#edward the spider is self aware somehow..

[mapsofthingsremembered]

23 Things from 2023

Yet another list of media that was important to me in 2023- films, television, novels, short stories, comics, and music.

Films, New

The Boy and the Heron, Hayao Miyazaki

Both the best movie of the year (in a good year for movies) and one of the best films Miyazaki has ever made. A masterpiece, deranged and elusive and personal and timeless, completely unafraid to challenge the audience to stare into the weirdest and most unsettling aspects of being a human. The kind of film you are excited to watch again while you are watching it.

The Holdovers, Alexander Payne

Either a deeply cynical film hiding a warm sentimental heart, or a sappy Christmas film that masks a bitter and biting worldview.

Spider-Man: Across the Spiderverse, Joaquim Dos Santos, Justin K. Thompson, Kemp Powers

Everything about this film should be completely exhausting and exhausted-- self-aware superhero myth re-arraganging, multiverse shenanigans, Spider-Man as a lens for a coming-of-age story-- and yet somehow it managed to do something original, remain interesting, and push a completely tired genre into places nobody asked for. In the year that superhero filmmaking died, this film managed to not only be survive, but feel completely essential.

May December, Todd Haynes

Unsettling, hilarious, bizarre, deeply biting satire. A situational comedy populated by freaks and perverts.

The Killer, David Fincher

It's worth watching this film multiple times. On the first viewing, it feels thin, slight, simplistic. But re-watching, the craftsmanship that Fincher achieves is a part of the text itself, just as important as the bare-bones plot and characterization. The Killer is Fincher becoming more and more himself, descending into his own mania and obsessivness.

Everything from The Creator that worked, Gareth Edwards.

While several films came out this year were "better" than The Creator- the aspects of this film were successful represent some of the most imaginative filmmaking of the year.

Does the films ideas concerning AI hold water? No, but then neither does Star Wars or Blade Runner or 95% of the films that have come out in the past fifty years that attempt to address aritificial intelligence in any way.

Do the central relationships of the film work in keeping us invested in the story? (Sorta) Does the story hang together to form a satisfying, well-structured whole? (Almost) Does the film attempt to address a set of themes in a hamfisted way that feels like the writers were just a couple of months behind where the discourse around AI would end up when the movie came out? (Yup). Am I an easy mark for a film that uses a Radiohead song to score a scene that is a direct reference to Apocalypse Now? (Definitely)

And yet, I kind of still feel like it's a great film. Maybe flawed, maybe uneven, yet still containing moments that are simply sublime, a combination of the practical and CGI that achieves what a dozen other franchise films failed to do: it feels both real and vast and original and exciting. It wasn't the best film of the year by any stretch of the imagination, but it still deserved better.

Honorable mentions in 2023 film:

Poor Things (funniest movie of the year?) Killers of the Flower Moon Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles: Mutant Mayhem How to Blow Up a Pipeline Beau is Afraid When Evil Lurks (most frightening movie of the year?) Theater Camp

Films, Old (But New to Me)

The Apartment, Billy Wilder (1960)

This film is much stranger and darker than you would expect going into it. It somehow straddles multiple eras; the stagey, bright, artificiality of classic old Hollywood, but with a haunted, mournful soul that anticipates that darkness and cynicism of the late 60s and new Hollywood.

A New Leaf, Elaine May (1971)

Elaine May both directed this film and casted herself as a loveable dope that Walter Mathau is trying to murder. It's funny and sweet and overlooked.

The films of Park Chan Wook, in particular Decision to Leave (2022)

I watched most of Park Chan-Wook's films, and among a lot of standouts (Lady Vengeance and The Handmaiden in particular), his most recent film stuck with me. It's a good summation of some of the psychological acrobatics his films can achieve, a murder mystery that is also a love story.

Paper Moon, Peter Bogdanovich (1973)

It's kind of funny that Ryan O'Neal essentially plays the same character as the role he would play in Barry Lyndon, a scoundrel con-man that uses his charm to finance a nomadic lifestyle, perpetually fleeing problems created by his own stupidity. He's a loveable himbo liar in both, but in Paper Moon, he gets to act next to his real-life daughter. The depth that this pairing creates makes for something genuinely unique and special.

Honorable Mentions in Old Film:

The Piano, Jane Campion (1993) Barton Fink, Joel and Ethan Coen (1991) Dead Ringers, David Cronenberg (1988) PlayTime, Jacques Tati (1967) One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest, Milos Forman (1975) Prisoners, Denis Villenueve (2013) The Innocents, Jack Clayton (1961)

Television, New

Scavenger's Reign (HBO)

The title of this show might be dumb, but I don't care. It's the best television show of the year, or at least my favorite. Admittedly, I'm kind of out on television in general; I don't think a lot of what is getting produced is justifying its runtime as much as its stalling for time. But then a show like Scavengers Reign comes along, an exploration of what an alien biosphere might be like that is as specifically rendered and wildly innovative as any science fiction in recent memory. It's a rare instance of television being used to accomplish something that could only be created in television-- a set of visual ideas developed over an extended series of episodes that builds to something both bizarre and somehow also moving.

Succession, Season 4

Succession is a show about how the levers of power and influence are manipulated at the highest levels of the capitalist plutocracy we live in by broken bufoons unable to recognize their own flaws and shortcomings. It's also simply very funny, and very sad, and very human. It's one of the best shows ever made, and its ending (along with the next entry's ending) feels like we've closed the chapter on Peak TV.

Barry, Season 4

Smaller in scope but just as much of an achievment than Succession, Barry developed from something grimly funny but fairly straightforward into something sad and twisted and uncompromisingly complex. In the final season, it took its influences-- the films of the Coen brothers, Breaking Bad, The Sopranos, Tarantino, sketch comedy-- and turned them inside out, making something entirely different, less digestible, and perfectly bleak.

Honorable Mentions in 2023 Television

Beef Poker Face

Music

The Talking Heads, 1973-1991, in particular the music in the film Stop Making Sense (1984).

Really didn't listen to much music this last year, which is something I'd like to change this year. The one artist I really explored this year that I haven't in the past is the Talking Heads. If you can see Stop Making Sense in theaters, do it-- it lives up to its reputation as one of the greatest concert films of all time.

Books, Old and New

Drive Your Plow Over The Bones of the Dead, by Olga Tokarczuk (2009)

The narrator of this novel is a bat-shit crazy woman obsessed with astrology and the poetry of William Blake; she's funny and interesting and insightful even as the full degree of her insanity slowly develops. It's also a murder mystery with a genuinely surprising twist (don't look it up on Wikipedia, the first line of the description spoils it).

We Have Always Lived in the Castle, Shirley Jackson (1962)

The final novel written by the author of "The Lottery" and The Haunting of Hill House. Careens between psychological thriller and comedy and outright horror. The kind of book that more people should read.

A Canticle for Leibowitz, Walter M. Miller Jr (1959)

An "important" science fiction novel I've been putting off your years. It's both funnier and less dated than I expected it would be, and while some of the societal concerns it addresses may have shifted, it remains prescient in a way that truly great science fiction can even decades after being published.

The Troop, Nick Cutter (2014)

It's rare that a novel genuinely scares me, but this one did. Coming-of-age body horror that evokes Alien and Lord of the Flies and Cronenberg and Stand By Me.

Short Stories

I read a lot of short stories this year; the following are a few that stood out. All of them were in collections that are equally worth checking out.

Murder Mysteries, Neil Gaiman (1992)

Not the kind of murder mystery you'd expect. From Trigger Warning, 2015.

Nine Lives, Ursula K. LeGuin (1968)

Doesn't involve cats at all. (Also very good.) From The Wind's Twelve Quarters, 1975.

"Pearls Are A Nuisance", Raymond Chandler (1953)

One of Chandler's short mysteries; it plays with tone and voice in a way that sets it apart from his other short mysteries (which are also great.) From The Simple Art of Murder, 1950.

Comics, Old and New

The Nice House on the Lake, James Tynion IV (Author) and Alvaro Martinez Bueno (Illustrator)- DC Comics (2021-2023)

Comics usually don't have the depth or focus of a novel; as often as not they feel like a weekly serial meant to extend forever without really going anywhere. But The Nice House on the Lake felt purposeful and sharp in a way that comics rarely do. Like alot of the comics I like the most, it exists in a middle space between genres-- it's equal parts post-apocalyptic sci-fi and puzzle-box mystery and a tale of a sprawling friend group muddling their way through their mid-twenties. Honorable Mentions, Comics Eight Billion Genies, Charles Soule and Ryan Browne (2022-23) Gotham City: Year One, Tom King and Phil Hester (2022-23)

Nausicaä of the Valley of the Wind, Hayao Miyazaki (1982-1994)

I guess it was a year of Miyazaki for me. After watching Nausicaa last year, I decided to check out the manga that Miyazaki wrote both before, during, and after the 1984 film . It's the first full manga series I've ever finished. The manga expands the narrative way beyond the 1984 film; it's more vast and epic and complex and nuanced, sci-fi/fantasy that has as much in common with Lord of the Rings and the French illustrator Moebius as any contemporary anime. You could view the rest of Miyazaki's career as an exploration of the themes and imagery that began with in Nausicaä, and it's really worth going back to, even as the end of Miyazaki's career looms.

[anthropwashere]

our indestructible days ch 5

ch 1 | ch 2 | ch 3 | ch 4

All Ed can hear is screaming—hundreds of souls all tangled together in a deafening, incomprehensible choir. He's got no idea how Ling dealt with this shit for so long without totally cracking up. Either he and Greed get along a lot better than it shows, or Ling was just that crazy from the start. Never mind. Now's not the time to theorize. He's gotta get in the fight. They have to stop Father now or not at all.

He claps, intending to transmute the cracked and scorched concrete into spikes aimed for that weird energy shield, but freezes at the first glimpse of alchemical discharge around his hands. Red. Right. Better to hold off transmuting until he figures out if there's a way to avoid using Pride's goddamn Stone. Instead he shakes his hands free of any tingling and closes the gap to hurl his automail fist at the shield as hard as he can. The impact nearly winds him, as it nearly does anytime he puts that much effort into through the automail around. It sure as hell feels like he did more damage to his arm than to the shield, but whatever. Better he pay out the nose for a new arm when they all survive this rather than risk using the Stone. Winry'll understand.

[What are you doing?!]

The razor edge of Pride's—self? awareness? what do you call the part of a homunculus that would be called a soul in a human?—batters at his mind like gale force winds. It's a headache and heartburn and something so much worse than either. He trips over his own feet, or maybe his feet trip over him? He's not the swirl of shadow and gnashing teeth catching at his heels but it's still a part of him somehow. He doesn't know how the transference from Pride's Stone to outside his body happens but he can feel the ground beneath their shadow and he can feel the shadow pooling in his chest. He's got a fucking Philosopher's Stone grafted to his heart and a homunculus oozing around his cardiovascular system. No wonder Greed calls Pride a monster. The Ultimate Shield's a goddamn party trick compared to this.

He shakes his head, squinting through pain that's migraine-adjacent. Not now. He's got bigger things to worry about.

"Forcing you to pick a side!" He hollers, pummeling at the shield again and again, and once more for good measure. Some piece of his hand goes flying. Something grinds in his elbow; scarcely heard, felt through his port like an electric shock of warning. Too bad. He rears back and punches that scrabbling inch harder that really does wind him, at least for a moment.

[You're insane!]

Ed's grin is all teeth. Like he hasn't heard that one a hundred times before?

