#Every Child's Birthright: In Defense of Mothering

[coochiequeens]

Happy International Women’s Day to women who prioritize women, especially today.

This site gives the deeper dive about the Trans Identified Male who transitioned after his career in the military was over instead of a woman in medicine or a woman in science on International Women’s Day off all days? Fuck that.

Selma Fraiberg (March 8, 1918–1981) was an American child psychoanalyst, author and social worker. She studied infants with congenital blindness in the 1970s. She found that blind babies had three problems to overcome: learning to recognize parents from sound alone, learning about permanence of objects, acquiring a typical or healthy self-image. She also found that vision acts as a way of pulling other sensory modalities together and without sight babies are delayed. In addition to her work with blind babies, she also was one of the founders of the field of infant mental health and developed mental health treatment approaches for infants, toddlers and their families. Her work on intergenerational transmission of trauma such as described in her landmark paper entitled "Ghosts in the Nursery"[1] has had an important influence on the work of living psychoanalysts and clinical researchers such as Alicia Lieberman and Daniel Schechter Her seminal contribution to childhood development, "The Magic Years", is still in use by students of childhood development and early childhood education throughout the United States. The Magic Years, which deals with early childhood and has been translated into 11 languages, was written when she was teaching at the Tulane Medical School in New Orleans.

At the time of her death, Selma Fraiberg was a professor of child psychoanalysis at the University of California, San Francisco and a clinician who devoted her career to helping troubled children. She was also professor emeritus of child psychoanalysis at the University of Michigan Medical School, where she had taught from 1963 to 1979, and had also been director of the Child Developmental Project in Washtenaw County, Mich., for children with emotional problems.

Fraiberg's work is said to have paralleled that of Anna Freud, a pioneer in child psychoanalysis. Both were keenly interested in young blind people. For 15 years Professor Fraiberg studied the development of children who were blind from birth, and this led to her writing Insights From the Blind: Comparative Studies of Blind and Sighted Infants, published in 1977. In the same year, she wrote Every Child's Birthright: In Defense of Mothering, a study of the early mother-child relationship in which she argued that all subsequent development is based on the quality of the child's first attachments.

Lilia Ann Abron (born March 8, 1945[1]) is an entrepreneur and chemical engineer. In 1972, Abron became the first African American woman to earn a PhD in chemical engineering.

Abron was born in Memphis, Tennessee,was the second of four daughters.[5]She was born prematurely, at home, and had to be rushed to the hospital by her aunt in a cab, as ambulances were not available for African Americans at the time.[5]

Her parents were both educators who had attended LeMoyne College (now LeMoyne-Owen College). Her father, Ernest Buford Abron, had sustained an injury playing football in college, and was thus unable to serve during World War II. He worked as a Pullman porter and later was a teacher. Abron's mother, Bernice Wise Abron, was a typist from Arkansas. She typed briefs for Wiley Branton, the Little Rock Nine's defense attorney.

Abron's parents were Baptists and she was baptized at the age of 9. She participated in Girl Scouts and in the junior choir at her church.

Abron attended a public school and was placed in the school's math and science track. After graduating from Memphis High School, she decided to study medicine.

Abron was assistant professor of civil engineering at Tennessee State University from 1971. She was also an assistant professor of environmental engineering Vanderbilt University from 1973. In 1975, she moved Howard University as assistant professor of civil and environmental engineering, simultaneously working at Washington Technical Institute (now part of the University of the District of Columbia).[8][5]

Dr. Abron is a registered professional engineer, and a member of the Water Environmental Federation, the American Society of Civil Engineers, the American Water Works Association, the Society of Sigma Xi, and the American Association of University Women.[5][9] She also serves on the Engineering Advisory Board for the National Sciences Foundation.[5]

In 2004, she was elected fellow of the American Academy of Arts and Sciences.[10] She was elected to the National Academy of Engineering in 2020, for "leadership in providing technology-driven sustainable housing and environmental engineering solutions in the United States and South Africa".[11] She was inducted into Tau Beta Pi, DC Alpha Chapter as an Eminent Engineer, and she is a History Maker®.

She has been bestowed the highest honor - Distinguished Member, Class of 2021 - of the American Society of Civil Engineers (ASCE). As of January 2021, she became President of The American Academy of Environmental Engineers and Scientists (AAEES).  

PEER Consultants, P.C.[edit]

In 1978, Abron founded and became President and CEO of PEER Consultants, P.C. [3][5][12][13] She was the first African-American to start an engineering consulting firm focused on environmental issues and concerns relating to the physical and human environments. [14] PEER offers engineering and construction management services, environmental management and sustainability services, and advisory/consulting services.[15] With headquarters in Washington, DC and additional offices in Baltimore, MD, Burlington, MA, and Clearwater, FL, PEER is strategically located to serve its clients throughout the U.S. Since 1978, the firm is focused on providing transformative, appropriate, and sustainable solutions for its clients’ challenging environmental problems.

With this consulting firm, Abron succeeded in proving that by enacting sustainable practices in poverty-stricken parts of the world, living conditions there can drastically improve.[16] In 1995, Abron co-founded PEER Africa Pty. (Ltd.), with the mission of building energy-efficient homes in post-apartheid South Africa.[8] Abron was presented with a United Nations award for her work in developing low-cost energy-efficient housing.[5] The company carried out projects all over Africa, including in Mali, Uganda and Nigeria.

Personal life

Abron is a member of Delta Sigma Theta sorority.[9] She gives talks and presentations related to energy and the environment.[17][18] She is particularly active in promoting science education, and through her company, offers financial support to science fair participants. PEER staff are encouraged to work with students in their neighborhood schools, and Abron herself mentors students.[5]

She cites the book Silent Spring by Rachel Carson as an inspiration for entering the environmental movement.[2]

Abron is a Christian who began her three-year term serving as deacon at The First Baptist Church of the City of Washington, D.C. on June 17, 2018.[6] She previously served as president of the Washington D.C. chapter of Jack and Jill for America.[5] She also plays the hand bells in the Angelus church choir.[

Honors

William W. Grimes Award for Excellence in Chemical Engineering from the American Institute of Chemical Engineers, 1993[5]

Admission to the Engineering Distinguished Alumni Academy at the University of Iowa, 1996[5]

Hancher-Finkbine Alumni Medallion from the Finkbine Society of the University of Iowa, awarded for learning, leadership and loyalty to the university, 1999[5][8]

Induction into the National Black College Alumni Hall of Fame, 1999[5]

Magic Hands Award by LeMoyne-Owen College, May 2001[8]

Alumni Achievement Award, Washington University School of Engineering and Applied Science, 2001[5]

American Academy of Arts and Sciences, 2004[8][19]

Superior Achievement from American Academy of Environmental Engineers & Scientists, 2012[20]

[ahollowgrave]

Attrition: noun: (1) wearing away by friction; abrasion. (2) sorrow, but not contrition, for sin.                                           // some stones require more polishing than others “-- climbs a tree, tore her dress!” A voice nearby complains, joined by two others in agreement. 

“Always late to temple, too,” one of the others added. “Late to everything.” The third. “Except for meals!” The first again.

You feel a sigh building.  You have this argument every time that little lamb does something.

A fourth voice raises above the others, fragile and worried, but firm in its defense. “Her penitence is real! You forget, Sisters, I sit with her in the temple.”  A pause, an addition: “She makes me laugh.”  Her tone is pleading, now, aimed at you.

Your eyes turn back to the group of nuns gathered around you. Three against the little lamb, one for.  Not great odds.

But you have been the Mother of this convent for decades.  Here, your word is final.

“She is just a child, Mother, a darling, a lamb!” The fourth pleads again. 

A snort leaves the first, “She’s a headache, a pest, she would drive hornets from their nest.” “She is an ang-” “She’s a girl.  Just a girl.” You do not think that is true, but your voice is iron beneath velvet, all the same, putting the disagreement to bed. A flick of your finger dismisses them all and with them the tension they have brought. Your gaze lifts, then, peering across the small yard to the problem child in question.  Your convent is not an orphanage, but the children are here all the same.  Odette Hollows is only the newest hurt child to be brought to Menphina’s Embrace.  She, like them, needs to be shown kindness, love, the beauty of the world around her, and the beauty she carries in her bones. 

The birthright of all living things, love. 

As you watch the little lamb play you see it, not for the first time. A dark shadow, a cloud, hovering over her as it flickers like a building storm. You can almost imagine clawed fingertips reaching out to grab her. You cannot stop the snarl, lips pulling away from fangs as your tail lashes the air behind you. The wind kicks up and the shadow is scattered with it. 

Just a girl, you had said, knowing it was likely a lie. You will confess your sin to your Sisters when the time comes. You loath to lie to them but you will not be moved by any amount of guilt to get rid of her.

More creature than a girl at times, yes, the little lamb was still a child. 

A child with hair like spun moonlight, eyes like a river under ice, and a demeanor to match. A plan takes root. The girl is charming, when she wants to be, and what better way to smooth the sharp points of dissenters than by letting waters do their work?

And if the water is cold perhaps it will serve as a wake-up call.

“Little Lamb! Come here, if you please, I’ve a task for you.”

[kichous]

✧･ﾟ:*   addicted to a certain kind of sadness

summary. your son is a lip scar shy of looking like a ghost. series. how should i greet thee ? | part one . part two . pairings. past fushiguro toji x f!reader. minor oc x f!reader. warnings. implied postpartum depression. parental abandonment. word count. 2971.

You are horrifically out of place in his dorm room. It’s minimalist enough as it is, and you almost don’t want to move for fear of disrupting the gentle balance of a home nothing at all like yours. Megumi seems fastidious enough — but that in and of itself is yet another painful reminder. You don’t actually know your son very well at all.

Well, you know one of your sons quite well. Morinaga is the spitting image of you, just like how Megumi is practically a carbon copy of Toji.

Your daughter, Nobue, looks a lot like her father. Maybe that’s why you neglect her so much.

Whatever your relationship with his younger half-siblings, Megumi seems woefully ignorant of all things related to his blood. It’s likely the work of that white-haired brat. And Ougi’s daughter has no obligation to tell him the truth, not when she has her eyes set on his birthright. So really, you’re all that Megumi has left.

Or so you try to tell yourself.

He hands you a bottle of water and scratches the back of his head. He never makes eye contact, and you’re almost thankful for it. You want your son to look at you, but you also don’t want to meet the gaze of a man long dead. The unruliness of Megumi’s hair seems to be all that he bears of you, and that makes your heart ache just a bit.

A friend of his just died recently, you recall hearing. Sukuna’s vessel. The logical part of you believes it’s for the best, a threat ended. The part of you that yearns for your child’s affection demands that you comfort him somehow. But what could you do? He had pointedly avoided touching your hand, and the only reason you were sitting on his bed in the first place was because he hadn’t any other chairs to offer. You pat a spot on the mattress beside you, and Megumi reluctantly lowers himself onto it.

What do you say? ‘Hello, son. Nice to finally see you after fifteen years.’ That will be sure to go over well.

You inhale deeply, an action that causes Megumi’s chin to dip closer to his chest. You don’t know what to do with your hands, and you constantly shift them in your lap, clasping and unclasping fingers in different positions. Eventually, you settle on holding onto your elbows. “You look well,” you tell him. There are heavy bags under his eyes and every breath he takes is a hollow rattle in his ribcage.

His friend just died. Nice going. Mother of the year, you are.

“I’m okay, I guess.”

And then the silence persists.

Should you have even come at all? There’s no way he actually wants to see you. Inserting yourself in his life is 100% a selfish choice on your part. You want your son. You haven’t seen him since he was three months old, and so you need to know him, no matter how many hoops you have to jump through.

In your defense, Toji took him without your permission when he left. And you hadn’t wanted to disrupt Megumi’s already precarious home life when he was little by suddenly dragging him into the clan that ruined his father’s life. But you almost died this past winter — of illness, of all things! an anticlimactic end for a sorcerer — so you’re sure the powers that be can forgive you for being a little selfish.

(As if you haven’t been operating on self-interest for literally your entire life.)

It’s hard to reconcile the young man, perfectly self-sufficient and competent, with the tiny little baby you held into your arms over a decade ago. You still remember the first time he sneezed, his little face scrunching up and his little kushu!

“Ya okay, little man?” Toji had said, his voice quivering with laughter. Your heart had grown ten sizes that day. It stings to know how many firsts Toji stole from you. Steps, words. His first fucking birthday. You might’ve even ended up Megumi’s favorite parent, but because of Toji, you’re nothing but a stranger to him now.

The quiet is unbearable. Your forced cheery tone is perhaps even more so: “I’m so happy you decided to see me. I’ve been wanting to meet you for such a long time.”

“It’s nothing,” Megumi replies, bereft of the usual reassurance accompanying the platitude. You haven’t a doubt in your mind that you truly are nothing to him. The boy’s brow furrows as he worries at his lower lip, clearly deciding on whether to voice a thought. Megumi meets your eyes for the first time, and a jolt runs through you at the sight of familiar jade. “Can I ask you something?”

“Of course,” you say, perhaps a bit too quickly. “Anything at all.”

His eyes narrow at your words. A skeptic, just like his father. A cynic too, then. His sightline drifts down to his hands, fingers steepled in his lap. He sits with his knees far apart — like Toji used to. It truly hurts just looking at him, but you can’t turn away. You won’t. You want to memorize every painful detail.

Megumi wets his lower lip with his tongue. “Why did you come now? After all this time… did you not look for me?”

Of course, it’s the natural question to ask. Part of the reason you hadn’t tried to snatch him away when you did find him was because you knew what it was like to have your home life chewed up and spit out by adults more concerned with each other than you. Both you and Toji loved Megumi — you know that from the bottom of your heart — but the two of you were also too vindictive not to get him caught in the crossfire.

What would it be like for a first grader to be ripped from his father, raised by two complete strangers he’d never met?

Saiichi was furious when you said you’d respect Toji’s wishes. It was really the only time you’d ever fought, which was saying something for six whole years of marriage. But the row alone had convinced you couldn’t allow him to raise Megumi as his stepfather.

“I did,” you tell him, reaching out to take his hands before halting at his flinch. You return your hands to your lap and squeeze them between your knees. He still watches them warily, as if they’re vipers ready to strike out at him. Oh, how you wish you could touch his face. “By the time I found you, your father had already remarried. I had heard that you had a stepmother and a stepsister. I thought you might be unhappy if I took you away from them.”

“So why now, then? Why not when Tsumiki’s mom disappeared, or when my sister fell into a coma?” There’s an edge to his voice, his words like papercuts on your skin. “You could’ve picked either of those times to waltz into my life but you didn’t.”

Your jaw goes tight, teeth grinding together. That little brat was always going to be a thorn in your side, wasn’t she? Her mother, you could ignore. You understood how easy it was to fall for Zen’in Toji and how empty the world seemed without him. But had it not been for Tsumiki, perhaps you might have gotten Megumi back.

You recall circular black lenses and the flippant, nasally drone of, “Mm, I don’t think he’d like you. Too evil stepmom-esque — more than his actual stepmom, how ‘bout that?”

All because you hadn’t wanted to take care of a bitch who wasn’t yours.

You settle on a half-truth instead. “I was afraid,” you whisper, letting your eyes drop. Megumi’s fingers twitch, and then he curls them into fists. He places them on top of his knees, crinkling the fabric of his pants. “That you would hate me. That you would never consider me your mother. And I was afraid of what this family would do to you. That’s why your father took you in the first place, you know.”

“No, I don’t.” He gives a short exhale, annoyed and bitter. “I don’t even remember him.”

...Does this mean that you win?

You despise the thought as soon as it comes to you.

Parenting isn’t a competition, and it is a damn shame that Megumi had no recollection of the man you made him with. Toji was a good father, in the months that you had seen the two of them together.

Such a large and hulking man, you had never seen him so delicate and gentle as he was with his newborn son. He would insist you continue sleeping, that because you had carried Megumi for nine months, Toji should be the one dealing with the baby when he woke crying at ungodly hours. He talked to Megumi a lot, sometimes parroting baby noises and sometimes monologuing a censored version of his daily routine.

He always had Megumi in his lap, and you recall times during meals when you had laughed at the baby’s wide eyes as they followed his father’s utensils in the belief they were to feed him. Toji built the crib and mobiles himself. The dumpy high chair was his own when he was a baby. He worked less and spent more time at home with you. It earned him ridicule, as it was typical of Zen’in men to leave child rearing to their women and servants, but Toji had only you and none of the latter, and so there was a grudging respect that he once more surpassed his kin in something other than sorcery.

At the very least, it appeared to most outsiders that Toji loved Megumi more than you did. The walls of the Zen’in complex are thin, and you are certain that most — if not all — of its inhabitants had heard you shriek that the baby was a disappointment two mere months after his birth. Toji’s wide-eyed look of betrayal, horror, and rage would stay with you forever.

That’s when everything was well and truly over, you think, but the reanimated corpse of your family had shambled along for another six weeks before Toji disappeared out of your life forever.

The last time you had seen your husband, he had just put your son to bed and climbed into your own, the broad expanse of his back facing you as he slept. The last time you saw your son, you’d wrapped him up tightly in a blanket the same shade as his eyes, and his lower lip had wobbled when you reached out to stroke a chubby cheek. There was a time when he would light up when you were near. He may not have understood the words, but perceptive little Megumi knew what you had said. He despised you. Toji came along and shushed him, and you had curled up under your covers in frustration and sorrow.

It’s hard to think of him as the same man who walked out on his second wife and children, let alone someone who married a woman who would abandon her children as well. You tried to resent Toji for leaving you — but you knew that you were a horrible wife and an even worse mother to his child. If your positions had been reversed, you’d have run off in the dark of night too. But it hurts now, knowing that he hadn’t lived long past his departure, and that your beloved son had grown up under the watch of a school rather than his only remaining parent.

“He sold me,” Megumi continues, each word a stab into your heart. “Clearly he wasn’t trying very hard to keep me away.”

“No,” you admit, lifting your head. “It must’ve been around the time you developed your cursed technique. I don’t imagine he would have done so otherwise. He thought you’d be happy here, as the heir.”

“Did he now.”

He freezes when you place a hand on his shoulder, though he doesn’t fight back when you wrap your arms around him and press his face into the crook of your neck. He’s tense, shoulders raised, and he doesn’t return the hug — but he doesn’t wholly reject you. You take that as a minor victory. His long lashes brush against your skin with each startled blink. “What are you doing?”

“I’m holding my son,” you say, using your other hand to stroke his back. You feel tears spring to your eyes, and you stop fighting them back for the first time in decades. They spill down your cheeks and onto his shirt, seemingly endless. “I’m apologizing — for both myself and your father. You deserved better from the both of us, and I’m so sorry. I’m sorry that he left, that I never came for you, and that you have spent your entire life in a power struggle you didn’t ask for.

“This family is a festering pit, and it has destroyed everything it touches. Your father saw that, and while he had hope that they would treat you well, he was right to have doubts. He saved you from us — from me.” You chuckle bitterly. It’s much wetter and tearier than you intended, losing its edge. “You would have been miserable with us. He made the right choice.”

Megumi’s Adam’s apple bobs against you as he swallows. “If that’s what you think, then why are you here?”

You can barely see him when you pull back, wiping your cheeks with your sleeves. The heavy silks were not made for this. He sits further from you, clearly wary that you might touch him without permission again. If anyone had asked, you’d say it was worth it. The last time you held him, he was barely 60 centimeters. He’s bigger than you, now.

“Sorry,” you say again, leaning back yourself. He relaxes at the motion, if just minutely. You sniff and swipe the pad of a finger under your eyes. You smile at him and lift your shoulders in a shrug. “I suppose it’s because I’m selfish. I didn’t want to die without ever seeing my baby boy again.” You almost move before remembering to ask. “May I?”

His eyes are trained on your left hand as you lift it and extend it towards him. He frowns, ponders it, and then leans his cheek into your palm. He finds the affection uncomfortable, you can tell by the furrow of his brows, but he allows it. “So soft,” you chuckle as you rub your thumb over his skin. “Just like when you were little.”

He huffs quietly, and you choose to assume that it’s a laugh. Megumi shifts and scoots back towards you, meeting your gaze. His lips part, and he takes a second to gather his words. “I don’t know if I’m ready for… all this,” he says finally, fingers once more curled into loose fists, “but I’m… I’m glad you’re here —” He pauses, seeming to think better of it, before throwing prudence to the wind. “— mom.”

You feel as though your heart is about to burst out of your chest. You don’t deserve this, and that makes you treasure it all the more.

“I can’t wait to get to know you.” When you open your arms to him once more, he moves into them of his own accord. It’s still an awkward embrace, and it’s clear that he isn’t used to hugs, but you relish the warmth of his hand on the back of your neck as well. “I missed you, Megumi.”

You feel his jaw tense against you — a misstep, it seems. No matter. He’s here, and he’s in your arms. He shifts, angling so that he can rest his face in the junction between your neck and your shoulder. As you feel the light puffs of his breath against your flesh, you stroke his hair. Never in the past fifteen years did you think you’d ever be able to see, let alone hold, him again.

Between your husband and the boy’s teacher, the two strongest people in the world, there was a lot standing in the way of your reunion with your son. Greatest of all was perhaps yourself, the omnipresent guilt for ever letting something as meaningless as cursed energy turn you against your own child. You’ll never tell him what you said; you could never bear to see his father’s face twisted with hurt yet again.

Shortly after you gave birth to your second child, you imagined Morinaga was Toji’s. He bore little enough resemblance to Saiichi that it was a possibility he was a parting gift. You concocted a second life left only in your mind, of you having run away with Toji — away from the Zen’ins, from sorcery, from the entire world, to some house in the suburbs where all that mattered was your little family. Toji forgave you and you still loved each other. You hadn’t made the mistake of staying behind.

The four of you would live happily. You’d help Megumi and Morinaga (Toji would never have named him that) control their cursed techniques, but they’d grow up never hearing of the Zen’in family. Your perfect revenge against your foster parents would still be complete. You didn’t need any underhanded machinations, you just needed your family. You would be happy with the man you love and your two children.

Getting pregnant with Nobue killed off what remained of that fantasy, and you had resigned yourself to your misery. But now, Toji’s son is here, and he isn’t pushing you away. He’s holding you, and he’s real.

You would never throw away this second chance. You’d kill yourself trying to hold onto it forever.

[nikosheba]

Okay I read your defense of Turin & yeah!! I also did not like his chapter in the Silmarillion but CoH has left me very much spiraling about him and what he represents - elvish vs mortal perspectives, doom & reactions to it, possibility of overcoming it, etc... I don't always like him but I LOVE thinking about him (and characters around him!) and there's so much more to Turin's story than like. a tragic unlikable guy, and I get why it's one of the chief 3 stories of the whole legendarium

Yeah!!! He really frustrates me sometimes--it was only like two months ago that I was like....oh man how am I going to write Turleg when Túrin is such a piece of work lmao. And I started rereading CoH looking for quotes, and the more I flipped through that book, the more I fell in love with him. 

Part of it is, I can’t think of anyone else in all of the Tolkien legendarium who just...cannot understand how other people think, the way Túrin does. He’s always fair with other people (this is stated outright with the Gaurwaith), and cannot understand why people aren’t fair with him. He never comprehends that he’s being deceived--which I think is unfair to lay on his shoulders tbh. 

One great example of how he just cannot understand other people, even other humans, is the knife-giving scene (which I believe is cut out of the Silm), which just totally encapsulates the frustration of him all at once. For those who haven’t read CoH, at one point when he’s very young, his father gives him a very fancy knife of elvish make. It’s Túrin’s last birthday before the Nirnaeth Arnoediad, not that he knows it. Túrin then immediately runs out to find his best friend, a lame older man named Sador who does little woodworking projects for Morwen and Húrin, and gives him the knife, entirely not understanding why this would be perceived as a bad thing. So it’s very like:

In Túrin’s mind: Got lovely knife > Sador does a lot of woodworking > the knife made me happy to receive > it will help Sador in his work > give Sador the knife

But no one else sees it like that. Húrin is fine with it but a bit baffled, and tells Túrin basically, “Fine, but idk when I’ll be able to get you another knife like that.” Morwen actively dislikes this, and says that she thinks it’s useless to give something so fine to someone who’s just going to waste it. Even Sador is unhappy, because Edain custom says he can’t refuse the gift, but he knows it’s far beyond what he even can make use of, and that he cannot give it back to his young master without causing offense.

So here we have a 8-9 year old boy (sorry my copy is downstairs, I forget whether he’s 8 or 9), who has something nice happen to him and immediately his first thought is to pay it forward, and he winds up making everyone unhappy. And that just sort of....sets the tone for his life. 

It isn’t that he doesn’t love Finduilas. He does! He loves her like a sister--and textually, he never even really understands that she’s in love with him. She hints it, but she never tells him outright, and he is baffled when people talk to him about her in a romantic context. But he loves her! Like a friend and a sister--and has no idea why Finduilas’s mysterious (to him) feelings mean that now Gwindor, his friend who saved him from his madness, is angry with him, or why people keep placing this huge emphasis on his relationship with her.

The really tragic thing about Túrin, for me, is that he’s not genre-savvy. He thinks he’s in a Great Hero Tale, and has no idea he’s in a tragedy. I’ve said before that Children of Húrin feels like a dark inversion of Tolkien’s work to me. Acts of heroism are unrewarded. Acts of love are punished. Valiant stands get everyone around you killed. Beleg “yields to his love over his wisdom” and dies for it. There’s no reason that Túrin should have known the lovely maiden who kept begging him to marry he was his sister--he yields to his own love, and they both die for it, along with their unborn child. (For the record: he does love her, it’s not one-sided, she just wants to hustle the relationship along because it’s wartime and she fears to lose him, and he wants to wait for a more peaceful time.)

He even casts his sword aside at one point and is determined to live a peaceful life. But peace will not find him, and he is forced to take up the sword again, because his bow can do nothing against Glaurung.

A good portion of the angry, violent things he does are actually in defense of those who can’t defend themselves, or in defense of women. He’s oddly chivalric--with Saeros, his cry is, “Run, mocker of women!” When he goes back to Dor-Lómin, it isn’t until Brodda brags about sexually assaulting Túrin’s aunt-figure and scorns Túrin’s mother that Túrin goes super violent on him--and again, in anyone else’s story, killing Brodda would be the stuff of great songs. Alone he goes into a fortress that was stolen from his birthright, to find that there’s a drunken, abusive, cruel tyrant in his father’s place, and Túrin rouses the downtrodden, kills the usurpers, and casts out the rest. 

And everyone blames him for it. They tell him he shouldn’t have, even though they fought alongside him, because now more wil come, and they will suffer for it. Túrin even begs them to come with him to Doriath or at least Brethil--he was safe there, after all--and they refuse, preferring to starve in the mountains or commit suicide in Dor-Lómin rather than follow him on a difficult trek.

ETA: I forgot to add that he also becomes Captain of the Gaurwaith because he kills Forweg to protect Larnach’s daughter; he never questions what’s going on, he just sees a girl with torn clothes being chased and immediately murders the guy chasing her--and when he sees that it’s Forweg he doesn’t exactly feel bad about it, just offers to do the same to Andróg if Andróg doesn’t start drinking his Respect Women Juice.

Anyway YEAH I also love thinking about him...and the fact that Elrond names him as one of the great Elf-Friend Heroes in LotR makes me so freaking emotional every time, WOW. The fact that the Lay of the Children of Húrin was composed by a minstrel in Sirion, that Elrond would have heard it as a little child and remembered him as an Elf-Friend and a Hero, makes me absolutely SOFT inside. 

Túrin did legitimately deserve better. He deserved to be in the story he thought he was in. And dammit, I’m a fanfiction writer, I’m going to give it to him.

[mintseesaw]

Aurora | 1

aurora - n. dawn Pairing: jungkook!general x reader!princess Genre: angst, fluff, historical au, joseon dynasty au, established relationship au, secret love affair au Warnings: heavily themed angst, mentions of corresponding punishments for certain committed misdeed, cursing Word count: 7.5k Summary: A story which centers on a forbidden love in the midst of centuries-long battle of power and greed. Disclaimer: based on King Sejong’s time but is fictional and not historically accurate Note: If you are not familiar with korean historical setting, you may refer to the translations I provided at the end of some terms used in the fic that may sound unfamiliar to some.

one | two

*unedited

Fate is a mere imaginary force, perhaps, created by entities living in this world, as fictitious as happiness, as treacherous as love. While hope brings you a strong faith of anticipation to the uncertain, the endless cycle of waiting only gives you the bittersweet acceptance in return.

There was no regret behind the years of your wasted youth amidst the inescapable obligation of being an object of possession under a political truce— the truth that you have to live from the guise of a royal birth.

You kept your promise, and until time and your royal duty comes in between, you will stay faithful to your words.

Two years after ascending to the throne, King Namjoon started establishing ports and posts alongside strict military power on the borders of Joseon. However, the immeasurable extent of the rising mutiny on the northern border further pushed the ruler to multiply the military presence on each border, of which was kept hidden from the commoners to prevent stirring fear in his constituents.

The news spread like a wildfire inside the palace, and into the households of the government officials, bearing in mind the warning the message it carries, it being a confidential matter.

When the king made the official pronouncement, the princes, and military officials, alongside the ruler’s advisors, were all present in the courtroom.

Learning about the king’s decision, Prince Taehyung ought to keep the news from the princess— the youngest child of the present ruling queen, the Queen Mother, and the late king.

However, the unavoidable presence of the court ladies who are serving the royal family, made it seem difficult to hide the truth from you. 

Two days after the edict was released, one of the court ladies, who happens to be a second degree cousin of General Jeon innocently shared the information to you, not knowing it will affect you, greatly. Your relationship with him has been kept for a long time, anyway.

“W-What did you say?” The same court lady, who was currently serving you a cup of tea, freezes midair as she caught up the tone in your voice. As you notice the reluctance in her expression, you didn’t wait for her to repeat what you had clearly heard the first time.

You rose from your seat with urgency, waving your hand in a dismissive gesture toward them as you quickly strutted out of your chamber. Although shocked by your sudden action, the servants quickly caught up with you, tailing behind as you took the direction to your brother’s study.

Shortly after, you arrive before his study, Prince Taehyung’s servants immediately bowed to you as form of greeting.

The prince was occupied on his canvas, determined to finish the piece before the midnight rolls when he heard Officer Sung announced the arrival of his sister. The brush locked between his fingers as he was about to stroke its end on the canvas halted midair.

When the doors flew open, he was met with your frown and a clearly disturbed disposition. He stood, abandoning his piece of work, waiting for the servants to leave them alone inside before he began talking.

“What brings you at this hour, little flower?” He asks in a curious tone. Deep inside, he already had a clue why.

“You knew, didn’t you?” You whisper, choking the tears that were threatening to pour onto your cheeks.

Taehyung stares at you for a while, surveying the hurt evident on your face before deeply sighing.

“I understand it would affect you this way.”

“Why didn’t you tell me? J-Jungkook… Tell me he isn’t part of the—“

There’s no use to keep it anymore when you already heard pieces of it. “The king designated him to lead the northern border.” He warily announces, although he knew it wouldn’t matter how cautious he’d reveal it because it would hurt you, regardless.

Your eyes widening, palms fly toward your mouth to cover your gasps, hearing the answer you hoped you wouldn’t hear.

You are aware of the suspected cases of mutiny on the borders and along the waters where traders and merchants meet. The political scholars do not keep these significant issues from you during your studying sessions, regarding the possibility of being a future queen of another nation, literacy in every field has also been supplied to you alongside your brothers, the princes and the king.

“Princess, it couldn’t be avoided. It’s Jungkook’s duty to protect our nation.” He tries to console, closing the distance to give a comforting hug.

“He is guarding the palace— the royal family… the king. Isn’t that a part of his duty?” You wept in his embrace, mumbling in despair, “He didn’t even tell me, do I not matter to him, anymore?”

“Hush, little flower. Of course, that punk loves you. Otherwise, he wouldn’t hesitate to leave the capital to carry out his duty.” He says, not releasing you. He could only hope he could take away the pain in your heart.

Among everyone living in the palace, it was only him who had witnessed how your love for his best friend has blossomed through time. Unlike Jungkook who had been admiring you from a far long ago, you shamelessly admitted your feelings for him when you were 14.

Several years later, Jungkook still owns your heart despite the complicated situation, and the path he chose to take only made it more twisted than ever. Jungkook’s father died while in his duty protecting the king against officials who once challenged the ascension. Following his father’s footsteps, he partook the military.

His decision deeply scarred you because it only means it will be impossible to marry him, unless the king has consented it. However, it is rare for a ruling monarch to allow such because it’ll only mean losing their birthright in exchange of their betrothal with a low-ranking official.

Little rendezvous, love letters and stolen kisses didn’t stop the two of you following Jungkook’s promotion as the general of the national defense a year ago. But today, the horrid thought of him being in imminent danger in the battlefield dreads you.

Prince Taehyung escorted you back to your chamber once you had calmed down. He didn’t want to leave you while you are grieving, but he figures you needed the time alone.

That night, you couldn’t sleep with the heaviness of your heart.

You need to see him.

“Your Majesty,” you softly greeted once you entered the courtroom, lowering your head with grace before lifting your eyes back up to the throne where the king was busy reading the council’s daily reports. 

He lightly nods his head, acknowledging your presence. “Princess, you should be resting by now.” It was late, and you initially went to his chamber only to realize that the king was still in the courtroom, fulfilling his duties.

“As you should, Your Majesty.”

The king smiled, listening to the delicate voice of his little sister. He realizes, he missed being graced your refreshing presence. He had been used to it before, you lurking around in the bookshelves in his study while he was occupied, searching for books which he had all read, asking him numerous questions about certain literary works you had grew fond of like himself until he was too tired to answer anymore. After ascending his throne, he is only able to see his family on special gatherings, unless they purposely visit him.

“Perhaps, you have something to tell your brother?” He inquires, his eyes remain on the scroll as they skim over the texts written in the paper.

With soft monotonous tone, you proceeded to speak. “If you’ll allow me, Your Majesty.”

“Go on,”

“I read a particular decree dated three days ago. I have questions, if you will hear me, Your Majesty.” You asserted generally to avoid suspicion from the other attentive ears inside the courtroom.

It was that time when he lifted his gaze to meet your nervous ones.

He turns to the eunuch who was quietly standing on your right, his side facing you. “Leave us.” Officer Han lifted his head, surprise to hear the sudden command of the king. He quietly obeyed, gesturing to the advisors to follow the king’s order.

“I see, you’ve learned about the news. I may have to order your teachers not to let you dwell much on these political matters. You are a delicate flower in our family and I still wish to witness you blossom more.” It may be necessary for you to have a clear overview on the politics for your future fate, but the king would want you to enjoy your time as the princess in your own home before you’re married off to another prince.

“I appreciate your care, Your Majesty.” You lower your head, lips quivering.

King Namjoon leans his back on his seat, scrutinizing the figure in front of his throne. It was not too hard to recognize the state you’re in, similar to the officials he meets here when they are being questioned.

“Princess, tell me what bothers you.” There, he used his brotherly tone, the one which used to be his way to coax you to open up to him before.

You stayed silent, thoughtful on how to address the purpose of your visit. It took a while before you gain the strength to utter the name of the man you dearly love. “General Jeon… w-will lead the north?”

Hearing your words, the king’s shoulders tensed. “We have talked about this before. Did you defy your brother to proceed your affair with General Jeon?” His expression hardens at your silence.

“I-I…” You stammer, eyes wide innocently.

He throws the scroll on his table, now fully directing his attention to you, drawing a long sigh like your father once did, when you were once caught wandering outside the palace.

“You did,” He confirms to himself in a whisper, before his head tilted back as his eyes momentarily closed to control his frustration. “I must punish General Jeon on your behalf.”

Your eyes widened, chills running down your spine. “Your Majesty!” You exclaimed, horrified by the king’s conclusion to the matter.

“The Great Queen Dowager is protective of you. Grandmother will not accept an order from me to punish you, herself, for your misbehavior. You are not to get involved with any man, ______.” He reminds you. Not only was the queen dowager adores the lone princess, but their father, as well.

You are aware of that. Perhaps, it was the reason why the palace, your supposed home, became a sickening form of solitude for you. You wish you had been treated the same way as your brothers, while they grew up in a rough setting as a form of their training, you envy their mental toughness aside from their trained physical skills and strength. Perhaps, it was the reason behind your father’s endearment for you, little flower. Because you’re a weak princess.

Being favored is not a privilege when you are expected to be good at all costs. Jungkook, despite the social status that separates you both, became your sense of euphoria. He allowed you to see the glimpse of his life, the horrible and ugly side of his life. He showed tenderness in his affection towards you, but he sees you beyond your status. 

Jungkook, leaving the capital to guard the borders without the assurance of making it out alive, will cause you in complete desolation.

A dull but prominent numbness spreads on the king’s heart as the air fills the suffocating silence, while seeing your welled-up eyes.

“Why the tears, little flower? You are making me feel like I’m a heartless brother.”

“Can you.. Can you stop him from leaving?” You falter, swallowing the lump forming in your throat.

“General Jeon already knew his fate, Princess. He will eventually leave the palace to be where he is— on the battlefield. Just like you are here in the palace. Why you have hoped in pursuit of his love, is beyond me.”

The tiny hope you carry before you have entered the courtroom vanishes along the feeble strength you gathered to control your emotions. 

Even with your crumbling facade, he continues to speak, choosing to be a wise king rather than your caring brother. “Heed my advice when I tell you your connection with General Jeon will do more harm to him than to you. The inner court will always be merciful to you, but the state council will not be as forgiving to the young general.”

The truth struck you harshly more than ever, pain swallowing you whole as the impact of his words resonated within you. You waited until the king dismissed you.

It was wrong from the start, you have hoped for it. 

Jungkook will never be yours.

In a rare circumstance, Jungkook has been staying in the Jeon household for three days straight. Because of his post at the north, the king was kind enough to give the soldiers some time off their duties, as if it is a farewell for their families. In Jungkook’s case, he doesn’t see it as his death. He sees it as his duty to protect the nation, and he’ll make sure to come back for his family, for you.

Jungkook is wiping his sword clean using a piece of rug cloth, killing some time off before coming to the palace to visit you in particular, a bunch of freshly picked peonies from his mother’s garden lying beside the stool where he was seated. He will give it to his princess when the sun sets under the guise of seeing his friend, Prince Taehyung.

