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exitpursuedbyavulcan · 3 months ago

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The Silver Dragon (19)

The Petition

When Vaemond Velaryon petitions the Crown to grant him succession of Driftmark, Arianwyn is faced with her worst fears.

Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x OC (Daemon and Rhea's daughter)

Warnings: Partial beheading

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Arianwyn was woken the following morning not by Brynna, but by her half-sister Rhaena, who had snuck into her rooms to lay a gown at the foot of her bed. Unfortunately, Arianwyn was so unsettled by her father’s threats from the night before that even the gentle sound of fabric on fabric startled her from sleep.

“I'm sorry," Rhaena said, wincing when Arianwyn burst awake and scrambled out of bed, banging her knees against the stone floor. "I didn't mean to wake you. Rhaenyra asked that I bring this dress for you to wear today, and I couldn't find Brynna."

With her heart still pounding, Arianwyn shook her head. "It's fine. I… I was having a bad dream."

"Do you like it?"

"Like what?"

"The dress."

"Oh," Arianwyn had, in truth, been so startled that she hardly processed Rhaena's words, much less see what she was holding. Then, pulling the sleeve of her nightgown back over her shoulder, she stepped to the end of the bed to examine the dress.

It was one she recognized – a red gown with open, flowing sleeves and gold wrist cuffs. Rhaenyra had favored it when her children were young, but Arianwyn thought it had been retired when the brocade had begun to fray. Indeed, when she looked closely, she could see where hasty repairs had been made. But, from a distance, it looked as beautiful as ever.

"She wants me to wear this?"

Her half-sister smiled, holding the gown up to try and see how it would look. "Isn’t it sweet of her?”

Arianwyn grimaced. As she had sent a message to the court with her gown yesterday, Rhaenyra would do the same today. To clothe her in a dress that once belonged to the princess would indeed create the image of a united family that Rhaenyra desired to present to the court.

Rhaena was still waiting for an answer, but Arianwyn could not say anything she knew her sister wanted to hear.

“Red doesn’t suit me,” she said instead. Not an agreement, but also not an insult.

“Well, I think it will look beautiful on you,” Rhaena chirped, far happier than Arianwyn had ever been so soon after waking. “May I help you dress, or shall I find Brynna?”

Begrudgingly amused by her sister’s unrelenting cheer, Arianwyn smiled and nodded. “I think Brynna would appreciate a morning to rest.”

Rhaena immediately set to work, beginning with her hair. Having been born with even thicker curls than Arianwyn, she had become quite an expert in caring for wily hair. And while she tried very hard to convince Arianwyn to let her use a new braiding technique she had learned, she eventually relented to her desire to wear her hair unbound.

Arianwyn’s warming mood waned when she donned the dress. It was far from a perfect fit. Her well-developed curves were apparently inherited from the Royce line rather than her father’s blood, for the gown strained around her chest and hips but hung loosely over her waist.

A shame. She had been hoping the dress would not close.

After giving herself a distressed look in the mirror, Arianwyn turned back to Rhaena. “See, I told you I would look horrid in red.”

“I have never seen a person look so pale,” Rhaena agreed. “It is as if you’ve been rolled in flour.”

Both girls immediately gave in to laughter, wheezing and snorting in a very unladylike manner.

It was then that Brynna finally entered the room, mouth falling agape at seeing the girls in such a state. “By the Seven, what are you doing?” she asked, failing to keep her voice stern. “And Aria, why in the world are you wearing such a wretched dress?”

Arianwyn’s laughter immediately stopped, and she glanced self-consciously down at herself. “Princess Rhaenyra requested that I wear this today.”

Brynna gave her a pitying, understanding smile. Rhaenyra’s ‘request’ was to be obeyed as an order. “I’ll see if I can find a belt somewhere, try and salvage some semblance of beauty.” With that, she gave a quick curtsy and went back through the door.

Sitting back at the vanity, Arianwyn fiddled with the gown's sleeves. The heavy cuffs on the wrists were already grating at her patience, and she would surely be cold all day and have to resist the temptation to cover herself with her arms. But the awkward dress was the least of her problems. After what Daemon said to her the night before, she did not know how he would react when Otto Hightower called her to the throne to petition for her release. Her hand trembled as she brought it up to her neck to finger a necklace that was not there.

Rhaena stepped up behind her, placing a gentle hand on her shoulder. “What did our father say to you last night?"

Arianwyn met her sister’s violet eyes through the mirror. “Do you really want to know?”

“No,” Rhaena answered. Daemon had long been the one source of discomfort in their relationship. “But if it is the reason you are so nervous this morning, I must.”

“They scolded me for being alone with Prince Aemond,” Arianwyn admitted, “warned me of the consequences should rumor spread.”

It was a very generous summary of the conversation. Long ago, perhaps Arianwyn would have given her the unvarnished truth. Taken a cruel pleasure in seeing Rhaena’s perfect image of their father shatter to reveal the monster beneath. But the scratches she had once inflicted upon her had long since faded.

Neither of them were the same girls they had been in that tunnel. Those girls would hate each other forever. But now, Arianwyn and Rhaena were sisters.

And that meant that Rhaena could tell when her sister was lying.

“Was he very cruel to you?” she asked, though, from the look of dread on her face, it was clear she already knew the answer, or at least suspected it.

Arianwyn nodded, blinking tears from her eyes. “Even more than usual.”

Rhaena surged forward, clutching her sister in a tight embrace. “I am so sorry, Aria. I wish there were something I could do.”

“There is nothing I would ask of you,” Arianwyn assured. “Just know how much I have valued your kindness – your sisterhood. And that I love you. I truly do.”

“I love you too, Aria.”

Rhaenyra was the last to arrive in the Throne Room, likely a strategic move on her part. Aemond only saw it as arrogant and disrespectful, though not nearly as much as placing Aria in the back of the procession. From her letters, he knew that it was just another of Daemon’s small cruelties. She had even told him that when little Aegon and Viserys were present, she was made to walk behind the nursemaids carrying them. Still, it stoked enough anger in him that he had to cross his arms behind his back to conceal his clenched fists.

Once Aemond saw Aria, it was hard to look away from her enchanting beauty. It took him a moment to recognize the dress she wore from his youth, when Rhaenyra would visit the nursery. Why was Aria wearing it now? He knew she didn’t like to wear red – or rather, Brynna did not like it – and she must be freezing with her shoulders and arms bared.

Several other men were watching her as she followed Rhaenyra and Daemon to the front of the room. Logically, Aemond knew it was perfectly normal for men to enjoy the sight of a beautiful young woman, especially one dressed so ostentatiously. Still, it felt like they were lusting after something that was his.

But she was not his to protect, as he was reminded when Daemon met his eye. His uncle dared to flash a smug grin, setting Aemond’s blood aflame. Clutching his fists tighter, he suppressed the urge to go to her, to shield her from both her father and the leering eyes of the gathered men.

He turned back to Aria, hoping to catch her eye, to no avail. Her gaze was trained on the ground, eyes flitting back and forth as they always did when she was nervous. One of Daemon’s other daughters stood next to her. Was it the one that had wounded her face? No, that was the elder, who now stood with Princess Rhaenys. This was the younger, Rhaena, who had endeared herself to Aria in the past years.

Indeed, Rhaena was holding Aria’s hand. How he wished he could do so. That he was the one to stand by her side and comfort her, stroking the back of her hand with his thumb, leaning in to whisper something in her ear.

When Aria smiled shakily at whatever her sister had said, his fantasy shattered, the lust clearing from his vision in an instant. Gods, she was afraid.

Her free hand trembled, even as she bunched it in her skirts. Her bare shoulders were taut with tension as they rose and fell with each quick breath she took. The ease and grace she showed when they were together yesterday were gone, replaced by barely concealed fear.

What had Daemon done to her?

Whatever it was, Aemond would make him regret it.

But before he could move to her or speak, his grandsire called the court to order.

“Though it is the great hope of this court that Lord Corlys Velaryon survives his wounds,” Otto boomed from atop the dais, “we gather here with the grim task of dealing with the succession of Driftmark. As Hand, I speak with the King’s voice on this and all other matters.”

Daemon scoffed as Otto Hightower sat upon the Iron Throne.

Arianwyn raised her eyes from the floor to watch the proceedings, shaking as she tried to steady her breath. She had nothing to fear, she reminded herself. In less than an hour, she would be free to cross the throne room to stand with her true family – with Aemond.

“The crown will hear the petitions,” the Hand continued. “Ser Vaemond of House Velaryon.”

Vaemond stepped to the center of the room. “My Queen,” he said, bowing his head toward Alicent before facing the throne. “My Lord Hand.”

“The history of our noble houses extends beyond the Seven Kingdoms to the days of Old Valyria,” he began. “For as long as House Targaryen has ruled the skies, House Velaryon has ruled the seas. When the Doom fell on Old Valyria, our houses became the last of their kind. Our forebearers came to this new land, knowing that were they to fail, it would mean the end to their bloodlines and their name.”

In the corner of her eye, Arianwyn saw Daemon and Rhaenyra exchange a look. She shuddered to think what it might mean.

Vaemond dropped his arms, standing tall and proud even as Daemon scowled at him. “I have spent my entire life on Driftmark defending my brother’s seat. I am Lord Corlys’ closest kin – his own blood. The true, unimpeachable blood of House Velaryon runs through my veins.”

“As it does in my sons,” Rhaenyra interjected, “the offspring of Laenor Velaryon. If you cared so much about your house’s blood, Ser Vaemond, you would not be so bold as to supplant its rightful heir. No, you only speak for yourself and your own ambition.”

Arianwyn clenched her jaw as she glared at the back of Rhaenyra’s head. She was fast approaching her limit on her stepmother’s hypocrisy. Had she not lied to the court about the true parentage of her sons for years to protect her ambitions? Only last night, had she not stood idly by as her husband revealed his intention to whore out his own daughter to further their shared ambitions for the throne?