Teacher swings in startlingly close, bloodied but focused and furious and sprinting faster than he's ever seen her move. Blue light arcs between her hands, stone twisting like clay with a thought into a pair of swords. Ed has to push down a stupid twinge of jealousy at the display. Her eyes meet his as the light dies. "It's about time you showed up, Ed!"

Ed tries to warn her but Pride steals back control before he can do more than inhale. "Not quite," Pride calls out in an absurd, echoing sing-song. The shadow at his feet arcs out and up, a jagged wing that slams between the bristling shield and Teacher's blades before she can land a hit. She barely skids to a halt in time, spinning on her heel to gawk outrage at him. Ed feels his face twist in a crazed grin, then his vision goes stupid as even more eyes fan out across the shadow.

She's gonna kill him if they survive this.

Ed wrestles back enough control to stagger back, dragging the shadow like so much dead weight with him. "Damn it, don't do that!"

Pride doesn't answer but most of the eyes wink out. He trips over his feet-shadow-something again as his own watering eyes struggle to focus while five other eyes he can see through roam every which way but where he's trying to look. He blinks and finds himself on his hands and knees with no memory of falling down. Eyes meet eyes and there's no his-versus-Pride's, it's just their perspective. If he moves he will puke, and he has no idea if it'll be the meager breakfast he had at dawn or chunks of the soldiers Pride's shadows minced that'll come up. He really doesn't want to find out.

Major Armstrong and Teacher are doing their utmost to beat through Father's shield. Reactionary light from their every attack stabs his vision, damningly red. He swallows, and swallows again. He's gotta get up. One of them's gotta get up. They're sitting ducks right now. If Father takes an opening he'll definitely try to take Pride's Stone again, and he has no idea what that'd do to him, and there's no way in hell he's gonna leave Al in a million pieces let alone still stuck to that stupid fucking suit of armor—

Greedling jumps in out of nowhere, throwing a carbon-coated punch that lands a neat blow not against the shield but against Father's suddenly raised forearm—and sticks. Ed thinks Hohenheim shouts something but can't make it out over the screaming in his head-heart-Stone. Instead he just kneels there, dumbstruck, as Greedling is almost literally absorbed by Father and then subsequently knocked aside when Lan Fan leaps in to raise some hell. Something about that brief connection—conflict?—seems to have hurt Father in a way all the other attacks haven't yet, because right after that he curls in on himself like a dying spider with no sign of recreating that shield of his.

Pride hisses. [Oh no.]

Father screams, a guttural and senseless bellow of pain that rings throughout the parade field. More red alchemical light lashes out of him, a blinding burst of humming energy that chews through their shadow before the backlash bowls Ed over. He musters half a scream before he's—they're—sent flying. He knows there's pain, more than the there-and-gone scrape and bruise of his body as it's rolled and dragged along bare concrete and sharp-edged rubble. He feels their shadow burn in the light of this strange explosion. His skin burns too, maybe. His arm makes a splintered squeal that feels like a knitting needle's been jammed deep into his port which means something crucial just broke. He hears the souls of who knows how many dead Xerxesians groaning and crying and screaming, and Pride's screaming too, and maybe that's Kimblee laughing? What about Major Armstrong? And Teacher? What about Al and Mei? Donkey Kong and Piggy? Lieutenant Hawkeye and Mustang? All those Briggs soldiers? He doesn't know if they're okay. For all these fucking eyes he's got now he can't see. 

Please, don't let it be only him that survives this. Please, don't let anybody else die because he fucked up.

=

His Stone, despite having been reduced to a handful of guttering embers, can still muster up the power to heal this body's broken ribs and myriad contusions. Edward has fled, intentionally or otherwise, into his Stone and so this body is his to do as he pleases for the moment, and for the particular moment he has no intention of doing anything more than staying prone and catching his breath. His true self had burned to ash in the wake of Father's startling loss of control, and so he's reduced to viewing the battlefield through this body's stinging eyes alone. He can't see. He doesn't know where Father's gone. He doesn't know who will attempt to attack Father next. He doesn't know if he has the speed or strength left in him to protect Father even if he did. 

Even if he did. Even if he did, it's clear to him now—Father is losing control.

Father is losing.

Without the souls of all of Amestris to power his Stone and with all these living Amestrians doing their damnedest to wear him, Father's had no choice but to waste his own Stone on protecting his new body rather than make any progress toward regaining what power Van Hohenheim had dared steal from him.

How strange it is, to see how little it's taken to wear Father down to desperate measures.

Edward demanded he choose a side. Fight with Father, or against. What can he do? He must choose, and now, before either side recovers. The meanest glimpse of the battlefield is enough to determine who the victor will inevitably be. Still, Pride is nothing if not cunning. He has spent centuries in the shadows, calculating odds, gambling on the corruption inherent in all mortal men. A glimpse is all he needs.

If Father wins this battle, killing or absorbing every last human soul, he's already shown his true colors. He'll take Pride's Stone to save his own skin, never mind centuries of loyalty. It wouldn't be a true death, but it would be a death of the self all the same.

If Father fails today, then Pride and Greed will be the last of the homunculi. They've survived this long solely thanks to the human bodies they've bound their Stones to. Greed, the humans might well deign to spare; he's been a coward and a turncoat since the day Father excised him. But him? Pride has been nothing but faithful. If Father fails today then so too will Pride. If he runs then the humans will hunt him down purely for Edward's sake. They'll kill him truly, burn him out of this flesh as Edward has tried to do already. They've already killed most of his siblings. True deaths. Final deaths.

What kind of choice is he left with?

When the dust settles and Pride's Stone has finished healing Edward's body, Pride dares to grow tendrils of himself again. He strains in every direction, disoriented and unwilling to trust this body's senses any more than he must. His nose finds Father before his eyes, and when his eyes hone in on the still-strange shape he stills. Father is staring right at him. Not at Edward's body but at him. Father knows, somehow, that he's taken Edward's body for his own, and knows too that he would benefit from killing them both. He watches Father lurch toward them, black smoke dribbling from his slack mouth. Not smoke. Himself. He's clinging to control of God's power, and he's slipping.

"A Stone!" Father groans, wide-eyed and staggering. "A Stone! A Philosopher's Stone!"

He's become a shadow of himself; a pitiable shell of a god, hollowed out and scoured raw. Pride stares, unable to discern whether this turmoil knotting his new organs is pity or disdain.

"Edward!" Van Hohenheim shouts across some great distance. "Get out! Now!"

Easy enough for the old fool to say. He's not the one Father's after anymore. 

He feels the rebar pierced neatly through their left arm, his Stone healing the wound just so it can open again with his every twitch. It hurts. It hurts. His Selim container could feel echoes of sensations, enough to cheat convincingly, and human adults always made presumptions when it came to children's feelings anyway. This body has startled him with its capacity for pain at every turn. Even with the rest of its injuries healed he feels—echoes. Phantom sensations. Nerves throbbing with the memory of hurt. His skin itches; from sweat and dirt, yes, but from something more than that too. Their lungs are strong, their ribs healed, and still Pride chooses to sit where the crooked rebar has pinned their arm. He shies away from further pain even as their cardiovascular system throbs concern. 

He hears Alphonse Elric shout, though the boy's shrill voice is snatched away on a gust of wind. He hears panic, not the individual words. Whatever he's saying hardly matters. It's some familial concern, as if one explosion could possibly be enough to kill Edward anymore. Disregard the other boy; he'll only matter if they survive this damned day.

Pride shifts, wincing when he feels the rebar tug in their arm. Their automail arm is limp at their side. Not in pieces, but broken enough that even the minute responses he's managed before this would be a welcome change of pace. He doubts Edward would have much better luck manipulating it. At a glance he sees less a mechanical prosthetic and more an arm-shaped heap of scrap metal. He feels too, Edward stirring in his Stone, consciousness not so much fumbled for as bullied. He concedes control mostly so to avoid this strange burning-tingling sensation in their shoulder.

Edward groans, shaking their head and blinking rapidly, squinting further when Pride inches out a coil of shadow to gain a better angle on the state of the automail. Edward seems sluggish, disoriented, and so Pride ignores him for the few seconds he can spare. The arm is what's important. If Edward—if they—are to fight Father, then Greed has already proven how dangerous direct physical contact is. The automail seems exempt from that and Edward has proven infuriatingly reluctant to transmute anything at the risk of their Stone. The arm's their one sure weapon, and it's so much limp metal grafted to their shoulder now. 

Edward shifts, trying to force the arm to cooperate. The shoulder twitches, and creaks for its effort. The sound it makes is strangely muted; a dulled clunk that nevertheless seems startlingly loud in the silence after Father's inadvertent explosion. The fingers attempt a fist well enough and the shoulder hunches when he tells it to do so, but everything in-between remains frustratingly, terrifyingly inert. 

Pride peels himself off the ground, curling serpentine to better direct his glare. "How did it break?!" He demands through a mouth in his shadow alone despite knowing the answer. Steel alloys are strong, but Father has dragged God Himself down from his lofty perch; even his defenses are sturdy enough to tear metal asunder. Never mind the how, they're running out of time. He has three eyes watching Father's approach. He wishes it were more, too used to working with and from a dozen different angles at a minimum, but for the sake of urgency he's conceding to this body's infuriating nausea and minimizing where he can. As if the boy will ever thank him.

 Edward's physical eyes are riveted on Father too. "Rebound off his little meltdown," he says, matter of fact. "I'm surprised the whole thing didn't shatter."

Down an arm then, and Father's only yards away. "Get up! Run!"

Edward proves how insane he is once more by laughing, then jerking hard on their left arm. Red light crackles, hair raising along their skin. "Can't."

"My Stone can heal that easily. Get up!"

Edward does try, in his insipid, human flailing way. All he earns them is a hot rush of pain that leaves even their shadow gasping for breath. Metal scraping against bone is a uniquely awful experience Pride dearly wishes he had no context for, but here he is and here they are, and Father has now lurched that much closer. Pride spasms, growing teeth. "We don't have time for this. I'll cut the automail off—"

"Don't you dare."

Alphonse is still screaming, high and desperate, but the words aren't worth attending to. Pride sinks some, eyes on Father who is so, so close. Still croaking his desperation for another Stone. There's no trace of the cunning creature he's deferred to all these years. This thing is scrabbling and stupid. This thing is shameful. He averts their eyes, focusing wholly on Edward. "We'll die otherwise," he says.

Edward, stubborn as he is, grits his teeth and yanks on his left arm harder. Pain lances through the port and deep into their chest. They gasp equally, fingers and toes curling. "You do that, I'll hand us over to him," he says.

Pride gawks. They're running out of time but he has no choice but to gawk. "You wouldn't."

As answer Edward only throws him a crooked grin. Try me.

Fuck.

Fucking goddamn motherfucking shit.

Kimblee laughs. It's good to know somebody's enjoying all of this.

"Don't fight me this time!" Pride takes control before Edward can waste time with stupid questions. He grits their teeth, tensing despite knowing tension will make this all the more painful. Coward, Kimblee called him. That inaccuracy, his derision, chafes. Pride has no capacity for fear. He is, and has always been, pragmatic above all else. He tenses and strains and rips their left arm free. Steel dragged against bone and muscle and veins that scarcely bleed before healing perfectly. In his head-Stone Edward screams; he ignores it and runs.

Father must die today. This is a fact that chafes despite its logic. Centuries of loyalty—well. It's only right that it chafes now. But Pride is a pragmatic creature, and Edward has always put Alphonse's safety above his own. They can at least agree that dying now would be an infuriating waste of time. Father must die, and here Pride must aid that sentence. Fine. Fine. It's only fair. One good turn deserves another, doesn't it?

