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em-writes-stuff-sometimes · 1 year

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ñuhus prūmӯs (my heart) │Chapter 8: Missive

terms of endearment ‘verse: see my Masterlist for the correct series order!

Chapter 1 │Chapter 2 │Chapter 3 │Chapter 4 │Chapter 5 │Chapter 6 │Chapter 7 │Chapter 8 │Chapter 9 │Chapter 10 │Chapter 11 │Chapter 12 (COMPLETE!)

Synopsis: Childbirth is the duty and dismay of all highborn women. Together, you and Daemon experience the trials, tribulations and triumphs of expectant parenthood. Daemon solves a problem.

(Set post-episode 7, though Daemon never married Laena or Rhaenyra.)

Thank you to @angelqueen04, @ewanmitchellcrumbs and @ajthefujoshi for holding my hand throughout the drafting, teehee!

Triggers: incest, age gap, purity culture, detailed depictions of pregnancy, violence.

Fucking useless, he thinks. Then again, what was I expecting?

The High Septon is a rambling, tedious man of fourscore and one summers, closer to the grave than he is to the land of the living. Daemon’s surprised that he’s still functioning. It had taken some time for the lackwit to sink himself into the chair opposite him, so brittle are his bones in his dotage, and fix his milk-glazed eyes in his direction. Even longer for him to finally dispense with the pleasantries and focus on the goal at hand.

Questioning him had taken every iota of his sparing patience. The man had repeated the exact same avowal as he had to the others: that he was “praying night and day for the Princess in the wake of such an abominable event”, that he “knew not” who the now-dead men emblazoned with his fucking Seven-Pointed Star are, that they could not be agents of the Seven, that the Faith Militant “are extinct as they have been since the reign of your grandsire, the blessed King Jaehaerys”.

Yes, he snorts, because men who fuck their sisters are ‘blessed’. As long as a cleric speaks and waves a bit of ribbon in front of them first.

The dullard had fainted away when he’d unveiled the proof of his claims, the rather excellent pickling he’d had the healer woman perform on the head of one of the two remaining bodies in your old chambers. He supposes the sight would have been rather garish.

The dead man’s eyes are wide open from the shock of Mallery’s sudden impalement, alert and startling from within the eerie discoloured liquid. And, most importantly, the carving of the star is on full display to all who may cast their gaze upon it. He’d had to get the servants to take the damned jar away, the severed head bobbing about comically as they’d departed, and wait for the old man’s attendants to rouse him.

At any rate, he’s come to appreciate that no answers will spring from this avenue of interrogation. He departs the High Septon’s chambers—in the Tower of the Hand, of all places—with as much information as he had possessed prior to his visit.

Fuck all, that is.

Daemon finds Largent and Breakbones standing around in the middle bailey, clearly trying to be as inconspicuous as possible. Their respective sizes rather prevent the accomplishment of that objective. Even with faces carefully blank and posture forbidding, the two attract many a curious eye from passers-by.

“Anything?” the Strong lad asks when he nears, shifting away from the wall with a grave disposition.

He offers a cynical half-laugh in response, striding onward. The pair fall into step on either side of him, a singular unit marching onward to the Holdfast.

He’d been taken aback by the sudden appearance of Harwin Strong earlier this morning. It transpired that Rhaenyra was alerted to the attack—and he is chagrined to admit that he’d entirely forgotten to alert her himself—and had been making ready to fly to King’s Landing. Naturally, Viserys had issued summary directives that would bar his eldest daughter access to any means of transportation off Dragonstone.

Thinking of that row still gives Daemon the urge to hit something.

“I’ll not have my heir caught up in this contemptible plot, Daemon,” his brother says between weak coughs, groaning as the fit abates. He slumps forward into the chair while the Maesters coax leeches to latch upon the mutilated skin of his back. “What if Rhaenyra is to be the next target? Allowing her into the city would only make that easier, would it not? Nay, it is best she stays on the isle, away from all this mess.”

“So, you acknowledge that your city isn’t safe, do you?” He paces in Viserys’s line of sight. “If security’s such a concern for you, then do something about it! Double—triple the guards! Recruit more men for the City Watch! Rally troops from the fucking Crownlands—”

“And what good would that do other than engender panic?” Viserys sighs. “No. I’ll not bring upheaval to the capital to allay your rage, brother. There’s been no new attempts, and you’re managing well enough on the search.”

Well enough? He’s man enough to admit he’s floundering, though he’ll never admit to such a thing before the sycophants from Oldtown. They’ll probably go running to old Otto to crow about Lord Flea Bottom’s failures while they clamber to lick the shit from his arsehole. No. Whoever this cunt is, he’s an apparition, a ghost in the wind.

Daemon is impressed by his own ability to refrain from yelling at the King and getting himself thrown out. He takes a breath and tries again. “My wife could do with her elder sister’s comfort. Would you not provide her with that?”

He tries not to think upon how tearful and reticent you have been as of late, a return to the you that had filled his waking hours in the days immediately following the threat on your life. Something is wrong, and he knows not what—only that you need as much soothing as he can garner.

“She has her siblings and stepmother here,” Viserys says. He cannot help but to scoff at the pronouncement. The only ones you willingly spend time with are your half-sister and youngest brother, and it’s unlikely you’ll find succour in the ramblings of a witchling or a child. “She has you. Will Rhaenyra really make much of a difference? I think not.”

This time, he almost follows through on the urge to strike the King. It is not uncommon for Kings to favour their heirs above all else—who better than he to know that truth?—but he’d thought for one foolish moment that perhaps you might be exempt from it this time.

He is wrong.

“Fine, then,” he just barely grits out from between clenched teeth. “I’ll take my leave, Your Grace. I have a hunt to continue.”

Breakbones’s voice interrupts. “What exactly have you learned thus far, my Prince?”

Daemon glances dubiously at him. He admires the enthusiasm with which the man has readily proffered assistance in the task of searching out the primary conspirator—no doubt the very reason Rhaenyra elected to send him, being among those of her confidants with the soundest pretext for paying visit to King’s Landing—but it seems foolish to speak of details out here. Ordinarily, he’d take the man to task for it. But the steps traversing down to the royal residences are perhaps the most private he is like to get until safely in your rooms once more, dotted with the occasional guard along the way. Moreover, he is not overeager to remind you of the attack in your condition.

“Nothing of note,” he says, taking the next several steps onward to ensure he’s firmly out of earshot of the last watchman before he continues. “An alias and a pin. Rumours, but nothing concrete.”

Withdrawing his sole piece of evidence from the pouch at his belt, he rolls the brass insect between thumb and finger consideringly, feeling the crevices and sharp edges that make up its metalwork anatomy. The piss-coloured stone defining the last segments of its abdomen—he suspects it’s more likely glass than anything of real value—appears amber in the daylight. He watches as it passes from his own hand to Strong’s, the man holding it aloft and squinting.

To the unenlightened, the trinket may bear the likeness of a bee or a beetle. If not for the pseudonym extracted from that scum in the brothel, he too would have assumed as such. He’d confirmed it by spending evenings after you had fallen asleep poring over dusty old illustrations from stained old tomes on entomology from scholars long since dead. Hadn’t that been an exciting venture.

The man is taking far longer to examine it than is the norm. Daemon’s heartbeat quickens. “Do you recognise it?” he asks.

“Yes,” Strong murmurs finally, frowning and turning the pin over in overlarge fingers. “I… I’ve seen it before. ‘Tis a firefly, is it not?”

“That it is.” A sick, swooping excitement curdles in his gut. This is what he has been waiting for. Finally, someone has recognised this blasted thing. Finally, someone knows it by name. “How do you know that?”

Breakbones appears to stare at some fixed point beyond him, lost in his own thoughts. “My brother, Larys.”

Clubfoot.

Larys Strong is an unsettling being—Daemon hesitates to call him a man—who always seems as though he can discern every last secret a person is concealing with a mere glance. He’s the worst sort of creature. One who hides himself behind oily amiability and glib half-speak, each and every encounter ringing with some unknown threat.

The lad before him looks back down to study the item in his grasp. “As a youth,” he continues, “he was fascinated by them. Used to capture them in jars and shake them until they were stunned, then—pull them apart with Mother’s needles. He wanted to know how they made their light. He’d… pin the pieces to shavings of wood and present them to Mother as a gift.” The memory seems to disconcert him, for his face twitches with the effort of suppressing some unknown emotion.

Ice trickles down Daemon’s spine.

Viserys had ignored his incredulity after he’d discovered that Clubfoot had been named Master of Whisperers. “He has a talent for gathering intelligence, and his House is loyal,’” the King had said.

His House is loyal—but what of him?

“That”—Daemon jerks his chin toward the pin—“was found on one of the attackers.” He stares at Breakbones assessingly. “Would you say your brother still has his… fascination?”

“Wait—you think Larys is behind this?”

Before he has the opportunity to respond to Strong’s obvious perturbation, Largent grunts. Fuck. Daemon had forgotten he had been standing there.

“Seen ‘im around the city at night,” the knight says, the bass notes thrumming through the rock beneath his feet. Hells, but the man’s a fucking giant. “In some of the more crooked places, too. Could be doing ‘is job. Could be up to no good.”

That sounds about right. The Master of Whisperers is a position that brings with it a necessity to lurk about in unsavoury alleys and disreputable establishments, a spider spinning its web of informants across King’s Landing. It could be used to disguise dealings that have little to do with the Realm.

In this moment, he is almost certain.

