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layce2015 · 9 months

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Supernatural (Dean Winchester x Female!Reader)

It's The Great Pumpkin, Sam Winchester

Masterlist

One Day Before Halloween

"Now how many razor blades did they find?" Sam asked Mrs Wallace while Dean and I were looking around the kitchen. Mrs. Wallace sighs and responds, her voice full if tears. "Two on the floor, one in his stomach and one was stuck in his throat. He swallowed four of them." she said then she looks over at Sam.

"How is that even possible?" She asked then she noticed Dean looking around the front of the stove and in the oven door. "The candy was never in the oven." she tells him. "We just have to be thorough, Mrs. Wallace." Dean said and I turn to Mrs Wallace.

"Did the police find any razors in the rest of the candy?" I asked her. "No, I mean, I don’t think so." she said as she shakes her head then sighs again. "I just – I can’t believe it. You hear urban legends about this stuff, but it actually happens?" she said as she turns back to Sam. "More than you might imagine." Sam said and Dean emerges from the floor, and shows me first then Sam a hex bag, behind Mrs. Wallace’s back so she can’t see, and makes sure to keep her from seeing it.

Sam sighs and looks at her. "Mrs. Wallace, did Luke have any enemies?" He asked her and she looks at him. "Enemies?" she asked, disbelieving. "Anyone who might have held a grudge against him?" Sam asked her. "What do you mean?" she asked. "Co-workers? Neighbors? Maybe a woman." Sam listed off and I could see Mrs Wallace was taken aback about what he was suggesting.

"Are you suggesting an affair?" she asked, offended. "Is it possible?" I asked her and she turns to me, looking shocked and offended. "No! No, Luke would nev–" she stammers but Sam speaks up to get her attention back to him. "I’m very sorry. We just have to consider all possibilities." he said.

"If someone wanted to kill my husband, don’t you think they’d find a better way than a razor in a piece of candy he might eat?" She asked and Sam looks over at me and Dean.

At the motel, Sam and I were sitting on a couch, with his laptop and a few books on the coffee table in front of us. I was flipping the pages of the books as Sam picks up something from the hex bag that looks organic, and holds it up. Dean enters the room and tosses his keys on the table under the window, and unwraps a piece of candy before tossing it in his mouth.

"Really? After that guy choked down all those razor blades?" I asked him. "It’s Halloween, man." he said and I shake my head. "Yeah, for us every day is Halloween." Sam adds as Dean sits down on the arm of the couch and looks at our research.

"Don’t be a downer. Anything interesting?" he asked. "Well, we’re on a witch hunt, that’s for sure, but this isn’t your typical hex bag." I said and Sam starts to indicate the hex bag that is open now on the table. There is a silver piece, the size of a coin, and something small and charred in addition to the organic thing, it kinda looked like a dried up flower.

"Hmm, no?" Dean said and Sam picks up the dried up flower looking piece. "Goldthread, an herb that’s been extinct for two hundred years. And this –" He said as he sets down the goldthread then picks up the silver piece. "..is Celtic, and I don’t mean some new age knock-off. It looks like the real deal, like 600 years old real." he explains and Dean picks up the small charred item and smells it.

"And that is the charred metacarpal bone of a newborn baby." I said to him. "Ugh." Dean said and he puts the bone down, and looks disgusted while I chuckle. "Gross." Dean said, disgusted, while Sam picks up the bone.

"Relax man, it’s like, at least a hundred years old." Sam said. "Oh, right, like that makes it better? Witches, man, they’re so friggin’ skeevy." said Dean as he moves over to the chair next to the couch and sits down. "Yeah, well it takes a pretty powerful one to put a bag like this together. More juice than we’ve ever dealt with, that’s for sure." Sam said.

"What about you? Find anything on the victim?" I asked Dean. "This Luke Wallace? He was so vanilla that he made vanilla seem spicy." Dean said and Sam scoffs at their lack of leads. "I can’t find any reason why somebody would want this guy dead." Dean said and I let out a heavy sigh as I look over the hex bag items, as if the answers were all there in plain sight.

That night, we hear about a murder at a Halloween party. Some young girl has drowned and burned to death while doing the bobble for apples game. Two of her friends were there as witnesses. We make our way down the stairs to the scene of the crime, where the girl, Jenny, was killed.

There is a guy with a ‘Forensic’ jacket on taking pictures of the bobbing for apples tub, and a police officer talking to one of the witness, a pretty blonde girl that was wearing a cheerleader costume.

"Have you been drinking?" The officer asked her. "Yes." she replied and I look between the boys and said. "I'll go talk to her." They nod and I walk to the cop and girl while the boys walk over to the couch and start lifting the cushions, looking for a hex bag.

"It’s just so weird. The water in the tub – it wasn’t hot, I had just been in there myself." the girl said and I go up to her and the officer. "Your friend didn’t happen to know a man named Luke Wallace?" I asked her and she turns to me then I show her my badge. "Agent Seger, F.B.I." I said and she gives me a confused look.

"Um, who’s Luke Wallace?" she asked. "He died yesterday." I replied. "I don’t know who that is." the girl said, shaking her head. Then I look over at the couch, which was behind the girl, and see Sam holdong up a hex bag that he has found in the couch cushions. I nod at him and Dean before I look back over to the girl.

"I’m telling you, both these vics are squeaky clean. There is no reason for a wicked bitch payback." Dean said as he looks through his computer. We were back at the motel, trying to find anything on the victims; Dean was on his computer and Sam and I were reading through books.

"Maybe cause it’s not about that." Sam said and I look up to see him sitting up and looking intently at the book in his hand. Dean and I look at him, questioningly. "Wow, insightful." Dean said with sarcasm.

"Maybe this witch isn’t working the grudge, maybe they’re working a spell. Check this out." Sam said and he begins to read from the book. "Three blood sacrifices over three days, the last before midnight on the final day of the final harvest. Celtic Calendar, the final day of the final harvest is October 31st." Sam said and he hands Dean the book and I go over to stand next to Dean and look down at the book.

"Halloween." Dean and I said. "Exactly." Sam said. "What exactly are the, uh, blood sacrifices for?" Dean asked. "Uh, if I’m right, this witch is summoning a demon, and not just any demon – Samhain." Sam explained and my eyes widen at this while Dean gives him a confused.

"Am I supposed to be impressed?" Dean asked and I turn to him. "Dean, Samhain is the damn origin of Halloween." I said and Sam nods. "She's right. The Celts believe that October 31st was the one night of the year when the veil was the thinnest between the living and the dead, and it was Samhain’s night. I mean, masks were put on to hide from him, sweets left on doorsteps to appease him, faces carved into pumpkins to worship him. He was exorcised centuries ago." Sam said.

"So even though Samhain took a trip downstairs, the tradition stuck." Dean said. "Exactly, only now instead of demons and blood orgies Halloween is all about kids, candy and costumes." I said. "Okay, so some witch wants to raise Samhain and take back the night?" Dean asked and Sam sighs.

"Dean, this is serious." Sam said.

"I am serious." Dean said.

"We’re talking heavyweight witchcraft. This ritual can only be performed every six hundred years." Sam said. "And the six hundred year marker rolls around…?" Dean asked and Sam gives him a serious face. "Tomorrow night." Sam said. "Naturally." Dean grumbles and he looks down at the book he has flipped to a page showing a demon on a heap of bodies holding a head in his hand.

"Well it sure is a lot of death and destruction for one demon." He said. "That’s because he likes company. Once he's raised, Samhain can do some raising of his own." Sam explains. "Raising what, exactly?" Dean asked. "Dark, evil crap and lots of it, I mean, they follow him around like the friggin' Pied Piper." said Sam.

"So we're talking ghosts." Dean said.

"Yeah." said Sam.

"Zombies." Dean listed.

"Mm-hmm." Sam said, nodding.

"Leprechauns?" Dean asked and Sam scoffs while I roll my eyes. "Dean –" I said, exasperated. "Those little dudes are scary. Small hands." Dean said and I shake my head. "Look, it just starts with ghosts and ghouls, this sucker keeps on going, by night's end we are talking every awful thing we have ever seen. Everything we fight, all in one place." said Sam. "It’s gonna be a slaughterhouse." I remarked and the boys nod.

Later, Dean and I were sitting in the Impala outside of Mrs Wallace's house watching; well I was watching, Dean was eating candy. "You know you're gonna get sick if you keep eating those." I said as I gesture to the candy. “Oh please the worst I could get is a sugar rush.” he remarks as he stuffs another piece of chocolate in his mouth. "Or an upset stomach." I sneered at him and he gives me a pointed look. "And cavities." I added.

And he just rolled his eyes and kept eating his candy, while his mouth is still open, just to annoy me. "Hey, I just like my men to have all of their teeth." I remarked and he turns to me and I could tell he was thinking of a comeback but was stopped when his phone rings.

"Hey." he answered and I figured it was Sam. "Awesome, yeah, (y/n) and I talked with Mrs. Razor Blade again. We’ve been sitting out in front of her house for hours and we’ve got a big steamy pile of nothing." He explained to Sam and at that moment I noticed something.

It was that blonde cheerleader, Tracy, walking towards Mrs Wallace's house. "Yeah, well I hope we find ‘em soon cause I’m starting to cramp like a –" Dean started to say but I patted his shoulder and said. "Dean! Look!"

Dean looks over and his body freezes as he sees her. "Son of a bitch." he said, shocked. "No, Sam, I mean, son of a bitch." Dean said and we watch Tracy walk up to the door, knock, and Mrs Wallace opens it with the baby in her arms.

"Hey." we hear Tracy say. "Hi." Mrs Wallace said and Tracy looks at the baby. "Hi!" she said and Dean and I exchange a look.

"So, our apple-bobbing cheerleader?" Sam asked as Dean and I enter the motel. Dean throws the motel room key onto the table and Sam was lying on the bed with his laptop open. "Tracy?" Dean said. "Mm-hmm?" Sam hummed, nodding. "The Wallaces' babysitter. Told me she never even heard of Luke Wallace." I said.

"Huh, interesting look for a centuries-old witch." Sam said. "Yeah, well, if you were a six-hundred-year-old hag and you could pick any costume to come back in, wouldn't you go for a hot cheerleader?" Dean said then he goes to sit on the other bed. "I would, hmm…" he said and he gets lost in thought about that.

Sam and I look at him with a furrowed brow before I go and pick up a pillow and throw it at Dean. "Ow!" He said and he looks over at me. "What?!" He asked in an innocent voice and I raise an eyebrow at him.

"Well, Tracy’s not as wholesome as she looks. Did some digging – apparently she got into a violent altercation with one of her teachers, got suspended from school." Sam said and he hands me the laptop, and I sit down next to Dean and we see what is on the screen. Next to a picture of Tracy were these notes:

NOTE: Student was suspended for a violent act on a teacher.

STUDENT NAME Tracy Davis

ADDRESS 27 Lirewenshire Lane

PARENT NAME Jerome Walker Davis

PARENT NAME Mary Jane Kanoli Davis

STUDENT EMAIL [email protected]

PARENT EMAIL [email protected]

GRADE 11

HOME ROOM Mr. Goldwyn

COUNCELLOR Mrs. Parks

EMERGENCY CONTACT Mary Davis 555-0892

Later, we make our way into the high school to talk to the teacher Tracy attacked. We walk into a room full of art masks, and Dean looks up at a particular demonic looking one, and focuses on it. "Bring back memories?" I asked Dean and he jolts a bit then turns to me.

"What do you mean?" he asked. "Being a teenager, all that angst." I said. "Oh." Dean sighs, almost sounding relieved, and I furrow my brow at him. "What’d you think I meant?" I asked him. "Nothing." Dean said as Sam comes up to us.

Then Dean looks over at a kid, who is putting a big bong-shaped piece into a kiln. "Now that brings back memories." Dean said, nodding to the kid, and I roll my eyes. "Dude, I need a bigger kiln." The kid said to his friend and they walk out as a man comes around the corner to us.

"You three wanna talk to me?" He asked. "Ah, Mr. Harding." Sam said as he walks up to us. "Oh, please, Don." Don said and he reaches for Sam's hand. "Okay, Don." Sam said after they shake hands then Don reaches for mine then for Dean's. "Even my students call me Don." Don said. "Yeah, we get it, Don." Dean said and I elbow his side before we pull out our badges.

"I’m Agent Getty, this is Agent Lee and Agent Jones. We just had a few questions about, uh, Tracy Davis." Dean said and Don gives a surprised look. "Uh, yeah, Tracy, uh, bright kid, loads of talent. It’s a shame she got suspended." He said.

"Uh, you two had a…uh, violent altercation." I said, questioningly. "Yeah, she exploded. If Principal Murrow hadn’t walked by when he did, Tracy would have clawed my eyes out." Don replied. "Why?" Sam asked. "I, uh, you know, I was only trying to rap with her about her work. It had gotten inappropriate and disturbing." Don said.

"More disturbing, than, uh, those guys?" Dean asked as he turns and indicates to the angry masks hanging on the wall and ceiling. "She would cover page after page with these bizarre cryptic symbols, and then there were the drawings. Detailed images of killings, gory, primitive, and she would depict herself in the middle of them, participating." Don said and Sam's eyes widen at this.

"Symbols, what kind of symbols? Uh, anything like this?" Sam asked as he shows Don a small bag with the silver Celtic coin in it. "Yeah, yeah, I think that might have been one of them." Don said.

"You know where Tracy is now?" I asked him. "I would imagine her apartment." Don replied. "Her apartment?" Dean asked. "Yeah, she got here about a year ago, alone, as I understood it, as an emancipated teen. God only knows what her parents were like." Don said and the boys and I exchange surprised looks.

Hours later, Dean drives up to the motel and parks the car and gets out as Sam and I walk up to the passenger side of the Impala from another direction. "So?" Dean asked us. "Tracy was nowhere we could find." Sam said. "Any luck with her friends?" I asked Dean. "Nah, luck is not our style. Her friends don’t know where she is. It’s like the bitch popped a broomstick." Dean said.

We make our way toward our motel room, and a kid dressed as an astronaut starts to walk toward us. "She could be making the third sacrifice any time." Sam said. "Yes, thank you Sam." Dean grumbles as the kid walks up to us and holds up a bucket of candy.

