#the only thing that does rattle him is the Rain Master

[fortune-maiden]

*blink* is this… confirmation that Pei Ming didn’t help Ling Wen with her schemes?

[hawnks]

Alpha!Nanami/Omega!reader

Word count: ~2,800

warnings: a/b/o typical sexism, abuse of authority (from side character), mention of leg injury

……………………………………………………….

He brings the storm with him.

You learn him in whispers, along with a bevy of myth and rumor. He drifted here from the East. His clothing has been mended at least a dozen times, but his shoes are sturdy, expertly crafted. He makes no noise when he walks — hardly any noise at all. Rōnin, not samurai. And you can’t trust a man with no honor.

He killed his old master, I heard.

No, he was exiled.

Maybe he killed his master because he was exiled.

“He’ll be gone tomorrow once the rain lets up,” the innkeeper says, cutting off all further speculation. “Now, mind your work, not the guests.”

Beside you, someone grouses, “He chose a funny season to wander, if he’s afraid of the weather.”

…

The rain does not let up.

It puts everyone in a sour mood. The streets turn viscous and tacky, the air brutally cool. You draw the short straw, sent to fetch the days meat in the early morning, a long trek to the fishmonger that leaves you drenched down to your underwear.

It takes twice as long as usual — you lose your sandal a few times in the muck — and when you arrive the stand is vacant. The old man had come down with pneumonia.

Frustrated, you take the long way home. They can wait for the bad news, and you’re so soaked a few extra minutes won’t make any difference. You catch the eye of a few of the daimyō’s men, leering at you from beneath awnings, snickering as you walk by.

“Wanna hear a joke about wet omegas?” one of them calls to you.

You grit your teeth and keep walking.

You deliver the news about the fish to the innkeeper at the door to her room, so you can dart out again before she has a chance to say anything. God forbid she sends you out on another errand.

Soaking, furious, you change into your uniform, and begin your shift at the tavern.

The work is tedious, but decently lucrative. You like to talk to travelers, learn what’s happening beyond the boundaries of your town. It’s hard to put into words what you get out of this, hoarding information like you’re starved for it. Maybe the sheer notion that there is someplace else. That this town and its people are not the only things in the world.

The comfort of knowing away is still possible.

You expect to ask the rōnin the same, starry eyed questions, regardless of how the other server is avoiding him. It might even be enough to salvage this shitty morning.

But you don’t get a chance to ask him where he’s from, what he’s seen. You open your mouth to say something, and choke on air thick with the scent of wisteria.

He meets your gaze.

He won’t look away.

Your wet hair drips on his table.

You can’t feel your fingertips.

Shoving yourself away from the table so hard it rattles against the floor, you excuse yourself in a mumbled tumult. You recruit the other server to take over your tables for the rest of the morning. You must look as awful as you feel, because she doesn’t even question it as you retreat back to your room, throw yourself under the quilt. Close your eyes and pray for your heart to settle.

The one thing the gossip didn’t prepare you for — an alpha.

…

Another day of storms. Another morning you draw the short straw.

Another day you limp home through the mud, empty handed.

The soldiers don’t leer today. Instead, the daimyō is waiting for you. It feels like he’s always waiting for you, that he could swoop in any moment, as quick and ruthless as a hawk.

He’s said he could follow your scent straight to you, no matter where you’re hiding. Sometimes you believe it.

He’s leaning against a wall under an awning, but you know the casual stance is deceptive. He can be fast when he wants to be.

He calls your name, an inferred order to come.

You pretend you didn’t hear, keep walking.

He’s standing straight now arms at his side. Ready. Your insides feel leaden. It takes all your willpower to keep moving forward. To disregard an alpha is one, painful thing. To disregard the daimyō is simple insanity.

Water blurs your vision. You can’t tell from the corner of your eye what expression he’s making. Sometimes he finds your insolence humorous.

Sometimes not.

Just a dozen feet further and you’ll be at the bend in the road.

“You should greet me,” he says. Quiet, but you’re so hyper-vigilant, there’s no way you could miss it.

“Good morning, My Lord,” you whisper to your feet.

He doesn’t step out into the rain, but his voice follows you around the corner. Teasing, condescending. “That’s a good omega.”

He could kill you for your bad manners. A servant, ignoring their lord. No one would question it, no one would dispute it.

But then — he would be killing the only omega in the whole town.

As much as he resents your disobedience, he would resent the loss of you even more. An alpha must have an omega, he told you. That is his right.

Chin tucked and scurrying, you don’t realize you’re on a collision course until you’ve already run into the man. The impact sends you tumbling to the ground.

Through the buffer of the downpour, it takes you a minute to recognize him. His scent.

“I didn’t mean to frighten you,” he says. “I apologize.”

He bends to offer you a hand up. You just stare at his outstretched palm. Silent. Reeling.

You wait for him to give an order. Demand you take his hand, or that you come to stand on your feeble legs all on your own. It’s simply an alphas nature to wield their power like a cudgel, to bend everything and everyone to their will.

And now you have two of them to deal with.

Another moment of stillness. Your breath steams. Your pulse drowns out all other sounds.

He kneels.

Like this, on the same level, you can see the color of his eyes. So perfectly brown they’re almost black.

“Are you alright?” he says.

His voice is staid and calm. Not demanding. Not cruel. It — confuses you. You don’t understand what he wants from you.

You rise to your knees, shoving him with all your strength. He doesn’t budge. He remains solid and upright beneath your hands. You can feel the muscle, the innate strength. He’s warm, beneath the wet clothes. So incredibly warm.

You wonder if he could soothe your chill. You wonder if the touch of his bare skin would burn.

With a gasp, you tear away, appalled and mystified by your own reaction.

He stays kneeling as you rise and step away. He stays as you rush home, the scent of wisteria heavy in your lungs.

…

The innkeeper is displeased with your performance, of late. She gives you a stern warning that you shouldn’t let your “licentious nature” interfere with work.

“I don’t know why I agreed to take an omega on,” she sighs. “Not like you’ll be around for much longer, anyway.”

You wince. “Am I fired?”

The old woman laughs. “No, no. Not yet, anyway.” She waves at you, a full body gesture. A reference to the omega in you. “You’ll be wed to His Lordship soon, anyway. You won’t have to worry about the toil of work anymore.”

You excuse yourself shortly after.

…

The days are a monotony. Even the fear is so commonplace you lose track of it. The daimyō grows impatient with you. He calls to you from the shelter of the awning, each time a little bolder, a little less demure about his intentions.

“You know, I have a bad habit of breaking my things when I get bored of them,” he tells you. “I wonder what other tricks you have to keep me entertained.”

You hang your clothes to dry every evening, and the drip becomes a steady cadence, like the ticking of a clock.

This is your life.

The rain.

The rain.

The rain.

…

The decree is issued that afternoon. Marriage.

You’re to report to the royal estate before sundown, along with everything you own. You will not be coming back.

You pack your bag; you take the road out of town. With the city at your back, you’ll have to pass through the outskirt woods. Then across the river, a dangerous gambit when the water is this high, but that just means you won’t be followed.

You can’t imagine the consequences if they catch you.

The path grows looser the further you go, the mud deep, silt as slick as ice. Arduous and exhausting. And dangerous, too.

You don’t realize your footing is off until it’s too late. You slip, land badly. You cry out before you can stop yourself.

You struggle to your knees, get one of your legs beneath you. A shock of pain has you tumbling down again.

You can’t stand. You can’t run.

Just moments after you fall, a shadow overtakes you. And a man, looming, familiar, crouches before you.

“I heard your voice,” he says. “Can you walk?”

You shake your head, timid, overwhelmed.

“Pardon me,” he says, before hefting you up into his arms.

The ease he does it with is startling. An alpha’s superior strength.

He brings you to a small hunting cabin. Clearly abandoned, but decent enough. It’s dry, and a small fire is going in the hearth.

There’s no furniture except for a rudimentary pallet, which he sets you down on.

“May I?” he asks, hands hovering above your stockinged leg.

He takes your silence as answer enough, unrolling the material gradually, trying not to disturb your injury. He inspects it briefly, pressing carefully. You wince, he stops.

He reaches for his bag, retrieving a small tin. “Your ankle is sprained,” he tells you. “You should return to town in the morning.”

“I need to leave,” you return absently. “I have to get past the bridge.”

He frowns.

“The bridge has collapsed. The river is impassable.” He had tried to leave that morning, only to face the same dilemma. He considers you leg. “Besides, you won’t make it very far.”

The reality of your situation dawns on you, a slow tide of dread.

You missed your chance. You’ve lost your only opportunity at freedom.

You yank out of his grasp, dragging yourself across the floor, to the corner on the far side of the cabin.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to upset you—“

“No. No.” You gnash your teeth at him, feeling wild with fear, unable to see past the dark curtain of it. “I have to go. I can’t be trapped in here with you.”

He raises a hand, a placating gesture, but all you see is motion, canting toward you. An alpha. A threat.

You grab whatever is closest. You throw it at him.

The stick doesn’t even hit him, but that doesn’t stop you. You throw everything within reach.

He just waits for you to give up, but soon enough he realizes how stubborn you can be.

“Enough,” he says. His voice fills the shack, not loud, but indomitable. The undeniable command of an alpha. “I’m not going to hurt you. I would appreciate if you would offer me the same courtesy.”

You drop the stone you were going to hurl at him, suddenly incapable of aggression. You feel — groggy, but less terrified now. Very nearly calm.

His pheromones, you realize.

The notion that he’s using them on you should incense you, but you can’t muster it. You close your eyes, exhausted.

Eventually, after long minutes of tepid silence, he murmurs, “I was here first, you are aware of that, right?” His tone is almost — sullen.

And for some reason, that very human show of petulance is enough to thaw you.

You laugh.

You can’t stop. You laugh so hard it’s hardly laughter anymore. It’s so intense it makes your ribs hurt, brings tears to your eyes.

It feels like the first time you’ve been able to think clearly in weeks.

When you finally calm to a few soft hiccups, you lay down and throw your arms out. Passive.

“Alright, swordsman,” you say, “Fix me.”

He’s slow to approach you, cautious of another rock coming at him. But you remain still.

His touch is gentle, so soft it’s like he’s barely handling you at all. He retrieves the tin of salve you kicked out of his hand, and begins to apply it. It’s cool, slightly astringent. Beneath that, the scent of wisteria.

His fingers are just as warm as the rest of him.

It’s over before you can get used to the sensation of him touching you. He pulls away, returns the tin to his bag. “That will help with the swelling. You should still avoid putting weight on it until it heals.”

“Thank you,” you force yourself to say.

You think you hear him chuckle.

…

Night blooms, full and dark.

Despite your anxiousness, the waiting has grown tedious. Unbearably so.

“Is there anything in that bag to alleviate boredom?”

He glances at you for a moment. Hesitating.

Finally he reaches inside, pulls out a small binding. He passes it to you.

A book of poems. You recognize the shape of the sentences, some of the words. You wonder what use a swordsman has for literature, but the swordsman is full of surprises evidently.

Th pages are worn, the edges soft from thumbing.

“I can’t read,” you say. You look at him. Expectantly.

You hold the book out. He takes it, slowly, gingerly.

He reads.

He’s not much of a performer, although you didn’t expect him to be. It’s clear he’s not used to reading aloud, but he knows these passages well. He’s tone is even, with little inflection. The words come out perfectly paced.

They’re love poems. Not flowery or decadent, but earnest, gentle.

It seems at odds with what you know of him, what you’ve assumed from his status, both as a rōnin and an alpha. You’re not sure what to make of him anymore, how to reconcile the image you built of him in your head and everything you’ve witnessed here.

His swords are leaned against the wall beside him, sure proof of a history of violence.

The question comes, unbidden. “Have you ever killed someone?”

He pauses, glances at you. He searches your face for something, the fear that should accompany those words. But your expression is blank.

Silence, fraught with the tense memory of how you ended up here. What were you running from? Why? He must understand, to some extent. No one reaches desperation without pretext.

“Yes,” he says, simply.

“If I asked you to kill someone,” you murmur. “If I paid you…”

The implication feels enormous within the tight confines of the cabin.

“I don’t believe that’s what you want.”

“What do I want?”

“To not be put in a position where you have to make that kind of decision.”

That makes something in your chest feel tight, on the verge of snapping. Another thing you can’t wrap your head around. Another emotion you can’t name. Uncomfortable, but not frightening. Not like before.

You feel displaced, unmoored.

“Why are you being so nice to me?”

“I’m not being nice,” he says. “You need help. I’m in a position to provide it.”

And that seems wrong to you. Just because someone has the means doesn’t mean they’ll offer them, certainly not freely. Especially not when someone is a such a burden.

“I’ve never met an alpha who’s kind to an omega just for the sake of it,” you say despite his denial.

He mulls that over for a moment, head cocked as he decides how to respond.

“I didn’t know you were an omega until tonight,” he says, quietly. “I had my suspicions, but…”

“Were my bountiful charms not enough to tip you off?” You snort at his blank expression, too polite to disrespect you with an answer. “Why now?”

“Your scent. It’s…subtle. Easy to miss, especially under these circumstances.”

“What do I smell like?”

He smiles, for the first time since you met him. It softens his severe features, makes him look younger. Less world-weary. “You smell like rain.”

He continues reading as the sky continues to churn, until you can hardly keep your eyes open, just barely holding on to the soft thread of words.

“Sleep,” he says gently. “You’ll feel better in the morning.”

Despite yourself, you believe him.

[sparkbeast20]

Chaos outside the Bedroom!?! (Satan's and Diavolo's Part)

Summary: What happens, when you and S/o are doing and they loses control of their power?

While you don't have to answer that... but the others on outside the room does!

Note: these are separated headcanons and No actual smut.

Lucifer and Mammon, Barbatos, Simeon and Raphael

Warning: Swearing, Demonic/Angelic/Magic influences, and Mention/implied sexual content.

Satan (Fire and Heat)

Levi is a bit envious as he watch his brother take their human into his room and quickly close the door behind him.

Levi didn't want to get all worked up so, he went back to his room and distract himself with his games.

Half an hour later, Levi suddenly felt his whole room start to warm. Then he start to swear like he was in sauna. He start taking off some of his clothes.

But as soon as his jacket hits the floor, it instantly combust into flames startling him. He jump out of his chair.

But as soon his socked feet hits the floor, Levi scream when his feet start burning.

He rush out of the room only to bump into Belphie.

He and Levi argued before they both start burning up, they quickly rush down stairs and make there way to the Music room and head straight to the Planetarium

They both stop dead in their track when they saw Mammon, Asmo and Beel in the fountain panting like dogs trapped in a car under sun.

The two exchange looks before jumping into the fountain.

For a moment they all start to cool down.

But suddenly there was a roar that shook the walls and rattle the glass windows.

And before they could say something, All the furniture in the music room burst into green flames causing Mammon, Levi and Asmo to scream in fear.

But after ten minutes all the flames went out and house stopped shaking.

They all huddle together scared move, that's when Lucifer came home and saw most of house's furniture are burned and he walked around and spots his brothers. Calling back from the last time something burned down. He instantly assume is their fault.

Meanwhile in Satan's Room

You cuddle into Satan's side as he tuck you close to him while he was reading a book. After hearing him talk in such a demonic voice a moment ago, it was so soothing to hear him read to you.

Diavolo (Lightning and Earthquake)

Barbatos is slaving away in the kitchen. He was getting everything ready for Lord Diavolo. But he doubt that he'll see him anytime soon.

He did saw his young master swiftly scoop you in his arms before seeing Diavolo carrying you back to his room.

Barbatos was preparing dinner when suddenly he hard thunder, which was odd since there wasn't forecast of rain or thunderstorm.

But then the sky darkest and a string of lightning strike near the castle. Then it click.

He sighs and hex the entire kitchen. He pity the dorms connected to the castle to what's going to happen in the next hour.

Meanwhile at Purgatory Hall. Luke was awake by the loud thunder storm, he wasn't scared or anything, but he does notice the flash of lightning was much closet together with the thunder.

He quickly jump out of bed and rushes to Simeon's room, on the way he jumps and yelp cause each step he took, was followed by a loud boom of thunder and a flash of lightning where he saw strike by the front of the dorm.

When he did finally made it to Simeon's room he was in the verge of tears and quickly cling to the older angel.

Next an hour of this thunderstorm, the residence of House of Lamination complained that they had to stay home because they were bored since you were at the castle for night.

Satan shook his head in pity for his needy brothers as he took a sip of his tea. As soon he set his cup back to the table. The whole house shook with one big quake. It wasn't a continues shake like any regular earthquake. This one was like something big slam into the earth.

Soon, this rhythmic quakes continue. Cause all things in the house like painting, chandelier, mount head decor and the shelves start falling.

All the brothers panic, with some of them clinging to another.

after thirty minutes of this strong rhythmic earthquakes. it suddenly stopped.

Asmo and Beel sighs in relief while trying to help Levi and Belphie up.

Meanwhile, Lucifer stood in the middle of his study where all of his books, papers, and bottle of Demonus are scattered on the floor.

Meanwhile in Diavolo's Room

You lay on top of Diavolo, fast asleep with a smile on your face. While the demon in question has his arms around you, hugging you tight. Both of you are naked with a blanket covering both of your lower half. sweat and afterglow.

Though Diavolo can't shake the feeling that he did something. But he shrug it for now and focus on you, he reach and run his fingers through your hair before leaning down and kiss your forehead.

Notes: I find it hilarious of the idea of the earthquake is in sync with Diavolo "Drilling" into MC. So basically the House of Lamentation felt what MC felt 🤣🤣🤣

This meme makes it more funny

If there’s grammar or spelling error, please let me know and don’t be shy to leave a comment or reblogging with cute tags. I just love to see you guys thoughts on this :3

[dindjarinandlysakane]

The Sweetest Taste | Chapter 52 - My kar’ta

When Din Djarin meets a beautiful cake seller from Nevarro, do you think he’s just going to stand back and let her suffer at the hands of her abusive boyfriend? After a lifetime of heartache and pain, Lysa Kane realises she’s not on her own any more and finds an unlikely friend in the Mandalorian. And Din Djarin does not like men who treat women like that, not one tiny bit. Friendship/comfort and maybe something more…

Masterlist

Chapter 52 - My kar'ta

------

**This chapter contains brief NSFW content. 18+ only**

The night sky over the cool Nevarro desert was inky black, with every single star visible, twinkling overhead.

It was a stark contrast from the weather just a few hours prior, where a grumbling thunderstorm had belted down rain for over an hour.

The ground underfoot was still damp- the first thing Din noticed as he jumped from his N-1 Starfighter, and his boots hit the, normally, dusty earth just a little way from his small cabin.

Din and Grogu had been out since dawn. Having received a message on the wrist-comm from Carson Teva, who wanted to meet with them to discuss business in a quiet, back-street bar in Mos Eisley.

The meeting had been interesting, with Teva pretty much assuring Din that with the troubles the New Republic seemed to be having with bandits and outlaws on the Outer Rim, he would be kept well topped up with credits for the next Standard year at least!

On the long journey home, Grogu had fallen fast asleep against Din’s shoulder. Snoring softly.

Leaving Din eager to get home, pushing his Starfighter to its limits on the return journey.

It had been Din’s first trip off-planet since arriving back from Nar Shaddaa a little over a week ago. And the Mandalorian was keen to get home and see Lysa. Today having also been the first day that she had ventured into the city, since making her last delivery all those days prior.

Din had spent all of the previous evening showing Lysa how to properly use the speeder bike, which had been a fun couple of hours. At first Din had been rattled to see Lysa speed off, looking like she had little-to-no control over the vehicle in question. But he had been wrong to doubt her. And within just ten minutes she had mastered the precarious speeder easily, enjoying how exhilaratingly fast it moved compared to her sluggish and ancient old landspeeder.

They had made sure that the basket could easily hook onto the back, which it did, even providing Grogu with a fun place to sit, giggling and cooing happily as Lysa did laps of the cabin at a speed. As Din had chuckled beneath his helmet, watching them from the porch, muscular arms folded over his beskar plated chest.

But the basket had been unhooked for now, with Lysa informing Din that she didn't quite want to start back making deliveries yet. Instead wanting to take today to head into town and settle up with a few of the vendors she owed money to for their ingredients, and collect a few things she needed.

She had seemed to him over the last couple of days, a different person to that of a week ago, when she had first woken from her fever, upset and traumatised. Now it was as though that light had returned to her eyes. Her shoulders having untensed and that worried frown slipping slowly away as the days went on.

Din had savoured her closeness this past week, his chest constricting when he was near to her, unable to help the smile that slipped its way into his features when he looked her way. Knowing now that no matter what happened between them now, Din’s heart would forever be hers.

The lights were on inside the cabin now, but they were dimmed, signalling to him that Lysa was likely already in bed. With her having left the lights on low, knowing that he would see them as his ship circled overhead, welcoming him home.

As Din arrived at the top step of his porch, he approached the front door watching as it slid open.

Quietly he went inside only to find Lysa half way across the room, having returned from using the Refresher. Dressed in just her usual short, this time- pale green slip, that ended at her smooth thighs, and bare feet. Looking like an angelic vision to Din.

She smiled happily at their sudden presence, tucking a long strand of mussed-up long blonde hair behind her ear.

He noted that she must have been sleeping, likely roused by the noise from the N-1 landing just outside. The next time he was to arrive back so late he would make sure to park up a little distance away, as not to disturb her. But in a selfish way, he now was glad that he had interrupted her sleep, to allow himself the chance to look at her now, smiling back at him in the twilight.

Lysa’s eyes swiftly fell to the sleeping Grogu still nestled in Din’s arms and her face softened to one of adoration.

“Has he been sleeping long?” she said with a whisper.

Din angled his gaze down to his son as best he could with his helmet half obscuring his view.

“An hour or two,” he commented. “I’m going to put him down and then get freshened up. A Tatooine summer is no joke.”

He watched as Lysa offered him a smile, wrinkling her nose affectionately as she did so. Before she approached, leaning in and pressing a gentle kiss to the very top of Grogu’s head.

Din felt a swell of pride as he gazed down at them both, realising then just how lucky he truly was.

Pulling back carefully so as not to disturb the sleeping child, Lysa gently passed the pair, heading into Din’s bedroom, as he watched her go for a lingering moment. Before strolling silently into the Sleeper just beside that one.

