the watchmen sight the ship not far from shore.
on beaches teething, soldiers bolden guns.
they capture six— three, traitors long before;
three, countrymen, of base and faithless tongue.

the island, verdant green and crumbled walls,
awaits the bloody execution day.
“for justice!” ardent seas of fever call.
the queen, her head in thorns, will not betray.

the traitors grace the citadel on knee.
cathedral bells raise fervent cries higher.
at trial sits not judge nor juror, for he
who fans the flames must one day face the fire.

so falls the blade, struck swiftly on the neck.
in blood they taste the fate of mortal death.

excerpt from a rhaenicent fic i will probably not finish

They find her with the Mother on the morning of her wedding.

“You should pray to the Maid, my lady, to thank her for your marriage.” The septa who tells her this is a familiar face, an old sister wrinkled with sun-spots on her brow; yet she is spry as a bird when Alicent bids her word and lights another candle. They kneel together for half an hour more, before her father comes with a convoy of guards who parade her to the bridal chambers to be prepared. “There are many young women in the city who have prayed for such a match.”

Fair Alicent keeps her head bowed as the septa spells a prayer for the queen-to-be. There have been many prayers of late, many long hours with a stern-faced teacher, here in the halls of the Great Sept or elsewhere in her father’s chambers, sat with a maester or the Hand himself, bent over books of the dragon’s lineage and histories, the things she must know now, the legacies her children will carry.

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They are calling for their queen. In Helaena’s eyes, there is a distance, a light gone out, and she turns in the carriage as if she cannot hear the voices or taste their cries. Alicent knows she can hear their words all too well. Queen Helaena! Lady Helaena! Sweet Helaena, they killed your beloved son! A curse on the pretender. A curse on Rhaenyra the Cruel. 

It is all too much, and sweet Helaena loves her silver-haired sister as dearly as the little girl she once was. 

—the same way Alicent loved a dying Aemma, the same way Viserys clung to a brother who brought him nothing but grief, the way he clung to his daughter’s claim until he could no longer see past the shadows in his eyes. The same way he gasped and sobbed and bled his way to a bitter end. The way Alicent wept for Rhaenyra’s mother as much as she did for her own, the way she cried when she held her baby girl for the first time and saw for her daughter all the same pain she had once endured. Sweet Helaena, who loves with abandon and suffers for it. Poor Dyana, pale with quivers as the tea sank down her gullet and Alicent wiped a drop from her lips. Dear, young Jaehaerys, who dies again every time the stitches in his neck threaten to come undone.

It is the sad things that are the most beautiful. The day they bury her grandson, there are no tears Alicent can shed, for the dragonfire that burns his body is as pure gold as the heart her daughter is bleeding into the earth.

fem!reibert part 2

“how much do you think i’d be worth?”

the hens are squawking as she digs in the coop for the morning’s lay. one of them pecks at her, but beatrice is quicker and has latched the door shut before the hen can draw blood from her hands. she’s still on her knees, prodding at the little blue and white eggs in the basket, when she feels rosamund over her shoulder.

“what did you say?” she asks, not looking up. not because she didn’t hear, but because she didn’t understand. she doesn’t, until roz says it again, and then at once bea understands, even before she’s finished her sentence.

“all that talk last night,” rosamund explains. “the young lady’s dowry. i never knew marriage was so complicated.”

“it is when you’re rich.”

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god damn flowers. god damn lesbians.

“i can’t stay,” bertholdt is saying from the doorway. “my girlfriend’s in the car. i was just dropping off a card. saying hi—”

“sorry. i’m sort of— this cake is— you’re taking off?”

is he glad bertholdt’s not sticking around the party? maybe. he should be, because if he was staying, that’d mean the girlfriend was staying too, and from what historia’s said, she’s a real piece of work. not sure exactly what that means. it wasn’t explained any further. honestly, reiner doesn’t need to know. and right now, he doesn’t know if he can find the time to care, not in between the five hundred tiny fucking edible flowers ymir and historia want on their stupid god damn cake.

“we’ve got a work thing,” is all bertholdt adds.

“cool,” reiner says. he’s in the fucking thick of it. he can’t look at bertholdt in the doorway right now. bertholdt with his keys in his hands and the haircut reiner always told him he should get. that, or a mullet. he’s got curls somewhere in there. he could pull off a mullet.

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it is midday by the time they break through the forest and straight into the fire. the canopy shielded them from the worst of the sun, but now they are an hour behind schedule and lost atop a waterfall in an unfamiliar ravine, and the sweat is running down their faces like blood.

not lost, bertholdt figures out before jean fumbles with the compass and exclaims it so. base camp is on the horizon, if they can find their way around the lake.

his hair is flattened to his forehead when armin kneels on the edge of the cliff and watches the water crash at the bottom. “how are we supposed to get down?”

jean is still fumbling with the map. it is coming apart between his sticky fingers, the ink running across his skin like veins. “shit. this won’t be any good. but if we can find a place where it’s not too steep—”

bertholdt doesn’t think before he answers. “you just—”

jump.

armin peers further. he looks so small at the edge of the cliff. bertholdt might just push him.

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hange’s careful! comes sharply, and too late. the burn festers for a moment on his hand, pink and raw and cold as ice. then the steam starts to hiss, and his waxy skin turns into something new, something reborn. armin feels it the moment it happens— a prick inside him like a splinter.

the burn is gone by the time hange reaches him. their arm raises, slightly, leather gloves pulled off, clenched under the elbow. they stop before they even start to reach for his hand. and armin can’t help but pull away.

“you should take more care,” hange says after another moment.

there’s something unsaid in that split second of silence, and with his hand curled to his chest, his thumb brushing off the place where the fire touched him, he feels like he is cowering in shame, like he cannot bear to turn and face his commander, as if they have breached a secret he has been keeping beneath his skin. perhaps they have.

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“someone’s going to come looking for us,” bertholdt whispers. instinct.

reiner’s teeth are on his lips. “who?”

“i don’t know.” his body is flushed with nerves. his only defense is to protest with excuses he doesn’t even believe. “annie.”

snort. “annie. she doesn’t even know where we are.”

bertholdt doubts that, but he’ll pretend it’s true.

reiner pulls back. his pupils are wide in the dark. “do you want to stop?”

he must be red in the face. fragile and flustered as their bodies press together and a desire throbs within him. no, he doesn’t want to stop. but there is something in the shadow of the trees that makes him quiet. something in the light of the near full moon that feels like a great eye peering down on him and watching the places where their hands meet. somehow he expects reiner to pull back and sit up and laugh at him, tease him about his pink cheeks and tell him it was all a joke. a dare. somehow, that would be easier.

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