#allegedly going to have my first meeting this year (if everything goes well) and i’m more nervous than ever! | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

yespolkadotkitty · 4 years ago

Note

So I read Elixir and I love how you write sex pollen and I was wondering if you could do one for our other federal agent, Marcus?

Jump Start

Warnings: smut. A lot of smut. Unbeta’d writing; soft Marcus.

Words: 3,500

Summary: What if Marcus only went to DC for a while? And what if he came back for you?

Marcus: Still game for tonight?

You: Are you kidding? Cho and Lisbon have bigged up that Aladdin’s Cave for months. I’ll be there.

Marcus: You sure this is what you want for your birthday?

You: Yes.

Marcus: Okay then… Bring a pillow because I’ll probably bore you to sleep with all the art stories.

When the elevator doors part to reveal Agent Marcus Pike, you’re standing by the door to the lock-up. A smile lights up his face when he sees you, and your heart bumps hard in your chest. He slides his hands in his pocket, a blush creeping up his neck.

“Happy birthday.”

“Thanks, Marcus.”

He ducks his head, a little shy. You know he isn’t always. You’d seen him in the interview room a few times last year, when your team and his had co-run a case. Watched his eyes go hard, his face stern. He’d slammed a file down on the desk inches from a suspect’s face and the surprisingly rough side to him had made you shiver.

Lisbon had sent you a knowing look and you’d ignored her.

She’d had her chance and she’d blown it, and frankly you didn’t want to know what she and Marcus had shared; how close they’d been.

Marcus had gone to DC after that. A year’s undercover work has helped him heal, you think. Get his head back in the game.

He came back for another co-op case, and thankfully, Lisbon and Jane had been away on honeymoon then.

You and Marcus had worked this one together, sometimes late into the night, sharing take-out and anecdotes from other old cases, and then, you’d started hanging out, a little.

He’s interesting. Funny. Friendly. Panty-melting gorgeous.

Heart-stoppingly gorgeous.

Cho dropped that it was your birthday at last week’s after-work drinks, and then Marcus had texted offering you a tour of the art lock up. You’d been rota’d off the day Cho and Lisbon got to see it, last year.

Patrick Jane hadn’t been allowed in. Marcus had muttered something about sticky fingers when you’d asked him about it.

“You ready?” He ducks his head to buss your cheek and you meet him halfway, breathing him in, minty gum, sandalwood, and the gourmet coffee he hides in his office. He shared it with you once and it’s like him, memorable, decadent, addictive.

“Ready.” You pull away, reluctantly, wanting him, but he’s never given you any overt hints that he sees you as anything more than a colleague.

He and Lisbon are cordial to each other when they meet, but for all you know, he’s still pining over her.

You daren’t ask; you don’t want to know the answer.

Marcus punches in a code to the first gate, then plucks the rings of keys from his pocket and opens the dinner door of the lock-up, a smile playing on his scruffy face. He grew the patchy beard during his time in DC and it really suits him, highlights his beautiful jaw and makes his soulful eyes a deeper brown.

This time on a Saturday, no one else is around.

“A private museum,” you breathe as you see all the paintings, sculptures and other art set carefully in frames or on desks or custom made plinths.

“Yeah, I always feel like Aladdin.” He scoffs at himself. “I say that every time. What a dork.”

You turn and grin at him. “I like it. You’re an art geek. It’s sexy.” The words are out of your mouth before you can stop them.

Marcus’ brow wings up. “That so?”

“Um, sure.” You duck your head, embarrassed. “So. Tell me some art stories, Special Agent Pike. What’s new here?”

He brightens, soulful chocolate eyes going wide for just a moment. “Well. There’s this equine sculpture. Maker’s mark is Italian but we seized it during a raid for paintings. Wasn’t expecting it.” He snaps on white gloves and offers you a pair, then gently turns over the statue to show you the swirling signature on the bottom. “We’re still not sure where the other two are.”

You trace a gloved finger over the horse’s detailed mane, wrought perfectly in cherrywood. “Other two?

“Sure. This is part of a set. You can tell here-” he points out a divot in the base that you wouldn’t even have noticed, and another on the opposite end. “And here. The two connecting statues are missing - other horses, I’d guess.”

“Wow.”

Marcus sets the horse down and meets your gaze. “You bored yet?”

“Nope! More!”

He chuckles indulgently. “Okay. Why don’t you choose.”

You wander around the various lock-up cages for a while, examining instruments, more statues, even a huge quilt that looks woven with gold.

After a few moments, a painting about your height catches your eye. It’s an orgy, but tastefully done, painted in shades of amber and gold, the bodies fluid, enchanting.

“I’ve never seen such a… soft depiction of a group bang,” you smile.

Marcus’s eyes crinkle at the corners. “That came in last week. Rumour has it, the artist was quite the lothario back in the 1800s. A steady stream of, ah, callers to his penthouse in Florence. The accounts of his sexual prowess are something else.”

“I bet.” You eye the curves of the women in the painting; she looks soft, welcoming, her eyes closed in ethereal bliss. “So, how’d you get this?”

“Allegedly, found in an attic. We went to the house to pick it up. The man who gave it to me - said they just moved in - seemed kinda high.” Marcus’ brow furrows. “Very mellow. Pretty sure he’d been smoking something. He was half-dressed.”

You crouch, examine the painting more closely. “And you didn’t… arrest him?”

Marcus shrugs. “Art’s our deal. I did note the address with a colleague in the DEA, so if it gets flagged again, they’ll investigate.”

Something about the painting keeps you enraptured. You spy a little notch in the frame. “Do you think something’s hidden in here?”

Marcus bends next to you to examine the area you point to. He’s been working today, so he still wears his suit, the red tie the little bit of flash he allows himself on the job. His scent weaves around you, the lick of coffee, the gasp of mint, and something uniquely Marcus.

“It looks like something…. Comes undone?”

You both lean in together, and you edge your gloved finger along the groove in the ornate gold-effect frame.

Marcus does the same from the other end. “Wow,” he breathes. “A hidden compartment?” Then his eyebrows shoot up as part of the frame depresses under his finger, clicking. He grins hugely. “Well, now I really do feel like Aladdin.”

“Don’t suppose you’ve got a little monkey wearing a fez around here, do you?” You tease.

“Maybe a magic carpet. I-”

He’s cut off when a hissing noise pops from the painting. You and Marcus both lean in to try and hear it more closely, and just when you get close, powder sprays from the frame, light gold in colour and smelling faintly musty.

You cough, reeling back, your hands over your face. “Gross.”

Marcus steps back too, wiping a gloved hand over his face and examining the golden-hued powder on the cotton fabric. “What the hell-”

You slowly sit down on the floor. “I feel… sort of dizzy. Hot.”

Marcus crosses to you, crouching in front of you, and if you didn’t feel so discombobulated, you would appreciate the closeness of him, the amber shot through his irises, the slight curl of his cowlick. “I’ll go get help. Maybe some water?”

You’re burning up. A slow dance starts in the pit of your belly, something that you think was always there, maybe, but intensified now Marcus is so close. “Please don’t go.”

His brow furrows in concern. “Of course.” He smoothes a gloved hand over your hair, and then you see it; the change in his eyes, the way they go dark and hot. “I… what the fuck is this stuff? I feel…”

You clutch at his forearms, feeling the play of lean muscle under his suit. “What if…. What if this was the reason that painter was such a, um, lothario?”

Marcus’ gaze has dropped to your mouth and at your words, he blinks. “What? Oh. Oh.”

“Yeah,” you say slowly. “Marcus, I…”

He stands up, backing away. “I can’t be near you. Not when I want… I can’t.”

You reach out to him. “What if you stayed?”

He gazes down at you, longing in those bottomless eyes, and now you can clearly see the outline of the powder’s effect on him. “I can’t. Can’t do that to you.”

A flash of hope pierces the haze descending on you. “You want to? Because of the.. Stuff,” you finish lamely.

An expression of half desire, half pain, sketches itself over Marcus’ features. “I’ve wanted to for a while. That night we worked late.” He’s half-panting now, the fingers of one hand curled around the wall of his side of the lock-up. “Wanted to take you over the desk. I - fuck- can’t do it.”

You make to move. “Marcus-”

“Not like this,” he groans, that voice of sin and sex dropping half an octave, California with a lick of the drawl of Texas. “Not… like this.”

“Don’t go!” You beg. Your insides are burning up for him. If he’d just touch you. Just for a moment.

Marcus is shaking his head, fumbling with the door on this section of the lock-up. You lunge for him but he pulls the door closed, locking you in and him out.

He turns the key, then tosses the ring across the room.

“I’m sorry. I can’t. Not like this. Goes against everything.”

“But I want you,” you say. You crawl over to the fencing separating you. “At least… touch my hand.”

You pull your gloves off, slide your fingers through the holes in the mesh.

Marcus takes his gloves off too, tangles his fingers with your the best he can. He sighs deeply. “I had this whole date thing planned. Dinner at an Italian that reminds me of a place I ate at in my gap year.”

“Marcus,” you whisper. “So you do really like me.”

He groans. “Sweetheart, I haven’t been able to think about anything but you since I got back from DC, and there you were, pretty as a picture, working late with me, sharing Chinese food. Making me laugh.”

You swallow, wanting him so badly it hurts. Every inch of you burns for him.

“I wanted to go slow,” he rasps out. “I know I jump in. Get overexcited. But with you.. I wanted to do it right. Fuck.” With his free hand he, almost unconsciously, palms himself through his suit pants, his eyes rolling back. “What the hell is this drug?”

You hungrily follow the path of his hand with your gaze. “Lothario, remember?”

“I remember.” Marcus groans, pressing the heel of his hand against his erection. He’s sitting awkwardly. “Bastard.”

“Marcus.” You squeeze his hand. “I want this. I want you. It’s lonely up on that white horse.”

He shakes his head, vehement. “It’s….not… not right.”

You press against the caging and just the pressure of the mesh on your breasts makes you moan. “So I can’t touch you, and you won’t touch me, but you also won’t leave me.” You watch him squeeze his eyes shut, look at the tent in his suit pants. “Touch yourself.”

His eyes pop open. “What?”

“If you won’t leave and you won’t… give in to whatever this is, although I want you more than I’ve wanted any man, ever…. Let me see you.”

A bead of sweat rolls down his forehead as he looks at you, big brown eyes considering. He’s weighing every option. Marcus is thoughtful, considered. Considerate. He always thinks two steps ahead, encompasses everyone in plans and strategies.

But he’s blindsided by this, and you can’t say it isn’t sexy as hell to see him unravel this way.

“Please,” you add, holding his gaze.

He squeezes your fingers and the air changes between you, and then he leans heavily against the mesh and you take the opportunity to stroke his hair, a little, and it’s so soft. Feels like silk, and you have to touch more of him, but maybe you’ll get to at least see more, so you will your breathing to calm, just a bit, as he fumbles one-handedly with his belt buckle and then slides the zipper of his suit pants down to reveal plain grey boxers, darkened in the centre by a damp patch, and your throat is so dry.

“Have you…” your heart bumps hard, the rush of seeing new parts of Marcus making you even dizzier. “Ever gotten off in this evidence locker before?”

“Can’t say I have.” Marcus’ gaze stays on your face, earnest. “I can go. I can just go.”

“Please. Please don’t go. Come in.”

“Can’t do that.” He closes his eyes; looks like he is silently praying for the power to resist you. His fingers curl into the parted edge of his suit pants.

“Let me see you?”

He sucks in a deep breath, then exhales shakily. “This is not how I planned to seduce you. Just so you know.”

Your pulse rabbits. “You seduce me every moment, Marcus. With every sweet text. Every time you smile at me. All your art stories. When you say my name. Your voice, oh God.”

Marcus’ hand trembles as he holds your gaze through the wire mesh of the lock-up, and he finally, finally parts the opening of the plain grey boxers and draws himself out, and you just drink him in with your eyes, the shape of him, the swollen tip, his length and girth, the curling hair at his base. It looks as silky as the hair on his head and you hear yourself groan needily.

“Marcus.”

He fists himself, his gaze hot on yours. “Not how I planned this date,” he repeats. “I feel like I’m on fire for you.” He rasps out your name and you watch his hand move, and suddenly it’s too much, the heat between your legs cannot be ignored, and you shove your skirt up and mirror Marcus on the floor.

His head jerks around. “Fuck,” he hisses.

“Never knew you had such a potty mouth,” you half-gasp, half-tease.

“For you, I’ll do whatever you want with my mouth.”

You groan at that as you circle your clit with a finger.

Marcus almost growls “Underwear off, I want to see.” His voice, that voice, is gentle-rough, and you think of the day you watched him in the interview room.

“Whatever you say, Agent Pike.”

“Christ.” He’s jacking off in earnest now, his gaze riveted to you as you pull off your underwear with one hand, letting it fall wherever. Your skirt is rucked up around your hips and the fact it’s Marcus watching you is a huge turn on, but honestly you’re not sure if you could have stopped, for anything.

Your combined pants fill the space. You’ve never been so wet. When you slide two fingers inside yourself the sound is obscene.

“It’s.. a wonder.. He ever got… any painting done,” Marcus grits out.

You laugh. “Now? You wanna talk about art now?”

He huffs. “Art is the reason we’re here. Like this.” Then he sucks in a breath and you look down at him, his balls drawn up tight, his cock wet with his own pre-come.

“Marcus Matthew Pike, I swear to God, if you don’t get in here right now, I will never ever speak to you again.”

He hesitates.

“I swear on Van Gogh’s ear,” you add, your internal muscles fluttering.

Marcus half-yanks up his pants, scrabbles for the key. The seconds feel like hours until he appears again, boxers and pants around his knees, shirt tails hanging, and he opens the mesh door and you yank him in and kiss him and you tumble to the floor together, and Marcus grabs both your wrists and pins them above you with one hand, his face dark and determined, and it makes your heart pound.

“Please,” you grate out. “Marcus. I need you.” You spread your legs and try to hook your feet over his calves, but he shakes his head.

“Not yet. Sweetheart, not yet.” He curls your fingers into the wire of the mesh. “Hold on. Don’t… don’t touch me. I wanna make it good for you, first.”

You hear yourself keen his name as he shucks off his clothes from the waist down, then slides down your body and puts that gorgeous mouth to work. Your favourite thing he did with his mouth until now was talking, but this-

Maybe he’s writing his name, maybe he’s writing a sonnet, but whatever it is, the way he curls his tongue is obscene, and you don’t know if it’s partly the drug, but when he puts two fingers inside you, you come so hard you almost black out. And then lust rears its head again and you grab for him, carding one hand through his hair and cupping him with the other, and he’s slick in your palm and the ridges and heat of his cock feel so good.

“Marcus.” You fist a hand in his hair, pull a little, and he groans and pants, and you take the opportunity to pump him in your fist until he swears under his breath.

"Condom. Oh fuck. Condom."

He hesitates, then drops a soft kiss on your lips - your first, you think, a bit giddy - and you taste yourself, and he licks into your mouth and whispers your name and it's pure, unadulterated bliss.

Then he extricates himself, rummages in his suit pants, and as soon as he has the foil square in his hand you grab for him, pulling him down on top of you.

"After this," you murmur, "you're gonna bend me over the desk." And you roll the condom down his dick and he lets out a long, slow breath and pushes inside you and it's everything.

Everything inside you quiets for a moment that stretches as he starts to move, caging you in with his braced forearms, and you look into his dark chocolate eyes and his heart is on his face, with Marcus it always is. It's your favourite thing about him.

He nibbles at your lips as you make love to eachother, and you hook your legs around his hips to stop him pulling out too much. You want him close, want to feel his skin under your hands. The buttons of his shirt rasp against your dress, and if you were more aware you might think it's ridiculous, him bringing you to orgasm with you both half dressed in the floor of the art squad lock-up, but you can't care. Not when his cock hits you right there, and then you're keening his name and he tumbles over the cliff edge with you, pressing hard in those final thrusts as your muscles milk him.

You curl around him. "Marcus."

He sighs, presses his forehead to yours. "Was that… are you okay?"

You chuckle lazily. "I've never been more okay."

He cuddles you close, nosing at your cheek, murmuring sweet nothings. "Christ, what is this stuff? I could go again."

At his words desire rears its head. "There must be a desk in here somewhere, right?"

And his eyes go hot.

And that's how you find yourself bent over a desk recovered from an abandoned shipping off, the edges intricately gilded. You cling to them as Marcus fucks you hard and fast, just the way he'd fantasised about, and it's so good that you sob his name over and over.

Afterwards he cuddles you so gently, stroking your hair as he whispers praises about how good you felt around him, how next time he's gonna give you a bed covered in rose petals.

You shake your head, kissing him deeply, helping him into his jacket. "You're all I want, Marcus. Any way I can have you."

A flush colours his cheeks as he cups your cheeks. "Dinner? Let me take you out to dinner."

"I'd rather have it in bed. Have you in bed."

His eyes go wide for a second. "The drug.."

"This isn't the drug and you know it." You loop your arms around his neck. "It just jump-started us. Never been so grateful to a horny nineteenth century painter."

Marcus laughs out loud, hugs you, then releases you to hold your hand, tug you towards the elevator. "You're the best thing that ever happened to me. You know that, right?"

Happiness unfurls slowly inside you. "I could stand to hear it again."

Tagging the Pedro pals! @soldade @beccaplaying @heatherbel @mourningbirds1 @alldatalost @songsformonkeys @agirllovespasta @nelba @chews-erotically @mrschiltoncat @gamingaquarius @alienprincesspoop @dornish-queen @lackofhonor @agentpike @jaime1110 @thegreenkid @pedropascallion @mrsparknuts @buckstaposition @winters-buck @oloreaa @mstgsmy @synystersilenceinblacknwhite @holographic-carmen @cryptkeepersoul @alwaysbethewest @poenariuniverse @starlight-starwrites @keeper0fthestars @alwaysbethewest @kindablackenedsuperhero @abuttoncalledsmalls @f0rever15elf

And @arch-venus25 did you wanna be tagged in Pedro stuff?

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heli0s-writes · 4 years ago

Text

IV. Symbiosis

Summary: “Since you’ve been caught—” Fury squints, “Canoodling With The Allegedly Injured James Barnes, I wouldn’t be surprised if someone’s already halfway finished with digging you up. Forgeries. Petty theft. Grand larceny. The damn rest of the kitchen sink. So, Ranger…” The way he says it is both lazy and threatening, completely on brand and irritatingly calm.

“Here’s my suggestion: get ahead of this thing before it knocks you on your ass.”

A/N: 4.8k words. I’m a liar who lies because after 4 months of overthinking and coming up with diddly squat, here is part 4 of Trinity Epoch sans smut. I’m sorry! I’ll double your pleasure next time. xx Thank you for sticking with me, I’m so sorry it’s taken so long.

Warnings: Language. References to canon-typical violence.

Trinity Epoch Masterpost

Bucky stays like that a while longer, just breathing.

Your fingers trace his hair—running through the strands, over the shell of his ear, then resting briefly on his cheek. All the ways you used to with Natasha when she’d break her own heart, or maybe ways you would have liked her to have done for you when you felt like you were dying a little bit.

You feel it now: a small death in the wake of last night’s simple touches. Your body and Steve’s body curled around each other sprung something immeasurable, as if the drift flowered then and ripened beneath your skins. You bit into it. You savored its taste. You could have lived on it alone.

Everything smears together like a child’s careless hand in a mess of paints until all the brights muddle dark. A shaky breath as you work yourself into calming, trying to find coherent words while your head remains a pot of sideways soup, at best.

Bucky shifts until he’s looking up at you, nose millimeters away. His irises are just a touch more gray, a sprinkle less green. You can see Steve in him, just as he can see Steve in you and then your eyes begin to prickle, Nat’s face undulating behind the burn.

You don’t really know what you want to say. Maybe apologize, run, beg for forgiveness, grab Bucky by the shoulders and shake him until he understands that you didn’t mean it— you didn’t mean to hurt him. That you love him. That he lives inside you, too.