Less than ten minutes later Din emerged back into the living space, having showered, dressed in just his tunic and pants and helmet now.

He rounded the corner into the sleeper to see Lysa sat facing him from her position on his bed, a smile on her face, her head propped up with a pillow.

And from behind his helmet, Din couldn't help but smile back.

“How was Tatooine?” she asked gently.

Din gave an easy shrug entering the room, beginning to re-unbutton his tunic at the collar. 

Din was so used to covering up in front of others, he had not yet become accustomed to walking the length of the cabin without his tunic yet.

“Fine,” he replied tiredly, not having found his day interesting enough to expand on. “How was the city?”

Din was far more eager to hear how Lysa had found her first trip into town since everything that had happened.

“It was good,” she said brightly, her green eyes watching as his neck was revealed little by little. “Visited the market. Everyone was….sweet.”

At her words Din glanced her way, earning a small, but happy sigh from Lysa’s lips.

“Seems like news travels fast when the High-Magistrate comes to Nar Shaddaa to rescue you,” she explained.

Din pursed his lips. “Karga shouldn't have-”

“It’s fine,” uttered Lysa in a soothing voice, giving a small smile. “I don't think any of them had even met Crix, so I think it was all just a surprise to them that I’d put up with someone like that for so long without doing anything about it.”

She gave a small sniff now, her eyes drifting down to her knees for a moment, before she glanced up at him once more. 

“And I can see now how stupid I was, of course I can,” she said in a voice quieter now than before. “But…y’know…hindsight can be a funny thing. I think I’d accepted that that was my life. And that I had no choice.”

Din stared back at her for a long moment, as the room fell quiet.

Lysa swallowed harshly before she spoke again.

“I…uh…I also went back to my old apartment today,” she said with a nod, a soft smile gracing her lips once more. “Just to pick up a couple of things, and I…I bumped into my landlord.”

Din stared up at her instantly, his fingers slipping against a button at his collar.

“...and I uh…I asked about the lease…it’s under Crix’s name…” she explained, her face flushing slightly as she spoke, her eyes instantly dropping from his and instead becoming fixed to a loose thread on the white sheet before her. “...and um, well, he asked if I wanted to take it over…”

Behind his beskar Din Djarin suddenly felt his throat go instantly dry and his heart seem to skip a beat.

“...and, well, I told him I’d think about it…” she said, her unsure eyes drifting back up to Din’s, obscured behind his helmet. “...I just…”

Lysa swallowed hard again, offering Din a sweet smile, her wide green eyes full of uncertainty now.

“...I wasn't sure if I’d outstayed my welcome with you…here…” she explained, taking in a breath and seeming to hold it in place, waiting for Din’s response.

A frown slipped between Din’s brows, his brown eyes roving across her face, his breathing becoming suddenly shallow.

Din didn't want her to leave. Not now. Not ever. His heart aching at the idea of losing her.

“Stay,” he said suddenly, his voice sounding stark in the quiet of the room. “I want you to stay. We want you to stay.”

Lysa gazed at him, with eyes filled with a hopeful disbelief and she opened her mouth to speak, but Din did not give her the chance. Cutting across her now.

“After what happened in Nar Shaddaa,” said Din in a serious voice through his modulator. “...I don’t think I can bear to be apart from you again.”

His gaze remaining fixed on hers throughout.

“And I know this place might not seem like much of a home,” he continued, his voice earnest. “But to us…it is now that you’re in it. If you want it to, it could be your home too…”

At Din’s words, Lysa’s face seemed to warm in front of his eyes. A blushing smile breaking onto her pretty features.

“Ok,” she said with a beaming nod.

“Ok,” replied Din firmly, finally letting go of his breath for the first time in what felt like an age, a relieved smile flitting its way onto his face. His chest swelling with pride.

Din’s heart now ached for her. For the woman sat before him, looking like a vision in pale starlight.

And he knew now that he didn't want her questioning things between them again. 

He never again wanted to see her uncertain about how much love for her he had.

Never wanted to see her doubt how much she meant to him and how much he wanted to hold her close and never let her go.

As she stared back at him now, Din could see the love pouring from her. Her beautiful face a shining light even in the darkness of the room.

And feeling a lump settle in his throat, and a frown settle itself between Din’s brows, he gazed down at her knowing exactly how he felt about her now. 

How he’d felt about her from that first moment he’s laid eyes on her.

The ever-shining sunlight to his dark and pouring rain.

And without warning, Din, with that frown still there and chest rising and falling hard, unpinned his tunic and shucked it from his shoulders. Before reaching over and pressing a hand to the square button beneath the window.

And just before the room, plunged into darkness, he saw Lysa wet her lips gently with her tongue, a warm expectation set within her gaze.

A moment later the room became black, as Din dropped his knees onto the bed one by one, pulling off his beskar helmet as he did so. Throwing it onto the mattress beside them.

And almost instantly he felt Lysa’s hand on his chest, knowing exactly where he was even in the dark. Her palms sliding over his shoulders, as she pulled him close, her lips meeting with his.

Her kiss was soft and sweet and Din felt his chest constrict with the adoration he felt for her in that moment.

Lysa lay back, tugging him on top of her, her fingers threading themselves through his dark hair. Just as Din’s propped himself up with his arms either side of her, penning her in.

Wanting now to right every wrong that had ever befallen her.

Wanting to soothe every hurt.

Determined tonight, to kiss every part of her body that Crix had bruised her.

And moving his mouth from hers, he began to press gentle open-mouthed kisses to her neck, staring from the space just beneath her ear, and travelling down slowly to her collarbone.

Her heard Lysa let out a satisfied ‘mmmmm’, hearing now that she was smiling.

And how Din loved making her smile.

He dipped his head, dropping his lips next to her chest, inching lower, as his rough hands unbuttoned her pale slip slowly, revealing even more skin to him.

A moment later the fabric between them was gone, Lysa letting it slide from her shoulders, propping herself up onto her elbows for a second to toss it aside.

As her back hit the mattress once more, Din’s hands skimmed down her sides, coming to stop on the small of her waist, as his kisses followed, one falling between her breasts before his lips grazed her ribs. Peppering each side with brief and open-mouthed laps.

He knew that Crix had broken and bruised more than a few of her rib-bones over the years. And despite not being able to take those hard memories away from Lysa. Din wanted to do what he could to let her know that the hurt was now gone.

The noise of his lips gently kissing her skin, caused Lysa to emit several soft little moans that were enough to make Din frown darkly, his breathing becoming shallower within his chest now. Enjoying the sounds he was able to ease from her mouth.

Her stomach was next to receive attention from him, followed by her hips, one-by-one, as he slowly moved to her thighs. Positioning himself between them and using his hands to hitch up both legs and press soft wet kisses to those smooth inner-thighs of hers.

He heard her gasp out expectantly, the noise sending waves of arousal coursing through his body.

But he was not done yet. Nor was he ready to finish in kissing away the ghosts of the bruises Crix had once given her. His entire chest constricting, as his thoughts lingered on all she had gone through, and all she had survived.

With Din Djarin knowing that there was nothing she could ever do, for him to consider ever inflicting those same bruises on her.

And so sliding his body up and over hers once again, and propping himself up with one arm taught against the mattress, his face found hers in the dark.

Din pressed a gentle kiss to one cheekbone now, and then the other, feeling her smile instantly at that. Before his lips grazed her temples, once, twice then three times…

…before finally, moving to the space between her brows…

…to that frown line…

…to that place he had once promised himself, long before Lysa had even been his, that he would one day press his lips to.

And it was in that moment, that everything seemed to change. With Din pulling back, feeling his breathing become shallow and that frown that had graced his own brow, returning. As he stared down at Lysa, without being able to even see her in the darkness.

Knowing now that she completed him.

That his existence now felt utterly fulfilled now that she was in it. As though every moment of his life was leading to him meeting her.

And that was when Din Djarin made a decision. A decision which he knew now that he would not regret for the rest of his days.

And so breathing hard, he lifted his face back just an inch, staring down at Lysa…

…as his free hand moved to the window.

And in an instant, Din had flipped the switch…

… opening the shutters…

…with shining starlight illuminating the small room…

…revealing his face, at last, to the beautiful woman before him.

Din gave a harsh swallow, as he stared down at her. His heart thudding inside his chest, almost trembling with apprehension.

Unable to help the fear and worry that appeared in his brown eyes, as he stared wordlessly down at her.

Before him, he saw Lysa blink a couple of times, her green eyes wide, her lips parting gently.

Dank farrik.

What if she found him grotesque?

What if upon seeing his face after so long, she decided that he was not the man she thought he was?

Aside from Grogu and the Jedi, Din had not shown his face to another living being since he was a child, putting on the helmet for the first time.

To him now, this felt like standing naked in a room full of people, vulnerable, with nowhere to hide.

But before Din could worry further, Lysa had lifted her smooth hand to his face, her fingers lightly tracing over his cheekbones and down his jaw, grazing over his bottom lip. As her eyes followed the same path, taking in his every feature.

Before those marsh-green eyes of hers finally settled on his brown ones…

…for the very first time.

And awash in her eyes was a look that told him all he ever needed to know.

A look that told him just how utterly in love with him she was.

A feeling Din reciprocated now, so strongly in return, that he felt his heart might shatter in two if he were to ever lose her again.

A love so intense, he felt that no force in this galaxy could keep them apart any longer.

“Ni kar’tayli gar darasuum,” he uttered aloud, before he could do a thing to stop himself. The words presenting themselves to her, as though she was always meant to have had them.

And for a moment, her eyes searched his…

But Din did not give her the chance to worry on their meaning. As he swallowed hard again, his gaze never leaving hers.

“It means- I will know you forever.”

Din stared down at her as a look of shining awe appeared like morning dew over Lysa perfect features.

“It’s what the people of Mandalore would say to those that they-” he paused, just for the very briefest of seconds, wetting his bottom lip gently with his tongue. “-that they love.”

Din watched, as the frown line between Lysa’s eyes deepended for a split second before her face softened completely.

“I love you,” said Din, with a slight shake of his head, his words honest in the quiet of the night. “I think I loved you from that first time you showed up outside in your speeder.”

A gentle smile slipped it’s way over Lysa’s face, her sparkling ocean green eyes still searching his in the starlight.

“I love you too,” she said breathlessly, reaching up and cupping at his cheek with her hand, as she lifted her head from the pillow behind her head, her lips gently meeting with his.

To Din, her lips tasted like golden honey. 

Like pure sunlight.

Her kiss sweet and delicious, and filled with love in its most truest form.

And like that they remained, kissing at one another languidly, hands sliding over skin.

Enjoying every inch of each other as the minutes slowly passed them by. 

Until those kisses of theirs became far more heated, the swirling vortex of their need for one another getting bigger and more powerful until neither of them could bear it any longer.

Thighs sliding over hips…

Hands fumbling between them, as Din’s dark pants were pushed from his waist and kicked to the floor.

They felt like magnets now, unable and unwilling to part, as they sought their pleasure, so wrapped in one another neither would have noticed if a StarCruiser had crashed into the planet right outside.

Their lips parted for a brief moment, huffing hot breaths into each other’s mouths, as Lysa’s hand found his erect length, hard and throbbing between his legs. Eager to seek its goal in that soaked aching slit between her thighs.

And a moment later, with mouths hanging open, both mirroring the other, eyes locked, Din was there, buried inside her.

Their pace started slow, with Lysa’s hand moving to his muscular bicep, now flexed taught beside her shoulder. Fingernails from her other hand raking through his dark hair.

And Din could only breathe out raggedly, as their hips began to move in sync with one another.

Moving faster and ever faster. 

Lips grazing. 

Tongue’s lapping. 

Both intoxicated on each other.

Lysa moaned into Din’s mouth, her eyes closing blissfully, as her back arched against the sheets beneath her.

Din’s hands skimmed up the bare skin of Lysa’s warm outer thigh, huffing a grunt into her parted lips, as he buried himself inside her time and time again. The wet, sinful noises between them, truly something to behold.

A moment later, her hand moved to his neck and she lifted her face to his again. Her green eyes seeking his in the pale light.

And their eye contact remained as Lysa fell apart first, gasping out, clenching around his hard cock, which now sodden with her juices.

The sensation enough to trigger Din’s own climax, a dark frown gracing his sweat beaded brow, as he came hard, groaning out as Lysa watched him from her own comedown.

“Dank farrik…” he murmured, as Lysa gave a hazy nod in response, her thumb grazing over Din’s bottom lip, as she leaned her lips in close to his.

“Yeah…” she responded breathlessly, as Din eased himself from her now, his trembling arm almost giving out on him. Settling himself down onto his back, onto the mattress beside her.

The two of them breathing hard, their chests both rising and falling hard in the pale light of the stars.

A few seconds later, Din felt Lysa turn towards him, shifting onto her side to gaze at his profile, feeling her eyes on him.

And shifting his own body, he came to face her.

The pair were silent for a long moment, with Lysa’s hand drifting up to Din’s face, her thumb drifting over the hollow beneath Din’s eye gently, where he bore the small marks of more than a few fights he had both won and lost over the years.

Din closed his eyes, even after weeks of removing his helmet in the dark and feeling her contact, he still cherished the feeling of her warm fingers touching a place he had not had touched by another since he was a small child.

“Won’t you get in trouble for removing your helmet?” he heard Lysa ask now, amidst the quiet. “Isn't it against the Creed?”

Her words were caring and soft. And as Din opened his eyes, he looked upon her face, full of concern and love for him, and only him.

Din’s hand moved to her middle, his fingers reaching the small of her waist as he caressed her smooth skin.

“You are part of my family now,” he said, leaning in and nudging his nose with hers gently. “My clan.”

He saw her green eyes seek his lips in the darkness, watching every word as they spilled from his lips.

“I have abided by the rules for so long. Sacrificing so much along the way,” he continued in earnest, knowing that every word was true.

Being a Mandalorian, he had missed out on so very much.

Missed out on what others sought so often. 

On that intimacy, with not only lovers but family too.

But now, Din Djarin was no longer on the outside looking in. For the galaxy had provided him with his own family. His own clan.

“These moments with you-” he uttered now, pulling her hips into his and pressing his hand to the dipped small of her back, holding her so very close. “-we are bonded. And I-”

Din gave a hard swallow now, gazing into the eyes of the woman he loved so dearly.

“I just….I don't ever want to let you go,” he said, letting out a huff of air through his nose, as he reached down, his hand grasping hers.

“You are my kar’ta…” he said, pressing her palm flat to his bare chest, as he translated in a low and firm voice. “...my heart.”

He saw Lysa tilt her head, and tears glint in her eyes in the pale starlight. But she did not let any fall now. 

A smile gracing her perfect face as she shifted closer to Din now and tucked her head beneath his chin. Her hand finding his once more, their fingers entwining neatly.

Both listening to the rain as it began to pitter-patter on the roof of the cabin, but neither allowing sleep to take them just yet.

The two of them, Din and Lysa, basking now in the glow of both the rain…

…and the sunlight.

………………………………………………………

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[daisyswift3]

This is great! I interpreted this song in a very similar way. I think it’s directed at Scooter and she’s quoting many of the things she’s been told over the course of her career, maybe from her label—like how she should be careful when she’s out in public w her gf bc it could ruin her career—and she’s basically turning it around and warning him that now HE’S the one who needs to be careful w his secrets or else it could ruin his career. She tells him “cross your (thoughtless) heart” and the second part of the saying “hope to die” is implied which sounds very much like a threat in this context.

Remember last yr when there were all those articles that were released saying that a lot of really bad news was gonna come out abt Scooter soon, he was gonna leave management, and a bunch of his clients left at the same time? And then after all that it was just….silent. I think this is what the 3rd verse is referring to. I think it’s possible Taylor was the one who planted those articles and started those rumors and then pulled the plug on it and told the news outlets to stop -> “Devils that you know (Taylor and company) raise worse hell than a stranger, She's the death you chose, You're in terrible danger.” (x)(x)(x)

I think it’s possible many of these rumors weren’t even true but many ppl believed them regardless bc no one likes Scooter and everyone is praying for his demise -> “Wise men once read fake news and they believed it, Jackals raised their hackles, You couldn't conceive it, You were sleeping soundly when they dragged you from your bed and I tried to warn you about them.” So now Taylor can use this to her advantage to prevent him from trying anything funny so that she won’t have any obstacles in the way of her coming out this time.

The 2nd 🎃 message uses the same exact parachute metaphor to describe how Taylor had to pump the breaks on her 2019 coming out bc she didn’t feel adequately prepared to come out and probably knew there was a good chance her masters would be sold (and they were) (I explain this in more detail along w the wild wind/seed metaphor in this post). I think the parachute metaphor—which is abt pulling the plug on sth in order to save one’s reputation—is being used in a similar way in this song; plus it relates to the mastersheist which Scooter was a part of so it adds up. Taylor swept in and, like a parachute, saved him by putting a stop to the rumors -> “So I crossed my thoughtless heart, Spread my wings like a parachute, I'm the albatross, I swept in at the rescue.” BUT she can rain hellfire down on him at any moment so now he’s just waiting for the other shoe to drop -> “The devil that you know looks now more like an angel, I'm the life you chose and all this terrible danger.” She’s telling him that he’s the one who started this so the only one he has to blame is himself. I really love the creepy eery instrumentation which sounds like sth out of a horror movie lol. It really adds to the vibe that she’s a ghost that’s coming back from the dead to haunt him. I think it’s possible she stopped the rumors bc she’s waiting for the right opportunity and timing to destroy him.

Many of the things she says in this song are reminiscent of Karma: “It’s coming back around, And I keep my side of the street clean, You wouldn't know what I mean…Karma's a relaxing thought, Aren't you envious that for you it's not?…'Cause karma is the thunder, Rattling your ground, Karma's on your scent like a bounty hunter, Karma's gonna track you down, Step by step, from town to town”

This is just how I interpreted it, I could be wrong. And maybe she actually does have dirt on him or sth and there are some actual unsavory revelations that are gonna be revealed. I guess we’ll just have to wait and see.

The Albatross decoded

(as requested by @asteracaea's anon, just wanted this for my records too. I hope you see it)

It starts with 'Wise men once said' so immediately we know it's some old white men wisdom, so probably some BS... "Wild winds are death to the candle" isn't a saying I've heard before but English is also not my first language. I'd take it to mean a wild unruly person will destroy something delicate and fragile, just like a strong wind will blow out a candle. As warnings are being issued here, I assume that they are warning the person about this woman because she's known for being a 'wild wind'. The warning then continues into the 'Rose by any other name...' line. Just to make it perfectly clear that it's the MEN who are saying it's a scandal, not Taylor. Taylor knows it's a rose. At least twice on this album does she refer to kissgate as a scandal and with such venom that I'm very sure that that's what the old white men at her label told her it was at the time. And she's still angry about it (as she should!).

In the chorus we have "Cross your thoughtless heart/ Only liquor anoints you" Crossing your heart means you're making a promise to tell the truth, similar to a pledge or a pinky promise. And adding 'thoughtless' would imply she wants the other person to make this promise without any fear or consideration of the possible consequences. So, basically, "promise me something sincerely without thinking too much about it". Only liquor anoints you - Anointment is part of religious ceremonies and is usually done with holy oil to either improve someone's health or make them a saint. It's also done when kings and queens are crowned and I think that's the meaning here. The other person is being raised up to be a monarch or a saint, but with alcohol instead of holy oil. Personally, these two lines convinced me that Taylor is talking to her lover here, because asking for a sincerely promise, almost like a vow, and in return making the other person your king/queen is all very soft and romantic. Very 'King of my heart'. 😉 (and note that she's not saying I'M here to destroy you, she saying OTHER people will tell you that I'm going to destroy you)

In the second verse we're back to what the 'wise men' are saying and this time it's the bad seed that kills the garden (kinda self-explanatory) and then "One less temptress, one less dagger to sharpen". First they were warning the lover and now they're clearly trying to keep them apart by saying that this woman (Taylor) is a bad influence or a temptation. Not sure if I would call this a literary reference, but it's noteworthy that lesbians in early media portrayals (the days of the Hays Code) were often shown as predatory or evil women who would seduce the good straight girls and turn them gay... bad seed/temptress indeed.

Then we have an add on chorus with "Devils that you know raise worse hell than a stranger". This is in fact a saying "Better the devil you know" which means it's better to choose the bad thing you already know over a new one, because you're already used to this one. But again, in this context it's flipped (she does this a lot). In this case, the devil you know is in fact WORSE than a stranger. So they're saying to her lover 'this devil of yours is worse hell and you'd be better off with a stranger' adding to the above warnings, and then they're also adding the warning "You're in terrible danger/She's the death you chose". Boy oh boy, they really didn't want them to be together, very Romeo and Juliet indeed...

Ok, the bridge: "And when that sky rains fire on you/ And you're persona non grata/ I'll tell you how I've been there too And that none of it matters". -> All these warnings are coming to fruition and the sky is now 'raining fire' on her lover. Something bad has happened and they are persona non grata, which is Latin for an unwelcome person, but more commonly used to say the worst person you can think of. So, her lover is in the eye of the storm and is seen as the guilty person, but Taylor tells her that she's been through the same before and it doesn't matter. Like she said in her Lavender Haze video, "We just ignore it and protect the real stuff."

The third verse gives details about what the fire storm mentioned above actually was (just for context, I know you didn't ask about that): some people read some fake news about her lover and came after her because they believed it. The "Jackles raised their hackles" and being dragged from your bed at night very much gives witch hunt imagery, which is a cool choice for two reasons: 1) like the 'witches' her lover is innocent and wrongly convicted of a crime, and 2) all 'witches' were women. 😉

In the last chorus, of course, Taylor's albatross becomes the rescuing angel that swoops in to save her lover from being burned at the stakes. The devil becomes the angel and the anti hero becomes the hero. She says "I'm the life you chose and all this terrible danger". This reminds me of peace: Yes, the life you chose with me comes with shit storms sometimes ('would it be enough if I can never give you peace?') but I will always rescue you if I have to.

