𝚃𝙴𝙰𝚁𝚂 𝙾𝙵 𝙻𝚈𝚂 .

anㅤㅤoldㅤㅤcustomㅤㅤ[ ... ]ㅤㅤto ㅤㅤsellㅤㅤyourㅤㅤdaughter

[shesnakes]

   #   shesnakes,   life is a snake. they are the same. if the snake realizes you are not a snake, it will bite you. and if live knows you have no sting, it will devour you. — shesnakes is a private + dependent muse blog affiliated with asobai, and features an examination of the lost histories of girlhood, BEAUTY RAISED AND POINTED LIKE A WEAPON, & the sacrificial maiden who climbs back up the beast's throat.

PRINCESS VISAERA of KING'S LANDING , intro . musings . wc.

LADY ROSEMUND of RIVERRUN , intro . musings . wc.

[ceremonial]

The King (2019), dir. David Michôd

[witchesandslippersandhoods]

Rosalind Russell

[op-hilia]

N : I hope you see that our relationship goes no further than this, and that… you won’t expect to continue. In that case I can guarantee your success upon the stage.

M : This is how it will be…

[pleurigloss]

“All my life… I have been told ‘go’ and ‘come.’ I am told how I will live, and I am told how I must die. I must be a man’s servant and a mare for his pleasure, or I must hide myself behind walls and surrender my flesh to a cold, silent god. I would walk into the jaws of hell itself, if it were a path of my own choosing. I would rather die tomorrow in the forest than live a hundred years of the life appointed me.”

— The Bear and the Nightingale by Katherine Arden.

[bebemoon]

Natalia Vodianova for Guerlain’s Shalimar parfum

Shalimar was created by Jacques Guerlain in 1925, as a tribute to the legendary love story between Empereror Shahjahan and his wife Mumtaz Mahal.

[daimonas]

smile  falters  at  recognition  of  failure.  there  was  self-hatred  blossoming  within  the  river  lord  because  if  he  could  not  get  rosemund  out  of  their  father's  last  action,  what  fool  was  he  then?  what  kind  of  ruling  lord,  leader  of  vassals  and  head  of  a  family  would  he  if  he  could  not  break  her  free  from  the  chain  forged  by  a  dying  man  and  dragon?  a  hand  falls  upon  sisters  shoulder,  and  the  hurt  he  tries  to  hide  so  heavily  from  her  escapes,  if  only  for  a  moment.  he  would  do  his  utmost  to  get  her  out,  to  set  her  free  from  the  chains  so  she  once  more  could  be  a  forest  nymph.

"i  would  like  nothing  more  than  to  go  back  home,"  a  gentle  push  is  given  to  slender  sister  to  move  as  this  conversation  should  be  kept  between  them.  the  river  within  his  sister  was  strong,  the  waterfall  unrelenting  and  her  words  could  perhaps  become  her  grave  one  day.  "we  keep  to  ourselves  and  I-"  he  wanted  to  tell  her  he  could  break  her  free,  but  as  of  right  now  he  held  nothing  in  his  hands  which  the  dragons  wanted  more  than  her.  "this  is  not  a  conversation  amongst  people,  let  us  venture  back."

[shesnakes]

though she has always spit the bridle, rosemund allows this lead eris takes ⸺ the gentle suggestion of his hand guiding them away from the harbour and through the thick of the marketplace. they pass in silence for some time, her gaze landing on what is presented before her: foreign wares and faces, children gathered joyously around the makeshift stage of a puppeteer, the piles of horseshit from the animals towing the merchant carts. each their own proof of life, but ros cannot see them as anything but vestiges of their ruling dynasty: dragon scales littered where there should be none. their silence holds until they reach privacy, seated and sequestered once more in empty walls.

"father's foolish gamble is not your fault, eris. do not feel i lay this blame on you. but what is your plan if the lord hand decrees a wedding to be tacked onto this list of events so recently expanded ⸻ funeral, coronation? what reason have they to stay the proceedings if an allegiance with the riverlands benefits prince aeryn's claim to the throne? very shortly we may be out of time. and i promise you should it come to that point ⸻" here she holds his gaze, strong as the wood their family banner rests up. "i will find my own way out."

[arwen-evenstar-archive-deactiva]

Maimie McCoy as Milady de Winter in The Musketeers (2014–2016)

[fruitffish-deactivated20250218]

James Sant’s Courage, Anxiety and Despair: Watching the Battle (1850)

[syndor]

@shesnakes          ╱          𝐫𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐦𝐮𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐮𝐥𝐥𝐲

"though i suppose you must find me exaggerating my own size," and my import, "to find the capitol of the realm too small." a concession, than, this next question. a thing much like the feel of his hand patting atop her own: but a small kindness.

