#Nor was I allowed to ride a cow instead...

[streamlass]

Given ours was very eroded & actually mostly below grade, I'd say yes.

I tried to requisition a cowhorse for my field work, but I only got to use the UTV version of a "mule." Probably for the best, though, I sit a horse like an awkward sack of potatoes.

Alright, my turn with the hyper specific experiences poll. All options selected from things I have done/experienced in my life.

[fruitcoops]

Could we please have a prequel to the praise kink fic? Because i really want to know why were Sirius and Remus not together and what did Remus send him. I really need context

I was hoping somebody would ask for this!! The aforementioned fic is here for any curious souls (18+ please) and SW credit goes to @lumosinlove!

TW for spicy texts (not exactly nudes), and smutty feelings with nothing explicit

The bus went over a bump and Sirius winced as his shins knocked against the back of the seat in front of him, connecting with the metal brace inside. “Fuck.”

“You sure you don’t want to switch?” James asked next to him. Sirius glanced down at the veritable wall of gear and empty snack bags between them, then back to James in disbelief. He shrugged, then set his headphones back over his ears. “Worth a shot.”

“Merde,” Sirius hissed as a pothole nearly took off his kneecap. He gritted his teeth and readjusted, drawing his legs closer to his chest. I want to be home, he thought, allowing himself an internal moment to whine.

He checked his phone—not even ten in the morning. It was a Saturday, so Remus would probably just be rolling out of bed, still sleepy and soft with his hair sticking up like a disgruntled cat’s. Sirius sighed heavily and stared out the window at the small town rolling past in the distance; there was little he wouldn’t give to be back with him instead of on the way to a full week of conferences.

“Why did we have to win the Cup?” he grumbled.

James lifted one side of his headphones. “What?”

“Nothing.”

It wasn’t like they had had much time to themselves before that, either—Sirius’ schedule was packed with interviews that felt more like interrogations, and Remus had been running the PT department mostly by himself while Moody took a well-deserved vacation. They were dead on their feet every night, worked to the bone with little energy left to do more than cuddle and fall asleep. Still, Sirius was grateful for every second of it.

He waited ten more minutes before giving in.

New Message To: Re

Bonjour mon loup <3

There was no immediate response, which made sense, though he was a little bit disappointed. Sirius closed his eyes and tried to make himself relax; it would be at least another six hours before they arrived at their destination, and the bad weather gathering overhead didn’t bode well for quick travel.

His phone buzzed gently and he scrambled to answer. Don’t be Reg, don’t be Reg, don’t be Reg—

New Message From: Re

Morning love!

Thanks for the bagels <3

“Fuck yes,” Sirius said under his breath. The bagels had been a last-minute decision as he crept through the house in the early hours of the morning after carefully detaching himself from Remus with a final half-asleep farewell kiss. There was no guarantee he would remember breakfast with everything going on, so Sirius figured it was a safe bet to toast them and leave them on the countertop before heading out.

Message To: Re

Pas de problem

Sleep well?

Message From: Re

Decent

Missed you :(

Sirius rested his temple against the cold window with a soft sound. He hated leaving at different times, but that was just how their life worked at the moment.

Message To: Re

Missed you too <3

Three small dots appeared for a long moment before vanishing without a trace just as his heart rate began picking up. Where’d you go? he almost wondered aloud. Something bumped his arm and James raised a quizzical brow. “Loops,” Sirius said by way of explanation.

“I figured. He okay?”

“I think so? He just…disappeared on me.” Sirius was well-aware of how plaintive he sounded—James’ teasing smile was completely unnecessary.

“Aw, Cap,” he laughed, reaching over to mess with his beanie until Sirius slapped his hand away. “It’s alright, buddy, it’s just a couple days.”

Sirius jammed his hat back on his head and flicked James on the unprotected bit of his ear, making him yelp. “Fuck off, I know you’ll be a mess as soon as Lily FaceTimes with my godson.”

“He has a name, you know.”

“Sorry. You’ll be a mess as soon as she FaceTimes with Pocket Pots, who happens to be my godson.”

James rolled his eyes. “I regret giving you that title.”

“Nah, you don’t.”

As if on cue, his phone lit up again; Sirius ignored James’ snickering as he quickly unlocked it.

New Message From: Re

When will you be at the hotel?

“That’s it?” he muttered.

Message To: Re

That was a lot of typing for one sentence

6-7 hrs, if the weather holds

Why?

Message From: Re

Sorry lmao Reg came in for a bit

Just curious :) Keep me updated?

Message To: Re

Will do <3

Tell Reg he needs to wash his sheets. It’s been over a month.

A small thumbs-up emoji was his only answer, and he tried not to be too bummed. Remus liked having things to do; sitting there and texting Sirius while he slowly got further and further away was probably not his preferred way to spend a morning. With a sigh that was likely a bit too dramatic for the situation he was in, Sirius faced the window once more and buckled in for a long ride.

He chatted off and on with the others when they stopped for lunch, but everyone was exhausted from the combination of a packed week and an early morning. Even Talker stayed fairly quiet, and James kept his headphones on for most of the trip.

Sirius finally succumbed to his tiredness and put some music on, then dozed for an hour or three while they traveled through yet another field. A few halfhearted calls of “cows” made their way around the bus, though nobody seemed particularly enthused about being packed in with double the gear due to a broken storage compartment. Donuts and gas station coffee could only do so much.

“Just crossed the state border,” Arthur called from the front of the bus as Sirius tried to ignore the cramping in his thighs. Three hours. Just three more.

His music was interrupted by a soft jingle alert and he pulled his phone out, hoping against hope that Regulus hadn’t caused a fire anywhere. It was unlikely given the…well, everything about him, but with Sirius’ luck it could happen.

New Message From: Re

How far?

Message To: Re

About 3 hrs. Ran into some detours

Good day?

Remus remained silent on the other end and Sirius frowned. That was rather rude, and highly unusual. Between the two of them, Remus was the one who kept conversations going past the initial question to be answered.

Message From: Re

Attachment: 1 Image

Love you! Call me when you get there : )

Sirius opened the attachment and almost threw his phone in utter shock. Skin. Bare skin everywhere, its smooth edges broken up only by tight black fabric that may as well have been painted onto the curve of Remus’ ass. “Oh my god,” he whimpered, voice barely audible even to his own ears. It had been taken in their bedroom mirror; Remus looked over his shoulder, and Sirius caught the corner of a devious smirk on his lips. “Oh, you fucker.”

Message From: Re

Thoughts? They’re cozy

Message To: Re

Did you miss the part where I said three (3) hours

Message From: Re

Nope

Second one is a guessing game and u get a prize if u get it right : )

The second photograph was more zoomed-in than the first and Sirius wracked his brain, running through his mental catalogue of Remus’ body to figure out the answer. It did absolutely nothing to calm the situation in his pants.

He had no idea what the promised prize was, but anticipation made his hands shake slightly as he carefully scanned the picture. The shadows caught it at an odd angle—it wasn’t the steady slopes of his face or neck, nor was it the strong curve of a shoulder. Not enough freckles, either, he thought.

A lightbulb lit in the back of his mind.

Message To: Re

Right hip

Another thought connected half a second later.

Holy fuck you took them off

Is that my prize?

Re?

Remus Lupin I swear to god

TEXT ME BACK

Message From: Re

Bingo!

Christ you’re impatient, I was gone for like 2 mins

He chanced a look toward Pots, whose head lolled to the side as he snored.

Message To: Re

Hey quick question why are you like this

It’s a good thing Pots is out cold bc this bus is too small to hide anything

Message From: Re

Haha sux to be you

Sirius’ cheeks heated with a whole cocktail of different emotions as he furiously typed a response.

Message To: Re

‘Sux to be you’???

Are you 13 yrs old????

Message From: Re

Do you want your prize or not u horndog

Message To: Re

YOU MADE ME THIS WAY

He took a deep breath through his nose and flexed his fingers.

Yes please

A simple smiley face—Sirius would never see those things the same—popped up, followed by an audio file. He triple-checked that his headphones were plugged in before tapping ‘play’ with an unsteady thumb.

His face went very, very hot before all the blood went straight to his groin and he closed his eyes, covering his mouth with his hand. Breathy sounds came through the heavy earphones, a little more crackly than they would be in-person; he heard Remus’ gasp catch in his throat and crossed his legs as best he could in the too-small seat, torn between thanking and cursing any higher power. He could practically see Remus’ face in his mind’s eye as the noises continued, intermixed with fragments of desperate words.

The file came to an end after what felt like the blink of an eye and a hundred years, and Sirius did not look away from the violently red seat cushion in front of him for a long moment as his brain came back online. He couldn’t remember the last time he was so turned on.

He took a few deep breaths, though it did nothing to erase the poorly-muffled whines that still rang between his ears like church bells. Sirius huffed and turned to grab his waterbottle out of his duffel, only to make direct eye contact with Finn across the aisle.

Sirius froze.

Finn grinned.

“Don’t you fucking dare,” he hissed, too low to wake James but just loud enough to carry over the four feet separating them. Finn’s smile widened. “Stop it. Stop it right now.”

“How’s Loops?”

“Shut the fuck up.”

“That good, huh?”

“O’Hara, I swear to god—”

“Oh, is Cap spilling secrets?” Kasey asked, poking his head over the back of the seat.

Finn opened his mouth, but the force of Sirius’ glare must have been enough to at least intimidate him a little, because he shook his head. The smug Cheshire grin remained. “Nah, just having a chat about our plans when we get home.”

Kasey groaned. “You’re a lucky man, O’Hara. Both your people get to come with you. Nat sent me a promise, like, twenty minutes ago and I can’t stop thinking about it. I won’t be available tonight from six to eight if anyone was wondering.”

“Did she really?” Finn looked back to Sirius, who bit the inside of his cheek and tried to keep his cool. Two and a half hours, and then he would be safe. Just two and a half more hours.

[starshipsofstarlord]

hi!! first of all, congrats on 2k!! that's super amazing & you totally deserve it!! also, for the 2k followers blurb event, could you maybe write an allison x lydia x reader platonic-best-friends-type-thing? if not that's totally okay. congrats again!! :)

thankyou sm hun!!!! This is the first blurb that I’ve gotten and I’m so excited, here ya go hun, please enjoy xxxx

Car Ride

Pairings | bestfriend!Lydia x reader, bestfriend!Allisonxreader, bestfriend!Lydia x Allison

Warnings | mentions of sex, mentions of allison x scott breakup, mentions of death, tiny smudge of angst

Quick link to my masterlist, if you’re interested in reading more of my crap 😬

Seated in the back of Lydia’s Toyota, you fiddled with your phone, as Allison took shotgun, and the owner of the car herself was behind the wheel, gripping it firmly with her manicured hands. Her fingertips tapped against the wheel, as she waited at the stoplight.

“Are you sure that I can’t like, I don’t know, jump out of this car, and avoid this triple date that has the possibility of turning into a teenage orgy, and like hang out with Isaac or something? He told me he has this new trick in lacrosse and I want to watch.”

Lydia tutted at you from the front, shaking her strawberry blonde head at your naivety. “Honey, he is not wanting to show you his lacrosse skills. I’d be worried if the moves he was hinting at happened on that field, more so if the rest of the team were around. Now that would be an orgy.”

“Ew.” Allison laughed. It felt strange, a good strange, to have the hunter back after summer break. After her mother died, she had left, breaking up with Scott, which now gave Lydia the perfect opportunity to set the brunette up with a random guy from school. Of course, she had to drag you into it too though. “No orgies thank you.” She wrinkled her nose adorably, making you lightly laugh at her.

“Isaac was not hitting on me Lyds, everyone like him has a thing for Erica, or had. I don’t know where she is now, but I’m sure she has a whole flock of werewolves chasing her blonde tail.” Crossing your arms, you allowed your cellular device to drop on your lap, as you leant back in the seat.

“Pack.” Lydia corrected you, making the girl in the seat beside her quirk a brow at her correction. “A mass of werewolves is called a pack. I even read that sometimes, werewolves try to be discreet to their flirting, other times, in Isaac’s case, not so much.”

“Well that wasn’t a page from the library.” You rolled your eyes at her, turning your face to glance out the window, fumbling back as you saw a sight that made you jump. Stiles was waving, unexpectedly in your sights as you gulped, trying to ignore him.

“Hey.” A yell hollered out of the Jeep’s window, as he began to bark profusely towards the three of you. Scott tried to calm him down, but instead, Lydia put her foot on the gas, avoiding them simply by driving off.

“Back to topic, I don’t need a damned book to tell me what’s obvious. Like it’s blatantly obvious that neither one of you want to go on this date, but me, being the good friend that I am, are forcing the pair of you to venture out of your comfort zones.”

“Good and forcing don’t really work that well in a sentence.” You bit politely back, watching as she huffed back at you, sending you a sly wink through the rear view mirror.

“Technically it was a reflection of how, in the past, have made me fight a werewolf, and my ex who ended up being a snake, literally.” She shrugged, pouting as Allison changed the station on the radio.

The road grew dark, the only thing briefly illuminating the road being the head lights of the car. There was a feeling of dread churning in your stomach, as your eyes nervously flickered back and forth ahead. You weren’t sure why but- holy cow.

No, that was the wrong noun. Holy deer! It’s antlers splintered through the wind screen, evoking shrill noises out of each of you, and hurriedly, you escaped the confines of the car. “Are you alright?” Scott and Stiles appeared, revealing that they had been purposely travelling down the same road as you all.

But that didn’t matter, not as you were revelled in shock. Not just by the occurrence, but by the deluding sense of feeling prior. Things were overall weird, and.. supernatural, how did you know that you weren’t the same?

“It just came out of nowhere- I.” Allison stumbled over her words to Scott. And stiles was practically all over Lydia, gushing about her safety, leaving you to hold your arms to enclose yourself in some kind of contact.

A small smile made its way onto your face as you watched Lydia lightly shove Stiles away, and walked towards you, embracing you. Soon Allison joined, calming and soothing your nerves, as you half clung to them.

“I guess we’re not going to be going on that date?” You asked hopefully, amusing the pair of them as Lydia brushed your hair back, relaxing you. Allison removed her jacket, hanging it over your arms, watching contently as you held it tighter around yourself.

Without them, your life would be ordinary... maybe. Without them, you’d have no safe guard nor feeling of acceptance. The dead deer laid upon the hood of Toyota, you could practice feel it staring holes into you, despite its eyes being directed away from you.

“I’m gonna have to call a tow.” Lydia annoyedly mumbled against your head, bringing her phone out, the screen lighting up to reveal nothing more than a picture of you three. You were wrapped in each other’s arms, grand smiles upon all your faces, taken before the summer.

During the holiday, it was clear something had been missing, and here she was, beside you. You tugged the brunette closer, not missing how she tried to secretly glance at her ex, not that you minded. There was history there, but there was to one day be history with you three two, and a future, if you all remained alive...

But for now, this moment would last, forever in your mind. It would be one thing that got you through everything else that had yet to come, even if you were freezing cold, with your legs shaking from wearing that dress that Lydia had persuaded her into.

[catboynecromancy]

Kissing prompts day 4, given to me by the delightful @sleepy-skittles 💕 Thank you! I was looking forward to this one, and it sort of became way more than just the kiss, because I'm a big sucker for the build-up.

Pynch — A lingering kiss before a long trip apart.

-

It shouldn’t be this hard.

It’s never been this hard before.

Just over five years of Adam living in Cambridge while he stayed back in Singer’s Falls had been a difficult obstacle in their once budding, now wholly committed relationship. But all that time apart had been worth it, to see Adam’s elastic and amicable smile as he stood at the commencement podium and gave a speech to nearly two thousand other graduates, on a live stream. And it had been worth it, to have him back at the Barns for a few months of creature comforts and rest, even though Ronan knew it was fleeting and every moment spent close was precious.

He knew and, yet, it hadn’t seemed real as they loaded every single one of Adam’s personal belongings into a Uhaul. Nor had it seemed real, the summer before, when they took a hectic, life-changing road trip out to Los Angeles so Adam could check out the UCLA campus. It had been nothing more than a concept to Ronan, an idea he realized would eventually come to pass, but he didn’t allow himself to accept the reality of it all until there was no longer an option.

Ronan wakes at the ass crack of dawn, as per usual, to handle the cows and let them out to pasture. He’s too tired for his brain to catch up with what today is. It’s still early, so Ronan showers, cooks up some breakfast — scrambled eggs, heavy on the cheese, with turkey sausage and hashbrowns, just the way Adam likes them — and shoves it all in the oven to stay warm as he heads upstairs to wake his boyfriend up.

When he gets in the room, Ronan finds Adam stretched awkwardly across the bed, taking over practically the entire bed. The blankets have been kicked off, his shirt rides up a ridiculous amount, so much that it may as well not even be there. His head tilts to the side, mouth open with a dark pool of what Ronan can only assume is drool beneath it on his pillow. Ronan would be irritated, but the morning sun peeks through a tiny part in the curtains, illuminating Adam’s gorgeous tan skin and giving his dusty hair an almost golden hue, and suddenly apprehension takes over every part of Ronan’s conscious mind.

It shouldn’t be this hard, to let him go, when Adam has always found his way back.

He wanders over, brushing strands of gold-spun locks from Adam’s face, the gentle touch making light brows pinch together in silent protest. “Wake up, sleepyhead,” Ronan says, voice barely above a whisper. “Got a long day ahead of you.”

“Mmgh, piss off.” Adam’s half-awake irritability brings a smile to his face, even while Ronan’s stomach twists and turns with building nerves.

“I made breakfast,” Ronan continues, fingers running back to tickle Adam’s ear. This earns him a frustrated groan and a swat. “I’ll go start the coffee.”

Ronan leaves Adam to do exactly as he says. He distracts himself by grinding the coffee beans, listening to the sound of a shower running upstairs, switches to washing the dishes, wipes the counters, doing anything and everything to distract himself from the inevitable. When Adam comes down twenty minutes later, fully dressed and yawning, Ronan pretends like anxiety isn’t tearing him apart from the inside out.

It shouldn’t be hard. He won’t let it be.

What’s a couple thousand miles between him and the love of his life? It’s nothing, really, in the grand scheme of their life together.

They finish gathering the last of Adam’s various items, packing what he doesn’t need in the back of the trailer, and piling up the rest in the passenger seat. With a satisfied sigh, Adam claps his hands as if he’s just done something strenuous, or something to be proud of, and looks at Ronan with one of his classic, charming Adam Parrish smiles.

“You’ll miss me?” He asks, like the answer isn’t already obvious and lingering in the air around them.

“I already do,” Ronan answers. “But I’ll get over it. Always do.”

Adam is the one to bridge the distance between them, settling so close that Ronan can feel warm breath on his face, smell the distracting mint of freshly brushed teeth and mouthwash. He presses a palm to Ronan’s chest, just over his heart, their eyes locking. The moment is punctuated by a silence that is somehow tense and heartening at once. “I’ll come back,” Adam offers, just like he had the first time he left.

“I know. That’s all I’ll ever ask of you.”

His head tilts, still smiling as he leans forward to kiss Ronan. It’s soft, barely there, a request rather than a demand. Adam pulls back when the gesture isn’t returned, the corners of his mouth twitch with disappointment, a telling falter in an otherwise perfectly controlled façade.

Ronan recognizes that he isn’t the only one struggling with this. Adam is, too, why wouldn’t he be?

All these years apart, Ronan has only ever thought about how it is for himself.

It shouldn’t be this hard, but it is. On both of them.

“Adam…”

“It’s fine, really.” His voice quivers and he starts to step back. “I should get going.”

Ronan reaches out, fingers curling in Adam’s t-shirt. He uses the grip to pull him close again, smashing their mouths together a little harder than intended but, unlike the kiss Adam had given, this one is a demand. It’s Ronan urging Adam to come back as they both tip into it, deepening the kiss. It’s Adam insisting he never once thought otherwise when his tongue glides over Ronan’s bottom lip and he allows him in on mostly instinct. It’s both of them with wordless stipulations — if you promise to be here, in one piece, then I’ll always come back to you. And I’ll be waiting, I’ll be waiting, I’ll be waiting.

As they linger, their kissing drifts between near animalistic hunger and something sweeter, more modest, their hands wander aimlessly to touch every inch within reach. Ronan uses this opportunity to burn the feeling of Adam’s ribs beneath his palms and the familiar warmth of his sun-kissed skin into his mind, a memory for later, to sate him when he starts to feel lonely.

His hands eventually find themselves on either side of Adam’s face, holding him still as their lips glide together slow, with intention. Adam wraps his arms around Ronan, tugging him close, moaning into his mouth. It’s wet and sloppy and leisurely, as if they have all the time in the world to make out. Maybe they do. Just...not now. So, against his better judgment, Ronan breaks contact, knocking their foreheads together and staying there.

“I’ll come back. I promise.” Adam says, breaking the silence first.

“I’ll be here. Waiting.”

“Maybe...you should go somewhere, too.”

Ronan raises an eyebrow and pulls away to give Adam a look. “What the hell does that even mean?”

Adam grins and shrugs. “We’ll talk about it later, when I get to the hotel. I gotta head out if I want to stick to my schedule.”

He blinks, still confused, trying and failing to figure out what Adam means. The words, maybe you should go somewhere, echo in his head as Ronan watches Adam climb into the Uhaul, as he gives an excited and ironic yeehaw through the rolled down window, as he starts off down the long, winding driveway and out of sight.

It shouldn’t be this hard, but it’s okay that it is. All the best things in life are worth working and waiting for, their relationship is no different and, besides —

Ronan runs a hand over his scalp, kicking at a stone with his bare foot. At least this gives him something to consider, instead of allowing the realization that Adam is gone, again, while he’s still here to take him over. Maybe he doesn’t need to always be waiting, maybe that’s what Adam meant.

Fuck.

[5csbin]

HAUNTED HOUSE !

HALLOWEEN TXT EDITION!

txt x neutral reader !

WARNING !: cursing! knifes! haunted house! JYP AND 6IX9INE!

a very crack and dumb one shot i made.

“MANE IF YALL DONT SHUT THE FUCK UP!” taehyun shouted as they were walking up to the line since everyone began to nag.

"this is why i wanted to go trick or treating instead." beomgyu pouted and folded his arms as he and the rest of the group waited in line to go inside of the haunted house.

well it was more like a haunted barn, where they would all get on a hayride and be driven throughout the barn and be spooked supposedly. "trick or treating?? how old are you again?" kai mocked him,

"no offense but i'm starting to think you were right when you said beomgyu was still mentally 9 years old because.. this is starting to get worrying. what 19 year old is trying go trick or treating?" yeonjun added in agreement, while taehyun shot him a dirty look for throwing shade at his best friend.

beomgyu’s first instinct was to scoot closer to (y/n), but he then fired off a clapback of his own. "the only thing that's worrying is that wig you're wearing, who the fuck are you even supposed to be? lord farquad on crack?" gyu fired back at yeonjun, who was now touching the short black bob on top of his head.

soobin couldn't help but laugh, even though it was his own boyfr- bestfriend getting flamed and soon, everybody else in the group let out laughter at gyu’s clapback. even taehyun, who couldn't stand beomgyu, was practically crying laughing at what was said.

"actually, i'm supposed to be dora," yeonjun replied, gesturing to his pink t shirt and bright orange jeans. "and soobin is.. well diego." he pulled soobin closer to him after saying that and kissed his forehead, before ruffling his blueberry curls a little.

"wait.. ain't dora and diego supposed to be cousins?" taehyun asked, his mouth curling in disgust, "i don't think that's positive..." kai added.

“cousin lovers.” (y/n) said making yeonjun smack their arm.

it was a wonder how they didn't annoy the others waiting in line for their ride, since they would fight every second. meanwhile as the group turn drew closer and closer, beomgyu found himself regretting agreeing to come here.

it was weird.. he loved horror movies, but he despised haunted houses because even though both were fake events, being in a haunted house was just so up close and personal you know?

if it wasn't for it being (y/n)'s birthday (lets just pretend ur birthday was on halloween.) beomgyu wouldn't have came, and he would have probably just stayed at home and took pictures of his costume for instagram before going over to hyunjin’s to watch scary movies.

(y/n) noticed that beomgyu looked uncomfortable amongst all of the roasts and jokes flying amongst the group and they decided to ask what was wrong.

"gyu, why do you look so sad? being sad is my job," (y/n) asked as the group continued to move up in the line. "i'm not sad," beomgyu answered. "i'm just nervous, i don't like haunted houses.. i had a really bad panic attack the last time i went to one, and i don't wanna have one and ruin your birthday or anything.. i probably should have just stayed my ass home."

"nah, you not going to ruin my birthday, you're my friend and i care about you... it won't be that scary, it's literally a haunted barn. you know what barns have? cows and chickens. now who's scared of cows and chickens? nobody. except blades of grass."

the little pep talk made gyu feel slightly calmer. "thanks," he replied, fumbling with the thick leather choker around his neck. "your costume is really cute by the way. i like the face paint."

"thanks, it was kai’s idea actually," they responded with a chipper edge to their voice. (y/n)' costume consisted of a sweatshirt and sweatpants with a skeleton printed on the front, and his face was made up to look like a skull.

after beomgyu was calm, he found himself overhearing a conversation between hueningkai, taehyun, and his knives.

"no tae, you can't bring your knives in here with you," hyuka shook his head as taehyun kept asking if he could run back to the car real quick and grab his knives "cmon kai, just in case a demon wanna try some shit"

"well.. can i get my ouija board?" tyun asked, his lips twisting into a devious smile. "i just wanna talk to the demons, it's halloween, and if it's any day i should be allowed to do this, it's today."

"ain't there no demons.. this is a barn. you wanna talk to demonic horses and shit?" yeonjun pokes in the conversation and raised an eyebrow.

"yes? of course i do, the fuck do you think i am?" taehyun whined, pointing to the devil horns on top of his head as the group finally made it to the front of the line and were waiting for the tractor to come back so that they could get on the hayride.

finally, after they all stood around and handed in their tickets to the clerk in front of the line, their tractor was ready, pulling along the hay covered cart as it came to a stop in front of the barn entrance, waiting for the group to board it.

"wait, hay? y'all ain't say there was going to be hay..." soobin complained, his skin already itching just by looking at all that hay. "y'all do know i'm allergic to hay right?"

"bitchhh, we been said it was a hayride involved," hueningkai snapped, "what you done caught the (y/n) disease where you forget everything every minutes or what?"

"aye i don't forget everything, i just be high," (y/n) cut in as they handed in their tickets to the clerk. "and i'm allergic to hay!" soobin cried out, scratching his forearm.

soobin actually is allergic to hay, but it wasn't something severe, he just got irritated by it and it caused his skin to rash up, not like his skin didn't already look as if it was full of rashes.

(that not true btw)

"oh well," hueningkai replied in a deadpan tone, shrugging. "guess you'll just die then."

after they've all handed in their tickets, everyone began to board the hay filled cart, with everyone obviously choosing to be closest to their besties.

when they got onto the cart. soobin was snuggled up to yeonjun, playing with his diego the explore backpack trying to ignore the itchy feeling the hay gave him.taehyun was resting his head on (y/n)’s shoulder, whining about his knifes, beomgyu was clinging onto kai for dear life, because he was still scared after all.

"i better not hear none of y'all screaming like no pussies after we get in here," yeonjun started after the tractor began to start up and drive them into the dark, cool barn. "how y'all gon be scared of demons when i'm taehyun a whole demon. y'all scared of him now?"

"actually, yes, i'm scared of him just a little bit," beomgyu answered, his tone groggy.

"considering he tried to kill me on multiple occasions and almost succeeded, yes yeonjun, i'm scared of taehyun and he make me fear for my life." soobin added on, slightly flinching at just saying the word taehyun.

"that was before i became positive," taehyun suddenly flashed soobin and beomgyu a toothy smile, "just like i'm positive that none of these demons or zombies or whatever the fuck is in this barn is gon' do shit to us."

"tae if you don't shut your ass up, there’s no demons in here, nor is there any zombies, they are paid actors. you wish you was in a horror movie so bad," hueningkai cut in, once again ruining tyun’s fun.

as of right now, nothing scary was going on. just the typical music playing throughout the barn, random screams, and plastic skeletons appearing out of nowhere. shit that made little kids be scared of, but anyone else wouldn't be phased. not even beomgyu was phased by what was going on, and he was the main one who was scared to come along.

but then.. things started to get more spooky. the people who were sitting on the edge would start to get grabbed and poked without warning, and people would come up on side of the cart out of nowhere and scream or otherwise bring attention to themselves, which would catch them off guard obviously, but shit like that was to be expected at a haunted house.. or in this case a haunted barn.

but soon though, things began to get downright creepy.

as they were sitting in the cart, slightly startled and caught off guard by the jumpscares, but not too shaken up, not even beomgyu was that scared, as he made sure to sit in the middle of the cart to avoid being randomly grabbed or touched by these strangers in costume, and it was just amusing to people like taehyun or (y/n), they weren't prepared for what started to happen next.

soon the music that sounded as if it was from a demonic nursery cut out mid note, and it was replaced by an old, gravely sounding voice that began to sing happy birthday very terribly and off key.

and they thought this was creepy, considering it was gus' birthday, but they considered it was a coincidence. "damn (n/n), they singing happy birthday to you, that's wild," yeonjun noticed, laughing at the 'coincidence'.

"see, i told y'all they’re really a skeleton, how else would they know that we're here for their birthday, hmm?" beomgyu added matter of factly causing the others to let out laughter.

so even though it was somewhat unsettling, it didn't become horrifying until the voice replaced "happy birthday to you," with "happy birthday (y/n)."

the place then became a chorus of "did yall hear that shit?" and "yeo what the fuck?!" after they noticed that, with (y/n) in particular being especially shook that there seemed to be a demon singing specifically to them, and their eyes went wide as the voice continued to serenade them, albeit poorly.

"see, this ain't it no more." soobin announced and hueningkai nodded in agreement. "h-how do they know it's (n/n)' birthday? much less who (y/n) is?" beomgyu asked as he held onto (y/n) even tighter than he was before. "i'm scared now."

"that's what we all want to know," yeonjun answered before reaching up to adjust his wig, before feeling nothing but his real hair tied back. he knew his wig didn't fall off or get snatched off, he had it secured with bobby pins, because it was one of his mother's wigs and he didn't want to lose it, but it had just completely disappeared.

"uh...my wig is gone," yeonjun announced and soobin just nodded. "same."

"no i mean it's for real gone... my dora or lord farquaad or whatever the fuck wig i was wearing earlier just.. disappeared into thin air." yeonjun continued to explain as he continued to search the surrounding area for it, just in case it fell out of his head but it was actually gone.

"see, i told y'all asses there were demons in here, but y'all didn’t wanna listen now y'all getting your shit taken, and demons are singing happy birthday to (y/n) and shit, and now y'all shocked," taehyun added with a huff.

"tyun, ain't no demons in here. if there were demons in here, they would do a lot worse than steal hats and wigs and sing happy birthday, believe that. they'd be torturing us psychologically, and- wait, where the fuck is my sheep hat?" hueningkai touched the top of his head, where his costume top was missing from, and now he was heated.

"yeah, we gotta get outta here."

more shit like that continued to happen with the voice continuing to reference them by name, and reference stuff that only people that know them would know, like soobin almost running someone over once, or yeonjun’s furry suit,and then, near the end of the ride, it all came together in the worst possible way.

a single echoing voice with a thick new york accent screaming "SCUUUUM GANGGGG!" followed by a laugh in the distance that sounded a lot like jyp’s laugh.

and in that moment, all of them literally hopped off of the cart and ran towards the exit.

[aboveallarescuer]

All mentions of Dany in other POVs

This is a list with all mentions of Dany and/or her dragons and/or events involving Dany in other POVs.

A Dance with Dragons

ADWD Epilogue

“We have these tales coming from the east as well. A second Targaryen, and one whose blood no man can question. Daenerys Stormborn.”

“As mad as her father,” declared Lord Mace Tyrell.

That would be the same father that Highgarden and House Tyrell supported to the bitter end and well beyond. “Mad she may be,” Ser Kevan said, “but with so much smoke drifting west, surely there must be some fire burning in the east.”

Grand Maester Pycelle bobbed his head. “Dragons. These same stories have reached Oldtown. Too many to discount. A silver-haired queen with three dragons.”

“At the far end of the world,” said Mace Tyrell. “Queen of Slaver’s Bay, aye. She is welcome to it.”

“On that we can agree,” Ser Kevan said, “but the girl is of the blood of Aegon the Conqueror, and I do not think she will be content to remain in Meereen forever. If she should reach these shores and join her strength to Lord Connington and this prince of his, feigned or no … we must destroy Connington and his pretender now, before Daenerys Stormborn can come west.”

ADWD The Queen's Hand

He stood beside the parapets of the highest step of the Great Pyramid, searching the sky as he did every morning, knowing that the dawn must come and hoping that his queen would come with it. She will not have abandoned us, she would never leave her people, he was telling himself, when he heard the prince’s death rattle coming from the queen’s apartments.

~

At his command, Quentyn Martell had been laid out in the queen’s own bed. He had been a knight, and a prince of Dorne besides. It seemed only kind to let him die in the bed he had crossed half a world to reach. The bedding was ruined—sheets, covers, pillows, mattress, all reeked of blood and smoke, but Ser Barristan thought Daenerys would forgive him.