Perhaps sharing Daemon’s words would sway the court in both Vaemond's and Arianwyn’s favor.

But before Arianwyn could even loosen her jaw, the Queen spoke. “You will have a chance to make your own petition, Princess Rhaenyra,” Alicent scolded. “Do Ser Vaemond the courtesy of allowing his to be heard.”

As Vaemond turned to face the Princess, Aemond, at last, caught Arianwyn’s gaze. But rather than smile, as she expected, he frowned, widening his eye as if to ask if she was well.

She smiled softly, nodding her head. Though nervous, she was well. Aemond’s shoulders drooped slightly with relief, and the corners of his lips turned upward. Something about that smallest of smiles made Arianwyn’s stomach turn loops.

“What do you know of Velaryon blood, Princess?” Vaemond asked Rhaenyra, who refused to even look at him. “I could cut my veins and show it to you, and you still wouldn’t recognize it. This is about the future and survival of my house, not yours.”

With an angry glance at Luke, Vaemond again turned to the throne. “My Queen, my Lord Hand. This is a matter of blood, not ambition,” he declared. “I place the continuation of the survival of my house and my line above all. I humbly put myself before you as my brother’s successor. The Lord of Driftmark, and the Lord of the Tides.”

“Thank you, Ser Vaemond,” Otto said from his seat atop the Iron Throne, dismissing the knight. “Princess Rhaenyra, you may now speak for your son, Lucerys Velaryon.”

Rhaenyra rolled her eyes, striding lazily toward the center of the room as if she had been asked by her nursemaid to clean up after herself rather than formally address the Hand of the King as he sat the Iron Throne.

“If I am to grace this farce with some answer,” she said, her boredom and disdain clear in her voice, “I will start by reminding the court that nearly 20 years ago, in this very – ”

Her words were cut off when the throne room doors burst open, and the King, with a gold mask covering half his face and leaning nearly all his weight on a cane, began to hobble into the room.

“King Viserys of House Targaryen, the First of His Name, King of the Andals, and the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm.”

No, Aemond wanted to shout as he watched his father enter the Throne Room. He wanted to storm up to him, seize the cane, and watch him fall and delight in it. The old fool had not left his rooms in weeks, yet now he emerges, walking under his own power?

Any hope of Driftmark now passing to a rightful Velaryon heir was gone, as was Aria’s chance to escape Daemon.

Aemond had needed nothing from the king. Had asked him for nothing. But it did not matter. Rhaenyra had obviously done so.

Viserys would summon a miracle for his eldest daughter and her bastards.

Yet for his other children, he couldn’t even do nothing.

Arianwyn could not tear her eyes from her once-beloved uncle as he made his way, ever slowly, toward the Iron Throne. His back was so deeply hunched that he now stood no taller than herself. What little hair he still had hung in long, limp tendrils around his sunken, blemished face. He gasped for breath as he walked, revealing his many missing or rotted teeth.

This was not the king Arianwyn remembered. Seeing him in this state, she understood the exhaustion and worry on the queen’s face.

The king was dying. Had been for a long time, it seemed.

He stopped at the base of the dais, facing Otto Hightower, who had come down from the throne to meet him. “I will sit the throne today,” he rasped.

“Your Grace,” Otto said, nodding as he stepped away from the throne. It seemed the Hand was as surprised as anyone by the appearance of the poorly king and nearly as reverent.

When Viserys stumbled on the first step of the dais, Ser Erryk Cargyll leaped forward to catch him. But the king waved him away.

Arianwyn turned away from the heartbreaking sight. She had held on to her anger at the king for so long – for his treatment of Aemond on Driftmark and for allowing Daemon to take her. But she had never wanted to see him suffer – certainly not like this. She had loved him dearly, once.

She looked to Aemond, hoping to find answers or reassurance in his gaze, but he did not look at her. His eye was focused on his father. Though his expression remained unreadable, Arianwyn could see the rage simmering within his eye – the hatred.

The clattering of metal drew their attention back to the throne. The king’s crown, the same his grandsire wore when he was king, had slipped from his brow onto the stone steps.

Arianwyn tensed as Daemon stepped forward. With Dark Sister at his side, he could easily kill the king here and now and place his wife on the Iron Throne. But he did not, and the steel remained sheathed.

Daemon knelt by his brother’s side and picked up the crown. He wrapped his arm carefully around Viserys and guided him up the steps to the throne. And with a tenderness Arianwyn had never seen, her father crowned the king and retreated from the throne.

Seeing that her father was capable of love, that he had the capacity to be gentle and kind to those he truly cared for wounded her long-damaged heart. To know that when he could be so caring, he still chose to hate her so fiercely.

When Daemon again took his place beside Rhaenyra, Arianwyn felt a familiar cold settle in her veins. But, this time, she was sure it was there to stay.

“I must… admit… my confusion,” the king rasped. “I do not understand why petitions are being heard over a settled succession. The only one present who might offer keener insight into Lord Corlys’ wishes is the Princess Rhaenys.”

“Indeed, your grace,” Rhaenys answered as all eyes turned to her. She gazed with a guarded expression at Vaemond before stepping to the throne.

“It was ever my husband’s will that Driftmark pass through Ser Laenor to his trueborn son… Lucerys Velaryon.” the Princess’ voice held hesitation, though few noticed it. “His mind never changed. Nor did my support of him. As a matter of fact, the Princess Rhaenyra has just informed me of her desire to marry her sons Jace and Luke to Lord Corlys’ granddaughters, Baela and Rhaena. A proposal to which I heartily agree.”

Arianwyn turned to Rhaena. “Did you know about this?” she asked.

Rhaena shook her head, genuine shock in her eyes. Though she did not seem displeased by the prospect.

The king smiled. “Well… the matter is settled,” he declared. “Again. I hereby reaffirm Prince Lucerys of House Velaryon as heir to Driftmark, the Driftwood Throne, and the next Lord of the Tides.”

Silence fell over the hall. Arianwyn’s own heart sank as she realized what the decision meant. The king was still as stubborn as ever. He still favored his firstborn daughter and the cost of the plain truth. Even if Arianwyn pleaded with him as she had planned and shouted the truth of Daemon’s crimes for all to hear, she was sure he would deny her and send her back to Dragonstone with her father.

Where Daemon would be free to punish her for insulting him in front of the court.

But Arianwyn was not the only one crushed by the King’s choice.

“You break law and centuries of tradition to install your daughter as heir,” Vaemond Velaryon spat, stalking towards the throne as a lion to its prey. “Yet you dare tell me who deserves to inherit the name Velaryon. No. I will not allow it.”

“‘Allow it?’” Viserys hissed. “Do not forget yourself, Vaemond.”

No one in the room dared move, or even so much as breathe as they stood in wary anticipation at what the would-be heir would do next.

“That,” Vaemond shouted as he turned on Lucerys, pointing an accusing finger at the nervous young boy. “Is no true Velaryon. And certainly no nephew of mine.”

Rhaenyra stepped in front of Luke, “Go to your chambers. You have said enough.”

“Lucerys is my true-born grandson,” Viserys said with a strength greater than his withered body would suggest. “And you are no more than the second son of Driftmark.”

Pity burst within Arianwyn’s heart. Vaemond was right. They could all see it. Rhaenyra was stealing his birthright in broad daylight, and no one would defend him.

“You,” Vaemond barked at the King, “may run your house as you see fit, but you will not decide the future of mine! My house survived the Doom, and a thousand tribulations besides! And gods be damned, I will not see it ended on the account of this…” He bit back his words as he turned to Rhaenyra, righteous anger twisting his face.

“Say it,” Daemon whispered. A challenge and a threat.

It pushed Vaemond over the final ledge.

“Her children are bastards!” he screamed, “And she is a whore.”

A furious whisper echoed around the room. No one had dared voice such an accusation for years, let alone so brazenly in front of the King. Aemond smiled – an involuntary gesture. Surely Vaemond was not so foolish as to think Viserys would ever admit the truth. He had learned that for himself the night he lost his eye. The left side of his face seemed to pulse with pain as a reminder.

Indeed, the king raised himself from the throne and brandished his Valyrian Steel dagger in a shaking hand. “I will have your tongue for that.”

Aemond’s smile fell when he heard Aria scream.

Her shriek pierced the ears of everyone in the room, drawing their eyes not to her but to Daemon. And the near-headless body of Vaemond Velaryon falling at his feet.

“He can keep his tongue,” Daemon quipped.

Aemond did not see his sister clap her hands over her ears and turn away. He did not hear Otto shout for Daemon’s disarmament. He did not see his father collapse on the throne. He did not even see the growing pool of blood on the throne room floor.

All he saw was Daemon wiping the blood from his blade as he turned back to his family, eyes locking with Aria’s. He saw her face blanch and her lips tremble as she fought her tears and the bile rising in her throat. He saw the hope fade from her silvery eyes as she turned and ran from the room.

Not caring who saw, Aemond pushed past his brother and followed.

Aemond caught up to Aria as she fell to her knees in an empty courtyard far from the throne room. He could hear the clanging of the metal cuffs on her wrist as they scraped through the gravel, and his heart wrenched as she listened to her agonizing sobs.

“Aria,” he whispered as he knelt beside her, gently laying a hand on her bare shoulders. “Aria, I’m here.”

When she turned to face him, her face softened with relief. But when he laid a hand on her cheek to wipe away a tear, another cry tore through her. He took her in his arms as she fell into him, and before he could stop himself, he bowed his head forward and laid his lips on her soft cheek, kissing away another tear.

But she did not recoil from him. Rather, she seemed to melt into his touch. Grasping the side of her face in one hand, Aemond ran his nose along her face, unwilling to break the connection, and pressed another kiss to her forehead.

