So I thought once more of Dornish scorched earth tactics... also of the fact that I'd never done Jaime/Bronn slash, and of this Russian military folksong, "Czarist Lieutenant Golitsin" (Поручик Голицын), also known as "Czarist Lieutenant Golitsin, Ensign Obolensky" (Поручик Голицын, Корнет Оболенский)... so I thought doing for something completely different, a songfic with this pairing --Jaime as Golitsin and Bronn as his second-in-command Obolensky--. And set in Dorne because this region (the Plana de Castellón) in August right now might as well have been Dorne, that is as difficult to invade as Russia for the same reasons, though with General Summer instead! It wound up being very friendly Jaime/Bronn, the usual aide-de-camp shenanigans, with a wee bit more of Jaimienne and a lot more of character study.
WHY DO WE NEED A FOREIGN LAND?
The fourth day of the Dornish campaign.
After taking a holdfast by storm and finding it empty of Dornishmen and Dornishwomen, their mounts, their provisions. They have retreated inland, into harsh lands they know well, with everything in tow. Who knows how far they have made it?
The Westerosi warriors cast off their breastplates and helmets, wiping off the perspiration and lounging in the shade they can find, after a forced march that seemed to last for ages.
Maybe the fountain in the courtyard, and the kegs, in the cellar, are laced with poison to knock the thirsty enemy out, Ser Bronn, that dark-haired veteran upstart, warily tells his commanding officer; but Jaime had already plunged head first into the fountain, that fountain as blue as the eyes of a certain mannish maiden, and was gaping like a fish after quenching the blaze in his throat and on his face. Yet he has turned strangely pale, his blade clanking within the scabbard on his right thigh, his thoughts flashing back to Joffrey's wedding... Ser Bronn had also been there, though not as close to the newlywed crown prince as Jaime Lannister, now lord of the Westerlands, had been himself.
Still, Joff was a mere stripling, and a coward. While the thirtyish man he never would know was his real sire, Jaime, was a warrior through and through... should he die in such an inglorious and painful way? Lord Tywin had died on the privy, Joffrey had been poisoned on his wedding feast... at least Ser Jaime Lannister himself would have fallen upon the battlefield and, as one of the few living Lannisters, have honoured the family name...
"Keep those spirits high. I'll pour you some Dornish red, Ser. Just to ensure it's not poisoned either..." his scarred aide-de-camp says with a gentle slap upon entering the keep once more. The hot sun is setting behind the craggy peaks of the Marches, a pleasant evening coolness pervading it all.
After taking just one sip of his strong drink to check if it has been poisoned, Bronn hands it over to his golden-haired commander, who takes the tankard in a hardened left hand before putting it doubtfully to his lips.
"We have led our men this far... and we are heading for Sunspear... and half our ranks are sunstruck and perchance up for dying," Jaime sighs, having but wet his lips in the blood of the Dornish grapes, a right hand of solid gold on his chest, above his still steady heart. "We are fighting for a higher cause, aren't we...?"
---
The fifth day of the Dornish campaign.
The next morn, at the crack of dawn, the dark veteran has already saddled the horses and prepared all the weapons, while the one-handed Lannister's face is strangely pale and his head is throbbing... A flash of suspicion cuts through Jaime's thoughts. Poisoned? No, more likely hungover, he reasons. That pain in the right wrist... it's always been there, ever since he became left-handed. Oh, he had woken up all thirsty and drenched with perspiration in the middle of the night because he dreamt that his right hand was of flesh and blood, fingernails and all, then severed at the wrist once more. So he plunged his head into the fountain once more, and fell asleep right by its side after a while.
"Bronn, saddle the horse... my white mare, Joanna..."
"She's already saddled, Ser."
In his dreams, there were tapestries and gardens of the Rock and the Red Keep, familiar faces surging through the fair commander's mind's eye: a golden-haired queen, her emerald orbs as cold as ice; a stern old noble, already silver-haired but with Lannister-green eyes equally piercing, a statesman and a warlord of renown; a tall and freckled, awkward maiden, more mannish than maidenlike, but still full of reassuring warmth... It was Brienne who had cut him at the right wrist in that dream, and then pulled him away from the throne room, and from his family, by seizing his left. Saying she would staunch the blood and tend to the stump as both of them ran away in haste... and he was startled awake by the pain.
Now the Maid of Tarth had ventured up north with that sword she was given, that Lannister sword he called Oathkeeper, to search for those two lost little girls, since moon-turns ago. Worlds away from Dorne. Ah... You reap what you have sown, his lord father used to say. Everything will be all right, Ser Jaime Lannister; you finally saw the light and your deeds and words have so far been true.
They have found some friendly shade in these ruins in the middle of the day, but no spring near to quench their thirst. Wiping the perspiration from his forehead: "Pour some Dornish red, Bronn... from that keg we took in the empty keep." After the order is carried out, the left-handed commander drains his tankard at one deep draught.
"And somewhere near is my girl... niece, I meant saying. Gods know how the Dornish are being to her. We do not know if we are the ones to blame, for... Lord Tywin, bless his soul, gave the order to kill Elia and her children, and the command was carried out in cold blood; a young woman and two children whose only crime was being related to the late royals..." And the shadow of that decision still lingers ominously over both Dorne and the Lannisters.
"Stay strong, Ser Jaime", Bronn reassuringly pats him on the back.
"How should I?" He glances into the palm of his left hand, then puts it to the hilt on his right thigh as if to draw steel. "Come fill up my tankard..."
A refill, another drink downed at one gulp, Jaime drunkenly singing as he huddles himself up in his white kingsguard commander's cloak, right before intoxication and the chirp of cicadas lull him to sleep little by little:
"Come fill up my tankard, come fill up my can;
come saddle the horses and call up the men;
come open the West Gate and let me go free,
there are wild ruthless rebels three-thousand times three!"
Not the usual Dornishman's Wife, but this song everyone in King's Landing and Lannisport, and their environs, know. One that, like the Rains of Castamere, speaks volumes about the Lannisters in general and their late patriarch in particular.
---
The sixth day of the Dornish campaign...
...and a short funeral service has been held (Ser Bronn, that inured sellsword, knows prayers not only to the Seven, but also to foreign gods, by heart for a good reason) at a mass grave when the survivors of the Westerosi force have earthed and mourned the casualties. None of them killed by enemy steel; either sunstroke, snakes, or scorpions took their lives, that may have been as short as a decade and a half. Luckily, Jaime Lannister and his faithful right-hand man are among the survivors.
For Queen and Country, they have made it this far, faint with heat and thirst, staggering and forcing their hearts and spirits to the utmost. Come hell or highwater. Though Dorne hates and dreads those from north of the Marches, especially from the capital, even if neither the commander nor his second-in-command were born within its walls.
And, anyway, because there is the heir to Elia's bane, come with fewer armed men than when he left the Red Keep, but still at the head of his company; the rank and file never wavering or turning back, out of fear to betray the finest warrior in all Westeros, including Dorne and the lands beyond the Wall. --That's what's worth a look from a bold man! What would Lord Tywin say from the heaven or hell in which he spends his afterlife?-- Like the rank and file, the leader himself is reeling when they reach the next empty village a short while before the sun begins to set, but still his golden hair and green orbs, and the ever-so-conspicuous prosthetic right hand and white uniform, proclaim who and what he is.
Though what he is --a Lannister-- had hitherto been lost to who he is --Ser Jaime, not a twin sibling or the scion of a great dynasty--; this is harsh, unforgiving enemy country. The shimmering fountain on the square is as blue as her eyes, a speck of azure in a place bereft of greenery, where the few hardy plants are from golden to straw-blond. And his throat feeling as if stuffed with thorns all the way down to his chest. It's as if he were wearing a breastplate and a helmet of dragonfire, and the equally un-Dornish rank and file must be feeling the same. Flames dance before emerald eyes that seem to shrivel up in haste.
Right now, splash. Head first, as usual.
Up goes his face as down his throat rushes the soothing, cooling draught. Refreshed, as thirst and perspiration glide off him like water off a duck's back (never better said). Gasping for air. Once more, that feeling of his original right hand cut at the wrist, as the blade clanks on his right thigh.
Ominous storm clouds closing in on the twilit skies. When it rains in Dorne, it does so rarely and violently. The warriors up there in the hills must have left all their tankards and pans and helmets out of their hideouts.
The sun of Dorne is a great star, far more relentless than that of King's Landing or Lannisport. But now it's going down in a sack of clouds.
What does it take to believe in such omens?
The Lannister soldiers have found pans, kettles, vases left indoors by the non-existant villagers. They leave the containers out of doors to gather rainwater as Jaime and Bronn make themselves at home in the local holdfast.
"And why are you so downhearted?" the blond warrior asks the dark one in response to a sigh of the latter, wrapping a warm left arm around the downcast sellsword.
"I would slit your throat for a good Dornishwench, Lannister. The 'ladies' have retreated into the wasteland, and they're having it with those wicked men of their own kin. Hope we get a heartier welcome at Sunspear..."
"These clouds... the sun is going down in a sack... the great sun of Dorne... we are damned, Bronn, we are damned, pardon my Valyrian. I remember Elia... one of the first Dornish I ever saw, first as a little girl and then as a mother of two. That silky dark skin and those glossy raven locks... and those friendly midnight eyes of hers... The second time, I was a kingsguard then, at fifteen, but a mere stripling... a dutiful son and a dutiful guard... We cannot change the course of the stream of chance. I was powerless. Powerless."
Rarely do teardrops trickle from those peridot orbs, but Jaime remembering Elia and looking at the sun setting in a sack, his glances darting to the prosthetic hand and the pommel on his thigh --both on the right side--, and he's become the quivering stripling again.
Just like when his right hand was severed.
And when he was frozen in place before the carnage of the Princess Consort and her children.
And when his lady mother lay on her deathbed, and all he could do was clasp Cersei as she clasped him in return, drying up one another's tears.
"We cannot change the course of the stream of chance. What if we return home from this journey through the Seven Hells? Why do we need, friend, a foreign land, either in Dorne or further up north? Perchance the best thing would be to be realmless, as most of you sellswords are," he sobs as he wraps his left arm around the veteran's waist. It's harsh when the past resurfaces, the one-handed leader thinks, having drunk his fill, as the rains pitter-patter against the half-broken windowpanes.
Perchance he deserves rightfully to be undone by Dornish warfare himself. Powerless. Powerless to save Elia, but also to save his own flesh and blood, who also deserved such inglorious fates; from poison, from assassination, from whatever dark intrigue the Lannisters had wrought themselves and chance ironically turned upon them.
"And now the rains weep o'er his hall,
with not a soul to hear..."
Ser Jaime sings to himself, left hand on the pommel, right arm hanging by his side as limp as a doll's, lulled to sleep by a pitter-patter reminiscent of that flooded underground castle at home in the Westerlands, whose children were drowned on Lord Tywin's command as well.
---
The seventh day of the Dornish campaign.
Everyone is hastening to drain the containers they left that evening on the village square, either down their own throats or into their camp kegs. It's been a generous downpour, puddles on the hard golden Dornish soil and all.
And he's dreamt of them.
Of Joffrey choking after that last drink to quench all his youthful thirst, looking up and surely realising, after a painful and fixed gaze cast upon the twin siblings, that the Baratheon lush was not his real father.
Of Lord Tywin found riddled with crossbow bolts on the privy, then already decaying from within as he was laid in state, yet seemingly telling the mourning twins, wordlessly, how proud and how disappointed of them he was at the same time.
Of Cersei, once his better half, the only lock that fit his key --until someone else entered the scene--, turned a hideously broken and bloated shadow of her former self, flushed with brandy, a stripling in court dress on each arm. Surely she must be groping her cupbearer, while Lancel himself recoils and spills drink on her brocade gown.
Of all the slain soldiers he had led, here in Dorne and elsewhere, who never wavered when facing his piercing stare, but who eagerly whispered behind his back slurs addressed to him as a kingslayer and as a Lannister.
Of Elia and her children, and then of the children of Castamere, coming forth in peace to shake his callous left hand, the children eagerly peering at the prosthetic right, which once more was racked with pain, as he felt his own heart throb on the left side. Reconciled with their innocence nipped in the bud.
Of the northern warriors that had severed his right hand, of Brienne, of Qyburn, of poppy possets and wooden swords, of respite and rebirth as his true self.
Perchance he is not that powerless as he felt in all those days.
There is still life, and courage, and hope after all at the end of the day.
"'Tis not far to Sunspear," Jaime tells Ser Bronn, seeing the great castle jutting out on a cape, as if the fortress were part of the cliff itself, a thriving port town nestling in its shade. "Very like Casterly Rock, isn't it?" Having never seen Sunspear live before, the Lannister heir is left astonished as he steels himself, ready to rally the people on the square after they had whet their blades and saddled their steeds. Raising his right hand so that the glittering palm and fingertips rise to the sky, added to the lace on his uniform and his unkempt locks of beaten gold, all of them dazzle their eyes and encourage them further on towards an uncertain destination.
Commanding them with all the sang-froid that returns to his veins, after he has drunk and washed his face clean of perspiration --now at least a tad more Jaime and a tad less Lannister--; bareheaded, raising his right arm to the sky and lowering the left one to the hilt on his right hip; commanding all of his men upon the village square, no matter their rank or descent, to put their honours first.
Mostrando entradas con la etiqueta lannincest. Mostrar todas las entradas
Mostrando entradas con la etiqueta lannincest. Mostrar todas las entradas
jueves, 3 de agosto de 2017
sábado, 24 de diciembre de 2016
DANGEROUS LIAISONS IN WESTEROS
ALL RIGHT!!!
WINTER SEASON'S GREETINGS (XMAS, YULE/SOLSTICE, HANUKKAH...) TO ALL OF YOU ONCE MORE, DEAR READERS!
And, as usual, here is this year's traditional Westeros fantasy AU.
For this Christmas, I will be doing something completely different from my usual Westeros fairytales, but that still fits the hashtag #OnceUponWesteros.
Rather, this will be a collection of poems inspired by Ovid's Metamorphoses, with various pairings and retellings of the Ovidian stories.
...introduction
"Right, let us begin! And, when we have reached the end
of this story, we'll know so much more..."
Thus does HC Andersen open his Snow Queen.
What will our descendants say about us
after we are deceased?
Which songs shall the children of decades to come sing?
How will they remember us, if they ever remember?
These are stories that have endured for two millennia,
perfectly preserved like bugs encased in amber.
Sing, Muses, of those that came before us,
of hope and despair, of friendship and illusions,
of tragedy and trauma...
of life itself.
...jamais séparés
For Marina Sorel, for both her birthday and Christmas
The Lannisters were proud and clever;
the Starks were righteous and honest.
The Lannisters were blond and green-eyed;
the Starks were dark-haired and blue- or grey-eyed.
The Lannisters thought the Starks were old-fashioned
with those notions of honour and honesty;
while the Starks thought the Lannisters were ruthless,
without any thought not of their own greatness.
It came as no surprise that both Great Houses
had always been at each other's throats,
and even declared war on one another.
Lancel was but a Lannister of a cadet branch,
a nephew to Lord Tywin, yet one could see
by his golden hair and peridot eyes
from which stock he came. Nevertheless,
he was a comely stripling,
without the more mature beauty of Ser Jaime or of
their elders before midlife set in...
Sansa was a hostage brought from the North,
who had just arrived at Casterly Rock:
in spite of having her mother's Tully features
(those aqua orbs, those fire-red locks, those cheekbones...),
one could find she had a Stark's will and mettle,
which, added to her loveliness,
felt like a silk brocade gown concealing steel.
She was given a bedchamber in the same tower
as Ser Kevan's children,
and chance would have it
that there was a hole in the partition wall
between her chamber and Lancel's,
and, on each side, one could see
a bright and friendly eye:
a green orb on the left, a blue one on the right.
As time went by, they grew closer and closer,
putting their faces closer to that hole,
asking one another questions,
as Lancel began to feel a little twinge
for the orphan of enemy stock
and Sansa's heart began to open up
to the stripling of foemen's descent.
And thus, they gradually began
to pour one another's lives into their ears:
it was the same yearning,
the same weariness,
the same warm feelings of youth at heart,
as he listened to her Northern songs
and she watched him go to bed every evening,
not knowing that he was thinking of her,
dreaming of her,
having shed unmanly tears for her misfortunes...
Sansa herself had put into those songs all her sorrows,
her dreams of courtly glory turned to chains and ashes,
and never had she expected a courtier or (worse?) a Lannister
to feel truthfully sorry for her.
So they came to trust each other,
laughing and crying like children once more,
then finding out that it hurt when they parted,
in the middle of the chest and a little to the left.
And they became one another's keeper
of that painful, blazing secret.
Why was he a Lannister and she a Stark?
Or, more importantly,
could their love hold the key to peace at last?
And those were lovely days, and lovely nights,
and lovely twilight hours,
whenever his parents did not find out;
yet all good things must come to an end:
Ser Kevan and Lord Tywin had had a talk
of what to do with the cadet Lannisters;
the stern patriarch had spoken of a calling
within the walls of septs for his eldest nephew
(lest Lancel reached the heights of royalty
which Tywin's own children had risen to);
there was talk of the Great Sept in King's Landing...
As soon as the stripling heard of this plan,
a shudder ran down his spine:
to leave Sansa, and never to make love,
sworn to the Gods for life?
So that evening, pale as a lily-petal,
he told her of what his elders had chosen
so treacherously behind his back:
they would leave for the capital within three days
(whether by land or by sea was not certain yet);
"Rather than offer incense to the Maiden,
I would burn myself for you..."
The Stark girl looked at him, tears in her eyes,
without anyone else within her heart,
and thus, a counter-scheme was forged:
what could Lord Tywin's worldly power do against young love?
Through the breach in the partition, she would receive
a set of his spare clothes,
including a bonnet to hide her copper locks,
and, knowing every passageway within Casterly Rock
(which Lannister children, while playing hide-and-seek,
always caught a rough grasp of),
they would stealthily steal, next evening, for the docks,
and board a carrack bound for Dorne.
That plan was ostensibly flawless;
Sansa got her boy's clothes, and a hairpin of hers
was soon twisted into a lock-pick.
Lancel would also get it, slipped through the gap,
after Sansa was done prying the keyhole.
The next step, their promised land of free love!
And now came the fated evening of the tryst,
and she, already clad in doublet and hose,
having picked the lock and passed the hairpin
to the golden-haired lad,
Sansa stole past the guards, leaned on the wall
and on their spears, lips stained with Dornish red;
knowing they would be drunk,
she set her bonnet right and ran away,
knowing more or less where the docks were,
thanks to Lancel's directions.
Given wings by her youthful enthusiasm,
descending down endless flights of spiral stairs,
she was suddenly startled;
off fell the bonnet, she heard marching steps
and saw lions of gold
glittering in the twilit staircase, approaching.
Was her true self revealed? And what awaited her?
So frightened was Sansa Stark
that she turned around, and, losing her footing,
she suddenly fell backwards,
screaming as she was thrust
reeling down the stairs.
The soldiers, however, did not spot the bonnet;
they just stopped mid-way across the staircase,
turning left, into their barracks,
right as Sansa fell backwards down the stairs.
However, someone heard the scream and the thud of her fall,
and picked up the fine, puffy, scarlet headdress
trimmed with that golden ribbon:
arriving through a shortcut,
a golden-haired stripling, fearing the worst.
"How dare the jealous Stranger wrest her from me?
This fate's not ours by right!
Why did I not come first to save her life?
The fault was neither hers nor mine at heart:
all we were was young folk making mistakes!"
Then, drawing steel, a shortsword he'd taken for self-defence,
at first hesitantly, young Lancel Lannister
plunged it into his own left side as from his lips
sprang foam with a known taste of salt and steel;
the blade soon pierced the left half of the heart,
and the stripling's form reeled downstairs as well,
down to the step where, rising finally,
not feeling her left arm anymore
since it cracked and the pain racked her as if it were torn off
when she fell down the stairs,
fair Sansa Stark heard a thud in the twilight,
and, leaning closer, catching but a glimpse
of golden hair and those lovely features,
his mint-green eyes no longer glittering, and on his lips
a dried-up bloody stain...
a bloodless form, as pale as her childhood snows...
she cradled him only with her right arm,
seeing the pommel of the sword on his left side
(a wound so deep that she knew
his lover's heart was broken twice);
she had expected to see foreign lands
and live anew with Lancel by her side;
yet her dreams were as shattered as her left shoulder;
she dried up her tears on his blood-stained sleeves,
tearing at her Tully-red hair,
kissing his ice-cold, pallid features
while remembering Winterfell...
"He saw the bonnet and heard me fall down,
and thus, left me for dead...
out of chance arose that painful mistake
that filled my love with dread...
So bold it was, I'd never thought that you
should dare to take your life;
let the Maiden give strength to these weak hands
and sever me from strife!"
And thus, wishing their elders could accept
that painful wish of hers,
she drew the sword a little from his side,
and slit her wrists across,
first the left, then the right, across the blade...
No joy or hope was left
for the fair stripling or the red-haired maid
who were, next day, together in state laid,
though he was buried as a Lannister
and her remains by Winterfell and Riverrun
were claimed; at the end of the day,
a decision was made as peace was signed.
Come to Pinkmaiden Castle,
where Westerlands and Riverlands conjoin,
and, within the Pipers' sept, you shall find
a carved stone on the floor, at the Maiden's feet,
with an inscription mourning two young lovers:
"Both alike in dignity,
torn by ancient enmity,
short his and her life.
Love of Lannister and Stark,
tragic, overthrew the dark,
harsh ancestral strife."
...game, set, and match
For Liza Pluijter Izquierdo
Dearest Margaery:
I am writing this letter by a warm fireside,
sucking the quill's end, wrapped in my dark green
officer's pelisse, inlaid with gold lace,
with golden wings on my shoulders
and a single rose on each sleeve;
the mark of a freshly-baked lieutenant.
Perchance this is my last letter to you,
a letter from the war front,
on the eve of the first and maybe last battle that I
have ever fought for real.
I hope you are all right,
that the courtiers or your in-laws do not tear you to shreds,
and that Joffrey will be at least a decent spouse.
After all, he is the heir to the whole realm...
and still, Renly, while still a vassal prince,
was far lovelier and surpassed your bridegroom,
as you know, in all possible ways.
Renly Baratheon, that charming young man,
who never gave his heart to a maiden...
When I first appeared at Storm's End,
sent as a page from Highgarden,
it became as obvious as the light of day
that, with liveliness and loveliness extreme,
I won his heart, and he won mine in return.
What was that throbbing feeling in my left side,
and why did he feel like that as well?
There was no mistake.
Sometimes he would play with my golden curls,
remarking that they were like springs,
or I ran lithe fingers through his straight raven hair,
as my rosy cheeks flushed even more...
Oh, how pleasant conversation,
how lovely string duets,
in the shade of the wisteria arbour,
sometimes crowning one another with its flowers;
while he neglected his lordship duties
and had to be reminded by his guardians
every now and then...
They saw it as friendship; only we knew the secret.
And how far did he send those balls!
Seriously, it was as tennis partners,
whether shirtless or in shirts,
both of us with our hair tied in a queue,
that we had our best afternoons together...
all it took was one of us waving a racket
and winking a friendly eye,
sometimes a honey eye of mine, sometimes Renly's, bright blue,
for the other to understand...
during the match, we forgot everything else...
and then,
after the match, no matter who had won,
all flustered, and thirsty, and burned out,
after having drunk and as our heartbeat had settled,
we went off into the godswood pool,
all glittering with perspiration,
to wash and to refresh ourselves, undressed,
and my curls would turn dark and limp,
and I would trace Renly's chest, his throat, his limbs...
while he washed my back,
that of the little stripling who felt
something stronger than admiration
for his twentyish liege lord.
And then it was my turn to wash his back,
after he'd rubbed my rear clean,
which always made me chortle...
Right, but then came all these concerns,
including that Renly must have a bride,
and I showed him that portrait of you in the locket...
