#how will i ever find a man half up to this standard...... i wont i simply will not

[prapais]

LOVE IN THE AIR ⋮ SPECIAL EPISODE. i told you not to follow me.

#asiandramanet #asianlgbtqdramas #asianlgbtqdrama #love in the air #prapaisky #prapai x sky #fortpeat #lita #mygifs #its the fact that pai has no idea what he did wrong but he still followed him with full intention to apologize for whatever it was #because there's not way in his mind that sky would get upset if he DIDNT do anything so he'll apologize anywa #how will i ever find a man half up to this standard...... i wont i simply will not #YOU KNOW I WONT DO ANYTHING AGAINST YOUR WILL!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! THIS IS SO IMPORTANT TO ME IM LOSING MY MIND BTW #how many times they must have talked about it how many times they discussed boundaries and what sky is okay with #im so glad they're so open with each other in this essay i will-

[bewarethegrim]

Rereading some of Pete Wentz's old blog posts and found the most harringrove entry.

[noone ever fell in love with anyone because of empty pockets or red splotched eyes. drove around for hours tonight just to keep myself from feeling anchored. weighed down. to keep my mind off thinking about what kids like me deserve. desperation isnt a strong enough word (but it will have to do). my wrists are only black and blue cause i don’t got the balls. nothing gets you ready to have every single word dissected and put under a microscope. i got ringing in my ears but none on my fingers. i got sunsets in the veins on my wrists. we’re not just falling in love anymore, we’re demanding it. im the latest bloomer (dried out my wet dreams and saved them for a rainy day). i can still see you standing on my front porch- slowed my own thoughts down to a single blade of grass. you couldnt catch my eye cause i was too busy rolling them. the buttons on one side of your coat that wouldnt snap on the other side. they were just for fashion not for function you told me. you were pretty for a boy. it made me laugh when i thought of it, im sorry i wasnt laughing at what you were saying. it makes me laugh still- when im driving around for hours at night. id love to swerve off and blame it on the fog, but ive been talking on these roads too much lately. theyd spill all my secrets. this city won’t let me go.]

This first half is Billy, talking about how he feels stuck in Hawkins. His thoughts a cycle of the slurs and insults his dad throws at him, and the shameful fact that his dad isn't wrong. He looks at Steve and thinks he's pretty, and it makes him want to die but at the time time it makes him want to laugh because who would've thought his old man would be right? But he chooses to laugh because that's just easier. He drives, he drives too fast, and he thinks about how easy it would be to lose control. Just another tragic accident, but is anyone suprised? Tragic deaths are what kids like Billy deserve.

[im sure theyd lock me up somewhere if anyone saw me at 23 sneaking into cemetaries. taking pills to make me feel okay sleeping in the grass just above you. the sirens find me at the first light. my lips cracked and dried from the tears, i'll probably die a cliche. flash the lights to kissing boys. provocative. i promise you i wont ever have another afternoon like when we used to sneak out of school and drive the lakeshore. noone will ever sound as cool as you. we built cool. we made up style. we set the standard and theyre all just trying to live up to it. if theres nobody who thinks like us anymore. untouchable is unlovable. you always have me humming in my head just out of key. i bought an alarm clock just so i could hit the snooze button. whats the point in getting out of bed anymore if you only get out to say you did. if you could love the biggest fraud or the best liar- then im your prince. i was made just for fashion not for function.]

The second half is Steve. He finds the letter years after Billy has died. But as he reads it over and over again, he can't help but feel like it's not complete. So he sits down at Billy's grave like he so often does and he writes. Be writes how he feels like he's empty, unlovable and broken. Hidden behind years of lies and NDAs, no one could ever know the real him. He could never explain the scars, the nightmares, the paranoia. He finds solace in his memories of warm days spent with Billy at the Quarry. Billy telling him tales of California, and promising he'd take Steve to the beach, a real beach, once he'd saved up enough money to move back home. An event that never happened because Billy died before he could. He died in the town he felt stuck in and now he was truly stuck forever, under the grass and dirt below Steve's feet. Steve wonders how long it'll take him to join Billy down there?

#steve harrington #billy hargrove #harringrove #bewarethegrim #stranger things #tw suicide #tw death #tw suicidal thoughts #tw child abuse #TW homophobia #this is really sad #Pete wentz stop being gay and sad challenge #i saw this on twitter and then the ghost of emo days past possesed me and now its been written #someone go back to 2009 and hug pete please #hes so sad

[not-me-simping-for-blasty]

boyfriend!bakugou headcannons

before dating

- will start noticing you only after you either,,

A) do something intentionally heroic

B) do something incredibly stubborn/borderline reckless to save someone

-there is no room in his big boy ego brain for anyone who doesn’t possess hero qualities,, soz thats just the way it is

-thats not to say he would only date someone from the hero course tho,, he would 100% take interest in someone from any course

-as long as they’re as dedicated to helping others and giving their 100% to everything they do,, he’d be happy

-would watch you for a long time but would be incredibly obvious about it. he’d try and hide it and be sneaky, but everyone knows. even you.

-when he finally asks you out, there was not a single plan involved. he just saw you alone and decided to man up about it on a whim

-that being said- after he does ask you out, he immeadiately panics about what to do on your first date. que frantic google searching-

top searches from that night include

how do cool guys dress

how to stop blushing

first date ideas that arent romantic

why am i sweating so much

-first date is an utter disaster by traditional standards

-he takes you somewhere with an athletic aspect- like minigolf or laser tag. he pays for you but immeadiately follows it up with “you better actually play and don’t just make me waste my money! its not gonna be fun kicking your ass unless you try, got it?”

-you have fun and can’t stop smiling- but not bc lil katsuki is charming you.

-no, you’re smiling bc he’s embarrassing himself at every turn trying to impress you. at first it’s a little off-putting, but then you realize just how much he cares and it’s kinda cute

-cute in the a dog-chasing-it’s-tail-until-it-gets-dizzy-and-falls-over kinda cute; but adorable nonetheless

-bakugou walks away from the date thinking he crushed it. just absolutely blew it out of the water,, there’s no doubt in his mind even though there 100% should be

early relationship

-incredibly touchy,, but not in like traditional or “cute” ways

-prior to you, bakugou’s only significant feeling was pure rage,, so needless to say he doesn’t know how to handle his sudden urge to touch you all the time

-he’s super nervous about it and doesn’t know if it’s suddenly okay hug and touch you as much as he wants to,, so he resorts to less traditional means of skinship

-so he’ll flick your forehead when you smile just right at him. he’ll pinch your cheeks when you talk too much. he’ll drop his hand flat and heavy over yours while you’re writing,, just so the pencil skitters across the page and you yell at him.

-he’ll push you over. not like a hard shove or anything,, but if he sees you sitting on the ground or squatting, he’ll just sort of push you over??? especially if you’re standing up from a chair,,

-ofc he catches you before you can fall or anything, but really he just uses “saving” you as an excuse to touch you

-he’ll push at you, catch you, and then smirk at you with “god, you’re so clumsy. i won’t always be around to save your sorry ass, you know.”

-it’s annoying so you just push him away and glare, but unfortunately for you, that’s what he wanted the whole time bc he’s a little shit

-that being said,, he’s still suprisingly sweet in even weirder ways

-bakugou’ll make you food. but he’ll never be around when you eat it,, you’ve tried before to eat the meals he cooks for you right after he cooks them, but he gets too embarrassed and finds an excuse to leave right when you’re about to eat the first bite

-he’ll tease you. a lot. about everything. but nobody else can tease you,, if somebody’s embarrassing you, bakugou will either threaten them until they stop talking or make a scene until nobody is paying attention to you anymore

-he’ll leave you little notes. most of them just have little doodles on them with reminders about homework or training, but they’re cute nonetheless

-when he takes you out on dates his hands always crackle when he first sees you. you’ve come to learn that the more dressed up you are, the more his palms will crackle

-normally you have to be the one to initiate any sort of romantic contact,, pls just kiss him already he’s almost always thinking about it but cant find the courage to do so

-when he does kiss or hug you on his own accord,, don’t say anything. he’ll pull away super quick and get all red!!!

established relationship

- suuuper clingy

-, not in the sense that he’s constantly phyiscally all over you,, he just won’t go anywhere with the class if you’re staying back, or will just follow you around the whole day if he’s got nothing else to do

-like,, if the bakusquad is looking for him they’re honestly just better off looking for you since he’s never far behind

-strangely enough, bakugou’s pretty quiet?? if he’s comfortable around you, he’ll stop being so prideful and picking so many arguments.

-his whole badass front at school wears him out,, so if katsuki comes to hang out with you after a long school day he’ll probably want to sit and just listen to you talk

-is a whole ass cat when it comes to physical affection. he normally acts indifferent entirely, but when he wants attention he wants attention

-might as well just drop everything you’re doing since he’s gonna throw you on the bed and just lay directly on top of you until you stop fighting him

-pet his hair super softly and tell him he’s strong and that you’re proud of him pls,, katsuki will cry

-formal dates happen less often now, but you see him more,,, in fact, you’re almost never without him. when he’s not doing school or studying or training katsuki is always where you are

-he’s pretty possessive and jealous- not just of like other guys, but literally anything that’s getting your attention. see examples 1 & 2

1.) ooo new book that has you super enthralled??? soz, it’s not just your book anymore. katsuki sits you on his lap and tells you that the only way he’s gonna let you continue to “waste your time on something so stupid” is if you read it out loud to him

2.) omg you got a new puppy that you’re just enamoured with?? tough, it’s bakugou’s puppy now too,, and he never lets it leave his side so the only way you’re gonna get to cuddle with the puppy is if you cuddle with bakugou too

-he’s super proud of you so he’ll introduce you as his s/o to everyone he meets,,, and if the person he’s talking to also has an s/o??? good lord katsuki would never shut tf up about how much better and stronger and cooler you two were than the other couple

-is not embarrassed about pda. at all. if everyone already knows you’re together than there’s nothing to hide,, he thinks that since he put in all the work to get you to love him than he should be able to reap the rewards,, anywhere. at anytime.

-that being said, he does find showing affection in front of others to be v v embarassing!!! so to combat that he turns it up to 11 and flirts and flusters you so bad so that all the 1A guys just think he’s super cool and manly with u instead of soft

-that being said, the second you guys are alone it’s like a switch has been flipped and you could fluster him only by batting your eyes just right

-insists you ‘cook’ with him. katsuki doesn’t let you do much but like cut up vegetables or stir, but he likes to listen to you talk while he does everything else

-generally pretty touch starved but only really indulges if you make the first move. like, he won’t ever tell you to come sit with him on the couch, but if you sit down?? then immeadiately he’s pulling you into his side and doesn’t let you up until he’s ready to get up as well

-still pokes and flicks and shoves you. also now feels comfortable enough to prank you. he thinks you’re adorable when you get mad enough to yell at him so prepare to be mad a lot.

-tells you he loves you damn near constantly. he wont say it first tho bc ~tsundere~ but after you admitted it first, he’ll say it. and once you know??? then he’s gonna make sure it’s known,,, blasty baby doesnt do anything half-assed esp not something as important as showing his love

-he likes to pick out your clothes for you bc otherwise you’ll walk about looking too cute and its a problem bc he never figured out how to get his hands to stop crackling

-will call you dumbass, idiot, moron, halfwit, klutz, etc in public but in private it’s usually princess or little brat or very rarely baby

#katuski bakugou #mha katsuki #bakugou x y/n #bakugou katsuki #bakugou headcanons #bakugou hcs #bnha #my hero x reader #my hero academia #mha #mha bakugou

[cruelfeline]

I’ve been thinking about various aspects of SPoP, as I am wont to do, and as often happens, I’ve settled on trying to figure out why I feel a certain way. Namely regarding why I, personally, am able to feel so much more compassion towards Hordak rather than towards the Princesses. After all, the Princesses are the ones being wronged throughout this show, aren’t they? Their lands are being invaded. They’re the ones having to fight to maintain their way of life. They’re losing ground because of Hordak’s war.

So... why do I find it hard to care about them? Why are their experiences in this conflict just sort of... well, meaningless to me?

And why, instead, do my tender emotional responses strongly favor Hordak, despite his serious role in starting a terrible war?

Well! As per usual, I’m going to try to talk my way through it. 

(and, as per usual, your mileage may vary!)

Let’s start with the Princesses. They range from children to young adults. Seem like reasonably nice girls, despite various flaws. They clearly did not ask for a war, had no hand in starting it, and are clearly on the side of good, seeking to protect innocents and simply return to a peaceful way of life.

They appear perfectly designed to garner sympathy and connection... yet I feel so little for them. I feel little because, despite the show telling me that they’re fighting for their lives, and for their home, despite them being the apparent underdogs in their battle against the Horde, I feel like their lives remain relatively stable. Pleasant. Even enjoyable. 

Essentially, I feel like despite everything, they do not truly suffer. Not in a way that is consistent or touching. 

The arcs the Princesses go through either deal largely with matters unrelated to the war and subsequently involve less arduous difficulties, or are handled in such a way that any real pain is quickly resolved and loses its impact.

Frosta and Perfuma represent the former. Both are parentless rulers of their kingdoms, but there is no real confirmation that their parents were killed by the Horde, and they themselves seem largely unperturbed by parental loss. They maintain control of their kingdoms throughout the series. Frosta never loses the Kingdom of Snows, while Perfuma, though in brief danger of losing Plumeria due to damage to the Heart Blossom, ends up... well, defeating the Horde with a band of untrained hippies. So while they fight in the war against Hordak, they never really suffer any significant, confirmed personal losses because of it.

In fact, the Plumerian conflict is... kind of played for laughs.

The other aspects of their arcs have largely to do with friendship matters, or self-belief, and are also dealt with quickly and with little fanfare. Frosta learns how to make friends. Perfuma learns how to play with cacti. Afterwards, Frosta spends the remainder of the story essentially being a violence-happy little kid; amusing, yes, but not particularly tugging at my heartstrings. Perfuma likewise settles into “sympathetic friend” and, though she’s involved in Scorpia’s story at the end, also does little to invoke any sort of significant emotion. 

we’re just going to skirt around the whole “leashing Entrapta” thing, as it’s not relevant to this discussion

(Spinnerella and Netossa barely even register to me, given their very bare-bones roles in the first four seasons and standard “chipped loved one” narrative (that everyone experiences) in the fifth.) 

So, let’s move on to Glimmer and Mermista.

Glimmer and Mermista are arguably the two Princesses who actually lose unique things in the war and suffer because of those losses. And yet, because of the way the show is written, even their pain is dulled in such a way that it just does not facilitate me forming any sort of consistent, compassionate bond with them.

Mermista is the only Princess to actually lose a kingdom. In Hordak’s most visible evil act, Salineas is burned and beflagged, leading to Mermista deeply mourning the loss of her home, her culture, her peop- oh. Hm.

She takes it oddly well, doesn’t she? Apparently, ice cream in a bathtub is how deposed rulers deal with the loss of their entire country nowadays. 

And once she’s done with her moment of moping, she’s back in the fight, fueled by Sea Hawk’s shenanigans and her own power ballad (and Bright Moon’s lack of ice cream). There is no extended mourning for her people, no real depth to the loss she has supposedly suffered. There’s not even a real sense of it: we never see the people of Salineas, never know them, never get to feel anything for them. And with them being all but theoretical, the show appears to have no issue quickly forgetting them: Mermista never negotiates on their behalf, or visits refugees, or... anything. She might use Salineas in her future battle cries and as an excuse for increased recklessness, but that homage is the extent of emotion that we see.

Kingdom gone, bathtub ice cream finished, she goes on living life as if little has happened. And, because of her royal connections, she doesn’t even experience a decrease in quality of life: she continues to live in luxurious comfort despite an apparently raging war.

Because of how the writing handles Salineas, and her character in general, I never feel connected to how Mermista feels. Whatever pain she experiences is there and gone in a few scenes, quickly dealt with so the story can continue. There is no exploration, no nuance, nothing to really make me appreciate any sort of depth to her experience. And so I feel little, if anything, for her plight.

Glimmer, then, is the last chance the show has to make me feel something for the Alliance Princesses’ suffering during this war, and while season four nearly does it, the series again ends up falling short. 