~

He should have stayed in Dorne. He should have stayed a frog. Not all men are meant to dance with dragons. As he covered the boy once more, he found himself wondering whether there would be anyone to cover his queen, or whether her own corpse would lie un-mourned amongst the tall grasses of the Dothraki sea, staring blindly at the sky until her flesh fell from her bones.

“No,” he said aloud. “Daenerys is not dead. She was riding that dragon. I saw it with mine own two eyes.” He had said the same a hundred times before … but every day that passed made it harder to believe. Her hair was afire. I saw that too. She was burning … and if I did not see her fall, hundreds swear they did.

~

“They await the Hand’s pleasure below.”

I am no Hand, a part of him wanted to cry out. I am only a simple knight, the queen’s protector. I never wanted this. But with the queen gone and the king in chains, someone had to rule, and Ser Barristan did not trust the Shavepate.

~

“The fighting pits will remain closed,” said Selmy. “Blood and noise would only serve to call the dragons.”

“All three, perhaps,” suggested Marselen. “The black beast came once, why not again? This time with our queen.”

Or without her. Should Drogon return to Meereen without Daenerys mounted on his back, the city would erupt in blood and flame, of that Ser Barristan had no doubt. The very men sitting at this table would soon be at dagger points with one another. A young girl she might be, but Daenerys Targaryen was the only thing that held them all together.

“Her Grace will return when she returns,” said Ser Barristan.

~

The hostages again. He would kill them every one if I allowed it. “I heard you the first hundred times. No.”

“Queen’s Hand,” Skahaz grumbled with disgust. “An old woman’s hand, I am thinking, wrinkled and feeble. I pray Daenerys returns to us soon.” He pulled his brazen wolf’s mask down over his face. “Your council will be growing restless.”

“They are the queen’s council, not mine.”

~

Though he had assumed the title of Hand, Ser Barristan would not presume to hold court in the queen’s absence, nor would he permit Skahaz mo Kandaq to do such. Hizdahr’s grotesque dragon thrones had been removed at Ser Barristan’s command, but he had not brought back the simple pillowed bench the queen had favored. Instead a large round table had been set up in the center of the hall, with tall chairs all around it where men might sit and talk as peers.

~

“You had best guard that tongue, ser.” Ser Barristan did not like this Gerris Drinkwater, nor would he allow him to vilify Daenerys. “Prince Quentyn’s death was his own doing, and yours.”

~

“He offered her his heart,” Ser Gerris said again. “She needed swords, not hearts.”

“He would have given her the spears of Dorne as well.”

“Would that he had.” No one had wanted Daenerys to look with favor on the Dornish prince more than Barristan Selmy.

~

“What he did he did for love of Queen Daenerys,” Gerris Drinkwater insisted. “To prove himself worthy of her hand.”

The old knight had heard enough. “What Prince Quentyn did he did for Dorne. Do you take me for some doting grandfather? I have spent my life around kings and queens and princes. Sunspear means to take up arms against the Iron Throne. No, do not trouble to deny it. Doran Mar-tell is not a man to call his spears without hope of victory. Duty brought Prince Quentyn here. Duty, honor, thirst for glory … never love. Quentyn was here for dragons, not Daenerys.”

~

The Dornishmen, Hizdahr, Reznak, the attack … was he doing the right things? Was he doing what Daenerys would have wanted? I was not made for this. Other Kingsguard had served as Hand before him. Not many, but a few. He had read of them in the White Book. Now he found himself wondering whether they had felt as lost and confused as he did.

~

Galazza Galare was attended by four Pink Graces. An aura of wisdom and dignity seemed to surround her that Ser Barristan could not help but admire. This is a strong woman, and she has been a faithful friend to Daenerys.

~

“Have there been any further tidings of our sweet queen?”

“None as yet.”

“I shall pray for her. And what of King Hizdahr, if I may be so bold? Might I be permitted to see His Radiance?”

“Soon, I hope. He is unharmed, I promise you.”

“I am pleased to hear that. The Wise Masters of Yunkai asked after him. You will not be surprised to hear that they wish the noble Hizdahr to be restored at once to his rightful place.”

“He shall be, if it can be proved that he did not try to kill our queen. Until such time, Meereen will be ruled by a council of the loyal and just. There is a place for you on that council. I know that you have much to teach us all, Your Benevolence. We need your wisdom.”

“I fear you flatter me with empty courtesies, Lord Hand,” the Green Grace said. “If you truly think me wise, heed me now. Release the noble Hizdahr and restore him to his throne.”

“Only the queen can do that.”

~

“I know these were not the words you wished to hear,” said Galazza Galare. “Yet for myself, I understand. These dragons are fell beasts. Yunkai fears them … and with good cause, you cannot deny. Our histories speak of the dragonlords of dread Valyria and the devastation that they wrought upon the peoples of Old Ghis. Even your own young queen, fair Daenerys who called herself the Mother of Dragons … we saw her burning, that day in the pit … even she was not safe from the dragon’s wroth.”

“Her Grace is not … she …”

“… is dead. May the gods grant her sweet sleep.” Tears glistened behind her veils. “Let her dragons die as well.”

ADWD The Dragontamer

“Is that rain? Your whores will be gone.”

“Not all of them. There are little snuggeries in the pleasure gardens, and they wait there every night until a man chooses them. Those who are not chosen must remain until the sun comes up, feeling lonely and neglected. We could console them.”

“They could console me, is what you mean.”

“That too.”

“That is not the sort of consolation I require.”

“I disagree. Daenerys Targaryen is not the only woman in the world. Do you want to die a man-maid?”

Quentyn did not want to die at all. I want to go back to Yronwood and kiss both of your sisters, marry Gwyneth Yronwood, watch her flower into beauty, have a child by her. I want to ride in tourneys, hawk and hunt, visit with my mother in Norvos, read some of those books my father sends me. I want Cletus and Will and Maester Kedry to be alive again. “Do you think Daenerys would be pleased to hear that I had bedded some whore?”

“She might be. Men may be fond of maidens, but women like a man who knows what he’s about in the bedchamber. It’s another sort of sword-play. Takes training to be good at it.”

The gibe stung. Quentyn had never felt so much a boy as when he’d stood before Daenerys Targaryen, pleading for her hand. The thought of bedding her terrified him almost as much as her dragons had. What if he could not please her? “Daenerys has a paramour,” he said defensively. “My father did not send me here to amuse the queen in the bedchamber. You know why we have come.”

“You cannot marry her. She has a husband.”

“She does not love Hizdahr zo Loraq.”

“What has love to do with marriage? A prince should know better. Your father married for love, it’s said. How much joy has he had of that?”

~

“Dorne remembers Aegon and his sisters. Dragons are not so easily forgotten. They will remember Daenerys as well.”

“Not if she’s died.”

“She lives.” She must. “She is lost, but I can find her.” And when I do, she will look at me the way she looks at her sellsword. Once I have proven myself worthy of her.

~

“What’s that for?” Arch asked.

“Daenerys used a whip to cow the black beast.” Quentyn coiled the whip and hung it from his belt. “Arch, bring your hammer as well. We may have need of it.”

~

Warrior, grant me courage, he prayed. He did not want to do this, but he saw no other way. Why else would Daenerys have shown me the dragons? She wants me to prove myself to her. Gerris handed him a torch. He stepped through the doors.

The green one is Rhaegal, the white Viserion, he reminded himself. Use their names, command them, speak to them calmly but sternly. Master them, as Daenerys mastered Drogon in the pit. The girl had been alone, clad in wisps of silk, but fearless. I must not be afraid. She did it, so can I. The main thing was to show no fear. Animals can smell fear, and dragons … What did he know of dragons? What does any man know of dragons? They have been gone from the world for more than a century.

~

Last and longest the beast stared at Pretty Meris, sniffing. The woman, Quentyn realized. He knows that she is female. He is looking for Daenerys. He wants his mother and does not understand why she’s not here.

Quentyn wrenched free of Gerris’s grip. “Viserion,” he called. The white one is Viserion. For half a heartbeat he was afraid he’d gotten it wrong. “Viserion,” he called again, fumbling for the whip hanging from his belt. She cowed the black one with a whip. I need to do the same.

ADWD The Kingbreaker

“One guardsman amongst forty. All waiting for the empty tabard on the throne to speak the command so we might cut down Bloodbeard and the rest. Do you think the Yunkai’i would ever have dared present Daenerys with the head of her hostage?”

No, thought Selmy. “Hizdahr seemed distraught.”

“Sham. His own kin of Loraq were returned unharmed. You saw. The Yunkai’i played us a mummer’s farce, with noble Hizdahr as chief mummer. The issue was never Yurkhaz zo Yunzak. The other slavers would gladly have trampled that old fool themselves. This was to give Hizdahr a pretext to kill the dragons.”

Ser Barristan chewed on that. “Would he dare?”

“He dared to kill his queen. Why not her pets? If we do not act, Hizdahr will hesitate for a time, to give proof of his reluctance and allow the Wise Masters the chance to rid him of the Stormcrow and the bloodrider. Then he will act. They want the dragons dead before the Volantene fleet arrives.”

Aye, they would. It all fit. That did not mean Barristan Selmy liked it any better. “That will not happen.” His queen was the Mother of Dragons; he would not allow her children to come to harm.    

~

“Daario might piss on us if we were burning. Elsewise do not look to him for help. Let the Stormcrows choose another captain, one who knows his place. If the queen does not return, the world will be one sellsword short. Who will grieve?”

“And when she does return?”

“She will weep and tear her hair and curse the Yunkai’i. Not us. No blood on our hands. You can comfort her. Tell her some tale of the old days, she likes those. Poor Daario, her brave captain … she will never forget him, no … but better for all of us if he is dead, yes? Better for Daenerys too.”

Better for Daenerys, and for Westeros. Daenerys Targaryen loved her captain, but that was the girl in her, not the queen. Prince Rhaegar loved his Lady Lyanna, and thousands died for it. Daemon Blackfyre loved the first Daenerys, and rose in rebellion when denied her. Bittersteel and Bloodraven both loved Shiera Seastar, and the Seven Kingdoms bled. The Prince of Dragonflies loved Jenny of Oldstones so much he cast aside a crown, and Westeros paid the bride price in corpses. All three of the sons of the fifth Aegon had wed for love, in defiance of their father’s wishes. And because that unlikely monarch had himself followed his heart when he chose his queen, he allowed his sons to have their way, making bitter enemies where he might have had fast friends. Treason and turmoil followed, as night follows day, ending at Summerhall in sorcery, fire, and grief.

Her love for Daario is poison. A slower poison than the locusts, but in the end as deadly. “There is still Jhogo,” Ser Barristan said. “Him, and Hero. Both precious to Her Grace.”

“We have hostages as well,” Skahaz Shavepate reminded him. “If the slavers kill one of ours, we kill one of theirs.”

For a moment Ser Barristan did not know whom he meant. Then it came to him. “The queen’s cupbearers?”

“Hostages,” insisted Skahaz mo Kandaq. “Grazdar and Qezza are the blood of the Green Grace. Mezzara is of Merreq, Kezmya is Pahl, Azzak Ghazeen. Bhakaz is Loraq, Hizdahr’s own kin. All are sons and daughters of the pyramids. Zhak, Quazzar, Uhlez, Hazkar, Dhazak, Yherizan, all children of Great Masters.”

“Innocent girls and sweet-faced boys.” Ser Barristan had come to know them all during the time they served the queen, Grazhar with his dreams of glory, shy Mezzara, lazy Miklaz, vain, pretty Kezmya, Qezza with her big soft eyes and angel’s voice, Dhazzar the dancer, and the rest. “Children.”

“Children of the Harpy. Only blood can pay for blood.”

“So said the Yunkishman who brought us Groleo’s head.”

“He was not wrong.”

“I will not permit it.”

“What use are hostages if they may not be touched?”

“Mayhaps we might offer three of the children for Daario, Hero, and Jhogo,” Ser Barristan allowed. “Her Grace—”

“—is not here. It is for you and me to do what must be done. You know that I am right.”

“Prince Rhaegar had two children,” Ser Barristan told him. “Rhaenys was a little girl, Aegon a babe in arms. When Tywin Lannister took King’s Landing, his men killed both of them. He served the bloody bodies up in crimson cloaks, a gift for the new king.” And what did Robert say when he saw them? Did he smile? Barristan Selmy had been badly wounded on the Trident, so he had been spared the sight of Lord Tywin’s gift, but oft he wondered. If I had seen him smile over the red ruins of Rhaegar’s children, no army on this earth could have stopped me from killing him. “I will not suffer the murder of children. Accept that, or I’ll have no part of this.”

~

That is what I fear. If King Hizdahr was innocent, what they did this day would be treason. But how could he be innocent? Selmy had heard him urging Daenerys to taste the poisoned locusts, shouting at his men to slay the dragon. If we do not act, Hizdahr will kill the dragons and open the gates to the queen’s enemies. We have no choice in this. Yet no matter how he turned and twisted this, the old knight could find no honor in it.

~

Some of them had been training for the fighting pits when Daenerys Targaryen took Meereen and freed them from their chains. Those had had a good acquaintance with sword and spear and battle-axe even before Ser Barristan got hold of them. A few might well be ready. The boy from the Basilisk Isles, for a start. Tumco Lho.

~

Rhaegar had chosen Lyanna Stark of Winterfell. Barristan Selmy would have made a different choice. Not the queen, who was not present. Nor Elia of Dorne, though she was good and gentle; had she been chosen, much war and woe might have been avoided. His choice would have been a young maiden not long at court, one of Elia’s companions … though compared to Ashara Dayne, the Dornish princess was a kitchen drab.

Even after all these years, Ser Barristan could still recall Ashara’s smile, the sound of her laughter. He had only to close his eyes to see her, with her long dark hair tumbling about her shoulders and those haunting purple eyes. Daenerys has the same eyes. Sometimes when the queen looked at him, he felt as if he were looking at Ashara’s daughter …

~

The boy went running off, and the king turned back to Selmy. “I dreamed you found Daenerys.”

“Dreams can lie, Your Grace.”

~

“It was your pit, your box, your seats. Sweet wine and soft cushions, figs and melons and honeyed locusts. You provided all. You urged Her Grace to try the locusts but never tasted one yourself.”

“I … hot spices do not agree with me. She was my wife. My queen. Why would I want to poison her?”

Was, he says. He believes her dead. “Only you can answer that, Magnificence. It might be that you wished to put another woman in her place.” Ser Barristan nodded at the girl peering timidly from the bed-chamber. “That one, perhaps?”

The king looked around wildly. “Her? She’s nothing. A bedslave.” He raised his hands. “I misspoke. Not a slave. A free woman. Trained in pleasure. Even a king has needs, she … she is none of your concern, ser. I would never harm Daenerys. Never.”

“You urged the queen to try the locusts. I heard you.”

“I thought she might enjoy them.” Hizdahr retreated another step. “Hot and sweet at once.”

“Hot and sweet and poisoned. With mine own ears I heard you commanding the men in the pit to kill Drogon. Shouting at them.”

Hizdahr licked his lips. “The beast devoured Barsena’s flesh. Dragons prey on men. It was killing, burning …”

“… burning men who meant harm to your queen. Harpy’s Sons, as like as not. Your friends.”

“Not my friends.”

“You say that, yet when you told them to stop killing they obeyed. Why would they do that if you were not one of them?”

Hizdahr shook his head. This time he did not answer. “Tell me true,” Ser Barristan said, “did you ever love her, even a little? Or was it just the crown you lusted for?”

“Lust? You dare speak to me of lust?” The king’s mouth twisted in anger. “I lusted for the crown, aye … but not half so much as she lusted for her sellsword. Perhaps it was her precious captain who tried to poison her, for putting him aside. And if I had eaten of his locusts too, well, so much the better.”

~

“You will be kept a prisoner until the queen returns. If nothing can be proved against you, you will not come to harm. You have my word as a knight.”

ADWD Victarion I

The war for Meereen was won, the captain claimed; the dragon queen was dead, and a Ghiscari by the name of Hizdak ruled the city now.

Victarion had his tongue torn out for lying. Daenerys Targaryen was not dead, Moqorro assured him; his red god R’hllor had shown him the queen’s face in his sacred fires. The captain could not abide lies, so he had the Ghiscari captain bound hand and foot and thrown overboard, a sacrifice to the Drowned God.

~

Sailing out of Myr, the Dove brought them no fresh news of Meereen or Daenerys, only stale reports of Dothraki horsemen along the Rhoyne, the Golden Company upon the march, and others things Victarion already knew.

~

They had been running empty, Victarion learned, making for New Ghis to load supplies and weapons for the Ghiscari legions encamped before Meereen … and to bring fresh legionaries to the war, to replace all the men who’d died. “Men slain in battle?” asked Victarion. The crews of the galleys denied it; the deaths were from a bloody flux. The pale mare, they called it. And like the captain of the Ghiscari Dawn, the captains of the galleys repeated the lie that Daenerys Targaryen was dead.

“Give her a kiss for me in whatever hell you find her,” Victarion said. He called for his axe and took their heads off there and then. Afterward he put their crews to death as well, saving only the slaves chained to the oars. He broke their chains himself and told them they were now free men and would have the privilege of rowing for the Iron Fleet, an honor that every boy in the Iron Islands dreamed of growing up. “The dragon queen frees slaves and so do I,” he proclaimed.

~

“The silver queen is gone,” the ketch’s master told him. “She flew away upon her dragon, beyond the Dothraki sea.”

“Where is this Dothraki sea?” he demanded. “I will sail the Iron Fleet across it and find the queen wherever she may be.”

The fisherman laughed aloud. “That would be a sight worth seeing. The Dothraki sea is made of grass, fool.”

~

“He bearded the lion in his den and tied the direwolf’s tail in knots, but even Dagon could not defeat the dragons. But I shall make the dragon queen mine own. She will share my bed and bear me many mighty sons.”

~

His dusky woman was enough to satisfy his appetites until he could reach Meereen and claim his queen.

~

A great wind came up then, a wind that filled their sails and swept them north and east and north again, toward Meereen and its pyramids of many-colored bricks. On wings of song I fly to you, Daenerys, the iron captain thought.

ADWD The Griffin Reborn

“Prince Doran’s younger son has been betrothed to Myrcella Baratheon, which would suggest that the Dornishmen have thrown in with House Lannister, but they have an army in the Boneway and another in the Prince’s Pass, just waiting …”

“Waiting.” He frowned. “For what?” Without Daenerys and her dragons, Dorne was central to their hopes. “Write Sunspear. Doran Martell must know that his sister’s son is still alive and has come home to claim his father’s throne.”

~

“My lord does have one prize to offer,” Haldon Halfmaester pointed out. “Prince Aegon’s hand. A marriage alliance, to bring some great House to our banners.”

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.”

ADWD The Spurned Suitor

“Even if the queen returns, she’ll still be married.”

“Not if I give King Harzoo a little smack with my hammer,” suggested the big man.

“Hizdahr,” said Quentyn. “His name is Hizdahr.”

“One kiss from my hammer and no one will care what his name was,” said Arch.

They do not see. His friends had lost sight of his true purpose here. The road leads through her, not to her. Daenerys is the means to the prize, not the prize itself. “ ‘The dragon has three heads,’ she said to me. ‘My marriage need not be the end of all your hopes,’ she said. ‘I know why you are here. For fire and blood.’ I have Targaryen blood in me, you know that. I can trace my lineage back—”

“Fuck your lineage,” said Gerris. “The dragons won’t care about your blood, except maybe how it tastes. You cannot tame a dragon with a history lesson. They’re monsters, not maesters. Quent, is this truly what you want to do?”

“This is what I have to do. For Dorne. For my father. For Cletus and Will and Maester Kedry.”

“They’re dead,” said Gerris. “They won’t care.”

“All dead,” Quentyn agreed. “For what? To bring me here, so I might wed the dragon queen. A grand adventure, Cletus called it. Demon roads and stormy seas, and at the end of it the most beautiful woman in the world. A tale to tell our grandchildren. But Cletus will never father a child, unless he left a bastard in the belly of that tavern wench he liked. Will will never have his wedding. Their deaths should have some meaning.”

~

“Denzo, I thought you told me that the dragon queen had married some Ghiscari.”

“A Meereenese nobleman. Rich.”

The Tattered Prince turned back to Quentyn. “Could that be true? Surely not. What of your marriage pact?”

“She laughed at him,” said Pretty Meris.

Daenerys never laughed. The rest of Meereen might see him as an amusing curiosity, like the exiled Summer Islander King Robert used to keep at King’s Landing, but the queen had always spoken to him gently. “We came too late,” said Quentyn.

~

“How long do you think the Yunkishmen will want to continue paying wages to four free companies?”

The Tattered Prince took a sip of wine and said, “A vexing question. But this is the way of life for we men of the free companies. One war ends, another begins. Fortunately there is always someone fighting someone somewhere. Perhaps here. Even as we sit here drinking Bloodbeard is urging our Yunkish friends to present King Hizdahr with another head. Freedmen and slavers eye each other’s necks and sharpen their knives, the Sons of the Harpy plot in their pyramids, the pale mare rides down slave and lord alike, our friends from the Yellow City gaze out to sea, and somewhere in the grasslands a dragon nibbles the tender flesh of Daenerys Targaryen. Who rules Meereen tonight? Who will rule it on the morrow?” The Pentoshi gave a shrug. “One thing I am certain of. Someone will have need of our swords.”

~

“So. Let me see if I understand. A proven liar and oathbreaker wishes to contract with us and pay in promises. And for what services? I wonder. Are my Windblown to smash the Yunkai’i and sack the Yellow City? Defeat a Dothraki khalasar in the field? Escort you home to your father? Or will you be content if we deliver Queen Daenerys to your bed wet and willing? Tell me true, Prince Frog. What would you have of me and mine?”

“I need you to help me steal a dragon.”

ADWD The Discarded Knight

Daenerys Targaryen had preferred to hold court from a bench of polished ebony, smooth and simple, covered with the cushions that Ser Barristan had found to make her more comfortable. King Hizdahr had replaced the bench with two imposing thrones of gilded wood, their tall backs carved into the shape of dragons. The king seated himself in the right-hand throne with a golden crown upon his head and a jeweled sceptre in one pale hand. The second throne remained vacant.

The important throne, thought Ser Barristan. No dragon chair can replace a dragon no matter how elaborately it’s carved.

~

“Is it true?” a freedwoman shouted. “Is our mother dead?”

“No, no, no,” Reznak screeched. “Queen Daenerys will return to Meereen in her own time in all her might and majesty. Until such time, His Worship King Hizdahr shall—”

“He is no king of mine,” a freedman yelled.

Men began to shove at one another. “The queen is not dead,” the seneschal proclaimed. “Her bloodriders have been dispatched across the Skahazadhan to find Her Grace and return her to her loving lord and loyal subjects. Each has ten picked riders, and each man has three swift horses, so they may travel fast and far. Queen Daenerys shall be found.”

A tall Ghiscari in a brocade robe spoke next, in a voice as sonorous as it was cold. King Hizdahr shifted on his dragon throne, his face stony as he did his best to appear concerned but unperturbed. Once again his seneschal gave answer.

Ser Barristan let Reznak’s oily words wash over him. His years in the Kingsguard had taught him the trick of listening without hearing, especially useful when the speaker was intent on proving that words were truly wind. Back at the rear of the hall, he spied the Dornish princeling and his two companions. They should not have come. Martell does not realize his danger. Daenerys was his only friend at this court, and she is gone. He wondered how much they understood of what was being said. Even he could not always make sense of the mongrel Ghiscari tongue the slavers spoke, especially when they were speaking fast.

Prince Quentyn was listening intently, at least. That one is his father’s son. Short and stocky, plain-faced, he seemed a decent lad, sober, sensible, dutiful … but not the sort to make a young girl’s heart beat faster. And Daenerys Targaryen, whatever else she might be, was still a young girl, as she herself would claim when it pleased her to play the innocent. Like all good queens she put her people first—else she would never have wed Hizdahr zo Loraq—but the girl in her still yearned for poetry, passion, and laughter. She wants fire, and Dorne sent her mud.

~

Martell was dancing in a vipers’ nest, and he did not even see the snakes. His continued presence, even after Daenerys had given herself to another before the eyes of gods and men, would provoke any husband, and Quentyn no longer had the queen to shield him from Hizdahr’s wroth. Although …

The thought hit him like a slap across the face. Quentyn had grown up amongst the courts of Dorne. Plots and poisons were no strangers to him. Nor was Prince Lewyn his only uncle. He is kin to the Red Viper. Daenerys had taken another for her consort, but if Hizdahr died, she would be free to wed again. Could the Shavepate have been wrong? Who can say that the locusts were meant for Daenerys? It was the king’s own box. What if he was meant to be the victim all along? Hizdahr’s death would have smashed the fragile peace. The Sons of the Harpy would have resumed their murders, the Yunkishmen their war. Daenerys might have had no better choice than Quentyn and his marriage pact.

~

Reznak mo Reznak cleared his throat noisily. “Meaning no offense, yet it seems to me that Her Worship Queen Daenerys gave you … ah … seven hostages. The other three …”

“The others shall remain our guests,” announced the Yunkish lord in the breastplate, “until the dragons have been destroyed.”

A hush fell across the hall. Then came the murmurs and the mutters, whispered curses, whispered prayers, the hornets stirring in their hive. “The dragons …” said King Hizdahr.

“… are monsters, as all men saw in Daznak’s Pit. No true peace is possible whilst they live.”

Reznak replied. “Her Magnificence Queen Daenerys is Mother of Dragons. Only she can—”

Bloodbeard’s scorn cut him off. “She is gone. Burned and devoured. Weeds grow through her broken skull.”

~

Ser Barristan watched them, thoughtful. What would Daenerys want? he asked himself. He thought he knew.

~

“Leave the city. Return to Dorne.”

The Dornishmen exchanged a look. “Our arms and armor are back in our apartments,” said Gerris Drinkwater. “Not to mention most of the coin that we have left.”

“Swords can be replaced,” said Ser Barristan. “I can provide you with coin enough for passage back to Dorne. Prince Quentyn, the king made note of you today. He frowned.”

Gerris Drinkwater laughed. “Should we be frightened of Hizdahr zo Loraq? You saw him just now. He quailed before the Yunkishmen. They sent him a head, and he did nothing.”

Quentyn Martell nodded in agreement. “A prince does well to think before he acts. This king … I do not know what to think of him. The queen warned me against him as well, true, but …”

“She warned you?” Selmy frowned. “Why are you still here?”

Prince Quentyn flushed. “The marriage pact—”

“—was made by two dead men and contained not a word about the queen or you. It promised your sister’s hand to the queen’s brother, another dead man. It has no force. Until you turned up here, Her Grace was ignorant of its existence. Your father keeps his secrets well, Prince Quentyn. Too well, I fear. If the queen had known of this pact in Qarth, she might never have turned aside for Slaver’s Bay, but you came too late. I have no wish to salt your wounds, but Her Grace has a new husband and an old paramour, and seems to prefer the both of them to you.”

“This Ghiscari lordling is no fit consort for the queen of the Seven Kingdoms.”

“That is not for you to judge.” Ser Barristan paused, wondering if he had said too much already. No. Tell him the rest of it. “That day at Daznak’s Pit, some of the food in the royal box was poisoned. It was only chance that Strong Belwas ate it all. The Blue Graces say that only his size and freakish strength have saved him, but it was a near thing. He may yet die.”

The shock was plain on Prince Quentyn’s face. “Poison … meant for Daenerys?”

“Her or Hizdahr. Perhaps both. The box was his, though. His Grace made all the arrangements. If the poison was his doing … well, he will need a scapegoat. Who better than a rival from a distant land who has no friends at this court? Who better than a suitor the queen spurned?”

Quentyn Martell went pale. “Me? I would never … you cannot think I had any part in any …”

That was the truth, or he is a master mummer. “Others might,” said Ser Barristan. “The Red Viper was your uncle. And you have good reason to want King Hizdahr dead.”

“So do others,” suggested Gerris Drinkwater. “Naharis, for one. The queen’s …”

“… paramour,” Ser Barristan finished, before the Dornish knight could say anything that might besmirch the queen’s honor.

ADWD Tyrion XI

“The silver queen—”

“—is dead,” insisted Sweets. “Forget her! The dragon took her across the river. She’s drowned in that Dothraki sea.”

“You can’t drown in grass,” the goat boy said. “If we were free,” said Penny, “we could find the queen. Or go search for her, at least.”

You on your dog and me on my sow, chasing a dragon across the Dothraki sea. Tyrion scratched his scar to keep from laughing. “This particular dragon has already evinced a fondness for roast pork. And roast dwarf is twice as tasty.”

~

The fact that there were any good wells at all within a day’s march of the city only went to prove that Daenerys Targaryen was still an innocent where siegecraft was concerned. She should have poisoned every well. Then all the Yunkishmen would be drinking from the river. See how long their siege lasts then. That was what his lord father would have done, Tyrion did not doubt.

~

There was no better place to hear the latest news and rumors than around the well. “I know what I saw,” an old slave in a rusted iron collar was saying, as Tyrion and Penny shuffled along in the queue, “and I saw that dragon ripping off arms and legs, tearing men in half, burning them down to ash and bones. People started running, trying to get out of that pit, but I come to see a show, and by all the gods of Ghis, I saw one. I was up in the purple, so I didn’t think the dragon was like to trouble me.”

“The queen climbed onto the dragon’s back and flew away,” insisted a tall brown woman.

“She tried,” said the old man, “but she couldn’t hold on. The cross-bows wounded the dragon, and the queen was struck right between her sweet pink teats, I hear. That was when she fell. She died in the gutter, crushed beneath a wagon’s wheels. I know a girl who knows a man who saw her die.”

In this company, silence was the better part of wisdom, but Tyrion could not help himself. “No corpse was found,” he said.

The old man frowned. “What would you know about it?”

“They were there,” said the brown woman. “It’s them, the jousting dwarfs, the ones who tilted for the queen.”

The old man squinted down as if seeing him and Penny for the first time. “You’re the ones who rode the pigs.”

Our notoriety precedes us. Tyrion sketched a courtly bow, and refrained from pointing out that one of the pigs was really a dog. “The sow I ride is actually my sister. We have the same nose, could you tell? A wizard cast a spell on her, but if you give her a big wet kiss, she will turn into a beautiful woman. The pity is, once you get to know her, you’ll want to kiss her again to turn her back.”

Laughter erupted all around them. Even the old man joined in. “You saw her, then,” said the redheaded boy behind them. “You saw the queen. Is she as beautiful as they say?”

I saw a slender girl with silvery hair wrapped in a tokar, he might have told them. Her face was veiled, and I never got close enough for a good look. I was riding on a pig. Daenerys Targaryen had been seated in the owner’s box beside her Ghiscari king, but Tyrion’s eyes had been drawn to the knight in the white-and-gold armor behind her. Though his features were concealed, the dwarf would have known Barristan Selmy anywhere. Illyrio was right about that much, at least, he remembered thinking. Will Selmy know me, though? And what will he do if he does?

~

“The queen watched us tilt,” Penny was telling the other slaves in line, “but that was the only time we saw her.”

“You must have seen the dragon,” said the old man.

Would that we had. The gods had not even vouchsafed him that much. As Daenerys Targaryen was taking wing, Nurse had been clapping irons round their ankles to make certain they would not attempt escape on their way back to their master. If the overseer had only taken his leave after delivering them to the abbatoir, or fled with the rest of the slavers when the dragon descended from the sky, the two dwarfs might have strolled away free. Or run away, more like, our little bells a-jingle.

“Was there a dragon?” Tyrion said with a shrug. “All I know is that no dead queens were found.”

~

“...Might be they did but decided to say elsewise, to keep you slaves quiet.”

“Us slaves?” said the brown woman. “You wear a collar too.”

“Ghazdor’s collar,” the old man boasted. “Known him since we was born. I’m almost like a brother to him. Slaves like you, sweepings out of Astapor and Yunkai, you whine about being free, but I wouldn’t give the dragon queen my collar if she offered to suck my cock for it. Man has the right master, that’s better.”

 ADWD The Iron Suitor

And I must needs reach the dragon queen before the Volantenes.

In Volantis he had seen the galleys taking on provisions. The whole city had seemed drunk. Sailors and soldiers and tinkers had been observed dancing in the streets with nobles and fat merchants, and in every inn and winesink cups were being raised to the new triarchs. All the talk had been of the gold and gems and slaves that would flood into Volantis once the dragon queen was dead.

~

“Is it still to be Meereen?”

“Where else? The dragon queen awaits me in Meereen.” The fairest woman in the world if my brother could be believed. Her hair is silver-gold, her eyes are amethysts.

Was it too much to hope that for once Euron had told it true? Perhaps. Like as not, the girl would prove to be some pock-faced slattern with teats slapping against her knees, her “dragons” no more than tattooed lizards from the swamps of Sothoryos. If she is all that Euron claims, though … They had heard talk of the beauty of Daenerys Targaryen from the lips of pirates in the Stepstones and fat merchants in Old Volantis. It might be true. And Euron had not made Victarion a gift of her; the Crow’s Eye meant to take her for himself. He sends me like a serving man to fetch her. How he will howl when I claim her for myself. Let the men mutter. They had sailed too far and lost too much for Victarion to turn west without his prize.