He'll worry himself with what might come after if they make it that far. Until then, it's time to take the offensive.

#fma #my writing

[emmaofnormandy]

The alliance of the houses Targaryen and Tudor.

The cold war came effectively to an end. The winter was defeated at least. It brought Westeros the sensation of relief for being released of a heavy burden that was so long ignored, tossed it to old songs. It came with a great cust, though, and even Daenerys Targaryen had her own losses to deal with. Amongst them were her lover, Jon Snow (or should he be now conveniently reminded as Aegon Targaryen, the lost son of her brother to a Northern lady?), and the best of her men, her knight and wise counsellor, Ser Jorah Mormont. Worse of all, perhaps, was the death of a son of hers. Viseryon's life was shortened by the cold spear of the undead night king that crossed his heart. A scene she’d never forget.

Victory custed too much for the silver haired self entitled queen of Westeros. But she survived. She also escaped machinations articulated between Bran Stark and his sister, Lady Sansa, but she would deal with them later. A more important war was to come. She fled back to Dragonstone then, where she reunited with the remaining forces the dreadful war could not destroy.

She had to look composed as a queen as herself should be. The time to defeat a usurper as Cersei Lannister was to come and she had no time to grief. On that particular morning she left bed earlier than the rising sun and with her hair slightly loose, dressed herself accordingly the colours of her House: black and red. Missandei soon woke and joined her mistress and friend in the privy chambers made of stones where the fireplace was still alight.

In silence, both women greeted with small smiles and an exchange of friendly glances before Missandei began to brush the silvery locks of Daenerys. Once all was set, they went to have their morning meal at what Dany named “throne room”, once occupied by her ancestor, Aegon the Conqueror.

There, she surrounded herself with Grey Worm, Missandei, the Spider, Tyrion Lannister and Barristan Selmy. Once the first rays of light broke through the open windows of the room, Dany, who chiefed her small council, began the meeting:

“Greetings to all”, she began, nodding her head out of respect for each of there present. “I know many of you wished to remain in your warm beds, but the urgence of matters prevent us for sleeping any further”.

She awaited as the warm liquid served by her servants was well swallowen in the respective throats of her trusted men-and woman-, so the honey mead would wake them up.

“I have reports that the queen has been guarding the capital well”, announced Varys, or the Spider as he was popular known. “Your Grace, she took children and women under her embrace. If I may speak so, I’d advise you not to attack directly the Red Keep.”

Daenerys said nothing, but a nod of her head indicated she listened. Tyrion followed:

“Well, discipline and order are what Grey Worm and his men know best”, and here he exchanged looks with the Unsullied man. “But if I could give you any advice concerning invasion is this: spare the civilians and the town will be yours.”

“But the Lannister army is big”, Dany pointed it out. “She also took the men who served the House Tyrell and those who also served the Tyrell’s by extent. What can we do about these men, Lord Tyrion?”

“We should bring the war to them”, he affirmed, “but out of the Capital.”

“How should we trust they would leave unguarded King’s Landing?” Dany pushed.

The sun hasn’t reached the high skies and tension was in the air. No one there present had the answer to her questions, questions that were most properly asked and showed how clever was Daenerys Targaryen. But brain was not enough to beat a war, and strategies were urged to be thought. To the queen’s displeasure, Cersei Lannister held advantage there.

Grey Worm spoke at last, breaking the awkward silence that had instaured between the group, aware how the abscence of Ser Jorah was an important player sadly missing by sadder circumnstances which took his life away.

“We have enough men to break through the defenses of the Capital”, said he, “and of course there is not a single intention of our part to involve innocents in this bloody shit. Yet, war is war and we must be prepared for losses. What I was thinking was this: a man of my trust leads the front invasion whilst I, with the other half of the men left under my charge, attempt to drive the main forces of the Lannisters out of the capital.”

“It is a good plan”, Dany admitted it, “but I still see flaws on it. Unfortunately we are outnumbered and...”

A knock on the door interrupted the already tiring discussions, surprising those present and even the queen was intrigued at who might be. She told Grey Worm to open the door and, as he did so, they are all caught off guard by the presence of one Unsullied and a man dressed in different robes that Dany never saw before.

“Yes?” she inquired curiously.

“Good day my lady, my lords.” The said man approached once permission was granted. He seemed afflicted and Dany wondered why. He was of blonde hair, an oval face clean of beard--which indicated a young age, she assumed- with light blue eyes and a red-ish mouth. His robes seemed simple, but Dany took no long to perceive he was but a messenger. Question was: who sent this young lad?

“The name is Edward Wydeville”, he so presented himself. “I was sent all this way by Henry Tudor, earl of Richmond.”

Dany was very, very intrigued by this.

“Never heard of such a man, Ser Edward.” She said before giving the said Edward a smile. “Allow me to present myself, then. I am Daenerys Stormborn of the House Targaryen, the First of Her Name, The Unburnt, Queen of the Andals, the Rhoynar and the First Men, Queen of Meereen, Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, Protector of the Realm, Lady Regent of the Seven Kingdoms, Breaker of Chains and Mother of Dragons”

Ser Edward Wydeville bowed respectfully and somehow that handsome man did not appear to be on Cersei’s side, but Dany knew by now she could not rely on appearances and that she should be careful. 

“It is a delight to be at your presence, Your Grace”, said the Wydeville man. “My lord the earl of Richmond is a king-to-be also and he is in need of allies to take what was wrongfully stolen from his: the throne of England.”

“How convenient”, murmured Tyrion under his breath.

But Dany did not give the dwarf any attention. 

“England? Never heard of such a realm.”

Ser Edward explained it properly and suddenly all the eyes were on this pale-ish knight man who somehow reminded Dany of her beloved friend Jorah Mormont.

“I see”, she said after a while. “But I have a war on my own to wage, Ser Edward. I am not sure...”

Much for her surprise, however, Varys interrupted her by saying:

“How many men are serving this Tudor lad, my lord?”

“King Henry, my lord”, ser Edward corrected Varys, which amused Dany. “He has an army of 2,000 men but it’s not enough.”

And suddenly Dany could see where this was all going to. All of a sudden, there was hope.

“Is His Grace”, she thought wise to address  properly a man whose claim to his own throne in this said realm of England much echoed hers to Westeros, “here? Is he aware that you came to seek for my aid? But, mostly important: why did he look for my help and not Queen Cersei?”

But Ser Edward Wydeville did not back upon the dragon queen’s response. He looked into Daenerys’ eyes and said:

“Because my lord the king knows an usurper when he sees one, and Your Grace is the rightful queen of Westerosi’s throne.”

There was more than this, Dany supposed, but still she decided to meet this King Henry Tudor in person.

“Well, I suppose he landed here. Bring him personally, Ser Edward. Tell His Grace that Queen Daenerys wishes to see him.”

Ser Edward flashed the silvery queen a relieved smile and bowed. “Of course, Your Grace.”

So he departed. Once he did all eyes were on hers, but apparently Varys comprehended truly what was forming in the dragon queen’s mind. Tyrion, however, looked unpleased, which did not escape Dany’s eyes. But it was time to achieve victory and she would do all she could to conquer what was wrongfully taken from her family.

*                                                                *                                                  *

The earl of Richmond was now styled Henry Tudor, King of England, Prince of Wales and Duke of Lancaster even if living abroad all those years meant not he held such titles as he did in paper. Time to replace the Yorkist usurper, the malign king Richard III, was coming, but despite the coyness of the king of France, he had to look for other allies for aid in his conquest.

His uncle Jasper Tudor told him there was a realm not too far from the British isles, but a little further from France, where there was a queen who shared his fate. At first, Henry understood nothing of why he should search for the aid of someone who, like himself, was struggling to take his throne. But the earl of Pembroke innocently suggested:

“She has two living dragons, creatures once thought to be mythical. I do not doubt she would easily smash her rivals in her own war”, he said, “but her dynasty must go on and she’ll marry to fill her duty. She is in the same position as yourself, nephew.”

“I thought I’d marry the Yorkist princess”, Henry reminded him.

But Jasper shrugged his shoulders.

“A woman with dragons seems to me far more powerful and important than a daughter of an usurper. Peace will bond two realms, I’m sure.”

“She will require something of me”, he sighed, “before anything is dealt.”

“A risk we should take”, Jasper suggested. “Politics is always dealing with both sides, nephew. You cannot expect to arrange a deal that benefits you only, even though such political treatments are often made for this purpose. As a king, you must look well for the realm you are to rule.”

Henry could see where he was going to, but he was still unsure about it. 

“We have our own wars to fight”, he told his uncle. “Why fighting for others’?”

But the argument was interrupted upon the arrival of Ser Edward Wydeville, who seemed optimist. 

“She has a good deal of men to help our cause”, he told them, to the delight of the earl of Pembroke, “but maybe she expects our help in turn”.

“This was expected”, said Jasper, pleased by what he heard. “Go on, Henry. We must do whatever it takes to reach that throne of yours.”

So the game of thrones finally began, the man thought.

*                                                            *                                                         *

Daenerys was waiting for the visitor in the chambers where it was said Aegon was spending his time when idea of conquering Westeros flashed before his eyes like a vision. It was, therefore, most significant that she agreed to wait for him there.

Dressed in red, she asked Missandei to braid her silver hair as beautifully as possible. She expected to impress this Tudor king, after all, they had so much in common.

“Fret not, Your Grace”, said Missandei, “he’ll be of your liking and you will be of his.”

She giggled and the sound relaxed Dany a little. She had had little time to laugh or to be remembered she was a woman, after all, with sentiments and needs. Ever since Jon betrayed her and even upon his death, she felt weirdly abandoned, pushed to her own luck. She lost the North’s support, but she’d win them and all those who refused to bend their knee. All she could think was...

“Your Grace, Henry Tudor, King of England, Prince of Wales and Duke of Lancaster is here”, Missandei announced, bringing Daenerys back to reality.

Henry entered like he was a king already crowned, even though insecurity betrayed his eyes. However, despite the confidence displayed, Daenerys saw more of it. She caught herself surprised by finding him handsome: tall, elegant, charming. Henry possessed all in his presence: his shortened light brown hair, his light brown eyes, his long nose, his lips... It was almost inevitably that her eyes fell upon the well built muscles underneath his rich robes, but a blush on her cheeks upon noticing it quickly made her eyes look away.

Henry too was surprised to be at the presence of a beautiful woman as Daenerys. She was by far the handsomest lady he’d ever put his eyes on. Her hair was of a silver colour he’d never seen it in any of her sex, her lilac eyes all the same: never ever he thought possible to dive in eyes like hers. Her complexions made her fair, her body suited well in the red gown... To his pride, he was remembered of the House of Lancaster. Perhaps not all was too lost. And they smiled to each other because they knew it.

“Your Grace”, she moved towards him and thought wise to greet him with a gracious curtsy. “Welcome to Dragonstone”.

Henry smiled and bowed appropriatedly.

“Your Grace” he replied. “Thank you for receiving me.”

“I trust the journey was well?”

“To be fair, I have been accostumed to long journeys” said Henry “as I was particularly raised abroad.”

“Oh?”

Henry smiled at her confusion.

“I was born in England, a realm not too far from Westeros, my lady. But there happened to be in a civil war where my uncle, who was the king of English subjects, was usurped. This war shattered my kingdom between two powerful houses, one of the York, responsible for those bloody tragedies, and the other of the Lancaster, my own, dethroned. For some reason, I represented danger to those Yorkists and was promptly raised on exile. I’m eight-and-twenty and have not been at home ever since I was four-and-ten.”

Daenerys frowned upon hearing this.

