#The North Wind Goes Over the Sea

[tomoleary]

Kay Nielsen ‘The North Wind Goes Over the Sea’ from East of the Sun and West of the Moon (1914)

Source (19MP)

[novaursa]

The Broken Crown (1/2)

- Summary: Aegon the Conqueror's youngest sister, Y/N Targaryen, once bethrohed to Torrhen Stark, is forced into a marriage with her brother after he calls off her engagement out of jealousy. Struggling with her lost future and the life she never wanted, she repeatedly refuses Aegon's attempts to consummate the marriage. When she tries to escape to Essos on her dragon, Visenya intercepts her, and Aegon, in an act of control, chains her dragon to prevent any further rebellion, leaving her feeling trapped and broken.

- Pairing: sister!reader/Aegon I Targaryen

- Rating: Mature 16+

- Word count: 6 200+

- Next part: 2

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @alyssa-dayne @fiction-fanfic-reader @fireandblood-mharmie @poisonedsultana

- A/N: Unexpected post. Let's see how it goes.

The wind howls outside your chambers, filling the air with the distant sounds of restless dragons, their cries melding with the deep, rolling growl of the sea beyond Dragonstone. The fire crackles in the hearth, sending flickers of light dancing across the walls. You sit alone, staring at the flickering flames, lost in thought. The glow reflects off the dark red and gold silk of your gown, the rich colors echoing the deep hues of Tesaerix's scales.

It has been weeks since your marriage to Aegon—your brother, your king—and yet your chambers remain cold. You know why he comes to you. You know what he desires. Yet every time, you turn him away, the bitterness of your broken future thick on your tongue.

You were supposed to be wed to Torrhen Stark, the former King in the North. A marriage of fire and ice, binding the Targaryens to the cold and ancient lineage of the Starks. You had imagined a life in the North, the fierce honor of the Starks, the warmth of a hearth shared between husband and wife, and the promise of a family. Torrhen would have been yours and yours alone. His loyalty and affection were clear in every letter, in every word whispered between couriers.

But Aegon... Aegon grew jealous. He called off the betrothal without a word to you, with a simple, royal command. And now, you sit here, a queen in name, yet more of a pawn than ever before.

The door to your chambers opens softly, the sound of boots upon stone barely audible over the crackling of the fire. You do not turn. You know who it is.

"Y/N," Aegon's voice rumbles low, rich with the quiet authority of a conqueror. He does not have to ask permission to enter; this is his castle, and you are his wife.

"You shouldn’t be here," you say quietly, your eyes still on the flames. "Not tonight."

"And yet, here I am." His voice is closer now, and you feel the heat of his presence behind you. "You’ve denied me time and time again."

You stand, your hands tightening into fists at your sides, still refusing to face him. "Because this was not meant to be. You took my future from me, Aegon. Torrhen was—" Your voice cracks, though you try to hold your composure. "I was meant to marry him. I was meant to be his only wife, to have his children. You stole that from me."

Aegon steps around to face you, his violet eyes, so like your own, burning with a mixture of frustration and something deeper. His silver hair, shining in the firelight, falls loosely about his shoulders, making him seem more a dragon than a man.

"You speak of duty as if you do not know it, sister," he says, his voice softer now, though no less commanding. "Do you truly believe you could have lived in the North? Away from your blood? Away from me?"

His words send a chill through you, a reminder of the bond that ties you both. You were born into the same fire, raised together, shared in the same dreams of conquest. But his love, twisted as it has become, feels like chains wrapping around your heart.

"I would have learned," you whisper, your throat tight. "For Torrhen, I would have made a home there."

"And you would have grown cold," Aegon replies, stepping closer, his hands reaching out to grasp your arms. "The North would have frozen the fire in your blood. You belong with me, Y/N. We were meant to rule together."

You yank your arms away from his grip, taking a step back, your eyes blazing. "No, Aegon. You and Visenya, you and Rhaenys, were meant to rule. I was an afterthought. You married me out of jealousy, not love. You couldn’t bear the thought of me in the arms of another man."

Aegon’s jaw tightens, and for a moment, you see the flicker of anger in his eyes. He steps forward again, but you hold your ground.

"You speak as though I do not care for you," he says, his voice dangerously low. "I made a banner in your honor. You fly your own colors, the colors of Tesaerix, because you are more than just my wife. You are my queen, my equal."

"I never asked for that," you snap, your voice rising, the pain and anger finally spilling over. "I never wanted a crown, Aegon. I wanted a life. You took that from me when you sent Torrhen away."

He is silent for a long moment, his eyes searching your face as if looking for some hint of the sister who once stood by his side, unwavering in her support. But that girl is gone now, replaced by a woman hardened by the reality of her fate.

"Perhaps," he says finally, his voice softer now, almost resigned. "But we cannot change the past. You are mine, Y/N. Whether you accept it or not."

You turn your back to him again, the weight of his words pressing down on you. You hear him move toward the door, his boots heavy on the stone floor. For a moment, you think he will leave. But then, his voice breaks the silence once more.

"One day, you will come to understand why I did what I did. And when that day comes, I will be here. Waiting."

The door closes behind him, the sound echoing in the stillness of your chambers. You are left alone once more, the fire burning low, its warmth doing little to chase away the cold that has settled deep in your bones.

You sink to the floor before the hearth, staring into the dying flames, and wonder if there will ever come a day when you can forgive him—if you even want to.

The grand hall of Dragonstone feels heavy with silence as you sit at the long, stone-carved table. The walls are adorned with tapestries depicting the glory of Old Valyria, the ancestors watching with cold, lifeless eyes. You sit between Rhaenys and Visenya, with Aegon at the head, his silver hair gleaming in the candlelight. The air is thick with the unspoken weight of your marriage, lingering over the table like a shadow.

The food before you remains untouched. Plates of roasted meats, rich gravies, and spiced wine fill the room with tempting aromas, but you have no appetite. Your mind is elsewhere, churning with thoughts of the future that was stolen from you. Torrhen’s face, sharp and distant like the North itself, lingers in your memory.

Visenya breaks the silence, her voice sharp and direct, as is her way. "Y/N," she says, her violet eyes piercing as they settle on you, "when will you finally do your duty to our brother?"

Her words hang in the air, and you feel the weight of everyone's gaze upon you. Rhaenys shifts beside you, her warm, gentle nature a silent contrast to Visenya's cold command. You take a slow breath, gripping the edge of your goblet, the cool metal pressing into your palm.

"If this is about duty, sister," you reply, your voice calm but edged with steel, "then Aegon should come to you. Isn’t that what you care for most, Visenya? Duty?"

Visenya’s eyes narrow, her lips a thin line. "It is our duty to secure the future of our house. You were born for this. You were married for this."

"I was married," you cut in, the words sharper than you intend, "because our brother couldn’t stomach the thought of another man having me." Your gaze flickers to Aegon, who has remained silent, watching the exchange with his usual unreadable expression. "Or is that something none of us are supposed to speak of?"

Rhaenys’ soft, musical voice tries to ease the tension. "We are family, Y/N. Aegon is trying to—"

"To what?" you interrupt, turning your gaze on her. "To make me love him as you do? If our brother seeks love and soft caresses, he should come to you, Rhaenys. You always give him what he desires, don’t you?"

Rhaenys flinches at the harshness of your tone, her eyes lowering to her untouched plate. You almost feel a pang of guilt for your words, but the storm of emotion inside you doesn’t let you stop.

Aegon’s gaze finally lifts from his plate, meeting yours. His violet eyes, usually so hard to read, flicker with something—anger? Hurt? Perhaps both. But he says nothing, allowing the silence to deepen, allowing you to stew in the consequences of your words.

Visenya’s voice cuts through again, colder than before. "You may think you are different from us, Y/N, but you are not. We all carry the same blood. We all have the same purpose. Do not forget that."

You push your chair back abruptly, the scraping of wood against stone breaking the silence. The sound echoes through the hall, reverberating off the high ceilings. You rise, standing tall, your hands clenched at your sides.

"I haven’t forgotten," you say, your voice bitter. "But perhaps I was never meant to be part of this."

Without another word, you turn and leave the table, your untouched meal forgotten behind you. You walk swiftly through the hall, your footsteps muffled by the heavy carpets, and once you pass the threshold, the cold air of Dragonstone greets you like a slap. It chills your skin, but you welcome it. It’s a reminder that despite everything, you are still free to make some choices. Even if only in small rebellions.

As you make your way down the corridor, the sounds of your siblings fade behind you. You are alone once more, with nothing but the distant cries of dragons and the pounding of your heart to accompany you.

The hall feels emptier once you’re gone, the echo of your departing footsteps swallowed by the vastness of the space. For a long moment, no one speaks. The air is filled with your absence, and the untouched food on your plate remains a quiet accusation of all that was left unsaid.

Aegon sits motionless, his hands resting on the table, fingers curled around the goblet he hasn’t touched. His shoulders slump slightly, the weight of something far heavier than a crown pressing down on him. His face, usually impassive and stern, is now unguarded, a mixture of frustration, pain, and an unfamiliar vulnerability etched into his features. The Conqueror, the dragon lord, looks fragile—broken, even.

Rhaenys watches him, her eyes full of concern, though she remains silent for once. Her gentle attempts to soothe the tension earlier had been met with resistance, and now she seems at a loss, her gaze flicking between Aegon and Visenya. Her hands rest lightly on her lap, fingers trembling just slightly as she resists the urge to reach for Aegon.

Visenya, on the other hand, is still as stone. Her lips are pressed into a thin line, and her eyes remain cold, unreadable. The eldest of you, always the embodiment of purpose, of resolve, watches Aegon closely but makes no move to comfort him. Her hands, wrapped around her knife and fork, remain steady, continuing her meal as though nothing had happened, though she chews slowly, her eyes calculating.

Finally, after what feels like an eternity, Aegon’s voice breaks the silence, though it is barely more than a whisper. "She hates me."

His words hang in the air, and for a moment, no one speaks. Aegon’s grip tightens around the goblet, and one can see the whiteness of his knuckles as though the tension might shatter the cup. His head is bowed, and for the first time, he looks… lost.

"She does not hate you," Rhaenys says softly, her voice thick with sympathy. "She’s angry. Hurt. But hate?" She shakes her head, her dark curls catching the firelight. "That is not what this is."

Aegon’s lips twitch, a bitter smile flickering at the corners. "She does not love me, Rhaenys. And she never will."

Visenya’s voice is sharp, cutting through the fragile moment like the edge of a blade. "Love is not why she was wed to you, brother. Love was never the purpose." She sets her knife and fork down deliberately, the clink of metal against the plate unnervingly calm in the face of Aegon’s turmoil. "You knew that."

Aegon’s head lifts, his eyes wet and shining with unspoken emotions. He looks at Visenya, his usually hard gaze pleading now, searching her face for some kind of answer. "But I wanted it," he says, the words rough, torn from somewhere deep inside him. "I wanted her to love me, as she would have loved Stark. Is that so wrong?"

Visenya’s expression doesn’t change. Her voice remains cold, unwavering. "You are her brother, her king. You were never meant to be her lover in the way you want."

Rhaenys, sensing the deepening wound, reaches across the table, her hand hovering just above Aegon’s arm. "She’s young still, Aegon," she says softly, her voice filled with her usual warmth. "She has not yet come to terms with her place. In time, perhaps…"

Aegon pulls away from her touch, his hand falling from the goblet to rest heavily on the table. "No," he mutters, shaking his head. "She will never come to terms with this. She will always look at me as if I am the one who destroyed her life." His voice breaks slightly, and he presses his palms into his eyes, as though trying to hold himself together, to keep the pain from spilling out.

"Then stop chasing her love," Visenya says, her voice devoid of sympathy. "Do your duty. Take her to your bed, sire her children, and end this farce of a romance you have created in your mind."

Aegon’s hands drop from his face, and he looks at her, stunned. "Is that all you see in this? Duty?"

Visenya’s eyes meet his, cold and unwavering. "That is all there ever was for us."

The silence that follows is deafening, broken only by the crackle of the hearth. Aegon turns his gaze to the fire, his shoulders sagging even further under the weight of Visenya’s words. The great conqueror, the king who united the Seven Kingdoms, is reduced to this—a man who sought love from someone who could not give it.

Rhaenys, her heart breaking at the sight of her brother in such despair, shifts in her seat, but she knows that no words of hers will soothe him now. Aegon has always carried the burden of their dynasty alone, but tonight, it has grown too heavy, even for him.

"You have us," Rhaenys says quietly, though her voice trembles with emotion. "You will always have us, Aegon."

But Aegon does not respond. His eyes remain fixed on the flames, and for the first time in your life, you see him not as the Conqueror, not as the dragon lord who tamed the world, but as a man—lost and alone in a castle full of people who love him, yet none who can give him what he truly desires.

And so the meal continues in silence, the clatter of cutlery and the crackling fire the only sounds in the hall. The untouched plates before you all bear witness to the shattered remnants of your family’s fragile bonds, while outside, the wind and the sea howl against the ancient walls of Dragonstone.

The sea winds howl outside your chambers, the sound haunting and relentless, like the cry of some distant, wounded beast. You sit by the open window, gazing out into the dark night, the vast ocean stretching far beyond the horizon, endless and full of promise. Your mind wanders to Tesaerix, resting in her lair below. You imagine her golden and cream scales shimmering in the moonlight, the crimson undertones beneath them gleaming like freshly spilled blood. She is your escape, your one chance at freedom.

You toy with the thought, turning it over and over in your mind—leaving this place. Far from Dragonstone, from Westeros, from the suffocating weight of duty and broken promises. Essos calls to you like a whisper on the wind, a distant land where dragons are still revered and feared, where you could carve out a life for yourself far from Aegon’s reach. You could mount Tesaerix tonight, ride her across the Narrow Sea and never look back.

The idea pulls at you, tempting you more with every passing moment. To be free of this cursed marriage, free of the bitter silence and the constant reminders of what you’ve lost. But it’s not just the present that haunts you—it’s the past, the memories of a love that was torn from you before it had the chance to bloom.

Your mind drifts back to Torrhen Stark, the man you were meant to marry. The King in the North, a man of honor and quiet strength, so different from the fire and chaos of your family. You think of the first time you met him, after he had bent the knee to Aegon. He had refused to take you as a war prize, refused to make you his by conquest, despite the whispers of your brothers. He had chosen to see you as something more, as someone worth knowing, worth loving.

You remember the way his eyes had softened when he looked at you, the way his gruff voice had gentled whenever he spoke your name. It had been a brief time, but intense—your feelings for him had grown quickly, like a wildfire racing through a dry forest. You’d fallen in love with him, hard and fast, and he with you. It was supposed to be an alliance not only of fire and ice, but of hearts.

You can still hear his deep, steady voice, promising you a future in the North. A future where you would be his only wife, where you would bear his children, where you could have the kind of life you dreamed of—one filled with love, respect, and loyalty. It had seemed perfect, a rare gift for someone of your blood, born into a family where duty always outweighed desire.

But then Aegon had taken that from you. He had changed his mind as suddenly as a storm sweeping over the sea, without explanation, without reason. One moment, your future with Torrhen had been certain, and the next, it was gone. Aegon had called off the betrothal, declaring that you were to remain in Dragonstone and marry him instead.

Your world had shattered in that instant. The life you had planned with Torrhen, the love you had begun to build, all of it ripped away before it had the chance to take root. You had cried out, fought against it, pleaded with Aegon to reconsider, but his decision was final. The bond between fire and ice, the life you had dreamed of in the North, vanished like smoke in the wind.

The memory of Torrhen’s face, when you told him of Aegon’s decision, still haunts you. His features had hardened, the quiet grief in his eyes breaking your heart all over again. He had not blamed you; how could he, when you had been as much a victim of your brother’s jealousy as he had? But the pain in his silence had cut deeper than any words could have.

You wonder, sometimes, what might have been. What your life would be like now, had Aegon not interfered. You can imagine yourself standing beside Torrhen in Winterfell’s great hall, the warmth of a fire crackling in the hearth, the cold winds of the North howling outside but unable to touch you. You would have had a home there. A real home, with Torrhen by your side, with the love you had begun to build blossoming into something strong and unbreakable.

But here, in this cold, dark castle, you are alone. You are Aegon’s wife, yes, but in name only. There is no love here, only duty, only the weight of expectations and a future you never wanted.

Your gaze shifts to the sea, the waves crashing against the cliffs below. The pull to leave is stronger now. You imagine the wind whipping through your hair as Tesaerix soars above the clouds, the world falling away beneath you as you fly far, far from here. Essos, the Free Cities, perhaps even beyond the Shadow Lands. Anywhere that is not here, anywhere that is far from the suffocating grip of your brother and the life he has forced upon you.

You stand, the cool night air brushing against your skin as you move toward the window. Tesaerix waits, her powerful wings and fiery breath ready to carry you to freedom. All it would take is a single command, a whispered word, and you could be gone. You could leave this place behind, leave Aegon and Visenya and Rhaenys and the weight of their expectations, and start a new life far from the shadow of the Iron Throne.

But then Torrhen’s face flashes in your mind again, and you falter. The North is lost to you, but would running away truly be any better? Would it bring you the peace you crave, or would it only leave you even more adrift, without even the faint hope of reclaiming what was taken from you?

Your hand rests on the stone window ledge, cold and hard beneath your palm. The choice stands before you, vast and open like the sea. Stay and endure, or fly away and risk everything for the chance at a new beginning.

For now, you remain. The wind howls, but the decision is not yet made.

For two weeks, Aegon comes to your chambers each night, his steps soft but purposeful as he approaches the door. You always hear him before he arrives, the distant echo of boots on stone corridors signaling yet another attempt. Every time, he brings something—a token of affection, as if material offerings could mend the chasm between you.

At first, it is fine silk from distant lands, robes embroidered with dragons and flames, the kind of luxury that would make others swoon. Then, he brings rare books, scrolls of knowledge written in the ancient Valyrian tongue, words meant to remind you of your shared heritage. One night, he brings a necklace of rubies, its deep red glistening like dragonfire in the low light. The next, a golden ring with the Targaryen sigil engraved on it, a symbol of the dynasty you are bound to by blood and duty.

Each gift you receive with a polite, distant nod, setting them aside, your heart unmoved. The weight of his gaze is always upon you, a mixture of hope and frustration lingering in his violet eyes. His words are softer now than they were in the beginning, his anger quelled, replaced by a quiet desperation. He is trying to win you, but the harder he tries, the more distant you feel.

The final gift he brings is a crown—delicate, finely crafted, with jewels of crimson and gold embedded in the pale metal. It is beautiful, a queen's crown, meant to match his. When he places it on your lap, he watches you with an intensity that makes the air thick between you, waiting for something—for approval, for gratitude, for love.

But you only stare at it, unmoving.

"This is yours," he says, his voice almost pleading now. "You are a queen in your own right, Y/N. Not just my sister, but my equal. You deserve this."

Your fingers brush the cold metal of the crown, but it feels like chains, not a symbol of power. You lift your gaze to meet his, your voice steady but firm. "I never wanted a crown, Aegon."

The hurt flickers in his eyes, but you have nothing left to give him. He leaves, the crown sitting abandoned on the edge of your bed, gleaming in the dim light as if mocking you.

One day, his words change.

Aegon enters your chambers, but there is a new tension in the way he moves, a sense of finality in the air. He doesn't bring a gift this time, only the weight of a decision made. You watch him, already knowing something is different.

“We leave for King’s Landing soon," he says, his voice more formal than it has been in weeks. "Aegonfort is ready for us. It will be our new home, where we will build the future of our house."

You feel the words like a cold wind sweeping over you. Aegonfort, the seat of his conquest, the beginning of the new kingdom he is carving out. The idea of leaving Dragonstone—leaving the sea, the cliffs, the only place you’ve ever truly known—sends a chill down your spine. Aegon might see King’s Landing as his victory, but for you, it feels like another cage.

"I don’t want to go," you say, your voice flat, devoid of emotion.

Aegon pauses, as if he didn’t hear you properly, as if he can’t comprehend that you would refuse. “You have to go,” he says slowly, as though speaking to a child. "You are my wife, my queen. You belong at my side."

You rise from where you’ve been sitting, facing him fully, your heart racing with the surge of rebellion that has been growing inside you for weeks. "I belong here," you say, gesturing to the stone walls, to the island that has been your sanctuary, even in the darkest times. "I do not want to go to King’s Landing, to sit in that castle you built, watching you and Visenya and Rhaenys pretend that everything is perfect."

He steps toward you, his face tightening, a flash of anger returning to his features. "You think you can remain here, alone, while the rest of us build our kingdom? This is not a choice, Y/N. You are my wife."

"I never wanted to be," you snap, the words finally breaking free from your lips, bitter and sharp. "You made me your wife, but you never asked me what I wanted. You took me from the future I could have had, from Torrhen—"

"Stark, again? Torrhen is not your future," Aegon interrupts, his voice hardening now. "I am."

"You stole my future, Aegon," you retort, your voice trembling with the weight of your grief. "You took away the one thing I had, and now you expect me to be grateful for this life you’ve forced upon me? You expect me to follow you to your new castle and wear this crown and play the role of your queen?"

His jaw clenches, and for a moment, he says nothing. The silence stretches between you, tense and suffocating. Then, slowly, he steps back, his eyes dark with something you can’t name—anger, yes, but there’s more. Regret? Hurt?

“You will come,” he says finally, his voice low and rough, almost a whisper. “Whether you wish it or not, Y/N. You will come with us.”

You turn away from him, your back to the man who has taken everything from you. You hear him leave the room, his footsteps heavy and final, but the emptiness he leaves behind feels like the deepest cut of all.

You are alone once more, staring out the window at the distant sea. Tesaerix calls to you from the depths of your soul, her distant roars echoing in your mind. The thought of running away comes back to you, stronger now than ever. But for now, you remain, standing at the precipice of a decision that could change everything.

The sun is high in the sky as you and your siblings take flight, the winds rushing past as your dragons soar over the shimmering sea. Below, the jagged cliffs of Dragonstone grow smaller with every wingbeat. Tesaerix flies gracefully beneath you, her golden and cream scales glinting in the sunlight, the deep crimson undertones flickering like blood in the wind. For a moment, you feel weightless—free. The burden of your marriage, of your crown, seems far away in the skies.

Ahead of you, Aegon leads the way on Balerion, the massive black dragon casting a long shadow over the sea. Rhaenys is beside him, her Meraxes keeping pace, and to your left flies Visenya, Vhagar’s powerful wings slicing through the air. The three of them are focused on King's Landing, their eyes set on the growing kingdom they are about to build. But your heart is elsewhere.

You glance down at the sea, endless and blue, stretching toward Essos. The temptation has been gnawing at you for weeks, the thought of breaking away, of flying far from here. Away from Aegon, from the fate that has been thrust upon you. The wind rushes through your hair as you tighten your grip on Tesaerix’s reins, your mind made up.

With a subtle shift in pressure, you command her to turn, pulling away from the formation. Tesaerix tilts her wings, veering off course, away from King’s Landing, away from your brother. Your heart races, a mix of fear and exhilaration filling your veins as you set your sights on the horizon, where the lands of Essos lie in the distance, beyond the reach of Aegon’s grasp.

Behind you, Aegon’s voice rises above the wind, calling your name, desperate and commanding. “Y/N! Turn back!”

But you don’t. You don’t even glance behind you. The sound of his voice fades as you fly farther, the space between you growing wider with every passing second. Tesaerix roars beneath you, as if sensing your resolve, her powerful wings beating faster as she surges toward freedom.

For the first time in what feels like an eternity, you feel alive. The weight of duty, of marriage, of everything that has kept you chained to this life begins to slip away, carried off by the wind. The open skies of Essos call to you like a promise, and for a brief, fleeting moment, you believe you might make it.

Then you hear the deep, thunderous roar of Vhagar.

Visenya.

You glance over your shoulder, and there she is—Visenya, fierce and relentless, closing the distance between you with terrifying speed. Vhagar, far larger than Tesaerix, cuts through the air with powerful, determined strokes. Visenya’s face is set in cold determination, her eyes locked on you with the same intensity she wears in battle.

“Y/N, stop!” she commands, her voice cold as steel, cutting through the wind like a blade. Vhagar roars again, a sound so deep and menacing it sends a shiver down your spine. But you do not stop. You push Tesaerix harder, willing her to fly faster, to escape the inevitable.

But Visenya is not one to be outrun.

Vhagar catches up, pulling alongside you with terrifying ease, her massive bulk dwarfing Tesaerix. Visenya leans forward in her saddle, her voice filled with authority. “Turn back, Y/N! Now!”

Your jaw clenches, your heart pounding in your chest. You meet her gaze for a moment, the defiance in your eyes clear. But Visenya does not waver. Her eyes are cold, unforgiving, and in that moment, you know she will force you back if she has to. She will not let you leave.

The wind whips around you as you pull Tesaerix to slow her flight, the moment of freedom slipping away from you as Vhagar looms beside you, a reminder of the chains that bind you. Visenya’s gaze does not leave yours, and she waits—waits for you to surrender, to accept the inevitable.

With a heavy heart, you tug on the reins, guiding Tesaerix back toward King’s Landing. The dream of escape fades into the distance as you turn, the pull of duty dragging you back toward the life you never wanted. Visenya does not speak again, but her presence is a silent command that you dare not disobey.

As you fly back toward Aegon and Rhaenys, the open skies of Essos behind you, the taste of freedom lingers on your tongue like ashes.

The moment Tesaerix touches the ground, the reality of your failed escape crashes down upon you like a wave. Her powerful wings fold at her sides, but there is no pride in her stance now—only the stillness of submission, forced upon you both by Visenya and Vhagar’s dominance.

You barely have time to catch your breath when Balerion descends, the great shadow of the Black Dread falling over you. His monstrous bulk blocks Tesaerix’s path back to the skies, his massive wings spread wide like an impenetrable wall. Aegon sits atop him, his expression dark, stormy, and unreadable. Rhaenys and Meraxes circle high above, silent witnesses to your humiliation.

The ground trembles as Balerion lands, his roar a deep, earth-shaking sound that makes the ground beneath your feet vibrate. You can feel Tesaerix shifting beneath you, uneasy but still under your control—for now. But even she can sense the finality of what is about to happen.

Aegon swings down from Balerion’s saddle, his steps heavy as he approaches you. His face, usually so composed, is a mix of anger and something close to disbelief. When he speaks, his voice is low, cold. "You would abandon us. Abandon me."

Your heart pounds in your chest, each beat like a hammer against stone. "Aegon, I—"

"You fled from your duty, Y/N," he interrupts, his voice growing harsher. His violet eyes bore into you, as if he’s searching for some understanding of why you would run. "What were you thinking? Were you going to Essos? Were you going to leave us all behind?"

His words cut deep, the sharpness of his accusation stinging more than you expected. But you lift your chin, defiance still burning in your chest. "You took everything from me, Aegon. You took my future, my choice, my life. I wanted to escape—to find something that was mine."

For a moment, his expression softens, as though he might understand. But then, his gaze hardens again. He turns to the soldiers who have gathered nearby, his voice carrying a command that makes your blood run cold. "Chain her dragon."

You feel the words like a physical blow. "No." Your voice is a whisper at first, and then louder, desperation filling it. "No! Aegon, you can’t—please, don’t do this!"

But he does not waver. The soldiers begin to move toward Tesaerix, and she growls low in her throat, sensing the threat. You scramble down from the saddle, running to stand between the men and your dragon, your heart pounding in your chest. "She’s done nothing wrong! You can’t punish her for what I did!"

Aegon’s face is hard, his jaw set. "She’s your dragon, Y/N. You tried to flee on her back. This is to ensure it doesn’t happen again."

"I’ll stay, I’ll do whatever you ask, just don’t chain her," you beg, your voice cracking with desperation. You look into his eyes, hoping—praying—that somewhere inside him, the brother you once knew still exists. "Please, Aegon. Don’t take her freedom. She’s not like Balerion or Vhagar—she’s mine. Please."

But your pleas fall on deaf ears. His gaze flickers, but his resolve does not falter. "This is for your own good. You will not leave us again."

You watch in horror as the chains are brought forth, heavy iron links meant to bind Tesaerix’s limbs and wings. She lets out a deep, angry roar, thrashing against the soldiers who dare approach her, but they move swiftly, well-practiced in subduing dragons. The weight of the chains soon drags her wings down, grounding her in a way that feels like a betrayal to everything she is—a creature of the skies, bound to the earth like a prisoner.

You fall to your knees, tears streaming down your face as you reach out to touch her, your hand trembling as it presses against her warm scales. "I’m sorry," you whisper, your voice shaking. "I’m so sorry."

Tesaerix rumbles softly, her eyes meeting yours, but there is a sadness in her gaze, a reflection of the helplessness you both feel.

Aegon watches from a distance, his expression unreadable now, but you can see the faint trace of guilt in his eyes. He turns his back to you, as if unable to bear the sight of your anguish.

Visenya remains mounted on Vhagar, her gaze sharp and unyielding. She offers no comfort, no sympathy. This is what must be done in her eyes, a necessary lesson in control. Rhaenys, still observing from above, does not intervene either. Her silence speaks volumes, but her presence feels distant, like she is struggling with the sight of your suffering.

The chains rattle as they secure the last link, the sound like a death knell in the still air. Tesaerix lowers her head, defeated, and your heart shatters along with her spirit.

You rise slowly to your feet, wiping the tears from your face with trembling hands, your eyes hollow as you look at Aegon one last time. "You’ve broken her," you say, your voice barely more than a whisper. "Just as you’ve broken me."

Aegon does not respond. He does not even turn. And in that moment, you know that the brother you once loved, the brother who might have understood your heart, is gone—replaced by the conqueror who cannot allow defiance, not even from his own blood.

[wyvernest]

cregan stark x f!targaryen!reader

first part - previous part - all chapters list

>>Queen Rhaenyra has sent you away from the brewing war to safety since your brother, Jacaerys, has secured the Pact of Ice and Fire. You have to honor it by marrying Lord Cregan Stark, Warden of the North.

chapter cw: smut, fluff, ANGST, explicit description of a wound

Wind's howling. The sea simmers with wrath and death.

The deck creaks and groans under you like an old beast waking from a decade-long sleep, bones cracking and jaws grinding with vengeance.

There is no crew, no captain. The ship is a wraith, and you, a speck of dust in the darkness.