(And this part hasn't happened yet, one reason why I love this song so much, it feels like such a sneaky insight into things yet to come, same as FOTS and the Alchemy 😊)

So, there you go, hope this helped, never ask long questions if you don't want long answers ;)

[dancing-with-the-madmen]

The Massive Aggression of Calico Jack, redux

Several kind souls have complained brought it to my attention that my failure to use cut tags is, in fact, not optimal. I don't have any good reason that I don't use cuts - mostly I'm just throwing these thoughts out here so they don't endlessly rattle around my brain. Frankly, I'm endlessly astonished anyone but me can be arsed to bother wading through them at all. So, after a truly epic tantrum thoughtful consideration, I've decided to edit my longer posts to add cuts. If you've already read them, (may endless blessings rain down upon you) there's no new content (vile lies and calumny. I'm going to take this opportunity to fix errors and add a line here or there, but nothing major). Just making it more scroll-friendly. You'll know it when you see the word "redux" in the title. So without further ado...

I’ve been trying for a while to put my finger on exactly what it is about Our Flag Means Death's Calico Jack that makes me want to crawl out of my skin and smother him to death with my own abandoned ecdysis.

I mean, I normally love me a spurned admirer/cock-blocking ex. Romantic comedies have their beats, and there’s obviously no serious danger the love interest will end up with anyone other than their intended, so I may as well sit back and enjoy the machinations. After all, the course of true love never did run smooth, and these bitches are here to rough some shit up for sure. I also love Will Arnett. Hands down favorite recurring character on 30 Rock. The second best Batman after TAS (fight me). I can even cheerfully bear his Reese’s commercials if I must bear commercials at all.

Real-life Calico Jack? One of my v. favorite pirates. He wore floral-printed cotton from India as a fuck you to the British tax man. He had an affair with Anne Bonny and offered to purchase her divorce when her husband found out. The two ran away together into piracy when Bonny’s husband refused to quit her and had her whipped for her infidelity. Mary Read was part of Jack and Anne’s crew, and possibly their lover. We love a hopeless romantic, possibly polyamorous king. 

So what is it about OFMD Calico Jack that makes him so acutely punchable?

I’ve rewatched the episode several times (oh my v. dears, I really hope this write-up is worth it. I am SO BRAVE to subject myself to this), and I think I’ve finally got it. It’s not just that he’s a loud, vulgar, hectoring, drunken jackass of a bird-murderer. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I have as little patience for his brand of mindless destruction and violence-for-violence-sake as Stede does, but that’s not all.  It’s that he’s also a master of passive aggression.

Jack does the little whisper-y “Sorry! Sorry!” when Stede wants to know what’s with all the cannon fire, but immediately starts grinning like an unrepentant varlet as soon as he drops his hands.

And then accepts Stede’s introductory handshake with clear derision.

When Stede says he wasn’t expecting guests and there’s only two settings at brekkie, Jack doesn’t wait for Stede to sort things out, and he’s already lowering himself into Stede’s chair by the time Stede invites him to take his spot. He then purposefully keeps steering the conversation to topics that exclude Stede from participating, and cuts Stede short when he tries to reign the conversation back.

He insinuates Stede is less of a pirate for being “store bought”

He refuses to get Stede’s name right, even when corrected. Twice.

And is just SO insincere when calling him back.

And, just, the whole pissing contest scene.

But so what? We’ve had other passive aggressive assholes on the show; Badminton with his cracks about Stede’s tiny dick ship, the French captain’s slurs, Gabriel simpering about Jeff the Accountant’s dining manners. I’m not shedding any tears for their respective fates, but none of them made me want to crawl through the screen and sew all their face holes shut. Because Jack isn’t just passive-aggressive (and aggressive-aggressive), he might just be the most savvy reader-of-rooms we see on the show, and purposefully and systematically leverages his passive aggression to manipulate the actions of those around him for the purpose of making Ed and Stede betray their better selves and make them do the work of driving a wedge between themselves.   That was a lot in one sentence.  Let me break it down.

Jack uses passive aggression to achieve one of four goals: to nettle, to undermine, (seemingly paradoxically) to reinforce connections, or to coerce. And, if he can manage to achieve different goals for more than one target with the same attack? So much the better. And he’s frankly just astonishingly good at doing so. Like, I’d admire him for it if it didn’t also make me want to make him swallow all of his own teeth.

The basic gameplan goes thusly (this is not a strictly chronological list, a lot of these tactics take place concurrently and recurrently): Stede is the primary target, so Jack nettles him with passive aggressive comments, which puts him on the back foot and undermines his self-confidence. He reinforces his relationship with Ed in ways that excludes Stede and undermines Stede’s relationship with Ed and Ed’s relationship with Stede. Jack uses coercive tactics with Ed and the crew, which undermines Stede’s relationships with them, isolating and othering Stede, which further tanks his mood, which leads him to self-isolate. When Stede eventually lashes out at Ed for falling for Jack’s bullshit, Ed has no idea what’s got Stede so out-of-sorts; Jack has so carefully lead Ed to making the choices that have alienated Stede that they seem like they were Ed’s ideas in the first place. And if Ed has made the choices to do these things, then they are clearly just a reflection of who he is, which, if Stede is lashing out against them, then Stede is rejecting him. Wedge set and match.

So let’s look at the specifics.

Jack’s interactions with Ed are like a masterclass in neurolinguistic programming for evil. First, he plys Ed with booze from the very start. Just look at the bottle in this shot from right after they blow up the dresser drawer.

That bottle or rum is over half gone, and the sky in the background is the peachy-pink of sunrise. This isn’t the bottle Jack had with him in his dinghy; that one he drained and then threw in the air and tried to shoot before coming aboard the Revenge. Which means that they’ve consumed over half the bottle between just the two of them in a very short amount of time.   Alcohol, of course, is a social lubricant - the physical warmth it produces mimicking the “warm, fuzzy” feeling of true comradery, and, more importantly, decoupling the decision-making process from inhibition (that is to say, Ed isn’t necessarily doing anything he absolutely wouldn’t otherwise do, but he might otherwise think twice).

But it’s more insidious than just having a few drinks with an old friend. Jack specifically gamifies the consumption of alcohol to reinforce the coupling of the feeling of inebriation with the comradery engendered by teamwork and excitement of success in order to encourage Ed to drink more than he necessarily otherwise would. Ed confirms to Stede during his apology that the idea to use the drawers of the armoire for target practice came from Jack, and we saw that a bullseye meant that Jack had to take a drink, but Ed didn’t. Presumably, there would have been some consequence for a “miss”, and it seems likely that it would be Ed has to take a drink and not Jack. In this way, Jack is able to exert a measure of control over how much Ed is drinking (by missing on purpose) while making it look like the responsibility lies with Ed and his skill as a thrower. This pattern of sneakily controlling Ed’s actions while making it seem like Ed is the one who made or is responsible for the decision will pop up again and again during their interactions.

After the apologies for waking Stede, Jack steps into the space where Ed is gesticulating to make himself readily available to be touched, reenforcing the bond between them, but letting Ed be the one to instigate the touching.

At brekkie, he pours rum into Ed’s teacup without asking or being asked while Ed’s attention is diverted by getting food.

Jack’s collaring of the conversation does not just function as a means of making Stede feel excluded, he’s also refreshing and reinforcing the bonds he and Ed forged under adversity. Talking over Stede also demonstrates that what he has to say is more important than anything Stede might contribute.

Note that just before Jack cut him off, Stede had referred to Ed as Blackbeard (“Blackbeard and I met on a ship”). This may be innocently explained away; if you meet a person from a facet of a close friend’s life with which you do not intersect, you might refer to said friend by their given name instead of a nickname that the other person might not know, for the sake of common frame of reference. But this is the opposite of that - referring to a friend by a nickname instead of the given name that you both presumably know. That suggests to me that the seed of the Ed/Blackbeard dichotomy has already been planted in Stede’s mind by the morning’s shenanigans. And when Jack invites Stede back into participating in the conversation by talking about something he knows Stede would find upsetting (the wanton cruelty of Ed purposefully trapping people to be burned alive, couched in what sounds like sincere admiration for his friend’s piratical prowess), Jack has picked up on that distinction and is leaning into it HARD. He WANTS Stede to see Ed as a collection of behaviors he finds palatable, and Blackbeard as a collection of behaviors he finds repulsive, and then coerce Ed into performing those “Blackbeard behaviors” in order to coerce Stede to drive the wedge by rejecting him. Fucking diabolical.

When Jack is calling Stede a “big girl,” or “store-bought,” or purposefully getting his name wrong, he’s not just throwing barbs that play on Stede’s insecurities (and with such harrowing precision, too; calling on the effeminacy for which he was tormented as a child, his body image issues that we’ve also seen him struggle with under the tender mercies of Badminton - both brain-ghost and original flavor - and the authenticity of his claim to piracy, which we’ve seen him confess that he fears he’s ill-qualified to claim to Jim, Oluande, and Ed. I mean,triple bullseye for this fucking guy). He’s also using these public declarations to undermine Stede’s authority in front of his crew, and establish himself as the real authority on things like piracy and masculinity. He further reinforces this idea by withholding the story of how he saved Ed’s life under the guise of false modesty; people never want something more than when they’re told they can’t have it. And what they’re being told they can’t have is the story of how Jack was so amazing that he even managed to save the life of the coolest, most legendary pirate they know. This withholding primes the crew to think even more highly of Jack and hang on his every word.

This puts Jack into a position where he can pressure the crew into things that sound fun at first blush (like diving off the yardarm or having a snowball fight, but with coconuts), but end up hurting more than anything. Of course, within this dynamic, no one wants to admit they aren’t having a good time, or don’t want to do it; to do so would be tantamount to admitting you are less of a man or not a real pirate. So when Stede refuses to participate, or admits his discomfort or disgust with the proceedings, he’s doing Jack’s work for him, and further alienating himself, and solidifying the roles Jack had put into place where Jack is the fun, cool guy, and Stede is the killjoy that no one should listen to.

Stede unwittingly plays right into Jack’s design when he tries to stand up for himself and wrest back a modicum of respect before things get too far out of hand. He’s well-versed in the world of passive aggression, and sees what Jack is doing. He also knows that you can’t call it out because passive aggression comes with a built in cover of plausible deniability gaslighting. So instead, he tries to push back with a little passive aggression of his own, suggesting that a real pirate has a ship and a crew. Sadly, Stede is not nearly so adroit at wielding passive aggression as Jack is. Jack uses the story (and we know that Izzy sent him, so I wouldn’t be surprised if the whole mutiny thing is just a story; I could even easily read that slight hesitation after Stede asks his question as Jack deciding on what would be the most effective cover story, instead of hesitancy to admit to something shameful) of his crew’s mutiny to casually re-sow the idea of mutiny on the Revenge. It’s played for comedy when the crew starts talking about how they almost mutinied on Stede and probably will again, but you can’t tell me this hasn’t been a major concern for Stede ever since the first episode. So Jack’s not only got the crew trying to buoy his spirits by assuring him that his crew mutinying on his doesn’t mean he’s a bad person; it’s just something that happens! He’s also got them low-key committing to a future mutiny WITHIN EARSHOT OF STEDE.

Additionally, while Stede is well-steeped in the ways of passive aggression, his crew and Ed are not. They are not particularly sophisticated at identifying passive aggression on its own merits as opposed to the reaction it provokes, which can make it look like they don’t care when it’s being leveraged against Stede, undermining his ability to trust they will look out for him. Stede stoically putting up with Jack’s jibes makes them even more difficult to identify as hurtful. Jack’s (fake) emotional reaction to Stede’s sally might make him look momentarily weak, but allows Ed and the crew to unequivocally identify who is in the wrong and react accordingly. By positioning himself as a victim, he villainizes Stede, further undermining Stede’s authority, and placing him in a position where he owes Jack recompense. Thus, Jack is able to manipulate Stede into the trap of Dead Man’s Cove and make it look like it was Stede’s own idea. I mean, the Xanatos Speed Chess of it all.

What’s heartbreaking to me is how Jack’s wedge-driving and othering of Stede is working so well that at this point we start to hear it from other sources. As they approach the island and Stede suggests going for a swim or taking a nature walk, Ed is the one who tells him, “I think with this crowd, I think they want something a little more…” Not Jack would want something more exciting, this crowd. Jack’s exclusionary rhetoric out of Ed’s mouth.

Which is exactly the time Jack decides to up the ante.

I want to take a minute to look at the immediate lead up to yardies, because I think it’s an excellent illustration of how Jack looks like a lumbering boor, but his actions are actually so carefully considered and nuanced. He runs up from behind Stede and Ed and throws his arms around them shouting “Yardies!” literally insinuating himself between them, which interrupts anything that was going on between them, puts them off balance, and focuses the attention on him. Then, when he says “Who’s up for yardies?” he makes eye-contact with Ed - the implicit social expectation being “You, Ed, are up for yardies.” When he turns to Stede, it is to literally laugh in his face. I mean, the absolute cheek.

Until this point, the crew of the Revenge have been passive participants in Jack’s hooliganry. They watched him perform whippies, and got whipped at without encouraging him to do so. They listened to his and Ed’s stories. But now Jack is cashing in on his established expertise of what real pirates do to coerce the crew into taking part in a dangerous stunt. It’s more of the “Blackbeard behavior” dichotomy he started sowing in Stede’s mind at brekkie, but now he’s extending it beyond Ed to the whole crew. He wants Stede to feel like he’s all alone in a sea of idiocy, but he wants him to come to the conclusion on his own by making it seem like Ed and the crew are doing things of which he would disapprove of their own accord.

Once we get to the island, we see the activities take a turn from the careless Jackass-ery of whippies and yardies to the abject cruelty of turtle vs. crab. There’s no saying that Jack organized the fight, but we do see the crew handing him various trinkets to be used in gambling on a winner, which certainly suggests he was the central figure in how the game was established. We also see that, though he has been presenting himself as a drunkard, there’s no bottle in his hand or around him in the sand. There is, however, one in Ed’s hand, who is directly to his side. I can easily see him handing it off so he could handle the gambling stakes, the real intention being to keep Ed readily supplied with booze.

And then we have the pissing contest. Jack’s got Stede literally and metaphorically isolated, and now it’s time to really drive it all home. Every moment of their interaction is designed to drive Stede to distraction; the amount of derision he lays on the phrase “Your good, close buddy,” the insinuation that he and Ed are just alike, and then being as rude and crass as possible. And because he’s read the room - the intimate breakfast for two, Ed’s little touches and the way Stede smiles at them, the way they keep going off together for little chats - of course Jack’s just got to twist the knife and allude to his and Ed’s former sexual history. So now that he’s got Stede primed, it’s time to name the fear: “Maybe you don’t know him at all.”

At this point, Stede is left to wonder: does he? Blackbeard’s reputation preceded him, after all. And he’s been acting so differently since the appearance of one of his oldest friends. It’s not the violence qua violence, per se; Stede is by turns delighted and impressed by the violence he’s seen Ed and his crew employ in the heat of battle in the pursuit of piracy. It’s the cruel and senseless violence that Stede objects to, and that’s exactly the brand that Jack has been peddling, and which Ed has gone along with so enthusiastically. And it’s not JUST the violence; Ed apologizes for Jack when he recognizes Jack has crossed a line in a typically agro way (destroying Stede’s belongings, and insulting Stede to his face), but it never occurs to Stede that his insistence on persevering with quietly aggrieved dignity in the face of Jack’s slights would make it nigh impossible for Ed to identify that Jack has crossed all sorts of other lines, and Stede is hurting because of it. For Stede, it must be frustrating and mystifying why Ed keeps letting his friend get away with his passive aggressive bullshit. Doesn’t he care? 

Is it any wonder that one more failure to notice how Jack has riled him, and one more act of coconut-flavored Jackass-ary is enough to break the dam, and for Stede to spill all that built-up hurt on Ed?  Is it any wonder that Ed is bewildered at where all this is coming from? I’ve talked before about Ed’s tendency to fawn on people, and how, as an emotional chameleon, he would have difficulty identifying when the motivation for his actions is self-directed or externally dictated. Jack has further confounded this distinction by manipulating scenarios to make it seem like participation in all the Jackass-ary he has instigated was voluntary instead of coerced. When Stede says “I don’t like who you are around  this guy” what he means is “I don’t like how this guy is able to manipulate you into acting on your very worst impulses”, but what Ed hears is “I don’t like you”. For who is he, if not the collection of behaviors he chooses to exhibit? And were those choices not entirely his to make? With the rift clearly established, if in its infancy, of course Jack is going to do everything he can to foster its growth. So again, he interrupts Stede, again implicitly signaling that Ed should pay attention to what he says and not Stede. By lobbing the coconut at Ed at that moment, he forestalls any possible clearing of the air between Ed and Stede, and causes Ed to literally turn his back on Stede, in the way Ed feels Stede has emotionally turned his back on him just moments earlier. Jack reinforces this idea of turning his back on Stede again moments later when he says “Don’t go!” and immediately turns Ed around by the shoulders.

I know that I’ve been laying it on a bit thick and prolly sound like the written embodiment of the red string conspiracy meme, but I’m about to get a whole lot worse, and I’m going to ask you to stick with me, oh my v. dears. I think Jack killed Karl on purpose.

I know, I know. It was an accident! He was flailing drunkenly! But was he?

Have we seen him take so much as a single drink since the cannon fire at the beginning of the episode? Even though he’d been drinking earlier, did he not have devastating precision and accuracy when he first demonstrated Whippies - shattering every glass, snapping the cards from the Swede’s fingers, and ball-tapping Ed without permanently maiming him or even splitting the leather of his pants? In fact, while nearly every other crew member on the deck has a bottle in hand, just like on the beach, Jack does not.

Jack knows he has to get Ed off the ship before the British show up, but he can’t just say “Let’s ditch these losers” and expect Ed to agree, especially since he’s spent most of the day roping the crew into his schemes. The most effective way to get Ed to follow is if Jack is rejected for just being himself and doing what he does, just like Ed feels he was earlier by Stede. I think the original plan was to goad Olu into seriously hurting the Swede, the fallout of which would be recriminations that Jack made them do it, and Jack getting aggrieved that he was just trying to show this ungrateful lot how to have a good time, skulking off and leading Ed to follow him and reassure him that he’s really a good guy - how could he have known it would turn out like that? But when Buttons calls a halt to the proceedings and it looks like everyone is going to pack it in, Jack has to think fast. If HE maims a crew mate, that would be a bridge too far, painting him as the bad guy. But Karl? He’s just a bird. And if Jack can get a little revenge on the weird bird guy who made him change his plan, so much the better. AND, as people with far fewer auditory processing issues than I have pointed out, Jack mutters that he expected there to be more feathers. Could the evidence be any more damning?

Of course the whole ship turns on him, and then here’s Stede to order him off, explicitly rejecting him the way he metaphorically rejected Ed. But when even that isn’t enough to get Ed to follow him, Jack pulls out one last, desperate manipulation - the debt of life.

Jack’s tragic flaw is that he can’t turn it off. Once he and Ed are alone, he turns his passive aggressive assault on Ed, pressuring him into drinking the morning away by sarcastically saying he didn’t know he had an audience with the pope when Ed expresses disinterest, and, ultimately, giving up the game when he mentions with casual derision how he’d heard of Ed shaking up with Stede, and then deriding Ed for his failure to spot Jack’s machinations.

Too bad Jack didn’t know that the punishment for passive-aggressive fuckery on this show is death…

[youvereachedpluto]

worship / a drabble / diluven

"what do you mean, 'no god,' I'm right here, pray to me, I'll be your salvat—" he breaks off to puke into the nearest trashcan. diluc groans, a headache already forming at the corners of his mind as he turns to grab a rag from behind the counter. he's already filling a glass full of water when venti re-emerges from the trashcan, face paler than before but a certain steadiness in his eyes that diluc never associated with drunken bards. "master diluc, it is quite rude of you to state so boldly, in the presence of one of the oldest archons that you fail to see a need to worship," venti stables himself on the stool. hair unbraided and ribbons of it flowing over his shoulder, under the dim light, they glowed blue and green, highlighting the sharp features of the god that diluc never saw before, features venti did well to hide away in his mortal form. "I never said I failed to see a reason to worship, I said it seems like a waste on you." with the way venti flinches, diluc knows he's gone too far, he's about to take it back, apologize to his god, when venti pushes the stool back, the wooden chair falling to the floor with a crash, his beret held firm between his fists, venti twists and turns the fabric in his hand, his knuckles growing white with the pressure, "you know diluc, there are days when these kinds of thoughts do nothing more but plague my mind, repeating the same horrid words over and over again till I can do little but pay attention to them." "venti---" "it's a scary thing really, to realize such a dreadful fact about yourself; to look in the mirror and see not a god, not an archon, not a being capable of divinity and power, but someone who doesn't deserve a speck of respect. what you say is true master diluc, I truly am not deserving of any of the praise mondstat likes to sing of, the church, the statue, all the festivals held in my name, none of it." diluc feels his heart sting, the thing beating hard and fast against his chest as he feels the wind pick up outside, heavy and thundering where it beats against the windows of the tavern, and venti--venti is a sight to behold. his hair, entirely undone now, falls long and fair over his shoulders, its ends glowing bright and blue, there are faint tattoos peaking through the fabric of his clothes, they glow the same bright teal as his hair and, oh archons his eyes, diluc can't look away from the anger raging behind them. the fear he feels in the presence of barbatos is nothing tantamount to the absolute awe he feels, so this is what it means to be in the presence of a god. "you are right master diluc. I really am unworthy. and the one who truly deserves the praise," he laughs, it's dry and forced, nothing like the airy laugh that usually filled the tavern, "well, he's not here right now, he hasn't been by my side for a while." the winds have grown stronger, and diluc knows a storm has begun to brew outside but he doesn't care. "do you know what the worst part is? though he's gone, I can never forget him, which, centuries ago, seemed like the worst of sins I could commit, how could I ever forget him? but now... now, I wish I could wake up each day and not remember, not remember how he looked like, what his smile looked like, what the sound of his laugh felt like against the wind. but I can't, and every time I am faced with my reflection he looks back at me and I--I--" rain beats down hard and strong, the tavern door rattles against its hinges and momentarily diluc wonders if it would break off. "why can't I forget? the more I drink, the louder his voice, the more I drink, the clearer the color of his eyes, but to remain sober would be to--diluc?" he doesn't know when nor does he remember moving past the counter, but he walks forward, arms wrapping around the slim figure of his god, his god. this close, he can feel the thrum of power that flows through venti, the divinity of the god that diluc was oh so foolish to doubt, "I don't know what you've been through, I doubt I could live through what you've lived through, it is lonely being immortal yes? but for

the time I have with you, for the rest of my days, I will give you all the comfort and warmth I can, and while I may not be who you so dearly remember, I hope I can be someone you dearly know." venti doesn't respond, the softest sobs are the only response diluc gets as he wraps his own arms around the taller man, his head pushing against the crook of dilucs neck, "would you like that barbatos?" diluc feels soft hair tickle his ear as venti shakes his head, "venti," he murmurs, "call me venti please, master diluc?" diluc laughs, and it is a soft thing, "all right, venti," he holds him tighter, "for the rest of my days, I will worship you, and I will love you." "and then? what about after?" "after? ah," diluc lets his heart swell as he thinks of after, "after, I hope you write a few songs about me."

