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#massively uncharitable

fierceawakening · 8 months

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Ooof time to go on an unfollowing spree I think

“We don’t know how to lose weight” actually we kind of do though?

Slow, sustained changes in diet over time.

I don’t understand why some people want to treat this like it’s fundamentally impossible. We shouldn’t have to shun foods we like a lot that aren’t as nutrient dense as we’d like, but making occasional replacements isn’t bizarrely impossible. It baffles me that people claim it is.

Said it before will probably say it more times than I can count before I die but I legit don’t much like chocolate croissants any more. I find them too sweet, and not filling like pastries with nuts or cheese or meat, which I consciously chose to eat instead after a health scare some years ago.

I used to literally eat one a day. Sometimes two.

Should people hate and curse themselves if they find changing habits difficult?

Absolutely not.

Are they allowed to give up?

Yes.

Does this make all habits fundamentally fixed for all time?

No, that’s bullshit.

There are good reasons to choose not to change habits, and “fuck, this is hard” can be one. But this nonsense about how you should never try, and if you DO TRY it’s because you think you’re special (as if there’s something wrong with setting difficult or long term goals for yourself) needs to die in a fire.

Yesterday.

#weight loss #every once in a while some new guru sells this shit again #it’s tiring #massively uncharitable #it’s black pilling is what it is

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olderthannetfic · 2 months

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https://www.tumblr.com/olderthannetfic/746553097204203521/the-fandom-hates-women-response-to-lack-of-ff

The "fandom hates women" part of it comes from the fact that fandom as an entity just doesn't watch the kind of media that draws femslash, even if it ticks all of the boxes of things those very same people say they like. There are so many times I've watched a show that I've seen mega-popular Tumblr posts wishing existed, and then the fandom is so, so small comparatively and often in general. There have been superheroes, vampire/supernatural shows, fantasy shows, movies, books, the list goes on, that feel like they were generated out of Tumblr's desires for ideal fandom media, and everyone knows they're never going to attract anywhere near the same attention for fandom and fanworks because the common denominator just tends to be that if there isn't a full ensemble of attractive men to ship either with each other or with the women, fandom's not interested.

So it's not about prioritizing women in that sense, it's about people witnessing hypocrisy over and over again the second a show doesn't have a mostly-male ensemble. The people who are in these fandoms are frustrated that good faith attempts to get people interested are met with every excuse in the book that all eventually boils down to "I don't like watching stuff with women in it as much as I like watching stuff with men in it." And if that's how people feel about it... sometimes the conclusions are going to turn into the more uncharitable take of "fandom hates women."

Maybe, but whenever I see a "fandom hates women" reblog of my stuff, one or two reblogs further down the chain I get an overt TERF. I just had to go block several people today, in fact.

The first person to reblog with a comment like that is usually subtle, but their friends and friends of friends are not. The rhetoric that very quickly starts is the fandom equivalent of that "All the butches are becoming trans men! We're losing lesbians!" stuff.

Here's the thing: I've been in ten billion fandoms that were so awesome and fit fandom's supposed tastes to a T and yet no amount of promoting them could get anyone to try the canon. This goes for canons that are all men or all white men or all majority ethnicity men or whatever else.

The default state of media is to not engender a big fic fandom.

I agree that the rare outliers mostly follow certain patterns, but we extrapolate too far when we say that a lack of those patterns is why a fandom is small.

A fandom is small because that's the near-universal default.

Yes, a small slice of fandom consists of guilt-ridden queer fujoshi who say they want more f/f but don't make much of a move to make that happen. I tend to run into that a lot because of my own tastes and having friends who share those tastes.

Far more of fandom is people talking generally about how representation matters without saying they would personally join these fandoms if they existed.

Neither group is large enough to be the real reason some woman-heavy canon fails to take off to HP levels.

The real reason is not hypocrisy but the fact that most things don't take off like that. Most things without massive, massive audiences especially don't take off like that. And the very few things that do are flukes and don't actually predict that another similar thing will take off in the future.

Go to AO3's tag search. Search for all canonical fandom tags. Sort by uses and descending order.

Right now, I get 64,390 tags.

The first page, 50 tags, goes from HP with 497,845 works to the Thor movies with 59,266 works. By page 6, we're below 10 thousand works.

By the end of page 10, we're down to Labyrinth with 3,906.

Somewhere in the top 500 AO3 fandom tags (many of which are just franchise metatags for each other), we go all the way from megafandoms to medium size and down to relatively modest ones.

That's not a lot of room for a big f/f-heavy fandom given the trends in mainstream media and that mainstream media is where most really big fandoms come from.

I also notice that you're conflating a lack of desire to watch something that's primarily about women with a lack of desire to watch something that includes women.

There are tons of fans who want something more like The Mummy with a leading man and leading woman they love.

Granted, that's not me and that's not a lot of my fujoshi/slasher audience, but it's extraordinarily common. I know plenty of people who don't like canons that are only dudes, but since they also don't like canons that are only ladies and they don't ship f/f, this gets spun into "fandom hates women".

Let me be clear:

Conflating "lesbians" and "women" is a radfem position.

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max1461 · 7 months

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Baffled by claims to the effect of "consciousness (in the sense of internal experience) doesn't matter/isn't real/might as well not be real because we can't measure it". True, we can't measure or detect it in an objective and repeatable way, as we'd very much like to be able to, but

That doesn't mean it's unobservable. I can observe it in myself. In fact I'm pretty sure I observe my own consciousness, very directly, every single waking moment. You'd be hard pressed to convince me it isn't there, about like how you'd be hard pressed to convince me my hands don't exist. It's right there!

Just because we can't measure internal experience objectively and repeatably right now doesn't mean we'll never be able to. Science abounds with things we couldn't measure until we could. Sure, maybe we'll just never be able to detect it in a way everybody can agree on... but maybe we will. It's a pretty strong claim to say with certainty that we won't.

This is probably the weakest objection of the three, but if consciousness is, you know, as good as bullshit... what is it that everyone keeps referring to when they talk about consciousness? And saying that they have? Uh like why, from the point of view that this consciousness stuff is Not Meaningful, does everyone keep going "I'm conscious"? Like what is the thing they are actually experiencing, if consciousness is a load of hooey?

I guess I just don't understand this position. It seems like denying what is plainly in front of your face. It seems, well, fiercely anti-empirical, to a degree even the big-daddy rationalist Descartes couldn't countenance.

To be super duper uncharitable, it sometimes seems to me like an ill-thought-through ingroup signal? Like "consciousness is a humanities thing, philosophy is a humanities thing, but I'm a Science Guy and we use measurement. Since I can't measure consciousness it is bullshit". And this ingroup signal leads one, as I said, to deny the basic empirical observation in front of them. Like, yeah, there is no objective and repeatable metric for pain either, but I think even the most hardcore Scientist would yowch and tell me to stop if I hit him with a big stick. I don't think he would say the concept of pain is meaningless because we can't (yet) quantify it objectively. And if he did claim that, I don't think he would live by it.

But, I don't know. Like I said, that is a massively uncharitable take. Maybe I'm misunderstanding the position. Or maybe I'm using the word "consciousness" differently. As I said, the thing I mean by this is internal experience, internality, the fact of there being some thing it feels like to be you.

#navel gazing

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aurumacadicus · 3 months

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I posted the first two parts of minotaur Steve (under same tag) specifically so you all could have some slight background on this scene (because I wanted it to hurt more probably):

"You have to come," Tony exclaims, angry, but there's some genuine panic threading his voice. "We've come this far, you can't just--"

"You dragged me this far," Steve snarls, and only feels a little bad when Tony takes a nervous step backward. "You took me from the labyrinth for your own reasons. It was never to rescue me from living and dying there. Now you want me to die to save you? You're no better than the gods."

Tony looks hurt for a moment, like Steve has taken one of his massive hands and just slapped him, but it doesn't hide the hint of shame that crosses his face. He recovers quickly, though, anger covering everything. "It's not my fault. I'm not the one who made that shitty prophecy. I wanted to solve my own problems. The gods are the ones who decided I couldn't!"

"So you'd sacrifice me?!" Steve bellows, and Tony skitters backward, clutching the Rogers shield to himself protectively. "Like I'm a dumb animal?! You should have taken one of the others. At least they wouldn't know one way or the other." He glares at Tony for a moment. He doesn't know how to explain how much this betrayal hurts, that Tony knew the gist of the prophecy meant Steve would probably die and had strung him along with him anyway. Had probably offered Steve the gift of his body knowing he would never have to fulfill it, he thought, perhaps uncharitably. He doesn't even want that, which doesn't help the hurt at all.

He should have known the world outside the labyrinth wasn't for him, is probably what hurts the most. There was a reason his mother had never brought him outside, even after she'd realized Steve could navigate the walls. She'd never asked him to find the way out so she could show him the sky. She'd known what Tony had apparently known, but hadn't had the heart to tell him--he's a monster, and men kill monsters. There will never be a place for him in open air.

"I hope the Hydra Cult burns your entire forest to the fucking ground," Steve snarls, and it mostly isn't true, but he wants Tony to hurt as much as he'd hurt him.

It works a little too well, he thinks, as Tony sucks in a breath that sounds more painful than helpful. His eyes fill with tears, and his face flushes with shame and embarrassment. There's a moment where he starts to feel guilty.

But Tony rallies quickly, flush turning to anger, blinking back his tears as if they never existed. "Fine. Go back to the labyrinth for all I care. I hope someone kills and roasts you like the beast you are before you get there," he snarls. He throws the shield at Steve's hooves. "I don't need this. I don't need you. I can take care of my forest myself."

"Sure," Steve spits back, glaring, as Tony turns on his heel to stomp down the road. The urge to remind him he had to save him from a few satyrs along the way is on the tip of his tongue, but something in him makes him swallow it back. Probably the part of him that remembers his mother's expression before she'd told him to run away and hide. It would be too low a blow, even for him, even as angry as he is.

He bends to pick up the shield. He doesn't understand how it can be a weapon. His mother had never spoken of it. But then, it had been from her husband's side of the family. He had inherited it because of her name, not because they'd accepted him. They'd only given it to him when Tony had mentioned a prophecy. Humans were scared of being on the wrong side of a prophecy, the village elder had said as he'd passed it over to them. It's heavy. He's reluctantly impressed Tony had carried it as long as he had, too anxious at the sight of the emblem burned into his hip to take it in his own hands.

Was Tony's kind understanding just pity, because he knew he was bringing Steve to die, Steve wonders. Or was he being kind to be kind? He'll never know, he figures, turning to chuck it into the sea.

Then he hears a sound, perhaps the most awful one he's ever heard--agony, and defeat, and dismay, all at once. His mother had instilled a conscience in him. He turns.

Tony is crumpling to the ground. Steve thinks he's tripped, for a moment, except his hands don't go out to catch himself. He just falls, and lies there where he landed, small and unmoving. Like the gods had struck him down where he stood for his hubris.

"Tony," Steve gasps, only half against his will, and thunders after him.

Steve is so careful as he turns him onto his back, feeling awkward and unwieldy. Tony's shaking--seizing, he remembers his mother calling it once, eyes rolled back in his head, saliva foaming in the corners of his mouth. As he watches, a drop of blood begins to trickle from his nose. He cradles Tony's head in one big hand, so he doesn't hit it on anything, feeling helpless, just like he had as his mother had passed away in his arms.

Tony doesn't pass away, though. Eventually, he sags in Steve's hold, eyelids fluttering. He coughs, and a fine mist of blood fills the air in front of his mouth.

"Tony," Steve whispers, pulling him close to his chest. "What happened?"

Tony says nothing for a few minutes, focused on catching his ragged breath. Finally, though, he croaks, "They cut through one of my heartwoods." He coughs again, then sobs, looking up at Steve with liquid eyes. "Steve, they're killing everyone in the east of my forest."

Steve frowns. "How do you know?"

"I can feel them dying," Tony sobs, and somehow he manages the strength to grab Steve's arm, crying in earnest. "I can feel all of them dying around me. I couldn't protect them. I couldn't do enough. They're dying because of me."

"Tony," Steve whispers, cradling him to his chest, as Tony sobs and sobs.

#ideas #stony #minotaur steve

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knifeeater · 8 days

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hii love @dictee i wanted to reply but this got so long & didn't want to add it to an already massive post, hope this is ok!

i 100% agree on the coercive element which is fully a textual layer and the reason why their relationship is only 'equal' in appearance but not materially. louis i think needs to believe in this kind of equal footing to stay sane and armand plays into it to keep him. power imbalance is an intrinsic part of their relationship same as it was in lestat's and louis' relationship, which brings it back to the meta-textual level of domination and submission.

as for the boredness we see that in dubai for sure - 'the vampire is bored'. they have been in the same circulation for 70 years now. as for paris era, and this is in the end of course a matter of interpretation and i hope i'm catching ur meaning here, for me personally ghost lestat and his slights against the romantic nature of armand's 'courtship' mostly represent the holdbacks of someone not wanting to give himself fully into a romantic relationship with someone so obviously dangerous, with that many very familiar red flags and as we've said just now representing a coercive situation that seems very close to louis' turning and subsequent housewife imprisonment. lestat's voice to me personally reads almost like self-sabotage that accompanies an (if extremely founded) fear of committment. he represents louis' old life, his fears, his relational trauma, his self-hate and to a certain extent his hold onto a smidge of humanity (lestat being the last person alive who has known him as human).

armand is of course not wholly the suave lover from the book, he fumbles and uses basic stereotypes of love because it's not something he ever learned and louis does get tired of that (light his fucking cigarette!). while not at all dismissing the play louis is making here (he did learn, after all, the hard way a woman's tricks on how to appease a violent man) i do still believe there is a genuine need in louis to make this relationship work as well as a genuine love for and attraction to armand. as in his relationship with lestat love and resentment go hand in hand. i don't believe it to be only calculated manipulation because why else is he doing this now when he could have just done it directly after the threat was made to claudia's and his life. and this is why, as i've tried to explicate in the og post, it's not coincidental that this version of lestat fades at the point he does.

it's both, to me. it an ensuring safety for claudia and himself, a learned survival tactic. but i think it is uncharitable to say that there is no desire or love from louis towards armand. claudia did not say 'two blood fat cocks clapping together' for nothing. the love is what makes it a tragedy.