His time off was duly spent through fulfilling heavy chores to help his mother. While she bought food supplies and new sets of threads and fabrics in the market for her weaving, he carried her purchases. After that, he did small repairs on the house to strengthen its foundation and trekked to the mountain to gather firewood, and luckily caught a few freshwater fish from the river along his way home.

He didn’t mind that his body is now covered with excessive perspiration or his grey faded clothes are stained with all kinds of grease and dirt there are. But when he caught sight of the familiar petite figure dressed in a simple, ivory colored hanbok in front of the household, he wished he had cleaned himself up when his mother prepared his warm bath earlier.

The thought, however, was briskly replaced with worry. 

His wide doe-like eyes locking with yours. His long and glorious legs only took a couple steps to reach your hand and drag you inside before closing the wooden barrier from any possible prying eyes.

“Y/N, what are you doing here?” It was the first thing Jungkook has said to you since you arrived. You’ve been standing there awkwardly for a while, watching him as he was in a deep reverie, hesitant to come inside in case Jungkook has other guests inside his home.

Your lips jutting in an adorable pout, “You didn’t receive my letter?”

You had no intention to raise the matter to him, because you’d like for him to believe you’re clueless so you could make the most of your time with him filled with good memories.

His frown slowly turns into an endearing smile at the cute display in front of him. “I did, I was supposed to meet you there. You can’t be outside, especially…” He stops mid-sentence for a moment, “I mean, you should have told me prior if you wanted to go out of the palace.” He gently prompts as he keeps a good amount of space in between, much to your displeasure.

You try to reach out his grease covered large hands, only to look up at him when he quickly steps back, maintaining the distance.

“What is the matter?” You question out of confusion.

He turns his head to the side, avoiding your curious stare. “I have not taken a bath, yet, Jagi.” He mumbles under his breath.

A smile slowly spreads in the corners of your lips, as a bubbly giggle resonates on your throat, “It’s alright, you don’t smell that bad.” You taunted, covering your nose with your palm to tease him.

“Y/N,” He whines, raising his arms alternatively to smell himself. The act only made you laugh even more, to which earns a playful glare from him.

“I’m kidding,” you managed to say when you finally recovered from your laughter, plastering a sweet smile which he could never resist.

He sighs dramatically, “What am I going to do with you?”

“Can I stay here?” You suddenly ask.

He stops in his tracks, uncertain if he heard you right. “What?”

“You’re right, I want to go out of the palace for a while. Will you accommodate me as a guest?” You shyly continue.

Jungkook stares at you in wonder. “Y/N, you know I’d gladly have you here if I only can.”

Maidens are not supposed to stay with an unmarried man under a roof, especially a princess like you.

“No one will know.” You try to convince.

“Your brother?” He prods, referring to the younger prince, his friend.

You didn’t say anything, avoiding his gaze.

“Love, you’re going to put us both into trouble.” He sighs, but silently giving in to your request.

Catching a beautiful bunch of flowers in sight behind him, you quickly averted your attention into it to change the subject, realizing there’s no point of pushing it further if he would not allow you to. “A-Are those flowers? Can I have a look?”

His eyes follow you as you’re left mesmerized with the flowers, similarly like he is to you. “They’re yours, love.”

“They are?” You repeated, lost in daze at the beauty of the light colored pink petals of the peonies.

Jungkook didn’t attempt to raise your previous concern, silently admiring you from a short distance. However close his proximity to you, it does not change the fact that you’re a thousand miles within his reach.

He’d never thought in his lifetime you would spare a single look at him, one day when you accidentally saw your brother and him were practicing through a sword fight. And when he thought it was enough for him, aware that you knew he existed, you bravely confessed your admiration to him weeks after.

Of course, he knew it was just a simple crush. He couldn’t entertain the infatuation you had with him because you were still young and your feelings would soon waver when you’ve passed the adolescence period. You would realize he’s far from the prince charming that you ought to marry, someday.

Perhaps, the memory he bears of the day he came from his military training could forever be engraved in his mind.

A bunch of letters sat on the table in his small room, to which his mother must have kept them there the entirety of his absence. Each letter was intentionally left unaddressed from the sender.

He knew. Just by the neat penmanship that indicates the person being literate, and the letters sealed inside envelopes in lavish colors tell him that the letters were from someone in a noble family. But what easily brought him to the conclusion of you having been sending the letters to his household while he was away is an image of a little peony grazing each paper just below the written intricate texts. Only the royal family and the attentive servants in the palace knew you’re the king’s favorite child, the little flower he calls in the royal family.

He’s not as fond of reading literary works like yourself. Like Taehyung, he sees paintings and portraits as the closest thing he could comprehend of in terms of art. 

It took him days reading every single one of the letters, and weeks before he had come to comprehend the underlying messages of the passages deliberately written in a figurative language enough to not only make his heart hurt but his head as well.

You longed for him.

The same fucking way he has been to you. There was not a single day that passed without the thought of you crossing his mind through the years. In this time of war, he should not entertain that side which could stir weakness from him. He should be a wise soldier, and for him to be one, he should forget you and anything that reminds him of you.

Through time, he had learned to admire you from afar while intentionally avoiding your longing stares to have you thinking that he doesn’t return your affection on him. He could not let you be aware of his personal struggles in order to keep a safe distance from you, he does not have the heart to make you suffer because of the hierarchical disparity between you.

Almost a year before the king died from an illness, you were abducted by foreign rebels who had had their way inside Joseon to gather and urge commoners from the inside to stir rebellion.

The danger you had come to witness yourself at a young blossoming age led him to reconsider his thought of allowing his feelings to be confessed to you. It would not last, he reassured himself. When your feelings for him have been exhausted, soon enough you would learn to forget him.

However, he only made the situation worse. Because for the past two years, nothing has changed, making it only harder for him to let you go. His dark, selfish thoughts buried deeply in him always manipulate him to persist, even if it means you will lose the life you have, your birthright.

~

After he had urged you inside a small room to rest while he cleaned himself up, he took you into the capital market. Sweet delicacies inside a folded linen clasp in his hand which he bought prior to arriving in front of a women’s shop.

The pure admiration visibly painted in your face over the numerous variety of hair accessories, and pieces of jewelry laid in front of you seemed to do the trick for you. He had not ever brought you here and he regretted not taking you here before.

Over the cumulative noises from the bustling crowd, you heard Jungkook chuckle. You took a peer from your side.

“You can buy anything you like.” Jungkook encourages, not knowing the internal war zone going on inside your mind as you survey the most beautiful things you have ever laid eyes on. These bargain accessories may not be as equally expensive as your own collections, but they are surprisingly immaculate and exceptional pieces.

You sadly smile, “I didn’t think of bringing any....”

“You have me.” He beams, showing several gold coins above the few notes inside his hand. Your face lights up.

By the time you were through, he barely had any currency left in his pocket. He could have felt remorse by how much all the accessories and jewelry you purchased had cost, but the satisfied smile painted on your face as the two of you walk hand in hand while eating the sweets is enough to make himself shrug away your lavish spending.

Jungkook recalls your request. The large and calloused pads of his fingers clutch your wrist, tugging your hand softly. “You’ll go back to the palace, right?”

Your lips only protruded, saying nothing to him as you kept going forward even when he already stopped walking.

“Y/N,” He tries to call but you only pretend not to hear anything. Three long strides were enough to catch up with you, taking one of your arms to turn you in front of him in a subtle manner. 

Sighing, you choose to break your silence. “I’ll find somewhere to stay—“ Jungkook already knew what you were about to say, so he cut you off.

“There’s no way I will let you out of my sight. It’s dangerous here.” He stubbornly argues back.

You weakly smile, “It doesn’t mean it’s safe there, either.”

His forehead creases, eyebrows meeting in a form of line.

The palace is the most heavily guarded state in the nation, but danger does not only pertain to swords and the opposition. It could mean other things, particularly the harm that could be inflicted among the royal family. 

“What do you mean?”

“You know what it is like inside,” you briefly asserted.

Jungkook pulled you into his embrace. He is aware of the extreme constraints inside the palace.

“I’m here, you can tell me what is bothering you.” He mumbles beside your ear, his hold tightening in your silence. If only he could change his fated obligation. Leaving you would be as painful as being physically inflicted with deep wounds, only that this feeling would not heal any time soon.

“I just feel lonely. It’s natural to feel that way when you’ve been isolated since the day you were born.” You expressed, meaningfully.

“The cruel world does not deserve a pure soul like you, my love.” He murmurs breathlessly.

You pulled back, stepping away to peer up from him. Jungkook caught the look on your face.

“Jungkook—“

“You’re not going to look for another place to stay. You’re out of your mind if you even think I’ll let you alone by yourself.” He says in a dismissive tone.

He’s right, after all. You would not want him to be punished if anything were to happen to you.

It was already dark while the two of you were still left along the way toward his household. The shining stars from your view give the moonless sky a breathtaking image of darkness and sparkles. You tug his hand, as you two reached the end of the woods, encouraging him into the nearby lake you recall seeing earlier.

The protective instinct of him surveyed the grass filled expanse before he succumbs to your offer. Through the peaceful atmosphere of the nature, a soft giggle naturally releases from you.

Jungkook didn’t speak for a moment, allowing you to enjoy the majestic beauty above. If it weren’t for him, the pitch black surrounding would somehow frighten you. The breezes swishing around and through your bodies get colder as the night progresses.

Through the darkness, Jungkook could barely make out the features of your face, but the subtle shivers coursing through your body didn’t go unnoticed to him. When he clasped his hands around yours, he felt the freezing contact of your skin through his palm. This led him to shift on his seat, pulling you on his lap.

“Jungkook…”

He only hums in response, rubbing your hands together through his palms.

“Can we stay here forever?”

Jungkook‘s chuckle resonates against your back, “If you want to, we can. I’ll even give you the stars from up there.” He jests.

Entwining your fingers with his, you leaned back in his embrace. “What if…”

“Hmm?” He encourages you, attentively waiting for what you will say next.

In a subtle, almost, innocent tone, you asked. “What if I want to be your wife?”

The answer is already there, dictated by your birthright and his duty. Truly a hopeless case. But it wasn’t patience that made you wait for him for years. It is hope, an endless amount of hope that led you where you are now. Him, your soulmate in this lifetime, and the truth as the main conflict of your life.

“You may lose everything because of me. You will hate me for taking you away from your life, jagiya.”

“I wouldn’t waste my time waiting for so long if I only care about the life I have. I’m ready... I’m willing to change if you will… h-have me.” You mumble in grief.

He didn’t answer for a while, letting his tightening hold around your body to speak for itself. It took all of him not to beg for your hand, and locked you in a secret engagement because it’s the only way he can make you exclusively his.

He doesn’t want to let you go.

Jungkook never uttered a word about his departure and you silently wonder if he will ever. Perhaps, that’s how it should end for the two of you. This may be the last time you’ll see him.

You really wanted to stay longer, here, even with the darkness sucking tiny hints of light as the night progresses. However, your stubbornness failed to match his persistence to get you home, in his own home. 

Once you two have gone inside his home, the thought of his mother and why she’s not around crossed your mind, though you chose not to speak of it while he prepares the dinner for the two of you. It was not long after you two had eaten and finished the stew and rice he cooked.

Your cheeks heated at the sight of him preparing your bath, embarrassed by the fact that you barely know a single chore other than preparing refreshment and herbal teas. Inside the vicinity of his home, Jungkook continues to disappear and reappear from here and there in long, rapid strides. You didn’t know what it was all about, confused at his sudden engagement to the chores. Until he laid the folded linen in your lap, that you silently realized it was for a fresh set of clothes.

He was attentive and patient as he made himself occupied while he waited for you to finish cleaning up. You’re not used to doing this in a different setting and you were relieved enough that you had dressed up alone without making a fool out of yourself.

When you opened the miniature door in the small quarter he showed you earlier, you found him on the floor crouching, preparing for your sleeping cot.

“Is this to your liking? It is not as comfortable as the beddings in your chamber and it’s—“

“Jungkook, it’s perfectly fine. Stop worrying,” You reassure, a smile slowly creeping into your face.

“It’s your first time to sleep outside—“

“It’s definitely not my first time.”

He stops dead in his tracks, blinking. “What?”

Amused by the growing confusion on his face, you prompt. “Will you stay longer?”

Jungkoo’s eyes widened a little, rubbing the back of his neck, nervously. Stuttering, “I-I… Y/N, you’re putting me in an awkward situation.”

You look at him incredulously. “We’ll only talk, you pervert.”

He tilts his head to the side, “Did you just call me…” He trails but you quickly cut him off.

“No, I meant handsome. General Jeon “Handsome” Jungkook.” A sweet smile stretches on your face.

His face slowly twists into a wide smile, shaking his head at your sweet but teasing answer. “You’re such a naughty princess.”

Two days later, the queen was bewildered to find the princess’ chamber empty. Every single servant under your care was interrogated. No one can tell where you were.

You were abducted, again. That was the only conclusion they could come up with in your unnoticed disappearance.

Except for Prince Taehyung. It would not take your servants two days to realize you’re missing. Unless, you have given them a specific order to hide your whereabouts from your family.

He immediately mounted his horse to rush to the Jeon household, to inform his best friend about the disappearance of the princess.

Somehow, along his way, there was a tiny feeling there that tells him Jungkook knew where his sister is. But seeing it himself, with his own pair of eyes, as the two of you were dazed with your own worlds, he was betrayed by his friend. He rushed towards their direction and swung his fist into Jungkook’s face.

A shriek broke out from you in utter surprise. With your trembling body, you struggle to get in between the strong, towering bodies.

“Orabeoni!”

“Fuck you, Jungkook! I trusted you!” Seethed Prince Taehyung, his hands fisting Jungkook’s collar.

“Orabeoni, please, stop it! It’s my fault,” you gasp, weeping helplessly. Taehyung was panting from anger.

“It’s all on me! It’s me who should be spanked!”

You exhale harshly, shuddering at the thought of receiving punishment from the Queen Dowager, but it’s what you deserve after putting Jungkook into this situation. And as if a magic wand was tipped in his direction, Prince Taehyung instantly stopped in his tracks, tilting his head to the side.

He releases Jungkook with a hard push, enough to make Jungkook almost lose his balance. Jungkook’s strength is incomparable. Compared to the prince in front of him, he was physically more built brought by his experience in the military. But the words that he just heard suddenly made his legs jerked, and as he regained his balance he caught a glimpse of fear in your eyes.

He couldn’t take it.

The prince stared at you. “You came to him?”

Jungkook steps in, “I took her in.” He attempts to shift the attention away from you.

Prince Taehyung darted his eyes back at him. “Shut the fuck up.” He sneers at the young general. Jungkook, however, does not seem fazed by his anger. He had seen a worse case than the wrath of a warm-hearted prince. 

Jungkook’s composed disposition didn’t sit well with the prince, to which is a stark comparison to the expression you transparently give away.

Clouded with anger toward the friend he has trusted all his life, Prince Taehyung dragged you out of the state.

“Let’s go,” he utters in a harsh tone.

Jungkook watched you helplessly as you’re being taken away from his reach. He could easily fight the prince to keep you safe in his home, but it would only worsen the situation. He had already anticipated the mess he had coaxed you to partake in, but not the ire of the prince. 

“Orabeoni, it’s not his fault. Please, don’t direct your anger at him. I wanted to see him before he leaves.” You attempted to explain while he continued to drag you away, far away from Jungkook’s manor.

He frowns, clearly dismayed by your escape, “You should have told me, I could have done something to cover you up.”

“I didn’t want to drag you into this mess.” You say with guilt seeping through your tone. His large strides gradually halted, turning sharply o face you.

“He took advantage of your weakness, Y/N! How do you think I’d react to see you with him all this time? In his home? Gods, were you not thinking? Do you know how your stupid actions would turn back on you?” He gritted, unable to control the emotions manipulating his mind.

He would later regret losing his control but he needed to say something, after what he had done for the two of you. He did his best to protect you and this affair. You just wasted all of your chances. It’s nearly over now.

“Im sorry. He didn’t. I-I... we didn’t do anything.” You blinked, finally realizing the mayhem you had caused.

“You should be, everyone will assume otherwise.” The prince only whispers through the air before bringing you home to the grieving queen.

When the royal prince and princess entered the palace, the queen’s eunuch who was awaiting for their arrival, immediately relayed the queen’s order to the prince. You didn’t know what it was about, until he led the way into the queen’s quarters.

In your admittance to her chamber, you were met with her anguished state, the servants immediately leaving the three of you inside to give you privacy.

Guilt courses through you, painfully listening to her worries. Her soft cries welled up your own . And you’re thankful that your brother was with you the whole time. Amidst his fury, he’s the one between you two who is in the right state of mind to console the queen while you were mentally breaking down.

Despite the queen’s effort to keep your escape a secret from the palace, the king had immediately learned of your return. Soon after, Officer Han came to her quarters carrying the king’s message.

You may have anticipated the king’s disappointment over your reckless action prior to entering his chamber. But nothing could have prepared you of what you would have your eyes to endure as the doors reveal the vicinity of the chamber.

Color immediately drains out of your face, your shrinking strength stutters your steps on your entry. Jungkook remained unmoving on his knees under the mercy of the king’s death glare.

The deafening silence becomes too much to bear, agonizingly waiting for the king to tell his piece of predictive condemning of your recklessness.

King Namjoon’s immeasurable dismay over learning the rumors has affected his rational capability to keep his focus on the more disturbing issues in the nation, particularly the rising tension in the borders. This matter should be the least of his concern, but his brotherly instincts ruled out the wise king in him. He deeply cares for his family, that includes his sister.

Your eternal faith over the young general’s affection may only validate his reasoning of refusing betrothal in a similar situation from his parents. The late king dearly loved the queen all his life, and until his last breath, his mother’s welfare was his dying wish, but to his surprise, it also included the princess’ happiness.

Seeing you in the trouble you have willingly created, he wondered what his father would do if he were alive. But he needed not to think further, because it is without a doubt that his father would be merciful to his favorite child. Perhaps, he should set his father’s wish aside for now and allow the princess to reflect on her lack of regard to her royal duty.

After a moment of deafening silence, King Namjoon’s painfully calm voice fills the frightening atmosphere.

“I warned you about this, princess.” He begins, the grief in his eyes flashes in a second before it vanishes with the coldness of his stare.

“Do you understand the gravity of your actions, Y/N?” He prods further, and somehow, his tone strangely sounds like the younger prince bearing the same amount of agony and frustration.

Your eyes only remained glued on the flooring, frightened to even dare speak or meet his eyes. You are already aware that what you did has stirred rumors inside the palace. And being here only meant you and Jungkook will face the inevitable consequences.

“General Jeon, I hope you understand my disapproval of you is nothing personal. I will make this easy for you as a relevant official in the military. I will let this thing go if you deny the rumors that you took advantage of the princess’ vulnerability.”

Your breath shortens, eyes squeezing shut, mortified by the severity of the situation. A weird feeling sits there in the corner of your heart, disturbing your thought process.

Despite the predictable outcome, Jungkook did not regret it ever happening, or allowing it to happen. However, your well-being matters to him other than his selfish reasons. To preserve the purity of reputation from the scrutinizing eyes of the palace women is all he cares of, as these predators could challenge your title for their personal interests.

Barely affected by the king’s wrath, he embraced his fate in the hands of his nation’s ruler. And as he finally spoke, he only proved your instinct right.

“My apologies, Your Majesty. I will gladly accept any punishment you may order, but I cannot deny that I took the Princess in my household.” Jungkook answered with a controlled tone.

Your eyes darted back at him, appalled by the manner of his admission as if it were his pure intent, “Jungkook! That’s a lie, I came to you!” You quickly interfered, convincing him otherwise. Panic audibly hinted in your voice, and even with your silent plea for him to take back his words, he dares not spare a single glance back to you.

With trembling hands, you turn to face the merciless king. You wish you could see the brotherly side of him, the one that cares for you. The one in front of you is nothing like your brother, but a king you wish he wasn’t.

Your lips quivering as you protest, “I chose to flee on my own accord, Your Majesty. He didn’t force me.”

But even with your words, his dark scrutiny was already fixated at the young general.

“Very well, then. Your betrayal to your king would only conclude your willful commitment to treason. Am I right General Jeon?”

Despite tracing no single emotion in his expression, his chilling voice manifests his anger.

Your frightened eyes went round. “Jeonha!”

Without hesitation, Jungkook willingly succumbs. “If it is your will, Your Majesty.” He expresses, refusing to see the horror in your eyes. If it means you will be pardoned from this mess, he will accept anything on your behalf.

A sharp gasp left your mouth, “J-Jungkook, w-what are you saying? You had nothing to do with this, it’s my fault—“

“Han!” You hear the king’s booming voice that made you stop.

Upon the eunuch’s entry, the king concluded your fate. “Escort the princess in her chamber. You are to make sure she doesn’t leave her chamber until I tell you. No one is allowed to see her but me, do you understand? I will deal with the queen dowager, myself.”

The shimmering tears in your eyes trickle down through your cheeks, “Orabeoni,” you helplessly plead, meeting his sharp glare, abhorring his callousness.

You could care less if you would be given a heavy spanking from the queen dowager, but Jungkook certainly didn’t commit treason. The king is not a fool to not understand that the scandal was caused by your selfishness but he chose to dismiss the truth.

Your eyes eagerly sought for Jungkook’s as you were being taken away. You need to see him, at least, for the last time. Jungkook didn’t turn on your way, not even when you disappeared from their sight.

After you were escorted out in the courtroom, the king simply ordered General Jeon to go back to his household and prepare for the military’s forthcoming departure. Even with utter confusion, Jungkook left the palace bearing the last image he had caught glimpse of you— he only hoped his last memory of you wouldn’t be replaced by your beautiful, bright smiles. He would have his way to see you, again.

The catastrophe has shattered you into pieces, and as painful as it deeply wounded you, you didn’t know it was all part of the king’s act to teach you a lesson.

The palace became tense for the past few days. True to the orders of the king, no other members of the royal family were able to reach out to the princess. Not until the worry of the queen became too much for her to bear. Realizing that the king does not have an intention to lift the punishment just yet, the queen begged the king, his son, to allow you to serve the extent of your punishment in her state in the east where your maternal grandparents live.

Whether or not the king has approved of it, you have no power to defy his order, regardless.

Few hours had passed since you had departed from the palace, the moving palanquin seemed to have stopped, until it flew open, revealing your personal servant and from behind— Jungkook!

Your servant stepped back, giving Jungkook a room to see you closer. What is he doing here?

“Jungkook, w-what are—“

“Hush, my love. I’m alright.” He reassures in between rapid intakes of breaths.

“You’re leaving…”

He surveys your face, brushing your stubborn tears away with his fingers, frowning. “I am, but your tears are piercing my heart, jagiya. You’re crying as if I won’t come back.”

You have high hopes he’ll survive the battle, but there’s clearly no hope for the two of you. You could sacrifice your title for him, but you can’t afford any adversity coming back at his tail for your selfishness.

“You’ll wait for me, Y/N?”

I will only give you misfortune, you silently thought further.

His forehead rests against yours, his eyes clenching shut as a painful smile stretches on his face. “I know… I understand you can’t. But I’d like to think you’ll be waiting for me when I return.”

With your harsh multiple nods, a sob uncontrollably releases from your throat, and another, and another, until the pain in your chest trickles up through your throat that your cries couldn’t be stopped any longer.

“Please, come back to me, Jungkook. I-I… I’ll be a good princess. I will go to the temple everyday to pray for you. And… If you… If you realize you don’t want me anymore— it’s fine,” you weakly smile, “I just need you to come back alive... for your mother, for Taehyung—“

“Marry me.”

Your heart suddenly stops, “W-What?”

“Be my wife.” Jungkook repeats with firm persistence.

“Jungkook, h-how— you’re leaving…” You stammer with the right words. He can’t, no serving military soldier in Joseon can marry the princess. Your brother made it clear to you.

But for the first time, Jungkook lied and promised you his world, the only thing you will never have in this lifetime. “When I return, I’ll marry you, if you’ll have me.”

With all the strength left in you, you nodded. “I’m yours, Jungkook.” You promised back, failing to recognize the obligation it weighs in your future.

Jungkook plants a longing, bittersweet kiss in your lips before he parts from you. Your eyes attentively watch his figure skillfully vanish from your sight.

I’ll wait for you.

terms

orabeoni - endearment used for older brother/sister jeonha - your majesty inner/internal court - a separate body in the palace governed by the female members of the royal family responsible to control the palace women’s affairs to which the king cannot intervene about queen mother - endearment used for the king’s mother/queen dowager great queen dowager - mother of the deceased king palanquin -  a covered litter/large box with two horizontal poles carried by humans as a means of transportation

>>

mintseesaw © 2020

credits to the rightful owner (Jeesung Kim) of the image used

[megashadowdragon]

Love is the bane of honor

I think Aegon's role narratively is "don't put all your faith in perfect kings", especially not a kid. It's all about the pressure of being a hereditary ruler, the pressure of duty, of others' expectations being placed on a child solely due to his birthright, and of a life sacrificed to duty.

"He is here. Aegon has been shaped for rule since before he could walk. He has been trained in arms, as befits a knight to be, but that was not the end of his education. He reads and writes, he speaks several tongues, he has studied history and law and poetry. A septa has instructed him in the mysteries of the Faith since he was old enough to understand them. He has lived with fisherfolk, worked with his hands, swum in rivers and mended nets and learned to wash his own clothes at need. He can fish and cook and bind up a wound, he knows what it is like to be hungry, to be hunted, to be afraid. Tommen has been taught that kingship is his right. Aegon knows that kingship is his duty, that a king must put his people first, and live and rule for them."

What Varys has said is all about Aegon ruling for others. That implies serious self-sacrifice. But is Aegon truly fit for this? Note how Varys never speaks of love, it's all about Aegon being raised to fulfill his duty, and one that has been placed on him based on his supposed birthright by others, which to us readers is uncertain to begin with and could even become uncertain to Aegon himself at some point.

"Jon, did you ever wonder why the men of the Night's Watch take no wives and father no children?" Maester Aemon asked.

Jon shrugged. "No." He scattered more meat. The fingers of his left hand were slimy with blood, and his right throbbed from the weight of the bucket.

"So they will not love," the old man answered, "for love is the bane of honor, the death of duty."

We have here the literal kryptonite to Varys' expectations.

Aegon is still young and we have no indication he has any experience with women other than being raised by a septa, which considering the faith's tenants has served the opposite interest.

Love is sweet, dearest Ned, but it cannot change a man's nature

Arianne, a very intimidating woman, is coming to push herself onto Aegon, yet Aegon's entourage believed the support of Dorne was expected due to their existing blood ties to Aegon, not thanks to a new union between Aegon and a Dornish princess, a union which would also alter Doran's current plans which did not factor in Aegon at all.

A union to Aegon, from Doran's perspective, might also cast uncertainty into the master-strategist's mind; what will Dorne do when the real dragons come? And what if Dany's entourage sends a letter to Dorne along with Quentyn's body, telling them the prince was burned by the dragons he tried to steal? Would Arianne and the Sand Snakes believe it at all, especially if Arianne is trying to put herself between Aegon and Daenerys?

Daenerys on the other hand is preferred by Connington, who says the prince must hold off on any marriage as she may yet come, and he holds no found memories of Elia Martell, which might tarnish his view of Arianne no matter how "healthy" she might appear:

A bride for our bright prince. Jon Connington remembered Prince Rhaegar's wedding all too well. Elia was never worthy of him. She was frail and sickly from the first, and childbirth only left her weaker. After the birth of Princess Rhaenys, her mother had been bedridden for half a year, and Prince Aegon's birth had almost been the death of her. She would bear no more children, the maesters told Prince Rhaegar afterward.

"Daenerys Targaryen may yet come home one day," Connington told the Halfmaester. "Aegon must be free to marry her."

"My lord knows best," said Haldon. "In that case, we might consider offering potential friends a lesser prize."

Pushing lesser prizes onto Dorne is unlikely to be well received, chiefly by Arianne herself.

Connington is trying to shield the prince from doubt:

"I like the sound of that. My army." A smile flashed across his face, then vanished. "Are they, though? They're sellswords. Yollo warned me to trust no one."

"There is wisdom in that," Griff admitted. It might have been different if Blackheart still commanded, but Myles Toyne was four years dead, and Homeless Harry Strickland was a different sort of man. He would not say that to the boy, however. That dwarf had already planted enough doubts in his young head. "Not every man is what he seems, and a prince especially has good cause to be wary … but go too far down that road, and the mistrust can poison you, make you sour and fearful."

Yet Connington is joined by Tyrion's proposal, even if unknowingly, to wait for Daenerys:

"You do not need to win," Tyrion told him. "All you need to do is raise your banners, rally your supporters, and hold, until Daenerys arrives to join her strength to yours."

Tyrion sold the idea to Aegon as follows:

"I told you, I know our little queen. Let her hear that her brother Rhaegar's murdered son is still alive, that this brave boy has raised the dragon standard of her forebears in Westeros once more, that he is fighting a desperate war to avenge his father and reclaim the Iron Throne for House Targaryen, hard-pressed on every side … and she will fly to your side as fast as wind and water can carry her. You are the last of her line, and this Mother of Dragons, this Breaker of Chains, is above all a rescuer. The girl who drowned the slaver cities in blood rather than leave strangers to their chains can scarcely abandon her own brother's son in his hour of peril. And when she reaches Westeros, and meets you for the first time, you will meet as equals, man and woman, not queen and supplicant. How can she help but love you then, I ask you?"

The temptation is that of a mother figure and a rescuer who would fly to him like the wind, her brother's son, a boy becoming a man. Similarly, agreeing to this would place trust in his father-figure's plan. There is reassurance in taking this road, the one of parents he never had.

One way or another, Aegon must chose, at a time when war rages. But there is much room for doubt to keep him undecided, and if word reaches them that Daenerys has hurriedly flown away on her Dragon, could it be that Tyrion and Connington were right? Is the Mother of Dragons flying to the prince as fast as wind can carry her?

Aegon might hear the echo of Tyrion's words:

"Your father knew the dangers of being overbold."

The prince stared at the playing board. "My dragon—"

"—is too far away to save you. You should have moved her to the center of the battle."

Wait, and wait, and wait, but the war does not.

The death of duty

As the pressure mounts on Aegon to either keep on waiting for Daenerys or secure an alliance with Dorne, will Aegon break? And more importantly, if he does, how?

What if this is exactly what happened with Rhaegar? What if Rhaegar buckled under all the pressure that was on him? From prophecies to the duty of kingship.

"Lingering here will never bring it any closer. The sooner we take our leave of this place—"

"I know. I do." Dany did not know how to make him see. She wanted Westeros as much as he did, but first she must heal Meereen. "Ninety days is a long time. Hizdahr may fail. And if he does, the trying buys me time. Time to make alliances, to strengthen my defenses, to—"

"And if he does not fail? What will Your Grace do then?"

"Her duty." The word felt cold upon her tongue. "You saw my brother Rhaegar wed. Tell me, did he wed for love or duty?"

The old knight hesitated. "Princess Elia was a good woman, Your Grace. She was kind and clever, with a gentle heart and a sweet wit. I know the prince was very fond of her."

That answer from Jorah is fairly clear; Rhaegar married Elia out of duty, and maybe a hint of prophecy for all we know. He did not do so out of love.

Remember, Rhaegar thought he was expected to become a warrior. So we have another self-sacrifice for duty's sake:

"As a young boy, the Prince of Dragonstone was bookish to a fault. He was reading so early that men said Queen Rhaella must have swallowed some books and a candle whilst he was in her womb. Rhaegar took no interest in the play of other children. The maesters were awed by his wits, but his father's knights would jest sourly that Baelor the Blessed had been born again. Until one day Prince Rhaegar found something in his scrolls that changed him. No one knows what it might have been, only that the boy suddenly appeared early one morning in the yard as the knights were donning their steel. He walked up to Ser Willem Darry, the master-at-arms, and said, 'I will require sword and armor. It seems I must be a warrior.'"

And there is another hint that Rhaegar may have wanted to move away from the pressure of ruling, although a subtle one that remains to be cleared up:

Prince Rhaegar shook his head. "My royal sire fears your father more than he does our cousin Robert. He wants you close, so Lord Tywin cannot harm him. I dare not take that crutch away from him at such an hour."

Jaime's anger had risen up in his throat. "I am not a crutch. I am a knight of the Kingsguard."

"Then guard the king," Ser Jon Darry snapped at him. "When you donned that cloak, you promised to obey."

Rhaegar had put his hand on Jaime's shoulder. "When this battle's done I mean to call a council. Changes will be made. I meant to do it long ago, but . . . well, it does no good to speak of roads not taken. We shall talk when I return."

But love is the bane of honor, the death of duty:

"Swords win battles," Ser Jorah said bluntly. "And Prince Rhaegar knew how to use one."

"He did, ser, but . . . I have seen a hundred tournaments and more wars than I would wish, and however strong or fast or skilled a knight may be, there are others who can match him. A man will win one tourney, and fall quickly in the next. A slick spot in the grass may mean defeat, or what you ate for supper the night before. A change in the wind may bring the gift of victory." He glanced at Ser Jorah. "Or a lady's favor knotted round an arm."

So I posit that the fear of it all frightened Rhaegar into the arms of Lyanna, who similarly ran from a duty imposed on her in marrying Robert, and as the war began to rage on both escaped away from it all to the Tower of Joy.

Kill the boy and let the man be born

Many wonder what Arys Oakheart's narrative point was. He is a good example of a man who struggled between love and duty.

You know I have no other woman. Only... duty.

Which led him to his death:

Arys, my sweet knight, why did you do it? You should have yielded. I tried to tell you, but the words caught in my mouth. You gallant fool, I never meant for you to die, or for Myrcella...

I believe that as history seems to so often repeat itself in the world of Ice and Fire, Aegon will flee into the arms of love. But whose' love?

Come break of day, they were off again. Elia Sand led the way, her black braid flying behind her as she raced across the dry, cracked plains and up into the hills. The girl was mad for horses, which might be why she often smelled like one, to the despair of her mother. Sometimes Arianne felt sorry for Ellaria. Four girls, and every one of them her father's daughter.

Elia Sand, who bears the name of Aegon's mother, is similar in more ways than one to Lyanna Stark.

"We will see about that." Valena wheeled her big red around and put her heels into him, and the race was on, through the dusty lanes of the village at the bottom of the hill, as chickens and villagers alike scrambled out of their path. Arianne was three horse lengths behind by the time she got her mare up to a gallop, but had closed to one halfway up the slope. The two of them were side-by-side as they thundered towards the gatehouse, but five yards from the gates Elia Sand came flying from the cloud of dust behind them to rush past both of them on her black filly.

"Are you half horse, child?" Valena asked, laughing, in the yard. "Princess, did you bring a stable girl?"

"I'm Elia," the girl announced. "Lady Lance."

Lyanna was also a horse-rider:

Arya was breathing hard herself then. She knew the fight was done. "You ride like a northman, milady," Harwin said when he'd drawn them to a halt. "Your aunt was the same. Lady Lyanna."

And she was literally said to be "half a horse"

Horses … the boy was mad for horses, Lady Dustin will tell you. Not even Lord Rickard's daughter could outrace him, and that one was half a horse herself.

And similarly to Elia, Lyanna could fight:

"Lyanna might have carried a sword, if my lord father had allowed it.

And we have this in Bran's vision:

Now two children danced across the godswood, hooting at one another as they dueled with broken branches. The girl was the older and taller of the two. Arya! Bran thought eagerly, as he watched her leap up onto a rock and cut at the boy. But that couldn't be right. If the girl was Arya, the boy was Bran himself, and he had never worn his hair so long. And Arya never beat me playing swords, the way that girl is beating him. She slashed the boy across his thigh, so hard that his leg went out from under him and he fell into the pool and began to splash and shout.

Elia can joust, and we all know that the Knight of the Laughing Tree is believed by many to have been Lyanna:

"I am almost a woman grown, ser," she responded haughtily. "I'll let you spank me, though... but first you'll need to tilt with me, and knock me off my horse."

"We are on a ship, and without horses," Joss replied.

"And ladies do not joust," insisted Ser Garibald Shells, a far more serious and proper young man than his companion.

"I do. I'm Lady Lance."

Arianne had heard enough. "You may be a lance, but you are no lady. Go below and stay there till we reach land."

Note the point earlier where Elia surprises Arianne by racing ahead of her? It is a very tempting hint that Elia will steal Arianne's place and become Aegon's love interest, one no one is pushing on him. Her playful and courageous nature might attract him, comfort him at a time of incredible pressure, just as Lyanna may have with Rhaegar before.

But Rhaegar in the end found his courage, and went into battle. He killed the boy to let the man be born. And died.

"Can a man still be brave if he's afraid?"

"That is the only time a man can be brave," his father told him.

But the question, what bravery will Aegon be pushed into?

"Your father knew the dangers of being overbold."

I won't theorize on what Aegon might throw his courage at here, as the above might bring enough down-votes on its own. I'll just say that Elia, the lance-wielder, has a strong connection to Aegon already:

"Vengeance for Oberyn and Elia."

"Prince Aegon was Rhaegar's heir by Elia of Dorne"

"You raped her. You murdered her. You killed her children."

TLDR: Aegon's and Elia Sands' story parallels Rhaegar and Lyanna's, and will end tragically. “

[teacupfulofstarshine]

the crossroad of our destinies book one: earth

summary: virgil isn't sure how he got roped into this crazy adventure. somehow, he's traveling around with the avatar, his blind earth bending younger brother, a chipper air bender, and a banished fire bender prince, and they're supposed to save the world? virgil can't even tell them he's a water bender. he's not cut out to save anyone. little did he know, they're cut out to save each other - and maybe the whole world in the process. 

(OR: an avatar the last airbender!au, centering around a water bender virgil)

a/n: i . . . wrote the entire first chapter in one day . . . how i still do not know . . . the confusion is real. huge, huge, HUGE amounts of thanks goes to @lovelylogans for cheerleading me through this and also beta reading the first chapter. this wouldn't exist without her, and i love her, and i am so eternally grateful 

CW: atla-typical fantasy violence, brief nonspecific allusions to child abuse, angst, background death of minor unnamed OCs, family angst, mentions of burns

wordcount: 5882

read it on ao3! 

“This is gonna be so interesting!” Patton says, draping himself on his belly over the ball of air beneath him. “I’ve never seen real earth bending before!”

“That would imply that there’s such a thing as fake earth bending, which there decidedly is not,” Logan says, adjusting his shirt with a huff. Virgil glances up from where he’s sharpening his knife next to the fire, raising an eyebrow. 