"is it different from the skies, my lord?"

gratitude  tints  his  concern,  equal  in  parts  for  her  honesty  and  the  trust  that  allowed  it.    ❝    i  would  never  ask  you  to  conceal  the  truth  of  your  feelings,    ❞    aeryn  murmurs.  a  pretty  platitude  masquerading  as  a  promise,  though  there  were  times  it  never  even  occurred  to  him  to  lie⸻clumsy  missteps,  childhood  reprimands  to  say  nothing  if  he  could  only  manage  what  they  called  meanness.  even  today  he  cannot  quite  make  the  distinction  between  fact  and  supposed  cruelty,  and  so  he  has  always  been  tempted  to  silence.    ❝    there  are  places  in  the  red  keep  that  might  give  you  the  solitude  you  seek,  but  i  suppose  open  air  too  is  a  fairly  high  priority  ...    ❞

even  the  mere  mention  of  starfyre  is  enough  to  bring  a  giddy,  boyish  grin  to  his  lips.  true  interest  sparks  a  glimmer  in  his  eye,  rumbles  in  his  chest  like  his  lady's  fire  and  spews  forth  from  his  throat  just  as  uncontrollably.    ❝    there  is  nothing  quite  like  riding  on  dragonback,  lady  rosemund.  i've  heard  some  try  to  compare  it  to  being  on  the  high  seas,  but  there's  a  weightlessness  to  it  that  just  cannot  be  replicated.  although,  i  suppose  my  technique⸻more  of  a  crouch,  not  astride  like  one would  ride  a  horse⸻lends  itself  to  the  sensation.  there  is  nothing  holding  me  to  the  dragon  save  her  reins  and  some  straps  clipped  to  my  boots,  you  see.  others  will  bridle  their  dragons  if  they  can,  slip  a  saddle  over  their  spines  to  the  poor  animal's  discomfort,  but  this  is  the  best  position  for  both  her  and  me,  my  qēloszys.    ❞

oh,  he's  spoken  too  much.  stupid,  foolish  boy.  no  one  wants  to  hear  this.  no  one  wants  to  hear  you.  eye  averted,  the  prince  finds  a  new  audience  in  his  shoes.    ❝    forgive  the  tangent.  sometimes  i  forget  to  let  myself  breathe.    ❞

[shesnakes]

rosemund slows in foot as the prince paces faster by way of tongue, chin canted slightly to the side, the coordination of one thing trying to match another. she has never heard him speak this passionately ⸺ she has never heard the prince speak this much. yet he culls his own thought, a pause of silence the executioner, wielding his own apology as blade, and ros finds the urge to lift that knife from his neck. stilled entirely now, her gaze a rises from aeryn's pale neck to the leather covering one eye. "in my experience, breath has very little to do with passion, my lord. in fact, it quite often robs us of it entirely."

"you called your dragon something." she looks for the echo in her mouth, pausing only long enough to find the right sounds of repetition. "qēloszys." a fair enough iteration from a tongue more used to freshwater than brimstone. "i'm afraid i understand little of old valyrian; there is much use for it in the fields of riverrun. what does it mean?"

[electrocorrosive]

“She is so beautiful she is unnatural; her beauty is an abnormality, a deformity, for none of her features exhibit any of those touching imperfections that reconcile us to the imperfections of the human condition.”

— The Lady of the House of Love, Angela Carter

[beonella]

interview magazine

[syndor]

before  the  princess  regent's  pyre,  standing  beside  princess  visaera          ╱          @shesnakes

❝    ñuhyz  laehossa  tista  issi.  ziry  jorraelan,  yn  ...  kōz  trēsy  iksan,  daor  ?    ❞    there  were  prying  ears,  aeryn  knew.  their  cousins  were  no  stranger  to  their  shared  heritage,  a  common  tongue  practiced  within  the  blood  and  to  the  beasts  joined  with  them  on  the  hilltop.  but  the confession was not their father's to hear,  and  perhaps  that  was  the  most  important  part  for  aeryn.   starfyre  chuffed  behind  him,  a  sound  almost  like  a  laugh  to  match  the  ill-suited  smile  that  curved  her  rider's  lips.  perhaps  it  was  for  the  best  that  sgaeyl  had  lit  the  shroud.  aeryn  loved  his  old  girl,  but  to  be  frank,  she  was  liable  to  snap  the  late  princess up  between  her  jaws  and  swallow  her whole.  wouldn't  that  be  a  fitting  end  for  a  targaryen,  lost  in  the  guts  of  a  dragon  ?  a  laugh  bubbled  in  the  pit  of  his  throat,  forced  back  down  by  a  bowed  head.

a  wicked  son  indeed. the flames seemed to crackle in agreement. smoke rose in pillars⸻from his mother's lips to the gods' ears.

