#Shipping and Geopolitical Tensions

[just2bruce]

Geopolitics and shipping

Geopolitics is having a great effect on ocean shipping today. Trade is where wars are fought now. It may have been true in the past as well, but the means and methods are changing rapidly. I listened to this podcast featuring Jon Thompson, co-founder and commercial director of Ambrey, an international risk management company. He made several interesting points. What’s become possible only…

[head-post]

Houthis hit two merchant ships in two days, CENTCOM says

Yemen’s Houthi group damaged two commercial vessels in missile strikes in the Gulf of Aden over the past 24 hours as part of an ongoing campaign against international shipping, the US Central Command (CENTCOM) said on Sunday.

Iranian-backed Houthis struck the Liberian-flagged, Swiss-owned container ship Tavvishi with an anti-ship ballistic missile. The vessel was damaged, but none of the crew was injured, CENTCOM reported.

Two rockets fired by Houthis hit the German-owned, Antigua and Barbados-flagged cargo ship Norderney. The vessel was damaged, but none of the crew was injured and the ship continued on its way, CENTCOM said.

The Houthis had earlier said they had hit the Tavvishi and Norderney vessels and claimed to have set the latter on fire.

On May 31, Yemeni Houthis launched a missile attack on the US aircraft carrier Dwight Eisenhower in the Red Sea. Yemen’s Ansar Allah movement of Yemeni Houthis struck the US ship Largo Desert and the Israeli ship MSC Mechela in the Indian Ocean in late May.

The Houthis, who control the most populated parts of Yemen and are backed by Iran, have been attacking ships off their coast for months, saying they are acting in solidarity with Palestinians fighting Israel in the Gaza Strip.

The Houthis have carried out drone and missile attacks in the Bab el-Mandeb Strait and the Gulf of Aden, forcing ship owners to take longer and more costly routes around southern Africa since November.

The US and UK have struck Houthi targets in response to the attacks, but this has only worsened the situation in the Red Sea.

Read more HERE

[kesarijournal]

Striking the Houthis in Yemen: A Whirl of Power Plays, Sarcasm, and Blazing Skies

In the latest episode of ‘World Powers Play Chess,’ the US and UK, ever the dynamic duo of international policing, have decided to add a new twist to the complex Yemeni soap opera. With a coalition that reads like a guest list at an exclusive global summit – hello Australia, Bahrain, Canada, and the Netherlands – these countries have collectively embarked on what could be dubbed ‘Operation Let’s…

[cregan-starks]

Flames of Deceit

Summary: Aemond and Visenya reunite amidst the Dance of the Dragons.

Words: 13,005

Pairings: Aemond Targaryen x OC, Cregan Stark x OC

Warnings: canon-typical incest (Aemond and Visenya are cousins, as well as uncle and niece), book and show spoilers, Westerosi geopolitics, mentions of imperialism and slavery, canon-typical violence, war, blood and gore, fire and burning, mass death, mention of amputation, mentions of torture and captivity, mentions and threats of execution and physical harm, mentions of poverty and starvation, parental neglect, food and eating, alcohol and drinking, sexism, victim blaming, slut-shaming, ableist language, explicit language, nudity, smut (vaginal sex in flashbacks), unresolved sexual tension, grief/mourning, trauma, angst, hurt/comfort, survivor guilt, mutual pining, emotional/psychological abuse, verbal abuse, mentions of pregnancy, childbirth, miscarriage, and death in childbirth, mentions of child/infant death, mentions of infidelity. If I missed any warnings, please let me know! Under no circumstances can you copy, plagiarize, steal my work, or post it somewhere else!

Notes: This totally didn’t take me almost 7 months to write. Cregan Stark is the protagonist of Fire & Blood. Rise, Cregan nation. My OC Visenya is Rhaenyra’s and Daemon’s daughter, and Jace’s older twin. Superfecundation, baby. Visenya and Jace are born in 111 AC, not 114 AC. The Battle in the Gullet still occurs in 130 AC, soon after the events of this one-shot. Reblogs and comments are encouraged and immensely appreciated. If this does well, I’ll post a reader version.

Credits: Huge thank you to my betas @maharani-radha-writes 💛 @aereth 💖 and @shewhomustbecalledking 🩶, and to @haystack-boy @lavendertales @buttercup--bee @agirllovespancakes and @oloreaa for their constant patience and support. It means a lot, and I’m immensely grateful. Apart from my OC Visenya, all characters belong to George R.R. Martin. Gif by @aemondtargaryensource (x)

Ao3 | Masterlist | Next

EARLY 130 AC

HARRENHAL, THE RIVERLANDS

          The sheer immensity of Harrenhal had provoked dizziness in Visenya. She had heard the story innumerable times. For four decades, King Harren Hoare had built greedily and obsessively, sacrificing thousands of slaves, and beggaring the riverlands and the Iron Islands. The indestructible construction had been no match for Balerion, whose fire had consumed the tyrant and his sons inside it, ending their line. Most Westerosi believed that the phantoms of the Hoares wandered the castle halls. The fortress is costly to maintain, and it devours its possessors. Qoherys, Harroway, Towers… All extinct. Whether cursed or not, Harrenhal remained a strategic location – the largest castle in the Seven Kingdoms.

          The current castellan – Larys Clubfoot’s great-uncle – Ser Simon Strong had recently surrendered Harrenhal to Daemon Targaryen. The presence of Caraxes might have contributed to his hasty decision. Following the victory at the Burning Mill and the subsequent submission of Stone Hedge – terminating Green strength in the riverlands – Queen Rhaenyra’s allies had commenced their gathering at Harrenhal, in accordance with the Prince Consort’s stratagem.

          Visenya had departed Dragonstone on the same night that Daemon had summoned her, having been granted safe passage by the Velaryon ships patrolling the Gullet. At the outbreak of the war, the Sea Snake’s fleet had closed off Blackwater Bay, choking trade to and from the capital.

          As soon as she had dismounted her dragon in the castle yard, she had sensed the eerie ambience that had haunted Harrenhal’s colossal curtain walls and fissured, melted towers. Formidable and dreadful. Harren’s monument and tomb. Blackwing had responded to Caraxes’ fervent shriek with her own, flapping her wings at him. Happy to be reunited.

          Her father had offered her a warm welcome and a tight embrace, had even insisted that she sit on his war council, wherein she had befriended Alysanne Blackwood, whom she had grown quite fond of.

          At last, Visenya had thought, on the morning that Daemon had sent for her. Though she loved him dearly, her father hadn’t invited her there because he had missed his daughter. Visenya had met with Daemon alone, in the Hall of the Hundred Hearths – she had counted thirty-five – grander than the throne room in King’s Landing, the discolored ceiling looming loftily above them. Her father had donned his chain mail over his crimson tunic.

          Does he sleep in that? Or am I the threat?

          ‘Ser Crispin and the Kinslayer are marching on Harrenhal,’ Daemon had informed her, instead of “good morrow”, pressing a rolled parchment into her palm, ‘They mean to join forces with the Lannisters’, at Stoney Sept.’

          Her heart had jolted at the mere mention of his title. Aemond… At the Usurper’s farce of a coronation that the Hightowers had compelled her to attend – dressed in green – Visenya had kissed him farewell, forsaking any glimmer of hope for a future with him. I have demonstrated where my loyalties lie. I have chosen my family.

          Her lilac eyes had skimmed over the scrawled message on the sheepskin, the wax sigil foreign to her. The White Worm?

          ‘You are strangely poised,’ Visenya had observed, suspicious, studying her father’s amused expression.

          ‘I’ve been waiting for this,’ he had confirmed, smirking wickedly, curling his hand around the hilt of sheathed Dark Sister. Another one of his traps… and he’s pulling me into it. Daemon had gently cradled her cheek, purring, ‘I have a mission for you, sweetling.’

EARLY 130 AC

STONEY SEPT, THE RIVERLANDS

          Her host had encamped half a day’s ride from the town, with sufficient provisions for a fortnight. The arduous advance and the muddy soil had wearied men and horses alike, so Visenya had relied on the Greens’ tardiness to provide them with the respite that they had needed.

          Her dragon had brazenly exploited that ploy – napping during the day and hunting at night, increasing the risk of being discovered. Surpassed by Vhagar in age and size, Blackwing had never been ridden before a seven-year-old Visenya had claimed her. They shared a temper, a wildness, and a fierce devotion to each other. My twin in dragon flesh, Jace would jest.

          ‘You have become too spoiled,’ she had reproved, affectionately, tapping Blackwing’s dark scales, heated to the touch.

          The beast had objected, idly, releasing a guttural noise, smoke rising from its nostrils.

          For five days, her spies had reported nothing of enemy activity. Her anxieties had continued to fester and to gnaw at her. What if I fail? What if I die? I would condemn my people in vain. And Aemond… What am I to do about him?

          On the sixth day, the scouts had burst into her tent, blurting that the Greens had arrived at Stoney Sept. The maester had quickly dispatched a raven to Prince Daemon, at Harrenhal.

          ‘We attack at dawn,’ Visenya had declared, resolute.

          I’ll do my best, father.

          The fray had been gruesome, stretching for hours upon hours. A thick mist had settled over the Blackwater Rush, impairing visibility. Visenya had been the surprise element, concealing herself to deceive her foes, and striking unexpectedly, in the midst of battle. She had flown on her daunting Blackwing, laying waste to men and reserves indiscriminately, amongst the sounds of steel clashing with steel, shields splintering, arrows whistling, and soldiers screaming as they fought, suffered wounds, and perished. Hundreds of Greens had been engulfed in her dragon’s flames.

          Aemond had been slow to deter the princess. Afraid to face me? Visenya and Blackwing had used the fog to their advantage, climbing higher and higher into the sky – the Kinslayer chasing after them on hoary Vhagar.

          ‘Dracarys!’, she had ordered, and Blackwing had descended on Vhagar, unleashing a cloud of fire that had only incensed the latter.

          The dragons had spun, locked in a vicious struggle of claws and fangs, wings thrashing, until Aemond had suddenly swiveled Vhagar, slamming her into Blackwing. Their deafening roars had pierced the air. The collision had knocked Visenya from her saddle – the searing flames licking at her arm – and had sent her plummeting towards the Blackwater below. Having crashed into the Rush, she had surfaced seconds later, her hefty armor and the river’s currents hindering her endeavors to stay afloat. Visenya had looked up, able to distinguish a faint form lunging at another – the beasts’ screeches reverberating far above.

          Blackwing will not be coming to my rescue.

          Her tribulations hadn’t stopped there. A glimpse at the golden dragon banner of the Pretender, and she had realised that the currents had pushed her in the wrong direction… too late. She had already been spotted by the scouts on the shore, who had alerted their captain. They had aimed their crossbows at her, waiting for the Blackwater to present her to them on a gilded platter. I think not.

          Visenya had bitten into the hand of the man who had dragged her out of the water, then she had tossed him into the Rush.

          ‘Cunt!’, the next attacker had bellowed, charging at her.

          Slowed down by her injuries, her movements had been clumsy. Visenya had ducked under his first blow, stumbling to retain her balance. She had unsheathed her sword to parry his second blow, and had driven her blade through his breastplate. She had slashed a guard’s belly, his entrails spilling out. A soldier’s glove had caught her weapon, yanking it from her grasp. Disoriented by a swift welt to the side of her head, Visenya had been tackled to the ground – the impact rendering her breathless. Two fists had savagely pummeled her face, again and again and again – a massive weight crushing her. She had desperately fumbled for her scabbard, had withdrawn her dagger, and had slit her aggressor’s throat. Hot blood had spurted out, blinding her. She had been hoisted to her feet, her dirk wrenched away. Howling with rage and frustration, Visenya had scratched at the man’s eyes with her nails, had kneed another in the groin, and had torn off an archer’s ear with her teeth.

          Alas, she had been one enfeebled person against all of the odds… and a dozen Greens. Her apprehension had been inevitable.

          The capture of the commander had prompted the capitulation of her army. Visenya had been delivered to Ser Crispin in chains, covered in blood, dirt, and grass, braids disheveled, dragonscale armor soaked, body aching, left arm throbbing. I will not quail. Those traitors will receive no such satisfaction from me.

          Attired in the white garments of the Kingsguard, Ser Crispin had been the living depiction of virtue and chivalry. Lickspittle. He had immediately discarded courtesy, referring to her as a “bitch in dragon’s clothing.” In retaliation, Visenya had dubbed him a “sheep in sheep’s clothing”, earning herself a cuff across the face from his steeled gauntlet. Blood had flooded her mouth, her cheek stinging sharply.

          Ser Crispin had further commented that her men had been rather committed to her, alluding that she had fucked them to obtain their service. Every woman is an image of the Mother, to be spoken of with reverence.

          ‘It’s not as high of an honor as warming the Dowager Queen’s bed,’ Visenya had admitted, slyly, and had spat on his boots, ‘Hand of the Usurper. Does he wipe his ass with you?’

          Crispin would have hit her again, had the Prince Regent not intervened. Wary, she had surveyed her surroundings for Vhagar – not in evidence. I might wind up her supper.

          ‘Enough, Cole,’ Aemond had interrupted, solemn, causing Visenya to tense, drawing their attention to where he had been standing, imposing, smeared with ashes and smoke, ‘She may be our prisoner, but she is still a princess, and shall be treated as befits her station.’

          Any shred of scorn had abandoned her, ousted by fear and uncertainty. Her father had foreseen this. If you bend, you will break. Remember who you are. She had inhaled deeply, striving to even her respiration. I am the blood of the dragon, daughter of Queen Rhaenyra and Prince Daemon, and heir to the Iron Throne. I will not cringe for them.

          Aemond had instructed the maids to prepare her a bath and a warm meal, and to fetch her dry clothes. Visenya had grinned, baring her bloody teeth at Ser Crispin, as the guards had led her away. She had been escorted along the smoldering ruins of houses, inns, and brothels, trampling charred corpses – mindful of her step. Carrion crows had circled above, the timid sun peeking from grey clouds. The foul, stifling stench had twisted her stomach, tears needling her eyes. Mine and Aemond’s handiwork. Only the sept, the square, and the trout-shaped fountain had remained intact. When dragons flew to war, everything burned, her mother had warned at the Black Council. What have the people of Stoney Sept done to merit this devastation? What power do they have over their lives? We play our grisly game of thrones, and the commonfolk bear the immeasurable cost.

