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precious-little-scoundrel · 5 months

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Twenty Songs Challenge, written after being so lovingly inducted by the powerhouse that is sweet Mey, @the-ugly-swan . Challenge being to choose twenty favorited songs and write one shots based off of them with any pairing or fandom of my choosing. Being a weirdo and a little burned out in my own created universes beyond the fics already in works, I chose what currently inspired me most, obscure as it is.

Pairing: Henry “Hotspur” Percy and Lady “Kate” Mortimer Percy -early 15th century

Fandom: RPF, Shakespeare? Tom Glynn-Carney’s 5 magnificent minutes of a performance as Hotspur in <The King 2019> the armor alone was amply inspiring. The Hollow Crown fans feel free to imagine whoever, as you like. I love this historical pairing in about any iteration and the plot is drawn from both Shakespeare’s play and real history, the timeline, plot and politics being pretty self explanatory through the incorporated dialogue. NOTE- wordplay ahead with “cur” and “Kerr”, the latter being a Scottish clan holding great enmity with the Percy Family and charged with holding the Scottish side of the border. Also I kept Lady Percy’s name as “Kate” even though it was technically Elizabeth in the records.

Dynamic: a rough northern lord and his too good for him lady -a lady who has, through years of an arranged marriage gone horribly well, come to find his homespun gallantry and blunt ways more than a little intoxicating when knelt before her in amused deference. She could almost find it in herself to be gentle with him -if he hadn’t just started a rebellion whilst away from her at the Capitol.

Dedicated to my wifey @prompted-wordsmith who I did proselytize into the Percy cult one fevered evening with inestimable results, including her contribution of a few choice lines herein.

🕯As it Was ~ Hozier

“There is a roadway, muddy and foxgloved

Never I'd had life enough

My heart is screaming out

And in a few days I would be there, love

Whatever here that's left of me is yours just as it was”

Warnings: 18+ to be safe. a small amount of sexual content, flirtations, a husband and wife touching in public, verbal sparring and talk of making children and use of the word “bred”, swearing, use of the words “cock” and “cunt.”

The sound of hooves in the courtyard rouses Kate from her anxious stupor by the hearth, toilsome grain list forgotten on her lap. The scroll swishes to the floor at her abrupt standing, wafting out of her path as she rushes to the window.

First the clatter of a single, foremost, over-eager rider, followed at a lag by his retinue, skilled riders all and armored as befits the guard of a nobleman. They make such a clatter in the yard when they come in after him. Some petty part of her briefly considers the tactic of staying here in their chambers in protest, a quiet sign of disapproval with his errand, of discontent with his brusque leave taking two weeks agone.

Her Harry would find her anyway, and like it better that she were in their chambers. He would like it well she were so near the bed and like it ill she slighted him in her dutiful welcome -but he would not speak of that. Not one for speaking much, her husband, not on matters that plague her these days, weeks, months. Kate might have it out with him in the old way and slap him about and toss cold quips and get from him little more than the same benign aggravation and good humored laughs between, a couple dozen kisses to her neck and a grapple in the sheets.

That is what talk they would undertake were she to stay up here.

It is that lone, eager, forerunning clatter of his horse that speaks to her, speaks for him. Just as his sword and his reputation and his gruff graciousness has spoken well of him across these northern lands, his eagerness to return to her, to outstrip his men in haste to be back from his fool’s errand and into her embrace -it is all the declaration of devotion she may expect from him. It is the truest form, without jape lacing his tone or tonic of lust clouding his confessions.

Harry Hotspur, as fast to return to his wife as he is to meet a fight.

It is love, of the sort she has grown to be grateful for, and it is that and fear of losing it besides, that rushes her out from their chambers and down the polished steps, out to the great hall and past the giant outer doors, cursing a lousy servant or five and ordering a bath and commissioning supper and refreshments as she goes. The torch flames bend from her flight, a whoosh and a shadow stalking Alnwick Castle’s stone passageways until the gray light of evening pours into her sight from the opened great doors. Squires and stable boys clutter her path but they part as she dashes, nay, only a dignified hasten now, out into the courtyard where nearly all of this fool’s troup have dismounted.

There are doffed helms to the Lady Percy, the jangle of chain mail crinkling with bows and scraps of deference all around them, but she sees only him, with mist dripping on his nose and a face too boyish for the insolence he has returned from discharging.

“Kate.” he utters.

Will ever he say her name lazily? She hopes not, for that alone she will endure the unwarranted cheerfulness with which he greets her on this dire occasion. She has heard it said in anger, in jest and in passion, vows and quips, praise and warning. And now in cheerful pleasure as evening mist soaks her gown and the heavy clunk of her husband's footsteps clang ever near her on the paving stones.