 ADWD The Queensguard

You were the queen’s man,” said Reznak mo Reznak. “The king desires his own men about him when he holds court.”

I am the queen’s man still. Today, tomorrow, always, until my last breath, or hers. Barristan Selmy refused to believe that Daenerys Targaryen was dead.

Perhaps that was why he was being put aside. One by one, Hizdahr removes us all.

~

Despite all the queen had done, the sickness had spread, both within the city walls and without. Meereen’s markets were closed, its streets empty. King Hizdahr had allowed the fighting pits to remain open, but the crowds were sparse. The Meereenese had even begun to shun the Temple of the Graces, reportedly.

The slavers will find some way to blame Daenerys for that as well, Ser Barristan thought bitterly. He could almost hear them whispering—Great Masters, Sons of the Harpy, Yunkai’i, all telling one another that his queen was dead. Half of the city believed it, though as yet they did not have the courage to say such words aloud. But soon, I think.

~

Not for the first time, Selmy wondered at the strange fates that had brought him here. He was a knight of Westeros, a man of the stormlands and the Dornish marches; his place was in the Seven Kingdoms, not here upon the sweltering shores of Slaver’s Bay. I came to bring Daenerys home. Yet he had lost her, just as he had lost her father and her brother. Even Robert. I failed him too.

Perhaps Hizdahr was wiser than he knew. Ten years ago I would have sensed what Daenerys meant to do. Ten years ago I would have been quick enough to stop her. Instead he had stood befuddled as she leapt into the pit, shouting her name, then running uselessly after her across the scarlet sands. I am become old and slow. Small wonder Naharis mocked him as Ser Grandfather. Would Daario have moved more quickly if he had been beside the queen that day? Selmy thought he knew the answer to that, though it was not one he liked.

He had dreamed of it again last night: Belwas on his knees retching up bile and blood, Hizdahr urging on the dragonslayers, men and women fleeing in terror, fighting on the steps, climbing over one another, screaming and shouting. And Daenerys …

Her hair was aflame. She had the whip in her hand and she was shouting, then she was on the dragon’s back, flying. The sand that Drogon stirred as he took wing had stung Ser Barristan’s eyes, but through a veil of tears he had watched the beast fly from the pit, his great black wings slapping at the shoulders of the bronze warriors at the gates.

The rest he learned later. Beyond the gates had been a solid press of people. Maddened by the smell of dragon, horses below reared in terror, lashing out with iron-shod hooves. Food stalls and palanquins alike were overturned, men knocked down and trampled. Spears were thrown, cross-bows were fired. Some struck home. The dragon twisted violently in the air, wounds smoking, the girl clinging to his back. Then he loosed the fire.

It had taken the rest of the day and most of the night for the Brazen Beasts to gather up the corpses. The final count was two hundred fourteen slain, three times as many burned or wounded. Drogon was gone from the city by then, last seen high over the Skahazadhan, flying north. Of Daenerys Targaryen, no trace had been found. Some swore they saw her fall. Others insisted that the dragon had carried her off to devour her. They are wrong.

Ser Barristan knew no more of dragons than the tales every child hears, but he knew Targaryens. Daenerys had been riding that dragon, as Aegon had once ridden Balerion of old.

“She might be flying home,” he told himself, aloud. “No,” murmured a soft voice behind him. “She would not do that, ser. She would not go home without us.”

Ser Barristan turned. “Missandei. Child. How long have you been standing there?”

“Not long. This one is sorry if she has disturbed you.”

~

It was his failures that haunted him at night, though. Jaehaerys, Aerys, Robert. Three dead kings. Rhaegar, who would have been a finer king than any of them. Princess Elia and the children. Aegon just a babe, Rhaenys with her kitten. Dead, every one, yet he still lived, who had sworn to protect them. And now Daenerys, his bright shining child queen. She is not dead. I will not believe it.

Afternoon brought Ser Barristan a brief respite from his doubts. He spent it in the training hall on the pyramid’s third level, working with his boys, teaching them the art of sword and shield, horse and lance … and chivalry, the code that made a knight more than any pit fighter. Daenerys would need protectors her own age about her after he was gone, and Ser Barristan was determined to give her such.

The lads he was instructing ranged in age from eight to twenty. He had started with more than sixty of them, but the training had proved too rigorous for many. Less than half that number now remained, but some showed great promise. With no king to guard, I will have more time to train them now, he realized as he walked from pair to pair, watching them go at one another with blunted swords and spears with rounded heads. Brave boys. Baseborn, aye, but some will make good knights, and they love the queen. If not for her, all of them would have ended in the pits. King Hizdahr has his pit fighters, but Daenerys will have knights.

~

If the queen had commanded me to protect Hizdahr, I would have had no choice but to obey. But Daenerys Targaryen had never established a proper Queensguard even for herself nor issued any commands in respect to her consort. The world was simpler when I had a lord commander to decide such matters, Selmy reflected. Now I am the lord commander, and it is hard to know which path is right.

~

“I have the poisoner.”

“Who?”

“Hizdahr’s confectioner. His name would mean nothing to you. The man was just a cats paw. The Sons of the Harpy took his daughter and swore she would be returned unharmed once the queen was dead. Belwas and the dragon saved Daenerys. No one saved the girl. She was returned to her father in the black of night, in nine pieces. One for every year she lived.”

“Why?” Doubts gnawed at him. “The Sons had stopped their killing. Hizdahr’s peace—”

“—is a sham. Not at first, no. The Yunkai’i were afraid of our queen, of her Unsullied, of her dragons. This land has known dragons before. Yurkhaz zo Yunzak had read his histories, he knew. Hizdahr as well. Why not a peace? Daenerys wanted it, they could see that. Wanted it too much. She should have marched to Astapor.” Skahaz moved closer. “That was before. The pit changed all. Daenerys gone, Yurkhaz dead. In place of one old lion, a pack of jackals. Bloodbeard … that one has no taste for peace. And there is more. Worse. Volantis has launched its fleet against us.”

“Volantis.” Selmy’s sword hand tingled. We made a peace with Yunkai. Not with Volantis. “You are certain?”

“Certain. The Wise Masters know. So do their friends. The Harpy, Reznak, Hizdahr. This king will open the city gates to the Volantenes when they arrive. All those Daenerys freed will be enslaved again. Even some who were never slaves will be fitted for chains. You may end your days in a fighting pit, old man. Khrazz will eat your heart.”

His head was pounding. “Daenerys must be told.”

“Find her first.” Skahaz grasped his forearm. His fingers felt like iron. “We cannot wait for her.

~

“Daenerys signed that peace,” Ser Barristan said. “It is not for us to break it without her leave.”

“And if she is dead?” demanded Skahaz. “What then, ser? I say she would want us to protect her city. Her children.”

Her children were the freedmen. Mhysa, they called her, all those whose chains she broke. “Mother.” The Shavepate was not wrong. Daenerys would want her children protected. “What of Hizdahr? He is still her consort. Her king. Her husband.”

“Her poisoner.”

Is he? “Where is your proof?”

“The crown he wears is proof enough. The throne he sits. Open your eyes, old man. That is all he needed from Daenerys, all he ever wanted. Once he had it, why share the rule?”

Why indeed? It had been so hot down in the pit. He could still see the air shimmering above the scarlet sands, smell the blood spilling from the men who’d died for their amusement. And he could still hear Hizdahr, urging his queen to try the honeyed locusts.

ADWD Tyrion X

The next piece of chattel was already being led up to take their place. A girl, fifteen or sixteen, not off the Selaesori Qhoran this time. Tyrion did not know her. The same age as Daenerys Targaryen, or near enough. The slaver soon had her naked. At least we were spared that humiliation.

~

Mormont paid no mind to the mongrel crowd; his eyes were fixed beyond the siege lines, on the distant city with its ancient walls of many-colored brick. Tyrion could read that look as easy as a book: so near and yet so distant. The poor wretch had returned too late. Daenerys Targaryen was wed, the guards on the pens had told them, laughing. She had taken a Meereenese slaver as her king, as wealthy as he was noble, and when the peace was signed and sealed the fighting pits of Meereen would open once again. Other slaves insisted that the guards were lying, that Daenerys Targaryen would never make peace with slavers. Mhysa, they called her. Someone told him that meant Mother. Soon the silver queen would come forth from her city, smash the Yunkai’i, and break their chains, they whispered to one another.

And then she’ll bake us all a lemon pie and kiss our widdle wounds and make them better, the dwarf thought. He had no faith in royal rescues. If need be, he would see to their deliverance himself.

ADWD Jon IX

“Let us hope so. The narrow sea is perilous this time of year, and of late there have been troubling reports of strange ships seen amongst the Step-stones.”

“Salladhor Saan?”

“The Lysene pirate? Some say he has returned to his old haunts, this is so. And Lord Redwyne’s war fleet creeps through the Broken Arm as well.

On its way home, no doubt. But these men and their ships are well-known to us. No, these other sails … from farther east, perhaps … one hears queer talk of dragons.”

“Would that we had one here. A dragon might warm things up a bit.”

“My lord jests. You will forgive me if I do not laugh. We Braavosi are descended from those who fled Valyria and the wroth of its dragonlords. We do not jape of dragons.”

ADWD Tyrion IX

“We failed at that as well. No one threw coins.” Not a penny, not a groat.

“They will when we get better.” Penny pulled off her helm. Mouse-brown hair spilled down to her ears. Her eyes were brown too, beneath a heavy shelf of brow, her cheeks smooth and flushed. She pulled some acorns from a leather bag for Pretty Pig. The sow ate them from her hand, squealing happily. “When we perform for Queen Daenerys the silver will rain down, you’ll see.”

~

At Joffrey’s wedding feast, he recalled, one rider had displayed the direwolf of Robb Stark, the other the arms and colors of Stannis Baratheon. “We will need both animals if we’re to tilt for Queen Daenerys,” he said. If the sailors took it in their heads to butcher Pretty Pig, neither he nor Penny could hope to stop them … but Ser Jorah’s longsword might give them pause, at least.

“Is that how you hope to keep your head, Imp?”

“Ser Imp, if you please. And yes. Once Her Grace knows my true worth, she’ll cherish me. I am a lovable little fellow, after all, and I know many useful things about my kin. But until such time I had best keep her amused.”

“Caper as you like, it won’t wash out your crimes. Daenerys Targaryen is no silly child to be diverted by japes and tumbles. She will deal with you justly.”

Oh, I hope not. Tyrion studied Mormont with his mismatched eyes. “And how will she welcome you, this just queen? A warm embrace, a girlish titter, a headsman’s axe?” He grinned at the knight’s obvious discomfit. “Did you truly expect me to believe you were about the queen’s business in that whorehouse? Defending her from half a world away? Or could it be that you were running, that your dragon queen sent you from her side? But why would she … oh, wait, you were spying on her.” Tyrion made a clucking sound. “You hope to buy your way back into her favor by presenting her with me. An ill-considered scheme, I’d say. One might even say an act of drunken desperation. Perhaps if I were Jaime … but Jaime killed her father, I only killed my own. You think Daenerys will execute me and pardon you, but the reverse is just as likely. Maybe you should hop up on that pig, Ser Jorah. Put on a suit of iron motley, like Florian the—”

The blow the big knight gave him cracked his head around and knocked him sideways, so hard that his head bounced off the deck.

~

“The widow said this ship would never reach her destination. I took that to mean that once we were out to sea beyond the reach of triarchs, the captain would change course for Meereen. Or perhaps that you would seize the ship with your Fiery Hand and take us to Daenerys. But that isn’t what your high priest saw at all, is it?”

“No.” Moqorro’s deep voice tolled as solemnly as a funeral bell. “This is what he saw.”

ADWD Tyrion VIII

“Have you come to pray with me?”

“Someone told me that the night is dark and full of terrors. What do you see in those flames?”

“Dragons,” Moqorro said in the Common Tongue of Westeros. He spoke it very well, with hardly a trace of accent. No doubt that was one reason the high priest Benerro had chosen him to bring the faith of R’hllor to Daenerys Targaryen. “Dragons old and young, true and false, bright and dark. And you. A small man with a big shadow, snarling in the midst of all.”

~

Twice exiled, and small wonder, Tyrion thought. I’d exile him too if I could. The man is cold, brooding, sullen, deaf to humor. And those are his good points. Ser Jorah spent most of his waking hours pacing the forecastle or leaning on the rail, gazing out to sea. Looking for his silver queen. Looking for Daenerys, willing the ship to sail faster. Well, I might do the same if Tysha waited in Meereen.

~

“Daenerys has a kind heart and a generous nature.” It was what she needed to hear. “She will find a place for you at her court, I don’t doubt. A safe place, beyond my sister’s reach.”

Penny turned back to him. “And you will be there too.”

Unless Daenerys decides she needs some Lannister blood, to pay for the Targaryen blood my brother shed. “I will.”

~

“Does our captain mean to test the curse?”

“Our captain would prefer to be fifty leagues farther out to sea, well away from that accursed shore, but I have commanded him to steer the shortest course. Others seek Daenerys too.”

Griff, with his young prince. Could all that talk of the Golden Company sailing west have been a feint? Tyrion considered saying something, then thought better. It seemed to him that the prophecy that drove the red priests had room for just one hero. A second Targaryen would only serve to confuse them. “Have you seen these others in your fires?” he asked, warily.

“Only their shadows,” Moqorro said. “One most of all. A tall and twisted thing with one black eye and ten long arms, sailing on a sea of blood.”

  ADWD Tyrion VII

“What is he saying?” Tyrion asked the knight.

“That Daenerys stands in peril. The dark eye has fallen upon her, and the minions of night are plotting her destruction, praying to their false gods in temples of deceit … conspiring at betrayal with godless outlanders …”

The hairs on the back of Tyrion’s neck began to prickle. Prince Aegon will find no friend here. The red priest spoke of ancient prophecy, a prophecy that foretold the coming of a hero to deliver the world from darkness. One hero. Not two. Daenerys has dragons, Aegon does not. The dwarf did not need to be a prophet himself to foresee how Benerro and his followers might react to a second Targaryen. Griff will see that too, surely, he thought, surprised to find how much he cared.

~

Tyrion had just swallowed another locust. He almost choked on it. Is he mocking me? How much could he know of Griff and Aegon? “Bugger,” he said. “I meant to hire the Golden Company myself, to win me Casterly Rock.” Could this be some ploy of Griff’s, false reports deliberately spread? Unless … Could the pretty princeling have swallowed the bait? Turned them west instead of east, abandoning his hopes of wedding Queen Daenerys? Abandoning the dragons … would Griff allow that?

~

“We need swift passage to Meereen.”

One word. Tyrion Lannister’s world turned upside down.

One word. Meereen. Or had he misheard?

One word. Meereen, he said Meereen, he’s taking me to Meereen. Meereen meant life. Or hope for life, at least.

“Why come to me?” the widow said. “I own no ships.”

“You have many captains in your debt.”

Deliver me to the queen, he says. Aye, but which queen? He isn’t selling me to Cersei. He’s giving me to Daenerys Targaryen. That’s why he hasn’t hacked my head off. We’re going east, and Griff and his prince are going west, the bloody fools.

Oh, it was all too much. Plots within plots, but all roads lead down the dragon’s gullet. A guffaw burst from his lips, and suddenly Tyrion could not stop laughing.

“Your dwarf is having a fit,” the widow observed. “My dwarf will be quiet, or I’ll see him gagged.”

Tyrion covered his mouth with his hands. Meereen!

~

“...Have you heard Benerro preach?”

“Last night.”

“Benerro can see the morrow in his flames,” the widow said. “Triarch Malaquo tried to hire the Golden Company, did you know? He meant to clean out the red temple and put Benerro to the sword. He dare not use tiger cloaks. Half of them worship the Lord of Light as well. Oh, these are dire days in Old Volantis, even for wrinkled old widows. But not half so dire as in Meereen, I think. So tell me, ser … why do you seek the silver queen?”

~

“Keep your silver. I have gold. And spare me your black looks, ser. I am too old to be frightened of a scowl. You are a hard man, I see, and no doubt skilled with that long sword at your side, but this is my realm. Let me crook a finger and you may find yourself traveling to Meereen chained to an oar in the belly of a galley.” She lifted her jade fan and opened it. There was a rustle of leaves, and a man slid from the overgrown archway to her left. His face was a mass of scars, and in one hand he held a sword, short and heavy as a cleaver. “Seek the widow of the waterfront, someone told you, but they should have also warned you, beware the widow’s sons. It is such a sweet morning, though, I shall ask again. Why would you seek Daenerys Targaryen, whom half the world wants dead?”

Jorah Mormont’s face was dark with anger, but he answered. “To serve her. Defend her. Die for her, if need be.”

That made the widow laugh. “You want to rescue her, is that the way of it? From more enemies than I can name, with swords beyond count … this is what you’d have the poor widow believe? That you are a true and chivalrous Westerosi knight crossing half the world to come to the aid of this … well, she is no maiden, though she may still be fair.” She laughed again. “Do you think your dwarf will please her? Will she bathe in his blood, do you think, or content herself with striking off his head?”

Ser Jorah hesitated. “The dwarf is—”

“—I know who the dwarf is, and what he is.” Her black eyes turned to Tyrion, hard as stone. “Kinslayer, kingslayer, murderer, turncloak. Lannister.” She made the last a curse. “What do you plan to offer the dragon queen, little man?”

My hate, Tyrion wanted to say. Instead he spread his hands as far as the fetters would allow. “Whatever she would have of me. Sage counsel, savage wit, a bit of tumbling. My cock, if she desires it. My tongue, if she does not. I will lead her armies or rub her feet, as she desires. And the only reward I ask is I might be allowed to rape and kill my sister.”

~

“If I were Volantene, and free, and had the blood, you’d have my vote for triarch, my lady.”

“I am no lady,” the widow replied, “just Vogarro’s whore. You want to be gone from here before the tigers come. Should you reach your queen, give her a message from the slaves of Old Volantis.” She touched the faded scar upon her wrinkled cheek, where her tears had been cut away. “Tell her we are waiting. Tell her to come soon.”

ADWD The Windblown

The word passed through the camp like a hot wind. She is coming. Her host is on the march. She is racing south to Yunkai, to put the city to the torch and its people to the sword, and we are going north to meet her.

~

“We’ll get provisions in Yunkai, maybe fresh horses, then it will be on to Meereen to dance with the dragon queen. So hop quick, Frog, and put a nice edge on your master’s sword. Might be he’ll need it soon.”

~

“Arch is the best fighter of the three of us,” Drinkwater had pointed out, “but only you can hope to wed the dragon queen.”

Wed her or fight her; either way, I will face her soon. The more Quentyn heard of Daenerys Targaryen, the more he feared that meeting. The Yunkai’i claimed that she fed her dragons on human flesh and bathed in the blood of virgins to keep her skin smooth and supple. Beans laughed at that but relished the tales of the silver queen’s promiscuity. “One of her captains comes of a line where the men have foot-long members,” he told them, “but even he’s not big enough for her. She rode with the Dothraki and grew accustomed to being fucked by stallions, so now no man can fill her.” And Books, the clever Volantene swordsman who always seemed to have his nose poked in some crumbly scroll, thought the dragon queen both murderous and mad. “Her khal killed her brother to make her queen. Then she killed her khal to make herself khaleesi. She practices blood sacrifice, lies as easily as she breathes, turns against her own on a whim. She’s broken truces, tortured envoys … her father was mad too. It runs in the blood.”

It runs in the blood. King Aerys II had been mad, all of Westeros knew that. He had exiled two of his Hands and burned a third. If Daenerys is as murdeous as her father, must I still marry her? Prince Doran had never spoken of that possibility.

~

Their mistress could not have been more than sixteen and fancied herself Yunkai’s own Daenerys Targaryen.

~

“Daenerys may be halfway to Yunkai by now, with an army at her back,” Quentyn said as they walked amongst the horses.

“She may be,” Gerris said, “but she’s not. We’ve heard such talk before. The Astapori were convinced Daenerys was coming south with her dragons to break the siege. She didn’t come then, and she’s not coming now.”

“We can’t know that, not for certain. We need to steal away before we end up fighting the woman I was sent to woo.”

“Wait till Yunkai.” Gerris gestured at the hills. “These lands belong to the Yunkai’i. No one is like to want to feed or shelter three deserters. North of Yunkai, that’s no-man’s-land.”

He was not wrong. Even so, Quentyn felt uneasy. “The big man’s made too many friends. He knows the plan was always to steal off and make our way to Daenerys, but he’s not going to feel good about abandoning men he’s fought with. If we wait too long, it’s going to feel as if we’re deserting them on the eve of battle. He will never do that. You know him as well as I do.”

~

“You’d have us turn our cloaks?”

“I would,” said the Tattered Prince.

Quentyn Martell almost laughed aloud. The gods are mad.

The Westerosi shifted uneasily. Some stared into their wine cups, as if they hoped to find some wisdom there. Hugh Hungerford frowned. “You think Queen Daenerys will take us in …”

“I do.”

~

“Meris will command you,” said the Tattered Prince. “She knows my mind in this … and Daenerys Targaryen may be more accepting of another woman.”

~

“The best ruses always have some seed of truth,” said the Tattered Prince. “Every one of you has ample reason for wanting to abandon me. And Daenerys Targaryen knows that sellswords are a fickle lot. Her own Second Sons and Stormcrows took Yunkish gold but did not hesitate to join her when the tide of battle began to flow her way.”

 ADWD The Lost Lord

A ferocious southern sun beat down upon the crowded riverfront of Volon Therys, but heat was the last and least of Griff’s concerns. The Golden Company was encamped three miles south of town, well north of where he had expected them, and Triarch Malaquo had come north with five thousand foot and a thousand horse to cut them off from the delta road. Daenerys Targaryen remained a world away, and Tyrion Lannister … well, he could be most anywhere.

~

“The plan was to reveal Prince Aegon only when we reached Queen Daenerys,” Lemore was saying.

“That was when we believed the girl was coming west. Our dragon queen has burned that plan to ash, and thanks to that fat fool in Pentos, we have grasped the she-dragon by the tail and burned our fingers to the bone.”

“Illyrio could not have been expected to know that the girl would choose to remain at Slaver’s Bay.”

“No more than he knew that the Beggar King would die young, or that Khal Drogo would follow him into the grave. Very little of what the fat man has anticipated has come to pass.”

~

“I assume you know that the Targaryen girl has not started for the west?”

“We heard that tale in Selhorys.”

“No tale. Simple truth. The why of it is harder to grasp. Sack Meereen, aye, why not? I would have done the same in her place. The slaver cities reek of gold, and conquest requires coin. But why linger? Fear? Madness? Sloth?”

“The why of it does not matter.” Harry Strickland unrolled a pair of striped woolen stockings. “She is in Meereen and we are here, where the Volantenes grow daily more unhappy with our presence. We came to raise up a king and queen who would lead us home to Westeros, but this Targaryen girl seems more intent on planting olive trees than in reclaiming her father’s throne. Meanwhile, her foes gather. Yunkai, New Ghis, Tolos. Bloodbeard and the Tattered Prince will both be in the field against her … and soon enough the fleets of Old Volantis will descend on her as well. What does she have? Bedslaves with sticks?”

“Unsullied,” said Griff. “And dragons.”

“Dragons, aye,” the captain-general said, “but young ones, hardly more than hatchlings.” Strickland eased his sock over his blisters and up his ankle. “How much will they avail her when all these armies close about her city like a fist?”

Tristan Rivers drummed his fingers on his knee. “All the more reason that we must reach her quickly, I say. If Daenerys will not come to us, we must go to Daenerys.”

“Can we walk across the waves, ser?” asked Lysono Maar. “I tell you again, we cannot reach the silver queen by sea. I slipped into Volantis myself, posing as a trader, to learn how many ships might be available to us. The harbor teems with galleys, cogs, and carracks of every sort and size, yet even so I soon found myself consorting with smugglers and pirates. We have ten thousand men in the company, as I am sure Lord Connington remembers from his years of service with us. Five hundred knights, each with three horses. Five hundred squires, with one mount apiece. And elephants, we must not forget the elephants. A pirate ship will not suffice. We would need a pirate fleet … and even if we found one, the word has come back from Slaver’s Bay that Meereen has been closed off by blockade.”

~

And then Prince Aegon spoke. “Then put your hopes on me,” he said. “Daenerys is Prince Rhaegar’s sister, but I am Rhaegar’s son. I am the only dragon that you need.”

Griff put a black-gloved hand upon Prince Aegon’s shoulder. “Spoken boldly,” he said, “but think what you are saying.”

“I have,” the lad insisted. “Why should I go running to my aunt as if I were a beggar? My claim is better than her own. Let her come to me … in Westeros.”

Franklyn Flowers laughed. “I like it. Sail west, not east. Leave the little queen to her olives and seat Prince Aegon upon the Iron Throne. The boy has stones, give him that.”

The captain-general looked as if someone had slapped his face. “Has the sun curdled your brains, Flowers? We need the girl. We need the marriage. If Daenerys accepts our princeling and takes him for her consort, the Seven Kingdoms will do the same. Without her, the lords will only mock his claim and brand him a fraud and a pretender. And how do you propose to get to Westeros? You heard Lysono. There are no ships to be had.”

~

“By now the lion surely has the dragon’s scent,” said one of the Coles, “but Cersei’s attentions will be fixed upon Meereen and this other queen. She knows nothing of our prince. Once we land and raise our banners, many and more will flock to join us.”

“Some,” allowed Homeless Harry, “not many. Rhaegar’s sister has dragons. Rhaegar’s son does not. We do not have the strength to take the realm without Daenerys and her army. Her Unsullied.”

“The first Aegon took Westeros without eunuchs,” said Lysono Maar. “Why shouldn’t the sixth Aegon do the same?”

“The plan—”

“Which plan?” said Tristan Rivers. “The fat man’s plan? The one that changes every time the moon turns? First Viserys Targaryen was to join us with fifty thousand Dothraki screamers at his back. Then the Beggar King was dead, and it was to be the sister, a pliable young child queen who was on her way to Pentos with three new-hatched dragons. Instead the girl turns up on Slaver’s Bay and leaves a string of burning cities in her wake, and the fat man decides we should meet her by Volantis. Now that plan is in ruins as well.

“I have had enough of Illyrio’s plans. Robert Baratheon won the Iron Throne without the benefit of dragons. We can do the same. And if I am wrong and the realm does not rise for us, we can always retreat back across the narrow sea, as Bittersteel once did, and others after him.”

Strickland shook his head stubbornly. “The risk—”

“—is not what it was, now that Tywin Lannister is dead. The Seven Kingdoms will never be more ripe for conquest. Another boy king sits the Iron Throne, this one even younger than the last, and rebels are thick upon the ground as autumn leaves.”

ADWD Tyrion VI

“And when the pisswater prince was safely dead, the eunuch smuggled you across the narrow sea to his fat friend the cheesemonger, who hid you on a poleboat and found an exile lord willing to call himself your father. It does make for a splendid story, and the singers will make much of your escape once you take the Iron Throne … assuming that our fair Daenerys takes you for her consort.”

“She will. She must.”

“Must?” Tyrion made a tsking sound. “That is not a word queens like to hear. You are her perfect prince, agreed, bright and bold and comely as any maid could wish. Daenerys Targaryen is no maid, however. She is the widow of a Dothraki khal, a mother of dragons and sacker of cities, Aegon the Conqueror with teats. She may not prove as willing as you wish.”

“She’ll be willing.” Prince Aegon sounded shocked. It was plain that he had never before considered the possibility that his bride-to-be might refuse him. “You don’t know her.” He picked up his heavy horse and put it down with a thump.

The dwarf shrugged. “I know that she spent her childhood in exile, impoverished, living on dreams and schemes, running from one city to the next, always fearful, never safe, friendless but for a brother who was by all accounts half-mad … a brother who sold her maidenhood to the Dothraki for the promise of an army. I know that somewhere out upon the grass her dragons hatched, and so did she. I know she is proud. How not? What else was left her but pride? I know she is strong. How not? The Dothraki despise weakness. If Daenerys had been weak, she would have perished with Viserys. I know she is fierce. Astapor, Yunkai, and Meereen are proof enough of that. She has crossed the grasslands and the red waste, survived assassins and conspiracies and fell sorceries, grieved for a brother and a husband and a son, trod the cities of the slavers to dust beneath her dainty sandaled feet. Now, how do you suppose this queen will react when you turn up with your begging bowl in hand and say, ‘Good morrow to you, Auntie. I am your nephew, Aegon, returned from the dead. I’ve been hiding on a poleboat all my life, but now I’ve washed the blue dye from my hair and I’d like a dragon, please … and oh, did I mention, my claim to the Iron Throne is stronger than your own?’ ”

Aegon’s mouth twisted in fury. “I will not come to my aunt a beggar. I will come to her a kinsman, with an army.”

“A small army.” There, that’s made him good and angry. The dwarf could not help but think of Joffrey. I have a gift for angering princes. “Queen Daenerys has a large one, and no thanks to you.” Tyrion moved his crossbows.

“Say what you want. She will be my bride, Lord Connington will see to it. I trust him as much as if he were my own blood.”

~

“But,” Prince Aegon said, “without Daenerys and her dragons, how could we hope to win?”

“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.”

“You said she might not have me.”

“Perhaps I overstated. She may take pity on you when you come begging for her hand.” The dwarf shrugged. “Do you want to wager your throne upon a woman’s whim? Go to Westeros, though … ah, then you are a rebel, not a beggar. Bold, reckless, a true scion of House Targaryen, walking in the footsteps of Aegon the Conqueror. A dragon.

“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?”

~

“Then rouse him. We have tidings he’d best hear. The queen’s name is on every tongue in Selhorys. They say she still sits in Meereen, sore beset. If the talk in the markets can be believed, Old Volantis will soon join the war against her.”

Haldon pursed his lips. “The gossip of fishmongers is not to be relied on. Still, I suppose Griff will want to hear. You know how he is.” The Halfmaester went below.

The girl never started for the west. No doubt she had good reasons. Between Meereen and Volantis lay five hundred leagues of deserts, mountains, swamps, and ruins, plus Mantarys with its sinister repute. A city of monsters, they say, but if she marches overland, where else is she to turn for food and water? The sea would be swifter, but if she does not have the ships …

~

“That was another age. Come, we’d best hear what that priest is going on about. I swear I heard the name Daenerys.”

Across the square they joined the growing throng outside the red temple. With the locals towering above him on every hand, the little man found it hard to see much beyond their arses. He could hear most every word the priest was saying, but that was not to say he understood them. “Do you understand what he is saying?” he asked Haldon in the Common Tongue.

“I would if I did not have a dwarf piping in my ear.”

“I do not pipe.” Tyrion crossed his arms and looked behind him, studying the faces of the men and women who had stopped to listen. Everywhere he turned, he saw tattoos. Slaves. Four of every five of them are slaves.

“The priest is calling on the Volantenes to go to war,” the Halfmaester told him, “but on the side of right, as soldiers of the Lord of Light, R’hllor who made the sun and stars and fights eternally against the darkness. Nyessos and Malaquo have turned away from the light, he says, their hearts darkened by the yellow harpies from the east. He says …”

“Dragons. I understood that word. He said dragons.”

“Aye. The dragons have come to carry her to glory.”

“Her. Daenerys?”

Haldon nodded. “Benerro has sent forth the word from Volantis. Her coming is the fulfillment of an ancient prophecy. From smoke and salt was she born to make the world anew. She is Azor Ahai returned … and her triumph over darkness will bring a summer that will never end … death itself will bend its knee, and all those who die fighting in her cause shall be reborn …”

“Do I have to be reborn in this same body?” asked Tyrion. The crowd was growing thicker. He could feel them pressing in around them. “Who is Benerro?”

Haldon raised an eyebrow. “High Priest of the red temple in Volantis. Flame of Truth, Light of Wisdom, First Servant of the Lord of Light, Slave of R’hllor.”

The only red priest Tyrion had ever known was Thoros of Myr, the portly, genial, wine-stained roisterer who had loitered about Robert’s court swilling the king’s finest vintages and setting his sword on fire for mêlées. “Give me priests who are fat and corrupt and cynical,” he told Haldon, “the sort who like to sit on soft satin cushions, nibble sweetmeats, and diddle little boys. It’s the ones who believe in gods who make the trouble.”

~

“What news from downriver? Will it be war?”

Qavo shrugged. “The Yunkai’i would have it so. They style themselves the Wise Masters. Of their wisdom I cannot speak, but they do not lack for cunning. Their envoy came to us with chests of gold and gems and two hundred slaves, nubile girls and smooth-skinned boys trained in the way of the seven sighs. I am told his feasts are memorable and his bribes lavish.”

“The Yunkishmen have bought your triarchs?”

“Only Nyessos.” Qavo removed the screen and studied the placement of Tyrion’s army. “Malaquo may be old and toothless, but he is a tiger still, and Doniphos will not be returned as triarch. The city thirsts for war.”

“Why?” wondered Tyrion. “Meereen is long leagues across the sea. How has this sweet child queen offended Old Volantis?”