“I’ve done all kinds of reading about earth bending!” Patton says, seemingly oblivious to Logan’s indignation. “There are scrolls about it all over the Air Nation temples, but I’ve obviously never seen one! Earth benders went extinct so long ago that -”

“What?” Thomas says, lifting his head to stare up at Patton. 

“The Fire Nation desecration reaches beyond our home?” Logan asks, one hand curling into a fist at his side. “They have burned more villages to the ground than ours?” 

Roman pokes at the campfire with a stick, keeping his eyes cast to the ground. “The Fire Nation is trying to wipe out all other benders. They don’t want anyone left but us. Why do you think I ran away from home? My father told me that the other nations attacked us first, but . . .” 

“Falsehood,” Logan snaps. The earth begins to shake beneath him. “We would never do something so horrendous! The Earth Kingdom is a peaceful settlement, we - we would never -”

“Calm down, Rocky, I’m not accusing you,” Roman says. The campfire flares up, and Virgil’s eyes flicker to the waterskin at his side. His hands won’t move fast enough if Roman’s temper causes him to lose control. Something else might, but he refuses. “I’m just saying, there’s a lot of propaganda in the Fire Nation. We’re not all heartless evil bastards. Some of us are just trying to protect our homes. I abandoned a lot when I saved you and your brother from my father’s army.”

“Oh, yes, like what?” Logan snaps. “Like a cushy life in the palace? Like your status as the next in line for overlord of us all and destroyer of my people? Like -”

“Like my twin brother,” Roman says coolly, tone betraying the way the fire surges and sinks in time with his heavy breathing. “Like my best friend, the boy I was to marry. I loved him so much, and he helped me escape, and - and my father probably killed him for his insubordination. I’ll never see him again, and whose fault is that? Mine!” 

The fire surges up in a pillar. Before anyone can react in a meaningful way, a vortex spirals to life around the flames. In a flash, all the oxygen is sucked out of the fire. It dies instantly, leaving a pile of half-charred twigs. Patton lets his bending stance drop, and the vortex falls away. 

“Everyone,” he says quietly, “needs to take some deep breaths. It’s going to be okay. Everyone here has suffered at the hands of the Fire Nation. Everyone here has lost something. It’s okay to acknowledge that pain, and hurt, but it’s not okay to blame each other or ourselves. Roman, you can’t control what your father did to you any more than Thomas and Logan can control the fact that they’re earth benders.” 

“I am an earth bender,” Logan says quietly. “Thomas is -”

“The Avatar,” Thomas says. He studies his hands in silence, and Virgil slides his knife into his boot. 

“Yeah, well, Avatar or not, you were born an earth bender,” he says. Everyone looks at him in a surprise that he mirrors internally; he’s not really one for speaking up during moments like this. There have been plenty since they all started traveling together, but Virgil typically keeps his mouth shut. 

“What?” Thomas asks. Logan turns his head towards Virgil’s voice. His unseeing eyes bore right through Virgil, as though they’re peering into his soul. 

“You were born an earth bender,” Virgil repeats. “That’s the whole damn point of the Avatar cycle, isn’t it? The Avatar spirit gets cycled through all the nations so that each Avatar gets a new and different experience to the one before. No matter what anyone says, you’re an earth bender. Just ‘cause you’re the Avatar too, that doesn’t change your birthright.”

His voice slips away from him, falling into the familiar cadence of his grandmother telling him stories as a young child. “You are an earth bender. You were born with the pull of Mother Earth in your bones. The Lion-Turtles have gifted you with an awareness of what is beneath us, always, a firm and unyielding constant in a world too fluid to appreciate it. You must hold steadfast to what is right and true, because no one else will do it for you. Air, flighty and fluid; fire, scorching and shifting; water, rapid and raging; all these will move from one form to the next as it suits their needs. You must anchor them, or no one will.” 

He blinks, snapping himself out of the strange trance he lulled himself into, and becomes aware of the other three staring at him. “What?” he snaps defensively. 

“That was . . . something,” Thomas says. “Where’d you get a story like that?”

“My grandmother,” Virgil says, pulling a knife from inside his robe. He makes sure that everyone catches the sharpness of its edge glinting under the half-full moon before he goes back to sharpening it. “She would tell me stories of the other benders all the time, how every element has its strengths and drawbacks. She told me that every element plays a role in keeping the world balanced, and that someone would have to repair what the Fire Nation was breaking without destroying the Fire Nation in the process.”

“And why not?” Logan asks - not accusing, genuinely curious. He shifts one foot a couple of inches and a rock springs from the ground next to Thomas, allowing Logan to sit down. 

“Because if we lose fire benders completely, we lose everything we worked to rebuild. We need harmony between all four elements. That includes Princey and his fire bending.” 

Roman thrusts a fist forward, and the campfire reignites itself as a small fireball bursts from his fist. “Thanks, Waterboy.” Virgil flinches a little. “What? You’re from the Southern Water Tribe, aren’t you?”

“What? Yeah. What about it?” 

Roman just shrugs and goes back to the campfire. 

*~*~*~*~*

Logan is amazing at earth bending. 

Granted, Virgil knows next to nothing about the techniques, other than the fact that they involve a lot of foot movements and heavy grounding. It seems to be the complete antithesis of Patton’s air bending and Roman’s fire bending, both of which appear to center heavily on movement. Still, it’s plain to see that Logan is something of a prodigy. He moves as though the earth he bends is an extension of his own body, controlling it with an easy, fluid grace that belies his solid stances. 

It’s hard to believe, watching him, that he’s the younger brother. It’s hard to believe that he can’t see anything. Roman comments as much, and Logan sends him flying with a blunted earth spike without so much as turning to face him. 

“Ow!” Roman shrieks. He’s unharmed, of course; Patton had swiftly leapt into the air to catch him and return him to the ground. “What was that for?” 

“I can so see,” Logan retorts. He barely comes up to Roman’s shoulder, but he’s solidly built, despite his young age. 

“I thought you were blind!” 

“I am. My eyes have never seen a day of my life. That does not mean I cannot see, you moron. I simply do not see with my eyes. I use my feet to see. The ground tells me everything I need to know. You, for example, are currently clinging to Patton like a terrified lemur, and he is hovering approximately as far above the ground as my forearm is long.” 

“How do you do that?!” Roman says, dropping from Patton’s arms to land on the ground. “Also, there’s no way that you’re strong enough to take me down.” 

“And why not?” Logan asks. “I could so take you down.” 

“This is a bad idea,” Virgil says. 

“You could not!” Roman boasts. 

“This is a bad idea,” Virgil repeats. 

“That sounds like a challenge,” Logan says, turning in Roman’s direction and tilting his head in a clear act of dismissal. “Unless you are afraid to face a young, blind earth bender, Prince Roman?”

Roman’s face changes from pride to ice in a split-second. He’ll tolerate Virgil’s “Princey” jabs, but he hates being called by his proper title. “You’re on.”

“Not here!” Thomas yelps. “We are standing in a very flammable forest, and none of us can water bend!” 

“Aren’t you the Avatar, master of all elements?” Roman says testily.

“Only in the Avatar state, at the moment, which I cannot trigger on my own! If you guys set the whole forest on fire, people will come and investigate! We can’t risk being found - I can’t risk being found!” 

The sound of his older brother’s voice seems to snap Logan out of it, at the very least. He shifts his left foot, and Virgil shivers as a small earthquake rumbles through the ground. It’s low-scale enough that anyone else who notices it will pass it off as normal seismic activity. For their little group, however, it’s much more than that; it’s Logan checking the nearby terrain. 

If that isn’t enough to terrify Roman into surrender, Virgil seriously worries about the state of his brain. 

“There is an isolated rocky plain not far from here,” Logan says. “I suggest that we have our battle there. Will tomorrow suffice?”

“Fine by me,” Roman spits, stalking away. Patton drops to the ground and begins to croon to his giant sky bison Remy, stroking his nose. Remy huffs out a breath that rustles the trees around them. Virgil is inclined to agree. 

*~*~*~*~*

“I have said it before, and I will say it again. This is a BAD idea.” 

Virgil tugs his thick jacket on over his loose tunic and pants. Logan sits next to him, controlling a small mound of earth like it’s wet clay. With every shift of his perpetually-bare feet, he changes its shape. 

“I will not be injured,” Logan says. “Roman will not intentionally injure me. He considers me an opponent beneath him, and he is too gallant to harm a child.” 

“How old are you, anyway? Not judging or anything, I’m just . . . curious.” 

Logan’s earth mound trembles. “I am . . . twelve years and six months old.” 

Virgil just blinks at him. He’d thought that Patton, newly fourteen, was the youngest member of their crew; he and Roman are both sixteen, and Thomas is seventeen. He’s assumed this whole time that Logan is around Patton’s age, maybe a few months older, despite his slight stature. “That’s . . . younger than I was expecting.” 

“Are you going to remove me from your expedition?” Logan challenges. He clenches his fist, and the earth mound shatters into dust. “I will not abandon Thomas. He is my brother, the only remnant I have of my family. Of my village, my people, my culture. He is everything to me. I will not return to an ashen husk of my home because you do not consider me mature enough for this journey.” 

“You’re the most mature person here, and anyone who says otherwise is an idiot,” Virgil says, holding up his hands in an “I-mean-no-harm” gesture. He says it because it’s true, because he believes it, but he also says it because he can see the way the earth trembles below Logan. It reminds him of the sea, in a way - calm and quiet, but constantly roiling beneath the glassy surface. 

Logan takes a deep breath, air in and out, and the earth calms to stillness on his exhale. 

“Thank you, Virgil.”

“You’re welcome. Now that the mushy shit’s out of the way - this is a terrible idea and you shouldn’t fight Roman. Not because you’re young or weak or anything like that, but because if one of you gets seriously injured, it’s not like we can waltz into the nearest village and ask for help.” 

Logan shakes his head, smiling. He looks much older than twelve and a half. 

“Trust me, Virgil. This will not be much of a fight.” 

*~*~*~*~*

“If I could talk him out of this, I would,” Thomas tells Virgil. They’re sitting on a tall mound of earth that Thomas had bended up from the plain. Patton hovers casually behind them, sitting cross-legged on a ball of air. Logan and Roman stand facing each other, arms at their sides. 

“The duel will end when one of the participants is unable to bend, or when one participant cedes to the other,” Virgil announces. He’s still not sure how he got roped into refereeing this crazy death match. Patton bends the wind so that his voice carries down to Logan and Roman, but he doesn’t have to. It’s so silent that Virgil could hear for miles. “No attacks shall be permitted which may result in death or grievous bodily harm. Are these rules understood by the participants?” 

“They are,” Roman says. They’re different than the rules to a Fire Nation duel, Virgil thinks, judging by the slight confusion that crosses Roman’s face before he settles back to cool indifference. 

“They are,” Logan says. He and Roman are an arm’s-length apart. 

“Bow!” Virgil calls. Logan and Roman each take a step backward and bow from the waist, a sign of respect between duel participants. Despite their bickering, they do respect each other. (Virgil thinks.) 

“Turn and walk! Ten or fifteen paces!” The traditional standard is ten paces, but Logan’s legs are much shorter than Roman’s, so he has to walk fifteen paces to cross the same amount of ground that Roman does in ten. They turn around and walk, and once they’ve made it the designated distance they turn back to each other. 

“Ready your bending stances!” Roman squares his shoulders and lifts his hands, curling them into fists. Logan spreads his feet apart, planting them shoulder-width apart. Virgil raises a hand up high, bringing it down sharply to connect with his palm like a knife slicing through a fresh kill. 

“Begin!” 

Roman immediately launches a huge fireball at Logan. It’s red, the lowest intensity Roman is capable of producing. Virgil laughs internally; Logan was right. Roman is holding back. Thomas makes a worried noise, but Logan is unaffected. He shifts one foot, thrusts his hands out and flicks them up, and suddenly a massive wall of earth rises in front of him. Roman’s fireball slams harmlessly into it, singing the upper layer of dust but otherwise having no effect. 

“I knew you would temper your attacks for me!” Logan shouts, dropping his wall. “If that had been your usual strength, my wall would have disintegrated!” 

“And you took that risk?!” Roman says. 

“Because I knew you would go easy on me! That is not the point of this duel, Roman! Fight me like you mean it!” Logan stamps his foot, and two massive pillars of earth rise up beside him, one on either side. Another stamp, and the pillars segment into disks. Logan begins to move, still between the pillars as he hurls the disks of earth at Roman. 

Roman dodges the first few disks easily, but Logan is relentless. For every few disks he throws, he stamps his food again, and the pillars rise up again. He draws more and more earth up from beneath him, and it’s all Roman can do to keep himself from being crushed. 

“Are you trying to kill me?!” 

“I thought you were a prince! You should be stronger than this!” 

Roman stands perfectly still, and Logan sends a disk hurtling towards him. Roman screams and throws his hands forwards, and a massive burst of golden-orange fire roars out. It engulfs the disk, pushing it backwards and melting it. Molten rock splashes to the ground, and Roman runs forward. He has twin flames clenched in his fists, like knives, and Logan grins wildly. 

“Finally!” 

The ground grows soft beneath his feet. Roman yells, thrusts a fire-knife forward like he’s going to stab Logan in the head, and Logan vanishes. He drops down, sinking below the earth, and Roman whirls around, confused. The pillars sink down into the ground, and Roman growls. 

“Get up here and fight like a man!” 

The ground rumbles beneath him, almost like Logan is laughing, and then a pillar of earth bursts up beneath Roman and sends him flying into the air. As he falls, another pillar flies up, smashing into him, and then another and another and another. Roman is knocked around like a ragdoll; he fire bends in the air, hurling jets of flame at the earth, but Logan is apparently so far underground that he is unaffected. 

Finally, he slams onto the earth, flat on his back. Logan pops up from underground, covered in a layer of dust, breathing heavily. He takes a single step towards Roman and collapses. 

“Logan!” Thomas shouts. Roman pushes himself to sit up, placing a hand along Logan’s neck. The earth bender doesn’t stir. Roman says something, but it’s inaudible. “Patton, please!” 

“On it,” Patton says, bending Roman’s words toward them. 

“He’s alive,” Roman rasps in their ears. Thomas stands, slamming his foot into the ground, and a curved chute carves itself into their observation mound. Another stamp, and a flat piece of earth appears at the mouth of the chute. Thomas leaps onto it and begins to surf down towards Roman and Logan. 

“A little help?” Virgil asks Patton dryly. Patton offers his hand, pulling Virgil up into his arms, and then they’re flying.

*~*~*~*~*

Logan sleeps for about six hours before sitting up, rubbing at his eyes. “What hit me?” he groans. “Did I lose the duel?”

“You both lost, morons,” Virgil says shortly. 

“You and I are the only ones here - no, wait, someone else is laying by the fire. Roman?” 

“Yeah. He’s sleeping off what you two did to each other. Patton and Thomas are off by the river getting water, because if I have to watch Thomas mother-hen over you two anymore I’m gonna lose my fucking mind.” He stabs angrily at the fire. “You over-exerted yourself with that crazy tunneling move.” 

“I . . . have never tried it on that large a scale before,” Logan admits, shakily sitting up. “Even now, my bending feels . . . exhausted. My vision is foggy. I - for the first time since I learned to bend, I feel truly blind.” He sounds like a scared kid, and it’s enough to evaporate what’s left of Virgil’s anger. 

“Hey, you’re alright,” he says gruffly. “No one’s dead, and you two hopefully have a better understanding of each other’s power now, right?” Logan nods, silent. “Good. Just know that if you ever scare your brother and Patton -” ( and me, he doesn’t say) “- again, I’ll drown you in the fucking river.” 

Logan cracks a smile at that, and it doesn’t fade, even when Thomas returns from the river and practically tackles him into a tearful hug.

*~*~*~*~*

Sometimes, Virgil has regrets. 

Remy coasts through the sky, Patton seated on his head with a loose grip on the reins. Logan, Thomas, and Roman all huddle together, Roman in the middle so that his warmth exudes out to encompass them like a bubble. Virgil is starfished on his back, staring up at the sky. It’s so different to the one that he’s used to seeing over the Southern Pole. 

He misses home. 

He misses the familiar sting of ice and snow against his skin. He misses the scent of seal jerky drying out next to the campfires. He misses packing down the firm snow to create walls for the igloo, misses hunting with his friends and family. 

He misses bending. 

The Fire Nation thinks that they have eradicated water benders from the Southern Pole. They believe that Virgil’s father, whom they cruelly killed on their last raid, was the final water bender. 

They think incorrectly. 

Virgil’s father sacrificed himself to save his son. The pendant Virgil wears around his neck, carved from the rib bone of an ancient and mighty Lion-Turtle, was the only thing he was allowed to keep when his father’s body was prepared for burial. His mother gave it to his father when they were married. She died bringing him into the world, and the Fire Nation made him an orphan. 

“Virgil?” Thomas asks, shifting on Roman’s chest. “Are you okay?” 

Virgil exhales, rolling over so that he’s facing his sleepy friends. “Yeah, Thomas, I’m okay. Just homesick, you know?” 

“I get that,” Thomas says. He reaches over and gently touches his sleeping brother. “At least I have Lo with me, to remind me of home. You don’t even have that. I’m so sorry.” 

“Don’t worry about it,” Virgil says easily. “It’s not like I have a family to go back to, anyway.”

A sad look crosses Thomas’s face, but he doesn’t push. Virgil can’t decide if he’s grateful or disappointed. 

*~*~*~*~*

It’s amusing to watch Logan drill Thomas in earth bending. Every time Thomas messes up, Logan throws a pebble at him, and not with his earth bending, either. He will literally pick up the nearest chunk of rock and throw it at Thomas. He hits him in the arm without fail. 

Virgil snickers from where he’s darning a tear in his pants. He has a bone needle in his pack, and it doesn’t take a lot of skill to find plants that he can twist into sturdy fiber thread. He’s already got a pretty sizable ball of thread rolled up beside him. 

“You can sew?” Roman asks. 

Virgil flinches at the sudden noise, nearly pricking his finger with the needle. “Don’t scare a guy like that, Princey!” 

An upset expression crosses Roman’s face, but he brushes it off. “Still!”

“Yeah, I can sew. In the Water Tribe, you have to learn to do stuff for yourself.” Especially when the Fire Nation kills your parents, he doesn’t say. 

Roman bounces eagerly. “Do you think you could teach me to do that?”

“Why the hell do you wanna know how to sew?”

“If something rips, I have to be able to fix it myself,” Roman says firmly. “Teach me, please?” 

Virgil sighs. “I only have one needle, so you have to wait until I’m done with this actual work before I start teaching you. You will prick your fingers a lot, and you are not allowed to bitch at me for this. You brought this upon yourself.” 

Roman just grins, sharp and wild. It’s the grin of a Fire Nation child, and it should strike terror into Virgil’s heart. He’s almost more terrified by the fact that it doesn’t.

*~*~*~*~*

Virgil quietly creeps away, after ensuring that everyone else is soundly asleep. They’re fortunate enough to have camped near a river this time, despite the fact that they’re still in the middle of the woods as they travel. What their endgame is, Virgil doesn’t know. For now, they’re just traveling so that the Fire Nation doesn’t catch them off guard, complacent in one place. 

He steps into the river, and the feeling of water around his ankles is soothing. “Hello,” he breathes. 

Virgil knows that his father wasn’t a water bender. He doesn’t think his mother was a water bender, either, although it’s impossible to say. The pendant that she gave his father was carved by water bending, tiny thin streams of water manipulated skillfully along the surface until they etched grooves. It doesn’t make sense that she would have trusted its creation to someone else, but if she had no choice . . .

Despite his insecurities, being in the water always makes him feel closer to both of them. 

He slowly lifts a hand, and a stream of water coils up to meet him. It wraps around his wrist, like a vine, like a friend, coiling up towards his neck. Virgil exhales, tips backwards, and lets himself fall into the water. He moves his hands as he falls, bending the river water so that it flows around his head. The water rushes through his ears, and Virgil is at peace. 

He stares up at the full moon, pretending he can see his father’s smile staring back at him in the craters on its surface.

*~*~*~*~*

“There are spirits in this place,” Thomas says. His eyes aren’t glowing the way they do when the Avatar State overtakes him, but there is an unnatural shine to his irises. “They are here, and they are angry.”

“Why?” the village leader asks. Thomas turns his head towards the village leader’s young daughter, sees the way she cowers away from her father. Virgil doesn’t have whatever supernatural perception Thomas does, but he doesn’t need Avatar State eyes (or whatever the fuck is going on) to see the bruises that litter her arms under her tight sleeves. 

Thomas takes a step forward. The earth shakes beneath him. Logan shifts to a bending stance in a single breath, but Thomas puts a hand out to stop him. Ice-blue wisps of fog coil up around him, and Virgil takes a step backwards as a massive spirit-dragon appears in the village square. 

“They are angry,” Thomas repeats, and his voice reverberates with a power well beyond his years.  

Yeah. Virgil’s pretty angry, too.

*~*~*~*~*

“I didn’t know you could do that,” Logan comments idly, as they fly away from the village. He’s holding tightly to his brother; without the ground to, well, ground him, he tends to cling to Thomas. “With the spirits.” 

“You could sense them?”

“Not with my earth bending. They’re not solid. But I could feel them. I knew they were there, and . . . and once you spoke, I knew they were angry.” 

“No child should be hurt,” Roman says darkly. He’s slumped over the side of the saddle, watching the ground pass by below him. “No - no child. No child should be hurt.” 

Patton is silent, clutching Remy’s reins with white knuckles. He’s been silent since they left, but Virgil is too attentive to miss the tears streaming down his face. They’d saved the day, but that doesn’t mean there isn’t a pit in all their stomachs.

*~*~*~*~*

When the Fire Nation soldier bursts through the bushes, everyone moves in an instant. 

Patton and Logan spring in front of Thomas immediately; Logan is in an earth bending stance and Patton has wind spiraling around his fingertips. Virgil draws a knife from his sleeves and grips it tightly. The soldier looks to be in his mid-sixties or so, with gray-white hair pulled back in a topknot and a beard flowing down his front. He has a round potbelly, but there is something sharp and militant in his eyes. 

Roman is the only one who hasn’t moved. “U - uncle?!” 

Everyone stops and stares at him. “Uncle?” Patton echoes. The Fire Nation soldier blinks at Roman, and his entire face softens. 

“My beloved nephew.” 

Roman throws himself at the strange soldier, and the soldier catches him, hugging him and holding him close. “Uncle! Uncle, you - what happened?! After I left, Remus, Dee - what happened to them?!” 

“I will explain all in time,” the soldier (Uncle?) says. “But first, perhaps you should tell your new friends that I am not a threat before they kill me?” There’s a wry smile on his lips as he looks at them all, a bedraggled group of teenagers ready to fight and kill. 

Roman just hugs the strange man tighter, and Virgil sheaths the knife when he hears Roman’s muffled sobs. Despite their constant bickering, he knows that Roman really, truly does miss his home, and now he has a small piece of it back. Virgil imagines he’d react in a similar way if a member of his family showed up right now (even though he has no one to show up). He can’t begrudge Roman this little scrap of comfort.

*~*~*~*~*

The Fire Nation soldier is revealed to be Roman’s Uncle Emile, brother of the current Fire Lord. “My brother,” Emile says, stroking his beard slightly, “can only be described as . . . a little bitch.” 

“Remus,” Roman repeats, sitting next to his Uncle and gripping his hand. “My brother, Uncle, what happened to him? What happened to Dolos?” 

“Your father was furious at them for letting you and the young earth benders escape the capital,” Emile says. “He dared not wound Prince Remus, but Dolos is only a noble’s son. He was spared no such courtesy.” 

“Is he dead?” Roman whispers. He’s shaking; Virgil wonders if he should attempt to offer some sort of comfort. 

“He is not dead,” Emile says. “Your father challenged him to an Agni Kai - a traditional fire bending duel. Dolos barely fought back. He knelt, prostrated himself, begged for forgiveness. The Fire Lord did not grant it. The left side of his face and torso are badly burned. But he will survive.” 

Roman blinks, and tears pour down his face. 

“Your father banished him, and you as well,” Emile says. “Remus has been sent on a mission to capture the Avatar - to capture you.”

“Where is Dolos?” Roman rasps. 

“Remus insisted on taking him with him. He told your father that he would leave Dolos in an outlying colony somewhere, but he remains below deck on the ship. He is healing from his wounds. He will be scarred for life, but he will still have a life.” 

“I want to see them,” Roman says. 

Emile shakes his head. “Prince Roman, no. It is a bad idea.”

“Why?” 

“If you are spotted on board the Fire Nation ship, the crew will have no choice but to take you back to the Fire Nation as a prisoner. You are a fugitive. It cannot be risked.”

“I’ll risk my own safety if I damn well please!” Patton flinches at Roman’s shout, but Emile remains calm. 

“I will not risk your safety, Nephew. Will you risk the safety of your twin? Your betrothed? Your new friends?” 

Roman’s fire-angry glare shifts to them, to Virgil, who meets his eyes coolly even despite his terror. He won’t let Roman know that he’s afraid. He knows how much Roman hates it when they look at him as though he’s a fire bender to be afraid of. Roman exhales, and the campfire flares but he remains calm. 

“I . . . I won’t. But I miss them, Uncle.”

“I know you do,” Emile says. “My status as a disgraced general has finally come in handy, for I have been assigned as your brother’s advisor on this so-called fool’s errand. I will do my best to keep him safe and out of trouble.”

Roman fidgets with his hands. “Could . . . could I write them a letter?” 

Emile hums, considering. “I suppose that could be arranged.” 

Roman scribbles down two scrolls and passes them to his uncle. “Please take care of them for me, until - until I can come back and take care of them myself.” Emile nods, kissing his forehead. 

“I am proud of you, my nephew.” 

He disappears back through the bushes he came from, and Roman stares longingly after him. “Roman?” Patton asks. “Would - do you want a hug?” Roman stands stiff, back straight, shoulders pushed back. For a moment, he doesn’t look like their friend. He looks like a soldier. 

Then he turns around, and his eyes are wide and wet, and there’s snot dribbling down one corner of his face. “ Yeeeeeeeees,” he wails. Patton smiles, opens his arms, and lets Roman come crashing into them. 

*~*~*~*~*

Before they head out the next morning, a bird flutters down to land in front of Roman. He gasps when he realizes what it is, gathering the sharp-taloned bird into his arms and crooning over it. He showers its head in kisses. Virgil is lost. 

“This is Dragon! He was my pet back home, he’s a messenger hawk!” The bird chirps, nibbles on Roman’s ear lobe, and presents him with the parchment tied to his leg. Roman snatches the scroll, unrolling it eagerly, and Virgil peers over his shoulder. 

The upper half of the scroll is a near-illegible scrawl, with a splotched signature that Virgil can barely make out as “Prince Remus” accompanying some doodles and a splatter that looks almost like blood. The lower half is in shaky but beautiful calligraphy. The opening address is “My darling flower,” and the ending signature reads “Yours forever, Dolos.” 

“My love,” Roman whispers, tracing his fingers over Dolos’s signature. “And my brother . . . I love them . . . so much.”

“You gave up a lot to be with us,” Thomas says. “I appreciate everything that you’ve sacrificed. Logan and I would be dead without you.” 

“I’m glad no one is dead,” Roman says softly, voice wavering. “I just . . .”

“You love them,” Patton says. “We understand.” 

Roman strokes the parchment. His fingers come away slightly black with ink from the upper portion that his brother scrawled, and he exhales. “I am going to write them back. I’ll send Dragon to them. I’m not losing touch with my family, not again. Not this time. Remus and Dolos aren’t going to leave my life, not this time. They’ve got just as big a bone to pick with my father as we do. They can give us usable information.” 

“Will that endanger them?” Logan asks. 

“Uncle Emile is there, too. He can help them be discreet. I’m not abandoning my old family for this one, but - but I won’t betray you to my father, either. That’s not what a prince does.” Roman squares his shoulders again, and Virgil blinks in surprise. Roman doesn’t look ridiculous, like a child-soldier, or militant, like an enemy. He looks proud and strong and regal.

He looks like a real prince.

“I support you,” Logan says, startling all of them. “You are a prince, even if you are not our prince. I trust your judgement.” Roman seems the most shocked of all of them by Logan’s bold proclamation, especially considering the heated duel they’d had just three weeks ago, but Logan’s milky grey eyes look like they’re staring into Roman’s soul. 

Virgil is familiar with that look. 

“If Lo trusts you, I trust you,” Thomas says, and he smiles widely. Patton nods, smile bright and bubbly, and Roman looks to Virgil. He offers a thumbs-up and ruffles Roman’s hair. Roman squawks and bats at him, pushing him away. Virgil laughs and falls over easily into a back-bend. 

“Once you’re sure Thomas is solid on his earth-bending, we’re going to a sacred Fire Nation site on the fringes of the empire,” Roman tells Logan. “Fire comes next in the Avatar cycle, right? After earth?” 

“I think so?” Thomas says. 

“I know so,” Logan confirms. “And I think he’s ready.”

Roman nods, and the fire blazing in his eyes is the most reassuring thing Virgil’s seen in quite a while. (It’s strange to say, considering Roman is a Fire Nation prince, but Virgil’s used to people judging him by appearances. He’s learning to reconsider his assumptions.) 

“Alright then,” Roman says. “I’ll write back to my brother, try and find out what sites might be relatively empty so that we can camp ourselves out there. Fire Nation, here we come.” 

[aboveallarescuer]

Dany's empathy, compassion, compromises and sacrifices for other people

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

It must be acknowledged that it can be tricky to reference, say, ADWD passages to counter-argument how she was depicted in season eight (which allegedly follows ADOS events). Dany will have had plenty of character development in the span of two books. However, whatever happens to Dany in the next two books, I would argue that there is more than enough material to conclude that her show counterpart was made to fall for flaws that she (for the most part) never had and actions that she (for the most part) would never take. (and that's not even considering the double standards and the contradictions with what had been shown from show!Dany up until then, but that's obviously out of the scope of these lists)

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

I hope these lists can be useful for whoever wants to find book passages to defend (or even simply explore different facets of) Dany's character in metas or conversations.

 *Well, at least all the passages that I could find in her chapters, which is of course no guarantee that it is perfect, but I did my best.

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

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

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

To justify the existence of this list, let's see examples of widespread opinions that I feel misrepresent Daenerys Targaryen:

Along her way Daenerys has convinced herself that she wants to rule for the people and created a utopian ideology around herself as a benevolent freedom fighter -- while on a repressed, involuntary emotional level, the Iron Throne is actually a symbol to her of pain and trauma. So even though she doesn’t understand this herself, all this time her inner dragon wasn’t really driven by hope or the promise of change, but by rage and the will to avenge the abuse she endured at the hands of her enemies. (x)

~

Dany makes big, risky offensive plays, while Cersei -- surrounded by treacherous snakes and haunted by a prophecy that’s outlined how much she will lose - plays defensively. In light of all this, it makes sense why Dany views everything as positive opportunity and Cersei sees the negative angle. Daenerys wins hearts along her way not just because she’s a humanitarian, but also because she has to. (x)

~

[Dany] is a great and terrible leader who is spreading bloodshed and pain in their path. Entire civilizations have been burned at their whim. And her all-consuming desire to rule Westeros? She’s not particularly fussed about the rights of the smallfolk or worried about the impending frozen hell creeping its way from the North. She wants that Iron Throne because it’s her birthright. It’s hers, gosh darn it! Woe to the men and women who stand in her path. (x)

~

It’s likely the idea of Dany as queen would feel more applause-worthy if she stopped burning people alive and avoiding tough chats in favor of actually meeting the people of Westeros. Think about the end of season 3 finale “Mhysa,” when the dragon queen allowed herself to be enveloped by the freed slaves of Yunkai. Although the scene had a distinct and uncomfortable white savior feel, at least we saw Daenerys actually interact with the people she claims to care about so much. None of that behavior has been seen since Dany stepped foot on Westeros, only giving credence to some lords’ claim she is a “foreign” royal, despite her birth on Dragonstone. Instead of getting out and meeting her prospective subjects for a minute, Dany has spent season 7 either holed up in her castle with her advisors or riding her favorite dragon into battle. These are not the actions of someone determined to lift up the common folk. (x)

~

Daenerys isn't bothered by the idea of taking lives to achieve her goal[.] (x)

Dany isn't driven by hope or promise of change? Dany wins hearts because she "has to"? Dany isn't "fussed about the rights of the smallfolk"? Dany doesn't get out and meet her people? Dany isn't bothered by the idea of taking lives to achieve her goal?

I would argue these claims certainly cannot be made after reading the books (some can't even after watching the show's first 71 episodes, but it can be all over the place and .... I digress), so take a look at these passages.

A Dance with Dragons

ADWD Daenerys X

A girl might spend her life at play, but she was a woman grown, a queen, a wife, a mother to thousands. Her children had need of her. Drogon had bent before the whip, and so must she. She had to don her crown again and return to her ebon bench and the arms of her noble husband.

Hizdahr, of the tepid kisses.

~

No, Dany told herself. If I look back I am lost. She might live for years amongst the sunbaked rocks of Dragonstone, riding Drogon by day and gnawing at his leavings every evenfall as the great grass sea turned from gold to orange, but that was not the life she had been born to. So once again she turned her back upon the distant hill and closed her ears to the song of flight and freedom that the wind sang as it played amongst the hill’s stony ridges. The stream was trickling south by southeast, as near as she could tell. She followed it. Take me to the river, that is all I ask of you. Take me to the river, and I will do the rest.

The hours passed slowly. The stream bent this way and that, and Dany followed, beating time upon her leg with the whip, trying not to think about how far she had to go, or the pounding in her head, or her empty belly. Take one step. Take the next. Another step. Another. What else could she do?

~

Dragonstone was still visible above the grasslands. It looks so close. I must be leagues away by now, but it looks as if I could be back in an hour. She wanted to lie back down, close her eyes, and give herself up to sleep. No. I must keep going. The stream. Just follow the stream.

Dany took a moment to make certain of her directions. It would not do to walk the wrong way and lose her stream. “My friend,” she said aloud. “If I stay close to my friend I won’t get lost.” 

~

“Drogon killed a little girl. Her name was ... her name ...” Dany could not recall the child’s name. That made her so sad that she would have cried if all her tears had not been burned away. “I will never have a little girl. I was the Mother of Dragons.”

~

I gave you good counsel. Save your spears and swords for the Seven Kingdoms, I told you. Leave Meereen to the Meereenese and go west, I said. You would not listen.

“I had to take Meereen or see my children starve along the march.” Dany could still see the trail of corpses she had left behind her crossing the Red Waste. It was not a sight she wished to see again. “I had to take Meereen to feed my people.”

You took Meereen, he told her, yet still you lingered. 

“To be a queen.”

You are a queen, her bear said. In Westeros. 

“It is such a long way,” she complained. “I was tired, Jorah. I was weary of war. I wanted to rest, to laugh, to plant trees and see them grow. I am only a young girl.”

ADWD Daenerys IX

She pushed herself to her feet, splashing softly. Water ran down her legs and beaded on her breasts. The sun was climbing up the sky, and her people would soon be gathering. She would rather have drifted in the fragrant pool all day, eating iced fruit off silver trays and dreaming of a house with a red door, but a queen belongs to her people, not to herself.

~

“How should Meereen ever come to trust the Brazen Beasts if I do not? There are good brave men beneath those masks. I put my life into their hands.” Dany smiled for him. “You fret too much, ser. I will have you beside me, what other protection do I need?”

~

“He would be willing to wait, the woman Meris suggested. Until we march for Westeros.”

And if I never march for Westeros?

~

“Have you ever seen such an auspicious day, my love?” Hizdahr zo Loraq commented when she rejoined him. [...]

“Auspicious for you, perhaps. Less so for those who must die before the sun goes down.”

~

A palanquin lay overturned athwart their way. One of its bearers had collapsed to the bricks, overcome by heat. “Help that man,” Dany commanded. “Get him off the street before he’s stepped on and give him food and water. He looks as though he has not eaten in a fortnight.”

~

“Those bearers were slaves before I came. I made them free. Yet that palanquin is no lighter.”

“True,” said Hizdahr, “but those men are paid to bear its weight now. Before you came, that man who fell would have an overseer standing over him, stripping the skin off his back with a whip. Instead he is being given aid.”

It was true. A Brazen Beast in a boar mask had offered the litter bearer a skin of water. “I suppose I must be thankful for small victories,” the queen said.

“One step, then the next, and soon we shall be running. Together we shall make a new Meereen.” The street ahead had finally cleared. “Shall we continue on?”

What could she do but nod? One step, then the next, but where is it I’m going?

~

Her lord husband stood and raised his hands. “Great Masters! My queen has come this day, to show her love for you, her people. By her grace and with her leave, I give you now your mortal art. Meereen! Let Queen Daenerys hear your love!”

Ten thousand throats roared out their thanks; then twenty thousand; then all. They did not call her name, which few of them could pronounce. “Mother!” they cried instead; in the old dead tongue of Ghis, the word was Mhysa! They stamped their feet and slapped their bellies and shouted, “Mhysa, Mhysa, Mhysa,” until the whole pit seemed to tremble. Dany let the sound wash over her. I am not your mother, she might have shouted, back, I am the mother of your slaves, of every boy who ever died upon these sands whilst you gorged on honeyed locusts.

~

“A boy,” said Dany. “He was only a boy.”

“Six-and-ten,” Hizdahr insisted. “A man grown, who freely chose to risk his life for gold and glory. No children die today in Daznak’s, as my gentle queen in her wisdom has decreed.”

Another small victory. Perhaps I cannot make my people good, she told herself, but I should at least try to make them a little less bad. Daenerys would have prohibited contests between women as well, but Barsena Blackhair protested that she had as much right to risk her life as any man. The queen had also wished to forbid the follies, comic combats where cripples, dwarfs, and crones had at one another with cleavers, torches, and hammers (the more inept the fighters, the funnier the folly, it was thought), but Hizdahr said his people would love her more if she laughed with them, and argued that without such frolics, the cripples, dwarfs, and crones would starve. So Dany had relented.

It had been the custom to sentence criminals to the pits; that practice she agreed might resume, but only for certain crimes. “Murderers and rapers may be forced to fight, and all those who persist in slaving, but not thieves or debtors.”

Beasts were still allowed, though. Dany watched an elephant make short work of a pack of six red wolves. Next a bull was set against a bear in a bloody battle that left both animals torn and dying. “The flesh is not wasted,” said Hizdahr. “The butchers use the carcasses to make a healthful stew for the hungry. Any man who presents himself at the Gates of Fate may have a bowl.”