#i hope this makes sense thanks for the comment <3

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david-talks-sw · 2 years

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"Yoda said the Jedi are arrogant."

I've seen the above quote (or variations of it) used a lot to justify how the "Jedi are 'wrong' and brought about their own demise".

It's a reference to this moment, in Attack of the Clones:

And I think it's important to clarify: that's not the point of this line.

Says George Lucas, in the film's secondary commentary track:

"We contrast [the previous scene where Palpatine boosts Anakin’s ego] with the three Jedi and show Obi-Wan's concern about the fact that his apprentice is getting ahead of himself, and he's arrogant. And Obi-Wan is kinda put down a little bit by Yoda, there, 'cause Yoda says that that arrogance exists in the older Jedi too, which is a way of warning Obi-Wan that he may be suffering the same hubris."

Yoda is speaking in riddles, as per usual.

He's being cheeky and implicitly telling Obi-Wan that he can be arrogant too sometimes, in his own Yoda-esque way.

Functionally-speaking, the line is there to serve Obi-Wan's Episode II arc, in which he needs to learn to trust Anakin's skills and have faith that Anakin will take the right path (more in detail in this post).

Which is the opposite kind of advice that Palpatine gives.

Yoda is telling Obi-Wan a harsh truth he needs to hear.

Palpatine tells Anakin the lie he wants to hear.

Simple as that. That's the point of that line.

Reason I'm pointing this out is because, if I look at how many times that line was used as "definitive proof" that the Jedi are wrong, a clear de-evolution is visible.

In 2012, Filoni says: "Yoda says the Jedi are arrogant". Cool. Not really relevant (as explained above) but not an inaccurate citation.

In 2022, he says: "Yoda says the Jedi are flawed and that they’ve become greedy and self-interested and arrogant."

W-where the fuck did "greedy" and "self-interested" pop out from...?!

That's not what Yoda said. And again, as explained above: it's not what Yoda meant either.

And having read that, now I'm wondering (and I'm really hoping I'm wrong)... is this THAT the takeaway we're supposed to have from the ending of "Choices", in Tales of the Jedi?

Is the intended narrative "Mace is self-interested and greedy and only follows the protocol to the letter to get a promotion and have a seat on the Council"?

I saw someone say this yesterday, and if that's the case, that's a massively uncharitable depiction of the character.

TLDR:

In that line, Yoda is not "lamenting how far the Jedi have fallen". It's just another way of saying "we're all human, nobody's perfect."

#yeah yeah Yoda's not a human but you get my point #Yoda #Star Wars #Attack of the Clones #Jedi Order #in defense of the jedi #lucas quotes #tales of the jedi #tales of the jedi spoilers #mace windu #dooku

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starcurtain · 1 year

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Haikaveh Fanfics I Want to Read (Part 2)

<- Part 1.

Part 3. ->

1. The Palace of Alcarzarzaray might be called Kaveh’s magnum opus, but actually, it was more like a kick-start for his career. Kaveh hasn’t known a moment of peace since, with constant commissioners begging for him to choose their projects. The longer his waiting list gets, the more his fame grows and grows... So when a pair of people come out of the woodwork insisting they’re Kaveh’s long-lost parents, Alhaitham thinks it’s only right to be skeptical.

Kaveh agrees (for once), but... they’re so nice to him, and apparently he’s got siblings, and they haven't asked him for anything; they say they never meant to leave him, and they love him, and--and--how could he just turn them away? What if it’s true?

What if he has a real family?

Of course, when these so-called parents start encouraging Kaveh to move back home with them, Alhaitham becomes determined to unravel the lie and show them for the imposters they (almost) certainly are.

It’s only because it irks him to see people twist the truth and get away with it. It’s only because the logical step is to point out obvious manipulations when you spot them.

It’s got nothing at all to do with how empty the house will feel if Kaveh isn’t in it.

Nothing at all.

Rest under the read more:

2. Okay, listen. The fact that Kaveh and Alhaitham are both 12s out of 10 does not change the fact that they’re also MASSIVE NERDS. The fic is just silly snippets of them being the graduate school gremlins they most definitely are:

Is it even fighting if all you are doing is reciting academic citations at each other?

Saturday night, we are both at home doing nothing but debating over the rules to an ancient word game that we’ve mostly pieced together from the barest disconnected snippets of apocrypha and one oblique reference in a single receipt of sale from 1600 years ago, because we are Normal™. The most normal people in Sumeru, even.

How Althaitham flirts: Practicing his newest language acquisition by translating nothing but obscure ancient love letters (“Well, they could have had romantic intention but we shouldn’t allow modern interpretations to color our perceptions without thorough analysis of their semantic contexts and candid awareness of the moral obligation of the translator to avoid speculation on connotations which might privilege biased readings--”). Then he heaps his transcriptions all over the top of Kaveh’s desk and chair and bed and...

How Kaveh flirts: “I built you a bookshelf.” “I take back every uncharitable thing I’ve said about architecture this week.” “It is both climate-controlled and self-dusting. Also, it will catalog which books are missing after they’re removed from the shelf and remind you when it’s time to put them back in place so that you’re not tempted to leave your moldy tomes all over my--” “Wait, who is this bookshelf actually for?”

“See, I’m allowed to criticize his work, but you, peon, are absolutely not. Here is my 50-page rebuttal of your recent article critiquing the architect Kaveh’s research, in which I will outline exactly why you are an incomparable idiot who should be disbarred from publication ever again. Very uncordially, Alhaitham”

The only time Alhaitham and Kaveh are unequivocally, indisputably, and inseparably a T E A M: Tavern Trivia Night. (The schedule for tavern trivia night is shortly thereafter altered to: “Any time in which Kaveh and Alhaitham are not on the premises. The management apologizes in advance for last minute trivia night cancellations, but asks patrons to please respect the rule that not even a single trivia question be spoken in the presence of the Light of Kshahrewar or the Akademiya’s scribe.”)

In other words, two geniuses live their very best lives together.

3. When Prince Alhaitham's viziers started nagging about his lack of spouse to ensure an heir, he dismissed them out of hand. But the truth is, he can't inherit the full privileges of his family's throne (including unfettered access to the kingdom's collection of forbidden records) unless he upholds an ancient peace treaty between his country and their most useful trading neighbor: to become king of Haravatat, he has to marry a citizen of Kshahrewar. Alhaitham isn't the type to bow to social or legal pressure, but if it means he might finally be able to further his research, well, he's willing to swear even a marriage oath to get the knowledge he desires.

But he's not willing to marry anyone unworthy. He's not willing to marry anyone boring, or rote, or feeble-minded, or ill-tempered, or shrill, or under-educated, or ambivalent, or weak, or too polite, or--

If Kshahrewar is going to insist on a political marriage, then Alhaitham will insist on accepting only the best.

But now things are starting to look grim. Prince Alhaitham has interviewed and dismissed (in no polite terms), every eligible Kshahrewar maiden and and no small number of their eligible men besides. For Alhaitham, this is but a formality on his way to further reading, but for the Kingdom of Kshahrewar, real fears are stirring--if they can't find an acceptable candidate soon, the peace treaty that has ensured their alliance with Haravatat’s military-might could dissolve, and already the neighboring powers of Vahumana and Spantamad have been testing the boundaries of their borders...

Entirely out of options, the nervous kingdom gives in and sends the last person they'd want to lose: the Light of Kshahrewar, their beloved architect and most renowned scholar.

But it's all right, because Kaveh has a Plan®.

All right, admittedly, the plan was a lot closer to "Be way too beautiful to reject" than "Argue all night and wake up just to argue again," but hey, whatever works?

(Also known as: The Thousand and One Nights AU where Alhaitham's not quite crazy enough to kill the people he rejects but will crush their self-confidence; Kaveh's not great at telling stories but is great at debate; and the ultimate outcome is still the same very cliffhangery happy ever after.)

4. If you asked Kaveh Kshahrewar, on-call urban planner for the city of Sumeru, he would expound at length and with several melodramatic sighs upon the fact that his life is fraught with a great many challenges and his fortunes are fraught with a great many (obvious in retrospect) mistakes.

To put it simply, Kaveh will tell you he just has rotten luck.

If you were to ask the High Council of Principalities of the Fifth Ring of the Host of Heaven, they would tell you that Kaveh’s luck is actually quite good... for a person in the targets of the dark legions of Hell itself.

There are some exceptional humans upon whom the wheels of fate are hung, whose very existence is destined to bring beautiful things to the world, to tip the balance in the eternal fight between good and evil firmly toward good. Kaveh is one such person, and therefore all his life he’s been a target of unseen forces that would rather see his light snuffed out.

But that last near-death experience was too close. If Kaveh is left to his own devices much longer, he very likely will perish, long before he’s able to achieve his fated great works for the world. Heaven has to do something.

Alhaitham is a very, very efficient Principality. Maybe the most efficient Principality the Host of Heaven has. But he’s never--not once since the beginning of creation--been called on to actually guard a human. Yes, yes, of course he’s read the manual cover to closing, but...

But no one thought to warn him that they were so very emotional.

“Who are you and what are you doing in my house?!”

“I’m your guardian angel. I live here now.”

“911, I need to report a home invasion in progress! Please send help, there is a lunatic eating raw butter out of my fridge!”

(Or: The guardian angel AU where Kaveh is disaster prone because he is Very Cursed, and Alhaitham is even weirder than normal because his frame of reference for humans is still “wears fig leaves.” It’s a tragicomedy in six acts: Kaveh’s going to change the world for the better. His future is already written in stone. And nowhere in that record is there anything about falling in love with an angel, so Alhaitham knows he’s not supposed to be anything more than a bit part in this grand story.

Too bad Kaveh’s always sympathized with the side characters most.)

5. During an exploratory trip to the desert ruins looking for remnants of the Deshret Script, lone researcher Alhaitham discovers a strange--and, in fact, magical--teapot, containing none other than a beautiful (but rather noisy) djinn.

“My name is Kaveh.”

“I didn’t ask.”

“I’m a djinn.”

“I can tell.”

“I’ll grant you three wishes, if and only if--”

“Five wishes.”

“What?”

“You should grant me five wishes.”

“Why?”

“Because I asked politely.”

“You absolutely did not! Ugh, fine, I’ll grant you five wishes. But only--and I mean only!--if you’ll agree to set me free at the end.”

“All right, I swear.”

But where are they now?! Kaveh is getting desperate. It’s been six months, and Alhaitham hasn’t made a single wish! At this rate, Kaveh will never get free! He’ll be stuck bunking in a house full of tacky furniture, being tricked into doing the laundry and sweeping forever! This is so unfair; how is it even allowed?! Alhaitham is human; he has to have some kind of wish in that stone-thick head of his!

(The truth is, Alhaitham does have a wish. It just can’t be granted.

He swore an oath to set Kaveh free, after all.)

#haikaveh #kavetham #alhaitham/kaveh #kaveh/alhaitham #genshin impact #alhaitham #kaveh #genshin impact fanfic #fanfic ideas #I don't have time I just have ideas

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jaimeslanisters · 1 year

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the pawn in every lover's game (part nine)

Aemond Targaryen x Lannister!Reader

When you’re ten, your father sends you to King's Landing to befriend a princess and woo a prince. A lioness growing up amongst dragons is a dangerous thing indeed.

crossposted on ao3 masterlist word count: 13.4k notes: i lost complete control of myself while writing so this is a MASSIVE chapter daskjfljdsfl enjoy (: it's melee time

Jocasta Lannister is an undeniably sweet girl, you know this. On the ride from Lannisport, when all of your other cousins were eagerly making their flower wreaths for knights that may or may not ask for their favors, she had sat with you in the wheelhouse, complimenting your choice of wildflowers and the way you had braided the stems together. There is not one calculating bone in her body - she’s all softness and gentle smiles. The Seven had smiled down at her when they had granted her a boon in being born a Lannister but there was nothing lionlike about her. Nothing that would mean she had had any bad intentions when she had given Victor Florent one of the dozens of Lannister-themed handkerchiefs you have made as embroidery practice throughout your life.

Jocasta Lannister is a sweet girl but she’s a dumb girl and that, if you’re feeling uncharitable and you are, is almost worse than being outright malicious. If malice had driven her hand, you could be impressed that she had managed to maneuver you into exactly the position she wanted, that her and Victor’s scheme had gone flawlessly and that you were simply outplayed. That was respectable. Except, instead of a secret plan behind her back, she had given him the handkerchief out of a misguided attempt to help.

That was just annoying.

