Started work on this custom guitar strap with the shield from #knightofthesevenkingdoms #georgerrmartin #gameofthrones #targeryan #gift #geek #hbo #stark #sigil #winterfell #direwolf #lanister #baratheon #britishmade #madeinengland #british #dragon
I have re-edited two of my #Brienne pieces so that I could fit better on a Tshirt !! Available on my #Redbubble account, obviously. Knock yourselves out !! @gwendolineuniverse ⚔ #RoleModel #GwendolineChristie #BrienneofTarth #GameofThrones #FortheThrone #GOT #favorite #favoriteactress #favoritecharacter #warrior #badasswoman #fighter #strongwoman #knight #KnightoftheSevenKingdoms #WeirwoodDream #season8 #Tarth #Oathkeeper #Lion #survivor (à Orléans, France) https://www.instagram.com/p/BztFoK7CHyW/?igshid=1u2542sfn41bj
This is what happens when a fandom lives through so many intense emotions. Unvolontary collab with @liane231 !! We decided we should post it together since our two drawings complete each other so well. Endless thanks to the @gameofthrones writers for giving #BrienneofTarth everythings she did not even dare to hope for. And endless thanks to our beloved @gwendolineuniverse who moved us to tears with her incredible performance. #GameofThrones #GOT #ForTheThrone #SerBrienne #KnightofTheSevenKingdoms #art #fanart #fandom #ink #watercolor #tanned paper #knighting #honor #RedemptionArc #JaimeLannister @nikolajwilliamcw #GwendolineChristie #NikolajCosterWaldau #Season8 #WinterisHere #episode2 #emotion #warrior #shieldmaiden #rolemodel #favorite #happy (à Orléans, France) https://www.instagram.com/p/Bwof0XYhQ9C/?utm_source=ig_tumblr_share&igshid=y62869r0qtcj
The Anvil and the Spinster-Chapter 16: The Shape of Scandal
Summary:
Summerhall wakes changed.
After Princess Rhae and Daella stumble upon something they were never meant to see, Emma Ashford is forced to confront the reality of what she and Prince Maekar Targaryen have become. Whispers begin winding through Summerhall’s halls, servants grow watchful, and the line between affection and scandal begins to blur beyond repair.
But while Emma fears what the court may do to a woman caught too close to a prince, Maekar refuses to treat her like something shameful.
Unfortunately, dragons are rarely subtle—and neither are their daughters.
Warnings
Court gossip / scandal
Age gap relationship
Emotional intimacy
Sexual themes
Power imbalance discussions
Gendered societal expectations
Protective/possessive behavior
Angst with tenderness
Family meddling
Minor implied sexual content
Fear of reputation ruin
Emotional vulnerability
Summerhall woke slowly beneath a pale gold dawn.
The castle stones still held the coolness of night, though sunlight had begun creeping across the carved floors in thin ribbons of warmth. Somewhere below the windows, servants were already stirring the kitchens to life. Emma could hear the faint clang of pots, the murmur of voices, the distant stamping of horses in the lower yard.
Normal sounds.
Ordinary sounds.
Which felt deeply unfair considering her entire life had just become catastrophically complicated.
The door had barely shut behind Rhae and Daella before the silence changed shape.
Not empty.
Not calm.
Heavy.
Emma stood beside the bed, pulse uneven, robe clutched tightly at her waist. Her braid had half-fallen apart sometime during the night, pale strands slipping loose over her shoulders. Morning light spilled mercilessly across the chamber, illuminating entirely too much.
The tangled sheets.
The discarded cloak near the hearth.
The unmistakable intimacy lingering thick in the air between them.
Maekar stood several feet away near the bedpost, already partially redressed, though his expression remained far too unguarded for Emma’s comfort.
“This cannot happen,” she said quietly.
“No,” he agreed.
But neither of them moved.
That was the problem.
The terrifying, undeniable problem.
Because whatever line had once existed between them had finally shattered.
Emma pressed her fingers briefly against her forehead.
“Gods,” she muttered. “Rhae looked delighted.”
“She usually is when causing chaos.”
“That does not comfort me.”
“No,” Maekar admitted. “It likely should not.”
Emma looked toward the closed door again as if she expected the princess to burst back through it grinning.
Daella’s face lingered more sharply in her memory.
Not mocking.
Not cruel.
Just startled in that soft, aching way that came from witnessing something far too intimate to ignore.
Emma exhaled shakily.
“This is a disaster.”
Maekar’s brow furrowed faintly. “You regret it?”
Her head snapped toward him instantly. “No.”
Too fast.
Too honest.
Something shifted in his face at that—something dangerous in its quietness.
Emma hated when he looked at her like that.
Not with hunger.
Not with amusement.
With certainty.