“I’m sorry to hear it”, she paused to ask Missandei to fetch them some wine as she leaded her guest to a seat to take next to hers. “I too knew nothing but exile, except most of my lifetime. Our stories are very similar, Your Grace. My father was the king of the Seven Kingdoms, a title that has been held for generations ever since Aegon, my several times grandfather, conquered and unite these kingdoms. But then... my brother fell out of his marriage to a Dornish girl, he loved a northern lady of name Lyanna and the two of them ran off. Her betrothed, Robert of the House Baratheon, caused a bloody civil war, sending most of us to death. My mother gave me birth right on this castle, in Dragonstone, but did not make it. I and my other brother had to survive depending on others out there.”

Henry looked shocked upon hearing this. Presuming Daenerys’ older brother died, she really had no one at her side. His uncle had a point where marriage alliances were concerned, and to be king of two kingdoms! But Henry was far more concerned in taking his own back. Nonetheless, he said:

“Our stories link too closely for my taste.”

Dany chuckled. She liked him.

“True, they do. But tell me your intentions, Your Grace. I don’t think you came all over to ask aid from an uncrowned queen. Your messager told me you acknowledge Cersei Lannister as an usurper, but even so... uncertaintities are pending to my side.”

Henry did not lie when he said:

“We need each other, Your Grace. Destiny is not something to be played upon.”

*                                                         *                                                            *

Henry Tudor was shocked. Perplexed, petrified even. He never thought mythological creatures were living beings. Daenerys laughed at his face. Drogon and Rhaegal looked unimpressed, though.

“They are real!” even uncle Jasper was surprised.

Dany was proudly told how the dragons were the symbol of a small kingdom named Wales. She loved that as she thought her children, as she told both Henry and Jasper Tudor, disappeared before she found them again. 

“They were once mythical in Westeros too”, she told them. “There was a civil war amongst my ancestors which we call ‘dance of dragons’. Back then, a woman could not rule on her right, so her claim was usurped by her half-brother. Eventually, this resulted in the killing of the poor creatures. Each generation they grew weaker until they were no more.”

“It’s an impressive story”, Henry said. “It reminds some of our kingdom’s history as well”, and he told her the story of Empress Matilda, lady of the English.

Daenerys sighed. 

“It saddens me that a woman cannot be taken seriously without a man at her side. These are treacherous creatures.” She laughed, but the sound of her laughter appeared sad to Henry’s eyes.

For some reason, he found himself offended by it.

“Not all of them are. I know most of them can be so, though. Ambition corrupts their souls before we know.” He grinned at it. “But some of us remain faithful to our beliefs.”

At that, Dany could not help a smirk.

“Aye, glad to hear you are not like most of them, Henry Tudor.”

And Jasper suddenly found himself excluded from the talk of the King and Queen, but this somehow brought a sincere smile to his lips. Not all was lost to the Lancastrian house, he thought.

*                                                               *                                                         *

Despite the evident danger, every early morning Henry Tudor stood carefully from a safe distance where the dragons of the House Targaryen were sleeping. He observed the different colours of their scales, and wondered what would be like to ride them. 

Daenerys told him the feeling, but he found himself eager to mount on one and, like a child, see the world. It was when Rhaegal opened an eye and stared at him. Henry froze, but somehow man and creature knew one would not harm the other. A chilly breeze came from the east and messed a little with Tudor’s hair. He knew he was wasting time there in Dragonstone, but as far as he knew... things could be worse. 

“Rhaegal likes you, I think.” Daenerys pointed it out, appearing before Henry knew. “How long have you been here, Henry?”

So they were calling each other’s name now, Henry smiled.

“Not very sure.” He admitted. “I could not sleep so I came over here.”

Dany smiled. 

“You are a dragon too, in your own way.”

“A welshman always is, I suppose.” He chuckled. “Hence the dragons on my flag.”

Her smile spreaded upon her lips and Henry decided he liked the view. He suspected the queen did not smile often, and as the days went by, turning to weeks, he learned why. Henry too had his own losses, but nothing dreadfully compared to hers. The self entitled king of England understood her better.

“Do you miss your home?” She asked. She needed to know.

“I do”, Henry was sincere. “And my lady mother the most. I’ve never my father, though my uncle, his brother, whom you’ve met, acts like one to me. Without them, I’d be nothing.”

“Sometimes I wonder what is like to have a family”, she admitted softly. “But we should discuss this later”, Dany composed before he could see right through her. “I came over to talk to you about something, Your Grace.”

It did not go unnoticed to Henry Tudor how much he preferred when he was addressed by his birth name rather than formal titles.

“I cannot long no more.” She was talking about war. “I need your support, that is why I have treated you as my guest, and entertained you as well as I could.”

It was true, though: despite her “poverty” in due respect to her position as queen-to-be, Dany was in no position to offer something lavishingly, but Henry and his comitive understood that too well. Regardless, somehow there was music, food and dancing. Uncle Jasper and his friends were pleased and it would not surprise Henry if he was told that Dragonstone was a fresh view after all those years in Brittany and France.

Nonetheless, all fun left aside, it was time to come to an agreement, which Henry hoped to be fair for both of them -since he was either in position to negotiate, anyway. She was his last hope.

“I will help your cause, Your Grace”, he said, “with one condition.”

Daenerys was not a fool to comprehend that alliances were forged following agreements that brought benefits for both sides. However, Henry Tudor carried enough men to help her cause and she’d do anything that her dignity agreed to it. Cersei needed to fall.

“Yes” she instigated him.

“I need your aid to help mine as well.”

It could be worse, Dany thought, but why did she feel disappointed? Was she expecting something different?

“Of course.” She agreed, somewhat tense, though. “I suspect within this mutual alliance there are other terms also? Whether in economic and political sense?”

Henry smiled, he appreciated her wit.

“Aye, Your Grace. We expect to favour Westeros over others in commerce terms and if one day Westeros is in need of aid, England will help you.”

“As otherwise”, she assumed, happy to know it. “Then we are now allies, Henry Tudor, King of England.”

“Aye, we are, Daenerys Targaryen, Queen of Westeros.”

It was now time to part.

*                                                           *                                                        *

Jasper Tudor was a blessing and a good replacement, if such can be said, to the position left behind by Ser Jorah Mormont. His military experience was welcome to all those present in Daenerys Targaryen’s privy councill, especially by the queen herself.

It was thanks to him, alongside Grey Worm, that the queen’s army was able to be more organized. Soon, with proper training and planning, they were ready to set to the Capital.

“Are you good with swords, Your Grace?” The day before the final battle, she was found chatting with him, drinking some wine.

“I had my training”, Henry said, excusing himself from the lack of experience in battlefield. He blushed and it did not go unnoticed by Daenerys, who smiled. “I will do well.”

“I’m sure you do.”

There was silence between them, but one of the comfortable kind. As she served them two glasses of wine, Henry was caught curious about knowing her properly. So he inquired:

“Have you been married before, Your Grace?”

Daenerys looked at him surprised and thought seeing preoccupation in Tudor’s eyes for offending her. But she should know by now this question would eventually be asked.

“I have.” And she told him about Khal Drogo, and how her own brother Viserys sold her to a tribe of what she thought being barbarians, but eventually she brought them as their own kin. Even so, she never again remarried.... despite being close to Jon Snow. A lament sigh escaped her.

“I’m sorry about that.” Henry said, and he truly was. He too was eager to have a family himself, but considering his background... he was fearful of doing so, and his mind was ever in survival and his whereabouts when running constantly from his enemies before going to action. At long last.

“Don’t be. It made me who I am”, she assured him and her confidence surprised him. “I have faith in myself, Henry Tudor. So you should be, you are a survival too.”

They locked long gazes, but no one did a move. Finally, Dany stood and said:

“I’m off to sleep. The day will be long tomorrow. Have a good night, Henry Tudor.”

He found himself smiling.

“And you as well, Daenerys Targaryen.”

*                                                           *                                                        *

Despite Jasper’s efforts in placing his nephew to mount Rhaegal, Henry promptly refused. He needed to have experience on battlefield, and riding a dragon would not help him. Dany admired his courage, which reminded her for a moment of Jon Snow.

But they could never be alike, she thought. He was honest, good hearted and not likely to be manipulated by others, even if he loved his uncle dearly. Henry had his own views, stood for them, and was humble enough to look for other’s counsels. Besides, he was far handsomest than the Snow bastard, Daenerys thought mischievously.

There were no more thoughts about Tudor as the time came. The plan was to divide and conquer, simple as it might be, but more efficient. Dany had her and the Tudor men to make her cause successful. Not to mention, her dragons. Her children. But she would have to be careful, as Tyrion told her there were men with garnment appropriated to perfurate a dragon’s flesh.

That way, she followed Henry’s advise and made sure it was builted an appropriated armour to Drogon and Rhaegal. It delayed them fro two weeks, but it was enough to rest ease the Lannisters and reassure the Targaryen’s party confidence.

The day had come. It was before the dawn, before the sunlights began to colour the nightful sky that Daenerys Targaryen’s army reached the land. She flew above the clouds, always watchful in her steps and in her sons’. She could hear the screams from above and expected no children, no woman, no innocent would be harmed. 

She flew higher and smiled upon seeing Rhaegal and Drogon side by side. Such sight renewed the faith upon herself. Daenerys would bring back the Targaryens to the throne. 

The sun was rising. It was time, she thought. She turned far from the sea, flying to where the true battlefield was expected to event the bloodiest, and hopefully final, battle for her throne.

*                                                                   *                                                    *

Henry detested to admit to himself, but the mess of a battlefield could cause was horrible. Yet, it brought any man a terrific sensation of power. He was not as great swordsman as his uncle was, but he could managed a sword. Defeating this Lannister army renewed his purpose and hopes of earning his own throne back from the usurpers.

He saw the blood thirsty in his uncle’s eyes beneath the helmet and smiled upon himself. However loud it was, the sounds of sword against sword did not prevent any communications to his army. Despite the predictability of “dividing and conquering”, the Capital fell to the Targaryen’s side.

Henry participated in the release of the innocents and was side by side to Grey Worm as they ran indoors to take the Red Keep. The usurper queen, much to Tudor’s surprise, was present with an iron-made face, not so ready to give up her throne, her power.

“I see the mad woman sent her men to take me from here.” She said, her voice but in a whisper echoing nonetheless in all the iron throne. Her Greyjoy’s allies were defeated and the left of the Tyrell’s army defected to her enemy’s side. But a lioness would not give in. “She’s very much stupid.”

“If you have any dignity, it is better for you to leave where you are now, woman!” Henry found himself saying it patiently, surprised to himself he was forced to deal with... another woman on the throne. To his defense, he’d never seen this before.

Cersei laughed. But there was sadness in her eyes, for as she heard the battle cries outdoors, she was each time certain of the defeat and a shiver running over her spine only confirmed the shadow of death surrounded her.

“She used you, whomever you might be. To her own purposes. That woman you came to defend was as mad as her father. Why do you think dynasties fall and others come to rise? Because no one stand the old! No one bows for madness, no one takes idiocracies anymore!”

“Is usurpation a clean path for you?” Henry asked. “You know nothing, Cersei Lannister.”

And before he could say any longer, there came Daenerys Targaryen on Drogon. It was a mesmerizing but powerful image, Henry admired.

“Leave.” She told her men. “This is between me and her. She’s already defeated.”

The Unsullies made sure to guard the town whilst the Tudor men certified that the Red Keep was safe.

“You have two options”, declared Daenerys, mounted on Drogon. “You either surrender and I’ll forgive you, but have you to be locked with the Silent Sisters, or you will face punishment for treason.”

