you're too young & eager to love

Apparently, not all hotels in DC offer free WiFi. Really?! C'mon, capital city.

These are my two bits from Saturday and Friday. Nothing special at all because I was busy and on ~vacation.~

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1 -

Cersei Lannister was born in the hottest summer between two of the harshest winters. Her newborn cries were said to have been loud enough to pierce the veils that divided the Seven Hells, though she had quieted before her mother’s voice reached her, already sensing the clutch of her brother’s hand on her ankle. Her father had regarded the tiny cunt between Cersei’s legs while Jaime suckled at their mother, and Tywin told his wife that their daughter would never be heard. His son, Tywin said, would have to be voice enough for both of them. Cersei’s cries had began anew then, as if angered by this revelation, only to be muffled by the push of her mother’s breast into her tiny red mouth. She was never the child who suckled first.

Now, as a woman rather than a girl, she understood. But she had always been too capable for them all, too cunning despite her father’s intentness that she be docile and subservient and as sweet as gold, Arbor wine. “War will be the death of us all.” Cersei had heard her father say that more times than she could have ever counted. If she had one Golden Dragon for each of the times any of her father’s bannermen had said that too, she would have a purse large enough to keep everyone compliant. (And then, where would man and his eternal whore lie?) War did bring death, but so did poison, the pox, wildfire, and… love. Love, she knew, was the true destroyer of men for all that it could be worn upon the sleeve.

(Women, Cersei would prove, were shrewder in matters of stratagem and counsel. In delicate yet strong hands, kingdoms could be won and kept.)


2 -


What does he want?

Long before the night of her first wedding, Margaery knew that Renly Baratheon held little interest for her. When the time came, the challenger of the Iron Throne had repeated the sacred words, clasped her small hands in his, and struggled to keep his eyes away from her brother. Loras’ jealousy was marked in the scowl across his face, but she had not minded. Truth be told, despite his handsomeness, she had held even less interest for Renly than he had for her … if it had not been for Loras and his giddiness at his new found exploration of love, she might never have received a decent education on men, on what they liked and how they thought. Renly, she always knew, had wanted Loras and settled for a woman who looked the most like him. All that was expected of her was to be a pleasing arrangement - something for men like Renly to look upon, covet, and move around as it suited them.

What does he want?

Joffrey Baratheon was a monster. Margaery could tell that even before Sansa confirmed it for her. The first time Margaery had seen him, she’d been struck by how cruel his mouth was, how ungenerous his manner. It had been with distaste that she’d allowed him to take her hand, to press those cruel lips against it. But it had been with cunning that she had seduced him all the same, using her words at first to convince him that his cruelty had been a delight for her, that she too could be someone who would savor his shocking proclivities rather than run from them. Later, she had tolerated his hard hands on her slender body, had suffered under the burden and weight of his abject horror. Joffrey had wanted a wife to bed, a thing to swiftly hunt and mount.

Women, her grandmother told her once when she was young, must learn to use their bodies as well as their minds to capture and hold a prize. Joffrey was not the prize, but the crown and the throne were. If she had once visited him during midnight hours, much like she began visiting his brother, there was never any evidence of it.

She had curled Joffrey around her finger just enough to have him bulk the shadow of his mother, and that type of forge always required sacrifices.

Cut because this is nothing but one hundred percent porn.

( One hundred percent, I say! )

I truly believe that Game of Thrones is the best universe for smutty-minded fandom-writers. There is a plethora of characters to pair together and, subsequently, write about. I am addicted. I have plans upon plans upon plans! I need a white board to keep track of all the characters, though.

