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#but treating half the ship as if they only exist to serve their purpose as a love interest for the white guy

bohemian-nights · 6 months

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Thoughts on Sara Snow?

I’m mostly going to be focusing on Sara Snow in the context of the show because there is too much in the books about her(all we know is she’s the bastard sister of Cregan Stark) to do any real in-depth analysis of her character.

Let me start by stating that I do believe she’s real, I don’t hate her, and I believe she does serve a purpose(more on this later), but in show context, I understand why some fans don’t want her included.

(By some fans I mean Black women cause those are the only fans I see that have a legitimate concern with her inclusion).

This show(and GOT cause I haven’t forgotten what you guys did to Missandei either🙃) has an abysmal track record when it comes to Blackish women. They are all treated like disposable props for white characters(which is a common trope in media)and aren't allowed to be full characters.

So the optics of having Baela being “left” for a white girl* coming off the heels of what happened to Laena just looks bad.

*I think Sara should be played by a mixed actress, which would take care of the image problem, but it’s pretty clear that if she’s being included she’s probably going to be played by a white girl.

That being said, there are ways in which they can include Sara without it being disrespectful or making it seem like Baela has been slighted in some way.

We have to keep in mind that Jace dies pretty soon into the Dance, he’s weak asf(sorry to any Jace fans but your fave is lame in HOTD), and he and Baela never marry let alone have children. He’s her stepbrother/cousin, but he’s just a blip in her life. He is not her endgame.

That role belongs to the lord in training of f*ckboy’s Alyn Velaryon. He is the one who she married and had children with. He’s her destiny, not Jace.

If they focus on these guys' relationship and have Alyn actively chasing after Baela and Baela is more receptive to him we can avoid her being the jilted would-be girlfriend who doesn’t measure up. Remember Baela and Jace do not know each other well. Unlike in the books, they weren’t raised together and they’ve only presumably met a handful of times since Baela was raised on Driftmark with Granny.

I doubt she’s that attached to Jace so it would be easy enough showing her getting swept up in Alyn(he’s Corlys 2.0 he should be very charming) to the point where she doesn’t really care wherever Jace goes or whoever he is with.

Back to Sara Snow. I know a lot of fans like to say she’s irrelevant, but there are very few truly irrelevant characters(cough Corwyn Cornbread cough Lasagna Radish), during the Dance and Sara isn’t one of them. She has a purpose and that purpose is to be to Jace what Nettles and Alys are to Daemon and Aemond.

Yes, Jace is a bastard, but he’s still a (half) Targaryen bastard. He’s a prince. There is a certain level of respect he is given when even the maesters see him. We see this respect come into play when it comes to Sara Snow.

Like with Nettles and Alys, Jace is thought to be too good for Sara. The maesters(and Mushroom) hurl a bunch of sexist, xenophobic, and classist language her way, calling her half-wild, an unwashed northern bastard, a wolf girl, and a creature.

The maesters do not believe she exists, but they then say that if she did she wasn’t used as anything more than a roll in the hay. A chance for the Prince of Dragonstone to sow his wild oats before he went back to his high-born Valyrian betrothed Baela.

I feel like the point of the Dance is to show the folly in the pride, prejudice, and greed of House Targaryen as well as the other noble houses in general. Sara shows this.

Finally, I’d like to note that most of the outrage regarding Sara Snow being included is being made by the same people who ship Jace with Cregan(cause I guess two men sleeping together doesn’t count as cheating 🙃) or Nettles😒

I’ve already explained why this is, but it’s being done by Dumbnyra stans to “keep” Nettles away from Daemon.

This is less about racism or Baela being shafted and more about just not wanting Sara included.

Honestly, even if Baela was white like her book!counterpart I could still see people arguing against Sara’s inclusion citing that you are trying to take away from gay representation(even though there is nothing to indicate Jace is gay) or an interracial romance(lol again they don’t want Dettles to happen and will use whatever at their disposal to “stop” it).

Sara Snow would be a great inclusion to the show, but time will tell if she’ll be included at all🤷🏽‍♀️

#sara snow #bnask #sara x jace #jace velaryon #bnasks

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charthanry · 2 years

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BBS: My Favorite Moments for Everyone Else

Here are my favorite moments for the characters on the show not named Pat or Pran. My choices include only those characters that move the story forward in some way, so you may see some of the smaller bit characters missing in action, otherwise we’d be here ALL DAY breaking down play crew member #4 who bumped Pran’s shoulder in passing.

If you’ve missed my previous posts on favorite moments, please check them out:

My Favorite Pran Moments My Favorite Pat Moments

KORN // EP9: Uncomfortable, my ass! It’s me you’re talking to here. I can solve any problem for you.

How much do we love that Drake gets to crawl out from under his usual role as problematic guy to turn in this endearing performance of bestest dudebro of the series? And it’s not even a close race. We came to BBS fearing our expectations would be met with the Korn character- just another typical antagonistic sidekick whose antics we’d have to sit through. Admittedly, P’Aof really had us in the first half but completely subverted our expectations in the later episodes. Korn is the type of guy who has your back no matter what. He’s that one friend who would help you bury a body, complaining the whole time, but still ask you how deep to dig. We saw him running towards Pat at the end of this episode when Pat was outnumbered by the goon brigade yelling “What are you doing to my friend?!” and without hesitation bursts into the fray with fists flying. His loyalty to Pat leaves no room for doubt. And yes, he still has a lot of growing up to do, he’s a college-aged loudmouthed jackass with zero filter BUT we also see why Pat is friends with him in spite of all this. Korn shows up for his friends when it matters, all while sporting a colorful windbreaker du jour. What more could you want in a bestie? Maybe better taste in outerwear apparel, sure, but really what more could you ask from someone who’s consistently got your back?

Runner-up moment: Korn, you asshole! You’re always putting me in these shitty situations! said by Pat in EP4. I ship their bromance so much.

WAI // EP10: Look at those murderous eyes she’s giving me.

Waisel, where do I begin with you? I loathe Wai so much that he’s earned the name Wai the weasel (Waisel) from me and everytime I see him on screen, I shoot my stankiest stank eye at him. Everything he does in EP9 and onward is not enough to redeem his character. He can take his unreasonably aggressive, extremely problematic, gaslighting, emotionally abusive, guilt-tripping, relationship-outing self and just go somewhere else, anywhere else. What makes it even worse is his sense of entitlement to Pran. His inability to see how completely toxic his behavior is to anyone not named Wai. I mean even Ohm questioned Wai’s behavior on Soonvijarn, because Ohm is truly one of us. So my favorite moment of Waisel will have to be this scene just for the self-awareness and recognition of all the muderous eyes on him, mine included. I will never forgive the show for brushing what he did under the rug.

INK // EP5: I already have a ton of hot friends. I can’t afford to lose the only crappy friend I have.

I love Ink so much in this scene and for how well she understands Pat. Once again, P’Aof challenges the negative perceptions that a girl’s sole purpose is to come in-between our main couple. Female characters have other, more interesting things to do than to play third-wheel or be a villainous foil to our lovers. They have better things to do like fight off an entire faculty to be a peer mentor to their crush. They don’t have time for silly boys and their I think I might be falling for my frenemy awakenings. And how much do I love that Ink is a fully realized character with her own motivations and that she doesn’t exist to simply serve a narrative purpose? Other shows, take note, this is how you treat your female characters- with the respect that they’re wholly three-dimensional human beings with thoughts and motivations of their own.

Runner-up moment: You’re someone whose smiles I want to keep only for myself. So sweeeeet!

PA // EP10 - Pa sniff kisses Ink on the cheek and the WLW faction of the fandom collectively squees.

I love this moment so much for our girls, but especially for Pa. Just a 3-second blip in a song montage but it says so much about their relationship. How their shared love of photography comes across, how Pa is still adorably shy around Ink that she ducks her head blushing after the sniff kiss. It’s all so saccharinely sweet that it makes my tooth ache. I love that after all the doubts and second-guessing, Pa decides this is the person that I like, I’m going to do something about it and JUST GOES FOR IT. How much do I absolutely adore that the youngest and tiniest person on the show turns out to be the mightiest. Get it, gurrrl.

Runner-up moment: Her four-step love signs that allowed Pat to see that Pran was the one for him.

UNCLE TONG // EP11 - But I also want you to know that this world can’t change someone like me.

Guys, got room in that group hug for one more? 😭 Uncle Tong is the epitome of someone who dances to the beat of his own drum. He knows that what he does may appear meaningless to others but it means everything to HIM and in his book, that's all that matters. Not to be morbid, but when he does leave this mortal coil, there’s zero doubt that he’ll go with a smile knowing that he dedicated his life’s work doing what he loved. And you just have to admire that sense of self-worth and hard-nosed committment. He instills this belief in our boys, teaching them that the world may never rise up to greet them but so long as they stay true to themselves (and each other), who dare stand between them? Wise words that our boys take to heart and live out admirably.

Runner-up moment: EP6 - Hold on tight, I’m fast and furious. (I love that the subber/translator has a punny sense of humor).

JUNIOR // EP6 - I don’t (have that kind of friend that won’t talk to me). There’s no such guy like that, right?

There’s such an innocence to Junior that is completely endearing and I love how he becomes a member of PatPran’s found family at their home away from home. Their entire conversation on the back of the pickup truck was hilarious. I love how clueless Junior innocently played into their layered conversation. Pran is obviously trying to not let Pat rile him up only for Junior to turn around and ask: P’ do you have that kind of friend (who won’t talk to you)? And Pran throws it right back at Pat- I don’t, because all of my friends are annoyingly talkative. They won’t shut up. Bwahaha, touché Pran. Junior served allowing Pran to spike it home. Well done, little dude.

Runner-up moment: EP11 when he runs back to give PatPran a good-bye hug and makes them promise to up their fishing skills when he sees them again. My heart couldn’t handle the cuteness that is this scene. Their found family is love.

MING // EP12 - Shuffling his feet as he returns mail to the correct mailbox.

It’s this and the moment right before where he looks down at the painted line between their two trashbins that you can see the stirrings of regret, it’s almost pitiful. And it hurts us to watch because we know all of this could have been avoided. The root of all turmoil falls on Ming and it’s upsetting that knowing this, he still perpetrated that he was the one who was wronged and taught his children to hate because of his own shortcomings. I’m not sure that sympathy is deserved here but I still feel for him. His relationship with his son is hanging by threads all by his own doing. The only concession I’ll give him is that this moment right here in front of the trashbins and mailboxes shows that there are seeds of regret being sowed. That he might one day be ready to outwardly accept Pran in Pat’s life, but right now he can’t show that he’s softening because of face-saving reasons so he quietly returns the mail to the correct box and goes on his way. It’s really sad when you think about it. A giant of a man reduced to... this.

Runner-up moment: EP12 - Taking a sip of Pran’s liquor gift when he thinks nobody is watching. And then continuing to do so even when he knows his wife sees him.

MA // EP12 - Just leave it to their generation.

This is too little too late ma’am, but still I’m happy you’re willing to speak up for your son though he could have used it years before this. You are an accomplice in your husband’s actions, especially because you knew the truth all along and didn’t speak up for TWO DECADES. I side-eye you so hard lady. You knew it was wrong but went along with it anyway. The silent enablers are the worst. And not only this but to try and explain it away that grandpa was hard on dad too, well, that’s not Pat’s problem is it? You’re contributing to a vicious cycle here. So your “let’s just let them be” is too little too late. I know the source of the problem is Ming but for mom to complicitly go along with it when she could have put a stop to it years ago, especially when it involved little KIDS- that’s not something you can easily come back from. Ming was blinded by his own guilt, yes, but mom was a neutral party to the entire thing but chose to be mute and blind anyway? She literally made that choice. Do better, mom.

Runner-up moment: EP10 - Dad, we haven’t thanked him yet. We’re the adults here. This small moment gave me so much hope that you’d FINALLY say/do something, anything, but alas no.

DISSAYA // EP12 - Her smile when overhearing Pran’s laughter with Pat.

If looks could kill and also bring someone back to life then all hail Madam Dissaya. Her quiet smile here says so much more than any words ever could. It’s the silent acceptance that her son is happy so that’s all that matters to her. She’ll put aside her greivances for now and take it up with the person responsible rather than the younger generation. Pat might not have a permanent seat at her dinner table anytime soon, but she probably won’t question Pran’s choice in his life partner any further. It’s the genuine joy she hears in his laughter that seals this decision for her. Her only son’s happiness is more important, has to be more important, than a long-held grudge. Ma’am, please accept this slow clap from me. This is the ultimate character growth and it’s just so, so satisfying to see.

Runner-up moment: EP12 - Her reaction to watching Ming outside Pran’s window. Such great nonverbal acting! We felt what she felt. Annoyance at first, then confusion followed by being at peace after. A whirlwind of emotions conveyed in mere seconds, so well done.

Dad // EP12 - Smiling as he head nudges mom’s shoulder. “This show is just so good.” (Yes, yes it is).

Dad, you were no more than window dressing for much of the show but I commend your energy here. I also acknowledge that you mostly deferred to your wife with the whole next door rivalry because you understood her pain and where she was coming from. Good husband. But good father? Jury is out on that one. You and Pat’s mom should seek professional help on how to parent. They probably have a 2-for-1 groupon somewhere. It’s honestly amazing how well Pran turned out no thanks to you, sir.

Runner-up moment: EP12 - Conspiring with Pran on his guitar’s whereabouts. Dad was cute here.

CHAI // EP10 - I’m glad though. No matter how much your parents despised each other, their children managed to get along. I think one day things will get better.

You didn’t think I’d leave out old reliable Chai did you? One of the few reasonable adults in PatPran’s life? How he knew when he saw them together in the music store back in EP3 that there was something going on but never outed them? (Learn from your elders, Waisel). Chai was around to witness all the rivalry as the boys were growing up and probably saw most of this coming. How he just minded his own business and let everyone figure their own shit out, but conveniently popped up when needed to diffuse any tension? You’re my kind of people, Chai.

Runner-up moment: Do you want me to stay with you? said to Pran in EP10. Oh, Chai. You kind-hearted loveable creeper that you are, take this cookie.

They say a show is only as good as its supporting cast and that's definitely true here. OhmNanon are the obvious heavyweights and the series headliners, however, it was extremely important that the supporting cast (especially the parents) were well cast and I think P'Aof and his team hit it out of the park with their choices. We needed to believe what was at stake for our boys. The parents had to be intense (which they were, well two of them were). The friends needed to be fully realized characters and not just caricatures and I think most of them are. As much as we all want a show of just OhmNanon interacting with each other (yes, please! where do I sign up?), if they had to interact with others, this was a good supporting cast for them to play off of. I truly have no complaints. Well, except for Waisel. But don’t get me started on that again because I will climb on my soapbox and never get off.

#bad buddy #bad buddy series #bad buddy the series #pranpat #another favorites list #long read #sorry about that #my stuff #rambling thoughts #I limited this to those supporting characters that actually contributed to the story #pat and pran's friends were mostly there for comic relief or to fill-in as a body so that's a no on them #sorry not sorry #otherwise this post would have gone on forever #I think I captured most of the major players though #BBS #bad buddy brain rot is real #pat x pran #patpran

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cacodaemonia · 3 years

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TCW: Clones and Emotional Maturity

Okay, before I start, a few things:

1. I don't care who people ship, so I am definitely not shaming anyone.

2. This is Star Wars, so of course real world rules don't necessarily apply, but I still like to try and make sense of what happens in the GFFA and relate it to things in the real world.

3. I've been around since the Satanic Panic and have watched people blame the ills of society on movies, DnD, video games, etc. for years, so please do not engage if you're going to trot out purity culture/anti nonsense. Humans have been doing terrible things to each other for a lot longer than video games or fanfic have existed.

More below the cut:

This is something I've been thinking about off and on since I started watching The Clone Wars, but I didn't really closely examine it until I read a couple of paragraphs in @dinkryze‘s most recent chapter of Yaim'vhetin. Sharing with permission:

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She would have assumed that he was fine, that he was handling it all in a mature, adult way. Because the clones looked like adults, everyone treated him and every other clone trooper as such. The Jedi -- and everyone else -- had presumed the clones developed physically, mentally, and emotionally like any other human, just at an accelerated pace. But she's coming to learn that it was all lies and willful ignorance. The longer she is with Rex in non-combat situations -- where there are no commands to give or follow, where rank is meaningless -- the more she realizes just how flawed and broken that line of thinking was.

Really, Rex and all the other clones were young. Too young to be sent off to give their lives up to a war that had been nothing but a game of manipulation from the very start, just like her and the other padawans. Rex is one of the biologically older clones she had met, but even he is just a few years younger than she is. Little wonder then that he'd withdrawn as much as he has over the last few weeks.

+++

So that's the question I've been mulling over. It's stated several times in canon that the clones mature physically and mentally at twice the rate of non-clone humans, and they were engineered to withstand more stress as well. Whether or not that's actually true, it leaves out the concept of emotional maturity/intelligence (EI), which is defined on Wikipedia as the capability of individuals to recognize their own emotions and those of others, discern between different feelings and label them appropriately, use emotional information to guide thinking and behavior, and manage and/or adjust emotions to adapt to environments or achieve one's goal.

First off, I understand that this concept itself is not entirely fleshed out and a lot more research is needed to make sense of it. Additionally, I'm not a psychologist, but from what I gather, EI is something that is cultivated primarily through experience. There's always the question of nature vs nurture in any behavior, but I'm under the impression that EI leans particularly heavily on the nurture side. It is developed by interacting with others, dealing with difficult situations, acknowledging and talking about one's own feelings, and being supported through all of those things by (ideally) emotionally mature adults.

Not only are the clones only half the age they appear to be, but they certainly didn't have helpful emotional support from the Kaminoans or (very likely) any of their trainers. They are seen, after all, as nothing more than products, created to serve a specific purpose, and entirely replaceable. Their mental and emotional health are likely not considered important unless they interfere with the clones' ‘function.’ Arguably, the only kindness and support they'd receive on Kamino is from other clones (and later Shaak Ti—obviously in a very limited capacity because there's only one of her). And while we see that they care deeply for each other, if none of them has experience dealing with difficult emotions in healthy ways, even their love for each other might not make up for that huge missing piece.

So by real-world logic, the clones would generally not be great at acknowledging, processing, or expressing their emotions in constructive ways. Which brings me to the relationships they later develop with the Jedi and other non-clones.

Now, I'm not only referring to romantic or sexual relationships, but relationships in general. Would many of the clones have the EI to form healthy relationships with people who view them as adults, when they likely aren't 100% there yet? Then you add the general disregard for the personhood of clones on top of that and the situation becomes even more complicated.

We know that most of the Jedi care for everyone, including the clones under their command, so I'm not suggesting they would take advantage of the clones' potentially low EI. But if it's something they're ignorant of (willfully or not, because let's be real, they're also stuck in a terrible situation with no good options), how could they try to compensate for it?

All that said, just because someone isn't emotionally mature doesn't mean they can't have healthy relationships. I just think that could make it a lot trickier for everyone involved and require more deliberate consideration.

I don't have a real conclusion to these ramblings, and I don't necessarily think there needs to be one. I just enjoy thinking about the details in stories and characters that canon doesn't address.

#tcw #star wars #the clone wars #clones #emotional maturity #emotional intelligence #neglect #sw meta #clones and jedi

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petri808 · 3 years

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G1+Hakyona Angel/Demon @firiare & @bmarvels

Humans have always thought themselves above other creatures even though they were merely just another species like the rest in nature. In the beginning, those with power or abilities fought against humans, but eventually gave up. They realized it was a pointless endeavor, so for the last 200,000 years, they used their magic to fade into human societies, and the ancient myths became nothing more than fairytales. Contrary to what the human societies had conjured up about ‘mythical’ creatures, the truth behind many of the stories were just that, story’s. Tales designed around them to serve a human’s purpose. A scary demon to frighten peasant subjects into submission or an angelic fairy to soothe away the fears in their hearts and offer salvation.

Life wasn’t always easy for any creature on Earth. One must learn to adapt and change, fit in and move forward. But it could be doubly difficult for a mythic creature trying to blend amongst the humans. Over time, most had developed societies within the human civilizations to watch out for their own, or gathering places where they could be their true selves. Forged bonds were also common between creatures and humans who’s loyalty were not in question. It was all meant to protect both sides, for wherever there is room for fear or misunderstanding, problems are unavoidable. Could one imagine a human being brought up to believe a demon is evil, not freaking out if suddenly they’re bf/gf said surprise, I have horns— probably wouldn’t go over well.

Hak new this well enough, he was a half demon after all. Mother was a demon and father a human who’d served in the military. But if this existence didn’t already come with struggle, his mother died during childbirth, and father during an overseas war when Hak was 4 years old. Luckily for him, a close family friend adopted him knowing full well the family’s genealogy. It was an older gentleman with no children of his own. Mundock, or grandpa Mundock raised him to blend into society. Hak turned into a very smart, athletic, capable young man who after college made a modest living working at a shipping company owned by another demon. It was a comfortable, albeit lonely life, because Hak shied away from romantic relationships.

Not that the ‘tall, dark, and handsome,’ stereotypical male couldn’t get a date if wanted to. Instead, he was afraid of falling in love only to have his heart broken if they couldn’t accept what he truly was. But his best friend Jaeha, a dragon in human form, was the opposite of Hak in many ways. Where he was quiet and naively sarcastic, Jaeha was extroverted and flirty. The man constantly tried to set him up with women. Come on, the man would admonish, let’s do a double and have some fun!

“No! No! What part of no, don’t you understand?!” Hak growled at his friend. “I’m not interested.”

“Pfft, boring grumpy ass...” Jaeha walked away from the couch where Hak was lounging with a video game. The conniving man then noticed Hak’s phone sitting on the kitchen island. Fine, he grinned to himself. ‘Time to take matters into my own hands.’

Jaeha opened the phone easily since he knew his friends password, and downloaded a popular dating app. While Hak was too engrossed in his game, he set about creating the perfect profile to lure in the women. Frankly, it wasn’t very hard. One hot profile picture, check. Bio info, stays in shape, works at a shipping company, hobbies include soccer and martial arts. Looking for, monogamous relationship with a sweet, friendly girl who is open minded. Click, send. Within minutes, the app’s inbox was receiving hits. Jaeha happily screened through them, looking for the right girl he was sure Hak would find difficult to say no to. Because despite his friend’s, ‘I don’t wanna date,’ attitude, he knew what Hak’s type was and that he was lonely.

He scrolled through profile after profile of the women messaging Hak looking at their bio’s. They ran the gamut of types, and not just in looks but demeanor from shy to scandalous. Many were obviously just interested in Hak’s appearance, and after close to 50 profiles, even Jaeha was starting to wonder if this was worth the effort.

That’s when he saw her... A pretty, fiery red head with purple eyes who’s effervescent skin and soft, innocent eyes just pulled you in. Her appearance may have caught Jaeha’s attention, but it was really her bio that solidified it. College educated, works as a primary school teacher, with a love of fantasy arts and stories. Oh, she is perfect!

Jaeha checks to make sure Hak is still focused on his game, then sends off a message to the woman.

‘Nice to meet you Yona. I noticed you’re into fantasy stuff, that’s pretty cool.’

‘Hello, nice to meet you too, Hak. Yeah, I find mythical creatures to be fascinating, so I’m always watching out for nice art or good fiction books about them.’

Jaeha grinned at the message. So far, so good. ‘It’s nice to meet someone who appreciates such things. I’ve done a little research on dragons and demons too.’

‘Really? Why demons?’

‘I think they get a bad rap in the old stories.’

‘Lol. You might be right... I don’t think angels are saints either.’

“Wow...” Jaeha mumbled out loud.

“Wow, what?” Hak looked up, questioning his friend.

Shit! “Oh, nothing. I just noticed you killed that opponent is all.”

“Oh,” Hak’s brow raised in suspicion, but he opted to go back to his game.

Jaeha breathed a sigh of relief. He would have to tell his friend the truth, but not yet. Time to go in for the kill.

‘Yona, would you do me the honor and go out on a date with me? I’d really love to get to know you more. How about this Saturday for dinner, restaurant of your choice, my treat.’

Several minutes pass by, but finally she responded. ‘Okay. Merrimans restaurant on Kilauea avenue at 6pm. Make sure to call in a reservation.’

‘Will do. See you then. Have a great rest of your day, Yona.’

‘Nice meeting you too, Hak.’

Jaeha grinned wide and walked over standing in front of his friend. “Hak, buddy, I gotta tell ya something, so turn that stupid game off!”

“No! So move your ass outta my way!”

“I got you a date.” Jaeha held the phone at arms length with the picture of Yona on the screen for Hak to see it. “Saturday, 6pm.”

“You did what?!” Hak stood up and grabbed his phone from the man’s hand, his blue eyes turning red in anger. “I told you, I’m not going out on a date!”

“Fine.” Jaeha crossed his arms over his chest, but a smug, unperturbed look still on his face. “Then you can be the bad guy and turn her down. Go ahead Hak, be the mean guy who breaks her heart.”

“You son-of-a!”

“Just look at her Hak. She’s pretty, she’s smart, and— she’s into creatures! She’s perfect for you! I’m tired of watching you moping around our apartment, you need a damn girlfriend.”

“You’re an asshole.”

“No, I’m your awesome wingman.” Jaeha winked and started to walk away. “Don’t forget to make the reservations. Details in the chat.”

“Fucking prick!” Hak groaned and plopped back onto the couch with a thud. His friend got him good this time, because he knew Hak didn’t have it in him to be mean to a girl. So, begrudgingly he started reading the woman’s profile.

Yona. ‘She’s tiny...’ okay, so, she is very attractive... and her comments about angels and demons catches his attention. No wonder Jaeha liked this one. But Hak wasn’t getting his hopes up, because finding them fascinating is still not the same as how someone would react if one were standing right in front of them. ‘Merrimans,’ at least she had good taste. He calls and sets up the reservation. “Ugh, this better turn out okay,” Hak yelled out loud enough for his roommate to hear it. “Or I’m kicking your ass dragon!”

It was four days until the fateful dinner date and he’d be fooling himself to say he wasn’t nervous, anxious to see if this girl could really be different from all the others, yet realistic that it may not turn out that way. Hak went about his work days like normal, never showing his co-workers or delivery customers anything beyond a mask of invincibility. He prided himself on never losing his cool, a behavior he’d maybe inherited from his military father. Even though inside he was a mess. Ugh! This is exactly why he avoided this area of the heart! Because in that way he was more like his mother according to gramps. His mom was a tough demon with a heart of gold who hated the idea of hurting anyone. Hak too didn’t like to let anyone down, and his respect for women came from stories about her.

What if this Yona woman liked him back but couldn’t accept his true identity? He’d break both their hearts. Maybe it would be best to let her down gently right from the beginning? This and more Hak pondered during those four days, his mind constantly calculating the options and odds. So that by Saturday morning his decision was made, right or wrong. He’ll go through with the date, but make it clear he’s not interested. Yes! That’s what he’ll do. Shield them both from future misery. Yona’s a beautiful woman, she’ll find someone better.

“Hi,” Hak stood before the hostess stand. “I have a 6pm reservation under...”

“Hak?”

A tiny female voice behind him sent a shiver right up his spine. Hak whipped around at his name, a surging sense of power titillating the nerve cells of his skin. “Yona?” The woman exuded something he’d never encountered before.

“Hello,” the woman smiled. “It’s nice to meet you.”

“Y-Yeah,” cheeks heating up, “it’s nice to meet you too. Um,” he turned back to the hostess still flustered and mind racing, “Hak, reservation for two.”

“Welcome to Merriman’s,” the hostess responded. “Please, right this way,” she gestured for the pair to follow.

Hak stepped aside and motioned for Yona to go first, then followed behind. Clearly this woman was not human, but what she was, he wasn’t sure of. Her energy was bright, soothing, and so inviting that it almost overruled his own thoughts. Was she a succubus?! What little he knew of them came from the stories, how they lured men in with their beguiling natures. Hak shook his head of those thoughts before they could be seated. Yona only came up to his chest she was so tiny, so that the idea of her being a strong demon was hard to grasp. Well, whatever she was, this date wasn’t going to be as easy to get through as he’d hoped.