“A good law,” Dany said. You have so few of them. “We must make certain that this tradition is continued.”

~

The battle was followed by the day’s first folly, a tilt between a pair of jousting dwarfs, presented by one of the Yunkish lords that Hizdahr had invited to the games. One rode a hound, the other a sow. Their wooden armor had been freshly painted, so one bore the stag of the usurper Robert Baratheon, the other the golden lion of House Lannister. That was for her sake, plainly. Their antics soon had Belwas snorting laughter, though Dany’s smile was faint and forced. When the dwarf in red tumbled from the saddle and began to chase his sow across the sands, whilst the dwarf on the dog galloped after him, whapping at his buttocks with a wooden sword, she said, “This is sweet and silly, but …”

“Be patient, my sweet,” said Hizdahr. “They are about to loose the lions.”

Daenerys gave him a quizzical look. “Lions?”

“Three of them. The dwarfs will not expect them.”

She frowned. “The dwarfs have wooden swords. Wooden armor. How do you expect them to fight lions?”

“Badly,” said Hizdahr, “though perhaps they will surprise us. More like they will shriek and run about and try to climb out of the pit. That is what makes this a folly.”

Dany was not pleased. “I forbid it.”

“Gentle queen. You do not want to disappoint your people.”

“You swore to me that the fighters would be grown men who had freely consented to risk their lives for gold and honor. These dwarfs did not consent to battle lions with wooden swords. You will stop it. Now.”

~

The boar buried his snout in Barsena’s belly and began rooting out her entrails. The smell was more than the queen could stand. The heat, the flies, the shouts from the crowd … I cannot breathe. She lifted her veil and let it flutter away. She took her tokar off as well. The pearls rattled softly against one another as she unwound the silk.

“Khaleesi?” Irri asked. “What are you doing?”

“Taking off my floppy ears.” A dozen men with boar spears came trotting out onto the sand to drive the boar away from the corpse and back to his pen. The pitmaster was with them, a long barbed whip in his hand. As he snapped it at the boar, the queen rose. “Ser Barristan, will you see me safely back to my garden?”

Hizdahr looked confused. “There is more to come. A folly, six old women, and three more matches. Belaquo and Goghor!”

“Belaquo will win,” Irri declared. “It is known.”

“It is not known,” Jhiqui said. “Belaquo will die.”

“One will die, or the other will,” said Dany. “And the one who lives will die some other day. This was a mistake.”

~

“Magnificence, the people of Meereen have come to celebrate our union. You heard them cheering you. Do not cast away their love.”

“It was my floppy ears they cheered, not me. Take me from this abbatoir, husband.” She could hear the boar snorting, the shouts of the spearmen, the crack of the pitmaster’s whip.

ADWD Daenerys VIII

“...They can close their fingers around our throat again whenever they wish. They have opened a slave market within sight of my walls!”

“Outside our walls, sweet queen. That was a condition of the peace, that Yunkai would be free to trade in slaves as before, unmolested.”

“In their own city. Not where I have to see it.”

~

So Daenerys sat silent through the meal, wrapped in a vermilion tokar and black thoughts, speaking only when spoken to, brooding on the men and women being bought and sold outside her walls, even as they feasted here within the city. Let her noble husband make the speeches and laugh at the feeble Yunkish japes. That was a king’s right and a king’s duty.

~

No queen has clean hands, Dany told herself. She thought of Doreah, of Quaro, of Eroeh … of a little girl she had never met, whose name had been Hazzea. Better a few should die in the pit than thousands at the gates. This is the price of peace, I pay it willingly. If I look back, I am lost.

~

When the gluttony was done and all the half-eaten food had been cleared away—to be given to the poor who gathered below, at the queen's insistence—tall glass flutes were filled with a spiced liqueur from Qarth as dark as amber.

~

“If it please you, Yurkhaz will be pleased to give us the singers, I do not doubt,” her noble husband said. “A gift to seal our peace, an ornament to our court.”

He will give us these castrati, Dany thought, and then he will march home and make some more. The world is full of boys.

~

Hard by the bay was the abomination, the slave market at her door. She could not see it now, with the sun set, but she knew that it was there. That just made her angrier.

~

“It would please me if he had turned up with these fifty thousand swords he speaks of. Instead he brings two knights and a parchment. Will a parchment shield my people from the Yunkai’i? If he had come with a fleet ...”

[...] “Dorne is too far away. To please this prince, I would need to abandon all my people. You should send him home.”

~

“Bring him to me. It is time he met my children.”

[...] She smiled. “My prince. It is a long way down. Are you certain that you wish to do this?”

“If it would please Your Grace.”

“Then come.”

~

Broken chains clanked and clattered about his legs. Quentyn Martell jumped back a foot.

A crueler woman might have laughed at him, but Dany squeezed his hand and said, “They frighten me as well. There is no shame in that. My children have grown wild and angry in the dark.”

~

“They are ... they are fearsome creatures.”

“They are dragons, Quentyn.” Dany stood on her toes and kissed him lightly, once on each cheek. “And so am I.”

ADWD Daenerys VII

Her foes were all about her. [...] They would not try to take Meereen by storm. They would wait behind their siege lines, flinging stones at her until famine and disease had brought her people to their knees.

Hizdahr will bring me peace. He must.

~

“Dorne is fifty thousand spears and swords, pledged to our queen’s service.”

“Fifty thousand?” mocked Daario. “I count three.”

“Enough,” Daenerys said. “Prince Quentyn has crossed half the world to offer me his gift, I will not have him treated with discourtesy.”

~

“Your Grace does not love the noble Hizdahr. This one thinks you would sooner have another for your husband.”

I must not think of Daario today. “A queen loves where she must, not where she will.”

~

“The day is too hot to be shut up in a palanquin,” said Dany. “Have my silver saddled. I would not go to my lord husband upon the backs of bearers.”

“Your Grace,” said Missandei, “this one is so sorry, but you cannot ride in a tokar.”

The little scribe was right, as she so often was. The tokar was not a garment meant for horseback. Dany made a face. “As you say. Not the palanquin, though. I would suffocate behind those drapes. Have them ready a sedan chair.” If she must wear her floppy ears, let all the rabbits see her.

~

“...This match will save our city, you will see.”

“So we pray. I want to plant my olive trees and see them fruit.” Does it matter that Hizdahr’s kisses do not please me? Peace will please me. Am I a queen or just a woman?

~

Galazza Galare awaited them outside the temple doors, surrounded by her sisters in white and pink and red, blue and gold and purple. There are fewer than there were. Dany looked for Ezzara and did not see her. Has the bloody flux taken even her?

ADWD Daenerys VI

“...Let us distribute the food, Your Grace.”

“On the morrow. I am here now. I want to see.”

~

The Astapori stumbled after them in a ghastly procession that grew longer with every yard they crossed. Some spoke tongues she did not understand. Others were beyond speaking. Many lifted their hands to Dany, or knelt as her silver went by. “Mother,” they called to her, in the dialects of Astapor, Lys, and Old Volantis, in guttural Dothraki and the liquid syllables of Qarth, even in the Common Tongue of Westeros. “Mother, please … mother, help my sister, she is sick … give me food for my little ones … please, my old father … help him … help her … help me …”

I have no more help to give, Dany thought, despairing.

~

It was growing harder to find drivers willing to deliver the food as well. Too many of the men they had sent into the camp had been stricken by the flux themselves. Others had been attacked on the way back to the city. Yesterday a wagon had been overturned and two of her soldiers killed, so today the queen had determined that she would bring the food herself. Every one of her advisors had argued fervently against it, from Reznak and the Shavepate to Ser Barristan, but Daenerys would not be moved. “I will not turn away from them,” she said stubbornly. “A queen must know the sufferings of her people.”

~

Their eyes followed her. Those who had the strength called out. “Mother … please, Mother … bless you, Mother …”

Bless me, Dany thought bitterly. Your city is gone to ash and bone, your people are dying all around you. I have no shelter for you, no medicine, no hope. Only stale bread and wormy meat, hard cheese, a little milk. Bless me, bless me.

What kind of mother has no milk to feed her children?

~

“Food should not be wasted on the dying, Your Worship. We do not have enough to feed the living.”

He was not wrong, she knew, but that did not make the words any easier to hear.

~

The queen surveyed the scene around her. “If we were to share our food equally …”

“… the Astapori would eat through their portion in days, and we would have that much less for the siege.”

Dany gazed across the camp, to the many-colored brick walls of Meereen. The air was thick with flies and cries. “The gods have sent this pestilence to humble me. So many dead … I will not have them eating corpses.”

~

“I cannot heal them, but I can show them that their Mother cares.”

~

There was an old man on the ground a few feet away, moaning and staring up at the grey belly of the clouds. She knelt beside him, wrinkling her nose at the smell, and pushed back his dirty grey hair to feel his brow. “His flesh is on fire. I need water to bathe him. Seawater will serve. Marselen, will you fetch some for me? I need oil as well, for the pyre. Who will help me burn the dead?”

By the time Aggo returned with Grey Worm and fifty of the Unsullied loping behind his horse, Dany had shamed all of them into helping her. Symon Stripeback and his men were pulling the living from the dead and stacking up the corpses, while Jhogo and Rakharo and their Dothraki helped those who could still walk toward the shore to bathe and wash their clothes. Aggo stared at them as if they had all gone mad, but Grey Worm knelt beside the queen and said, “This one would be of help.”

Before midday a dozen fires were burning. Columns of greasy black smoke rose up to stain a merciless blue sky. Dany’s riding clothes were stained and sooty as she stepped back from the pyres. “Worship,” Grey Worm said, “this one and his brothers beg your leave to bathe in the salt sea when our work here is done, that we might be purified according to the laws of our great goddess.”

The queen had not known that the eunuchs had a goddess of their own. “Who is this goddess? One of the gods of Ghis?”

Grey Worm looked troubled. “The goddess is called by many names. She is the Lady of Spears, the Bride of Battle, the Mother of Hosts, but her true name belongs only to these poor ones who have burned their manhoods upon her altar. We may not speak of her to others. This one begs your forgiveness.”

“As you wish. Yes, you may bathe if that is your desire. Thank you for your help.”

“These ones live to serve you.”

~

“No ruler can make a people good,” Selmy had told her. “Baelor the Blessed prayed and fasted and built the Seven as splendid a temple as any gods could wish for, yet he could not put an end to war and want.” A queen must listen to her people, Dany reminded herself. “After the wedding Hizdahr will be king. Let him reopen the fighting pits if he wishes. I want no part of it.” Let the blood be on his hands, not mine.

~

“Daenerys, my queen, I will gladly wash you from head to heel if that is what I must do to be your king and consort.”

“To be my king and consort, you need only bring me peace.[”]

~

Would she never have a friend that she could trust? What good are prophecies if you cannot make sense of them? If I marry Hizdahr before the sun comes up, will all these armies melt away like morning dew and let me rule in peace?

~

“I thought you would be the one to betray me. Once for blood and once for gold and once for love, the warlocks said. I thought … I never thought Brown Ben. Even my dragons seemed to trust him.” She clutched her captain by the shoulders. “Promise me that you will never turn against me. I could not bear that. Promise me.”

ADWD Daenerys V

Daenerys received them in the grandeur of her hall as tall candles burned amongst the marble pillars. When she saw that the Astapori were half-starved, she sent for food at once.

~

“I’m no maester, mind you, but I know you got to keep the bad apples from the good.”

“These are not apples, Ben,” said Dany. “These are men and women, sick and hungry and afraid.” My children. “I should have gone to Astapor.”

~

“You want me to loot Meereen and flee? No, I will not do that.[”]

~

Daenerys looked at the faces of the men around her. The Shavepate, scowling. Ser Barristan, with his lined face and sad blue eyes. Reznak mo Reznak, pale, sweating. Brown Ben, white-haired, grizzled, tough as old leather. Grey Worm, smooth-cheeked, stolid, expressionless. Daario should be here, and my bloodriders, she thought. If there is to be a battle, the blood of my blood should be with me. She missed Ser Jorah Mormont too. He lied to me, informed on me, but he loved me too, and he always gave good counsel.

~

“I cannot fight two enemies, one within and one without. If I am to hold Meereen, I must have the city behind me. The whole city. I need … I need …” She could not say it.

“Your Grace?” Ser Barristan prompted, gently.

A queen belongs not to herself but to her people.

“I need Hizdahr zo Loraq.”

ADWD Daenerys IV

Two of Dany’s favorite hostages served the food and kept the cups filled—a doe-eyed little girl called Qezza and a skinny boy named Grazhar. They were brother and sister, and cousins of the Green Grace, who greeted them with kisses when she swept in, and asked them if they had been good.

“They are very sweet, the both of them,” Dany assured her. “Qezza sings for me sometimes. She has a lovely voice. And Ser Barristan has been instructing Grazhar and the other boys in the ways of western chivalry.”

~

The cowards broke in on some weavers, freedwomen who had done no harm to anyone. All they did was make beautiful things. I have a tapestry they gave me hanging over my bed.[”]

~

“...You have not harmed any of the noble children you hold as hostage.”

“Not as yet, no.” Dany had grown fond of her young charges. Some were shy and some were bold, some sweet and some sullen, but all were innocent. [...]

Dany pushed her food about her plate. She dare not glance over to where Grazhar and Qezza stood, for fear that she might cry. [...] Hazzea was enough. What good is peace if it must be purchased with the blood of little children? “These murders are not their doing,” Dany told the Green Grace, feebly. “I am no butcher queen.”

~

Only then would her womb quicken once again …

… but Daenerys Targaryen had other children, tens of thousands who had hailed her as their mother when she broke their chains. She thought of Stalwart Shield, of Missandei’s brother, of the woman Rylona Rhee, who had played the harp so beautifully. No marriage would ever bring them back to life, but if a husband could help end the slaughter, then she owed it to her dead to marry.

~

“...Meereen cannot endure another war, Your Radiance.”

That was a good answer, and an honest one. “I have never wanted war. I defeated the Yunkai’i once and spared their city when I might have sacked it. I refused to join King Cleon when he marched against them. Even now, with Astapor besieged, I stay my hand. And Qarth … I have never done the Qartheen any harm …”

~

“...I would sooner perish fighting than return my children to bondage.”

“There may be another choice. The Yunkai’i can be persuaded to allow all your freedmen to remain free, I believe, if Your Worship will agree that the Yellow City may trade and train slaves unmolested from this day forth. No more blood need flow.”

“Save for the blood of those slaves that the Yunkai’i will trade and train,” Dany said, but she recognized the truth in his words even so. It may be that is the best end we can hope for.

~

“So,” she said to him, “it seems that I may wed again. Are you happy for me, ser?”

“If that is your command, Your Grace.”

“Hizdahr is not the husband you would have chosen for me.”

“It is not my place to choose your husband.”

“It is not,” she agreed, “but it is important to me that you should understand. My people are bleeding. Dying. A queen belongs not to herself, but to the realm. Marriage or carnage, those are my choices. A wedding or a war.”

~

“You are fighting shadows when you should be fighting the men who cast them,” Daario went on. “Kill them all and take their treasures, I say. Whisper the command, and your Daario will make you a pile of their heads taller than this pyramid.”

“If I knew who they were—”

“Zhak and Pahl and Merreq. Them, and all the rest. The Great Masters. Who else would it be?”

He is as bold as he is bloody. “We have no proof this is their work. Would you have me slaughter my own subjects?”

“Your own subjects would gladly slaughter you.”

He had been so long away, Dany had almost forgotten what he was. Sellswords were treacherous by nature, she reminded herself. Fickle, faithless, brutal. He will never be more than he is. He will never be the stuff of kings. “The pyramids are strong,” she explained to him. “We could take them only at great cost. The moment we attack one the others will rise against us.”

“Then winkle them out of their pyramids on some pretext. A wedding might serve. Why not? Promise your hand to Hizdahr and all the Great Masters will come to see you married. When they gather in the Temple of the Graces, turn us loose upon them.”

Dany was appalled. He is a monster. A gallant monster, but a monster still. “Do you take me for the Butcher King?”

ADWD Daenerys III

The cedars that had once grown tall along the coast grew no more, felled by the axes of the Old Empire or consumed by dragonfire when Ghis made war against Valyria. Once the trees had gone, the soil baked beneath the hot sun and blew away in thick red clouds. “It was these calamities that transformed my people into slavers,” Galazza Galare had told her, at the Temple of the Graces. And I am the calamity that will change these slavers back into people, Dany had sworn to herself.

~

“I want no slave. I free you.” His jeweled nose made a tempting target. This time Dany threw an apricot at him.

Xaro caught it in the air and took a bite. “Whence came this madness? Should I count myself fortunate that you did not free my own slaves when you were my guest in Qarth?”

I was a beggar queen and you were Xaro of the Thirteen, Dany thought, and all you wanted were my dragons. “Your slaves seemed well treated and content. It was not till Astapor that my eyes were opened. Do you know how Unsullied are made and trained?”

~

He was too eloquent for her. Dany had no answer for him, only the raw feeling in her belly. “Slavery is not the same as rain,” she insisted. “I have been rained on and I have been sold. It is not the same. No man wants to be owned.”

~

“My dragons have grown, my shoulders have not. They range far afield, hunting.” Hazzea, forgive me.

~

Dany wondered how many men thirteen galleys could hold. It had taken three to carry her and her khalasar from Qarth to Astapor, but that was before she had acquired eight thousand Unsullied, a thousand sellswords, and a vast horde of freedmen. And the dragons, what am I to do with them? “Drogon,” she whispered softly, “where are you?” For a moment she could almost see him sweeping across the sky, his black wings swallowing the stars.

~

"As you say, Your Grace. Still. I will be watchful."

She kissed [Barristan] on the cheek. "I know you will. Come, walk me back down to the feast."

~

One of her young hostages brought her morning meal, a plump shy girl named Mezzara, whose father ruled the pyramid of Merreq, and Dany gave her a happy hug and thanked her with a kiss.

~

“We are all dead, then. You gave us death, not freedom.” Ghael leapt to his feet and spat into her face.

Strong Belwas seized him by the shoulder and slammed him down onto the marble so hard that Dany heard Ghael’s teeth crack. The Shavepate would have done worse, but she stopped him.

“Enough,” she said, dabbing at her cheek with the end of her tokar. “No one has ever died from spittle. Take him away.”

~

Dany would gladly have sent the rest of the petitioners away … but she was still their queen, so she heard them out and did her best to give them justice.

~

Late that afternoon Admiral Groleo and Ser Barristan returned from their inspection of the galleys. Dany assembled her council to hear them. Grey Worm was there for the Unsullied, Skahaz mo Kandaq for the Brazen Beasts. In the absence of her bloodriders, a wizened jaqqa rhan called Rommo, squint-eyed and bowlegged, came to speak for her Dothraki. Her freedmen were represented by the captains of the three companies she had formed—Mollono Yos Dob of the Stalwart Shields, Symon Stripeback of the Free Brothers, Marselen of the Mother’s Men. Reznak mo Reznak hovered at the queen’s elbow, and Strong Belwas stood behind her with his huge arms crossed. Dany would not lack for counsel.

~

Reznak mo Reznak gave a piteous moan. “Then it is true. Your Worship means to abandon us.” He wrung his hands. “The Yunkai’i will restore the Great Masters the instant you are gone, and we who have so faithfully served your cause will be put to the sword, our sweet wives and maiden daughters raped and enslaved.”

“Not mine,” grumbled Skahaz Shavepate. “I will kill them first, with mine own hand.” He slapped his sword hilt.

Dany felt as if he had slapped her face instead. “If you fear what may follow when I leave, come with me to Westeros.”

~

“Those left behind in Meereen would envy them their easy deaths,” moaned Reznak. “They will make slaves of us, or throw us in the pits. All will be as it was, or worse.”

“Where is your courage?” Ser Barristan lashed out. “Her Grace freed you from your chains. It is for you to sharpen your swords and defend your own freedom when she leaves.”

“Brave words, from one who means to sail into the sunset,” Symon Stripeback snarled back. “Will you look back at our dying?”

“Your Grace—”

“Magnificence—”

“Your Worship—”

“Enough.” Dany slapped the table. “No one will be left to die. You are all my people.” Her dreams of home and love had blinded her. “I will not abandon Meereen to the fate of Astapor. It grieves me to say so, but Westeros must wait.”

~

“My lord, I will gladly have those ships, but I cannot give you the promise that you ask.” She took his hand. “Give me the galleys, and I swear that Qarth will have the friendship of Meereen until the stars go out. Let me trade with them, and you will have a good part of the profits.”

Xaro’s glad smile died upon his lips. “What are you saying? Are you telling me you will not go?”

“I cannot go.”

ADWD Daenerys II

“Who is that weeping?”

“Your slave Missandei.” Jhiqui had a taper in her hand.

“My servant. I have no slaves.”

~

“Magnificence,” murmured Reznak mo Reznak, “we cannot know that these great nobles mean to join your enemies. More like they are simply making for their estates in the hills.”

“They will not mind us keeping their gold safe, then. There is nothing to buy in the hills.”

“They are afraid for their children,” Reznak said.

Yes, Daenerys thought, and so am I. “We must keep them safe as well. I will have two children from each of them. From the other pyramids as well. A boy and a girl.”

“Hostages,” said Skahaz, happily.

“Pages and cupbearers. If the Great Masters make objection, explain to them that in Westeros it is a great honor for a child to be chosen to serve at court.”

~

“[...] Will you hear my friends? There are seven of them as well. [...] They have come to add their voices to mine own, and ask Your Grace to let our fighting pits reopen.”

[...] Dany had no answer for that. If this is truly what my people wish, do I have the right to deny it to them? It was their city before it was mine, and it is their own lives they wish to squander. “I will consider all you've said. Thank you for your counsel.” She rose. “We will resume on the morrow.”

~

Safe. The word made Dany’s eyes fill up with tears. “I want to keep you safe.” Missandei was only a child. With her, she felt as if she could be a child too. “No one ever kept me safe when I was little. Well, Ser Willem did, but then he died, and Viserys … I want to protect you but … it is so hard. To be strong. I don’t always know what I should do. I must know, though. I am all they have. I am the queen … the … the …”

“… mother,” whispered Missandei.

“Mother to dragons.” Dany shivered.

“No. Mother to us all.” Missandei hugged her tighter. “Your Grace should sleep. Dawn will be here soon, and court.”

“We’ll both sleep, and dream of sweeter days. Close your eyes.” When she did, Dany kissed her eyelids and made her giggle.

~

Somewhere beneath those roofs, the Sons of the Harpy were gathered, plotting ways to kill her and all those who loved her and put her children back in chains. Somewhere down there a hungry child was crying for milk. Somewhere an old woman lay dying. Somewhere a man and a maid embraced, and fumbled at each other’s clothes with eager hands. But up here there was only the sheen of moonlight on pyramids and pits, with no hint what lay beneath. Up here there was only her, alone.

She was the blood of the dragon. She could kill the Sons of the Harpy, and the sons of the sons, and the sons of the sons of the sons. But a dragon could not feed a hungry child nor help a dying woman’s pain. And who would ever dare to love a dragon?

~

“The freedmen work too cheaply, Magnificence,” Reznak said. “Some call themselves journeymen, or even masters, titles that belong by rights only to the craftsmen of the guilds. The masons and the bricklayers do respectfully petition Your Worship to uphold their ancient rights and customs.”

“The freedmen work cheaply because they are hungry,” Dany pointed out. “If I forbid them to carve stone or lay bricks, the chandlers, the weavers, and the goldsmiths will soon be at my gates asking that they be excluded from those trades as well.”

~

“Hizdahr swears that the winners shall share half of all the coin collected at the gates,” said Khrazz. “Half, he swears it, and Hizdahr is an honorable man.”

No, a cunning man. Daenerys felt trapped. “And the losers? What shall they receive?”

~

The guilt …” The word caught in her throat. Hazzea, she thought, and suddenly she heard herself say, “I have to see the pit,” in a voice as small as a child’s whisper. “Take me down, ser, if you would.”

~

What sort of mother lets her children rot in darkness?

~

If I look back, I am doomed, Dany told herself … but how could she not look back? I should have seen it coming. Was I so blind, or did I close my eyes willfully, so I would not have to see the price of power?

[...] On the road to Yunkai, when Daario tossed the heads of Sallor the Bald and Prendahl na Ghezn at her feet, her children made a feast of them. Dragons had no fear of men. And a dragon large enough to gorge on sheep could take a child just as easily.

Her name had been Hazzea. She was four years old. Unless her father lied. He might have lied. No one had seen the dragon but him. His proof was burned bones, but burned bones proved nothing. He might have killed the little girl himself, and burned her afterward. He would not have been the first father to dispose of an unwanted girl child, the Shavepate claimed. The Sons of the Harpy might have done it, and made it look like dragon’s work to make the city hate me. Dany wanted to believe that … but if that was so, why had Hazzea’s father waited until the audience hall was almost empty to come forward? If his purpose had been to inflame the Meereenese against her, he would have told his tale when the hall was full of ears to hear.

 [...] Dany chose to pay the blood price. No one could tell her the worth of a daughter, so she set it at one hundred times the worth of a lamb. “I would give Hazzea back to you if I could,” she told the father, “but some things are beyond the power of even a queen. Her bones shall be laid to rest in the Temple of the Graces, and a hundred candles shall burn day and night in her memory. Come back to me each year upon her nameday, and your other children shall not want … but this tale must never pass your lips again.”

~

Mother of dragons, Daenerys thought. Mother of monsters. What have I unleashed upon the world? A queen I am, but my throne is made of burned bones, and it rests on quicksand. Without dragons, how could she hope to hold Meereen, much less win back Westeros? I am the blood of the dragon, she thought. If they are monsters, so am I.

ADWD Daenerys I

“Your Grace,” said Ser Barristan Selmy, the lord commander of her Queensguard, “there is no need for you to see this.”

“He died for me.”

~

“Grey Worm, why was this man alone? Had he no partner?” By her command, when the Unsullied walked the streets of Meereen by night they always walked in pairs.

“My queen,” replied the captain, “your servant Stalwart Shield had no duty last night. He had gone to a ... a certain place ... to drink, and have companionship.”

“A certain place? What do you mean?”

“A house of pleasure, Your Grace.”

[...] “What could a eunuch hope to find in a brothel?”

“Even those who lack a man’s parts may still have a man’s heart, Your Grace,” said Grey Worm. “This one has been told that your servant Stalwart Shield sometimes gave coin to the women of the brothels to lie with him and hold him.”

The blood of the dragon does not weep. “Stalwart Shield,” she said, dry-eyed. “That was his name?”

“If it please Your Grace.”

“It is a fine name.” The Good Masters of Astapor had not allowed their slave soldiers even names. Some of her Unsullied reclaimed their birth names after she had freed them; others chose new names for themselves. [...]

Dany said a silent prayer that somewhere one of the Harpy’s Sons was dying even now, clutching at his belly and writhing in pain. “Why did they cut open his cheeks like that?”

“Gracious queen,” said Grey Worm, “his killers had forced the genitals of a goat down the throat of your servant Stalwart Shield. This one removed them before bringing him here.”

[...] Shrugging off the lion pelt, she knelt beside the corpse and closed the dead man’s eyes, ignoring Jhiqui’s gasp. “Stalwart Shield shall not be forgotten. Have him washed and dressed for battle and bury him with cap and shield and spears.”

~

To rule Meereen I must win the Meereenese, however much I may despise them.

~

The hall had filled. Unsullied stood with their backs to the pillars, holding shields and spears, the spikes on their caps jutting upward like a row of knives. The Meereenese had gathered beneath the eastern windows. Her freedmen stood well apart from their former masters. Until they stand together, Meereen will know no peace. “Arise.” Dany settled onto her bench. The hall rose. That at least they do as one.

~

“What was the name of the old weaver?”

“The slave?” Grazdan shifted his weight, frowning. “She was … Elza, it might have been. Or Ella. It was six years ago she died. I have owned so many slaves, Your Grace.”

“Let us say Elza. Here is our ruling. From the girls, you shall have nothing. It was Elza who taught them weaving, not you. From you, the girls shall have a new loom, the finest coin can buy. That is for forgetting the name of the old woman.”

~

Reznak would have summoned another tokar next, but Dany insisted that he call upon a freedman. Thereafter she alternated between the former masters and the former slaves.

~

“Some men have brought burnt bones.”

“Men make fires. Men cook mutton. Burnt bones prove nothing. Brown Ben says there are red wolves in the hills outside the city, and jackals and wild dogs. Must we pay good silver for every lamb that goes astray between Yunkai and the Skahazadhan?”

“No, Magnificence." Reznak bowed. "Shall I send these rascals away, or will you want them scourged?”

Daenerys shifted on the bench. “No man should ever fear to come to me.” Some claims were false, she did not doubt, but more were genuine. Her dragons had grown too large to be content with rats and cats and dogs. The more they eat, the larger they will grow, Ser Barristan had warned her, and the larger they grow, the more they'll eat. Drogon especially ranged far afield and could easily devour a sheep a day. “Pay them for the value of their animals,” she told Reznak, “but henceforth claimants must present themselves at the Temple of the Graces and swear a holy oath before the gods of Ghis.”

A Storm of Swords

ASOS Daenerys VI

“I am going to take you home one day, Missandei,” Dany promised. If I had made the same promise to Jorah, would he still have sold me? “I swear it.”

“This one is content to stay with you, Your Grace. Naath will be there, always. You are good to this—to me.”

“And you to me.”

~

“The city bleeds. Dead men rot unburied in the streets, each pyramid is an armed camp, and the markets have neither food nor slaves for sale. And the poor children! King Cleaver’s thugs have seized every highborn boy in Astapor to make new Unsullied for the trade, though it will be years before they are trained.”

The thing that surprised Dany most was how unsurprised she was. She found herself remembering Eroeh, the Lhazarene girl she had once tried to protect, and what had happened to her. It will be the same in Meereen once I march, she thought.

~

“Any man who wishes to sell himself into slavery may do so. Or woman.” She raised a hand. “But they may not sell their children, nor a man his wife.”

~

“Aegon the Conqueror brought fire and blood to Westeros, but afterward he gave them peace, prosperity, and justice. But all I have brought to Slaver’s Bay is death and ruin. I have been more khal than queen, smashing and plundering, then moving on.”

“There is nothing to stay for,” said Brown Ben Plumm.

“Your Grace, the slavers brought their doom on themselves,” said Daario Naharis.

“You have brought freedom as well,” Missandei pointed out.

“Freedom to starve?” asked Dany sharply. “Freedom to die? Am I a dragon, or a harpy?” Am I mad? Do I have the taint?

“A dragon,” Ser Barristan said with certainty. “Meereen is not Westeros, Your Grace.”

“But how can I rule seven kingdoms if I cannot rule a single city?” He had no answer to that. Dany turned away from them, to gaze out over the city once again. “My children need time to heal and learn. My dragons need time to grow and test their wings. And I need the same. I will not let this city go the way of Astapor. I will not let the harpy of Yunkai chain up those I’ve freed all over again.” She turned back to look at their faces. “I will not march.”

“What will you do then, Khaleesi?” asked Rakharo.

“Stay,” she said. “Rule. And be a queen.”

ASOS Daenerys V

Her host numbered more than eighty thousand after Yunkai, but fewer than a quarter of them were soldiers. The rest ... well, Ser Jorah called them mouths with feet, and soon they would be starving.

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

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

~

“Strong Belwas needs liver and onions.”

“You shall have it,” said Dany. “Strong Belwas is hurt.” His stomach was red with the blood sheeting down from the meaty gash beneath his breasts.

“It is nothing. I let each man cut me once, before I kill him.” He slapped his bloody belly. “Count the cuts and you will know how many Strong Belwas has slain.”

But Dany had lost Khal Drogo to a similar wound, and she was not willing to let it go untreated. She sent Missandei to find a certain Yunkish freedman renowned for his skill in the healing arts. Belwas howled and complained, but Dany scolded him and called him a big bald baby until he let the healer stanch the wound with vinegar, sew it shut, and bind his chest with strips of linen soaked in fire wine. Only then did she lead her captains and commanders inside her pavilion for their council.

~

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

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

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

Dany sighed. “I will not throw away Unsullied lives, Grey Worm.”

~

“...You stopped at Astapor to buy an army, not to start a war. Save your spears and swords for the Seven Kingdoms, my queen. Leave Meereen to the Meereenese and march west for Pentos.”

“Defeated?” said Dany, bristling.

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

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

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

~

The grove of burnt olive trees in which she’d raised her pavilion stood beside the sea, between the Dothraki camp and that of the Unsullied. When the horses had been saddled, Dany and her companions set out along the shoreline, away from the city. Even so, she could feel Meereen at her back, mocking her. When she looked over one shoulder, there it stood, the afternoon sun blazing off the bronze harpy atop the Great Pyramid. Inside Meereen the slavers would soon be reclining in their fringed tokars to feast on lamb and olives, unborn puppies, honeyed dormice and other such delicacies, whilst outside her children went hungry. A sudden wild anger filled her. I will bring you down, she swore.

ASOS Daenerys IV

Dany considered. The slaver host seemed small compared to her own numbers, but the sellswords were ahorse. She’d ridden too long with Dothraki not to have a healthy respect for what mounted warriors could do to foot. The Unsullied could withstand their charge, but my freedmen will be slaughtered. 

~

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

“If battle is joined, let Grey Worm show wisdom as well as valor,” Dany told him. “Spare any slave who runs or throws down his weapon. The fewer slain, the more remain to join us after.”

“This one will remember.”

“I know he will. Be at my tent by midday. I want you there with my other officers when I treat with the sellsword captains.” Dany spurred her silver on to camp.

~

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

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

~

“I cannot sleep when men are dying for me, Whitebeard,” she said.

~

“Our own losses?”

“A dozen. If that many.”

Only then did she allow herself to smile.

~

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

~

“Mhysa! Mhysa!”

Dany looked at Missandei. “What are they shouting?” “It is Ghiscari, the old pure tongue. It means ‘Mother.’”

Dany felt a lightness in her chest. I will never bear a living child, she remembered. Her hand trembled as she raised it. Perhaps she smiled. She must have, because the man grinned and shouted again, and others took up the cry. “Mhysa!” they called. “Mhysa! MHYSA!” They were all smiling at her, reaching for her, kneeling before her. “Maela,” some called her while others cried “Aelalla” or “Qathei” or “Tato,” but whatever the tongue it all meant the same thing. Mother. They are calling me Mother.

The chant grew, spread, swelled. It swelled so loud that it frightened her horse, and the mare backed and shook her head and lashed her silver-grey tail. It swelled until it seemed to shake the yellow walls of Yunkai. More slaves were streaming from the gates every moment, and as they came they took up the call. They were running toward her now, pushing, stumbling, wanting to touch her hand, to stroke her horse’s mane, to kiss her feet. Her poor bloodriders could not keep them all away, and even Strong Belwas grunted and growled in dismay.

Ser Jorah urged her to go, but Dany remembered a dream she had dreamed in the House of the Undying. “They will not hurt me,” she told him. “They are my children, Jorah.” She laughed, put her heels into her horse, and rode to them, the bells in her hair ringing sweet victory. She trotted, then cantered, then broke into a gallop, her braid streaming behind. The freed slaves parted before her. “Mother,” they called from a hundred throats, a thousand, ten thousand. “Mother,” they sang, their fingers brushing her legs as she flew by. “Mother, Mother, Mother!”

ASOS Daenerys III

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

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

~

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

~

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

The girl told them. The answer was still no.


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


~

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

~

“When you are ... when you are done with them ... your Grace might command them to fall upon their swords.”

“And even that, they would do?”


“Yes.” Missandei’s voice had grown soft. “Your Grace.”

Dany squeezed her hand. “You would sooner I did not ask it of them, though. Why is that? Why do you care?”

“This one does not ... I ... Your Grace ... ”


“Tell me.”


The girl lowered her eyes. “Three of them were my brothers once, Your Grace.”

Then I hope your brothers are as brave and clever as you.

~

“Magister Illyrio is not here,” she finally had to tell him, “and if he was, he could not sway me either. I need the Unsullied more than I need these ships, and I will hear no more about it.”

The anger burned the grief and fear from her, for a few hours at the least.

~

“Do you remember Eroeh?” she asked him. “The Lhazareen girl?”

“They were raping her, but I stopped them and took her under my protection. Only when my sun-and-stars was dead Mago took her back, used her again, and killed her. Aggo said it was her fate.”

“I remember,” Ser Jorah said.

“I was alone for a long time, Jorah. All alone but for my brother. I was such a small scared thing. Viserys should have protected me, but instead he hurt me and scared me worse. He shouldn’t have done that. He wasn’t just my brother, he was my king. Why do the gods make kings and queens, if not to protect the ones who can’t protect themselves?”

“Some kings make themselves. Robert did.”
“He was no true king,” Dany said scornfully. “He did no justice. Justice ... that’s what kings are for.”

~

“Unsullied! Defend us, stop them, defend your masters! Spears! Swords!”

[...] The Unsullied did not so much as look down to watch him die. Rank on rank on rank, they stood.

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

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

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

ASOS Daenerys II

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

“I call that madness, not courage,” said Arstan Whitebeard, when the solemn little scribe was done. He tapped the end of his hardwood staff against the bricks, tap tap, as if to tell his displeasure. The old man had not wanted to sail to Astapor; nor did he favor buying this slave army. A queen should hear all sides before reaching a decision. That was why Dany had brought him with her to the Plaza of Pride, not to keep her safe.

~

He stopped before a thickset man who had the look of Lhazar about him and brought his whip up sharply, laying a line of blood across one copper cheek. The eunuch blinked, and stood there, bleeding. “Would you like another?” asked Kraznys.

“If it please your worship.”

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

~

“There are other ways to tempt men, besides the flesh,” Arstan Whitebeard objected, when she was done.

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

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

~

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

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

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

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

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

~

Dany climbed into her litter frowning, and beckoned Arstan to climb in beside her. A man as old as him should not be walking in such heat.

~

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

~

“Dog,” he said happily when he saw Dany. “Good dog in Astapor, little queen. Eat?” He offered it with a greasy grin.

“That is kind of you, Belwas, but no.” Dany had eaten dog in other places, at other times, but just now all she could think of was the Unsullied and their stupid puppies.

~

“How many men do they have for sale?”

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

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

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

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

“You have. You’ve displeased me greatly, ser. If you were my true knight, you would never have brought me to this vile sty.”

