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ladythornofrivia · 7 hours

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PSA to all historical fiction/fantasy writers:

A SEAMSTRESS, in a historical sense, is someone whose job is sewing. Just sewing. The main skill involved here is going to be putting the needle into an out of the fabric. They’re usually considered unskilled workers, because everyone can sew, right? (Note: yes, just about everyone could sew historically. And I mean everyone.) They’re usually going to be making either clothes that aren’t fitted (like shirts or shifts or petticoats) or things more along the lines of linens (bedsheets, handkerchiefs, napkins, ect.). Now, a decent number of people would make these things at home, especially in more rural areas, since they don’t take a ton of practice, but they’re also often available ready-made so it’s not an uncommon job. Nowadays it just means someone whose job is to sew things in general, but this was not the case historically. Calling a dressmaker a seamstress would be like asking a portrait painter to paint your house

A DRESSMAKER (or mantua maker before the early 1800s) makes clothing though the skill of draping (which is when you don’t use as many patterns and more drape the fabric over the person’s body to fit it and pin from there (although they did start using more patterns in the early 19th century). They’re usually going to work exclusively for women, since menswear is rarely made through this method (could be different in a fantasy world though). Sometimes you also see them called “gown makers”, especially if they were men (like tailors advertising that that could do both. Mantua-maker was a very feminized term, like seamstress. You wouldn’t really call a man that historically). This is a pretty new trade; it only really sprung up in the later 1600s, when the mantua dress came into fashion (hence the name).

TAILORS make clothing by using the method of patterning: they take measurements and use those measurements to draw out a 2D pattern that is then sewed up into the 3D item of clothing (unlike the dressmakers, who drape the item as a 3D piece of clothing originally). They usually did menswear, but also plenty of pieces of womenswear, especially things made similarly to menswear: riding habits, overcoats, the like. Before the dressmaking trade split off (for very interesting reason I suggest looking into. Basically new fashion required new methods that tailors thought were beneath them), tailors made everyone’s clothes. And also it was not uncommon for them to alter clothes (dressmakers did this too). Staymakers are a sort of subsect of tailors that made corsets or stays (which are made with tailoring methods but most of the time in urban areas a staymaker could find enough work so just do stays, although most tailors could and would make them).

Tailors and dressmakers are both skilled workers. Those aren’t skills that most people could do at home. Fitted things like dresses and jackets and things would probably be made professionally and for the wearer even by the working class (with some exceptions of course). Making all clothes at home didn’t really become a thing until the mid Victorian era.

And then of course there are other trades that involve the skill of sewing, such as millinery (not just hats, historically they did all kinds of women’s accessories), trimming for hatmaking (putting on the hat and and binding and things), glovemaking (self explanatory) and such.

TLDR: seamstress, dressmaker, and tailor are three very different jobs with different skills and levels of prestige. Don’t use them interchangeably and for the love of all that is holy please don’t call someone a seamstress when they’re a dressmaker

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ladythornofrivia · 23 hours

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THINK OF ME (part one) |

dark!aemond x septa!tyrell!reader 🌹

summary: a once princess from a noble house took sworn oath for the Faith of the Seven blossomed into a septa with immaculate reputation due to her gift and preserving her virtue until the fate encounters with the one-eyed prince. (Also inspired by Phantom of the Opera).

warning: stalking, r*pe, unprotected sex, non-con, dubcon, dark aemond, manipulation, obsessive, kidnapping, aemond being delulu

a/n: this sickness won’t go away 😭. my cough is still there. *sobs* here’s the new (and very short series). sadly, this will only be in two parts.

Chapter One

The Pious Rose

The most beautiful rose was hidden away from the gardens.

The rose meant to blossom, not wither. She wasn’t meant to be tucked in the rest of her life. (Y/n) wasn’t meant to be tucked in the shadows. She belonged in the golden daylight, surrounded with flowers and her companions, her servitude in the Faith of the Seven, a lady with a driven purpose for the greater good to the Gods in the Sept. Her fate is supposed to be hers and hers alone.

Her dignity, her honor, her virtue and morals, one that inspires love and peace.

Within this darkness, how will the bask of sun shine her with comfort—living in suffocation. How will she live?

Rigid walls greeted her when her eyes were open. Where is she? Her stomach ached with a sharp jab. What has transpired for your fate to be trapped in a lonesome room with no sunlight, no candles, no sound and touch of breeze gliding through the windows? The windows were shut—no, you were confined.