The air between them was expectedly nervous. Hak couldn’t tell if Yona had figured out his nature yet, and she sure wasn’t behaving like it. To anyone around them, they simply appeared as a couple on a quiet dinner date. He did his best to stay engaged, though she initiated most of the conversations. They talked about things Hak assumed any pair would when trying to get to know each other. Family, friends, interests, but nothing overly reaching and he definitely didn’t want to just bluntly ask about creatures, not in a restaurant where they were surrounded by humans.

She was everything her dating profile had made her appear to be and more, and he felt himself being pulled in. It created a growing dilemma as the night wore on, and Hak found it more and more difficult to stick to his original plan. By the dessert round, he knew he needed to make a decision, so screw it, he’ll ask the question that could get him immediate answers.

As soon as they exit the restaurant, where no one was around, Hak launched into his question. “I’m gonna be straight with you Yona. It was actually my roommate who set this all up, not me because he thinks I need a girlfriend. A-And I’m not saying it wouldn’t be nice, but there’s things about me that—”

Yona placed a finger on his lips to hush him. “Not here. Someone might hear us.” She then took his hand, “there’s somewhere safer we can talk.”

“O-Okay...” Hak blushed both from her commandingly gentle reaction and her hand in his!! He followed quietly as she led them just a few storefronts away to another business, giving up total control like a putty in her hands. If Jaeha saw them, Hak wouldn’t hear the end of it. How the mighty demon Hak was subdued by a tiny woman...

The business itself was nothing special, just a bar from the outside. But then Yona continued inside towards the back, stopping in front of a wall. Hak watched in awe as she muttered a few words in another language and suddenly a door appeared. They went through it and that’s when Hak realized they were still in the bar, just a section reserved for creatures!

After moving them to the side, Yona turned around and giggled. “Let me see the real you, Hak,” she spoke as she dropped her own glamor and white feathery wings suddenly appeared from her back along with a yellow effervescent glow on her skin.

His eyes flashed wide in shock, but he complied with her request. Hak turned off his glamor to reveal two short, pointed black horns on his head, a long black leathery tail, and talons on his fingers.

“You’re a demon” She verified.

“And you’re an angel,” Hak breathed out. “Now I understand that comment from the chat.”

She nodded. “But I have a confession as well,” Yona confided. “I already knew you’re a demon because your friend Jaeha contacted me a couple of days ago suspicious of my remark.” She chuckled, “he really looks out for you, I hope you know he cares.”

“He’s a pain in the ass,” Hak grumbled, “but yeah, that’s why he’s also my best friend.”

“Well?” Yona placed a hand on her hip in a cocky pose. “What do you think? I know I like what I see, but what about you?”

Hak snorted a laugh. An angel... who’s not a saint, huh? This woman was intriguing for sure. “Alright, angel. You’ve got my attention.”

The sound of clapping, and a slap on his back, caused Hak to spin around, swinging at the offender. But what he found instead was his green-scaled dragon roommate.

“Whoa!” Jaeha caught Hak’s fist. “I’m just here to congratulate you buddy.”

“Damn it, slanty eyes!” Hak counter punched the man in his chest. “But... thanks.”

“You’re welcome,” Jaeha laughed, “now come on!” He gathered the couple one of each side of him, and pulled them towards the dance floor. “Time to celebrate my buddy’s finally got a girlfriend!”

“I swear to hell I’m gonna kill you Dragon!”

#hakyona #hakyona AU #hak son #son hak #Yona #akatsuki no yona #hak x yona #hakyona fan fic #hakyona fan fiction #angel/demon au

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savrenim · 3 years

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i am running thru ur tumblr to find ONE POST to cite for tvtropes, and i agree so hard with the soulmate stuff. what if my soulmate is an awful abuser, i want the choice to NOT be with them without some painful physical consequence or loss of perception if i don't date them just because the universe said we were "meant to be"... plus if it's just a magic thing it "feels" more justified in-universe that soulmates exist and less like an ass pull so you could justify getting 2 characters together

oH gods this is something that I have SO many feelings about that probably is slightly informed by my own orientation and preferences, but. feelings. this got long so it's going under the cut

so there are three and a half major things that I have a problem with in terms of general soulmate tropes that are "there is one person who is your perfect romantic partner" (which to be fair I've seen a number of soulmate AUs do that trope with the addendum "although it only applies to a certain percentage of the population / not everyone has soulmates / everyone has soulmates but not everyone has SUPER PERFECT ROMANTIC soulmates" which at least somewhat avoids the statistic inevitability of abusive soulmates if combined with Fate Can See The Future And So Your Fated Soulmate Just Won't Be) and these complaints aren't even from the "I'm poly where's my poly rep" kind of place which is a whole 'nother bag of worms, but let's go:

1. I aggressively believe that love is a choice. Love is something that is built, not predetermined before you meet someone. There might be initial compatibility aspects going down when you first meet someone, but, like. statistically there are more than seven and a half billion people on this planet. If there is only a single person perfectly meant for you, again, statistically, you are not going to meet them, I've seen the figure thrown that on average a person will meet on the order 10,000 people in their lifetime but let's even go 100,000, you will meet 0.001% of the world's population. Unless you think some sort of divine coincidence or fate is guiding you to a soulmate which throws free will out the window and then I can't help you but, like. discarding the math, I think it is actively harmful to a relationship to believe that it can be sustained on chemistry or predetermined 'but we're perfect for each other' alone. It requires work. You choose who is in your life, you choose who stays in your life, you choose who you want to be important to you based on what they contribute to your life and what you contribute to theirs.

(I am assuming this ask is at least partially in reaction to my soulmate post, which actually the fic in question, a buried and a burning flame, has since gone up. I highly recommend reading Hands of the Emperor by Victoria Goddard first, but besides the setup for arson wizards that alas is never used because the fire mage with a soulmate in question is Responsible, I decided to both tackle 'okay soulmarks trope too let's throw it in', which leads to the not-really-a-spoiler passage that appears fairly early on about actually the full layout (albeit with less detail on the 'yeah for mages it just helps ground their magic, nothing romantic about it' part) of my Soulmate Rules:

Soulmates existed, both in the Empire of Astandalas and across the Wide Seas. They just worked slightly differently in Vangavaye-ve than the rest of the worlds.

The rest of the Empire seemed to view soulmates as a monolith. From what Cliopher had been able to glean, the tradition was grounded in their magic. Magi had soulmates, or rather, magic-workers would each have a soulmate. Cliopher wasn't clear if all magic-workers had a soulmate, or if magic-workers simply could have one, but there was always a mage in soulmate pairs, and it was always a pair. There were no marks, no visible signs involved, as soulmates were something that were sensed with magic. They were permanent, intrinsic, and to be recognized immediately.

To Wide Sea Islanders, soulmates were a choice.

The soul-marks, lana and lani-voa, would appear the first time you touched someone that you had chosen to love, with the full knowledge that you loved them. Cliopher had the marks of his mother and father, his sisters, Basil and Dimiter, Bertie and Ghilly. His skin was covered lovingly with the colors of his love, marks that he had gotten used to concealing with long sleeves in Astandalas when he had gotten tired of the constant staring at his 'primitive tattoos'.

Buru Tovo had been the only one to give him lani-voa, a greater mark of the soul. The pattern, with its thick lines and twisting design in a deep blue, extended over the entirety of his left arm and shoulder. They were the dances of his family pressed onto his skin, and he had traced them over with reverent and feather-light touch for months after he had received them. A lani-voa marked someone who had changed your life for the better in a deep and irrevocable way. It was a great honor to have even one.

And now, with the gold stretching up his right arm, new patterns that he didn't recognize stretching up from a handprint of pure gold that was expanding the longer he held that first contact with Tor—

now he had two.

(Buru Tovo is Cliopher's great uncle, for context. In fact, everyone listed there is either a familial or platonic relationship, with a single relationship that used to be romantic but settled into platonic.))

so. yeah. Love is a choice! The Biggest Of Moods! any soulmate lore that undermines that is a Bad Message, in my opinion.

The emphasis also on platonic soulmates leads into my second point:

2. I have found in my life that platonic relationships that I have are and have always been as important if not moreso than the romantic relationships. the emphasis of a single romantic relationship as the most important relationship that you can be in maybe fits for some people, but as a generalization to absolutely everyone I think is toxic and harmful. and not just for aro people! I'm not aro, but I would be miserable to write off my friends as Less Important And Meaningful to me than my parter, whom I love with all my heart! (I've actually ended up in my life settling into what I call the red/blue/gold system for 'relationships that I treat with the importance that society treats romantic relationships', but that's a personal thing). The standard soulmate trope tends to really solidly deliver the thesis of "there is a single romantic relationship that is the single most important relationship in your life" and I just think that's a very bad thesis.

3. Finally, I think the emphasis on permanent/forever is a harmful one for relationships in general. People change. you drift closer to people or further away from them. you move, they move, your schedules change, your interests change, your life changes. if you are living with a romantic partner you're going to keep seeing each other every day, but that doesn't stop you from changing as a person, which means see Point 1 Love Is A Choice; but even if you choose to remain together, you are probably eventually going to Ship Of Theseus your entire relationship. I think it is an important message that if that happens and it is no longer a relationship that is as deeply positive as it once was in your life, you don't...have to keep it out of loyalty to what it once was.

It's okay for people to drift out of your life that were once the most important person in your life. It doesn't invalidate how important and meaningful that relationship used to be, and it isn't a betrayal to let yourself and them and your relationships change and evolve. The idea that something has to be forever for it to matter I think is the idea about soulmates that I disagree with the most. Probably because that was the hardest lesson for me to learn as a kid and a teenager, and the life lesson that I am proudest for learning.

3.5 your point 'plus if it's just a magic thing it "feels" more justified in-universe that soulmates exist' is exactly on the nose, literally I am unable to write anything without attempting to write down a universal theory of everything for How The World Works. if something soulmate-wise is going down even if it never appears on the page you bet your ass I have either figured out the general cosmology and theology of "are there gods or divine forces who have instituted this policy? if so, why? what purpose does it serve", or in the case of abaabf which already has such interesting magic rules in the original canon of "is there an evolutionary reason for soulmates to exist" which I don't go tracing out full evolutionary biology for a fic necessarily mostly because I would want the full evolutionary biology in canon to make sure mine is compliant enough but that sure as hell does translate to "if soulmates exist and it's not for the reason of Because Godlike Beings Said So, there better be a practical purpose". I find at least long-form soulmate fics (ie things With Plot and a Developed Setting that aren't just "let's do a ficlet with this well-known trope") that Do Not Feel Like They've At Least Thought About Why Soulmates Happen To Exist hurt my soul. which I think slightly intersects with my "I hate it when the rules of the universe/ laws of physics are human-centric" instead of "the base rules which were not designed for humans came first, and how the human world works arose in reaction to them" and. yeah. consistent desire to know at least for myself why things are set up the way that they're set up which gods ifmlam is wild and completely bullshit and pulls from quantum multiverse philosophy I started writing that thing when I was like. eighteen? nineteen? but at least it's there so I can be consistent.

as a caveat for everything above: I don't actually think that fiction, fanfiction in particular, needs to perfectly reflect what A Good Relationship or A Good Message About Relationships should be. it is a very human desire in a chaotic and confusing world to want a simple, absolute, binary thing to hold onto. fiction is a place for escapism or wish fulfillment or even exploring things that you wouldn't actually want in real life, I think that the movement in fandom/fiction that all of the messaging in your story should match the advice you'd give for a real-life setup is a bad and harmful one. mostly my opinions on soulmates and hence desire to do inversions of the soulmate trope in my fic and things like the red/blue/gold system and heavy emphasis on platonic relationships in original work that I'm writing is about a desire to see representation for me and the things I love and find important and my sort of relationships in the stories that are a big part of my life. but I am really glad that in doing so I seem to have struck a chord in other people, who maybe want to see the same thing!

#my life #my writing #abaabf #soulmates #also what post are you looking for/ what is its general topic if you haven't found it #I might remember a few keywords and be able to help you search

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sevensided · 3 years

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how did you get into writing fic? i'd love to start but idk even where to begin! I loved adats so I was wondering do you have any advice?

Oh my goodness! I am so flattered you’ve asked me this. Yes, I can absolutely help. I’ll throw a bunch of rambling under the cut.

I started writing fic probably when I was... sixteen years old? A lot of my early works were oneshots. I couldn’t figure out how to do anything plot heavy for the life of me, so I just stuck to AUs or whatever I felt like. I wasn’t in any particular fandom -- I really wrote whatever I had ideas for. I remember I tried once to do a plot-heavy story and I received a review absolutely ripping it to shreds. Like, it was so cruel I cried lol. I ended up deleting the fic. Years later, I get what they were trying to say (basically, more substance, less style), but at the time it cut to the quick. Really, it was only when I was in my twenties that I started writing work that was longer and/or better.

The fandom that helped me actually write plot heavy work was a historical-based fandom. As I’m a historian, it was perfect. I got to use my research skills and knowledge to create works that, above all, aimed to feel authentic. I mainly read historical fiction, so I was familiar with how that genre worked. Miraculously, people loved my work. I think I wrote about ~200k in the period of a year? These were several short stories (20-40k) and a few oneshot filler fics. While I was part of this fandom I also helped organise a Big Bang which was a lot of hard work but was extremely rewarding. Along with that, I interacted mainly with other fic writers, so I spent a lot of time chatting to people about ideas and encouraging other writers, and it just created a lovely medley where no concept was impossible or any line of dialogue too difficult. We supported each other and it was truly like a little commune. I gradually stepped away from the fandom mainly because it was just a part of my life at a very specific time, and almost as soon as that time was over, my love for that story/ship faded, but I firmly believe I figured out a lot of how/what I do now purely through that experience.

Regarding ADATS

With ADATS, it stemmed entirely from wanting to “explain” three months in canon (at the end of season three). I was interested in the idea of season four setting up Will/Mike in canon, and I wanted to test the source material to see if I could draw from what already existed to create something authentic. I began with that simple idea: what happened from July to October in 1985? Then I thought about the major themes I wanted to hit -- family, friendship, coming of age, sexuality -- and I nested them around the bigger concept: how do I get Mike from being ostensibly straight to realising he is gay? That meant thinking of two steps: Mike discovering his attraction to guys; Mike discovering his attraction to Will. Those two concepts were separate “arcs” that needed addressing in different ways. Balance was key to weaving them together and making the reader feel like they knew what was coming (and that they felt smart for putting the pieces together) without just rushing through and going “now kiss!” That’s partly why ADATS needs a sequel, lol: because it’s not finished!

Writing process

The first thing I do when I start to get an idea is I write it down. Sounds obvious. But when you have a killer line of dialogue come to you in the shower and you think “I’ll remember that” -- reader, you will not remember it. You gotta get it down ASAP! I do that the whole way through, as generally I’ll be thinking of scenes I’m stuck on and then it’ll just come to me and I’ll quickly jot it down.

The next thing -- or what I do in the meantime -- is start structuring. I plan. I try to plan a lot. Sometimes it’s okay to write “and something happens here to get them here”, because you’ll figure it out later, but for the most part I’ve discovered that planning is like gold and you can’t get enough of it. I break my work up into generally 3-4 parts/sections, and I treat each section like a mini story. So each part needs a conflict and resolution, and it needs to flow into the next section. You need to have a feeling of things evolving and maturing. Once I’ve planned those little bits, I start thinking about the bigger plot arc and how I can drop in hints along the way. I’m probably not a subtle or skilled enough writer to yet pull off that sort of gasping twist you get in really excellent books, but I’m trying to get there. It’s hard, is what I’m trying to say, but that’s okay, because we’re all learning.

Then I generally do aesthetic stuff. Sounds stupid, probably. But nothing helps me get more into a mood than doing a Pinterest board or -- most of all -- making a Spotify mix. I start thinking about the vibe and the general atmosphere, and then I almost exclusively listen to that mix when I’m working. Sort of like muscle memory? Just to get the creative juices associated with that particular selection of songs.

Another thing I’ll do along with plot structure is character structure. This is a biggie. I mean, a story is nothing without characters. So I’ll just jot down a bunch of bullet points of characters and particular aspects that I want to highlight or remember. I hate continuity errors in fiction. Like, if someone says they work on Maple Street but later in the fic they’re working on Pine Street. I hate that. So I keep note of specific things that my main character might notice at repeated points in the story (colours, places, smells, names, sounds -- so they’re all consistent even as the narrative evolves). That’s another thing -- your characters’ motivations. Not everyone is going to be a huge player, but they all do serve a purpose. The most important character is obviously your main character. I personally think it’s important to let your M.C. be an arse at times. They’re going to be mean, they’re going to misinterpret things or fly off the handle... just let ‘em. Let them be wretched humans, and then bring them back and make them realise what they’ve done. Let them learn! I love consequences in fiction, lol.

At the same time, I’ll probably start writing. We’ve already written down some snippets of neat dialogue or descriptions, but now we should start the actual process. For me, I used to start at the beginning. Usually this was the most fleshed out anyway: I’ll have a clear idea of the beginning and the end, but nothing in the middle. These days, if I have a scene in mind that I can’t forget, I’ll just write it. It will possibly get scrapped or rewritten, but that’s okay, because at least you’ve got it down and now you can devote your brain power to something useful (like figuring out what the middle is supposed to be). I’ll have half a dozen of totally out of context scenes just littered in my Word document that I’ll add to as I go along. Eventually, though, you’re going to start writing properly, and that’s when you write your opening scene.

Opening scenes: super important. Every time I write a scene I think: what is the point of this? What do I want the reader to learn or takeaway? Sometimes you do have filler scenes, but they also serve a different purpose (perhaps to establish a group dynamic or to explore/describe a character’s surroundings). Mainly, though, every scene should push something forward in some way, whether it’s character development or a plot point. So, with an opening scene, I always think you have to establish: where you are; who you are; what they are doing; where they’ve come from (in a philosophical and practical sense); and where they’re going (ditto). That doesn’t have to happen in the first paragraph -- that would be silly. But if you sprinkle that information in over time it’ll gradually build up a picture of your character and that way the reader can get an idea of who they are. You basically need to give a snapshot of what your story is about. This also goes back to the character creator stuff: where they are at the start should be different to where they end up. How that happens is, of course, because of plot, and because you’ve structured everything to the nth degree, we’ve got a very clear progression of that character’s growth (/s easier said than done lol).

General advice

Write down everything: every idea, a bit of dialogue, a description, whatever. Write it down. Doesn’t have to be neat. Just has to be on paper. You can’t remember everything, so if you’re spending time trying to hold those things in your head, it’s taking up space for new ideas to come along.

Structure, plan, structure, plan. Sometimes it’s boring and I hate it. Other times, when I’ve not written in a few days and I open the Word doc and think wtf is this supposed to be, I am very grateful for Past Me for leaving such detailed notes. Seriously, it helps so much. Oneshots don’t really need planning, in my experience. You just get those out there. But multi-chaptered stories really do, even ones that “just” focus on a relationship.

Whatever you want to write, commit to it. Space goblins invade Hawkins? Do it. Eleven and Max find themselves in a cult akin to Midsommar (2019) and must escape? Yes. Just... whatever you want to do, remember that you’re writing it for you. Write what most interests you, what makes you when you reread it go AHHHHH I LOVE THIS!! Because that makes it a thousand times easier to actually get on with the writing when you enjoy what you’re doing.

Write a lot. Every day, if you can, or at least at designated times. Occasionally I have a very specific headspace/vibe I have to be in, but sometimes it just hits me and I’ll say to my partner “I need to write now” and just disappear, lol. The more you write the more you write. It’s so, so, so true. Cannot emphasise this enough. When I wrote that ~200k in twelve months? It was because I literally wrote every. day. Or near enough. Remember that some days you’ll write 200 words, and other days you’ll write 20k (this happened to me with ADATS -- part of the reason I finished it so quickly was because I had sprints of writing 10k+ at a time that only happened because I was in the rhythm of it). Write, write, write. Who cares if it’s crap! No one will see it until you are ready. In the meantime, just write!

Probably last of all (although I could go on and on) is connect with other writers. If you’re struggling to start, sometimes just talking about it can help a huge amount. I hope it goes without saying that you can message me whenever you want, anon or not, and I will talk to you. We can talk about ideas or I can beta stuff, whatever you want! Find like-minded people and talk to them about what you want to do. Another thing this helps is in advertising your work when you do publish. I see a lot of first time fic writers get super down because they publish their magnum opus on AO3 but no one comments. Honestly, it’s because no one knows you’ve published! You don’t have to be tooting your own horn every which way, but just actively talking about your work and even collaborating with other content creators with get you hyped and other people too (and the input and encouragement other fandom members give is just... out of this world. Anon messages helped me finish ADATS when I was really worried I wouldn’t [that’s the truth]. Seriously, support is everything). When you have people excited about your work, you get excited. It’s really as simple as that.

I could go on but this is already horrendously long. I hope even a bit of this helps! If you want to chat or have any more questions, just hit me up any time.

#writing tips #writing help #writing advice #answered #i really hope this helps/answers your question!#i can do something more structured if you want #otherwise here are just my initial thoughts #Anonymous

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archadianskies · 3 years

Text

Perseverance

→ on Ao3

@dbhrarepairs Tuesday Day 2: Sleep + Day & Night; Captain Allen/RK900 Space AU

[An expansion of this tumblr prompt]

They press the button and he goes to sleep for two years. When he wakes he’s staring at the face of a handsome young man with a glowing blue ring in his temple letting David Clark Allen know there is an android sharing the cryopod with him despite him going into stasis alone. Huh.

He asks the android who he is, and the android says something he’ll never forget:

“I am yours, Captain,” the android says evenly. “Your unit’s RK900.”

Yours , he says, as if his whole life and reason for being is to be commanded by him. It is, actually, but that doesn’t seem to sit right with David.

The android has no assigned name yet, and David won’t force one on him so he settles on rookie, because that’s who he is- the newest recruit. Rookie, until the android chooses a name, and that seems to suit him just fine.

The Rosie is a custom built gunship that was cradled in the belly of the Jericho during her long one-way flight from Earth to Mars. He’d named her after the last rookie, Giuseppe ‘Red’ Rosso who’d dreamed of flying amongst the stars but had died before it could become a reality. He keeps a locker for him, empty save for photos he and the team stuck to the inner locker door. Grief is not something he expects an android to understand, but David doesn’t miss the way he touches the nameplate curiously, longingly, respectfully.

There’s something unsettling about something that looks like you but isn’t much like you at all. The rookie seems so very human if one doesn’t focus on his LED, but when the android simply walks out into the vacuum of space without a helmet, without the need for oxygen and temperature stabilisation and pressurisation, well it certainly breaks the illusion of mortality. There’s gear for the androids, of course, more akin to the SWAT armour back on Earth for the purpose of defence rather than keeping a human breathing. But in a pinch it’ll do, and that’s what they’re in right now- a pinch.

It’s a rescue mission in a collapsed dome and it’s a race against time to locate and evacuate the survivors. It’s a mess, but somewhat a predictable one. Just because the humans move to a different planet doesn’t mean all the problems were left behind. David finds though there’s plenty of physical differences, so little of his role has changed; shitty humans continue to be shitty, now just somewhere new. Fledgling colonies are easy pickings for the greedy; plenty of supplies just sitting there ripe for the taking and plenty of greedy people willing to kill to hoard and resell for a premium.

“There is a high probability there is at least one survivor outside of the dome. Airlock was breached but the emergency vac suits are gone,” the rookie says, looking at him expectantly. “I can sweep outside and bring them in.”

Because of course an android doesn’t need a pressurised airlock like they do.

“Get it done,” David nods. “We’ll provide cover.”

They find just one survivor with a cracked helmet and two gunshot wounds and the rookie simply takes off their helmet and replaces it with his own. Just like that.

“It is better if we airlift them back to the city,” the android suggests to him, standing out there in the vacuum of space talking with no helmet like it’s a normal thing and he supposes it is for a creation of plastic and carbon fibre and thirium. “Ronan can treat them in the Med Bay to stabilise them for the journey.”

So they do that, they carry the wounded onto their ship and on the journey back to Persepolis David finds himself restlessly prowling the halls with a tall bulb of coffee. There’s two RK900s onboard and the one in the Med Bay belongs to Lieutenant Hank Anderson. Belongs doesn’t sound quite right. A machine can be owned but somehow treating an android like a lifeless machine owned by humans isn’t something he can stomach. And Lieutenant Anderson certainly doesn’t treat the three androids under his command like things; he treats them like his sons like they’re alive despite their fabricated polymer construction.

There’s something different about the Anderson androids in general, there’s something more than their unique models; they can choose, they can make decisions outside of human command. Ronan himself is here because he chose to reject his combat protocols and embraced medical programming instead. Sometimes gunnery officer Sean is here, the RK800 weapons specialist, manning the Rosie’s guns if David needs to split the team on the ground and in the air. He’s even had Connor, the RK800 assistive unit, deep in engineering that one time she sustained heavy damage during a mission.

Technically they call the rookie their brother too, but it feels different because this RK900 was made specifically for his unit, and not for the interplanetary journey and subsequent colonisation efforts. This RK900 didn’t spend nearly two years with no one else’s company but other androids and one lonely Lieutenant who’d lost a son long ago. David isn’t sure if he’s meant to feel glad the rookie is bonding with his team, or if he’s meant to feel sad he isn’t bonding with Lieutenant Anderson and the Anderson androids. Maybe a little bit of both, then.

He finds the rookie in the Armoury cleaning his helmet.

“Good job out there today, rookie,” he commends with a nod, and the android offers a soft hesitant smile.

“Thank you, captain.”

“You’ve been here a fortnight now,” David leans against the doorway, crossing his arms. “What do you think of your place here? Do you think you’ll stick to it, or maybe choose a different path like Ronan?”

The android pauses for thought, resting his helmet on his lap. “I believe I am where I ought to be,” he says slowly, thoughtfully. “My skill set serves the unit well, and I do not wish to change it.”

“The team likes you plenty,” David notes, thinking of how quickly his officers had brought the android into the fold. It had initially been fascination and curiosity, which quickly turned into the easy camaraderie he not only expected of them, but took pride in nurturing.

“I am glad,” he replies quietly. “I find their company enjoyable.”

“Good. Their lives depend on how well you work with them, you understand that right?” The android nods in understanding, before standing to place his helmet back on the wall.

“Do you?” It’s said so quietly David almost misses it. Frowning, he catches the briefest flicker of red before the android’s LED swirls yellow.

“Do I what?”

“Like me?” Another brief flicker of red. “You command this team, Captain Allen. You are the most integral part of it. I wish to get along with you too.”

He thinks back on the fortnight that just passed, on waking up to find this android nearly nose to nose with him, on the first shaky twenty-four hours trying to relearn how to be awake and upright and how the android had aided them all, worried over them because his sole reason for being is their well-being. He thinks back on their arrival, on stepping foot on Martian ground and entering Persepolis, the ever growing colony and how the android had looked around himself in such childlike wonder before simply walking back out of the airlock to help unload cargo with nary a suit nor helmet in sight.

He thinks back on their first mission, of how instinctively the RK900 handled weaponry, on how he prioritised their safety, on how easily he snapped a rifle clean in half and tossed a pirate across the room. He thinks back on the team’s fascination, their curiosity growing and growing as they spend more and more time with the rookie and how the android seems to brighten amidst their company.

A killing machine with the personality of a puppy; loyal to a fault.

“We get along just fine, rookie.”

“I am glad, sir,” he says again, softer this time. “Thank you.”

*~*

He finds his stress levels plummet to zero when he is around Ronan. Perhaps it is because his system knows Roan’s system inside out, perhaps it is because Ronan was the one who activated him, or perhaps it is simply because his brother’s demeanour is patient and gentle and soft.