“Lord husband.” she greets, hands folded over her freshly healed womb.

His stride falters and he rocks back on his spurred heels, an arms length away, an embrace so tangible she can see his jaw tick from the watering of his mouth. “Lord husband is it?” he repeats thoughtfully, eyes drifting down to the paving stones for a brief moment as if to recollect some forgotten crime, they flick up soon and in them is jesting scrutiny, “My lady wife rushed all this way, down five corridors and a furlong of Keep only to greet me thus?”

Did her rising breath betray her eagerness? Could he see her in the hall despite his business dismounting?

“Your cheeks are red.” he shows her mercy, some form of it. His form. “But -Lord husband, it is, nevertheless?”

“Unless you would prefer ought else?” she inquires, he had once thought this smile quite chilling, he had admitted after their first babe, now he finds it rousing, he has admitted after their third.

“If it please you.” his shifting stance is noisy, his tabard and sword and still clutched helm a racket of accouterments in the pattering rain.

“I have any number to offer,” she concedes, stepping nearer, a lady’s step, covering one third of the ground between them that he might vanquish in a single stride. Still, he waits. “Knucklehead.” she whispers, her breath a fog and her insult as lost as vapor in the ears of his watching men, her bearing alone must satisfy their curiosity, as must his growing smirk and rising color, “Jackenape.” Another step until each little scar on his face is visible and the little canyons each raindrop make of them. She saw his finger twitching where it grasped his visor “Cur.”

There was the slightest flinch between his brows at that, a furrow that smoothed as his mirthful lips flattened out. “Careful now, lady wife, with words like Kerr* thrown about, my men might think you presumptuous, their lady gone and married to some other, a Scottish laird at that. So sure of my death already, sweet Kate, that you must speak of Kerrs in mine own yard? Ha, ‘pon my word you are qu-“

“Hush!” Her hand, fresh warmed as it was by recent hearthside and rich velvets pressed frimly to his lips, a tingle shooting straight to her toes at touching him at last. He was silent then, only the puff of breath against her fast chilling fingertips. “Tease me not so,” she begged, her own mirth gone out in her eyes, her arch look turned to grief, “not when you are just returned from an errand all but ensuring such an end. It is too cruel, even of you. Handle me kindly, Percy, as you always have, in words this time, if not in embrace.”

He seemed to ponder this before raising that hand not occupied with his helm, clumsy and clad in gauntlet as it was, to her wrist, wrapping the chilled and layered steel round her pale flesh and gently tugging her hand from his lips, only so far as to press it to his cheek instead, their audience of men at arms unheeded. “I betook myself to London,” he enunciated, as if it were their first night all over again and his thick borderland drawl too strong for her courtly ears to decipher, “to remind a king of his debts.”

“And tell me!” she cried fiercely, a choked, barely quieted protest as her hands dug into the wet leather of his jerkin, wrist twisted from the steel grasp, “What errand is that but a fool’s? Have you no fear at all left in this bruised carcass? Do I patch up an animated corpse time and again from your wars only for it never to have soul and feeling and wisdom in it? Do I, Harry? Gone to remind a king? How do you dare such?”

“It is he who has dared too much!” he cried back, loudly where her’s had been choked, a ringing and rebauld defense, worthy of a man who would chastise his monarch in full view of council. “First his debts, and now my son’s land! We did not make children so as to watch like blithe cowards as their birthright is bequeathed out from under our feet -piecemeal!- to a courtly cunt whose only recommendation is his alacrity to pucker and bow.”

Kate glanced about her at the men making show of industry, piddling at harnesses and armaments, walking horses in circles. Her husband's words could be no worse than what he had said to the King’s own face, anyone without stomach to become a rebel would have stayed behind in the Capitol, sensing dissension brewing. Lady Percy could perceive none missing from his number. So, a war it was to be, then.

“So, a new generation of Percys is to play at kingmaking.” she summarized.

“We make no boast of it.” Harry protested in turn.

“No,” said she, “why would you with how poorly your last choice has served you?”

That caused a start from him, a step forward that was neither gallant nor eager but angry as man to man. Kate, still with hands fisted in the crooks of his armor, stepped with him, backwards to his hall. “It is your brother with the better claim.” he showed his plan at last, a slow and conniving admission, one not common for his brash ways and straightforward mind.

Kate gasped at the implication. “Edmund?”

“He was proper heir, all along.”

“Your father-“ she chose her wording carefully, “-did not agree.”

“My father’s preference is not law.”