“The mastermind calls himself ‘the Firefly’.” Daemon’s legs are already itching with the urge to bolt back up the steps and to the middle gate, through, past, onward to the outer yard, to the Great Hall, to the Small Council chamber, where he is no doubt sitting, watching, waiting— “Tell me he’s not capable of it,” he demands of Strong. “Swear it, and I’ll be merciful.”

Breakbones’s jaw works for what seems like hours, face flushing with the strain of the conflict he is like to be wrestling with, a brother made to decide if he can live with the consequences of standing aside so that justice might prevail upon his own blood. Daemon might have found it somewhere in himself to be sympathetic, perhaps any other time, but not here, not now, not at the prospect of finally coming face-to-face with the scum who is responsible for the way you had looked that night, covered in gore and trembling and so fucking terrified—

“I… I cannot,” the man finally says, defeated. It is all the acceptance he needs.

As Daemon strides back along the path he has just traversed, he allows the conviction to fill his body like smoke and ash fills the sky after a conflagration.

Larys Strong is privy to the movements of the royal family, he thinks, mind whirling. The Master of Whisperers knows everything that occurs in his city of employ. It’s the point of the fucking job. He’d have known that Daemon was away, that you were alone, that few would hear you in chambers so far from—

How difficult would it have been for scum like him—someone with a network of spies that spans an entire city—to pass the order to strike along to the cutthroats?

The pieces fall conveniently into place—or perhaps he is making them fit. Truthfully, he cares little about seeking proof of the matter from the mouth of Larys Strong. For the crime of association alone, Daemon is willing to see him pay. And, if nothing else, his death will send a message that the Rogue Prince is cleansing the city piece by wretched piece.

The thud of boots on stone pound in tandem with the drum of his beating heart, the rhythm of bloodlust kindling the fuel in his veins to living flame. Someone will die today. He feels this settle with assurance into the very hollows of his bones, as sure as he had been standing before you in the great winds of Dragonstone with blood dripping from your hand and your lip in consecration of a pledge made before the gods of Old Valyria.

Avy amīsilun. I will protect you. The vows had been struck, and they must now be defended.

Daemon only vaguely notes the scattering of the court like ants as he marches through the main walkways, to the empty Great Hall and onward, flanked by Breakbones and Largent.

The Kingsguard manning the doors to the Small Council chamber make their usual racket at being ordered to step aside—“the King and his Council are within, you cannot enter!”—but they are no match for him when his blood is up. He watches dispassionately as Largent forces them to step aside for their Prince, shoving them bodily to the floor with an almighty clang of plate armour. The heavy oak doors burst open from the power behind his shove, and the occupants within erupt.

“Your Highness!”

“My Prince, really—”

“Prince Daemon—”

“What is the meaning of this?” Viserys’s voice just barely cuts over the din. He looks especially ghastly in the light pouring in behind him, creating a halo of brightness that ought to accentuate something of grandeur—of beauty—but instead only serves to highlight the decay of the man who calls himself King. “Brother—”

There he is. Daemon doesn’t give a fuck about his brother’s outrage, not when Larys Strong sits at the end of the table right in front of him. It’s almost surprising that he’s not hanging off the Queen’s leg. Or worse, the Hand’s. Though he’s done well to craft something of concerned impassivity from his features, there is a smug little almost-smile that plays at the very corner of his mouth.

He knows. He knows and he’s mocking me—

“Forgive me, Your Grace,” Daemon says. “But your Master of Whisperers has just been implicated in the plot against my wife’s life. Largent”—he jerks his head toward the finely-garbed form of Clubfoot—“take him.”

Several things occur at once: Otto and his bitch of a daughter spring from their seats, yelling orders at the Kingsguard within the chamber; said guards advance with blades extended, barring the way forward; the remaining milksops at the table begin squawking as they are wont to do, contributing little other than pointless noise.

And, in the midst of all of it, Larys Strong is calm, an immovable stone object with lips carved into a smile.

“Stay your hand!”

“My Prince, this is all too—”

“Preposterous!” Alicent says, seeming so wroth that Daemon would not be surprised if her heart were to suddenly give out from the strain of forcing so much blood to her face. She makes a grandiose sweeping gesture with her arm. Supercilious bitch. “Lord Strong is a member of the Small Council and a loyal servant to the King! You cannot cast aspersions upon his name without—”

Larys himself interrupts. “Might I enquire as to the charges against me, my Prince?”

A chill creeps across Daemon’s neck. The man sounds as nonchalant as a noblewoman at high tea, tone casual and polite.

“Why?” he asks, automatically stepping forward. The Kingsguard block his way, but he cannot look away from the man before him. “So you can make sure to dispose of any tangible proof? Shut the fuck up.”

More squawking. Perhaps I should have directed that last part to the entire room.

The King appears apoplectic, though the colour casts an almost healthy sheen across his waxy, grey-sheened visage. “You will explain yourself, Daemon, or I will have you thrown out of this chamber!”

How typical of his brother to side with anyone—anyone—other than him. Daemon wonders for a moment if he could get away with shoving the guards aside, striding over to Viserys and throttling him, punishing him for the negligence he has paid to his family, to you.

Instead, he scoffs, hand falling to rest upon the pommel of Dark Sister. “The Lord of Harrenhal himself has traced a vital piece of evidence back to Strong, here.” The deliberate phrasing lands as intended. The others glance uncomfortably at each other, no doubt concerned by the prospect of contending with another nobleman’s accusation against one of their own. “I’ll be remanding him for questioning.”

“If you will not divulge this supposed ‘evidence’, then there is no further reason for your presence,” Hightower says. He gestures at the Kingsguard. “Guards!”

A true weakling, relying on the steel of other men to enforce his will. The guards lock blades, hindering the way.

“Why, Otto”—Daemon glares at the Hand—“one might find it suspect that you are so keenly interested in obstructing the Princess’s justice. Is there anything you ought to be hiding?”

The Hand is a craven, but there is nothing tying him to this plot. He would know—he’d wasted far too much time in corroborating this. Nonetheless, it is thoroughly enjoyable to watch the man squirm like an enemy soldier pinned to the ground through the ribcage, twitching and writhing in place.

“Absolutely ridiculous—”

“Enough!” Viserys exclaims. Otto falls silent immediately, sitting down in a pathetic display of deference to the half-withered man at his left. “Daemon,” the King says, “you will obey the directives of this Council or you will be removed.”

“Fine.” Daemon turns to face the target of his wrath. “Tell me, Strong. What does ‘the Firefly’ mean to you?”

Breakbones shifts uncomfortably at his back. Larys Strong affects affability, though it rings obsequious and sinister.

“It is an insect,” the man says in a tone that is almost crooning. It is fucking eerie. His head tilts and his eyes grow hazy, staring far-off as though in a daydream. That same unnerving half-smile lingers still. “I quite enjoyed studying them as a boy—”

Daemon has had enough of the prevaricating. “Someone who calls himself ‘the Firefly’ ordered the attack on my wife,” he snarls, straining at the steel barrier, “and that someone is you!”

He is pushed back once more, and he is about ready to throw a fist or two at the exposed slivers of jugular peeking out from all that gold in front of him. It mightn’t incapacitate the guards, but it will certainly delay them long enough for him to rearrange Clubfoot’s insides with Dark Sister.

“My Prince!” Larys’s hand flutters over his chest like a maiden, the very picture of overdramatised surprise. It boggles him that he is the only one to see this act for what it is. “I have never been anything but loyal to the Princess. What cause would I have to commit such an atrocity?”

Words. They’re all just words. Daemon is about to snap a demand for Larys Strong’s arrest when he takes notice of a gem glittering golden in the sunlight streaming from the window. A gem that is nestled upon the man’s cane.

Surely not—

He relaxes against the guards’ hold on him, stepping back with hands raised. As he had expected, it prompts an ever-so-slight lowering of their blades, a sure sign that they perceive the immediate danger to be over.

They are wrong.

Daemon strikes quickly, throwing his weight at the guard closest to him so as to knock him off balance. The man topples like a tower during a siege. Largent and Breakbones surge into the fray behind him, fending off the rest. It is all the opening he needs. He is able to snatch the cane from its resting place propped against the table and stare for a scant few seconds. Though he dimly registers the occupants of the table scrambling away—all save for Larys Strong, sitting so still it is as though he intends to blend into the chair—he cannot care, so fixated is he upon the metalwork adorning the handhold.

Wings warped out to reveal the inner body. Three ridges demarcating the abdomen. Antennae curving downwards from the head. And that fucking gem, warmer in colour than the pin, but so similar in cut that they can only have been made for the same purpose.

“You fucking liar—” he might whisper, might shout. As he brings the cane down over the cowering form of Larys Strong, the wood breaks apart on impact with the man’s head. It splinters into two sharply pointed parts. How fitting would it be for him to meet his end impaled by the proof of his involvement in your attack? “You will die for this!”

Daemon raises his arm high, preparing to pierce the jagged end of the cane through flesh. Larys Strong’s watery blue eyes are wide, reflective and crystalline in a way that belies true shock, horror, unadulterated emotion. Blood streams from the point of impact atop his scalp, matting his hair bloody and striping rivulets of crimson along the pale of his temples. He is nestled as far down into the seat as is possible, arms lifted to shield his skull from further assault, and it is the first sign of fear he’s shown since Daemon walked in.

“Enough! Guards!” the King roars.

