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knightofthenewrepublic · 5 months ago

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The Battle of Manhattan didn’t go the way the Fandom thinks it did; we need to address the “massacre” of the Titan Army!

The Battle of Manhattan is the most pivotal event of the first series. And we see the entire thing exclusively from Percy’s point of view. He takes us through the thickest of the fight from one end of Manhattan Island to the next, and shows us a desperate fight of good against evil.

But we have another point of view for the battle, one that comes from the demigods of the Titan army, and one that informs us of a far different, darker side to the conflict. One where an entire army of children is massacred by the victorious Olympians, without a thought or even a care. It’s a shocking, confronting side of the struggle that most fans don’t seem to be aware of.

But it’s also completely inaccurate.

Now I love Alabaster; he’s one of my favorite characters, and I want nothing but the best for him. But he’s a demonstrably unreliable narrator. I don’t even mean that he’s intentionally dishonest; but he’s very badly misinformed about what actually happened. And that gives the fandom three major misconceptions that need to be cleared up.

Alabaster gets the casualty ratio for the battle wrong (the Olympians had more than he thinks).

The Titan army has far fewer demigods than most fans think (not much more than 50 at the most).

Alabaster does say that there was a “massacre” at the end of the battle, but most of the TA demigods had deserted before that!

Part 1) The Olympians Have High Casualties

“It was a massacre. If I remember right, my mother told me that Camp Half-Blood and its allies had sixteen casualties total. We had hundreds.” (pg 219)

This is the only time we get a specific number for Olympian casualties, but it just doesn’t match up with what actually happens in the books. Looking back at all the deaths we do see:

Charlie Beckendorf -1

one [Hellhound] got hold of an Apollo camper and dragged him away. I didn’t see what happened to him next. I didn’t want to know. (pg 182) -1

Michael Yew -1

A young dragon had appeared in Harlem, and a dozen wood nymphs died before the monster was finally defeated. (pg 203) -12

“We lost twenty satyrs against some giants at Fort Washington,” [Grover] said, his voice trembling. (pg 203) -20 Giants smashed through trees, and naiads faded as their life sources were destroyed. (pg 243) -1< Enemy archers returned fire, and a Hunter fell from a high branch. (pg 244) -1 Too many of our friends lay wounded in the streets. Too many were missing. (pg 257) -1< The flagpoles were hung with horrible trophies –helmets and armor pieces from defeated campers. (pg 282) -1< The Drakon lashed out, swallowing three californian centaurs in one gulp before I could even get close. (pg 288) -3 Poison spewed everywhere, melting centaurs into dust along with quite a few monsters, (pg 288) -1< The Drakon snapped up one Ares camper in a gulp. (pg 291) -1

Silena Beauregard -1

Leneus -1

a body covered in the golden burial shroud of Apollo’s cabin. I didn’t know who was underneath. I don't want to find out. (pg 303) -1

Oddly enough, we actually miss the moment that was probably the worst for the Olympians, the final push by Kronos that breaks through their line. After Clarisse slays the drakon and the monsters are driven back again, Percy and co. take the opportunity to go up to Olympus. Percy gives Pandora’s Pithos to Hestia, and then contacts Poseidon via his throne. It’s just as he finishes that Thalia comes up and tells them that Kronos is coming again, but they miss the fighting.

By the time we got to the street, it was too late. Campers and Hunters lay wounded on the ground. Clarisse must have lost a fight with a Hyperborean giant, because she and her chariot were frozen in a block of ice. The centaurs were nowhere to be seen. Either they’d panicked and ran, or they’d been disintegrated. (pg 312) -<500

And finally, Kronos does kill some people on Olympus itself.

A few minor gods and nature spirits had tried to stop Kronos. What remained of them was strewn about the road: shattered armor, ripped clothing, swords and spears broken in half. (pg 322) -1<

The specific deaths we have mentioned during the battle amount to 48 at the very least; and that is an extremely conservative estimate that only includes the deaths Percy has the time and presence of mind to witness in all the carnage. Considering how many others must have happened, factoring the sudden disappearance of the 500 centaurs in particular, it was likely in the hundreds. And most of the centaurs probably ran at the end, but even that would have involved heavy casualties.

It’s true that actual demigods were a smaller fraction of Olympian forces, and so would have made up just a fraction of losses. The number 16 might actually make sense if it were just the number of campers lost, but that’s not what Hecate said, she said total.

It might be significant that Hecate is the actual source of this misinformation. Would she have reason to lie to her own son, or might she herself be out of the loop. Right now, we just can’t know.

And she might be underestimating Titan Army losses too. Considering how many times a wave of several hundred monsters tear into Manhattan, and get thrown back by the Olympians only to return later with no discernable drop in numbers, until the army is finally routed entirely, it wouldn’t surprise me if the TA actually took a thousand or more casualties. But those would be overwhelmingly monsters, because:

Part 2) Less Than Fifty Demigods Were Even In The Titan Army

To prove that there could not possibly have been hundreds of TA demigods killed at Manhattan, we need look no farther than Alabaster's own account.

“There was a war between the gods and titans last summer and most half-bloods–demigods like me–fought for the Olympians.” (pg 218)

So the TA could not have had more demigods than the Olympians; and they had about a hundred. There are forty campers to start with, who are quickly joined by the Hunters, who now have thirty members. Then, in the last hours of the fight, they are finally joined by the Ares cabin, which brings another thirty (jeez Ares, you animal!). So Olympus has an even hundred demigods. (The Hunters aren’t necessarily all demigods by birth, but I don’t think Alabaster would make a distinction based on that.)

So the TA has less than a hundred demigods, significantly less. I would argue they probably had no more than fifty because that lines up with the only solid numbers we ever get for them. And every time the TA is described, demigods are a clear minority. First, look at the foes Percy encounters when he infiltrates the Princess Andromeda:

I saw monsters patrolling the upper decks of the ship–dracaenae snake-women, hellhounds, giants, and the humanoid seal-demons known as telkhines . . . . . “I don’t care what your nose says!” snarled a half-human half-dog voice—a telkhine. “The last time you smelled half-blood, it turned out to be a meatloaf sandwich!” “Meatloaf sandwiches are good!” a second voice snarled . . . . . a telkhine was hunched over a console . . . . . a half dozen telkhines were tromping down the stairs . . . . . past another telkhine . . . . . And in the fountain squatted a giant crab . . . . . a couple of dracaenae slithered across my path . . . . . As I was running up the stairwell, a kid charged down . . . . . Laistrygonian giants filed in on either side of the swimming pool . . . . . demigod archers appeared on the roof . . . . . two hellhounds leapt down . . . . . The crowed of monsters parted . . . . . Giants jeered. Dracaenae hissed with laughter . . . . . throwing monsters off their feet . . . . .I knew him, of course: Ethan Nakamura . . . . . two giants lumbered forward . . . . . Panicked monsters surged backward . . . . . one of the dracaenae hissed . . . . . I pushed through a crowd of monsters . . . . . Monsters yelled at me from above.

That was a quick summary of all the enemies Percy and Charlie encounter on the Princess Andromeda, I’m not crazy enough to try and write the whole chapter. But it’s pretty clear there are only a few demigods amid dozens of monsters. We hear the same thing from Poseidon later, that “there were only a few demigod warriors aboard that ship”; we might question whether or not Poseidon is a trustworthy source, but the evidence does back him up.

When we finally get to the battle, the disparity of demigod numbers in the TA is again evident:

The bronze image showed Long Island Sound near La Guardia. A fleet of a dozen speed boats raced through the dark water toward Manhattan. Each boat was packed with demigods in full Greek armor. At the back of the lead boat, a purple banner emblazoned with a black scythe flapped in the night wind. I’d never seen that design before, but it wasn’t hard to figure out: the battle flag of Kronos. “Scan the perimeter of the island,” I said. “Quick.” Annabeth shifted the scene south to the harbor. A Staten Island Ferry was plowing through the waves near Ellis Island. The deck was crowded with dracaenae and a whole pack of hellhounds. Swimming in front of the ship was a pod of marine mammals. At first I thought they were dolphins. Then I saw their doglike faces and swords strapped to their waists, and I realized they were telkhines—sea demons. The scene shifted again: the Jersey shore, right at the entrance of the Lincoln Tunnel. A hundred assorted monsters were marching past the lanes of stopped traffic: giants with clubs, rogue Cyclopes, a few fire-spitting dragons, and just to rub it in, a World War II-era Sherman tank, pushing cars out of the way as it rumbled into the tunnel. (pg 167)

Here we see the first wave of the Titan Army as a three pronged attack (which Percy says on the next page collectively numbered at least 300) and only one of the units has demigods. It’s the one that Kronos leads, so it’s probably meant to be a more elite unit, at least at first.

We don’t know for sure how many there are. Speedboats are usually made to carry 4-6 people so a dozen would be possible 48 to 72. Considering Alabaster says there were significantly less demigods in the TA than the Olympians, I would guess it’s on the lower end; and that does match another number we see in a moment.

This fleet never reaches Manhattan, since Percy bribes the East River to swamp their boats. Those who say many TA demigods were killed in the battle might point to this as Percy causing a bunch of kids to drown; but Alabaster never mentions a mass drowning in his narrative of the battle, and he would have been on one of those boats, so it’s safe to say they just went for a swim.

(And Kronos was with them, which means that a very angry titan lord was suddenly pitched into the river and had to swim with the rest of them. That’s not really relevant, I just want everyone to know that.)

Percy is then immediately told that “Another army is marching over the Williamsburg bridge.” This fourth prong of the attack, led by the Minotaur, also has no demigods in it.

An entire phalanx of dracaenae marched in the lead . . . About a hundred more monsters marched behind them. (pg 182) More monsters surged forward —snakes and giants and telkines—but the Minotaur roared at them, and they backed off. (pg 186)

But more monsters keep advancing because by the time Percy kills the minotaur and the demigods charge and rout the whole group, it had grown to 200

Finally, the monsters turned and fled—about twenty left alive out of two hundred. (pg 188)

So the grand total for the first TA attack was 500 soldiers or more, with only 40-70 of them demigods. And after the monsters on the Williamsburg bridge retreat, those demigods show back up.

Then I saw the crowd at the base of the bridge. The retreating monsters were running straight toward their reinforcements. It was a small group, maybe thirty or forty demigods in battle armor, mounted on skeletal horses. One of them held a purple banner with the black scythe design. The lead horseman trotted forward. He took off his helm, and I recognized Kronos himself, his eyes like molten gold. (pg1 188)

This is the only time we get anywhere close to a specific number when TA demigods are concerned. It would have been the same group that was sunk in the East River, who then had to swim for Brooklynn; which is where they are now trying to take the Williamsburg bridge. This reinforces the idea that the number of demigods in the boats was only a little more than forty, since they would not have suffered more than a few injuries in the sinkings.

I’m going to come back to this moment later to demonstrate how Percy refrains from killing other demigods, even in his Achilles state, but the other important thing to note is that this is the last time Kronos organizes his demigods into a unit that he leads personally. After they fail to break through here, Kronos just has them take on a secondary role, and puts his faith in bigger and bigger monsters to lead the charge instead.

The Titan Army units on Long Island then spend the evening marching the long way around Manhattan (for some reason) because they make camp for the night in New Jersey, at Medusa’s old lair. Percy again describes demigods as the small minority.

Hundreds of tents and fires surrounded the property. Mostly I saw monsters, but there were some human mercenaries in combat fatigues and demigods in armor too. A purple-and-black banner hung outside the emporium, guarded by two huge blue Hyperboreans.

And this is only part of the Titan army, because there are more troops north of Manhattan.

“Tell my brother Hyperion to move our main force south into Central Park. The halfbloods will be in such disarray they will not be able to defend themselves.” (pg 237)

The army that marches into central park is bigger than the one camped in New Jersey. And it is made up exclusively of monsters.

At the north end of the reservoir, the enemy vanguard broke through the woods—a warrior in golden armor leading a battalion of Laistrygonian giants with huge bronze axes. Hundreds of other monsters poured out behind them. (pg 243)

There is not a single mention of a demigod. However they’re already joining the fight in other places.

When it flew above the rooftops, I could see fires here and there around the city. It looked like my friends were having a rough time. Kronos was attacking on several fronts. (pg 251)

After Percy kills the Clazmonian Sow, the momentum of the battle shifts. With his main force failing to deliver a knockout punch, Kronos has his remaining armies spread out to put equal pressure on the entire defensive line, and catch it in a massive envelopment.

Midtown was a war zone. We flew over little skirmishes everywhere. A giant was ripping up trees in Bryant Park while dryads pelted him with nuts. Outside the Waldorf Astoria, a bronze statue of Benjamin Franklin was whacking a hellhound with a rolled-up newspaper. A trio of Hephaestus campers fought a squad of dracaenae in the middle of Rockefeller Center . . . . . The hunters had set up a defensive line on 37th, just three blocks north of Olympus. To the east on Park Avenue, Jake Mason and some other Hephaestus campers were leading an army of statues against the enemy. To the west, the Demeter cabin and Grover’s nature spirits had turned Sixth Avenue into a jungle that was hampering a squadron of Kronos’s demigods . . . . . I spotted a familiar silver owl banner in the southeast corner of the fight, 33rd at the Park Avenue tunnel. Annabeth and two of her siblings were holding back a Hyperborean giant . . . . . The next hour was a blur. I fought like I’d never fought before—wading into legions of dracaenae, taking out dozens of telkines with every strike, destroying empousai and knocking out enemy demigods . . . . . At one point Grover was next to me, bonking snake women over the head with his cudgel. Then he disappeared in the crowd, and it was Thalia at my side, driving monsters back with the power of her magic shield. Mrs. O’Leary bounded out of nowhere, picked up a Laistrygonian giant in her mouth and flung him like a Frisbee. Annabeth used her invisibility cap to sneak behind enemy lines. Whenever a monster disintegrated for no apparent reason with a surprised look on his face, I knew Annabeth had been there . . . . . Kronos was riding towards us on a golden chariot. A dozen Laistrygonian giants bore torches before him. Two Hyperboreans carried his black-and-purple banners . . .

“THEN THE WINGED HUSSAARSSS AARRRIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIVVVVVVED” SABATON BLASTS ON ELECTRIC GUITAR

Sorry, sorry, I mean then Chiron and the 500 centaurs arrived!

Kronos’s forces looked as confused as we were. Giants lowered their clubs. Dracaenae hissed. Even Kronos’s honor guard looked uneasy. Then, to our left, a hundred monsters cried out at once. Kronos’s entire northern flank surged forward. I thought we were doomed, but they didn’t attack. They ran straight past us and crashed into their southern allies . . . a shower of arrows arced over our heads and slammed into the enemy, vaporizing hundreds of demons. (pg 258)

This is how the second phase of the battle ends. And during the entire night, out of a sea of monsters (hehe) we only see one unit of TA demigods. And it’s the last time we get any reference to them participating in the battle.

After being driven south, the TA apparently did another long march, because they make camp northeast of Manhattan.

The Titan army had set up camp all around the U.N. complex. The flagpoles were hung with horrible trophies—helmets and armor from defeated campers. All along First Avenue, giants sharpened their axes. Telkines repaired armor at makeshift forges. (pg 282)

Ethan is the only demigod mentioned this time. And he doesn’t appear to take part in the next attack, aside from releasing the drakon. We get less of a description of the enemy army this time, but it’s all monsters.

The rest of the battle wasn’t going well. The centaurs had panicked under the onslaught of giants and demons. An occasional orange camp T-shirt appeared in the sea of fighting, but quickly disappeared. (pg 289)

Of course the Ares cabin arrives, the drakon kills Silena, and Clarisse kills it. It’s another rout for the TA.

The monsters retreated toward 35th Street. (pg 298) There was no answer from the enemy. Slowly, they began to fall back behind a dracaenae shield wall, while Clarisse drove in circles around Fifth Avenue, daring anyone to cross her path. (pg 299)

After that we have the final phase of the battle, when the Titan Army finally breaks through the Olympian lines. But once again, we have no reference to demigods other than Ethan.

The Titan Army ringed the building, standing maybe twenty feet from the doors. Kronos’s vanguard was in the lead: Ethan Nakamura, the dracaenae queen in her green armor, and two Hyperboreans. I didn’t see Prometheus. (pg 312) “ROWWF!” Mrs. O’Leary bounded toward me, ignoring the growling monsters on either side. (pg 315) There were thousands of [skeletan soldiers], and as they emerged, the titan’s monsters got jumpy and started to back up. (pg 315) The armies of the dead clashed with the Titan’s monsters. Fifth Avenue exploded into absolute chaos. Mortals screamed and ran for cover. Demeter waved her hand and an entire column of giants turned into a wheat field. Persephone changed the dracaenae spears into sunflowers. Nico slashed and hacked his way through the enemy, trying to protect pedestrians as best as he could. My parents ran toward me , dodging monsters and zombies, but there was nothing I could do to help them. (pg 318).

The fight continues like this, until Typhon is destroyed, and the defenders are joined by the gods, and Poseidon’s army of cyclopes. It’s then that the Titan army is “massacred.” Most of the fandom thinks that the demigods were killed too, but that’s not the case.

PART 3: The TA Demigods Deserted Before The Final Battle

As Alabaster remembers it:

the war didn’t go our way. I fought on the battlefield against the enemy, but most of our allies ran. Kronos himself marched on Olympus, only to be killed by a son of Poseidon. After Kronos’s death, the Olympian gods smashed any remaining resistance. It was a massacre. “We weren’t all destroyed,” Alabaster said. “Most of the remaining half-bloods fled or were captured. They were so demoralized they joined the enemy. (pg 219)

When you look at this narrative, and compare it to The Last Olympian, it’s actually more complicated than the TA demigods simply getting massacred.

Al says that while he was fighting, most of his allies ran. That’s odd, because we don’t see the relative numbers of monsters go down at any point. What we do see, is the number of demigods go down.

As I illustrated in Part 2, the Battle of Manhattan has four distinct phases. Phase one, that ends when the Williamsburg Bridge is destroyed. The second phase, that starts when Hyperion attacks Central Park, and ends when the Party Ponies arrive. The third phase, which is all about the attack of the drakon. And the final phase, when Kronos breaks through.

We only see TA demigods in the first two phases; they attack the Williamsburg Bridge in the first phase as part of the Kronos’s main force, then in the second phase they’re relegated to a supporting role by hitting the defenders western flank. And that’s the last we see of them. After that, Etahn is the only demigod left standing in the TA. Alabaster must be somewhere in the background, as a retcon, but there’s no one beyond the two of them.

You might think that they’ve just already been killed by this point. After all, Percy blows up the Princess Andromeda, then goes into an Achilles Curse fueled berserker mode several times in the first two phases of the battle. Surely he must have killed hundreds of kids, right?

No, not even close.

Maybe not any at all.

On the Princess Andromeda Percy finds lots of monsters, but the number of demigods he finds could be counted on one hand. And the first one he meets; Percy spares him and tells him to get his friends and evacuate. We can’t prove whether or not any demigods were killed in the blast; we just know that the two we can confirm were still on board, Ethan and Alabaster, both survived. And when Alabaster recounts it, he doesn’t mention any bad losses at this point.

As for the Curse of Achilles, it doesn’t send Percy into anything like the berserker state some people think of it as. It might seem like that when Percy lets loose on the Williamsburg Bridge:

You’re going to ask how the whole “invincible” thing worked: if I magically dodged every weapon, or if the weapon hit me and just didn’t harm me. Honestly, I don’t remember. All I knew was that I wasn’t going to let these monsters invade my hometown. I sliced through armor like it was made of paper. Snake women exploded. Hellhounds melted to shadow. I slashed and stabbed and whirled, and I might have even laughed once or twice—a crazy laugh that scared me as much as it did my enemies. (pg 188)

But when push comes to shove, Percy can control the Curse, and what he does during it. That last moment was when he was fighting nothing but monsters. But when the TA demigods arrived, Percy pulled his punches like he always does.