          The encampment had spread interminably – miles of pavilions, armories, forges, stables, latrines, wagons, and baggage trains – crawling with Greens cussing, mocking, and shouting at captives, pages distributing letters, squires polishing armor, honing weapons, feeding, watering, and combing horses, patrols walking to their posts, smiths hammering boisterously, cooks chopping vegetables, skinning rabbits, disemboweling deer, and roasting boars, giggling washerwomen hurrying by, and maesters ministering to the wounded. The turmoil had imbued Visenya’s senses. Mesmerised, she had watched a wailing, writhing man have his leg amputated, until one of her assigned guardians had shoved her forward.

          She had assumed that Blackwing had flown away… but, having escaped the battle unscathed, and always loyal to a fault, her dragon had landed in the enemy’s camp, razing barracks and roaring ferociously, seeking its rider. After it had mauled the Greens who had attempted to approach it and shackle it, Aemond had begrudgingly permitted Visenya to comfort her feral companion. Blackwing had nuzzled its snout against her, coiling its tail around her, protectively, while Visenya had murmured “lykirī”, caressing its scales – her taut restraints impeding the action. Her chest had constricted agonisingly when the traitors had forcibly separated them. I will return for you, I promise.

          She had been ushered into a vacated chamber, where the maids had obediently unchained her wrists, had removed her armor, had unbraided her hair, and had helped her undress for her bath, evading her glare and her nakedness – scarcely addressing her. What grim tales have they been told about me? Under the ewerers’ supervision, Visenya had washed herself – her uninjured arm vigorously scrubbing her skin with a bar of soap – and had dried off on her own, using cloths and rags. They have taken away my gear. Her indignation dwindling, she had slipped on the plain shirt, brown breeches, pelts, and a pair of flat shoes that they had brought her – tucking her salvaged brooch in her pocket. Is this meant to humble me?

          She had sluggishly eaten her bland yet nourishing food, on a bench, by a candle, goggled at by blushing serving lads.

          Aemond had summoned her to his tent, along with the maesters, who had cleansed her burns, had applied a poultice that had reeked of lavender and vinegar, had bandaged her arm, and had rubbed balms on her cuts, bruises, and split lip. Visenya had endured their ministrations in utter silence, grinding her teeth and clenching her fists. She and Aemond hadn’t exchanged a single word.

          The pavilion had been modest for the Prince Regent, consisting of a firepit, an oaken war table – stripped of its tomes, maps, scrolls, ink, and wax – chairs, rugs, and a featherbed, with books scattered atop it. The colors red and black dominated the tent of a proud and eminent Green, who carried the golden banner of the Pretender. Aemond cannot deny his Targaryen heritage. Had Otto Hightower dyed his locks silver-white and ridden a dragon, he could have sat his ass on the Iron Throne and ruled in his own name. Instead, he urged the King to make my mother his heir, coerced his daughter to seduce him, and installed his grandson on the throne. Puppets upon puppets, plots within plots.

          With the maesters dismissed, Visenya finally had the opportunity to regard Aemond. He hadn’t changed much since she had last seen him, at his brother’s false coronation. In the fire’s light, he had been a sight to behold; the flames illuminating his attractive, distinctive features, his mouth seemingly lodged in a permanent smirk, his eyepatch obscuring his missing eye, his tresses cascading down his back. Aemond had cleaned himself up, shedding his armor – now resting on a rack – for his usual black leather tunic, fastened with a belt that had his sheathed dagger attached to it, and a lengthy coat sewn with fur around the neck. He cast a tall shadow in the pavilion, his posture impeccable. Half dragon, half feline.

          ‘There’s a lack of dresses,’ informs Aemond, obdurately calm, retrieving a flagon of wine and two cups from the servant at the tent’s entrance, ‘And we had to find clothes that would suit you.’

          ‘I gather that there’s some poor stable boy currently running around naked,’ quips Visenya, tugging the pelts around herself.

          Aemond huffs through his nose, amused, and sets one of the goblets on the table, proceeding to fill it with Arbor Red for her. The war evidently hasn’t affected the Usurper’s notorious love of drinking. Lord Redwyne smelled profit, and pledged his support to the Greens, to ensure that their wine supply never dries. An onerous task. The Pretender has ample ambition in that respect.

          ‘Don’t fret,’ assures Aemond, upon heeding Visenya’s skeptical, arched eyebrow, ‘It’s not poisoned.’

          ‘Surely someone spat in it,’ she guesses, convivial, swirling the liquid in her cup.

          Aemond smiles, drinking his wine. Visenya tentatively lifts her goblet to her lips, and sips. Delectable flavors invade her mouth, soothing her nerves – albeit a little. She mulls over her next words… half carefully.

          ‘I reckoned that you and Ser Crispin would share a pavilion,’ she confides, lewdly, crossing one leg over the other, ‘Though your prides would not fit together.’

          Aemond’s gaze darkens, his mouth subtly pressing into a thin line. His disposition could make Mushroom miserable... and it has.

          ‘You could lose your tongue for such insolence,’ he cautions, sternly.

          ‘Stale news,’ suspires an indifferent Visenya, ‘I can write this down as well.’ She pauses to take a swig, then demands, bluntly, ‘Where is Blackwing? And my men?’

          ‘The dragonkeepers are tending her,’ explains Aemond, irritation in his tone, leaving his empty cup on the table, ‘Your men are being questioned.’

          Good fortune. They know nothing. The laughter and singing outside contradict Aemond’s claim. Drunk on victory. A weakness that she could later exploit. If I could reach Blackwing… lest they harm her.

          ‘Blackwing was your companion prior to Vhagar,’ she mentions, heatedly, flexing and unflexing her hand, ‘If you touch her–’

          ‘You are in no position to launch threats, Visenya,’ chastises Aemond, coldly, prodding at the logs with a poker, the wood crackling in the fire, ‘Your treatment depends on my good will. As does your fate. You have my word that Blackwing will not be harmed.’

          ‘The word of a kinslayer,’ spits Visenya, venomously, eyes darting to him, ‘If you are under the impression that minor acts of benevolence shall convince me to talk, you are gravely mistaken. You overestimate my family’s trust in me.’

          ‘They trusted you enough to put you in command of an army four thousand strong,’ reminds an earnest Aemond, ‘And you expect me to believe that you have no knowledge of your twin’s whereabouts?’

          I wouldn’t trade Jace for the Iron Throne. ‘We shared a womb, not a brain,’ she corrects, tracing the rim of her goblet with her digits, contemplating refilling it. I need my wits about me. ‘You are wasting your time, nuncle. Mine, too. Fetch your torturers, and be done with all this bother.’

          ‘I will do no such thing,’ he rebuffs, inclining his head.

          ‘You will torture me yourself?’, asks Visenya, feigning innocence, brushing her loose silver-white hair over her shoulders.

          ‘You are being difficult, Visenya,’ he accuses, exasperated.

          ‘What do you intend to do with me?’, she interjects, involuntarily fiddling with her absent rings, ‘Executing me would be unwise. I presume that you will have my dragon killed, and me delivered to King’s Landing, where your usurper of a brother awaits, warming my mother’s rightful seat… or is he still broken and bedridden, lost in poppy dreams?’

          ‘Mind your tongue, Visenya,’ warns Aemond, louring at her, melting some of her resolve.

          ‘The Clubfoot will probably throw me in a cell and dispatch his floggers to visit me,’ she concludes, scratching her thigh. Stable boy must have had fleas.

          ‘I’m not sending you to King’s Landing,’ announces Aemond, with apparent mirth towards her gesture.

          ‘You will ransom me to my father?’, taunts Visenya, smirking wickedly, ‘He’s the poorest man in the Seven Kingdoms.’ Aemond’s demeanor refutes her insinuation. She continues, all semblance of jest vanishing, ‘You cannot justify keeping me here. Once the Pretender learns about my capture, he will order you to send me to King’s Landing.’

          ‘Aegon does not concern me,’ he grumbles, clasping his hands behind his back.

          ‘Pār ivestragī nyke jikagon,’ she advises, coyly. Aemond hums, musing, a glimmer in his eye that doesn’t indicate outright negation. ‘We are at war, and you allow your feelings to cloud your judgment?’ (Then let me go.)

          ‘Iksi daor rȳ vīlībāzma,’ argues a mild Aemond. (We are not at war.)

          So, you did not slaughter Luke? That’s a consolation. ‘Iksis bona skoro syt emā daor ossēntan nyke?’, inquires Visenya, masking her anger. (Is that why you have not killed me?)

          ‘Killing you would be as imprudent as freeing you,’ he reasons, purposely oblivious, ‘You are worth more alive than you are dead. You lost a fair battle, you surrendered, and now you are my prisoner.’

          ‘I’ve heard stories about how you and Ser Crispin treat your prisoners,’ she disputes, mordant, ‘And I never yielded. You ride the largest dragon in the world. That’s hardly a fair match.’

          Cole and the Usurper’s forces had sacked the port town of Duskendale, putting the ships at the harbor to the torch, hundreds of men, women, and children to the sword, and beheading Lord Gunthor Darklyn for supporting her mother’s cause. Hundreds more had been massacred at Rook’s Rest, where Lord Staunton, too, had been relieved of his head. Besieged by the Greens, he had barricaded himself inside his castle walls, and had requested assistance from the Blacks. With Prince Daemon at Harrenhal, and Queen Rhaenyra griefsick in the aftermath of her son’s murder, command of the Black Council had passed to the Velaryons. Rhaenyra had forbidden her children from answering their ally’s plea, so Princess Rhaenys had flown to Rook’s Rest instead. She and Meleys had fallen in battle against the Pretender, the Kinslayer, and their dragons. Sunfyre had been rendered flightless, the Usurper had suffered severe burns, and Aemond had assumed the title of Prince Regent – to rule in lieu of his older brother.

          Visenya’s side hadn’t fared any greater. A wroth Sea Snake had blamed Rhaenyra for his wife’s demise. Jace had named him Hand of the Queen, to appease him – a measure that Visenya had commended. Better than Ser Crispin.

          ‘You ambushed us,’ reiterates Aemond, incredulous, ‘We would have presented you with terms, to avoid bloodshed.’

          Oh, please. You don’t believe that. ‘Fuck your terms,’ curses Visenya, waving dismissively, ‘I suppose that being twice a kinslayer would have marred the carcass of your reputation.’

          ‘I spared your life,’ he chides, vaguely baleful.

          ‘A clemency that you did not extend to my brother,’ she sneers, bilious, her nails digging into the table’s surface.

          ‘Half-brother,’ deadpans Aemond, promptly.

          ‘If you had to slay your own kin, personally, I would have picked your dear brother, the Pretender,’ proffers Visenya, honeyed.

          ‘Perhaps you should have killed him,’ he retorts, untroubled, ‘You had your chance.’

          Her family had gone to King’s Landing for the Driftmark petition, where her father had created a ghastly spectacle – publicly beheading Vaemond Velaryon for defaming her mother and her brothers. The Targaryen method of solving quarrels. Viserys himself had sat the throne, and had favored Luke as the heir to Driftmark – adhering to the Sea Snake’s wishes.

          Due to his declining health, the King had been the first to retire during the subsequent supper that they had all attended. Visenya hadn’t been surprised by his condition; she had frequented the capital, unlike her parents and her siblings. The gathering had soon turned disastrous. Jace had invited Helaena to dance with him – offending Aegon and Aemond. She is so sweet. Alicent had been evil to marry her off to that cunting demon. None of them deserve her. Visenya herself had danced with Daeron, grinning the entire time. We had once been engaged... I could have loved him. He would have been a dutiful Prince Consort and a doting father to our children. Aemond had toasted to her Velaryon brothers, referring to them as “strong.” Fighting had erupted betwixt her siblings and her uncles, and her father had intervened to break them apart.

          That evening, her family had sailed for Dragonstone, but Aemond had insisted that she stay in King’s Landing with him. Against her better judgment, Visenya had accepted. She ponders whether it had been a ploy of the Greens to take her hostage, and Aemond had simply played his part. Her grandsire had tragically expired overnight – poisoned by the Hightowers, according to her father. Visenya isn’t so certain. He hadn’t required meddling. He had been rotting for decades.

          On the morrow, the Greens had locked her in her chambers. Visenya had refused to swear obeisance to Aegon – had even spat in his face – and to bow at his false coronation. Blackwing and the Princess Rhaenys had come to her rescue – emerging from underneath the Dragonpit on Meleys. Visenya had mounted her dragon, and had addressed the crowd, her voice clear and fierce, laced with fury.

          “People of King’s Landing! The Hand and the Dowager Queen deceive you. King Viserys named my mother the Princess Rhaenyra heir to the throne. For twenty-four years, the succession remained indisputable and unchanged. Rhaenyra is the rightful and lawful Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. By crowning Aegon, the Hightowers have committed the highest of treasons and have usurped the Iron Throne, violating the King’s will. Aegon shall show you neither kindness nor wisdom. Remember today. Remember that you lived by the mercy of Rhaenys the Queen Who Should Have Been and myself. If the Hightowers do not cease in their treachery and do not bend the knee, I vow to return with fire and blood!”

          Blackwing had roared so intensely that the Conqueror’s crown had been hurled from the Pretender’s head.

          Aemond has the right of it. We could have bathed Aegon in flame, quelled their rebellion then and there.

         On Dragonstone, the news of Viserys’ death and the Hightowers’ betrayal had driven her mother into an early labor. Her father had descended into madness, determined to levy war. Their losses had continuously piled… and the Seven Kingdoms would bear the cost.

          ‘I am no kinslayer,’ snarls Visenya, slighted by the idea, tearing her gaze away from Aemond.

          ‘I made you a generous offer that would have foiled the war,’ he broaches, the grievous memory still raw for him.

          Oh, how could I have displayed such ingratitude? She wouldn’t describe his proposal to marry him and rule together as “generous.” It had been an odious humiliation. Aegon – who had not wanted the throne, declaring himself “unsuited” – would have embarked upon a ship and departed Westeros permanently. The Iron Throne is not his to relinquish. Visenya knows that Aemond has no love for his father, but asking her to usurp her mother’s throne? An audacious affront. She had vehemently spurned him, and they had traded sour words – their prides injured.

