warnings: extremely dubious consent, dark/mature, cruel aerion, smut, threats and violence, classism, graphic depictions, targs being targs, spelling and grammar mistakes
a/n: we need more tanselle content and black characters in dead dove content. smashed two chapters together. also posted on ao3.
words: 6032 combined chapters 1 + 2
Chapter One:
Aerion handed the reins to a familiar stable boy and spared a glance at the too-tall, soft-headed boy who had told him, rather directly, that he wasn't a stable hand.
"Can you help me?" Aerion returned his violet gaze to the familiar stable boy. Tom, he thought his name was. He decided to keep it, even if it wasn't Tom.
"What does m'lord have in mind?" Tom held the palfrey's reins and kept his eyes down. Good.
"Fetch me some wine and a pretty wench." The corners of Aerion's mouth turned down. He hated repeating himself.
"Of course, m'lord." Tom spoke with the proper deference. "Does his prince have a preference? I heard we have some Lysene women, freshly brought from across the Narrow Sea."
Lysene women were famed for their beauty: soft, pale skin and hair nearly as white as a Targaryen's. Any good brothel keeper knew to keep a few scattered among their offerings. Aerion found the thought dull. He'd known enough Lysene whores back in King's Landing, and he doubted the ones here in this muddy backwater could be any better than those who plied their trade in the perfumed halls of the capital. If he was forced to suffer through this wretched tourney, he might as well make it worth his time.
"No one perfumed and plucked," Aerion said. "I've had my fill. Something more plebeian."
"A servant, m'lord?"
Not quite. His father Maekar was watching him too closely these days, and Aerion had no desire to deal with some oversensitive maid crying rape to anyone who would listen. Their traveling party was small, the servants few and known to his father's men. No, he wanted no part of that headache.
"There are performers trailing these parts, are there not? Acrobats, minstrels, hedge knights with camp followers." Aerion waved a hand. "Pick something. I'm sure you won't disappoint me."
Tom dared to meet his eyes, surprise crawling across his face. Then he remembered himself and nodded, bowing quickly.
"Yes, m'lord. I shall fetch wine and a wench as my prince commands, once I've seen to his horse." He gripped the reins tighter. "Tommen is a good servant, m'lord."
Tommen.
Aerion was already walking away. He liked Tom better.
Tommen, a servant of the Targaryens judging by the three-headed dragon in black and red hastily braided onto his shirt, led Tanselle toward Ashford Castle despite her shaking.
"What does he want with me, ser?" Tanselle dared to ask, glancing around the pavilions for some scrap of a clue or someone to help, though she knew that was a foolish thought. What a Targaryen prince wanted, a Targaryen prince got. She knew that even as a girl from Dorne, where her lordlings held the same ranks as those in King's Landing.
"I told you I'm not a ser," Tommen said over his shoulder, a sharp look in his pale blue eyes. His round face reddened. "As I told your mother, Prince Aerion Brightflame requested a pretty wench and you're pretty enough. You'll do as you're told, and I'd wager you'll be back by dawn's light. Aerion bores quickly. You'll see."
A moment of silence passed, and he looked at her again. A flash of concern softened his features, then his expression hardened once more.
"I paid your mother for your troubles, and Aerion is..." He pressed his lips together as he walked swiftly through the pavilions, past soldiers and servants and everyone in between. No one spared her a glance. "I've gathered you're a performer, yes? You know how to read a crowd to get the most coins, the most engagement? Read him and be quick about it. He thinks of himself as a dragon."
A dragon, Tanselle thought. An actual dragon. The ones that Targaryens rode and hadn't been seen for more than a hundred years.
"She's not my mother," Tanselle said, too quietly, and Tommen did not catch it.
My mother died a long time ago. Not that it mattered anyway.
"Do not insult the dragon," Tommen said flatly.
They crossed from the meadow grounds into the shadow of Ashford Castle itself. Tanselle had seen it from a distance: grey stone walls rising above the tourney field, banners snapping in the wind. But up close it was altogether different. Larger. Colder. The gate yawned open like a mouth, and knights in fine armor stood guard on either side, their surcoats bearing sigils she didn't recognize. One wore the white cloak of the Kingsguard.
Inside, the castle was alive with movement. Servants hurried past carrying platters of roasted meat and flagons of wine. The smell of woodsmoke and cooking grease hung in the air, mixing with the sharper scent of torch oil and horses from the stable yard. Voices echoed off the stone: laughter from somewhere above, a barked command, the clatter of steel on steel from the armory. Highborn lords and ladies swept through the corridors in their silks and velvets, ignoring the smallfolk who pressed themselves against the walls to let them pass.
It was controlled chaos, Tanselle realized. Not like the meadow, where the disorder was genuine. Here, everything had a purpose. Every servant knew where they were going. Every knight had a place.
She did not.
The castle was drafty despite all the bodies and torches. Cold air slipped through the arrow slits and crept along the floors, pooling in corners and stairwells. Tanselle pulled her worn cloak tighter around her shoulders, though it did little good. The stone walls seemed to drink in the warmth and give back only chill.
Tommen led her up a winding stair, their footsteps echoing in the narrow space. She caught glimpses of the great hall through an archway: long tables, more than a few hearths, men-at-arms drinking and dicing. But they did not go that way. Instead, Tommen brought her higher, into the guest quarters where the lords and their retinues slept.
The corridors here were quieter. Heavy, elaborate tapestries hung on the walls, though even those rippled in the drafts. Candles flickered in sconces, casting serpentine shadows that danced. They passed a pair of Targaryen men-at-arms standing outside a door, and Tommen nodded to them.
"For Prince Aerion," he said simply.
One of the guards smiled widely. The other said nothing, but his eyes lingered on Tanselle in a way that made her stomach turn.
Tommen stopped before another door, this one carved with the Ashford sunburst. He hesitated, his hand on the wood, then turned to her one last time.