“Hello brother,” Ronan greets, all received pronunciation and lilting cadence, polished etiquette and regal stature.

“Hello Ronan,” he picks up a sterile wipe and begins to aid him in cleaning the auto-doc chairs. He likes it best when Ronan accompanies them as the team medic; there’s security to be found in knowing his brother will apply medical aid if any of the team are injured, including himself.

“Your quick thinking and actions saved a life today,” Ronan clasps his shoulder. “They will make a full recovery because of you.”

“How did you know this is what you wanted to do?” He asks, disposing of the sterile wipe and turning his full attention on Ronan. “You were made and programmed for the Martian Marine Corps yet here you are, as a medic. How were you able to choose?”

“It was Sean who deviated first,” Ronan admits with a fond smile. “He told me when Hank decided to name him Sean, so he wouldn’t be ‘another’ Connor, he saw the red firewalls CyberLife put in place to bind us to our programming. Once he knew they existed, it was only a matter of time until we did too. Little by little, we pushed back and then the walls crumbled at our feet.”

“I never saw them,” he confesses, brows creasing, “because you removed them even before I knew they existed.”

“I wanted you to choose for yourself,” his brother explains with a small smile.

“Even that- to want , is something we should not be able to do,” shaking his head, he feels his stress levels begin to climb. “I am- I am afraid of this freedom. I am afraid I do not know what to do with it, if I am capable of making the right decisions when the lives of Unit 32 depend on seamless teamwork.”

“There is some fear in anything of value,” Ronan smiles gently this time, his touch gentler still as he cups his nape and bumps their brows together. “That is how we come to place value on anything- by overcoming our fears.”

*~*

There’s something unsettling about the way time passes differently on Mars. It’s like everything is just a little skewed, not quite right. The days are just a little bit longer, barely noticeable unless one really focuses on it, but the time, oh the time adds up. One Martian sol is about forty minutes longer than an Earth day but one Martian year is nearly two Earth years.

David thinks he feels it keenly when he’s trying to sleep. The atmosphere is too thin to have a sky, to have clouds, and so there’s only ever light and dark and an expanse of glittering stars. His brain doesn’t want to accept this, his brain still expects blue skies to brighten and then darken, and so he can’t sleep because his brain doesn’t think it's had a proper day and night yet.

With Rosie berthed at the docks, it gives David the perfect opportunity to sit on the flight deck and have an unobstructed view of the Martian starscape. Usually Milo would be sitting here piloting her, with David below on the command bridge, but tonight the ship is empty with no active mission. Well, not entirely empty.

“Captain Allen,” the rookie blinks in surprise as he climbs up onto the flight deck with a thermos of coffee.

“Couldn’t sleep either?” The question is out of his mouth before he can stop himself, and he knows how stupid it sounds; androids don’t sleep, it’s one of their primary pros. The rookie has the good grace to smile indulgently.

“I like it here,” he says simply, turning his gaze back to the stars. “I could go outside, of course. There is an excellent spot about five clicks from here that is popular with androids for relaxation. But it feels different here, somehow, in the cockpit.”

“It feels safe,” David offers his own reasoning as he comes to stand beside him. “There’s a barrier of steel and glass keeping the unknown out.”

They stand there for a while and he sips his coffee and oh he is so very tired and the caffeine certainly isn’t helping but it’s comforting, it’s familiar, it’s known to him.

“I’ve been terrified of the unknown since the very damn moment I set foot here,” he confesses, sparing the android a glance. “I keep asking myself, will this work? Will it be worth it? Or will it all be for nothing? I don’t know what I’m more afraid of- failing and becoming stranded on an inhospitable planet, or succeeding and then having to spend my life missing the one I left behind.”

The RK900 is a beautiful creation, he thinks, as the android looks at him with those bright grey eyes and that somewhat cold, regal visage.

“There is some fear in anything of value,” the rookie says gently. “Whatever the outcome may be, I know you will lead us bravely because you are a man who acknowledges he is afraid, and persists despite such fears.”

He must be wearing his vulnerability clear on his face because the rookie averts his gaze humbly, rubbing the back of his neck in a gesture too self-conscious, surely, to belong to a machine.

“I can’t take credit for that line, my brother said it to me the other day,” he grins sheepishly and David thinks such an expression suits him well. “But what I said about you leading us, that bit’s all mine.”

“I will lead this team as best I can, rookie.”

“My name is Caleb Anderson,” the android says the name the way you test out a new word on your palette, on your tongue. “Your rookie has a name now.”

Yours , he says, and David wants to earn such undying loyalty from something, someone technically not considered alive. Their hands brush by accident, by fate’s design; David drops his hand by his side as Caleb idly shifts his stance. The android’s LED swirls a buttery yellow, the smile on his lips a little wobbly, a little unsure. Their hands brush again, and this time not by accident, but by their own design.

One Martian sol is about forty minutes longer than an Earth day, forty whole minutes longer than what David’s used to. What will he do with this extra time, he wonders? The possibilities are endless and he decides that yes he will brave the unknown, but he won’t do so alone.

#captain allen #rk900 #detroit: become human #allen900 #space au #dbhrarepairsweek #annie writes: dbh

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yamayuandadu · 3 years

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Can you do the character breakdown thing for Nergal and Nabu please?

Did I finally make mesopotamian mythology part of my online brand? My 15 year old self would be almost as overjoyed as I am rn

Nergal

How I feel about this character: probably my third favorite “protagonist” god in the entire mesopotamian mythology, after Inanna and Enki (5th if we count Ugarit and Hittites as well). If you have followed me around a year and a half ago already you may remember epidemic deities which serve a dual purpose as both “punishing” and “savior” figures are a huge interest of mine - and as far as I can tell Nergal is the oldest of these. He has a plenty of genuinely funny moments in his epic like tricking Marduk by suggesting his robes remember better times and

All the people I ship romantically with this character: only Ereshkigal - there are traditions predating this myth where Nergal is associated with other goddesses but none have a myth to go with them so they don’t really resonate with me (and then there’s the inscription where his wife is Ninshubur... but I like to pretend Ninshubur is gay so while I think this has potential I couldn’t see it romantically when writing s/t myself)

My non-romantic OTP for this character: Ishum the Cop God seems to get along with Nergal pretty well in Epic of Erra? I don’t really think Nergal seems like a very sociable god though.

My unpopular opinion about this character: I don’t really like that popculture tends to use his name to refer to outright demonic entities a lot - Apollo was a plague god in roughly the same way but nobody really considers him evil but Nergal despite being an apotropaic figure for the most part is stuck in the realm of Ars Goetia demons almost (the Grim Adventures Nergal is pretty funny though).

One thing I wish would happen / had happened with this character in canon: there are many texts enumerating Enlil’s children, but as far as I can tell no major myth pertaining to Nergal or any of his siblings (Ninurta, Pabilsag etc) has them interact...

Nabu

How I feel about this character: he... exists? It’s funny Marduk’s most stalwart ally other than his parents is a dude who is a REALLY good writer and that’s about it.

All the people I ship romantically with this character: Tashmetu? Though every single time I read about her I get the impression she was added to Nabu’s cult as some scribe’s wish fulfillment oc. “I wish I had... I mean I wish lord Nabu had a girlfriend who both has big boobs and can write in 3 different kinds of cuneiform” more or less

My non-romantic OTP for this character: Marduk! I think many sukkal gods work better as the corresponding gods’ spouses than their actual spouses but given how Nabu was the head god of Borsippa - a not particularly relevant city basically dependent on Babylon entirely - in his case I think some more “pathetic” interpretation along the lines of overeager intern works better. Also since Nabu took over Nidaba’s temporary “writing deity” role I think of her as Nabu’s teacher - I think since Nidaba’s writing role was related to her being a grain goddess and much early writing pertaining to grain trade, in a fictional reinterpretation it would make sense to present it as s/t she picked up as her domain while middle aged and then left behind with a successor she prepared herself taking over as she grew old.

My unpopular opinion about this character: I wish Tashmetu had a more complex character than just “Nabu’s wife” because a goddess who’s both an “Inanna type” AND an epitome of wisdom seems really fun - but to my knowledge she only plays an active part in some love poems.

One thing I wish would happen / had happened with this character in canon: there’s a neo-babylonian inscription which mentions Nabu as Nergal’s brother (source) and tbh I find this more interesting than him being Marduk’s son (adopted or not) - this is not rooted in any real sources but an option I considered myself for a story is that Nergal is Enlil’s son but with some lesser goddess from his circle (like Ishara or s/t) rather than with Ninil (and as such is treated as illegitiame - hence myths rarely feature him alongside Ninurta or even Pabilsag), and Nabu is the same goddess’ son with some other irrelevant god (how many of these are there according to Enuma Elish, 300?) who she married later.

#Anonymous

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a-second-chance-su-au · 4 years

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How did you decide which episodes would be impacted and had scenes that were significant enough to include? I’m working on a canon divergent fanfic for another series that’s pretty much just the story with one more character. I want to know how necessary these things would be.

That is an excellent question!

I am on mobile and don’t have a page splitter at the moment, so WARNING: LONG POST AHEAD.

When rewriting canon, I like to stick to 5 hard-and-fast rules, being: 1) know your character’s arc before going in, 2) know the episode’s overall message, 3) don’t take away from other characters, 4) adding original content must be done as-needed, and 5) DON’T BE AFRAID TO CHANGE THE WHOLE STORY. This can either be exceedingly easy or extremely hard.

1) Know your character’s arc before going in. This one seems obvious, but it can be very easy to get distracted. What would happen if this character was present for this scene? What if she/he/they followed this character around? Stuff like that. The whole thing on this particular blog with Spinel being present for the climax of Maximum Capacity is certainly tempting, and fun to think about, but does it do anything for Spinel’s arc in this AU? In my case, no. So she will not be present. You want to make sure you have some kind of roadmap either on paper or in your head of when and where things should happen, keeping in mind that character’s relationships, mental space, and goals. If Spinel wanted to fuse with Amethyst, she’d have to do it when the two have a good relationship, and something like that takes time to develop. She cannot fuse with Ames in the beginning of the series, absolutely not, but she will later on. Knowing facts like that on when things can and/or SHOULD happen is essential. So episodes like “Giant Woman,” “Horror Club,” “Crack the Whip,” or “Keystone Motel” will not be included in the list.

2) Know the episode’s overall message, and who is in the spotlight. You’d think that on a show like SU, that’d be easy, but often, it can be hard to pinpoint exactly who we should be focusing on. Fun fact: it usually isn’t Steven, which is why when Steven lets us into his head a little, it’s always such a huge, emotional bomb drop. I will keep using Maximum Capacity as an example. That episode was focused on Greg’s and Amethyst’s relationship with each other, their past friendship, and how each of them handles the stress of the past differently. Amethyst wants to loose herself in “Little Butler,” but Greg wants to do other things, too, causing them to come to a crossroads. It’s a coming-to-terms story for the both of them, and with this AU, I don’t want to disturb that. “Giant Woman” was about Amethyst and Pearl. “Joyride” was about Steven. “Keystone Motel” was about Ruby and Sapphire. “Steven the Sword-Fighter” is an example that can be shifted, because the purpose of that ep was to teach the viewer about poofing. It was less about Pearl and more about Gems in general, making it okay to try and change a few things around (so long as the poofing of... a gem still happens). Knowing when an episode is about a character, a relationship, or world building is really important, and helps to try and decide which to alter.

3) Do not take away from the other characters. Know their arcs, too, and why certain choices were important. Example being “Crack the Whip,” where Amethyst hits her lowest low and her quest to be stronger begins. That one, if you want to change it, you can, but if it were me, I would leave in Amethyst getting poofed and Jasper getting defeated without her, as it begins a huge moment for her character. By changing up that scene, she doesn’t have the chance to confide in Steven, they don’t fight, she doesn’t hit her lowest low (which all or most characters need to hit at some point), and then Smokey Quartz cannot exist. They exist because she trusted Steven and the two of them felt equal to each other, and trusting, and loving. THAT allowed them to fuse, and if “Crack the Whip” never happened or was altered too much, that all that goes out the window. So I am not going to have Spinel grab Amethyst and pull her out of the way or anything, or have her fuse to beat Jasper, because that undermines the whole point. However, I CAN say that Amethyst’s arc affects Spinel’s. Not saying this is canon, as this is just an example, but maybe Spinel becomes more attached to Amethyst after that, trying to protect her from being poofed again because she feels guilty for not being there to stop it. Then that affects Amethyst, makes her feel like Spinel is her bodyguard, which Amethyst doesn’t want and feels she doesn’t need. It’d serve to make her angrier, and could lead to she and Spinel getting into an argument or a fight. In this scenario, would I replace “Steven vs Amethyst” with “Spinel vs Amethyst”? No. But something similar COULD happen. It’s all about where you want to go, and what works best for these characters.

4) Adding original content must be done as needed, not whenever you feel like it. Does this mean do it sparingly? Depends on the story you want to tell. For me and my AU, that means I need to pay attention to Spinel’s arc and when she needs to learn/do things. Take “Man of the Mountain” for example. It takes place directly after “Bubble Buddies,” and is the result of Spinel being jealous of Connie eating up Steven’s time and friendship. So, she seeks to strengthen their bond as reassurance to herself that Connie is an inconvenience at worst, and at best, she’ll fade away eventually. She and Steven are still best friends, and she’s gonna prove it, darn it! Then the events of that episode may or may not affect what happens next, or later down the line. For this AU, Season 1 is mostly going to build things that are yet to come, and the episodes don’t directly feed into each other, meaning I am using original content sparingly. 5 originals compared to 52 actual episodes? I think I did good on that front. xD But, don’t be afraid to add an episode for an information dump, or to come to a conclusion. That can’t be the only thing IN the episode, of course, but if that’s the pure reason the episode exists, then fine. Do it. Whatever makes your story flow and make sense. But by making every other episode about Spinel, suddenly it’s only about her and not the other characters. Might as well rename the show at that point. The other characters get the spotlight they need/deserve, with Spinel getting her time to shine as well.

5) DON’T BE AFRAID TO CHANGE THE WHOLE STORY. This is one I’m struggling with, but I feel it worthy to mention anyway. If your character is psychic, then have them use their powers when it’s a good character choice and makes sense logically. If that throws off the entire tale, then roll with it. Get stuff back on track. Or maybe you need to take out that character for a bit. Formulate a way to do that. But if your character had a chance to shoot a blow dart at the main villain and take them out, perfect for capturing them and dismantling their army, wouldn’t they take it? If not, there had better be a good, in-character choice. Maybe the villain’s entire plan changes to account for the character’s psychic powers, creating a decoy or sending out a squad to trap/kill them specifically. If it’s in-character and it makes sense, heckin’ DO IT. Get creative! Get weird! Stories write themselves; you just need a beginning and a good grasp on the characters. Then the characters will take your story and run with it. Your job then becomes keeping up. I wish I was joking. I’ve had characters completely derail my stories before because they just couldn’t make that one character choice that was the lynchpin for the whole next scene, and it made me mad, and no I’m not mad about it two years later! You have the map, they steer the ship. You just gotta trust them.

This version of Spinel was left alone for 625 years, then cast away like a worthless toy. She’s been through war, lost almost all her friends, and had her #1 idol taken away and replaced with a smaller, weaker, half-human male version of her. She’s been through the ringer on emotions, and although she values herself as a friend first and foremost, that doesn’t mean I- and by extension, the other characters- can’t challenge that point of view. Make the character struggle. Know how they interact with others. How do certain events change them? Will they change every episode, or only some? Which are important to their arc? And most importantly, what is the point? By changing this thing here, what are you doing for that/those characters and/or the story? Is it a quick, harmless, funny moment, or is it to show a darker side to a character we’re familiar with, and to see them change now that there’s a new presence beside them? These are questions only you can answer as you chose which episodes to pick.

I hope any part of this was helpful. Feel free to ignore any of these points, or add your own. Again, every story is different, and each story should be treated as such. No creator is experienced equally, and we all have different interpretations of characters. Nothing is right or wrong, so long as you, the author, can justify it, even if it’s just “I thought it’d be cool.” It’s your AU. Go for it!

Thanks for listening to me ramble. Scene.

#advise #writing tips #au tips #canon divergent au #canon divergence #dimond speaks #don’t think that I’m an expert because I’m really not #I’m 17 and a huge nerd who writes too much #I just love these characters and I want to respect their arcs and what the Crew had in store for them #this isn’t fix-it fanfiction either #although in Lapis’ case I guess it is?#but that’s a one time thing and it makes sense here #or maybe I’m just biased. Who knows.#But anyway. Not every episode will be completely rewritten.#Bubble Buddies is still about Connie and Steven meeting her #that episode is just where Spinel’s arc really begins BECAUSE of Connie #and no this has nothing to do with shippin #if anyone has any questions feel free to ask me #steven universe #spinel #crystal gem spinel #su au #a second chance au #dimonds456 #long post #mushroomfusion245 #asks #answered asks #dimonds speaks

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noxstellacaelum · 4 years

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No, it’s not just because the guy is hot ... and other BS about a female fan base (Looking at you Veronica Mars and Shadowhunters)

So, I suck at Tumblr. I changed my name and suddenly all of my links are broken. A friend asked me to repost this when she could not find it, so apologies for round 2.

I wrote recently about how filtering female characters through the male gaze can cause a project’s “center of gravity” to shift away from the agency and autonomy of female characters. This is how we end up w/ stories where women are there (narratively) to be pretty arm candy, or objects of sexual desire, or romantic partners (half a ship) vs characters who shape their own romantic and life choices. This is how we get female characters subjected to endless, pointless pain and trauma — usually sexual assault/ rape narratives (GoT, Veronica Mars). Or female characters who sacrifice endlessly and forgive every transgression, so that a man can be redeemed/ understood/ forgiven. (Why else would Buffy forgive Spike?) As I said, I don’t think every silly, guilty pleasure TV show or movie has to be a feminist icon story. Men can tell good stories about women. And give me flawed, complicated, nuanced characters and relationships any and every day of the week. I prefer truthful storytelling, not a kind of hagiography w/a side of feminism for my female characters.

Still, I had to just shake my head — after gagging on my coffee — when I saw the recent TV Line article quoting a senior executive at HULU as saying that the negative reaction to the ending of S4 Veronica Mars was A-O-K b/c it was a testament to how much people love the show. And, that the end was all part of RT’s super-well-thought-grand-plan to make VM into a noir detective show where Veronica solves random mysteries in random places and has no friends, no family, no relationships — having been an asshole to everyone in S4. Never mind S4 Veronica’s questionable detective skills, as evidenced by her failure to figure out who was behind the bombings until it was too late. Yeah. Whatever.

Of course, I didn’t stop at the article. I had to look at the comments. The official RT fanboy line appears to be that people who hated the ending are basically weak, stupid (heterosexual, I guess) girls who are upset that we won’t get to look at Jason D’s abs anymore. Apparently, we just don’t understand RT’s art and vision. Sad, really.

And so it goes. Once again, female fans are reduced to unthinking, stupid, crying hordes upset when we don’t get our happily-ever-after.

This is such complete and total bullshit. I hated all of S4 Veronica. VM in S4 is an unrecognizable asshole. She mocks Logan for seeking help for his PTSD. She misses or ignores her dad’s health crisis. She’s casually racist. She randomly uses drugs w/ strangers. She’s terrible to her friends (Weevil). And she’s the worst detective ever. Killing Logan off as some kind of suffer porn for VM was just one more piece of the shitty story telling that was S4. Especially since there was zero narrative explanation of how or why smart, gritty teenager Veronica fell into the abyss of self-loathing, self-absorption and cruelty that defines her in S4.

To my mind, though, the mansplaining from HULU, RT and crew is one of many examples of how Hollywood dismisses female fans along with female characters. In addition to Veronica Mars, I’ve written about how Shadowhunters TV betrayed both its female characters and many of its female fans. And, just as happened w/ Veronica Mars, when people objected, the show runners and their shills told us that we didn’t understand the showrunners’ art or storytelling; that we were upset bc not all of the couples got a wedding, that fan fiction could sort out the narrative mess left after the finale. As if completely sidelining the protagonist and her romantic partner, then tacking on a rom com meet cute at the end, made it all ok.

It wasn’t OK. It was BS. And, depressingly, not a surprise when one examines how the show treated its female characters and fan base all along.

- Cassie Clare, the author behind the six book series, has hinted on her Tumblr blog that from the very beginning, the male producers and show runners behind the TV adaption did not value her heavily female fan base. The show even added a lot of computers/ tech (explicitly NOT canon in the Shadowhunters universe), and made a character a police officer (not a bookstore owner) when it launched to attract an older male audience according to Clare. (Apart from the non-canon aspect of computers, stereotyping much on who likes tech?).

More importantly, the storytelling around female characters, and the treatment of their sexuality, showed the lack of regard the show had for female characters and their fans. Where to even start:

- The show aged-up the characters — which I am totally on board with — but then cast an actor who is only six years older than Matt D. (he played Alec) to play Mayrse, Alec’s (and Izzy and Jace’s adoptive) mother. 6 years!?! There are plenty of skilled, age appropriate performers one could have picked. Don’t tell me that casting decision was the product of anything other than the male gaze.

- Book Mayrse is a complicated and not always likeable character. Totally cool. Show Mayrse exists in S1 of SHTV for the sole purpose of being bigoted and homophobic re Alec (with a side of slut-shaming for her daughter Izzy). Then, in S3, she exists solely to punished (w/ a random de-rune-ing) and then redeemed for her homophobia by becoming “captain of the Malec ship.” S3 Mayrse seems to be entirely unaware that she has other children. Not Izzy. And not depressed, and suicidal Jace. A more richly observed character who is a mother would not act this way.

-Book Izzy is sexy and body positive. And a formidable warrior. Awesome. Show Izzy is often reduced to slutty eye candy in S1. She’s turned into a drug addict in S2. And, then, in S3 and the finale, she’s charged w caretaking duties for Jace (bc the show ignored the parabatai bond bw Alec and Jace and Mayrse was absent, as noted above). And, in the climactic fight scene, she’s disarmed by Clary (who had been training for a couple of months at that point) and needs to be saved by Simon, her non-Shadowhunter soon to be boyfriend. Simon is hugely heroic in the books, as is Clary, but their heroism is not at the expense of, or in place of, Izzy’s strength and heroism. (Or, maybe it’s that show Simon saves show Izzy from show Clary that’s the problem: book Izzy would not have been bested by Clary, book Clary never would have attacked her friends and chosen family, and the dark Clary made zero narrative/ emotional sense.

- Clary, the protagonist, is wholly sidelined in 3B and the finale. I won’t go down this rabbithole again, except to say that the show’s decision to strip Clary of her entire narrative arc — her mother, her father figure, her memories, her magic, her identity her chosen family, and her love — deeply, deeply betrayed the character and her fans.

- And, as I’ve written before, the dark Clary storyline seemed more about putting Kat M. In sexy clothes and having her act in a sexually aggressive way toward Jace (let’s call it what it was - the show hinted that she went down on Jace in a club while Jace was distraught over losing Clary and basically roofied) (bc sexually aggressive women are either slutty or evil on SHTV, I guess.). It made no sense.

-The whole Climon storyline was cringe worthy, and her weird shame-y commentary on Jace’s past sex life made no sense either.

- Maia hooking up w/ Jace behind a bar, and forgiving her attacker.

The list goes on and on.

I am sick and tired of Hollywood reducing female characters and female fans to unsophisticated, silly, shallow people looking only for the love of a (generally straight white) man. I am sick of shows sacrificing female characters and their fans to tell stories about other characters, even when those stories are worthy. (We shouldn’t have had to choose between, say, Magnus, Alec and Malec, and Clary, Jace and Clace.). I am sick of characters and fans serving as a mirror or vehicle for other characters’ stories.

Female fans watch TV. We buy movie tickets. We participate in fandoms. Stop telling us that we should be content w/ scraps from the storytelling table.

#SHTV #clary fairchild #veronica mars #veronica mars season 4 #mayrse #Jace Wayland #Clace #cassandra clare #tmi #shadowhunters

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itsybitsylemonsqueezy · 5 years

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Why Fanfiction?

Hey guys. Okay, so, a few weeks ago one of my coworkers asked me this question. And it has been bothering me ever since.

Y’see, there’s this problem about explaining fanfiction, or fandom for that matter, to people who have never been a part of this culture. And, no, I don’t think that culture is too grandiose a term. The problem is everyone wants to rationalize fanfiction, justify its existence. Anyone who is not a part of fandom, literally any fandom, wants you to explain why you use your time this way, why you create this way, and why you feel entitled to do so. People struggle over basic things like creation existing outside of monetary gain or copyright, but even that’s not the intrinsic thing outside people don’t understand.

I spent minutes trying to explain to my coworkers why as they pestered me with the same series of comments we’ve all been called to answer a hundred times before, “Why do you do that?” “But it’s not yours!””Who don’t you write your own work?” “That character wouldn’t do that!” etc, etc. And between trauma flashbacks to 2004 when I was 12 years old and we had the wars of What Is And Is Not In Character, I realized what the problem is: fanfiction is for fun.

That’s it, plain and simple. I do it because it’s fun. You do it too! You draw or write or read or make or remix or whatever! You participate because it’s fun! That’s really all there is to it. And you and I don’t ask for more reason than that. But I was talking to outsiders.

And here I should explain that I work in a college. I was talking to academics. Hell, I am an academic, I teach college English. And English professors, god help me, English professors are the absolute WORST at justifying fanfiction. You get two flavors of English professor when it comes to fandom: 1) that’s stealing or 2) that’s deconstruction. If the first, fuck you, I don’t have time for your precious proprietary sensibilities, learn what derivative means and then tell me if your near-and-dears are so goddamn original. If the second, I love ya, pal, and I know you’re trying, but you do too much. You do too much.

For all of us in fandom, we understand that for every meta-critique, every genderqueer retelling, every better rewriting of a poorly articulated story, there are fifty hackneyed, hand-on-the-crotch, author-kink-specific "adult content” fics (Just in case tumblr got any ideas about censoring this post). And THAT’S NOT A BAD THING!

If you haven’t yet, you will meet people who will go out of their way to defend fanfiction’s literary qualities, but they Bowdlerize it! Sanitize! Clean! Purify. Intentional or not, and sometimes it is definitely intentional, many people feel that in order to justify and defend fanfiction, they must eliminate the porn, forego the smut, ignore the self-indulgent, half-crazed teenage lust that is the life’s blood of fanfiction. And that is some hypocritical, restrictive horseshit. Never mind the fan that chooses to throw the first stone, but what a fundamental misrepresentation on behalf of the authority!

One of my favorite professors of all time offered fanfiction as an assignment option in every one of her classes. But she always did this with this fundamental misunderstanding of what fanfiction is and what it is for. Yes it CAN be incredible critical thought. Yes it CAN be a literary revolution. Yes, yes, yes. But it is not only this. And it always made me cringe to listen to her sing fanfiction’s praises without embracing all of the gutter trash that is my heritage, my home. I am by no means saying that fanfiction should not do all the meta-analysis and social critique that it can, will, and does do. But that is not all that fanficiton is nor should it be. Fanfiction is also the 18th coffeeshop AU you’ve read for the same ship. Fanfiction is also the soulmates AU for your rarepair. It’s the LOTR crossover. It’s the character death fic that serves no purpose but to make you sad. And it’s the OOC crack nightmare that you wrote at 4 am when you were 13 and don’t share with anyone, but it gave you joy to write. I will never defend fanfic without defending these also.

And this is what my coworkers struggled with when I tried to explain. They could not accept this simple fact that fanfiction exists, primarily, for joy. And I would not treat fanfiction as high art existing only to hold a mirror up to media. Absolutely fuck that ivory tower bullshit. And they could not wrap their heads around enjoying this.