          ‘Our families would have started a war to kill us for it,’ drones Visenya, flatly, ‘And what of my parents? They would have never abided by your�� solution.’

          ‘They have no consideration for your happiness and welfare, yet you still toil in their service,’ observes Aemond, provocatively.

          ‘And you have?!’, she opposes, her fist slamming on the table, ‘You conspired to usurp the throne and slaughtered my brother, the Princess Rhaenys, and their dragons. You are in no position to launch accusations.’

          ‘Even now, you feel compelled to defend them,’ he comments, dejected.

          ‘Lucerys was my blood!’, snaps Visenya, wrathful, standing from her seat and storming up towards him – stopping a couple of feet in front of him.

          ‘As am I!’, booms Aemond, towering over her, ‘And you have never defended me half as much as you did him! He took my eye when I was but ten, and to even that the imp felt entitled, while you gladly dismissed it as an accident and moved on!’

          Outside, Blackwing and Vhagar grow agitated, shrieking and flitting their wings, stirring the wind. It seemed to Visenya that Aemond had often been harsher on her than he had been on Lucerys. He loves me… or he used to.

          ‘It was an accident,’ she maintains, tamer, ‘We were children. Our parents mishandled everything. I’ve told you numerous times that I profoundly regret what happened to you. It’s the truth. I cannot undo Luke’s actions.’

          It’s been ten years since then, and forgetting the incident has been impossible. Aemond wears the consequences of it on his face, in his daily life. Our unease at the sight of his gash is a small price to pay.

          He had delivered several blows – and had broken Luke’s nose – afore he had been overwhelmed by all five of her siblings, and Lucerys had slashed one of his eyes. Visenya’s absence from the fight had spared her from the interrogation, wherein Rhaenyra had suggested that Aemond be “sharply questioned”, Alicent Hightower had demanded Luke’s eye to compensate for Aemond’s, and Viserys had been eager to abandon his conciliatory obligation. The discord had exposed the personal feud between Rhaenyra and Alicent – their rhetoric diverting from “vile insults were levied against my sons” and “my son has lost an eye” to “duty and sacrifice are trampled under your pretty foot” and “you have been hiding beneath the cloak of your own righteousness.” The Queen had gone so far as to attack the Princess – slitting her arm with the King’s dagger.

          Visenya hadn’t spoken at all – displeasing Aemond and her siblings. To her, matters hadn’t been so absolute. Although Aemond had claimed Vhagar too soon – disrespecting Laena Velaryon’s memory – his assault and maiming had been unwarranted. I love Rhaena dearly, but Vhagar was not stolen. The dragon never belonged to her. Aemond and Vhagar chose each other. Visenya had later communicated her opinions to him, and she had reassured her sister that she would have a dragon.

          The next morning, the Targaryens and the Hightowers had exchanged false courtesies and falser apologies. Her family’s exile to Dragonstone hadn’t prevented Visenya from writing letters to Aemond, Helaena, and Daeron, or from flying on Blackwing to visit them in King’s Landing.

          Alas, the bloody seeds of strife had been sown.

          ‘No, you cannot,’ concurs Aemond, glancing at her lips, ‘No one can. That is why I sought justice for myself.’

          ‘Justice?’, echoes Visenya, disdainful, her glare piercing, ‘Had you had your other eye, you would still be as blind as you are now.’

          Aemond growls, lashing out and grabbing her roughly, their lower bodies pressing together. Visenya glowers at him defiantly, placing her hands on his breast, to preserve some distance betwixt their upper bodies. The effort shoots a jolt of pain along her arm.

          If he meant to scare her, he failed. Aemond would not harm me.

          ‘Hold your tongue, Visenya,’ he exhorts, through gritted teeth.

          ‘Or what?’, she challenges, her face inching closer to his, ‘You will have it removed? You will butcher me as you did my brother?’

          ‘You are brazen, to speak of your half-brother, of my wrongdoings and my crimes,’ berates Aemond, his jaw clenching, ‘What of your family? What of my nephew Jaehaerys?... Iā tresy syt iā tresy. Nyke gīmigon īles aōha kepa.’ (A son for a son. I know it was your father.)

          Aware of what Aemond alluded to, Visenya hesitates, her response withering on her tongue.

          After the tragedy at Storm’s End, a raven from her father had arrived at Dragonstone. An eye for an eye, a son for a son. Lucerys shall be avenged. She had deduced that Daemon had hired the assassins who had executed Prince Jaehaerys – the Usurper’s six-year-old heir – with Alicent, Helaena, and the latter’s other children as witnesses. Visenya had confronted him about his heinous deed at Harrenhal. Undaunted, her father had firmly admonished that the “pious one-eyed flea of a traitor who slobbers over you” had slain her brother.

          In retaliation for Jaehaerys, the Pretender had sent Ser Arryk Cargyll to Dragonstone, to assassinate Jace and Joffrey. The knight had entered the castle in his Kingsguard attire, disguised as his twin Ser Erryk – Queen Rhaenyra’s loyalist – whom he had encountered on his way to the royal apartments. By the conclusion of their duel, the two had mortally wounded one another.

          I owe the Hightowers nothing, least of all my sympathy. Children should not be the target of our ire. How do we differ from the Greens if we perpetrate and perpetuate the same crimes that they do?

          ‘Nyke ēdan daorun naejot gaomagon rūsīr bona,’ clarifies Visenya, sincerely, albeit faintly. (I had nothing to do with that.)

          ‘No, you are merely the spectator,’ scoffs Aemond, haughty, ‘Proudly passing judgment while others bloody their hands. You are passive. Passive in your beliefs, your guilt, your love.’

          Visenya blinks against the tears that prick her eyes, her breath hitched. His cruel and bitter words cut deeply, rooted in years of grievances, enmities, neglect, and abuse. Aemond had once been a sweet, innocent boy – her closest friend, her betrothed. He’s the product of his conditions, his upbringing, and his parents’ influence… as am I. Both confined in a prison of our parents’ sins. Perhaps we inevitably inherit the burdens of our forebears.

          Though Visenya may not be the sole reason for his resentment, she is present. Aemond hadn’t blamed her for her family’s actions. He condemned her for not loving him enough. That is unfair. I’m not culpable of that.

          A consuming poison has been dribbling inside of her, on the verge of gushing. Visenya has strayed too near to the edge – now wavering, uncertain whether she wishes to tread the line and unravel the truth. That is not why I am here...

          ... but her decision has already been established.

          The truth is important to me.

          Summoning her courage, Visenya reaches behind Aemond’s head to peel off his eyepatch, lifting the veil between them. I need to see him, so that he cannot deceive me. She tosses the item aside, neither shrinking nor averting her gaze. She caresses his face, drinking him in – his scar, the sapphire in his eye socket, the flesh that had healed crookedly. Aemond tenses, watching her intently, his respiration ragged. His grip on her slackens.

          ‘Gōntan ao ossēnagon zirȳla kesrio syt hen issa?’, murmurs Visenya, circling his wrists, impeding his retreat. (Did you kill him because of me?)

          At the Black Council, Jace and Luke had offered to act as their mother’s messengers, to acquire support for her claim. The twins had been tasked with the difficult mission – negotiating with the Eyrie, the Three Sisters, White Harbor, and Winterfell. Lady Jeyne Arryn would declare for Rhaenyra if dragonriders defended the Vale. Jace and Visenya had met with Lords Borrell and Sunderland at Sisterton, and at White Harbor, they had arranged for Joffrey to marry Lord Desmond Manderly’s youngest daughter.

          The news of Luke’s death had accosted them in the Vale. Visenya had collapsed in Jace’s arms, wailing as her twin had embraced her tightly. She had agonised over her brother’s demise every night, plagued by what she could have done to save him, weeping into a tumultuous sleep. Visenya had never listened to the rumors and the gossip. Lucerys had been her family, her brother, her blood. I fed him, bathed him, read to him, sparred with him, played with him… yet I could not protect him from Aemond.

          She possesses little knowledge of what had occurred betwixt Luke and Aemond at Storm’s End. The weather had been atrocious, her brother’s dragon too small to withstand it. In the following days, bits of Arrax’s carcass had washed up on the shore of Shipbreaker’s Bay. Luke had never been recovered. He may have died a dragonrider’s death, but he had died alone and afraid. Had his demise been slow and painful, or swift and painless? Her brother had sworn on the Seven-Pointed Star that he would not fight – merely deliver the Queen’s message. Aemond had taken no such oath. Had Visenya known, she would have held on to Luke and besought him not to go.

          If I had flown to Storm’s End in his stead, Aemond could have slain me, and my brother would still be alive.

          ‘Daor,’ whispers Aemond, at last. (No.)

          Visenya stifles a sob, tears escaping her eyes, dampening his thumbs. She foolishly believed that her grief would wane. His confession barely scrapes the surface. Visenya feels no relief, no closure. Has she been on an erroneous campaign to absolve herself of any responsibility, to alleviate her own conscience, and to forgive Aemond – chasing these ends to the detriment of Luke’s memory? If I wanted to bring justice to my brother, I would have slit his killer’s throat and let him bleed out on the ground.

          When Aemond succumbs and pulls her into him, Visenya doesn’t resist. The buckles of his tunic are cold and rough against her cheek, contrasting the warmth that he radiates. She releases the exhale that she has been withholding. Her greatest flaw rears its hideous head – a flaw that has sown division amongst her family and has rendered her an outcast. Visenya had suffered for her refusal to forsake her friendship with Aemond, enduring disapproving scowls from her parents, mean jests and malicious accusations from her siblings, and a lack of compassion – all serving to remind her of her tenuous position.

          Her proximity to Aemond had even prompted her mother to spurn her as her heir – arguing that he would undermine her as Queen. I cannot have both Aemond and the Iron Throne. I am the eldest child. By all rights, the throne should pass to me.

          Shoving those thoughts away, Visenya clutches his sides, sobs wracking her body. Aemond timidly buries his mouth in her locks, breathing in her scent.

          ‘Daor,’ he repeats, definitively, cradling the back of her head. (No.)

          The remainder of her defenses crumble. Visenya loathes that she errs, that she seeks and welcomes comfort from the man who is the source of her sorrow. With the realm plunged into war after Lucerys’ death, there has been no time to mourn – not for her grandsire Viserys, nor her sister Aemma, nor her brother Luke.

          An unavoidable war. We are Valyrian, and prone to violence. A testament to power corruption. Prior to the blood magic, the dragons, and the conquests, Valyrians had been a peaceful community of shepherds. They had become increasingly tyrannical and ambitious as their power had soared. The peak of our Freehold… and its ruin. Forewarned about the Doom by Daenys Targaryen’s prophetic dream, her forebears had fled to Dragonstone – a venture that the other, unsuspecting dragonlords had considered cowardice and had ridiculed. We had the last laugh.

          Targaryens have always been stubborn, passionate, fierce. Visenya is no exception. Despite their families’ hopes and despite his crimes, her love for Aemond hasn’t dwindled. Their bond is too strong, their souls and fates entwined. I am the blood of the dragon. Nobody dictates whom I love.

          And love is seldom simple.

          Aemond brushes his lips over her temple, causing her skin to tingle. Visenya lifts her eyes to meet his, and recognises the same ache and longing that lay dormant inside her. Affection blooms in her chest. She could stop this from flourishing, spare them both the misery. As children, they had found solace in each other’s company whenever their families had been the reason for their anguish, so they had promised to never hurt one another.

          A part of Visenya still yearns to love Aemond freely. Must her logic always be at odds with her emotions? The only man that I have ever desired, and I have been deprived of him my entire life. I have never been in control. The forbidden aspect merely furthers the appeal of the dalliance. She wants to surrender to the temptation, repercussions be damned.

          Visenya traces his mouth with her fingertips, reverently, and strokes his face – recommitting it to memory. Aemond leans into her touch, reveling in the gesture, his respiration shallow. The tips of their noses graze against each other. He wipes her tears before his digits fall on the sides of her neck, feeling her quickening pulse under the pads of his fingers. Aemond’s eye gleams with lust, igniting the same blaze within her. She peers at him from underneath her lashes, drowning in the depths of his blue eye. A shiver runs down her spine. Her lips tremble in suspense, the proximity making her dizzy.

          Aemond dips his head to capture her mouth in a tentative kiss. Visenya surges upwards to reciprocate, inhaling sharply through her nose, eyes slipping shut. Their lips mold together, their flame rekindled. His large, calloused hands grip her jaw, to guide her. She splays her hands over his chest, fisting the lapels of his coat, desperate to draw him closer. Visenya parts her lips, granting him entrance, tasting the lingering flavor of the wine that they had shared earlier. A familiar ardor seeps into her belly, immersing her body. Her fire has burned quietly for too long. Now, it has stirred again, emboldened to emerge.

          Aemond sinks his teeth into her bottom lip, splitting it and sucking the blood, famished. Visenya groans, her breath blowing the loose strands of hair that cover his forehead. Her knees weaken, and she grasps his shoulders for support, grateful that he wraps his arm around her middle. Her pelts land on the floor. Aemond steps forward, backing her into the table, and hoists her on it impetuously.

          Aemond kindly adjusts his belt, to remove the dagger betwixt them. The irony isn’t lost on Visenya. She spreads her legs, inviting, allowing him to settle between them. He sprawls over her, caging her in, his heavy weight almost crushing her against the table’s rigid, uncomfortable surface. His silky hair cascades around her head, framing his face, conferring a strange sense of privacy. Visenya peppers delicate pecks over his chin, continuing along his jaw, her digits prodding at his smooth neck.

          She fervidly awaits a kiss that never comes. Aemond hums affably, his arrogant smile shooting to her core. Their breaths mingle, his hands traveling up and down her sides with modest curiosity. Visenya huffs in exasperation, and shifts, ticklish, the heels of her feet digging into his ass. Her thumb catches his lower lip, pressing into it. Aemond holds her gaze, parting his lips enough to engulf her thumb. He swirls his tongue over it afore sucking on it gently. She watches him, captivated, her mouth slightly agape.

          The knot in her belly snaps, her patience having thinned, ousted by resolve. She pushes him off, so she can sit up, impelling him to stand. Aemond obliges without objection. Visenya hooks her fingers in his belt, to bring him nearer, and deftly unbuttons his tunic, revealing his bare chest – inch by inch. She drinks in the sight, caressing his glistening skin. The intolerable heat induces sweat to drip betwixt her breasts and to trickle down her spine.