"Trick or treat." The kid said. "This is a motel." Dean said. "So?" the kid said. "So we don’t have any candy." Dean said. "No, we have a ton in the uh…" Sam said as he looks back and points toward the Impala. "We did, but it’s gone." Dean said and Sam looks at Dean, getting his meaning, but I roll my eyes and take my backpack off of my back.

"Not necessarily." I said as I dig in my bag and pull out a handful of candy. I see the smile form on the kid's face and I put the candy in his bucket. "There you go, kid." I said. "Thanks, lady." The kid said and I smirk. "Just don't eat it all at once." I warned and the kid's smile grows, nods and leaves.

I watch the kid then turn back to the boys and I can see Dean has a confused look. "What? I grabbed some candy before you could eat it all." I said to Dean and Sam and I head to the motel room.

We enter the motel room and, immediately, Sam draws his gun, and moves forward in an offensive stance, ready to attack, once we see a man inside. "Who are you?!" Sam asked as I got to pull out my gun but Dean rushes in, and tries to stop us. "Sam! Guys, wait! It’s Castiel." he said as he puts his hand on Sam’s gun and pushes it down, and I holster my gun as Sam stands there stunned.

"The angel." Dean said and I look at Castiel, remembering that he knocked me and Bobby out a few months ago. "Him, I don’t know." Dean said as he points at a figure that is standing by the window.

Sam looks at Castiel in wonder and a smile crosses his face. "Hello, Sam." Castiel said to him. "Oh my God – er – uh – I didn’t mean to – sorry. It’s an honor, really, I – I’ve heard a lot about you." Sam said as he steps forward and holds out his hand to shake Castiel's hand.

Dean goes and closes the door to our room, and Castiel looks at Sam’s hand like he isn’t sure what to do with it. Sam shakes it a little, and Castiel finally understands and puts his right hand in Sam’s. "And I, you. Sam Winchester –" he said. "The boy with the demon blood." Then Castiel turns to me.

"Hello, (y/n) (l/n). The girl with the demon blood. I'm sorry about knocking you out the last time I saw you." He said and I fold my arms across my chest. "Yeah, not a good first impression." I said as I fold my arms across my chest.

Castiel then turns to Sam. "Glad to see you’ve ceased your extracurricular activities." he said then the guy, still facing the window, speaks for the first time. "Let’s keep it that way." he said and we all turn to the man. "Yeah, okay, chuckles." Dean said then he looks at Castiel.

"Who’s your friend?" He asked but Castiel ignores him. "This the raising of Samhain, have you stopped it?" Castiel asked him. "Why?" Dean asked, curiously. "Dean, have you located the witch?" Castiel asked. "Yes, we’ve located the witch." Dean said.

"And is the witch dead?" Castiel asked. "No, but –" Sam said but I speak over him. "We know who it is." I added and Castiel walks over to the table by the bed. "Apparently the witch knows who you are too." Castiel said and he picks up a hex bag and shows it to us.

"This was inside the wall of your room. If we hadn’t found it, surely one or all of you would be dead." Castiel said and he tosses the hex bag to Sam. "Do you know where the witch is now?" He asked us and the boys and I exchange a look

"We’re working on it." Dean replied and Castiel looks a bit disappointed. "That’s unfortunate." he mutters. "What do you care?" I asked Castiel. "The raising of Samhain is one of the 66 seals." Castiel said. "So this is about your buddy Lucifer." Dean said.

"Lucifer is no friend of ours." Castiel's friend said. "It’s just an expression." I clarified to him. "Lucifer cannot rise. The breaking of the seal must be prevented at all costs." Castiel said. "Okay, great, well now that you’re here, why don’t you tell us where the witch is, we’ll gank her and everybody goes home." Dean said. "We are not omniscient. This witch is very powerful, she’s cloaked even our methods." Castiel said.

"Okay, well we already know who she is, so if we work together –" Sam said but Castiel's friend speaks up. "Enough of this." he said and we look over at him.

"Okay, who are you and why should I care?" Dean asked him and the man turns from the window and looks at Dean. "This is Uriel, he’s what you might call a…specialist." Castiel said as Uriel, a tall bald black man, walks toward us.

"What kind of specialist? What are you gonna do?" I asked, suspiciously. "You – uh, all three of you – you need to leave this town immediately." Castiel said. "Why?" Dean asked. "Because we’re about to destroy it." Castiel said, leaving me speechless.

"So this is your plan, you’re gonna smite the whole friggin’ town?" Dean asked Castiel after a moment of silence. "We’re out of time. This witch has to die, the seal must be saved." Castiel replied. "There are a thousand people here." Sam said. "One thousand two hundred fourteen." Uriel corrected.

"And you’re willing to kill them all?" I asked him, angrily. "This isn’t the first time I’ve…purified a city." Uriel said. "Look, I understand this is regrettable." Castiel said. "Regrettable?" Dean asked. "We have to hold the line. Too many seals have broken already." Castiel said.

"So you screw the pooch on some seals and this town has to pay the price?" Dean asked. "It’s the lives of one thousand against the lives of six billion. There’s a bigger picture here." Castiel said and I roll my eyes. "Right, cause you’re bigger picture kind of guys." I said. "Lucifer cannot rise. He does and hell rises with him. Is that something that you’re willing to risk?" Castiel said as he walks up to me. "We'll stop this witch before she summons anyone. Your seal won't be broken and no one has to die." Sam said.

"We're wasting time with these mud monkeys." Uriel growls and Castiel turns away from the trio and turns to Uriel. "I’m sorry, but we have our orders." Castiel said and Sam and I jump at this. "No, you can’t do this, you’re angels, I mean aren’t you supposed to – You’re supposed to show mercy." Sam said

"Says who?" Uriel asked, venomously. "We have no choice." Castiel said. "Of course you have a choice. I mean, come on, what? You’ve never questioned a crap order, huh? What are you both, just a couple of hammers?" Dean asked. "Look, even if you can’t understand it, have faith. The plan is just." said Castiel.

"How can you even say that?" I asked, upset. "Because it comes from heaven, that makes it just." Castiel replied. "Oh, it must be nice, to be so sure of yourselves." Dean sneers and Castiel turns to him. "Tell me something, Dean, when your father gave you an order, didn’t you obey?" he asked and Dean looks at Castiel and takes a second before responding. "Well sorry boys, looks like the plans have changed."

"You think you can stop us?" Uriel asked and Dean walks over and gets into Uriel's face. "No, but if you’re gonna smite this whole town, then you’re gonna have to smite us with it, because we are not leaving. See, you went to the trouble of busting me out of hell. I figure I’m worth something to the man upstairs. So you wanna waste me, go ahead, see how he digs that." he said. "I will drag you out of here myself." Uriel growls.

"Yeah, but you’ll have to kill me, then we’re back to the same problem. I mean, come on, you're gonna wipe out a whole town for one little witch. Sounds to me like you're compensating for something." Dean said then he turns back and looks at Castiel. "We can do this. We will find that witch and we will stop the summoning." he said.

"Castiel! I will not let these peop–" Uriel started to shout but Castiel holds up his hand at Uriel. "Enough!" he bellows then he stares at Dean for a second. "I suggest you move quickly." Castiel said.

Seconds later, Dean, Sam and I walk out of the room and towards the Impala and we enter inside. "What?" Dean asked Sam as I get into the backseat. "Nothing." Sam grumbles and I look over at him and see him holding the hex bag in his hands then he takes a breath.

"I thought they’d be different." Sam said, disappointed, and I nod. "Who, the angels?" Dean asked. "Yeah." Sam said. "Well, I tried to tell ya." said Dean. "I thought they’d be righteous." I said. "Well, they are righteous, I mean, that’s kinda the problem. Of course there’s nothing more dangerous than some a-hole who thinks he’s on a holy mission." Dean said.

"But this is God? And Heaven? This is what I’ve been praying to?" Sam asked, upset. "Look man, I know you’re into the whole God thing, you know, Jesus on a tortilla and stuff like that. But just because there’s a couple of bad apples doesn’t mean the whole barrel’s rotten. I mean, for all we know, God hates these jerks. Don’t give up on this stuff, is all I’m saying. Babe Ruth was a dick but baseball’s still a beautiful game." Dean said and Sam looks at him, but I could tell that he lloved disappointed.

He starts to go through the contents of the hex bag in his hand, and picks up the bone. "Well, are you gonna figure out a way to find this witch, or are you just gonna sit there fingering your bone?" Dean asked, sarcastically, as he starts the Impala.

"You know how much heat it would take to char a bone like this, Dean?" Sam asked him. "No." Dean said as I think for a moment. "A lot, I mean, more than a fire or some kitchen oven." Sam said and I gasp as I realize what he was talking about. "Like a kiln?" I suggested and Sam nods then Dean has the Impala take off.

At the school, Dean and I walk over to a kiln in Don Harding’s classroom as Sam goes over to Don’s desk. "So Tracy used the kiln to char the bone, what’s the big deal?" Dean asked as Sam rifles through the stuff on Don’s desk as Dean and I walk over. "Dean, that hex bag turned up in our room, not after we talked to Tracy –" Sam said and I interrupt him.

"After we talked to the teacher." I said and Sam nods while he notices a bottom drawer of DON’s desk is locked with a latch. "Hey –" Sam said and Dean sees it and I kneel down, pull out a hair pin and use it to open the lock.

Once it unlocks, I open the drawer where there are bones in a bowl, one charred, the others not. I straighten up at this as we all stare at the drawer. "My God, those are all from children." Sam said. "And I’m guessing he’s not saving them for the dog." Dean said.

*3rd Person POV*

Don starts an incantation as Tracy was tied up with the rope and a rag wrapped around her mouth, stifling her cries as she struggles to get free. Don, standing in front of an alter, takes a knife and a chalice from the table and walks over to Tracy. He runs the tip of the knife down her neck, not drawing blood, but staring at her.

Don raises the knife above his head to stab her, and gets shot from behind three times. Dean, (y/n) and Sam come in, and Dean and (y/n) go over to Tracy to untie her as Sam checks Don’s body. Dean cuts Tracy down and (y/n) rips off the gag.

"Thank you, he was gonna kill me!" Tracy said, appreciatively, then she glares at Don. "Ugh, that sick son of a bitch. I mean, did you see what he was doing? Did you hear him? How sloppy his incantation was?" She asked and the trio look up at her.

"My brother –" Tracy revealed and the three hunters go to draw their guns again. "Always was a little dim." Tracy sneered and she throws up her hand and yells an incantation and the trio fly back hitting the ground, and writhing around in pain.

"He was gonna make me the final sacrifice, his idea, but now, that honor goes to him. Our master’s return? The spellwork’s a two man job you understand, so for six hundred years I had to deal with that pompous son of a bitch. Planning, preparing, unbearable." Tracy said as she kneels down by Don and picks up the knife and the chalice.

"The whole time I wanted to rip his face off." she said and starts digging the knife into Don's bullet wound, and holds the chalice up to catch the blood flow. She looks back over to the trio, who are still writhing in pain on the floor clutching their stomachs.

"And you get him with a gun, uh, love that." she laughs and she gets up and goes back to the altar on the table. "You know, back in the day, this was the one day you kept your children inside. Well tonight you’ll all see what Halloween really is." Tracy said, with a smile. Then she starts another incantation and Sam, still clutching his stomach in pain, makes his way to Don’s body, putting his hand in blood and smearing it on his face.

"What are you doing?" (y/n) asked him as she sees him. "Just follow my lead." Sam said and he spreads blood on Dean’s and (y/n)'s faces as well, and moves back away from Don.

As Tracy finishes the incantation the ground cracks and black smoke pours out of it, and into the body of Don. Dean, (y/n) and Sam were not able to stop his rising, and another seal has been broken. As he opens his eyes, Don’s eyes have turned white with the pupil staying black. The three hunters lie still on the floor, their torture finished. Don, or Samhain now, rises off the floor, and looks at Tracy’s back that is turned to him. His vision is blurry.

He walks over to her and she turns around smiling at him. Samhain kisses her. "My love." she said, smiling with love and happiness. "You’ve aged." Samhain points out. "This face…I can’t fool you." said Tracy. "Your beauty is beyond time." Samhain said as he leans in and their foreheads rest together before he suddenly snaps her neck sideways and she falls to the floor.

"Whore." He growled with disgust then he turns around as he sniffs the air and sees Dean, Sam and (y/n) lying on the floor. He walks over and looks at them for a second and sees their eyes closed, and after a second Samhain walks past them and leaves, shutting the door behind him.

Dean and (y/n) open their eyes and lean over to Sam, whispering so that Samhain doesn’t hear them. "What the hell was that?" Dean asked, quietly. "Halloween lore. People used to wear masks to hide from him, so I gave it a shot." Sam said and (y/n)'s eyes widen.

"You gave it a shot?!" She asked as she looks at Sam, not believing that they took a chance like that on an idea Sam had from reading lore.

Later, the trio walkout of the building and across the street toward the Impala, wiping the blood off their faces. "Where the hell are we gonna find this mook?" Dean asked. "Where would you go to raise other dark forces of the night?" Sam asked and (y/n) speaks up. "The cemetery." she said. "Yeah." Sam said and they get in the Impala and drive off.

"So, this demon’s pretty powerful." Sam said. "Yeah." Dean said. "Might take more than the usual weapons." Sam said then he glances over his shoulder at (y/n) and she realized what he was hinting. But Dean speaks up. "Sam, no, you and (y/n) are not using your psychic whatever. Don’t even think about it. Ruby’s knife is enough." he said.

"Why?" Sam and (y/n) asked him. "Well because the angels said so for one –" Dean started to say but Sam talks over him. "I thought you said they were a bunch of fanatics." Sam said. "Well they happen to be right about this one." Dean replied, quickly. "I don’t know, Dean, it doesn’t seem like they’re right about much." (y/n) said.

"Well then forget the angels, okay? You said yourself, Sam, these powers, it’s like playing with fire." Dean said and he picks up the knife and holds out the handle to Sam. "Please." he begs and Sam takes the knife from Dean but doesn’t say anything. Then Dean looks over at his girlfriend through the rear view mirror.

"That goes double for you too." He said to her and she sighs and leans back against the seat then looks out the window.

Meanwhile, there is rap music coming from a room in the mausoleum, and teenagers are walking around in costume. Justin, one of Don's students, was standing there looking around. "Dude, I’m tripping balls!" Justin exclaims then someone starts to walk down the stairs and he took notice.