[heliads]

Guns Blazing, Tides Rising (Part Five)

When Kaz Brekker announces that they’ll be working with a certain Tidemaker to help with the latest heist, Jesper knows it’s not going to end well. He and Y/N L/N have a fierce rivalry, although feelings may change over a night.

previous / series masterlist

a/n: it’s finally over 😭thanks once again to @underc0vercryptid​ for being my muse for all of this

It’s hard for Jesper to convince himself to leave the alley, to let his hands leave Y/N and return to their places by his sides. Inej and Kaz will be looking for them, that much is true. But there’s still a sound like a sigh trapped and rattling in his lungs when he leaves, a regret that he can’t quite excuse away with knowledge of what Kaz’s vengeance would mean if he found a single Dreg disobeying one of his most enforced rules.

Y/N understands, that much is true. She’s become more involved with the Dregs as time goes on. She knows Kaz Brekker in the way that they all do- the Bastard of the Barrel isn’t one that you cross unless you wish to lose your tongue and your life. It still seems wrong to give this up, though, to let Dirtyhands keep walking all over him for the one thing that matters. In the end, they would have had to leave the alley anyways. This is just the first excuse that passes Jesper’s lips.

He manages to turn off his mind for a little while, convincing himself that it doesn’t feel harder and harder to leave, that he can be emotionless and cold. Jesper’s tone is clinical when he tells Kaz and Inej of the successful mission, his hands for once unshaking and firm when he hands over the list of names to Kaz. However, even his attempts at being fine and calm draw suspicion- Kaz hadn’t seen them rejoin the rest of the party when the guests relocated from the main hall, and he wanted to know why.

Jesper has spent enough time running with the canal rats for lies to spring easily to his tongue. There was a difficulty finding the safe, he says, they had to dodge some guards and they didn’t quite get there in time. It doesn’t really matter, though, does it? They got in, they got out, and they weren’t the reason the alarms were sounded. Kaz raises an eyebrow at this, but he doesn’t press it. Jesper might be well and truly hallucinating, but he swears he sees a tinge of unrest in Kaz’s eyes, like the boy is haunting himself over the fact that he may have made an error, one that could have gotten his gang caught like a too-clever fox in a trap.

Maybe this shift in Kaz’s usual ruthless demeanor is enough to unsettle him, or maybe it’s the gnawing knowledge that Jesper keeps walking away from the girl he might love that drives him to leave the Slat once more. It’s early morning now, dawn with its rosy-fingered hues, but a lack of sleep has hardly bothered Jesper before, and it certainly won’t now. He thinks as he walks, stretching his legs as he paces mindless circles around the city.

Jesper can’t shake the feeling that he’s been running for too long. He’s used to it, but for some reason, it feels different now. He doesn’t like this constant leaving, this weight on his shoulders like he’s holding true to a lie that will one day spiral out of control. Jesper is used to living life on the run, to being flamboyantly proud of everything that makes him, well, him. The skulking around back corners, stealing kisses only after he’s checked and double-checked that no one is watching? It feels like a noose is tightening around his neck.

In the end, Jesper finds himself climbing up a rickety fire escape and stretching his legs out over the edge of a roof, watching the golden dawn start to turn the waters surrounding Ketterdam bronze with light. It is not long before he is joined by someone else, someone with answering steps and a reassuring smile tossed his way. Maybe she could tell from how they’d left that he was still lost in thought. Regardless, Jesper is happy to not be alone.

Y/N sits next to him, carefully swinging her feet over the edge. Her heels kick up against the brick. “I like this view. I like being able to see the water. It feels like I’m more connected to it.” Jesper turns his head towards her, watching the way the early morning air toys with her eyelashes, her face. “Is it easy to be a Tidemaker here? I mean, you’re powerful enough that people don’t try to trap you with indentures. Does it ever get easy in Ketterdam?”

Y/N laughs quietly. “Not at all. I still remember when I first showed up and stepped off of the boats. My parents wanted to send me away from the disaster that was the Ravkan civil war. They guessed it would happen long before it did, and assumed Kerch would be safer. They sent me over first, saying that they’d follow soon after.” Jesper can hear the inflections in her voice, the way she casts her eyes towards the water with renewed vigor. He knows this means that they never showed up again.

She clears her throat, voice stubbornly loud as if ridding herself of doubts. “I was terrified when I first got here. Nothing made sense. In Ravka, Grisha were feared, yes, and there were always traders or mercenaries or even drüskelle out for blood, but we had a home there. If you had a home, people rarely came hunting for you. I had no such harbor here.”

Y/N looks out over the streets as if she’s never walked them before, as if she’s once more a stranger to the coal-choked airways always drenched with a spattering of rain and misfortune. “I had a friend. A girl who came with me. She was an Inferni, made the mistake of trying to summon up a small spark to keep her warm. I watched them take her right before my eyes, and I didn’t do anything at all. I vowed from that moment on that I would never be weak again, never hide in the shadows like I did on that night.”

Jesper’s heard bits and pieces of the story from here. He’d learned the most about her before he even liked her at all, actually, back when they still considered themselves to be rivals. Jesper had told himself that he was just collecting information on an enemy to best take her down the next time they crossed paths, but there was more to that, wasn’t there? Maybe that was a sign that even then, when Jesper had convinced himself that the only thing they could ever have was animosity, he still wanted something more. That was a gambler’s luck, after all- always reaching for a better deal, a shinier prospect. She was his best capture.

Y/N glances over at him like she can sense his thoughts. “That’s when you entered the picture, actually. I stopped being scared to hide my powers and started using them in bloodlust. I took up jobs, found this one really annoying sharpshooter who kept getting in my way.” Jesper presses a hand to his chest in mock indignation. “I think you can do better than just ‘really annoying’. Dashingly infuriating, maybe. Devastatingly attractive. A charming enemy who-”

Y/N cuts him off, laughing. “You’re awful. Utterly awful.” Jesper goes to protest, but she leans in, pressing a kiss to his lips that makes his heart swoop in his chest. Y/N raises an eyebrow at Jesper’s sudden silence. “Am I that good of a kisser? I don’t think I’ve seen you that awestruck in a while.” Jesper scoffs. “I can do better than that.”

He lets his hands find hers, lets the rising sun light the way his lips meet hers. They don’t leave the rooftop until the sun has fully ascended to its place in the sky, until the clatter of feet on cobblestones is the only reason for an exit. Not a gang, not its fearsome leader. Just the two of them, drowning out the whole world until there’s nothing left at all.

He is eventually found out, of course. All stories repeat themselves, all beginnings follow suit. When Kaz calls Jesper up to his office, he finds that he isn’t worried at all. Before, he might have felt his shoulders tense, hesitating at the door. When Jesper faces the oddly terrifying wooden paneling, however, all he can think about is the sun shining through Y/N’s eyes, the smile on her lips as his fingers laced around hers. If loving her is wrong, well, Jesper’s already been a criminal for quite some time. Why not add one more misdeed to the list?

Kaz waits for him in the office. He stands up, black gloved hands tapping on the familiar crow’s head cane. It’s all meant for a threatening display- Jesper’s seen this very posture used successfully on many a nervous trainwreck of a failed business partner or lackluster goon. However, Jesper’s still filled with the giddy rush of seeing his girl and he can’t quite force himself to care.

Kaz clears his throat, the metal hull of a ship scraping against jagged rocks. “Y/N L/N.” He doesn’t have to say anything else, just the name. Jesper nods. “Yes.” Kaz raises an eyebrow. “You’re not going to deny it?” Jesper shrugs. “We both know your information is good. Yes, I’m seeing her.” Kaz’s fingers still on the head of the cane. “You know how I feel about that. It’s a weakness.”

Jesper should take it as a possible sign of insanity that he’s considering the path before him at all. He knows what Kaz expects of him- an apology, maybe, a promise that he won’t stray from the rules again, or at least not so long as they interfere with Kaz’s master plan for the Dregs. He’ll see Y/N out, do his best not to cross paths with her again. He might return to the gambling halls once more just to stave off some unsightly emptiness inside of him, and then he’ll be as good as gold.

Jesper, however, does not intend to do any of this at all. What good are the odds if he doesn’t have his girl? He’s stepped inside the Crow Club over the past couple of days. The rattle of Makker’s Wheel doesn’t have that same fervor, the excitement doesn’t spread over him in the same delicious rush. Simply put, it isn’t worth it. It isn’t a gamble worth his time, and Jesper’s lost mightier fortunes over lesser odds.

So Jesper shakes his head. “Not her. Not like this.” Kaz tilts his head just slightly, eyes calculating, looking for loopholes to exploit. “So you’d willingly break the rules?” Jesper leans forward. “We’re Dregs, Kaz. It’s what we do.” Kaz returns his level gaze. “Not like this. Tell me, what is it that makes Y/N L/N worth this much to you? You were enemies before, were you not? Is it the power? The chance that she may be like you?”

Jesper lifts a shoulder. “It’s not always about finding the best possible advantage, Kaz. We work well together. It was only a matter of time before it was more.” Kaz Brekker might understand. Dirtyhands does not. “Your goal was not to find some pretty girlfriend in the Barrel, Jesper, it was to complete the mission and move on. I knew from the second you held her bleeding body in your arms that this wouldn’t be worth my time or my energy.”

Jesper doesn’t realize he’s standing until he is. “Then say it. I’ve spent my time playing your games, Kaz, and Saints know I’ll keep on turning your tables, but not on this. We all break the wheel at some point. I’m willing to do it for her.” Kaz is silent for a time, a time that seems to stretch on into such an eternity that Jesper finds himself tapping his revolvers again, feeling that same itch for a fight. It’s well and good to go into a battle of the bullets and feel the adrenaline kick in, he could handle that. This, however? Waiting for Kaz to do something, anything? You can’t fight that, only wait for it to end. And Jesper’s never been particularly good at waiting.

At last, Kaz speaks. “Then stay with her.” Jesper almost thinks that he’s started hallucinating. “What?” Kaz inclines his head. “She’s good for you. You’ve been more focused.” Jesper stares for a second, then shakes his head, fighting back the impossible urge to break into manic laughter. “Honestly, if it takes you considering the potential business opportunities to approve of us, I’m not about to challenge that.”

Something almost like a smile appears on Kaz’s face. Jesper is most certainly going insane. “I’m not completely heartless, Jesper. You’re a useful sharpshooter.” Jesper’s eyes widen. “That’s practically a compliment. Do you need me for a heist later? I can’t think of anything else to cause this.” Kaz tilts his head in acknowledgement of this surreal situation, pausing for a second as if listening to a voice that no one else can hear.

Then he gestures towards the door, allowing Jesper to leave. As Jesper walks towards the door, though, Kaz says something else. “Inej just left the roof.” Jesper nods in understanding. “Look at you. Dishing out the compliments for your Wraith to hear.” Kaz’s brow furrows, and Jesper decides to leave the office now before Kaz decides to take back his approval of Jesper and Y/N and hit him with his cane or something else overtly Kaz-like.

Despite his best efforts, Jesper is still teeming with anxious energy after the meeting, so he goes on a quick stroll around the crooked alleyways of the Barrel to calm the restless ticking of his hands and legs. When he comes back to the Slat, however, he notices that his door is slightly ajar. Jesper enters his room slowly, relaxing at the sound of voices.

The window is open, showing the faint drizzle of the streets outside. Y/N sits on the floor next to Inej as both girls consider a makeshift target of a few rags at the far end of the room. Inej tosses a knife up and down in her hand, then flings it towards the target. She hits it in the center, to no one’s surprise. Y/N’s eyes follow the path of the blade, and then she extends her hand towards the window, letting drops of rain fly towards her palm. She curls her fingers around the water, shaping it into a perfect replica of the knife Inej had just thrown, then directs it towards the target to slosh around Inej’s blade, another direct hit to the center.

Inej makes a scoffing sound. “That doesn’t count. You got to control the knife instead of just throwing it.” Y/N shrugs absentmindedly. “You got to pick a knife, I had to make mine myself. I think it evens out.” Inej glances up towards Jesper, smiling slightly. Somehow, it comes to no surprise that she’d known he was there all along. “Jesper, come tell your girlfriend that she’s cheating at target practice.”

Jesper shrugs. “As long as you hit the target I don’t think you can cheat. Also, I thought I locked this door.” Y/N grins up at him. “That’s the unbiased support I love to hear. And your door was locked, we just wanted to go in so we did.” Jesper nods. “That clears up everything.” Y/N laughs. “Good to know.” Inej stands up, stretching, and goes to retrieve her knife. She goes to climb through the window once more then pauses, turning to face them.

“I’m glad Kaz let you two stay together. I certainly did my arguing for you.” Jesper frowns. “How long have you known?” Inej sighs exasperatedly. “Practically since the start. You two are terrible at being secretive, you know that?” She doesn’t give them time to protest, just slips out the window and disappears into the roofline before you could even blink.

Y/N walks over to Jesper, a half smile on her face. “I suppose she’s right. We haven’t exactly been the most discreet, have we?” Jesper shrugs. “Maybe not. But we don’t have to hide anymore. We don’t have to leave.” Y/N smiles at him now, a true smile. “I like the sound of that.” Jesper hums thoughtfully, leaning down to kiss her. “So do I.”

guns blazing, tides rising masterlist: @kaqua​, @amortensie​

[littlekatleaf]

The Dreams in Which I'm Dying

Well wtf, it's a new fandom for me. Unexpected! I started watching D/imension20 RPGs and fell in love with F/abian Seacaster and G/arthy O'Brien from F/antasy H/igh and P/irates of L/eviathan. This takes place 20 years after the events of the games.

And I find it kind of funny I find it kind of sad The dreams in which I’m dying Are the best I’ve ever had. ~ Tears for Fears, Mad World

It begins with nightmares - dark, heavy things Fabian doesn’t remember on waking. At least, not the first few nights. He’s left with nothing more than vague shadows and a lingering sense of unease. Everything seems wrong - his apartment simultaneously too big and claustrophobically small. He’s suffused with restlessness. He knows something’s coming, like a squall brewing just beyond the horizon. He might not be able to see the gathering clouds, but feels the barometric pressure plummeting.

At first he attempts to dance out of the way - to dodge and evade - but the dread wraps around him like his own battle sheet, tangling him tight. He tries to ignore the tension singing along his shoulders, the constant twist in his gut. It’s nothing, he tells himself, less than nothing. There’s no time for it to be something. Rumor has it the ship carrying one of the last pirates of the Crimson Claw will reach the mouth of Leviathan in mere days. If he’s going to meet it, he needs to pull together a party. Barely enough time remains to cement plans once he knows the group’s strengths and weaknesses.

As he paces his living room, trying to outrun the apprehension, Fabian’s eye is caught by a piece of red string, like Riz always used in his conspiracy boards. In that instant he longs for them. The Bad Kids. No matter how many years passed since any of them were kids, it’s still at the heart of who they are. (Isn’t it?) They fit together in their roles. Like that movie Kristen made them all watch once - a brain, and an athlete, and a basket case, a princess and a criminal. The others had bickered good naturedly over roles that night - specifically who was the basket case. Kristen joked it was Gilear. Ragh said it was her. Fabian didn't need to argue because he knew the truth - Riz was the brain, Gorgug the athlete, Adaine the princess, Fig the criminal, Kristen the saint. Himself the basket case. Even in all the intervening years, he’s never found a group that connects as well as they had, before they all went their separate ways. Even if they hadn’t lost touch, none of the others adventure anymore. In their absence he needs to choose alternatives, like he always does, attempting to fill the holes they left behind - and failing.

He picks up his crystal, turning it over in his hands. The group chat is saved, they are all still members, but no one has used it in years. Maybe he’s wrong; maybe he needs to let them go.

He knows there’s no time for self-indulgence. But he still stalls, the trepidation casting a fog of doubt over every option. He cannot decide on even one person to trust. Perhaps this time he should go alone. He can defeat one single pirate himself. The rest - crew and spoils alike - is irrelevant. The Maelstrom’s Maw will likely bring in the boat and then he can attack. He rubs his forehead against a growing headache and puts the decision off again.

Two nights pass, with only the lightest veil of sleep and even that torn by disquiet. The intervening days feel equally foggy with a mix of exhaustion and dread. Fabian drags himself through the necessary tasks by his fingernails until he’s done everything he can without a crew. A crew on which he still has not managed to settle. In the midst of circling the problem for the five hundredth, or five thousandth, time his crystal flashes an alert. The ship’s been sighted just a few nautical miles off Harroway Bay and will reach Leviathan before dawn. He’s waited too long, he realizes. It will be a solo adventure, then. Nothing else for it.

Fabian knows, almost from the moment he engages, that he’s made a deep mistake attempting the attack this way. Though he comes upon the pirate in the dead of night, alone as planned, he hadn’t considered that the pirate’s shipmates might still be within earshot. His blade only crosses the pirate’s once before he hears heavy boots closing fast.

The pirate thrusts and he manages to parry, but only just. His body feels strange and disconnected, as though he’s a half-beat behind in the dance, perpetually off-step. The pirate presses his advantage; Fabian retreats. Suddenly there’s a flash of light on another drawn sword and several more pirates surround him. At his best he can handle eight, maybe ten. He is not at his best, and light from the streetlamp falls on fifteen.

The pirate grins. “Yer goin’ down, boy.”

“Not a boy anymore.” At least he’ll die in battle, and if he’s very lucky he’ll take this scourge to hell with him. Make his papa proud.

“That remains to be seen,” another says.

The battle is fierce. Swords clash, lunge and dodge, strike-parry-riposte, movements Fabian knows in his sleep, but something is wrong. His body won’t obey. His lungs ache and he can’t catch his breath. Sweat drips into his eye, burning. And then - an opening - the pirate attacking leaves his flank unguarded and Fabian darts in fast - too fast to pull back when he realizes it’s a feint.

I’m fucked, he has time to think, as the pirate whirls. A sharp blow cracks across his elbow, his fingers go numb and his sword falls, clattering to the cobblestone. One of the crew kicks the back of his knees and he stumbles forward and drops. He grabs for his sword, but just as his hand closes around it, the point of the pirate’s sword is at his throat. Should have known it would end this way. Alone. On Leviathan. Fitting for it to be here, tonight - on the anniversary. The way it should have ended if he hadn’t run like a coward, abandoning Alistair to Captain James. Fabian fumbles in his pocket for his crystal, wishing for just enough time to send a last message to the Bad Kids. “Do it,” he says from between gritted teeth.

The pirate barks a laugh, but shakes his head. “Ain’t worth the world o’ hurt that would bring down on me head, boy. Chungledown Bim’s a right devil and yer marked as his. Can’t let ya follow for another go at me, though this has been a delight.”

A brilliant flash of pain blinds him. The crystal slides through his fingers. He falls… and falls… and falls…

through ropes that burn his skin and do nothing to slow his speed and his body hits water that closes over his head like he’s been swallowed whole and still he falls through freezing darkness until the ocean parts and he falls through fire and the flames crackle and whisper - What will you tell the Captain when you meet him in Hell? Have you written your name on the face of the world, Fabian? No, you have written nothing. Nothing to be remembered by. Even your friends have forgotten you. How does it feel to be a failure of a pirate and a failure of a friend? the whisper turns to choking smoke and

Fabian coughs himself awake, lungs aching like he’s been breathing water and smoke, but he still lays where he’d fallen, in some Four Castles back alley. His body’s not been hijacked. Not dropped here by imps. He blinks up at the sky for a long moment, struggling to orient himself. The sky is heavy with clouds, hiding even a sliver of moon. Fat drops of rain pelt down, edged with ice. He blinks the water from his eye and pushes himself to his feet. Once again he staggers through the streets of Leviathan, shivering hard enough to rattle teeth. This time, however, there’s no Cathilda to wrap him in a blanket, no Hangvan to disappear into. No Kristen to slap sense back into him. He wraps his arms around himself, but the rain soaks his shirt and finds no warmth.

Those he passes take no notice of him, perhaps assuming he’s nothing more than another drunken pirate. Even so, he needs to find a place to lay low. Given enough time someone will roll him just to see if he has any coin. Or simply for the fun of it. He’s not even sure, at this moment, that he could defend himself against a single assailant. His head aches where the pirate hit him and his throat is unaccountably raw. Then, as if to add insult to injury, he sneezes. Once, twice, thrice, smothered in the sleeve of his shirt. He always sneezes in threes. Riz teased him mercilessly about it.

“If you’d just sneeze like a normal person, instead of those pinchy things, you’d be done in one, Fabiahn,” Riz would say, drawing his name out like his elvish grandfather did.

“It’s called being polite, The Ball,” he’d reply. “And what do you know about normal?”

“About as much as you.”

They’d laugh together and Fabian’s embarrassment would ease. He would give anything for Riz to be laughing with him now.

Suddenly a door slams open and a wash of warm yellow light spills over the ground in front of him. He glances up. Maybe Kristen sent Cassandra to watch over him, because his meandering path has brought him to the Gold Gardens. The exiting patron brushes past with a muttered curse, but Fabian barely notices. As the doors swing shut, Bob’s voice slips through, full of dream and promise. Fabian checks his pockets and breathes a sigh of relief at the comforting feel of coin.

He stands straighter, raises his chin, allowing the light to fall on his face, scars and eyepatch and all, as the Goliath guard regards him suspiciously. Though it has been some time since he’s been on Leviathan and longer since he’s sought refuge at the Gold Gardens, he trusts the reputation he’s built in the intervening years yet holds. “Good evening. I find myself in need of a room for the night,” he says. “I have payment.”