His ghost from the drift— the aftermath phenomena of the neural bridge when pilots take on a bit of each other’s consciousness out of the cockpit and into the world with them. Take two people with a predisposition for the drift into the cockpit into each other’s brains and they exit heightened—sharper, better—imbued with each other’s strengths and knowledge. Mind-meld long enough, deep enough, and your core endures, but you become a different beast.

When Steve’s consciousness bled into yours, so did Bucky’s. If you walked away with half of Rogers, you also got a quarter of Barnes and it only compounded worse during Polidori’s drop. Resurrecting trauma, agitating itself, making a mess of your weary soul.

You relived his amputation last night, just as fresh as you relived Nat’s death. More visceral than the first trial run, you witnessed him—felt him—torn and hoarse, clutching his shoulder as he rocked helplessly inside Orion’s chest, frayed wires sparking across his cheek and landing in his own blood. His teeth gnashing together as he tried to hold on for Steve’s sake, steering his co-pilot’s panic back on course. Terrified and agonized, but he was hellbent on making it out.

Bucky who made you laugh. Bucky who took you to dinner. Who walked with you, gave you his jacket, listened to your rambling and crying, and kissed you because you reminded him of his co-pilot, or maybe of himself.

How could you not love him, after all this?

Armageddon slows for nothing though, and before the first letter of his name can fall out recklessly from your mouth, three precise thumps jostles it back in.

Steve’s voice is muffled through heavy steel. “You in there?”

The door slides open with a tremulous croak but neither of you bother to separate. Nothing seems to matter now.

“Buck...” Steve looks from one raw face to the other, stepping forward and reaching out. He grasps Bucky’s hand. “We should talk—” he closes his mouth into a thin line, shoulders slumping heavily before letting go. “I’m sorry. Later. Shit’s hit the fan.”

The office is stagnant air full of questions but other than the squeak of the marshal leaning back in his chair, nobody makes a sound.

Fury untucks a finger from the crook of his elbow before pointing it between your eyes.

“Culpability.”

Across the room, you flinch in his crosshairs. Standing apart from them, you’re partially slack against one of many steel filing cabinets, using it to prop yourself up in case your knees might give out as vertigo descends.

It’s been a lot to take in. Everything— the night, the morning, emotionally, mentally, physically. The hull is a steel cage, and pilots are well armored, but you’re still hooked up to the robot enduring damage, taking hits at barely .0001 percent, but taking it all the same. You’re bruised up good beneath your clothes— Polidori’s claws leaving four tender imprints of a scratch to Orion’s right shoulder. Your shoulder. Steve’s shoulder.

To your right, he shifts. A tiny hint of pain streaks over his expression before it falls serene again, fixed on Fury.

“Since you’ve been caught—” the marshal squints, “Canoodling With The Allegedly Injured James Barnes, I wouldn’t be surprised if someone’s already halfway finished with digging you up. Forgeries, petty theft, grand larceny, the damn rest of the kitchen sink. So, Ranger…” The way he says it is both lazy and threatening, completely on brand and irritatingly calm.

“Here’s my suggestion: get ahead of this thing before it knocks you on your ass.”

This thing, being any story a 13-year old kid with two thumbs and a twitter account can spin between now and when you let Pepper Potts spin it for you first. There’s not a lot imagination can’t conjure to fill in the blank pixelated space between Bucky standing on the curb and you right behind him wearing his cap and jacket. Not to mention that once speculation goes live, it starts sprouting all sorts of appendages with minds of their own, and no matter how diligently you might cut one off, two would only sprout in its place.

The marshal stands up and takes heavy steps before turning the corner of his desk, absently tapping a pile of folders together like they’re not already in a perfect column. He slips a manila folder out from the stack and it becomes obvious that his suggestion is just buildup to some other type of impetus.

When you open the file up under his sharp gaze, you feel the blood drain from your face and possibly from your entire body.

The bullet he aimed between your eyes hits home. Cue your brains blowing out slow. Impetus met.

“Jesus Christ,” Bucky appears over your shoulder, staring at the same grainy photocopied document. “You can’t be serious.”

“Do I look like I make a lot of jokes?” Fury leans forward, pointer curving over the top edge, tapping emphatically one, two, three times, even waving it back and forth in front of your unseeing eyes. “I’ve got a good contact inside the PPDC who risked a lot to get this out. They’re just plans for now, dogeared behind other pages, but don’t doubt the Corps’ cowardice for a second. The second this program looks like it might not hold up, they’ll turn their efforts there.”

You’re gone. Trapped between the lines, vehemently scanning the page, reading the same words over and over until they no longer make sense. But it’s not like they made any sense in the first place.

ANTI-KAIJU WALL: CONSTRUCTION AGENDA. SPRING 2020.

The conception of a perimeter stretching around the Pan Pacific—North and Central America, East and South Asia to isolate emerging Kaiju. It’s a fetal skeleton at most, the roughest of outlines for a plan, and truthfully, it’s no plan at all.

It’s shameful. It’s shit.

The so-called Wall of Life implies the portending death of the Program—of all Shatterdomes and Jaegers. It implies no support, no funding, and no repairs. No Kodiak. No juniors. No future.

Back and forth, you’re still desperately inspecting as if the words might shift into a new message, maybe one that didn’t spell out certain extinction, but despair is rippling across your face. Bi Fang and Polidori had wings, and they were only Category II. Bi Fang massacred one of the best pilots you’ve ever known—and it was only a Category II. Any higher and they’d blow through that wall like a ribbon of wet toilet paper.

Hysteria creeps up at the mere thought of it, fear stubbornly lodging itself in your throat. Nuclear-powered automata—the only proven defense against the terror of massive alien attacks are being dismantled in favor of steel rods and cinderblocks. They might as well build it out of Legos.

Anti-Kaiju Wall. A string of ants meeting a boot.

You’re panting softly, tongue swollen in your mouth, shaking with equal parts terror and rage, on the verge of breaking into inappropriate laughter and yelling.

“What—what do they expect?” You croak, “The breach opens, the fucking thing comes out, sees a fence, and what—they think it’s—going to crawl back in…?”

“Hey, calm down,” Bucky curls his fingers around your elbow. His hand and its black plates are peering at you, purring, dull gold bands threading at the knuckles. For a second, the prosthetic disappears. For a second, he’s blood red again.

“Hey!” Bucky grips tightly when you sway. “I’m fine! Don’t—don’t.” Steve’s jaw is set firmly on your other side, arms crossed so severely his biceps bulge with the strain.

“Nick,” He’s abruptly brusque as he eases the file from your grip. “Give us a minute.”

“You’re in my office.” But the marshal’s words hold no bite. He’s already won; he knows. Cornered again, he’s got you same as before in Red Cloud.

You get the gist: play out your redemption arc and come clean with your record. Win over the public, hoard all the additional support and funding you can because you’ll need every goddamn cent of it when the PPDC rips it away. The gossip. The photos. The headlines. It’s the perfect opportunity for a few hundred million when the media is putting a magnifying glass on your presence in Hong Kong.

Duty. Duty. Duty.

You’re just one small part of this colossal puzzle—a negligible smear of guts across the battlefield trying to keep the rest of the pieces together while the PPDC sits in their panic rooms throttling the entire fucking thing.

Fury steps to the cabinet and slides the file back in its place, keeping the illusion of it being just another unremarkable envelope in a row of hundreds of others. The metal drawer shuts with a clang, housing the most damning piece of information you’ve ever seen. His tact aside, you know he would never show you his hand like this if it wasn’t completely necessary—or pertinent.

Steve was right, you understand now.

The world owes you. And it owns you.

The next six—seven?—hours scatter like pulled teeth with your head spinning like a top the entire way. Pepper had been outside the door for the conversation, waiting on standby to whisk you off for princess lessons. Having already (and correctly) predicted your compliance, Fury scheduled an interview for precisely at nine. Then you were off, towed along by Miss Potts and her hasty strut.

You try to find perspective, reminding yourself that you’ve successfully gone toe-to-toe with the Empire State Building with fifteen rows of teeth seven fucking times and come out on the other side alive and if not in one whole piece, then at least 2-3 relatively serviceable pieces. You’re functional. A little damaged, but fine enough. But there’s also the fact that you’d just hopped out of Orion not even 24 hours ago coupled with how you’re suddenly in the middle of something that feels less like a confused love triangle and more like divine providence at the end of the world.

Fuck. No time to think about it now. The human brain is not programmed to multitask, and you’re hanging on by a mere thread. You prioritize making it through the night just as alive as you can make it out of a drop. Just a couple of hours and you can rest. Just a couple more.

After what felt like an eternity and a half of simulating Q&A, practicing your posture, smiling into a mirror, and one horrible limo ride where you stared dead-eyed out the window—Steve and Bucky’s steely gazes after you—the building finally comes into view.

Hair. Makeup. Wardrobe. You wear pants. You smile for the camera. You don’t stand in the middle of the group photo.

8:55 and time halts to a near stop. You can hear your heart in your throat, or in your skull. Your eyes feel switched from their sockets, or stomach rotated 30 degrees. Someone fixes your mic wire, your blouse collar, asking you to turn just a little over there. Three cameras are pointed to capture every angle, punitive red dots angry and glaring.

A live broadcast was agreed upon to ensure the least amount of potential edits and skews, as well as the charmingly quaint idea that it’s unscripted. The rub, therein, lies upon the burden of poise and a flawless performance. You rehearsed lines until your jaw felt like it was coming unhinged. Then you did it again.

Everything requires precision, and you keep that in mind with your hand on the glass of Dom Perignon being constantly refilled. An amicable gesture by the hosts, but their intentions are cunning: loose lips sink ships, and they’re betting on yours to sink the S.S. Orion Bravo.

Out of view, the translator sits with her legs crossed, listening to the questions before turning the words over in English.

You take a sip of champagne and it fires off like a gunshot—Cantonese and English in rapid-fire verses.

<2017 was a fateful year for both the Jaeger Program and the world. Beloved pilot Natasha Romanoff sacrificed her life to protect Alaska’s coast in a final battle against Category 2 Bi Fang. Memorials dedicated to Romanoff’s efforts appeared across every nation to lament her death and celebrate her heroism. Yet, somehow, no one seemed to be asking the million-dollar question: Where is her co-pilot?>

The host’s open hand urges your reply.

The lights seem to turn up even brighter. Your back starts sweating. The room is about to collapse. In short, naturally—infuriatingly—you choke.

Seven hours of droning like a broken wind up toy, already knowing how to answer this question by heart, prepping yourself for the interrogation, the relentless demand to publicize your grief, to placate the people about your relationship with their heroes—and, you choke.

Bucky’s chin tilts microscopically in the corner of your line of vision. You’re fine, he’s saying, you got it. He’s strangely calm, even pleased, as you stutter involuntarily. Like he’s the first to remember an inside joke you’d long forgotten, his grin widens the longer you look at him. Steve turns next. Focus. Don’t fight the drift. The drift is silence.

And suddenly, your shoulders ease. The static in your exhausted brain slides out of your ears.

You sit up tall. You smile. It doesn’t quite feel like your smile, but, it’s a good one. You know this smile; it’s Steve’s smile. Like a seamless assembly, you fall into rhythm.

The white of his teeth slip out from between Steve’s lips. He notices too.

You calmly recite the introductory speech you’d been practicing for the last two hours, feeling out your new voice, borrowing from his bearing—deeper, smoother, certain. The major points get run through: your record and own personality traits keeping you from the spotlight, admitting genuinely that you’re pretty damn uncomfortable now, so they’ll have to forgive you for any slip ups. It goes over well, as Pepper predicted; “candid” blunders made Rangers human—made them likable.

When the subject of Anchorage rolls back around, you can practically feel Steve’s jaw bulging preemptively. You graze his foot with yours as a warning to back off.

<It’s remarkable that you were able to bring the Jaeger back to shore, there has been only one pilot who was capable of that—>

“I’m thankful to have had Stacker Pentecost as my mentor. I owe so much of my resilience to him. It was difficult, but simply put, I had no other choice. I feel so lucky to have survived it.”

“She was one of a kind.”

“Yes.”

The host clears his throat, visibly awkward that you’re being so terse, but taking the hint until Bucky turns into the spotlight, that divorced happiness he’s so skilled at beaming into the lenses.

Steve easily picks it up, steering the conversation where he wants it to go. He’s disarmingly sincere as he relays the process of Bucky’s injury, replacement, apprehension, and finally success

His bright blue eyes flicker secret messages and you decipher them all.

“The connection was like—"

There’s a bell chiming in your ears. Bright, crisp chirps of it, cutting through laughter and bickering. You taste summer air in your throat, Bucky’s hair flying in the wind. “Riding a bike…”

“Exactly. New bike, same motions, and it worked. It was great. We learned things about each other. Some good, some bad—”

Crosshatched pencil lines of their shared apartment. Smudges of charcoal in a sketchbook. “He’s an unbelievable artist, but—”

“No— don’t say it!”

Bucky smothering a small kitchen fire. Steve throwing a damp rag on him in a frantic attempt to assist. Your voice is bubbling out gleefully. “—an awful cook!”

“It’s true,” Bucky smugly chimes in. “The boy can’t boil water. Breakfast eggs come with shells every time.” You can taste the grit between your molars—crushed grains inside an overdone omelet, Bucky spitting out spinach and feta cheese.

“Oh my god,” you sputter into a sip of champagne. “It’s so bad.”

“Do you see what I have to deal with? Two people knowing my secrets. Two.”

<Fantastic! Already we can see a great friendship here—>

It seems congratulatory, but there’s determination to drive into scandalous territory, poking at any rumor to lance and leak. A sly smile crosses his face as his assistant shows photos of you and Bucky in the city, but the lurid suggestion only gets shrugged off. “We’d gone out for dinner. It was the first time I’d left the Shatterdome after Seigehook and I needed moral support.”

“I’d give you my jacket if you looked cold.”

<Steve, Ophelia isn’t concerned that your new co-pilot is a woman?>

“No, absolutely not. ‘Lia’s the first person to support Orion—and the loudest. I don’t know what I’d do without her. You don’t have her behind the curtain, too, do you?”

<Well, what about personal memories? Won’t you know everything about each other…? Private things?>

“Sure, but what pair of pilots don’t? You got twins and siblings, not just married couples. Look, here’s the thing: the neural bridge doesn’t take you to a filing cabinet. It’s not open like that. It’s more like—somebody help me—” Bucky snaps his fingers your way, “—what’d you call it the other day?”

You didn’t, but you say, “A dream?”

“Right, a dream. If you think about it, you can pull on it, but if it’s not in the forefront of your mind. It’s a non-issue.”

“We’re all adults here,” Steve confirms.

Steve’s palm faces outward as if keeping the host at bay— or, you think, keeping himself at bay. “Hold on. This isn’t about replacement. Nobody is framing it like a nail in the coffin—we’re in the interim of a period of time, readjusting. Short of death, nothing is going to take him away.”

Sunlight. Recruitment. Ice baths. Training until they had to carry each other to bed. Your eyes flutter, head pilfering through the memories like instinct.

“James is still Orion’s co-pilot.” You agree. Apprehension. Dread. Terror. Confidence in each other even when they didn’t believe in themselves. They were together. Nothing else mattered. “Steve’s co-pilot.”

The tight look on his face is temporarily wiped as he beams proudly, “He’s my Bucky. Always has been, always will be.” He claps Bucky on the back twice and each thump’s echo bounces its way into your chest.

Bucky bristles and sputters, but a healthy pink dusts its way across his cheeks, “Don’t embarrass me, Rogers.”

“Are you blushing?” You tease, elated.

“Don’t you start, either.”

<Well… this is very wonderful. Is there a possibility we’ll be seeing a triple-piloted machine? The Tang triplets have been in talks for a new model.>

Steve shakes his head. “We haven’t discussed it yet. Nothing’s off the table, by any means. Just not priority at the moment.”

“Normalcy, as much as we can get in the middle of all this.” Bucky holds out his hand, closing it into a fist, letting the camera zoom in. “We’re… still working through all the kinks, balancing the personal and global.”

He flexes his fingers, letting the microphones pick up the drone of machinery, but his meaning is another secret. Clicking Morse codes of well-oiled obsidian plates purring two names. You’ve stopped listening to everything but the echo incandescent in your heart.

You down your glass.

Champagne tipsy, you try not to stagger through the lobby. The doorman nods toward the limousine parked faithfully by the curb.

The barrage of questions slowed after it became apparent that there would be no sensationalist headline. There was attention to Bucky’s arm, his handsome face, of course, before the banter quickly devolved into entertaining frivolous sidebar queries. Five flutes bubbled down your throat and by the end of it, you no longer wanted to grab camera one and shake the shit out of it, anger whittled down to a dull hum of annoyance.

Thirty million stupid dollars for inane reels of:

What’s in your purse? What do you eat? How do you stay feminine in a Shatterdome full of testosterone—have you tried any K-beauty skincare routines? Do you have anyone special in your life?

Bucky went in, then, leaning forward until he was nearly rocking off and leveled his glare. You know she’s on the other side of the same robot, buckled up into a ninety-pound rig steering two-hundred tons of—

It took a miracle (see: Steve’s firm hand discreetly on the back of Bucky’s neck and Pepper drawing a sharp line across her throat) to effectively halt the derailing train.

“I can’t believe,” Bucky grouses now, opening the door and waving the driver back to the front. “Those goddamn questions.”

“Does wiping my sweaty face with my even sweatier shirt count as skincare? What’s the K stand for?”

Bucky smacks the back of your head with one hand, other clumsily yanking the door open with the other. “For Korean—have you been living under a rock? Just—get in the fuckin’ car.”

You slap him back. “Quit it, you invalid.”

“Invalid? I’ll show you a fuckin’—Steve, did you hear—”

“Both of you, get in the car.”

And you shriek, scrambling in and yanking Bucky along by the scruff of his jacket. Mischief courses beneath your skin, encouraged by clever alcohol, now fully buzzed its way to every extremity.

Still giggling and leaning into the thrill of it, you slump over the smooth plastic molding of the door and press your face against the tinted window. It’s a cool reprieve on your warmed cheek, frosting when your temperature meet the glass. Bucky’s easy Cantonese, albeit slurred, is requesting a ride back to base. His hand has found its way into yours, fingers laced large and warm, clasping tight before he lets go.

“Haven’t had a drink—oh--” you murmur, catching yourself as the wheels shift.

“Since Red Cloud.”

“Outta my head, Rogers.”

“Says the person who kept finishing my sentences during that interview.”

“It’s the champagne! It makes me—“

“Stupid?”

“You’re an ass, Barnes.” But you’re laughing at him, at the way he’s smirking— cheeks gone ruddy. Both of them, open beside each other, heads inclined intuitively together. It makes you ache to see—to experience again after disruption—Rogers and Barnes. Barnes and Rogers. Perfectly fitted.

The partition slides up. The sunroof tugs open with a whistling draft.

Hong Kong’s lights are vivid—too much to properly see the extent of space’s beauty, but there are a few twinkles you’re able to make out in the moonless night as light poles and skyscraper tips whiz overhead. They’re brighter than most, simple to spot patterns in the dark.

“Orion’s out tonight,” you mutter, moving to catch the line of its belt, “Look. Beneath his feet is Lepus, the hare, pursued for all time.” From across, Steve follows, also looking to find their hero as your hair rustles wildly, making a hurricane against your ear.

“Don’t be so fucking dramatic,” Bucky scolds. He’s annoyed and comfortable on leather, ankle crossed over opposite knee. “You’re not being chased by anything. Besides, if you were a constellation, you’d probably be the soup ladle.”

You laugh. He’s always playing the part of a stoic so well. “Hey, I’ll have you know the Little Dipper’s got the north star in it. That soup ladle’s gonna be the thing that gets you home when you’re lost.”

The tone shifts—time dragging its pace as you look at them in wonder. The city’s overripe heaviness of the blows through, making goosebumps on heated skin.

“Buck,” Steve says, and Bucky slips his jacket from his shoulders to slide over yours. He tugs the lapels down like he’s trying to keep you on earth and your hands clasp on his wrists for a second before you let go. They’re both sitting up now, watching your bleary gaze unfocus.