          She leans in, only for Aemond to jerk his head away and deny her another kiss – the tip of her nose bumping against his cheek. He smirks, conceited, despite his ruddy complexion. Visenya gnashes her teeth, intent on retribution. Straightening her body, and looping her uninjured arm around Aemond, she licks his earlobe and bites it softly, eliciting a growl from him. He squeezes her hips in silent warning, and sneaks a hand under her shirt, to fondle her breast and pinch her nipple until it stiffens. Visenya moans, hushed, her head lolling back into her shoulders.

          Aemond rests his free hand on the base of her throat, his digits winding around it, lips latching onto her exposed neck. Visenya suppresses her whine, the air deserting her lungs. He incessantly strokes her bosom, his teeth abusing the sensitive skin of her neck. She drops her arms – mindful of her wounds – one hand surrounding his wrist, her other fumbling, blindly cupping his hardened member through his breeches. A salacious grunt rolls out of Aemond’s mouth, filling the tent.

          His fingers release her throat to tangle in her tresses, and yank, his hips grinding against hers, creating friction. He withdraws his lips from her, and tugs her hand away, his other hand raking down her abdomen. Her chuckle turns into a gasp as Aemond languidly rubs the wet area between her legs, his breath fanning her face. Visenya relishes in the waves of pleasure enveloping her body, her spine arching, though her soaking cunt clenches around nothing. She heaves her thighs higher, hugging his waist – lest he dare pull away from her.

          A metal item pokes at her thigh.

          My brooch.

          Visenya peels her eyes away from him, scrambling to salvage her composure. Aemond ceases his ministrations. He raises her chin with his thumb and forefinger, coaxing her to look at him. Her heart stutters, her vision bleary beneath his suffocating leer. The clouds in his eye have cleared… or he conceals them well. Their lips crash in a frantic kiss – her veins aflame, scalding. He swallows her wanton moan, kneading the flesh of her ass. Aemond cannot fool me. A constant tempest festers within him, ravenous for blood and revenge. Visenya would never be able to tame it. Nothing would.

          Numbing remorse smothers her fire. She had forgotten herself and her loyalties. She breaks the kiss, tasting ashes on her tongue. His mouth chases hers, his hand curling around the nape of her neck, to reunite their lips. Aemond bends her back, cradling her against him – the pressure on her shoulder tearing a whimper from her. He lays a tender, apologetic kiss there. Her digits slide into his locks, thwarting him. Visenya stares at the shadows dancing across the ceiling of the pavilion – Aemond’s head pillowed on her breasts.

          What am I doing? Where am I going? With him? Distant limbs envelop her, lips ghosting over her skin. He licks a stripe up the column of her throat and nips at it, nuzzling his nose against her neck. I would never betray my family. I cannot have both Aemond and the Iron Throne. The dream is over. Bury it, and crawl out of this bottomless pit of vipers.

          He has been stretching seconds into minutes, delaying the inevitable, but he cannot stop it. The die has been cast.

          ‘Aemond, wait,’ pants Visenya, her own voice foreign to her, her nails clawing at his back, ‘We cannot. I am–’

          ‘Betrothed?’, deadpans Aemond, cocking his head to peek at her, crimson lips swollen, hair and clothes disheveled, ‘I’m aware. Your half-brother told me, at Storm’s End.’

          Her heart leaps into her throat, yet Visenya falters, preferring to disregard his comment and its implications. If Aemond and Lucerys had exchanged insults – and her brother had mentioned her betrothal – it might have incited the former to attack the latter. A door best left shut.

          ‘Lord Stark is a good man–’

          ‘Have you sunk so low?’, criticises Aemond, reproach etched on his features, ‘You are a Targaryen princess, the blood of Old Valyria. Dragons do not mate with other beasts, and we do not consort with lesser men.’

          Visenya blinks in incredulity, scanning his face for any indication of pretense. He has been collecting dangerous beliefs. Undoubtedly the result of Ser Crispin’s and Alicent Hightower’s influence. King Viserys had been too neglectful to bear any blame in that respect. He’s overly culpable in innumerable other matters.

          ‘If I have sunk low, I do not wish to imagine what hell you wander in,’ she retorts, dour, shoving him away, her lower back pressing against the edge of the table, ‘I do not require lessons on our heritage. Valyria is gone. I do not adhere to the Doctrine of Exceptionalism, nor do I delude myself about our superiority. According to this logic, your Westerosi mother is lesser. Everybody has their history and their pride. The Starks are the blood of the First Men, descendants of Bran the Builder. Cregan is my equal, and I will not bring him dishonor. You once said something similar to me, when we were younger.’

          Visenya purposely omitted that Cregan would have taken additional offence if Aemond – a usurper and a kinslayer – had been her choice of paramour. Following the annulment of her betrothment to Aemond, she had snuck into his bedchamber, and had urged him to claim her maidenhood. It would have compelled our parents to marry us to each other. He had adamantly refused, reiterating that he would dishonor her by doing so. Visenya wonders whether his consent would have changed the tide, whether he rues his decision now… were he capable of it.

          ‘I remember,’ mutters Aemond, cupping her cheeks, brushing his nose against hers, ‘Yn īlon issi daor riñar dombo.’ (But we are not children anymore.)

          ‘No, we are not,’ she assents, doleful, undeterred by his lingering lips on her forehead, ‘I am a woman grown, my mother’s daughter, and I vowed to marry Cregan. My word is not fickle. A foreign concept to you and your family.’

          She had suggested the match herself, on Dragonstone, prior to hers and her brothers’ departure. Supposing that the Queen’s appeal failed to persuade Lord Stark to pledge the North to their cause, Visenya would offer her hand in marriage.

          The memory of beholding Cregan for the first time still exhilarates her. She had been climbing down from Blackwing while Jace had approached Lord Stark, to greet him. Cloaked in furs, he had been an imperious presence – tall, brawny, handsome, graced with grey eyes, dark, wavy locks that cascaded to his shoulders, and a dense beard. His gaze had frequently drifted towards her. Jace had suavely introduced her, and Cregan had curtsied, addressing her as “princess.” Visenya had answered with “my lord” – her smile timid, her eyes wicked.

          The harsh weather hadn’t spoiled the northern capital’s beauty, magnificent structures, and rich culture. The twins had received a warm welcome at Winterfell, amidst the winter preparations, and Lord Stark had been a most hospitable host, entertaining his guests with drinking, sparring, and hunting trips in the wolfswood. Visenya had mingled with the commonfolk, conversing with them, helping them with their errands, and teaching their children how to read and write. Cregan had often watched her, fondly, from afar. Some servants had been intimidated by her appearance and her station, stammering through their responses. She had instructed them to simply call her “Visenya.”

          Whenever his duties had permitted, Cregan had accompanied her on walks around the castle, to the library, the ancient godswood and its hot springs, and the disturbing crypt that had contained the tombs of the deceased members of House Stark. His direwolf Fang had ambled after them everywhere. They had discussed history, politics, trade, and their families, and had comforted one another in their grief, as Cregan’s wife had recently perished in childbirth. He had even confessed that Jace had reminded him of the brother that he had lost more than a decade ago. She had met his sweet babe Rickon, whom she had doted on. Cregan had bestowed upon Blackwing the highest distinction, deeming her a “formidable beast” – with his habitual morose disposition. Visenya had become besotted with him, regarding him as virtuous, conscientious, tenacious, and reputable.

          By the end of the twins’ stay in Winterfell, the Pact of Ice and Fire had been formed, whereby Visenya would wed Lord Stark, and the North would side with Queen Rhaenyra. He had forged a direwolf brooch for her, and she had gifted him one of her rings, to wear it as a necklace. Cregan and Jace had sworn an oath of brotherhood, sealed in blood.

          ‘You sold yourself to a wolf pup so that you may rally his army to your mother’s cause, and you boast about honor,’ accuses Aemond, scornful, satisfied that he discerns her imagined act, ‘Twas a different kind of sword that you required.’

          Sold myself? Visenya’s mouth twists downwards, her latent, crude contempt quivering. Blackwing rattles her shackles, screeching viscerally. He views me as property. I paid my price in kindness and youthful promises, so I am constrained into being his property. I have no freedom, no intuition, no capacity for judgment. I am a frail puppet dancing on my family’s strings, dependent on Aemond to rescue me. He would rather I were a fly in his web. What sort of person expects me to fulfil the vows that I uttered as a child?

          ‘Cregan would have honored his late father’s word,’ she contends, smoothing her garments, heedless of Aemond’s eye roaming over her body, ‘Lord Rickon Stark swore an oath in the throne hall, and acknowledged my mother as King Viserys’ heir. All of the Westerosi lords did, great and small.’

          Upon his lord father’s death, Cregan had inherited Winterfell at the age of thirteen, so his uncle Bennard had ruled as regent until his nephew had reached manhood. Bennard’s reluctance to relinquish power had spurred Cregan to imprison him and his three sons. Akin to Queen Rhaenyra’s plight, his kinsman had attempted to supplant him. Lady Jeyne Arryn – Queen Aemma’s cousin – had thrice endured uprisings that had contested her inheritance of the Eyrie.

          A hereditary curse. A woman’s curse. In this world of men, we women must band together.

          ‘Over twenty years have passed since then,’ specifies Aemond, shrugging blithely, ‘Most of those lords are dead, including the wolf pup’s father. Bones are all that is left of them and their vows.’

          Pup. A peculiar term to use for Cregan – a man older than they are. Aemond’s vanity confirms that, to the Greens, King Viserys’ succession amounts to nothing. Their cause is false – founded on quicksand, conspiracy, and murder – and they bury themselves deeper and deeper into an abyss of lies and treachery.

          ‘They represented their Houses and spoke on their behalf,’ corrects Visenya, her shoulders slumping from the sheer absurdity of having to explain this, ‘Enlighten me, nuncle. How does your situation differ from mine? Are you not betrothed to one of Borros Baratheon’s daughters for her father’s troops? Or is it all four daughters? I have heard varied accounts.’

          The illiterate Lord of Storm’s End – another traitor responsible for Luke’s demise. Her brother Joffrey had sworn a terrible oath of vengeance against him and the Kinslayer. The Velaryons had prevented Joff from instantly mounting his dragon Tyraxes to exact revenge. Would I have done the same? He is merely a boy, too young to know such hatred and grief. He and Rhaena are in the Vale, out of harm’s way. Willful Baela remains on Dragonstone, to fight by Jace’s side. Aegon and Viserys, the youngest, are with them. We must ensure their safety, else the war will strip them of their innocence… and their lives.

          Dragonstone, Harrenhal, Winterfell, the Vale, King’s Landing, Stoney Sept… My family is divided. If only I could protect them all…

          ‘I did what was asked of me,’ defends Aemond, forlorn, resting their foreheads together, ‘I never intended to wed her.’ He adds, his words scattered among hasty, consecutive kisses, ‘We have always agreed that we would marry one another. I have neither forgotten, nor forsaken that. I want you.’

          ‘I thought that we were not children anymore,’ she echoes, shrewd, bending to retrieve her discarded pelts, ‘Our parents annulled our betrothal years ago. You would have us marry without your mother’s blessing? I value my well-being, even if you do not.’

          ‘You are mistaken,’ coos Aemond, holding her hand to his mouth, kissing her knuckles, her palm, her inner wrist, ‘It’s not too late. There’s still a chance for us.’

          Visenya had once shared that sentiment. He lives in the past, clinging to it, misconstruing it. Matters betwixt them would never be the same – a truth that he hasn’t accepted. I would have waited for him... Aemond had usurped the throne and had slain her brother. Now, he hopes to abuse her clemency. What stops him from mistreating her, from hurting her? Why must I always be patient and compassionate? Why must I always forgive and forget? What will I gain from it? Aemond? It’s not enough. His redemption is a prolonged, tedious endeavor that she will not partake in.

          I’m severing my noose.

          ‘A chance?’, snarls Visenya, in conjunction with Blackwing’s shrieks, ‘Is that what you offered my brother when you unleashed Vhagar on him?’ She folds her arms over her chest, her furs caught between them. ‘You have already spilled my blood. I will not present you with a chance to do it again. Aye, I once wanted to marry you. A summer dream of summer children. Winter is coming.’

          Ripping the cord that binds her to Aemond will be excruciating, like slashing a part of herself. He is the thorn lodged in her side, her twin flame, his scent and touch imprinted on her, haunting her asleep and haunting her awake. The only power I wield over him is denying him myself.

          ‘You have returned to threats,’ chides Aemond, buttoning his tunic, visibly irritated by her usage of the House Stark words, ‘Parroting words that are not your own, chirruping tales that others have stuffed your head with, like a little bird.’

          ‘‘Tis not a threat, beloved,’ purrs Visenya, woven with venom, savoring his indignation, ‘It is a fact. The maesters of the Citadel will release the white ravens soon, to announce its arrival.’

          She had witnessed the foreboding signs with her own eyes, at Winterfell – the resplendent snow, the howling winds, the bitter cold. Winter is upon us… and we are vying for the throne.

          ‘‘Tis also a fact that your wolf pup has a wolf pup of his own,’ jeers Aemond, donning his eyepatch, ‘A son whom he fathered on another wench. A son who will inherit Winterfell and all of its attendant lands, titles, and incomes. A vile indignity, a humiliation, to you and your brood. You would submit to a puny northern savage, as his second wife?’

          Puny northern savage? Innovative.

          “Our children will sit the Iron Throne,” Visenya had told Cregan in the godswood, with the snow floating around them, piling in thick layers on the ground, the trees, and the castle walls. I kissed the snowflakes on his lashes, and they melted on my lips. Her heart flutters at the memory. My sullen wolf. She longs for him more than she can express.

          Would that appease Aemond? Nothing would. He has become spiteful. “Wench.” Lady Arra of House Norrey had been Cregan’s late wife and cherished childhood companion. She had dismally died birthing Rickon. I will not debate Cregan’s family with Aemond, a jealous craven threatened by suckling babes.

          ‘Rickon is an innocent babe,’ reasons Visenya, hugging herself, suddenly feeling naked without her armor, ‘Aye, he is the heir to Winterfell, and no threat to me. I will not set my children against their brother, nor will I encourage them to steal his birthright. I am not your mother.’

