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moonlights-inkwell · 4 years ago

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Why Don’t You Just Tell Them All to Fuck Off Love, And Be Mine

Jaskier x Reader

Word Count: 5,670

Summary: You and Jaskier partake in a game of pretend, with some unexpected consequences.

AN: The sequel to Oh Can’t You Hear The Scratching that no one asked for. Oops.

Warnings: Smut. Oral (female receiving). Dirty Talk. Feelings.

“You know,” Jaskier says lightly, cutting through the silence of the empty tavern, making you look up to meet his eyes. “You wore that dress the first night I met you.”

You had almost forgotten Jaskier was still in the tavern. He was being strangely quiet before speaking up, so quiet you could have sworn he had gone home when the drinkers had, yet there he is. Sat there, still holding his Lute on his knee and watching you like a hawk. He’s taken to performing on nights when you work. Locals love him, bards seldom come through your village, and those who do don’t stay for long, so Jaskier's songs have been well received, even if your employer has been shooting your lover death glares every night he has performed. You don’t know if he recalls that it was Jaskier that swept you out of your life in the village so long ago, or if he’s just jealous of how you allow Jaskier affection so freely, but the older man scowls and jabs and jibes, and with him going through the coins earned tonight upstairs, there has been silence. Just you and the rag and a silent Jaskier.

It’s true though, you did wear this dress the first night you met him. It’s a white and wine-coloured affair, pretty enough to flatter your frame but easy enough to move in during your hours working. It’s nice, flares out when you turn too quickly and dips to a respectable if a little coquettish square neckline that makes your chest more obvious. The dress is usually enough to encourage men to be more generous with their coin without hearing any comments about your being some sort of whore, and your hands leave the rag you had been using to clean to smooth the fabric about your hips. You hadn’t paid that much mind when you tugged it on this morning, but under his watchful eyes right now, you flush as though it had been deliberate. Clothing has never been something you pay much mind to but, with how Jaskier is eyeing you, you can tell that he has paid attention to it, and you realise something you hadn’t noticed earlier. He too is wearing the exact same thing he wore the night the two of you met, deep violet and sky-blue doublet and trousers, pretty and attention grabbing- but somewhat toned down compared to his usual garb.

“it was clean.” You say shyly, tucking a few stray curls behind your ear to hear him chuckle quietly.

“It’s beautiful. You're beautiful.” Jaskier says things like that as if they’re obvious, unintentionally making you feel foolish for any insecurity. A pathetic laugh comes from you and he tilts his head like a pup, the island of the bar between the two of you makes you feel safe; he'd never hurt you, that much you can stand your life on, but the distance between you keeps you from doing something foolish. Like kissing him.

He’s been distant since the first night he returned to you, never letting his touch linger longer than would be considered chaste, his kisses never turning passionate, never finding his usual respite between your thighs as he once did. He sleeps beside you, presses kisses to the space beneath the corner of your lips, still sings and leans into you but doesn’t... touch as he once did. It’s as though you've fallen into some sort of time warp to before the first time you were intimate, when he was so concerned about making you uncomfortable that progressing seldom seemed like an option at all. You have no clue how to fix this rift that has developed, unsure if this distance is simply because of the time you spent apart or because he’s no longer interested in you as you’re interested in him.

“It’s just a dress.”

“It’s a dress that makes you look beautiful, Little Miss.” The bard insists, settling his Lute down on the newly cleaned surface of the table before walking around it to approach you. Be it nerves or something more embarrassing than that, you turn from him to continue your cleaning. “...The moment I saw you wearing it, I knew I’d laid my eyes on the most divine creature the lands have ever known.”

“The moment you saw me you had a woman hanging off each arm.” You retort. It’s intended to be playful, but comes out colder than expected, and you cringe at the sound of your own voice. Petty. Absolutely fucking petty, because you know as well as him that once you smiled his way and brushed past him to serve drinks to a group of patrons his lady-friends were gone, and Jaskier had sat at the bar and spent the night talking to you as if you were the only person in the world. You aren’t jealous, truly you aren't, the person your Dandelion had been before you had even known him has never been your concern, and now you sound like an envious adolescent. It’s enough to make your flesh crawl with shame. Were you paying more attention to anything but your own words you might have heard Jaskier say your name firmly, but no, you remain in your own head until your stomach is pressed gently against the counter, kept in place by his warm, firm body behind you. “Jask?” Stupid question. Who else would it be?

“I thought you were the most beautiful woman I could ever lay eyes on.” He breathes into your ear, sending shivers down your back. “A muse, a godsend, beautiful and intoxicating and...” His voice trails away to nothing at all while his hands rest on your hips. “Gods above and below, Missy. The sight of you alone had me willing to spend a whole night ignoring everyone else, content to spend my night obsessed with the Beauty before me and fisting at my cock until i slept to the thought of you rather than try to find someone else to spend my night with.” His voice is little more than a growl, and breathing is growing harder with every honeyed word that drips from his lips. “You, beautiful you, who didn’t care about my songs or my reputation- just so kind and perfect and fucking beautiful.” Cold hands slide upward from your hips to rest in the dips of your waist. “So perfect I asked you to come with me. So perfect I feared telling you how I felt. Skilled with a sword and with your tongue and so much better than I will ever deserve.”

“Julian.” You start, but no other words will follow his real name. You could worry that he's going to do something foolish, or give in and push his hands up to your breasts, but instead you simply sigh and relax into his touch. His lips press to the expanse of your throat and you feel him smile against your skin.

“Even before I asked you to be mine, I wanted you. Needed you. Came with my fist in my mouth to the thought of you so I wouldn’t wake you. So, do not question when I tell you how I feel about you.” His growl is enough to send a rush of heat to your cunt with each word, and a painful sort of warmth to your heart. “Even without being with you, my heart has been yours since the moment I met you.”

Logical thought dies an honourless death at the suggestion of Jaskier's want for you. Weeks of nothing at all and he decides that he ought to break that run by informing you that the first night he had even met you he had worked himself to climax to the thought of you. That the thought of you alone was enough to have him spilling onto his hand even before he had so much as kissed you. You swear you could choke at the thought, but there’s something more you want to choke on. Still, he pulls back from you, the world is off kilter and you swear you’re going to fall to your knees until you turn about to press your back to the counter, it takes less than a second for him to all but throw himself onto you- mouth over yours, tongue dipping into your mouth as though he's some adventurer trying to map out uncharted land.

Eyes shut, his mouth on yours, you feel the tavern around you fall away, the wind gusting through your hair and along your décolletage. There is no tavern, no employer, no cleaning, no childhood home that will almost definitely be cold as death by the time you get home. None of that exists, none of it matters at all. All that exists is his mouth, his tongue, how he manages to somehow be everywhere and nowhere at once, intoxicating and intangible. You could be anywhere, everywhere, with your eyes clamped shut as they are. With no effort at all, you could imagine yourself anywhere, the hidden spot behind a curtain while a ball happens less than a foot away from you, the sandy alcove of some far-off beach, but the place your mind settles on is somewhere you don’t know at all, making you fill in the gaps to create something out of your own memories. Oak coloured, and warm, furnished all with deeply coloured leather, books and instruments, like Oxenfurt, but cast half in shadows by flickering lights and scented like smoke and molasses, like Yen's home. In spite of all of that, or maybe because, it feels like home: especially when Jaskier's lips dip down from your lips to the corner of your mouth once more to kiss at the space he calls Your Kiss.

Lettenhove, your mind supplies the name for the place it has created, faster than you can remember where you know it from. Jaskier's home.

He’s mentioned it to you once, maybe twice, in all the years you’ve known him, only ever to complain and insist how he hated it and would never return, but here you are, creating it in your mind. It seems only right, that he has kissed you in your childhood home that you can at least imagine his. It feels wrong though, even if the thought remains, like a sick secret.

“Darling?” He asks softly, drawing your attention back to him.

“Yes?” You ask gently while his fingers trace circles into your waist.

“You look sad, Dear Heart. I know I’ve been distant but please tell me that look is not disappointment as I assume.”

“No, no. Just thinking.”

“A dangerous past-time.” Jaskier says solemnly with a shake of his head which you ignore.

“Why have you been so distant of late?”

“I. I've had a deal to think about since. Well, since.”

“Since the mountain.” You finish the sentence for him. He nods and you nod in return. He hasn’t told you what happened, except that Geralt and himself had parted ways on less than amicable terms. Why that has meant the two of you haven’t been intimate is beyond you though, and you feel awkward to ask such a question.

“I didn’t want to do anything while my mind was not entirely focused on you, My Muse.” He admits, tracing fingers across the details of your face. “I spent months without you, trying to remember just how your skin turns pink as you climax, the delicate arch of your back, the contortion of your lips. Months of cumming to a memory, and months of cumming to fantasies of you before I had you. I wanted the real thing, and to appreciate it. And that meant not being distracted.”

“I could have put my mouth on you. That always relaxed you.”

“A sweet offer, truly. Probably would have taken you up on it too.” He admits, “But I want to pay attention to you.” Traitors that the mind and mouth are, you can’t find a single word to say, but your lips turn up in a subtle smirk and you pull away from him, slipping from his grasp.

“Darling-" he argues at your sudden movement, but you press your fingers to his lips with a soft shushing sound.

“Play a game with me a while, Dandy?” You ask intently, which catches him off guard, his hand wrapping around your wrist. Pet names are his forte, wordplay his bread and butter, so it doesn’t take a hair out of you when he calls you by one, but you use them fairly infrequently and they always have him blinking like a startled doe.

“Name the game.”

“First impressions.”

“Can’t pretend I know that one, Dear Heart. If it’s anything like Gwent I can’t see my being any good either.” He chuckles and you pull back from him with a laugh of your own.

“Not like Gwent. More of a playing pretend sort of game.” You clarify, though saying it makes you feel childish. “We... we pretend this is the first time we have met.” He smiles at that, head tilting to the side.

“A pretend game.” He repeats, smile growing as he mulls over the idea. “I like it.”

“I’m glad.”

“Are there any rules to this game?” He asks and you blink. Rules had not even entered your mind, but he was right. A game should have rules.

“...We can’t acknowledge anything we’ve been through.” You say easily and he nods. “And we can do whatever we wish we could have done when we first met.”

“Sounds good to me. But one thing before we start?” He asks gently, leaning in and loosening your hair and pressing a kiss to the crook of your neck. “Perfect. Now I can pretend not to have known you.”

“I... think we ought wait for Kacper to leave for the night.” You whisper meekly, and though Jaskier lets out a pained little groan he nods slowly, pulling your hand to his lips to kiss the heel of your palm.

“Fine. Can’t have that vile little man watching as I have my way with you.” That makes you choke, staring at him, wide eyed and gaping like a fish out of water while he smiles down at you like he’s simply commented on the weather.

“You. You say that like I would have let you- “ You falter and snap out a quiet, “That vile little man is the reason we can afford food and clothes!”

“Little Miss, please.” He interrupts you flippantly before bringing his lips down on your own once more, albeit only for a second or so. “I have eyes. I’ve seen how the bastard looks at you. I’ve seen how every bastard looks at you.” You dont know what he means. Kacper, yes, the man is uncomfortable and not someone you want to spend any time about, but everyone? He’s a fool, and a paranoid one ay that.

“Be that as it may!” You say, hoping he doesn’t realise that you’ve essentially agreed with him. “You’re acting as ifi would have let you bed me having known me less than a night.”

“We'll be playing at having just met, not completely forgetting everything. And besides, you said we could do anything we wished we had when we first met, no?”

“I. I did.”

“And, from the moment I met you, I’ve wanted to taste you. And I have every intention of creating a first meeting between us where I was not such a coward as to not even attempt it.”

“I never thought you a coward, Jaskier.” You argue but he shakes his head.

“I know that, Dear Heart, and I wouldn’t change our time together. But it’s just a game of pretend.”

“Just a game of pretend.” You agree.

...

“I’ll be off now, Missy.” Kacper says tiredly, holding onto the door for purchase. “No bard?”

“He's home and asleep by now.”

“You should go home yourself. I can walk you if you-"

“No, no. I'll finish cleaning, it oughtn't take too long. Go rest.” You reply easily, pushing the hair that’s escaped your bun away from your eyes. “I'll be fine. I’m a big girl. I can cope.”

“You can stay in my house if you want to avoid the walk.” He says insistently. Your flesh crawls at his lecherous smile but you fake a smile all the same.

“I’ll be fine, Kacper. But thank you. Sleep well." The response is sharp and firm, and the older man ducks his head in a suddenly sober nod. “Good Night.”

“Goodnight Child.”

Child. The looks he gives you should not be given to a child.

The tavern is empty, and you wipe at the counter in front of you out of boredom until you hear it. The click of the latch lifting followed by the soft squeal that tells you the door is opening. Your eyes stay focused on the wet surface. In this pretence of a night too long ago, you consider pretending to serve drinks to patrons that don't exist, but decide that to be a step too far and instead drop the rag to toy with your hair, leaning against the counter as if watching people that are no longer there.

Try hard enough, and you can make out the people who had been there that night; the table of drunken older men playing Gwent who had always been especially generous in tipping you in the hopes that you might stay a while and bring luck with a smile, your own friends gathered about a table and shouting old pet names to lure you back to their table with ale, the gaggle of older women cawing and cursing about how wrong it is for a girl of your age to be working in a pub, tempting their husbands and sons. It’s familiar and alien and nostalgic all at once, making your heart ache. It was like that not four hours before, and you hadn’t had any such feelings then, but now that it is empty it feels like watching ghosts lingering at empty tables, phantoms sat in empty chairs.

“Is it always so busy?” A voice asks from beside you, making you let out a squeak of surprise. You take in the bard as if you’ve ne’er seen him before, and it’s strange. Gods, he’s beautiful, that you already knew, but the way he’s swept his hair to one side has you convinced he’s testing your patience on purpose. He deliberately loosened your hair so you looked closer to how you had, but his hair is swept to the other side entirely. Bastard. You know he’s done it to see if you will immediately try and sort it out. You’re tempted.

“Oh? It’s early in the morning on Freya's day at a tavern. It’s always busy.” You’re surprised how level your voice is, tinged with sarcasm. “You aren’t from here.”

“Beautiful and Observant. Are all women in this town like you?” He smirks and leans on his elbow, not realising how wet the counter was until it slides along the surface, making you cackle unexpectedly.

“Only in that lines like those won’t work on them, stranger.” You struggle out between laughs. “Ale? Wine? Food?”

“Wine, please.” He grumbles out, pushing himself off of the counter. Any mortal man would be ashamed of having almost knocked out their front teeth on the bar, but not the bard, his lips turn up in a smirk. “And the name of the radiant being in front of me.”

“Wine it is, Stranger.”

“Not a stranger. Stranger has some awful implications, Pretty Thing, and a stranger is only a stranger when you know not their name.” A pale, calloused hand is thrust towards you. “Dandelion. Well, Jaskier, famed bard. Surely you've heard of me.” His voice is overcome with confidence, and you can’t help but lean on the driest part of the counter to observe him closely before breathing out your name, which he repeats.

“That’s my name.” You say simply, leaning back to seek out a bottle of wine and pouring out a glass for the bard in front of him. “And I can’t pretend I know who you are, Bard. But if you’re famed then I presume that you can pay for your drinks.”

His face falls at that, and he begins to ooh and awe, looking through his pockets which you already know to be empty.

“Now, Angel of the Ale, famed doesn’t necessarily mean rich-"

“And, Bard, pretty eyes and notoriety doesn’t necessarily mean you'll get a free drink from me.” Your hand covers the brim of the glass and begin to slide it backwards toward you. “This is an establishment, not a charity.”

“Now, Missy. Let us not be too hasty.” He argues, with a small smile. “surely a song is enough payment for a single glass of wine?” This elicits an unamused sigh from you, and you lift your hand from the cup.

“Fine, Bard. Have it. But not a word of this to anyone. The owner will have my head if he finds out.”

“No song, Missy?” He asks and you laugh and shake your head.

“No, no. I’m. I’m hardly one for a song. You would just be wasting a song.”

“A shame." Jaskier drawls out, taking a sip of wine before settling you with a smile that is just on the right side of leering. “I like to believe my songs are good enough even for those who don't know much of music. I hear I have a very clever mouth, and a talented tongue."

He has a bastard of a tongue. The sort that has you flushing without obscene words, and with them? Oh, Melitele's tits you feel like you'll fall apart. The shock written across your face is true, and he chuckles like it’s a funny joke between just you two. It is, you suppose, or would be, were it not for the vile looks that your employer sends your way when he thinks your eyes away from his.

“Excuse me-?”

“Come, Pretty Thing, play at a role that suits you. Shocked virgin might be believable at your age were you not the most beautiful woman I could ever lay eyes upon.” Jaskier says dismissively, eyes unblinking and following you as you escape from behind the bar. It’s easy to feel like prey under his watchful gaze.

“Not that my sexual activity is any of your business, but I am.” You respond, shakily; watching as Jaskier saunters to you, holding his chalice in one hand. “A. A virgin, I mean.” You all but whisper the last sentence, and he grins; terrible and beautiful, all teeth and gums, and he reminds you of the wolves that lived in the woods during your childhood. But then he slinks closer still, the comparison between Jaskier and wolves are not quite right. No. Geralt, wherever in the world he is, is a wolf; built to survive hardship. Close enough to resemble a person who could be kept, but far too large and dangerous for that. No. Jaskier is no wolf.

Jaskier is a fox. Slim and small and ready to rip out your throat. Easily mistaken for a pet, even willing to play at the role, but as soon as you stop eyeing him, he returns to a state that is closer to feral than kept. You feel like a chick, eyed like a feast, waiting for him to just. Strike. And he does, just not in the way you expected- he cups your cheek gently and swipes his thumb across your cheek.

“Then everyone in this village must be blind, if they aren’t willing to fight to the death to Kiss you, never mind bed you.” His voice is smoke and molasses and you feel like you could drown on dry land.

“They’ve wanted to.”

“But you haven’t?”

“Never met someone who I had any interest in.”

“Is your... employer here?”

“N-no.”

“Then, at the risk of pushing, darling-maid, I’d rather show you what pleasures the flesh can hold.”

“Push. Please.”

.....

Games of pretend as an adult are much different than they were when you were a child. As a child you toyed at being a princess, a dragon, a knight; now, you’re pretending not to know the love of your life as he buries his face between your thighs, shoved over a table that you cleaned while his clever tongue works it’s way inside of you from behind.

The wood under you is so, so cold, but his mouth is intoxicatingly warm. Having his mouth on you is nothing new, not at all, but it has you feeling drunk: like having gulped down a tavern's worth of wine, giddy and all appendages tingling. It’s right and comfortable and new all at once. This position especially, face down on a table with him down on his knees before you, the Bard insists on seeing your face- be it so he can kiss you or see the minute changes in your face that tell him that you’re close, but tonight all you can see is the floor and not the mop of brunet locks and wide, blue eyes. The change is fine, welcome, but not enjoyed as much as the alternative.

He’s made a romantic out of you, you don’t know if you should like or despise that fact. Women in the pub ask often about your musical lover and his talented tongue and fine fingers, asking if the length of them extends to other more personal parts of his anatomy, which you always laugh off. Small villages such as this thrive on gossip and you couldn’t bear it were your intimate goings on to become the talk of the town, but really, you’ve other reasons to be silent on the matter. How do you explain to someone that it’s not about the fingers that crook within you as it is the fact he always knows exactly where to do so? Could you ever find the words to describe that talented though his tongue may be, it’s the fact that you feel him use it to trace the words I love you against your most personal flesh, as he is right now? Can there be a means of saying that large as your lover's cock might be, and that he is well aware how to use it and that he uses it well, your pleasure comes more from the softness in storm-coloured eyes that bore deep into your soul all while that thick length fills you to the point of no return? Never mind a romantic, he's made some poet out of you. You never knew poetry and syphilis were transmitted the same way but you'd rather the former than the latter.

Missing his eyes on you, you whimper and reach back for his hair only to have it pinned to the table beneath you. With a long lick from your clit down to your entrance Jaskier pulls back, only to stare at your sex while panting- the warm air passing along your soaked cunt and making you quake .

“I was right, Pretty Thing. People should fight to the death to Kiss you. Especially kiss these lips you so cruelly hide.” He sounds as drunk as you feel, words slurring over themselves.

“Bard. Bard please.” You whine, digging your nails into the table. There's a breathless chuckle behind you, followed by a wet kiss to the meat of your thigh, where leg meets arse.

“Do you want something, Angel of the Ale?” He chuckles, nipping at the skin.

“Julian~” You whine loudly and Jaskier lets out a whisper of something that sounds suspiciously like finally, followed by a sharp swat to your cunt, wet slap echoing through the empty air. You'll never be able to work comfortably again, instead you'll be haunted by the memory of Jaskier's most triumphant performance to date: being able to bring you to the brink of orgasm without talking. No compliments, no whispered coos of Little Miss or Dear Heart to encourage you. Just his tongue.

“So much for your game of pretend, Little Miss.” Jaskier sighs, but there's nothing but amusement in his voice. “I thought we were strangers?”

“Changed my mind.” You choke out while his fingers spread the lips of your entrance wide open. “If I wanted to fuck a stranger, I would. I want my Buttercup to make love to me.”

“Make love to you, eh?” Words fan across wet flesh and you could swear you have reached nirvana.

“I want the love of my life to stop playing silly buggers and fuck me until I sob, yes.”

He moans at that, weak and wanton as he bucks his hips into your calf, the proof of his want dragged against your skin like a dog rutting. Ever since he called you that in Oxenfurt, it’s been a secret sort of weapon for you. Losing an argument? Tell him he’s the love of your life. See him glaring across the tavern at a man whose eyes have been on you a second too long? Love of your life. It might be cruel were it not true.

“Gods, Dear Heart, you're a cruel mistress.” You feel him smile as he bucks against you once more, thick and hard under layers of fabric. “Play pretend, Jaskier. Make love to me, Jaskier. You're the love of my life, Jaskier. What next? I simply won’t rest until your cock is in my mouth, Jaskier? You're going to be the death of me.” He smiles, you can feel soft lips as he kisses up from beneath the crease of your arse to the thickest point. “I’m half convinced you’re trying to kill me.”

“Never.” Comes the earnest reply. “I can hardly spend forever with you if you’re dead.”

There’s a beat of silence, and you’re half convinced you’ve gone too far but a thought creeps unbidden into your mind to fill the gaps. Something he said in Oxenfurt, which slips from your mouth with honest ease.

“I'd marry you this second if I could.”

Eyes slip closed as if waiting for some inevitable fallout, but none comes. Instead, you’re rolled onto your back and tugged up with such an intensity you worry the table might capsize.

“... A hell of a place to propose, Little Miss.” He returns your own words back to you, eyes soft while his hand comes up to frame your face, fingers ghosting across the scar on your eye. The wound that kept you apart so long. The other rests on the crook of your neck, where if you cast your mind back far enough, you recall a wound being once, from some sort of vampire. He’s held your life inside you with trembling hands more often than you would like to think about, and you reach up to rest a hand over the space on his chemise where you know his heart ought be. It thunders along at a pace too fast for you to know it as you normally would, reminds you of how your own feels after fighting, fucking, but your own heart is beating slowly, pumping along at a relaxed pace under the touch of his fingers.

“Well. I’m no poet.”

“No. No, you aren’t.” He agrees. “I. I recall someone else saying that once before too.”

“Well.” You reply melodiously, fingers straying from the fabric to the thatch of hair across his chest. Downy, dark hair, always keeping you a layer away from him- thick enough to keep you from seeing the flesh beneath but fine enough to feel his warmth seeping through. “He never got about to proposing, so I assumed I could take the line for myself.”

“Excuse you, Dear Heart!” He sounds scandalized, like some rich old bat who asked for petunias and was gifted peonies by mistake. “I think you will find one of us refused to propose in his old place of education and spent every day afterwards trying to earn coin enough to buy you a proper ring, and as soon as I did you near died- oh. Oh shit. I didn’t mean to say that.”

“You. You bought me a ring?” You ask incredulously. It doesn’t sound real. Jaskier bought a ring. For you.

“Of course.”

“You. You, Jaskier, bought me a ring?” You ask again, mind unable to fully understand what it is he's said.

“I told you I wanted to marry you!” He replies sharply, eyes narrowed a little as if anticipating a fight about it, but all you can do is grin up at him.

“You want to marry me.”

“I do.” He confirms, softening from the annoyance as easily as he hardened into it. “Not where I wanted to propose-"

“Then don’t. Not here.” You insist. “Melitele's tits, I like to think I'm quite free and easy about these sorts of things but I’d rather you not propose in the tavern I work in.”

“Good. Especially as I don’t have the ring to hand.”

“As long as you plan on marrying me, I don’t mind when it happens.”

You mean it too, but he shakes his head, leaning down to kiss you softly on the tip of your nose.

“You commandeer my proposal, destroy the element of surprise, make me tell you my plans. What am I to do with you?”

“Keep me forever?” You prompt and he smiles and kisses you gently, hands sliding down to your hips, tugging your skirts up once more to eye your quim. “Jaskier?”

“I need to get you home right now.” He whispers softly, eyes moving from your sex to your eyes. “So that I can make up for lost time.”

“...Why not start here?”

“It’s hardly romantic after admitting I want to marry you.”

“Bath and Bed?” You offer but he chuckles.

“I think some things may need to go in the middle and the end.”

#jaskier x reader #jaskier imagine #jaskier x you #witcher x reader #witcher smut #jaskier smut

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vod-ika · 5 years ago

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Clones; A Sociologic Rant

I’m pretty sure I could base a whole sociologic thesis off of this show I have so many thoughts this is LONG.

So the fascinating thing about clones is that over and over it’s emphasised in show that they are considered property/cannon fodder/disposable, and at the same time it’s shown that they understand that claim, and still go so far out of their way to control some kind of their own independence.

I occasionally have a hard time separating show and fanfiction (fuck canon it’s my world now) but even in show, the allusions to modern militaries, the decorating of armor, the personalisations such as accents, names, and specific groups (Domino Squad) all point to an entirely unmitigated, completely developed culture inside the Republic. So this is basically a list of things I’ve seen, wondered about, or headcanoned in TCW.

- I would just LOVE to sit down with Filoni or Lucas and a sociologist and just Talk about how, if this army was real, what all would the Kaminoan’s have programmed in their heads (mental stability, coping mechanisms, stamina, self-preservation instinct, etc,) and how would it work in real-time, on and off the battlefield. What kind of programming went on in those eight to ten developmental years that ensured that loyalty was innate, the knowledge of property was omnipresent, and that they believed they weren’t allowed to own anything? What did they do to them to make sure that they would never want to form an uprising???

- “We are only as good as our weakest link” is repeated in team events endlessly, something that can extend to both skill and health. How deeply engrained are checkups, both mental and physical? I want you to look me in the eye and tell me that day in and day out clones, regardless of rank, are able to listen to and watch brothers die and Not have that affect them.