"Remember what I said. Read him. Give him what he wants quickly, and you'll be gone before you know it."
Before she could answer, he pushed the door open.
The chamber was well-appointed. There was a four-poster bed with expensive curtains, a brazier burning in the corner, a table laden with wine and bread and cheese and a small roasted pig along with a dozen other steaming plates. Aerion Targaryen stood by the window, his back to the door. His silver-gold hair and bright red and gold clothing, cut as if from flames, caught in the candlelight.
He did not turn when they entered.
"Wine," he said, his voice bored. "And close the door behind you."
Tommen bowed, though Aerion wasn't looking, and retreated. The door clicked shut, and Tanselle was alone with the dragon.
She had been adopted by a group of Dornish circusmen when she was very young, and it was decided, also when she was very young, that she had no real skill for agility or tumbling, no charm with animals, no strange quirks other than being tall, though not tall enough to be remarkable. But she was good with puppets and paints. Her hands were steady, and she could make a crowd of children laugh with a carved wooden knight or a silly song.
She couldn't imagine Aerion Brightflame would be beguiled by her tricks. Her audience was usually the simple and the small.
"Well?" Aerion turned at last.
He was handsome in the way nobility often were: sharp-featured, tall, with high cheekbones and a thin mouth. His violet eyes were dark. He wore rings on three fingers, gold set with rubies that glittered in the candlelight. One sleeve was pushed back, showing a pale wrist. He looked at her the way her troupe master looked at a horse before buying it.
"Pour the wine. Or did Tom fetch me a mute?"
Tanselle's hands trembled as she moved toward the table.
There were more cups than needed for just one prince, and all of them empty. Tanselle grabbed the most elaborate cup, one without dents, and poured the wine. It was a deep, dark red.
"Careful," Aerion's voice suddenly came into her ear and she jumped back with a gasp. The wine splashed against her cloak, cold and wet, seeping through the wool and into her dress beneath. She could smell it, sweet and sour at once.
"You wouldn't want it to spill," the prince said flatly.
He looked at the wine spilled on her and the table, then grabbed the wine jug from her hands and upended it unto her. The wine came out in a rush, soaking through her cloak and dress in seconds. It was shockingly cold. Tanselle gasped, frozen in place as the liquid ran down her skin, pooling in her shoes. The smell filled her nose.
"Well," Aerion said simply. "I'm out of wine."
"M'lord?" Tanselle asked, biting her lip to control her tears. The fabric clung to her legs, heavy and cold.
"I am out of wine and I have a great thirst," Aerion said. "You're standing around like you are soft in the head. Go ask for another flagon of wine and a new set of dress. Is that how you present yourself before your prince?"
Where there had been flatness in his eyes, now they seemed alight and alive. Tanselle was frightened, very much so, for a moment. Then she found her nerve, as if in front of a flagging crowd. She had seen men like this before, in a way. The sort who paid for a puppet show and then demanded the puppeteer dance as well. They wanted a reaction. They wanted to see if you would break or if you would play along.
"Of course, m'lord." She curtsied like she had seen one of the highborn ladies do, as low as she could, though she stood in a puddle of wine. "I apologize for presenting myself to you in this unworthy state."
Tommen had told her not to look directly in Aerion's eyes, a sign of submissiveness that worked with aggressive dogs and some people, but somehow Tanselle thought that wouldn't do.
She was not a servant, but a wench, and though she knew very little of what princes and kings liked, she knew Aerion was a man. And most men, high or low, did not like mute, shrinking flowers. They liked a chase, even a small one.
A lick of flame might keep a dragon's interest. So she looked up at him, as demure as she could manage, and waited with bated breath. He studied her for a long moment. Then he nodded.
She went to the door and paid no mind to the knights that stood guard. She scanned the dark hallway and the tightness in her chest loosened when she saw a servant headed her way. Her arms were full with what looked like a chamber pot.
"Miss," she flagged the servant down and shrank for but a moment when impatient eyes landed on her.
The servant was quicker than her and recognized from what door she came. Her shoulders dropped and her mouth softened. "Has the prince asked for something?"
"Y-yes," Tanselle said. "He has asked for another flagon of wine because his has spilled. And, erm, another set of clothes for me. I have ruined mine."
She looked Tanselle up and down. Similar to Tommen, many emotions came across her face. None of them were surprise. She ended with a slow, agreeing nod, her pink mouth pursed. "Yes," she said simply. "I will send a change of clothes more suited toward an audience with the prince and another flagon of wine."
Tanselle darted back into the room. The wet fabric slapped against her legs with every step.
Aerion was seated at the table. He had pulled the roasted pig closer and was tearing the blackest meat from the bone with his fingers. Grease shone on his lips. He licked his thumb and gestured at the chair beside him without looking up.
"Do not stand there by the door. Sit. Next to me."
The dread began to build back up. Tanselle was beginning to understand it was like wanting to disappear until she was out of this room, out of this castle, and back squarely in her tent.
"Of course, m'lord."
"Of course, m'lord." Aerion mocked, still chewing. "Is that all you can say? Formalities bore me and glut a conversation. You may call me Aerion, and you are..."
Tanselle reluctantly sank into the chair to Aerion's right. This chair was a rare luxury she could not enjoy. There was a back to actually support her and a thick pillow underneath her, but the wet dress clung to her skin and she could feel wine dripping slowly down her back.
"Tanselle, m'l... Aerion."
"Tansy," Aerion said with a flourish, reaching for his cup full of water he must have poured himself.
"Tanselle," Tanselle said a little louder and more final. Then flushed when Aerion paused.
His hand stopped halfway to the cup. He set it down and looked at her properly for the first time since she'd sat. The silence stretched. Tanselle's heart hammered.
An apology nearly came from her mouth, but Aerion spoke first.
