About a week ago I had an idea for a silly little idea for a holiday season craft project: a yule goat about the size of a small dog (~20"x20") to sit in our street-facing garden window, with the orange Halloween twinkle lights underneath to make him look like he's been set on fire. Because Yule!
I made a basic wire skeleton and covered it in layers and layers of raffia, slowly building out the head, torso, legs, tail, and horns. I gave him a little billy-goat beard made from wheat stalks, and wrapped red raffia ribbon around him to hold everything together. Originally I had his horns more tightly coiled, but from far away he looked like a weird elephant or even a pig, so I restyled them as the very last step. But the horns have a nice curve to them now, so even though I had to undo it, it worked out for the best.
At sunset tonight we set him up in the window that faces out onto the street, with the twinkle lights underneath and coiling up his legs. After going outside to take some pictures, both Jack and I decided that the candles on the top shelf of the window (one which came on with a timer, the others which didn't) were throwing off the balance, so we've taken them out now, leaving just the Yule goat with his lights, and the hanging lanterns on either side.
I'm quite certain that our neighbors will be confused about what the hell we've put in our window to light up every evening for the rest of the year, but eh, I love my ridiculous little goat. If all the crows (and ravens!) hanging about haven't clued in the neighbors that we're a devoutly pagan household, I'm not sure a flaming Yule goat will do much to move the needle, lol.
I stumbled across this amazing production on YouTube while looking for videos about Yule/Winter Solstice that were more historically oriented, and oh my gods, I was not in any way prepared for this. Especially without context it was terrifying and weird and delightful, like the best sort of Yule traditions.
Daemon/Rhaenyra holiday fanfic (My Gift This Year Is You)
Daemon returns to King’s Landing to celebrate the New Year’s holiday with his family, and finds Rhaenyra waiting to greet him.
Holiday-themed Daemrya fluff, set roughly in the s01e01 timeframe, borrowing from canon but not really sticking to it in any relevant way. Inspired by the Folgers “Home For The Holidays” commercial, because how can you not?
1600 words, rated a very light T, flirty pre-relationship-y stuff, nothing too scandalous. Posted on AO3 under the same title and username.
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Ñuha Irudy Bisa Jēdarī Iksis Ao (My Gift This Year Is You)
Dawn had not yet broken over King’s Landing as Daemon guided Caraxes into a slow spiraling glide down towards the dragonpit atop Rhaenys’s Hill. He’d been away for years, but little had changed, certainly nothing that could be seen from above in the gloom that blanketed the city before daybreak. It was difficult not to feel as though he was stepping back in time with this homecoming, returning to the place where he’d grown to manhood. In a different year, long past, he might have expected his father to greet him at the Red Keep, or his grandparents, even. But he knew there would be no such welcome on this first day of the hundredth and twelfth year of the Targaryens’ rule over Westeros.
Since their grandfather’s passing, King’s Landing had been much more Viserys’s home than Daemon’s. In the eight years of his brother’s reign, Daemon had found more and more frequent reasons to stay away for moons or even years at a time, in Dragonstone or yet farther still in the free cities of Essos. He was his brother’s heir, it was true, at least until the Queen could produce a living son — but before his grandfather died, he’d been the spare while Viserys was the heir. That feeling of being extra, superfluous, unnecessary and unneeded, had never really faded from him. The moment Aemma birthed a boy to replace him as heir, Daemon would once again be rendered useless, and the knowledge kept him away from King’s Landing more often than he might have liked.
But, well— it was New Year’s Day. One hundred and twelve years since Aegon was crowned King of the Seven Kingdoms. Daemon hadn’t made it home for the last few, and he found he had missed it. The date was hardly noted in Essos, only celebrated by the few scattered Westerosi diaspora, or else marked by nothing more than a passing rude comment directed at House Targaryen. But here in King’s Landing, it was a festival looked forward to by all, lords and small folk alike. By midday, festive decorations in red and black and gold would line the streets, strung across alleyways and hung out of windows. At sunset the city would come alive with revelries, feasting and dancing and music that would last throughout the night, as the people celebrated another year of peace and prosperity under the guidance of the House they had once called Conquerors.
And for those descended from Aegon himself, it was a time to gather together as a family, to exchange gifts and strengthen the bonds of kinship that kept their House so strong. The ship he’d seen at anchor in Blackwater Bay spoke to the presence of House Velaryon, his cousin Princess Rhaenys and her family joining Viserys and Aemma for the holiday. There would be a feast in the great hall, the dancing and drinking far more exclusive than that of the smallfolk of King’s Landing, but no less joyous.
Yes, he had missed it, he thought as Caraxes landed in the dragonpit with a grace that belied the blood wyrm’s size. And though Daemon would admit it to none but himself, he had missed his family as well, these long years away. He and Viserys had never been the closest of brothers, but he missed him all the same. And he’d found an unexpected ally in their cousin Aemma, when she’d married Viserys and come to King’s Landing, and over the years Daemon had come to consider her more sister than cousin. Rhaenys and Corlys were good company, enough to outweigh all the bores in Viserys’s court and council. And then of course there was—
“Good morrow, uncle,” her voice interrupted his musings, as though thinking of Rhaenyra had summoned her by sheer force of his desire to see her. He knew her voice instantly, and didn’t startle at the sound of it, as though some part of him had known to expect her presence. Of all his family, he’d missed Rhaenyra the most. Of all his family, he held the most affection for his dear niece, especially as she’d grown into adulthood, her sharp and witty mind the only match for his anywhere in the court.