- Were they programmed with “protect the Jedi” in mind, or was it just, “bam. here is your CO, they outrank you so you have to respect/protect them?”, and then one of them jumped off a building with no armor and their captain had a heart attack? With the whole “Jedi were peacekeepers now they’re generals” thing I feel like the Senate just took two pieces of a puzzle that don’t actually go together but fit anyways and shoved them together and now they’re just kinda staring at each other like “the fuk u doin here”

- HEALTH. IS SO. IMPORTANT. When you know that any injury severe enough or illness overlooked long enough could result in you being swiftly and carelessly replaced by someone who looks Exactly like you, how much more of an emphasis is put on health, bodily wellbeing, and injury prevention? Clones are human, and while they’re very highly trained, strong humans, they’re still human and skin is skin. (Applying real logic to a cartoon) Seeing clones in things like explosions that they potentially survive, but lose a limb or two always made me sad because, to The Republic/The GAR/ Kamino, what good is a crippled clone? To Kaminoans, their life’s purpose is over and you might as well treat them as a lame horse. Fuck Kamino.

- I just realised something. When most modern soldiers deploy, they deploy with the intent to eventually be replaced because they have served their time wherever they are, and are being replaced by a new wave of soldiers. Clones deploy with the intent to die and be replaced until the battle is won.

- When Marines or Infantrymen or Sailors ship out, they always have duffel bags or those gigantic green laundry bag stuffed with clothes and personal items. Now, we know that clones collect personal items, and assumedly have multiple pairs of blacks (or no sweat glands) but I have yet to see any kind of carrying devices other than crates and small backpacks like for small Hutt babies or explosives. Do they have to leave everything behind when they’re op-hopping to their next planet? Are there barracks left behind that hold the ghosts of personal blankets and magazine clippings? Or is there a mountain of green laundry bags just off-camera?

- Naming culture, good god. So, you’re fresh out of boot, and you’ve got your number still. You’re like, “dope. I’m CT-1234. I’m a GAR mortarman. Go time.” Then, some dickhead is like, nah you’re called Sparkles now lets go prank Gogo and Jazz. Naming is WILD, and I’m mostly drawing from fanfiction for this. Either you’re named for some major or heroic or kickass reason like Tracer or Wolffe or Fireball, or you’re named for the most mundane thing like your number ends with 22, so you’re Twos or there are checkers on your armor so now you’re Check. either way it is a personal choice that Specifically defies the number they were assigned at decanting. Even Dogma had one for fucks sake.

- Painting armor. You know that time had to be taken to sit quietly and detail on that eel, or those lines, or that decal. Did it do anything to better the Republic? Did it win any battles or save any precious Jedi? No, but it happened anyways. People like to discuss why we play video games; there’s no societal, familial, or interpersonal benefit, only benefit to the one playing. There’s no societal, familial, or interpersonal benefit to painting armor, only benefit to the one painting. Fuck Kamino.

- Vocal inflections! The places they’re deployed affecting their speech patterns! I personally have a wild mashup of regional American accents because of the time I’ve spent traipsing, so how does being deployed planet after planet affect clone speech patterns??? Who rolls their r’s and who doesn’t? Are there transfers from other battalions whose accents are indiscernible because of where they were last deployed? Or ones who just have a whole additional vocabulary of local language? I’m three states away and the Louisiana accent blows my mind. Imagine that, but a whole fucking star system away???

- LINGO. Military lingo, planetary lingo (see above), sign language etc. give me different forms of communication outside Basic, used in both the formal and informal settings. (name calling in ASL/BSL during a briefing, talking about shinies in front of their faces in a language they don’t yet understand, talking about Jedi in front of their faces in a language they don’t understand.) Clones are told all that they are is property but damn if that property isn’t going to be able to talk shit about you to your face.

- To add on... Mando’a???? Is it innate? Is it learned? Did Jango Fett personally sit every clone ever down and teach them how to say Cat and Dog and Yes and No? Does every clone know it, or only those who sought it out? Literally it’s the most impersonal personal thing. “You, a thing who was made for combat, who looks exactly like millions of others, know one language of BILLIONS in the galaxy, purely because the man whose hair we based your genetic makeup off of knows it.” like WHAT

- HELMETS. BEING. SO. VERY. PERSONAL. Everything you see, speak, hear, smell is filtered through that bucket on your head. Are HUDs customisable? Is wearing or touching someone else’s bucket a no-no? Who’s watching telenovelas on guard duty?

- Speaking OF helmets: When your waking hours are constantly covered by your bucket, how do bodily “tells” betray what your face can’t? People acclimate. How common is it to be able to read your brother’s emotions like a fucking book based purely on how squared his hip is in parade rest, or which shoulder is higher than the other at attention?

- Or even just armor. Dude, that is literally the only thing between their skin and certain death by laser bolt. You ever talked to an athlete? And how picky they are about what cleats they wear or what goggles they use, or what percentage Gatorade their water is? We’re incorrigible. Imagine that, but the choice made results in how mobile you are, or how much laser to the shoulder you can stand.

- Time is so fucking short and they all must know that. I think I’ve used the line, “the average lifespan of a clone is measured in months, not years,” and boy does that fucking hit. How do you handle life when you were made to be snuffed out by it?

To conclude, I have many thoughts about the minute details of a working army that is comprised of identical people created, raised, and sent off to die for a war they didn’t start. Sounds a little ridiculous when you say it out loud, but between the show itself, fanart, and fucking fanfiction, it’s a little hard not to attribute human nuances to the show that exemplified my childhood. I’m an adult and it is my very highly specifically adult choice to psychoanalyse this show, and you can bet I’ll throw hands with Disney at any time.

“When my creator cares not how I face death, only that it is for them, how do I use the time death allows me? Cruel is my maker to have given me eyes to see and ears to hear the world, but denied me the chance to explore it. I can only hope that those who follow see what I could not, and that eventually a painting of all the world will be born through the eyes of the many.”

#clones #clone wars #star wars #star wars the clone wars #sw:cw #sw:tcw #clone troopers #clone headcanons #I am YELLING #There is so much I could dissect #captain rex #commander cody #ikawrites

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miracul0us-multishipper · 5 years ago

Text

“You”

A grin spread over Felix' face as he let the charade drop.

“Me.”

The black haired girl he now knew was Marinette rolled her eyes and turned back to her sketch book, a clear dismissal.

“You’re blocking the light. Go bother someone else.”

He sighed and brushed his hair back, decreasing the similarities to his cousin to the necessary minimum.

“Why would I? Everybody else is so boring.”

No one in this entire city had even realized he was back; not their classmates, not the teachers, not even the brunette fashion disaster that obviously had some experience with deception. Of course his little charade would have to end once Adrien had recovered from the cold that kept him at home, but until then Felix would have his fun. Yesterday he'd spend the entire day in the Bourgeois Spa, fooling the entire staff, the Mayor and his clingy brat. Despite the latter being Adriens “best friend”, not even she had realized who she was really inviting. Getting rid of her had been a little harder, but in the end he'd spent a wonderfully relaxing day in a steam bath and his skin was softer than ever. Courtesy of the ridiculously expensive mud bath he hadn’t had to pay a single penny for.

“Looks like you'd fit right in then.”, Marinette commented and drew an especially vigorous line in her book.

“Ouch. You wound me, darling!”

She shrugged and ignored him. Ignored him! That wouldn’t do.

With a last tug at his no longer messy strands he sat down next to her, leaning into her space as far as he could risk without getting slapped. His last few attempts had thought him that lesson.

“Oh, come on, Marinette, you must to tell me!”, he nagged her, happy when her face turned from concentration to annoyance. “What gave me away? Was it the wink? Or no, it was the greeting, wasn't it? Too much enthusiasm.”

“Why do you even care? You got all the others, didn’t you?”

He clicked his tongue.

“I have standards. If there's one person who can tell the difference, my performance is obviously lacking.”

She huffed and added a little bow to the skirt she was working on. Knee-length and plain colored, decorated with small ribbons. Classic and elegant, yet a touch of playfulness. He would have complimented it if he'd thought she might value his opinion.

“If it wasn’t my words or gestures, what was it?”, he asked on, not willing to give up and admit defeat. It was their little routine by now. He'd come up and try to pass as Adrien, she'd see through him and he would try to annoy her until she either gave him her full attention, or snarked him off. Marinette Dupain-Cheng – despite her cute appearance – could be mean, he'd learned.

“I don’t think I want to tell you.”, she shrugged, but he could see the beginning of a smile tugging at her lips. She'd deny it, but secretly she enjoyed their little battles of wits.

“What?”, he gasped and slumped against her in played shock, conveniently knocking the book out of her hands and onto the steps of the Trocadero. “But why?”

Now unable to draw on, she finally gave him her undivided focus.

“Because you, Monsieur Graham de Vanilly, are a major pain in my butt.”

“Oh? I would have thought you above such pettiness.”, he lamented. “To deny a fellow fashion enthusiast your criticism! To dishonor the sacred solidarity between artists! Truly a shame.”

“You? An artist?” She snickered. “Don’t make me laugh.”

“Hey! Deception is as much of an art as these tiny scribbles of yours. And I am a master of my craft, thank you very much.”

She waved her hand and shooed him back a little.

“The questionable status of your craft aside, I'd hardly call you an expert. You were here for a day and already had the entire class plus three akumas after you. Your play didn’t even last an hour before it blew up in your face. Maybe you should ask Lila for a bit of advice! She's been here for months and is still on her unquestioned bullshit.”

He growled at that, drawing out another of these smug little smirks Marinette so rarely wore. After all his visits she knew how to rile him up.

“Do not compare me to that- that klutz! Anybody could spew some fancy tales and name drop, but that doesn’t mean she has skill. There's no finesse, no authenticity beneath that badly styled hair of her.”

“And there is beneath yours?”, Marinette said sweetly. He huffed and raised his chin.

“Of course there is. I don’t run around as Adrien for the fame, but for the fun of it. And I actually put in some effort. I was only found out because my goal required breaking character, and I still had a score to settle with my dear cousin. You think I only depend on my pretty face, because it looks conveniently close to Adrien? Wrong!”

His chest swoll a little as he spoke. With his accomplishments, he'd earned a little pride in himself.

“True, artful deception requires three things Lila Rossi couldn’t fake if her life depended on it: Discretion, Distraction and the right timing. She only ever barges in headfirst, unable to survive even a second outside of the spotlight.”

She hummed.

“My mistake. How could I ever assume you to be alike, since you obviously care so little about getting attention?”

Snarky little minx. Well, she wasn’t wrong, to be fair.

“Enough of that!”, he decided and eagerly turned back to her. “Now tell me what gave me away.”

“Let me see...”, she mused and pursed her lips. “I guess I could tell you that...”

“Yes?”

“...under certain circumstances...”

“Go on!”

“...it might be...”

“Might be?”

“The scent.”

He blinked. This had been his mistake? What kind of cologne did his cousin even wear?

“The... the scent.”

“Uh-huh.”

She moved to get back to her sketching, but he snatched the book before she could even touch it.

“Nah-ah! First you've got to expand on that. What perfume is he wearing?”

She shrugged and leaned back.

“Oh, isn’t it obvious? Adrien always wears “Manners and Class” N° 5. You on the other hand reek of “Wouldn’t know politeness if it hit me in the face”. A poor choice, really.”

She leaned in.

“You stink.”

It took a moment for her words to register, and he couldn't suppress a gasp when they did. With a satisfied smile she tugged her sketchbook out of his hands and crossed her legs, ready to put the finishing touch on her latest design. Felix fell back on the step next to her.

“That's it.”

“Yup.”

“You've won.”

“Fair and square.”

“I am defeated.”

“Annihilated. But to be fair, that opening was too easy.”

“Perfect set-up. Clean execution. Merciless punchline. You have earned your victory, so claim it properly.”

“I will.”

He fell silent after that, acknowledging his defeat. He lasted all but two minutes before his need for attention beat his shame.

“So? What do you want as your prize?”

“Peace and quiet?”, she proposed, gnawing at the end of her pencil.

He shook his head in disbelief.

“You're more ambitious than that, Dupain-Cheng. Here I am, Felix Graham du Vanilly, offering you everything I can give, and you settle for peace and quiet? Tsk, you can do better than that.”

“Maybe I could ask you to clear the area, while I’m already at it. For the entire week.”

He should leave. He wouldn’t get any real feedback out of her today, and now that he had offered her a prize she might develop some common sense and ask him for his connections, or some favors that could get her publicity. He was stretching his luck every time he decided to pester her again.

But he stayed. Whether it was his wounded pride, or his curiosity ever since she'd sent that little love declaration to his cousin... he couldn’t allow the only borderline interesting person in this city to dismiss him like that. Especially not when he hadn’t been able to get a rise out of her yet.

An idea popped into his mind and he spoke before he could think.

“You could ask me for a date.”

Now Marinette did put her book away.

“Excuse me?”

“You heard me.”

She blinked.

“Did you miss the part where I asked you to leave me to my scribbles, as you put it? Because I am sure I mentioned it a few times, now.”

“No, doesn’t ring a bell.”

She groaned and closed her book. He counted that as a victory.

“Well, then maybe you remember the fact that I’m in love with Adrien. Which you already know, since you watched the video clearly addressed to him. And deleted said video. And replied very rudely.”

He hummed and stood up to circle her. An actor had to have a sense of drama, after all.

“The past is the past. And in the present, I look just like Adrien.”

Now he finally seemed to have broken through her cool facade.

“So what?”, she snapped at him, crossing her arms. “Do you think I like him for his looks? Am I that shallow, in your opinion?”

Of course she wasn’t. But he'd finally struck a nerve.

“You're not?”, he provoked slyly.

“No!”

She stomped her pink flats on the ground with more force than should be physically possible.

“I love him because he is kind. And thoughtful. And funny and confident and fair and so classy, and because he loves to make friends, and because he's loyal and caring and-“

“Okay, okay, I get it. He's your little fairy tale prince.”, he interrupted a little harsher than intended. Clearing his throat he continued. “And you'll be relieved to know that I don’t want to date you either. No offense to you, but I am above such mundane things as crushes.”

She rolled her eyes and sat back down.

“Of course you are.”

“Fact is, my dear Marinette,” he lectured smugly, “that you can’t even say two words to your loverboy without seemingly suffering a particularly unflattering stroke.”

“What a flowery statement, Sherlock.”

“Another fact is that you can talk very fluently to me. Far too fluently, in my opinion.”

Marinette's eyes narrowed with suspicion and he smiled.

“What's your point?”

“My point is,” he finished his circling and came to a stand right in front of her. “that you can use me to practice. Here, I'll even mess up my hair again!”

“Wait, I didn’t even agree to-“

“You're welcome. Aren’t I a dashing little dream prince?”

He posed in true Adrien fashion and Marinette pinched the bridge of her nose.

“Please, just don’t.”

“Pah! Ungrateful as always. Anyway, back to business!”

He spun into a dramatic pirouette and kneeled down before her, taking her hand between his.

“Marinette, my fairest!”, he proclaimed with vigor. “Is there something on that bright mind of yours you want to share with me, Adrien Agreste?”

She groaned again, but didn’t pull away.

“If you'll leave me alone after that...”

“I'll do anything my good friend asks of me! I am sunshine personified!”

“Jesus Christ.”

“Close enough.”

He almost regretted looking for Marinette this late. The sun was about to set and most tourists had already left for locations with a better view. If there had been more, one might have captured a snap shot of Adrien Agreste kneeling in front of a random girl about to confess. His cousin would be delighted when he found out about his scandal in the news.

Alas, it was only the two of them who paid attention to each other. But Marinette was about to begin, so he didn’t ponder on the viewers anymore.

“I... I wanted to tell you that...”

He almost winced at that poor display of rhetorical talent, but she wasn’t done yet. Taking a deep breath, Marinette lifted her eyes off of her shoes and looked directly at him. And for a moment it felt as if she were looking into him. He'd seen these bluebell eyes roll in annoyance, glare in anger and sparkle with mirth, but never had he seen them this piercing, this all-consuming.

“Adrien, there's something I haven’t told you yet.”, she said, and it was as if he'd never heard her speak before. This wasn’t the voice that had teased and bantered with him, or the disinterested lull she mumbled in when she tried to ignore him. This was soft, yet firm and confident. Like tugging the strings of a violin: a clear, pleasant sound that offered a first hint of the potential in this slender instrument.

“I didn’t keep this from you because I don’t value our friendship.”, she said and her fingers tightened around his. Felix was suddenly sure that no expensive mudbath could ever make his skin as soft as hers. “It's the furthest thing from it. I didn’t tell you because I value our friendship so much. And I was scared to risk it.”

She took a step closer and he had to swallow.

“Adrien, you are the first person I think of when I wake up, and the only person I see in my dreams. Every morning, when I walk into class and see you, I feel like there's pure sunshine in my chest and springs under my feet. Like gravity is just a loose suggestion and I could float if I jumped. Like... like I could do anything I ever dreamed of.”

She looked down upon their hands. Disentangling their fingers surprised him, but even more surprising was that this time, she took his hands between hers.

“I know you feel trapped sometimes.”, she whispered and he found himself suddenly very insecure. Was she still acting? Was she this deep in their little charade? Or... or was she truly talking to him?

“I know you put up a smile and try to give everybody what they expect. And that you don’t have a lot of chances to just be you, not the heir of a great legacy. But I... I want to be your escape. Your safe haven. What I am trying to say is...”

She looked back up to him, and her smile was radiant.

“I love you.”

...

There was a tightness in his chest.

Because he wasn’t breathing, he realized.

Odd.

He didn’t have time to overthink this little detail, though. For as soon as he opened his mouth to say something – what, he didn’t know – she blinked and took a step back. The spell faded and his mouth fell shut again.

“So,” Marinette cleared her throat and looked away. “How... How was it?”

“Uh...”, he made, which was admittedly not the smartest reply he’d ever given her. The fact that he still hadn’t remembered to breathe in didn’t make things easier.

Marinette shifted her weight from one leg to the other, uncomfortable.

“That bad?”

Ha.

Ha ha.

He shook his head and finally sucked in some much needed air.

“Good”, he croaked out, which was still not much of an improvement from his earlier statement of ‘uh’.

“It was... really good.”

Ah. The simple beauty of a full sentence.

“You think so?”, she asked, voice high with surprise. “It wasn’t... I don’t know, a little too much?”

“No!”, he answered a little too fast. “Uh, no. No, it was really... really good.”

Marinette's eyes went narrow.

“Are you making fun of me? Because I may be small, but if you did this to humiliate me then I swear to god, I will take this pencil and-“

“I was serious. What you said was beautiful.”

They both blinked at his words. He hadn’t meant to say that. This wasn’t how their interactions went. They were snarky. Mean. Teasing from time to time. But not... this. Never this open. Never vulnerable.

“Thank you.”, Marinette gave back, seemingly unsure herself. “I should... you know, it’s late and my parents are waiting.”

He nodded far too eagerly for his earlier efforts to make her stay.

“Yes, of course. I'll... No, you know the way better than me, probably.”

She laughed at that. It wasn’t a snicker, or one of her smug little huffs. It sounded... sweet.

“Yeah, no need to walk me home.”

She eyed him for a a moment, then the emptying place.

“I could walk you home, though. If you want to.”

Yes.

“No.”, he said and something in his chest roared in disappointment. “Thank you, but it would be quite the detour for you.”

She shrugged.

“Alright. Don’t get lost.”

Shouldering her bag she took her sketch book and moved to leave, but stopped mid movement to turn back around.

“Oh, and if you tell anybody – especially Adrien! – about any of this, you'll find out what I was going to do with that pencil! Got it?”

He rolled his eyes, finally in control of himself.

“Yes, oh great master of pencilmanship. Your weapon is as feared as its wielder.”

Satisfied she nodded and turned around, but stopped yet again. With a groan she dropped the bag, stepped in front of him and grabbed his collar. He'd never admit to anybody that the surprised squeal that followed had come from him. Utterly frozen in shock he could only watch as Marinette came closer and...

“There!”, she hummed and combed back his hair with her fingers. “I like you hair better this way.”

A small nod was all he could muster up, but it was enough for her. Waving him goodbye she turned around for good.

“Well then. See you around, Felix!”

He watched her leave, desperately trying to regain his voice.

“Y-Yeah. See you around, Marinette.”

Only when she had completely disappeared in the nearby metro station he allowed himself to sit down, wobbly knees no longer able to support him.

“What...”, he mumbled to himself, “...the entire fuck...”

What did just happen? Nothing made sense, not this stupid idea and certainly not his reaction to it. Sighing he leaned back against the steps and touched his hair. It was still a little messy, but laid back against his head in its usual fashion. If he concentrated he could almost feel the warmth of her fingers trapped between his strands.

He sighed deeply.

...damnit.

- - -

A little one shot because I hadn't written about canon!felix yet.

#miramu writes #felinette #felix graham de vanily #canon felix #ml felix #ml felinette #ml marinette #marinette dupain cheng

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kintatsujo · 3 years ago

Text

LoZ AU- The Courage of Running Away Part TWENTY-FOUR

This post is so late because I accidentally took a several hour nap and then it went and got a Little Convoluted, including a page that might’ve gone in a supplementary post except that I wanted it HERE, for REASONS

Warning for Fantasy Religious Imagery, which is sometimes based on Christian religious imagery because it’s Legend of Zelda and the magic book from the first game was literally just a Bibble in the Japanese

#AU August

#LoZ AU: The Courage of Running Away

I'm setting up for a boss fight here and I want to go a little into the idea that Lorule Castle Town and Lorule Castle are effectively being approached like a "final dungeon" here (technically at this point my brain has assigned CoRA itself as "first half of game" and whatever I call the sequel as "Second half of game" but that's not the point)

Which actually I'm gonna real quick go into MORE of the basic "gameplay" that exists in my head if CoRA was ACTUALLY a game instead of this increasingly convoluted fanfic that I've been having Emotions over, just because I've been thinking about it and it's how I'd be plotting shit here.

Basically the MAJORITY of the gameplay would be Link running around adventuring, like any LoZ. Different greater regions would be their own discrete overworlds with a few points here and there where you could cross between them, not like portals or anything just like mountain passes and shit. (I think since we're going full jrpg with the story the sequel would probably feature an airship worldmap. Don't ask me how Link gets an airship I just cut going into the Rito captain that decides he's in love with Marla for time!)

But THEN there would be sections that functioned like Hyrule Warriors, with a team of characters that you could switch between. These would be signaled by phrases like, "Okay, Link, tell us what you need us to do." Some would be specific dungeons and some would be based on chunks of the map that had been sliced out, like how in Age of Calamity a lot of the mini missions used chunks of the chapter mission maps. Technically the Tutorial Dungeon from Hell would work somewhat like this EXCEPT that Astramorus isn't your team member, he's an "allied" unit you don't have to protect because he hangs back tossing heal items and fairies at Link.

The first REAL time you'd get a taste of having team members would be basically a minigame with Tonbo and Marla and all playable characters would have segments that let you get a handle on how they worked. Gray's would actually be a training mission where he's kind of showing off for Link because Zelda Jr. is egging him on. (See thinking about this like a game REALLY helps with the story writing lmao)

During the solo segments while Tonbo and Marla are travelling with Link, btw, they'd be wandering around cities or towns as NPCs Link can have conversations with, including one with Marla that would be sparked by examining the statue of the Fierce Deity in Clocktown Town Square but which would be presented as Marla seeking Link out. This is because I love party chat.

[image description: A below shot of a statue of Fierce Deity Link. He is lit by a lantern with fairy wings to the side, and there are strings of lights behind him and a dark roof above. Link and Marla are looking up at him as Link explains, “The Hylia Church holds that he was one of my-- One of the Goddess’s Chosen Heroes. The local faith holds that he came in the form of a child but with the soul of an adult, that he went on to take the forms of dead loved ones and dead heroes in Termina, that he had powers upon powers and skill upon skill, that he was many places at once over three days, helping and rescuing and working, and that he awoke the Four Giants of the land and pushed the moon back into the sky.” Link holds himself. “I can’t POSSIBLY live up to all that,” he says. Marla is holding some sort of wrapped food she’s taken a bite out of. She says, “Do you WANT to live up to all that? Also if he came in the form of a CHILD why’s he depicted as this big manly man chonk?” End ID.]

Also in general all playable characters's levels, hearts and general development would just be, haha, LINKED to Link's. I know a lot of people enjoy managing all their characters but I'm thinking about Final Fantasy 9 and how every time you go to a town everyone just wanders off and I never know if I'm gonna actually be able to GIVE characters their equipment or if the party's gonna get broken up by Story again. I think a lot of the flow feel to the system I've just outlined would be similar to that so I don't think the non-Link members of the party should be something a player would have to worry about upkeep with. Also yes in that same line everyone would automatically be healed and have a full magic meter at the beginning of the team segments.

Anyway for this particular party mission Queen Zelda would actually initially try to talk Link out of it. "Absolutely not," he says, "I'm going and Father is too, we deserve answers and if you end up having to blow Serenumbra up this is the only chance we'll have at getting them."

(Zelda Sr's like.... "I didn't blow your father UP...")

Ghirahim is also champing at the bit to go fuck Serenumbra up, because he's fucking furious to have realized that Serenumbra was chessmastering him. Dinravi and Eltani are going both as support and because everyone but Ghirahim agrees that Ghirahim needs someone to act as his restraint.

[Image Description: Ghirahim is waving his hands angrily and ranting, "And the WORST PART is now I have to save HYLIA'S BROOD just to SPITE him!" while Dinravi pats him on the shoulder with a grin, saying "There, there." End ID.]

I don’t know why Ghirahim’s hands always turn out so amazing, actually, I’ve always thought of hands as one of my strengths but it feels like CoRA’s Ghirahim is one panel of pretty hands after another.

ANYWAY it’s a smallisher team because the main loftwings they have that can make that trip again after having rushed from Gerudo City to Hyrule Castle are the unusually large ones like Hera, and those are fairly rare. The main characters I’m absolutely sure on are Link and Astramorus, Dinravi Ghirahim and Eltani, and of course Queen Zelda and Impa. Gray wants to go but he can’t because health potions don’t work as fast on injuries quite as severe as a stabbity in the torso and whether Marla and Tonbo come along is actually something I’m not explicitly solid on yet, because this is Draft 0.5 and I can still change my mind at this point.

And one of the things is that in this mission Astramorus essentially functions as a helper character chasing after Link with health potions just like in the Tutorial Dungeon From Hell, except he’s a lot quieter about it.

Because of this and because Link is the main character, they’re together when they find Serenumbra first:

[Image description: Serenumbra is in the middle of a ceremonial setup; in the middle are he with a book stand and behind him a statue of Hylia. On either side are symmetrical stone beds, the left below an upright Hyrulean Triforce and the right below a flipped Lorulean Triforce. Princess Zelda is laid on the left side and Princess Hilda on the right; they are dressed in simple gowns and seem to be unconscious. The beds were clearly made exactly for Hilda’s height, as Zelda is too short for hers. They are laid in state reminiscent of the way the sleeping Zelda was in Adventure of Link. Between this scene and the viewer are two figures with swords, although the nature of them is unclear; they could be people wearing horned masks. Serenumbra says, “Ah, Astra. You’re ALIVE. What a SURPRISE.” Astramorus and Link are standing side by side. Astramorus says, “So you DID know what I was planning to do.” Serenumbra makes the smuggest possible face. “Oh PLEASE, dear friend, I’ve been winding you up to see what you’ll do since you were FIFTEEN- a little NUDGE in the right direction was as good as telling you to do it!” End ID.]

Okay but looking at that Smug Serenumbra face I actively wanna punch him until he loses a few teeth so I think I’ve succeeded at drawing it. The soldiers are actually intended to be Armos because I like the Armos and I think they should show up in Botw2. (I’m kind of hoping we’ve already seen one in that more recent trailer but they don’t look anything like these buddies; I’m talking about that big turquoise dude.)