I tried to wound his men, not kill. That slowed me down, but these weren’t monsters. They were demigods who’d fallen under Kronos’s spell. I couldn’t see faces under their helmets, but some of them had probably been my friends. I slashed the legs off their horses and made the skeletal mounts disintegrate. After the first few demigods took a spill, the rest figured out they’d better dismount and fight me on foot. (pg 189)

Percy is still in complete control of what he’s doing; even when the worst happens.

“Annabeth!” I turned in time to see her fall, clutching her arm. A demigod with a bloody knife stood over her . . . . . I locked eyes with the enemy demigod. He wore an eye patch under his helmet: Ethan Nakamura, the son of Nemesis. Somehow he’d survived the explosion on the Princess Andromeda. I slammed him in the face with my sword hilt so hard I dented his helm. (pg 190)

Percy really has all the reason to hate Ethan at this point; after Percy spared his life in Antaeus’ arena, Ethan still joined the side that had been ready to write off his death, and deliberately helped Kronos achieve his physical resurrection. Because of that Percy’s friends and even-Riordan-doesn’t-know how many mortals are going to die in the next few days; and on top of all that, Ethan just stabbed the love of his life.

And all Percy does is knock him out, maybe a little harder than necessary. He makes no effort to kill him. Those aren’t the actions of a berserker with no control.

In fact, the knife turns out to be poisonsed. And Ethan now has an idea where Percy’s Achilles Spot is, and might tell Kronos. And even after all of that, Percy doesn’t seriously think about killing him as an option.

“I’ll bonk him on the head harder next time.” (pg 241)

But more on topic, there is no reason to think the TA demigods have particularly high casualties in this phase of the battle, though they have a few:

Our archers shot a volley, bringing down several of the enemy, but they just kept riding. (pg 189)

Though it’s vague if they are hitting the riders or the horses. In fact, it might actually be Kronos who’s responsible for more of their losses.

[Kronos] struck the bridge with the butt of his scythe, and a wave of pure force blasted me backward. Cars went careening. Demigods—even Luke’s own men—were blown off the edge of the bridge. (pg 192)

I will die on the hill that between this, Ethan, and other implied moments, Kronos killed more of his own demigods than Percy did.

In the second phase of the battle, when we see the TA demigods attack again, they’re in a very different situation.

To the west, the Demeter cabin and Grover’s nature spirits had turned Sixth Avenue into a jungle that was hampering a squadron of Kronos’s demigods. (pg 255)

This is the only thing we see the TA demigods do as a group in this phase; and they’re fighting people who are using very defensive tactics, more hampering than harmful. They’re not likely to lose many fighters. A few of them do cross Percy’s path in the chaos, but even at his most Achilles fueled chaos he never loses control.

The next hour was a blur. I fought like I’d never fought before—wading into legions of dracaenae, taking out dozens of telkines with every strike, destroying empousai and knocking out enemy demigods. (pg 257)

He talks about killing monsters, but always “knocking out” demigods. Finally, that phase of the battle ends when the centaurs show up. Did the centaurs kill any demigods? After all, Percy said they “trampled everything in their path.”

Well the only report we get on the TA demigods puts them to the west. When the centaurs attack, they come out of the north east and drive the enemy south, and start off a wave of panic that ripples down the enemy lines ahead of them. The demigods were probably running before any centaur reached them, and might have had better chances of being trampled by their own monsters.

So if the TA demigods aren’t taking many losses, where do they all go in the third and fourth phases, when we don’t see any except Ethan?

They desert.

Alabaster: “I fought on the battlefield against the enemy, but most of our allies ran.”

I think the demigods of the TA signed up with no real idea of what would happen when they fought the Olympians. They thought they were going to have a sure victory.

Chris Rodriguez said it in SOM:

“I hear they got two more [drakon] coming,” [Chris] said. “They keep arriving at this rate, oh, man—no contest!” (pg 122)

Alabaster C. Torrington said it in SOM:

“Kronos wasn’t supposed to lose! You said the odds of winning were in the Titan’s favor! You told me Camp Half-Blood would be destroyed!” (pg 196)

And they probably weren’t well prepared for the war either. At one point Luke says they will fight well because he has been training the army. But most of them join because they are the children of minor gods who swear for Kronos, and that doesn’t happen until the end of BOTL, after Luke has been possessed. Most of the TA demigods never got training from him; including their two highest ranking members, Ethan and Alabaster. It’s no wonder most of them weren’t prepared.

As I was running up the stairwell, a kid charged down. He looked like he had just woken up from a nap. His armor was half on. He drew his sword and yelled, “Kronos!” but he sounded more scared than angry . . . . No way was I going to hurt him. I didn’t need a weapon for this. I stepped inside his strike and grabbed his wrist, slamming it against the wall. His sword clattered out of his hand. (pg 18)

And the demigods might not hold much loyalty to Kronos, a violent and temperamental eldritch horror!

Ethan moistened his lips. “He’s still fighting you, isn’t he? Luke—” “Nonesense,” Kronos spat. “Repeat that lie, and I will cut out your tongue. The boy’s soul has been crushed.” (pg 236) “But, my lord,” Ethan said. “Your regeneration.” Kronos pointed at Ethan, and the demigod froze. “Does it seem,” Kronos hissed. “that I need to regenerate?” Ethan didn’t respond. Kind of hard to do when you’re immobilized in time. Kronos snapped his fingers and Ethan collapsed. (pg 284)

And the demigods might have witnessed a darker side to his army that we didn’t.

Back on my first visit to the Princess Andromeda, my old enemy Luke had kept dazed tourists on board for show, shrouded in Mist so they didn’t realize they were on a monster infested ship. Now i didn’t see any sign of tourists. I hated to think what had happened to them, but I kind of doubted they’d been allowed to go home with their bingo winnings. (pg 15)

So, the demigods deserted. After the second phase of the battle we don’t see any at the Titan camp at the U.N., or taking any part in the last phases of the battle. They had been fed false promises, were treated badly, and were being sent against enemies out of their league.

“Most of the remaining half-bloods fled or were captured. They were so demoralized they joined the enemy.”

All except two, Alabaster and Ethan. The son of Nemesis, who has already given so much and is so desperate to see something good and fair come out of it; and the son of Hecate, who was promised victory, and is desperate to avenge the death of his siblings. Ironically, the two demigods who stayed loyal to Kronos the longest, did so because they had faith in their godly parents.

So if there was no “massacre” of TA demigods at the end of the Battle of Manhattan, why is Alabaster so insistent that there was one?

“Yes,” Alabaster said bitterly. “Camp Half-Blood decided that they would accept any children of the minor gods. They would build us cabins at camp and pretend that they didn’t just blindly massacre us for resisting. (pg 220) “But I’ll never bow to the Olympian gods after the atrocities they committed. Their followers are blind. I’d never set foot in their camp, and if I did, it would only be to give that son of Poseidon what he deserves.” (pg 221)

Well, it’s because the children of Hecate suffered the most in the war. She didn’t have as many children as other gods, and Alabaster was the only one to fight in it and survive. He claims he convinced “most” of his siblings to join; but if Hecate does not have many children, and he is the only survivor of the battle, how are there still enough of his siblings to decently fill a cabin, it’s likely “most” was only slightly more than half. The sad irony is that the fact that the smaller group of demigods had more casualties than the larger ones (and it sounds like not just more proportionately, but more in actual numbers), also kind of disproves that there could have been a large massacre that affected them all.

Alabaster was a scared, frustrated, exhausted kid; who convinced his siblings to fight in a destructive war, and was the only one of them to survive. To him, that is probably always going to feel like a brutal massacre.

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always-a-king-or-queen · 1 year ago

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C 👏 S 👏 LEWIS 👏 WAS 👏 NOT 👏 MISOGYNISTIC

IM SO SICK OF THIS TAKE

“But he said girls shouldn’t fight in battles—" No, actually. What he said was “Battles are ugly when women fight.” Which literally translates to “in a war where women are required to fight to help win it, it means the war itself is really bad.” And this literally just means that the war has gotten so bad that women have to fight, not that women shouldn’t fight. Just that they shouldn’t be forced to. Anyway, remember Lucy?? Lucy who rode to battle in The Horse and His Boy?? Lucy who fought as an archer?? “But Susan didn’t—" Yeah. Because she didn’t want to. No one was forcing her not to fight. She had free will to fight or to not fight, and she chose not to because she didn’t want to, not because a man made her stay home.

“He punished Susan for growing up—" S i g h. This is the one I see the most often. “He did Susan dirty” “he made her suffer because she liked lipstick” “etc etc blah blah blah” First of all Narnia is a children’s book series. For CS Lewis to delve into why Susan forgot Narnia, talk about her dealing with the death of her entire family, discuss her grief, and write about her eventual return to Narnia (more on that in a second), it would’ve made for a pretty dark and heavy children’s book, and Lewis said that he didn’t think that was something he wanted to write. But he also encouraged people to finish Susan’s story themselves, and said she might eventually make her own way back to Narnia. Not only this, but Susan’s name means lily, and the waters around Aslan’s country are covered in lilies. Coincidence? I think not. I think it symbolizes she was going to go back. (Especially considering I think Lewis was very careful in choosing each of the Pevensie’s names, since they all relate to their character).

Also, Lewis did not condemn Susan simply for growing up and liking makeup and clothing and boys. If so why would he have written about Aravis and Shasta/Cor, or Caspian and Liliandil? Why would he have written about Susan and Lucy being beautiful and having many suitors? So no, he wasn’t condemning her for that, and in fact he wasn’t condemning her at all. It’s extremely probable that her family’s death would have brought Susan back to her senses. Because here’s the thing: she forgot. She threw herself so much into the world and approval and convinced herself that her life as a queen and her acquaintance with Aslan was all a silly game they played as children, that it wasn’t real. But, she very well could remember again, and I 1000% believe she did.

“All his female characters were weak and did nothing—" My friend. Lucy Pevensie was a female. She discovered Narnia. It was because of her. Her siblings would never have found it without her. Lucy is one of THE most important characters in the entire series. And her title? The Valiant. Lucy’s very title as queen denoted her bravery and fortitude without one even knowing her. As for Susan, she was not any weaker for being “The Gentle.” I would say gentleness is honestly one of the strongest traits a person can have, because it takes a lot to live and be gentle. Also remember Aravis? A major character in The Horse and His Boy and future wife of Shasta, Aravis literally nearly killed herself to escape an arranged marriage. She was not someone to be dictated to; she made her own choices and escaped rather than submitting. And in the end, she’s still fiery, just a little more humble and with less of a chip on her shoulder. Then there’s Polly, who is the more logical person in The Magician’s Nephew and tries to stop Digory from ringing the bell that wakes the White Witch. A boy causes her to awaken, not a girl. It was Digory’s fault she woke up, not Polly’s!!

Also, Peter and Edmund do not ignore their sisters because they’re girls. They listen to what they have to say and speak to them as equals. They don’t forbid them from fighting; Susan chooses not to, but Lucy goes straight into the heart of the battle with them! So don’t even say Lewis made his female characters weak. They were the backbone of much of the series and without them much of the plot would never have happened!!

So don’t you ever say to me that CS Lewis was misogynistic because it’s the furthest thing from the truth

#I REALIZED I ACCIDENTALLY TYPED JILL INSTEAD OF POLLY #IF YOU SEE THAT PRETEND IT SAYS POLLY #cs Lewis #narnia #lucy pevensie #susan pevensie #Polly plummer #aravis tarkheena #the chronicles of narnia #I could’ve mentioned Jill but it was long enough #ramblings from the void #I can’t believe I have to say this but some of y’all in the comments did not read the post

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pessimisticpigeonsworld · 10 months ago

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HOTD has made many interesting choices in their adaptation of the story of the Dance. One of their favorite excuses for many of their questionable choices is "feminism". Why did they remove Alicent's ambitions and autonomy? Feminism. Why is Rhaenyra less proactive and hesitant? Feminism. Why are Daemon and Otto the primary active agents in the lead up to the Dance? Well women can't be in the wrong or violent, so feminism.

These choices are the farthest thing from feminist; they're sexist, end of story. Every decision surrounding the women of the Dance reeks of benevolent sexism. One of the most obviously sexist decisions made is the purposeful removal of female cooperation and friendship.

Rhaenyra in F&B has many female allies and friends. Her ladies in waiting loved her so much, one of them, Lady Elinda Massey gouged out her eyes at the sight of Rhaenyra's death. Lady Jeyne Arryn, Lady Alysanne Blackwood, and Lady Sabitha Frey/Vypren are just a few examples of ladies who fought for Rhaenyra (Alysanne and Sabitha literally fought in battles). Lady Fell chose death over betraying her oath to Rhaenyra.

Now, we haven't had any opportunity to meet most of these women I listed in the show. Lady Fell was portrayed as she was written in the book, a very minor character who simply foreshadowed how most of the realm would choose Rhaenyra over Aegon. Elinda Massey, however was reduced to an unnamed servant, not even a lady in waiting. Her treatment is an echo of one of my biggest issues with HOTD, the treatment of Laena and Rhaenys.

Laena was Rhaenyra's dearest friend in the book, in fact it's implied that they had a romantic relationship. Whether you believe that telling or not, it's undeniable that she and Laena were extremely close. They chose to betroth their children while they were infants, Rhaenyra flew to Laena's bedside during her final labor, and she stood vigil with Daemon over Laena's body.

All of that closeness and intimacy was removed in the show to make room for Alicent. So let's break that down: they removed a long and healthy relationship between two women and replaced it with a short-lived (in terms of screen time) friendship that quickly fell apart and turned into an intense rivalry. Reinforcing an old stereotype of female friendship: that it is entrenched in rivalry and toxicity and can quickly be turned to enmity. Alicent was so quickly and easily turned against Rhaenyra and it's even implied that she was jealous of Rhaenyra long before they became enemies.

Rhaenys in the book was an ardent supporter of Rhaenyra. She happily claimed Jace, Luke, and Joff as her grandsons, advised Rhaenyra to go to war, and gladly flew against Aegon and Aemond.

Meanwhile, in the show, Rhaenys was turned into one of Rhaenyra's rivals. She constantly challenged Rhaenyra's ideas, dismissed her as a naive child, disliked her children, and even considered backing the Greens. On top of that, they turned her into yet another "peaceful" woman. She advises against the war, and seems to continue to do so in season two. Rhaenys is virtually unrecognizable in the show. They chose to take a woman who tried to prevent a younger woman being wronged by the patriarchy the same way she was and turned her into a bitter woman who resents Rhaenyra (for most of the show).

HOTD claimed to have wanted to tell a story about how the patriarchy pits women against each other. That's all very well and good, but that's not what they actually did. They took a story where a woman is wrongfully usurped because of her gender and is supported by many other women and turned it into another tired female rivalry story.

Rhaenyra has no female friends aside from Alicent. Laena was turned from her dearest friend/lover into simply a rival for Daemon's affection. Rhaenys was turned from a supportive mentor and defender to someone who took out her resentment for the system on a fourteen year old who only starts to support her when she's proven "peaceful".

HOTD chose to perpetuate a harmful stereotype about women: that we constantly view each other as threats/rivals and can't have truly healthy relationships with other women. Rhaenyra had women who supported and cared for her in the book, in the show all she has is Alicent. A woman who abused and undermined her for ten years, raised her children to hate her, and usurped her. Every change HOTD made in the name of "feminism" solidified just how sexist it really is.

#rhaenyra targaryen #canon rhaenyra targaryen #laena velaryon #rhaenys targaryen #rhaenys the queen who never was #anti hotd #anti ryan condal #anti sarah hess #asoiaf #house of the dragon #team black #anti team green #anti alicent hightower

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inthedayswhenlandswerefew · 9 months ago

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1968 [Chapter 7: Apollo, God Of Music]

Series Summary: Aemond is embroiled in a fierce battle to secure the Democratic Party nomination and defeat his archnemesis, Richard Nixon, in the presidential election. You are his wife of two years and wholeheartedly indoctrinated into the Targaryen political dynasty. But you have an archnemesis of your own: Aemond’s chronically delinquent brother Aegon.

Series Warnings: Language, sexual content (18+ readers only), violence, bodily injury, character deaths, New Jersey, age-gap relationships, drinking, smoking, drugs, pregnancy and childbirth, kids with weird Greek names, historical topics including war and discrimination, math.

Word Count: 8.7k

Let me know if you’d like to be tagged! 🥰

💜 All of my writing can be found HERE! 💜

“My uncle, he is a doctor in Zabrze,” Ludwika says, red Yardley lips, Camel cigarette. No one cares if she smokes; she’s not campaigning to be the next first lady. Fosco is puffing on a cigar. Mimi sips drowsily at her Gimlet; you could use a few shots, but you’re making do with a Pink Squirrel, something sweet and feminine and without any bite. “So I go to him and he gives me a bottle of chlordiazepoxide.”

“Oh, Librium,” Mimi says, perking up.

Ludwika waves her hand dismissively; cigarette smoke wafts through the air. “Whatever. The next day I have my audition. A tiny man who thinks he’s God. And I give it a real shot, I try my best, I’m nice, I’m charming, but he doesn’t like me. He says my teeth are too big, like a mouse’s. This is very rude. I did not comment on his fidgety little rat hands. But okay, no problem, I have a plan. No one will stop me from getting out of Poland.”

“You drugged him?” you ask, incredulous, grinning.

“You are a criminal,” Fosco tells Ludwika. “I will call J. Edgar Hoover, you should not be so close to positions of power.”

“Listen, listen,” Ludwika insists. “Here is what I do. I thank him very much for his consideration, and then as I leave I drop my purse and things go everywhere. I filled it before I left my apartment, of course. Anything I could find, empty lipstick tubes and perfume bottles, old makeup compacts with broken mirrors, coins, hair pins, tissues, pens, gum, Krówki candies, it is an avalanche. And when he bends down to help me pick up the mess—I have to encourage him, ‘oh sir won’t you grab that, I am just a stupid girl in a very short dress,’ you understand—I put the pills in his tea.”

“How many pills?” you ask.

“I don’t know. You think I had time to count? Maybe seven.”

“Seven?!” Mimi exclaims, and you take this to mean it was a generous dose.

“What? He did not die,” Ludwika says. “I wait two days and then I go back to his office. And it is so strange, can you believe it, he does not remember my audition! So I remind him that he thought I would be perfect for the ad he is shooting in Paris. He keeps squinting at me and saying ‘are you sure, are you sure?!’ Of course I’m sure! A week later, I am standing under the Eiffel Tower with a bottle of Coca-Cola. And then I book a job in London, and then another in New York City, and one of my new model friends sets me up on a blind date with Otto. Lunch in Astoria at a horrible Greek restaurant. Who wants to eat pie made out of spinach?! Now I am here with you people, and the journalists love when I smile for them with my big mouse teeth.”

All four of you laugh at your table, an elite club, the ones who married in. It’s Alicent’s 60th birthday, and the ballroom of the Texas State Hotel in downtown Houston is raucous with clinking glasses and chatter and music and the shutter clicks of photographers. The DJ is playing Fun, Fun, Fun by the Beach Boys. Alicent is dancing with Helaena and the children, and it’s the happiest you can ever remember seeing her. Otto, Aemond, and Sargent Shriver are deep in conversation by the bar, furrowed brows and Old Fashioneds, today’s newspapers and tomorrow’s itinerary. Criston is standing with the men but watching Alicent, face wistful, silver streaks in his jet black hair, and it occurs to you that they must have grown up together: Alicent a 19-year-old bride and Criston her husband’s fledgling bodyguard, the person closest to her age in the household, near and trusted and forbidden, orbiting adolescent twins like Artemis and Apollo. You keep looking around for Aegon. No one else seems aware that he’s gone.