          And, oh, how you despise that…

          ‘I suppose that you will be no threat to him, either, should you die in childbirth,’ ventures Aemond, elated at the notion, his eye shimmering in the light of the flames, ‘And your wolf pup would be twice widowed.’

          Visenya lashes out, striking him so viciously across the face that his head whips to the side. Blackwing’s mighty roars rumble outside. Aemond doesn’t even blench.

          She had never hit him before. If he is startled or enraged by the assault, he masks it – devoid of any emotion. Visenya quashes the temptation to shout at him, to call him a dog, a pig, a rat. He is beneath these creatures. He has no conscience, and his cruelty is boundless. Her grandmother Queen Aemma and her aunt Laena had both expired in childbed. Her sister had been stillborn. What does Aemond know about the perils and throes of women? Nothing.

          I could flee, go anywhere but here... Her flesh crawls. I’m his captive in so many ways. Briny tears well in her eyes.

          Tears cannot quench dragonfire.

          ‘Do you love the wolf pup?’, challenges Aemond, his demeanor impassable, though she distinguishes a crack in his frigid tone.

          And if I do? You would flay him alive, and force me to watch. The question of Visenya’s suitors continues to be intricate and contentious. The Disputed Lands of Westeros. She had been engaged to Aegon, to Aemond, and to Daeron, and had been courted by Westerosi Houses, Essosi princes, triarchs, archons, nobles, magisters, merchants, and generals. The Red Kraken would have made me his salt wife. Visenya had rejected all of them. Adulterers and drunkards old enough to be my grandsires and fat enough to crush me beneath them.

          Rhaenyra had been sympathetic to her daughter’s predicament; she herself had initially opposed marriage. My mother had been younger than I am when she had birthed me and Jace. Visenya shudders at the thought. Her father hadn’t been concerned, confiding that she could wed out of duty and fuck whomever she pleased. Men always do so. Why shouldn’t I? Her twin had convinced her that she would find a suitable pair, to her liking. Jace had the right of it. I chose Cregan, and he chose me. She touches her brooch through her trousers. I’m assuming control of my life and my future.

          ‘I will,’ declares Visenya, seething, jutting her chin, ‘He is neither a usurper, nor a kinslayer. Cregan is worth a thousand of you, and more.’

          ‘Yet you delay marrying him, and the wolf pup delays assembling his banners and marching,’ admonishes Aemond, his reddened cheek beginning to swell, ‘Perhaps you are not as devoted to each other as you think you are.’

          A surrounded animal, slinging its final, pitiful blows. Her wolf’s motives for not marching had been warranted. He awaits the collection of the harvest, so that he can feed his subjects throughout the winter. The Southrons seal themselves in their castles with their bountiful harvests, whereas the Northerners bear the brunt of the burden – snow, frost, famine, death. Cregan’s obligations lie with his people and his lands.

          As for herself, Visenya prefers to marry him during peace and stability. He could mourn his wife properly, and he would not be widowed again, if I were to… to…

          ‘His Winter Wolves are at the Twins,’ she states, noting Aemond’s mouth twitching, ‘They have joined their forces with the Freys’, and will resume their advance south. They are merely a fraction of the North’s strength. I assure you. Cregan will honor his vow.’

          She had wept upon reading Lord Roderick Dustin’s words to Lady Sabitha Frey. We have come to die for the dragon queen. Cregan had taught Visenya about the Winter Wolves – elderly men who leave their homes in order to conserve supplies for their kin. Grisly custom. Those warriors hope to die for glory and plunder. They will never reunite with their families. Wretched conditions, wretched measures.

          Aemond must have observed a spark in her eyes, heard something amiss in her voice that aroused his suspicion.

          ‘What have you done, Visenya?’, he demands, narrowing his eye, fixing her with a hawkish glare.

          I fucked the wolf pup. And Alyn Velaryon… Not both at the same time. She had befriended Alyn and his older brother Addam shortly after hers and Jace’s return from Winterfell. Her twin had summoned Targaryen bastards – “dragonseeds” – for the riderless dragons, promising wealth, lands, and knighthood for those triumphant. Addam’s feat of claiming Seasmoke had emboldened the Sea Snake to petition Queen Rhaenyra to legitimise the Hull boys. Conveniently, their mother Marilda had revealed that they had been sired by Ser Laenor Velaryon. And Mushroom is seven feet tall. My stepfather had no interest in women. Lord Corlys had proceeded to name Addam his heir.

          Alyn, however, had been less fortunate. Sheepstealer had bathed his cloak in flames. His brother had doused the fire, saving his life. At least Grey Ghost had vanished. Those had been wild dragons. Alyn is lucky to be alive. Grand Maester Gerardys had tended his burns, and Visenya had changed his bandages thrice a day – delighting in his insolence. The habit had blossomed into clumsy intimacy. She had seldom stayed the night – a decision that hadn’t troubled Alyn. He never judged me. Visenya misses him; his jests, his smile, his company.

          A furious Jace had reprimanded his twin for her recklessness and temerity, arguing that Cregan was a good man, a second chance – everything that she had ever dreamed of. Her involvement with Alyn could compromise their indispensable alliance with the North. Visenya had listened to his warning, remorse slithering around her throat.

          I have been remiss… but Alyn is only a matter of brevity. I have to tread prudently.

          ‘I do as I please,’ she asserts, the ghost of a smirk tugging at her lips, ‘Do not fret, cousin. Cregan treated me well and was most gentle with me… the first time.’

          Her admission slices him to the bone. Aemond’s expression sinks, desolation flooding his eye. A child looks at her, into her, agony engraved on his features. Have I been too austere? Spoken too harshly? He had betrayed her trust, had usurped the throne, and had murdered her brother. My sins pale in comparison.

          Aemond recoils, turning away from her, his head lowered. His fists clench at his sides. The table behind her shakes at Vhagar’s menacing growl. Visenya maintains her composure, sheathing herself in steel. I will not cow. I am the blood of the dragon.

          And I will not regret Cregan.

          While she hadn’t lacked for suitors, those men had sought to marry her out of pride and ambition. My Targaryen heritage brings their House closer to the Iron Throne, and my dragon is power.

          She had proposed to Cregan that she would willingly surrender her maidenhood to him, as a token of her intention to wed him. Fighting a war a maiden seems particularly dreadful. Should anything befall her, Cregan wouldn’t feel cheated or insulted – he would have claimed her gift of innocence.

          I lost my innocence long ago.

          Visenya hadn’t abused her station to compel him to lie with her. She wouldn’t have been offended if he hadn’t desired her.

          “I would be,” her wolf had responded, earning a chuckle from her.

          Two nights – and numerous fiery kisses – later, he had accepted her offer. A timorous ardor had washed over Visenya, her heart hammering against her rib cage. Cregan had led her out of the godswood, past the hot springs, the main iron gate with its walls, across the inner yards, into the castle, and up the winding stairs – retreating to his solar, where they had shared half a flagon of wine. He had kindly asked her if she had been nervous.

          No. I am a Targaryen princess, a dragonrider… and the wine soothed my nerves.

          Their intimate moments had been sweet, passionate, exhilarating. Visenya remembers them so vividly. His large hands cupping her face, disrobing her with deft precision, caressing and fondling every inch of her. His darkened eyes reveling in her figure. Cregan lifting her into his arms as though she weighed nothing, laying her down on the bed. His tongue licking her stiffened nipples, his mouth sucking on her plump breasts. Her fist stroking his leaking cock, guiding him into her heat slowly. Cregan swallowing her soft whine when entering her, the stretch burning deliciously. The overwhelming need to hold him nearer. Wrapping her limbs around him as he vigorously thrust into her, the featherbed engulfing her. The chambers brimming with their moans, gasps, and the lascivious sounds of sweaty skin slapping against sweaty skin. Cregan intertwining their fingers, Cregan driving her to the heights of pleasure, Cregan spilling his seed inside her, blending with her maiden’s blood.

          Slick pools between her legs, and Visenya squeezes her thighs shut, salivating at the memory.

          He had collapsed on top of her, and – at her insistence – had lied there, panting, his face buried in her neck, his beard tickling her. An equally breathless Visenya had threaded her digits through his damp hair, pecking his cheek and his temple. Cregan had rolled off of her, grunting at the effort, and had pulled her into him, allowing her to rest her head on his chest, and to hook her leg over his. Her wolf had attentively inquired whether he had hurt her.

          “Not at all,” she had murmured, demure, draping her arm over him, their combined fluids trickling on her groin, “You have been so good to me.”

          Visenya had drifted off to sleep in his safe embrace, lulled by his heartbeat and his snores. His body had been a hearth underneath the pelts. I am the blood of the dragon, allured by warmth and fire.

          She and Cregan had spent most evenings together – to the dismay of his bed. Days had been dedicated to duties, negotiations, and furtive glances, nights for themselves and for each other; for raw lust, hushed laughter, and the solace that they had been starved of; for their satiation and contentment. Her loins had often ached by the next morning. A good ache.

          Cregan had even taken her in the godswood, under a starry sky, before the heart tree, following their sword sparring. Afterwards, he had suggested that they retire to his solar.

          ‘To sleep?’, questioned Visenya, coyly, tangling their feet together.

          ‘If that is what the princess wants,’ granted her wolf, amiably.

          ‘The princess wants you,’ she mumbled, nestling against him, their clothes and furs providing scant shelter from the cold.

          ‘She has me,’ vouched Cregan, carding his fingers through her locks, ‘All of me.’

          Oh, yes. He has had me in the sight of the old gods, and I have bled for him. Targaryens have always had a grievously deep connection to blood. It’s one of our House’s words. Our forebears used blood magic to bind the winged beasts to them. We cut ourselves and drink each other’s blood during our nuptials. We practice incest to ensure the purity of our bloodline. The blood of Old Valyria, the blood of the dragon. Blood unites, and blood divides.

          Their stealthy meetings might not have been shrouded in such secrecy. Jace had dared to tease Visenya about the marks that he had glimpsed on her throat. She had thrown a snowball at him, hitting him in the nose.

          ‘Locking myself in a castle is more appealing than waging war against my own kin,’ admitted Visenya, in an instance of fragility, atop one of Winterfell’s towers.

          ‘You’re not destined to hide in a castle,’ proponed Cregan, petting Fang, basking in the sun – reminiscent of their early mornings abed. I would trace the lines of his back, the scars on his chest, admire his naked form as he opened the shutters… ‘Your hair is akin to the snow around us, your eyes the color of the sunset sky. Why would nature make you so lovely, if not to behold you and to reflect on you? The sun must see you to shine, the moon to glow.’

          Visenya tore her gaze away from him, misty-eyed.

          Her Valyrian appearance had protected her from japes about being a Strong bastard. Is that term so preposterous? My parents hadn’t been married at my birth. I had borne the name Velaryon for a decade. People had viewed her as a Myrish carpet – to be gaped at – and had treated her like a stud-mare, to be bought, owned, and mounted to produce sons – her beauty a mere instrument to that end. Devious motives behind hollow adulation.

          ‘You are gracious, my lord,’ rasped Visenya, flustered, the gossip of the commonfolk below muffling her answer slightly, ‘I am flattered.’

          ‘I have spoken the truth,’ affirmed Cregan, tipping her chin up, coaxing her to peer at him, ‘You are meant to be kissed.’

          ‘By you,’ she assented, his gloved digits wiping her tears, delicately.

          On the day of the dragon twins’ departure from Winterfell, Vermax and Blackwing had been impatient to leave the North and its freezing temperatures. Visenya hadn’t shared their zeal. I’m not a little girl anymore. The winds of winter are rising. There is a war to be fought and won.

          “Come back to me,” her wolf whispered to her, their joined hands concealed in their cloaks and pelts.

          I will.

          Aemond’s subtle movements wrest her to the present.

          We’re at war with the Greens. I’m a prisoner at Stoney Sept, in the Pretender’s camp. My Cregan is leagues away.

          I must not forget my mission.

          Aemond’s insidious posture betrays him, his shoulders on the brink of crumbling under the burden of his pride and envy.

          ‘A dragon rendered a broodmare by a wolf pup,’ he chastises, repulsed, his features drawn into solemn lines, ‘Have you spread your legs for his army, too? I wouldn’t be surprised, given your taste for depravity.’

          Visenya refrains from guffawing, albeit with great difficulty. Oh, may the Crone’s lantern light my path to wisdom, and may the Father judge me justly, and may the Mother show me mercy, for I am a filthy wanton, and Lord Stark does possess a generous… host.

          ‘I would rather be his broodmare than be your wife,’ she spits, defiant, baring her teeth, ‘The wolf pup is Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North.’ And you are insufferably obtuse. ‘He and his bannermen will liberate me, should the Winter Wolves and the river lords fail to do so, and should you yourself refuse to release me. Are you so mad that you would oppose the might and wrath of the entire North?

          ‘I have heard enough about your wolf pup,’ announces Aemond, his nostrils flaring, ‘He has dishonored you. Perhaps I ought to march on his bleak castle, after I seize Harrenhal.’

          You ought to dress up in motley. Visenya shifts her weight from one foot to the other, her brow creased. The Hightowers must have abandoned their wits putting him in charge. Aemond is utterly inept. Their Lannister friends will find trouble at the Red Fork, and he will never take Harrenhal from my father.

          ‘Your men are unlikely to survive the muds of the riverlands, whose lords have unanimously declared for my mother,’ argues Visenya, twirling a lock of her hair around her forefinger, ‘I doubt that they will endure the hostile conditions in the North… also pledged to Queen Rhaenyra.’

          ‘I have Vhagar,’ reminds Aemond, his arrogance oozing like pus.

          ‘And what of it?’, she hisses, squinting her eyes, ‘You would torch the North, from the Neck to the Wall, on hoary, old Vhagar? Tens of thousands would perish.’

          Despite rivaling the combined size of the other kingdoms, the North is scarcely populated. Their lives, lands, history, and culture matter all the same.

          ‘Your wolf pup amongst them, if the gods are good,’ drones Aemond, looping his digits through his belt.

          ‘Cregan will die of old age, in my arms,’ corrects Visenya, keeping her furled fists at her sides, lest she strike him again, ‘You cannot vanquish the North. It is too vast and too wild. The Neck is impenetrable, filled with swamps and bogs. Moat Cailin is a choke point, and it has shielded the North from southron invasions for millennia. This is folly, Aemond. It will be your doom.’

          Then why am I trying to dissuade him?