Needless to say, both our households approved
of a Baratheon-Tyrell betrothal.
It was like a story of wishes come true,
yet how often has wish-fulfillment
often taken a turn for the worse,
like the shock of reality
after a wonderful dream?
You know the wedding:
a Friday in springtime,
our friends, our family, Renly's guardians,
all of us in our holiday best
(the bride and groom, in the best of the best,
as well as yours truly, the best man and brother of the bride),
a cool drink of champagne on ice,
and then, a lot of spare time after the wedding
and before the feast...
and the bridegroom excusing himself to relieve himself,
then returning, racket in hand as usual.
I meant... why, I was up for tennis!
And our friends and relatives from the Reach
would surely like to see it from up close,
as well as all those Stormlanders had done...
Right. So I fetched my own racket,
and off we headed for the tennis court.
And, right before, I still remember their encouragement:
for Reacher pride, and to defeat that Stormlander,
and whatever not.
I swear Renly must have been told the same
but in reverse. For Stormlands pride...
Now both of us played that match in shirts,
but still wearing our cravats;
apparently, Renly was too fond of his cravat pin to part with it.
So we were warming up,
and, while I'm tying my queue ribbon,
I notice he's still wearing that cravat, with a golden Reach rose pin...
so stubborn, so headstrong, that I didn't want to say no.
After all, it was a whim on his wedding day!
So, it was Baratheon to serve...
and there I stood, racket ready,
Tyrell returns the ball, now Baratheon,
now Tyrell... I mean, we were all focused
on nothing more... it's just like warfare,
but without casualties;
and then I thought that all wars could be solved
by giving each commander-in-chief a racket...
So the first set is over... now I take his place across the net
and he takes mine in turn (who had won the set?
Little I care, but all I remember
is that it all boiled down to the match point)...
It all gave the impression of a fencing match on stage,
with each one of us striking the ball in turn,
racket always ready,
hop, step, jump, forehand, backhand,
both of us pressed into finding new tricks,
sometimes missing, sometimes throwing
the other off-kilter...
When it all boiled down to the match point,
to break the tie that kept us at one-one...
I mean, it was Tyrell to serve...
it was Tyrell to serve...
and there he was, all tense,
his shirt glued to the skin with perspiration...
and he was still wearing that cravat
with that golden rose pin...
oh, and it was Tyrell to serve...
(At this point, I am wavering)
KYAH!
And there was this rally, not unlike those in the sets before,
and it's Tyrell to...
it's Tyrell with the sun in his face, squinting, at a disadvantage,
the thwack of a racket striking a ball...
yet, instead of the more familiar thwack response,
what came was a thud,
and there, across the net, his grip leaving the racket,
was Renly, lilywhite, reeling as if drunk,
a rosy foam bubbling from his lips,
staining a shirt he'd nevertheless had to change.
And the tennis ball at his feet.
It really made my blood curdle.
Well, I was in such a state of shock...
I just leapt over the net and cradled him as he fell,
as he softly tilted his pale head to the right
like a wilting flower
and a gurgle could be heard inside his chest...
for he could not breathe
and was drowning in his own blood;
I had nailed the cravat pin into his throat!
Once, that hot blood had throbbed in a heart
full of intense love, and passions, and inspiration,
of youthful impulse, rêverie...
until right before that instant.
So cold, so pale, beyond the surgeons' skill,
there he lay, uncannily tranquil,
eyes closed and heart stopping,
right when both of us had all life before us...
and it was my fault,
a heartbreak, a betrayal, beyond reason,
caused by my own right arm... the blame is mine,
if love or zeal in sports could be called guilt...
and, ever since, I have never loved again
or ever wielded a racket ever since.
During my last stay at court,
when he lay in state, in that glass case,
I just couldn't confront the truth.
The shock of reality was too much for
a heart already half-turned to ice.
So, when there was talk of war in the North
against the dark forces that threaten
all the lands of Westeros,
I could not say no.
And so, maybe in fields of gold
in a lovely afterlife,
Renly Baratheon will not have to wait,
and he will surely forgive what I have done.
Keep your dearest brother, dearest Margaery,
within your heart, like I keep Renly
until a gunshot or a bayonet
finally bridges the distance across us.
Put your bravest face on at the royal court,
and never let them grind you down
or eat you alive.
I know you can play it like a primadonna.
Yours truthfully and sincerely,
your brother and your late husband's love,
Lieutenant Loras Tyrell.
...two halves of a whole
Dearest Jaime!
I am writing this letter with a wavering pen,
not thinking aught but of you...
though we are siblings,
we are no longer children,
and a kiss means no longer the same...
neither does an embrace...
neither does "I love you..."
The Targaryen royals that came before us
have, after all, always married that way,
brother-husbands to sister-wives,
and so have done the Warrior and the Maiden...
why should we Lannisters not do as gods
or kings and queens?
The Maiden herself seems to have decreed
that your heart should be mine and mine be yours...
I am sitting in a room hung with gilded mirrors
all over the walls,
yet none of their reflections please me at all;
I am longing for my reflection of flesh and blood...
I feel so cold, so lonely, on my own...
Though I feel so ashamed of telling you my name,
and I leave it to you to solve the riddle...
surely, you may find out who wrote this letter
in her own blood, from a broken heart,
leaving her bled-dry face as pale as ice,
drying up her tears for them not to strike the ink...
that's too vast an ocean for these peridot orbs.
How often has this broken heart sighed...
Remember how I would clasp your slender waist,
and steal a kiss from those parted lips?
Though we are siblings,
we are no longer children,
and a kiss means no longer the same...
neither does an embrace...
neither does "I love you..."
Yet my heart is still ablaze,
a searing fever keeps me awake for nights...
The Maiden be my witness,
I tried to claim the reason wrested from me
by these passions, yet my struggle was in vain;
so I flew, for a white flag, this blank sheet
ere I bled ink right there, right here...
Captive and disarmed, I fall at your feet,
rather collapsing than bending the knee,
pleading for mercy and telling you the truth.
Only you, dear reader, can win or lose me,
and you're free to decide, Ser Jaime.
Thus pleads someone closer to you
than anyone else,
wishing to tighten the tie that binds the two of us
even more, so your skin joins my skin...
Let elder lords choose right and wrong in laws;
we are young, and our summer calls for frenzies,
to quench our thirst with forbidden fruit!
Still young as we are,
no longer children, not yet grown up,
the world is our oyster,
nothing is wrong and everything is right
(or at least feels right).
Neither our stern lord father nor the whispers at court
will ever stop us;
should there be a suspicion, why should they wonder
in seeing the Lannister siblings kiss one another?
I have the right... no, rather full powers
to speak to you alone, to clasp your waist,
to steal even a peck from your lips...
How long until we move to darker games?
Feel mercy upon the author of this confession,
real mercy (not the one you always pretend in jest),
since she would never write it if not seared
by such a blaze; and never feel
the guilt of your name written on my grave;
why would a Kingsguard of all men ever bring
about such a tragedy?
Yours truthfully and sincerely,
Someone you know well, yet a stranger to your heart.
...Mère Courage
The eldest daughter of Riverrun,
after wedding the Lord of the North,
had every reason to be proud
of her loving lord husband
and their five trueborn children;
five like the fingers of a hand,
like the arms of a seastar,
like the petals of a jasmine flower.
And Lady Catelyn was proud of them all,
for one reason or another,
as proud and loving as any mum should be.
Robb, the eldest,
was a dashing young man,
with flashing azure eyes
and a heart full of bravery:
the Warrior incarnate, in sooth.
He married for love
and lost his head for that decision
at the Freys' wedding.
Second came Sansa,
the fire-haired and rosy bluebird,
whose voice spoke of skill in music;
always yearning for a more exciting life
since Winterfell had become too narrow...
the lovely maiden's wish at length came true,
but the constraints of courtly life
became a corset and a gilded cage.
Third was Arya, the wild black cat,
the polar opposite of her older sister;
always messy-haired and up to something...
who thought that, after her father's execution,
when she vanished into thin air,
her mother would also miss her?
Fourth was Brandon, or Bran for short,
always climbing treetops and walls
to feed the crows and the pigeons...
it came, therefore, as no surprise,
that he should lose his footing and fall,
and, though alive, be a broken boy,
his legs no longer carrying him.
And fifth and youngest was Rickon,
who had just been weaned, and thus,
was literally the closest one to Catelyn's heart.
She's neither heard of Bran nor Rickon
since the fall of Winterfell,
when their home was taken by storm.
Now who can paint the sorrow
of a mother who has lost her children?
There is no blood left in her heart.
She's but a shadow of her former self.
The heart of the home, the blooming bride...
both of them are long gone.
No tears left in the lady's eyes, she cannot bleed:
her heart is now of stone.
...the girl in the black one-piece
When the foreign child came to Winterfell,
a wartime orphan taken in for charity's sake,
the Starks had only had Robb and Jon Snow,
two boys about the age of the little foreigner.
Eddard Stark had found the waif alone,
in a ruined holdfast, on the war front,
during that repression on the Iron Islands,
without anyone near, so young that his memories
were as hazy as the battlefield itself.
At first, Catelyn winced; "First, you bring me Jon,
and now, yet another frontline dalliance?"
Quite unexpectedly, she understood that her husband
was actually telling her the truth;
and, from on then, the foreign waif, Theon, was raised
with the Stark children as one of them...
yet, deep inside, he understood, as he grew up,
that somehow he didn't fit in.
Even Jon Snow himself was more Stark-ish than Theon,
the latter with shiny black eyes like beads of obsidian
and dark hair sleek, without a single curl.
It was also as plain as his foreign features
that, upon reaching the closing threshold of childhood,
he already towered over both Jon and Robb,
and was far more slender of both shoulders and waist,
even though he devoured and quaffed his supper
and his training was rarely over;
his strength burned out way later than his brothers'.
For every day, the stripling felt more left out,
no matter how many snowball fights and races
against Robb, or how much chaperoning Sansa
seemed to be part of his short life,
or how much wit shone in his eyes and the corners of his smile,
making the maids swoon at the dashing Theon's comments;
there was always the feeling
that his rightful place was not at Winterfell,
that it was elsewhere.
He was but eighteen when he went forth
in pursuit of his rightful place,
without horse or carriage, on his own,
in his finest doublet and puffy breeches,
his raven hair whipping his back in a queue,
the longsword scabbard on his left thigh,
heading westward, towards the coast,
since his first memories were of the seaside...
would he find a clue there?
However, he had still a bit to get to the North coast
when one day everything dawned for him:
his surname, and how he, for so short time a man,
would become a boy once more.
Or maybe even not a boy, but a non-human thing...
The pool had been hewn out by glaciers
long time ago, surely during the Long Night.
It shimmered like a sheet of steel,
its icy coverlet cracked at some points,
surrounded by heather in autumn bloom,
like an ocean of purple buds...
Hither the young man, thinking to rest,
was instantly drawn one equally clear day,
enticed to refresh his throat and his face,
reeling, and drenched with perspiration:
drinking as deeply as he quaffed life itself,
enjoying the cold shock
in his throat, on his face, upon his sleeves...
resting his weary limbs on the ripe heather,
just resting like that, on his own,
when she came, a maiden as tall and dark,
clad in what looked like a black one-piece suit,
taking bold strides towards the frightened young man...
In the horizon, a black flag fluttered
from a half-crumbled holdfast;
she came closer, winking a wistful eye
as black as darkest midnight,
and her features were just like his own.
Though her hair was cut short, just like a boy's,
one could tell by her ripe bosom and lean waist
that it was a she;
and lean, and tall, and sharp of features was she.
And, closing in, as she came to drink herself,
she called him by his name...
"Theon! Is that really you?"
Though he could not remember her,
still she seemed familiar,
winking an eye with that same witty smile...
She said she could use some glad company;
after all... Esgred... Estrid... she gave an ironborn name,
as they now stood face to face...
he clasped her in his arms, yet, as she bent for a kiss,
his face retreated awkwardly;
it didn't seem quite right.
"L-leave m-me al-lone!" he stammered, wavering
for the first time in a short life.
The ironborn maiden said,
in response, chortling slightly:
"Theon... how dare you... what happened to you
when those landlubbers came?
Don't tell me they raised you as their own,
you pansy, you fool of a pansy!
Look at the heir of the Iron Islands...
So costly dressed as a princess bride!
No surprise that the brother shuns his sister like this...
Wonder what your parents, our parents, will have to say!"
And Theon just stood speechless.
So he was not an orphan after all,
yet perchance it would have been better
than having one's parents alive, yet unforgiving...
She resumed her tirade, her fingertips
latched onto his shoulders like sucker cups,
and her arms, like a cephalopod's, tying up his slender waist:
"Besides, don't tell me you do not remember;
my name's not Esgred, or Estrid...
there was this little girl called Asha-Yara...
Asha-Yara Greyjoy,
and yes, that's your surname, you pansy!"
No reply.
He was in such a state of shock...
That little girl, on those cliffs, whom their real mother, Alannys, tore away
into the keep as the enemy marched through the village...
that little girl who looked just like he did...
and five-year-old Theon left behind, all alone, in the crossfire...
Recalling those first memories...
and his whole world falling apart.
No longer a Stark, yet neither raised
for being an ironborn,
one of the wicked enemies across enemy lines,
whether at home on Pyke or at home at Winterfell.
So he ran away,
pursued by his sister and the men she led,
hardy seamen with hearts as hard as their axe-blades...
In comparison, he was but a stripling,
supple, brittle, clad in brocade,
yet sharing their same features and the same blood...
part of both households, and yet of neither one...
Right when he could no longer breathe at all,
at the twilight of the last day,
as they closed in, someone waved, beckoning,
into the darkness under ground;
he had no choice but to follow,
no matter how dreadful the fate
that within the Dreadfort did await.
Tied to a cross on all four of his limbs,
to weary to writhe for his freedom,
ere he shut downcast eyes,
the last thing he saw was the flash of a blade
careening towards the excess between his legs.
A short, sharp shock.
He would not awaken within days,
and, when he did, he would realise
that his wish had come true for better or worse:
that he was no longer Theon Greyjoy, neither Theon the waif,
not even a man anymore.
...Atropa belladonna
For Lidia Lucía Franco (Lidia de Tinta)
The berries were cherry-sized, shiny black as midnights,
standing out against a platter as white and round
as the full moon.
Still, Sansa, as she put the first one to her lips,
had already forgotten the name of that fruit,
the fruit of the fair ruthless lady,
whose scientific name, if translated into French,
would yield "la belle dame sans merci".
The strong sharp flavour made her wince,
and so down her throat that capsule of darkness
plunged effortlessly,
followed by a second, a third, a fourth.
How long had she been kept at the Dreadfort,
the scene of her childhood nightmares,
ever since the dark rider in a face-concealing cloak
had uprooted her like a rosebush
as she picked daffodils during a pause, en route for King's Landing?
Here, the windows were narrow and draped in black,
leaving only the thinnest threads of light within,
and rendering the thought of day and night impossible.
In he came, her captor, the Bolton boy --not yet a man,
no matter how serious his pastimes,
though he had never flayed her alive,
but rather taken her into his bedchamber every night
right from the dungeons
and fed her some of those midnight berries
that made her heart race out of her chest,
her eyes fill with tears,
her speech become slurred and her limbs falter,
as if she were drunk.
And, little by little, the things she knew,
her parents, her friends, her dreams,
even Arya when she got annoying,
faded away into oblivion,
as she saw her dreams become reality,
dire holdfast walls turned to grand palace halls
full of high officers and court ladies,
and Ramsay as a prince... no, maybe a boy-king
in full regalia, showering her with attention
in that ostentatious ballroom,
and in a canopy bed with drawn silk curtains.
Though nought of this was real except within the mind's eye
of the drugged, entranced maiden.
Not even the Stranger knows
what had watered those bushes...
She was his sole content and respite
after all the sorrows he'd been through,
all the rage he needed to free,
lashing at others with the same thorns
that once at his heart had torn...
Though others were his playthings, she was not...
Queen of the Dreadfort, at a court of flogged
maids and eunuchs, where the light dares not
enter; a bride half-dead and half alive,
pale, pining away, yet full of elation.
Would she run out into the light
and shy away from her captor
if she ever found out the truth?
...pitch-and-toss
Her whole frame tensed like springs under pressure,
awaiting the starting gun,
ready to spring up at once at the gunshot
that could come any second;
she would only settle for gold.
A blaze of fiery curls tied into a queue,
then upwards into a half-topknot,
glittered in the summer sun
like a fire in the nighttime;
every ligament, every vein in her freckled limbs,
in both her arms and her legs, as if chiselled,
throbbing with tension... her face already so flustered
that the intense flush of excitement made the freckles vanish...
Looking over her shoulder, just for an instant,
she caught a glimpse of her opponent,
that raven-haired and pale young man, with that
fine moustache, his own messy curls done in a queue,
seeming to pierce her, to sound her, with those steel-gray eyes...
Looking down again, she shut her eyes
and concentrated on the crowd of supporters:
"Y-GRITTE! Y-GRITTE! Y-GRITTE!"
her name was being cheered to the rhythm
of her own heartbeat,
and that encouragement was usually
needless to give her wings;
but now she needed it more than ever;
yet she could also hear them calling for his sake:
"JON SNOW! JON SNOW! JON SNOW!"
Could this be the day that made her or unmade her;
her Waterloo, Poltava, or something like that?
Ygritte felt at least the stabbing gut feeling
of her first defeat,
yet she coldly shook it off.
After all, was she running away
from commitment as usual?
In that case, it was a flight forwards
(ironic as the expression might seem),
reinforcing her own independence,
not to lose her own self to another,
and celebrating that she'd left them behind
--the only female who competed in those races,
and for a good reason:
other girls had always been out of her league,
their strides too short, their hearts not as hot-blooded
as Ygritte's own.
WINTER SEASON'S GREETINGS (XMAS, YULE/SOLSTICE, HANUKKAH...) TO ALL OF YOU ONCE MORE, DEAR READERS!
And, as usual, here is this year's traditional Westeros fantasy AU.
For this Christmas, I will be doing something completely different from my usual Westeros fairytales, but that still fits the hashtag #OnceUponWesteros.
Rather, this will be a collection of poems inspired by Ovid's Metamorphoses, with various pairings and retellings of the Ovidian stories.
...introduction
"Right, let us begin! And, when we have reached the end
of this story, we'll know so much more..."
Thus does HC Andersen open his Snow Queen.
What will our descendants say about us
after we are deceased?
Which songs shall the children of decades to come sing?
How will they remember us, if they ever remember?
These are stories that have endured for two millennia,
perfectly preserved like bugs encased in amber.
Sing, Muses, of those that came before us,
of hope and despair, of friendship and illusions,
of tragedy and trauma...
of life itself.
...jamais séparés
For Marina Sorel, for both her birthday and Christmas
The Lannisters were proud and clever;
the Starks were righteous and honest.
The Lannisters were blond and green-eyed;
the Starks were dark-haired and blue- or grey-eyed.
The Lannisters thought the Starks were old-fashioned
with those notions of honour and honesty;
while the Starks thought the Lannisters were ruthless,
without any thought not of their own greatness.
It came as no surprise that both Great Houses
had always been at each other's throats,
and even declared war on one another.
Lancel was but a Lannister of a cadet branch,
a nephew to Lord Tywin, yet one could see
by his golden hair and peridot eyes
from which stock he came. Nevertheless,
he was a comely stripling,
without the more mature beauty of Ser Jaime or of
their elders before midlife set in...
Sansa was a hostage brought from the North,
who had just arrived at Casterly Rock:
in spite of having her mother's Tully features
(those aqua orbs, those fire-red locks, those cheekbones...),
one could find she had a Stark's will and mettle,
which, added to her loveliness,
felt like a silk brocade gown concealing steel.
She was given a bedchamber in the same tower
as Ser Kevan's children,
and chance would have it
that there was a hole in the partition wall
between her chamber and Lancel's,
and, on each side, one could see
a bright and friendly eye:
a green orb on the left, a blue one on the right.
As time went by, they grew closer and closer,
putting their faces closer to that hole,
asking one another questions,
as Lancel began to feel a little twinge
for the orphan of enemy stock
and Sansa's heart began to open up
to the stripling of foemen's descent.
And thus, they gradually began
to pour one another's lives into their ears:
it was the same yearning,
the same weariness,
the same warm feelings of youth at heart,
as he listened to her Northern songs
and she watched him go to bed every evening,
not knowing that he was thinking of her,
dreaming of her,
having shed unmanly tears for her misfortunes...
Sansa herself had put into those songs all her sorrows,
her dreams of courtly glory turned to chains and ashes,
and never had she expected a courtier or (worse?) a Lannister
to feel truthfully sorry for her.
So they came to trust each other,
laughing and crying like children once more,
then finding out that it hurt when they parted,
in the middle of the chest and a little to the left.
And they became one another's keeper
of that painful, blazing secret.
Why was he a Lannister and she a Stark?
Or, more importantly,
could their love hold the key to peace at last?
And those were lovely days, and lovely nights,
and lovely twilight hours,
whenever his parents did not find out;
yet all good things must come to an end:
Ser Kevan and Lord Tywin had had a talk
of what to do with the cadet Lannisters;
the stern patriarch had spoken of a calling
within the walls of septs for his eldest nephew
(lest Lancel reached the heights of royalty
which Tywin's own children had risen to);
there was talk of the Great Sept in King's Landing...
As soon as the stripling heard of this plan,
a shudder ran down his spine:
to leave Sansa, and never to make love,
sworn to the Gods for life?
So that evening, pale as a lily-petal,
he told her of what his elders had chosen
so treacherously behind his back:
they would leave for the capital within three days
(whether by land or by sea was not certain yet);
"Rather than offer incense to the Maiden,
I would burn myself for you..."
The Stark girl looked at him, tears in her eyes,
without anyone else within her heart,
and thus, a counter-scheme was forged:
what could Lord Tywin's worldly power do against young love?
Through the breach in the partition, she would receive
a set of his spare clothes,
including a bonnet to hide her copper locks,
and, knowing every passageway within Casterly Rock
(which Lannister children, while playing hide-and-seek,
always caught a rough grasp of),
they would stealthily steal, next evening, for the docks,
and board a carrack bound for Dorne.
That plan was ostensibly flawless;
Sansa got her boy's clothes, and a hairpin of hers
was soon twisted into a lock-pick.
Lancel would also get it, slipped through the gap,
after Sansa was done prying the keyhole.
The next step, their promised land of free love!
And now came the fated evening of the tryst,
and she, already clad in doublet and hose,
having picked the lock and passed the hairpin
to the golden-haired lad,
Sansa stole past the guards, leaned on the wall
and on their spears, lips stained with Dornish red;
knowing they would be drunk,
she set her bonnet right and ran away,
knowing more or less where the docks were,
thanks to Lancel's directions.
Given wings by her youthful enthusiasm,
descending down endless flights of spiral stairs,
she was suddenly startled;
off fell the bonnet, she heard marching steps
and saw lions of gold
glittering in the twilit staircase, approaching.
Was her true self revealed? And what awaited her?
So frightened was Sansa Stark
that she turned around, and, losing her footing,
she suddenly fell backwards,
screaming as she was thrust
reeling down the stairs.
The soldiers, however, did not spot the bonnet;
they just stopped mid-way across the staircase,
turning left, into their barracks,
right as Sansa fell backwards down the stairs.
However, someone heard the scream and the thud of her fall,
and picked up the fine, puffy, scarlet headdress
trimmed with that golden ribbon:
arriving through a shortcut,
a golden-haired stripling, fearing the worst.
"How dare the jealous Stranger wrest her from me?
This fate's not ours by right!
Why did I not come first to save her life?
The fault was neither hers nor mine at heart:
all we were was young folk making mistakes!"