“Otto thought he died and went to heaven when he found you,” you tell Ludwika. “His Eastern Bloc defector princess.”

“He is going to bring my mother to the States. I would be anything he wanted me to be. I would be a model, or a housewife, or a nurse. I would be Bigfoot! But this…” Ludwika gestures broadly: to the ballroom, the city, the latest stop on the campaign trail. “It is not so bad. I never expected to serve the Polish people so far from home. You know how you stop communism? You show the world that capitalism can do more for them. There must be a path to a better life, wars must be ended, injustices must be dealt with. Aemond will do that.” She grins at you, exhaling smoke through her nostrils. “You will help him.”

You reply a bit wryly: “It’s an honor.”

“We are like four legs of a table,” Fosco observes. He points at Ludwika with his smoldering cigar. “You are a Slav fleeing the Russians. My family has ancient titles in Italy and yet no castles, no land, we are essentially homeless. Mimi’s father is a third-generation oil tycoon from Pennsylvania. And she was supposed to fix Aegon.”

“I don’t think I succeeded,” Mimi confesses.

“And then when it was time for Aemond to get married…” Fosco turns to Mimi. “Do you remember? What an ordeal. The discussions went on and on and on. She must be smart, she must be sinless, she should be from a self-made family, a real rags-to-riches story of the American Dream.”

“Right.” Mimi nods groggily, reminiscing. “And from the South.”

“Yes! But not the Deep South. No, no. Someplace Aemond could actually win. Texas, Tennessee, North Carolina. Or Florida, of course.” Now Fosco notices how you’re looking at him, because you’ve never heard this before. He quickly pivots. “But the weekend Aemond met you, it was settled. Nobody could compare.”

His tone is odd; it suggests backstories, history, mythology. Ludwika appears to be just as intrigued as you are, taking a drag off her Camel, her eyes narrowing until they are thin and catlike. You ask: “Who else was being considered?”

“No one,” Fosco answers—too quickly—and he and Mimi exchange an uneasy glance.

What did Aemond and I talk about the night we met? you think dizzily. In those first hours, minutes, thirty seconds? Where I’m from. What I was studying.

Fosco, a true Italian, then attempts to deflect by flirting. He makes emphatic, passionate motions with his hands. “You were just so captivating, so clever…”

“And young enough that Aemond could easily beat Aegon’s record of five children,” Mimi adds. Fosco clears his throat and glares at her. Mimi realizes what she’s said and gazes forlornly down into her Gimlet, mortified, groaning softly. You’ve had one c-section already, and no living son to show for it. At most, you might be able to give Aemond two or three more children; and you don’t even want them. You want Ari back. You want to touch him, to hold him, even if only for a moment, even if only once.

“It’s fine,” you try to reassure Mimi, but everyone can tell it’s not.

Ludwika breaks the tension. “You do not want twenty kids anyway. Your uterus will fall out onto the floor.” And you’re so caught off-guard that all you can do is smile at her from across the table, knowing, appreciative. It’s a strange thing to be grateful for.

“She’s right,” Mimi says mournfully. “They had to sew mine back in.”

Fosco pleads: “Stop, stop, I will need a lobotomy.”

Mimi slurps on her Gimlet. “It’s sad. I used to love sex.”

“Mimi, please,” Fosco says, wincing, holding up his palms. “You are like my sister. I prefer to think you are the Virgin Mary.”

Ludwika sighs dramatically and looks to where Otto stands on the other side of the ballroom. “I used to love sex too.”

Now you’re all howling again, rocking back in your chairs. The DJ is playing Go Where You Wanna Go by the Mamas and the Papas. Cass Elliot is the real talent in that group and everybody knows it, but of course any mention of her must be dutifully accompanied by: If only she was more beautiful. If only she could lose weight and find a husband.

“I think you like it, yes?” Ludwika says to you like a dare, puffing on a fresh Camel, red lipstick staining the white paper, blood on sheets. She combs her manicured fingernails though her voluminous blonde hair. “I could tell when I met you. You dress like Jackie Kennedy, but you are not such a statue. She belongs in a museum. I can imagine you at the Summer of Love.”

Fosco and Mimi shift uncomfortably. It’s not the sort of thing they would ever ask you. It’s too personal, too easily a segue into criticizing Aemond. It’s a usurpation of the natural order. Mimi guzzles her Gimlet and flags down a waiter to get another. Fosco takes off his glasses and cleans them with his skinny black necktie.

Sex. You think back to before you began to dread it. This is difficult, like trying to remember Greek words or British manners, which fork to use with each course. Memories from another lifetime come back in flashes: tangled up with your first boyfriend in his tiny dorm room bed, Aemond peeling off your still-dripping swimsuit on the floor of your hotel room during your honeymoon in Hawaii. You shrug and give Ludwika a nod, a brisk, ungenerous answer in the affirmative. “I always feel like I could keep going.”

Paradoxically, this does not end the conversation. Ludwika, Fosco, and Mimi study you with the same bewildered, gear-spinning curiosity. After a moment Ludwika says: “Not after you’ve finished, surely. I am half dead by the end if it’s good.”

“Finished?” you ask, puzzled. All three of them gawk at you, then at each other.

Aegon breezes into the ballroom wearing the Gibson guitar he bought in Manhattan, blue like the Caribbean or the Mediterranean or the crystalline waves off the coast of Hawaii, dotted with fish and sea turtles. Your eyes go to him immediately and stay there; you can feel the swirling warmth of blood in your cheeks. As Aegon passes the table, he squeezes your shoulder—brief, familiar, welcome—and Fosco raises his thick eyebrows. Mimi is too busy gulping down her Gimlet to notice. Ludwika chuckles, low and wicked, then slides a makeup compact out of her Prada purse to check her lipstick. Aegon goes to the DJ and yells something over the music. He’s fucked up already, you can tell, pills or booze or both.

Fosco stops a passing waiter. “Signore, did you hear who won the United Nations Handicap?”

The waiter stares blankly back at him. “What?”

“The turf race at Monmouth Park. I have $200 on Dr. Fager.”

The DJ abruptly cuts off the music. Aegon gives his guitar a few practice strums to make sure it’s in tune. He stumbles when he walks, he lurches and sways. His blonde hair sticks to the sweat on his forehead. He is woefully underdressed. His white shirt is half-unbuttoned, his denim shorts tattered; on his feet he wears black moccasins. There is a small gold hoop in each of his ears. Otto keeps telling Aegon to take them out, and every time Aegon ignores him.

“Happy birthday, Mom,” you hear him say to Alicent, and she presses a palm to her heart, her dark eyes wide and shining. “When I first heard this, it made me think of you.”

Otto and Sargent Shriver—the aspiring vice president—are glowering at Aegon. Aemond smirks as he nips at an Old Fashioned, amused; but he makes sharp, intentional eye contact with each of the three journalists. You will tell the right version of this story, he means. You will not print anything we wouldn’t want written, or my family will be your enemies for life.

As soon as Aegon plucks the first few chords, you recognize the song. “Oh, that’s really funny.”

“What?” Fosco asks.

“It’s Mama Tried.” You stand and begin clapping, then motion for the rest of the table to do the same. They obey without protest, though Mimi can’t seem to keep track of the beat. Aegon is beaming as he sings.

“The first thing I remember knowin’

Was a lonesome whistle blowin’

And a youngin’s dream of growin’ up to ride

On a freight train leavin’ town

Not knowin’ where I'm bound

And no one could change my mind but Mama tried.”

Cosmo sprints over from where he had been dancing with Alicent. He grabs your hand and tugs you towards the center of the floor. “Let’s go, let’s go!” he shouts impatiently.

“Call the FBI, I’m being kidnapped,” you say to Fosco and Ludwika as you let Cosmo drag you away.

“One and only rebel child

From a family meek and mild

My Mama seemed to know what lay in store

Despite all my Sunday learnin’

Towards the bad I kept on turnin’

‘Til Mama couldn’t hold me anymore.”

At the heart of the ballroom, Criston has swooped in to dance with Alicent, slow chaste circling. Helaena has floated off to the bar to chat with Otto, who keeps all his smiles for her. The children—Targaryens and Shrivers alike—are stomping and cheering and alternating between various moves: the Mashed Potato, the Twist, the Swim, the Loco-Motion, the Watusi, the Pony in pairs. Aemond whistles to a photographer and then nods to where you are holding onto one of Cosmo’s tiny hands as he spins around at lawless, breakneck speed. Of course this would make for a good image: you being maternal, you promising the American people that they will one day have not only a first lady but a first family.

“And I turned 21 in prison doin’ life without parole

No one could steer me right but Mama tried, Mama tried

Mama tried to raise me better, but her pleading I denied

That leaves only me to blame ‘cause Mama tried.”

Cameras flash and the crowd keeps clapping. Cosmo giggles wildly each time he almost falls and you pull him back to his feet. There is a hand skimming around your waist, a listless powder blue dress your husband chose for you. Aemond replaces Cosmo as your dance partner. Aegon’s 10-year-old daughter Violeta spirits Cosmo away; Aemond reels you in close, one palm pressed into the small of your back, his left hand gripping your right. When you steal a glimpse of Aegon—still strumming, still singing—he doesn’t look so triumphant anymore. His grin is frozen and artificial. His drunk muddy eyes go steely.

“I need you to do something for me,” Aemond begins.

Of course, you once would have said. Anything. “What is it?”

“I want you to cut your hair like Jackie.”

You’re so stunned your feet stop moving. Aemond coaxes you back into the steps. “No.”

“Think about how much more versatile it would be. Jackie is an icon, she’s sophisticated, she’s mature.”

“If you wanted a wife in her thirties, you could have easily found one.”

“Honey—”

“I do everything you ask,” you say, barely more than a whisper. “Everything. I wear what you want me to. I go where you want me to. I spend ten hours a week getting my hair fixed. I keep it up, I keep it presentable. But I’m not chopping it off.”

“You’re never going to be able to wear it down anyway,” Aemond counters, so calm, so rational, like your skull is nothing but incendiary feminine mania. “If I win, you’ll be surrounded by staff and journalists for years. You can’t be photographed with it down, you look about eighteen. And like you live on a park bench in Haight-Ashbury.”

“It’s my hair. I’m keeping it.”

Aemond leans in and says, cold and severe: “You’re my wife, and everything that’s yours belongs to me.” Then he kisses your cheek as cameras click and strobe. “Think about it. Now smile.”

You force yourself to. The crowd applauds as Aegon finishes singing and flees the dancefloor. The DJ puts on Light My Fire by The Doors. You and Aemond leave in opposite directions: he goes to talk to Eunice Kennedy, who is hugging her 3-year-old son Anthony to her chest; you return to your table to drain the last of your Pink Squirrel. You need something stronger. You need to be alone so you can collect yourself.

Now Aegon has shed his guitar and is standing with his back to the wall, smoking a Lucky Strike and talking to some campaign staffer—she looks like a girl, but she’s probably your age—who is gazing up at him worshipfully. She says something that makes him laugh, his head thrown back, his eyes sparkling, and you feel like you’re waking up from your c-section all over again, your belly split open and rearranged, aching, stabbing, nauseous.

“Are you okay?” Ludwika asks, scrutinizing you.

“I’m perfect. I’ll be right back.”

You hurry out of the ballroom, the music fading behind you. You slip into one of the elevators in the lobby and hit the button for the top floor, where Aemond’s entourage has booked every suite. As the door is closing—as only a foot of space remains—Aegon shoves his way into the elevator, startling you. The door shuts behind him and you begin the ascent. Aegon slams the red emergency stop button, and the elevator jolts to a halt.

“What the hell are you doing—?!”

“What pissed you off, huh?” Aegon taunts, stepping closer. You back away from him until you run out of room; not because you want the distance, but because you’re afraid of what you’ll do if it’s gone.

“Nothing. I’m so great, I’ve never been better, can’t you tell?”

He’s so close you can feel the heat rising off his flushed skin, you can see the miles-deep murky blue of his irises, open water, shipwrecks and drowning. “You want all this to be over? You want the women with their big, adoring eyes and their short skirts to disappear? Grow up. Stop acting like a kid. Ask for it.”

“Ask for what?”

“You know.”

If you touch him now, you won’t be able to stop. There’s nowhere for us to go. There’s no way out of this family, this year, this world. “I don’t. I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Aegon barks out a sardonic, cutting laugh. “Yeah, you’re definitely 23.”

“I thought you loved girls young enough to be your daughters. Isn’t that what gets you hard?”

“You’re a fucking coward.”

“You’re sweating on me, you pig.”

“You want it so bad,” Aegon whispers as he presses himself against you, his ribs and thighs and hips, and you clutch for the walls of the elevator so you don’t reach for him instead. His left hand is tearing your hair out of its clips and pins so it falls free like you used to wear it; the right is all over your face, your jaw, your chin, your cheeks, touching you ceaselessly, ravenously, a blind man reading chronicles of braille. You’re trying to turn away from him, but he keeps pulling you back in. You’re breathing his rum and nicotine, you’re gasping in low, starved moans. It might be more intimate than kissing, than sex. He’s already felt your body. What he asks for now is your soul. His words are warm and aching as he murmurs through loosed strands of your hair: “Tell me you want it, please, just tell me, just tell me, tell me and it’s yours.”

Your palms land on his bare, damp chest, and Aegon starts unfastening the last buttons of his shirt. Instead, you push him away. Aegon lets you. He surrenders. “I can’t,” you choke out. You hit the red button, and the elevator resumes its rise to the top floor of the hotel.

“I’m really fucked up right now,” he says with sudden realization, swaying, staring down at his feet like he fears he’ll lose track of them.

“I’m aware.”

“I’m sorry. I think…I think I wanted that to happen differently.”

“I can’t trust you when you’re like this,” you say. I feel like I can’t trust anyone. Aegon looks up at you, his glassy eyes large and wounded. When the elevator door opens, you step out and he stays in, riding it back to the lobby.

In the suite you share with Aemond, you turn on the radio and spin the dial until you find a Loretta Lynn song. You go to the minibar cabinet and down two tiny glass bottles of vodka, something that won’t make you smell like too much of a drunk. You’ll have to fix your hair before you go back to the ballroom; you’ll have to change your dress. You’re painted with Aegon’s sweat and smoke. You can’t risk your husband noticing. You slide open the top drawer of the nightstand on your side of the bed and take out the card you keep there, the one that travels with you to each stop on the campaign trail. Loretta Lynn croons from the radio, wronged and wrathful.

“If you don’t wanna go to Fist City

You’d better detour around my town

‘Cause I’ll grab you by the hair of your head

And I’ll lift you off of the ground

I'm not a-sayin’ my baby is a saint, ‘cause he ain’t

And that he won’t cat around with a kitty

I’m here to tell you, gal, to lay off of my man

If you don’t wanna go to Fist City.”

You lie on the floor and peer up at the card in your hands: jubilant cartoon cow, festive party hat. You know exactly what’s written on the inside; it’s etched into your memory like myths passed down through millennia. Nevertheless, you read it again. The original message is still crossed out, and there’s an addendum below it in hasty black ink: I thought this was blank…congrats on the new calf!

You graze your thumbprint across Aegon’s scrawled signature. It’s smudged now. You do this a lot. One day his name might disappear altogether from the stark white parchment, from memory.