Anyway we all know this ceremony isn’t going to work. The Armos keep Link and Astramorus off of Serenumbra long enough for him to try it, and it just fuckin fizzles. Zelda and Hilda sleep right through the whole thing (they’re uh, you know, under a spell, so they’d sleep through quite a lot.)

[Image Descriptions: Serenumbra is gripping his book and staring into it, demanding of the pages, “WHY isn’t it WORKING?!!” Astramorus says, off-panel, “It’s pretty SIMPLE, Seren-” He is shown to have his hands on Link’s shoulders as if to brace him, as Queen Zelda breaks the doors behind them down with a BOOM, Ghirahim coming up behind her with a grin. Link and Astramorus shout together: “YOU HAVE THE WRONG ZELDA!!” Serenumbra stares at them, his glasses opaque, as apparently something in his mind breaks with a “SNAP!” He then smiles serenely. “Very well,” he says, as the Moon Pearl on his chest begins to glow, flooding the room with blue. “Let us see how you fare against a GOD’S NIGHTMARE.” Before him, on what had appeared to be a circular rug, something black and gaseous seems to seep into reality. It has glowing white eyes. End ID.]

#my art #au august #loz #loz au #loz au: the courage of running away

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justanotherfangirlst · 3 years ago

Text

Guilt

So before you continue, if you continue, I wanted to give a little context before the story. So no one but PIXAL knows about Daniella and her job with the Great Library, well not the entire extent of it. And Daniella doesn't want to tell the others because she believes it's safer for them if they don't know. It causes a lot of fights between Daniella and Lloyd.

One of the major fights they have is when they have Harumi on the Bounty and Lloyd keeps trying to get close to her, but Daniella knows that Harumi is just using Lloyd (she even pushes Daniella off the Bounty during a storm to "silence her" because Dani is very vocal about Harumi being evil.) But Daniella can't really tell Lloyd that she can feel her aura because that is a skill that she develops fighting demons and defending the 17 realms and being the Purple Ninja of the Great Library. (There is a good possibility that there will be a story on Harumi and Daniella's fight on the Bounty soon ^^)

Another one of the fights is about the Oni masks and how the last one really needs to not be found. Daniella knows that the last mask is protected where it is, because she did her research on them before at the Great Library and knows what can be done with them if they are brought together. And it just adds another reason for Daniella to hate Harumi more

So when the ninja are sent to the First Realm in Season 9 and the Resistance realizes that they aren't dead, Lloyd asks Daniella to travel the Realms and find the Ninja. But she won't.

Daniella's fanseason that I am (slowly) writing will cover all of this and hopefully make more sense to everyone but enjoy the story below.

Here is a link to Daniella's fanseason if you want to read what is there so far: https://www.wattpad.com/902163649-the-master-of-dragons-prologue

Lloyd sighed as he pinched the bridge of his nose. They had been arguing for hours, neither budging in their opinions.

“I don’t understand why you won’t go looking. Don’t you miss them?” Lloyd asked.

“Of course I do! But looking for them now would do more harm than good!” Daniella replied, crossing her arms.

“We can handle the Sons of Garmadon and Dad for a little while without you.”

“Lloyd, I don’t know where they’ve gone. It could take months. Months! And that’s just doing a quick search of the Realms for a trace. There are realms that are bigger than Ninjago.”

“Then explain to me how you can go ‘save dragons’, or whatever it is you do, in a few days. A week or two at most!” Lloyd snapped, turning around to face her.

“That’s different!” Daniella argued back, looking her brother in the eye.

“Oh, really?”

“Yes.”

Daniella squared her jaw, giving no sign of backing down. Lloyd held his sister’s gaze before turning away. He took a deep breath before he tried a different approach. One he knew would cut deep.

“Do you even love him anymore?”

Daniella ‘s mouth fell open, her grip tightening around her sleeves. She opened and closed her mouth several times, struggling to find the words. Lloyd clenched his fists, knowing the weight of his words.

“You think I don’t love him?” Daniella asked, challenging him to repeat himself.

“Dani, I – “

“No! You don’t get to say stuff like that and take it back like it’s nothing Lloyd! I love him! More than you’d ever know. But I can’t just up and leave. I can’t make decisions with my heart. If I did, the worlds would burn! I have to be an adult; I have to use my head; no matter how much it hurts me!

“Not going after them is not a twisted form of time out like you keep thinking. This is the only way that we will win. If I leave, it kills any future with our victory. Lloyd, you haven’t seen the different futures where Father wins. Each one is a different nightmare for the people of Ninjago. Staying is the only way!”

“You said you couldn’t control time,” Lloyd accused, pointing his finger.

“I can’t. Not the way you wanted. It’s against the rules, but I can base my decisions on what I’ve seen,” Daniella defended.

“Who’s rules? Our friends are gone, Ninjago is in ruin, Dad gets closer to finding us every hour! And you want to talk about rules?” Lloyd shouted.

“We are the good guys here Lloyd. We can’t break the rules just because it’s easier.”

“Whose rules, Daniella?” he repeated.

“It doesn’t matter. What matters is that I’m not going to find the ninja. We need to focus on protecting the people,” Daniella answered, letting her hands fall to her side.

“This is why no one listens to you anymore! You never tell anyone the whole story! You run off for weeks at a time and come back like nothing happened! You won’t tell me how you knew about the Oni masks, or Harumi, or whatever it is that is bothering you anymore. It’s like you don’t trust me anymore!” Lloyd yelled. Daniella held her hand out to grab his arm, but he pulled himself out of her reach. He took a deep breath before walking around her and walking out the door.

Daniella watched as her brother stormed out the door. She looked down at the floor as she let the tears fall. She slowly sank to her knees, drawing in a ragged breath.

She wanted to tell him. Tell him everything; where she had been, the things she had done. Daniella had nearly slipped more than a few times, nearly telling him the horrors she had faced. But she knew the cost of telling the whole truth; the way her friends and family would look at her differently. She wiped the tears from her cheeks and took a deep breath.

“Keeping them in the dark is for their own good. Even if it drives them to hate me,” she whispered to herself.

Daniella belongs to me

Lloyd belongs to LEGO

Please do not use my characters or my work without my permission.

#ninjago #ninjago oc #oc: daniella #ninjago lloyd #ninjago season 9 #angst?

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butiaintgonnaloveem · 4 years ago

Text

Keep Me Company

Pairing: Arthur Ketch x Reader

Word Count: Approx 3300

Warnings: Adult language and situations, non-overly graphic sexual times

A/N: Written and submitted for @wi-deangirl77‘s That’s Some Supernatural Schitt writing challenge. Thanks for being patient!! And my gosh, @plaidstiel-wormstache was a magician with her beta skills.

Set sometime after S12. Arthur Ketch and the woman in this story have an established relationship. You know how it goes, something casual develops into something more...maybe.

Arrogant.

That’s what he is, but the word’s not sharp enough to be an insult. Not one he’d care about anyway.

“You seem a bit wound up. Something on your mind?” he asks.

She wants to tell him that she hates him. It’s the easy thing to do. It’s not even like he’s a good person, but it wouldn’t be true and he’d see it for exactly what it is - antagonism.

Always polite, patient, and god damn glorious in bed. He’s done nothing outright to deserve such wrath, either. Except for doing nothing out of the ordinary at all.

“How so?” she tries for casual and evidently fails based on the look of annoyance he throws her way.

“You’re quiet. If I didn’t know better, I’d say you’re bored.”

“Well…” she trails off, unsure of what to say or how to say it. She knew what came next - sex. Of course, before that there were drinks. Her glass would never be empty, from bar to table to the hotel suite, which is not usually the issue. Then there was dinner, followed by a dessert that would be left unfinished at the table. As she mulls it all over, she wonders if maybe that was where this night went wrong; unfinished thoughts clouded by alcohol, or maybe the wine was too relaxing. Either way, the brain to mouth filter malfunction was unstoppable.

“You should be nicer to me,” she blurts out.

That gets an eyebrow lift in response, then a squint as he thinks over her words. “I do believe I have behaved like the gentleman I was raised to be.”

“That’s not,” she heaves a sigh as she collects her thoughts, “I don’t mean it like that.”

“Then by all means, please elaborate,” he says as he sets the cloth napkin on the table and sits back. He’s letting her pick this fight and he knows it.

“I don’t appreciate being put on the spot.”

“I don’t appreciate my companion keeping secrets from me.”

That word. So emotionless and generic. It’s what sets her off.

“You know that you sound like Humperdinck?”

“What?”

“Your voice, your accent. You sound like Prince Humperdinck from ‘The Princess Bride.’ He was an arrogant asshole too.”

His lips purse and she watches the corner of his mouth twitch. “What, exactly, does that have to do with our evening?”

“Nothing. It just annoys me.”

He scrutinizes her, “I see.” He calls for the check and doesn’t bother to initiate further conversation. He still gets up first and helps to pull out her chair for her. Then guides her with a hand at her waist, and steps forward to open doors.

The car ride is silent aside from the quiet music playing and while it’s not comfortable, she’s also foolishly not telling him the night is over. Her back aches from the tension and from twisting her body to face away from him and toward the window. The dark tinted glass doesn’t give much of a view of the outside, but she can watch his reflection from time to time as it catches the light and catches him with that damn smirk of his.

Arrogant and smug, what a combination.

When they finally make it into the hotel suite, he drops the careful grin he used in public, twisting his neck with obvious annoyance.

“Well now, shall we talk like adults or do you plan to insult me for the evening?” He pulls the door closed behind her and then moves to the closet, meanwhile she stands still in the entryway of the suite, stubborn.

“I can do both.”

“As fun as that sounds, it’s not what I had in mind for our time together.” He removes his jacket and hangs it in the closet, smoothing down its front before turning back to her.

“Right, because that would mess up your routine, and here we are already ahead of schedule.” She turns so the zipper of her dress is facing him, “Go ahead, let’s do this.”

He pauses with one hand at the knot of his tie, ready to loosen it. Again, the look of scrutiny aimed her way. “Ahead of schedule? What does that mean?”

She turns to him and sighs, her expression flat, she was fed up. “It means, Arthur, that every time we do this, it’s the same thing. A call, a fancy dinner, drinks, dessert, then back to the hotel suite, another drink, you undress me and then we end up in bed.”

“It’s more than that,” he argues half-heartedly, “And you’ve never left unsatisfied.” It almost sounds like a question, or perhaps an accusation.

“That’s true, but…”

“But what?” he steps closer, hands in his pockets and face unreadable.

“Does this mean anything to you?” Her face burns hot, hating herself immediately for how needy it sounds.

He stares, his face unchanging. His breathing measured and posture the usual - upright and commanding.

Her body burns hot and cold while her stomach twists and flips. She’s afraid to move because just about anything might set off the instinct to cry at the moment, either from anger or embarrassment. She tries to keep the tremble from her voice as she asks the next question on her mind.

“Maybe this one is easier: would you miss me if you never saw me again?”

“You know that in this line of work--” He begins, calm, rehearsed, but it angers her further.

Arrogant, smug, and standoffish.

“I am not asking for promises. Jesus Christ, I know exactly how things are, I don’t need a speech about how we might die on a hunt, about how we need to focus on the bigger picture. Okay? I know all of that.” Her face falls, “I also know that you are not the heartless killing machine that people describe you as.”

He opens his mouth to deny it but she cuts him off.

“No! No, Arthur. I mean, yes, you kill, but you’re allowed to care for people too. Like it or not, you cared for Toni in some way I will never understand, and,” she hesitates, “And there was Mary Winchester.”

He visibly reels just at the name, but does well to keep control over his reaction, not letting much more out even as he speaks. “Why? Admitting something like that puts us both in danger, allows others to use it against you, and for what? A moment of happily ever after? To satisfy your curiosity or to feel as though you’ve won?”

“You’re not void of emotion, no matter how hard those bastards tried to beat it out of you. I feel like you care, and I’ll admit that I want you to. But whether you honestly do or don’t, I just don’t want to feel like a whore you pay for with an expensive meal and a hot shower. If nothing else, don’t you at least consider me a friend? Or is ‘companion’ really the best I am ever gonna get?”

In a blink, he resets to a more neutral expression, lips only slightly pursed as he thinks. “Is all this really because I called you my companion at dinner?” He turns and moves to a marble counter, pouring the bourbon into two tumbler glasses. He hands one to her and out of habit, she takes it, hand trembling, holding it to her chest as she watches him take a large sip.

“I don’t need you to tell me anything that isn’t true.” Her gaze drops to the amber liquid in the glass, “I don’t need promises or anything else. But, what I do want is to know that I am not just a placeholder, or a warm body.” Looking back up, she checks he’s listening, seeing if her words are hitting their mark, “I care about you, and I would sure as hell miss you if you left my life after tonight. I just...I just want to know that...God this all sounds so much worse than I imagined.” She turns and paces away, fingers swiping along her bottom lashes to collect the tears gathering.

“I thought you weren’t asking for promises,” he accuses.

“I’m not!” She erupts. She immediately realizes it was the wrong reaction as he squares his shoulders and widens his stance for an argument. After taking a sip and letting it slowly roll down her throat, she softens her tone and tries another approach, “I’m asking for emotion, for you to tell me what you’re feeling.”

“I’m afraid I don’t see a difference.”

Arrogant, smug, standoffish, and dense.

“You’re serious?”

“I would hardly call myself an expert on this subject. And by subject, I mean genuine human emotion. Though, you know, it never ends well for those who want the best of both worlds. Believe me, it’s best to draw the line right there.” He tells her, using his free hand to indicate an imaginary line, but failing to meet her eyes.

And there it is, slight as could be, but still a chink in his armor. There was the man she knew wanted affection, but denied himself at every turn.

“Yeah, I am getting that. For all your skills picked up from the Men of Letters, how are you so terrible at this?” She takes another sip from her glass, “Nevermind. Do not answer that.”

Arrogant, smug, standoffish, dense, abstentious.

She takes a moment, weighing the pros and cons of her thought before expressing it out loud, “Do you think that avoiding happiness is going to keep you from being hurt?”

He scoffs, slipping the tie loose from his collar and pulling it from around his neck. In an uncharacteristic move, Arthur drops it onto the chair nearby instead of neatly setting it away. He sips on his drink while considering the question, eyes wandering like the answer might suddenly appear written on the walls. Moments pass during the quiet, but when he finally lifts his head to speak, his expression has softened.

“I don’t avoid happiness.” He talks as he sets his drink down and moves towards her, “I have plenty in my life to keep me happy,” he takes her drink from her hand, “I try, and evidently fail, to avoid attachment or sentiment.”

He takes her hand, pulling it up to his mouth and kissing across her knuckles, then turning it over and gently placing a kiss to her palm. He then turns her hand again, leaning his cheek into it, meeting her curious gaze.

“I see the weakness in those who invest too much in others. I’ve felt it in myself. Misplaced expectations and projections of fears and needs muddling things up.” He grips her other hand and holds it between their chests, tight but not too tight. It’s meant to keep her attention on him, not that she could focus on anything else when he’s that close and unguarded.

“With something to lose it’s nearly impossible to make the hard choices, and that is who I am. I’m the one called in for the less appealing jobs; someone with nothing to lose and no one to leave behind.”

“Arthur,” she whispers, heart aching and chest tight with hurt. But not by his words this time, by the truth in his tone. Hurt for him.

“It’s alright, love. It’s the role I play,” He lets their hands drop from his cheek, his grip loose in her hand, but she clutches it tighter.

“Do you really believe you wouldn’t leave anything behind?” She asks, watching him, waiting for another flicker, some small flinch to indicate he would let himself have this.

He frowns at her, like an animal that can see so plainly the object of desire, and yet knows there’s a trap they can’t make out. He pulls his hand from hers and turns.

“Nothing but ghosts, and maybe a few women,” He huffs, trying to turn the heaviness of the question into a joke.

That’s it, that’s the last rejection she can take. She turns for the door, even opens it, before he’s in front of her, stopping her, eyes full of terror for abandonment.

“Don’t leave,” tries to order, but winces at the desperation in his voice.

“Ask me to stay,” She whispers. “Or tell me that I mean nothing to you and let me leave. You really can’t be that desperate for a fuck, can you?” She stares at him dead-on, letting him hear it in her words, and read it in her body language that she isn’t bluffing.

“I…” He clears his throat, straightens his shoulders, trying to gain control of the situation, while fidgeting with discomfort. When he doesn’t say anything, she makes another move for the door behind him.

“Stay.” He watches her, as if unaware he’s said it.

Vulnerable. A word she never thought she would use for him.

She doesn’t need him to say it again, she heard it loud and clear. It doesn’t stop the knee-jerk reaction as she stares back and eloquently asks, “What?”

“You know, I don’t often make requests unless I am certain I will get what I want,” he tries for the usual Ketch swagger, but it sounds more broken than anything.

“I couldn’t have been more clear that all you had to do was ask.”

“Then stay?”

They watch each other for a few seconds, making certain that neither would move. She lets go of the door, allowing it to slam shut behind her, then puts a hand at the back of his neck and pulls him in to kiss her. He’s pliant, but steady as he goes along with her guidance. His one arm reaches around her waist while the other spreads wide at the back of her head, holding her mouth to his.

His feet move along as she shuffles them back toward the bed, but he stops them before they can tumble onto the sheets.

He pulls away, eyes steely blue and dark, and huffing breaths against her cheek. “It was never my intention to make you feel unappreciated.” His fingers move while he speaks, nimble fingers pulling down the zipper of her dress and letting it fall open and loose on her back.

She looks up at him, making certain he sees the genuine acceptance she offers, “I know.” She shrugs her shoulders, letting the straps fall and the fabric begin to fold down and around her, caught over his hands.

He slowly begins to lower himself down to the ground, onto his knees, hands gently skimming over her body, her dress following, before both rest at her hips, eyes never leaving hers. “I certainly never intended to make you feel unwanted.”

A trembling breath passes between her lips while she looks down at him. He stares back confidently yet penitent as he kneels in front of her, hands spreading over her as though eager to grab, but full of restraint and remaining tender.

“I fully intend to make it up to you,” his voice is soft and steady. His thumbs move to meet at the center of her stomach, just below her belly button. Then, with fingers spread wide, he slides them down, pulling the dress until it falls in a circle around her feet. He hums and looks her up and down appreciatively, “Many, many times over.”

Sometimes he can be vulnerable and affectionate, too.

She looks up and says a silent ‘thank you’ to no one in particular. Her hands rest at her sides, sometimes flinching when his touch almost tickles, but patiently waiting as he teases her. His lips skim along the skin above her underwear, and his hands roam across her lower back, ass, and the backs of her thighs. His breaths are warm and controlled, heating her skin as he moves close, but not exactly to where she is starting to grow wet.

Her own breaths become shaky and uneven as she waits for what feels like an unfair amount of time, one hand clenched in a fist as she debates just shoving her fingers into her own underwear to get things moving along. With the other, she pushes through his hair. It’s longer than he’s kept it before, and she can feel where it’s twisting into curls at the ends. Her fingertips tickle along the back of his neck, just under his hairline, feeling the sweat already start to dampen his collar.

She pulls her hand back to drag her nails through, drawing a low growl from him that she feels more than she hears. He tilts his head with the movement her hand as it strokes through his hair and he stares up at her again, pink splotches marking his cheekbones and giving away his excitement.

“You can really get started with that anytime now,” she tries to joke, but it’s edged with desperation.

“As you wish,” he says with a playful glint in his eye.

She gasps, “You -” but doesn’t finish because of course he takes that moment to start to press his thumb in circles of pressure over her, making her nerves tingle, setting off a rush of pleasure. “Ohh. More,” she whispers.

He cheekily replies again, “As you wish.”

Vulnerable, affectionate, playful.

There is no stopping her smile now, “You bastard,” she accuses, but the insult falls as flat as she does as he pushes her down to the bed. She lands with a surprised laugh which turns airy as he pulls her underwear down from her waist.

He starts to kiss at her calf, moving his way up her legs with his mouth and hands constantly wandering, massaging, tickling. “I am a bastard, but I still know the classics. I am certainly more like Westley than you give me credit for.”

“Tell me how perfect my breasts are then,” she mumbles.

He chuckles and stops at the tops of her thighs, muttering something that sounds like an affirmation before he uses just his fingertips to graze along her sensitive skin. He watches for a few seconds as he spreads her wetness back and forth. She feels the heat of his breath as he moves in, and gently presses his lips and the tip of his tongue against her. When he places his mouth on her, she immediately bucks up into him, greedy for pressure and movement.

With a blink, he turns his look upward, leering at her. His lips spread slightly as he applies more pressure, allowing two of his fingers to tease at her entrance, all while he watches for her reactions.

She remains still, playing along with his little game for a moment, but when he slides away, just shy of where she wants his fingers, she loses all patience.

“What happened to making it up to me?” She pushes herself up to rest on her elbows.

He shifts himself onto the bed until he is face to face with her again, looking her over as though trying to memorize her.

“Well, you are going to stay, aren’t you?” He stares into her eyes as he waits for her answer.

“Yes,” she tells him, unwavering.

“Well then,” he slides back down her body, stopping to kiss across her collarbone and down one breast, and then the other. The soft kisses tickle more than they linger, but lead in a direct path back between her legs, where he settles on his knees on the floor. “I’ve got time, haven’t I?”

Thorough. That’s another word for him.

#arthur ketch x reader #arthur ketch fanfiction #arthur ketch fanfic #spn fanfic #spn reader insert #arthur ketch smut #spn smut #my writing

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honey-makki · 4 years ago

Text

Irreconcilable

Characters: Asahi Azumane X GN!Reader

Summary: Asahi’s mental health can be debilitating sometimes. Taking a toll on himself and relationships with others, but how far will they go to help him?

Warnings: depression, anxiety, suicidal thoughts

Song: this is me trying- taylor swift

Genre: angst/comfort

Count: 2k

A/N: please head the warnings. this discusses and is an explicit portrayl of anxiety and depression with references to suicidal thoughts. it isn’t “fun” but nevertheless i think its good. at least it felt good to write,

Asahi hasn’t left his bed yet today, rather listening to the rain and staring up at the ceiling, wondering how long it’ll be before he can fall asleep again. This isn’t an uncommon situation for him, his figure shrouded in darkness and enveloped by the blankets on his bed. The occasional buzz of his phone goes unnoticed.

The darkness of the room shifts throughout the day, casting heavier shadows on his bed in the afternoon, shadows that he can feel the weight of on his chest. They mirror the heavy feeling in his heart and the discontent in his head. Would sorry have made any difference? It’s just a word, a word I would have struggled to even say.

The passage of time seems like its just a theoretical concept until the gnawing pain of hunger starts to peek through. He’s not hungry per se, but his body is telling him that three days without eating is way too long. The tinge of pain is a welcome feeling, no matter how fleeting.

It would still be a few hours before Asahi made his way to the kitchen, long after his flatmates are asleep, hoping to avoid an uncomfortable conversation. There isn’t a reason he can articulate for the way he looks, hair messy and unwashed, deep circles under his eyes despite sleeping most of the time, and his thinning frame drawing in his seemingly oversized old volleyball jacket.

He doesn’t even think he would try to come up with an excuse should they see him, the effort seeming monumental for little to no reward. He’s gotten to the point where he isn’t hiding it, any actions to make it easier to deal with, like using the kitchen sparingly and only at odd hours, are just due to convenience not fear of response.

Holding a bowl of cheese puffs and a long-forgotten packet of Takenoko No Sato Asahi makes his way back to his room, each footstep silent. Sitting in his desk chair he pops something in his mouth, not really sure if it was sweet or savory because to him they all taste the same, something akin to cardboard, or wood chips uncomfortably dry in his mouth.

The milk carton he grabbed out of the fridge doesn’t taste much better. It feels thick, so much so that he isn’t sure he will be able to swallow (or stomach) it. He might as well be drinking a bottle of unscented lotion, and even then that might be better.

He isn’t sure how long has passed since he keeps zoning out, but the bowl of leftover puffs look about as appetizing as styrofoam peanuts, and he knows that if he doesn’t get them out fo his room, he might be sick. Being sick is a lot more effort than sneaking to the kitchen, that is as long as it’s late.

He finally checks his phone after what has been, hours? A day? Maybe three days? It’s not the brightness of the screen that hurts, or the way all the notifications make his heart race, its the background picture that makes it nye impossible to use. Its you.

Seeing your smiling face next to his, he recognizes every single square millimeter of your face, long ago committed to memory. He could paint it blindfolded if he needed to, but the person next to you? He doesn’t see himself looking back. The clear skin, the glow, the beaming smile, the light in his eyes. Maybe its liveliness, maybe its adoration, maybe its gratitude, but regardless, he doesn’t retain nor deserves any of those emotions.

It’s his fault he’s here alone in his room staring at a bug climbing the wall. step. step. step. Each leg of the ant moving in unison, carrying it to some future that it can imagine. How depressing is it that an ant has a brighter future than I do? Every second he spends looking at the ant is one less second he is being drawn deeper into the tumultuous whirlpool of dread in his head.

The buzz of his phone clacks against the ceramic bowl, discordant in the otherwise silent room. The noise acts as a life preserver he feels oddly obligated to take out of the water, looking down to see your name across the screen. For the second time today, he feels something, earlier it was clearly defined and compartmentalized hunger, now? It’s a ceaseless swirl of resigned hopelessness, despair, anxiety, irritation, and a deep sense of being unworthy of all of these feelings.

Its easier when he isn’t reminded of you.

He doesn’t plan on responding to your simple ‘hey.’but the follow up of ‘dai said you aren’t well, let’s talk’ still everything but his mind. He can’t breathe in, he can’t move his thumbs to lock his phone or reply to you, all he can do is think about is how this could only go horribly wrong, but that you cared, at least cared enough about him to check-in. Even after everything he did.

Asahi: We can talk on the phone later I guess, y/n

Y/N: i’ll be over tonight at 7, i still have a key.

7pm. That’s 6 hours away according to his phone. The concept of time mattering feels foreign, should he nap? Take a shower? How long are normal showers? Should he clean his room? Does his room even need to be cleaned? Wash his sheets? Before long he finds himself on the floor, head in his hands with tears streaming down his face. He doesn’t recall getting there or starting to cry, it feels like the tears have always been there, each tear track carving out a trail in his skin, creating invisible canyons. They’re always there, maybe invisible or dry, but the tear tracks are still there.

The faint thud of his pulse ringing in his head is one of the only things his dulled sense can take in. he can’t place if he’s developed a migraine and the thud is twangs of pain or if he’s just, not here. Living what can only be described as the inverse of an out of body experience, everything else around him fading out into black, leaving him alone in an infinite black universe.

The weight of something on his head brings him back to earth. His head leans up and out of his peripheral sees your knees as you sit on his bed. A small whine leaves his throat as you begin to scratch and massage his scalp. Asahi can’t remember the last time he was touched by another person, and he doesn’t know how he lived so long without it. Your fingers are massaging fatigue out of his bones, undoing tension he’s caring in his shoulders.

It’s illogical that the light touches from each of your fingertips on his scalp can undo so much damage to his body, but that’s a skill you honed over time, and you can visibly see him become grounded.

“Asahi you know I can’t keep doing this. I would do this every day for the rest of my life if asked because I know it helps, but I hate seeing you like this. I’m scared that one day I’m going--” your chocked sobs are finally audible enough for him to perceive, “that you are gonna be too far gone. I wouldn’t be able to take that Asahi. Life without you is hard enough, I don’t want to imagine a world without you.”