“Sweet?” Qavo laughed. “If even half the stories coming back from Slaver’s Bay are true, this child is a monster. They say that she is blood-thirsty, that those who speak against her are impaled on spikes to die lingering deaths. They say she is a sorceress who feeds her dragons on the flesh of newborn babes, an oathbreaker who mocks the gods, breaks truces, threatens envoys, and turns on those who have served her loyally. They say her lust cannot be sated, that she mates with men, women, eunuchs, even dogs and children, and woe betide the lover who fails to satisfy her. She gives her body to men to take their souls in thrall.”

Oh, good, thought Tyrion. If she gives her body to me, she is welcome to my soul, small and stunted though it is.

“They say,” said Haldon. “By they, you mean the slavers, the exiles she drove from Astapor and Meereen. Mere calumnies.”

“The best calumnies are spiced with truth,” suggested Qavo, “but the girl’s true sin cannot be denied. This arrogant child has taken it upon herself to smash the slave trade, but that traffic was never confined to Slaver’s Bay. It was part of the sea of trade that spanned the world, and the dragon queen has clouded the water. Behind the Black Wall, lords of ancient blood sleep poorly, listening as their kitchen slaves sharpen their long knives. Slaves grow our food, clean our streets, teach our young. They guard our walls, row our galleys, fight our battles. And now when they look east, they see this young queen shining from afar, this breaker of chains. The Old Blood cannot suffer that. Poor men hate her too. Even the vilest beggar stands higher than a slave. This dragon queen would rob him of that consolation.”

Tyrion advanced his spearmen. Qavo replied with his light horse. Tyrion moved his crossbowmen up a square and said, “The red priest outside seemed to think Volantis should fight for this silver queen, not against her.”

“The red priests would be wise to hold their tongues,” said Qavo Nogarys. “Already there has been fighting between their followers and those who worship other gods. Benerro’s rantings will only serve to bring a savage wrath down upon his head.”

“What rantings?” the dwarf asked, toying with his rabble.

The Volantene waved a hand. “In Volantis, thousands of slaves and freedmen crowd the temple plaza every night to hear Benerro shriek of bleeding stars and a sword of fire that will cleanse the world. He has been preaching that Volantis will surely burn if the triarchs take up arms against the silver queen.”

“That’s a prophecy even I could make. Ah, supper.”

Supper was a plate of roasted goat served on a bed of sliced onions. The meat was spiced and fragrant, charred outside and red and juicy within. Tyrion plucked at a piece. It was so hot it burned his fingers, but so good he could not help but reach for another chunk. He washed it down with the pale green Volantene liquor, the closest thing he’d had to wine for ages. “Very good,” he said, plucking up his dragon. “The most powerful piece in the game,” he announced, as he removed one of Qavo’s elephants. “And Daenerys Targaryen has three, it’s said.”

“Three,” Qavo allowed, “against thrice three thousand enemies. Grazdan mo Eraz was not the only envoy sent out from the Yellow City. When the Wise Masters move against Meereen, the legions of New Ghis will fight beside them. Tolosi. Elyrians. Even the Dothraki.”

~

“You’re mine, Hugor.”

Tyrion could no more outrun him than outfight him. Drunk as he was, he could not even hope to outwit him. He spread his hands. “And what do you mean to do with me?”

“Deliver you,” the knight said, “to the queen.”

ADWD Davos II

The old fellow made a face. “Prince Viserys weren’t the only dragon, were he? Are we sure they killed Prince Rhaegar’s son? A babe, he was.”

“Wasn’t there some princess too?” asked a whore. She was the same one who’d said the meat was grey.

“Two,” said the old fellow. “One was Rhaegar’s daughter, t’other was his sister.”

“Daena,” said the riverman. “That was the sister. Daena of Dragon-stone. Or was it Daera?”

“Daena was old King Baelor’s wife,” said the oarsman. “I rowed on a ship named for her once. The Princess Daena.”

“If she was a king’s wife, she’d be a queen.”

“Baelor never had a queen. He was holy.”

“Don’t mean he never wed his sister,” said the whore. “He just never bedded her, is all. When they made him king, he locked her up in a tower. His other sisters too. There was three.”

“Daenela,” the proprietor said loudly. “That was her name. The Mad King’s daughter, I mean, not Baelor’s bloody wife.”

“Daenerys,” Davos said. “She was named for the Daenerys who wed the Prince of Dorne during the reign of Daeron the Second. I don’t know what became of her.”

"I do," said the man who'd started all the talk of dragons, a Braavosi oarsman in a somber woolen jack. "When we were down to Pentos we moored beside a trader called the Sloe-Eyed Maid, and I got to drinking with her captain's steward. He told me a pretty tale about some slip of a girl who come aboard in Qarth, to try and book passage back to Westeros for her and three dragons. Silver hair she had, and purple eyes. 'I took her to the captain my own self,' this steward swore to me, 'but he wasn't having none of that. There's more profit in cloves and saffron, he tells me, and spices won't set fire to your sails.' "

ADWD Tyrion III

Griff ignored the request. Instead he touched the letter to the candle flame and watched the parchment blacken, curl, and flare up. “There is blood between Targaryen and Lannister. Why would you support the cause of Queen Daenerys?”

“For gold and glory,” the dwarf said cheerfully. “Oh, and hate. If you had ever met my sister, you would understand.”

ADWD The Merchant's Man

That was before Prince Doran had summoned him to the Water Gardens. And now the most beautiful woman in the world was waiting in Meereen, and he meant to do his duty and claim her for his bride. She will not refuse me. She will honor the agreement. Daenerys Targaryen would need Dorne to win the Seven Kingdoms, and that meant that she would need him. It does not mean that she will love me, though. She may not even like me.

~

“Perhaps your silver queen would like a monkey,” said Gerris.

Quentyn had no idea what Daenerys Targaryen might like. He had promised his father that he would bring her back to Dorne, but more and more he wondered if he was equal to the task.

~

“And if Daenerys is dead before we reach her?” Quentyn said. “We must have a ship. Even if it is Adventure.”

Gerris laughed. “You must be more desperate for Daenerys than I knew if you’d endure that stench for months on end. After three days, I’d be begging them to murder me. No, my prince, I pray you, not Adventure.”

ADWD Tyrion II

“How many days until we reach the river?” he asked Illyrio that evening. “At this pace, your queen’s dragons will be larger than Aegon’s three before I can lay eyes upon them.”

“Would it were so. A large dragon is more fearsome than a small one.” The magister shrugged. “Much as it would please me to welcome Queen Daenerys to Volantis, I must rely on you and Griff for that. I can serve her best in Pentos, smoothing the way for her return. So long as I am with you, though … well, an old fat man must have his comforts, yes? Come, drink a cup of wine.”

“Tell me,” Tyrion said as he drank, “why should a magister of Pentos give three figs who wears the crown in Westeros? Where is the gain for you in this venture, my lord?”

The fat man dabbed grease from his lips. “I am an old man, grown weary of this world and its treacheries. Is it so strange that I should wish to do some good before my days are done, to help a sweet young girl regain her birthright?”

Next you will be offering me a suit of magic armor and a palace in Valyria. “If Daenerys is no more than a sweet young girl, the Iron Throne will cut her into sweet young pieces.”

“Fear not, my little friend. The blood of Aegon the Dragon flows in her veins.”

Along with the blood of Aegon the Unworthy, Maegor the Cruel, and Baelor the Befuddled. “Tell me more of her.”

The fat man grew pensive. “Daenerys was half a child when she came to me, yet fairer even than my second wife, so lovely I was tempted to claim her for myself. Such a fearful, furtive thing, however, I knew I should get no joy from coupling with her. Instead I summoned a bed-warmer and fucked her vigorously until the madness passed. If truth be told, I did not think Daenerys would survive for long amongst the horselords.”

“That did not stop you selling her to Khal Drogo …”

“Dothraki neither buy nor sell. Say rather that her brother Viserys gave her to Drogo to win the khal’s friendship. A vain young man, and greedy. Viserys lusted for his father’s throne, but he lusted for Daenerys too, and was loath to give her up. The night before the princess wed he tried to steal into her bed, insisting that if he could not have her hand, he would claim her maidenhead. Had I not taken the precaution of posting guards upon her door, Viserys might have undone years of planning.”

“He sounds an utter fool.”

“Viserys was Mad Aerys’s son, just so. Daenerys … Daenerys is quite different.” He popped a roasted lark into his mouth and crunched it noisily, bones and all. “The frightened child who sheltered in my manse died on the Dothraki sea, and was reborn in blood and fire. This dragon queen who wears her name is a true Targaryen. When I sent ships to bring her home, she turned toward Slaver’s Bay. In a short span of days she conquered Astapor, made Yunkai bend the knee, and sacked Meereen. Mantarys will be next, if she marches west along the old Valyrian roads. If she comes by sea, well … her fleet must take on food and water at Volantis.”

~

“For that matter, why would you? Slavery may be forbidden by the laws of Pentos, yet you have a finger in that trade as well, and maybe a whole hand. And yet you conspire for the dragon queen, and not against her. Why? What do you hope to gain from Queen Daenerys?”

“Are we back to that again? You are a persistent little man.” Illyrio gave a laugh and slapped his belly. “As you will. The Beggar King swore that I should be his master of coin, and a lordly lord as well. Once he wore his golden crown, I should have my choice of castles … even Casterly Rock, if I desired.”

Tyrion snorted wine back up the scarred stump that had been his nose. “My father would have loved to hear that.”

“Your lord father had no cause for concern. Why would I want a rock? My manse is large enough for any man, and more comfortable than your drafty Westerosi castles. Master of coin, though …” The fat man peeled another egg. “I am fond of coins. Is there any sound as sweet as the clink of gold on gold?”

A sister’s screams. “Are you quite certain that Daenerys will make good her brother’s promises?”

“She will, or she will not.” Illyrio bit the egg in half. “I told you, my little friend, not all that a man does is done for gain. Believe as you wish, but even fat old fools like me have friends, and debts of affection to repay.”

Liar, thought Tyrion. There is something in this venture worth more to you than coin or castles.

~

“I dreamed about the queen,” he said. “I was on my knees before her, swearing my allegiance, but she mistook me for my brother, Jaime, and fed me to her dragons.”

“Let us hope this dream was not prophetic. You are a clever imp, just as Varys said, and Daenerys will have need of clever men about her. Ser Barristan is a valiant knight and true; but none, I think, has ever called him cunning.”

“Knights know only one way to solve a problem. They couch their lances and charge. A dwarf has a different way of looking at the world. What of you, though? You are a clever man yourself.”

“You flatter me.” Illyrio waggled his hand. “Alas, I am not made for travel, so I will send you to Daenerys in my stead. You did Her Grace a great service when you slew your father, and it is my hope that you will do her many more. Daenerys is not the fool her brother was. She will make good use of you.”

~

“Our last news of Queen Daenerys is old and stale, I fear. By now she will have left Meereen, we must assume. She has her host at last, a ragged host of sellswords, Dothraki horselords, and Unsullied infantry, and she will no doubt lead them west, to take back her father’s throne.” Magister Illyrio twisted open a pot of garlic snails, sniffed at them, and smiled. “At Volantis, you will have fresh tidings of Daenerys, we must hope,” he said, as he sucked one from its shell. “Dragons and young girls are both capricious, and it may be that you will need to adjust your plans. Griff will know what to do. Will you have a snail? The garlic is from my own gardens.”

I could ride a snail and make a better pace than this litter of yours. Tyrion waved the dish away. “You place a deal of trust in this man Griff. Another friend of your childhood?”

“No. A sellsword, you would call him, but Westerosi born. Daenerys needs men worthy of her cause.”

~

“Black or red, a dragon is still a dragon. When Maelys the Monstrous died upon the Stepstones, it was the end of the male line of House Blackfyre.” The cheesemonger smiled through his forked beard. “And Daenerys will give the exiles what Bittersteel and the Blackfyres never could. She will take them home.”

A Feast for Crows

AFFC Samwell V

He held back only the secrets that he was sworn to keep, about Bran Stark and his companions and the babes Jon Snow had swapped. “Daenerys is the only hope,” he concluded. “Aemon said the Citadel must send her a maester at once, to bring her home to Westeros before it is too late.”

~

“Maester Aemon believed that Daenerys Targaryen was the fulfillment of a prophecy ... her, not Stannis, nor Prince Rhaegar, nor the princeling whose head was dashed against the wall.”

“Born amidst salt and smoke, beneath a bleeding star. I know the prophecy.” Marwyn turned his head and spat a gob of red phlegm onto the floor. “Not that I would trust it. Gorghan of Old Ghis once wrote that a prophecy is like a treacherous woman. She takes your member in her mouth, and you moan with the pleasure of it and think, how sweet, how fine, how good this is ... and then her teeth snap shut and your moans turn to screams. That is the nature of prophecy, said Gorghan. Prophecy will bite your prick off every time.” He chewed a bit. “Still ...”

Alleras stepped up next to Sam. “Aemon would have gone to her if he had the strength. He wanted us to send a maester to her, to counsel her and protect her and fetch her safely home.”

AFFC The Princess in the Tower

“...He has gone to bring us back our heart’s desire.”

She narrowed her eyes. “What is our heart’s desire?”

“Vengeance.” His voice was soft, as if he were afraid that someone might be listening. “Justice.” Prince Doran pressed the onyx dragon into her palm with his swollen, gouty fingers, and whispered, “Fire and blood.”

AFFC Samwell IV

“No one ever looked for a girl,” he said. “It was a prince that was promised, not a princess. Rhaegar, I thought ... the smoke was from the fire that devoured Summerhall on the day of his birth, the salt from the tears shed for those who died. He shared my belief when he was young, but later he became persuaded that it was his own son who fulfilled the prophecy, for a comet had been seen above King’s Landing on the night Aegon was conceived, and Rhaegar was certain the bleeding star had to be a comet. What fools we were, who thought ourselves so wise! The error crept in from the translation. Dragons are neither male nor female, Barth saw the truth of that, but now one and now the other, as changeable as flame. The language misled us all for a thousand years. Daenerys is the one, born amidst salt and smoke. The dragons prove it.” Just talking of her seemed to make him stronger. “I must go to her. I must. Would that I was even ten years younger.”

~

“I will add my voice to yours, maester. We will both tell them, the two of us together.”

“No,” the old man said. “It must be you. Tell them. The prophecy ... my brother’s dream ... Lady Melisandre has misread the signs. Stannis ... Stannis has some of the dragon blood in him, yes. His brothers did as well. Rhaelle, Egg’s little girl, she was how they came by it ... their father’s mother ... she used to call me Uncle Maester when she was a little girl. I remembered that, so I allowed myself to hope ... perhaps I wanted to ... we all deceive ourselves, when we want to believe. Melisandre most of all, I think. The sword is wrong, she has to know that . . . light without heat ... an empty glamor ... the sword is wrong, and the false light can only lead us deeper into darkness, Sam. Daenerys is our hope. Tell them that, at the Citadel. Make them listen. They must send her a maester. Daenerys must be counseled, taught, protected. For all these years I’ve lingered, waiting, watching, and now that the day has dawned I am too old. I am dying, Sam.”

AFFC Cat of the Canals

Sometimes she brought back sailor’s tales, of strange and wondrous happenings from the wide wet world beyond the isles of Braavos, wars and rains of toads and dragons hatching.

AFFC The Reaver

“It was not the god who spoke. Euron is known to keep wizards and foul sorcerers on that red ship of his. They sent some spell among us, so we could not hear the sea. The captains and the kings were drunk with all this talk of dragons.”

“Drunk, and fearful of that horn. You heard the sound it made. It makes no matter. Euron is our king.”

~

“It is daring to sail out of sight of land, so no word of our coming could reach these islands before us,” he growled, “but crossing half the world to hunt for dragons, that is something else.”

~

“A king must have a wife, to give him heirs. Brother, I have need of you. Will you go to Slaver’s Bay and bring my love to me?”

~

“No, to make an heir that’s worthy of him, I need a different woman. When the kraken weds the dragon, brother, let all the world beware.”

“What dragon?” said Victarion, frowning.

“The last of her line. They say she is the fairest woman in the world. Her hair is silver-gold, and her eyes are amethysts ... but you need not take my word for it, brother. Go to Slaver’s Bay, behold her beauty, and bring her back to me.”

“Why should I?” Victarion demanded.

“For love. For duty. Because your king commands it.” Euron chuckled. “And for the Seastone Chair. It is yours, once I claim the Iron Throne. You shall follow me as I followed Balon ... and your own trueborn sons shall one day follow you.”

My own sons. But to have a trueborn son a man must first have a wife. Victarion had no luck with wives. Euron’s gifts are poisoned, he reminded himself, but still ...

“The choice is yours, brother. Live a thrall or die a king. Do you dare to fly? Unless you take the leap, you’ll never know.”

Euron’s smiling eye was bright with mockery. “Or do I ask too much of you? It is a fearsome thing to sail beyond Valyria.”

“I could sail the Iron Fleet to hell if need be.” When Victarion opened his hand, his palm was red with blood. “I’ll go to Slaver’s Bay, aye. I’ll find this dragon woman, and I’ll bring her back.” But not for you. You stole my wife and despoiled her, so I’ll have yours. The fairest woman in the world, for me.

AFFC The Drowned Man

“Aegon Targaryen conquered Westeros with dragons.”

“And so shall we,” Euron Greyjoy promised. “That horn you heard I found amongst the smoking ruins that were Valyria, where no man has dared to walk but me. You heard its call, and felt its power. It is a dragon horn, bound with bands of red gold and Valyrian steel graven with enchantments. The dragonlords of old sounded such horns, before the Doom devoured them. With this horn, ironmen, I can bind dragons to my will.”

Asha laughed aloud. “A horn to bind goats to your will would be of more use, Crow’s Eye. There are no more dragons.”

“Again, girl, you are wrong. There are three, and I know where to find them. Surely that is worth a driftwood crown.”

 AFFC Cersei V

“Do you have any news of more import?”

“The slave revolt in Astapor has spread to Meereen, it would seem. Sailors off a dozen ships speak of dragons ...”

“Harpies. It is harpies in Meereen.” She remembered that from somewhere. Meereen was at the far end of the world, out east beyond Valyria. “Let the slaves revolt. Why should I care? We keep no slaves in Westeros. Is that all you have for me?”

AFFC The Queenmaker

If the sailors could be believed, the east was seething with wonders and terrors: a slave revolt in Astapor, dragons in Qarth, grey plague in Yi Ti. A new corsair king had risen in the Basilisk Isles and raided Tall Trees Town, and in Qohor followers of the red priests had rioted and tried to burn down the Black Goat.

AFFC Cersei IV

I hesitate to take up the council’s time with trifles, but there has been some queer talk heard along the docks of late. Sailors from the east. They speak of dragons ...”

“... and manticores, no doubt, and bearded snarks?” Cersei chuckled. “Come back to me when you hear talk of dwarfs, my lord.”

AFFC Prologue

“The dragon has three heads,” he announced in his soft Dornish drawl.

“Is this a riddle?” Roone wanted to know. “Sphinxes always speak in riddles in the tales.”

“No riddle.” [...]

“No dragon has ever had three heads except on shields and banners,” Armen the Acolyte said firmly. “That was a heraldic charge, no more. Furthermore, the Targaryens are all dead.”

“Not all,” said Alleras. “The Beggar King had a sister.”

“I thought her head was smashed against a wall,” said Roone.

“No,” said Alleras. “It was Prince Rhaegar’s young son Aegon whose head was dashed against the wall by the Lion of Lannister’s brave men. We speak of Rhaegar’s sister, born on Dragonstone before its fall. The one they called Daenerys.”

“The Stormborn. I recall her now.” Mollander lifted his tankard high, sloshing the cider that remained. “Here’s to her!” He gulped, slammed his empty tankard down, belched, and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Where’s Rosey? Our rightful queen deserves another round of cider, wouldn’t you say?”

A Storm of Swords

ASOS Tyrion III

The eunuch drew a parchment from his sleeve. “A kraken has been seen off the Fingers.” He giggled. “Not a Greyjoy, mind you, a true kraken. It attacked an Ibbenese whaler and pulled it under. There is fighting on the Stepstones, and a new war between Tyrosh and Lys seems likely. Both hope to win Myr as ally. Sailors back from the Jade Sea report that a three-headed dragon has hatched in Qarth, and is the wonder of that city—”

“Dragons and krakens do not interest me, regardless of the number of their heads,” said Lord Tywin. “Have your whisperers perchance found some trace of my brother’s son?”

“Alas, our beloved Tyrek has quite vanished, the poor brave lad.” Varys sounded close to tears.

“Tywin,” Ser Kevan said, before Lord Tywin could vent his obvious displeasure, “some of the gold cloaks who deserted during the battle have drifted back to barracks, thinking to take up duty once again. Ser Addam wishes to know what to do with them.”

“They might have endangered Joff with their cowardice,” Cersei said at once. “I want them put to death.”

Varys sighed. “They have surely earned death, Your Grace, none can deny it. And yet, perhaps we might be wiser to send them to the Night’s Watch. We have had disturbing messages from the Wall of late. Of wildlings astir ...”

“Wildlings, krakens, and dragons.” Mace Tyrell chuckled. “Why, is there anyone not stirring?”

A Clash of Kings

ACOK Bran I

“Wolves often howl at the moon. These are howling at the comet. See how bright it is, Bran? Perchance they think it is the moon.”

 When Bran repeated that to Osha, she laughed aloud. “Your wolves have more wit than your maester,” the wildling woman said. “They know truths the grey man has forgotten.” The way she said it made him shiver, and when he asked what the comet meant, she answered, “Blood and fire, boy, and nothing sweet.”

 Bran asked Septon Chayle about the comet while they were sorting through some scrolls snatched from the library fire. “It is the sword that slays the season,” he replied, and soon after the white raven came from Oldtown bringing word of autumn, so doubtless he was right.

 Though Old Nan did not think so, and she’d lived longer than any of them. “Dragons,” she said, lifting her head and sniffing. She was near blind and could not see the comet, yet she claimed she could smell it. “It be dragons, boy,” she insisted. 

A Game of Thrones

AGOT Eddard XIII

“The girl. Daenerys. Only a child, you were right … that’s why, the girl … the gods sent the boar … sent to punish me …” The king coughed, bringing up blood. “Wrong, it was wrong, I … only a girl … Varys, Littlefinger, even my brother … worthless … no one to tell me no but you, Ned … only you …” He lifted his hand, the gesture pained and feeble. “Paper and ink. There, on the table. Write what I tell you.”

~

“The girl,” the king said. “Daenerys. Let her live. If you can, if it … not too late … talk to them … Varys, Littlefinger … don’t let them kill her. And help my son, Ned. Make him be … better than me.”

~

Certainly Varys had once been young. Ned doubted that he had ever been innocent. “You mention children. Robert had a change of heart concerning Daenerys Targaryen. Whatever arrangements you made, I want unmade. At once.”

“Alas,” said Varys. “At once may be too late. I fear those birds have flown. But I shall do what I can, my lord. With your leave.”

AGOT Eddard X

“The Targaryen girl—”

The king groaned. “Seven hells, don’t start with her again. That’s done, I’ll hear no more of it.”

“Why would you want me as your Hand, if you refuse to listen to my counsel?”

“Why?” Robert laughed. “Why not? Someone has to rule this damnable kingdom.”

AGOT Eddard VIII

“Robert, I beg of you,” Ned pleaded, “hear what you are saying. You are talking of murdering a child.”

“The whore is pregnant!” The king’s fist slammed down on the council table loud as a thunderclap. “I warned you this would happen, Ned. Back in the barrowlands, I warned you, but you did not care to hear it. Well, you’ll hear it now. I want them dead, mother and child both, and that fool Viserys as well. Is that plain enough for you? I want them dead.”

The other councillors were all doing their best to pretend that they were somewhere else. No doubt they were wiser than he was. Eddard Stark had seldom felt quite so alone. “You will dishonor yourself forever if you do this.”

“Then let it be on my head, so long as it is done. I am not so blind that I cannot see the shadow of the axe when it is hanging over my own neck.”

“There is no axe,” Ned told his king. “Only the shadow of a shadow, twenty years removed … if it exists at all.”

“If?” Varys asked softly, wringing powdered hands together. “My lord, you wrong me. Would I bring lies to king and council?”

Ned looked at the eunuch coldly. “You would bring us the whisperings of a traitor half a world away, my lord. Perhaps Mormont is wrong. Perhaps he is lying.”

“Ser Jorah would not dare deceive me,” Varys said with a sly smile. “Rely on it, my lord. The princess is with child.”

“So you say. If you are wrong, we need not fear. If the girl miscarries, we need not fear. If she births a daughter in place of a son, we need not fear. If the babe dies in infancy, we need not fear.”

“But if it is a boy?” Robert insisted. “If he lives?”

“The narrow sea would still lie between us. I shall fear the Dothraki the day they teach their horses to run on water.”

The king took a swallow of wine and glowered at Ned across the council table. “So you would counsel me to do nothing until the dragonspawn has landed his army on my shores, is that it?”

“This ‘dragonspawn’ is in his mother’s belly,” Ned said. “Even Aegon did no conquering until after he was weaned.”

“Gods! You are stubborn as an aurochs, Stark.” The king looked around the council table. “Have the rest of you mislaid your tongues? Will no one talk sense to this frozen-faced fool?”

Varys gave the king an unctuous smile and laid a soft hand on Ned’s sleeve. “I understand your qualms, Lord Eddard, truly I do. It gave me no joy to bring this grievous news to council. It is a terrible thing we contemplate, a vile thing. Yet we who presume to rule must do vile things for the good of the realm, howevermuch it pains us.”

Lord Renly shrugged. “The matter seems simple enough to me. We ought to have had Viserys and his sister killed years ago, but His Grace my brother made the mistake of listening to Jon Arryn.”

“Mercy is never a mistake, Lord Renly,” Ned replied. “On the Trident, Ser Barristan here cut down a dozen good men, Robert’s friends and mine. When they brought him to us, grievously wounded and near death, Roose Bolton urged us to cut his throat, but your brother said, ‘I will not kill a man for loyalty, nor for fighting well,’ and sent his own maester to tend Ser Barristan’s wounds.” He gave the king a long cool look. “Would that man were here today.”

Robert had shame enough to blush. “It was not the same,” he complained. “Ser Barristan was a knight of the Kingsguard.”

“Whereas Daenerys is a fourteen-year-old girl.” Ned knew he was pushing this well past the point of wisdom, yet he could not keep silent. “Robert, I ask you, what did we rise against Aerys Targaryen for, if not to put an end to the murder of children?”

“To put an end to Targaryens!” the king growled.

“Your Grace, I never knew you to fear Rhaegar.” Ned fought to keep the scorn out of his voice, and failed. “Have the years so unmanned you that you tremble at the shadow of an unborn child?”

Robert purpled. “No more, Ned,” he warned, pointing. “Not another word. Have you forgotten who is king here?”

“No, Your Grace,” Ned replied. “Have you?”

“Enough!” the king bellowed. “I am sick of talk. I’ll be done with this, or be damned. What say you all?”

“She must be killed,” Lord Renly declared.

“We have no choice,” murmured Varys. “Sadly, sadly …”

Ser Barristan Selmy raised his pale blue eyes from the table and said, “Your Grace, there is honor in facing an enemy on the battlefield, but none in killing him in his mother’s womb. Forgive me, but I must stand with Lord Eddard.”

Grand Maester Pycelle cleared his throat, a process that seemed to take some minutes. “My order serves the realm, not the ruler. Once I counseled King Aerys as loyally as I counsel King Robert now, so I bear this girl child of his no ill will. Yet I ask you this—should war come again, how many soldiers will die? How many towns will burn? How many children will be ripped from their mothers to perish on the end of a spear?” He stroked his luxuriant white beard, infinitely sad, infinitely weary. “Is it not wiser, even kinder, that Daenerys Targaryen should die now so that tens of thousands might live?”

“Kinder,” Varys said. “Oh, well and truly spoken, Grand Maester. It is so true. Should the gods in their caprice grant Daenerys Targaryen a son, the realm must bleed.”

Littlefinger was the last. As Ned looked to him, Lord Petyr stifled a yawn. “When you find yourself in bed with an ugly woman, the best thing to do is close your eyes and get on with it,” he declared. “Waiting won’t make the maid any prettier. Kiss her and be done with it.”

“Kiss her?” Ser Barristan repeated, aghast.

“A steel kiss,” said Littlefinger.

Robert turned to face his Hand. “Well, there it is, Ned. You and Selmy stand alone on this matter. The only question that remains is, who can we find to kill her?”

“Mormont craves a royal pardon,” Lord Renly reminded them.

“Desperately,” Varys said, “yet he craves life even more. By now, the princess nears Vaes Dothrak, where it is death to draw a blade. If I told you what the Dothraki would do to the poor man who used one on a khaleesi, none of you would sleep tonight.” He stroked a powdered cheek. “Now, poison … the tears of Lys, let us say. Khal Drogo need never know it was not a natural death.”

Grand Maester Pycelle’s sleepy eyes flicked open. He squinted suspiciously at the eunuch.

“Poison is a coward’s weapon,” the king complained.

Ned had heard enough. “You send hired knives to kill a fourteen-year-old girl and still quibble about honor?” He pushed back his chair and stood. “Do it yourself, Robert. The man who passes the sentence should swing the sword. Look her in the eyes before you kill her. See her tears, hear her last words. You owe her that much at least.”

“Gods,” the king swore, the word exploding out of him as if he could barely contain his fury. “You mean it, damn you.” He reached for the flagon of wine at his elbow, found it empty, and flung it away to shatter against the wall. “I am out of wine and out of patience. Enough of this. Just have it done.”

“I will not be part of murder, Robert. Do as you will, but do not ask me to fix my seal to it.”

~

“After you stormed out, it was left to me to convince them not to hire the Faceless Men,” he continued blithely. “Instead Varys will quietly let it be known that we’ll make a lord of whoever does in the Targaryen girl.”

Ned was disgusted. “So now we grant titles to assassins.”

Littlefinger shrugged. “Titles are cheap. The Faceless Men are expensive. If truth be told, I did the Targaryen girl more good than you with all your talk of honor. Let some sellsword drunk on visions of lordship try to kill her. Likely he’ll make a botch of it, and afterward the Dothraki will be on their guard. If we’d sent a Faceless Man after her, she’d be as good as buried.”

AGOT Eddard IV

“Why should Tyrion Lannister want Bran dead? The boy has never done him harm.”

“Do you Starks have nought but snow between your ears?” Littlefinger asked. “The Imp would never have acted alone.”

Ned rose and paced the length of the room. “If the queen had a role in this or, gods forbid, the king himself … no, I will not believe that.” Yet even as he said the words, he remembered that chill morning on the barrowlands, and Robert’s talk of sending hired knives after the Targaryen princess. He remembered Rhaegar’s infant son, the red ruin of his skull, and the way the king had turned away, as he had turned away in Darry’s audience hall not so long ago. He could still hear Sansa pleading, as Lyanna had pleaded once.

AGOT Eddard II

“Do you remember Ser Jorah Mormont?”

“Would that I might forget him,” Ned said bluntly. The Mormonts of Bear Island were an old house, proud and honorable, but their lands were cold and distant and poor. Ser Jorah had tried to swell the family coffers by selling some poachers to a Tyroshi slaver. As the Mormonts were bannermen to the Starks, his crime had dishonored the north. Ned had made the long journey west to Bear Island, only to find when he arrived that Jorah had taken ship beyond the reach of Ice and the king’s justice. Five years had passed since then.

“Ser Jorah is now in Pentos, anxious to earn a royal pardon that would allow him to return from exile,” Robert explained. “Lord Varys makes good use of him.”

“So the slaver has become a spy,” Ned said with distaste. He handed the letter back. “I would rather he become a corpse.”

“Varys tells me that spies are more useful than corpses,” Robert said. “Jorah aside, what do you make of his report?”

“Daenerys Targaryen has wed some Dothraki horselord. What of it? Shall we send her a wedding gift?”

The king frowned. “A knife, perhaps. A good sharp one, and a bold man to wield it.”

Ned did not feign surprise; Robert’s hatred of the Targaryens was a madness in him. He remembered the angry words they had exchanged when Tywin Lannister had presented Robert with the corpses of Rhaegar’s wife and children as a token of fealty. Ned had named that murder; Robert called it war. When he had protested that the young prince and princess were no more than babes, his new-made king had replied, “I see no babes. Only dragonspawn.” Not even Jon Arryn had been able to calm that storm. Eddard Stark had ridden out that very day in a cold rage, to fight the last battles of the war alone in the south. It had taken another death to reconcile them; Lyanna’s death, and the grief they had shared over her passing.

This time, Ned resolved to keep his temper. “Your Grace, the girl is scarcely more than a child. You are no Tywin Lannister, to slaughter innocents.” It was said that Rhaegar’s little girl had cried as they dragged her from beneath her bed to face the swords. The boy had been no more than a babe in arms, yet Lord Tywin’s soldiers had torn him from his mother’s breast and dashed his head against a wall.

“And how long will this one remain an innocent?” Robert’s mouth grew hard. “This child will soon enough spread her legs and start breeding more dragonspawn to plague me.”