Then, drawing steel, a shortsword he'd taken for self-defence,
at first hesitantly, young Lancel Lannister
plunged it into his own left side as from his lips
sprang foam with a known taste of salt and steel;
the blade soon pierced the left half of the heart,
and the stripling's form reeled downstairs as well,
down to the step where, rising finally,
not feeling her left arm anymore
since it cracked and the pain racked her as if it were torn off
when she fell down the stairs,
fair Sansa Stark heard a thud in the twilight,
and, leaning closer, catching but a glimpse
of golden hair and those lovely features,
his mint-green eyes no longer glittering, and on his lips
a dried-up bloody stain...
a bloodless form, as pale as her childhood snows...
she cradled him only with her right arm,
seeing the pommel of the sword on his left side
(a wound so deep that she knew
his lover's heart was broken twice);
she had expected to see foreign lands
and live anew with Lancel by her side;
yet her dreams were as shattered as her left shoulder;
she dried up her tears on his blood-stained sleeves,
tearing at her Tully-red hair,
kissing his ice-cold, pallid features
while remembering Winterfell...
"He saw the bonnet and heard me fall down,
and thus, left me for dead...
out of chance arose that painful mistake
that filled my love with dread...
So bold it was, I'd never thought that you
should dare to take your life;
let the Maiden give strength to these weak hands
and sever me from strife!"
And thus, wishing their elders could accept
that painful wish of hers,
she drew the sword a little from his side,
and slit her wrists across,
first the left, then the right, across the blade...
No joy or hope was left
for the fair stripling or the red-haired maid
who were, next day, together in state laid,
though he was buried as a Lannister
and her remains by Winterfell and Riverrun
were claimed; at the end of the day,
a decision was made as peace was signed.
Come to Pinkmaiden Castle,
where Westerlands and Riverlands conjoin,
and, within the Pipers' sept, you shall find
a carved stone on the floor, at the Maiden's feet,
with an inscription mourning two young lovers:
"Both alike in dignity,
torn by ancient enmity,
short his and her life.
Love of Lannister and Stark,
tragic, overthrew the dark,
harsh ancestral strife."
...game, set, and match
For Liza Pluijter Izquierdo
Dearest Margaery:
I am writing this letter by a warm fireside,
sucking the quill's end, wrapped in my dark green
officer's pelisse, inlaid with gold lace,
with golden wings on my shoulders
and a single rose on each sleeve;
the mark of a freshly-baked lieutenant.
Perchance this is my last letter to you,
a letter from the war front,
on the eve of the first and maybe last battle that I
have ever fought for real.
I hope you are all right,
that the courtiers or your in-laws do not tear you to shreds,
and that Joffrey will be at least a decent spouse.
After all, he is the heir to the whole realm...
and still, Renly, while still a vassal prince,
was far lovelier and surpassed your bridegroom,
as you know, in all possible ways.
Renly Baratheon, that charming young man,
who never gave his heart to a maiden...
When I first appeared at Storm's End,
sent as a page from Highgarden,
it became as obvious as the light of day
that, with liveliness and loveliness extreme,
I won his heart, and he won mine in return.
What was that throbbing feeling in my left side,
and why did he feel like that as well?
There was no mistake.
Sometimes he would play with my golden curls,
remarking that they were like springs,
or I ran lithe fingers through his straight raven hair,
as my rosy cheeks flushed even more...
Oh, how pleasant conversation,
how lovely string duets,
in the shade of the wisteria arbour,
sometimes crowning one another with its flowers;
while he neglected his lordship duties
and had to be reminded by his guardians
every now and then...
They saw it as friendship; only we knew the secret.
And how far did he send those balls!
Seriously, it was as tennis partners,
whether shirtless or in shirts,
both of us with our hair tied in a queue,
that we had our best afternoons together...
all it took was one of us waving a racket
and winking a friendly eye,
sometimes a honey eye of mine, sometimes Renly's, bright blue,
for the other to understand...
during the match, we forgot everything else...
and then,
after the match, no matter who had won,
all flustered, and thirsty, and burned out,
after having drunk and as our heartbeat had settled,
we went off into the godswood pool,
all glittering with perspiration,
to wash and to refresh ourselves, undressed,
and my curls would turn dark and limp,
and I would trace Renly's chest, his throat, his limbs...
while he washed my back,
that of the little stripling who felt
something stronger than admiration
for his twentyish liege lord.
And then it was my turn to wash his back,
after he'd rubbed my rear clean,
which always made me chortle...
Right, but then came all these concerns,
including that Renly must have a bride,
and I showed him that portrait of you in the locket...
Needless to say, both our households approved
of a Baratheon-Tyrell betrothal.
It was like a story of wishes come true,
yet how often has wish-fulfillment
often taken a turn for the worse,
like the shock of reality
after a wonderful dream?
You know the wedding:
a Friday in springtime,
our friends, our family, Renly's guardians,
all of us in our holiday best
(the bride and groom, in the best of the best,
as well as yours truly, the best man and brother of the bride),
a cool drink of champagne on ice,
and then, a lot of spare time after the wedding
and before the feast...
and the bridegroom excusing himself to relieve himself,
then returning, racket in hand as usual.
I meant... why, I was up for tennis!
And our friends and relatives from the Reach
would surely like to see it from up close,
as well as all those Stormlanders had done...
Right. So I fetched my own racket,
and off we headed for the tennis court.
And, right before, I still remember their encouragement:
for Reacher pride, and to defeat that Stormlander,
and whatever not.
I swear Renly must have been told the same
but in reverse. For Stormlands pride...
Now both of us played that match in shirts,
but still wearing our cravats;
apparently, Renly was too fond of his cravat pin to part with it.
So we were warming up,
and, while I'm tying my queue ribbon,
I notice he's still wearing that cravat, with a golden Reach rose pin...
so stubborn, so headstrong, that I didn't want to say no.
After all, it was a whim on his wedding day!
So, it was Baratheon to serve...
and there I stood, racket ready,
Tyrell returns the ball, now Baratheon,
now Tyrell... I mean, we were all focused
on nothing more... it's just like warfare,
but without casualties;
and then I thought that all wars could be solved
by giving each commander-in-chief a racket...
So the first set is over... now I take his place across the net
and he takes mine in turn (who had won the set?
Little I care, but all I remember
is that it all boiled down to the match point)...
It all gave the impression of a fencing match on stage,
with each one of us striking the ball in turn,
racket always ready,
hop, step, jump, forehand, backhand,
both of us pressed into finding new tricks,
sometimes missing, sometimes throwing
the other off-kilter...
When it all boiled down to the match point,
to break the tie that kept us at one-one...
I mean, it was Tyrell to serve...
it was Tyrell to serve...
and there he was, all tense,
his shirt glued to the skin with perspiration...
and he was still wearing that cravat
with that golden rose pin...
oh, and it was Tyrell to serve...
(At this point, I am wavering)
KYAH!
And there was this rally, not unlike those in the sets before,
and it's Tyrell to...
it's Tyrell with the sun in his face, squinting, at a disadvantage,
the thwack of a racket striking a ball...
yet, instead of the more familiar thwack response,
what came was a thud,
and there, across the net, his grip leaving the racket,
was Renly, lilywhite, reeling as if drunk,
a rosy foam bubbling from his lips,
staining a shirt he'd nevertheless had to change.
And the tennis ball at his feet.
It really made my blood curdle.
Well, I was in such a state of shock...
I just leapt over the net and cradled him as he fell,
as he softly tilted his pale head to the right
like a wilting flower
and a gurgle could be heard inside his chest...
for he could not breathe
and was drowning in his own blood;
I had nailed the cravat pin into his throat!
Once, that hot blood had throbbed in a heart
full of intense love, and passions, and inspiration,
of youthful impulse, rêverie...
until right before that instant.
So cold, so pale, beyond the surgeons' skill,
there he lay, uncannily tranquil,
eyes closed and heart stopping,
right when both of us had all life before us...
and it was my fault,
a heartbreak, a betrayal, beyond reason,
caused by my own right arm... the blame is mine,
if love or zeal in sports could be called guilt...
and, ever since, I have never loved again
or ever wielded a racket ever since.
During my last stay at court,
when he lay in state, in that glass case,
I just couldn't confront the truth.
The shock of reality was too much for
a heart already half-turned to ice.
So, when there was talk of war in the North
against the dark forces that threaten
all the lands of Westeros,
I could not say no.
And so, maybe in fields of gold
in a lovely afterlife,
Renly Baratheon will not have to wait,
and he will surely forgive what I have done.
Keep your dearest brother, dearest Margaery,
within your heart, like I keep Renly
until a gunshot or a bayonet
finally bridges the distance across us.
Put your bravest face on at the royal court,
and never let them grind you down
or eat you alive.
I know you can play it like a primadonna.
Yours truthfully and sincerely,
your brother and your late husband's love,
Lieutenant Loras Tyrell.
...two halves of a whole
Dearest Jaime!
I am writing this letter with a wavering pen,
not thinking aught but of you...
though we are siblings,
we are no longer children,
and a kiss means no longer the same...
neither does an embrace...
neither does "I love you..."
The Targaryen royals that came before us
have, after all, always married that way,
brother-husbands to sister-wives,
and so have done the Warrior and the Maiden...
why should we Lannisters not do as gods
or kings and queens?
The Maiden herself seems to have decreed
that your heart should be mine and mine be yours...
I am sitting in a room hung with gilded mirrors
all over the walls,
yet none of their reflections please me at all;
I am longing for my reflection of flesh and blood...
I feel so cold, so lonely, on my own...
Though I feel so ashamed of telling you my name,
and I leave it to you to solve the riddle...
surely, you may find out who wrote this letter
in her own blood, from a broken heart,
leaving her bled-dry face as pale as ice,
drying up her tears for them not to strike the ink...
that's too vast an ocean for these peridot orbs.
How often has this broken heart sighed...
Remember how I would clasp your slender waist,
and steal a kiss from those parted lips?
Though we are siblings,
we are no longer children,
and a kiss means no longer the same...
neither does an embrace...
neither does "I love you..."
Yet my heart is still ablaze,
a searing fever keeps me awake for nights...
The Maiden be my witness,
I tried to claim the reason wrested from me
by these passions, yet my struggle was in vain;
so I flew, for a white flag, this blank sheet
ere I bled ink right there, right here...
Captive and disarmed, I fall at your feet,
rather collapsing than bending the knee,
pleading for mercy and telling you the truth.
Only you, dear reader, can win or lose me,
and you're free to decide, Ser Jaime.
Thus pleads someone closer to you
than anyone else,
wishing to tighten the tie that binds the two of us
even more, so your skin joins my skin...
Let elder lords choose right and wrong in laws;
we are young, and our summer calls for frenzies,
to quench our thirst with forbidden fruit!
Still young as we are,
no longer children, not yet grown up,
the world is our oyster,
nothing is wrong and everything is right
(or at least feels right).
Neither our stern lord father nor the whispers at court
will ever stop us;
should there be a suspicion, why should they wonder
in seeing the Lannister siblings kiss one another?
I have the right... no, rather full powers
to speak to you alone, to clasp your waist,
to steal even a peck from your lips...
How long until we move to darker games?
Feel mercy upon the author of this confession,
real mercy (not the one you always pretend in jest),
since she would never write it if not seared
by such a blaze; and never feel
the guilt of your name written on my grave;
why would a Kingsguard of all men ever bring
about such a tragedy?
Yours truthfully and sincerely,
Someone you know well, yet a stranger to your heart.
...Mère Courage
The eldest daughter of Riverrun,
after wedding the Lord of the North,
had every reason to be proud
of her loving lord husband
and their five trueborn children;
five like the fingers of a hand,
like the arms of a seastar,
like the petals of a jasmine flower.
And Lady Catelyn was proud of them all,
for one reason or another,
as proud and loving as any mum should be.
Robb, the eldest,
was a dashing young man,
with flashing azure eyes
and a heart full of bravery:
the Warrior incarnate, in sooth.
He married for love
and lost his head for that decision
at the Freys' wedding.
Second came Sansa,
the fire-haired and rosy bluebird,
whose voice spoke of skill in music;
always yearning for a more exciting life
since Winterfell had become too narrow...
the lovely maiden's wish at length came true,
but the constraints of courtly life
became a corset and a gilded cage.
Third was Arya, the wild black cat,
the polar opposite of her older sister;
always messy-haired and up to something...
who thought that, after her father's execution,
when she vanished into thin air,
her mother would also miss her?
Fourth was Brandon, or Bran for short,
always climbing treetops and walls
to feed the crows and the pigeons...
it came, therefore, as no surprise,
that he should lose his footing and fall,
and, though alive, be a broken boy,
his legs no longer carrying him.
And fifth and youngest was Rickon,
who had just been weaned, and thus,
was literally the closest one to Catelyn's heart.
She's neither heard of Bran nor Rickon
since the fall of Winterfell,
when their home was taken by storm.
Now who can paint the sorrow
of a mother who has lost her children?
There is no blood left in her heart.
She's but a shadow of her former self.
The heart of the home, the blooming bride...
both of them are long gone.
No tears left in the lady's eyes, she cannot bleed:
her heart is now of stone.
...the girl in the black one-piece
When the foreign child came to Winterfell,
a wartime orphan taken in for charity's sake,
the Starks had only had Robb and Jon Snow,
two boys about the age of the little foreigner.
Eddard Stark had found the waif alone,
in a ruined holdfast, on the war front,
during that repression on the Iron Islands,
without anyone near, so young that his memories
were as hazy as the battlefield itself.
At first, Catelyn winced; "First, you bring me Jon,
and now, yet another frontline dalliance?"
Quite unexpectedly, she understood that her husband
was actually telling her the truth;
and, from on then, the foreign waif, Theon, was raised
with the Stark children as one of them...
yet, deep inside, he understood, as he grew up,
that somehow he didn't fit in.
Even Jon Snow himself was more Stark-ish than Theon,
the latter with shiny black eyes like beads of obsidian
and dark hair sleek, without a single curl.
It was also as plain as his foreign features
that, upon reaching the closing threshold of childhood,
he already towered over both Jon and Robb,
and was far more slender of both shoulders and waist,
even though he devoured and quaffed his supper
and his training was rarely over;
his strength burned out way later than his brothers'.
For every day, the stripling felt more left out,
no matter how many snowball fights and races
against Robb, or how much chaperoning Sansa
seemed to be part of his short life,
or how much wit shone in his eyes and the corners of his smile,
making the maids swoon at the dashing Theon's comments;
there was always the feeling
that his rightful place was not at Winterfell,
that it was elsewhere.
He was but eighteen when he went forth
in pursuit of his rightful place,
without horse or carriage, on his own,
in his finest doublet and puffy breeches,
his raven hair whipping his back in a queue,
the longsword scabbard on his left thigh,
heading westward, towards the coast,
since his first memories were of the seaside...
would he find a clue there?
However, he had still a bit to get to the North coast
when one day everything dawned for him:
his surname, and how he, for so short time a man,
would become a boy once more.
Or maybe even not a boy, but a non-human thing...
The pool had been hewn out by glaciers
long time ago, surely during the Long Night.
It shimmered like a sheet of steel,
its icy coverlet cracked at some points,
surrounded by heather in autumn bloom,
like an ocean of purple buds...
Hither the young man, thinking to rest,
was instantly drawn one equally clear day,
enticed to refresh his throat and his face,
reeling, and drenched with perspiration:
drinking as deeply as he quaffed life itself,
enjoying the cold shock
in his throat, on his face, upon his sleeves...
resting his weary limbs on the ripe heather,
just resting like that, on his own,
when she came, a maiden as tall and dark,
clad in what looked like a black one-piece suit,
taking bold strides towards the frightened young man...
In the horizon, a black flag fluttered
from a half-crumbled holdfast;
she came closer, winking a wistful eye
as black as darkest midnight,
and her features were just like his own.
Though her hair was cut short, just like a boy's,
one could tell by her ripe bosom and lean waist
that it was a she;
and lean, and tall, and sharp of features was she.
And, closing in, as she came to drink herself,
she called him by his name...
"Theon! Is that really you?"
Though he could not remember her,
still she seemed familiar,
winking an eye with that same witty smile...
She said she could use some glad company;
after all... Esgred... Estrid... she gave an ironborn name,
as they now stood face to face...
he clasped her in his arms, yet, as she bent for a kiss,
his face retreated awkwardly;
it didn't seem quite right.
"L-leave m-me al-lone!" he stammered, wavering
for the first time in a short life.
The ironborn maiden said,
in response, chortling slightly:
"Theon... how dare you... what happened to you
when those landlubbers came?
Don't tell me they raised you as their own,
you pansy, you fool of a pansy!
Look at the heir of the Iron Islands...
So costly dressed as a princess bride!
No surprise that the brother shuns his sister like this...
Wonder what your parents, our parents, will have to say!"
And Theon just stood speechless.
So he was not an orphan after all,
yet perchance it would have been better
than having one's parents alive, yet unforgiving...
She resumed her tirade, her fingertips
latched onto his shoulders like sucker cups,
and her arms, like a cephalopod's, tying up his slender waist:
"Besides, don't tell me you do not remember;
my name's not Esgred, or Estrid...
there was this little girl called Asha-Yara...
Asha-Yara Greyjoy,
and yes, that's your surname, you pansy!"
No reply.
He was in such a state of shock...
That little girl, on those cliffs, whom their real mother, Alannys, tore away
into the keep as the enemy marched through the village...
that little girl who looked just like he did...
and five-year-old Theon left behind, all alone, in the crossfire...
Recalling those first memories...
and his whole world falling apart.
No longer a Stark, yet neither raised
for being an ironborn,
one of the wicked enemies across enemy lines,
whether at home on Pyke or at home at Winterfell.
So he ran away,
pursued by his sister and the men she led,
hardy seamen with hearts as hard as their axe-blades...
In comparison, he was but a stripling,
supple, brittle, clad in brocade,
yet sharing their same features and the same blood...
part of both households, and yet of neither one...
Right when he could no longer breathe at all,
at the twilight of the last day,
as they closed in, someone waved, beckoning,
into the darkness under ground;
he had no choice but to follow,
no matter how dreadful the fate
that within the Dreadfort did await.
Tied to a cross on all four of his limbs,
to weary to writhe for his freedom,
ere he shut downcast eyes,
the last thing he saw was the flash of a blade
careening towards the excess between his legs.
A short, sharp shock.
He would not awaken within days,
and, when he did, he would realise
that his wish had come true for better or worse:
that he was no longer Theon Greyjoy, neither Theon the waif,
not even a man anymore.
...Atropa belladonna
For Lidia Lucía Franco (Lidia de Tinta)
The berries were cherry-sized, shiny black as midnights,
standing out against a platter as white and round
as the full moon.
Still, Sansa, as she put the first one to her lips,
had already forgotten the name of that fruit,
the fruit of the fair ruthless lady,
whose scientific name, if translated into French,
would yield "la belle dame sans merci".
The strong sharp flavour made her wince,
and so down her throat that capsule of darkness
plunged effortlessly,
followed by a second, a third, a fourth.
How long had she been kept at the Dreadfort,
the scene of her childhood nightmares,
ever since the dark rider in a face-concealing cloak
had uprooted her like a rosebush
as she picked daffodils during a pause, en route for King's Landing?
Here, the windows were narrow and draped in black,
leaving only the thinnest threads of light within,
and rendering the thought of day and night impossible.
In he came, her captor, the Bolton boy --not yet a man,
no matter how serious his pastimes,
though he had never flayed her alive,
but rather taken her into his bedchamber every night
right from the dungeons
and fed her some of those midnight berries
that made her heart race out of her chest,
her eyes fill with tears,
her speech become slurred and her limbs falter,
as if she were drunk.
And, little by little, the things she knew,
her parents, her friends, her dreams,
even Arya when she got annoying,
faded away into oblivion,
as she saw her dreams become reality,
dire holdfast walls turned to grand palace halls
full of high officers and court ladies,
and Ramsay as a prince... no, maybe a boy-king
in full regalia, showering her with attention
in that ostentatious ballroom,
and in a canopy bed with drawn silk curtains.
Though nought of this was real except within the mind's eye
of the drugged, entranced maiden.
Not even the Stranger knows
what had watered those bushes...
She was his sole content and respite
after all the sorrows he'd been through,
all the rage he needed to free,
lashing at others with the same thorns
that once at his heart had torn...
Though others were his playthings, she was not...
Queen of the Dreadfort, at a court of flogged
maids and eunuchs, where the light dares not
enter; a bride half-dead and half alive,
pale, pining away, yet full of elation.
Would she run out into the light
and shy away from her captor
if she ever found out the truth?
...pitch-and-toss
Her whole frame tensed like springs under pressure,
awaiting the starting gun,
ready to spring up at once at the gunshot
that could come any second;
she would only settle for gold.
A blaze of fiery curls tied into a queue,
then upwards into a half-topknot,
glittered in the summer sun
like a fire in the nighttime;
every ligament, every vein in her freckled limbs,
in both her arms and her legs, as if chiselled,
throbbing with tension... her face already so flustered
that the intense flush of excitement made the freckles vanish...
Looking over her shoulder, just for an instant,
she caught a glimpse of her opponent,
that raven-haired and pale young man, with that
fine moustache, his own messy curls done in a queue,
seeming to pierce her, to sound her, with those steel-gray eyes...
Looking down again, she shut her eyes
and concentrated on the crowd of supporters:
"Y-GRITTE! Y-GRITTE! Y-GRITTE!"
her name was being cheered to the rhythm
of her own heartbeat,
and that encouragement was usually
needless to give her wings;
but now she needed it more than ever;
yet she could also hear them calling for his sake:
"JON SNOW! JON SNOW! JON SNOW!"
Could this be the day that made her or unmade her;
her Waterloo, Poltava, or something like that?
Ygritte felt at least the stabbing gut feeling
of her first defeat,
yet she coldly shook it off.
After all, was she running away
from commitment as usual?
In that case, it was a flight forwards
(ironic as the expression might seem),
reinforcing her own independence,
not to lose her own self to another,
and celebrating that she'd left them behind
--the only female who competed in those races,
and for a good reason:
other girls had always been out of her league,
their strides too short, their hearts not as hot-blooded
as Ygritte's own.
domingo, 14 de febrero de 2016
A SACRIFICE OF ICE AND FIRE
And here's this year's Valentine's gift!! A Westerosi gallery of tragedies worth the pain.
This is the Alice of Human Sacrifice Westeros filk (War of the Usurper/Robert's Rebellion-era) I had been promising you for ages.
Ships/pairings: Lyaegar, Lannincest.
Warning: Pretty graphic story (especially the Elia part). Discretion is advised.
Once upon a time, in a certain place, there was a little dream.
No one knew who had dreamt that dream, and no one cared at all.
This made the little dream think:
I do not want to disappear. How can I make people dream of me?
And thus, the dream thought and thought, and at last had an idea:
"I will make people come to me, leading them astray,
and let them create worlds of their own..."
A SACRIFICE OF ICE AND FIRE
-------------------------------------------------------------------
Story the First: The Lost Swordswoman
The first Alice was a maiden righteous, bold, and free,
clasping in her left hand the hilt of a trusty sword.
She cut down the unfair and set right everything gone wrong,
wayward was her scarlet path, far from wedding a lord.
This Alice got lost somewhere far away,
disappeared, a fallen woman, into sin thus lead astray...
They found her bereft of life, within the Tower of Joy...
She lay in blood and wilted roses, with her newborn boy.
Story the Second: The Star-Crossed Prince
The second Alice was a clever prince, so frail and shy,
strumming the strings of his heart and harp to many a song...
Singing and imagining that prophecies were true,
he created an insane world where nothing was wrong.
This Alice loved and picked a winter rose so blue...
he was slain by the stormlord for having made his bride untrue...
Crushed his breastplate and his chest, the lungs and heart within...
Once beloved, now he's hated, due to his last sin.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Story the Third: The Broken Princess
The third Alice was sweet, with skin warm and dark as gold,
the friendliest, loveliest one born on the coast of Dorne...
She wedded the poet prince and dwelled within his court,
giving him two children; when he left, she felt no scorn.
This Alice was the princess of all the land...