You close the card and hug it to your chest like a mother holds a living child.

~~~~~~~~~~

“What’s going on between you and Aegon?”

Alarmed, you meet Aemond’s gaze, two reflections in the vanity mirror. It’s the next morning, and you’re finishing up your makeup. Your dress and jacket are striped with black and white, your jewelry is silver, chains on your wrists and small tasteful hoops in your ears. “Nothing.” There is a lull you have to fill before it becomes suspicious. “He’s been helpful, he’s been…you know. Ever since Mount Sinai.”

Aemond adjusts his cerulean blue tie, studying himself in the mirror. He’s still wearing his leather eyepatch. Putting in his glass eye is the last thing he does before leaving the suite each day. “He was a comfort to you.”

“Well, he was there.”

“Because I told him to be,” Aemond says, resting his hands on the back of your chair. “Someone had to stay at Asteria to keep tabs on things, to let me know what you were up to. Aegon was the most expendable. Mimi and the kids make for good photos, but Aegon…he’s not especially endearing to the public. Those few years as the mayor of Trenton just about ruined him. I’d love to make him the attorney general if I win, but I don’t think the people would stomach it. Maybe if he behaves himself he can have the job for my second term.”

Eight years, you think, unable to fathom it. Eight years in a fishbowl. Eight years lying under Aemond as he tries to get me pregnant with children neither of us can love.

Aemond leans down to touch his lips to the side of your throat. “I’m glad you’re finally friends,” he says. “Aegon’s not all bad. But don’t let him get you in trouble.”

“I wouldn’t.” What did you and Aemond talk about before Ari died? What was this marriage built on? The senate, the presidency, civil rights, poverty, the Space Race, Vietnam, Greek mythology. Everything but each other. Dreams and ideals that would dwarf any mortal, would render them invisible.

“And watch out for any reporters from the Wall Street Journal. They’d kill for Nixon. If they can twist your words, they will.” He gets something from inside his own nightstand: the bloodstained komboskini from when he was shot in Palm Beach. He places it in your right hand, all 100 knots. “Give this to someone today. You know how to do it, you’ve always understood this part. Pick the right person, the right moment. Make sure there are plenty of cameras around.”

“Where am I going? Lunch with the mayor’s wife, that’s this afternoon, isn’t it?”

Aemond nods. “And a few other stops. Then we’re going to the Alamo in San Antonio tomorrow.”

“Okay.”

He recoils, reaches for the left half of his face, kneads the scar tissue there as nerve pain radiates through his flesh all the way down to the bone. Once you felt such agonizing pity for him; now all you can think about is the matching scar you wear on your belly, hidden and shameful and a badge of your inadequacies: your body too weak to protect Ari, your mind too pliable to resist being ensnared by the crushing gravity of this man, this family, this life.

“How can I help?” you ask Aemond, because it’s the right thing to do. And randomly, you find yourself remembering the statue of Apollo in Helaena’s garden back at Asteria, the god of music, healing, truth, prophesy.

“You can’t.” Aemond goes to the bathroom to force his glass eye into its socket. You depart for the hotel lobby where Ludwika and Mimi, your companions for the day, are already waiting. Ludwika is wearing a rose pink Chanel skirt suit. Mimi—relatively functional, as she hasn’t been awake long enough to ruin herself yet—is dressed in delicate dove grey.

Alicent, Helaena, and the children are scheduled to tour a local high school and library; Criston, unsurprisingly, is going with them. Aemond, accompanied by Otto, has a series of meetings with local business leaders and politicians. Aegon and Fosco are headed to the Michael E. DeBakey Veterans Affairs Medical Center to promise maimed soldiers that Aemond will end the war that carved out bits of them and filled the voids with screaming nightmares. The limousine you share with Ludwika and Mimi ferries you first to the NASA’s Manned Spacecraft Center. Mimi is entranced by the reflective surface of the helmets, coated with gold to divert blinding sunbeams; in turn, the astronauts are entranced by Ludwika, who leaves lipstick smudges on their cheeks when she kisses them. Next is a tea party hosted by Iola Faye Cure Welch, the mayoress of Houston since 1964 and the mother of five children. And as you nibble daintily at triangle-shaped sandwiches and trudge through small talk about flowers and furniture, you can’t stop smiling. You can’t stop thinking about how ridiculous Aegon would think this is if he was here.

The driver mentions one last stop, then coasts through midafternoon traffic towards the city center. You spend the ride touching up your hair and makeup. Ludwika offers to let you borrow her seduction-red lipstick; you politely decline. You step out of the limo and shield your eyes from the glare of the Texas sun. It takes your vision a moment to adjust, and then you realize where you are. The sign above the main entranceway reads: Houston Methodist Hospital. The air snags in your throat, your lungs are empty. Your hands tremble violently. The earth rocks beneath your white high heels. Mount Sinai is the last hospital you walked into, and you left with your son in a casket so small it could have been mistaken for a shoebox.

“Alright, let’s go,” Ludwika says, linking an arm through yours. Mimi, badly in need of a drink, is looking deflated and edgy. “We are almost done. And I have been promised a medium-rare steak for dinner! Mushrooms and onions too! The Statue of Liberty did not lie. This country is a golden door.”

“I can’t.”

Ludwika stares at you. “What?”

“I can’t, I can’t go in there.”

“What is she talking about?” Ludwika asks Mimi, who shakes her head, mystified.

“I can’t,” you whimper.

They’ve never seen you like this. They don’t know what to do. They listen to you, that is the hierarchy; but it’s too late to change course now. Journalists are approaching in a swarm. Nurses and doctors are gathering by the front door to welcome you.

He knew, you think, suddenly furious. Aemond knew, and he didn’t tell me.

“It will be okay,” Ludwika says, patting your back awkwardly. “We are here with you. Nothing bad will happen.”

“Oh,” Mimi breathes, understanding. She looks at you with sympathy that shimmers on the surface of the opaque, polluted lake of her mind. Then she catches Ludwika’s eye and skims a hand down her own slim midsection. Ari, she mouths, and Ludwika’s face falls.

The doctors and nurses are whistling and applauding; the journalists are snapping photos and scrounging for quotes. You feel your conditioning over the past two years taking over: straight posture, gentle smile, hands clasped demurely together. But you are locked away somewhere underneath.

“Do not worry,” Ludwika tells you softly. “We will talk, we will make it easier for you.” Then she and Mimi begin boisterously shaking hands and thanking people for coming as you make your way through the crowd of journalists and towards the main entrance of the hospital.

People are saying things to you, but you don’t really hear them. You reply with words you won’t remember afterwards. You nod frequently and go wherever you are led. Doctors are explaining new research into placenta previa and c-sections. Nurses are showing you a state-of-the-art NICU for premature infants. Someone is placing a baby in your arms, and you can’t do anything but accept it numbly. You can’t look down at it, you can’t allow yourself to feel the weight of some other woman’s child. You wear your smile like armor and let the photographers capture their snapshots, painting a frame around you, deciding where you live.

Then you are introduced to the parents, women in hospital beds and men perched in chairs beside them, just like the one where Aegon slept at Mount Sinai. They take your hands when you offer them and tell you about their small children, sick children, dying children. One patient just delivered twins. The first did not survive beyond a few hours, but the second is in an incubator and gaining strength. You recall the komboskini stained with Aemond’s blood and take it out of your purse, give it to the suffering mother, watch faith rise in her face like dawn over the Atlantic. But you won’t remember her. You cannot allow yourself to.

Outside as you, Ludwika, and Mimi are headed back to the limousine, the journalists make one last attempt to poach a headline-worthy quote. “Mrs. Targaryen! Mrs. Targaryen!” a young man shouts, clambering to the front of the horde and jabbing a microphone in your face. “I’m from the Houston Chronicle. Can you tell me how the senator feels about the failure of the most recent phase of the Tet Offensive?”

You are in a fog; you don’t feel real, this moment and this city don’t feel real, and so you cannot remember what Aemond would want you to say. “The Vietnam War has claimed too many lives already. We should have never sent our men there to die. But since that is done, the best thing we can do now is end the draft immediately and then withdrawal from the region as soon as the South Vietnamese are able to defend their own territory, which is their responsibility.” The journalist already considers this effort fruitful and begins to retreat, but you have one last point to make. Ludwika and Mimi watch you anxiously. “I lost someone in Vietnam. I met him when I was in college. He had a good heart, and he joined because he thought it was wrong for poor men to have to fight while rich kids got exemptions, and he was killed in action in October of 1965.”

“This was a friend?” the journalist asks, eyes glowing hungrily. Then he adds as an afterthought: “I’m terribly sorry for your loss.”

“A boyfriend. Corporal Cameron Marino from Schenectady, New York. People called him Cam.”

A solemn murmur ripples through the crowd. Hats are removed, hands held to chests. “Rest in peace, Cam,” someone says. Maybe they have somebody they care about in Vietnam, a friend or a lover or a brother. You wave goodbye and climb into the limousine. The outpouring swells as you vanish: We love you, Mrs. Targaryen! God bless you, Mrs. Targaryen!

In the lobby of the Texas State Hotel, you tell Ludwika and Mimi not to follow you. They have to listen. After some hesitation, Mimi heads for the bar in the ballroom; Ludwika asks the staff at the front desk if she’ll be able to make a call to Poland with the phone in her room. You take the elevator to the top floor. Fosco is in the hallway, on his way back from one of the vending machines with a Fresca. When he sees your face, his jaw drops.

“Dio mio, what happened?”

“Nothing,” you say, tears biting in your eyes. You pass him, digging your key out of your purse.

“Are you sure—?”

“Fosco, please. I don’t want to talk.”

“Okay,” he says doubtfully. Then he seems to get an idea and strides away with great purpose. You take shelter in your suite, silent and dim; Aemond isn’t back yet. You brace yourself against the locked door and sob into empty, trembling hands, at last hidden away where no one can see you, where no one can be disturbed or disappointed. You know now that none of it was healed—not the loss, not the revelations—but only buried, and now it’s all been unearthed again and the pain shrieks like exposed nerves.

It’s not fair. Ari deserved better, I deserved better.

There’s nothing you can do. Your hands ache to hold someone that no longer exists. You can’t unlearn the truth of what your marriage is.

There are two knocks, quick and rough. “Hey, it’s me.” And there’s such pure intimacy in those words. You know my voice. You know why I’m here. “Open the door.”

“I’m okay, just, just, just leave me alone—”

“Open the door,” Aegon says again. “Or I’ll get security up here to do it for you.”

Swiping the tears from your face, you let him in. He’s dressed in baggy black shorts, nothing on his feet, an unbuttoned stolen green army jacket. You once thought he wore those to play the part of a revolutionary from the comfort of his East Coast seaside mansion. Now you understand it’s because he misses Daeron, because he believes he should have gone to Vietnam instead. There are several dog tags strung around his neck; some of the veterans at the medical center he visited must have gifted them to him.

“What’s wrong?” Aegon’s eyes sweep over you, seeking, horrified. “What did he do?”

You can’t answer, you can’t breathe. You back away from him as more tears spill down your cheeks.

“Hey, hey, hey, let me help you. Please don’t be upset. Did he say something, did he hurt you?” Aegon reaches out, and as soon as he touches you your knees buckle and you’re on the floor, trying not to wail, trying not to scream, and Aegon is pulling you against his chest—bare skin, borrowed metal—and his hands are on your face and in your hair, and his lips are against your forehead as he murmurs: “Shh, shh, don’t cry. It’s okay.”

“No it’s not.”

“Whatever it is, I can help.”

“I had to go to a hospital and hold babies and I, I, I never even got to touch him, not once, not ever, and I can’t now because he’s gone. He’s locked in some fucking vault, he’s just bones, but he was supposed to be a person, and those other babies are going to get to grow up but he isn’t, and it’s not fair.”

“You’re right,” Aegon agrees softly, still holding you.

“No one else knew him.”

“I did. I was there the whole time.”

“Only because Aemond made you stay.”

“No,” Aegon swears. “I was supposed to spy on you. He never told me to do any of the rest of it. I stayed because I wanted to.”

“You did,” you say, very quietly, weakly, conceding.

“And I’m still here now.”

Your lungs aren’t burning quite so much. Your tears are slowing. You unravel yourself from Aegon, averting your eyes. Now you’re ashamed; you aren’t in the habit of revealing to people how much you’re splintering like cracked glass, fresh fractures every time you think to check the damage. “I’m, um, I’m really sorry.”

“Look, I don’t mean to bring up unpleasant memories, but this is definitely not the most embarrassing thing I’ve seen you do.”

You laugh, only for a few seconds, and Aegon smiles as he mops the tears from your face with the sleeve of his army jacket. Then he turns serious again.

“Can I ask you something? It’s very personal. It’s offensive, honestly. But I have to know.”

“You can ask.”

“Do you want more children?”

More children. Because Ari was real. “Not now. Not with Aemond.”

Aegon nods, suspicions confirmed. “Can you do that sponge thing you told me about?”

“No. I think he’d be able to feel it, he’s…” You gesture vaguely. It’s difficult to say. “He’s big.”

Aegon didn’t want to hear that. He didn’t want to have to think about it. He flinches, just enough that you notice. But as much as he’d like to, he doesn’t change the subject. “What about the pill?”

“No doctor is going to write me a prescription without my husband’s permission. Especially considering who my husband is.”

“I hate this fucking country,” Aegon hisses. “Puritanical goddamn hellscape. Old Testament bullshit.” He drags his fingers through his hair a few times, then pats your cheek like he did before: twice, gently, playfully. “Come on. Let’s go smoke.”

“I can’t do it on the balcony. Someone might get a picture.”

“Okay. No big deal. We’ll go to the roof.”

You stare at him. “The roof?”

“You really think I haven’t already been up there?” He stands and offers you his hand. “You’ll love it. The view is fantastic.”

The view is good, but the grass is better. You know that it makes some people useless, others paranoid, but for you it’s always painted the world a color that is softer, kinder, lighter, more bearable. You and Aegon lie next to each other, smoking and watching twilight fall over Houston like a spell. You’ll have to shower and gulp some Listerine before Aemond gets anywhere near you. It’s interesting; each day you seem to acquire new secrets to keep from him.

Aegon asks: “Where would you be right now if you weren’t Mrs. Targaryen?”

“Probably married to someone worse.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Okay, but let’s say you weren’t. Let’s say you can do whatever you want.” He points up at the lavender sky and acts like he’s moving the emerging glimmers of stars around with his fingertip. “There, I’ve changed your fate. Who would you be?”

You ponder this. “I want to teach math to kids and then spend every summer break getting baked on some beach.”

Aegon cackles. “Hell, sign me up.” He lights a third joint for himself with his tiny chrome Zippo. “Those are the people doing the real work. Teachers, nurses, farmers electricians, plumbers, welders, firemen, therapists, janitors, public defenders. The normal, unglamorous types.”

“You don’t think presidents and senators make a difference?”

“Sure they do. But only like 5% of the job is actually helping people. The rest of it is schmoozing and tea parties and making speeches, because looking and sounding good is better than doing good. They’re addicted to vapid pretenses that make them feel important. You live like that and you forget how to be a human. I mean, look at Nixon. The man was raised as a Quaker, one of the most peaceful religions on earth, and now he’s planning to throw ten or twenty thousand more boys into the great Vietnamese meatgrinder and probably napalm the hell out of Cambodia and Laos while he’s at it to get the communists’ supply lines. The man’s got no idea who he is anymore. I’d feel sorry for him if I wasn’t so terrified he’s gonna start World War III.”

I wonder who Aemond was a few decades ago. “What makes you feel important?”

“Nothing,” Aegon says. “I’m not under any delusions that I matter.”

“I think you matter, old man.”

“Really?”

“A little bit. About this much.” You hold your hand up to show him the infinitesimal space between your thumb and index finger, and Aegon chuckles, his eyes glazed and bloodshot.

“Let’s do it,” he says with sudden, forceful conviction. “If Nixon wins in November, we’ll get out of here. I’ll go back to Yuma to teach on the reservation and you can come with me. You get a math class, I take English, or Music, or both, whatever. We’ll buy a bungalow out in the desert and make s’mores every night and look up at the stars. I’ll show you how to play guitar if you give me algebra lessons.”

You peek over at him, intrigued. “Is that all we’re going to do?”

“Well we’ll fuck, obviously.”

“Oh, obviously.” You giggle; it’s ridiculous, it’s paradisical, it’s insane how good it sounds. But surely that’s only because you’re high. “I don’t know how Mimi would feel about that.”

“She won’t care. She doesn’t want me anymore, hasn’t in years. Sometimes she just forgets that when she’s wasted. Mimi can go to Arizona too. We’ll load up the kids in a van and strap her to the roof.”

Now your voice is somber. “She was supposed to fix you.”

“Yeah,” Aegon says: slow, meditative, guilty. “I think Mimi and I have a few too many of the same demons.”

You roll over, push yourself up on your palms, and crawl to the edge of the rooftop. You prop your elbows on the ledge and gaze out into the city lights, the sky turning from violet to indigo to primordial darkness. Aegon joins you, staring down at the distant aquamarine rectangle of the hotel pool.

He asks: “You think I could make that?”

“No.”

“Should I try?”

“You definitely shouldn’t.”

“A few months ago, you would have pushed me off this roof.”

You shrug. “You’ve proved yourself useful.”

“That’s why you like me now? Because I’m useful?”

“Who said I like you?” you tease, smiling.

“You like me,” Aegon says, grinning and smug, radiant in the silver moonlight and urban incandescence. “You like me so much it scares you. But there’s no need to panic. It’s okay. I know the feeling.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

You want to touch him, you want him to touch you, you want to study every arc and angle of him like he’s a marble statue in a garden: too beautiful to be mortal, too fragile to be divine.

~~~~~~~~~~

Three nights later in Nebraska, there is a knock on the door of your hotel suite. The nannies have herded the children off to bed; the adults are unwinding downstairs in the courtyard of the Sheraton Omaha, designed to resemble an Italian garden. There’s a brand new Jacuzzi that you’re looking forward to taking a dip in. You finish pulling on your swimsuit, white and patterned with sunflowers, a one-piece with a flared skirt.

“Who is it?”

“It’s Richard Nixon,” Aegon says through the door. “Naked. Horny. Please love me.”

You laugh and let him in. He’s leaning against the doorframe in Hawaiian swim trunks and nothing else, pink sunburn glowing on his soft chest. He holds up a brown paper bag and shakes it.

“For you.”

“What is it, heroin?” Instead, you open the bag to find small, circular packs of pills. “No way. You did not.”

“That’s enough for six months,” Aegon says, smirking, proud of himself. “I’ll be back again in February. Guess that makes me your dealer, babe. I don’t accept cash, checks, or cards, only sexual favors. You want to get down on your knees, or should I?”

“How did you get these?”

“I told a doctor they’re for one of my whores.”

“Maybe they are.”

You’ve surprised him, you’ve got him thinking about it now. His face flushes a splotchy, charming pink. “So, uh, you coming down to the courtyard?”

“Yeah. Right now. Just let me hide these first. Are there instructions in here…?”

“Mm hmm,” Aegon says, still distracted, studying the entirely unremarkable carpet. You stow the paper bag of birth control pills in the bottom of your bras and panties drawer, then walk with Aegon to take the elevator down to the ground floor. You both notice the bright red emergency stop button and share a glance, smirking, taunting.

In the courtyard, Alicent is struggling to pay attention as Helaena identifies each and every species of plant and explains where in the world it is native to. Fosco is simultaneously teaching Criston how to yo-yo and berating him for not believing the Cubs will end up in the World Series. Fosco has apparently bet $500 on them. Ludwika is stretched out on a lounge chair like a cat and reading a copy of Cosmopolitan. Aemond, wearing his eyepatch and a blue pair of swim trunks, appears to be arguing with Otto over the contents of a newspaper article. Mimi is alone in the Jacuzzi, bubbles rumbling all around her as she slumps against the rim, a frosty Gimlet clutched in one hand.

“Mimi, get out of the Jacuzzi,” you order.

“I’m fine!” she slurs, and you groan, knowing you’re going to have to drag her out.

Aemond is approaching; no, not approaching, raging. “What the hell is wrong with you? What the fuck is this?” He hurls the newspaper at you, the Houston Chronicle. The headline reads: To Mrs. Targaryen, ending the Vietnam War is personal. “Why would you tell somebody that? Other papers are going to start reporting this. You gave them his full name. They’ve found his school, his friends, his gravesite in motherfucking Arlington National Cemetery—”

“You set me up,” you say. “You didn’t tell me about the hospital.”

Aegon takes the newspaper from you and frantically skims the article. “Hey, man,” he tells Aemond as he pieces it together, attempting to deescalate. It’s not a skill you knew he possessed. “She was rattled, she wasn’t thinking clearly. And there’s nothing bad in this article. It makes her sound invested and sympathetic, not…um…whatever you’re thinking.”

“You don’t get it,” Aemond seethes. “Journalists are going to start hounding his friends, his classmates, people who lived in his dorm building. Nixon’s newspapers will publish any gossip they can dig up about what she did when she was in school. Things people saw, things people overheard—”

“What, the fact that she had one boyfriend before she met you? That’s worthy of a nuclear meltdown?! Better prepare for Armageddon, a woman got laid, launch the goddamn warheads!”

“She doesn’t get to have a past! She should understand that, she signed up for this, she knew exactly what was expected of her!”

“And what about your past?” Aegon says, low and searing, and Aemond goes quiet. Their eyes are locked on each other: Aegon defiant, Aemond unnerved. You try to remember if you’ve ever seen that expression on his face before. You don’t think you have. Not even when he was shot and half-blinded. Not even when Ari died.

“What does that mean?” you ask your husband. Still staring at Aegon—tangled in a thorny, silent battle of wills—he doesn’t reply.

There are swift, thudding footsteps. Otto grabs Aegon by his hair, hooks a finger through the small gold hoop in his right ear, and tears it straight through the earlobe. Aegon screams as blood streams down his face, feeling the ravaged fringes of his flesh.

“I told you to take those out,” Otto says. “Now remove the other one before I rip it free, and go get yourself stitched up.”

You do something you’ve never done before, never even thought of. You strike out with both hands and shove Otto so hard he goes staggering backwards, his arms wheeling. The others are yelling and rushing over. Aemond is trying to yank you to him, but he can’t get a grip on your swimsuit. “I will kill you!” you roar at Otto. “I will push you down a staircase, I will slit your fucking throat, don’t you ever touch him!”

Alicent is weeping, appalled, trying to get a look at Aegon’s damaged ear. Criston is helping her, moving Aegon’s bloodied hair out of the way. Fosco links his arms around your waist and drags you out of Aemond’s reach just as he’s getting his fingers beneath a strap of your swimsuit. Helaena is covering her face with her hands and wailing. Ludwika is shrieking at Otto: “What did you do? Don’t give me that, what did you do?!”

You are engulfed with rage, red and irresistible. You’re trying to bolt out of Fosco’s grasp. You want to claw Otto’s eyes out; you want to put a bullet in him. As you struggle, you catch a glimpse of the Jacuzzi. You don’t see Mimi anymore.

“Wait,” you plead, but nobody hears you over the noise. You look desperately at Fosco. “Where’s Mimi?!”

Once he figures out what you’re trying to say, he whirls towards the Jacuzzi. “No!” he bellows, releasing you, and careens across the courtyard. You dash after him. Now the others understand, and they come running too. You see it just before Fosco dives in: there is a shadow at the bottom of the Jacuzzi. When he bursts up though the roiling water, he is carrying Mimi, limp and unconscious and blue.