Aria leaned into his chest, wrapping her arms around his neck like he was the only thing keeping her anchored to the ground as her tears came harder and faster. He did not know what to say, how to calm her from her frantic state. So, he simply pulled her closer, cradling the back of her head and whispering sweet words into her ear.

After a long while, her breathing finally slowed. She tightened her arms around him and whimpered against his neck, “He killed Vaemond.”

“I know,” Aemond said, gently rocking her in his arms.

“In front of everyone. He killed him. And no one did anything.”

“I know.”

“What will they do when he kills me?”

Aemond froze, utterly paralyzed as he heard his worst fear spoken aloud. The world seemed to disappear, leaving only him, Aria, and her horrible words.

He felt his jaw twitching as he struggled to appear calm, for Arianwyn’s sake. “He will not kill you,” was all he could bite out.

“He will,” Arian declared. “He said so himself.”

Aemond pushed her back so he could see her face. Her cheeks were flushed, and the rims of her eyes deeply red. Tears still fell from those beautiful eyes, and her lip trembled as she stared back at him.

“He told me that all I was worth was my ‘virgin cunt,’” though her voice was shaky and weak, she did not stop when Aemond hissed at her words, “and that if I did anything to jeopardize him selling me off, he would have no reason to keep me alive.”

She didn’t give him even a heartbeat to reply before she grabbed the collar of his coat and whispered, “He killed my mother.”

“What?”

“He hated her. He wanted her gone. So, he killed her.” She was rambling madly, the story spilling forth without control like fire from a dragon’s maw. “He paralyzed her, broke her back and so many bones. And he raped her. It was his final insult. He raped her, and then she bore me.”

Aemond brought his hands up to cup her jaw. Her gentle voice and the feeling of her blood flowing beneath his palms were the only things keeping him from racing back to the throne room and gutting anyone who stood between him and Daemon.

“Gerold and her Maester offered her moon tea,” she halted when Aemond’s hands tightened on her cheeks. How could she even say such a thing? That a single decision made the difference between him having Aria here, with him, and her having never existed made his stomach hollow. What would his life have been without her?

“She refused,” she explained, and he relaxed slightly. “She knew she would not survive the birth, but she did not want him to forget her. So, she had me as her revenge. That is why he hates me. I am a living reminder that he could not break her.”

Aemond growled, leaning forward to press his forehead into Arianwyn’s. “You are not a revenge nor a reminder,” he rumbled. “You are a person. A beautiful, wonderful, kind, and unbearably good person.”

He stood, raising her with him and wrapping his hands around her waist to hold her steady. “You are so much more than…” he could not bring himself to repeat Daemon’s cruel and crude words, “than whatever your father says you are. You are the Lady of Runestone and a daughter of House Targaryen. If anyone dares harm you,” he hissed, all his hatred and rage alight in his eye, “I will burn them to ash. I would reduce the whole world to embers to protect you, Aria.”

Aemond’s declaration shocked her into silence, though she was unsure why. He had made many such threats when they were children, once even promising to feed her future husband’s head to Emrys if he dared hurt her. But somehow, this threat felt different.

It felt real.

Because it could be, she realized. He was no longer a dragonless little boy playing at ferosity, but the warrior prince who rode the largest dragon left in the world who had helped Aegon and his sisters conquer the continent. If he wanted, he could follow in their footsteps and conquer whatever lands he wished.

Perhaps it should make her afraid, that he was capable of such violence. But it only made her feel safe that he would do so on her behalf, and proud that he was now the man he always wanted to be. She stepped forward, resting her head on his chest, saying with her touch what she could not say with her words. Thank you.

Neither she nor Aemond noticed Princess Rhaenys stalking toward them. Not until she grabbed them by the shoulders and tore them apart.

“By all the gods,” she scolded. “Can the two of you not even try to act as though you are guided by your minds and not your…” she examined Arianwyn with an appraising gaze. “Your hearts,” she finished.

Aemond released one hand from Arianwyn’s waist as he stepped protectively in front of her, his free hand drifting over the dagger he had strapped to his belt. His mouth was a hard, straight line, and the fire in his eye could have boiled the Narrow Sea to vapor.

“Oh please,” Rhaenys scoffed. “If you really think she has anything to fear from me, you’re even stupider than your drunken fool of a brother. Aegon, obviously. I hear Daeron is quite well-behaved.”

When the attempt to defuse the tension with her wry humor did not sway Aemond for a moment, Arianwyn pressed against Aemond’s shoulder, pulling his hand back from the pommel of his dagger. After only a moment of hesitation, he relaxed from his defensive posture, leaning back into her touch.

“What is it you want, princess?” While his voice was soft, Arianwyn could still hear the threat buried beneath his words.

“I would like to speak with Arianwyn,” she answered. “Privately, if you would permit it, my prince.”

Aemond glanced down at Arianwyn and every so slightly raised his brow. A question. Depending on her answer, he would either stand aside or whisk her to safety. She squeezed his arm, giving him a slight nod and a weak but reassuring smile. A moment passed, and she nodded again, a harder set to her grey eyes. Then, hesitantly, Aemond released her from his hold and, after a moment spent looking at her with an intensity that made her heart race, stepped away.

Arianwyn did not say anything or even move until Aemond was out of sight. When she finally turned to Rhaenys, she felt her eyes start to water once more, though she did not know why. “What is it you wanted to speak to me about, Princess?”

Rhaenys held her arm out for Arianwyn to take, “Come, let me walk you to your rooms.”

The women walked in silence through the long halls of the castle. Whenever they passed courtiers who tried to stop and engage them in conversation, Rhaenys masterfully brushed them aside without insult, allowing them to make it through the doors of Arianwyn’s rooms without ever breaking their stride.

With the door shut and locked behind them, Rhaenys deposited Arianwyn on the edge of the bed. Still silent, she began tracing the walls of the room with her hands, brushing curtains and tapestries aside in her search. When Arianwyn was finally about to give in to her curiosity and ask what her cousin was doing, a muffled “thud” echoed throughout the room.

Turning to her with a victorious smirk, Rhaenys pushed gently on the stone next to the vanity. Much to Arianwyn’s surprise, a large section of the wall seemingly detached, swinging open a hidden door into a dark tunnel.

“What is that?” she asked, unsure whether to be impressed or afraid.

Rhaenys gestured for her to stand and examine it for herself. Arianwyn obeyed, drawing her arms around her when a cool wind from inside the tunnel swept into the room.

“Maegor had these tunnels built throughout the Keep,” Rhaenys explained. “I’m not sure whether it was genius or paranoia, but they have proven very useful to me in the past.”

Arianwyn looked at her cousin with a questioning gaze. Rhaenys chuckled, “I don’t know where most of them lead. The only path I have committed to memory is from my old quarters to the kitchens. I was not sure there would be an entrance here, but I am glad there is.”

“Why are you showing this to me?” Arianwyn asked, though she was fairly certain she knew the answer. Though Rhaenys had sided with Rhaenyra and Daemon at the petition, she had done so reluctantly. And after Vaemond was killed…

Her ever-collected expression fading into worry, Rhanys cupped Arianwyn’s cheeks in her hands. “Rhaena told me that something happened last night. Something that made you terrified of Daemon.” Her eyes hardened, and her lips tightened. “I know what he is capable of, more than most. I will not let what happened to my children happen to you.”

“What are you saying?” Arianwyn asked, wrapping her hands around Rhaenys’ elbows.

“I have never believed, not for one moment, that Ser Qarl killed Laenor on a whim.” Speaking of her son, her confident air began to waver. “Laenor was a good man – loved by his men. None of them would have turned on him like that without someone else pulling the strings.”

“My father.”

Rhaenys nodded. “Daemon lusted after Rhaenyra for years. Laena was his second choice, and he treated her as such. Once she was dead, only my son stood in the way of what he had long desired.”

Arianwyn’s heart sank, realizing the deep pain she had always felt was not hers alone, but one shared. “Ser Laenor was not the first to die.”

“I always suspected Rhea had not been injured by accident,” Rhaenys said as she pulled her hands from Arianwyn’s face. “I am so sorry you have had to live with that burden.”

“It is not my burden to bear,” Arianwyn replied. “I had as little choice in the matter as my mother. I was seeded by his cruelty. Now, it seems I may die by it as well.”

As she said the words, Arianwyn was surprised to find they no longer sparked tears or a sense of dread. Rather, they nearly brought a sense of peace. After all, it was a good story, if tragic. It was one she could imagine among the gilded pages of a storybook. She always wanted to live a fairy tale, though she had hoped hers would have a happy ending.

Rhaenys grabbed her again, harder this time, her fingers digging into Arianwyn’s skin. “No!” she hissed. “Do not resign yourself to that fate! There are too many people who care for you too much to see you gone so soon.”

Her eyes darkened as she continued, “Our family is heading for dark days, Arianwyn. We will not lose one of the few lights we have left.”

“So what do I do?” Arianwyn begged. The king would surely not grant her release from Daemon. He could hardly walk on his own, let alone stand against his brother. After what he had done in the throne room, she was sure that if Alicent or Otto tried to grant her release, she would face a fate similar to Vaemond Velaryon's.

Rhaenys turned the girl to face the tunnel. “Escape! Follow these tunnels until you find yourself in the city. Keep your hair covered and find a market. Sell your jewels, your clothes even. Make yourself unrecognizable. As soon as you can, leave King’s Landing. Go to Runestone. I will write to Ser Gerold to expect you, and we will find a way to keep you hidden until you are of age. But you must go. Now.”

Arianwyn’s mind raced. She could not deny the appeal of Rhaenys’ plan, of disappearing until she could actually wield the power she needed to fight her father. But even as her legs itched to race through the tunnel, her heart pulled her back into her rooms.