She suffered a gruesome fate at a traitor's harsh command...
As she struggles for her life, she sees her children die...
then, her maidenhead once lost, she yields with one last sigh.
Story the Fourth: The Wilful Twins
Following the woodland paths no one's trod before...
Crossing at the ford that still runs scarlet with gore...
Though you have been invited to the Royal Keep...
In my heart you will always dwell...
The fourth Alice were twins with green eyes and golden hair,
so wilful and curious, like any other child...
crossing many thresholds as their lives go on and on...
yet now they're no children and life is no longer mild.
The older sister's headstrong... and...
the younger brother's insecure...
They think they are the closest to their wonderland, for sure...
From their wildest dreaming they will never, e'er awake,
trapped forever in the lives they lead for their hearts' sake...
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Who will be the next Alice?
This is the Alice of Human Sacrifice Westeros filk (War of the Usurper/Robert's Rebellion-era) I had been promising you for ages.
Ships/pairings: Lyaegar, Lannincest.
Warning: Pretty graphic story (especially the Elia part). Discretion is advised.
No one knew who had dreamt that dream, and no one cared at all.
This made the little dream think:
I do not want to disappear. How can I make people dream of me?
And thus, the dream thought and thought, and at last had an idea:
"I will make people come to me, leading them astray,
and let them create worlds of their own..."
A SACRIFICE OF ICE AND FIRE
-------------------------------------------------------------------
Story the First: The Lost Swordswoman
The first Alice was a maiden righteous, bold, and free,
clasping in her left hand the hilt of a trusty sword.
She cut down the unfair and set right everything gone wrong,
wayward was her scarlet path, far from wedding a lord.
This Alice got lost somewhere far away,
disappeared, a fallen woman, into sin thus lead astray...
They found her bereft of life, within the Tower of Joy...
She lay in blood and wilted roses, with her newborn boy.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Story the Second: The Star-Crossed Prince
The second Alice was a clever prince, so frail and shy,
strumming the strings of his heart and harp to many a song...
Singing and imagining that prophecies were true,
he created an insane world where nothing was wrong.
This Alice loved and picked a winter rose so blue...
he was slain by the stormlord for having made his bride untrue...
Crushed his breastplate and his chest, the lungs and heart within...
Once beloved, now he's hated, due to his last sin.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Story the Third: The Broken Princess
The third Alice was sweet, with skin warm and dark as gold,
the friendliest, loveliest one born on the coast of Dorne...
She wedded the poet prince and dwelled within his court,
giving him two children; when he left, she felt no scorn.
This Alice was the princess of all the land...
She suffered a gruesome fate at a traitor's harsh command...
As she struggles for her life, she sees her children die...
then, her maidenhead once lost, she yields with one last sigh.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Story the Fourth: The Wilful Twins
Following the woodland paths no one's trod before...
Crossing at the ford that still runs scarlet with gore...
Though you have been invited to the Royal Keep...
In my heart you will always dwell...
The fourth Alice were twins with green eyes and golden hair,
so wilful and curious, like any other child...
crossing many thresholds as their lives go on and on...
yet now they're no children and life is no longer mild.
The older sister's headstrong... and...
the younger brother's insecure...
They think they are the closest to their wonderland, for sure...
From their wildest dreaming they will never, e'er awake,
trapped forever in the lives they lead for their hearts' sake...
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Who will be the next Alice?
lunes, 11 de enero de 2016
I'LL SING YOU ONE, OH (THE DERMARK VERSION)
I'LL SING YOU ONE, OH (THE DERMARK VERSION)
Another Yuletide carol, lesser known but also cumulative, and done Dermark style. References to my favourite fandoms and passions all around (minus footie, that is merely a wish of mine for my country's national team to win).
Still great to try as a drinking game.
I'll sing you one, oh...
Thus sings Miss Dermark, oh!
What is your one, oh?
One is one and all alone,
and evermore shall be it so...
I'll sing you two, oh...
Thus sings Miss Dermark, oh!
What are your two, oh?
Two, two, golden-haired twins
with bright eyes so green, oh!
One is one and all alone,
and evermore shall be it so...
I'll sing you three, oh...
Thus sings Miss Dermark, oh!
What are your three, oh?
Ginny, Luna, and Ne-e-ville!!!
Two, two, golden-haired twins
with bright eyes so green, oh!
One is one and all alone,
and evermore shall be it so...
Another Yuletide carol, lesser known but also cumulative, and done Dermark style. References to my favourite fandoms and passions all around (minus footie, that is merely a wish of mine for my country's national team to win).
Still great to try as a drinking game.
I'll sing you one, oh...
Thus sings Miss Dermark, oh!
What is your one, oh?
One is one and all alone,
and evermore shall be it so...
I'll sing you two, oh...
Thus sings Miss Dermark, oh!
What are your two, oh?
Two, two, golden-haired twins
with bright eyes so green, oh!
One is one and all alone,
and evermore shall be it so...
I'll sing you three, oh...
Thus sings Miss Dermark, oh!
What are your three, oh?
Ginny, Luna, and Ne-e-ville!!!
Two, two, golden-haired twins
with bright eyes so green, oh!
One is one and all alone,
and evermore shall be it so...
I'll sing you four, oh...
Thus sings Miss Dermark, oh!
What are your four, oh?
Four for the four Marauders!
Ginny, Luna, and Ne-e-ville!!!
Two, two, golden-haired twins
with bright eyes so green, oh!
One is one and all alone,
and evermore shall be it so...
I'll sing you five, oh...
Thus sings Miss Dermark, oh!
What are your five, oh?
Five warring kings of Westeros!
Four for the four Marauders!
Ginny, Luna, and Ne-e-ville!!!
Two, two, golden-haired twins
with bright eyes so green, oh!
One is one and all alone,
and evermore shall be it so...
Thus sings Miss Dermark, oh!
What are your four, oh?
Four for the four Marauders!
Ginny, Luna, and Ne-e-ville!!!
Two, two, golden-haired twins
with bright eyes so green, oh!
One is one and all alone,
and evermore shall be it so...
I'll sing you five, oh...
Thus sings Miss Dermark, oh!
What are your five, oh?
Five warring kings of Westeros!
Four for the four Marauders!
Ginny, Luna, and Ne-e-ville!!!
Two, two, golden-haired twins
with bright eyes so green, oh!
One is one and all alone,
and evermore shall be it so...
I'll sing you six, oh...
Thus sings Miss Dermark, oh!
What are your six, oh?
Six for a sixpack of Radler!
Five warring kings of Westeros!
Four for the four Marauders!
Ginny, Luna, and Ne-e-ville!!!
Two, two, golden-haired twins
with bright eyes so green, oh!
One is one and all alone,
and evermore shall be it so...
What are your six, oh?
Six for a sixpack of Radler!
Five warring kings of Westeros!
Four for the four Marauders!
Ginny, Luna, and Ne-e-ville!!!
Two, two, golden-haired twins
with bright eyes so green, oh!
One is one and all alone,
and evermore shall be it so...
I'll sing you seven, oh...
Thus sings Miss Dermark, oh!
What are your seven, oh?
Seven for the Seven Gods way up high!
Six for a sixpack of Radler!
Five warring kings of Westeros!
Four for the four Marauders!
Ginny, Luna, and Ne-e-ville!!!
Two, two, golden-haired twins
with bright eyes so green, oh!
One is one and all alone,
and evermore shall be it so...
What are your seven, oh?
Seven for the Seven Gods way up high!
Six for a sixpack of Radler!
Five warring kings of Westeros!
Four for the four Marauders!
Ginny, Luna, and Ne-e-ville!!!
Two, two, golden-haired twins
with bright eyes so green, oh!
One is one and all alone,
and evermore shall be it so...
I'll sing you eight, oh...
Thus sings Miss Dermark, oh!
What are your eight, oh?
Eight for Oberyn's daughters!
Seven for the Seven Gods way up high!
Six for a sixpack of Radler!
Five warring kings of Westeros!
Four for the four Marauders!
Ginny, Luna, and Ne-e-ville!!!
Two, two, golden-haired twins
with bright eyes so green, oh!
One is one and all alone,
and evermore shall be it so...
What are your eight, oh?
Eight for Oberyn's daughters!
Seven for the Seven Gods way up high!
Six for a sixpack of Radler!
Five warring kings of Westeros!
Four for the four Marauders!
Ginny, Luna, and Ne-e-ville!!!
Two, two, golden-haired twins
with bright eyes so green, oh!
One is one and all alone,
and evermore shall be it so...
I'll sing you nine, oh...
Thus sings Miss Dermark, oh!
What are your nine, oh?
Nine for the maiden Muses!
Eight for Oberyn's daughters!
Seven for the Seven Gods way up high!
Six for a sixpack of Radler!
Five warring kings of Westeros!
Four for the four Marauders!
Ginny, Luna, and Ne-e-ville!!!
Two, two, golden-haired twins
with bright eyes so green, oh!
One is one and all alone,
and evermore shall be it so...
What are your nine, oh?
Nine for the maiden Muses!
Eight for Oberyn's daughters!
Seven for the Seven Gods way up high!
Six for a sixpack of Radler!
Five warring kings of Westeros!
Four for the four Marauders!
Ginny, Luna, and Ne-e-ville!!!
Two, two, golden-haired twins
with bright eyes so green, oh!
One is one and all alone,
and evermore shall be it so...
I'll sing you ten, oh...
Thus sings Miss Dermark, oh!
What are your ten, oh?
Ten for the Amis de l'ABC!
Nine for the maiden Muses!
Eight for Oberyn's daughters!
Seven for the Seven Gods way up high!
Six for a sixpack of Radler!
Five warring kings of Westeros!
Four for the four Marauders!
Ginny, Luna, and Ne-e-ville!!!
Two, two, golden-haired twins
with bright eyes so green, oh!
One is one and all alone,
and evermore shall be it so...
What are your ten, oh?
Ten for the Amis de l'ABC!
Nine for the maiden Muses!
Eight for Oberyn's daughters!
Seven for the Seven Gods way up high!
Six for a sixpack of Radler!
Five warring kings of Westeros!
Four for the four Marauders!
Ginny, Luna, and Ne-e-ville!!!
Two, two, golden-haired twins
with bright eyes so green, oh!
One is one and all alone,
and evermore shall be it so...
I'll sing you eleven, oh...
Thus sings Miss Dermark, oh!
What are your eleven, oh?
Eleven who will win the Euro Cup!
Ten for the Amis de l'ABC!
Nine for the maiden Muses!
Eight for Oberyn's daughters!
Seven for the Seven Gods way up high!
Six for a sixpack of Radler!
Five warring kings of Westeros!
Four for the four Marauders!
Ginny, Luna, and Ne-e-ville!!!
Two, two, golden-haired twins
with bright eyes so green, oh!
One is one and all alone,
and evermore shall be it so...
What are your eleven, oh?
Eleven who will win the Euro Cup!
Ten for the Amis de l'ABC!
Nine for the maiden Muses!
Eight for Oberyn's daughters!
Seven for the Seven Gods way up high!
Six for a sixpack of Radler!
Five warring kings of Westeros!
Four for the four Marauders!
Ginny, Luna, and Ne-e-ville!!!
Two, two, golden-haired twins
with bright eyes so green, oh!
One is one and all alone,
and evermore shall be it so...
I'll sing you twelve, oh...
Thus sings Miss Dermark, oh!
What are your twelve, oh?
Twelve for the months of 2016!
Eleven who will win the Euro Cup!
Ten for the Amis de l'ABC!
Nine for the maiden Muses!
Eight for Oberyn's daughters!
Seven for the Seven Gods way up high!
Six for a sixpack of Radler!
Five warring kings of Westeros!
Four for the four Marauders!
Ginny, Luna, and Ne-e-ville!!!
Two, two, golden-haired twins
with bright eyes so green, oh!
One is one and all alone,
and evermore shall be it so...
PS. The "eleven who will win the Euro Cup" refer to La Roja, Spain's national team, who lost their chance at a second World Champion star two summers ago. I have never been a footie fan, but I'm still rooting for them to get back into shape.
What are your twelve, oh?
Twelve for the months of 2016!
Eleven who will win the Euro Cup!
Ten for the Amis de l'ABC!
Nine for the maiden Muses!
Eight for Oberyn's daughters!
Seven for the Seven Gods way up high!
Six for a sixpack of Radler!
Five warring kings of Westeros!
Four for the four Marauders!
Ginny, Luna, and Ne-e-ville!!!
Two, two, golden-haired twins
with bright eyes so green, oh!
One is one and all alone,
and evermore shall be it so...
PS. The "eleven who will win the Euro Cup" refer to La Roja, Spain's national team, who lost their chance at a second World Champion star two summers ago. I have never been a footie fan, but I'm still rooting for them to get back into shape.
domingo, 20 de diciembre de 2015
THE WESTERIOUS CHRONICLES
These are the Vocaloid/Westeros fusion filks I had as bunnies for a while. Mostly Evillious Chronicles mashups, as you will read. It all is becoming the Westerious AU (Westeros+Evillious), which includes A Sacrifice of Ice and Fire, in spite of Hitobashira not being an Evillious song. I have already done the Chrono Story and answered the question of "will I be able to pull such a bunny out of my hat?" This has been like laying out a puzzle and seeing that all the pieces fit... is gratifying indeed.
THE WESTERIOUS CHRONICLES
DISCLAIMER/WARNING: DUE TO THE NATURE OF BOTH CROSSED-OVER UNIVERSES (THE EVILLIOUS CHRONICLES AND THE WORLD OF ICE AND FIRE), THIS SAGA IS DARK AND FULL OF GRAPHIC CONTENT.
READ AT YOUR OWN RISK, IF YOUR COURAGE, YOUR COMMON SENSE, AND/OR YOUR PASSION FOR VOCALOID AND/OR ASOIAF ARE ENOUGH TO DARE. NEVERTHELESS, DISCRETION IS ADVISED.
THE LANNISTERS' CHILD IS AN ONLY CHILD: Backstory set centuries ago on another planet, but in two different dimensions. In one dimension, Jaime Lannister is the only child of the widow Joanna, and he is a tomgirl who likes to crossdress and put on make-up. In another dimension, Cersei Lannister is the only child of the divorcé Tywin, and she is a teen prodigy of science, especially genetics and dimensional research. As young adults, their paths cross quite unexpectedly, leading them both to a planet on a third dimension, on the continent they and their peers, settlers after a great pandemic, will call Westeros... These Lannisters will become the ancestors and the past lives of the Lannister twins born in Westeros centuries later. The maid who became Jaime's fiancée and gave him her uniform is the Lyanna Stark of his universe, while the scientist Cersei's boss (and the villain here) is the Rhaegar Targaryen of her universe.
THE STORY OF WESTEROS: Chrono Story in Westeros, acting as a prelude to both A Sacrifice of Ice and Fire and the Deadly Sins Cycle. The Seven Gods unleash Seven Sins from the late Aegon V and the newborn Rhaegar, and Aerys and Rhaella (wards of the former and parents of the latter), still young and about to become the Mad King and Queen, are caught in the eye of the storm. The role of Elluka is played by a young Rhaegar, ostensibly the narrator of the whole saga from a vantage point in the afterlife.
PROJECT [LYA]: The whole Rhaegar and Lyanna affair had to be woven as well into the Westerious Chronicles, et voilà! A Lyaegar story, yet another one that fits the plot of both 'verses perfectly, that fills yet another hole in the puzzle that is The Westerious Chronicles
A SACRIFICE OF ICE AND FIRE (this one is a whole cycle, aside from not by Akuno-P): Hitobashira Alice / of Sacrifice in Westeros, previous generation: 1) Lyanna 2) Rhaegar 3) Elia 4) Cersei & Jaime... Lyaegar and Lannincest, aside from the Elia backstory...
THE INSANITY OF CROWN PRINCE JOFFREY: eighteenth-century AU, with occult elements. Pretty much complying with Joff's own character arc, but also with traits of Koschei and Bluebeard. And a good dash of gratuitous French ('cuz, eighteenth-century AU). This was the first Deadly Sins mashup out of all of them I made. And it's paved the way for a whole surprising universe...
EVIL EPICUREAN WYMAN MANDERLY: A lurid Westerosi tale no TV series watcher has ever known... The best pork pies north of the Neck... and Freys that keep on disappearing... Oh, and I made Wyman left-handed on Liza's advice (after all, there are very few born lefties in Westeros: Arya in canon [+Lyanna, Stannis, Oberyn in my headcanon] confirmed).
GIFT FROM THE LAVENDER PRINCE: Liza advised me to do it as Oberyn vs. Tywin (we both second the theory)... so this is an Oberyn character study, which makes it truly redoubtable. Valerian is a tranquilizing herb, also known as "busy Lizzie," which I referenced in the original title, before switching to lavender, fitting for a drier and sunnier Mediterranean climate, like that of Dorne, and with the same soothing properties. I use "gift" with a lower-case g first and then "Gift" with an upper-case G (German noun convention) to keep the bilingual pun going on.
THE TAILOR OF GULLTOWN: Petyr, Petyr, pumpkin-eatyr, had a Cat and could not keep her... Basically a Petelyn story, PetyrxSansa at the end, with elements of Sweeney Todd. The inspiration came from "The Tailor Shop of Envizaka" and Middlefinger's own character arc, aside from the musical set in Victorian London.
THE DAUGHTER OF EVIL/THE GUARD OF EVIL: Lannincest version of the Deadly Sins songs most suitable for Lannincest, mashed up. Inspiration from Catherine the Great (whom I say reminds me of Cersei). And a surprising valonqar ending.
JUDGEMENT OF BIGOTRY: Basically, Stannisxhis family (wife and child). I replaced greed with fanatism/bigotry, the besetting sin of the King of Dragonstone, and added an afterlife POV in which Stannis, like in my Three Brothers AU, comes face to face with the Stranger...
THE BROADSWORD OF REVENGE: 'Cuz Brienne deserves her own Deadly Sins mashup about her comeuppance with Stannis. Headcanon in my own mind's eye, starring the Maid of Tarth, and also a switching POV (the other side of the story) for Judgement of Bigotry. Renlienne mentioned in backstory, as well as Stoneheart.
CAPRICCIO MUMMERY: Capriccio Farce, turned Westerosi style... a nice way to wrap things up in my Westerious Chronicles. Oh, and some Jaimienne to make up for the Lannincest and Renlienne in past filks of this saga. Aside from a lot of loose ends being tied up in the afterlife... PS. Shireen's status wound up being a thing I have to shed some light on:
The Director of the Theatre is a very minor side character, in fact an unseen character (never seen or heard, only mentioned by name-title as the one who commissions a certain play script or opera libretto) in Oscar Wilde's tales; they commissions play scripts and opera libretti for the stage (regardless of if the young bohemian students who pen these works freeze to death on cold winter nights, without being able to afford kindling or matches). Even though the character's title in English is epicene, ie gender-neutral, Victorian patriarchy has made translators render the character as always male in target texts (el Director del Teatro, le Directeur du Théâtre, etc.). Still, in English the word "director" is epicene -- so feel free to imagine a female Director of the Theatre (also, in the Hungarian version, the epicenity is retained in the character's name being lifted straight out of the Magyar translation of the Wilde tale: a Színházigazgató).
Shireen apparently uses this ghost character --wealthy, artistically inclined, and above all an epicene (in the source text) unseen character-- as an escapist power fantasy for a doll girl who is a terminally ill only child of a powerful official. She sees all her dolls as the performers (actors, ballerini, musicians) and the playwrights at her command. (Interestingly, the Hungarian character name -a Színházigazgató- also echoes the name of the escapist who incarnates the role in Western name order: "színház", theatre, sounding like "Shireen"; "igazgató", director, sounding like "Baratheon") When she died in the fire along with her parents, she became the Director of the Theatre in her dreams, and treats all the other souls in this stage-themed afterlife she has created as her living doll troupe. Only Stannis and Selyse are barred from entering.
When I say that "she inherited the title of Director of the Theatre" from Stannis, I mean that her illness was the catalyst for her parents doing everything they could, forbidden or not, in order to save her, while she felt powerless and guilty and in need to assert some control herself over others, no matter if these others were people -- and also that this relates to Stannis being absent and "too busy" with his official duties during her childhood, which further catalysed her into a theatre-loving doll girl, who looked up to both of her parents while feeling all those feels. But that is all in the past, especially after death -- and besides, did those two ever know anything in detail about her little shows while locked in her rooms?
SEVEN SINS AND SEVEN PUNISHMENTS: Seven sinners, seven smitings. The Seven Gods channeled by the Seven Sinners discuss the story. This could close the circle... or not?
THE STORY OF WESTEROS
AERYS:
Is it the song of nightingales I hear? Can you hear it?
RHAELLA:
No, 'tis the despaired cry of the court.
AERYS:
Is it the light of the full moon I see? Can you see it?
RHAELLA:
No, 'tis the lurid glow of the flames.
The person we once called our guardian...
AERYS:
...is burning to a crisp within the keep we have left.
Leaving behind the original sin
that the gods broke into seven parts...
RHAELLA:
Lust is a flower...
AERYS:
...gluttony is a seed...
RHAELLA:
...pride is a jewel...
AERYS:
...jealousy is a waterfall...
RHAELLA:
...weariness is a breeze...
AERYS:
...bigotry is the ground...
RHAELLA+AERYS:
And lastly, wrath is a keep on fire...
Arise, arise, O Seven Sins,
filthy offshoots of our bloodline's inbreeding...
Turn around, on and on, on and on,
Prithee purify these Seven Sins...
please, if that could be...
RHAEGAR:
Countless brother-husbands taking sister-wives
scattered the Seven Sins abroad across this world...
The Seven Gods, watching over Summerhall,
blessed the newborn prince entrusted to seek them...
"No matter how much I may sacrifice,
I will always be there to fulfil it, even in the afterlife..."
After falling recklessly in love
and losing everything that he prized, even his own life...
The afterlife he led in the Stranger's Heaven brought
unto him nought but unsubstantial emptiness...
The one who had it all and who lost it all...
Which destiny awaits? What does he wish for?
Until the end of times...
Wrought by and brought upon
a single bloodline,
broken into seven pieces:
this is the story of sin...
The wistful romance
of the poet prince born in the flames,
where it all began, at Summerhall...
this is the Story of Westeros...
Lulila, lulila, lulila, lulila...
Lulila, lulila, lulila, lulila...
Lulila, lulila, lulila, lulila...
Lulila, lulila, lulila, lulila...
...................................................................................................
PROJECT [LYA]
-Lyanna's Project-
This is the story of how it all began...
From when shall I begin to tell my tale?
Shall I tell you anything I know?
My name is Lyanna Stark,
a maiden unlike any other.
My beloved's name is Rhaegar,
the learned future king of all the lands...
He kissed me and he softly, lovingly told me:
"You will become the mother of the Prince that was Promised...
Queen of Love and Beauty..."
RHAEGAR TARGARYEN HAD RECENTLY BECOME OBSESSED
WITH A CERTAIN CHAOTIC PROPHECY:
THE RETURN OF THE DARK FORCES
THAT ONCE HAUNTED THE WORLD DURING THE LONG NIGHT.
TO AVOID THE CATACLYSM,
CONVINCED THAT THE FATE OF EVERYONE RESTED ON HIS SHOULDERS,
HE ARRANGED A TOURNEY AT HARRENHAL...
Winter is Coming, a new Long Night approaches:
thus say our house words and the prophecy.
Only one will deliver us from the darkness,
and his will be the Song of Ice and Fire...
The Prince that was Promised must see the light of day...
A tourney was held at Harrenhal:
the potential mother was being searched for...
Seek the most unlikely maiden of them all...
The chosen one will be crowned Queen of Love and Beauty,
and she will bring a deliverer to light...
I don't understand the reason why I was the one chosen...
He said that he loved me, and clasped me in his slender arms...
After everything is done, let's elope, like star-crossed lovers,
to the Tower of Joy in Dorne; just the two of us.
The dragon seed has been sown within me at last...