“It is mistaken for such, often.” Kate smirked in reply. “And Edmund is not suited-“

“-Edmund is not the turd now stealing from his vassals!” her Harry rejoined, his helmet pressed to her chest, “Edmund will do.” he reiterated once more.

Kate stared at his temper, the signs of it in his flaring nose and his wild eyes, the cure was between her thighs but watching mist drops fall from unblinking lashes was sweet prelude indeed. “Edmund,” she replied quietly and in a manner to be heeded, “is not willing or suited, he prefers instead to listen to welsh bards and lay upon the lap of his savage wife.”

Her Harry rolled his eyes at her truth, an admission, or the closest to one, she would ever receive. As if battling some great inner turmoil she watched him purse his lips and heave out a sigh before in a sudden movement the helm was tossed to the ground -much to the scramble and reaction of a half a dozen squires who ran to pick it up from its puddle- and suddenly steel hands were upon her hips, tugging her near to him even as she shied away, her face turned in a pantomime of demureness. “Strange,” he said and his tone suggested he still pondered her report of her brother's amorous preoccupations, “-and her lap so less Devine than mine own wife’s.”

“Then why do you haste from it so often?” she whined, delivering a smack against his belted tabard, right where the lions paraded across his right breast.

“Only a man dying of thirst appreciates that water has a flavor.” he reasoned and Kate allowed the open mouthed kisses that crept down her neck, her face turned stubbornly still to the south wall. The blacksmith's roof will be in need of new thatching soon, before spring. Before war.

She feels stubble against her tender skin, bracketing those pretty lips she once derided him for. No warrior ought to have lips like that, it was not seemly, not when maidens were denied such richness, such fullness, such rosy hue. But there is roughness about his lips and on his jaw as it tucks into the juncture at her shoulder, that show of clavicle her dress allows drawing him in like a siren’s song. He must’ve rode hard the entire way, no inns or refreshment, no shaving or baths, straight to her as from a battlefield. The King’s city is just as loathsome as any field of carnage, but he went to free her brother, to get a ransom, to reclaim their stolen land, to remind a king.

He did it for her, and the babes she gave him.

Kate turns her face from the blacksmith's thatch and raises her hand to his face, tenderly stroking the three days' beard that's grown as he's been on the road, riding hard to get to her. They have backed nearly to the hall’s mouth, the drip of rain off the gutter patters behind her on the threshold, Kate knows he can smell supper and hear the clatter of their children racing to meet him on still chubby legs. How different is the love of home, man to woman, Harry would sooner fight for it and she would cower within. Her thumb swipes at the raindrops making farce of tears upon his cheek.

"Princess," he breathes against her palm as he crushes her into his chest, still half armored and agonized for it as he cannot feel her softness with the cuirass, the leather, the chainmail. There are curves and bosoms and soft flesh he knows too well just on the other side of this awful barrier.

Princess will be her title if his treason succeeds, if her brother wears that cursed crown. “Princess”. It sours her mouth, but it is kind of him to wish it for her.

"You will come back, Harry.” she commands of him, she declares the outcome of this brewing war, “Soaked in the blood of feckless scum, you will come back and put another babe in me. A little prince or princess," she hisses in his ear, and she can tell he freezes at that, her concession to his treason, still as stone in his metal casings.

His eyes are ever so blue as they search hers.

"So I forbid any recklessness, my Lord Husband. Because I want this - " and her hand slips beneath his jerkin and the hem of mail to squeeze his cockstand most assuredly, as assuredly as she was that he would be sporting one for her, gripping it as one might grasp a chalice of wine during a toast "- and the rest of you, in one piece." Harry slumps against her shoulder, panting into the chilled hair and too heavy for her little frame. "Or so help me God." she intones, sharper than any steel he wields. "Swear it, Harry." She gives him another punishing squeeze, and he groans, agonized, as his mouth meets with the softness of her bound bosom, his knees the hardness of the stone cobbles. If she hadn't promised a use for his cock, he'd think she was liable to geld him herself at his presumption to seat and unseat a king, but now that he is out of her grip, for a moment, and looks up at her with such longing he fears his soul has left his chest for hers.

"So help me God." he agrees, it is in providence’s hands, after all, and in Kate’s clasped one’s atop his head.

“Fool.” she says once more as she bends over him, gently pressing a hand to the back of his head, pressing his face to her belly and her chilled fingers to his sopping hair, “It is not my brother these men fight for, nor for me. Not when it is you that calls them to it.”

“For what then?” He mumbles into her womb, hands heavy on her hips, the courtyard’s occupants dispersed into the shadows of the eaves, but a couple dozen peering eyes twinkle towards them in the twilight’s gloom.