“I can’t,” she whispered, all too aware of the disappointment on her cousin’s face. “I cannot leave Aemond again.”

Rhaenys scowled, “Would you rather him weep over your corpse?”

“No!” Arianwyn shot back. Just the image caused her heart to ache without ceasing. “But if I disappear without him knowing, I cannot predict what he may do. I will not see him hurt, or worse.”

“Fine,” Rhaenys said, biting her lip. “Say your goodbyes. Say whatever you need to.” But promise me that you will run at the first sight of danger.”

Arianwyn steeled herself, trying to show confidence she did not feel. If she did run, would she even be able to find her way out of the castle? Would she survive just one night alone in the streets of King’s Landing? Would she make it to the Vale without being caught, or worse?

Would she be able to bring herself to leave Aemond?

“I promise.”

#aemond #aemond fanfic #aemond targaryen imagine #aemond targaryen fanfic #aemond targaryen #aemond one eye #aemond imagine #prince aemond #aemond x oc #house of the dragon aemond #house of the dragon #hotd #hotd aemond #aemond fic #hotd fanfic #aemond xf!oc #aemond x original female character #aemond x original character #the silver dragon

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alex99achapterthree · 8 months ago

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Phantom Friday...

...crosses the ramp.

Our FAA F-4K is back from his sortie, about to pass over the dreaded "ramp" or "round-down" at the rear end of the ship. Our RAMP STRIKE post the other day shows the disastrous consequences of coming in too low and hitting it. The slang term for doing that is "putting one in the spudlocker".

The rather unusual vantage point here is from the space at the very back of the ship below the end of the flight deck, called the "spudlocker". Origin of that term is lost in history, tho legend has it that early vessels stored foodstuffs (including potatoes) there. On modern carriers the jet engine shop is at the rear of the hangar bay and repaired engines can be rolled back here on their work stands for test runs out the back of the ship. Here's what that looks like...

The rear edge of the flight deck is at the top of the picture.

This would be a good spot to watch landings from were it not for the risk that an aircraft could end up on top of you. Generally this area is off-limits during flight ops for that reason.

Oh, just one more thing. Notice the much cleaner exhaust behind the F-4K. One major difference in the F-4K built for the Royal Navy and the RAF F-4M was to substitute more powerful Rolls Royce Spey engines for the GE J79 in the regular Phantom. The Spey burned much cleaner than the J79.

#aircraft #airplane #phantom friday

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bronzefuryfic · 1 year ago

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Bronze Fury

When the only child of Daemon Targaryen and Rhea Royce is brought to King's Landing to meet with the rest of her family, she finds herself caught in a crisis of succession. The Greens battle for her support... and her affections.

Chapter Four: The Crown’s Crime / Previous Chapter / Directory

Rhae joins Aegon, Aemond, Helaena, Jacaerys and Lucerys in their studies of their shared Valyrian heritage. During lessons, Rhae learns far more than she bargained for.

The next morning, Rhae awoke with a new purpose.

She was awake long before Grandmaester Orwyle came to change her bandages and re-apply his ointments. As he worked, a servant came to deliver breakfast. Rhae ate slowly, the meal tasting stale in her mouth, as she watched the Maester work. He helped flex her joints, which had begun to tighten as the skin tried to repair itself. Some scabs cracked and oozed when he did so, and Rhae quickly lost her appetite.

As they approached the late morning, Beth arrived to lead Rhae to her first lesson.

While they walked, Rhae wondered how she'd ever learn her way around the labyrinth of a castle. She did not recognize any of the turns, and kept getting distracted by the view of King's Landing just outside. She had not seen a city so sprawling before—Runestone was not so populous.

The study room was large and sun-filled, drapes dancing airily as an ocean-breeze passed through large arched windows. Cushions and tables littered the room—Rhae spotted Helaena in one plushy armchair, flipped upside as she buried her nose in a book. Her hair fell and pooled in silvery puddles on the masonry.

At a table behind her, Aemond also had a book open. He had half the page covered with his hand as he seemed to recite words to himself. As he did so, he kept rolling his eyes toward a slumped over Aegon, who looked to be asleep on his cushion.

When Rhae had come close enough to catch his attention, Aemond waved Rhae over.

"What're you working on?" She asked, taking a seat on his side of the table. From her new position, she could see Helaena's feet stick up over the top of her chair.

"The Maesters gave me new conjugations when we arrived this morning," Aemond said, pushing the book towards her so that she could see. She stared at the page, but could glean no meaning from it. The entire text was in High Valaryian. Aemond rattled on excitedly. "These are fourth conjugation verbs. This one, ' dinagon', has several meanings. A lot of-"

" Aemond, " came an exasperated voice from the floor. Aegon propped up on his pillow, pushing his hair from his face. "We haven't even started the lessons yet. Must you inflict us with your tortures so early?"

The younger brother's face fell, and he looked nervously to Rhae, as though he expected her to tell him the same.

"We're not all as wise and all-knowing as you are, Aegon," Rhae said coolly. "Aemond offered to help me catch up, and I accepted. "

Aegon's mouth hung open slightly, seemingly unprepared to be sided against—Rhae suspected it did not happen often. She turned instead to Aemond, who was smiling sheepishly.

"You were saying?"

"Right," Aemond turned back to his text, pointing to the same word as before. " Dinagon has two translations. The first means 'to marry', or 'to wed.'"

"And what's the other?"

"The other is a lot less common," Aemond explained, tracing the page with his finger. "It can also mean 'to chase away.'"

"Those two meanings sound like opposites," Rhae said, crinkling her nose. As if learning another language wouldn't be challenging enough.

"I think they go hand in hand," Aegon snorted, now sitting upright in his seat. Rhae was glad to see he had the tact to join the conversation this time, rather than trying to change it again. Better yet, Rhae thought he raised an interesting point. Aegon continued: "There's a few like that, but you can usually understand which they mean in context. Irughagon is another—it means both 'to give' and 'to abandon to'. The same thing really, but the Maesters will want you to identify which the text really means, anyway."

The two brothers rattled off a few more vocab words, but Rhae lost track of them quickly. She nodded along with the conversation, but her mind lingered on the difference between "giving" and "abandoning to". A trio of newcomers broke Rhae from her trance and relieved her from feigning understanding the conversation happening in front of her.

"Who's that?" She asked in a hushed tone, watching a dark-skinned man with white dreadlocks speaking with the Maesters. Besides him were two boys she thought must be pages.

"That's Laenor Velaryon," Aemond said, hardly looking up from his book as he searched for more examples. "And his two sons, Jacaerys and Lucerys."

Rhae peered across the room at the three.

"Those two?"

Rhae moved her head, trying to spot if there were two more children hiding behind the ones she could see. The two boys with Laenor looked nothing like him. They were missing the signature silver hair of Valyrians, and in Rhae's opinion, looked alarmingly pale next to their father.

Aegon watched Rhae as she studied the Velaryons, his eyes flickering between her and a pair of Maesters that whispered behind her back.

"Rhae!" Aegon hissed, and she tore her gaze away. She opened her mouth to question him further, but Aegon kicked her hard beneath the table. He gave a slight shake of his head— not now.

Rhae shut her mouth, turning back to Aemond and pretending to read off of the page he had open. He was too immersed to notice Rhae's near-fatal mistake.

But Rhae's eyes still danced around the room, from Laenor to his children to Aegon and to the book she could not read. Surely she'd misheard Aemond—those boys could simply not be Laenor's children with the princess. Another thought occurred to her, as Aegon gave her looks she could not decipher—perhaps the boys were playing a trick on her. Surely all the realm would know if Princess Rhaenyra had mothered— oh.

Realization drew on Rhae just as Laenor approached the center of the room with his "sons". They spoke cheerfully with Helaena, who'd finally spun upright in her chair to greet them.

Rhae's cousin Ser Jon had told her of a treasonous secret that all knew, but none spoke. Could he have meant anything other than this? Rhae felt her face warm—he had said she wouldn't need much more than eyes to figure it out herself. He couldn't have given a clearer hint? She would have a few choice words for Jon when she saw him next.

"Study hard, train harder," Laenor was saying, now making his way for the exit. Jacaerys and Lucerys waved their goodbyes. With everyone present, the Maesters wasted no time breaking everyone up for their lessons, giving Rhae little time with this new revelation.

The lessons lasted two hours, but Rhae felt she learned little in this time. Over the course, her mind kept wandering elsewhere.

One pairing was Helaena and Aemond, who Rhae figured must be at a similar level, despite Helaena's being two years older. She thought it likely Aemond was ahead in his curriculum—he was the least distracted of all the children, always working diligently when Rhae looked over. Helaena's eyes were most often transfixed on the windows, but the Maesters did not call her attention back with any urgency. She seemed entranced by something the others could not see.

Rhae wished she could join their table—the Maesters had her sat with the Velaryon princes instead. The boys were nice enough in their introductions, but they were very young. She understood why she was placed with them. Lucerys was still learning basic nouns, as she was now doing—but given he was 9, Rhae couldn't help but feel embarrassed sitting beside him doing the same.

To make matters worse, Jacaerys, who'd just started learning second conjugation verbs, also seemed to be embarrassed to sit with the two of them. When the Maesters insisted Jacaerys pay attention to the other two's lessons as review, Rhae heard him mumble how it felt unnecessary.

As the morning passed, Jace's interest in the review waned further. His efforts were re-directed to trying to catch the attention of Aegon, who was receiving private lessons across the room. Whenever Aegon would look over, he'd contort his face in such a way that they could read his distaste for his studies from a far distance. There was a great deal of exaggerated eye-rolling and fake gags.