The other guard, a half-orc he vaguely recognizes from previous visits, turns to him. Her face betrays no reaction to his disheveled state. It’s likely that she’s seen worse. “Ah, Master Seacaster. Garthy O’Brien has made it known there is always room for you here. Please, enter.”

Fabian sketches a small bow. The doors swing wide and the heat that flows out and envelops him is nearly as heavenly as Bob’s voice. But the change in temperature makes his nose run. He sniffs, presses the back of his wrist against the tickling itch, but can’t stop the inevitable. He’s barely inside before he’s sneezing again and wishing for something other than his sleeve to cover with. “H’tchsh! Chh! H’tsh!” He hopes the music and general merriment of the patrons is enough to hide the slight sound, but of course he is noticed.

“Blessings, Fabian, darling. Are you ill?” Garthy touches his shoulder gently and before he can stop himself, Fabian flinches away. His skin feels too tight, even the light pressure too much sensation. They take a step back, one hand raised in a calming gesture.

“I beg your pardon, Garthy,” Fabian says, attempting his usual charming smile. He’s not sure he pulls it off, because a small frown of concern still lingers between their brows. Somehow the expression does nothing to mar their beauty; the proprietor of the Gold Gardens is exquisite as always, the few silver threads in their black dreads the only indicator of years passing. “I’m fine. Just a little chilled from the rain. And you, my friend, are a sight for sore eyes. Eye.” His mouth quirks. “Might there be a room for a traveler seeking shelter from the storm?”

Garthy considers him for a long moment, gaze intent. Fabian resists the urge to look away, to avoid scrutiny. It’ll only make them more suspicious. He concentrates on keeping his expression vaguely flirtatious, his stance loose and easy. At last Garthy gives the smallest nod, allowing him his ruse. “I have told you before, lovey, you are always welcome here. You and yours. Come.” They turn down a hallway and Fabian follows.

Bob’s voice, the rattle of dice, the din of too much conversation fade and Fabian releases a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding. The Bad Kids always stayed in a room just off the main parlor, right in the midst of the action. Fig and Gorgug would take over for the house band and practically blow the roof off. Kristen would try to outdrink that biggest pirate she could find, and usually ended up drunk-best-friends with everyone. If Tracker had to pull her out of a fight or two, well, that just kept things interesting. Ragh and Fabian would drink too much mead and take too much snuff and Ragh would challenge the wrong people to wrestling matches and Fabian would beat the wrong people at dice and sometimes fists would be thrown. Good naturedly, of course. Adaine would watch them all over the spine of a book from the Compass Points and shake her head. Sometimes she had to heal one or another of them, but she never seemed to mind. Riz would disappear into the crowd for indeterminate amounts of time, only to suddenly appear at their table with a sharp-toothed grin and clues to whatever mystery they were trying to solve that he’d gleaned from overheard conversations. Fig and Kristen, especially, never wanted the nights to end. Sometime around dawn, though, Kristen and Tracker would peel off, followed by Fig and Ayda. The rest of them shared a room, Fabian, Riz, Gorgug, and Ragh all sprawled on a huge bed while Adaine tranced on a chaise nearby. Somehow Fabian slept better those nights than before or since, even though the room was never peaceful, or silent. Ragh and Gorgug snored. Adaine muttered to herself in her trance. Riz, when he slept, was restless, taking up more room than a three and a half foot tall goblin should. When he didn’t, his pen would scratch across his notebook for hours. None of it ever bothered Fabian.

A door creaks open, startling Fabian out of his thoughts. The room Garthy offers is a small and simply furnished space, just a bed, desk, and fireplace. Fabian crosses the room to a large window and looks out over the edge of the city to the black ocean beyond. It’s still raining, drops pattering against the pane. He should say something to Garthy. Thank them for the room, make a joke about another Leviathan brawl gone badly. He can’t find the words. Any words.

“Would you like something to eat? Or perhaps a warm drink?” Garthy’s voice is quiet, as though they might be intruding.

“No, thank you,” he says. Kippers, Master Fabian? Cathilda’s voice in his head. I don’t deserve kippers. He didn’t. Doesn’t. Twenty men dead. Twenty innocent men. Worst of all, Alistair Ash. Still a child. Dead because he needed to prove that he was a true pirate, heir to his father’s fame. That he is worthy. Instead he left Alistair to the fate that should have been his. He rubs his hand over his eye as though he could rub away the ache. The failure.

Garthy whispers something Fabian doesn’t catch, and flames rise in the hearth, hot and bright, crackling cheerfully. “At least let me take your wet things,” they say. “You’re shaking.”

He hadn’t realized how cold he still feels, despite being out of the wind and rain, until Garthy points it out. He takes a breath to declare, again, that he’s fine, but a chill cascades over him, followed by several sneezes, instantly proving him wrong. “H’ngxt! Fuck. H’Ntch! Ngxt!” He straightens and Garthy offers a handkerchief. Abashed, he takes it, blows his nose. “Pardon me.” Before he can gather himself, he’s overtaken again. At least this time he has a handkerchief to mute the sound. The sneezes shiver through him hard enough to send drops of rain spattering from his hair.

“Bless you, darling.” Garthy draws him closer to the fire. With deft fingers they undress him, peeling sodden clothes from his body, then wrap him in a thick robe. He doesn’t resist, suddenly beyond exhausted. Everything feels like it’s happening at a distance. Or maybe through a pane of glass. “Come, have a lay down. Things’ll look better in the morning.”

Fabian nods, even though he’s certain things will look just the same. He barely slides between the sheets when his eye drifts closed. He feels the bed dip slightly as Garthy sits beside him and, seeking warmth, he curls close. They smell spicy and sweet, like cinnamon and sandalwood and orange blossoms. Garthy curves a hand over his forehead. It’s strangely comforting and he wants to bury his face in Garthy’s hair, but instead he drifts out and out and…

floats in a strange grey emptiness. He can only identify his surroundings by absence. No color. No sound. No touch. He thinks he lifts his hands, or tries to lift his hands, or what should be his hands, but there’s nothing. He tries to look down, what he might assume is down, only to find no body. Nothing. It’s like the Nightmare Forest, but worse because they defeated the Nightmare King. They defeated Kalina. Which means this must be real. This nought. Of course no one reaches out… you don’t exist.You never existed. You are not even memory. You are a nonentity. A nullity. He opens his mouth to argue, but there’s no mouth, no vocal cords, no lungs, no breath. No words. No thoughts. Just deep, endless cold. Bone aching cold, if he had bones.

“...safe…You’re all right. Wake up, Fabian, love.” Garthy’s voice coalesces from the cold, at first sounding sharp as ice breaking. But they know his name, beckon him back into form by shaping the word. “Come on, darling. You’re dreaming.”

“Should’ve left me; felt better there. Nothing hurts when you don’t have a body,” he mumbles, and even though he has vocal cords again, he sounds nothing like himself. He clears his throat, sniffs.

Garthy laughs, low and kind. “Let me help you feel better, here in your body.” They cup his cheek gently, then urge him up and through a door to a bathing chamber.

A large bathtub stands in the center of the room, steam rising in soft curls. It is surrounded with dozens of candles and in their light Garthy glows, irises and tattoos molten gold. Fabian reaches for them, hesitantly. As if touching them might dim their shine. They smile tenderly, allowing him to trace the Zajiri script, the flowers and leaves with one tentative finger. He wonders what the writing might mean. Their skin is soft under Fabian’s own calloused hands. He longs for Garthy to wrap their arms around him, to hold him close until his shivering stops, until he’s finally warm. He doesn’t know how to ask.

Instead he moves back, putting a bit of distance between them. “I’m not w…” he starts to say, but an unexpected set of sneezes interrupts and he only just manages to pull the handkerchief from his robe pocket. “Ht’ngxt! Heh...ihh… Nxgt! H’tchh!”

“Not well?” Garthy suggests, steadying him. “Blessings.”

Heat rises in Fabian’s cheeks and he coughs a laugh. “That either. But no.” He gestures broadly, including the room, the bath, Garthy themself. “Not worth this.”

Garthy tilts their head with a puzzled frown. “Oh, lovey, of course you are.” They press one finger to Fabian’s lips before he can continue arguing. “Shh. It’s all right.” They take Fabian’s elbow, guiding him into the bath.

Fabian sinks into the heat with a deep sigh as his muscles begin to relax. He slides down, submerging himself completely in warm darkness. The water closes over his face; he rests his head on the bottom of the tub, and the only thing he hears is the thump of his own heart in his ears, still beating, beating, beating. At last his breath runs out and he surfaces with a gasp.

Gathy’s pulled a stool up beside the bath and as Fabian wipes water out of his eye, they wet a cloth and begin to wash his back, humming quietly. The soap smells of eucalyptus and peppermint, cool and clean. Fabian shivers once, and only slowly eases into the touch, closing his eye as Garthy washes his hair, gently working his fingers over his scalp. A memory rises, unbidden - himself, in the bath, he can’t be more than five and he’s sobbing. His papa is away, his mama asleep in her room even though it’s not even dark outside and he’s sick and scared. But then Cathilda’s there, as she always is, and she’s cleaning him up and humming a lullaby. Tears rise now, before he can stop them, dripping into the water.

“What’s distressing you, love?” Garthy asks.

It takes him several minutes to gather his thoughts; they feel ephemeral as clouds floating through his mind. “It’s been twenty years, Garthy. Shouldn’t it have faded?” He coughs, trying to clear the lump in his throat. “I still see them, you know. My father’s warlocks.” He presses the heels of his palms against his eye sockets. Breathe, he tells himself.

Garthy hums a listening noise.

“I shouldn’t have gone alone that night. I just wanted a moment in Crow’s Keep - we’d gone there together, my papa and I. When I was little. It was the one time Mama got angry at him, for bringing me to Leviathan, when he wasn’t supposed to be interacting with pirates. But he’d taken me up to watch the sun rise. He said he’d bring me to the top of the world, that we could touch the clouds. If I was lucky, I might even bring some home in my pockets…

“He gave me cotton candy, told me it was one he’d harvested himself. I’d never imagined clouds tasted so sweet…” he licks his lips, remembering how the candy had melted on his tongue, just like a rain cloud.

“I thought, maybe… somehow… if I spoke to him from the top of the world, he might hear me.” Fabian laughs at himself, coughs on a sob but manages to swallow it back. “Of course, Papa wasn’t listening. He was busy taking over Hell and selling spells to pirates. Always on to a bigger adventure, even in death.

“When the warlocks came, I let myself get swept up. Figuratively, as well as literally. I told them about Papa. About what I’d done… and it wasn’t enough. I killed him and it wasn’t enough.” He takes a ragged breath and Garthy rubs his back in slow circles. “I thought we could take Captain James. I thought I could take Captain James. It would make up for… everything.” He sucks in another breath, on the edge of desperation. He can’t get enough air. When he blinks, he feels Whitclaw’s tentacles on his face, cold fingers gripping him tight, raw hatred pulsing in the air between them.

“It went so fast. So fast. If I didn’t run… if I didn’t… he would have killed me… with the others. I didn’t stop to think, I didn’t even grab Alistair and he was fighting for me. I abandoned him… and I didn’t die, but he did. Because I fucked up.” Fabian sits in silence for several minutes, jaw clenched, struggling to breathe and not cry.

“I thought the guilt would fade,” he finally says, voice rough and not much above a whisper. “I thought the good I’ve done since would make up for it. I thought the adventures I had with the Bad Kids would make up for it. But it hasn’t. It doesn’t. And they’re gone… I thought killing the last of Whitclaw’s men would be penance. But I fucked that up, too.”

The only sound for a long moment is the rain on the roof, thunder rolling in the distance. Then Fabian takes a breath like he’s about to dive into the ocean and turns to face Garthy. “Am I forgivable?”

“Oh my darling Fabian. Of course you are. You are already forgiven.” They lean forward and brush the lightest kiss across his lips. “Yes, dire mistakes were made. And you have repented of those mistakes, and made reparations. You did not follow in your father’s footsteps; you found your own way. You have made a good man of yourself. You help those who are in need. You do not take advantage of anyone. You are generous, kind, thoughtful. Tales of your deeds are not spoken of as widely as Captain Bill Seacaster, but I have heard them nonetheless. Be proud of who you have become, Fabian Aramais Seacaster. And you should know that Alistair Ash lives again.”

A warm breeze whirls through the room and the candles suddenly go out. It’s as though the light has been transmuted into a seed of hope in Fabian, gold as the irises of Garthy’s eyes. Back in bed, Fabian curls into Garthy and they wrap their arms around him, holding tight until his trembling passes.

[chloelucia13]

Chapter 1: A Sweet Rain

Pairing: Spencer Reid x female!reader

Prompt: Your best friend is getting married, but it seems that you’re the one  who got lucky. 

Warnings: mostly fluff, language, a little angst, it’s pretty chill

Word Count: 3.8k

A/N: So this is going to be the first part of a multi-part series! Enjoy this fluff, because this'll probably be all you’re gonna get out of this series! Anyways, buckle up and I hope you all enjoy! As always, my tag lists and requests are open!

Songs mentioned: “First Day of my Life” by Bright Eyes, “Samson” by Regina Spektor

Tags: @sojournmichael​

“Hey Pen, what’s up?” you hummed into your phone, fishing for your keys in your purse.

“Okay, I have big news,” she squealed, and you nearly had to pull the phone from your ear due to the pitch. “Like, really big news. News so big you couldn’t even imagine-”

“Out with it, Penny!” You chuckled before finally finding your keys, unlocking your car door.

“Okay, okay... JJ and Will are getting married!”

“Oh my god!” Your pitch now replicated hers, and your hands started to shake as you sat down in the driver’s seat of your car. “I have to call and congratulate them!”

“NO!”

You jumped at her sudden shout, furrowing your brow in confusion. “Why not?”

“So the thing is... We’re kinda throwing a surprise wedding for them at Rossi’s.”

“What?”

“Okay, so...”

She rattled off the details of exactly what was happening, about how Will was in a near-death situation and how he proposed to her in his hospital room, and how Rossi overheard their plans to just go to the courthouse and decided that he wanted them to have a proper ceremony.

“So, are you coming?” she basically begged after taking a deep breath, winded after her rushed summation of the events that had taken place.

“Of course I’m coming! I’ll help you guys get ready and everything! Just tell me when and where!”

“Okay, so it’s gonna be at Rossi’s mansion tomorrow-”

“Wait, tomorrow?”

“Yeah,” she dragged out. “Sorry it’s short notice. It’s kinda short notice for everyone.”

You let out a silent sigh, licking your lips. “You’re all lucky that it’s my day off.”

***

You were clad in a pair of jeans and a tee shirt when you pulled up to the towering mansion that you were only slightly envious of. With your dress and makeup bag in the back of your car, you locked your doors before following the stone trail that led to the front door of Rossi’s house.

You barely knocked once when the door swung open, revealing an excited and frazzled Penelope. “Thank god, you’re here,” she sighed, grabbing your arm and yanking you into the door.

“What’s wrong, Pen?” you questioned, trying to keep up with her fast pace that was honestly alarming considering the 5-inch stilettos she was donning.

“Everything! The only other girl here is Emily and she does not have a clue on how to color coordinate! And the caterers said the food might not be ready in time and JJ’s mom might be late and-” 

“Penelope, take a deep breath! Everything’s gonna be just fine. Let’s see what you have so far.”

She nodded, taking a few deep breaths before guiding you over to the pair of French doors that led out to the backyard.

So far, all of the chairs had been set out for the ceremony and the wedding arch and already been placed, but sat bare. Table for the reception were out, but they were lacking decorations as well. The only thing that seemed fully completed was the dance floor, which had a mat of hardwood laid out on the grass with a sound system at the head of it.

“Okay, you’ve all got a good head start. It’s only noon, and they’re not supposed to be here until 6. We still have time,” you consoled, giving her a comforting smile. 

“Ah, is this the girl we’ve been waiting for?” a voice questioned behind you, and you and Penelope turned around to see three men walking in your direction. 

“It is!” Penelope replied, beaming and placing a hand on your shoulder. “Boys, this is Dr. Y/N Y/L/N, the head psychologist at St. Elizabeth Hospital in DC.” Penelope then shifted over to the boys’ side, standing next to the man you knew as David Rossi. “You already know this guy.”

“Of course, how could I ever forget,” you hummed, reaching out to shake his hand.

She then stepped next to a taller man with dark skin and strong eyebrows. “This here is Derek Morgan.”

You shook his hand. “Nice to meet you. I’ve heard quite a lot about you.”

She finally stood by the last, and the tallest, man in the group. “And this is Dr. Spencer Reid.”

You smiled at him, and he did the same in return. “I remember her saying you don’t do handshakes. It’s nice to meet you.”

“So now we’ve got two doctors to deal with?” Rossi playfully sighed, patting your shoulder.

“Seems like it,” you hummed, grinning at Spencer before turning to Rossi. “Though I doubt I’m half as intelligent as Dr. Reid right here. I’ve heard rumors of an IQ of 187?”

Spencer shrugged, a blush flooding his face. “I-I uh, I mean... Yes.”

“And that IQ immediately decreases threefold whenever he sees a pretty girl,” a voice behind you teased, and you turned to see Emily walking over to the group, a bright smile on her face.

“Is that so.” You beamed back at her, slinging an arm around her shoulder and pulling her into a hug. 

“Alright chatter-bugs, we’ve got a wedding to set up!” Penelope announced. “Hotch is gonna be here late, so we’re down a person for a while.” She grabbed your arm and began tugging you off. “I need you to help with flower stuff.”

You rolled your eyes and waved goodbye to the group before letting her tug you inside. Once you two were in one of the many living rooms, she turned to you with a big grin on her face. “What?”

“So?”

You furrowed your brows in confusion, shaking your head slightly. “So what?”

She huffed, rolling her eyes as if it was obvious. “So, what do you think of the doctor?!” 

“Oh my god,” you grumbled, running a hand through your hair. “Penelope, I am not gonna date your coworker, no matter how cute he is.”

“So you think he’s cute!”

“Penelope!” You let out a breath. “Pen, you know I’m not good with relationships, especially with my job, I barely have time to do anything.”

“Neither does he! It’ll be perfect!” She pushed out her lower lip, clasping her hands together in a praying gesture. “Please, at least think about it!”

Another sigh left your lips. “Fine. I’ll think about it.”

She squealed. “Yay!”

“But that doesn’t mean I’m for sure gonna date him!”

She smiled knowingly, nodding once. “Whatever you say.”

***

You were lucky that the florist you contacted had the flowers you needed in supply, and even luckier that they were able to have them all ready within the hour.

You were busy attempting to arrange the flowers and fake vines on the arch when you felt a presence to your right, watching from your peripheral as they gathered a handful of baby’s breath and began sticking them in the spots you needed filled.

“Thanks,” you hummed. “I was about to grab a step ladder for that, but you seem to have that under control.”

“It’s a gift and a curse,” Spencer joked, giving you a shy smile before turning back to his task.

You chuckled before grabbing a roll of sheer ribbon and holding it out to him. “Mind using your gift to tie that ribbon at the top of the arch? I can’t reach.”

He nodded, gingerly taking the ribbon from your hands and extending a length out to tie it to the top of the arch. You then took the roll from his hands and created a draping effect before snipping the length off from the roll and tying it to the side of the arch. 

As you moved to the right side of the arch to mirror the draping that you had just done, Spencer’s eyes followed your movements, his breath caught in his lungs and his lower lip caught between his teeth. 

“Spencer?”

“Hm?” he voiced, snapping out of his trance.

You smirked, handing him the roll. He grinned shyly back at you before mirroring the work he did on the other side. “I asked you where you’re from,” you explained as you took the roll back from him.

“Oh, uh, I’m from Las Vegas,” he rushed out, already feeling a burning in his cheeks.

“Really? What a coincidence. I’m from Reno, but I worked in Vegas while I was getting my masters.”

“Where’d you work?”

“The mental hospital there.” You shook your head, letting out a sigh. “God I worked there for like a year but I can’t remember the name for the life of me. Harrington, something like that-”

“Bennington?”

“Yes, that’s the one!” You turned to give him a smile, only to see a haunted look on his face. “What’s wrong?”

He shook his head, pursing his lips and casting his gaze to the ground. “I-it’s nothing.”

“Spencer.” You took a step forward before tentatively reaching your arm out, weighing the possibilities for a moment before placing your hand on his shoulder. “I know I’m not a profiler, but I can still read people. And I also know that we aren’t close, but you should know that you can trust me.”

He nodded, puffing a breath out through his nose. “I... Someone close to me is... Is one of the residents there.”

Your mind pondered for a moment, dots connecting right in front of your eyes. “Diana Reid.”

He tensed at the name, unconsciously giving himself away.

“She was one of my favorites.” You watched as his eyes lifted from the ground and flickered over your face, trying to decide if you were being honest. “God, she was so intelligent and kind and hilarious as all hell.”

He let out a small chuckle, relaxing slightly. “Yeah?”

“Oh absolutely. She’d crack me up all the time, my sides would hurt from laughing by the time my shift ended. And when she wasn't making me laugh, she’d tell me about her favorite author, read me some of her favorite passages.” A smile imprinted on your face. “Or she would read me letters that she got. Everyday she had a new letter, and her face would light right up when I handed it to her.”

Tears began to well in his eyes, and you moved your hand down to his bicep, locking gazes with him.

“She talked about you everyday. About her genius FBI agent of a son. She was so proud. And I could tell that you cared about her so much. Enough to get her the help she needed. Enough to risk your relationship with her to keep her safe.”

Spencer blinked back his tears and reached up to grab your hand, and for a moment you worried that you had crossed a line.

But that worry immediately faded away when he held your hand, squeezing it gently before giving you a kind smile. “Thank you,” he whispered.

You just nodded, letting the moment linger for as long as possible.

“Hey guys, how’s the arch coming alo-” Penelope began as she walked over to you two, her face buried in her tablet. She froze the moment she looked up, seeing the strange and vulnerable scene in front of her.

“Yeah, yeah, It’s good. I’m uh, I’m gonna go get some water,” Spencer rushed out, giving you both tight lipped smiled before hurrying off.

Penelope gave you a look as she stepped over to you. “What was that?”

“I know his mom,” you stated incredulously, the shock still lingering in your system. 

“Wait, what?”

“She, she was one of the residents at the mental hospital I used to work at.”

