#thygraves

“From the world,”  she repeated under her breath, needle sinking into linen before pulling the thread. A pair of hungry-eyed spiders filled the fabric, their fangs dripping with blood. The web underneath them was sewn in gleaming silver, and at its very heart lay a lifeless moth, wrapped tightly in its deadly silk, the violet wings all chewed and faded. There was despair in the scene, like you could feel the agony that preceded the creature’s demise. The artwork was intricate and far more articulate than its composer had ever been, yet Helaena would seldom know how to respond if anyone asked what her project was.

In truth, her mind seldom registered it. Deep in her intuition, Helaena knew exactly what it meant, but she couldn’t bear to look at it. Her hands moved as though they had a will of their own. There was no conscience guiding her, no plan, no deliberation. A piece with such level of detail would take weeks to conclude, sometimes months. Helaena did this one within days. Her fingers had never worked so fast before, unable to contain their restlessness, like the image they created had emerged from the depths of her nightmares and demanded to be registered on the fabric. The tremor disrupted her work, making her flinch when the needle pricked her thumb. Not once did she look at Aemond, nor anywhere else in particular: her gaze was distant, catatonic, barely alive.

Everything was winter around her.

Grief poured into the embroidered cloth on her lap, endless, though Helaena shed no tears. One must be alive to weep, and there was seldom any life left within her. Whatever form of existence had remained to her since they took Jaehaerys away, it could hardly be called living.

“The world-” she tried to speak, closing her eyes as though the very effort gave her pain. “Was never the threat.” Her voice was low, quiet, coming out through gritted teeth.

All those years, she had followed their lead. Mother told her to wed Aegon because it was safest to stay within the family’s grasp, then the court began to ask after a child and Helaena gave them two, at the cost of hours of pain and months of discomfort, yet it wasn’t enough. They had to crown Aegon, to make her his queen, for that was the only way to survive.

How quickly those lies had crumbled, gone in the stroke of a blade.

At last, her eyes rose to look at her brother.

“This family is”, she added through a clenched jaw, her stare wounded and accusing.

This conflict had started before him, she knew, and it had been brewing for years and years. Still, that eagerness he had, the way the boy’s wounds had become the man’s rage and drove him so swiftly towards violence had all but placed the target upon their backs.

“Where were you, Aemond?” Helaena asked softly, voice faltering mid-sentence, “the night they killed my boy?”

Though her gaze remained affixed to his, she did not look at him as though expecting an answer. She knew her brother well. More likely than not, he would be doing exactly the thing that Helaena feared the most.

Justify the means!

How easy it would be to lean into the immediate temptation to disbelieve his words, for no other reason than not wanting them to be true. For a second, Alicent just waited. For the realization that this was just a bad dream, perhaps, or for her son to reveal that he was toying with her – anything to dissipate the horror gnawing on her stomach like a hungry beast, robbing her lungs of air. No, no, no, she thought to herself, over and over. Not this. Not this! Still, nothing worked. Aemond was no jester, and the pain of her nails pressing deep against her palms was far too real for this to be a dream. 

Nor was Alicent such a fool as to ignore the reality that is shouting at her face.

He did it. Mother above, she had not thought him so – capable? Ruthless? Reckless? Heartless, to strike a child to his death like this? Her corset felt impossibly tight around her ribs, constraining her like claws, like hostile hands around her neck, forcing her to fight for every breath. “Oh, Gods–” Alicent mumbled, exhaling a tense, heavy breath. Eyes widening with terror, she lifted her gaze towards him at last, one of her palms pressed to her heart as if she was trying to soothe its erratic beating.

The thought that Aemond, her Aemond, would do something so hideous, so cruel–

Alicent choked a sob within her throat, refusing to crumble. Another time, she would take a moment to weep. For Lucerys, wicked child that he was, for Rhaenyra, with all her faults, now grieving the loss that no mother should ever have to bear – and for Aemond, the sweet boy he had been once, ever so wounded by the insistent taunting of his nephews and his big brother, who would have lost a precious part of himself in the act, too. 

Alas, there was no time for tears now. Her children ought to see not despair on her face, but guidance. At every moment, Alicent could feel her sons slipping from her grasp, emboldened with authority, deeming themselves too good to listen to her advice – and look where it has brought them! 

The matters of his soul would have to wait, now.

The murder of Lucerys Velaryon, she knew, would be felt throughout the Seven Kingdoms.

So far, the war for the throne was one of letters and ravens. A gathering of forces that ought to prevent bloodshed when the other side realized that their cause was hopeless, but now–

“Do you know what you’ve done?” She asked, hardening her heart, her tone low and grave, gaze dark and ominous, stepping into Queen Alicent’s shoes – not Mother. Her anxious fingers toyed with the seven-pointed star hanging from her necklace, still failing to soothe her. “You drew first blood”, she added, unable to contain the frightened tremor in her voice.

Well, the words weren’t exactly true, to an extent, but the realm would not burn and bleed because Criston Cole had slashed Lord Beesbury’s throat. 

But what Rhaenyra would do for Lucerys…

🦪... to join them in the bathtub ... aemond targaryen, @thygraves

Water's lipping at her decolletage in her supine position ( by all definitions ) … her eyes refusing him in any manner of acknowledgement. She tells a little lie, silently, by keeping her eyes closed and pretending to be too relaxed to notice him. Or to care. Or unawake altogether to avoid participating in this at all. It should be easy ... she's been sleepwalking through her womanhood entirely ⸺ her heart has survival wounds from muscle strain alone ⸺ Instead, she's never felt as naked as she does now.