“I’m not angry, Jocasta,” you reiterate, feeling your head pulse in frustration. Your cousin looks close to tears, her cheeks a bright red as she holds herself back gamely. You didn’t want to have this conversation - you honestly hadn’t even planned on it. Your plan had been to just give her a cold shoulder seeing as, sooner rather than later, she would be shipped right back to Lannisport. There were more important things to worry about. The tea with the Florents was meant to happen in a few minutes and you were supposed to walk over with your father and uncle together. Except now Jason is off who knows where and Tyland had gone out to look for him to drag him along and so, of course, Jocasta had chosen this exact moment to “confess all her sins” to you. You didn’t want to deal with this - not now. Not with the tea looming over your head. Not with Erren thrice-damned Florent and his son waiting for you. Not with Aemond participating in a melee today, something that you know he would have never done if it wasn’t for Victor Florent forcing his hand.

You had bigger things to deal with than Jocasta’s guilt but, instead of snapping at her, you take a deep breath, trying to force your annoyance down. “It’s alright. Honestly. It’s over and it’s done with. It’s fine.”

Jocasta sniffles, her big round green eyes peering up at you with guilt. She really is a sweet girl. “But it’s not! I didn’t know that he wasn’t actually courting you! Just… the way he talked about you and your sweetness-” you snort here but your cousin continues on as if she hasn’t even heard you. “And your kindness and your beauty… I just thought there was no way a man could say all of that if he wasn’t seeing you!”

You sigh, rubbing at your temples and debating the pros and cons of just leaving. “You’re young, Jocasta. Men will say whatever they must to get what they want. It was… an honest mistake. One I hope you will not repeat again soon,” you say, reaching out to pat her on the shoulder. She may have only been three years - if that - younger, but you feel the small age gap between the two of you as if it’s three decades instead.

Lannisport is a safer place than King’s Landing, you reason as you watch Jocasta wipe at her eyes. There’s no need for her to be cautious of the intentions of others there, not when every other person is another Lannister.

Your cousin offers you a wobbly smile even as, behind her, Jason and Tyland enter the apartments, deep in discussion as they speak in lowered tones. “Thank you,” she murmurs pitifully, her voice still shaky. “Ser Victor is wrong about Prince Aemond. He must truly care for you if he’s entering the melee. It’s not at all what he thinks.”

You blink, eyes going sharp as you stare down your guileless relative. Jocasta, after a moment, notices your gaze and she shifts awkwardly in place, looking as if she’s torn between breaking down into tears again or bolting for her room. “What do you mean by that?” You ask, voice soft, feeling ice creep down your spine. “What did Victor Florent say about Aemond?”

She looks hesitant and frightened, and, when you finally reach your limit and reach over to grab her wrist, she bursts into nervous tears. Behind her, Jason and Tyland look baffled but you don’t have time for them, pulling Jocasta close so you can look her directly in the eye.

“Jocasta,” you repeat, feeling your patience grow thinner and thinner until you’re certain it will snap. “What did Victor say?”

“I-I didn’t… I’m sorry!” She wails and you fight the urge to roll your eyes, wishing she would grab control of herself for just a moment. “He said… He said that Prince Aemond took advantage of your friendship with Princess Helaena so he could use you to better his standing in court! And that he frightens the ladies with his eye and you’re also frightened but you’re much too polite to say that so you just tolerate him! Ser Victor told me that Prince Aemond has scared off the other men in court from you and he knew that if you could, you would give Ser Victor your favor but that you’re frightened of the Prince’s reaction an-”

“That’s quite enough,” You cut in, barely containing your rage. They’re not her words but that doesn’t mean the urge to strike her goes away and instead, you pull your hand away from her, gripping it tightly with your other one to hold yourself in check. Your cousin blinks at you, her eyes reddened, and you stiffly nod your head at her, dismissing her without words. She immediately bolts and you stare down at the patch of ground she had once occupied, taking deep breaths and trying to find some calm within yourself so you don’t do something rash like enter the melee yourself just to get the chance to try and stab Victor Florent.

Victor Florent was a fool. Aemond was the One-Eyed Prince yet he could see you more clearly than Victor ever could.

Wishing you could break something just to watch it shatter, you calm your beating heart, swallowing your rage and pushing it down.

Not now. Not now.

But soon.

After a few moments, when calmness finds you, you look up at your watching father and cousin, and you smile at them, the mask coming easy to you. “Shall we go?” You ask and they look back, their perfectly identical faces quizzical.

Jason opens his mouth to say something but Tyland clears his throat, elbowing his brother in the ribs. “Of course, little one,” he says, stepping up to you and offering you his arm. “The Florents are waiting.”

——————————–

Regretfully, the gardens are lovely today and, as you and your family greet the Florents, you wish that the day wasn’t so pleasant as well. Spring is well underway and, around the terrace your father has selected as a meeting place, beautiful red roses bloom, their smell wafting through the air pleasantly. Looking at them, however, reminds you of the crown Victor had given you - a crown that some servant had probably thrown away by now - and you stubbornly look away from them, sliding into your seat as soon as you can.

“I’m thankful you could make the time to host this tea, my lord,” Victor says the moment the men all sit as well, leaning across the table eagerly. His gray eyes are bright in the sun and it makes him look that much younger, more boy than anything resembling a man. “I’ll admit - I have been hoping for quite some time that we could meet like this under these circumstances.”

Erren laughs, patting his son on the back. He’s steady, confident, and you watch him carefully, looking for a reason why. “It’s nearly all he writes to me about! Nothing about his training or his service in the City Watch. Instead, he just writes about your daughter’s beauty and kindness.”

“I’m surprised my lord could fill so many letters with that sort of talk,” you reply, smiling sweetly at the two Florents as their gazes swing away from your father to look at you. “We haven’t had many conversations in the past for you to be so well acquainted with my nature.” At your side, Tyland jabs you in the side with his fingers and, under the table, you swat back at him, maintaining your pleasant expression.

Erren’s eyes darken but Victor only smiles shyly. “I cherish our precious few conversations and, I’ll admit, I have admired you from afar for some time now.”

You admire from afar because that’s the distance I keep you at you think sourly, remembering all the times you’ve had to duck into other rooms or start impromptu conversations with whoever was closest just to avoid his overly lengthy monologues about how he could support and maintain you with only his savings and his love.

“I’ve tried a few times before, actually, to secure a betrothal meeting but your uncle always denied me,” Victor continues, laughing slightly as if it was a grand joke, and you almost feel a flash of pity for his clueless bumbling. He’s a clueless fox in a den of lions and dragons and he doesn’t feel the danger all around. All he sees is you and you wonder, not for the first time, how he could have survived this long.

Tyland gives him a close-lipped smile. “My niece has two older sisters. It’d be inappropriate if she were to get engaged before them so you can understand my hesitancy in entering any such negotiations.”

“Ah, yes, but I’ve met Lord Garth Tarly,” Erren cuts in, smiling that awful empty smile of his. The golden fox brooch on his lapel catches the light, shining and blinding. “Charming young lad. Shame that he had to become the Lord of Horn Hill so young but he seems to have handled his ascension with grace and maturity. From what I’ve heard, he seems to be quite besotted with the Lady Tyshara. He’s refusing all marriage pacts that come his way for her.”

Jason nods even as he reaches for the carafe of wine on the table to pour himself a drink. “My Tyshara visited the Reach on a tour a year or two ago. She met Lord Tarly and they’ve kept up a correspondence since. I had no idea he was so charmed by her.”

He did have an idea. You all had an idea. If Garth Tarly could have it his way, he and Tyshara would have long been married by now, Cerelle’s marital status be damned. Once, she let you read the letters he always sends and you had been left with the distinct impression that, even if the Maiden herself descended from the Seven Heavens and begged to marry Lord Tarly, he would refuse in hopes that he would one day soon be united with his beloved Golden Beauty.

Of course, none of you were about to let Erren Florent know that, especially since the inappropriateness of being betrothed prior to Cerelle and Tyshara was one of the thin shields you could wield against him. Instead, you tilt your head in surprise, eyes going wide in mock shock.

Erren seemingly does not mind though that no one in your family is confirming or denying the rumor. “Regardless, it seems that young Lord Tarly is charmed by some lady, Lady Tyshara or otherwise. There can be no other explanation for his remaining unmarried. Of course, he is still very young and he has a younger brother to serve as his heir but it’s terribly shocking for him to refuse all betrothal meetings.”

“What other men choose to do with their marriage beds is their business,” Jason firmly says, laughing to soften his edge. “I’m sure Lord Tarly knows what he’s doing.”

“Of course,” Erren immediately concedes even though his eyes flash in victory. “I have no doubt he has a plan in mind. He may have even already chosen a bride.”

You glance at your father, hiding a wince when relief briefly flickers on his face as he nods. He’s showing his cards too soon and too early and Erren Florent, while a bumbling idiot who insults more than he charms, is not so complete a fool that he would miss the way Jason relaxes when you move off Tyshara’s all-but-official betrothal. He knows and that knowledge gives him the confidence to pursue the same with you.

“If your family could accept my suit, then we can hold off any betrothal announcements,” Victor says and you can’t quite help but tense as he lays his intentions bare. You had come to this tea knowing that it would be a discussion, a debate, over your hand but you’re still knocked off kilter by it being laid out so plainly. It makes it all too real and you can almost feel the thorns of the crown he had given you pressing into your head. “We can simply… have an understanding.”

Erren nods in agreement, rapping his knuckles against the wooden table. “My son has much to offer your daughter. He will become Master of Arms at Brightwater Keep when the current one retires and then inherit the traditional apartments for that position for the two of them to live in. The two of them will be able to travel and he will bestow countless crowns upon her. He’s already named her Queen of Love and Beauty here for the joust and I have no doubt he’ll be able to recreate his success with the melee and win her another crown. This is only the beginning of the honors for Lady Lannister.”

Honor, not honors.

For a moment, you can feel your mother’s presence as if she’s physically next to you and you suddenly miss her with such a force that it knocks the breath out of you. Your mother should be here, staring down the Florents with more ferocity than your father ever could. You could only imagine her face at hearing someone promise the daughter of a Westerling honors.

Honor, not honors. You can hear her voice say, as hard and unyielding as the very mountain that Casterly Rock was carved into. My daughter does not need to be crowned by your boy to be worthy of being a Queen of Love and Beauty.

Victor leans across the table, staring at you beseechingly, and you gaze back, eyes colder than they had been before. He doesn’t notice, too blinded by his own yearning, and you marvel at how someone so dense could prove such a skilled fighter. “Aside from that, I offer you my love. I’d cherish you, my lady, from now until the end of our days. If you were to marry me, I would dedicate my life to you and to any children you would bear me. Brightwater Keep is also not far from Horn Hill, my lady. Only a three day ride. You could visit your sister whenever you wished. Raise our children at her side.”

You bite your tongue, wishing you could spit back his offers in his face.

I have a sister here in King’s Landing and you’d have me abandon her to the snakes and rats of this awful city.

In lieu of responding, you blankly nod, your face calm and expressionless, before you look over at your father, deferring the topic.

Jason, to his credit, does not seem thrown by the proposal. He’s frowning slightly, as if deep in thought, before he slowly shakes his head. “Regretfully, my lords, I will have to decline your offer,” he says, sounding genuinely upset to be saying it. “I couldn’t part with my daughter, not yet, and I’m sure my brother will agree with me. Perhaps after Cerelle and Tyshara find their husbands, I could reconsider but for right now, she will remain as she is.”

Victor’s eyes go wide as if he hadn’t been expecting the rejection, but Erren nods slowly, expression calm. “Understandable,” Lord Florent replies smoothly. “All we ask is that you keep my son in mind when considering her future options. She is a treasure amongst women - do not let her be squandered on men who would not appreciate her. Victor can offer her something that other noblemen cannot.”

It’s a testament to your willpower that you don’t snort in response. Instead, you smile. “I thank you for your kind words, my lord, and am regretful that this meeting was not more productive for us all. I trust my father will ensure that whoever I will marry in the future will treat me with the respect I deserve as both a lady and a Lannister.”

Erren watches you sternly, his pale eyes cold as he considers you. On a certain level, you almost respect the tenacity with which he’s approaching his son’s marriage. Victor is his fourth son and his house’s legacy has long since been secured. You’re not sure whether it’s solely for Victor’s benefit or whether or not he cares more about his house’s power but either way, there’s no doubt in your mind that Erren Florent will do what he needs to secure your hand.

You have little hope that you’ve managed to charm Lord Florent - unlike his son, he’s well aware of your disdain for the proposed match - but you doubt you needed charm to make him realize what a boon a marriage with you would be for his house. You’re a Lannister, one of five daughters to be sure, but a Lannister is still a Lannister. Your dowry would be a windfall for even a major house, let alone the Florents who land somewhere solidly in the middle of the social ranking.

You meet his gaze, your own eyes steady and calm, and the annoyance that flickers on Erren’s face when you do not quail under his stare almost brings a smile to your lips.

The tea after is a dreadful affair. You mostly sit quietly the entire time as Jason and Tyland discuss with Erren how the current royal wedding compares with the ones prior. No one is expecting you to participate and a part of you wonders if your father and uncle chose this topic to spare you from having to play nice for longer than necessary. You twiddle with the ends of your sleeves, wishing you could just leave. There is no reason for your presence - the betrothal had been denied and would be denied for the foreseeable future - but etiquette demands you stay and you long to just go, away from this tea and away from the Florents.

You wish you were at the tourney grounds already. At least there, you could breathe again though you doubt you could relax. As much confidence as you have in Aemond’s skills, you’re not oblivious to the danger he’s facing. The melee is always more brutal than the joust, more prone to maimings and deaths. Even at the tourney for Loren’s birth, five knights had been grievously injured and three more had died. Even now, you can still perfectly remember sitting by Cerelle’s side, clinging to her hand as you had watched a knight drive his armored fist into another man’s face, punching over and over until all that remained was a bloody pulp, completely unrecognizable as a person. If you think hard enough, you can remember the way your ears had rang for hours after as the screams of excitement from the crowd echoed in your memories.