~

“They have been wild while you were gone, Khaleesi,” Irri told her. “Viserion clawed splinters from the door, do you see? And Drogon made to escape when the slaver men came to see them. When I grabbed his tail to hold him back, he turned and bit me.” She showed Dany the marks of his teeth on her hand.

“Did any of them try to burn their way free?” That was the thing that frightened Dany the most.

“No, Khaleesi. Drogon breathed his fire, but in the empty air. The slaver men feared to come near him.”

She kissed Irri’s hand where Drogon had bitten it. “I’m sorry he hurt you. Dragons are not meant to be locked up in a small ship’s cabin.”

~

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

~

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

~

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

“I remember, Daenerys.”

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

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

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

ASOS Daenerys I

The captain appeared at her elbow. “Would that this Balerion could soar as her namesake did, Your Grace,” he said in bastard Valyrian heavily flavored with accents of Pentos. “Then we should not need to row, nor tow, nor pray for wind.”

“Just so, Captain,” she answered with a smile, pleased to have won the man over. Captain Groleo was an old Pentoshi like his master, Illyrio Mopatis, and he had been nervous as a maiden about carrying three dragons on his ship. Half a hundred buckets of seawater still hung from the gunwales, in case of fires. At first Groleo had wanted the dragons caged and Dany had consented to put his fears at ease, but their misery was so palpable that she soon changed her mind and insisted they be freed.


Even Captain Groleo was glad of that, now. There had been one small fire, easily extinguished; against that, Balerion suddenly seemed to have far fewer rats than she’d had before, when she sailed under the name Saduleon. And her crew, once as fearful as they were curious, had begun to take a queer fierce pride in “their” dragons. Every man of them, from captain to cook’s boy, loved to watch the three fly ... though none so much as Dany.

~

“Ser Jorah named Rhaegar the last dragon once. He had to have been a peerless warrior to be called that, surely?”

“Your Grace,” said Whitebeard, “the Prince of Dragonstone was a most puissant warrior, but ...”

“Go on,” she urged. “You may speak freely to me.”

~

“...A change in the wind may bring the gift of victory.” He glanced at Ser Jorah. “Or a lady’s favor knotted round an arm.”

Mormont’s face darkened. “Be careful what you say, old man.”

Arstan had seen Ser Jorah fight at Lannisport, Dany knew, in the tourney Mormont had won with a lady’s favor knotted round his arm. He had won the lady too; Lynesse of House Hightower, his second wife, highborn and beautiful ... but she had ruined him, and abandoned him, and the memory of her was bitter to him now. “Be gentle, my knight.” She put a hand on Jorah’s arm. “Arstan had no wish to give offense, I’m certain.”

~

“A queen must listen to all,” she reminded him. “The highborn and the low, the strong and the weak, the noble and the venal. One voice may speak you false, but in many there is always truth to be found.” She had read that in a book.

~

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

A Clash of Kings

ACOK Daenerys V

“Make way,” Aggo shouted, while Jhogo sniffed at the air suspiciously. “I smell it, Khaleesi,” he called. “The poison water.” The Dothraki distrusted the sea and all that moved upon it. Water that a horse could not drink was water they wanted no part of. They will learn, Dany resolved. I braved their sea with Khal Drogo. Now they can brave mine.

~

The brass merchant was still rolling on the ground. She went to him and helped him to his feet. “Were you stung?”

“No, good lady,” he said, shaking, “or else I would be dead. But it touched me, aieeee, when it fell from the box it landed on my arm.” He had soiled himself, she saw, and no wonder.

She gave him a silver for his trouble and sent him on his way before she turned back to the old man with the white beard.

ACOK Daenerys III

They must weigh twice what they had in Vaes Tolorro. Even so, it would be years before they were large enough to take to war. And they must be trained as well, or they will lay my kingdom waste. For all her Targaryen blood, Dany had not the least idea of how to train a dragon.

~

“The Pureborn refused you?”

“As you said they would. Come, sit, give me your counsel.”

ACOK Daenerys II

The Dothraki sacked cities and plundered kingdoms, they did not rule them. Dany had no wish to reduce King’s Landing to a blackened ruin full of unquiet ghosts. She had supped enough on tears. I want to make my kingdom beautiful, to fill it with fat men and pretty maids and laughing children. I want my people to smile when they see me ride by, the way Viserys said they smiled for my father.

But before she could do that she must conquer.

~

Beneath Dany's gentle fingers, green Rhaegal stared at the stranger with eyes of molten gold. When his mouth opened, his teeth gleamed like black needles. "When does your ship return to Westeros, Captain?" 

"Not for a year or more, I fear. From here the Cinnamon Wind sails east, to make the trader's circle round the Jade Sea." 

"I see," said Dany, disappointed. "I wish you fair winds and good trading, then. You have brought me a precious gift."

~

Dany laughed. "And will see more of them one day, I hope. Come to me in King's Landing when I am on my father's throne, and you shall have a great reward."

ACOK Daenerys I

They are not strong, she told herself, so I must be their strength. I must show no fear, no weakness, no doubt. However frightened my heart, when they look upon my face they must see only Drogo’s queen. She felt older than her fourteen years. If ever she had truly been a girl, that time was done.

~

Dany hungered and thirsted with the rest of them. The milk in her breasts dried up, her nipples cracked and bled, and the flesh fell away from her day by day until she was lean and hard as a stick, yet it was her dragons she feared for.

~

Jhogo said they must leave her or bind her to her saddle, but Dany remembered a night on the Dothraki sea, when the Lysene girl had taught her secrets so that Drogo might love her more. She gave Doreah water from her own skin, cooled her brow with a damp cloth, and held her hand until she died, shivering. Only then would she permit the khalasar to press on.

A Game of Thrones

AGOT Daenerys X

“You will be my khalasar,” she told them. “I see the faces of slaves. I free you. Take off your collars. Go if you wish, no one shall harm you. If you stay, it will be as brothers and sisters, husbands and wives.” The black eyes watched her, wary, expressionless. “I see the children, women, the wrinkled faces of the aged. I was a child yesterday. Today I am a woman. Tomorrow I will be old. To each of you I say, give me your hands and your hearts, and there will always be a place for you.”

AGOT Daenerys IX

“Eroeh?” asked Dany, remembering the frightened child she had saved outside the city of the Lamb Men.

“Mago seized her, who is Khal Jhaqo’s bloodrider now,” said Jhogo. “He mounted her high and low and gave her to his khal, and Jhaqo gave her to his other bloodriders. They were six. When they were done with her, they cut her throat.”

“It was her fate, Khaleesi,” said Aggo.


If I look back I am lost. “It was a cruel fate,” Dany said, “yet not so cruel as Mago’s will be. I promise you that, by the old gods and the new, by the lamb god and the horse god and every god that lives. I swear it by the Mother of Mountains and the Womb of the World. Before I am done with them, Mago and Ko Jhaqo will plead for the mercy they showed Eroeh.”

The Dothraki exchanged uncertain glances. “Khaleesi,” the handmaid Irri explained, as if to a child, “Jhaqo is a khal now, with twenty thousand riders at his back.”

She lifted her head. “And I am Daenerys Stormhorn, Daenerys of House Targaryen, of the blood of Aegon the Conqueror and Maegor the Cruel and old Valyria before them. I am the dragon’s daughter, and I swear to you, these men will die screaming. Now bring me to Khal Drogo.”

AGOT Daenerys VIII

“He fell from his horse,” Haggo said, staring down. His broad face was impassive, but his voice was leaden.

“You must not say that,” Dany told him. “We have ridden far enough today. We will camp here.”

~

“We must bathe him,” she said stubbornly. She must not allow herself to despair. “Irri, have the tub brought at once. Doreah, Eroeh, find water, cool water, he’s so hot.” He was a fire in human skin.

[...] While the bath was being prepared, Dany knelt awkwardly beside her lord husband, her belly great with their child within. She undid his braid with anxious fingers, as she had on the night he’d taken her for the first time, beneath the stars. His bells she laid aside carefully, one by one. He would want them again when he was well, she told herself.

~

“Help him,” Dany pleaded. “For the love you say you bear me, help him now.”

[...] “Your khal is good as dead, Princess.”

“No, he can’t die, he mustn’t, it was only a cut.” Dany took his large callused hand in her own small ones, and held it tight between them. “I will not let him die ...”

~

Dany hugged herself. “But why?” she cried plaintively. “Why should they kill a little baby?”

“He is Drogo’s son, and the crones say he will be the stallion who mounts the world. It was prophesied. Better to kill the child than to risk his fury when he grows to manhood.”

The child kicked inside her, as if he had heard. Dany remembered the story Viserys had told her, of what the Usurper’s dogs had done to Rhaegar’s children. His son had been a babe as well, yet they had ripped him from his mother’s breast and dashed his head against a wall. That was the way of men. “They must not hurt my son!” she cried. “I will order my khas to keep him safe, and Drogo’s bloodriders will—”

~

Dany did not want to go back to Vaes Dothrak and live the rest of her life among those terrible old women, yet she knew that the knight spoke the truth. Drogo had been more than her sun-and-stars; he had been the shield that kept her safe. “I will not leave him,” she said stubbornly, miserably. She took his hand again. “I will not.”

~

“This is your work, maegi,” Qotho said. Haggo laid his fist across Mirri’s cheek with a meaty smack that drove her to the ground. Then he kicked her where she lay.

“Stop it!” Dany screamed.

~

“So you have saved me once more.”

“And now you must save him,” Dany said. “Please ...”

[...] “All I can do now is ease the dark road before him, so he might ride painless to the night lands. He will be gone by morning.”

Her words were a knife through Dany’s breast. What had she ever done to make the gods so cruel? She had finally found a safe place, had finally tasted love and hope. She was finally going home. And now to lose it all ... “No,” she pleaded. “Save him, and I will free you, I swear it. You must know a way ... some magic, some ...”

~

She told herself she would die for him, if she must. She was the blood of the dragon, she would not be afraid. Her brother Rhaegar had died for the woman he loved.

~

She caught him by the shoulder, but Qotho shoved her aside. Dany fell to her knees, crossing her arms over her belly to protect the child within.

~

Someone threw a stone, and when Dany looked, her shoulder was torn and bloody. “No,” she wept, “no, please, stop it, it’s too high, the price is too high.” More stones came flying. She tried to crawl toward the tent, but Cohollo caught her. Fingers in her hair, he pulled her head back and she felt the cold touch of his knife at her throat. “My baby,” she screamed, and perhaps the gods heard, for as quick as that, Cohollo was dead. Aggo’s arrow took him under the arm, to pierce his lungs and heart.

AGOT Daenerys VII

The town was afire, black plumes of smoke roiling and tumbling as they rose into a hard blue sky. Beneath broken walls of dried mud, riders galloped back and forth, swinging their long whips as they herded the survivors from the smoking rubble. The women and children of Ogo’s khalasar walked with a sullen pride, even in defeat and bondage; they were slaves now, but they seemed not to fear it. It was different with the townsfolk. Dany pitied them; she remembered what terror felt like. Mothers stumbled along with blank, dead faces, pulling sobbing children by the hand. There were only a few men among them, cripples and cowards and grandfathers.

~

Ogo and his son had shared the high bench with her lord husband at the naming feast where Viserys had been crowned, but that was in Vaes Dothrak, beneath the Mother of Mountains, where every rider was a brother and all quarrels were put aside. It was different out in the grass. Ogo’s khalasar had been attacking the town when Khal Drogo caught him. She wondered what the Lamb Men had thought, when they first saw the dust of their horses from atop those cracked-mud walls. Perhaps a few, the younger and more foolish who still believed that the gods heard the prayers of desperate men, took it for deliverance.

Across the road, a girl no older than Dany was sobbing in a high thin voice as a rider shoved her over a pile of corpses, facedown, and thrust himself inside her. Other riders dismounted to take their turns. That was the sort of deliverance the Dothraki brought the Lamb Men.

I am the blood of the dragon, Daenerys Targaryen reminded herself as she turned her face away. She pressed her lips together and hardened her heart and rode on toward the gate.

“Most of Ogo’s riders fled,” Ser Jorah was saying. “Still, there may be as many as ten thousand captives.”

Slaves, Dany thought. Khal Drogo would drive them downriver to one of the towns on Slaver’s Bay. She wanted to cry, but she told herself that she must be strong. This is war, this is what it looks like, this is the price of the Iron Throne.

“I’ve told the khal he ought to make for Meereen,” Ser Jorah said. “They’ll pay a better price than he’d get from a slaving caravan. Illyrio writes that they had a plague last year, so the brothels are paying double for healthy young girls, and triple for boys under ten. If enough children survive the journey, the gold will buy us all the ships we need, and hire men to sail them.”

Behind them, the girl being raped made a heartrending sound, a long sobbing wail that went on and on and on. Dany’s hand clenched hard around the reins, and she turned the silver’s head. “Make them stop,” she commanded Ser Jorah.

“Khaleesi?” The knight sounded perplexed.


“You heard my words,” she said. “Stop them.” She spoke to her khas in the harsh accents of Dothraki. “Jhogo, Quaro, you will aid Ser Jorah. I want no rape.”

The warriors exchanged a baffled look.

Jorah Mormont spurred his horse closer. “Princess,” he said, “you have a gentle heart, but you do not understand. This is how it has always been. Those men have shed blood for the khal. Now they claim their reward.”

Across the road, the girl was still crying, her high singsong tongue strange to Dany’s ears. The first man was done with her now, and a second had taken his place.

“She is a lamb girl,” Quaro said in Dothraki. “She is nothing, Khaleesi. The riders do her honor. The Lamb Men lay with sheep, it is known.”

“It is known,” her handmaid Irri echoed.

“It is known,” agreed Jhogo, astride the tall grey stallion that Drogo had given him. “If her wailing offends your ears, Khaleesi, Jhogo will bring you her tongue.” He drew his arakh.

“I will not have her harmed,” Dany said. “I claim her. Do as I command you, or Khal Drogo will know the reason why.”

“Ai, Khaleesi,” Jhogo replied, kicking his horse. Quaro and the others followed his lead, the bells in their hair chiming.

“Go with them,” she commanded Ser Jorah.

“As you command.” The knight gave her a curious look. “You are your brother’s sister, in truth.”

“Viserys?” She did not understand.

“No,” he answered. “Rhaegar.” He galloped off.

~

Mormont pulled the girl off the pile of corpses and wrapped her in his blood-spattered cloak. He led her across the road to Dany. “What do you want done with her?”

The girl was trembling, her eyes wide and vague. Her hair was matted with blood. “Doreah, see to her hurts. You do not have a rider’s look, perhaps she will not fear you. The rest, with me.” She urged the silver through the broken wooden gate.

It was worse inside the town. Many of the houses were afire, and the jaqqa rhan had been about their grisly work. Headless corpses filled the narrow, twisty lanes. They passed other women being raped. Each time Dany reined up, sent her khas to make an end to it, and claimed the victim as slave. One of them, a thick-bodied, flat-nosed woman of forty years, blessed Dany haltingly in the Common Tongue, but from the others she got only flat black stares. They were suspicious of her, she realized with sadness; afraid that she had saved them for some worse fate.

“You cannot claim them all, child,” Ser Jorah said, the fourth time they stopped, while the warriors of her khas herded her new slaves behind her.

“I am khaleesi, heir to the Seven Kingdoms, the blood of the dragon,” Dany reminded him. “It is not for you to tell me what I cannot do.” Across the city, a building collapsed in a great gout of fire and smoke, and she heard distant screams and the wailing of frightened children.

~

He started to reach out a hand to Daenerys, but as he lifted his arm Drogo grimaced in sudden pain and turned his head.

Dany could almost feel his agony. The wounds were worse than Ser Jorah had led her to believe. “Where are the healers?” she demanded. [...] “Why do they not attend the khal?”

“The khal sent the hairless men away, Khaleesi,” old Cohollo assured her.

[...] “It is not for Khal Drogo to wait,” she proclaimed. “Jhogo, seek out these eunuchs and bring them here at once.”

~

“The khal needs no help from women who lie with sheep,” barked Qotho. “Aggo, cut out her tongue.”

Aggo grabbed her hair and pressed a knife to her throat. Dany lifted a hand. “No. She is mine. Let her speak.”

~

“The Great Shepherd sent me to earth to heal his lambs, wherever I might find them.”

Qotho gave her a stinging slap. “We are no sheep, maegi.”


“Stop it,” Dany said angrily. “She is mine. I will not have her harmed.”

~

“Know this, wife of the Lamb God. Harm the khal and you suffer the same.” He drew his skinning knife and showed her the blade.

“She will do no harm.” Dany felt she could trust this old, plainfaced woman with her flat nose; she had saved her from the hard hands of her rapers, after all.

 AGOT Daenerys VI

She saw a beautiful feathered cloak from the Summer Isles, and took it for a gift. [...] When Doreah looked longingly at a fertility charm at a magician’s booth, Dany took that too and gave it to the handmaid, thinking that now she should find something for Irri and Jhiqui as well.

AGOT Daenerys V

Dany had not known, had not even suspected. “Then ... he should have them. He does not need to steal them. He had only to ask. He is my brother ... and my true king.”

“He is your brother,” Ser Jorah acknowledged.

“You do not understand, ser,” she said. “My mother died giving me birth, and my father and my brother Rhaegar even before that. I would never have known so much as their names if Viserys had not been there to tell me. He was the only one left. The only one. He is all I have.” ~

A sense of dread closed around her heart. “Go to him,” she commanded Ser Jorah. “Stop him. Bring him here. Tell him he can have the dragon’s eggs if that is what he wants.” The knight rose swiftly to his feet.

“Where is my sister?” Viserys shouted, his voice thick with wine. “I’ve come for her feast. How dare you presume to eat without me? No one eats before the king. Where is she? The whore can’t hide from the dragon.”

~

Her voice made Viserys turn his head, and he saw her for the first time. “There she is,” he said, smiling. He stalked toward her, slashing at the air as if to cut a path through a wall of enemies, though no one tried to bar his way.

“The blade ... you must not,” she begged him. “Please, Viserys. It is forbidden. Put down the sword and come share my cushions. There’s drink, food ... is it the dragon’s eggs you want? You can have them, only throw away the sword.”

~

Distantly, as from far away, Dany heard her handmaid Jhiqui sobbing in fear, pleading that she dared not translate, that the khal would bind her and drag her behind his horse all the way up the Mother of Mountains. She put her arm around the girl. “Don’t be afraid,” she said. “I shall tell him.”

AGOT Daenerys IV

Dany followed on her silver, escorted by Ser Jorah Mormont and her brother Viserys, mounted once more. After the day in the grass when she had left him to walk back to the khalasar, the Dothraki had laughingly called him Khal Rhae Mhar, the Sorefoot King. Khal Drogo had offered him a place in a cart the next day, and Viserys had accepted. In his stubborn ignorance, he had not even known he was being mocked; the carts were for eunuchs, cripples, women giving birth, the very young and the very old. That won him yet another name: Khal Rhaggat, the Cart King. Her brother had thought it was the khal’s way of apologizing for the wrong Dany had done him. She had begged Ser Jorah not to tell him the truth, lest he be shamed. The knight had replied that the king could well do with a bit of shame ... yet he had done as she bid. It had taken much pleading, and all the pillow tricks Doreah had taught her, before Dany had been able to make Drogo relent and allow Viserys to rejoin them at the head of the column.

~

“So many,” she said as her silver stepped slowly onward, “and from so many lands.”

Viserys was less impressed. “The trash of dead cities,” he sneered. [...] “All these savages know how to do is steal the things better men have built ... and kill.” He laughed. “They do know how to kill. Otherwise I’d have no use for them at all.”

“They are my people now,” Dany said. “You should not call them savages, brother.”

“The dragon speaks as he likes,” Viserys said ... in the Common Tongue.

~

“I will give my brother his gifts tonight,” she decided as Jhiqui was washing her hair. “He should look a king in the sacred city. Doreah, run and find him and invite him to sup with me.” Viserys was nicer to the Lysene girl than to her Dothraki handmaids, perhaps because Magister Illyrio had let him bed her back in Pentos. “Irri, go to the bazaar and buy fruit and meat. Anything but horseflesh.”

“Horse is best,” Irri said. “Horse makes a man strong.”

“Viserys hates horsemeat.”

[...] While her handmaids prepared the meal, Dany laid out the clothing she’d had made to her brother’s measure: a tunic and leggings of crisp white linen, leather sandals that laced up to the knee, a bronze medallion belt, a leather vest painted with fire-breathing dragons. The Dothraki would respect him more if he looked less a beggar, she hoped, and perhaps he would forgive her for shaming him that day in the grass. He was still her king, after all, and her brother. They were both blood of the dragon.

She was arranging the last of his gifts—a sandsilk cloak, green as grass, with a pale grey border that would bring out the silver in his hair—when Viserys arrived, dragging Doreah by the arm. Her eye was red where he’d hit her. “How dare you send this whore to give me commands,” he said. He shoved the handmaid roughly to the carpet.

The anger took Dany utterly by surprise. “I only wanted ... Doreah, what did you say?”

“Khaleesi, pardons, forgive me. I went to him, as you bid, and told him you commanded him to join you for supper.”

“No one commands the dragon,” Viserys snarled. “I am your king! I should have sent you back her head!”

The Lysene girl quailed, but Dany calmed her with a touch. “Don’t be afraid, he won’t hurt you. Sweet brother, please, forgive her, the girl misspoke herself, I told her to ask you to sup with me, if it pleases Your Grace.” She took him by the hand and drew him across the room. “Look. These are for you.”

Viserys frowned suspiciously. “What is all this?”

“New raiment. I had it made for you.” Dany smiled shyly.

He looked at her and sneered. “Dothraki rags. Do you presume to dress me now?”

“Please ... you’ll be cooler and more comfortable, and I thought ... maybe if you dressed like them, the Dothraki ... ” Dany did not know how to say it without waking his dragon.

“Next you’ll want to braid my hair.”

“I’d never ... ” Why was he always so cruel? She had only wanted to help. “You have no right to a braid, you have won no victories yet.”

It was the wrong thing to say. Fury shone from his lilac eyes, yet he dared not strike her, not with her handmaids watching and the warriors of her khas outside. Viserys picked up the cloak and sniffed at it. “This stinks of manure. Perhaps I shall use it as a horse blanket.”

“I had Doreah sew it specially for you,” she told him, wounded. “These are garments fit for a khal.” “I am the Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, not some grass-stained savage with bells in his hair,” Viserys spat back at her. He grabbed her arm. “You forget yourself, slut. Do you think that big belly will protect you if you wake the dragon?”

His fingers dug into her arm painfully and for an instant Dany felt like a child again, quailing in the face of his rage. She reached out with her other hand and grabbed the first thing she touched, the belt she’d hoped to give him, a heavy chain of ornate bronze medallions. She swung it with all her strength.

It caught him full in the face. Viserys let go of her. Blood ran down his cheek where the edge of one of the medallions had sliced it open. “You are the one who forgets himself,” Dany said to him. “Didn’t you learn anything that day in the grass? Leave me now, before I summon my khas to drag you out. And pray that Khal Drogo does not hear of this, or he will cut open your belly and feed you your own entrails.”

Viserys scrambled back to his feet. “When I come into my kingdom, you will rue this day, slut.” He walked off, holding his torn face, leaving her gifts behind him.

Drops of his blood had spattered the beautiful sandsilk cloak. Dany clutched the soft cloth to her cheek and sat cross-legged on her sleeping mats.

“Your supper is ready, Khaleesi,” Jhiqui announced.

“I’m not hungry,” Dany said sadly. She was suddenly very tired.

[neshatriumphs]

VIII. Long Live the King

Simon wasn’t sure how he was going to get out of this. He weighed his options, like any skilled warrior would. This was a perfect set up, by Amelia, he presumed, for him to have a chance to face off with the Queen, kill her to break her protective magic, and make good on his blood oath. But, that was what also brought him to his dilemma… He didn’t want to hurt Grace.

Grace wasn’t what Amelia thought. He watched her throughout the fair. She was charming and charismatic, even manipulative at times, but generally that seemed to be a defense mechanism. She was the princess. She couldn’t just do, say, be what she wanted. She had to keep up certain appearances. She had to make the people feel a certain way… and she was very good at it. She even got to him…

And when they kissed, he felt like he was whatever the emotional equivalent was of everything falling into place, being just as it should be and designed for greater purposes and his best good. It wasn’t some lust filled fantasy taking over him, either. This was real. He couldn’t say he loved her. He still didn’t know her, but he could say that he felt like he was meant to. That wasn’t a feeling that Simon Timmens ever had.

So, here he was, in a battle of survival vs sacrifice. Everything he worked for couldn’t be undone because of a kiss, no matter how life changing it felt. It couldn’t be risked for a woman, no matter how beautiful she was or how kind she seemed.

She had taken the necklace from him, so he didn’t know if Amelia could still see into the palace, if she even was still posted in the Conductor’s observatory. Most likely, she had made her way to the fortress, ready for the in that he would create whenever the Queen fell and her protective measures were weakened. Surely, there was backup magic, but many of the people would stammer for at least a moment, giving someone with Amelia’s power the ability to breach the defenses. Simon was certain that someone’s kingdom was falling tonight.

The Queen was in what was essentially her night clothes, but she had a staff with her. The King’s army, vast and full of magical creatures of all sorts, wearing uniforms of the One, wielding weapons at the ready, stood prepared in the chamber room whenever she came in. The King had changed into his formal wear. The Queen must have not even taken the threat as seriously as anyone else did, because she didn’t even have her crown and from all accounts, she was NEVER seen in anything less than her best presentation.

“Grace, come forward and tell me what this is all about,” the woman said. Her accent was different than Grace’s. But, Simon remembered that she was from a further realm, that her marriage to the king had expanded the realms of the One, and was one of the main reasons that she was chosen. She had to work to make her magic worthy enough, day and night, for 16 years, she had to train for this position, despite being granted it at birth. Royal life seemed exhausting. Simon felt like if you were powerful enough and brave enough, you could dethrone anyone.

Grace kneeled before her parents and lowered her head, “Your Highness, while out in the King’s woods, I felt a dangerous presence. I investigated and discovered a winged woman under attack. By the time I reached her, it was too late. She is being prepared for peaceful rest.” She stood and dared to look at her parents.

Her father looked sympathetic. Her mother looked irritated.

“You were out in the King’s woods without permission nor guard. You witnessed one of the most vile crimes committed in these realms… Your punishment is that fate.” Grace nodded once. The Queen sighed and turned her attention to Simon. He stared back at her, emotionless and unreadable. That would change soon. “This is the conductor that you found in the enchanted forests and brought into the safety of our grounds? And now, you suspect that he had something to do with the winged woman who was slain.”

“I don’t suspect him, My Queen. But, he is the only person that we know of who is here and I brought him before you for your wise and powerful review.” Grace moved Simon towards the Queen and he winced when her hand touched the throbbing infection beneath his arm.

He realized that the cuffs on him dampened his magic, so he wouldn’t be any match for the Queen in those regards, but she wasn’t a physical fighter. If he could get close enough to her to stop her from casting a spell, he could physically take her down. Even if he didn’t make it out of the room, the Institute would be safe. The Conductor would know that he did his best. The staff glowed brighter than anybody’s eyes could stand, save the Queen. Even the King winced in its glory. While Simon groaned in pain, feeling like he was being burned from the inside out, the Queen remained perched perfectly on her throne.

The staff stopped and she sighed. “Well. He didn’t kill the winged woman, but he shall be put to death, at once.”

Grace gasped and moved forward. “Wait, what does that mean?”

“Which words in particular were skipped during your vocabulary studies, Grace?” The Queen asked.

“I mean… if he didn’t kill the winged woman, why would we put him to death? That was the crime that he was brought before you, accused of!”

The Queen glared at him, “HE knows why.”

Grace stood between her mother and Simon and put her hands up, “My Queen, Mom… Please. There’s something else about Simon that I need you to know…”

“That you love him? I know it. But, I’m afraid that I can’t take that into account when I have now verified his crimes against this kingdom, and his plans for you.” The Queen glared at Simon and he lowered his face for the first time since coming into the room. Grace looked at him. “Right. You don’t see it. Grace, this man is not who you seem to think.” She used the scepter to lift his arm and the vile infection throbbed more than ever before. Everyone gasped. Grace didn’t know what she was even looking at. “That is blood magic. An oath that he made and sealed with the blood of his enemies, OUR people. An oath that he made to kill YOU, Grace.” Grace took a step back from Simon.

“I didn’t know you!” Simon offered.

“And you would have killed me anyway?” She asked, trying to hold back tears.

“You got to know me and still slapped cuffs on me to bring me to before your mother for war crimes.”

“And it’s a good thing that I didn’t let my feelings for you cloud my good judgment!” Grace said, tears flowing from her eyes. “I wanted to clear your name. I followed the law and you… You would have taken my life without even getting to see my face.”

“I wasn’t going to do it! This is killing me, Grace! I’m… I’m willing to die for you. I’ve never felt that way about another person. But, to have you look at me like that… that’s so much worse than dying will be..” He had tears in his eyes too.

Grace clasped her hands together and turned to her mother again, “I do love him, but that’s not what I was going to say. I brought him to the fair, as I’m sure you were told. My oracle saw him, she gave me his destiny. Intertwined with mine… Mom, this is my soulmate.”

The Queen looked at Grace with the most sympathy that Grace had ever seen in all of her years. “Pet child, please escort the princess to the healing chambers,” she said to Lucy. Lucy nodded once and reached for Grace’s hand.

“Don’t call her that! Lucy is my heiress and she deserves respect! ESPECIALLY, if you intend to kill my soulmate!”

The Queen snarled, “Grace, I don’t have time for one of your little tantrums right now. Are you saying that the life of this one conductor means more to you than all of those that he has slain? Touch him! Touch him and tell me that he is worth salvation!” She ripped one of Grace’s gloves off and forcefully placed her hand on the blood oath seal.

Grace let out a howling pain.

Simon asked, “What are you doing to her???”

“Showing her her birthright, for once. Letting her see what I see when I read you… Letting her see what you’ve DONE.” Simon sobbed and he shook his head, pleading. He didn’t want Grace to see that, but also, she appeared to be in pain. She collapsed to the ground and he rushed to kneel beside her but she crawled away from him hurriedly and cradled herself against Lucy’s side.

“So many murders. So many just to steal their power…” She sobbed. “I felt every last one of their deaths, their sorrow in those last moments… your… complete lack of empathy!”

He bit his lip and shut his eyes, letting the tears pour as they might, “I’m sorry, Grace.”

She looked at Lucy, “He’s the reason…” Lucy simply held back tears. “Your village was his first mission. I’m sorry, Lucy. So sorry…”

The Queen raised her staff, “By the power of the One and for the sake of this kingdom, Simon, the Conductor, I hereby sentence you to eternity in torment. When you have lived out the lives of every being you have slain, you will be back here, to die at my feet. It won’t take nearly as long for us as it will for you, but you will know the pain that I know, that my daughter now knows…”

“I can’t let you do that,” a voice said from the doors of the chambers. Guards were at the ready to attack, when they saw an old woman, dressed in an all white battle uniform. Her yellow eyes were focused on the Queen as she marched towards the throne, a barrier around her that none of the guards could seem to penetrate.

“You’re alive!” The Queen said. She handed the staff to her husband and greeted the old woman with a hug. Grace looked at this image in front of her. She had never seen her mother show affection to anybody who wasn't herself or her father and even then, it didn’t happen in front of others. But, almost as soon as the contact was initiated, the Queen recoiled from the woman. “You…”

“I did what I had to, in Simon’s name,” the woman said. She held her hands out in front of her, and they were gloved, but the gloves were stained in what they all knew was the blood of the winged woman.

“This?” The Queen pointed at Simon. “We don’t see you in years and you return, in such a way over THIS? First my daughter, and now you? WHAT is it about him that makes you a fool?”

“This is Simon. Abelard’s son,” Samantha said. Simon looked confused and the Queen stumbled back.

She approached Simon again, looking at him, staring at his face, actually paying attention to him, this time. She laughed. “The stupidest jawline. The thinnest lips and the frailest nose ever invented,” she said, thinking of years before. Of her best friend who died in battle, whose son she swore to take care of and raise beside her own child before his mother took him back to her home, just wanting to be safe from the life that took her husband away… “Green eyes that make you forget how stupid the rest of his face is…” The Queen’s lip quivered.

“What is going on???” Grace finally asked, annoyed and terrified and confused.

The old woman looked at the Queen, “Should I tell her, or will you?”

The Queen sat back on her throne, exhausted. “Abelard Laurent… We were raised side by side. His parents were an old nobel magic family, but his soul mate was a common girl, who magic had skipped. That didn’t matter to him. He loved her more than the moon and stars. He also loved his kingdom. He loved the One. He was willing to die for him, and the Conductor made certain that he did.

She had risen to power in his territory, claimed it in the name of her dead lover, who Abelard had suspected of vile magic. Whenever the guards seized him to be brought before Abelard, as the lord of those realms… there was a horrible accident. This wizard, a meek man with impeccable smarts and a thirst for magic fell from the horse and was trampled over. Abelard tried everything he could to save him. That wasn’t how we did things! We didn’t execute citizens for suspicion of vile magic! But… Amelia was convinced that Alrick was unjustly killed. She took up magic to get her revenge. She took over a temple of the One that Abelard was guardian of. She made pacts with new stewards, built new disciples, and murdered Abelard… We never even recovered his body from her. She did send me his skull…” Grace looked at Simon, who was aghast.

Reflexively, she put a hand on his shoulder.

“When he died, he had a one year old son named Simon. Of course, hearing the name Simon was nothing to hint to me this was the same boy. Simon is fairly common in those realms. We were going to retrieve he and his mother, bring them here for safety. She haphazardly tried a conductor’s spell to hide them, burrowed him away for safekeeping, and we…” The Queen cried, “I. Cursed him with an illness. One that could only be taken away by my own hand, or that of my daughter’s… to show her… we were where she belonged… I just… wanted to do right by Abelard and care for his son. I would have lifted the curse if I sensed him too close to death!”

“You tortured a baby with illness?” Grace asked.

“I tried to keep his mother from making a terrible mistake.”

“Congratulations to you,” Simon said, crying angrily, “You placed me right into the hands of the person who… who killed my father…" he looked at the ground as it just occurred to him what the Queen was saying, as he said it. Amelia, his mentor, his savior, his Conductor… she had killed his real father…

"And mother," Samantha said. "After using Alrick's genes to heal you, she doubled back to your mother, to ensure that nobody would claim you."

Simon glared at the woman, "Why would you let her do all of this to me? I thought you were my friend!"

She touched the cuffs and they fell from his wrists so that she could properly hug him. "I wanted to tell you when you were old enough to understand, but you were so faithful to Amelia that I couldn't. The magic that binds my blood and yours would never allow me to work against you, and Amelia has taken over your heart. If I had told you, you wouldn't have believed me, and might have killed me… then there would have been no one to support you."

He jerked away from her, "I was raised by someone who murdered my family. She took away my rightful place at the chance to be a king. You just… stood by. How is that support?"

"Who do you think fed you, cleaned you in when you were small? Did you forget? Did you think Amelia was the motherly type? She would have raised you in a dungeon as a slave! She didn't know who you were at first, but the moment she realized, she would have fed you to three headed dogs! Instead, she… made you in her likeness. Built your trust in her. Tricked you into this blood oath."

He wiped away his tears, determined to man up. "And now she gets to be responsible for falling my house. For killing the entire bloodline she feels is responsible for Master Alrick's death…"

"No. That's why I'm here," Samantha reached for her conductor's dagger and lofted it towards Grace. The entire thing happened so fast that mostly everyone missed the details. Lucy's eye noticed the blade before anyone and she jumped into defense mode, sure that the old woman was trying to kill her princess. Lucy's fingernails became claws and she lunged forward, not knowing the levels of Samantha's power nor the strength of the barrier surrounding her. Much like Simon had been ejected from Grace before, Lucy went flying across the room, unfortunately, with Samantha's dagger in her abdomen. Grace screeched so loudly ears bled and glass cracked. When she appeared beneath Lucy, her body cradled to her, the girl barely had any life left in her. "What did you do???" Grace asked.

"She had a weapon. I couldn't allow her to use it against my future queen…" Lucy whimpered. Grace removed her other glove and Simon looked at Samantha, who was just as stunnedas anyone.

"That was an accident. I wasn't going to hurt her. I was handling over my weapon," the woman said. She never liked to see anyone die, but children especially were hard for her. This Lucy child… she couldn't bear it.

Grace placed both hands on Lucy and Lucy began to convulse. Everyone looked shocked and afraid, except for the Queen. She just looked sad.

Lucy sat up abruptly, with a huge gasp and the dagger fell from her and clanked against the floor. She looked at Grace, ready to cheer her on for finally mastering her ability to heal, but when she did, Grace fell down groaning and clutching herself. Simon rushed over. "Grace?" He was hesitant to touch her, but worried.

"Her healing is empathetic. He has to feel what they felt in order to save someone," the Queen said. Simon cradled Grace and she cried, holding herself. "It's a queen's burden, to know the pain of her subjects. To protect them as she would herself…" she came over and touched Grace's chin, lifting her face to look her in the eyes, "Mummy's proud of you. But, I'm afraid the pain doesn't end here. This is merely the beginning of your labor pains." Grace sobbed, lowering her hands as her pain resided. Simon fumbled to get her gloves back on her hands.

She looked embarrassed. She felt weak. "I've never seen you feel any pain," Grace said to the Queen.

"My staff helps me to harness it." They helped Grace up and she looked at the others, still ashamed of herself. "I still must sentence," the Queen said.

Samantha kneeled before the Queen, "As familiar and guardian to the Laurent bloodline, my blood is kin."

"What?" Simon said.

"She intends to take your punishment, to free you from the binding of the oath. In doing so, she becomes a proxy for the bloodline she is attached to. Her death frees you," the Queen explained.

"No!" Simon shouted. "I'm the one who agreed to it! It's MY burden to bear."

"Over a hundred years ago, I vowed myself to the Laurent bloodline. If you die, my life is meaningless anyway."

"But… you're my only friend. You're the only one who actually cared about me. You said it yourself. You took care of me…"

"I see you standing next to your destiny," Samantha said, looking at Grace. "She's even more perfect for you than I thought."

Grace intertwined her fingers with Simon's and he cried again. He hated how much he was crying, but he really didn't know what else to do. This was his fault. He'd let Amelia deceive him his entire life and now, he was going to lose his best friend, his only friend… his… mother… "He's your problem now," Samantha joked.