“Nonetheless,” Ned said, “the murder of children … it would be vile … unspeakable …”

“Unspeakable?” the king roared. “What Aerys did to your brother Brandon was unspeakable. The way your lord father died, that was unspeakable. And Rhaegar … how many times do you think he raped your sister? How many hundreds of times?” His voice had grown so loud that his horse whinnied nervously beneath him. The king jerked the reins hard, quieting the animal, and pointed an angry finger at Ned. “I will kill every Targaryen I can get my hands on, until they are as dead as their dragons, and then I will piss on their graves.”

Ned knew better than to defy him when the wrath was on him. If the years had not quenched Robert’s thirst for revenge, no words of his would help. “You can’t get your hands on this one, can you?” he said quietly.

The king’s mouth twisted in a bitter grimace. “No, gods be cursed. Some pox-ridden Pentoshi cheesemonger had her brother and her walled up on his estate with pointy-hatted eunuchs all around them, and now he’s handed them over to the Dothraki. I should have had them both killed years ago, when it was easy to get at them, but Jon was as bad as you. More fool I, I listened to him.”

“Jon Arryn was a wise man and a good Hand.”

Robert snorted. The anger was leaving him as suddenly as it had come. “This Khal Drogo is said to have a hundred thousand men in his horde. What would Jon say to that?”

“He would say that even a million Dothraki are no threat to the realm, so long as they remain on the other side of the narrow sea,” Ned replied calmly. “The barbarians have no ships. They hate and fear the open sea.”

The king shifted uncomfortably in his saddle. “Perhaps. There are ships to be had in the Free Cities, though. I tell you, Ned, I do not like this marriage. There are still those in the Seven Kingdoms who call me Usurper. Do you forget how many houses fought for Targaryen in the war? They bide their time for now, but give them half a chance, they will murder me in my bed, and my sons with me. If the beggar king crosses with a Dothraki horde at his back, the traitors will join him.”

“He will not cross,” Ned promised. “And if by some mischance he does, we will throw him back into the sea. Once you choose a new Warden of the East—”

“He will not cross,” Ned promised. “And if by some mischance he does, we will throw him back into the sea. Once you choose a new Warden of the East—”

The king groaned. “For the last time, I will not name the Arryn boy Warden. I know the boy is your nephew, but with Targaryens climbing in bed with Dothraki, I would be mad to rest one quarter of the realm on the shoulders of a sickly child.”

AGOT Bran III

He lifted his eyes and saw clear across the narrow sea, to the Free Cities and the green Dothraki sea and beyond, to Vaes Dothrak under its mountain, to the fabled lands of the Jade Sea, to Asshai by the Shadow, where dragons stirred beneath the sunrise.

[bellatrixobsessed1]

From Chin To Yon Rah (Part 19)

“Lucky girl.” Go-Hara rasps one day. “Lucky, lucky girl.” She tsks.

“How can you say that?” Azula asks. The very question is an absolute affront. One that sets her fire blazing to a degree she hasn’t felt in a very long time.

“Because you had a chance.” She pauses and corrects herself. “You have a chance and you’re throwing it away.”

Azula furrows her brows and shakes her head, “You had it right the first time, I had a chance. My chance is gone.”  Twice over. It would seem that each time she has her fingers (very firmly) around something that will make her happy, someone comes to pry her fingers off of it. Or maybe she squeezes too tightly and shatters it herself.

The old woman tsks again. “You have a chance! You have a chance! You. Have. A. Chance!” Azula should be used to her turbulent moods by now, but this time the woman is acting rather infantile. She wonders if the disease has progressed, wonders if leprosy can even do such a thing to the mind.

“We should talk about something else.”

“You should stop playing in alleyways and make a life for yourself…”

“I already tried that.” Twice over.

Quick and deadly as a lightning strike, the woman’s mood shifts. She is very visibly enraged and Azula can’t understand why. She thinks that Go-Hara detects her confusion. “I don’t have a chance. I’d give anything to have one. But…” she holds up her knobby hands, “Every day in this decrepit town, I watch perfectly healthy folks waste what they have. Nobody wants to fight for anything anymore. They fail once or twice and they decide that there’s nothing to fight for.”

Azula opens her mouth. But Go-Hara rages on, her fury seems to build with every word and by the end of her raving her voice is raw and soft, “that’s because they don’t know what it’s like to truly be in a position where fighting isn’t an option.” She backpedals, “where it’s an option but it truly doesn’t matter how much fight you have in you, you’re punching at a breeze. And I just have to watch them give up, wishing that I had the chance to just throw my life away. I don’t even have a life to throw away.”

Her breathing is rugged.

There are a lot of things that Azula can say. Things that are better. Things that could calm the woman down or appease her. She picks the one thing that will do anything but. “Perhaps you’re the lucky one; you don’t have to fight to die like the rest of us.”

Go-Hara turns on her heel and storms away. She is startlingly fast, Azula chalks it up to pure hatred fueled adrenaline.

She doesn’t see the woman again for a very long time. It is so terribly lonely and the more she thinks about it, the more pleasant it seems to prove to Go-Hara, to herself, to everyone that she is ready to see herself out. Maybe that will drive home how little of a chance she knows she has. Or maybe there is no one to prove anything to. Likely Go-Hara has died like everyone else she gets close to. This time the note is a bitter one to end on.

She ventures into the forest that day and she comes back with a few sprigs of hemlock in her gloved hands. She finds that her usual spot is occupied. She counts the flowers in her hands, there is plenty of spare hemlock to offer the intruder.

“Where were you?”

“Picking flowers.” They fall to the alley floor.

Go-Hara eyes the hemlock at her feet, ��bah! Some bouquet that is.”

“I thought that you died.”

She thinks that the woman is snarling. But it is often hard to tell with Go-Hara, especially these days. The woman’s worsening condition is beginning to limit her facial movement. “I am going to lose this fight.” She declares. “But I’m still fighting.” The resentment is back, possibly fuller than before. “You can win but you’ve stopped fighting.”

Azula swallows and waits for the woman to demand that she pick herself back up and resume the battle. Instead she gestures to the flowers. “Go on then. They’re right there, eat ‘em off’a the dirty ground.”

Azula folds her arms over her chest, torn between hatred and misery. Torn between wanting to do just that, if only to see how the woman would react, and wanting to kick the flowers away out of spite.

Instead she finds herself standing there. Now that it is happening, she wonders how it hasn’t happened sooner; she finds herself wondering about Hajime and Atsu in the Spirit World. She imagines herself standing there in a bubbling hot spring with bamboo that reaches gold-orange clouds. There is steam all around,enchanting as it crawls over black sand, and  curls around formations of long hardened magma. That is how she has always imagined the Spirit World. And Hajime and Atsu stand in the pool, Seukhyun and Caihong too. But they aren’t delighted to see her. And when Hajime embraces her it is mournful. He blames himself. He says that she shouldn’t be here. Ojihara is furious. Absolutely livid. Just like Go-Hara…

When she comes back to herself she finds that the real Go-Hara isn’t angry at all. Not anymore.

“I just want you to have a chance.” The woman mumbles. “I met a lot of people and a lot of them don’t deserve to live.”

She has always appreciated the woman’s bluntness.

“Why do you think that I do?”

The woman shrugs. “Sometimes you just get a feeling about a person.”

Azula doesn’t take the hemlock that night or the next. She doesn’t take it at all. Go-Hara doesn’t bring up matters of motivation again.

.oOo.

“Are you happy?” Azula asks one morning. A morning where things aren’t particularly good nor particularly bad. These are the honest days. The days when she truly knows how she feels within.

“Happy?” The woman grins as wide as her affliction will allow. “I’m downright joyful! I’ve gotten to see more sunsets than most people. I got to ride hippo-cows and lasso ostrich horses.”  Azula thinks that it is supposed to be the other way around, not that she knows much about ranches. “And I got to meet a princess before I died! They call me a dead woman walking, but I’ve lived more than the lot’a them!” Suddenly her laugh isn’t such a hideous sound. This is the Go-Hara whose company she enjoys.

“Sounds, fulfilling.” Azula nods.

“Aye, girl!” She nods. “You’re no lepper. You have a full life to live. I ain’t got much longer. Can you do a dying old woman a favor?”

“Depends on the favor.”

Go-Hara chuckles. “Can you live that full life for me? I can’t do it, can you?”

That morning she leaves a blanket in the alleyway, at the old woman’s feet. On an old scrap of paper she scawls a thank you. And with the rising sun as a backdrop, she heads for the vast grassland again.

That day she learns that sometimes the sick are less ill than the healthy.

.oOo.

She thinks about it more than she thought she would. It was just a little touch. A soft little brush. But she has learned that those smaller, simpler touches are often more profound than the bolder declarations. She absently touches her cheek where his hand had been. She can still feel phantom tingles.

It was only a playful gesture… Only a playful gesture and yet…

She hears a knock on her door and her heart quickens if only somewhat. Upon opening it, TyLee flounces into the room and flops onto the bed. Azula had forgotten that the woman liked to do that.

“I know that you don’t like baking, but Mai’s birthday is tomorrow…”

Azula had forgotten that too. Granted she has never really had time for birthdays.

“I was hoping that we could bake her something special. She doesn’t like the icing on the other cakes, it’s ‘too bright’. I think that it’s just fine though.”

“Sure, TyLee, I’ll help you bake.” Though she can’t promise that it will be any good. Hajime had tried time and time again to teach her to cook the things she harvested but the culinary arts are lost on her.

“Great!” TyLee bounces up once more. She takes Azula by the hand and drags her into the kitchen.

“Okay so I’ve already…”

“Made a huge mess.” Azula observes. At least she won’t have to feel guilty for wrecking the kitchen.

“Yeah, that’s pretty much it.”

“I can’t cook, TyLee.”

She stares at Azula. Azula stares back. The princess is beginning to gather that she had been summoned under the impression that she could make something of this mess.

“You didn’t learn to cook in the Earth Kingdom?”

She shakes  her head. “I know how to roast meat.” Even then she usually burns it quite badly. “Have you tried asking Zuzu?”

TyLee nods. “It wasn’t this bad before he got here. The head chef personally escorted him out.”

.oOo.

The first step had been to clean the kitchen. Azula is good at this. She probably should have gotten one of the servants to do it for her but she needs to know with certainty that her baking area is absolutely spotless. And with her hand having done the work, she knows that it is.

TyLee drops two eggs into the flour mix.

Azula shakes her head.

“It says, two eggs’.”

“Yes.” Azula agrees as she cracks it against the rim of the bowl. She cringes as the yolk bursts in her palm. “two cracked eggs.”

TyLee nods. She too rams the an egg against the bowl, dropping the smashed bits into the mix.

“Without the shells.”

“Whoops.” She purses her lips as she begins picking shell shards out. “Well how do we get the yolk out without getting shell bits?”

“You open it correctly.”

“How?”

Azula wipes her hands clean and shrugs. She plucks another egg and tries again. Just when she thinks that the yolk will slide easily free, it explodes again, spattering her face with yolk. She crinkles her nose and wipes the mess from her forehead.

“You have to be gentle.” TyLee suggests. She picks up another egg and taps it on the rim of the bowl. This time she only has to pick a few pieces of shell from the mix.

“TyLee, can I ask you something?” She asks upon finally putting the cake in the oven. She will let the servants determine when to take it out.

“Sure, Azula!”

She swallows, before back peddling in her mind, “firstly, did you read my journal with Zuko?”

She cringes, “was I not supposed to?”

“I was hoping that you did.”

TyLee relaxes, “why?”

“Do you think that…” She pauses. “Do you think that Hajime would be angry if I found someone else.” It is a silly question, Hajime can’t get mad at her, he is dead.

“Oh, Azula!” TyLee takes her by the wrists, she thinks of a beach party so long ago, hadn’t TyLee been trying to give her love advice then too? “I think that he would be happy that you aren’t hurt or alone anymore.” Still holding Azula’s hand she presses it over the princess’ heart.

“Okay.”

“Who is it?” TyLee beams.

She isn’t sure how TyLee doesn’t know already. She hasn’t exactly been around that many people. And then she does seem to connect the dots. She gives a happy little gasp and covers her mouth, “it’s Sokka, isn’t it?”

She nods. Still she finds herself hesitant.

.oOo.

She takes the time to wash her floury, yolky hair and changes into fresh silks. She is offered lotions and perfumes and she helps herself to at least a little of it. She thinks that she is finally starting to settle more fully and comfortably back into her old lifestyle. At least a touch anyhow.

“The cake tastes good, what’s it for?”

Azula’s face flashes red, “Sokka, you didn’t!”

He throws his hands up, “I didn’t, I didn’t! Promise.” He drops his hands. “But it smells good.”

Azula exhales. Truly she should knock the man on his ass. “It’s for Mai, can’t you tell.”

He taps his chin. “Gloomy colors. ‘Birthday’ spelled with little mochi chunks and no ‘happy’. Yeah I can tell it’s for Mai.”

“I thought that we should just give her the mochi.”

“I didn’t realize that you can cook.”

Azula gives a dismissive gesture. “Wait until you taste it to make assumptions.”

He laughs. “I guess that you can’t be good at everything.” He takes a seat next to her on the bed, his hand brushes over hers briefly before he finds an unoccupied spot to put it. But she finds it again and without a word she takes it. He stares for a moment, at her hand in his.

“What’s this?” He holds up their hands.

She clears her throat, “it is my hand, Sokka. And yours. I would imagine that you have known what a hand is for a while now.”

He rolls his eyes. “I know what hands are! I just want to know why you’re holding mine.”

“Because it is here.” And she wonders if that is all there is to it. He is simply there and available. But she doesn’t think that this is the case. She is holding his hand because it is his hand. The hand that hovered over hers when she’d first woken up dazed and distraught, it is the hand that took hers at the theater, the hand that guided her as she learned to sew, the hand that held hers when she was falling apart.

He chuckles again. “I don’t exactly know what that means, Azula.”

But she does, she knows exactly what it means and she finds that she is just as hesitant to say it as she had been with Hajime. Perhaps more so. She hasn’t been around Sokka nearly as long as she had been around Hajime--not affectionately anyhow. She doesn’t know how to say it, not in a poetic and elegant way. And maybe that is just it, maybe it isn’t something that is meant to be spoken at all.

Anyways, she had promised Go-Hara that she would live. That she wouldn’t waste her youth and her pretty face. She had promised to truly live. She doesn’t give herself time to overthink it. She cups Sokka’s face in her hands and pulls his face closer for a kiss. Her first one in a very, very long time.

[ducktracy]

167. sweet si*ux (1937)

disclaimer: the review you’re about to read entails racist content and imagery. i, in no way, shape, or form, condone or endorse any of the ideals depicted below—i find the content gross and wrong. however, it needs to be talked about. to gloss over it like nothing happened would be just as insensitive and tone-deaf. PLEASE let me know if i say anything wrong, it’s absolutely not my intent to say anything hurtful or offensive, and i want to take accountability for my actions if i do. thank you for understanding and cooperating.

release date: june 26th, 1937

series: merrie melodies

director: friz freleng

starring: mel blanc (coach, hiccup sfx, mohican)

another typical festival of dehumanizing caricatures and stereotypes, there IS one aspect of this cartoon that is rather atypical--this is the first cartoon to debut a little known song by the name of “the merry go round broke down”. the song is the second anthem for the looney tunes shorts, officially debuting as the theme song with rover’s rival, just a mere 4 months after this cartoon. with “merrily we roll along” already instated as the merrie melodies theme, implemented with boulevardier of the bronx in 1936, the merry go round broke down preface cartoons in the looney tunes series, later prefacing every cartoon after 1964 with the bill lava version instead. it would also be the song number for daffy duck and egghead (sung by daffy), as well as being sung by daffy AGAIN with substitute lyrics in boobs in the woods. needless to say, this song has its fair share of history, and has made quite a name for itself.

the cartoon itself is another parade of demeaning gags, caricatures, and stereotypes, as well as remaining relatively plotless: we get a glimpse of native american life, complete with celebrity caricatures, song, and dance performances.

i will give credit where credit is due--the opening sequence of the cartoon is executed very nicely, with some beautifully painted backgrounds, accompanied by a tranquil (and appropriate) underscore of “indian dawn”. we open to the silhouette of a native american perched on top of a mountain. as the sun continues to rise, marked by changing backgrounds, it’s revealed that the silhouette is merely a statue. 

wipe away to a pan of the village, lulling us into a false sense of security as things are uncharacteristically quiet. one of the “teepees” (looking more like a circus tent) reads CHIEF “RAIN IN THE FACE”, a take on warchief rain-in-the-face, noted for his crucial contributions in defeating general custer during the battle of little big horn in 1876. sure enough, a jerk of a pan reveals a stereotypical stoic native american sitting in front of the tent with a small stream of rain designated just for his face. the build up and reveal of the gag is clever, but the gag itself is tired and difficult to laugh at. 

more teepee gags after--one native pushes his teepee up like an umbrella, sitting contentedly beneath it in a lawn chair. the most elaborate gag, however, serves as a callback to a merrie melodies cartoon dating all the way back to 1932. from the top of the teepee pops out a bespectacled, cap wearing college student toting a ukelele. he bursts into a rousing rendition of “freddy the freshman”, a callback to the cartoon of the same name 5 years prior, directed by rudolf ising. seeing as friz himself received an animation credit on the short, the gag isn’t totally out of the blue. the song itself would become a favorite of stalling’s, used in many a cartoon. once more, stereotypes prevail as the song is broken to allow a war-chant interlude before resuming. overall, the timing is well executed, but, along with everything else in this cartoon, is diminished in appreciation on account of being so tone-deaf. two more brief gags follow--a hen giving a war-cry after laying an egg, and a hitchhiker hopping into a woman’s papoose as she strolls by. nothing remarkable, more uncomfortable than anything. the gags feel a tad bit forced and directionless in my opinion.

next, a fade out and in signifies some momentum in the story as we spot a native american on the lookout, his entire upper-body rotating 360 degrees as he keeps a sharp eye out. suddenly, he spots something--a wagon crawls into view. a closeup shows two cows lugging along a covered wagon, emblazoned with TRADER DRUM on the side in big, red letters, serving as one of the more amusing gags as we see it towing a modern camper from behind. 

particularly tashlin-esque camera angles pop up in this cartoon, especially during this sequence as the native american dashes over hill and dale, zigzagging in and out of the foreground. a good sense of audience immersion as we merely see his legs and the side of the cliff when he dashes alongside the foreground--frank tashlin would also utilize this camera/layout technique later on, this scene here particularly reminiscent of an angle used in now that summer is gone just a year later.

the native starts to write a telegraph--in the background, there’s an EASTERN ONION sign decorated on top of a counter advertising “90 words for 90 wampum”, the eastern onion sign a pun on the telegraph service western union. i’m more sympathetic to corny puns such as these, but the gag has definitely become rather obsolete and lost to the sands of time (since when was the last time anybody sent a telegraph?) the native hands it to a man behind the counter, who shoves the note outside of a hole in the tent and shows it to another native on the lookout. after reading the letter, he grabs a pipe and delivers the telegraph via morse code through the pipe. the sound of the pipe DOES align rather nicely with the underscore of “the sun dance”. and, of course, to top it all off, just as we’ve figured the telegram has ended, we get a topper of “shave and a haircut”, a hiccup sound effect by mel blanc capping it.

many a warner bros cartoon dons the catchphrase “calling all cars, calling all cars” from the 1933-1939 police radio drama of the same name, and this one is no exception. instead, however, the native american on the lookout drones in the same monotone voice “calling all braves, calling all braves, pick up a covered wagon at cactus canyon and red gulch. go get ‘em, boys.” 

thus sparks some much needed energy--natives run out and (shocker) perform some war cries, the sequence cut short in favor of one (of a few) dance sequences. i do believe bob mckimson gets an animation credit for this cartoon, and while i’m not certain, his hand would certainly explain the solidity and fluidity of this next sequence as a native dances in time to a drum beat, getting progressively faster and faster as the tempo picks up, eventually transforming into a mere whirlwind. again, credit where credit is due--the animation and the technique behind it is very well crafted. it’s a shame such talent had to be used on such caricatures and stereotypes. 

more high energy and more intriguing foreground camera angles as the natives dance around a fire. one woman beats both her stomach and her butt (makes me wonder about the hays code), another carrying her son in a papoose doing a war cry. eventually, the son carries the mother on HIS back, also doing a war cry. i wonder, did audiences then find the war cry gags as taxing as i do now? racism aside, it definitely serves as a crutch gag. 

and, of course, time for a celebrity performance: a busty caricature of martha raye, living up to her nickname of "the big mouth” as indicated by her giant caricatured lips, singing “goombay drum”. the song number is catchy and fun, but her caricature is certainly... questionable at best. cultural appropriation much? sexualized much? she would have only been 20 here. nevertheless, animation is fun and the song is very lively, but, as always, difficult to appreciate to its fullest potential. 

after her song number, animation of the natives dancing around the fire is reused as a segue between scenes. this time, two natives dance the hopak (because why not?). carl stalling’s score is certainly a highlight--his transition between music styling is wonderful as always. more fire dancing animation as another segue, this time used to fade out and back in. 

the next scene of the natives charging on horseback would be reused a year later in cal dalton and cal howard’s breakout cartoon porky’s phoney express. the natives cross the creek to get to the trader’s wagon (once more some nice foreground overlapping and animation, all things considered), where the trader begins to shoot at them while they circle the wagon. the scene (as well as underscore) is very much reminiscent of the equally (if not more so) deplorable 1936 jack king cartoon, westward whoa. 

an all out shootout occurs, the trader perching on a stool and shooting rapid fire as he spins 360 degrees, whereas a native fires back, spinning around his horse from the impact. there IS some rather unique and fun animation as a native fires his rifle, stars and sparks trailing behind. the novelty of the entire battle is lost rather quickly, however--it’s stretched too thin, too repetitive, too tired to be continually encapsulating. i will award points for creativity as the trader shoots at a line of canoes in the style of a carnival duck shooting game, but again the content of the gag is cringeworthy and uncomfortable. 

nevertheless, this is where history is made, following in the carnival theme. the natives circling the wagon suddenly lift up and ride their horses like a merry go round, underscored of COURSE by “the merry go round broke down”, marking this the first cartoon to debut the future theme song. funnily enough, tex avery would reuse this exact gag in his 1953 cartoon homesteader droopy. friz freleng’s gag has the advantage of using “the merry go round broke down” to further the gag, whereas tex at MGM had to use “man on the flying trapeze”. this isn’t the first (nor last) time tex would take inspiration from friz. coincidentally, the cartoon reviewed before this, freleng’s streamline greta green, served as the basis for tex’s one cab’s family. his 1950 the peachy cobbler is also spoofed from friz’s 1946 holiday for shoestrings. 

after the merry go round gag, the shootout resumes. we spot sidelined natives, “freddy the freshman” popping up as an underscore once more, observing the “game” as the coach paces back and forth, complete with a cheering section and everything. one native is shot right in the butt, prompting the referee to blow the whistle. the chaos screeches to a halt as two natives toting a stretcher, taking the injured “player” off the field. the minor key rendition of “freddy the freshman” does accentuate the gag rather nicely. stalling’s scores are probably the best thing about the cartoon, aside from the notoriety spurred on by the merry go round sequence. 

the coach enlists in the help of one of the sidelined players, switching from broken english (sigh) to yiddish? another gag that, at least for me, has been lost to the sands of time. the native american he’s enlisting in gives a drawling catchphrase of “ooooooohhhh yeaaaaah,” coined from tony labriola’s character oswald on the ken murray show, used in quite a few 30s warner bros cartoons (porky’s spring planting is the first example that comes to mind.) maybe a riot back in 1937, but the entire gag sequence is too dated (and again, the stereotypes of it all) to get a rise today. 

another tashlin-esque technique is employed as various footage is overlayed and reused to further the drama of the entire sequence. for me, however, this comes off as more of a tactic to fill up the time slot then to convey urgency and theatrics. this WAS the depression, so if you can reuse animation to save a buck or two, then by all means go for it, but this cartoon in general feels rather directionless and hollow, as if there was too much time left to fill and they had to think of a way to fill it up. and, of course, the overarching unpleasantness of the racism contributes to my unfavorable review. we get almost 20 seconds exactly of overlayed footage before things finally settle down.

at last, the shoot out has subsided. the animation is commendable for how fluid it is as two native americans pop up amidst the rubble, both crossing their arms. the first native is obviously surprised to see he has company, exclaiming in broken english (sigh) “who you?” the entire sequence is bogged down by cringeworthy, stereotyped dialogue. “me mohican. who you?” “me mohican.” the second mohican, obviously unpleased, grabs his tomahawk and socks his companion right over the head. i could be wrong, but the first mohican sounds like the vocal work of tedd pierce, the second one obviously mel blanc. the timing of the punchline is rather nice, i will concede, as the final line of the cartoon is “me last mohican.” an unarguably clever gag, soured by racism and stereotypes.

so, as you can obviously (or hopefully) tell, this cartoon is far from a favorite. it’s bogged down by dehumanizing and insulting stereotypes and caricatures, stereotypes and caricatures that have been done before and are awfully tired (as are all.) friz has worse entries under his belt, but he certainly has much better entries as well. this cartoon felt a bit loose and cobbled together for my liking, lots of extended scenes, reused animation, and directionless gags. it’s not quite a spot-gag cartoon, but i wouldn’t say it exactly has a concrete storyline either. it just seems to exist. there are, of course, some good qualities: carl stalling’s musical technique is creative as ever, and brightens up the monotony of many of the scenes. the animation was rather fluid in some parts, but the content being animated sours the appreciation for the full technique. not enough to save the cartoon, it at least does tote some notoriety and history with it being the debut of the looney tunes theme song (being instated as such only a few months later.) however, i can’t in good heart recommend this cartoon. too cringeworthy, too racist, too monotonous, too routine.

but, as always, i’ll provide a link. obviously view at your own discretion. 

[deathdoors]

𝐇𝐄𝐘  𝐆𝐀𝐌𝐄𝐑𝐒  !  meredith  here.  nineteen twenty,  they/them  or  she/her,  the  best  admin  in  the  world.  it’s  why  i’m  using  manny  for  my  gif  for  this,  when  he’s  the  best  and  my  mascot  on  the  main  <3  if  it  ain’t  broke  don’t  fix  it.  so:  a  little  about  me  !  i’m  a  libra,  from  new  jersey,  in  my  second  year  of  college,  use  a  lot  of  emojis,  have  recently  and  embarrassingly  been  both  playing  fortnite    (    i  know    )    and  reading  like  2  books  a  night,  which  might  seem  like  it  makes  me  smart  but  actually  just  makes  me  go  to  bed  at  seven  in  the  morning.  which  also  makes  me  a  dumb  bitch.  on  to  the  show  !

name:  emma  phillips age:  thirty occupation:  preschool  teacher trope:  the  wide  eyed  idealist aesthetic:  fresh  baked  chocolate  chip  cookies,  wildflowers  in  a  vase,  half  empty  bottles  of  pink  wine,  stopping  to  pet  every  dog,  happy  tears,  rom-com  movie  nights,  coffee  with  too  much  cream  and  sugar.

emma  was  born  and  raised  in  the  suburbs  outside  springfield,  missouri.  her  mother  was  incredibly  anxious  and  doting,  disliking  emma  riding  bikes  in  the  streets  with  the  other  kids  and  climbing  trees,  etc  she  was  thus  much  closer  to  her  dad:  camping  trips,  bedtime  stories,  the  works.  she  adored  him,  and  when  her  twin  younger  siblings  were  born,  emma’s  mother  interpereted  being  a  daddy’s  girl  as  hating  her,  and  started  ignoring  emma  when  she  wasn’t  scolding  her,  instead  focusing  a  much  more  positive  attention  on  the  twins.  

then,  of  course,  because  life  sucks,  her  dad  got  sick  of  it  and  left  without  so  much  as  a  goodbye.  ran  off  with  his  secretary  when  emma  was  twelve,  leaving  her  with  a  toxic  mom  and  two  little  toddler  twins.  she  entered  mom  mode  when  her  mom’s  anxiety  turned  to  severe,  don’t  get  out  of  bed  depression  ...  emma  was  cooking  for  the  twins    (    and  failing  miserably,  most  of  the  time  it  was  pizza  and  frozen  dinners.  to  emma’s  credit,  that  did  include  frozen  vegetables.    )  helping  them  with  schoolwork,  getting  them  to  and  from  school,   etc.   

her  grandparents  were  semi - well  off,  and  sent  some  money  to  the  phillips  clan,  but  emma  got  a  job  as  soon  as  she  was  able.  the  combination  of  the  two,  and  her  mom’s  on  and  off  working  was  enough  to  not  go  hungry.  the  twins  could  go  on  some  field  trips,  there  was  enough  for  new  clothes  when  they  grew  like  weeds  ...  but  obviously,  no  pre-teen  /  teen  wants  to  constantly  care  for  little  kids.  it  sucked.  

the  money  continued  when  her  grandfather  died  when  she  was  sixteen,  and  then,  a  little  while  later,  right  before  emma  graduated  high  school,  her  grandmother  died,  leaving  them  her  house  in  fort  elms,  washington.  

the  phillips  clan  moved  there,  with  a  month  left  of  high  school  for  emma.  as  soon  as  she  turned  eighteen,  a  mere  month  after  graduation:  emma  was  kicked  out  of  the  house.  her  mother  wanted  nothing  to  do  with  her  anymore,  saying  emma was  tearing  her  away  from  the  twins.  for  the  rest  of  their  childhoods,  emma  was  not  allowed  to  see  either  of  her  siblings,  with  emma’s  mother  telling  them  that  she  had  left  on  purpose.

thus:  she  went  to  college,  moved  out  of  the  house  into  a  new  apartment, fell  in  love  and  pined  boyfriendless  for years  like  some  kind  of  loser,  was  incredibly  on  and  off,  got  cheated  on.  she  hasn’t  been  able  to  land  a  mans  since,  despite  wanting  a  storybook  romance.

while  all  that  was  happening,  she  got  a  degree,  teaching  at  the  fancy  private  preschool  school  in  town.  remember  when  i  said  she  entered  mom  mode  when  her  dad  left  ?  yeah.  she  never  left  it,  apparently.  she  loves  her  job,  though.  lots  of  stickers.

tl;dr:  toxic  mom,  dad  left  when  she  was  12,  effectively  raised  her  younger  siblings.  moved  to  fort  elms  when  she  was  about  to  turn  18,  finished  out  high  school,  and  was  kicked  out.  she  became  a  preschool  teacher,  inexplicably  staying  in  fort  elms.

     personality:  emma  is  kind  hearted  and  optimistic  —  she's  a  little  bit  of  a  people  pleaser,  and  a  lot  a  bit  of  a  hopeless  romantic.  she's  pretty  friendly  /  chatty,  and  considers  people  her  friends  approximately  .5  seconds  after  meeting  them.  she's  a  little  naive  in  the  sense  that  she  believes  everyone  is  good,  or  can  be  good  with  just  a  little  effort,  and  is  pretty  forgiving.  she's  much  more  of  a  go  with  the  group  kind  of  person,  and  hates  being  alone.

tw alcoholism, depression; 

name:  philippa  “pippa”  espina age:  twenty-two occupation:  unemployed trope:  fallen  princess aesthetic:  bottles  of  vodka,  half  burnt  cigarettes,  red  lipstick,  shattered  glass,  parties  going  late  into  the  night,  adept  fingers  rolling  joints,  sleeping  in  late,  the  twinkle  of  a  chandelier.

in  retrospect,  pippa  was  destined  to  be  spoiled:  she  never  got  attention  as  a  child,  and  her  parents  had  money,  and  anyone  who's  seen  a  movie  about  rich  kids  knows  that's  a  cocktail  for  disaster.  california  born  and  bred,  pippa  was  used  to  two  things  by  the  time  she  could  toddle:  the  sun,  and  getting  what  she  wanted.  

her  father  was  a  successful  ...  something  with  a  desk  and  lots  of  people  reporting  to  him,  she  never  even  payed  attention.  her  mother  was  more  focused  on  tennis  practices  and  galas  and  book  clubs  where  they  just  drank  wine.  a  series  of  nannies  raised  her:  not  one  or  two  where  she  could  bond  with,  cling  to  the  maternal  attention  she  desired.    

instead,  her  frequent  temper  tantrums  and  outbursts  lead  to  them  either  quitting  or  getting  fired  when  pippa  made  up  stories:  she  was  so  mean  to  me,  i  think  she's  stealing  from  the  jewelry  box,  she's  been  drinking  your  fancy  wine.  she  didn't  know  why  she  was  doing  it.  maybe  it  was  the  way  her  mother  would  stroke  her  hair  gently,  eyes  blurry  with  drunkeness  saying  they'd  work  on  finding  someone  better  to  take  care  of  her.  for  all  her  twisted  lies,  pippa  could  be  brutally  honest.  yet  she  never  asked  her  mother  why  she  couldn't  take  care  of  her.    

by  the  time  pippa  had  hit  the  sixth  grade,  she'd  been  kicked  out  of  two  of  the  private  schools  in  the  area.  her  third  was  all  all  girl's  school,  full  of  catholic  sensibilities  and  a  headmistress  that  refused  to  dismiss  pippa,  no  matter  how  much  she  acted  out.