Everyone is shouting at once. Fosco lays Mimi down on the cobblestones of the courtyard. Criston sends Ludwika to call an ambulance, kneels beside Mimi, checks for a pulse. Then he begins CPR. When he breathes air into her flooded lungs, there is no response, no resurrection.

“No, no, no, she has to be alright!” Aemond says, and everyone knows why. If she’s not, this will consume the headlines for days: no victorious campaigning, no speeches or photos, just a drowned alcoholic with a damning autopsy report.

“Oh my god,” Otto moans, pacing. “This can’t be happening, not this year, not now…”

Alicent seizes your hand and squeezes it until you think it will break. She is reciting prayers in Greek. Helaena is curled up under a butterfly bush, sobbing hysterically. When he realizes this, Otto hurries to comfort her.

“Don’t watch, Helaena. Let’s go inside, I’ll walk with you, there’s nothing more we can do here.”

“Mimi?!” Aegon commands, slapping her hard across the face. “Mimi, come on, wake up! Mimi? Mimi!” She’s still motionless, she’s still blue. Aegon turns to you, blood smeared all over the right side of his face. He’s petrified, he’s in shock. “I think she’s…she’s…”

“She’s gone,” Criston says; and he lifts his palms from her hollow body. The silent sky above is a labyrinth of bad stars.

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cherryheairt · 22 days ago

Text

The Lost Dragon

Chapter one, The Fall.

Plot, original characters, and ideas all belong to @shabnam2005 . Reach out to either of us for inquiries about the story. Series will be co-written and vary writing styles by chapter. Canon changed from show and book. Set post-Dance

Aemond x Targ!oc x Cregan (eventual)

Saryna Vance lived well within her means in Old Stone. Being the child of two Dragonkeepers meant that one could never be particular with any of their standards. Her parents were away quite often, leaving her and her brother alone at the family farm most of the time. Food was always on the table and shelter over their heads, however small or meager both were. Saryna was eternally grateful for them and for the companionship of her elder brother, who ran the farm with her since their unfortunate deaths.

Saryna considered herself lucky that she was raised by the traditional Dragonkeepers of the city. Most were not able to afford having children nor even feeding themselves most days, resorting to unseemly ways to fill their bellies and keep off the streets.

Instead of living in the city itself, she lived just outside of it near the King's Road. On the little farm and nearby to a serene lake that was filled with the warm memories of childhood gone by.

She was born only a few years after Tarkan, her brother, who took to his duty as ‘man of the house’ quite well for someone so young. To this day he protected and looked after Saryna, even though she had grown much since the days of their childhood.

It was only recently that she and Tarkan inherited the little farm from their parents. She worked hard on the farm her whole life to keep it going and take care of her parents as they grew grey and wrinkled. She was bittersweetly happy for every new strand that she counted lost its color and every crevice that burrowed deeper into their faces. Most peasants did not even see life in their forties due to the horrid circumstances of the Realm. Sickness, murder, false imprisonment, all were not uncommon under the Targaryen's rule. Although none knew a did not feast upon lavishly made imported oranges from Tyrosh or oxen from the furthest countries of Braavos but she did have a serenity unlike the royalty in the capitol.

Most importantly—she was safe from the Dance of Dragons.

It was only days ago that King Aegon ii had died at the hands of his own court. It was unknown who exactly killed the young man‐but Saryna suspected nobody truly cared so long as the man was gone and the gates of the city finally opened once more.

Everyone except his dear younger brother—’the Spare’—and his mother the dowager Queen. Aemond Targaryen was named King of Westeros in a solemn display. He was surrounded by no family besides his mother and no support besides those who were smart enough to fear his dragon and all the rest left alive in the pit. Most commonfolk were not educated enough to know that Aemond cannot control any but his own—making the other now an untamed dragon who follows their own rules. The only thing keeping that dragon concealed was, in fact, the remaining Dragonkeepers employed by the crown. How few those numbers grew after the city was locked up and many citizens starved. The largest dragon left in the world was also the only tamed one alive in King's Landing. All others died in the war with their rider, except for Dreamfyre who had never gotten to see battle in the war.

Rhaenyra was killed by her own brother, then whoever was left of her children were executed publicly. Her husband-uncle, Daemon, was said to have fled moons prior. Many gossiped in the markets that he went off to Essos to flee, others conspired that he was still up at Dragonstone leading an army of ghosts.

There was no news that Saryna had yet heard of regarding Daemon's two twin daughters. However, she had little hope for the young girls. If the inexperienced riders had fallen—they likely had too. She wished them a quick and painless end, as she would hope for herself. But she couldn't give too much mind to those who she had never met, nor would care if she or any other commonfolk died. The only difference was that their names would be forever recorded in the history books and hers would eventually trickle down through her descendants’ memory before eventually being lost to time.

Perhaps the dead dragons were the biggest grievance to Saryna, who had little sympathy for the royals she did not know but taxed her every movement. The innocent creatures had little choice but to obey their masters, even if it meant their death and the death of their own kin.

Such brutality for one man to be left in a bloodline.

Saryna had little time for gossip in her busy days. She was finally free of the stress of looming dragons over her little village—if you could even call it that—and got all her information from the gossiping merchants and wives of the Old Stone markets.

Wake up. Water the crops. Harvest whatever was ready. Feed the animals and clean stalls. Head to the market to sell whatever animal and food product the farm provided her that morning.

Her life had been the same for years, never changing out of its menial routine. If Saryna once wanted for more, she had long since brushed such thoughts to the back of her mind. The farm and Tarkan needed her more than her lost dreams.

Once, when her parents were still alive, she allowed herself to have dreams of becoming something more than a farmer. A lord's wife, perhaps, where she could influence state matters directly in a councilroom, or perhaps something a little less ambitious like being a well-known apothecary. Something, anything, to help more people than just her little family.

Either way, she was still a farmer now.

Holding her pail loosely at her hip, Saryna journeyed towards the well. Perhaps she did have one complaint.

The well had always been too far from the farmhouse. It was leagues away from the house just for a simple few day's supply of water. Tarkan usually was the one to fetch the water and make such trips, but he'd been gone collecting supplies for building a new silo in neighboring towns. He took their one cart and horses down the King's Road for his trip, leaving Saryna alone in all her chores. Including fetching water.

Luckily, it was a lovely view by the well. She always took a few minutes to catch her breath after pumping the water to simply admire the small lake.

Above her, a shadow crossed the light fields. The streak of light blue was an almost unfollowable flit of movement as he passed Saryna. Fracsor, the mysterious dragon that had nosed his way into her life since she was a child. He followed her like a lamb, fortunately carrying a quiet demeanor and lithe body. The townsfolk assumed the dragon taking flight constantly over their city was one of the Targaryen's that hunted above their fields so no fuss was made about him.

His blue scales blended perfectly with the clear skies of the midday. And with the lake, which may have been his favorite place to bask in.

Saryna fluently spoke High Valyrian thanks to her parents. They always made sure she was educated in all they knew so she could properly look after the beast. They never told her why the dragon stayed with her, but it was easy to assume that they had stolen the egg from the Dragonpit when they had Saryna. An ambitious and highly dangerous feat, but they somehow managed to get away with it with no repercussions.

So, Saryna and her not-so-little-anymore dragon companion lived together since. Tarkan had originally trained to be their parent's successor and keep on the family's generational line of Dragonkeeping, but he never took to the life as well as she did. He spoke well enough High Valyrion, but was not so inclined to spend his days training dragons for others to ‘use’. Instead he did the heavy lifting on the farm and in his spare time trained himself in the art of swordsmanship. His gamble, which earned many scoldings from their parents, paid off in the end. He did not reside in King's Landing to look after the pit and therefore was never trapped in the streets that held starving citizens for moons during the war. He even earned a position as a squire for a surly knight in the city watch, a job he was forced to quit the day Aegon was crowned King. “No loyalty to be questioned,” was the knight's excuse, although Saryna suspected that he simply wasn't earning the coin to pay for a squire anymore.

Tarkan acknowledged that he couldn't always be around, especially since he made all the trips outside of Old Stone for the farm duties, and thus taught Saryna a little of what he had learned. Form, moves, defense, all in the dead of night after their parents were dead asleep in their cabin.

Saryna was quite proud of her skills with a blade, and knew if anything happened she had the assurance to protect herself. The dragon did help with that, though he would be a last resort.

And now that there were only two dragons left in those pits, the job itself was quite unneeded. There were whispers of dragons going just as extinct as Targaryens. Syrax, now an untamed dragon, lie at Dragonstone alone. Perhaps there might be others there, but she had no way of knowing in her desolate village. Not unless a dragon flew overhead, then the town would be positively alight with gossip and fear both.

Tamed dragons were a dying breed. Even Fracsor didn't seem to be like the Targaryens’ dragons who wore saddles and allowed their riders to use them as weapons and transportation. She hadn't tried such a thing, but she had little belief that he would take well to her climbing on his back and commanding him to fly so easily. Who knew if the untamed would ever allow another rider after such a deadly war? The smart choice would be to never go near humans again, Valyrian blood or no.

Watching him find a sunny spot to splash around in, Saryna pumped a good amount of water into the shiny pail before settling herself down close to him. The sun felt nice on her skin, refreshing even after the long walk.

It was barely an hour into her downtime when a horse's thundering hooves sounded across the field. Saryna shot up, clutching her knife protectively at her side from her belt. She watched warily as a white-haired man atop a chestnut horse strode out from the wood like a man on fire, followed quickly by a group of armoured men on horseback, too.

She frantically assessed the situation in her head. No, it couldn't be a Targaryen. There was only one nearby, Aemond, and he was the crowned King. No one would dare chase their own King, would they?

She chalked it up to a strikingly bright blonde. Perhaps a criminal, chased by the city watch men on account of theft or murder.

As he grew closer, she started to doubt her own assumptions. His face grew clearly as he raced directly towards her, not making a single move to slow down or turn away. On his pale, sharp face was a contrasting black eyepatch. It was Aemond Targaryen.

Heading straight towards her on his horse.

She cursed, jumping out of the way as the horse was only a mere few feet from her body. She fell to the grassy floor, wincing as the horse reared up in shock and knocked the King right off his place on its saddle. Where was his dragon?

Saryna witnessed the man ungracefully tumbling down the knoll and right into the lake. The horse sped off, likely in absolute bliss knowing it was free to save itself. It took off in a sharp turn away, nearly stomping over her as it ran. The men still pursued towards her, leaving her no time to think and instead act on pure adrenaline. Saryna skidded towards the bottom of the small hill, tripping and catching herself multiple times in her hurry and threw herself into the shallow part of the lake. The bottom half of her dress sagged and tripled in weight from the absorbing water. Every step she took into the water took more effort than the last but she persisted nonetheless.

Aemond was only a few feet deep, just barely beneath the surface as she grasped onto the pool of black shining beneath the water. The firm leather was hard beneath her hands as she struggled to grip, eventually finding flimsy hold between the lapels of his collar. She dragged the grown man out of the water like a child, exasperated as the very thought of her saving the life of a King.

But if she didn't, and she stood by while those men killed him—she feared she might be next as a bystander. At least she might be rewarded by her kind feat if she manages to succeed. Either way, she was already in too deep.

The second the blonde was on the shore he shot up from lying flat on his belly and to his elbows. He coughed up water and held his head tightly. Saryna, briefly, had a mind to smack the man upside the head and tell him to hurry, lest they both die.

Finally as his coughing fit stopped and he realized he had just fallen down an entire hill and nearly drowned due to a head injury, he turned his neck up to face Saryna. Standing above him with quite an incredulous look plastered on her face, she felt safe to say that Aemond Targaryen was so more intimidating than a wet cat.

Looked like one, too.

“Who are‐” Aemond was cut off by a sword unsheathing. Multiple followed and the two of them turned to see four men standing upon the top of the knoll. On their horses, looking mighty proud of themselves as if they'd won a battle already, the presumed leader of the pack sneered.

“Daemon sends his regards to the boy kinslayer.” Was all the man in the golden cloak said.

They all charged forth, causing a chain reaction. Aemond surged up to his feet, surprisingly swift for someone who was likely bruised and in disarray, unsheathing his own fancy steel sword from his belt and bracing himself. Saryna did, too, wielding her dagger like a vice as she prepared for her own end.

Four men on horses against two with one sword, one dagger, and zero armor between them.

A shadow swooped over Saryna and Aemond. Almost too fast to even register in her mind, and she sucked a harsh breath in as she watched a man taken from his horse and into the sharp claws of Fracsor.

And a dragon, of course.

Though, this situation would have been avoided if Vhagar was involved from the start. Why not run to his own dragon instead of North of King's Landing? Would have saved him time and a concussion.

Mayhaps Aemond Targaryen was not a smart king, like all his ancestors before him. She was reminded of Aegon Targaryen, the first of his name and first Targaryen king to force his way into Roynar and Andal ways. It had only continued for the past two hundred years or so, Aegon's descendants coming one after the other and only being dumbed down by the generation. If they were smart perhaps they wouldn't be nearly extinct. Idiots and murderers, the lot of them. No better than the criminals that flooded their streets.

While Fracsor took off higher into the skies with said man in his grasp, the remaining three were stunned with fear and the realization that they had only narrowly escaped death.

Aemond and Saryna moved together, surprisingly in synchronization for strangers, and targeted individual goldcloaks. Saryna took one man by his cape, yanking with all her might and dragging him from his mount and Aemond took another direction and simply aimed right for the exposed throat.

With two dead and two left, Saryna was starting to like her odds. With the man pulled from his seat, both her and him were left to dodge the flighty bucking of a horse before it, too, blasted off in the same direction Aemond's did.

Hopefully the capitol didn't have already have a lack of horses.

Saryna quickly moved on top of him, watching his blue eyes widen in immovable shock and fear as she raised her dagger above her head.

Nearby, Aemond engaged with the lead man in a formal sword fight. Saryna could hear the clashes and clangs of steel on steel right next to her ear in sharp stings. She had never killed a man before and never truly planned on it, but it was her or him. In a decision as easy as that, Saryna wouldn't hesitate. She struck down the knife between his jugular and collarbone, cringing at the ragged gasp that left his mouth. As she pulled the weapon out, a spray of hot blood shot at her face and chest, leaving her to scramble off of him while being forced to listen to the disgusting gurgling sounds from his chest and throat.

Saryna straightened herself to stand, having no choice but to stand back and watch the men engage in a swordfight. Even if she attempted to intervene, her dagger would not fare against a sword. Surprise was her best friend in a fight against armed soldiers.

After minutes of parrys and blows exchange in the blink of an eye, the man's throat was slashed with a force unknown to Saryna. His neck was nearly cut from his head entirely, leaving nothing of his life to be questioned for a moment. He was dead, they all were.

Aemond's eye turned to her, taking an eerily long moment to sheath his sword and for a moment she thought she was next when he gripped her biceps in both hands. He towered over her, looking down past his tall nose at her and heaving with breaths. His hair curled at his neck and shoulders as water droplets still fell from it and his clothes. A pretty sight, if he wasn't the one threatening her knife right now.

“Who are you?” The question left no room for escape, nor did his cold tone.

She gulped down as the intensity of his one-eyed gaze was nearly too much to bear without looking away. But if she did, Saryna would only look guilty. She furrowed her brows, keeping her voice steady. “Saryna,” was her simple reply.

He was not so easily quelled. “Saryna what?” He seethed, squeezing down on her arms harder. “Why did that dragon help us?”

She shrugged, trying her best to appear as confused as he. Dammit, why couldn't he just be grateful she and the beast saved his life? Was it so hard to say, ‘thank you?’ “My name would have no meaning to you. It was probably just hungry. Aren't we all, these days?” She jested weakly.

Apparently it was hard for him to do anything within normal frames of decorum and manners.

“No dragon lives beyond King’s Landing and Dragonstone.” He bit. “The truth, or your life.”

“That is the truth!” She defended. “Do I look like I carry the blood of a dragonrider? Does that beast have a saddle upon his back? It simply hunts around my farm. Slaughters my sheep.” She breathed, knowing he cannot refute her logic.

He muttered under his breath, harshly letting her go and straightening his messed clothes. Eyeing her, he asked. “Where is your home?”

She was silent a moment, debating the choices she had. Take him to her house and he would forever know where she lived, or turn her back to him and have him kill her right there. No, there was no choice but the one he presented her.

Saryna nodded towards the top of the hill. She regretting fetching that bucket of water. “Over the hill, a few leagues out. It's got some trees and wood as cover.” She offered.

Aemond scoffed. “And who might be looking for be in the skies, hm?”

She bit her tongue, holding back a smart retort that she knew he would not find so amusing.

“I could offer you a night in my home and some patching for your head. King's Landing is quite far to walk from here with a head bleeding like that.”

He reached up to gingerly touch his head, eye widening slightly at the sight of red as if he'd never been injured before.

“Your Grace.”

“Excuse me?” She asked, bemused.

“Address me properly. Or, do you think yourself above that now that you assume I owe you something.” His pale brow rose higher on his forehead, not asking but instead telling her.

“Apologies, Your Grace.” She mumbled out, walking forward without another second to waste. She did not wish to wait here by these dead and rotting bodies, not when more could show up seeking vengeance.

The walk was silent and awkward. Aemond's presence was like a looming threat in the air and his regality made it difficult to talk with him like a person. It was unlikely he had ever spoken with someone of her stature at all on the same level and treated them normally. Her chest panged for a moment at the knowledge that he must live a lonely life.

Not that she was much more social than he was. But, at least she was equal to the commonfolk that she frequently spoke to and shared a drink with.

In her cabin, humble as Aemond might call it, she immediately got to work boiling some water and stretching out bandages. He stood at the entryway stiffly, not knowing what to do with himself in the house of another.

“Sit, please.” She said, brushing past him to fetch another towel from the broom closet.

He obeyed, though it looked as if it pained him to do so.

As she wiped away at his head, tender as she could be, Aemond started to speak. “You live alone out here? No one but your…farm animals to tend to?” Surprisingly, he sounded curious rather than judgemental.

Saryna smiled faintly and shook her head. “No, I have my brother. It used to be my parents, too, but it's been a while since they've kept the house lively.”

He hummed as if understood. “Why were you so far this morning?”

“Water. We can only get some from that well, so I have to make the trip when my brother isn't here to do it for me.”

Aemond, to Saryna's surprise, huffed out a small laugh. “You walk all that way just to get a pail of water?”

Her cheeks flushed slightly, ears feeling hot at his amusement. She didn't let it show. “Our horses and cart are gone, usually we can carry water back home in cartloads.”

He nodded to appease her, a smirk still lying on his fine lips. Though that disappeared as she pressed a little harsher than needed on his wound to bandage it. His lavender eye glared at her warningly, though she only bit back a laugh at his expression.

She stood up straighter, hands on her hips to ascertain his position. “Looks fine for now. Your fancy Maester can take another look when you get home, if you don't trust my skills.”

Aemond hummed again, something she guessed was a habit of his. “I suppose I cannot complain.” She smiled at that. “Yet.”

Saryna glared almost playfully up at him, narrowing her dark eyes up at him as she watched him stand from the rickety kitchen stool and once again shadow over her. “Haven't had any complaints yet.”

A shadow swooped over the cabin. The windows darkened for only a moment before the sunlight filled the room again. While Saryna's eyes immediately glued themselves on the windows and peeked out them to spot Fracsor, Aemond's had never left her.

“Strange.” He hummed. “That dragon seems to stick around.”

Saryna eyed him, carefully choosing her words. “Like I said, the wretched thing likes to steal my sheep.” She huffed out.