He knew his mental health issues affected you, its the whole reason he left you in the first place, feeling guilty for you having to take care of him and him not making any progress. But he didn’t realize how scared you were. That he might just wither away, or suddenly not be here anymore. It would be a lie to say he hadn’t thought about it more than once, but never taking any tangible steps forward.

He still hasn’t said anything, but after a few minutes of you both crying, he just nods his head. You aren’t exactly sure what that means, but his voice croaks out, “help. I’ll get help.” The admission wasn’t something you expected but the hoarseness of his voice from crying or nonuse makes it all the more real. That maybe you were right to worry, and you were right to set this ultimatum.

A few hours later, you leave Asahi’s apartment, he fell asleep after you helped him bathe and changed his sheets. You left phone numbers of multiple psychologists and therapists, and an offer that you would make an appointment if he couldn’t find the willpower to do so. You have a cup of tea with Daichi before you leave, telling him about Asahi wanting to get help. You ask him to try to make sure that Asahi is doing at least the bare minimum or eating real food once a day and showering. Small steps eventually add up to a healthier person.

Months pass, where you and Asahi exchange a few text messages, detailing about he found a therapist, and his journey to find a medication that made him feel better and not worse. The conversations are long, but they always leave you hopeful about his progress.

You expected the knock on the door to be your take out but instead are looking at the chest of a much taller man. You look up to see Asahi’s face, a nervous smile looking down at you. His skin looks healthier, not as pallid or marred with deep sleeplessness, his hair is up in a bun, but you can see how much healthier it looks. The most notable change is that you can see light in his eyes. There’s something in there, hope maybe or just contentment with his growth. But there’s something, something that he made on his own and can hold onto.

Sure there are still signs that he isn’t fully back to the Asahi you met a long time ago, his hair is still thin, his frame is still not as filled out as it once was, but is definitely in a healthier range, his smile isn’t 100% confident and doesn’t seem to fully reach his eyes, but he looks good. And if he’s here, he must be feeling good.

“Hey y/n, I’ve been doing a lot better recently and my therapist said I should come and speak my mind. First, let me give you the most genuine and heartfelt thank you I can muster. If you hadn’t said what you did that one evening, I would never have gotten help and I honestly might not be here.”

His words are confident and sincere. They sound a little rehearsed, which is endearing. Asahi was never the most eloquent or poised person when it comes to feelings, but his declarations of love were always true in the deepest sense of the word. You couldn’t contain the smile on your face even if you wanted to, not when he’s done so much, not when he’s trying so hard.

“I might perceive the world as darker and more hellish than it actually is sometimes, but I’m gonna try again and again to soothe my heart and pick the flowers growing in the midst of hell. You are one of those flowers, a light in the darkness that motivates and assures me that all is well. If you would like, I want to grab coffee with you, like old times.”

Your bodies are bathed in golden sunlight from the window behind you, giving your nod a lucent halo. The halo fades as you step out and close the door behind you, but the glow doesn’t, it’s part of him, part of you.

Tags

@ceo-of-daichi @haikyuuhotline @sugawara-sweetheart @nonexistent-social-life @laughingismorefun @iguessimastannow

#asahi #azumane asahi #asahi azumane #haikyuu!!#haikyuu #haikyuu imagines #haikyuu fanfiction #hq!!#hq!! fanfiction #asahi x y/n #asahi x reader #asahi azumane x y/n #asahi azumane x reader #kristen writes #folklore series #folklore #tw depression #tw anxiety #tw suicide

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thedeviltohisangel · 4 years ago

Text

Good Days, Bad Days//1//

“You have it,” she whispered after a moment of silence. There was a gentle breeze that wove itself between them as if to capture the agreement they had come to and carry it somewhere they could neve break it. Clara could see in his eyes that he was being serious. That he wanted her to understand that because they wore camo and she didn’t, didn’t mean one was more expendable than the other.

masterlist is my url/writing

accepting requests for these two

She wasn’t sure what she was expecting. Everyone had told her not to think it would be like Jack Ryan when she got there but she couldn’t help it. There was no way to characterize how you would find the desert when you landed there so no one had really tried. They told her what it wouldn’t be, not what it would be. It was quiet. It was lonely. It was twelve hour days and short showers and nothing but the gym to keep her busy. She did her job and she did it well. Using her spotty network connection to research locals and their networks. Developing target packages for the case officers that worked around her and anxiously awaiting her turn to go into the field.

“Did you hear Leo met with the source you found last night?” That perked her up as she was picking over some chicken thighs at her desk.

“Yeah? Get anything good?” Leo was due to rotate out soon. She had been gearing herself up to ask about taking over his assets once he did.

“Don’t know. Debrief in an hour. You should be there.” She didn’t need to be told twice. Forcing a couple more bites into her mouth, she ran back to her housing unit to brush her hair, teeth and reapply deodorant. And after a pep talk to her reflection, she was ready. She stood towards the back of the room and hid partially behind the shoulder of a guy in camo. Her hope was to blend in, not draw any attention to herself. Listen and learn. That was the mode she was in.

“Alright, listen up. Last night we made positive contact with a lower level associate of Asif Ilyas. Through strong execution of tradecraft we are one step closer to taking down one of the most wanted terrorists. I’ll let Leo Davis up here to talk specifics and next steps.” She listened to the mission recap with full attention and smiling when her background work was highlighted as one of the keys to mission success.

“We’ve now encountered a problem. The associate said that one of Ilyas’ wives might be open for recruitment. She will only meet with another woman, only speaks Arabic and can only meet in the tribal areas.” Clara looked around the room and noticed there was an underwhelming amount of women. She assumed even less than them had the language skills and the defense skills that a remote meeting in a hostile environment would require.

“I think Clara fits all those requirements.” She froze as her colleague from before spoke up and everyone turned to look at her. “She did the background work on this op anyways so she’s already up to speed. She got a perfect score on the Arabic language test and the guys at the shooting range said she makes it look natural.” Clara felt like shriveling up and dying. While it was true she didn’t want to be the girl behind the computer for her entire career, she didn’t want to be the center of attention either.

“Is this all true Miss…?”

“Nilsen. And, yes. Sir.”

“Perfect. Problem solved. We start now.”

----

It hurt when she was taken off her desk. Her instincts were telling her to dive into her research and start acquainting herself with the source and what her knowledge pool would be. But her superiors had told her she needed to get better with her self defense and to leave the research to the analysts.

“This is Captain William Miller. He’ll be leading your escort to the tribal regions and his team will be at the ready in case anything goes south.”

“Pleasure to meet you, Ma’am.” She took his hand, which was large and calloused, and took note of his firm grip.

“You as well.” It was hard to keep eye contact with him. His eyes were blue and his jaw was strong and he was looking at her in a way no one had in a long time.

“I want you to train with him and his men until everything else is in place. He’ll keep me updated on your progress and we won’t send you in until he thinks you’re ready. That clear?”

“Yes, sir.” He nodded once and then turned back the way they had come, leaving them to it.

“How comfortable are you around firearms?” Will asked as he started to lead her towards the range.

“Very. I completed all the operational qualifications prior to my arrival here.” He stopped.

“I didn’t ask how well you scored on the exam.”

“Are you asking me if a gun feels like an extension of myself when I fire it?” She continued to wither under his gaze as he kept silent. “The answer is no. But I’m sure you’re capable of fixing that for me.”

“I can. But I need you to know that me and my team are tired of dealing with CIA dipshits who like to run around a warzone like they own it. You all might be used to playing God but it puts our lives on the line when you do it. I need your assurance you’ll keep both your feet on the ground while we are working together.”

“Good. Then let’s get started.”

----

For the next few days, Will didn’t even let her fire a gun. He had her taking them apart and putting them back together and doing it until her hands were cramped. But she learned quickly. She got faster every time. More nimble. More focused. She ignored him when he tried to talk to her while she was doing it. Ignored his teasing whenever she had a misstep. Didn’t buckle under the pressure when others gathered around to watch. On day four, she finished putting it back together and took a step back from the table.

“I need a quick water break. Then I’ll be back at it,” she said as she waited for his permission to go and sit.

“Fire it.”

“What?”

“You heard me. Test how well you put it together. Fire it at that target,” he was pointing towards a metal circle a couple hundred meters away. Clara picked up the weapon with confidence, squared her shoulders and pulled the trigger. It pinged off the center of the target perfectly. “Again.” She did so until it clicked empty, placing the gun back on the table and looking at Will expectantly.

“Satisfied?” His face didn’t show any signs of emotion as he continued to look at her.

“Be quick with the water break. Then we go again.” He walked away from her with his usual saunter that annoyed her to no end. He was broad yet so tight and moved with a grace a man of his size should not be able to possess. Clara did not go into her line of work because she was someone who sought praise. She knew that didn’t come with this territory. But there was something about Will that made her want that. She wanted him to tell her she was progressing. Wanted him to tell her she was doing better than he had given her credit for. That, soon, she would be ready.

“Don’t worry. He’s extra stoic when he’s happy.” Gavin, one of the other guys from the team, was popping grapes into his mouth as he strolled over to her with a bottle of water.

“Thanks,” she took it and drank half, “I don’t care. Just as long as I obtain whatever skills needed for him to sign off on me and this op.”

“I’m sure you’re doing fine. And we’ll be with you the whole time. That's more so what his job is about. Can we trust you to have our back? Not drag us into an ambush.”

“Well if that’s the case, I should be allowed back at my desk to do the work. I feel useless out here when I could be back there, knowing my source and understanding their access to the target.”

“That’s where you’re wrong.” She turned to see Will had made his way back. He was standing with his hands on his hips, head tilted in disappointment. “You are the target. That’s why you are here learning how to shoot. How to protect and how to kill.”

“I’m not dense, Captain. I understand they’re the enemy and we are on their turf.” She hopes he wasn’t implying that she was losing sight of what she had come there to do. He could never understand her commitment to the cause. The time she had dedicated to be able to stand before him in that moment. To get her shot at doing something meaningful for her country.

“I don’t think you do. I think-” he abruptly shut his mouth and shook his head as if he was trying to get rid of the thoughts that resided in there. “Forget it. Let’s just get back to what we were doing.”

“No. I want to hear what you think.” She didn’t think she’d be able to carry on it if she didn’t.

“It’s best we just keep things professional from here on out.”

“Fine.” If she imagined his face on the target for the rest of the day, he didn’t need to know that either.

----

Will was looking at the words on the page but he wasn’t reading them. He was thinking about today. How he had lost his cool, if only for a split second, and how he wishes he could shove his words back into a box and shove them under his cot. He doesn’t know if he meant what he said. Doesn’t know because he didn’t want to know her. He didn’t want to get to know Clara and what drove her to do what she did. What made her wake up in the morning. What had inspired her to learn to pull a trigger with such ferocity. It only made the necessary detachment all the harder.

“You wanna talk about what almost happened today?” Will raised one eyebrow and didn’t spare the soldier a glance.

“Just like you said. Almost happened. Nothing to talk about.”

“The point is for there to be numbness between you two. Nothing. Even animosity has the potential to derail this whole thing.” He dropped his book onto his chest with a sigh. It didn’t look like he could avoid this conversation.

“I don’t want to watch her die.” That shut up his interrupter. The past agents that Will had escorted to the tribal regions hadn’t made it back. They stuck out like sore thumbs and asked hard questions up front and kept twitching their hand towards the gun tucked to their side. He didn’t think he could watch it again. Carry her body back to the airfield and know he failed one more time.

“She’s good, man. Maybe tomorrow you start actually looking at how she’s doing instead of trying to ignore her. Might put your fears at ease.” Will felt his hand hit his shoulder in a comforting slap before he was left alone again with his book and his thoughts.

The next day, he tried his best to stay relaxed and focused while Clara worked her way through the tactical course they all trained on. He watched her find the targets easily and hide from their line of sight like it was second nature. But he still couldn’t let his guard down. Complacency was the real enemy out here and he’d been working double time every day to keep it at bay.

“Good job. You were partially exposed on that last choke point but overall don’t think you would’ve gotten yourself killed.” Clara laughed at the way he formed what she thought was his version of a compliment.

“Thanks.” She doesn't know what happened overnight but she was enjoying the new leaf he had turned over. Today he was more vocal. Telling her not only what she was doing wrong but also what she was doing right. He was still a man of mystery but she thinks she had managed to crack him just a little bit. “Are you going to the volleyball game tonight?” she asked after a few moments of silence. She thinks she would have remembered seeing someone as handsome as him at one of the morale events and he didn’t seem like the type but she was going to seize on her opportunity to crack further.

“Wasn’t planning too.”

“Well, you should. It’d be good for you to smile on occasion. Watching these idiots throw themselves around might do that.” He chuckled and looked at her with a smile that melted away all of her confidence.

“You’ll be there?” She hummed affirmatively. “Then save me a seat.”

#will miller #triple frontier #charlie hunnam #will miller fanfiction #triple frontier fanfiction #charlie hunnam fanfiction

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snowflake-of-destruction · 4 years ago

Note

let's hear about FFVIII seifer, if you're still doing this XD

Why I like them: You know my tastes. A green-eyed man is introduced throwing fireballs around, is kind of a condescending jerk but in a fun way, instigates deep conversations on high ground while staring at the sunset...Well, before we even get to villainy, immolation, and redemption arc, I start going “Is this a favorite character?” I’m joking...kind of. Some of that does factor in, even the fire.

Okay, so my favorite thing about Seifer’s arc is that, in the limited focus he’s given, he’s complex and layered from the beginning, and his villain arc is a clear and fascinating illustration of “No man chooses evil because it is evil; he only mistakes it for happiness, the good he seeks” ….with a side of brainwashing.

Let’s break this down:

What are some of the words used to describe him by those that know him (by himself, by Squall, by Fuu and Rai)? Romantic. Idealistic. Sensitive. He is the one who believes in making a difference in the world--not just as a wish or goal, but as an imperative to do what your heart says is right even if it’s going to cost you--where Squall is just follow-the-orders-and-do-the-job. If you’re already reading this and objecting, I’m not saying Squall doesn’t care...obviously he does, defrosting Mr. Go Talk to a Wall and getting him to a place where he admits how many layers of mask he wears is his character development...but Seifer isn’t just a hothead. He wears his heart on his sleeve.

Don’t get me wrong. I am not trying to deny that Seifer can be an abrasive, self-serving, hypocritical jackass sometimes, who can fight dirty, wants to “wreak some havoc,” and has a history as a bully--though, gentlefolk of the jury, I submit to the courts that he puts on a tough act like Squall does and they are both different flavors of trying to mimic toxic alpha male--but let’s not forget that some of his establishing character moments are throwing out his future to disobey orders because he sees that the higher-ups have possibly misjudged the situation and civilians could be in danger, and, again, going AWOL because he thinks Squall and Rinoa could be killed. And he calls himself the white knight and holds up a code of honor until the end, even though it gets twisted. He is about duty and honor, with honor even over duty.

Oh, this was only going to be the beginning. I haven’t even begun to touch on what I would want to touch on--this is just surface personality and the beginning of the game before we even get to joining Sorceress Edea, and even then not all I would say-- but this post isn’t actually supposed to be my Ted talk on what you missed if you just think of Seifer as a recurring boss fight. Let’s move on.

ONE MORE THING ACTUALLY. Even though we see a lot of Seifer at his worst, you can use Fujin and Raijin as a mirror. What do they say near the end of the game if we paraphrase/summarize? They knew pretty early on, before even the senseless slaughter and torture era that Seifer was going down a dark path with the sorceress, but they knew it wasn’t him and stayed with him, not because they agreed with his actions, wanted power, or out of fear, but to take care of him and try to break through to him--and not because they are saints, but because he, despite what had happened in the past year, is the type of person who deserves and inspires that kind of loyalty. Let’s think on that.

Now the rest goes under a read more, because I am going to keep rambling and be wordy

Why I don’t: He can be an asshole, and he’s an asshole in an embarrassing way. As in, if one is trying to say he’s not the little punk his KH counterpart is, you remember he still uses the insult chickenwuss (though that is a legacy insult/nickname since he’s known Zell since childhood--and, fyi, Squall uses it too) and he had a little gang in school. Even once he’s a military commander of an evil army set on world domination, he has some moments where his level of petty undermines him.

Favorite episode (scene if movie): The Dollet mission

Favorite line: Sorry, not sorry that the following is my favorite exchange of lines and that the prison torture scene is another of my favorite scenes. For context, Seifer has captured Squall, has him hanging up on the wall in crucified hero imagery, implied to be shirtless even though his character model isn’t because they talk about scar tissue or lack thereof from a recent shoulder injury/Squall being stabbed in the chest/shoulder area. Seifer has been electrocuting Squall for information. By this point, I might as well have put the whole scene here. Also, I am now going to blame Squall and Seifer text boxes in FFVIII for my own abuses of ellipses...

Seifer: " I was hoping you'd be there, Squall. So... how'd I look in my moment of triumph? My childhood dream, fulfilled. I've become the sorceress' knight."

Squall: [internal monologue] ...Sorceress' knight... ...His...romantic dream...? But... Seifer... Now, you're just a…[Out loud] "... torturer."

[Squall passes out.]

Seifer: "What did you say? [Steps closer] Passed out cold, eh? This is the scene where you swear your undying hatred for me! The tale of the evil mercenary versus the sorceress' knight!”

This isn’t just me all “mmm, tension.” Seifer has passed the moral event horizon, and it’s not just faceless NPCs that are collateral damage anymore. We’ve seen him on screen torture the protagonist, who is also one of the only people who he’s shown to have a real bond with that goes beyond superficial. Then we get this and see Seifer thinks he’s the good guy still, on a noble mission where he’s had to make painful sacrifices, and Squall is a representative of the power-hungry evil. Seifer’s been playing a different game, and had his will twisted via magic.

Favorite outfit: The Amano art where the white coat is cast off and he’s wearing the simple black shirt and black jeans under it. Symbolic? Maybe. I wouldn’t give up the coat though. I love the long white/gray coat, the outer embodiment of wanting to wear the white hat, but the desire easily getting tarnished, and the red cross that turns into a sword and becomes Seifer’s symbol and soon to appear other places, emblazoned nice and big on the sleeve. It’s the Cross of Saint James. TRADITIONALLY red represents the blood of Christ, the three lilies represent the honor of the apostle and reference Christ as lily of the valley, and the sword shape represents the torture that St.James suffered before his murder. HOWEVER, my opinion is that here it’s more vague/altered symbolism (For starters, there are other gods not the Christian God in this world) with a side of “looks cool.” We still have something that clearly calls to mind a mission from on high, innocence in the lilies, blood and blood cost, and then war/violence with the sword. And I love it.

OTP: Seifer/Squall. I should not even start, but lest you think I am just in it for kinky torture scenes: We have these two who, in the beginning, are generally callous or mocking toward everyone, but make each other laugh/smile, see who each other are underneath and describe each other in “soft” terms even if they tease each other for it, repeatedly check in on each other to see if the other is okay, respect each other’s opinion and skills, and...you get the idea. In the words of Zell Dincht, I thought you two were rivals, but you’re all buddy-buddy.

Pause for a second and let’s just say first impression. That opening fight where they scar each other’s faces? It takes place outside Balamb Garden and the area is shown so we see they are alone. Squall passes out. Squall wakes up in the infirmary within the Garden base. Squall has to explain what happened; people don’t already know. This kind of implies after Squall passed out, Seifer, bleeding from a head wound himself, picked Squall up and carried him home, allowing himself to collapse only when Squall was being safely tended to, because he’s that extra. This is his first (okay, second, after fireballs and face slashing) action in the game even though it’s offscreen. I mean, he could have also just called for help/ran for help, but that’s less fun.

Seifer is so concerned with being a badass, but he’s admits to Squall all he’s ever wanted was to be the fairytale knight, not a mere soldier. Vulnerability and confession he wants romance....with the first time it’s brought up in game being while they are watching the sun set together, the traditional Square Red Sunset of Shipping.

Seifer hesitates to defy orders, not for himself, but until he sees Squall is with him. Even though there were other “children of destiny” who all came from the same orphanage, Squall and Seifer were the ones who were never apart, never adopted until it was by a military/mercenary training program, and, even though it may speak more to brotherly than romantic from some angles, there’s a feeling of being the same, knowing each other down to the atoms, adopting an us against the world mindset that trumps trying to best each other when it comes down to it because they are the only constant. When Squall has his breakdown/ breakthrough of why he pushes people away/doesn’t let himself care/tries not to need anyone because people leave/are taken from him and he is scared he isn’t worthy of love and happiness until Rinoa challenges him, this may seem like a dismissal of Seifer, but you can also look at it from “I had no friends or family. I didn’t even have interest in speaking to anyone. I strived to be an unfeeling machine, because all emotion is pain...But also I couldn’t go 48 hours without seeing Seifer.”

Yeah, yeah, we know their main form of hanging out was beating the tar out of each other, but sometimes, especially in older media, this was its own brand of subtext. For more on how Seifer miiiight just view sparring let’s point out that “Isn’t this ROMANTIC?” and “Kneel” as a less easily interpreted as innuendo version of “I want you on your knees” are battle quotes even in Kingdom Hearts sooo draw your own conclusion.

We get a line where Squall makes it clear these were friendly matches looked at as pushing their limits beyond what they are allowed to in sanctioned spars, and he feels prepared to take on anything now because of Seifer. Is it healthy communication in real life? No! Is this real life? No! Plus, the facial scar was an accident, pretty clearly...on Seifer’s side...I could write another essay on how Seifer draws first blood, but it’s because on Squall’s failed block, AND THEN SQUALL GETS ANGRY AND RETALIATES WITH CLEAR PURPOSE AND MAKES THE OPENING SHOT INTO THE FIRST SIGN GOOD VERSUS BAD GUY ISN’T SO CLEAR CUT (even though they both shouldn’t have been going so hard in a friendly training match to begin with).

Seifer’s later, repeated threats/expressed desire to give Squall additional scars once he goes evil? That is a different animal, and a horrible one, objectively. Not objectively? No comment. Okay, one comment. Mark you as mine. Two comments. He knows Squall’s lost some memories and he can’t stomach being the next thing forgotten so Squall needs physical reminders.

Hmmm, I was supposed to be talking about the ship, not just the sparring and scars. We can wrap it up with a Marge Simpson. “I just think they’re neat”

BUT ONE MORE THING

Squall’s jacket when he becomes Leon in Kingdom Hearts. His outfit is mostly the same, right? Except the back of the jacket now has a red patch of an emblem (of Rinoa’s angel wings, not Seifer’s cross...for the OT3 feel), and his fight with Sora he throws a fireball like Seifer’s signature. Just, you know, if you want bonus references/feeling.

Brotp: Fuu and Rai. They are willing to commit war crimes with this man, nurse him back from death’s door, and go into exile with him if he can’t return to a normal life even after a redemption arc. This section deserves to be long, but I am beginning to get talked out. Don’t take that as devaluing the friendship though. I’m glad he was allowed to keep his ride or dies in Kingdom Hearts. FRIENDSHIP! They love him, ya know?

Head Canon: What we see of him at the end of the game is a temporary situation and after he heals and refreshes for awhile he’d go back to Balamb and face consequences for his actions, and probably insist on consequences instead of leaning into “an evil sorceress bespelled me and slowly took my free will.” No hiding away in the wilderness. No crossing into and living his life in Esthar. No, “but in the end I broke free and would have been an active, onscreen part of saving the world if Square had let me join the party!” He would insist on being cast into a deep, dark cell. Squall uses pull to get him pardoned, but not before just, flat out, yelling at him for being a martyr.

Unpopular opinion: He did love Rinoa. It may have been a “shallow love,” but he wasn’t just dating her to pass time or because she played into his damsel who needs a hero mindset. There was emotion. He was prepared to die for her and Squall in Timber, and almost did--only being saved by Sorceress Edea...which wasn’t a kindness, but it all worked out in the end. Sure, he gets mind-controlled into using Rinoa as, basically, a human sacrifice and it isn’t Rinoa he wants stripped and brought to his room when we’re taking prisoners, but he cared about her. He does taunt her about their past relationship, but we’ve already established this is just part of his communication skillset. Yes, I will elaborate more if asked, though it’s more feeling based than text based.

A wish: If there’s ever a sequel, let him have put out the good in the world that was his dream and be seen as a hero. Let us see a matured and peaceful Seifer.

An oh-god-please-dont-ever-happen: My one fear if they ever remake FFVIII instead of just porting it, is that some of the creative team have said they like the fan theory where you are dead part way through the game and the rest is a dying dream or purgatory. It’s creative stuff; I will say that. It’s not my favorite, and I don’t agree, but those kinds of fan interpretations when they go in depth are super cool. PLEASE LET THE INTEREST IN IT JUST BE THE SAME AS MINE OF THINKING IT’S CREATIVE BECAUSE MAKING THIS CANON WOULD BE SO, SO BAD FOR EVERY CHARACTER.

5 words to best describe them: stubborn, misguided, paladin, romantic, petty

My nickname for them: I don’t really have one

#seifer almasy #seifer x squall #squall x seifer #such a long post and still not all or even communicated that well probably #you don't have all the facts the facts are i love him #tina-nina

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mikauzoran · 4 years ago

Text

Ladrien/Adrienette: Drunk Ladybug on My Balcony? Yeah. This is Fine.: Chapter Twelve

Read it on AO3: Drunk Ladybug on My Balcony? Yeah. This is Fine.: Chapter Twelve: The Realization

Adrien scooted away, back to a suitable distance on the picnic blanket. “Um…so…maybe we should talk about, like, normal things now?” he suggested, grabbing a petit four from the tiered tea tray.

“That’s probably a good idea,” Ladybug chuckled nervously, scratching at her cheek as she tried to take deep breaths to get her racing heart rate and flaming blush down. “What would you like to talk about?”

“You,” he replied immediately.

Her blush only worsened. “What about me?”

“Personal things…but not incredibly personal things,” he gave a temperate response, reaching but not pushing too hard. “You know. Things like your favourite book, favourite movie, favourite colour. What kind of music you listen to. Hobbies. Tell me about you.”

“Only if you tell me about you too,” she haggled.

He chuckled as his own cheeks started to heat up. “You haven’t had enough of getting to know the real Adrien Agreste yet? I would have thought I’d have scared you off a dozen times over by now.”

She shook her head and smiled shyly. “Definitely not. What you’ve told me has only made me more intrigued.”

He gave her an appraising once-over, debating before finally giving in. “All right. So long as you’re not sick of me yet.”

“Never,” she assured. “First question?”

“What colour are your bedroom walls painted?” he inquired.

She quirked an eyebrow at the unexpected question and took a minute before answering cautiously. “…Pink. Why?”

“What shade?” he pressed, wanting to be able to envisage it exactly.

“Light pink. Like cherry blossoms,” she granted, giving in to his curiosity. “Why do you ask?”

“Just wondering about the girl on the other side of the mask,” he confessed. “Sometimes I think about what she’s like, what kinds of activities she does in her free time, what kinds of things she surrounds herself with.”

She shrugged, shaking her head as she looked away. “I don’t know if I’m worth that much thought,” she chuckled self-deprecatingly. “I’m just a normal girl. Not that interesting.”

“You’re interesting to me,” he informed gently, a soft affection in his eyes that made her chest feel tight.