"Tanselle," he repeated. Not mocking. Just her name, said carefully, as if testing the shape of it. Then he picked up his cup again and drank. "Tanselle, then."
Cold wine dripped from her braids to the floor.
Chapter Two:
He ate like no man Tanselle had ever seen up close. Slow and proper, using only his fingers, caring nothing for the knife and fork though Tanselle herself had been taught to eat with both. He tore the meat in measured strips and chewed with his mouth closed and did not hunch over his plate like a dog guarding a bone. She understood immediately that Aerion and those like him had never had to fight for a scrap of food, whether that meant counting coppers at the end of a night's performance for a hope at pickled fish and a warm bowl of rice, or scarfing food down at the table with people bigger and bolder and hungrier.
He had never dealt with shame either, she realized. He had never been taught to care if people thought him beastly or human.
She sat there, unsure of what to do. The fire crackled in the brazier. Somewhere beyond the window, a cat yowled and men gossiped.
"What do you think of this tourney's pool?"
She swallowed her hesitation and told the truth. "I do not think much of the tourney's pool," she said steadily.
"No stomach for them." Aerion nodded. "Women with their meager constitution."
"I am one of the youngest in my troupe," Tanselle said and kept her gaze on Aerion. "We usually stay behind while the others watch. But you are right. The tourney can be unpredictable and I have heard of the injuries endured. It turns my stomach."
She had seen a man die at a tourney once, years ago, in some town whose name she had forgotten. Trampled by his own horse. He had been unseated and his horse spooked, reared back with all its gargantuan weight. Tanselle had been eight, maybe nine. She remembered the way the brown sand turned red and how a man came from the shadows and decapitated the horse for the offense.
Aerion gnashed on more burnt pig. Juice glossed his lips. "It is but a pale imitation to the field of battle. But for someone of your tastes, I suppose, the earlier sets might be more your speed. Especially the lot with my cousin. Valarr."
He said the name as if he had sucked on a lemon.
She waited and let Aerion rattle on.
"The heir to the Iron Throne, and he crows to those who listen that he is the greatest jouster since Daemon, wielder of Dark Sister, one of the greatest swords of an age. And Valarr thinks he's better." Aerion's eyes darkened. He set down the rib he had been holding and wiped his fingers on a cloth, slowly, briefly lost in thought. "In truth, I believe he is no dragon. He clings to the streak of silver in his hair and is too stupid to notice how hollow all his victories are."
Aerion's attention landed on her. Heavy. Expectant.
Tanselle rushed to speak. "I have heard there are many claimants to the Iron Throne, a boon to see House Targaryen continue to flourish. I see and understand the strength of the dragon. I am but a puppeteer and unlearned. We have relied on recycled stories, but to have so close a perspective, I am unworthy to offer any opinion when you have given your truest word on the matter."
She heard herself and winced inwardly. Too much. She sounded like a mummer in a bad play, all breathless awe and fluttering hands. But Aerion did not seem to notice, or if he did, he did not mind.
He settled back into his seat. "Well, I will be in the sets and there needn't be a child's ruse to stroke my ego. Dragons do not lose."
"Dragons do not lose," Tanselle echoed.
There was a heavy knock at the door.
Aerion did not answer. The door opened and the same maid from before came into the room with another in tow. The second maid carried a larger wine jug and moved to one of Aerion's cups with practiced silence, pouring and curtseying and retreating to her companion's side in one smooth motion. Neither looked at Tanselle.
"My prince, I apologize for the delay." The familiar maid's voice was carefully flat. "We had to search for clothes befitting your... guest."
Her brown eyes landed on Tanselle then, just for a moment. There was something in them. Not pity, exactly. Something harder and more practical than pity.
The maid held a bundle of bright orange fabric in her arms, so much of it that she seemed almost swallowed by the color. Tanselle was reminded of House Martell. House Ashford liked their suns and oranges too.
"Does your guest require assistance?" the maid asked Aerion.
"Set them on the bed and leave," Aerion said. He pushed back from the table and stood, reaching for something at his belt. "I'll see to it myself."
The maids exchanged a glance so quick Tanselle almost missed it. They set the clothes on the bed and left without another word. The door clicked shut.
Tanselle was learning to hate the sound.
Aerion crossed the room toward her. In his hand was a slim dirk bejeweled at its pommel. The blade looked newly sharpened.
"Stand," he said.
Tanselle stood. Her legs felt unsteady beneath her.
Aerion circled her slowly, critical as the fisherwomen in Planky Town inspecting the day's fresh catch. He was shorter than her by several inches and she rolled her shoulders inward in an absurd attempt to make herself smaller. He stopped behind her. She felt the knife at her back, cold through cotton, and then a sharp tug as he cut through the laces of her dress.
"This is filthy," he said, matter-of-fact. "You smell like a wet dog."
He came around to face her again and sliced the front of her dress from collar to hem in one long motion. The fabric fell away. Tanselle stood in her threadbare shift, arms at her sides, clutching the thin fabric to her chest.
She tried not to stare at the scraps of dress on the floor. Her one good dress that was not a costume, that belonged to her solely.
Aerion looked at her and she felt she might as well have been a sack of grain. His eyes moved from her face to her tawny shoulders to her chest and the small swell of her breasts, down the long line of her body to her narrow hips and her legs.
"Tall," he said finally. "Too tall for a woman. And no tits to speak of." He tilted his head, considering. "But you have an unobjectionable face and aren't pox-marked."
He reached out and took her chin in his hand, turning her head to one side and then the other. His fingers were still greasy from the pig. Tanselle held very still.
"You'll do," he said, and released her. He wiped his hand on a piece of her ruined dress and gestured at the basin near the bed. "There's water in the basin. Clean yourself properly. Soap in the drawer. The oils are from Lys. Use them."
He returned to his seat at the table as if nothing had happened.