After a moment of careful observation, Aemond nodded and made his way to the door. With a hand hovered over it, “Thank you, Saryna. I'll have someone sent over with a bag of coin. For your troubles.”

The words hidden beneath were clear as day: Do not speak of this to anyone.

Saryna nodded, folding her hands politely. “Get home safe, Your Grace.” She bowed slightly, likely a clumsy display but she couldn't bother to care.

Aemond Targaryen left her cabin without another word. Saryna watched from the window until the man in black leather was completely out of sight, then moved to lock her door and breath a heavy sigh. She was fine, she reminded herself, fine and more importantly, alive.

She needed to stay silent about today, perhaps even to Tarkan. Any gossip fluttering about in the air would only cause trouble for her, Tarkan, and the farm.

Tomorrow, the Targaryen man would forget all about the little farm girl who saved his life. Tomorrow, Saryna's life would go back to normal.

#self insert #cregan stark x oc #aemond targaryen x reader #cregan stark x reader #cregan x reader #cregan stark #hotd fanfic #hotd #aemond targaryen #aemond one eye #hotd aemond #hotd season two #hotd season 2 #aemond x reader #aemond x oc

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luna-azzurra · 2 years ago

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Ways to hit your readers in the gut

When it comes to writing, there's a profound and mesmerizing way to touch your readers deep within their souls. It's about crafting moments that hit them in the gut, stirring up intense emotions and forging an everlasting connection. Here are some techniques to help you achieve this:

1. Unexpected Loss: Introduce a character who captures hearts, only to snatch them away suddenly. Think of J.K. Rowling's "Harry Potter" series, where the abrupt departure of beloved characters like Sirius Black and Fred Weasley leaves readers shattered, their grief a testament to the power of storytelling.

2. Sacrifice for a Cause: Show a character willingly sacrificing their own happiness or even their life for a greater purpose. Suzanne Collins' "The Hunger Games" portrays Katniss Everdeen's selflessness, volunteering as a tribute to save her sister, evoking empathy and admiration.

3. Unrequited Love: Explore the agony of unrequited love, where hearts ache and souls yearn. Charlotte Brontë's "Jane Eyre" delves into the bittersweet and heart-wrenching tale of Jane's unfulfilled affection for Mr. Rochester, resonating with readers who have experienced the profound depths of unrequited longing.

4. Betrayal by a Loved One: Peel back the layers of trust to reveal the sting of betrayal. George R.R. Martin's "A Song of Ice and Fire" series delivers shocking betrayals that shatter readers' expectations, leaving them stunned and heartbroken alongside the characters.

5. Overcoming Personal Demons: Illuminate the struggle against internal conflicts, be it addiction, guilt, or haunting trauma. Anthony Doerr's "All the Light We Cannot See" explores Werner's moral compass during wartime, captivating readers as they witness his battle for redemption and personal growth.

6. Injustice and Oppression: Shed light on the injustices characters endure, igniting empathy and inspiring change. Harper Lee's "To Kill a Mockingbird" reveals the racial prejudice faced by Tom Robinson, awakening readers to the urgent need for justice and equality.

7. Parent-Child Relationships: Navigate the intricate tapestry of emotions between parents and children. Khaled Hosseini's "The Kite Runner" unearths the complexities of the father-son bond, evoking a myriad of feelings, from longing and regret to hope for reconciliation.

8. Final Farewells: Craft poignant scenes where characters bid farewell, whether due to death or separation. Markus Zusak's "The Book Thief" gifts readers with heartbreaking partings amidst the backdrop of World War II, leaving an indelible mark of loss and the fragile beauty of human connections.

9. Personal Transformation: Illuminate characters' growth through adversity, offering a beacon of hope and inspiration. Charles Dickens' "A Christmas Carol" narrates Ebenezer Scrooge's extraordinary journey from a bitter miser to a beacon of compassion, reminding readers that redemption and personal change are within reach.

10. Existential Questions: Delve into existential themes that provoke deep introspection. Albert Camus' "The Stranger" challenges readers to ponder the meaning of life through Meursault's detached and nihilistic worldview, prompting them to question their own existence.

With these techniques, you have the power to touch your readers' souls, leaving an indelible impression. Remember to weave these moments seamlessly into your narrative, allowing them to enrich your characters and themes. Let your words resonate and ignite emotions, for that is the essence of impactful storytelling.

#writing #writing tips #character development #writer on tumblr #writerscommunity #writer tumblr #writblr #writing advice #oc character #writing block #writing habits #writing help #writersociety #fanfic

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blorger · 3 months ago

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I call this meeting of the Hagrid Haters Society to order. I move that, as part of today's agenda, we discuss just how much he sucks. In order to facilitate this, I have prepared the following

ULTIMATE ANTI-HAGRID MANIFESTO

HAGRID AS DESCRIBED IN THE BOOKS

Rubeus Hagrid, keeper of the keys and grounds at Hogwarts and also occasional Care of Magical Creatures teacher, is introduced to us thusly:

Hagrid's character is mostly a beat-by-beat rehash of the "gentle giant" archetype; as per TV Tropes :

He's big, muscular, and angry-looking. He might even be an actual monster. People are often fearful of him. But he's got a heart of gold. He loves children and puppies and frequently abhors unnecessary violence. He is often rather intelligent, level-headed, and analytical, a voice of reason in the group. He probably has a few unexpected hobbies. He's the Gentle Giant. However, when push comes to shove, he's great to have on your side in battle.

Hagrid appears beastly but also IS beastly, both literally (he is a half-giant) and figuratively: He lives in a wooden hut* at the edge of the Forbidden Forest, his possessions are "very dirty", his best suit is hairy and brown. The things he builds are ragged and haphazardly put together (he makes himself a mourning armband for Aragog's funeral that is just "a rag dipped in boot polish", the flute he gifts to Harry in PS is "roughly cut" and "obviously" hand made) and, similarly, Hagrid's food is dubious at best: his beef casserole has a large talon in it, his rock cakes are notoriously inedible and his toffee needs to be softened by an open fire in order for it to be edible.

Interestingly, though jkr goes to great lengths to point out that Hagrid is a giant with a heart of gold, she still wants us to know that he's capable of great violence:

(from OoTP)

Hagrid is resisting an unjust arrest here and is responding in kind to his dog Fang being Stunned and still jkr goes out of her way to show that his friends are scared of him (because Hagrid is only likeable for his half-human part).

Another facet of the Gentle Giant that Hagrid embodies is the lack of smarts for Hagrid is also a kindhearted simpleton: he is never shown speaking standard english (which, in jkr's world, is a shorthand for dumb/uneducated), he cannot spell "Voldemort", he's routinely outwitted by literal children and he is remarkably gullible.

In keeping with jkr's theme wherein a man cannot express sadness via crying unless in moments of great loss and the characters who do cry are described mockingly, Hagrid is also a big fat overemotional crier. Hagrid and his tablecloth-sized handkerchief make multiple appearances throughout the books, often to comedic effect.

Another thing of note, albeit one I don't quite know how to interpret, is the use of Hagrid's name. His friends (Harry&co), his acquaintances (like Arthur Weasley) and even his colleagues at Hogwarts (who, by the way, call each other by their first names) all call him exclusively by his last name, Hagrid. The only times his full name is mentioned are:

when he introduces himself to Harry

when Ollivander recognizes him as he takes Harry to get his wand

when Dumbledore officially announces he's been made professor

in Rita Skeeter's hit piece on him (the fittingly titled Dumbledore's giant mistake)

when his escape from arrest is mentioned in Potterwatch

Harry mentions is full name only once (when introducing him at the beginning of HBP) but there is only one person in all of the books who ever addresses Hagrid by his first name only and it's not him: it's 16 year old Voldemort (in the memory Harry sees of Hagrid bring framed for Myrtle's death in CoS).

*= Hagrid's house is mostly described as a hut and occasionally as a cabin by the narration/Harry. Hagrid calls it a hut in PS and a house in CoS (when trying to chase Lucius Malfoy out of it) and Dumbledore also calls it a house the only time he refers to it (in GoF, when he's instructing McGonagall to go fetch Fang) but Harry only does so during exceptional times (when it gets burned down by death eaters immediately after Dumbledore's death in HBP, during Buckbeak's rescue in PoA and when it sits empty and sad after Hagrid's been taken to Azkaban in CoS).

2. REASONS NOT TO HATE HAGRID

I would like to take this moment to point out that all the shitty descriptors and stereotypes jkr uses for Hagrid are not actually why the Hagrid Haters Society finds him to be unlikeable.

Similarly, his half-giant status is a non-issue, though the same cannot be said for how the in-universe characters view him after his origins are revealed (most notably Ron). Hagrid himself seems to have a somewhat low opinion of them and even Hermione (our moral compass) can't come up with anything better to defend giants than "they can't all be horrible".

Still: Hagrid is not a full giant and the only full giant we do meet (his half-brother Grawp) is not described like what Ron tells us is a typical giant, namely:

Sure, Grawp is violent but not maliciously so (though he does behave rather King Kong-like with Hermione, which isn't great) and even if the books are judgy towards giants, there's no reason for us -the readers- to be (and for us to judge Hagrid unfairly by extension).

Another very bad reason to dislike Hagrid is his simple mindedness. jkr does seem to associate low intelligence with unlikeability/evil (see: Crabbe and Goyle) but she appears to make a not like other girls-style exception with Hagrid; regardless, I'd like to think we can all agree that jkr's shitty worldview is shitty.

3.HAGRID IS SOMETIMES OK

I'd be remiss not to mention that Hagrid is a generally helpful and friendly character who is well-liked by all Good People. One of his most admirable traits is definitely his loyalty, something which both Harry and Dumbledore are shown to believe unquestionably in and value immensely.

(from PS, Dumbledore entrusted Hagrid with the newly orphaned Harry)

(from DH, Harry suspects Hagrid may have let some information slip but is immediately prepared to forgive him)

Unlike Dumbledore, (whose motives I question, there's a great meta I currently can't find about Dumbledore's tendency to collect misfits, if you can link me to it please do) Harry genuinely loves and cares for Hagrid, which in my opinion goes a long way in rising his likability.

(from PoA, Harry recalls Hagrid's Azkaban stay)

Hagrid even gets the Ultimate Seal of Approval by being deemed brave, something both Harry and jkr value tremendously (in jkr's books brave=Good and coward=Evil).

Something that is perhaps more universally praise-worthy is Hagrid's steadfast faith in Harry

An especially notable instance comes from GoF, where he is shown to believe Harry unquestioningly when even Ron doesn't ( a big reason for his certainty seems to be his blind devotion to Dumbledore but I'll let that slide for now).

4. ULTIMATELY, THOUGH, HAGRID SUCKS

Why does the Hagrid Haters Society dislike Hagrid then?

Hagrid is surprisingly prejudiced

(to Vernon in PS)

(to Magorian the centaur in OotP)

(to Filch in HBP)

When it comes to humans (and human-like creatures), Hagrid does not seem nearly as open minded as he is with venomous beasts. Let's not forget that Hagrid is the one who introduces Harry to the all slytherins are evil concept

(from PS, Harry is introduced to the concept of the four houses)

This, while very much in line with jkr's views, is not a particularly popular opinion within the fandom on account of its black and white nature so I'm counting it against him.

Hagrid consistently shows disregard for his students' safety

Hagrid's love of dangerous beasts is described as a charming quirk in the books but it must be noted that, as an unnaturally big strong and burly man, he does not have much of a reason to fear them himself. The same cannot be said for his underage students, who are thoughtlessly put into harm's way time and time again (yes, this is when I bring up the Buckbeak Incident).

(from PoA)

Draco is undoubtedly in the wrong in this situation as he wilfully disregarded the instructions given to him but he is also behaving very much like your average shitty kid, something even a mildly competent teacher might expect (and, ideally, adjust their lesson accordingly). Draco's wound gets downplayed in all its following mentions and it's all but outright stated that Draco is playing up his injury in the weeks that follow but this doesn't make what happened to him right (even if in jkr's world bad things are only bad when they happen to good people).

(from GoF)

Here we have an injury not five minutes into the very first lesson on blast ended skrewts. Oh and by the way, those skewts? They are a delightfully illegal Hagrid's Original:

(also from GoF, Rita's hit piece is quite illuminating)

They are literally so dangerous that they're used as an obstacle in the Triwizard Tournament's third task.

(from GoF, Hagrid did not think about possibly making a group of children light-headed when deciding where to store the horses' whisky)

Hagrid repeatedly shows poor decision-making where the safety of his students is concerned; in a further show of less than stellar risk assessment, Hagrid assigns a biting, somewhat cannibalistic book to his 13 year old students (they are shown fighting each other viciously in their natural environment, a bookshop). Not a single one of his students (not even Hermione) figured out that they needed to be stroked in order to be opened; to quote Voice of Reason Draco Malfoy:

(from PoA, Hagrid's first ever lesson does not start well)

As an aside, though we're not supposed to agree with him, Draco is consistently the only person shown having reasonable reactions to Hagrid's classes. Even Hermione secretly agrees with him when it comes to the dangers posed by Hagrid's beasts:

(from GoF, Hermione literally made some shit up in order to defend Hagrid, blast ended skrewts are functionally useless)

This allows me to segue into the next section, aptly titled

the Malfoy section

Building on this theme, wherein Draco is an unrecognized truth teller à la Cassandra, I present to you a compilation of his greatest Care of Magical Creatures hits:

(from GoF, spoiler alert: there's no point to the skrewts)

(form GoF, Draco is reasonably risk-averse)

(from GoF, the inevitable conclusion to the skrewt saga)

Draco is vilified for hiding from a group of rampaging beasts (again, because coward=evil even when it's reasonable) even though he's not the only one who hides away (most of the class does) and it is generally implied by the narrative that Draco only criticises Hagrid because he's evil (because villains aren't allowed to be reasonable, even when they're right).

At this point I'd be remiss not to mention that, while Draco has some perfectly valid opinions regarding Hagrid's teaching skills, he at the same time also holds some truly shitty opinions on Hagrid as a person, some of which are no doubt courtesy of his father:

(from PS, Draco is speedrunning all the ways to get Harry to hate him on their first meeting)

Draco constantly refers to Hagrid as an oaf, like only evil people the likes of Filch, Riddle and Umbridge (and Phineas Nigellus's portrait, whose alignment is neutral evil at best) do.

(Interestingly, Hagrid is also the only person in the books to get the oaf moniker but that is neither here nor there.)

Of further note is the fact that Draco's relatively neutral opinion of Hagrid changes once Harry decides not to befriend him so some of his attitude could very well be caused by pettiness in a very "how dare you choose Ron Weasley over me" kind of way. Hagrid, after all, even gets a special mention in Draco's very first villain monologue

(from PS, Draco's very reasonable reaction to Harry's handshake snub)

Interestingly, Draco's opinion of Hagrid's half-giant status mirrors Ron's quite closely:

RON'S

DRACO'S

Ron doesn't seem to have terribly flattering views of magical beasts in general (in keeping with his everyman status, his opinions often mirror the general public's) but I still find it interesting. Also, note how ambivalent Draco seems to be about Hagrid's possibly dangerous nature, choosing to focus on likely reactions from the parents rather than on his own feelings.

In conclusion, Draco contains multitudes: he is often right when discussing Hagrid's teaching methods but he is also a dick and that lowers his general credibility. Speaking of teaching:

Hagrid is a terrible teacher

Non-Draco Malfoy people think Hagrid is a terrible teacher as well, though they are quickly shut down by Harry & co, (loyal to a fault even if they secretly agree) whenever this is mentioned:

(from GoF)

(also from GoF, though it's a sentiment Hermione expresses several times)

(from OotP)

Remember how I said that Harry and Ron themselves dislike Hagrid's classes? They (+ less unexpectedly Hermione) end up dropping the class as soon as they're able to, as apparently does the rest of their year:

(from HBP)

Hagrid, it seems, is such a bad teacher that he scared all the students from Harry's cohort off of the subject.

Hagrid can be surprisingly mean spirited

EXHIBIT A:

(from PS, during the Forbidden Forest scene)

Hagrid here is demonstrating a delightful melange of the reasons the Society dislikes him:

by choosing to take a bunch of ickle fristies to the Forbidden Forest with him (a forest he himself has called dangerous before, a forest he also described chasing Ron's siblings off of) Hagrid is showing his terrible risk assessment skills, which end up putting Harry (and Draco but mostly just Harry) in danger; Hagrid may not have known that Voldemort-as-Quirrell was gallivanting about the forest killing unicorns but he definitely knew someone was.

by behaving antagonistically towards Draco, an 11 y.o. he just met, Hagrid (the adult in a position of authority) is showing his tendency to see things in black and white. Draco is a Slytherin ( = evil) and also Lucius Malfoy's son (double evil), nevermind that Draco is actually in detention despite having followed the rules (in that he reported someone for having an illegal Dragon).

Speaking of, Hagrid knows there really was a dragon on Hogwarts grounds on account of he's the reason it came to be at Hogwarts in the first place. Harry & co. got in trouble for helping to rectify his mistake (and, in Neville's case, for trying to do Harry a solid) yet somehow he has the gall to say "yeh've done wrong an' now yeh've got ter pay fer it". I immensely dislike this, even if this is directed solely towards Draco, whom we're not supposed to like.

EXHIBIT B:

Speaking of incredible feats of inappropriate behaviour from Hagrid (an authority figure) towards Draco (his shitty student), here's this gem:

(from GoF, Hagrid's very reasonable response to Draco's understandable hesitance to spend his leisure time attending to the dreaded skrewts)

I know that Hogwarts teachers in general are not exactly known to be beacons of professionalism but that doesn't make Hagrid's threat un-shitty, it just puts him on the same level as noted bully Severus Snape (and also Fake Moody but at least he's got the Death Eater excuse).

5. CONCLUSION

A big reason why I find myself disliking Hagrid is that he's a perfect exemplification of jkr's shitty worldviews. As an author, she does this awful thing wherein a character's actions are only ever truly reprehensible if they're committed by a Bad Guy and I hate it in every single instance: Snape's treatment of Neville is just as bad as his grandma's, Dumbledore's shitty handing of Harry is not excused by his noble big-picture intentions, bullying is bad even when it's people you like that do it and femininity doesn't cease being problematic (jkr's worldview, not mine) when it's the not like other girls who practice it.

Ultimately, while I do acknowledge that there's nothing truly awful about Hagrid's character I still find myself disliking him, be it from irrational reasons (he's a Dumbledore fanboy) or from the reasons listed above. Still, I can't be the only one, right?

right?

#hp #hp meta #harry potter meta #the Blorger Special #the Hagrid Haters Society is currently recruiting #fun fact: Draco calls Hagrid “elephant man” once which implies he's somehow familiar with Joseph Merrick's life #did he see the movie?#apparently I overuse the term “shitty”

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childr3ns-book-bracket · 1 year ago

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Round 2 Poll 2

Coraline(Coraline) VS Kate Wetherall(The Mysterious Benedict Society)

Reminder to be nice, anyone who bullies me or others will be blocked immediately

#children's book character death battle #polls #tournament #children's book characters #round 2 #Coraline #Kate Wetherall #the mysterious benedict society #Kate The mysterious Benedict Society

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julessworldd · 1 year ago

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Hey babes! I finally got an idea that was too good to not waste. @valeskafics gave the inspo for this amazing thing 🫶🏻 love you wifey! Also @foxyanon for the tag

Warnings: cucking, age gap (reader is 19, Robb is 19, Jaime is in his 30s) pussy eating, fingering(F), oral(m and f), squirting, hair pulling, p in v, doggy, mentions of face fucking. Spanking, dubcon at first! , dom!robb 🥵 Mentions of beheading, war/battle, cussing. Theon being early season prev Theon(you’ll see) I probably messed a couple timeline things up. I’m not totally up to speed up to westerlands’ house: I didn’t want a westerling reader so house Swyft

I don’t own characters or rights of Game of Thrones, all credits for G.R.R and HBO. Enjoy besties 🫶🏻🫶🏻

A Lannister bride was today’s Targaryen marriage. The Lannisters were powerful and wealthy people. Even better if it was Lord Tywin’s son, Jaime. Tywin’s power bent the rule of a Kingsguard not taking a wife. Owning lands, fathering children. For that Swyft lord’s daughter Y/n it was a dream come true. She remembers seeing Jaime at a tourney at the rock. He was 17 and she was merely a preteen. But she was dead set on marrying the lion.