“How often have I heard it said here, in this very courtyard.” Kate scoffs, observing the strength knelt so adoringly before her, “Have I dreamed each cry of ‘no prince save he be a Percy?’ Ha, to think they fight for a Mortimer, indeed. Ha!”

Harry staggers to his feet at this poke, it is, as are so many of his Kate’s wounds, half torment, half praise. His blood pounds with the elixir of her acknowledgment of his capability. “It is well then, Kate Mortimer,” he recites, daring now to put his lips very near her own, to nuzzle his strong nose with her hawkish one, to tip a chin and bat an eyelash against her wet cheek, “it is well that you are Percy now yourself, through and through, wed-“ his lips meet hers in a brush she chases after, “-and bred.”

🕯🕯🕯🕯🕯🕯🕯🕯🕯🕯🕯🕯🕯🕯🕯

Hope all five of you who read that enjoyed it. 😆 I know it’s a fragment but as I’m nothing but hyper fixated when some interests resurrects in me, I’ll probably be back with more of them. Drop a note below if you’d like to be on a taglist for such developments.

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stonelord1 · 10 months

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A VISIT TO KING'S LANGLEY

King’s Langley was once home to a massive Plantagenet palace, built out of the remnants of a hunting lodge of Henry III for Edward I’s Queen, Eleanor of Castile. She furnished it lavishly, with carpets and baths. There were shields decorating the hall and a painted picture of four knights going to a tournament, while the expansive gardens were planted with vines. After her death, the palace was…

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canute-saga · 2 years

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old memes archive

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unicornofthemidwest · 2 years

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Shakespeare Characters that ARE Bi pt. 2

Edmund of Gloucester -- He’s trans, he has daddy issues, he has to exist in a grey area of society, he’s neurotic. He’s bisexual.

Puck -- Obviously. Woodsy nonbinary agent of chaos. Doesn’t get more bisexual than that. Bonus points for being one of the characters who’s written as a man but everyone sees them as nonbinary

Parolles -- I know no one else cares about All’s Well but bi Parolles is important to me. Something about trying to conform to patriarchal standards and only finding freedom in realizing that you don’t have to make everyone happy.

Regan & Cornwall -- shitty bi4bi couple. big “My girlfriend and I saw you from across the bar and were really digging your vibe” energy

Richard II -- “Broke the possession of a royal bed” ;)

#shakespeare #shakesqueer #edmund #edmund king lear #king lear #puck #midsummer night's dream #parolles #regan #cornwall #richard ii #bi #bisexual #trans #nonbinary #all's well that ends well

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heartofstanding · 1 year

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I love it when historians go "we need to take this relationship as seriously as this other relationship" before seguing into how the other relationship is totally fake and made up and perpetuated by hack historians.

#ricardians demanding that eleanor talbot and edward iv was real and not a cynical claim by a usurping king...#then saying it should 'at least' be taken as seriously as catherine de valois and owen tudor #and then turning around and arguing that catherine's 'tudor' children were actually fathered by edmund beaufort #a certain edward ii historian making this argument for edward ii and piers gaveston compared to isabella of france and roger mortimer #and then claiming that unlike catherine de valois (apparently)#isabella had too much sense of her royal dignity to fuck roger mortimer who after all wasn't a king like edward ii #(and no i'm not pulling the 'unlike catherine de valois' thing from my arse)#(this historian literally goes 'isabella had too much royal dignity to fuck mortimer #do not cite catherine de valois to me she's an entirely different person')#(fair but it also seems like she's saying a queen would only fuck a non-royal if she didn't have a sense of royal dignity right?)#text posts

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shredsandpatches · 2 years

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sunday snippet (OT3 in training edition)

Forgot to post a Sunday snippet last week so here's a longish one for today. This is set fairly early on in Richard and Anne's marriage, after she's found out about Richard and Robert but also after they've begun working things out. I don't think I've posted it before, at least. I haven't been writing much lately because I've been completely caught up in job-hunting stuff.

Richard hasn’t spent much time alone with Robert since Anne caught them together; he doesn’t want to break things off entirely, and he misses Robert terribly, but he doesn’t want to hurt Anne either, and Anne has not been very clear about her feelings regarding their continued association, even as friends and brothers-in-arms. The three of them have all spent time together, enjoying hunting and hawking and the occasional private supper, but with things still so unsettled, Richard and Robert have both been shy of one another.

Which is why it’s such a great surprise when Richard comes to pay Anne a visit in their private garden, which she has taken to very quickly and where she will sometimes relax after dinner, and finds her walking arm in arm with Robert while a few of her ladies trail behind them, their veils fluttering behind them in the warm breeze. One of them calls out something in their native language and motions to Anne, who takes Robert’s arm and turns him in Richard’s direction. Robert actually pales as he bows, but Anne is beaming as she curtsies.