“I must have the wrong dragonpit,” Daemon said, turning and looking around as though to check his surroundings. From the corner of his eye, he watched the smile bloom across her face at his jest.
“This is the only dragonpit in King’s Landing,” Rhaenyra replied archly as she crossed towards him. “And the only dragonpit anywhere in the world where you might be greeted by family, this New Year’s Day. Or do you not recognize your own niece, after so many years away?” she challenged, one eyebrow arched to offset the grin still pulling at the corners of her mouth.
“A dragon could never forget another dragon,” he assured her with mock-solemnity. “Not even one so small as you,” he added, tapping her nose affectionately.
“That must be why I have been unable to forget you, either,” she returned, almost a challenge, “even when I sometimes might wish I could.”
He narrowed his eyes at her but didn’t rise to the bait. “What are you doing out alone this early?” he asked instead.
“I awoke in the hour of the wolf, having dreamed you would arrive with the dawn. So I took it upon myself to come and meet you and escort you back to the Keep, in case the King’s Guard has forgotten the face of their own Crown Prince, so long from home.”
“‘Rhaenyra The Dreamer’ doesn’t quite have the same ring to it.”
She laughed at that, in the easy and unrestrained way he knew she only allowed herself when they were alone. “I have not dreamed of the doom of our house, uncle,” she assured him. “Only you.”
“If you woke in the hour of the wolf, you must have foreseen my arrival just as I was departing. Prophetic indeed.”
“You did not fly all night?” Rhaenyra asked, a small line forming between her eyebrows as she regarded him with confusion.
“It’s a long flight from Essos,” Daemon said, “and Caraxes will complain if I ask him to cover the whole distance at once.” He pulled off his riding gloves to give the dragon an affectionate pat. Caraxes curved his long neck back towards them, where he was rewarded in his aim of receiving chin scritches from the Realm’s Delight. “We rested at Dragonstone before continuing on,” Daemon added, watching his dragon lean into his niece’s hand, “and left there hours after sunset to time our arrival with dawn.”
In the city beyond the dragonpit, tower bells began to ring, first only a few far distant, but then others taking up the call, welcoming the first light of the new year.
“Ah, there’s sunrise, officially,” she said. “Though I suppose I can forgive you for arriving a few minutes early. Happy new year, Daemon.”
“Biarior arlior jēdari, Rhaenyra,” he echoed back in High Valyrian, unable to keep himself from smiling at her. “I brought you something from far away,” he added, turning to one of the bags that hung from Caraxes’ saddle and sorting through it to find the small package he was looking for.
When he turned back to her, Rhaenyra rolled her eyes lightly. “We exchange gifts after the feast, uncle.”
“Ah,” he said, shaking a finger at her, “but I have another gift for you then, something more public. I had planned to seek you out to give you this in private, but thankfully you’ve saved me the effort.”
“I am not a child anymore,” she reminded him primly, “demanding extra presents at every nameday and New Year's feast.”
“Good,” he said as he took her hand and pressed the silk-wrapped bundle into her palm. “Because it isn't a gift for a child.”
With interest clear on her face, Rhaenyra carefully unfolded the layers of silk, revealing the necklace within.
“Do you know what it is?” he asked, watching her intently.
“It’s Valyrian steel,” she said as she ran one fingertip over the intricate pattern of interlocking circles surrounding a deep red gemstone. “Like your sword, Dark Sister.”
“Here, turn around,” Daemon said, taking the necklace from the bundle of silk and motioning for her to turn her back to him. She wasn’t wearing a necklace, he noted, and wondered if perhaps her prophetic dream had included something of this moment, as well. “Now you and I both own a small piece of our ancestry,” he murmured as he clasped the necklace and settled it against the delicate bones of her neck.
Rhaenyra let her long silver-blonde hair swing back into place and turned to face him again. The gem matched the red of her New Year’s gown, and Daemon wondered again about serendipity and prophecy and fate.
“Gevie,” he said softly in High Valyrian, at a loss of anything else to say. Beautiful.
He looked up to find Rhaenyra searching his face with wide, serious eyes. The eyes of a woman grown, not the girl on the cusp of womanhood he’d left behind so many years before. He held her gaze for a long moment, glad that he’d resolved to give her this present in private.
The invisible string around his breastbone that had always drawn him back to her pulled taut, and then Rhaenyra dropped her eyes down to the necklace, her fingers tracing over the surface again.
“In truth, you needn't have brought me any gifts at all,” she said, her voice strong but not ungrateful. In one swift movement, Rhaenyra rose up on her toes and pressed a kiss to his cheek. “Ñuha irudy bisa jēdarī iksis ao,” she whispered in his ear. My gift this year is you.
For the holiday this year we decided to put together a charcuterie spread of a little bit of bacon and steak, several kinds of cheeses, and fruits, crackers, and other accompaniments. It didn’t stay this pretty for very long, but it sure was delicious.
I’m trying to write, and Jack just came in from the kitchen, doing his best David Attenborough impression:
“The female carefully leaves the uncooked bacon within sight of the male. She patiently waits until his hunger has grown strong enough that he will discover it, and cook it without her prompting. She then swoops in, claiming her portion of the delicious crisp meat, secure in the knowledge that she has done her part to provide for their sustenance.”
I tried to call Jack’s bluff on getting into our ridiculous matching Christmas Eve red longjohns in the middle of the afternoon. Clearly I lost that bet.