Steve and Bucky oscillate in front of your eyes, their lines blurring until it doesn’t really matter who you’re looking at—until they become one. So easy, like this, just them like two sides of the same coin, belonging so seamlessly to each other.

“Sorry,” you blurt in shame, “I feel like I fucked it up. Ruined a thing that wasn’t mine to ruin.”

“Think you put it together,” Steve responds quietly, and the simplicity of his statement throws you off. “We found our way.”

“Soup ladle,” Bucky jokes.

“But, aren’t we just trading one war for another? World peace only made it because of monsters.” Unspoken questions hidden inside large-scale metaphors— symbiosis could only be achieved under the lies of other relationships. Whatever this would be, it wouldn’t be accepted. Steve still retains his supermodel girlfriend and you and Bucky dutifully fall in line for your own packaged little PR lies.

He shrugs. “I’m fine with losing a few battles in this war, but Orion’s got a good track record, doesn’t it, Buck?”

“Twelve— thirteen kills, sweetheart.” Bucky’s grin is lopsided. “Don’t forget you made that happen.”

“Thirteen’s an unlucky number.”

“Feels lucky to me.” Steve’s hand wraps around your wrist, thumb resting on your pulse. He taps your skin, looking genuinely apologetic. “Listen, all I can do is ask— and I’m not good at asking for things. I just want to make them happen.” A quick glance at the watch under his cuffs and he tugs at your arm like a lost child, “So, before we get back… will you come here?”

As he said, he’s not really asking. More like reaching his will out to you, finding you when you’re caught in the undertow and pulling you back to safety. To them. Okay. Okay.

Your footing slips, but they take your hands and turn you carefully, letting you settle in between. Bucky hums a low sound, fingers curling around your waist. Steve does the same to the opposite side and you feel both torn apart and held together by them.

Steve nuzzles your neck, hot on your skin.

“She was wrong,” he whispers, barely audible over the sound of your rising breath, “You know that? She was wrong, and I was wrong. I thought it couldn’t happen—thought I had other priorities, other things to manage and settle and save and... I lost sight of what matters most. But I’m gonna really fix it this time—I’m gonna do it right by you.”

He looks to Bucky, pained and relieved, “Both of you, I promise.” He takes Bucky’s hand in his own and holds it to his mouth, kissing his knuckles, his palm, saying softly, “I love you, Buck. I’m sorry you waited so long.”

“Hey stupid,” Bucky says shakily when your chin starts to quiver at the sight of them. He’s sniffling and swallowing his syllables, unable to stop himself from staring at Steve’s face in his hand, how Steve kisses the blue pulse in his wrist. “Ain’t you—too pretty to cry?”

The rocking of the car flattens out as Steve gently presses his lips to yours, letting the trail of salt bursting down your cheek into his mouth. He moves to the line of your jaw, promising,

It’s okay. I got you. Nothing’s gonna hurt you anymore.

They kiss you and the world turns itself right.

They kiss you and then they kiss each other. Again and again and again.

#marvel #stucky #stucky x reader #pacific rim au #steve rogers x reader x bucky barnes #fanfiction #reader insert #steve rogers x reader #bucky barnes x reader

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m34gs · 4 years ago

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😊😊😊😊 Hello!!!!!

Got a little (hopefully not too weird) question for ya:

Let's turn back the clock and human verse it. Middle ages, maybe fantasy setting (you choose) but, what trades do you think Ichigo/and or Grimmjow would work at? Blacksmithing? Mason? Farmer? Court musician? Something completely different? Would it be more fantastical? I know in the mythical au you wrote about Grimmjow being a dragon slayer--would it build off that or are you thinking of separate/different au?

What are your thoughts? I'm a sucker for this time period, or something like it anyway.

How would they meet? Does ichigo work with others or does he have a more solitary job?

How would they meet? Does Aizen play a factor in this senario at all? Who else is in this au? I hope this all makes sense lol

🧡💙🧡💙 Have a good night!!!💙🧡💙🧡

Hi there friend! This isn't a weird concept at all; I love it! Thank you so much for asking me this!!!!!!

Ok, so! I am a sucker for fantasy, so I absolutely would put them in a fantasy setting! Very much love that. As for occupations and casting...welll...

Grimmjow would be a foot-soldier. Some stupid rule says you have to be nobility to be a knight (I know it's cliché, but I'm a bit of a sucker for those kinds of rules that seem pointless, I find them very relatable to today's society) and he was born to a poor family who basically sent him off to be fodder for the enemy because it meant they would get rewarded with one less mouth to feed. He doesn't have a strong sense of 'family' or 'trust'. To him, the only one he can trust is the sword in his hand, and even then he knows better than to think it would never cut him. He ends up being ruthless and surviving because of his lack of trust in others and his will to spite the family that cast him out. Aizen is a noble of some kind, and he sees Grimmjow's potential so he takes him in, keeps him, trains him like the other knights he's collected, only Grimmjow doesn't get that title because of that stupid law. This drives a wedge between him and the knights Aizen trains and keeps (I'm thinking this is where I would cast the other arrancar).

Aizen is well-respected among the other nobles (because he lies. You know, like a liar. lol sorry I needed to throw that meme reference in there). But, anyway, for the other nobles I would cast most of the captains of the Soul Society. They have varying degrees of wealth but the fact remains they are all still nobles.

Now, for Ichigo...his family lives in woods that are allegedly haunted/cursed. (spoiler, it's just them and some windchimes and various illusions/traps they've set up over the years to keep the nobles out and protect the forest from being deforested). His mother is a witch (that's right, 'is'. Because in this AU? She's alive and well because I said so :D lol), and his father is a farmer who fell in love with her. Ichigo and his sisters inherited some of their mother's magic and she taught them how to use it.

Aizen is on a journey, bringing with him Grimmjow and a couple others for protection. On the way, they are robbed by clever thieves(Kisuke Urarhara and Yoruichi), and Grimmjow is tasked to track them down and reclaim what was stolen. He goes after them and follows them to the haunted forest, because of course they are friends with Isshin and Masaki.

This is where Grimmjow stumbles upon Ichigo. And mistakes him for one of the thieves. He attacks and Ichigo promptly kicks his ass because he has the home field advantage. Then, when the misunderstanding gets slightly cleared up, Ichigo feels guilty for wounding Grimmjow, but the boy's healing magic is absolute shite (his mother tries to teach him, she really does, but he's always been better at other kinds of magic). So he brings Grimmjow to his mother. And wouldn't you know it, Masaki is just so darn happy her son has brought home a man because LOOK ISSHIN OUR BOY HAS A FRIEND AND MAYBE EVEN A HUSBAND. And Isshin is right there with her, eagerly talking about how strong Grimmjow looks and how he can protect their boy. And Ichigo is like excuse me protect me? I kicked his ass? And then he gets a scolding because kicking asses is rude. And Grimmjow is wondering what the fuck is wrong with these people.

I think in this AU, Orihime would be a member of Unohana's household, learning how to heal, much to the dismay of her parents and older brother. (Fun fact: the first people to work as nurses in hospitals? The poor, the prostitutes, the lame, the disabled, the beggars. It was a job that was looked down upon and considered one of the lowest of the low positions. Which is why it was a big deal when noble ladies started going into the profession. People were scandalized.) Unohana is one of the less well-off nobles, but she doesn't care so much because she uses what wealth she did inherit from her family to heal others.

Chad is the blacksmith. Hands down. He is the best around. Tall, strong, silent, and he does quality work. Regardless of the fact he's not a noble, he is very well off because nobles from all around are willing to pay good money for his work.

Uryu is a scholar, studying anything he can find that's interesting. He's studying under Mayuri, though he secretly thinks the man is a freak. And Mayuri does all sorts of experiments on all sorts of people (there's no ethics board in this time, you see. Anything and everything is legal when it comes to the pursuit of knowledge, as long as you have enough money to buy off the right people).

Kenpachi is the battle-crazed lord, and the only nobility who knows of the Kurosaki's living in the forest. He was wandering around one day, bored out of his mind, when he happened across Ichigo and his sisters in the forest. Ichigo immediately goes into protective big-bro mode, and Kenpachi doesn't wanna clear up any misunderstanding if it means he can have a fight instead. He doesn't tell anyone; partially because Ichigo was the best opponent he has ever had, and partially because he doesn't care enough about the other nobles to have conversations beyond the usual 'how are you' 'I am well' exchange. Actually, you know, Kenpachi's entire household knows of the family in the woods (they like to prove their courage so many of them had ventured into the woods that were 'haunted'.) but because Kenpachi tells no one, they also tell no one.

Byakuya, in a twisted turn of events, is the only captain who is not a noble. He is a merchant. His trade? Silk. And he still carries himself with grace and looks down on others, but this time it's because he and his ancestors literally clawed their way out of the ranks of the poor by being cutthroat businessmen. He still adopts Rukia as his younger sister when he finds her, after his wife perishes. Renji is a mercenary hired to protect Rukia, and he is totally in love with Byakuya.

These are my thoughts! What do you think? Anything you would add? Do you have more ideas for other characters and the roles they could play in this au?

#Thanks so much for the ask #this made me happy to answer #grimmichi #grimmjow #ichigo #bleach #au #ideas #fantasy world au #mutuals #friends #fun asks #I love these asks you send me

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ourladylennon · 4 years ago

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1/2) About Fraser, a couple of quotes that caught my eye:

"Robert represented to me freedom, freedom of speech, of view"

"The most formative influence for me was Robert Fraser. Obviously the other Beatles were very important but the most formative art influence was Robert. I expect people to die so I don’t feel a loss but there’s a vacuum where he used to be"

"The way Robert lived, which became the way I lived for a couple of years and which I now figure for a rather aristocratic way of life, would be that he’d ring early in the day and say, ‘What are we doing for dinner tonight?’

'Once I got to know Robert, a nice thing would be going to the gallery and helping install an exhibition. Just sit around and smoke a bit of pot while somebody else was installing the exhibition. Helping. Play a little music for him.’

"There were many good times in Robert’s flat. Through my Beatle connections I’d hire a 16mm projector for the evening […] and I started off with Wizard of Oz. Robert got into this, wow, and he’d get some art movies. We got a lot of Bruce Connors, showed a lot of that. It was a very exciting period."

The boy sounded smitten, didn't he? Maybe nothing physical happened, (Robert was allegedly into darker men) but it looks like Paul liked the idea of being "romanced" by this handsome and sophisticated guy. There was an undertone of cozy, easy intimacy between them. You can tell by the way Bob would call to plan what they'd do for dinner. How Paul would sit there playing music for his eyes only while someone else was installing the exhibition. It speaks volumes that someone as image oriented as Paul went to Paris with an openly gay man without caring what others would say. It suggests a deep connection. The story about their "netflix and chill" encounters in Robert's flat is so suggestive as well. Paul could've been anywhere and yet there he was watching Wizard of Oz with this dude. I'd say those encounters were not about Paul's love of cinema. He just wanted to be around Bob. They most likely drank, did drugs and in my opinion, fooled around a bit, for the fun of it. It sounds like a fantastic way to spend the time, 10/10 recommended.

Paul also had a strong relationship with Tara for the short time they knew each other. The fact he did LSD with him before the other Beatles implies a lot of trust. Tara was very responsible and sweet in that occasion, staying sober to look after Paul in case he had a bad trip. I loved that about him. He was really concerned about keeping Paul safe and giving him a good time. They always hung out when they had the chance and John really disliked the guy. Then there is Tara's Christmas trip to Liverpool. I'm aware he knew Paul's brother Mike first and they were friendly but there was such an air of "meet the parents" about this situation. I'm not entirely convinced they were physical but I could sense a romantic crush. Tara was married but as a beautiful society swan in the Rolling Stones' circle, I think he was quite open to experimentation.

part 2 and my answer below read line :)

2/2) Again, I would never call Paul bisexual but I do think he was more attracted to men in a romantic/platonical sense than people realize. He enjoyed immensely the attention and the company of some guys. He would open up emotionally with them, learn their craft and incorporate their habits in a way he rarely did with his women, not even Linda. It looks like Paul wouldn't unlock certain corners of his mind unless a man he was drawn to gave him that permission. This is probably why he associated Fraser with freedom.

John was the most important of all because in a way, Paul would've never discovered and accepted himself without him. He used to kill frogs and engage in unruly behavior as a child to repress that soft, romantic persona he would become so famous for. Meeting a charismatic, brilliant boy who appreciated that vulnerable side of him must've been exhilarating. As they became a songwriting team, they both started seeing creation as sex, a view they'd carry for the rest of their lives. It's telling that once Paul lost John permanently, he went looking for the next man to fall in love with. But not even Elvis Costello, Stevie Wonder or Michael Jackson were enough to fill that gap.

Which convinces me of the eroticism of his relationship with John. It was the one connection he didn't have with all the others (with the possible exception of Fraser) and this is why the collaborations would often end up somewhat unfulfilled. He might've loved them intellectually but the erotic element wasn't there and it made a difference in the results.

About McLennon, few people dispute they were in love with each other these days. But what are the odds that two people who felt so strongly about each other and had plenty of chances to consummate their feelings in a physical way not doing it? They would crash and burn within six months. It's all speculation because Paul won't tell us but I don't think it's that much of a radical idea. I think a lot of stuff will come out once Yoko passes away and Paul faces his own mortality.

P.S: juicy bit about Heather, I'm bummed that we don't get enough info about this period because of that divorce NDA.

Anon, you are a well-researched individual and I’m impressed. This was the first thing I read this morning it was like a morning newspaper lol, thanks.

I entirely see what you mean about intimate undertones. "Cozy” seems like a good word to describe the general feel. I *tried* reading up some more on their relationship and I get a sense that Paul in general had a great admiration for Robert and your right- has that element of creation which is so essential to Paul’s being and probably his attraction. Robert seems to have given him a different side of creating than John did: art. That clearly created a bond for them and had some impact. Like with the movies and projectors, yeah cool and all, but “an exciting period” goes a bit deeper than that for sure. He clearly learned a lot from him about art, but whose to say about what else? The way Paul talks seems like he really admired, respected and trusted the man at the very least (I am even reading this quote that seems to imply Paul and Robert did hallucinogenic drugs together unless I’m misreading? That’d be a big leap of trust just like with Tara which still boggles me).

It’s not too big of a stretch to think Paul did enjoy being romanced, in exactly the way you put it, by some guy who was “handsome and sophisticated” who he found to be interesting, different, above average, with a new exciting form of expression. And not romanced in the obvious sense; more so unassuming things like having an intimate understanding of art with one another, who felt his equal in terms of that area of art, who was putting in the effort of engaging with him, showing him something others hadn’t, being so willing to share with Paul and to open his mind. You can definitely be romanced in friendships too though so I’m not saying this is exclusively any one thing in particular, though I myself do sense an undercurrent of more-than-standard interest after reading some more. In a nutshell, pretty much what you said:

I do think he was more attracted to men in a romantic/platonical sense than people realize. He enjoyed immensely the attention and the company of some guys. He would open up emotionally with them, learn their craft and incorporate their habits in a way he rarely did with his women

I still don’t think he would ever connect the dots of what that meant or what it could mean. I think to him, it just was what it was.

With John specifically, yeah there’s just no question for me. To me, they are every bit of the lore and legend of what soul mates are made of. Fire & passion on all levels. No disrespect to any of their longterm relationships outside of each other, because they clearly had deep feelings for their other partners, but I sincerely don’t think it that it connected on every level like it did with John/Paul. But of course, I still fall on the side of thinking nothing sexual ever happened (for more reasons than one I could see why they wouldn’t have fooled around imo). With 67/68 being that turning point where they *did* crash and burn because perhaps someone tried something- words or other- or perhaps nothing happened and that could have precisely been the cracking point.

I do find it interesting that Paul’s hanging around with Robert was right around this tumultuous period of John and Paul’s relationship...kind of makes you think doesn’t it? Like does this have any influence on what happened in India sort of thing; John seeing Paul being good, close friends with a gay man. Could it have stirred something up for John? Made him see a possibility where he hadn’t before? Interesting to think about and which I hadn’t thought about before....

I genuinely hope that Paul shares anything important with us before he passes. He doesn’t owe us anything, but my god would I die to know everything that happened between them and everything they felt.

#TW drugs mention #long post #ty anon #you got my gears going #asks #<3 #paul mccartney #john lennon #robert fraser #paul x robert #tara browne

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smol-jinyoungie96 · 4 years ago

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The Devil Judge - Episode 6

Hi again! I just finished watching Episode 6 and man I was not prepared for any of it.

At all.

From the first time since they introduced Elijah to the storyline, she is portrayed as a teenager who despises her uncle for allegedly killing her father, but the a few episodes later they shows her softer side,She might hate Yohan but at the end of the day he is the only living family she has.

So the possibilities are that she masks her worries for Yohan behind the anger because sometimes, years worth of anger and pain might overpower any other emotions we have.

It is genuinely endearing to see that despite her openly showing her hatred towards him, she also pays close attention to him. For an example she knows that he doesn’t have a love life, or that he never stays out overnight. These are little things that she observes but never shows.

When Ga On and Elijah are talking, something that occurred to me is that she is just a child.

She’s 16.

The storyline makes us think about all the suffering for Ga On and Yohan but even Elijah carries a lot of it. All she has left is Yohan, but she has to live every single day wondering if he truly killed her father or not. She doesn’t have anyone she can talk to and that’s a lot on her plate to carry it all into her adulthood.

Elijah says “Yohan ruins everything that is close to him”

My guess is that he doesn’t do it in an intentional, destructive way but because everything that he has seen since childhood is violence, deceit, abuse, selfishness and destruction. May be pushing people away is his way of keeping them safe because I highly doubt that he received the help and the closure he needed when he was a child.

The child actors are so so so good! Their acting and the way they let out emotions through their eyes was amazing!

In the beginning, when Kang Yohan makes Sun Ah jump, for a split second it makes the viewers think that he has been a manipulator since an early age, but then as the story progresses,

he catches her stealing multiple times and interestingly, he hears her telling the caretaker that she is worried about him because he is leaving the basement a lot and that she is worried about him when she, was the one who suggested that he go out when his father was not around,

Imagine being in an abusive household, getting another child who is roughly your age trying to see it you could connect with only for her to start playing games.

He didn’t trust her then and he doesn’t trust her now, she never gave him a reason to.

I don’t think her interest in him is on a romantic light at all, it is more of an obsessive love.

Yohan saying “threats are useless, because I have nothing I wish to protect” is really just a bad move from his side.

So he doesn’t have Elijah? He doesn’t have an annoying little pest living in his house who resembles his brother?

Him saying that will only motivate her to dig deep to find what matter to him.

When he asks her what she wants and she says that she doesn’t care who he goes after as long as he stays away from the SR Foundation, it made me think that she is not stupid.

She is cunning and she just knows that telling Yohan to stay away from the foundation will only make him do the exact opposite. So there is a chance that it could be a trap?

Why did she take the cross chain from Yohan? Two possibilities, either it’s because she still likes it, or because she knows that it IS precious to Yohan, if she has it, she also has a reason to make him come back to her.

Coming to Elijah’s growing attachment to Kim Ga On,

he cares for her like a father would to his daughter, he cooks for her, he makes an effort to spend time with her, he covered her while she is sleeping etc.

No matter how much she tried to push him away, he is still there, he is becoming a constant in her life.

I’m not saying that Yohan doesn’t care for her.

Nobody cares for her more than he does probably but Yohan doesn’t openly show it.

When you’re a child, sometimes the thing you need the most is a solid presence of an adult and what she doesn’t get through Yohan, she gets through Ga On and well.. he also looks exactly like her father.

So it makes sense that she is showing a sort of a possessive attachment towards Ga On as if she is afraid that she will lose the one constant in her life.

It was wrong for Ga On to take Elijah out to meet Soo Hyun without asking Yohan first and it was also wrong of Yohan to chuck him to the wall like a ragdoll and to accuse him of taking Elijah to see a cop.