He revels in it, in the fact that this man knows he is about to perish at his hand, is about to meet whatever gods he believes in for daring to harm his wife and children, for daring to harm what is his. He brings the makeshift lance down with all his might—

A harsh blow to his gut preludes the unyielding grip of whichever of Viserys’s dogs have managed to bypass Largent and Breakbones. He can do naught but wheeze as he is seized firm and hauled back, struggling against the guards’ hold to no avail. He growls like a beast dragged from its meal, frantic and feverish, unhinged in a way he has never felt before.

Maegor the Cruel reborn, Daemon thinks wildly. Let them see the horror that lurks within the blood of the dragon—

“Viserys—” he tries to say, but it takes on a decidedly inhuman cadence, brutish and bellowing.

“How have you the audacity to enter this place in such a manner? I do not recall granting you leave to slaughter members of my Council on a whim!” The sound of his brother’s voice shatters the spell of madness, and he finally absorbs the scene before him.

The Small Council members are huddled in the corner of the chamber, ashen-faced and trembling. The Queen cringes behind her father, eyes tear-bright and fearful. Otto looks upon him with alarm and revulsion in equal measure, and he is sure there is a moue of satisfaction twisting the very edges of his expression. Cunt.

The sheer disappointment contorting Viserys’s expression would have once been enough to bring up stinging bile in the back of his throat. But this—this rotting creature before him, pockmarked and deformed, elicits nothing but contempt and the faint taste of regret, bitter and stale from things left unsaid.

Defend your daughter. Defend my wife.

Defend me, brother.

“If there is truth to your accusations, let there be a trial,” the King says. “There will be nothing further from you this day, Daemon. Begone from my sight.”

His brother dismisses him with a scoff and flick of his remaining hand, turning away from him as he always does. Daemon jostles the guards away from him when they release their punitive grasp on his arms, sneering at the way they immediately grip the pommels of their sheathed blades in silent warning.

“Are you well, my Lord?” the Hightower bitch asks, standing over Larys Strong with a finger gingerly tipping his head this way and that, taking stock of the injury.

The man looks past the Queen and stares directly into Daemon’s glare, cool and calculating. Though he is clearly shaken, there is something distinctly unsettling about the notes of impassivity that reveal themselves in the subtle arch of his brow, the bluntness of his regard, the flare of his nostrils. His gaze shifts to somewhere behind Daemon, smirking. The creak and slam of the door heralds Harwin’s intemperate departure. Whatever the man had seen in his younger brother’s eyes had clearly been enough to rattle him.

Clubfoot smiles up at Alicent. It is an unfriendly thing. “The Prince has… much rage in him over the harm done to his lady wife. Perhaps I would be free of it if he were only present at the outset of the attack,” he says mournfully, so obviously mocking in nature that even Otto himself glances uncertainly at the man. “But I do not take offence, Your Grace.”

Daemon seethes. How dare he—bastard—

His feet carry him forward without thinking, only to be grabbed firmly at the shoulders by the guards. He shrugs them off with a huff. “Make no mistake, you cunt,” he hisses. “You might have been shielded by these useless fucks today. But you cannot hide behind them forever. One day soon, you’ll be alone. And one day soon, I’ll have my revenge. Bisir kīvio Jaehossi Uēpossi Arlȳssī sēten.” This I vow by the Old Gods and the New.

“Daemon!”

“And you,” he says, turning to the King. “Long have I watched your weakness rule you. Long have I stood by as you’ve run this family into ruin. This man”—he points to Larys—“is responsible for the harm done to your daughter. My wife. And so, I also promise this: if you do nothing… you are no brother of mine.”

Silence reigns for a beat; two; three. All he can hear is the sound of his own breath being forced from bruised lungs, heavy and gasping.

“Guards,” Viserys says finally. For a moment, Daemon is hopeful. He looks triumphantly to Larys Strong, ready to see the man taken up and borne forth from the room. Then, the King sighs and looks down. “Remove my brother from this chamber.”

His hope turns to ash.

The first thing he does after Viserys’s lackeys all but throw him from the room is find some parchment. In truth, it’s a simple matter of venturing to the storeroom adjoined to the Council chambers—he ignores the faint pulse of interest at the recollection of the last time he had been in here, the taste of your slick and the clench of your cunt as he’d fucked you into the wall to the sound of those droning lackwits mumbling to each other—and retrieving what he needs.

“… gone too far, Your Grace. He cannot be allowed…”

“… assault a member of the King’s Council is unheard of! He must be…”

“… will be dealt with, I assure you, my Lords…”

Daemon bites his tongue so hard that the taste of iron fills his mouth, fingers flexing at the trails of dialogue that can be heard from within the meeting itself. Of course they’re more concerned with the fact that he’d struck Larys Strong than the discovery that had provoked such a thing. He grits his teeth and leaves, not wishing to hear further proof of Viserys’s disloyalty.

Every test, every obstacle, every affliction brought to life by my desire to see my brother finally choose me. Viserys had failed me in all, and he has failed me now. No more.

He doesn’t bother to venture forth from the hall. Instead, he retraces a path from long ago, ascending the dais upon which rests the greatest emblem of the Conqueror’s victory over Westeros.

Needs must.

The throne is an uncomfortable seat, but serviceable enough for this particular purpose, he supposes. He sets the open inkwell and pounce pot on the misshapen armrest, laying the parchment over his knee and dipping the quill lightly.

“Milord—”

“What?” He does not bother to look down at Largent, loitering at the base of the pulpit uncertainly, the hulking giant having followed him unerringly throughout his self-appointed task. As he speaks, he scrawls his message black upon blanched paper. It lacks refinement, but perhaps that’s for the best. “What will they do—mount the steps and drag me off?”

The Kingsguard, newly returned to their station at the Council doors, can hear him. He’s sure of it. They do not react, do not even move, but he knows his jibe meets its mark. Snorting at his own question, Daemon discards the quill carelessly and sprinkles powder over the wet ink, tapping the excess all over the floor.

He rolls the parchment up and holds it out, wiggling it jauntily in the City Watch captain’s line of sight to coax him forth. When the scroll is in his palm, Daemon leans forward. “Take this to the madam of The Gilded Doll,” he murmurs. The chill of menace pinches at the flesh around his eyes. “No other. If this falls into the wrong hands, I’ll gut you. Understood?”

“Yessir.” If he’s confused by the order, it does not show on his face. Largent abruptly revolves and marches his way out of the room, the beating of leather soles on hard stone fading with every advancing step.

Daemon slouches upon the Iron Throne. There is a sense of deep weariness slithering through his veins like poison, drawing the vitality from his limbs with every pulse of his blood. It is different, this sensation, so unlike the pent-up explosivity that threatens to obliterate everything in his path whenever he loses in a row with Viserys.

Against a prince turned heir turned king, I lose always. Always.

All the weight of his thirty-six years of existence seems to bear down upon his shoulders. He imagines it is what a brother’s warm embrace might feel like, heavy and overbearing. Pinching at the bridge of his nose, he tries to relieve the sudden ache. Tension presses insistently behind his eyes, forcing him to shut his lids.

He takes stock of what he knows.

Larys Strong tried to engineer the deaths of his unborn babes. By extension, your own. He used an alias to recruit three assassins of little repute, waiting until he was sure Daemon would be away to strike against you. And, when confronted, he’d had the audacity to make bold pretence of innocence before the King and his stooges, covertly deriding Daemon’s powerlessness before the governors of the Seven Kingdoms.

But why? Why? He cannot think of the motive. What would a creature like Larys Strong have to gain from this depravity?

Harwin’s words from earlier spark an intriguing thought. “He’d… pin the pieces to shavings of wood and present them to Mother as a gift.”

The man has no allies at court save for Alicent and Otto. Though Daemon despises them, even he cannot accuse the Queen and her father of encouraging such a plot. They’re too grasping, too arrogant, too soft to risk discovery of such a thing, even if they have the most to gain from it. That Larys has taken it upon himself to gift the Hightowers with the elimination of the greatest threats to their claim on the Throne seems quite possible. He’s like a barn cat proudly presenting a kill at the feet of its master, oblivious to the disgust and disdain.

Either way, Clubfoot has made himself an enemy. Fuck Viserys, and fuck his Council, too. Daemon doesn’t care what they have ordered of him. Clubfoot will not live long enough to regret what he has done.

He leaves the pilfered instruments on the Throne—let the King dispose of them himself, the useless cunt—and makes his way back to you, seized by the need to see you safe, to reassure himself that no other has sought to harm you during his pursuit of justice. As they had before, the promenading nobles and bustling servants give him a wide berth, ogling him with wary eyes and whispering to each other. He takes the opportunity to glare at a select few, to sneer at their flinching reactions when he passes them along the way to the royal wing of the Holdfast.

You are exactly where he left you that morning.

Daemon lingers in the doorway, ignoring Marbrand’s presence in the entry beside him, and watches the scene within your chambers. He observes young Daeron chattering to the healer at the table as he fiddles with the various flasks, pots and implements strewn across the surface. He sees the grin on Ūlla’s face at the excitement in the boy’s voice, nodding and contributing her own conversation in hushed volume while she passes instruments to him. He surveys the cheerful dispositions of Jeyne Cressey and Bethany Follard, your newly-appointed ladies-in-waiting—girls whose presence had been given little explanation or fanfare—as they sit on the chaise with their stitching, gossiping idly among themselves.

He watches you.