Jousting was dangerous but it was impersonal. Knights wore helmets, their faces hidden behind a steel visor. They lifted it at times to speak but when the actual jousting happened, all they could see of their opponents was a faceless helmet. Melees were far from that. Most men wore helmets, yes, but they could hardly wear the visors in one on one combat. In some cases, they took it off completely in order to have the biggest range of vision. In those battles, their opponent had a face. Their bloodlust had a target.

The matches were meant to last until the fifth strike or until one of the opponents yielded but it hardly ever went that way. With the screams of the crowd in their ears, driving them to go further and further, most fighters went until their opponent was incapacitated and most fighters refused to stop until injury forced their hand. It was the bloodiest event by far and of course, it had to be the one that Aemond was entering.

As a prince, he should be safe. It’s hard to imagine any knight risking retaliation from the Hightowers if he harmed the son of the king in a match. But then again, the whole realm knew that Viserys did not care about any of his children from Alicent. He had yet to make an appearance at any of the wedding events and you somehow doubted he would. If someone were to harm Aemond, Viserys would not rise to his defense. He hadn’t in the past and he wouldn’t in the future and that made Aemond vulnerable.

Biting your lip, you tune back into the conversation, willing for it to go faster so you can leave for the tourney grounds to at least try and see Aemond before the event begins. The gods, predictably, scold you for this and, when Victor raises to his feet and looks at you expectantly, you wonder which of the Seven is punishing you for your impatience.

Likely the Mother, you think, wishing you could scowl openly.

“I have to take my leave and head to the grounds to prepare myself for the melee,” Victor declares, eyes never leaving yours. “If possible, I’d like my lady to accompany me.”

Jason nearly chokes on his wine but Tyland is quick to the draw. “My apologies, Ser Victor, but I’m afraid we’ll have to be the ones to take her to the grounds. Lady Lannister, that is, my good sister, has sent her daughter a letter that she wanted a prompt reply on.”

You don’t visibly react but internally, you’re baffled. Yesterday, a letter had arrived from your mother and it had been a normal one - she had filled you in on Loren’s growth and had inquired about how the wedding proceedings were going.

They’re just giving me an out you reason but your stomach still twists at the idea that something has happened that your mother thinks you need to know right away.

Victor nods. “Understandable. Could I then accompany her to the Lannister apartments?”

Jason rises to his feet, already nodding. “If she accepts, I cannot see why not?”

All eyes swing to you then and you feel a flash of annoyance at being put on the spot even as you offer Victor an apologetic smile, standing up to your full height. “I would hardly wish to pull you away from the tourney grounds, Ser. I know how important your preparations must be. I’d hardly want to be in the way. Perhaps it’d be best to speak after?”

He immediately shakes his head. “No, no, you wouldn’t be in the way at all, my lady. It’d be an honor.”

Erren laughs loudly, patting his son firmly on the shoulder. “It’d be good luck, I imagine. All the good knights in the songs get to be with their lady before winning a great victory.”

This isn’t a song and I am not his lady.

Taking a deep breath, you nod your consent, ignoring the look your father and uncle share. “In that case, I can hardly refuse. I imagine Ser Victor will need all the luck he can get for the melee.”

Victor smiles as he nearly trips over himself to reach your side but Erren Florent watches you, eyes cold and piercing. You give him nothing, however, simply tilting your head in acknowledgment with a smile.

Farewells said, your group begins the walk through the gardens back to the Lannister apartment and, when Victor offers you his arm, you take it without hesitation.

“I’d like to offer my apologies, my lord,” you say after a moment, keeping your eyes on the path ahead. In the more populated areas of the gardens, people watch you and Victor walk with interest, their whispering tones fading into the background.

Victor starts as if he hadn’t realized you would speak, before promptly shaking his head. “What for, my lady? You’ve done nothing of offense.”

“I’m afraid you never did get that dance,” you reply, tearing your eyes away from the path to look up at him. He’s smiling and you feel that familiar, creeping rage wash over you.

“There will be other dances,” he says.

You smile, tilting your head. “Perhaps. You did dance with someone though, that night that you asked me. Lady Jocasta, my cousin.”

Victor nods, a flicker of nervousness flashing on his face. “I did, yes. She’s a very kind lady.”

Your smile grows. “She is, isn’t she? A sweet girl. Nothing at all like a Lannister ought to be. Of course, she’s a Lannister of Lannisport. It’s alright if she’s easily led. She’s afforded that grace. If she was a Lannister of the Rock, things would be very different for her.”

“Easily led?” Victor asks and you turn away from him, facing the gardens once again. Adjusting your grip, you encircle his arm with one of your hands, nails pointed downwards into his flesh.

“Yes, my lord,” you reply. “She’s easily led. Easily frightened. She’s as much a lion as I am but she’s never had a need to use her claws.”

“And you have?” Victor asks, voice rumbling.

You squeeze tight in response, hardly enough to do damage, but Victor stumbles slightly nonetheless. “When I’m provoked,” your voice is light and breezy. If someone heard you, they’d think you were flirting. “Luckily, I’m not easily provoked. Nor am I easily frightened.” You turn your gaze back to Victor and his eyes flash in recognition.

“My lady…” he starts, a hint of desperation entering his voice, but you shake your head, smiling, as you lean in and pat his arm, releasing your tight hold. “I… I only told your cousin what I’ve seen.”

“Oh? What you’ve seen?” You ask, raising a brow. “Shall I tell you what I’ve seen? I was there when they were treating Prince Aemond after the attack. I saw the mark that was left on him, and I watched as the maester attempted to sew it back together. I still remember when I spoke and he tried to follow my voice. I remember seeing a socket without an eye try to find me. Even now, if I close my eyes, I can recall every single detail. You’ve participated in several tourneys, Ser. Doubtless, you’ve seen awful wounds, injuries I couldn’t even imagine, but it’s awfully different seeing it on a child when you’re a child yourself.”

Victor doesn’t answer for a moment, staring down at you. Finally, he speaks. “You must have been scared.”

“You would think that, wouldn’t you? I wasn’t scared, however. I was angry. I’ve never felt that much anger in my life, that much helpless rage with nowhere to direct it. Well… recent events not included,” you say, laughing slightly. The sun feels warm around you. It is a beautiful day.

“You’re a lady. A proper lady,” Victor begins, a note of begging entering his voice. You watch, smiling. “I’ve seen you with Princess Helaena, with the servants and the other ladies in the court. You’re a kind and beautiful and gentle lady. I mean it with no disrespect to Prince Aemond but he frightens the ladies in the court, even with the eyepatch. He’s handsome enough, I will give him that, but he’s fierce and stern and it scares every lady he meets. Y-You’re different from them but… you’re a lady nonetheless. You’re much too polite to warn him away - not when you serve his sister.”

You hum in acknowledgment, gesturing for him to go on, and Victor nods, a glimmer of relief entering his eyes.

“I… I know I’m far from the only man to ever notice you. Every man in the court would have to be blind to not recognize you and your beauty. Any man who notices you, however, is always scared off by Prince Aemond. He abuses his power at court to have any titles they’ve earned for themselves taken away. He approached me at the welcoming feast and said if I bothered any more Lannisters with my dreams, I’d be quickly reminded of my position.”

You can’t help it. You laugh and Victor genuinely flinches, dropping your arm. He stares at you as if he’s never seen you before and you smile wide, baring your teeth in a grin. “And have you been? Reminded?”

He doesn’t reply, simply staring at you, searching for something you’re sure he’ll not find in your eyes, and you shake your head ruefully. “You will be soon, I pray. Either a dragon teaches you or a lion will and I’m not too sure which one you would prefer.” You step close, tilting your head as you look up at him. Victor stares back, pale eyes wide and stunned. “You lied to the court with that handkerchief, Ser.” You murmur softly. “You lied about me. You placed a crown on the head of someone who does not belong to you. There is a price to pay for all of that. I hope you can afford it.”

With that, you bow your head as you drop into a curtsey before stepping away, continuing down the path towards the Lannister apartments. Victor stays, frozen like a statue in the gardens, but your father and uncle pick up their pace to walk by your side.

“You scared him something fierce,” Jason says after a moment, and, when you look up at your father, he’s watching you with a strange look in his eye.

After a moment, you recognize it. Pride.

The last time he looked at you like that was when you had agreed to go to the capitol to find a princely husband and you almost trip in your shock, heart beating fast.

“She’s a Lannister, Jason,” Tyland laughs. “Moreover she’s a lioness raised amongst dragons in a pit filled with liars and frauds. I’d dare say only someone like Prince Aemond could be fierce enough to claim her.”

Jason hums, offering you his arm, and you take it, feeling the glow of accomplishment wash over you. “Speaking of claiming… I did receive a raven this morning though not from your mother. It seems that we’ve lost a lion but gained a wolf. Cerelle has married Cregan Stark.”

You miss a step, stumbling slightly, but your father’s hold keeps you upright and you stare at him in shock.

Cerelle. Cerelle. Cerelle.

If it wasn’t for Aemond and the tourney, Helaena and the wedding, you don’t think there would be a single force on the planet that could stop you from racing towards Winterfell, towards your sister. You had always imagined being there for her wedding and, though you knew what would happen when you had pushed to send her North, you still feel a sense of loss wash over you.

Cerelle isn’t a Lannister anymore you realize with a shock and a knot forms in your throat, the glow of success leaving you and leaving only a cold sense of reality behind. She’s a Stark now.

Pushing it down, you finally nod your head. “So it worked.”

Tyland sighs. “Partially. Her letter only mentioned that they’ve been married and she’s working on amassing a small Lannister force and securing Northern allies. She was free to leave Winterfell as Lord Regent Bennard did not know of the marriage and, as Lady Stark now, she can gather Lord Cregan’s bannerman for him. Within the next few weeks, they will topple Lord Regent Bennard, peacefully or with force, and reclaim Winterfell for its trueborn line.”

“Do you think the marriage will leak?” You ask, mind whirring with possibilities. If it did and Bennard thought to retaliate, Cerelle’s blood ties to the Westerlands would keep her safe. If any harm came to her, your father would call his banners and go to war. Her marriage with Cregan would guarantee that the North did the same.

Tyland hums. “I imagine it already has. Bennard cannot move against Cregan himself. He would become a kinslayer and would forfeit all rights to Winterfell with it. He could have used Cerelle to force Cregan’s hand but she’s already slipped his grasp. I imagine most of the North knows by now that Cregan Stark has taken a Lannister bride. Soon, the rest of the realm will know.”

“Which means you must be careful now, sweetling,” Jason warns and you look back to your father. His green eyes are watching you carefully. “The tea with the Florents would have been a waste if it did not prove to us that tell of Tyshara and Lord Tarly has leaked. Soon, the court will know that Cerelle has married hastily - without us there. That will bring her virtue into question. There’s naught that can be done about it now, not with a marriage already in place, but the gossip will begin.”

“If Cerelle has been married so quickly and Tyshara and her Lord Tarly are already rumored to have a wedding all but planned, people will begin to wonder about you and your prince. If he has taken the same liberties with you that they will think your sisters have taken with their men,” Tyland continues, voice low to not be overheard. “The court has already seen the high regard in which he holds you in.”

Your mouth drops open as you look at the two of them, feeling your cheeks blaze even as you recognize the truth of what they are saying.

“We cannot afford for you to fall under suspicion,” Jason says, voice firm. “One hastily married daughter is a mistake. Two is a tragedy. But three? That is an insult. That is a failure within House Lannister. A marriage would afford you protection but Jeyne and Joy would suffer the brunt of the gossip. Their marriage chances would be shot. I’d be begging a minor lord to give them a household knight at that point. Do you understand? You already have the attention of all of King’s Landing but after this, you will have their scrutiny as well.”

You feel a shiver run down your spine. I came here for Jeyne and Joy, to get the power to give them the marriages they deserve. If not me, who?

After a moment, you nod, thinking of your little sisters as you agree.

——————————–

The instant you step into the tent, you feel yourself relax if only a little bit. Here in the tent, you’re safe, away from the Florents and the court. It’s only people you trust and who trust you in return. No one is watching you to see if you falter, to see if you fail, and for that alone, you allow yourself a moment’s respite.

At first, no one notices your entrance, too caught up with one another. Aemond is in the corner of the tent, clearly fighting the urge to roll his eyes, as Alicent and Criston crowd him, both of them spouting off advice that you’re not entirely sure is helpful. Daeron is next to them, ignoring them all completely as he bows his head over his brother’s breastplate, polishing it with such a fervor that you’re sure that as soon as he’s done, the black steel will gleam as a mirror. Aegon, predictably, is drinking, looking vaguely amused as he watches his family run around like chickens with their heads cut off.

Helaena spots you first, playing with her bug toy as normal, and, when she calls out your name, everyone stops and swivels to stare at you standing at the entrance.

More out of instinct than anything else, you drop into a curtsey, bending low in an apology. When you rise, however, everyone is still staring at you and, suddenly feeling shy and awkward, you shift awkwardly.

Perhaps I should have just headed to the royal box instead.

You don’t get the chance to linger on that thought, however, since Helaena promptly approaches you, stopping right before you, a hair’s length away.