I await the birth of the Prince that was Promised...
THE PROJECT REQUIRED AN UNUSUAL MAIDEN
TO BRING THE PRINCE THAT WAS PROMISED TO THE LIGHT.
ELIA NYMEROS MARTELL OF DORNE, RHAEGAR'S CONSORT,
WAS, HOWEVER, NOT STRONG OF HEALTH ENOUGH.
FORTUNATELY, LYANNA, THE BRIDE OF LORD ROBERT BARATHEON,
WAS THE ONE WHO FIT ALL THE REQUIREMENTS.
-Rhaegar's Project-
This is the story of how it all began...
From when shall I begin to tell my tale?
Shall I tell you everything I know?
My name is Rhaegar Targaryen,
the learned future king of all the lands.
Unfortunately, I bring the worst of news:
the project was an utter failure.
My wife Elia is too weak to bear more children...
All of my ambitions and dreams have disappeared...
AFTER HAVING BROUGHT TWO CHILDREN,
RHAENYS AND AEGON, TO THE WORLD,
ELIA HAD WEAKENED NOT TO BEAR ANY MORE CHILDREN.
The Tourney of Harrenhal is a Seven-sent chance for me:
thanks to its consequences, I will rule this vast realm.
The Starks and the Baratheons say I wrested the bride from them...
Now it's the time to defend my rights...
The tourney began,
the crowned one was the daughter of Winterfell...
Temptation approached; we became lovers.
"This crown of winter roses will make things easier..."
Without thinking twice, I placed it on her dark locks.
My dear Lyanna, forgive me for having ruined your life...
Because of our love for each other, a war broke out...
But, as I had intended to, we lived together...
And then, I realized that I really love you.
After everything is done, let's elope, like star-crossed lovers,
to the Tower of Joy in Dorne; just the two of us.
RHAEGAR:
I love you...
LYANNA:
And I love you...
The evening stars were corrupted...
The moon and the stars in the southern sky
disappeared...
FOLLOWING THE TOURNEY OF HARRENHAL,
LYANNA AND RHAEGAR ELOPED TO THE TOWER OF JOY,
IN THE DORNISH MARCHES, WHERE THEY LIVED TOGETHER.
MARCHING TOWARDS KING'S LANDING,
A REBEL ARMY AGAINST THE CROWN
WAS SPEARHEADED BY STORMLORD ROBERT BARATHEON,
THE FIANCÉ OF LYANNA STARK.
-Robert's Project-
This is the story of how it all began...
From when shall I begin to tell my tale?
Shall I tell you all I know?
My name is Robert Baratheon,
eldest of three orphan brothers, Lord of the Stormlands.
Rhaegar and Lyanna were those I pursued,
Lyanna and Rhaegar were both of them gone.
I seek the Queen of Love and Beauty, my bride, wherever she is,
and the Crown Prince, for having taken her away...
ROBERT AND RHAEGAR FACED ONE ANOTHER
AT THE DECISIVE BATTLE OF THE TRIDENT:
THE CONFRONTATION THAT SHAPED THE HISTORY OF WESTEROS...
..................................................................................................
Once upon a time, in a certain place, there was a little dream.
No one knew who had dreamt that dream, and no one cared at all.
This made the little dream think:
I do not want to disappear. How can I make people dream of me?
And thus, the dream thought and thought, and at last had an idea:
"I will make people come to me, leading them astray,
and let them create worlds of their own..."
A SACRIFICE OF ICE AND FIRE
Story the First: The Lost Swordswoman
The first Alice was a maiden righteous, bold, and free,
clasping in her left hand the hilt of a trusty sword.
She cut down the unfair and set right everything gone wrong,
wayward was her scarlet path, far from wedding a lord.
This Alice got lost somewhere far away,
disappeared, a fallen woman, into sin thus lead astray...
They found her bereft of life, within the Tower of Joy...
She lay in blood and wilted roses, with her newborn boy.
Story the Second: The Star-Crossed Prince
The second Alice was a clever prince, so frail and shy,
strumming the strings of his heart and harp to many a song...
Singing and imagining that prophecies were true,
he created an insane world where nothing was wrong.
This Alice loved and picked a winter rose so blue...
he was slain by the stormlord for having made his bride untrue...
Crushed his breastplate and his chest, the lungs and heart within...
Once beloved, now he's hated, due to his last sin.
Story the Third: The Broken Princess
The third Alice was sweet, with skin warm and dark as gold,
the friendliest, loveliest one born on the coast of Dorne...
She wedded the poet prince and dwelled within his court,
giving him two children; when he left, she felt no scorn.
This Alice was the princess of all the land...
She suffered a gruesome fate at a traitor's harsh command...
As she struggles for her life, she sees her children die...
then, her maidenhead once lost, she yields with one last sigh.
Following the woodland paths no one's trod before...
Crossing at the ford that still runs scarlet with gore...
Though you have been invited to the Royal Keep...
In my heart you will always dwell...
The fourth Alice were twins with green eyes and golden hair,
so wilful and curious, like any other child...
crossing many thresholds as their lives go on and on...
yet now they're no children and life is no longer mild.
The older sister's headstrong... and...
the younger brother's insecure...
They think they are the closest to their wonderland, for sure...
From their wildest dreaming they will never, e'er awake,
trapped forever in the lives they lead for their hearts' sake...
Who will be the next Alice?
...................................................................................................
THE INSANITY OF CROWN PRINCE JOFFREY
Thus... Allons donc danser!
JOFFREY:
Once more, a beautiful girl
throws herself at my feet before me...
What a sincere smile is hers...
she will doubtless become my next mistress...
Consecrated as an infant to the Maiden,
the Goddess of Love blessed me with the power that
every girl or lady who looks into these cold, green eyes
will fall as if transfixed right before me...
SHAE:
With the power to conquer every reluctant heart...
(Le pouvoir de prendre tous les coeurs qu'il veut...)
ROS:
The lonely young man, into his boudoir at the royal palace...
(L'héritier aux cheveux d'or, seul dans son magnifique boudoir...)
SHAE:
...takes up, one by one, every female that he is pleased with...
(...il emporte, l'une après l'autre, toutes les dames qu'il trouve remarquables...)
ROS:
...gathering them all for his collection...
(...il a la passion de les collectionner...)
JOFFREY:
Like the taste of poison concealed in the most intense liqueur,
like the pleasure of cold steel plunged into the silk of their skin,
blood, sweat, tears, and strychnine that combine into
that alluring purple liquid, so cool yet so warm...
Une fois déshabillée, on ne peut pas retourner dans la réalité!
CATALOGUE OF MISSING PERSONS IN THE KINGDOMS OF WESTEROS
Shae of Lorath, 20-21, of King's Landing, sutler whore
Ros, 18-19, of Winterfell, whore
Ellaria Sand, 30-31, of Sunspear, paramour
Obara Sand, 20, of the Water Gardens, spearwoman
Nymeria Sand, 18, of the Water Gardens, kunoichi
Tyene Sand, 16, of the Reach, septa
Sansa Stark, 16, of Winterfell, noblewoman/dressmaker
JOFFREY:
My portraits of yore burned to a crisp,
the busts of me shattered,
I killed my past self...
I want to forget my lovely face,
for which my stepfather made me feel such pain...
(Maudits mes parents, mes yeux, mes cheveux...)
I clasp the lovely maiden and steal a kiss from her lips...
(Elle résiste, mais je l'embrasse encore...)
Once she was my first fiancée, of our childhood days,
the frightened one who shied away from me....
(Oh, Sansa! Ne me quittez pas encore!
Je veux être aimé de toi!)
SANSA:
Since a certain day, ladies across the vast realm...
(les plus belles dames de tout le vaste royaume...)
ELLARIA:
...vanished, one by one, into thin air without forewarning...
(...disparues sans aucune trace...)
SANSA:
They were mothers, daughters, aunts, sisters, friends, brides, wives...
(Il avait beaucoup de familles plongées dans le désespoir...)
ELLARIA:
Their loved ones knew not what to do...
(Étaient-elles condamnées par toujours?)
JOFFREY:
The intense hue of ecstasy in the darkness of midnight,
passion beyond limits, utterly unrestrained...
illusions so true to life that they are taken for reality...
I am no longer a person at all...
(Qu'est-ce que je suis?)
Indulging in depravity, to defy the Seven Gods,
this is the soirée of insanity for which I desire...
(c'est la nuit de la décadence et de la démence...)
CATALOGUE OF MISSING PERSONS IN THE KINGDOMS OF WESTEROS (continued)
Taena Merryweather, 30, of the Reach, noblewoman
Léonnette Fossoway, 24-25, of the Reach, noblewoman
Elinor Tyrell, 17, of Highgarden, noblewoman
Megga Tyrell, 17, of Highgarden, noblewoman
Alla Tyrell, 16, of Highgarden, noblewoman
Mya Stone, 24-25, of the Vale of Arryn, sherpa
Brienne of Tarth, 19, of Tarth, knight
Meera Reed, 18, of the Neck, crannogmaiden
In the meantime... a beautiful girl has a conversation with a wistful Dornishman...
OBERYN (giving her a necklace with purple crystal pendants): The pay you give me is not bad for a Tyrell of Highgarden... well, a common enemy is a rightful reason for our lands to ally. After all, my paramour and daughters are held captive there as well...
The maiden, twinkles in her clever eyes, puts on the necklace as the Dornishman takes the silk sachet from her...
Later on, that self-same maiden enters the ballroom at the royal court, confidently, curtsying and smiling warmly...
JOFFREY:
Once more, a new beautiful lady,
(...celle-ci est intelligente aussi... quelle découverte!)
She answers to my every beck and call,
and she is as pleased with me as I am with her...
Viens, Margaery, ma chêre, danser dans le boudoir...
She played so wistfully with the triggers of my firearms...!
After we embrace and kiss so intensely,
voulez-vous être mon échansonne?
She pours our best liquor into the sparkling glass cups,
wish to each other's health, a twinkle and a clink,
a draught of crystal fire searing my throat...
Suddenly, I feel a sharp pain in my chest,
my lips are locked, I cannot breathe...
SANSA:
A maiden of unusual cleverness, whose best friend had disappeared...
(Elles étaient presque soeurs, très prochaines l'une de l'autre...)
MARGAERY:
...traced her steps towards the ostentatious halls of the evil one...
(...bien sûr, l'amie égarée sarait prisonnière là...)
SANSA:
She put on her best and shone with wit, thus the evil one was soon cajoled...
(...déçu d'une flatteuse qu'il croyait sincère...)
MARGAERY:
...and she put a purple crystal, which quickly dissolved, into his cup...
(...et, à la santé d'elle, il avala sa mort avec la liqueur...)
JOFFREY:
Cold sweat coursing through my veins, with the poison I had drunk unaware,
I stagger, half-conscious, and fall backwards on the cold, hard pavement.
Tainted blood depriving me of air, racking me with searing pain,
as my lips and fingertips are slowly dyed purple...
As I lie tossing and writhing feverishly on the cold pavement,
all the ladies I have collected awaken and flee the boudoir,
The last one to leave looks over her shoulder into my blood-shot veiled eyes...
for an instant... as I struggle to recognize her features...
It was my childhood friend... Sansa! Wait!
Sansa! Wait!
Je ne t'ai pas dit que je t'aime...
(and I cannot, it is too late...)
..............................................................................................
EVIL EPICUREAN WYMAN MANDERLY
Thus, make sure you leave nothing left on your platter.
In the grand banquet hall of a North-born Reacher,
the feast that begins anew is yet another last supper.
The dishes served would make any other person wince,
yet the hefty master devours them with a smile...
The name of this lord is Wyman Manderly,
and he used to be served the finest rarities north of the Neck...
Yet, at the end, what he ended up desiring was
the most gruesome ingredient upon this world...
Bend the knee and pay your respects
to our liege, Lord Wyman Manderly!
All the ingredients that exist
rightfully belong to His Lordship!
Devour everything on the golden platters!
There is always room for more!
Even the maybe lethally poisonous blue glaze
is nothing but the crowning spice on the main course!!
Suck the hollow bones empty, and then, devour them!!
If you're not satisfied, why not taste the platters?
This evening's supper, this orgy quaffed thus heartily,
is still rather far from being over...
Freshly-Gathered Weirwood Syrup
Cold Fruit Soup with Candied Winter Rose and Reach Rose Petals
Assorted Mushrooms of the Northern Woods
Reach-Style Mince Pies Made with our Greenhouse Fruits
Spicy Honeycakes with Arbour Raisins and Sugarspun Lace
Fresh Greenhouse Fruits Out of their Season and Climate
Arbour Rosé Laced with Shade of the Evening
Sunflower and Pumpkin Flower Salad
Rosehip Soup, Highgarden Style
Frey-Style Riverlands Carpaccio
Our Famous Reach-Style Pork Pie
Our Famous Reach-Style Black Pudding
Reach-Style Lemoncakes and Berrycakes with Sugarspun Roses
Arbour Gold Laced with Lysene Brandy
The newly-arrived Riverlands kitchen-maid, a born Frey,
said in a low voice, in a whisper rather soft and shy...
"I desire to be discharged from your service, Your Lordship..."
Hmph! Such backstabbing upstart traitors!
Bend the knee and pay your respects
to our liege, Lord Wyman Manderly!
Anyone who betrays his trust
will have to pay the heaviest of prices!
Devour everything on the golden platters!
Today's feast will be unlike any other!!
With auburn hair shining with a reddish tinge,
this one sure goes down smoothly indeed...
Let Arbour gold flow to wash down our rarities!
If you are not satisfied, feel free to ask for seconds!!
Hey, you, little cupbearer over there...!
I wonder what you taste like...
Today's Supper
Sunflower and Riverlands Clover Salad
Rosehip Soup, The Crossing Style
(***Due to certain circumstances, this course has been censored***)
Our Famous Reach-Style Pork Pie
Our Famous Reach-Style Black Pudding (Is that human blood?)
Spicy Honeycakes with Arbour Raisins and Sugarspun Lace
Reach-Style Lemoncakes and Berrycakes with Sugarspun Roses
Arbour Gold Laced with Lysene Brandy
After Supper
(***Due to certain circumstances, this course has been censored***)
(***Due to certain circumstances, this course has been censored***)
(***Due to certain circumstances, this course has been censored***)
(***Due to certain circumstances, this course has been censored***)
(***Due to certain circumstances, this course has been censored***)
(***Due to certain circumstances, this course has been censored***)
(***Due to certain circumstances, this course has been censored***)
As the days went by, the keep gradually became empty...
There is nothing and no one left but His Lordship within...
Even then, he keeps on seeking more of his drug,
the most gruesome ingredient upon this world...
"If I leave any leftovers, they will smite me..."
Devour everything that you may be pleased with!
Suddenly, he caught sight of his own right hand...
And, quietly, affably, he smiled and he said to himself:
"There is something I have never tasted before..."
The lurid last supper of Lord Wyman
consisted of no other ingredient but himself...
Now he knows every flavour in the Known World,
but no one will ever know what he tasted like...
The cupbearer and the kitchen maid are both Frey prisoners of war and my own OC:s. I felt that I had to make that explanation for you, dear readers. The story of the Frey pies is one of the most lurid subplots kept out of the TV series, and there is still speculation around it...
..............................................................................................
GIFT FROM THE LAVENDER PRINCE
gift (English)
noun
1. a present
2. a talent
3. something cheap, an easy task
Thus, 'tis time for you to get some rest...
Please, calm down with this gift of mine...
You can rest assured and soothed with this gift of mine...
Yes, I am the Lavender Prince who brings repose...
only so that you can be happy at last...
King's Landing, anno 300 after the Conquest
Even though hers was a marriage of state,
even though he left her, Elia still loved Rhaegar...
You're a straitlaced statesman, only caring for your position...
while I have still thought of my loved ones for decades...
You were after the lives of the princess and her children,
fearing that their descendants might take your place...
You've forgotten the price that you and I had to pay...
And that is fine as well, until the past resurfaces...
I can bear no longer to see you weary every day,
worn out by old age and by the pressure of statescraft...
so let me give you this good remedy...
It will soothe you and heal your weariness from within...
Take it as a present from me...
Please, calm down with this gift of mine...
You can rest assured and soothed with this gift of mine...
Yes, I am the Lavender Prince who brings repose...
only so that you can be happy at last...
..............................................................................................
THE TAILOR OF GULLTOWN
Thus, let's pin those sleeves...
On a quaint street in Gulltown, in the Vale of Arryn,
there lives a young man who runs a tailor's shop.
Having made himself, risen from obscurity,
now he makes clothes for wealthy townsfolk and for nobles...
However, there is a thought constantly on his mind:
the person he once admired as a child and whom he still loves...
"Even though I have made myself, though I am within your reach...
you never stay for long time under my scissors sign..."
But I have commissions, I've got to concentrate...
clutching my scissors in my right hand...
the scissors Mother once used for her needlework...
The sharper they are, the better they cut...
Catelyn... I am honoured to make your dresses and your accessories...
but can there be something more between us?
Today, like every day, there's nothing new under the sun...
when I went shopping, our eyes met on the marketplace...
There she was, Cat, with that bright auburn hair and those warm blue eyes...
But who was the gentleman who held her hand by her side?
That grey overcoat fits his serious frame like a glove,
and she appears to be very close to the stern gentleman...
I could not stand the sight any longer,
so off I dashed back into the shop...
But I've got work to do, I've got to concentrate...
clutching my scissors in my right hand...
Teardrops trickle down my cheeks and into my goatee
as I tweak the overcoat pinned down on the table, right before me...
There's an eerie athmosphere out on the streets,
as if a murder had taken place.
I saw Cat today once more, half-way crossing the bridge,
but who was the young man walking by her side?
She has a mournful countenance, there is sorrow in her eyes...
the dashing young gentleman dries up her tears by her side...
That cravat, embroidered with silver thread, fits him like a glove...
Ah... So this is the type of lover you prefer?
But I've got work to do, I've got to concentrate...
clutching my scissors in my right hand...
With blood-shot eyes, swollen and ablaze,
I tweak the cravat pinned down on the table, right before me...
But I've got work to do, I've got to concentrate...
clutching my scissors in my right hand...
How strange... have the scissors' blades always been scarlet?
Today, I will do my best with this cap as well...
At last, I am ready, I have finished.
If you are not the one who is going to come to me...
I will be the one who will come to you.
"The two blades of a pair of scissors work together by crossing each other.
Just like any decent husband and wife couple should do.
At least, that's what Mother used to say..."
In this smart grey overcoat,
this cravat embroidered with silver thread,
and this checkered newsy cap,
which I put on my head...
I have become
your kind of lover...
Now, Cat, what do you say?
Am I not dashing?
Today, nothing is the same at all.
The victim this time, the fourth one, was female:
The wife and mother of the Stark family...
like her spouse and sons, she appears to have been murdered.
On the other hand, she had been quite cruel.
"Good morning, pleased to meet you", she said.
As if I had perchance been a stranger to her,
as if I had perchance been a stranger to her...
But I've got work to do, I've got to concentrate...
clutching my scissors in my right hand...
the scissors for needlework which have been dyed crimson...
The sharper they are, the better they cut...
But we've got work to do, we've got to concentrate...
clutching my scissors in my right hand...
with the orphan girl I call my niece for an apprentice,
since I lost the mother, but the daughter is at least mine...
Sansa... we will have to leave this place for safety's sake,
and set shop elsewhere.
Like in King's Landing, the capital.
You've always wanted to live there, right, darling?
Well, we're setting sail tomorrow, lock, stock, and barrel.
I know you cannot say no...
Explanation: The three male murder victims are, in this order: Ned (coat), Robb (cravat), and Bran (cap). This was the second Westerious bunny I had, just to see Petyr as the killer in this song fit perfectly, like Joff in Venomania.
...............................................................................................
THE DAUGHTER OF EVIL/THE GUARD OF EVIL
CERSEI:
Thus, everyone bend the knee!
Once upon a time, somewhere in this world
there was a great kingdom with a decadent court,
and, high above them all, upon a throne of swords,
sat the young queen, aged just twenty-four.
She lived in a huge red castle outside the capital,
the commander of her guards looked quite similar to her,
her loutish husband had been "killed in an accident..."
her eldest son and heir was called Joffrey...
What more could she wish for?
If the realm treasury chanced to be out of funds,
there would always be the riffraff to oppress for more...
as for anyone who contradicted her commands...
they would only forfeit with their lives!
(Eddard Stark led to the scaffold, Arya watching)
CERSEI:
Thus, everyone bend the knee!
Scarlet and golden flower of evil, blooming feverishly, vividly,
all the puny weeds around will be absorbed into it...
JAIME:
You are my liege lady, I'm your faithful knight,
we are lovely twin siblings torn apart by chance...
If it is to protect you, I will break any oath,
I will betray myself, sacrifice the one I am...
We were born to much rejoicing, with great expectations,
blessed by pealing sept bells we were given our names...
However, selfish adults, to further their own ends,
split our future in twain and rent the tie that binds us...
Even if the whole world became your enemy,
I will stay true to you and protect you from harm...
so please rest assured, what are brothers and kingsguards for?
You are my liege lady, I'm your faithful knight,
we are pitiful twin siblings torn apart by chance...
If it is to protect you, I will break any oath,
I will betray myself, sacrifice the one I am...
The selfish queen fell madly in love with a young man
from the ruling household of the land of flowers,
but, however, his heart belonged to another:
the dashing lord of the stormy lands...
JAIME:
During a tourney, I first met the Lord of Storm's End,
then but a raven-haired stripling, but still a charming one...
so cheerful and kindly, with such a smile on his face...
I must say the truth: that I took a shine to him...
Intoxicated with jealousy, Her Grace
called for her lord father and her other advisors,
and, during the council, she coldly told them:
"War shall be declared on the Stormlands..."
JAIME:
But Her Grace's command, issued straight by herself,
is that Lord Renly shall be put to death...
I must lead her armies upon the battlefield,
since her wish is my command,
but why are my cheeks always wet with tears?
Countless villages were overrun,
and countless lives were lost in the fray...
So many common people suffering due to the war...
Their sorrow could not reach the detached queen...
CERSEI:
Ah, it's time for a drink and cake!
Scarlet and golden flower of evil, blooming beautifully,
though in a deranged manner,
and intrenched in so many thorns that it cannot be touched.
JAIME:
You are my liege lady, I'm your faithful knight,
we are deranged twin siblings torn apart by chance...
Today, there are lemoncakes washed down with Dornish red...
In response, you smile as innocently as always...
Agreeing that the wicked queen should be brought down,
finally the common people had to take to arms.
And spearheading the realmwide uprising was
a Faceless Swordswoman, an assassin deadly and swift...
All of the grudges that the smallfolk had pent up
finally led to riots, from Dorne to the Night's Watch...
Worn out by the Stormlands campaign, and by this conflict,
the queen's men soon turned cloak to the insurgents' side.
JAIME:
Before long, our regime will surely be destroyed
by the wrath of our angered subjects...
If they say that we rightly deserve this...
though it would be fitting retaliation for the Targaryens...
I will still oppose it.
In the end, the Red Keep itself wound up under siege,
its weary garrison had to hoist the white flag,
and the lovely young queen, whose star had begun to fade,
feared she'd share the fate of her kin's foes...
CERSEI:
I still remember Elia and her children... No! We shall never share their fate!
Scarlet and golden flower of evil, blooming sorrowfully...
as the paradise that had been made for her sake
is quickly becoming an inferno...
JAIME:
Let me put my left hand around your silky white throat...
I will set sail with the children, trust me, they will be safe.
It's all right, we're twins, and you are the eldest one...
Didn't the foretelling say your little brother would strangle you?
(click of a closing trachea)
You are a dying sinner, I am a fugitive,
we are saddened twin siblings torn apart by chance...
If you go down in history as a villainess,
then, I have the same blood flowing through my veins...
Once upon a time, somewhere in this world
there was a great kingdom with a decadent court,
and, high above them all, upon a throne of swords,
sat Her Grace, my adorable older sister.