“As ever,” she muttered bitterly, “women are punished for honesty while men survive it.”
His jaw tightened immediately.
“Yes.”
Not dismissive.
Not defensive.
Simply truthful.
That somehow made it worse.
Emma wrapped the robe tighter around herself and turned away from him, pacing toward the windows.
“If whispers begin—”
“They already have.”
She froze.
Slowly, she turned back toward him.
Maekar remained motionless near the bed, arms crossed now, gaze steady.
“Servants notice patterns,” he continued evenly. “You spend most evenings here. My daughters follow you through Summerhall like ducklings. Rhae possesses all the subtlety of a battle horn.”
Despite herself, Emma let out a short, horrified laugh.
“Gods help me, she truly does.”
The corner of his mouth twitched briefly before flattening again.
“But until now,” he said, quieter, “they lacked certainty.”
The words settled heavily between them.
Before this morning, there had still been plausible deniability.
Affection could be dismissed.
Attention explained away.
Proximity ignored.
But Rhae and Daella had seen him in her chambers.
Seen the way he looked at her.
That was worse than scandal.
That was intimacy.
And intimacy ruined women far faster than desire ever could.
Emma closed her eyes briefly.
“I should have left sooner.”
The silence that followed felt immediate and dangerous.
When she opened her eyes again, Maekar had gone very still.
“You wish to leave.”
“I did not say that.”
“You implied it.”
Emma sighed softly, exhaustion creeping into her bones. “Because perhaps I should.”
Something cold flashed across his expression.
Not anger.
Worse.
Control.
“You believe distance will protect you.”
“I believe reality exists whether we acknowledge it or not.”
“And what reality is that?”
“That I am not you.”
His eyes narrowed slightly.
“You are Prince Maekar Targaryen,” Emma said carefully. “You survive whispers. Men like you always do.”
“And you believe you will not.”
“That is how courts function.”
For the first time since she had met him, she saw genuine helpless fury flicker beneath his composure—not directed at her.
At the truth.
At the world itself.
“You think I would allow harm to come to you.”
Emma’s smile was small and sad. “You cannot fight gossip with a sword.”
“No,” he admitted roughly. “But I can answer it.”
“And make matters worse?”
His brow furrowed.
“If you defend me too fiercely, people will only become more certain.”
“They already are.”
“That does not mean we hand them proof.”
The word we lingered heavily between them.
Maekar crossed the room slowly then, boots quiet against stone.
“Look at me.”
Emma hated how immediately she obeyed.
His hand lifted, hesitating only briefly before brushing against her jaw.
Gentle.
Always so much gentler than she expected him to be.
“You are not something shameful,” he said quietly.
The force of those words nearly undid her.
Because no one had ever spoken to her like that before.
Not openly.
Not honestly.
Not as though she were something worth choosing.
Emma looked away first.
“You make this sound simple.”
“It is not simple.”
“Then why do you act as though it is?”
His thumb brushed lightly once against her skin before dropping away.
“Because I am too old,” he said softly, “to pretend indifference when I feel something.”
Emma’s breath caught.
The room suddenly felt too small.
Outside, a bell rang through Summerhall.
Morning prayers.
Life continuing onward while the two of them remained trapped in the fragile aftermath of something irreversible.
A knock sounded suddenly against the door.
Emma jumped violently backward.
“Father?” Rhae called far too innocently through the wood. “Are you still in there?”
Maekar closed his eyes briefly like a man enduring divine punishment.
“Go away.”
“I brought breakfast.”
“You may leave it outside.”
A pause.
Then:
“Daella says Emma is probably panicking.”
Emma made a strangled sound.
“Rhae,” Maekar warned.
“She also says you should stop glaring all the time because it frightens people.”
Silence.
Then quieter:
“I like her, Father.”
Something shifted in Maekar’s expression so briefly Emma almost missed it entirely.
Not softness exactly.
But vulnerability.
“She makes you less miserable.”
Emma pressed a hand against her face in utter horror.
“Gods,” she whispered.
Rhae continued cheerfully.
“And for what it’s worth, you smile more now.”
Footsteps retreated down the corridor before either could answer.
The silence afterward felt entirely different.
Emma stared at the door.
Then slowly turned back toward him.
“You smile?” she asked faintly.
“Hmph.”
“That is not an answer.”
“It is the only one you are receiving.”
And there it was again.
That sharp, dry humor hidden beneath all the iron.
The absurdity of it suddenly crashed over her all at once.
The terror.
The scandal.
Rhae apparently eavesdropping outside doors like a delighted menace.
Daella pretending not to witness impropriety.
A prince standing in her chambers looking deeply inconvenienced by emotions.
Emma laughed.
Actually laughed.
Softly at first.
Then helplessly.