"Yo, shh, be quiet, it’s the cops." Justin tells the other teens just as Samhain walks down the stairs and toward the room they are partying in. "Mr. Harding? I mean, Don?" Justin said, startled, once he sees his teacher coming in.

Samhain closes the gate to the room, and locks it. As he walks away he runs his hand across the gate. Justin tries the gate, but it doesn’t budge. "Don, you, uh, you locked us in." Justin said as he tries the door again, and it stays locked, but the doors to the crypts in the room start to shake.

The teenagers back away into corners, but Justin looks to one side, and begins to back to the other side. A door comes open, and hands reach out and grab his ankles. Justin screams as a zombie drags him off his feet and into the crypt, a second later blood splatters out of the crypt, squirting out and covering the ground in front of the crypt

The teens start to freak out and try to get the gate open. Sam, (y/n) and Dean come down the stairs then Sam looks at Dean and (y/n) and the people locked in the room. "Help them." Sam tells them but (y/n) grabs his arm. "Sam, you’re not going off alone." she tells him. "Do it!" Sam yells and he runs after Samhain and Dean and (y/n) looks after him for a second, but look back at the teens motioning for them to move.

"Stand back! Stand back!" Dean yells at them. The teens move away from the gate and Dean shots the lock, and kicks the door open to let them all out. "Go on, come on, get out, move!" (y/n) shouts at them.

After the teens all rush past them, Dean and (y/n) watch as a door of a grave in the mausoleum room crashes to the ground and breaks. A zombie crawls out of it, and stands up as another grave door crashes to the ground and the zombie in the next grave over starts to crawl out as well. The duo pull out a weapon as the second zombie gets up and holds up what looks like a silver stake.

"Bring it on, stinky." Dean yells and he and (y/n) began to fight the zombies.

Meanwhile, Sam is walking through the mausoleum looking for Samhain. He turns a corner and sees Samhain in a room facing the far wall. Sam tries to walk up to him silently, narrowing his eyes at the demon. Samhain turns around suddenly and throws up his arm, and a bright white light comes out of it. It dims, however, and Sam keeps walking toward Samhain.

"Yeah, that demon ray gun stuff? It doesn’t work on me." Sam growls and Samhain runs at Sam, and Sam throws an uppercut punch and they fight. Samhian finally pushes Sam against a wall by his neck, getting the upper hand.

There is a zombie with a silver stake coming out of its chest lying on the floor and Dean and (y/n) stab a couple more zombies to the ground with another silver stake right next to the first one. A pair of shoes walks up behind them with a pair of women's frail feet in them. The duo hear it and Dean grabs a stake before he turns around to stab her, but she flickers and disappears, and is behind him as he stands up fully.

He turns around and she motions both her hands at him and he flies across the room, sliding down the wall. (Y/n) runs at the ghost zombie but the creature motions her hands at her, making her hit the wall as well. "Zombie ghost orgy huh? Well, that’s it, I’m torching everybody." Dean growls while (y/n) shakes her head a bit. "I second that!" She shouts.

Sam manages to get the knife out, and tries to stab Samhain, and when it starts to cut into his skin, it sizzles and Samhain pushes it out of Sam’s hand, and whips Sam around and throws him into the wall across the room.

Sam gets up and Samhain looks at him, ready to attack, goes to run at Sam, but Sam puts up his hand, and uses his psychic power to stop him. Samhain struggles against Sam, but Sam manages to keep him from advancing too much.

After taking care of the ghost zombies, Dean and (y/n) come running around the corner and see Sam using his powers. Dean's face falls while (y/n)'s mouth drops in surprise. Sam sees Dean and (y/n) over the shoulder of Samhain, but continues. Sam has to use a lot more concentration than ever before, and his nose starts to bleed as blood pounds in his head and he grabs his head with the hand not holding Samhain at bay.

Finally, Sam exorcizes Samhain as his nose continues to bleed and the blood pounding in his head starts to slow down. Once Samhain is out of the body, Don’s eyes turn back to color and Sam can barely raise his eyes to meet Dean’s and (y/n)'s stare. This is the first time that Sam was aware of Dean and (y/n) being there to see him use his powers.

Last time, the duo was watching, but Sam didn’t know they were there until after. Dean looks at him sadly, and with a little bit of fear in his eyes, while (y/n) was surprised but also looked a bit impressed and alittle bit of fear.

One Day After Halloween

Sam is packing clothes into his duffel bag when (y/n) comes up to him, he turns his head to her. "Sam..." she said, softly, but he shakes his head. "(Y/n), don't..." he said. "I'm not gonna scold you, Sam. I just wanted to check on you." She said and Sam turns away and sighs.

"I'm fine." He mutters and (y/n) gives a sympathetic look to Sam's back. (Y/n) was about to speak up about what happened last night until a voice speaks up.

"Tomorrow." a deep voice said and both Sam and (y/n) jump at the voice and turn to see Uriel. "November 2nd, it’s an anniversary for you." Uriel said as he stares at Sam. "What are you doing here?" Sam asked him, angrily. "It’s the day Azazel killed your mother, and 22 years later your girlfriend too. It must be difficult to bear, yet you so brazenly use the power he gave you. His profane blood pumping through your veins." Uriel said and Sam narrows his eyes. "Excuse me?" he asked.

"You were told not to use your abilities." Uriel said to Sam. "And what was I supposed to do? That demon would have killed me, my best friend and my brother and everyone." Sam argued. "You were told not to." Uriel said, sounding like what Sam said didn't matter.

"If Samhain had gotten loose in this town –" Sam argues but Uriel talks over him. "You’ve been warned, twice now." he said, being stubborn, and (y/n) scoffs. "You know? Dean was right about you, you are dicks." She sneered and Uriel turns to her.

"The only reason he's still alive is because he's been useful. The same is said for you, (y/n) (l/n). But the moment that ceases to be true, the second you two become more trouble than you’re worth, one word. One, and I will turn both of you to dust." Uriel said then he backs off, but keeps talking as he glares back at Sam.

"As for your brother, tell him that maybe he should climb off that high horse of his. Ask Dean what he remembers from hell." he said. "What do you--" (y/n) started to ask but then there was a sound and Uriel was gone. Sam and (y/n) turn around and try to look for him.

Dean was sitting on a park bench, watching kids play. Then he glances to his left and saw Castiel next to him. He looks the other way, quickly. "Let me guess, you’re here for the I told you so." Dean said to Castiel. "No." Castiel replied. "Well, good, cause I’m really not that interested." Dean growls at him.

"I am not here to judge you, Dean." Castiel said. "Then why are you here?" Dean asked him, angrily.

"Our orders –"

"Yeah, you know, I’ve had about enough of these orders of yours –" Dean interrupts but Castiel shakes his head and speaks up again. "Our orders were not to stop the summoning of Samhain, they were to do whatever you told us to do." he said and Dean turns to look at him.

"Your orders were to follow my orders?" Dean asked him, confused. "It was a test, to see how you would perform under...battlefield conditions, you might say." Castiel replied. "It was a witch, not the Tet Offensive." Dean said and he sighs and shakes his head.

"So I, uh, failed your test, huh? I get it. But you know what? If you would have waved that magic time-traveling wand of yours and we had to do it all over again, I’d make the same call. 'Cause see, I don’t know what’s gonna happen when these seals are broken, hell I don’t even know what’s gonna happen tomorrow. But what I do know is, that this, here?" Dean said as he points at the kids playing. "These kids, the swings, the trees, all of it is still here because of my brother, my girlfriend and me.

"You misunderstand me, Dean, I’m not like you think. I was praying that you would choose to save the town." Castiel said. "You were?" asked Dean. "These people, they’re all my father’s creations. They’re works of art, and yet, even though you stopped Samhain, the seal was broken and we are one step closer to hell on earth, for all creation. Now that’s not an expression, Dean, it's literal. You of all people should appreciate what that means." Castiel said and Dean looks at him a little pained, and sad.

"Can I tell you something if you promise not to tell another soul?" Castiel asked him. "Okay." Dean said. "I’m not a…hammer as you say. I have questions, I have doubts. I don’t know what is right and what is wrong anymore, whether you passed or failed here. But in the coming months you will have more decisions to make. I don’t envy the weight that’s on your shoulders, Dean. I truly don’t." Castiel said.

They share a look, and Dean looks out to the kids again. When he looks back, Castiel is gone.

@rach5ive @kitsun369 @itzabbyxx @cevans-winchester @ellie-andthemachine

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fandomficsnstuff · 1 year

Text

The Dragon's Daughter - 1

(Warnings: mentions of someone burning alive (Mirri Maz Duur), think that’s all)

Dothraki will be in bold

High Valyrian will be in cursive

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“It's the greatest poverty to decide that a child must die so that you may live as you wish.”—Mother Teresa, Roman Catholic nun

Daenerys woke up to the screaming sounds of a newborn babe, the child squealing, inconsolable as the Dothraki woman tried and tried to get the babe to calm down, the child continuing to scream and cry and flail it’s small, chubby limbs around as though it was fighting for it’s life. Daenerys felt weak, like her very soul had been ripped from her and forced back in and it pained her to sit up, Jorah quickly kneeling by her, trying to get her to lay back down and rest when her ears finally registered that the screaming and crying came from inside the small tent she was in, her eyes moving to the babe, wide with shock, unsure if she should be relieved, fearful, angry, a wave of emotions running through her. Her eyes moved to Mirri Maz Duur who entered, the woman looking down at the crying babe before looking back at Daenerys who looked at the child. “She won’t eat, won’t sleep, won’t rest…” Mirri admitted too casually while the babe screamed with misery, Daenerys looking up at her with a gentle frown “‘she’?...”

“You had twins, Khaleesi, a boy and a girl… the boy was malformed, his skin scaly, like stretched leather and when I pulled him from you, he faded to dust in my hands, rotting from inside your womb…” Mirri stated coldly before gesturing to the babe that the woman tried to calm down with no success “I wanted the same thing for your daughter, her skin like fire itself and I thought of her fate, I tried burning her to stop her unnatural cries, but she was spared with only-”

“Only what?! Give me my daughter, now!” at the Khaleesi’s demand the squealing babe was brought to her, given to her and put in her arms and instantly the screaming stopped, the sobbing continuing and uncontrollable, rosy cheeks and small tufts of white hair on her forehead, her small eyes closed, the tiny eyelashes kissing the rosy cheeks as she squeezed her eyes together as she fussed a little more before calming down in the arms of the child’s mother, Daenerys frowning at the seemingly perfect child. “What? Nothing is wrong wi-”

“Her back, Khaleesi” the woman who had held the baby stated, Daenerys frowning as she carefully unwrapped the child, lifting it up and leaning it against her breast, her eyes landing on the small scales that ran along the babe’s spine, Jorah watching with a saddened frown but it soon vanished when he saw the tears in the mother’s eyes, the utter joy. “Khaleesi?” it was a silent question, were those tears of joy or sadness, Daenerys looking up at Jorah with joy “she’s perfect, nothing is wrong with her…” Daenerys sobbed quietly as she gently rocked her daughter, the fussing slowly dying down and the girl’s eyes opened, the new mother smiling down at the babe in her arms as the child opened it’s eyes and gazed up at her, her eyes nowhere near the Targaryen lilac color, instead it was a mix of gold, like burning golden coins that had yet to mold together into one mixture, the small specks obvious, making her uncommon slit pupils stand out even more, such unique eyes, they reminded her of what she thought a dragon’s eye would look like, strong and powerful and observant, the girl’s lips stretching into a toothless smile as she reached for her mother’s silver hair, pulling gently on it, making Daenerys laugh as she removed the tiny hand from her hair, feeling it wrap around her finger, the child squeezing her finger as tightly as it could and it sent a wave of warmth through the silver haired Khaleesi. “She’s so strong already… Drogo will love her… where is he? Where’s my husband? Where’s the father of my child?” Daenerys asked with joy, looking at the three people in the tent with her, other than the babe she was holding.

Daenerys felt weak as she walked after Mirri, the child in her arms heavier than she expected but she refused every person who offered to carry the babe, not even Jorah was allowed to touch the child as it clung to her, sleeping soundly in her arms until Daenerys saw her husband. Motionless, dead-looking if not for the small rise of his chest when he breathed, not even his eyes moved. Daenerys felt tears rise in her eyes after her anger had subsided, her knees hitting the warm stone under her and she leaned closer to Drogo, carefully placing the young babe on his chest in an attempt to evoke some kind of response from her husband. “It’s our child, my sun and stars… our daughter, Rhaella, our night’s sky…” yet nothing, nothing happened and Daenerys couldn’t help but let out a small sob.

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Daenerys gently rocked the babe in her arms, fingers grazing over her chubby cheeks as the child looked up at her, almost gazing at her, it brought tears of joy to her eyes and she turned her gaze to her immobile husband. “She’s beautiful, my sun and stars… She already has your strength. Our little dragon… our white horse riding along the black night’s sky… our little white dragon…” Daenerys whispered softly, stroking the small tufts of white hair on the babe’s forehead. Daenerys was careful in placing the babe against her chest and shoulder, her eyes landing on the scales that ran along the child’s spine, her fingers grazing them softly, her eyes traveling to the four dragon eggs laid out in front of her, her cheek pressing against her daughter’s head on her shoulder, Daenerys’ lilac eyes closed as she enjoyed the warmth of her child, her only child. “Nothing will happen to you, my night’s sky… not the blade of a sword, not the change of tide, not the fire nor ice of this world, nothing will touch you, blood of the dragon, blood of my blood… the white dragon of the Khalasaar and the Great Grass Sea” Daenerys whispered to her baby, her fingers dancing alone the spine of the child. Her eyes turned to her husband, tears rolling down her cheeks as she carefully hugged the babe in her arms even tighter, making sure not to hurt the precious child, the embodiment of her love for her husband, the last remaining piece of him she had left aside from the lion skin he hunted for her.