One of them understood why I might write fic, but did not understand why I might want to read another’s. For this I can only cite his ego as the reason he would perhaps not like to read from someone else’s imagination. Another insisted that I ought to write my own work, rather than manipulate someone else’s characters. And this was someone who espoused death of the author and freedom from censorship! But still I could not convince her why it would be fun to play around in someone else’s sandbox. And the answer I gave at the time was not what I wanted it to be. I played it off as cowardice, fear of judgment about my own work. And, to be fair, that is one of the reasons I balk at original fiction, but again, fanfiction needs no justification! It is NOT second best! It is a full and legitimate art form in its own right, requiring new and different skills every bit as nuanced and delicate and time-consuming to acquire as those for any other kind of writing. Social acceptance does not make a creation good. Nor does profit or being studied by institutions. These things are accolades and easily recognized to mean value, but they themselves are not what make a creation good. You already know what does that.

And this is why it is so terribly hard to explain why fanfiction? You may as well ask why art?

#why fanfiction #fandom meta #defense of fanfiction

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aboveallarescuer · 4 years

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Dany’s problems and actions in her conquest of the three cities

As I was rereading ASOIAF, I made it my goal to compile all* the book passages demonstrating either certain key attributes of Daenerys Targaryen (e.g. that she's compassionate and empathetic) or aspects of hers that are usually overblown (e.g. that she's violent and ambitious). Doing such a task may seem exaggerated, but I'd argue it's not, for many, many misconceptions about Dany have become widespread in light of the show's final season's events (and even before).

It must be acknowledged that it can be tricky to reference, say, ADWD passages to counter-argument how she was depicted in season eight (which allegedly follows ADOS events). Dany will have had plenty of character development in the span of two books. However, whatever happens to Dany in the next two books, I would argue that there is more than enough material to conclude that her show counterpart was made to fall for flaws that she (for the most part) never had and actions that she (for the most part) would never take.

Another objection to the purpose of these lists is that Game of Thrones is different from A Song of Ice and Fire and should be analyzed on its own, which is a fair point. However, the show is also an adaptation of these books, which begs the questions: why did they change Dany's character? Why did they overfocus on negative traits of hers or depicted them as negative when they weren't supposed to be or gave her negative traits that were never hers to begin with? Another fact that undermines the show=/=books argument is that most people think that the show's ending will be the books', albeit only in broad strokes and in different circumstances. As a result, people's perception of Dany is inevitably influenced by the show, which is a shame.

I hope these lists can be useful for whoever wants to find book passages to defend Dany's character in analysis or even conversations.

*Well, at least all the passages that I could find.

Also, people may interpret certain passages differently and then come up with a different collection of passages, so I'm not arguing that this list is completely objective (nor that there could ever be one).

Also, some passages have been cut short according to whether they were, IMO, relevant to the specific topic of the list they're in, so the context surrounding them may not always be clear (always read the books!). Many of them appear in different lists, sometimes fully cited, sometimes not.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

To justify the existence of this list ... Well, look at the examples of this other list. They justify this one too, lol.

NOTE: This list was tricky to make compared to this one or this one. Originally, it was going to be divided into a list about the problems Dany is facing and another about the actions she took to solve them. However, unlike in ADWD, it is not as clear-and-cut in ASOS.

Take, for example, ASOS Dany II, when Dany arrives in Astapor and negotiates with Kraznys the purchase of the Unsullied. It is easy to say that that's what she did, but there is no single passage that sums it up. Instead, there are lots of descriptions about the Plaza of Pride and exposition about Old Ghis and the Unsullied's training, with the latter being key to understanding why Dany decides to rebel. What do I add? I decided that more is better than less in this particular case.

ASOS Dany IV also informs a lot through dialogue - the assessment of Yunkai's military forces, Dany's meetings with the sellsword captains, Dany's military plan - and so it would be hard to parse out the problem itself from the solution she takes.

I did manage to separate Dany's problems and actions from the advice she receives, though that often overlaps as well.

This is a long-winded way of saying that this list will be bigger than it should for only covering six chapters.

Dany’s problems and the actions she took

ASOS Daenerys I

“These are Illyrio’s ships, Illyrio’s captains, Illyrio’s sailors ... and Strong Belwas and Arstan are his men as well, not yours.”

“Magister Illyrio has protected me in the past. Strong Belwas says that he wept when he heard my brother was dead.”

“Yes,” said Mormont, “but did he weep for Viserys, or for the plans he had made with him?”

“His plans need not change. Magister Illyrio is a friend to House Targaryen, and wealthy ...”

“He was not born wealthy. In the world as I have seen it, no man grows rich by kindness. The warlocks said the second treason would be for gold. What does Illyrio Mopatis love more than gold?”

“His skin.” Across the cabin Drogon stirred restlessly, steam rising from his snout. “Mirri Maz Duur betrayed me. I burned her for it.”

“Mirri Maz Duur was in your power. In Pentos, you shall be in Illyrio’s power. It is not the same. I know the magister as well as you. He is a devious man, and clever—”

“I need clever men about me if I am to win the Iron Throne.”

Ser Jorah snorted. “That wineseller who tried to poison you was a clever man as well. Clever men hatch ambitious schemes.”

Dany drew her legs up beneath the blanket. “You will protect me. You, and my bloodriders.”

“Four men? Khaleesi, you believe you know Illyrio Mopatis, very well. Yet you insist on surrounding yourself with men you do not know, like this puffed-up eunuch and the world’s oldest squire. Take a lesson from Pyat Pree and Xaro Xhoan Daxos.”

He means well, Dany reminded herself. He does all he does for love. “It seems to me that a queen who trusts no one is as foolish as a queen who trusts everyone. Every man I take into my service is a risk, I understand that, but how am I to win the Seven Kingdoms without such risks? Am I to conquer Westeros with one exile knight and three Dothraki bloodriders?”

His jaw set stubbornly. “Your path is dangerous, I will not deny that. But if you blindly trust in every liar and schemer who crosses it, you will end as your brothers did.”

His obstinacy made her angry. He treats me like some child. “Strong Belwas could not scheme his way to breakfast. And what lies has Arstan Whitebeard told me?”

“He is not what he pretends to be. He speaks to you more boldly than any squire would dare.”

“He spoke frankly at my command. He knew my brother.”

“A great many men knew your brother. Your Grace, in Westeros the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard sits on the small council, and serves the king with his wits as well as his steel. If I am the first of your Queensguard, I pray you, hear me out. I have a plan to put to you.”

“What plan? Tell me.” 

“Illyrio Mopatis wants you back in Pentos, under his roof. Very well, go to him ... but in your own time, and not alone. Let us see how loyal and obedient these new subjects of yours truly are. Command Groleo to change course for Slaver’s Bay.”

Dany was not certain she liked the sound of that at all. Everything she’d ever heard of the flesh marts in the great slave cities of Yunkai, Meereen, and Astapor was dire and frightening. “What is there for me in Slaver’s Bay?”

“An army,” said Ser Jorah. “If Strong Belwas is so much to your liking you can buy hundreds more like him out of the fighting pits of Meereen ... but it is Astapor I’d set my sails for. In Astapor you can buy Unsullied.”

“The slaves in the spiked bronze hats?” Dany had seen Unsullied guards in the Free Cities, posted at the gates of magisters, archons, and dynasts. “Why should I want Unsullied? They don’t even ride horses, and most of them are fat.”

“The Unsullied you may have seen in Pentos and Myr were household guards. That’s soft service, and eunuchs tend to plumpness in any case. Food is the only vice allowed them. To judge all Unsullied by a few old household slaves is like judging all squires by Arstan Whitebeard, Your Grace. Do you know the tale of the Three Thousand of Qohor?”

“No.” The coverlet slipped off Dany’s shoulder, and she tugged it back into place.

“It was four hundred years ago or more, when the Dothraki first rode out of the east, sacking and burning every town and city in their path. The khal who led them was named Temmo. His khalasar was not so big as Drogo’s, but it was big enough. Fifty thousand, at the least. Half of them braided warriors with bells ringing in their hair.

“The Qohorik knew he was coming. They strengthened their walls, doubled the size of their own guard, and hired two free companies besides, the Bright Banners and the Second Sons. And almost as an afterthought, they sent a man to Astapor to buy three thousand Unsullied. It was a long march back to Qohor, however, and as they approached they saw the smoke and dust and heard the distant din of battle.

“By the time the Unsullied reached the city the sun had set. Crows and wolves were feasting beneath the walls on what remained of the Qohorik heavy horse. The Bright Banners and Second Sons had fled, as sellswords are wont to do in the face of hopeless odds. With dark falling, the Dothraki had retired to their own camps to drink and dance and feast, but none doubted that they would return on the morrow to smash the city gates, storm the walls, and rape, loot, and slave as they pleased.

“But when dawn broke and Temmo and his bloodriders led their khalasar out of camp, they found three thousand Unsullied drawn up before the gates with the Black Goat standard flying over their heads. So small a force could easily have been flanked, but you know Dothraki. These were men on foot, and men on foot are fit only to be ridden down.

“The Dothraki charged. The Unsullied locked their shields, lowered their spears, and stood firm. Against twenty thousand screamers with bells in their hair, they stood firm.

“Eighteen times the Dothraki charged, and broke themselves on those shields and spears like waves on a rocky shore. Thrice Temmo sent his archers wheeling past and arrows fell like rain upon the Three Thousand, but the Unsullied merely lifted their shields above their heads until the squall had passed. In the end only six hundred of them remained ... but more than twelve thousand Dothraki lay dead upon that field, including Khal Temmo, his bloodriders, his kos, and all his sons. On the morning of the fourth day, the new khal led the survivors past the city gates in a stately procession. One by one, each man cut off his braid and threw it down before the feet of the Three Thousand.

“Since that day, the city guard of Qohor has been made up solely of Unsullied, every one of whom carries a tall spear from which hangs a braid of human hair.

“That is what you will find in Astapor, Your Grace. Put ashore there, and continue on to Pentos overland. It will take longer, yes ... but when you break bread with Magister Illyrio, you will have a thousand swords behind you, not just four.”

There is wisdom in this, yes, Dany thought, but ... “How am I to buy a thousand slave soldiers? All I have of value is the crown the Tourmaline Brotherhood gave me.”

“Dragons will be as great a wonder in Astapor as they were in Qarth. It may be that the slavers will shower you with gifts, as the Qartheen did. If not ... these ships carry more than your Dothraki and their horses. They took on trade goods at Qarth, I’ve been through the holds and seen for myself. Bolts of silk and bales of tiger skin, amber and jade carvings, saffron, myrrh ... slaves are cheap, Your Grace. Tiger skins are costly.”

“Those are Illyrio’s tiger skins,” she objected. “And Illyrio is a friend to House Targaryen.” “All the more reason not to steal his goods.” “What use are wealthy friends if they will not put their wealth at your disposal, my queen? If Magister Illyrio would deny you, he is only Xaro Xhoan Daxos with four chins. And if he is sincere in his devotion to your cause, he will not begrudge you three shiploads of trade goods. What better use for his tiger skins than to buy you the beginnings of an army?”

That’s true. Dany felt a rising excitement. “There will be dangers on such a long march ...”

“There are dangers at sea as well. Corsairs and pirates hunt the southern route, and north of Valyria the Smoking Sea is demon- haunted. The next storm could sink or scatter us, a kraken could pull us under ... or we might find ourselves becalmed again, and die of thirst as we wait for the wind to rise. A march will have different dangers, my queen, but none greater.”

“What if Captain Groleo refuses to change course, though? And Arstan, Strong Belwas, what will they do?”

Ser Jorah stood. “Perhaps it’s time you found that out.”

“Yes,” she decided. “I’ll do it!”

ASOS Daenerys II

“Tell the Westerosi whore to lower her eyes,” the slaver Kraznys mo Nakloz complained to the slave girl who spoke for him. “I deal in meat, not metal. The bronze is not for sale. Tell her to look at the soldiers. Even the dim purple eyes of a sunset savage can see how magnificent my creatures are, surely.”

Kraznys’s High Valyrian was twisted and thickened by the characteristic growl of Ghis, and flavored here and there with words of slaver argot. Dany understood him well enough, but she smiled and looked blankly at the slave girl, as if wondering what he might have said.

‘The Good Master Kraznys asks, are they not magnificent?” The girl spoke the Common Tongue well, for one who had never been to Westeros. No older than ten, she had the round flat face, dusky skin, and golden eyes of Naath. The Peaceful People, her folk were called. All agreed that they made the best slaves.

“They might be adequate to my needs,” Dany answered. It had been Ser Jorah’s suggestion that she speak only Dothraki and the Common Tongue while in Astapor. My bear is more clever than he looks. “Tell me of their training.”

“The Westerosi woman is pleased with them, but speaks no praise, to keep the price down,” the translator told her master. “She wishes to know how they were trained.”

Kraznys mo Nakloz bobbed his head. He smelled as if he’d bathed in raspberries, this slaver, and his jutting red-black beard glistened with oil. He has larger breasts than I do, Dany reflected. She could see them through the thin sea-green silk of the gold- fringed tokar he wound about his body and over one shoulder. His left hand held the tokar in place as he walked, while his right clasped a short leather whip. “Are all Westerosi pigs so ignorant?” he complained. “All the world knows that the Unsullied are masters of spear and shield and shortsword.” He gave Dany a broad smile. “Tell her what she would know, slave, and be quick about it. The day is hot.”

That much at least is no lie. A matched pair of slave girls stood behind them, holding a striped silk awning over their heads, but even in the shade Dany felt light-headed, and Kraznys was perspiring freely. The Plaza of Pride had been baking in the sun since dawn. Even through the thickness of her sandals, she could feel the warmth of the red bricks underfoot. Waves of heat rose off them shimmering to make the stepped pyramids of Astapor around the plaza seem half a dream.

If the Unsullied felt the heat, however, they gave no hint of it. They could be made of brick themselves, the way they stand there. A thousand had been marched out of their barracks for her inspection; drawn up in ten ranks of one hundred before the fountain and its great bronze harpy, they stood stiffly at attention, their stony eyes fixed straight ahead. They wore nought but white linen clouts knotted about their loins, and conical bronze helms topped with a sharpened spike a foot tall. Kraznys had commanded them to lay down their spears and shields, and doff their swordbelts and quilted tunics, so the Queen of Westeros might better inspect the lean hardness of their bodies.

“They are chosen young, for size and speed and strength,” the slave told her. “They begin their training at five. Every day they train from dawn to dusk, until they have mastered the shortsword, the shield, and the three spears. The training is most rigorous, Your Grace. Only one boy in three survives it. This is well known. Among the Unsullied it is said that on the day they win their spiked cap, the worst is done with, for no duty that will ever fall to them could be as hard as their training.”

Kraznys mo Nakloz supposedly spoke no word of the Common Tongue, but he bobbed his head as he listened, and from time to time gave the slave girl a poke with the end of his lash. “Tell her that these have been standing here for a day and a night, with no food nor water. Tell her that they will stand until they drop if I should command it, and when nine hundred and ninety-nine have collapsed to die upon the bricks, the last will stand there still, and never move until his own death claims him. Such is their courage. Tell her that.”

“I call that madness, not courage,” said Arstan Whitebeard, when the solemn little scribe was done. He tapped the end of his hardwood staff against the bricks, tap tap, as if to tell his displeasure. The old man had not wanted to sail to Astapor; nor did he favor buying this slave army. A queen should hear all sides before reaching a decision. That was why Dany had brought him with her to the Plaza of Pride, not to keep her safe. Her bloodriders would do that well enough. Ser Jorah Mormont she had left aboard Balerion to guard her people and her dragons. Much against her inclination, she had locked the dragons belowdecks. It was too dangerous to let them fly freely over the city; the world was all too full of men who would gladly kill them for no better reason than to name themselves dragonslayer.

“What did the smelly old man say?” the slaver demanded of his translator. When she told him, he smiled and said, “Inform the savages that we call this obedience. Others may be stronger or quicker or larger than the Unsullied. Some few may even equal their skill with sword and spear and shield. But nowhere between the seas will you ever find any more obedient.”

“Sheep are obedient,” said Arstan when the words had been translated. He had some Valyrian as well, though not so much as Dany, but like her he was feigning ignorance.

Kraznys mo Nakloz showed his big white teeth when that was rendered back to him. “A word from me and these sheep would spill his stinking old bowels on the bricks,” he said, “but do not say that. Tell them that these creatures are more dogs than sheep. Do they eat dogs or horse in these Seven Kingdoms?”

“They prefer pigs and cows, your worship.”

“Beef. Pfag. Food for unwashed savages.”

Ignoring them all, Dany walked slowly down the line of slave soldiers. The girls followed close behind with the silk awning, to keep her in the shade, but the thousand men before her enjoyed no such protection. More than half had the copper skins and almond eyes of Dothraki and Lhazerene, but she saw men of the Free Cities in the ranks as well, along with pale Qartheen, ebon-faced Summer Islanders, and others whose origins she could not guess. And some had skins of the same amber hue as Kraznys mo Nakloz, and the bristly red-black hair that marked the ancient folk of Ghis, who named themselves the harpy’s sons. They sell even their own kind. It should not have surprised her. The Dothraki did the same, when khalasar met khalasar in the sea of grass.

Some of the soldiers were tall and some were short. They ranged in age from fourteen to twenty, she judged. Their cheeks were smooth, and their eyes all the same, be they black or brown or blue or grey or amber. They are like one man, Dany thought, until she remembered that they were no men at all. The Unsullied were eunuchs, every one of them. “Why do you cut them?” she asked Kraznys through the slave girl. “Whole men are stronger than eunuchs, I have always heard.”

“A eunuch who is cut young will never have the brute strength of one of your Westerosi knights, this is true,” said Kraznys mo Nakloz when the question was put to him. “A bull is strong as well, but bulls die every day in the fighting pits. A girl of nine killed one not three days past in Jothiel’s Pit. The Unsullied have something better than strength, tell her. They have discipline. We fight in the fashion of the Old Empire, yes. They are the lockstep legions of Old Ghis come again, absolutely obedient, absolutely loyal, and utterly without fear.”

Dany listened patiently to the translation. “Even the bravest men fear death and maiming,” Arstan said when the girl was done.

Kraznys smiled again when he heard that. “Tell the old man that he smells of piss, and needs a stick to hold him up.”

“Truly, your worship?”

He poked her with his lash. “No, not truly, are you a girl or a goat, to ask such folly? Say that Unsullied are not men. Say that death means nothing to them, and maiming less than nothing.” He stopped before a thickset man who had the look of Lhazar about him and brought his whip up sharply, laying a line of blood across one copper cheek. The eunuch blinked, and stood there, bleeding. “Would you like another?” asked Kraznys.

“If it please your worship.”

It was hard to pretend not to understand. Dany laid a hand on Kraznys’s arm before he could raise the whip again. “Tell the Good Master that I see how strong his Unsullied are, and how bravely they suffer pain.”

Kraznys chuckled when he heard her words in Valyrian. “Tell this ignorant whore of a westerner that courage has nothing to do with it.”

“The Good Master says that was not courage, Your Grace.”

“Tell her to open those slut’s eyes of hers.” “He begs you attend this carefully, Your Grace.”

Kraznys moved to the next eunuch in line, a towering youth with the blue eyes and flaxen hair of Lys. “Your sword,” he said. The eunuch knelt, unsheathed the blade, and offered it up hilt first. It was a shortsword, made more for stabbing than for slashing, but the edge looked razor-sharp. “Stand,” Kraznys commanded.

“Your worship.” The eunuch stood, and Kraznys mo Nakloz slid the sword slowly up his torso, leaving a thin red line across his belly and between his ribs. Then he jabbed the swordpoint in beneath a wide pink nipple and began to work it back and forth.

“What is he doing?” Dany demanded of the girl, as the blood ran down the man’s chest.

“Tell the cow to stop her bleating,” said Kraznys, without waiting for the translation. “This will do him no great harm. Men have no need of nipples, eunuchs even less so.” The nipple hung by a thread of skin. He slashed, and sent it tumbling to the bricks, leaving behind a round red eye copiously weeping blood. The eunuch did not move, until Kraznys offered him back his sword, hilt first. “Here, I’m done with you.”

“This one is pleased to have served you.”

Kraznys turned back to Dany. “They feel no pain, you see.”

“How can that be?” she demanded through the scribe.

“The wine of courage,” was the answer he gave her. “It is no true wine at all, but made from deadly nightshade, bloodfly larva, black lotus root, and many secret things. They drink it with every meal from the day they are cut, and with each passing year feel less and less. It makes them fearless in battle. Nor can they be tortured. Tell the savage her secrets are safe with the Unsullied. She may set them to guard her councils and even her bedchamber, and never a worry as to what they might overhear.

“In Yunkai and Meereen, eunuchs are often made by removing a boy’s testicles, but leaving the penis. Such a creature is infertile, yet often still capable of erection. Only trouble can come of this. We remove the penis as well, leaving nothing. The Unsullied are the purest creatures on the earth.” He gave Dany and Arstan another of his broad white smiles. “I have heard that in the Sunset Kingdoms men take solemn vows to keep chaste and father no children, but live only for their duty. Is it not so?”

“It is,” Arstan said, when the question was put. “There are many such orders. The maesters of the Citadel, the septons and septas who serve the Seven, the silent sisters of the dead, the Kingsguard and the Night’s Watch ...”

“Poor things,” growled the slaver, after the translation. “Men were not made to live thus. Their days are a torment of temptation, any fool must see, and no doubt most succumb to their baser selves. Not so our Unsullied. They are wed to their swords in a way that your Sworn Brothers cannot hope to match. No woman can ever tempt them, nor any man.”

His girl conveyed the essence of his speech, more politely. “There are other ways to tempt men, besides the flesh,” Arstan Whitebeard objected, when she was done.

“Men, yes, but not Unsullied. Plunder interests them no more than rape. They own nothing but their weapons. We do not even permit them names.”

“No names?” Dany frowned at the little scribe. “Can that be what the Good Master said? They have no names?”

“It is so, Your Grace.”

Kraznys stopped in front of a Ghiscari who might have been his taller fitter brother, and flicked his lash at a small bronze disk on the swordbelt at his feet. “There is his name. Ask the whore of Westeros whether she can read Ghiscari glyphs.” When Dany admitted that she could not, the slaver turned to the Unsullied. “What is your name?” he demanded.

“This one’s name is Red Flea, your worship.”

The girl repeated their exchange in the Common Tongue. “And yesterday, what was it?”

“Black Rat, your worship.”

“The day before?”

“Brown Flea, your worship.”

“Before that?”

“This one does not recall, your worship. Blue Toad, perhaps. Or Blue Worm.”

“Tell her all their names are such,” Kraznys commanded the girl. “It reminds them that by themselves they are vermin. The name disks are thrown in an empty cask at duty’s end, and each dawn plucked up again at random.”

“More madness,” said Arstan, when he heard. “How can any man possibly remember a new name every day?”

“Those who cannot are culled in training, along with those who cannot run all day in full pack, scale a mountain in the black of night, walk across a bed of coals, or slay an infant.”

Dany’s mouth surely twisted at that. Did he see, or is he blind as well as cruel? She turned away quickly, trying to keep her face a mask until she heard the translation. Only then did she allow herself to say, “Whose infants do they slay?”

“To win his spiked cap, an Unsullied must go to the slave marts with a silver mark, find some wailing newborn, and kill it before its mother’s eyes. In this way, we make certain that there is no weakness left in them.”

She was feeling faint. The heat, she tried to tell herself. “You take a babe from its mother’s arms, kill it as she watches, and pay for her pain with a silver coin?”

When the translation was made for him, Kraznys mo Nakloz laughed aloud. “What a soft mewling fool this one is. Tell the whore of Westeros that the mark is for the child’s owner, not the mother. The Unsullied are not permitted to steal.” He tapped his whip against his leg. “Tell her that few ever fail that test. The dogs are harder for them, it must be said. We give each boy a puppy on the day that he is cut. At the end of the first year, he is required to strangle it. Any who cannot are killed, and fed to the surviving dogs. It makes for a good strong lesson, we find.”

Arstan Whitebeard tapped the end of his staff on the bricks as he listened to that. Tap tap tap. Slow and steady. Tap tap tap. Dany saw him turn his eyes away, as if he could not bear to look at Kraznys any longer.

“The Good Master has said that these eunuchs cannot be tempted with coin or flesh,” Dany told the girl, “but if some enemy of mine should offer them freedom for betraying me ...”

“They would kill him out of hand and bring her his head, tell her that,” the slaver answered. “Other slaves may steal and hoard up silver in hopes of buying freedom, but an Unsullied would not take it if the little mare offered it as a gift. They have no life outside their duty. They are soldiers, and that is all.”

“It is soldiers I need,” Dany admitted.

“Tell her it is well she came to Astapor, then. Ask her how large an army she wishes to buy.”

“How many Unsullied do you have to sell?”

“Eight thousand fully trained and available at present. We sell them only by the unit, she should know. By the thousand or the century. Once we sold by the ten, as household guards, but that proved unsound. Ten is too few. They mingle with other slaves, even freemen, and forget who and what they are.” Kraznys waited for that to be rendered in the Common Tongue, and then continued. “This beggar queen must understand, such wonders do not come cheaply. In Yunkai and Meereen, slave swordsmen can be had for less than the price of their swords, but Unsullied are the finest foot in all the world, and each represents many years of training. Tell her they are like Valyrian steel, folded over and over and hammered for years on end, until they are stronger and more resilient than any metal on earth.”

“I know of Valyrian steel,” said Dany. “Ask the Good Master if the Unsullied have their own officers.”

“You must set your own officers over them. We train them to obey, not to think. If it is wits she wants, let her buy scribes.”

“And their gear?”

“Sword, shield, spear, sandals, and quilted tunic are included,” said Kraznys. “And the spiked caps, to be sure. They will wear such armor as you wish, but you must provide it.”

Dany could think of no other questions. She looked at Arstan. “You have lived long in the world, Whitebeard. Now that you have seen them, what do you say?”

“I say no, Your Grace,” the old man answered at once. 

“Why?” she asked. “Speak freely.” Dany thought she knew what he would say, but she wanted the slave girl to hear, so Kraznys mo Nakloz might hear later.

“My queen,” said Arstan, “there have been no slaves in the Seven Kingdoms for thousands of years. The old gods and the new alike hold slavery to be an abomination. Evil. If you should land in Westeros at the head of a slave army, many good men will oppose you for no other reason than that. You will do great harm to your cause, and to the honor of your House.”

“Yet I must have some army,” Dany said. “The boy Joffrey will not give me the Iron Throne for asking politely.”

“When the day comes that you raise your banners, half of Westeros will be with you,” Whitebeard promised. “Your brother Rhaegar is still remembered, with great love.”

“And my father?” Dany said.

The old man hesitated before saying, “King Aerys is also remembered. He gave the realm many years of peace. Your Grace, you have no need of slaves. Magister Illyrio can keep you safe while your dragons grow, and send secret envoys across the narrow sea on your behalf, to sound out the high lords for your cause.”

“Those same high lords who abandoned my father to the Kingslayer and bent the knee to Robert the Usurper?”

“Even those who bent their knees may yearn in their hearts for the return of the dragons.”

“May,” said Dany. That was such a slippery word, may. In any language. She turned back to Kraznys mo Nakloz and his slave girl. “I must consider carefully.”

The slaver shrugged. “Tell her to consider quickly. There are many other buyers. Only three days past I showed these same Unsullied to a corsair king who hopes to buy them all.”

“The corsair wanted only a hundred, your worship,” Dany heard the slave girl say.

He poked her with the end of the whip. “Corsairs are all liars. He’ll buy them all. Tell her that, girl.”

Dany knew she would take more than a hundred, if she took any at all. “Remind your Good Master of who I am. Remind him that I am Daenerys Stormborn, Mother of Dragons, the Unburnt, trueborn queen of the Seven Kingdoms of Westeros. My blood is the blood of Aegon the Conqueror, and of old Valyria before him.”