Maekar stared at her with visible confusion.
“You are laughing.”
“Yes.”
“At what?”
“At us.”
“We are not amusing.”
“That is precisely why it is amusing.”
To her complete shock, his mouth curved.
Small.
Brief.
Real.
Emma’s laughter faded slowly as she looked at him.
Gods.
There it was again.
That dangerous warmth.
The kind that made her forget caution.
Forget consequences.
Forget herself.
And perhaps he saw that realization happen inside her expression, because the softness vanished from his face almost immediately.
Duty settling back over him like armor.
“I should go,” he said quietly.
Emma nodded.
Neither moved.
Again.
Finally, he stepped backward toward the door.
Another step.
Distance rebuilding itself piece by piece.
By the time he reached the threshold, he looked almost princely again—controlled, severe, unreadable.
Almost.
His hand settled against the handle.
“Emma.”
She looked up.
His gaze held hers fully.
Steady.
Certain.
“Do not mistake fear for regret.”
And then he was gone.
Breakfast became torture almost immediately.
Rhae sat across from Emma grinning into her cup like a woman holding state secrets.
Daella, by contrast, looked determined to stare at literally anything else in the room.
Daeron arrived late and immediately sensed danger.
Which, unfortunately, made him entirely too observant.
“What happened?” he asked carefully while reaching for bread.
“Nothing,” Emma answered far too quickly.
Rhae choked on wine.
Daella kicked her sharply beneath the table.
Daeron’s eyes narrowed immediately.
“Oh no.”
“Eat your breakfast,” Daella muttered.
“I would rather hear why Rhae looks moments away from exploding.”
“I am being dignified,” Rhae declared.
“You are vibrating.”
Emma buried her face briefly in one hand.
This was unbearable.
Rhae leaned toward her conspiratorially anyway.
“For the record,” she whispered loudly, “I approve.”
“Rhae.”
“What? Father looks less terrifying lately.”
“He is still terrifying,” Daeron said dryly.
“Less so.”
“Marginally.”
Daella sighed deeply into her tea. “Can we all pretend to possess manners for five minutes?”
“No,” Rhae said instantly.
Emma wanted to disappear into the floor.
Unfortunately, things only worsened from there.
Because once breakfast ended and the household scattered into its usual rhythms, Emma finally began noticing it.
The whispers.
Not obvious.
Not cruel.
But present.
Servants glancing too quickly away when she entered halls.
Ladies lowering voices when she passed.
The subtle shift in atmosphere that came when rumor stopped being speculation and started becoming belief.
By midday, Emma fled into the gardens simply to breathe.
Summerhall stretched warm and golden around her, roses climbing pale stone walls, fountains murmuring softly beneath the sun.
Usually she loved it here.
Today it felt exposed.
“Lady Emma.”
She turned sharply.
Lord Rowan stood several feet away beneath an arbor, smiling too smoothly.
“I had hoped to find you.”
Emma inclined her head politely. “My lord.”
“You seem much favored lately.”
There it was.
Not direct enough to challenge.
Not innocent enough to ignore.
Emma smiled coolly. “Summerhall has always been generous with its hospitality.”
Lord Rowan stepped closer. “Some hospitality appears more personal than others.”
Before Emma could answer, another voice cut cleanly through the garden.
“Careful.”
Maekar.
The prince emerged from the stone path beyond them, expression carved from pure iron.
Lord Rowan immediately stiffened.
“My prince.”
Maekar’s gaze never left the man’s face.
“You appear dangerously interested in matters that do not concern you.”
Rowan swallowed. “I intended no offense.”
“No,” Maekar said quietly. “Only implication.”
The garden had gone utterly silent.
Emma could practically feel nearby servants pretending not to listen.
Lord Rowan forced a laugh. “Surely harmless conversation is not forbidden.”
Maekar stepped closer.
Not loud.
Not dramatic.
Far worse.
“Men who spend their time circling unmarried women like carrion birds should concern themselves less with gossip and more with dignity.”
The lord went pale.
Emma stared at Maekar in shock.
Because this was not subtle.
This was not careful.
This was openly protective.
Dangerously so.
Rowan bowed stiffly before retreating almost immediately.
The moment he disappeared, Emma turned toward Maekar sharply.
“What was that?”
“He insulted you.”
“And now everyone nearby will assume the rumors are true.”
“They already do.”
“That does not mean you encourage them!”
His expression hardened. “I will not stand silent while lesser men speak about you as though you are prey.”
Emma stared at him.
Gods.
There it was again.
That terrifying protectiveness.
“That,” she said quietly, “is exactly what frightens me.”
For the first time all day, something uncertain flickered across his face.
Not because she rejected him.
Because he finally understood how dangerous his care for her had become.