Again, Cersei laughed, but it was an empty laughter.

“I committed no treason.”

She held onto the iron throne. Daenerys stared at her proeminent enemy, the last liason to the fall of her ancestors. She sensed the presence of the ghosts of her family, each member she never knew. She knew they were there, ready to see their house restored to the glory stolen.

“Stand.” Her voice was filled with no emotion. Her eyes were hard, nearly narrowed.

Cersei held her breath.

“No.”

“Stand.” She rose her voice.

Two guards of Daenerys threatened to do it so, Cersei saw to it. She rose it, then. 

“Step forward.”

Cersei reluctantly did so, eyes filled with despise and fear. 

And then...

...then....

.....

Death came.

“Dracarys!”

*                                                               *                                                        *

As promised, Queen Daenerys promised to give Henry Tudor, King of England, the help he needed. She went as far as creating him Ward of the East, becoming Lord of the High Garden, a title that Jasper Tudor proudly saw fit (as their own emblem was a red rose).

“I am humbly thankful for your aid.” She thanked each man, bestowing Jasper the wardship of the Stormlands. “I shall never forget what you have done to restaure the glory of the House Targaryen to where it rightful belongs. The Queen will never forget her friends.”

And this was very much true for Henry and Jasper, most benefitted for such aid. Now, as rich men and owner of other lands along those they held rights to in their own homeland, they returned to England. But for Daenerys, it was difficult to say goodbye.

“May I have a word to Your Grace?” She inquired.

Henry agreed to it. They went to have a stroll around the gardens. She was nervous, and due to her last disappointments with men, it would not be surprised to see her reluctance. Somehow, the new Lord of High Garden understood it well.

So they paced in silence for long moments.

“I’ve grown fond of you, my lord.” Daenerys admitted it. “Not very sure the extent of it, though, but the moment I had my eyes on you... I knew you were different. Perhaps I’m a fool, think it as you will. But you gave me hopes, you were loyal and...”

Henry stopped pacing and turned his face to admire her beauty. His hands were, before he knew, holding hers. He knew somewhere behind the back of his mind he was possibly betrothed to somebody else, but... this was a much better match. Because he found himself besotted.

“I’ll never forget you, Dany.”

And he kissed her lips upon saying so. They did not know what tomorrow might bring and Daenerys would not like to know either. They kissed and she was glad for it. 

“Be careful there.”

Henry smiled. “I will. And you too.”

She smirked. “I still have a rebellion to deal with.”

“Perhaps I might come to your aid again”.

Dany flushed.

“Don’t make promises you can’t keep.”

They leaned into each other and embraced. She had her throne at what cust? Oh but she’d dearly missed him.

*                                                               *                                                       *

October, 1485. 

Henry Tudor was finally crowned King Henry of England, the Seventh of his name of the House Tudor, Prince of Wales, Duke of Lancaster, etc. It would be a difficult reign to rule upon, but Heny was ready. He was finally ready to it.

Alliances here, alliances there, he did not forget the one he’d like to wed. A letter had been sent, again in the person of Edward Wydeville. As Henry’s betrothed, Elizabeth of York, had died and the next heir was sent off to be married in Portugal, he was less than inclined to espouse the youngest daughters of the queen Dowager. So the powerful Daenerys was his choice.

The marriage happened in January of the next year and it was accorded they would spend six months in one realm and six months in another, to the delight of both parties. Daenerys with the aid of Henry VII of England defeated the Northern rebellion, having Brandon of the House Stark hanged for treason and Lady Sansa Stark marriaged off to Jasper Tudor. Curiously, this would become a happy marriage for them both.

It was all settled then with Queen Daenerys and King Henry. The rebellions in England were easily displaced not only through the aid of Dany’s dragons but the efficacy of the counsel of Tyrion Lannister and the archbishop Morton who were very fond of each other...after all, similar minds think alike.

To Daenerys’ surprise, she’d bear a good offspring in due time: towards the end of 1486, Rhaegar was born. He was followed by Henry in 1487. Margaret, the first princess, was born in 1490. She was also followed by Rhaella in 1492. Another boy, Edmund, came in the spring of 1494. Jaehaerys was born in the winter of 1496 and a pair of twins named Katherine and Aegon were born in 1498.

Upon the death of Daenerys in 1515, Rhaegar, as it was decided upon his birth, inherited the Westerosi throne and upon Henry VII’s death in the year after, Henry, the prince of Wales, became King Henry VIII. Margaret was married to the king of Scots, whilst Rhaella was married to the future emperor Charles V. Edmund would take his cousin, a daughter of Lady Sansa and Ser Jasper, as his wife, one day becoming the Lord of the Stormlands. Jaeharys sadly died in infancy. Katherine was sent to church and Aegon too did not live passed 10. 

That way, the Targaryen-Tudor family lived for many years, entwining the realms of England and Westeros in long propserity.

#Henry Tudor #Jasper Tudor #House Targaryen #House of Lancaster #Tudor dynasty #Henry VII #Daenerys Targaryen #King Henry #Queen Daenerys #Sansa Stark #Bran Stark #Tyrion Lannister #Margaret Beaufort #histfic #King Henry VII #Daenerys Stormborn

[riddlesandqueries]

Excerpt

A brief roleplay scenario with @darcimasonusb​ and  @enterthecocoon​ concerning conspiracy, crime, and damsels in distress.

Though many criticized Drury’s taste when it comes to fashion, he thought it was a smart Idea to wait in casual clothes  that had reminiscent qualities to his Moth suit, waiting in an orange jacket, purple pullover, and green trousers, all toned down to more moderate levels as too bright colours would attract unwanted attention swirling around him. People really were just like Moths.

Someone who wasn’t looking for Killer Moth wouldn’t recognize him, so only his fellow rogue Edward Nygma, A.K.A. the Riddler, would be aware of his true self- and hopefully be persuaded to let him be part of whatever his grand plan is. Asking around in the darker parts of this city, Drury wasn’t even able to pick up on any rumors of what he may be planning - but there is always a calm before the storm and no doubt the only reason the Riddler would be silent for so long was because he was busy with preparations - whatever he may be preparing. He took a final sip of the milkshake he bought at the Hill street cafe, placed the empty glass on the table and stood up. His potential collaborator should be here any moment. He looked around: no sign of him yet.

Hoping that Mr. Nygma hadn’t forgotten about their meeting - or even worse, purposefully stood him up, he took out a Star Wars comic that he recently bought out of his jacket to diminish the waiting time while reading it. Perhaps following Jedi Knight Ki-Adi Mundi on his journey through the desert planet of Tatooine would bring him to less self-deprecating thoughts.

Conversely, dressing down for Edward was simply a matter of adjusting style. There was shifting colour to match the season, more deviance from the standard pallet, but there was never much mistaking, for those who knew what to look for, who he was.

Precisely on time, Edward closed his pocket watch as he strolled in, and pocketed it as he looked about. Ah, there. No mistaking the brand: obtaining a quick coffee to go, Edward meandered over to Drury. “Mr Walker?”

“Ah!” Drury recognized him, closing his comic book to put it back in his jacket and politely holding out his hand. “Mr. Nygma!”

Taken, shaken. “What were you reading?”

After shaking Edward’s, Drury led his hand back to the pocket and pulled the comic back out, the cover displaying a wise-looking old man with a white beard weilding a magenta-bladed Lightsaber, posing in front of animals and bandaged characters that Edward may have recognized as Banthas and Tusken Raiders respectively. Above the characters, the title of the comic was presented: Star Wars: Outlander The Exile of Sharad Hett - Issue 5.  "Oh, it’s just a little comic I read to pass the time. It just came out today, so I picked it up on the way here.“

"Oooo, new one. I’ll have to catch the new issue on the way back, I’ve been way behind.” he chuckled, wiggling his coffee. “No spoilers, hm?”

“Oh, you’re reading it, too?”, Drury asked. “I mean, if you’ve been behind, I could borrow you some of my comics. The story is getting a lot more interesting than the first arc and ties better into the new Movie.”

“Reading, no. Have yet to begin, yes.” he admitted. “Now…what’s all this about, Drury?”

“That’s what I’d like to know.” Drury responded. “You’re planning something big, aren’t you? I’d like to be part of it.”

Edward paused for a beat, brows raised, and then sipped his coffee with a smirk. “How’d you guess.”

Drury smirked back. He thought this a sign of admittance. “Your silence spoke more than a thousand words. You’ve been too quiet lately. And whenever I think "I sure wonder what the Riddler’s up to, I’ve not heard from him in a while”, the next day’s papers report on you trapping Commissioner Gordon in a virtual reality game. Or taking over a toy company. What’s it gonna be this time? I’d love to get involved!“

Edward’s smirk never moved, even at the mention of The Incident. Note to self, destroy newspaper archive. "You would, huh? I have to say, I don’t usually take on any accomplices.” he frowned, casually peering into his coffee, as if it had some counsel for him on the subject. “I confess, I’m a bit of a lone wolf about my affairs, and I think this one might be somewhat out of your wheelhouse, Walker.”

“C-come on, I’m sure I can be of help somehow!”, Drury interjected. “I can show you how useful I can be! We could look around if we see the Cops chasing some crook, I could make sure they don’t get them!”

“You think so?”

“I know so! Saving crooks from the cops is my modus operandi!”

How is that meant to match up with mine, I wonder. “Perhaps I need a demonstration.” offered Edward, having another sip. “To see what would actually be at play.”

Drury placed down his milkshake. “Should we go out and look for some criminal running for the cops? Shouldn’t be too hard to find in this city.”

“Sure~” Why not? It’d give him time to think of a polite blow-off.

“Excellent!” Drury got up and opened the door of his car. “After you!”

“Thank you~” he smiled, sliding in. This should make for a fun afternoon, looking about for mischief with a D-lister. But bothering the cops? Might want to start a little smaller. “I have an idea, Walker.”

An ecstatic “Oh? Yes?”, came out of a grinning Drury, eager to impress another rogue.

“Instead of hunting out those dunderheaded police, why don’t we raise the stakes a bit?” he offered slyly, smiling in clear conspiracy. “And pursue a criminal instead. Someone bright enough to think like us? That’s a challenge.”

“Oh…of course! Not quite my style, but I think I should be able to do it!”

“Not a sincere catch, mind you.” he chuckled kindly. “Just enough to shake up some street-level mugger, have a little fun.”

Drury placed his hands on the steering wheel and started up the engine. As if Killer Moth couldn’t handle a common crook. “Consider it done!”

Darci had a straightforward, however tame, day ahead of her. Take in the surroundings. Learn the area. Make note of any signs or signals that may cross her path. Street Smarts.

For this occasion, she wore a maroon coat over a black and white patterned pencil dress. Something autumn to get used to the times. The idea was to just walk around town and don’t look suspicious. And surprisingly enough, she was succeeding! Until she left the bustling crowded streets, that is.

Meanwhile, for the small-time crook known as Clyde, this had been a day of realisation. He was starting to notice how poorly thought-out his tactic of driving around the emptier streets of the city and robbing whoever walked around alone was - no one with a decent amount of money ever came to this part of the city, and the places they did come to were too crowded to pull anything.

But as if fortuna herself had heard him, he spotted a dainty, easily-overpowered young lady walk around the streets. Putting his mask on, he parked in front of her and got out of his vehicle. “Hello, lady.”, he said. “That’s a nice purse.”

Darci took a second to recognize the situation. She knew exactly what was gonna happen. Oh and what fun it would be. “Hello, person.” she replied. “That’s a nice mask.”