          ‘Or on the contrary, the glory will be mine,’ boasts Aemond, his permanent smirk bolstering his confidence, ‘Those savages might dare to resist me, but in the end, they will pose a minor obstacle. Aegon the Conqueror brought the North to its knees.’

          ‘Because King Torrhen Stark bent the knee after the Field of Fire, to avoid bloodshed,’ objects Visenya, scowling, ‘Do not attempt to revise history. Ours will not redeem you. The kinslayer is accursed in the eyes of gods and men. The lickspittles that buzz around you will never be sincere, so I will bestow the truth upon you. You are cruel, despicable, and you nurse a grievance like a suckling babe. You are not Aegon the Conqueror. You are a prideful fool playing at war.’ You’re not good at it, either. ‘And winter is coming. That is the truth.’

          ‘The truth?’, repeats Aemond, creeping up on her, his eye boring into hers – a predator scenting its prey, ‘What do you know of the truth, Visenya? You lie and deceive and plot with every breath that you draw. You are a traitor to the realm, daughter of traitors, sister of traitors. You chose the Iron Throne over me.’

          You chose for me.

          ‘My mother is the rightful Queen of the Seven Kingdoms,’ she pronounces, her smile ominous, ‘The only traitor here is you, nuncle. You cower from the truth, and you retain it from everyone.’ Visenya tiptoes, and their lips almost touch. ‘You are looking with the wrong eye. Perhaps you will have to close the other to finally see.’

          Aemond cups her face roughly, pressing her against the table.

          ‘Your mother will never sit the Iron Throne,’ he sneers, ‘And neither will you. She still spurns you as her heir, but I vow to pay you the homage that you so desperately crave, and to lavish you with precious gifts – the heads of your family, your betrothed, and your stepson. They shall decorate the spikes of the Red Keep–’

          Visenya swiftly yanks his dagger from his belt. Aemond seizes her wrist too late. The tip of the blade digs at the underside of his chin.

          ‘Enough, Aemond!’, bellows Visenya, and for a moment, she is her ferocious Blackwing incarnate, ‘Are you deaf, as well as blind? You have usurped the throne, murdered my brother, and butchered hundreds of innocents. Your actions have consequences. Heed my words, for the love that you claim to bear me.’ She drags the point of the dirk down to the base of his throat, nicking him. ‘You will not make me an orphan and a widow. You are surrounded by enemies in every direction, and more are gathering as we speak. We have the armies, the fleet, the dragons, and most importantly, the legitimacy. An advantage that you will never have. So, either kill me or let me go, and flee to Essos, because you cannot – you will not – survive what’s coming for you. The choice is yours.’

          Aemond’s malicious eye studies her, a forlorn wall of blue ice.

          The boy I grew up with is gone. Hasn’t Visenya sensed it all along? We are not children anymore. The time has come to accept it.

          When has it all gone so awry, become so twisted? She mourns the boy that she had once shared everything with – a childhood, hopes, dreams. Those died with Lucerys.

          Dreams didn’t make us kings. Dragons did… and tears cannot quench dragonfire.

          It ends as it began, with fire and blood.

          Bloodlines will burn.

          Visenya licks the blood off of the tip of the dagger, spins the weapon, and presents it to Aemond, hilt first.

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[mariacallous]

A nondescript suite of rooms in an office building in central Oslo hosts activity of the kind one would normally associate with a military headquarters or the CIA. In the central situation room, a monitor displays activity across the world’s oceans, while analysts at neighboring desks update this information around the clock. But this is not an intelligence agency  — it’s DNK, a Norwegian insurer of maritime war risk.

Today, intelligence is no longer just the domain of government agencies — or, rather, it shouldn’t be. Companies are now far more likely to be harmed by geopolitically linked events than ever before outside of full-scale wars. Thus, they need to keep a constant eye on the world. And if they do, they’re likely to see things that would be equally useful for their governments to know. 

DNK (a partner of the Atlantic Council’s Maritime Threats initiative, which I lead) has long insured merchant vessels against serious risks, and in today’s geopolitical climate, such risks are growing — fast. That means the company needs to know precisely what’s taking place in every corner of the maritime world, at all times.

“Intelligence are knowledge-based forecasts derived from verified data tailored to support decision-making. That’s different from what you get in the news,” said Freddy Furulund, who directs the Intelligence and Operations Center.

“To be able to provide such forecasts, you need to not only describe precisely what has happened, but you also need to contextualize it and describe its consequences for future voyages for the shipowner. We get data pointing in different directions, verify it, contextualize it and, most importantly, assess where it points to.” 

Some of this data comes from open sources, some from satellites and other technical means, and some from human sources. All of it is collected legally, and it all helps shipowners decide where to send their ships. “Intelligence providers are often seen as the bringer of bad news,” Furulund observed. “We inform our clients about how dangerous situations are in the days to come, but we also tell them about opportunities,” which can include things like minor changes to a ship’s route or placing armed guards on board.

Staffed by ex-military and intelligence professionals, the Intelligence and Operations Center has been operating since 2016, but intensifying political tensions over the past couple years have made it positively indispensable for both DNK and its clients. “Historically, the war risks insurance market argued that war risks would strike the insureds at random — which meant that loss-prevention activities, such as analysis of threat actors’ intentions and capabilities, weren’t pursued,” explained Svein Ringbakken, DNK’s managing director. But that’s changed dramatically.’

It’s not just that the Houthis are systematically targeting ships linked to Western countries; they also have far better weaponry than pirates ever did — and similar militias could start attacking merchant vessels elsewhere too. Indeed, some countries around the world appear to have decided to disregard global maritime rules altogether. And that makes it imperative for shipowners and insurers — not to mention crews — to understand where misfortune may strike from.

Meanwhile, foreign government officials visiting Norway often schedule a stop at DNK to see the center at work, and Furulund’s team regularly shares information with Western governments. “When we see something that poses an imminent threat to someone, we share that with not only the shipowner but also with the government — if it’s the government of Norway or a friendly country — or with whoever needs to be alerted,” he said. “It’s the ethical thing to do.”

Essentially, if Western countries are to withstand the aggression waged by various rivals and their proxies, sharing insights from the front line is the only way forward. And for Western countries today, it’s businesses rather than soldiers that are on the daily front line. (Should a war break out that would clearly change — but businesses will still face massive geopolitical risks.)

Not every company can operate its own intelligence center, of course, but more and more companies are now discovering they ought to collect threat information more systematically. Businesses simply need to do their best to discern what geopolitically linked risks may face them, not just in the Red Sea but in the Taiwan Strait, the South China Sea, the Baltic Sea, along the Cape of Good Hope route and other waters too — not to mention on land.

The Houthis recently resumed their campaign against Western shipping in the Red Sea after a couple weeks’ silence. Meanwhile, China’s maritime harassment of civilian vessels in the South China Sea continues. Is Beijing likely to expand its punishment of Western companies as proxies for their home countries? Will nations increasingly close to Russia and China try to harm Western companies operating in their countries? Western companies and governments need to know the answers to these questions — or at least gather enough information to make qualified assessments.

As many Western companies operate in places Western governments don’t, they should then share their insights with their home governments and other friendly states. And governments should return the favor.

We may not be able to clearly predict the acts of hostile states and groups with complete certainty, but making qualified assessments is far superior to sailing into uncharted waters. And that’s why we need a whole-of-society approach to intelligence too.

[askvectorprime]

Has any transformer ever become President of the United States? Some of them WERE technically born in the US

Dear Presidentially Persistent,

In one universe, it was Laser Cycle who made history by becoming the first Cybertronian ever to run for president. Like most Cybertronians of the era, she was born on Earth, part of the “second generation” of post-war Cybertronians constructed through a fusion of Human, Nebulan, and Cybertronian technology. And like many other Cybertronians on the East Coast, she owed her existence to the Powell Motorworks Quantum Laboratories Cyberfactory in Pittsburgh, the third-largest facility of its kind in the nation. When a wave of factionalism threatened to rekindle the Great War on Terran soil, she was one of the many Transformers who chose to side with the Autobots.

With the end of the Machine Wars and the ratification of the Pax Cybertronia in the year 2013, Earth and Cybertron prepared to enter an unprecedented era of peace, prosperity, and alliance-building. However, after decades of geopolitical chaos, not all humans regarded the Autobots as benevolent protectors. Many humans came to regard the Cyberfactories as symbols of “alien oppression”—complexes that stole Earth’s own resources to build an army of resource-gobbling aliens. Power-hungry politicians such as Megan Guiglione’s Earth First party rode to power on a wave of populist rhetoric, while the Terran Coalition, which advocated peaceful cooperation between humans and aliens, struggled to rebound from a string of political losses.

When not working her day job as a food courier, Laser Cycle leveraged her take-charge personality and oratory skills to become a community organizer. In the year 2048, she made history when she ran for office and became the representative for Pennsylvania’s 18th congressional district; in doing so, she became the first Earth-born Cybertronian to hold office. In 2062, Senator Cycle announced, to much fanfare, that she would run for President as a member of the Terran Coalition—if she won, she would become the first non-human leader of the United States. After a particularly heated convention, Laser Cycle emerged as the frontrunner and entered the 2064 presidential primaries against Earth First representative Terence Berger.

During the primaries, Laser Cycle promised that she would work to build alliances with Nebulos and Cybertron, while taking conciliatory stances on a number of controversial political issues—these included offering amnesty and rehabilitation programs for captured members of Jhiaxus’s clone army, increased access to mental health services for ex-Headmasters, and de-escalating tensions between the United States and the Sino-Soviet Alliance. But after a strong start, factors beyond her control threatened to stymie the Cycle campaign.

In January 2064, a long-range EDC patrol reported an encounter with a rogue Decepticon ship that had somehow slipped past Earthen sensors—while the “ship” was little more than an old scow, crewed by three Decepticons who hadn’t yet heard the war had ended, the incident nevertheless alarmed many constituents, who found themselves gravitating to Berger’s pro-rearmament proposal.

The second threat came from Cybertron itself. In the post-war years, Cybertron had undergone something of a religious revival; in particular, many Transformers were attracted to the teachings of Heretech, a repentant ex-Decepticon who had rededicated his life to preaching Reversionism. However, his theology espoused that the only “real” Cybertronians were those who’d been constructed from the sacred metals of the homeworld—those constructed on worlds like Nebulos or Earth were pale imitations of “true” Cybertronians, who had never basked in the warming glow of Vector Sigma. Laser Cycle’s campaign, he decreed, was a direct affront to Cybertron itself, an attempt to dilute the inherent purity of their race. While many Cybertronians wrote these words off as mere bigotry, some were swayed by his rhetoric. Even some Autobots held a kind of vague resentment towards the second generation—after all, they’d spent years fighting the Decepticons in deep space, while their successors lived the peaceful, comfortable lives they’d never known.

Finally, on November 4, 2064, the election was held. While Laser Cycle secured the majority of the Cybertronian vote, as the polls foretold, low voter turnout meant that she ultimately didn’t clinch the final tally required to win the race. Graceful in defeat as well as victory, she offered a congratulatory telephone call to her opponent. Berger governed for three years, until a scandal involving the sordid history of his great-grandfather Shawn led to him resigning in disgrace. Still, Laser Cycle was the first to seriously introduce the American people to the idea of a Cybertronian in office—and by the year 2109, many felt that only an Autobot would be able to save Earth from the impending threat of the Swarm… but that’s a story for another time, I think.

[hwsunflowers]

People who abandoned ship as soon as Russia and America started having Actual Geopolitical Tension are cowards. What did you think this was all about? Huh? Chess the Musical did not come out in 1985 middle of the post-detente microwave-reheat of the Cold War for you to behave like this. Get back here and eat the moral ambiguity of geopolitical homoeroticism

[tellusd20]

Dev Journal 4: Technology Level

Previous Development Journal: Points of Departure. I originally meant for this to be a longer development journal entry but kept running into writer’s block issues, culminating in sitting in my drafts for almost a year. So this will be a quick summary on the world of Tellus and its general level of technological achievement. As with all worldbuilding, these draft ideas go through iterations and will evolve over time. Tellus is largely comparable to that of Earth in the 1830s, though it is not a complete equivalent; in some areas its more advanced, in other areas it lags behind OTL. Development is not equal across all regions and continents. Industry & Agriculture

Early factories exist but not in great number, most production is artisanal or conducted in workshops of varying size. Cities are cramped, polluted domains because environmental protections are largely nonexistent, but the smog-choked urban hellscapes of the latter 19th century don't exist yet. The urban/rural population divide still greatly favors rural regions; farming has little mechanization available and is quite labor intensive. Change is coming but it hasn't arrived yet.

Shipping

Nautical technology runs ahead of the 1830s average due to geopolitics and strategic needs of the major powers. Sail is giving way to steam; though not widespread yet, conversions to steam and purpose-built hulls are increasingly common. Ships of the line are still the mainstay capital force of every major navy, but the wartime invention of the ironclad has sparked a new arms race and raised tensions among the great powers.

Transportation

Trains are in their infancy, mostly existing to connect mines and factories to shipping hubs. Rail networks as we would think of them do not exist, though the major powers are becoming aware of their economic and military potential. 

Air travel effectively does not exist, outside of perhaps a few unique magical conveyances. Tamed wyverns, giant eagles, and other large flying creatures are sometimes utilized as aerial couriers, but are mostly limited to military needs.

Communication

Magical methods of communication such as Sending are available for those with the ability or financial means, but most important governmental communications are transmitted by semaphore networks and couriers. Tall semaphore towers are a common sight in any developed nation, transmitting messages by signal flag. A semaphore line with well trained station operators and good weather can transmit a message across hundreds of miles in minutes.

These networks are typically owned and operated by their respective states, and most transmission capacity is devoted to enabling the administration of empire, though periods of low traffic may be utilized by private or commercial interests for an appropriate fee. For everyone else, messages and parcels are shipped to their destination by state mail services or private couriers. Reliability, speed, and expense varies by country, region, and even locality.

Interaction with Magic

In terms of authorial intent, I wanted very much to avoid the tired "magic vs technology" trope, and also to avoid the concept of "magitech". This is a world where magic exists and always has, where it's a tangible force of nature that can be harnessed and utilized like any other resource, provided one has the right tools and aptitude. For such a society, magic is no different from any other resource, just one that requires specialized methods or abilities to access, and which functions according to its own natural laws. At the same time, the practice of magic is also governed by economic and social realities, ranging from scarcity of spell components to constraints on education.