“If it isn’t my two favorite people in the world!” Richard exclaims, taking Anne’s hand and kissing it. “I hope you haven’t frightened Robert too badly.”

Anne smiles up at Robert. “I think he will recover.” She offers her hand for him to kiss as well. “Will you, my lord of Oxford?”

Robert bows gallantly and raises it to his lips. “If your Highness bids me,” he says.

“I do, my lord,” Anne says. “Will you come hawking with us tomorrow? My lord of Cambridge and his lady gave me a new falcon, and my lord husband says you are skilled in falconry.”

“Of course,” Robert says. “At his Highness’ pleasure.”

Richard smiles. “Always,” he says.

“If my lord will grant it,” Anne says, turning to Richard, “I will take my leave now—I would like to rest, and I have letters from petitioners to look over.”

“Of course,” Richard says. “I’ll see you at supper.”

“Come see me after?” Anne says, her eyes warmly hopeful, and Richard’s heart flutters.

“Whenever you wish,” he says.

Anne’s cheeks go just a little pink. She stands on tiptoe to kiss his cheek, and when Richard bends in, she whispers, “Try to behave yourselves.” But when Richard looks at her face again, she is smiling. “Good afternoon, my lord of Oxford,” she says, and sweeps out of the garden, her ladies behind her. Agnes gives Robert a wry smile and a pat on the arm on her way past, though if she means to flirt with him, Richard doesn’t think she’ll have much luck.

Robert, impervious to Agnes’ affections, sinks onto the stone bench nearby, his expression dazed. “What just happened?” he says.

“Don’t ask me,” Richard says. “I just got here. But I’d guess that Anne likes you.” He smiles. “It looks like at least one of her ladies likes you,” he adds, elbowing Robert hard enough to be teasing but softly enough to still be friendly.

“I didn’t notice,” Robert says. “About her ladies, anyway. But—Diccon, is she all right with us now? After everything?”

Richard’s cheeks flush a little. “Maybe?” he says. “I haven’t had the heart to ask her about the specifics. She was so hurt, Robin—she was afraid I’d never really loved her—”

“Well,” Robert says, “I hope I’ve set her straight for you. She seems like a bright girl, but if she can’t see what’s in front of her—I mean, you’ve talked about practically nothing else since she arrived.”

Richard covers Robert’s hand with his own. “That doesn’t mean I’ve stopped loving you,” he says. “I’ve loved you since before I even knew what that meant. That hasn’t changed, Robin. I asked Anne to trust me, before. I need you to trust me, too.”

“It’s not that I don’t trust you,” Robert says. “I just don’t know how long we can keep this up, now that you’re married. Or how long the Queen will tolerate it.”

“It will help if you get to know her better,” Richard says. “What did she tell you?”

“That she knew I’d lain with you,” Robert says. “I’m surprised she’d even heard that that was possible. Maybe she’s heard the Wycliffites grumbling about it. They seem to like her.”

Richard huffs a little, dislodging a pebble from the ground with his toe and watching it skitter across the garden path. “She could have learned about it from us, you know. And shut up about the Wycliffites. She’s not a heretic.”

“No, I suppose not,” Robert says.

“She just asked you about us, just like that?”

Robert smirks. “I mean, we didn’t get into the specifics of it. Though maybe she would have enjoyed knowing, who can say? But she wanted me to know that she knows, I think.” He looks down at his shoes, reaches down, plucks a daisy and sticks it in Richard’s hair. “She could destroy us, you know. Like your great-grandmother did to your great-grandfather. It’s not as though there aren’t people who’d want front-row seats if I ever got myself disemboweled. And yet—I don’t think she will.”

“Anne is nothing like my great-grandmother,” Richard says. “Nothing at all. I told you, back when we were first married: she wants to love you, as I do.”

“That’s exactly what she told me,” Robert says. “That I am beloved of you, and that through her love for you, she must also love me.” He shakes his head, baffled. “She’s not what I expected, Richard. I didn’t know wives could be quite like that.” He shrugs, then, and gives a little snort. “Mine certainly isn’t.”

Richard makes a little noise that’s meant to be a laugh but doesn’t get there. “How do you even know that?” he says. “When was the last time you talked to her?”

“It was—” Robert pauses. “A while ago? I don’t know. I don’t especially want to talk about it.”

He is the one who brought Philippa up in the first place, but Richard lets that pass. “I’m just saying,” he says. “Being married actually isn’t bad at all, you know. I’m sure you and Philippa could also work something out, while I work things out with Anne.” He nudges Robert again, grinning. “You know, before Agnes gets her hopes up too much.”