It’s obvious why Yohan is worried about his niece after everything that went down with Jung Sun Ah, but i feel like he shouldn’t have hinted towards going after Soo Hyun just to make a point.

Because for Ga On, Soo Hyun is all he has. He is already too neck deep into the Lion’s den and having the spotlight on Soo Hyun is a trigger for him.

The scene with Minister Cha and the other two women.

That was definitely Elite vs. Elite.

They are all at the same social status but when the times call for it, Minister Cha has the ability to make them drop to their knees.

The interaction between Jung Sun Ah and Minister Cha initially began with insults being thrown, belittling Sun Ah but now it has developed to a place where they help each other.

Minister Cha helps Sun Ah with the Foundation work and in return, Sun Ah helps her with taking revenge on Yohan.

Terrifyingly interesting.

Jung Sun Ah knows that Kim Ga On means something to Yohan, her first target is Ga On himself.

When it comes to Ga On, Min Jung Ho is a father figure, she already had a plan in mind when she made that biker lady trick Ga On.

When he asks Min Jung Ho, even he says that he suspects Kang Yohan and Yohan already threatened Soo Hyun so in his mind, the gears will start to work because he knows from experience that Kang Yohan really doesn’t mind going berserk when he wants someone out of his way.

Then the attention comes to Oh Jin Joo. Sun Ah is smart for this. The way she slowly poisons Jin Joo’s mind with that whole conversation about only men’s pictures being on the wall, for a moment is feels like she is encouraging Jin Joo to be ambitious but later! When the two associate judges are together, you just know that Sun Ah already got inside Jin Joo’s head when she goes “does he look down on me or something?”

Oh Jin Joo idolizes Yohan. So for her to slowly turn against him..

So technically her plan is to turn the baby associates against Yohan.

Bad lady

Coming back to Ga On struggling, he keeps seeing things that makes him rethink his intuitions when it comes to Yohan.

First it was the children playing with the ruler and now it’s a group of weird cult going around flogging people because “According to Kang Yohan, he will accept people’s wishes and flog terrible human beings”

So once again, the public adapting barbaric punishments from what they see in court, does make Ga On rethink about his choices.

Soo Hyun’s Attack

Obviously Yohan is keeping tabs on both Soo Hyun and Ga On, but then again, the drama really has their way of making the viewers think hard, For an instance,

The phone conversation Yohan has, the guy says “there is a chance she might know about the transfer”

Indicating that, to viewers again it makes us think that Kang Yohan really may have had something to do with the bribing or that they might actually go after Soo Hyun, but we all know that Yohan would never and it was pretty obvious who it was with the gloved hand,

So in conclusion,

biker lady attacks Soo Hyun, takes the passbook, gives it to Sun Ah who then plots with Minister Cha but unfortunately,

The threat Yohan made against Soo Hyun is too fresh in Ga On’s mind so obviously he suspect him first,

They highlighted that god damn German scissor too many times in Episode 6 and of course it is the same scissor Yohan stabs literal inches away from Bambi’s face.

Which was really an intricate scene, Jinyoung and Jisung as actors played it so beautifully. The unhinged anger and the disappointment in Yohan and the way Ga On realized that the man behind him is actually genuinely dangerous.

You can see the exact moment when that fear and realization sinks in Ga On.

That Yohan could hurt him badly if he wanted to.

Ga On functions on emotions when he’s not being a judge, so if he had actually taken a breather before provoking his boss with violent tendencies, he might have realized that Kang Yohan is just too smart to do something like that so out in the open.

There’s no doubt that Yohan really lets Ga On get away with a lot of shit he does.

But for some reason, the way he warned Ga On to never again attack him, felt like his first and last warning to me.

I absolutely LOVED the way Minister Cha thought that Yohan would crumble in front of her but my man just tells her to do whatever she wants… she should know that he wouldn’t be Kang Yohan if he didn’t wasn’t hundreds of steps ahead of them.

Something that I admired in the last scene is despite how annoyed or how mad Oh Jin Joo and Kim Ga On are at Yohan, when things get heated professionally, the two baby associates were so worried about him and they were completely ready to stand by his side even when they didn’t know any actual detail. Proud of my babies 🥺

But then, Kang Yohan accepting the allegations and Dr. Safety’s random appearance right at that moment seemed a little sus.

Almost too well timed.

Kang Yohan confidently asking the public to judge him because he knows that the public is on his side especially now that the reason for the money transfer is out in the open.

Kang Yohan’s decision of counterattacking the the Dream House Project right when the public take his side was a very smart move.

It was Minister Cha who tried to drag him through the mud but in turn he targets every single one of them socialites.

The last part felt like he was actually declaring war. The drama isn’t about poor vs. rich. It’s all about the internal works of the powerful class and I can’t wait to see how intense everything is going to be.

Lastly, the preview for Episode 7.

Why on earth did Yohan decide to bring out Ga On’s parents’ death and their case to the media?

Why take him to the jail?

Why rip open wounds from 13 years ago?

I know it’s stupid to jump in to theories and conclusions before we watch the episode because he always has a reason for everything he does,

But it made me think for a second was it because he wants to push Ga On to the limit until he breaks to the point where he has to solely rely on Yohan?

Because i get that Min Jung Ho is the parental figure in Ga On’s life but if Ga On were to ask him intense questions about his parents case, Min Jung Ho wouldn’t be completely honest with him, probably for Ga On’s safety but also there might be somethings that needs to stay hidden,

But Kang Yohan isn’t like that. He would be blunt and brutally honest if Ga On started asking him questions about his parents.

If Ga On were to rely on Yohan, that would also mean that Yohan would have control over him, either to use him as a pawn or to control Bambi enough to keep him safe and out of being targeted.

Lastly, am I the only one who is suspicious of Min Jung Ho?

If you made it this far again, thank you for reading my stress rant.

Now i’ll go back to silently stressing about next week because i have nothing better to do.

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emmyrosee · 5 years ago

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Staying.

On The Run II

Part One.

This most certainly isn’t timely; hell, I doubt there’s any interest for this story anymore; but after writing it, scraping it, writing it and scraping it and finally getting it? I don’t care what you guys want, I’m happy 🥰

This certainly isn’t the most fun chapter, but boy HOWDY I was excited when I saw all my dots connect and UGH I’m pumped😂❤️

WARNINGS: verbal fighting, language

Gordan Merkel x Fugitive!Reader; after a series of unfortunate events lands you in East Berlin, you fear almost everyone and everything that lands in your path. And it forces you to cross with a stranger who takes a risk on you.

---------

“I’m sorry it’s nothing fancy.”

You can’t help but find some humorous comfort in the words. Gordan’s small home definitely wasn’t anything fancy. Two bedrooms, one full bathroom with a small half in the hallway. The kitchen was standard, present as soon as you walk past the frame of the front door.

You clutched the blanket around your shoulders tighter as your eyes scan the room thoroughly. Some art work decorated the light brown walls, curtains drawn tight. It wasn’t exactly in the city, a small cel de sac in which houses were spread along the curve. According to Gordan, the lovely people who lived there were more than happy to either assist him or become part of the rebellion, so while hiding you would be mandatory, being heard would only be concerning if they caught your face.

Allegedly.

Woods decorated the backyard and seemed to stretch for miles, and the sun raising was no match for the branches.

It seemed fine, small and sweet as it stays happily in the ground. You most certainly are ready to regrow your clipped wings and sleep on a bed, with lamps and blankets and windows with golden sunlight to peek through them.

That is, until Gordan guides you gently to The Room.

Hidden only by the back of a reclining chair, The Room is a small cubby-like hole, dropping down to a five-foot tall landing. The small opening is a perfect square, and the short stool just under it seems large in comparison to just how little of room there is to spare.

Boxes of liquor and crates of naught magazines take up even more room, and in the corner, a pile of blankets and a single pillow on top of a twin mattress. There’s a small pile of empty water bottles and discarded wrappers of German junk food that litter the already messy hole, and you can barely make out the small lamp and curtain drawn window against the wall.

“It’s not exactly the most spacious or comfortable room,” Gordan sighs, staring in the dark room. “But my rebels, they use the it as well. It’s never failed me before.”

Your eyes fixate on the small space, wondering silently as to how many rebels were in this port before. Gordan smiles, “it’s a lot bigger than it looks. And it’s only for a couple hours a day. When I get back home, assuring everything is shut, I will be able to let you out.”

Your eyes drift over at Gordan, who’s smiling face is focused on the Room. He holds an expression of relief, and while you can’t pinpoint your feelings, a certain calmness washes over you as well.

He seemed to have that effect on people- hell, he was able to ground you after being so skittish for three years. His whole aura was full of protection, and you couldn’t help but relish in this new feeling.

This was going to work.

—

The first few days were fine.

From 6:30 am, to 8:30 pm, Gordan was out at work. When he comes home, he doesn’t talk much about his day, though he pours you both a glass of wine and starts to make dinner before scurrying off to bed. You’re allowed to walk around when he’s home, but when he goes to bed, you’re only allowed three hours to completely get your “freedom” fix.

Television volume can only be one-fourth of the way up, and make sure the stereo is turned all the way down before playing.

Fridge is open to anything, as is the library and shower, and it all just worked.

And just as it started to come together, you could feel it slowly slipping apart.

Gordan had been staying later and later, cooking less and less and being unable to buy more and more groceries. The Room locked from the outside, though he left a lock-picking-Kit in case of any emergencies. The window creates some light, same with the lamp, but they’re so dim, what’s the point.

He’s given you books to read, mainly about Sweden and the culture and language, you assume it’s sorta like a last resort.

But you can only read for so long.

You can only count the marks on your face and deal with the flicking of the lamp, and draw shapes in the water-stains on the window for so long.

More often than not, you just end up sleeping.

Or, sort of sleeping? It’s hard to tell anymore, you think you’re asleep with how dark it is, but sometimes your muscle jerks and you think “hey, that’s never woken me up before” only to the repeat the cycle. Before, the scary shapes your imagination would try to pain through the darkness would scare you. Now they’re you’re friends, and you feel your heart shatter when they leave.

At least when you were on the run, you had endless space... here, you’re not quite sure what you have.

You just know it’s not nearly enough.

You feel you’re homesickness transform from your home and family, to the streets.

Little did Gordan know just how bad you wanted to go back.

———

You’re not quite sure when you dozed back off.

You must’ve as a loud clomp! makes your eyes fly open, only to slowly fall back shut.

Then to fly back open as the sound of thick, heavy boot-steps pound on the floor in front of the room, and after a loud screech of furniture moving, the lock to the door clicks open, head spinning wildly at the noise. Your eyes fall to the dim alarm clock.

11:42.

At night? Had you honestly been left alone for 16 hours? Left to nothing but sleep and count hair follicles on your arms?

There’s an immense, sudden flood of light that clouds your vision, and in the middle of it was Gordan Merkel. The first part of you is washed with relief, it’s just him and not the authorities as he could’ve easily given you away.

The second part of you? Rage.

“My sincerest apologies,” he says immediately, watching cautiously as you crawl out of the room. “I had to stay late, make some adjustments to files and shit. What can I get you? Are you hungry?”

With each excuse and word that Gordan says, your arms tighten over your chest, and tears sting the back of your eyes.

“Please?” He continues, “I’ll make some dinner and-“

“You’re unbelievable!” You shout, storming out of the room. Gordan’s eyes widen as he shushes you, waving his hands to quell your anger.

“I can explain-“

“I am not some fucking dog!” You scream.

“Please do not yell, we can’t stir suspicion-“

“Fuck your suspicion! You cannot leave me for hours on end with no food, no water, a crappy sense of time, what kind of monster are you!”

“There were issues at work I had to resolve,” Gordan says firmly, gripping your biceps. “You’re just going to have to trust me on this.”

“I don’t have to trust you with anything,” you hiss. You flick yourself away in anger, and Gordan pushes the fallen strands of his gelled hair back, his face holding venom so powerful, you feel sick. It sends a chill through you, and as much as you hate him, you know he’s in control.

“People who actually have to stay here, stay quite and keep to themselves. You think I like having to hide a fugitive such as yourself in my house, putting both of us in extreme goddamned danger? Do you not understand the risk I am taking for you?”

You freeze, and your heart stops. Of course you knew what a risk he was taking. Anyone associated with hiding you could be in jail themselves, but was supporting him really worth being treated like an animal?

“Y-yes, Mr Merkel,” you whimper, looking at your feet.

Evidently, yes.

Gordan takes a stride towards you, eyes still firm and authoritative. “I promised you safety, and safety is what I give you. If you are truly unhappy with my methods, you do not have to stay. Make my life safer. One less tally of suspense on my back.”

Your heart stops as if Gordan held the button to make it cease, and he just pressed it. You knew you wanted to stay, it was warmer and more assuring than outside. It was better. Gordan was nice to you, this much you knew for sure. You’d been lying to yourself, the streets were scary, you never wanted to go back.

You shrink back from him, slowly turning on your heel to blink and dab at the tears burning your sleepless, aching eyes.

You hate him. You hate him you hate him you fucking hate him. You hate this control he holds over you. You hate this twisted freedom-hostage situation. Of course you can leave anytime. You know he’s not going to stop you, but you can’t bring yourself to do so.

Against your own will, a tight, nearly silent sob squeaks through your trembling lips, and behind you, you hear Gordan sigh.

“Look at me.”

“I don’t want to.”

“And I don’t want you to cry, look at me.”

Slowly, your shaking frame turns to face him, and as you see his softened, easy face, another sob catches your throat. He crouches to meet your gaze, and when you try to look away, he tips your chin to look at him.

“Listen to me,” he says, low and firm. “I want you to be safe, alright? Your being here makes me feel like I have a control of you being alright. I don’t know what they’ll do to you if those morons find you- what I do know is when you’re here, yes, I might be late, but you’re here. And the plan is just one day closer. Do you understand me?”

You blink up at him and say nothing, a thick, hot tear slipping down your warmed cheek. He wipes it away with his knuckle, clearly unable to see how he hurt you. “But, if I’m going to keep you as safe as I can, I have to make it seem like nothing has changed. If I make anything questionable, rumors will fly. And I cannot lie to my rebels. So,” he gently grips your chin in his hand. “For now, I need you to just trust me, alright?”

Your eyes avoid his, and you gently nod your head in understanding. Gordan sighs and pushes himself up, “as long as the curtains stay closed, feel free to roam.” He rolls up his sleeves and gently walks down the hall, leaving you and your spinning head alone in the darkened living room.

Another weak, pathetic sob rips through you, and with nothing better to do, you climb back into the room, easing the door shut, part of you secretly hoping that Gordan would forget you.

Forget you, your crimes, and everything in between.

------

OTR taglist (please let me know if you would like to be added or removed)❤

@hecohansen31

@youaremyfamiliar

@shyvirgoanon

@kathryn-jane

@billofourtime

@little-grunge-flowerz

@bethskarsgard

#i truly and genuinely don't know who to tag HA #my list is so old i cant lmfao #gordan merkel #gordan merkel x reader #gordan merkel fluff #gordan merkel angst #gordan merkel x reader fluff #gordan merkel x reader angst #gordan merkel imagine #gordan merkel atomic blonde #atomic blonde #atomic blonde imagine #atomic blonde angst #atomic blonde fluff #merkel #merkel x fugitive!reader #bill skarsgård #bill skarsgard

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imagine-that-one-thing · 5 years ago

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The Rise Of Glory. || 3

Chapter One. Chapter Two.

One Way or Another.

Thursday, November 5th.

I’m distracted by the flashbacks of a time I desire to forget, I wish Tara hadn’t brought up my leave of absence. I don't need the constant reminder or the guilt of everything. After Harry took me home that morning, everything went downhill and he never made it back to work for the meetings. Now I understand how Harry feels when he says the more he attempts to forget things of the past, the more they follow and strike him down every minute they can. I wish I could go back to simpler times, but unfortunately, there have never been simple times with Harry and I. There has always been something, and I’m starting to think there will always be something to set fire to our lives.

“Elle, board meeting in ten,” Harry informs me as he steps into my office.

I look up at him and raise a brow, unsure of why a sudden board meeting is taking place. I just got out of the meeting regarding the mobbing downstairs and the media, what else could go wrong on this day?

“Is this about your media shit?” I immediately question, exasperated with everything.

“Darling, I don’t know at this point, I got the text, it is mandatory for all members in NYC.”

“It bothers me that the board knows our locations, can we not buy them out and not have a board to deal with? Why do we even have them? It is your company. They called a mandatory one a few months ago.” I respond, standing up from my desk and closing the file on my desk.

“When I started, I still had to have aboard, I was a small company, I made my way up and needed independent directors who could offer financial, technical, and/or strategic advice to me,” Harry explains, taking my hand and mildly drawing me back to him.

He smiles down at me and swiftly kisses me, “I love you. I know this is getting rough, hang in there, okay?” Harry sweetly wishes, attempting to give me some sort of reassurance. He is right to reassure me, I do need it. I can feel that things are falling apart— not that they ever managed to fall back together wholly. The moment I begin to think that things are working out or that things are getting better, something always knocks on the door and generates some sort of turmoil. I’m starting to wonder if life with Harry and I will continuously be a constant battle of demons and predicaments.

The last few years have been a rollercoaster, to say the least, and I never imagined my life would turn out to be the way it is. I imagined things would be simple and less dramatic, but I was proven wrong. I am not sure when things first started to go wrong; I would love to blame it all on Harry, and blame our meeting, but to be honest, we were perfect together, things didn’t start turning to shit until shortly after we got engaged. That was when his life began taking a turn for the worst with skeletons in the closet wandering out on us.

I take a breath and nod, “I am trying,” I respond.

I am, I am trying; I am doing my best to hang in there and not snap, I am trying not to break down and let everything get to me. I am doing my best to get through everything and to hold myself together with grace.

Harry and I walk out of my office, our fingers intertwined as we march down the hallway towards where the meeting will be held.

Harry opens the door and permits me to enter first, being a gentleman but in all honesty, it feels like he’s feeding me to the sharks first. I glance around and notice the women on the board are missing, there are just five men. For an emergency board meeting, it’s unusual that the entire board isn’t here.

I side-eye Harry, requiring answers as to where everyone is, he’s on the executive committee, he has a high rank and should know things. I don’t like the feeling this meeting is giving me, something isn’t right. The room feels stiff and rigid, the men stare at me like I am their weak prey that they are ready to pounce on. For a moment, my breath hitches in my throat as I feel intimidated by the men in the room. After all this time, I still despise when men’s eyes stare at me with their expressionless faces. I know it is just a tactic to show dominance, but sometimes it makes me want to run out of the room and never turn back.

“With everyone here, take a seat and we can get started,” one man begins with his chest out and his ego flared to the max— this feels like it’s about to be a pissing contest.

I sit down beside Harry and take note of the fact Niall also isn’t here, another high member of the board. The other women aren’t here, and they are at ALL board meetings, no matter where they are. I have never been the only woman to sit at a meeting.

I desire to protest starting without everyone else here, but there is no point, I don’t have enough time as one of the men commences to speak.

At first, they gradually work their way into the financial aspects of the business, discussing how Harry has picked the business up and boosted it dramatically in the last year. After his downfall, he has succeeded in raising the business in all aspects.

Without much warning, I become the matter of a subject, a great reach from the finances. I raise a brow as we are told about the few things that I have allegedly done wrong.

I stare blankly at the men in front of me, unsure of where they get off expressing their disappointment and dissatisfaction of myself. For the most part, I believed Harry was the one I required to impress and respond to, apparently it’s the board too. Up until now, there has been no issue with my performance or my ethics. Harry has never said a word and he’d be the first one to call me out for any wrongdoing.

“So you’re wanting to vote me off the board because of some company policy I broke… you do realise we own the company, right? I didn’t break policy.” I pause for a moment, observing the men intently, and as one goes to speak, I shake my head and begin again, “You need to have proof of this ridiculous allegation.”

I am not sure what they are basing their information off of, and I am not sure who the fuck they think they are telling me I need to step down from a business that is owned by Harry.