You step towards the taffrail, looking down into the abyss. Terror washes over you, a raw instinct of deathly peril. Your heart thumps in your ears, and you feel the blood race through you.

Deep below, a wreckage drifts on the tides, carried by charred tongues of fallen beasts, licking its last life away. Atop, a small, frail creature, claws at the damp wood, drained and wounded.

Your throat tightens, a deeply rooted, dreamlike feeling of being bound to the creature rushes through you like wildfire. It tenses and crawls, its blood seeping into the black waters like a frozen breath leaving warm lungs for the last time.

The wind wails louder as you bend forward, seeking help, life, hope, with terror biting at your every sense. You slip over the ledge, and the void swallows you in your fall.

You awaken in your bed, the night barely pierced by the first lances of sunlight through the clouds. The fear slowly retreats, your breathing slowing down.

Cregan is still asleep next to you, lying on his stomach and facing away from you, his hair splayed messily over his shut eyes. You get up, quietly leaving his side to soothe yourself with cold water.

The castle is silent and imperturbable, a welcomed calmness following your nightly terrors. You walk like a ghost through the halls, lulled by the newfound safety, yet your mind is still imprisoned in thought.

Why would I even dream of such things? I cannot recall the last time I saw a ship, I cannot recall the last time I saw a storm at sea.

It is long past four moons since you first arrived in Winterfell, four moons since you last saw Dragonstone, your family, your brothers and sisters. The tenth day of the twelfth moon of 129 A.C. And for four moons, you haven't missed them nearly as much as now.

Perhaps it is the war, the news of Rhaenys, the murder, the unavoidable dread of death that knows no borders. Whatever it is, the dream shook you out of any serenity Cregan has struggled to settle in your heart.

“This is war. And the finality of death harrows even the toughest of men.”

But it was not the harrowing of your heart that woke you now. You would accept the night terrors every time you slept if it meant you could see your family alive and well again.

When you return to your chamber, Cregan shuffles to look at you, still lying down. He smiles, lazy and content, until he notices the strain between your brows, something you did not mean to bring back to him.

“My love?” He calles for you, but you push him back down before he could rise. You fall beside him, letting his warm hand cup your freshly washed cheek. “Did something happen?” His voice is still groggy with sleep, and the closure subdues your bleak worries.

“Just a dream.” You whisper, closing your eyes. His hand brushes over your hair lovingly.

“Tell me.” His hand moves to caress your back, pulling you closer to him.

“There is no need. All is good now.” But is it?

And yet you cast your worries aside when he drags you nearly under him, his free hand running over your waist and hip, dipping into the valley between your thighs. You cast your worries aside when you feel the coarse hair of his abdomen brush up against your belly.

Your mind goes numb when his massive body encompasses yours, as he breathes hotly into your neck, slipping himself inside you lazily; when he whispers to you of how he'll protect you, ah, love, you're mine own now, no harm will come to you.

But when his warmth leaves you, deep in the nights to come, the dreams find you again.

The second time they came with the same black waters, the drifting wreckage, but now shadows danced in the skies. Sinister serpents, prowling like enormous crows above a fresh cadaver. They pushed the clouds beneath them with behemothic wings, and you felt as though the whole night sky was coming down on you, in all its weight and darkness.

You dared look up once, up into the mirroring abyss. And then, you saw it. Through the gloom and mist, a ghost of a citadel atop a sunless hill. Perhaps there are many castles you may confound in such obscurity, but this was not one to be mistaken for something else.

Estrangement, guilt, it was, that claimed you in all these nights. A terrible shame, inexplicable for your position. You were sent North, you did not abandon your cause. But the creature in the sea bled every night, clung to the wreckage every night, and died every night.

It soon became an obsession. And weeks past, well near the end of the twelfth moon, your uneasiness bolts as Cregan receives another raven from Dragonstone.

The flying shadows. - is your first thought upon reading. The serpents swarming the skies. Though the letter should soothe you, with the notion of the Blacks’ forces finally recuperating, all you see is the black sky in a cobweb of smoke and thunderclouds. You see them much clearer; your family’s dragons stalking above the seas like starving vultures.

A broad hand on your lower back makes you turn back to Cregan.

“Word of this reached me shortly before the raven arrived.” He admitted, referring to new riders. “Your brother waited until the last dragon was mounted to write to us, but the people have been spreading the news like the plague ever since he first called for willing men.”

An overwhelming feeling of helplessness muffles out his voice. It's all amounting to the dream.

“They have fighting dragons.”

“You have fighting dragons, beloved. I dared not believe it without his testimony.”

You force yourself to smile at him, laying your head on his collarbone, the message still in hand.

“This is wonderful news.”

He kisses your forehead, taking the small scroll away. You briefly rub your fingers in its loss, as if the news had burnt your very skin.

“I am glad to know that I was able to please you, as well.” He remarks smugly, his tone laced with the honest surprise of seeing your brother quite literally tell on you.

Sudden nervousness momentarily rips you from the illusions of your distress. You scrunch up your face, as if you hadn’t already given him your maidenhead.

“Few brides have the comfort of wedding handsome men. Fewer, able men, and even fewer kind men. But …” You trail off, taunting his patience. He gazes at you, eyes squinted, the corners of his mouth ever so slightly raised. Even as a wolf, he often times held the cunning gaze of a fox, which amused you to no end, for you know it was only reserved for you. How he had the talent of drawing you out of dark thoughts with nothing but a jest or a tease.

“Well, don’t stop now.” His voice went down an octave, now sly and intimate.

“But to gain all three …” You kiss his cheek, dangerously close to his mouth.

His arms wrap around you in response. “To find yourself next to a man so strong-” another kiss, on his jaw. “- so resourceful -” another, on his lips, but so hasty that he doesn’t catch it.

“ - and yet so considerate and gentle. You hard warriors have no idea how important that is.” You stop, softly pushing him away to speak, your tone masquerading a scold. “You think it’s enough to butcher away any foes and any peril. But after that…” a kiss on the bridge of his nose. He looks at you like you’re preaching the word of gods. “ - to be able to lie in his arms, to know that these hands, that bathe in blood to protect her, will only ever touch her to caress, to fondle, to hold so dearly.” Your voice spills into seriousness, and he heeds your confession.

“That is when she truly feels safe.” You smile at him, accentuating your discourse by playfully shaking him twice by his shoulders. “And to have that, is more than any woman bargains with the gods for.”

He kisses your face, the slyness faded from his eyes.

“...And I can’t say you don’t look the part.”

He giggles, and your heart beats a little faster.

“I did not yet have the chance to truly protect you, love.” He corrects, and your heart sinks at his humble words, or more so at the recollection of your worries. “I haven’t yet spilt blood for you. Trust that I will , should the occasion arise.” That was no longer a jest, you realise. “And afterwards …” He leans into you, and seeing you do nothing to flee, he kisses your neck. “I’ll hold you, however you want, wife.”

Tonight you can barely shut your eyes without your heart thumping in your chest. After tossing and turning beside your husband, tiredness finally takes you and the visions creep over.

The nightsky rains with arrows. They snap and ring against the wooden shipwrecks like so many sharp teeth of jaws closing in on utter desolation.

Faceless, weightless, you step on the waters while the black wings dance and stalk restlessly, as the shafts hit the debris in a cacophony of wails, winds, tides crashing and roars of wrath.

And in this moment, it feels as though this cut is too deep even for time to mend. This place would never recover from such decay. Chaos has conquered the bay, irreversibly.

Death itself growls in the heavens above, blocking out the light of the moon. The sea heeds the call and drowns whatever escaped its claws, and the Red Keep stands still and cold and silent on the shores, an ill omen of rot and ruin.

The man on the rubble is dead. A snapped arrow coated in blood bore into his neck, the impact twisting his upper spine so unnaturally that he lies lifelessly atop the wreckage like a mayhem of boneless limbs discarded.

Only a hand quivers away in agony, the last semblance of a decapitated animal’s tremble.

You stomach turns.

Jacaerys!

You awaken in a sweat, with a shriek that rips Cregan from his slumber as well.

“ ‘S alright, come here, you're safe.” He cradles your still shivering hands to his chest, running a hand over your hair and back.

“ ‘m sorry.” You speak, muffled, remorseful and ashamed.

“It's no fault of yours.”

“...Cregan?”

You whisper, your limbs still tangled with each other. He hums, as attentive as he always is. The sun is just starting to show, and the dimness of the morning makes him look astonishingly beautiful.

“Would you do anything to shield me from pain?”

“ ‘course I would. What do you need of me?”

You hesitate. You know he would forbid you from fleeing, though you can not bring yourself to hide from your husband any longer. Whatever needs to be done, you ought to discuss it together.

“I need to fly South.”

There is a moment of complete silence. His face, for all you’ve grown to know, is now as impenetrable as The Wall. You cannot tell if you, indeed, sense anger or if it is only your expectations, for asking such a thing. You both get up as tension becomes unbearable.

“My men are already gathering at the White Harbour.” He speaks with patience and softness, understanding of your predicament, though stern and clearly unwavering. “In Barrowton.” He continues, “Roderick Dustin should be ready to march by week’s end. I-”

“ ‘Should’, and ‘by week’s end’…” You repeat to yourself in sorrow, too late releasing you quite rudely interrupted him. But the urgency of the issue can no longer afford gentleness nor much civility. “My family needs me, now. I dreamt of it, Cregan. You must believe me! And even if it’s wanton, even if the peril is still at bay, then I shall return safely. You mustn’t worry.”

“Wife.” His tone is demanding. It silences you, but deep in your heart you loathe him for it. You loathe him because of your dreams, because of the war, because greybeards can only ride so fast and so far, and will definitely not head for The Blackwater Bay.

“I have faith in your courage.” He begins, still holding you, yet the frost in his gaze is anew. “I do not doubt your loyalty. But as husband, I cannot allow you to risk such a thing. As warden, I cannot allow you to forsake the Queen’s command.”

“That’s your desire to protect me!” You speak hastily until your voice breaks, yet you go on. “What of me? How am I to live on knowing I could have saved someone so dear?! How am I to live with the remainder that I saw what would happen and did nothing?!”

“Dreams can be bad omens. But what if it was nothing more than a dream?” His voice escalates into the clear image of your demise in his mind. “What if you die for nothing? How would I live with that? Knowing I could have prevented it?”

“Cregan.” You brush an arm over his shoulder.

“I will say no more. You are not leaving Winterfell.” It is a command. And yet you hear him mumble, “I can’t lose you.”

Your heart sinks into your chest, and your throat tightens with unspoken pleas and cries.

Fortunately for you, Cregan is a heavy sleeper. He was still off soundly when you roused, during the hour of the wolf.

He was still undisturbed when you gently kissed his cheek, as an apology and farewell. He was unmoved when you slipped out of bed, changed into riding skirts and threw chainmail over your chemise and underneath the leather cloak.

“Lady Stark.” A reverential voice echoes in the halls when you depart from your shared bedchamber. For a heartbeat, your blood freezes at the thought that Cregan might, at last, awaken because of it.

“I have orders from Lord Stark to ensure your safety. Allow me to accompany you.”

“Oh, there's no need. I only mean to clear my mind on the battlements.”

Before he could reply, you turn your back to him and stroll off to the winding stairs. Your footsteps feel heavy, heavier than your masked armour, heavier than the dagger at your belt.

The cold, high winds hit your face as you reach the top of the castle. The merlons thin out the howling of winter gusts, but the cold dread is no less horrifying.

“Māzīs! Aderī!” (Come! Quick!)

The Godswood shivers with the call, but it does not matter. No one in the yard could be fast enough to catch you now.

Soon enough, a high pitched shriek answers as a slithering, white ghost of a cloud emerges from behind the high walls of Winterfell.

The silence of the night wails, broken, as Suvion brings his wings down, and with one, two swings, he's landing atop the tower, his hawk claws scraping the stone.

He brings his head to you, slightly frenzied by your tone and distress.

His icy scales shine with the dampness of the snow he had been dousing in, and his sheer beauty in the moonlight soothes you. He has grown. His wings are stronger. The cold had hardened him, as it did me.

“Sister!”

You halt, right before mounting.

“Sara.”

“Off on a nightly prowl?” she jests, but the moment she comes closer, eyeing your attire, her playful smile fades.

“Tell Cregan” you hesitate, pondering, “-to tell the lords he sent me on a secret scouting mission.”

She frowns, disheartened, lost, confused. After a few beats of unbearable ache, she speaks, as icy as Cregan had.

“Did you loathe it all from the beginning?”

“Sara, I cannot-”

“Is this what you'd always hoped to do?”

It's not an accusation. It's forlornness. Betrayal, and the grief of it.

“If I don't go, I will carry this burden with me for the rest of my life.”

She remains silent, but even Suvion twitches at the sound of her soft weep. You mount, shivering, with the cold, with regret, with doubt and fear, and guilt.

“If I do not return by the new moon's end, I loved him. Tell him I loved him. Tell him it's not his fault.”

With nothing but the sound of his wings, Suvion takes off from the tower.

a/n: that was quite the chapter

@ohsnapitzmarvelficrec @crypticlxrsh @louiselouve @karmaswitch @just-pure-trash @yujyujj @cost234 @dracaryxzs @cherrymallowtm @lady-targaryens-world @lightdragonrayne @krokietino @sukunassfinger @ithilwen-blackwood @rey26 @beebeechaos @melsunshine @aemondwhoresworld @romeavecryst @raynetargaryan2 @fireandblood-mharmie @mitski9328373 @drwho-ess @dorkysupernova @nitimurinvetitumsposts @ghitakhnifissa @darylspersonalwhore @helo1281917 @delaynew @poochies04 @accidentpronedork @fiction-fanfic-reader @rha3nyra @wallacewillow0773638 @star-serpent @potionsclub @moadvx @jellybeanstacey0519 @italianchameleon @ephemeralninon @sithapprentice @cloveradora @hawkins-2000 @thatspiderwebinthecorner @wolvestitches @idohknow @nyxbranwenn @asteria33 @nina6708 @r-3dlips

[theregencywriter]

Omg omg omg wait wait wait idk if anyone ever done this before but imagine meeting Colin on his travels and he thinks he'll never see you again so like yall might have shared a kiss 🤭 and then when Colin goes back him for the season and sees you his brain just short circuits and he's just shocked and his family have no idea why lol

Idk I would just love to see that lmao I love seeing Colin in distress when it comes to the women he loves

Over the sandy dunes - Colin Bridgerton X Reader

A/n : I love this request!!!! I saw it pop up in my inbox and I just HAD to write it ASAP, thank you so much for the request <3

When Colin Bridgerton left London to escape all of the recent turbulent events, he felt he could breathe again. With no Lady Whistledown looking over his shoulder or a hundred debutantes wishing for a dance, he could simply relax. It was in his sixth week abroad when he took rest along the shores of a beach in Greece. He had woken up early to catch the morning sun rise and be alone with his thoughts. He liked the guides he had, but to find true solitude with no one around was a rarity even in the smallest of towns. Laying on his back he stared up at the sky as the stars retreated upwards into the deep blue, and as the first rays of light pricked his noses and ran into his eyes he sat up to gaze upon the marvel.

His view, however, was obstructed. Up ahead was a woman on the beach, standing close to the thrashing sea and wearing a light dress with a lilac shawl that was tussling with the burgeoning winds. Normally he would have hated this interruption as he had woken up early specifically to be alone, but when looking at her form and how she seemed to sway ever so delicately he couldn't help but advance.

“Lovely day, isnt it?” As he uttered these words she quickly spun around in shock, making him realise he was probably far too close for comfort ad taking a step back. As she assessed the moment and relaxed  she spoke. “Yes, it is beautiful. I’m sorry, I thought I was alone here.” Colin chuckled. “Did you not see me laying down mere metres behind you?” She joined him in a laugh. “I have been walking along the shore for quite a while now. I fear my gaze was fixed on the horizon, nothing could break me from it.” 

A moment of silence fell between them. “Colin Bridgerton” he reached out his hand. “I am unsure if I can give you my familial name, but please, call me Y/n.” She gave him her hand and he planted a soft kiss onto it. “You speak with a similar accent, are you from London?” He enquired. “Not quite. I do have relatives in the city, but I live further North, close to Lincoln.”

Colin broke a smile. “Ah, well then, that explains it.” She looked at him, puzzled yet entertained. “Explains what?”

“Well I was unsure of how I could have never seen a face as beautiful as yours during a ball.” She looked down, and bit her lips. “If I may be honest, I was meant to debut this year, but I find the whole event to be pure drabble.” They shared a laugh. “In truth, I much prefer this to a ball. Endless exploration available at my very fingertips. It’s a wonder, is it not?” She looked at him, then towards the sunset, and she was returning his gaze once more he took her in, kissing her as she cupped his face.

This lasted for only a second before he pulled away. “I apologise, that was improper.” “Mr Bridgerton it was-” Another voice called down towards them from Colins residence. “Mr Bridgerton, there is a matter you must attend to!” Despite looking at his forlorn beau, he ran up the sandy dunes and over the hill, leaving Y/n alone.

Hours later, after sitting with the incident and realising he hadn’t allowed her to speak he ordered a carriage. According to his guided there was only one possible place anyone of her status could stay close by, but when he arrived he was informed that the family had left earlier on in the day, whilst refusing to give them their whereabouts. Upon his return to England he attempted to find her. Asking around if her name was known but without her last name, his efforts turned up nothing.

—

Colin fidgeted with his cuff, it had been slightly wrinkled earlier on yet he had no time to change it. He was never really a fan of these events, but knowing that Y/n detested them as well made it worse. The one event they conversed about, yet the subject was how she did not intend to be in attendance. His stomach churned thinking about it. How could he have left? No no, not just left, run up the dunes to get away from her. He had to take a breath and stop himself. It had been a year, he thought, he must move on. As he calmed and took a moment the doors swung open to announce another guest.

“Lady L/n and her daughter, Miss Y/n L/n”

His gaze was transfixed on her. As she came down the stairs her hand grasped by Colin, already a couple of steps up from his eagerness. “Miss Y/n, I believe I owe you a dance” He proclaimed, stroking her finger as he did and wondering about her ring size.

[fakescenariosbeforesleepblog]

By fire and heart. Pt. 8

Daemma Targaryen. Second daughter of King Viserys and queen Aemma, you're the living portrait of your mother with the character of a true dragon, as a second daughter you don't have right to the throne but certainly, you will protect your sister's succession by heart.

Warning ⚠️: Credits of this images goes to the TikTok user ccarmyy! Grammatical and spelling errors, maybe this won't be good enough but In my head the story was a good one.

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters nor do I claim to own them. I do not own any of the images used nor do I claim to own them.

Pt.9 here

You arrived to the north and instantly ran to your future husband, hugging him, drowning in his scent, the desire you've been containing during the trip disappears as soon as you and him are in your chambers, he was a wolf riding a dragon and you were a dragon devouring a wolf.

The room was destroyed just like your dress and every clothe, you used every chair, every table, all your bed, and you still needed more.

«I'm your betrothed, it doesn't matter if we share our bed before the wedding, I'm already yours my lord.»

You were happy, you weren't sure if it was because of him, because you loved him or if it was the fact that all your desires were attended.

While you're enjoying and exploring new horizons of your femininity and the love between a man and a woman, at the other site of the kingdom, your father gave his last breath and your half brother is trying to escape the throne and the crown that his mother and grandfather want to put over his head.

You don't even imagine it, until you're taking a bath, eyes close, suddenly some visions, are tormenting you.

Aegon wearing a crown, Rhaenyra wearing another, you can see blood in their hands, hearing screams and pleadings, one of Aegon's children, you riding the back of a wolf, dragons roaring and spitting fire everywhere, Thank to the gods your future husband is close to hearing your heavy breathing, bringing you back to your reality with a touch in your shoulder.

- What's wrong with my warrior princess?

- I... I don't know, I'm sorry... Perhaps I'm just tired my Lord.

Smiling instantly you're trying to hide the obvious anxiety that is eating you alive, you can't fool him but he knows there's no point in insisting, you will talk about this when you feel ready so he only kisses you softly and leaves you to rest while he goes to attend his usual tasks.

For the next few days you've been keeping him busy in your chambers, fulfilling your marital duties, even though, you're not married yet.

Your place as the future lady of the north has also a lot of duties, so, during the day you're the lady of the north but at night, you're still the warrior princess, the one who rides the wolf of the north, the one who made the strongest alliance in the name of her sister.

You're In the training yard observing your future husband, when the wind whispers something in your ear, or at least that's what you think, you're alone, there's no one close to you.

«The greens are coming for you...»

Cregan suddenly is running to you, you didn't even feel it, you were falling, fainting. You ended up on the ground, Cregan instantly asked for help, everybody took you to your chambers, you don't know how much you slept, but In your sleep you could hear the roars of dragons, your sister screaming in pain, you had visions about a baby with a dragon tail, scales, feet and hands; you saw your father's crown, you heard the voice of your uncle whispering «Luke is deep in the sea... The queen of the seven kingdoms...and the princess who protects her...»

Cregan stayed at your side, hearing you mumbling strange things about war, about kings confronting and burning the world and how the gods were whispering and showing you the future. He thought the fever was attacking you, taking the best of you, another lady that would die in his arms.

Meanwhile your sister is dealing with the war that is approaching, dealing with the pain of her child's death, the little Visenya, who came to this world before her time.

Your sister is in need of help, her spirit is stronger than ever but her heart is weak, the pain is invading it.

She knows she needs any house big or small, she needs as many people as possible on her side. Messengers are on their way to every corner of the kingdom, some dragon raiders too.

Soon or later, the news will knock on your door. Your nephews are on their way to different sites of the kingdom,while you still can't wake up from your dream.

The tragedy following Rhaenyra as a shadow, you're the last light of hope, she never realized how strong it was the bond between you and her, since that day, when both destiny was sealed.

Daemon, received the news first, he had a soft voice only for Rhaenyra, softly telling her the horror her son lived in before leaving this world.

Lucerys Velaryon, the prince, the messenger that never came back home and Arrax, his young and brave dragon, defeated his rider until the end, the little beast dared to attack the largest and oldest Dragon, Vhagar. No one would ever know the bravery of the young prince and his dragon had to confront his uncle and his giant beast.

«Arrax! Luke! Where are you?...»

In your dream, you can hear your nephew calling you, you can hear the roaring of Arrax, you can only see silhouettes, poor you, you can't imagine what is happening in the real world.

Cregan has left your side, he still has duties to attend. But you have your maidens taking good care of you.

Targaryen are dreamers, some of them believe in what they see, some others, don't. But you're one who decides to believe them. As for magic, you wake up, gasping loudly, your maidens are instantly trying to calm you, they're more anxious than you, your mind is focused on your family, then someone informs you, your nephew, Jacaerys came to leave a message for you and Lord Stark.

- Bring me a coat, I have to see my nephew, now!

Everybody in the room is running, preparing you a bath and clothes, even though your servants told you, Cregan and Jace are on the wall, you don't care, you will fly in your dragon if it is necessary but you have to talk with Jace.

You're ready to leave when the doors of the entrance are opening. They're back, you run to Cregan, he catches your face between his hands, observing if You're okay, Jace is quiet, observing both interaction, as soon as you plant your eyes on him you hug him tightly.

- Jace, what is it, what is going on, why are you here?

- Aunt Daemma, I bring news, unfortunately not good ones. Cregan told me you were sick but you seem healthy.

- I am perfectly fine, I just... Had a vision or something. Doesn't matter right now, tell me, what are the news.

And while Jacaerys talks, you feel more and more sure about your dreams, your visions and all that happened in your sleep. At least nothing is completely bad, Cregan and Jacaerys are good friends and allies, if you already had the north in your hand, the fact that your nephew came personally to ask for help kindly without threat made this alliance stronger than ever.

- To win a war you have to know who your allies are, I'm so glad you had the chance to talk and meet Lord Stark.

The three of you are in a deep and important conversation, negotiating the last details of this alliance when a man comes to Cregan with a letter, a raven from Dragonstone, while he's reading, his expression starts to get cold and serious, you don't have to ask, you can bet it is about Lucerys and you were not wrong, Jace is young but is also a strong Targaryen who knows the importance of keeping the pain and the sadness for another moment.

Cregan, as the gentleman and leader that he is, understands perfectly your decision to leave. You have to go home, support your sister and fight at her side, now that you're sure he will keep his word, you can go and do the necessary to help.

- I'm not only loyal to our queen, I'm loyal to you, Daemma. The north will be waiting for your commands, and I will be waiting for my wife's return.

Kissing your forehead, your hands and your lips deeply, holding you tightly and wishing you good luck, he says goodbye.

You and Jace embark on the journey, but before going to dragonstone, you decide to make a quick stop, alone, at Kingslanding.

You had to be far or fly too high to not be seen by the guards, you're waiting in the sky, expecting a distraction to finally land not so far from the city.

Aemond's arrival is the perfect distraction, now you're taking the hidden halls of the castle, once you're sure you're in Aemond's chambers, you can see him, walking from one side to the room to another, biting his nails, too distracted by his own mind.

You consider killing him, right there and no one would expect it. Unfortunately, your anger and the poison you've been containing pushes you to ruin your best chance.

- How stupid you have to be to think that an old dragon who has been in battle its entire life wouldn't attack to kill? Also, it is ironic... You said they are bastards and yet, you gave him a classic Targaryen dead, he died riding his dragon.

He doesn't act surprised, but you're sure you scared him and quickly made him furious.

- How stupid you have to be to come here alone and talk to me in that way, Daemma?

- Oh Aemond, don't think I'm afraid of you, if I wanted I could kill you, you would be dead already, but it is not me who has to make you pay for what you've done, I'm here with the only intention to know why.

You know you messed up, you could take revenge but that silly mistake now has you playing a risky card.

- You can't be serious. All the long journey to just know why I did what I did? Doesn't matter, what is done, it's done.

He walks slowly in your direction, you don't step back, you have to keep your defiant position but also you have to make him feel like you're not an enemy right now.

- Really? Is that what your mother told you? The queen must be... Very pleased, after all, she was a great influence who helped and supported Rhaenyra's usurpation throne.

- The queen doesn't know what she wants anymore.

- Of course not, the queen has always spoken with two tongues, she has always been divided between her father and her childhood friend, that always has been her problem, but in the end she chose to be her father's puppet.

- Watch your tongue, Daemma, she's still my mother I will not allow you to talk about her in that way.

Time to move on, leave that conversation behind.

-I always considered you as the smartest one. You know? And with all that is happening right now I've been thinking about how unfair it must be for you to not be named as king.

His tensed jaw makes you calculate your words, you have to be careful.

-You're smarter, stronger and a great knight. Don't take me wrong, I do not intend to provoke you, I'm just pointing at the obvious.

He looks at you confused, somehow he's expecting anxiously for your next words.

- You and I, we have more in common than what you think. We're the second ones. We've been proving we're better than our siblings our entire life, with time I accepted my destiny but you, Aemond you don't have to make the same mistake. I think you deserve more...

- Be clear, Daemma.

You stand in front of him, touching his hair softly, looking at him with big bright eyes, praying to make your magic or have some luck to at least have a chance to escape by fooling him touching a weak fiber inside him, whispering the last words in the most sweet and innocent way you could, so close to his ear that your lips are almost caressing it.

- The crown should be yours, my king...

Aemond doesn't show any emotion, for a second you think you're making more and more mistakes so you look down at the skirts of your dress, when his large hand takes your chin to make you face him again.

- Why are you saying all this?

- Because I know myself, my sister and I know Aegon, none of us would be good leaders, but you, Aemond, you have what we don't, I've seen it in dreams, you will be sitting on the throne.

Perhaps you say all those lies with much confidence or maybe you had the luck you prayed for. But Aemond smiles a little, convinced, pleased with your words.

- You're saying all this with a reason, tell me what is it.

- I said I wouldn't be good sitting on the throne to rule, I just want... Dragonstone, I want to be the owner of something, that's all.

He's about to ask more questions when a guard knocks on his door. Without opening the doors and with a loud and cold voice he demands to know why are they interrupting him.

- What is it?

«Ah... Pardon me, my prince, but your brother requested your presence at the small council.»

- See? Aegon can't handle the responsibilities, he's weak and easy to persuade, but you're different, you're difficult and impulsive, that's your advantage. You have to clean your path on this side and I'll do it on mine, do we have a deal?.

You whisper again feeling like a snake, filling his system with your poison, feeding his desires with false hopes and lies, because it's not your intention to betray your sister, you only want to escape. He looks back at you, caressing your chin, observing cautiously in your eyes, looking for any signs of lies, but maybe you played well, since he nodded in silence and left the room, as quick as he disappeared you did the same, coming back to your dragon, going home.

While you were in the sky, your sister was looking for her son, anything that could belong to Lucerys Velaryon.

Meanwhile the greens are struggling, different objectives, different causes and motives are on the table. Did you create more cracks?.

As soon as the moon is lighting the sky, you appear and soon, Rhaenyra does it too.

She doesn't even talk to you, or someone else in the room, some men welcomed you but that was all, her rage and grief were palpable.

After some people inform the advances, she listens or at least you would like to think she does. But the only thing she says, is something none of you weren't expecting.

- I want Aemond Targaryen.

Just like that, she doesn't say anything else and leaves the room. Daemon left minutes later, you feel like a ghost, not many people notice you, now you're feeling like the young version of yourself, isolated, wondering if you made the right decision leaving your comfortable place in the north.

Jace convinced you to go with him to have a private meeting with his mother, once there, you're behind the young man, who's hardly trying to not show how much the loss of his brother is affecting him.

- Your grace.

Both say in one voice, curtsying, Rhaenyra stays on her seat, her puffy eyes reveal all the tears she had been pouring.

Jace says something about a dragon in vale, then he mentions the men and the loyalty the north promised, his voice is cracking and suddenly Rhaenyra stops to play her character as queen and changes it for the mother figure her son needs.

You're still behind, unsure of what to do, the moment seems intimate and private, but then, Rhaenyra looks at you and without stopping the hug with her son, she offers one hand, indicating you can approach, instantly you run and join to the hug, sobbing and apologizing for not being here before.

The funeral was bitter and full of sadness, but somehow brought more union between your family. But Daemon mysteriously disappears, no one knows where he is, but you know his absence is something to worry about.

At the hour of the owl, walking between the walls and In front of everybody's noses, the revenge walked, the blood was soon to be spilled.