Glimmer loses her mother. The actual sacrifice is emotional... though that emotion, admittedly, comes mainly from Adora. Glimmer’s pain comes through at the beginning of season four, when she is clearly in mourning all while needing to take Angella’s place as queen. Afterwards, season four does a fairly good job of making the loss meaningful: Glimmer becomes more and more willing to commit dark acts due to a mixture of grief and desperation. It works well, and out of all of the Princesses, I feel for her the most... until season five comes along and pretty much erases Angella from character consciousness.

Angella’s death essentially plays no role in season five. Glimmer does not appear to think back to it. While it drives her actions during season four, it appears to have been all but forgotten now, a particularly glaring shift when Catra, the one who is practically responsible, joins the group without it coming up at all. Glimmer’s other parental loss, Micah, likewise becomes meaningless not because of questionable writing choices, but because he simply never died.

Glimmer’s other problem, her rift with Bow and Adora, is repaired within an episode and never spoken of again. That... falls quite flat for me. 

And so, by the end of the series, Glimmer fails to maintain a believable level of distress and thus doesn’t invoke any real emotion in me. The one thing that really mattered, that really hurt her? Suddenly irrelevant in the name of Catra’s redemption. Hm.

And while these are the specific character examples that come to mind, the general situation the Princesses find themselves also fails to carry much weight in my mind. They are in the middle of a war, yet they continue to live in luxury. Skirmishes carry a sense of light-heartedness and sometimes seem almost fun. Battle plans are developed via a game of DnD. There is just no consistent sense of urgency or severity, no believable sense of emotional depth to convey to me that these characters are in truly dire straits. Yes, there are moments... but these moments are so brief, and carry such questionable lasting impact, that they don’t connect with me the way that they should. And as a result, the plight of the Princesses just feels hollow to me. 

I just... I just find myself unable to care about them because, when all is said and done, I don’t feel like they are truly in danger of real harm, or that they are realistically affected by their losses. It all just feels so shallow to me.

Now, let’s pivot and look at Hordak. Hordak, whom I still cry over on the daily. Hordak, who has owned my heart for over a year now. Hordak, who invokes in me all of the emotions. 

What is the difference between Hordak and the Princesses, other than the glaring fact that he is the instigator of the Etherian war and thus a bad, bad man? What makes him snap my heartstrings in half, while the Princesses barely manage a gentle tug?

The answer is that Hordak legitimately suffers. Terribly. Consistently. Throughout the entire series. While the Princesses experience brief moments of distress that the show quickly sweeps under the rug in favor of witty banter and friendship problems, Hordak is the direct opposite: he experiences only the occasional breath of happiness while otherwise drowning in a constant sea of bitterness, fear, pain, and deep unhappiness.  

From the moment we meet him, Hordak is stern and humorless and angry, and while this initially appears to be a side effect of him being a Standard Ultimate Villain Who Never Smiles, we quickly learn that it is due to his struggle. Hordak is constantly struggling against his physical defect, battling an illness that causes him not only significant health problems, but incredible shame. He is likewise constantly struggling to earn the respect and validation and nonexistent love of his god-brother. His sour demeanor, with all of its anger and dourness, originates in the fact that, throughout the overwhelming majority of the series, he is gravely unhappy. He is in ever-present distress, both physical and emotional. 

And as the series goes on, does that distress lessen? No. No, instead, he is rejected by his brother, thoroughly humiliated, and brutally “reset” back into his life as an actual cult slave. Rather than having his difficulties minimized like so many Princesses do, he finds himself in ever-worsening circumstances, graduating from (supposed) “disgraced, disabled military veteran” to “enslaved cultist desperate to be loved by his loveless master.”

Any moments of happiness are not only relatively brief, they are taken away as quickly as the Princesses’ moments of difficulty are. Hordak experiences love and friendship for the first time with Entrapta, only to swiftly lose her to Catra’s lies and spiraling madness. He finally begins to win the Etherian War (which is bad, yes, I know), only to realize that his victories stem from Catra’s betrayal before the whole affair culminates in Prime’s nauseating violation of his personhood.

It does not stop. Physically, mentally, or emotionally: not until his triumph over Prime in the season five finale does Hordak stop hurting, and even that is marred by Prime taking control of his body in a final act of nightmarish control before, bless him, Hordak is freed and able to begin his recovery.

In addition to being a series constant, Hordak’s pain is conveyed. It is dramatically shown through facial expressions, through body language, through phenomenal voice work, through scenes that clearly depict real anguish. 

The purification ritual is one of them; what other character do we hear scream like that, over and over, due to such terrible agony? His reunion with Prime is another; I will never forget how deeply I could sense his fear, how watching him tremble and beg instilled within me a sort of breathless panic because the scene actually made me want to instinctively protect him... but I could not because, y’know: cartoon. 

Hordak’s suffering is not only ever-present, it is varied and developed and communicated to the viewer in ways that result in it making a lasting impression. It is never minimized. It is never ignored. It is painful and horrifying with little reprieve, and it has a deep, life-altering effect on him.

That, friends and neighbors, is why I think I find myself feeling so much more compassion towards Hordak than I do towards the Princesses, despite his less-enticing place on the moral spectrum. Hordak is in pain. Consistently, meaningfully. He suffers, and the story takes it with every ounce of seriousness it can muster.

The Princesses, on the other hand, either experience little hurt or, when they do suffer, do so briefly before the narrative shoves it aside in favor of Catradora other things. As a result, they fail to make the same impression. They fail to garner my compassion because, in the end, they just don’t seem to really need it.

Whereas Hordak does.

#hordak #spop princesses

[writingchalamet]

Oblivious

squishybebe: said to writingchalamet:                                                                

Hii, could you do a Timothee imagine where you're his costar and he has a crush on you, and you're doing a interview together and the interviewer is being very flirty and checking you out and you're oblivious to it

A/n: I hope this is up to standard, sorry I haven’t written in a while so it might be a bit rusty. 1.1k wordcount - she’s short for me I know 

You fiddled with the wire of your newly accustomed microphone, slightly shifting on the sofa. You had a habit for fidgeting when you got nervous, a trait that Timmy had grown to adore in you. He lightly bumped his knees with you, turning your head to receive his warm smile, he brushed his head against your shoulder causing a soft laugh to fall from your lips. 

You brushed a fallen curl out of his eyes when his head returned to its normal upwardly position, giving him a cheeky grin. “Are you nervous Y/n?” he tilted his head to the side eyes softening when they met your gaze. “A little bit, I never know what’s gonna come out of my mouth when I get put on the spot” you both let out a gentle laugh but it was cut short by the interviewer stepping onto the set. 

“Hello it’s lovely to meet you guys, I’m Ryan I’ll be interviewing you today” He strode towards you both, standing from your chairs, he shook Timmy’s hand giving him a pleasant smile, Timothée noticed when he took his hand in yours for a shake he held it just a second too long. “I’m a very big fan, and I think you’re beautiful” Timmy awkwardly cleared his throat sitting back on the sofa. “Oh wow thank you, are we starting?” slipping your hand out of his and taking your seat back next to Timmy, this time subconsciously you managed to park yourself a couple of inches closer. 

Timothée couldn’t help but let out the tiniest snigger at the fact you dismissed his compliment without even realising. “ Yeah I think we’re ready to go” Ryan nodded towards the producers and camera men before starting.

“Hi I’m Ryan Bradshaw and today I have the very talented duo, Timothée Chalamet and Y/N L/n with me here promoting their new movie ‘Falling’ now Timothée can you tell us a little bit about the film?” Ryan nods towards Timmy. You notice Timothée’s eyes light up as he speaks he leans forwards pulling his fingers through his hair.

 “It’s about two people who are struggling to find themselves, and dealing with everyday hardships like poverty, having to work 3 jobs just to get by and.. uh poor mental health and alcoholism. It’s about those people finding each other and forming this undeniable connection, and you really get to see them grow together and it’s really quite beautiful” Timothée by glancing slightly towards you and giving you a warm smile, which you return. 

“And Y/n, you guys had quite an intimate scene to shoot, which you look great in by the way, how did you find shooting those scenes?” You snorted a little not really knowing where the question came from, you noticed Timmy’s eyes had widened a nervous chuckle fell from his lips. “Well it’s something I'd never done before so I was incredibly anxious before our first day of shooting those scenes, but you know Timmy was very respectful and was always quick to cover me up with a blanket or robe when the cameras stopped rolling, so working with someone so kind really helped ease my nerves.” You again turn your head towards him and smile eyes lingering on each other before the interviewing draws you back for another question.

“Timothée what was your favourite scene to film?” There was a slight pause where he was clearing thinking, his lips were pursed, head tilted back with his eyes squinting in concentration. “Oh! probably the lake scene!” He jumped forwards in sudden excited eyes widened “Yes!” you called out in agreement. “Okay I wont say too much because, spoilers, but there’s this one scene where we went on a date to this lake and there was a rope swing, and it was also a really beautiful day out, and it was just so fun in-between takes of us messing around on the rope swing and diving into the lake, yeah that was fun”  he sat back in his chair with a sigh. You nodding your head a big smile on your face at the thought of the memory. 

“Would that be your ideal date?” Ryan directed the question towards you, you let out a breath “Um, you know I’ve never been one to want anything too fancy or extravagant, I just like sitting on the sofa, watching movies and eating pizza, you can always tell you’ve found a good one when they just wanna be real with you and there’s no stress.”

Ryans’ eyes lit up for a second while you spoke and Timmy noticed rolling his eyes. He continued to question the two of you for another half an hour before the interview was drawn to a close. “Thank you so much for joining me today, the film is amazing and you’re truly spectacular in it, Falling will be released in cinemas in December so watch out for that, I’m Ryan Bradshaw thanks for watching.” You heard a camera man shout clear somewhere in the background you quickly stood from your chair growing uncomfortable of the microphone pack digging into your back. Ryan made his way over to you once more, “Thank you so much for today it was an honour meeting you, and if you’re ever in Denver..” 

“Yeah thanks it was really fun, and yeah I’m sure my publicist can set up another interview for the next time I’m here, bye lovely meeting you!” You walked back over to where Timmy was standing with a smug smile on his face. He made a hissing sound and scrunched up his face before talking “oof that cut deep” shaking his head laughing. “What are you talking about?” raising your eyebrows not having a clue what the man was talking about. 

“He was hitting on you so hard throughout the entire interview, and when he just asked you on a date you told him your publicist would be in touch to set up another interview, that's gonna sting” he laughed, you slapped the back of your hand against his shoulder, “he was not flirting with me I would have noticed!” you shook your head.

“No you wouldn’t you’re oblivious enough to the fact I’ve been flirting with you for 7 months while shooting and promoting a film so why would you notice and interviewer flirting with you” he stuck his tongue inside cheek wiggling his eyebrows at you, you just stared at him feeling as if your heart was about to burst out of chest at the rate it was hammering. “I-I um.” a short breath passed through your nose. Timothée took two small steps towards you almost enclosing the space between you. Your breath hitched caught in your throat you could have choked on your spit at the sight of his lips inches away from yours. he tucked a lose strand of your hair away from your face, much like you had done earlier on in the day. His fingers continued to brush against the soft skin of your cheek, a heart warming smile on his face.

“So pizza and a movie?”

@squishybebe​ 

#Timothée #fanfiction #timothée chalamet #timothée chalamet imagines #timothée chalamet icons #Timothee #timothee fanfic #timothee imagine #timothee x reader #timothee x you #timothée smut #timothée x reader #Timothée x you #timothée imagine #timothée imagines #timothée fanfic

[imyourmumloser]

Trash to Treasure - Eisuke Ichinomiya x reader

Chapter 3

Chapter 1 2 4

It felt like days since I had first arrived in the fancy room yet the ticking clock on the wall said otherwise. The bodyguard was busy typing away on a laptop with furrowed brows. He would spare a glance at me every now and again but otherwise his sight stayed glued to the screen.

In the few hours I had been here two other men had shown up. The tense atmosphere didnt hold up for long with them around as they greeted me in the least serious way possible and joked around with each other while introducing themselves.

"Sor, I didnt think I'd ever find you alone with a pretty lady like this," the one in a red jacket said while nudging him slightly before turning to me. "You can call me Baba, pretty lady," he beamed with a wink. He was definitely a strange man and I didnt hesitate to move away slightly as I eyed him suspiciously. The small gesture of discomfort caused the other man to laugh at Baba as he pouted in rejection. However, it didnt take him long to recover and move closer to me.

"So what do you see in Sor then?" he questioned me while wiggling my eyebrows. Thankfully, I didnt have to reply before Sor dragged him away from me and out of the room with the other man. I couldn't help but silently thank whatever god sent him my way to save me from the situation. Eventually the Sor guy returned alone thankfully and the silence from before the clowns came had returned as well.

More time ticked by yet before I knew it the familiar sound of the elevator opening filled the room and out sauntered a familiar face. My hopes were high as my heart began to pound before I remembered my random, crazy act before and realised this most likely wasn't going to go well. The good thing is that he didnt have a lawyer with him so maybe I wasnt going to end up in prison.

Sor finally looked up to Eisuke who pulled out his phone as he made his way to the sofa. "Come to the lounge and bring Mamoru," he ordered before ending the call without wasting a second of his precious time. He continued over to the raven haired male who showed him his laptop screen. Eisuke's eyes swiftly scanned whatever was on the screen before looking at me. Oh boy.

Just as I gulped and anxiety flooded me, the two clowns from before returned with a sleepy looking man who I'm assuming is the Mamoru that Eisuke ordered to come here. They all sat on the sofas as I felt the breath from my lungs leave. Why did Eisuke want so many people here? Maybe they were his legal team which would mean I was in deep trouble.

The thought made my hands clammy. All I wanted was to carry out my mothers will yet the day just couldn't go as planned and here I was surrounded by men who would most likely change my life. Its moments like this where i would go to my mother for support, comfort and advice but none of it was on the table anymore and I was alone in this world. Eisuke wasnt pleaded in the slightest at me just standing outside his hotel so imagining how he would respond to me acting like a wacko lady and causing a scene sent a shiver down my spine.

As I continued dreading the potential future that was going to be thrown my way they talked among themselves. Even if I was paying attention their voices were hushed enough that it would have been loud enough for me to hear; not that I wanted to hear it though.

"So you're mother is (mother name)?" Eisuke's voice pulls me from my dark thoughts. After processing his question I nodded hesitantly.

"You knew her?" I asked. It didnt click that Eisuke would have known my mother and I didnt really know anyone else who knew her so he would be the first person who I could talk to about her.

"Knew?" he questioned.

Before I could talk, I felt like a pile of bricks had been dropped on me. I hadn't said it out loud yet. I bit my lip as my eyes stung from the familiar heat of tears. I blinked them back as I questioned if I wanted to say it. It was real if I said it. I spent days feeling numb on my own before throwing myself into finding Eisuke so I never got to come to terms with the cold, hard truth.

"She... died," I mumbled back in response. Those two words not only confirmed that she was gone but also dragged a dull atmosphere into the room as a short silence followed suit. My heart ached and I could sense the look of pity on one or two of the mens faces and I hated it so for my sake I tried to move the conversation on.

I took a deep breath to soothe myself and forced the tears back before speaking. "That's why I wanted to talk to you, Mr Ichinomiya," I said as I turned toward him. His brows knitted together in thought as I awkwardly waited in response.

After what felt like the longest few seconds he finally turned towards the other men. "Her safety is to take top priority. Get ready for the meeting for when I'm back," he ordered as he got up and walked towards me. "You, with me," he barked and left before I could respond.

"Where are we going?" I asked but followed anyway despite knowing our destination like a loyal dog.

"Your room. My girlfriend should stay in my penthouse after all," he replied but the answer only fueled my confusion.

"I dont have a room here, I cant afford it. Plus what do I have to do with your girlfriend?" I quizzed yet was only greeted with silence. I turned to the others and noticed the clowns laughing at my confusion. Was it that obvious? I thought over the phrase before it clicked.

"Wait, you mean me?! I'm the girlfriend?" His only response was silence as I was practically running after him to catch up with his long, quick strides. Cold much. After chasing after him we finally arrived in a lounge that felt a little more homely yet still as sophisticated as the room I was in prior.

"Y-you didnt... answer... me back there," I huffed out of breath.

"I shouldn't ask questions you already know the answer to. You'll be staying in the guest room. Dont leave the penthouse without my permission. If you leave then I trust you know what trouble will be waiting for you and if I call you better answer immediately."

"You dont even have my number," I said confused, however, my phone buzzed with a message from an unknown number.

"The only replied I should get from you are yes and okay," he half scolded while putting his phone away and nodding his head in the direction of a door. "That's your room."