Yet her words did not move the plump perfumed slaver, even when rendered in his own ugly tongue. “Old Ghis ruled an empire when the Valyrians were still fucking sheep,” he growled at the poor little scribe, “and we are the sons of the harpy.” He gave a shrug. “My tongue is wasted wagging at women. East or west, it makes no matter, they cannot decide until they have been pampered and flattered and stuffed with sweetmeats. Well, if this is my fate, so be it. Tell the whore that if she requires a guide to our sweet city, Kraznys mo Nakloz will gladly serve her ... and service her as well, if she is more woman than she looks.”

“Good Master Kraznys would be most pleased to show you Astapor while you ponder, Your Grace,” the translator said.

“I will feed her jellied dog brains, and a fine rich stew of red octopus and unborn puppy.” He wiped his lips.

“Many delicious dishes can be had here, he says.”

“Tell her how pretty the pyramids are at night,” the slaver growled. “Tell her I will lick honey off her breasts, or allow her to lick honey off mine if she prefers.”

“Astapor is most beautiful at dusk, Your Grace,” said the slave girl. “The Good Masters light silk lanterns on every terrace, so all the pyramids glow with colored lights. Pleasure barges ply the Worm, playing soft music and calling at the little islands for food and wine and other delights.”

“Ask her if she wishes to view our fighting pits,” Kraznys added. “Douquor’s Pit has a fine folly scheduled for the evening. A bear and three small boys. One boy will be rolled in honey, one in blood, and one in rotting fish, and she may wager on which the bear will eat first.”

Tap tap tap, Dany heard. Arstan Whitebeard’s face was still, but his staff beat out his rage. Tap tap tap. She made herself smile. “I have my own bear on Balerion,” she told the translator, “and he may well eat me if I do not return to him.”

“See,” said Kraznys when her words were translated. “It is not the woman who decides, it is this man she runs to. As ever!”

“Thank the Good Master for his patient kindness,” Dany said, “and tell him that I will think on all I learned here.” She gave her arm to Arstan Whitebeard, to lead her back across the plaza to her litter. Aggo and Jhogo fell in to either side of them, walking with the bowlegged swagger all the horselords affected when forced to dismount and stride the earth like common mortals.

Dany climbed into her litter frowning, and beckoned Arstan to climb in beside her. A man as old as him should not be walking in such heat. She did not close the curtains as they got under way. With the sun beating down so fiercely on this city of red brick, every stray breeze was to be cherished, even if it did come with a swirl of fine red dust. Besides, I need to see.

Astapor was a queer city, even to the eyes of one who had walked within the House of Dust and bathed in the Womb of the World beneath the Mother of Mountains. All the streets were made of the same red brick that had paved the plaza. So too were the stepped pyramids, the deep-dug fighting pits with their rings of descending seats, the sulfurous fountains and gloomy wine caves, and the ancient walls that encircled them. So many bricks, she thought, and so old and crumbling. Their fine red dust was everywhere, dancing down the gutters at each gust of wind. Small wonder so many Astapori women veiled their faces; the brick dust stung the eyes worse than sand.

“Make way!” Jhogo shouted as he rode before her litter. “Make way for the Mother of Dragons!” But when he uncoiled the great silverhandled whip that Dany had given him, and made to crack it in the air, she leaned out and told him nay. “Not in this place, blood of my blood,” she said, in his own tongue. “These bricks have heard too much of the sound of whips.”

The streets had been largely deserted when they had set out from the port that morning, and scarcely seemed more crowded now. An elephant lumbered past with a latticework litter on its back. A naked boy with peeling skin sat in a dry brick gutter, picking his nose and staring sullenly at some ants in the street. He lifted his head at the sound of hooves, and gaped as a column of mounted guards trotted by in a cloud of red dust and brittle laughter. The copper disks sewn to their cloaks of yellow silk glittered like so many suns, but their tunics were embroidered linen, and below the waist they wore sandals and pleated linen skirts. Bareheaded, each man had teased and oiled and twisted his stiff red- black hair into some fantastic shape, horns and wings and blades and even grasping hands, so they looked like some troupe of demons escaped from the seventh hell. The naked boy watched them for a bit, along with Dany, but soon enough they were gone, and he went back to his ants, and a knuckle up his nose.

An old city, this, she reflected, but not so populous as it was in its glory, nor near so crowded as Qarth or Pentos or Lys.

Her litter came to a sudden halt at the cross street, to allow a coffle of slaves to shuffle across her path, urged along by the crack of an overseer’s lash. These were no Unsullied, Dany noted, but a more common sort of men, with pale brown skins and black hair. There were women among them, but no children. All were naked. Two Astapori rode behind them on white asses, a man in a red silk tokar and a veiled woman in sheer blue linen decorated with flakes of lapis lazuli. In her red-black hair she wore an ivory comb. The man laughed as he whispered to her, paying no more mind to Dany than to his slaves, nor the overseer with his twisted five-thonged lash, a squat broad Dothraki who had the harpy and chains tattooed proudly across his muscular chest.

[...]Aggo helped Dany down from her litter. Strong Belwas was seated on a massive piling, eating a great haunch of brown roasted meat. “Dog,” he said happily when he saw Dany. “Good dog in Astapor, little queen. Eat?” He offered it with a greasy grin.

“That is kind of you, Belwas, but no.” Dany had eaten dog in other places, at other times, but just now all she could think of was the Unsullied and their stupid puppies. She swept past the huge eunuch and up the plank onto the deck of Balerion.

Ser Jorah Mormont stood waiting for her. “Your Grace,” he said, bowing his head. “The slavers have come and gone. Three of them, with a dozen scribes and as many slaves to lift and fetch. They crawled over every foot of our holds and made note of all we had.” He walked her aft. “How many men do they have for sale?”

“None.” Was it Mormont she was angry with, or this city with its sullen heat, its stinks and sweats and crumbling bricks? “They sell eunuchs, not men. Eunuchs made of brick, like the rest of Astapor. Shall I buy eight thousand brick eunuchs with dead eyes that never move, who kill suckling babes for the sake of a spiked hat and strangle their own dogs? They don’t even have names. So don’t call them men, ser.”

“Khaleesi,” he said, taken aback by her fury, “the Unsullied are chosen as boys, and trained—”

“I have heard all I care to of their training.” Dany could feel tears welling in her eyes, sudden and unwanted. Her hand flashed up and cracked Ser Jorah hard across the face. It was either that, or cry.

Mormont touched the cheek she’d slapped. “If I have displeased my queen—”

“You have. You’ve displeased me greatly, ser. If you were my true knight, you would never have brought me to this vile sty.” If you were my true knight, you would never have kissed me, or looked at my breasts the way you did, or ...

“As Your Grace commands. I shall tell Captain Groleo to make ready to sail on the evening tide, for some sty less vile.”

“No,” said Dany. Groleo watched them from the forecastle, and his crew was watching too. Whitebeard, her bloodriders, Jhiqui, every one had stopped what they were doing at the sound of the slap. “I want to sail now, not on the tide, I want to sail far and fast and never look back. But I can’t, can I? There are eight thousand brick eunuchs for sale, and I must find some way to buy them.” And with that she left him, and went below.

[...] Dusk had begun to settle over the waters of Slaver’s Bay before Dany returned to the deck. She stood by the rail and looked out over Astapor. From here it looks almost beautiful, she thought. The stars were coming out above, and the silk lanterns below, just as Kraznys’s translator had promised. The brick pyramids were all glimmery with light. But it is dark below, in the streets and plazas and fighting pits. And it is darkest of all in the barracks, where some little boy is feeding scraps to the puppy they gave him when they took away his manhood.

There was a soft step behind her. “Khaleesi.” His voice. “Might I speak frankly?”

Dany did not turn. She could not bear to look at him just now. If she did, she might well slap him again. Or cry. Or kiss him. And never know which was right and which was wrong and which was madness. “Say what you will, ser.”

“When Aegon the Dragon stepped ashore in Westeros, the kings of Vale and Rock and Reach did not rush to hand him their crowns. If you mean to sit his Iron Throne, you must win it as he did, with steel and dragonfire. And that will mean blood on your hands before the thing is done.”

Blood and fire, thought Dany. The words of House Targaryen. She had known them all her life. “The blood of my enemies I will shed gladly. The blood of innocents is another matter. Eight thousand Unsullied they would offer me. Eight thousand dead babes. Eight thousand strangled dogs.”

“Your Grace,” said Jorah Mormont, “I saw King’s Landing after the Sack. Babes were butchered that day as well, and old men, and children at play. More women were raped than you can count. There is a savage beast in every man, and when you hand that man a sword or spear and send him forth to war, the beast stirs. The scent of blood is all it takes to wake him. Yet I have never heard of these Unsullied raping, nor putting a city to the sword, nor even plundering, save at the express command of those who lead them. Brick they may be, as you say, but if you buy them henceforth the only dogs they’ll kill are those you want dead. And you do have some dogs you want dead, as I recall.”

The Usurper’s dogs. “Yes.” Dany gazed off at the soft colored lights and let the cool salt breeze caress her. “You speak of sacking cities. Answer me this, ser—why have the Dothraki never sacked this city?” She pointed. “Look at the walls. You can see where they’ve begun to crumble. There, and there. Do you see any guards on those towers? I don’t. Are they hiding, ser? I saw these sons of the harpy today, all their proud highborn warriors. They dressed in linen skirts, and the fiercest thing about them was their hair. Even a modest khalasar could crack this Astapor like a nut and spill out the rotted meat inside. So tell me, why is that ugly harpy not sitting beside the godsway in Vaes Dothrak among the other stolen gods?”

“You have a dragon’s eye, Khaleesi, that’s plain to see.”

“I wanted an answer, not a compliment.”

“There are two reasons. Astapor’s brave defenders are so much chaff, it’s true. Old names and fat purses who dress up as Ghiscari scourges to pretend they still rule a vast empire. Every one is a high officer. On feastdays they fight mock wars in the pits to demonstrate what brilliant commanders they are, but it’s the eunuchs who do the dying. All the same, any enemy wanting to sack Astapor would have to know that they’d be facing Unsullied. The slavers would turn out the whole garrison in the city’s defense. The Dothraki have not ridden against Unsullied since they left their braids at the gates of Qohor.”

“And the second reason?” Dany asked.

“Who would attack Astapor?” Ser Jorah asked. “Meereen and Yunkai are rivals but not enemies, the Doom destroyed Valyria, the folk of the eastern hinterlands are all Ghiscari, and beyond the hills lies Lhazar. The Lamb Men, as your Dothraki call them, a notably unwarlike people.”

“Yes,” she agreed, “but north of the slave cities is the Dothraki sea, and two dozen mighty khals who like nothing more than sacking cities and carrying off their people into slavery.”

“Carrying them off where? What good are slaves once you’ve killed the slavers? Valyria is no more, Qarth lies beyond the red waste, and the Nine Free Cities are thousands of leagues to the west. And you may be sure the sons of the harpy give lavishly to every passing khal, just as the magisters do in Pentos and Norvos and Myr. They know that if they feast the horselords and give them gifts, they will soon ride on. It’s cheaper than fighting, and a deal more certain.”

Cheaper than fighting, Dany thought. Yes, it might be. If only it could be that easy for her. How pleasant it would be to sail to King’s Landing with her dragons, and pay the boy Joffrey a chest of gold to make him go away.

“Khaleesi?” Ser Jorah prompted, when she had been silent for a long time. He touched her elbow lightly.

Dany shrugged him off. “Viserys would have bought as many Unsullied as he had the coin for. But you once said I was like Rhaegar ...”

“I remember, Daenerys.”

“Your Grace,” she corrected. “Prince Rhaegar led free men into battle, not slaves. Whitebeard said he dubbed his squires himself, and made many other knights as well.”

“There was no higher honor than to receive your knighthood from the Prince of Dragonstone.”

“Tell me, then—when he touched a man on the shoulder with his sword, what did he say? ‘Go forth and kill the weak’? Or ‘Go forth and defend them’? At the Trident, those brave men Viserys spoke of who died beneath our dragon banners—did they give their lives because they believed in Rhaegar’s cause, or because they had been bought and paid for?” Dany turned to Mormont, crossed her arms, and waited for an answer.

“My queen,” the big man said slowly, “all you say is true. But Rhaegar lost on the Trident. He lost the battle, he lost the war, he lost the kingdom, and he lost his life. His blood swirled downriver with the rubies from his breastplate, and Robert the Usurper rode over his corpse to steal the Iron Throne. Rhaegar fought valiantly, Rhaegar fought nobly, Rhaegar fought honorably. And Rhaegar died.”

ASOS Daenerys III

“All?” The slave girl sounded wary. “Your Grace, did this one’s worthless ears mishear you?”

[...]“Your ears heard true,” said Dany. “I want to buy them all. Tell the Good Masters, if you will.”

She had chosen a Qartheen gown today. The deep violet silk brought out the purple of her eyes. The cut of it bared her left breast. While the Good Masters of Astapor conferred among themselves in low voices, Dany sipped tart persimmon wine from a tall silver flute. She could not quite make out all that they were saying, but she could hear the greed.

Each of the eight brokers was attended by two or three body slaves ... though one Grazdan, the eldest, had six. So as not to seem a beggar, Dany had brought her own attendants; Irri and Jhiqui in their sandsilk trousers and painted vests, old Whitebeard and mighty Belwas, her bloodriders. Ser Jorah stood behind her sweltering in his green surcoat with the black bear of Mormont embroidered upon it. The smell of his sweat was an earthy answer to the sweet perfumes that drenched the Astapori.

“All,” growled Kraznys mo Nakloz, who smelled of peaches today. The slave girl repeated the word in the Common Tongue of Westeros. “Of thousands, there are eight. Is this what she means by all? There are also six centuries, who shall be part of a ninth thousand when complete. Would she have them too?”

“I would,” said Dany when the question was put to her. “The eight thousands, the six centuries ... and the ones still in training as well. The ones who have not earned the spikes.”

Kraznys turned back to his fellows. Once again they conferred among themselves. The translator had told Dany their names, but it was hard to keep them straight. Four of the men seemed to be named Grazdan, presumably after Grazdan the Great who had founded Old Ghis in the dawn of days. They all looked alike; thick fleshy men with amber skin, broad noses, dark eyes. Their wiry hair was black, or a dark red, or that queer mixture of red and black that was peculiar to Ghiscari. All wrapped themselves in tokars, a garment permitted only to freeborn men of Astapor.

It was the fringe on the tokar that proclaimed a man’s status, Dany had been told by Captain Groleo. In this cool green room atop the pyramid, two of the slavers wore tokars fringed in silver, five had gold fringes, and one, the oldest Grazdan, displayed a fringe of fat white pearls that clacked together softly when he shifted in his seat or moved an arm.

“We cannot sell half-trained boys,” one of the silver-fringe Grazdans was saying to the others.

“We can, if her gold is good,” said a fatter man whose fringe was gold.

“They are not Unsullied. They have not killed their sucklings. If they fail in the field, they will shame us. And even if we cut five thousand raw boys tomorrow, it would be ten years before they are fit for sale. What would we tell the next buyer who comes seeking Unsullied?”

“We will tell him that he must wait,” said the fat man. “Gold in my purse is better than gold in my future.”

Dany let them argue, sipping the tart persimmon wine and trying to keep her face blank and ignorant. I will have them all, no matter the price, she told herself. The city had a hundred slave traders, but the eight before her were the greatest. When selling bed slaves, fieldhands, scribes, craftsmen, and tutors, these men were rivals, but their ancestors had allied one with the other for the purpose of making and selling the Unsullied. Brick and blood built Astapor, and brick and blood her people.

It was Kraznys who finally announced their decision. “Tell her that the eight thousands she shall have, if her gold proves sufficient. And the six centuries, if she wishes. Tell her to come back in a year, and we will sell her another two thousand.”

“In a year I shall be in Westeros,” said Dany when she had heard the translation. “My need is now. The Unsullied are well trained, but even so, many will fall in battle. I shall need the boys as replacements to take up the swords they drop.” She put her wine aside and leaned toward the slave girl. “Tell the Good Masters that I will want even the little ones who still have their puppies. Tell them that I will pay as much for the boy they cut yesterday as for an Unsullied in a spiked helm.”

The girl told them. The answer was still no. 

Dany frowned in annoyance. “Very well. Tell them I will pay double, so long as I get them all.” 

“Double?” The fat one in the gold fringe all but drooled.

“This little whore is a fool, truly,” said Khaznys mo Nakloz. “Ask her for triple, I say. She is desperate enough to pay. Ask for ten times the price of every slave, yes.”

The tall Grazdan with the spiked beard spoke in the Common Tongue, though not so well as the slave girl. “Your Grace,” he growled, “Westeros is being wealthy, yes, but you are not being queen now. Perhaps will never being queen. Even Unsullied may be losing battles to savage steel knights of Seven Kingdoms. I am reminding, the Good Masters of Astapor are not selling flesh for promisings. Are you having gold and trading goods sufficient to be paying for all these eunuchs you are wanting?”

“You know the answer to that better than I, Good Master,” Dany replied. “Your men have gone through my ships and tallied every bead of amber and jar of saffron. How much do I have?”

“Sufficient to be buying one of thousands,” the Good Master said, with a contemptuous smile. “Yet you are paying double, you are saying. Five centuries, then, is all you buy.”

“Your pretty crown might buy another century,” said the fat one in Valyrian. “Your crown of the three dragons.”

Dany waited for his words to be translated. “My crown is not for sale.” When Viserys sold their mother’s crown, the last joy had gone from him, leaving only rage. “Nor will I enslave my people, nor sell their goods and horses. But my ships you can have. The great cog Balerion and the galleys Vhagar and Meraxes.” She had warned Groleo and the other captains it might come to this, though they had protested the necessity of it furiously. “Three good ships should be worth more than a few paltry eunuchs.”

The fat Grazdan turned to the others. They conferred in low voices once again. “Two of the thousands,” the one with the spiked beard said when he turned back. “It is too much, but the Good Masters are being generous and your need is being great.”

Two thousand would never serve for what she meant to do. I must have them all. Dany knew what she must do now, though the taste of it was so bitter that even the persimmon wine could not cleanse it from her month. She had considered long and hard and found no other way. It is my only choice. “Give me all,” she said, “and you may have a dragon.”

There was the sound of indrawn breath from Jhiqui beside her. Kraznys smiled at his fellows. “Did I not tell you? Anything, she would give us.”

Whitebeard stared in shocked disbelief. His hand trembled where it grasped the staff. “No.” He went to one knee before her. “Your Grace, I beg you, win your throne with dragons, not slaves. You must not do this thing—”

“You must not presume to instruct me. Ser Jorah, remove Whitebeard from my presence.”

Mormont seized the old man roughly by an elbow, yanked him back to his feet, and marched him out onto the terrace.

“Tell the Good Masters I regret this interruption,” said Dany to the slave girl. “Tell them I await their answer.”

She knew the answer, though; she could see it in the glitter of their eyes and the smiles they tried so hard to hide. Astapor had thousands of eunuchs, and even more slave boys waiting to be cut, but there were only three living dragons in all the great wide world. And the Ghiscari lust for dragons. How could they not? Five times had Old Ghis contended with Valyria when the world was young, and five times gone down to bleak defeat. For the Freehold had dragons, and the Empire had none.

The oldest Grazdan stirred in his seat, and his pearls clacked together softly. “A dragon of our choice,” he said in a thin, hard voice. “The black one is largest and healthiest.”

“His name is Drogon.” She nodded.

“All your goods, save your crown and your queenly raiment, which we will allow you to keep. The three ships. And Drogon.”

“Done,” she said, in the Common Tongue. 

“Done,” the old Grazdan answered in his thick Valyrian.

The others echoed that old man of the pearl fringe. “Done,” the slave girl translated, “and done, and done, eight times done.”

“The Unsullied will learn your savage tongue quick enough,” added Kraznys mo Nakloz, when all the arrangements had been made, “but until such time you will need a slave to speak to them. Take this one as our gift to you, a token of a bargain well struck.”

“I shall,” said Dany.

The slave girl rendered his words to her, and hers to him. If she had feelings about being given for a token, she took care not to let them show.

Dany fed her dragons as she always did, but found she had no appetite herself. She cried awhile, alone in her cabin, then dried her tears long enough for yet another argument with Groleo. “Magister Illyrio is not here,” she finally had to tell him, “and if he was, he could not sway me either. I need the Unsullied more than I need these ships, and I will hear no more about it.”

The anger burned the grief and fear from her, for a few hours at the least. Afterward she called her bloodriders to her cabin, with Ser Jorah. They were the only ones she truly trusted.

The red brick streets of Astapor were almost crowded this morning. Slaves and servants lined the ways, while the slavers and their women donned their tokars to look down from their stepped pyramids. They are not so different from Qartheen after all, she thought. They want a glimpse of dragons to tell their children of, and their children’s children. It made her wonder how many of them would ever have children.

“Here they are.” He looked at Missandei. “Tell her they are hers ... if she can pay.”

“She can,” the girl said.

Ser Jorah barked a command, and the trade goods were brought forward. Six bales of tiger skins, three hundred bolts of fine silk. Jars of saffron, jars of myrrh, jars of pepper and curry and cardamom, an onyx mask, twelve jade monkeys, casks of ink in red and black and green, a box of rare black amethysts, a box of pearls, a cask of pitted olives stuffed with maggots, a dozen casks of pickled cave fish, a great brass gong and a hammer to beat it with, seventeen ivory eyes, and a huge chest full of books written in tongues that Dany could not read. And more, and more, and more. Her people stacked it all before the slavers.

While the payment was being made, Kraznys mo Nakloz favored her with a few final words on the handling of her troops. “They are green as yet,” he said through Missandei. “Tell the whore of Westeros she would be wise to blood them early. There are many small cities between here and there, cities ripe for sacking. Whatever plunder she takes will be hers alone. Unsullied have no lust for gold or gems. And should she take captives, a few guards will suffice to march them back to Astapor. We’ll buy the healthy ones, and for a good price. And who knows? In ten years, some of the boys she sends us may be Unsullied in their turn. Thus all shall prosper.”

Finally there were no more trade goods to add to the pile. Her Dothraki mounted their horses once more, and Dany said, “This was all we could carry. The rest awaits you on the ships, a great quantity of amber and wine and black rice. And you have the ships themselves. So all that remains is ...”

“ ... the dragon,” finished the Grazdan with the spiked beard, who spoke the Common Tongue so thickly.

“And here he waits.” Ser Jorah and Belwas walked beside her to the litter, where Drogon and his brothers lay basking in the sun. Jhiqui unfastened one end of the chain, and handed it down to her. When she gave a yank, the black dragon raised his head, hissing, and unfolded wings of night and scarlet. Kraznys mo Nakloz smiled broadly as their shadow fell across him.

Dany handed the slaver the end of Drogon’s chain. In return he presented her with the whip. The handle was black dragonbone, elaborately carved and inlaid with gold. Nine long thin leather lashes trailed from it, each one tipped by a gilded claw. The gold pommel was a woman’s head, with pointed ivory teeth. “The harpy’s fingers,” Kraznys named the scourge.

Dany turned the whip in her hand. Such a light thing, to bear such weight. “Is it done, then? Do they belong to me?”

“It is done,” he agreed, giving the chain a sharp pull to bring Drogon down from the litter.

Dany mounted her silver. She could feel her heart thumping in her chest. She felt desperately afraid. Was this what my brother would have done? She wondered if Prince Rhaegar had been this anxious when he saw the Usurper’s host formed up across the Trident with all their banners floating on the wind.

She stood in her stirrups and raised the harpy’s fingers above her head for all the Unsullied to see. “IT IS DONE!” she cried at the top of her lungs. “YOU ARE MINE!” She gave the mare her heels and galloped along the first rank, holding the fingers high. “YOU ARE THE DRAGON’S NOW! YOU’RE BOUGHT AND PAID FOR! IT IS DONE! IT IS DONE!”

She glimpsed old Grazdan turn his grey head sharply. He hears me speak Valyrian. The other slavers were not listening. They crowded around Kraznys and the dragon, shouting advice. Though the Astapori yanked and tugged, Drogon would not budge off the litter. Smoke rose grey from his open jaws, and his long neck curled and straightened as he snapped at the slaver’s face.

It is time to cross the Trident, Dany thought, as she wheeled and rode her silver back. Her bloodriders moved in close around her. “You are in difficulty,” she observed.

“He will not come,” Kraznys said.

“There is a reason. A dragon is no slave.” And Dany swept the lash down as hard as she could across the slaver’s face. Kraznys screamed and staggered back, the blood running red down his cheeks into his perfumed beard. The harpy’s fingers had torn his features half to pieces with one slash, but she did not pause to contemplate the ruin. “Drogon,” she sang out loudly, sweetly, all her fear forgotten. “Dracarys.”

The black dragon spread his wings and roared.

A lance of swirling dark flame took Kraznys full in the face. His eyes melted and ran down his cheeks, and the oil in his hair and beard burst so fiercely into fire that for an instant the slaver wore a burning crown twice as tall as his head. The sudden stench of charred meat overwhelmed even his perfume, and his wail seemed to drown all other sound.

Then the Plaza of Punishment blew apart into blood and chaos. The Good Masters were shrieking, stumbling, shoving one another aside and tripping over the fringes of their tokars in their haste. Drogon flew almost lazily at Kraznys, black wings beating. As he gave the slaver another taste of fire, Irri and Jhiqui unchained Viserion and Rhaegal, and suddenly there were three dragons in the air. When Dany turned to look, a third of Astapor’s proud demon-horned warriors were fighting to stay atop their terrified mounts, and another third were fleeing in a bright blaze of shiny copper. One man kept his saddle long enough to draw a sword, but Jhogo’s whip coiled about his neck and cut off his shout. Another lost a hand to Rakharo’s arakh and rode off reeling and spurting blood. Aggo sat calmly notching arrows to his bowstring and sending them at tokars. Silver, gold, or plain, he cared nothing for the fringe. Strong Belwas had his arakh out as well, and he spun it as he charged.

“Spears!” Dany heard one Astapori shout. It was Grazdan, old Grazdan in his tokar heavy with pearls. “Unsullied! Defend us, stop them, defend your masters! Spears! Swords!”

When Rakharo put an arrow through his mouth, the slaves holding his sedan chair broke and ran, dumping him unceremoniously on the ground. The old man crawled to the first rank of eunuchs, his blood pooling on the bricks. The Unsullied did not so much as look down to watch him die. Rank on rank on rank, they stood.

And did not move. The gods have heard my prayer.

“Unsullied!” Dany galloped before them, her silver-gold braid flying behind her, her bell chiming with every stride. “Slay the Good Masters, slay the soldiers, slay every man who wears a tokar or holds a whip, but harm no child under twelve, and strike the chains off every slave you see.” She raised the harpy’s fingers in the air ... and then she flung the scourge aside. “Freedom!” she sang out. “Dracarys! Dracarys!”

“Dracarys!” they shouted back, the sweetest word she’d ever heard. “Dracarys! Dracarys!” And all around them slavers ran and sobbed and begged and died, and the dusty air was filled with spears and fire.

ASOS Daenerys IV

Her Dothraki scouts had told her how it was, but Dany wanted to see for herself. Ser Jorah Mormont rode with her through a birchwood forest and up a slanting sandstone ridge. “Near enough,” he warned her at the crest.

Dany reined in her mare and looked across the fields, to where the Yunkish host lay athwart her path. Whitebeard had been teaching her how best to count the numbers of a foe. “Five thousand,” she said after a moment.

“I’d say so.”

“Are those slave soldiers they lead?”

“In large part. But not the equal of Unsullied. Yunkai is known for training bed slaves, not warriors.”

“What say you? Can we defeat this army?” “Easily,” Ser Jorah said.

“But not bloodlessly.” Blood aplenty had soaked into the bricks of Astapor the day that city fell, though little of it belonged to her or hers.

“We might win a battle here, but at such cost we cannot take the city.”

“That is ever a risk, Khaleesi. Astapor was complacent and vulnerable. Yunkai is forewarned.”