“Oh…. I…I’m glad,” she managed with a bashful smile, wishing she could get across what his words truly meant to her. “Well…in that case…what’s your next question?”

The rest of their rooftop picnic continued in that vein with Ladybug sharing that she was a huge fan of Jagged Stone but had developed a liking for the music XY was putting out since he cut ties with his father’s label and started collaborating with Luka Couffaine.

Adrien confessed that he didn’t do well with scary movies because they gave him nightmares and made him afraid to shower.

“What horror movie had anything to do with showers?” Ladybug replied quizzically. “You mean because of the shower scene in The Shining or Psycho?”

He shook his head. “I’ve never seen those movies, actually, and the trailer for The Shining freaked me out enough that I feel like I’ve experienced enough of it for one lifetime,” he chuckled, rubbing at the back of his neck. “It’s just…I feel so vulnerable in there. Naked. Alone. I feel like a sitting duck. Anything could come and get me while I was defenseless. I’m really easily startled after I see a horror movie, so I’m always anxious about showering for at least a week afterwards.”

Ladybug nodded, trying (and failing) not to picture Adrien in his shower complete with a stereotypically sexy backing track. It also took some effort not to volunteer to sit in his bathroom with him while he showered to protect him after he next watched a horror film.

She was very tempted to suggest watching a horror movie as part of their date so that she could make the offer.

Instead, she replied, “I can see why you would feel that way. I’m always jumpy after watching horror films too” like a normal, non-psychotic person.

They cleaned up their picnic and stowed the leftovers in the wicker basket, tucking it back into the seam between the roof and one of the small white domes topping the church for Ladybug to return for later.

She got out her yoyo and surreptitiously dropped them down into an alley a few streets over so that they could nonchalantly walk out and join the crowd of visitors enjoying the iconic sights and locals going about their daily lives.

“Um…I thought we could do some window shopping?” Ladybug tentatively suggested. “Walk around? People watch? Browse? It’s a nice day, so… I mean, I know it’s a little touristy, but—”

“—That sounds great,” he cut her off with a wide grin, slipping his hand into hers. “I actually haven’t seen much of Paris, despite growing up here,” he confessed sheepishly. “I’ve always been a little…um…”

He tried to think of a nice way to say, “held prisoner”.

“…sheltered, I guess, so I wouldn’t be opposed to playing tourist, if you don’t mind.”

“Oh. No. Sure!” she agreed, a little flustered by the proximity of his radiant smile in the narrow alley as well as the weight and warmth of his hand in hers. “I’m happy so long as you’re happy.”

“I’m happy just being with you,” he countered with a wink, not noticing how she turned into a puddle of goo in response.

He gave her hand a squeeze and turned to guide them out of the alley and onto the cobbled street where visitors from all over the globe were moving from one shop to the next.

They too began to browse, chuckling at the whacky souvenirs for sale in shop after shop: cheap plastic trinkets, shirts, hats, magnets, shot glasses, snow globes…

Adrien held up a Paris-themed oven mitt in black, white, pink, and grey. “This is actually kind of cute,” he chuckled, musing, “It reminds me of Marinette…. I wonder if she’d like it.”

“I think she’d like anything if it was from you,” Ladybug sighed, heart filling to the brim once more as his thoughts drifted to her civilian identity.

Why had she never seen how much he liked her, how much Marinette meant to Adrien? She’d been blinded by his not obviously reciprocating her romantic feelings, so she’d missed out on how much he truly cared for her.

“You think?” he hummed, pleased at her response. “Maybe, but it’s not really practical. I’m sure she has dozens of oven mitts already with her parents being bakers, but… Could you do me a favor?” He looked to her with earnest eyes that made her gulp.

She bit her tongue to hold back the automatic, “Anything for you” that wanted to come out. “Uh, yeah. Sure. What do you need?”

“Could you take a picture and send it to me so I can text it to Marinette later? I left my phone at home so that my family couldn’t track the GPS,” he informed sheepishly.

“Oh, yeah. Sure,” she readily agreed, taking a peek around to make sure that no one was watching before she flipped open her yoyo and snapped a quick picture, forwarding it to him.

“Thanks, Nelle,” he expressed warmly, as if she had fulfilled one of Princess Kaguya’s impossible quests.

“Sure thing.” She blushed as she boldly dared to join their hands once more, interlacing her fingers with his.

He smiled and gave her hand a squeeze.

She loved when he did that.

“They even have the stereotypical accordion music,” Adrien snickered in amusement as he tossed a hundred euro note into the performer’s case as they passed. “It’s just like in the movies.”

“You’ve never been up here to Montmartre before?” Ladybug tried not to laugh as the accordionist quickly snatched the bill and tucked it into his inner jacket pocket.

Adrien shook his head. “I mean, I’ve been for work, but I’ve never been able to just wander around like this. It’s so different, seeing it in a relaxed, natural atmosphere.”

Ladybug nodded, guiding him towards the Place du Tertre, a little cobbled square where artists had set up to sell their work. “Yeah, I’d imagine a photoshoot wouldn’t provide a very calm environment during which to sightsee.”

“Yeah, unfortunately not. It’s kind of…structured,” he sighed, getting distracted by a middle-aged artist setting out beautiful pastel watercolors of Notre Dame in different seasons at sunset as seen from the Left Bank.

“I wish I was artistic,” he hummed mournfully, moving along to peruse the other artists’ wares before he was tempted or coerced into buying something.

“You could be,” Ladybug encouraged, stepping in closer to avoid a collision with a young American woman who was also browsing.

He shook his head, laughing good-naturedly at himself. “I have, like, zero talent. I can’t even do stick-figures well.”

“You could if you practiced,” she insisted. “It’s true that some people are born with innate talent, but drawing and painting can be learned even if they don’t come naturally. Being artistic is a skill, and, with enough practice, you could learn to be artistic too.”

He hummed as he stopped to admire a medium-sized canvas where an autumn scene set in the Bois de Boulogne was taking form with scarlet, ochre, and tangerine leaves peppering the trees.

“I think ‘enough’ practice would take many years. Still, it couldn’t hurt to try,” he reasoned. “I’m definitely not going to magically gain the ability to produce anything close to that just by whining about how I wish I could do it.”

“You’re not whining,” she assured, inching in closer so that their shoulders brushed. She gave him a shy, heartening smile. “You’re just being honest about what you want for yourself, and it’s okay to do that. It’s not whining.”

She knew his father was often very critical and chastised Adrien whenever he seemed to slide even one toe over the arbitrary line Gabriel had mentally drawn for him. If possible, she wanted to help Adrien to see that it was okay to voice his desires and complaints from time to time without it being considered “whining”.

“Thanks,” he replied softly, the warm look in his eyes partially obscured behind his movie star sunglasses, but she was close enough to see it. “I really appreciate the encouragement. I don’t exactly get a lot of that.”

“Well, I’ll have to see about changing that,” she declared, giving his arm a squeeze.

He smiled affectionately, and they walked on around the square, continuing to browse the various artists’ renditions of many a famous Paris landmark.

“…You know,” he remarked thoughtfully. “My father actually does a fair amount of drawing for work. Maybe I could ask him to teach me.”

“That could be a good way to spend time together,” she agreed, nodding with a supportive smile.

Adrien cringed. “Except that my father isn’t the most patient man, so he’d probably get frustrated with my turtle’s pace progress and end up berating me instead of helping me get better. That’s kind of how our relationship works,” he admitted with a discouraged sigh.

Ladybug bit her lip, searching her mind for a way to build up his self-esteem and lighten the mood. “Well, Marinette isn’t the best artist around, but she does do some drawing as part of her own designing work, so, if you really want to learn, maybe she could get you started in the right direction.”

“That’s actually a really good idea,” Adrien chuckled, turning his head to look at her. “Marinette…”

His brain ran into a mental brick wall as it processed for the first time how close she was and how familiar she looked…and not only because of how long he had cumulatively spent over the years staring at her as Ladybug.

“…Marinette…” he whispered, a revelation shaking him to his very core.

Ladybug had known him and fallen in love with him as a civilian, yet she didn’t think he’d say yes if she asked him out as herself. Ladybug and Marinette had intended to ask him out to coffee at the same time. The way Marinette acted around Chat Noir… He’d always marveled at how sassy and fun she was with him when he was the masked superhero as opposed to how she could barely talk to Adrien for about a year after they’d first met. In those moments when it was just Marinette and Chat Noir hanging out and being goofballs, she had reminded him so much of his Lady.

Now that he was looking at Ladybug and saying, “Marinette”, it all seemed so obvious.

Ladybug tipped her head to the side, waiting for Adrien to continue. “‘Marinette’…what? Is something wrong, Adrien?”

“Nope. Everything’s wonderful, Nette—uh—Nelle. Sorry. Just…” He mentally scrambled to pull together his thoughts and snap back into the moment because she was not going to be happy when she found out her secret was blown, and he really just wanted this date to continue forever, so…

“Sorry.” He covered up his flurry of thoughts with a practiced smile. “Just got distracted thinking about how wonderful Marinette is.”

“O-Oh,” she coughed, a crimson blush swelling up in her cheeks as she bashfully looked away. “Yeah. That’s…Marinette is…good.”

It had to be her…didn’t it? He was almost ninety-nine percent positive. There had to be some way to explain away the times he’d thought he’d seen them together over the years. Both his Lady and his Princess were smart enough to orchestrate some kind of elaborate scheme to throw him off the scent.

“Marinette is amazing,” he stressed, trying to keep his cat-that-ate-the-canary grin under wraps. “She’s super talented and such a fantastic person. If anyone could teach me how to draw, it would be her.”

Ladybug’s blush deepened. “You should ask her, then.”

“I think I will,” Adrien chuckled. “…Do you happen to draw, Nelle?”

“Uh…a little,” she answered, slightly thrown off by the question and still unsettled by his effusive praise of her civilian self. “I mean, I’m not very good, but I enjoy sketching and doodling.”

“What do you draw?” he inquired as innocently as possible.

“Oh, this and that,” she hedged with a shrug.

“Do you ever draw clothing?” he pressed, throwing his scruples out the window along with his resolution not to try to figure out her identity.

“Uh…sometimes,” she admitted. “I mean, like I said, I’m not very good, but…I like designing clothes and accessories. It’s always fun, especially when I have someone in mind I’m designing for. It’s fun to see how I can make their personalities come out in whatever I’m making.”

“I bet you’re amazing at it,” he cooed reverently, remember all the things he’d seen Marinette make for him and their friends over the years. “Have you ever thought about pursuing fashion professionally? Is that something you’d be interested in?”

“Actually…” She bit her lip, wondering if she was giving a little too much away.

He smiled at her, hanging on her every word as if entranced.

“Yes,” she admitted. “I have given it some thought. I mean, somewhat. I don’t know that I’d make it in the big leagues like your father, but…maybe it would be nice to have a little boutique where I took commissions and did a lot of custom pieces.”

“I bet you’d be wonderful,” he replied enthusiastically, face glowing. “If you ever need help with anything, please feel free to use me as a resource. I’ve got all kinds of contacts I could set you up with. Whatever you need,” he stressed.

“Thank you,” she shyly responded, cheeks darkening to match her dress.

“Anytime,” he assured, giving her arm a playful nudge.

They completed their loop around the square and continued window-shopping, ending up at a little café called La Gallete des Moulins for a snack because Adrien thought the fig tart that they saw through the window looked scrumptious.

“You haven’t had enough sweets for one day?” Ladybug teased, waggling her eyebrows at him. “Better be careful or you’re going to lose your girlish figure.”

Adrien waved her away as he handed the money over to the young woman manning the cash register. “I never get sweets, though. I’m running on a sweets deficit, so I have a lot of catching up to do while I’m not being strictly monitored.”

“You poor thing,” she sighed, pitying him in earnest as they headed out to the fenced-off patio area to sit. “That can’t be fun having people telling you what you can and can’t eat all the time. I’m sorry, Adrien.”

“Thanks. Though, it’s not so bad.” He smiled and shrugged it off as he set down the tray on one of the small green tables right alongside the fence and pulled out one of the wicker chairs for her with a bow. “Nino shares junk food, and Marinette, bless her, sneaks me pastries from time to time. That girl is a saint.”

“I’m glad someone is taking care of you. Thank you,” she chuckled as she took the seat.

He settled in across from her and started on his tart. “You sure you don’t want a bite?”

She eyed the tart appraisingly and considered how much she had already eaten in front of him so far. She didn’t want to look like a pig, but…

“Is it good?” she inquired.

He made an evaluating noise. “Meh. It’s not bad. The crust is nice, and the custard is nearly perfect, but it just doesn’t compare with the raspberry custard mini tarts we had earlier,” he replied honestly. “I’m sort of spoiled on Tom and Sabine’s, and the delicacies that Marinette made for us earlier just blow this out of the water. It’s not bad, though,” he judged fairly. “The figs are delicious, for one.”

“May I try a fig?” she asked, reaching out preemptively, fingers hovering over a slice.

“Go for it,” he encouraged, motioning for her to help herself. “…Hey, so…do you mind if I ask you more questions about yourself?”

She laughed, quirking an eyebrow. “You haven’t run out of questions yet? You were pretty thorough earlier.”

“I don’t think I asked the right questions,” he confessed, watching, mesmerized, as she licked the custard off of the fig.

“What kinds of questions do you have for me?” she hummed, pretending to entertain the idea of answering.

“Do you like video games?” he inquired, keeping up an innocent front, despite his firm intention to delve deeper.

In addition to Ultimate Mecha Strike, Adrien had found out as Chat Noir that Marinette was into some pretty niche games. She hadn’t mentioned them to Adrien, so Ladybug shouldn’t have any reason to suspect the trap. While it was possible that people besides Marinette had played games like Pyre, Titanic: Adventure Out of Time, and The Missing: J.J. MacField and the Island of Memories, it was unlikely that Ladybug had coincidentally played all of the same niche video games as Marinette unless they were, in fact, the same person.

One way or another, Adrien was going to find out because if they were one and the same, if it were possible to be with the woman he’d fallen for twice, Adrien was more than willing to bend some rules and break some promises. He’d waited so long already, and if she really did love him in return, maybe she’d find some way to forgive him.

Ladybug humored him for almost an hour, answering question after question as they sat and talked and people-watched at the café.

Slowly but surely, Adrien became increasingly certain that he knew who the elusive girl behind the mask was. There was still a part of him that worried it was merely wishful thinking, but the more they talked, the more breadcrumbs she unknowingly dropped until he wanted to scream in jubilation because he had finally found her, and she had been right in front of him the entire time.

They continued their stroll around Montmartre, looping around until they came back to Sacré-Coeur. They leisurely made their way down the hill, arm-in-arm, chatting and enjoying the brisk autumn evening.

When they arrived at the Place Saint-Pierre, Adrien spotted the carrousel, and his eyes lit up. Slowly, he turned to look at Ladybug and casually inquired, “Is it uncool for adults to ride a carrousel, do you think?”

She tried not to laugh as she smiled indulgently. “Adrien, if you want to ride the carrousel, we can ride the carrousel.”

His eyebrows dipped into a slight frown. “Are you sure? We don’t have to. I don’t want to make you do something embarrassing. I mean, I know carrousels are for little kids, so—”

“—Adrien,” she cut him off with a fond chuckle, pulling him gently yet firmly by the arm towards the merry-go-round. “It’s fine. There’s a carousel by my house that I ride with the kids I babysit all the time. I’m not embarrassed. It’s fun.”

“Oh,” he breathed, recalling the park next to Tom and Sabine’s bakery. “Okay. If you’re sure. I mean…”

She stopped and turned to look him full in the face, inquiring earnestly, “Adrien, do you want to ride the carrousel?”

He nodded. “I used to really love them when I was a kid. My mom and I would ride the one over by the Eiffel Tower sometimes when we snuck out to have adventures, so…yeah. I’d like to ride it.”

“Okay.” She gave him an encouraging smile and squeezed his hand, guiding him over to the merry-go-round. “You pick our horses. Whichever one you want.”

He pursed his lips and surveyed the ride with great concentration before deciding, “If it’s okay, I’d like the black one on the outer ring of the bottom level. Would you be okay with the white one next to it?”

“Sure, but don’t you want to go to the upper tier?” she asked, a little surprised. A double decker carrousel was a bit rare, even in Paris with its many carrousels, so she would have thought that Adrien would have taken advantage of the opportunity to ride on the upper deck.

He blushed as he averted his eyes. “I mean, the upper level would be cool, but all of those horses are single file, and I’d rather ride on the lower level and be next to you.”

“I can’t take it,” she confessed, catching him off guard.

“I’m sorry,” he quickly apologized, fearing he’d done something wrong. “I didn’t mean to. What can’t you take?”

She shook her head, face absolutely magenta. “No. No. I mean…you’re trying to kill me with how sweet and perfect you are,” she attempted to explain through her flustered state. “Like, everything that comes out of your mouth is like some line out of a romance novel, and you are just too cute and too sweet, and I’m going to overheat and die because I like you so much.”

His eyes went wide momentarily in shock at her bluntness, but then a wide smirk slowly spread across his lips.

She clapped a hand over her mouth, gasping at her unintended forwardness. “Oh my gosh,” she breathed, a giddy laugh rising in her throat. “I can’t believe I just said that.”

“Me either,” he hummed, clearly pleased with himself and her and life in general.

“I’ve been trying to say something like that to you for seven years now,” she snorted.

“And I’ve been waiting just as long to hear it,” he assured, leaning in to kiss her temple.

“How are you so smooth?” she groaned through a broad grin of her own.

He shrugged and looped his arm through hers, leading her over to their mounts. “I consume an indecent amount of shoujo manga and romance novels,” he confessed. “It’s rubbed off on me over the years.”

“And here I thought it was natural talent,” she snickered.

“I’m sure there’s a certain amount of that as well,” he hummed happily, giving her a hand up before ascending himself.

The sun began to dip low towards the horizon, and Ladybug tugged Adrien inconspicuously into an alley so that they could take to the sky on her yoyo without anyone seeing her take off.

“I’ve got one last surprise for you,” she informed, carrying him back towards the heart of the city.

“Is that surprise that you’re kidnapping me and never making me go home ever again?” he inquired hopefully, knowing that the bliss he’d felt with her the past few hours was coming to an unavoidable end.

“I wish,” she snorted. “If I could, I would definitely keep you, but I don’t think even Ladybug could get away with kidnapping Adrien Agreste. Your father would have my neck.”

“Unfortunately, you’re probably right,” he sighed, letting his head come to rest on her shoulder. “All right. I guess all we can do is enjoy the time we have left.”

“I think you’ll enjoy this,” she chuckled. “We’re going to one of my favourite spots in all of Paris. Super exclusive with a view that can’t be beat,” she promised.

“Oh,” he breathed, realizing that she was taking him to the top of the Eiffel Tower to watch the sunset.

He wasn’t sure how to feel about that at first. Ladybug and Chat Noir had often met there to hang out and chat, and many a sunset had been watched over the years. He’d come to think of it as one of “their spots”, so the fact that Ladybug was bringing Adrien there felt like a bit of a betrayal.

But then, on the other hand, he was the one who had betrayed Ladybug first by bringing Marinette there on several occasions. And if Ladybug was, in fact, Marinette, she knew what Chat Noir had done.

Ultimately, he decided to be honored that Ladybug thought Adrien worthy of sharing such a special spot.

They touched down at the very top, and Ladybug gently deposited him back onto his own feet.

“Ta-da,” she chuckled, pushing a bang back out of the way as the evening breeze licked it from its place. “This is the best view I know of, so… You’re not too cold, are you?” she inquired, surveying his sweater and undershirt combo and wondering how insulating they would be against the higher winds at that altitude.

“I’m fine,” he rushed to assure. “…Unless you’re suavely trying to get me to cuddle with you. In that case, I’m freezing,” he amended with a flirty wink that made her crack up.

“Actually,” she drawled mischievously, going over to where a second wicker picnic basket had been stowed near the center of the tower. She checked inside and pulled out a thermos, two mugs, a Tom and Sabine’s takeaway box, and two blankets. “I thought it might be nippy, so I planned ahead.”

She spread one of the blankets for them to sit on and set down the thermos, mugs, and pastry box upon it, holding out the other blanket towards him. “Here you go. If you need it, I mean. I know it gets a little brisk up here in the evenings once the sun sets.”

He took the proffered blanket with a warm, “Thank you. You’re always so thoughtful, Nelle,” and sat, wrapping it around his shoulders to fight off the autumn chill.

She settled in beside him and set to work lifting the lid of the takeaway box to reveal the most perfectly baked chocolate chip cookies Adrien had ever seen before moving to unscrew the cap of the thermos, announcing, “I give you Dupain-Cheng Special Hot Chocolate—recipe known only to members of the Dupain-Cheng family.”

Adrien arched an eyebrow, grinning cockily. “Then how did you get the recipe?”

“I didn’t!” she insisted, voice pitching high in her panic. “I just ordered it from Marinette along with the cookies.”

“It was awfully nice of Marinette to cater our date,” he hummed appreciatively, leaning in to survey the chocolate chip cookies.

“I do a lot of business with Marinette,” Ladybug fibbed, pouring the hot chocolate from the thermos into the mugs. “My kwami Tikki loves her cookies, so Marinette has kind of ended up being Tikki’s preferred supplier.” She smiled sheepishly as she handed him a mug and took the other for herself.

“I am exceedingly excited to try out this super-secret hot chocolate and these Tikki-approved cookies,” he chuckled, bringing the mug up to his lips.

In truth, he had had Marinette’s cookies and Dupain-Cheng Special Hot Chocolate before when he’d spent time with Marinette over the years as Chat Noir, but Maribug didn’t need to know that yet.

He purred happily as the chocolate washed over his tongue, coating his mouth in the rich, luscious taste of the special blend of spices Marinette was so secretive about. “This is amazing,” he praised. “What do you think I’d have to do to get the recipe because this is to die for.”

Ladybug gave a snort, sipping smugly from her own mug. “Marry Marinette.”

“Don’t tempt me,” he snickered. “The hot chocolate recipe would only be the icing on the metaphorical cake, if you’ll excuse the baking pun.”

“Try the cookies,” she urged, turning her head so that he hopefully didn’t notice her rampant blush and the way she couldn’t hold in an effulgent grin.

“Don’t have to tell me twice,” he assured, helping himself and then savoring the way the cookie almost melted on his tongue.

“…By the way,” he thought to ask a minute later, “how did this stuff get up here? There’s no way you could have dropped it off before our date. The hot chocolate wouldn’t still be hot.”

“I actually called in a favor from a friend,” she confessed. “The new Turtle hero, Michelangelo, picked up the basket from Marinette’s house and dropped it off here for me.”

Adrien blinked slowly as his brain tried to process what she was saying. “New…Turtle hero?”

She nodded. “Chat Noir has been pestering me about adding another full-time member, and I finally decided he was right, so we’re bringing Michelangelo on for a probationary trial period.”

Adrien had to keep a tight grip on his poker face to ensure that he didn’t react to this news because it sounded like Ladybug had brought Nino back onto the team like Chat Noir had asked but made him leave the Carapace identity behind so that no one would suspect that the “new” Turtle hero was really the same holder who had had his identity compromised six years prior.

“Oh, cool,” Adrien remarked in as neutral-to-positive a tone as he could manage. “I think that’ll be good. I’m glad that someone else will be out there watching your back.”

“I’m actually bringing him on to watch Chat Noir’s back because he already has mine…maybe a little too much,” she sighed, brow creasing in worry as she thought about her partner.

Adrien set down his mug and reached out to take her hand, squeezing it supportively. “Hey. It’s okay. I know sometimes that it doesn’t feel like it, but…it’s okay, Nelle.”

She smiled weakly, returning the hand squeeze. “Thanks.”

“Here.” He scooted in closer, unfolding the blanket she had given him and draping it over both of their shoulders. “Is this okay?” he inquired, slipping an arm around her waist.

“Yeah,” she confirmed with a tired sigh, letting go and resting her head on his shoulder. “This is perfect. …Thanks.”

“Any time,” he whispered, leaning his cheek against the top of her head. “I know you’re tough, but you don’t always have to be around me. It’s okay not to be invincible and perfect. It’s okay to just be a twenty-year-old girl trying to make it all work.”

“Thanks,” she repeated softly, sinking into him.

They watched the sun gradually float towards the horizon for a while in contented silence as they snuggled and enjoyed their cookies and hot chocolate.

“…What are you humming?” Ladybug inquired curiously some time later.

Adrien gave a start and pulled back. “Oh. Sorry. I…I spend a lot of time alone, so I’ve developed the bad habit of talking and singing to myself. Sometimes I don’t even realize I’m doing it,” he explained sheepishly, cheeks going as red as her dress in embarrassment.

“Oh, no. Don’t be sorry,” she entreated with a kind smile. “I was just asking because it’s pretty and I wanted to know what song it was. Your humming is lovely, and lots of people do that. Chat Noir, for one, is always singing under his breath to himself, so it’s not uncommon or weird at all.”

He tried not to grimace as a part of him wished she would just see Chat Noir inside of Adrien already.

“Oh? Chat Noir does too?” he forced himself to chuckle.

She nodded completely unsuspectingly as she asked again, “What song were you humming?”

“Have you seen the movie Tangled?” he inquired even though he had shown it to Marinette himself when he’d learned that she’d never watched it before.

“Mmhm,” she affirmed as a rosy blush spread across her cheeks. She looked down at the blanket with a fond smile. “A good friend of mine is a bit of a Disney afficionado. He kind of flipped out and strapped me down and made me watch it when he found out I’d never seen it.”

He grimaced at her description. “Was this a positive experience or torture?” he had to wonder.

“Oh, no! It was fun!” she insisted, wide-eyed, flailing her hands and nearly upsetting the hot chocolate mugs and the cookies. “I had fun.”

“Oh, good,” he laughed in relief. “Otherwise, I’d have to say that maybe you shouldn’t be friends with this guy. He sounds kind of extreme.”

“No,” she hurried to correct his misconception. “Watching the movie was completely voluntary. He…He’s a good friend.” Her voice dipped low with feeling and softened as she added, “He’s very important to me.”

“Oh,” Adrien breathed, his own cheeks starting to glow. “That’s…good. I’m glad,” he replied genuinely.

There was a beat, and then he cleared his throat. “…Well, the song is I See the Light from Tangled, so…”

“Will you sing it for me?” she asked so earnestly he couldn’t refuse.

“You want me to serenade you, Nelle?” he chuckled, eyebrows dancing jocosely.

She nodded eagerly. “Please? I really love your voice.”

“Is that the only thing you love?” he teasingly fished, holding out hope.

She rolled her eyes, blushing as she gave him a playful shove and commanded, “Sing.”

He took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and obediently began the song, tenderly and vulnerably, “All those days watching from the windows…all those years outside looking in…”

He sang in English, so she struggled to understand some parts, but the lyrics didn’t really matter to her. She could feel the emotions in his voice as he sang of being isolated and lost and then suddenly finding where he was meant to be.

He opened his eyes and stared into hers, and she couldn’t help but be drawn into him, losing herself in his song as he confessed, “And at last I see the light…and it’s warm and real and bright…now that I see you.”

He stopped singing then and smiled bashfully, reaching up to cup her cheek in his hand as he whispered, “Ladybug?”

“Hm?” she blinked dreamily, still swimming in his piercing peridot eyes.

“I need to tell you something. You’re not going to understand,” he informed sadly, his thumb stroking her cheekbone. “And you’re not going to think that I’m serious because what I’m about to say is going to sound impossible, but please know that I’m telling the truth.”