Without another word he turned on his heel and went back the way we came. That was short and quick. My brain was baffled by the past week's events. I felt foolish for expecting answers as I stood in the lounge all on my own.

Sighing I turned around and walked towards what would be my new room. None of this sat right with me but it was what my mother wanted so I had no choice but to go through with it and trust that she knew what she was doing when she sent me Eisuke's way even if Eisuke was a bit of a dick.

I closed the door to the room behind me as I scanned over the room. It was as elegant as every other room in the hotel but one thing stuck out to me; my things. Why were they here and how? I shuffled through everything to confirm it was mine and after doing so I stared in shock.

Did he do this in the time I was sat with that bodyguard? How would he have been able to find my address then transport it all here? The bad feeling in my gut only worsened as I felt things were going to go downhill with me knowing these people. Not to mention the fact that he's keeping me here and I didnt even have a say in it. The pile of bricks from before hit me ten times harder as I tried to hold onto faith that my mother would keep me from harm's way.

I sat on the bed as the darkness of the night consumed me just like my thoughts did. Surely I was safe, right? Mother would never put me on harm's way. I continued to try and justify what was happening and before I knew it my eyes were opening to the harsh rays of the sun. I guess I fell asleep at some point last night.

I rubbed the sleep from my eyes as everything came flooding back to me while my gaze wandered around the room, focusing on my things that mysteriously appeared here. As I pulled my body out of bed I noticed the view of Tokyo. The view was breathtaking and looked like something I would never be able to afford even if I saved up five lifetimes. I felt like I was in a trance as I soaked in the modern scenery and ant sized people.

A knock from the door echoed through the otherwise silent room. I turned as the door swung open to reveal a maid in a blue uniform dress that bowed down to me slightly. "Good afternoon Miss L/n. It's time for your appointments. I've been requested to show you to them," she stated as she raised her head to me.

"Appointments? Afternoon?" I seriously overslept.

"Yes. Mr Ichinomiya is waiting for you. He's a busy man as you know. We must hurry," she replied while eyeing my day old, wrinkled clothing. I'm guessing these wont do for his standards.

As I scurried to the bathroom to get dress I wondered about the appointments the maid was going on about. I dont remember being told about any but yesterday is kind of a blur but I did remember him telling me that leaving him waiting would lead to trouble for me so I hurried along and reappeared in front of the maid.

"Ready? We must be quick," the maid said, leaving the room before I could even answer. Do I get a say with anyone in this hotel or am I just a doormat?

We soon arrived in front of an empty boutique. I turned to the maid with a quizzical look but all she did was stand by the door gesturing for me to go in. Eyeing the empty shop suspiciously, I pushed the clean glass door open and looked around in curiosity before my gaze landed on the one and only Eisuke Ichinomiya.

"You're late," he scolded. His brows were furrowed as he looked down at me in disapproval. "Try these on," he ordered. He jerked his head in the direction of several tracks of dresses as confusion took over me slightly.

"Which ones?"

He scoffed in return and as I looked at him I just managed to see him roll his eyes at me. Wasnt he supposed to be my boyfriend? Does he not know that definition of boyfriend or is this how he treats every woman?

"All of them obviously."

My jaw almost dropped in shock as I stared at all the dresses. He wanted me to try all of them on? This was going to be a long day and it was already way into the afternoon.

#eisuke ichinomiya #kbtbb #eisuke x reader #eisuke #kbtbb eisuke #eisuke ichinomiya fan fic

[catsdaydreams]

In your dreams.

Been thinking about this ever since that scene where N is all “its hard not to notice peoples smells, especially where there’s attraction” and the fact that they can hear your heartbeat at all times and according to A literally cant turn it off.

This is Nate x detective, Adam x detective, and Mason x detective in separate parts. I feel like they all would react wildly diffrently lmao. This is also the first fan article I’ve written in a long time, so be gentle lmao.

ALSO I CANT ADD A CUT SO PLEASE JUST SCROLL PAST IF YA DONT LIKE ADULT CONTENT lmao. RIP RIP SORRY ABOUT THAT.

Nate x Detective-

Nate hears her heartbeat begin to speed. He sighs, she must be having another nightmare about Murphy.

He debates for a few moments before heading down the hall to make her some tea to take for when he wakes her. He takes two steps towards the kitchen when he hears a strange sound, he listens for a moment longer convinced he had misheard, but when he doesn’t hear her again he starts again towards the kitchen. She says it again, and he knows he heard her correctly this time. She’s sighing his name in a breathy tone.

He frowns deeper, deciding to forgo the tea completely and just shake her out of her nightmare. He doesn’t want her to dream of him being attacked again. He freezes when he cracks her door open and her scent finally hits him for a second he is confused, but only a second.

Heat creeps into his ears,

“Oh.” He breaths, she’s not having a nightmare at all.

Nate shifts uncomfortably in the door frame and then the second realization hits him that she’s dreaming of him. The corners of his mouth twitch up as he goes to shut the door. Nate is neither fast enough, or quiet enough and as he try’s to exit, the detectives eyes flying open as she sits straight up in her bed trying to catch her breath.

Nate winces, feeling like he was caught sneaking on an intimate moment. “Hey,” he says with a sheepish smile. “I thought you were having a nightmare so I came to check on you, I was just leaving.” The detective turns scarlet, a blush flushing her cheeks as she realizes why Nate was leaving. “Did I say anything incriminating,” she manages with an embarrassed smile.

Nates lack of answer is all she needs as she groans and throws herself back on her pillow. “Sorry, I didnt mean to make you uncomfortable.” She responds, and he lets out a chuckle, “Not uncomfortable exactly.” He says as he turns his body to face her. The detective takes in his sleeveless shirt and loose sweat pants and tries not to notice the fabric straining around his hips, she smiles and raises an eyebrow at Nate who returns her smile with a grin.

“Maybe you should stay.” She says nonchalantly, but they both know the implications of what she’s saying as Nate enters her room and shuts the door behind him with a soft click.

Mason x Detective -

Mason enters her swiftly, his eyes never breaking contact with hers. “I want you, all the time. Just you.” He practically growls in between slow strokes through her hips. “Mason!” She cries out, grateful for this rare moment in which he allows his feelings to shine through.

“Kira,” Mason growls, with much more aggression than he was showing a moment ago. The detective looks up at him with a confused look, surprised by his sudden attitude shift. “KIRA.” He says louder, and suddenly she’s staring up at the ceiling in her warehouse room.

She lets out a disapointed sigh as she realized she had been dreaming.

“You’re making it very hard for me to rest. I can smell you all the way on the roof.” Mason says gruffly, and she finally notices him sitting in the chair in the corner of his room. “Mason, I- what are you doing here?” She says, shuffling her covers over her silk top trying to suppress her thundering heart. Masons eyes are damn near black, and her stomach turns under his unrelenting gaze.

“I told you, I can smell you from the roof.” He says, his eyes never wavering. “If you want to have dirty dreams, do it at your own place.” She doesn’t fail to notice the effect she’s had on his pants, tearing her eyes away from his. A rare moment of boldness overtakes her, and she lets the blanket fall down her front and then pushes it below her feet. “Or what,” Kira states, letting her knees fall apart.

Mason takes a sharp inhale and stands, “you’re playing a dangerous game there, detective.” But he waits to move towards her until she smiles and gives a small nod. “Or you leave me no choice but to make your dreams a reality.” He says, grabbing the tops of her thighs and pulling her underneath him as he lays on the bed.

Kira smirks from under him, feeling his length pressed into her hips. “You’re welcome to try, but they are pretty high standards to live up to.” Her unusual boldness takes Mason by surprise and amusement dances in his grey eyes. “Let’s find out,” he whispers.

Adam x Detective -

Adam glances at the sleeping detective next to him. Humans needed more sleep than vampires, and when he noticed her eyes starting redden he offered to take the rest of the remaining four hour drive. He didnt know why he agreed to be in the vehicle for the first place, but now he was glad he did. Felix’s teasing rang out in his mind, “someone fancies the detective.” He shook his head, romantic feelings had no place among teammates. He needed to be sure he would keep the mission a priority and not the detectives safety.

Still, he couldn’t stop the feeling in his chest when he glanced at her. Her ebony hair curling around her small face, it was then that he noticed how flushed she was. He frowned, looking back to the road. Her heart was starting to race also, and Adam suddenly had difficulty swallowing.

“She wasn’t? Was she?” He thought to himself, but he got his reply in an almost unbearable moan from the detective under her breath. “Just ignore it” he told himself as he tightened his jaw. He tried desperately to think of ANYTHING else. He thought about Murphy, and caging, and multiple other gruesome memories. He almost completely ignored it until she moaned his name.

“Jesus Christ.” He said under his breath, reaching to adjust his pants. He tries to continue driving, but he’s now noticing every unsteady breath, every heart beat, and every small sigh or noise coming from the passengers seat. Adam practically growls in frustration.

He needs to do something, he realizes as the presence in his groin becomes painful. He spots a gas station, and although his pride almost tells him to forget the idea, Lauren moans again and he pulls into the lot.

He disappears into the restroom and returns much less flustered. Lauren however apparently hasn’t stopped dreaming. He takes his seat in the drivers seat and decides to continue with his original ignoring plan made much easier. Of course, as luck would have it, he also noticed how quickly her breath was coming, he wasn’t innocent and he recognized the signs. He groaned, knowing he wouldn’t be able to handle her climaxing a few inches away from him.

He looks around the cab of the car and notices a half drunken water bottle. A very quick internal battle was decided when she breathed his name again, and he unscrewed the cap and dumped it over her face and chest.

“Adam what the fuck!” She gasped and shot up in her seat. Adam’s face remained completely neutral, “I heard your heart beating hard and thought you were having a nightmare.” He stated flatly and avoided looking at her. She glared at the stoic man beside her, finally noticing how he absolutely refused to look at her. She smirked, remembering her dream and realizing why he actually poured water on her.

“What’s wrong Adam? Didn’t like my dream?” She said, heat spreading through her body once again. Adam swallowed next to her and ignored her question, and Lauren knew she was winning. “Well, I have some unfinished business.” She said, slowly unbuttoning her pants waiting for his reaction. “I will leave you stranded out here in the middle of nowhere Lauren.” He said, his voice strained. She let out a barking laugh and buttoned her pants back up.

“Don’t worry, sir” she purred in his ear, noticing how he shivered at sir, “I wont tell the team how I distracted you from driving.” She placed a quick kiss on his cheek before he could complain and turned on the music. Adam rolled his eyes, and focused on the road. Lauren would be the death of him.

#Adam x detective #mason x detective #Nate x detective #the wayhaven chronicles #TWC #TWC nate #TWC mason #TWC adam #wayhaven nate #wayhaven adam #wayhaven mason #I love these men ok #my detectives are all diffrent by the way #its adult but its not? #its kinda ns but also.

[beauregardlionett]

an exercise in trust

AO3 Link

I.

If there is one thing that Caleb is not, it is a trusting man.

He learned the hard way a long time ago that trust was not a simple thing. Placing trust in people he thought cared about him had burned Caleb and he was not eager to make the same mistakes again. Trust was a dangerous thing—earned, built, and accumulated through many trials. It was fickle and fragile and as complicated as trying to solve a jigsaw puzzle while intoxicated.

So, he did not trust easily.

Which is why he often found himself a little thrown with how readily he handed trust over to Nott.

She was not a charming individual, but she was a clever creature and honest with him—blunt in a way that Caleb had not experienced in far too many years. He supposed that was enough foundation to begin his trust in her, so he let it happen. But after everything, Caleb trusted with quiet effort nowadays. He showed it most often when they had a private moment, and even more often without words or grandiose gestures.

They were mere days into knowing these people from the circus fiasco when he exercised his trust in Nott more publicly.

Caleb knelt a little to get to Nott’s level and told her in a whisper, “I will need you to guide me while I use Frumpkin, ja?”

Nott, to her credit, seemed to understand his hesitation, his need for her to guide him while he was at his most vulnerable. She nodded her little goblin head firmly as he stood back to his full height. Caleb had already explained to the rest of the lunatics (as he called them) what was about to happen. So without preamble, he placed a tentative hand on Nott’s scrawny shoulder and let his vision blur and cloud over as he switched perspectives.

While he was blind and deaf in utilizing Frumpkin, Caleb could still register anything physical happening to his body. A warm curl of fondness sprung in his chest when he felt Nott’s sharp nails and knobby fingers clutch protectively at his pinkie. He had a strange, out-of-body notion they were walking forward, and he had to resist the urge to snap back to his own sight.

Caleb had, many times before, walked around without a guide while using his familiar’s eyes. But he had to admit, it was nice being able to focus all thought on what Frumpkin was seeing without the worry that he might slam into the side of a building or trip over errant cobblestones.

He was fairly sure he could feel someone fiddling with one of his coat pockets, but the sensation was barely there. He passed it off as perhaps some passing breeze, fluttering his clothing in a strange manner, and tried to focus.

Gathering the information the group needed from Frumpkin’s line of sight, Caleb came back to himself with a few rapid blinks. Glancing down at Nott, he was careful to dislodge her hold with a grateful pat to her shoulder and a tiny smile of thanks. She beamed up at him through the bandages around her face in return.

He only remembered the strange sensation against his coat about four hours later when he was doing inventory of his components. The pocket he had felt being fiddled with contained five gold pieces he had not previously possessed, along with a tiny clump of yellow flowers that looked like weeds.

Smiling fondly over at Nott’s curled up, slumbering form, Caleb tucked the flowers and the gold pieces away securely and returned to his components.

II.

They had spent near a week together on the road after the events in Trostenwald. Their time comprised of trekking between towns, gleaning information where they could, sleeping under the stars, and accumulating a desperate need for a warm bath and a cozy bed. The last time they had seen anyone pass them by on the road was about three days ago. Tensions were running high, as they were wont to do after wandering so long.

“How much farther?” Jester whined, her accent drawling over the last syllable. She trudged with dramatic fashion alongside the rest of them, hanging her head back for effect and to prove a point. Caleb knew it must be bad if even their resident optimist was showing signs of frustration.

“I can check with Frumpkin,” he offered quietly, suppressing an amused smile as the blue Tiefling’s head popped back up almost instantly.

“Really?” Jester’s tail flicked back and forth with energetic fervor behind her, indigo eyes wide and sparkling.

“Ja, just uh…” Caleb trailed off as he sent Frumpkin the sparrow fluttering up into the air and on ahead of them.

The road they were walking on was barely fit to call a road. The dirt path had deep, over used ruts from cartwheels engraved upon it, and their path was haphazard with errant rocks and roots and miscellaneous earthen things scattered about. Caleb had only avoided tripping thus far with careful consideration. Going blind to use Frumpkin would likely prove to be disastrous.

Glancing to his left at Fjord, Caleb reached out to place a tentative tap on the half-Orc’s forearm, earning the warlock’s attention.

“Would you mind if I ah…held onto your arm for a moment?”

Fjord raised his elbow Caleb’s way with an easy, “by all means.”

Fingers curling with timid weight around Fjord’s bicep, Caleb let the dizzying sensation of switching sight wash over him. Frumpkin had flown a couple miles ahead of them, to where Caleb had no control over the fey creature anymore. But through the sparrow’s eyes, Caleb could see that they were about five or six miles from a lively looking town. They could make it there by mid-afternoon, presuming they had no pit stops or distractions, and hopefully find beds for the night.

As his familiar coasted into a curve to start the flight back to their ragtag team, Caleb felt a slight jostling of movement against his free wrist. Blinking back to himself, the wizard looked down in time to see Jester tying off the ribbon that held their map into a bow around his forearm. A glance at Beau and Molly revealed that the pair had their heads bowed together over said map as they deliberated directions.

Deciding to ignore whatever Jester’s intentions were, knowing by now that she often did things just because, Caleb turned to Fjord as he removed his hold with a quiet, “much obliged.”

“There is a town up ahead, about five miles out,” Caleb raised his voice to the group, drawing the attention away from the map. “We can probably get there by this afternoon if we keep going.”

Jester and Nott cheered simultaneously, devolving into excited chatter about what they would do once they arrived in town. Caleb removed the ribbon from his wrist and handed it off to Beau as she rolled the map back up. Fjord left a quick pat on Caleb’s shoulder, an amicable smile on the warlock’s face, before striding ahead to monitor the excitable duo that was Jester and Nott.

III.