Lucy took Simon's other hand and he looked down at her. She offered a sympathetic squeeze to his hand and a soft smile. "He's our family, now," she said in a low voice.

The Queen lifted her staff and Samantha's white robes turned red as her blood burst forth from every pore and her body crumbled to the ground, then faded to dust, while the bloody garment remained.

Simon groaned as the seal bled, the throbbing veins tremored and then set into his flesh like thorns, bleeding him for a moment, then fading into his flesh, no more than a tattoo beneath his arm. He touched it and looked at Samantha's cloak.

The Queen declared Samantha's blood payment for Simon's crimes against the kingdom, but seeing him as the future king still didn't sit right with her. Then again, it had been a long night. She dismissed everyone and she and the King remained there, to talk about where they would go from here.

Simon, Grace and Lucy all sat on Grace's bed, staring straight ahead. Nobody was speaking. After a while, Grace asked, "Are you mad at me?"

She and Lucy looked at Simon. He just shut his eyes and shook his head. "How can I be mad at you when you're all that I have left?" She collected him to herself and he cried against her neck. They crawled into the bed and Grace reached for Lucy, as well. Whatever tomorrow held, she had almost lost everything tonight… and she just needed to hold on to it, just in case she wouldn't be so "lucky" tomorrow.

[flowerflamestars]

Fate and Fervor

PART ONE  PART TWO  PART THREE  PART FOUR  PART FIVE  PART SIX  PART SEVEN  PART EIGHT

For the first time in five centuries, Cassian watched the sun rise over mortal lands.   Raw as a new recruit he let the blizzards frigid wind breathe its secret’s around him, nearly so cold as his mountain home. Pink and blue, the world was superficially still in this hour before people began to move, but still here Cassian was, looking for something.   Nothing he could name or place, but Cassian trusted his instincts above all else.   There was something here- Not the something that resolved itself from the shadow of an open door to twist into the body of his brother, but the look on Azriel’s face gave agreement to Cassian’s  wordless tension.   Az ruffled his own hair, crossing the room in two strides and making a face that managed to silently convey he disagreed strongly with Cassian’s need to have every single window- four, imported glass every one, this room alone worth more money than he wanted to think about- to lean on the other side of the threshold where Cassian sat, between propped open balcony doors.   “Amren raided the hall of records- twelve Archeron generations.”

Cassian huffed a laugh. Six in the morning and Azriel already sounded exhausted by the surprises and sisterly infighting. “Can you believe she didn’t know? Fey would think having royal blood didn’t matter.”   His brother’s lips twitched. “It does explain a few things.”   The wind twisted around them, silent to ears not Illyrian, keened, keened keened- somewhere, some thing, fire without flame. Cassian let his head thunk back against the door. Nothing here was as expected.   Not just Feyre’s beloved and difficult sisters, or Lucien Vanserra in the heart of things, but this estate. Lavish, but-   “You catch the double wardings?” Cassian asked.   Azriel sighed. “Everywhere. This whole damned place is a blood magic deathtrap.” Respect was heavy in his tone, and Cassian could understand it. Lucien had to have brought himself to near death to put the wards in place. A Courts heir, high fae, bleeding for two mortal girls.   Illyrians also had a long history of protecting what they loved at any brutal cost.   And here was a far more dangerous world than Feyre had described; not desperation and cold waiting for them, but magic and secrets in their place.   “How’s the border?”   Cassian sometimes forgot how remote Az could be in company. A messy youth of laughing when the other option was despair had grown into a silent expressiveness that still made Cassian grin.   As he did now, watching Azriel’s whole face twist in a near-comical horror. “Blown to shit,” He ran a hand through his hair again, pulling on the curls. “No, Cas, it’s gone.”   “Tamlin hasn’t?..”   With perfect silence, Az stepped around the sprawl of Cassian’s body in the doorway, pointedly clipping one wing with his hip. He followed, snow immediately drifting in his hair, landing featherlight on Cassian’s bare shoulders.   The view was uninterrupted by anything so spartan as walls or coverage, the house a defensive nightmare. Just long sloping lawns and gardens broken up by magic rich, absurdly dense patches of forest. He’d hide Illyrians in those trees, have to rely on surprises and traps.   “Straight shot less than a league from here to Spring,” Az tilted his chin toward the dark and snowy forest, “Archeron land goes right to the Wall.”   What had possessed humans to build, to live, so close to the cursed thing?   “The borders down, Feyre’s sisters have been here this whole time,” Cassian didn’t like the odds, half wanted to go over each of their sprawling magical traps himself. It wasn’t, couldn’t be safe here. “Is Tamlin that afraid of Vanserra?”   Az shook his head. “He was dying, when he came here.” Cassian didn’t have to ask for explanation; secrets and history were the ken of Azriel in their every shape. “The magic at the border wasn’t a fight, he shattered it. Walked on foot through the woods, burning so hot it went to the bedrock, stopped half dead there.” He pointed with one scarred hand to a snow-buried rose garden.   “They saved him?”   “Something happened,” Az replied, “Something made him live.”   Cassian recognized the tone, gave into the urge to drum fingertips on the iced over railing. “Something like being the son of a high lord, or something like Rhys keeping Feyre alive?”   “I can’t tell,” Azriel admitted, with a grimace.   The wind sang around them with that phantom scent of fire, something, something just beyond reach. Cassian didn’t ask if Az could hear it too. —- The breakfast room was a masterwork.   After an hour of talking that turned to plans to slowly letting themselves be utterly savage at the very idea, much less the reality of syrupy, utterly untrustworthy charming Rhysand, the eldest Archeron sister’s had come downstairs.   The empty house benefitted them. No maids to watch and try to help as they hauled in new furniture, no footmen insisting they could carry the vast rug the sisters dragged in between them.   No eyes to see where they stored the family secrets.   Nesta rolled out the thick carpet with one hard kick of a dainty foot, and huffed. “If he lies to our faces I’m going to stab him.”   Elain, comparing fine porcelain patterns with each hand, snickered. “Even if he does, Feyre will want to know why.”   “I think,” Nesta said, utterly even, “She’d believe his word over ours.”   Elain didn’t throw down the plate, but she was later grateful this particular pattern, covered in silver stars and ever-blooming poison flowers like an alchemists eden, was charmed against breakage as it slid to the ground.   Nesta was a perfectly straight pillar, staring down at the plush green and purple pattern beneath her feet. Trying to hide the full scope of her hurt, even from Elain. High walls and grace and rage- but underneath it the largest heart of them all.   It had gone unspoken between them, that they’d silently imagined Feyre in their number again someday. The things they’d done- building her spaces in the house, signing her name for the Councils seal: a Lord Archeron might technically always be in legal charge, but it’s beneficiaries were his three, precious daughters.   Nesta had made sure of that.   Their father would never pass them the title- but everything else was theirs: Feyre, Elain, Nesta, the last of their storied bloodline.   A home, a place, a fortune. All Feyre’s whenever she should want it.   Their land was dangerous too, growing more worrisome every day- but they’d missed their sister. They’d broken laws too numerous to count to stay safe and powerful, to maintain a corner of the world she might one day live in with them.   Elain crossed the room to take her elder sister’s hand. The triplicate strand of pearls that lived on Elain’s wrist now that their home was full of fae had to have been cold, but Nesta didn’t flinch. “Feyre loves us,” Elain said, softly, “I don’t know what she wants now, but it had to have been her idea to bring the High Lord here.”   “A reckless, stupid idea,” Nesta grumbled.   Elain laughed, “So stupid it’ll probably get us killed. But she’s home.”   The laugh was what made Nesta look up, her shining eyes so completely like their mother’s Elain savored the sight. She’d been taller, her blue grey gaze more metallic and the fine boned cheeks she’d blessed them all with more inclined to smile; but Nesta was utterly the child of their most beloved parent.   “If we die, we’ll die together,” Nesta sighed. “Do you think that if you kill a High Lord you can really steal the power?”   There was just enough dry humor in her voice for Elain to laugh again. “We could test it on Beron.”   Nesta ran her hands down her skirt, flaring the fine faery velvet to shake off ash and dust. They’d dressed for conquest together, every inch rich merchants daughters. “We’ll be beat to it, I’d imagine.”   They would be, Elain was sure. Sorcha, who deserved her revenge the very most, would have it. Already had in some way- stolen essential, ancient power, given Lucien back a part of his birthright Elain couldn’t fully comprehend.  Nesta had spoken wryly, but the furrow between her eyes returned. They were thinking the same thing; wouldn’t say the Lady of Autumns name aloud in these spaces now shared with a Shadowsinger. Couldn’t speak to each other of what was to come even alone, in their newly invaded house.   Like Elain, Nesta believed in an absolute form of justice.   Beron was going to die.   Unbidden, lean brown lines returned to the forefront of her thoughts. Lucien’s clever hands- that Elain should not be letting herself long for- riven with burns at the touch of that crown.   Autumn-born, but cast out. Power. A chance, revenge, the war to come- they had plans for it. Plans upon plans: for if they could hold the estate, for evacuation and weaponry. The three of them together took care of separate spheres, but Nesta held the most in her head.   Elain didn’t wonder how far they’d have to go; there was no too far, not to keep their family safe.   Even if they had to be kept safe from the very people their sister had made a family of. - Cassian counted windows and clear views, walking on silent feet behind Feyre through her families home.   Even motion was a struggle, the third shift of his wings loud enough Azriel was looking at him. It wasn’t the luxury- not the quiet or beauty of this place putting him on edge. Not even the conflict- coming here was a bad idea, and he knew it.   Cassian didn’t even know what he was looking for.   Until Feyre swung open yet another beautiful door, and Cassian stopped breathing.   Bathed in bright morning light of a wall-sized window, Feyre’s sisters had beat them to breakfast. Arrayed in finery, at the head of the table sat Nesta, steaming porcelain cup in her hand so fine Cassian could see through it.   How he made it from the doorway to the seat at her right hand was a dangerous proposition- Cassian didn’t know how. He didn’t know what the hell he was doing, but the deep steadying breath was a mistake.   The pearls in her hair alone were worth a fortune.   He wanted to dismiss her beauty, the vanity as it juxtaposed with things Feyre had said. The sister whose heart was an ocean, vast but unconquerable. The same sister who hadn’t protected her.   But Cassian was too much himself, too long a dearest friend to Mor to dismiss any woman based on appearance.   Not braided in to show off the shining darkness of her hair, but affixed loose to the ends of pins like water drops. The pearls moved when she did, a chime through the still, tense air Cassian wasn’t sure anyone else could hear.   It wasn’t a question he’d ask.   Cassian wanted- he wanted to stop staring at her. Wanted her to look back at him so badly he’d bitten a hole in his cheek, the copper tang of blood not enough to forget the smell. He wanted an excuse to get up from this lavish power play of a breakfast table, to have a reason to walk past her again and catch Nesta Archeron’s scent.   Velvet and pearls and ink- past that, herself: fire, mixed with the cold tang of high mountain air.   It was intoxicating. The ink she’d scrubbed from her hands didn’t show, but it complimented completely that raging smell, like a tundra forest fire. Cassian could tell too that she was armed- knives under that velvet dress, a stinging scent that could only mean ash wood somewhere on her person.   The danger only increased his racing heart. And then Nesta Archeron turned her pale, perfect face on him. Impossible cheekbones, full lips, sharp jaw, keen eyes.   “What,” She snarled, “Do you think you’re looking at?”   Her voice rang like a bell through his skull.   Cassian was not High Fae. Not even low fae, really- Illyrian’s were so different as to be considered outsiders to even the rest. Savages. He’d never needed anyone to explain to him what bullshit it was; but, Cassian was Illyrian to his bones, blooded and born of open skies.   He was different, and so was capable of realizing he was looking at a fellow threat.   The ash was in her hair- pins? It had to be, had it been anywhere near her skin Cassian wouldn't scent it the way he was now. The fire and iron of her rage and arms, growing stronger with the uptick of Nesta’s heart.   It hit him all at once, the commonality of this entire spread.   He couldn’t make himself look away, but there was something familiar even about the silk in Elain’s hair.   Nesta was looking at him like she wanted to rip out his throat. Beautiful- the bones of her proud face were as flawless as the pearls, paler than their sheen. Cassian, still hearing her voice in the air, only to his ears, wanted to see how close he could push her to doing it.   Her pale gaze bobbed down to his lips for a scant second, and then out. Look at me, Cassian thought, before realizing her furious eyes were following the line his wings made around his body. Black in this light, the scars hidden. Was she measuring? The out of body insanity he’d been feeling since he walked past her shouldn’t leave room for pride, but there is was, leaving Cassian light headed.   If Nesta wanted to go for his throat, she’d have to touch him. Human- her teeth were like his, bruising, not faery pointed. Her mouth-   Like a door slammed shut in Cassian’s face, every bit of Nesta dismissed him, every bit of her attention forward once more.   She smelled like fire and every fine thing in the world- Cassian was burning.   Distantly, he listened to Feyre snap something toward her oldest sister in offense, Elain’s sweet voice chiming in. In the distraction of the conversation he heard the rustle of Az’s wings, but Cassian ignored his brother’s subtle turn in question.   Without permission or a conscious plan, Cassian leaned right over the table corner into Nesta’s space, like they were the only people in the room. “You know about Sangravah.”   Nesta stopped speaking mid-sentence. She’d moved toward him, not away. This close, he could see the pulse beating in her throat, and fought not to stare like a madman. Savage, Cassian thought again, with very different bitterness.    “Do I know the Night Court was invaded, a city leveled, and within a day it’s High Lord showed up on my doorstep?” She hissed, meeting his gaze. “Yes.”   Nesta had known, and she’d laid a trap.  A brilliant jab, after Rhys’ speech about strength and the war to come. Everything in this room came from the North- imported china, but painted in the Rainbow. Night Court silver. Wall hangings, the kaleidoscopic silk of Elain’s clothes, the very rug beneath their feet: Sangravah.   Cassian had seen with his own eyes the smoking ruin Hybern had left of half the city.   “I had no idea the merchant network worked so quickly,” Rhysand drawled mildly, sipping tea like they were having a casual discussion.   Cassian had the quicksilver thought of smashing his fist into his beloved brother, trusted High Lords face.   The Archeron sisters were not going to be handled.   But Nesta was still looking right at him. Cassian knew that expression on Illyrian faces- a predator that had smelled blood. She was good, too good. After all, he’d fought with Rhys for a full day about this particular direction: bringing danger to Feyre’s human family, taking the war over the Wall prematurely if things went sideways.   They were her sisters, it was ultimately her call. That didn’t mean he had to agree with it.   How did Nesta know?   “The families,” Nesta said, matter of fact and deadly, “Lost good sailors to the fires. When the stone burned, the water did too.” Feyre had opened her mouth in horror, but Nesta plowed on. “If we can’t keep people safe in your land, what makes you think we could provide for you safe haven to hide from your war?”   Cassian wanted to reach out and touch her.   “No one,” Rhysand said, “Is hiding.”   Feyre leaned around his wings, mouth twisting. If she took note of the electric bubble of space Cassian had accidentally created and Nesta had taken over with sheer rage, it didn’t show. “We’re sure father couldn’t have been on any of the ships? He wasn’t there when it happened, right?”   They were so close a pearl hit Cassian’s nose as Nesta’s attention snapped left, the back of her braid stabbed through with a pin long enough to double as a dagger. A faery killing dagger, gleaming ash wood- Cassian couldn’t have backed away if the room were on fire.   “Feyre,” It was Elain who sighed her name. Resplendent in pink and pearls of her own, she showing a whole different face than the woman who’d stabbed Azriel yesterday. “Father is not working the trade routes.”   Feyre shook her head, already glancing back at Rhys, “Can we find out for sure? Send someone in case”-   “He’s in the City of Gods,” Nesta said, flatly. “Or he was a year ago, getting arrested for gambling debts. I doubt he got much further.”   Feyre’s face crumbled. A scream would have drawn Rhy’s attention less quickly, and Cassian himself hated to see her hurt, but he was busy struggling to breathe. If he’d been less close the sorrow that emanated from Nesta would have been hidden. Anger was one thing, an unholy terror in her rage, but-   But the urge to rip apart whatever had hurt Nesta was overwhelming. It rattled in his veins, terrifying to even himself. What was wrong with him?   “I’ll find your father, wherever he is,” Rhys promised Feyre is a low voice. She leaned into the touch of his hand, blue eyes over-bright.   Late, too late, Cassian caught Elain watching him. He knew she was armed too, under all that silken beauty. She was softer than her sisters, a gentle ghost in Feyre’s stories. Giant eyes and winsome dimples seemed to only reinforce that vision- but she’d stabbed Azriel. Loved and absolutely trusted from her every gesture one of the most dangerous unaligned faeries in Prythian.   Twisted her face in an expression of total wickedness that belonged on Feyre’s face to raise brows at Cassian- at the lack of space between him and Nesta.   Cassian sat back in his chair, clenched hands hidden by the table.   Not fast enough to miss the impossibly quiet rattled sound of a breath leaving Nesta when he moved. Not a bit of it showed on her face- for all that Cassian could smell sadness, a cool unmovable rage, beautiful to see, was all that reached the world.   A queen, riven of ice and pearl.   The next youngest might have been flounced like a princess, but Cassian couldn’t imagine she wasn’t just as controlled. Courtier and queen then- quick poison and vengeful crusade, hand in hand. Feyre had failed, on a cataclysmic level, to describe her elder sisters.   They should have seen it coming- an impossibly young human woman who’d freed them from Amarantha. She’d come from somewhere, for all that most days she seemed more like a sister, a friend.   Instinctive deep breath burned his lungs with Nesta’s scent all over again. If he pulled on that murderous dagger, would the whole thing unwind? He wanted with a stark insanity to know how long her dark hair was. Could he fill both hands with its softness, breathe in her scent?   Cassian hadn’t missed it when he’d scooped her out of the fight the day before. But her fear had clouded everything- a fear of him so complete and overwhelming he’d felt sick- left no room for the wildness that pounded his skin- and then of course, all he’d smelled was his own blood.   “Fey,” Began Elain, her deceptively soft voice carrying, “Father has made it clear he doesn’t want to be involved. We can send sailors to check on him, but it would be easier to plan if you told us why you’re here.”   He wondered how old they were. From Feyre’s stories, Cassian had been sure Elain was the youngest. But old enough to wed- old enough to be entangled with Lucien bloody Vanserra- and Nesta was clearly an adult in her prime.   The Cauldron-gifted savior of Prythian was the baby of the family.   And making a guiless younger sibling face that made the long-scarred wounds where Asteria had lived ache. “I wanted to make sure you were alright.”   “Bullshit,” Nesta snapped.   Cassian bit his cheek again to stay silent, mouth twisting without his permission. She was a nightmare- a beautiful nightmare that wasn’t going to let this already messy plan come together without a fight.   A small noise had escaped Elain- not even censure, tiredness? Before the two older- he was sure of it- Acheron’s were meeting eyes in a silent understanding that scrunched Feyre’s face into a scowl.   “You both think that?”   That they exchanged glances once more before Elain tried again was enough to audibly set Feyre’s teeth.   “You can always come home,” Elain told her, staring down the table with it’s gleaming crystal and china, utterly sincere. “You have a place here with us, no matter what, Feyre. But”-   Nesta interrupted, hurt buried from her voice but not Cassian’s senses, throat burning at her pain. “You let us think you were dead. If not for Lucien, we would have no idea what happened to you.”   “And,” Elain went on, like Feyre didn’t look like she’d been slapped, like Rhysand wasn’t staring at Nesta with a thunderous, barely contained danger, “We understand these are very dangerous times.”   It was all wrong- Cassian had fought against this plan on the basis that mortals over the Wall killed faeries, killed those who associated with them. It was still the greatest danger here, but how thoroughly had they misunderstood what they were walking into?   These women were already involved in their own way, all the more in peril because of it; they weren’t going to be able to contain this situation, they were only going to make it worse. Cassian was going to make it worse if he didn’t get a hold of himself, if Rhys kept looking at Nesta like that.   It was an effort to be still, to stay silent. Every instinct in Cassian’s body was telling him to move: to reach out and find some way to soothe that raging pain in Nesta Archeron, who he’d known all of a day, to put himself bodily between the bright flame of her mortal beauty and the anger of a High Lord. His brother- who would never-  Despite the overwhelming tension in the air, Feyre scoffed. “How did Lucien know I was alright?”   Trapped at the corner of table Cassian got the full view of Elain’s eye twitching before her whole face smoothed.    Nesta had no such compunctions. “I believe he was somewhat aware of whatever has put that crown on your head.”   Moonstone today- like a distant echo to Nesta’s shower of pearls. Cassian knew damn well what Rhysand was doing, giving his emissary a crown, but Feyre didn’t. Equal parts marveled and self-self-conscious at the splendor, she’d refused- not ready or too stubborn, he didn’t know- to look at Rhys’s affection for what it might be.   With a long, slow breath, Rhys finally set down his tea cup. “We’re not here for refuge. The tragedy at Sangravah was not the first attack, nor will it be the last. We need to call on old alliances if anyone is going to survive.”   Silken- not gentle, there was the voice of the woman who could love the lost heir of Autumn- Elain breathed, “Human alliances?”   Feyre nodded, and Cassian wished there were some way to stop her before she went on, painfully earnest. “I’m the emissary of the Night Court, I need to speak to the Council of Queens. If they’ll listen, help, we all might have a chance. Hybern won’t stop”-   No one had to explain further, as Cassian imagined few people ever did speaking to Nesta. The look on her face had been icy, now she might as well have breathed frost. “And you’re High Fae, so you cannot set foot in the sacred palace. You want to bring the Council of Queens here?”   Breaking his silence with clear regret already on his face, it was Azriel that answered. “We have been unable to infiltrate the council. It’s a deathtrap, to our kind. It might only be safe to engage here, on mortal land.”   “It’s a deathtrap for a reason”-   “Hybern,” Rhys cut in smoothly, “Has been preparing for this war for millennia. The king aims to take this entire continent, and there will be nothing to stop his march into mortal countries. If we cannot band together now, we’ll fall, one by one.”   “No,” Nesta growled, a nearly-faery noise. “No. Hybern has declared war on the Night Court, I will not let you bring that violence south.”   “It’s the only safe way,” Feyre said, voice cutting. “I just need your house, just for a few days. The message is sent. But we should plan together. We’ll keep you out it, keep you safe, Rhys can”- Not Nesta, who’d stood from the table to yell all the better, but Elain, her pale cheeks drained of color who didn’t let her younger sister finish. “What do you mean, the message has been sent?” Feyre, Cassian thought, you didn’t. One hand on Rhysand’s forearm, Feyre raised her chin. “I invited the Queens here. We don’t have time to argue, they’ll have the message by nightfall.” — Elain had told herself not to be surprised by her younger sister’s actions anymore.   One High Lord, two High Lords- the Lord of nightmares and shadows- breaking a curse older than all of them, fighting monsters, becoming fae.   Nothing had truly disappointed her before this moment. Feyre, who wanted so badly to do the right thing, who was trying to protect her new family: but who would protect them? Their vassals, their land, the fragile, infinitely valuable legacy of their blood that Elain and Nesta had lied and committed treason to hold onto?   She’d been right- Nesta had been right.   There were a hundred moving pieces before them: the household staff, who’d return in a day, if that when the blizzard ended. Their vassals relying on them- the extra gold and food they provided in winter, the orphanage full of children who had no idea how dangerous or precarious their world was. The Crown of Autumn in a hatbox, the slight of hand involved to keep their ships sailing and their goods sold.   Her engagement ball, the invitations sent. Lucien’s safety, Sorcha’s plan. That the war starting might be here- that those battles wouldn’t have a chance to kill them if the Queens decided to take their lives themselves, as was their legal due.   Elain needed to breathe. To think.   All she could do was look at her sister- not Feyre, not now- at Nesta, and understand the sorrow, the anger that spooled between them.   Trapped, once again.   Elain didn’t realize she’d risen until her skirt snagged on the chair, stopping her progress to Nesta’s side for a split second before the dark-eyed shadowsinger to her left freed it with an inclined head.   Later, she would think about how this court- family, so clearly a family- didn’t seem to agree either.   But first she rounded the corner to take Nesta’s hand. Shoulder to shoulder, they wouldn’t flinch. She wanted Lucien.  Colder than the ice gathered at the windows, Nesta’s voice was clipped. “You invited the entire Council of Queens to meet the High Lord of the Night Court, under our roof?”   Before Feyre could answer the hulking Illyrian who had been staring at Nesta like she were both miracle and doom interrupted with that whiskey warm voice of his, “Feyre, you didn’t ask?”   Nesta didn’t look at him, didn’t move her focus from the High Lord whose unnatural gaze was on them both, but Elain felt her hand, hidden by their skirts, spasm.   Humans had told stories of his kind for generations. The true of heart, warriors whose honor was life, whose promises were magic, who protected the innocent at all costs. Myths, surely, but this was the Commander of the Legions.   Honor was perhaps something they could lean on.   “We don’t have time to fight,” Feyre insisted, a transparent lack of understanding on her face, “Hyberns next attack could come at any time. I can do this, we can do this.”   Smoothly, the Lord who they feared even across the sea nodded, spread his hands in a very human gesture of compliancy, wrong to behold. “I know that you don’t trust me, don’t know me. But please believe I won’t allow any harm to come to Feyre’s family.”   Feyre’s family- their fate’s bound together inescapably.   Elain had had more than enough assurance for one morning.   She didn’t need to look to know Nesta felt the same, to guess from her thrown back shoulders and rigid body that Nesta wanted nothing more than to be out of this room. Time to think, to plan, to be alone- but she wouldn’t, couldn’t back down from the fight.   And Rhysand wasn’t done.   “We’ll shore up your defenses, guard your home for as long as needed. Feyre’s letter is the first real message we’ve gotten to the Queens, but our interests align. We”-   Elain shook out the heavy woven silk of her skirts, rainbow shimmer settling under her steady hands. Ignoring the whole lot of them- winged warriors, Feyre’s confusion, Rhysand’s false straightforwardness, she turned to Nesta. “Tea?”   Nesta cocked her head, in step, the graces that served them again and again. “Of course, I’ll see you this evening.”   Time then, she needed time as well. And long enough for them to wait for Lucien.   Elain addressed the room at large, like Rhysand hadn’t spoken. “Please do enjoy the comforts of our home. The kitchens are stocked, if not staffed, and the library is down the hall. You’ll find extra clothing in the scullery and more firewood in the closets of all the greatrooms. Avail yourselves to whatever you need, we’ll see you tomorrow.” “Elain”-   Nesta made it to the door first, holding it open for them both before the satisfactory slam rocked the entire wall.   In low tones, Nesta asked as they reached the stairs, “Do you know where Lucien is?”   Elain shook her head, “He was talking about checking on the outlying farms.” Nesta sighed, on the step above as they’d been braced to head in opposite directions. “Later,” she said again, reaching out quicksilver fast to squeeze Elain’s hand again. “We’ll figure it out.”   She managed to smile in return before stumbling down the stairs, fast enough to trip. It was longer way outside, down twisting marble and across the grander spaces of the house, but Elain still managed to pull on her fur cloak and step out into the crisp, bright world before she had company.   She strode into the snow regardless, ducking around the house on slick stone paths, cold clear air her greatest companion.   “Elain,” It was Feyre, of course.   For a half moment, Elain contemplated just ignoring her. When they were children, truly young, the only thing that made Feyre angry was to lack for attention. It wasn’t normally a problem; even at their most desperate, their father had affection to spare for his youngest, precious daughter.   It would be almost fair, she’d ignored their qualms, the very circumstances of their lives.   But no, Elain was better than that. No matter what, she’d missed her sister and there were things that had to be said.   “Elain,” Called Feyre again, sliding into step beside her on those longer faery legs that Elain couldn’t get used to. Always gangly, little Fey now moved with perfect, silent grace. “You can’t refuse to plan with Rhys because of the letter. We need the Queens to”-   Gently, gentle as she could manage, Elain interrupted. “The problem isn’t Rhysand,” She said, trying and hoping Feyre would actually listen. If Nesta had this talk with her, it was going to end with screaming. “You wrote that letter, Feyre.”   Familiar and still utterly different blue faery eyes blinked widely a her. “I was,” She stumbled over the words, “I was a human and now I’m fae, and the emissary of the Night Court. The best choice to write to the Queens.”   Five steps from the haven of her solarium, Elain stopped walking. “Feyre,” She said again, and this time she couldn’t hold back the anger in her voice. “You wrote the letter. You signed it with your own name too, didn’t you?”   Feyre stopped too, set her feet wide and stubborn.   Through the glass, Elain could see her orchids blooming. If she made it to those doors, there’d be no Night Court. Just soil and moss only she’d ever touched. Potted lemons blooming, the air warm and moist, some actual damned quiet- but she had to have this talk.   Elain sighed. “Rhysand, none of them know any humans. Not in recent history, anyway,” Feyre opened her mouth as if in protest, but Elain held up a hand, “You grew up here. You know the punishment for associating with faeries in this land is death, Feyre.”   No one cared the original Acheron fortune had been built on the back of wrangling a deal with a faery smith. That even now, Nesta, under the auspice of their father’s authority, kept faery bargains on the continent.   What mattered was this: the wild land along the Wall had no ruler. It belonged personally to the Council of Queens, but with true governance more than an ocean away, human lords- whose estates might as well have been tiny kingdoms, for their absolute power- had to keep the peace. Faeries came over the Wall- not faeries of the continent, whose gated kingdoms and vast reaches had always interacted with humans in some way- but faeries of Prythian who played by different rules.   Killing. Stealing maidens in the night. Hunting humans like prey.   So the highest echelon of Lords, Flatha and Tiarna, petitioned the Queens they traced their own bloodlines back to and it was written into law: death, usually at the hands of your very own liege, at the word of your neighbors.   Human slow, Feyre touched Elain’s arm. “The meeting will stay secret,” She told her, wide eyes sincere, “There will be Illyrian’s to guard if anything goes wrong, and Rhys will keep you and Nesta safe.”   Lucien, markedly, was not included in the count to be protected.   All at once, Elain was exhausted. She didn’t want to be angry. Not at her naive and beautiful sister, all of nineteen years old, who’d fought and died and been transformed. Little Feyre, a true hero, who’d always had a good heart.   Tired too, that for all that goodness, Feyre really thought Elain was afraid for herself.   “You signed it Archeron,” Elain snapped before she could stop herself. “Just because father bankrupted all of us doesn’t mean he ever stopped being a lord. Ua Flaithbertaig, Feyre. These people lived without a leigelord for a generation, we’ve only begun to fix things. They will be punished, we will be punished.”   “When the Queens meet with us, they won’t punish you for being present.” Feyre said lowly.   “If they meet with you, Feyre!” Elain found herself shouting and stopped, breathing out her nose. She’d been wrong; maybe Nesta should have had this conversation- maybe she’d have been sharp enough for Feyre to take her seriously.   “Nesta is not Banfhlaith, Fey,” Elain tried very hard to say evenly. “She can’t petition for clemency. Lucien is living under a false identity- there’s no one to protect us, no one who can intervene.”   “But Rhys,”-   Not for the first time, something prickled in Elain’s palms at the sound of Feyre’s familiarity with the High Lord of the Night Court. There was more there than a bargain, whatever that binding tattoo meant. Feyre loved him.  Elain knew she didn’t mean harm, wanted to trust her sisters new friends- but that was just it.   They were new- foreign and horrifically powerful. Good intentions wouldn’t protect human lives in a violent game that had spanned centuries.   “Rhysand,” Elain managed to say normally, calmly even, “Is not going to stop a war with an enemy that held him captive for a half a century to protect three hundred human vassals who have nothing to do with the conflict.”   The stubborn set of Feyre’s stance had become kinetic with anger. “Nothing?” She shouted back, flawless immortal hands flung into the air, “War is coming. People are going to die, Elain. During the last war”-   She sounded just like Nesta, when she was angry. But then again, Nesta never talked down to Elain. “The last war was almost six hundred years ago,” Elain snarled back. “The Queens hate the High Lords, Feyre. Our country is allied with the faeries of the continent, humans live in the Glass Mountains, go to university in the Weeping City- the world has changed.”   “The world changes, but you don’t, right?” Feyre said, brittle with anger. “You have Tamlin’s riches, so you get to play lady again.”   Elain had a hundred reasons Feyre was wrong- that without a leigelord, an Archeron in power, their people had nothing. Bound to their ancestral land without protection. No divorces, no founding of new institutions, they couldn’t even pick new crops to grow on estate land without their lords word. With their father out of power, they were trapped- and forced to pay the crown tax individually, more than twice what the estate under Elain and Nesta took.   The fiefdoms of their slip of human land weren’t fair- but the sisters were lucky enough the Queens had never awarded the ancestral Archeron lands to anyone else. Their father might not have given a damn, but the least they could do was try to make things better.   But none of that came out of her mouth as her sister kept speaking. “What’s the plan? Say the war never comes. What, you’re really going to marry Lucien? Lie to everyone. Let him pretend to be your human husband for a hundred years until you die?”   When Nesta was younger, she used to panic. It would crash over her, hold her fast in it’s grip- she told Elain it was like a vise in her chest, all the time, but sometimes it squeezed so tight she couldn’t breathe. The world went white.   Elain had promised her to help hide it- for Feyre to never see- but she’d vowed to herself to find a way to hold Nesta’s hand when the world tried to crush her.   The world was white now.   “Get out.” Elain said, colorless.   Surprise visibly interrupted Feyre’s anger. “What?”   Elain didn’t pause to say it again. She started walking, those last five steps strangely light, as though the ground were further away. But two of her steps was one of her sisters now.   “Elain,”-   “No,” Elain said, refusing to look up, lest Feyre see her burning eyes. She wasn’t going to cry. “What’s done is done. Whatever danger is coming, I’m not going to face it having slapped my own baby sister.”   The brightness of the icy day dazzling her eyes, Elain lurched away and into those safe glass walls. Humid heat and the smell of smoke hiding behind green growing things wrapped around her like an embrace. Lucien had laid some magic over this place, kept her plants safer even than the expensive glass provided. I’ll have to thank him, Elain thought, the orchids lush before her.   But she passed their shelves, went all the way to that back until she was screened from the outside world by potted palms, and sank to the stone floor.   Twenty five.   Elain was twenty five years old- how long would it be before she looked older than Lucien? Three years, six years, ten years? How could she know how things would progress?   He’d never mentioned leaving. Seemed, not just as his human guise, but in those quiet moments that were Lucien and nothing else, to perhaps love the land the same way she did. He might change his glamour with time- human faces change- but Elain knew the real ageless beauty. He belonged here with them.   She didn’t know how she would change.   They had to survive- it wasn’t all a lie, hadn’t ever been, and maybe, maybe, if they lived, Elain would make sure Lucien knew it. — Despite the moonless night, Cassian found Nesta Archeron outside.   He’d resisted all of ten hours.   He shouldn’t have gone looking for her. That he knew- there was no way she'd come out into a dark and frozen night for company. In fact, Cassian wasn’t sure Nesta liked anyone’s company.   But he couldn’t talk himself into staying away, anymore than he could get her burning scent off the back of his tongue. Like something had possessed him, Cassian couldn’t stop tasting it on the air. Even in the sky overhead, his lungs burned with mountain cold and raging fire. Like home.  Nesta didn’t make sense to him.   The older sister who’d failed to protect Feyre. The wrathful pillar of ice ready to challenge a High Lord without a trace of fear. The woman who seemed determined to go down fighting- not just for her sisters- but for every single human in these lands.   The spitfire who’d broken his noise, and come back for more.   She looked at him like he was dirt beneath her boots- and Cassian couldn’t stop thinking about her.   So like the Cauldron damned masochist he was, Cassian found himself waiting in a dead garden, struck dumb by the play of false firelight over her relentlessly beautiful face.   Magic- of course- Vanserra’s raw power intermingled so deeply into the Archeron’s land that it was beginning to take on small characteristics of faerie. Will-o-whisps were old Autumn magic- and inclined to lead mortals and faeries alike to their death in their original form. Those bouncing around the Archeron’s dormant garden seemed more interested in the roses.   Or perhaps the woman sitting beside them.   “Is it common Night Court manners to sulk in the dark?” Nesta asked, back to Cassian as she faced the sky.   “It’s not a good time to be alone at night.”   Nesta remained silent. The will-o-whisps drifted closer, painting red over the old gold of her hair. Cassian fought the urge to smack one away from her fragile mortal form.   An itch was starting his veins-  familiar dismissal in her silence that seemed to reach right down inside him. What was Cassian doing? This woman didn’t need- or want his attention. Cassian liked fighting, but that didn’t mean he needed to take a few extra kicks to the ribs.   He was just rocking back, silent even on the frosted ground, when Nesta turned to look up at him.   One eyebrow rose. Cassian fought the urge to tuck his wings tight and shift, to lessened the impact of his sheer size standing over her. He settled for crossing his arms.   And there was the other eyebrow, gods damn him.   Her voice had razor edges. “Why hasn’t your High Lord told my sister they’re mates?” High Lord rolled out of her mouth like a curse, briefly catching him before Cassian caught up with her words. What? “What?”   It wasn’t that Cassian hadn’t guessed the same thing. It wasn’t even that the rarity or the impossibility- the ten thousand childhood stories that clenched beneath his sternum to damn him with the very word mates- but Nesta had known Rhys for two cauldron damned days.   “It effects her just as much, Feyre should know why there’s a crown on her head.” Nesta had continued.   Something about her- gods, that face- the sharp tilt of chin, that she still hadn’t bothered to rise, the unremitting aggression in her tone that left no quarter- boiled the blood in his veins like this was a spar he’d have to fight to win. The battles he actually remembered.   She looked even better without the gems and pageantry. A sword unsheathed, ready for devastation.   “You don’t,” Cassian began, locking on eyes whose color he’d lost in the dark. “Get between a male and his mate. You won’t like the consequences.”   That had Nesta shooting to her feet. Blue- her eyes were blue. Cassian could see it in the will-o-whisp fire now; lighter than Feyre’s, dawn rather than high noon. He’d been closer to her this morning. Now, alone, it was a world of difference to breathe the same air.   “I wouldn’t want to be between Rhysand and anything,” Nesta spat, face up to meet him, “But Feyre deserves to know.” How was she so small? Petite- Cassian couldn’t call her delicate with that gaze that wanted to set him on fire. But she barely, hardly, came up to his shoulder, and that didn’t seemed to concern Nesta one bit. She’d stepped right into his space. Aggression- not violence- dominance. Nesta Archeron fought like a faery.   No, a gods damned Illyrian.   “They’re not”- Cassian tried to say, but Nesta cut him off.   “Am I wrong?”   Horribly, suddenly, all Cassian wanted to do was laugh. She wasn’t wrong at all, and he’d bet his entire fortune she rarely ever was. He swallowed it down to a smile, but Nesta saw enough for her eyebrows to spike high once more.   “Mates are rare beyond measure,” Cassian said, before she could interrupt. “But it’s not instant. Permanent, but the bond takes time to snap into place.”   Time to find, if you were Illyrian, equal parts damned and lucky as he was.   Her quick, clever eyes were following the gesture of his hands- Cassian was grateful for half a heartbeat before he paused, and that beautiful gaze was back on his face.   “If- if- Rhys is feeling the bond, but it hasn’t snapped into place for Feyre, then he’s probably trying to give her time.” Nothing about Nesta’s face changed, but the tilt of her head leveled. “Mate bonds aren’t- they’re resolute, completely.” Cassian didn’t have the words- or the desire to tell Nesta- that he thought Rhys was being an idiot. That Feyre needed all the information to choose. But he could also understand his oldest friends fear. Rhysand would take the rejection, no matter what, no matter what it did to him. He had only feeling, not the song on the wind to lead him. “And this is really none of our business."   And Nesta laughed. “When she finds out in the middle of a war zone and tries to throttle him, it’ll be our business.”   Again, Cassian agreed with her. He’d didn’t think it would be a real rejection- anyone with eyes could see how in love they were falling. Gods, he’d had to live with it, both of them set off like sparks every time the other entered a room.   Feyre was going to be furious at being kept in the dark.   But he couldn’t admit that. “Is violence how all human women show their affection?” Cassian found himself drawling. He’d leaned down into her space again without realizing it. The fast beat of her heart- ash still bound in her hair- the light of her eyes- Cassian could take an awful lot of violence.   She smelled like a storm. “Or is Vanserra just that lucky?”   Not just a storm- lightening, as her eyes flashed. Cassian wanted to take back the words immediately, but some stupid impulse kept him frozen. He could feel his pulse in his fingertips, in his wings.   For all that Cassian was drowning in the sweep of rage like so much heavenly fire that had driven him from skies time and and time again, Nesta smiled. “Wouldn’t you like to know, General?”   She turned without another word and swept away, will-o-whisps following, to leave Cassian in the dark that rang with her voice.   His hands were shaking. What was the gods damned point?