You are propped up against the headboard with legs curled under you, heavy-lidded and focused on some minute detail on the sleeve of your gown, or perhaps the mattress beneath you, or maybe even the stone floor further away. He does not know. Your fingers stroke listlessly, absently at the taut flesh of your belly, arms pressed to the bulk of your own self as though you are afraid your babes will disappear from your womb should you let go. There is something ethereal about the picture you make; immensely swelled, distant, turned so deeply within yourself that you seem content to let the world move on without you.

“Nuncle!” Daeron waves, sparing but a glance before preoccupying himself once more with the woman’s trinkets.

He offers a nod of acknowledgement to his nephew as he makes his way to where you sit. Daemon is careful to lower himself slowly, hand outstretched and ghosting featherlight along the back of your hand in greeting.

You lift your gaze, a look of vague question twisting the arch of your brow. The fog clears from your eyes when you realise who has come to disturb your trance. “Kepus.” It is sighing, dreamy, as though it had taken a great effort to expel the sound from your chest, almost a question and yet not.

Something is wrong. The words replay themselves like snatches of long-forgotten melodies ringing in his mind, the warning bells sounding for a cause unknown. It has been days now. This is more than the fear or despondency that had characterised your behaviour in the aftermath of the attack. He is no closer to determining the cause.

“Dōnītsos.” Sweetling. His voice remains low and calm despite the turmoil swarming within like hatchlings through their first flame, loud and squawking and chaotic. He is wary of these strangers, these new ladies of yours, mousy and guileless though they seem, and so he keeps to his mother tongue to avoid prying ears.

“Mirros avy ivestragon eman. Vīlībāzmo bē issa.”I have to tell you something. It’s about the attack.

“Skorion massitas?” you ask, blinking in unhurried revolutions as though you are batting cobwebs of disuse from your lashes. What has happened?

He takes hold of your hand, light and cool to touch, squeezing it in his grasp to moor you back to reality. You stare blankly as he imparts the barest of details. The pin. The whorehouse. The long list of those he’d interrogated—and not kindly, at that—from the cooks to the pageboys to the maids who had dared venture near your rooms that night. The High Septon. Breakbones. And, finally, the threatening smile of Larys Strong as the knights of the Kingsguard had hauled him from the Small Council chamber.

Your bottom lip trembles in the way it did when you were a babe squalling for comfort, throat working in tandem with your reflexive swallows. It is tempting to feed his thumb into that rosebud mouth, let you suckle your anguish away with the salt of his skin as your infant self had done, hot wet tongue and spit and tears, in need of something only he can provide.

“Skorio syt…” Why…

Your breath escapes with a shudder, palm flying low upon your belly, and he brings his free hand up to join yours at the locus of activity stirred up by the twins. A flurry of movement greets him, firm thumps and hard kicks that curve the corners of his lips up despite the gravity of the conversation. Their motions seem to ground you. Trust my little dragons to settle their muña where I cannot.

You take a deep inhale and try again. “Skorio syt ziry kesir non gōntoks? Zijomy vēttīlaksir emon daor.” Why would he have done such a thing? I have no quarrel with him.

“Gīmion daor,” he says softly. I don’t know. There is no need to frighten you with tales of butchered insects and a young boy’s obsession.

You shiver like a baby bird left out in the cold as he slides further onto the bed, helping you shuffle close enough that you may latch onto the parts of him within your reach and press your face into his neck, huffing against his skin. This is where you prefer to be as of late, swaddled tight and held close, trembling waif of a girl curled under the wing of your beloved uncle.

“Papa. Yne mīstos daor.” It is muffled, muted, but he hears it all the same. He did not stand for me.

Your voice is high, mournful, so startlingly young. For a moment, he is twenty-five summers and you are seven and you have just split flesh after tripping over Caraxes’s tail. For a moment, he is hushing you as you sob with the Maester’s every stitch, streaming nose snuffling while he cups your eggshell skull to his chest to shield you from the blood and pain and fear as best he can.

He does the same now, only your bones are steel rather than glass and you smell of rose oil and the swell of your breasts and belly push against his body in triplicate, a woman grown and his wife, his wife. “Gīmin,” he says gently, hand to your middle and hand through your hair. I know.

“Ziry otāpton.” I thought he would. You nuzzle into him like a cat seeking the warmth of a fire. “Skorio syt yne amīsagon… olvī jorrāelos daor?” you ask, voice breaking. Why doesn’t he… love me enough to protect me?

“Ziry ajorrāelō daor,” Daemon replies resolutely. You don’t need him. “Yne aemā.” You have me. He strokes your middle. “Īlōn aemā.” You have us.

‘I’ll be your father,’ he wants to say. Why not? What is a father but his daughter’s guiding star, the one man to map her journey from first breath to last? Father, uncle, husband… all of them words to denote pride of place in your life, a standing he has alone claimed since his return from the East. You are his small fey princess, his baby full of his babes; he is your disciplinarian and confidant and comforter and lover. A distinction of title means little. If it is the firm hand of a father—a papa—that you need… well, does he not already provide it?

He will be your papa, your kepa, your husband. The man who corrects you and instructs you and fucks you, the man who raises you up even as he raises the children who slumber still in the safety of your womb. He’ll be all that Viserys has failed to be and more.

You sniffle, teary poppet with lilac-bloom eyes staring up at him. “Kesīr buqan.” I hate it here. And, though the capital is arguably the greatest spectacle of Targaryen strength, your confession is a sentiment he shares. Your little hand holds tighter to his shirt as you continue. “Henujagon jaelan. Mazumbille jagon jaelan. Ñuhe rūhossa Zaldrīzdōrot sikagon jaelan, luon ȳghon issa. Jagon kosti, kostilus—”

I want to leave. I want to go home. I want to have my babes on Dragonstone, where it’s safe. Can we go, please—

“Sh.” As he smooths the stray hairs from your forehead, you arch into the touch like one who is starved of love. He tries not to think of the ways his brother has failed you. “Aōle qūvyrzy iqighō daor. Hembīli.” Don’t make yourself upset. We’ll leave.

There is nothing left for you here. There is nothing left for him here. It is all too easy to agree to your desperate pleas. How amusing it is to think that Dragonstone—the fortress he had once associated so strongly with emptiness and exile—is where his heart and yours now lie. For the first time in days, he can see the trace of a smile warm the curve of your lips, and the sparkle in your eyes can almost be mistaken for happiness.

Daemon sits with you in the stillness of the afternoon, surrounded by your ladies and your young brother and your healer—the last vestiges of familiarity left to this place, this home turned battleground—and indulges in the simple joy of those pulsing movements emanating out from within your belly, the sound of Daeron’s laughter, the beat of your heart against his skin and the feel of you real and whole in his arms.

This is the family I’ve made for myself, he thinks. You and he and the lad and his babes, something tangible and ever-growing and precious. This is mine.

In Daemon’s practised opinion, the Crafty Fox is one of the capital’s finest taverns. Situated on the corner between Eel Alley and the Street of Steel, it is often a loud and boisterous environment, easily accessible through entrances along both street-facing walls and constantly filled with patrons from various stations in life. It is a rare sort of place, one where the divide between noble and lowborn blurs in a haze of ale and laughter and smoke. Popular, cheap and long-standing, it is the worst sort of establishment for conducting meetings of a clandestine nature.

Which is precisely why it is also the perfect location.

The shadier locales will undoubtedly be manned by Clubfoot’s little informants, and so he has chosen to meet his quarry in a location few would guess or expect. With his hair pulled back and his hood keeping his face from the view of inebriated passers-by—he’s even wearing a fucking hat for good measure! The shame of it—Daemon knows from experience that no one here will notice that they stand in the presence of the Rogue Prince. It is the best camouflage for the enterprise he intends to conduct this night.

Where the fuck are they? he thinks to himself, pressing along the perimeter and scanning around the open hall, searching for a familiar face. What did her missive say? Ah, yes—I’ll recognise one of them.

He casts about for the former serjeant of the City Watch, the one he’d had to let go after that unfortunate business with the whore in the brothel some ten summers back. But try as he might, he cannot see anything. Too many soldiers and apprentices and shop owners and youths are in his way.

One of the drunkards blocking his view sidles along, opening a path directly to the two men seated in a rare quiet corner, a looming beast hunched over his rickety table and all but squashing the slim form beside him into the wall.

There.

Daemon does his best to affect the casual, ambling gait of a man in his cups, navigating a meandering trail through raucous clusters of bodies, sweaty and stinking of drink. It is a familiar scent, one that evokes the memory of years past.

Sidling along, he finds himself standing before his intended targets. “The air’s cold tonight,” he says loudly, deliberately, echoing the agreed-upon phrase from the message and drawing the attention of the two men.

They look up from the wood-grain surface of the table. “This is true,” the smaller one replies, slow and equally careful to pronounce the words. The correct response.

His speech is coarse, utterly typical of the lower classes in Flea Bottom. Satisfied that he’s found the individuals he has come to meet, he slides onto the stool opposite them, glancing this way and that.

“Evenin’, ser,” the man adds.

He looks like a rat, Daemon thinks. With a pinched face and tawny sprouted hairs on his jowls that look more like the whiskers of a rodent than the beginnings of a beard, the observation is apt. The man ogles him from behind his prominently pointed snout, grinning a strange little half-smile that unsettles him greatly.

“The White Wyrm?” he asks, just to confirm. Fucking ridiculous name. It seems her years as his paramour served for more than coin and pleasure if her new epithet is anything to go by.