«The queen of dreams and the queen of dragons tied by the loss of an innocent»

The whisper wakes you up, you don't know why or how, but instantly you walk around dragonstone, checking on every kids room, because you were not prepared to lose someone else.

[bekolxeram]

7x03 analysis part 2 — Too many Cats

Tommy flew a helicopter into a Category 5 hurricane, at least the show told us so. Is it even possible for an aircraft to fly in those conditions? Today, we are going to figure out just how strong the storm actually is canonically, and how realistic our beloved weewoo show is.

TW: Hurricane, extreme weather, natural disaster

What is the difference between a tropical storm and a hurricane? What even is a hurricane?

Both tropical storm and hurricane are tropical cyclones, just of different strength. A tropical cyclone is a rotating storm system with a low pressure center. The center, or the eye of the storm, sucks in warm moist air from an oceanic environment and it feeds into the generation of storm clouds that organize themselves into a spiral pattern due to the Earth's rotation, aka Coriolis effect.

A tropical cyclone is classified by its maximum sustained wind.

So if it's below 62 km/h, it's a tropical Depression. if it's between 63-118 km/h, it's a Tropical Storm. A Category 5 hurricane though has a maximum sustained wind speed of over 252 km/h.

A strong enough tropical cyclone is called a hurricane in North America, a typhoon in East Asian, and a cyclone in the Indian Ocean (including Australia).

How strong is the storm in 7x03 actually?

We first see the storm at the end of 7x01, when First Mate Kenneth tells Captain Ochoa there is a strengthening tropical storm in the ship's path. Captain Ochoa decides to reverse course back to LA and instructs Kenneth to alert the Coast Guard, but they get interrupted by the cartel.

Fast forward to 7x02, the next mention of the storm comes from Karen. When Hen is sent home by Chief Simpson, she tries to call Athena, but it goes straight to voicemail. Karen tells her cell service is probably spotty out at sea because of the hurricane, which has just got upgraded.

It's recently upgraded to a Category 2 hurricane, as we can see from Karen's tablet.

Then Hen goes to Maddie to ask the Coast Guard to look for Bathena's cruise ship. When Hen shows Maddie the ship tracking app on her phone, the time is 10:28. (I'm guessing PM because it's already dark outside during the Kyle Ortiz call.)

By the time Chief Simpson comes by to reinstate Hen, she's already talking about a Cat 5 hurricane. That can't be more than an hour or two later.

So which one is it? Is it a Cat 2 or a Cat 5? Who should I trust?

Tommy. Whenever he flies, his safety depends on his understanding of the local wind condition and weather. You should listen to him:

So it's a Cat 5, at least by the time the 118 set off on their journey to save Bathena.

Can a tropical storm intensify into a Cat 5 hurricane in hours?

No, not in real life. The record for most rapid intensification of a tropical cyclone is Hurricane Patricia in 2015, but it still took 24 hours. This doesn't mean the storm in 7x03 is completely made up. I believe I might have found the real life inspiration behind it.

Hurricane Otis (2023)

An area of low pressure formed on October 15, 2023 over the Pacific Ocean off the coast of Mexico. While it was during a significant El Niño period and the ocean temperature was record-breaking-ly high, strong vertical wind shear condition near the storm was predicted to hinder its development. It was originally forecasted to make landfall as a mere tropical storm. People in Acapulco went to bed on October 23 expecting moderate wind and light rainfall, many stopped seeking out updates of the storm.

In the early hours of October 24, meteorologists at the NHC recognized from satellite images that tropical storm Otis was rapidly intensifying into a hurricane. The NHC officially upgraded the storm to a Cat 1 hurricane at 13:00 CDT and sent out a hurricane hunter aircraft to accurately measure the actual wind speed of the cyclone.

Satellite images provide a pretty good model to estimate the strength of a tropical cyclone, but the most reliable way to measure wind speed is still to fly an aircraft into it and physically measure it. When the hurricane hunter managed to fly into the eyewall of Otis, everyone realized they made a huge mistake: Otis had already become a Cat 3 hurricane, and it was expected to strengthen even more. It takes time to process data received from the hurricane hunter, so operationally the NHC still classified Otis as a Cat 1 hurricane until the next advisory was scheduled to come out, which was at 16:00 CDT, but by that time, Otis was already near Cat 4 strength. It was then officially upgraded to a Cat 5 hurricane at 22:00 CDT.

While Otis did take around 24 hours to intensify from a tropical storm to a catastrophic hurricane, if you just look at the NHC advisories, it pretty much jumped from a Cat 1 into a Cat 5 in 9 hours. It caused extensive damage to Acapulco when it made landfall because the city was severely underprepared. I suspect the cruise ship disaster arc was inspired by hurricane Otis because it happened just a month after the writer strike ended. Also, in 7x02 Maddie, a 911 dispatcher, was not aware that the tropical storm had already strengthened into a hurricane, which mirrors the unexpected development of hurricane Otis.

As the storm in universe was going back at sea and not making landfall, the authority was probably in even less of a hurry to find out what the actual strength of the cyclone was. So it could take them even longer to send in weather reconnaissance aircrafts. I can imagine the 911-verse version of the storm jumping from a Cat 2 to a Cat 5 officially in mere hours.

Can a helicopter fly in a Cat 5 hurricane?

Technically yes, but the chopper won't be doing the flying. The aforementioned NOAA Hurricane Hunter is a Lockheed P-3 Orion specifically modified and fortified for weather information collection. If this four-engined workhorse has to fight tooth and nail against crosswind and turbulence in order to fly into the eye of the storm, a small single engine helicopter definitely would not fair any better. It would end up getting tossed around, a particular strong downdraft might slam it into the ocean, or a prolong bout of severe turbulence might rip it apart. Luckily in 7x03, Tommy is not actually flying into a hurricane, he's trailing behind it.

NOAA Lockheed WP-3D Orion Hurricane Hunter

In a blink-and-you-miss-it exchange between Buck and Tommy, after Tommy says "a Cat 5 hurricane passed through here", Buck asks why he means by "passed through" and what they are flying in at the moment.

"iNTermITteNt sHOweRs"

When looking at the cross section of a tropical cyclone, you can see rows of rainbands around the eyewall, increasing in size the closer it is to the center of the storm. If you have ever experienced a tropical cyclone making landfall, you would know it starts with sporadic bouts of rainfall (aka intermittent showers), which then gradually increase in frequency and severity as the storm approaches. Once you are within 100-200 km of the eye, wind speed would become violent while the rainbands become so wide and close together it basically keeps raining until you are right under the eye.

These are radar images of hurricane Irma (2017) making landfall in Florida. Bands of moderate to heavy rainfall spread across the inner core region of the cyclone, with still pretty consistent light to moderate precipitation between the gaps. But in the area further away from the eye in the southwest and southeast quadrants, you can see more squall line like patterns. Precipitation would abruptly begin and stop as you fly in and out of those outer lumps of clouds.

Wind speed in that area is no where near hurricane level even for a Cat 5 cyclone, it is typically under 100 km/h. That does not mean it is a safe condition to fly in. Because the outer rainbands of a cyclone are less affected by the storm's vortex dynamics, they behave more like regular thunderstorms. As you know, thunderstorms are big no-no's for aviation safety. In fact, the outer rainbands of a typhoon once contributed to a plane crash in Taiwan.

Conclusion

The hurricane in 7x03 is likely based on reality, albeit with a bit of exaggeration and a shortened timeline for dramatic effect. It is possible to fly and control a helicopter in this specific condition, but the danger is still quite high. Flying into a thunderstorm has a whole different set of risks associated with it, which I will tell you all about next time. Yes, part 3 of this series is "how to crash a helicopter with weather", so stay tuned.

[woodsdyke]

happy halloween month! this seems like as good of a time as any to share this little thing i wrote about hey wouldn't it be fucked up if the ocean ate your dad. please enjoy. thanks

trigger warnings: description of dead bodies, character death (including death of a child), drowning

---

barnacles

word count: 2,577 words

Her father returns from a fishing trip on the third of September, two weeks after his expected return, and looks at her with a dead man's eyes.

She sees his boat in the distance before anyone else, through the little gold spyglass she’d gotten from her uncle a while back, the one who told her stories about his voyages in the navy but only when her mother wasn’t within earshot. She shouts through the open front door that he’s back and sprints down through the yard, across the beach, and out to the far end of the dock. The wood creaks under her bare feet.

It’s not unusual for him to come back a day or two after he promised – sometimes the wind just doesn’t cooperate – but a fortnight is a long time. Her mother had been worried sick. Saoirse watches the boat approach and decides it looks unharmed, just as it did when he’d left at dawn in mid-August. Maybe the sails are a bit worse for wear, expected for this time of year, the evening storms that roll in from out at sea more or less like clockwork can batter such a small vessel.

She waves with both hands as the ship navigates to the dock and comes to a halt next to it. Her father raises a hand in greeting but doesn’t say anything, instead focusing on lowering the sails, dropping the anchor, then clambering over the side of the boat to tie her to the dock. Saoirse goes to help. She grabs one of the ropes and ties it to a post, complete with one of the sturdy knots she’s been practicing. She tugs on the rope and it holds.

“You said you’d be home a fortnight ago,” Saoirse tells him, once the boat is secure.

“I’m sorry, my dear, I got caught up in the weather, blew me off course,” her father says, lifting his duffel bag from the boat’s deck and slinging it over his shoulder, and it’s only then when he looks at her.

Saoirse freezes up. She can’t help it.

She’s seen the look in her father’s eyes before.

Years ago, when she wasn’t a day past eight, two of the neighbor boys had gone out to their dock to go swimming, and only one came back. Everyone knows the danger of the sea, especially this far north – she’s cold, and mean, and unforgiving, and if she doesn’t dash you upon the rocks, she’ll drag you down and never let you go. One of the boys, a tall, scrawny redhead named Cormac, ran clumsily from the surf and back towards his house, shouting up a storm as he went. He returned to the dock with his parents, as if there was anything they could do. To a child, maybe the idea that the sea can forgive a misstep was a possibility. To his parents, whose son was gone in an instant, down in a grave no one can visit, there was no such hope.

Saoirse listened to the anguished sobs of the boy’s mother from the warmth and safety of her bedroom. Her own mother brought the grieving family a meal.

And then, that next morning, Saoirse had gone down to the beach for her routine beach combing, searching for pieces of glass, colorful shells, the occasional glass bottle that never contained a letter as much as she wished it would, and instead she found a small, gray, waterlogged corpse, washed up on the shore like a beached whale.

She didn’t scream, or cry, or do much of anything. She just stood there, still, silent, and looked down at the dead boy. The sea ate him and spat him back up. Not nearly big enough to be a decent meal. His eyes were open.

When her father looks at her, his eyes are the same. They belong to something the sea devoured and coughed back up. She thinks maybe if she blinks it’ll all go back to normal, and she can pretend it was just a trick of the light, but it doesn’t work like that. Her father’s steely grey eyes are cloudy, now, dull, looking through her, rather than at her, like she’s invisible and he’s focused on the horizon behind her.

She follows him back up to the house, where her mother embraces him and tells him she’d been so worried, and Saoirse searches her eyes for any surprise, fear, anything, but all she sees is relief. They have fresh fish and roasted potatoes for dinner, and even an apple pie her mother had made, and then Saoirse goes to bed and doesn’t sleep, staring out the window at the ocean in the distance, all dark, sleek glass and an empty gray sky.

---

There’s more wrong with him than just his eyes, but no one else seems to notice.

Apparently, he’d been out so long because strong north winds had pushed the boat further out to sea and had persisted for quite a while, giving him a much longer journey home. Otherwise, it had been a good trip, he’d cleaned his catch and took quite a lot of it down to the weekend market and had come back with an impressive amount of money in hand. It would keep them comfortable for a while, at least until the weather improved again. It’s been raining for four days now with no signs of stopping.

Usually when he comes back, Saoirse’s father returns with a story or two, as well. Either a true recounting of something notable, or a cleverly crafted lie that she can see right through but likes to hear anyway. This time, he doesn’t offer her anything, and when she asks, he smiles, serene, and tells her it was a nice trip. An uneventful one. The wind just worked against him for a while. It happens.

That night, after she’s supposed to be asleep, she creeps downstairs and spots him on the front porch, standing stock-still at its edge, hands relaxed at his sides, chin raised. She watches him for a while before retreating upstairs. When she returns one more time before she sleeps, he’s still there, empty eyes on the sea.

---

He does it every night, for hours. Just stands on the front porch and stares at the water. Saoirse wants to ask her mother about it, but she doesn’t, on the off chance she doesn’t know.

---

Saoirse’s down on the dock, on her hands and knees so she can lean over the edge to look for jellyfish, when something on the boat’s hull catches her eye. The weathered wood is caked in barnacles, their sharp angles and bleached shells like old bone, little creatures hidden inside. She sits back onto her knees and furrows her brow. The morning before he had left, she helped her father scrape all the barnacles from the wood. If you don’t take them off now and again, they can change the ship’s drag, even damage it over time.

It takes a long time for this many to take hold, a lot longer than a fortnight and change.

Saoirse looks at the barnacles for another moment, as if expecting something to happen, but it doesn’t. She goes back to the house.

“Papa?” she leans through the doorway to the living room where her father is sitting at the table. He’s not doing anything, just sitting there, hands on his lap, eyes on the sea out the window. He turns his head to look at her. “There’s barnacles on the boat.” He doesn’t respond. Saoirse shifts uneasily from one foot to the other. “We scraped them all off before you left.”

He nods, thoughtful. “There aren’t any barnacles.”

“There are. I just saw them.”

His expression darkens, and Saoirse grimaces. “We scraped them all off before I left, Saoirse,” he says, in a firm, almost angry voice, and she blanches. Her father’s a kind, gentle man, no sharp edges. He should be getting up and going down with her to the dock, sitting down to get a close look at the barnacles, saying ‘huh, that is strange, isn’t it?’ which isn’t an answer but is at least an acknowledgement.

Saoirse opens her mouth to speak. “Drop it,” her father hisses through his teeth. She quickly leaves the room.

---

One weekend, her brothers visit. Alisdair is twelve years her senior, a carpenter in Cork, he’s got a wife and two kids. He’s made a good life for himself. Oscar’s a year younger, a bit more of a wanderer, currently a physician’s assistant in a town about a day’s ride to the north, though who knows how long that will last. When Oscar shows up, she watches him like a hawk, waiting for the confusion, the concern, but instead he just embraces both his parents with a grin and a greeting. That evening, Alisdair does the same.

Saoirse wonders if she’s gone mad.

---

“I think something’s wrong with Papa,” Saoirse tells her brothers while they’re in the kitchen alone. Alisdair is cleaning and filleting a few mackerel they’d reeled in from the dock earlier. Oscar lifts the cheesecloth over a large bowl to check the rise on a loaf of bread. They both look at her. She focuses on chopping carrots. “He went out on a trip last month, and when he came back he was different. He’s not acting right.”

Oscar says he doesn’t know what she means. Alisdair seems to agree. She wants to turn around and grab them and shake them, maybe even point her knife at them, say ‘do you see his eyes? You have to have seen his eyes’.

She doesn’t. She chops more carrots. When she nicks her index finger with the knife, she sticks her finger in her mouth and tastes the copper of her own blood.

---

It’s been nearly two months since her father had returned from his fishing trip. She tries to ask about the barnacles again, but he snaps at her not to worry about it. She gets the courage to ask her mother if she notices anything off about him, but she shrugs her off and says she worries too much.

A storm is rolling in from the south that night. The sea far on the horizon is choppy and wild, nearly black water and bright white foam. The front door is open. Saoirse pauses at the base of the stairs, watching the curtains in the kitchen flutter in the breeze. She can just see the shape of her father through the doorway, on the porch. “Papa?” she calls, keeping her voice low. There’s no response, no movement. She makes her way towards the door, slow, hesitant, almost afraid, though she isn’t sure of what.

Her father is standing at the edge of the porch again. He has been doing this a lot lately, more often in the past week or so. He never says a word, never moves a muscle, just stands and stares with a look in his eyes that is hard to place.

“Papa,” Saoirse repeats, louder this time. He mumbles something, inarticulate. “What?”

“I need to go back,” he says, clearer now, but distant.

“Go back where?”

He says it again, in the same blank, even tone. Saoirse grabs his sleeve to try to get his attention. He doesn’t pull away, but doesn’t turn towards her, either. He says it again, once, twice, and again, like a litany, and no matter what she does, she can’t get him to say anything else.

I need to go back.

---

He stops talking after that. Her mother says he’s just tired.

---

Three months to the day since his return, her father finally steps off the porch. It’s an unseasonably warm, calm night, the sea is still, the wind barely there. It’s become a sort of routine by now – Saoirse descends the stairs at night, watches her father on the porch, and then heads back up after a few minutes. She’s not sure why she does it. Maybe she thinks someday it’ll stop, and the sea will give her father back, the one with green eyes and a friendly smile and stories about adventures at sea, about huge fish hooked but lost to snapped lines, of ships with black flags far in the distance.

When she makes it to the porch this time, he’s not there anymore. Instead, he’s striding through the yard, purposeful, silent. It’s a short walk down to the beach. Saoirse rushes to put on her shoes and follows after him. She calls for him, but he doesn’t slow down. She picks her way through the haphazard line of driftwood at the beach’s edge, bleached white like old bones, and her shoes sink into the sand as she approaches the water. She stops, a few meters away from her father, and watches. She doesn’t call out to him again. He can’t hear her. Waves rushing in his ears.

The moon is bright overhead and it lights up the water enough for the drop off to be visible, a dark, stormy blue cutting to inky black. She’s swum in these waters before. It stays shallow, just for a bit, and then the sand crumbles under your feet and there’s nothing below you. It’s the drop off that took their neighbors’ son and returned him all bloated and cold.

Her father’s feet are in the water now, it’s soaking into the legs of his trousers. He keeps walking, slower now, but with just as much purpose, until he’s up to his knees, thighs, waist. It’s only when he’s up to his chest in the surf that she shouts to him again. Come back, she says, what are you doing?

Finally, he looks over his shoulder. His eyes have changed again, milky white now, no trace of a pupil, of life. They seem just slightly too big to fit in his skull.

He turns back around and doesn’t stop walking, not even when the water licks at his collarbones, when he goes under completely, and then he’s not walking anymore and the beach is silent. He doesn’t resurface.

Saoirse should probably start screaming, run back to their house to get help, tell her mother what had happened, but it’s no use. She can feel it in her bones, like the chill from the northern winds that hit in the early days of autumn, in those days when her father first came back.

The sea never gives up her dead. At least not for long.

---

There’s no body, and funerals are expensive, so they hammer a cross in the backyard with his name on it and Saoirse gathers flowers from the meadow down the street. They send letters to Oscar and Alisdair to tell them the news. His sister, too, in England, and his brother, who may be dead for all they know, but they send the letter anyway, just in case.

---

“Something was wrong with him. After he came back from that trip.” Saoirse is standing on the porch, feet teetering on the edge, looking out to sea. A storm brews far in the distance. She wonders if it’ll bring snow with it.

Her mother wrings her hands. She’s looked so tired lately.

“I know.”

Saoirse nods.

“There was nothing to be done.”

“You’re probably right,” Saoirse agrees.

Her father’s fishing boat bobs placidly alongside the dock, hundreds of barnacles and all.

[ceilidho]

tell me something nuclear winter ghoap NOW!! (bo)

BO!!!!! ok you wanna read what i've got so far?? it's not very much but here's what i have for my project that's tentatively titled "permafrost"

At first, it comes as a series of lights in the distance, a gentle rain like a cascade of falling stars. And then, it goes dark.

It happens over the course of several hours. By the time the dust settles—and it never settles, never really settles, always hangs in the air and renders it unbreathable, unlivable—and the sirens quiet and the last few screams die off, there’s hardly anything left. Hardly anything left living. 

The initial blast doesn’t reach up the country and, for that, Johnny lasts the months after the first nuclear bombs are dropped. Somedays, he can barely recollect the hours after the initial impact; they come back in foggy chunks, stumbling out of his house, boots crunching over the glass that had been blown clean out of the windows, covering his eyes against the flash of light and staring out into the distance at the mushrooming cloud of smoke just cresting the horizon. The bottom falling out of him at the sight.

More bombs hit other parts of the continent, several in Russia, throughout Asia and down into Africa, and across the pond as well. The world goes up in flames in an hour. In his cabin up in the Scottish Highlands, crutches jammed under his arms in his haste to limp his way outside, he sees the blast and then hears it a minute or so later. A roar rippling through the air. 

It shatters the world. 

In the present day, the boat sways where it’s roped to the wharf, the waters choppy. Johnny sits on the deck in a foldout chair, fastening a new head onto his ax, fixing the metal wedge over the eye to hold it in place. The blade is cleaner than the one that’d just cracked, sharp from being run over the whetstone. He pulls his scarf back over his nose when it slips down his face.

His cabin in the Highlands hadn’t been a viable choice for longer than a few months, not after the cold had finally begun to set in. Too far up north. He’d made his way down south over the course of weeks, bringing with him only as much as he could carry. A bittersweet goodbye to the summer home of his youth, a hand laid flat against the door before turning on his heel and starting the long trek south.

It’s not any warmer farther down south, particularly around the coast where the wind gets bitterly cold, sinking into the bone. He’d found the boat on a whim, the only structure still relatively intact and, most importantly, isolated.

Making his home on an old boat might not win him any awards for brightest idea, but the downside to traveling further into the country, away from the untenable glacial weather up north, is that it coincides with the areas where the bombs were dropped, leaving limited options for shelter.

Months pass. Years pass. 

His ankle healed funny all those years ago from prolonged bouts of starvation before desperation kicked in and from traveling miles on foot. He’d driven a portion of the way down north until the roads had outlived their usefulness—asphalt cracked, chunks of bedrock spiking up out of the ground. The rest he’d managed with his crutches and a single backpack, leaving the car to rot some three hundred or so miles up the country.

It's some strange occurrence, Johnny thinks at age thirty-something (he’s lost count), that his lot be murky, for death to miscount. He witnesses an apocalypse and comes out the other side. Happenstance. Coincidence, that he’s discharged from the military not a month before the first bomb hits London and leaves a crater that never fills, that never heals. A pockmark in the earth. 

His lips twist bitterly. The price of a long life is a barbed and slick soul. 

​​Immortality sometimes occurs to him, or godship, but neither option rests well with him and Johnny wonders if this is how gods are born: not of sea foam but of inevitability, of miscalculation, of death's err, of smallness, of acorns he carried as a child through pastures behind his summer house.

He sniffs. Cuts that memory off at the quick.

Johnny gives himself a couple more minutes to fiddle around with the ax before looping it into the gear loops on his backpack and buckling it in.

[MISSING STUFF HERE]

Much of the city has returned to nature, rubble encased in snow and ice; the stores have long been looted or reduced to ash from the blast. 

[15-lizards]

In honour of George’s cookbook.... Food headcannons please! I’d love you to do one of the free cities like Myr 

Order up while we wait another ten years for Winds… 👩‍🍳🥘🧆🍛

Myr, the fertile heel of Essos, reminds me a lot of Spain and the Iberian Peninsula in general. A port city with a warm climate good for growing. This means lots of staples like rice and other grains, and plentiful olives/olive oil as well. Seafood is a huge part of the diet too. This leads to large fried grain dishes topped with mollusks or fish or shrimp (like Paella), and versatile seafood soups and stews with plenty of spices being quite popular in Myr.

Volantis’ climate reminds me of Thailand, Vietnam, and other surrounding SEA countries, so let’s say the food is similar too. Plenty of rice and noodles to pour your main dishes on top of. Multiple courses consisting of spicy stews/curries, fried meat and veggie dishes, fish platters, and gelatinous rice dishes. Cold noodles and other chilled foods are very popular too, due to the relief it provides from the sticky heat

Lys is kind of a a mishmash of the Greek islands, so let’s go with classic Mediterranean foods. The island is very fertile, so I think they like to make use of their abundance of veggies. Cold salad-like dishes are very popular, drenched in oil and spices. Cooked vegetables are usually the main course, often stuffed with rice, chicken, or other filling foods. There are also dips and sauces bc they seem like dips and sauces ppl.

I know Braavos is supposed to be like Venice but it’s also cold and wet there so…✨Polish and general North Eastern European food✨ but it works hear me out. Multicultural blends of vegetable and fish stews that have changed over time to become uniquely Braavoisi. Veggies/fish/meet/fruit/literally anything wrapped in dough bc things wrapped in dough surpass borders. Overall just a mash of differing cultures the city was founded on plus the environment in which they live. (Shoutout @ludcake for the help 🫶)

Croatian food is notably heterogeneous so that’s why I think it’s perfect for Pentos. There’s no one major inspiration for its food, being a major trade city, its people take knowledge from whichever foreigner has pulled into port and uses it for their cuisine. Flavorful and random seafood stews. Simple cold salads with vinegar and potatoes. Very daring raw octopus dishes. The list goes on

[wordy-little-witch]

I absolutely adore your thoughts on Buggy and Sea Shanties. So I'd like to share an inspiration and a thought, Tale of the Shadow by Sail North.

What if that's the treasure Buggy seaked when he was younger and just as the lyrics he found it but the crew he put together was not loyal like his cannon lot so they where killed but the Shadow took a liking to Buggy after he survived. I'm imagining him flirting with the ship helped in that regard. Buggy captain of the Shadow.

Okay but that would he SUCH a good take. ((I love Sail North honestly you are fueling my obsession yesss)).

Consider maybe instead of Buggy actively SEARCHING for it, he stumbled across it. And the Shadow being less of a Prize To Be Sought and more of a grim omen, a harbinger of sea stories, among the many Buggy knows by heart.

His first crew, the ones cobbled together so soon after his first abandoned him - I'm honestly thinking they were sort of thrown together and Buggy took charge as he tends to do. And the rest fall in line at a surface level but only insofar as completing their goals. Buggy knows, he can see it, but really the only people he's ever had in his life who took him and his wants semi-seriously are dead or dead-to-him at that point. He doesn't care. It's a means to an end, he tells himself. He's using them as much as they're using him - no, he's using them more! In the flashiest of ways!!

And then they happen across a fog. And Buggy can Feel something out there that's Looking and Searching and Calling. He is absolutely not about that, no sir. He gives the orders to sail westward, navigating by the stars and not the log pose which is wobbling steadily to that Other Presence. The crew, if they can even be called that, are not happy with the order.

Buggy by this point is young still, maybe sixteen thereabouts at most, and he is the youngest on the ship. And the smallest. And seems the weakest.

He is not, the group learns terrifyingly quickly. He is thin, fast, skilled with a blade and smarter than he pretends to be. He's got experience under his belt and on his side against opponents bigger, stronger, better than him - and he's used to being outnumbered too.

The fight takes time and Buggy soon gets hit with a lucky shot, sending him sprawling to the deck and nearly crushed beneath ratty boots and cruel laughter. He is panting against the wood, straining to get up, to move, to fight or flee-

And he freezes.

The Presence is back and it's stronger than ever, right on top of them. It's only his resistance to Conquerors Haki which keeps him from so much as fluttering an eyelid under the sudden pressure choking the men and women alike on his ship.

Not many have the nerve to approach my hull with so little awareness.

Buggy goes still at the soft voice while the other's scatter, scramble, search for the interloper. They shout demands for the person to show themselves. Buggy merely pushes himself up enough to bow properly. That is no person, he knows, not in the way these bozos think.

There's a sudden whirl of air, rigging springing into motion, ropes and sails unwinding to snatch bodies and cut voices into choked gargling frenzies.

Buggy does not move. His head aches, his body sore, but his mind is racing over contingency after contingency. He needs to think, needs to figure out a way to survive this unholy clusterfuck of a situation-

He freezes as he catches a black intangible hem from his periphery.

A hand touches his head, soft despite the carnage swaying above by their will.

So small you are, little star, and yet so brightly you shine in the gloom...

A hand takes his chin, tilts his head up. Buggy squeezes his eyes shut.

Look upon me, star child.

"N-No," he declares decisively, though not impolitely. "It is disrespectful for mortals to meet the gaze of Spirits."

Ohhh, how bright you are, little star. What say the waves to my hull, what say the winds to my sails, that by which you are known?

He thinks for a moment, carefully, then answers. "I am called Buggy."

Oh, my sweet, my darling, how interesting you are, how clever, how wise for your sweet short years. By what means have the Fates forged a mind and soul like this? Such a gift to my heart, so intriguing.

"... what..." He licks his lips. "What say the sea, the winds, to that which you are called?"

... I am called many things, my junebug. But now? This Era knows me as The Shadow... but you knew that, didn't you?

"..."

Hm~ Yes. You will do nicely.

"What- aAA-!!"

Shhh, sleep, my sweet, let my love fill your pores and lungs. Dream sweetly under my spells and carry the blackened blessing of my Self with you into the Beginning and End. You, sweet Buggy, are destined for great things. I will carry you there, so long as you carry me in turn...

Buggy screamed into the wooden planks as blackness swallowed his senses, burning and baptizing his cells. The only thing he was aware of was the soft hand in his hair, the whispered assurances like dripping ink, and the pain.

Buggy was swallowed whole on a ship in the fog, cradled by a faceless being and guarded by corpses.

He awakens some time later on his ship, battered and damaged, dirty but warm under the warm, blazing sun. The rigging is damaged, the bodies gone. Buggy is alone, but, he finds sometime later, not unscathed. Staring back from the backs of his hands are two inky stylized emblems. The eyes stare into the air and space, offset by his skin.

He shudders.

He takes to wearing gloves.

He doesn't notice until weeks later that sometimes his shadow will smile at him, warm, loving, intelligent.

He learns more in the ensuing time, but not a word of it is ever breathed to another person.

One does not speak of deals with the fae, after all.

[mariacallous]

The ballistic missile hit the Rubymar on the evening of February 18. For months, the cargo ship had been shuttling around the Arabian Sea, uneventfully calling at local ports. But now, taking on water in the bottleneck of the Bab-el-Mandeb Strait, its two dozen crew issued an urgent call for help and prepared to abandon ship.

Over the next two weeks—while the crew were ashore—the “ghost ship” took on a life of its own. Carried by currents and pushed along by the wind, the 171-meter-long, 27-meter-wide Rubymar drifted approximately 30 nautical miles north, where it finally sank—becoming the most high-profile wreckage during a months-long barrage of missiles and drones launched by Iranian-backed Houthi rebels in Yemen. The attacks have upended global shipping.