They were picking their careful way through the abandoned mine shaft; the darkness broken only by their handheld source of light. He was trying to save his spells, so the lack of dancing lights left Caleb—and his lack of ability to see in darkness—feeling rather disadvantaged. Over the passing days that their strange troupe remained together, he had begrudgingly started dolling out a few mites more of trust to them all. They hadn’t let him and Nott die yet, so he felt they earned it.

That didn’t mean it was any easier to offer information or pass out confidence, but Caleb supposed it was a step forward. Though he had to admit, it wasn’t a step forward he had ever planned to take. He still wanted to be able to cut and run, guilt free, should he and Nott need to, but this whole trusting thing would make that a lot more difficult.

Someone mentioned something about scouting ahead, and Caleb, eager to be useful, spoke up.

“I can send Frumpkin on ahead. He is still a bird, so I don’t know how well he will see in the dark, but we can at least figure out by sound if there is something up ahead to worry about.”

With easy acceptance from the rest of the group, Caleb telepathically instructed his familiar to go on ahead for a way before doubling back to them. Giving his bird a head start, Caleb reached out in front of him and tapped his fingers against Mollymauk’s shoulders.

“May I borrow your shoulders for a bit?” Caleb asked, voice low and unassuming. The group was becoming steadily accustomed to the wizard needing guidance when he scouted ahead, and if Caleb was honest, he didn’t think they would mind if he didn’t ask first. But there was a significant part of him that still didn’t know how to extend that level of trust without the fear of being shaken off.

“Be my guest,” Molly said over his shoulder with ease. Caleb’s hands slipped onto Molly’s shoulders, careful not to let them rest too heavy, and he slid from semi-darkness to absolute void with a quick, cloudy blink. Finding he was correct in his assumption that Frumpkin would not see much here, Caleb focused his hearing as his familiar flew carefully ahead of the group.

Caleb spent the next few minutes listening through Frumpkin’s ears, trying to pick up anything that might reveal their target up ahead. He was just beginning to pick up on a distant scuttling noise when Caleb felt his body jolt and jostle. The wizard, worried now and about to snap back to his own senses, heard the scuttling become more pronounced.

Hesitating, Caleb let Frumpkin’s hearing confirm for him that their suspicions were correct, that there was something to worry about up ahead. Unfortunately, it sounded much bigger than standard mine vermin. Waiting until he was certain his familiar was on the way back, Caleb fluttered his eyelids against the shift back to their section of semi-lit mine shaft. Looking around, tensed for a fight, it surprised him to find everything nearly as he left it.

“Sorry,” Molly’s voice reached him, the Tiefling noticing Caleb’s return. “That was my fault, didn’t realize there was a bit of a step down. Caught us in time to not take a tumble, though.”

“Ah,” Caleb said, relaxing a fraction. He removed his hands from Molly’s shoulders and twisted his fingers together in a nervous fashion. “Danke.”

“Anytime,” Molly drawled with a grin, flicking his finger with a gentle brush to the underside of Caleb’s chin. “Find anything?”

“Ja,” Caleb answered, relaying the details and distance of the scuttling of large creatures ahead of them. “I think we are in for a fight.”

IV.

Caleb lurched upright with a gasp that almost immediately devolved into a groan of pain. He clutched at his side with trembling fingers and tried to tamp down on the whirling sensation in his head and overwhelming nausea.

“Easy there, Mr. Caleb,” a familiar timbre said to one side of the wizard. “You’re going to be just fine, we’ve got you.”

A careful pat to his shoulder and the warm sensation of healing magic weaving through damaged muscle and sinew accompanied the sentence. It rushed over Caleb with soothing quickness that let him catch his breath. Some tension he had been holding unwound with the gesture and Caleb sighed with relief as the nausea subsided. He was still in quite a bit of pain, but it was much more manageable now.

“I’m sorry, Cay-leb,” another distinct voice spoke from his other side, accompanied by yet another pat. This subsequent flow of magic felt a little weaker, but no less warm for it. “I don’t have many spells left in me.”

“That is quite all right,” Caleb grunted, mustering the energy to look up. Caduceus and Jester knelt either side of him, wearing matching looks of relief shadowed by concern. They had clearly pulled him back from the brink if the lingering exhaustion and pain were any cues to go by.

“You gave us quite the scare there,” Caduceus commented, the statement far less scary when said in his soothing cadence.

“Even after all this time, you’re still so squishy,” Jester sighed, her gloved fingers petting through Caleb’s mussed hair. She had a wistful and upset expression on her face, and Caleb hated to think he could cause her distress. Their group had unofficially decided that Jester’s face was not made to be sad. They made an effort to make sure she was smiling and jovial as often as possible.

“Ja, I must say,” Caleb grunted as he shifted around, testing his mobility. “I do not miss frequently going unconscious from when we first met.”

That, at least, pulled a watery chuckle from Jester.

She and Caduceus helped Caleb to his feet as they tried to figure out which direction to head to find everyone else. They sometimes ended up a little scattered in the aftermath of certain fights. Despite their attempts to stay within sightline of each other, the circumstances did not always lend to that notion.

With Caduceus on one side, his arm steady around Caleb’s shoulders, and Jester on the other with a firm arm around his waist, Caleb summoned Frumpkin.

“I can find the others with him, but I will need you two to guide me and keep me upright, if that is okay?”

Caleb, already propped up between the two of them, was extending enough trust to allow this after months of time getting to know them. But he still felt the need to let them know he was about to be entirely helpless, in case they did not want to assist.

“Of course it is!” Jester chirped immediately, a hint of indignation coloring her tone at the mere suggestion that she wouldn’t be.

“We’ll keep you safe,” Caduceus assured the wizard in a calmer tone, adjusting his grip on Caleb to prove the point.

With a nod, Caleb’s vision shuttered to his familiar’s as the creature wove through the carnage of their battle, searching. It didn’t take long for Frumpkin to locate Yasha hauling Beau to her feet, Fjord and Nott close to them. If Caleb had to guess, the rest of their party was just beyond their current line of sight—not far at all.

Tumbling with much less grace than usual back into his own vision, Caleb found himself still secure and upright between the two clerics. Part of him wanted to pull away, afraid of being a burden. But he knew that they would not easily let him go after a scare.

Besides, he wasn’t sure he could walk on his own just yet.

“They’re just up ahead,” Caleb relayed his findings, gesturing with a nod. “I don’t think anyone is too badly injured.”

“That’s a relief,” Caduceus hummed, a serene smile spreading across his features. “Let’s go round them up, then.”

Without option, Caleb let the clerics guide him toward their party. Jester’s arm around his waist squeezed him briefly, a quiet reassurance. Caleb supposed this was a level of trust he could manage.

V.

He was still trying to figure out why they had agreed to do this job even as he crouched beside Yasha. They were hidden from sight behind a hulking boulder, stalking a group of rather troublesome bandits that had been harassing a nearby town for weeks. This sort of thing was far outside the scope of their usual M.O., but they had done things like this before. It was how they got started—so Caleb supposed there was a factor of nostalgia that played into their presence here.

Still, he wasn’t entirely happy about it. Was it too much to ask for a night off?

That, and they had split up for some stupid reason. Something about flanking that Beau and Nott had agreed on with support from the others, but went a bit over Caleb’s head. Battle tactics had never been his forte if he was honest.

But he was here now.

Okay, Caleb! Jester’s voice in his head made the wizard start, Yasha’s curious gaze sliding his way. We’re all in position. Send Frumpkin out to make sure the bandits are still there and then let Nott know.

There was a pause where Jester went silent, but Caleb could still feel the spell actively thrumming around him. Her voice picked up again, concluding with a rapid, you’re super awesome, before the magic faded.

Lips quirking up at the corner with fond amusement, Caleb snapped his fingers, summoning Frumpkin to his side. For lack of supplies and ideas, his familiar was his preferred domestic cat visage. The fey curled around Caleb’s ankle with a curious purr as the wizard gave telepathic instructions to his familiar. It would be a quick, simple trip for the cat—scan from the edges of the bandits’ camp and get a head count, then return to Caleb.

Frumpkin’s tail flicked against Caleb’s leg before the cat wound himself around Yasha’s ankles and rubbed his head against her calf before darting off into the night. The Aasimar chuckled softly and watched Frumpkin leave, her fingers curled with anticipation around the hilt of her great sword. Caleb could not see far in the near darkness, so he counted methodically to himself until a minute had passed.

Reaching out, he tapped Yasha’s elbow, drawing her eyes his way.

“I’m going to use my cat’s eyes now. Would you mind giving me a shove if anything happens?” Caleb knew that she probably was well aware of how this played out. But out of everyone in the Nein, he had spent the least of his time with her, so he figured covering all the bases was smartest.

Yasha gave him a firm nod and turned her attention to their surroundings, keeping an eye out as Caleb zoned into his familiar’s senses. His cat was already creeping up to the fringes of the camp, staying out of the light and low to the ground. Frumpkin prowled with slow consideration around the perimeter, letting Caleb do a thorough head count of every bandit he could see. Some reports they had gotten in town said there could be anywhere between seven and thirteen bodies. As long as Caleb ended up with a number somewhere between there, he figured they would be as prepared as they could be.

A minute or two later saw Caleb with a count of ten bandits total, most of them gathered around a fire. They seemed to be in the middle of dinner, so Caleb felt secure in thinking that was most, if not all, of them. He was thinking about staying in Frumpkin’s vision as his cat did one last prowl when something shoved at Caleb’s physical body. He could feel his shoulder collide with the rock he and Yasha had been hiding behind, the pain jarring him back to his own sight and hearing abruptly.

Blinking through the daze of pain and trying to readjust his eyes to the lack of light, Caleb pressed back into the rock and tensed in preparation for…something.

As his vision cleared and adjusted to the dim lighting, he could just make out Yasha, less than five feet from him, standing over a body. She pulled her sword free of the body’s gut and turned immediately to Caleb.

“Sorry,” she whispered sheepishly, a spatter of blood streaked across her cheek. “I think this bandit was on patrol and I didn’t notice him until he was about to take a strike at you.”

Her eyes narrowed at Caleb’s stunned expression and she crouched beside him, hiding properly again.

“Are you all right? I gave you a pretty rough shove.”

“Ja,” Caleb managed, finding his voice and still a little stunned. “I am okay, just startled.”

He glanced over at the body again, then back to Yasha and her intense stare. She had pushed him out of the way and took a hit for him, if the new gash on her upper arm was anything to go by. It shouldn’t mean as much to Caleb as it did, because they had been travelling together for quite some time now. This kind of loyalty to each other was almost an expectation—born from a level of trusting each other to have one’s back.

“Danke,” Caleb murmured, Yasha catching the quiet word and giving him that tiny, genuine smile of hers. He had seen it a handful of times in their early travels, back when Molly was still with them. It made fewer appearances now, for obvious reason, but once in a while they could draw it out of her. Beau was often the most successful, as was Jester, so Caleb knew not to take the trust Yasha was extending to Caleb for granted.

There was a simple understanding passed between them in that smile.

Pulling a little copper wire from his coat pocket, Caleb twisted it around his finger and turned in the direction he knew Nott to be hiding.

“I counted ten bandits. Yasha just killed one that snuck up on us, so be wary. You can reply to this message.”

+ I.

He’s not sure when he stopped asking (which is a little disconcerting for someone with perfect recall), but he knows when he noticed. 

Trust, for Caleb, was complicated—had been for years. Based on first impressions with the Mighty Nein, Caleb had trusted Beau the least. She had been rude to the point of brutal honesty and was stupendously horrid at having a heart to heart conversation. Or conversation of any kind, until she showed her hand and proved just how intelligent she was.

Which, now that Caleb looked at it in hindsight, is why it made so much sense that he now trusted her the most.

When he had first met her, someone so volatile and prone to crass honesty terrified Caleb—because the only thing Beau lied about was herself. For the Caleb that had been hiding and running on a rinse and repeat cycle, meeting Beauregard was essentially his worst nightmare. But now she was his greatest ally and most trusted confidante. He could rely on her to be honest with him, could trust her to do what was needed, regardless of personal attachment.

So he noticed his lack of hesitancy around her almost immediately after they promised to be the other’s failsafe.

He hadn’t realized it at that moment, but he had extended a fair amount of trust to Beauregard with that conversation. She knew his darkest secrets from early on (for fairly stupid reasons, he might add) and had stuck around despite so. She had kept his secrets, had kept him safe, and understood him on a level he wasn’t sure he was ready to be known on. But if Caleb knew anything about Beauregard—and he knew quite a lot—it was that she was skilled in the art of getting what she wanted.

If she wanted to know Caleb, not even he could stop her.

It was not long after that he picked up on his habit of reaching for her shoulder. If he felt unsteady, Caleb could find her within reaching distance. Beau’s shoulders were young, but they were strong. Caleb would never dream of saddling her with his burdens, but Beau often offered to help him carry them, whether or not he asked. And it was that ease of support, that unconditional stability, that made it so easy to trust her at his most vulnerable.

Time and time again Caleb would shift over to Frumpkin and his hand would land on Beau’s shoulder, no questions asked. She had yet to shake him off, probably never would, and Beau never complained.

It was such a simple gesture to build a foundation of reliance and trust upon, yet here they were.

The Nein were clustered together, more conspicuous than they wanted to be, but too unfamiliar with the town to move apart. Caduceus had made a casual mention that he thought they were being followed, and they were trying to make a plan. Jester and Veth were acting as though they were window shopping, chattering excitedly between each other while the rest of them loitered and tried to glimpse their tail. They were near the outskirts of the market district, so foot traffic was a little less dense, but still they were having trouble getting a decent look.

Caleb snapped his fingers and Frumpkin slunk into surreptitious existence around Caleb’s ankles, pressing his little head against the wizard’s leg. Telepathically instructing his feline companion in the direction Caduceus had mentioned, Caleb automatically extended his hand to Beau’s shoulder. Curling his fingers firmly over her sturdy shoulder, the monk didn’t even look at him as her hand reached up on instinct to grab onto Caleb.

Lips quirking up at the familiar gesture, Caleb shuttered into Frumpkin’s eyes as the cat trotted in the pursuer’s direction.

A quick glance offered Caleb the information he needed and Frumpkin was close enough for Caleb to call him back before getting too involved. Sliding back into his own senses, the wizard looked around their group as he spoke, hand still planted with firm reliance on Beau’s shoulder.

“I believe we merely have a beggar on our heels.”

“I’ve got it then,” Caduceus grinned, heading back the way they came. Fjord gave Beau and Caleb a concerned look and immediately followed the cleric, just to be safe. The rest of them stayed behind in front of the shop, not wanting to overwhelm the situation.

Nott and Jester seemed to have found something of genuine interest in the store window, still chattering away. They had somehow roped Yasha into looking with them as the Aasimar bent over to peer in the store window at whatever they found. Caleb watched on with fondness, taking a solid minute to realize that he still had his hand on Beau’s shoulder.

Beau, to her credit, was still holding onto Caleb’s hand. Her intense blue eyes tracked Caduceus and Fjord just down the street from them, even as she offered Caleb her stability. He admired her vigilance, giving her shoulder a squeeze to catch her attention.

“You okay, man?” Beau asked, giving him a quick scan.

“Ja,” Caleb reassured easily. “Danke, Beauregard.”

“For what?”

Caleb just smiled at her, giving her shoulder another squeeze before releasing it. Her hand slipped from his as she gave him a funny look, but he knew her well enough. Caleb could see the affection underneath all her posturing. Their simple promise to keep each other on the right path had yielded a bond they both never knew they needed. It had taken them a while to embrace it, but constant exposure often sped these types of things along - and Caleb wouldn't trade what they had for the world.

He watched her walk off a moment later, heading to stand with Caduceus and Fjord, and trusted her to come back.

#cr #critical role #writing #my writing #empire kids #empire siblings #caleb widogast #beauregard lionett #fjord #jester lavorre #mollymauk #mollymauk tealeaf #caduceus clay #yasha #yasha nydoorin #nott the brave #veth brenatto #frumpkin

[kreweleaderbuuru]

Part 3 baybeeee i realised that the babies I use more often these days werent included. Annoying elaboration that doesnt matter under the cut

Sex

Self explainitory

Gender:

Self explanatory 

Build:

Singrid: The most in-shape member of her family. She’s very enthusiastic about honing her skills with her hammer, carving canoes with her bare hands, and punching sharks in the face.

Grunt: The grunt has been working on building muscle, but her years of starvation and abuse have left her permanently stunted. 