Even if the whole world became your enemy,
(CERSEI: At last my time has come...)
I will stay true to you and protect you from harm...
(CERSEI: As the sept bells signal the end of my life...)
so please rest assured, what are brothers and kingsguards for?
(CERSEI: I do not dare to look at the crowd storming in)
There you are, sitting on the throne, with a dark collar, smiling...
JAIME:
You are my liege lady, I'm your faithful knight,
we are pitiful twin siblings torn apart by chance...
If it is to protect you, I will break any oath,
I will betray myself, sacrifice the one I am...
JAIME+CERSEI:
If I ever were to be reborn...
I would like to be with you once again...
Annotations: The swordswoman leading the uprising is Arya. But she is still leading the vanguard of the upcoming Targ invasion... and the poem references the "valonqar prophecy" that Cersei would be strangled by her little brother...
This was the third bunny I had in the Westerious saga, with Lannincest since Rin's and Len's characters in the Tale of Evil are so reminiscent of Cersei and Jaime (respectively) that there was another story that could be given a Westeros shot...
........................................................................................................
JUDGEMENT OF BIGOTRY
IN THE KINGDOMS OF WESTEROS, THERE ONCE WAS A MAN OF RANK WHO USED HIS RELIGIOUS CONVICTION AS FOUNDATION FOR HIS OWN PERSONAL GOALS.
HIS NAME WAS STANNIS BARATHEON, BUT HE WOULD BE KNOWN AS "AZOR AHAI" TO THOSE WHO FOLLOWED HIS CREED AND BANNER...
Thus, now it's time for the judgement.
CHAPTER I
THE BIGOT AND THE RELIGIOUS EXCUSE FOR WARFARE
Everyone is either good through and through
or utterly evil...
I am the Saviour,
I love righteousness more than anything else...
[Hearing] [Witness]
[Indictment] [Dismissal]
[Cross-Examination] [Defense]
[Prosecution] [Summons]
Even the most sinful can be redeemed
if they pay the price...
and that price is not paid in gold,
but in flesh and blood.
Rank, age, gender, descent...
all of that is irrelevant.
[Sinners] [Heretics]
[Deception] [Repression]
[Deceit] [Power]
[Decadence] [Usurpers]
What matters is if you have done right or wrong:
that is everything...
[Right] [Right]
[Right] [Right]
[Right] [Right]
[Right] [Right]
Your lives depend on me...
If you wish for salvation, let me see what you have done!
And thus, sin is my only consideration,
in the judgement of bigotry...
If you wish to leave the cold mire of damnation,
give me the reasons why to be redeemed or not...
CHAPTER II
THE DAUGHTER IN THE DREARY FORTRESS
AND
THE SAVIOUR REBORN
Even for my daughter, with her face covered in gray scales,
I need to be stainless (sinless)...
[TERMINAL ILLNESS] [FAMILY]
[CONCERN] [DAMNATION]
[MIRACLES] [HOPE]
[RED LADY] [FRIENDSHIP]
If I purge this world of sinners, of depravity,
my wishes will come true...
[CONVERT] [LORD OF LIGHT]
[RIGHTFUL] [CATHARSIS]
[RESURRECTION] [REGENERATION]
[NEED] [COST]
Today, the courtroom of doubt opens anew...
The wicked laugh, and the righteous are in tears...
And thus, sin is my only consideration,
in the judgement of bigotry...
If I want to fulfill my innermost desires,
I will keep on swinging this unrighteous flaming sword...
CHAPTER III
THE OUTBREAK OF WAR
a usurper, a traitor...
I was asked to parley with him, I gave him conditions,
and he could have accepted them...
Thus, his arrogance and stubbornness led to the outbreak of war,
and my brother was assassinated...
he lies in state, bereft of life,
in his pavilion.
ANNO 299 AFTER THE CONQUEST.
THE STORMLANDS PLUNGED INTO POLITICAL AND MILITARY DEBACLE:
THE LIFELESS BODY OF KING RENLY BARATHEON,
THE FIRST OF HIS NAME, WAS FOUND DRENCHED IN BLOOD,
MORTALLY WOUNDED, IN HIS PAVILION.
I was asked to confront the weight of my actions...
my whole fleet was burned to ashes...
Yet my beloved daughter Shireen will comfort me
as long as she is with me...
In the ruins of Castle Black, anyone will find
the lonely charred corpses of the parents and their child...
CHAPTER IV:
THE GOD OF THE DECEASED
AND
THE FINAL JUDGEMENT
When I awoke, I was all alone in a dreary place...
the Seventh of Heavens...
whether redemption or damnation, the one who decides is
the Stranger itself... (the God of the Deceased)
Even the most depraved sinners will be saved
if they pay the price...
and that price is not paid in gold,
but in flesh and blood.
I smile, for the first time in decades, to the Stranger,
and then, softly whisper:
"I will never hand over such a price...
never in my afterlife..."
Thus, I suddenly reeled, and lost my footing,
and plunged into the depths of the Seventh of Hells...
And thus, sin is my only consideration,
in the judgement of bigotry...
for I will not let anyone ever...
write the sentence of those sins...
Thus, someday, I will reunite, in my next life, with these hands,
the fragments of depravity...
And thus, the Seventh of Hells will finally turn to
the best of all worlds for my wife, our daughter, and me...
.........................................................................................................
THE BROADSWORD OF REVENGE
O wayward sinner...
Thus, prithee regret all you have done...
NOM DE GUERRE: MAID OF TARTH
AZOR AHAI: THE RIGHTEOUS SAVIOUR
BLUE IS THE COLOUR OF SORROW AND COLDNESS...
KEEP OF CASTLE BLACK
Hear, Lady Stoneheart, know that I am right now
pointing with a sword at a certain person,
who deceived many others...
An ambitious person who thinks only of what's right...
For the sake of this person's ambition,
the one I loved died violently in my arms...
Though I am innocent, I am still accused of it...
yet those who pursue me have not ended my life...
At last the moment of truth and revenge is here...
Regret, regret all you have done!
THE REVENGE OF THE BLUE MAIDEN
NOM DE GUERRE: MAID OF TARTH
Hallo und auf Wiedersehen, Herr Azor Ahai...
I will set fire to your keep... Tell me now what you prefer...
Do I run my cold steel blade across and through your throat,
or let you burn to a crisp within this inferno?
THE REDEMPTION
Hear, Lady Stoneheart, I don't care who's the villain...
I should give him a second chance for atonement, right?
And thus did I say to him:
"Strip yourself of everything you value and prize..."
THAT PRICE IS NOT PAID IN GOLD,
BUT IN FLESH AND BLOOD.
If you confess out loud everything you did "for religion,"
only on that condition will I spare your life...
And thus said he in response:
"Of what I did for the LORD'S sake...
[AZOR AHAI: THE RIGHTEOUS SAVIOUR]
... I will never let go of anything!"
RIGHTFUL KING OF THE LANDS OF WESTEROS
STANNIS BARATHEON
Right, there's nothing left to do, you twat...
In truth, in sooth, regret and repent!
AZOR AHAI: THE RIGHTEOUS SAVIOUR
CHOSEN BY R'HLLOR
JUDGEMENT OF BIGOTRY
JUDGEMENT OF BIGOTRY
Hallo und auf Wiedersehen, Herr Azor Ahai...
The righteous swordsman stifled by his own bigotry...
his body drenched in my wrath and that of other innocents...
Prithee, fall asleep forever...
SHE WAS ACCUSED OF KILLING HER BELOVED
HIS BROTHER HAD GIVEN THE ORDER
SHE DECIDED TO GET REVENGE
MEMORY
Hear, Lady Stoneheart, you are still on your own...
you are still all alone on your own...
SEVEN YEARS AGO
You were separated from both of your daughters,
and you feared that they would forget your face one day...
Do you hear, Lady Stoneheart, it seems that the Lannisters
are no longer here and no longer a threat...
CATELYN'S DAUGHTERS
I am sure that they are somewhere in this wide world...
FIVE YEARS AGO
Those two girls have already vanished, as if into thin air...
Now your daughter am I, only me and me alone...
THEN, THE MAIDEN WENT INSANE
Hear, Your Grace...
[I LEFT IT ALL BEHIND
YOU KNOW, I LEFT IT ALL BEHIND]
...Look at me...
THE LAST BROADSWORD
JUDGEMENT OF BIGOTRY
Simply...
[AZOR AHAI]
...Look at me
STONEHEART
CATELYN
Hallo und auf Wiedersehen, Eure Hoheit...
Leader of fanatics, righteous bigot...
Hear, Lady Stoneheart, why did your husband
trust that person that much?
Now, in sooth, everything has come to an end...
We will put an end to everything...
To this sinful story of evil...
Fare thee well...
(My beloved...)
(The one I hated the most...)
...........................................................................................
CAPRICCIO MUMMERY
The defendant's seat is empty...
The barrister's seat is full of trash...
Thus, let us now begin
this mummery known as
a "trial"...
[Grayscaled Princess]
Following the decrees of the Lord of Light,
one only vessel is now solely missing.
If you happen by chance to know its whereabouts,
please contact the Lady with the Heart of Stone...
[Lady Stoneheart]
Turning back time, changing ever shape and master,
finally, at last, it has appeared upon the stage,
yet, however, I do not know its real whereabouts...
Perchance it may be in the hands of that person...
[Servants]
Seek her, seek her, seek her everywhere,
to the left, to the right, looking up and looking down...
For the one who holds all the Keys,
the Stranger, the Many-Faced God of the Deceased...
[Lightbringer]
For how long will this mummery be carried on?
There is no longer any life beyond it...
[Fallen Queen]
The souls of mortals once fell into the trap...
There is nothing now that can be done or that has not been done...
[Servants]
Swaying scales
in a shattered scenario,
vessels tainted by the sins of yore...
Each one singing a song of one's own,
in a discordant capriccio...
The story has slipped from the hands of the Gods,
and now it unfurls free, with a life of its own...
If those people were still upon this Earth,
they would have been most likely to sigh...
[Lightbringer]
What is really to be dreaded is...
[Grayscaled Princess]
...the desires of mortalkind...
[Grayscaled Princess]:
THE DIRECTOR OF THE THEATRE.
SHE HAS INHERITED HER FATHER'S PLACE.
[Lady Stoneheart]:
SHE LIVES IN THE THEATRE, AND SHE CREATED IT.
REAL NAME: CATELYN STARK, NÉE TULLY.
[Lightbringer]:
AFTER LOSING HIS POWER,
HE BECAME THE SHADOW OF A FLAMING SWORD.
THUS, HE CANNOT ENTER THE THEATRE.
[Fallen Queen]:
ONCE SHE WAS A WISTFUL, NAIVE RED-HAIRED DRESSMAKER.
SHE OFFICIALLY OBEYS LADY STONEHEART,
YET SHE IS WILFUL AND DEVIOUS.
[Grayscaled Princess]
Let us put some order and arrange this information...
Tempted to follow your heart, you thus turned evil...
Now I grant you permission to speak.
Please, give your account of when you entered this theatre...
[Oathbreaker]
The burden of what I have done is a curse upon me,
and, to be freed from said curse, I needed something...
I entered this place because I wanted to find
the missing ancestral sword of my forefathers...
[Servants]
Slaughter him, butcher him, and then devour him!
Smite the intruder with the worst of punishments!
Sentence him, sentence him, sentence him come what may...
Sentence him to torture, to scourge, to death!
[Oathbreaker]
Once I expected the worst, having lost my every hope...
The tall, blue-eyed maiden drew her sword and she fought for me...
[Oathkeeper]
I would not forgive myself if I left you to die...
[Oathbreaker]
And thus, she became the Oathkeeper...
Right-handed Oathkeeper...
Left-handed Oathbreaker...
The replacement vessels have not awakened yet...
Concealing their true intentions within their hearts,
the two unassuming intruders.
Grayscaled Princess, Lady with a Heart of Stone,
Lightbringer, Faithful Servant, God of the Deceased...
When everything comes to a bitter end,
¿who will be the ones to laugh at the end of the day?
[Green Dreamer]:
Lulila, lulila, lulila-lila...
Erratic heartbeats in dreams of things to come...
[Oathbreaker]:
SEEKING THE ANCESTRAL SWORD BRIGHTROAR,
HE ENTERED THE THEATRE.
REAL NAME: JAIME LANNISTER.
[Oathkeeper]:
SHE IS A MAID AT THE THEATRE,
BUT SHE DOES NOT WANT TO CHANGE HER PLACE.
SHE IS THE INCARNATION OF A LOYAL, BRAVE KNIGHT.
[Faithful Servant]:
SHE IS A MAID AT THE THEATRE,
BUT SHE DOES NOT WANT TO CHANGE HER PLACE.
SHE IS A SPIRIT RELEASED FROM HER MIRROR PRISON.
[The God of Many Faces]:
ONE OF THEIR FACES IS THE STRANGER.
STANNIS BARATHEON MET THIS DEITY IN THE AFTERLIFE.
[Green Dreamer]:
HE RESIDES IN THE DREAMLAND OF THE GRAYSCALED PRINCESS.
STILL UNIDENTIFIED.
Friendship, trauma, justice, illusion,
hope, destruction, dreams, lust, love, death...
It all keeps on dissolving, mixing, returning
in an ominous lullaby...
Right before he died, lonely as he was,
he created a theatre...
That "best of all worlds" he desired that much,
will it be fulfilled someday?
Come on, let us play our parts
in this mummery known as
"life..."
Oh, the Green Dreamer is Jojen and the Fallen Queen is Sansa. The Faithful Servant is Cersei. And some more Jaimienne here to contrarrest the Lannincest and Renlienne in previous installments...
Hope you like my Westeros take on the Evillious Chronicles... The Westerious Chronicles!!!
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
SEVEN SINS AND SEVEN PUNISHMENTS
JAIME:
Thus, let us begin!
JOFFREY:
Seven flowers are dancing a quadrille,
sins that have been finally set free...
Covering, concealing their lurid reality...
sinking into pleasure found in others' pain...
WYMAN:
Seven seeds are descending one by one,
they will surely sprout and then grow strong...
Even the whole Known World will be dissolved
in the powerful acids within me...
CERSEI:
Our Reign of Iniquity, founded on golden rocks,
will never crumble, falter, or fall...
The vessels of evil, once released
by cursed siblings who were the children of siblings,
what kind of tale will they make unfurl?
Seven Sins and Seven Punishments...
OBERYN:
Drifting away on seven breezes,
a lethal poison pervades the Known World...
All of the guilty ones are unable to sleep well tonight,
regretting a sin of yore that was not...
PETYR:
On the waters of seven waterfalls,
the reflection is the face of a loved one...
Yet the reflections always differ, and yours is not the only one...
If only they did not exist...
STANNIS:
Within the Lightbringer's throne room under ground,
thus, let us now begin this mummery known as a "trial..."
Everyone seeks to attain
what he or she calls "the best of all possible worlds..."
To which outcome will their desires lead?
Seven Sins and Seven Punishments...
BRIENNE:
Is it the song of the flames I hear? Can I hear it?
No, 'tis the cold steel of vengeance...
The vessels of evil, once released
by cursed siblings who were the children of siblings,
what kind of tale will they make unfurl?
Seven Sins and Seven Punishments...
OMINOUS LULLABY #7
Lulilala, lulila-lara...
Lulilala, lulila-lara...
THE WESTERIOUS CHRONICLES
DISCLAIMER/WARNING: DUE TO THE NATURE OF BOTH CROSSED-OVER UNIVERSES (THE EVILLIOUS CHRONICLES AND THE WORLD OF ICE AND FIRE), THIS SAGA IS DARK AND FULL OF GRAPHIC CONTENT.
READ AT YOUR OWN RISK, IF YOUR COURAGE, YOUR COMMON SENSE, AND/OR YOUR PASSION FOR VOCALOID AND/OR ASOIAF ARE ENOUGH TO DARE. NEVERTHELESS, DISCRETION IS ADVISED.
THE LANNISTERS' CHILD IS AN ONLY CHILD: Backstory set centuries ago on another planet, but in two different dimensions. In one dimension, Jaime Lannister is the only child of the widow Joanna, and he is a tomgirl who likes to crossdress and put on make-up. In another dimension, Cersei Lannister is the only child of the divorcé Tywin, and she is a teen prodigy of science, especially genetics and dimensional research. As young adults, their paths cross quite unexpectedly, leading them both to a planet on a third dimension, on the continent they and their peers, settlers after a great pandemic, will call Westeros... These Lannisters will become the ancestors and the past lives of the Lannister twins born in Westeros centuries later. The maid who became Jaime's fiancée and gave him her uniform is the Lyanna Stark of his universe, while the scientist Cersei's boss (and the villain here) is the Rhaegar Targaryen of her universe.
THE STORY OF WESTEROS: Chrono Story in Westeros, acting as a prelude to both A Sacrifice of Ice and Fire and the Deadly Sins Cycle. The Seven Gods unleash Seven Sins from the late Aegon V and the newborn Rhaegar, and Aerys and Rhaella (wards of the former and parents of the latter), still young and about to become the Mad King and Queen, are caught in the eye of the storm. The role of Elluka is played by a young Rhaegar, ostensibly the narrator of the whole saga from a vantage point in the afterlife.
PROJECT [LYA]: The whole Rhaegar and Lyanna affair had to be woven as well into the Westerious Chronicles, et voilà! A Lyaegar story, yet another one that fits the plot of both 'verses perfectly, that fills yet another hole in the puzzle that is The Westerious Chronicles
A SACRIFICE OF ICE AND FIRE (this one is a whole cycle, aside from not by Akuno-P): Hitobashira Alice / of Sacrifice in Westeros, previous generation: 1) Lyanna 2) Rhaegar 3) Elia 4) Cersei & Jaime... Lyaegar and Lannincest, aside from the Elia backstory...
THE INSANITY OF CROWN PRINCE JOFFREY: eighteenth-century AU, with occult elements. Pretty much complying with Joff's own character arc, but also with traits of Koschei and Bluebeard. And a good dash of gratuitous French ('cuz, eighteenth-century AU). This was the first Deadly Sins mashup out of all of them I made. And it's paved the way for a whole surprising universe...
EVIL EPICUREAN WYMAN MANDERLY: A lurid Westerosi tale no TV series watcher has ever known... The best pork pies north of the Neck... and Freys that keep on disappearing... Oh, and I made Wyman left-handed on Liza's advice (after all, there are very few born lefties in Westeros: Arya in canon [+Lyanna, Stannis, Oberyn in my headcanon] confirmed).
GIFT FROM THE LAVENDER PRINCE: Liza advised me to do it as Oberyn vs. Tywin (we both second the theory)... so this is an Oberyn character study, which makes it truly redoubtable. Valerian is a tranquilizing herb, also known as "busy Lizzie," which I referenced in the original title, before switching to lavender, fitting for a drier and sunnier Mediterranean climate, like that of Dorne, and with the same soothing properties. I use "gift" with a lower-case g first and then "Gift" with an upper-case G (German noun convention) to keep the bilingual pun going on.
THE TAILOR OF GULLTOWN: Petyr, Petyr, pumpkin-eatyr, had a Cat and could not keep her... Basically a Petelyn story, PetyrxSansa at the end, with elements of Sweeney Todd. The inspiration came from "The Tailor Shop of Envizaka" and Middlefinger's own character arc, aside from the musical set in Victorian London.
THE DAUGHTER OF EVIL/THE GUARD OF EVIL: Lannincest version of the Deadly Sins songs most suitable for Lannincest, mashed up. Inspiration from Catherine the Great (whom I say reminds me of Cersei). And a surprising valonqar ending.
THE BROADSWORD OF REVENGE: 'Cuz Brienne deserves her own Deadly Sins mashup about her comeuppance with Stannis. Headcanon in my own mind's eye, starring the Maid of Tarth, and also a switching POV (the other side of the story) for Judgement of Bigotry. Renlienne mentioned in backstory, as well as Stoneheart.
CAPRICCIO MUMMERY: Capriccio Farce, turned Westerosi style... a nice way to wrap things up in my Westerious Chronicles. Oh, and some Jaimienne to make up for the Lannincest and Renlienne in past filks of this saga. Aside from a lot of loose ends being tied up in the afterlife... PS. Shireen's status wound up being a thing I have to shed some light on:
The Director of the Theatre is a very minor side character, in fact an unseen character (never seen or heard, only mentioned by name-title as the one who commissions a certain play script or opera libretto) in Oscar Wilde's tales; they commissions play scripts and opera libretti for the stage (regardless of if the young bohemian students who pen these works freeze to death on cold winter nights, without being able to afford kindling or matches). Even though the character's title in English is epicene, ie gender-neutral, Victorian patriarchy has made translators render the character as always male in target texts (el Director del Teatro, le Directeur du Théâtre, etc.). Still, in English the word "director" is epicene -- so feel free to imagine a female Director of the Theatre (also, in the Hungarian version, the epicenity is retained in the character's name being lifted straight out of the Magyar translation of the Wilde tale: a Színházigazgató).
Shireen apparently uses this ghost character --wealthy, artistically inclined, and above all an epicene (in the source text) unseen character-- as an escapist power fantasy for a doll girl who is a terminally ill only child of a powerful official. She sees all her dolls as the performers (actors, ballerini, musicians) and the playwrights at her command. (Interestingly, the Hungarian character name -a Színházigazgató- also echoes the name of the escapist who incarnates the role in Western name order: "színház", theatre, sounding like "Shireen"; "igazgató", director, sounding like "Baratheon") When she died in the fire along with her parents, she became the Director of the Theatre in her dreams, and treats all the other souls in this stage-themed afterlife she has created as her living doll troupe. Only Stannis and Selyse are barred from entering.
When I say that "she inherited the title of Director of the Theatre" from Stannis, I mean that her illness was the catalyst for her parents doing everything they could, forbidden or not, in order to save her, while she felt powerless and guilty and in need to assert some control herself over others, no matter if these others were people -- and also that this relates to Stannis being absent and "too busy" with his official duties during her childhood, which further catalysed her into a theatre-loving doll girl, who looked up to both of her parents while feeling all those feels. But that is all in the past, especially after death -- and besides, did those two ever know anything in detail about her little shows while locked in her rooms?
SEVEN SINS AND SEVEN PUNISHMENTS: Seven sinners, seven smitings. The Seven Gods channeled by the Seven Sinners discuss the story. This could close the circle... or not?
Promo for "A Sacrifice of Ice and Fire." Interested?
THE LANNISTERS' CHILD IS AN ONLY CHILD:
Mrs. Lannister's son is an only child,
the heir to a great bourgeois family.
A cute, pretty boy admired and envied by all,
however, there is a certain "issue" with him...
He only plays with dolls and plushies all day,
and only likes to wear dresses or skirts.
He often puts on his mother's makeup in secret,
and all the children his age shun him for being a tomgirl.
Thus, he was
always all on his own...
Mr. Lannister's daughter is an only child,
a teen prodigy of those born once in a blue moon.
She entered her local university at thirteen,
and began to investigate the hearts and minds of humans.
War, crime, and genocide never seemed to end,
why did people so often hate and abuse each other?
She carried on with her research for years,
to try to understand evil and pain at least a little.
to try to understand evil and pain at least a little.
Finally, she realised
that the cause of evil and pain´
was not from her world...
Mrs. Lannister's son is an only child,
and finally his mother found him a fiancée.
Though she was a maid who worked in the Lannister's household.
And she was as cute and fair as a porcelain doll.
"May you allow me to wear your uniform?"
That question from her fiancé came as a surprise.
Totally revolted, she only replied:
"Ewww, so disgusting!"
Mr. Lannister's daughter is an only child.
She, too, was posessed by "malice."
For some reason, she has destructive intrusive thoughts.
So she asks her colleagues: "What do you think?"
The leader of the Dimensional Research Team,
her boss, told her what to do:
"If you get rid of your counterpart,
you shall get rid of your 'malice' too."
Across the portal, screams are heard from the nursery,
he finds himself in shock, huddled in a corner.