she  was  twelve  the  first  time  she  was  the  one  breaking  into  the  liquor  cabinet,  little  sips  of  sweet  liquors  that  made  her  head  feel  fuzzy.  a  lock  was  placed  on  it  three  weeks  later,  and  she  didn't  get  drunk  again  until  high  school.  but  pippa  decided  she  liked  that  feeling,  and  more  importantly,  she  liked  the  feeling  of  her  parents  finally  looking  at  her.  

at  one  of  the  rare  family  meals  a  month  after  her  thirteenth  birthday,  pippa  said  i  don't  want  a  nanny  anymore  at  the  same  time  that  her  father  said  we're  moving  to  washington.  some  business  deal  her  father's  company  had  made  with  the  military  base,  it  was  a  wonderful  town.  she  didn't  want  to  hear  it.  another  tantrum  she  was  far  too  old  for,  a  slap  across  the  face.  selfish  brat.  

they  moved  to  washington  three  days  later.  she  didn’t  have  a  nanny.

pippa  was  never  popular  in  high  school,  nor  unpopular.  she  was  a  bit  of  an  outcast:  mean  and  pretty  only  got  you  so  far  if  you  were  already  top  dog,  and  she  wasn't.  she,  however,  threw  big  parties  that  drew  the  attention  of  high  schoolers  and  the  lamer  end  of  the  college  crowd.  holidays,  breaks,  every  weekend:  an  unlimited  supply  of  all  the  weed  and  alcohol  at  pippa's  house,  combined  with  the  loud  thunk  of  music  and  no  one  to  get  mad  at  you  if  you  broke  a  vase  or  woke  up  on  the  floor  the  next  morning.  her  parents  were  rarely  ever  home.

when  they  were,  however,  things  weren't  pretty.  slammed  glasses  on  tables,  shouts  so  loud  they  made  voices  sore.  pippa  would  stand  there  and  she  would  cry  until  her  face  was  red,  and  say  sorry  for  breaking  things,  and  the  next  day  her  parents  would  give  her  a  new  allowance  and  a  kiss  atop  the  head.  that  was  their  apology.  she  never  accepted  it.  she  kept  the  money  and  embraced  back,  of  course.  but  she  never  meant  it.  she  would  do  the  same  thing  again,  and  again,  and  again.  

attention  was  better  than  any  drug,  and  almost  as  good  as  the  bottom  end  of  a  bottle  or  a  shot  glass.  she  was  mean  and  she  was  catty,  sure,  but  then  she  was  warm  and  fun  and  bought  you  lunch.  by  the  time  she  had  made  stronger  connections,  latching  on  to  the  only  two  people,  the  only  two  friends  she  had  was  easy.  they  were  her  friends,  and  thus  everyone  else  was  her  enemy.  

after  high  school,  she  didn't  do  anything.  no  college,  no  job.  her  parties  persisted,  and  so  did  kisses  behind  locked  doors  and  afternoons  spent  sleeping  off  a  hangover  until  she  woke  up  and  did  it  again.  she  was  still  mean,  still  catty,  still  desperate  for  attention:  growth  had  been  stunted,  immaturity  and  a  desperation  making  her  miserable  to  be  around.  

she  doesn't  know  why  she  does  it.  not  even  deep  down:  sometimes,  it's  like  she's  staring  down  at  her  own  body,  watching  herself  be  cruel  or  unkind,  sparking  up  a  joint  to  call  someone  a  bitch  and  someone  a  cow,  or  taking  another  shot  and  whispering  into  the  nearest  fellow  partygoers'  ear  that  they  should  go  upstairs.  sometimes  she  wakes  up  and  feels  like  she's  the  worst  person  in  the  world.  especially  after  one  of  those  partygoers  is  the  ex  of  one  of  those  two  friends.  she  feels  like  the  worst  person  in  the  world,  and  she  likes  it  better  then,  she  decides.  at  least  then  she  feels  something.

tl;dr: rich bitch, loves partying, classic mean girl. not so functional alcoholic, hooks up with a lot of people. turbulent relationship with her parents, desperate for attention. definitely needs a therapist and a psychiatrist.

personality:  pippa  is  very  ...  sugar  and  ice.  or  more  aptly,  sugar  and  fire.  as  long  as  you  follow  her  my  way  or  the  highway  mentality  and  give  her  plenty  of  attention,  she'll  drag  you  along  on  all  her  plans,  lavish  you  with  attention  ...  until  she  doesn't  anymore.  she's  reckless  and  self-centered,  but  she's  a  hell  of  a  lot  of  fun.  if  you  manage  to  get  into  her  inner  circle,  she'd  take  a  bullet  for  you,  but  ...  well,  as  mentioned  before  she  still  might  sleep  with  your  ex  <3  or  ur  current  bf,  honestly.

tw bullying, anxiety, depression, suicide; 

name:  theodore  "teddy"  larsen age:  twenty-three occupation:  graduate  student trope:  shrinking  violet aesthetic:  pages  and  pages  of  notes,  shiny  comic  book  pages,  freshly  sharpened  pencils,  home  cooked  meals,  deep  shaky  breaths,  science  fiction  movies,  100%  exams,  thick  books  full  of  knowledge

theodore  larsen  came  out  of  the  womb  miserable.  he  was  a  colicky  baby,  born  to  a  loving,  young  american  mother  and  a  his  british  professor  father  in  england.  he  was  a  quiet  child,  once  he  grew  out  of  the  constant  exhausted  crying:  much  preferring  the  company  of  his  mom  than  other  kids.  he  was  smart  though,  and  a  heavy  reader.

when  he  spoke  was  when  the  trouble  began:  as  his  vocabulary  began  to  grow  and  he  talked  more  and  more,  a  stutter  came  with  it.  he  spoke  kindly  and  eloquently  for  his  age,  but  he  struggled  sometimes  to  get  words  out.  kids  were  cruel,  naturally,  and  it  only  made  teddy  more  reclusive.  

out  of  isolation  came  anxiety:  he  was  an  intensely  worried  child,  mostly  involved  with  his  parents  rather  than  people  his  age.  an  investment  in  books,  comics,  nonficiton,  novels.  teddy  was  perfectly  content  with  books  as  his  friends,  and  of  course,  his  mother,  his  favorite  person  in  the  world.

 and  then  his  world  came  crashing  down.  nothing  horrific:  no  one  died,  no  one  was  sick.  but  when  the  only  thing  that  brings  you  comfort  is  security  and  repetition,  your  father  cheating  on  your  mother  and  moving  across  the  world  is  a  pretty  far  crash  to  the  bottom.  port  elms,  washington:  his  mother’s  hometown,  where  teddy  would  finish  out  high  school.

he  was  relentlessly  bullied,  still.  the  label  of  new  kid  paired  with  a  lack  of  social  grace  and  nerdy  dispotion,  there  might  as  well  have  been  a  target  painted  on  his  back.  he  had  one  friend,  endlessly  kind  to  him.  she’d  saved  his  life,  figuratively,  and  he  saved  hers  literally,  an  appearance  at  her  house  shortly  after  her  suicide  attempt.

it  made  sense  that  he’d  have  one  too.  depression  was  a  dark  shroud  that  hung  over  him,  exacerbated  anxious  behaviors.  that  was  months  ago  now.  a  secret,  locked  inside  him,  not  quite  ready  to  come  out.  therapy,  once  a  week.  maybe  twice.

 he’s  not  excited  about  finishing  his  degree,  not  really.  he  feels  good  about  teaching,  it’s  what  he  wants  to  do.  but  the  idea  of  being  back  in  fort  elms  high  isn’t  exactly  leaving  a  good  taste  in  his  mouth.  he’ll  cross  that  bridge  when  he  comes  to  it,  no  matter  how  much  it  makes  his  heart  beat  faster  and  his  palms  sweat.  he’s  got  all  the  time  in  the  world

tl;dr: nervous mess, bullying target, has one real friend. very sensitive mama’s boy. british accent, moved to fort elms when he was in high school. sad. doesn’t like his dad very much. 

personality:  the  nerdiest  mf  alive.  teddy  is  a  total  sweetheart,  very  socially  awkward,  and  pretty  damn  smart.  he  know  a  lot  about  typical  nerdy  shit.  superheroes,  star  trek.  he  LOVES  star  wars.  he's  also  in  a  band,  playing  bass.  fun  times.  he's  nervous  as  hell  —  also  super  cautious,  he  never  likes  to  do  anything  without  it  being  meticulously  planned.  total  mamas  boy.

[kimabutch]

The One Who Will Remember Everything

The sun has set, risen, and set again by the time that Cicero stops, points to a fancy-looking house on a hill, and says something she can vaguely understand. Sasha barely nods back. Her legs have long since stopped hurting and are now simply numb, and her entire being is working to keep herself upright.

She doesn’t remember collapsing halfway up the hill, nor Cicero running for help to carry her the rest of the way.

--

Sasha’s gotten used to waking up with a start, ready to fight, but this time, she wakes slowly, becoming gradually conscious of the warm blankets wrapped around her and the sunlight behind her eyelids. It’s only when she starts vaguely listening for the familiar sounds of Hamid’s soft snores and hears birdsong instead that her eyes snap open. She’s lying on a colourful, soft bed in a large room, lit by several windows. Her clothes and shoes are still all on.

Instinctually, Sasha checks for all her daggers, counting them quickly. All there but the ice dagger, which — she looks down at her hand and the blue scars that jolt like lightning across her skin, and suddenly it all comes back like a punch to the stomach. Letting go of Azu. Grizzop’s limp body in her arms. Corpses, burned alive.

She closes her eyes and swallows dryly, unsure if she’s holding back puke or sobs, and unwilling to find out. She crawls out of the bed and feels every muscle in her body protest with soreness as she silently walks to the window. By the light of day, no longer wracked by exhaustion, Sasha sees clearly, for the first time, the endless green, rolling fields stretching into the horizon. There’s a weight on Sasha’s chest as she imagines herself standing in them, falling into their infinity, searching desperately for something to hold onto. She tears herself away from the window, her breath short, and leans against the wall, comforted somehow by its solidness.

Calming her breath and avoiding looking out the windows, Sasha makes her way along the wall to the doorway. Muffled voices come from the lower level, so she creeps down the stairs, instinctually stealthy, and wanders until she finds their source: a garden. From the doorway, she can see Cicero in a new toga, talking boisterously to an elderly man, who’s surprisingly calm in the face of Cicero’s forceful personality. Maybe it’s the effect of several successive potions of tongues that she took yesterday, or maybe it’s whatever allowed Bertie to speak French in Paris, but Sasha finds that she can understand their Latin near-perfectly.

“For now, you don’t need to worry,” the old man is saying. “The cow and chickens they left and my garden will be perfectly serviceable until Atticus returns.”

“But you’ve seen her — she’s all skin and bones! She carried me half the way here! She needs something substantial!” Cicero says.

“I assure you, I can take care of her. When she wakes up, I’ll make her a large dinner —”

“Cheers, mate,” Sasha says, coming up behind Cicero, “but I’ve lived on less before. I don’t need anything fancy.”

Cicero turns around in surprise. “Ah, excellent, you’re awake! Let me introduce you to Aulus, the delightful servant of my good friend, Atticus, in whose villa we are currently residing! Unfortunately, Atticus, his family, and his scribes were traveling in Rome when the destruction occurred, but Aulus will provide for us. I’m sure they will find their way back. They’re not as quick as us!”

“The news of Rome came to us a day before you arrived,” Aulus explains. “The rest of Atticus’s servants fled with most of the animals, but I chose to stay. We have large stores of food here, and many fields. We’ll be comfortable until Atticus returns, at which point we’ll make a decision about where to go.

“Yeah… when he returns… from Rome,” Sasha says, unsure whether it’s morally right to support their naive optimism. She doesn’t know that it’ll be four weeks until Aulus and Cicero give up hope. “How long was I asleep?”

“Two and a half days — you must be hungry,” Aulus says, heading towards the door. “What food do you prefer?”

“You, uh… you got any eels?”

Cicero beams. “A delicate palate — delightful!”

--

That evening, Aulus ushers her into the same second-floor bedroom, and Sasha finds herself lying awake on her back. Whenever she closes her eyes, she sees Hamid, Grizzop, and Azu, swears she can hear them calling her name — but whenever she opens them, she feels her gaze drawn to the window overlooking the fields. At the thought of the open space, her chest tightens. She sees herself walking through them, feels her vulnerability from all sides, knows that she’s being watched.

She slips out of bed and makes her way to Aulus’s bedroom, awkwardly knocking.

“Is there, like… a basement? A cellar? Just in case we, uh… if someone comes?”

--

On the fourth day, she wakes up to Cicero calling down to her from the top of the cellar.

“Aulus heard something in the stables! You’re very strong! I hope you can check!” His voice is as booming as always. Sasha unclenches her hand’s white-knuckled grip on her dagger and pulls herself up from the blankets that Aulus insisted she bring down to sleep on. She climbs up the ladder, Cicero chatting constantly.

The stables are a hundred metres or so away from the back entrance to the villa, and the path is thankfully shaded by a handful of trees. She sneaks from tree to tree towards the barn. It’s probably bandits, taking advantage of the chaos, like always. Barretts, the lot of them. She isn’t worried. Still, she stays quiet as she eases the door open and slips into a shadow. Listening for a moment, she can hear faint crying from… the ceiling? Fifteen years in Other London allow her eyes to adjust quickly to the dark, and it only takes a moment for her to spot, curled up with what looks to be riding equipment in the loft, a young boy.

He can’t be more than eight or nine years old. His dark black hair is grey with ash, and his tunic is torn and covered in dark patches — probably blood. Tears are leaving streaks down his dirty face.

Sasha freezes, stilling her breath. It’s the classic set up, which Barrett had occasionally used her for when he couldn’t find chubbier-faced kids. The crying child, poorly hidden, surrounded by a well-hidden gang, ready to take out their victim the moment they let their guard down. Works well on Upper London idiots, but not her.

Glancing around the room in the barn, Sasha takes stock of the places that the fuckers might hide, listening closely for any movement. In only a moment, she finds what she's been looking for: several large amphorae in a shadowy area of the room, behind which two or three small people might hide. She sneaks around to them, sure that she's kept herself well-hidden, and in one swift movement, launches an attack on — nothing. Air. Her knife, perfectly aimed to hit a bandit, loudly cracks an amphora, spilling grain out over the floor. Sasha braces for a second, waiting for the bandits that must be hidden somewhere else to start their attack, but all she hears is the sound of a young child who's trying his very best to stay quiet.

Maybe she was wrong.

Sasha climbs up the ladder to the loft, cringing with every creak of old wood. By the time that she peeks her head to the upper level, the boy is staring right at the ladder, holding with both hands a small knife, like you might use to cut tough meat. He points it towards her shakily, and suddenly she's sure that this isn't a set-up — you'd have to be a stupid gang leader to get someone like this as bait.

"Hey mate," she says in Latin. "Don't think you actually want to fight me. Nice knife, though." The boy tries to press even more of his body into the riding equipment, away from her. Without getting closer to him, Sasha swings on the end of the loft, pulling herself up to the ledge and sitting down, legs hanging off the edge. She sits in silence for a moment, suddenly very aware that she has no idea how to interact with small children, even those wielding weapons. What had she liked at that age?

"You wanna see some of mine? Sasha says. "Knives, I mean." Reaching into her studded leather coat, she pulls out a dagger. From the corner of her eye, she sees the boy flinch. "Hey, nah, it's okay, I won't hurt you, see?" she says, and offers it to him, holding it by the blade. He looks at her with confusion, but doesn't take the blade, so she lays it down carefully on the floor of the loft in front of him.

"Now this one," she says, pulling out her adamantine dagger and admiring its intricate patterns, "this one's my favourite. Well... one of my favourites." She lets him look at it from his place among the riding equipment and then, when she's sure he has his eyes on her, weaves it through her fingers so fast that it looks like water. She throws the dagger in the air, making an arch over her head, then a figure eight, then catching it on one finger, where it spins for a moment. When she looks back at the boy, he's transfixed. Sasha can't stop a small smile from coming to her face as she brings out a third and fourth dagger and continues on with her tricks.

Five minutes later, the boy has pulled up right to her side for a closer look at her fire dagger and the way its flames shift as she runs it over her arms, behind her back, through her fingers. He's holding his meat-knife in one hand and her old dagger in his other, but absent-mindedly, no longer on edge.

Putting out the dagger in one final flourish, she turns to the boy. "Do you wanna stay with me here? Just as long as you want, though," she says quickly. "I won't keep you here if you want to leave. But... we've got food, and a couple of... friends."

At "food," the boy perks up immediately. As if suddenly remembering that he's supposed to be cautious, he gives a shy nod.

"'Name's Sasha... Whosaskinus" Sasha says, and it occurs to her that this might be the first time she's given her name unprompted in her life.

The boy hesitates for a moment. "Maximus," he says. "Cause of my little brothers."

Fourteen years later, when Maximus helps a traveling pregnant woman give birth to a child, the boy will be called 'Little Maximus' in honour of him.

--

It’s Aulus who insists that Sasha take a bath and wash her clothes. They’ve been there ten days by that point, and Sasha’s yet to venture beyond the stables or the garden. She’s more help to Aulus inside, she says, trading her off-the-cuff Other London recipes for Aulus’s high-brow cooking, learning the names of the plants in the garden, and, at one point, climbing into the barn’s rafters to patch a leak. Aulus isn’t so bad: quick with a joke, less pompous than Cicero, and kind to her in a way that still feels a little foreign.

He lets her know, gently at first, that they do have heated baths that are quite pleasant, and wouldn’t she like to change from her leather coat into something more comfortable? And Sasha does like baths (despite her grumbling the first time Eldarion made her take one), and she doesn’t like picking bits of Rome dust in her belt or seeing the stain of black blood on her pants — but it feels so final, doesn’t it, taking her stuff off? As if she’s saying that she’s not leaving. And it’s not like Sasha actually has plans to leave or believes that she could really ever find her way back, but every time she takes off her studded leather jacket, she feels herself telling Hamid and Azu and Bi Ming that she’s not coming back for them.

Eventually, Aulus and Sasha come to complex negotiations, and Sasha agrees to let him wash her other clothes if she can keep the jacket nearby while she’s in the bath, and put it on again right after. She lays out her knives one by one right near the edge of the water, counting them before slipping in. The water is warm, as Aulus promised, and she feels all her muscles relaxing, despite herself. With an ache of nostalgia, she remembers Hamid’s apartment in London, and the bath she took there. It feels like years ago.

She’s dried off, dressed, and is figuring out how to arrange the daggers in her leather-over-tunic outfit when she sees Maximus’s head poking out from the doorway. He’s lightened up considerably in the past few days, and tends to stick around Sasha like glue.

“Oi, privacy!” she says, and Maximus’s face falls as he realizes she’s seen him.

“I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to look, I was just going past and —” Maximus comes running up to her and motions for her to lean down. “You’ve got a bird on your back!” he whispers excitedly in her ear.

“Oh. That’s a scar. This… guy fell on me once and he had lots of bird statues on him.”

“What? That’s awesome!”

“Yeah, I… guess so,” Sasha says, confused by his enthusiasm. Gesturing to the burn on her neck, she explains, “This one’s from when I set off a lot of bombs by accident. Bombs are like… they make big explosions. You’d like them.” Maximus looks impressed, so Sasha continues, showing him her cold hand, “This is from when my dagger exploded. It was an ice dagger, like my fire dagger but ice, and I was trying to stab a thing but it went wrong.” She pulls down the collar of her tunic slightly to reveal the autopsy scar on her chest. “And this is from when I died and this evil thing took all my bits out but Zolf put them back…”

“Who’s Zolf?” Maximus asks.

“Oh, he’s, uh… I guess he was a… friend, but he…” Sasha trails off, feeling suddenly untethered. When she sees Maximus staring at her in confusion, she rouses herself. “Go check if Cicero needs help with the cooking, okay? He’s learning, but he’s not good.”

As Maximus scampers off and Sasha finishes placing her daggers, she thinks about how she’s never been good at stories. She can’t make the words come out in the right order and the right time, not like Hamid can. She’s never needed to, not really, when she has her daggers. Can’t hide well if you’re talking all the time.

Now, though — she’s the only one who knows these stories, for the next thousands of years, maybe ever, Azu and Hamid don’t — no. But no one else can talk about the gargoyles in Paris and Cairo, or the time that they killed that snake-hair woman, or the time that Hamid made her eat at a million restaurants in Prague. It feels wrong for her to be the only one who knows about those things, as if they never happened.

But it feels wrong, too, for Sasha to talk about her friends. She doesn’t think she could ever find the words for how she felt that day in the pub that Zolf said he was leaving. Or when Azu had told Eldarion to back off, or the sound of Brock laughing wildly at a joke that she knew wasn’t funny, or Grizzop’s face when he saw her again in Rome, or how Bi Ming’s hands moved so expertly over the clocks he repaired, or the shake in Hamid’s voice whenever he was trying not to cry. They’re important, too, but they’re so important that she doesn’t think she could ever tell them right.

So she won’t, she thinks, as she buttons up her leather jacket.

--

“I’m sorry, you know. About what I said about your friend,” Cicero says as he and Sasha are weeding the garden one day about five weeks after they arrived at the villa. It’s taken almost this long for Cicero and Aulus to admit that Atticus won’t be coming back, and in the meantime, social classes have broken down and Cicero is trying his best to help out around the villa.

“What?” Sasha says.

Cicero continues, his voice unusually subdued. “Your goblin friend, in Rome. I said that it was his fault. It wasn’t. He was trying to do what’s right, and he protected both of us.”

Sasha pauses, fighting off the urge to run away from this awkward conversation. “It’s well, it’s… alright. He was… yeah, he was good. Yeah.”

“Still, I understand if you don’t want to stay because of me. I had always meant for us to stay here until Atticus came back and then reevaluate our options. But he hasn’t, and you’re under no obligation to remain.”

“Cheers, mate, glad to know that you’re okay with me being gone,” Sasha says. Cicero starts to protest, but she interrupts him. “Sorry, that was unfair. It means a lot that… it’s okay if I go. But I don’t really have anywhere to go, do I? And… I couldn’t do that to Maximus. I think… I want to be there for people… who need protection.”

“Oh. That’s good of you,” Cicero says.

“Yeah, I guess. ‘Swhat people did for me.” Sasha says, and continues pulling weeds.

--

Maximus is a smart kid, it turns out. Pretty observant.

Maximus knows that Sasha doesn’t much like being hugged. Knows that if you hug her from behind, she’ll reach for a knife but will stop when she realizes who it is, and if you hug her from the front, she’ll hug you back, but it’ll be all stiff, and sometimes she’ll look like she’s remembering something she won’t say.

But Vibia and Paulla, four- and seven-year-old sisters who arrived two months after Sasha and Cicero, don’t know that. When Paulla, mid-fight, shouts at Vibia about their parents’ deaths, Vibia runs to Sasha and clings to her tight before Sasha can realize what’s happening. Sasha finds herself awkwardly rubbing Vibia’s back, wondering what she’s supposed to do. She tries to remember a time in her life when it was okay to cry or when she might expect anyone to hold her if she did. She pulls the girl in closer as her eyes start to sting.

Maximus knows that Sasha doesn’t like going in the fields. She’ll go in the garden and she’ll teach him how to climb the biggest and best trees, swinging from their highest branches with a huge smile on her face, but she’ll never look out from the top at the rolling hills, which are now yellow with the winter. And she’ll almost never walk in the fields, except for that one time that Cicero accidentally let the cow go and Sasha was the quickest to go run after it. She came back from that looking annoyed and mildly sick, and locked herself in the cellar for hours.

But Vibia and Paulla don’t know about Sasha’s fear. Paulla loves playing in the fields and in the clearings, where she’s drawn the circles in the dirt for a game of ball. She explains that you need at least three people to play the game right, and Vibia is too small and Aulus is too old and Cicero is too stuffy, so she needs Sasha to play with her and Maximus. After weeks of Paulla’s begging and Maximus promising that they can go back inside after just one round, Sasha finally relents, trying to calm her breathing and not look around too much as she lets Paulla drag her by the hand to a clearing right beside a clump of trees. By the time that they’ve been playing for ten minutes, Sasha’s competitiveness has distracted her from the wide fields around them.

Maximus knows that Sasha will tell stories if he asks, but that she won’t talk much about the other people in the stories and goes quiet when he asks about them. He’s heard about the time that she crossed a great big sea in a little boat during a storm, but never about that guy who pulled her out of the water or why they were on the boat in the first place. He loves the one about the time she snuck into a bunch of buildings with giant monsters guarding them, but he always wants to know more about the person who blew up the main building with magic. Sasha always says she’ll tell him about that guy some other time. Eventually, he stops asking. 

But Vibia and Paulla don’t know about the people Sasha won’t mention. A month after they came to the villa, they’re sitting with Sasha on a couch. Paulla’s at her feet and Vibia’s running her fingers through Sasha’s hair, which she’d allowed Aulus to crop short using one of her knives. Vibia has always been fascinated by the shock of white in Sasha’s hair.

“You’re a girl, right?” Vibia says. Her sister shoots her a reproachful look, but says nothing.

“Uh… sure,” Sasha says. “Why?”

“‘Cause of your hair. And cause Max calls you Sasha Whosaskin-US. But if you’re a girl, it should be Whosaskin-A,” Vibia says proudly. From the room next door, Sasha hears Cicero laugh.

“I dunno what to tell you, mate,” Sasha says. “I just made it up one day.”

“You can make up your name?” Vibia says in shock, spinning herself down so she’s sitting on Sasha’s lap. “Did you have a different name before?”

“I had… yes. It was someone else’s name, but it wasn’t important. He wasn’t important. My other name is… I guess it’s important.”

“Who was the person who wasn’t —” Vibia starts, but Paulla cuts her off, recognizing the distance in Sasha’s voice.

“Who’s the most important person you know?” Paulla asks, in an attempt to redirect the conversation.

For a moment, Sasha considers talking about Apophis, but while she’s never asked the kids directly about how they ended up at the villa, she suspects dragons are a sore subject. “I knew this guy. He was a bit of a dick but he wasn’t a bad person, I guess. He sort of… paid me. And watched over me and my… friends. And this one time when I was… very sick, he went up to the most powerful person around and he told him to give over this thing to make me better and he said some… really nice things about me. And the powerful person did give us the thing and I got better. Though the guy, the important guy, he did say some awful things about me being sick, but I think he was mostly just really tired…”

Sasha looks up from her rambling and is surprised to see that Vibia and Paulla are wide-eyed, waiting on her every word. A flush of embarrassment runs through her — as does a feeling of deep relief, as if she’d be waiting for forever to talk about Wilde, to admit how much it meant that he’d cared about her, to bring his memory to this distant place. She hopes that wherever he is, he’s managed to get some rest.

“Also,” Sasha continues, “one time my friend punched him in the balls.”

--

One morning at breakfast, Aulus announces that they need to start preparing the fields for seeding. Sasha is surprised, because it’s as cold as it’s been for the past several months, but Tertia and Fausta nod sagely at Aulus’s decision. They’re a young couple who recently moved into the villa after their home was raided by some of the bandits. The robbers have increased in numbers in the area, but have left the villa alone since a couple of them met the end of Sasha’s knives. Aulus is relieved that Tertia and Fausta are here and can help with the farm, and even though he insists Sasha can stay in the villa, she knows that she should help, too. 

So that’s how Sasha finds herself surrounded on all sides by open fields, dizzied as she stares at the distance between her and the nearest clump of trees, leaning on the rake she’s been using to till. She doesn’t hear Maximus running up behind her and barely registers him asking if she’s okay, or his yells for someone to help. She’s trying to say that she’s alright by the time that Fausta has come to her side. 

“You need to get inside,” Fausta says over Sasha’s protests. “You’re no help like this.” 

“It’s the sun, I’m hot, I don’t need —” Sasha mutters, but Fausta cuts her off.

“Sasha Whosaskinus, it’s incredibly cold out here. You’re not overheating.” Fausta sees Sasha’s expression, and her voice softens, “It’s okay. There will be other days. You can do a bit every day.”

And that’s what she does, at first working to the fields closest to the villa and the trees and gradually going further and further into the farm. She suspects that Aulus is responsible for getting the kids to swarm around her, keeping her distracted, but she’ll never complain. 

A month later, when they’re watering the fields, Tertia nudges Sasha and directs her gaze towards Cicero, who’s working twenty feet away. He has, for some reason, decided to wear a nice toga even while doing manual labour, and it’s getting helplessly muddied. Cicero is now attempting to stealthily wash off his toga using the water intented for the plants, but, as he keeps dropping the toga, he's just making things much worse. As Sasha doubles over with laughter alongside Tertia, she barely notices the open space between them. 

--

It’s a warm day in late spring when Hostus goes missing. He’s a tall, skinny preteen boy whom Sasha found had been stealing their food and sleeping in an unused servant’s room for several days before anyone noticed. In the weeks since Sasha told him that he could stay without sneaking around everywhere, he’s still not quite learned to trust the other residents of the villa: he jumps at the smallest noise, and she once saw him pull a knife on Fausta when she got too close. Sasha feels like a bit of a hypocrite for chiding him.

After the boy misses both breakfast and lunch and it’s almost time for supper, Sasha searches for Hostus. He’s not in that clump of trees next to the clearing, where Hostus likes to climb and watch them play ball. He’s not in the old servant’s room, where he’d insisted on sleeping even after Aulus invited him to stay closer to everyone else. He’s not trying to scare the chickens in the barn. Sasha is almost ready to admit that Hostus has simply left in the way that she’s told all of the children they can when Sasha hears faint movement from the roof. She kicks herself for forgetting her old favourite place to hide from Eldarion.

Climbing through the window in the bedroom she’d stayed her first night, Sasha pulls herself up towards the roof a little less quickly than she might have six months ago: the manual labour has made her stronger and she still throws her knives every day, but she’s out of practice scaling buildings. When she reaches the top, it only takes a moment to spot Hostus curled up in a nook of the roof, knees tucked into his chest, looking down at the courtyard below. Neither Sasha nor Hostus speak as she approaches, but when he turns his head towards her, she can see his eyes are puffy and red, but his face is locked in an expression of anger. Sasha silently takes a seat a few feet away from him. Together, they watch the courtyard, where Cicero is unsuccessfully trying to repair a couch whose leg has fallen off.

A thought strikes Sasha as she remembers another rooftop in a far-away place and time, and she roots around on the roof for a pebble. She shows the stone to a confused Hostus before sending it flying at Cicero — it bounces off the top of the head with a satisfying sound. Cicero grabs his head, looking around wildly, not noticing the pair on the roof. Hostus smiles despite himself and accepts the next pebble that Sasha offers him. He’s not so good a shot as her, but together they manage to get five or six good hits in before Cicero starts carefully searching the skyline while making bombastic threats against his attackers, and Sasha and Hostus collapse with giggles on the other side of the roof.

For a while, they lie there, staring up at the sky. The late-afternoon skies are clear and the air is warm enough for Sasha to have her leather jacket open loosely over her toga.

“There was this one time I ran away,” Sasha says, surprising herself with the words coming out of her mouth, “and my friends came looking for me.”

“Must be nice, having friends like that,” Hostus says, and Sasha recognizes from herself the prickly tone, halfway between sarcasm and longing.

“Yeah, it was. Really was,” she says.

Hostus, thrown by her sincere response, falls quiet. After a moment, he sighs and sits up. “What were your friends like?” he asks. “Max says you’re good at stories.”

Sasha pulls herself up beside Hostus. From her position on the roof, she can see the endless rolling fields, budding with new growth under a slowly redenning sky. It strikes her that no part of her finds fear in this view anymore.

“There was Grizzop,” Sasha says, “and he was a goblin, but they weren’t bad like everyone says. He was brave and fast and funny, even when he was trying to be serious. He wanted to use every moment of his life to help people, and he did. I don’t think I got it back then, but… I think I do now.

“There was Azu. She was so big and she had this magical camel and one time, the time they came looking for me ‘cause I ran away, she got on the camel and put Grizzop on her shoulders and they went around town getting drunk and starting a fight.” Sasha laughs at the memory. “But she was kind. She didn’t always… understand things, she didn’t always know how to help, but she always tried so hard, even when you felt like you didn’t deserve it.

“There was Hamid. He was small, smaller than Grizzop even, and very posh, and he wanted so much to be a hero. He’d done things that hurt others and he wanted to make it better and… sometimes that meant that he was an idiot and hurt himself. He cared so much about things that he’d cry, but… it wasn’t a bad thing. He cared.”

Sasha pauses, trying to find the words. “And there was Zolf. He… he saved me for no reason, when I was running away from people who wanted to hurt me. He always just wanted to protect us. For us to… save ourselves while he died, but we never wanted to leave him. And he said he’d heal me when I got… sick, but then he left and he didn’t. And… I think I was mad at him for a while, ‘cause it hurt? But I reckon… I reckon he was hurting, too, and he needed to find something to heal him. Tell him he could protect himself, too.”

Hostus, who’s been staring at his feet, looks up at Sasha. “Did he ever find it?”

“The thing to heal him? I dunno. I never saw him again after he left. I hope he did.”

