,” he replies, voice curt and clipped, “but I suppose I shall withhold myself from taking your offer and let my brother the King know that his treasonous half sister refuses to see sense. Tell my half-sister and her bastard daughter that I will retrieve the crown and return it to its rightful owner.” 

Rhaenys does not retaliate, mouth pressed in a thin line as she nods at his words, mounting Meleys. Soon, she and the Red Queen are specks in the sky, on their way back to Dragonstone with a message from him in hand. He debates whether he should head back home now, or let Vhagar have her fill on this small island. It would be cruel to rob the island of a sizable chunk of its livestock, but they have decided to pledge fealty to his wretched half-sister, and they must pay the price of siding with the treasonous queen and not the rightful king. 

“Are there any parts of the isle not populated by people?” He asks Lord Celtigar, who points him in the western direction, understanding the nature of the request. “Good,” Aemond adds coolly as he takes Vhagar to that segment of Claw Isle, letting the dragon feed to her heart’s content. Celtigar invites him back to his Keep, ever the observer of guest rules himself, and Aemond surmises it would be prudent to take some food and rest if he is to continue his search for the crown and if he is to alight on the Black stronghold itself. 

Aemond sleeps fitfully over the next few days, leaving as soon as Vhagar is ready to depart. This is now enemy territory, and he does not wish to stay here a moment longer than is necessary. He cannot go to Dragonstone just yet. No, he must be prudent and return to King’s Landing. 

The sky clears further as he approaches the city, Vhagar’s wings darkening the stretches she flies over, echoing his mood. He dismounts the dragon with an easy grace and then makes the journey back to the Red Keep on foot, his gait determined but erratic, anger bleeding through every step he takes. The guards swing the gates open without question and he walks into the Small Council chamber, black coat billowing behind him as he comes to a stop at one of the chairs, his mother and grandsire watching him intently.

He picks up one of the marble balls on the table and throws it at the wall, the force of the impact ripping through the wooden frame of one of their maps and Alicent winces, startling back in her chair. “Apologies, mother,” he mutters, too restless and angry to sit down. 

“I take it you do not have it,” Otto Hiightower speaks, his voice slow and measured, as if trying to avoid upsetting him. He whirls around on his heel to glare at his grandfather, memories of that insolent girl laughing at him running through his head. 

“Rhaenyra Targaryen has been crowned Queen at Dragonstone,” he grits out, trying to keep his voice level. “She sent Princess Rhaenys as her envoy, and the Blacks have no intention of handing the crown over.” 

“And what of Daella?” His mother questions.

“Daella,” he says slowly, the name poison on his tongue. “Is apparently indisposed. Too injured to even face me.” Hiding behind her mother’s skirts, on the volcanic island of Dragonstone that she calls home. His mother seems not too happy at this development, brows furrowing in worry. “Mother, what causes you concern?” He asks. “If Daella Targaryen is indisposed, then she and the Black Bane cannot take to the skies. This is a development in our favour.” 

“I do not wish for the girl to be maimed,” Alicent fires back, fixing her son with a worried and angry glare. “We are not yet at war, Aemond, and I do not wish for us to be the ones to begin one by attacking Rhaenyra’s eldest child.” 

“My half-sister declared war the moment she had her daughter commit that brazen theft. It is treason, mother, an insult against our family, against the crown and my brother, but still you wish for it to go unpunished?” He does not understand her hesitance, the kindness that still lingers in her heart for his half sister and her bastards. 

“Not like this!” The bite in her words takes him aback, and he stares back at her, surprised at the turn of events. So his mother is more than content to usurp his half-sister, but when it comes to taking concrete steps against her transgressions she wavers. 

A week passes, and he raises the same question to his mother over and over again, only to be greeted by the same form of resistance and restraint. Nevermind, he tells himself at dinner that night; he shall rectify this inaction soon, but for now he is tired, he is angry, and he needs a listening ear. 

Aemond dons his cloak once night falls upon the streets of King’s Landing, weaving his way in silence and anonymity until he darkens the doors of an establishment he last visited a week ago in search of his brother Aegon. He barks orders to one of the attendants, asking them to bring the head of the place to him for a private audience and soon enough, he is whisked away to a quieter part of the silk house, the lit candles surrounding him like the altar of a Sept. 

“Your brother has not been here since, my Prince,” she says, raising an eye with a knowing smile. 

“I am not here for your services,” he replies gruffly, lowering his hood as he sits there, fully clothed. “At least, not in the way one would surmise.” 

“Then what is it?” She asks. 

“I need someone to speak to,” he admits. “Someone outside of my family, who shall not judge me for my words and my deeds just yet.” The woman does not interrupt him, her silence an invitation for him to continue. “A grave error was made in the hours following my father’s death.” She fixes him with a probing gaze, and Aemond knows that somehow, she knows what he speaks of. 