“A dragon’s treasure,” she announces, loud and clear in the quiet of the tent, and, though her eyes are blank and empty, it doesn’t feel like a prophecy. Your cheeks burn and you duck your head, feeling oddly embarrassed and called out.

After a moment, you look back up, finding your control. “I-uh… Is everything going well, Helaena? Or should I find a way to sabotage the melee?”

Helaena smiles hesitantly, coming back into herself, and blinking fast as if to speed up the process. “I think everything is going fine,” she says after a moment. “Though I think Mother would be comforted if you could somehow secure, without a doubt, that Aemond will emerge from this unhurt.”

“If I could, I would have done so already,” you reply wryly, laughing slightly. She nods, somewhat solemnly. She knows you well enough to know that if you could somehow fix this without harming Aemond’s pride, you would have done it by now and granted yourself and the rest of his family some peace of mind. As it is, you halfway wish you could have poisoned Victor and all the other opponents Aemond will have to face if just to end the matches before they could ever begin.

He’s a mighty warrior, you remind yourself, digging your nails into your palms. Ser Criston Cole trained him and there’s no living knight stronger than him. Aemond will be fine. He has to be.

As much as you repeat that fact to yourself, you still can’t find it in yourself to fully relax. Your brain is constantly catastrophizing, filling your mind with terrible images of Aemond lying on the ground, bloody and broken. For a moment, you almost wish you could beg him to back out, to leave things as they are. A crown from the wrong man is a momentary embarrassment. A dead man is something you can’t fix.

“Things will be fine,” Aegon insists as if he can read your mind. On his chaise, with his chalice in hand, he looks like the carefree noble the smallfolk love to scorn and you feel a flash of resentment. Even in your annoyance, however, you can tell that it’s a wholly unfair assessment since even you can see the tightness around his eyes, the way his grip is strong on his wine. “Everyone is worrying more than Aemond is. He’ll come out of this a better man or whatever it is the singers say.”

Alicent makes a small noise, torn between scolding her eldest or fussing over her middle son. “We’re free to worry, Aegon. This is the first time any of us have participated in a tourney.”

Daeron clears his throat, peering up from the armor with big purple eyes. “Uncle Gwayne is always participating in tourneys,” he unhelpfully reminds, shrinking back slightly as his mother shoots him a look. “B-but he’s always fine and even he would admit Aemond is the better swordsman.”

“That’s different,” Alicent replies, somewhat mutinous. Even from your spot, you can see her grip tighten on Aemond’s arm, her voice growing thick with worry. “I did not think I would have to worry about tourneys for quite some time. Before now, you were my only son interested in competitions.”

Aemond huffs, finally reaching his limits with his family’s antics. “If everyone could find some peace, I would much appreciate it. Your worry will hardly help me.”

“It might remind you to be cautious,” you say, your words forcing themselves out of your mouth. Aemond’s eye swings to you, narrowed, but you refuse to back down, determined to say your piece. “I’ve heard tell of what happens in the arena. Bloodlust takes over. The crowd’s urging becomes demands. Perhaps… Perhaps if we worry enough, you’ll remember that yielding can be just honorable as winning. Ser Harrold Westerling has yielded in melees before and he’s Lord Commander.”

Bringing up your uncle may not be the best move, not with another member of Kingsguard here to serve more readily as an example, but you barrel forward. There is honor in knowing when you’re down for the count.

Of course, judging by the look in Aemond’s eye, he knows you’re not as honest as you’re putting yourself forth to be. You don’t know when to quit and Aemond certainly does not know either. If someone were to corner him into surrendering, he knew as well as you did that you would rise up in revenge.

Not now and not soon.

“She’s not wrong, my prince,” Criston says, voice steady. Aemond swings to stare down the Kingsguard but the knight does not show even a hint of wavering. If anything, he looks exasperated. “For your mother’s sake, I implore you to be aware of the consequences of not yielding.”

“And perhaps,” Aemond grumbles, his eye flashing in warning. “I’m also aware of the consequences of not winning. If I am forced to yield, I am forced to yield. But I will not enter the grounds already believing I must.”

Alicent nods. “Of course,” she agrees, more out of placating her son than truly believing in what she’s saying. “Of course, Aemond, I just… I worry. You know I do.”

Something in Aemond’s face flickers and he softens slightly, hand coming up to grip his mother’s arm in a show of comfort. “I know, mother. I would not do anything that would bring you undue harm.”

The Queen looks up at her son and, though you can’t see her face from here, you can only imagine the look on her face. You wonder if it is anything like it had been on Driftmark, when she had first realized she was helpless to protect her children.

He was a boy then, you want to tell her. And even then it took four others to beat him down. He’ll be safe. He’ll be fine.

Instead, you keep quiet and, after a moment, she nods her head, slow and shaky. “May the Warrior grant you strength and guide your arm.” She lingers for a moment, holding onto her son for a second longer, before she finally lets go, sweeping out of the tent with Criston right behind.

There’s a moment of silence, where all of you wonder what to say next, when Aegon lets out a loud sigh, throwing his head against the back of the chaise. “I never thought Aemond would cause mother’s next nervous breakdown. I really would have put money down on me or even Daeron.”

Daeron looks back up from his work, quick to rise to his brother’s defense. “She’s just worried but she has faith in him. She’s always bragging in her letters about how well he can fight.”

Aegon frowns, sipping from his chalice as he rises to his feet. He’s never been good at hiding his emotions and you would have to be blind not to see the jealousy flash across his face. It disappears fast enough as he forces a grin. “Sure, sure. Never meant to imply otherwise.”

He walks over to Aemond, slapping his brother hard on the shoulder. Aemond doesn’t even shift, simply looking down at his older brother with annoyance and disdain. “Make sure to win, little brother. I’ve got a good bit of coin riding on these results.”

“I thank you for your confidence,” Aemond responds, his voice coldly courteous.

Aegon’s grin turns real, more teasing. “Of course. You’ll win this tourney, crown our shining lady of Lannister Queen of Love and Beauty once more, and then, at the end of this, I’ll have a nice pot of gold to use to bet on the next time some other Victor Florent makes the ill-thought-out decision of chasing after Lady Lannister.”

You roll your eyes. “Save your coins and buy yourself more wine instead. I doubt there’ll be many, if any, others after this. It’s hardly worth all this scandal.”

Helaena giggles, soft and sweet. “Perhaps there will be others. You could be the face that launches a thousand tourneys.”

You scoff, even as Aegon expresses his confusion at the name. He turns to Aemond but his brother merely nods his head over you, clearly passing the buck, and Aegon looks at you, plainly expecting an answer. Even Daeron looks up from his work and you sigh.

“There’s a story in the Westerlands of an Ironborn king who stole away a Lannister queen because she was so beautiful.” You explain, fighting to keep your face stern even as Helaena laughs cheerfully, plainly delighted by your reluctance to clarify her joke. “It led to a gruesome war that lasted ten long years. At the end of it, she was returned to her husband though her return was paid for by countless lives. Her name is lost now, if she ever did exist, but she’s known as the face that launched a thousand ships.”

“I’d ask you not to start a thousand tourneys,” Aemond says, his lip curling in amusement when you shoot him a look. “Mother is already having a hard enough time with just one.”

“That would pad my coffers nicely,” Aegon muses, squeezing his brother’s shoulder before he lets go. “Get that stamina up, would you? Seems you might have quite a few fights ahead of you and I aim to make a killing.”

“At some point,” Daeron cuts in, rising to his feet, finally finished with his work. “It would be easier to have Vhagar fight your battles. I’m sure she’d enjoy the exercise.”

Helaena hums. “I don’t think the singers would like that - not nearly as romantic.”

“Sounds like a miserable song,” you grumble, finally breaking into a grin when Helaena bumps you with her shoulder, beaming at you. Aegon meanders back to the chaise, grabbing slices of bread from a table as he does so, and you watch with interest as Daeron then descends on Aemond, scurrying around him as he fits his older brother with a suit of armor.

It’s relatively plain armor - not at all like some other ostentatious suits of armor you have seen at tourneys past. Thanks to Daeron’s efforts, it’s a nearly impossibly shiny black, so polished that it reflects the light perfectly. On the chest, the three-headed dragon of the Targaryen sigil is embossed into the steel, an unnecessary reminder that the wearer of the armor was of royal blood.

It’s simple armor.

Yet you can’t drag your eyes away from him.

You’ve never seen Aemond in armor before - last night had been the first time you had ever even seen him fight as a grown man - and the sight of it does something to you. Low in your belly, you feel a hot ache, and the heat, for the first time in your life, causes you to shift awkwardly, searching for a moment’s relief. It doesn’t come, however - it won’t come, not if you’re just standing here staring.

For half a breath, you indulge yourself in a fantasy of ordering everyone out, of convincing Aemond to leave the melee and giving yourself to him completely in return. You don’t even know what that means, what it entails, but you want him to show you.

The fantasy leaves you quickly enough and you burn with shame at your own indecency even if the heat only gets worse.

Pointedly, you look away from Aemond, turning towards Helaena and pulling her into a conversation about beetles, trying to pull away as far as you can from the sight of Aemond in his armor. The princess eagerly complies and soon your mind is whirring with her long-winded speech about the Braavosi beetles her grandfather had imported in as a wedding gift to her and how she’s trying to adjust them to the much more humid environment of King’s Landing.

It works. For a time.

Then Daeron announces he’s finished and has to run to help Lord Ormund like he’s supposed to be doing and Aegon trails behind him and you’re left alone with Helaena and Aemond.

And then Helaena, beautiful, blessed, mischievous Helaena grins at you and ducks towards the entrance of the tent, staying inside to save you from the public consequences of knowingly being alone in a tent with a man who is entering a melee in response to another man’s suit for you but giving you enough space that you’re functionally alone with Aemond. You look over at him in time to watch him buckle his sheath around his slim waist, his silky hair falling like a curtain around his bowed head.

The heat flares back to life and you could swear if it wasn’t so embarrassing.

You sigh, playing with your sleeves to give you something to do to try and expel your energy. “How worried was your family last night?”

“I tried my best not to find out,” he replies, his uncovered eye gleaming with mirth as he watches you squirm in place. “I made sure to stay out late training to avoid any confrontation.”

“You got rest though, right?” You ask, stepping closer, your earlier embarrassment leaving you in favor of scolding him. “Training is helpful and all but if you didn’t get any rest, you’ll suffer for it on the field.”

He smirks at you, his amusement clear, and you bristle slightly, approaching him to stand in front of him with a scowl. “If it brings you any comfort, it wasn’t that late since everyone was still up so they could… offer me advice.”

“Dare I ask what the advice was?”

“Daeron was the only one with actual helpful things to contribute,” he says, leaning against a table. “My mother and Helaena, less so, and Aegon? His advice had nothing to do with the tourney.”

You cock your head in question. “And what was his advice for?”

“I’m afraid I can’t repeat his words to an unmarried maiden who isn’t, at the current moment, betrothed to me without breaking several rules of etiquette. Your father would want my head and my mother would be inclined to give it to him,” he replies, voice low and rumbling, and your cheeks flare in embarrassment.

“She wouldn’t,” you manage out after a moment. “At least, not right now. Right now, she’s rather concerned with keeping your head on your shoulders.”

Aemond watches you before letting out a small laugh, shaking his head. He reaches out for you, his armored hand catching on the sleeves of your dress as they wrap around your own hand. The cold metal is a relief against your warm skin and you step closer, squeezing his hand in return. “How was the tea?” He asks eventually, teasing gone from his voice.

You sigh, glancing down at your feet. “Tedious. They made a serious offer for my hand but my father rejected it on the grounds that my older sisters aren’t married yet. I doubt the Florents will ask again unless Victor decides against his better judgment - though I’m not sure he has any - to crown me again today. We… We have just found out, however, that Cerelle has married Lord Cregan Stark of Winterfell. She’s Lady Stark now.”

“Trade negotiations went that well, did they?” He asks and you look up to meet his knowing gaze. He knows full well that it wasn’t trade that sent Cerelle Lannister (Stark you harshly remind yourself) up into the frigid North and he knows that you regret not being able to be there for her wedding, even if he does not know that it was your plan and your scheme that sent her there to begin with.

“Exceedingly,” you respond eventually, forcing yourself to sound more enthusiastic. You know by the downturn of his lips that you fail but you move forward past the hurt, forcing a smile. “I don’t have any advice to offer you for your matches except, perhaps, an observation. I can’t see that Victor Florent will be at his best today. He might be easy to rile if you’re lucky enough to face him today. If you wish to rattle him, mention finding his place or maybe even how Lord Tarly was able to claim a Lannister daughter while he can’t.”

He tilts his head, a slow sly smile coming to his face as he takes in your words. “And I imagine you had something to do with him being that sensitive?”

You shrug, your own smile becoming genuine. “Your battle with him will be on the grounds. Mine was this morning. I tried to help as best as I could.”

“I could almost pity the man if he weren’t such a craven liar,” Aemond responds, humor evident in his tone. “Your own bite is probably worse than most injuries he could face on the field today.”

“Most?” You ask.

“Most,” he echoes. “As fierce as you can be with your tongue, there are still quite a few things that could happen to him on the field that may prove to be worse.”

You throw your head back, laughing gleefully. Your amusement, however, is short-lived since even inside the canvas walls of the tent, you can hear a horn blow, announcing that the melee is set to start soon. It brings you crashing back into reality, back into the truth that Aemond will be risking his life today in order to answer an insult done to you. It’s sobering and you take a deep breath as you pull back slightly.