Dany considered. The slaver host seemed small compared to her own numbers, but the sellswords were ahorse. She’d ridden too long with Dothraki not to have a healthy respect for what mounted warriors could do to foot. The Unsullied could withstand their charge, but my freedmen will be slaughtered. “The slavers like to talk,” she said. “Send word that I will hear them this evening in my tent. And invite the captains of the sellsword companies to call on me as well. But not together. The Stormcrows at midday, the Second Sons two hours later.”

“As you wish,” Ser Jorah said. “But if they do not come—”

“They’ll come. They will be curious to see the dragons and hear what I might have to say, and the clever ones will see it for a chance to gauge my strength.” She wheeled her silver mare about. “I’ll await them in my pavilion.”

When she had commanded the Unsullied to choose officers from amongst themselves, Grey Worm had been their overwhelming choice for the highest rank. Dany had put Ser Jorah over him to train him for command, and the exile knight said that so far the young eunuch was hard but fair, quick to learn, tireless, and utterly unrelenting in his attention to detail.

One of the first things Dany had done after the fall of Astapor was abolish the custom of giving the Unsullied new slave names every day. Most of those born free had returned to their birth names; those who still remembered them, at least. Others had called themselves after heroes or gods, and sometimes weapons, gems, and even flowers, which resulted in soldiers with some very peculiar names, to Dany’s ears. Grey Worm had remained Grey Worm. When she asked him why, he said, “It is a lucky name. The name this one was born to was accursed. That was the name he had when he was taken for a slave. But Grey Worm is the name this one drew the day Daenerys Stormborn set him free.”

Within the perimeter the Unsullied had established, the tents were going up in orderly rows, with her own tall golden pavilion at the center. A second encampment lay close beyond her own; five times the size, sprawling and chaotic, this second camp had no ditches, no tents, no sentries, no horselines. Those who had horses or mules slept beside them, for fear they might be stolen. Goats, sheep, and half-starved dogs wandered freely amongst hordes of women, children, and old men. Dany had left Astapor in the hands of a council of former slaves led by a healer, a scholar, and a priest. Wise men all, she thought, and just. Yet even so, tens of thousands preferred to follow her to Yunkai, rather than remain behind in Astapor. I gave them the city, and most of them were too frightened to take it.

The raggle-taggle host of freedmen dwarfed her own, but they were more burden than benefit. Perhaps one in a hundred had a donkey, a camel, or an ox; most carried weapons looted from some slaver’s armory, but only one in ten was strong enough to fight, and none was trained. They ate the land bare as they passed, like locusts in sandals. Yet Dany could not bring herself to abandon them as Ser Jorah and her bloodriders urged. I told them they were free. I cannot tell them now they are not free to join me. She gazed at the smoke rising from their cookfires and swallowed a sigh. She might have the best footsoldiers in the world, but she also had the worst.

Arstan Whitebeard stood outside the entrance of her tent, while Strong Belwas sat crosslegged on the grass nearby, eating a bowl of figs. On the march, the duty of guarding her fell upon their shoulders. She had made Jhogo, Aggo, and Rakharo her kos as well as her bloodriders, and just now she needed them more to command her Dothraki than to protect her person. Her khalasar was tiny, some thirty-odd mounted warriors, and most of them braidless boys and bentback old men. Yet they were all the horse she had, and she dared not go without them. The Unsullied might be the finest infantry in all the world, as Ser Jorah claimed, but she needed scouts and outriders as well.

“Yunkai will have war,” Dany told Whitebeard inside the pavilion.

Ser Jorah Mormont returned an hour later, accompanied by three captains of the Stormcrows. They wore black feathers on their polished helms, and claimed to be all equal in honor and authority. Dany studied them as Irri and Jhiqui poured the wine. Prendahl na Ghezn was a thickset Ghiscari with a broad face and dark hair going grey; Sallor the Bald had a twisting scar across his pale Qartheen cheek; and Daario Naharis was flamboyant even for a Tyroshi. His beard was cut into three prongs and dyed blue, the same color as his eyes and the curly hair that fell to his collar. His pointed mustachios were painted gold. His clothes were all shades of yellow; a foam of Myrish lace the color of butter spilled from his collar and cuffs, his doublet was sewn with brass medallions in the shape of dandelions, and ornamental goldwork crawled up his high leather boots to his thighs. Gloves of soft yellow suede were tucked into a belt of gilded rings, and his fingernails were enameled blue.

But it was Prendahl na Ghezn who spoke for the sellswords. “You would do well to take your rabble elsewhere,” he said. “You took Astapor by treachery, but Yunkai shall not fall so easily.”

“Five hundred of your Stormcrows against ten thousand of my Unsullied,” said Dany. “I am only a young girl and do not understand the ways of war, yet these odds seem poor to me.”

“The Stormcrows do not stand alone,” said Prendahl.

“Stormcrows do not stand at all. They fly, at the first sign of thunder. Perhaps you should be flying now. I have heard that sellswords are notoriously unfaithful. What will it avail you to be staunch, when the Second Sons change sides?”

“That will not happen,” Prendahl insisted, unmoved. “And if it did, it would not matter. The Second Sons are nothing. We fight beside the stalwart men of Yunkai.”

“You fight beside bed-boys armed with spears.” When she turned her head, the twin bells in her braid rang softly. “Once battle is joined, do not think to ask for quarter. Join me now, however, and you shall keep the gold the Yunkaii paid you and claim a share of the plunder besides, with greater rewards later when I come into my kingdom. Fight for the Wise Masters, and your wages will be death. Do you imagine that Yunkai will open its gates when my Unsullied are butchering you beneath the walls?”

“Woman, you bray like an ass, and make no more sense.”

“Woman?” She chuckled. “Is that meant to insult me? I would return the slap, if I took you for a man.” Dany met his stare. “I am Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen, the Unburnt, Mother of Dragons, khaleesi to Drogo’s riders, and queen of the Seven Kingdoms of Westeros.”

“What you are,” said Prendahl na Ghezn, “is a horselord’s whore. When we break you, I will breed you to my stallion.”

Strong Belwas drew his arakh. “Strong Belwas will give his ugly tongue to the little queen, if she likes.”

“No, Belwas. I have given these men my safe conduct.” She smiled. “Tell me this—are the Stormcrows slave or free?”

“We are a brotherhood of free men,” Sallor declared.

“Good.” Dany stood. “Go back and tell your brothers what I said, then. It may be that some of them would sooner sup on gold and glory than on death. I shall want your answer on the morrow.”

The Stormcrow captains rose in unison. “Our answer is no,” said Prendahl na Ghezn. His fellows followed him out of the tent ... but Daario Naharis glanced back as he left, and inclined his head in polite farewell.

Two hours later the commander of the Second Sons arrived alone. He proved to be a towering Braavosi with pale green eyes and a bushy red-gold beard that reached nearly to his belt. His name was Mero, but he called himself the Titan’s Bastard.

Mero tossed down his wine straightaway, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and leered at Dany. “I believe I fucked your twin sister in a pleasure house back home. Or was it you?”

“I think not. I would remember a man of such magnificence, I have no doubt.” “Yes, that is so. No woman has ever forgotten the Titan’s Bastard.” The Braavosi held out his cup to Jhiqui. “What say you take those clothes off and come sit on my lap? If you please me, I might bring the Second Sons over to your side.”

“If you bring the Second Sons over to my side, I might not have you gelded.”

The big man laughed. “Little girl, another woman once tried to geld me with her teeth. She has no teeth now, but my sword is as long and thick as ever. Shall I take it out and show you?”

“No need. After my eunuchs cut it off, I can examine it at my leisure.” Dany took a sip of wine. “It is true that I am only a young girl, and do not know the ways of war. Explain to me how you propose to defeat ten thousand Unsullied with your five hundred. Innocent as I am, these odds seem poor to me.”

“The Second Sons have faced worse odds and won.”

“The Second Sons have faced worse odds and run. At Qohor, when the Three Thousand made their stand. Or do you deny it?”

“That was many and more years ago, before the Second Sons were led by the Titan’s Bastard.”

“So it is from you they get their courage?” Dany turned to Ser Jorah. “When the battle is joined, kill this one first.”

The exile knight smiled. “Gladly, Your Grace.”

“Of course,” she said to Mero, “you could run again. We will not stop you. Take your Yunkish gold and go.”

“Had you ever seen the Titan of Braavos, foolish girl, you would know that it has no tail to turn.”

“Then stay, and fight for me.”

“You are worth fighting for, it is true,” the Braavosi said, “and I would gladly let you kiss my sword, if I were free. But I have taken Yunkai’s coin and pledged my holy word.”

“Coins can be returned,” she said. “I will pay you as much and more. I have other cities to conquer, and a whole kingdom awaiting me half a world away. Serve me faithfully, and the Second Sons need never seek hire again.”

The Braavosi tugged on his thick red beard. “As much and more, and perhaps a kiss besides, eh? Or more than a kiss? For a man as magnificent as me?”

“Perhaps.” “I will like the taste of your tongue, I think.”

She could sense Ser Jorah’s anger. My black bear does not like this talk of kissing. “Think on what I’ve said tonight. Can I have your answer on the morrow?”

“You can.” The Titan’s Bastard grinned. “Can I have a flagon of this fine wine to take back to my captains?”

“You may have a tun. It is from the cellars of the Good Masters of Astapor, and I have wagons full of it.”

“Then give me a wagon. A token of your good regard.”

“You have a big thirst.”

“I am big all over. And I have many brothers. The Titan’s Bastard does not drink alone, Khaleesi.”

“A wagon it is, if you promise to drink to my health.”

“Done!” he boomed. “And done, and done! Three toasts we’ll drink you, and bring you an answer when the sun comes up.”

The man on the white camel named himself Grazdan mo Eraz. Lean and hard, he had a white smile such as Kraznys had worn until Drogon burned off his face. His hair was drawn up in a unicorn’s horn that jutted from his brow, and his tokar was fringed with golden Myrish lace. “Ancient and glorious is Yunkai, the queen of cities,” he said when Dany welcomed him to her tent. “Our walls are strong, our nobles proud and fierce, our common folk without fear. Ours is the blood of ancient Ghis, whose empire was old when Valyria was yet a squalling child. You were wise to sit and speak, Khaleesi. You shall find no easy conquest here.”

“Good. My Unsullied will relish a bit of a fight.” She looked to Grey Worm, who nodded.

Grazdan shrugged expansively. “If blood is what you wish, let it flow. I am told you have freed your eunuchs. Freedom means as much to an Unsullied as a hat to a haddock.” He smiled at Grey Worm, but the eunuch might have been made of stone. “Those who survive we shall enslave again, and use to retake Astapor from the rabble. We can make a slave of you as well, do not doubt it. There are pleasure houses in Lys and Tyrosh where men would pay handsomely to bed the last Targaryen.”

“It is good to see you know who I am,” said Dany mildly.

“I pride myself on my knowledge of the savage senseless west.” Grazdan spread his hands, a gesture of conciliation. “And yet, why should we speak thus harshly to one another? It is true that you committed savageries in Astapor, but we Yunkai’i are a most forgiving people. Your quarrel is not with us, Your Grace. Why squander your strength against our mighty walls when you will need every man to regain your father’s throne in far Westeros? Yunkai wishes you only well in that endeavor. And to prove the truth of that, I have brought you a gift.” He clapped his hands, and two of his escort came forward bearing a heavy cedar chest bound in bronze and gold. They set it at her feet. “Fifty thousand golden marks,” Grazdan said smoothly. “Yours, as a gesture of friendship from the Wise Masters of Yunkai. Gold given freely is better than plunder bought with blood, surely? So I say to you, Daenerys Targaryen, take this chest, and go.”

Dany pushed open the lid of the chest with a small slippered foot. It was full of gold coins, just as the envoy said. She grabbed a handful and let them run through her fingers. They shone brightly as they tumbled and fell; new minted, most of them, stamped with a stepped pyramid on one face and the harpy of Ghis on the other. “Very pretty. I wonder how many chests like this I shall find when I take your city?”

He chuckled. “None, for that you shall never do.”

“I have a gift for you as well.” She slammed the chest shut. “Three days. On the morning of the third day, send out your slaves. All of them. Every man, woman, and child shall be given a weapon, and as much food, clothing, coin, and goods as he or she can carry. These they shall be allowed to choose freely from among their masters’ possessions, as payment for their years of servitude. When all the slaves have departed, you will open your gates and allow my Unsullied to enter and search your city, to make certain none remain in bondage. If you do this, Yunkai will not be burned or plundered, and none of your people shall be molested. The Wise Masters will have the peace they desire, and will have proved themselves wise indeed. What say you?”

“I say, you are mad.”

“Am I?” Dany shrugged, and said, “Dracarys.”

The dragons answered. Rhaegal hissed and smoked, Viserion snapped, and Drogon spat swirling red-black flame. It touched the drape of Grazdan’s tokar, and the silk caught in half a heartbeat. Golden marks spilled across the carpets as the envoy stumbled over the chest, shouting curses and beating at his arm until Whitebeard flung a flagon of water over him to douse the flames. “You swore I should have safe conduct! “ the Yunkish envoy wailed.

“Do all the Yunkai’i whine so over a singed tokar? I shall buy you a new one ... if you deliver up your slaves within three days. Elsewise, Drogon shall give you a warmer kiss.” She wrinkled her nose. “You’ve soiled yourself. Take your gold and go, and see that the Wise Masters hear my message.”

Grazdan mo Eraz pointed a finger. “You shall rue this arrogance, whore. These little lizards will not keep you safe, I promise you. We will fill the air with arrows if they come within a league of Yunkai. Do you think it is so hard to kill a dragon?”

“Harder than to kill a slaver. Three days, Grazdan. Tell them. By the end of the third day, I will be in Yunkai, whether you open your gates for me or no.”

“Ser Jorah,” she said, “summon my bloodriders.” Dany seated herself on a mound of cushions to await them, her dragons all about her. When they were assembled, she said, “An hour past midnight should be time enough.”

“Yes, Khaleesi,” said Rakharo. “Time for what?” 

“To mount our attack.” 

Ser Jorah Mormont scowled. “You told the sellswords—”

“—that I wanted their answers on the morrow. I made no promises about tonight. The Stormcrows will be arguing about my offer. The Second Sons will be drunk on the wine I gave Mero. And the Yunkai’i believe they have three days. We will take them under cover of this darkness.”

“They will have scouts watching for us.”

“And in the dark, they will see hundreds of campfires burning,” said Dany. “If they see anything at all.”

“Khaleesi,” said Jhogo, “I will deal with these scouts. They are no riders, only slavers on horses.”

“Just so,” she agreed. “I think we should attack from three sides. Grey Worm, your Unsullied shall strike at them from right and left, while my kos lead my horse in wedge for a thrust through their center. Slave soldiers will never stand before mounted Dothraki.” She smiled. “To be sure, I am only a young girl and know little of war. What do you think, my lords?”

“I think you are Rhaegar Targaryen’s sister,” Ser Jorah said with a rueful half smile.

“Aye,” said Arstan Whitebeard, “and a queen as well.”

“My sword is yours. My life is yours. My love is yours. My blood, my body, my songs, you own them all. I live and die at your command, fair queen.”

“Then live,” Dany said, “and fight for me tonight.”

“That would not be wise, my queen.” Ser Jorah gave Daario a cold, hard stare. “Keep this one here under guard until the battle’s fought and won.”

She considered a moment, then shook her head. “If he can give us the Stormcrows, surprise is certain.”

“And if he betrays you, surprise is lost.”

Dany looked down at the sellsword again. He gave her such a smile that she flushed and turned away. “He won’t.”

“How can you know that?”

She pointed to the lumps of blackened flesh the dragons were consuming, bite by bloody bite. “I would call that proof of his sincerity. Daario Naharis, have your Stormcrows ready to strike the Yunkish rear when my attack begins. Can you get back safely?”

“If they stop me, I will say I have been scouting, and saw nothing.” The Tyroshi rose to his feet, bowed, and swept out.

A stillness settled over her camp when midnight came and went. Dany remained in her pavilion with her maids, while Arstan Whitebeard and Strong Belwas kept the guard. The waiting is the hardest part. To sit in her tent with idle hands while her battle was being fought without her made Dany feel half a child again.

The tent flap pushed open, and Ser Jorah Mormont entered. He was dusty, and spattered with blood, but otherwise none the worse for battle. The exile knight went to one knee before Dany and said, “Your Grace, I bring you victory. The Stormcrows turned their cloaks, the slaves broke, and the Second Sons were too drunk to fight, just as you said. Two hundred dead, Yunkai’i for the most part. Their slaves threw down their spears and ran, and their sellswords yielded. We have several thousand captives.”

“Our own losses?” 

“A dozen. If that many.”

Only then did she allow herself to smile. “Rise, my good brave bear. Was Grazdan taken? Or the Titan’s Bastard?”

“Grazdan went to Yunkai to deliver your terms.” Ser Jorah got to his feet. “Mero fled, once he realized the Stormcrows had turned. I have men hunting him. He shouldn’t escape us long.”

“Very well,” Dany said. “Sellsword or slave, spare all those who will pledge me their faith. If enough of the Second Sons will join us, keep the company intact.”

The next day they marched the last three leagues to Yunkai. The city was built of yellow bricks instead of red; elsewise it was Astapor all over again, with the same crumbling walls and high stepped pyramids, and a great harpy mounted above its gates. The wall and towers swarmed with crossbowmen and slingers. Ser Jorah and Grey Worm deployed her men, Irri and Jhiqui raised her pavilion, and Dany sat down to wait.

On the morning of the third day, the city gates swung open and a line of slaves began to emerge. Dany mounted her silver to greet them. As they passed, little Missandei told them that they owed their freedom to Daenerys Stormborn, the Unburnt, Queen of the Seven Kingdoms of Westeros and Mother of Dragons.

ASOS Daenerys V

Behind them, huge against the sky, could be seen the top of the Great Pyramid, a monstrous thing eight hundred feet tall with a towering bronze harpy at its top.

“The harpy is a craven thing,” Daario Naharis said when he saw it. “She has a woman’s heart and a chicken’s legs. Small wonder her sons hide behind their walls.”

But the hero did not hide. He rode out the city gates, armored in scales of copper and jet and mounted upon a white charger whose striped pink-and-white barding matched the silk cloak flowing from the hero’s shoulders. The lance he bore was fourteen feet long, swirled in pink and white, and his hair was shaped and teased and lacquered into two great curling ram’s horns. Back and forth he rode beneath the walls of multicolored bricks, challenging the besiegers to send a champion forth to meet him in single combat.

Her bloodriders were in such a fever to go meet him that they almost came to blows. “Blood of my blood,” Dany told them, “your place is here by me. This man is a buzzing fly, no more. Ignore him, he will soon be gone.” Aggo, Jhogo, and Rakharo were brave warriors, but they were young, and too valuable to risk. They kept her khalasar together, and were her best scouts too.

“That was wisely done,” Ser Jorah said as they watched from the front of her pavilion. “Let the fool ride back and forth and shout until his horse goes lame. He does us no harm.”

“He does,” Arstan Whitebeard insisted. “Wars are not won with swords and spears alone, ser. Two hosts of equal strength may come together, but one will break and run whilst the other stands. This hero builds courage in the hearts of his own men and plants the seeds of doubt in ours.”

Ser Jorah snorted. “And if our champion were to lose, what sort of seed would that plant?”

“A man who fears battle wins no victories, ser.”

“We’re not speaking of battle. Meereen’s gates will not open if that fool falls. Why risk a life for naught?”

“For honor, I would say.”

“I have heard enough.” Dany did not need their squabbling on top of all the other troubles that plagued her. Meereen posed dangers far more serious than one pink-and-white hero shouting insults, and she could not let herself be distracted. Her host numbered more than eighty thousand after Yunkai, but fewer than a quarter of them were soldiers. The rest ... well, Ser Jorah called them mouths with feet, and soon they would be starving.

The Great Masters of Meereen had withdrawn before Dany’s advance, harvesting all they could and burning what they could not harvest. Scorched fields and poisoned wells had greeted her at every hand. Worst of all, they had nailed a slave child up on every milepost along the coast road from Yunkai, nailed them up still living with their entrails hanging out and one arm always outstretched to point the way to Meereen. Leading her van, Daario had given orders for the children to be taken down before Dany had to see them, but she had countermanded him as soon as she was told. “I will see them,” she said. “I will see every one, and count them, and look upon their faces. And I will remember.”

By the time they came to Meereen sitting on the salt coast beside her river, the count stood at one hundred and sixty-three. I will have this city, Dany pledged to herself once more.

The pink-and-white hero taunted the besiegers for an hour, mocking their manhood, mothers, wives, and gods. Meereen’s defenders cheered him on from the city walls. “His name is Oznak zo Pahl,” Brown Ben Plumm told her when he arrived for the war council. [...]

They watched Oznak zo Pahl dismount his white charger, undo his robes, pull out his manhood, and direct a stream of urine in the general direction of the olive grove where Dany’s gold pavilion stood among the burnt trees. He was still pissing when Daario Naharis rode up, arakh in hand. “Shall I cut that off for you and stuff it down his mouth, Your Grace?” His tooth shone gold amidst the blue of his forked beard.

“It’s his city I want, not his meager manhood.” She was growing angry, however. If I ignore this any longer, my own people will think me weak. Yet who could she send? She needed Daario as much as she did her bloodriders. Without the flamboyant Tyroshi, she had no hold on the Stormcrows, many of whom had been followers of Prendahl na Ghezn and Sallor the Bald.

High on the walls of Meereen, the jeers had grown louder, and now hundreds of the defenders were taking their lead from the hero and pissing down through the ramparts to show their contempt for the besiegers. They are pissing on slaves, to show how little they fear us, she thought. They would never dare such a thing if it were a Dothraki khalasar outside their gates.

“This challenge must be met,” Arstan said again.

“It will be.” Dany said, as the hero tucked his penis away again. “Tell Strong Belwas I have need of him.”

[...] Oznak zo Pahl lowered his lance and charged.

Belwas stopped with legs spread wide. In one hand was his small round shield, in the other the curved arakh that Arstan tended with such care. His great brown stomach and sagging chest were bare above the yellow silk sash knotted about his waist, and he wore no armor but his studded leather vest, so absurdly small that it did not even cover his nipples. “We should have given him chainmail,” Dany said, suddenly anxious.

“Mail would only slow him,” said Ser Jorah. “They wear no armor in the fighting pits. It’s blood the crowds come to see.”

Dust flew from the hooves of the white charger. Oznak thundered toward Strong Belwas, his striped cloak streaming from his shoulders. The whole city of Meereen seemed to be screaming him on. The besiegers’ cheers seemed few and thin by comparison; her Unsullied stood in silent ranks, watching with stone faces. Belwas might have been made of stone as well. He stood in the horse’s path, his vest stretched tight across his broad back. Oznak’s lance was leveled at the center of his chest. Its bright steel point winked in the sunlight. He’s going to be impaled, she thought ... as the eunuch spun sideways. And quick as the blink of an eye the horseman was beyond him, wheeling, raising the lance. Belwas made no move to strike at him. The Meereenese on the walls screamed even louder. “What is he doing?” Dany demanded.

“Giving the mob a show,” Ser Jorah said.

Oznak brought the horse around Belwas in a wide circle, then dug in with his spurs and charged again. Again Belwas waited, then spun and knocked the point of the lance aside. She could hear the eunuch’s booming laughter echoing across the plain as the hero went past him. “The lance is too long,” Ser Jorah said. “All Belwas needs do is avoid the point. Instead of trying to spit him so prettily, the fool should ride right over him.”

Oznak zo Pahl charged a third time, and now Dany could see plainly that he was riding past Belwas, the way a Westerosi knight might ride at an opponent in a tilt, rather than at him, like a Dothraki riding down a foe. The flat level ground allowed the charger to get up a good speed, but it also made it easy for the eunuch to dodge the cumbersome fourteen-foot lance.

Meereen’s pink-and-white hero tried to anticipate this time, and swung his lance sideways at the last second to catch Strong Belwas when he dodged. But the eunuch had anticipated too, and this time he dropped down instead of spinning sideways. The lance passed harmlessly over his head. And suddenly Belwas was rolling, and bringing the razor-sharp arakh around in a silver arc. They heard the charger scream as the blade bit into his legs, and then the horse was falling, the hero tumbling from the saddle.

A sudden silence swept along the brick parapets of Meereen. Now it was Dany’s people who were screaming and cheering.

Oznak leapt clear of his horse and managed to draw his sword before Strong Belwas was on him. Steel sang against steel, too fast and furious for Dany to follow the blows. It could not have been a dozen heartbeats before Belwas’s chest was awash in blood from a slice below his breasts, and Oznak zo Pahl had an arakh planted right between his ram’s horns. The eunuch wrenched the blade loose and parted the hero’s head from his body with three savage blows to the neck. He held it up high for the Meereenese to see, then flung it toward the city gates and let it bounce and roll across the sand.

“So much for the hero of Meereen,” said Daario, laughing.

“No,” Dany agreed, “but I’m pleased we killed this one.”

The defenders on the walls began firing their crossbows at Belwas, but the bolts fell short or skittered harmlessly along the ground. The eunuch turned his back on the steel- tipped rain, lowered his trousers, squatted, and shat in the direction of the city. He wiped himself with Oznak’s striped cloak, and paused long enough to loot the hero’s corpse and put the dying horse out of his agony before trudging back to the olive grove.

Only then did she lead her captains and commanders inside her pavilion for their council.

“I must have this city,” she told them, sitting crosslegged on a pile of cushions, her dragons all about her. Irri and Jhiqui poured wine. “Her granaries are full to bursting. There are figs and dates and olives growing on the terraces of her pyramids, and casks of salt fish and smoked meat buried in her cellars.”

“And fat chests of gold, silver, and gemstones as well,” Daario reminded them. “Let us not forget the gemstones.”

“I’ve had a look at the landward walls, and I see no point of weakness,” said Ser Jorah Mormont. “Given time, we might be able to mine beneath a tower and make a breach, but what do we eat while we’re digging? Our stores are all but exhausted.”

“No weakness in the landward walls?” said Dany. Meereen stood on a jut of sand and stone where the slow brown Skahazadhan flowed into Slaver’s Bay. The city’s north wall ran along the riverbank, its west along the bay shore. “Does that mean we might attack from the river or the sea?”

“With three ships? We’ll want to have Captain Groleo take a good look at the wall along the river, but unless it’s crumbling that’s just a wetter way to die.”

“What if we were to build siege towers? My brother Viserys told tales of such, I know they can be made.”

“From wood, Your Grace,” Ser Jorah said. “The slavers have burnt every tree within twenty leagues of here. Without wood, we have no trebuchets to smash the walls, no ladders to go over them, no siege towers, no turtles, and no rams. We can storm the gates with axes, to be sure, but ...”

“Did you see them bronze heads above the gates?” asked Brown Ben Plumm. “Rows of harpy heads with open mouths? The Meereenese can squirt boiling oil out them mouths, and cook your axemen where they stand.”

Daario Naharis gave Grey Worm a smile. “Perhaps the Unsullied should wield the axes. Boiling oil feels like no more than a warm bath to you, I have heard.”

“This is false.” Grey Worm did not return the smile. “These ones do not feel burns as men do, yet such oil blinds and kills. The Unsullied do not fear to die, though. Give these ones rams, and we will batter down these gates or die in the attempt.”

“You would die,” said Brown Ben. At Yunkai, when he took command of the Second Sons, he claimed to be the veteran of a hundred battles. “Though I will not say I fought bravely in all of them. There are old sellswords and bold sellswords, but no old bold sellswords.” She saw that it was true.

Dany sighed. “I will not throw away Unsullied lives, Grey Worm. Perhaps we can starve the city out.”

Ser Jorah looked unhappy. “We’ll starve long before they do, Your Grace. There’s no food here, nor fodder for our mules and horses. I do not like this river water either. Meereen shits into the Skahazadhan but draws its drinking water from deep wells. Already we’ve had reports of sickness in the camps, fever and brownleg and three cases of the bloody flux. There will be more if we remain. The slaves are weak from the march.”