Jacaerys would dissolve into a fit of giggles when this happened, distracting Lucerys and Rhae. Despite her embarrassment over her study group, when Rhae caught on to what Jacaerys was laughing at, she too could hardly suppress a grin. Aegon knew how to put on a show, and his ability to correct his behavior just in time so that the Maester's wouldn't spot him was admittedly impressive.

Lunch was brought to the room at noon, and they all ate in content silence. Rhae had not forgotten the many questions she had about the Velaryons, or her anger over the Queen's words last night... but that was for another time. Jace and Luke seemed alright with her.

When they finished their meals, and they had a few moments to spare, Jacaerys began speaking enthusiastically to Aegon about the dragon pit.

"Will they be going there today?" Rhae asked Aemond in an undertone, to which he nodded.

"Jace and Luke go near-daily," Aemond said, his voice low. He eyed his nephews enviously. "Their dragons are young and need a lot of attention. Helaena and Aegon don't have to go as frequently, but they often do."

"Do you ever join them?"

"Aemond's our most devoted admirer!" Aegon had disengaged his conversation with Jace, was grinning devilishly. Rhae furrowed her brow—she was detecting a pattern from the eldest. "It's true, ask anyone."

As he said this, he nudged Lucerys, who nodded enthusiastically.

"Aemond always comes to watch!"

Across the table, Helaena nodded amicably, but Rhae was not sure if she was really listening. Her gaze was still towards the window.

"Watches with two," she muttered, seemingly in agreement. No one paid her any mind, but Rhae thought she heard her say something else shortly after. "But he soars with one..."

Aemond seemed to fight to maintain a neutral expression, but he would not make eye-contact with the others. His hands trembled in his lap.

Rhae knew she came to Runestone to observe, to learn from, and to blend in with her Targaryen family members. But with each instance of Aegon opening his mouth, Rhae found that to be more and more difficult. It had only been a moment, but Rhae felt kinship with Aemond over their dragon-less-ness in the carriage the day before. It wasn't much, but Rhae knew she couldn't betray that.

But how best to rescue him without stirring more trouble? She fanned her face, feigning warmth, before rolling up her sleeves.

"Lucerys," she said blandly, calling his attention to her. She propped her elbows on the table, her bandages visible. "Have you ever-"

"Woah!" Luke's eyes widened. "What happened to your arm?"

"What? I-" Rhae dropped her hands below the table just as quick, and Luke grew more insistent. Aemond looked from his nephew to Rhae, looking as though he were about to tell Lucerys to leave the conversation alone, but Rhae gave him a quick wink. He looked away bashfully.

"Your arm!" Jacaerys was peering now, too, trying to sneak a peek. "What happened to it? It's all wrapped up!"

"Dragon fire," she said sagely. The whole table stared at her now—even Helaena had turned her attention to the conversation at hand.

"But..." Jacaerys eyed her suspiciously. "Who ordered their dragon to attack you?"

"No one did Jace," Aegon said with exasperation. "It just attacked her."

Jacaerys ignored Aegon, looking to Rhae for the answer. Realizing he'd lost his crowd, Aegon resigned himself to watching Rhae for her answer too.

"He's right," Rhae said, quieter now. The others seemed to lean in, eager to hear more. "The dragon Sheepstealer, when I tried to claim him."

"You went all by yourself?" Jacaerys asked, incredulous. Rhae laughed.

"Hardly," she said. Somehow, this was the easiest time she'd ever had recounting the tale since it happened. Telling it to the children felt more impressive than telling it to the Maesters. "He killed seven men... my Uncle Gerold included."

Jacaerys's mouth hung open, casting a look to his own uncle. Aegon rolled his eyes again.

"No one is feeding me to a dragon, Jace. You can pick your jaw up off the floor."

"But..." Luke looked confused. "The Targaryens and the dragons are allies. Mother says we're bonded by blood!"

"Yeah, well..." Rhae had her bandaged arm resting on the table again. "I suppose blood isn't everything."

But before Lucerys could ask her any more questions, the Maesters had descended upon their table again. It was time to get back to their lessons.

Rhae studied with Jace and Luke for another hour, before the Maesters gave her some lines to translate on her own. Luke was insistent on peppering Rhae with questions about her encounter with Sheepstealer, and she quickly seized the opportunity to find a seat on the other side of the room.

Helaena and Aemond were still receiving instruction, so Rhae found a table to herself to settle at. She'd made it to the third line of her translations before someone fell into the seat beside her.

"Gods, you're relentless," Rhae mumbled, as Aegon's mouth split into a grin. "I'm trying to work!"

"I thought I might help you study," he said with mock assurance. "Since you're into that sort of thing."

"I'm into 'you' and 'being somewhere else'," Rhae said, trying to grab her parchment back as Aegon snatched it from underneath her nose. He marked it with his quill. "Knock it off!" She hissed.

"I'm just correcting!" He insisted, batting away her hand. "A little thanks would be nice, you know."

He slid the page back, a new note scrawled in the Common Tongue on the margins: I only saved you from committing treason this morning.

Rhae's face burned, and she slapped her hand over the note quickly. Several in the room turned their heads—even Aemond looked to see the source of the disturbance. Rhae and Aegon both tried to look as though nothing had happened until the Maesters turned back to their own work, but Aemond's eyes narrowed when he saw the two together.

"Okay..." Rhae said quietly. "Maybe I was wrong. You can help a little."

"If you have questions, all you need to do is ask."

Taking his cue, Rhae scribbled quickly onto the parchment. Who is their father?

"That one is a little obvious," Aegon said. His hand jotted as he spoke. "You could've figured it out if you stuck with it longer."

My sister spends a lot of time with the Commander of the City's Watch. I'd bet my dragon on Lord Harwin Strong.

Rhae pondered this for a moment, taking the page back from him. No one seems too concerned about that.

"Mmm," Aegon tickled his chin with the quill. "Interesting one."

Aegon began sorting through some books stacked at the end of the table. As he did so, it became clear he was building a sort of barrier to further shield their secrecy. Rhae propped one open to avoid suspicion, and Aegon drafted a rather lengthy response. Rhae resisted the urge to peek until he finished.

Mother says many people are concerned about it, Jacaerys being Rhaenyra's heir and all. Everyone thinks the King has gone mad for not seeing it, but I'm fairly certain he just doesn't want to. She's always been the favorite. Also, I was serious about my offer yesterday. You should come with me to the dragon pit tonight.

Rhae looked around nervously at the Maesters, but none seemed to pay them any mind. The Royces rejoiced when King Viserys named Rhaenyra heir over Daemon all those years ago, and would continue to support the line of succession so long as it kept Daemon further from the throne. But would the rest of her house reconsider their position if Rhaenyra's own heir was a bastard? She didn't think it was likely, but she'd be ignorant to believe other houses wouldn't take issue with it.

Already there were those that were divided on Rhaenyra remaining as heir given the birth of the boy sat beside Rhae right now. Ser Gerold told her that the rules of succession were necessary to keep the peace.

Rhae wrote her response.

How do you feel about it?

Aegon grimaced and shrugged, before tapping on the second half of his note. Rhae sighed, picking up the quill once more.

Do you always flirt when committing treason?

Aegon smirked, and with one swift motion, knocked over their shared bottle of ink and soaked the page. A Maester was approaching the table.

"Aegon!" Rhae cried, ostensibly upset. She turned to the Maester, holding the ruined parchment. "Maester Donnel, I believe I need some new lines."

Aegon was shooed to another seat for his disturbance, but he sauntered off, looking pleased with himself.

Next Chapter: Ch. 5 - Princess of the Bugs

King Viserys is blind to the crimes of those he is closest to. Though he can not see the hurt in his discretions, Rhae makes fast friends with someone who can.

AO3 | Chapter Discussion

Thanks for reading!

#House of the Dragon #hotd fanfic #aegon ii x oc #Aemond x oc #aemond targaryen #aegon ii targaryen #helaena targaryen #jacaerys velaryon #lucerys velaryon

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gallifreyinstituteforlearning · 1 year ago

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War Form, Inf-Regen and Weremoths. Why did they not crop up during the Last Great Time War but do during the War? Also what interesting biology facts about them can you tell us?

What are Regen-Infs, Weurmoths, and War Forms?

🔫 Regen-Inf: These are biologically altered soldiers of lesser species, designed to serve in the War in Heaven. They're armed with built-in weaponry and have the ability to regenerate. Their mental makeup is also altered for war-readiness, complete with time-awareness and self-destruct protocols.

🐘 Weurmoths: Weurmoths are specialised Regen-Inf, engineered to act as field carriers for other troops. Picture a humanoid the size of an elephant that went to military school and got decked out with heavy artillery. That's a Weurmoth for you. They're big, they're loaded, but they're also unwieldy due to some laws of physics they can't ignore.

👾 War Forms: War Forms are the stuff of nightmares, engineered to look like monsters. They represent the far edge of Gallifreyan military adaptations, offering both terror and functionality in one monstrous package.

Why didn't Regen-Infs, Weurmoths, and War Forms appear in the Last Great Time War?

Well, it's anyone's guess, but here are some ideas:

Theory 1 - Ethical and Temporal Constraints: Maybe the Time Lords had moral and temporal reservations, leading them to sideline these war assets.

Theory 2 - Resource Allocation: Creating these bio-engineered warriors might have been like constructing a Rolls-Royce for every soldier - impressive but impractical and far too resource-intensive for a war that was already draining Gallifrey's reserves.

Theory 3 - Strategic Focus: The Last Great Time War possibly focused more on tried-and-true tactics at times. Perhaps the Time Lords were too busy using the old playbook.

Theory 4 - High Risks: The self-destructive and highly unstable nature of these beings could have been considered too risky to deploy in a war of such high stakes.

What are some interesting biology facts about Regen-Infs, Weurmoths, and War Forms?