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Jon had never seen Ygritte shake before.
He had seen her stand, longer than most grown men, glaring and strong in the hard winds without even the tips of her fingers trembling. They had walked for days, headed to the Lord of Bones first, and even with the hood of her cloak pulled high the loose strands of her coppery hair had whipped across her cheeks, catching near the corner of her mouth. While his mouth blistered from the merciless frosted air, her mouth was pale and soft and somehow unlike the lips of other women. Noble or baseborn, it made no difference in his mind. He blamed, foolishly, her distinct way of smiling – more like an animal’s taunt than a smile at all. Mostly, he blamed himself for never having stopped to really look at a woman’s lips before. Now hers would be in his thoughts, unceasingly.
Before he had been made a prisoner, and much before he had been offered the choice of freedom behind the Wall, the Old Bear had told him about the wildlings and their King. With his raven chattering for corn in the drafty tower Jon had become so familiar with, Mormont had rubbed his strong jaw and given Ned Stark’s bastard a meaningful stare. “The wildlings, they have too much spirit and not enough pride. They’re likely to sell their first born if it would guarantee saving their head. May The Old Gods and the New grant mercy on the man foolish enough to try to claim one of those women. They’re nothing but ice and forest.”
Honor, Jon thinks now, must be different than pride.
And besides, there are no Gods behind the Wall.

Happy 4th of July! (Even though it's technically the 5th now.)

Here, have some more fanfiction. <3

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Ser Jorah bows his head with reverence when she touches his shoulder, the pressure of her fingers light but distinct, as though she has granted him a great honor by the simplest of touches. Still, for all his Knightly respect, she feels his eyes rest heavily against her when she bids him a goodnight. Have men’s desires always been so palpable? Or has she only grown wiser?
If she were born Dothraki, she would have already begun to service men years ago. But if she were born Dothraki, she would not look as she does – pale and soft, her white hair blinding like the sun. A foreigner. The Queen of Westeros and a Khaleesi who fears neither war nor the supposed strangeness of oceans. Her marriage to the horse lord had given her one title already, but she still strove for another, for the throne that was hers by blood. Becoming a Khaleesi had been a gift, but one Daenerys is sure her brother never meant to give her.
She is not so delicate now, not after such grief and bloodshed and the rebirth of dragons into the world. Even naked, wrapped in furs and tucked against Irri within the cog’s small bed, she has iron in her bones and fire in her veins. A khal with war-torn hands had touched her, taken and claimed her. She was no maiden, surely, no longer privy to the naïve beliefs of children. But whether blistered and fighting desperation in the Red Waste or rocked by the sea within the hull of the Balerion, Dany still dreams, troubled by illusions only found in sleep.



(Sometimes, the dreams are shadows – memories of things that have already passed.)
Blood drips from her mouth, down her body. It stains her lips and the pale skin of her face. Her eyes are more violet and violent now than they have ever been before, like those of a fierce animal. She can taste and feel the heart on her tongue, in her throat, but she cannot speak a word.
Khal Drogo promises her everything; her Iron Throne, her Seven Kingdoms, for she cannot deserve any less. Daenerys tells him that their son shall be a stallion with the wings of a dragon.



(At other times, the dreams are full of desires she has no name for yet. They leave her troubled and uncertain of her own strength in the morning, her body aching. They twist the past and lace suggestions into the winds of the future.)
“You would sleep with me, as well as sleep with me.” It is her voice, but the tone is sweeter than one she has used in some time. Playful. She is Khal Drogo’s wife, for these are the tents and sleeping silks of the Dothraki, but the man above her, his head tucked in the curve of her neck and his lips crawling across her collarbone is the Knight of Westeros.
“Aye, Khaleesi.” Jorah answers, his voice low as he kisses between her small breasts, his calloused hands large and heavy against her hips. His tent is not so big or lavish as hers, and there would be no safety from the Khal’s wrath should they be caught in this damning position, but the comfort of her arms is worth any fatal price.
“Drogo never falls asleep with me. It is not the Dothraki way.” Daenerys slips her fingers into his hair, her voice softer than the night winds. “But I think if I had a Westerosi husband to hold me as I slept, I should never fear again. Nor would I dream of the house with the red door, for I would always be home.”
This is her no longer. This is a dream child with pretty thoughts, less needful of courage and willful strength. This is how she had been once, but it seems as though there was never a time she could have spoken so guilelessly. Dreams have the strength of lies. It is known.
Dany can never remember the end to this dream, except is it too silent to ever carry the cries of dragons or the danger of an Iron Throne.