“Adrien?” she replied uncertainly, brow beginning to crease in confusion. “What is it?”

“I love you,” he breathed with a tortured smile. “I love you more than anything, and being here with you is a dream come true.”

She gasped, stunned by his heartfelt confession, mind spinning as he began to lean in, his eyes slowly drifting closed.

The clear choice was to let him kiss her. The obvious course of action was to wrap her arms around him and kiss his face off like she’d dreamed of doing for more than half a decade now.

But, in that moment, no matter how romantic the set up, it didn’t feel right.

Alya had a point.

Ladybug was misleading Adrien by not telling him the whole truth, and, however much he liked Marinette, he was bound to be upset when he found out who was behind the mask because she wasn’t being honest with him, and how was that going to provide a foundation upon which to build a relationship?

She pulled back and looked away, hating herself for what she was doing to him.

“Sorry,” she whispered, the word sounding hollow even to her own ears. “I just don’t think it’s fair to you, not knowing who you’re kissing.”

He bit his lip, mentally debating how much she’d freak out if he told her he was ninety-nine percent certain that he knew exactly whom he’d been about to kiss.

“Knowing your name isn’t important,” he responded gently instead, resting his hand on top of hers. “What really matters is knowing who you are as a person. I know you, Ladybug, and I know what I want.”

She winced, averting her eyes and turning her head further.

He froze. “…Unless…Oh my gosh. I’m so sorry,” he rushed to apologize as a realization made him feel sick. “I didn’t even stop to think that you might not want to kiss me. Please forgive me. I didn’t mean to—”

“—No!” she interrupted, grabbing his hand and turning back to face him. “No, Adrien, I definitely want to kiss you. You didn’t do anything wrong. I did.”

“Ladybug, no,” he tried to protest, but she shook her head and wouldn’t listen.

“No,” she repeated decidedly. “I’m the one who messed up by asking you out as Ladybug in the first place. None of this has been fair to you, and I’m really sorry, Adrien,” she sighed.

A twinge of guilt struck him as he was reminded of the very similar ways in which he wasn’t being completely honest with her. “Ladybug…that’s not…” he tried ineffectually.

She shook her head, her mind made up. “I’m sorry. I think maybe I should take you home now.”

“Please, no,” he pleaded weakly. “I don’t want this to be over yet.”

“Me either,” she agreed melancholically. “But we need to get you home before they notice you’re missing.”

He didn’t bother voicing the fact that, likely, no one had noticed that he’d been gone for hours and no one was likely to discover his absence now.

Instead, he reluctantly submitted, helping her clean up and then obediently slipping his arms around her so that she could carry him back to the lonely Agreste Mansion just a few blocks away.

He tried to concentrate on the way she held him, the warmth of her against the chill of the wind as it whipped against them, every point of contact between their bodies, the scent of her oatmeal body wash and strawberry shampoo melding with the faint, lingering scent of bakery.

#Ladrien #Adrinette #Adrienette #Miraculous Ladybug #Miraculous Ladybug Fanfiction #Ladybug #Adrien Agreste #Marinette Dupain-Cheng #Chat Noir #Identity Reveal #Partial Identity Reveal #Fluff #Date #Mikau's Writings #Drunk Ladybug on My Balcony? Yeah. This is Fine.

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aboveallarescuer · 5 years ago

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Dany’s problems in Slaver’s Bay

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

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

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

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

*Well, at least all the passages that I could find in her chapters, which is no guarantee that the effort was perfectly executed, but I did my best.

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

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

I listed the passages back to front because I felt doing so highlighted Dany's evolution better.

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

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

As Daenerys freed slaves in her path to the Iron Throne, she faced win-wins that allowed her to avoid tough decisions -- she picked up armies she didn’t have to pay for, while she got to feel squarely in the moral right because all the men she killed were bad guys. (The Take)

As the mother of three Dragons, she’s spent a long time feeling like she’s all-powerful. So many times her secret weapon allowed her to reject two bad choices and take everything she wants not having to get herself dirty with the compromises mere mortals have to make all the time. (The Take)

Are her problems simple because "she faced win-wins" and "[felt] squarely in the moral right"? Did "her secret weapon" allow her to "reject two bad choices"? I would argue these claims certainly cannot be made after reading the books. Neither can be argued that "she's spent a long time feeling like she’s all-powerful", which another long list of passages can prove. So take a look at these passages.

NOTE: I organized them chronologically because I think the progression of events works better that way, which is different from other lists (that were focused on Dany’s characterization), in which I ordered the chapters back to front because I felt it highlighted Dany’s character development.

Also, many of these passages are the same of my list about Dany's actions and the advice she receives as Queen of Meereen because one passage that is about the problems she's facing can also be about what she's doing about them.

1 Meereen’s declining economy, famine, fighting pits and other internal problems

ASOS Daenerys V

The Great Masters of Meereen had withdrawn before Dany’s advance, harvesting all they could and burning what they could not harvest. Scorched fields and poisoned wells had greeted her at every hand.

ASOS Daenerys VI

Her audience chamber was on the level below, an echoing high-ceilinged room with walls of purple marble. It was a chilly place for all its grandeur. There had been a throne there, a fantastic thing of carved and gilded wood in the shape of a savage harpy. She had taken one long look and commanded it be broken up for firewood. “I will not sit in the harpy’s lap,” she told them. Instead she sat upon a simple ebony bench. It served, though she had heard the Meereenese muttering that it did not befit a queen.

Her bloodriders were waiting for her. Silver bells tinkled in their oiled braids, and they wore the gold and jewels of dead men. Meereen had been rich beyond imagining. Even her sellswords seemed sated, at least for now. [...]

“Was the night as quiet as it seemed?” Dany asked.

“It seems it was, Your Grace,” said Brown Ben Plumm.

She was pleased. Meereen had been sacked savagely, as new-fallen cities always were, but Dany was determined that should end now that the city was hers. She had decreed that murderers were to be hanged, that looters were to lose a hand, and rapists their manhood. Eight killers swung from the walls, and the Unsullied had filled a bushel basket with bloody hands and soft red worms, but Meereen was calm again. But for how long?

She found herself remembering Eroeh, the Lhazarene girl she had once tried to protect, and what had happened to her. It will be the same in Meereen once I march, she thought. The slaves from the fighting pits, bred and trained to slaughter, were already proving themselves unruly and quarrelsome. They seemed to think they owned the city now, and every man and woman in it. Two of them had been among the eight she’d hanged. There is no more I can do, she told herself.

ADWD Daenerys I

Food was more costly every day, whilst the price of flesh grew cheaper. In the poorer districts between the stepped pyramids of Meereen's slaver nobility, there were brothels catering to every conceivable erotic taste, she knew.

Beyond Meereen’s walls of many-colored brick, Dany’s rule was tenuous at best. Thousands of slaves still toiled on vast estates in the hills, growing wheat and olives, herding sheep and goats, and mining salt and copper. Meereen’s storehouses held ample supplies of grain, oil, olives, dried fruit, and salted meat, but the stores were dwindling.

“Magnificence,” prompted Reznak mo Reznak, “will you hear the noble Hizdahr zo Loraq?”

Again? Dany nodded, and Hizdahr strode forth; a tall man, very slender, with flawless amber skin. He bowed on the same spot where Stalwart Shield had lain in death not long before. I need this man, Dany reminded herself. Hizdahr was a wealthy merchant with many friends in Meereen, and more across the seas. He had visited Volantis, Lys, and Qarth, had kin in Tolos and Elyria, and was even said to wield some influence in New Ghis, where the Yunkai’i were trying to stir up enmity against Dany and her rule.

And he was rich. Famously and fabulously rich ...

And like to grow richer, if I grant his petition. When Dany had closed the city’s fighting pits, the value of pit shares had plummeted. Hizdahr zo Loraq had grabbed them up with both hands, and now owned most of the fighting pits in Meereen.

The nobleman had wings of wiry red-black hair sprouting from his temples. They made him look as if his head were about to take flight. His long face was made even longer by a beard bound with rings of gold. His purple tokar was fringed with amethysts and pearls. “Your Radiance will know the reason I am here.”

“Why, it must be because you have no other purpose but to plague me. How many times have I refused you?”

“Five times, Your Magnificence.”

“Six now. I will not have the fighting pits reopened.”

“If Your Majesty will hear my arguments ...”

“I have. Five times. Have you brought new arguments?”

“Old arguments,” Hizdahr admitted, “new words. Lovely words, and courteous, more apt to move a queen.”

“It is your cause I find wanting, not your courtesies. I have heard your arguments so often I could plead your case myself. Shall I?” Dany leaned forward. “The fighting pits have been a part of Meereen since the city was founded. The combats are profoundly religious in nature, a blood sacrifice to the gods of Ghis. The mortal art of Ghis is not mere butchery but a display of courage, skill, and strength most pleasing to your gods. Victorious fighters are pampered and acclaimed, and the slain are honored and remembered. By reopening the pits I would show the people of Meereen that I respect their ways and customs. The pits are far-famed across the world. They draw trade to Meereen, and fill the city’s coffers with coin from the ends of the earth. All men share a taste for blood, a taste the pits help slake. In that way they make Meereen more tranquil. For criminals condemned to die upon the sands, the pits represent a judgment by battle, a last chance for a man to prove his innocence.” She leaned back again, with a toss of her head. “There. How have I done?”

“Your Radiance has stated the case much better than I could have hoped to do myself. I see that you are eloquent as well as beautiful. I am quite persuaded.”

She had to laugh. “Ah, but I am not.”

“Your Magnificence,” whispered Reznak mo Reznak in her ear, “it is customary for the city to claim one-tenth of all the profits from the fighting pits, after expenses, as a tax. That coin might be put to many noble uses.”

“It might ... though if we were to reopen the pits, we should take our tenth before expenses. I am only a young girl and know little of such matters, but I dwelt with Xaro Xhoan Daxos long enough to learn that much. Hizdahr, if you could marshal armies as you marshal arguments, you could conquer the world ... but my answer is still no. For the sixth time.”

Many and more of the matters brought before her involved redress. Meereen had been sacked savagely after its fall. The stepped pyramids of the mighty had been spared the worst of the ravages, but the humbler parts of the city had been given over to an orgy of looting and killing as the city's slaves rose up and the starving hordes who had followed her from Yunkai and Astapor poured through the broken gates. Her Unsullied had finally restored order, but the sack left a plague of problems in its wake. And so they came to see the queen.

The figs were fine, the olives even finer, but the wine left a tart metallic aftertaste in her mouth. The small pale yellow grapes native to these regions produced a notably inferior vintage. We shall have no trade in wine. Besides, the Great Masters had burned the best arbors along with the olive trees.

ADWD Daenerys II

Before long she was fighting off a yawn as Reznak prattled about the craftsmen’s guilds. The stonemasons were wroth with her, it seemed. The bricklayers as well. Certain former slaves were carving stone and laying bricks, stealing work from guild journeymen and masters alike.

“The freedmen work too cheaply, Magnificence,” Reznak said. “Some call themselves journeymen, or even masters, titles that belong by rights only to the craftsmen of the guilds. The masons and the bricklayers do respectfully petition Your Worship to uphold their ancient rights and customs.”

“Your barber has served you well, Hizdahr. I hope you have come to show me his work and not to plague me further about the fighting pits.”

He made a deep obeisance. “Your Grace, I fear I must.”

Dany grimaced. Even her own people would give no rest about the matter. Reznak mo Reznak stressed the coin to be made through taxes. The Green Grace said that reopening the pits would please the gods. The Shavepate felt it would win her support against the Sons of the Harpy. “Let them fight,” grunted Strong Belwas, who had once been a champion in the pits. Ser Barristan suggested a tourney instead; his orphans could ride at rings and fight a mêlée with blunted weapons, he said, a suggestion Dany knew was as hopeless as it was well-intentioned. It was blood the Meereenese yearned to see, not skill. Elsewise the fighting slaves would have worn armor. Only the little scribe Missandei seemed to share the queen’s misgivings.

“I have refused you six times,” Dany reminded Hizdahr.

“Your Radiance has seven gods, so perhaps she will look upon my seventh plea with favor. Today I do not come alone. Will you hear my friends? There are seven of them as well.” He brought them forth one by one. “Here is Khrazz. Here Barsena Blackhair, ever valiant. Here Camarron of the Count and Goghor the Giant. This is the Spotted Cat, this Fearless Ithoke. Last, Belaquo Bonebreaker. They have come to add their voices to mine own, and ask Your Grace to let our fighting pits reopen.”

Dany knew his seven, by name if not by sight. All had been amongst the most famed of Meereen’s fighting slaves … and it had been the fighting slaves, freed from their shackles by her sewer rats, who led the uprising that won the city for her. She owed them a blood debt. “I will hear you,” she allowed.

One by one, each of them asked her to let the fighting pits reopen. “Why?” she demanded, when Ithoke had finished. “You are no longer slaves, doomed to die at a master’s whim. I freed you. Why should you wish to end your lives upon the scarlet sands?”

“I train since three,” said Goghor the Giant. “I kill since six. Mother of Dragons says I am free. Why not free to fight?”

“If it is fighting you want, fight for me. Swear your sword to the Mother’s Men or the Free Brothers or the Stalwart Shields. Teach my other freedmen how to fight.”

Goghor shook his head. “Before, I fight for master. You say, fight for you. I say, fight for me.” The huge man thumped his chest with a fist as big as a ham. “For gold. For glory.”

“Goghor speaks for us all.” The Spotted Cat wore a leopard skin across one shoulder. “The last time I was sold, the price was three hundred thousand honors. When I was a slave, I slept on furs and ate red meat off the bone. Now that I’m free, I sleep on straw and eat salt fish, when I can get it.”

“Hizdahr swears that the winners shall share half of all the coin collected at the gates,” said Khrazz. “Half, he swears it, and Hizdahr is an honorable man.”

No, a cunning man. Daenerys felt trapped. “And the losers? What shall they receive?”

“Their names shall be graven on the Gates of Fate amongst the other valiant fallen,” declared Barsena. For eight years she had slain every other woman sent against her, it was said. “All men must die, and women too … but not all will be remembered.”

Dany had no answer for that. If this is truly what my people wish, do I have the right to deny it to them? It was their city before it was mine, and it is their own lives they wish to squander. “I will consider all you’ve said. Thank you for your counsel.” She rose. “We will resume on the morrow.”

ADWD Daenerys III

Meereen's trade had dwindled away to nothing since she had ended slavery, but Xaro had the power to restore it.

The wine was sweet and strong, redolent with the smell of eastern spices, much superior to the thin Ghiscari wines that had filled her cup of late.

For centuries Meereen and her sister cities Yunkai and Astapor had been the linchpins of the slave trade, the place where Dothraki khals and the corsairs of the Basilisk Isles sold their captives and the rest of the world came to buy. Without slaves, Meereen had little to offer traders. Copper was plentiful in the Ghiscari hills, but the metal was not as valuable as it had been when bronze ruled the world. The cedars that had once grown tall along the coast grew no more, felled by the axes of the Old Empire or consumed by dragonfire when Ghis made war against Valyria. Once the trees had gone, the soil baked beneath the hot sun and blew away in thick red clouds.

“I am only a young girl and know little of such things, but older, wiser men tell me that to hold Meereen I must control its hinterlands, all the land west of Lhazar as far south as the Yunkish hills.”

“[...] A ditch, to bring water from the river to the fields. We mean to plant beans. The beanfields must have water.”

“[...] Meereen needs beans more than it needs rare spices, and beans require water.”

“You spoke of help. Trade with me, then. Meereen has salt to sell, and wine …”

“Ghiscari wine?” Xaro made a sour face. “The sea provides all the salt that Qarth requires, but I would gladly take as many olives as you cared to sell me. Olive oil as well.”

“I have none to offer. The slavers burned the trees.” Olives had been grown along the shores of Slaver’s Bay for centuries; but the Meereenese had put their ancient groves to the torch as Dany’s host advanced on them, leaving her to cross a blackened wasteland. “We are replanting, but it takes seven years before an olive tree begins to bear, and thirty years before it can truly be called productive. What of copper?”

“A pretty metal, but fickle as a woman. Gold, now … gold is sincere. Qarth will gladly give you gold … for slaves.”

“Meereen is a free city of free men. [...] Go to the Dothraki if you must have slaves.”

ADWD Daenerys IV

“Will the Lamb Men send us food?”

“Grain will come down the Skahazadhan by barge, my queen, and other goods by caravan over the Khyzai.”

“Not the Skahazadhan. The river has been closed to us. The seas as well. You will have seen the ships out in the bay. The Qartheen have driven off a third of our fishing fleet and seized another third. The others are too frightened to leave port. What little trade we still had has been cut off.”

ADWD Daenerys V

Each morning, from her western ramparts, the queen would count the sails on Slaver’s Bay.

Today she counted five-and-twenty, though some were far away and moving, so it was hard to be certain. Sometimes she missed one, or counted one twice. What does it matter? A strangler only needs ten fingers. All trade had stopped, and her fisherfolk did not dare put out into the bay. The boldest still dropped a few lines into the river, though even that was hazardous; more remained tied up beneath Meereen’s walls of many-colored brick.

There were ships from Meereen out in the bay too, warships and trading galleys whose captains had taken them to sea when Dany’s host first laid siege to the city, now returned to augment the fleets from Qarth, Tolos, and New Ghis.

Ser Barristan remained. “Our stores are ample for the moment,” he reminded her, “and Your Grace has planted beans and grapes and wheat. Your Dothraki have harried the slavers from the hills and struck the shackles from their slaves. They are planting too, and will be bringing their crops to Meereen to market. And you will have the friendship of Lhazar.”

ADWD Daenerys VIII

Much of the talk about the table was of the matches to be fought upon the morrow. Barsena Blackhair was going to face a boar, his tusks against her dagger. Khrazz was fighting, as was the Spotted Cat. And in the day’s final pairing, Goghor the Giant would go against Belaquo Bonebreaker. One would be dead before the sun went down.

2 The misery of refugees and the pale mare

ASOS Daenerys IV

Within the perimeter the Unsullied had established, the tents were going up in orderly rows, with her own tall golden pavilion at the center. A second encampment lay close beyond her own; five times the size, sprawling and chaotic, this second camp had no ditches, no tents, no sentries, no horselines. Those who had horses or mules slept beside them, for fear they might be stolen. Goats, sheep, and half-starved dogs wandered freely amongst hordes of women, children, and old men. Dany had left Astapor in the hands of a council of former slaves led by a healer, a scholar, and a priest. Wise men all, she thought, and just. Yet even so, tens of thousands preferred to follow her to Yunkai, rather than remain behind in Astapor. I gave them the city, and most of them were too frightened to take it.

The raggle-taggle host of freedmen dwarfed her own, but they were more burden than benefit. Perhaps one in a hundred had a donkey, a camel, or an ox; most carried weapons looted from some slaver’s armory, but only one in ten was strong enough to fight, and none was trained. They ate the land bare as they passed, like locusts in sandals. Yet Dany could not bring herself to abandon them as Ser Jorah and her bloodriders urged. I told them they were free. I cannot tell them now they are not free to join me. She gazed at the smoke rising from their cookfires and swallowed a sigh. She might have the best footsoldiers in the world, but she also had the worst.

ASOS Daenerys V

“I will not throw away Unsullied lives, Grey Worm. Perhaps we can starve the city out.”

Ser Jorah looked unhappy. “We’ll starve long before they do, Your Grace. There’s no food here, nor fodder for our mules and horses. I do not like this river water either. Meereen shits into the Skahazadhan but draws its drinking water from deep wells. Already we’ve had reports of sickness in the camps, fever and brownleg and three cases of the bloody flux. There will be more if we remain. The slaves are weak from the march.”

“Freedmen,” Dany corrected. “They are slaves no longer.”

“Slave or free, they are hungry and they’ll soon be sick. The city is better provisioned than we are, and can be resupplied by water. Your three ships are not enough to deny them access to both the river and the sea.”

“Ser Jorah, you say we have no food left. If I march west, how can I feed my freedmen?”

“You can’t. I am sorry, Khaleesi. They must feed themselves or starve. Many and more will die along the march, yes. That will be hard, but there is no way to save them. We need to put this scorched earth well behind us.”

Dany had left a trail of corpses behind her when she crossed the red waste. It was a sight she never meant to see again. “No,” she said. “I will not march my people off to die.” My children. “There must be some way into this city.”

ADWD Daenerys I

A brothel. Half of her freedmen were from Yunkai, where the Wise Masters had been famed for training bedslaves. The way of the seven sighs. Brothels had sprouted up like mushrooms all over Meereen. It is all they know. They need to survive.

ADWD Daenerys V

“It might have been his fever talking.”

“Your Radiance speaks wisely,” said Galazza Galare, “but Ezzara saw something else.”

The Blue Grace called Ezzara folded her hands. “My queen,” she murmured, “his fever was not brought on by the arrow. He had soiled himself, not once but many times. The stains reached to his knees, and there was dried blood amongst his excrement.”

“His horse was bleeding, Grey Worm said.”

“This thing is true, Your Grace,” the eunuch confirmed. “The pale mare was bloody from his spur.”

“That may be so, Your Radiance,” said Ezzara, “but this blood was mingled with his stool. It stained his smallclothes.”

“He was bleeding from the bowels,” said Galazza Galare.

“We cannot be certain,” said Ezzara, “but it may be that Meereen has more to fear than the spears of the Yunkai’i.”

“There’s more coming,” Brown Ben announced when the Astapori had been led away. “These three had horses. Most are afoot.”

“How many are they?” asked Reznak. Brown Ben shrugged. “Hundreds. Thousands. Some sick, some burned, some wounded. The Cats and the Windblown are swarming through the hills with lance and lash, driving them north and cutting down the laggards.”

“Mouths on feet. And sick, you say?”

ADWD Daenerys VI

The Astapori had no place to go. Thousands remained outside Meereen’s thick walls—men and women and children, old men and little girls and newborn babes. Many were sick, most were starved, and all were doomed to die. Daenerys dare not open her gates to let them in. She had tried to do what she could for them. She had sent them healers, Blue Graces and spell-singers and barbersurgeons, but some of those had sickened as well, and none of their arts had slowed the galloping progression of the flux that had come on the pale mare. Separating the healthy from the sick had proved impractical as well. Her Stalwart Shields had tried, pulling husbands away from wives and children from their mothers, even as the Astapori wept and kicked and pelted them with stones. A few days later, the sick were dead and the healthy ones were sick. Dividing the one from the other had accomplished nothing.

Even feeding them had grown difficult. Every day she sent them what she could, but every day there were more of them and less food to give them. It was growing harder to find drivers willing to deliver the food as well. Too many of the men they had sent into the camp had been stricken by the flux themselves. Others had been attacked on the way back to the city.

Suffering was the only thing they did not lack. “There is scarcely a horse or mule left, though many rode from Astapor,” Marselen reported to her. “They’ve eaten every one, Your Grace, along with every rat and scavenger dog that they could catch. Now some have begun to eat their own dead.”

Little children with swollen stomachs trailed after them, too weak or scared to beg. Gaunt men with sunken eyes squatted amidst sand and stones, shitting out their lives in stinking streams of brown and red. Many shat where they slept now, too feeble to crawl to the ditches she’d commanded them to dig. Two women fought over a charred bone. Nearby a boy of ten stood eating a rat. He ate one-handed, the other clutching a sharpened stick lest anyone try to wrest away his prize. Unburied dead lay everywhere. Dany saw one man sprawled in the dirt under a black cloak, but as she rode past his cloak dissolved into a thousand flies. Skeletal women sat upon the ground clutching dying infants. Their eyes followed her. Those who had the strength called out. “Mother … please, Mother … bless you, Mother …”

“The bloody flux is everywhere. A hundred die each night.”

“Ser,” she said to Barristan Selmy, “is there no more we can do? You have provisions.”

“Provisions for Your Grace’s soldiers. We may well need to withstand a long siege.[”]

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

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

ADWD Daenerys VII

Galazza Galare awaited them outside the temple doors, surrounded by her sisters in white and pink and red, blue and gold and purple. There are fewer than there were. Dany looked for Ezzara and did not see her. Has the bloody flux taken even her? Though the queen had let the Astapori starve outside her walls to keep the bloody flux from spreading, it was spreading nonetheless. Many had been stricken: freedmen, sellswords, Brazen Beasts, even Dothraki, though as yet none of the Unsullied had been touched. She prayed the worst was past.

ADWD Daenerys VIII

“The Yunkai’i grow weaker as well. The bloody flux has taken hold amongst the Tolosi, it is said, and spread across the river to the third Ghiscari legion.”

3 Problems in Astapor and Yunkish alliance with other slave cities and companies

ASOS Daenerys IV

Dany had left Astapor in the hands of a council of former slaves led by a healer, a scholar, and a priest. Wise men all, she thought, and just. Yet even so, tens of thousands preferred to follow her to Yunkai, rather than remain behind in Astapor.

ASOS Daenerys VI

“Two have presented themselves to bask in your radiance.”

Daario had plundered himself a whole new wardrobe in Meereen, and to match it he had redyed his trident beard and curly hair a deep rich purple. It made his eyes look almost purple too, as if he were some lost Valyrian. “They arrived in the night on the Indigo Star, a trading galley out of Qarth.”

A slaver, you mean. Dany frowned. “Who are they?” 

“The Star’s master and one who claims to speak for Astapor.”

“I will see the envoy first.”

He proved to be a pale ferret-faced man with ropes of pearls and spun gold hanging heavy about his neck. “Your Worship!” he cried. “My name is Ghael. I bring greetings to the Mother of Dragons from King Cleon of Astapor, Cleon the Great.”

Dany stiffened. “I left a council to rule Astapor. A healer, a scholar, and a priest.”

“Your Worship, those sly rogues betrayed your trust. It was revealed that they were scheming to restore the Good Masters to power and the people to chains. Great Cleon exposed their plots and hacked their heads off with a cleaver, and the grateful folk of Astapor have crowned him for his valor.”

“Noble Ghael,” said Missandei, in the dialect of Astapor, “is this the same Cleon once owned by Grazdan mo Ullhor?”

Her voice was guileless, yet the question plainly made the envoy anxious. “The same,” he admitted. “A great man.”

Missandei leaned close to Dany. “He was a butcher in Grazdan’s kitchen,” the girl whispered in her ear. “It was said he could slaughter a pig faster than any man in Astapor.”

I have given Astapor a butcher king. Dany felt ill, but she knew she must not let the envoy see it. “I will pray that King Cleon rules well and wisely. What would he have of me?”

Ghael rubbed his mouth. “Perhaps we should speak more privily, Your Grace?” 

“I have no secrets from my captains and commanders.” 

“As you wish. Great Cleon bids me declare his devotion to the Mother of Dragons. Your enemies are his enemies, he says, and chief among them are the Wise Masters of Yunkai. He proposes a pact between Astapor and Meereen, against the Yunkai’i.”

“I swore no harm would come to Yunkai if they released their slaves,” said Dany.

“These Yunkish dogs cannot be trusted, Your Worship. Even now they plot against you. New levies have been raised and can be seen drilling outside the city walls, warships are being built, envoys have been sent to New Ghis and Volantis in the west, to make alliances and hire sellswords. They have even dispatched riders to Vaes Dothrak to bring a khalasar down upon you. Great Cleon bid me tell you not to be afraid. Astapor remembers. Astapor will not forsake you. To prove his faith, Great Cleon offers to seal your alliance with a marriage.”