Daenerys moved to stand up, laying in bed with her husband, their child on his chest, on her stomach, her small chubby hands grabbing at his beard, tugging at it and laughing and giggling, Daenerys watching it unfold with a smile despite the tears of sadness and despair that stained her cheeks. “She grows so fast, doesn’t she, my sun and stars? Already so strong… it’s only been a week…” Daenerys marveled, smiling at the baby girl who could barely hold her own head up, yet she tried, she tried so hard it almost made Daenerys worry for her newborn daughter. Daenerys sat up as she saw Jorah enter the tent, her hand on the babe’s spine, over the scales, as Jorah frowned at her, a look of regret on his face. “More and more are leaving every day, Khaleesi… the Khal has to recover, soon… or you won’t be Khaleesi anymore, your daughter will not be safe from their blood-lust… she will be their first targ-”

“No one will touch my child… no one will hurt my white dragon” Daenerys stated with anger, the babe beginning to cry at the change in atmosphere. Daenerys gently picked up the babe, rocking the child in her arms as she smiled down at the child who began to grow silent again. “There, it’s alright, my night’s sky…” she whispered, grinning down at the child, Jorah unable to not smile at the sight. “You’re already a good mother, Khaleesi” he praised, Daenerys smiling up at him before looking back down at the child, her smile slowly fading as she sighed softly. “What are they saying?...” she asked quietly, Jorah sighing as he sat down inside the tent, near Daenerys, Drogo and Rhaella. “They-... they call her a curse… a malformed child from the cursed union of a dragon and a stallion… they say she will devour them all in the night, as a dragon of the old days would… it’s why most of them are leaving, they fear the child more than they fear the black sea” Jorah admitted, knowing that lying wouldn’t do him any good, not to him, Daenerys or the babe in her arms. Daenerys frowned at him, desperation clear in her eyes as she gently shook her head “devour them?? She’s just a babe, she can’t even hold her own head up, yet they fear her??” Daenerys asked in shock and disbelief, Jorah sighing softly as he looked down. “Not everyone sees her as you do, Khaleesi. You are her mother, you gave birth to her, her scales and eyes are ones of beauty to you, not to them…”

“And what do you think? Are they beautiful, or cursed?” Daenerys asked quietly, her eyes on the baby in her arms that gazed lovingly up at her, making her heart swell with utter pride and joy. “She is the blood of the last dragon, Khaleesi, her scales are both beautiful and cursed, her eyes is that of the old dragons of Valyria” Jorah stated softly, Daenerys frowning down at the child before sighing “perhaps they need to see her? See that she’s just a babe, harmless… see that she’s perfect?” Daenerys asked, looking up at Jorah with even more desperation, desperate for them to accept her child, Jorah giving her a sad look. “If you wish, Khaleesi… I will stand by your side, protect her, and you, if you will” he offered, Daenerys nodding as she looked back down at her daughter “thank you, Ser Jorah…” she murmured, moving to get out of the bed, the child still in her arms until Jorah stood up and approached, giving her a sad smile. “I can take her, carry her until you are steady on your feet” he offered, Daenerys hesitating before nodding, letting him take the child and hold it as she stood up, a little unsteady on her feet at first but the second she was steady, Jorah gave the child back to her without needing to be asked. As she exited the tent with Jorah, she felt defeated, so few left, so many had parted at the mere mention of her child. “Blood of my Blood!” Daenerys shouted, the flock of people raising their heads, some with skepticism at the sight of the babe in her arms. “Some of you are afraid, scared, of my child. Are you not Dothrak?! Are you scared of a mere babe only two weeks old? Scared of a child not old enough to hold up her own head?? Blood of my Blood makes you Blood of the Dragon! She is the blood of the Dragon and the Great Stallion Khal Drogo! Your Khal! And you fear his newborn daughter? I am your Khaleesi, and this, this is my daughter, your princess! Find your courage and overcome your fear of a newborn child barely off her mother’s teet!” Daenerys shouted loudly, hearing them murmur as she turned to one of the blood riders who had remained loyal to her, and her husband, even though he couldn’t ride a horse, and she had carried a ‘malformed’, ‘dangerous’ babe. “My brother’s sword, what became of it when he was killed by my husband?” she asked quietly, the rider frowning before admitting that it was thrown out of the city of Vaes Dothrak, probably long buried under the sand. “Blood of my Blood, find it, return it to me, and to my daughter…” she ordered, the rider nodding, instantly heading for his horse as he rode harder than she had ever seen. Daenerys laid her cheek against her daughter’s head once more and walked back into her tent with her daughter, smiling down at the child as she sat next to Drogo, holding her child with one arm and placing her other hand on her husband’s chest, hoping and praying he’d wake up, that his eyes would move and settle on her, on his little baby girl, his daughter.

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Jorah couldn’t help but smile down at the baby girl, her small chubby hands locked around a strap on Rakharo’s leather, her eyes shut tightly as she was sleeping, seemingly taking well to her new sleeping place. Rakharo was one of the few Dothraki who wasn’t afraid of the two week old babe, instead he found her scales and eyes interesting, though her scales weren’t very visible with the clothes one of Daenerys’ Dothraki handmaidens had made for her from rabbit skin that one of the Dothraki men had caught and skinned. “She likes you” Jorah noted to Rakharo, the young man smiling at the old knight before looking down at the child, studying her white hair and pink face, something very uncommon to a Dothrak, their copper skin and dark hair dominating their genes, yet this child was born as white as clouds, in his words. Everything was well until suddenly the babe woke up, screaming and crying and wiggling in Rakharo’s arms, his eyes wide, unsure of what to do when out of nowhere Daenerys walked over, cheeks stained with tears as she looked far beyond defeated, like after her wedding night with Drogo, a sense of dread hanging over her head like a dark cloud. Yet she gently took the babe, seemingly holding the child against her chest, like she was trying to comfort herself despite the babe’s cries. Daenerys turned to Rakharo, eyes empty and face wet with her tears “build a funeral pyre… Khal Drogo is dead” she announced in a tired voice before walking off with the crying babe.

She walked to the spot Mirri Maz Duur had led her to, when she had first woken up and had seen her husband, the very same spot he had been laying. She sat on the now cold stone as the sun was setting, freeing one of her breasts and putting the child towards it, the crying turned to sniffles and sniffles turned to silence as the child was fed, Daenerys’ eyes were glazed over as she stared at the child in her arms, trying not to cry again, not wanting to upset the only love she had left in this world. “My sweet little dragon… daughter of the great Khal Drogo and the Dragon’s Daughter, my night’s sky… my moon…” Daenerys whispered softly to herself as she watched the babe feed, her fingers lightly stroking the white hair on the babe’s forehead, the golden, predatory eyes staring up at her and Daenerys actually managed to smile a tiny bit, feeling a sense of comfort in the eyes that should belong to a dangerous creature.

It wasn’t long until Jorah approached, hesitant to disturb the new mother as she fed her child, yet he had to, walking out in front of her, kneeling down with sad eyes. “The pyre is built, Khaleesi…” he announced, Daenerys nodding as she kept her eyes on the child. “Tie Mirri Maz Duur to the pyre… she will burn… my dragon eggs will be placed around Drogo… two at his sides, one over his head… lay the white one on his chest…” Daenerys spoke softly as she looked down at the little girl, trying her best not to cry at how beautiful the child was, scales and all. “Khaleesi…” Jorah’s voice finally made her look away from her child, looking at the old knight who gave her a sad smile “it is time” he stated softly, the sun already gone as the sky was darkening. Daenerys nodded, looking down at her child, making sure the babe had had enough before covering her breast again, standing up with the babe over her shoulder, her hand running along the scales on the child’s back, the child’s golden eyes watching Ser Jorah as he walked behind Daenerys to her tent, he gave the child a small smile and the child seemed to light up at it, gurgling and spouting nonsense as Daenerys walked into the tent with her young child, Irri following her into the tent along with Doreah. Irri helped Daenerys into her wedding dress, braiding her hair as Doreah gently rocked Rhaella. “How did you name her?” Doreah asked softly, looking up at her Khaleesi, trying to bring a smile to her lips, and she managed. It seemed as though the only thing that could make the Khaleesi smile and console her was her daughter, the scaled infant being rocked by one of her most trusted handmaidens. “My mother’s name was Rhaella, she died after I was born…” Daenerys admitted, her eyes still on the baby girl who was now sleeping in Doreah’s arms.

“When she was born, Khaleesi, I thought she’d never stop crying. She wouldn’t eat, wouldn’t sleep, refused to be rocked and calmed down… I will never forget the cries we all heard through the night and day until you woke, and when you finally held her… she stopped… like she knew who you were and had been miserable without you by her side” Doreah muttered softly, her eyes on the sleeping child in her arms, Daenerys smiling at them both. “She had the lungs of a dragon, I’m surprised she didn’t burn down the tent… her skin felt so hot that I nearly burnt my fingers after she was born, pulled from you… I was the first to hold her, her skin like fire, nearly scorching my skin” Doreah added jokingly, Daenerys frowning at first before she remembered. Remembered the way she entered boiling hot baths and felt nothing, what should have burnt her, soothed her, a smile tugging at her lips at the thought.

Fire cannot kill a dragon.

Daenerys stood up when Irri was done braiding her hair, taking her child from Doreah and walking outside, in time to see her eggs being laid by her husband, as she had commanded, the witch being dragged to the pyre. Daenerys carefully hands the baby to Doreah, leaning down and kissing the sleeping child’s head, lips lingering on the white hair as she allows herself to smile at her daughter before stepping back.

Ser Jorah approached her, worry on his face as he noted how she seemed to almost say goodbye to her beloved daughter. He pleaded with her quietly so that only she could hear his words, to let Drogo go, take her newborn daughter and come with him to see the wonders of the east. Daenerys smiled softly at the old knight, cupping his face and leaning up, kissing his cheek gently. “My daughter will not grow up without a mother, Ser Jorah” she stated softly, smiling at her child with utter love and adoration.

Once the pyre was completed, Daenerys gathered her people together, now fewer than a hundred, and declared that they would be her khalasar. Among the crowd, she sees slaves and declares them free, declaring the bonds that bind them were no longer tied around them. She announced that any among them are free to go, but that if they stay they shall always have an honored place among her khalasar. As Mirri Maz Duur was bound to the pyre, Daenerys turned to her, pouring oil over her head, a look of spite on her face as she thanked the witch for all she had taught her, turning back to Doreah and her daughter. “You will not hear me scream!” Mirri Maz Duur shouted, Daenerys turning to her, a cold look on her face as she looked at her “you will scream, for my daughter. For the son you stole from me for your own gain. For my daughter’s brother” she stated softly before turning to her child, stroking the white hairs on her forehead, smiling softly at her “Blood of my Blood, White Dragon of the Dothrak, Daughter to the last Dragon, Princess of the Seven Kingdoms, my night’s sky…” Daenerys whispered so softly that none but the baby girl and Doreah could hear her, Daenerys’ lips kissing the child’s forehead once more.

Mirri Maz Duur began to sing in a high, ululating voice at first, but her voice became a wail as the flames engulfed her and she soon fell silent. The Dothraki and Ser Jorah backed away as the smoke grew thicker and the heat stronger, but Daenerys stood her ground, her eyes moving to her child, looking for any sign of discomfort but when she saw the fire reflected in her small golden eyes, even at this distance, she knew; she is the blood of the dragon and undeterred by the fire, like her mother. Daenerys gently took Rhaella from a very confused Doreah, Daenerys gently carrying her daughter as she began to slowly walk towards the fire as sweat covered her body. Daenerys heard the crack of breaking stone as the pyre collapsed, showering her and the Targaryen babe in her arms with ash, cinders, and broken egg shells. Behind her, she can hear the Dothraki and Ser Jorah shouting, yet her child is quiet in her arms, only two weeks old and she knew that she and her mother were safe. As the pyre begins to collapse completely, Daenerys hears two more cracks like the first and walks into the heart of the fire with her sleeping daughter in her arms.

It was dawn when the fire finally died out, Ser Jorah found Daenerys with Rhaella, naked but alive and unburnt, nursing three baby dragons, one of which was protectively splayed out over Rhaella, with a third draped across her shoulders. The dragons match the colors of their eggs: cream-and-gold, green-and-bronze, black-and-scarlet and silver-and-white. Ser Jorah dropped to his knees wordlessly. He was followed by Jhogo, Aggo, and Rakharo who declare her and her daughter blood of their blood, and then her handmaidens and the rest of the Dothraki do the same and Daenerys smiled at the thought that they bowed not only to her, but to her newborn daughter.

Daenerys rose with her daughter in her arms and for the first time in hundreds of years, the night comes alive with the music of dragons, a stunned and awe-struck Jorah hesitantly walking over after getting up, eyes wide as he stared down at the sleeping child, Daenerys smiling at the child, handing Rhaella to Jorah who hesitantly held her, hissing at the burning heat that came from the child’s skin, Daenerys gently nudging her dragons away from her arms, taking the child into one of her arms, the other one holding one of her dragons and Daenerys watched as the silver-and-white dragon moved from her shoulder and down her arm, sniffing the babe and it’s white hair, looking up at his mother, almost as though he was asking for permission, and when Daenerys nodded, the dragon crawled over the babe, laying protectively over it’s sister as the other dragon crawled up to her shoulder, freeing Daenerys’ arm so she could hold her daughter with both arms, a dragon on each shoulder with the black one resting on her elbow at the child’s feet and the last one, the silver one, laying protectively over Rhaella, it’s golden eyes shining up at Daenerys and her breath nearly hitched at the same golden eyes with slit pupils that were staring up at her from the dragon, the creature sharing the exact eyes of the babe in her arms.The sound of horse hooves beating against the ground brought all eyes to the rider who had left for the sword, his eyes wide as he stared at the dragons, his burnt Khal and the unburnt Khaleesi and her daughter. He hesitantly got off his horse, the sword and it’s sheath in his hands, his movements hesitant and unsure but he approached, holding out the sword before kneeling down in front of Daenerys and her babe, head low until he heard a shriek, raising his eyes to look at Daenerys who gave him a warm smile. “Thank you, Ezzo, Blood of my Blood” she stated softly, the young rider nodding as he stood up, watching the unburnt Khaleesi with her ash-covered child, the white dragon on top, as though they were fused together and were never to be parted.

#Daenerys x OC #Daenerys x Daughter!OC #Rhaella Targaryen(OC)#Daenerys Stormborn #GoT #Game of Thrones #GoT fic #The Dragon's Daughter

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truesilver786 · 8 months

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BIS Hallmarked Silver Square Coin - A Gift of Elegance

Give the gift of elegance with our BIS Hallmarked Personalized New Born Baby Girl Silver Square Coin, specially crafted for your baby girl.