“We all saw the Black Bane and his rider depart King’s Landing a day after the bells were first rung,” she states, inching closer to him. So word has spread indeed. He doesn’t protest at first when she pushes his cloak off his shoulders, her hands wandering over his person. “I can imagine you must feel slighted and incensed, that your brother and your family were disrespected so.” 

“I do,” he mutters darkly. “That bastard girl had the audacity to steal from the crown, and she thinks she has gotten away with it. That her treasonous actions are actually serving the Realm,” he scoffs. He thinks of Daella’s smile, her cool voice taunting him in the skies. The way she raced to Dragonstone, her body thrown off her dragon in a desperate attempt to reach the sanctuary of home before he and Vhagar caught up with them. 

“The heart does not listen to reason, my Prince,” the madam speaks, her fingers carding through his hair as she leans in closer. He knows this should distract him, ground him, but all he can think of is the impertinent girl hiding in the clouds, her voice sure and solid even amidst the storm.

He thinks of the blood seeping through her cuts, the wounds that must litter her pale flesh. Wounds, some of which will scar, a permanent reminder of that stormy night, a permanent reminder of him. He wonders how many more scars she carries on her body, whether he is the only man to mark her. 

Aemond rips himself away from the madam’s ministrations, haphazardly throwing on his cloak as his feet carry him rapidly out of the establishment and away from the Streets of Silk, but not towards the Keep. He keeps walking and walking until he comes to a halt at a familiar place, the ground rumbling from his dragon’s sleeping purrs.

Aemond wakes the beast up, hoping she is well-rested enough for another short flight to Storm’s end, where he shall take a small boat and head to Dragonstone. It will not be difficult to slip into the fortress undetected, for they would be expecting him on Vhagar, not arriving on the island by boat and then on foot. 

“Come on, old girl,” he says as Vhagar regards him with a doleful golden eye, “we have a visit to pay.” 

[darkmaga-retard]

Fealty: “the fidelity of a vassal or feudal tenant to his lord.” These national leaders aren’t free agents but rather behave like they are members of a cult, given over to self-harm. The UN mixes the magic potion that is willingly consumed, converting them into global citizen/slaves. If the U.S. were to stop funding the UN, it would fold like a deck of cards. — Technocracy News & Trends Editor Patrick Wood

Posted By: Yudi Sherman via The Gold Report

On September 22nd, dignitaries from around the world will gather at the United Nations headquarters in New York for a meeting called Summit of the Future.

At the conference, world leaders will sign Pact for the Future, an accord in which member states will pledge their allegiance to the UN as a central, unifying government.

“We, the Heads of State and Government, representing the peoples of the world, have gathered at United Nations Headquarters to protect the needs and interests of present and future generations through the actions in this Pact for the Future,” the document begins.

“We recognize that the multilateral system and its institutions, with the United Nations and its Charter at the centre, must be strengthened to keep pace with a changing world.”

Member states then repeatedly “reaffirm” their “unwavering commitment” to the UN, its charter, its purposes, its principles, and Agenda 2030. They vow to comply with the UN’s International Court of Justice and promise to “reform the international financial architecture.”

“Reform of the international financial architecture is an important step towards building greater trust in the multilateral system,” says the treaty. “We commend ongoing reform efforts and call for even more urgent and ambitious action to ensure that the international financial architecture becomes more efficient, more equitable, fit for the world of today and responsive to the challenges faced by developing countries in closing the SDG financing gap. The reform of the international financial architecture should place the 2030 Agenda at its centre, with an unwavering commitment to investing in the eradication of poverty in all its forms and dimensions.”

Altogether, the document lists 60 actions that member states should take. In nearly all of them, the agreement makes it clear that the countries’s interests revolve around the UN and its globalist systems.

A clause buried toward the end of the document requires member states to embed UN “agreements and resolutions” in their own national laws:

[scotianostra]

On 7th July 1307 King Edward I of England died on his last punitive expedition to Scotland at Burgh-on-Sands, near Carlisle.

The epitaph to Edward in Westminster Abbey, London, reads Edwardus Primus Scotorum Malleus hic est. - Edward the First, hammer of the Scots.

Apart from the wars of Independence Edward is remembered with disdain in Scotland for the theft of The Stone of Destiny from Moot Hill at Scone.In 1287 Alexander III, King of Scots, died suddenly after falling from his horse at Kinghorn. The succession crisis that followed presented Edward with a golden opportunity to expand on his conquest of Wales. With the absence of an immediate heir, the Scots throne looked likely to pass to Alexander's infant granddaughter, Margaret (the 'Maid of Norway') – the daughter of the King of Norway.