“Why, thanks.” he said dryly, taking out his gun. “I bet the purse’s contents are nice, as well. Show me.”

“Oh nooo.” she said in a rather monotone voice. “Whatever shall I do?” Darci walked up to him, with a funny sort of smile. She looked straight down the center pin of his revolver. “You know, you also have a nice gun!” she laughed. One hand crept onto the barrel like a spider while the other tucked her clutch behind her back. “It’s a darned shame isn’t it?” She had a solid grip.

Clyde became somewhat unsettled at the blonde’s reaction. Was she too foolish to realise the situation? Or perhaps, it was he who didn’t know what he was dealing with.

————

Meanwhile, looking for crime through a pair of binoculars on top of a building, Drury Walker’s sight fell upon the robber and his uncooperative victim. “Hey, Edward.”, he said, handing him the binoculars. “Isn’t that girl there being robbed?”

The drive to a random building and the consequent climb up the fire escape was daring enough, but now, Edward wondered, as they scanned the area in broad daylight, was this the very picture of the Dark Knight’s moonlighting? Or, in this case, is it daylighting..?

Reverie interrupted, Edward calmly peered down to the scene in question.“Looks like it, Walker. What’s the plan?”

“We track the crook, incapacitate him and get the poor lady’s belongings back. Can you make out his license plate?”

“Not from here, but you know, we could probably catch up. Looks to me like they’re arguing.”

“That gives us more time! To the Mothmobile!” he exclaimed, despite knowing full well that the car they travelled with was not said Mothmobile. Edward followed, swift on Drury’s heels.

—–

Clyde just stared at the lady’s confused reaction. Was this some sort of self-defense strategy? “Hands off!” he shouted, trying to rip the gun from her grasp.

Darci was more than calm with an iron grip. “What’s the matter? Are you…” she lifted the gun out of his hands and held it like a cigarette. “Nervous?” Her deviance had shined through. Darci taunted him by fiddling with the gun. “Getting a closer look at this really makes me appreciate the craftsmanship… I think I’ll be keeping it!”

Then, in a rush she got a brilliant idea! It wasn’t everyday she could get to do this you know.

“Oh and! Let’s not forget all the trouble you put me through!” she dramatized the past minute “I’ll accept your jacket as payment!” She pointed the gun at Clyde, smiling as if to say ‘pleasure doing business with you!’.

Tapped, Clyde slowly pushed the sleeves off of his shoulders. “Didn’t know you were another crook…”

“Yeah, well, when you assume it makes an ass outta you! But you already did that when you pulled up here, didn’t'cha?” Darci held her aim steady, watching his move.

He carefully handed her his jacket, then raised his arms up.

“Good! Good! Now get outta here ya rascal!” she laughed, lowering the revolver. A job well done :). Darci folded the jacket neatly over her arm.

Carefully, the robber stepped back to his car, his hands kept up.

“Halt! I have seen everything!”  came a voice from the side, and as they followed its sound their eyes met a tall, muscular man in a full, overly bright Moth costume. Clyde wasn’t sure what to make of this. A new addition to the bat family? The red eyes of the bugman laid onto the Robber. “Worry not, fair citizen, for today, the Killer Moth seeks to bring justice. And you…” He now looked upon Darci. “Taking some poor, innocent soul at gunpoint and stealing his jacket…you should be ashamed of yourself!”

“Ack!” Darci jumped up in surprise and pointed the revolver at Killer Moth. Her hands were shaky. The tacky uniform. The overly enthusiastic voice. The oddly muscular body. It all set off alarms in her head. It’s obvious this is one of Schott’s toys.

“Damn you! You think you can just take me to em’ that easy? Yeah, I don’t fucking think so!”

Is this how Crooks usually react to being caught? Moth wondered. No wonder Batman is always in such a bad mood.

He returned by aiming his cocoon gun at her and having the other hand ready to start up the Wings on his back. “Resistance is futile! Drop your weapon.”

How long did he take to make this guy?

“Funny! I was just about to say the same thing!” she fired the weapon at Moth’s left wing and attempted to dodge behind Clyde’s car. Whatever his gimmick was, she didn’t want to see it in action.

Taken aback by the Gunshot, Moth tried to dodge by ungracefully leaping aside, landing on his arm and unwillingly shooting a blast of cocoon substance, revealing his gimmick. Having saved his wing in the process, he began to hover up in the air and surprise her from above.

“Oh Jesus fucking Christ!” she blurted out. The gunk from his gun looks like it immobilizes the target. Right.

“So that’s what you do! This bootleg action figure trick is getting old, actually.” she walked backwards and aimed again. “What is this? The third time he’s made someone like you? Jeez.”

1. 2. 3. Fire! She shot the cocoon blaster.

The bullet pulled the gun out of his hand, having it hit the street. Moth reached to his utility belt for a new weapon. Frightened by the shot, Clyde took away in his car. He didn’t care about these freaks killing one another, but he did not want to be involved anymore.

“Bootleg? I am the original! I never copy anyone!” Moth insisted, searching for a new weapon in his utility belt. Not that he was too worried: his suit was designed to tank a bullet or two.

Not wanting to hear his spiel, she tried to fire again. Click! “…” Clickclickclickclickclickclickclick!  She threw the revolver to the side. “…” There’s no way you’re winning this fight, Darci.

“Well, it’s been a fun time playing with you, but I really gotta go!” she secured her other items in her arm and skid underneath Moth to find ample means of escape.

“Oh, you’re not getting away that easily, you simple crook!”, he said, flying up behind her, grabbing her by the waist and flying upwards, though she did struggle a lot more than he had expected her to. Furthermore, she felt somewhat strange for a human being, much colder and harder. “What are those? Abs of steel?” Steel?

This scene, as it had played out before him, had been terribly amusing for Edward in the same fashion as a slapstick comedy, but that woman was just too familiar, and steel, of all the words, clicked it all together.

Strolling out of the alley, Edward waved at the pair. “Darci, hi! Is that you?”

Moth sat up and readjusted his helmet. “Edward, you’re here already? I’ve been trying to catch this crook, like you ordered!”

“You mean the crook who was robbing her and got away?”

“Edward!!! Hello!! :D!!” Darci lit up to see her good friend, and hastily wormed her way out of Moth’s arms with ease. That was simpler than I expectedbut oH MY GOD FRIENDFRIENDFRIEND!!! She leapt towards him.

Moth was visibly confused. Did he mess up again? “But…no, wait - she was the robber! I saw her hold the guy at gunpoint and took his jacket!”

Edward opened his arms and embraced Darci with an audible grunt at the impact, settling in with a suppressed cough. “Nice to see you again, sunshine. Drury, this is my friend Darci, she’s no robber. You yourself saw her being held up when we got off the roof: don’t you think it’s sensible to hold someone up when you get the upper hand on them?”

“I didn’t make out who was holding whom up, but..uh…” He took off his helmet and put his face in his hand in shame. “I messed up again, didn’t I? Darci, I think your name was, I’m really sorry for all the trouble I caused you!”

Darci turned to look at Drury. She took a minute to analyze his laugh lines and other distinguishable facial features. He’d be a very clean cut man if he didn’t have a bad case of helmet hair. “No, no you’re alright. You were just trying to do your job…and, hey, sorry about the whole 'bootleg’ thing. I thought you were someone else.”

His facial expression turned just a little less shameful, he reached out his hand. “It’s fine. Wanna start over? My name’s Drury, Drury Walker.”

She slowly let go of Ed and walked in to shake Drury’s hand. “…Darci Mason.”

“Heh, like the Doll?” he asked, then realised this may offend her. “Sorry, you must get that all the time. It’s just that my daughter loves collecting these.”

She gave a well-meaning smile, but her face crinkled into a worried expression. “Yeah, like that. It’s alright.” Darci let go of his hand. Change the subject to something else. Anything else.

“I hope you’re not hurt or anything…have you seen which direction my Cocoon Gun flew in?”

“I’ve seen worse days. Mm, it went…” retrieving 102899.MP4 After a brief pause:“That way.” she pointed southwest from where Drury was facing.

“Are you all right?” asked Edward, checking her over. “That mugger didn’t hurt you, did he?”

“I’m fine!” she laughed. “I even got some loot out of it! I think it’s a Nautica Jacket…”

“Ah, there it is!”, Drury said after finding the gun. “Thank you, Miss Mason, you’ve got a pretty good eye!”

Edward laughed softly, quite amused. “Nice score. Walker and I were on a hunt for criminals, just to see how they operate. He spotted you while you were getting mugged, so he came in to try and stop it.”

“So that’s why!” She snapped her fingers. “That sounds exciting!”

“It’s been fun so far: didn’t think we’d actually run into anyone interesting, so this is a real treat for me.” he nodded proudly. “Walker’s not aiming to hurt you, I promise…At least, as far as I know.”

“I’m not! I promise!”, Drury threw in defensively.

“There, see? Silly mistake~. We rogues can be such goofs.”

"Hmm.” Darci circled around Drury a couple times. Putting her hand to her chin and audibly saying “mmhm” more than a few times with a look of playful suspicion. After a sustained pause… “I’ll give him the Charles Atlas Seal of Approval!” she clapped!

#enterthecocoon #darcimasonusb #long post #roleplay #dcau askblog #gun tw

[meshkol]

Title: Choices Rating: Teen and Up Pairing: Tony Stark/Stephen Strange (IronStrange) Additional Tags/Warnings: angst, unresolved, post-IW, trauma

Notes:  For the IronStrange Gift Exchange 2019, hosted by @ironstrangehaven.

Well, this is being posted late, which is quite sad because it's been done for weeks upon weeks. Real life and a lot of...things got in the way, but I'm tearing myself away from RL for a second to post this.

This is for @beemotionpicture, who is my giftee.  I do hope that this is not a colossal disappointment and you get some modicum of enjoyment out of it. Pretty much went off the rails about two-point-three seconds after I started writing your suggested prompts. It was a lot of fun to write, especially since I don't generally get to sink my teeth in fics like the ones you prompted, and I do hope you enjoy it.

Beta'd by the magnificent @codee21, who has been one of the kindest people I've ever had the pleasure to meet and always has time to listen to me rant. Bless your face, darling, and thank you for everything you do/are.  Any remaining mistakes are mine alone.

Enjoy!

Stephen compartmentalises better than most.

It’s a learnt trait of a medical professional, he supposes, and personnel who can’t compartmentalise properly tend to not make it far in the profession. Doctors can’t break down every time they misdiagnose or accidentally kill a patient, after all, and for all Stephen’s arrogance, nurses have it worse since they do the bulk of the work. Compartmentalisation is imperative to a person in the medical field or they’ll lose their mind, and Stephen had had a lot of practise from his restrictive, borderline abusive childhood to boot.

Tony, on the other hand, doesn’t compartmentalise well in the slightest.

It’s glaringly apparent, and has been since Iron Man first took to the skies to destroy illicit weapons built by Stark Industries and sold to terrorists. Tony takes every single cent of damage to heart, every person who wakes up screaming from nightmares after suffering through calamities brought about by SI weapons or Avengers business, every lost business or city that is destroyed in a firefight, every death that results from something Tony could have somehow prevented. It’s a lot of guilt and trauma and self-depreciation, originating from that piece of shit father and his kind but neglectful mother, and it kills Stephen to know that it’s never going away, that Tony will never be able to develop the neural connections that enable him to forgive himself.