But the Rubymar wasn’t the only casualty. During its final journey, three internet cables laid on the seafloor in the Bab-el-Mandeb Strait were damaged. The drop in connectivity impacted millions of people, from nearby East Africa to thousands of miles away in Vietnam. It’s believed the ship’s trailing anchor may have broken the cables while it drifted. The Rubymar also took 21,000 metric tons of fertilizer to its watery grave—a potential environmental disaster in waiting.

An analysis from WIRED—based on satellite imagery, interviews with maritime experts, and new internet connectivity data showing the cables went offline within minutes of each other—tracks the last movements of the doomed ship. While our analysis cannot definitively show that the anchor caused the damage to the crucial internet cables—that can only be determined by an upcoming repair mission—multiple experts conclude it is the most likely scenario.

The damage to the internet cables comes when the security of subsea infrastructure—including internet cables and energy pipelines—has catapulted up countries’ priorities. Politicians have become increasingly concerned about the critical infrastructure since the start of the Russia-Ukraine war in February 2022 and a subsequent string of potential sabotage, including the Nord Stream pipeline explosions. As Houthi weapons keep hitting ships in the Red Sea region, there are worries the Rubymar may not be the last shipwreck.

The Rubymar’s official trail goes cold on February 18. At 8 pm local time, reports emerged that a ship in the Bab-el-Mandeb Strait, which is also known as the Gate of Tears or the Gate of Grief, had been attacked. Two anti-ship ballistic missiles were fired from “Iranian-backed Houthi terrorist-controlled areas of Yemen,” US Central Command said. Ninety minutes after the warnings arrived, at around 9:30 pm, the Rubymar broadcast its final location using the automatic identification system (AIS), a GPS-like positioning system used to track ships.

As water started pouring into the hull, engine room, and machinery room, the crew’s distress call was answered by the Lobivia—a nearby container ship—and a US-led coalition warship. By 1:57 am on February 19, the crew was reported safe. That afternoon, the 11 Syrians, six Egyptians, three Indians, and four Filipinos who were on board arrived at the Port of Djibouti. “We do not know the coordinates of Rubymar,” Djibouti’s port authority posted on X.

Satellite images picked up the Rubymar, its path illuminated by an oil slick, two days later, on February 20. Although the crew dropped the ship’s anchor during the rescue, the ship drifted north, further up the strait in the direction of the Red Sea.

For three days, satellite photos show, the vessel largely stayed in place thanks to low winds and weak currents. Then, on February 22, satellite images show peculiar circular wave patterns hitting the ship, as seen in the image below. One former naval intelligence analyst familiar with the images, who asked not to be named for safety reasons, says this could be a sign the anchor may have come loose. One image, they say, appears to show an unidentified object, which could be a small boat, nearby.

Both the wind and currents picked up on February 23, when the ship began drifting for a second time, says Robert Parkington, an intelligence analyst with geospatial analysis firm Geollect. “As wind increases, as current increases, that chance for movement gets so much higher,” says Parkington, who monitored the Rubymar’s movements with data from satellite technology firm Spire Global. “Even a small breeze can have an impact on where the vessel’s moving.”

More than 550 internet cables run along the ocean floors and connect the world. They link continents and economies, beaming everything from Zoom calls to financial transactions every millisecond. Twelve of the cables run through the Bab-el-Mandeb Strait, says Alan Mauldin, research director at telecom research firm TeleGeography. “These cables vary massively in their age, also in their capacities,” Mauldin explains. The region is a crucial, but vulnerable, choke point.

While the Rubymar was drifting, three cables were damaged: the Seacom/Tata cable, a 15,000-kilometer-long wire running the length of East Africa and also connecting it to India; the Asia Africa Europe-1 (AAE-1), which snakes 25,000 kilometers and links Europe to East Asia; and the Europe India Gateway (EIG), made of 15,000 kilometers of cable and joining India with the United Kingdom.

The Seacom cable went down at 9:46 am on February 24, according to new analysis shared exclusively with WIRED by Doug Madory, director of internet analysis at the web monitoring firm Kentik. Five minutes later, at around 9:51 am, the AAE-1 cable dropped offline. Madory says the third damaged cable, EIG, was already mostly offline following a separate fault elsewhere. A telecom industry notice seen by WIRED confirms the three faults and says this was the EIG’s second. The notice says the damage is located around 30 kilometers away from where the cables land in Djibouti and are at depths of around 150 meters.

To determine when the cables lost connectivity, Madory examined internet traffic and routing data from multiple networks. For instance, a network linked to Equity Bank Tanzania, the analysis shows, lost connectivity from the Seacom cable; moments later, it was impacted by the AAE-1 damage. The two clusters of outages impacted countries in East Africa, including Tanzania, Kenya, Uganda, and Mozambique, Madory says. But they also had an impact thousands of miles away in Vietnam, Thailand, and Singapore. “The loss of these submarine cables disrupted internet service for millions of people,” he says. “While service providers in the affected countries have shifted to using the remaining cables, there exists a loss of overall capacity.” The analysis matches when the Seacom cable went offline, says Prenesh Padayachee, the company’s chief digital officer. Both AAE and EIG cables are owned by consortiums of companies, which did not respond to requests for comment.

The telecom industry builds backups into its systems to account for disruptions—and the approach mostly works. When one cable goes offline, traffic is sent via other routes. “Connectivity just went away,” says Thomas King, the chief technology officer of German-based internet exchange DE-CIX, which used the AAE-1 cables. “The issue was detected automatically. Rerouting happens also automatically,” King says. Other firms sent data on different paths around the world.

In the days after damage to the cables first emerged, one unconfirmed press report claimed Houthi rebels could have sabotaged the cables. There has been no public evidence to support this. Farzin Nadimi, a senior fellow at the Washington Institute think tank who has been monitoring the region, says it is most likely that the Rubymar damaged the cables, but Houthi sabotage should not be entirely ruled out, as “highly trained” divers could reach the cables’ depths. Telecom firms have reported fears about Houthi damage to cables, while Houthi spokespeople have repeatedly denied responsibility for the disruptions.

“We don’t even know if the cable is fully broken yet,” Padayachee says. “All we know is that the cable is damaged to a level where we’ve lost comms.” It could have been cut, or even dragged along the seabed and bent so light signals cannot pass through the cable, he says.

Many in the marine and cable industry have turned toward the Rubymar’s drift as the likely cause for the outage. Padayachee says it is the most “plausible” scenario given the ship’s predicted drifting speed. “If you work out the distance between the two cables that roughly relates to the same sort of timeframe as to when one cable will be affected to when the other cable will be affected,” the timing makes sense, he says, adding that the cables are 700 to 1,000 meters apart.

Anchor damage, alongside earthquakes and landslides, is one of the most common ways subsea internet cables are disrupted. For instance, multiple cables in the Red Sea region were damaged by a ship dragging its anchor in 2012. There are also several types of anchor, explain William Coombs and Michael Brown, professors at Durham University and the University of Dundee, respectively, who are researching the dynamics of anchors and how they can damage underwater cables. Some anchors sit on the seabed while others dig into the ground, they say. “If the soil type is not right, and the cable has quite shallow burial or it is on the seabed, you are going to catch it if your anchor starts to drag,” Brown says.

“Considering the timings of when outages were reported, considering the rough location of where those cables are known to be, and considering where we believe to be the location of the Rubymar, I would say that there is a likely possibility that the anchor did cause the damage,” says Parkington of Geollect.

The Rubymar finally sank on March 2. Videos reportedly taken inside the ship, gathered by Saudi state-owned news organization Al Arabiya English, show water gushing into the ship after the missile strike. As the Rubymar took on more water and partially submerged, experts say, its drifting likely slowed and eventually brought it to a complete stop.

While the ship has finished its journey, the three internet cables will remain offline for some time. Padayachee, from Seacom, says that the Yemeni government is likely to approve permits for the company’s repair plans in the next couple of weeks, with repairs to all three damaged cables possibly starting later in April.

Padayachee says that additional security measures are being put in place for the operation, but the repair work itself should be relatively straightforward. The repairs are taking place in water only a couple of hundred meters deep—shallow compared to other cases where cables are more than a mile deep. When the cables are pulled out of the water by the repair crew, it should be possible to say whether the cuts were caused by the anchor or deliberately.

The Rubymar presents one potential final challenge: Padayachee says the location of the cable damage is believed to be around one or two miles away from where the ship sank. “It doesn’t look like it will affect anything in the repair operation,” he says. “It could change by the time they get there: The vessel may have moved or, in fact, the vessel may have broken up and parts of it moved around.” The US Central Command has said the Rubymar also presents a “subsurface impact risk to other ships.”

The Houthi’s missile launches, meanwhile, don’t look like they will stop any time soon. Other ships have been damaged; lives have been lost, and those factors will impact repairs. “It's not something you usually see: trying to have a cable ship into those waters, recover the cable, make a repair, and then be able to return to port. It's a long process. It’s risky,” says Mauldin, from TeleGeography. The risk, for other internet cables, is a repeat of the Rubymar. “It is not out of the question,” Madory concludes in his analysis, “that we could have another vessel, struck by a missile, inadvertently cut another submarine cable.”

[zeciex]

A Vow of Blood - 55

Warnings: This fic includes noncon, dubcon, manipulation, violence and inc3st. Tags will be added as the fic goes on. This is a dark!fic. 18+ only. Read at your own discretion. Please read the warnings before continuing.

Summary: “You will be trapped by the obligations of love and duty, unable to escape the web of expectations others have woven around you,“ the witch said….

Chapter 55: Keeping Alliances

AO3 - Masterlist

Daenera stood at the forefront of Meraxes, her gaze fixed on the nearing harbor owned by House Penrose, with their castle majestically perched atop the cliffs. The ship’s captain had wisely opted to avoid navigating through the treacherous Strait of Tarth, which would have led them directly into the capricious and storm-laden seas of Shipbreaker Bay. By now, the wind had picked up its pace, briskly whipping against her face, tugging insistently at her cloak and gown, while the crew above busily engaged in the masts, attempting to stow away the billowing sails. 

The sea danced tumultuously around them, flinging droplets into the air, creating a wind of water and foam. The waves, crowned with white, played a symphony of nature’s untamed beauty. Exhaustion had steadily crept into Daenera’s very bones, an unwelcome yet familiar companion on this long journey. 

Her hair, once neatly braided, now danced wildly in the wind, creating a whirl of dark curls around her face. Her eyes never left the sight of the approaching land. She could feel the ship beneath her, steadily moving forward, cutting through the waves with determined precision. 

“How much longer until we reach the harbor?” Daenera’s voice cut through the wind, strong and unwavering despite the fatigue that clung to her. 

The third mate, a seasoned sailor with lines etched deep into his face from years at sea, turned to her with a respectful nod. “Not much longer now, Princess. The winds are in our favor, and if they hold, we’ll be docking within the hour.”

Daenera nodded, her thoughts turning to the tasks that awaited her once they reached dry land. It would be a couple of hours by horse, at the very least, to reach Storm’s End.

And by the time they neared Storm’s End by way of horses, with the steady ground beneath their hooves and the heavens shrouded in ominous black clouds, the wind were mercilessly whipping the treetops, creating a frenzied dance of leaves and branches, the sound similar to the whirring of the sea. A distinct aroma, heavy and foreboding, filled the air – the telltale scent that presaged the unleashing of a storm, the moment before the skies would rupture and pour forth their fury. 

Daenera couldn’t help but feel as though the land raged against her for what she had done to their lord. But she supposed that was what the land was always like. 

Storm’s End itself rose proud and formidable at the cliff’s edge, exuding strength and resilience. The castle stood as a steadfast guardian against the elements, its walls having withstood countless storms over centuries.

As the first drops of rain began to fall, Daenera wrapped herself tightly in her cloak, her eyes on the colossal structure loomed ever larger, its formidable presence dominating the landscape. The massive curtain wall encircling the castle stretched up into the sky, a hundred feet of pale gray stone that was nearly impenetrable in its construction. The wall, varying from forty to eighty feet in thickness, was a marvel to behold, its curving surface so perfectly smooth that not even the fierce winds could find a hold. 

As they passed through the gates and entered the castle grounds, Daenera took in the sight of the stables and the yard, all securely nestled with the protection of the curtain wall. The sheer scale of the wall made Daenera wonder how big The Wall in the North truly was, and how miniscule this one was in comparison. 

But it was the colossal drum tower that truly captured her attention. This immense structure, crowned with formidable battlements, stood tall and proud, a testament to the might of Storm’s End. From her position on horseback, Daenera could see that the tower was large enough to house the granary, barracks, armory, feast hall, and lord’s chambers all at once, its size and strength a reflection of the castle’s unyielding nature. The main hall of the castle, known as the Round Hall, was visible from the courtyard, its grandeur befitting the castle’s storied history.

Upon dismounting and advancing into the stronghold, a rising sense of anticipation enveloped Daenera, manifesting as a subtle yet persistent tingling sensation beneath her skin. 

They claimed that the very stones of the fortress were threaded with magic, a last line of defense rendering this formidable stronghold seemingly everlasting. As she moved deeper into the castle, the air seemed to thicken with a palpable sense of power and history, enhancing the feeling of apprehension that had taken hold of her.

Daenera’s footsteps, along with those of her retinue, resounded through the expansive emptiness of the Round Hall. The vast chamber was barren except for the stern figure of Borros Baratheon, who sat upon the stony seat that belonged to the Lord Paramount of the Stormlands. He was encircled by his wife, Lady Elenda Caron, and their daughters— Cassandra, Maris, Ellyn, and Floris— who stood to their father’s right. 

The reception that met her was subdued, a stark contrast to the fanfare typically afforded a princess, though not entirely unexpected. 

In the dim light, shadows seemed to dance forebodingly across the darkened stone, animated by the erratic glow of torch flames. The wind composed a haunting symphony outside, its whistles intensifying as the storm asserted its fury, unleashing a torrent upon the fortress’s stoic walls. 

This whirring reminded her of Dragonstone, yet she couldn’t help but feel the stark difference; this place bore a chill that seeped into the bones, its atmosphere unfamiliar and unwelcoming, the halls resonating with solemnity that made Dragonstone’s own brooding nature seem almost warm in comparison. 

Before the stony gaze of Storm’s End’s liege, Daenera maintained a poised stature, her back erect, her demeanor unyielding despite the oppressive air of judgment that Lord Borros Baratheon cast upon her. His features were set in a stern mold, as unyielding as the stone seat he sat upon. 

With a grace born of her station, she performed a curtsy that was a display of deep respect, before she righted herself to address him.

“My lord Borros, it is with a heavy heart that I come before you under these circumstances,” she began, her voice steady, betraying none of the trepidation that fluttered within her. “Please accept my sincerest sympathies for the passing of your brother.”

The silence that followed her words swelled in the hall, becoming almost a tangible entity, thick with unvoiced thoughts and the unrelenting hammer of the storm outside. Her retinue shifted, the rustling of their movements a stark note of disquiet in the oppressive stillness. 

Lord Borros’ eyes, mirroring the tumultuous skies, remained implacably fixed on her. 

“I received your word that you weren’t coming,” he finally declared, his tone resonant with the chill of the storm. He glanced towards his Maester, who shook his head. 

Daenera clasped her hands in front of her, a subtle shiver traveling through her fingers, the tips of which were cold. She gathered the remnants of her composure, steeling herself against the coldness and outright hostility in his voice. 

“When my husband died I was beside myself with grief.” Daenera let the lie slip from her mouth with the ease of honesty. “The thought of the journey to bring him home was a weight I feared too great to bear. But as I kept his vigil, I found the strength to do it. I realized my place was here, not only to accompany him on his final voyage home but to stand before you, to present my respects in person, and to extend my condolences.”

Her words hung between them. 

Lord Borros Baratheon’s gaze sharpened, a sword’s edge in his eyes. “Explain to me, how my brother met his end?”

Daenera’s fingers found an anchor in the ring that circled her finger, twisting it as if to wring solace from its familiar contours. Her pulse hammered a frantic rhythm, and a sickening sense of foreboding roiled in her belly. “He… it was an unfortunate turn during a hunt–”

A scornful sound escaped Lord Borros, his eyes averted in a display of contempt as his countenance darkened with growing wrath. He shook his head, rejecting her words outright. “A hunting mishap? Nonsense! My brother has been at the chase longer than you have drawn breath. His prowess in the hunt was matched only by his experience in the saddle.”

His voice filled the Round Hall, each word a hammer strike against the silence. “No mere ‘accident’ would lay him low!”

The unvoiced indictment in his tone stretched taut across the room, a silent challenge that seemed to rake its claws across the stones, seeking to breach Daenera’s composure and infiltrate her resolve with its poisonous implication. The collective gaze of Storm’s End’s court pierced her, laden with a mix of suspicion and sorrow, all eyes fixed upon her–the wife of their lord’s brother, a man whom most had known all his life. 

“It takes but one mishap,” Daenera spoke. “My husband was an excellent hunter and rider, indeed. But he oftentimes paired the hunt with the indulgence of wine–”

Borros cut her off, his interruption sharp as the crack of thunder. “Years upon years, he’s ridden under the veil of drink. And not once has it left but mere scratches.”

Lord Borros drew his hand across his beard, a gesture that seemed to serve as an attempt to quell his rising temper. The room waited, suspended in the wake of his rage, and when he finally spoke, his voice broke through each syllable as an ax cut through wood. “It is no secret that my brother’s ways were not to your liking. Your grievances regarding his conduct in your marriage were laid bare in your own words, penned in your letter. You were angry that he sired a bastard, and felt threatened.”

Pain bit into Daenera as her teeth pressed into the tender flesh of her cheek, a self-inflicted anchor against the tide of tension. She yielded to the growing silence, letting it swell before parting her lips to speak. “I–”

With a sudden catch in her breath, she allowed a fragmented sob to break through her facade of composed grief. She drew in a sharp, steadying breath, as if gathering the scattered pieces of her crumbling self-control. She summoned unshed tears to the brink of her eyes, her voice quivering like a reed in the wind.

“It was my fault–” her voice broke, feigning a fragility she did not feel. 

The chamber rippled with the undercurrent of Daenera’s revelation, the air charged with an almost palpable electricity. Lord Borros’s daughters exchanged wide-eyed glances, save for the second eldest who’s eyes remained on Daenera with a discerning turn on her lips. Lord Borros himself leaned forth, his robust hands seizing the armrest as if to anchor himself against the swell of emotions that widened his eyes–a maelstrom of fury and indignation. 

Beside him, Lady Elenda’s form tensed, her eyes flickering towards her husband with a note of wary counsel. 

In the wake of their princess, Fenrick and the rest of her guards grew restless, their hands instinctively settling on their sword hilts, as if the rising tension within would soon come to a head with the clash of swords. 

A choked sob broke from her lips, her tears cascading down her face unrestrained.

Daenera’s lament resonated through the Round Hall, her voice imbued with a grief as profound as the abyssal depths of the cliffs outside the stronghold’s walls. Her performance was artfully crafted as a mummer’s farce. “I strived to be the wife he wanted, yet his longing for an heir led him to the bed of another, and I…” She paused, a deliberate quiver in her voice, as she inhaled sharply, as if gasping for air amidst a tempest of emotion. “I implored his fidelity, vowed that I would bear him an heir, and I beseeched him to renounce his illegitimate offspring for the sanctity of our union. When he discovered that I had confided in you with my troubles, it send him into a rage–” 

Overcome, or so it seemed, Daenera collapsed to her knees upon the unyielding stone, her silhouette a portrait of despair. “Had my resolve wavered, had I not insisted, perhaps he would have sought solace in drink… wouldn’t have embarked on that reckless chase… wouldn’t have taken the fatal leap that claimed his life.” Her voice faded, surrendering to the silent cascade of her fabricated sorrow. 

The Lord Paramount of the Stormlands might have been no stranger to the manipulations of a woman’s tears, or perhaps he’d been conditioned by the watery pleas of his daughters before, nevertheless, the sight of Daenera’s quaking form upon the cold stone floor of his great hall seemed to perturb him greatly. His complexion paled, a stark contrast to the deep blues and grays that adorned the chamber around them. 

He rose from his austere stone seat, a movement that seemed unexpected to people of the court. His steps echoed with a thud that seemed to resonate with uncertainty as he neared her. There lay a possibility that his discomfort was born from the dread of seeming callous to his brother’s widow, or the fear of being deemed inhospitable to those sheltered beneath his roof. 

His hand extended towards her–a bridge over the turmoil that divided them. She grasped it, and he aided her ascent from the cold embrace of the floor. As she stood, Borros’s eyes, as tumultuous as the sea during a squall, examined her face, the furrows of his brow deepening the crevices of the cliffs that protected the shore. 

“Grief has a way of shearing away our courtesies, and for that I beg your forgiveness,” Borros said, his voice softening, though it still held the timber of displeasure. His gaze drifted to the elegantly carved casket that held the remains of his brother. The carvings, intricate with the visages of ancient trees and wild creatures, bespoke of the fervent love of the hunt that had pulsed in Boris’s veins–and that was the backdrop of his demise. 

A moment of silence fell between them, as Borros laid a tender hand upon the casket’s dark, polished surface, his fingers tracing over the contours of carved leaves and branches. 

Daenera watched quietly, apprehensively, as she wiped the tears off her cheek with her hand, sniffing gently. 

He raised his eyes to meet Daenera’s. “He was headstrong and haughty, then man, true to our line. A fool in his passions, perhaps, but he was my blood, and that bond is not so easily broken. He was my brother, and I loved him.”

The lord’s voice trailed off, as though he carried on a silent conversation with the brother he would never see alive. Then seemingly, clearing the emotion from his throat with a tight swallow, he focused back on Daenera, his demeanor a blend of noble resolve and a man of pride. 

“Come,” he gestured towards one of the doorways, which presumably led somewhere more suitable, “Let us not speak of such somber matters while standing. You have endured a journey both in distance and spirit. You shall have the comfort and respect due here, beneath my roof.”

Daenera inclined her head slightly, her expression a mask of gratitude veiling her internal machinations. 

“Your graciousness is deeply appreciated, Lord Borros,” she acknowledged, allowing the offered repentance to sweep into the space between them, settling like a truce. 

A sharp flick of Lord Borros’ fingers, a crisp command followed, authoritative and expected. He turned to address the attendants waiting in the wings of the chamber. “Escort my brother to the crypts.”

The men bowed deeply, a silent understanding passing between them as they stepped forward. As they carried the casket, the footfalls of the procession resonated through the halls of Storm’s End. 

Daenera watched, her face a still pond of mourning on the surface, while beneath, her thoughts raced with the currents of relief and anticipation. 

Guided up the winding stairwell of the tower, Daenera emerged into a chamber where the glow from the twin hearths cast a golden warmth, banishing the chill that clung to her bones. The relentless rain tapped an uneven rhythm against the sturdy windows, a reminder of the storm’s continued siege upon Storm’s End. 

Within the room, a modest repast had been arranged upon a sturdy oaken table, an array of breads, cheeses, and preserved fruits offering a comforting, homely fragrance that seemed to weave through the air, subtly displacing the damp scent of stone and storm. 

Lady Elenda, her demeanor composed yet brimming with an earnest solemnity, approached Daenera, her hands carefully cradling a steaming mug. “In the morning, we shall honor your husband with a befitting ceremony, before he is laid to rest.”

“Thank you, Lady Elenda,” Daenera said, accepting the mug. The warmth seeped through the ceramic, offering a silent comfort against her cold fingers. 

A somber hush enveloped the room, filled only by soft words of compassion and shared sorrow, as the lords and ladies murmured their sympathies to one another and shared stories about the man Daenera had killed. 

As dawn unfurled its pale light upon Storm's End, the tempest outside showed no mercy, its roaring winds a relentless companion to the solemn proceedings within.

In the shadowed sanctity of the crypts, a wooden casket was carefully enclosed within a stonier embrace, and a weighty slab sealed the tomb, the name Boris Baratheon etched into the cold, unyielding surface.

Daenera donned the guise of a grieving widow flawlessly, her visage the very image of sorrow as she delicately dabbed at imaginary tears from behind the obscurity of her veil. She couldn’t help but think of her husband’s rotting body, how it would slowly decay over the course of years, sealed within the wooden casket as well as the stone casket. How all that would be left of him in this world, was a bastard child and bones. 

As the day wore on and dusk began to bleed into the horizon, nobles from the influential families of the Stormlands traveled the beaten path to Storm’s End, their faces etched with somber lines of respect and regret. They traversed the corridors of the Round Hall, now a tableau of remembrance adorned with verdant greenery and tables arrayed in somber finery. The braziers blazed with insistence, their flames battling the chill that sought dominion over the chamber, yet a certain coldness persisted–a figurative chill that wove itself into the stone recesses and the tight-lipped smiles of Borros’s acquaintances. 

Boris’s retinue of friends, those who had journeyed with him to King’s Landing and had sailed back upon the ship Meraxes with her, displayed a variety of reactions towards her. Tarnish Cafferen and Camren Wylde bore expressions of skepticism and uncertainty when their gazes brushed past her, while Derren Morrigen’s words were laden with sympathy, his respectful account to Borros Baratheon of her vigil over her husband’s body painting her devotion in hues of fidelity. Horden Penrose, for his part, remained indifferent, sparing Daenera neither disdain nor dialogue. 

None amongst them openly aired their doubts or disdain, if such sentiments lurked in their hearts. They held their tongues, their true thoughts masked by decorum due to her display of mourning. 

Patrick burst through the hall, his youthful exuberance slicing through the somber veil of the gathering like a ray of sunshine piercing a clouded sky. His voice, a shade too excited for the mournful occasion, drew disapproving looks from those nearby. 

He scampered across the stone floor, his small arms finding solace in the embrace of his mother, who enveloped him with a love that was pure and untainted. Daenera observed, her expression carefully neutral, as the boy, with childlike insistence, drew his mother towards her for an introduction, pulling her by the hand. 

Lord Ronard Horpe approached, a serious frown etched into his features softening slightly in a gesture of solidarity. 

“Our sincerest condolences,” he offered, his voice imbued with the weary weight of ritualistic sympathy that Daenera found increasingly taxing to endure. She dipped her head, her acknowledgement as rehearsed as a courtly dance. 

“And our gratitude for you taking our son under your wing,” Lady Marybel Horpe expressed, her presence was like a warm breeze, her smile gentle, eyes touching upon her son with a mother’s adoration. Her fingers affectionately combed through Patrick’s golden curls. “He has penned many a letter singing praises of your kindness.”

“It is my pleasure taking him under my wing,” Daenera replied, her smile genuine for a fleeting moment as she gazed upon the flushed face of the boy. “He is a brave boy, and very helpful.” 

“It means the world to us,” Lady Marybel continued, her gratitude apparent. “Your husband had a firm hand, indeed. Please understand, we’re grateful he accepted him as his squire, it was an honor, truly, but his methods were quite stern.”

“Marybel,” Lord Horpe chided, exchange a look with her. A silent conversation passed between them that spoke volumes.

A mother’s worry, reflecting a silent acknowledgement of the treatment her child had experienced, and a father’s stern approach, torn between gratitude and the fear of seeming ungrateful. 

To speak ill of the dead, and their liege lords brother, was a treacherous path. 

It was a dance of diplomacy that Daenera knew all too well, and she could certainly add her own steps to its intricate patterns. 

“Indeed, my husband did not believe in half measures. He was… exacting,” Daenera conceded with a tactful choice of words, acknowledging Lady Horpe’s worries. “He had this unwavering belief that resilience was best forged in the fires of discipline. Alas, sometimes his expectations towered too high, forgetting that not everyone was as impervious to the world’s harshness as he prided himself to be.”

“Perhaps the occasional strict word can forge resilience,” Lord Ronard suggested, his tone a testament to his belief in a  firm hand’s value. 

Yet, Lady Marybel offered a counter point, her voice light with wisdom of a nurturer, “But healing must follow admonishment, lest the spirit break where it ought to bend.”

Seizing a moment ripe for interjection, Daenera gracefully steered the conversation towards calmer waters. 

“Your son has been a beacon of light amid these shadowed days,” she interposed with a smile that softened the air of formality. “His presence has brought comfort not only now in grief but also in the past days of solitude. I have grown quite fond of him. He has shown promise, and I have sanctioned his swordsmanship training with my sworn shield. Should you desire his squireship to continue under another’s banner, I shall honor your wishes and dissolve his service to my household.” 

“No, Mother,” Patrick interjected, “I want to stay with my lady princess. Fenrick is training me and lady Joyce teaches me about teas and how to treat a wound, and lady Jelissa sneaks me cake when no one is looking. Can I stay with the lady princess? I want to become her knight!”

Patrick blinked up at his parents, who shared a glance before Lord Horpe answered, “If you would have him, we’d be honored.” 

“Please, Mother,” Patrick implored, his gaze earnest and unwavering, “I wish to remain with my lady princess. Ser Fenrick is teaching me the sword, and Lady Joyce is teaching me the art of tea–I don’t know why it's called the art of tea, but it is! And Lady Jelissa—she brings me cake when no one’s watching. I want to be her sworn knight one day!”

His wide eyes, brimming with hope, turned towards his parents, seeking their approval. After a moment of silent communication, the kind that passes between those who have shared a lifetime of understanding, Lord Horpe nodded affirmatively. “Princess Daenera, if you would continue to accept him, we would consider it a great privilege for our son to serve in your retinue.”

Nestled in the core of Storm’s End, above the Round Hall, Lord Borros Baratheon’s study was a sanctuary of history and power. The round walls, enveloped in grand tapestries, narrated the untamed beauty of the Stormlands. Vivid scenes of waves ferociously colliding with the rugged cliffs and tumultuous storms, their lightning bolts shimmering in the intricately woven silver threads, adorned the chamber. Among these, a particularly striking tapestry portrayed the historic meeting between Lord Orys Baratheon and Aegon the Conqueror, the moment immortalized in vibrant colors and exquisite detail.

The room itself exuded a sense of solemn gravitas. A large, sturdy desk of dark wood, its surface weathered by time and etched with marks of diligent service, dominated the space. Above it, the Baratheon sigil was proudly displayed, a constant reminder of the houses’s enduring legacy and strength. 

The soft glow of candlelight flickered across the room, casting a warm, inviting light that contrasted with the imposing stone walls of the stronghold. As Daenera entered, the study seemed to pause in its age-old rhythm, the air thick with the scent of old books and the sea’s briny tang.