“What are you talking about?” Robert says.

“Anne’s lady-in-waiting—the blonde one, with freckles. I think she likes you.” Richard grins. “Clearly a woman of discriminating taste.” He leans over and kisses Robert, quickly, on the lips. “She can’t have you, though.”

Robert laughs. “I told you,” he says. “I’m a King’s man, through and through.”

#the novelthing #sunday snippet #richard ii #otp: my derlyng is a bundel of myrre to me #otp: such a passionate fling for a virgin king #ot3: 'tis two rogues i love #btw 'my lord of cambridge' is edmund langley who isn't duke of york yet in 1382 #also: richard has a tendency to be oddly approving when someone has a crush on someone he loves #he consistently compliments their taste #he says the same thing about both ralph stafford and agnes in re: anne #this is a sign that he's really trusting of his partners #so like #of course people love them #they're really lovable!

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withasideofshakespeare · 2 months

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#shakespeare #polls #woah! more Shakespeare polls??#I’m in a very Shakespeare-y mood right now #as a neurodivergent queer and disabled person #my answer is all of the above #I might have to sit on this one actually #I *think* my answer is Edmund

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royaltysimblr · 11 days

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Royal Consorts of Windenburg

Lady Anne Wiltshire, Queen Consort - Wife of King James IV

Princess Adelaide of Schwerin, Queen Consort - Wife of King Charles I

Lady Matilda Carlton, Queen Consort - Wife of King Charles II

Princess Ophelia of Lausanne, Queen Consort - Wife of King James V

Princess Carolina of Mannheim, Queen Consort - Wife of King James VI

Princess Augusta of Augsburg, Queen Consort - Wife of King Charles III

Edward Woodville, 2nd Duke of Wilmington, Prince Consort - Husband of Queen Matilda II

Princess Wilhelmine of Platz, Queen Consort - Wife of King Joseph III

Princess Sophie of Dresden, Queen Consort - Wife of King Joseph IV

Princess Leilani of Sulani, Princess of the Isle - Late Wife of King Edmund VIII

Princess Odette of Brichester, Queen of the Isle - Wife of King Edmund IX

Princess Josephina of Corrilea (@theroyalsofcorrilea), Queen Consort - King George I

Charles Statford, 7th Earl of Statford, Prince Consort - Husband of Queen Mary II

Sir Philip Statford, Prince Consort - Husband of Queen Alexandra II

Princess Marina of Brindleton, Queen Consort - Wife of King Albert II

Princess Margaret of Antwerp, Queen Consort - Wife of King George III

Lady Cecelia Warren, Queen Consort - Wife of King William II

Princess Caroline of Brindleton - Wife of King George IV

Lord Oliver Montgomery (@thestenhams), Prince Consort - Husband of Queen Mary III

inspired by the lovely @funkyllama @thegrimalldis and @warwickroyals

#statfordlegacy #royalty #ts4 legacy #ts4 #sims4 #legacy #sims legacy #ts4 history #ts4 historical #sims 4 royalty #sims 4 royals #the sims #history #historical #ts4 history story

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trentonsimblr · 7 days

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Queen Jordyn, First Queen of Trenton - Wife of King Epidarius the Great, First King of Trenton

Queen Olena, Duchess of Glassworth - Wife of King Ekert

King Kellen, King Jure Uxoris - Husband of Queen Edwena

Princess Carolina, Queen Consort - Wife of King Ezequiel

Princess Theódóra, Queen Consort - Wife of King Edmund I

King Hubertus, King Jure Uxoris - Husband of Queen Eleanora

Princess Raziela, Queen Consort - Wife of King Edison

Princess Noel, Queen Consort - Wife of King Enric

Princess Luvunia, Princess of Westburg* - Wife of King Emmitt

King Wendel, King Jure Uxoris - Husband of Queen Elfriede

Queen Magdalena, Duchess of Glassworth - Wife of King Ellington

Queen Lisbeth, Duchess of Glassworth - Wife of King Ezra I

Princess Marise, Princess of Westburg* - 1st Wife of King Edwyn

Princess Antónia, Duchess of Kent** - 3rd Wife of King Edwyn

Queen Amelia (@royaltysimblr), Duchess of Glassworth - Wife of King Edaric

Princess Geraldine, Queen Consort - Wife of King Emmanuel

Queen Seraphina, Duchess of Glassworth - Wife of King Ephraim

Queen Aliona, Queen Consort - Wife of King Evander

Lady Cora, Queen Consort - Wife of King Edmund II

Lord Ricardo, Prince Consort - Husband to Queen Emelina

Queen Gabriela, Queen Consort - Wife of King Ezra II

Prince Nathanael, Duke of Glassworth - Husband to Queen Elizabeth

*Died before husband became king but included because they are the mother to the following monarch

**Antónia did not receive the title of Queen or Queen Consort as she never produced an heir (child with lavender eyes). If she had, Edwyn would have made her Queen.