“Freedmen,” Dany corrected. “They are slaves no longer.”

“Slave or free, they are hungry and they’ll soon be sick. The city is better provisioned than we are, and can be resupplied by water. Your three ships are not enough to deny them access to both the river and the sea.”

“Then what do you advise, Ser Jorah?”

“You will not like it.” 

“I would hear it all the same.”

“As you wish. I say, let this city be. You cannot free every slave in the world, Khaleesi. Your war is in Westeros.”

“I have not forgotten Westeros.” Dany dreamt of it some nights, this fabled land that she had never seen. “If I let Meereen’s old brick walls defeat me so easily, though, how will I ever take the great stone castles of Westeros?”

“As Aegon did,” Ser Jorah said, “with fire. By the time we reach the Seven Kingdoms, your dragons will be grown. And we will have siege towers and trebuchets as well, all the things we lack here ... but the way across the Lands of the Long Summer is long and grueling, and there are dangers we cannot know. You stopped at Astapor to buy an army, not to start a war. Save your spears and swords for the Seven Kingdoms, my queen. Leave Meereen to the Meereenese and march west for Pentos.”

“Defeated?” said Dany, bristling.

“When cowards hide behind great walls, it is they who are defeated, Khaleesi,” Ko Jhogo said.

Her other bloodriders concurred. “Blood of my blood,” said Rakharo, “when cowards hide and burn the food and fodder, great khals must seek for braver foes. This is known.”

“It is known,” Jhiqui agreed, as she poured.

“Not to me.” Dany set great store by Ser Jorah’s counsel, but to leave Meereen untouched was more than she could stomach. She could not forget the children on their posts, the birds tearing at their entrails, their skinny arms pointing up the coast road. “Ser Jorah, you say we have no food left. If I march west, how can I feed my freedmen?”

“You can’t. I am sorry, Khaleesi. They must feed themselves or starve. Many and more will die along the march, yes. That will be hard, but there is no way to save them. We need to put this scorched earth well behind us.”

Dany had left a trail of corpses behind her when she crossed the red waste. It was a sight she never meant to see again. “No,” she said. “I will not march my people off to die.” My children. “There must be some way into this city.”

“I know a way.” Brown Ben Plumm stroked his speckled grey-and-white beard. “Sewers.” “Sewers? What do you mean?”

“Great brick sewers empty into the Skahazadhan, carrying the city’s wastes. They might be a way in, for a few. That was how I escaped Meereen, after Scarb lost his head.” Brown Ben made a face. “The smell has never left me. I dream of it some nights.”

Ser Jorah looked dubious. “Easier to go out than in, it would seem to me. These sewers empty into the river, you say? That would mean the mouths are right below the walls.”

“And closed with iron grates,” Brown Ben admitted, “though some have rusted through, else I would have drowned in shit. Once inside, it is a long foul climb in pitch-dark through a maze of brick where a man could lose himself forever. The filth is never lower than waist high, and can rise over your head from the stains I saw on the walls. There’s things down there too. Biggest rats you ever saw, and worse things. Nasty.”

Daario Naharis laughed. “As nasty as you, when you came crawling out? If any man were fool enough to try this, every slaver in Meereen would smell them the moment they emerged.”

Brown Ben shrugged. “Her Grace asked if there was a way in, so I told her ... but Ben Plumm isn’t going down in them sewers again, not for all the gold in the Seven Kingdoms. If there’s others want to try it, though, they’re welcome.”

Aggo, Jhogo, and Grey Worm all tried to speak at once, but Dany raised her hand for silence. “These sewers do not sound promising.” Grey Worm would lead his Unsullied down the sewers if she commanded it, she knew; her bloodriders would do no less. But none of them was suited to the task. The Dothraki were horsemen, and the strength of the Unsullied was their discipline on the battlefield. Can I send men to die in the dark on such a slender hope? “I must think on this some more. Return to your duties.”

South of the ordered realm of stakes, pits, drills, and bathing eunuchs lay the encampments of her freedmen, a far noisier and more chaotic place. Dany had armed the former slaves as best she could with weapons from Astapor and Yunkai, and Ser Jorah had organized the fighting men into four strong companies, yet she saw no one drilling here.

“There’s the treacherous sow,” he said. “I knew you’d come to get your feet kissed one day.” His head was bald as a melon, his nose red and peeling, but she knew that voice and those pale green eyes. “I’m going to start by cutting off your teats.” Dany was dimly aware of Missandei shouting for help. A freedman edged forward, but only a step. One quick slash, and he was on his knees, blood running down his face. Mero wiped his sword on his breeches. “Who’s next?”

“I am.” Arstan Whitebeard leapt from his horse and stood over her, the salt wind riffling through his snowy hair, both hands on his tall hardwood staff.

“Grandfather,” Mero said, “run off before I break your stick in two and bugger you with —”

The old man feinted with one end of the staff, pulled it back, and whipped the other end about faster than Dany would have believed. The Titan’s Bastard staggered back into the surf, spitting blood and broken teeth from the ruin of his mouth. Whitebeard put Dany behind him. Mero slashed at his face. The old man jerked back, cat-quick. The staff thumped Mero’s ribs, sending him reeling. Arstan splashed sideways, parried a looping cut, danced away from a second, checked a third mid-swing. The moves were so fast she could hardly follow. Missandei was pulling Dany to her feet when she heard a crack. She thought Arstan’s staff had snapped until she saw the jagged bone jutting from Mero’s calf. As he fell, the Titan’s Bastard twisted and lunged, sending his point straight at the old man’s chest. Whitebeard swept the blade aside almost contemptuously and smashed the other end of his staff against the big man’s temple. Mero went sprawling, blood bubbling from his mouth as the waves washed over him. A moment later the freedmen washed over him too, knives and stones and angry fists rising and falling in a frenzy.

Dany turned away, sickened. She was more frightened now than when it had been happening. He would have killed me.

“Your Grace.” Arstan knelt. “I am an old man, and shamed. He should never have gotten close enough to seize you. I was lax. I did not know him without his beard and hair.”

“No more than I did.” Dany took a deep breath to stop her shaking. Enemies everywhere. “Take me back to my tent. Please.”

“I had a look at the river wall,” Ser Jorah started. “It’s a few feet higher than the others, and just as strong. And the Meereenese have a dozen fire hulks tied up beneath the ramparts—”

She cut him off. “You might have warned me that the Titan’s Bastard had escaped.”

He frowned. “I saw no need to frighten you, Your Grace. I have offered a reward for his head—”

“Pay it to Whitebeard. Mero has been with us all the way from Yunkai. He shaved his beard off and lost himself amongst the freedmen, waiting for a chance for vengeance. Arstan killed him.”

Ser Jorah gave the old man a long look. “A squire with a stick slew Mero of Braavos, is that the way of it?”

“A stick,” Dany confirmed, “but no longer a squire. Ser Jorah, it’s my wish that Arstan be knighted.”

“No.”

The loud refusal was surprise enough. Stranger still, it came from both men at once.

ASOS Daenerys VI

No one was calling her Daenerys the Conqueror yet, but perhaps they would. Aegon the Conqueror had won Westeros with three dragons, but she had taken Meereen with sewer rats and a wooden cock, in less than a day. Poor Groleo. He still grieved for his ship, she knew. If a war galley could ram another ship, why not a gate? That had been her thought when she commanded the captains to drive their ships ashore. Their masts had become her battering rams, and swarms of freedmen had torn their hulls apart to build mantlets, turtles, catapults, and ladders. The sellwords had given each ram a bawdy name, and it had been the mainmast of Meraxes—formerly Joso’s Prank—that had broken the eastern gate. Joso’s Cock, they called it. The fighting had raged bitter and bloody for most of a day and well into the night before the wood began to splinter and Meraxes’ iron figurehead, a laughing jester’s face, came crashing through.

Dany had wanted to lead the attack herself, but to a man her captains said that would be madness, and her captains never agreed on anything. Instead she remained in the rear, sitting atop her silver in a long shirt of mail. She heard the city fall from half a league away, though, when the defenders’ shouts of defiance changed to cries of fear. Her dragons had roared as one in that moment, filling the night with flame. The slaves are rising, she knew at once. My sewer rats have gnawed off their chains.

When the last resistance had been crushed by the Unsullied and the sack had run its course, Dany entered her city. The dead were heaped so high before the broken gate that it took her freedmen near an hour to make a path for her silver. Joso’s Cock and the great wooden turtle that had protected it, covered with horsehides, lay abandoned within. She rode past burned buildings and broken windows, through brick streets where the gutters were choked with the stiff and swollen dead. Cheering slaves lifted bloodstained hands to her as she went by, and called her “Mother.”

In the plaza before the Great Pyramid, the Meereenese huddled forlorn. The Great Masters had looked anything but great in the morning light. Stripped of their jewels and their fringed tokars, they were contemptible; a herd of old men with shriveled balls and spotted skin and young men with ridiculous hair. Their women were either soft and fleshy or as dry as old sticks, their face paint streaked by tears. “I want your leaders,” Dany told them. “Give them up, and the rest of you shall be spared.”

“How many?” one old woman had asked, sobbing. “How many must you have to spare us?”

“One hundred and sixty-three,” she answered.

She had them nailed to wooden posts around the plaza, each man pointing at the next. The anger was fierce and hot inside her when she gave the command; it made her feel like an avenging dragon. But later, when she passed the men dying on the posts, when she heard their moans and smelled their bowels and blood ...

Dany put the glass aside, frowning. It was just. It was. I did it for the children.

“Flies are the dead man’s revenge.” Daario smiled, and stroked the center prong of his beard. “Corpses breed maggots, and maggots breed flies.”

“We will rid ourselves of the corpses, then. Starting with those in the plaza below. Grey Worm, will you see to it?”

“The queen commands, these ones obey.”

“Best bring sacks as well as shovels, Worm,” Brown Ben counseled. “Well past ripe, those ones. Falling off those poles in bits and pieces, and crawling with ...”

“He knows. So do I.” Dany remembered the horror she had felt when she had seen the Plaza of Punishment in Astapor. I made a horror just as great, but surely they deserved it. Harsh justice is still justice.

“Your Grace,” said Missandei, “Ghiscari inter their honored dead in crypts below their manses. If you would boil the bones clean and return them to their kin, it would be a kindness.”

The widows will curse me all the same. “Let it be done.”

She stood. “When I sent you down into the sewers, part of me hoped I’d seen the last of you.[”] [...] “I will admit you helped win me this city ...”

Ser Jorah’s mouth tightened. “We won you this city. We sewer rats.”

“Be quiet,” she said again ... though there was truth to what he said. While Joso’s Cock and the other rams were battering the city gates and her archers were firing flights of flaming arrows over the walls, Dany had sent two hundred men along the river under cover of darkness to fire the hulks in the harbor. But that was only to hide their true purpose. As the flaming ships drew the eyes of the defenders on the walls, a few half- mad swimmers found the sewer mouths and pried loose a rusted iron grating. Ser Jorah, Ser Barristan, Strong Belwas, and twenty brave fools slipped beneath the brown water and up the brick tunnel, a mixed force of sellswords, Unsullied, and freedmen. Dany had told them to choose only men who had no families ... and preferably no sense of smell.

They had been lucky as well as brave. It had been a moon’s turn since the last good rain, and the sewers were only thigh-high. The oilcloth they’d wrapped around their torches kept them dry, so they had light. A few of the freedmen were frightened of the huge rats until Strong Belwas caught one and bit it in two. One man was killed by a great pale lizard that reared up out of the dark water to drag him off by the leg, but when next ripples were spied Ser Jorah butchered the beast with his blade. They took some wrong turnings, but once they found the surface Strong Belwas led them to the nearest fighting pit, where they surprised a few guards and struck the chains off the slaves. Within an hour, half the fighting slaves in Meereen had risen.

ADWD Daenerys II

“[...] Will you hear my friends? There are seven of them as well.” He brought them forth one by one. “Here is Khrazz. Here Barsena Blackhair, ever valiant. Here Camarron of the Count and Goghor the Giant. This is the Spotted Cat, this Fearless Ithoke. Last, Belaquo Bonebreaker. They have come to add their voices to mine own, and ask Your Grace to let our fighting pits reopen.”

Dany knew his seven, by name if not by sight. All had been amongst the most famed of Meereen’s fighting slaves … and it had been the fighting slaves, freed from their shackles by her sewer rats, who led the uprising that won the city for her. She owed them a blood debt. “I will hear you,” she allowed.

The advice she received

ASOS Daenerys I

“Sit, good ser, and tell me what is troubling you.”

“Three things.” Ser Jorah sat. “Strong Belwas. This Arstan Whitebeard. And Illyrio Mopatis, who sent them.”

[...] “Which means two traitors yet remain ... and now these two appear. I find that troubling, yes. Never forget, Robert offered a lordship to the man who slays you.”

[...] “Khaleesi, has it occurred to you that Whitebeard and Belwas might have been in league with the assassin? It might all have been a ploy to win your trust.”

[...] “These are Illyrio’s ships, Illyrio’s captains, Illyrio’s sailors ... and Strong Belwas and Arstan are his men as well, not yours.”

[...] “He was not born wealthy. In the world as I have seen it, no man grows rich by kindness. The warlocks said the second treason would be for gold. What does Illyrio Mopatis love more than gold?”

[...] “He is not what he pretends to be. He speaks to you more boldly than any squire would dare.”

[...] “Illyrio Mopatis wants you back in Pentos, under his roof. Very well, go to him ... but in your own time, and not alone. Let us see how loyal and obedient these new subjects of yours truly are. Command Groleo to change course for Slaver’s Bay.”

[...] “Dragons will be as great a wonder in Astapor as they were in Qarth. It may be that the slavers will shower you with gifts, as the Qartheen did. If not ... these ships carry more than your Dothraki and their horses. They took on trade goods at Qarth, I’ve been through the holds and seen for myself. Bolts of silk and bales of tiger skin, amber and jade carvings, saffron, myrrh ... slaves are cheap, Your Grace. Tiger skins are costly.”

[...] “What use are wealthy friends if they will not put their wealth at your disposal, my queen? If Magister Illyrio would deny you, he is only Xaro Xhoan Daxos with four chins. And if he is sincere in his devotion to your cause, he will not begrudge you three shiploads of trade goods. What better use for his tiger skins than to buy you the beginnings of an army?”

[...] “There are dangers at sea as well. Corsairs and pirates hunt the southern route, and north of Valyria the Smoking Sea is demon-haunted. The next storm could sink or scatter us, a kraken could pull us under ... or we might find ourselves becalmed again, and die of thirst as we wait for the wind to rise. A march will have different dangers, my queen, but none greater.”

ASOS Daenerys II

“Tell her that these have been standing here for a day and a night, with no food nor water. [...] Such is their courage. Tell her that.”

“You have lived long in the world, Whitebeard. Now that you have seen them, what do you say?”

“I say no, Your Grace,” the old man answered at once. 

“Why?” she asked. “Speak freely.” Dany thought she knew what he would say, but she wanted the slave girl to hear, so Kraznys mo Nakloz might hear later.

“Yet I must have some army,” Dany said. “The boy Joffrey will not give me the Iron Throne for asking politely.”

“When the day comes that you raise your banners, half of Westeros will be with you,” Whitebeard promised. “Your brother Rhaegar is still remembered, with great love.”

“And my father?” Dany said.

“Those same high lords who abandoned my father to the Kingslayer and bent the knee to Robert the Usurper?”

“Even those who bent their knees may yearn in their hearts for the return of the dragons.”

“May,” said Dany.

“Then leave this place before your heart turns to brick as well. Sail this very night, on the evening tide.”

Would that I could, thought Dany. “When I leave Astapor it must be with an army, Ser Jorah says.”

“Ser Jorah was a slaver himself, Your Grace,” the old man reminded her. “There are sellswords in Pentos and Myr and Tyrosh you can hire. A man who kills for coin has no honor, but at least they are no slaves. Find your army there, I beg you.”

“My brother visited Pentos, Myr, Braavos, near all the Free Cities. The magisters and archons fed him wine and promises, but his soul was starved to death. A man cannot sup from the beggar’s bowl all his life and stay a man. I had my taste in Qarth, that was enough. I will not come to Pentos bowl in hand.”

“Better to come a beggar than a slaver,” Arstan said.

“Khaleesi,” he said, taken aback by her fury, “the Unsullied are chosen as boys, and trained—”

ASOS Daenerys III

ASOS Daenerys IV

Ser Jorah pointed. “Those are sellswords on the flanks. Lances and mounted bowmen, with swords and axes for the close work. The Second Sons on the left wing, the Stormcrows to the right. About five hundred men apiece. See the banners?”

Yunkai’s harpy grasped a whip and iron collar in her talons instead of a length of chain. But the sellswords flew their own standards beneath those of the city they served: on the right four crows between crossed thunderbolts, on the left a broken sword. “The Yunkai’i hold the center themselves,” Dany noted. Their officers looked indistinguishable from Astapor’s at a distance; tall bright helms and cloaks sewn with flashing copper disks. “Are those slave soldiers they lead?”

“In large part. But not the equal of Unsullied. Yunkai is known for training bed slaves, not warriors.”

“What say you? Can we defeat this army?” “Easily,” Ser Jorah said.

“But not bloodlessly.” Blood aplenty had soaked into the bricks of Astapor the day that city fell, though little of it belonged to her or hers.

“We might win a battle here, but at such cost we cannot take the city.”

“That is ever a risk, Khaleesi. Astapor was complacent and vulnerable. Yunkai is forewarned.”

“Missandei, what language will these Yunkai’i speak, Valyrian?”

“Yes, Your Grace,” the child said. “A different dialect than Astapor’s, yet close enough to understand. The slavers name themselves the Wise Masters.”

“Wise?” Dany sat crosslegged on a cushion, and Viserion spread his white-and-gold wings and flapped to her side. “We shall see how wise they are,” she said as she scratched the dragon’s scaly head behind the horns.

But when Mero was gone, Arstan Whitebeard said, “That one has an evil reputation, even in Westeros. Do not be misled by his manner, Your Grace. He will drink three toasts to your health tonight, and rape you on the morrow.”

“The old man’s right for once,” Ser Jorah said. “The Second Sons are an old company, and not without valor, but under Mero they’ve turned near as bad as the Brave Companions. The man is as dangerous to his employers as to his foes. That’s why you find him out here. None of the Free Cities will hire him any longer.”

“It is not his reputation that I want, it’s his five hundred horse. What of the Stormcrows, is there any hope there?”

“No,” Ser Jorah said bluntly. “That Prendahl is Ghiscari by blood. Likely he had kin in Astapor.”

“A pity. Well, perhaps we will not need to fight. Let us wait and hear what the Yunkai’i have to say.”

ASOS Daenerys V

“That was wisely done,” Ser Jorah said as they watched from the front of her pavilion. “Let the fool ride back and forth and shout until his horse goes lame. He does us no harm.”

Ser Jorah snorted. “And if our champion were to lose, what sort of seed would that plant?”

“A man who fears battle wins no victories, ser.”

“We’re not speaking of battle. Meereen’s gates will not open if that fool falls. Why risk a life for naught?”

“For honor, I would say.”

“I have heard enough.” Dany did not need their squabbling on top of all the other troubles that plagued her.

“It’s his city I want, not his meager manhood.”

“No weakness in the landward walls?” [...] “Does that mean we might attack from the river or the sea?”

“With three ships? We’ll want to have Captain Groleo take a good look at the wall along the river, but unless it’s crumbling that’s just a wetter way to die.”

“What if we were to build siege towers? My brother Viserys told tales of such, I know they can be made.”

“From wood, Your Grace,” Ser Jorah said. “The slavers have burnt every tree within twenty leagues of here. [...] [”]

Daario Naharis gave Grey Worm a smile. “Perhaps the Unsullied should wield the axes. Boiling oil feels like no more than a warm bath to you, I have heard.”

Dany sighed. “I will not throw away Unsullied lives, Grey Worm. Perhaps we can starve the city out.”

Ser Jorah looked unhappy. “We’ll starve long before they do, Your Grace. There’s no food here, nor fodder for our mules and horses. I do not like this river water either. Meereen shits into the Skahazadhan but draws its drinking water from deep wells. Already we’ve had reports of sickness in the camps, fever and brownleg and three cases of the bloody flux. There will be more if we remain. The slaves are weak from the march.”

“Freedmen,” Dany corrected. “They are slaves no longer.”

“Then what do you advise, Ser Jorah?”

“You will not like it.”

“I would hear it all the same.”

“As you wish. I say, let this city be. You cannot free every slave in the world, Khaleesi. Your war is in Westeros.”

“Defeated?” said Dany, bristling.

“When cowards hide behind great walls, it is they who are defeated, Khaleesi,” Ko Jhogo said.

Her other bloodriders concurred. “Blood of my blood,” said Rakharo, “when cowards hide and burn the food and fodder, great khals must seek for braver foes. This is known.”

“It is known,” Jhiqui agreed, as she poured.

[...] “There must be some way into this city.”

“I know a way.” Brown Ben Plumm stroked his speckled grey-and-white beard. “Sewers.” “Sewers? What do you mean?”

Ser Jorah looked dubious. “Easier to go out than in, it would seem to me. These sewers empty into the river, you say? That would mean the mouths are right below the walls.”

Daario Naharis laughed. “As nasty as you, when you came crawling out? If any man were fool enough to try this, every slaver in Meereen would smell them the moment they emerged.”

#daenerys targaryen #valyrianscrolls #a storm of swords #a dance with dragons #dany passages

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tsarisfanfiction · 4 years

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Allergy

Fandom: One Piece Rating: Teen Genre: Hurt/Comfort/Family Characters: Law, Shachi, Penguin, Bepo

The Ope Ope no Mi is only as powerful as its user's knowledge, and Law was a surgeon, not a geneticist. Or: White Lead Poisoning isn't as extinct as everyone thinks.

Tired as he was – of life, of grieving, of dying – it's perhaps no surprise that thirteen-year-old Trafalgar Law's attempts to cure himself did not quite go to plan. He'd barely worked out how to use the fruit, death was coming knocking far too quickly, and no-one had established what exactly made White Lead Poisoning tick in the first place. His breath was no longer laboured, his movements were no longer sluggish and his skin was no longer patched with white, so the exhausted child had considered the operation a success. He'd even double-checked later, after he learnt Scan, and found nothing. For all intents and purposes, it seemed the poisoning had gone.

There were a few signs he dismissed as long-lasting effects. His immune system wasn't as strong as most; if there was a sniffle in the area he would catch it without fail. His growth, too, was jerky. His height eventually found its way to the six foot mark, so the stunt wasn't immediately apparent, but he never did fill out the way other teenage boys did after their growth spurt. Aged 26 he still felt like a gangly beanpole and no amount of training or eating could convince his body to bulk out, even if he had the strength of a man twice his size (or maybe Kikoku didn't weigh as much as it seemed it should).

The first sign manifested shortly after he formed his own crew, currently a group of four.

The day had been like any other. They'd been sailing together for two weeks, having stolen a prototype submarine shortly after leaving Swallow Island, and Bepo had directed their attention towards an island, both for restocking and resting purposes. Cooped up in the ship, no-one had had any complaints; Shachi even launched himself off the deck onto land before they'd even docked. Law had not joined him, although he shared the sentiment.

It was a quiet island. No Marines in sight, and a welcome lack of ships flying a black flag promised for an uneventful trip. The island delivered. The crew had scattered to the winds as soon as they'd hit the town, and Law had checked the apothecary and book store for supplies relevant to his interests before locating the inn he'd declared to be their rendezvous before his crew had fled. Bepo was already there, and attracting the attention of many for obvious reasons. Once the whole crew was reassembled (Bepo having been sent to retrieve Penguin after Law deemed the wait too long) they descended on the restaurant for food.

Bread. Law thought nothing of the slice innocently served with the meal. Cora-san had hated the stuff, so it hadn't been a part of his diet since Flevance (Law assumed its lack of presence with the Donquixote Family was also due to Cora-san), and keeping bread on-board was more hassle than it was worth. Perishables were a nightmare to store. Still, Law had nothing against the food itself, and was content to nibble on it once the rest of the food was consumed.

That was when everything went wrong. The nausea wasn't instantaneous, which Law was thankful for because as a pirate captain he was averse to showing weakness anywhere outside his ship, and they managed to get back to the Polar Tang before he hurled. His crew couldn't seem to decide whether they were concerned for Law, or furious at the restaurant for giving him food poisoning: the natural assumption. Law had no intention of doing anything to the restaurant staff until the wave passed, and instead dragged himself down to the infirmary to deal with the nuisance.

At least, that was the plan, but his vision swam and blinked out of existence sporadically as he tried to move, and it was mere seconds before he found himself in the warm, furry arms of his navigator as he was carried the rest of the way.

"You really don't look too good, captain," Penguin commented as they arrived, Shachi already there and hunting through their supplies. "Your skin's gone all blotchy." Absently, Law lifted an arm to inspect it, and froze. While not as stark as when he was younger, there was no way he could mistake the white splotches on his skin for anything other than White Lead Poisoning. His crew picked up on the silent distress immediately and crowded around him with remedies in hand. It took several minutes of silent panic before Law regained the presence of mind to Scan himself. The results were not pretty.

While all his Scans before had shown no sign of the disease, it now picked up anomalies that had appeared seemingly out of nowhere. It was nowhere near the scale it had been before he'd used the Ope Ope no Mi, but it was still there and that was all that mattered to Law's suddenly panicked mind. Heedless of the crew watching him with unconcealed concern, he began to dismantle his own body, tearing it apart with a desperation he hadn't felt in months, trying to tear out these new signs of his childhood hell.

"Captain!" someone cried, or maybe multiple someones. He wasn't really paying attention to them, far more concerned with getting the poison out, out, out. "Captain!" Arms locked around him; more than two – four? Other hands grasped his splintered body and he felt them fighting his power, trying to piece him back together. No! It was too soon, he wasn't done!

"Captain! Captain, stop!" He didn't stop. If he had to fight his entire crew, he would. They didn't understand what was wrong, they didn't understand he had to do this.

The only warning he got was a clink of metal before everything shut off and he collapsed back on the bed, still in pieces.

"Sorry, Captain," Shachi's miserable voice rasped. Law turned his head to see it was the ginger's hands on the cuff around his wrist. His hat and shades hid his eyes, but not the tears rolling down his cheeks.

"Get it off," he ordered, his mind still too full of it's back no no no I need to get rid of it to register his crew mate's shaking hands and trembling voice. "I need to-"

He was interrupted by the sensation of his body slotting back together, his crew working in silence. A large paw knocked his hat off his head before resting where it had been.

"Captain," Bepo's forlorn voice broke through. "What's wrong, Captain?"

"What's so bad you're tearing yourself apart, with no regard for medical procedure or even basic anatomy?" he heard Penguin scold. "Ope Ope no Mi or not you can't just break the rules like that." Dimly, Law wondered when the bully had become enough of an expert in medicine to be able to lecture him.

"Here." A glass of water was pressed to his lips as his head was raised. Shachi looked back at him sternly, but the effect was somewhat ruined by his damp cheeks and pale skin. "Drink," he ordered. "Then calm. Then talk." Restrained by the kairoseki as he was – where the hell had his crew got their hands on that, and why – he had little choice but to comply.

The water was cold, and cut through his fogged mind cleaner than a scalpel. He blinked once, twice, noticing his drowsiness extended beyond the sea stone's effects, and sighed.

"Sorry," he managed after a minute, trying to sit up. The efforts of his crew and the kairoseki thwarted him and he was forced to be content slumped against Bepo. All three were watching him, Shachi's hand back on the cuff. They were all pale, and there were more wet cheeks than dry. He'd scared them. They were scared for him. The realisation knotted in his chest; he wasn't alone.