“A marriage? To me?”

Ghael smiled. His teeth were brown and rotten. “Great Cleon will give you many strong sons.”

Dany found herself bereft of words, but little Missandei came to her rescue. “Did his first wife give him sons?”

The envoy looked at her unhappily. “Great Cleon has three daughters by his first wife. Two of his newer wives are with child. But he means to put all of them aside if the Mother of Dragons will consent to wed him.”

“How noble of him,” said Dany. “I will consider all you’ve said, my lord.” She gave orders that Ghael be given chambers for the night, somewhere lower in the pyramid.

“I shall see this trader captain,” she announced. Perhaps he would have some better tidings.

That proved to be a forlorn hope. The master of the Indigo Star was Qartheen, so he wept copiously when asked about Astapor. “The city bleeds. Dead men rot unburied in the streets, each pyramid is an armed camp, and the markets have neither food nor slaves for sale. And the poor children! King Cleaver’s thugs have seized every highborn boy in Astapor to make new Unsullied for the trade, though it will be years before they are trained.”

The thing that surprised Dany most was how unsurprised she was. She found herself remembering Eroeh, the Lhazarene girl she had once tried to protect, and what had happened to her.

ADWD Daenerys I

Lord Ghael had a mouth of brown and rotten teeth and the pointed yellow face of a weasel. He also had a gift. “Cleon the Great sends these slippers as a token of his love for Daenerys Stormborn, the Mother of Dragons.”

Irri slid the slippers onto Dany’s feet. They were gilded leather, decorated with green freshwater pearls. Does the butcher king believe a pair of pretty slippers will win my hand? “King Cleon is most generous. You may thank him for his lovely gift.” Lovely, but made for a child. Dany had small feet, yet the pointed slippers mashed her toes together.

“Great Cleon will be pleased to know they pleased you,” said Lord Ghael. “His Magnificence bids me say that he stands ready to defend the Mother of Dragons from all her foes.”

If he proposes again that I wed King Cleon, I’ll throw a slipper at his head, Dany thought, but for once the Astapori envoy made no mention of a royal marriage. Instead he said, “The time has come for Astapor and Meereen to end the savage reign of the Wise Masters of Yunkai, who are sworn foes to all those who live in freedom. Great Cleon bids me tell you that he and his new Unsullied will soon march.”

His new Unsullied are an obscene jape. “King Cleon would be wise to tend his own gardens and let the Yunkai’i tend theirs.” It was not that Dany harbored any love for Yunkai. She was coming to regret leaving the Yellow City untaken after defeating its army in the field. The Wise Masters had returned to slaving as soon as she moved on, and were busy raising levies, hiring sellswords, and making alliances against her.

Cleon the self-styled Great was no better, however. The Butcher King had restored slavery to Astapor, the only change being that the former slaves were now the masters and the former masters were now the slaves.

“I am only a young girl and know little of the ways of war,” she told Lord Ghael, “but we have heard that Astapor is starving. Let King Cleon feed his people before he leads them out to battle.” She made a gesture of dismissal. Ghael withdrew.

ADWD Daenerys III

“Daenerys, let me be honest with you, as befits a friend. You will not make Meereen rich and fat and peaceful. You will only bring it to destruction, as you did Astapor. You are aware that there was battle joined at the Horns of Hazzat? The Butcher King has fled back to his palace, his new Unsullied running at his heels.”

“This is known.” Brown Ben Plumm had sent back word of the battle from the field. “The Yunkai’i have bought themselves new sellswords, and two legions from New Ghis fought beside them.”

“Two will soon become four, then ten. And Yunkish envoys have been sent to Myr and Volantis to hire more blades. The Company of the Cat, the Long Lances, the Windblown. Some say that the Wise Masters have bought the Golden Company as well.”

[...] “I have sellswords too.”

“Two companies. The Yunkai’i will send twenty against you if they must. And when they march, they will not march alone. Tolos and Mantarys have agreed to an alliance.”

That was ill news, if true. Daenerys had sent missions to Tolos and Mantarys, hoping to find new friends to the west to balance the enmity of Yunkai to the south. Her envoys had not returned. “Meereen has made alliance with Lhazar.”

As ever, Lord Ghael was the first to present himself, looking even more wretched than usual. “Your Radiance,” he moaned, as he fell to the marble at her feet, “the armies of the Yunkai’i descend on Astapor. I beg you, come south with all your strength!”

“I warned your king that this war of his was folly,” Dany reminded him. “He would not listen.”

“Great Cleon sought only to strike down the vile slavers of Yunkai.”

“Great Cleon is a slaver himself.”

“I know that the Mother of Dragons will not abandon us in our hour of peril. Lend us your Unsullied to defend our walls.”

And if I do, who will defend my walls? “Many of my freedmen were slaves in Astapor. Perhaps some will wish to help defend your king. That is their choice, as free men. I gave Astapor its freedom. It is up to you to defend it.”

“We are all dead, then. You gave us death, not freedom.” Ghael leapt to his feet and spat into her face.

The next morning Xaro’s galleas was gone, but the “gift” that he had brought her remained behind in Slaver’s Bay. Long red streamers flew from the masts of the thirteen Qartheen galleys, writhing in the wind. And when Daenerys descended to hold court, a messenger from the ships awaited her. He spoke no word but laid at her feet a black satin pillow, upon which rested a single bloodstained glove.

“What is this?” Skahaz demanded. “A bloody glove …”

“… means war,” said the queen.

ADWD Daenerys IV

“...Last night three Qartheen galleys sailed up the Skahazadhan under the cover of darkness. The Mother’s Men loosed flights of fire arrows at their sails and flung pots of burning pitch onto their decks, but the galleys slipped by quickly and suffered no lasting harm. The Qartheen mean to close the river to us, as they have closed the bay. And they are no longer alone. Three galleys from New Ghis have joined them, and a carrack out of Tolos.” The Tolosi had replied to her request for an alliance by proclaiming her a whore and demanding that she return Meereen to its Great Masters. Even that was preferable to the answer of Mantarys, which came by way of caravan in a cedar chest. Inside she had found the heads of her three envoys, pickled. “Perhaps your gods can help us. Ask them to send a gale and sweep the galleys from the bay.”

“We have heard that the Butcher King of Astapor is dead.”

“Slain by his own soldiers when he commanded them to march out and attack the Yunkai’i.” The words were bitter in her mouth. “He was hardly cold before another took his place, calling himself Cleon the Second. That one lasted eight days before his throat was opened. Then his killer claimed the crown. So did the first Cleon’s concubine. King Cutthroat and Queen Whore, the Astapori call them. Their followers are fighting battles in the streets, while the Yunkai’i and their sellswords wait outside the walls.”

“I have never wanted war. I defeated the Yunkai’i once and spared their city when I might have sacked it. I refused to join King Cleon when he marched against them. Even now, with Astapor besieged, I stay my hand. And Qarth … I have never done the Qartheen any harm …”

“Not by intent, no, but Qarth is a city of merchants, and they love the clink of silver coins, the gleam of yellow gold. When you smashed the slave trade, the blow was felt from Westeros to Asshai. Qarth depends upon its slaves. So too Tolos, New Ghis, Lys, Tyrosh, Volantis … the list is long, my queen.”

“Let them come. In me they shall find a sterner foe than Cleon. I would sooner perish fighting than return my children to bondage.”

“There may be another choice. The Yunkai’i can be persuaded to allow all your freedmen to remain free, I believe, if Your Worship will agree that the Yellow City may trade and train slaves unmolested from this day forth. No more blood need flow.”

“Save for the blood of those slaves that the Yunkai’i will trade and train,” Dany said, but she recognized the truth in his words even so. It may be that is the best end we can hope for.

“Tell me of your journey.”

He gave a careless shrug. “The Yunkai’i sent some hired swords to close the Khyzai Pass. The Long Lances, they name themselves. We descended on them in the night and sent a few to hell. In Lhazar I slew two of my own serjeants for plotting to steal the gems and gold plate my queen had entrusted to me as gifts for the Lamb Men. Elsewise, all went as I had promised.”

“How many men did you lose in the fighting?”

“Nine,” said Daario, “but a dozen of the Long Lances decided they would sooner be Stormcrows than corpses, so we came out three ahead. I told them they would live longer fighting with your dragons than against them, and they saw the wisdom in my words.”

“Astapor is under siege as well.”

“This I knew. One of the Long Lances lived long enough to tell us that men were eating one another in the Red City. He said Meereen’s turn would come soon, so I cut his tongue out and fed it to a yellow dog. No dog will eat a liar’s tongue. When the yellow dog ate his, I knew he spoke the truth.”

“I have war inside the city too.” She told him of the Harpy’s Sons and the Brazen Beasts, of blood upon the bricks. “My enemies are all around me, within the city and without.”

ADWD Daenerys V

“Are there no petitioners today?” Dany asked Reznak mo Reznak. “No one who craves justice or silver for a sheep?”

“No, Your Worship. The city is afraid.”

“There is nothing to fear.”

But there was much and more to fear as she learned that evening. As her young hostages Miklaz and Kezmya were laying out a simple supper of autumn greens and ginger soup for her, Irri came to tell her that Galazza Galare had returned, with three Blue Graces from the temple. “Grey Worm is come as well, Khaleesi. They beg words with you, most urgently.”

“Bring them to my hall. And summon Reznak and Skahaz. Did the Green Grace say what this was about?”

“Astapor,” said Irri.

Grey Worm began the tale. “He came out of the morning mists, a rider on a pale horse, dying. His mare was staggering as she approached the city gates, her sides pink with blood and lather, her eyes rolling with terror. Her rider called out, ‘She is burning, she is burning,’ and fell from the saddle. This one was sent for, and gave orders that the rider be brought to the Blue Graces. When your servants carried him inside the gates, he cried out again, ‘She is burning.’ Under his tokar he was a skeleton, all bones and fevered flesh.”

One of the Blue Graces took up the tale from there. “The Unsullied brought this man to the temple, where we stripped him and bathed him in cool water. His clothes were soiled, and my sisters found half an arrow in his thigh. Though he had broken off the shaft, the head remained inside him, and the wound had mortified, filling him with poisons. He died within the hour, still crying out that she was burning.”

“‘She is burning,’” Daenerys repeated. “Who is she?”

“Astapor, Your Radiance,” said another of the Blue Graces. “He said it, once. He said ‘Astapor is burning.’”

If Astapor had fallen, nothing remained to prevent Yunkai from turning north.

“We caught three Astapori. Your Worship had best hear what they say.”

“Bring them.”

[...] These three were all that remained of a dozen who had set out together from the Red City: a bricklayer, a weaver, and a cobbler. “What befell the rest of your party?” the queen asked.

“Slain,” said the cobbler. “Yunkai’s sellswords roam the hills north of Astapor, hunting down those who flee the flames.”

“Has the city fallen, then? Its walls were thick.”

“This is so,” said the bricklayer, a stoop-backed man with rheumy eyes, “but they were old and crumbling as well.”

The weaver raised her head. “Every day we told each other that the dragon queen was coming back.” The woman had thin lips and dull dead eyes, set in a pinched and narrow face. “Cleon had sent for you, it was said, and you were coming.”

He sent for me, thought Dany. That much is true, at least.

“Outside our walls, the Yunkai’i devoured our crops and slaughtered our herds,” the cobbler went on. “Inside we starved. We ate cats and rats and leather. A horsehide was a feast. King Cutthroat and Queen Whore accused each other of feasting on the flesh of the slain. Men and women gathered in secret to draw lots and gorge upon the flesh of him who drew the black stone. The pyramid of Nakloz was despoiled and set aflame by those who claimed that Kraznys mo Nakloz was to blame for all our woes.”

[...] The cobbler told them how the body of the Butcher King had been disinterred and clad in copper armor, after the Green Grace of Astapor had a vision that he would deliver them from the Yunkai'i. Armored and stinking, the corpse of Cleon the Great was strapped onto the back of a starving horse to lead the remnants of his new Unsullied on a sortie, but they rode right into the iron teeth of a legion from New Ghis and were cut down to a man.

“Afterward the Green Grace was impaled upon a stake in the Plaza of Punishment and left until she died. In the pyramid of Ullhor, the survivors had a great feast that lasted half the night, and washed the last of their food down with poison wine so none need wake again come morning. Soon after came the sickness, a bloody flux that killed three men of every four, until a mob of dying men went mad and slew the guards on the main gate.”

The old brickmaker broke in to say, “No. That was the work of healthy men, running to escape the flux.”

“Does it matter?” asked the cobbler. “The guards were torn apart and the gates thrown open. The legions of New Ghis came pouring into Astapor, followed by the Yunkai’i and the sellswords on their horses. Queen Whore died fighting them with a curse upon her lips. King Cutthroat yielded and was thrown into a fighting pit, to be torn apart by a pack of starving dogs.”

[...] “And when the city fell?” demanded Skahaz. “What then?”

“The butchery began. The Temple of the Graces was full of the sick who had come to ask the gods to heal them. The legions sealed the doors and set the temple ablaze with torches. Within the hour fires were burning in every corner of the city. As they spread they joined with one another. The streets were full of mobs, running this way and that to escape the flames, but there was no way out. The Yunkai’i held the gates.”

“Yet you escaped,” the Shavepate said. “How is that?”

The old man answered. “I am by trade a brickmaker, as my father and his father were before me. My grandfather built our house up against the city walls. It was an easy thing to work loose a few bricks every night. When I told my friends, they helped me shore up the tunnel so it would not collapse. We all agreed that it might be good to have our own way out.”

I left you with a council to rule over you, Dany thought, a healer, a scholar, and a priest. She could still recall the Red City as she had first seen it, dry and dusty behind its red brick walls, dreaming cruel dreams, yet full of life. There were islands in the Worm where lovers kissed, but in the Plaza of Punishment they peeled the skin off men in strips and left them hanging naked for the flies.

Astapor is burning, and Meereen is next.

“Your Grace, the Yunkish got three free companies against our two, and there’s talk the Yunkishmen sent to Volantis to fetch back the Golden Company. Those bastards field ten thousand. Yunkai’s got four Ghiscari legions too, maybe more, and I heard it said they sent riders across the Dothraki sea to maybe bring some big khalasar down on us. We need them dragons, the way I see it.”

“Can we make a fight of this?” she asked him.

“Men can always fight, Your Grace. Ask rather if we can win. Dying is easy, but victory comes hard. Your freedmen are half-trained and unblooded. Your sellswords once served your foes, and once a man turns his cloak he will not scruple to turn it again. You have two dragons who cannot be controlled, and a third that may be lost to you. Beyond these walls your only friends are the Lhazarene, who have no taste for war.”

“My walls are strong, though.”

“No stronger than when we sat outside them. And the Sons of the Harpy are inside the walls with us. So are the Great Masters, both those you did not kill and the sons of those you did.”

“I know.”

[...]“I cannot fight two enemies, one within and one without. If I am to hold Meereen, I must have the city behind me. The whole city.[”]

ADWD Daenerys VI

“...The Stormcrows and the Second Sons can harry the Yunkishmen, but they cannot hope to turn them. If Your Grace would allow me to assemble an army ...”

“If there must be a battle, I would sooner fight it from behind the walls of Meereen. Let the Yunkai’i try and storm my battlements.”

“Yunkai will give us peace, but for a price. The disruption of the slave trade has caused great injury throughout the civilized world. Yunkai and her allies will require an indemnity of us, to be paid in gold and gemstones.”

Gold and gems were easy. “What else?”

“The Yunkai’i will resume slaving, as before. Astapor will be rebuilt, as a slave city. You will not interfere.”

“The Yunkai’i resumed their slaving before I was two leagues from their city. Did I turn back? King Cleon begged me to join with him against them, and I turned a deaf ear to his pleas. I want no war with Yunkai. How many times must I say it? What promises do they require?”

“Ah, there is the thorn in the bower, my queen,” said Hizdahr zo Loraq. “Sad to say, Yunkai has no faith in your promises. They keep plucking the same string on the harp, about some envoy that your dragons set on fire.”

“Only his tokar was burned,” said Dany scornfully.

“Be that as it may, they do not trust you. The men of New Ghis feel the same. Words are wind, as you yourself have so oft said. No words of yours will secure this peace for Meereen. Your foes require deeds. They would see us wed, and they would see me crowned as king, to rule beside you.”

Dany filled his wine cup again, wanting nothing so much as to pour the flagon over his head and drown his complacent smile. “Marriage or carnage. A wedding or a war. Are those my choices?”

“...The Stormcrows have returned to the city, with word of the foe. The Yunkishmen are on the march, just as we had feared.”

“Hard tidings, Ser Grandfather. Astapor is gone, and the slavers are coming north in strength.”

“This is old news, and stale,” growled the Shavepate.

[...] “Sweet queen, I would have been here sooner, but the hills are aswarm with Yunkish sellswords. Four free companies. Your Stormcrows had to cut their way through all of them. There is more, and worse. The Yunkai’i are marching their host up the coast road, joined by four legions out of New Ghis. They have elephants, a hundred, armored and towered. Tolosi slingers too, and a corps of Qartheen camelry. Two more Ghiscari legions took ship at Astapor. If our captives told it true, they will be landed beyond the Skahazadhan to cut us off from the Dothraki sea.”

[...] “How many men were killed?” she asked when he was done.

“Of ours? I did not stop to count. We gained more than we lost, though.”

“More turncloaks?”

“More brave men drawn to your noble cause. My queen will like them. One is an axeman from the Basilisk Isles, a brute, bigger than Belwas. You should see him. Some Westerosi too, a score or more. Deserters from the Windblown, unhappy with the Yunkai’i. They’ll make good Stormcrows.”

ADWD Daenerys VII

On the day that he returned from his latest sortie, he had tossed the head of a Yunkish lord at her feet and kissed her in the hall for all the world to see, until Barristan Selmy pulled the two of them apart. Ser Grandfather had been so wroth that Dany feared blood might be shed.

Her foes were all about her. There were never less than a dozen ships drawn up on the shore. Some days there were as many as a hundred, when the soldiers were disembarking. The Yunkai’i were even bringing in wood by sea. Behind their ditches, they were building catapults, scorpions, tall trebuchets. On still nights she could hear the hammers ringing through the warm, dry air. No siege towers, though. No battering rams. They would not try to take Meereen by storm. They would wait behind their siege lines, flinging stones at her until famine and disease had brought her people to their knees.

ADWD Daenerys VIII

“Is there some man in the Second Sons who might be persuaded to … remove … Brown Ben?”

“As Daario Naharis once removed the other captains of the Stormcrows?” The old knight looked uncomfortable. “Perhaps. I would not know, Your Grace.”

No, she thought, you are too honest and too honorable. “If not, the Yunkai’i employ three other companies.”

“Rogues and cutthroats, scum of a hundred battlefields,” Ser Barristan warned, “with captains full as treacherous as Plumm.”

“I am only a young girl and know little of such things, but it seems to me that we want them to be treacherous. Once, you’ll recall, I convinced the Second Sons and Stormcrows to join us.”

“If Your Grace wishes a privy word with Gylo Rhegan or the Tattered Prince, I could bring them up to your apartments.”

“This is not the time. Too many eyes, too many ears. Their absence would be noted even if you could separate them discreetly from the Yunkai’i. We must find some quieter way of reaching out to them … not tonight, but soon.”

[...] “Our prisoners,” suggested Dany. “The Westerosi who came over from the Windblown with the three Dornishmen. We still have them in cells, do we not? Use them.”

“Free them, you mean? Is that wise? They were sent here to worm their way into your trust, so they might betray Your Grace at the first chance.”

[...] “We can still use them. One was a woman. Meris. Send her back, as a … a gesture of my regard. If their captain is a clever man, he will understand.”

“The woman is the worst of all.”

“All the better.” Dany considered a moment. “We should sound out the Long Lances too. And the Company of the Cat.”

“Bloodbeard.” Ser Barristan’s frown deepened. “If it please Your Grace, we want no part of him. Your Grace is too young to remember the Ninepenny Kings, but this Bloodbeard is cut from the same savage cloth. There is no honor in him, only hunger … for gold, for glory, for blood.”

“You know more of such men than me, ser.” If Bloodbeard might be truly the most dishonorable and greedy of the sellswords, he might be the easiest to sway, but she was loath to go against Ser Barristan’s counsel in such matters. “Do as you think best. But do it soon. If Hizdahr’s peace should break, I want to be ready. I do not trust the slavers.” I do not trust my husband. “They will turn on us at the first sign of weakness.”

[...] [“]Set Pretty Meris free. At once.”

ADWD Daenerys IX

“Your Grace. We set the woman Meris free, as you commanded. Before she went, she asked to speak with you. I met with her instead. She claims this Tattered Prince meant to bring the Windblown over to your cause from the beginning. That he sent her here to treat with you secretly, but the Dornishmen unmasked them and betrayed them before she could make her own approach.”

Treachery on treachery, the queen thought wearily. Is there no end to it? “How much of this do you believe, ser?”

“Little and less, Your Grace, but those were her words.”

“Will they come over to us, if need be?”

“She says they will. But for a price.”

“Pay it.” Meereen needed iron, not gold.

“The Tattered Prince will want more than coin, Your Grace. Meris says that he wants Pentos.” “Pentos?” Her eyes narrowed. “How can I give him Pentos? It is half a world away.”

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

And if I never march for Westeros? “Pentos belongs to the Pentoshi. And Magister Illyrio is in Pentos. He who arranged my marriage to Khal Drogo and gave me my dragon eggs. Who sent me you, and Belwas, and Groleo. I owe him much and more. I will not repay that debt by giving his city to some sellsword. No.”

4 Sons of the Harpy attacks

ADWD Daenerys I

“Your Grace,” Ser Barristan said, “there was a harpy drawn on the bricks in the alley where he was found …”

“… drawn in blood.” Daenerys knew the way of it by now. The Sons of the Harpy did their butchery by night, and over each kill they left their mark.

“The Sons grow bolder,” Dany observed. Until now, they had limited their attacks to unarmed freedmen, cutting them down in the streets or breaking into their homes under the cover of darkness to murder them in their beds. “This is the first of my soldiers they have slain.”

“The first,” Ser Barristan warned, “but not the last.”

ADWD Daenerys II

Why does she weep?”

“For him who was her brother,” Irri told her. The rest she had from Skahaz, Reznak, and Grey Worm, when they were ushered into her presence. Dany knew their tidings were bad before a word was spoken. One glance at the Shavepate’s ugly face sufficed to tell her that. “The Sons of the Harpy?”

Skahaz nodded. His mouth was grim.

“How many dead?”

Reznak wrung his hands. “N-nine, Magnificence. Foul work it was, and wicked. A dreadful night, dreadful.”

Nine. The word was a dagger in her heart. Every night the shadow war was waged anew beneath the stepped pyramids of Meereen. Every morn the sun rose upon fresh corpses, with harpies drawn in blood on the bricks beside them. Any freedman who became too prosperous or too outspoken was marked for death. Nine in one night, though … That frightened her. “Tell me.”

Grey Worm answered. “Your servants were set upon as they walked the bricks of Meereen to keep Your Grace’s peace. [...] Your servants Black Fist and Cetherys were slain by crossbow bolts in Mazdhan's Maze. Your servants Mossador and Duran were crushed by falling stones beneath the river wall. Your servants Eladon Goldenhair and Loyal Spear were poisoned at a wineshop where they were accustomed to stop each night upon their rounds.” [...]

“Have any of the murderers been captured?”

“Your servants have arrested the owner of the wineshop and his daughters. They plead their ignorance and beg for mercy.”

...“but Your Radiance should know that the Great Masters of Zhak and Merreq are making preparations to quit their pyramids and leave the city.”

Daenerys was sick unto death of Zhak and Merreq; she was sick of all the Meereenese, great and small alike.

ADWD Daenerys III

“The Sons of the Harpy.” How does he know that? “They scrawl on walls by night and cut the throats of honest freedmen as they sleep. When the sun comes up they hide like roaches. They fear my Brazen Beasts.” Skahaz mo Kandaq had given her the new watch she had asked for, made up in equal numbers of freedmen and shavepate Meereenese. They walked the streets both day and night, in dark hoods and brazen masks. The Sons of the Harpy had promised grisly death to any traitor who dared serve the dragon queen, and to their kith and kin as well, so the Shavepate’s men went about as jackals, owls, and other beasts, keeping their true faces hidden. “I might have cause to fear the Sons if they saw me wandering alone through the streets, but only if it was night and I was naked and unarmed. They are craven creatures.”

ADWD Daenerys IV

“...More freedmen died last night, or so I have been told.”

“Three.” Saying it left a bitter taste in her mouth. “The cowards broke in on some weavers, freedwomen who had done no harm to anyone. All they did was make beautiful things. I have a tapestry they gave me hanging over my bed. The Sons of the Harpy broke their loom and raped them before slitting their throats.”

“...I can reconcile the city to your rule and put an end to this nightly slaughter in the streets.”

“Can you?” Dany studied his eyes. “Why should the Sons of the Harpy lay down their knives for you? Are you one of them?”

“Peace is my desire. You say that you can help me end the nightly slaughter in my streets. I say do it. Put an end to this shadow war, my lord. That is your quest. Give me ninety days and ninety nights without a murder, and I will know that you are worthy of a throne. Can you do that?”

Hizdahr looked thoughtful. “Ninety days and ninety nights without a corpse, and on the ninety-first we wed?”

“Perhaps,” said Dany, with a coy look. “Though young girls have been known to be fickle. I may still want a magic sword.”

ADWD Daenerys V

“Your Radiance, Hizdahr was seen to enter the pyramid of Zhak last evening. He did not depart until well after dark.”

“How many pyramids has he visited?” asked Dany.

“Eleven.”

“And how long since the last murder?”

“Six-and-twenty days.” The Shavepate’s eyes brimmed with fury. It had been his notion to have the Brazen Beasts follow her betrothed and take note of all his actions.

“So far Hizdahr has made good on his promises.”

“How? The Sons of the Harpy have put down their knives, but why? Because the noble Hizdahr asked sweetly? He is one of them, I tell you. That’s why they obey him. He may well be the Harpy.”

5 Slow reinstallment of slavery

ASOS Daenerys VI

“What do you want of me, Captain?”

“Slaves,” he said. “My holds are full to bursting with ivory, ambergris, zorse hides, and other fine goods. I would trade them here for slaves, to sell in Lys and Volantis.”

“We have no slaves for sale,” said Dany.

“My queen?” Daario stepped forward. “The riverside is full of Meereenese, begging leave to be allowed to sell themselves to this Qartheen. They are thicker than the flies.”

Dany was shocked. “They want to be slaves?”

“The ones who come are well spoken and gently born, sweet queen. Such slaves are prized. In the Free Cities they will be tutors, scribes, bed slaves, even healers and priests. They will sleep in soft beds, eat rich foods, and dwell in manses. Here they have lost all, and live in fear and squalor.”

“I see.” Perhaps it was not so shocking, if these tales of Astapor were true. Dany thought a moment. “Any man who wishes to sell himself into slavery may do so. Or woman.” She raised a hand. “But they may not sell their children, nor a man his wife.”

“In Astapor the city took a tenth part of the price, each time a slave changed hands,” Missandei told her.

“We’ll do the same,” Dany decided. Wars were won with gold as much as swords. “A tenth part. In gold or silver coin, or ivory. Meereen has no need of saffron, cloves, or zorse hides.”