“So you guys are like on a third date basis with info about each other?”

“Penelope!” You sighed, rubbing your eyes. “I think that was the deepest conversation I’ve ever had with a stranger.”

“And I bet he can go a lot deeper-”

Your face grew a bright red and you smacked her shoulder. “Stop it!”

***

Your feet were aching by the time you had finished decorating the backyard, immediately falling into a chair with a heavy sigh the moment you placed the last centerpiece on the tables. 

“Y/N I think you may be an actual saint,” Penelope breathed out. “Thank you so much for helping. I don’t think I could’ve gotten this done by myself.”

“I’m always down to help,” you replied, giving her a tired smile. “I should probably start getting ready though. The party’s gonna start soon.”

“I’ll come with you. My stuff is all in my car. We can use one of Rossi’s many bathrooms.”

“That sounds wonderful.”

The two of you gathered your makeup and clothes for tonight before heading into the first bathroom to the right on the second floor of the mansion. That room immediately filled with giggles as you two got ready, helping each other with hair and makeup.

It was almost time for the party to start when you two were ready, zipping your dresses up and slipping on your heels when there was a knock at the door.

“Are you two gonna give us a reveal anytime soon or do we have to beg for it?” Derek’s voice sounded from the other side of the door, his grin evident in his words.

“We?” Penelope questioned, smirking herself.

“Well you know there’s gotta be an audience whenever there’s two beautiful women. Now are we gonna get a show?”

You rolled your eyes, letting out a chuckle as Penelope stepped over to the door. “You ready?” she questioned.

You shrugged. “Ready as I’ll ever be,” you sighed in response before gesturing for her to open the door.

She pulled the door open a moment later, stepping out first and you stepping out behind her.

Emily let out a low whistle, motioning for you two to turn. You scoffed but obliged, waddling around in a circle before giving everyone a sheepish smile. Emily and Derek bombarded the two of you with compliments, boosting your confidence through the roof and making your cheeks burn bright.

Eventually, Emily and Derek and Penelope split off into their own group, chatting amongst themselves. That was when you noticed a timid body tucked away to the side, someone who had been there the whole time but had stayed silent.

“Hey,” you greeted, smiling up at him.

“Hi,” Spencer hummed in return, a shy smile on his own face.

From behind you, you could hear the group change their conversation from whatever mundane topic they were on previously to the topic of you and Spencer. The words seemed to blend together but you could pick up a few things. 

“What did I say, that IQ is gone,” Emily joked.

“Pretty boy’s got a pretty girl now,” Derek added, all of them giggling.

“You um... You look beautiful,” Spencer told you, blatantly ignoring the group’s playful comments.

“Thanks. You clean up well yourself,” you said, reaching up and straightening his bow tie for him. “I dig the bow tie.”

“Yeah?”

“Absolutely. It’s very Eleven-esque.”

He smirked at that. “You watch Doctor Who?”

You shrugged. “Yeah, whenever I get the time. I’m not as big of a fanatic as Miss Penelope Garcia, but I certainly enjoy it.”

“Maybe we can watch the new season together sometime?”

You nodded, beaming. “It’s a date.”

You were so wrapped up in your conversation with Spencer that you failed to notice the peanut gallery wander off, evidently bored by the change of conversation. 

However, you didn’t fail to notice the blush deepening on Spencer’s cheeks from your words, his tongue darting out to wet his lips, a nervous habit that (you hated to admit) had an effect on you.

“We- uh, we should probably head outside. I bet the party is starting soon,” he stuttered out, rocking back and forth on his heels. 

You nodded with a frown, glancing over at the bathroom. “Yeah, that’s probably a good idea. I’m gonna clean up the bathroom and throw my stuff in my car, then I’ll meet you out there.”

A strange emotion, almost reminiscent of disappointment, crossed over his face for a moment before he nodded. “Alright. See you out there.” He gave you a small smile before stepping past you, leaving a lingering touch on your bare shoulder before retreating downstairs.

***

Luckily, the wedding ceremony had gone off without a hitch, every moment was perfect and extremely emotional.

Tears stains still lingered on your cheeks when dinner was over, and JJ handed you a tissue when she stepped over to you. “I’ve got a whole supply of them, my mom gave ‘em to me when I was breaking down up there,” she whispered to you, pulling you into a tight hug.

“Thanks, JJ,” you breathed, hugging her back just as tight. “I’m so happy for you two.”

“Yeah, I’m pretty happy too.” The two of you giggled, and she pulled away from the hug to give you a smile before looking around. “And I’ve noticed that a special someone is pretty happy to see you, too.”

You followed her line of sight, playfully rolling your eyes when you saw Spencer playing with Henry. “God, who put you up to this?” 

She scoffed, turning back to you. “Hey, I may not be a profiler, but I know a connection when I see one.” She reached out, taking your hand in his. “You should really give him a chance. You two would be amazing together, and you both deserve some happiness in your lives.”

A sigh left your lips, but you nodded. “Fine. I’ll think about it.”

JJ squeezed your hand before rising to her feet and looking around for Will. “Well, we should probably do the first dance before Penelope loses her mind.”

You grinned at her. “Have fun, girly. Love you.”

“Love you too. And thank you for all this. It means so much to me.”

“Of course. Anything for you. Now go dance!” You shooed her off with a laugh, watching as everyone turned their attention to the bride and groom making their way over to the dance floor.

The music started playing, and everything moved in slow motion as JJ and Will danced together, both of them beaming with pure love in their eyes. People eventually moved to join them, everyone swaying together on the dance floor.

You had sat at the table for a while, watching everyone make idle chat and have fun on the dance floor. This feeling of warmth and comfort was one that was foreign to you, and you wanted to bask in it for as long as possible. 

“All alone?”

You looked up to see Spencer standing in front of you, a shy smile on his lips. 

You nodded, returning his smile. “I guess so. Dancing really isn’t my thing.”

He pulled a chair up next to you, sitting down and watching the crowd with you. “Yeah, me either.”

“Really? Correct me if I’m wrong, but I do believe I saw you dancing with Emily. And Penelope. And JJ. And JJ’s mom.” He scoffed, and you let out a laugh, playfully shoving his shoulder. “Maybe you’re just a ladies man.”

“Oh, definitely.”

“I mean that sounds like some player behavior if you ask me.”

You both shared a laugh, wide smiles stretching across both of your lips. That laughter soon faded into a comfortable silence, the two of you returning your gazes back to the dance floor.

“I mean, there’s one girl I haven’t danced with,” Spencer spoke up, bringing your attention back to him.

You quirked an eyebrow at him. “Oh yeah? And who would that be?”

Your eyes followed his form as he stood from his seat and walked around you, stopping when he stood right in front of you. “I believe that would be you.” He extended his hand out to you.

A small chuckle left your lips, gently placing your hand in his and pushing yourself to your feet. “You’re getting confident, doctor.”

At your words, his demeanor began to slip, a light blush blooming across his cheeks, glowing under the string lights. “Oh-I-”

“Spencer.” You squeezed his hand. “It’s okay. I’m glad you feel comfortable enough around me to be forward.”

He let out the breath he was holding, squeezing your hand in return before leading you over to the dance floor. You couldn’t help but notice the subtle glance Spencer shared with the DJ once you two stood on the hardwood mat.

The song changed, now playing a slow song you were all-too familiar with. “I didn’t peg you as a guy who listened to Bright Eyes.”

He shrugged. “I’m not. But I had Penelope look into your purchases to see what CDs you’ve bought.”

You feigned offense, gasping and shoving his shoulder. “You two were conspiring!”

He let out a laugh, beaming at you as he placed one hand on your waist. “Well we better get to dancing before this song is over. It’s only 3 minutes and 9 seconds long.”

You rolled your eyes but obliged, placing your free hand on his shoulder and stepped close to him, squeezing his hand once before you two began to sway, eyes locked in each other’s gaze.

“I’m, uh...” You sighed, pursing your lips. “I’m really sorry about bringing all that stuff up with your mom,” you whispered.

“It’s okay,” he whispered in response.

You furrowed your brow in frustration. “But I made you upset, I didn’t mean to do that. I’m really sorry.”

“You don’t need to be sorry. You didn’t upset me.” He let out a breath. “Honestly, it’s really nice being able to talk to someone who knew who she is. Who she really is. Not her illness, her.”

You nodded, searching his eyes. “I’m glad that you trust that I know who she really is.”

“I don’t need to trust you. You told me exactly who she is. She’s a kind, intelligent woman.”

A smile settled on your face. “With a kind and intelligent son.”

He returned your smile, his hand winding around your waist and pulling you against his chest as the song changed. 

You chuckled, searching his eyes. “God, did you guys just decide to play all the music I like.”

He paused to listen to the song. “No, I don’t recognize this song. Maybe Penelope chose it.”

“Of course she did.”

You listened to the lyrics, humming along to the melody as your eyes traced over his features.

Your hair was long when we first met. Of course.

Slowly, as the two of you swayed, you laid your head on his chest, letting your eyes flutter shut.

Peace.

[jengajives]

Look I have so many feelings abt Finrod’s death so I decided to rewrite it

Warning does be having blood, gore, and deaths but like that’s how it be. Stay safe folks

(Again pardon my shitty Elvish thx)

The waves pounded against the ice inside his skull, thrashing him with frigid whitewater, trying to tear away what little grip he had. Trying to drag him into the depths of the polar sea.

And he wanted to go. Wanted to sink away and be at peace in the depths with all those of his people who had been lost. But he did not deserve such an end.

Because he saw the blood on the limestone wharfs of Aqualondë and on his spear tip, and on the faces of the mariners he had murdered for their life’s work. He saw the bitter rocky coast and the distant horizon blood red with flame. He heard the Doom of Mandos echo in his head.

And he saw Barahir lying dead in a stinking, festering pool of blood and slime.

“Felagund!”

The voice shook him to awareness; the soft, gentle voice that achingly familiar to him. Kindness unspoiled by a lifetime of hardship, piercing him through to the core.

“Felagund, please!”

Finrod tried to raise a hand and rub his eyes, but there was only a rattle of chain and his movement stopped fast. It was then he realized the darkness was not that of temporary blindness, but of the ultimate and complete lack of light, somewhere deep beneath the earth. He coughed lightly and realized his throat was raw and spasmed when he tried to speak.

“I’m here, Beren.”

“You wouldn’t answer!” Beren was sobbing, somewhere to his left. “You wouldn’t move. I thought he’d- I thought he’d killed you!”

“No,” Finrod creaked. “I’m alright. Not too hurt at all...”

That wasn’t entirely true. There was a horrible ache all the way from his lips down to the depths of his diaphragm, and his mind felt sapped and paper-thin. He couldn’t remember why it hurt so much. Couldn’t remember why all he saw when he closed his eyes was blood.

“Where are we?” Finrod asked quietly. He got the feeling he should know the place, but in the dark he couldn’t possibly.

Beren sniffled. There was a strength to his voice, as always, but the despair set it on edge. “In the dungeons, I suppose. They dragged us down so many stairs...”

And Finrod promptly remembered Sauron.

He remembered his voice wavering as his power splintered. He remembered falling to the ground at the foot of that creature’s throne, and sobbing.

He remembered anguish after that, and nothing more.

Next to him, not so far away in the dark, Beren had started to weep.

“I’m never going to see her again. I’ve led you all to your deaths...”

The tiniest flicker of power waxed in Finrod’s heart.

“No, Beren. You will not die here in this darkness. You will not end hopeless and alone. Take strength; it is not over.”

And the words, for the moment, gave him the illusion of certainty that he couldn’t truly feel.

“The Elf, this golden-haired one, intrigues me.”

When Sauron spoke, Draugluin listened, as he was commanded, but rarely did he speak. Now he just growled lightly and pinned his ears, sitting huge and obedient at his master’s side.

“Surely he is one of the Exiles’ princes,” Sauron mused on, uninterrupted. “His power was great. But his face is strange to me. I don’t know him, Draugluin. It is essential that I know him.”

At last the Wolf spoke in answer, his voice a hideous snarl.

“And how would you have me discover this, master?”

Sauron settled back on his throne and smiled.

“Break him.”

Those valiant ten who had set off with them from Nargothrond screamed very little when the wolves came for them. Finrod could pretend, then, and hope beyond hope, that their deaths had been painless.

He could pray they had not suffered.

It happened one by one. In the endless black of the dungeon, there would be a glint of green eyes somewhere afar off in the shadow, and when less voice would answer when Finrod called out.

Beren was closest to him, and the Man suffered. The Eldar could withstand long darkness and captivity without thought of food or hope, but Beren was not so lucky. It wore him down. Finrod heard the weakness and despair grow in his voice every day, and when the hours seemed longest and darkest, he would speak of Lúthien Tinúviel and weep.

He asked once for Finrod to tell him about Valinor, in the utter throes of hopelessness, and Finrod had not been able to do it.

His power was shattered and the memory Valinor held only devastation for him in that shadow place.

Even in this most simple of things, he failed.

The hour at last came when the twelve who sat chained in the darkness had become two. Finrod and Beren alone remained.

It was only a matter of time before Felagund had to hear Barahir’s son die.

Only a matter of time before the son of Finarfin gave everything he had to keep this mortal Man safe.

He heard the claws clicking against the cold stone floor. He smelled the reek of blood and death, and at last, he saw the twin pinpricks of two cruel green eyes flashing to his left.

Beren whispered from beside him.

“I’m sorry I brought you to this.”

Finrod closed his eyes tighter and tighter until he saw the glow of the Golden and Silver Trees blazing in the heart of Valmar, and heard the horns of Oromë shake the earth, and Manwë’s eagles wheel beneath the stars, and he saw Nargothrond in all its strength and glory, and Barahir standing in the meadows of Dorthonion with laughter in his eyes.

The shackles burst, and when he again opened his eyes, he could see the face of the wolf illuminated by a grim white light.

Finrod threw himself upon the creature with the roar of the Valar in his throat.

The fur was thick and spiny. The claws sharp, and the teeth long. It was bigger than Finrod was. It was stronger.

But he dug his fingernails into the hide and locked his jaw upon its throat, and did not move as it howled and tore into him. The pain was dull. The rips it opened in his body easily ignored. He held on with the beast’s foul black blood filling his mouth, and his nails sinking into fever-hot flesh, and the dizzying frenzy of power and desperation turning his thoughts to a fog.

When it shook him from its throat at last, he got his hands into the wound he’d torn in it and ripped it wider as the fangs sliced through his belly to try and spill his guts. He didn’t feel the agony that surely must have been shooting through him. He didn’t feel anything at all.

The wolf cried and snapped at his hands, but he only managed to pull harder. Tearing the living flesh open like fabric.

A spray of blood rained on him and at last he lay still beneath the motionless body of the beast.

For a moment it seemed he would slip away just then, ripped to bits, but he wouldn’t have it. He could last a few moments longer.

Finrod stood. His legs might not have been the same length anymore- he couldn’t tell- but he managed to stumble to Beren in the dark, managed to find the chains in blood-slick fingers.

With the last of his strength, he pulled until the links burst open and snapped apart, and Beren was free.

Then Finrod put his back to the wall and slid down until he was sitting against it, and listening to the strange gurgle in his throat grow quieter and weaker.

“Finrod!”

Beren sounded absolutely frantic. His hands fumbled in the dark, trying to check the wounds, trying to dress them- trying to do anything. Finrod sat gently batting his hands away until at last he managed to speak through the damage.

“Beren. Leave it. It’s over.”

“Finrod, no, n-no, you can’t-“

“You’re safe now.”

A horrific jolt of panic burst through him as he realized in the dark he’d never see Beren‘s face again and he struggled to push it aside. His voice faltered.

“I... I did everything I could for you, iôn.“ He tried to raise a hand and touch those familiar features, trace them into his mind’s eye, but he didn’t have the strength. “I’m only sorry I could not do more.”

“Don’t!” Beren’s breath caught. Suddenly he was sobbing, gripping Finrod’s hand and raising it to his cheek as if he thought he could stay him by will alone. “Adar, don’t go. Please!”

Finrod tried to say something but a cough interrupted, sending waves of agony through his spasming body, filling his mouth with blood. By the time he cleared it he could already feel himself fading.

“Beren,” he said, gripping the boy’s hands in his own. “Your father would be so proud of you. I will not see you again, but I... I shall never forget you.” His lungs wouldn’t work. No air came to him.

“Farewell,” he whispered on his last breath, and his eyes closed on Middle-Earth forever.

[droidrights]

For your writing prompt... A scene from always red or stay the black but in Cals POV?

 Ask and you shall receive! Thanks so much for the prompt, Anon! This was fun!

Sometimes Pink

This here is the scene at the end of Chapter 9 of Always Red where Cal first wakes up after the escape from Nur.

 2nd person/ present tense like the rest of Always Red except Cal is “you”. 

Inquisitor Cal Kestis x Jedi Reader

Words: 1918 

Warnings: Description of Injury and near death  

“Now you'll be what I make you.” Her voice rings in your head. Somehow over the roar of the flames, over the howling sea wind and even over the crash of thunder, you hear her claim you in a whisper.

Laid flat on your back, soaked through to your bones, you blink the raindrops from your eyes and through bleary vision you dare to take in the sight of her. Writhed in the towering flames that engulf the Fortress Inquisitorius she stands over you in victory; small strings of blue electricity blink between her flexing fingers. The memory of those fingers pressed on the side of your face, even to deliver a brain rattling Force blast, becomes something you find yourself clinging to. Those hands, you've thought, the things those hands could do.

It's the last thing you recall before things go black.

Fuzzy and indistinct, you imagine the brush of those deadly fingers over your forehead. Most certainly imagined, in a moment burst with brightness shining behind your eyelids. Blazing and uncomfortable before the comfort of the black seeps back in.

You've always hoped that when you died your spirit would scatter, made to rejoin the living Force. There would be a loss of consciousness surely, a kind of oblivion. Force users are taught to believe they live on through connectivity to the Force and they do but...not as they were. You consider that this could be death. The Black, this endless float peppered with visions of this and that. Her. Could be worse.

Later you are slowly stirred to consciousness by the astringent scent of bacta gel stinging your nostrils, and more gentle touching though less imagined this time. When your eyelids become unstuck you spy a world much different from the one you had been imagining.

In a heartbeat the comfort of the black is banished. The place that allowed you to drift carelessly and linger on your memories of thunder and lightning evaporate in an instant, replaced with an air of the urgency to live. In the here and now you are a prisoner, confirmed bu the metallic clank of durasteel cuffs at their limit. Blazing overhead lights are blinding and your instincts are the only thing you have, aside from an intense throbbing ache on the right side of your head. You have survived many times before by allowing your instincts to take control and so your rational mind takes a backseat to an animal impulse toward survival by any means necessary.

There is a muffled crack as you fold your thumb inward, making one hand more amenable to slipping its restraint. It hurts, of course it hurts but you tell yourself it doesn't.

A startled medic bounces from his seat at witnessing his patient wake so suddenly and commit violence on himself. With one free hand, you bolt upright and the twi'lek gingerly, mistakenly presses his hands on your shoulders. No touching.

“Be calm, you mustn't aggriva-!” the twi'lek's words are cut short when you raise your open fist. His breathing become raspy and short as you draw your fingers closer and closer together.

The decision to attack had been simple for you. It always is. What you hadn't known is that you had been asleep for the past four days in recovery from grievous wounds. Against his better judgment, Byt Ilan agreed to treat your injuries as best he could, despite the fact that he witnessed your role in the battle that had lead all of you to this point. Despite the fact that you had been an active member in the institution that tortured and imprisoned him, because he is good. Truly good.

Byt claws at his throat uselessly as you get to your feet. To you there is nothing, no one, other than this obstacle before you. The only sound that matters is the hiss and wheeze that escapes this twi'lek's lips.

It's not even that much pressure, honestly. To think that most living things have a soft little spot for you to squeeze and wrench the life from. It is both dazzling and intoxicating to exercise this power. Your vision tunnels and you move with the intent and purpose of a predator that has not been unconscious for days but waiting. Your trembling fingers, broken thumb included, curls into a tight fist as you move to cross the room.

In your battle fervor, you fail to release the restraint fastened to your other wrist. Your fervent pursuit of the medic causes the heavy metal gurney to overturn. Your balance is thrown immediately and the thing brings you back a ways. There is a loud and muted pop and you know right away that your arm has become dislocated from your shoulder. It's happened several times before, each instance more unpleasant than the last.

Byt's legs scramble in the air haplessly, far from the ground. He knows he's near finished when a darkness begins to creep in from the edges of his vision. Until he is suddenly dropped to the ground like a sack of grain.

Years of training within the Empire has given you the singularity of mind that allows you to pour your focus into your goals, and exactly nothing else, until they are achieved. Discomfort, pain, your very limbs are second only to your gain. In this moment nothing matters beyond dispatching the nearest jailer.

Byt uses the brief pause in your assault to scream for help, though the wracked sound produced by his broken throat is nothing like the alarm he had intended. When he cries out a second time it is for horror at watching you drag the overturned bed, dislocated arm and all, in his direction, renewing the fight.

Byt struggles to his feet in time to be hefted again into the air. When his back hits the opposite wall of the small cargo area the twi'lek loses a lungful of air he could not spare. Your pupils triple in size as victory grows nearer and your connection to the dark side spreads its wings inside you.

“Cal, no!” A voice cries out. Y/N arrives in a flurry and immediately places herself between you and your opponent. You don't see her. There is only you and Byt Ilan's final breaths.

“Cal, stop right now!” She roars again, this time with more menace.

You hear nothing, you see nothing. You are dead to the world but for the quiet symphony of blood vessels popping in the twi'lek's eyes. The hard thump of his heart against his ribs, so rapid and vital until the blessed moment of silence that will follow. Any second now.

A loud crack echoes off the walls of the hold and every nerve on your face lights up in a spark when she strikes you with the flat of her hand. You recognize the feel of that hand across your face instantly. A bright stinging throb blossoms across your cheek and the hard contact of skin on skin breaks the kill's hold over you. The things those hands can do.

Blindsided by the sensation, you loose your grip on the poor creature by unclenching your fingers. He hits the ground hard and his breath does not return immediately. The twi'lek's rosy pink cheeks and lips have turned gray

More and more of your surroundings come to light. Gathering crew and guests become shadows around this drama in the cargo hold. Someone rushes to the medic's side and slaps him hard between the shoulder blades until he gulps in a shuddering breath. Another figure moves in the space around you but goes unnoticed. Your tunnel vision has fixated on someone new.