This time, the former serjeant responds, shifting in his seat. His knees knock against Daemon’s below the table. Gods above. There is an audible creak, the sound of wood threatening to snap under immense weight.

“Yep,” he grunts, bass cadence thrumming through the floor. He could be Largent’s kin. He takes a swig of the tankard before him. “She said you was lookin’ for a couple good ones.”

“Are you good?” is Daemon’s immediate counter. He cannot keep the notes of scepticism from his voice.

The man sneers. “You tell me, Rogue.”

Ah. He’s not forgotten the dismissal, then.

“Not here,” Daemon hisses, eyes tracking to those nearby. There is no reaction from anyone within range, no suggestion that they have been overheard. He turns furiously back to the man before him. “I’ve been assured that you are worthwhile prospects. If that is no longer the case, I’m happy to let her know—”

“Hey, now, we was only jokin’, wasn’t we?” the smaller man says, glancing rebukingly at his partner. The larger man shrugs, leaning back. The chair groans again.

“Good man.” Cheers and laughter begin to erupt across the room. Daemon leans forward, voice dropping to a hush. The two men crowd in closer so as to hear him. “I have a task for you,” he murmurs, looking about furtively. “It’s—risky. If you get caught, there are no gods nor men that will save you.”

“Sounds fun.” The smaller man beams as he gestures to the man beside him. His parted lips reveal the gaping holes in his mouth, bloodied gums speckled with grey. Daemon cannot tell if the teeth have been knocked out or if they’ve fallen out.

“You’ll do it?” he asks. I haven’t even discussed the particulars.

The larger man stares assessingly at him, brow raised. “We’ll do anyfing, if the coin’s good enough.”

A buxom wench appears at his shoulder, tits half-out and practically staring at him by their own power. She smiles in what he supposes must be her idea of enticement, the pockmarks of a long-healed sickness or injury stretching unflatteringly with the contortion of her skin. When she opens her mouth as if to speak, Daemon waves her off with a stern glare and a shake of the head. He has no need to get soused tonight. The woman makes an offended noise and trounces off.

He turns back to his audience of two. Daemon tips his chin in acknowledgement, continuing the exchange as if no interruption had occurred. “If you’re successful, I’ll pay whatever price you deem necessary.” The larger man nods, clearly satisfied. “Now. Before we get to the details—what should I call you two?”

The pair look to each other for a moment.

“He goes by Blood, these days,” the smaller man finally answers, something dark and sinister crossing over his expression. “Me? You can call me Cheese.”

Read it on AO3:

https://archiveofourown.org/works/44058132/chapters/115715053

Taglist (😭 thank you!):

Now in the comments!

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ghost-mantis · 8 days

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Headcanon that Skrall as a species are essentially doomed on Spherus Magna.

Even though they are warriors of the highest caliber, 100,000 years of war, starvation, and the loss of every female of their species leads to a slow, inevitable decline.

Ruthlessly culling any member of their species that wasn't a high-class warrior meant that there was no investment in education or skilled labor. The only way their society functioned was to rely on pillaging and slave labor to obtain food, medicine, and essentially everything that didn't involve stabbing.

Given their very rigid social system, it didn't seem like female Skrall had much say or power in their society. On Bara Manga, the second they did get mental powers they were considered a threat and banished to the wilds. Canonically, the male and female Skrall also separated into two societies on Bota Manga.

After that point, the population replacement rate was 0 and the male Skrall were in an endless war with the Agori for resources. While they never really lost fights, that didn't mean that they weren't losing people to disease, injury, and old age.

And then Mata Nui came along and curb-stomped the only leader-cast member of their species they had left. The remaining male Skrall dispersed into smaller groups led by named Skrall or high-tier casts.

And then Teridax came along.

A huge portion of their remaining population was atomized when Teridax blasted their home in the Black Spike Mountains. The remaining groups decided to join the free-for-all fight between the Agori, Toa, Rahkshi, and Skakdi.

And even as amazing warriors in a normal fight, there's no way the Skrall did anything but get their shit kicked in against armies of beings with ranged supernatural powers. A sword is great, but not much use when all your opponents can do things like suck the oxygen from your lungs, or summon a mountant to crush you without breaking a sweat.

Plus, every Agori and Glatorian hates their guts and wouldn't hesitate to gut any Skrull injured or trapped by the absolute free-for-all that was Bara Magna.

Anyone who survived the bloodbath and subsequent reformation of Spherus Magna, including adding Bota Magna Skrull to their ranks, is still looking at a very grim future.

The Skrall are now outclassed by almost every sentient species (and most wildlife) on the planet in terms of power and resources. Their home and leader cast are gone, and they have no slaves left (all killed or emancipated by Toa) to produce goods or labor. Their species is still split into two societies by gender and getting together long enough to have kids probably isn't in the cards.

A few Skrall are hired on by the Dark Hunters, but given their lack of powers, they would be best as cannon fodder, or as combat trainers to beings with greater powers.

Every other remaining male Skrall group is going to have their shit kicked in by every other group the second they try to cause trouble. And the Baterra are probably still picking off warriors whenever and wherever they find them.

Their population has plummeted over the last 100,000 years and the remaining members of the species are essentially the last generation.

The best hope their species has is that the female Skrall, being less militant and having no mental powers left, join with Agori or Glatorian society. They might be closely related enough that they can have children with the Glatorian or Agori.

If so, any future Skrall are at most 50-50 genetically split with another species. Subsequent generations will have thinner and thinner Skrall genetics, and they'll be extinct as an individual species.

Given that they were absolute bastards as a species and society in-canon, that might be for the best. Banishing every member of your society that can have children, and then going to endless war with every one of your neighbors forever is essentially biological suicide.

#bionicle #headcanon #Skrall #Agori #Glatorian #Toa #Makuta #Teridax #Mata Nui #seriously the Skrall are dumb as hell #their entire society is like Sparta on cocaine #everyone ask them why they're not having kids #like millenials and gen z #it ain't the economy per say #it's that they have no economy #or powers #or ability to have kids

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foursaints · 26 days

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who do you think would appreciate wine gum in chocolate coated in liquorice dust

obviously this is regulus but since we’re already on the topic of food. militant vegan evan rosier & “functionally vegetarian just because his boyfriend is” barty crouch jr is something that’s become so important to me…

barty is the one who cooks. he’s a very capable cook IF he feels like being one (rare) but it’s necessary because evan rosier would find a way to burn water. evan just wants to get nutrients into his body as efficiently as possible. evan is meticulously competent with everything in his life EXCEPT for cooking and the fact he sucks at it drives him completely insane.

but the important thing is that both of them are equally terrible at grocery shopping . and veggie/vegan. so i think you’d visit their apartment and they’d be sitting there like psychopaths just snacking on like a bowl of plain iceberg lettuce. there’s nothing else in the house

#a #rose & thorn #every morning barty makes himself a nice breakfast & a disgusting bowl of watery wheat gruel for evan. just how rosie likes it <3

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kkurades · 1 year

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i would like to make a request, aib characters reacting to s/o pregnant? I love your account<3

˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆ YOUNG LUV aib characters getting their s/o pregnant (headcannons!)

note: thank youu!!

morizono aguni —

- this man would be flabbergasted

- is definitely frozen for a few minutes

- wouldn’t know what to do

- after he calmed down he realised that he wanted to keep the baby

- but he won’t pressure you into it

- would be really happy and anxious if you decide to keep it

- now you’re officially on lockdown

- he only lets you leave for games and he has to accompany you

- otherwise he’ll go crazy

- doesn’t let niragi be in the same room as you

- he’d read books about pregnancy to help you

- when you’re in your shared bed he’ll place his hands on your stomach

- he’ll protect you at all costs

ryohei arisu —

- would be so shocked

- arisu isn’t ready to be a father yet but if you want to keep the baby he’ll try as much as he can

- he’ll also respect your choice if you’d chose to abort it

- he’s gonna be a lot clingier than before

- also very worried and protective

- he’s already thinking about names even though you’ve only been pregnant for a while

- he’s considering naming the child karube or chota if it’s a boy

- he’s very nervous but also very excited

- during games he’ll be constantly looking for you to make sure you’re alright

- he’ll wrap his arm around your waist more often

- when you’re in bed he’d kiss your stomach softly

- makes sure you avoid niragi and the militants at all costs

shuntaro chishiya —

- he was very surprised when you told him that you were pregnant but he doesn’t show it

- chishiya is pretty sure that he’d be a horrible dad but he hides it from you

- reassured you that everything will turn out okay while he’s going through an internal crisis

- he won’t tell anyone that you’re pregnant except for kuina

- he’s a doctor so he knows what’s good and bad for you during pregnancy so he’ll make sure to follow it strictly

- he’d try to fasten the process of his plan so you could leave the Beach

- he’ll make sure that there’s nothing around you that might cause you unnecessarily stress

- sometimes he’ll stare at your stomach with fascinated eyes

- he’s trying to do everything to get you to deliver in the normal world

suguru niragi —

- he thinks you’re lying at first

- then he thinks you’re cheating on him

- after he went through all the emotions that there are he will calm down slightly

- will awkwardly try to assure you

- isn’t too sure in becoming a dad tbh

- at first he’d hope that you would get rid off it

- when that didn’t happen he’d kinda avoid you

- but he won’t let you go to the games ever alone anymore

- after a few days he’ll be everywhere where you are

- he has absolutely no idea how to help you

- he’ll be a lot more possessive than usually

takatora samura —

- his brain stopped functioning the moment the words left your mouth

- he kinda wants to abort it but later on he’ll warm up to the thought of becoming a dad

- when he’s around you he’ll make sure to sheath his sword so he won’t accidentally hurt you

- during games he’ll be walking around you in a circle to make sure nothing happens to you

- he’ll hold your hair while you’re emptying your stomach in the morning

- makes sure you eat and drink enough

- he’s almost 100% sure that he’ll be a shitty, cold dad so that’s something that you’ll have to talk about

- while you’re cuddling, he’ll give you all kinds of name suggestions but he wants you to ultimately chose the name

©cupidsheqrt , 2023.