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aspenmissing · 10 months

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𝙸𝚝'𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝙶𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚝 𝙿𝚞𝚖𝚙𝚔𝚒𝚗, 𝚂𝚊𝚖 𝚆𝚒𝚗𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚛 (𝙿𝚝 𝟷)

The three are standing in the kitchen of a murder scene, dressed as federal agents. Sam talks to the wife of the victim while Dean and Y/N look around.

"Now how many razor blades did they find?" Sam asks. The woman sighs and responds nearly in tears.

"Two on the floor, one in his stomach and one was stuck in his throat. He swallowed four of them. How is that even possible?" She asks. She notices Dean looking around the front of the stove and in the oven door. "The candy was never in the oven." Dean looks at her, closing the over.

"We just have to be thorough, Mrs. Wallace." She responds.

"Did the police find any razors in the rest of the candy?" Sam asks, bringing Mrs. Wallace's attention back to him.

"No, I mean, I don't think so." Dean walks over to the fridge, opening and closing it before noticing scuff marks on the floor where it shows the fridge has been moved. Dean tries to reach behind the fridge, but his arm is too big. His eyes meet Y/N's confused ones and he gestures to her for help. She does so.

"I just – I can't believe it. You hear urban legends about this stuff, but it happens?" She says. Y/N grabs something and looks down to see what it is. Her jaw clenching. She turns around to show Dean and he grabs it.

"More than you might imagine." Y/N stands up and she and Dean walk forward, gaining Sam's attention. Dean holds up a hex bag that Y/N found behind the fridge. He shows it to Sam, who looks at it in realization. Dean quickly hides it before Mrs. Wallace could see it. Y/N walks over to Sam, standing beside him and looking at Mrs. Wallace.

"Mrs. Wallace, did Luke have any enemies?" She asks.

"Enemies?" Mrs. Wallace repeats. Y/N nods.

"Anyone who might have held a grudge against him?"

"What do you mean?"

"Co-workers? Neighbors? Maybe a woman." Sam says. Y/N bites her tongue at Sam's choice of words. Mrs. Wallace gets what Sam means and gets offended.

"Are you suggesting an affair?" She asks.

"Is it possible?" Sam asks.

"No! No, Luke would never–" Mrs. Wallace says, getting upset.

"We're very sorry. We just have to consider all possibilities." Y/N says, trying to help Sam.

"If someone wanted to kill my husband, don't you think they'd find a better way than a razor in a piece of candy he might eat?" Y/N and Sam share a look at Dean, who raises his eyes at the two.

In the motel room, Sam is sitting on a couch, with his laptop and a few books on the coffee table in front of him, flipping the pages of the books. He picks up something from the hex bag that looks organic and holds it up. Y/N and Dean enter the room and she tosses her keys on the table under the window as she and Dean unwrap a piece of candy before tossing it in each other's mouths, laughing when they both get them in. Sam sees them do this.

"Really? After that guy choked down all those razor blades?" Sam questions.

"It's Halloween, man," Dean says.

"Yeah, for us every day is Halloween" Dean sits down on the arm of the couch and looks at Sam's research while Y/N sits down directly beside Sam, doing the same.

"Don't be a downer." She says, nudging Sam with her arm. "Anything interesting?"

"Well, we're on a witch hunt, that's for sure, but this isn't your typical hex bag." Sam indicates the hex bag that is open now on the table. There is a silver piece, the size of a coin, and something small and charred in addition to the organic thing- which looks like a dried-up flower.

"Hmm, no?" Dean asks. Sam picks up the dried flower looking piece.

"Goldthread, a herb that's been extinct for two hundred years. And this – " He picks up the silver piece. "is Celtic, and I don't mean some new age knock-off. It looks like the real deal, like 600 years old real." Y/N picks up the small charred thing and smells it.

"And um... that is the charred metacarpal bone of a newborn baby." Y/N stops sniffing it and looks at it in disgust, putting it back down.

"Gross" Dean mutters.

"Relax guys, it's like, at least a hundred years old."

"Oh, right, like that makes it better? Witches, man, they're so friggin' skeevy." Dean says, moving over to the chair next to the couch and sitting down.

"Yeah, well it takes a pretty powerful one to put a bag like this together. More juice than we've ever dealt with, that's for sure. What about you two?" Sam asks, looking between Y/N and Dean. "Find anything on the victim?"

"This Luke Wallace? He was so vanilla that he made vanilla seem spicy." Y/N says. Sam scoffs at their lack of leads.

"We can't find any reason why somebody would want this guy dead," Dean adds.

Later that night, the three come down the stairs to the scene of the crime, where a girl was killed. They look over to a blond girl, Tracy, who is wrapped up in a blanket and talking to a police officer.

"Have you been drinking?" The officer asks.

"Yes," The girl replies. Y/N goes to join the questioning and Dean puts his hand up to stop her.

"I got this one." Dean licks his lips. Sam sighs while Y/N rolls her eyes.

"Two words: jail bait," Sam says.

"I would never –" Sam and Y/N just roll their eyes at Dean, the two walking over to the couch and starting lifting the cushions, looking for the hex bag. Dean smirks behind their backs.

"It's just weird. The water in the tub - it wasn't hot, I had just been in there myself." Tracy explains.

"Your friend didn't happen to know a man named Luke Wallace?" Dean asks, walking over to Tracy. She turns to him, and he holds up a badge. "Agent Seger, F.B.I" The officer had walked away once Dean said who he was.

"Um, who's Luke Wallace?" Tracy asks.

"He died yesterday."

"I don't know who that is." Y/N shares a look with Sam, pulling the Hex bag out from behind the cushion. His eyes lock as his jaw clenches. Y/N then holds it up to Dean, nodding to which Dean replies the same and then looks down at Tracy.

Back in the motel, Dean and Y/N are at the table, Dean on the computer with Y/N beside him reading a book. Sam is lying on the bed looking through books before sitting up, looking intently at the book he is reading.

"I'm telling you, both these vics are squeaky clean," Dean says, Y/N looks over to the computer, eyebrow raised.

"Then there is no reason for a wicked bitch payback," Y/N adds, leaning back into her chair. She grabs her bottle of beer, drinking.

"Maybe cause it's not about that," Sam says, still staring intently down at the book. The twins look over at him questioningly.

"Wow, insightful."

"What a team player," Y/N says, crossing her arms. Sam looks over to the two.

"Maybe this witch isn't working the grudge, maybe they're working a spell," Sam suggested. Sam stands up from the bed as he reads from the book. "Three blood sacrifices over three days, the last before midnight on the final day of the final harvest." Sam sits in the chair opposite Dean, handing Y/N the book - who moves it over so Dean can look over at it. "Celtic Calendar, the final day of the final harvest is October 31st."

"Halloween." Dean and Y/N say in unison.

"Exactly."

"What exactly are the, uh, blood sacrifices for?" Dean asks.

"Uh, if I'm right, this witch is summoning a demon, and not just any demon – Samhain," Sam says.

"Am I supposed to be impressed?" Dean questions, looking up at him. Y/N sighs.

"Dean, Samhain is the damn origin of Halloween." She answers, shaking her head. Sam nods at her.

"The Celts believe that October 31st was the one night of the year when the veil was the thinnest between the living and the dead, and it was Samhain's night." Sam explains, as Dean turns grabs the book from Y/N and begins turning the pages on the book, "I mean, masks were put on to hide from him, sweets left on doorsteps to appease him, faces carved into pumpkins to worship him. He was exorcised centuries ago."

"So even though Samhain took a trip downstairs, the tradition stuck," Dean says.

"Exactly, only now instead of demons and blood orgies Halloween is all about kids, candy and costumes."

"Okay, so some witch wants to raise Samhain and take back the night?" Y/N says, Dean chuckling a little as she takes another sip of her beer.

"Guys, this is serious."

"We are serious."

"We're talking heavyweight witchcraft. This ritual can only be performed every six hundred years." Sam says

"And the six-hundred-year marker rolls around...?"

"Tomorrow night." Sam finishes.

"Naturally," Y/N mutters. Dean looks down at the book at the picture of a demon ahead of bodies, holding a severed head in his hand.

"Well, it sure is a lot of death and destruction for one demon," Dean says.

"That's because he likes company. Once he's raised, Samhain can do some raising of his own."

"Raising what, exactly?" Y/N asks, looking to Sam.

"Dark, evil crap and lots of it, I mean, they follow him around like the friggin' Pied Piper."

"So, we're talking ghosts," Dean asks.

"Yeah." Sam nods.

"Zombies," Y/N asks.

"Mm-hmm." Sam hums in response.

"Leprechauns?" Dean says, dead serious.

"Dean," Sam says, exasperated and shaking his head.

"Those little dudes are scary. Small hands." Y/N looks to him, nodding.

"Look, it just starts with ghosts and ghouls, this sucker keeps ongoing, by night's end we are talking every awful thing we have ever seen. Everything we fight, all in one place" Y/N's face drops, jaw clenching.

"It's gonna be a slaughterhouse." She says, the boys nodding.

The next day, Dean and Y/N are sitting in the Impala outside of the Wallace house, watching and eating candy. Y/N finishes one - throwing the rapper on the seat between the two. Her stomach churns, causing her to wince a little and hold her stomach. Dean looks at her.

"You okay there, Y/N?" Dean questions, popping another sweet in his mouth. "Got a stomach ache?" Y/N shakes her head. "Maybe mother nature being a bitch?"

"Nah Nah, demons are safe from that wrath right now. Must be a stomach ache, the man thought I trained myself well enough to not get stomach aches." Dean chomps down on another, suddenly getting the same feeling as Y/N, causing her to look at him, "You too?" Dean nods.

"Must be a stomach ache then, 'cause I ain't a girl." Dean throws the wrapper on the seat between the two. Y/N chuckles. A phone begins ringing and Y/N pats her body to feel for it, before grabbing it out of her pocket and checking the ID.

"It's Sam." She answers the phone, putting it between hers and Dean's ears. "Hey."

"How's it going?" Sam asks, sitting in the motel room.

"Awesome, yeah, we talked with Mrs. Razor Blade again. We've been sitting out in front of her house for hours and we've got a big steamy pile of nothing." Y/N says.

"Look guys, someone planted those hex bags, someone with access to both houses. There's gotta be some connection."

"Yeah, well I hope we find 'em soon 'cause I'm starting to cramp like a –" Dean cuts himself off as he looks over to the house, spotting someone, "Son of a bitch." Y/N follows his gaze, eyes widening. Across the street, Tracy walks up to the Wallace house.

"Quit whining, Dean. Y/N goes through this every month; I think you can deal with it-"

"No Sam, he means, son of a bitch." Y/N says as the twins watch Tracy walk up the steps to the door and knock - Mrs. Wallace opening the door with her baby in her arms.

The two head back to the motel room, entering as Dean throws the motel room key down onto the table, walking over to Sam - who is lying on the bed with his laptop open.

"So, our apple-bobbing cheerleader?" Sam questions, looking up at the two.

"Tracy?" Dean says, Sam, humming in response.

"The Wallaces' babysitter," Y/N replies, pointing to Dean before taking off her jacket. "Told Dean she never even heard of Luke Wallace." Dean does the same as he throws his jacket onto his bed.

"Huh, interesting look for a centuries-old witch," Sam says, his gaze going back to his laptop.

"Yeah, well, if you were a six-hundred-year-old hag and you could pick any costume to come back in, wouldn't you go for a hot cheerleader? I would, hmm..." Dean says, sitting down on the other bed and getting lost in thoughts about that. Y/N rolls her eyes, sitting down beside him. Sam furrows his brows before Dean notices the two and raises his eyebrows at them innocently.

"Of course, you'd think that," Y/N mutters.

"And you wouldn't imagine a guy wearing a police uniform?" Dean says.

"Hey, no dissing the police uniform...I'd happily use those handcuffs." Y/N says, smirking before she loses herself in her thoughts before Sam clears his throat, causing her to look at him. "Anyway, continue Sammy." Sam looks back down at his laptop.

"Well, Tracy's not as wholesome as she looks. Did some digging – apparently she got into a violent altercation with one of her teachers, got suspended from school." Sam explains, passing the laptop over to the others. They read the information besides the picture of Tracy.

"Sheesh, could someone hate a teacher that bad?" Y/N questions.

The three arrive at Tracy's school, all in formal wear. Y/N walks into a room full of art marks, looking up and seeing a bunch more hanging down. She sees a demonic-looking one and focuses on it. She hears screams and screeches in her ear - as if she's dreaming again before she feels someone walk up behind her.

"Man, these are freaky," Dean says, causing Y/N to turn around to see him and Sam looking at the masks.

"Bring back memories?" Sam asks.

"What do you mean?" Y/N asks, looking at him.

"Being a teenager, all that angst."

"No Sammy, I think that was just you." Dean jokes. Y/N sighs, a little relieved that her brothers didn't see what was going on when she was staring at the mask.

"Oh." She says, eyes darting around at the masks.

"What'd you think I meant?" Sam asks.

"Nothing." Y/N shakes her head. Dean looks over at the students, nudging Y/N to look. They look over to see a student, putting a large bong-shaped piece into a kiln.

"Now that brings back memories," Dean says, chuckling. Y/N chuckles back, nodding.

"Dude, I need a bigger kiln." The student says, releasing it's too small to fit his clay bong-shaped piece.

"You three wanted to talk to me?" Someone says from behind them, they turn to see a teacher carrying a box with a mug on top.

"Ah, Mr. Harding." Sam greets.

"Oh, please, Don." He says, shaking Sam's hand.

"Okay, Don," Y/N says as Don shakes her hand too before reaching out to shake Dean's.

"Even my students call me Don." He says, shaking Dean's hand.

"Yeah, we get it, Don," Dean replies as Don walks past them to place his box on the table. Dean, Sam and Y/N then pull out their badges.

"I'm agent Getty, this is Agent Lee." Dean gestures to Sam. "And Agent Gibbs." He gestures to Y/N. Don turns around looking at the badges. "We just had a few questions about, uh, Tracy Davis." They put their badges away. Don has a surprised look on his face.

"Uh, yeah, Tracy, uh, bright kid, loads of talent. It's a shame she got suspended." Don says. The three share a quick look of confusion.