Like the light, her hope has dimmed, and the shadows of her qualms and debate within her outlive. In this darkness, no one was present to succor her distress. The tattered clothing on your sleeves dampened from tears she shed.

No mother or father or sisters to guide her back home.

No servant or subject would come to her aid.

No guard to escort her out of the darkened room that has confined her to flee.

No sound of laughter, or talk amongst folks.

The air is vacant. No one is to hear the voice but hers and the walls. And the door is locked. No way of escape.

The world felt so small and cramped, you weren’t sure if your life has been meaningful. Surely the Gods were testing you in this challenge.

The peace didn’t last when a heavy oak door boomed with long croak shattered the silence, flames pierced onto your sleepy eyes, until you met the eye of a certain shadow looming over her.

Several Months Ago….

It is said that the Gods had given grace to someone holy and pious. But you were the most holy and pious of all.

Since the days of wisdom, you are the most beautiful princess in all of Westeros, titled as ‘Golden Rose—the Rose In Winter and Sun’, ‘A Rose Never Wilted’—as you were born under a chilled winter under a golden sun, hence the given title. You’re the youngest of all Tyrell daughters.

Guests and family members of the court showered you with gifts, jewels, dresses and dolls that is twice as heavy and shiny with importance. Since when you were a child, you are cheery and bright; cheeks flush with health, as you grew older, your mind is constant with wit and daydream.

A gifted wit such as you shouldn’t be cast aside for a nobleman—whether handsome or hideous, young or old, sick or healthy—and to decay as a mother and a widow. And with your wit, you were also pious. Pious and cautious. For a young woman such as yourself, you’re wiser than others.

For years, you have not experienced duty, but all is thrive with a command with a snap of your fingers or whines in your voice to command. For someone young, courtship and marriage is not your intention. Your intentions are made clear to all with prying ears: you would never soil yourself to be bind by dutiful marriage and loveless vows.

Men.

Men are close to define as a beast.

Men are vile—filthy as if men are created from Seven Hells. Men are creatures that are made of fire and lust. Marriage is the death sentence to women as men being dutiful as killers and swordsmen at Night’s Watch, with their cocks gelded and their flesh smeared in sin. A woman’s body is as holy as the Sept, must be preserved and clean and mustn’t be driven with temporary hunger. The thought of your virtue being soiled by a man disgusts you, almost a phantom pain summoned between your legs, jab like a sharp knife. You shall never be clean again—overripe and tainted.

Undesirable, one which you can’t undo, with a child born in a mother’s belly was a monstrous and vile thing to give from an unmarried and unfaithful man—a beast hungered and scorched, burnt into the ashes of regret, unable to reverse the damage has been done. Frightened of a soiled reputation, as to avoid death, you must remain healthy with vigor.

You witness to all noble ladies, to whoever they consummate or shared pleasure with they’ve spent in secret upon a high nightfall, with their pleasurable sighs and moans, coming on their high, neglecting their noble duties, or how they gave a painful birth, you tend to avoid converse your peers and stayed inside, wandering in the gardens with flowers blooming just for you, as the canary birds chirped you’ve found yourself with reading or sewing or tending the birds in your pass time.

Most noble folks mistook you as shy, but in your heart, its grimace and resentment. At this rate, the noble ladies will likely to gain bastards than those with natural birthright.

No, it was never your destiny to tarnish.

You must remain pure.

With a life like yours, it’s perfect.

Almost.

House Tyrell has thrived since the dawn of time—the Age of Heroes and survived through fiery battles and clashing swords and broken oaths, traitor after traitor. Vows reformed and ruined by the likes of men’s lusty thoughts from their lusty cocks. House Tyrell went through all. How Tyrells became resilience is all thanks to lessons from experience—had been passed down generations to newcomers that breathed their first air.

Through beauty, through grace. Tyrells are clever and winsome and sly. Flower among flowers. But with flower with thorns are all the more dangerous.

It is said that your beauty is the fairest of all fairs. The day when you’re born, it is said you are bestowed by the Gods of Old and New. Since you were a child, all families brought together in peace. With you as a babe in a cradle, you are precious that when you were a child, you tend with animals and planted seed in the garden for flowers to blossom, for the grass become greener and brighter and clearer in the air. Sometimes you even sang hymns to the injured--animals, more particularly, to ease the frantic emotion that has been emulating.