“We suggest you resign without us taking things further.”

I’m quick to rebuttal and defend myself, “I have done nothing wrong, you can’t kick me off the board.”

“You can be removed by a two-thirds vote of the board at the next board meeting.”

I glance over at Harry and he’s shaking his head with his arms crossed over his chest. “No, you’re not kicking her off the board.”

“You don’t have a vote in this, Harry. We understand she’s your wife—“

Harry swiftly cuts the man off, “No, this isn’t about her being my wife, it’s about the fact you have no grounds for this bullshit, and that is what it is—, bullshit.” Harry leans forward and presses his elbows on the table, “I won’t stand for this.”

“Well, there is nothing you can do, you have no say in this. It is the board's decision.”

Harry shakes his head, “I am the owner, I am the CEO, my wife stays.”

“We will see what the board has to say.”

“I am the bloody bored,” Harry responds with a heavy sigh, “Why, why must you insist on fucking things up for me?” Harry mutters unhappily.

“Harry—”

The man begins to speak, but Harry cuts him off swiftly, “I don’t want to hear it, Elise, let’s go, this meeting is over,” Harry pushes away from the desk and stands to his feet, his hands moving to his suit jacket and adjusting it.

I stand to my feet and push the seat under the large desk, glaring at the men before I walk out of the room. Heavy on my heels, I march my way towards Harry’s office, wasting no time with stepping inside it and closing the blinds while Harry closes the door behind us.

Harry works his fingers through his hair and sighs, “Elle—”

“No,” I shake my head, “I’ve about had it with your business dictating every-fucking-thing. Harry, fix this.”

“Elise, I can’t. My hands are tied, I can’t fix this.”

“You need to find a way.”

“I don’t know what you want from me, Elise. I literally have no say in this.”

I grow quiet and compose myself, deciding there is no need to lose my mind over his business and the board that controls us, instead, I shift my hair behind my ear and step closer to Harry, “I have a meeting, I love you, but this business might be the death of me,” I half-smile, leaning up and kissing his cheek.

I proceed to step towards the door but Harry gently wraps his fingers around my wrist, pulling me back to him, “We don’t do half-assed kisses in my office,” Harry grins, kissing me pleasantly, “I love you, too,” Harry whispers, “I will think of something, I have a conference call,” Harry kisses me again before putting distance between us.

I nod my head and softly smile before we step out of each other’s way, he moves to his desk and I exit his office.

The moment I step out of Harry’s office, I make contact with Anastasia waving me down.

Damnit.

I love her, do not get me wrong, but I know that wave and it is never satisfying. It is one of those waves where she wants to discreetly get my attention but doesn’t want to cause anyone to panic even though part of her is panicking.

“Elise, there’s a client here who is demanding to speak to Mr Styles but I was specifically instructed not to bother him this afternoon,” Anastasia informs me, “And he seems pissed, Niall is in a meeting so you’re the only one I can bother, what do I do?” she challenges, appearing frazzled and under stress.

I have to admit, Anastasia handles more shit than she signed up for and far more than her job description says.

I give her a weak smile, “I’ll handle it in a minute. By any chance can I convince you to stay and work here with me?”

Anastasia shakes her head with a small chuckle, “I fly back with Niall tomorrow once he and Charles are done. I don't like it here, I'm sorry.” She responds, and I can’t blame her for wanting to be in London. I also don't blame her for disliking it here, the company doesn't operate the way it does in London, everything is still out of order and will take some time to get in line. It is a whole other ball game here in New York, the people are different and so is their work ethic.

Today feels as though it has been a shit show from hell and it isn't even eleven yet. I wander into the conference room where Anastasia politely held a client for me, and as I peer into the glass window, I frown for a moment, unsure of why my client is sitting in a conference room, pissed off and demanding Harry.

I push open the door and smile towards Mr Cohan, “Mr Cohan,” I extend a hand but he sneers and crosses his arms over his chest like a prick.

This isn’t the man I first met months ago. Cohan was polite and very pleasant when I first met him, and the few meetings afterwards he was just as content, but today, today I am observing a whole other side to him.

“Where’s Mr Styles?” He is rude and straight to the point with his question.

“He’s busy right now, what is the issue I can help you with?” I ask with the kindest tone of voice I can possibly use right now. I am unsure of what could have possibly pissed him off. Niall has handled his file while I’ve been gone and I know Niall is damn good at his job.

Mr Cohan shakes his head, “Why have you not been in charge of my file? I specifically asked for you.” This feels like an interrogation and one that is breaching my privacy. I owe him no explanation for my absence.

“I have been on leave and Mr Horan took over for me,” I respond.

It isn't rare for files to sometimes be passed around and handled by multiple people, most clients prefer to have various sets of eyes and to have a team with their portfolio.

Apparently, this man solely wanted my set of eyes, for what reason, I do not know. I am not the most beneficial asset at this company. To be quite honest, Harry and Niall are the top performers and the ones I would want in charge of my portfolio, not me.

Niall and Harry are known to catch things before I do, they have been in the game a lot longer than I. I was more so launched into it and forced to learn things promptly. I was fortunate, some would say, I didn't necessarily have to work my way up the ladder in the company, I was given a position that Harry saw fit and here I am, standing in front of a prick who has his knickers in a twist because I wasn't the only one in charge.

“That isn’t good enough, this was your job to handle. It wasn’t for you to pass off to whom you deemed fit. It is like you did bugger all but you reap the benefits.”

I take a moment to process what he is saying, doing my best to attempt to see things from his point of view, even if his view is one that is up his ass. “I’m sorry you feel that way, I can assure you I reap no benefits from this,” I assure the man, frustrated that he has shifted from a decent guy to a self-absorbed man and a prick.

“You being on leave is no excuse, personal leave is not acceptable to pass off your job to someone else. I’m disappointed and I want to be compensated.” He is demanding and doing his best to intimidate me to get what he wants.

I am not sure what he wants to be compensated for, he has had no loss to his assets, if anything, he owes us for keeping his funds on track.

“Mr Cohan—“ I begin but he cuts me off and continues to go off on a tangent, ranting and raving about my in capabilities to adequately do my job.

“Get me Mr Styles, I’ll be sure to take this further and make sure you’re fired, this is unacceptable.” He insists, still being a raging jerk for no reason.

There is no reasoning with this man, he is set in his ways.

I take a breath and smile at the man who’s making a fool of himself, me being fired would be the highlight of my day at this point, I have had enough of everything. “I’ll get him for you,” I respond, doing my best to keep my cool as I march out of the conference room.

I march into Harry’s office, having no care that he is on a call. He glances up at me and he gives me the sort of scowl he gives his employers when they need to get out of his office.

He’s seemingly in a god awful mood, but right now, I don't give a damn.

He leans forward and places his elbow on his desk, beginning to rub his temples in frustration as he listens to the person on the other end of the call.

Harry scribbles down a few things on a notepad, "I will get back to you with figures and email you the documentation before we negotiate and sign." Harry notifies whoever is on the other end of the phone. The two say their prompt goodbyes and Harry hangs up the phone.

Harry gazes towards me, seemingly annoyed that I am still standing here needing his presence. “What do you need? I have an international call in twenty,” Harry questions tiredly and without any enthusiasm. His voice is laced with nothing but aggravation. I don’t blame him, I don’t think he has had much sleep in the last few days and today has been a shit show of a day from the moment we woke up to a fussy Alex.

I throw Mr Cohan's file onto his desk, “Your client is a fucking asshole, you’re now in charge of his portfolio,” I bitterly comment.

Harry leans forward and pushes the file back towards me, “I don’t have the time for another portfolio to manage, you need to take care of it.”

“No,” I respond, “I’m not going back into that conference to bend over backwards for the prick. Either you take him or we lose the client.”

Harry drives his fingers through his hair and heavily groans, “What did he do?”

I shake my head, not wanting to explain things to him. There is a throbbing ache in my throat that is quite the indication that I am ready to break down and cry. “Jus’ please take him.”

“Elise, if you don’t fucking tell me—,” Harry begins, but I cut him off.

“What? You’ll fire me? Don’t worry, your client has made it known he is going to do his best to get me fired, and at this point, if you want to fire me, please do, I’m fucking tired of this anyway.” I mutter.

“My only fifteen-minute break and I am dealing with bullshit… what else was said?”

“Just that after months of me not being in the meetings that I am no longer in charge, and ‘personal reasons’ isn’t enough justification for not overseeing everything.” … “Oh, and he will be speaking to the CEO about my lack of showing up to work because, in his words, he signed up for me to oversee everything, not for Niall. The asshole wants compensation." I inform Harry, noticing how he is far from amused by things.

Harry stands up from his chair and clasps the file in his hand tightly, shaking his head disapprovingly, “Come with me,” he mutters, not giving me a chance to refuse as he marches past me swiftly. I follow after him, struggling to keep up with his long strides and fast pace.

Harry opens the door to the conference room and gestures for me to enter before he steps in and closes the door. The client turns around from staring at the appearance of the city and he instantly puts his hand out to shake Harry’s.

“I see there is a problem,” Harry states, not bothering to introduce himself or to be polite with a hello. I can only assume he is showing his position and dominance.

The man nods, “I have heard highly of your business and her uncle’s, I expected a lot more out of a Cartier.”

“Mhm,” Harry hums, “I don’t understand what the problem is, your portfolio is managed and balanced, your meetings have been on schedule. The only problem I see here is that the withdrawal you wish to make is large, so you might want to split it up over multiple years to bump you into a higher tax bracket, which I’m sure Elise planned to discuss in today’s meeting.” Harry informs the client, reading the first page of the file in his hand. “I see here Niall has everything in order and up to date.”

Cohan nods, “I gave the file for Ms Cartier to handle, not to pass around to whomever she deemed fit. She has not been to one meeting in the last few months.”

“She was on leave.” Harry bluntly informs Cohan.

It is nobody’s business why I was on leave and it is nobody’s business to even know that I was on personal leave. My personal life is just that— my personal life.

“That’s not suitable,” Mr Cohan shakes his head, “She hasn’t been in charge like requested and she should not be working on the portfolio now. This is not how it works, she should be fired.”

Harry closes the file and places it on the table, “You are aware you’re talking about my wife, correct? Mrs Styles, not Ms Cartier. I suggest you take your file and walk out of this building. She was on leave and doesn’t owe you an explanation.” Harry stays firm with his tone of voice.

“Is this how you treat all clients?”

“Just ones that disrespect my employees and my wife. You’re no longer welcome here.”

“You’re making a big mistake, this is a lot of money you’re losing out on.”

Harry shrugs his shoulders, “Don’t need the money. If you’re not apologising to my wife, respectfully, get out,” Harry gestures towards the door.

Cohan shakes his head, "I demand compensation for this," Cohan demands, causing tension to rise further within the room.

Harry doesn't say a word, instead, he reaches into his breast pocket and pulls out his chequebook, he scribbles along the lines, signs the check and gives it to Cohan, "Don't step foot again into my building," Harry narrows his eyes on the man, standing his ground until Cohan takes the check and places it in his pocket. Harry stares Cohan down until he steps out of the conference room and can no longer be seen.

Harry heavily sighs and closes the door as my ex-client leaves.

"Did you pay him off?" I ask Harry, stunned that he did such a thing, I have never seen him pay off clients, I don't even think it is ethical, surely he can get himself in some shit for it.

Harry shrugs, "What you don't know won't hurt you."

"Harry, do you just pay off everyone?"

"Elle, if I had to pay off everyone who got pissed at us, I would be fucking broke, leave it alone, he won't be asking questions about your leave."

“Harry,” I begin, but I pause for a moment.

I want to open up and express my frustration, my anger and everything else that I am feeling, but I don’t know... how. “I quit,” I adamantly inform him, crossing my arms over my chest.

Harry raises a brow and wearily sighs, “Oh, really?”

“Yes, I am done,” I respond.

I’m done. I’m done with the board, I’m done with the business, and I’m done with asshole clients. I’m done with everything.

“Okay, when you hand in your resignation, we can discuss this further.”

I shake my head, “This is my resignation.”

Harry shakes his head with a small chuckle, not entirely taking me seriously. “No, company policy, resignations must be written and signed, placed on my desk and formally spoken about.”

“Are you seriously going to be an asshole and make me write it out?”

“Yes, darling, everyone else has to.”

“Everyone else also has to put in their leave and request sick days.” I point out the fact that he’s currently picking and choosing which rules he wants to abide by.

“Well, next time you want time off, put in a request and I will get back to you within two to three business days.”

“I am serious, Harry, I quit.”

“Mhm,” Harry hums, “We can discuss this at a more convenient time, right now, we have other issues.”

“When do we not have other issues, our life is full of issues. We have more fucking issues than vogue, and yes, I got that off of social media.”

“Elise,” Harry sighs, “Can we stop being emotional and dramatic for a minute and discuss the bigger matter at hand?”

“Which is?” I question.

“The media are setting up camp, he’s going to go straight to the media… there’s a red-eye to London, I need you away from the media,” Harry informs me, his fingers spreading through his hair.

“Are you telling me to go back by myself?”

“No.” Harry shakes his head, “I’m coming with you, it’s best if we are home instead.”

“What about the work here?” I question, unaware of how everything’s going to work if we suddenly drop everything and go back to London.

“I’ll fly out every two weeks if I have to, I’ll do what it takes, right now it’s best we stay low key and away from New York where the news of everything is breaking.”

“Harry, running won’t solve it.”

This is what Harry does best, he runs, it is a constant recurrence.

At any given chance he has, he takes the easy way out and tries to run. By now, you’d think he would know that running has NEVER solved his or our problems, it has always made things worse.

“Elise, please,” Harry groans, “Look, I’m doing my best here, you want to be in London anyway, it’s the safest thing right now. The media will be everywhere but at least I know our house is gated off and you and Alex will be safe. Don’t fight me on this, we need to get on the red-eye.”

“Okay.”

“Another article was released,” Harry sighs, “I’m going to find out who is doing this.”

“Harry, stay out of it and let Tara do her job.”

Harry shakes his head, “I want an investigation to happen.”

“Okay… when did you become the biggest CEO?” I question, forgetting to have asked earlier when Tara brought it up at the small meeting.

“When you were burying yourself in paperwork,” Harry responds with a slight bitterness to his tone of voice. “If you’d stop distracting yourself from life, you’d know things.”

I stare over at him, not amused by his comments, “I’m not feeding into this argument,” I begin, “But can you make sure the media isn’t at our house when we land? I’d appreciate some privacy.”

Harry rolls his eyes at me, “Just be ready to fly home… Without the sass, please.” … “Come here,” Harry gestures as he leans on his desk, “Come, love,” he opens his arms towards me and I step closer to him, allowing his fingers to intertwine with mine.

Harry tenderly lures me in between his legs, his loam grey eyes peering up at me, “I know this is hard, I know you signed up for none of this, fuck, I didn’t even sign up for this, but I’m trying, okay? I’m trying to run a business and keep everyone happy, I’m trying to keep it all afloat. As successful as this business is, I feel like I’m failing because I know you’re not happy… Darling, whatever you want, I’ll do. We can close the business for a bit, I can have someone else fill in my position, baby, you tell me what to do.”

I stare at Harry, unsure of what to say.

I don’t expect him to take a step back from his business when it’s at the best place it has been in years, he’s one of the best CEO’s out there, he can’t just leave the spotlight now. Not to mention, this is not the first time he has offered to step away from the business, part of me feels as though it is an empty promise.

I take a breath and shake my head, “You can’t leave the business or take time off.”

“I can,” Harry nods, “I’ll do what needs to be done for you, for us. I promised to put our family before the business.”

“I’d like to take a step back from it all…. Maybe be in the office just a few days a week? Work remotely from home or go back to working only at Meyer Enterprise, focusing on that? It runs mostly by itself with my staff, but I don’t know… it would be nice to be at home with Alex more again…” I trail off, unsure of what it is I want. “Is it selfish of me to want to be at home?”

Harry smiles at me and shakes his head, “No, sweetheart, it isn’t selfish. If that’s what you want, we can make it happen. A few hours a week in the office and the rest at home with Alex. Or you can go back to Meyer Enterprise.”

“A few hours a week would be nice.”

“Done,” Harry nods, “Whatever you decide. I will support you. You can decide, you have a few hours on the flight to think about it.”

“Are you sure that I can step away a little bit?”

“Absolutely, I will make it work. I am committed to making you happy and keeping our family happy and safe.”

I look at him and raise a brow, unsure of where all of this has come from.

He has definitely tried a lot more with the family ever since Alex was born and has progressively gotten better up until we had to move here, he slipped back to some of his old ways. Hearing him give me the option of stepping down or him stepping away takes my by surprise.

Harry’s business is flourishing, he is highly successful and I don’t want to take that away from him. I do not want him to make the decision between me and the business. I have given him that ultimatum before while furious with him for not knowing when enough is enough and when it is time to put family first. Right before Alex was born I gave him the ultimatum; I remember that night as clear as day, I will never forget it— neither will Harry. Harry kept to his word after that night, he did do his best to not take on too much with the business, but right now, he has taken on a lot and although the business is prospering, I am not. I don’t aspire to be selfish, I don’t want to take him away from what he has worked his entire life for, but I cannot be apart of it all as much as I am.

Sometimes I wonder how life would have been if I had of sojourned at my job before I moved to Logan’s assistant, or how my life would have been if Logan never died and I was still his assistant.

Would things be easier?

Would they be harder?

Either way, that ‘What If’s’ don’t change anything. Life is what it is, I cannot change the past, I cannot bring Logan back from the dead, and I can’t change the fact that sometimes life is a roller coaster that I don’t want to ride. Unfortunately, we have to do things in life that we don’t want to, sometimes we have to take a breath and move forward with life, one way or another.

One way or another, Harry and I will be okay— I will be okay— but for now, all I can do is attempt to take Harry’s support and love through these hard times. I should count myself lucky to have a man who is trying to be understanding and supportive. There was once a time where his business was his priority and I wasn’t— I would suffer the consequences.

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lockedstuck · 3 years ago

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how to make friends and influence people

March 2021

Your name is Karkat Vantas, and you probably should have thought this through better.

Picture a thin blonde girl sitting by a phone, being watched by a woman in navy blue scrubs. The girl wears light blue hospital issue pants, and a white T-shirt with a pink cat on it. Her frustration shows clear as day, from her posture to her facial expressions. She yanks the phone off the hook and punches in a number with such speed that the gesture must be semi-unconscious. She puts the phone to her ear, waits a few moments, then swears loudly. Then, in a tense voice, she begins to speak.

“Mommy, this is the fourth time I’ve called you today… Please call me back when you can.”

Her bobbed hair bounces as she turns to face you.

“Oh!” she exclaims. “Did you want to use the phone?”

Yeah, yeah you did, to call your unceasing nag of a brother. He’s the reason you’re here in the first place, since he’s the fucker who called 911 on you. Therefore, he should have to bring you clothes. You grab the phone and dial Kankri’s number. He does not answer. You listen to his voicemail and grow progressively angrier. You mentally curse him and his next seven generations.

The weird blonde girl watches your frustration with a hint of amusement. This will not do.

“What the fuck are you looking at?” you ask her. She blinks, shrugs, and walks away.

Your name is Karkat Vantas, you’ve been in the loony bin for ten minutes, and you’re already pissed off. Score one, you.

Apparently you arrived just in time for morning meds, so all the fucking loonies are out on parade, including the blonde girl, who gives you a friendly wave. You scowl. Nobody has told you where to put your shit yet, or deigned to assign you a room. Not that you have much shit to put anywhere. Just the clothes you arrived in the psych ER with - a black turtleneck, and black sweatpants. They took away your shoes and gave you a pair of hospital socks.

Allegedly this is one of the nicest hospitals in the area. Go fucking figure.

Finally, after what feels like six hundred years, an orderly tells you that you’re in room 1224, on the men’s side.

Wait, there are sides? The psych ER wasn’t organized according to gender; you were stuck there with two homeless people (one man and one woman), an alcoholic, and some guy who had overdosed on alprazolam. Whatever, though. You shuffle your ass over to room 1224, which is about thirty feet away. You drop your stuff in the closet, take one look at your snoring roommate, and go back outside.