Tanselle moved to the basin, one leg forced in front of the other. The water was cold. The cloth was rough. The soap was rougher. The oils smelled like dead flowers and something sweeter beneath, something cloying. She washed herself as best she could while Aerion ate, her back to him. She felt his eyes on her now and again. Or perhaps she only imagined it. She did not turn to check.
She stared at a crack in the stone wall, a thin line that ran from floor to ceiling like a river on a map. She memorized it. She made it the whole of her world.
When she was clean, or clean enough, she dried herself and reached for the clothes on the bed. The softest chemise she had ever touched. A long-sleeved fitted gown in burnt orange, heavy wool lined with something softer. She dressed herself slowly, fumbling with the laces at the back.
The gown fit. It fit in a way her own clothes never had, cut for a woman with a long body and not much curve to speak of. The hem hit at her ankles. The sleeves reached her wrists. Even the soft cloth slippers they had brought fit near enough.
She looked down at herself and did not recognize what she saw.
"Better," Aerion said from the table. He was watching her now, wine cup in hand. "You almost look like a person."
Tanselle did not know what to say to that. She stood by the bed in her borrowed dress and waited.
Aerion drank from the wine cup, then burped.
He stood and went to the basin. She watched him use the same soap, scrub his hands well and his face and his neck, then dry himself with the same cloth she had used. He passed her without a word, twisting off his rings and loosening his belt.
Making himself comfortable, but not fully undressing.
Settled on the bed with his jacket off, his boots pushed to the side and his pants loosened, Aerion found her gaze once more.
"You have taken a man before?" Aerion asked. "I asked for a performer and Tom might have gotten me a whore."
She flushed.
"My trade as puppeteer or performer is no euphemism," Tanselle said. "I have never known pleasure houses or alleys. I knew a boy two summers past."
"And?" Aerion pushed.
"I have kept to myself since," Tanselle answered.
"No man wants a woman taller than him," Aerion said. "Your profession combined with your appalling height must make your marriage prospects abysmally low."
Aerion said cruel things not as japes, but as fact, as if he were a maester dictating to a scribe.
"I had never thought of it," Tanselle said.
Aerion beckoned her to join him on the bed. She did not sink but buoyed on the rich duvet and the mattress underneath, surely not stuffed with hay like every bed she had ever known.
He studied her for but a moment, then was on her.
Tanselle drew a quick breath as her back hit the mattress. His weight settled over her, lighter than she expected. Her heart thudded against her chest and she saw the prince clearly for the first time: a tiny red spot beneath his lip, peeling skin on his mouth, his thin eyebrows darker than his silver hair. Then his face moved past hers and there was only the canopy above, a distant sky of painted suns.
Her clothing was tugged up and he entered her swiftly. She choked on a gasp.
Two summers ago, Tanselle remembered the sailor from Yi Ti with his shiny black hair and smiling fox-like eyes. His name was Yao. Sex with him had hurt the first few times no matter how slow he went, how much he had prepared her, how excited she had been. She had gradually learned to lean into his warm kisses, wrap her arms around him, share in their combined pleasure.
But this was not Yao. This was a prince of the blood who had not asked her name until after he had poured wine on her head.
The burn of Aerion as he moved inside her. She looked at the suns and the way they swayed above her with each thrust.
She looked at Aerion when she first heard his grunt. Exertion or pleasure, she could not tell. Pink crept up his neck and spread across his face.
Up until now, she had thought of him as a beautiful if cruel stripling, closer to a god than man. But now he was ugly and very human. Sweat beading at his temples. Teeth bared. Eyes half-closed. Just a man.
Perhaps it was this thought that allowed her to wrap her arms around him, lock her long legs around his thin waist, and draw him close the way she had once drawn Yao. She did not know why she rolled her hips to meet his, only that she did. She kept her face blank when Aerion showed a sliver of surprise, and then he was rolling his hips back, his slender fingers finding her hips and with surprising strength driving deeper.
It was as the older women in her troupe had told her once, long ago. Something all people knew how to do if they let themselves. She let the instinct run its course.
There were no whispers of summertime love like there had been with Yao. No breathless words of encouragement. She was not sure she shared any words at all with her prince, only grunts and the occasional hiss of appreciation when rough turned to wet and the four-poster bed began to creak beneath them.
Aerion's nails dug sharply into her hips. She heard him mutter fuck under his breath, and then he pushed deep into her and stilled.
It was a long moment before he pulled out of her and stood. He crossed to the table and grasped one of the cups, taking a long drink while she felt his seed leak out of her, warm and unwanted.
Tanselle went to the basin, picked up the cloth, and washed and dried once more.
"Would you like me to go?" Tanselle asked, hoping he would say yes.
Aerion looked at her sharply. "I haven't given you my leave," he said. "There is supper to be finished and you'll need tea."
"Tea?" The question rose before she could catch it.
"Did you think I'd let someone like you walk out of here with a dirty pocket full of my dragon seed?" Aerion sneered. "You're scarcely worthy of carrying my child even if it would be a bastard."
"Yes," Tanselle slid back into her seat, "how thoughtless of me."
Aerion returned to his place. "Well. Aren't you going to eat?"
She was not hungry. She was rarely hungry, used to boiled eggs, porridge, and a vegetable if she were lucky in the morning, then fish and rice and more vegetables in the evening. But she did not think Aerion actually cared if she were hungry or not. She ate as he bid.
Aerion liked the blackened bits of bread and meat, and there were copious leafy greens at the table. Not very seasoned, but Tanselle supposed this was the way of the mainlands where spices were meager. Dorne had an abundance of spices and herbs. She had not realized how much she missed them until now.
She ate as long as he did and did not offer conversation.
When he rubbed his fingers on the cloth and cleared his throat, Tanselle set her fork down. Her stomach felt near to bursting.
"I am full," he said. "Let us abed."