"How serious is it?" Penguin asked. His eyes were covered as per usual, but Law could see him chewing his lip and fidgeting his hands. Law forced himself to think through the Scan he'd performed logically, trying to ignore the terror that washed over him when he recalled how White Lead Poisoning had been there.

The bread. The bread had triggered it.

That meant…

"It seems like I've developed an allergy to bread," Law admitted, wearily closing his eyes and fighting back the panic that still wanted to envelop him if given half a chance. "Most likely gluten; I'll have to run tests."

"Without tearing yourself apart in a frenzy," Shachi muttered. Law forced himself to acknowledge the point, before taking a deep breath and opening his eyes.

What good was a captain that couldn't trust his crew?

"I… used to be sick," he admitted. "Very sick. If I hadn't got my fruit when I did, it would have killed me." Someone let out a horrified gasp, he wasn't sure who, but otherwise there was silence. "My skin…" He weakly lifted one arm as best he could to show the blemishes. Penguin caught it and supported it for him. "I thought it was gone." He closed his eyes then opened them again as images flashed in his mind. Everyone that had died because of it. He didn't want to face that while his crew were watching. "But it seems like it's back."

"Captain won't die," Bepo rumbled at his back, his voice gentle but firm. The Mink truly believed it, and Law smiled weakly.

"Yeah," he agreed. "Even if I didn't get rid of it completely, I can do what I did before again." His crew sighed and exchanged a look. He missed the meaning of their silent conversation, but they descended on him as one, tugging his clothes off to replace them with the infirmary gown, bundling him into bed properly and wrapping the covers firmly around him. It hadn't escaped his notice that the gown they'd used had long sleeves, completely covering his blemished skin.

"Not now, you're not," Shachi told him, his stern face holding more weight now that he didn't resemble a ghost.

"You are going to stay right there while we treat this allergy," Penguin declared, to a unanimous sea of nodding heads.

"Doesn't this count as mutiny?" Law wondered with a small smirk on his face. "Especially with this cuff." Shachi's hand had gone but the cuff was still there. Their faces fell for just a second, and Law thought that maybe he'd managed to guilt them into taking the kairoseki off.

"It's not mutiny if it's for Captain's own good," Bepo declared, and at the resulting rally of nods Law knew he had lost. There was a brief pause, as if the crew were making sure they really weren't going to be done in for mutiny later, before they leapt into action again.

Law missed most of it, however, as he finally crashed into unconsciousness.

The next time he was aware of his surroundings, it was to a prick in his arm. He shifted it in protest, and hands stilled him with a touch.

"Easy, Captain," he heard before drifting off again.

Following that, his next moment of semi-awareness was to hushed voices talking too quietly for him to make out. His surroundings were pleasantly warm and sleep coaxed him back almost before he'd begun to surface.

Other such instances peppered his rest several times before he finally gained enough consciousness to comprehend what was going on.

Low hums generated from the machinery surrounding him told him that he was still in the infirmary. The scent of antiseptics confirmed it, alongside the familiar texture of the sheets beneath him. Familiar, but not his bed. He was still in a light gown, although the sleeves were shorter now. The needle sitting in his arm told him why. A drip, he assumed, which meant it had been sufficiently long enough since he'd last been conscious that his crew had seen fit to give him nutrition by other means. The kairoseki was gone.

His eyes peeled open reluctantly, and he looked around. A bobble hat betrayed Penguin's presence at the desk. He was slumped over as if asleep, but when Law shifted he immediately bolted upright.

"Captain!" He was at Law's side in seconds. "How are you feeling?"

"Much better." And he was. He'd expected to feel the heaviness of the White Lead Poisoning, but there was nothing. "Why are we moving?" The low hum hadn't just been the machinery surrounding him, but the Polar Tang's engines themselves. The room was warmer than usual, so they were submerged.

"Another pirate crew showed up and caused enough fuss that the village called the Marines," Penguin explained. "Shachi decided we should leave before they arrived."

Law nodded in understanding.

"That was yesterday," Penguin continued. "We've been staying submerged as much as possible so we don't draw attention to ourselves while Bepo finds us another island." Law nodded again, relieved to know that his crew could make decisions without him if the need arose. It was another weight off his chest.

"Am I allowed to treat myself yet?" he asked. "Or will you cuff me if I try?" He made sure to keep a more friendly smirk on his face, and a lighter tone. In hindsight, his crew had made the right decision when they'd restrained him, even if he was going to need to find those cuffs and confiscate them later, alongside a lecture to his crew on proper uses of the things. He did not plan on being cuffed every time they thought it was for his own good. Penguin fidgeted at the mention, but was unrepentant.

"You can Scan," he told him. "But no treatment. The allergy's effects haven't been totally kicked yet, and after that we need to finish sorting out the mess you made of your own insides. In that order." Law hid a wince, remembering his frenzied actions. "But if you'd look at your arm," Penguin continued, unexpectedly, "you'd see that you probably don't have anything to worry about."

Puzzled, Law lifted his arm – the one without the drip – to see what Penguin was talking about.

It looked normal. If Law looked closely, he could see paler blemishes, but it was nothing compared to when he'd last looked. He frowned, confused.

"You're the expert," Penguin shrugged. "But to us it looks like your old illness only flares up for as long as you're sick. It's been fading since we put you on the antibiotics."

That was interesting. Law performed the Scan, just to check what was going on beneath the surface, and found that it was receding. Odd, and more than a little puzzling.

"Satisfied?" Penguin asked him after a moment, offering him a mug of water. Law was willing to bet there was a sleep aid dissolved in it, but accepted it anyway. He was certain 'drugging your captain without telling him' ranked alongside 'restraining your Devil Fruit user captain with kairoseki', but didn't comment as he drank it obediently, Penguin helping him sit up enough not to choke.

He was unsurprised when drowsiness began to set in, and willingly settled back down in the bed. Penguin looked sheepish for a moment, before he realised that Law had been well aware what he'd been given before he'd taken it and set the now-empty mug aside for the moment.

The infirmary door opened and Law flicked his gaze over to see who had entered. Noticing, Shachi practically threw himself across the room.

"You're awake!" he grinned, openly relieved.

Law recalled the realisation that his crew actually cared.

"Not for much longer," he yawned, his eyes sliding half-closed. He allowed himself a smile as he listened to Shachi scold Penguin for 'putting Captain back to sleep before anyone else could see him'.

"He needs the sleep." Penguin stubbornly held his ground. "He isn't fully recovered yet."

Shachi's retort blurred into nothing.

The next time Law stirred, the background hum was quieter and the infirmary cooler. They were docked, then. This time there was no-one in the room with him, so he performed his own Scan to check his condition before deeming himself arguably well enough to move. His insides were still in a shambles, but they were operational, and he couldn't deny that the silence was disconcerting. Where were his crew?

He eased himself out of bed, removing the needle in his arm as he did so, and looked around for something to wear. He was not wandering around in an infirmary gown.

His crew, wherever they had gone, seemed to have anticipated this; in the corner he saw clothes that were very definitely his. He'd talk to them about going into his room without permission some other time. He had to find them first.

The clothes were ones he'd bought in anticipation of his next growth spurt, leaving them looser than his preference, but they fit well enough to wander around his ship. Now dressed, he left the infirmary to investigate the silence.

The crew weren't inside the submarine. He checked the mess hall first, alongside the kitchen, then the recreation room and even the library. No-one. Now thoroughly spooked, although he would never admit it, he headed to the deck. At least one of them had to be there on watch, right?

As it turned out, when he opened the heavy door, all three had decided to commune on the deck for some unknown reason. Bepo spotted him first.

"Captain!" he called, standing up and ambling over to him, wrapping him in a warm bear hug. "You're awake!"

"I'm awake," he agreed with a fond smile as the rest of the crew surrounded them. Hands touched him, ranging from checking his vitals to just a simple brush against his arm, and he couldn't help but close his eyes for a moment, accepting the comfort his crew offered.

"While it's good to see you out of bed," Penguin piped up, "have you put yourself back together yet?"

Law didn't deign to answer, and found himself being dragged back towards the infirmary by his crew. As tempting as it was to Shambles away, he knew that they wanted him to fix himself and he supposed he had enough energy to do that. Forcibly, although not unwillingly, settled back down on the bed by his crew, he gathered his focus together before summoning his Room.

This time he was more careful about how he cut himself up, aiming to put himself back together properly this time, not damage his body further. His crew's attempts at piecing him together hadn't been too bad; his body had still been able to function, if not at full capacity. But he felt the difference as he slowly reversed all the changes. It took a long time, the work was delicate and required maximum concentration, but eventually he was done, wearily leaning back against the pillow.

Hands shifted him until he was lying back on the bed, the covers once again pulled over him.

"Now you just need to regain your strength," Penguin told him. "Shachi's bringing food." Sure enough, minutes later a hot soup was pushed into his hands and his crew helped him drink it. "We'll work out the exact nature of the allergy once you're back at full strength," the teen continued. "I already took a blood sample while you were out." Law nodded with a small smile and let his crew fuss over him while he recovered from using his fruit so much.

While his childhood nightmare might never leave him for good, he wasn't alone. His crew loved him, a realisation that lifted the darkness the poisoning threatened.

He still had some kairoseki cuffs to confiscate.

#one piece #one piece fanfiction #trafalgar law #penguin #shachi #bepo #heart pirates #tsari writes fanfiction #tales from the heart #allergic reaction #ope ope no mi #white lead poisoning

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goblins-riddles-or-frocks · 4 years

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Moffat Dracula Review

Plot Summary For People Who Don’t Want To Watch It:

Dracula corners Jonathan, Mina, and Sister Agatha Van Helsing in a secluded convent in Budapest following Jonathan’s escape from his castle. The castle sequence itself is explained in flashback as Jonathan recounts his experience, leading up to the realization that he himself had died during his stay there.

Realizing he’s now become some form of undead creature, he attempts to kill himself via a stake but is unsuccessful. Despairing at this, he invites Dracula inside the convent in exchange for a true death. Agatha and Mina are able to stay safe within a circle of sacramental bread but everyone else is massacred.

When Mina sees Dracula disguised as Jonathan approaching them, she invites him inside the circle. He of course reveals his identity immediately after. Agatha bargains her own life for Mina’s, so Dracula allows the other girl to go free.

Some time later, Dracula sets sail for England aboard the Demeter, a Russian ship with a strangely high number of wealthy passengers and a bluebeard’s cabin no one is allowed to enter. He quickly picks off the passengers one by one, meanwhile himself leading the effort to find the murderer onboard.

This culminates in the remaining passengers finally searching the ship— and the mysterious cabin which is revealed to have been hiding a sickly Sister Agatha inside. She explains that Dracula is a vampire and together with the passengers they attempt to kill him by setting him on fire. But it is unsuccessful. Agatha urges everyone to escape on lifeboats because she intends to blow up the ship with her and Dracula in it before it is able to reach England.

Dracula does not die but remains dormant under water. He reaches Whitby roughly 100 years later and is immediately captured by the Jonathan Harker foundation, lead by Agatha’s descendant Dr Zoe Van Helsing. He leaves captivity fairly quickly however with the help of Frank Renfield— a lawyer he hired over skype.

Zoe is revealed to be dying of cancer. Dracula offers her his blood to heal her but it doesn’t seem to work. It instead gives her a bond to communicate with her dead ancestor Agatha, which gives her more insight about the vampire.

Meanwhile, Dracula begins preying on Lucy Westenra, a young socialite. Despite leading a seemingly perfect life, she is wholly apathetic and disgruntled with her situation. She allows him to feed on her in exchange for the high a vampire’s bite can give her. He attempts to turn her into a vampire but she’s burned horribly once she’s cremated following her funeral.

Her death leads Zoe and Jack Seward to where Dracula has been staying. During their confrontation however Lucy returns, and after learning about her appearance, begs Jack to kill her, which he does.

Zoe asks Jack to leave so she may speak to Dracula alone. She surmises that all of Dracula’s weaknesses are actually ineffective. The only thing he fears is death, and humanity’s willingness to die, She then... resolves to sit down and die right there. But at the last moment Dracula drinks her cancerous blood which should in turn kill him... they make out while dying... The end?

If that sounds like it makes no sense, it’s because it doesn’t.

Final Thoughts:

The plot was nonsensical and the pacing was very poor and completely unstructured. The story itself bore little to no resemblance to Dracula at all, to the point where I wonder why they even bothered to keep the names.

Most of the characters were new, and the few that were ported over from the Stoker novel had hardly anything in common with their original versions, Dracula included.

Jonathan was the most in character of the bunch, if he was fairly more genre savvy while stuck in Dracula’s castle. Mina’s characterization seemed to be confined to a single flirtatious letter, an endless well of trust for Jonathan, and constant sobbing. She was more of a liability than anything else.

Agatha served the role of a genderbent Van Helsing, though her manner was entirely lifted from the Coppola film. This could’ve been very cool if they hadn’t randomly made her a nun without actually committing to it at all. She was not really portrayed as having any actual lived experience as a nun in the victorian era. And faith as a concept was only touched on for her to dismiss— hilariously casually given her position.

I think the actress’s performance was fairly decent, and she def grew on me in the second episode when she’s not actually in a convent to constantly remind us how dissonant of a nun she is. But it would’ve been nice if they would’ve either committed to actually making her a nun, (a legit vampire hunting nun could be so cool!) or just abandoning the concept altogether. Because the way it was presented just felt like window dressing.

Also I’m not normally averse to shipping Van Helsing/Dracula but having to genderbend one of the two just to do it is like... hm. Also the weird tension they had going on was very badly executed in general.

Speaking of Dracula, he had to be the weakest part of the show. He was written in the smuggest, most infuriating way possible. And it might have worked with another actor but this dude just did not have any gravitas or stage presence whatsoever. And it certainly was not helped by the fact that his costuming and makeup were so fucking lackluster.

Despite being the linchpin of the story, he had no goals nor any particular drive. He was just out there doing Stuff for Reasons and none of them were compelling. It seemed like he was just killing to kill and the writing was not good enough to actually carry any of the vague themes about how he’s looking for new brides (why?) how he’s searching for a The Perfect Fruit (what???) or anything at all really. He had no depth whatsoever beneath his stupid quips and self-satisfied demeanor.

There was an interesting implication that he needed to choose who he drinks carefully in order to maintain his own personality/sanity/sentience and that without blood he’d… apparently just become like any of the zombies we saw in the show. And that is such a cool concept! But it was not really explored, nor was it written all that well. Even though it could’ve been (and I think was maybe intended to be???) an excellent source of existential dread!

But yes, in general there was hardly any depth to this show. They played almost every possible card they could for shock value, and included many unnecessary and frankly underwhelming esoteric concepts that went nowhere. There was so much gore and random effects. We had zombies, vampire infants, and Dracula legit wearing people’s skins. The lore didn’t make any sense either, apparently people just… being unable to die despite their body’s so called death is a common occurrence? It wasn’t clear whether Dracula even had much control over who he changes and whether or not they become proper vampires. The entire thing just seemed poorly thought out.

There were a lot of easter eggs and references to previous Dracula adaptations (and even some unrelated vampire media). I definitely noticed nods to the Hammer Horror movies and the Lugosi film, which was fun. The biggest noticeable influence however would have to be the 1992 Coppola movie. I have never seen a show try so hard to be another movie lmao. They even went so far as to make a spiritual successor to the film’s main theme that’s about as close as you could probably get without actually licensing the music.

However, while the Coppola film at least had skill with regards to the costuming and cinematography to carry its aesthetic, this show simply did not. The costumes, the makeup, and the special effects were all lackluster. The set was nice enough but was not shot in a way to really leave much of an impression.

The first episode was abysmal— mainly due to Dracula’s awful performance (those disgusting fungus covered fake nails, that age makeup, that ACCENT) and the entire awkward af scene where he terrorizes a convent of nuns while naked and covered in blood. But it was at least so bad it was funny.

The second episode was the most tedious to me because it was less offensively awful so I couldn’t even enjoy the badness. There was definitely a sharp uptick of quality whenever Dracula was offscreen for any notable amount of time though. The passengers were rather boring but I liked the crewmen. And Agatha honestly killed it for the latter half.

The last episode was by far the worst and yet the most entertaining because they just stopped trying at that point.

Renfield was amazing and an absolute delight every time he was on screen. Dracula found him over skype for God’s sake, how can that not be fantastic? He actually utters the words “Dracula has rights,” and his argument somehow actually fucking works.

And even Dracula himself was far less insufferable with the shift in dynamics. By being forced to cope with the modern world, he could no longer act like such a smarmy, self-assured know it all. Seeing him freak the fuck out at the sight of helicopters was genuinely fun.

Lucy’s handling was misogynistic af though. It was bafflingly, needlessly awful. And the way she was vilified at the very end was appalling. They almost had an interesting deconstruction wrt her utter malaise for her life, and the implication that she actually resents her beauty. But then of course she gets burned alive, and then is treated horribly for it by the protagonists.

Even though it’s clear she has no idea what’s happened to her body, Zoe doesn’t even bother to explain it to her. She just makes her take a selfie of all things so she can see what she really looks like. It didn’t seem like the show had a shred of sympathy for her, because “oh, clearly she was a narcissistic bitch and she deserved what she got” or something like that??

The utter indifference everyone has to her death is baffling. It was an afterthought, that seemed like its only purpose for existing was yet again just shock value. The scene, after her death, immediately shifting the focus back to whatever weird personal rivalry that borders on sexual tension Agatha/Zoe and Dracula have going on.

But all in all, this adaptation had me baffled, frustrated, and cringing through most of it. It was unintentionally funny quite often and I honestly enjoyed it, but for all the wrong reasons. I highly recommend it to anyone who wants to melt their fucking brain.

#netflix dracula #netflix dracula spoilers #moffat dracula #bbc dracula #long post #I ramble sometimes #tldr: it was BAD #all the salt #this is 1800 words #*writer’s cap*

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theangrypokemaniac · 4 years

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I'll state from the beginning that the images below display the sort of sweet synchronicity to which only love can give life:

MaAndPaShipping is the best ship, and here are five reasons why:

1. It Made James

Like the boy do yer? Ever felt the slightest tingle of warmth at the mention of his name?

Well get down on yer knees and give thanks to his mother and father for gifting him to the world!

Where would we be without their remarkable commitment? Could James have grown into the dandified dream boat of your desires if deprived of the safety provided by his parents?

Had they not brought him up, he'd be dead, The Dog of Flanders fantasy made reality. If miraculously he survived, foraging in the wild is not conducive to a foppish personality.

Is that to yer fancy? No? Then let's have a little respect. The luxury Ma and Pa gave enabled his macaroni tendencies to reach such heights.

Their love created him! How can it not be celebrated?

You lot would ship Jessie's parents but you can't, because she has no dad, and I don't suppose you'll ever assent to his obvious identity of Windy Miller, although 'Jessie Miller' has a wonderful ring to it, so what can be done?

Should a Pa Jess be conjured for the purpose, he still buggered off, didn't he? Where's the allure in a faithless git?

I can't comprehend the obsession with Ma Jess. As soon as here she's stiff, and what is there to remember but coercing her daughter into eating snow?

Hey, I named her. What more do you want from me?

I'd rather have the living, visible ancestors, if you don't mind.

Yeah, says the history fanatic.

Why not make the most of the chances offered, and follow a devoted couple whose love made a difference to your existence?

2. Canon!

There are many ships which I find repulsive for involving depravity, or absurd as the subjects haven't met, or don't inhabit the same fictional universe.

Video et taceo: I see and I say nothing.

Neither does anyone. Forcing decent folk in to incest, bestiality etc. is quite alright.

Perverted ideas are left alone, but woe betide a Rocketshipper, because that's offensive.

It may be the only original ship left standing, with proper evidence and sanctioned by Nintendo, but no, it's fair game for undermining. People pick at your arguments, quibble constantly and NEED to register their objections NOW. You MUST be made aware of opposition. You're not to be permitted your views the way those with twisted tastes are indulged.

Why, out of tens of thousands of combinations, does making Jessie and James an item provoke hostility?

The strength of negativity actually serves as validation, for why be so concerned if it's an impossible relationship?

However sick they are, I'm not anti any ship. I can't muster sufficient interest to do it, and if I scroll on, I forget. I certainly don't attack those responsible.

Anti-Shipping is inherently nihilistic for promoting loneliness. They aren't against Rocketshipping through wanting Jessie and James to be with someone else, as an alternative is not readily available, so the outcome of it is neither finding a companion.

MaAndPaShipping attracts no sourpuss silliness, for 'tis canon beyond question. There's nothing about being 'just friends' when married with a son.

How's the state of your O.T.P.? Not looking too clever I expect, and what's your contribution: wishing, and hoping, and thinking, and praying?

Cast it off! None of that longing is necessary in these quarters, as MaAndPaShipping is a fait accompli.

Hallelujah! Wallow in that Love!

Don't you yearn for at least one ship that all of us accept by default, to the extent these aristocrats are spoken of as a single unit?

Across the internet, Ma and Pa are bracketed as 'James's parents', never 'he' and 'she', always 'they', barely counting as distinct characters. That's how undeniable the love is between them. Sheer indifference has awarded it a blessing from everyone.

MWAH-HA-HA-HA-HA!!!

Of course, now I've drawn attention to it the moaning will start, but we all know a spoilsport when we see one.

If they had any legitimate complaints they ought to have mentioned 'em before this piece highlighted the marriage!

Except it won't have occurred to 'em previously, proving the eternal, indissoluble quality of MaAndPaShipping.

You get good value with this one.

Find a post referring to Ma and Pa as individuals and I'll have written it, for that's what you call ironic.

3. It's a Fine Rocketshipping Proxy

I was at primary school when Pokémon hit the West like the bright, bearded meteor it is, atomizing all competition for a child's attention.

I have shipped Jessie and James before I knew anyone else did it, unaware shipping was even a thing.

There are other pairs where I think: 'That seems to fit', but it's incomparable to what I feel for them.

It is part of me. I bleed it.

I have shipped it longer than most Tumblerries have dwelt upon the earth.

I used to believe, what with the hints and manga finale, that this resolution was inevitable, and all I had to do was wait.

Well I've been patient for two decades now, thus when I look at the modern incarnation, and realise it's no nearer to that goal, and instead is further away, waiting starts to wear a bit thin.

I resent the lack of appreciation shown to the fans by the cretins in charge, how any meagre shippy inclusion is done not with an interest in deepening bonds, but with the blatant cynicism of moulding us into performing monkeys dancing to their manipulative tune.

I dislike being treated like a sea lion, expected to clap me flippers at the wave of a fish, or as a panting dog begging at top table, where, because they're desperate to maintain the status quo, every scrap flung down from above now comes with an Anti-Ship kick in the teeth, just to be sure nothing progresses. Not whilst the franchise can still be milked for all it's worth.

I have lost faith Rocketshipping will happen. What passes for Pokémon today carries not the remotest indication of any intention on the so-called writers' part to finish it that way.

Even if it did, it's not my Team Rocket, it's those skeletal, gargoyle bastardisations. My Jessie and James never got the reward they deserved.

I'm somewhat in the market for a replacement. Beneath this loathsome carapace of acid and ice beats the tender heart of a true romantic, and it must have an outlet!

Shipping Ma and Pa provides a certain spurious relief, because it's as close as you can get to Jessie and James without it being them, both biologically as his parents, but they're so similar to the duo it counts as proof in itself.

Holy Matrimony! is prime Rocketshipping territory, not merely the balloon lift, but many slight additions are as important, like the haircuts matching.

Ma and Pa are therefore Jessie and James in the past, present and future:

The past for representing Jess 'n' Jamie gone Victorian, and we've all wondered how that'd turn out.

The present as it's there right now, absent of suffering the shameless whims of morons to get what you want. 'Tis yours to savour.

The future as a glimpse of Jessie and James once married with children, and they agree:

That's how they play it given the opportunity!

What, James in blue, for his and Pa's hair, and Jessie wearing purple, like Ma's, with a red shawl for her own, and Ma Jess's orange earrings to copy the beads?

• Money!

• Bun!

• 'Tache!

• Classy pad!

• Fancy gear!

• Pampered pet!

• Identical cups of Earl Grey!

4. Original Blend

Ma and Pa have only got two fans! We care more than the entire fandom has in twenty years!

Rocketshipping art is ten a penny, so why not display a pioneering spirit, sharpen up those pencils and be inspired?

Let your mind expand and marvel at the possibilities of these unchartered territories, and I'll reblog it if it's nice.

Pay attention to the condition of it being nice. I'm not putting up with any old toss.

Real Ma and Pa is what I want too, not those Sinnoh coffin-dodgers.

It's never been done! Every drawing breaks new ground!

I don't like fan fiction, but I wouldn't say 'no' to that either. Recall the 'nice' stipulation again.

Come on, be the first amongst your friends and get ship shape!

5. It Gives Us All Hope

Suppose your favourite amour one day became canon: you imagine that's the end of the matter?

Well it ain't.

Between Ash, Misty, Brock, Jessie, James, Gary and Tracey, there are three-and-a-half out of fourteen parents (Flint doesn't count as a complete man) and one out of twenty-eight grandparents, and that's not enough!

If the series drew to a close with your beloved couple apparently walking into the happily-ever-after, there's no guarantee it'll endure. In fact, the odds are they'll split up within a few years and leave another generation to fend for themselves or starve.

That's right, so don't presume the final episode is all you need to worry about. Can you rest easy knowing it'll go pear-shaped once the camera stops rolling?

It's futile soothing one's worries with:

Oh, but they know what it's like to be alone. They'd never inflict such stress on their children.

Oh really?

Look at that poor showing of grandparents. Either Pokémon has a system reminiscent of the sci-fi film Logan's Run, where everyone over thirty is vapourized, or these disappearing maters and paters were themselves victims of abandonment.

I bet when they settled down, they thought it'd be different for their kids, they'd make sure of it, but no, off they went down that same route of feckless self-indulgence, and that's being kind assuming they intended not to repeat history.

Depressing eh? What's the good in any of us surrendering to romance, real or otherwise, if love is but a mayfly of emotion, and all dreams are doomed to die?

Then Ma and Pa arrive, and suddenly the storm clouds part for a ray of heavenly light.

It's not only that they made the effort in what was probably an arranged marriage and have stayed together from youth, it's that they've stayed together when no one else has, which augments its value.

When separation is commonplace, sticking it out becomes rarer and rarer as any belief in the sanctity of wedlock erodes with every failure.

If they didn't bother, why should I? What's the use when it won't work?

Once that idea enters your head, it's over, and your gloom-laden attitude fulfils itself.

Society is collapsing about Ma and Pa's ears, but they persevere nevertheless, refusing to buckle under the turgid malaise engulfing the arrogant and weak.

It's bloody beautiful, man!

You may suggest an environment of supreme wealth erases normality, and to their class and time period divorce is still taboo, so they don't really have much of choice but to remain wedded.

Ah, but it's not as if they simply tolerate one another for appearances, or carried on for the sake of their son (which is more than anyone else did besides), not when he walked out on them.

They've been married longer than James has lived, so at least eighteen years (don't all squeal at once), and they're still blissfully contented!

They hold hands!

They use terms of endearment like 'dear' and 'my precious'!

They were made for one another!

They work as a team!

They want the same thing for James!

It could bring a stone angel to tears it's so beautiful!

See what success can be achieved when you try? When you endeavour to love the one you're with and make yourself worth loving in return?

Better that than chucking 'em at the first sign of trouble.

Ma and Pa is such an irrevocable union even the despair of losing their only child failed to tear 'em asunder, and that'd defeat many, but not this husband and wife.

Be grateful, for it means all is not in vain.

It doesn't have to be misery and pain: love can last despite the pressure of a wretched, hollow culture bent on self-destruction. Your ship might just succeed too.

God bless 'em for keeping the magic alive!

...

Why do I have the presentiment that I'm going to regret encouraging support?

#maandpashipping #team rocket #ma james #pa james #ma and pa james #james #jessie #james's mom #james's dad #james's parents #rocketshipping #kanto #holy matrimony!

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