The gutted "doll" (his fiancée), with her entrails taken out,
feels warm and cozy, with all her limbs broken.
Through his eyes, he could see
the other world, across the looking-glass portal.
The girl who looked like him in a labcoat,
stretched out her hand to him...
When both worlds were consumed by "malice,"
the ARK left that galaxy.
There were 72 people on board.
They say that included a set of fraternal twins.
As she was about to kill her counterpart,
she realised the truth about everything.
She found out that this quest was
a trap her boss set for her and her counterpart.
The moment she would have killed her counterpart,
she would surrender unconditionally to malice.
"Maybe he (the boss) wanted to take her place,
usurp her place on the ark because she had been infected."
The Lannisters' children are only children,
yet still, there are two of them.
An older sister who knows a lot about the human spirit,
and a younger brother who knows a lot about the human body.
The ARK courses through the dark ocean of space,
seeking a new paradise to live in.
Surely, the research of both siblings
will one day resurrect the human race...
AERYS:
Is it the song of nightingales I hear? Can you hear it?
RHAELLA:
No, 'tis the despaired cry of the court.
AERYS:
Is it the light of the full moon I see? Can you see it?
RHAELLA:
No, 'tis the lurid glow of the flames.
The person we once called our guardian...
AERYS:
...is burning to a crisp within the keep we have left.
Leaving behind the original sin
that the gods broke into seven parts...
RHAELLA:
Lust is a flower...
AERYS:
...gluttony is a seed...
RHAELLA:
...pride is a jewel...
AERYS:
...jealousy is a waterfall...
RHAELLA:
...weariness is a breeze...
AERYS:
...bigotry is the ground...
RHAELLA+AERYS:
And lastly, wrath is a keep on fire...
Arise, arise, O Seven Sins,
filthy offshoots of our bloodline's inbreeding...
Turn around, on and on, on and on,
Prithee purify these Seven Sins...
please, if that could be...
RHAEGAR:
Countless brother-husbands taking sister-wives
scattered the Seven Sins abroad across this world...
The Seven Gods, watching over Summerhall,
blessed the newborn prince entrusted to seek them...
"No matter how much I may sacrifice,
I will always be there to fulfil it, even in the afterlife..."
After falling recklessly in love
and losing everything that he prized, even his own life...
The afterlife he led in the Stranger's Heaven brought
unto him nought but unsubstantial emptiness...
The one who had it all and who lost it all...
Which destiny awaits? What does he wish for?
Until the end of times...
Wrought by and brought upon
a single bloodline,
broken into seven pieces:
this is the story of sin...
The wistful romance
of the poet prince born in the flames,
where it all began, at Summerhall...
this is the Story of Westeros...
Lulila, lulila, lulila, lulila...
Lulila, lulila, lulila, lulila...
Lulila, lulila, lulila, lulila...
Lulila, lulila, lulila, lulila...
...................................................................................................
PROJECT [LYA]
-Lyanna's Project-
This is the story of how it all began...
From when shall I begin to tell my tale?
Shall I tell you anything I know?
My name is Lyanna Stark,
a maiden unlike any other.
My beloved's name is Rhaegar,
the learned future king of all the lands...
He kissed me and he softly, lovingly told me:
"You will become the mother of the Prince that was Promised...
Queen of Love and Beauty..."
RHAEGAR TARGARYEN HAD RECENTLY BECOME OBSESSED
WITH A CERTAIN CHAOTIC PROPHECY:
THE RETURN OF THE DARK FORCES
THAT ONCE HAUNTED THE WORLD DURING THE LONG NIGHT.
TO AVOID THE CATACLYSM,
CONVINCED THAT THE FATE OF EVERYONE RESTED ON HIS SHOULDERS,
HE ARRANGED A TOURNEY AT HARRENHAL...
Winter is Coming, a new Long Night approaches:
thus say our house words and the prophecy.
Only one will deliver us from the darkness,
and his will be the Song of Ice and Fire...
The Prince that was Promised must see the light of day...
A tourney was held at Harrenhal:
the potential mother was being searched for...
Seek the most unlikely maiden of them all...
The chosen one will be crowned Queen of Love and Beauty,
and she will bring a deliverer to light...
I don't understand the reason why I was the one chosen...
He said that he loved me, and clasped me in his slender arms...
After everything is done, let's elope, like star-crossed lovers,
to the Tower of Joy in Dorne; just the two of us.
The dragon seed has been sown within me at last...
I await the birth of the Prince that was Promised...
THE PROJECT REQUIRED AN UNUSUAL MAIDEN
TO BRING THE PRINCE THAT WAS PROMISED TO THE LIGHT.
ELIA NYMEROS MARTELL OF DORNE, RHAEGAR'S CONSORT,
WAS, HOWEVER, NOT STRONG OF HEALTH ENOUGH.
FORTUNATELY, LYANNA, THE BRIDE OF LORD ROBERT BARATHEON,
WAS THE ONE WHO FIT ALL THE REQUIREMENTS.
-Rhaegar's Project-
This is the story of how it all began...
From when shall I begin to tell my tale?
Shall I tell you everything I know?
My name is Rhaegar Targaryen,
the learned future king of all the lands.
Unfortunately, I bring the worst of news:
the project was an utter failure.
My wife Elia is too weak to bear more children...
All of my ambitions and dreams have disappeared...
AFTER HAVING BROUGHT TWO CHILDREN,
RHAENYS AND AEGON, TO THE WORLD,
ELIA HAD WEAKENED NOT TO BEAR ANY MORE CHILDREN.
The Tourney of Harrenhal is a Seven-sent chance for me:
thanks to its consequences, I will rule this vast realm.
The Starks and the Baratheons say I wrested the bride from them...
Now it's the time to defend my rights...
The tourney began,
the crowned one was the daughter of Winterfell...
Temptation approached; we became lovers.
"This crown of winter roses will make things easier..."
Without thinking twice, I placed it on her dark locks.
My dear Lyanna, forgive me for having ruined your life...
Because of our love for each other, a war broke out...
But, as I had intended to, we lived together...
And then, I realized that I really love you.
After everything is done, let's elope, like star-crossed lovers,
to the Tower of Joy in Dorne; just the two of us.
RHAEGAR:
I love you...
LYANNA:
And I love you...
The evening stars were corrupted...
The moon and the stars in the southern sky
disappeared...
FOLLOWING THE TOURNEY OF HARRENHAL,
LYANNA AND RHAEGAR ELOPED TO THE TOWER OF JOY,
IN THE DORNISH MARCHES, WHERE THEY LIVED TOGETHER.
MARCHING TOWARDS KING'S LANDING,
A REBEL ARMY AGAINST THE CROWN
WAS SPEARHEADED BY STORMLORD ROBERT BARATHEON,
THE FIANCÉ OF LYANNA STARK.
-Robert's Project-
This is the story of how it all began...
From when shall I begin to tell my tale?
Shall I tell you all I know?
My name is Robert Baratheon,
eldest of three orphan brothers, Lord of the Stormlands.
Rhaegar and Lyanna were those I pursued,
Lyanna and Rhaegar were both of them gone.
I seek the Queen of Love and Beauty, my bride, wherever she is,
and the Crown Prince, for having taken her away...
ROBERT AND RHAEGAR FACED ONE ANOTHER
AT THE DECISIVE BATTLE OF THE TRIDENT:
THE CONFRONTATION THAT SHAPED THE HISTORY OF WESTEROS...
..................................................................................................
Once upon a time, in a certain place, there was a little dream.
No one knew who had dreamt that dream, and no one cared at all.
This made the little dream think:
I do not want to disappear. How can I make people dream of me?
And thus, the dream thought and thought, and at last had an idea:
"I will make people come to me, leading them astray,
and let them create worlds of their own..."
A SACRIFICE OF ICE AND FIRE
Story the First: The Lost Swordswoman
The first Alice was a maiden righteous, bold, and free,
clasping in her left hand the hilt of a trusty sword.
She cut down the unfair and set right everything gone wrong,
wayward was her scarlet path, far from wedding a lord.
This Alice got lost somewhere far away,
disappeared, a fallen woman, into sin thus lead astray...
They found her bereft of life, within the Tower of Joy...
She lay in blood and wilted roses, with her newborn boy.
The second Alice was a clever prince, so frail and shy,
strumming the strings of his heart and harp to many a song...
Singing and imagining that prophecies were true,
he created an insane world where nothing was wrong.
This Alice loved and picked a winter rose so blue...
he was slain by the stormlord for having made his bride untrue...
Crushed his breastplate and his chest, the lungs and heart within...
Once beloved, now he's hated, due to his last sin.
Story the Third: The Broken Princess
The third Alice was sweet, with skin warm and dark as gold,
the friendliest, loveliest one born on the coast of Dorne...
She wedded the poet prince and dwelled within his court,
giving him two children; when he left, she felt no scorn.
This Alice was the princess of all the land...
She suffered a gruesome fate at a traitor's harsh command...
As she struggles for her life, she sees her children die...
then, her maidenhead once lost, she yields with one last sigh.
Story the Fourth: The Wilful Twins
Following the woodland paths no one's trod before...
Crossing at the ford that still runs scarlet with gore...
Though you have been invited to the Royal Keep...
In my heart you will always dwell...
The fourth Alice were twins with green eyes and golden hair,
so wilful and curious, like any other child...
crossing many thresholds as their lives go on and on...
yet now they're no children and life is no longer mild.
The older sister's headstrong... and...
the younger brother's insecure...
They think they are the closest to their wonderland, for sure...
From their wildest dreaming they will never, e'er awake,
trapped forever in the lives they lead for their hearts' sake...
Who will be the next Alice?
...................................................................................................
THE INSANITY OF CROWN PRINCE JOFFREY
Thus... Allons donc danser!
JOFFREY:
Once more, a beautiful girl
throws herself at my feet before me...
What a sincere smile is hers...
she will doubtless become my next mistress...
Consecrated as an infant to the Maiden,
the Goddess of Love blessed me with the power that
every girl or lady who looks into these cold, green eyes
will fall as if transfixed right before me...
SHAE:
With the power to conquer every reluctant heart...
(Le pouvoir de prendre tous les coeurs qu'il veut...)
ROS:
The lonely young man, into his boudoir at the royal palace...
(L'héritier aux cheveux d'or, seul dans son magnifique boudoir...)
SHAE:
...takes up, one by one, every female that he is pleased with...
(...il emporte, l'une après l'autre, toutes les dames qu'il trouve remarquables...)
ROS:
...gathering them all for his collection...
(...il a la passion de les collectionner...)
JOFFREY:
Like the taste of poison concealed in the most intense liqueur,
like the pleasure of cold steel plunged into the silk of their skin,
blood, sweat, tears, and strychnine that combine into
that alluring purple liquid, so cool yet so warm...
Une fois déshabillée, on ne peut pas retourner dans la réalité!
CATALOGUE OF MISSING PERSONS IN THE KINGDOMS OF WESTEROS
Shae of Lorath, 20-21, of King's Landing, sutler whore
Ros, 18-19, of Winterfell, whore
Ellaria Sand, 30-31, of Sunspear, paramour
Obara Sand, 20, of the Water Gardens, spearwoman
Nymeria Sand, 18, of the Water Gardens, kunoichi
Tyene Sand, 16, of the Reach, septa
Sansa Stark, 16, of Winterfell, noblewoman/dressmaker
JOFFREY:
My portraits of yore burned to a crisp,
the busts of me shattered,
I killed my past self...
I want to forget my lovely face,
for which my stepfather made me feel such pain...
(Maudits mes parents, mes yeux, mes cheveux...)
I clasp the lovely maiden and steal a kiss from her lips...
(Elle résiste, mais je l'embrasse encore...)
Once she was my first fiancée, of our childhood days,
the frightened one who shied away from me....
(Oh, Sansa! Ne me quittez pas encore!
Je veux être aimé de toi!)
SANSA:
Since a certain day, ladies across the vast realm...
(les plus belles dames de tout le vaste royaume...)
ELLARIA:
...vanished, one by one, into thin air without forewarning...
(...disparues sans aucune trace...)
SANSA:
They were mothers, daughters, aunts, sisters, friends, brides, wives...
(Il avait beaucoup de familles plongées dans le désespoir...)
ELLARIA:
Their loved ones knew not what to do...
(Étaient-elles condamnées par toujours?)
JOFFREY:
The intense hue of ecstasy in the darkness of midnight,
passion beyond limits, utterly unrestrained...
illusions so true to life that they are taken for reality...
I am no longer a person at all...
(Qu'est-ce que je suis?)
Indulging in depravity, to defy the Seven Gods,
this is the soirée of insanity for which I desire...
(c'est la nuit de la décadence et de la démence...)
CATALOGUE OF MISSING PERSONS IN THE KINGDOMS OF WESTEROS (continued)
Taena Merryweather, 30, of the Reach, noblewoman
Léonnette Fossoway, 24-25, of the Reach, noblewoman
Elinor Tyrell, 17, of Highgarden, noblewoman
Megga Tyrell, 17, of Highgarden, noblewoman
Alla Tyrell, 16, of Highgarden, noblewoman
Mya Stone, 24-25, of the Vale of Arryn, sherpa
Brienne of Tarth, 19, of Tarth, knight
Meera Reed, 18, of the Neck, crannogmaiden
In the meantime... a beautiful girl has a conversation with a wistful Dornishman...
OBERYN (giving her a necklace with purple crystal pendants): The pay you give me is not bad for a Tyrell of Highgarden... well, a common enemy is a rightful reason for our lands to ally. After all, my paramour and daughters are held captive there as well...
The maiden, twinkles in her clever eyes, puts on the necklace as the Dornishman takes the silk sachet from her...
Later on, that self-same maiden enters the ballroom at the royal court, confidently, curtsying and smiling warmly...
JOFFREY:
Once more, a new beautiful lady,
(...celle-ci est intelligente aussi... quelle découverte!)
She answers to my every beck and call,
and she is as pleased with me as I am with her...
Viens, Margaery, ma chêre, danser dans le boudoir...
She played so wistfully with the triggers of my firearms...!
After we embrace and kiss so intensely,
voulez-vous être mon échansonne?
She pours our best liquor into the sparkling glass cups,
wish to each other's health, a twinkle and a clink,
a draught of crystal fire searing my throat...
Suddenly, I feel a sharp pain in my chest,
my lips are locked, I cannot breathe...
SANSA:
A maiden of unusual cleverness, whose best friend had disappeared...
(Elles étaient presque soeurs, très prochaines l'une de l'autre...)
MARGAERY:
...traced her steps towards the ostentatious halls of the evil one...
(...bien sûr, l'amie égarée sarait prisonnière là...)
SANSA:
She put on her best and shone with wit, thus the evil one was soon cajoled...
(...déçu d'une flatteuse qu'il croyait sincère...)
MARGAERY:
...and she put a purple crystal, which quickly dissolved, into his cup...
(...et, à la santé d'elle, il avala sa mort avec la liqueur...)
JOFFREY:
Cold sweat coursing through my veins, with the poison I had drunk unaware,
I stagger, half-conscious, and fall backwards on the cold, hard pavement.
Tainted blood depriving me of air, racking me with searing pain,
as my lips and fingertips are slowly dyed purple...
As I lie tossing and writhing feverishly on the cold pavement,
all the ladies I have collected awaken and flee the boudoir,
The last one to leave looks over her shoulder into my blood-shot veiled eyes...
for an instant... as I struggle to recognize her features...
It was my childhood friend... Sansa! Wait!
Sansa! Wait!
Je ne t'ai pas dit que je t'aime...
(and I cannot, it is too late...)
..............................................................................................
EVIL EPICUREAN WYMAN MANDERLY
Thus, make sure you leave nothing left on your platter.
In the grand banquet hall of a North-born Reacher,
the feast that begins anew is yet another last supper.
The dishes served would make any other person wince,
yet the hefty master devours them with a smile...
The name of this lord is Wyman Manderly,
and he used to be served the finest rarities north of the Neck...
Yet, at the end, what he ended up desiring was
the most gruesome ingredient upon this world...
Bend the knee and pay your respects
to our liege, Lord Wyman Manderly!
All the ingredients that exist
rightfully belong to His Lordship!
Devour everything on the golden platters!
There is always room for more!
Even the maybe lethally poisonous blue glaze
is nothing but the crowning spice on the main course!!
Suck the hollow bones empty, and then, devour them!!
If you're not satisfied, why not taste the platters?
This evening's supper, this orgy quaffed thus heartily,
is still rather far from being over...
Freshly-Gathered Weirwood Syrup
Cold Fruit Soup with Candied Winter Rose and Reach Rose Petals
Assorted Mushrooms of the Northern Woods
Reach-Style Mince Pies Made with our Greenhouse Fruits
Spicy Honeycakes with Arbour Raisins and Sugarspun Lace
Fresh Greenhouse Fruits Out of their Season and Climate
Arbour Rosé Laced with Shade of the Evening
Sunflower and Pumpkin Flower Salad
Rosehip Soup, Highgarden Style
Frey-Style Riverlands Carpaccio
Our Famous Reach-Style Pork Pie
Our Famous Reach-Style Black Pudding
Reach-Style Lemoncakes and Berrycakes with Sugarspun Roses
Arbour Gold Laced with Lysene Brandy
The newly-arrived Riverlands kitchen-maid, a born Frey,
said in a low voice, in a whisper rather soft and shy...
"I desire to be discharged from your service, Your Lordship..."
Hmph! Such backstabbing upstart traitors!
Bend the knee and pay your respects
to our liege, Lord Wyman Manderly!
Anyone who betrays his trust
will have to pay the heaviest of prices!
Today's feast will be unlike any other!!
With auburn hair shining with a reddish tinge,
this one sure goes down smoothly indeed...
Let Arbour gold flow to wash down our rarities!
If you are not satisfied, feel free to ask for seconds!!
Hey, you, little cupbearer over there...!
I wonder what you taste like...
Today's Supper
Sunflower and Riverlands Clover Salad
Rosehip Soup, The Crossing Style
(***Due to certain circumstances, this course has been censored***)
Our Famous Reach-Style Pork Pie
Our Famous Reach-Style Black Pudding (Is that human blood?)
Spicy Honeycakes with Arbour Raisins and Sugarspun Lace
Reach-Style Lemoncakes and Berrycakes with Sugarspun Roses
Arbour Gold Laced with Lysene Brandy
After Supper
(***Due to certain circumstances, this course has been censored***)
(***Due to certain circumstances, this course has been censored***)
(***Due to certain circumstances, this course has been censored***)
(***Due to certain circumstances, this course has been censored***)
(***Due to certain circumstances, this course has been censored***)
(***Due to certain circumstances, this course has been censored***)
(***Due to certain circumstances, this course has been censored***)
As the days went by, the keep gradually became empty...
There is nothing and no one left but His Lordship within...
Even then, he keeps on seeking more of his drug,
the most gruesome ingredient upon this world...
"If I leave any leftovers, they will smite me..."
Devour everything that you may be pleased with!
Suddenly, he caught sight of his own right hand...
And, quietly, affably, he smiled and he said to himself:
"There is something I have never tasted before..."
The lurid last supper of Lord Wyman
consisted of no other ingredient but himself...
Now he knows every flavour in the Known World,
but no one will ever know what he tasted like...
The cupbearer and the kitchen maid are both Frey prisoners of war and my own OC:s. I felt that I had to make that explanation for you, dear readers. The story of the Frey pies is one of the most lurid subplots kept out of the TV series, and there is still speculation around it...
..............................................................................................
GIFT FROM THE LAVENDER PRINCE
gift (English)
noun
1. a present
2. a talent
3. something cheap, an easy task
Thus, 'tis time for you to get some rest...
Please, calm down with this gift of mine...
You can rest assured and soothed with this gift of mine...
Yes, I am the Lavender Prince who brings repose...
only so that you can be happy at last...
King's Landing, anno 300 after the Conquest
Even though hers was a marriage of state,
even though he left her, Elia still loved Rhaegar...
You're a straitlaced statesman, only caring for your position...
while I have still thought of my loved ones for decades...
You were after the lives of the princess and her children,
fearing that their descendants might take your place...
You've forgotten the price that you and I had to pay...
And that is fine as well, until the past resurfaces...
I can bear no longer to see you weary every day,
worn out by old age and by the pressure of statescraft...
so let me give you this good remedy...
It will soothe you and heal your weariness from within...
Take it as a present from me...
Please, calm down with this gift of mine...
You can rest assured and soothed with this gift of mine...
Yes, I am the Lavender Prince who brings repose...
only so that you can be happy at last...
UPON LEARNING THAT LORD TYWIN LANNISTER
HAD HAD HIS SISTER AND NEPHEWS KILLED,
HE FINALLY FELT THE WEIGHT OF HARSH REALITY.
AND THUS, DURING HIS WAYWARD LOST YEARS,
OBERYN LEARNED (AMONG MANY OTHER RECIPES)
HOW TO DISTILL A SOOTHING "GIFT" OF REPOSE.
THIS "GIFT" HE WOULD LATER GIVE TO TYWIN LANNISTER,
CLAIMING THAT IT WAS A POWERFUL TRANQUILIZING DRUG.
Everyone has got one or another kind of concerns.
Including my brother, my paramour, and all of my daughters.
For the sake of everyone I love who cannot sleep at night,
I shall make more tranquilizer as a gift for you...
As soon as you plunge into your dreamland,
you will forget harsh reality and all intrusive thoughts...
Lying in bed, as innocently as a child,
close your eyes, and let go of everything...
LORD TYWIN LANNISTER, IN CRITICAL CONDITION.
DORNISH VISITORS TAKE KING'S LANDING BY STORM.
THE RED KEEP PLUNGED INTO PANIC BY LORD LANNISTER'S CONDITION.
IS DORAN NYMEROS MARTELL BEHIND THE SCENES?
THE CAPITAL IS CUT OFF FROM THE REST OF WESTEROS.
HOUSE LANNISTER ALREADY IN A STATE OF DECADENCE.
gift (English)
noun
1. a present
2. a talent
3. something cheap, an easy task
Gift (German)
noun (neuter)
1. poison, venom, toxic substance
After you have drunk my gift for so many days,
Your Lordship, you will live without a worry or a care...
I myself, "by no means weary", will, in exchange,
noun
1. a present
2. a talent
3. something cheap, an easy task
Gift (German)
noun (neuter)
1. poison, venom, toxic substance
After you have drunk my gift for so many days,
Your Lordship, you will live without a worry or a care...
I myself, "by no means weary", will, in exchange,
have finally obtained freedom from this pain that weighs me down...
Please, calm down with this Gift of mine...
You can rest assured and soothed with this Gift of mine...
Yes, I am the Lavender Prince who brings repose...
lonely and empty, seeking the hope I once lost...
You can rest assured and soothed with this Gift of mine...
Yes, I am the Lavender Prince who brings repose...
lonely and empty, seeking the hope I once lost...
In those days when I was trying to forget
my sister and her children, shattered like porcelain dolls...
I, for decades, was already broken as well...
thus, I seek to punish those who took their lives...
This is a very powerful drug:
the effect will stay within you forever and ever...
Now it is finally my time to take some rest...
I will change into the lover of the Dornishman's Wife at last...
OBERYN WAS SLAIN IN A TRIAL BY COMBAT
AGAINST LANNISTER CHAMPION SER GREGOR CLEGANE.
DAYS AFTERWARDS, LORD LANNISTER WAS FOUND DEAD IN THE PRIVY.
HIS LIFELESS FORM HAD ALREADY BEGUN TO DECAY.
WAS IT BECAUSE OF HIS STATE OF HEALTH,
OR BECAUSE HE HAD TRUSTED THAT PERSON?
AFTER OBERYN FOUGHT THAT LAST COMBAT,
HE TOOK THE TRUTH WITH HIM INTO ETERNAL DARKNESS...
Oh, and Liza advised me to do the Gift song with Oberyn and Tywin (to get even more Dornishness in here and introduce the Elia issue). I use "gift" with a lower-case g first and then "Gift" with an upper-case G (German noun convention) to keep the bilingual pun going on.