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alphaman99 · 9 months

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Historically, to be an American meant that you acceded to the ideals of our Constitution, and pledged loyalty to those ideals. We are experiencing an ever-escalating deconstruction of our national cultural fabric, fueled by the narcissistic and militant individualism promoted by those on the Left. This is why we see our country standing on its political head to accommodate multiple aggrieved parties with new laws, including immigrants who are by definition, illegal in the context of our existing laws. Those of us who believe secure borders and a citizenship process are fundamental to the functioning of our nation, are excoriated as racist and xenophobic. We are far from it.

Aristotle said it is the first duty of a culture to affirm its values, if it wishes to survive. If the rampant lawlessness present in our culture prevents us from agreeing what values we should affirm, we have little chance of finding unity in the future. I grieve for the future my children and grandchildren face if this trend continues.

—Jeff Pittman

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7amaspayrollmanager · 3 months

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What's funny about the "hamas is not credible resistance bc of x crime against humanity" that the iof have certainly done year by year but no one calls them a terrorist group bc their violence is viewed only incidental rather than their function. It's that and the military fatigues that resemble western armies verses the anonymity of hamas clothing that makes them an "army" and not a terrorist group. The iof will always be an army and palestinian resistance will always be militants at best and terrorists at worst

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wing-ed-thing · 10 months

Text

Man in Uniform (Erwin x Reader)

Synopsis: After a cut in the budget, your signature is the only thing that stands in the way of the Scout’s funds. Erwin is a selfish bastard, and unfortunately for you, you’re a sucker for a man in uniform.

Word Count: 3.7k

Tags/Warnings: Fem!Reader, Noble!Reader, Fluff, Flirting, Alcohol, 100% self-indulgent

Notes: This played in my head like a vintage black-and-white movie. I hope it does for you too! I’ve had this sitting in the drafts for about 2 weeks aaaaa

You were a vision coming down those steps.

The way the people in the room stopped to stare truly felt like a fairy tale. Erwin was no different. He sipped his champagne by the cocktail table that the Scout leadership wordlessly claimed, watching as the subtle train of your gown slinked down the marble stairs with each step of your high heel shoes. Erwin himself could have easily been mistaken for a prince in the Scout’s formal attire, but he seemed to be the last person holding your attention. You bashfully looked off to the side, an attempt to ignore that the entire ballroom seemed to stop for you.

“A little extra for a charity event, don’t you think?” Levi muttered, staring down at the cup of tea he bullied from the kitchen. Tea and coffee were supposed to be served after dessert, but he found his ways to be persuasive.

“Nobility will do as nobility does.” Erwin took another sip of his drink, eyes glued on you as you were swiftly swarmed by politicians, businessmen, and other nobles. He felt a harsh tug on the back of his dress uniform.

“You’re not actually going to do it, are you?” Levi pulled at the collar of his shirt. The Scout’s dress uniform— which consisted of a decorated dark olive green blazer and slacks with a complimentary collared shirt and tie— served to be far tighter than the functional field uniform designed for movement.

“Doesn’t hurt to try.” He adjusted a few pins on his jacket and ran a thumb underneath the thick belt around his waist. He corrected the orientation of the wide collar. “How does my tie look?” Levi gave it a once over before coming around the small table to adjust it. He pulled it extra tight with a scowl.

“You think she’s going to hand you a fat stack of cash because she thinks you’re pretty? Stupidest idea if I've ever heard one. She has the power to take away what little funds we’ve got if she doesn’t get you suspended for harassment first.”

Erwin shrugged.

“Stranger things have happened.” He played with his cufflinks, his attention fully on you. A trio of women Erwin recognized from past events greeted you enthusiastically. “According to my sources, I have a pretty fair shot.” Levi rolled his eyes along with a few choice words.

“At least wait until she’s done the rounds.”

“Doesn’t hurt to be prepared.”

Erwin heeded Levi’s advice, sipping his drink as you made your way around the ballroom. A diplomat had one of your hands in both of his as he shook you violently, which Erwin took as a cue to set down his empty glass. He made his approach.

He knew you well on paper. A descendent of a noble and respected family, you were the darling of Sina. With your pedigree, you held quite a powerful place in government. The two of you had brief exchanges during your fair share of meetings, important government decisions, and of course, charity events.

He maneuvered through the small group around you, addressing you by name. Your audience parted as Erwin strolled up to you, looking as neat and militant as ever. Inwardly, he chuckled to himself at your dreadful expression. He could see the semblance of it in your otherwise pleasant demeanor. Surely, he looked like yet another official vying for your attention, and you weren’t wrong.

You offered your hand cordially, and Erwin bowed at the waist to brush his lips against your knuckles.

“It is a pleasure seeing you.” He rose, your slender fingers still in his. “If I may, you look absolutely radiant tonight.” Your laugh sounded like a sigh as you bobbed your head lightly and withdrew your hand.

“Commander Smith, aren’t you as charming as ever?” Erwin shook his head and touched the front of his uniform.

“Please, call me Erwin. Smith was my father,” he nodded with a polite smile. Levi rolled his eyes somewhere in the background. Erwin made a show of looking at your company, who tried to keep friendly faces. He focused his attention back on you. “Would you allow me to steal you away?”

You opened your mouth to deny him but met his bright blue irises as the words died on your lips. They flickered to his right, left, and back at you for the briefest of seconds. You gauged the faces surrounding you as the corners of your lips tugged upward into a gentle smile.

“Certainly.” You giggled nervously, quickly slipping your hand around the crux of his elbow as you allowed him to escort you away. You glanced at a set of open doors, giving Erwin’s sleeve a light tug. “Would you mind if we head toward the balcony? The view of Sina is simply wonderful from up here.” Erwin offered you a slow nod as he gestured.

“Lead the way.”

You crossed the ballroom, attempting not to appear too hasty as you offered gracious smiles to the important people who made sure to catch your eye. A waiter passed, and you stopped briefly to take two champagne flutes between your knuckles. Erwin raised his thick brows in amusement at the sight but said nothing.

You handed him one quietly as soon as you stepped onto the balcony. Lit by a few lamps, the outdoor area was dark enough and in a position to seclude the two of you without the appearance of hiding away intentionally. The whole of it wrapped around the building. Blooming bushes lined the railing down to a set of stairs to the gardens on your right. You released his arm, moving forward to take in the scenery. People continued to bustle inside. You took a breath.

“Did I look like I needed rescuing that badly?” you let out another laugh-like sigh. He wondered if you could breathe in that dress. You approached the decorated railing, taking a sip of your drink. The weather was warm tonight.

“Someone once told me that the way Stevens shakes hands looks like he’s trying to make himself a cocktail.” Erwin leaned back against the railing; one arm crossed over his chest. He held his glass in his opposite hand, twirling the stem between his fingers.

“Oh no!” you laughed, cupping your face with a hand as you let your neat demeanor drop for a moment. “Think he should have become a bartender? He’s got a mean shake.” Erwin didn’t answer your rhetorical question as he studied you, taking in everything from your hair to the intricate pattern that graced the bodice of your gown.

“I’m glad we have the opportunity to chat. I imagined it would be impossible to get a moment alone with you.” You hummed to yourself.

“Something tells me that you don’t just want to shoot the breeze, as they say?” You studied him out of your peripheral. You knew this game well. Like every other person in the ballroom, Erwin wanted to bend your ear to something or another.

“Can I not enjoy the company of a beautiful woman?” He placed one of his elbows back against the carved stone. You stared at the various pins and metals he wore across his chest. The side of your face found your palm as you leaned forward. You enjoyed the whole ensemble if you were honest with yourself. “One’s deprived of such pleasures on the battlefield, you know.” You resisted the urge to scoff.

“You sure are laying it on thick, hm, Commander?” you muttered into the rim of your glass. You took a half step away, more straying in the space than trying to escape.

“Erwin, please,” he corrected gently, gesturing with his glass. “Unless the title pleases you.” Your glance away was all the confirmation he needed. Your shoulders dropped as you huffed.

“Surely you know—” You frowned. —“You shouldn’t expect to get funding from an attempt to charm me. It won’t work, so please, let’s just enjoy the night.” You trusted that out of all the people who would bother you about work, Erwin was one you could be the most straightforward with. Based on your limited interactions, it was an educated gamble.

“You think I’m trying to pull a ploy?” He cocked a brow, staring into his drink. You crossed your arms with a single nod of your head. You looked awfully sure of yourself.

“I wouldn’t put it past you, yes.”

“I’m hurt you would see me in such a light.” Erwin feigned offense which you ignored. You cocked your head to the side haughtily, staring back into the ballroom. Golden light shone onto the balcony from the rich chandeliers on the intricately crafted ceiling.

“On the contrary, I expect nothing different from the Commander of the Scouts.”