Stephen’s kind of always known this since he had first seen Tony Stark testifying on Capitol Hill on C-SPAN, though not to his current fidelity, and he’s become more familiar with it since coming into possession of the Time Stone and experimenting with it. He’d gone forward in time just enough to see the Civil War break out, see the lengths Iron Man and Captain America would go to (in some instances, even the killing of one or the other) in order to follow through, and he wonders what the world would be like if he had looked further ahead or even gotten involved personally to mediate the conflict.

He knows it intimately now, though. He’s seen every deep scar and bleeding wound in Tony’s psyche, seen every tear and drop of blood and sharp scream of agony torn from Tony up close and personal, and he’s seen it 14,000,604 times.

With almost every iteration of the future, he sees Anthony Edward Stark find comfort with Stephen, even as war rages around them, and sees Tony healing as much as he can until he’s finally found some semblance of peace. He sees them sharing the remainder of their lives together, always fighting but still finding love and companionship with each other at their sides. He sees meals being shared and secrets being given, sees long looks across battlegrounds and bodies twining together in passion, and every single part of Stephen wants. He wants that forever, wants a future with the most generous and kind-hearted human being he’s ever had the pleasure of knowing throughout 14,000,604 ultimately short lifetimes, and it aches that he can’t have it.

Because in every single one of those iterations, Tony dies, and half the universe follows suit.

The only anomalies to those countless futures are when Tony dies on Titan, instead of on other planets or Earth itself, and that’s almost as terrible as losing him once they’ve fallen into each other’s arms because Stephen still knows what he’s missing, what he could’ve had with such a monumental, half-broken man. Those futures are just as unacceptable, because Thanos still wins and Tony still dies, so he throws out that iteration and starts another, desperate to save both.

There is only one timeline where they beat Thanos and Tony Stark lives, and the only way to win is if everyone else dies first.

It will be corrected, of course, because Tony is brilliant and clever even when he is destroyed and beaten, tortured and full of grief. Corrected, yes, but not before he has to watch his friends die and pseudo-son turn into dust in his arms, not before he starves and nearly asphyxiates in the cold emptiness of space just like he had been shown in Maximoff’s vision, not before he has to suffer the screams of a devastated aunt at the death of her nephew, not before he has to plan a funeral for half of the Avengers, not before he has to work himself into the ground for the answer to victory, not before he has to suffer through riots of why didn’t you do more why didn’t you save us you could have saved us! just like in his nightmares, not before Pepper Potts miscarries their unborn child due to stress and trauma when she sees Tony lose half his body after wielding the Infinity Gauntlet. No, Tony has to suffer through the weight of the world at Thanos’s hands, at Stephen’s hands, before he can set the world to rights, and saving the world before the end can even come to pass doesn’t erase the grief and sorrow, the pain and agony, of his experiences. Stephen knows that from personal experience, dying and dying and dying at the hands of Dormammu.

And giving up the Time Stone for Tony’s life is the choice that will destroy any and all chance of a future happiness, because Tony will never trust or love Stephen after he wakes up from his coma.

Stephen chooses life over giving Tony a brief, but ultimately fatal moment of peace.

He doesn’t have another choice.

—

When Stephen first opens his eyes after dying, he simply reacquaints himself with existing.

When he’s lightheaded on the smell of dust and tea in the air, when he’s over-warm with the sunlight that streams through his bedroom window, when he can feel the shiver of the Cloak around his shoulders and the soft sheets of his bedding against his tingling palms, when all he can hear is his steady breaths and the heavy thud of his heartbeat in his ears, he finally understands that he’s succeeded, that Tony has succeeded, and that all hope hasn’t been lost after all.

Stephen breaks.

—

His title and abilities as Sorcerer Supreme means that he remembers everything.

No one else besides Tony remembers what happened to the universe, other than Stephen himself. Tony had reversed the Snap – as well as everyone’s memories of it – out of pure mercy and kindness, but Stephen’s mastery of the Time Stone plus the time loop Stephen had applied before dying had ensured that his memories were untouched by Tony’s reversal. He likes to think that it had been to cover his arse just in case the loop hadn’t worked, giving Stephen the ability to correct a possible mistake if needed, but mostly it’s to punish himself. After all, Stephen had committed the most violent and sadistic violation of the Hippocratic Oath and his own personal ethics, in the sense that he had subjected a single man to the weight of the universe’s pain and forced him to suffer for it, breaking him beyond all conceivable measure.

The bittersweet pain of those impossible futures with the love of his life, the unbelievably brave and imperfectly perfect Tony Stark, only worsens Stephen’s guilt and heartbreak.

He doesn’t know if Tony’s aware that Stephen still lives with his decision, but it doesn’t matter in the end. At the end of the day, Stephen would make the choice again if he had to, and while he regrets the pain and suffering that he’s inflicted on Tony, he doesn’t regret the choice itself. How can he, when the universe hasn’t been cruelly cut in half? How can he, when he sees Spider-Man slinging his merry way through Greenwich Village occasionally as he chases some baddies, very much alive and ready to make the world a better place? How can he, when the Avengers are reunited and save the world from continuing threats? How can he, when Tony is alive, surrounded by people who love and cherish him even if it can’t be Stephen himself, people who can lift Tony up when everything feels like it’s too much and the horrors of the past are tearing him apart.

He can’t regret a decision like that, even if he knows that Tony’s drinking again, and his relationship with Pepper Potts was never revitalised, and he always looks exhausted and haunted in the papers. Stephen loves Tony Stark more than anything in this world, but choosing Tony’s happiness over the survival of trillions of innocent souls is even more unforgivable.

The sorrow and heartache weigh heavily on Stephen’s own soul, and as he watches CNN rehash an Avengers battle – Tony intentionally putting himself in harm’s way, throwing himself into potentially fatal situations, like he’s trying to kill himself – he can’t help but wonder whether he made the right choice anyway.

It hurts, and Stephen’s not sure if he can survive this pain himself.

—

The first time Stephen sees Tony with his own eyes after waking up, it’s during battle.

Doom’s a magic user with a dangerous artefact in his possession, and that is Stephen’s area of expertise. Doom’s also deliberately attacking the Fantastic Four like he always does, which has resulted in quite a bit of damage and chaos in the Lower East Side, and so the Avengers had assembled as per usual. The only team that’s not in the general area is the X-Men, and while the help would be appreciated, it would also oversaturate the battlespace and God knows they don’t need that. It’s already hard enough targeting Doombots when there are civilians to evacuate, not to mention an abundance of friendlies flying around everywhere that get in the way of spells and attacks.

Stephen’s apprentices and various masters are mostly being delegated to civilian evacuation, with self-defence as a secondary mission parameter, mostly because a good majority of them can clone themselves and also because the Doombots are machines connected to an advanced AI. That’s more in the specialty of the Fantastic Four and Avengers – particularly Tony, Banner, and Reed – and Reed has his team fighting Doom directly, since the arsehole has a specific grudge against Reed. Still, Reed’s a bit distracted trying not to die (or get Sue killed), and Tony’s apparently on a one-man mission to personally destroy as many of the Doombots as he can get his metal hands on, which leaves Banner, who’s flying around as the Hulk and obviously can’t hack into the AI basecode. FRIDAY is probably working on it on the side of helping Tony in the air, and he’s sure that the Vision is as well, but taking out the AI won’t necessarily turn the Doombots off and besides, it’s not like Doom doesn’t have the ability to self-destruct them manually.

It takes a long time before Stephen gets the jump on Doom, sending him to Hell to rot (not that he won’t find a way out eventually, the weaselly bastard), but he’s only able to get that jump because of Tony flying in from stage left, attacking Doom with a blast of repulsor energy when Stephen had been cornered, and all he’d said through his armour when he’d unleashed the blast was “The only person who gets to kick his ass is me!”

Stephen’s exhausted and heart-sore by the end of it, panting heavily as sweat pours down his face and spine – he distinctly remembers Doom being less powerful, and that’s going to need some researching – and he helps take down the last remaining Doombots before he’s portalling out of there as fast as he can, into the safety of his personal quarters so he can fall apart.

He doesn’t know how long he cries, choking on his own tears and snot and feeling like he’s burning inside his skin, but it’s long enough for him to fall asleep from the strain of it, still in his torn and filthy robes and covered in grime.

Mercifully, he doesn’t dream.

—

The next time is face-to-face, a few months after that encounter with Doom.

He wakes up in Kamar-Taj, bones and flesh aching from magical strain and the severe beatdown, and it’s the worst he’s felt since the car accident. There’s a flash of fear – am i broken am i paralysed am i unable to be the sorcerer supreme anymore is my body too broken – and then another answering flash of relief – no more hurting people no more failure this is what i deserve – before everything eases into a calm blankness, because even paralysed and broken he’ll still do his duty until he dies permanently, even if all he wants to do is sleep forever, because that’s what he was born to do. He was born to shoulder the weight of the universe just as much as Tony Stark was, born to suffer and break as long as it protects and shelters others, and in that, they will always be connected. A shared destiny, and without the comfort of sharing it with each other.

He opens his eyes, swollen half-shut and crusty around the edges, and focusses his eyes on Tony Stark, standing at the window to the snow-capped mountains of the Himalayas with curved shoulders and heavy eyes.

He wonders how Tony even knew Stephen was at Kamar-Taj in the first place – he doesn’t file most reports and missions with the Avengers, let alone the U.N., and it’s not like Tony is friends with any sorcerers – and then decides it’s irrelevant. It ultimately doesn’t matter, because Stephen knows why he’s here, a year after the Snap was reversed and the universe forgot the sacrifice Tony had made.

It’s not like the pictures or books or stories; they don’t stare at each other for a long time, eyes blazing and hearts racing, before they exchange words like why did you do it and i’m so sorry until there’s nothing but tears and dramatic grasping of bodies as their mouths connect in a conclusion meant for epics, because they’re Meant to Be and Hopelessly in Love.

No, it’s much simpler than that.

“Do you regret it?” Tony asks, quiet and even.

“Yes,” Stephen replies, and it’s a struggle to keep his own tone careful and smooth, “and I would do it again.”

Tony nods once, eyes distant, and whispers, “So would I.”

Then he turns on his heel and leaves.

—

Stephen sees Tony Stark many more times over the course of his life.

Always separate, always distant, but their eyes always meet over briefing tables and battlefields nonetheless. Stephen wonders if Tony’s aware of the possibility between them, the capability of love and devotion and companionship they could’ve shared, but it makes no difference. To Stephen, Tony is the soul he had to sacrifice to save the universe, and to Tony, Stephen is the soul who condemned him. No amount of wishful thinking or unfulfilled futures can change that, or erase the trauma they’ve both suffered, and because of that, they will never be able to bridge the gap and heal from it with each other. There’s just too much in the way, in the middle of such possibility.

Maybe they could’ve tried, come together to scream and yell and get on their knees to beg for forgiveness, but Tony’s too broken to reach for a semblance of peace again, especially with the man that sentenced him to his fate in the first place, and Stephen’s too weak to try. Facing Tony every single day, knowing what could have been and what he had done in exchange, is too much for even him to compartmentalise, and he can’t put everything he is into one man when he has a duty to perform. Being with Tony how he wants to be will take every single molecule of him, every iota of his mind and self, and he can’t be the Sorcerer Supreme if he’s compromised. He cannot protect the universe from the mystical and spiritual if he allows himself to truly be with Tony, because then he would allow himself to prioritise one man over everything else.

It never stops hurting, and it never fades to something manageable.

Stephen’s made his choice, and he has to live with that choice for the rest of his life.

Also read on ao3.