"Uh, you two had a... uh, violent altercation." Dean questions.

"Yeah, she exploded. If Principal Murrow hadn't walked by when he did, Tracy would have clawed my eyes out."

"Why?"

"I, uh, you know, I was only trying to rap with her about her work. It had gotten inappropriate and disturbing."

"More disturbing, than, uh, those guys?" Y/N asks, turning around and indicating the angry masks hanging on the wall and the ceiling.

"She would cover page after page with these bizarre cryptic symbols, and then there were the drawings." Don explained, "Detailed images of killings, gory, primitive, and she would depict herself in the middle of them, participating."

"Symbols, what kind of symbols? Uh, anything like this?" Sam holds up a bag to Don, showing a silver Celtic coin inside.

"Yeah, yeah, I think that might have been one of them."

"You know where Tracy is now?" Y/N asks.

"I would imagine her apartment," Don says.

"Her apartment?" Dean questions.

"Yeah, she got here about a year ago, alone, as I understood it, as an emancipated teen. God only knows what her parents were like." Don says the three siblings share a look before Y/N looks back to Don.

"Can you write it down for us please?" She asks, smiling.

Y/N drives up and parks her car outside of their motel, turning the engine off before getting out. Dean gets out of the passenger side. Sam walks over to the two, having been to Tracy's apartment and finding nothing. The three now dressed back into their normal wear, Y/N chewing on a lollypop.

"So?" Dean asks.

"Tracy was nowhere I could find. Any luck with her friends?" Y/N shakes her head.

"Nah, luck is not our style. Her friends don't know where she is. It's like the witch popped a broomstick." She jokes as the three make their way to their room.

"She could be making the third sacrifice any time," Sam says.

"Yes, thank you, Sam." They get close to their room before getting stopped by a kid dressed as an astronaut, holding out his sweet bucket to them.

"Trick or treat," He says.

"This is a motel," Dean says, gesturing around.

"So?"

"So we don't have any candy."

"No, we have a ton in the uh..." Sam looks back and points to the impala. Y/N looks at him, sheepishly.

"We did, but it's gone." She gestures to her lolly in her mouth. "Last one." Sam looks between his older siblings, getting what she means. The kid looks unimpressed and Dean looks down at him.

"Sorry kid, we can't help ya," Dean says.

"I want candy." The kid says, huffing.

"Well, I think you've had enough," Dean says, causing Y/N to pinch his arm and glare at him. Dean looks to her shrugging before backing at the kid, who glares at him and narrows his eyes. The kid then walks past Dean, shoving into him and Dean puts his hands up.

Sam unlocks their motel room and enters before immediately drawing his gun, and moving forwards in an offensive stance, ready to attack. Dean quickly followed.

"Who are you?!" Sam shouts. Y/N rushes in, trying to stop the two.

"Sam! Dean! Wait, it's Castiel!" Dean puts his gun down the second he sees Cas, but Sam remained with his gun pointing in shock. "The angel." Y/N puts her hand on his gun, pushing it down as Sam looks at Castiel, stunned. Y/N notices the other man in the room, standing by the window. "Him, I don't know." Sam looks at Castiel in wonder and a smile crosses his face. Cas looks to Dean first.

"Hello, Dean." Cas greets. Dean nods "I am sorry about knocking you out the last time I saw you."

"It's no bother," Dean says, sarcastically. Can then looks to Sam.

"Hello, Sam." He walks forwards a little.

"Oh my God – er – uh – I didn't mean to – sorry." Sam stutters over his words, still stunned. "It's an honour, really, I – I've heard a lot about you." Sam steps forwards and holds out his hand to shake Castiel's.

Dean goes and closes the door to their room while Y/N stares at the two, the lollypop still in her mouth. Castiel looks at Sam's hand, not too sure about what he wants. Sam then shakes it a little, and Castiel finally understands and shakes Sam's hand.

"And I, you. Sam Winchester - " Castiel then puts their other hand on top of Sam's. "The boy with the demon blood. Glad to see you've ceased your extracurricular activities."

"Let's keep it that way." The man at the window says, still facing it.

"Yeah, okay, chuckles," Dean says. Y/N looks to Cas.

"Who's Mr Grumpy over there." She asks.

"This the raising of Samhain, have you stopped it?" Cas questions, not answering her question.

"Why?" Y/N asks.

"Y/N, have you located the witch?"

"Yes, we've located the witch." She says.

"And is the witch dead?"

"No, but -"

"We know who it is." Dean finishes. Castiel takes the lolly out of Y/N's mouth, making it disappear.

"Huh, what - I wasn't finished-" She watches as Castiel walks over to the table by the bed.

"Apparently the witch knows who you are too." He picks up a hex back, showing it to them. "This was inside the wall of your room. If we hadn't found it, surely one or all of you would be dead. Do you know where the witch is now?" The siblings exchange a look.

"We're working on it," Y/N says as they look back to Cas.

"That's unfortunate," Cas says, looking over to the mystery man at the window.

"What do you care?" Dean asks.

"The raising of Samhain is one of the 66 seals," Castiel says.

"So this is about your buddy Lucifer?" Y/N asks.

"Lucifer is no friend of ours." The mystery man says.

"It's just an expression," Y/N says, side glancing at the man.

"Lucifer cannot rise. The breaking of the seal must be prevented at all costs."

"Okay, great, well now that you're here, why don't you tell us where the witch is, we'll gank her and everybody goes home," Dean says

"We are not omniscient. This witch is very powerful, she's cloaked even our methods." Cas explains.

"Okay, well we already know who she is, so if we work together –" Sam says, but is cut off by the man.

"Enough of this."

"Okay, who are you and why should I care?" Y/N says, glaring at the man. He turns from the window, looking at Y/N.

"This is Uriel, he's what you might call a... specialist," Cas says, looking at him. Uriel walks towards them.

"What kind of specialist?" Dean questions, as the group looks to Uriel, "What are you gonna do?"

"You – uh, three of you – you need to leave this town immediately," Cas warns.

"Why?" Y/N questions.

"Because we're about to destroy it." Sam, Dean and Y/N exchange a worried glance. Y/N looks to Uriel, slight anger spreading across her face.

"So, this is your plan, you're gonna smite the whole friggin' town?" She says.

"There are a thousand people here," Sam says.

"One thousand two hundred fourteen."

"You son of a bitch." Y/N says teeth gritted.

"And you're willing to kill them all?"

"This isn't the first time I've... purified a city."

"Look, I understand this is regrettable," Cas says, trying to ease the mood.

"Regrettable?" Dean questions.

"We have to hold the line. Too many seals have broken already."

"So, you screw the pooch on some seals and this town has to pay the price?" Y/N says, looking to Cas.

"It's the lives of one thousand against the lives of six billion. There's a bigger picture here."

"Right, 'cause you're bigger picture kind of guys," Y/N says, snarky. Cas steps forwards, staring straight into Y/N's eyes.

"Lucifer cannot rise. He does and hell rises with him. Is that something that you're willing to risk?" Cas says, Y/N biting her tongue.

"We'll stop this witch before she summons anyone," Dean says, looking between the two angels.

" Your seal won't be broken and no one has to die," Sam adds. The brothers trying to negotiate. Castiel continues to stare into Y/N's eyes as if he's waiting for her to say something.

"We're wasting time with these mud monkeys," Uriel says. Cas turns away from Y/N to Uriel.

"I'm sorry, but we have our orders."

"No, you can't do this, you're angels," Sam says, causing Uriel to slightly chuckle. "I mean aren't you supposed to – You're supposed to show mercy."

"Says who?" He says.

"We have no choice," Cas says, his back facing the Winchesters.

"Of course, you have a choice. I mean, come on, what? You've never questioned a crap order, huh? What are you both, just a couple of hammers?" Y/N says, clearly pissed over the whole situation.

"Look, even if you can't understand it, have faith. The plan is just."

"How can you even say that?" Sam asks.

"Because it comes from heaven, that makes it just," Cas says, turning to face him.

"Oh, it must be nice, to be so sure of yourselves," Dean says.

"Tell me something, Dean, when your father gave you an order, didn't you obey?" Dean looks to Cas, not saying anything. Y/N glares at Cas, knowing that's pissed her off more than he brought up her father.

"Well, sorry boys look like the plans have changed." She says, causing Cas to tilt his head at her.

"You think you can stop us?" Uriel questions, an amused look on his face.

"No, but if you're gonna smite this whole town, then you're gonna have to smite us with it because we are not leaving," Y/N says, all the while walking over to Uriel, standing face to face. "See, you went to the trouble of busting me out of hell. As well as keeping me alive all those years ago. I figure I'm worth something to the man upstairs. So, you wanna waste me, go ahead, see how he digs that."

"He is worth something to the man upstairs too." Uriel gestures to Dean before gesturing to Y/N. "You are worth, with what you've got inside you. And you bet I will drag you two out of here myself." Uriel threatens, but Y/N remains unfazed.

"Yeah, but you'll have to kill us, then we're back to the same problem. I mean, come on, you're gonna wipe out a whole town for one little witch. Sounds to me like you're compensating for something." Y/N smirks at Uriel. She then turns back around and walks back over to Cas, staring him right in the eyes. "We can do this. We will find that witch and we will stop the summoning."

"Castiel! I will not let these people-"

"Enough!" Castiel says, cutting Uriel off by holding his hand up to him. Cas stares at Y/N for a second. "I suggest you move quickly." Sam and Dean walk out of the motel room, Y/N stands back a little. She hears the flap of wings. "I can tell you want to ask me something." Y/N turns to now just see Cas in the room, Uriel no longer there.

"This thing inside me, this, Grace?" She asks, Cas nods.

"What about it? Is something the matter with it?" Cas steps forward, going to place his hand on her head.

"What no, no. It's fine, I think?" She says, shaking her head. "But what Uriel said - How I'm worth it to god because of what's inside me. Just exactly who's Grace do I have inside me? It can't just be a regular angel. N-No offence, but I don't think people will be busting their assess off to keep me alive if this grace in me isn't important." Cas sighs, looking down to the floor before looking back up to Y/N.

"You are correct, He had saved you after you were injured badly, with no chance of surviving. No one knows why, perhaps because you were a Winchester, or perhaps because he could tell your potential-

"ASTRONAUT!" Dean shoots from outside. Y/N looks to Cas.

"Hold on a second." She goes to the door and sticks her head out, seeing the mess on her car. "What the hell happened?! My poor baby, I did nothing to that kid?!" She groans, walking towards them. "Right before we leave anywhere, you two are cleaning this up." She throws Dean the keys to the Impala, before walking back to the room.

"Where are you going?" Dean asks.

"To talk with Cas." She says, walking straight into the room and closing it behind her. Sam and Dean exchange a look, shrugging before looking at the egged Impala. The two looks at each other, holding out their hands before playing rock paper scissors, as to who will clean the car while the other gets some food. They do the round and Dean groans as he loses, all while Sam laughs.

"Always me dammit." Dean rolls up his sleeves while Sam watches him with amusement before leaving.

Back inside the motel room, Y/N turns to Cas, gesturing her hand to him for him to continue. She leans against the post of the room, looking at the angel.

"As I was saying, what he didn't know is that his Grace would somehow bond with your soul," Cas explained.

"Yeah, you've told me that but who saved me?" Cas looks her in the eyes, "Who's grace could possibly be in my soul that makes Heaven want to keep me alive?"

"Gabriel." Cas says, "The archangel, Gabriel's grace bonded to you..."

#supernatural #older sister winchester #supernatural fandom #supernatural fanfiction #reader insert

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pagenguyenblog-blog · 1 year

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Feminism - Who are we kidding?

Some facts about women throughout history (Source: Sapiens - A brief history of humankind):

- In 1776 BC, the Code of Hammurabi stated that "if a man hurts a woman and thereby causes her to miscarry her fetus, he shall pay the man who owns the woman ten shekels of silver. If that woman should die, they shall kill his daughter".

- Ever since and throughout the majority of human history, women were simply the property of men, most often their fathers, husbands, or brothers. Rape, in many legal systems, falls under property violation – in other words, the victim is not the woman who was raped but the male who owns her. The rapist was required to pay a bride price to the woman’s father or brother, upon which she became the rapist’s property. The Bible decrees that "If a man meets a virgin who is not betrothed, and seizes her and lies with her, and they are found, then the man who lay with her shall give to the father of the young woman fifty shekels of silver, and she shall be his wife". Raping a woman who did not belong to any man was not considered a crime at all, just as picking up a lost coin on a busy street is not considered theft. And if a husband raped his own wife, he had committed no crime. As of 2006 [ I was 11 years old ...], there were still 53 countries where a husband could not be prosecuted for the rape of his wife. Even in Germany, rape laws were amended only in 1997 to create a legal category of marital rape.

- When Communist China enacted the ‘one child’ policy, many Chinese families (God knows how many other countries) continued to regard the birth of a girl as a misfortune. Parents would occasionally abandon or murder newborn baby girls to have another shot at getting a boy.

- Throughout the majority of human history, more like most of it because the changes only started about 100 years ago, women couldn't own properties, couldn't go to schools or have any proper education, couldn't vote, couldn't hold important positions, couldn't decide their own fate ... just simply couldn't and still cannot in many other situations.

The thing about human society is that, once it is formed, doesn't matter how or why, it creates a vicious cycle that explains itself and sustains itself. It can evolve, build upon itself layers and layers of convoluted stories, but it is almost impossible to change at its core.

To be honest, I don't know what else I can say

... Women ... We're trying to be progressive, we teach boys to treat girls nicely and that sounds about right. But isn't it just another layer of suppression, a facade?

... Women ... always the subject to be "treated". And they like it ... hell ... they like it. That's the whole point.

... Women ... Feminism was never about fighting for absolute equality was it? There's no such thing as equality. At best, it is just an attempt to ask for a slightly better deal. A deal that at least, makes women comfortable being owned.

I will leave this post with a story about Cats. A few years ago, Cats were just cats, they were pets. Then one day, pop culture started calling them "Boss", and people consider themself servants of the "Boss", putting the "Boss" on the pedestal. Of course, cats love to be treated like Bosses. But we all know better, don't we?