But those are the days of past.

But you, as of now, you are made to forge your own destiny. With beauty and grace, you remained to use cleverness for greater good. When you have been informed of the lords’ son wanted your hand, you declined his offer—an offer of negligence and ignorant bliss. That is when your mother resented you.

Like flowers, beauty and life of love never lasts.

"She mustn't do this," your mother objected. "A young girl like her doesn't know what she wants. She preserve her status as a princess until she gives birth to children and cherish--remain loyal to her husband. That is her future accomplishment. Her reputation amongst men will be tarnish for eternity if she does this."

"We have other daughters, my love," your father said with a tender smile. "They have potential to be married off to the suitors."

"But all are not as pretty as she," your mother remarked, as the father's smile died. "She can't be spending her days in the Sept for the rest of her life. I have confiscated all of the books, locked them away so she wouldn't suggest or spark an idea. A woman's mind is as clear as a man's mind. One must give as a future mother and wife."

"This is the fate I choose," you reasoned your father, in determinable rage. "I must do this."

And so, you cast aside the crown, the future prospects of awaiting suitors, who constantly want your hand in marriage of great alliances, and transformed as a septa. Like your mother, few other members of the Tyrell family objected, but your father had the last say and committed to a subjugation of your apply for a challenging task. Although your father and older sisters and brothers shared their support, your mother's intentions are quite clear as it did everyone else's.

As the matter has settled, your mother stopped you midway. "You will regret, for that there are many dangers beyond the threshold. You shall die alone, and no one to love you. The knowledge in books meant nothing to a woman. Books will only give you delusions of idea and that inspires no love but the selfish dreams that you're meant to fail," she hissed.

She's no rose, but a serpent that leeches the flesh.

"I always knew that you're an insipid witch who inspires no love but resentment, as of others. I must remain clean and pious, ever virtuous and benign. I hope you remain bitter and ugly, so that you die alone in your bed, no one to love you. You have killed the love from my father and my siblings, for I want no part with the likes of you," you told her, and barged out at the doors.

Perhaps your thorns are sharper than theirs.

And so, the raven sent a word from the capital, and by dawn—days later—your status is disposed and born anew as Septa (Y/N), and said your farewells and head off, afar from Highgarden with a single tear dropped on your face, as you recalled your grandmother’s words.

Growing strong.

"Farewell, my family, my home, my life, my garden, my comfort..." is all you uttered.

~*~

In King’s Landing, the capital since the dawn of time—has reconstructed and instructed under Aegon I, the most well-known infamous dragonlord that one day overshadow Westeros with a dragon and fury, as well as Visenya with her stubborn grit, and Rhaenys with her peace and wit. Once upon a time, King’s Landing used to be called Aegon’s Fort, but before Aegon’s Fort, it simply used to be a giant forest. Until all three of the dragonlords’ combination of their superb qualities and giant beasts, they’re unstoppable. Therefore, it’d be wise to bow down and surrender, if not, you’d be burn with dragon flame.

Rumor has it when living in King’s Landing, you can afford all the things and wealth and status you desire, even for being a prostitute in one of the inns at Street of Silk, but you intended to avoid filthy things altogether.

Other whispers you’ve heard is the Green Queen, Alicent Hightower, often visited in the Sept. Queen Alicent shed her blood through heretics on praying to her gods for salvation, whatever it may be, prayers to Gods are as sacred as a woman’s maidenhead. Somehow you felt it was out of duty to remain clean, or rebuke the filth to remain clean.

Since the days you have resided in a newfound residence within a glorified kingdom, you immersed your time on tending the orphans and the sick, you tend to your prayers and studies, sometimes tutoring the commoners and bastards and nobles alike—sunrise until sunset. Sometimes the children liked it when you sang them to keep them distract in daytime, or when you sang to them in sleep, for they have no parents to guide them in the land of sin.

In your private quarters, you summoned the belongings you treasured in your luggages—several books, a ring and a doll. There are times where you have missed your family dearly in your heart. Dresses exchanged with robes, your shining hair draped and tucked by veil.

Every once in a while, in your sleep, when an overwhelmed perception intruded in your blank state of mind, you pressed the porcelain glass doll in between your breasts, stroking it’s stringed hair and embraced it tightly.