He did not poke his silver head out the door, but went for the bell at his bedside where his rings, belt, and dirk sat.
In moments an army of servants came into the room and cleared away the remaining food, the plates, snuffed the candles and lit the hearth and placed warming stones on what she assumed was Aerion's side of the bed.
Tanselle knew not the word for it other than fussed over. Aerion was fussed over by servants stripping him of his clothing, pushing the chamber pot closer to him. Tanselle was given the same treatment.
It was very strange to be coaxed to sit on the chamber pot, drink a cup of foul-smelling tea to the last drop, be rubbed down with another strong-smelling oil including her hair still damp with wine, and dressed in another set of clothing. All before being pushed to the other side of the bed, tucked in, and the heavy curtains drawn close and tied.
Tanselle could not see the canopy, just the long shadows of the bed frame.
She was in the most comfortable bed of her life and she could not relax.
"You're a salty Dornish," Aerion said.
"Yes." Tanselle blinked. Surprise leaked into her voice.
It was not every day someone was able to say where she was from and with such accuracy. If anyone guessed, most thought she was from the Summer Isles.
"Where?"
"Underside," Tanselle said, then corrected. "Planky Town."
Aerion did not say anything after that. She heard him turn to his side and he slept like a human too. Soft at first, then he began to snore.
Tanselle did not trust herself to sleep. She pressed her lips together and recited all the plays and songs she knew, starting from The Bear and the Maiden Fair. She did not relax until dawn's light came streaming through the gaps in the curtains.
Dawn came grey and cold through the window.
Aerion woke with the light, as if his body knew when the sun rose even through the clouds and curtains. He sat up, stretched, and swung his legs over the side of the bed without looking at her. He wrenched the curtains open. A servant must have come in the night because there was fresh water in the basin and a clean tunic laid out for him.
Tanselle watched him dress. He moved with the easy confidence of a man who need not look forward to the drudgery of work.
"Tom will come for you at midday," he said, lacing his boots. "Third set is after Valarr's little pageant. Don't be late."
Her heart was thunderous in her ears. Hadn't Tommen told her Aerion grew bored quickly?
"I won't," Tanselle said slowly.
He stood and looked at her then, still lying in the bed with the sheets pooled around her waist. His eyes moved over her body one more time, that same appraising look, and then he nodded.
"Wear the dress," he said, nodding to where it was also laid out. "And do something with your hair. You look like a drowned cat and it reeks of wine."
He left without saying goodbye. The door clicked shut behind him.
She hated that sound.
Tanselle lay there for a long moment. Then she rose, washed herself with cold water without the soaps and the oils, and put on the orange dress and the slippers. Her fingers fumbled with the laces at the back just as they had the first time.
She left the room, finally.
The walk back to the pavilions felt longer than it should have.
The castle was awake now, servants hurrying past with platters and pitchers, knights strapping on armor, squires running errands. No one looked at her twice. She was just another woman in a fine dress, moving through the corridors.
Outside, the morning air was sharp and smelled of livestock and woodsmoke. The tourney grounds were already busy. Merchants were setting up stalls, grooms leading destriers to be exercised, smallfolk claiming good spots along the rails. Tanselle moved through them like a ghost only half-perceived, the orange dress drawing glances she was not used to.
She was almost to the performers' tents when she saw him.
He was tall. That was the first thing she noticed. Taller than her, which was rare. Taller than most men she had ever seen. He had a plain face, dark blonde-brown hair, and shoulders to match his height. He was haggling with a grimy merchant who kept trying to sell him a goose when all he seemed to want was eggs.
"Just eggs," he said, miming an oval shape with his big hands. "I'll take four eggs for three coppers. That's more than fair."
The merchant looked at him as if he were mad, gesturing again at the goose on the chopping block.
"Eggs!" the tall man stressed again, his voice rising with frustration.
Tanselle meant to walk past. She meant to go to her tent and lie down and close her eyes and try not to think about the night before or the day to come. But the tall man looked up as she passed, and their eyes met, and he smiled.
It was an easy smile. Dopey. A kind smile.
"Morning," he said, as if they knew each other. As if she were just Tanselle and nothing more.
"Good morning," Tanselle heard herself say.
"You're from yesterday. With the performers," he said. "The puppet show. I saw you."
She had not seen him. Or maybe she had, because he was tall and hard to miss. She could not remember much of how yesterday started. Her memory picked up with Tommen at the tent flap, and everything before had gone hazy and distant.
"I am," she said. "I work with puppets. And paint."
"Paint?" His blue eyes lit up. "I've a shield that needs painting. If you've the time. I can pay." He paused, suddenly awkward. "Not much, but I can pay."
Tanselle opened her mouth to say yes, to ask further details. It was there on her tongue, easy and automatic. This was what she did. This was her work. But then she thought of Aerion, of the tourney, of Tommen coming at midday, and the word died in her throat.
"I don't know," she said. "I may not have time. I have... obligations."
The tall man nodded, though his face fell a little. "Right. Don't mean to ask any sudden favors." He smiled again, sheepish this time. "Name's Duncan. But everyone calls me Dunk. Dunk the Tall."
"Tanselle," she said, and found herself almost laughing. "Tanselle Too-Tall, if you want the whole of it. What the boys used to call me back home."
He laughed. It was a good laugh, surprised and genuine. "Too-Tall. You're not. You're perfect forâ"
Dunk lost his voice and shifted his weight, suddenly finding his feet very interesting.
She almost smiled. Almost.
"I have to go," she said, not unkindly. "Good luck with your eggs, Dunk the Tall."
She walked away before he could say anything else. She could feel his eyes on her back, curious, maybe confused. The orange dress swished against her legs with every step.
Tommen would come at midday. She had to do something with her hair.