Before you can say anything, however, Aemond brings your hand up to his lips, pressing a kiss onto the knuckles, and you realize with a start that this must have been what all the songs were talking about when they mentioned a lady sending her knight off into battle.

You wonder if the ladies in all those stories found it as bittersweet as you did.

“May the Warrior guide and protect you,” you murmur and he only nods in response.

——————————–

You enter the royal box arm in arm with Helaena, an astonishingly sober Aegon leading the way. The court all turns to stare openly at you and, in the crowd, you can see Tyland nodding at you, seated next to Lords Beesbury and Wylde. You don’t nod back, however, keeping your head held high as you and the Targaryen siblings walk towards the seats you had sat in only the day before.

Like yesterday, a head of white hair awaits you. This time, however, it belongs to Baela Targaryen who watches your approach with interest. You glance over at Helaena but she merely shrugs in response.

When you reach your seats, Aegon drops in his without so much as a hello, eyes trained onto the grounds ahead, leaving you and Helaena to greet her. At first, you wonder if Princess Rhaenys has ordered her to sit up front in order to forge a relationship with her kin but, when you sit and she leans towards you, you realize that this seating could only have been her idea.

“You’re all they’ve been talking about, you know,” Baela says in lieu of a true greeting, jerking her head backward to indicate the rest of the court. Your eyes flicker over to glance back and even now, you can see some Velaryon ladies whispering to each other as they watch you speaking to their cousin. “The dragon’s treasure from the Rock and the fox foolish enough to try and steal it.”

“Are they? I haven’t noticed,” you reply dryly and she laughs. “Did you sit here to see if the rumors were true?”

She shakes her head, still looking amused even as the knights begin to march out onto the field for the presentation. You look away from her, eyes immediately finding Aemond in the procession. He’s not in the first listing, thank the gods, but a weight begins to sit heavy on your shoulders.

Please, you pray, wishing you had made a stop at the sept to light a candle for the Warrior before you had come to the tourney grounds. Please keep him safe.

“I decided to sit here because I was curious. It’s been quite some time since a Targaryen has participated in a tourney - not since my father has it happened,” Baela finally answers and you tear your eyes away from Aemond to look over at her. Otto Hightower stands to do his customary speech but you keep your gaze on her. “I decided I wanted a better view. However this goes, I imagine there will be quite a few songs written about it. I figured I should get to see the action so I can describe it well to Rhaena when I write to her about it.”

“Did you now?” You drawl, curiosity driving you to poke at her and try to find her real reason for sitting by you. “Did the Princess Rhaenys ask you to get a better view as well?”

She tilts her head. “My grandmother wishes for me to know my kin. The Targaryen side at least. She was… pleased by my choice.”

You nod and not one second later, the horn blows for the first match to begin. You watch it with disinterest. It’s a Mullendore knight against a Connington and, even to your untrained eye, it’s clear neither of them has the skill necessary to last long in the tournament. Still, the Connington is, at least, faster on his feet, and soon enough, he has the Mullendore knight knocked on his back with a sword to his throat. The crowd jeers, bored by the bloodless match.

The next match, however, quickly proves satisfactory to them. Both knights are from houses so below your radar that even you, after years and years of studying all the noble houses in Westeros, struggle to identify them. For one of them, it turns out that you shouldn’t have even bothered. The taller and bulkier knight (Five black starfish - it’s House Ruthermont of the Vale) swings his mace and catches the other man by the jaw, sending him crashing to the ground in a spray of blood and teeth. The other man, lost in his own pain, scrambles upwards, clambering for his sword, having lost it in his fall, but the Ruthermont knight doesn’t give him the chance. With one final swing, he brings the mace down heavy on his opponent’s back and, with a sickening crack that you can hear even over the screaming and cheering, breaks the man nearly in two. The nameless knight doesn’t even get to scream before he dies; not with the way the mace is buried in his back, straight through his lungs and pinning him to the ground. Blood pours out of the wound, drowning the dirt around him, and the crowd roars its approval.

Next to you, Helaena lets out a whimper, recoiling backward in her seat, and, when you turn to face her, her eyes are screwed close. Gently, you grab her hand and she squeezes it so hard that you swear you won’t have one after.

“It’s alright, Helaena, it’s alright. It’s over now” you comfort and her eyes snap open to bore into yours.

She leans in close, her nose nearly brushing yours. This close, you can see how her pupils are blown out, the amethyst color so dark it’s almost cobalt even in the sunlight. “Shadows in the wall,” she insists, sounding near hysterical. “Shadows in the flame. There will be no choice. No choice at all.”

You stare back, stunned, but she blinks hard and it’s Helaena again. Scared and worried Helaena and she leans back in her seat, shaking her head as if to clear her mind. Next to her, even Aegon looks alarmed as he looks at his sister, and, with deft fingers, he pulls out her familiar bug toy from her pockets, offering it to her.

“To save Lady Lannister’s hand,” he says and Helaena barely manages a grateful smile as she drops your hand to grasp the toy, shaking slightly as she does so. You meet Aegon’s eyes and, after a moment of mutual understanding, he looks away, snapping his fingers for a servant to bring him wine.

You relax back in your chair, watching her for a moment as she loses herself in the toy, murmuring under her breath as she twists it in her hands over and over and over, the repetition soothing her.

The horn blows again and you look over at the grounds in time to see servants dragging the body away from the field just as Aemond steps out.

You freeze, heart in your throat, as you watch him ready himself, bouncing slightly in place as if to warm himself up. He’s chosen to fight without a helmet and, though you understand why he wouldn’t want to limit his field of vision any more than it already is, you find yourself praying he had worn one if only to calm your nerves.

You immediately recognize his opponent as Ser Raymond of House Marbrand and your mind races to remember everything you know about him. The nephew of the current Lord Marbrand. He used to visit Casterly Rock when his uncle had wanted him to get closer to Cerelle in hopes of securing a marriage. He has a bastard son living in the Crag. Your own father had knighted him for his service in suppressing Ironborn raids along the coast.

You try to remember if he’s skilled but your mind comes up horrifying blank.

The horn blows again and you squeeze your hands tight, nails digging into your flesh. Raymond does not waste any time, rushing Aemond immediately, but the Targaryen is quicker, spinning out of the way, his hair streaming through the air. He jabs out with his sword and lands a hit. The herald barely has time to announce it before he swings again, landing two more in quick succession.

Raymond lets out a grunt, more out of anger than any real pain, and feints toward Aemond’s blind spot before swinging his sword toward the prince’s knees. Aemond dodges but, in the moment right after, Raymond slices upwards, catching Aemond on the sleeve.

You bite your lip hard to prevent yourself from gasping or cursing, but behind you, you can hear the Queen murmur a prayer.

The gods must hear her since, angered by the hit, Aemond moves even faster and lands the additional three hits he needs to win. The herald announces the prince’s victory and you clap hard, your palms stinging, as you rise to your feet. Aegon whoops, screaming something about his money being safe, and even the Queen is cheering in her relief.

Aemond looks up at the box and nods his head and you can tell, even from here, that he’s pleased with the results. The crowd cheers him, satisfied by a match where the men actually landed blows unlike the first one, and you grin wide.

When you sit back down, the horn announcing the next competitors coming out onto the field, you look over at Baela. Her eyes are glued to the field watching Aemond’s retreat, analyzing.

“Has he met your standards?” You ask and she looks over at you, frowning slightly.

“He’s… Improved since we last met,” she says, reluctant to praise him.

You smile. “Prince Aemond has always been skilled. Even in his childhood, it took more than one assailant to ever do him much harm.”

Baela’s eyes narrow at the remark and she opens her mouth to shoot back a retort when the horn announces the beginning of the match, calling both of your attention. It’s Victor Florent vs a Blackwood knight and you roll your eyes when you spot the handkerchief still tied around his bicep.

During the actual fight, however, Victor seems almost vengeful in his maneuvers, moving fast and hitting hard. He slices the Blackwood knight behind the knees, sending the man toppling to the ground where he hastily yields. Victor looks up at the box and his expression is dark as he meets your gaze.

He wears no helmet - as if he wants you to see his face.

He’s angry, his expression twisted with wrath, and there’s no longer that glazed look in his eyes when he sees you. It’s sharp and fierce and angry and it’s all at you. It’s more than you not wearing a crown or your father turning down his suit. He’s angry because you rejected him, harshly and without even a hint of regret. He wears the handkerchief still, not to proclaim that he loves you but to proclaim that you will be his since it is his right to claim you.

You don’t frown down at him or scowl or even furrow your brow. You simply meet his gaze steadily, no emotion slipping onto your face because he’s not even worth that much.

Victor’s face twists again and he stalks off the grounds, clearing the way for the herald to announce the next match.

He’ll die today, you promise yourself. By my hand or Aemond’s, he will not live to see the morrow.

The matches go in a flash and you watch with mounting anticipation as Aemond readily defeats his opponents. He even beats Tygett and your cousin claps him on the shoulder afterward, laughing loudly, as friendly and pleasant as he always is.

Next to you, Baela seems wholly invested in the fights, nearly leaning out of her seat, and, when it becomes clear that the current match will end in a death that you’re not eager to watch, you turn towards her.

She doesn’t hear you when you first say her name and it’s only on the third time that she rips her eyes away from the battle, just as Edwyn Sand drives his lance through his opponent’s torso. “What?” She asks, irritable and snappish at being distracted, and, despite yourself, you smile.

“Do you wish you were on the field as well, my lady?” You ask, leaning slightly closer so she can hear you over the roar of the crowd.

Baela eyes you, her amethyst eyes scanning your face for any sign that you might be using this to poke at her. “I do,” she finally says, having evidently weighed the dangers of telling you this and finding them lacking. “I imagine I could do a mite better than most of these men.”

“I have no doubt you could,” you readily agree, finding that you mean it. For better and for worse, she is Daemon Targaryen’s daughter through and through. She’s more cautious than the Rogue Prince ever was, more aware of her surroundings, but you can easily see her with a sword in her hand. “Have you trained with weaponry?”

“I did,” she says after a moment, her eyes slightly hazy as she frowns. “Back in Pentos. I… My father taught me. He said a dragonrider should know how to wield a sword.”

You nod, ignoring the crowd’s jeers behind you as a match ends bloodlessly. “Did you learn much under his tutelage? I imagine the Rogue Prince has much to teach his daughters.”

“Daughter,” Baela corrects, almost as if on instinct. “Daughter. I, uh… He only taught me. I’m the only dragonrider daughter he has. Rhaena has always been too sweet to wield a sword anyways. She’s always preferred dancing to anything else.”

Despite her immediate excuse for her father’s actions, you can see how her frown twists with anger and how she clenches her fists on her lap. She’s furious, you realize. Daemon Targaryen ignores her sister and she hates him for that insult more than she does for anything else.

Baela Targaryen is loyal, fiercely so, and her sister is the way to gain that loyalty for yourself.

“I see,” you say after a moment. “I think I would rather enjoy meeting your sister then. She seems like a kind lady and I’m afraid I’m not as skilled at dancing as I’d like to be. I’m sure she has much she can teach me.”

She looks you over, openly appraising you, and you simply bow your head before turning back to face the melee.

The battles drag on and on, knocking men out of the competition faster than you can even register, until you’re only three matches away from the finale and you realize, with a dull sense of surprise, that the finale will almost certainly be Aemond and Victor. You can’t see it going any other way and you start to pray to the Warrior and the Stranger, pleading with them to protect Aemond and take Victor in his place.

You don’t know if they hear you but you beg that they have.

The final matches go exactly as you had expected and when the herald announces the final matchup, the crowd grows nearly rapturous in their excitement. At your back, you can hear the court gossiping, swearing up and down that the singers of King’s Landing had to have had a hand in the matches for it to go this way in a manner that would most serve their purposes.

“Seems you won’t be able to stop those songs now,” Aegon drawls but you’re too caught up in staring down at the grounds in nervous anticipation to even register his words.

Aemond and Victor make their way onto the field and, if you had thought Victor was angry staring you down earlier, he’s absolutely incandescent now, glowering at Aemond as if he could light him on fire with only his eyes. For his part, Aemond only stares coldly back, his eye focused solely on Victor, ignoring the screams around him. His silver hair is dyed red in parts from the blood of earlier matches, some of it having streaked onto his face, and that, combined with his eyepatch and scar, makes Aemond’s indifference look almost as frightening as Victor’s rage.

The horn blows and, for a moment, both men stand still as they stare each other down.

Then they move.

The clash of their sword is swallowed by the crowd’s instant screams and you pitch forward, hands flying to grab the edge of your chair. You’re deaf to everything around you, solely focused on the fight in front of you.

The men are equally matched but Victor is stronger, bulkier. Each swing of his sword sends Aemond rocking back on his heels, teeth gritted as he fights to stay grounded. Victor is relentless, however, moving forward and forward, each move intent on driving Aemond back until he can have him pinned in a corner.

But as strong as Victor is, Aemond is as fast and, twisting his sword so he can knock Victor to the side, he frees himself from the path the knight had been intent on driving him on. He thrusts and catches Victor on the torso but no one can even hear the herald over the frenzy of the crowd.

What you can hear, however, is Victor’s roar of absolute rage. More beast than man, he advances on Aemond relentlessly, his swings growing impossibly stronger and stronger. Before you can even register what’s happening, a swipe from Victor drives Aemond to his knees and the Florent swings his sword heavily, aiming directly for Aemond’s neck.

You gasp, rising to your feet in an instant, distantly aware of the Queen’s scream behind you and Aegon and Helaena standing up as well, but Aemond is faster than all of you, reacting before any of you can finish what you’re doing. He ducks, saving his neck but earning a cut across the ear for it.