Y/n’s wish had came true, she married Jaime Lannister, former Kingsguard, son of the mighty Tywin. She loved life at the rock, gold, nice dresses. Better yet custom dresses that the fabric came from the Narrow Sea. A handsome lord husband, who loved to make her scream until his name was the only thing she knew. Jaime had ruined her for other men, especially since he was well blessed below in the belt. And knew how to pleasure her before his own needs.

After the death of King Robert, the realm had 4 kings who thought they were the true king. One was a Stark, the late Lord Eddard Stark’s son, Robb. He was around Y/n’s age, she was merely 19 after this spring. King Joffrey declared war on all the kings, Robb was moving south. He was apparently near the trident, that was close enough for her husband to pick up and head to battle. After a king screaming match, Y/n was with her husband. She made a promise to stay out of the way and let him ride to battle. Jaime was gone as he went after the Stark army, Y/n stayed like always.

Y/n was reading a book when the tent flap moved and revealed a Stark bannermen. Y/n’s chest tightened as she locked eyes with the bannermen. She tried reaching for the blade Jaime had given her. But she was thrown over the bearded man’s shoulder. Soon enough Y/n was carried to the Stark’s camp, she seen her husband. He was dirty, dirt had hidden his golden hair. He was tied up and had a chain around his neck. Her heart broke for her husband, he was so good at battle how did he get captured? Especially by someone who is three years younger his wife.

“Your Grace, I got Ser Jaime’s wife. What should I do with her?” The bannermen asked as he held her arm

“Leave her in my tent, she’ll forget about her lion after she has me in her cunt” Theon smirked as he checked her out

“Theon, she’s a lady no matter whose house she married in. Set her up a tent near mine” Robb said “Leave her with me”

The bannermen let go of her arm, Jaime was so pissed he didn’t say anything as he was dragged away. He thinking of ways to kill the foul mouthed Greyjoy. How dare he talk to his darling like that.

“What’s a lady doing in her husband’s war camp?” Robb asked

Y/n rolled her eyes “Whats a Stark doing riding south? Don’t you remember what happened to your grandfather, uncle and recently your father. King Joffery surely knows what he’s doing to do to you”

“Mouthy little thing” Robb smirked

“Fuck you” Y/n said, she had to restrain herself from spitting on him.

***************************

It had been a few days since she had seen Jaime, she missed him. Missed his voice, his scent, how his hands felt on her waist. Everytime someone brought her food she begged to see Jaime. They ignored her. Theon asked what’s so good about the lion. She told him his cock and how he stretched her. Theon rolled his eyes and left.

A direwolf walked in her tent, she crawled to the corner of her cot. She had her knees to her chest

“Good wolf. Yeah, you. Go on I don’t have anything” she said trying not to sound scared.

“Greywind” Robb snapped his fingers and made the wolf sit the entrance.

“King in North” Y/n rolled her eyes

“Lady Lannister” Robb smirked

“I want to see my husband, please” Y/n sighed

“I’ll let you see him but on one condition, love” Robb said sitting on the cot by her feet

“What’s that? My family rides for Lannisters not Stark men” Y/n told the auburn haired king

“I want my way with you, but I want him to watch” Robb said rubbing Y/n’s foot

“Him who?” She asked

Rob was surprised she asked who instead of being offended and declaring her cunt for her Jaime only.

“Your husband, of course. I need answers and he hasn’t gave any so far. Seeing you beg for my cock will surely get to him crack” Robb said

“No! I’d rather you kill me than you fuck me” Y/n gasped

“I seen a Swyft flag this morning, a man looked like you. Is that your brother?” Robb asked

“Ryan, he’s my older brother. One of my father’s heir” Y/n said

“If you don’t let me do what I want, I’ll kill him and I’ll have you watch” Robb said

“Fine fine. Have him brought here, I don’t want the other prisoners seeing me like that or your men. Please” Y/n pleaded

“Well we think a lot a like, lady. Theon, bring the kingslayer in” Robb yelled over his shoulder

“Your Grace” Theon said before winking at Y/n before leaving

Y/n seen Jaime and got off the cot. She took in his appearance, he was practically buried in dirt. He had scruff, he looked exhausted. Old worn clothes, his hands chained behind his back. Y/n hugged him, Jaime leaned his head on her shoulder.

“My poor lion” Y/n muttered as she kissed his forehead as she stood on her tip toes

“Just let him do this twisted thing. Once I get out of here, it will be behind us, my sweet girl” Jaime whispered

Y/n looked at him but shook her yes. She led Jaime to a chair by the cot. Robb was still on her cot as he smirked. He patted his thigh, Y/n cringed as she looked over at Jaime. Jaime nodded his head signaling her to do what Robb wanted her to do.

Y/n climbed on Robb’s lap, the wolf wrapped his arms around her as he turned her to face him only. Her back towards Jaime, Robb squeezed her ass. He yanked her down by her hair and kissed her. Y/n had tears down her cheeks as she kissed him back.

Suddenly Robb had her dress off and pushed her on her back. Robb had her naked as he forced his shoulders between her thighs as he dipped his head to her cunt. Y/n whined as she felt Robb’s hot tongue tracing her hole. It had been a week since she had been touched. Jaime fucked her four times or more a week, he fucked her hard the morning he left the Lannister camp. Robb was eating her like a mad man, he rubbed her clit in tight circles with his finger.

She moaned as she grinded her pussy on his face as he licked her clit down to her asshole. Robb moaned, feeling her sweet cunt on him. Her stomach tightened as she came, her thighs wrapped around Robb’s head. Her hands clenched his auburn curls. Jaime was half hard from Y/n’s whines and seeing cum ooze out of her as Robb raised up.

Robb smirked as he turned his head towards Jaime. He gently raised Y/n up to his chest before stripping down. Y/n’s eyes flickered to Jaime, Jaime gave her a reassuring smile. Robb gently grabbed her jaw to kiss her, this time she clutched her fingers in his hair. Robb had snuck his fingers down to her hole, one finger rubbed the outside. He plunged his two fingers into her weeping cunt. Y/n moaned against his lips.

After making her cum again, Robb released his fingers. Licking them off, he flipped Y/n to her stomach. She was facing Jaime as Robb grabbed her hips. Bringing her ass up, he gave her soft cheeks a couple snacks. Y/n wanted to turn around and slap his face. That was one thing Jaime never did even do for teasing. His punishment was usually face fucking her and throat training her despite her whins. Oddly enough Y/n liked it when Robb slapped her ass, she felt herself clenched around nothing.

“I’ll show you why your father should have sent you to Winterfell instead of that ugly rock” Robb teased her clit

Y/n bit her lip to hide how she was enjoying this. Being fucked by another man while her beloved watched. Jaime however was slowly losing his cool. Y/n was his wife, her pussy was his nobody else’s, her body was something for him to cherish and push her boundaries of pleasure.

Robb finally entered Y/n and he was bigger and thicker than Jaime. Y/n moaned it had been a bit too long to not be filled. She missed cockwarming Jaime, but Robb found new areas to touch. Felt like he was going to rip her into two. Robb slammed his hips against her ass repeatedly, her moans were so sweet. Her cunt was tight, warm and kept him snug, Robb loved. He thought it was worth killing Jaime and having Tywin Lannister kill him for it. Your cunt was sweet but maybe not worth his sisters and family being killed.

Y/n moaned as Robb grabbed her by her long hair making her look back at him. Her eyes meeting his Tully blue eyes, a couple whins falling out of her plump lips. Robb stuck two of his fingers in her mouth. The same ones that fucked her cunt in front of her husband moments ago. She could faintly taste herself on his fingers. She swirled her tongue around his dights, Robb smirked.

“Guess Kingslayer did good, training you. The perfect lady wife, gorgeous body with a sweet cunt” Robb rammed into her

She wanted to knock his stupid teeth out for calling Jaime that. She was the only one who knew why Jaime did it. She agreed with him, sometimes betraying someone will help innocent people live another day. But that was soon forgotten as she came around Robb’s cock. Except he didn’t stop his thrusts until she squirted. He let go of her hair and she fell into the cot, she silently moaned as she came down from her hair.

Damn maybe her father should have sent her North cause Jaime never made her do that. Jaime! It hit her, he was there and witnessed the whole thing. She looked up as Jaime was fuming , his fits were clenched as his chest heaved. Robb chuckled as he seen the kingslayer’s reaction

“Theon! Take Ser Jaime back to his cell” Robb called his friend.

Theon walked in, Y/n saw his hard cock in his pants. Theon grabbed Jaime’s arm as he walked out of her tent.

Robb stood up getting dressed

Y/n watched as Theon was across camp

“You never asked him anything”

“I was going to but the gods blessed you with the best cunt the realm has had. Forgive me for being distracted, my lady” Robb smirked as groped her breast.

“He’s never made me do that” Y/n smirked

“That’s a shame, my lady” Robb said

Y/n crawled off the bed as she stopped in front of Robb. Running her hands down his thighs “Can I tell you thank you?”

“At once” Robb snapped his fingers like he did at Greywind

“Not a dog”

“No, but you did let the wolf have his way with you. After all you are a lions wife, maybe” Robb smirked

Y/n looked up at him and cocked her eyebrows. Robb had a point, a very valid one. How could she ever lay with Jaime without feeling guilty about this night. Of course if Robb released Jaime and her.

#robb stark x reader #jaime lannister x reader #Jaime x Robb x reader #jaime lannister fic #robb stark smut

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gillyeowalters · 1 month ago

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So yeah, I did this. But so far, it's not smutty nor really funny. It is more of a character study for my two favorite himbos and for my homebrew chapter, the Grove Slivers.

It is also machine translated in parts, and I wasn't able to find all English words for certain W40k terms and had to guess.

PART II:

Ignorance

The light from the lumens on the ceiling of the Arboreum barely broke through the canopy of the sapling. The more the Worldkeeper's only remaining seed grew, the darker and denser the shadows beneath its heavy branches became.

As Darius sat in the dappled twilight of the tree, his bare heels pressed into the damp, mossy earth, he was reminded of his early childhood. Back then, almost two centuries ago, he had sat with the other children of the Madare family on a root sprout of the Worldkeeper while their teacher scratched the patterns of harvest cycles into the still soft young bark.

Like now, Darius preferred to sit in the deeper shadows back then, afraid the teacher might embarrass him with a question he didn't know the answer to. Now it was no longer the old, sun-scarred man but his battle-brothers he was afraid of exposing himself through ignorance. A thoroughly irrational thought, Darius knew that himself.

And yet he had retreated with the source of his frustrations to where he thought himself unobserved.

In his hands, the book seemed almost tiny and the wafer-thin paper threatened to tear under his fingers. On the pages he found the writing of his home planet, which formed words, which in turn formed sentences. It was not the reading that caused him difficulties, but the understanding of the images that these sentences brought to his mind.

They described things that made no sense to him. Behavior that seemed nonsensical to him.

But Darius was stubborn. When this trait came up in conversation, many of his brothers liked to talk about how it was part of the gene-seed each of them had received. Darius' mother would certainly have thought differently.

And so, for well over a week, he had wasted the few free hours he had on deciphering the contents of the cryptic work.

They described things that made no sense to him. Behavior that seemed nonsensical to him.

And so, for well over a week, he had wasted the few free hours he had on deciphering the contents of the cryptic work.

‘‘In the arms of the fisherman - exhilarating and inspiring romantic stories from the northern coast’ - a rather strange read you have chosen.’ Of all the voices in the Arboreum, the one he least wanted to hear reached Darius' ears. Darius slammed the book shut, only to realise that he was revealing the scantily clad figures on the cover. Something in him found the depiction highly dubious. Perhaps it was the facial expression depicted, which Darius could only read as ‘deeply suffering’. Green eyes scrutinised the picture, then him. Urian Palatis had belonged to the same group of chosen boys as Darius. They both carried the same honour and burden, yet they had never met eye to eye. Urian's family tended the plant gardens in the outer districts, where the canopy thinned and the sun's merciless rays began to be felt. Unlike the Madare, who harvested mushrooms from the bark of the Worldkeeper in damp darkness, Urian's skin looked warm and vibrant, even if it lacked colour. The Palatis spoke quickly and in a dialect that Darius barely understood. But linguistic understanding should not be what hindered their communication- High Gothic soon replaced the soft-sounding Lughenese vocabulary of the young men and it soon became clear, even just by observing them, that Urian was an outsider even among his own. The other boys found their pastime in mockingly imitating Urian's melancholic and often vacant look. Of course, the relentless training and rigorous conditioning soon drove them out of such nonsense. And yet Urian was to remain an outsider in his own way. It soon became clear that he was not only constantly scrutinised by his peers, but also by those who were supposed to assess the abilities of the young aspirants.

One evening, Urian hadn't shown up in the dining room.

They had all had to endure grueling tests that day and Darius had been too exhausted to notice anything. But some of the other boys had seen how Urian had been pulled aside by a Battle-Brother. It hadn't been Brother Aderan, who was usually responsible for examining the aspirants, but someone they had never seen before.

No one knew what had happened to their comrade; Urian was not known for causing trouble and his performance in the physical exams was always good or even outstanding.

Although no one really missed the strange boy, his disappearance still caused uncertainty - fear spread that one evening they would not return to the others themself.

Two weeks later, Urian suddenly reappeared at morning training. He stepped into the ring as if he had never been missing and he didn't mention his disappearance at all. But something had obviously changed about him. He looked haggard and his light-colored hair had been shaved off. But it was his eyes that Darius noticed first. They were focused, alert and unyielding. Whereas earlier the others had mockingly and deliberately placed themselves in his field of vision to provoke a reaction, now they avoided being looked at by him even in passing.

Because now it was clear what emptiness he had been staring into in his quiet moments.

And as long as it had not been driven out of them, the knowledge that Urian could use the abilities of that very void brought fear to their minds.

Even now, centuries after fear had been banished from his bones, Darius felt uncomfortable around the librarian. No one knew exactly what he was seeing, and it could not be a coincidence that he was haunting him right now while he was plagued by self-doubt.

"I don't think that this kind of book falls within your remit, librarian." Darius squirmed inwardly; he knew it would be difficult to get rid of Urian. And to his chagrin, the psyker then sank down next to him on the mossy floor.

"I have to agree with you, Darius. But I wonder how you came to be in possession of such a tome."

Urian leaned forward to take a closer look at the book. Darius could see the Shatterbark scars winding like vines over the man's shaven head.

"Your interest in this book puzzles me, Brother Urian," Darius replied. Unconsciously, he moved away from the librarian. "Unless you want to tell me that this trash belongs in our time-honored Phenologium."

Urian sat up and looked Darius straight in the face. His gaze seemed to bore directly through the other's pupils into his brain.Then the Grove Slivers librarian turned away and the scraping in Darius' eyeballs stopped. "I'm not interested in the book. I'm much more interested in why you're interested in it."

Darius sighed. Urian once again proved his ability to turn any conversation with him into an unpleasantness.

Especially since Darius had to admit to himself that he didn't have a good answer to the question himself.

"The book turned up on a bench outside my premises a week ago."

The psyker didn't look at him, but he raised his eyebrows briefly. "You're saying that one of the serfs was careless and left it there." When Darius didn't answer him, he added in a worried voice, "Please tell me you don't think the book found its way to you by unnatural means."

"Of course not." The indignation was clear in his reply. A little too clearly.

"So you're wasting your quiet time poring over this thing as if it were an artifact. Why? You wouldn't waste your time on something like this otherwise."

The librarian was right; Darius was not known to be particularly fond of reading.

"It frustrates me," he finally admitted. "I don't understand it."

"You...don't understand it." Once again, Urian looked directly at him, but this time his gaze lacked the piercing sharpness. Instead, it reminded him of his mother's when he had once again failed at a simple household task.

"Brother. As the cover says; it's a collection of romantic short stories. What's not to understand? I'm sure you made fun of your older relatives as a child when they held one of these books in their hands."

Darius had noticed the scratching in his head too late. He turned away with a jerk and clenched his teeth until the sound of his blood drowned out the hated noise.

In some chapters, the harsh conditioning made the Astartes forget their lives before their calling altogether.

The memories of the Grove Slivers, on the other hand, were so deeply rooted in them that even the chapter's elders were largely aware of their childhood. It was both a blessing and a curse. On the one hand, it constantly reminded them of what they were fighting for; on the other, it gave people like Urian the opportunity to chip away at their memories until they were sore and open to doubt.

Darius gave the psyker a disdainful look. This was answered by a mindless smile, which didn't help Darius' mood.

"If you're so familiar with this kind of material, why don't you spend some time with it? Maybe then you can understand my frustration."

He pressed the book into Urian's hand and made his way out of the Arboreum without further comment.

Calm spread through him, pure relief at having just got rid of two frustrating things at once. At least for a while.

#giwa:others #warhammer 40k #warhammer 40000 #space marine #space marines #fanfic #warhammer 40k fanfic

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great-axepectations · 2 years ago

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Imagine you watch these family friendly minecraft youtubers. Not necessarily for children, but it's wholesome entertainment for all ages. Then they say "hey, we're going to start a quick little hardcore series! Three lives and you're out!" And you think "ok yeah this sounds fun, I'll watch it."

And it is silly goofy funtimes! The first death is hilarious, and it's still the good clean fun you're used to. As it goes on, the dynamics between characters are getting interesting and more people are losing lives but it's still lighthearted fun.

AND THEN SUDDENLY IT'S GAME OF THRONES

Loyalty is sworn through blood oaths. Armies are assembled. There are epic large-scale battles. People are dying off for real and it's actually really impactful. One of them is roleplaying his grief so convincingly that his friends think something is wrong irl. There are deep, heart-wrenching betrayals that players are actually devastated by. None of this is scripted, by the way. All of the character arcs, narrative foils, and foreshadowing was completely organic and by accident.

AND THEN THE ENDING

So you know at the end of the first Hunger Games book where the two who have been together from the beginning have won, and the megalomaniacal evil game runners expect them to kill each other, but they find a way out of it? Instead of the game runners demanding they kill each other, it's the ghosts of all of their dead friends and enemies screaming for their blood. And instead of finding a way out of it, the last two go back to the burned-out remains of their home and reluctantly punch each other to death. And the whole time they're laughing and crying and apologizing to each other, and the winner is immediately so overcome with grief that he throws himself off a cliff to his death.

AND THEN THEY ALL GO BACK TO MAKING THEIR WHOLESOME FAMILY-FRIENDLY MINECRAFT CONTENT

LIKE SORRY I'M SUPPOSED TO BE NORMAL AFTER THAT???

#I wrote this because I heard some people didn't watch 3rd life live so I wanted to sum up the experience #or to explain it to a complete outsider #3rd life smp #3rd life #trafficblr

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cantheywinthehungergames · 9 months ago

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The Hunger Games is a series of books by Suzanne Collins then adapted into movies. The Hunger Games event involves 24 children aged 12-18 being drafted to a televised battle royale. Of course, this death match doesn't just involve killing other tributes, but survival skills, likeability, and celebrity. Now, for the big question: Could your blorbo survive and win the Hunger Games? It is up to YOU to decide!