Rival Scottish claims for the right to succeed as the next monarch led to the Norwegians approaching Edward. Edward planned to wed his own son Edward to Margaret and thus control Scotland via matrimonial rights.

The Scots nobles, fearful of such a takeover, agreed that Margaret should be queen – but at the expense of Edward's marriage plans. Events were thrown into turmoil when Margaret died en route to Scotland.With the succession crisis still looming large and rival claimants still in fierce competition the Guardians of Scotland needed to find someone to adjudicate the claims and help break the deadlock. The perfect candidate was Edward.

As an internationally respected king and a recognised expert on legal matters of state Edward was a logical choice. With the benefit of hindsight this may seem to be the worst of decisions until you consider that England and Scotland had enjoyed an extended period of relatively peaceful co-existence. Claims of English overlordship over Scotland were seen to be a thing of the distant past. The Guardians were in for a very rude shock.In a series of political manouverings Edward insisted that he be recognised as feudal overlord of the Scots before a new Scots king be appointed. The Guardians refused but Edward, the legal expert, got his wish.

While there were two rival claimants (Robert Bruce and John Balliol) Edward's role was adjudicate. If there were more than two then, under medieval law, only a judge could be expected to pronounce a verdict. As a judge Edward had to have authority – and in royal matters authority meant overlordship.

Edward found other claimants for the vacant throne to put pressure on Bruce and Balliol. The plan worked and one by one they came forward to swear allegiance. From that point, with all principle claimants as his vassals, it did not matter who became king. Ultimately Balliol took the crown.

Edward's subsequent heavy-handed treatment of the Scots (demanding taxes and soldiers to help fight his wars) led to the first inklings of rebellion.

In 1295 the Scots signed a mutual aid treaty with France (later to be known as the Auld Alliance). This pact with Edward's enemy brought about swift retaliation from Edward.

Edward destroyed Berwick, slaughtering thousands of the town's inhabitants, before pushing deeper into scotland. The Scots met Edward in battle at Dunbar but was decisively beaten. In a similar tactic to those he had previously used to conquer Wales Edward stripped the country of its treasures and symbollic icons of nationhood as easily as he stripped Balliol of his status as king. Most notably the crown jewels and the Stone of Destiny was removed to be sent back to England. The message was clear – there was to be no other king in Scotland but Edward. Edward's campaigning, however, had left him seriously short of funds. He could no-longer afford to build costly castles to control his new domain as he had in Wales. He was also not reckoning on coming up against some proud Scots Edward had underestimated us. Within a year rebellions to English control broke out – notably led by Andrew Murray in the north and William wallace in the south of the country. Edward left the matter of crushing the rebellion to his representative, John de Warenne, rather than take control personally. At Stirling Bridge Warenne's force was routed by Wallace and Murray's army.

Edward marches north and took control of his army and defeated Wallace's army at Falkirk. Wallace was later captured and executed. Once again Edward assumed that Scotland was conquered.In Bruce Edward had met a formidable, ruthless and determined opponent

Despite ill health and advancing years Edward, Hammer of the Scots, marched his army north to rid himself of Bruce once and for all.

In 1307, with Scotland in sight, Edward died at Burgh-on-Sands. The campaign for the conquest of Scotland passed on to his son, Edward II. The Scots were relieved to find that the brutal and effective military prowess displayed by the father were absent in the son. In 1314 Bruce routed a larger English force at Bannockburn. Recognition of Scotland's sovereignty came years later in 1328.

Accounts credit Edward's dying wish to be that his bones sent to war against the Scots

When he fell ill he perceived he could not recover, he called on his eldest son, the future Edward II, , and made him swear, in presence of all his barons, by the Saints, that as soon as he should be dead,his son would have his body boiled in a large cauldron until the flesh should be separated from the bones; that he would have the flesh buried and the bones preserved; that every time the Scots should rebel against him, he would summon his people, and carry with him the bones of his father.

Historians now disagree with this count, some saying, like King Robert, his heart be taken to the Holy land on a crusade.

Anway it matters not which version you believe, Edward II promptly decided against this and took him homeward to think again

The third pic is a sketch by the English poet in 1774 when the dean and a group of history enthusiasts opened his tomb and examined the body finding it remarkably complete.

As I said there are differing versions of what Edward I wanted done with his remains but the stories of him wanting done with his heart and bones appear to have been simply medieval lore. The story of the English King relishing the death of Wallace while on his own deathbed is pure Hollywood, Sir William was put to death two years previously.

In the fourth pic you see a statue of Longshanks at Burgh-on-Sands, which I must admit I rather like.