Oh, and Liza advised me to do the Gift song with Oberyn and Tywin (to get even more Dornishness in here and introduce the Elia issue). I use "gift" with a lower-case g first and then "Gift" with an upper-case G (German noun convention) to keep the bilingual pun going on.
THE TAILOR OF GULLTOWN
Thus, let's pin those sleeves...
On a quaint street in Gulltown, in the Vale of Arryn,
there lives a young man who runs a tailor's shop.
Having made himself, risen from obscurity,
now he makes clothes for wealthy townsfolk and for nobles...
However, there is a thought constantly on his mind:
the person he once admired as a child and whom he still loves...
"Even though I have made myself, though I am within your reach...
you never stay for long time under my scissors sign..."
But I have commissions, I've got to concentrate...
clutching my scissors in my right hand...
the scissors Mother once used for her needlework...
The sharper they are, the better they cut...
Catelyn... I am honoured to make your dresses and your accessories...
but can there be something more between us?
Today, like every day, there's nothing new under the sun...
when I went shopping, our eyes met on the marketplace...
There she was, Cat, with that bright auburn hair and those warm blue eyes...
But who was the gentleman who held her hand by her side?
That grey overcoat fits his serious frame like a glove,
and she appears to be very close to the stern gentleman...
I could not stand the sight any longer,
so off I dashed back into the shop...
But I've got work to do, I've got to concentrate...
clutching my scissors in my right hand...
Teardrops trickle down my cheeks and into my goatee
as I tweak the overcoat pinned down on the table, right before me...
There's an eerie athmosphere out on the streets,
as if a murder had taken place.
I saw Cat today once more, half-way crossing the bridge,
but who was the young man walking by her side?
She has a mournful countenance, there is sorrow in her eyes...
the dashing young gentleman dries up her tears by her side...
That cravat, embroidered with silver thread, fits him like a glove...
Ah... So this is the type of lover you prefer?
But I've got work to do, I've got to concentrate...
clutching my scissors in my right hand...
With blood-shot eyes, swollen and ablaze,
I tweak the cravat pinned down on the table, right before me...
There's a rumour spreading throughout the streets lately:
it seems that two murders have taken place in a row.
I saw her peering through the window-panes of my shop,
but who was the young boy who had come with her?
For such a stripling, who has not yet reached his sixteenth year,
she bought from me a smart grey checkered newsy cap.
What the seven hells do you think you are doing?
Seriously, Catelyn Tully, you know no limits!But I've got work to do, I've got to concentrate...
clutching my scissors in my right hand...
How strange... have the scissors' blades always been scarlet?
Today, I will do my best with this cap as well...
At last, I am ready, I have finished.
If you are not the one who is going to come to me...
I will be the one who will come to you.
"The two blades of a pair of scissors work together by crossing each other.
Just like any decent husband and wife couple should do.
At least, that's what Mother used to say..."
In this smart grey overcoat,
this cravat embroidered with silver thread,
and this checkered newsy cap,
which I put on my head...
I have become
your kind of lover...
Now, Cat, what do you say?
Am I not dashing?
Today, nothing is the same at all.
The victim this time, the fourth one, was female:
The wife and mother of the Stark family...
like her spouse and sons, she appears to have been murdered.
On the other hand, she had been quite cruel.
"Good morning, pleased to meet you", she said.
As if I had perchance been a stranger to her,
as if I had perchance been a stranger to her...
But I've got work to do, I've got to concentrate...
clutching my scissors in my right hand...
the scissors for needlework which have been dyed crimson...
The sharper they are, the better they cut...
But we've got work to do, we've got to concentrate...
clutching my scissors in my right hand...
with the orphan girl I call my niece for an apprentice,
since I lost the mother, but the daughter is at least mine...
Sansa... we will have to leave this place for safety's sake,
and set shop elsewhere.
Like in King's Landing, the capital.
You've always wanted to live there, right, darling?
Well, we're setting sail tomorrow, lock, stock, and barrel.
I know you cannot say no...
Explanation: The three male murder victims are, in this order: Ned (coat), Robb (cravat), and Bran (cap). This was the second Westerious bunny I had, just to see Petyr as the killer in this song fit perfectly, like Joff in Venomania.
...............................................................................................
THE DAUGHTER OF EVIL/THE GUARD OF EVIL
CERSEI:
Thus, everyone bend the knee!
Once upon a time, somewhere in this world
there was a great kingdom with a decadent court,
and, high above them all, upon a throne of swords,
sat the young queen, aged just twenty-four.
She lived in a huge red castle outside the capital,
the commander of her guards looked quite similar to her,
her loutish husband had been "killed in an accident..."
her eldest son and heir was called Joffrey...
What more could she wish for?
If the realm treasury chanced to be out of funds,
there would always be the riffraff to oppress for more...
as for anyone who contradicted her commands...
they would only forfeit with their lives!
(Eddard Stark led to the scaffold, Arya watching)
CERSEI:
Thus, everyone bend the knee!
Scarlet and golden flower of evil, blooming feverishly, vividly,
all the puny weeds around will be absorbed into it...
JAIME:
You are my liege lady, I'm your faithful knight,
we are lovely twin siblings torn apart by chance...
If it is to protect you, I will break any oath,
I will betray myself, sacrifice the one I am...
We were born to much rejoicing, with great expectations,
blessed by pealing sept bells we were given our names...
However, selfish adults, to further their own ends,
split our future in twain and rent the tie that binds us...
Even if the whole world became your enemy,
I will stay true to you and protect you from harm...
so please rest assured, what are brothers and kingsguards for?
You are my liege lady, I'm your faithful knight,
we are pitiful twin siblings torn apart by chance...
If it is to protect you, I will break any oath,
I will betray myself, sacrifice the one I am...
The selfish queen fell madly in love with a young man
from the ruling household of the land of flowers,
but, however, his heart belonged to another:
the dashing lord of the stormy lands...
JAIME:
During a tourney, I first met the Lord of Storm's End,
then but a raven-haired stripling, but still a charming one...
so cheerful and kindly, with such a smile on his face...
I must say the truth: that I took a shine to him...
Intoxicated with jealousy, Her Grace
called for her lord father and her other advisors,
and, during the council, she coldly told them:
"War shall be declared on the Stormlands..."
JAIME:
But Her Grace's command, issued straight by herself,
is that Lord Renly shall be put to death...
I must lead her armies upon the battlefield,
since her wish is my command,
but why are my cheeks always wet with tears?
Countless villages were overrun,
and countless lives were lost in the fray...
So many common people suffering due to the war...
Their sorrow could not reach the detached queen...
CERSEI:
Ah, it's time for a drink and cake!
Scarlet and golden flower of evil, blooming beautifully,
though in a deranged manner,
and intrenched in so many thorns that it cannot be touched.
JAIME:
You are my liege lady, I'm your faithful knight,
we are deranged twin siblings torn apart by chance...
Today, there are lemoncakes washed down with Dornish red...
In response, you smile as innocently as always...
Agreeing that the wicked queen should be brought down,
finally the common people had to take to arms.
And spearheading the realmwide uprising was
a Faceless Swordswoman, an assassin deadly and swift...
All of the grudges that the smallfolk had pent up
finally led to riots, from Dorne to the Night's Watch...
Worn out by the Stormlands campaign, and by this conflict,
the queen's men soon turned cloak to the insurgents' side.
JAIME:
Before long, our regime will surely be destroyed
by the wrath of our angered subjects...
If they say that we rightly deserve this...
though it would be fitting retaliation for the Targaryens...
I will still oppose it.
In the end, the Red Keep itself wound up under siege,
its weary garrison had to hoist the white flag,
and the lovely young queen, whose star had begun to fade,
feared she'd share the fate of her kin's foes...
CERSEI:
I still remember Elia and her children... No! We shall never share their fate!
Scarlet and golden flower of evil, blooming sorrowfully...
as the paradise that had been made for her sake
is quickly becoming an inferno...
JAIME:
Let me put my left hand around your silky white throat...
I will set sail with the children, trust me, they will be safe.
It's all right, we're twins, and you are the eldest one...
Didn't the foretelling say your little brother would strangle you?
(click of a closing trachea)
You are a dying sinner, I am a fugitive,
we are saddened twin siblings torn apart by chance...
If you go down in history as a villainess,
then, I have the same blood flowing through my veins...
Once upon a time, somewhere in this world
there was a great kingdom with a decadent court,
and, high above them all, upon a throne of swords,
sat Her Grace, my adorable older sister.
Even if the whole world became your enemy,
(CERSEI: At last my time has come...)
I will stay true to you and protect you from harm...
(CERSEI: As the sept bells signal the end of my life...)
so please rest assured, what are brothers and kingsguards for?
(CERSEI: I do not dare to look at the crowd storming in)
There you are, sitting on the throne, with a dark collar, smiling...
JAIME:
You are my liege lady, I'm your faithful knight,
we are pitiful twin siblings torn apart by chance...
If it is to protect you, I will break any oath,
I will betray myself, sacrifice the one I am...
JAIME+CERSEI:
If I ever were to be reborn...
I would like to be with you once again...
Annotations: The swordswoman leading the uprising is Arya. But she is still leading the vanguard of the upcoming Targ invasion... and the poem references the "valonqar prophecy" that Cersei would be strangled by her little brother...
This was the third bunny I had in the Westerious saga, with Lannincest since Rin's and Len's characters in the Tale of Evil are so reminiscent of Cersei and Jaime (respectively) that there was another story that could be given a Westeros shot...
........................................................................................................
JUDGEMENT OF BIGOTRY
IN THE KINGDOMS OF WESTEROS, THERE ONCE WAS A MAN OF RANK WHO USED HIS RELIGIOUS CONVICTION AS FOUNDATION FOR HIS OWN PERSONAL GOALS.
HIS NAME WAS STANNIS BARATHEON, BUT HE WOULD BE KNOWN AS "AZOR AHAI" TO THOSE WHO FOLLOWED HIS CREED AND BANNER...
Thus, now it's time for the judgement.
CHAPTER I
THE BIGOT AND THE RELIGIOUS EXCUSE FOR WARFARE
Everyone is either good through and through
or utterly evil...
[Law] [Justice]
[Litigation] [Judgement]
[Plaintiff] [Defendant]
[Innocent] [Guilty]I am the Saviour,
I love righteousness more than anything else...
[Hearing] [Witness]
[Indictment] [Dismissal]
[Cross-Examination] [Defense]
[Prosecution] [Summons]
Even the most sinful can be redeemed
if they pay the price...
and that price is not paid in gold,
but in flesh and blood.
Rank, age, gender, descent...
all of that is irrelevant.
[Sinners] [Heretics]
[Deception] [Repression]
[Deceit] [Power]
[Decadence] [Usurpers]
What matters is if you have done right or wrong:
that is everything...
[Right] [Right]
[Right] [Right]
[Right] [Right]
[Right] [Right]
Your lives depend on me...
If you wish for salvation, let me see what you have done!
And thus, sin is my only consideration,
in the judgement of bigotry...
If you wish to leave the cold mire of damnation,
give me the reasons why to be redeemed or not...
CHAPTER II
THE DAUGHTER IN THE DREARY FORTRESS
AND
THE SAVIOUR REBORN
Even for my daughter, with her face covered in gray scales,
I need to be stainless (sinless)...
[TERMINAL ILLNESS] [FAMILY]
[CONCERN] [DAMNATION]
[MIRACLES] [HOPE]
[RED LADY] [FRIENDSHIP]
If I purge this world of sinners, of depravity,
my wishes will come true...
[CONVERT] [LORD OF LIGHT]
[RIGHTFUL] [CATHARSIS]
[RESURRECTION] [REGENERATION]
[NEED] [COST]
Today, the courtroom of doubt opens anew...
The wicked laugh, and the righteous are in tears...
And thus, sin is my only consideration,
in the judgement of bigotry...
If I want to fulfill my innermost desires,
I will keep on swinging this unrighteous flaming sword...
CHAPTER III
THE OUTBREAK OF WAR
AND
THE END OF THE DEATH SENTENCE
My conceited younger brother, turned the leader of an army,a usurper, a traitor...
I was asked to parley with him, I gave him conditions,
and he could have accepted them...
Thus, his arrogance and stubbornness led to the outbreak of war,
and my brother was assassinated...
he lies in state, bereft of life,
in his pavilion.
ANNO 299 AFTER THE CONQUEST.
THE STORMLANDS PLUNGED INTO POLITICAL AND MILITARY DEBACLE:
THE LIFELESS BODY OF KING RENLY BARATHEON,
THE FIRST OF HIS NAME, WAS FOUND DRENCHED IN BLOOD,
MORTALLY WOUNDED, IN HIS PAVILION.
I was asked to confront the weight of my actions...
my whole fleet was burned to ashes...
Yet my beloved daughter Shireen will comfort me
as long as she is with me...
In the ruins of Castle Black, anyone will find
the lonely charred corpses of the parents and their child...
CHAPTER IV:
THE GOD OF THE DECEASED
AND
THE FINAL JUDGEMENT
When I awoke, I was all alone in a dreary place...
the Seventh of Heavens...
whether redemption or damnation, the one who decides is
the Stranger itself... (the God of the Deceased)
Even the most depraved sinners will be saved
if they pay the price...
and that price is not paid in gold,
but in flesh and blood.
I smile, for the first time in decades, to the Stranger,
and then, softly whisper:
"I will never hand over such a price...
never in my afterlife..."
Thus, I suddenly reeled, and lost my footing,
and plunged into the depths of the Seventh of Hells...
And thus, sin is my only consideration,
in the judgement of bigotry...
for I will not let anyone ever...
write the sentence of those sins...
Thus, someday, I will reunite, in my next life, with these hands,
the fragments of depravity...
And thus, the Seventh of Hells will finally turn to
the best of all worlds for my wife, our daughter, and me...
.........................................................................................................
THE BROADSWORD OF REVENGE
O wayward sinner...
Thus, prithee regret all you have done...
NOM DE GUERRE: MAID OF TARTH
AZOR AHAI: THE RIGHTEOUS SAVIOUR
BLUE IS THE COLOUR OF SORROW AND COLDNESS...
KEEP OF CASTLE BLACK
Hear, Lady Stoneheart, know that I am right now
pointing with a sword at a certain person,
who deceived many others...
An ambitious person who thinks only of what's right...
For the sake of this person's ambition,
the one I loved died violently in my arms...
Though I am innocent, I am still accused of it...
yet those who pursue me have not ended my life...
At last the moment of truth and revenge is here...
Regret, regret all you have done!
THE REVENGE OF THE BLUE MAIDEN
NOM DE GUERRE: MAID OF TARTH
Hallo und auf Wiedersehen, Herr Azor Ahai...
I will set fire to your keep... Tell me now what you prefer...
Do I run my cold steel blade across and through your throat,
or let you burn to a crisp within this inferno?
THE REDEMPTION
Hear, Lady Stoneheart, I don't care who's the villain...
I should give him a second chance for atonement, right?
And thus did I say to him:
"Strip yourself of everything you value and prize..."
THAT PRICE IS NOT PAID IN GOLD,
BUT IN FLESH AND BLOOD.
If you confess out loud everything you did "for religion,"
only on that condition will I spare your life...
And thus said he in response:
"Of what I did for the LORD'S sake...
[AZOR AHAI: THE RIGHTEOUS SAVIOUR]
... I will never let go of anything!"
RIGHTFUL KING OF THE LANDS OF WESTEROS
STANNIS BARATHEON
Right, there's nothing left to do, you twat...
In truth, in sooth, regret and repent!
AZOR AHAI: THE RIGHTEOUS SAVIOUR
CHOSEN BY R'HLLOR
JUDGEMENT OF BIGOTRY
JUDGEMENT OF BIGOTRY
Hallo und auf Wiedersehen, Herr Azor Ahai...
The righteous swordsman stifled by his own bigotry...
his body drenched in my wrath and that of other innocents...
Prithee, fall asleep forever...
SHE WAS ACCUSED OF KILLING HER BELOVED
HIS BROTHER HAD GIVEN THE ORDER
SHE DECIDED TO GET REVENGE
MEMORY
Hear, Lady Stoneheart, you are still on your own...
you are still all alone on your own...
SEVEN YEARS AGO
You were separated from both of your daughters,
and you feared that they would forget your face one day...
Do you hear, Lady Stoneheart, it seems that the Lannisters
are no longer here and no longer a threat...
CATELYN'S DAUGHTERS
I am sure that they are somewhere in this wide world...
FIVE YEARS AGO
Those two girls have already vanished, as if into thin air...
Now your daughter am I, only me and me alone...
THEN, THE MAIDEN WENT INSANE
Hear, Your Grace...
[I LEFT IT ALL BEHIND
YOU KNOW, I LEFT IT ALL BEHIND]
...Look at me...
THE LAST BROADSWORD
JUDGEMENT OF BIGOTRY
Simply...
[AZOR AHAI]
...Look at me
STONEHEART
CATELYN
Hallo und auf Wiedersehen, Eure Hoheit...
Leader of fanatics, righteous bigot...
Hear, Lady Stoneheart, why did your husband
trust that person that much?
Now, in sooth, everything has come to an end...
We will put an end to everything...
To this sinful story of evil...
Fare thee well...
(My beloved...)
(The one I hated the most...)
...........................................................................................
CAPRICCIO MUMMERY
The defendant's seat is empty...
The barrister's seat is full of trash...
Thus, let us now begin
this mummery known as
a "trial"...
[Grayscaled Princess]
Following the decrees of the Lord of Light,
one only vessel is now solely missing.
If you happen by chance to know its whereabouts,
please contact the Lady with the Heart of Stone...
[Lady Stoneheart]
Turning back time, changing ever shape and master,
finally, at last, it has appeared upon the stage,
yet, however, I do not know its real whereabouts...
Perchance it may be in the hands of that person...
[Servants]
Seek her, seek her, seek her everywhere,
to the left, to the right, looking up and looking down...
For the one who holds all the Keys,
the Stranger, the Many-Faced God of the Deceased...
[Lightbringer]
For how long will this mummery be carried on?
There is no longer any life beyond it...
[Fallen Queen]
The souls of mortals once fell into the trap...
There is nothing now that can be done or that has not been done...
[Servants]
Swaying scales
in a shattered scenario,
vessels tainted by the sins of yore...
Each one singing a song of one's own,
in a discordant capriccio...
The story has slipped from the hands of the Gods,
and now it unfurls free, with a life of its own...
If those people were still upon this Earth,
they would have been most likely to sigh...
[Lightbringer]
What is really to be dreaded is...
[Grayscaled Princess]
...the desires of mortalkind...
[Grayscaled Princess]:
THE DIRECTOR OF THE THEATRE.
SHE HAS INHERITED HER FATHER'S PLACE.
[Lady Stoneheart]:
SHE LIVES IN THE THEATRE, AND SHE CREATED IT.
REAL NAME: CATELYN STARK, NÉE TULLY.
[Lightbringer]:
AFTER LOSING HIS POWER,
HE BECAME THE SHADOW OF A FLAMING SWORD.
THUS, HE CANNOT ENTER THE THEATRE.
[Fallen Queen]:
ONCE SHE WAS A WISTFUL, NAIVE RED-HAIRED DRESSMAKER.
SHE OFFICIALLY OBEYS LADY STONEHEART,
YET SHE IS WILFUL AND DEVIOUS.
[Grayscaled Princess]
Let us put some order and arrange this information...
Tempted to follow your heart, you thus turned evil...
Now I grant you permission to speak.
Please, give your account of when you entered this theatre...
[Oathbreaker]
The burden of what I have done is a curse upon me,
and, to be freed from said curse, I needed something...
I entered this place because I wanted to find
the missing ancestral sword of my forefathers...
[Servants]
Slaughter him, butcher him, and then devour him!
Smite the intruder with the worst of punishments!
Sentence him, sentence him, sentence him come what may...
Sentence him to torture, to scourge, to death!
[Oathbreaker]
Once I expected the worst, having lost my every hope...
The tall, blue-eyed maiden drew her sword and she fought for me...
[Oathkeeper]
I would not forgive myself if I left you to die...
[Oathbreaker]
And thus, she became the Oathkeeper...
Right-handed Oathkeeper...
Left-handed Oathbreaker...
The replacement vessels have not awakened yet...
Concealing their true intentions within their hearts,
the two unassuming intruders.
Grayscaled Princess, Lady with a Heart of Stone,
Lightbringer, Faithful Servant, God of the Deceased...
When everything comes to a bitter end,
¿who will be the ones to laugh at the end of the day?
[Green Dreamer]:
Lulila, lulila, lulila-lila...
Erratic heartbeats in dreams of things to come...
[Oathbreaker]:
SEEKING THE ANCESTRAL SWORD BRIGHTROAR,
HE ENTERED THE THEATRE.
REAL NAME: JAIME LANNISTER.
[Oathkeeper]:
SHE IS A MAID AT THE THEATRE,
BUT SHE DOES NOT WANT TO CHANGE HER PLACE.
SHE IS THE INCARNATION OF A LOYAL, BRAVE KNIGHT.
[Faithful Servant]:
SHE IS A MAID AT THE THEATRE,
BUT SHE DOES NOT WANT TO CHANGE HER PLACE.
SHE IS A SPIRIT RELEASED FROM HER MIRROR PRISON.
[The God of Many Faces]:
ONE OF THEIR FACES IS THE STRANGER.
STANNIS BARATHEON MET THIS DEITY IN THE AFTERLIFE.
[Green Dreamer]:
HE RESIDES IN THE DREAMLAND OF THE GRAYSCALED PRINCESS.
STILL UNIDENTIFIED.
Friendship, trauma, justice, illusion,
hope, destruction, dreams, lust, love, death...
It all keeps on dissolving, mixing, returning
in an ominous lullaby...
Right before he died, lonely as he was,
he created a theatre...
That "best of all worlds" he desired that much,
will it be fulfilled someday?
Come on, let us play our parts
in this mummery known as
"life..."
Oh, the Green Dreamer is Jojen and the Fallen Queen is Sansa. The Faithful Servant is Cersei. And some more Jaimienne here to contrarrest the Lannincest and Renlienne in previous installments...
Hope you like my Westeros take on the Evillious Chronicles... The Westerious Chronicles!!!
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
SEVEN SINS AND SEVEN PUNISHMENTS
JAIME:
Thus, let us begin!
JOFFREY:
Seven flowers are dancing a quadrille,
sins that have been finally set free...
Covering, concealing their lurid reality...
sinking into pleasure found in others' pain...
WYMAN:
Seven seeds are descending one by one,
they will surely sprout and then grow strong...
Even the whole Known World will be dissolved
in the powerful acids within me...
CERSEI:
Our Reign of Iniquity, founded on golden rocks,
will never crumble, falter, or fall...
The vessels of evil, once released
by cursed siblings who were the children of siblings,
what kind of tale will they make unfurl?
Seven Sins and Seven Punishments...
OBERYN:
Drifting away on seven breezes,
a lethal poison pervades the Known World...
All of the guilty ones are unable to sleep well tonight,
regretting a sin of yore that was not...
PETYR:
On the waters of seven waterfalls,
the reflection is the face of a loved one...
Yet the reflections always differ, and yours is not the only one...
If only they did not exist...
STANNIS:
Within the Lightbringer's throne room under ground,
thus, let us now begin this mummery known as a "trial..."
Everyone seeks to attain
what he or she calls "the best of all possible worlds..."
To which outcome will their desires lead?
Seven Sins and Seven Punishments...
BRIENNE:
Is it the song of the flames I hear? Can I hear it?
No, 'tis the cold steel of vengeance...
The vessels of evil, once released
by cursed siblings who were the children of siblings,
what kind of tale will they make unfurl?
Seven Sins and Seven Punishments...
OMINOUS LULLABY #7
Lulilala, lulila-lara...
Lulilala, lulila-lara...
Lulilala, lulila-lara...
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