Lord Borros Baratheon was ensconced behind the grand desk, imposing despite his leisure leaning on the chair. In his hand, he wielded a dagger with an ease that spoke of long familiarity, methodically carving into a block of wood. The rhythmic motion of his hand sent small chips and curled strips of wood cascading to the floor, creating a small mount of shavings around his feet and upon his lap.

Maester Cal, a figure of knowledge, stood by his side, his fingers gently holding a piece of parchment as he dictated the contents of the letter for the lord. His voice was a soft murmur, a stark contrast to the usual clamor that accompanied the ruling of a great house. 

Daenera’s entrance brought a momentary pause to their work, the two men looked up, acknowledging her with a mix of curiosity and caution as the politics of the realm waited, momentarily suspended. 

With practiced poise, she approached the matter at hand, her gaze briefly shifting from Lord Borros to Maester Cal and back again before posing her query. “Might I have a moment of your time, Lord Borros?”

Lord Borros responded with a nonverbal cue, a subtle nod towards the chair opposite his desk. Master cal, sensing the gravity of the impending discussion, excused himself with a discreet bow, leaving the two to converse privately. Daenera advanced further into the study, and took her seat, her posture composed and dignified. 

“What matters bring you to me?” Lord Borros asked, his attention momentarily diverted as he brushed away the wooden curls from his desk with a nonchalant flick. 

“I wish to discuss the future of our alliance,” Daenera began, her voice steady, her hands resting composedly in her lap, fingers absently tracing her palm. 

“Our alliance?” Borros retorted, his voice taking on a sharper, more abrasive edge. “The alliance died with my brother. Unless you bear his son within your womb, an heir I can claim, I am bound to seek alliances through my daughters.”

Daenera felt a flicker of irritation at his blunt words, but she quelled it swiftly, maintaining her calm demeanor. “While I do not carry your brother’s heir, I still fervently wish for our houses to maintain a strong bond. It is my hope that our friendship, our alliance, might transcend the passing of my husband.”

Her words were carefully chosen, a delicate balance between appeal and assertiveness, aimed to thread the fine line of political alliances. 

“I require more than mere hopes and amity, Princess,” Borros stated, his words sharp and succinct, slicing through any illusions of sentimentality. “In the absence of your marriage’s political benefits, unless you can propose an alternative, such as a union between one of your brothers and one of my daughters, I must seek more advantageous alliances elsewhere.”

His tone was pragmatic, stripped of emotion–a clear reflection of the hard, strategic thinking that ruling a house like Baratheon demanded. 

Daenera maintained a composed demeanor, her smile tight-lipped as her thumb absentmindedly traced the ping scar on her palm. “I don’t have the authority to broker matrimonial alliances for my brothers. The most I can do is present your proposal for my mother.”

“Then do so and return with a tangible offer,” Borros commanded, his focus briefly returning to the wooden block beneath his blade, from which he carved another flake. Before him stood a delicately carved wooden doe, its slender limbs supporting its inquisitive posed form.  

“Lord Borros,” Daenera persisted, her voice steady and resolute. “I entered into this marriage with your brother to solidify the bond between our houses. I expected an honorable and faithful husband, as I was an honorable and faithful wife.”

His gaze snapped up, the tempestuous blue of his eyes flashing with the characteristic Baratheon temper. 

Undeterred by his steely look, Daenera continued. “I fulfilled my duties as his wife. Had it been within my power, I would have provided the heir you both desired. I was promised a loyal husband, not one who flaunted his indiscretions and threatened me with the legitimation of his bastard.”

The storm of Borros' face deepened, his expression darkening. “The alliance was contingent upon you bearing his son.”

“I don’t speak these truths to tarnish your brother’s memory,” Daenera said, her voice cloaking the untruth. “I am simply presenting to you, that he did not hold up his end of the bargain either. I wish to continue this alliance as was initially agreed upon.”

Though they were at the center of the stronghold, above the Round Hall, they could still hear the whirring of the wind, the sound creeping beneath doors and traveled through the crevices. 

“What truly mattered,” Daenera countered confidently, “was the strengthening of our houses’ bond, and it should not be discarded at the death of your brother. I shall not forget my husband, nor will I forsake his house. I will ensure our alliance endures, for I did love your brother. I will consult my mother and remember the support of House Baratheon showed me in my time of sorrow. Should you be faced with troubles, skirmishes, I will seek assistance from her. This alliance matters to me, my lord, and I will remain a widow until my mother ascends the throne, or you give me leave to remarry. Hopefully, by then, you will have found the son you seek.”

In a deliberate gesture, Lord Borros Baratheon set the wooden block aside on the table. His hand lingered for a moment on the dulled edge of the dagger, an almost contemplative pause before his actions turned abrupt. With a swift, forceful motion, he drove the blade into the table. The dagger’s tip sank into the venerable oak with a resonant thud that echoed through the study, a display that might have been intended to unnerve. 

Daenera, however, remained steadfast, her composure unshaken by the display of raw power. She watched as Borros withdrew his hand, leaving the dagger quivering slightly, standing embedded in the wood. 

Borros leaned back into his chair, the wood creaking under his weight as he contemplated Daenera’s words. A moment passed and then he gave a noncommittal hum, his demeanor relaxing marginally. 

“Very well,” he conceded. “Your proposal for an alliance built on friendship is accepted. Present my offer to your mother. Should it lead to a renewed alliance, fortified by the marriage of one of your brothers to one of my daughters, then I shall consider your obligation of widowhood fulfilled.”

His words, touch measured, carried the weight of a lord’s decision, marking a pivotal point in their negotiations. There was a sense of finality in his tone.

The alliance delicately balanced on the precipice of Lord Borros’ proposal, hinged upon the precarious threads of marriage and Daenera’s status as a widow. As long as she wore the mantle of widowhood, she remained bound to House Baratheon, a symbol of their mutual interest. In this state, she posed no risk for forging a more advantageous alliance with another house, keeping her tethered and wanting to serve the Baratheons. It was a strategic maneuver, ensuring that her allegiance–and the benefits that came with it–remained firmly within her grasp.

Alicent delicately ran her fingers along the intricate edges of the exquisitely painted card, its surface adorned with a majestic black stag against a vibrant yellow backdrop for House Baratheon. With a graceful motion, she turned the card over, revealing its reverse side adorned with the finely detailed depictions of The Four Storms, as Borros Baratheon’s daughters were called. Placing the card beside its companions, she pursed her lips in contemplation, remarking the likeness of other noblewomen rendered, their house sigils expertly woven into the design. The colors were rich and vivid, every hue meticulously painted and embellished with accents of shimmering silver and gold. 

Of course, their likeness to their real life counterparts, were vague at best as the cards were only a symbolic gesture. 

A deep crease marred her features as she folded her hands in front of her. Just then, the heavy doors to her chambers swung open, and Lady Talya’s voice announced the arrival of her son. With a dismissive wave, Alicent sent her attendants away, turning her attention to her son now settling into the chair by the fire. The orange light licked at his features, distinctly Valyrian, a sharp sort of beauty. His gaze met hers with an air of expectancy.

“The Princess will arrive with her ship tomorrow afternoon,” Alicent began, her voice measured as she scrutinized her son, trying to discern any hint of emotion beneath his facade of indifference. “I’ve held my tongue, turned a blind eye for your sake, but I cannot stand idly by while you continue this… indiscretion.”

Alicent’s fingers twisted the ornate ring on her slender finger, a futile attempt to quell the unease that had gnawed at her ever since she first learned of her son’s dalliance with the princess. It had formed a tight knot in her stomach, growing heavier with each passing day.

“This cannot persist, Aemond,” she asserted, taking a seat in the chair beside him, her hand extending towards the small table between them, resting upon its surface. “Your father is not long for this world, and when he passes, you know what we will be faced with.”

Aemond’s response was a languid drawl, tinged with a hint of exasperation. “I am well aware of our predicament.”

“Then you understand your duty,” Alicent said, her lips pursed in determination. “Should Daenera have succeeded in securing the alliance with House Baratheon, our position would be precarious.”

Aemond leaned back in his chair, regarding his mother with a cool, contemplative gaze. “What, precisely, are you suggesting Mother?”

Alicent met his gaze with unwavering resolve, and as she spoke her voice was steady and firm, “A marriage alliance.”

Aemond’s gaze bore into her, his countenance an enigmatic mask, but Alicent, as a mother, could read the subtleties of her son’s expression. She observed the tension coiled in his jaw, the subtle tightening of his lips as he moistened them with a flicker of his tongue, and the restless, absentminded movements of his long, agile fingers, betraying an underlying irritation. 

“What if I desire to marry her?” Aemond challenged, his words landing like a blow, causing a pang of dismay and indignation to stir within Alicent. 

“Don’t be absurd.” Her eyes widened in incredulity, her frown deepening as her lips curled with a scoff. She withdrew her hand to her lap, her nails biting into the skin beside her nail, a manifestation of her unease. Her earrings danced wildly with her agitated movements. 

“Marrying her is out of the question. She will be your undoing. She’ll never forgive you for usurping her mother, and she’ll wage a relentless battle against you until one of you is dead. You know this,” Alicent retorted, her voice edged with exasperation. 

“Rhaenyra and Daemon would never allow it,” Alicent declared, her words dripping with frustration as she clenched her teeth. “ANd I, too, would stand against such a notion.”

In Alicent’s mind, there lingered not a shred of doubt that Daenera would prove to be her son’s undoing. The girl exhibited an alarming resemblance to her mother, shirking her responsibilities and besmirching her own reputation. It was not just her mother’s eyes she had inherited, but the same insolence that seemed to define her. 

Alicent couldn’t fathom how Daenera had managed to worm her way under her son’s skin, to lead him astray with foolish notions of an impossible future. She shook her head in disbelief. 

Daenera had ensnared him, her allure casting a beguiling enchantment much like her mother had done to Ser Criston Cole all those years ago. She was a seductress, luring men into the depths of dishonor and vice. Nevertheless, Alicent couldn’t deny that her son bore his share of imperfections. After all, the blood of the dragon coursed through his veins. 

“I refuse to allow you to squander your life and risk our future for someone of her ilk,” Alicent insisted, her fingers picking at the cuticle with a practiced, nervous habit, feeling the familiar sting as she inadvertently drew a drop of blood. She lifted her gaze, her eyes boring into her son’s. “Your duty is to safeguard your brother’s rightful claim, and I will not permit you to throw away all that we’ve toiled for over the years, to disregard the sacrifices I’ve made for you. Don’t let whatever infatuation you harbor for her blind you .”

Her son’s jaw clenched visibly, and he tore his gaze away from the dance of the flames to meet her unwavering stare. In that intense moment, mother and son locked eyes, a silent clash of wills. 

“You’ve placed yourself in a precarious situation with this affair,” Alicent declared, her voice frigid, each word honed like a sharp-edged arrow. “I’ve bitten my tongue thus far, preserving your secret, but I refuse to stand by and watch you continue down this path. Affairs like these have a way of finding their way into the light, and should it come to pass, your honor will be irreparably tarnished. Speculations will arise, casting doubt upon your involvement in her husband’s death. You’ll be portrayed as a dishonorable fool at best and a murderer at worst.”

She let the words hang in the air for a moment. “Daenera will wield this knowledge like a sword hanging over our heads.”

“Her ties with House Baratheon preside alongside her husband,” Alicent continued, her fingers twisting the ring on her finger as if it held the weight of their conversation. “And the remaining alliance she manages to salvage will crumble should Lord Borros catch wind of her indiscretions… and should he suspect her involvement in her husband’s death…”

Aemond interjected, his tone nonchalant as he tapped a nail against the armrest of his chair, maintaining his composure. “Revealing her secrets would only drag me down with her.”

Alicent met his gaze with a steely resolve, pursing her lips in evident displeasure. “But if you marry and secure a powerful alliance, any accusations against you seem baseless. Her ties with House Baratheon already hang by a thread. If we offer a more appealing alliance…”

Aemond’s temper flared, his voice edged with frustration as if he had the right to be angry when he himself put them in this situation. “Are you suggesting I wed one of Lord Borros’s daughters?”

“House Baratheon could become a crucial ally against Rhaenyra’s claim.” Alicent leaned forward, her expression unwavering. “If not House Baratheon, then we must consider other options…” 

Her hand swept towards the table, gesturing between them, where a stack of cards lay waiting. The possibilities of alliances spread out before them. 

Alicent reached for the stack of cards, leaving the depiction of Lord Borros’s daughters on the table, The Four Storm’s as they were called, were all depicted as women with brown hair and blue eyes, their dresses the color of yellow. Carefully, she plucked another card from the pile, this one bearing the sigil of House Royce of Runestone. 

“House Royce is loyal to the Arryns and are unlikely to break their ties with Rhaenyra for a marriage alliance,” Aemond remarked dismissively, his fingers tapping restlessly on the arm of the chair.

“The Royces harbors no love for Daemon,” Alicent countered firmly. “If we were to propose a marriage alliance, they could be persuaded to stand with us. Their influence in the Vale is not to be underestimated.”

Aemond made a dismissive gesture, prompting Alicent to move on to the next card, and then the next, and then the next. She suggested House Glover and House Coldwater as potential footholds in the North, but each idea was swiftly rejected, citing that they’d find no friends north of the Neck. Her fingers brought forth the cards of House Reyne and House Tarbeck, wealthy houses from the Westerlands, and nestled between them, House Lannister. 

“The Westerlands align themselves with House Lannister, and they are already firmly on our side,” Aemond retorted, his displeasure evident as he pursed his lips. “Jaeson Lannisters girls are more suited to marry my nephews, as they are of similar age.”

Alicent then mentioned House Tyrell, offering a card adorned with the likeness of a smiling girl dressed in green, surrounded by roses. “They have a girl of your age, and she is said to be quite beautiful.”

Aemond turned his gaze away from the cards, choosing to fixate on the flickering flames instead. Alicent recognized his stubbornness, and had seen the same sort of obstinacy in Rhaenyra when she was made to choose a husband. It was an infuriating reminder of blood shared. 

“If we manage to secure an alliance with House Martell and bring Dorne into the Seven Kingdoms for good, it would strengthen your brother’s right to rule and solidify our position in the realm, ensuring stability and unity.” Alicent continued, placing a card on the table bearing an orange sun pierced by a spear. “And the Hand is in favor of such a match.”

“Of course he is,” Aemond mused, displaying a stubbornness befitting a child. “House Martell is know for their pride, they will not settle for anything less than a direct connection to the crown, perhaps suggest marrying Jaehaerys to one of their princesses.”

Alicent gathered the maining cards into a stack on the table, forming a towering stack of potential alliances. “Do not behave like a petulant child, Aemond. I am offering you a say in the matter of your marriage, it is more than I ever had.”

“You married a king,” Aemond pointed out, his tone abrasive.

Alicent’s patience wore thin as she retorted, “Yes, I married a king. I sacrificed my youth and life to fulfill my duty. I did as was expected, marrying a man twice my age so that he could have sons.”

She had wed Viserys, surrendering the one thing that held the most importance in her life, for a crown. Since that fateful union, she had been tormented by the ghost of his first wife, and the haunting absence of a friendship once cherished. Alicent had devoted her body, her aspirations, and every fiber of her being to fulfill her role as a wife. She had borne the king the sons he so ardently desired, enduring years of sacrifice and suffering. Yet, despite fulfilling her role, he had chosen to name his firstborn daughter as heir to the throne. 

The thought of Rhaenyra ascending to the throne filled her with dread, rendering all her sacrifices in vain. She couldn’t bear to imagine the horrors that would befall her children should she seize power. 

“Personal desires are of little importance.” Her voice carried the weight of years of sacrifice and unfulfilled desires. “You will choose one of these potential brides. Preferably House Martell or Baratheon. But choose, Aemond. It is your duty.”

After an extended stay of three weeks at Storm’s End, Daenera commenced her return voyage to King’s Landing. Her initial journey to the Baratheon seat had been challenging, marked by unpredictable winds and the ship’s relentless rocking. However, the return promised smoother sailing, with favorable winds and a sky unblemished by storms. Yet, despite these improved conditions, the passage seemed interminable, each day a drawn-out struggle against greensick. The sun, a glaring orb in the sky, offered no solace, its bright presence a stark contrast to the unease in the cabin below deck. 

Daenera spent her days confined to a hammock, her body wracked by waves of nausea that erupted violently. Jelissa, her constant companion in such miserable circumstances, lay in a nearby hammock, equally afflicted by the unyielding motion of the sea. Mornings were especially difficult, as Daenera fought the urge to vomit even the simplest fare. 

The evenings brought some relief. The setting sun’s cooler air allowed Daenera brief moments of respite. She would leave her hammock during these times, savoring the fresh, salty breeze, before succumbing again to the hammock’s sway. 

Upon finally sighting King’s Landing, Daenera appeared drastically altered by the ordeal. Dark circles under her eyes and a noticeably thinner, palling face bore witness to her suffering. Her lips, cracked and dry, and her weary expression, mirrored the deep exhaustion she felt. Stepping off the ship, she was overwhelmed with relief to finally be on solid ground again.

[pickl-o]

Oop, forgot to put my signature. Anyway, CHAPTER 1

Loomings

Call me Ishmael. Some years ago–never mind how long precisely– having little or no money in my purse, and nothing particular to interest me on shore, I thought I would sail about a little and see the watery part of the world. It is a way I have of driving off the spleen and regulating the circulation. Whenever I find myself growing grim about the mouth; whenever it is a damp, drizzly November in my soul; whenever I find myself involuntarily pausing before coffin warehouses, and bringing up the rear of every funeral I meet; and especially whenever my hypos get such an upper hand of me, that it requires a strong moral principle to prevent me from deliberately stepping into the street, and methodically knocking people’s hats off–then, I account it high time to get to sea as soon as I can. This is my substitute for pistol and ball. With a philosophical flourish Cato throws himself upon his sword; I quietly take to the ship. There is nothing surprising in this. If they but knew it, almost all men in their degree, some time or other, cherish very nearly the same feelings towards the ocean with me.

There now is your insular city of the Manhattoes, belted round by wharves as Indian isles by coral reefs–commerce surrounds it with her surf. Right and left, the streets take you waterward. Its extreme downtown is the battery, where that noble mole is washed by waves, and cooled by breezes, which a few hours previous were out of sight of land. Look at the crowds of water-gazers there.

Circumambulate the city of a dreamy Sabbath afternoon. Go from Corlears Hook to Coenties Slip, and from thence, by Whitehall, northward. What do you see?–Posted like silent sentinels all around the town, stand thousands upon thousands of mortal men fixed in ocean reveries. Some leaning against the spiles; some seated upon the pier-heads; some looking over the bulwarks glasses! of ships from China; some high aloft in the rigging, as if striving to get a still better seaward peep. But these are all landsmen; of week days pent up in lath and plaster– tied to counters, nailed to benches, clinched to desks. How then is this? Are the green fields gone? What do they here?

But look! here come more crowds, pacing straight for the water, and seemingly bound for a dive. Strange! Nothing will content them but the extremest limit of the land; loitering under the shady lee of yonder warehouses will not suffice. No. They must get just as nigh the water as they possibly can without falling in. And there they stand–miles of them–leagues. Inlanders all, they come from lanes and alleys, streets and avenues,– north, east, south, and west. Yet here they all unite. Tell me, does the magnetic virtue of the needles of the compasses of all those ships attract them thither?

Once more. Say you are in the country; in some high land of lakes. Take almost any path you please, and ten to one it carries you down in a dale, and leaves you there by a pool in the stream. There is magic in it. Let the most absent-minded of men be plunged in his deepest reveries–stand that man on his legs, set his feet a-going, and he will infallibly lead you to water, if water there be in all that region. Should you ever be athirst in the great American desert, try this experiment, if your caravan happen to be supplied with a metaphysical professor. Yes, as every one knows, meditation and water are wedded for ever.

But here is an artist. He desires to paint you the dreamiest, shadiest, quietest, most enchanting bit of romantic landscape in all the valley of the Saco. What is the chief element he employs? There stand his trees, each with a hollow trunk, as if a hermit and a crucifix were within; and here sleeps his meadow, and there sleep his cattle; and up from yonder cottage goes a sleepy smoke. Deep into distant woodlands winds a mazy way, reaching to overlapping spurs of mountains bathed in their hill-side blue. But though the picture lies thus tranced, and though this pine-tree shakes down its sighs like leaves upon this shepherd’s head, yet all were vain, unless the shepherd’s eye were fixed upon the magic stream before him. Go visit the Prairies in June, when for scores on scores of miles you wade knee-deep among Tiger-lilies–what is the one charm wanting?– Water there is not a drop of water there! Were Niagara but a cataract of sand, would you travel your thousand miles to see it? Why did the poor poet of Tennessee, upon suddenly receiving two handfuls of silver, deliberate whether to buy him a coat, which he sadly needed, or invest his money in a pedestrian trip to Rockaway Beach? Why is almost every robust healthy boy with a robust healthy soul in him, at some time or other crazy to go to sea? Why upon your first voyage as a passenger, did you yourself feel such a mystical vibration, when first told that you and your ship were now out of sight of land? Why did the old Persians hold the sea holy? Why did the Greeks give it a separate deity, and own brother of Jove? Surely all this is not without meaning. And still deeper the meaning of that story of Narcissus, who because he could not grasp the tormenting, mild image he saw in the fountain, plunged into it and was drowned. But that same image, we ourselves see in all rivers and oceans. It is the image of the ungraspable phantom of life; and this is the key to it all.

Now, when I say that I am in the habit of going to sea whenever I begin to grow hazy about the eyes, and begin to be over conscious of my lungs, I do not mean to have it inferred that I ever go to sea as a passenger. For to go as a passenger you must needs have a purse, and a purse is but a rag unless you have something in it. Besides, passengers get sea-sick– grow quarrelsome–don’t sleep of nights–do not enjoy themselves much, as a general thing;–no, I never go as a passenger; nor, though I am something of a salt, do I ever go to sea as a Commodore, or a Captain, or a Cook. I abandon the glory and distinction of such offices to those who like them. For my part, I abominate all honorable respectable toils, trials, and tribulations of every kind whatsoever. It is quite as much as I can do to take care of myself, without taking care of ships, barques, brigs, schooners, and what not. And as for going as cook,–though I confess there is considerable glory in that, a cook being a sort of officer on ship-board–yet, somehow, I never fancied broiling fowls;–though once broiled, judiciously buttered, and judgmatically salted and peppered, there is no one who will speak more respectfully, not to say reverentially, of a broiled fowl than I will. It is out of the idolatrous dotings of the old Egyptians upon broiled ibis and roasted river horse, that you see the mummies of those creatures in their huge bakehouses the pyramids.

No, when I go to sea, I go as a simple sailor, right before the mast, plumb down into the fore-castle, aloft there to the royal mast-head. True, they rather order me about some, and make me jump from spar to spar, like a grasshopper in a May meadow. And at first, this sort of thing is unpleasant enough. It touches one’s sense of honor, particularly if you come of an old established family in the land, the Van Rensselaers, or Randolphs, or Hardicanutes. And more than all, if just previous to putting your hand into the tar-pot, you have been lording it as a country schoolmaster, making the tallest boys stand in awe of you. The transition is a keen one, I assure you, from a schoolmaster to a sailor, and requires a strong decoction of Seneca and the Stoics to enable you to grin and bear it. But even this wears off in time.

What of it, if some old hunks of a sea-captain orders me to get a broom and sweep down the decks? What does that indignity amount to, weighed, I mean, in the scales of the New Testament? Do you think the archangel Gabriel thinks anything the less of me, because I promptly and respectfully obey that old hunks in that particular instance? Who ain’t a slave? Tell me that. Well, then, however the old sea-captains may order me about–however they may thump and punch me about, I have the satisfaction of knowing that it is all right; that everybody else is one way or other served in much the same way– either in a physical or metaphysical point of view, that is; and so the universal thump is passed round, and all hands should rub each other’s shoulder-blades, and be content.

Again, I always go to sea as a sailor, because they make a point of paying me for my trouble, whereas they never pay passengers a single penny that I ever heard of. On the contrary, passengers themselves must pay. And there is all the difference in the world between paying and being paid. The act of paying is perhaps the most uncomfortable infliction that the two orchard thieves entailed upon us. But being paid,– what will compare with it? The urbane activity with which a man receives money is really marvellous, considering that we so earnestly believe money to be the root of all earthly ills, and that on no account can a monied man enter heaven. Ah! how cheerfully we consign ourselves to perdition!

Finally, I always go to sea as a sailor, because of the wholesome exercise and pure air of the fore-castle deck. For as in this world, head winds are far more prevalent than winds from astern (that is, if you never violate the Pythagorean maxim), so for the most part the Commodore on the quarter-deck gets his atmosphere at second hand from the sailors on the forecastle. He thinks he breathes it first; but not so. In much the same way do the commonalty lead their leaders in many other things, at the same time that the leaders little suspect it. But wherefore it was that after having repeatedly smelt the sea as a merchant sailor, I should now take it into my head to go on a whaling voyage; this the invisible police officer of the Fates, who has the constant surveillance of me, and secretly dogs me, and influences me in some unaccountable way– he can better answer than any one else. And, doubtless, my going on this whaling voyage, formed part of the grand programme of Providence that was drawn up a long time ago. It came in as a sort of brief interlude and solo between more extensive performances. I take it that this part of the bill must have run something like this:

“Grand Contested Election for the Presidency of the United States. “WHALING VOYAGE BY ONE ISHMAEL.” “BLOODY BATTLE IN AFFGHANISTAN.”

Though I cannot tell why it was exactly that those stage managers, the Fates, put me down for this shabby part of a whaling voyage, when others were set down for magnificent parts in high tragedies, and short and easy parts in genteel comedies, and jolly parts in farces– though I cannot tell why this was exactly; yet, now that I recall all the circumstances, I think I can see a little into the springs and motives which being cunningly presented to me under various disguises, induced me to set about performing the part I did, besides cajoling me into the delusion that it was a choice resulting from my own unbiased freewill and discriminating judgment.

Chief among these motives was the overwhelming idea of the great whale himself. Such a portentous and mysterious monster roused all my curiosity. Then the wild and distant seas where he rolled his island bulk; the undeliverable, nameless perils of the whale; these, with all the attending marvels of a thousand Patagonian sights and sounds, helped to sway me to my wish. With other men, perhaps, such things would not have been inducements; but as for me, I am tormented with an everlasting itch for things remote. I love to sail forbidden seas, and land on barbarous coasts. Not ignoring what is good, I am quick to perceive a horror, and could still be social with it–would they let me–since it is but well to be on friendly terms with all the inmates of the place one lodges in.

By reason of these things, then, the whaling voyage was welcome; the great flood-gates of the wonder-world swung open, and in the wild conceits that swayed me to my purpose, two and two there floated into my inmost soul, endless processions of the whale, and, mid most of them all, one grand hooded phantom, like a snow hill in the air.

CHAPTER 2

The Carpet-Bag

I stuffed a shirt or two into my old carpet-bag, tucked it under my arm, and started for Cape Horn and the Pacific. Quitting the good city of old Manhatto, I duly arrived in New Bedford. It was on a Saturday night in December. Much was I disappointed upon learning that the little packet for Nantucket had already sailed, and that no way of reaching that place would offer, till the following Monday.

As most young candidates for the pains and penalties of whaling stop at this same New Bedford, thence to embark on their voyage, it may as well be related that I, for one, had no idea of so doing. For my mind was made up to sail in no other than a Nantucket craft, because there was a fine, boisterous something about everything connected with that famous old island, which amazingly pleased me. Besides though New Bedford has of late been gradually monopolizing the business of whaling, and though in this matter poor old Nantucket is now much behind her, yet Nantucket was her great original– the Tyre of this Carthage;–the place where the first dead American whale was stranded. Where else but from Nantucket did those aboriginal whalemen, the Red-Men, first sally out in canoes to give chase to the Leviathan? And where but from Nantucket, too, did that first adventurous little sloop put forth, partly laden with imported cobblestones–so goes the story– to throw at the whales, in order to discover when they were nigh enough to risk a harpoon from the bowsprit?

Now having a night, a day, and still another night following before me in New Bedford, ere I could embark for my destined port, it became a matter of concernment where I was to eat and sleep meanwhile. It was a very dubious-looking, nay, a very dark and dismal night, bitingly cold and cheerless. I knew no one in the place. With anxious grapnels I had sounded my pocket, and only brought up a few pieces of silver,–So, wherever you go, Ishmael, said I to myself, as I stood in the middle of a dreary street shouldering my bag, and comparing the gloom towards the north with the darkness towards the south–wherever in your wisdom you may conclude to lodge for the night, my dear Ishmael, be sure to inquire the price, and don’t be too particular.

With halting steps I paced the streets, and passed the sign of “The Crossed Harpoons”–but it looked too expensive and jolly there. Further on, from the bright red windows of the “Sword-Fish Inn,” there came such fervent rays, that it seemed to have melted the packed snow and ice from before the house, for everywhere else the congealed frost lay ten inches thick in a hard, asphaltic pavement,–rather weary for me, when I struck my foot against the flinty projections, because from hard, remorseless service the soles of my boots were in a most miserable plight. Too expensive and jolly, again thought I, pausing one moment to watch the broad glare in the street, and hear the sounds of the tinkling glasses within. But go on, Ishmael, said I at last; don’t you hear? get away from before the door; your patched boots are stopping the way. So on I went. I now by instinct followed the streets that took me waterward, for there, doubtless, were the cheapest, if not the cheeriest inns.

Such dreary streets! Blocks of blackness, not houses, on either hand, and here and there a candle, like a candle moving about in a tomb. At this hour of the night, of the last day of the week, that quarter of the town proved all but deserted. But presently I came to a smoky light proceeding from a low, wide building, the door of which stood invitingly open. It had a careless look, as if it were meant for the uses of the public; so, entering, the first thing I did was to stumble over an ash-box in the porch. Ha! thought I, ha, as the flying particles almost choked me, are these ashes from that destroyed city, Gomorrah? But “The Crossed Harpoons,” and the “The Sword-Fish?”–this, then must needs be the sign of “The Trap.” However, I picked myself up and hearing a loud voice within, pushed on and opened a second, interior door.