#ironstrangegiftexchange #isge19 #gift #tony stark #stephen strange #ironstrange #angst #unresolved #post-iw #trauma #rowan writes

[hush-falls-the-evening]

When I was young

Characters: Jonathan Crane, Edward Nygma (scriddler - established relationship)

Rating: G Words: 2196

Synopsis: Part 1 of 3 of Wish I knew you. Edward receives an unexpected invitation, and gets carried away with a plan. Jon doubts there’s anything good in it. Fortunately, Edward is very convincing.

misc info: slice of life, just a little hurt and comfort, domestic fluff, old men bickering and loving each others. There’s going to be a other parts but I really loved how this one stands by itself.

“Great news, Jonathan!”

The door was burst open as Edward waltzed into the room. Jon had been reading his latest test results, trying to pinpoint the best counterpart to a particularly unpleasant side effect his latest experiments seemed to produce on some patients. An empty vial rolled down his desk, and almost hit the ground, before being caught mid-flight by a very undisturbed Jon, who had not deigned to show an ounce of interest in his partner’s boastful entrance.

“It’s too warm and you’ve decided to switch back to your spandex?”

“Don’t be absurd.” He then paused, muttering. “The spandex is the right outfit for the right occasion. No no-” he moved toward the desk, which was pretty messy, by all means,  about to sit on top of whatever was there.

Jon finally spared him a threatening glare, making Edward do a great show of closing the open books, and pile away the stray sheets into their unused binders, and one silly folder with a few spooky marks scribbled on it, and THEN sat on top of the now cleared spot. “-It so happens that I have received a particularly unexpected invitation in one of my private inboxes this morning. I though you might find some humor in it.”

The Riddler waved a printed piece of paper in front of him. Jon did not look at it, but stared up at the other man’s face, leaning back into his chair. His long fingers braided themselves meticulously under his chin.

“Is it relevant to my interests for you to disturb my work?”

“Of course it is: I am an interest of yours,” he added cockily, then winked. The stoical man remained unimpressed, but did not object. Edward then waved the message again, calling for his attention.

Reluctantly, the former-yet-still-informally-practicing psychiatrist took the sheet and pushed his reading glasses with as much skepticism as he could muster in a single gesture. Edward rolled his eyes, motioning at him to just get on with it.

‘The Greenwoods Institute is cordially inviting you to the 30th anniversary Reunion of the class of 19XX-’

Jon’s eyebrows furrowed gravely as he read the entire mail, than looked up at the expectant expression on his partner’s face, than back to go over the entire mail a second time.

“Did you stole someone’s identity and somehow managed to get invited to a graduates’ reunion?” he flipped the page to inspect the other side, which was blank. Silly Jon.

“Oh oh no, that would have been too simple. You and I both know my personal feelings regarding Academia.” He sneered slightly at the thought. “Nonetheless, I required some kind of reference to get where I needed to be when I first strolled into Gotham. So I made some arrangements prior to that.”

“So you technically graduated a school you’ve never been to?”

“I successfully graduated a school, with the highest recommendations. An establishment with a good reputation and a very flawed database. And security. And staff,” he huffed in contempt at the offending memory. “The fact that the old Director had to keep his lips tightly shut about the whereabouts of my admission, least he exposed himself to the very damaging nature of the shocking revelations encompassed in my excruciatingly detailed folder of personal data-” he paused in his elaborate tirade, offering a particularly proud smirk with a flourish. “-is only a bonus.”

Jonathan stared soberly at the genius seated on his desk, before a wry grin slowly crawled onto his thin lips. He looked at the mail for a third time, now with the intended irony Edward had boasted about when he first came into the room.

“Oh come now, Jonathan. I didn’t stroll here beckoning your ‘oh so precious attention’ just to get your silent snark!”

“It is pretty irritating to know a preschooler managed to download himself a high school certificate and terrorize the presiding authority.”

“Jealous, perhaps? Oh, and I wasn’t that young. or else that makes you a living artifact!”

“I’d like to point out that time has no bearings on fear.”

“Well I think you might want to check in on your lovely cracking joints first. Also, the 1600s called, and they want their shoes back in the shortest delay.”

The doctor actually chuckled darkly at his indignation. “You must had been the original inspiration for the old ‘someone could hack onto your computer’ ads.” He was clearly enjoying their banters here, which pleased Edward quite a bit.

“Well…” Edward tried to remain as factual about it as possible. “Of course, historically there has been much, MUCH more significant cases back in the days, and anyone could easily read about this really but-” he trailed off, looking away with an irrepressible smile.

“I presume you’ve done similarly with a hypothetical college degree of some kind?”

“Oh. No. Well-… That’s another story, which I am pretty sure I told you before,” He stated accusingly.

The wiry man observed him quietly. There was something warmer in his stare, Edward would look into it if he had the time to seize the moment, before it flickered away. He seemed… nostalgic, almost.

“So,” Jon drawled, deliberate spider he was. “Any hypothesis as to why they’ve invited you now and not at the reunions previous to this one?”

“I though of that, evidently. It is most likely the Director had enough conscience to go over the list and skip my name before sending the invitations. More so, his current records seem to indicate he’s been hospitalized a few times so, it is very possible he was not aware that someone would mishandle the guest list while he was away.”

“Possible,” Jonathan commented, his thumb and index were brushing his jaw reflectively.

“….. What are you thinking about?” Edward asked with cautious curiosity.

The older man exhaled calmly, and seemed to change the direction of his thoughts entirely. “You know in old folklore, it was particularly rude to not invite the resident spirits to join the town events. Nobody expects them to show up, but to-”

“Jon, I know you’re not just referring to Sleeping Beauty, but please tell me this is not just because we ended up watching the spinoff movie two weeks ago, since we could not agree to watch anything better.”

“………….. Nobody,” he repeated slowly, persistent. “Expects them to show up. But to leave them -out- of an event?” his hands went back to fold together over his middle. His eyes were staggering. “That is, a whole other level of insult, my darling,” he eerily cooed. Obviously pleased with the trail of thoughts he was entertaining.

Edward took note of his own fevered heartbeats, and inhale sharply. “So! Does that mean I can count on you to join me?”

That knocked out Jonathan’s spell in an instant. “What?”

Edward felt almost sorry. (but not really) The man looked almost owlish with his glasses. “Wait! What was I thinking. I should do this the proper way.”

The redhead hopped off the desk, and collected himself for greater effect, and-….. smiled.

It was a really sweet smile, yet Jonathan had not moved an inch, and instead stared at his partner blankly.

How could a grown, seasoned villain like Edward, proud, exuberant, self-confident, unbeatable in his domain, seeker of all mysteries, -including Jon-…… looked almost flustered, as his breath hung onto an embarrassed smile.

He managed to catch up some of his usual bravado and asked with great eloquence. “Jonathan Crane-”

“Edward-”

“-will you, do me the pleasure to accompany me to the belated prom I’ve never had?”

It showed he was very proud about this grand setting. That for sure. It wasn’t as if they’ve never went out together. They did. Rather often to Jonathan’s tastes, but they did.

But the older man remained frozen in a deadly stance for much longer than his occasional surprises would sometimes occasioned. And what seemed like an achingly sweet plan in Edward’s mind crumbled slightly at the lack of reaction from his second-favorite rogue.

“Jonathan?”

It took him, much longer than Edward’s nerves should had been able to wait for. But Jon breathed again, blood flowing back up the brilliant doctor’s face. Frowning considerably as a hollow, disbelieving laugh escaped him.

It really wasn’t a pretty laugh, either. And it irked Edward spectacularly.

“Jon, I was legitimately looking forward to asking you this,” he pointed impatiently.

“Don’t, ah. Don’t take this the wrong way, Edward. I just didn’t think I’d be asked to ‘prom’ a second time around. I’m not, particularly fond of my reminiscing memories of the prime event.”

“……… Oh.”

“Ever eloquent, as always.”

Edward had somehow moved and dragged a chair next to him. Jonathan watched warily as he looked at his partner, who was quietly assessing if it was alright for him to reach out. After a moment, Jon gave a tired nod, and focused on the familiar hand pressed on his forearm.

He seemed rather irritated- or embarrassed- at his momentary lapse. Almost treating the silence as a necessary evil: eager to move onto another topic and unsure how much of himself he was -or had- revealed in the last minutes .

For now, he looked at nothing in particular, and found some comfort in that.

“Will you at least let me plead my case?” Edward asked after a while, his thumb tracing the soft flesh of his forearm.

“The more adamant you are about something, the more incline I am to argue and disagree,” he warned, but not dismissing his idea just yet.

“I know, I know. As it is not… always uncalled-for. I know you don’t talk, nor want to talk about… your youth in general. And in light of this, I’ll make you a better offer.” His enticing grin was back once more, his voice smoothing in a conspiratorial way. “You come with me, as my roguish partner-” Jon turned a deadly glare, calling him out on his blatant sugar-coating. “- and we, as the true outstanding individuals we are, and were always meant to me, outshine anyone who ever had the ineptitude to think otherwise.”

Jon scrutinized him in great detail, hypothesizing on every possible flaws. “….. Are you ready to waste your time on this, solely because you accidentally clicked the wrong shipping options for your latest order, and you find yourself with too much time on your hands?”

“AH. Of course not! I don’t make the same mistake twice!”

Jon gave him a look, toward which Edward huffed in a dismissive way.

He was dead right, and he’d be damned if he showed Jon how it had sent a cold shiver of shame down the Riddler’s spine.

“You do know these people are mostly just middle-aged citizens with mundane jobs, ordinary preoccupations and fears? This would be no better than a placebo-experience to patch-up whichever trauma and missed opportunity we’ve been through.”

“And these citizens, several states and stones away, are painfully unaware of what dark spirits they have been denied to meet thus far~”

Jon would had argued further, but his lips snapped shut. The glare was now accusing, but subtly tinted with…. approval. Edward looked at him expectantly, delighted, victorious.

“Of course. I should had known you’d appeal to my interests.”

“What can I say? Sometimes your interests coincide with mine.”

“Sometimes.”

There it was again. That look. That oh so personal warmth Jon had so rarely allowed himself to show to the world, or even to Edward up until much later after their initial rivalry. ‘Initial’ Rivalry. It was still there, as both man were drawn to win the upper hand of a situation through wits and well-timed theatrics. Edward was simply… more implicitly showy about the extent of his power and knowledge.

That intelligent gaze, the one Edward had discovered and treasured after years of knowing the man, had never failed to fascinate him more than even he liked to admit.

He suppressed a much-too-honest grin, and lowered his eyes to where his hand was resting on top of Jon’s sinewy forearm.

The tips of Jonathan’s long fingers brushed softly through his hair, where silvery strands as begun to show amid the vibrant ginger. They stroke the outer-shell of his ear delicately.

“And what if this whole ridiculous affair was only a way for Batman or our fellow rogues to lure us out of Gotham for a few days?” he asked softly.

“… Possible,” he admitted just as softly. “It occurred to me as well. I’ve already prepared a few safety measures in cases of impromptu escapes in the past. Additional protections and a thorough scan of my network would be mandatory to get a better understanding of the current status quo as well. Not that I am not perfectly aware of everything already…” he trailed off.

Jonathan removed his glasses and laid them casually on the desk before him. His fingers combing deeper into Edward’s hair as he leaned toward him. The arm under Edward’s palm moved, their hands joining somewhere along the way.

“I’ll help you secure the details, then,” Jonathan finally offered. The sober words were only an excuse to retain some of his resilient reserve. They could have fooled Edward, if the context wasn’t speaking a much tender language.

Their eyes met, and Edward found no logical reason not to cross the distance between them.

#scriddler #Jonathan Crane #edward nygma #scarecrow #riddler #established relationship #unfortunate amount of fluff #old men being silly basically #Wish I knew you - fic