@breath-of-sindragosa

@flxwer-petals

@ladyvanserra

@illyrianinterrasen

@missanniewhimsy

@tntwme

@ourbooksuniverse

@pitterpatterpot

@thestarwhowishes

@abillionlittlepieces

@my-fan-side

@the-eightofswords

@wonderland–memories

@ourbooksuniverse

@cohen-theeleven

@donnarosemary

[lisannach]

self - para.

summary: life-long reflection and what happens beyond her stint at gallagher.

notes: i may have cried writing this but im also a mess period. thanks for hanging w this woman for the last few months, its been a blast! also, this is my love letter to the og series, specifically to liz’s valedictorian speech that still makes me cry to this day. 

what is a gallagher girl? seven-year-old lisanna knew of the world of espionage the day her mother, sylvia "swan song" harlin had snapped the neck of someone that had entered the manor and had pulled a gun on her younger sister lisbeth earlier that night. when the harlin children were gathered in the family room, the four of them had their futures planned out right then and there. and while their mother would rather shut down the whines of 'well i wanna be a rockstar!' , 'i hate seeing blood!', 'i'm scared!' , their father welcomed them and assured them they would adjust soon enough. "so, it's like the military?" a then thirteen-year-old wilbur had asked their parents. lisanna saw her mother's lips curl, "not quite." and it was the first time she’s heard the names gallagher and blackthorne. and amidst the escalating pressures of being sylvia’s daughter, she thinks: i’d love to be a gallagher girl. "it's exciting here, isn't it, lis?" lisbeth had asked her, one afternoon during her first year, lisanna during her third and had gotten her own share of stress from her threat elimination and weapons classes. she remembers nodding, a smile from ear to ear. it was the mark of her unusual stride in life; the smile that was always present when she's not knees deep into serious espionage business. "i bet it's even more exciting once we're out there, betty. can you feel it?" and lisbeth laughed, "i'm just a first year, lis! but i know you can't wait to get out there!" after teaching lisbeth how to properly put a kiss on one of gilly's statues, she leads her to the towers and they gossip about life, about the other girls, and about their brothers. one already on the field and one in blackthorne. as a gallagher girl, lisanna savors the moments of normalcy - the homework, the bonds, and the moments she didn't have to fill with her incessant talking. the goal was to graduate with great grades and a job, therefore making her mother proud. to be a gallagher girl was the highest mark of pride and she'd reap every benefit she could and make sure lisbeth does too.

"gallagher girl?" ellison had asked, tone somewhat dripped with judgment. to him, he had known that prissy little academy to be of renown; brilliant girls they said. but ellison would be lying if he didn't think of lisanna then as just one of those girls. spoiled out of their brains with dresses that fit them well, shoes that isn't as sharp to kill, and trust funds as deep as the atlantic ocean. "does that scare you, caspar?" she had asked, one brow raised. behind her saccharine smiles lay a rabble-rouser, one who thrived in chaos and danger and -- well, was it really a surprise that she had adapted to the life as her father had predicted? ellison grinned. back then, he had graduated from university of virginia and was about to go into quantico. to him, lisanna was just another college grad that frequented the royal diner in d.c. a pretty face, sharp wit. surely, it would be a one-night thing? years later and she finds herself out of the field, tending to an infant of her own. while gallagher never did have a childcare curriculum, she figures she could get through it. gallagher girls were made for anything, after all. even babies. her mother a year back had spoken to her, saying that because of one little thing ( at least to lisanna ), that she didn't have a birthright to much of anything. goodbye trust fund, goodbye prestige that came with being a harlin .. but lisanna didn't care. fuck being a harlin, she remembers whispering to herself more than a few times in her life. ellison's hard work plus her own let them afford this nice apartment in d.c. while it was no manor, lisanna knew it was never about how big your house was. it was full of love and energy and with elisa in her arms, what more could she ask for? turns out, when the child has grown up .. she asks for a lot more than what she thought she would. and she almost regrets it. what makes a gallagher girl? elisa was twelve. lisanna was long gone from her role of wife and mother and she was back on the field working mission after mission. she craved the thrill and the danger and the chaos and -- ellison could never say no to her leaving. even if it hurt. because he knew her. he fell for her and he knew why. he expected her departure, but he never expected what would happen next. the way their daughter acted out in an attempt to see if she could lure her mother back somehow. if, maybe, she made enough of a wave, lisanna would reconsider working in the field and come back. but at twelve, elisa wasn't a gallagher girl yet. lisanna would think about it, but it wasn't a life she wanted to push onto them. but years pass, elisa's behavior worsened and ellison was at the end of his rope. so lisanna opens the door into her world, hoping it would be the one to satiate the chaotic energy her own spawn had given off. and it did. elisa was twenty-one, and lisanna was slowly sinking into a specific state of boredom. who knew after twelve years of being in this job, living a life that your own personality could actually take, that you would ..get bored? the thrill wasn't fully gone, no, but it was getting there. so she sends her daughter a message to meet up in d.c. for one day during the summer. at the last minute, she gets called in and, like before, she chooses that world and leaves her daughter hanging. she's forgotten what it was like to be a daughter and to realize that having a matriarchal presence might mean more than she could ever think. because after twelve years, you stop being a gallagher girl and become the very thing they want ( or don't want ) to be. this pleases her mother, who had wanted nothing more but for her children to thrive in the field and excel. killing machines who will help shape society as we know it. she never did ask any of her children if that's what they wanted nor would she have cared. if she did, then she'd know just how much lisanna struggled inside. not just because she doesn't quite know where she stood, but because for all intents and purposes, she should know. she has the skills, the mentality and the endurance. so what's wrong? when lisanna is invited back to gallagher to teach, she almost lunges at the opportunity. it wasn't the shady alleys of moscow or the sweltering heat of monaco as she waited for the target to appear, but that was what she liked about it. a new thrill, a new kind of fun. "fun" to be used loosely, of course. there was nothing fun about the brotherhood and dead bodies and betrayals and a fire. but it occupies her. but she was here for one precious thing: a second chance to see and reunite with her daughter. and while it didn't work out the first time, elisa comes around. and she almost couldn't believe it. what's a gallagher girl made of? there was a distinct difference in how she handles family in every part of her life. even more if she took specific people into consideration. with her parents, she kept them at arm's length and made sure to smile widely for pictures and to shoot straight at targets. with her siblings, she was the shoulder to cry on and tears rolling down their faces as she cracks her tenth joke in that hour alone. with coworkers on the field, she was a no-nonsense weapons master who will kill if the mission said to kill and would deliver frappuccinos at the mission cool-down party. with ellison, she was lisanna harlin. the girl-next-door, triple pepperjack cheese and more tomatoes than what ellison is comfortable with in a tuna sub. the one who supported his every big decision and never complained about the quaint little apartment they called home because it meant much more than a house to her - it was her family. all on her own. and she had so much love to give than she's ever have given before. with elisa, she was blanket forts near the biggest window on starry nights, coming to her defense when sally easton says she pulled her hair when she didn't, and the shadow of a woman she's thought about for the twelve years she was absent. gallagher's curriculum didn't teach her any of that. and while she considered some of the girls and the faculty to be family during her stay then, they surely didn't teach her about separating from your husband and abandoning your daughter. does she still consider herself a gallagher girl? the morning after the end-of-the-year party, she watches the graduates walk across the stage, elisa's sleepy figure next to her, and she beams with a strange kind of pride. gallagher ( and blackthorne ) could claim them for as long as they want. living trophies of the kind of success you could get if you get in and survive all four years. but lisanna knew that it could only take you so far out there. she drives to d.c., elisa in tow, and after they park the car, they pass by the familiar pot of plant that has now long died and the door opens and she sees the love of her life. a scruffy beard and undereyes darkened to years of shouldering the chaos happening everywhere twenty-four seven. and she feels like she's back in that week after graduating gallagher academy and she's getting her usual order at the royal diner and this fresh bastard comes in and thinks he could smooth talk his way into her pants for a night. it's a lie. he stays for a few days and years pass and she's lived a few more lives than she ever thought she'd ever live and she's here. "well, if it isn't my favorite gallagher girls." ellison remarks, opening the door further to let the two in. elisa almost runs to the living room to drop off the bags and use the restroom because her mom did not stop at all during the drive ( but she also wanted to have their moment because it has been twelve years ). wordlessly, lisanna hugs ellison, her head against his chest and she hears their entire life together. and she realizes that while there was absolutely nothing wrong about being a gallagher girl or a spy, she loves being lisanna. and she never had to choose. all this time, she never had to choose. she could just have it. right here. / e p i l o g u e . she hears people talk. lisanna wasn't retired yet, after all. and through ellison's plans to get promoted once again and elisa's strange rants and ravings, she hears people talk. of many things. about a lot of people. and when she hears of jack's ( @jvckstone​ ) death, she exhales and takes a day off from her family to attend the funeral, somewhere in the back. to say that she was grateful for the tiny bit of hope he gave back in their room after elisa had rejected her was an understatement. after the funeral, her mother calls her for the millionth time and she presses ignore for the millionth time. the youth called it self care and if she ever had to face good old "swan song" ever again, she'll be sure to give bobby ( @bbygrvr​ ) a call. he's more than perfect to bring just to converse with her mother as she sips rum from their teacup and smiles every so often when her mother looks over. and after returning home to d.c., she lays back in the chair as her phone rings to her daughter who raves about everything under the sun to her. ellison arrives with two cups of tea, one for each of them. "so, like, is that so cliche? mom, he is so hot, i can't get over it. but would you hate me if i slept with a musician?" elisa asked over the phone. "i would." ellison called over from the love seat and lisanna lets out a laugh. "you know i won't."

and she sees the rest of her life beginning. just like that.

[diveronarpg]

Congratulations, LISSA! You’ve been accepted for the role of BENVOLIO. Admin Minnie: Our Bellamy has come home at last, and I am so excited to welcome you as well, Lissa! Your application was, in a word, gorgeous. I could viscerally feel Bellamy’s heartache and his struggles with every line, and you mapped out a beautiful peacemaker who has yet to find peace within himself. While I read and reread your prose several times, it was your passion for Bellamy that really made this an easy decision. The level of thoughtfulness and care, Lissa, was next level, truly. It became very clear to us how deeply you loved Bellamy, and I’m so excited to see Bellamy blossom on our dash. Please read over the checklist and send in your blog within 24 hours.

WELCOME TO THE MOB.

OUT OF CHARACTER .

ALIAS:

Lissa.

AGE:

21.

PREFERRED PRONOUNS:

She/her.

ACTIVITY LEVEL:

My time is limited because of university and my part-time internship. However, I’d say I’m able to pop up twice/thrice a week, more or less!

TIMEZONE:

GMT -3.

HOW DID YOU FIND THE RP?

I found this RP some time ago, so I can’t say for sure. Probably through the tags, though!

OTHER RP ACCOUNTS:

https://dantesinfcrno.tumblr.com/.

IN CHARACTER .

CHARACTER:

Benvolio as Bellamy Santo Domingo.

WHAT DREW YOU TO THIS CHARACTER?

“ WAR-BEGOTTEN. ” ╱  “ HIS KICKING A MEANS OF DEFENSE FROM CRUELTY. ”

NATURE VERSUS NURTURE, an undying question with no solutions, a concept with a spectrum that falters and crumbles in the hands of Bellamy: a boy, born amidst carnage, picking flowers in haunted fields and gifting beauty upon the world like a stolen flame only pertinent to deities. He wears no crown of laurels upon waves of untamed hair, but every spring spats thorns before his feet. Bellamy cradles them, plunges them against his veins, his chest, his neck, puncturing his flesh with words whispered by fated winds. Kindness is dangerous as a sharp blade, if wielded with enough precision. He refuses, time and time again, this visceral call from the woods, from the ivory castles that know of corpses and festering. He refuses, vices and sins unbecoming of him –– but they are already there, lurking in the shadows since air reached his lungs for the first time. Bellamy pretends not to see it, but those who stare deep into his eyes can recognize the Stygian darkness that swims underneath honeyed warmth. A flame is still scorching, no matter how domesticated.

IN AN INTERLUDE, he swears there will never be carmine stains in his fingers. He lays awake at night, however –– the blood his heart pumps might as well not be his own; might have been harvested off the bodies buried beneath Verona’s sacrilegious grounds. Bellamy wonders, a heavy conscience his first determining trait, if he is not punishment from the heavens to the Santo Domingo lineage, if he is not a life sentence determined by God to appease the remnant lambs saved from slaughter. As he moves through the Montagues, through his own people, Bellamy looks in a mirror, and sees nothing. He has always been a ghost, meant to carry what no one desires to hold close.

BELLAMY IS NOT A SLAUGHTERHOUSE of the likes of his father: he is a morgue, eerie place of eternal unrest. Battlecries do not linger in his tongue as prayers do; his knuckles suffer a lesser offense than his guts once a punch is thrown. Violence is a betrayal to the murdered saints that crawl through his spine, and once again–– Bellamy refuses to bow before his birthright. In a world of dog eats dog, he opts to remain alive until his last breath is stolen from his lungs, his canines and claws kept safely hidden underneath trained porcelain touch. To be made out of steel, and not crush all tender things that take root in his soul –– is it foolish, or is it admirable? The looks of pity are the only answer he has ever gotten.

“ POETIC AND PHILOSOPHICAL SOUL OF THE ANCIENT GREEKS. ”  ╱  “ CURSED WITH GENTLENESS. ”

KINDNESS & WEAKNESS, he learns, are not the same. Mercy is a weapon like any other, and Bellamy learns how to use it. They do not see it ; and dismissal becomes a habit for this ruinous shrine Bellamy dares call his body. He supposes, amidst war, it’s a privilege to have surprise by one’s side: no one expects the quietest of children to strike with such ravenous fury, hellfire blazing against raw flesh. Bellamy doesn’t speak of grief, of this century-old wound that has found a nest inside of his lungs, of this monstrous butterfly learning how to morph itself into anger.

I YEARN FOR PEACE. I yield. I must provide diplomacy for a world eager to end in flames. He repeats such verses as if they’re the poetry he is so fond of –– because the truth is, gentle elegance is a decision he has taken much before he could stand on his own legs. He is an absurdity, an oxymoron, an anomaly. Is that such a terrible thing to be? Is he in the wrong, to still mourn over those who wished to see him dead? He prays, quietly into the dead of night. He prays, and the world listens, but only for a moment. This is all the hope he has, and is it not an exit wound worse than any other? Relentless wishing upon a star, begging for a deity to descend from paradise and provide salvation–– in the end of this path, Bellamy forces himself to become Pariah & Messiah (if not him, who else would find reason amongst blasphemous madness? who else would shamefully bow their head before the cross, and beg for their sins to be forgiven?).

THE CURSE THEY SPEAK OF IS A BLESSING IN DISGUISE, for Montagues & Capulets alike are far too consumed by the fiery flames of murderous passion to understand the gravity of each battle they initiate. Bellamy has run out of ways to explain the weight of the blood that paints cobbled streets red ; decides to act as a fortress for his people (this entire city, plagued by a tale of two selfish families). PEACEMAKER, they say, as if it’s an insult –– as if his loyalty doesn’t lie deeper than any other soldier’s ; as if he has not sworn down his life for the chance Verona might see the sun rise in shades of joyous amber ; as if he hasn’t halted his existence to serve & protect.

BELLAMY DOES NOT offer words enlaced with poison to those who subdue him –– his throat aches with screams locked in for too long, but he dares not speak unless he delivers alluring arguments that might lead all out of danger. This is what he has never chosen for himself, and yet–– he bears it. For his father, for his brothers, for Roman and Marcelo, for the warriors that spit on the paths he follows with religious diligence, for the mothers in this nightmarish town that provides no comfort to their sons but death.

THE MIND HE HAS CULTIVATED, albeit mocked by many, is a powerful companion to the tender heart he has crafted with mangled hands. Innocence is vulgar in a world like this –– but Bellamy’s good will is not one borne out of naiveté. This is what both armies do not understand: Bellamy is not moved by his kindness, nor is he propelled by volatile emotions –– what blooms underneath the tender facade is a deliberate choice he will take, time and time again, funded on principles that have raised Athens from the ground up. This is what he will not abdicate. This is what no one sees, for he is more ghost than man, more mind than matter: amidst wicked and tempestuous men, Bellamy raises himself above raging waves, an unmovable marble tower.

HE, OF COURSE, STILL PICKS UP A DAGGER  ╱  a gun, infiltrating loveless troops in order to conquer peace. There is no other way, he has realized. Perhaps crumbling is necessary for rebirth ; perhaps some sins can only be washed out with blood. As Francis Butler once said, “the nation that will insist on drawing a broad line of demarcation between the fighting man and the thinking man is liable to find its fighting done by fools and its thinking done by cowards,” so Bellamy goes to the front lines ; not with the blind desire to create chaos  ╱  but to make change. If the weight of the pen is not enough, he will find a way to be heard.

“ SINS OF OMISSION. ”  ╱  “ PUT OUT THE FIRES. ”  ╱

“ SELF-LOATHING. ”

BELLAMY DOES NOT REST, his mind unable to encounter a moment of quiet. When will this end? He could only ever sleep once he turned his back to Verona, bloodshed no longer marring his door –– but still, he woke up in a cold sweat at least once a week, and it felt like betrayal, deep down in his bones. ATLAS could never hide his true nature, for the Earth would still weigh heavily down his shoulders. He wasn’t missed, of course, too much of an oddity, with idealist visions that somehow disturbed the choleric landscape they lived in. And yet, as he traveled around the globe, as he became renowned for his grasp of law & justice, insatisfaction was in the back of his mind. What if–– they died? What if–– Marcelo disappeared one night? What if–– Roman could not handle life on his own? What if––. No amount of change was capable of drowning this out, when the city that has birthed him was still ablaze. You have become selfish. He would stare at open windows, and the desire to book a flight would bellow inside of his every vein. Embrace your fate, for cowardice is unbecoming of a Santo Domingo.

BITTER ONCE HE LEAVES, bitter once he returns. Is there anything he could do, to prevent this miserable tale of a prodigal child coming back to a nest they’d long forsaken? No matter how many books he has memorized, there are no words that can explain this feeling –– no one can comprehend him, for his scars are invisible to most. He stands, tall and proud, but darkness comes for him, and he howls to the moon, for it is the only being who understands his pain. You, too, fester in ruby shades against your will. You, too, become eclipsed by a purpose much larger you could ever hope to be. You, too, are still following the footsteps of the sun. Bellamy can no longer abstain from this war, so he wears adamantine armour (a brilliant mind, a beautiful smile, poignant words). Some days, it’s easier to pretend he is no longer holy. Some days, he drowns the taste of copper from his tongue with wine. Some days, he cries –– for those he killed ; for his own spirit, mutilated. Most days, he becomes a sacred image made out of steel: I am no angel, but I can try, I must try.

“ BELLAMY MAY BE BORN INTO WAR, MAY HAVE BEEN BRED INTO IT, BUT THAT DOES NOT MEAN HE WILL HAVE TO SUBMIT TO IT — NO, HE WILL FIGHT. ”

( ADDENDUM . )   In the novel, Benvolio is a static character, lacking much depth beyond his diplomatic role, as he is often the only voice of reason amidst a vicious crowd led by a herd mentality. I aim to translate his wish for peace as his primary motivation, but root it deeper –– the system in which Bellamy was raised in should have, in theory, destroyed all tenderness his nature would have provided him with. So where does it come from? How has he protected this piece of himself, even when surrounded by death? Bellamy is a strong character –– not only because of his physique, but because his mind is a fortress. I believe his philosophical spirit has always pushed Bellamy to see life beyond the walls of his own home. I believe the love he felt specifically for Roman and Marcelo urged him to value humanity much more than any other soldier of his kind. His gentleness has always been a choice: not always a conscious one, but a choice nonetheless. But no one has only one principle to follow, and morality is a grey and temptatious thing. Bellamy might not be easily led to a fight, but he has always been a protector –– his self-loathing and the ingrained idea that his life is worth less combine to form this selfless persona, sometimes to the point of toxicity, to the detriment of his own being, willing to do it all for whomever is in need.

What is most intriguing to me, concerning Bellamy, is that he is a paradox in more ways than one, which creates a multitude of paths he could take. He strives for peace, but is still fighting a war. In his core, he believes this conflict is useless and only acts as a catalyst for more pain, but since he desires to protect his loved ones (which includes the mob he was raised in, his family and friends, but might as well include a stranger in trouble)  & honor his name, he came back to Verona as soon as he was summoned. He has been altruistic for so long it has worn him out, and now selfishness claws at his bones (he has left once, and perhaps he still thinks too often about doing so again –– Bellamy dreams of forgetting this city, wakes up and tries to repent for wishing to find an identity that goes beyond his occupation inside the Montague ranks). The kindness he chooses to exude is in high contrast to the anger that boils on his blood like a second skin –– he is tired of this game, he is exhausted of worrying and burying everyone that has once made him smile (and what does it take, for a guardian angel to turn his back on his people? What does it take, for a god to abandon his creations to bloodshed, and finally allow forgetfulness to consume his brain? I feel like Bellamy is constantly on the edge of an abyss, staring into the void, the point of no return daring him to step further). It almost feels like his body and his mind are disjointed, and his own wishes have been suppressed in order for him to fill in the shoes his family needs him to.

I don’t think Bellamy is moved by passion and intense emotions, even though his biggest motivators are linked to the people he cares about –– in fact, he cares so much about them, that he has always been willing to die by the sword if it meant his father and mother would be safe, if it meant Roman and Marcelo could enjoy a longer and happier life. He is not a cowardly man, never had the chance to be, even when the world became his home –– I envision that Bellamy has seen and lived many tragedies, probably had his hands on a few of them. It will weigh down on his back, on his shoulders. This type of character will always carry an omen on their bodies, no matter how hard they try to wash it out. I think this is a cycle that shackles Bellamy down and he still isn’t sure if he can break free from it (or even if he wants to do so, for being selfish has brought him unbearable guilt during his travels  &  Bellamy can’t forgive himself for straying away from the path delineated for him since birth): he was raised to be lethal, and he remains in this dark setting where flowers can not bloom, trying to force the petals to come out anyway, trying to grasp the sun and gift it to Verona, and the inevitable failing of this turns him disgusted by his own reflection, desperate to prove himself and justify his existence by doing his duty for the name Montague.

WHAT IS A FUTURE PLOT IDEA YOU HAVE IN MIND FOR THE CHARACTER?

GODHOOD. Verona is a city of sinners, and Bellamy’s hands are not devoid of their own –– however, in them, there is a gentleness carved out not from the absence of violence, but despite it ; a temple raised in the name of Agape, as Bellamy becomes a god, ready to purge & forgive, to kiss the feet of those who have walked upon a dirtied path & purify them. Odin Bello is not the first to use the Santo Domingo’s ears as a confessionary, and he certainly won’t be the last –– there is something in his eyes that prompts people to open up ; to make offerings and sacrifices in exchange of honeyed prayers, for it’s the holiest thing Verona has to offer (a boy still, whose halo is faded  ╱  whose body’s a litany of mysteries and nocturnal waves). This is the closest to peace they can get, half-angel at their doorstep, wings bled dry, gunpowder on his hands –– it is sublime as it is terrifying, and some can not bear it (Rafaella, for one, seems to be terrorized by his very image, insistent on driving him away as he pleads for her to see the light: where in God’s name is the child I’ve met, don’t you wish to forge a kinder ending to us all?). In his search for peace, Bellamy has long forgotten his own humanity –– he’s always had to bury it in order to fulfill his role as a son, as a warrior, as a scholar, as a peacemaker (there is no space for him to simply be, and he often wanders around Verona, searching for an exit  ╱  the world has not given him an answer, neither has the mob). What is he, but a weapon? What is he, but a forsaken deity? Bellamy has crossed oceans and continents, and still–– he isn’t seen. Is there one to embrace him fully, vices & virtues, blood moon & sunshine? Is there a way for Santo Domingo to dissolve himself of his own existence, but without guilt? The thoughts often haunt him –– but alas, he has to rise in the morning, for his own life is not the heaviest weight he has to carry.

 ( ADDENDUM . )    Unlike the two other plots I will lay out in the next sections, this one is directed inwards. Bellamy, in my perception, has always seen himself in relation to others –– how he can help, what can he do for them, how his existence can be a tool for others to improve their own lives. He has always filled in a role: his motivations are genuine, but how does one push forward, when dedicating all of their energies to everyone but themselves? I think Bellamy had his time away from home  &  from the traditional boxes he had to fit himself into, but still–– it was marred by so much guilt and the constant stress of receiving dire news, because Bellamy had always been aware Verona would not change its ways, especially not with him gone. So many of his frustrations are still boiling underneath his skin –– he is out of place, he hasn’t found himself, he doesn’t feel like he can fully pursue his dreams &  wants because it would mean letting someone else down. He is still the soldier that put all of his desires on hold in the name of honouring his ancestors, and while he takes pride on this, on his family–– it is oh, so unfulfilling, to aim for peace and come back to war, to raise your voice and not be heard.

I’m very invested in my character’s psyches, and I fully believe every character has many layers that deserve to be explored with utmost dedication –– no one is merely one thing, and it would be quite sad to portray any fictional being as such. I want to explore Bellamy’s vision of the family he so loves, and for which he has given up so much for, how adoration balances itself out with the bitterness he tries to drown so desperately, how he dedicates himself to his job  &  position even though he feels disgusted by posing as a bodyguard, when the loyalty of those he protects is bought with money and not with the respect he preaches all living creatures should be deserving of. I want to see beyond his quest for peace –– will he ever let his guard down? Will there ever be someone he trusts, beyond the feud that extends over Verona? Will Bellamy find understanding, someone he can speak to, someone that crawls underneath his skin and finds he is so much more than a peacekeeper? Most importantly, will Bellamy discover himself? Will he find his strength to power through this reality he never wished to come back to? Where will he find it? How will it transform him? Is love capable of holding him up, moving him forward? Will the hunger for more break his heart, will the ugliness of bloodshed turn him sour at last?

BROTHERS IN ARMS. Bellamy is a man of the past –– his core survives on sweet memories of a flourishing spring that will never come back. Laughter, juvenile & booming, was something he could only share with Roman and Marcelo, the two friends he feels actually belong to him, with him. Bellamy has never dared to utter his adoration aloud to either of them, has never admitted he’d rather die than see them perish. The love he has given them was perhaps lukewarm, when compared to these two feisty demons with hellfire for hearts: Bellamy’s affection was a tender kiss to the temples, soft massages to erase their aches, a moment of quiet as he wiped the sweat from their foreheads. He never promised to remain by their side, but in his chest–– he knows his place is right beside them, perhaps below them, but still close. And Bellamy has thrown that to the wind once he up and left, consumed with a selfish desire to live as a person, and not a warrior born out of a patronym. He loves them, will always love them most of all –– but maybe that is not enough. Maybe there is an abyss in between them, an ocean separating their souls. Lucky for them, Bellamy is willing to cross it with undeterred determination –– anything to safely tuck them away inside his rib cage ; his drive to protect grows stronger when near them (is there anything he wouldn’t do for these remembrances of boyhood? He is scared of discovering there isn’t, so he blinds himself once Marcelo comes by, once Roman’s cologne reaches his nose). The tally of his sins would grow & grow, and the only ones that would make such fate bearable would be his brothers.

 ( ADDENDUM . )    Bellamy’s friendship with Roman and Marcelo is one of the things I’m extra eager to explore! First and foremost, because I am sure, beyond Bellamy’s immediate family, these two are his most important people  &  there is very little he wouldn’t do for them. And, boy, would I like to discover what the limits of this friendship are! Is there a line Bellamy, the loyal Patroclus to these two Achilles, would not cross, even when concerning the people closest to his heart? Would he ever forsake them in the name of his morals? Alternatively, what absurdities would he commit on their names? What lengths would he cover, to see both of them living a long and happy life?

In the book, Benvolio is in a lower position than Mercutio and Romeo –– which is mirrored here, so it opens up a myriad of possibilities. Italian mafias are known for a strict code of conduct  &  sense of hierarchy, and they also work as famiglias, obviously. So I picture that, although they were raised together, there was always a thin line separating them: Bellamy always considered himself less than Roman and Marcelo, and was satisfied to occupy this lower rank  & serve them in any way he could. It interests me in the sense that, even though they’re his closest friends &  probably the few people that have always accepted him (because this is another one of his struggles –– both his “softer” personality and his gender identity are probably strange concepts to his traditional family in the same manner, and acceptance is not something Bellamy has ever had plentiful of), I still think Bellamy tries and holds himself back with them –– there are parts of him that are occulted, and purposefully so, from the ones he loves most. So I’m thinking, once he left, it was probably a huge shock for Roman and Marcelo –– no one saw it coming. Of course Bellamy did his best to remain in contact, but still, dissidence is dissidence. So how do they receive him back? Have Roman and Marcelo ever actually seen Bellamy with the same eyes he sees himself with? How much of an abyss has originated in between them, after these four years of distance?

BLOODHOUND. Loyalty and obedience, when combined, are quite a dangerous threat to one’s honesty and commitment to good deeds, especially when an involvement with the mob is concerned. His continuous absence has not gone unnoticed –– and many have frowned upon his return. Bellamy, a soldier? he has heard them laugh. Bellamy, a fighter? he has felt their scorn from the weight of the stares that follow him as he steps into a room. It brings him sick nostalgia ; one that leaves his stomach turned upside down. The children that used to sneer at him for taking care of stray dogs & cats are now his companions in this senseless war (and yet they all seem too eager to see Bellamy fail –– they doubt him, untrust creating a wall between them. More than isolating, it’s demeaning to a man who is willing to give out his life to honor his father’s  ╱  a man who has slashed all of his hopes & dreams to fulfill a path that does not belong to him). The bellicose bickering within the ranks, however, does not disturb him –– Benvolio does not get the credit he is deserving of, for hiding so well underneath porcelain features. These soldiers have nothing on the silent storm that builds inside of Benvolio –– his heritage has always been written out in shallow graves, tainted by fate ; by the numerous gods of Death. Now, he is forced to reach for it, to hold it (it scorches his fingers, it gifts him endless agony, but he lets it have its rightful place next to his beating heart). How far into umbriferous rivers can he sink?  ╱  What is the limit of this painful allegiance to his own name? Bellamy does not sleep, for all his nights are wasted away in wondering –– what will I become? And that is perhaps the only murder he is not ready to commit.

 ( ADDENDUM . )    Concerning this point, I’d like to explore a few paths. Firstly, how was Bellamy received back by the Montagues? He was never a figure on the receiving end of much respect, since his quest for peace turned him into a black sheep of sorts, but surely leaving amidst a war was not an act appreciated by many. Are there suspicions of him? Is he a victim of something similar to military abuse from his peers? Trust was certainly lost, and Bellamy is willing to take the steps to conquer it back –– not for himself, but in the name of his poor father, who deserves as much. The point is, how far is he willing to go for this acceptance? Better yet, in order to show the loyalty that he has always cherished for his parents &  for the Montagues, is Bellamy willing to go against his principles? Of course, he is wearing their armour while vouching for peace, but this is not a plan that can be considered definitive.

He is merely a soldier, but would he go against the hierarchy he was raised to respect, if he felt the orders given were unjust? Spoiler alert: I think he certainly would, which would only make the trust he is desperate to regain even more of a distant perspective. I think Bellamy would struggle to try to maintain the scales even, to find a balance between obedience and his principles –– but that won’t work forever, and, at some point, he will have to decide what reigns (and that is one more inner turmoil for him to face). This is something that will always be at the core of his development, in my opinion, and it can fluctuate.

For example, Bellamy is a scholar. I see him as the observing type, listening before he speaks. He tries to understand people to the best of his ability. So, of course, he will interact with Capulets and, instead of seeing them as the enemy, he will more likely take a humanist approach. These are individuals, with their own families  &  struggles, not beasts to be slaughtered –– this is where Odin Bello comes in, for I think he’ll be a very important piece for Bellamy’s development in this sense, because the Santo Domingo willfully trusts people, no matter their background (everyone should have a second chance, should they not?). He is not ignorant or unaware of how this can end, but he is certainly a character with the most disposition to understand someone coming from a different place than he is.

If the time comes where he has to end one of them (and I’d like him to –– whether because it’s a request from Roman or Marcelo themselves, or a decision Bellamy comes to in order to defend them, because his protective nature is not just for show, and it definitely has darker roots), it would be a large blow to his constitution as a person. I don’t think Bellamy would ever forgive himself, and guilt would consume him –– it’s a great source to explore the underlying shadows he has, his self-hatred, and where would those things lead him (would he leave? Would he consider himself, at one point, far too gone &  take a leap into war? Would he take his own life? Would he ever betray the Montagues to save another?).

I think this is intriguing as well, because Bellamy’s motivations are directed outwardly –– to achieve peace for the city, to save his loved ones from pain, so on and so forth. So his relationships to others will be determinants to the paths he’d take –– because it’s an instinct of his, to think of others before himself. But, then again, can he be convinced to embrace his selfishness? Can he turn his back to them all, if enough buttons are pushed? Everyone has a breaking point, and Bellamy seems to outright neglect his needs and limitations in order to step in for others –– which means a breakdown is in order, but also that it will take plenty of build-up!

ARE YOU COMFORTABLE WITH KILLING OFF YOUR CHARACTER?

Yes, for sure, if it serves a purpose!

IN DEPTH .

IN-CHARACTER INTERVIEW:

› WHAT IS YOUR FAVORITE PLACE IN VERONA? ‹

CARAMEL-HUED IRISES meet the ethereal roof of the Cathedral of Verona –– it used to be his favorite place, even when the Capulets reigned over it, for it raised Bellamy closer to a God he could hear  ╱  could understand better than he could a war that tinged his family with nonsensical losses and burials, hollowed out spaces carved on their roots as the sunset started resembling more a battleground than a kingdom of beauty. Bellamy recalls the singing that used to echo inside luxurious walls, filling his heart with choirs of warm voices (the boy swore he could feel an angel’s grasp touching his hands, inviting him to reach higher  ╱  he never did, terrified of the consequences of holiness, but perhaps he was gifted with a martyr’s heart, and was that not much heavier?). Now, however, the Montague mark has erased memories of saints & softness alike –– there is always a dulled tud to be heard ; a silent ache overflowing from his bones. Bellamy taps his pen against the question he posed against himself: it was a heavy blow too soon since his return, but the Santo Domingo only knows kindness to wounds that do not belong to him. There is a heavy sigh as mulls over his options –– even his home is a lie, one that bears a dismantled innocence he’d rather avoid. In the corner of his notebook, Bellamy writes down, cursive letters delineated with delicacy: “ the library. ” It is no different than the church, for the countless shelves boast about the Montague heritage –– in Verona, there is nowhere to turn, for every piece of the city tells a story not in ink, but with blood (he tries to tell himself he does not hate this, that a part of him does not fester once he walks outside, breathes in the air soaked with death). When Bellamy sinks into immeasurable knowledge, however, it’s easier to forget the reality that awaits him outside the Montague’s fortress –– even as a man, as a soldier, Bellamy lingers in empty rooms, a stack of books by his side as the hours come and go (he does not distract himself with the noises outside, with the possibilities with sharp claws, as poets and philosophers and theorists feed him sublime words). What else could he ask for, but this make-shift serenity?