“It shall be done as you command, glorious queen,” said Daario. “My Stormcrows will collect your tenth.” if the Stormcrows saw to the collections at least half the gold would somehow go astray, Dany knew. But the Second Sons were just as bad, and the Unsullied were as unlettered as they were incorruptible. “Records must be kept,” she said. “Seek among the freedmen for men who can read, write, and do sums.”

His business done, the captain of the Indigo Star bowed and took his leave.

ADWD Daenerys I

These Meereenese were a sly and stubborn people who resisted her at every turn. They had freed their slaves, yes … only to hire them back as servants at wages so meagre that most could scarce afford to eat. Those too old or young to be of use had been cast into the streets, along with the infirm and the crippled. And still the Great Masters gathered atop their lofty pyramids to complain of how the dragon queen had filled their noble city with hordes of unwashed beggars, thieves, and whores.

“King Cleon would be wise to tend his own gardens and let the Yunkai’i tend theirs.” It was not that Dany harbored any love for Yunkai. She was coming to regret leaving the Yellow City untaken after defeating its army in the field. The Wise Masters had returned to slaving as soon as she moved on, and were busy raising levies, hiring sellswords, and making alliances against her.

The Butcher King had restored slavery to Astapor, the only change being that the former slaves were now the masters and the former masters were now the slaves.

ADWD Daenerys IV

“Save for the blood of those slaves that the Yunkai’i will trade and train,” Dany said, but she recognized the truth in his words even so. It may be that is the best end we can hope for.

ADWD Daenerys VI

“One more small matter, Your Worship,” said Reznak. “To celebrate your nuptials, it would be most fitting if you would allow the fighting pits to open once again. It would be your wedding gift to Hizdahr and to your loving people, a sign that you had embraced the ancient ways and customs of Meereen.”

“And most pleasing to the gods as well,” the Green Grace added in her soft and kindly voice.

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

“The Yunkai’i will resume slaving, as before. Astapor will be rebuilt, as a slave city. You will not interfere.”

ADWD Daenerys VII

Meereenese seldom rode within their city walls. They preferred palanquins, litters, and sedan chairs, borne upon the shoulders of their slaves. “Horses befoul the streets,” one man of Zakh had told her, “slaves do not.” Dany had freed the slaves, yet palanquins, litters, and sedan chairs still choked the streets as before, and none of them floated magically through the air.

ADWD Daenerys VIII

The hall rang to Yunkish laughter, Yunkish songs, Yunkish prayers. Dancers danced; musicians played queer tunes with bells and squeaks and bladders; singers sang ancient love songs in the incomprehensible tongue of Old Ghis. Wine flowed—not the thin pale stuff of Slaver’s Bay but rich sweet vintages from the Arbor and dreamwine from Qarth, flavored with strange spices. The Yunkai’i had come at King Hizdahr’s invitation, to sign the peace and witness the rebirth of Meereen’s far-famed fighting pits. Her noble husband had opened the Great Pyramid to fete them.

“It is only for a little while more, my love,” Hizdahr had assured her. “The Yunkai’i will soon be gone, and their allies and hirelings with them. We shall have all we desired. Peace, food, trade. Our port is open once again, and ships are being permitted to come and go.”

“They are permitting that, yes,” she had replied, “but their warships remain. They can close their fingers around our throat again whenever they wish. They have opened a slave market within sight of my walls!”

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

“In their own city. Not where I have to see it.” The Wise Masters had established their slave pens and auction block just south of the Skahazadhan, where the wide brown river flowed into Slaver’s Bay. “They are mocking me to my face, making a show of how powerless I am to stop them.”

“Posing and posturing,” said her noble husband. “A show, as you have said. Let them have their mummery. When they are gone, we will make a fruit market of what they leave behind.”

“When they are gone,” Dany repeated. “And when will they be gone? Riders have been seen beyond the Skahazadhan. Dothraki scouts, Rakharo says, with a khalasar behind them. They will have captives. Men, women, and children, gifts for the slavers.” Dothraki did not buy or sell, but they gave gifts and received them. “That is why the Yunkai’i have thrown up this market. They will leave here with thousands of new slaves.”

Hizdahr zo Loraq shrugged. “But they will leave. That is the important part, my love. Yunkai will trade in slaves, Meereen will not, this is what we have agreed. Endure this for a little while longer, and it shall pass.”

“Have you ever heard such singing, my love?” Hizdahr asked her. “They have the voices of gods, do they not?”

“Yes,” she said, “though I wonder if they might not have preferred to have the fruits of men.”

All of the entertainers were slaves. That had been part of the peace, that slaveowners be allowed the right to bring their chattels into Meereen without fear of having them freed. In return the Yunkai’i had promised to respect the rights and liberties of the former slaves that Dany had freed. A fair bargain, Hizdahr said, but the taste it left in the queen’s mouth was foul. She drank another cup of wine to wash it out.

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

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

Beyond her walls the yellow tents of the Yunkai’i stood in orderly rows beside the sea, protected by the ditches their slaves had dug for them. Two iron legions out of New Ghis, trained and armed in the same fashion as Unsullied, were encamped across the river to the north. Two more Ghiscari legions had made camp to the east, choking off the road to the Khyzai Pass. The horse lines and cookfires of the free companies lay to the south. By day thin plumes of smoke hung against the sky like ragged grey ribbons. By night distant fires could be seen. Hard by the bay was the abomination, the slave market at her door. She could not see it now, with the sun set, but she knew that it was there. That just made her angrier.

6 Marriage proposals and arrangements

ADWD Daenerys I

He might be handsome, but for that silly hair. Reznak and the Green Grace had been urging Dany to take a Meereenese noble for her husband, to reconcile the city to her rule. Hizdahr zo Loraq might be worth a careful look. Sooner him than Skahaz. The Shavepate had offered to set aside his wife for her, but the notion made her shudder. Hizdahr at least knew how to smile.

ADWD Daenerys IV

“You know why you are here. The Green Grace seems to feel that if I take you for my husband, all my woes will vanish.”

“I would never make so bold a claim. Men are born to strive and suffer. Our woes only vanish when we die. I can be of help to you, however. I have gold and friends and influence, and the blood of Old Ghis flows in my veins. Though I have never wed, I have two natural children, a boy and a girl, so I can give you heirs. I can reconcile the city to your rule and put an end to this nightly slaughter in the streets.”

Hizdahr looked thoughtful. “Ninety days and ninety nights without a corpse, and on the ninety-first we wed?”

ADWD Daenerys V

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

“Your Grace?” Ser Barristan prompted, gently.

A queen belongs not to herself but to her people.

“I need Hizdahr zo Loraq.”

ADWD Daenerys VI

The priestess and the seneschal were happy to see her garbed in a tokar, a proper Meereenese lady for once, but what they really wanted was to strip her bare. Daenerys heard them out, incredulous. When they were done, she said, “I have no wish to give offense, but I will not present myself naked to Hizdahr’s mother and sisters.”

“But,” said Reznak mo Reznak, blinking, “but you must, Your Worship. Before a marriage it is traditional for the women of the man’s house to examine the bride’s womb and, ah … her female parts. To ascertain that they are well formed and, ah …”

“… fertile,” finished Galazza Galare. “An ancient ritual, Your Radiance. Three Graces shall be present to witness the examination and say the proper prayers.”

“Yes,” said Reznak, “and afterward there is a special cake. A women’s cake, baked only for betrothals. Men are not allowed to taste it. I am told it is delicious. Magical.”

And if my womb is withered and my female parts accursed, is there a special cake for that as well? “Hizdahr zo Loraq may inspect my women’s parts after we are wed.” Khal Drogo found no fault with them, why should he? “Let his mother and his sisters examine one another and share the special cake. I shall not be eating it. Nor shall I wash the noble Hizdahr’s noble feet.”

“Magnificence, you do not understand,” protested Reznak. “The washing of the feet is hallowed by tradition. It signifies that you shall be your husband’s handmaid. The wedding garb is fraught with meaning too. The bride is dressed in dark red veils above a tokar of white silk, fringed with baby pearls.”

The queen of the rabbits must not be wed without her floppy ears. “All those pearls will make me rattle when I walk.”

“The pearls symbolize fertility. The more pearls Your Worship wears, the more healthy children she will bear.”

“Why would I want a hundred children?” Dany turned to the Green Grace. “If we should wed by Westerosi rites …”

“The gods of Ghis would deem it no true union.” Galazza Galare’s face was hidden behind a veil of green silk. Only her eyes showed, green and wise and sad. “In the eyes of the city you would be the noble Hizdahr’s concubine, not his lawful wedded wife. Your children would be bastards. Your Worship must marry Hizdahr in the Temple of the Graces, with all the nobility of Meereen on hand to bear witness to your union.”

“...No words of yours will secure this peace for Meereen. Your foes require deeds. They would see us wed, and they would see me crowned as king, to rule beside you.”

Dany filled his wine cup again, wanting nothing so much as to pour the flagon over his head and drown his complacent smile. “Marriage or carnage. A wedding or a war. Are those my choices?”

“I see only one choice, Your Radiance. Let us say our vows before the gods of Ghis and make a new Meereen together.”

7 Changes and/or backstabbing inside Dany’s court

This one is tricky because there are well-reasoned theories that the Green Grace, Hizdahr and the Shavepate were not honest with Dany about their intentions, so I just added Ben's betrayal, but this could change in TWOW.

ADWD Daenerys VI

“Captain, you made mention of four free companies. We know of only three. The Windblown, the Long Lances, and the Company of the Cat.”

“Ser Grandfather knows how to count. The Second Sons have gone over to the Yunkai’i.” Daario turned his head and spat. “That’s for Brown Ben Plumm. When next I see his ugly face I will open him from throat to groin and rip out his black heart.”

Dany tried to speak and found no words. She remembered Ben’s face the last time she had seen it. It was a warm face, a face I trusted. [...]

Daario’s announcement had sparked an uproar. Reznak was wailing, the Shavepate was muttering darkly, her bloodriders were swearing vengeance. Strong Belwas thumped his scarred belly with his fist and swore to eat Brown Ben’s heart with plums and onions. “Please,” Dany said, but only Missandei seemed to hear. The queen got to her feet. “Be quiet! I have heard enough.”

ADWD Daenerys VIII

The Yunkish Supreme Commander, Yurkhaz zo Yunzak, might have been alive during Aegon’s Conquest, to judge by his appearance. Bent-backed, wrinkled, and toothless, he was carried to the table by two strapping slaves. The other Yunkish lords were hardly more impressive. One was small and stunted, though the slave soldiers who attended him were grotesquely tall and thin. The third was young, fit, and dashing, but so drunk that Dany could scarce understand a word he said. How could I have been brought to this pass by creatures such as these?

The sellswords were a different matter. Each of the four free companies serving Yunkai had sent its commander. The Windblown were represented by the Pentoshi nobleman known as the Tattered Prince, the Long Lances by Gylo Rhegan, who looked more shoemaker than soldier and spoke in murmurs. Bloodbeard, from the Company of the Cat, made enough noise for him and a dozen more. A huge man with a great bush of beard and a prodigious appetite for wine and women, he bellowed, belched, farted like a thunderclap, and pinched every serving girl who came within his reach. From time to time he would pull one down into his lap to squeeze her breasts and fondle her between the legs.

The Second Sons were represented too. If Daario were here, this meal would end in blood. No promised peace could ever have persuaded her captain to permit Brown Ben Plumm to stroll back into Meereen and leave alive. Dany had sworn that no harm would come to the seven envoys and commanders, though that had not been enough for the Yunkai’i. They had required hostages of her as well. To balance the three Yunkish nobles and four sellsword captains, Meereen sent seven of its own out to the siege camp: Hizdahr’s sister, two of his cousins, Dany’s bloodrider Jhogo, her admiral Groleo, the Unsullied captain Hero, and Daario Naharis.

The Shavepate was absent as well. The first thing Hizdahr had done upon being crowned was to remove him from command of the Brazen Beasts, replacing him with his own cousin, the plump and pasty Marghaz zo Loraq. It is for the best. The Green Grace says there is blood between Loraq and Kandaq, and the Shavepate never made a secret of his disdain for my lord husband.

“...I thought I might bring a wedding gift for you, but the bidding went too high for old Brown Ben.”

“I want no gifts from you.”

“This one you might. The head of an old foe.”

“Your own?” she said sweetly. “You betrayed me.”

“Now that’s a harsh way o’ putting it, if you don’t mind me saying.” Brown Ben scratched at his speckled grey-and-white whiskers. “We went over to the winning side, is all. Same as we done before. It weren’t all me, neither. I put it to my men.”

“So they betrayed me, is that what you are saying? Why? Did I mistreat the Second Sons? Did I cheat you on your pay?”

“Never that,” said Brown Ben, “but it’s not all about the coin, Your High-and-Mightiness. I learned that a long time back, at my first battle. [...] Came upon this one corpse, [...] he wore this studded jerkin, looked to be good leather. [...] Under the lining, he’d sewn a fortune in coin. Gold, Your Worship, sweet yellow gold. Enough for any man to live like a lord for the rest o’ his days. But what good did it do him? [...] And that’s the lesson, see? Silver’s sweet and gold’s our mother, but once you’re dead they’re worth less than that last shit you take as you lie dying. [...] My boys didn’t care to die, that’s all, and when I told them that you couldn’t unleash them dragons against the Yunkishmen, well ...”

You saw me as defeated, Dany thought, and who am I to say that you were wrong? “I understand.”

[...] “You don’t never want to trust a sellsword, m’lady.”

“I have learned that much. One day I must be sure to thank you for the lesson.”

8 Child hostages and begrudge of Meereenese nobles over Dany’s “hard justice”

ADWD Daenerys I

“You have no lack of enemies, Your Grace. You can see their pyramids from your terrace. Zhak, Hazkar, Ghazeen, Merreq, Loraq, all the old slaving families. Pahl. Pahl, most of all. A house of women now. Bitter old women with a taste for blood. Women do not forget. Women do not forgive.”

The hall had filled. Unsullied stood with their backs to the pillars, holding shields and spears, the spikes on their caps jutting upward like a row of knives. The Meereenese had gathered beneath the eastern windows. Her freedmen stood well apart from their former masters. Until they stand together, Meereen will know no peace. “Arise.” Dany settled onto her bench. The hall rose. That at least they do as one.

ADWD Daenerys II

“They are afraid for their children,” Reznak said.

Yes, Daenerys thought, and so am I. “We must keep them safe as well. I will have two children from each of them. From the other pyramids as well. A boy and a girl.”

“Hostages,” said Skahaz, happily.

“Pages and cupbearers. If the Great Masters make objection, explain to them that in Westeros it is a great honor for a child to be chosen to serve at court.”

ADWD Daenerys IV

“...And yet Your Radiance has found the courage to answer butchery with mercy. You have not harmed any of the noble children you hold as hostage.”

“Not as yet, no.” Dany had grown fond of her young charges. Some were shy and some were bold, some sweet and some sullen, but all were innocent. “If I kill my cupbearers, who will pour my wine and serve my supper?” she said, trying to make light of it.

9 Dany’s problems with her dragons

ADWD Daenerys I

Her dragons had grown too large to be content with rats and cats and dogs. The more they eat, the larger they will grow, Ser Barristan had warned her, and the larger they grow, the more they'll eat. Drogon especially ranged far afield and could easily devour a sheep a day.

“Reznak,” Ser Barristan said quietly, “hold your tongue and open your eyes. Those are no sheep bones.”

No, Dany thought, those are the bones of a child.

ADWD Daenerys II

The Great Masters had used the pit as a prison. It was large enough to hold five hundred men … and more than ample for two dragons. For how long, though? What will happen when they grow too large for the pit? Will they turn on one another with flame and claw? Will they grow wan and weak, with withered flanks and shrunken wings? Will their fires go out before the end?

What sort of mother lets her children rot in darkness?

ADWD Daenerys III

Dany wondered how many men thirteen galleys could hold. It had taken three to carry her and her khalasar from Qarth to Astapor, but that was before she had acquired eight thousand Unsullied, a thousand sellswords, and a vast horde of freedmen. And the dragons, what am I to do with them? “Drogon,” she whispered softly, “where are you?” For a moment she could almost see him sweeping across the sky, his black wings swallowing the stars.

ADWD Daenerys IV

Dany did not want to talk about the dragons. Farmers still came to her court with burned bones, complaining of missing sheep, though Drogon had not returned to the city. Some reported seeing him north of the river, above the grass of the Dothraki sea. Down in the pit, Viserion had snapped one of his chains; he and Rhaegal grew more savage every day. Once the iron doors had glowed red-hot, her Unsullied told her, and no one dared to touch them for a day.

ADWD Daenerys V

Brown Ben Plumm bulled over him. “Your Grace, the Yunkish got three free companies against our two, and there’s talk the Yunkishmen sent to Volantis to fetch back the Golden Company. Those bastards field ten thousand. Yunkai’s got four Ghiscari legions too, maybe more, and I heard it said they sent riders across the Dothraki sea to maybe bring some big khalasar down on us. We need them dragons, the way I see it.”

Dany sighed. “I am sorry, Ben. I dare not loose the dragons.” She could see that was not the answer that he wanted.

ADWD Daenerys VIII

The dragons craned their necks around, gazing at them with burning eyes. Viserion had shattered one chain and melted the others. He clung to the roof of the pit like some huge white bat, his claws dug deep into the burnt and crumbling bricks. Rhaegal, still chained, was gnawing on the carcass of a bull. The bones on the floor of the pit were deeper than the last time she had been down here, and the walls and floors were black and grey, more ash than brick. They would not hold much longer … but behind them was only earth and stone. Can dragons tunnel through rock, like the firewyrms of old Valyria? She hoped not.

The Dornish prince had gone as white as milk. “I … I had heard that there were three.”

“Drogon is hunting.” He did not need to hear the rest. “The white one is Viserion, the green is Rhaegal. I named them for my brothers.”

Rhaegal roared in answer, and fire filled the pit, a spear of red and yellow. Viserion replied, his own flames gold and orange. When he flapped his wings, a cloud of grey ash filled the air. Broken chains clanked and clattered about his legs.

[...] “You ... you mean to ride them?”

“One of them. [...] Aegon the Conqueror never dared mount Vhagar or Meraxes, nor did his sisters ride Balerion the Black Dread. [...] Balerion had other riders after Aegon died ... but no rider ever flew two dragons.”

Viserion hissed again. Smoke rose between his teeth, and deep down in his throat they could see gold fire churning.

[...] Dany gave her wild children one last lingering look. She could hear the dragons screaming as she led the boy back to the door, and see the play of light against the bricks, reflections of their fires. If I look back, I am lost.

10 Dany’s delay of her campaign in the west

ASOS Daenerys V

“Then what do you advise, Ser Jorah?”

“You will not like it.” 

“I would hear it all the same.”

“As you wish. I say, let this city be. You cannot free every slave in the world, Khaleesi. Your war is in Westeros.”

“I have not forgotten Westeros.” Dany dreamt of it some nights, this fabled land that she had never seen. “If I let Meereen’s old brick walls defeat me so easily, though, how will I ever take the great stone castles of Westeros?”

“As Aegon did,” Ser Jorah said, “with fire. By the time we reach the Seven Kingdoms, your dragons will be grown. And we will have siege towers and trebuchets as well, all the things we lack here ... but the way across the Lands of the Long Summer is long and grueling, and there are dangers we cannot know. You stopped at Astapor to buy an army, not to start a war. Save your spears and swords for the Seven Kingdoms, my queen. Leave Meereen to the Meereenese and march west for Pentos.”

“Defeated?” said Dany, bristling.

“When cowards hide behind great walls, it is they who are defeated, Khaleesi,” Ko Jhogo said.

Her other bloodriders concurred. “Blood of my blood,” said Rakharo, “when cowards hide and burn the food and fodder, great khals must seek for braver foes. This is known.”

“It is known,” Jhiqui agreed, as she poured.

“Not to me.” Dany set great store by Ser Jorah’s counsel, but to leave Meereen untouched was more than she could stomach. She could not forget the children on their posts, the birds tearing at their entrails, their skinny arms pointing up the coast road. “Ser Jorah, you say we have no food left. If I march west, how can I feed my freedmen?”

Dany had left a trail of corpses behind her when she crossed the red waste. It was a sight she never meant to see again. “No,” she said. “I will not march my people off to die.” My children.

ASOS Daenerys VI

All my victories turn to dross in my hands, she thought. Whatever I do, all I make is death and horror. When word of what had befallen Astapor reached the streets, as it surely would, tens of thousands of newly freed Meereenese slaves would doubtless decide to follow her when she went west, for fear of what awaited them if they stayed ... yet it might well be that worse would await them on the march. Even if she emptied every granary in the city and left Meereen to starve, how could she feed so many? The way before her was fraught with hardship, bloodshed, and danger. Ser Jorah had warned her of that. He’d warned her of so many things ... he’d ... No, I will not think of Jorah Mormont. Let him keep a little longer.

That morning she summoned her captains and commanders to the garden, rather than descending to the audience chamber. “Aegon the Conqueror brought fire and blood to Westeros, but afterward he gave them peace, prosperity, and justice. But all I have brought to Slaver’s Bay is death and ruin. I have been more khal than queen, smashing and plundering, then moving on.”

“There is nothing to stay for,” said Brown Ben Plumm.

“Your Grace, the slavers brought their doom on themselves,” said Daario Naharis.

“You have brought freedom as well,” Missandei pointed out.

“Freedom to starve?” asked Dany sharply. “Freedom to die? Am I a dragon, or a harpy?” Am I mad? Do I have the taint?

“A dragon,” Ser Barristan said with certainty. “Meereen is not Westeros, Your Grace.”

“But how can I rule seven kingdoms if I cannot rule a single city?” He had no answer to that. Dany turned away from them, to gaze out over the city once again. “My children need time to heal and learn. My dragons need time to grow and test their wings. And I need the same. I will not let this city go the way of Astapor. I will not let the harpy of Yunkai chain up those I’ve freed all over again.” She turned back to look at their faces. “I will not march.”

“What will you do then, Khaleesi?” asked Rakharo.

“Stay,” she said. “Rule. And be a queen.”

ADWD Daenerys III

“Those left behind in Meereen would envy them their easy deaths,” moaned Reznak. “They will make slaves of us, or throw us in the pits. All will be as it was, or worse.”

“Where is your courage?” Ser Barristan lashed out. “Her Grace freed you from your chains. It is for you to sharpen your swords and defend your own freedom when she leaves.”

“Brave words, from one who means to sail into the sunset,” Symon Stripeback snarled back. “Will you look back at our dying?”

“Your Grace—”

“Magnificence—”

“Your Worship—”

“Enough.” Dany slapped the table. “No one will be left to die. You are all my people.” Her dreams of home and love had blinded her. “I will not abandon Meereen to the fate of Astapor. It grieves me to say so, but Westeros must wait.”

“My lord, I will gladly have those ships, but I cannot give you the promise that you ask.” She took his hand. “Give me the galleys, and I swear that Qarth will have the friendship of Meereen until the stars go out. Let me trade with them, and you will have a good part of the profits.”

Xaro’s glad smile died upon his lips. “What are you saying? Are you telling me you will not go?”

“I cannot go.”

ADWD Daenerys IV

“Your Grace, may I speak frankly?”

“Always.”

“There is a third choice.”

“Westeros?”

He nodded. “I am sworn to serve Your Grace, and to keep you safe from harm wherever you may go. My place is by your side, whether here or in King’s Landing … but your place is back in Westeros, upon the Iron Throne that was your father’s. The Seven Kingdoms will never accept Hizdahr zo Loraq as king.”

“No more than Meereen will accept Daenerys Targaryen as queen. The Green Grace has the right of that. I need a king beside me, a king of old Ghiscari blood. Elsewise they will always see me as the uncouth barbarian who smashed through their gates, impaled their kin on spikes, and stole their wealth.”

“In Westeros you will be the lost child who returns to gladden her father’s heart. Your people will cheer when you ride by, and all good men will love you.”

“Westeros is far away.”

“Lingering here will never bring it any closer. The sooner we take our leave of this place—”

“I know. I do.” Dany did not know how to make him see. She wanted Westeros as much as he did, but first she must heal Meereen. “Ninety days is a long time. Hizdahr may fail. And if he does, the trying buys me time. Time to make alliances, to strengthen my defenses, to—”

“And if he does not fail? What will Your Grace do then?”

“Her duty.”

ADWD Daenerys VII

“...The Frog has a gift for you.”

[...] “And who is he?”

He shrugged. “Some Dornish boy. He squires for the big knight they call Greenguts. I told him he could give his gift to me and I’d deliver it, but he wouldn’t have it.”

“May we know what it says, Your Grace?” asked Ser Barristan.

“It is a secret pact,” Dany said, “made in Braavos when I was just a little girl. Ser Willem Darry signed for us, the man who spirited my brother and myself away from Dragonstone before the Usurper’s men could take us. Prince Oberyn Martell signed for Dorne, with the Sealord of Braavos as witness.” She handed the parchment to Ser Barristan, so he might read it for himself. “The alliance is to be sealed by a marriage, it says. In return for Dorne’s help overthrowing the Usurper, my brother Viserys is to take Prince Doran’s daughter Arianne for his queen.”

The old knight read the pact slowly. “If Robert had known of this, he would have smashed Sunspear as he once smashed Pyke, and claimed the heads of Prince Doran and the Red Viper ... and like as not, the head of this Dornish princess too.”

“No doubt that was why Prince Doran chose to keep the pact a secret,” suggested Daenerys. “If my brother Viserys had known that he had a Dornish princess waiting for him, he would have crossed to Sunspear as soon as he was old enough to wed.”

“And thereby brought Robert’s warhammer down upon himself, and Dorne as well,” said Frog. “My father was content to wait for the day that Prince Viserys found his army.”

“Your father?”

“Prince Doran.”

“...You mean to marry me. Is that the way of it? The gift you bring me is your own sweet self. Instead of Viserys and your sister, you and I must seal this pact if I want Dorne.”

ADWD Daenerys VIII

“...Your Grace, if I may be so bold, there is another road …”

“The Dornish road?” Dany sighed. The three Dornishmen had been at the feast, as befit Prince Quentyn’s rank, though Reznak had taken care to seat them as far as possible from her husband. Hizdahr did not seem to be of a jealous nature, but no man would be pleased by the presence of a rival suitor near his new bride. “The boy seems pleasant and well spoken, but …”

“House Martell is ancient and noble, and has been a leal friend to House Targaryen for more than a century, Your Grace. I had the honor of serving with Prince Quentyn’s great-uncle in your father’s seven. Prince Lewyn was as valiant a brother-in-arms as any man could wish for. Quentyn Martell is of the same blood, if it please Your Grace.”

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

“Sunspear has never been a sea power, Your Grace.”

“No.” Dany knew enough of Westerosi history to know that. Nymeria had landed ten thousand ships upon Dorne’s sandy shores, but when she wed her Dornish prince she had burned them all and turned her back upon the sea forever. “Dorne is too far away. To please this prince, I would need to abandon all my people. You should send him home.”

“Dornishmen are notoriously stubborn, Your Grace. Prince Quentyn’s forebears fought your own for the better part of two hundred years. He will not go without you.”

Then he will die here, Daenerys thought, unless there is more to him than I can see.

#daenerys targaryen #a dance with dragons #a storm of swords #dany passages

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