The blonde girl - having taken her medication - dashes back to the phone, dials a number, waits a moment, and then bursts into tears.

Great. You should have never written that note. Now you’re stuck in here with this chick. You contemplate trying to comfort her, and decide that you’d probably suck at it.

Another person saunters past her and stops. She’s a few shades lighter than you, and has these long Poetic Justice type box braids. Her green dress looks like it’s been immaculately pressed. She tugs the hem down to fully cover her thighs. She also has three eyebrow rings, a lip ring, and a full face of makeup. You didn’t know staff could have piercings. She offers the blonde girl a hug. You really didn’t know staff could do that.

This is not what you were expecting from the psychiatric ward.

“Roxy, why are you crying again?” the woman asks. Roxy sniffles and swipes at her eyes with the back of her arm.

“I had a nightmare and my mom won’t answer the phone,” she responds. “Where is she?”

“Asleep, most likely. It’s awfully early, isn’t it?”

“I guess so,” Roxy admits. She gives the woman a weak smile. “Did you go for vitals yet?”

The woman sighs and nods. “Yeah. 92/53. They’re telling me to drink more water since my pressure’s so low and my heart rate’s so high.”

Wait. That woman must be a patient.

She doesn’t seem like the type. She’s too authoritative, too poised.

You take a look at her again, scanning her for some sign of insanity. Maybe a few marks on her brown arms where the razor slipped. You search her carefully, not trying to seem like you are.

She has one thin, deep, healing scar down each wrist. Well, then.

She manages to pick up on you, because at that moment she turns to face you. She smiles.

“You must be the new admission to the unit,” she begins in a cool, pleasant tone. You’re reminded of a receptionist.

“Uh, yeah.”

She offers you her hand to shake. “I’m Porrim. Porrim Maryam.”

“Karkat,” you reply.

Trying to sleep in your room is an absolute trip. It goes the way everything in your life has been going, absolutely fuckawful.

“I won’t take it!” a high-pitched voice exclaims, all of a sudden, jolting you out of your light sleep. “Water you even playing at?!”

Oh, how you can empathize with that sentiment, furious as you are with whomever voiced it. Fuck the psych ward. With distinction. You peer out of your room, and watch a black girl in a purple onesie sprint down the hallway, yelling all the while.

Your roommate, who had heretofore been snoring with his mouth open fish-wide, starts to mutter things at the ceiling.

“Nurse Esther musta tried to give Clozapine to Fef again,” he says. “What an idiot.”

He looks at you and blinks. Fully registers your presence. He props himself up on one hand and stares some more.

“You must be my new roommate,” he says. “I think. Are you?”

You roll your eyes. “No, I’m just here for shits and giggles.”

He snorts and turns on the light. Apparently he’s got the front part of his blond hair dyed purple. You’d never do anything like that personally, but it looks okay on him. He gropes for his glasses and crams them onto his face.

“Christ, you look awful,” he says.

Where the fuck does he get off saying that?

“You don’t look so hot yourself.”

Your roommate curses and shakes his head.

“Nah, I didn’t mean it like that,” he goes on. “I mean, you look like you haven’t slept in days.”

“I haven’t,” you reply, thinking of the time leading up to your suicide attempt. Not even an attempt, really. More like… a contemplation. A contemplation that led you to telling Kankri you’d rather jump in front of the train than send one more month in your parents’ house,

“Well, you’ll get lots of sleep here. There’s not much else to do. The name’s Eridan, by the way. Welcome to 3 East.”

“Thanks,” you say. “I’m Karkat.”

“Nice to meet you.”

A few minutes later, someone starts knocking on your door. Eridan groans.

“If it’s Roxy, tell her to come back in half an hour. I got ECT today. I need my beauty sleep.”

“The crying girl?” you ask.

“Was she on the phone while she was crying?”

“Yeah.”

“That’s Rox, then. She calls her mom every four hours and then flips a shit if she doesn’t answer,” Eridan says. “Ever heard of Rose Lalonde?”

Before you started transitioning a couple years ago, they had you in the women’s unit for a week. Dr. Lalonde saw you twice over that seven day period and was probably the only clinician who reliably used your pronouns.

“The psychologist for the unit downstairs?” you ask.

“Exactly,” Eridan says. “That’s Roxy’s mom.”

Well, fuck.

---

A couple of days later, there’s a new admission. Kid looks comprised of a bunch of coat-hangers and duct tape, all angles and gangle. He walks up to use the phone, without realizing there’s a line for the phone already behind him. Gamzee just rolls with it, even though he was next in line. This dude is clearly a massive douche. He’s only on for a couple of seconds though - you assume whomever he was calling didn’t pick up.

When the good ugly fairy was handing out ugly, she must have dumped in almost as much for him as she did for you. He is by far the skinniest dude you have ever seen. And being that everyone in your major in college was hopped up on amphetamines, you have seen some truly thin people. If a strong breeze hit him, he’d fly clear to Canada.

Roxy asks him for his name, and when he replies, “Thollukth Captor”, with the universe’s thickest lisp, you can’t help yourself. A snort escapes your mouth before you can take it back. The dude looks at you with a narrow-eyed suspicion, and you raise your eyebrows at him in response. How does he talk like that and not expect mockery?

“And uh...” Roxy trails off helplessly. “How do you spell that, exactly?”

“What’re you, with regithtration, or thomething?”

“I was just curious.”

You won’t laugh, Karkat. You swear it. You thwear it, to use this man’s parlance. Unfortunately, though, you’re grinning. His eyes alight on you, and he gives you a quick, “the fuck are you looking at, aththhole?”

“Call me an asshole again and I’ll cram those glasses so far up your ass they’ll need a colorectal exam to find them.”

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alphapockets · 4 years ago

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Discord: New Message Infodump

Yes this is not getting put in the widofjord tag because I don’t like filling up others’ searches with something that is not “directly” linked. *jazz hands* anxiety. BUT here is all I could think of and a sprinkling of things I have seen asked about or mentioned in the comments! May this and the last chapter hold you over <3

Q: Why a text fic?

A: Honestly? I have only ever seen one from VM (there may be others, but I don’t read many fics out of my niche sections?) that was between Grog/Vax (I don’t ship it but when it’s a bar shift #3 in a row that’s 14 hours long, you need entertainment). I had read also Call Me, Beep Me from the VLD fandom as well as Misuse of Stark Technology and thought that it was a strong platform for conversation and storytelling that shows multiple perspectives at once without the constant POV whiplash that can happen otherwise. And with the strong and chaotic personalities of TM9 and the diverse ways the NPCs interacted fit in, I hoped it wouldn’t be that hard to pull off.

I’ll be honest, I was not sure if it would work out or catch on as it is not the most popular form of storytelling. As many people said in the comments of chapters 1-5, people generally don’t enjoy texting fics and skip past them. I am glad I took the risk and that everyone has with me.

Q: Is it true you have not watched past Ep. 40?

A: Yes. Campaign 2 came out just before I started school, and I decided school deserved my full attention. I was also not as attached at large with the cast as an ensemble as I was with VM. This combined with having anxiety and needing something to be finished before I can enjoy made it difficult to get back into C2. I was lucky that I started Campaign 1 a few weeks before that ended. I will probably watch it when everything is over, but I mostly follow through spoilers and Arsequeef’s gifs.

Q: What are some of your influences for this?

A: I have seen a lot of people loving the realism of the conversations. I don’t watch TV or movies, but I watch streamers mostly, especially group streamers. Because of this, I tend to hear nothing but natural conversations. I also have been in group chats since the old AIM days and was a bartender for 6 years, so I have pulled from interactions that I have experienced around me. Often when something perfect happens in a chat with my friends I screen shot it for use later (the look spam and how do you uwu are both examples).

Q: Why that area?

A: I like to use locations I know well if there is a lot of real-world interactions. I am from Massachusetts and I had used Savannah, Ga., for Here’s To Us, where I lived for 4 years.

Q: Will the chat be renamed to The Mighty Nein or something similar?

A: No. The chat existed before Caleb as that and was set up originally by Fjord and Beau with Molly, Bryce, Darrow, and Yasha. It’s been the Game Hoes for too long in their life to change. There will be some side chats that appear and disappear.

Q: Didn’t Veth work with Caleb?

A: Originally that was the plan, but halfway through the first chapter, I decided to space everyone out better and missed her name in one paragraph at the beginning of the chapter. I wanted them to know each other but avoid the trope of “direct connection” with strangers to lovers and text fics.

Q: How tall is Fjord (and the rest of them by proxy)

A: I changed the heights because Caleb is canon “Average height” which in DnD is different than the US. So, he was given a few extra inches to put him at 5’10”. Fjord was scaled up because we love height differences to 6’3” because of that. By order of height:

Veth- 4’11, Kiri- 5’, Keg and Yeza- 5’3, Jester and Rissa- 5’4, Astrid- 5’5, Bryce, Beau, and Wulf- 5’9, Beau, Caleb, Molly, and Ava- 5’10, Yasha- 5’11, Darrow and Essek- 6’, Fjord and Gunther- 6’3, Cad and Enzo- 6’5.

I’m probably forgetting some people.

Q: Why did Enzo’s arc allegedly end that way?

A: I’m not sure I’m done with him just yet, but the reason it had to be let go like that is simple: legality. Real world consequences to acts would have kind of thrown a wrench in how this all unfolds. And Molly was the character who I felt could bounce back the best from getting a solid ass kicking.

Q: Why was Astrid faster at accepting than Wulf, and why is he so possessive?

A: Wulf was Caleb’s first real friend and that meant he was the redhead’s world. Astrid came second and she realized how quickly jealousy can sour something. Wulf’s jealousy fed into the break-up. So, despite the awkwardness, she wanted to show Caleb that she meant it when she said they could still be friends.

Wulf was Caleb’s first friend, and he has that sense of seniority in his mind and has a hard time accepting he is not being replaced when new people come around. And as a more dominant person, it was hard for him to have the normally docile friend speak out against him. He is still immature and needed to grow, but has a hard time seeing that is okay right now.

Q: Where does everyone attend?

A: Amherst College- Astrid, Caleb, Essek, Wulf. Boston College- Cad. Emerson- Beau, Gunther, Enzo, Fjord, Keg, Molly, Rissa, and Yasha. Princeton- Bryce. Hofstra- Jester and Kiri. UConn- Yeza (Graduated). UMass/Boston University/Tufts- NPCs not brought in yet.

**Caleb has stated Jester lives in the City early on because Jester has all her locations on social set to NYC

Q: Any reason why you picked those schools?

A: I’m a BC fan (and Providence College), my childhood friend went to Emerson, and I was accepted to Hoftstra before I joined the military instead. Amherst was a perfect “nearby” city that was another college town/I am maybe looking at Amherst for a PhD. Program.

Q: Where is Darrow stationed when not crashing Bryce’s life or deployed? What does he do?

A: Camp Lejeune, North Carolina. He was attached to the 26th MEU (Marine Expeditionary Unit) that goes through the Mediterranean. He currently is on hospital duty as a temporary “relaxation period” for people who are deployed often. As he is a paladin, I thought it’d be a nice touch to have him as an FMF Corpsman.

Q: Where is everyone from? The holidays showed people all over and it’s mentioned some people were not born in the US or where they were located.

A: This is where that spreadsheet I made comes in handy. Most of the people either grew up in or intend to stay in Massachusetts for a long while. As there are some of the major schools in that area, obviously people would be out of state.

Boston TM9 Party

The Clay Family is in Jamaica Plains, which is just outside of Boston proper. They are from there, minus Toya who is adopted as well and from Maine.

Molly was the godson of Cad’s mother, who is from England and his father had been stationed in England for some time, so when he was essentially orphaned and given up by the indirect family, she put through the paperwork to take him in. Fjord and Yasha stayed with them.

Fjord is originally from Texas, outside of El Paso. After he joined the Navy, he never intended to move home as he hated it there. He fell in love with New England when he was sent TAD (Temporary Assignment of Duty) to the naval base in Newport. He stayed and continued his education at Emerson.

Yasha is from Jamaica Plains as well and went to school with Molly and Ornna, who is the same age as them. Her dad is from South Carolina and her mother is from Okinawa. They moved up north for her dad’s work.

Beau is from Kentucky and her family is unreasonably wealthy. She decided to go to school someplace as un-Kentucky as she could fathom and was stuck between Berkley and Emerson but chose the former because the weather meant her mother would never visit.

The Amherst Crew (Astrid and Wulf) are all from the area except for:

Caleb, was born in Poland to a Polish/German family. They moved and when his family died in a fire (he was at a sleepover at the time) his grandparents took him in. Wulf was still there with his large family and

Essek had returned home to California for the break.

Astrid and her family spent 10 days in Key West for the holidays, which is why she missed the New York trip. Wulf stayed locally for winter break.

The Conn/NY/NJ Groups are pretty straightforward.

The Brenattos stayed in New Haven, where they moved when Luc was born from Amherst. They had moved so Veth could start fresh.

Jester was surprised by a visit from her mother on Christmas Day and spent it with her. It was the first time her mom came from the Ukraine, as Jester’s dad is the one who she moved with. She lives on Long Island not far from her school.

Kiri is from upstate New York and was home for the Holidays.

Bryce drove down to Louisiana. They and Darrow are from Marietta, but they were at their grandmother’s place in Lafourche Parish. Darrow returned to Jacksonville NC.

Others Keg and Gunther were in Rhode Island but separately, where they are both from, Rissa is from Maine and went home, and Enzo was in jail (he is from Lynn, Ma).

Q: How old is everyone?

A: 5- Luc. 19- Kiri, 20- Jester, Rissa, Keg, and Enzo, 21- Beau, Molly, Yasha, Essek, and Astrid, 22- Caleb, Cali, Reani, and Wulf. 24- Cad, 25- Fjord and Bryce. 27- Veth and Darrow. 28- Yeza.

Q: If Fjord has the GI Bill why does he live on campus or have a job?

A: For those who don’t know how the GI Bill works, the government pays for education and sends some money based on housing in the zip code of the school. Boston is insanely expensive and student living is easier. Essentially, he wanted the “college experience” and it was cheaper. He needs the job more because he knows better than to let himself get idle. If he does, he won’t focus on school. Like Travis, my Fjord has ADHD.

Q: How did Veth and Caleb meet?

A: In a Juvenile’s in-patient program for at-risk teenagers and those suffering from mental health issues. Caleb’s depression and anxiety following the death of his parents and the constant bullying for numerous things and previous attempts or ideations had him labeled “at risk” for self-harm. He was in for 3 weeks. Veth was in for her kleptomania and possible signs of disruptive BPD or other developing personality disorders but aged out of the youth section when she turned 18. As most diagnoses cannot be done for those until adulthood, she was being watched for early onset signs.

Q: How did Jester/Veth get into the group?

A: Jester met Beau, Yasha and Molly at NYCC two years’ prior in line for a panel. They met again at Anime Boston after exchanging Twitter handles a few months later. Jester had worked NYCC a year ago and helped Veth to a quiet room for Luc, who was fussing, then stayed with her as she was on break soon. She invited Veth to play a few games of Don’t Starve Together with her and Yasha before she was brought into the main group.

Q: This is a really diverse cast. What is everyone and why?

A: Some were obvious choices such as Caleb being from Germany, Jester being from Eastern Europe (Ukrainian), and Molly as Irish (and English).

Others I did to flush out to make a group in a major city make more sense. Wulf and Astrid both have French/ Germanic backgrounds because in canon, they were raised in a similar way. Astrid is Jewish along with Caleb to hint at why it may have been easier for them to date if her family was stricter than his.

Fjord and Yasha faced some racial issues early on in the show (Yasha from where she was from and Fjord for being a half orc), so I wanted them to be people of color. Yasha is half Japanese because of her name and because US troops often marry someone from Japan when they are single and stationed there. Her father is Jamaican in decent. Fjord’s dad he figures is Black but they’ve never met, as his mother’s side are Mexican. I chose that because I wanted to keep the Texan because a lot of people in the service are from Texas. Also, as previously stated, I had too many naturalized or foreign students already and needed to not stress over how they would be around for the breaks.

Cad is English, Norwegian, and Swedish because Cad is a god, who why not make him a Norse god? Veth is half Cambodian partially because there is a decent population size in Massachusetts. Beau is the not white-passing cousin of her family which will come in later because rich families have secrets, yo. Her family has some Cajun/Creole in her like Darrow but it shouldn’t be there according to her family lineage.

Essek is Persian, Rissa is Puerto Rican, Bryce and Keg are “Confused American Mixes” of everything. Cali I have not decided yet, but will probably have some English in her, Reani I have decided on Moroccan. Kiri is Korean.

Enzo is an asshole (he’s also mix of random European heritage.) I feel like I missed someone.

Q: Is Widofjord the only pairing we will see?

A: There are some others forming, including BeauYasha, which was one of the possibilities when I started. Molly/Essek/Astrid were a shock and some others I won’t spoil just yet are starting to bud as hopefuls.

Q: Do you have an end game in sight?

A: Honestly, as this whole fic has taken on a life of its own, not entirely. It was originally mapped out to be 12 chapters long and have much of this condensed down with all the side characters removed, no Enzo or hockey games, and the extra fluff cut out. As I wrote it, I found I enjoyed that almost more than the Widofjord specifics. So, this has really evolved away from a Widofjord ONLY fic, I am aware. Endgame wise, when I feel the story is told, I will wind it down, but there are more elements evolving with every chapter and I want these characters to get the moments they’re aiming toward. I also don’t want it to drag on too long, so I know that this will eventually come to an end.

Q: Did anything change relationship wise while writing?

A: 100%. Beau and Jester were originally who I expected to pan out, but my Jes couldn’t seem to devote to that because she had developed more attraction to Molly and Fjord than I expected. Beau and Yasha just clicked better. Molly was the next option for Jester, but then I decided to make Essek and Astrid actual friends with the TM9 and we see how that went.

Q: Is Jester going to find something happier? It kind of sucked seeing her so down and withdrawn these last few chapters. And where is Nott’s role now?

A: I am trying with Jessy. I am. Here’s to hoping she behaves? As for Nott, she is shining as the mom friend, but her coming into the fray more means bad things are happening. And yes, that is on the way.

Q: You keep hinting at something in both Caleb and Fjord’s pasts. Are we ever going to see that?

A: Yes. I am trying to space out the angst as much as possible. This was never meant to be a hurt/comfort type story, but people have mental health issues and those because pivotal to the story more than I intended. Maybe the curse of having complete access to everyone’s conversations? But they will be coming out.

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aboveallarescuer · 5 years ago

Text

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A Dance with Dragons

ADWD Daenerys X

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

Hizdahr, of the tepid kisses.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“To be a queen.”

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

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

ADWD Daenerys IX

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

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

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

And if I never march for Westeros?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Daenerys gave him a quizzical look. “Lions?”

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

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

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

Dany was not pleased. “I forbid it.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

ADWD Daenerys VIII

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“If it would please Your Grace.”

“Then come.”

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

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

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

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

ADWD Daenerys VII

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

Hizdahr will bring me peace. He must.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

ADWD Daenerys VI

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“These ones live to serve you.”

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

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

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

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

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

ADWD Daenerys V

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Your Grace?” Ser Barristan prompted, gently.

A queen belongs not to herself but to her people.

“I need Hizdahr zo Loraq.”

ADWD Daenerys IV

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

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

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

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

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

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

Only then would her womb quicken once again …

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“If that is your command, Your Grace.”

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

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

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

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

“If I knew who they were—”

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

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

“Your own subjects would gladly slaughter you.”

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

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

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

ADWD Daenerys III

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Your Grace—”

“Magnificence—”

“Your Worship—”

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

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

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

“I cannot go.”

ADWD Daenerys II

“Who is that weeping?”

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

“My servant. I have no slaves.”

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

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

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

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

“Hostages,” said Skahaz, happily.

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

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

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

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

“… mother,” whispered Missandei.