It seemed the great Black Parliament sitting in Tophet. A hundred black faces turned round in their rows to peer; and beyond, a black Angel of Doom was beating a book in a pulpit. It was a negro church; and the preacher’s text was about the blackness of darkness, and the weeping and wailing and teeth-gnashing there. Ha, Ishmael, muttered I, backing out, Wretched entertainment at the sign of ‘The Trap!’

Moving on, I at last came to a dim sort of light not far from the docks, and heard a forlorn creaking in the air; and looking up, saw a swinging sign over the door with a white painting upon it, faintly representing a tall straight jet of misty spray, and these words underneath–“The Spouter Inn:–Peter Coffin.”

Coffin?–Spouter?–Rather ominous in that particular connexion, thought I. But it is a common name in Nantucket, they say, and I suppose this Peter here is an emigrant from there. As the light looked so dim, and the place, for the time, looked quiet enough, and the dilapidated little wooden house itself looked as if it might have been carted here from the ruins of some burnt district, and as the swinging sign had a poverty-stricken sort of creak to it, I thought that here was the very spot for cheap lodgings, and the best of pea coffee.

It was a queer sort of place–a gable-ended old house, one side palsied as it were, and leaning over sadly. It stood on a sharp bleak corner, where that tempestuous wind Euroclydon kept up a worse howling than ever it did about poor Paul’s tossed craft. Euroclydon, nevertheless, is a mighty pleasant zephyr to any one in-doors, with his feet on the hob quietly toasting for bed. In judging of that tempestuous wind called Euroclydon,” says an old writer–of whose works I possess the only copy extant–“it maketh a marvellous difference, whether thou lookest out at it from a glass window where the frost is all on the outside, or whether thou observest it from that sashless window, where the frost is on both sides, and of which the wight Death is the only glazier.” True enough, thought I, as this passage occurred to my mind–old black-letter, thou reasonest well. Yes, these eyes are windows, and this body of mine is the house. What a pity they didn’t stop up the chinks and the crannies though, and thrust in a little lint here and there. But it’s too late to make any improvements now. The universe is finished; the copestone is on, and the chips were carted off a million years ago. Poor Lazarus there, chattering his teeth against the curbstone for his pillow, and shaking off his tatters with his shiverings, he might plug up both ears with rags, and put a corn-cob into his mouth, and yet that would not keep out the tempestuous Euroclydon. Euroclydon! says old Dives, in his red silken wrapper–(he had a redder one afterwards) pooh, pooh! What a fine frosty night; how Orion glitters; what northern lights! Let them talk of their oriental summer climes of everlasting conservatories; give me the privilege of making my own summer with my own coals.

But what thinks Lazarus? Can he warm his blue hands by holding them up to the grand northern lights? Would not Lazarus rather be in Sumatra than here? Would he not far rather lay him down lengthwise along the line of the equator; yea, ye gods! go down to the fiery pit itself, in order to keep out this frost?

Now, that Lazarus should lie stranded there on the curbstone before the door of Dives, this is more wonderful than that an iceberg should be moored to one of the Moluccas. Yet Dives himself, he too lives like a Czar in an ice palace made of frozen sighs, and being a president of a temperance society, he only drinks the tepid tears of orphans.

But no more of this blubbering now, we are going a-whaling, and there is plenty of that yet to come. Let us scrape the ice from our frosted feet, and see what sort of a place this “Spouter” may be.

CHAPTER 3

The Spouter-Inn

Entering that gable-ended Spouter-Inn, you found yourself in a wide, low, straggling entry with old-fashioned wainscots, reminding one of the bulwarks of some condemned old craft. On one side hung a very large oil painting so thoroughly besmoked, and every way defaced, that in the unequal crosslights by which you viewed it, it was only by diligent study and a series of systematic visits to it, and careful inquiry of the neighbors, that you could any way arrive at an understanding of its purpose. Such unaccountable masses of shades and shadows, that at first you almost thought some ambitious young artist, in the time of the New England hags, had endeavored to delineate chaos bewitched. But by dint of much and earnest contemplation, and oft repeated ponderings, and especially by throwing open the little window towards the back of the entry, you at last come to the conclusion that such an idea, however wild, might not be altogether unwarranted.

But what most puzzled and confounded you was a long, limber, portentous, black mass of something hovering in the centre of the picture over three blue, dim, perpendicular lines floating in a nameless yeast. A boggy, soggy, squitchy picture truly, enough to drive a nervous man distracted. Yet was there a sort of indefinite, half-attained, unimaginable sublimity about it that fairly froze you to it, till you involuntarily took an oath with yourself to find out what that marvellous painting meant. Ever and anon a bright, but, alas, deceptive idea would dart you through.– It’s the Black Sea in a midnight gale.–It’s the unnatural combat of the four primal elements.–It’s a blasted heath.– It’s a Hyperborean winter scene.–It’s the breaking-up of the icebound stream of Time. But at last all these fancies yielded to that one portentous something in the picture’s midst. That once found out, and all the rest were plain. But stop; does it not bear a faint resemblance to a gigantic fish? even the great leviathan himself?

In fact, the artist’s design seemed this: a final theory of my own, partly based upon the aggregated opinions of many aged persons with whom I conversed upon the subject. The picture represents a Cape-Horner in a great hurricane; the half-foundered ship weltering there with its three dismantled masts alone visible; and an exasperated whale, purposing to spring clean over the craft, is in the enormous act of impaling himself upon the three mast-heads.

The opposite wall of this entry was hung all over with a heathenish array of monstrous clubs and spears. Some were thickly set with glittering teeth resembling ivory saws; others were tufted with knots of human hair; and one was sickle-shaped, with a vast handle sweeping round like the segment made in the new-mown grass by a long-armed mower. You shuddered as you gazed, and wondered what monstrous cannibal and savage could ever have gone a death-harvesting with such a hacking, horrifying implement. Mixed with these were rusty old whaling lances and harpoons all broken and deformed. Some were storied weapons. With this once long lance, now wildly elbowed, fifty years ago did Nathan Swain kill fifteen whales between a sunrise and a sunset. And that harpoon–so like a corkscrew now–was flung in Javan seas, and run away with by a whale, years afterwards slain off the Cape of Blanco. The original iron entered nigh the tail, and, like a restless needle sojourning in the body of a man, travelled full forty feet, and at last was found imbedded in the hump.

Crossing this dusky entry, and on through yon low-arched way– cut through what in old times must have been a great central chimney with fireplaces all round–you enter the public room. A still duskier place is this, with such low ponderous beams above, and such old wrinkled planks beneath, that you would almost fancy you trod some old craft’s cockpits, especially of such a howling night, when this corner-anchored old ark rocked so furiously. On one side stood a long, low, shelf-like table covered with cracked glass cases, filled with dusty rarities gathered from this wide world’s remotest nooks. Projecting from the further angle of the room stands a dark-looking den–the bar–a rude attempt at a right whale’s head. Be that how it may, there stands the vast arched bone of the whale’s jaw, so wide, a coach might almost drive beneath it. Within are shabby shelves, ranged round with old decanters, bottles, flasks; and in those jaws of swift destruction, like another cursed Jonah (by which name indeed they called him), bustles a little withered old man, who, for their money, dearly sells the sailors deliriums and death.

Abominable are the tumblers into which he pours his poison. Though true cylinders without–within, the villanous green goggling glasses deceitfully tapered downwards to a cheating bottom. Parallel meridians rudely pecked into the glass, surround these footpads’ goblets. Fill to this mark, and your charge is but a penny; to this a penny more; and so on to the full glass– the Cape Horn measure, which you may gulp down for a shilling.

Upon entering the place I found a number of young seamen gathered about a table, examining by a dim light divers specimens of skrimshander. I sought the landlord, and telling him I desired to be accommodated with a room, received for answer that his house was full– not a bed unoccupied. “But avast,” he added, tapping his forehead, “you haint no objections to sharing a harpooneer’s blanket, have ye? I s’pose you are goin’ a-whalin’, so you’d better get used to that sort of thing.”

I told him that I never liked to sleep two in a bed; that if I should ever do so, it would depend upon who the harpooneer might be, and that if he (the landlord) really had no other place for me, and the harpooneer was not decidedly objectionable, why rather than wander further about a strange town on so bitter a night, I would put up with the half of any decent man’s blanket.

“I thought so. All right; take a seat. Supper?–you want supper? Supper’ll be ready directly.”

I sat down on an old wooden settle, carved all over like a bench on the Battery. At one end a ruminating tar was still further adorning it with his jack-knife, stooping over and diligently working away at the space between his legs. He was trying his hand at a ship under full sail, but he didn’t make much headway, I thought.

At last some four or five of us were summoned to our meal in an adjoining room. It was cold as Iceland– no fire at all–the landlord said he couldn’t afford it. Nothing but two dismal tallow candles, each in a winding sheet. We were fain to button up our monkey jackets, and hold to our lips cups of scalding tea with our half frozen fingers. But the fare was of the most substantial kind–not only meat and potatoes, but dumplings; good heavens! dumplings for supper! One young fellow in a green box coat, addressed himself to these dumplings in a most direful manner.

“My boy,” said the landlord, “you’ll have the nightmare to a dead sartainty.”

“Landlord,” I whispered, “that aint the harpooneer is it?”

“Oh, no,” said he, looking a sort of diabolically funny, “the harpooneer is a dark complexioned chap. He never eats dumplings, he don’t– he eats nothing but steaks, and he likes ’em rare.”

“The devil he does,” says I. “Where is that harpooneer? Is he here?”

“He’ll be here afore long,” was the answer.

I could not help it, but I began to feel suspicious of this “dark complexioned” harpooneer. At any rate, I made up my mind that if it so turned out that we should sleep together, he must undress and get into bed before I did.

Supper over, the company went back to the bar-room, when, knowing not what else to do with myself, I resolved to spend the rest of the evening as a looker on.

Presently a rioting noise was heard without. Starting up, the landlord cried, “That’s the Grampus’s crew. I seed her reported in the offing this morning; a three years’ voyage, and a full ship. Hurrah, boys; now we’ll have the latest news from the Feegees.”

A tramping of sea boots was heard in the entry; the door was flung open, and in rolled a wild set of mariners enough. Enveloped in their shaggy watch coats, and with their heads muffled in woollen comforters, all bedarned and ragged, and their beards stiff with icicles, they seemed an eruption of bears from Labrador. They had just landed from their boat, and this was the first house they entered. No wonder, then, that they made a straight wake for the whale’s mouth– the bar–when the wrinkled little old Jonah, there officiating, soon poured them out brimmers all round. One complained of a bad cold in his head, upon which Jonah mixed him a pitch-like potion of gin and molasses, which he swore was a sovereign cure for all colds and catarrhs whatsoever, never mind of how long standing, or whether caught off the coast of Labrador, or on the weather side of an ice-island.

The liquor soon mounted into their heads, as it generally does even with the arrantest topers newly landed from sea, and they began capering about most obstreperously.

I observed, however, that one of them held somewhat aloof, and though he seemed desirous not to spoil the hilarity of his shipmates by his own sober face, yet upon the whole he refrained from making as much noise as the rest. This man interested me at once; and since the sea-gods had ordained that he should soon become my shipmate (though but a sleeping partner one, so far as this narrative is concerned), I will here venture upon a little description of him. He stood full six feet in height, with noble shoulders, and a chest like a coffer-dam. I have seldom seen such brawn in a man. His face was deeply brown and burnt, making his white teeth dazzling by the contrast; while in the deep shadows of his eyes floated some reminiscences that did not seem to give him much joy. His voice at once announced that he was a Southerner, and from his fine stature, I thought he must be one of those tall mountaineers from the Alleghanian Ridge in Virginia. When the revelry of his companions had mounted to its height, this man slipped away unobserved, and I saw no more of him till he became my comrade on the sea. In a few minutes, however, he was missed by his shipmates, and being, it seems, for some reason a huge favorite with them, they raised a cry of “Bulkington! Bulkington! where’s Bulkington?” and darted out of the house in pursuit of him.

It was now about nine o’clock, and the room seeming almost supernaturally quiet after these orgies, I began to congratulate myself upon a little plan that had occurred to me just previous to the entrance of the seamen.

No man prefers to sleep two in a bed. In fact, you would a good deal rather not sleep with your own brother. I don’t know how it is, but people like to be private when they are sleeping. And when it comes to sleeping with an unknown stranger, in a strange inn, in a strange town, and that stranger a harpooneer, then your objections indefinitely multiply. Nor was there any earthly reason why I as a sailor should sleep two in a bed, more than anybody else; for sailors no more sleep two in a bed at sea, than bachelor Kings do ashore. To be sure they all sleep together in one apartment, but you have your own hammock, and cover yourself with your own blanket, and sleep in your own skin.

The more I pondered over this harpooneer, the more I abominated the thought of sleeping with him. It was fair to presume that being a harpooneer, his linen or woollen, as the case might be, would not be of the tidiest, certainly none of the finest. I began to twitch all over. Besides, it was getting late, and my decent harpooneer ought to be home and going bedwards. Suppose now, he should tumble in upon me at midnight– how could I tell from what vile hole he had been coming?

“Landlord! I’ve changed my mind about that harpooneer.– I shan’t sleep with him. I’ll try the bench here.”

“Just as you please; I’m sorry I cant spare ye a tablecloth for a mattress, and it’s a plaguy rough board here”–feeling of the knots and notches. “But wait a bit, Skrimshander; I’ve got a carpenter’s plane there in the bar–wait, I say, and I’ll make ye snug enough.” So saying he procured the plane; and with his old silk handkerchief first dusting the bench, vigorously set to planing away at my bed, the while grinning like an ape. The shavings flew right and left; till at last the plane-iron came bump against an indestructible knot. The landlord was near spraining his wrist, and I told him for heaven’s sake to quit–the bed was soft enough to suit me, and I did not know how all the planing in the world could make eider down of a pine plank. So gathering up the shavings with another grin, and throwing them into the great stove in the middle of the room, he went about his business, and left me in a brown study.

I now took the measure of the bench, and found that it was a foot too short; but that could be mended with a chair. But it was a foot too narrow, and the other bench in the room was about four inches higher than the planed one– so there was no yoking them. I then placed the first bench lengthwise along the only clear space against the wall, leaving a little interval between, for my back to settle down in. But I soon found that there came such a draught of cold air over me from under the sill of the window, that this plan would never do at all, especially as another current from the rickety door met the one from the window, and both together formed a series of small whirlwinds in the immediate vicinity of the spot where I had thought to spend the night.

The devil fetch that harpooneer, thought I, but stop, couldn’t I steal a march on him–bolt his door inside, and jump into his bed, not to be wakened by the most violent knockings? It seemed no bad idea but upon second thoughts I dismissed it. For who could tell but what the next morning, so soon as I popped out of the room, the harpooneer might be standing in the entry, all ready to knock me down!

Still looking around me again, and seeing no possible chance of spending a sufferable night unless in some other person’s bed, I began to think that after all I might be cherishing unwarrantable prejudices against this unknown harpooneer. Thinks I, I’ll wait awhile; he must be dropping in before long. I’ll have a good look at him then, and perhaps we may become jolly good bedfellows after all–there’s no telling.

But though the other boarders kept coming in by ones, twos, and threes, and going to bed, yet no sign of my harpooneer.

“Landlord! said I, “what sort of a chap is he–does he always keep such late hours?” It was now hard upon twelve o’clock.

The landlord chuckled again with his lean chuckle, and seemed to be mightily tickled at something beyond my comprehension. “No,” he answered, “generally he’s an early bird–airley to bed and airley to rise–yea, he’s the bird what catches the worm. But to-night he went out a peddling, you see, and I don’t see what on airth keeps him so late, unless, may be, he can’t sell his head.”

“Can’t sell his head?–What sort of a bamboozingly story is this you are telling me?” getting into a towering rage. “Do you pretend to say, landlord, that this harpooneer is actually engaged this blessed Saturday night, or rather Sunday morning, in peddling his head around this town?”

“That’s precisely it,” said the landlord, “and I told him he couldn’t sell it here, the market’s overstocked.”

“With what?” shouted I.

“With heads to be sure; ain’t there too many heads in the world?”

“I tell you what it is, landlord,” said I quite calmly, “you’d better stop spinning that yarn to me–I’m not green.”

“May be not,” taking out a stick and whittling a toothpick, “but I rayther guess you’ll be done brown if that ere harpooneer hears you a slanderin’ his head.”

“I’ll break it for him,” said I, now flying into a passion again at this unaccountable farrago of the landlord’s.

“It’s broke a’ready,” said he.

“Broke,” said I–“broke, do you mean?”

“Sartain, and that’s the very reason he can’t sell it, I guess.”

“Landlord,” said I, going up to him as cool as Mt. Hecla in a snowstorm–“landlord, stop whittling. You and I must understand one another, and that too without delay. I come to your house and want a bed; you tell me you can only give me half a one; that the other half belongs to a certain harpooneer. And about this harpooneer, whom I have not yet seen, you persist in telling me the most mystifying and exasperating stories tending to beget in me an uncomfortable feeling towards the man whom you design for my bedfellow–a sort of connexion, landlord, which is an intimate and confidential one in the highest degree. I now demand of you to speak out and tell me who and what this harpooneer is, and whether I shall be in all respects safe to spend the night with him. And in the first place, you will be so good as to unsay that story about selling his head, which if true I take to be good evidence that this harpooneer is stark mad, and I’ve no idea of sleeping with a madman; and you, sir, you I mean, landlord, you, sir, by trying to induce me to do so knowingly would thereby render yourself liable to a criminal prosecution.”

“Wall,” said the landlord, fetching a long breath, “that’s a purty long sarmon for a chap that rips a little now and then. But be easy, be easy, this here harpooneer I have been tellin’ you of has just arrived from the south seas, where he bought up a lot of ‘balmed New Zealand heads (great curios, you know), and he’s sold all on ’em but one, and that one he’s trying to sell to-night, cause to-morrow’s Sunday, and it would not do to be sellin’ human heads about the streets when folks is goin’ to churches. He wanted to last Sunday, but I stopped him just as he was goin’ out of the door with four heads strung on a string, for all the airth like a string of inions.”

This account cleared up the otherwise unaccountable mystery, and showed that the landlord, after all, had had no idea of fooling me– but at the same time what could I think of a harpooneer who stayed out of a Saturday night clean into the holy Sabbath, engaged in such a cannibal business as selling the heads of dead idolators?

“Depend upon it, landlord, that harpooneer is a dangerous man.”

“He pays reg’lar,” was the rejoinder. “But come, it’s getting dreadful late, you had better be turning flukes–it’s a nice bed: Sal and me slept in that ere bed the night we were spliced. There’s plenty of room for two to kick about in that bed; it’s an almighty big bed that. Why, afore we give it up, Sal used to put our Sam and little Johnny in the foot of it. But I got a dreaming and sprawling about one night, and somehow, Sam got pitched on the floor, and came near breaking his arm. After that, Sal said it wouldn’t do. Come along here, I’ll give ye a glim in a jiffy;” and so saying he lighted a candle and held it towards me, offering to lead the way. But I stood irresolute; when looking at a clock in the corner, he exclaimed “I vum it’s Sunday–you won’t see that harpooneer to-night; he’s come to anchor somewhere–come along then; do come; won’t ye come?”

I considered the matter a moment, and then up stairs we went, and I was ushered into a small room, cold as a clam, and furnished, sure enough, with a prodigious bed, almost big enough indeed for any four harpooneers to sleep abreast.

“There,” said the landlord, placing the candle on a crazy old sea chest that did double duty as a wash-stand and centre table; “there, make yourself comfortable now; and good night to ye.” I turned round from eyeing the bed, but he had disappeared.

Folding back the counterpane, I stooped over the bed. Though none of the most elegant, it yet stood the scrutiny tolerably well. I then glanced round the room; and besides the bedstead and centre table, could see no other furniture belonging to the place, but a rude shelf, the four walls, and a papered fireboard representing a man striking a whale. Of things not properly belonging to the room, there was a hammock lashed up, and thrown upon the floor in one corner; also a large seaman’s bag, containing the harpooneer’s wardrobe, no doubt in lieu of a land trunk. Likewise, there was a parcel of outlandish bone fish hooks on the shelf over the fire-place, and a tall harpoon standing at the head of the bed.

But what is this on the chest? I took it up, and held it close to the light, and felt it, and smelt it, and tried every way possible to arrive at some satisfactory conclusion concerning it. I can compare it to nothing but a large door mat, ornamented at the edges with little tinkling tags something like the stained porcupine quills round an Indian moccasin. There was a hole or slit in the middle of this mat, as you see the same in South American ponchos. But could it be possible that any sober harpooneer would get into a door mat, and parade the streets of any Christian town in that sort of guise? I put it on, to try it, and it weighed me down like a hamper, being uncommonly shaggy and thick, and I thought a little damp, as though this mysterious harpooneer had been wearing it of a rainy day. I went up in it to a bit of glass stuck against the wall, and I never saw such a sight in my life. I tore myself out of it in such a hurry that I gave myself a kink in the neck.

I sat down on the side of the bed, and commenced thinking about this head-peddling harpooneer, and his door mat. After thinking some time on the bed-side, I got up and took off my monkey jacket, and then stood in the middle of the room thinking. I then took off my coat, and thought a little more in my shirt sleeves. But beginning to feel very cold now, half undressed as I was, and remembering what the landlord said about the harpooneer’s not coming home at all that night, it being so very late, I made no more ado, but jumped out of my pantaloons and boots, and then blowing out the light tumbled into bed, and commended myself to the care of heaven.

Whether that mattress was stuffed with corncobs or broken crockery, there is no telling, but I rolled about a good deal, and could not sleep for a long time. At last I slid off into a light doze, and had pretty nearly made a good offing towards the land of Nod, when I heard a heavy footfall in the passage, and saw a glimmer of light come into the room from under the door.

Lord save me, thinks I, that must be the harpooneer, the infernal head-peddler. But I lay perfectly still, and resolved not to say a word till spoken to. Holding a light in one hand, and that identical New Zealand head in the other, the stranger entered the room, and without looking towards the bed, placed his candle a good way off from me on the floor in one corner, and then began working away at the knotted cords of the large bag I before spoke of as being in the room. I was all eagerness to see his face, but he kept it averted for some time while employed in unlacing the bag’s mouth. This accomplished, however, he turned round–when, good heavens; what a sight! Such a face! It was of a dark, purplish, yellow color, here and there stuck over with large blackish looking squares. Yes, it’s just as I thought, he’s a terrible bedfellow; he’s been in a fight, got dreadfully cut, and here he is, just from the surgeon. But at that moment he chanced to turn his face so towards the light, that I plainly saw they could not be sticking-plasters at all, those black squares on his cheeks. They were stains of some sort or other. At first I knew not what to make of this; but soon an inkling of the truth occurred to me. I remembered a story of a white man–a whaleman too– who, falling among the cannibals, had been tattooed by them. I concluded that this harpooneer, in the course of his distant voyages, must have met with a similar adventure. And what is it, thought I, after all! It’s only his outside; a man can be honest in any sort of skin. But then, what to make of his unearthly complexion, that part of it, I mean, lying round about, and completely independent of the squares of tattooing. To be sure, it might be nothing but a good coat of tropical tanning; but I never heard of a hot sun’s tanning a white man into a purplish yellow one. However, I had never been in the South Seas; and perhaps the sun there produced these extraordinary effects upon the skin. Now, while all these ideas were passing through me like lightning, this harpooneer never noticed me at all. But, after some difficulty having opened his bag, he commenced fumbling in it, and presently pulled out a sort of tomahawk, and a seal-skin wallet with the hair on. Placing these on the old chest in the middle of the room, he then took the New Zealand head–a ghastly thing enough– and crammed it down into the bag. He now took off his hat– a new beaver hat–when I came nigh singing out with fresh surprise. There was no hair on his head–none to speak of at least– nothing but a small scalp-knot twisted up on his forehead. His bald purplish head now looked for all the world like a mildewed skull. Had not the stranger stood between me and the door, I would have bolted out of it quicker than ever I bolted a dinner.

Even as it was, I thought something of slipping out of the window, but it was the second floor back. I am no coward, but what to make of this headpeddling purple rascal altogether passed my comprehension. Ignorance is the parent of fear, and being completely nonplussed and confounded about the stranger, I confess I was now as much afraid of him as if it was the devil himself who had thus broken into my room at the dead of night. In fact, I was so afraid of him that I was not game enough just then to address him, and demand a satisfactory answer concerning what seemed inexplicable in him.

Meanwhile, he continued the business of undressing, and at last showed his chest and arms. As I live, these covered parts of him were checkered with the same squares as his face, his back, too, was all over the same dark squares; he seemed to have been in a Thirty Years’ War, and just escaped from it with a sticking-plaster shirt. Still more, his very legs were marked, as if a parcel of dark green frogs were running up the trunks of young palms. It was now quite plain that he must be some abominable savage or other shipped aboard of a whaleman in the South Seas, and so landed in this Christian country. I quaked to think of it. A peddler of heads too–perhaps the heads of his own brothers. He might take a fancy to mine–heavens! look at that tomahawk!

But there was no time for shuddering, for now the savage went about something that completely fascinated my attention, and convinced me that he must indeed be a heathen. Going to his heavy grego, or wrapall, or dreadnaught, which he had previously hung on a chair, he fumbled in the pockets, and produced at length a curious little deformed image with a hunch on its back, and exactly the color of a three days’ old Congo baby. Remembering the embalmed head, at first I almost thought that this black manikin was a real baby preserved in some similar manner. But seeing that it was not at all limber, and that it glistened a good deal like polished ebony, I concluded that it must be nothing but a wooden idol, which indeed it proved to be. For now the savage goes up to the empty fire-place, and removing the papered fire-board, sets up this little hunch-backed image, like a tenpin, between the andirons. The chimney jambs and all the bricks inside were very sooty, so that I thought this fire-place made a very appropriate little shrine or chapel for his Congo idol.

I now screwed my eyes hard towards the half hidden image, feeling but ill at ease meantime–to see what was next to follow. First he takes about a double handful of shavings out of his grego pocket, and places them carefully before the idol; then laying a bit of ship biscuit on top and applying the flame from the lamp, he kindled the shavings into a sacrificial blaze. Presently, after many hasty snatches into the fire, and still hastier withdrawals of his fingers (whereby he seemed to be scorching them badly), he at last succeeded in drawing out the biscuit; then blowing off the heat and ashes a little, he made a polite offer of it to the little negro. But the little devil did not seem to fancy such dry sort of fare at all; he never moved his lips. All these strange antics were accompanied by still stranger guttural noises from the devotee, who seemed to be praying in a sing-song or else singing some pagan psalmody or other, during which his face twitched about in the most unnatural manner. At last extinguishing the fire, he took the idol up very unceremoniously, and bagged it again in his grego pocket as carelessly as if he were a sportsman bagging a dead woodcock.

All these queer proceedings increased my uncomfortableness, and seeing him now exhibiting strong symptoms of concluding his business operations, and jumping into bed with me, I thought it was high time, now or never, before the light was put out, to break the spell in which I had so long been bound.

But the interval I spent in deliberating what to say, was a fatal one. Taking up his tomahawk from the table, he examined the head of it for an instant, and then holding it to the light, with his mouth at the handle, he puffed out great clouds of tobacco smoke. The next moment the light was extinguished, and this wild cannibal, tomahawk between his teeth, sprang into bed with me. I sang out, I could not help it now; and giving a sudden grunt of astonishment he began feeling me.

Stammering out something, I knew not what, I rolled away from him against the wall, and then conjured him, whoever or whatever he might be, to keep quiet, and let me get up and light the lamp again. But his guttural responses satisfied me at once that he but ill comprehended my meaning.

“Who-e debel you?”–he at last said–“you no speak-e, dam-me, I kill-e.” And so saying the lighted tomahawk began flourishing about me in the dark.

“Landlord, for God’s sake, Peter Coffin!” shouted I. “Landlord! Watch! Coffin! Angels! save me!”

“Speak-e! tell-ee me who-ee be, or dam-me, I kill-e!” again growled the cannibal, while his horrid flourishings of the tomahawk scattered the hot tobacco ashes about me till I thought my linen would get on fire. But thank heaven, at that moment the landlord came into the room light in hand, and leaping from the bed I ran up to him.

“Don’t be afraid now,” said he, grinning again, “Queequeg here wouldn’t harm a hair of your head.”

“Stop your grinning,” shouted I, “and why didn’t you tell me that that infernal harpooneer was a cannibal?”

“I thought ye know’d it;–didn’t I tell ye, he was a peddlin’ heads around town?–but turn flukes again and go to sleep. Queequeg, look here–you sabbee me, I sabbee–you this man sleepe you–you sabbee?”

“Me sabbee plenty”–grunted Queequeg, puffing away at his pipe and sitting up in bed.

“You gettee in,” he added, motioning to me with his tomahawk, and throwing the clothes to one side. He really did this in not only a civil but a really kind and charitable way. I stood looking at him a moment. For all his tattooings he was on the whole a clean, comely looking cannibal. What’s all this fuss I have been making about, thought I to myself–the man’s a human being just as I am: he has just as much reason to fear me, as I have to be afraid of him. Better sleep with a sober cannibal than a drunken Christian.

“Landlord,” said I, “tell him to stash his tomahawk there, or pipe, or whatever you call it; tell him to stop smoking, in short, and I will turn in with him. But I don’t fancy having a man smoking in bed with me. It’s dangerous. Besides, I ain’t insured.”

This being told to Queequeg, he at once complied, and again politely motioned me to get into bed–rolling over to one side as much as to say– I won’t touch a leg of ye.”

“Good night, landlord,” said I, “you may go.”

I turned in, and never slept better in my life.

CHAPTER 4

The Counterpane

Upon waking next morning about daylight, I found Queequeg’s arm thrown over me in the most loving and affectionate manner. You had almost thought I had been his wife. The counterpane was of patchwork, full of odd little parti-colored squares and triangles; and this arm of his tattooed all over with an interminable Cretan labyrinth of a figure, no two parts of which were of one precise shade– owing I suppose to his keeping his arm at sea unmethodically in sun and shade, his shirt sleeves irregularly rolled up at various times– this same arm of his, I say, looked for all the world like a strip of that same patchwork quilt. Indeed, partly lying on it as the arm did when I first awoke, I could hardly tell it from the quilt, they so blended their hues together; and it was only by the sense of weight and pressure that I could tell that Queequeg was hugging me.