🔫 Regen-Infs

High-Tech Scar Tissue: The 'scar tissue' is an organic blend of biological matter and technology. Maybe they have cells that function like nanobots + nanogenes combined, repairing and upgrading armour in real-time during combat, so every time it's hit, it grows back stronger and instantly.

Dimensional Brain Structures: Their brains are altered to have a level of 'dimensional extrusion,' enabling them to perceive time differently, an invaluable asset in war. This is likely to be a neural network that can process multiple timelines, just like Gallifreyans.

Biochemical Self-Destruct: Should a Regen-Inf soldier find themselves in a compromising position, their bio-engineered physiology can enact a self-destruct sequence. This is likely controlled by a biochemical trigger that induces an instantaneous catastrophic cellular breakdown.

Genetic Splicing: In some cases, the genes from these soldiers can interact with other species, as evidenced by Timon, born to a Regen-Inf and a human. This would involve a sort of gene editing on the fly, causing some … unexpected results.

🐘 Weurmoths

Size vs. Stability: Due to their enormous size, they likely possess specialised skeletal and muscular systems to support their mass. This could involve a lattice structure of incredibly dense but lightweight material, bio-engineered for maximum efficiency.

Firepower and Energy Consumption: Housing the firepower of a battalion means that their cells are likely akin to miniature reactors capable of generating immense amounts of energy. Their metabolism would need to be highly efficient, possibly extracting energy from unconventional sources.

Physical Instability: Maintaining bodily functions and actual movement at such a large size becomes increasingly unstable. They might have multiple redundant systems to manage this, including 'backup' organs and decentralised neural networks.

👾 War Forms

Adaptive Physiology: Their bodies could possess some sort of 'adaptive biology,' where their cellular structure can morph in real-time to counter threats. Think of it as an immune system on steroids, capable of changing the physical attributes of the entity to best handle the immediate threat.

Monstrous Design: The 'monstrous' appearance is not just for show; each aspect of their form could be engineered for a specific function. Spines might serve as both armour and weapon, while multiple limbs could offer greater dexterity and manoeuvrability.

Neurological Networks: Given that they are indistinguishable from monsters, their brain structure might be an intricate mesh of networks capable of running multiple operations at the same time. It's feasible that they could operate autonomously or in a hive-mind setting for coordinated attacks.

Genetic Backdoors: It would be reasonable to assume that they contain 'genetic backdoors,' allowing them to be controlled or disabled if they ever go off-script.

🏫 So ...

The biology of these war-time entities isn't just about splicing genes or grafting weapons onto flesh. It's about crafting organisms specifically designed for the horrors and complexities of multi-dimensional warfare. It's about crossing lines that are not just ethical, but also biological and even temporal, to create entities that are truly abominations of science.

On a lighter note, have a banana.

Is there any prejudice towards individuals stuck in war forms, during and after the war?: Perceptions of genetic alterations during and post-Time War.

Factoid: Could post-War Time Lords have biological hangups from the conflict?

Hope that helped! 😃

More content ... →📫Got a question? | 📚Complete list of Q+A →😆Jokes |🩻Biology |🗨️Language |🕰️Throwbacks |🤓Facts →🫀Gallifreyan Anatomy and Physiology Guide (pending) →⚕️Gallifreyan Emergency Medicine Guides →📝Source list (WIP) →📜Masterpost If you're finding your happy place in this part of the internet, feel free to buy a coffee to help keep our exhausted human conscious. She works full-time in medicine and is so very tired 😴

#doctor who #gil #gallifrey institute for learning #dr who #dw eu #faction paradox #ask answered #anonymous #whoniverse

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wandaluvstacos · 3 months ago

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So, after acquiring a treadle machine (because I wanted to try treadling), I decided on one more: a 1970s-era Kenmore. They're very boring looking machines, not impressive to anyone who doesn't know vintage sewing machines, and that's why I never really wanted one, but they're known for being one of the last ALL-METAL machines. So while the knobs had switched to plastic, all the interior gears were still made of metal. Since then, pretty much every domestic machine you buy has plastic gears. The reason people like these Kenmores is that a) you get the metal parts inside but b) you also get more modern features from the 70's, like the free arm (the ability to take out part of the bed of the machine so you can sew a sleeve or small area) and the ability to use stitches that aren't just straight and zig-zag, like blind stitches or decorative stitches. So I'll eventually get this thing shipped to me:

I was going to leave it at that because I have probably a year's worth of repair machines at this point, but when I saw a Singer 201 on ebay for $28, I couldn't help myself. So this thing showed up in the mail today.

She weighs like 50 pounds. Look at her size compared to the 30-years-older 15-30:

Singer 201s are much more boring to look at than their earlier counterparts (sadly, Singer did away with cool decals by the 40s/50s), but they're known as the best domestic sewing machines ever made and often referred to as the "Rolls Royce" of straight stitch machines. This one is a little cool in that its a bicentennial 201-- it has a little badge on the front stating it's a 100-year-anniversary machine, which means it was built in 1951. This could help boost its value a tiny bit, but 201s are pretty sought after in general because of their reputation as being indestructible and overengineered. If I decide to sell it, I think someone would definitely want her. She's in decent shape, just very dry and clearly hasn't been used in a long time. Likely it was in a cabinet that someone pulled it out of, as is common with these machines. People find value in the furniture they sit in but not the machine, because no one knows how to sew these days. The 201 is at least modern enough that there is a back stitch (unlike my 101), so it's easier to sew with in that way.

Anyway, everyone should learn how to sew basic things so that fewer of these time capsules end up on ebay for $30.

#I don't think the seller knew it was a 201 which is why I got it cheap #shipping was more expensive than the price of the machine #on goodwill a 201 will go for at least $100 #and that's goodwill not even getting one fully serviced #vintage sewing machines

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greenvincentine · 6 months ago

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"In his blue gardens men and girls came and went like moths among the whisperings and the champagne and the stars. At high tide in the afternoon I watched his guests diving from the tower of his raft, or taking the sun on the hot sand of his beach while his two motorboats slit the waters of the Sound, drawing aquaplanes over cataracts of foam.

On weekends his Rolls-Royce became an omnibus, bearing parties to and from the city between nine in the morning and long past midnight, while his station wagon scampered like a brisk yellow bug to meet all trains. And on Mondays eight servants, including an extra gardener, toiled all day with mops and scrubbing-brushes and hammers and garden-shears, repairing the ravages of the night before."

The Great Gatsby F. Scott Fitzgerald

#hauntology #the past is a foreign country

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usafphantom2 · 1 year ago

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#onthisday in 1941 the first production version of the de Havilland Mosquito B Mk IV flew. Powered by a pair of Rolls-Royce 1,460-hp Merlin 21 engines its top speed was 374 mph.

@classicwarbirds via X

de Havilland Mosquito | Classic Warbirds

During late 1938 de Havilland set about designing an aircraft that could be used for either reconnaissance or as a bomber. The concept of the aircraft was that it wouldn't require defensive armament as its speed and altitude would protect it from enemy defences. It was intended for this new aircraft, designation D.H.98, to be built using wood and powered by a pair of Rolls-Royce Merlins. After submitting their design little interest was shown by the Air Ministry and the project was put on hold.

With the break out of war in September 1939 and the German U-boats proving a constant threat to British shipping and the light alloy imports required for aircraft production, the idea of an all wooden aircraft was intriguing for the Air Ministry in case of a light allow shortage. So the go-ahead was given to de Havilland to begin detailed design and during December 1939 this began, followed three months later on the 1st March 1940 by an order for a prototype and 50 production examples. This was placed under Specification B.1/40 which was written specially for this aircraft.

With the Allied evacuation from Dunkirk, France a couple of months later and the upcoming Battle of Britain (10th July 1940 - 31st October 1940) requiring production to be focused on current aircraft types, in particular fighters, the D.H.98 project was officially put on hold. de Havilland though told his team to keep working on the project which was officially restarted a couple of months later.

The first of the three prototypes to fly was a Mk I, intended as an unarmed bomber and now named the Mosquito, which was ready for its maiden flight to take place on the 25th November 1940. Flying from Hatfield with Geoffrey de Havilland Jr at the controls this first flight and further flights showed that the aircraft had enormous potential. With a top speed of 382 mph, nearly 30 mph faster than the Supermarine Spitfire Mk II in service at the time, thanks to a pair of 1,460-hp Rolls-Royce Merlin 21 engines, a range of over 2,000 miles and able to reach 35,000 ft. The following month on the 29th December the prototype was demonstrated to the Air Ministry and as a result 150 were ordered of the now nicknamed 'Wooden Wonder'.

The following year on the 19th February 1941 the Mosquito started to undergo the customary trials at the Aeroplane and Armament Experimental Establishment at Boscombe Down. Five months later priority production began on the 1st July. In between the trials and production beginning the two other prototypes flew. The second on the 15th May 1941 and was the fighter version. Its armament consisted of eight guns mounted in rows of four. The top row was four 0.303-in machine-guns whilst the bottom row was four 20mm cannons. The third prototype was the photo reconnaissance version which had longer wings and no armament.

The Mosquito would be built mainly of plywood and balsa wood. This made the aircraft lighter and also easier to repair any battle damage. Construction of the type saw each half built and fitted before both sections were put together. Crew would consist of a pilot and navigator sat side-by-side.

With a top speed of 382 mph and power supplied by two 1,460-hp Rolls-Royce Merlin 21 engines and a range of 2,180 miles, it was the Mosquito PR.Mk I variant which was the first of the type to enter service when on the 13th July 1941 No. 1 Photographic Reconnaissance Unit at RAF Benson received the first aircraft. It was also the first of the type to enter operational service when on the 17th September 1941 a sole example performed reconnaissance over Brest, La Pallice and Bordeaux, France during the day. This would see the high speed of the aircraft as a way of defending itself instead of armament put to the test when three Messerschmitt Bf 109s were sent to intercept the Mosquito, a test it passed as they failed to do so.