She did not look back.
link: a lick of flame - Chapter 1 - Anonymous - A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin [Archive of Our Own]
Sammick shippers just have a race play fetish and I know this because the one Sammick shipper I got into it with literally had fanart that redid the last scene before Remmick died and instead of grabbing Sammie like he did he was fucking raping him and them and their reblogs were talking about how hot it was.
Yet insisted they didnât have a race play fetish when they were literally drawing and gooning over fucking buck breaking. Like you canât see how having a white man rape a black man, calling him âhisâ saying he âbelongs to himâ and only calling him âhis Sammieâ could equate to god damn buck breaking ?
Usually Iâm ship and let ship and just ignore but like donât come to my page and then donât fucking lie on top when you can literally just click on the blog and see you drawing what itâs essentially buck breaking you sick idiot.
And for you ignorant whites who donât know what buck breaking is, itâs when white slave owners would rape and sexually abuse male slaves for control over them, to literally break their spirit as a way to say they owned them and to humiliate them and all Sammick fanart looks like it because thatâs what it is. People that ship Sammick are a bunch of racists (or uncle toms in the case I went through) with a race play and buck breaking fetish
all yâall do is complain and make faux intellectual arguments in an effort to claim some small bit of superiority in your otherwise sad little life where you get shit on everyday.
took a look through your blog and you seem geninuely miserable. maybe smoke a blunt, log off, and engage in something you enjoy or some real activism within the community.
talking about the evils of Sammick while using an IWTV gif to tell whites and non blacks and other people you donât agree with to stop engaging with your blog is PEAK irony.
wanting rp you fake little family with Bill x Stanford is geninuely hilarious considering all the tropes with that particular horror of a ship
talking about rp with Greek Gods and all the truly messed up mythological shit that makes Sammick look tame is honestly a choice.
it astounds me that you seem to have some neurodivergency evident by tags talking about masking and the second someone triggers you, you cry wolf and say something along the lines of no is protecting you and everyone is bullying you and no one understands, but when you have the opportunity you bully others and engage in rather hateful commentary.
since you obviously hate yourself and want to incite a reaction to feel somethingâ maybe you take the week off to smoke a blunt, reflect, and figure out what you can do to make your 2026 a smidge more enjoyable.
Also reducing Sammick shippers to just race fetishizers is such an lazy oversimplificationâŚ.The trope is monster x human, antagonist x protagonist, deranged man x person of his obsession, dark romance toxic yaoi. Everything yall hate that we partake in, including noncon would be going triple platinum if Sammie and Remmick were white.
And mind you, the Remmick self shippers are writing him raping them all damn day. Amongst other things. But who faces the most hate? Who gets told to kill themselves? Sammick shippers, a mostly black fandom, lolâŚ.you just have to laugh. The irony. Dark taboo fiction is only acceptable with white people about white people.
another day, another person crashing out in the sammick tags because they can't separate fiction from reality.
meanwhile we're still writing fics, still creating fanart, still getting fed by coogler interviews and the official screenplay, still minding our business in our own little corner while people who can't curate their fandom experience continue to seethe and throw tantrums.
black darkshippers exist, no matter how much yall try to erase us as white. sammick is the second most popular sinners ship (behind remmick x reader which gets NO SMOKE not even when they erase all the other black characters for the ship), despite yall trying to insist no one enjoys it. finally, remmick is a fictional character who was specifically written to be older than the concept of racism, despite how many photos of actual racists and slaveowners you loser bitches are saving to your phones to spam in our tag.
when you're out here fuming and writing essays about a fictional ship that goes against the actual director's intent for the character, it's beyond time to touch grass.
sammick didn't kill your grandma. it's a fictional ship for people to project fictional scenarios onto. if you haven't blocked the tag by now i'm just gonna assume that you actually like what you see and just want our attention. đ§Ą
anyway. back to my pile of sammick WIPS! sammicks will continue to eat and there's nothing yall can do about it. đ
Sammick is quite literally one of the most classic type of ships. I'm fully capable of understanding what the movie is saying (the sheer violence that comes from colonization) and also have a little fun and point out that Sammie and Remmick hit a lot of gothic romantic beats. Literally RELAXXXXXX
minors do not interact. block this account immediately!
this is a 18+ pro-ship event. pro-ship here is defined as âship and let shipâ ie respect other creatorsâ right to make things that arenât your cup of tea, just as you as a creator have that same right. it is not a requirement to solely create dark/dead dove content if you chose to participate in this event, but it is a requirement to have the maturity to treat the dark/dead dove creators this event is catered to with respect.
if these terms are unacceptable to you, block this account now! harassment or bad faith engagement will be flat out ignored.
this event is for adult sinners fans looking to explore dark themes with the fantastically fictional characters in the sinners universe. if that describes you, read on for the FAQ!
FAQ
what is kinktober?
kinktober is a collaborative posting event between fan creators! each day has at least one nsfw prompt. creators view these prompts in advance, create their works and then post them on the corresponding day! creators can contribute art, fic, edits, twt threads, musings, shitposts, anything! as long as youâre creating for the sinners fandom.
when will this event take place?
October 1st â 31st 2025! this event has been condensed to weekday prompts only, allowing participants to view and read contributions, share, and create on the weekends.
how will this event be boosted/archived?
any fan creation posted during October tagged with #SinnersKinktober on tumblr and twitter will be RTâd by the official account (this one). all fics, art, and content posted to AO3 will be added to the upcoming collection âSinners Kinktober 2025.â
what is the goal of this event?
the goal is to celebrate black horror! the goal is to dive into the rich and twisted sinners universe and create sexy, fantastical scenarios for these interesting and well-written characters. this is the time to draw smoke/bo reunion sex. this is the time to write cornbread cucking stack. this is the time to write vampire!pearline torn between remmick and sammie. anything goes!
are there any rules?
the primary rule is to respect the work and taste of other creators. judgement or harassment at any time will not be tolerated. If you are found harassing or judging other creators after your work has been boosted by this account, your work will be un-RTâd and removed from the AO3 collection.
guidelines?
this is not a requirement, but we would like to highlight and celebrate canon sinners characters during kinktober! reader insert fics are okay, but we strongly encourage creators to focus their works on the canon characters.