After the dazzling white light clears your vision you still can't quite believe your eyes. You see her before you the way she looks in your memories, the way she looks in your dreams. Framed in fire, windswept, tired, bloody and gloriously furious.

“Y/N?” you whisper, confused. You blink hard and this time she is a more realistic version of herself. Still tired, still angry. Your hand stays hefted in the air, unsteady.  

You don't believe what your eyes are telling you. You died and this is a sick joke, which normally you might appreciate, but for the look on her face. You would never understand the combination of emotions you see there. Your shoulder, your head, your hand, they all pulse in various octaves of pain. It's disorienting.

It's not her, it can't be. You lost and she killed you. Shaky, you lurch forward keeping your hand outstretched. You have to be sure.

There is a swift movement from the shadow behind you and in a flash there is a sting in your neck. So minor compared to the other aches, throbs and stings but you were unprepared for the suddenness of it.  

A normally welcomed old companion, the blackness, creeps in again. Your heart cries out to wait, just one more second while you figure this out. While you reach out to her.  

Before you hit the ground the very tip of your longest finger connects with her chin, just below her lip, before trailing its way down her chest and belly. The hem of her shirt snaps up when the crook of your finger tugs and releases it.

As your head hits the metal flooring you decide it really was Y/N. You are indeed still living and for some reason she had decided to spare you in the rain on Nur. The fool.

You've tried to tell her since Zeffo that she's yours, from the second you saw her on Bracca, whether she knew it or not. When she inched closer to you step by step, siding against the Ninth Sister she was yours. When you touched her Master's lightsaber and saw her as a frightened and defenseless padawan she was yours. Hands and feet fastened together, jammed in the back of your TIE fighter she was yours. Until you handed her over to the Empire...and she was theirs.

What you had not anticipated were all the myriad moments that led to you belonging utterly and madly to her. Starting with the hard resolve in her face when she went for your throat in your first rain-washed clash. Again when she teased you in the industrial caverns of that Zeffo mountain. Especially when she was bubbling over with wrath and vengeance even lying weak on the floor of her cell, imagining the demolition of Imperial control. You were more hers then and completely when she made good on her promise by conjuring destruction from the air like a goddess. It's like you never had a choice.

That's a lie. It's a choice you've made repeatedly. You embraced it, fought it, misinterpreted it but you never denied it. Fool that you are.

Y/N will be your undoing, she makes you weaker than anything the Empire has put you through and nothing is scarier than to know that you will lose every time.

Yes, you tried again to kill her but it's only because you are the one who does what others will not. It was your final attempt at releasing you both from this thing. Y/N is strong but not stronger than what's between the two of you. You tried to be but it turns out you aren't either.

Now you are doomed to each other. For your part at least, you commit yourself willingly to the flames.

She really should have killed you.

[fallingappleshurt]

27 and 39 with mercenary techno and skeppy? and like skeppy is having second thoughts about their jobs? 👉👈

the miles and miles we ran ( and can keep in running)

“I don’t- I don’t think I want to do this anymore.” He said suddenly, staring at the ceiling.

“Do what?” Techno asked, lighting another candle.

“The jobs, the mercenary stuff, it’s not worth it- I don’t like it.”

———

TW: mentions of blood and death but nothing too graphic

Ao3 link: Hi!!

Para my beloved!!! /p I am sorry it took so long for me to get this out, burn out

Hope you all enjoy :>>>

————-

The rain battered against their threadbare clothes, speckles of blood flicked against his hands, the job was easy, in and out, it didn’t bother him.

But that was what was starting to bother him.

Techno brushed a few soaked strands of hair from his face, trying to push down the emotion swirling in his chest. They just had the final stretch then he could collapse and his emotions could settle.

But it was relentless.

His mind clipped back to the arena, the sweat running down his back, the howls of the crowd, the contorted snarl of the monster in front of him. He didn’t flinch as it launched itself forward or when he lashed at it with his blade-

Techno’s ear twitched against the wind as it pulled him back to reality, focus. Nobody was out now, too late and too cold. Skeppy stood beside him, rubbing the water drops off his goggles and sighing.

“So now what?” He asked, an unlying bitterness in his bored tone.

“What do ya mean?”

“Are we gonna keep doing this?”

“This job? Yeah, we need to report back so we can get paid.”

Skeppy opened his mouth to talk again but stopped and nodded, “Yeah- Yeah lets just go.”

They continued down the decrepit alley, the cracked ground dipped behind their feet and water flooded from the rusting gutters, some managing to slosh into his boots.

He and Skeppy ducked down a flight of stairs, fingers running along the rusted railing and entered the mildewy tunnels. Someone shuffled to their side, inspecting them with narrowed eyes.

“Are you those mercenaires?” They asked, lip curled, it was the only part of their face Techno could see, the rest cloaked by a hood in a vain attempt to look secretive.

Techno nodded, “Yes.” He said curtly.

“Did you finish the job?”

“This isn’t part of your affairs or I’d know your name, just show us to his room.”

“I’m not showing you anything unless you answer my question, freak.”

“Cut the shit and just tell him,” Skeppy hissed, “Stop dancing around the issue.”

Techno rolled his eyes, “We finished the job, however the details are not to be discussed with you.”

Their lips twitched briefly, a fleeting attempt at a smile, “That’s all I needed to know, this way.”

They followed, Skeppy leaning and whispering;

“Why are you always so on edge? Just give them a straight answer.”

“Why does it bother you so much?”

“Cause it makes everything take so much longer.” A hint of a whine in his voice.

“Soley that reason then,” He said lightly, then added, “I don’t want him reporting us, the more he knows the more trouble he could cause.”

“So paranoid,” Skeppy rolled his eyes,“Since when are you scared of the law?”

“Never, since the law doesn’t exist.”

Skeppy snorted, “In your little dream world.”

They had stopped by Hatchet’s office, the cloaked figure cleared their throat, “If you are done rattling about then The Master is ready to see you.”

Techno and Skeppy gave each other a knowing look then walked through, Techno turned and looked back, hand resting on the doorknob.

“The word is ‘prattling’.” He said, closing the door, despite it’s thick and sturdy nature he could still hear the others gasp of indiginence.

Techno didn’t fear many things, he didn’t fear many people, just what they could do if they had power. Hatchet was one of those people.

Techno had never seen his face, he was just a silhouette that would purr out orders and seemed to have eyes everywhere. Techno felt glad he and Skeppy weren’t in his debt, the term business partners was already too close.

Hatchet sat in a massive chair, intricate carving in the otherwise smooth wood, he was leaning forwards, elbows on his knees and hands folded, chin resting against them. He looked like a cat, bored of its prey.

“Is it done?” He asked.

“Yes.” Skeppy answered this time, Hatchet grinned.

“Very good, you two always do excellent work. Oh and do tell me, did he suffer?”

Techno frowned, “No.”

Hatchet’s face dropped slightly, “Aw,” He paused, “No matter, here.” He tossed an envelope at them which Skeppy tried and failed to catch and had to scrape off the floor.

“Alright, off with you two.” He waved his hand and after they hurried out of the room, feeling the man's eyes burning into their backs, marking them.

They walked home in silence, Techno could tell there was something wrong with Skeppy but wasn’t sure how to approach it. Thunder clapped above them again and candle lights flickered in nearby windows as they crept into their little back alley apartment, the power must’ve been knocked out.

Techno slipped off his boots and tested one of their lamps, nothing happened. He sighed and shuffled into the kitchen, looking for their matches.

He found them quickly and set to work lighting up the house, Skeppy flopped down on the couch after shedding his attire.

“I don’t- I don’t think I want to do this anymore.” He said suddenly, staring at the ceiling.

“Do what?” Techno asked, lighting another candle.

“The jobs, the mercenary stuff, it’s not worth it- I don’t like it.”

“I don’t like it either but it’s the only reason we aren’t on the streets.” Techno said, this was all he had ever done, thoughts of the arena pierced his mind again, this was all he knew.

“We can find a different way to make money.”

Techno raised an eyebrow in a sort of humored disbelief, “Not here! We’ll be recognized or reported or something- there will always be people who will want another corpse and they’ll come right back to us.” He added darkly.

Skeppy glared at him, “Look, I don’t want to do it anymore, you can but I no longer want to be a part of it.”

“What- are you backing out now? Is this it?”

“I want it to be! This is too much!” Skeppy snapped, a hand pulling at his hair, “It’s all too much!”

“Oh yeah, ‘the weight of your sins bearing down on your shoulders’, I see how it is.” Techno snorted.

“I thought when we escaped the arena that we’d get to be free! No more fighting, no more bloodlust! Now we’re just the same monsters under another name!”

“It doesn’t work like that, our fates were set and sealed in stone the moment we were forced into that place, even then we are wanted for that and wanted for everything we’ve done since we’ve escaped.” Techno felt a familiar, buried, grief in his chest, he didn’t know what to do. The facade was wearing thin and it almost felt like his chest was going to cave in.

“We should just run away.”

“We can’t.”

“Why not?” He cried, “We’ve done it before!”

“Everyone will know it’s us, it- it can’t be that easy.”

Skeppy was silent for a moment.

“This- this isn’t fair.” He stuttered out, a single tear of frustration slid down his face, running along the blue geode in his skin. “And don’t you dare say life isn’t fair, I know it’s not but that doesn’t mean I can’t be upset about it.”

“You can be upset about it but it won’t do much.”

“Helpful as always.”

“Look, a piglin and geode hybrid, we already stick out.” Techno rolled his eyes, “Do you even know where we’d go? I don’t have any other skills, I know my way around a blade but that can only get us so far.”

“Maybe if you tried harder you’d know more.”

Techno narrowed his eyes, “That is rich coming from you.”

“Sorry sorry, it was a cheap blow.” Skeppy rubbed the back of his neck and Techno sighed.

“I can’t really blame you, I don’t know what else to do, we can run but we’ve already run so far.”

Broken locks, bare feet slamming against concrete, hands tightly interlaced.

“We can keep running, the world stretches for miles and miles, there has to be something out there for us.”

“But what if there isn’t?” Fear simmered in his chest, he didn’t want to be alone again but he didn’t want to be trapped under someone else's heel again either.

The thunder clapped outside.

“Then we can make one, an actual home, just for us. We’ve sort of done it here, we can do it again.”

Techno nodded, a lump in his throat, “We don’t owe anyone anything right now, we can go whenever we want.”

“Yeah, we can leave first thing in the morning, there is nothing here for us.”

“So, are we really doing this?”

“If you’ll come with me.”

“Of course, on one condition.”

Skeppy frowned, “What might that be?”

“We take that dog from the alley with us, I don’t think anyone else will take care of it.”

Skeppy snorted, “Sure, sure.”

Techno knew the world was scary, he regarded it with caution for good reason, but he tried not to let it paralyze him. In this world, the only way you can make things better for yourself is by taking the first step, and it is better if you have a friend.

That’s how he got out with Skeppy.

[skyview-temple-spring]

more writing! some AU stuff with Zelda & Ghirahim being idiots and Link and Fi having to deal with their shit. (prompt #7 from the same list I’ve been using) T for language (also on ao3)

Zelda trudged through the muddy Faron forests, weighed down by the monster of a sword strapped to her back. The rain was only a drizzle, but if they didn't get back soon the sky would open and they'd be drenched. Ghirahim would surely start complaining about rust, going on and on for hours about how his sword deserved to be treated and that Link never left Fi out in the rain and how Zelda was no better than Demise if she dared disrespect him in such a way—

They had to hurry.

"Bet you can't hit that tree from all the way over here."

Of course, that is not what they did.

"Oh, you are so on. I thought we had learned by now to never doubt my skills?"

"I'm just saying, visibility is not the best, it's dark and cloudy." Zelda shrugged, crossing her arms and leaning against a nearby tree.

Ghirahim sent her a glare, straightening himself up and summoning a glowing dagger. With a calculated flourish, he sent the blade flying into the misty woods,  never breaking eye contact with her. Though the dagger had disappeared from sight, they heard it hit the tree with a loud thunk! a second later.

The sword turned to bow arrogantly to an unseen audience, gloating and making as big of a deal as he possibly could.

"Ha! Who's laughing now?"

"Kweeeee!"

"Oh, fuck me.”

--

Link lay cuddled up on his couch, curled beneath a fuzzy blanket as he watched the torrential downpour outside the window.

"The weather's getting really bad, should we be worried about them?" He wondered aloud, looking to Fi for an answer.

"20% chance they got lost. 30, maybe, one of them got hurt. 50 they've just done something stupid." Fi rattled off, much less precise than she used to be. After the downfall of the Demon King neither had been very keen to start fighting again, so once the surface had been rebuilt and a new class of knights entered the academy, they gladly let others take on some of the heavy burden of saving the world. The hero and his sword were content to explore the world below on their own terms.

This did not mean, however, their lives were not filled with danger and chaos on any given day.

The door slammed open and the raging wind swept inside, shaking the walls of their home and rattling the shelves. Link jumped up, hurrying to the girl cradling a brown and tan lump under her arm.

"Help?" Zelda called into the house, out of breath and sopping wet. Behind her stood the demon lord, just as soaked, and even more upset.

"What did you do..?" Link cautiously approached them, reaching out for whatever Zelda had brought into their home. She dumped the blob into his arms, turning to wrestle the door closed once more. 

"Hello to you too, Link, and yes, we are okay, thank you for your concern." Ghirahim scoffed in his direction, but Link was preoccupied with the animal in his arms.

"Oh my goddesses, is this dead?"

Zelda had slumped onto the couch, dragging the other spirit down with her. Not waiting for a response, Link deposited the lump he was now able to recognize as a kikwi.

"I don't think so? We didn't see what happened, Ghirahim threw a knife into a tree and then we found him lying in the mud." She groaned, sprawling out over the couch with her head in Fi's lap. The sword didn't push her away, wet as she was, but didn't look too happy about it either.

"Yeah, well, if Mocha here hadn't gotten in the way—"

"It's Matcha, dumbass."

"The personal designation of this kikwi is Machi." Fi interrupted them, though the name of the kikwi didn't really matter as it was passed out on Link's floor, "Please refer to it by it's name."

"—he wouldn't have gotten hurt." Ghirahim finished, ignoring everything the other two had said. Link gaped at him, aghast.

"You killed him? "

"Who doesn't like a little murder to start their evening?" Ghirahim waved him off, sarcasm dripping from this words.

"We didn't kill him!" Zelda yelled from the couch, falling off a moment later with a loud thud. She popped back up in time to see Ghirahim poking the poor thing, nearly tackled by Link to keep him off.

"It's a plant, we can't have killed it anyway."

Zelda slowly turned to the demon.

"Do you think plants don't die?"

"You can't kill them."

"Yes, you can!"

"I think he means to say you can't murder them." Fi resolved, though she stayed in her place on the couch. "Murder is a term reserved for sentient life forms."

"Is it?" Ghirahim pondered, to the dismay of a very distraught Link. "That thing's barely sentient, but I would definitely describe it as murder if I actually killed him."

Fi, helpful as ever, chimed in with, "Murder has to be premeditated. Killing someone on accident would be manslaughter."

"Who says it was a accident?"

"I do, I was there!" Zelda piped up, "And he's not dead! He's sentient, too, non-sentient things don't scream when you stab them!"

"Fi's a sentient life form. I could stab her and I don't think she'd care."

"I would."

"Stop arguing over this and help me heal Mochi!" Link shouted over their argument, rifling through the cabinets for a potion.

"Machi." Fi corrected him.

Though he tried, it became clear no one was listening to Link. Ghirahim ignored his plea, continuing to argue with Zelda.

"Besides, your evidence is incorrect," He dismissed, turning to leave the dead (not dead!) kikwi. "Deku babas absolutely scream in pain and they're not sentient. They're plants, this thing is a plant, I didn't murder it."

"I can only verify with 30% accuracy that Machi is a plant."

"60/200 not plant still leaves, like, a quarter of a plant."

"No, that's not what I said." Fi sighed, growing exasperated. "I said I can only verify with 30% accuracy he is a plant. That does not mean he is 30% plant, 70% other. And for the love of Hylia simplify your fractions, you're killing me."

"Macho—"

"Machi."

"—doesn't seem to be able to answer us right now, so we'll have to solve this later."

Link hadn't bothered to pay attention to their discussion. He hadn't been able find a potion (he'd need to restock up in Skyloft. given how prone to injury the four of them were, to be without one was asking for trouble) and stopped his frantic searching, kneeling next to the kikwi to take time and find what was actually wrong with him. There wasn't any blood, there didn't seem to be any wounds. In fact—

"He's just passed out, you scared him half to death!" Link sighed, tugging the plant into his arms. "And it's going to be even worse when he wakes up, put him back where you found him!"

"No way am I going back out in that, I'll rust." Ghirahim whined, gesturing to the rain outside. Thrusting the dead weight into Ghirahim's arms, Link glared at the demon and effectively silenced his protests.

"Fine." He grumbled, much less argumentative than he used to be, and disappeared in a shimmer of diamonds.

"I told you we didn't kill him—hey!" Zelda reminded Link and Fi, but Link was pushing her away from the couch she had been trying to fall back on.

"You're getting water all over our living room." He pouted, "You and Ghirahim are such messes. It's like you brought the hurricane inside with you!"

"You are both incredibly high maintenance." Fi agreed, going back to whatever she had been doing before getting rudely interrupted. "The difference is Ghirahim knows it. Zelda, darling—"

Zelda nearly knocked Link over when she heard the pet name. As forced as it sounded, and almost definitely something she had picked up from Ghirahim (meaning it was not meant to be affectionate, but mocking), the subtle sign of Fi's growing emotional responses warmed her heart. Zelda pulled the sword spirit into a tight embrace.

"You're getting me wet. You know, Ghirahim is right to worry about rust." Fi sighed, but she smiled at Link over Zelda's shoulder. "I was saying you're still in denial. He's rubbing off on you."

"He's rubbing off on all of us, because if you don't stop dripping over my carpet, I am going to stab you too." Link threatened. He had never been very intimidating, and it had only gotten worse as time went on. Brow furrowed and lips pursed, he ushered Zelda away from where she would cause the most harm.

"Yeah, yeah, keep throwing your little tantrum." Zelda ruffled his hair as she walked past him to the bathroom, hitting Link in the head with her wet hat before slamming the door.

"What are we going to do with them?" Link sighed affectionately, looking over the damage they had done. At least this time there was no blood to clean up.

"That is a question I unfortunately cannot answer, Master Lin—"

Fi was interrupted by a loud crash outside, followed by some colorful and violent language mixed with expletives. Link took a deep breath, willing himself to calm down, but the door slammed open with the force of the wind once more.

"So, problem—"

"Ghirahim!"

[aboveallarescuer]

All mentions of Dany in other POVs

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

A Dance with Dragons

ADWD Epilogue

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

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

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

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

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

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

ADWD The Queen's Hand

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

~

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

~

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

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

~

“They await the Hand’s pleasure below.”

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

~

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

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

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

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

~

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

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

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

~

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

~

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

~

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

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

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

~

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

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

~

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

~

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

~

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

“None as yet.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Only the queen can do that.”

~

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

“Her Grace is not … she …”

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

ADWD The Dragontamer

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

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

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

“That too.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“She does not love Hizdahr zo Loraq.”

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

~

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

“Not if she’s died.”

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

~

“What’s that for?” Arch asked.

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

~

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

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

~

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

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

ADWD The Kingbreaker

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

No, thought Selmy. “Hizdahr seemed distraught.”

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

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

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

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

~

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

“And when she does return?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“He was not wrong.”

“I will not permit it.”

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

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

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

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

~

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

~

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

~

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

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

~

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

“Dreams can lie, Your Grace.”

~

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Not my friends.”

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

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

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

~

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

ADWD Victarion I

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

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

~

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

~

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

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

~

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

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

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

~

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

~

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

~

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

ADWD The Griffin Reborn

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

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

~

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

A bride for our bright prince. Jon Connington remembered Prince Rhaegar’s wedding all too well. Elia was never worthy of him. She was frail and sickly from the first, and childbirth only left her weaker. After the birth of Princess Rhaenys, her mother had been bedridden for half a year, and Prince Aegon’s birth had almost been the death of her. She would bear no more children, the maesters told Prince Rhaegar afterward.

“Daenerys Targaryen may yet come home one day,” Connington told the Halfmaester. “Aegon must be free to marry her.”

ADWD The Spurned Suitor

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

~

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

“A Meereenese nobleman. Rich.”

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

“She laughed at him,” said Pretty Meris.

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

~

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

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

~

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

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

ADWD The Discarded Knight

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

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

~

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

~

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

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

~

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

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

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

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

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

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

~

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

~

“Leave the city. Return to Dorne.”

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

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

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

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

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

Prince Quentyn flushed. “The marriage pact—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

ADWD Tyrion XI

“The silver queen—”

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

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

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

~

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

~

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

~

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

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

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

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

~

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

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

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

 ADWD The Iron Suitor

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

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

~

“Is it still to be Meereen?”

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

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

 ADWD The Queensguard

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

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

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

~

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

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

~

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

~

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

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

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

~

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

~

“I have the poisoner.”

“Who?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

~

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

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

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

“Her poisoner.”

Is he? “Where is your proof?”

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

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

ADWD Tyrion X

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

~

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

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

ADWD Jon IX

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

“Salladhor Saan?”

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

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

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

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

ADWD Tyrion IX

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

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

~

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

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

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

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

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

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

~

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

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

ADWD Tyrion VIII

“Have you come to pray with me?”

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

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

~

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

~

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

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

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

~

“Does our captain mean to test the curse?”

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

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

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

  ADWD Tyrion VII

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

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

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

~

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

~

“We need swift passage to Meereen.”

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

One word. Meereen. Or had he misheard?

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

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

“You have many captains in your debt.”

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

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

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

Tyrion covered his mouth with his hands. Meereen!

~

“...Have you heard Benerro preach?”

“Last night.”

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

~

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

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

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

Ser Jorah hesitated. “The dwarf is—”

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

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

~

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

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

ADWD The Windblown

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

~

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

~

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

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

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

~

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

~

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

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

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

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

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

~

“You’d have us turn our cloaks?”