› WHAT DOES YOUR TYPICAL DAY LOOK LIKE? ‹

IT IS PATHETIC OF HIM, to gather the unstopping questions he received upon his return & write them down to pin answers proper enough (underneath his skin, however, the truth lurks as a viper: you can only spit out honesty to yourself, face half-eclipsed, in secret  ╱  no one desires to hear you once the pleasant river that flows down your tongue stanches ; once the corpses start floating up from the depths of your soul to the shore of your lips, disfigured & dismembered, like the crude words you never let out). His handwriting seems to stare into his soul, calloused fingers trembling as his mind splits –– the facade, his candor, the middle-ground that is as unsatisfying as what Bellamy has to offer. He is twenty-four, a degree in law under his belt with a specialization on international relations –– but he is a bodyguard  ╱  a soldier (it all depends on who asks) ; and his most prized possession is no longer his mind, but the strength of his brawl. Bellamy finds it strange, even, that they trust his hands to protect –– most days are accompanied by the weighty stare of his peers, as if he is not a pacifist but instead a grenade. It is almost demeaning, for a man of the law to stand by people, but only for a price (as if any life can be monetized ; as if that is not a sin by itself). His mere stance inside the Montague ranks make him a corrupted figure, unclean –– it’s worth it, he mumbles under his breath, it’s what I was made for (his heart seems to rebel with the strength of a caged bird as he steps further into this organization).

His days are spent idly, almost –– his fists are always clenched ; bile is always clinging to his throat, acidic & nauseating. There is no beauty to uncover in Verona, no enthralling tales waiting to be discovered. –––– I spend all of my days trying to be heard, even though I am well aware soldiers are not supposed to have mouths. –––– he whispers to himself, a tender smile forming on his lips (it’s an instinct, more than a reflection of joy). One day, perhaps, his fight will be worth it –– at least, that’s what he tells himself, in order to have half an hour of rest every dawn.

› WHAT HAS BEEN YOUR BIGGEST MISTAKE THUS FAR? ‹

IT’S A QUESTION THAT HAUNTS HIM SINCE CHILDHOOD, for Bellamy often wonders what he could’ve done differently –– is there any choice he could’ve taken, that would spare him of these results? No matter the frequency with which he falls into these pits, the conclusion he comes to tends to be the same: fate would have been kinder only if he had been born under a different name, far away from the plagued streets of Italy –– but since he is a Santo Domingo, the list of his mistakes extends itself much further than the date of his genesis, going back to the first man to shed their skin in the honour of a Montague and not their own. Bellamy’s nails dig through the palms of his hands –– it throbs, but it’s the subdued ache that he is used to welcoming with open arms (he does not pity himself, for his low worth is a fact ingrained on the insides of his thighs and his teeth). –––– What mistake have I not made? –––– he wonders aloud, and his voice echoes and shatters inside this chamber of forgiveness (but even God has abandoned him, no glories to be bestowed upon Bellamy’s solitary altar). His eyes are closed once he starts scribbling, uninterrupted consciousness as he lists his regrets: tearing apart my mother’s womb ; surviving the trials humanity forced upon a frail child’s body ; laughing when I shouldn’t have ; refusing to smile when I should’ve ; abandoning the city that gifted me all I have ; returning to the place that crushed my hopes ; being too tender  ╱  being too harsh ; simply being –– not a fleshed warrior, not a kinder deity (just Bellamy, a fine friend, and nothing more).

› WHAT HAS BEEN THE MOST DIFFICULT TASK ASKED OF YOU? ‹

TO STOP VALUING LIFE, is what he writes down, without much thought. As a combatant, one must first learn how to fall (how to perish) before picking up a sword or lifting their fists. As a protector, Bellamy grew up listening that his life was no more than a shield to his king –– and perhaps, he never truly learned how to give this up, this desire to become more than these red threads of fate ordered him to be (more than carnage, this was his reason for leaving, was it not? To find the parts of Bellamy Santo Domingo that extended beyond mob ranks & fancy nomenclatures for murderers). His dilemma was a sword with multiple edges, and it ended nested inside his chest, puncturing his heart –– no one seemed to mean a thing for the war that raged on, no matter how beloved ; entire families could be wiped clean and left without a proper ending ; kind strangers could become his next target (and, oh, perhaps the smile Bellamy had given them was more ominous than an act of docility ; perhaps he has more claws and canines than he wants to admit).

› WHAT ARE YOUR THOUGHTS ON THE WAR BETWEEN THE CAPULETS AND THE MONTAGUES? ‹

I WANT IT TO END, and the words are furious, burning against paper –– his pulse seems to strike with force against his jugular (Bellamy feels every beat, and in his mind, there’s always the awareness it might be his last). –––– It has gone for far too long, it is not worth it –– it has never been. –––– he is a preacher to no one but himself in this moment, solitude providing him an outlet for the emotions he so adores to bottle up, muttering under his breath as the light inside his eyes flickers (it can’t go out, but God –– how to keep a candle ablaze when the winds blow harsher with each new day? How to maintain the warmth inside his muscles when winter consumes him whole? How, how, how?). Bellamy pushes against the current, but his legs are paralysed and frozen  ╱  phantom limbs, as he tries not to succumb to the ghostly nature that has followed his every step. Bellamy writes, and writes, and writes –– he has also ran away, he has also tried to become someone else. But now, he is determined to fight –– he isn’t sure of the how or when, but the gun already weighs in the palm of his hand. Time is ticking ; eyes bore into his back. I WANT IT TO END, AND I WILL END IT (and, oh, Lord, what is the cost of this one more choice?).

IN-CHARACTER PARA SAMPLE:

EXTRAS:

Pinterest board.

[gascon-en-exil]

You know, the more that I think about Claude and that last post the more it occurs to me that assuming he’s still not the biggest postgame threat in Crimson Flower is selling short the man’s impressive capacity for playing the long game. He’s defeated in the short term - Judith and Nader both gone, Derdriu and the Alliance lost to the Empire, himself consigned either to death or exile - but if the paralogue immediately following where he’s set up the pieces for an Almyran counterattack is any indication he’s got contingencies in place. CF is, after all, the route that’s basically Genealogy���s Gen 1 if you played as Arvis and the game ended after the Battle of Belhalla. So what would a hypothetical Gen 2 look like?

First of all, Claude absolutely is the sort of guy to have fathered an heir to carry on his legacy in the event of his untimely demise. He’s got no one on his side as loyal (and, er, alive) as Finn that we know of, but what with how he hides Nader in his own retinue until the time is right I wouldn’t put it past him to have something set up back in Almyra with the child’s mother or with someone else. Let’s say that Claude’s child uses Altena rather than Leif as a jumping off point, a girl stranded in a sort-of foreign land raised by a king (Claude’s father) but unaware of the full extent of her birthright. When she reaches the designated FE protagonist age range she sets out across the Throat with a small army and her father’s big dreams of bringing peace and unification to a combined Almyra and Fódlan.

Far on the other side of the continent, in what used to be western Faerghus, a small group of orphaned teenagers prepare for battle in an isolated village in Duscur. Dimitri was never imprisoned in Crimson Flower and spent the timeskip ruling over the Kingdom with Dedue always at his side, and based on their secret death scene you can’t tell me they weren’t married in all but name. When they’re not governing or having impassioned sex that threatens to destroy all the castle furniture they’re taking in war orphans from all over Faerghus and Duscur, because Dimitri is too kind and Dedue craves domesticity. As war with the Empire intensifies again after Byleth’s return the two of them relocate their small family to a community of Duscur survivors along with Dimitri’s still-living uncle Rufus (the reason the Blaiddyd bloodline lives on in this route, because Cornelia never incited her rebellion - and does Dimitri seem like the type of man to have a secret heir stashed away, really?), reasoning that Edelgard will ignore such a remote location that poses no military threat. Dimitri and Dedue die on the Tailtean Plains in a very gay way, Rhea burns Fhirdiad to the ground but dies herself in its defense, and in a forgotten village on the edge of the map the last hopes for Faerghus’s future learn that the Kingdom and their fathers are no more.

Inverting the geographical motion of Genealogy Gen 2, it’s these orphans that the Almyran princess comes upon and allies with as she sweeps across the crumbling chaos of northern Fódlan. When the time comes to invade the southern half of the continent they find the former expanse of the Empire has fared little better: Edelgard died years ago from the lingering effects of Crest experimentation on her body, and the nobles of Adrestia’s territories now vie for power with each other and with Edelgard’s hand-picked successor. The young new Emperor is not possessed as Julius is, but they are nonetheless a puppet of the Agarthans as Hubert was ultimately unsuccessful in rooting them out entirely. The Almyran army comes to blows with the Empire’s forces, among them many of the middle-aged former members of the Black Eagle Strike Force. The invaders receive unexpected aid however from the direction of Brigid, a gift from the island’s queen and the lesbian commune she presides over who see little value in their continued alliance with the Empire now that Edelgard is gone. Hubert and Ferdinand, the Empire’s Two Jewels (a title about which Ferdinand will undoubtedly make many unwitting innuendos), are the last defenders of the Emperor in Enbarr, and their end would be every bit as gay as that of the king of Faerghus and his consort’s a generation ago if they could stick to the same script. Alas, Hubert pines for Lady Edelgard to twist the knife one last time, and Ferdinand von Aegir does not go out smiling.

The liberator of Fódlan invades the palace and takes out the puppet Emperor and all their Agarthan servitors, and peace once again returns to the continent. She divides up the land among all her friends and builds from a ruined edifice nestled in the central mountains a new palace for herself where she can reign over all Fódlan, and Almyra too in time. Thus it is always Claude who wins the Game of Thrones the fight for Fódlan’s future, one way or another.

[laboratorioautoral]

Dark Jon being jealous and kicking people out of Winterfell just because he can.

This one was prompted by @circe1fanatic. I hope you like it dear.

She arrived at the gates with the first winter blizzard. A guard came to Jon with a flushed face and trying to breathe with difficulty. Jon looked at the man with annoyance. It it was an attack the horns would have been used and the castle’s defenses would be ready in a matter of minutes. A guard being sent with a message was just a minor inconvenience.

“There is...There is a girl...” The guard could barely speak and as he tried his breath turned to smoke. Jon’s senses were suddenly alert and Ghost sniffed the air as if he had catch a familiar scent.

“What girl?” Jon asked soberly as he tried to keep his expectations in check. His heart was racing as if he was drunk over battle adrenaline. Be still, my foolish hard. We’ve been mistaken before.

“At the Great Hall...” The man said. “She asks for you, Your Grace. She says...”

“I’ll listen to whatever she says. Tell the cookers to prepare her something to eat and put her by the fire.” Jon commanded. He could be wrong again, but he wouldn’t let a girl die in such a nasty weather. Whoever it was, food and warmth would guarantee that the girl wouldn’t fall ill.

“She already commanded so, Your Grace.” The guard’s eyes were as big as a plate. “She says she is Lady Arya.”

Little sister.

Jon’s breath suddenly stopped for a second and he could feel his hands trembling. Once more he tried to control his feelings and expectations, but that name was enough to bring him to tears.

Jon didn’t wait for any further explanations. He left the guard behind and walked towards the Great Hall as fast his self-awareness allowed. He was King in the North, not a green boy of six-and-ten. He had duties, responsibilities and a level of dignity that he should observe.

Ghost passed him half way to the Hall. He wasn’t so receptive. In fact he was snarling and baring his teeth as if he was getting ready to attack or to defend his master.

When he arrived at the Hall, Jon opened and closed his eyes a couple of times just to make sure he wasn’t hallucinating. She was looking straight at him and her gray eyes were teary as she bit her bottom lip as she usually did whenever she was feeling anxious.

Jon ran to her and opened his arms to receive Arya like a blessing. She never disappointed. He couldn’t tell for how long they remained like that; hugging each other so tight that they might have broken a couple of ribs. Arya was crying and Jon was mute. The only thing he could managed was to run his fingers through her hair and smell her familiar scent. This is real. She is home.

If the gods could grant him a wish, Jon would ask for that moment to last forever so he could feel that overwhelming happiness until the end of times. He had never felt like that before. Not even when he found Brandon and Rickon.

“Welcome home.” He finally said with his voice full of warmth and joy. For the first time in nearly five years, he felt young.

“I’ve missed you so much.” They said it together as if they needed one last proof that everything was real. This time both started to laugh between tears.

If only that moment could last forever and his blood remained dormant. At times he was inclined to think that his Targaryan blood was in fact a curse. Like a disease that ran in a family’s blood line, Jon could feel madness sneaking into his mind as shameful lust and jealousy ate him from inside out.

Arya brought with her a boy. A man is more likely. Gendry Waters was more than just a decent blacksmith and those were always rare and handy to a castle, but every day Jon looked at the man and convinced himself that Gendry was something like a stinking animal he would have to kick out at some point.

Arya had promised that man a position in the household in exchange for his company on her journey back to Winterfell. Jon would never deny her something like that. If anything, Gendry should have his gratitude for escorting Arya back home, but as the days passed Jon started to regret his decision and his own moral conduct.

Anyone with eyes could see the way Waters looked at Arya. Anyone with ears could listen to their little quarrels and bickering that sounded like those of a young couple. Jon wasn’t sure that Waters was dazzled by her, maybe enough to make something stupid, but he couldn’t tell if that was something mutual. In fact, Jon was more interested to get rid of that man before those feelings could turn into something else.

“You are getting obvious.” Bran told him one night as they sat by the fire to have a bit of mulled wine. “I think I don’t have to remember you that Arya will be displeased if anything happens to Waters.”

“I can find her a better put to keep her entertained.” Jon said between his clenched teeth. “I want him out of here.”

“She promised him a position.” Bran insisted as he tried to sound reasonable. “Besides...You are wasting your time if you think that even without Water and without the weight of the world “brother”, if you think Arya will ever correspond your feelings in the way you want her to.”

“And what way is that?” His voice came out dark and heavy with sarcasm. “I don’t know what you are talking about.”

“I’m talking about the tragedy of Rhaegar and Lyanna that keeps playing in your mind like an old tune.  I’m talking about you noticing that she is no longer a child and that you seem to have inherited more from Rhaegar than you though. This Targaryen sickness should end.” At that Jon threw his head back and remained quiet for a second.

“I was thinking about something that might come to be a reasonable solution to our problems.” Jon said darkly. “You think that I don’t know what they whisper behind my back, but I know there are those who would gladly slit my throat to get you back on the Throne.”

“As is my birth right. You can’t simply usurp me and pretend that loyalty to my name won’t be of relevance in the outcome of this little dispute between us.” Bran answered bitterly. They could leave in peace if they put their minds to it, but Brandon would never forgive Jon for taking the Winter Throne and named himself king.

“It won’t happen, Brandon.” Jon snapped back. “I fought for this land and I got rid of Bolton while you were still trying to find your way back to home and humanity. I was proclaimed.” Jon dried his cup in one single gulp before looking back at his crippled cousin. “The war isn’t over yet and I don’t see how a young lad like you could managed to lead men into battle from your wheelchair. It is a matter of pragmatism and reason. Do you want to discuss birthrights? Fine. I will discuss birthrights and my participation in the battles to come. Do you want me to fight and defend the North? I will do it. If what you want is my cooperation and Lord Eddard’s line ruling the North, I can agree with that. I’ll take Arya as my wife and the children we will have will rule over the North for a thousand years. This is the only deal I’ll offer.”

“Your Targaryen color are finally showing.” Bran replied bitterly. “You just forgot that Arya isn’t the sort of woman that would agree with this without complains or resistance. She isn’t a hopeless victim as your mother was. My sister is made of stronger material and she won’t have you. Why would she see anything but a brother in you? Let her have a bit of happiness and a simple life with that man for all I care.”

“I am not asking for your permission, Brandon.” Jon said as he rose form his seat with a sour face. “What I want is for you to get rid of that man and I’ll take care of the rest.”

“I won��t kill a man so you can bed my sister.” Bran’s anger was finally brought to the surface and Jon could see in the boy’s eyes the strength of a fearless wolf ready to attack.

“I never said that I wanted to kill him.” Jon smiled at him with condescension. “I have a more practical idea in mind. Since you want to be a lord so bad, I’m giving you the Dreadfort as your new household and you can even call yourself Lord Stark of Dreadfort. You will take Waters with you and as a reward...I think I can reach an agreement with Reed. Lady Meera Stark…It has a good sound to it, don’t you think?”

“You are disgusting.” Bran looked at him with a livid face.

“What did you expect from a bastard?” Jon’s eyes were suddenly dark and cold. “I won’t have you threatening my claim, as I won’t have Daenerys threatening us with dragons. I’m done playing by your father’s code of honor. Since I’m damned from birth, it’s time to accept the beast in me. It happens that the beast just found his mate. You leave in a week.”

“Arya will never accept it!” Brandon growled.

“I will love to prove you wrong.” Jon turned his back at Brandon.

At times Jon was surprised at his own lack of morals. Death could destroy a great deal of things, but nothing rotted as fast as one’s soul. He was probably going mad as Bran had said. Targaryen or not, Jon wondered what would have happened if he had never found out about his true parentage. Would he still feel the same about Arya?

He knew the answer, but it was disgusting to admit that it had always been there, regardless to anything that his heritage could mean. It was in the way Ygritte’s stubbornness would remember him of a little girl. In the way Alys Karstark smiled with bravery and pride. It was in Val’s fierce nature. Only the gods could tell for how long he had been looking for Arya in every woman that crossed his path, but it took a war and years apart for the inevitable to happen. She was no longer a girl with tangled hair and scratches and bruises all over her body.

Like poison, Arya took over his body. The very blood running through his veins said that they belonged together. It had always been like this, haven’t it? With every sentence spoken at the same time; the countless embraces and kisses; and the powerful sensation of touching her hair and smelling the faint scent of wild flowers, earth and pinewood. Everything about her had been made according to all of his preferences. Arya was his confident and friend; his home and his heart. He belonged to her and Jon was getting eager and restless at the thought of claiming her for good.

He couldn’t tell if she had sensed something in the air. Arya would look at him with suspicion and cold curiosity. She wanted to ask something of him. Probably beg for Bran to stay in Winterfell. Jon could get himself a bargain out of that, but then it wouldn’t have the same taste as if Arya had surrender to her own desires. In the ended he didn’t have to wait much for Arya to come to him.

Jon was on his own chambers trying keep his mind quiet so he could get a bit of sleep later. Arya didn’t bother to knock at his door. She never did. Why would it change now? Jon being king meant little to nothing to her.

“I need to talk to you.” She said bluntly. Arya was never the sort of woman that would be discreet about her discontentment.

Jon turned to face her. Arya was wearing a nightgown and a long robe to keep her warm and preserve her modesty. If he knew her at all, Arya had tried to sleep but failed.

“What can I do for you, my dear?” Jon asked with kindness. He was getting good at hiding his true intentions.

“Is it really necessary?” Arya asked as she walked towards his bed to seat on it. Oh...If only she knew the dangers of doing it. “I know things have been difficult between you and Bran, but the Dreadfort? Why would you send him there?”

“I’m not doing it as a punishment, Arya.” What a shameful lie. “I need someone I trust to take care of the Bolton’s lands and Brandon seems to be the natural choice. Do not worry. I won’t send him alone.”

“So I’ve heard.” Her voice was suddenly sober. “Why Gendry? They barely know each other and I don’t think this is a good idea. I promised him...”

“A respectable position and this is what he will get for all the good services to House Stark.” Jon replied cautiously. “A wage, a house and a forge of his own and the honor to make swords to keep Brandon safe. Anyone would agree that I’m being very generous.”

“Indeed.” She lowered her head a bit. “He thinks you don’t like him.”

“Why would I dislike a competent blacksmith?  Especially one that brought you back home safely.” Jon tried to sound convincing, but at times his jealousy took the best of him. “I just think he will be more useful if he stayed with Bran.”

“Gendry thinks you disapprove of our friendship.” Arya finally said. “I tried to tell him that it wasn’t the case.”

“You always had a talent for making unusual friends. He is just another one. I’m sure you’ll be able to see him again in an eventual trip to the Dreadfort.” Jon add as a matter of fact.

“It means you won’t let me go with them, doesn’t it?” Arya asked with a hint of sadness. “We just got together and now you are sending Bran away.”

“For a good cause, my dear.” Jon went to her immediately. He knelled in front of her and caressed her face as if she was a child. “I just want to make the right decision for us.”

“Than let Bran stay a little longer.” Arya asked.

“I’m sure you understand the kind of factions that are gathering behind Brandon. I don’t think he would try to depose me, but I can’t let potential traitors to have a name to use for their own purposes. Bran will be safe and cared for. He will even have a wife to look after him, if Reed agree with me in this.”

“You don’t think of me as a threat? I’m as much a true born Stark as he is.” Arya pointed carefully. “Do you think I could try to depose you?”

“I would never think of it.” Jon said immediately. “You are the only one that I trust. Is it a crime for me to want to keep you near?”

“I don’t think so, but still...I never thought you would sent my brother to house arrest.” Arya answered bitterly. “Don’t even try to deny it. I know exactly what you are doing.”

“This is a temporary arrangement.” Jon tried to explain before seating by her side on his bed. “Have I ever done anything to upset you?”

“No.” She answered simply. Her voice even sounded a bit childish.

Jon sat with his back resting against the bed’s headboard and mad sign for Arya to come and seat near him. A long time ago she would go to his bed whenever she had a nightmare and they would sleep together so Jon could keep the bad dreams away. He wonder if he still could keep the nightmares away, only with a different method.

“Come here.” Jon said and Arya obeyed. She sat between his legs so Jon could embrace her from behind. “You know that I would never do anything to hurt you, don’t you?” He asked before kissing the base of her neck. For a brief second Jon could feel her shivering.

“I do.” Arya agreed. “But why things have to be like this?”

“So we can be safe and prepared for the war that will inevitably reach out gates.” He insisted. “I need Bran there, keeping the peace and not giving foolish lords hope to depose me. And I want Waters there to help him, instead of keeping you distracted.”

“Why would Gendry keep me distracted? Distracted from what?” Arya questioned as she tried to turn and look at Jon’s face.

“From your true pack.” Jon said as he caressed her cheeks gently. “He doesn’t know his place and he keeps looking at you with hope that eventually you will return his feelings. This is not proper and he has no place in you life.”

“Now you are being absurd. I’ve told you. He is a friend and he helped me a great deal. There is nothing else and even if that was the case, since when you looked down on people like this?” Arya rebel nature had been triggered.

“I don’t like it when I see him looking at you as he does.” Jon said in a very decisive tone. “After all these years you are finally home and intend to keep you here. You are the Lady of Winterfell and not an adornment to be appreciated by his eyes.”

“I’m not the Lady of Winterfell. I’m not even sure of what I am now that you proclaimed yourself King and suddenly found out that you are Rhaegar and Lyanna’s son.” Arya argued. “I’m in some sort of limbo just waiting for you to decide what to do with me.” At that Jon kissed the base of her neck again.

“What would you have me do with you?” He asked almost in a whisper.

“I don’t know. Name me for a position in your council or at least let me manage the castle. I can run the household if you let me to.” Arya suggested without paying attention to how Jon’s hands slid the rem of her nightgown up.

“I have something more suitable in mind.” Jon said when his hands got near her tights. “I could make you Lady of Winterfell officially.”

“How?” When Arya noticed his hand on her tight it was too late. In a blink of an eye, Jon slid his hand between her legs to touch her in an indecorous way as he kept kissing her neck. “What…?”

“I’m in need of a Queen.” He said with his voice low, deep and dark. “I also need to put an end to those who question the legitimacy or my rule, but the main reason for it is that I can’t stand the idea of another man laying hands on you, so I’ll just make official what we have always known to be true.” His fingers sank withing her, making a little sound of surprise escape her mouth. “You are mine and I’m yours. It have always been like this, but I’m afraid my blood now demands more from you than just hugs and kisses on my cheek. I’ll have you, Arya; and I want that boy gone once he is reminded that you belong to me and no one else.”

[go-redgirl]

Kamala Harris Lives In One Of The Most Segregated Neighborhoods in Los Angeles Frontpage Mag ^ | 07/18/2019 | Daniel Greenfield

Senator Kamala Harris, who lives with her white husband in one of the most segregated neighborhoods in Los Angeles, has come out with a call for busing children to distant schools to fight “segregation”.

That’s great for Kamala, who has no children. Her stepson, Cole, who works at the William Morris Agency, which is about as diverse as his dad and S-Mamala’s Brentwood hood, won’t be bussed to work at more diverse talent agencies, and Ella, won’t be bused from her studies at Parsons School of Design (4% black) to a more diverse design college. Like most politicians, Harris wants to penalize other people.

None of these provisions and solutions to problems that don’t exist will actually apply to her and hers.

If segregation is the mere absence of diversity and requires government intervention, as she insists it does, what is Senator Kamala Harris doing to desegregate her Brentwood neighborhood?

Kamala’s $4.8 million Brentwood home is located in a neighborhood that is 84% white and 1.2% black in Los Angeles, a city that is nearly 10% black.

Senator Harris has come out for busing children to schools that aren’t sufficiently diverse. What about busing some folks from South Central to Brentwood to live across the street from her home?

“There was a little girl in California who was part of the second class to integrate her public schools, and she was bused to school every day. And that little girl was me,” Senator Kamala Harris whined.

Because the only way a successful Democrat can run for office is by playing the victim.

The truth is that little girl, the privileged daughter of wealthy foreign grad students, wasn’t bused.

She was flown around the world.

That’s not a “right-wing conspiracy theory”, as the media now describes any account fact-checking Kamala Harris’ imaginary past, it’s right there in the words of her own mother who couldn’t stop bragging about the wealth and power that was Kamala’s birthright by way of family and connections.

“When Kamala was in first grade one of her teachers said to me, ‘You know, your child has a great imagination. Every time we talk about someplace in the world she says, ‘Oh, I’ve been there.’ So I told her, ‘Well, she has been there!’”

“India, England, the Caribbean, Africa—she had been there," Kamala's mother told Modern Luxury magazine.

These days, Kamala actually has a great imagination. She has to work hard to imagine being oppressed.

That’s the actual little girl being displayed on those t-shirts that Kamala Harris For the People (the official and officially laughable name of a campaign funded by California millionaires) is selling for $30 bucks.

"Two decades after Brown v. Board, I was only the second class to integrate at Berkeley public schools. Without that decision, I likely would not have become a lawyer and eventually be elected a Senator from California,” Senator Kamala Harris claimed.

Kamala’s insistence that without busing she wouldn’t have become a lawyer or a senator takes place in an exciting fantasy world in which her wealthy, famous and powerful parents never existed. In the real world, her Brahmin mother, an internationally famous cancer researcher, sending her "Montreal’s tony Westmount" high school probably had a lot more to do with her becoming a lawyer.

Busing certainly didn’t put Kamala Harris on a path to the Senate and the White House. Not unless there were buses running directly to Willie Brown’s house and stopping in a shadowy spot at the back door.

It wasn’t civil rights, but an alleged extramarital affair with a dirty San Francisco city boss that made her.

Forget the trauma of busing. To get to where she was, Kamala, at 29, hooked up with Willie, at 60, and ended up in a Brentwood home with no children, but a Senate seat and a shot at the White House.

“And that little girl was me.”

It’s understandable politically and personally why Kamala would want to invent a past in which she hadn’t used her privilege and connections as a down payment on ruining her life and selling her soul.

Kamala’s story, in which busing took her out of the grim inner cities of Berkeley, where she had to watch three beatnik poets recite bad verse before she got to her bus stop, and opened the world to her, so that one day that little girl in the old creased photo could aspire to be president, is much nobler.

It’s a much more satisfying story than sleeping with a married politician and getting a BMW and a seat on a commission. There are no t-shirts at Kamala’s campaign store showing her old self driving in Willie’s BMW to the job that Willie got her, attending California Medical Assistance Commission meetings twice a month, for over $120,000 in current dollars, while still managing to miss 20% of them.

That not so little girl was her too.

If Kamala had at least allegedly slept with Willie because she was that “little girl” from the ghetto, clawing her way up the ladder, that would have been understandable. But the story is much worse. Kamala didn’t need Willie Brown to get a good job. She needed him to get jobs she didn’t deserve.

Like the one she has now and the one she wants now.

That’s the truly damning thing.

Senator Harris wasn’t a poor little girl from the ghetto. She mingled with the Nob Hill set. Her life was filled with privilege and wealth. It wasn’t desperation. It wasn’t need. It was greed.

Senator Kamala Harris has to reinvent her past because she needs to run as a victim. And because it shifts the social context behind the entire Willie Brown story to make her seem more defensible.

What can you expect from an oppressed little girl from the Berkeley ghetto trying to survive?

It’s not just Kamala rewriting her past. The media is working just as hard to reinvent a woman that the local press had covered thoroughly, while denying all the stories it had written about her in the past.

There’s always been speculation about Obama’s rise in Chicago politicians, but there’s never been much ambiguity about Kamala’s rise in San Francisco politics. We know how it happened and why.

But, now that’s a “right-wing conspiracy theory” even if it appeared in all the big California papers.

Before the media reinvented Kamala Harris as living on a Berkeley plantation with white and colored marijuana dispensaries, the Los Angeles Times had described her as a, “privileged child of foreign grad students”. These days, repeating that will see you accused of spreading right-wing conspiracy theories.

Reality, history and the media’s own stories are all notoriously right-wing conspiracy theories.

But meanwhile “that little girl” lives in one of the most segregated neighborhoods in Los Angeles, without ever saying anything about it, with her entertainment lawyer husband, in a $4.8 million home with a “spa-like” master bedroom, and a kidney-shaped pool. The median income is $112,000.

Kamala has an estimated net worth of $391,000.

Once upon a time, she got a BMW from Willie Brown. These days, it’s unknown what she drives. But, like most wealthy people in Los Angeles, Senator Kamala Harris would never actually take the bus.

Busing is for other people.

TOPICS: Culture/Society; News/Current Events; Politics/Elections; US: California KEYWORDS: 2020 dem primary; blue zones; busing; california; clown car; delaware; india; jamaica; joe biden; Joe clown car biden; kamala harris; losangeles; segregation

-----------------------------------------

OPINION:  Well, we all know these days that the Democrats are liars, thieves, obstructionist, crooks, evil, devious, un-ethical, etc. etc. and they can never be trusted with anything that they put their hands on.  They are deceptive in their actions and are only looking our for themselves.  

In fact, they are boarder-line anti-americans, that will say or do anything for self only.  They have shown no love for this country ‘ever’!   

It has always been about them not ‘us’ Americans.

No other Political Party in our Country  have sent out ‘on the record’ threats of violence toward those that are ‘conservative’ and anyone that was using ‘freedom of speech’.  

They will attack you, harm you, almost but kill you in public and they will dare the ‘Main-Stream Media’ to report their rootless action.  You can’t prosecute them because they have Judges in places to rule in their ‘favor’ no matter how hannist the ‘crime’ is.

[ave--michael]

Revertere ad Sanctum (Return to Sanctuary) - Part 4/? | Michael Langdon X Reader

Masterlist

Author’s note: Taking my cues from Ryan Murphy and doing a flashback. I intentionally did not name what song was playing in this chapter, so you can imagine whatever you personally find romantic. For me, it’s “Sweet” by Cigarettes After Sex, and I was listening to it when I wrote this. I might work on another update before the weekend’s over, who knows??

Eighteen Months Ago

Fucking grimoires, with their unreadable fucking handwriting.

Y/N groaned and pushed the old, leather-bound volume away across her desk before rubbing her tired eyes. She knew that there was something that she was overlooking, something that would make the protection spells she had placed upon the Sanctuary more potent. The magic was good, of course. She had always excelled at magical defense, so her wards would have been good enough, even if Michael weren’t also contributing to their energetic upkeep.

But she didn’t want them to be just good enough, just strong enough. They were too important for her to allow for even the tiniest possibility that they might fail. They had to be perfect. They were just one of many things that separated the Sanctuary from the Outposts, that made it so unique. Just one of many, but the one for which she was the most responsible.

The Sanctuary would not fall, not if she was good enough. Smart enough. Strong enough.

She had been searching through her library of magical texts, collected from her time at Robichaux’s and beyond, determined to discover something that would give her wards the extra boost she wanted, but so far her searches had not turned up anything that she had not already included in the formula or considered and discarded.

How late was it? She had lost track of time, several discarded texts ago. Her eyes burned, her focus was shot… And the music, bass-heavy, slow and slinky, emanating up from the apartment below was not helping.

When she stepped out onto the landing at the top of the spiral staircase leading down into the parlor, it was to ask Michael to keep it down, whatever he was doing, but the words stopped in her throat when she took in the scene below.

The lights were dimmed, the only illumination from the flickering, golden light of candles scattered throughout the room. Michael stood at the foot of the staircase, leaning casually against the bannister and gazing up at her as though he had been waiting for her to come out and protest. Of course he had been…

“Come down here.”

“Michael, I--” It was tempting, so tempting. “I’m working on something.”

“You’re finished for tonight.” He cocked an eyebrow at her. “Now come down here, before I make you.”

It was the same voice that he used when issuing commands, the quiet, authoritative cadence that always sent a bolt of desire through her core. It was a voice that terrified everyone else, and for good reason.

Everyone but her. Not that Michael had never used concilium on her, but it was always for recreational purposes, and only after she begged him to do it. To push into her mind like he could push into her body, and make her do whatever he wanted.

She descended the stairs, taking each step slowly until she was standing only one step up from the floor, amused at being momentarily taller than he was. He placed his hand on top of hers where it rested on the handrail, caressing her knuckles with his thumb.

“I still have a lot to do tonight,” she said softly.

“You’ve been working too hard.”

He toyed with the garnet set in silver that she wore on her left ring finger, the more delicate and feminine twin to the one he wore on his. The band of tiny black diamonds that she wore nestled beneath it.

He looked back up at her face. “Tonight you’re not my second-in-command; you’re my wife. And no one will deny me the right to spoil my wife.” He grinned. “Not even you.”

She sighed and relented, letting him take her by the hand and lead her to the chaise longue in the corner. As she settled into the velvet cushions--hating to admit how good it felt, how right Michael was that she needed to rest--he reached for the bottle chilling in a bucket on the side table.

“Champagne?” she asked. “Who would have thought there would be champagne after the end of the world?”

“I was saving it so we could celebrate. I had imagined licking it off of your naked body as the bombs dropped outside.” He draped a dish towel over the bottle and twisted the cork out with a muffled pop. “But that didn’t happen.”

Pulling off the apocalypse, it turned out, was even more stressful and chaotic than either of them had anticipated. Something being destined by prophecy did not necessarily make it easy. When they had finally extricated themselves from their responsibilities and the members of the Cooperative on their first night at the Sanctuary, they had both been so exhausted that they had fallen asleep in their clothes, on top of their still-made bed.

She accepted the glass of champagne Michael offered her. “A toast?”

“Yes, a toast. To the endings and beginnings?” he proposed.

“To being on the winning side?”

He smiled. “To us?”

“To us.”

She drank deeply, letting the alcohol loosen the tension in her shoulders and unmoor her just slightly from the tangle of thoughts and stresses cluttering her mind.

Michael sat down on the end of the chaise, set his glass on the floor, patted his lap. “Feet.”

She slipped off her satin flats and rested her feet on top of Michael’s thighs. She stifled a moan and leaned further back as he took her right foot in both hands and began working the soreness out of her. It was a talent of his, this ability to make her feel good in whatever way she needed, and a talent that she valued highly.

Michael switched to her left foot. “I want to ask you something.”

“Anything.” She had her eyes closed, head back.

“What do you think about us having a baby?”

The laughter bubbled up out of her throat as light and euphoric as the carbonation in the champagne she had drunk too quickly.

“I think I like it when you joke,” she said, but when she opened her eyes to look at him, the hurt clouding his face told her that she had miscalculated.

Oh fuck. He’s serious.

“Well, that answers my question. Thank you for your honesty.”

He started to stand up, to leave, but she leaned forward, grabbing his arm to stop him, stammering apologies.

“Michael-- I’m sorry. It’s not that I-- that I don’t want to have a baby with you.”

Even saying the words felt unnatural, like speaking the Latin in an incantation for the first time, unsure whether it would work or backfire and knock her on her ass.

“It’s just… sudden,” she continued.

“We’ve been married for two years, Y/N.”

“I know that, Michael,” she said, matching his tone. “But we’ve never talked about having kids. I didn’t know you even wanted to.”

“I don’t think that I knew I wanted to, until now,” he said, playing with the hem of her dress. “When has it ever been an option? When we were in school? When we eloped and were living in random Satanists’ guest rooms? This is the first time that it has even made sense to consider it.”

“But does it make sense? Michael, every day there’s something, some new problem to deal with. The reports from the Outposts are dire. How can we bring a baby into this?”

“How can we not? What’s the point of any of this if we don’t build a future?”

She took a deep breath to collect her thoughts, trying not to derail the night any further.

It wasn’t that she had never considered their future. From the moment Michael had shared his identity with her--holding up the fall of his blonde hair, shorter then, to show her the mark on his neck--their future had been almost all they had both thought about. She had always known that to commit to him was to commit, too, to his mission, to his birthright. To the annihilation of the world.

But now they had achieved it, and she was realizing that she had never considered their future beyond the apocalypse, not in any detail. She had known that she would be with Michael, and that had been as far as her thoughts had reached. It had been enough. Without asking him, she had assumed that being together was also enough for him.

She had not considered that he did not share her shortsightedness. That he might want, need, something more.

“Why don’t you want to have a baby, really?” he asked now. “Is it me? Are you afraid that our child would be… monstrous?”

“No.” Emphatic, truthful. “Michael, how could you think that?”

“I don’t know what else it could be.”

She was getting frustrated, with herself for not being able to articulate her thoughts, with the tears pricking the corners of her eyes, threatening to spill. Frustrated with the truth.

When she spoke, her voice was quiet. Michael had to ask her to repeat herself.

“What kind of mother do you think I would be?”

A tear broke loose and trickled down her cheek, and then another. She angrily dashed them away before he could reach for her.

“I’ve done horrible things,” she continued, thinking of the people she had betrayed, killed. “And I don’t even think they’re horrible, not really. I don’t regret anything. I probably should, but I don’t. If I had a chance, if I had a million chances, I would change nothing.”

She sighed, the sound heavy and ragged.

“Women like me don’t get to be mothers.”

Michael leaned forward and took her face in his hands, kissed her gently.

“You are the strongest woman I have ever known,” he said. “You are loyal, intelligent, powerful. You taught me everything I know about how to love and to be loved in return. If more women like you were mothers, the world wouldn’t have needed to be destroyed.”

She leaned forward and kissed him again, harder this time, needing the contact with him, the taste of him, his weight pressing down onto her. Her favorite way to resolve any argument they had.

They shifted so that her legs were around his waist and his arousal was pressing into her. He ground into her, eliciting a gasp, and ran his lips over her jawline.

“You’re not getting out of this conversation,” he whispered in her ear. “Come with me to the breeding facility tomorrow. Just so I can show you something,” he said, when she opened her mouth to protest.

And then he was kissing her neck, and running his hand up her thigh, and all she could say was yes.

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