“Mother to dragons.” Dany shivered.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What sort of mother lets her children rot in darkness?

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

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

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

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

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

ADWD Daenerys I

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

“He died for me.”

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

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

“A certain place? What do you mean?”

“A house of pleasure, Your Grace.”

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

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

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

“If it please Your Grace.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What was the name of the old weaver?”

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

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

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

“Some men have brought burnt bones.”

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

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

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

A Storm of Swords

ASOS Daenerys VI

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

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

“And you to me.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

ASOS Daenerys V

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

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

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

“Strong Belwas needs liver and onions.”

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

“It is nothing. I let each man cut me once, before I kill him.” He slapped his bloody belly. “Count the cuts and you will know how many Strong Belwas has slain.”

But Dany had lost Khal Drogo to a similar wound, and she was not willing to let it go untreated. She sent Missandei to find a certain Yunkish freedman renowned for his skill in the healing arts. Belwas howled and complained, but Dany scolded him and called him a big bald baby until he let the healer stanch the wound with vinegar, sew it shut, and bind his chest with strips of linen soaked in fire wine. Only then did she lead her captains and commanders inside her pavilion for their council.

Daario Naharis gave Grey Worm a smile. “Perhaps the Unsullied should wield the axes. Boiling oil feels like no more than a warm bath to you, I have heard.”

“This is false.” Grey Worm did not return the smile. “These ones do not feel burns as men do, yet such oil blinds and kills. The Unsullied do not fear to die, though. Give these ones rams, and we will batter down these gates or die in the attempt.”

“You would die,” said Brown Ben. At Yunkai, when he took command of the Second Sons, he claimed to be the veteran of a hundred battles. “Though I will not say I fought bravely in all of them. There are old sellswords and bold sellswords, but no old bold sellswords.” She saw that it was true.

Dany sighed. “I will not throw away Unsullied lives, Grey Worm.”

“...You stopped at Astapor to buy an army, not to start a war. Save your spears and swords for the Seven Kingdoms, my queen. Leave Meereen to the Meereenese and march west for Pentos.”

“Defeated?” said Dany, bristling.

[...] Dany set great store by Ser Jorah’s counsel, but to leave Meereen untouched was more than she could stomach. She could not forget the children on their posts, the birds tearing at their entrails, their skinny arms pointing up the coast road. “Ser Jorah, you say we have no food left. If I march west, how can I feed my freedmen?”

“You can’t. I am sorry, Khaleesi. They must feed themselves or starve. Many and more will die along the march, yes. That will be hard, but there is no way to save them. We need to put this scorched earth well behind us.”

Dany had left a trail of corpses behind her when she crossed the red waste. It was a sight she never meant to see again. “No,” she said. “I will not march my people off to die.” My children. “There must be some way into this city.”

The grove of burnt olive trees in which she’d raised her pavilion stood beside the sea, between the Dothraki camp and that of the Unsullied. When the horses had been saddled, Dany and her companions set out along the shoreline, away from the city. Even so, she could feel Meereen at her back, mocking her. When she looked over one shoulder, there it stood, the afternoon sun blazing off the bronze harpy atop the Great Pyramid. Inside Meereen the slavers would soon be reclining in their fringed tokars to feast on lamb and olives, unborn puppies, honeyed dormice and other such delicacies, whilst outside her children went hungry. A sudden wild anger filled her. I will bring you down, she swore.

ASOS Daenerys IV

Dany considered. The slaver host seemed small compared to her own numbers, but the sellswords were ahorse. She’d ridden too long with Dothraki not to have a healthy respect for what mounted warriors could do to foot. The Unsullied could withstand their charge, but my freedmen will be slaughtered.

One of the first things Dany had done after the fall of Astapor was abolish the custom of giving the Unsullied new slave names every day. Most of those born free had returned to their birth names; those who still remembered them, at least. Others had called themselves after heroes or gods, and sometimes weapons, gems, and even flowers, which resulted in soldiers with some very peculiar names, to Dany’s ears. Grey Worm had remained Grey Worm. When she asked him why, he said, “It is a lucky name. The name this one was born to was accursed. That was the name he had when he was taken for a slave. But Grey Worm is the name this one drew the day Daenerys Stormborn set him free.”

“If battle is joined, let Grey Worm show wisdom as well as valor,” Dany told him. “Spare any slave who runs or throws down his weapon. The fewer slain, the more remain to join us after.”

“This one will remember.”

“I know he will. Be at my tent by midday. I want you there with my other officers when I treat with the sellsword captains.” Dany spurred her silver on to camp.

Within the perimeter the Unsullied had established, the tents were going up in orderly rows, with her own tall golden pavilion at the center. A second encampment lay close beyond her own; five times the size, sprawling and chaotic, this second camp had no ditches, no tents, no sentries, no horselines. Those who had horses or mules slept beside them, for fear they might be stolen. Goats, sheep, and half-starved dogs wandered freely amongst hordes of women, children, and old men. Dany had left Astapor in the hands of a council of former slaves led by a healer, a scholar, and a priest. Wise men all, she thought, and just. Yet even so, tens of thousands preferred to follow her to Yunkai, rather than remain behind in Astapor. I gave them the city, and most of them were too frightened to take it.

The raggle-taggle host of freedmen dwarfed her own, but they were more burden than benefit. Perhaps one in a hundred had a donkey, a camel, or an ox; most carried weapons looted from some slaver’s armory, but only one in ten was strong enough to fight, and none was trained. They ate the land bare as they passed, like locusts in sandals. Yet Dany could not bring herself to abandon them as Ser Jorah and her bloodriders urged. I told them they were free. I cannot tell them now they are not free to join me. She gazed at the smoke rising from their cookfires and swallowed a sigh. She might have the best footsoldiers in the world, but she also had the worst.

“I cannot sleep when men are dying for me, Whitebeard,” she said.

“Our own losses?”

“A dozen. If that many.”

Only then did she allow herself to smile.

“Sellsword or slave, spare all those who will pledge me their faith. If enough of the Second Sons will join us, keep the company intact.”

“Mhysa! Mhysa!”

Dany looked at Missandei. “What are they shouting?” “It is Ghiscari, the old pure tongue. It means ‘Mother.’”

Dany felt a lightness in her chest. I will never bear a living child, she remembered. Her hand trembled as she raised it. Perhaps she smiled. She must have, because the man grinned and shouted again, and others took up the cry. “Mhysa!” they called. “Mhysa! MHYSA!” They were all smiling at her, reaching for her, kneeling before her. “Maela,” some called her while others cried “Aelalla” or “Qathei” or “Tato,” but whatever the tongue it all meant the same thing. Mother. They are calling me Mother.

The chant grew, spread, swelled. It swelled so loud that it frightened her horse, and the mare backed and shook her head and lashed her silver-grey tail. It swelled until it seemed to shake the yellow walls of Yunkai. More slaves were streaming from the gates every moment, and as they came they took up the call. They were running toward her now, pushing, stumbling, wanting to touch her hand, to stroke her horse’s mane, to kiss her feet. Her poor bloodriders could not keep them all away, and even Strong Belwas grunted and growled in dismay.

Ser Jorah urged her to go, but Dany remembered a dream she had dreamed in the House of the Undying. “They will not hurt me,” she told him. “They are my children, Jorah.” She laughed, put her heels into her horse, and rode to them, the bells in her hair ringing sweet victory. She trotted, then cantered, then broke into a gallop, her braid streaming behind. The freed slaves parted before her. “Mother,” they called from a hundred throats, a thousand, ten thousand. “Mother,” they sang, their fingers brushing her legs as she flew by. “Mother, Mother, Mother!”

ASOS Daenerys III

“All,” growled Kraznys mo Nakloz, who smelled of peaches today. The slave girl repeated the word in the Common Tongue of Westeros. “Of thousands, there are eight. Is this what she means by all? There are also six centuries, who shall be part of a ninth thousand when complete. Would she have them too?”

“I would,” said Dany when the question was put to her. “The eight thousands, the six centuries ... and the ones still in training as well. The ones who have not earned the spikes.”

Dany let them argue, sipping the tart persimmon wine and trying to keep her face blank and ignorant. I will have them all, no matter the price, she told herself. The city had a hundred slave traders, but the eight before her were the greatest. When selling bed slaves, fieldhands, scribes, craftsmen, and tutors, these men were rivals, but their ancestors had allied one with the other for the purpose of making and selling the Unsullied. Brick and blood built Astapor, and brick and blood her people.

“My need is now. The Unsullied are well trained, but even so, many will fall in battle. I shall need the boys as replacements to take up the swords they drop.” She put her wine aside and leaned toward the slave girl. “Tell the Good Masters that I will want even the little ones who still have their puppies. Tell them that I will pay as much for the boy they cut yesterday as for an Unsullied in a spiked helm.”

The girl told them. The answer was still no. 

Dany frowned in annoyance. “Very well. Tell them I will pay double, so long as I get them all.” 

Two thousand would never serve for what she meant to do. I must have them all. Dany knew what she must do now, though the taste of it was so bitter that even the persimmon wine could not cleanse it from her month. She had considered long and hard and found no other way. It is my only choice. “Give me all,” she said, “and you may have a dragon.”

“When you are ... when you are done with them ... your Grace might command them to fall upon their swords.”

“And even that, they would do?” 

“Yes.” Missandei’s voice had grown soft. “Your Grace.”

Dany squeezed her hand. “You would sooner I did not ask it of them, though. Why is that? Why do you care?”

“This one does not ... I ... Your Grace ... ” 

“Tell me.” 

The girl lowered her eyes. “Three of them were my brothers once, Your Grace.”

Then I hope your brothers are as brave and clever as you.

“Magister Illyrio is not here,” she finally had to tell him, “and if he was, he could not sway me either. I need the Unsullied more than I need these ships, and I will hear no more about it.”

The anger burned the grief and fear from her, for a few hours at the least.

“Do you remember Eroeh?” she asked him. “The Lhazareen girl?”

“They were raping her, but I stopped them and took her under my protection. Only when my sun-and-stars was dead Mago took her back, used her again, and killed her. Aggo said it was her fate.”

“I remember,” Ser Jorah said.

“I was alone for a long time, Jorah. All alone but for my brother. I was such a small scared thing. Viserys should have protected me, but instead he hurt me and scared me worse. He shouldn’t have done that. He wasn’t just my brother, he was my king. Why do the gods make kings and queens, if not to protect the ones who can’t protect themselves?”

“Some kings make themselves. Robert did.” “He was no true king,” Dany said scornfully. “He did no justice. Justice ... that’s what kings are for.”

“Unsullied! Defend us, stop them, defend your masters! Spears! Swords!”

[...] The Unsullied did not so much as look down to watch him die. Rank on rank on rank, they stood.

And did not move. The gods have heard my prayer.

“Unsullied!” Dany galloped before them, her silver-gold braid flying behind her, her bell chiming with every stride. “Slay the Good Masters, slay the soldiers, slay every man who wears a tokar or holds a whip, but harm no child under twelve, and strike the chains off every slave you see.” She raised the harpy’s fingers in the air ... and then she flung the scourge aside. “Freedom!” she sang out. “Dracarys! Dracarys!”

“Dracarys!” they shouted back, the sweetest word she’d ever heard. “Dracarys! Dracarys!” And all around them slavers ran and sobbed and begged and died, and the dusty air was filled with spears and fire.

ASOS Daenerys II

“Tell her that these have been standing here for a day and a night, with no food nor water. [...] Such is their courage. Tell her that.”

“I call that madness, not courage,” said Arstan Whitebeard, when the solemn little scribe was done. He tapped the end of his hardwood staff against the bricks, tap tap, as if to tell his displeasure. The old man had not wanted to sail to Astapor; nor did he favor buying this slave army. A queen should hear all sides before reaching a decision. That was why Dany had brought him with her to the Plaza of Pride, not to keep her safe.

He stopped before a thickset man who had the look of Lhazar about him and brought his whip up sharply, laying a line of blood across one copper cheek. The eunuch blinked, and stood there, bleeding. “Would you like another?” asked Kraznys.

“If it please your worship.”

It was hard to pretend not to understand. Dany laid a hand on Kraznys’s arm before he could raise the whip again. “Tell the Good Master that I see how strong his Unsullied are, and how bravely they suffer pain.”

“There are other ways to tempt men, besides the flesh,” Arstan Whitebeard objected, when she was done.

“Men, yes, but not Unsullied. Plunder interests them no more than rape. They own nothing but their weapons. We do not even permit them names.”

“No names?” Dany frowned at the little scribe. “Can that be what the Good Master said? They have no names?”

“More madness,” said Arstan, when he heard. “How can any man possibly remember a new name every day?”

“Those who cannot are culled in training, along with those who cannot run all day in full pack, scale a mountain in the black of night, walk across a bed of coals, or slay an infant.”

Dany’s mouth surely twisted at that. Did he see, or is he blind as well as cruel? She turned away quickly, trying to keep her face a mask until she heard the translation. Only then did she allow herself to say, “Whose infants do they slay?”

“To win his spiked cap, an Unsullied must go to the slave marts with a silver mark, find some wailing newborn, and kill it before its mother’s eyes. In this way, we make certain that there is no weakness left in them.”

She was feeling faint. The heat, she tried to tell herself. “You take a babe from its mother’s arms, kill it as she watches, and pay for her pain with a silver coin?”

Dany climbed into her litter frowning, and beckoned Arstan to climb in beside her. A man as old as him should not be walking in such heat.

“Make way!” Jhogo shouted as he rode before her litter. “Make way for the Mother of Dragons!” But when he uncoiled the great silver-handled whip that Dany had given him, and made to crack it in the air, she leaned out and told him nay. “Not in this place, blood of my blood,” she said, in his own tongue. “These bricks have heard too much of the sound of whips.”

“Dog,” he said happily when he saw Dany. “Good dog in Astapor, little queen. Eat?” He offered it with a greasy grin.

“That is kind of you, Belwas, but no.” Dany had eaten dog in other places, at other times, but just now all she could think of was the Unsullied and their stupid puppies.

“How many men do they have for sale?”

“None.” Was it Mormont she was angry with, or this city with its sullen heat, its stinks and sweats and crumbling bricks? “They sell eunuchs, not men. Eunuchs made of brick, like the rest of Astapor. Shall I buy eight thousand brick eunuchs with dead eyes that never move, who kill suckling babes for the sake of a spiked hat and strangle their own dogs? They don’t even have names. So don’t call them men, ser.”

“Khaleesi,” he said, taken aback by her fury, “the Unsullied are chosen as boys, and trained—”

“I have heard all I care to of their training.” Dany could feel tears welling in her eyes, sudden and unwanted. Her hand flashed up and cracked Ser Jorah hard across the face. It was either that, or cry.

Mormont touched the cheek she’d slapped. “If I have displeased my queen—”

“You have. You’ve displeased me greatly, ser. If you were my true knight, you would never have brought me to this vile sty.”

“They have been wild while you were gone, Khaleesi,” Irri told her. “Viserion clawed splinters from the door, do you see? And Drogon made to escape when the slaver men came to see them. When I grabbed his tail to hold him back, he turned and bit me.” She showed Dany the marks of his teeth on her hand.

“Did any of them try to burn their way free?” That was the thing that frightened Dany the most.

“No, Khaleesi. Drogon breathed his fire, but in the empty air. The slaver men feared to come near him.”

She kissed Irri’s hand where Drogon had bitten it. “I’m sorry he hurt you. Dragons are not meant to be locked up in a small ship’s cabin.”

Dusk had begun to settle over the waters of Slaver’s Bay before Dany returned to the deck. She stood by the rail and looked out over Astapor. From here it looks almost beautiful, she thought. The stars were coming out above, and the silk lanterns below, just as Kraznys’s translator had promised. The brick pyramids were all glimmery with light. But it is dark below, in the streets and plazas and fighting pits. And it is darkest of all in the barracks, where some little boy is feeding scraps to the puppy they gave him when they took away his manhood.

Cheaper than fighting, Dany thought. Yes, it might be. If only it could be that easy for her. How pleasant it would be to sail to King’s Landing with her dragons, and pay the boy Joffrey a chest of gold to make him go away.

“Viserys would have bought as many Unsullied as he had the coin for. But you once said I was like Rhaegar ...”

“I remember, Daenerys.”

“Your Grace,” she corrected. “Prince Rhaegar led free men into battle, not slaves. Whitebeard said he dubbed his squires himself, and made many other knights as well.”

“There was no higher honor than to receive your knighthood from the Prince of Dragonstone.”

“Tell me, then—when he touched a man on the shoulder with his sword, what did he say? ‘Go forth and kill the weak’? Or ‘Go forth and defend them’? At the Trident, those brave men Viserys spoke of who died beneath our dragon banners—did they give their lives because they believed in Rhaegar’s cause, or because they had been bought and paid for?” Dany turned to Mormont, crossed her arms, and waited for an answer.

ASOS Daenerys I

The captain appeared at her elbow. “Would that this Balerion could soar as her namesake did, Your Grace,” he said in bastard Valyrian heavily flavored with accents of Pentos. “Then we should not need to row, nor tow, nor pray for wind.”

“Just so, Captain,” she answered with a smile, pleased to have won the man over. Captain Groleo was an old Pentoshi like his master, Illyrio Mopatis, and he had been nervous as a maiden about carrying three dragons on his ship. Half a hundred buckets of seawater still hung from the gunwales, in case of fires. At first Groleo had wanted the dragons caged and Dany had consented to put his fears at ease, but their misery was so palpable that she soon changed her mind and insisted they be freed. 

Even Captain Groleo was glad of that, now. There had been one small fire, easily extinguished; against that, Balerion suddenly seemed to have far fewer rats than she’d had before, when she sailed under the name Saduleon. And her crew, once as fearful as they were curious, had begun to take a queer fierce pride in “their” dragons. Every man of them, from captain to cook’s boy, loved to watch the three fly ... though none so much as Dany.

“Ser Jorah named Rhaegar the last dragon once. He had to have been a peerless warrior to be called that, surely?”

“Your Grace,” said Whitebeard, “the Prince of Dragonstone was a most puissant warrior, but ...”

“Go on,” she urged. “You may speak freely to me.”

“...A change in the wind may bring the gift of victory.” He glanced at Ser Jorah. “Or a lady’s favor knotted round an arm.”

Mormont’s face darkened. “Be careful what you say, old man.”

Arstan had seen Ser Jorah fight at Lannisport, Dany knew, in the tourney Mormont had won with a lady’s favor knotted round his arm. He had won the lady too; Lynesse of House Hightower, his second wife, highborn and beautiful ... but she had ruined him, and abandoned him, and the memory of her was bitter to him now. “Be gentle, my knight.” She put a hand on Jorah’s arm. “Arstan had no wish to give offense, I’m certain.”

“A queen must listen to all,” she reminded him. “The highborn and the low, the strong and the weak, the noble and the venal. One voice may speak you false, but in many there is always truth to be found.” She had read that in a book.

“It seems to me that a queen who trusts no one is as foolish as a queen who trusts everyone. Every man I take into my service is a risk, I understand that, but how am I to win the Seven Kingdoms without such risks? Am I to conquer Westeros with one exile knight and three Dothraki bloodriders?”

A Clash of Kings

ACOK Daenerys V

“Make way,” Aggo shouted, while Jhogo sniffed at the air suspiciously. “I smell it, Khaleesi,” he called. “The poison water.” The Dothraki distrusted the sea and all that moved upon it. Water that a horse could not drink was water they wanted no part of. They will learn, Dany resolved. I braved their sea with Khal Drogo. Now they can brave mine.

The brass merchant was still rolling on the ground. She went to him and helped him to his feet. “Were you stung?”

“No, good lady,” he said, shaking, “or else I would be dead. But it touched me, aieeee, when it fell from the box it landed on my arm.” He had soiled himself, she saw, and no wonder.

She gave him a silver for his trouble and sent him on his way before she turned back to the old man with the white beard.