Algor: Despite being absolutely fuckall massive, he’s not too interested in honing his physique. He’s got some scholarly chub on the way. 

Poom: Actually more muscular than you’d give him credit for- though still malnourished and spindly. His baggy clothes are in part to hide a very embarrassing hourglass figure. 

Height:

Singrid: Just a few inches shorter than her brother, much to her dismay

Grunt: Shorty due to malnutrition

Algor: Fuckall massive

Poom: Comes from a pretty tall family, but just so happens to me the shortest member of that family. He thinks he’s shorter than he actually is. 

Handiness:

Self explanatory

Intelligence, Scholarly:

Singrid: While Singrid was offered the same education as her brother, she struggled with even the most basic concepts. At a certain point she decided her job was just to carry heavy equipment. Living proof of nature vs. nurture. 

Grunt: Scouted by inquest recruiters as a child. The Grunt was subjected to the standard foot soldiers ‘education’ within the Inquest. It wasn’t all that great, but it wasn’t like she could leave. 

Algor: Personally tutored by his adopted asuran father- surpassing the potential of even some asuran peers in Rata Sum. Living proof of nurture vs. nature. 

Poom: Got along okay in school, enough to Graduate Dynamics with above average grades. His true passions lie in paranormal investigation, which isnt as revered in Rata Sum. People just assume he’s crazy. 

Wisdom:

Singrid: Would look a grenade launcher down the barrel as she’s trying to figure out how to fire it. 

Grunt: What the Grunt lacks in formal education, she makes up for in sheer experience. She’s worked on just about every Inquest base the Megakrewe allows such a low-ranking agent, and tangled with more bizarre magical creatures than most norn hunters will in their lifetime. 

Algor: Algor began making supply runs in greater Tyria when he was sixteen, allowing him to come into his own as a traveller and genius. 

Poom: Easily distracted and has a nasty habit of sharing his conspiracy theories to the members of the organisations he suspects. Common sense is not amongst his strengths. 

Education:

Singrid: Technically a ‘drop out’, seeing as her father gave up on teaching her alongside her brother. However, the special attention Ruffik can give Singrid while Algor is away has convinced her to give his lessons another go.  

Grunt: Didn’t so much as ‘graduate’ as she was drafted to punishment detail. Her propensity for disaster and mayhem did not make her school days enjoyable. 

Algor: Greatly exceeded his father’s expectations. 

Poom: A decent student, but easily distracted by his true passions. 

Social Ability:

Singrid: Dreamed all her life of leaving the Far Marina Base to party all through Tyria, only to suffer from extreme social anxiety. She’s since found happiness on the peaceful ice caps, content with her few friends and family. 

Grunt: Pretty amicable, if you can get over the whining and increased likelihood of the bar burning down. 

Algor: Still relatively uncomfortable in his own skin, but growing out of it. 

Poom: A highly contagious affliction and subsequent quarantine has given an already antisocial oddball agoraphobia. Poom has slowly been taking steps to be more comfortable with people, and can at the very least venture outside without a panic attack. 

Perceptiveness:

Singrid: Sensitive, painfully sensitive, so sensitive she becomes overwhelmed in large gatherings. Is one of the few people who can really understand Ruffik’s emotions at any given time and could be mistaken for a mind reader when it comes to people she’s close to. 

Grunt: Despite her attempt at an aloof bounty huntress persona, the Grunt is mostly in wilful denial. She knows whats going on, why it’s going on, and how things will probably end. She’s very bad at pretending not to care. 

Algor: His time outside the Far Marina Base has taken him from clueless hermit to what is average teenage boy. He still doesnt understand girls, though. 

Poom: Absolute dogshit at reading social signals, to the point of being near debilitating. His friends have to intervene to keep him from being beaten up half the time. 

Readability:

Singrid: There are two Singrids: The one who is comfortable and knows the people in the room, and the Singrid who is in public and trying to keep from crying. You wouldnt expect the firey young norn from the FMB to wilt so easily in a crowd, and you’d be wrong. 

Grunt: Any attempts to hide her emotions are humorously in vain. Its lucky her partner, krewemate, and totally-not-boyfriend is painfully dense. 

Algor: Can put up a pretty convincing stoic front. It’s when he opens his mouth the youthful bravado comes spilling out. 

Poom: His high anxiety and odd mannerisms make him an open book. An open book in a language you cant read, but nonetheless open. 

Introvert/Extrovert:

Self explanatory

Sexuality:

Singrid: Straight

Grunt: Straight

Algor: Bisexual 

Poom: Pansexual with a male preference

Romanticism: 

Singrid: Straight, Monogamous 

Grunt: Straight, Monogamous

Algor: Biromantic, Open to Polyamory

Poom: Panromantic with a male preference, Monogamous

Romantic:

Singrid: Has a massive crush on her childhood friend, but he’s painfully oblivious. 

Grunt: Hopelessly in love with her partner, friend, and krewemate, Anakk. Even though they live together, work together, provide each other with emotional support, and sleep together exclusively, they insist they are not in a relationship.

Algor: Would do anything for a partner to share his intellect, but is still too insecure to ask anyone out. There’s also the size factor- none of the other apprentices so much as reach his knee. That ‘tragedy’ is a bit romantic in its own right- according to him. 

Poom: Is oblivious to romance, and hasnt had the best track record. His last relationship ended in nothing short of catastrophe, he’s still too ashamed to face his ex to stay long in Rata Sum. This has kept him rather guarded when it comes to relationships. 

Affection:

Singrid: Very touchy. Will shamelessly pick up and snuggle anyone she cares about. 

Grunt: Has a pointed distaste for ‘mushy stuff’ and goes out of her way to avoid any intimacy that could be construed as romantic. 

Algor: Mostly only hugs his sister. Was more cuddly as a kid, but since the growth spurt he worries about accidentally crushing people. 

Poom: Has gone three years without touch due to his affliction. Avoids touch like the plague so as not to become overwhelmed. 

Disposition, Outwardly:

Singrid: Whether she’s in full swing or shyly hugging the wall, Singrid comes across as a friendly, if not rough around the edges- young norn. 

Grunt: Affable and friendly until things go wrong. They’re usually going wrong. 

Algor: Knows how to be polite in public. Snarks on occasion. 

Poom: Absolute bastard of a man. You know this. Why even ask. 

Disposition, Inwardly:

Singrid: Pretty neutral on people as a whole. Gets irritated easily, and doesnt have any kind words for people who make her uncomfortable. 

Grunt: Is far more effected by her past than she lets on. The grunt is generally distrustful to strangers and spiteful to those who hurt her- even a little. 

Algor: Has a healthy dollop of teen angst. 

Poom: One of the more kindly people you’ll meet, once you get past his eccentricities. Genuinely doesnt want to upset anyone, and is a die hard pacifist. 

Petty:

Singrid, Grunt, Algor: All petty little drama queens. 

Poom: Will put up with a lot of bullshit, so long as you dont press one of his triggers. Can only really muster the energy to hate one thing at a time. Usually tries to solve ‘misunderstandings’ when they come up. 

Sanity:

Singrid: Crippling social anxiety 

Grunt: PTSD

Algor: He’s fine, honestly. 

Poom: Autism, PTSD, Depression, Social Anxiety, Agoraphobia, probably more. 

Freindliness:

Singrid: She knows who she likes, and isnt particularly eager to make new friends. 

Grunt: Finds it relatively easy to get along with people, especially if theres alcohol involved. She has a strange habit for attracting the affections of much larger and more powerful beings. Anakk, her skyscale Mr. Bastard, and the hulking inquest abomination Brukk, to name a few. 

Algor: Able to chat up strangers so long as he’s not feeling too self-important. He’s growing out of that bit, though. 

Poom: Absolutely desperate for validation. Can and will join a cult if he’s not claimed. 

Stoicism:

Singrid: Will break pretty easily either from her anxiety or by getting too excited about a cool rock. 

Grunt: Attempts are made at stoicism. They are laughable. 

Algor: Is prone to teen melodrama. He’s growing out of it, though. 

Poom: Will go home and cry for stepping on a bug.

Grace:

Singrid: Her training in the harsh Far Marina conditions have made her an adept warrior. 

Grunt: Prone to disaster.

Algor: Is actually quite a talented dancer when no one’s watching. One of the ways he tries to stay in shape between studies. 

Poom: If he’s not knocking something over, he’s putting his foot in his mouth. 

Stubbornness:

Self explanatory

Bravery:

Singrid: Despite her issues with crowds, she’s run after icebrood twice her size with nothing but a dagger. Has wanted to cultivate an epic legend ever since she was a kid. 

Grunt: Complete snivelling coward.

Algor: Will run from conflict as easily as he runs from a spider. 

Poom: An almost destructive lack of self-preservation. 

Loyalty:

Singrid: The few companions she has, she aims to keep. 

Grunt: Wont die for the ship, but will save her favourite pirate. 

Algor: Still has somewhat naive opinions on teamwork in a krewe. It’s almost a good thing he’ll likely never be in one. 

Poom: Not a lot of people understand him, those that try are greatly appreciated. Even people who dont try, he’ll gladly meet half way. Even if you dont even like him at all he’s got your back. Even if you’ve just spit in his mouth he’ll-

Lawfulness:

Singrid: Does what she wants. If that means breaking some heads, she’ll do it. If it means drinking tea and brushing up on her knitting, thats her glitching right!

Grunt: Rules are for people who don’t regularly get hit by lightning. 

Algor: Painfully naive. 

Poom: The rules suck, but he gets in trouble enough as it is without provoking others. 

Attitude:

They’re all edgy assholes lol

#singrid #algor #poom #the grunt #guild wars 2 #gw2 #norn #asura

[aboveallarescuer]

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.”

“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.

~

“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.

~

“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—”

~

“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.”

~

“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

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?”

~

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—”

~

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.”

 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

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.

~

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.”

~

“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?” [...] “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. [...] [”]

“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.”

[...] “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.”

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

[xsay10x]

Does anyone else like ever think about ɴᴏ how mainstream media entertainment and marketing productions are using, manipulating what our brains naturally gravitate towards ʏᴏᴜ ᴜsᴇ ᴍᴏɴᴇʏ ᴛᴏ ᴡᴀʟʟᴏᴡ ɪɴ ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴍɪsᴇʀʏ ᴍᴏʀᴇ ᴄᴏᴍғᴏʀᴛᴀʙʟʏ

taking paper calling it currency forcing ᴛᴇʟʟɪɴɢ ʏᴏᴜ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ʏᴏᴜ ᴍᴏɴᴇʏ ᴍᴇᴀɴs ʜᴀᴘᴘɪɴᴇss you to believe you can't survive without it

People teach their children they cant trust anyone ᴛʜᴇʏ'ʀᴇ ᴡᴇᴀᴋ they teach 'girls' that they need to be prim and proper ʙᴇ ᴘʀᴇᴛᴛʏ and they cant protect themselves ɪɴᴄᴏᴍᴘᴏᴛᴇɴᴛ tell 'boys' that they're going to become a strong 'man' and to suppress their ideals ᴛʜᴇʏ ɴᴇᴇᴅ ᴛᴏ ʙᴇ sᴜᴄᴄᴇssғᴜʟ and toconform and forget why they're wherever they are ɪs ᴛʜɪs ʙᴇɪɴɢ ʜᴀᴘᴘʏ? Be tough stand tall ᴅᴏɴᴛ ғᴀʟʟ

focus on how the world sees ʸᵒᵘ neglect ʸᵒᵘʳ ᴇᴍᴏᴛɪᴏɴs and ʙᴇ ᴜsᴇғᴜʟ

Theʏ say the same thing ᴇᴠᴇʀʏᴅᴀʏ to everyone every single person

sᴍɪʟᴇ ᴀɴᴅ ɴᴏᴅ

Have to gᴏ to school meet up to the expectation

Careful not to ruin your reputation tell yourself to concentrate when these pills just just make you want to self mutilate

get asked how your doing be sure not to hesitate when you tell them you fine

don't trip on your words you can't put your image on the line don't ask for help they can't know your weak don't fall apart

when it all looks bleak you're supposed to trust them when they say that it gets better

they know deep down inside that it's just another lie to pretend like their still holding themselves together

And that's why late at night they cry inside and silently conceal the constant pain they aren't even aware of or that the mask the wear is bonded to them preventing clear vision thought to be left out to roam but was cast out into the unknown cold and alone but feeling better then 'home'

Everyone sets standards for the ᴍɪɴᴏʀɪᴛʏ's and use the the ᵐᵃʲᵒʳⁱᵗʸ'ˢ as ᗰIᑎᗪᒪᗴՏՏ 𝕡𝕦𝕡𝕡𝕡𝕖𝕥𝕤

People hurt others to numb their pain

Your told that you too sensitive to make it through so you comply now you do what you're told to do but now you're 'cold' you're 'mean' 'fake' you dont care because you learn a while ago that your on you're on your own just neglect to think or take care yourself that's all they wanted anyway

'God' or 'other people' are going to think of you're weren't taught to balance your life and your feelings to take of yourself so when you try it. You feel like a weight is off your chest like these shackles you hadn't known of were gone but when you're left to roam you lost stranded in space that weight is back you were always taught to follow the path paved for you and you were sick of it you wanted more than to conform and playcate to the wants and wills of others at the expense of your sanity but that's all you ever knew

They say

Just cooperate you dont really have choice to make your own decisions but when you fuck up its all your fault all because you can't just figure out how to operate or navigate through life

It's really just so simple having to explain it is irritating and boring but I cant lead by example so I'll leave you vulnerable and alone so you can stumble and fall until your mask wont come off at all you'll be one of us because your nothing on your own you know you've been shown what future awaits if you dont cooperate and conform

We're not afraid to use chloroform you dont even know the half of what's going on

You feel eyes all around careful how you climb that platform now

Darkness lurking within the shadows complete absence of sound

Feeling everyone else's convictions and beliefs hold you down falling to your knees beginning to see what you've come to be

Hands shaking can't catch your breath thought it was fear but that your here finally letting go you just want to embrace and give up the chase

You doctor tells you to take these pills you'll be 'normal ' they make you 'better' dont worry this doctor will ᴅᴏɴᴛ ᴛᴀʟᴋ ᴛᴏ sᴛʀᴀɴɢᴇʀs these drugs will make you 'happy' ᴅᴏɴᴛ ᴅᴏ ᴅʀᴜɢs talk to this 'therapist' ᴛʜɪs sᴛʀᴀɴɢᴇʀ

You fall into a self harm addiction plagued with suicidal thoughts and never quite able to grasp composure your told that your feelings are not normal that your bad ɢᴏᴅ ᴡʜᴀᴛ ᴅɪᴅ ɪ ᴅᴏ ᴛᴏ ᴅᴇsᴇʀᴠᴇ ᴛʜɪs ʀᴏᴛᴛᴇɴ ᴄʜɪʟᴅ your a burden ᴡʜᴀᴛs ᴡʀᴏɴɢ ᴡɪᴛʜ ʜᴇʀ you can never quite manage to please anyone with your actions though they accuse you of doing drugs (ᴛʜɪs ᴍᴇᴅɪᴄᴀᴛɪᴏɴ ᴡɪʟʟ ᴍᴀᴋᴇ ʏᴏᴜ ʙᴇᴛᴛᴇʀ) you're told you're to weak to help yourself but not good enough to rely on others your taught that 'love' is everywhere ᴅᴏɴᴛ ᴛʀᴜsᴛ ᴀɴʏᴏɴᴇ your taught that you need protection but you cant carry a firearm ᴡʜᴀᴛs ᴀ 'ɢɪʀʟ' ᴅᴏɪɴɢ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴀ 'ɢᴜɴ' you dont fall with in the criteria to legally carry ᴀ ʙɪɢ 'sᴛʀᴏɴɢ ᴍᴀɴ' ᴍᴜsᴛ ᴘʀᴏᴛᴇᴄᴛ ʏᴏᴜ

He's taught that being a virgin is lame and sex and providing money to find a sexual partner and the essentials is priorities ʜᴇs ᴅʀᴏᴡɴɪɴɢ he wakes up the slight constant pain taunting him knowing he cant stay in bed just another day ʀᴇғʟᴇᴄᴛɪᴏɴʟᴇss have to put on a brave face sᴜᴘᴘʀᴇss ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴇᴍᴏᴛɪᴏɴs let it you'll of your back ғᴏʀɢᴇᴛ ɪᴛ ʜᴜʀᴛs make sure to smile and laugh ᴅᴏɴᴛ ᴛᴀʟᴋ ᴀʙᴏᴜᴛ ʏᴏᴜʀsᴇʟғ be happy ᴅᴏɴᴛ ᴄʀʏ have to be big ᴀᴛ ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴏᴡɴ ᴇxsᴘᴇɴᴄᴇ strong to protect everyone sᴀᴄʀɪғɪᴄᴇ ʏᴏᴜʀsᴇʟғ