To give some examples, farmers would practice all sorts of folk magic with a wide range of efficacy to do things such as ward off disease from their herds, boost crop yield, etc. A navy with a high budget may bind fire elementals to the steam engines of its newfangled ironclads, justifying the expenseby pointings to the  financial and tonnage savings of otherwise carrying sufficient coal. The practical application of magic is like anything else, a way to save on cost, labor, and difficulty. I’ll write more about that in the future though.

[phatburd]

Title: The Marshal’s Court

Genre: Romantic Dramedy (In the style of Bridgerton)

Setting: The First French Empire, Napoleon’s Marshals as the central characters

Season 1, Episode 2: “Blood and Feathers”

Episode Synopsis:

The second episode delves deeper into the tangled web of relationships, rivalries, and the occasional military maneuver, juxtaposing personal drama with the geopolitical realities of the Napoleonic era. Historical accuracy is maintained, but the writers take artistic liberties to heighten the drama. Each Marshal faces growing tensions within their ranks, with Napoleon continuing to pull strings behind the scenes.

Opening Scene:

The episode opens with a misty dawn at a military camp near Boulogne, where the Marshals are gathered in preparation for the next campaign. Napoleon’s ambitious plans to invade Britain hang in the air, but so do the unresolved tensions between the Marshals. The camera pans over tents as officers and soldiers bustle about, but a shadowy figure slips out of Bessières’ tent. It’s Murat, half-dressed, with a flirtatious grin tugging at his lips as he strides back to his quarters. The intimate glance exchanged between the two men adds further fuel to the Bessimu ship.

Fan-favorite moment: Bessières is visibly distressed, muttering a hurried prayer with his rosary as guilt tears him apart. Fans begin flooding social media, speculating how long the two can keep their romance secret. The Bessimu ship reaches new heights with #ConflictedBessieres trending as fans dive into his internal struggle.

Lannes’ Sword Diplomacy:

Cut to Lannes in Paris, summoned by Napoleon to discuss his new diplomatic mission to Portugal. Lannes is visibly seething, preferring the battlefield to the conference room, but Napoleon insists. “Your temper,” Napoleon muses with a sly smile, “may be just the thing the Portuguese need to fear.”

Lannes, never one to back down from a challenge, storms into his new role, slamming his sword on the table during tense negotiations. His aggressive tactics shock the diplomats but ultimately result in favorable terms for France. Back at court, Napoleon smirks at his success, while murmurs begin to circulate about Lannes’ unconventional methods.

Fan Reactions: The #LannesLives fan club goes wild at this development. His unorthodox yet successful diplomacy (based on true events) is a key moment for Lannes fans, who rally behind his character, demanding even more screentime. Memes flood fan pages of Lannes banging his sword on various historical treaty tables.

Marmont and Junot Duel:

Meanwhile, Junot’s growing instability becomes more apparent. At a lavish banquet in Boulogne, Junot—unprovoked—challenges Marmont to a duel, enraged by Marmont’s smug attitude about being Napoleon’s confidant. Marmont, barely containing his amusement, tries to deflect Junot’s erratic behavior, but Junot insists, demanding satisfaction.

The duel scene is tense but played for a mix of comedy and drama. Marmont toys with Junot at first, showing off his fencing skills, but as Junot’s madness flashes through, Marmont is forced to take the duel seriously. Just as things grow deadly, Davout steps in, grabbing Junot’s wrist and stopping the duel.

Davout, calm and cold, locks eyes with Junot: “Not here. Not like this.” Junot, shaken but still volatile, reluctantly backs down, but the seeds of his eventual breakdown are planted.

Historical Layer: This duel is a fictional twist on Junot’s real-life impulsiveness and increasing instability, which worsened as his mental health deteriorated.

Fan Reactions: Fans love the dramatic duel, but concern grows for Junot’s character arc. #SaveJunot trends as viewers plead for a redemption arc, though those familiar with history know his decline is inevitable. Meanwhile, Marmont is seen as increasingly aloof and out of touch, sparking mixed reactions from fans who enjoy his sharp wit but find his arrogance grating.

Davout vs. Bernadotte:

At the same banquet, a simmering tension between Davout and Bernadotte finally boils over. Bernadotte, ever the political manipulator, makes a snide comment about Davout’s icy demeanor, implying that his rigid discipline would be better suited to a “prison guard” than a Marshal of France.

Davout doesn’t respond at first, but the tension between them is palpable. The other Marshals exchange uneasy glances, knowing that this rivalry has been brewing since the Austrian Campaign. Soult watches with interest, clearly enjoying the spectacle of his two rivals tearing at each other.

Later, in a quiet moment, Napoleon pulls Bernadotte aside, reminding him that while personal ambition is natural, it must never come before the Empire. Bernadotte feigns loyalty but smirks behind Napoleon’s back, already plotting his next move.

Fan Reactions: The Davout/Bernadotte feud instantly captures fan attention, with viewers debating which Marshal is in the right. #TeamDavout and #TeamBernadotte hashtags emerge as fans take sides, adding a new layer of fandom discourse. Historical enthusiasts point out the real-life friction between these two men, deepening the drama’s appeal.

Ending Scene and Next Episode Teasers:

The episode ends with a private moment between Murat and Bessières. They meet under the cover of darkness, their affection for each other evident but fraught with tension. Murat tries to reassure Bessières, but his carefree attitude only deepens Bessières’ inner conflict. Bessières’ face shows the turmoil as he contemplates his faith, his duty, and his feelings for Murat.

Historical nod: Murat’s notorious vanity and charisma are on full display, while Bessières’ devout Catholicism and deep sense of duty are drawn from real-life accounts of his character.

Next Episode Teasers:

• Napoleon summons his Marshals to lay out his next grand strategy—plans to cross the Channel and invade England. However, logistical challenges and infighting among the Marshals threaten to derail his ambitions. Masséna and Soult find themselves in a heated argument over tactical decisions, with Napoleon forced to intervene.

• Junot’s mental state worsens, leading him to make a rash decision that puts his career—and life—in jeopardy. A letter from his wife, Laure Junot, raises alarm among the other Marshals as his once close friends struggle with how to help him.

• Davout faces a covert plot from Bernadotte to undermine his command, setting the stage for even more intense rivalries as the Marshals prepare for the next campaign.

• Lannes receives troubling news from Portugal, forcing him to return to Paris and confront Napoleon. Will his diplomatic success unravel, or will his aggressive tactics continue to pay off?

Fan Predictions:

Viewers eagerly anticipate the next episode, with many speculating that the English Channel campaign will bring the Marshals together on the battlefield, where their rivalries will reach a boiling point. Meanwhile, the Junot storyline captures viewers’ hearts, as fans brace themselves for his inevitable decline. Bessimu shippers are at the edge of their seats, wondering how long Murat and Bessières can keep their secret under wraps.

[beardedmrbean]

On a warm spring night in Athens, shortly before midnight, a senior executive at a Greek shipping company noticed an unusual email had landed in his personal inbox.

The message, which was also sent to the manager's business email address, warned that one of the company's vessels travelling through the Red Sea was at risk of being attacked by Yemen's Iranian-backed Houthi militia.

The Greek-managed ship had violated a Houthi-imposed transit ban by docking at an Israeli port and would be "directly targeted by the Yemeni Armed Forces in any area they deem appropriate," read the message, written in English and reviewed by Reuters.

"You bear the responsibility and consequences of including the vessel in the ban list," said the email, signed by the Yemen-based Humanitarian Operations Coordination Center (HOCC), a body set up in February to liaise between Houthi forces and commercial shipping operators.

The Houthis have carried out nearly 100 attacks on ships crossing the Red Sea since November, acting in solidarity with Palestinians in Israel's year-long war in Gaza. They have sunk two vessels, seized another and killed at least four seafarers.

The email, received at the end of May, warned of "sanctions" for the entire company's fleet if the vessel continued "to violate the ban criteria and enter the ports of the usurping Israeli entity".

The executive and the company declined to be named for safety reasons.

The warning message was the first of more than a dozen increasingly menacing emails sent to at least six Greek shipping companies since May amid rising geopolitical tension in the Middle East, according to six industry sources with direct knowledge of the emails and two with indirect knowledge.

Since last year, the Houthis have been firing missiles, sending armed drones and launching boats laden with explosives at commercial ships with ties to Israeli, U.S. and UK entities.

The email campaign, which has not been previously reported, indicates that Houthi rebels are casting their net wider and targeting Greek merchant ships with little or no connection to Israel.

The threats were also, for the first time in recent months, directed at entire fleets, increasing the risks for those vessels still trying to cross the Red Sea.

"Your ships breached the decision of Yemen Armed Forces," read a separate email sent in June from a Yemeni government web domain to the first company weeks later and to another Greek shipping company, which also declined to be named. "Therefore, punishments will be imposed on all vessels of your company ... Best Regards, Yemen Navy."

Yemen, which lies at the entrance to the Red Sea, has been embroiled in years of civil war. In 2014, the Houthis took control of the capital, Sanaa, and ousted the internationally recognized government. In January, the United States put the Houthis back on its list of terrorist groups.

Contacted by Reuters, Houthi officials declined to confirm they had sent the emails or provide any additional comment, saying that was classified military information.

Reuters could not determine whether the emails had been also sent to other foreign shipping companies.

Greek-owned ships, which represent one of the largest fleets in the world, comprise nearly 30% of the attacks carried out by Houthi forces to early September, according to Lloyd's List Intelligence data that did not specify whether those ships had any ties with Israel.

In August, the Houthi militia - which is part of Iran's Axis of Resistance alliance of anti-Israel irregular armed groups - attacked the Sounion tanker leaving it on fire for weeks before it could be towed to a safer area.

The strikes have prompted many cargoes to take a much longer route around Africa. Traffic through the Suez Canal has fallen from around 2,000 transits per month before November 2023 to around 800 in August, Lloyd's List Intelligence data showed.

Tensions in the Middle East reached a new peak on Tuesday as Iran hit Israel with more than 180 missiles in retaliation for the killing of militant leaders in Lebanon, including Hezbollah leader Sayyed Hassan Nasrallah on Friday.

NEW PHASE

The European Union's naval force Aspides, which has helped more than 200 ships to sail safely through the Red Sea, confirmed the evolution of Houthis' tactics in a closed door meeting with shipping companies in early September, according to a document reviewed by Reuters.

In the document, shared with shipping companies, Aspides said the Houthis' decision to extend warnings to entire fleets marked the beginning of the "fourth phase" of their military campaign in the Red Sea.

Aspides also urged ship owners to switch off their Automatic Identification System (AIS) transponders, which shows a vessel's position and acts as a navigational aid to nearby ships, saying they had to "shut it off or be shot".

Aspides said the Houthis' missile strikes had 75% accuracy when aimed at vessels operating with the AIS tracking system on. But 96% of attacks missed when AIS was off, according to the same briefing.

"Aspides are aware of those emails," its operational commander, Rear Admiral Vasileios Gryparis, told Reuters, adding that any response should be carefully considered and that companies are strongly advised to alert their security experts if contacted before sailing.

"In particular, for the HOCC, the advice or guidance is not to respond to VHF calls and e-mails from “Yemeni Navy” or the “Humanitarian Operations Command Center” (HOCC)."

The Houthis' email campaign began in February with messages sent to shipowners, insurance companies and the main seafarers union from HOCC.

These initial emails, two of which were seen by Reuters, alerted the industry the Houthis had imposed a Red Sea travel ban on certain vessels, although they did not explicitly warn companies of an imminent attack.

The messages sent after May were more menacing.

At least two Greek-operated shipping companies that received email threats have decided to end such journeys via the Red Sea, two sources with direct knowledge told Reuters, declining to identify the companies for security reasons.

An executive at a third shipping company, which has also received a letter, said they decided to end business with Israel in order to be able to continue to use the Red Sea route.

"If safe transit through the Red Sea cannot be guaranteed, companies have a duty to act – even if that means delaying their delivery windows," said Stephen Cotton, General Secretary of the International Transport Workers' Federation, the leading union organisation for seafarers, which received an email from HOCC in February. "The lives of the seafarers depend on it."

The email campaign has increased alarm among shipping companies. Insurance costs for Western ship owners' have already jumped because of the Houthi's attacks, with some insurers suspending cover altogether, the sources told Reuters.

Greece-based Conbulk Shipmanagement Corporation stopped Red Sea voyages after its vessel MV Groton was attacked twice in August.

"No (Conbulk) vessel is trading in the Red Sea. It mainly has to do with the crew safety. Once the crew is in danger, all the discussion stops," Conbulk Shipmanagement CEO Dimitris Dalakouras told a Capital Link shipping conference in London on Sept. 10.

Torben Kolln, managing director of German-based container shipping group Leonhardt & Blumberg, said the Red Sea and wider Gulf of Aden was a "no go" area for their fleet.

Contacted by Reuters, the companies did not respond to a request for comment on whether they had been targeted by the Houthi email campaign.

Some companies continue to cross the Red Sea due to binding long-term agreements with charterers or because they need to transfer goods in that particular area. The Red Sea remains the fastest way to bring goods to consumers in Europe and Asia.

The Houthis have not stopped all traffic and the majority of Chinese and Russian-owned ships - which they do not see as affiliated with Israel - are able to sail through unhindered with lower insurance costs.

"We are re-assuring the ships belonging to companies that have no connection with the Israeli enemy that they are safe and have freedom (of movement) and (to) keep the AIS devices going on all the time," according to an audio recording of a Houthi message broadcast to ships in the Red Sea in September shared with Reuters.

"Thank you for your cooperation. Out."

[angst-eater]

I’m so late in the game. I recently finished Horizon Forbidden West and shipping usually takes me some time, as I don’t get attached to or interested quickly in characters (just like in real life with people...).

But oh man, Kotallo? Immediate fav. And it only came later that him and Fashav are at least best friends, if not lovers. Yeah, they’re definitely lovers.

Kotallo is a very interesting character, perfectly brought to life by Noshir Dalal. There’s so many things to discover about him, I hope we get to see more of him (hopefully on PS4, povvos still can’t afford a PS5, okay?).