It is no means a proper way to address a husband-to-be. But what is she suppose to do? To live on a bated breath of a yesterday's passion still felt between her legs is to live in a halfway world. It's tortuous firmament. It's inelegant skinning. The new beatitudes for auld faiths ... spilled seeds, divine fruits. God's hands on amorous clay pieces. She might die if he doesn't touch her again. She might die if he does. There's nothing she can do about it.

She opens her eyes. She watches him undress. She feels the weight of their cozy-fit-together in the otherwise roomy soaking tub. Her legs have to split for him. It's biblical owe. It's her owe, personally. Some would call this bathing together. But what they're doing is more akin to anointing one another in bath oil ⸺ soaking in each other's filth. They're sliding into roles made for them.

She does not want/need to hate him. Some part of her yet to be recognized wants/needs to love him. He's not squeezing in effortlessly.

Wide-eyed, she looks up to him. He's close enough now to trace the scar on his face. She does. Her own scar pokes through the water's surface. Her's on her knee. A knife wound as well. Non-accidental. She thinks of a third scar not yet in view nor existence. Will he bleed ichor, too? Are they destined to be the unequal parts of an even split? She overturns his hand to look at his naked palm and knows the next time she'll see it with this measure of intent, it'll match her hand. She doesn't look long. Her gaze finds the natural drift back to his. A breathe quiver her lesser lip before anything else.

❛ ... Were you not informed that I took ill today? ❜

Believable ... Transitions ( by way of illustration of travel or other new life adjustments ) can breed ailments. She can recall handfuls of guests back home that needed a day or two to recovery for their journeys and attune to new air. But she's suffering a different kind of sickness, evidentially, and she's got so little air whenever he's near. Either way ... she has a face that tells on her too much. She was never good at lying. She just didn't think that could transverse between messengers. Or maybe, her ailments don't scare him like they should. His face is hard to read. His body, however, transcends languages and her body converses accordingly. They talk so much when they rub.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ PROMPTED .

A SUMMONING ; IT IS ALWAYS A SUMMONING . men are greedy , such is their nature , and nathaniel is at the mercy of the universe . ever since he left the groves and thick forests of qohor , he was no longer under the protection of his old priests and masters . but even before that , it was not a sure thing . if they were ever to have found out what he had done whilst amongst their midst he would have faced the severest of punishments . nathaniel , too , DID NOT KNOW HOW TO STOP . there is a certain pleasure in it ; the knowledge that one can . the look on their faces when nathaniel , still so young and seemingly green behind the ears , is able to summon a demon of old .

he is also EVERYTHING SHE IS NOT . where she is gentle in her utterings , his are meant to bind , to hurt , to order . there was a time when he would have thought this weakness from her ; now he knows it is not . he is squeamish about death even though he has ordered it more than once , and she holds the hands of the dying with such a palpable kindness he is sure even westeros' worst will be sent to the heavens , as long as they held her hand . and so , she is kind to him as well . kind enough to offer a small rag as he brought his hand up to his nose , finding it drenched with crimson .

sudden movement distracts her from her thoughts. a knight brings his horse to a stop in front of them, and raises his lance. he is young and handsome, a dashing hero if ever there was one, with hair the color of dark sand and a sharp jaw, and eyes just a little too full of mirth and mischief. his voice rings out, clear, startling her from her reveries. " may i have the honor of wearing your favor today, my lady ? "

looks are exchanged, whispers rising between noble lords and ladies, interchanged by a lone gasp or giggle here or there. most knights, most young knights especially, are decidedly defending gwin ashford's title as the queen of love and beauty. elia stares dimly before she realizes that the stranger is in fact not looking at her legitimate sisters, but at her. a rose - red flush creeps up on her bosom and neck and cheeks, lips parting three times as she struggles to find the right response. a storm of feelings whirls through her. does he not know who she is ? is he mocking her ? an almost imperceptible frown marks the space between her brows as she runs through every possibility. only when she concludes that it is unlikely that he is making fun of her in front of her family, does she think to free the green ribbon from her hair. " the honor is mine, ser... ? " she stands apprehensively, moving closer to tie the fabric around his lance, trembling fingers wrapping it into a neat bow. her heart pounds in her ears. she's acutely aware of the many eyes fixed on her. somehow, though, the only stare that matters is that of the knight vying for her favor - whatever his motives. " i pray that my favor brings you luck. though i am sure you do not need it. "

sheridan le fanu, j (1872) / @thygraves (remmick)

no sacrifice without blood, no blood without sacrifice. and yet: "love will have its sacrifices."

she says it like it's the most obvious thing in the world. like she's commenting on the fact that the sky is blue and the grass is green. then her eyes drift back to her pc screen.

elijah mikaelson sentence starters / @thygraves (remmick)

"you know, if they partially based that person in the mask - you know, the one from the scream movies? - on you, then you should get royalties. because that person in the mask always comes back, too."

it's not nearly one of her best jokes but it works in a pinch. so she hopes, at least. floribeth quiets down again and her face grows morose.

"may i ask you something?" she's already doing it, so she may as well finish her sentence, right? "have you ever thought about looking into lumalindaw? he's quite a powerful combat musician, you see. so the stories go. he's got an ayoding, which is a musical instrument that guides him in making important decisions and a bolo which produces both light and music whenever it's swung."

and if not lumalindaw, then there are the lewenri - handsome and beautiful, they're music-loving people who appear to boys and girls by moonlight.