Help everyone ᴅᴏɴᴛ ᴀsᴋ ғᴏʀ ʜᴇʟᴘ dont let people see

Are you happy? ᴡʜᴀᴛ ɪs ʜᴀᴘᴘʏ you body shakes and twitches slightly every so often ᴡʜᴀᴛ ᴡᴀs ᴛʜᴀᴛ that's not normal ᴡʜᴏ ɪs ʜᴀᴘᴘʏ

Your lost ᴡʜᴇʀᴇ ɪs ʜᴀᴘᴘʏ find your way hurry ᴍᴀᴋᴇ ᴏᴛʜᴇʀs ʜᴀᴘᴘʏ dont fail ᴅᴏɴᴛ ᴅɪssᴀᴘᴏɪɴᴛ ᴀɴʏᴏɴᴇ be yourself ᴅᴏɴᴛ ᴏғғᴇɴᴅ ᴀɴʏᴏɴᴇ be nice ᴅᴏɴᴛ ʟᴇᴛ ᴀɴʏᴏɴᴇ ɪɴ stay true to yourself ʙᴇ ɴᴏʀᴍᴀʟ you need to function in moderation society ɪs ᴛʜɪs ᴇᴠᴇɴ ᴀ ᴍᴀsᴋ ᴀɴʏᴍᴏʀᴇ don't think about it too much ᴅᴏɴᴛ ʙᴇ ɪɢɴᴏʀᴀɴᴛ hold yourself together ʙʀᴇᴀᴛʜᴇ act 'normal' ʟɪᴠᴇ ᴜᴘ ᴛᴏ ᴇᴠᴇʀʏᴏɴᴇs ᴇxsᴘᴇᴄᴛᴀᴛɪᴏɴs need to impress everyone ғᴏʟʟᴏᴡ ᴛʜᴇ ᴛʀᴇɴᴅs ʙʟᴇɴᴅ differentiate yourself ʜɪᴅᴇ get told your never going to be enough

Your alone? It doesn't feel like your alone ᴇᴍᴘᴛʏ ᴀɴᴏᴛʜᴇʀ ʙᴏᴛᴛʟᴇ dont forget to breathe ᴛᴀᴋᴇ ᴀɴᴏᴛʜᴇʀ ʜɪᴛ you're happy ᴅᴏɴᴛ ғᴀʟʟ ᴀᴘᴀʀᴛ you want to be alive ᴅᴏɴᴛ ᴋɪʟʟ ʏᴏᴜʀsᴇʟғ smile and watch cartoons ᴅᴏɴ�� ᴄᴜᴛ ʏᴏᴜʀsᴇʟғ go on a walk take a deep breath through your nose ᴛʜᴇ ᴘᴏʟᴜᴛɪᴏɴ ʙᴜʀɴs light another cigarette sᴋɪᴘ ᴛʜɪs sᴏɴɢ grip your knife tightly sᴛᴀʏ ᴏɴ ʜɪɢʜ ᴀʟᴇʀᴛ

#trigger #sadthoughts #bipolor #antisocial

[wistfulcynic]

Drink the Wild Air

HAPPY HAPPY BIRTHDAY to @thisonesatellite​!!!!!!!

The other half of my brain, yin to my yang, Wash to my Mal, chili to my chocolate. Milkman who delivers my spiritual milk (TOO MUCH???? TOO BAD). I wish I had better words to express how much you mean to me, but on the other hand I don’t need them because YOU ALREADY KNOW ❤️❤️❤️❤️

(Are you blaughing yet??)

ANYWAY in honour of this MOMENTOUS occasion, I have written you a little story. In which princesses are kidnapped (OR ARE THEY), sea battles are fought, SWASH is BUCKLED and CASTLES are STORMED. 

(of course, when I say “have written” I mean there are four-ish chapters. Out of nine. Maximum. SHUT UP YOU KNOW WHAT I’M LIKE)

Many thanks to the brilliant @ohmightydevviepuu​ and the wonderful @katie-dub​ for helping me knock this into something readable.  Also: @darkcolinodonorgasm​ @kmomof4​ @teamhook​ @stahlop​ @mariakov81​ @resident-of-storybrooke​ @thejollyroger-writer​ @shireness-says​ @snidgetsafan​

(please do say if you would like a tag or if you would like not a tag)

(Also on AO3) 

TO START OFF we have THE MEETING. 

PART THE FIRST: THE PRINCESS AND THE PIRATE

Once upon a time there was a princess. 

A beautiful one, to be sure, as princesses in stories such as this are wont to be, but beautiful was far from the only thing that might be said of her. Born of a union of fabled True Love and raised by parents who valued her far too highly to spoil her, she grew up to be daring and kind, brave and witty, and curious to a fault.

She was also stubborn, and stubbornly independent, insisting on leading her own life in her own way and choosing for herself the partner to accompany her along the path of it. She would not, she declared, accept a political marriage; she would have a love like her parents’ or none at all. Suitor after suitor tried to woo her, princes and dukes and sultans from far-off lands, and suitor after suitor she rejected. None could tempt her, for all wished to put her on display and indulge her like a pretty pet, and the restless princess would quite sincerely choose death over such a life. In desperation the king and queen sent her far into the north, to the frozen kingdom of Arendelle, their ancient ally, in hopes it might appease her longing for adventure and return her home in a different frame of mind. 

The princess greatly enjoyed her trip; she liked the queen of Arendelle and its princess, and the magnificence of their icy land. In the six months of her stay she had many enjoyable adventures and met many interesting people. She did not, much to her parents’ dismay, fall in love. 

On the day she was set to embark upon her return to her own kingdom, a man presented himself at the gates of the palace. A remarkably handsome man, with dark hair made carefully untidy and bright blue eyes lined in black. His speech and dress were perfectly proper and his manner charming but the princess was not easily deceived, and she saw as the others did not a hardness in the twinkle of his eyes and a cunning beneath his charm. 

He had come to deliver a message to the queen, the man informed them, placing a wax-sealed envelope on the footman’s silver tray with a flourish and an elegant bow. As he turned to take his leave his gaze caught the princess’s and held it, brazenly, for a brief and endless moment broken only when he shot her a wink that brought a scowl to her face and sealed her decision. He was not to be trusted, and she intended to uncover his game. 

She trailed him with ease as he strolled casually, almost ostentatiously through the broad and snowy streets, until she blinked for a heartbeat too long and he was gone. The princess was thunderstruck, cursing under her breath as she spun in a circle, eyes darting about, seeking any glimpse of him. 

“Looking for someone, Your Highness?” murmured a deep voice in her ear, and she turned to see him smirking at her in a much less charming way than he had in the throne room. 

“You!” she gasped, and cursed herself for inanity.

“Aye.” His smirk deepened. “I suspect you may have been seeking me.” 

“I wasn’t! I just—” 

“Didn’t trust me,” he interjected, with a hint of bitterness that took her by surprise. “Very wise, Princess. I am not a trustworthy man.” 

“And why would you admit that to me?” 

“Because I have no quarrel with this kingdom and I don’t wish for any trouble. It’s true I have been known to lie and cheat and even plunder when circumstances demand it, but I have no nefarious intentions here. I merely wish to board my ship and be on my way.” He indicated a vessel docked in the nearby harbour, a tall and distinguished one, adorned with stripes of yellow and flying a crimson flag. 

“A pirate ship!” she gasped. 

“Privateer, darling, in this land at least. And I prefer to keep it that way, if you don’t mind.” 

“But if you’re a pi— a privateer, then why were you delivering a message to the queen?” 

“Because I was paid well to do so.” 

“By whom?” 

“I find it’s best not to inquire. Now is your curiosity satisfied or do you intend to follow me aboard my ship as well? A beautiful woman such as yourself would be most welcome.” He cocked an eyebrow, licking his lower lip as his heavy-lidded gaze travelled slowly down her face, landing on the open neckline of her gown with such blatantly lecherous intent that the princess could not suppress a burst of laughter. 

“Are you trying to intimidate me?” she chuckled. 

His thick brows snapped together and he sputtered in indignation, but her bright laugh proved infectious and he was a man with a keen eye for irony. “Aye,” he replied, chuckling himself. “Without success, it would seem.” 

He looked at her as he spoke the words, truly looked at her as he hadn’t before, his blue eyes alight with a genuine interest and a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, and the princess felt a fluttering in her belly that was wholly new to her. “You’re a tough lass,” he observed, and his voice held only admiration.  

The princess felt off-balance, unsteady, as though her blood were moving too quickly through her veins, and she did not care for it. She stepped back, gesturing at the street that led to his ship. “Take your leave, then, sir,” she said.  

“Captain,” he informed her, closing the distance she’d put between them and taking her hand. “Captain Killian Jones, of the Jolly Roger.” 

“Emma,” replied the princess, before she could stop herself. “Princess Emma of Misthaven.” 

“Misthaven,” murmured Captain Jones. “Lovely.” He performed a gracious bow over Emma’s hand, brushing his lips across the back of it. They were warm and soft and Emma gasped as the flutter in her belly grew stronger. He looked up at the soft sound and their gazes collided over the top of her hand with a crackle like lighting though a summer sky. Every emotion thrumming through her in that moment she saw reflected in his eyes: attraction, excitement, confusion, apprehension, just a hint of fear. The cheeky pirate and the haughty princess were gone and they lay bare to each other’s sight, just for the space of a heartbeat. 

Then he released her hand and turned away, disappearing into the crowd. Moments later she saw him boarding his ship, pausing just at the top of the gangplank as though he might turn back to look at her… she held her breath… he squared his shoulders and strode onto the deck and she could see him no more. Emma turned away herself and walked slowly back to the palace, feeling shaken and oddly empty. Of course, she thought, of course it would happen that after five years and dozens of suitors she had finally met the man whose touch made her heart beat faster, and he was a pirate she would never see again. 

~

Because once upon a time there was a pirate. A good man with a bad temper, who had done things in the heat of his anger that could not be undone once it had cooled, and allowed their consequences to embitter and harden him. A resourceful man and a clever one, he worked his way up from nothing only to throw his life away for love of his brother, squandering his talents in revenge and rum until the day a pair of green eyes looked at him as none had ever done before and set his feet upon a different path. 

A great one for brooding, he took to his cabin with his flask and his thoughts, golden hair and silken skin prominent among them. The most intriguing woman he’d ever met, he thought with a scowl, and she was a bloody princess, as untouchable as the stars themselves and surely someone he would never see again.  

He sailed his ship into open waters looking for a fight, an enemy vessel he might plunder to relieve his feelings. His first mate —whose time in Arendelle had been spent gathering information from the harbourmaster there— apprised him of two likely targets: a barge travelling to Glowerhaven from Agrabah which they could intercept in a day or so, and a royal passenger ship set to sail from Arendelle that very evening, bearing the standard of Misthaven. 

The captain’s heart leapt in his chest but he kept his face expressionless as he instructed his first mate to target the barge. Agrabah was rich in spices and jewels; a slow-moving barge loaded with its cargo made a far more tempting prospect than an agile and well-armed royal yacht that may or may not be transporting a certain green-eyed princess. 

As the sun set that evening the Jolly Roger drifted as they waited for the wind that would carry them towards Glowerhaven, the men in the crow’s nest keeping their watchful eyes upon the open seas while the captain kept his on the Misthaven vessel coming up swiftly on their starboard stern. As it passed by he saw her, leaning against the ship’s rail, her hair trailing in the breeze and her  posture thoughtful. She straightened when she caught sight of him and he could swear their gazes locked even across that surging stretch of water, with an intensity surpassing even what they had shared in Arendelle and broken only when he dropped into an elaborate bow and —though he doubted she could really see it— winked at her. 

She inclined her head and gave him a mocking curtsey, and as her ship sailed away into the setting sun the captain scratched behind his ear, a nervous gesture he thought he’d left well in his past. 

Misthaven, he mused. To his knowledge he had never taken any of their ships. Perhaps his crew might care to dock there for a day or two, and enjoy their Agrabahti spoils. The wind picked up and as the crew leapt into action the captain smiled, imagining piles of exotic jewels and green eyes that put them all to shame. 

A week later they made their port and if the princess, whose tower bedroom boasted a fine view of the harbour from its wide window, felt a stuttering in her heartbeat and a quickening in her blood at the sight of the brightly painted ship, she did not speak of it. Rather, she donned her oldest gown and covered her hair, and slipped away from the palace and into the only tavern in all her land where a pirate might feel welcome. 

The delight on the captain’s face when she sat down next to him did nothing to dispel either the quickening or the heartbeat. 

“Princess,” he said. “Fancy meeting you here.” 

“What, here in my kingdom?” 

His eyebrows danced at the snap in her tone. “Here in this tavern, love, where if you’ll forgive me for saying so you do appear rather out of place.”   

A twinkle of mischief glinted in her eye as she gazed up at him from beneath thick lashes. “Would it surprise you to learn this isn’t the first time I’ve been here?” 

His own gaze was intense, solemn, though his face wore the same small smile as it had in the streets of Arendelle. “No,” he said softly. “It wouldn’t surprise me at all.” 

She grinned in delight at that, unaccountably flattered by the approval in his voice. 

“And now, Your Highness,” he said, his voice dropping lower as he leaned in close. “May I buy you a drink?” 

She leaned in herself, thrilling at the hitch in his breath and the heat in his eyes, her heart pounding faster than ever. 

“Call me Emma.” 

---

AND OF COURSE to top it off there is  BRILLIANT ART from @mariakov81​!!

HAPPY BIRTHDAY STEPHANIE ❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️

#cs fic #cs ff #cs ff au #enchanted forest au #captain duckling #pirates #princesses #birthday fic #thisonesatellite #profdanglaisstuff #mariakov81 #drink the wild air

[ghostofviperwrites]

Bonding

Featuring:  LIJ

Category:   Light angst/light fluff

Word Count: 1726

Warnings: Language and drinking

Just some LIJ family bonding time.   It ends kind of abruptly and really doesn’t have a point, but I felt like writing it soooo.

It wasn’t the usual kind of hang out for the boys of Los Ingobernables de Japon, but then again, that was kind of the point.  This wasn’t a night out like their usual.  This was a night for bonding.  No pussy allowed.  To remove temptation, cause god knows despite his best intentions Naito will fuck someone if the opportunity presents itself, they had congregated at a dilapidated run down bar in one of the worst neighborhoods in the city.  Women wouldn’t be caught dead in this place. 

Sanada arrived first, refusing to remove his gloves or coat on the chance his skin might actually come into contact with something in this bar.   There was no one else in this world he would venture into a place like this for.  Even when slumming it with Evil he had his limits.   But for the four men who were his brothers, and the fifth who was slowly inching his way into that spot; Sanada would compromise his standards.  

As he commandeered a table in the back with enough seating for them all Sanada could feel the eyes of the clientele on him.  He knew he looked out of place, his designer clothes sticking out like a sore thumb and he could only imagine they were imagining jumping him.  A part of him hoped they did.  If he wasn’t going to get laid tonight, perhaps a fight could entertain him.  Show anyone that dared to fuck with him that he wasn’t just a pretty face.   With a sneer of derision and face full of challenge Sanada locked eyes with two men seated near the door who were eyeing him in rampant speculation.  

That was as far as it got when the door burst open with a loud bang, sunlight briefly blinding the bar and casting over the hulking figure pushing in.   Sanada rolled his eyes as he took a seat in a rickety chair he wasn’t entirely confident could safely hold his weight, watching as those who had been sizing him up immediately looked away from Evil’s intimidating presence.  Evil didn’t even have to do anything for others to recognize the danger that wafted from him.  

Shouting out for pitchers of beer to the barkeep Evil scanned the room and found Sanada, pushing through the empty tables to join his friend. 

“You order anything to eat?”  Evil said by way of greeting as he slid into the seat next to Sanada, frowning as the chair protested under his weight. 

“Hell no.  I’m not risking food poisoning.”  Sanada sniffed with a look of disgust.  “I can’t believe you’d even think about food in here.”

Evil simply laughed and stretched across the table for a menu.