“And yet you’ve allowed me an audience with you.” Erwin pushed off from where he leaned, circling you slowly. He stopped in front of you. The glow from the chandeliers inside outlined him in a warm gleam. “Alone. Away from everyone else.” You almost frowned at the suggestion but forced yourself to maintain your cordial demeanor. You tightened your posture.

“Too much hollow chatter for me,” was your excuse. “At least with your presence, many others who seek things from me will surely leave me alone.” You nodded to yourself, convinced of your justification.

“You find me intimidating?” Erwin clasped his hands behind his back, surely a purposeful display. You tried your best to appear unimpressed. He cocked his head to the side.

“Some are under the impression that the Scouts are audacious. That with humanity’s strength comes… conceited self-assurance.” You shrugged daintily. You took a long sip of your drink, letting the tiny bubbles pop down your throat. “Perhaps you intimidate someone else. Not me.”

“Audacity and strength,” he cherry-picked in consideration, clearly entertained. His peering eyes searched your face for a response. “Do you not think so?” His real question crept within the subtext.

“I keep my politics close to my chest.”

“Less politics and more of an opinion.” His retort was quick and held a hint of harshness. You couldn’t help the acute look of surprise as you warily narrowed your eyes at him. He could practically see you choose your words.

“You certainly are brazen, Commander Erwin.” Your heels clicked against the tile below. His gaze followed you as you drifted. “I never knew the Scouts were so guarded of their reputation.”

“Ah, so the title does please you.” He lit up in amusement as bashfulness burned under your skin. “I’ll have you know that the reputation of the Scouts is a reflection of her leadership.” You locked eyes, and you didn’t miss a beat.

“So it is ego, hm?”

Inside, the hired collection of instrumentalists played a romantic song. Famous in Sina, you recognized it right away. It almost made you wish you were back inside, but another stray consideration of the people you would have to talk to made you refrain from such thoughts. By the time you snapped from your distraction, Erwin had already put his glass down on the stone railing as he outstretched his hand to you.

“May I?” The music swelled in the background.

You gave him an almost exasperated look, but not wanting to waste a good song, you placed your drink beside his and took his hand.

Erwin Smith was much more proficient in dance than you had anticipated. You draped one arm over his shoulder, and with your other hand in his, Erwin led your dance around the balcony in perfect time with the music. The slow and intricate waltz was another signature of the innermost wall. You learned it as a child, as did all children of Sina— poor and rich. You wondered where Erwin learned it.

Clearly, he was trying to pander to you.

“I thought I made myself perfectly clear that your charm will not get your branch the funding you desire,” you said quietly, careful not to miss a step in the dance. You looked up at Erwin, who didn’t appear to be listening. You continued more forcefully. “Everyone’s budget was slashed, not just the Scouts. Things have been very tight. It wouldn’t be fair—”

“Believe me; I’m not trying to seduce you in any sense of the word.” Erwin manipulated you into a twirl, catching you and pulling you into his chest as you tripped on your heels. “Although, it’s reassuring to hear that you think I’m charming.”

“Don’t you go around throwing out words like that. Someone will overhear and get the wrong idea.” You composed yourself quickly, retreating from Erwin’s embrace a slight distance as you continued your movement to the music.

“There’s no one around to hear anything, my dear.” You scowled disapprovingly, your footwork not faltering for a moment.

“Being slapped around by Titans has surely made a few screws rattle loose in that brain of yours,” you jeered. The vibrations of Erwin’s laugh reverberated from his chest through yours. He stared down at you, brows slightly raised.

“Do Titans terrify you?” “Of course,” you puffed in annoyance. “You likely have reason to fear them more than I do.” Amusement and self-assuredness radiated from Erwin in waves.

“Have you ever seen one?”

“Don’t patronize me.”

“I wouldn’t dare.”

Erwin’s slight grin melted slowly from his face. You watched it intently, wondering what he was thinking about at the mere mention of Titans. You softened in his grip. Your words were true; Erwin likely had more reason to fear the giants that roamed outside the walls. He had seen them. Fought them. The moment of acute vulnerability passed quicker than a shadow.

“I’m curious to know what you’ve heard.” His voice sounded low and gentle. “From a political figure such as yourself who grew up in Sina.” You paused, not quite understanding the goal of his question. The music changed inside, and wordlessly, so did your dance.

“That there are giants outside. Man-eating ones.” Naivety coated your words. Your body moved in tandem with Erwin’s. He held you in his striking irises, listening. You smoothed your hands over the firm, thick material of his blazer. “I heard they grow up to ten meters tall.”

“Some are fifteen.”

“Really?” One of your legs rose gracefully off the ground as Erwin dipped you low. You caught sight of the garden through the gaps in the balcony’s siding. “How horrifying.”

“I’ve seen dozens,” Erwin said, no louder than a whisper. You assumed an upward position as you continued the waltz. The side of his lips brushed up against the side of your temple. You held onto the low timber of his voice. “Ridden into the field just to see young soldiers eaten alive.”

“Does that weigh on you?”

“It does.” You felt him nod against you. A few strands of your hair came out of its updo, not that you minded. “You need not worry about such things.” You frowned as you were spun. Erwin’s hard chest met your back. Your hands were still in his, one pinned to your waist while the other floated in the air adjacent to your shoulder.

“Because I am from Sina?” You bowed your head the slightest bit as you felt his warm breath on the shell of your ear. The dimness of the balcony only made the traditional dance feel more intimate. More intimate than it should have been between two government officials. “You think I don’t have to worry? I have lives in my hands just as you.”

“Of course not; you misunderstand me.”

Erwin twirled you slowly and gracefully back around. You held him at arm’s length, connected only by intertwining fingers. He tsked, shaking his head as he pulled you back.

“It’s my job to worry about the Titans. Put your trust in me. I assure you—” Your palm rested on the layered fabric at the back of Erwin’s neck. His lips brushed the skin of your cheek as his voice dropped low. “I’ll protect you from the monsters.”

Your breath hitched in your throat as you came to a complete stop. Your voice stalled in your throat as words dissolved on your tongue.

You pulled away from Erwin completely, taking a few steps back. You clutched parts of your skirt in your clammy palms as reality— the reason Erwin had sought your time in the first place— quickly set in. He stood, hands again behind his back, as he awaited your response. You coiled your arms over your chest.

“You’re full of shit—”

“Quite the mouth on you, my lady.” His forehead wrinkled in amusement. “Is this how nobility is brought up?” Erwin closed the gap between you in just two broad steps. You bumped into the stone railing, knocking at least one of your champagne flutes into the flowers as he did little more than cage you in.

You couldn’t help the way your eyes widened.

“What do you think you’re doing?” You nearly gasped, a nervous shiver freezing you where you stood. The warm lantern light sparkled off your eyes. “Commander… Erwin…?” He corralled a few pieces of hair behind your ear, tracing your jaw until his fingers reached your chin.

“Rest assured; I am more than capable of keeping a foul-mouthed princess like yourself safe. Do you not think so?” You remained completely still, and as he moved his head forward. He tilted your chin up, and your lashes fluttered closed.

But the kiss you anticipated never came.

You opened your eyes to see Erwin looking about the same as he did all night: thick brows raised and the corners of his lips curving into a subtle, almost boyish smile. His touch left your face as he quirked an eyebrow.

“Yes, my lady?”

You gasped in horror, the shock quickly melting into outraged embarrassment. You sputtered, and when your words wouldn’t come out, you shoved his chest hard.

“Erwin!” He stumbled back as you stormed away. “You despicable man!” He called after you as you hurried down the garden steps, completely mortified with yourself. The laugh in his voice made you just about boil. Erwin caught your wrist on the first landing. You spun around in rage.

“I apologize for my forwardness. It was all in jest.”

“If this is your strategy for winning over a lady, I weep for the future of the Scouting Regiment.” You delivered a swift slap across Erwin’s face. Caught off guard at the force, Erwin released you and staggered back. You covered your mouth, the weight of what you had just done crashing down on you all at once.

A few strands of his bangs fell into his face. He tenderly poked at the skin of his cheek as he flexed his jaw; a certain amount of awe was written on his irises. Much to your surprise, his disposition was completely void of defensiveness or anger. If you didn’t know any better, you would say that Erwin looked pretty damn impressed.

He let out a single satisfied snort and a resigned sigh. His fingers raked through his undercut as he seemed to ponder to himself.

“I apologize for offending you. That was very unprofessional of me. I hope we’re even now.” He offered you a contrite look. “I do not wish you to feel further discomfort, so I will take my leave.” Erwin gave a slight bow of his head before turning to walk back up the stairs. “It was a pleasure having a conversation with you.”

You watched him as he went, emotions swirling around inside of you. You took a step forward; an arm outstretched in front of you. You recoiled somewhat, unsure of yourself.

A moment passed. Other guests seemed to have also stumbled upon the balcony’s availability. Their meandering shadows moved in front of Erwin, just about where the two of you had been. You froze at the sight of what looked to be Stevens’ silhouette cast by the lamplight on the side of the building.

You cleared your throat, squaring your shoulders to recall your diplomatic appearance.

“Uh… Commander Erwin…!” you called. He stopped mid-stride with one boot settled on the elevated step above and the other on the stair below. Erwin looked over his shoulder, standing sideways on the steps.

“Yes?”

You cleared your throat again, smoothing out the front of your dress.

“I would not be opposed to a walk in the garden.” Erwin glanced out into the extensive gardens, then back to you with a few bobs of his head.