#feminism #women #sapiens

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hmcreations159 · 2 years

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Birth Traditions from Around the Globe

Cultures around the world have long had a history of practising birth traditions and customs, and while each ritual may be different, they all celebrate the birth of a new baby in their own, special way.

Let’s begin by looking at Irish birth traditions, before taking a quick peak at some other countries around the world:

Ireland

Crossing a new baby’s palm with silver has long been a tradition for citizens of Ireland and many parts of Great Britain, and a silver coin is placed in the baby’s hand to see if it will grab it with a closed fist, or drop it. The former was said to show that the baby would be frugal as an adult, while the latter indicated the opposite.

An earlier Irish tradition involved the top tier of the parent’s wedding cake (which was soaked in whiskey) being sprinkled over the baby’s head, while the rest was consumed by the adults.

Egypt

During a popular and historical custom known as the ‘Sebou’, Egyptian family members come together to celebrate the baby. Newborns are placed in either a pink or blue carrier as per their gender, and after the banging of a pestle and mortar and the group reading of commandments, the carrier is passed around among those gathered.

Latvia

When they are 8 days old, Latvian newborns are washed in a sauna bath filled with healing herbs and essences, and breast milk is massaged into the baby’s neck. After this tradition, Latvians believe the baby is clean and prepared for life.

Japan

With no painkillers, traditional Buddhist mothers in Japan give birth without the father being present in the room, and once the baby is born, the umbilical cord is preserved by the hospital, before being presented to the new mother in a presentation box.

Brazil

New mothers in Brazil give gifts to visitors after the baby is born, such as sweets and trinkets, and the mother will typically receive several pairs of red booties from friends and family.

The Netherlands

A stuffed stork was historically placed in a window facing the street when Norwegian parents wanted to announce the birth of a baby, and visitors received pink or blue biscuits as a gift.

Nigeria

In Nigeria, the paternal grandmother traditionally bathed the baby for the first time with palm oil and a natural sponge, to give it a good start to life. Then, the baby’s arms were bent backwards to ensure flexibility, and shockingly, the baby was then thrown into the air to check their reflexes!

China

Once a baby is 4 weeks old in China, the family gather to celebrate and extended family members are gifted red eggs to represent fertility and the circle of life. Once the baby is 100 days old, another celebration occurs in which the baby is dressed in red and passed around to family members and friends who give red envelopes containing money for the baby.

Dominican Republic

In a series of pre-birth rituals, the pregnant mother will select one chair from 3 to sit on, each of which conceals an item of cutlery. If she sits on a chair concealing a spoon, she’s going to have a girl; a knife means it’s a boy, and a fork means the gender is unknown.

Nowadays, baptisms and christenings are still popular traditions among Christian communities in Ireland, the UK and America, in which the infant is celebrated while dressed in a beautiful gown that can be handed down from generation to generation.

White baptism dress and christening dresses by Helen Marie are handmade in Ireland, in the beautiful County Galway. With a variety of designs that are suitable for both boys and girls, each baptism gown has been painstakingly crafted from 100% Irish linen, satin or lace. Embroidered with delicate and intricate Celtic designs, each of our christening outfits tells a unique and memorable tale.

For more details about Baby Baptism, visit Hmcreations.us

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scapegrace74-blog · 4 years

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Saorsa, Chapter 28

A/N Here is the next installment of Saorsa. I’m not sure how I feel about this chapter. I knew I wanted them handfast, couldn’t work it into the modern marriage ceremony (which we don’t see anyway), but wanted there to be some acknowledgement of their deepening relationship. In the series, that happens because Claire doesn’t go through the Stones. This is my equivalent.

Rather than link to all previously posted chapters, I’ll just direct those of you wanting to catch up on your Saorsa-reading to my AO3 page, where the fic is posted in its entirety.

Thank you to each of you liking and reblogging! It does my little fanfic writer’s heart good.

She wasn’t a demonstrative person by nature. The circumstances of Claire’s childhood had seen to that. Practical, pragmatic, emotionally cautious: the nomadic life of an orphan following her scholarly uncle about the globe had shaped her for an adulthood of no-nonsense behaviour.

Which didn’t explain why she was swallowing back tears the Monday evening after Easter. She sat on their bed watching Jamie pack a simple change of clothes and slip a few spare coins in a hidden slit inside his tall leather riding boots. She could blame her pregnancy, but it had been many months since her last hormonal outburst. In truth, she was afraid for Jamie. He was undertaking a difficult twentieth-century journey with only his eighteenth-century wits to guide him. She was going to miss him horribly. A nagging premonition gnawed at her, that he would leave and never come back.

“Dinna fash, Sassenach,” he said, noticing her discomposure. “I may be new tae these times, but I ken a thing or twa about keeping safe on a long journey. An’ Rupert will watch o’er me, leastaways as far as Edin’bra.”

“I know that, Jamie. I just…” She broke off, hands unconsciously cradling her swollen belly, as though comforting the child within her was the best she could hope for.

“What is it, mo chridhe? Are ye worrit about the bairn coming early?”

“No. Not really. First babies are often born late. I’m worried about…” she broke off, at a loss to articulate the swirling mix of emotions she was feeling.

Jamie must have intuited her ambivalent state of mind, for he settled next to her and enveloped her hands in his.

Still new to the art of husbanding, he had learned that the best way to induce Claire to talk was to offer her silence to fill. He therefore sat quietly, tangling and untangling their fingers.

“I can’t help but feel…” she began hesitantly, “that once you leave Lallybroch you’ll… oh, I feel stupid saying it…”

“Out wi’ it, Sassenach. If it’s causin’ ye tae fret sae badly that ye didna remind me tae pack spare socks, then it needs to be given voice, aye?”

She grinned ruefully, then tried to collect her scattered thoughts.

“I know you chose to stay here, in this time, rather than return to your own. Given what you know about the aftermath of Culloden, it was a reasonable choice. But Jamie…” He could see how dearly this was costing her. A furrow of worry bisected her brow, and her molten eyes looked haunted. “Jamie, you’re a Highland warrior, and I can’t help but feel that I’ve turned you into some kind of glorified field hand and future babysitter. And that once you leave Lallybroch, you’ll not want to return.”

Having blurted out her fears, Claire’s gaze sheered away from her husband, focusing instead on the patterned wall coverings.

“Claire…” he breathed, stunned by her revelation. “Sassenach, look at me, will ye?”

Their eyes met, and the look he was giving her was so pained that she blinked in shock.

“Have I given ye reason to doubt my commitment to ye and yer bairn?”

“No,” she answered plainly.

“And was it no’ me who asked ye, ripe wi’ another man’s child, to be marrit?” he continued.

“Yes, it was.”

“It’s true that I’m a Highlander, Sassenach, an’ a proud one a’ that. But I was a warrior by necessity, no’ by desire. I fought because to do ought would ha’ been craven, an’ my Da didna raise me tae be a coward. Twas the only way I kent tae protect my family, my clan. Now ye and this bairn are my family, an’ those who serve Lallybroch are my clan. I may no’ ken much about yer science an’ industry, but I can provide for my own, an’ tis my great honour tae do so. And if so doin’, I help ye raise a braw wee Scot tae be laird or lady of this home of my heart, weel, I will one day die knowin’ I was a credit tae the Fraser name. In my time, I would be ded, or just as well. Here, I can do wha’ I was born tae. Now I ask ye, why would I turn from that? Why would I turn from ye?”

It was the most he’d ever spoken about matters neither practical nor routine, and she took the words inside her heart where they lit a spark in the tinder of her newborn love.

“It does pain me, though, that ye feel I asked ye tae be my bride merely because it was prudent. I havna done my duty as yer husband, if ye dinna ken…”

Jamie stood abruptly and held out his hand. She grasped it gratefully to leverage herself from the bed.

“Follow me, Sassenach. It’s high time tae address my neglect.”

***

Murtagh looked mildly perturbed to have his evening’s routine interrupted, but scarcely more so than usual. A few murmured words in Gaelic from Jamie and he grunted in surprise, appraising Claire’s hastily donned overcoat and pale blotchy skin.

Claire was surprised to find the small croft next to the stables comfortably appointed, its solid wooden furniture decorated with heavy woolen throws and the occasional cushion. An ornate picture frame adorned the mantlepiece, displaying a dour couple posed stiffly in outmoded wedding clothes.

Disappearing through a darkened doorway into the croft’s only other room, Murtagh returned carrying several objects: a long strip of frayed tartan, a two-handled tarnished silver cup, and a short dagger in its sheath. Murtagh placed the items on a low table and exchanged a significant look with Jamie before returning to the adjacent room.

“Claire,” he began, and she could sense the air in the room shift with his pronouncement of her Christian name, muted but sure. “I ken that you and I, weel, we’re still new. But the lady I’ve come to know, she’s… weel, she’s all that I could e’er want in a wife. Canty. Brave. Strong and fierce tae make me heed, but soft and gracious and sae, sae beautiful, she can make the sun shine on a cloudy day. I could travel through the stones across the ages, and no’ find a better companion fer my heart. So I’m asking ye, Claire Beauchamp Randall Fraser, will ye do me the ‘onour of becoming my wife? No’ because ye’er wi’ child. No’ because ye need me tae drove yer sheep or mend yer fences or tend yer hearth. I want to be marrit’ to ye because ye’er the only future I wish tae know.”

He was balancing both her hands on his open palms. She fixated on their size; broad and calloused, yet always gentle with her. She smiled and felt him take a deep inward breath.

“Jamie… I… that… but we’re already married!” she blurted.

“Aye. The church ‘as blessed us, and a good thing too. I feared I would be goin’ tae ‘ell fer all the lustful thoughts I had of ye, bonnie wee thing that ye are. Tis a relief tae be back in God’s good graces.”

His impudent smirk released the tension from the room.

“Very funny,” she retorted. “But seriously, Jamie, why are we here? And what is all this…” she gestured towards the table.

“Have ye ne’er heard of handfasting, my Sassenach lass? Tis the proper Scottish way tae be marrit’. When ye’er bound together in the auld way, they say nought can come between ye for a year an’ one day. Sae I’ll ask ye again, Claire, will ye accept tae be my wife?”

“Of course, you ridiculous man. Why else would I be standing in Murtagh’s croft in the dead of night, wearing nothing but an overcoat atop my nightgown and slippers? I swear, James Fraser…”

Any further chastisement was halted by his sudden, emphatic kiss. She nearly lost herself in his mouth before she remembered Murtagh was only a few feet away, waiting for them to finish their quiet conversation. Jamie called him back to the room with a shrill whistle.

Standing before the fire, Murtagh first unsheathed the dagger and drew it roughly across Jamie’s outstretched palm. Claire flinched, but only a few scarlet beads of blood rose from the shallow cut. Understanding what was coming next, she extended her right hand and received a matching slash. Jamie then pressed their bleeding palms together. Murtagh quickly enveloped them in several loops of the tartan sash.

“Is that…?” she asked in wonder.

“Aye, tis a wee strip of my plaid. Murtagh saved me a piece a’fore ye burned the rest, ye heathen,” he joked, calm now that the ceremony was underway and she hadn’t laughed in his face.

“What now?” Claire asked, feeling the slippery warmth of their co-mingled blood against the fine skin of her wrist.

“We repeat our vows. I ken ye dinna understand the Gàidhlig, but would ye consider sayin’ the Fraser oaths? I could translate them for ye and…”

“Jamie,” she interjected. “Of course I want to use your family’s vows. I am a Fraser, after all,” she asserted proudly.

Slowly, using only their free hands, Claire and Jamie each grabbed an end of cloth. Staring at his mouth to capture the nuance of the unfamiliar sounds, Claire slowly repeated after Jamie:

‘S tu smior de mo chnàimh , na mo chuislean ‘s tu ‘n fhuil

Bheir mi dhut-sa mo chorp, gum bith ‘n dithis mar aon

Bheir mi dhut-sa slàn m’ anam , gus an crìochnaich ar saoghal

With each phrase, they clumsily tied a knot above their pressed hands, until the room was silent and their hearts were full. Unsentimental to the last, Murtagh quickly unbound their hands and wiped the blade of his dirk on the plaid.

Jamie opened a nearby cupboard with apparent familiarity and withdrew a half-empty bottle of whiskey, pouring a generous amount in the double-handled cup. Murtagh growled something unintelligible in Gaelic.

“Tis my wedding day, ye auld coot. Dinna be parsimonious,” Jamie replied easily.

“Tis yer handfasting day, ye muckle-sized eejit, an’ tha’s my only bottle,” Murtagh retorted with no malice.

Claire grinned at their easy banter, happy that Jamie had made a friend in the older man. Besides her, Murtagh was the only person to know Jamie’s secret.

“Here, Sassenach. A’fore Murtagh here drinks it himself.”

Grasping the offered cup, which Jamie informed her was called a quaich, in both hands, she took a hasty sip while looking at him over the bowl. His blue eyes danced in merry amusement. Receiving the quaich, Jamie finished the amber liquid, watching her all the while. Something crackled between them, and both could feel the buzz of it in their veins, stronger than any liquor.

“Weel,” Murtagh interrupted, “if tis all the same wi’ you, I’ll be goin’ tae bed. There’s sheep that require dipping t’morrow. Godspeed tae ye, lad. Dinna forget what I told ye about the roads beyond Edin’bra.”

With a polite goodnight to Claire, Murtagh fled to the other room.

“Well,” Claire began.

“Aye.”

At this rate they’d still be standing in the croft’s living area when Murtagh rose at dawn, staring at one another.

“What did you have me say, exactly?” she asked.

“You are the marrow in my bones and the blood in my veins.

I shall give you my body, that we two might be one.

I shall give you my whole soul, until our lives shall be done.”

“Until our lives shall be done?” she asked in a timorous voice.

“Aye, Sassenach. Ye’er stuck wi’ me,” he tried to jest while they slowly made their way across the courtyard and up the stairs of the main house, leading each other through the dark towards home.

“It’s a good thing I love you then,” she confessed.

“And I you, mo nighean donn. Come. Let me show ye how much.”

#my writing #outlander

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the-scooby-gang · 4 years

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Changing the game Chapter 1

The crossover that came to me at 5 in the morning.

Leave a comment. Tell me what you guys think of this plot bunny.

Summary: Petyr Baelish is dead i killed him and now Shaggy Rogers inhabites his body.