“I’ve got a cast iron stomach my friend.”  Evil bragged.  “I can eat anything.” 

Their pitchers were delivered and Evil gave his order for an array of appetizers before reaching for a glass and filling it with the frothy brew rolling his eyes at Sanada as he pulled out a silk handkerchief and polished the glass before deigning it worthy to drink from. 

“You’re such a priss.”  Evil told him.  “How am I even friends with you?” 

Sanada shrugged and took a pull from his mug nose crinkling at the cheap bitter taste and longing for a nice aged scotch or bottle of chardonnay. 

Bushi’s arrival heralded stares as it usually did, a masked man was wont to draw attention no matter where he was.   He too kept his gloves on as he slid into a chair across from Evil exchanging a glance full of commiseration with Sanada.  While nowhere near Sanada’s level of snobbery, this place was pushing Bushi’s comfort boundaries a bit too much for his tastes. 

“You’re seriously going to eat here?” Bushi asked Evil incredulously as the first of several plates were brought to the table.  

“Of course, I’m starving.”  Evil said a sauce drenched Jiaozi already headed towards his mouth, eyes closing in bliss as he chewed. 

“It’s good.” Evil mumbled through a mouthful.  “You should try it.” 

“You’ll excuse me if I doubt your culinary divinity.”  Sanada scoffed making Evil shrug.

“Your loss.” 

Shingo was the next to arrive, looking rather worse for wear, his appearance speaking of a long night out but a bright grin on his face. 

“Long night?”  Bushi asked as Shingo sat next to Evil and immediately reached for the pitcher of beer. 

“Just a little.”  Shingo said as he downed half his glass in quick gulps. 

“Not hungover?” Sanada asked surprised Shingo didn’t seem even the slightest bit out of sorts from his escapades the night before.  Judging by the looks of him, he hadn’t been home since leaving the arena last night. 

“That’s the key Sanada-san.”  Shingo said grinning widely.  “You have to stop drinking to get hungover.” 

That made the gathered men snicker. They were quickly learning there wasn’t a party Shingo didn’t enjoy or a drink he would turn down.   He rivaled Evil in his ability to handle his alcohol, no small feat as Evil was undisputedly the king of that domain.  

Their laughter cut off abruptly when the door swung open once again, all of them shooting to their feet and hurrying towards the door like worried mother hens as Naito appeared with his arm hovering around the waist of Hiromu Takahashi.  

“Back off guys,”  Naito waved them away in annoyance making them part to create a path, Evil moving ahead of them to shove tables out of the way, glaring at the man at one of the tables who dared to grumble at him, to make a walkway for Hiromu.  

Bushi hurried ahead of Evil and pulled out a chair, pushing and shaking it to make sure it was stable enough before deeming it suitable for Hiromu’s use.  It was a slow process, Hiromu well on the road to recovery, but on his first public outing and Naito was fussing over him to take it easy.  Hiromu was barely recognizable from the frenetic ball of energy they were so used to, dressed in muted clothes with his hair pulled back in a ponytail and glasses perched on his nose.  A stark contrast to be sure, but they were all excited to see him out of the hospital.  It was difficult for them all to visit him at the same time in the small room he was housed in, making them have to spread them out so they all had the chance to see their littlest brother.  

Once everyone was settled conversation flowed smoothly, everyone talking over the others as they tried to keep Hiromu’s attention and fill him in on the going ons since the last time they had seen him.   Hiromu sat quietly, happy to soak up all the chatter and thrilled to be the center of attention.   It wasn’t so often that he garnered all this from his brothers.  Drinks flowed and food was eaten, even Sanada wearing down and grabbing a few bites with mumbled warnings of kicking Evil’s ass if he got sick.  

It made Hiromu sad that he wasn’t going to get to stay with them long.   He was only allowed out for a few hours before he got dragged back to his hospital room.  There he would be alone to flounder in his self-doubts.  No matter how much they visited, and how earnest they were in their proclamations of missing him dreadfully, there were still those nasty voices in his head saying they were going to forget about him.  That he was a broken toy and his brothers and the fans were going to move onto the next big thing.   Unbidden his eyes moved to Shingo, his lips pursing tightly as he looked at the newest member of LIJ. 

“I’m not trying to take your place Hiromu,” Shingo said catching the look, a hush immediately falling over the table at his words, worried looks cast at the frowning Hiromu.  “I don’t want to replace you.”  

Naito frowned looking between the two men.  Did Hiromu really think that?  Hiromu was the one who suggested they find a sixth member in the first place. 

“Nobody is ever going to replace you Hiro.”  Bushi said firmly.  “Nobody can and we don’t want anybody to.” 

“Why wouldn’t you?”  Hiromu said softly, lowering his eyes to stare at the fingers wringing in his lap.   “Shingo is so much better than me.   Bushi and I never almost won the junior tag tournament together.  He deserves a partner who can take him to the top.   Why would you want someone who may not ever wrestle again?” 

“I don’t give a shit about your wrestling.”  Evil snapped. “You’re my brother.  My family.  I’m just going to forget you because you can’t go in the ring? Stop with the bullshit Hiromu.” 

“Evil!”  Naito chastised.

“What?  He’s got a broken neck so I can’t get pissed off that he thinks he’s worthless?”  Evil argued.  “That he thinks our feelings are so shallow that we’ll move onto the next shiny new thing the second he turns his back?” 

“I don’t think that!”  Hiromu protested vehemently.  

“Obviously you do if you think we’re going to leave you behind.”  The anger seeped from Evil’s words, trailing off into uncertainty.   “You must not think very much of us.” 

Uncomfortable silence descended over the table everyone looking everywhere but at each other as the bitter words floated in the air between them. 

“Fuck beer, we needs shots.”  Bushi muttered rising to head to the bar.  

As he moved Evil heard someone muttering about “masked freaks” making Evil’s head shoot up, his eyes glaring holes into the culprit.

“Say that again bakayarou!”  Evil spat.  “I’ll pull your tongue out with my bare hand and watch you choke to death on your own blood.” 

The man paled and sunk back into his seat, shifting so he was looking in the opposite direction of Evil.  

Muffled giggles came from behind Hiromu’s hand and it wasn’t long before it spread throughout the table, the Ingobernables laughing loudly and tension melting away as Bushi sat down a tray filled with double shots. 

One by one the grabbed shot glass and clinked them together in the center. 

“To family.” Naito proclaimed, his words enthusiastically echoed by them all before the shots were downed. 

#lij imagine #lij fanfic #njpw fanfic #wrestling fanfic #mywriting #ghostofviperwrites

[fallen029]

Tricky

The kitchen counter was littered with a concoction of assorted ingredients and cooking utensils, enough so that just looking at it gave the Slayer a headache. It was as he stood there, staring in a bit of disbelief at the mess that had befallen his poor kitchen in what felt like no time at all, that a frown began to tug at his features. He growled then, just a bit, as he finally found the exact word he wanted to fall from his mouth.

"Demon," he whispered hotly, but it was loud enough, apparently, for the woman to hear over her own humming.

It was her, of course, the demon Mirajane, who saw it fit to destroy his kitchen in such a way. She stood there, in one of her standard dresses, happily bent over the stove only moments before, but did look back at him then with one of those bright grins of hers.

"Dragon," she tried to growl back, but to came out as a laugh and, just as quickly, she was turning back to the pot she was stirring. "Finally decide to get up, sleepyhead?"

"What are you doing, woman?" he questioned in the most unwelcoming of ways. "Huh? A man shouldn't have to worry about waking up to a disaster zone just because... Why are you here, exactly?"

"Well," she began with something of a sigh, "as you know, there's gonna be a big party at the hall tonight. You know, to celebrate the start of spring?"

"Since when is that a thing?"

"Since I made it one."

Of course.

"And," the woman was going on as, abandoning the pot, she went over to start chopping some vegetables on the counter top, "there's not really enough space in the guildhall kitchen for me to get the beginning preparations ready because, well, you know, Kinana is already so busy making breakfast and lunch orders, so I needed to get the early prep stuff started somewhere else."

"You ever try your own damn house?"

"I did," she offered with a nod."But my kitchen is just so small and, well, my house is really, especially with Elf and Lisanna lurking around too, so-"

"So," the Slayer finished for her, "you decided to break into my place and wreck my kitchen instead."

"It's not breaking if you have a key."

"Tell it to the constable."

"Awe, dragon, I know you've been laid up recently, but it's super cute that you have to rely on the city patrol for protection."

This finally seemed to draw real ire out of the man as, instead of making an off-handed remark, he literally turned away from her, a sour look replacing his put on annoyance. It hadn't been a good time for him, was all, recently. He'd gotten hurt out on a job and, well, he was taking some time to recuperate and train up before going back out again. The Thunder Legion, the best publicists a guy could ask for, played this up for the man to others, claiming his hiatus and seclusion just showed how clearly superior he was to the rest of them. Yes. Obviously. He had enough jewels to take a few months away from work while their pathetic, lowly mage selves couldn't scrape together enough jewels to survive a rough week.

Still, Laxus knew, obviously, the real reason that he was hiding out in his apartment, wasting his days away. Before, in the earlier ones, it was to hardly get out of bed, far too laid up for much else, but as he was feeling a bit better now, he mostly brooded around the apartment. When she wasn't working, which wasn't often, he could expect the demon to drop by, ever the doting girlfriend, and he was usually welcoming of this.

Usually.

When he'd first noticed her presence, only a few minutes before, it had been with groggy recognition of not being alone. Rather than panic, however, as the woman's scent hit his nose, he was intrigued originally. He didn't know her to be off that day and, well, if she was showing up to spend time with him, that was a welcome surprise. But after shoving out of bed and stumbling into the kitchen, he hadn't found her scrambling him up some eggs or frying some bacon. Rather, he'd stumbled upon this nonsense and, well, he couldn't exactly say he was surprised, but he also wasn't too pleased.

That had more to do with the fact she was teasing him though.

"Oh, Lax," Mirajane sighed when she took in the man's sour expression. "I was just kidding. You know that if you need someone to protect you, I'm always available."

"No one," he told her crossly, "needs to protect me."

"You...have bodyguards though. I mean-"

"Shuddup." Sulking, he came further into the kitchen. "And we're going to be going over personal boundaries."

"If it's that big of a deal," she told him with a frown over her shoulder, "then I'll just leave. Is that what you want?"

"No." He slammed down into a chair at the kitchen table then, glaring at her as he said, "But you're going to make me breakfast."

"Oh, I am?"

"Yeah," he told her icily. "You are."

Laxus wasn't sure why he didn't realize this would result in cold, soggy, bland cereal, but then again, he never claimed to be omniscient.

Things felt rather tense, which was rare between the two of them. While he was prone to disgruntled rants, it was rare for her to respond with anything other than her typical pleasantries. When she was equally as angry at him, they could have a stalemate for hours.

But that was the thing. Mirajane, the demon, she could live with it. Him being upset with him. No matter what the duration. But Laxus didn't like for his girlfriend to be mad at him (even if he didn't feel like he was the one in the wrong to begin with) and eventually the tension seemed too much for him to take.

"Is there anything I can do?" he asked after mostly pushing his cornflakes around in their bowl. Getting to his feet instead, he refused to apologize, in any situation, but did find himself asking while nodding at some still unchopped vegetables, "Demon?"

And she still had a bit of a glint of annoyance in her eyes, but did mutter something about him helping out and, well, Laxus might not know how to say sorry, but he definitely knew how to get back on the woman's good side. And, slowly, this came to fruition as Mirajane could never hold out for long, once he'd already broken, and soon enough she was back to singing, loudly now, rather than the low hums she'd had before, when he was sleeping, and Laxus just had to admire her, he always had to admire her. Imagine being worked like a dog and still finding it within yourself to be pleased by this fact.

His woman was something else.

She was though, his woman, which is why when the time came where she began bowling things up with the intent to transport it all back to the hall, where she'd finished food prep, Laxus had to let out a ragged sigh before offering his assistance.

"But Laxus," she asked with a sly smile, "you haven't been down to the guild in over a month."

And it all made sense now.

Glaring at her once more, he growled all the way to his bedroom, intending to get dressed regardless of his aggravation.

"You," he accused as he tugged on his clothes regardless, "planned this, didn't you? Huh?"

"I don't know what you're-"

"Just to make me go back there?" He looked at her in exasperation as the woman joined him in the bedroom. "Why, Mirajane? You dirty, lowdown-"

"Loving, thoughtful, caring-"

"You," he finished with a heavy finger of averment, "are tricky."

"I," she challenged, not used to getting a finger waved in her own face, "am helping you, dragon."

"Bullshit."

"You have to go back eventually." She dropped her shoulders some then, as well as her tone. Softly, she said, "Everyone fails sometimes, Lax."

He sneered and really thought about it then, just kicking the woman (and all her half finished dishes), out in the cold. But there was just something about her. There was always something about her. It sucked the most, honestly, when she began to smile only seconds later in response to the long, drawn out sighing groan he let out, releasing everything inside of him that could, honestly, probably murder the woman in that moment.

"I," he told her as, finally, he tugged on his coat and they went back into the kitchen to divvy up the pots and bowls to carry, "hate you."

"You love me," Mirajane challenged with a look. "And I love you. I wouldn't force you to go back if I didn't."

"Force. You heard that, right? What you just said? Do you listen to yourself? Force. Fucking force." Laxus could be led to water, he could even be made to drink it, but damn it if he wasn't going to bellyache about it during. "You're forcing me to do this. And that means that whatever psychological affects this has-"

"You're so dramatic."

"-are your fault." He even shook his head. "You're evil. Vindictive. A tricky-"

"Demon." She was headed to his front door then. "Now come on. Everyone will be waiting."

"Every- You told them I was coming?"

"What do you think the party is really for, Laxus?"

"Mirajane, I'm not a fucking child! I-"

"Then quit throwing a tantrum and hurry up." She grinned at him over her shoulder. "All your friends are waiting to pick you right back up."

"My friends," he told her sourly, "are going to get their heads slammed together. All three of them. For going along with this."

"Your other friends then."

"I don't have any other-"

"Most people keep that to themselves, Lax."

"Mirajane-"

"When I told everyone we were having a party to get you back out of your shell," she insisted, "they were all supportive."

"Yeah, because you said party," he challenged. "And they just all wanna go and drink and hear you play your guitar and eat and-"

"And remind you why you're so special to us."

"I'm special to you."

"Awe."

"No, I meant… No one's going to give a shit about me," he griped. "This party, it wont' have anything to do with me. This is one of your dumbest ideas-"

"Is it? Huh?" They were out on the street now, arms loaded up, but she was still all grins about their lengthy walk to the hall. "Everyone already knows you're coming out of hiding, so they won't gawk and gossip about it; they've already done that. And by the time we show up, most of them will already be too drunk to care about you. So you can just fade right back into the woodwork if you want. If you ask me-"

"I haven't. At all. In fact, I don't want to hear from you again all day."

"-this is the best idea I've ever had."

When this only got stony silence out of the man, Mirajane titled her head back to stare up at him for a moment before grinning quite openly. And damn it, fucking hell, he wanted to be so mad, so angry, so...so…

"You're a demon," he muttered softly, trying to fight a grin from spreading across his own mouth. "You know that?"

"Most people can just say thanks, you know, dragon."

Yeah.

As he kept completely silent, much to the giggles of the woman, he knew.

#Miraxus #Mirajane Strauss #Mira Strauss #Mirajane #Mira #Laxus #Laxus Dreyar #Fairy Tail #Fanfiction

[ruffiorocks]

Lena isnt the only one who has killed people.

Soo this might be unpopular, but if people are going to harp on about Lena killing Lex id like to remind you of a few other instances you seem to have forgotten about:

1. Kara killed or rather ‘obliterated’ parasite. Parasite was actually the mutated version of an innocent man called Rudy who was taken over by a parasite that corrupted him. Kara made the decision to kill him. Now whether you agree if this was justified or not is up to you,  but the fact is KARA made the decision to KILL a dangerous monster that would have caused all manner of havoc and nearly killed Jonn. But remember that Rudy himself was an innocent.

2, Anyone remember when Alex killed Astra with a KRYPTONITE sword?! Alex didnt have to kill Astra, Astra hesitated when she said she would kill Jonn. Alex could have stabbed her anywhere, like literally anywhere and then Jonn could have gotten out of the way. Again, this is up to you if you think its justified or not. But its still someone being killed. Astra wanted to save Earth, she didnt go about it in the best way but she wasnt your typical bad guy out for themselves. Alex killed her to protect Jonn.