Somehow, you felt the doll is alive each time you spoke to it, sometimes sang, pretending to be as your family member. You are alone in the capital, but you will outlive the loneliness. But that feeling of loneliness spread, tears dropped, your heart hitched and clenched as if someone’s fingers pressured onto the bleeding organ in your chest after ripping your ribcage open.

"Please stay close to me," as you sang to the doll.

Each time your heart beats, the bell tolled in your ears and head on a slumbering nocturnal hour. In an otherworldly place, on the vast side afar from your former homeland, the bells reminded that King’s Landing is your new home.

To think of a good and peaceful life, think of prosperity and glory to your prayers, guidance to a fulfilled wisdom and grace and flourish as the purest soul to fly within Seven Heavens above is the only way after passing on from a life of blood and lust and wretched souls that are beyond saving.

Days had been busied, and days had been hectic and tedious. Shutting your eyes in prayer in front of a grand statue, mouthing prayers in your mouth that you knew by heart. Each time you utter another thought, tears threatened to spill once more.

But you hardened your consciousness and pressed on.

~*~

One day, when dismissed from duties, you ought to find time a seclusion away from books and scriptures—lessons you have dealt with rambunctious children and spiteful elderly on the other side of city. You attended there, tending needs and care for animals, as well. Tending to endless hours seems forever, no way of escape for isolation.

But alas, you found solace under a spare time on a new night--and you have done this several times in several night previously. The area is empty but the walls adorned in fresh red roses and outgrown vines, reminded you of your garden. It was perfect. Surrounded in a garden, light of moonlight pooled behind the tree. On a marbled bench you sat, you resumed with your stitching of a canary, and sang a song from a book you've last read.

The birds chirped alongside yours, as it remain peace, but melancholy. But with the company of feathered friends, you remain your heart steady and true. You have chosen this life.

But as of late, you grew self-conscious, wondering if anyone was spying on you, in case you didn't do your duty to serve the Gods. Therefore, the passing hour has grown dark and departed from a secluded area.

~*~

The underground tunnels of King's Landing was all but darkness. But with a torch placed upon the walls stirred a bit ease to your liking. You ought to company other sisters back to the main ground.

As of now, you didn't like walking alone, as your thoughts remained at the last converse with your mother.

"You will regret, for that there are many dangers beyond the threshold. You shall die alone, and no one to love you. The knowledge in books meant nothing to a woman. Books will only give you delusions of idea and that inspires no love but the selfish dreams that you're meant to fail."

Immediately snapping out of your dreary thoughts, you marched onward with a sewing fabric clutched to your chest. Tunnels rumbled and echoed from your footsteps, as you saw a glimpse of small light above you.

You were almost there.

The air in your breath held in as you felt a large hand grasp your mouth and waist, dragging you back in the dark part of the tunnel. Struggle you as fought your way out, your needlework dropped, dragging and trapping you, wedged between the rustic bars. Biting off his fingers, you scurried off, but caught in between his hands again. You bit again and again until he yanked the veil back, released a sharp wail as the scalp on your golden brown hair has tugged in brute force.

As you attempted to turn around, but a lithe and large retaliated by you turning back around. Behind you, the shadow of someone's trousers dropped, and bent you forward. With large hands gripped tight on your waist, felt a hot tip, his hips grinding you, and plunged it all the way in, blood trailing down on your legs.

You cried aloud as the cock jabbing in your slick cunt.

No, no--not my virtue. Anything but my virtue.

A man groaned in satisfaction as he plunged into you, positioned your wrists behind you, hearing the wet splat as his hips snapped harshly to your entrance.

"Please...no..." you begged, cried.

But the man ignored you.

As he reached his high, hot semen spilled, leaving you breathless and beaten. Bruises on your skin swollen with numbness and your hair--the veil undone, your tucked hair loosened with tangle. Leaning forward with your shaken hands support from fall, you didn't spare a moment to shed your tears, as your final thoughts head straight to the culprit. Your eyes dazed in confusion and hurt. Why would someone hurt the person who was trying to heal the weak and preserve and restore peace?

In your last moments of awake, your eyes glimpsed of a shadow strutting down at your direction, and passed out before a chance for you glimpse and run away.

Heavy footsteps caved in.

Like every flower, they wither.

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