My sensations were strange. Let me try to explain them. When I was a child, I well remember a somewhat similar circumstance that befell me; whether it was a reality or a dream, I never could entirely settle. The circumstance was this. I had been cutting up some caper or other– I think it was trying to crawl up the chimney, as I had seen a little sweep do a few days previous; and my stepmother who, somehow or other, was all the time whipping me, or sending me to bed supperless,– my mother dragged me by the legs out of the chimney and packed me off to bed, though it was only two o’clock in the afternoon of the 21st June, the longest day in the year in our hemisphere. I felt dreadfully. But there was no help for it, so up stairs I went to my little room in the third floor, undressed myself as slowly as possible so as to kill time, and with a bitter sigh got between the sheets.

I lay there dismally calculating that sixteen entire hours must elapse before I could hope for a resurrection. Sixteen hours in bed! the small of my back ached to think of it. And it was so light too; the sun shining in at the window, and a great rattling of coaches in the streets, and the sound of gay voices all over the house. I felt worse and worse– at last I got up, dressed, and softly going down in my stockinged feet, sought out my stepmother, and suddenly threw myself at her feet, beseeching her as a particular favor to give me a good slippering for my misbehaviour: anything indeed but condemning me to lie abed such an unendurable length of time. But she was the best and most conscientious of stepmothers, and back I had to go to my room. For several hours I lay there broad awake, feeling a great deal worse than I have ever done since, even from the greatest subsequent misfortunes. At last I must have fallen into a troubled nightmare of a doze; and slowly waking from it–half steeped in dreams–I opened my eyes, and the before sunlit room was now wrapped in outer darkness. Instantly I felt a shock running through all my frame; nothing was to be seen, and nothing was to be heard; but a supernatural hand seemed placed in mine. My arm hung over the counterpane, and the nameless, unimaginable, silent form or phantom, to which the hand belonged, seemed closely seated by my bed-side. For what seemed ages piled on ages, I lay there, frozen with the most awful fears, not daring to drag away my hand; yet ever thinking that if I could but stir it one single inch, the horrid spell would be broken. I knew not how this consciousness at last glided away from me; but waking in the morning, I shudderingly remembered it all, and for days and weeks and months afterwards I lost myself in confounding attempts to explain the mystery. Nay, to this very hour, I often puzzle myself with it.

Now, take away the awful fear, and my sensations at feeling the supernatural hand in mine were very similar, in their strangeness, to those which I experienced on waking up and seeing Queequeg’s pagan arm thrown round me. But at length all the past night’s events soberly recurred, one by one, in fixed reality, and then I lay only alive to the comical predicament. For though I tried to move his arm– unlock his bridegroom clasp–yet, sleeping as he was, he still hugged me tightly, as though naught but death should part us twain. I now strove to rouse him–“Queequeg!”–but his only answer was a snore. I then rolled over, my neck feeling as if it were in a horse-collar; and suddenly felt a slight scratch. Throwing aside the counterpane, there lay the tomahawk sleeping by the savage’s side, as if it were a hatchet-faced baby. A pretty pickle, truly, thought I; abed here in a strange house in the broad day, with a cannibal and a tomahawk! “Queequeg!–in the name of goodness, Queequeg, wake!” At length, by dint of much wriggling, and loud and incessant expostulations upon the unbecomingness of his hugging a fellow male in that matrimonial sort of style, I succeeded in extracting a grunt; and presently, he drew back his arm, shook himself all over like a Newfoundland dog just from the water, and sat up in bed, stiff as a pike-staff, looking at me, and rubbing his eyes as if he did not altogether remember how I came to be there, though a dim consciousness of knowing something about me seemed slowly dawning over him. Meanwhile, I lay quietly eyeing him, having no serious misgivings now, and bent upon narrowly observing so curious a creature. When, at last, his mind seemed made up touching the character of his bedfellow, and he became, as it were, reconciled to the fact; he jumped out upon the floor, and by certain signs and sounds gave me to understand that, if it pleased me, he would dress first and then leave me to dress afterwards, leaving the whole apartment to myself. Thinks I, Queequeg, under the circumstances, this is a very civilized overture; but, the truth is, these savages have an innate sense of delicacy, say what you will; it is marvellous how essentially polite they are. I pay this particular compliment to Queequeg, because he treated me with so much civility and consideration, while I was guilty of great rudeness; staring at him from the bed, and watching all his toilette motions; for the time my curiosity getting the better of my breeding. Nevertheless, a man like Queequeg you don’t see every day, he and his ways were well worth unusual regarding.

He commenced dressing at top by donning his beaver hat, a very tall one, by the by, and then–still minus his trowsers– he hunted up his boots. What under the heavens he did it for, I cannot tell, but his next movement was to crush himself– boots in hand, and hat on–under the bed; when, from sundry violent gaspings and strainings, I inferred he was hard at work booting himself; though by no law of propriety that I ever heard of, is any man required to be private when putting on his boots. But Queequeg, do you see, was a creature in the transition state– neither caterpillar nor butterfly. He was just enough civilized to show off his outlandishness in the strangest possible manner. His education was not yet completed. He was an undergraduate. If he had not been a small degree civilized, he very probably would not have troubled himself with boots at all; but then, if he had not been still a savage, he never would have dreamt of getting under the bed to put them on. At last, he emerged with his hat very much dented and crushed down over his eyes, and began creaking and limping about the room, as if, not being much accustomed to boots, his pair of damp, wrinkled cowhide ones– probably not made to order either–rather pinched and tormented him at the first go off of a bitter cold morning.

Seeing, now, that there were no curtains to the window, and that the street being very narrow, the house opposite commanded a plain view into the room, and observing more and more the indecorous figure that Queequeg made, staving about with little else but his hat and boots on; I begged him as well as I could, to accelerate his toilet somewhat, and particularly to get into his pantaloons as soon as possible. He complied, and then proceeded to wash himself. At that time in the morning any Christian would have washed his face; but Queequeg, to my amazement, contented himself with restricting his ablutions to his chest, arms, and hands. He then donned his waistcoat, and taking up a piece of hard soap on the wash-stand centre table, dipped it into water and commenced lathering his face. I was watching to see where he kept his razor, when lo and behold, he takes the harpoon from the bed corner, slips out the long wooden stock, unsheathes the head, whets it a little on his boot, and striding up to the bit of mirror against the wall, begins a vigorous scraping, or rather harpooning of his cheeks. Thinks I, Queequeg, this is using Rogers’s best cutlery with a vengeance. Afterwards I wondered the less at this operation when I came to know of what fine steel the head of a harpoon is made, and how exceedingly sharp the long straight edges are always kept.

The rest of his toilet was soon achieved, and he proudly marched out of the room, wrapped up in his great pilot monkey jacket, and sporting his harpoon like a marshal’s baton.

CHAPTER 5

Breakfast

I quickly followed suit, and descending into the bar-room accosted the grinning landlord very pleasantly. I cherished no malice towards him, though he had been skylarking with me not a little in the matter of my bedfellow.

However, a good laugh is a mighty good thing, and rather too scarce a good thing; the more’s the pity. So, if any one man, in his own proper person, afford stuff for a good joke to anybody, let him not be backward, but let him cheerfully allow himself to spend and to be spent in that way. And the man that has anything bountifully laughable about him, be sure there is more in that man than you perhaps think for.

The bar-room was now full of the boarders who had been dropping in the night previous, and whom I had not as yet had a good look at. They were nearly all whalemen; chief mates, and second mates, and third mates, and sea carpenters, and sea coopers, and sea blacksmiths, and harpooneers, and ship keepers; a brown and brawny company, with bosky beards; an unshorn, shaggy set, all wearing monkey jackets for morning gowns.

You could pretty plainly tell how long each one had been ashore. This young fellow’s healthy cheek is like a sun-toasted pear in hue, and would seem to smell almost as musky; he cannot have been three days landed from his Indian voyage. That man next him looks a few shades lighter; you might say a touch of satin wood is in him. In the complexion of a third still lingers a tropic tawn, but slightly bleached withal; he doubtless has tarried whole weeks ashore. But who could show a cheek like Queequeg? which, barred with various tints, seemed like the Andes’ western slope, to show forth in one array, contrasting climates, zone by zone.

“Grub, ho!” now cried the landlord, flinging open a door, and in we went to breakfast.

They say that men who have seen the world, thereby become quite at ease in manner, quite self-possessed in company. Not always, though: Ledyard, the great New England traveller, and Mungo Park, the Scotch one; of all men, they possessed the least assurance in the parlor. But perhaps the mere crossing of Siberia in a sledge drawn by dogs as Ledyard did, or the taking a long solitary walk on an empty stomach, in the negro heart of Africa, which was the sum of poor Mungo’s performances– this kind of travel, I say, may not be the very best mode of attaining a high social polish. Still, for the most part, that sort of thing is to be had anywhere.

These reflections just here are occasioned by the circumstance that after we were all seated at the table, and I was preparing to hear some good stories about whaling; to my no small surprise nearly every man maintained a profound silence. And not only that, but they looked embarrassed. Yes, here were a set of sea-dogs, many of whom without the slightest bashfulness had boarded great whales on the high seas–entire strangers to them– and duelled them dead without winking; and yet, here they sat at a social breakfast table–all of the same calling, all of kindred tastes–looking round as sheepishly at each other as though they had never been out of sight of some sheepfold among the Green Mountains. A curious sight; these bashful bears, these timid warrior whalemen!

But as for Queequeg–why, Queequeg sat there among them– at the head of the table, too, it so chanced; as cool as an icicle. To be sure I cannot say much for his breeding. His greatest admirer could not have cordially justified his bringing his harpoon into breakfast with him, and using it there without ceremony; reaching over the table with it, to the imminent jeopardy of many heads, and grappling the beefsteaks towards him. But that was certainly very coolly done by him, and every one knows that in most people’s estimation, to do anything coolly is to do it genteelly.

We will not speak of all Queequeg’s peculiarities here; how he eschewed coffee and hot rolls, and applied his undivided attention to beefsteaks, done rare. Enough, that when breakfast was over he withdrew like the rest into the public room, lighted his tomahawk-pipe, and was sitting there quietly digesting and smoking with his inseparable hat on, when I sallied out for a stroll.

CHAPTER 6

The Street

If I had been astonished at first catching a glimpse of so outlandish an individual as Queequeg circulating among the polite society of a civilized town, that astonishment soon departed upon taking my first daylight stroll through the streets of New Bedford.

In thoroughfares nigh the docks, any considerable seaport will frequently offer to view the queerest looking nondescripts from foreign parts. Even in Broadway and Chestnut streets, Mediterranean mariners will sometimes jostle the affrighted ladies. Regent Street is not unknown to Lascars and Malays; and at Bombay, in the Apollo Green, live Yankees have often scared the natives. But New Bedford beats all Water Street and Wapping. In these last-mentioned haunts you see only sailors; but in New Bedford, actual cannibals stand chatting at street corners; savages outright; many of whom yet carry on their bones unholy flesh. It makes a stranger stare.

But, besides the Feegeeans, Tongatobooarrs, Erromanggoans, Pannangians, and Brighggians, and, besides the wild specimens of the whaling-craft which unheeded reel about the streets, you will see other sights still more curious, certainly more comical. There weekly arrive in this town scores of green Vermonters and New Hampshire men, all athirst for gain and glory in the fishery. They are mostly young, of stalwart frames; fellows who have felled forests, and now seek to drop the axe and snatch the whale-lance. Many are as green as the Green Mountains whence they came. In some things you would think them but a few hours old. Look there! that chap strutting round the corner. He wears a beaver hat and swallow-tailed coat, girdled with a sailor-belt and a sheath-knife. Here comes another with a sou’-wester and a bombazine cloak.

No town-bred dandy will compare with a country-bred one–I mean a downright bumpkin dandy–a fellow that, in the dog-days, will mow his two acres in buckskin gloves for fear of tanning his hands. Now when a country dandy like this takes it into his head to make a distinguished reputation, and joins the great whale-fishery, you should see the comical things he does upon reaching the seaport. In bespeaking his sea-outfit, he orders bell-buttons to his waistcoats; straps to his canvas trowsers. Ah, poor Hay-Seed! how bitterly will burst those straps in the first howling gale, when thou art driven, straps, buttons, and all, down the throat of the tempest.

But think not that this famous town has only harpooneers, cannibals, and bumpkins to show her visitors. Not at all. Still New Bedford is a queer place. Had it not been for us whalemen, that tract of land would this day perhaps have been in as howling condition as the coast of Labrador. As it is, parts of her back country are enough to frighten one, they look so bony. The town itself is perhaps the dearest place to live in, in all New England. It is a land of oil, true enough: but not like Canaan; a land, also, of corn and wine. The streets do not run with milk; nor in the spring-time do they pave them with fresh eggs. Yet, in spite of this, nowhere in all America will you find more patrician-like houses; parks and gardens more opulent, than in New Bedford. Whence came they? how planted upon this once scraggy scoria of a country?

Go and gaze upon the iron emblematical harpoons round yonder lofty mansion, and your question will be answered. Yes; all these brave houses and flowery gardens came from the Atlantic, Pacific, and Indian oceans. One and all, they were harpooned and dragged up hither from the bottom of the sea. Can Herr Alexander perform a feat like that?

In New Bedford, fathers, they say, give whales for dowers to their daughters, and portion off their nieces with a few porpoises a-piece. You must go to New Bedford to see a brilliant wedding; for, they say, they have reservoirs of oil in every house, and every night recklessly burn their lengths in spermaceti candles.

In summer time, the town is sweet to see; full of fine maples– long avenues of green and gold. And in August, high in air, the beautiful and bountiful horse-chestnuts, candelabra-wise, proffer the passer-by their tapering upright cones of congregated blossoms. So omnipotent is art; which in many a district of New Bedford has superinduced bright terraces of flowers upon the barren refuse rocks thrown aside at creation’s final day.

And the women of New Bedford, they bloom like their own red roses. But roses only bloom in summer; whereas the fine carnation of their cheeks is perennial as sunlight in the seventh heavens. Elsewhere match that bloom of theirs, ye cannot, save in Salem, where they tell me the young girls breathe such musk, their sailor sweethearts smell them miles off shore, as though they were drawing nigh the odorous Moluccas instead of the Puritanic sands.

CHAPTER 7

The Chapel

In this same New Bedford there stands a Whaleman’s Chapel, and few are the moody fishermen, shortly bound for the Indian Ocean or Pacific, who fail to make a Sunday visit to the spot. I am sure that I did not.

Returning from my first morning stroll, I again sallied out upon this special errand. The sky had changed from clear, sunny cold, to driving sleet and mist. Wrapping myself in my shaggy jacket of the cloth called bearskin, I fought my way against the stubborn storm. Entering, I found a small scattered congregation of sailors, and sailors’ wives and widows. A muffled silence reigned, only broken at times by the shrieks of the storm. Each silent worshipper seemed purposely sitting apart from the other, as if each silent grief were insular and incommunicable. The chaplain had not yet arrived; and there these silent islands of men and women sat steadfastly eyeing several marble tablets, with black borders, masoned into the wall on either side the pulpit. Three of them ran something like the following, but I do not pretend to quote:

SACRED

TO THE MEMORY

OF

JOHN TALBOT,

Who, at the age of eighteen, was lost overboard Near the Isle of Desolation, off Patagonia, November 1st, 1836.

THIS TABLET

Is erected to his Memory

BY HIS SISTER.

SACRED

TO THE MEMORY

OF

ROBERT LONG, WILLIS ELLERY, NATHAN COLEMAN, WALTER CANNY, SETH MACY, AND SAMUEL GLEIG,

Forming one of the boats’ crews OF

THE SHIP ELIZA

Who were towed out of sight by a Whale, On the Off-shore Ground in the

PACIFIC,

December 31st, 1839.

THIS MARBLE

Is here placed by their surviving SHIPMATES.

SACRED

TO THE MEMORY

OF

The late

CAPTAIN EZEKIEL HARDY,

Who in the bows of his boat was killed by a Sperm Whale on the coast of Japan, August 3d, 1833.

THIS TABLET

Is erected to his Memory

BY

HIS WIDOW.

Shaking off the sleet from my ice-glazed hat and jacket, I seated myself near the door, and turning sideways was surprised to see Queequeg near me. Affected by the solemnity of the scene, there was a wondering gaze of incredulous curiosity in his countenance. This savage was the only person present who seemed to notice my entrance; because he was the only one who could not read, and, therefore, was not reading those frigid inscriptions on the wall. Whether any of the relatives of the seamen whose names appeared there were now among the congregation, I knew not; but so many are the unrecorded accidents in the fishery, and so plainly did several women present wear the countenance if not the trappings of some unceasing grief, that I feel sure that here before me were assembled those, in whose unhealing hearts the sight of those bleak tablets sympathetically caused the old wounds to bleed afresh.

Oh! ye whose dead lie buried beneath the green grass; who standing among flowers can say–here, here lies my beloved; ye know not the desolation that broods in bosoms like these. What bitter blanks in those black-bordered marbles which cover no ashes! What despair in those immovable inscriptions! What deadly voids and unbidden infidelities in the lines that seem to gnaw upon all Faith, and refuse resurrections to the beings who have placelessly perished without a grave. As well might those tablets stand in the cave of Elephanta as here.

In what census of living creatures, the dead of mankind are included; why it is that a universal proverb says of them, that they tell no tales, though containing more secrets than the Goodwin Sands! how it is that to his name who yesterday departed for the other world, we prefix so significant and infidel a word, and yet do not thus entitle him, if he but embarks for the remotest Indies of this living earth; why the Life Insurance Companies pay death-forfeitures upon immortals; in what eternal, unstirring paralysis, and deadly, hopeless trance, yet lies antique Adam who died sixty round centuries ago; how it is that we still refuse to be comforted for those who we nevertheless maintain are dwelling in unspeakable bliss; why all the living so strive to hush all the dead; wherefore but the rumor of a knocking in a tomb will terrify a whole city. All these things are not without their meanings.

But Faith, like a jackal, feeds among the tombs, and even from these dead doubts she gathers her most vital hope.

It needs scarcely to be told, with what feelings, on the eve of a Nantucket voyage, I regarded those marble tablets, and by the murky light of that darkened, doleful day read the fate of the whalemen who had gone before me. Yes, Ishmael, the same fate may be thine. But somehow I grew merry again. Delightful inducements to embark, fine chance for promotion, it seems–aye, a stove boat will make me an immortal by brevet. Yes, there is death in this business of whaling–a speechlessly quick chaotic bundling of a man into Eternity. But what then? Methinks we have hugely mistaken this matter of Life and Death. Methinks that what they call my shadow here on earth is my true substance. Methinks that in looking at things spiritual, we are too much like oysters observing the sun through the water, and thinking that thick water the thinnest of air. Methinks my body is but the lees of my better being. In fact take my body who will, take it I say, it is not me. And therefore three cheers for Nantucket; and come a stove boat and stove body when they will, for stave my soul, Jove himself cannot.

CHAPTER 8

The Pulpit

I had not been seated very long ere a man of a certain venerable robustness entered; immediately as the storm-pelted door flew back upon admitting him, a quick regardful eyeing of him by all the congregation, sufficiently attested that this fine old man was the chaplain. Yes, it was the famous Father Mapple, so called by the whalemen, among whom he was a very great favorite. He had been a sailor and a harpooneer in his youth, but for many years past had dedicated his life to the ministry. At the time I now write of, Father Mapple was in the hardy winter of a healthy old age; that sort of old age which seems merging into a second flowering youth, for among all the fissures of his wrinkles, there shone certain mild gleams of a newly developing bloom– the spring verdure peeping forth even beneath February’s snow. No one having previously heard his history, could for the first time behold Father Mapple without the utmost interest, because there were certain engrafted clerical peculiarities about him, imputable to that adventurous maritime life he had led. When he entered I observed that he carried no umbrella, and certainly had not come in his carriage, for his tarpaulin hat ran down with melting sleet, and his great pilot cloth jacket seemed almost to drag him to the floor with the weight of the water it had absorbed. However, hat and coat and overshoes were one by one removed, and hung up in a little space in an adjacent corner; when, arrayed in a decent suit, he quietly approached the pulpit.

Like most old fashioned pulpits, it was a very lofty one, and since a regular stairs to such a height would, by its long angle with the floor, seriously contract the already small area of the chapel, the architect, it seemed, had acted upon the hint of Father Mapple, and finished the pulpit without a stairs, substituting a perpendicular side ladder, like those used in mounting a ship from a boat at sea. The wife of a whaling captain had provided the chapel with a handsome pair of red worsted man-ropes for this ladder, which, being itself nicely headed, and stained with a mahogany color, the whole contrivance, considering what manner of chapel it was, seemed by no means in bad taste. Halting for an instant at the foot of the ladder, and with both hands grasping the ornamental knobs of the man-ropes, Father Mapple cast a look upwards, and then with a truly sailor-like but still reverential dexterity, hand over hand, mounted the steps as if ascending the main-top of his vessel.

The perpendicular parts of this side ladder, as is usually the case with swinging ones, were of cloth-covered rope, only the rounds were of wood, so that at every step there was a joint. At my first glimpse of the pulpit, it had not escaped me that however convenient for a ship, these joints in the present instance seemed unnecessary. For I was not prepared to see Father Mapple after gaining the height, slowly turn round, and stooping over the pulpit, deliberately drag up the ladder step by step, till the whole was deposited within, leaving him impregnable in his little Quebec.

I pondered some time without fully comprehending the reason for this. Father Mapple enjoyed such a wide reputation for sincerity and sanctity, that I could not suspect him of courting notoriety by any mere tricks of the stage. No, thought I, there must be some sober reason for this thing; furthermore, it must symbolize something unseen. Can it be, then, that by that act of physical isolation, he signifies his spiritual withdrawal for the time, from all outward worldly ties and connexions? Yes, for replenished with the meat and wine of the word, to the faithful man of God, this pulpit, I see, is a self-containing stronghold–a lofty Ehrenbreitstein, with a perennial well of water within the walls.

But the side ladder was not the only strange feature of the place, borrowed from the chaplain’s former sea-farings. Between the marble cenotaphs on either hand of the pulpit, the wall which formed its back was adorned with a large painting representing a gallant ship beating against a terrible storm off a lee coast of black rocks and snowy breakers. But high above the flying scud and dark-rolling clouds, there floated a little isle of sunlight, from which beamed forth an angel’s face; and this bright face shed a distant spot of radiance upon the ship’s tossed deck, something like that silver plate now inserted into the Victory’s plank where Nelson fell. “Ah, noble ship,” the angel seemed to say, “beat on, beat on, thou noble ship, and bear a hardy helm; for lo! the sun is breaking through; the clouds are rolling off– serenest azure is at hand.”

Nor was the pulpit itself without a trace of the same sea-taste that had achieved the ladder and the picture. Its panelled front was in the likeness of a ship’s bluff bows, and the Holy Bible rested on a projecting piece of scroll work, fashioned after a ship’s fiddle-headed beak.

What could be more full of meaning?–for the pulpit is ever this earth’s foremost part; all the rest comes in its rear; the pulpit leads the world. From thence it is the storm of God’s quick wrath is first descried, and the bow must bear the earliest brunt. From thence it is the God of breezes fair or foul is first invoked for favorable winds. Yes, the world’s a ship on its passage out, and not a voyage complete; and the pulpit is its prow.

CHAPTER 9

The Sermon

Father Mapple rose, and in a mild voice of unassuming authority ordered the scattered people to condense. “Star board gangway, there! side away to larboard–larboard gangway to starboard! Midships! midships!”

There was a low rumbling of heavy sea-boots among the benches, and a still slighter shuffling of women’s shoes, and all was quiet again, and every eye on the preacher.

He paused a little; then kneeling in the pulpit’s bows, folded his large brown hands across his chest, uplifted his closed eyes, and offered a prayer so deeply devout that he seemed kneeling and praying at the bottom of the sea.

This ended, in prolonged solemn tones, like the continual tolling of a bell in a ship that is foundering at sea in a fog– in such tones he commenced reading the following hymn; but changing his manner towards the concluding stanzas, burst forth with a pealing exultation and joy–

The ribs and terrors in the whale, Arched over me a dismal gloom,

While all God’s sun-lit waves rolled by, And lift me deepening down to doom.

I saw the opening maw of hell,

With endless pains and sorrows there; Which none but they that feel can tell– Oh, I was plunging to despair.

In black distress, I called my God, When I could scarce believe him mine, He bowed his ear to my complaints– No more the whale did me confine.

With speed he flew to my relief, As on a radiant dolphin borne;

Awful, yet bright, as lightning shone The face of my Deliverer God.

My song for ever shall record

That terrible, that joyful hour; I give the glory to my God,

His all the mercy and the power.

Nearly all joined in singing this hymn, which swelled high above the howling of the storm. A brief pause ensued; the preacher slowly turned over the leaves of the Bible, and at last, folding his hand down upon the proper page, said: “Beloved shipmates, clinch the last verse of the first chapter of Jonah–‘And God had prepared a great fish to swallow up Jonah.'”

“Shipmates, this book, containing only four chapters– four yarns–is one of the smallest strands in the mighty cable of the Scriptures. Yet what depths of the soul does Jonah’s deep sealine sound! what a pregnant lesson to us is this prophet! What a noble thing is that canticle in the fish’s belly! How billow-like and boisterously grand! We feel the floods surging over us, we sound with him to the kelpy bottom of the waters; sea-weed and all the slime of the sea is about us! But what is this lesson that the book of Jonah teaches? Shipmates, it is a two-stranded lesson; a lesson to us all as sinful men, and a lesson to me as a pilot of the living God. As sinful men, it is a lesson to us all, because it is a story of the sin, hard-heartedness, suddenly awakened fears, the swift punishment, repentance, prayers, and finally the deliverance and joy of Jonah. As with all sinners among men, the sin of this son of Amittai was in his wilful disobedience of the command of God– never mind now what that command was, or how conveyed– which he found a hard command. But all the things that God would have us do are hard for us to do–remember that– and hence, he oftener commands us than endeavors to persuade. And if we obey God, we must disobey ourselves; and it is in this disobeying ourselves, wherein the hardness of obeying God consists.

“With this sin of disobedience in him, Jonah still further flouts at God, by seeking to flee from Him. He thinks that a ship made by men, will carry him into countries where God does not reign but only the Captains of this earth. He skulks about the wharves of Joppa, and seeks a ship that’s bound for Tarshish. There lurks, perhaps, a hitherto unheeded meaning here. By all accounts Tarshish could have been no other city than the modern Cadiz. That’s the opinion of learned men. And where is Cadiz, shipmates? Cadiz is in Spain; as far by water, from Joppa, as Jonah could possibly have sailed in those ancient days, when the Atlantic was an almost unknown sea. Because Joppa, the modern Jaffa, shipmates, is on the most easterly coast of the Mediterranean, the Syrian; and Tarshish or Cadiz more than two thousand miles to the westward from that, just outside the Straits of Gibraltar. See ye not then, shipmates, that Jonah sought to flee worldwide from God? Miserable man! Oh! most contemptible and worthy of all scorn; with slouched hat and guilty eye, skulking from his God; prowling among the shipping like a vile burglar hastening to cross the seas. So disordered, self-condemning is his look, that had there been policemen in those days, Jonah, on the mere suspicion of something wrong, had been arrested ere he touched a deck. How plainly he’s a fugitive! no baggage, not a hat-box, valise, or carpet-bag,–no friends accompany him to the wharf with their adieux. At last, after much dodging search, he finds the Tarshish ship receiving the last items of her cargo; and as he steps on board to see its Captain in the cabin, all the sailors for the moment desist from hoisting in the goods, to mark the stranger’s evil eye. Jonah sees this; but in vain he tries to look all ease and confidence; in vain essays his wretched smile. Strong intuitions of the man assure the mariners he can be no innocent. In their gamesome but still serious way, one whispers to the other–“Jack, he’s robbed a widow;” or, “Joe, do you mark him; he’s a bigamist;” or, “Harry lad, I guess he’s the adulterer that broke jail in old Gomorrah, or belike, one of the missing murderers from Sodom.” Another runs to read the bill that’s stuck against the spile upon the wharf to which the ship is moored, offering five hundred gold coins for the apprehension of a parricide, and containing a description of his person. He reads, and looks from Jonah to the bill; while all his sympathetic shipmates now crowd round Jonah, prepared to lay their hands upon him. Frighted Jonah trembles. and summoning all his boldness to his face, only looks so much the more a coward. He will not confess himself suspected; but that itself is strong suspicion. So he makes the best of it; and when the sailors find him not to be the man that is advertised, they let him pass, and he descends into the cabin.

“‘Who’s there?’ cries the Captain at his busy desk, hurriedly making out his papers for the Customs–‘Who’s there?’ Oh! how that harmless question mangles Jonah! For the instant he almost turns to flee again. But he rallies. ‘I seek a passage in this ship to Tarshish; how soon sail ye, sir?’ Thus far the busy Captain had not looked up to Jonah, though the man now stands before him; but no sooner does he hear that hollow voice, than he darts a scrutinizing glance. ‘We sail with the next coming tide,’ at last he slowly answered, still intently eyeing him. ‘No sooner, sir?’–‘Soon enough for any honest man that goes a passenger.’ Ha! Jonah, that’s another stab. But he swiftly calls away the Captain from that scent. ‘I’ll sail with ye,’–he says,–‘the passage money how much is that?– I’ll pay now.’ For it is particularly written, shipmates, as if it were a thing not to be overlooked in this history, ‘that he paid the fare thereof’ ere the craft did sail. And taken with the context, this is full of meaning.

“Now Jonah’s Captain, shipmates, was one whose discernment detects crime in any, but whose cupidity exposes it only in the penniless. In this world, shipmates, sin that pays its way can travel freely and without a passport; whereas Virtue, if a pauper, is stopped at all frontiers. So Jonah’s Captain prepares to test the length of Jonah’s purse, ere he judge him openly. He charges him thrice the usual sum; and it’s assented to. Then the Captain knows that Jonah is a fugitive; but at the same time resolves to help a flight that paves its rear with gold. Yet when Jonah fairly takes out his purse, prudent suspicions still molest the Captain. He rings every coin to find a counterfeit. Not a forger, any way, he mutters; and Jonah is put down for his passage. ‘Point out my state-room, Sir,’ says Jonah now, ‘I’m travel-weary; I need sleep.” “Thou look’st like it,’ says the Captain, ‘there’s thy room.’ Jonah enters, and would lock the door, but the lock contains no key. Hearing him foolishly fumbling there, the Captain laughs lowly to himself, and mutters something about the doors of convicts’ cells being never allowed to be locked within. All dressed and dusty as he is, Jonah throws himself into his berth, and finds the little state-room ceiling almost resting on his forehead. The air is close, and Jonah gasps. Then, in that contracted hole, sunk, too, beneath the ship’s water-line, Jonah feels the heralding presentiment of that stifling hour, when the whale shall hold him in the smallest of his bowels’ wards.