3. I dont know why this one is ignored so much since it happened so recently, but am i the only one who saw Jonn MURDER an unarmed Manchester Black because Manchester taunted him? No just me that saw this happen? Manchester made Jonn see his family and then a white martian, Jonn, a centuries year old alien who has been through some s**t allowed Manchester to get to him, he then morphed into his Martian form in a rage, disarmed Manchester and didnt even hesitate to run him through with that staff! In other words, Jonn disarmed a guy and murdered an unarmed man because he got pissed. This one unlike the others, doesn't actual have any justifiable reason! 

4. Lena shoots Corbin, a man who had a GUN to Alex’s head, Kara is not faster than a gun touching Alex’s head. Adam died as a result of the Harun El, but he made the decision to go ahead with that even after Lena told him no and to go home. Adam was not a child, or a ‘kid’ he was an adult who made an adult and well informed decision. It went to s**t and Lena refused to do it again even when she was told to by Col Haley. You can talk legal ethics and all that jazz, but the fact is the show hasn't got time for logistics, if it did half the show would be in question.  Lex, a man who previously committed mass murders, both before and actually within the court. He killed all his guards, he then attempted to destroy Argo City (a city thriving now because Lena managed to figure out how to make Harun El), he was literally only seconds before trying to kill Kara! Lena knows that the world wont be safe with Lex in it so she makes the painful decision to shoot him. 

7. Remember when Kara went in guns blazing to kill Reign? When she made the decision to kill Reign but f**ked it up so Mon El and Alura died? She had to turn back time so she could save them and change HER DECISION to kill Reign. Shame Lena didnt have a time travel option to undo her mistakes.

6. Does anyone remember when Jonn was so pissed to see a White Martian he put KRYPTONITE hand cuffs on Kara, he had to have been carrying around with him so she couldn't stop him from killing the white martian? Alex and Kara had to beg Jonn not to murder it while it was UNCONCIOUS! No? Just me that remembers this then. Lucky Jonn had Kara there eh? 

7. Just a small one here, but does anyone remember when James, Winn and another CatCo employee were under the effects of Myriad and jumped off a building? Kara couldn't save all three, but she consciously chose to save James and Winn before that other woman. This isn't the same as her CHOOSING to kill Parasite, but Kara still made the decision to grab her friends first. This isnt necessarily a bad act, but it was Kara making a life and death decision for someone else in favor of two of her friends. We all know we would do the same, but that woman still died. 

Sooo how is the only bad one here Lena? Lena kills the DC version of Hitler 2.0 to protect the world, like the others who have all killed someone. But apparently Lena  is evil incarnate? Lex deserved a fair trial? Just like Hitler did? Yeah... no! If you had the chance to kill Hitler you would of. Lena apparently is the only one who is held accountable when she is responsible for a death, but Alex, Jonn and Kara get off Scott free and those deaths are completely forgotten. 

Kara wont ever forgive Lena for killing Lex or for the death of Adam? Well Kara was pissed at Jonn for a while because she thought he killed her aunt, someone she was related to and loved (so not the same as Lex) but when she found out that it was Alex, her own SISTER that killed Astra she was shocked for all of 5 seconds before she hugged Alex and reached out a hand to Jonn who had lied about it. Not sure Lena needs forgiveness from Kara for shooting HER brother anyway. 

Kara was also completely fine with the fact that Lena shot Corbin to save Alex. She even used it as an example when she was defending Lena to the rest of the gang. 

Adams death doesn't actually have bugger all to do with Kara even if she does find out. 

Kara was shocked for all of 5 seconds when Jonn unnecessarily killed an unarmed Manchester Black. When they got back to the hospital that same day she told him he could still be a man of peace and wasnt arsed at all. 

So Kara can forgive Alex for killing a member of her family, she can forgive Jonn for killing Manchester, she can forgive Lena for shooting Corbin who was trying to kill Alex, she can live with the fact she killed Parasite (with NO consequences and an apparent ‘no kill’ rule) and in an alternate time line attempted to kill Reign, but for some unexplained reason KARA wont be able to forgive Lena for shooting the insane, mass murdering, genocidal, psychopath who tried to kill her cousin, tried to kill her, tried to kill her best friend (Lena) had her other friend (James) shot, and attempted genocide again on Argo City that would have killed Kara’s mother and the rest of her race? Yeah..... I see some double standards going on here.

For the record, Lena doesn't need Kara’s forgiveness for the deaths of Lex and Adam. If she faced consequences for those she would be the ONLY one out of all the above to face consequences for killing people. Its lucky that Jonn had Kara around to talk him out of killing the martian, didnt seem to remember that little talk when it came down to Manchester, and Kara didn't seem to remember it either. Its a shame Lena didn't have her best friend to talk her out of killing Lex, but that another story. 

In conclusion, Lena is NOT the only one on this show who has killed/murdered someone. I honesty believe its just because people are looking at Lena expecting bad things to happen, or they hate her and they see nothing but bad things. But the others are all the ‘designated’ heroes so any murder or death they cause is absolutely fine, justifiable and instantly forgotten. They never face any consequences for their actions. Jonn was a civilian who killed another civilian, if Kara was actually doing her ‘JOB’ she should have taken him to the police station/DEO like she does anybody else. But again, logistics. 

For the record, im not saying there weren't reasons for all these deaths, or the above characters are bad, im just stating that it isnt all black and white and they aren't any better than Lena in these cases .

Whether or not what Lena did was right or wrong, the others have essentially done the same or had to be prevented from doing the same. Lena unfortunately didn't have a bestie super to talk her out of it, or the option of time travel to fix it. 

Oh and one last thing in response to “Lena HAD Kryptonite!”

1. Alex shot her SISTER out of the sky with Kryptonite. 

2. Jonn carried around a Kryptonite knife he ‘really liked’ and was disappointed when Kara the kryptonian didnt bring it back with her after a fight?? 

3. Jonn had Kryptonite cuffs he brought to a fight with him purely so he could use them on Kara so she could stop him from killing an unconscious alien. 

Rant over.

As always, discussion welcome, abuse not so much :-) 

#supergirl #supercorp #lena luthor #lex luthor #alex danvers #jonn jonzz #martian manhunter #astra #alura #reign #james olsen #kara danvers

[geirskogull]

Steel Reign - Chapter 3 - Dial A Summoner

Danica calls up a good friend who probably wont react badly to “oh yeah i might be a primal now”

Archive Link

Rating: M

Count: 2.1 K

Rain. Rain was a regular occurrence in the Shroud. Caolan Haustefort should know that. Caolan Haustefort liked to consider himself a smart man, and things such as the local weather patterns should be within his constant purview of “things he was aware of.” 

But as his floppy wet beret could tell you, he very much was not. 

Danica was lucky, he thought to himself, lucky he was bored enough trying to find a ship to sign on to in Limsa that he'd be willing to drop everything and come to this ass end of the forest to see how she was faring. A lie in two parts on his account, one he told himself in a vain attempt to keep the haughty aloof arcanist act in one piece. He was sure that was exactly the kind of person ships were looking for and Gods above he’d be their man. 

Of course he’d also be the worried mother hen, rushing from one end of Eorzea to the other when one of his comrades muttered even a single worrying word. 

Pushing open the swinging doors of Buscarron Druthers, the rush of warm dry air made him shudder, sending droplets of water all over any who were within spitting distance on the main door. His eyes scanned the crowd for the mop of black hair and slightly pointed ears of the woman whose shaky voiced link pearl call had dragged him there, and when his eyes came up empty his heart began pounding. The mask slipping and worry visually coloring his grey face, somehow losing what little color it did have. His long steps rushed him towards the tavern keeper, a strong looking gent whose name adorned the very place her ran. 

“Need a drink, son? I’m sure I have something here that can warm your drenched bones” Buscarron asked, looking up at the Duskwight with a  sympathetic look in his singular functional eye. Caolan shook his head no, sending another wave of splatters across the bar this time. 

“Not now, though depending on what the person I’m supposed to meet here has to say, perhaps later.” He cracked a nervous smile, letting his eyes wander over the gathered crowds again, absently. Trying to maintain a calm that he was no longer capable of holding.

“Looking for the Dragoon in the corner perhaps?” Buscarron’s words drew caolans eyes and attention back towards him. The ‘keep motioned to a well hidden alcove with the glass he had been cleaning. Eyes following, he did not like what he saw.

Danica sat in the booth, eyes downcast, intent upon the small linkpearl and not at all at either the food or drink placed in front of her. She looked exhausted, almost half dead. “She’s been like that since she wandered in here during the worst of the storm. I had half the mind to offer the poor girl use of the backroom to rest, but something tells me she’d be too proud to accept the offer.”

“You don’t know the half of it.” He replied, he shook his head, a heavy sigh following. “Thank you.” He pushed himself off the bar, and with a slight bow of his head towards its keeper he turned towards Dee. His frown never truly leaving his face.

Buscarron’s eyes followed the leggy gent, he must have been whoever she called on that little red pearl earlier. Who she spoke to in rushed, hushed tones, far too low for him to make out anything she actually said to the folks on the other side. All he knew was that she looked scared, and alone, and his honor - and his memory of when she came bouncing through the door on order of the Lancer’s guild - had him flicking his eye back over there every once and awhile. Just make sure she was still upright and breathing. 

“Dee?” Caolans voice was almost a whisper as he approached his friend, and yet she still nearly jumped from her skin when his words hit her ears. She paused just short of her spear, just recognizing him before her hands wrapped around its shaft. Danica Voss was jumpy.

This wasn’t good.

Voss was never jumpy. Ok that was a lie, Caolan chastised himself, her entire preferred form of combat revolved around jumping, but this was a different jumpy. A scary jumpy. A worrying jumpy. A jumpy that had him compressing himself to as small a size as he possibly could, which admittedly, even when he hunched over and scrunched up his shoulders wasn’t very small. 

“Dee...” he let her name hang in the air as he slid into the booth, across from her. Trying to figure out, among his many grand social stratagem, which to employ to talk to a friend about something bothering her. 

“Your food is getting cold.”  Working around the problem before getting it, that would work yes? He thought to himself, gentle nudging the plate towards his friends. Even if it didn’t work, it would make her eat something, hopefully. 

Voss flicked her eyes to the plate, as if noticing it for the first time. She opened her mouth, flicked her eyes towards Buscarron who simply waved, and then shook her head. The way her brows crinkled as she grimaced spoke a sharp spike of pain as she did so. 

“....Not Hungry.” She eventually managed to whisper. “But thank you.”  Her eyes flashed back towards the owner, who hard turned back to his own work for now. She silently cursed herself, how had she not heard him place it down? Odin, or the sword, or perhaps even just her own overactive mind painted her scenarios were such inattention would be fatal.

“Thirsty then?” Caolan asked, tilting his head, and comically letting his dripping beret fall with an audible splat. Danica blinked, startled and confused at the sound, but drawn away from her own mind if even for a second by the sheer strangeness of Haustefort without a hat. When she didn’t respond, he leaned in, his wet hair dripping upon the table. Gods he wished he had thought to bring an umbrella.

“Or perhaps you wish to tell me why you summoned me all the way from Limsa, where if you’d like to know I was very very close to actually signing on with a good crew for a spell, via linkpearl with just the words “We need to talk.” You know, the anxiety words. The no good very bad anxiety words.”  He cracked a small smile, hoping his good natured jab at the heart of the problem would ease some answers out of the half elezen woman.

She swallowed hard, eyes still downcast when she answered. 

“I need help.” Three simple words that did not tell any meat of the matter. He blinked, waiting for more words, fear growing in his heart as the seconds turned closer towards a minute. Slowly, she raised her hands to the table. They were bruised, bandaged things. Unsurprising considering her martial profession.

“Did you really summon me all this way just to heal some minor injuries?” He asked, giving an incredulous. He deeply doubted such a thing would be the case. Hells, he’d known her to forgo medical treatment when she really needed it, if it didn’t seem important at the time via her own special, Danica standards.

Then, he noticed the black metal hilt in her hands. 

His mouth hung open, shock and awe stalling any words from leaving his mouth. He’d never thought he’d live to be in the presence of such a sword, well unless it was swinging down upon him to end his pitiful existence. Yet, here it was in Danica’s hand. 

“You killed Odin?” He whispered, finally. Grasping at her wrist holding the hilt and shoving it back beneath the table. Scanning the bar for eyes turned their way, thankful that his whisper hadn’t actually been a scream. 

“Yes.” She responded her hands shaking, “No.” She said quickly after. Her eyes finally leaving the sword to look into his grey ones. They were red, had she been crying? Or was she just tired. 

“What do you mean?” He asked, leaning further across the table. The wood digging into his gut, he was almost crawling across it. 

“I think it is the Primal.” She whispered, and he felt the his gut twist. “And... and who ever kills Odin becomes him the moment they touch the sword.” 

Becomes the primal. 

The words hit him like an imperial air raid. He dare not ask to confirm if she was saying what he thought she was saying. The look on her face was enough to tell him that any shadow of doubt in her own mind was long gone. He took a deep breath.

“What do you need me to do, Dee?” His voice was serious, thankfully not betraying the fear in his core. His friend, a primal. A primal among those who hunt primals. He was sure she was having those very same worried thoughts rushing through her mind, mayhap even faster. Of those she called friend turning their blade upon her, striking her down. Her name cursed, those close to her executed for fear of being tempered. He closed his eyes, swallowed hard, and spoke again.

“Anything you need of me, I will do.”

“I need you to be my friend right now.”

She responded, her voice shaky. Perhaps on the verge of tears. Reaching across the table, caolan grasped the hand that did not hold the cursed blade with both of his. A comforting shield, even if only in theory and less in practice.

Hells, the Arcanist Guild never prepared him for something like this.

“I’m...” She spoke, looking back towards the swirling wood grain of the table. “I’m telling you because your the only person my mind gave me that wouldn’t...” She couldn’t even bring herself to finish the sentence. He wondered how long she sat agonizing over those names before ringing him up. He was glad she did.

“I need you to help me understand this, help me figure out what exactly is going on. You know stuff about primals, about summoning! And your my friend and...” She shook her head, grimacing. If Odin was in there, was he talking to her? Was he making this easy, making this hard?

“I can do that, I’ll head back to Limsa and start spending my days scouring for everything I can get on the topic. And I’ll get us a linkpearl for just us. And I’ll... Have you told anyone else?” He asked, concern in his voice. “Who sent you out here anyway? Last I heard you were too busy punching people in Ul’dah for sport.”

Danica snorted, and Caolan smiled. Progress in this strange predicament they found themselves, that he had been dragged into. 

“Urianger, we Scions were called on to try to put a permanent end to Odin. We thought we had a plan by fighting him in Urth’s font but...” She shook her head, giving a bitter chuckle. “Look how that turned out.”

“Urianger, that’s the guy with the hood right?” he asked, trying to remember everything he could about Danica’s fellow scions. He remembered little, mostly tidbits about the ones Zara and Bryce were also familiar with. There was Neran, the Paladin, then Aveline the Astrologian, and Y’sthola - he’d seen her around Limsa and... 

He cursed his memory for not giving him more. 

Danica gave an affirming nod. “The others were out dealing with other big problems, so it fell to me and now...”

“Do you trust Urianger as well?” Caolan asked, not allowing Danica to continue deep into the swirling abyss of fear that stood before her. She looked up and nodded. 

“He’s done nothing to earn my distrust,”

“Then I think we should tell him as well.” Caolan announced, Danica merely shrugged. 

Though her voice showed much more fear than her nonchalant movement did. 

“I’d prefer to let as few people know about this condition as possible.” She whispered. Eyes darting around the room. None had eyes on her, but it didn’t stop her from worrying ears may be. 

“Alright, don’t, but at least report in so they don’t come calling.” He amended his statement, and she sighed. He was right, so very right. If she didn’t report in people would come calling. When people come calling, they ask questions. And when people ask questions, they inevitably get answers. She swallowed hard and nodded.

“Come with me?” 

She asked, though it was more of a plea. He sighed, shaking his wet head with a look of mock insult upon his face.

“Yet you request more! Ugh, fine.” He couldn’t stop a smile from creeping upon his face, or laughter from breaking his words

“But let’s at least wait till the rain stops,”

“Pray then we will return to the waking sands?”

#ffxiv #ff14 #Danica Voss #Odin #Chapter 3 #Steel Reign