[b1asho]

Oh no, there's lines in there!!!!

This is a (once again, a leetle outdated but still good enough) political map! The border lines are a bit wacky, don't worry it's annoying for everyone living there too. Anyway, here's a horrid lore dump if you care to read it XD :

Blue represents the DRSS (Democratic Republic of the Solar System) its just about what it sounds like. This country is made up of a collection of states similar to the USA, and it is largely populated and governed by humans. much of their internal infrastructure is meant for humans, too, making it very difficult to live there as anything else. However, some areas within each state are Enclaves, where other species have been given say over the laws and architecture and are more or less free to govern themselves (with some intervention from the big government). The grayish blue area to the west is known as the Outlands. It's legally a part of the DRSS, but extremely undeveloped and sparsely populated beyond rough farming and mining operations. They got this land in the afotementioned treaty ( and a considerable amount of say in other territories outside their borders, since they won the war. And still have some nukes.)

Orange is the Seru Empire (Cerest Empire or just 'the Empire' to most people). They are related to the interplanetary Imperial power I talked about in the geography post, though the so-called Seru Empire is much newer, created thanks to the resurgence of Old Empire sympathies and ideologies. There are no good empires, and this one is no exception. It is a widely known fact that those living within its borders are subject to harsh working conditions, strict legislation and swift brutal punishment, and of course are separated by species into a rigid caste structure. Besides humans, there are 5 other intelligent species stranded on this planet. 4 of them make up the bulk of the population in the SE (more on all them later I promise) . Technically, the SE is made up of different internal jurisdictions like the DRSS, though led by associated arms of the dictator, but those have much less autonomy and no authority under the central regime. They have limited access to pretty much everything everywhere because they're the losing side. And everyone hates them.

Purple is the Muttreazik Territories, named after the species that mostly lives there. While characterized as a 'Wild West' of sorts, this land is actually separated into very distinctive cultural regions of muttreazik that are highly organized within their own turf (though not very interested in working together). This place is largely unexplored and presumably largely untouched by exo terraforming, making the West the only place you can go and still see the original plant life that was there before your species crashed a ship on it. On a related note, it is very unforgiving to pioneers, both because of the lack of anything edible/any infrastructre to help you survive and the parasitic mutant-inhabiting locals who look like you but not (muttreazik are a fun bunch).

The yellow/grayish blue area in the middle is the Skyfall Exclusion Zone, or the SEZ. This was originally a smaller area unofficially sectioned off/avoided by the world because of the high levels of Radiation from Unknown Universe (RUU) leaking out from that damn lake (or rather, the thing in that damn lake. I should probably mention, RUU was used to power many of the human spacecraft. It's a barely understood energy that was supposed to stay in the machines. It was never supposed to get out of the machines.) The SEZ was officially established with the treaty as a vassal state to the DRSS to act as a demilitarized buffer between the warring powers, since neither of them want to cross that land and both consider it unusable. Well, mostly unusable. The SEZ's main export is space junk, since this area also happens to be where most of the stuff fell in The Crash. The technology, resources, and information that can be gathered from The Wreck is valuable enough for the DRSS to keep it around and let it do its own thing as ling as all the best junk goes to them and not the Empire. Speaking of, the inhabitants of the SEZ are a mix of everyone, mostly just riffraff that ended up there for one reason or another. Though many also got trapped in there by new border drawing and now can't leave thanks to the closure. Womp womp, have fun living downwind of the radioactive scrap heap, loser.

That dark gray circle is a nuclear exclusion zone (Area 1) . Considerably less fun than the SEZ because this radiation is normal and just rips your cells apart instead of giving you powers. Don't go in there.

Green on the mainland is the Gaek Federation. Offshore green is the Orbouh Island Nations, collectively known as the Drowning Islands region. This area is an economic exclusive zone, since the big countries no longer trade across their own borders. This area is entirely neutral and independent, gov wise, though it upholds the treaty's stipulations because they want to keep the tentative peace and their biggest customers. This area has a diverse population. It's outer borders are a bit malleable, since as the 'Drowning' part of the name suggests the islands tend to appear and dissappear with the tides caused by the planet's 3 moons. The planet also has rings btw you can see a tiny version of it in my pfp.

Red is the Kixeli Interplanetary Community, pretty much a really dense and mostly autonomous Enlclave of a certain amphibious species. It shares territory with the Confederation of Free Sapients, a small country built on rejecting the current entrenched ways of the two super powers and building a more inclusive system.

All these idiots are just stuck on an ideal little part of a much wider world, unexplored and vast. Who knows what's on the rest of this continent, or the rest of the globe...

Anyways, it's the aliens next. Once I figure out the best way to Compile and Present them all.........