“Screwed at its axis against the side, a swinging lamp slightly oscillates in Jonah’s room; and the ship, heeling over towards the wharf with the weight of the last bales received, the lamp, flame and all, though in slight motion, still maintains a permanent obliquity with reference to the room; though, in truth, infallibly straight itself, it but made obvious the false, lying levels among which it hung. The lamp alarms and frightens Jonah; as lying in his berth his tormented eyes roll round the place, and this thus far successful fugitive finds no refuge for his restless glance. But that contradiction in the lamp more and more appals him. The floor, the ceiling, and the side, are all awry. ‘Oh! so my conscience hangs in me!’ he groans, “straight upward, so it burns; but the chambers of my soul are all in crookedness!’

“Like one who after a night of drunken revelry hies to his bed, still reeling, but with conscience yet pricking him, as the plungings of the Roman race-horse but so much the more strike his steel tags into him; as one who in that miserable plight still turns and turns in giddy anguish, praying God for annihilation until the fit be passed; and at last amid the whirl of woe he feels, a deep stupor steals over him, as over the man who bleeds to death, for conscience is the wound, and there’s naught to staunch it; so, after sore wrestling in his berth, Jonah’s prodigy of ponderous misery drags him drowning down to sleep.

“And now the time of tide has come; the ship casts off her cables; and from the deserted wharf the uncheered ship for Tarshish, all careening, glides to sea. That ship, my friends, was the first of recorded smugglers! the contraband was Jonah. But the sea rebels; he will not bear the wicked burden. A dreadful storm comes on, the ship is like to break. But now when the boatswain calls all hands to lighten her; when boxes, bales, and jars are clattering overboard; when the wind is shrieking, and the men are yelling, and every plank thunders with trampling feet right over Jonah’s head; in all this raging tumult, Jonah sleeps his hideous sleep. He sees no black sky and raging sea, feels not the reeling timbers, and little hears he or heeds he the far rush of the mighty whale, which even now with open mouth is cleaving the seas after him. Aye, shipmates, Jonah was gone down into the sides of the ship– a berth in the cabin as I have taken it, and was fast asleep. But the frightened master comes to him, and shrieks in his dead ear, ‘What meanest thou, O, sleeper! arise!’ Startled from his lethargy by that direful cry, Jonah staggers to his feet, and stumbling to the deck, grasps a shroud, to look out upon the sea. But at that moment he is sprung upon by a panther billow leaping over the bulwarks. Wave after wave thus leaps into the ship, and finding no speedy vent runs roaring fore and aft, till the mariners come nigh to drowning while yet afloat. And ever, as the white moon shows her affrighted face from the steep gullies in the blackness overhead, aghast Jonah sees the rearing bowsprit pointing high upward, but soon beat downward again towards the tormented deep.

“Terrors upon terrors run shouting through his soul. In all his cringing attitudes, the God-fugitive is now too plainly known. The sailors mark him; more and more certain grow their suspicions of him, and at last, fully to test the truth, by referring the whole matter to high Heaven, they all-outward to casting lots, to see for whose cause this great tempest was upon them. The lot is Jonah’s; that discovered, then how furiously they mob him with their questions. ‘What is thine occupation? Whence comest thou? Thy country? What people? But mark now, my shipmates, the behavior of poor Jonah. The eager mariners but ask him who he is, and where from; whereas, they not only receive an answer to those questions, but likewise another answer to a question not put by them, but the unsolicited answer is forced from Jonah by the hard hand of God that is upon him.

“‘I am a Hebrew,’ he cries–and then–‘I fear the Lord the God of Heaven who hath made the sea and the dry land!’ Fear him, O Jonah? Aye, well mightest thou fear the Lord God then! Straightway, he now goes on to make a full confession; whereupon the mariners became more and more appalled, but still are pitiful. For when Jonah, not yet supplicating God for mercy, since he but too well knew the darkness of his deserts,– when wretched Jonah cries out to them to take him and cast him forth into the sea, for he knew that for his sake this great tempest was upon them; they mercifully turn from him, and seek by other means to save the ship. But all in vain; the indignant gale howls louder; then, with one hand raised invokingly to God, with the other they not unreluctantly lay hold of Jonah.

“And now behold Jonah taken up as an anchor and dropped into the sea; when instantly an oily calmness floats out from the east, and the sea is still, as Jonah carries down the gale with him, leaving smooth water behind. He goes down in the whirling heart of such a masterless commotion that he scarce heeds the moment when he drops seething into the yawning jaws awaiting him; and the whale shoots-to all his ivory teeth, like so many white bolts, upon his prison. Then Jonah prayed unto the Lord out of the fish’s belly. But observe his prayer, and so many white bolts, upon his prison. Then Jonah prayed unto learn a weighty lesson. For sinful as he is, Jonah does not weep and wail for direct deliverance. He feels that his dreadful punishment is just. He leaves all his deliverance to God, contenting himself with this, that spite of all his pains and pangs, he will still look towards His holy temple. And here, shipmates, is true and faithful repentance; not clamorous for pardon, but grateful for punishment. And how pleasing to God was this conduct in Jonah, is shown in the eventual deliverance of him from the sea and the whale. Shipmates, I do not place Jonah before you to be copied for his sin but I do place him before you as a model for repentance. Sin not; but if you do, take heed to repent of it like Jonah.”

While he was speaking these words, the howling of the shrieking, slanting storm without seemed to add new power to the preacher, who, when describing Jonah’s sea-storm, seemed tossed by a storm himself. His deep chest heaved as with a ground-swell; his tossed arms seemed the warring elements at work; and the thunders that rolled away from off his swarthy brow, and the light leaping from his eye, made all his simple hearers look on him with a quick fear that was strange to them.

There now came a lull in his look, as he silently turned over the leaves of the Book once more; and, at last, standing motionless, with closed eyes, for the moment, seemed communing with God and himself.

But again he leaned over towards the people, and bowing his head lowly, with an aspect of the deepest yet manliest humility, he spake these words:

“Shipmates, God has laid but one hand upon you; both his hands press upon me. I have read ye by what murky light may be mine the lesson that Jonah teaches to all sinners; and therefore to ye, and still more to me, for I am a greater sinner than ye. And now how gladly would I come down from this mast-head and sit on the hatches there where you sit, and listen as you listen, while some one of you reads me that other and more awful lesson which Jonah teaches to me, as a pilot of the living God. How being an anointed pilot-prophet, or speaker of true things and bidden by the Lord to sound those unwelcome truths in the ears of a wicked Nineveh, Jonah, appalled at the hostility he should raise, fled from his mission, and sought to escape his duty and his God by taking ship at Joppa. But God is everywhere; Tarshish he never reached. As we have seen, God came upon him in the whale, and swallowed him down to living gulfs of doom, and with swift slantings tore him along ‘into the midst of the seas,’ where the eddying depths sucked him ten thousand fathoms down, and ‘the weeds were wrapped about his head,’ and all the watery world of woe bowled over him. Yet even then beyond the reach of any plummet–‘out of the belly of hell’–when the whale grounded upon the ocean’s utmost bones, even then, God heard the engulphed, repenting prophet when he cried. Then God spake unto the fish; and from the shuddering cold and blackness of the sea, the whale came breeching up towards the warm and pleasant sun, and all the delights of air and earth; and ‘vomited out Jonah upon the dry land;’ when the word of the Lord came a second time; and Jonah, bruised and beaten–his ears, like two sea-shells, still multitudinously murmuring of the ocean– Jonah did the Almighty’s bidding. And what was that, shipmates? To preach the Truth to the face of Falsehood! That was it!

“This, shipmates, this is that other lesson; and woe to that pilot of the living God who slights it. Woe to him whom this world charms from Gospel duty! Woe to him who seeks to pour oil upon the waters when God has brewed them into a gale! Woe to him who seeks to please rather than to appal! Woe to him whose good name is more to him than goodness! Woe to him who, in this world, courts not dishonor! Woe to him who would not be true, even though to be false were salvation! Yea, woe to him who as the great Pilot Paul has it, while preaching to others is himself a castaway!

He drooped and fell away from himself for a moment; then lifting his face to them again, showed a deep joy in his eyes, as he cried out with a heavenly enthusiasm,–“But oh! shipmates! on the starboard hand of every woe, there is a sure delight; and higher the top of that delight, than the bottom of the woe is deep. Is not the main-truck higher than the kelson is low? Delight is to him–a far, far upward, and inward delight– who against the proud gods and commodores of this earth, ever stands forth his own inexorable self. Delight is to him whose strong arms yet support him, when the ship of this base treacherous world has gone down beneath him. Delight is to him, who gives no quarter in the truth, and kills, burns, and destroys all sin though he pluck it out from under the robes of Senators and Judges. Delight,–top-gallant delight is to him, who acknowledges no law or lord, but the Lord his God, and is only a patriot to heaven. Delight is to him, whom all the waves of the billows of the seas of the boisterous mob can never shake from this sure Keel of the Ages. And eternal delight and deliciousness will be his, who coming to lay him down, can say with his final breath–O Father!– chiefly known to me by Thy rod–mortal or immortal, here I die. I have striven to be Thine, more than to be this world’s, or mine own. Yet this is nothing: I leave eternity to Thee; for what is man that he should live out the lifetime of his God?”

He said no more, but slowly waving a benediction, covered his face with his hands, and so remained kneeling, till all the people had departed, and he was left alone in the place.

CHAPTER 10

A Bosom Friend

Returning to the Spouter-Inn from the Chapel, I found Queequeg there quite alone; he having left the Chapel before the benediction some time. He was sitting on a bench before the fire, with his feet on the stove hearth, and in one hand was holding close up to his face that little negro idol of his; peering hard into its face, and with a jack-knife gently whittling away at its nose, meanwhile humming to himself in his heathenish way.

But being now interrupted, he put up the image; and pretty soon, going to the table, took up a large book there, and placing it on his lap began counting the pages with deliberate regularity; at every fiftieth page– as I fancied–stopping for a moment, looking vacantly around him, and giving utterance to a long-drawn gurgling whistle of astonishment. He would then begin again at the next fifty; seeming to commence at number one each time, as though he could not count more than fifty, and it was only by such a large number of fifties being found together, that his astonishment at the multitude of pages was excited.

With much interest I sat watching him. Savage though he was, and hideously marred about the face–at least to my taste– his countenance yet had a something in it which was by no means disagreeable. You cannot hide the soul. Through all his unearthly tattooings, I thought I saw the traces of a simple honest heart; and in his large, deep eyes, fiery black and bold, there seemed tokens of a spirit that would dare a thousand devils. And besides all this, there was a certain lofty bearing about the Pagan, which even his uncouthness could not altogether maim. He looked like a man who had never cringed and never had had a creditor. Whether it was, too, that his head being shaved, his forehead was drawn out in freer and brighter relief, and looked more expansive than it otherwise would, this I will not venture to decide; but certain it was his head was phrenologically an excellent one. It may seem ridiculous, but it reminded me of General Washington’s head, as seen in the popular busts of him. It had the same long regularly graded retreating slope from above the brows, which were likewise very projecting, like two long promontories thickly wooded on top. Queequeg was George Washington cannibalistically developed.

Whilst I was thus closely scanning him, half-pretending meanwhile to be looking out at the storm from the casement, he never heeded my presence, never troubled himself with so much as a single glance; but appeared wholly occupied with counting the pages of the marvellous book. Considering how sociably we had been sleeping together the night previous, and especially considering the affectionate arm I had found thrown over me upon waking in the morning, I thought this indifference of his very strange. But savages are strange beings; at times you do not know exactly how to take them. At first they are overawing; their calm self-collectedness of simplicity seems as Socratic wisdom. I had noticed also that Queequeg never consorted at all, or but very little, with the other seamen in the inn. He made no advances whatever; appeared to have no desire to enlarge the circle of his acquaintances. All this struck me as mighty singular; yet, upon second thoughts, there was something almost sublime in it. Here was a man some twenty thousand miles from home, by the way of Cape Horn, that is– which was the only way he could get there–thrown among people as strange to him as though he were in the planet Jupiter; and yet he seemed entirely at his ease; preserving the utmost serenity; content with his own companionship; always equal to himself. Surely this was a touch of fine philosophy; though no doubt he had never heard there was such a thing as that. But, perhaps, to be true philosophers, we mortals should not be conscious of so living or so striving. So soon as I hear that such or such a man gives himself out for a philosopher, I conclude that, like the dyspeptic old woman,

-🍒🚬

....

mods jfk his ass

[poseidonsdaughterthesiren]

The Daughter of Poseidon: Chapter Six

Della has to admit flying on a bronze dragon’s back is a surreal feeling. Up high the air is frigid. But thanks to the heat Festus generates they don’t feel it at all. Talk about seat warmers! 

Leo uses reins to steer Festus through the clouds like a reindeer.  They zip through the clouds with ease the rest of the world below is nothing but a speck. 

“Cool right?” Leo says. A pleased smile coats his features. 

“What if we get spotted?” asks Piper. 

“The mist,” Jason and Della say at the same time. Jason smiles at her. 

“It keeps mortals from seeing magic things,” Della explains, “Only seers will notice anything out of the ordinary.” 

Her mind goes back to the memory of Luke. His poor mother–

“Seers?” asks Leo. 

“Mortals who can see through the mist,”  Jason answers.

Della glances back at him and notices he’s holding a photo of a girl, a girl with dark hair. Is that…Thaila?

Jason glances up at her. He sheepishly puts the photo back in his pocket. 

“We’re making good time probably get there by tonight.” 

“Get where?” Della asks. “I thought you didn’t have a plan.” 

Jason laughs, “We’re going to find the god of the North Wind. And chase some storm spirits.” 

⬳

The silence had begun to drive Della insane. Typically, when she and her friends went on quests they couldn’t shut up. Percy, in particular never shut up on their quests. 

“So,” Piper says. Oh, thank the gods. “Della earlier you said you’re a cursed child…what exactly does that mean?” 

Leo sat up straight at the head of the dragon. “You’re cursed?!?” 

Della laughs dryly. “Sometimes I wonder, but being a cursed child means that you’re an offspring of the Big Three.”

“The Big Three?” Piper asks. “Do you mean, like Zeus, Hades, and–”

“Poseidon, yeah. They made a pack to not have kids. It’s a loose promise. Anyways, all three have broken it in recent years. We’re more forbidden than cursed.” 

“So, are you, your brother, and Jason the only ones?” asks Leo.

“No there’s Nico Di Angelo a son of Hades, and Thalia Grace…she’s a daughter of Zeus but has taken up with the Hunters of Artemis.” 

“So why did make a pact if they break it?” asks Piper.

“We’re considered ‘too powerful’ which is fair Percy can take on a whole army by himself, and I–we don’t fully know what all I can do yet.” Della looks down at her lap. 

She’s always felt second best to Percy, especially after he took on the Curse of Achilles. She doesn’t understand all she can do. The only thing she does know is her fate, her usual nightmare. Meeting a similar end to Thesus. Being betrayed and thrown over a cliff–but instead of into the sea, it’s Asphodel. She’d seen it in person back when she was twelve, on her first quest. 

Della shivers at the thought of the horrid place. 

“Shut up me,” Leo says out of nowhere. 

“What?” Piper asks.

“Nothing,” he says, “Long night. I think I’m hallucinating. It’s cool.” 

Jason, Piper, and Della all share looks of concern. 

“Just joking.” Leo decides to change the subject. “So what’s the plan bro? You said something about catching wind, breaking wind, or something?”

As they fly over New England, Jason lays out the game plan. First, find Boreas and grill him for information–

“His name is Boreas?” Leo has to ask. “What is he the God of Boring?”

Second, Jason continues, they have to find the spirits that attacked them at the Grand Canyon–

“Venti? Do you mean anemoi thuellai?” asks Della. 

“Can we just call them storm spirits?” Leo asks, “Venti makes them sound like evil expresso drinks and the other one sounds harder.” 

And third, Jason finishes, they had to find out who the storm spirits work for, so they could find Hera and free her. 

“So you want to look for Dylan, the nasty storm dude, on purpose?” 

“That’s about it. Well…there might be a wolf involved too. I think she’s friendly…so she probably won’t eat us, unless we show her weakness–”

“I’m sorry…a wolf?” asks Della. She turns around and faces him. 

Jason explains his dream of Lupa the murder-wolf and a burned-out house with stone spires growing out of the swimming pool.

“Uh-huh, but you don’t know where this place is?” asks Leo. 

“Nope.” 

“Lovely…” says Piper.

“Sounds about right for a forbidden child’s quest.” Della turns back towards the others. 

“There are also giants, the prophecy said “The giants’ revenge” Piper reminds them. 

“Hold on,” Leo says, “Giants? As in more than one? Why can’t it be one giant who wants revenge?”

“Too easy,” Della mutters. 

“I don’t think so,” Piper muses, “I remember in some of the old Greek stories, there was something about an army of giants.” 

“But they haven’t been seen for centuries, but then again neither had Kronos.” 

“Great…knowing our luck it will be a whole army,” Leo says. “You learn anything else while doing research for your dad Pipes?”

“Your dad?” Della asks. 

“Umm yeah, he’s an actor, Tristan McLean.” Piper mumbles. 

“What was he in?” asks Della and Jason.

“I’m surprised Della doesn’t know.” 

“Hmmm….oh wait…wait! Yes! He’s the Aphrodite’s cabin top pick this year!” 

Piper sighs. “That’s why he’s on the wall in my cabin.” 

“Yeah, they pick a new “hottie” every year.” 

Piper looks about ready to heave off to the side. 

Leo on the other hand cackles. “That’s the only reason you’ve heard of him?”

“I mean I vaguely remember the movie posters. But Percy, Beth, and I don’t go to movies very often.” 

“You don’t go to movies?” Leo asks.

“Look I don’t go out very much in the mortal world unless I’m thirdwheeling.” 

It was a sad truth, Della didn’t really go out that often. It just wasn’t her style. Of course, she’s been to movies over the past few years but is has always been with Annabeth and Percy. Mostly, because Percy drug her carcass out with them. 

“Thirdwheeling?” The others ask. 

Della sighs. “Not to change the subject, but I’m gonna….giants, we were discussing the giants.” 

“The giants–well there were loads in Greek mythology. But if I’m thinking of the right ones they were bads news. 

“Extremely bad news,”  Della sighs. “They rose after Krono's first downfall–eons ago. They could throw mountains and things of that nature. Like the Titans, they too tried to destroy Olympus. If these are the same giants–”

“Chiron said it was happening again,” Jason says. “The last chapter–that’s what he meant. No wonder he didn’t want us to know all the details.” 

Leo whistles. “So…giants who can throw mountains. A wolf-mother who will eat us if we show weakness. Evil Starbucks drinks. Got it. Maybe not the best time to bring up my psycho babysitter.” 

“You’re joking,” Piper says. 

Leo tells them about Tîa Callida, who was Hera, and how she’d appeared to him at camp. He fills them in on his past. How his mom died. And finally tells them about a woman in earthen robes who seemed to be asleep. 

“That’s disturbing…” says Piper. 

“Bout sums it up. The thing is everyone says not to trust Hera. And the prophecy says we’ll unleash death if we cause her rage. So… I gotta ask…why are we doing this?” 

“Because the gods–she chose us,”  Della sighs, “I will admit you guys have it  a bit rougher than my first quest.” 

“What do you mean?” Jason asks.

“You,” she points at Jason. “Have no memory. But I’m not that worried about your fighting ability. This is definitely not your first quest.” She looks over at Leo and Piper. “You two have absolutely no training. At least Percy and I had two weeks…then again we were twelve…”

“You were twelve?!?!” Piper and Leo say in disbelief. 

“You only had two weeks of training?” asks Jason. 

Della shrugs and smiles a bit. “ Zeus accused me and Percy of stealing his master bolt. Even though we didn’t know we were half-bloods.” 

“Holy–how’re you alive?”

“Luck?” Della laughs. “Anyways the other reason we have to do this is–this quest will kick off something bigger. This is an antecedent.” 

“And helping Hera is the only way to get back my memory. That dark spire in my dream seemed to be feeding off Hera’s energy. If that thing unleashes a king of giants by destroying Hera–”

“Not a good trade-off,” Piper agrees. “At least Hera is on our side.” 

“Mostly–she’s the peacekeeper. The only thing that keeps the gods from annihilating each other,” Della chimes in. 

Jason nods, “Chiron said worse forces are stirring on the day of the solstice, with it being a good time for dark magic, and all–something that could awaken if Hera were sacrificed that day. And a mistress who’s controlling storm spirits, the one who wants to kill all demigods–”

“Might be that weird sleeping dirt lady.” finishes Leo. 

“If she’s asleep that means we have some time,” says Della. 

“Yeah, Dirt Woman fully awake,” Leo says, “not something I want to see.” 

“But who is she?” Jason asks, “And what does she have to do with the giants?”

Good questions, no answers. The wind blew colder the further north they went. 

Della rubs her hands together to keep warm and then rubs at her eyes. 

“Hey,” Jason leans forward, “get some sleep, Ariel. We need our guide.” 

“I’ll take you up on that Hercules. You do the same,” she whispers. 

She closes her eyes and dozes off.

[ephemeralstarss]

introduction to me!!!

hi! my name's noah and here are a few things about me and what i like!

i'm mainly in the marauders fandom, but i also like arcane, star wars, percy jackson and marvel

my favorite book is the song of achilles by madeline miller!!

i'm a minor

my favorite color is either red or green

i play the oboe (concert band) and the alto saxophone (marching band)

i'm a trans guy and bisexual/aromantic

i'm american and brazilian (although my portuguese isn't nearly native level lmao)

i also use celsius

ao3 masterlist under the cut:

organized by length (completed, then uncompleted) and with all major ships

completed:

golden pass - marvel, oneshot, tony & peter, wc: 17.5k

For three months after an incident in a battle that leaves Tony hospitalized, Peter's convinced himself that Tony blames and hates him for what happened. One day in AP Physics, a yellow field trip slip makes its way to his desk.

the song of silence - marauders, oneshot, dorlene, wc: 16.5k

Marlene is sent to a boarding school in Scotland, far away from her home in Miami, Florida. One thing leads to another, and now she's gotten herself signed up for a bake fair.

all is found - marauders, oneshot, sirius & regulus, wc: 8.9k

When Regulus was younger, Sirius used to sing him a song before he fell asleep.   Where the North Wind meets the sea...

doors - marauders, oneshot, jegulus, wc: 8.8k

based off of this tweet by @padfootsluvrboy: "jegulus au where regulus is a seer and knows he's going to die and rejects james every time so he doesn't hurt him. (but when he finally says yes, suddenly that vision never comes back and they die old together)

spring blooming - marauders, oneshot, pandalily, wc: 7.7k

Lily Evans never thought she'd be a good mother, or a good girlfriend, for that matter.

make it stop - marauders, 3/3 chapters, rosekiller, wc: 7k

Everyone knew that Barty Crouch Jr. was insane. A psychopath that helped torture two people into insanity. A Death Eater. But what happened before that? What happened after? And the real question: How?

words on walls - marauders, oneshot, jegulus/marylily, wc: 3.9k

Months after the second wizarding war ends, Harry visits 12 Grimmauld Place. He goes into Regulus Black's room.

one day at a time - marauders, oneshot, wolfstar, wc: 3.5k

Lily and James are dead, and Peter has been arrested for betraying his role as a secret keeper. Sirius and Remus take Harry back from the doorstep of the Dursleys.

come back to me - marauders, oneshot, jegulus, wc: 3.4k

Regulus is captured by the aurors on a raid. James finds out (and so do Sirius and Remus).

forever and always - marauders, oneshot, sirius & regulus, wc: 3.3k

Sirius promised Regulus that he would love him, forever and always, no matter what. It seems that he forgot.

dusted over dreams - marauders, oneshot, jegulus, wc: 3.3k

Harry finds a loose floorboard in Sirius' younger brother's room.

his name - marauders, oneshot, sirius & dorcas, wc: 2.9k

based off a post by @not-rab where the basic premise is what would happen if dorcas called sirius by his brother's name

the green of his eyes - marauders, oneshot, jegulus/wolfstar, wc: 2.8k

What would happen if Harry from canon met another Harry from an alternate universe?

professor black - marauders, oneshot, jegulus, wc: 2.3k

No one knows anything about Professor Black. Except for Olivia Bones, who intends to find out.

pens and parchment - marauders, oneshot, regulus & lily, wc: 2k

One day, Regulus walks into the library to find Lily Evans sitting at his table. His quill breaks. A friendship forms.

they don't deserve you - marauders, oneshot, regulus & pandora, wc: 2k

Pandora doesn't need to read a piece of paper to know that Regulus is dead. She felt it when her soul was ripped in two.

cookies and muffins - marauders, oneshot, jegulus, wc: 1.9k

based off of this post by @jeguluvr where the basic premise is that james makes tiktoks about food and regulus is the taste tester. who is also a world famous model. they're also married.

azkaban: the perfect place to make a friend - marauders, oneshot, sirius & barty, wc: 1.8k

Sirius makes a friend in Azkaban

pink dresses - marauders, oneshot, rosekiller, emeralds friend group, wc: 1.8k

Barty always thought he would be the first to die.

When (Lily) Falls In Love - marauders, oneshot, marylily, wc: 1.8k

Lily falls in love with a girl with the prettiest eyes she's ever seen.

we'll meet again - marauders, oneshot, regulus & pandora, harry & luna, wc: 1.7k

in history, some things are bound to repeat themselves. sometimes, those things are people.

breathe. - marauders, oneshot, jegulus, wc: 1.4k

Regulus Black is gone. James Potter can’t find it in himself to breathe.

i love you. - marauders, oneshot, jegulus, wc: 1k

Regulus Black has never said I love you.

the voices in my head - marauders, marylily, wc: 1k

Mary Macdonald is hearing voices.

letter to an old poet - marauders, wolfstar, wc: 975

Remus doesn't know where it all went wrong.

incomplete:

alignment - marauders, wolfstar/jegulus, WIP 22/100, current wc: 176k

Sirius was born on Coruscant without a father. He grows up on the lifeless planet of Tatooine with his mother and brother, wishing that there was more to his life than just empty fields of sand. On his ninth birthday, he leaves it all behind with a boy named James with dreams of becoming more than what he ever could’ve been on Tatooine. Over a decade, he grows into the role of a Jedi and closer to the head of the Senate of the Republic, Chancellor Riddle. A decade after he leaves home, he's assigned to the protection of Senator Remus Lupin and the longer they’re together and as the war rages on, the more Sirius begins to wonder just how much of the Jedi Code is worth following. Regulus is seven when Sirius leaves him behind on Tatooine. Ten years later, he runs into a group of smugglers and permanently joins the crew of The Emerald with nothing but a golden necklace and the acceptance that his older brother is never coming back. The five of them pick up a spice-running job for the Pikes--a dangerous but well-rewarded task--that leads them to Alderaan where they meet a girl with bright blonde hair and golden-flaked eyes that Regulus can’t help but think seem just the slightest bit off. a star wars au

cracked shells - marauders, mainly regulus centered but eventual jegulus, WIP, current wc: 11k

At the age of five years old, Regulus Black is presumed to be a squib. He's thrown out by his parents, his and Sirius' minds being wiped in the process. The Wizarding World believes him to be dead. The only things he has left? A deep burn on his palm, a piece of paper with his name, and the little spark of fire that comes out of his fingertips when he snaps.

will you still be with me when the magic's all run out - marauders, jegulus/wolfstar/dorlene/pandalily, WIP, current wc: 37k

Ever since Sirius left the Isle with James Potter, Regulus has been bitter. Alone. Forgotten. But one day, things chance. A certain opportunity comes forwards for Regulus and his friends, and they would simply be fools not to take it. or, a Descendants AU

[stalkedbytrains]

Untouched Horizons Timeline 7/-

Cartography Golden Age

-699

Cartography golden age

With 2 “rival” scouting houses, there’s a competition over who can map the world around them better and faster

This starts a “ship building war” with the advantage to the South and their forests

But the North has the experience

-686

Most of the Caribbean is mapped and charted along with contact made (in some form or another) with other civilizations and indigenous peoples

-684

First contact with the Native Americans along the east coast of America

-681

First ships round South America

-680

Redesign of ships are happening at the same time as both houses (and nations) are copying each other and needing to do deeper sea voyages

-676

Another round of long voyages goes out

The various indigenous peoples start copying the Zlilfian boats they meet/find

-670

Most of the eastern coasts of the Americas have been charted

Starting on exploring up the Mississippi which is proving to be an interesting challenge to rework boats for river travel

-660

Unable to really compete with the North anymore the South starts to own Library of Alexandria to out do the uppercrust schools in the North and to also collect languages and history of the people’s around them

-632

Time for another Northern internal power struggle, this one goes on for a while

-625

Power struggle complete!

The sailing golden age is winding down as a lot of the Americas are mapped, including a decent amount of the riverways charted

Contact established with the people in Peru and Chile and everyone so cotton has been found at the source

Renewed Hostilities

-624

The South really doesn’t care for the new Northern house in charge, they are a bit more authoritarian than before, so they start to chafe

-623

The start of the escalating tensions between countries

The North is doing everything it can to provoke the South into attacking first but it just isn’t working as the South as no united plan to fight wars together

-622

The Southern zones, under extreme pressure from one house Sernlyi, send a formal peace treaty to the North to deescalate tensions

Surprisingly the North agrees as they know that forcing the South to break it first would give them the justification to start their war of conquest

-620

The North really jacked up tariffs on stuff from the South hoping to really stick it to them economically so the South cuts off all northern trade and starts going more outside the island for stuff

This enrages the North

-619

Spies from the South report large sieges works and things being built in the North so the fight to unify the confederacy and form an army is started but is extremely hard and slow going

So the House Sernlyi approves a clandestine strike on the siege works to burn it all down

This infuriates the North further, if they give up the secret that they were building war machines then they’ll have broken the treaty first but the South won’t admit to doing anything and implicating themselves