The Mosquito B.Mk IV bomber variant was the next to enter service, with the first production example flying on the 8th September 1941. Able to carry four 500lb bombs over a range of 2,040 miles its pair of 1,460-hp Merlin 21s gave it a top speed of 374 mph. These would initially be available in November 1941 when No. 105 Squadron stationed at RAF Swanton Morley had their Bristol Blenheim Mk IVs replaced. They would spend the next few months familiarising themselves with the aircraft and working out tactics. Their first sortie with the type saw four raid Cologne, Germany on the 31st May 1942 with all returning back to base.

Four months later another four Mosquitos from No. 105 Squadron attacked the Norwegian headquarters of the Gestapo in Oslo at low-level on the 25th September 1942 with the following day seeing the type revealed to the British public. This wouldn't be the last low-level nuisance raid carried out by the squadron. Another such raid on the 30th January 1943 saw a radio speech by Herman Goring interrupted when the broadcasting station in Berlin, Germany was attacked.

The last of the prototype variants was the fighter version which would enter service as a night fighter known as the Mosquito NF.Mk II. Like the Mosquito PR.Mk I and Mosquito B.Mk IV this was also powered by the 1,460-hp Rolls-Royce Merlin 21 but had a top speed of 366 mph with a range of 1,705 miles. Armament consisted of four 20-mm cannons and four 0.303-in machine-guns and was fitted with Mk IV Airborne Interception radar. It would be during January 1942 with No. 157 Squadron, RAF Castle Camps, which had been reformed the previous month, that this variant would first be delivered to. Three months later saw the squadron use the Mosquito NF.Mk II for its first night operations on the 27th April.

To help crews convert to the Mosquito a trainer would be produced. Featuring dual controls and its armament was removed. The prototype would be a converted Mosquito NF.Mk II and this made its first flight on the 30th January 1942 and could reach a top speed of 384 mph, the first of the Mosquito T.Mk IIIs would enter service during August 1942.

The most produced Mosquito variant was the FB.Mk VI which was a fighter-bomber powered by either the 1,460-hp Rolls-Royce Merlin 21 or Merlin 23 giving the aircraft a top speed of 380 mph, it had a range of 1,205 miles, which could be extended by a further 500 miles with underwing drop tanks. Armament would consist of four 20mm cannons and four 0.303-in machine-guns and either four 500lb bombs or from 1944 eight rocket projectiles and two 500lb bombs. The prototype made its maiden flight on the 1st June 1942 and entered service the following year on the 11th May 1943 when No. 418 Squadron, Royal Canadian Air Force had their Douglas Boston Mk IIIs replaced. In total 2,305 examples were built and the Mosquito FB.Mk VI would equip over 20 squadrons serving over Europe and it would also see action in the Far East.

It was to be a modified Mosquito FB.Mk VI, which had been strengthened and had an arrestor hook fitted, that had the distinction of becoming the first twin-engined British aircraft to land on an aircraft carrier when on the 25th March 1944 Captain Eric 'Winkle' Brown achieved the feat aboard HMS Indefatigable (R10). This in turn would lead to the Sea Mosquito.

Due to the Mosquito's ability to perform precision strikes it was chosen for 'Operation Jericho'. Taking place on the 18th February 1944 this saw nineteen Mosquito FB.Mk Vis, comprised from Nos. 21, 464 and 487 Squadron, escorted by fourteen Hawker Typhoons attack Amiens prison in France with the intention of releasing resistance and political prisoners by breaching the prison wall. Whilst the wall was breached 102 prisoners were killed, 258 escaped but most were recaptured. Two Typhoons and Two Mosquitos were shot down and of the six airmen four were killed in action, including Group Captain Percy Charles Pickard, and two taken prisoner of war. To this day there is some controversy about the raid as no-one quite knows who ordered the raid and if this was its real purpose.

The Mosquito was also earmarked for use to carry a Barnes Wallis designed bouncing bomb given the codename “Highball”. The idea being that it would be used to attack the capital ships of the German Navy. This would lead to the formation on the 1st April 1943 of No. 618 Squadron who would spend a year in training, however in the end their intended target had moved and “Highball” would not be used.

Another role that the Mosquito performed was that of a Pathfinder. This would see the Mosquito fly ahead of the main bomber force dropping different coloured flares over the target with the help of the Oboe targeting system. Other duties for the Pathfinder Mosquitos saw them carry out bombing raids and drop 'Window'. This was designed to mimic a bomber stream on a radar screen. The Mosquito Pathfinder Force helped to improve the accuracy of bombing and had the lowest loss rate in Bomber Command of 0.03%.

The de Havilland Mosquito continued to serve with the Royal Air Force post-war. The bomber variants were replaced by the English Electric Canberra during the 1950s, so it was a Mosquito PR.34A of No. 81 Squadron that would fly the last operational mission of the type. This occurred on the 15th December 1955, although a number of Mosquitos would serve as target tugs until 1963.

An extremely versatile aircraft over 35 variants were built and it would serve with a number of air forces including the United States Army Air Force and the Royal New Zealand Air Force. In total 7,781 Mosquitos were built in the UK, Canada and Australia with the 15th November 1950 seeing the last production version built, a Mosquito NF.Mk 38.

Technical Details

Click on the aircraft image to view a larger version.

Top Speed Range Service Ceiling Armament

Mosquito PR.Mk I 382 mph 2,180 miles 35,000 ft none

Mosquito F.Mk II 366 mph 1,705 miles 36,000 ft four 20mm cannons

four 0.303-in machine-guns

Mosquito T.Mk III Training aircraft.

Mosquito B.Mk IV 374 mph 2,040 miles 24,000ft four 500lb bombs

or one 4,000lb bomb

Mosquito B.Mk IV side profile image

Mosquito B.Mk V Sole prototype built.

Mosquito FB.Mk VI 380 mph 1,205 miles 33,000 ft four 20mm cannons

four 0.303-in machine-guns

and either four 500lb bombs or eight rocket projectiles & two 500lb bombs

Mosquito B.Mk VII 25 Canadian built B.Mk IVs with 1,390-hp Packard Merlin 31 engines.

Mosquito PR.Mk VIII PR.Mk IVs fitted with Merlin 61s with two stage supercharger for use at high altitude.

Mosquito B.Mk IX Same as the B.Mk IV but with a 1,680-hp Merlin 72, a few had Merlin 70 or 77 engines.

Mosquito FB.Mk X Intended to be similar to the FB.Mk VI with Merlin 67 engines fitted, none built.

Mosquito NF.Mk XII Converted F.Mk IIs with machine-guns removed.

Mosquito NF.Mk XIII Like the NF.Mk XII but with AI Mk VIII radar and based on the B.Mk VI and fitted with either Merlin 21 or 23 engines and its four 0.303-in machine-guns removed.

Mosquito NF.Mk XIV Intended to be a NF.Mk XIII fitted with a Merlin 67 engine, none built.

Mosquito NF.Mk XV Five B.Mk IVs converted to a high altitude fighter with a pressurised cockpit and increasd wingspan.

Mosquito PR.Mk XVI Similar to the Mk IX models it appeared as PR.Mk XVI and B.Mk XVI with pressurised cockpits.

Mosquito NF.Mk XVII Converted F.Mk IIs.

Mosquito FB.Mk XVIII Essentially a FB.Mk VI but its four 20mm cannons replaced with a 57mm cannon.

Mosquito NF.Mk XIX Based on the NF.Mk III & NF.Mk XVII and fitted with Merlin 25 engines.

Mosquito B.Mk XX Same as the B.Mk VIII but built in Canada and fitted with Packard Merlin 31s or 33s.

Mosquito FB.Mk 21 Canadian built FB.Mk VI, only three produced.

Mosquito T.Mk 22 Six Canadian built T.Mk IIIs.

Mosquito B.Mk 23 B.Mk XXs intended to be powered by Packard Merlin 69s, none built.

Mosquito FB.Mk 24 Sole Packard Merlin 301 powered FB.Mk 21.

Mosquito B.Mk 25 B.Mk 20s built in Canada and fitted with Packard Merlin 225 engines.

Mosquito FB.Mk 26 FB.Mk 21s fitted with more powerful Packard Merlin 225 engines.

Mosquito T.Mk 27 Merlin 225 powered T.Mk 22s.

Mosquito FB.Mk 29 Converted FB.Mk 26s.

Mosquito NF.Mk 30 Like the NF.Mk XIX with either Merlin 72, 76 or 113 engines.

Mosquito PR.Mk 32 Similar to the PR.Mk XVI but for high altitude operations.

Mosquito PR.Mk 34 Fitted with Merlin 113 or 114 engines.

Mosquito B.Mk 35 Fitted with Merlin 113 or 114 engines.

Mosquito NF.Mk 36 Powered by Merlin 113 engines and with AI Mk IX radar fitted.

Mosquito NF.Mk 38 Like the NF.Mk 36 but with some also powered by Merlin 114 engines.

Mosquito TT.Mk 39 Target tug.

Mosquito FB.Mk 40 Australian built FB.Mk VIs powered by Packard Merlin 31 or 33s.

Mosquito PR.Mk 41 Australian built, used for photo reconnaissance and powered by Merlin 69 engines.

Mosquito FB.Mk 42 Sole converted FB.Mk 40.

Mosquito T.Mk 43 Converted FB.Mk 40s powered by Merlin 33s and featuring dual controls.

Type 463 Sole converted Mk IV to carry "Highball".

Type 465 33 Mk IVs converted to carry "Highball".

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btreeseo · 1 year ago

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twistsandtwizzles · 2 years ago

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Stars on Mars: Episode 2

Well, friends. Since Adam was found too hot to be voted off of “Mars” last week, we find ourselves back here for episode two of Stars on Mars. I wish I could tell you that it has gotten less dumb, but I am not here to lie to you.