❝    hāedus,    ❞    softly  spoken,  rife  with  desperation,  accompanied  by  spread  arms.  he  could  not  remember  the  last  time  they  hugged.  not  a  true  one,  a  firm  squeeze  round  flesh and blood,  their  childhood  spent  with  brushing  shoulders  and  elbows,  knocking  knees  and  the  occasional  hand  to  the  top  of  her  head. this was a nightmare, aeryn thought. and if he remembered her embraces as well a dear brother should, a sharp pinch would be enough to wake him right up.

[shesnakes]

"se ōrbar kessa ruaragon aōha qringaomnon.¹" dry as the back of her throat, this innuendo, dry as the bones will be when they pick them from the ashes. still, the jaw of the princess drips with the wet marks of mourning, the heat of pyre baking two lines onto pale terracotta cheeks. something terrible in that famed beauty by the light of fire, the taut ivory bowstring of her shoulder blades drawn back against mourning, eyes pink with grief, that elegant carve of her jaw settled in such a way it becomes the tip of the arrow. a dread goddess, this daughter by the pyre. a body made into altar for sacrifice.

"lēkia.²" call and response, ask and answer. like her old valyrian bray matching his own, visaera fills the space of aeryn's arms with the fullness of instinct. he is, pressed to her, taller than she might have answered. thicker. baring with him enough width to force her arms apart. a lean man, her brother, but something wide sits beneath his ribs tonight. against his chest the hot irritant of smog from a mother's pyre is dulled, and her chest throbs with this moment of respite, this animal desire to stay in the burrow where it is safe. still she emerges, the teeth of rage sunk into the soft neck of grief. "iksan glad syt īlva customs," our, us. that cabal of winged beasts. "issi daor worth sesīr se rotting corpse hen ziryla body.³"

[bybloods]

𝑖 . in   the red keep,   within a corridor domeric evidently did not think he would see her in ! 𝑖𝑖 . for   rosemund   tully, @shesnakes     

domeric  could  recall  days  when  he  had  clung  to  ros's  skirts  with  the  pudgy,  sweaty  hands  of  a  child  — when he could pinpoint her head in a crowd as if sharing the same hair gave him supernatural powers of location when it came to only her. now, those memories festered between them. all of his childlike devotion and all of her protectiveness had sat, for years, rotting. now they were left with a silence that was only broken when they wished to prod at the other's misgivings, using words as arrows that always found their targets, no matter how concealed they were. and yet the feelings of kinship come so easily, rushing back in, forced to the forefront of his mind by the vestiges of the boy he'd been born. he who existed before they'd lost their mother and he'd slipped silently beneath the surface remained the steadfast keeper of his love for all of his siblings  — not solely rosemund. now, dark eyes find dark hair, and the shade is as familiar a sight as ever. “ ros. ” no matter the distance, the nickname finds its way from his tongue easily. “ do you not have duties ? of the mourning sort. ” he was her brother, he knew of her stance towards her betrothal, and yet he asked anyway. drew blood where it was not needed. the leech. he looks at her with a bored expression, chin tilted down and gaze aimed upwards.

[shesnakes]

"brother." the younger, the one who had at one point most bared her image ⸻ not that familiar hair but the trace of her shadow, the mark of her protection on his breast. sweet dom, as much her's as anyone's. even now, furred in his outgrown curls and the thick bark of muscle as if to hide, she knows him. her heart brags at the sight: a refrain of love and vexation. "of which do you speak ⸻ the tearing of gown or beating of breasts?" hands tucked into the jade silk of her sleeves, rosemund's stride is slow, weighted with the purpose of one who knows her path. "i can perform them now if my impiety displeases you, dom."

"the princess regent did me no harm." even to a trout, it is clear which predator dipped their claws into the trident river to retrieve a bride for their son. "i pray that the seven usher her quickly into the heavens. if the targaryens wanted a bride with a wet face, they might have picked a girl from the iron isles." she stills before him, quiet and expectant. in gesture, her eyes sweep over the repose of her brother. "i see you have spent your time in king's landing doing that which is expected of you." nothing.