“I would,” said the Tattered Prince.

Quentyn Martell almost laughed aloud. The gods are mad.

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

“I do.”

~

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

~

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

 ADWD The Lost Lord

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

~

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

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

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

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

~

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

“We heard that tale in Selhorys.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

~

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

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

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

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

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

~

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

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

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

“The plan—”

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

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

Strickland shook his head stubbornly. “The risk—”

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

ADWD Tyrion VI

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

“She will. She must.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

~

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

“You do not need to win,” Tyrion told him. “All you need to do is raise your banners, rally your supporters, and hold, until Daenerys arrives to join her strength to yours.”

“You said she might not have me.”

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

“I told you, I know our little queen. Let her hear that her brother Rhaegar’s murdered son is still alive, that this brave boy has raised the dragon standard of her forebears in Westeros once more, that he is fighting a desperate war to avenge his father and reclaim the Iron Throne for House Targaryen, hard-pressed on every side … and she will fly to your side as fast as wind and water can carry her. You are the last of her line, and this Mother of Dragons, this Breaker of Chains, is above all a rescuer. The girl who drowned the slaver cities in blood rather than leave strangers to their chains can scarcely abandon her own brother’s son in his hour of peril. And when she reaches Westeros, and meets you for the first time, you will meet as equals, man and woman, not queen and supplicant. How can she help but love you then, I ask you?”

~

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

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

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

~

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Her. Daenerys?”

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

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

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

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

~

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

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

“The Yunkishmen have bought your triarchs?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

~

“You’re mine, Hugor.”

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

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

ADWD Davos II

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

ADWD Tyrion III

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

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

ADWD The Merchant's Man

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

~

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

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

~

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

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

ADWD Tyrion II

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“He sounds an utter fool.”

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

~

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

~

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

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

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

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

~

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

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

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

~

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

A Feast for Crows

AFFC Samwell V

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

~

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

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

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

AFFC The Princess in the Tower

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

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

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

AFFC Samwell IV

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

~

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

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

AFFC Cat of the Canals

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

AFFC The Reaver

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

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

~

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

~

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

~

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

“What dragon?” said Victarion, frowning.

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

“Why should I?” Victarion demanded.

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

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

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

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

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

AFFC The Drowned Man

“Aegon Targaryen conquered Westeros with dragons.”

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

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

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

 AFFC Cersei V

“Do you have any news of more import?”

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

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

AFFC The Queenmaker

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

AFFC Cersei IV

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

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

AFFC Prologue

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

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

“No riddle.” [...]

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

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

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

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

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

A Storm of Swords

ASOS Tyrion III

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A Clash of Kings

ACOK Bran I

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

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

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

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

A Game of Thrones

AGOT Eddard XIII

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

~

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

~

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

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

AGOT Eddard X

“The Targaryen girl—”

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

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

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

AGOT Eddard VIII

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“She must be killed,” Lord Renly declared.

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

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

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

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

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

“Kiss her?” Ser Barristan repeated, aghast.

“A steel kiss,” said Littlefinger.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

~

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

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

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

AGOT Eddard IV

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

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

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

AGOT Eddard II

“Do you remember Ser Jorah Mormont?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

AGOT Bran III

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

[dancing-with-the-madmen]

The Massive Aggression of Calico Jack, redux

Several kind souls have complained brought it to my attention that my failure to use cut tags is, in fact, not optimal. I don't have any good reason that I don't use cuts - mostly I'm just throwing these thoughts out here so they don't endlessly rattle around my brain. Frankly, I'm endlessly astonished anyone but me can be arsed to bother wading through them at all. So, after a truly epic tantrum thoughtful consideration, I've decided to edit my longer posts to add cuts. If you've already read them, (may endless blessings rain down upon you) there's no new content (vile lies and calumny. I'm going to take this opportunity to fix errors and add a line here or there, but nothing major). Just making it more scroll-friendly. You'll know it when you see the word "redux" in the title. So without further ado...

I’ve been trying for a while to put my finger on exactly what it is about Our Flag Means Death's Calico Jack that makes me want to crawl out of my skin and smother him to death with my own abandoned ecdysis.

I mean, I normally love me a spurned admirer/cock-blocking ex. Romantic comedies have their beats, and there’s obviously no serious danger the love interest will end up with anyone other than their intended, so I may as well sit back and enjoy the machinations. After all, the course of true love never did run smooth, and these bitches are here to rough some shit up for sure. I also love Will Arnett. Hands down favorite recurring character on 30 Rock. The second best Batman after TAS (fight me). I can even cheerfully bear his Reese’s commercials if I must bear commercials at all.

Real-life Calico Jack? One of my v. favorite pirates. He wore floral-printed cotton from India as a fuck you to the British tax man. He had an affair with Anne Bonny and offered to purchase her divorce when her husband found out. The two ran away together into piracy when Bonny’s husband refused to quit her and had her whipped for her infidelity. Mary Read was part of Jack and Anne’s crew, and possibly their lover. We love a hopeless romantic, possibly polyamorous king. 

So what is it about OFMD Calico Jack that makes him so acutely punchable?

I’ve rewatched the episode several times (oh my v. dears, I really hope this write-up is worth it. I am SO BRAVE to subject myself to this), and I think I’ve finally got it. It’s not just that he’s a loud, vulgar, hectoring, drunken jackass of a bird-murderer. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I have as little patience for his brand of mindless destruction and violence-for-violence-sake as Stede does, but that’s not all.  It’s that he’s also a master of passive aggression.

Jack does the little whisper-y “Sorry! Sorry!” when Stede wants to know what’s with all the cannon fire, but immediately starts grinning like an unrepentant varlet as soon as he drops his hands.

And then accepts Stede’s introductory handshake with clear derision.

When Stede says he wasn’t expecting guests and there’s only two settings at brekkie, Jack doesn’t wait for Stede to sort things out, and he’s already lowering himself into Stede’s chair by the time Stede invites him to take his spot. He then purposefully keeps steering the conversation to topics that exclude Stede from participating, and cuts Stede short when he tries to reign the conversation back.

He insinuates Stede is less of a pirate for being “store bought”

He refuses to get Stede’s name right, even when corrected. Twice.

And is just SO insincere when calling him back.

And, just, the whole pissing contest scene.

But so what? We’ve had other passive aggressive assholes on the show; Badminton with his cracks about Stede’s tiny dick ship, the French captain’s slurs, Gabriel simpering about Jeff the Accountant’s dining manners. I’m not shedding any tears for their respective fates, but none of them made me want to crawl through the screen and sew all their face holes shut. Because Jack isn’t just passive-aggressive (and aggressive-aggressive), he might just be the most savvy reader-of-rooms we see on the show, and purposefully and systematically leverages his passive aggression to manipulate the actions of those around him for the purpose of making Ed and Stede betray their better selves and make them do the work of driving a wedge between themselves.   That was a lot in one sentence.  Let me break it down.

Jack uses passive aggression to achieve one of four goals: to nettle, to undermine, (seemingly paradoxically) to reinforce connections, or to coerce. And, if he can manage to achieve different goals for more than one target with the same attack? So much the better. And he’s frankly just astonishingly good at doing so. Like, I’d admire him for it if it didn’t also make me want to make him swallow all of his own teeth.

The basic gameplan goes thusly (this is not a strictly chronological list, a lot of these tactics take place concurrently and recurrently): Stede is the primary target, so Jack nettles him with passive aggressive comments, which puts him on the back foot and undermines his self-confidence. He reinforces his relationship with Ed in ways that excludes Stede and undermines Stede’s relationship with Ed and Ed’s relationship with Stede. Jack uses coercive tactics with Ed and the crew, which undermines Stede’s relationships with them, isolating and othering Stede, which further tanks his mood, which leads him to self-isolate. When Stede eventually lashes out at Ed for falling for Jack’s bullshit, Ed has no idea what’s got Stede so out-of-sorts; Jack has so carefully lead Ed to making the choices that have alienated Stede that they seem like they were Ed’s ideas in the first place. And if Ed has made the choices to do these things, then they are clearly just a reflection of who he is, which, if Stede is lashing out against them, then Stede is rejecting him. Wedge set and match.

So let’s look at the specifics.

Jack’s interactions with Ed are like a masterclass in neurolinguistic programming for evil. First, he plys Ed with booze from the very start. Just look at the bottle in this shot from right after they blow up the dresser drawer.

That bottle or rum is over half gone, and the sky in the background is the peachy-pink of sunrise. This isn’t the bottle Jack had with him in his dinghy; that one he drained and then threw in the air and tried to shoot before coming aboard the Revenge. Which means that they’ve consumed over half the bottle between just the two of them in a very short amount of time.   Alcohol, of course, is a social lubricant - the physical warmth it produces mimicking the “warm, fuzzy” feeling of true comradery, and, more importantly, decoupling the decision-making process from inhibition (that is to say, Ed isn’t necessarily doing anything he absolutely wouldn’t otherwise do, but he might otherwise think twice).

But it’s more insidious than just having a few drinks with an old friend. Jack specifically gamifies the consumption of alcohol to reinforce the coupling of the feeling of inebriation with the comradery engendered by teamwork and excitement of success in order to encourage Ed to drink more than he necessarily otherwise would. Ed confirms to Stede during his apology that the idea to use the drawers of the armoire for target practice came from Jack, and we saw that a bullseye meant that Jack had to take a drink, but Ed didn’t. Presumably, there would have been some consequence for a “miss”, and it seems likely that it would be Ed has to take a drink and not Jack. In this way, Jack is able to exert a measure of control over how much Ed is drinking (by missing on purpose) while making it look like the responsibility lies with Ed and his skill as a thrower. This pattern of sneakily controlling Ed’s actions while making it seem like Ed is the one who made or is responsible for the decision will pop up again and again during their interactions.

After the apologies for waking Stede, Jack steps into the space where Ed is gesticulating to make himself readily available to be touched, reenforcing the bond between them, but letting Ed be the one to instigate the touching.

At brekkie, he pours rum into Ed’s teacup without asking or being asked while Ed’s attention is diverted by getting food.

Jack’s collaring of the conversation does not just function as a means of making Stede feel excluded, he’s also refreshing and reinforcing the bonds he and Ed forged under adversity. Talking over Stede also demonstrates that what he has to say is more important than anything Stede might contribute.

Note that just before Jack cut him off, Stede had referred to Ed as Blackbeard (“Blackbeard and I met on a ship”). This may be innocently explained away; if you meet a person from a facet of a close friend’s life with which you do not intersect, you might refer to said friend by their given name instead of a nickname that the other person might not know, for the sake of common frame of reference. But this is the opposite of that - referring to a friend by a nickname instead of the given name that you both presumably know. That suggests to me that the seed of the Ed/Blackbeard dichotomy has already been planted in Stede’s mind by the morning’s shenanigans. And when Jack invites Stede back into participating in the conversation by talking about something he knows Stede would find upsetting (the wanton cruelty of Ed purposefully trapping people to be burned alive, couched in what sounds like sincere admiration for his friend’s piratical prowess), Jack has picked up on that distinction and is leaning into it HARD. He WANTS Stede to see Ed as a collection of behaviors he finds palatable, and Blackbeard as a collection of behaviors he finds repulsive, and then coerce Ed into performing those “Blackbeard behaviors” in order to coerce Stede to drive the wedge by rejecting him. Fucking diabolical.

When Jack is calling Stede a “big girl,” or “store-bought,” or purposefully getting his name wrong, he’s not just throwing barbs that play on Stede’s insecurities (and with such harrowing precision, too; calling on the effeminacy for which he was tormented as a child, his body image issues that we’ve also seen him struggle with under the tender mercies of Badminton - both brain-ghost and original flavor - and the authenticity of his claim to piracy, which we’ve seen him confess that he fears he’s ill-qualified to claim to Jim, Oluande, and Ed. I mean,triple bullseye for this fucking guy). He’s also using these public declarations to undermine Stede’s authority in front of his crew, and establish himself as the real authority on things like piracy and masculinity. He further reinforces this idea by withholding the story of how he saved Ed’s life under the guise of false modesty; people never want something more than when they’re told they can’t have it. And what they’re being told they can’t have is the story of how Jack was so amazing that he even managed to save the life of the coolest, most legendary pirate they know. This withholding primes the crew to think even more highly of Jack and hang on his every word.

This puts Jack into a position where he can pressure the crew into things that sound fun at first blush (like diving off the yardarm or having a snowball fight, but with coconuts), but end up hurting more than anything. Of course, within this dynamic, no one wants to admit they aren’t having a good time, or don’t want to do it; to do so would be tantamount to admitting you are less of a man or not a real pirate. So when Stede refuses to participate, or admits his discomfort or disgust with the proceedings, he’s doing Jack’s work for him, and further alienating himself, and solidifying the roles Jack had put into place where Jack is the fun, cool guy, and Stede is the killjoy that no one should listen to.

Stede unwittingly plays right into Jack’s design when he tries to stand up for himself and wrest back a modicum of respect before things get too far out of hand. He’s well-versed in the world of passive aggression, and sees what Jack is doing. He also knows that you can’t call it out because passive aggression comes with a built in cover of plausible deniability gaslighting. So instead, he tries to push back with a little passive aggression of his own, suggesting that a real pirate has a ship and a crew. Sadly, Stede is not nearly so adroit at wielding passive aggression as Jack is. Jack uses the story (and we know that Izzy sent him, so I wouldn’t be surprised if the whole mutiny thing is just a story; I could even easily read that slight hesitation after Stede asks his question as Jack deciding on what would be the most effective cover story, instead of hesitancy to admit to something shameful) of his crew’s mutiny to casually re-sow the idea of mutiny on the Revenge. It’s played for comedy when the crew starts talking about how they almost mutinied on Stede and probably will again, but you can’t tell me this hasn’t been a major concern for Stede ever since the first episode. So Jack’s not only got the crew trying to buoy his spirits by assuring him that his crew mutinying on his doesn’t mean he’s a bad person; it’s just something that happens! He’s also got them low-key committing to a future mutiny WITHIN EARSHOT OF STEDE.

Additionally, while Stede is well-steeped in the ways of passive aggression, his crew and Ed are not. They are not particularly sophisticated at identifying passive aggression on its own merits as opposed to the reaction it provokes, which can make it look like they don’t care when it’s being leveraged against Stede, undermining his ability to trust they will look out for him. Stede stoically putting up with Jack’s jibes makes them even more difficult to identify as hurtful. Jack’s (fake) emotional reaction to Stede’s sally might make him look momentarily weak, but allows Ed and the crew to unequivocally identify who is in the wrong and react accordingly. By positioning himself as a victim, he villainizes Stede, further undermining Stede’s authority, and placing him in a position where he owes Jack recompense. Thus, Jack is able to manipulate Stede into the trap of Dead Man’s Cove and make it look like it was Stede’s own idea. I mean, the Xanatos Speed Chess of it all.

What’s heartbreaking to me is how Jack’s wedge-driving and othering of Stede is working so well that at this point we start to hear it from other sources. As they approach the island and Stede suggests going for a swim or taking a nature walk, Ed is the one who tells him, “I think with this crowd, I think they want something a little more…” Not Jack would want something more exciting, this crowd. Jack’s exclusionary rhetoric out of Ed’s mouth.

Which is exactly the time Jack decides to up the ante.

I want to take a minute to look at the immediate lead up to yardies, because I think it’s an excellent illustration of how Jack looks like a lumbering boor, but his actions are actually so carefully considered and nuanced. He runs up from behind Stede and Ed and throws his arms around them shouting “Yardies!” literally insinuating himself between them, which interrupts anything that was going on between them, puts them off balance, and focuses the attention on him. Then, when he says “Who’s up for yardies?” he makes eye-contact with Ed - the implicit social expectation being “You, Ed, are up for yardies.” When he turns to Stede, it is to literally laugh in his face. I mean, the absolute cheek.

Until this point, the crew of the Revenge have been passive participants in Jack’s hooliganry. They watched him perform whippies, and got whipped at without encouraging him to do so. They listened to his and Ed’s stories. But now Jack is cashing in on his established expertise of what real pirates do to coerce the crew into taking part in a dangerous stunt. It’s more of the “Blackbeard behavior” dichotomy he started sowing in Stede’s mind at brekkie, but now he’s extending it beyond Ed to the whole crew. He wants Stede to feel like he’s all alone in a sea of idiocy, but he wants him to come to the conclusion on his own by making it seem like Ed and the crew are doing things of which he would disapprove of their own accord.

Once we get to the island, we see the activities take a turn from the careless Jackass-ery of whippies and yardies to the abject cruelty of turtle vs. crab. There’s no saying that Jack organized the fight, but we do see the crew handing him various trinkets to be used in gambling on a winner, which certainly suggests he was the central figure in how the game was established. We also see that, though he has been presenting himself as a drunkard, there’s no bottle in his hand or around him in the sand. There is, however, one in Ed’s hand, who is directly to his side. I can easily see him handing it off so he could handle the gambling stakes, the real intention being to keep Ed readily supplied with booze.

And then we have the pissing contest. Jack’s got Stede literally and metaphorically isolated, and now it’s time to really drive it all home. Every moment of their interaction is designed to drive Stede to distraction; the amount of derision he lays on the phrase “Your good, close buddy,” the insinuation that he and Ed are just alike, and then being as rude and crass as possible. And because he’s read the room - the intimate breakfast for two, Ed’s little touches and the way Stede smiles at them, the way they keep going off together for little chats - of course Jack’s just got to twist the knife and allude to his and Ed’s former sexual history. So now that he’s got Stede primed, it’s time to name the fear: “Maybe you don’t know him at all.”

At this point, Stede is left to wonder: does he? Blackbeard’s reputation preceded him, after all. And he’s been acting so differently since the appearance of one of his oldest friends. It’s not the violence qua violence, per se; Stede is by turns delighted and impressed by the violence he’s seen Ed and his crew employ in the heat of battle in the pursuit of piracy. It’s the cruel and senseless violence that Stede objects to, and that’s exactly the brand that Jack has been peddling, and which Ed has gone along with so enthusiastically. And it’s not JUST the violence; Ed apologizes for Jack when he recognizes Jack has crossed a line in a typically agro way (destroying Stede’s belongings, and insulting Stede to his face), but it never occurs to Stede that his insistence on persevering with quietly aggrieved dignity in the face of Jack’s slights would make it nigh impossible for Ed to identify that Jack has crossed all sorts of other lines, and Stede is hurting because of it. For Stede, it must be frustrating and mystifying why Ed keeps letting his friend get away with his passive aggressive bullshit. Doesn’t he care? 

Is it any wonder that one more failure to notice how Jack has riled him, and one more act of coconut-flavored Jackass-ary is enough to break the dam, and for Stede to spill all that built-up hurt on Ed?  Is it any wonder that Ed is bewildered at where all this is coming from? I’ve talked before about Ed’s tendency to fawn on people, and how, as an emotional chameleon, he would have difficulty identifying when the motivation for his actions is self-directed or externally dictated. Jack has further confounded this distinction by manipulating scenarios to make it seem like participation in all the Jackass-ary he has instigated was voluntary instead of coerced. When Stede says “I don’t like who you are around  this guy” what he means is “I don’t like how this guy is able to manipulate you into acting on your very worst impulses”, but what Ed hears is “I don’t like you”. For who is he, if not the collection of behaviors he chooses to exhibit? And were those choices not entirely his to make? With the rift clearly established, if in its infancy, of course Jack is going to do everything he can to foster its growth. So again, he interrupts Stede, again implicitly signaling that Ed should pay attention to what he says and not Stede. By lobbing the coconut at Ed at that moment, he forestalls any possible clearing of the air between Ed and Stede, and causes Ed to literally turn his back on Stede, in the way Ed feels Stede has emotionally turned his back on him just moments earlier. Jack reinforces this idea of turning his back on Stede again moments later when he says “Don’t go!” and immediately turns Ed around by the shoulders.

I know that I’ve been laying it on a bit thick and prolly sound like the written embodiment of the red string conspiracy meme, but I’m about to get a whole lot worse, and I’m going to ask you to stick with me, oh my v. dears. I think Jack killed Karl on purpose.

I know, I know. It was an accident! He was flailing drunkenly! But was he?

Have we seen him take so much as a single drink since the cannon fire at the beginning of the episode? Even though he’d been drinking earlier, did he not have devastating precision and accuracy when he first demonstrated Whippies - shattering every glass, snapping the cards from the Swede’s fingers, and ball-tapping Ed without permanently maiming him or even splitting the leather of his pants? In fact, while nearly every other crew member on the deck has a bottle in hand, just like on the beach, Jack does not.

Jack knows he has to get Ed off the ship before the British show up, but he can’t just say “Let’s ditch these losers” and expect Ed to agree, especially since he’s spent most of the day roping the crew into his schemes. The most effective way to get Ed to follow is if Jack is rejected for just being himself and doing what he does, just like Ed feels he was earlier by Stede. I think the original plan was to goad Olu into seriously hurting the Swede, the fallout of which would be recriminations that Jack made them do it, and Jack getting aggrieved that he was just trying to show this ungrateful lot how to have a good time, skulking off and leading Ed to follow him and reassure him that he’s really a good guy - how could he have known it would turn out like that? But when Buttons calls a halt to the proceedings and it looks like everyone is going to pack it in, Jack has to think fast. If HE maims a crew mate, that would be a bridge too far, painting him as the bad guy. But Karl? He’s just a bird. And if Jack can get a little revenge on the weird bird guy who made him change his plan, so much the better. AND, as people with far fewer auditory processing issues than I have pointed out, Jack mutters that he expected there to be more feathers. Could the evidence be any more damning?

Of course the whole ship turns on him, and then here’s Stede to order him off, explicitly rejecting him the way he metaphorically rejected Ed. But when even that isn’t enough to get Ed to follow him, Jack pulls out one last, desperate manipulation - the debt of life.

Jack’s tragic flaw is that he can’t turn it off. Once he and Ed are alone, he turns his passive aggressive assault on Ed, pressuring him into drinking the morning away by sarcastically saying he didn’t know he had an audience with the pope when Ed expresses disinterest, and, ultimately, giving up the game when he mentions with casual derision how he’d heard of Ed shaking up with Stede, and then deriding Ed for his failure to spot Jack’s machinations.

Too bad Jack didn’t know that the punishment for passive-aggressive fuckery on this show is death…