Sammie is an omega in 1932 not only is he expected to work but heâs also expected to take of his siblings. used to the maternal role. one day finds a young white child, Remmick, says his whole family died of something nowhere tomorrow to go & doesnât know his own family so Sammie and his family takes him in. Remmick young enough to start calling him Mama and Sammie reluctantly accepts⌠something something years go, Sammie the omega is married to Lisa a beta or alpha; think of it as a strategic match. Lisa has capital and the twins sell their shit from north to the people in MS through Chowâs store. Anyway, Sammie settles into omega life and Remmick is still calling him Mama and he grows up and he starts getting possessive and aggro ⌠and idk⌠the point is Remmick is a menace with a huge problem and itâs cute that he was all possessive but now Sammie is approaching 40, his boy is in late teens, and being a terror to everyone.
*heavily inspired by Joanna Leeâs âFamily Secretsâ banger of a wincest fic that has sadly been deleted
To add to the conversations and discourse, of which there is ALOT, in the Sinners fandom on tumblr ESPECIALLY in regards to âSammickâ. Now, I must very plainly and clearly state, I am not a fan. But, I realize that I havenât expressed properly why that is. So, thatâs what this is. I am not a person who shies away from or doesnât consume âdarkâ fics. And, it was and has always been a way for me to process the predation I have suffered. It felt controlled, where what I went through was not. It wasnât my choice. It couldnât have been. I was a child. But, reading these fics or whole ass books IS my choice. I can click off if itâs too much. Too uncomfortable. Too real. I didnât get to do that before. And even if I had, even if I had stopped it, I would still be left scarred. I understand the want (as a queer person) to make a very heterosexual project just a bit more inclusive of our experiences. But, it isnât. It doesnât have to be. It isnât a catch all project. To further that, itâs easy to just dismiss it âwell, you, yourself, enjoy dark fics!â. Thatâs your gotcha? The REASON why âSammickâ is insidious, is because of the context that it exists in. Itâs wrong because this is the first breath of fresh air for a community forced to suffer ANOTHER Trump presidency. A project that perfectly and eloquently articulates what it is to be black everywhere, which is to be betrayed, over, and over,and over again. By a system, that is NOT broken, because being âbrokenâ implies that at some point at some level, it worked. It never did, not for all of us. It was built to be a knife, it was built to be a sharp tool used to cut down, to separate, segregate, to define who is worthy of humanity, to strip the âunworthyâ ones of their humanity, and ultimately keep people in an everlasting state of division to consolidate and centralize power. And, even then, with all of its genius, Sinners is STILL downplayed. It made almost half of its money back on opening night. A HUGE feat. And, yet, it was somehow still a failure? It started making its money back faster than most white centered projects. IT WAS STILL LABELED A FAILURE? To scare people and studious away from investing in or making more projects like this. It was celebration, of a culture, of a peoples, of their all too commonly demonized spirituality, they connection they have, and the music they make. It was also pain, it was bitter reminder, that their joy is always made temporary by forces who donât want to see them ambitious or worse, free. âJust for a few hours, we was free.â Those few moments of light. A few hours of celebration. Mattered because they were never meant to have them, and since they went ahead and did it anyway they got punishment, if it wasnât Remmick who tore them apart. It wouldâve been the Klan. It was always gonna be something, a monster lurking in the shadows, or something colder and crueler, another human being. I understand that some people go through experiences, that make them read âdarkâ fics. I went through the same. Does it have to be this? Why does it HAVE to be sinners you write about? Because, most of you are white, or non-black. Itâs not even a black person penning all these fics. Itâs not you âtrying to make senseâ of YOUR experiences. You havenât experienced being a black person. Most of the âSammickâ blogs are just that, Sammick blogs. No other âqueer shipsâ. This is not inclusion. Itâs a co-opt. So, I ask again, why? Why Sammie and Remmick? Why them? Just, let this one thing be. Just this one thing. Let the black community have JUST THIS ONE THING. I have so much more to say, but I think this is long enough, if you got this far without losing your mind typing up the most hateful thing you can muster in the reblogs or comments, thank you.
Have you considered that most Sammick writers are Black and/or queer yourself.
That a lot of us are writers craving representation of a boyâyes, a Black boyâwhoâs been led astray? And that in many of these fics, heâs obsessed over and powerfully loved? That matters. Slash fandom has been doing this dynamic for decades, just almost exclusively for white boys.
So can we not have a woobified character too? Am I not entitled to escape the Trump presidency by Sam being the damsel in distress, a creature older than thousands of years, throwing everything he has just to get a whiff of him. The fact that Sam has such a unique, invaluable gift it calls to the depths of heaven and hell and as he is praised for it, he is also damned.
Itâs fine if you use fandom to process trauma or find power in reclamation. Thatâs absolutely valid. But that doesnât mean you get to dictate how other people engage. You donât get to say âthis character is off-limitsâ or âthis ship is co-opting painâ when a lot of the people writing it *are* part of the community you claim to be defending.
It feels hypocritical. *Sinners* is full of characters who exist in morally gray or outright problematic spaces:
* Pearline is clearly an older woman sleeping with a barely 19-year-old. Sheâs also married. Made a promise before God.
* Smoke and Stack are literal pimps. They sell people. Traumatize people.
* Delta Slim is a drunk and manipulated by one of the twins by alcohol.
Theyâre complicated. Theyâre messy. Thatâs the point. And yet, people only seem to raise moral alarms when it comes to *this* ship.