[inferncls]

❝ pār sīr sagon ziry ... ❞ the gaiety in his tone is anything but , if anything , it is a snarl . sharp teeth bared , peering through golden mane . in his eyes , she was not a mere princess , not just a woman , but a dragon . ❝ yn konīr iksis daor jorrāelagon naejot laodigon , dārilaros . ❞ a mighty beast capable of destruction , of devastation so severe his heart races at the looming danger that hovers , wings spread across the sky , leaving him no chance of survival . ❝ kesrio syt isse mirre aōha gevie jaqiarzir ... you come willingly . ❞ the shift in tongues come naturally this time , a nefarious attack to them both , one that brings question to chastity . all is fair in war , and he is no stranger to pain . sebastian threads the line between ambush and sacrifice , veins pulsing with adrenaline and poison , breath loss and chest pounding . she is as vicious as she is tempting , there is a terrifying beauty in her gaze , and he turns his back on self - preservation , gazes right back — holds his arms wide before dragon fire . he does not speak , keeping his response only to himself . he can recognize traps from miles away , especially those set by visaera herself . he is no fool . a whisper or so much as a sound of his desires to reach her is the real danger . he will never give her that power . she already has enough . with so much as feathery touch of skin against his , the fire from her blood spills over to his . jarring , humming , then rumbling as it begins to wreak havoc . ❝ there is no pleasure in ... ease . you , of all people , know that very well , remember ? ❞

[shesnakes]

there it is, his low voice like the fat of a tongue over her skin: not just a man's but an animal's, a fox's, the rough scrape of something that would break apart her skin in order to devour the marrow. you come willingly. visaera's head turns, sharp ⸺ caught momentarily on the snap of his teeth. a bold phrase for the language he speaks it in, and the narrowing of her eyes says as much. if the reyne son wasn't careful, he'd be cut on the corner of them. the princess slowly turns her gaze forward, reorienting once more into an assembly of holy parts: the elegant stretch of her neck, sharp jaw, her body a white bow unravelled until it was one seamless line of silk. "i don't remember having ever ..." here she pauses, sinking waist-deep into the risk that is common tongue. "arrived for you, my lord. to my recollection it has always been you that comes so frequently to my heel. often without summons. why see even now," her lays the comma of her answer and the curl of her body here: this twist in statement and waist, looking over her shoulder as she pivots. the sign that there is more to come. "you follow."

no seer as her cousin, yet visaera beckons the future before it arrives: splitting for the lord reyne's side she sidles toward the crest of the street, the crust where stalls line like so many boughs of weeds, her gait slow. she moves like a spill of quicksilver over ice, the preternatural grace of something poisonous to the tongue. the white line of her drawn by some lovedrunk artist, the rattle of her adorned dress the sound of the seven rolling dice: i bet that there is no other like her.

"how poorly you know me, sebastian," the princess sighs, and for its sound the world might empty its purse. certainly the merchant might, smallfolk that he is witnessing the realm's delight run her white hands over his wares. "perhaps peace is all i seek in my life. ease, and ... well," she holds up a necklace of amethyst, its cut draped over the back of her hand. visaera's voice lays similarly flat, baring only the gentle curve of amusement. "this is very pretty too, isn't it?"

[pl4ythes0ng-deactivated20250915]

the exquisite lady rosemund tully,   so many stories had the frog lady heard of her.   yet the most captivating one is that of SAINT OF THE GULLY surviving an arrow to the heart   —    a story so eerie it traveled even to the depths of the bogs.   though upon first glance,   erena had gotten lost in ros’ beauty and understood why the gods had not claimed her. 

lady rosemund brings a pleasant atmosphere to the swamp witch’s impulsive adventure.   with all that has happened and with all that will happen,    it is a much needed distraction.    “   do you enjoy cooking,   lady tully? “   a genuine question for she herself is not a good cook.    nor a decent one. 

when the trout  stops near her hips and swims still in its place,   she makes a move.  hand reaches under the surface,   quick as a whip,   aims for the fish’s gills for the most secure grasp  —   it seems  the events have taken a deeper toll on her as her fingers merely brush against the scales.   disappointment finds its place in her voice, not yet surrender. 

cheerfully:   “ let me try again just for you,   my lady. “

[shesnakes]

the edge of the blade curves thoughtfully against the small block of cedar, ros considering first its future shape and then the answer to the lady's question. "i suppose i do," a response come slow, pulled meaningfully from the deep well of reverie. she smiles at the edge of it, at the joint of pause before opening her mouth next. "though i might not have known it had you not asked." no great cook, certainly, but the makings of one who understood all great oaths, promises and loves occurred before the plate. at the table, warmed by the hearth. rosemund's gaze follows the taut release of the northerner's body — not unlike an arrow, this slim thing risen straight & tall from the water. she offers a nod of approval, satisfied with the buoyancy of her resolve. "if i had but favour to give here on the banks, you would have it. i admit, i find your endeavour of far greater interest than what we'll be made to watch tomorrow."

rosemund chuckles, canting her head to one side. dark hair falls over one shoulder, thick as a tendon of midnight. "have you any interest in the tourneys, lady? or perhaps better yet — have you any skill in them, so that i might lay my coin on you?"

[pradawifey-deactivated20240529]