“Me too,” Hostus says quietly.

In the silence between them, Sasha can hear the sounds of the villa’s family below: Tertia and Fausta gently teasing Cicero about the mysterious pebbles on his head; Vibia helping Aulus prepare dinner; Paulla and Maximus playing knucklebones.

Sasha smiles and watches the sun set over her home.

[ecofinisher]

Day 2: Isolation - Adrigami Week

Day 2 - Isolation

https://archiveofourown.org/works/21872389/chapters/52208500

https://www.fanfiction.net/s/13456678/1/Ecofinisher-s-oneshot-for-the-Adrigami-Week-2

@adrigami-week

Adrien stood inside the wardrobe packing his fencing clothing into his barrel bag while smiling during that task, which the kwami of destruction Plagg observed from the inside of Adrien’s jacket.

“You look happier today. What are you and Kagami planning to do after the homework?”

“We’re going afterward together with Luka, Nathaniel and Ivan to see a concert from MCR,” Adrien answered. “Nathaniel and Luka said they used to listen to their music when they were younger and the group split up at one point and came back together now”

“Okay and is Kagami allowed to go out with you this late?”

“It’s not that….well it’s after the 22, but we won’t be all alone and my father sent the bodyguard with us, so Kagami’s mother shouldn’t feel bad about it. At least I hope it”

“Does her mother actually mind, she’s dating you?”

“Good question” Adrien answered closing the bag and put it over his shoulder. “I don’t know if Kagami has ever told her mother anything about us dating”

“Maybe you need to ask her that since you’re going to be there at the Tsurugis. You know….to avoid conflicts”

“You mean like I tell I’m her boyfriend or something and she gets mad, cause Kagami didn’t tell it yet?” The blonde asked earning a nod from the kwami. “Well Mrs. Tsurugi got last time akumatized, because Kagami disobeyed her by participating along with Marinette on the friendship game hosted by the TV1”

“Exactly, you two better talk about it, unless Kagami already cleared things with her mother, which is unlikely to happen due to her cold strictness,”

“We’ll see,” Adrien said heading to the exit of the wardrobe, where he came across Kagami Tsurugi, the skillful fencer girl of his class and also his girlfriend, which was typing on her smartphone a message to someone. Kagami stuck her smartphone back inside the pocket of her jacket, then Adrien slowly approached the girl, that looked forward at some classmates leaving other afterschool activities and Adrien placed his hands in front of Kagami’s eyes closing the sight.

“I know it’s you, Adrien” Kagami spoke, making the blonde chuckle and remove his hands from the girl’s face and she looked back at him to see him smile enamored at the girlfriend, which nudged him on his nose. “Our ride is down there waiting for us”

“Okay” Adrien responded walking along with the blue-haired girl out of the school court heading to the red Sedan of the Tsurugi clan, which opened the back door automatically for the two teens to enter into the vehicle.

“Kagami, can I ask you something?” Adrien asked while pulling the seat belt on as the girl did beside him.

“Go on”

“Does your mother know, that we two are…..you know….dating?” The teeny model asked looking at Kagami, who shook her head. “Will she say something about it?”

“I don’t know it, Adrien. I’m afraid, she forbids me to be with you or worse”

“We’ve been together for months. Aren’t you afraid your mother finds it out somehow else like through magazines, radio or TV?” Questioned the French boy earning a nod from the girl.

“I’m afraid to tell her that by myself. Mostly her reaction”

“What about we two talk to her together?” Suggested the boyfriend looking at Kagami, which rolled her eyes down thinking about his idea.

“We could give it a try, but I can’t assure you, she’s going to act well”

“We will see it, if she starts acting bad, I’ll try to calm her down as good as I can”

“I hope you really can do that” Kagami confessed placing her hand over Adrien’s, thereafter Adrien looked at his girlfriend, which looked a little sad about their plan afterward he grabbed her hand pulling it closer to him to gently peck it.

“I promise” Adrien whispered looking at the Japanese girl.

 Later the two arrived at a great house in a nearly Asian-style and the vehicle stopped in front of the building to drop the two teenagers, which walked together at the entrance passing over the three steps at the main entrance of the house. The blue-haired teenager opened the door, entering along with the blonde to enter into the house, landing in the corridor, where they immediately encountered Tomoe Tsurugi awaiting the two with crossed arms, making Adrien swallow hard as he encountered his girlfriend’s mother.

“Good afternoon mother, I….Adrien Agreste is here, so we can work on our homework together. Is it still okay?” Kagami questioned watching her mother still keep her straight serious facade, making even Adrien feel a little cowed by her appearance.

“He seems a little timid today, did a cat bite your tongue today?” Tomoe Tsurugi asked, making Adrien shake his head.

“Sorry Ma’am, I…. I’m just astonished by….those high heels?” Adrien said a little unsure, seeing under the dark glasses of the older woman an eyebrow raise up in confusion.

“Didn’t you have something special to say to my mother, Adrien?” Kagami asked looking at Adrien, which was notable for Kagami, that he was feeling a little nervous around her mother.

“What is it?” The woman questioned, then Adrien grabbed Kagami’s hand tightly moving his head around the location before he started to talk.

“I and Kagami have been lately spending a lot of time together and….I would love to know if it is alright for you, that Kagami and I are….uhm going out steady?”

“What exactly are you meaning with you two are going out steady?” Mrs. Tsurugi asked furrowing her eyebrows as Adrien moved his head at Kagami, seeing Kagami gulp a little nervous about her mother’s reaction.

“We’re d….dating mother” Kagami added seeing her mother raise her eyebrows up in shock at the revelation of her daughter.

“You’re what?!?” Tomoe shouted. “Who gave you the permission to date a boy?”

“He’s a very good friend mother….he...we would never treat me bad” Kagami spoke frightened from her own mother, which Adrien felt due to her tension.

“You’re too young to date, young lady. Your objectives are the school and the fencing lessons, not any silly relationships with a boy, no matter if it’s Gabriel’s son or the son of an ambassador” “We’re not in a silly relationship Mrs. Tsurugi. My love for her is real, I swear. I only want the good for her,”

“You’re not her legal guardian, that’s my task. I am the one, who knows, what’s good for her and what not and you young man, you are not suitable for my daughter, ”

“Why not, I’m always there for your daughter to talk with when things aren’t going well. I help her up and cheer her up when she’s feeling down and unappreciated. Both as a friend and a boyfriend”

“I don’t care. I already told you, you’re not suitable for Kagami...”

“But Adrien doesn’t do anything wrong mother. He treats me right, he doesn’t distract me from school nor anything else.” Kagami implied while Adrien nodded at the conversation between the Tsurugi’s.

“I even preferred to talk with you about this, Mrs. Tsurugi. We didn’t want to keep our relationship a secret for so long,”

“How long have you two been together?” Tomoe questioned. “And that behind my back!?!”

“We’ve been together for only five months. We’re almost sixteen, we know what’s right and what’s wrong” Adrien mentioned seeing Mrs. Tsurugi growl at the comment.

“Five months?!?!”

“Uh?” Adrien replied backing off a little along with Kagami, which was gazing at her mother a little shocked, but not surprised about the reaction.

“You were together for all this time and no one of you ever mentioned a single thing to me about it?!?!”

“Wh...why should I if you would act like that?” Kagami asked carefully, then Tomoe raised her hand up in the air, affrighting Kagami which closed her eyes and Adrien stepped in front of the girlfriend getting slapped instead by Kagami’s mother on his face, yelping.

“Adrien, why did you do that?” Kagami asked as she watched the boyfriend pass his hand over his face, where the woman had hit him.

“Not even my father would raise his hand like that on me,”

“That’s sad, cause you really miss having some of it” Tomoe claimed making Kagami flinch in anger at her mother.

“He just wanted to defend me. Why are you treating him as if he was a bad guy?” Kagami asked loud making her mother surprised at her reaction.

“That’s not the right tune for a young lady to talk with the mother”

“Mother, you’re also not behaving correctly. He’s just trying to be friendly with you and show you the Adrien I fell in love with” Kagami mentioned holding the boyfriend on the shoulder.

“Kagami, I’ve got enough of your deviations. Go up in your room. You’re grounded!” The mother hissed. “Now!”

“You’re alright?” Kagami asked, then the mother grabbed the blonde on the arm pulling him away from her daughter.

“You’re coming with me” The mother demanded, pushing the boy forward and walk with the help of her bokken at the door while holding the boy on the shoulder.

Soon as the two approached the car, the door opened up by itself automatically and Tomoe placed her cane next to the car.

“Enter, I’ll be bringing you back to your father. I will make sure he knows about it and refuses to let you ever go out to see my daughter ever again” Tomoe said at Adrien, which stood in front of the entrance of the car, afterward Adrien rolled his eyes at the bokken and he kicked it away from the car, shrieking Mrs. Tsurugi as she heard the bokken fall on the ground. Then she growled bending down at the ground to look for her cane and Adrien jumped over the woman running at the entrance, then she looked back at the woman, which was looking on the wrong spot for the bokken, making Adrien look disappointed at his act, afterward he ran back at the woman grabbing the bokken and handing it out to the woman, therefore he stepped back, watching the woman got up and place her hand on the door of the car.

“If I get you, you’re going to pay for that!” Tomoe hissed shocking Adrien at her threat, then he felt something hit his head and he looked down on the floor while scratching the part he got hit and he saw a crumpled paper on the floor and he looked up at the second floor of the house to see his girlfriend looking out from the window.

“Get up here Adrien” The blue-haired girl ordered, then Adrien stepped forward and looked up again at the girlfriend. “But your mother will go behind us”

“Just take us away from here” Kagami suggested and Adrien looked down at his pocket, where Plagg was looking out at the girl, then the blonde exchanged looks with his kwami.

“I don’t mind it, but the problem would be if her mother finds out, we're not here and she gets angry, then akumatized by Hawk Moth” Plagg mentioned and Adrien looked up at Kagami, which looked down at the French boy, waiting for an answer.

“Then I gotta explain that to Kagami” Adrien announced, then heard Tomoe Tsurugi behind him mention the name of the villain.

“With pleasure Hawk Moth” Tomoe replied disappearing in a dark cloud, which Adrien saw unfolding out around her and the red-colored vehicle.

“Oh oh,” Adrien observed in awe Mrs. Tsurugi disappear along with the Sedan and in front of him a giant robot, centaur-like supervillain appeared making Adrien gulp.

“Not Ikari Gozen again” Plagg complained as he saw the villain stand in front of his holder. Adrien looked back at the entrance of the house and ran towards it and before he could reach it, Ikari Gozen grabbed the boy with her hand, making him cry.

“Help!” Shouted Adrien.

“Mother don’t do that!” Kagami shouted with tears in her eyes as she saw her boyfriend being held in the hand of the akuma.

“You’re not allowed to see my daughter ever again!” Ikari yelled and threw the boy off in the air, making Kagami yell.

“Adrien!!!!!” The Japanese-descendant girl shouted all over the plot as she saw the blonde fly up in the air.

Adrien saw he was falling at the avenue of a road near the house of the Tsurugi’s, then beside his face appeared Plagg levitating looking at the blonde.

“Come on, transform before you turn into mashed potato” Plagg warned the blonde, which gave the cat kwami a thumb up. “Plagg, claws out!” Adrien shouted transforming into the cat-themed superhero Cat Noir and he took out the staff from behind his back and he extended it to bounce with it on the ground, afterward he landed on the roof of a house.

“That was a close call,” Cat Noir said passing his hand over his forehead in relief and looked back at the house, where he was thrown away from, Ikari Gozen stomp around the house with her feet causing a vibration on the city as if there was under the earth tectonic plats forming an earthquake over the surface. “I think I’m gonna need more help here, just hope Ladybug is already online,” Cat Noir told himself opening the communication option of his baton, then he picked Ladybug’s call option to call her.

 Kagami lied inside her bedroom on her bed with her face lying on the pillow sobbing at the incident with her boyfriend Adrien. On the outside she could hear her mother stomp on the ground, causing the whole house to tremble, making Kagami lift her head up to look at the window to see Ikari Gozen out there.

“I know you’re out there somewhere, Adrien. You have always managed to get out in trouble like Ladybug and the others” Kagami whispered softly, then on her table, her smartphone started to vibrate, then Kagami got up from her bed to look at the phone call and it was a foreign phone number and Kagami attended it.

“Hello?”

“Meow, I’m delivering free sushi. Am I speaking to a Kagami Tsurugi?” The voice asked making Kagami’s smile beam as she recognized the voice.

“I knew you would have made it”

“We cats always land on our feet, that’s why people say we’ve got nine lives”

“That’s great, but where are you now?”

“Get down here to the backyard, I’ve got something for you. Quick before Ikari spots us”

“I’m coming” The Japanese girl mentioned running out of her bedroom, heading to the stairs, racing them down turning around crossing the corridor to a glass door, where she saw Cat Noir standing there awaiting the girl, that got out of the house jumping on the grass to embrace the hero in the black suit.

“You’re alright?” The blonde asked earning a nod from the short girl.

“I’m feeling much better now” Kagami noted smiling at the hero, which held up his hand at the girl holding a black octagonal-formed box.

“Ladybug thought we could use another member in our team. Are you going to help?” Cat Noir asked seeing Kagami nod and open the small box, which contained a black choker with a red pearl in the middle, which shined bright and a red light buzz around the girl, soon a red-colored kwami with black horns on his head and a red tail.

“Good day Kagami-san. I’m glad to finally see you again”

“Same Long-sama,” Kagami replied watching the kwami smile and look at Cat Noir, which mirrored the kwami back.

“When you’re ready, just say the magic words” Longg mentioned earning a nod from Kagami.

“Long, break the storm!” Kagami shouted activating her miraculous to transform into the dragon-themed superheroine Ryuko.

“Come on, I think Monkey King and Ladybug really need our hand” Cat Noir mentioned grabbing Ryuko on her hand, then extend his baton on the ground to catapult himself along with Ryuko up at the roof of the house, from where they could see Ladybug throwing her yo-yo at the saber of the villain as Monkey King was smacked away by the giant sword.

“Come on, we gotta help them” Ryuko mentioned jumping along with Cat Noir at the back of the supervillain.

“Hey Ikari Gozen, why don’t you take someone who’s worthy to fight you?” Ryuko shouted at the supervillain, that turned her head back at the two superheroes to see them smirking at her.

“None of you two wieners have a chance against me, not even your silly monkey,” Ikari Gozen said looking up in the air to see Monkey King jump up in the air while Ladybug tried hard enough to hold the villain’s sword steady and she got pulled by the sword of the centaur-like akuma as she smashed Monkey King away, followed by Ladybug recall her yo-yo back to catch the Vietnamese-descendant superhero with it afterward she landed on the roof with the redhead hanging on the yo-yo.

“Cat, I’ve got an idea. I go distract my mom while you aim for the sword” Ryuko suggested, then the two started to lose their equilibrium as Ikari Gozen lifted her front legs up, causing the two to slip off her back on the ground.

“Woah!” Cat Noir cried as he fell on the ground along with the girlfriend, then Ryuko looked up at the supervillain and wide her eyes in shock as the villain wanted to stamp on them with her hind leg, then she jumped against Cat Noir, which was about to stand up avoiding to get crushed by the red Autobot. “Watch it!”

“Hey thanks…...oh…..” Cat Noir flirted after his girlfriend saved him from the villain and now lied on top of him.

“Stop flirting” and get up” The dragon-themed superheroine demanded getting up, followed by the superhero, that did a kip-up to get on his feet.

Ikari Gozen turned around looking down at the superheroes, then went up with her front legs to stamp on the superheroes again, but to her unluck Cat Noir jumped off with the help of his staff, while Ryuko activated one of her transformations turning into air and swirl around the face of the supervillain irritating the woman, that tried to get rid of it by slapping around her with her hand, but impossible to catch her and from above the roof Cat Noir smirked and extended his baton to jump at the next building bouncing back flying against the sword of the supervillain, then held his hand out forming a cataclysm with it.

“Cataclysm!” Cat Noir chanted, then he wide his eyes as Ikari Gozen turned her back against him and he crashed against her back and he fell down on her back while having his cataclysm still activated.

“Cat, can you hold your cataclysm for a few minutes?” Ladybug asked appearing along with Monkey King, then Ikari Gozen looked at the two superheroes, that stood on top of another building and raised her front legs up, letting Cat Noir fall on the ground hitting with his hand on a mailbox, causing it to decay in ashes.

“Damn it,” Cat Noir said annoyed as he cataclysmed by mistake the mailbox of the Tsurugi’s.

“Ladybug, use your lucky charm, I’ve gotta go recharge!” Cat Noir shouted up at the heroine, that gave her superhero partner a thumb up. Cat Noir observed Ladybug throw her yo-yo up in the sky and at that time he ran into the house of the Tsurugi’s to destransform back into Adrien Agreste.

“Here I’ve got you a piece of Camembert” Adrien mentioned taking from inside his jacket a portion of an entire roll of cheese to his kwami, which picked it up to nibble on it.

“We gotta think of another strategy, this isn’t working out”

“Yeah, she doesn’t move away from here. She could be thinking, that Kagami’s still up there” Adrien said, then he smiled as he had an idea. “Hey I think I’ve got a diversion”

“What is your plan?” Mumbled Plagg with a full mouth. “Fight her as Adrien Agreste?” Adrien shook his head and looked at the exit. “I’ll talk to her about my feelings for Kagami. I try to convince her to at least accept her choices and let her move on with the people she wants,”

“Be careful. I won’t be able to protect you, while you’re you” Plagg warned earning a nod from the blonde, which walked out at the exit of the house to see down at the entrance Ryuko reappear as her superhero self as she stopped using her special power.

“What are you doing here?” Ryuko whispered sternly at the blonde.

“Trying to distract here. Do you have my back?” Adrien questioned earning a nod from the blue-haired superheroine.

“Be careful” Ryuko warned earning a nod from Adrien.

“Ikari Gozen, it’s me, Adrien Agreste!” Adrien exclaimed loud for the akumatized woman to hear. “I came back to talk with you….about Kagami. I want to clear things up with you, fair and without any incidents”

“There’s nothing to talk about”

Meanwhile on the roof Ladybug and Monkey King looked at the lucky charm Ladybug received, which was a ladybug-themed two-wheeled machine with a pistol-like lance attached to a tube connected to the machine.

“What is this exactly?” Ladybug asked looking at Monkey King checking the device out.

“That’s a pressure washer. People usually use it to wash their cars or their houses, like my dad”

“Oh and how is this going to help me?” Ladybug asked, then looked down at Ryuko, standing under the entrance along with Adrien.

“Ikari Gozen, I love Kagami with all my heart and she does feel the same way about me. I can’t just easily give up on her. She means the world to me”

“You two should have consulted me for your plans before you two got together,” Ikari Gozen warned the blonde.

“Kagami….I….uh….we wanted to keep it a secret for a while, because….we were afraid of how you would react if we would tell you that and if you would accept that”

“Madame, you can’t lock up your daughter forever” Added Ryuko. “She needs to see the world out there on her own. You can’t just look me….er...her up forever”

“Ryuko is right,” Ladybug said from up the roof. “Kagami will never know how the real-life is when you always keep her away from the bad or the good things. If she gets a friend for only a few weeks, a few years and they may leave one day but, it’s okay, that’s how life is. Also the same about dating, if she is dating somebody and the relationship doesn’t last for long, that will be okay too. There will be moments in her life, that she will have to suffer, but that’s something she has to experience by herself and learn to deal with it”

“Mrs. Tsurugi, I can assure you my intentions for Kagami are only good ones. I just want to make her happy and it would mean a lot to her if we two could at least be in good terms without having any issues. Please, I beg you” Adrien pleaded placing his hands together rolling his eyes up at the giant akumatized villain. Ryuko sank her head at seeing her mother’s facial expression still look cold at the blonde boy and she placed her hand on Adrien’s shoulder, which then held his flat hand in front of his eyes to cover his sadness, afterward Ryuko caressed the boyfriend on his cheek.

“Hey Ikari Gozen, are you thirsty?” A voice shouted and the villain looked down at the ground to see Monkey King hold a lance on his hand pointing up at the supervillain, which growled and moved her front leg to stamp on the monkey-themed superhero, as the villain attempted to crush the superhero Ladybug pulled the superhero away with her yo-yo placing him a few meters aside on the ground.

“I’ve got an idea!” Ryuko said jumping up at the knee of the centaur, then at her back and waved her sword at Ladybug.

“Ryuko, what are you doing?”

“I’m trying to get into her mouth” Mentioned Ryuko, then saw her mother’s back turn around to glare at the dragon-themed heroine.

“Get off me!” Ikari Gozen ordered passing her hand over her back to slap the heroine away, but she jumped on her arm, after that she took another flip flying against the mouth of the supervillain, soon as she landed in her mouth Ikari Gozen closed her mouth with Ryuko in it.

“Ryuko!” Adrien shouted, then wide his eyes in surprise as he saw the mouth of the villain been opened forcefully and it was Ryuko, which held her sword up to hold her mouth open. Ladybug wide her eyes as she knew, what Ryuko was doing and looked at Monkey King, which mirrored her.

“Aim water into her mouth” Ladybug ordered earning a nod from the superhero in the brown suit. “I will pull you up” Ladybug explained as she threw her yo-yo up to the top of the roof to hang it around the point of the edge of the roof, rolling back down on the ground, then she tied it around the Vietnamese boy and pulled it up.

“Come….on!” Ryuko groaned as she tried to hold her mother’s mouth open and down on the ground, Plagg appeared tipping the boy on the shoulder, earning a nod from the blonde, which ran back into the building to transform back into Cat Noir.

Meanwhile, Ryuko was getting tired from the weight, then saw Monkey King appear with then pressure washer, aiming into the mouth of Ikari Gozen, then pressed on the trigger holding it long turning the machine on, which shouted a big water ray into the mouth of Ikari Gozen, while wetting Ryuko.

“Haha” Monkey King laughed at the sight of the monster, that started choking on the water, then Ryuko thought on another extra move and held her thumb up at the superhero.

“Keep doing it, I’ve going to speed this up a little” Ryuko told earning a nod from the superhero. “Water dragon!” Ryuko exclaimed turning into water and flow the tunnel, which was the throat of the giant centaur causing it to cough as it was causing to choke her.

“Okay Monkey, that’s enough” Ladybug warned seeing Monkey King take his hand off the trigger turning the engine of the machine off and watch Ikari Gozen coughing out unmanageable the water out from her body, falling on her knees letting the water run all from her mouth out.

“The akuma must be in the sword!” Monkey King said, then from above the house jumped Cat Noir flying down at the saber yelling cataclysm and landing on the four hitting the saber of the villain, causing it to decompose in ashes and a black butterfly flew out of them, which was caught by Ladybug.

“Time to de-evilize!”

Cat Noir stood along with Monkey King in front of the centaur looking at the amount of water in the ground move on the ground into a middle-sized puddle in front of the two guys, then the water transformed into the physical form of the dragon-themed heroine Ryuko.

“Wow, that nearly got me wet” Monkey King said wiggling his eyebrows at the heroine, making the girl look at him in confusion and Cat Noir frown his eyebrows serious.

“Hey her boyfriend is standing right beside her!” Cat Noir hissed with his arms crossed making the two Asian-descendant superheroes laugh.

“I was joking, don’t worry” Monkey King assured, then they saw Ikari Gozen transform back into Tomoe Tsurugi, soon as Ladybug’s healing light fixed all the damages around them.

“What happened?” Tomoe asked, then Ladybug came down to her to help her up.

“You were akumatized ma’am, but everything is fine now” Ladybug assured.

“Where is my daughter? Where am I?”

“You’re in front of your own house Mo….Mrs.Tsurugi,” Ryuko mentioned.

“Your daughter is up in her room with her boyfriend I think. He seems like a pretty nice guy” Cat Noir said making Ryuko cover her mouth to avoid chuckling. “He is there up in her room together with her to avoid her get herself in danger” Cat Noir explained, watching the woman use her cane to walk at the entrance of her house.

“We have to be there before she is” Ryuko whispered earning a nod from Cat Noir.

“We gotta go. Thanks for your help, Monkey King” Cat Noir said earning a salute from the boy, then the two superheroes ran to the other side of the house entering into the back entrance destransforming back and ran the stairs up, then stopped in the corridor of the second floor as they heard Mrs. Tsurugi call for Kagami.

“Kagami are you up there?” Mrs. Tsurugi called loud, then the two walked at the stairs to see the woman.

“We’re up here mother” Kagami mentioned. “Are you alright?”

“I’m great, but what were you two doing up there as I was akumatized?” Mrs. Tsurugi questioned walking the stairs up, carefully with the help of the railing. Kagami looked at Adrien, which nodded and the two looked down at the woman.

“Kagami wanted so bad to help you out of this situation, but I didn’t let her go, cause I was afraid she would get hurt and I preferred to stay back with her. I’ve told her she shouldn’t worry about it” Adrien explained to the woman, then looked at Kagami to continue.

“Mother, I beg your pardon if we didn’t tell you anything about our relationship, but we really love each other that much. You can’t just ask us to do that”

“Please Mrs. Tsurugi. All I want is Kagami to be happy. I promise you, I’ll do everything possible to protect her, to help her and to make her happy as long as our love and our friendship is here tightened to each other” Adrien added looking with shiny eyes at the woman, which were a little wet from his emotion on that situation. Mrs. Tsurugi stood there in front of the two teens, then sighed at it and placed her hand on the shoulder of the boy.

“Alright I can see, that you deeply care for my daughter, thus I’ll give you my permission to keep your relationship intact as long as you treat Kagami good” Mrs. Tsurugi announced earning a nod from Adrien, then Kagami embraced the blonde hard, followed by the blonde place his arm around the girlfriend.

“I promise you, she will drown in lots of love and compliments from my side,” Adrien said making the girl smile amorously and lean her forehead on his head.

“That’s good, but if she loses track of her school grades, her fencing skill….you know, what happens”

“We won’t let that happen, mother, I promise,” Kagami said earning a nod from the mother, which walked the stairs down back into the living room, leaving the couple back which shared a long hug of finally being accepted by the mother.

[worldbuildingworkshop]

Worldbuilding Tutorial #10: Example World A

Intro Starting with this set of example tutorials, I am going to continue to tighten my focus to a handful of regions in each world. Which regions these are may shift a little depending on which ones are most useful to demonstrate a given tutorial; likely it will probably tend to be a core few.  

As a reminder (the “going over notes” step): the primary supernatural forces underlying this world are the world’s magical core; magic itself derived from emotion and instinct; the strong presence of Fate; the strength of Chance as fate’s counterbalance; and the presence of fey in the world. The actual post on it can be found here, if you would like a more detailed reminder. 

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Region #3: Humans There are two primary influences on this region in terms of the supernatural. The first is the farming culture, and thus the way the culture in this region is heavily influenced by the seasons; the second is that it shares its only border with the region filled with Seelie Fey. The other influence comes in the way that magic works in this world; in that humans, because they are on the higher end of the food chain, have a difficult time with direct magic and must rely on indirect methods to practice magic at all. Because of the structure of this region - many independent villages that don’t rely on one another to make decisions or live under the influence of one overarching ruler - the actual religions and magical practices will vary some between villages. However, there are a few core ideas that permeate through most of them, and that’s what I’ll cover here. 

The first is a sense of order and structure in the world. Most humans in this region do not have an overarching sense of fate being a major influence in their lives, per se; but they understand that there are structures in terms of the seasons, and in terms of the phases of the moon, and in terms of the constellations in the night sky - and that these things are inevitable and cannot be changed by mortal hands. Many villages in this region have rites that celebrate and acknowledge the passing of the seasons or other milestones such as the harvest. These tend to involve the entire village and take the form of giving gifts to the world - the best grain, the slaughter of a cow, etc - in hope for mercy during the upcoming seasons in return. These celebrations are usually led by the head of the village, sometimes in concert with the village caster.

Some regions may mark these celebrations by passing of the stars, sun, and moon; others may mark them by the first frost or the first blooming flowers - but the core of the celebration is the same. In nearly all cases, there is no concept of a god or goddess or any deity with a particular will; there is no figure of worship, merely the world. Its will is perceived as being diffuse and not embodied in any particular person or place.

Many people, however, worship the Fey. Because of the fey’s ability to perform magic - and because the Seelie Fey tend to be kind - it is very common for people in this region to leave out gifts for fey too, especially in places they are known to frequent; and to ask for help or advice in return. Fey are not seen as deities, but rather powerful beings with capabilities far beyond humanity’s. Some humans may build relationships with particular fey, and may come to know them more as people; this is particularly common with traders who trade for resources that they fey have with the few who understand that concept as humans see it. 

Lastly, magic: it is common for a given village to have a single practitioner of magic. Most of this magic comes in the form of herblore and alchemy; as such, this person tends to also be the village healer, particularly since the set of tools to do so is the same. This is passed down through long apprenticeships with a chosen successor, and is a highly respected position within a village. It is very uncommon for a village practitioner to also be the head of the village: rather, they are often seen as a legitimate counter to the village head when it is needed. Any other particular requirements of the person - age, sex, rites of passage, etc - vary highly village to village, as does the name of the position.

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Region #4: Humans This region has many of the same primary influences as Region #3. The primary difference is that, because of the climate, this region has very little farming - and thus not the same attachment to the seasons as a force of order in the world. Instead, most of the region relies on fishing, hunting, and herding - and as such, the primary sense of order in the world comes from death, and from the duality of long winter nights and long summer days. As such, there are few seasonal markers or celebrations; some regions may have practices that mark the longest day or longest night of the year, but no more than that. 

Instead, the primary form of worship comes in the form of sacrifice - usually in the form of sacrifice of livestock, sometimes in the form of performances simulating human sacrifice (actual human sacrifice is extraordinarily rare and generally taboo), and sometimes the form of ceremonial hunts performed in honor of a particular occasion. These occasions tend to be community events: marriages or partnering, death of a community member, birth of a child, adulthood ride of passage, and so on. These people, too, also perform rites to try to placate the elements; but it is less likely to be tied to season and more likely to be tied to weather and necessity. 

The people in this region also do not have or worship deities; however, they may embody certain forces - storms, darkness, the ocean, etc - into various beings. Many of these started as stories - the kind of stories you tell children so they won’t go wandering off at night - that grew somewhat beyond the bounds of story; many of these beings do not exist at all, except for those that are based off of encounters with particular Fey. People in this region are somewhat more wary of the fey than people in region #3, and are less likely to have a direct relationship with them; most relationships are based off of interacting with these storied beings and attempts to placate or to ward them away from a village’s bounds.

Lastly, there is magic. Because plants do not grow well here, there is little magic done with herbalism; instead, most of it is done with stone. Most of this involves stacking stones or creating stone structures using particular types, shapes, etc; or making charms and talismans out of particular stones to lend properties to the wearer. Magic is treated with suspicion in this region, and fewer people practice it; it is common not to have a magic-worker at all living in one’s village, and people who do practice it are generally distrusted on the premise that they may be evil. This comes partly with people’s experience with fey being less direct and more as dangerous and hostile beings; and partly with the experience of a harsher world to contend with in general.

------------

Region #6: Elves This region in particular has a curious intersection of influences on their beliefs in the supernatural. Part of this comes from their mixed fey-human heritage, which gives them much easier access to magic than humans but much more limited abilities than fey; part of this comes from their longer lifespans, which allow them to see the ebb and flow of Fate and Chance in the world more clearly; and part of it comes from their cultural relationship to their heritage - which is to say, a heavy rejection of humanity and fey both. 

I have stated previously that amongst elves, magic is viewed like any other tool: useful in the right hands, but dangerous if used improperly. Those who practice magic are often not fully trusted by others; however, it is also a skill that can be mastered, and a masterful practitioner can gain a great deal of respect from other elves as well. Not all elves are capable of performing magic equally; those elves who have more fey in their bloodlines tend to have more powerful magic.

Unlike humans, elves are capable of casting magic directly - and thus do not rely on indirect tools like plants and stones, but can do much more creative and flexible work when given reason. The source through which they access magic is through the strength of their emotions and intuition; many have also learned methods to increase their abilities by meditating or performing other rituals on stone outcroppings (either natural or built specifically for this purpose). These rituals are not religious, but practical only.

Elves do not practice any religion, and in fact tend to actively reject the notion of it. They prefer to take matters into their own hands; part of their emphasis on creating skilled individuals comes from actively leaning into chance and the possibility that any given person might have a chance to change things and to defy fate (which they see most often as cruel, if necessary - another piece of baggage from their rejection of both fey and humans). One role that elves have which neither humans nor fey do is that of prophet: those who hone their skills towards predicting the ebb and flow of fate and writing down prophecies of what is to come. Some do this through skill, and others through magic; in either case, this skill is highly valued amongst elves, as is the foresight that it brings.

------------

Region #2: Seelie Fey Last, but not least: the interaction between fey culture and the supernatural. This one is interesting because fey are, to the other inhabitants of this world, one of the supernatural elements in it; and some of the below deals not with just how fey view the world, but also how they respond to how the world views them.

Fey, as stated before, have an intimate relationship with magic: they live and breathe it, and rely on consuming magical energy in place of food and other forms of sustenance. They can cast magic on a whim - often literally - which is drawn from impulse and deep emotions. There are no rules when it comes to casting magic, nor customs: fey do whatever they please, much in the same way that any person in the real world has a particular laugh or a walk unique to them - the variations are as many as there are individual fey. 