As for Fashav. There’s so much to say. First: HUGE POTENTIAL LOST. I know his death feeds the geopolitical tensions, which is good for the story in a way, but they could have kept him alive. Regalla being a Tenakth and ruining the Embassy was reason enough for the Carja to backtrack and remove themselves from any peace talk anyway. 

Now, I feed off angst so it’s good food. I just need to ignore canon.

So them being a rare ship doesn’t help... I’m very thankful for the fics though.

[louiseanastasiajones]

Another potential TikTok ban

TikTok is closer than ever to getting banned by the U.S. government. This week, a bill was proposed, aiming to address national security concerns regarding foreign ownership of social media apps such as ByteDance with TikTok. This, to ensure the C.C.P. cannot use U.S. user data as a means for political purposes, as ByteDance can access this data through TikTok and theoretically ship this back to China.

TikTok has already been banned on government devices in multiple Western nations. But the risks of possible access of China on potential controversial content posted by any extended user related to a diplomat is, according to the U.S. government, too high not to consider a full ban of TikTok.

The U.S. is also urging the Netherlands, Germany, South Korea, and Japan to limit China’s access to semiconductor technology as well, leading to a higher build-up of tension between the U.S. and China, which can stimulate the U.S. even more in banning TikTok as maintaining the status quo now seems less important.

TikTok’s latest campaign opposing the proposed bill has also led to its banning being closer than ever. Millions of U.S. TikTok users were shown this prompt, urging them to call their local representative to voice their opposition to the bill. This however showed the U.S. government even more how influential TikTok can be on their citizens, fueling their concerns and support of the bill.

A TikTok ban in the U.S. would have significant implications for the social media field, possibly leading to disruptions in market dynamics, user behavior, and content creation. It could make room for new or existing platforms to gain market share. The banning of TikTok could mean more room for Meta, for example, to further increase their market share and influence. Trump says he is against the banning of TikTok: "If you get rid of TikTok, Facebook and Zuckerschmuck will double their business. I don't want Facebook, who cheated in the last election, doing better. They are a true enemy of the people." Unsurprisingly, Elon Musk, plublically states that he agrees with Trump.

This scenario underscores the importance of geopolitical considerations in the tech industry and may lead to increased efforts for data localization and security. The banning of TikTok is not yet 100% but never before have we been so close to the possibility of this. (388 words)

[mariacallous]

KODIAK, Alaska—At Coast Guard Air Station Kodiak, the USCGC Stratton, a 418-foot national security cutter, was hemmed into port by a thin layer of ice that had formed overnight in the January cold. Named for the U.S. Coast Guard’s first female officer, Dorothy Stratton, the ship was not designed for ice; its home port is in Alameda, California. After serving missions in the Indo-Pacific, it was brought to Alaska because it was available.

Soon the sun would rise, and the ice would surely melt, the junior officers surmised from the weather decks. The commanding officer nevertheless approved the use of a local tugboat to weave in front of the cutter, breaking up the wafer-like shards of ice as the Stratton steamed away from shore and embarked toward the Bering Sea.

In the last decade, as melting ice created opportunities for fishing and extraction, the Arctic has transformed from a zone of cooperation to one of geopolitical upheaval, where Russia, China, India, and Turkey, among others, are expanding their footprints to match their global ambitions. But the United States is now playing catch-up in a region where it once held significant sway.

One of the Coast Guard’s unofficial mottos is “We do more with less.” True to form, the United States faces a serious shortage of icebreaker ships, which are critical for performing polar missions, leaving national security cutters and other vessels like the Stratton that are not ice-capable with an outsized role in the country’s scramble to compete in the high north. For the 16 days I spent aboard the Stratton this year, it was the sole Coast Guard ship operating in the Bering Sea, conducting fishery inspections aboard trawlers, training with search and rescue helicopter crews, and monitoring the Russian maritime border.

Although the Stratton’s crew was up to this task, their equipment was not. A brief tour aboard the cutter shed light on the Coast Guard’s operational limitations and resource constraints. Unless Washington significantly shifts its approach, the Stratton will remain a microcosm of the United States’ journey in the Arctic: a once dominant force that can no longer effectively assert its interests in a region undergoing rapid transformation.

During the Cold War, the United States invested in Alaska as a crucial fixture of the country’s future. Of these investments, one of the most significant was the construction of the Dalton Highway in 1974, which paved the way for the controversial Trans-Alaska Pipeline and the U.S. entry as a major player in the global oil trade. Recognizing Alaska’s potential as a linchpin of national defense, leaders also invested heavily in the region’s security. In 1957, the United States began operating a northern network of early warning defense systems called the Distant Early Warning Line, and in 1958, it founded what became known as the North American Aerospace Defense Command.

After the fall of the Soviet Union, such exigencies seemed excessive. The north once again became a domain for partnership among Arctic countries, a period that many call “Arctic exceptionalism”—or, as the Norwegians put it, “high north, low tension.”

But after the turn of the millennium, under President Vladimir Putin, Russia took a more assertive stance in the Arctic, modernizing Cold War-era military installations and increasing its testing of hypersonic munitions. In a telling display in 2007, Russian divers planted their national flag on the North Pole’s seabed. Russia wasn’t alone in its heightened interest, and soon even countries without Arctic territory wanted in on the action. China expanded its icebreaker fleet and sought to fund its Polar Silk Road infrastructure projects across Scandinavia and Greenland (though those efforts were blocked by Western intervention). Even India recently drafted its first Arctic strategy, while Turkey ratified a treaty giving its citizens commercial and recreational access to Svalbard, a Norwegian archipelago in the Arctic Ocean.

Over the past decade, the United States lagged behind, focusing instead on the challenges posed to its interests in the Middle East, the South China Sea, and Ukraine. Its Arctic early warning system became outdated. Infrastructure off the coast of Alaska that climatologists use to predict typhoons remained uninstalled, seen as a luxury that the state and federal governments could not afford. In 2020, an engine fire in the sole Coast Guard Arctic icebreaker nearly scuttled a plan to retrieve scientific instruments and data from vessels moored in the Arctic Ocean. Two years later, a Defense Department inspector general report revealed substantial issues with the structural integrity of runways and barracks of U.S. bases across the Arctic and sub-Arctic.

Until recently, U.S. policymakers had little interest in reinstating lost Arctic competence. Only in the last three years—once Washington noticed the advances being made by China and Russia—have lawmakers and military leaders begun to formulate a cohesive Arctic strategy, and it shows.

On patrol with the Stratton, the effects of this delay were apparent. The warm-weather crew struggled to adapt to the climate, having recently returned from warmer Indo-Pacific climates. The resilient group deiced its patrol boats and the helicopter pad tie-downs with a concoction conceived through trial and error. “Happy lights,” which are supposed to boost serotonin levels, were placed around the interior of the ship to help the crew overcome the shorter days. But the crew often turned the lights off; with only a few hours of natural daylight and few portholes on the ship through which to view it anyway, the lights did not do much.

The Coast Guard is the United States’ most neglected national defense asset. It is woefully under-resourced, especially in the Arctic and sub-Arctic, where systemic issues are hindering U.S. hopes of being a major power.

First and foremost is its limited icebreaker fleet. The United States has only two working icebreakers. Of these two, only one, the USCGC Healy, is primarily deployed to the Arctic; the other, the USCGC Polar Star, is deployed to Antarctica. By comparison, Russia, which has a significant Arctic Ocean shoreline, has more than 50 icebreakers, while China has two capable of Arctic missions and at least one more that will be completed by next year.

Coast Guard and defense officials have repeatedly testified before Congress that the service requires at least six polar icebreakers, three of which would be as ice-capable as the Healy, which has been in service for 27 years. The program has suffered nearly a decade of delays because of project mismanagement and a lack of funds. As one former diplomat told me, “A strategy without budget is hallucination.” The first boat under the Polar Security Cutter program was supposed to be delivered by this year. The new estimated arrival date, officials told me, will more likely be 2030.

“Once we have the detailed design, it will be several years—three plus—to begin, to get completion on that ship,” Adm. Linda Fagan, the commandant of the Coast Guard, told Congress last April. “I would give you a date if I had one.”

The Government Accountability Office (GAO) has long warned that the U.S. government and military, including the Coast Guard, have made serious miscalculations in their Arctic efforts. For one, the Coast Guard’s acquisition process for new boats is hampered by continual changes to design and a failure to contract competent shipbuilders. Moreover, the GAO found in a 2023 report that discontinuity among Arctic leadership in the State Department and a failure by the Coast Guard to improve its capability gaps “hinder implementation of U.S. Arctic priorities outlined in the 2022 strategy.”

Far more than national security is at stake. The Arctic is a zone of great economic importance for the United States. The Bering Sea alone provides the United States with 60 percent of its fisheries, not to mention substantial oil and natural gas revenue. An Arctic presence is also important for achieving U.S. climate goals. Helping to reduce or eliminate emissions of carbon dioxide, methane, and black carbon in the Arctic protects carbon-storing habitats such as the tundra, forests, and coastal marshes.

Capt. Brian Krautler, the Stratton’s commanding officer, knows these problems well. Having previously served on Arctic vessels, he was perhaps the ideal officer to lead the Stratton on this unfamiliar mission. After a boarding team was recalled due to heavy seas and an overiced vessel, Krautler lamented the constraints under which he was working. “We are an Arctic nation that doesn’t know how to be an Arctic nation,” he said.

The Stratton reached its first port call in Unalaska, a sleepy fishing town home to the port of Dutch Harbor. Signs around Unalaska declare, “Welcome to the #1 Commercial Fishing Port in the United States.” The port is largely forgotten by Washington and federal entities in the region, but there is evidence all around of its onetime importance to U.S. national security: Concrete pillboxes from World War II line the roads, and trenches mark the hillocks around the harbor.

As Washington pivoted away from the Arctic, Alaska and its Native communities have become more marginalized. Vincent Tutiakoff, the mayor of Unalaska, is particularly frustrated by the shift. Even though Washington made promises to grant greater access to federal resources to support Indigenous communities, it has evaded responsibility for environmental cleanup initiatives and failed to adequately address climate change.

Federal and state governments have virtually abandoned all development opportunities in Unalaska, and initiatives from fish processing plants to a geothermal energy project have been hindered by the U.S. Energy Department’s sluggish response to its Arctic Energy Office’s open call for funding opportunities. “I don’t know what they’re doing,” Tutiakoff said of state and federal agencies.

Making matters worse, the U.S. Army Corps of Engineers is moving ahead to make the northern Alaska city of Nome the site of the nation’s next deep-water port rather than build infrastructure near Unalaska, the gateway to the American Arctic and the port of call for the few patrol ships tasked with its security. It seems that the decision was based on the accessibility needs of cruise ships; Unalaska is not necessarily a vacation destination.

By failing to invest in places like Unalaska, the United States is hobbling its own chances for growth. The region could be home to major advances in the green energy transition or cloud computing storage, but without investment this potential will be lost.

In the last year, the United States has tried to claw back some of what it has lost to atrophy. It has inched closer to confirming the appointment of Mike Sfraga as the first U.S. ambassador-at-large to the Arctic. In March, the U.S. Marine Corps and Navy participated in NATO exercises in the Arctic region of Finland, Norway, and Sweden. The U.S. Defense Department hosted an Arctic dialogue in January ahead of the anticipated release of a revised Arctic strategy, and the State Department signed a flurry of defense cooperation agreements with Nordic allies late last year.

Nevertheless, it has a long way to go. Tethered to the docks at Dutch Harbor, the weather-worn Stratton reflected the gap between the United States’ Arctic capabilities and its ambitions. Its paint was chipped by wind and waves, and a generator needed a replacement part from California. Much of the crew had never been to Alaska before. On the day the ship pulled into port, the crew milled about, gawking at a bald eagle that alighted on the bow and taking advantage of their few days in port before setting out again into hazardous conditions.

“I know we’re supposed to do more with less,” a steward aboard the Stratton told me, “but it’s hard.”

[taiwantalk]

This kind of article is truly a form of media warfare. Commodities do not have to and are not going thru Black Sea only.

This is a totally misleading reporting to create panic. Ukraine is still bordering 5 other countries besides Russia & belarus. Any of those 5 countries have multiple trade routes for Ukraine’s commodities to be exported out through long convoy of transportations. Russia cannot possibly destroy every single land cargo transportation just like nazis could not destroy every single liberty ship during ww2 with a wolf pack submarines.

Therefore, Russia is far from being able to restrict Ukraine’s export like an embargo or blockade.

Likewise, the world is actually not truly able to restrict trade with Russia except by true alliance adhering to economic sanction measures.

[irithnova]

Did your idea of PiriChu carry over to the present day as well? I’m surprised given ongoing geopolitical tensions over the West PH Sea. Less of a taboo and more of continuing frustration; the simplest and safest explanation I could give was PH being taken advantage of (because capitalism, yuck!).

That aside, Spain did fantasize colonizing China (really, everyone one of those Europeans did lol), but not since the Portuguese kicked their ass did they ever make another attempt again. And that was over Macau, not China. Don’t let the ethnonationalists hear that sksksksk.

Honestly pirichu is more of a ship that I'm not very serious about and it's more like me watching two insane catboys have meow offs at each other. Yes there are tensions with China and the Philippines but there are many hetalia ships where the two nations have conflict so it's not exactly unique in that sense. However I understand if people don't ship pirichu because of the conflict.

[girderednerve]

i understand why intel isn't on the BDS list to boycott, because they're a massive company & as with all the tech giants, extremely difficult to avoid, but they do operate multiple microconductor fabrication centers in israel & are going to spend roughly $25bn constructing a new one. a substantial amount of the impetus behind construction is the geopolitical tension surrounding microchip manufacture (the "chip wars"). the united states just committed $280bn to boost domestic chip manufacture, but it also taxes chinese imports very heavily, which is a big part of why intel (& their clients, including google, nvidia, & microsoft) are "all-in on israel," the times of israel crows (not linking it, but here's a reuters article on the deal). there are geographic limitations on where chip fabs can be built, because microconductor fabrication is so delicate that seismic interference is a genuine concern in addition to considering proximity to existing shipping lines; fabs are also extremely expensive to build & require very skilled labor.

i'm not suggesting that we need to unearth secret reasons why the united states is supportive of israeli apartheid in the face of open genocide, but i think it's worth considering how profoundly this particular aspect of american industrial policy is entangled with its military policy