His blood drips onto the ground, joining all the rest that has been shed through the melee, and you find yourself wishing that Vhagar would rise from wherever she is and descend upon the grounds to cook Victor alive for daring to harm him. But she won’t come - not when her rider is doing well enough for his own.

Aemond rolls across the ground, dodging another desperate thrust, and stands up in one fluid motion. He keeps low to the ground, crouched with his sword up by his chest. His own blood covers the side of his face, staining his pale skin and dripping down onto his own armor. He only stays like that for a breath, before Victor dives forward with a roar.

But Victor Florent is sloppy in his rage, too caught up in his anger to think ahead.

Aemond, however, does not suffer the same problem.

Just as Victor reaches him, Aemond crouches even lower, leaving Victor’s sword sailing right above him. With a twist of his feet, he plants himself behind his opponent and, without a moment’s hesitation, drives his sword toward Victor’s neck.

There’s a moment when you think that Victor will avoid it. He twists his body around, arm flying out as if to stop the blade right in its track, but Aemond’s strength, while weaker than Victor’s, is nothing to scoff at. He impales the sword straight through Victor’s exposed wrist, between the gap between his gauntlet and the rest of his armor, driving it straight through all the way to Victor’s throat.

The two men stare each other down, Aemond breathing heavily as Victor struggles to even breathe. But then the knight stumbles down to his knees and, from your vantage point, you can see him struggle to say something, to gurgle out one final remark, but he can’t, not with Aemond’s sword keeping the words trapped behind it. In the next second, Victor falls flat to the ground, slipping off the sword and landing heavily on his side, twitching as he does so but soon enough, he stops, his eyes going cold and empty.

There’s quiet on the grounds as Victor Florent breathes his last.

But soon it erupts.

The roar of the crowd shakes the very ground beneath you and you yourself cheer, screaming out your relief, your delight, your joy. Next to you, even Baela is clapping and Helaena is smiling even as she covers her ears with her hands. Aegon is absolutely frothing at the mouth, spilling his wine all over himself as he raises his fist in the air in victory

Aemond looks dazed by it, moving away from Victor’s body while staring up at the stands as if he can’t quite believe that the cheers around are all for him, and you laugh, delighted.

Yes! You want to scream down at him. It’s you, it’s all for you!

You dimly register Otto Hightower approaching the railing, raising his hands as if to try to silence the crowd and you manage to reel yourself in, still clapping to the point that you’re sure your hands will hurt tomorrow. Out on the field, Daeron runs out to his brother, carrying a pillow with a crown of golden roses on it and you laugh out loud, imagining all the other squires Daeron must have fought for the honor of being the one to hand out the prize.

“My deepest congratulations to Prince Aemond Targaryen for defeating all of his opponents and winning the melee event,” Otto proclaims, barely audible over the stare exuberant crowd. “Alongside the pot of gold, you have won a crown to give out. Who shall you crown your Queen of Love and Beauty?

Even in a crowd of thousands, even with the sun in his eyes, Aemond looks up into the royal box and you know he sees you, you as you truly are, and your heart could nearly burst with it all.

“I crowd my Lady Lannister, the Lioness of the Red Keep,” he announces, voice clear even over the impossibly loud cheers.

The crowd screams out its approval and you almost don’t hear them, too preoccupied with staring down at Aemond, your heart beating loud in your chest.

He’s claimed you, in front of the royal court and all of King’s Landing. He’s claimed you.

You didn’t know it was possible to feel this much love toward one person.

With a none-too-gentle push from Baela, you finally move, dimly aware of Helaena reaching out to brush her hand against yours and Aegon laughing with more glee than you’ve seen him have in years. When you look over at the crowd, even the Queen is standing on her feet, clapping for you with a small smile on her face, her eyes guarded even as she congratulates you.

Her son has proved that he is a dragon once, that his way is one of fire and blood, and Alicent’s worries about dragon blood have all come true.

All thoughts of Alicent, however, leave your mind as you look past her to your Uncle Tyland and he’s grinning so wide and clapping so hard that, for a moment, you want to break away from walking down to the grounds just to hug your uncle. He’s happy for you, so genuinely happy, and your heart swells.

But you need to reach Aemond and, moving quickly, you reach the tourney grounds, walking out onto the field to the screams of the crowd.

His hands are bloody, you realize, as you walk towards him. His face is smeared with blood, some of it his but most of it not, but his hands are absolutely covered in it and it stains the golden flowers in his hands.

Red and gold, you realize with a shock. The Lannister colors as they’re meant to be seen.

You break out into a grin, so wide it almost hurts, and as you stop right in front of him, you drop into the lowest curtsey of your life. You sweep the ground, head bowed low, and, just like in the songs, Aemond places the crown on your head and the cheers of the crowd reach a crescendo. As you rise to your feet, Aemond grabs your chin, forcing your head up so you can meet his eye.

His gaze is hot and, as he stares down at you, you realize that’d be wrong to describe him as satisfied. He’s far from it. His blood is up and, high on the battles he has won, he wants to continue his rush. He wants you and not in any way that remotely resembles chastity. He wants you and, if he could get away with it, he’d claim you here in front of the whole of King’s Landing. He wants the world to know that you’re his and his only. Any man that would attempt to pull you away from him would meet the same fate as Victor Florent and choke on his own blood as the realm cheered around them.

He’s close to it - even you with all your inexperience can tell. His grip is firm on your chin and, from the look in his eye, you can tell he’s not far from kissing you hard in front of the world. For a moment, you entertain letting him do it. For a moment, you entertain pushing yourself up onto your tiptoes and doing it yourself.

But your father’s voice is loud in your head.

You already have the attention of all of King’s Landing but after this, you will have their scrutiny as well.

So instead, you bow your head, closing your eyes as you reach up to grip Aemond’s wrist. There’s time yet for all you want to do.

Still - the kiss he presses onto your forehead feels like a triumph nonetheless.

#reader and aemond are a match made in hell tell me otherwise <3 #aemond targaryen x reader #aemond x reader #aemond x you

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fierceawakening · 29 days

Text

…this is massively uncharitable and I’m probably gonna delete it as soon as I post it, but while I’m bitching about the way some people make wildly over generalizing comments about food, diets, etc.

Can I just say how much I hate it when people gloss “we have some reason to think diabetes risk is from not just refined sugar, but also from things that break down very directly into sugar, that is, carbs. You may want to consider rethinking the proportions of your meals” as “people are going around saying don’t eat bread now?”

I’m sure there exists a handful of very annoying keto enthusiasts who are literally telling you to stop eating bread.

I am equally sure, however, that the vast majority of other humans you might find yourself interacting with on a daily basis are not literally telling you to stop eating bread.

#massively uncharitable #do not read this

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ssruis · 27 days

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(Re: tsukasa post) if you wanted to be a little uncharitable you *could* say that tsukasa cares for others just because it lines up with his goals - as in, he cares for others because he believes that’s what a star should do - rather than just genuine kindness and goodwill, but I would argue

- wrt loved ones: saki specifically (& to a lesser extent toya just because they interact less) is the greatest counterpoint against that interpretation. He wants to be the best brother possible because he loves her, not because it’s what a star should be doing (gestures at the doll event where he brought her the dolls as a kid even before he started the whole I am a world future star thing). Like yes he views that as something he *should* be doing but that’s because he believes that’s what you should do for your loved ones. I think at this point the big brother-dream of being a star thing are so irreversibly intertwined that they’re kind of one and the same. Of course a star would care for others because tsukasa cares for others and he views himself as a star etc etc. He wants to look out for/do things for his siblings/friends because he loves them.

- I guess you could argue him doing the same for strangers is solely because it upholds his star persona/image? But to that I would point out that his whole “I realized my real dream was to make others smile” thing in the main story sort of contradicts that. Given the whole “theatre is life” thing he’s got going on I think making strangers/acquaintance/etc happy in his day to day life is just like. A microcosm of what he aims to do on stage. I think he’s egotistical yeah but I don’t think that has to be mutually exclusive with selflessness. I do think there’s a discussion to be had about tsukasa being self-centered because he *is* and he’s absolutely not the completely selfless guy some people want to think he is but I also think that he can be motivated by egotistical desires *and* selfless desires. Being self centered isn’t inherently a bad thing. Tsukasa is kind because he’s a kind person and because that’s what a star should do in his mind. His own kindness is self serving. Does that make sense (no, it’s incomprehensible) great glad you’re following along. Sliding scale of how selfless his motivations for being kind are depending on the person with saki being on one end and random strangers on the other.

- I think it’s inherently difficult to ascertain whether the motives behind kindness are self serving or not. Does someone being kind because it makes them feel good mean they’re selfish? Humans are a social species, we enjoy making others happy because it makes us happy. Evolutionary adaption that helps the survival of the group. I think the idea that true kindness depends on your altruism making you miserable is stupid, although I guess you could argue that a kind person chooses kindness regardless of how it makes them feel. But then there’s the question of what motivates your kindness (a sense of doing the right thing? Upholding your morals? Because the guilt of being selfish is something you can’t bear? Wouldn’t that be just as selfish as wanting to feel good?) Whether or not true altruism/selflessness exists is a philosophical debate I don’t really feel like having over characters from the gacha miku tap tap game. Whatever. Would like to point out that tsukasa has canonically chosen to do the “right”/kind thing at the cost of his own benefit before (giving up on winning the pxl show contest/chance for a big break in favor of putting on the WMS show, which he was a little upset about doing).

I think people tend to err too far on the side of “he’s super selfless all the time with a pure heart” because they don’t want to admit their fave is an absolutely bizarre guy with a massive ego that comes into play for more than just his funny little speeches about being The Most Special Guy Alive which is tragic because Tsukasa Tenma is truly an interesting critter. He doesn’t do things solely out of the goodness of his heart but he also doesn’t not do things out of the goodness of his heart. He’s complex. Layered. A weird little freak. I’m studying him like a bug. You understand.

#I’m trapped in my head with tsukasa Tenma but also myself and both of them love to yap about him #and I’m making it your problem.#I fear a lobotomy is the only option left for me. there’s no other way.#entirely incomprehensible with an overly conversational tone that is how we do it here at ssruis.tumblr.com #mine #this is why you take your adderall before 1 pm. if u don’t u don’t sleep and instead talk abt this mother fucker.#need to get back on the event watching so that emu can kick him out of my fucking head and I can be at peace #but in doing that I will inevitably have to circle back to this asshole because my views will change #tragic. heart breaking. a personal hell of my own creation. colopale kill him please.#analysis #tsukasa

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abloobloobloo · 14 days

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This is actually pissing me off

(EDIT: just fixed a small but pretty critical mistake in the fourth paragraph after the content warning here. The responses I'm looking at here are from person A, not B.)

Content Warning: Abuse (including graphic descriptions of CSA)

Hoo fucking boy.

So I've been following a situation where someone who I'll simply name Person A. This person released a bunch of DMs with someone I'll simply name Person B, stating that they showed B emotionally abusing A.

They did not, in fact, show B emotionally abusing A. What they did show was Person B being extraordinarily understanding and accommodating while A was... not doing that.

And hoo boy, A's responses to people pointing this out were so, SO fucking annoying.

I'll leave the gory details under a read below because there are some brief but GRAPHIC descriptions of abuse given by Person B below. Read at your own risk.

First, there's this laughably disingenuous retort:

Literally where the fuck is B mocking you in this screenshot, A? She is literally just explaining her perspective and understanding that you might have a different one: that's how differences in planning tend to be hashed out??? This makes absolutely no sense as a response.

Even more so... later in these DMs, when they basically just turned into giant essays lobbed at each other, B gave another reason: because giant essays like that were harder for her to parse in text! Like.... come to fuck on!!!

"Cruel and sadistic manner?" Are you fucking joking? Is this for real? Are you reading the same fucking DMs everyone else is reading? Where the fuck can you find a SINGLE trace of cruelty and sadism in B's messages, let alone this excerpt???????

Especially when A's continued retort is, I shit you not, "I'm not uncharitable to people I dislike, I'm uncharitable to everyone!"

Buddy. Buddy. That only further proves B's point.

Especially considering that her point was that you were comparing a situation of abuse to your own experiences of abuse as then saying it wasn't bad because it wasn't as bad as your situation. That is literally arguing from a perspective that lacks objectivity. Also the assertions that she "doesn't know what empathy is nor sympathy quite frankly" are fucking laughable but whatever.

And, well, probably the most galling part:

What sex abuse acts did you mention, you say? Well I'll tell you.

For the final time: MASSIVE TRIGGER WARNING FOR GRAPHIC DESCRIPTIONS OF CSA. I MEAN IT.

In the DMs in question, image 63 has this passage from A, in which they describes multiple sex abuse acts inflicted upon them:

The detail in this message is objectively, blatantly triggering. There's really no other word. People have given trigger warnings for far less detail than A gives in this message. And for them to pretend they didn't say any of this either (and later straight-up saying they NEVER gave detailed accounts of their ritual abuse, which I'm only letting it slide because it possibly could've been referring to a different situation than the message above) means they somehow don't remember writing this at all (which I suppose is possible; they are a system, after all), or are just blatantly lying. If it's the former, then these later statements strike me as astonishingly negligent and indicative of shocking hubris. If the latter, it's actually fucking disgusting. Get your shit together.