We open with another Shatner intro, breaking down the concept for us: twelve celebrities, twenty-four days, on a mission to find out if they can “survive on Mars.” Unfortunately for Ariel, this intro includes her calling Lance Armstrong “a real astronaut” and this poor woman is going to be saddled with that for the rest of this show’s run, I’m afraid. Shatner also doubles down on his “Starssssss on Marssssss” line delivery, which I respect.

It’s morning in the hab on “Sol Day 3” and BOY did this show’s production team really love the movie The Martian. Our celebrities begin waking up and wandering around the hab. Schwartz and Adam are in the kitchen, Schwartz apparently washing dishes while Adam pokes around for some food. “Hopefully it’s a nice calm day today, with no emergencies,” Schwartz says, which is an incredibly naive thing for a guy who makes his living on reality tv to say.

“I would BEG for that to happen,” Adam replies, the huge grin on his face demonstrating that he knows there is not a chance that they will have a nice, calm day on this reality show about celebrities pretending to live on Mars. “But we’re going to do something today though, for sure.”

Schwartz VOs that everyone is tired from their satellite repair mission the day before. The Hab AI lets the crew know that they need to keep the hab clean and reminds them again that rations are limited.

Ronda is in the bio-dome tending to the plants and “making a compost.” It appears that they have a pretty robust supply of carrots and a bunch of other greens. Richard wanders in to give her a hand, explaining in a talking head that he is nervous about the food situation, but that also it’s pretty cool that they are growing stuff, adding that “I’ve never done that in my life.”

Adam and Ronda are working out when Marshawn wanders out of his special Base Commander suite, wearing a fluffy white robe and brushing his teeth. Schwartz tells that camera that being Base Commander is a “status symbol”: “It’s like having a Rolls-Royce on Mars. It’s cool.” Lance takes this moment to use Marshawn’s private bathroom, which last week Marshawn explicitly told him not to do. He thinks this is hilarious; Marshawn is less amused.

The group is starting to jockey for position for who is going to be the next Base Commander, since Marshawn’s 48 hours are up. Ronda is interested - she says she always wanted to be an astronaut. Schwartz, on the other hand, says there is no chance he will ever be Base Commander and that he likes doing grunt work and not being in charge. He adds in a talking head that he may be “too passive.”

Lady AI Voice instructs the crew to pick a new base commander, and as they all gather around the monitor to listen to their instructions Porsha throws her arm around Adam, which is cute. Marshawn says that he will wrestle someone for the position. Most of the cast looks flummoxed, but Ronda Rousey is like, you want to do what? And promptly pins him to the ground. Because she’s Ronda Fucking Rousey.

However, the cast agrees that the actual best way to choose the next Base Commander is to vote. Tinashe throws her hat in the ring. Marshawn says he wants to stay Base Commander and Ariel immediately tells him that he is not going to be Base Commander a second time.

Meanwhile Tallulah (whose chyron this week says she is an “entrepreneur”) is suggesting to Adam and Schwartz that SHE should be Base Commander - a promotion after she was a successful Mission Specialist last week. They are buying what she’s selling - and so is Ronda, who says that Tallulah was great on the coms during the mission: “I heard every word of her encouraging haikus.” Ronda then follows up her supportive words by saying that she’s worried that Tallulah might wander off after a butterfly if she’s out in the field.

Porsha has the role of talking-head-explaining-reality-tv-basics this week, and she tells us that in this game you have to build social bonds, but at the same time you are all competing against each other.

Tallulah wins the vote and Tinashe doesn’t seem thrilled. Tallulah says, “I don’t know what prepared me for this, but I’ve waited my whole life to show up for it” which is sweet but also girl it’s a reality show where you are pretending to be an astronaut and so I hope there are other things you are also waiting for. She adds that she’s holding them all in her “heart chakra.”

Adam’s take: “Tallulah is somebody so authentically themselves, and so unapologetically quirky and lovely . . . yeah, this could go horribly wrong.” Cut to commercial.

(Oh, Tallulah also says she’s not going to move into the Base Commander Suite which of course THRILLS Marshawn.)

Natasha is in the kitchen “getting to know her fellow teammates” which in this case means Schwartz. She tells him she’s never seen Vanderpump but her friend watches every episode. This leads Schwartz to explain Scandoval to the people in America who have somehow managed to avoid coverage of it over the last three months and if this is you, please teach me your ways. I’ve seen five minutes of the show in my life and can still tell you about Ariana and Raquel and that apparently Tom Sandoval has ruined white nail polish for us all.

Also Schwartz says he is recently divorced, and Natasha says, “yeah the pandemic was kind of rough,” to which Schwartz strangely muses, “It was good for our marriage I think.” And Natasha, confused as the rest of us, says, “Why, it ended in divorce.” And I laughed.

Tallulah assigns base duties - notably sending Schwartz and Ariel outside to squeegee the solar panels and assigning Porsha and Lance to conduct health and wellness checks. These health checks appear to include blood pressure, heart rate, temperature, and a “wellness” survey.

During Adam’s wellness check, Lance asks him how he’d rate his happiness on a scale of one to ten. Adam replies, “Ten. I’ve never been happier.” Natasha immediately calls him out: “You’ve never been happier? That’s so good to know" and they both laugh because clearly this not the happiest any of them have ever been. Porsha tells Adam that his temperature is . . . good. I am not convinced she knows how to use a thermometer.

Schwartz and Ariel clean the solar panels and complain about doing physical labor; they decide to dump the excess water because “I guess we don’t need it.” This, my friends, is what we call “foreshadowing.” They plod back to the hab as Schwartz talks about how desperately he wants a shower.

Then, a cut to the command room where the screen lights up with a warning: Water Pressure Critical. Then a cut to a water tank outside, which explodes. Then a second tank explodes. Then a third.

Inside, the crew discovers they have no running water. You know what that means: an emergency dispatch from Shatner. He explains that there is no water! (Duh.) But guess what: there is a bunch of FROZEN WATER UNDER THE SURFACE OF MARS. Amazing that they know that and also exactly where it is! Important Shatner note: if the mission fails, the Base Commander will be up for extraction, but the Mission Commander is going to be safe from extraction success or failure.

Oh my god this episode isn’t even half over why am I explaining all this in so much detail! Jesus. Okay, blah blah blah they have to send the crew out to get the water. Natasha volunteers to be Mission Specialist, primarily because she doesn’t want to go out to Mars and also because as she tells the rest of the group, that she’ll be able to translate Tallulah’s “woo-woo” instructions as needed.

So everyone except for Tallulah and Natasha dons their spacesuits and head out to the surface. The mission is going to involve rappelling down a cliff and then using a tarp to direct the water to a hose that will bring the water back up top. They have thirty minutes to fill four barrels with water.

Tallulah and Natasha have assigned Adam and Ariel to stay at the surface and fill the barrels. Immediately Marshawn says that he doesn’t want rappel down because he does not want to go into a cave “where I don’t know if there are snakes or spiders.” Tallulah sighs and switches Marshawn with Adam.

Porsha rappels first, confronting her fear of heights with encouragement from Richard, Adam, and Lance. Adam goes next, saying he looks “like a gay Buzz Lightyear.” Everyone makes it down and it’s only Schwartz left when Ariel suddenly decides SHE wants to go down into the cave, not stay up top. This causes a crisis in mission command, and Schwartz volunteers to stay because Ariel is clearly “experiencing a little FOMO.” Tallulah sighs and says fine, Ariel can go down, despite that fact that the mission guidelines say that physical strength is needed in the cave and they’ve already lost Marshawn. It is clear that literally everyone except for Ariel thinks this is a bad idea.

Okay. So it takes a bit of time for this crew to figure out how the tarp works, to Lance’s annoyance and look Lance is clearly an asshole but I would be annoyed here too. But they figure it out and start filling the barrels. Everything is going smoothly and Schwartz reports that they have three and a half barrels full and there are still six minutes left. Everyone celebrates!

Then the hose falls apart, and Ariel can’t hook it back in because it’s too heavy for her. Adam rushes over to help. We cut to a talking head where Ariel says that “maybe” if she “knew how physical” the task was going to be, she would have stayed up top. And . . . girl.

The pipe gets fixed and the team loses maybe a minute of time. And up top, Schwartz has bad news: actually, when he said they had three and half barrels filled before? He “misspoke.” There were only two and half barrels done.

Natasha and Tallulah are in disbelief. “You said we had three and a half.”

“I misspoke,” Schwartz says again. There are two minutes left.

They keep trying but obviously there is no way they are going to fill another bucket and a half in this amount of time. The mission fails.

Tallulah is directed to go up to the airlock and join the rest of the crew up for elimination. Natasha is left alone in the hab to start selecting people to stay. She chooses Ariel as mission critical first which would not be MY choice seeing as her insistence on switching jobs is the reason Schwartz was up top to begin with, but, whatever.

Anyway, this episode’s bottom three: Schwartz, Tallulah, and Marshawn. The group decides that Marshawn should stick around given that his strength will probably be useful on Mars, and also, he’s not the one who miscounted barrels.

To me, this choice between Tallulah and Schwartz is clear: it is not hard to count to four even for a man who stars on Vanderpump Rules, and Schwartz should be out of here. Tinashe agrees with me. However, the rest of the crew thinks that Tallulah should have been more forceful as commander and not let people switch jobs willy-nilly. So they say goodbye to Tallulah.

Tallulah says that on Mars she found “joy and deep connections with people" and that she is very proud of herself.

This is a bad elimination!!! Why do I care?? This show is so dumb.

Next week: fire in the biolab! A robot dog! And Marshawn refusing to give up the base commander suite.

#adam rippon #stars on mars #recaps

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