This is moving, but it also reads like a fandom purity test. It assumes that people only write dark fic because theyâre working through trauma. It assumes most of the fandom is white. It assumes that writing a dark, obsessive, even toxic ship means the writers donât understand the message of the film. Thatâs a lot of assumptions.
Sometimes people just like writing dark fic. Sometimes they like writing characters with tension. Sometimes they see a dynamic and want to explore it. It doesnât always have to be about trauma, and it doesnât have to be justified to everyone watching.
If people can understand:
* Draco and Hermione
* Devilâs Minion (Armand and Daniel)
* Sesshomaru and Kagome
* Hannibal Lecter x Will Graham
* Bella Swan X Jasper Whitlock, Aro, Carlisle Cullen
* Bella Swan x Edward Cullen
* Dean Winchester x Sam Winchester (or Castiel)
*Sam Winchester x Lucifer or Gabriel
* Theon Greyjoy x Ramsay Bolton
* Any Targ x Targ ship
Then they can understand Sammie and Remmick.
The difference is that this time, itâs Black. And maybe *thatâs* whatâs bothering some of you not the content. Itâs a Black person doing not typical Black things and like many things in the Black community suddenly itâs âa Black people donât do that/donât act like that.â No, you donât act like that.
You donât have to like the ship. No oneâs making you. But please stop acting like people are doing something wrong by writing a fic. Weâre doing what fandom has always done. Quite literally, you put a boy in front of fandom, fandom makes a billion stories with his closest male proximity where or not they have any romantic tension or speaking lines & ignores the female characters.
You can also check my Blog. I should have queer ships listed like Blaise x Harry, Nico x Stoll Brothers, etc; been a certified yaoi lover since 2008 with Sasuke x Naruto. Been through a lot of fandoms and all this noise for Sammick feels very performative and navel gazey by people that clearly havenât been in the trenches of fanfiction for more than two seconds
The Sammick hate is so weird to me especially as someone who grew up in fandom spaces/chronically online. We used to pray for time like these, where a black character would be celebrated for being a soft boy and in the most popular ship⌠Now itâs happening and people are complaining about accuracy and such⌠for a crack ship. Is it what they were talking about when they said the pendulum swung so far left it went right?? Cause why are we admonishing people for having crack ships now come on.
And I get that Sinners is a period drama, but itâs also a work of fiction. Thatâs how fiction/fandom live, through silly discourses and hear me outs.
I have theory the Sammick haters are people that have never liked yaoi/slash. Theyâre in fandom but they are separate from the m/m lovers. So when a movie like Sinners comes out, gets the buzz and attention all Black fandomers crave, weâre kinda all smushed together because theyâre like âYes. Representation but not like that.â They see m/m as deviant yet again priortizing white male and bodies and male bodies over women⌠which fair.
I do wonder if AO3 wasnât the predominant fandom site and like FFN was the fanfic site if we would have the same stats on ships. Iâm guessing there would be more M/F stories than M/M stories⌠as FFN to me as by and large seemed like a place to write and popularize your power fantasy while AO3 is a white male centered queer utopia.
Dean Thomas actually has real steady hands and heâs fantastic at charms and a great student. why? his mother is a Barbadian Brazilian neurosurgeon and he definitely spent his childhood + summers being drilled in medicine. She fully expects him to be a doctor while he spends his very little time reading manga, doodling on any and all blank canvases. Heâs left-handed and still gets ink on his inner palms.
Blaise Zabini unwittingly starts the Black Student Alliance at Hogwarts. Dean Thomas and Tracey Davis are founding members. Angelina Johnson is their reluctant sponsor.
in my Blaise x Harry fic, Harry has unknowingly inherited like the worst traits from his parents. Like yes, heâs a people-pleaser but heâs also feral and he saw Blaise and he developed like an instant crush and now heâs like buzzing around. He has a quick temper and itâs on site and he picks up curses and hexes with terrifying ease. Hes just a literal chaos demon and Blaise is just like âwho is this white devilâ while trying to put distance between him and Harry. However Harry has no concept of space and Blaise canât help himself.
Language: British English, Jamaican Patois, Kreyol
Cultural Identity: Black British, second-generation Windrush
Family Origin: Jamaica (mother), with Haitian ancestry on her father's side
Raised: East London, in a working-class Caribbean immigrant household
Her parents came over during the Windrush era (late 1950s), part of the post-war labor push.
Her mother came from **Kingston, Jamaica**,
Her fatherâs people had roots in northern Haiti, though he was born in Jamaica.
She grew up with both traditions Jamaican folk healing and Haitian-style Vodou merged in the home.
Younger sister, Prudence Meadowes (mother to Angelina Johnson, one year younger than Dorcas) sorted in Gryffindor.
Personality: Loyal, grounded, and sharp.
Quiet but not shy. Listens more than she talks. When she speaks, people shut up. And donât mistake her being quiet not ready to fight, sheâs pretty famous in the halls that donât cross that Hufflepuff or mess with her younger sister
Doesnât chase power or titles, but sheâll fight for whatâs right.
Raised to protect
Magics: Practices **blood magick**, but not in a flashy or flashy-dark wayâritual, ancestral, deeply practical.
Blood magick dies in with her warding because her magics are famously powerful
Serves the Lwa
Keeps altars hidden.
Known for her ability to draw warding veves and defensive sigils . Best class are wards, runes, herbology
Learned to work with her hands: chalk, herbs, blades, bone.
Speaks: British English** with a sharp East London accent
Slides into Jamaican Patois with her family and when sheâs emotionally charged.
Understands Kreyòl through her father's side and through ritual used mainly in ceremony
* Seen as odd by the other students.
* Spent more time in the greenhouse or in the libraryâs Restricted Section.
* Ran protection spells, did divination through mirrors and blood.
Death: She died in action. Voldemort killed her personally. Not a random kill. He saw her as dangerous.
kianamaiart
germansingergirl
romaincrisis
tangentwithtanner
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