I jumped on the consort portrait bandwagon inspired by @funkyllama, @warwickroyals, @thegrimalldis, and everyone else that has done one. I also took portraits of all of the monarchs so stay tuned for that post!

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wallboys · 1 year

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IT WAS ALMOST LIKE THE SONGS

sansa vi, a storm of swords, g.r.r.m // god speed, edmund leighton // sansa iv, a clash of kings, g.r.r.m // lamia and the soldier, john william waterhouse // samwell iv, a feast for crows, g.r.r.m. // reunited, guillaume seignac // daenerys iv, a clash of kings, g.r.r.m. // joan of arc, john everett millais // daenerys ii, a dance with dragons, g.r.r.m.

for @jeyneofpoole ♥️

#when the hero has a girl’s face what is the princess to do but realize she likes girls ‼️#happy velaryontine’s day ro!!#web weaving #asoiaf #a song of ice and fire #valyrianscrolls #dany stormborn #daenerys targaryen #sansa stark #daensa #dany x sansa

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bladeofdreadfort · 4 months

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The Godfather Part II // Succession, s04e08 // In Time of Peril by Edmund Blair Leighton, 1897 // The Sopranos, s06e17 // Mother by Maia Baia // A Storm of Swords, Chapter 66, Tyrion IX // Farewell by Edmund Blair Leighton, 1922 // The King's Daughter by Eduard Veith, 1902

#alicent hightower #aegon ii targaryen #otto hightower #house of the dragon #hotd #team green #house hightower #welighttheway #my dysfunctional family #[mine]

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nothinggold13 · 1 year

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On Peter and Violence

I think there’s two popular fanon camps regarding Peter Pevensie’s relationship with violence, and though there are certainly plenty of others who, like me, would disagree with both of them, it is those two versions of Peter that I keep seeing pop up again and again.

The first is that of the powerful, raging, warrior king: the version of Peter that speaks more to his mythologized persona within the books than the Peter we actually witness and interact with inside the narrative. His temper is hot, and his sword is fast, and his legacy is soaked in blood. It’s this Peter that lends itself so readily to the (equally fanon) idea that Edmund is the more diplomatic of the two.

The second is that of the pacifist. This idea of Peter is opposed to violence, and only fights under great duress, or because he has been given no other choice; it’s the version of his character that people have snatched from a deleted scene in the “Prince Caspian” film in which he claims he is “thinking about a career in medicine,” and in doing so, distances himself from the war back home. (Although, I would also blame the PC film for the angry, impulsive version of Peter who dominates too much of the fandom; that movie’s interpretation of him is a tragedy.)

Now, of the two, I would prefer the second. It’s at least marginally truer to the boy who “didn’t feel very brave” but did his duty in “The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe,” and I appreciate that. However, I also have a personal vendetta against the extreme version of this viewpoint which prioritizes Peter’s peaceful nature over his dutiful courage, and this is why I’m writing out what I believe are the nuances of his character that sometimes get overlooked in favour of idolizing either his strength or his softness.

There is a statement in my mind to describe him that I avoid using, because I know it requires more context than I usually want to give, but here and now, we’ll call it my thesis: Peter prefers problems he can hit.

I don’t think Peter is a violent character. Genuinely, I don’t. And so I imagine those two statements seem pretty contradictory, because how can he not be violent, if violence is also the ideal solution to his problems?

Well, here’s the thing: Peter’s growing up in a war. Heck, he’s growing up in two.

He’s thirteen in the first book, and World War II is breaking out above him, and, more than that, there is nothing he can do about it. What could he do? He’s a kid.

And then, suddenly, he’s in a new world. They tell him he’s meant to be there. They give him a sword, and he takes it silently. They tell him he will be king.

We see him in his fight with the wolf: “Peter did not feel very brave; indeed, he felt he was going to be sick. But that made no difference to what he had to do.” We are told there that violence is not something he takes to lightly; it is a matter of duty for him: to the country that stands behind him, and his sister who is in harm’s way.

He fights a battle. Years pass, and he fights more. He returns to the war he is powerless to fight against, and then finds himself King again, where he comes up with a plan to fight a duel which -- if everything had gone to plan -- would have put no one but himself at risk.