And that's not even getting into the extraordinarily disturbing way A weaponizes accusations of pedophilia against person B for literally no reason, which becomes a hundred times more disturbing when combined with the fact that B is a trans woman, and such spurious accusations are often wielded as transphobic and particularly transmisogynist attacks.

and then the fucking cherry on top of this shit sundae:

calling people "subhuman," eh? Bloody hell.

#cw csa mention

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itspyon · 4 months

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I agree that something really needs to change in the way that minecraft events happen and that the current shift is not good. people ~try~ to be clear about what events are and aren't for "pros" but the problem is that there is NO classification of pro in minecraft!!! there is no way to be a pro outside of playing in for money events! and if everyone is playing in those events then that classification means nothing!!! they definitely should've handled better for sure (god knows mr beast corp will never handle anything well lol) I think most people just dislike him and see it as ironic for him to complain about this when he is generally seen as toxic (personality wise) and a bad sport. but you're right about a lot of that and that something needs to change

-moose

INCREDIBLY TRUE. STANDARDISE MINECRAFT COMP RALLY. THEY DESERVE IT

and yeah i already knew of das a wee bit from valo, mostly from mc lately, and i know people UH don't enjoy his gameplay much. comes with a very not good attitude. but this just isn't okay and i worry that because this is mr beast we're talking about, it'll have massive repercussions for the scene

don't want to make it seem like i'm defending the guy personally because i know he is often very uncharitable in his comms in game and stuff, totally not. i don't want this to be the thing people shit on him for or god forbid defend the idea that comp is inherently toxic

#pyon askies

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allthelittlecreepycrawlies · 3 months

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OK big thanks to @micchikureshima for letting me rant this concept out in discord because otherwise I probably never would have gotten it typed.

This is basically throwing together multiple ideas i've already posted (the meng yao has serious misconceptions idea and the tumblr post about the sect rejecting huaisang as heir and him leaving to keep from forcing mingjue between a rock and a hard place) into one vaguely coherent storyline.

Also it's gonna be long, so some of it will go under a cut.

Starting with that fic where Meng Yao wakes up to find Nie Huaisang burying a bird he couldn't save, slide to the left into a timeline where Meng Yao didn't go outside and thus never got his POV recontextualized. Having only his preconceived notions and gossip to go on, he starts quietly developing a resentment against Huaisang.

It kind of comes to a head when he's convinced to accept some local wine at a dinner and is so not ready for the paint thinner they drink in Qinghe. In vino veritas or a reversal of the 'confessing to a crush while drunk' trope where he says some very uncharitable things about Huaisang while plastered.

When he wakes up the next morning with a massive hangover and remembers what happened, he's mortified and convinced he's in so much trouble.

But... he's not?

In fact, his insults towards the sect heir seems to have actually gained him some popularity, even among disciples and soldiers who didn't like him before. And while Nie Mingjue isn't among the ones who outright thought it was funny, even he says his silly useless brother brought it on himself, and maybe he'll learn from it.

And Huaisang definitely learned from it, even if the only lesson he took was to avoid Meng Yao completely to keep from being further humiliated. The only time they're in the same room together after that is if Huaisang can't get out of it.

Like when Nie Mingjue sends Meng Yao along with the prospective students to make sure there are no Incidents, not caring how uncomfortable his brother is about it. Grow up, Huaisang, you're going to be dealing with people who don't like you your entire life, it's just a thing people expected to work in politics have to live with.

On the trip, Meng Yao notices that while he doesn't keep any, Huaisang seems to be able to charm wild birds with ease. It briefly makes him wonder about the aviary… but no, not important.

It's not enough for him to start questioning his earlier opinions.

Veering fully into CQL-territory for a moment, Huaisang gets home on time this go around instead of making the long detour because he doesn't want to be stuck with Meng Yao any longer than necessary, but the Yunmeng group still arrives with Xue Yang in tow, the Wens still show up, Meng Yao still gets injured, Xue Yang still gets freed, and the captain still gets killed.

When Meng Yao finds himself banished, he is caught off guard when Nie Huaisang is angry about it (this time entirely because he thinks it's bad form to exile someone who's still badly wounded, especially when they got that wound in the line of duty), but he correctly believes nothing will come of it when Huaisang says he'll talk to his brother, so he leaves while Huaisang is gone. Back to MDZS canon but with a bonus character, It's not until the Phoenix Mountain Hunt, when Jin Guangyao is having to put up with his family's general everything that the situation changes.

Shortly after his father has read him the riot act over the Jiang sect's behavior during the hunt, he comes across Nie Huaisang and Nie Zonghui quietly talking on one of the guest balconies.

"It's probably just different when it's family. Or else I'm just that much of a monster, if I'm less forgivable than someone like Jin Guangshan."

…Oh.

Jin Guangyao doesn't stick around to hear what Nie Zonghui says in response, but the short exchange haunts him as he goes back to his duties.

What has Huaisang done that's in any way comparable to his relatives' behavior?

Now that he's trying to actually think of anything, he can't find an answer.

In fact, he can't stop wondering if he hadn't been coloring Huaisang's behavior with Jin gold the entire time, his first encounter with his father's sect having tainted his opinion. He'll apologize, he decides.

But he doesn't get the chance before the conference is over, kept so busy by everyone's demands that he can barely catch his breath. and even after the other sects are gone, his father constantly has new tasks and orders and creepy little plots for him to carry out.

Before he realizes it, it's been almost a month.

And then his spies in Qinghe tell him about the inheritance chaos going on in the Unclean Realms.

And then Nie Huaisang is gone. Walked out into the night and vanished with only a letter to his brother left behind.

Nie Mingjue of course doesn't bring it up with him, why would he? Even if they've sworn brotherhood, they're still mostly on the outs. but he hears from er-ge that Nie Mingjue won't talk about it with anyone, not even him. Just keeping it all bottled up and boiling.

He should be relieved, even with this new source of tension. Now it doesn't matter if he apologizes or not.

That doesn't make the discomfort go away, though, because he's plagued by the same doubts as Nie Mingjue, wondering how much he contributed to public opinion eventually forcing Huaisang out.

Months later, just after Jin Ling is born, Jin Guangshan is already expecting to throw a massively extravagant hundred days celebration and has Jin Guangyao making all the arrangements and gathering all the necessary supplies.

His current assignment is to visit some merchants the Jin sect occasionally does business with in a little port town in order to arrange some expensive future kitchen deliveries.

There's a painter doing portraits for a tourist couple on one of the piers.

Nie Huaisang is almost unrecognizable. He's thinner, his clothes are plain and unadorned, his hair pulled up into a bun with no braids. If it weren't for the black and gold bird singing on his shoulder as he works, Jin Guangyao would have overlooked him entirely, and even then, it's only the green eyes that make him realize just who he's looking at.

He watches as Huaisang chats amiably with the couple, all bubbling cheer like he used to be whenever trying to win friends, and Jin Guangyao wonders if leaving the sect has really had any effect on him at all. And then as soon as they walk away, happy with their souvenir, the mask vanishes and he looks so tired and withdrawn, even as the bird comforts him by pulling at his hair.

Ah. Jin Guangyao knows all too well what it's like wearing that mask.

It looks like the apology will still be necessary.

Jin Guangyao manages to coax huaisang into at least meeting for dinner if only for a free meal, and it becomes clear as they exchange (mostly) meaningless small talk that while Huaisang has a lot of 'neighbors' because he does a lot of small clerical or scribing jobs here and there, he has completely given up on any actual social relationships and mostly keeps to himself.

And he doesn't really believe the apology, mostly because it seems everyone else agrees with Jin Guangyao's original opinions of him, so why would he walk it back? But he's grateful for the food anyway, so Jin Guangyao decides that has to be enough for now and he'll work on proving his change of heart in other small ways when he's not as constrained by having to conduct sect business matters on this trip.

With the hatchet sort of buried, Jin Guangyao will report on what he's seen to Nie Mingjue.

It turns out Mingjue hasn't even opened any of his brother's letters, though he's been keeping them all. He's convinced himself they'll just make him madder and he's barely holding it together as it is. But whatever Jin Guangyao tells him makes him finally read them, and when the last one mentions giving up on writing, he realizes it's been almost a month and a half since it was sent, when before, the letters had been arriving practically weekly.

Fuck. Huaisang really did give up. All he's been doing by keeping this bottled up is pushing his brother even further away.

He decides that a response letter at this point won't do, and besides, he wants to see for himself this new (difficult, if Jin Guangyao didn't lie) life Huaisang's been living.

The resulting…. not a confrontation, but not exactly a reunion in the seaside town is super awkward and uncomfortable for both Nie brothers, but at least it ends with them understanding each other a little bit better? At least they'll start writing each other properly, as will Jin Guangyao and Huaisang.

(And that's pretty much as far as I got on this idea, so it'll stay pretty open ended.)

#mdzs #ideas #nie mingjue #nie huaisang #jin guangyao #nie sect #possible future sangyao? i mean not guaranteed but it IS me writing this

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crossedwithblue · 1 year

Note

You're a Mansfield Park fan?

Yes!

IDK if you intended it as such but I am going to take this as a license to ramble about MP on main.

I think the thing about MP is that people (especially people who aren't as quite intense about JA than I am lmao, or who have only read P&P before) often come to it expecting a light-bright-and-sparkling romance like P&P, and are surprised when that isn't the case. Hell, I felt like that too on the first read, because the pop-culture perception of JA is that she was a romance writer first and foremost - but the romantic happy-ever-after is shoehorned into a few paragraphs on the last page or two, and not even shown on the page. MP isn't a romance novel at all - I have minimal English lit knowledge outside of JA, but I'd class it as more of a bildungsroman, maybe? Or a predecessor to those modern Literary Novels all about objectively nasty people being nasty to each other? (More on this in a min) I would very much welcome corrections from people who do know what they're talking about, though!

To me, JA isn't actually a romance writer most of the time. She wrote really good romances because she was really good at characterisation and at understanding and describing how personalities interact to form relationships, and romance is just one type of relationship. It's just the one that pop culture tends to focus on when it comes to JA (I mostly blame Georgette Heyer but of course there's an essay to be written on that too). The only JA novels I'd describe as true romances are P&P, of course, and Persuasion - the rest have romance as just one among many other dynamics as a supporting or side plot, or a tool to reveal characterisation, rather than being the main focus.

Fanny is also a very passive narrator who tends to be acted upon rather than acting herself, which tends to irritate people, but MUCH more on that in a minute.

I think MP is in some ways sort of... cruel. It's certainly the most openly incisive and potentially upsetting, with depictions of complex abusive/toxic family dynamics that could probably come straight out of a domestic/familial abuse/neglect resource. The point where I started to enjoy MP was when someone told me to embrace the schadenfreude - everyone besides Fanny and Edmund (possibly - both points very much up for debate, but they are at least trying their best in the middle of a family that doesn't give a fuck, really) is either an actively terrible person or at least a pretty bad enabler. That did help me find the humour in it, but personally I certainly find it a bit hard to read at times, especially the Mrs Norris scenes. It's not usually my first choice when I want to be cheered up.

This also tends to surprise people, I think, because the pop-culture image of JA, (probably in large part due to her Victorian relatives wanting to protect her posthumous image) is of a twinkly, proper, sweet-natured spinster lady.

Which she was not. Anyone who's seen extracts of her surviving letters knows that she had a biting, frequently uncharitable sense of humour (miscarriage jokes aren't a great look, Jane!) - and we know Cassandra destroyed the really juicy stuff, so that's got to be the tip of the iceberg. This is certainly apparent in all of her books, but can be ignored much of the time - but not in MP, where uncharitable descriptions of awful people are pretty much the core of the book.

Finally, we come to Fanny, the extremely divisive heroine (not least because of that name lol). Personally I tend to imprint on pathetic small girls who need looking after, but Fanny is a massive turnoff (lolol) for many people. I think that's just a personal thing but I enjoy the effect of her frequently becoming another layer through which the narrative filters - JA was a master of free indirect speech, of course, often with deliberate ambiguity about whose POV is being reported - omniscient narrator or character or both in agreement - and if it's a character, then which one? Fanny usually says and does little, but observes very keenly and astutely, which interacts in a really interesting way with the narration.

Also, I'd just like to point out that Fanny is Like That because she is an abuse victim. She may not be the most compelling heroine for everyone, but she isn't going to "just stand up for herself". The one time she does, the Bertrams punish her for it pretty harshly by sending her back to an environment that they know will be bad for her physical health (!)

Bit of a tangent but I am also a huge fan of Jane Eyre and I think there are interesting parallels to be drawn between Fanny and Jane. Jane Eyre is a fiery, independent character who manages to get out of bad situations one way or another, mostly through sheer dumb luck (don't get me wrong I love my girl Jane but How did she leave that parcel on the coach...). If she'd stayed at Gateshead, I could see her gradually getting beaten down until she became a lot more like Fanny - because other than Jane's innate temper, they have quite a bit in common - they both do, when it comes down it, have a very strong sense of self (yes, even Fanny) and the ability to reject things that they know are morally wrong, no matter the potential cost.

That turned into a bit of a defense of MP because I usually hear people dissing it and so that's what I end up thinking about. Lots more to be said on the Crawfords and the Bertrams, of course.

#i havent posted about MP recently so am somewhat curious about how you got here #especially given that there are other more popular bloggers who talk about MP more #but i am never goin g to turn down a ready made excuse to write a mini essay about my Jane Austen Opinions #via shitposts #mansfield park #fanny price defense squad #jane austen #idc if i typed this whole thing out for 0 notes #i will take any excuse to word vomit about JA

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leonesdente

The World will Suffer Me

dj-totekeke

nothing shredded, nothing gained

lvy3