“Ah, yes. That sounds like a wonderful way to spend the night. I do wish you a wonderful stroll.” He took a few more steps back up toward the balcony. You scurried up a few yourself, clutching your skirt as you called after him again.

“E-... Erwin…?” He stopped again. You glanced off to the side. You played with the lace in your hands. “I more meant that I wouldn’t mind if you accompanied me.” Erwin adjusted his collar with a shrug. You resisted a glare. You knew very well what he wanted you to say.

“I couldn’t possibly intrude. After my distasteful joke, I couldn’t possibly—”

“Get over here and escort me through the gardens, and I’ll revisit your stupid little funding proposal!” you huffed. Erwin snickered at the little stomp of your foot. You witnessed another satisfied raise of his eyebrows. You had a mind to pay more attention to those than his actual words.

“Very well, if I am being commanded to do so. Who am I to refuse?” He descended quickly, and you took him by the arm as you entered the gardens. Other guests seemed to follow your lead as they chatted casually with each other. To anyone else, it would appear that you and Erwin came out with the crowd rather than hiding away.

“Look at them.” You stared up at the balcony full of people with a scowl. You faced him with a pout. “Vultures, the lot of them. You may be insufferable, but at least I can stand you.” Erwin didn’t protest as you tugged him along.

“So much for your closely-held politics.”

Thank you to all who liked, reblogged, followed, and supported. Your support means so much and is greatly appreciated.

Notes: What’s reader’s title? God if I know. I see Erwin very capable of walking the line of guilt and manipulation to get what he wants. Don’t they say the best lies have truth in them? He’s so dynamic and I feel like he’s a master code-switcher

#erwin x reader #erwin smith x reader #attack on titan fanfic #attack on titan #Erwin Smith #erwin smith fanfic #erwin #attack on titan x reader #attack on titan fanfiction #erwin smith scenario #x you #x reader #reader insert #commander handsome #daddy sasageyo

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racefortheironthrone · 11 months

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I understand that knights normally followed a fairly set career path: start as a page, get taken on as a squire, and then if they merit it and have resources, knighthood. How did it work for other classes of soldier? How would one go about becoming say, a man at arms, or a specialist like a long bowman or a crossbowman or a pikeman for example?

Ah, excellent question!

One preliminary thing, you do have to be mindful of the distinction between actual training and social organization. Let's take your "career path" for knights, for example - at its heart, the whole page/squire thing was essentially a two-stage apprenticeship, but there was both a mix of actual martial training (I'll get into the curriculum in a bit) and what we would think of as socialization into the noble class - things like music, dancing, literacy, manners, and so forth aren't really directly related to the job of an armored heavy cavalryman, after all.

Importantly, when it comes to the distinction between various ranks, we have to keep in mind the importance of both material resources and sociocultural status. As you note, the difference between a squire and a knight was really about whether the squire could afford the full complement of arms, armor, and a horse, and there were more than a few grown men who were squires their whole lives (this is the inspiration for characters like Squire Dalbridge) because they just didn't have the money to advance to knighthood.

At the same time, the difference between a knight and a man-at-arms came down to social class - in order to be a man-at-arms, you had to have the same training as a knight and own the same equipment (arms, armor, and horse), which is why a lot of the written sources simply call all such men men-at-arms whether they were knights or not - although some sources took more pains to distinguish between the milites gregarii (the plain man-at-arms) and the milites nobiles (which, as you probably have guessed, refers to actual knights).

The former tended to be from the gentry rather than the nobility, and as a result of their lower status, they were usually paid half the wage rate of knights despite doing the same work and taking on the significant risk of providing their own equipment. (The fact that they were cheaper also explains why the proportion of actual knights on the campaign rolls dropped rather rapidly between the 13th and 14th centuries - knights were more expensive, so hiring men-at-arms instead meant you could stretch the budget for heavy cavalry.)

The Knightly Curriculum

As I suggested above, the training for knights was essentially an apprentice system where the page and then the squire provided service to their master in exchange for education. When it comes to the actual content of this training, the curriculum was actually pretty ecletic:

As you might expect, training in arms was an important part of the program. However, this training included a lot more than just swordsmanship. While the sword was very culturally important, when it came to the actual military function of a heavy cavalryman, the lance was arguably of greater importance. Training also tended to include other sidearms - axes, maces, and the like. In later periods, as armor got a lot better and mounted frontal charges tended to be de-emphasized in favor of having men-at-arms fight as dismounted heavy infantry, the curriculum expanded to include new weapons like the poleaxe and other polearms that Gary Gygax was obsessed with.

Training in horsesmanship was also a core part of the curriculum. GRRM is not wrong when he says that "jousting was three-quarters horesemanship," and this is why pages and squires were not only taught formal equestrian lessons, but were also taught how to hawk and hunt as part of their training. Hawking and hunting were the past-times of the nobility in no small part because they involved riding horses very fast through difficult terrain while simultaneously handling either a dangerous animal or weaponry, and were thus were considered good training for future cavalrymen. As Hillary Mantel puts it, "la chasse...we usually say, we gentlemen, that the chase prepares us for war."

Training in armor tends to get downplayed or overlooked, but it was considered so important that a major portion of what pages and squires did was deal with armor - carrying it, maintaining it (scrubbing with abrasives to prevent rust, oiling the straps to keep the leather straps supple, polishing - it was really endless labor), repairing it, putting it on their master and taking it off, and so on and so forth - so that they would understand every step of the process and be able to fend for themselves later on if they didn't have attendants of their own. The famous French knight, Jean "Boucicaut" le Maingre, was held up as an example to pages and squires for constantly wearing full armor while undertaking exercise:

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What About the Man-at-Arms?

As you may have noticed, I've been mostly talking about how knights trained rather than men-at-arms. So how did your gentry-born homme d'armes train? Essentially the same as a knight, but with less of the aristocratic bells and whistles of ritualized service and socialization to the nobility. So a son of the gentry would probably be training under the tutelage of their father or other male relative - and given that we're talking about a society in which the overwhelming majority of people did the same jobs as their parents, often being legally bound to do so, this was a very common phenomenon all the way from peasants upwards - or perhaps from a professional tutor who would most likely be a veteran in working retirement.

Towards the later Middle Ages, as literacy rates increased and book production expanded to match supply to demand, your more traditional systems of apprenticeship and one-on-one tutoring became supplemented with written manuals of arms. While this genre of military literature goes all the way back to classical antiquity - and indeed, Roman manuals like De re militari were very popular in the Middle Ages, as were translations of Byzantine manuals - these lavishly illustrated manuscripts were both practical teaching tools and status objects for the families who owned them.

Specialists: Longbowmen, Crossbowmen, and Pikemen

Ok, enough about the upper classes, what about the commoners who served as specialist infantry in Medieval and Renaissance armies?

Well, I've already written a bit about longbow training, but the gist of it is that what started out as a (Welsh) hunting tool was recognized by the English royal government as a vital aspect of military readiness, so laws were promulgated that required essentially all but the poorest to own a longbow and that "that every man in the same country, if he be able-bodied, shall, upon holidays, make use, in his games, of bows and arrows… and so learn and practise archery." This training started at a fairly early age and lasted at least a decade, because it involved both the acquisition of technique and the development of the body (not just the arms, but also crucially the back muscles, as the "special sauce" of the English longbowman was his ability to "lay my body in my bow" rather than relying solely on the arms) - such that archeologists can identify longbowmen from the over-development of the shoulder and arm bones.

What about crossbowmen? Well, as I've already written a bit about, one of the major advantages of the crossbow over the longbow is that you could train someone to be a crossbowman in as little as four months, compared to the decade at minimum for a longbowman, because most of what you were teaching them was accuracy in shooting (hence why the recruitment process often involved eye exams) and the procedures for loading and cocking the crossbow - which required a certain amount of physical strength to pull back the string to the nut that would hold it in place, or to work the winch or the lever or the gaffe or the windlass if you were using a heavier crossbow, but nothing like the physical conditioning required for a longbow.

One of the reasons why the term "Genoese" is so often associated with the crossbow is that the Republic of Genoa established a corps of crossbowmen to serve both in the army and as marines in the navy and these experienced soldiers in turn provided a ready supply of labor for mercenary companies. While the captains who recruited on behalf of the great companies might have to put in the up-front investment of equipment (the crossbow and its accessories, pavise shields, armor,and sidearms), they were able to essentially outsource the training costs to the Republic.

When it comes to training, pikemen were somewhere in the middle between the longbowman and the crossbowman. Because pikemen have to fight shoulder-to-shoulder with lots of other pikemen without stabbing one another accidentally or getting their polearms tangled up, coordinating movement and action was vitally important. Hence, pikemen learned a series of quite complicated drills to teach them how to move in formation in different directions, how to change formations from line to square and back, how to switch from pike to sidearm and back, how to work with missile infantry, and so forth.

As I've talked about before, a big part of the reason why Swiss pikemen were so feared on the battlefield is that, because they were very well-drilled and disciplined due to the policies of universal military service adopted by the Swiss cantons, they could execute these drills very quickly, which meant that the Swiss pikemen could turn on a dime from an impenetrable defensive pike square to a shockingly fast and aggressive deep column which beat the ever-loving shit out of the Burgundians, the Hapsburgs, the Italians, the French, and pretty much everyone - until the Swiss ran up against a nasty combination of the German Landsknecht and the Spanish tercio.

#history #military history #knights #men-at-arms #medieval warfare #mercenaries #longbow #crossbow #pike #medieval history #swiss pikemen

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