ACOK Daenerys III

They must weigh twice what they had in Vaes Tolorro. Even so, it would be years before they were large enough to take to war. And they must be trained as well, or they will lay my kingdom waste. For all her Targaryen blood, Dany had not the least idea of how to train a dragon.

“The Pureborn refused you?”

“As you said they would. Come, sit, give me your counsel.”

ACOK Daenerys II

The Dothraki sacked cities and plundered kingdoms, they did not rule them. Dany had no wish to reduce King’s Landing to a blackened ruin full of unquiet ghosts. She had supped enough on tears. I want to make my kingdom beautiful, to fill it with fat men and pretty maids and laughing children. I want my people to smile when they see me ride by, the way Viserys said they smiled for my father.

But before she could do that she must conquer.

Beneath Dany's gentle fingers, green Rhaegal stared at the stranger with eyes of molten gold. When his mouth opened, his teeth gleamed like black needles. "When does your ship return to Westeros, Captain?"

"Not for a year or more, I fear. From here the Cinnamon Wind sails east, to make the trader's circle round the Jade Sea."

"I see," said Dany, disappointed. "I wish you fair winds and good trading, then. You have brought me a precious gift."

Dany laughed. "And will see more of them one day, I hope. Come to me in King's Landing when I am on my father's throne, and you shall have a great reward."

ACOK Daenerys I

They are not strong, she told herself, so I must be their strength. I must show no fear, no weakness, no doubt. However frightened my heart, when they look upon my face they must see only Drogo’s queen. She felt older than her fourteen years. If ever she had truly been a girl, that time was done.

Dany hungered and thirsted with the rest of them. The milk in her breasts dried up, her nipples cracked and bled, and the flesh fell away from her day by day until she was lean and hard as a stick, yet it was her dragons she feared for.

Jhogo said they must leave her or bind her to her saddle, but Dany remembered a night on the Dothraki sea, when the Lysene girl had taught her secrets so that Drogo might love her more. She gave Doreah water from her own skin, cooled her brow with a damp cloth, and held her hand until she died, shivering. Only then would she permit the khalasar to press on.

A Game of Thrones

AGOT Daenerys X

“You will be my khalasar,” she told them. “I see the faces of slaves. I free you. Take off your collars. Go if you wish, no one shall harm you. If you stay, it will be as brothers and sisters, husbands and wives.” The black eyes watched her, wary, expressionless. “I see the children, women, the wrinkled faces of the aged. I was a child yesterday. Today I am a woman. Tomorrow I will be old. To each of you I say, give me your hands and your hearts, and there will always be a place for you.”

AGOT Daenerys IX

“Eroeh?” asked Dany, remembering the frightened child she had saved outside the city of the Lamb Men.

“Mago seized her, who is Khal Jhaqo’s bloodrider now,” said Jhogo. “He mounted her high and low and gave her to his khal, and Jhaqo gave her to his other bloodriders. They were six. When they were done with her, they cut her throat.”

“It was her fate, Khaleesi,” said Aggo. 

If I look back I am lost. “It was a cruel fate,” Dany said, “yet not so cruel as Mago’s will be. I promise you that, by the old gods and the new, by the lamb god and the horse god and every god that lives. I swear it by the Mother of Mountains and the Womb of the World. Before I am done with them, Mago and Ko Jhaqo will plead for the mercy they showed Eroeh.”

The Dothraki exchanged uncertain glances. “Khaleesi,” the handmaid Irri explained, as if to a child, “Jhaqo is a khal now, with twenty thousand riders at his back.”

She lifted her head. “And I am Daenerys Stormhorn, Daenerys of House Targaryen, of the blood of Aegon the Conqueror and Maegor the Cruel and old Valyria before them. I am the dragon’s daughter, and I swear to you, these men will die screaming. Now bring me to Khal Drogo.”

AGOT Daenerys VIII

“He fell from his horse,” Haggo said, staring down. His broad face was impassive, but his voice was leaden.

“You must not say that,” Dany told him. “We have ridden far enough today. We will camp here.”

“We must bathe him,” she said stubbornly. She must not allow herself to despair. “Irri, have the tub brought at once. Doreah, Eroeh, find water, cool water, he’s so hot.” He was a fire in human skin.

[...] While the bath was being prepared, Dany knelt awkwardly beside her lord husband, her belly great with their child within. She undid his braid with anxious fingers, as she had on the night he’d taken her for the first time, beneath the stars. His bells she laid aside carefully, one by one. He would want them again when he was well, she told herself.

“Help him,” Dany pleaded. “For the love you say you bear me, help him now.”

[...] “Your khal is good as dead, Princess.”

“No, he can’t die, he mustn’t, it was only a cut.” Dany took his large callused hand in her own small ones, and held it tight between them. “I will not let him die ...”

Dany hugged herself. “But why?” she cried plaintively. “Why should they kill a little baby?”

“He is Drogo’s son, and the crones say he will be the stallion who mounts the world. It was prophesied. Better to kill the child than to risk his fury when he grows to manhood.”

The child kicked inside her, as if he had heard. Dany remembered the story Viserys had told her, of what the Usurper’s dogs had done to Rhaegar’s children. His son had been a babe as well, yet they had ripped him from his mother’s breast and dashed his head against a wall. That was the way of men. “They must not hurt my son!” she cried. “I will order my khas to keep him safe, and Drogo’s bloodriders will—”

Dany did not want to go back to Vaes Dothrak and live the rest of her life among those terrible old women, yet she knew that the knight spoke the truth. Drogo had been more than her sun-and-stars; he had been the shield that kept her safe. “I will not leave him,” she said stubbornly, miserably. She took his hand again. “I will not.”

“This is your work, maegi,” Qotho said. Haggo laid his fist across Mirri’s cheek with a meaty smack that drove her to the ground. Then he kicked her where she lay.

“Stop it!” Dany screamed.

“So you have saved me once more.”

“And now you must save him,” Dany said. “Please ...”

[...] “All I can do now is ease the dark road before him, so he might ride painless to the night lands. He will be gone by morning.”

Her words were a knife through Dany’s breast. What had she ever done to make the gods so cruel? She had finally found a safe place, had finally tasted love and hope. She was finally going home. And now to lose it all ... “No,” she pleaded. “Save him, and I will free you, I swear it. You must know a way ... some magic, some ...”

She told herself she would die for him, if she must. She was the blood of the dragon, she would not be afraid. Her brother Rhaegar had died for the woman he loved.

She caught him by the shoulder, but Qotho shoved her aside. Dany fell to her knees, crossing her arms over her belly to protect the child within.

Someone threw a stone, and when Dany looked, her shoulder was torn and bloody. “No,” she wept, “no, please, stop it, it’s too high, the price is too high.” More stones came flying. She tried to crawl toward the tent, but Cohollo caught her. Fingers in her hair, he pulled her head back and she felt the cold touch of his knife at her throat. “My baby,” she screamed, and perhaps the gods heard, for as quick as that, Cohollo was dead. Aggo’s arrow took him under the arm, to pierce his lungs and heart.

AGOT Daenerys VII

The town was afire, black plumes of smoke roiling and tumbling as they rose into a hard blue sky. Beneath broken walls of dried mud, riders galloped back and forth, swinging their long whips as they herded the survivors from the smoking rubble. The women and children of Ogo’s khalasar walked with a sullen pride, even in defeat and bondage; they were slaves now, but they seemed not to fear it. It was different with the townsfolk. Dany pitied them; she remembered what terror felt like. Mothers stumbled along with blank, dead faces, pulling sobbing children by the hand. There were only a few men among them, cripples and cowards and grandfathers.

Ogo and his son had shared the high bench with her lord husband at the naming feast where Viserys had been crowned, but that was in Vaes Dothrak, beneath the Mother of Mountains, where every rider was a brother and all quarrels were put aside. It was different out in the grass. Ogo’s khalasar had been attacking the town when Khal Drogo caught him. She wondered what the Lamb Men had thought, when they first saw the dust of their horses from atop those cracked-mud walls. Perhaps a few, the younger and more foolish who still believed that the gods heard the prayers of desperate men, took it for deliverance.

Across the road, a girl no older than Dany was sobbing in a high thin voice as a rider shoved her over a pile of corpses, facedown, and thrust himself inside her. Other riders dismounted to take their turns. That was the sort of deliverance the Dothraki brought the Lamb Men.

I am the blood of the dragon, Daenerys Targaryen reminded herself as she turned her face away. She pressed her lips together and hardened her heart and rode on toward the gate.

“Most of Ogo’s riders fled,” Ser Jorah was saying. “Still, there may be as many as ten thousand captives.”

Slaves, Dany thought. Khal Drogo would drive them downriver to one of the towns on Slaver’s Bay. She wanted to cry, but she told herself that she must be strong. This is war, this is what it looks like, this is the price of the Iron Throne.

“I’ve told the khal he ought to make for Meereen,” Ser Jorah said. “They’ll pay a better price than he’d get from a slaving caravan. Illyrio writes that they had a plague last year, so the brothels are paying double for healthy young girls, and triple for boys under ten. If enough children survive the journey, the gold will buy us all the ships we need, and hire men to sail them.”

Behind them, the girl being raped made a heartrending sound, a long sobbing wail that went on and on and on. Dany’s hand clenched hard around the reins, and she turned the silver’s head. “Make them stop,” she commanded Ser Jorah.

“Khaleesi?” The knight sounded perplexed. 

“You heard my words,” she said. “Stop them.” She spoke to her khas in the harsh accents of Dothraki. “Jhogo, Quaro, you will aid Ser Jorah. I want no rape.”

The warriors exchanged a baffled look.

Jorah Mormont spurred his horse closer. “Princess,” he said, “you have a gentle heart, but you do not understand. This is how it has always been. Those men have shed blood for the khal. Now they claim their reward.”

Across the road, the girl was still crying, her high singsong tongue strange to Dany’s ears. The first man was done with her now, and a second had taken his place.

“She is a lamb girl,” Quaro said in Dothraki. “She is nothing, Khaleesi. The riders do her honor. The Lamb Men lay with sheep, it is known.”

“It is known,” her handmaid Irri echoed.

“It is known,” agreed Jhogo, astride the tall grey stallion that Drogo had given him. “If her wailing offends your ears, Khaleesi, Jhogo will bring you her tongue.” He drew his arakh.

“I will not have her harmed,” Dany said. “I claim her. Do as I command you, or Khal Drogo will know the reason why.”

“Ai, Khaleesi,” Jhogo replied, kicking his horse. Quaro and the others followed his lead, the bells in their hair chiming.

“Go with them,” she commanded Ser Jorah.

“As you command.” The knight gave her a curious look. “You are your brother’s sister, in truth.”

“Viserys?” She did not understand.

“No,” he answered. “Rhaegar.” He galloped off.

Mormont pulled the girl off the pile of corpses and wrapped her in his blood-spattered cloak. He led her across the road to Dany. “What do you want done with her?”

The girl was trembling, her eyes wide and vague. Her hair was matted with blood. “Doreah, see to her hurts. You do not have a rider’s look, perhaps she will not fear you. The rest, with me.” She urged the silver through the broken wooden gate.

It was worse inside the town. Many of the houses were afire, and the jaqqa rhan had been about their grisly work. Headless corpses filled the narrow, twisty lanes. They passed other women being raped. Each time Dany reined up, sent her khas to make an end to it, and claimed the victim as slave. One of them, a thick-bodied, flat-nosed woman of forty years, blessed Dany haltingly in the Common Tongue, but from the others she got only flat black stares. They were suspicious of her, she realized with sadness; afraid that she had saved them for some worse fate.

“You cannot claim them all, child,” Ser Jorah said, the fourth time they stopped, while the warriors of her khas herded her new slaves behind her.

“I am khaleesi, heir to the Seven Kingdoms, the blood of the dragon,” Dany reminded him. “It is not for you to tell me what I cannot do.” Across the city, a building collapsed in a great gout of fire and smoke, and she heard distant screams and the wailing of frightened children.

He started to reach out a hand to Daenerys, but as he lifted his arm Drogo grimaced in sudden pain and turned his head.

Dany could almost feel his agony. The wounds were worse than Ser Jorah had led her to believe. “Where are the healers?” she demanded. [...] “Why do they not attend the khal?”

“The khal sent the hairless men away, Khaleesi,” old Cohollo assured her.

[...] “It is not for Khal Drogo to wait,” she proclaimed. “Jhogo, seek out these eunuchs and bring them here at once.”

“The khal needs no help from women who lie with sheep,” barked Qotho. “Aggo, cut out her tongue.”

Aggo grabbed her hair and pressed a knife to her throat. Dany lifted a hand. “No. She is mine. Let her speak.”

“The Great Shepherd sent me to earth to heal his lambs, wherever I might find them.”

Qotho gave her a stinging slap. “We are no sheep, maegi.” 

“Stop it,” Dany said angrily. “She is mine. I will not have her harmed.”

“Know this, wife of the Lamb God. Harm the khal and you suffer the same.” He drew his skinning knife and showed her the blade.

“She will do no harm.” Dany felt she could trust this old, plainfaced woman with her flat nose; she had saved her from the hard hands of her rapers, after all.

AGOT Daenerys VI

She saw a beautiful feathered cloak from the Summer Isles, and took it for a gift. [...] When Doreah looked longingly at a fertility charm at a magician’s booth, Dany took that too and gave it to the handmaid, thinking that now she should find something for Irri and Jhiqui as well.

AGOT Daenerys V

Dany had not known, had not even suspected. “Then ... he should have them. He does not need to steal them. He had only to ask. He is my brother ... and my true king.”

“He is your brother,” Ser Jorah acknowledged.

“You do not understand, ser,” she said. “My mother died giving me birth, and my father and my brother Rhaegar even before that. I would never have known so much as their names if Viserys had not been there to tell me. He was the only one left. The only one. He is all I have.” ~

A sense of dread closed around her heart. “Go to him,” she commanded Ser Jorah. “Stop him. Bring him here. Tell him he can have the dragon’s eggs if that is what he wants.” The knight rose swiftly to his feet.

“Where is my sister?” Viserys shouted, his voice thick with wine. “I’ve come for her feast. How dare you presume to eat without me? No one eats before the king. Where is she? The whore can’t hide from the dragon.”

Her voice made Viserys turn his head, and he saw her for the first time. “There she is,” he said, smiling. He stalked toward her, slashing at the air as if to cut a path through a wall of enemies, though no one tried to bar his way.

“The blade ... you must not,” she begged him. “Please, Viserys. It is forbidden. Put down the sword and come share my cushions. There’s drink, food ... is it the dragon’s eggs you want? You can have them, only throw away the sword.”

Distantly, as from far away, Dany heard her handmaid Jhiqui sobbing in fear, pleading that she dared not translate, that the khal would bind her and drag her behind his horse all the way up the Mother of Mountains. She put her arm around the girl. “Don’t be afraid,” she said. “I shall tell him.”

AGOT Daenerys IV

Dany followed on her silver, escorted by Ser Jorah Mormont and her brother Viserys, mounted once more. After the day in the grass when she had left him to walk back to the khalasar, the Dothraki had laughingly called him Khal Rhae Mhar, the Sorefoot King. Khal Drogo had offered him a place in a cart the next day, and Viserys had accepted. In his stubborn ignorance, he had not even known he was being mocked; the carts were for eunuchs, cripples, women giving birth, the very young and the very old. That won him yet another name: Khal Rhaggat, the Cart King. Her brother had thought it was the khal’s way of apologizing for the wrong Dany had done him. She had begged Ser Jorah not to tell him the truth, lest he be shamed. The knight had replied that the king could well do with a bit of shame ... yet he had done as she bid. It had taken much pleading, and all the pillow tricks Doreah had taught her, before Dany had been able to make Drogo relent and allow Viserys to rejoin them at the head of the column.

“So many,” she said as her silver stepped slowly onward, “and from so many lands.”

Viserys was less impressed. “The trash of dead cities,” he sneered. [...] “All these savages know how to do is steal the things better men have built ... and kill.” He laughed. “They do know how to kill. Otherwise I’d have no use for them at all.”

“They are my people now,” Dany said. “You should not call them savages, brother.”

“The dragon speaks as he likes,” Viserys said ... in the Common Tongue.

“I will give my brother his gifts tonight,” she decided as Jhiqui was washing her hair. “He should look a king in the sacred city. Doreah, run and find him and invite him to sup with me.” Viserys was nicer to the Lysene girl than to her Dothraki handmaids, perhaps because Magister Illyrio had let him bed her back in Pentos. “Irri, go to the bazaar and buy fruit and meat. Anything but horseflesh.”

“Horse is best,” Irri said. “Horse makes a man strong.”

“Viserys hates horsemeat.”

[...] While her handmaids prepared the meal, Dany laid out the clothing she’d had made to her brother’s measure: a tunic and leggings of crisp white linen, leather sandals that laced up to the knee, a bronze medallion belt, a leather vest painted with fire-breathing dragons. The Dothraki would respect him more if he looked less a beggar, she hoped, and perhaps he would forgive her for shaming him that day in the grass. He was still her king, after all, and her brother. They were both blood of the dragon.

She was arranging the last of his gifts—a sandsilk cloak, green as grass, with a pale grey border that would bring out the silver in his hair—when Viserys arrived, dragging Doreah by the arm. Her eye was red where he’d hit her. “How dare you send this whore to give me commands,” he said. He shoved the handmaid roughly to the carpet.

The anger took Dany utterly by surprise. “I only wanted ... Doreah, what did you say?”

“Khaleesi, pardons, forgive me. I went to him, as you bid, and told him you commanded him to join you for supper.”

“No one commands the dragon,” Viserys snarled. “I am your king! I should have sent you back her head!”

The Lysene girl quailed, but Dany calmed her with a touch. “Don’t be afraid, he won’t hurt you. Sweet brother, please, forgive her, the girl misspoke herself, I told her to ask you to sup with me, if it pleases Your Grace.” She took him by the hand and drew him across the room. “Look. These are for you.”

Viserys frowned suspiciously. “What is all this?”

“New raiment. I had it made for you.” Dany smiled shyly.

He looked at her and sneered. “Dothraki rags. Do you presume to dress me now?”

“Please ... you’ll be cooler and more comfortable, and I thought ... maybe if you dressed like them, the Dothraki ... ” Dany did not know how to say it without waking his dragon.

“Next you’ll want to braid my hair.”

“I’d never ... ” Why was he always so cruel? She had only wanted to help. “You have no right to a braid, you have won no victories yet.”

It was the wrong thing to say. Fury shone from his lilac eyes, yet he dared not strike her, not with her handmaids watching and the warriors of her khas outside. Viserys picked up the cloak and sniffed at it. “This stinks of manure. Perhaps I shall use it as a horse blanket.”

“I had Doreah sew it specially for you,” she told him, wounded. “These are garments fit for a khal.” “I am the Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, not some grass-stained savage with bells in his hair,” Viserys spat back at her. He grabbed her arm. “You forget yourself, slut. Do you think that big belly will protect you if you wake the dragon?”

His fingers dug into her arm painfully and for an instant Dany felt like a child again, quailing in the face of his rage. She reached out with her other hand and grabbed the first thing she touched, the belt she’d hoped to give him, a heavy chain of ornate bronze medallions. She swung it with all her strength.

It caught him full in the face. Viserys let go of her. Blood ran down his cheek where the edge of one of the medallions had sliced it open. “You are the one who forgets himself,” Dany said to him. “Didn’t you learn anything that day in the grass? Leave me now, before I summon my khas to drag you out. And pray that Khal Drogo does not hear of this, or he will cut open your belly and feed you your own entrails.”

Viserys scrambled back to his feet. “When I come into my kingdom, you will rue this day, slut.” He walked off, holding his torn face, leaving her gifts behind him.

Drops of his blood had spattered the beautiful sandsilk cloak. Dany clutched the soft cloth to her cheek and sat cross-legged on her sleeping mats.

“Your supper is ready, Khaleesi,” Jhiqui announced.

“I’m not hungry,” Dany said sadly. She was suddenly very tired.

#daenerys targaryen #a dance with dragons #a storm of swords #a clash of kings #a game of thrones #dany passages

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