Yes, Peter is steeped in violence. C. S. Lewis tells us at the end of “The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe,” that he is a “great warrior,” and when he is mentioned in “The Horse and His Boy,” it is said he’s off battling giants. He is High King, and as such, he has to be a soldier. He chooses to be a soldier. He consistently fights, especially so that others may not have to. He fights to protect. To shield. To provide freedom.

And then he goes back home, and is trapped under war again.

Depending on his birthday, Peter turns eighteen around the time of the end of World War II, meaning I have no reason to believe he ever fought within it; however, National Service continued after the war. And this is where I thought that Peter, ever being driven by duty, would sign up without question. It’s what would be expected of him. And, even more, it’s what he’s been doing for years for a country that isn’t his anymore; how could he not do the same for England?

(I put that in a fic. I had a scene where Peter, freshly eighteen, confessed to Susan he would still have to serve, and Susan said, “But not in the war, and I’m glad of that.” And then -- because it was what Peter did within canon time and time again -- I had him tell her, “But I hope you understand that I’d fight for you. For all of you. If my fighting had any chance of helping to keep you all safe, I would go.” ......And somebody told me that was out of character.)

I don’t mind if somebody really likes the idea of Peter becoming a doctor rather than a soldier. Truly, I understand the appeal. But I do have a problem when somebody tells me I’m wrong for believing Peter would continue to do what he had always canonically done after coming back to England.

Because Peter does have a relationship with violence. He doesn’t have a love for it, but he has been tangled in the necessity of it too many times not to follow through when it needs to be done.

And what happens when you raise a boy in war? What happens when you let him fight it? What happens when he learns the chain reaction: fight the battle, win the war, set them free? And then what happens when you put him into situations that can’t be solved with his hands? Give him enemies he can’t fight? Give him wars he can’t be a part of?

And that’s what I mean by “Peter prefers problems he can hit.”

Not that Peter rushes to violence when it isn’t called for, or that he craves war when he finds himself in peace, or anything else of that angry, vicious nature that some people have come to believe--- Gosh, I think Peter would far rather lay the sword down than ever have to pick it up again.

(But it’s what he does. Time after time.)

Peter is a big brother, ever looking after the others. Peter is the High King, ever doing what Narnia requires. Peter is the loyal servant, ever following Aslan’s instruction. Even if it scares him, it’s what he does.

So I don’t think he likes feeling helpless. I think he likes knowing what to do, and I think intangible problems drive him a little crazy, and I think a sword is a very physical thing that has served him well too many times.

Despite my very obvious complaints against “Prince Caspian’s” movie characterization here, I have to say that this is something I love about “The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe.” Peter’s older in the film than he is in the book. He’s closer to going to war himself. And what do we see him do? We see him distracted by passing soldiers-- not much older than himself. We see him reading on the train: “Biggles Goes To War.” We see him consumed by the war, even up to the point that he mimics WWII battle strategies against the Witch’s army.

This is the Peter I’m talking about: the one who feels sick at violence, and shakes and cries and hugs his sisters when its done, and yet...... does it. Every time.

I feel like there’s a dozen things I may be missing, but I think that’s the gist: Peter’s an unwilling soldier who doesn’t know how to put down his sword.

He’s a great warrior, but not an indiscriminate one. He’s a gentle spirit, but not a passive one. Violence made him, but he is so much more than his violent acts. He’s complex. He’s dutiful. He’s faithful. He’s capable. He fights because he has to, and as long as it’s asked of him, he will continue to do it.

So that’s where I stand. That’s why I may seem to show contradictory versions of Peter throughout my fics and edits and commentary; why I may say he’s not violent and then paint an image of him that ties him to violence anyway.

Whether you disagree is your prerogative. This is, by nature, a nuance-based take, and while I do think there’s wrong interpretations of Peter Pevensie out there, I also believe that there is a lot of room within that nuance for various interpretations to be equally right. This isn’t me making an end-all-and-be-all analysis that everyone else must follow to the letter.

This is just me explaining -- for myself or for anyone else who cares to listen -- what I believe, and how it affects the things I create. <3 So there’s my take on Peter’s complicated relationship with violence: the way it coats him, and yet, doesn’t define him: the way he’s so softhearted, and yet not himself without it.

“For never since we four were Kings and Queens in Narnia have we set our hands to any high matter, as battles, quests, feats of arms, acts of justice, and the like, and then given over; but always what we have taken in hand, the same we have achieved." ~Peter [The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe: Chapter XVII: The Hunting of the White Stag]

Disclaimer: none of this is anti-Aslan “look how he traumatized this poor boy” propaganda, and if that is your viewpoint, kindly do not interact with this post. :)

#narnia #the chronicles of narnia #peter pevensie #the lion the witch and the wardrobe #prince caspian #look at me :) I made a new post

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