Rules for Submitting Tributes (Currently Open!):

The character MUST be 12-18 years old. If your character's age is unknown but is implied to be teenaged (ex. being in middle school or high school), then they are allowed for submission. If there is an arc or flashback where your character is VISIBLY within the 12-18 age range, then they are allowed for submission. If your character is chronologically old but is physically and biologically within this age range, then they are allowed for submission. However, if your character is biologically older than they appear (ex. an 18-year-old character that is regressed to appear younger than 12), then they are not allowed for submission.

Human characters only. Robots, monsters, anthropomorphic animals, and the like are not allowed simply because it's kinda silly to imagine them in the Hunger Games. Humanoid characters makes things confusing on whether certain abilities are natural (in the case of characters that are part human, part animal) or if I should restrict physical traits such as height (in the case of Spiller from The Secret World of Arrietty for example where he's inches tall but otherwise human), so no humanoid characters either. However, human clones are acceptable for submission.

Fictional characters only. I think we can agree that it would be kind of fucked up to imagine real kids in the Hunger Games, yeah? To expand on this, you can submit your OC's but do not submit random people's OC's without their consent. If you do submit an OC, be prepared to provide propaganda on why they could or could not win as well as a picture of the OC.

While the Hunger Games tributes focus specifically on cisgender boys and girls, transgender and non-binary characters ARE allowed for submission.

No Harry Potter or Dream SMP characters. This blog does not associate with J.K. Rowling's explicit transphobia or the whole shitshow that is known as Dream SMP.

Characters with superpowers and unique weapons are allowed for submission, but I will remove them and force the blorbos to use the real-world weapons supplied in the Hunger Games arena. If you can specify what superpowers and unique weapons your blorbos have in your submission, I'd appreciate it.

You can submit more than one character, but do understand that that there are other people who are waiting for their submissions to be posted and that I may not always have time to get your posts in the queue. As such, please be courteous! Furthermore, please do not submit the same character multiple times and please do not put multiple characters in a single submission.

I also accept submissions for 19+ aged characters to act as mentors, and their polls will be posted every Saturday. The rules are the same as submitting tributes except that the characters acting as mentors must be at least 19 years old.

As it stands, I have 0 tributes, 6 mentors, and 4 special posts queued, so please do submit! You can do so with this Google Form.

Originally, I had it so that I have up to 12 posts on any single day, but I now just accept 2 characters daily whenever I open submissions. If I, at any point, have about 2 months worth of tribute polls in queue, I will close submissions until they are all posted.

List of Previously Submitted Characters

With everything said, Happy Hunger Games! And may the odds be ever in your favor.

Inspired by blogs @cantheysurvive2001aspaceodyssey, @cantheykillmacbeth, @couldtheycatchkira, and @couldtheysurviveasawtrap

Other gimmick blogs of mention: @could-they-be-a-pro-wrestler, @couldtheyescortelliewilliams, @can-they-lift-thors-hammer, @wouldtheybecomeafearavatar, @can-they-assemble-ikea-furniture

#cantheywinthehungergames #the hunger games #hunger games #thg #thg series

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roseglazedlens · 1 year ago

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⦑ seeking the light ⦒ ✧.*

NANAMI KENTO X FEM! READER SYNOPSIS: Nanami receives his final wish before passing, with you by his side in Kuantan, Malaysia. CONTENT: character death. SMUT MDNI. S2E18. hurt/comfort, unprotected p in v, oral (f! receiving), body worship (lots), missionary, slow sex, light choking, pet names (darling). briefly mentions haibara, gojo. A/N: nanami girlies, hope you guys are recovering (i am still struggling rn)... sending you all hugs and a care package. « 3.3 k words | masterlist | ao3 | reblogs appreciated! »

A body moves on its own accord in its nature to protect. For Nanami, it comes with a cost this time. Even now, at his final breath, even when his numbed, scorched body pleads otherwise, fractured beyond repairable, Nanami chooses someone else’s life over his. There isn’t a doubt about this choice in his mind. All this fighting, all this suffering, this sacrifice—it was for someone worthwhile. For a generation with bright futures ahead of them, not meant for battles like these.

Nanami doesn’t see his act as a virtuous gesture. After all, this is his job, and protecting children is his duty. Perhaps part of him thinks he a coward to stand compliantly and let Mahito end his life, taking the easy way out.

His only regret—not being able to say goodbye to you. Even when all that remains is a silver of consciousness, you are his last memory. He thinks about how you are praying and waiting for his safe return at home, hating himself for not being able to give you the simplest things in life.

“Nanamin…”

In his hazy mist, he hears Itadori’s voice. Lost of vigor, echoing through the isolated platform of Shibuya station with the two of them burrowed deep in this mess. Poor child, he’s about to cry. That’s not a good look on a young man like him.

“Itadori-kun… You’ve got it from here.”

His eyelids are forced to close as the pain becomes unbearable, embracing the cold blackness behind his eyes.

But in that darkness, Nanami isn’t alone.

Rays of light catches up to him, scorching the path ahead of him: burning, igniting, freeing. It illuminates a straight road that leads him into the end of darkness. Nanami had never seen this road in his life, but when he did just now, for some reason, an overwhelming urge makes him walk down this path.

As he tries to walk, something behind his ear cries out his name, asking him to close his eyes once more. Something in him obliges to do so.

…

“Kento?” Someone calls out.

There are sounds of children giggling away, adults conversing casually in another language accompanied by tunes from local street performances. And most prominently, Nanami hears the waves, rhythmically resonates when it crashes against the shore. He blinks open his eyes.

Light sharply enters his sight, wincing, shielding his face with a risen hand. A shadowed figure stands in front of his sight, slowly becoming apparent as his eyes adjust to the light.

And it’s you, clutching a smile on your face. Your hair catches sun streaks in beachy strands, cheeks sparkle with sand speckles that illuminates your face in some kind of holy light. The clouds, voices and shore freeze when you giggle in your own little world.

“Darling...?” He speaks hollowly as if this is just a memory, fearing that it is, that means it’s all over for real. “Where—am I?”

The world moves again, sounds beginning to rise up into murmured chatter, and his gaze raises in line with the horizon where the sky meets the sea, looking into the deep blue beyond.

“By the beach, sleepyhead. The book’s no good?” You giggle once more, but this time the world doesn’t stop with you.

Nanami has a finger prop up a page in an opened book. He finds himself wearing a tropical button up and pants sitting on an inflatable chair with sand between his toes. “I guess not.”

He doesn’t remember when he got here or how he got here. But Nanami knows exactly where this place is. A famous beach in the east coast of Kuantan, Malaysia—Teluk Cempedak. He saw this view on a magazine once and told himself he would travel here on his day off. That was two years ago. So this is what it looks like in person?

“Did I sleep for long?” He asks.

“Long enough for me to get the both of us something to eat.” You say as you pass an ice cream cone to him. He turns to grab it, and when he does, Nanami’s neck snaps to the seat next to him. A monkey sits comfortably by his side with its grin stretched wide, surprising him so much he drops the ice cream onto the hot sand.

Nanami hears a few tiny click of shutters as both the monkey and you giggle in unison. The camera lens point directly at him.

“You got me. Very funny now.” Nanami sighs, but behind that irritated frown, there is a smile that he reserves only in your presence.

On cue, the monkey reaches over you as you try to enjoy your ice cream, snatches it off your hands, and escapes across the beach.

The two of you stand in shock for a moment, staring at each other, before bursting into quiet smirks and giggles. When the laughter subsides, Nanami brings you close, landing a kiss on your soft lips. He sees his own reflection in the glaze of your eyes, and he realises he haven’t seen himself so carefree in a long time, especially not since he went to Shibuya.

“So, does that mean you won’t make me delete the photos?”

“Since I’m in a good mood, I’ll let you keep it this time.” He says, then corrects himself as you light up. “As long as Gojo doesn’t get his hands on it.”

“What’s he going to do with a picture or two?” You play with your phone, nervously fumbling the screen.

“Knowing that guy, blackmail. Probably.”

“Well… please don’t get mad at me.”

That is when something dings in his pocket consecutively. He reaches for his phone, and he sees the name Gojo Satoru on his screen, spamming rows of laughing emojis.

“I’m sorry! Gojo already saved it. I can’t unsend it anymore.” You whisper, retreating with your head hang low.

Nanami sighs again, but this time with forgiveness. It doesn’t matter to Nanami anyway. Small things doesn’t matter when he’s with you. He kisses your lips to reassure you. “That’s okay. You’re okay. I’m not really upset.”

And it is at this moment, you can hear a roar of music in the background. Some local nostalgic tune, even if he had never heard this song before. Nanami’s feet taps to the beat of rhythm, and an idea surfaces in his head.

“My lady.” He stands to lean his torso into you, mesmerizingly gentleman. “May I have this dance?”

You hesitate at first, an onslaught of eyes staring at his bold gesture in the middle of a fairly crowded beach. Nanami looks up at you, his drooping eyelids and focused gaze only makes him ever the more persuasive. His charms can’t be denied. Reluctantly, you reach for his hand.

Nanami immediately pulls you in to a dance. Jiving through the sand forming love trails with your bare feet, letting the humid wind sweep and sway through the air. He spins you with a raised hand, and when you do, you notice the many pair of eyes on you, momentarily embarrassed.

“They’re watching, Kento…” You whisper.

“Let them watch.” He whispers back into your ear.

It starts with lively children weaving through the crowd to find the lone couple dancing. They punch their fists clumsily in the air, people cheering and awwing, and suddenly, more people joins, forming a circle. Dancing without any concern of the world. A conga line forms, and the crowd livens in cheers and chants when the two of you leaves the dance circle.

“Look what you’ve done.” You say.

“You know I am only charming when I’m not at work.”

He picks up his phone, finding almost ten texts from Gojo with his face Photoshopped in different memes. You laugh at some of them, even though Nanami seem annoyed. He powers down his phone before you get to see more, in case it gives you any ideas.

“That’s it. No more work texts on vacation. This trip is about us, and I’ll make sure you have a great time.”

And so he did. He took you to the best curry mee in town, and you had a sip of your teh tarik while overlooking onto the tide. He teases you with a tired loving smile over how you gawk at your food as you eat the kampung delicacies. Something you two would never have eaten in Japan, or Denmark, when he brings you home to meet his grandfather—and shows you that he intends to marry you.

But that’s not just all of his plans. Kuantan has much bigger delights than just the countryside; you took a taxi to all these places that Nanami briefly saw in a magazine. He tries painting batiks (and finds out it’s harder than it looks), walking and admiring local vendors, shop displays until it’s time for dinner again and you had the loveliest Nyonya style seafood that fuses between two cultures.

As the sun sets, there is one final spot Nanami wants to take you. You see the big Kuantan sign as you take a high speed elevator all the way to the top of the Skydeck. And it’s just you and him alone in the breeze of the night, watching streets light up with traffic, illuminating into the same horizon as before.

“Thank you for making my last day memorable.” He speaks into the deep dark sky, not a moon or star in sight.

And at that moment, you know he realises that none of this is real. That his body—or whatever’s left of it—is still back at Shibuya. But for whatever reason, even when he knows he’s already dead, Nanami is smiling. His blond hair reminds you of the moon hanging high in the sky, shining brighter than any spark of light on the streets.

“Mm-hm.” You reply, no other words needed.

Nanami’s arms come around your waist, pulling you close to him, until your bodies connect as one. He leans his head on top of yours, and breathes in your scent, your bashful reciprocation, and all of you that he will most definitely miss.

“Hey.” Nanami says, barely louder than a cricket. “I have one last request.”

“Yeah?”

“I want to taste you one last time.”

The two of you scramble through the linoleum flooring, giggling through the hotel lobby as you share private jokes between each other without a care for the world. Passerbys wonder: ‘I wonder if they’re on a honeymoon’. And it doesn’t matter if it’s the beginning or many nights, or the end of them, your love for each other remains just as passionate.

When Nanami touches the key pass against his door, you try to push him in while he’s distracted, but he smirks at your boldness, but ultimately he turns you around to kiss you instead. He likes how you try even if it always ends with him turning the tables on you, kissing you while his whole body pins you against the hard wall.

He kisses you with the same fervour as he did the first night you spent together in the bedroom, and even after many years together, that doesn’t change.

Nanami helps you out of your clothes, one article at a time, savouring the look of you with each piece undressed, until you lay stark naked in front of him. He removes his glasses to place them against a bedside table, then he gets to work.

Guiding you to plop your hips onto the edge of the bed, Nanami positions himself on his knees to face you. He nudges your legs to open first, and he can’t help but fall in love again with how beautiful you look down there. His instinct is to put your bud in his mouth, and a cold rush of shiver frights you on your lower body. Your fingers curl slightly in reaction to his forwardness.

“Sorry to keep you waiting. I’ll make it up to you, I promise.” Nanami smirks, kissing on your clit a few more times before his tongue peeks out, tasting at your delicate bud. He does that for a few minutes, varying the intensity and speed to edge you until it fizzes your lower body. Occasionally, if he thinks you sound cute, he’ll impress you by pressing down his tongue on your clit that makes your fingers curl and uncurl over and over. “You like this?” Nanami asks innocently.

Oh, he knows that you do. But of course, Nanami likes hearing you confess his charms from your own mouth.

“Kento…” You lower your voice. “I love everything you do. That goes without saying.”

He hums, satisfied by your obedience.

“Now do th-that thing you always d-do, please…”

“As you wish, darling.”

Nanami loves to satisfy you, loves to obey you and make him yours. He takes your bud in his mouth, his tongue inside, circling along your clit while his middle finger dips in your wet coated slit. Long finger curls to meet your g-spot with ease, moving only his last knuckle on his hand so he can repeatedly rap at your sensitive spot until your whole body feels drowned in your own pleasure.

“Oh god…”

His tongue darts out in quick succession, letting the needy bud smack against the tip of his tongue until it grows swollen and sensitive to the touch. Nanami wonders if you are enjoying yourself until he hears a weak noise, back arching, cunt pulsing as the pleasure lightly tips you off the edge like a gentle ripple.

“H-Hey, that’s enough.” You say through huffed breaths.

“Five more minutes.” Nanami says, his breath just as uneasy.

You hesitate. “One.”

“Fine by me.”

Every passing of his tongue on you can’t seem to satiate him, he laps at your taste over and over again. Until foams of saliva bubble over your wet clit and you are soaking under his finger. His chin coats wet with you, with how delicious you are, but he doesn’t mind one bit of the mess. Taking his time is his priority.

“Nnh.” Just like he promised, almost sixty seconds later, he parts himself away through a throaty huff, withdrawing himself to lick his lips clean and wiping streaks of drool from his face with the back of his wrist.

Nanami moves in quickly for another kiss on your lips, and you respond with equal enthusiasm. He shuffles you backwards to accommodate him to enter the bed, lips bound together through the awkward motions. Naturally, you prop your legs on top of his thighs, and you feel his length taking advantage of you without obstructions, closing the distance until his tip meets you at your entrance.

He guides your torso flat against the bed through the firm pad of his palm, pressing them up form your pelvis all the way to your belly, your chest, your collarbone…

He stops moving. “How hard do you want it this time?”

“Hard.”

“As you wish, my darling.”

His left hand continues upwards to find your neck, curling around the circumference of your neck. Some pressure is applied, and you roll your eyes back. Gentle at first, until you’re comfortable with his hand, he settles his tip inside of you. Quiet grunts leave his body as he puts you in missionary, overcome by the need to probe at you further until he feels all of himself buried.

But he restrains, for your sake. Nanami knows, with his size, bottoming out in one go only hurts you more. So he takes his time when he does so, easing himself in and fucks you with the intent to make eternal love, letting him continue this dreamlike state that will soon come to an end.

“You’re gorgeous…” He grunts, simply gazing at you, into your heart and into your soul. You do the same, admiring all his worn-out features relax like creased fabric undoing in the presence of you.

Nanami blinks away a watery glimmer between the speckles of his eyes, hoping you didn’t see it even though you did, and moves again.

Throughout the whole time, he only wants to stare at you, think of you through the burning sensation in his body that continues to remind him his time is almost up. But that doesn’t deter him, in fact, it only makes him want to take as long as the both of you need with no urge to climax hastily.

Each part of this is an experience, one final pleasure before the curse of reality hits them. You, in front of him, probably isn’t real. But it feels so real. It feels like Nanami has been granted his final wish. You, and this lovely scenery.

Soft, sensual pulses throb below you in a flowing state, crashing like the low tide on the evening beach, just like the view outside your fancy hotel window. Until the orgasm comes, in due time, through the labour of his efforts. How Nanami comes down to kiss you in gratitude as come spills inside of you, and the both of you grin into the kiss.

As you snuggle under the sheets next to Nanami, he brings his arm around your belly, grazing, pressing, worshipping—that this is the last time his hands will feel the warm plush again.

“I don’t want this night to over.” You mumble weakly.

He pulls you in with a hand that weighs a thousand of thoughts in his mind.

“I know, darling. I know.”

He sees himself in your eyes for the final time. Looking through the clearness, Nanami’s real body, burned and bruised on one half. Yet you still look at him with eyes that would stay by his side forever.

But this is not your time yet.

You blink back the tears, a rainfall along your cheek. He brushes it away with a look of yearning.

“Promise me you’ll have a good life, darling.”

You nod, unable to say anything else, knowing the tears will return if you do. Between you two, no words are needed. He can read you, and you can read him without any words uttered. Reaching for his jaw at first, you graze your fingers along Nanami’s cheek, and rests his eyes to a close. He mouths something inaudibly in his sleep before he departs.

You do the same, but he can’t see you.

...

Nanami opens his eyes in the middle of nowhere. He fell asleep at a bus stop sitting afloat above the sea’s surface. He sees now, the same path as before, ablaze above the sea levels, leading into the horizon where the sun falls into evening glory. At the start of the road, stands a figure.

Yooo, Nanamin. There you are!

The blinding lights on the path dims when the figure takes big, energised strides towards Nanami. Upon closer inspection, it’s a man in uniform. He has a distinct lean of someone he used to know a long time ago.

“Haibara?” Nanami asks.

Long time no see, bud. You don’t have to suffer anymore.

What is this feeling? Overwhelming pain, or relief when meeting a long, lost friend? There is so much Nanami wants to say he doesn’t know where to begin.

That he should have been stronger ten years ago, should have rescued Haibara in a battle beyond both their abilities even though he was just a kid. How he spent the rest of his life repenting, dedicating himself to protect the children who didn’t deserve to be in war. How he tried and failed and made it here…

… but none of that matters anymore after death.

Nanami jumps into his arms, bringing Haibara into his tight embrace. He hugs back. Nanami closes his eyes when he feels a sting behind his cheeks, then opens it again with newfound determination. Haibara bellows a laugh, pointing at Nanami’s reddened eyes which he fails to rub away.

Let’s head on to the other side, shall we?

Nanami nods. And they walk forward, side by side, towards the end of the path. He knows it’s all going to be all okay.

thanks for reading! come check out my other works. —yours truly, rose. ITINERARY: > Teluk Cempedak > Lunch (Hoi Yin Restaurant) > Dessert (Kula Cakes - not mentioned) > Natural Batik Village (batik painting) > Kuantan 188 Skydeck taglist (open): @valsthea @kennedyswhore @emilzke @daydreamrot @navstuffs @j3llyd0nut @ovaryacted © roseglazedlens — please do not repost, plagiarise, or use in ai & other machine learning programs.

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