(Then, there are dreams that are too unspoiled, too lacking in cruelty to be true. They cannot fool her; she no longer trusts such happiness, but they are a welcome relief from her struggles.)
Drogo's wrists are bound to the top of their wooden bed with soft silk instead of strong rope. The bindings are nothing but decoration. It is her stone castle that keeps him trapped.
They rode the wooden horses across the endless sea; they destroyed all who came before them. He gave his Stormborn the metal seat she so desired. Now they are alone, as he has chased away the vermin that try to flatter them, and as he has conquered this land as she conquers him.
She speaks to him in her foreign tongue, like molten gold, like bursts of fire. “My sun and stars.” Dany murmurs, and those words he does know.
Together, they will conquer the world.



(The truth is always heavy. These are the dreams she finds no solace in - they bring nothing but questions. They linger against her skin in the mornings and not even the oils of her handmaidens or the feel of her dragons against her shoulders help to quell the one thing she is certain of: there is struggle ahead.)
She is The Unburnt, the Mother of Dragons, Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen.
The way forward is dark. From the sky above, there is the sound of great wings beating. The lands are scorched, and Daenerys can taste fire as she once tasted heartblood. She thinks she can hear horse hooves pounding the earth, following behind her, and somewhere nearby there is the fierce growl of a bear.
There are wolves prowling the edges of her vision. They snap their jaws, and their eyes are red. She does not fear them as she does the lions. They are large and powerful, even from such a distance. She can hardly see them - she is struggling to approach, but the path is vast and not easy. Their green gazes pierce the distance and are full of cunning cruelty. They pace protectively in front of the golden city of the Crownlands. Her dragons scream and cast their scorching fire, but still the lions persist. They would tear their claws deep inside of her, she knows. They would rip her throat open if they could, and she, the last of her blood, would be no more.



It is the last one, the Lion dream, which wakes her. She leaves her handmaidens to their sleep, pulling the coverlet around her. Her dragons are restless, and Dany wonders if they share her night visions too.
Above on the deck, the cog is silent, the night thick, and the salty breeze calms her troubled mind.
“You should rest, Khaleesi.” Ser Jorah’s soft voice is close to her ear, but when she turns she finds that he is further away than she had thought. Instinctively, she tugs her coverlet closer, turning her eyes back to the ocean.
“I suppose I should.” She has traveled so far already, but her journey is nowhere near ending. Her voice is cracked from sleep, from her soul’s exhaustion, but Jorah hears her clearly, approaching on deft feet. For a bear, he hardly makes a sound.
Dany is silent for such a lengthy time that, finally, the head of her Queensguard bows his head, shifting for the shadows. He will not invade the privacy of her thoughts; he has rarely been so forward, but she stops him with her voice.
“Stay with me.”
Jorah is not able to distinguish if her words are a request or an order. Either is a gift. He returns to his place by her side, hands steady on the Balerion’s sea-worn railing, and while his Queen thinks on the future and task at hand, he gives himself these minutes to believe she is his.

Game of Thrones is a serious addiction. There are so many pairings and characters to write that it may be the best fandom for exploration ever. I'm thrilled.

The following is a 1600-word (woo!) piece I brought up from the dregs of my mind. I wanted to make it kinkier, but it's my first time writing these two characters, so I got sidetracked trying to understand their personalities, actions, and reactions instead of focusing on the smut at hand. I do believe it is a good first attempt though. P.S. I only read this once before posting, so there's probably spelling/grammar mistakes galore. I don't care. It's late. I'm sleepy. That's my excuse.

Pairing: Sansa/Clegane (The Hound)
Rating: R? I guess? Yes? I never do ratings.
Spoilers: Yes, so readers be wary if you're not up-to-date with the second season/novel.

( Catching Fire )

This is pretty much porn. Cut for content and (mild) spoilers for Game of Thrones.

( Read more... )