Seelie Fey, because they consider themselves caretakers of the world, tend to use their magic in ways that they see as beneficial to both the world (and the current flow of fate) and to the things living in it. This may take forms that seem odd to us: for example, mesmerizing a deer so that the wolf hunting it can nab it without chase - and return later to feed it to her cubs. Seelie Fey also often try to work beneficial magic for humans (and, at times, elves - though they encounter them less often and this is generally much subtler), particularly those in Region #3 - though this is, of course, much easier when they are moved to do so out of pity for the humans’s situation. Of course, this beneficial magic takes the form of what the fey feel will be beneficial - whether asked for or not, and whether they understand the situation or not. Many mishaps come from this kind of misunderstanding, and it is the source of many of the conflicts that arise between fey and other beings.

Seelie Fey do not have religion, nor enduring traditions surrounding magic, because of their highly individual nature. Many dislike the way that Unseelie Fey practice magic, this does not develop into codified practices or dogma. There are no other supernatural beings, and they do not believe in any; Fey, Seelie or not, are the the group that sees the world most accurately for what it is, because of the way their nature is intrinsically tied to it. 

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Because of the nature of this world, practices around the supernatural are highly variable even within regions; and, all in all, tend to be very simple with few concrete rules. This also comes from the complexity of the societies it is drawn from: because these societies tend to be simpler and smaller-scale, so do their supernatural practices. 

That’s all for this one - as always, World B will be very different in each of these regards.

[jahknowstarbless]

Writing about you changes nothing.

It helps neither my burning desires nor my bullying doubts. Does not ease the ache of uncertainty or soothe the frustrations of the unknown. Whether it pulls your physical being closer or pushes your spiritual being away, I may never know....

And there it is. For a brief moment. Realization, closely followed by its stubborn and socially resistant companion: accountability.

I find comfort and strange poetry in the never knowing. "I may never know." is like a one word poem that both solidifies my lack of faith and flowers it with innocence and understanding.

The truth is, I've always known.

I've always known I love you, admire you, care for you. Been knew that "been knew" was for me. Always knew you were the type to ride for yours. Always painted you as a romantic. Relationship goals.

What happens when a celebrity relationship goals becomes your personal goal for a life partner? Who in their right mind would attempt to leap from the roof of one building to another so ridiculously, impossibly and quite frankly, reasonably far away.

It's like the universe wants me to believe I am Tom Cruise or some video game character, and even in video games, I have missed that jump. I mean, I could barely reach the top of the flag in Mario. And now you want me to manifest a celebrity as a romantic partner?

Gag me. Tie me up. Spank me. Make me beg for more...

Wait, what? See that's the other thing. The astral sexuality, borderline sensuality, has exceeded those of the past. Even the lover who would make me sacral chakra vibe from the other room while on the phone pretending nothing of the sort was happening (clue: revisit later), only to come pop his head in the room to confirm that I was, indeed, erupting with inner pleasure that neither of us would speak on. Returning to the kitchen without so much as a pause in his actual conversation while I sat on the bed, back pressed against the wall, fighting yet another orgasm I know I wanted but my defenses wouldn't allow without knowing exactly how it's happening.

That reminds me, though. I often dismiss our connection with childish ignorance yet perfectly human skepticism. How can you be spending so much time with me while doing other things entirely? What is the probability of you actually making me come when you could be somewhere chillin with the homies or having a business discussion. The speculation grows into discrimination as I realize that I do not want to give away the milk for free, airdropping it if you will, to someone with no intentions of ever seeing the cow.

I would say men only want to date me remotely but maybe they only want to fuck remotely too, which is even worse. I'm too advanced for situationships, too mature to put myself in them willingly and for lack of better terms, too damn old to be playing around or playing myself.

Do you want me or nah? Or not? Or no? Then my inner guidance counselor reminds me that I am fixated on the negative instead of the positive to which I sharply reply: Okay, fine. So you essentially want me to believe in fairy tales? With a $%^&ing celebrity??? Ok.

My sarcasm, apathy and prejudice are all I have left. Yeah right, who cares, no more celebrities. When in reality (ha, imagine me referring to spiritual, unseen, difficult-if-not-impossible to prove scenarios as reality), what I'm really feeling and wanting to say is, fuck yes, God when? and can you believe how fucking fine and rich he is? Bravo!

Pardon me: I mean, handsome and wealthy.

And there I go, giving it away, as if it's all one big secret and none of this is about you. How annoying it is to love and be loved by an Aries. To simultaneously want to punch someone and fuck someone at the same time, for the same reasons - because you love them so much. Or for the sake of being socially healthy, let's not say punch and fuck. It's that I can't stand you Jodi but I'll make those tacos love. It's that, how did you get here, nobody's supposed to be here love. It's that, I can love you better than she can so I'm glad you let her go, ghetto love that my ass was always too young to be singing about anyway. It's that you make me sick how much you heal me and I'm not supposed to hate how much you love me. You are my seesaw. You are my swing. You are my sliding board. My monkey bars. My jungle gym.

My playground and my safe space. My haven and my home.

And if you ever break my heart or fail to make your physical presence known, thank you for building what you built with me. Thank you for helping me hear the voice of my child from inside of me. Thank you for all those nights niggas stayed out on the stoop for us. Thank you for every form you've seen me in. And thank you for showing me what it means to say Aries are the closest to the mind of God.

Once I get out of this thick fog of denial, doubt and anxiety over if, when, where, how and even why we will meet (imagine!), I look forward to walking towards you in the sun's shine.

I love you, baby. Thank you for everything <3

and no, I don't have a girlfriend! lol Bless.

[pjstafford]

Review of “Miss Subways” by David Duchovny

“Miss Subways”, the new novel by David Duchovny, is impossible to describe in a quick synopsis or an elevator speech (by which I mean get ready for a long review).  I tried, in an effort to write this review, to capture the flavor in a quick opening sentence or two, but the novel either ended up sounding pretentious or surreal and it is neither.  It is a retelling of a Yeats play “The only jealousy of Emer”, is written intelligently and abounds with allegories and allusions.  Yet, it is not pretentious.  Surreal is not quite the right word either even though it is a dream-like, fantastical, unbelievable novel.  It is novel about gods, underworlds, religions, myths and the big topics of fate and destiny.  I will get to all that in a little bit. Because more important than any of that for me  is that this is a novel about an ordinary  couple leading a mediocre life which means it can be neither pretentious nor surreal.  It is instead a novel, like Mr. Duchovny’s other written works, which has a duality in tone.  It is magical realism.  It is the magical quality of realism?   It is the hard reality of magic?  It a magical story of very real people in a very real life romance who happens to be surrounded by magical Gods.  See- it doesn’t lend itself to a quick synopsis or an elevator speech.  

First I am going to talk about the realism.  Because when reading this book, I had one of those magical moments reserved for only a few books; the moment where you realize you are reading a book which seems to speak to you in a very real way.  I loved Mr. Duchovny’s first two novels, but a talking cow and a peanut throwing man estranged from his father are interesting characters with whom I have no personal connections.  In “Miss Subways” I feel a strong emotional connection to the main character.  In many ways, I am Emer.  I am a reader who loves best nineteenth century literature.  I am a woman with Irish ancestry and, therefore, almost by birthright, am a woman with a connection to a dream like other world. I am a woman who has experienced self-subjugation of her dreams because she wanted so much to be part of a man’s dreams coming true.  I am a childless mother who wants to nurture the world; a woman who has figured out how much she needs to be her own creative force.  I am a woman who rides the bus (no subways in the West).  I am a woman with a wish to have someone with which to grow old.  I am every bit as much a “Miss Subways” as if I grew up in New York.  

But neither Emer nor I are “Miss Lonely Hearts”. This book values women too much to paint them in that desperate for a man way.   Emer has a love – although, perhaps, not a great man, but a love that is great.  Her love is a man who has reached a certain age without slaying a dragon which makes him both sad and dangerous.  While she has been part of his success, a man does not want the world to see the woman behind the curtain and so she is isolated from his success.  He is a man who might not always be the most faithful, but she might choose to look away if it means her wish to have someone with which to grow old comes true.  

Mr. Duchovny writes of a couple who might in another life have been a king and a queen, but they are not in this life.  In this lifetime, living a mediocre life, there is mostly a sad realism which is nonetheless magical and beautiful in the way that love is simultaneously fragile and strong- the way love making between a couple can be routine and, yet, make you weep at the thought of losing it. Ordinary people can do extraordinary thing for love which means in order to have love or in order to help the one they love.  One does not have to be a king or a queen for that to be true.  

While I have described the core of this book as this love story between this ordinary couple leading a mediocre life which is both magical and realistic, “Miss Subways” is a rich and layered novel with a lot of duality in magic and realism.  

It is a novel written by an author who loves and hates the city in which he was raised.  I have never been to New York City, but Mr. Duchovny describes it in a way that, should I visit it, I would be disappointed if there wasn’t an overwhelming smell of dog urine in Central Park.  Yet, I imagine New Yorkers, at least those riding the subway, are more literary than in other cities – conversant in Kafka and Dickinson.

This is a novel written by an author who knows his ancestors crossed the ocean.  It is a novel celebrating immigrants, the children of immigrants and the religions, mythology and cultural consciousness of those immigrants. It suggests that it is time to embrace, to kiss, to intermingle, to celebrate the unique beauty of the multiculturalism that makes who we are great no matter how we got here.

This is a novel written by a man whose unfinished doctorate thesis from Yale was titled “Magic and Technology in Contemporary Fiction and Poetry”.  Like literally there is a scene where the smart phone is being used to create magic – rewind, stop or forward to alter the course of events. Seriously, though, this book allows for no question that magic exists.  It simply does. Suspend your reality!  The way this is accomplished is masterful.

This is a novel written by an author who is somewhat obsessed with religious symbolism with no belief in any one faith.  In fact, it relays history of how religious symbols and occasions have been used to convert believers to new religions.  It suggests that religions can continue to mutate and must continue to mutate and that with each new mutation comes a new magical power. It doesn’t deny the power of religion.  

This is a novel where the large questions are asked about fate vs. self-determination.  It is a novel which suggests we can change our fate but which, also, admits that timing and circumstance might determine our fate a little more than any action we take.  It suggests there could be many different versions of a timeline, but insists that who we are right now and where we are at right now better be the most important and right time line because there is no alternative except for the current us to be here now and so we should be here now.  

This is a novel which ponders if we want the perfect life or the perfect work and, at the end, sees that these things are distinct and maybe you can’t have them both, but that if you have the work that is right for you than you will have a better life.  

It is a non-political book which clearly makes it known the writer is not really a Trump fan.  

It is David Duchovny’s third and best written novel to date.  I encourage all who want to believe to read it.   Yeah, I know, I went there!

“Miss Subways” will be available May 1.  

�

[amyamili]

Art Historical Image - Week Ten 

Dada Manifesto by Tristan Tzara 23rd March 1918

The magic of a word – Dada – which has brought journalists to the gates of a world unforeseen, is of no importance to us.

To put out a manifesto you must want: ABC to fulminate against 1, 2, 3 to fly into a rage and sharpen your wings to conquer and disseminate little abcs and big ABCs, to sign, shout, swear, to organize prose into a form of absolute and irrefutable evidence, to prove your non plus ultra and maintain that novelty resembles life just as the latest-appearance of some whore proves the essence of God. His existence was previously proved by the accordion, the landscape, the wheedling word. To impose your ABC is a natural thing - hence deplorable. Everybody does it in the form of crystalbluff-madonna, monetary system, pharmaceutical product, or a bare leg advertising the ardent sterile spring. The love of novelty is the cross of sympathy, demonstrates a naive je m'enfoutisme, it is a transitory, positive sign without a cause.

But this need itself is obsolete. In documenting art on the basis of the supreme simplicity: novelty, we are human and true for the sake of amusement, impulsive, vibrant to crucify boredom. At the crossroads of the lights, alert, attentively awaiting the years, in the forest. I write a manifesto and I want nothing, yet I say certain things, and in principle I am against manifestos, as I am also against principles (half-pints to measure the moral value of every phrase too too convenient; approximation was invented by the impressionists). I write this manifesto to show that people can perform contrary actions together while taking one fresh gulp of air; I am against action; for continuous contradiction, for affirmation too, I am neither for nor against and I do not explain because I hate common sense.

DADA - this is a word that throws up ideas so that they can be shot down; every bourgeois is a little playwright, who invents different subjects and who, instead of situating suitable characters on the level of his own intelligence, like chrysalises on chairs, tries to find causes or objects (according to whichever psychoanalytic method he practices) to give weight to his plot, a talking and self-defining story.

Every spectator is a plotter, if he tries to explain a word (to know!) From his padded refuge of serpentine complications, he allows his instincts to be manipulated. Whence the sorrows of conjugal life.

To be plain: The amusement of redbellies in the mills of empty skulls.

DADA DOES NOT MEAN ANYTHING

If you find it futile and don't want to waste your time on a word that means nothing ... The first thought that comes to these people is bacteriological in character: to find its etymological, or at least its historical or psychological origin. We see by the papers that the Kru Negroes call the tail of a holy cow Dada. The cube and the mother in a certain district of Italy are called: Dada. A hobby horse, a nurse both in Russian and Rumanian: Dada. Some learned journalists regard it as an art for babies, other holy-Jesus-calling-the-little-children-unto-hims of our day, as a relapse into a dry and noisy, noisy and monotonous primitivism. Sensibility is not constructed on the basis of a word; all constructions converge on perfection which is boring, the stagnant idea of a gilded swamp, a relative human product. A work of art should not be beauty in itself, for beauty is dead; it should be neither gay nor sad, neither light nor dark to rejoice or torture the individual by serving him the cakes of sacred aureoles or the sweets of a vaulted race through the atmospheres. A work of art is never beautiful by decree, objectively and for all. Hence criticism is useless, it exists only subjectively, for each man separately, without the slightest character of universality. Does anyone think he has found a psychic base common to all mankind? The attempt of Jesus and the Bible covers with their broad benevolent wings: shit, animals, days. How can one expect to put order into the chaos that constitutes that infinite and shapeless variation: man? The principle: "love thy neighbor" is a hypocrisy. "Know thyself" is utopian but more acceptable, for it embraces wickedness. No pity. After the carnage we still retain the hope of a purified mankind. I speak only of myself since I do not wish to convince, I have no right to drag others into my river, I oblige no one to follow me and everybody practices his art in his own way, if be knows the joy that rises like arrows to the astral layers, or that other joy that goes down into the mines of corpse-flowers and fertile spasms. Stalactites: seek them everywhere, in managers magnified by pain, eyes white as the hares of the angels.

And so Dada was born* of a need for independence, of a distrust toward unity. Those who are with us preserve their freedom. We recognize no theory. We have enough cubist and futurist academies: laboratories of formal ideas. Is the aim of art to make money and cajole the nice nice bourgeois? Rhymes ring with the assonance of the currencies and the inflexion slips along the line of the belly in profile. All groups of artists have arrived at this trust company utter riding their steeds on various comets. While the door remains open to the possibility of wallowing in cushions and good things to eat.

Here we are dropping our anchor in fertile ground.

Here we really know what we are talking about, because we have experienced the trembling and the awakening. Drunk with energy, we are revenants thrusting the trident into heedless flesh. We are streams of curses in the tropical abundance of vertiginous vegetation, resin and rain is our sweat, we bleed and burn with thirst, our blood is strength.

Cubism was born out of the simple way of looking at an object: Cezanne painted a cup 20 centimetres below his eyes, the cubists look at it from above, others complicate appearance by making a perpendicular section and arranging it conscientiously on the side. (I do not forget the creative artists and the profound laws of matter which they established once and for all.) The futurist sees the same cup in movement, a succession of objects one beside the others and maliciously adds a few force lines. This does not prevent the canvas from being a good or bad painting suitable for the investment of intellectual capital.

The new painter creates a world, the elements of which are also its implements, a sober, definite work without argument. The new artist protests: he no longer paints (symbolic and illusionist reproduction) but creates directly in stone, wood, iron, tin, boulders—locomotive organisms capable of being turned in all directions by the limpid wind of momentary sensation. All pictorial or plastic work is useless: let it then be a monstrosity that frightens servile minds, and not sweetening to decorate the refectories of animals in human costume, illustrating the sad fable of mankind.

A painting is the art of making two lines, which have been geometrically observed to be parallel, meet on a canvas, before our eyes, in the reality of a world that has been transposed according to new conditions and possibilities. This world is neither specified nor defined in the work, it belongs, in its innumerable variations, to the spectator. For its creator it has neither case nor theory. Order = disorder; ego = non-ego; affirmation - negation: the supreme radiations of an absolute art. Absolute in the purity of its cosmic and regulated chaos, eternal in that globule that is a second which has no duration, no breath, no light and no control. I appreciate an old work for its novelty. It is only contrast that links us to the past. Writers who like to moralise and discuss or ameliorate psychological bases have, apart from a secret wish to win, a ridiculous knowledge of life, which they may have classified, parcelled out, canalised; they are determined to see its categories dance when they beat time. Their readers laugh derisively, but carry on: what's the use?

There is one kind of literature which never reaches the voracious masses. The work of creative writers, written out of the author's real necessity, and for his own benefit. The awareness of a supreme egoism, wherein laws become significant. Every page should explode, either because of its profound gravity, or its vortex, vertigo, newness, eternity, or because of its staggering absurdity, the enthusiasm of its principles, or its typography. On the one hand there is a world tottering in its flight, linked to the resounding tinkle of the infernal gamut; on the other hand, there are: the new men. Uncouth, galloping, riding astride on hiccups. And there is a mutilated world and literary medicasters in desperate need of amelioration.

I assure you: there is no beginning, and we are not afraid; we aren't sentimental. We are like a raging wind that rips up the clothes of clouds and prayers, we are preparing the great spectacle of disaster, conflagration and decomposition. Preparing to put an end to mourning, and to replace tears by sirens spreading from one continent to another. Clarions of intense joy, bereft of that poisonous sadness. DADA is the mark of abstraction; publicity and business are also poetic elements.

I destroy the drawers of the brain, and those of social organisation: to sow demoralisation everywhere, and throw heaven's hand into hell, hell's eyes into heaven, to reinstate the fertile wheel of a universal circus in the Powers of reality, and the fantasy of every individual.

Philosophy is the question: from which side shall we look at life, God, the idea or other phenomena. Everything one looks at is false. I do not consider the relative result more important than the choice between cake and cherries after dinner. The system of quickly looking at the other side of a thing in order to impose your opinion indirectly is called dialectics, in other words, haggling over the spirit of fried potatoes while dancing method around it.

If I shout:

Ideal, Ideal, Ideal

Knowledge, Knowledge, Knowledge

Boomboom, Boomboom, Boomboom

I have given a pretty faithful version of progress, law, morality and all other fine qualities that various highly intelligent men have discussed in so many books, only to conclude that after all everyone dances to his own personal boomboom, and that the writer is entitled to his boomboom: the satisfaction of pathological curiosity a private bell for inexplicable needs; a bath; pecuniary difficulties; a stomach with repercussions in tile; the authority of the mystic wand formulated as the bouquet of a phantom orchestra made up of silent fiddle bows greased with filters made of chicken manure. With the blue eye-glasses of an angel they have excavated the inner life for a dime's worth of unanimous gratitude. If all of them are right and if all pills are Pink Pills, let us try for once not to be right. Some people think they can explain rationally, by thought, what they think. But that is extremely relative. Psychoanalysis is a dangerous disease, it puts to sleep the anti-objective impulses of man and systematizes the bourgeoisie. There is no ultimate Truth. The dialectic is an amusing mechanism which guides us / in a banal kind of way / to the opinions we had in the first place. Does anyone think that, by a minute refinement of logic, he had demonstrated the truth and established the correctness of these opinions? Logic imprisoned by the senses is an organic disease. To this element philosophers always like to add: the power of observation. But actually this magnificent quality of the mind is the proof of its impotence. We observe, we regard from one or more points of view, we choose them among the millions that exist. Experience is also a product of chance and individual faculties. Science disgusts me as soon as it becomes a speculative system, loses its character of utility that is so useless but is at least individual. I detest greasy objectivity, and harmony, the science that finds everything in order. Carry on, my children, humanity... Science says we are the servants of nature: everything is in order, make love and bash your brains in. Carry on, my children, humanity, kind bourgeois and journalist virgins... I am against systems, the most acceptable system is on principle to have none. To complete oneself, to perfect oneself in one's own littleness, to fill the vessel with one's individuality, to have the courage to fight for and against thought, the mystery of bread, the sudden burst of an infernal propeller into economic lilies.

DADAIST SPONTANEITY

What I call the I-don't-give-a-damn attitude of life is when everyone minds his own business, at the same time as he knows how to respect other individualities, and even how to stand up for himself, the two-step becoming a national anthem, a junk shop, the wireless (the wire-less telephone) transmitting Bach fugues, illuminated advertisements for placards for brothels, the organ broadcasting carnations for God, all this at the same time, and in real terms, replacing photography and unilateral catechism.

Active simplicity.

Inability to distinguish between degrees of clarity: to lick the penumbra and float in the big mouth filled with honey and excrement. Measured by the scale of eternity, all activity is vain - (if we allow thought to engage in an adventure the result of which would be infinitely grotesque and add significantly to our knowledge of human impotence). But supposing life to be a poor farce, without aim or initial parturition, and because we think it our duty to extricate ourselves as fresh and clean as washed chrysanthemums, we have proclaimed as the sole basis for agreement: art. It is not as important as we, mercenaries of the spirit, have been proclaiming for centuries. Art afflicts no one and those who manage to take an interest in it will harvest caresses and a fine opportunity to populate the country with their conversation. Art is a private affair, the artist produces it for himself, an intelligible work is the product of a journalist, and because at this moment it strikes my fancy to combine this monstrosity with oil paints: a paper tube simulating the metal that is automatically pressed and poured hatred cowardice villainy. The artist, the poet rejoice at the venom of the masses condensed into a section chief of this industry, he is happy to be insulted: it is a proof of his immutability. When a writer or artist is praised by the newspapers, it is a proof of the intelligibility of his work: wretched lining of a coat for public use; tatters covering brutality, piss contributing to the warmth of an animal brooding vile instincts. Flabby, insipid flesh reproducing with the help of typographical microbes.

We have thrown out the cry-baby in us. Any infiltration of this kind is candied diarrhoea. To encourage this act is to digest it. What we need is works that are strong straight precise and forever beyond understanding. Logic is a complication. Logic is always wrong. It draws the threads of notions, words, in their formal exterior, toward illusory ends and centres. Its chains kill, it is an enormous centipede stifling independence. Married to logic, art would live in incest, swallowing, engulfing its own tail, still part of its own body, fornicating within itself, and passion would become a nightmare tarred with protestantism, a monument, a heap of ponderous grey entrails. But the suppleness, enthusiasm, even the joy of injustice, this little truth which we practice innocently and which makes its beautiful: we are subtle and our fingers are malleable and slippery as the branches of that sinuous, almost liquid plant; it defines our soul, say the cynics. That too is a point of view; but all flowers are not sacred, fortunately, and the divine thing in us is to call to anti-human action. I am speaking of a paper flower for the buttonholes of the gentlemen who frequent the ball of masked life, the kitchen of grace, white cousins lithe or fat. They traffic with whatever we have selected. The contradiction and unity of poles in a single toss can be the truth. If one absolutely insists on uttering this platitude, the appendix of a libidinous, malodorous morality. Morality creates atrophy like every plague produced by intelligence. The control of morality and logic has inflicted us with impassivity in the presence of policemen who are the cause of slavery, putrid rats infecting the bowels of the bourgeoisie which have infected the only luminous clean corridors of glass that remained open to artists..

But suppleness, enthusiasm and even the joy of injustice, that little truth that we practise as innocents and that makes us beautiful: we are cunning, and our fingers are malleable and glide like the branches of that insidious and almost liquid plant; this injustice is the indication of our soul, say the cynics. This is also a point of view; but all flowers aren't saints, luckily, and what is divine in us is the awakening of anti-human action. What we are talking about here is a paper flower for the buttonhole of gentlemen who frequent the ball of masked life, the kitchen of grace, our white, lithe or fleshy girl cousins. They make a profit out of what we have selected. The contradiction and unity of opposing poles at the same time may be true. IF we are absolutely determined to utter this platitude, the appendix of alibidinous, evil-smelling morality. Morals have an atrophying effect, like every other pestilential product of the intelligence. Being governed by morals and logic has made it impossible for us to be anything other than impassive towards policemen - the cause of slavery - putrid rats with whom the bourgeois are fed up to the teeth, and who have infected the only corridors of clear and clean glass that remained open to artists.

Let each man proclaim: there is a great negative work of destruction to be accomplished. We must sweep and clean. Affirm the cleanliness of the individual after the state of madness, aggressive complete madness of a world abandoned to the hands of bandits, who rend one another and destroy the centuries. Without aim or design, without organization: indomitable madness, decomposition. Those who are strong in words or force will survive, for they are quick in defence, the agility of limbs and sentiments flames on their faceted flanks.

Morality has determined charity and pity, two balls of fat that have grown like elephants, like planets, and are called good. There is nothing good about them. Goodness is lucid, clear and decided, pitiless toward compromise and politics. Morality is an injection of chocolate into the veins of all men. This task is not ordered by a supernatural force but by the trust of idea brokers and grasping academicians. Sentimentality: at the sight of a group of men quarrelling and bored, they invented the calendar and the medicament wisdom. With a sticking of labels the battle of the philosophers was set off (mercantilism, scales, meticulous and petty measures) and for the second time it was understood that pity is a sentiment like diarrhoea in relation to the disgust that destroys health, a foul attempt by carrion corpses to compromise the sun. I proclaim the opposition of all cosmic faculties to this gonorrhoea of a putrid sun issued from the factories of philosophical thought, I proclaim bitter struggle with all the weapons of –

DADAIST DISGUST

Every product of disgust capable of becoming a negation of the family is Dada; a protest with the fists of its whole being engaged in destructive action: Dada; knowledge of all the means rejected up until now by the shamefaced sex of comfortable compromise and good manners: DADA; abolition of logic, which is the dance of those impotent to create: DADA; of every social hierarchy and equation set up for the sake of values by our valets: DADA: every object, all objects, sentiments, obscurities, apparitions and the precise clash of parallel lines are weapons for the fight: DADA; abolition of memory: Dada; abolition of archaeology: DADA; abolition of prophets: DADA; abolition of the future: DADA; absolute and unquestionable faith in every god that is the immediate product of spontaneity: DADA; elegant and unprejudiced leap from a harmony to the other sphere; trajectory of a word tossed like a screeching phonograph record; to respect all individuals in their folly of the moment: whether it be serious, fearful, timid, ardent, vigorous, determined, enthusiastic; to divest one's church of eve ry useless cumbersome accessory; to spit out disagreeable or amorous ideas like a luminous waterfall, or coddle them—with the extreme satisfaction that it doesn't matter in the least - with the same intensity in the thicket of core's soul pure of insects for blood well-born, and gilded with bodies of archangels. Freedom: DADA DADA DADA, a roaring of tense colors, and interlacing of opposites and of all contradictions, grotesques, inconsistencies:

LIFE.

* in 1916 at the CABARET VOLTAIRE in Zurich

[tpquill]

PR relationship vs Private...

I've stumbled across a few fandoms in my time; real life ships vs on screen. Many who expose themselves pretty early on as being nothing but pushing a person(s) career along, networking a show, promotion of a movie or movie franchise and so on. It's usually pretty easy to point them out; getting faces out there, carefully planned shopping trips or eating out in places 'all of Hollywood' go to eat. A stroll down a street that is ear marked by paps as the street a certain someone or someone's will be walking; my PR calls your PR agency to arrange a time and a place. I could list the amount of 'PR' couples who have and still do just that, but I'm not writing this to name names and point fingers. I'm merely putting across that this did, does and still happens in the show business industry. And those who are new to following shows or movies with fandoms attached, better train your BS skills in to what is 'fact' over what is 'fiction.' A real couple (as in one who have got together privately off screen, regardless of time, work ethic or closeness) know the dangers involved in getting together; media attention, scrutiny from other cast, fan scrutiny and public appraisal or disappointment. Outside of work is very limited to where you can go without being seen, particularly if you don't want anyone to know about you. It's too easy to get trapped into that kind of pressure, actors are after all still human and stress over the same things you and I do. Except their lives are like living in a goldfish bowl, swimming around aimlessly while the outside world judges them and boy! Do we judge. So...it's not uncommon for a 'private' relationship to remain private for the time being. If you are 'like most shows/movies' a couple who are linked romantically in the storyline; your face and acting are the main base for promoting, it becomes even more stressful, when forced to understand that a movie or shows success rides heavily on your 'believable' chemistry with your lead. When it becomes 'too' believable, well that's when tongues wag and if tongues wag it can mean failure to not only the show/movie, but also the financial investment (studio, media advertisement, merchandising, futures tie ins etc) as an actor you are known as the cash cow; marketing earns money of your back. A show that may have the prospect of longevity, does not want to damage itself, bolting before it's been released from the stocks. Nor does the movie want to cripple itself financially, before it's even released to the public. So yes, a 'private' relationship between two actors can cause a huge headache for both investors, studios and networks trying to push an investment and again I will stress TV shows or movies are financial investments as are the actors, whose faces 'market' that investment. You're only as good as your last performance. Many believe that you have a choice, fans seem to think you can March right into the board of directors, demand they allow you to live your life, that they cannot tell you want to do with your private life as it belongs to you - wrong, so very wrong. Everything about an actor belongs to a studio. Your public life is a performance, your private life should never be seen. You are a piece of clothing, to be promoted, advertised, displayed and sold to the highest bidder...as long as your agent and manager get as much money as you are worth out of it, of course. This is unfortunately the black and white, you need to earn money, they need to earn money, the studio or network of studios need money and financial investors need the money they put into the project they invested heavily in, in order to create a profit and success. Romantising in a different light does not work, simply because it's not reality. Your 'private' relationship is the difference between success and failure. Off screen romances are a huge no no, your agent, manager, studio want nothing more than it to remain hidden from the public. Studio bosses will be sweating with clauses you many have broken, NDAs are scrutinised and checked to make sure no leaking to the media happens...it's a financial noose around a studios neck, particularly a very young TV show or the beginning of a movie franchise with the hope of more movies to come. So...this is why a couple, who no fault of their own, but human nature, fall in love on set, off set - in the privacy of their own private bubble...find themselves in a situation were they cannot disclose what really is going on. Instead play the dumb 'we are best friends, best buddies, supportive and deeply fond of each other' card. Except body language tells a different story. The wonderful world of a 'PR' relationship. A relationship with nothing to hide. Happy to walk arm and arm down a busy street, go shopping together, get seen at wineries or dinner in an exclusive well known restaurant. Go to public events together or are simply seen as nothing short of 'fake Ken and Barbie' it's all to do with image, with promotion and little to do with personality. A good PR agent will see the opportunity of promoting careers, help image, get work. It's all to do with networking a story, get the media chatting, all along its just a performance. Friends yes, they would need to have some kind of razor or slight chemistry to pull it off. Although there have been a few awkward ones in the passed where neither looked entirely happy to be with each other and yet were supposedly selling a sizzling romance? You also get others behind it; work colleagues, people with clout in the industry, well known faces or names to support this 'showmance' and yes it has been done in the past, to act as someone's 'beard' (ie to cover up the truth) mainly due to the actors sexual orientation or (despise the use of the word gay) relationship with another... they are easier to spot, its always promoted in such a way to get it out there, it doesn't gradually appear, it just gets put into the public eye in a way that just screams 'too much' Don't believe me? How many recent romances, indeed horribly ended marriages have happened due to PR? How many look at a recent paparazzi saturation of a couple, who just looks 'too convenient, too set up, short lived' to not want you to roll your eyes so far to the back of your head? I can name a few famous singers, whose agency promotes that kind of romance; when an album or single is about to drop, or the eye candy at the time has a movie needing a lot of promotion? As I said PR romances or showmances happen all the time. Self serving for a period of time and then it's time to move on. No self respecting actor wants their private life splashed across the media. Have fan sites dedicated to pap photos taken of them when they don't want to been seen. Get hounded by endless questions by parasites (photographers freelance) at airports, calling your name, insulting the person you are linked with by nasty comments to get a reaction from you. That unfortunately is what happens when your 'private' life is 'out there' but a PR relationship they are humorous with. They, like other keen sighted people know it's just for show, so don't really make much of a fuss over it. It's titillation, because they (media) know it won't last for long...they never do. So before you join a fandom of a movie or TV show, think long and hard of what you are about to get yourself into. There will be tears, there will be tantrums. And unless the object or objects of your desire are already married to each other or another person, then the likely interest will be purely on the cannon story arc and not off screen romances. But then again, frenzied fans see that as a challenge to ship the couple regardless and hate on their real life husband or wife, but that's going down an even more darker path of fantasy. Or as it has happened in the past, marriages are tested when working very close with your co star, and unfortunately end. Sad but true - that's just life...I suppose.