Word count: 3015

Catelyn I

The Royal entourage made its way across the gates of the castle like a river of gold and silver and polished steel. Above their heads, standards of gold and crimson of the Houses Baratheon and Lannister flew high above the columns of anointed knights. Wandering knights, sworn soldiers, and vassals followed not too far behind.

Catelyn recognized many faces. Sandor Clegane, by far one of the tallest men in attendance, was the first to capture her eyes thanks to the ruin that was the right side of his face. The tall golden boy by his side must have to be the Crown Prince, following the giant that was his father, the King Robert Baratheon, that was right in the front of the columns flanked by two white knights. An equally tall and golden man, adorned in golden armor with the helm in the form of a roaring lion followed close by, the white cloak of the King’s Guard bellowing against the cold wind.

The Kingslayer, thought Cat, giving a more thoughtful look to the twin of Her Majesty. Giving a side glance towards her Lord husband, Cat sent a silent prayer to the seven gods, asking that Ned’s dislike of the queen’s family would not bring any animosity while the royal family was under her roof.

Turning her eyes once again towards the gates, Cat could not contain the happy smile that came to her lips. Petyr Baelish, her brother in all but blood, was entering the gates just behind Ser Jaime, a polite smile in his face. He had changed little; his hair was grayer in the temples them when she last saw him, an earring made of gold with a teardrop-shaped emerald lay dangling from his left ear, but besides that, his frame was still small and lanky, with his observing green-grey eyes and his always easy smile.

When his eyes found hers, his already polite smile turned into something more genuine. He dismounted his stead, just as the king was doing the same and followed on the large shadow of Robert Baratheon, to await his time to greet the Lord and Lady of Winterfell.

On his right, the dog Scoobert Doo stayed loyal and vigilant over his master, like he had done as he was riding through the gates, and just like in the day Petyr found him in the forest near Riverrun and claimed the dog as his own. Cat never saw a dog as big as Doo and believed she never would. Petyr called him “A Great Dane” and said that he would probably grow to surpass even Uncle Brynden in high if he stood in his hind legs. When Edmure, not more them a babe at the time, asked how could he possibly know that, a smile that Catelyn would come to know well graced Petyr’s face.

“I saw it in a dream, Eddy,” he said with far more wisdom in his voice than any boy of ten had any right to have. Then, he messed her brother’s red hair with his free hand while the other held the puppy with the care one would expect someone to cradle a newborn baby.

That would be the answer to many of the things that he just seemed to know. Petyr and his dreams were one of the greatest talks of the realm sometimes. The Master of Coin was known to go to sleep when faced with a particularly difficult conundrum and come back to the land of the awaken with a solution on the tip of his fingers. Sometimes, if the ambient was calm enough, he just needed to close his eyes to be momentarily taken to whatever plane of reality his answers lied.

She remembers asking him once what exactly he saw when in one of his trances.

“It depends on what I have to ask,” he said with the utmost sincerity. Sometimes Cat asked herself if he was capable of lying “If I need some deep knowledge about how something works I may ask The Wise Lady, with her kind eyes, dressed in reds and oranges like the morning sun. If I need to think strategically, in combat or in holding court, The Lovely Warrior will have a ready answer…”

In here he made a pause as his face had assumed a look of longing, of warning. He looked at his feet and Catelyn could swear that his face was as bright and red as the sunsets that she and her sister saw atop the towers of Riverrun “if my need is to create, be it a stronghold, a weapon, a speech or, be made of rope or words, a trap, The Blue-eyed Lord is the one I seek.”

After a small pause, Petyr smiled, looked at the sky, and said with a soft voice, as if he was remembering something long gone. Happy memories of a life already liven “But they don’t have fixed roles most of the time. Both the Warrior and the Lord can be just as wise as the Lady, as can the Lady and the Lord be as cunning and resourceful as the Warrior, and the Warrior and the Lady can just as easily create wonders as the Lord can.”

That was the answer he always gave when asked. Cat and half of her household believed that Petyr was being blessed by the gods. The Wise Lady was clearly the Crone, giving him advice. The Warrior was in the name, giving him strength.

The only one no one was quite sure of was The Blue-eyed Lord.

Some said it was The Father, giving him the means to work his justice. Some supposed that The Smith was the most likely since the weapons and plans that came to Petyr in the dead of the night were above anything anyone was ever seen. A small group thought it was The Maiden in disguise, solemnly because Petyr was the most flustered when speaking of them.

Cat would laugh every time that particular hypothesis was broth up. She knew Petyr better them she knew herself, and she was not blind to his long glances to any blond knight that trained at the yard every morning when they were growing up. It was always blond men. These were the favored ones in her brother’s eyes: Blond, blue eyed, with deep knowledge about one expecific thing and, as Petyr once told her one summer night, “Good of heart, dumb of ass”.

She never laught so loudly as she did that night.

“Your Grace. Winterfell is yours” she heard her husband say, lying on his knees like the rest of her household.

“You grow fat.” Said a bumming voice.

The sound of the King’s remark of her husband’s weight pulled her right back into the present. She turned her head just in time to see Ned go back on his feet, look with disbelief to Robert’s own protuberant belly them back at him with a clearly “And you are one to talk?” look.

The king burst out laughing. Clapping him in his shoulders, Robert turned to her next. Everyone had followed in Ned’s steps and rising to their feet.

“Cat!” roared the Baratheon.

Robert enveloped her in his arms as if she was a long-lost sister and kissed both her cheeks, making her once again lose her brother from sight.

By that time, the others were dismounting, and stable boys ran to collect their horses. The Queen, Cersei Lannister, walked in with her youngest children. The caravan in which they had traveled, a huge two-story carriage made of greased oak and gilded metal, pulled by forty horses with heavy traction, was too wide to pass through the castle gate. Ned knelt in the snow to kiss the queen's ring, while Robert hugged her.

Many stable boys, knights, and servents that have come with the entourage stayed a wide berth away from Scoobert, the sheer size of the dog enough to scare any men. Catelyn wanted to laugh and she could see by Petyr’s face, so did he. Unless you tried to stab Petyr or her or any of their family, Scooby was as threatening as a pillow and just as cuddly.

The servants of Winterfell were already used to the Great Dane from the many visits that Petyr made over the years, the dog aways by his side. She could already see both Bran and Arya dreaming of mounting the dog as if he was a steed, and she had no doubt that Rickon would be introduced to the unofficial tradition.

She remembers when this rite of passage was born, many years ago, when Robb was newly born and the rebellion was coming to an end. Petyr was as always with Scoob by his side, like the gods intended.

When Ned was explaining that the boy that he was bringing with him, a babe that he had named Jon, one of Brandon’s bastards, was going to be living with them, Petyr and the baby Robb were playing with Scoob. The babe was carefully laid over the back of the dog, green-gray eyes focused like an eagle on the redhead of his nephew with ready hands for the chance that they had to move quickly to grab a falling babe.

Robb giggled happily, without a single care in the world. Jon soon followed him on his furry mount. That afternoon was full of the giggles of babes and the soft trot of Scooby paws against pillows.

Ever since then, all the Stark children would have their first ride, not in a pony as it was common, but on the might back of Scoobert Doo.

Petyr and Ned had just come back from the war, Petyr under Lord Arryn banner and Ned as the new Lord of Winterfell. Petyr may not have the body expected of a knight, but what he didn’t have in muscle he compensated with speed. Ned would tell her how Petyr was in the field, looking like he was dancing in mid his enemies, with the sword that he long ago had made per his instructions cutting through armor and flesh like it was cutting the air while Scoobert shredded the arms of anyone that got to close off his master.

She told her husband the story of that blade. The blacksmith of Riverrun recognized the design as one of the blades of Yi-Ti and Ser Desmond Grell, the master-at-arms asked the then boy of eight were he found such a thing.

“I saw it in a dream, Ser Desmond” answered Petyr “An old warrior was training me. He told me to climb the earth, walk on air, pass through the fire, and brave my way through the water. When I did it, a Green Dragon gave me a sword just like this one” them he pointed to the newly made blade, one he called katana and later on would name Loyalty. “The Dragon told me that I would never fight like a knight. I will always be too small and light for that. He told me ‘Fight like the wind, like the flowing waters of the rivers. Fight like a samurai”

Ser Desmond had no idea what a Samurai was, but he would find out that to know was not necessary. The boy, like almost anything in his life apparently, was learning his routines in dreams. He was only necessary to fix his stances, give him targets, and look after him and anyone that was going to be his opponent for the day.

Cat shook herself out of her memories. This was not the place or time for her attention to be so dispersed. With a small sigh of relief, she noticed that the king was still going down the line of her children. At the moment he was complimenting Bran’s muscles, telling him that he would make a fine knight.

When the king finished with his inspection and spirited her husband away to the crypts to the Queen’s displeasure, Petyr finally approached her and her children.

“Uncle Shaggy!” screamed Arya, throwing herself in his open arms.

The nickname was born years ago when Catelyn, Lysa, Edmure, and Petyr went riding by the river, looking for a perfect place for an afternoon picnic. Petyr rode like he was born to do so and his hair by the end of the day was so messy that Edmure started calling him “Shaggy Hair” and later on only “Shaggy”. Petyr seemed to love it and it had indeed fitted him like a second skin.

Somehow that particular nickname seemed more personal them any nickname that Edmure had ever given him. In public, Eddy called him “Littlefinger”, since it was the first name he had ever given him and so was the one everyone knew. But when it was just them, between close doors and the seclusion of the sacred forest, the name “Shaggy” was the one to fall from his lips.

Robb had been the first one to call him that. Followed by Jon, Arya, Bran, even Ned could be caught from time to time calling him by the name. Sansa, on the other hand, rarely called him anything that was not “Uncle Petyr”, “Uncle” and “Lord Baelish”. Petyr used to bribe Sansa with lemon cakes when she was younger to call him by his family nickname, but now at thirteen the bribes rarely work like they used to. Sansa was worried about what would be proper to call a member of the Small Council and found it demeaning for a man in such a position.

She remembers the look Shaggy gave her after Sansa told him this, the day he had come to Winterfell to celebrate her oldest daughter name day. She also remembers how she lost her composure and snorted like a fool when she saw the incredulous expression in his face.

“But look at that! The Hurricane of Winterfell has grown once more” He held Arya as if she weighed nothing. The years of running around carrying a hundred and seventy-five pounds of dog in his arms as if it was a babe had given him great strength. “ At this rate, you will be taller than me in no time”

Arya blushed. Shaggy was by far her favorite uncle and she always shined under his compliments.

Scooby was already licking Bran’s face, not after having sent the boy straight up to the ground. Bran laughed happily and without care. Rickon was looking at the dog in awe and Jon, Robb, and Theon Greyjoy, the protege of Winterfell, burst with laughter.

“Scooby, stop it. He’s going to get all dirty” said Catelyn, but she could not take the small smile of her face.

Scoob followed her orders. Robb helped Bran to get up and cleaned the dirt that covered his back. Shaggy put Arya back on the ground, kissed Sansa’s hand with a small bow with the proper “My Lady” and then turned to Cat, a mischievous smile on his face.

Without warning, Shaggy hugged her, held her out of the ground, and spun her around laughing like a mad man. His laughter as always was infectious and, caring little for the onlookers (something she would severely chastise herself and Shaggy later when she had recovered her wits) she laughed with him.

He put her back on the ground and kissed both her cheeks.

“Big sister, you’re as radiant as ever,” he said looking her over “I hope that Lord Eddard remains treating you well?” his voice jested, but she saw that his eyes were deadly serious.

Shaggy was loyal to a fault, and since the day he came to live with her family he internalized her house words as if they were his own, just like they had come to see him as one of their own. Family, Duty, Honor. The family was above all else in his eyes, be it blood or chosen family. If her answer had been anything but positive, she knew that Ned would find himself with the angry entity that was Shaggy in a protective fury.

“My Lord husband remains the best thing that the gods could have blessed me,” said Cat with sincerity.

Shaggy smiled and took her by the arm and together they started to walk towards the great hall, her children not too far behind petting Scooby-Doo with love and little Rickon perched on his back.

“If you say so, my lady. But always remember, if you need me in any shape or form I’m just one raven away.” here his voice turned into a whisper “Gods know I would take any excuse to leave that nest of vipers”

They both giggle like they were children again and walked through the immense doors of the keep.

Petyr’s father, before he died, said once that in the way to Riverrun Petyr had fallen asleep one night and awaked the next morning completely different. He said he was sweeter, more gentle, and caring. He believed that his son’s dreams started that night and that it has changed him.

If that was so, Catelyn sang many blessings to that day. She would never know how their life would have gone had Shaggy never started dreaming, but she knew what this life had given her.

It has given her a brother. An eccentric and beloved brother.

“Come along, my dear. We have many things to discuss” he said still in whispers “About propositions that are going to be made and marrieges that, if we play our cards right, will never come to be.”

Her smile soured. She knew what proposition he was talking about. Since the death of Jon Arryn and the letter from Lysa, she had been on edge with the uncoming visity from the king, bringing the Lannisters to her home. Regarding marriege, she had know about the possibility of Robert wanting to join their houses, but the look on Shaggy’s face told her a deeper rabbit hole that she was not seeing.

Giving him a calculated smile that was easily reciprocated, arm in arm, they entered the hall.

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aboveallarescuer · 4 years

Text

Rereading the groundwork for Dany’s freeing of the Unsullied in Astapor

(I had already posted this before earlier, but I accidentally deleted it, sorry about that. It's the first Dany meta I ever wrote in my life, yay!)

While GRRM deliberately keeps Dany’s intent to overthrow the slave masters’ authority for the sake of the Unsullied’s lives hidden until the end of her third chapter of “A Storm of Swords”, it’s clear that Dany planned this move on her own for some time before executing it. Analyzing why she did it in the first place and when she did so makes both this chapter and the previous one very rewarding to reread in retrospect—you get to follow her motivations, thoughts, feelings and spoken words about the injustice she’s witnessing and ultimately see that, while they are not always perfectly aligned with each other due to the fact that starting an anti-slavery revolution wasn’t her initial intent (and could cost her greatly), it feels ultimately natural and inevitable for her to have taken this course of action.

At the end of ASOS Daenerys I, Jorah convinces Dany to get an army of her own in Astapor before going to Illyrio. Dany agrees that “there is wisdom” in Jorah’s advice and feels “a rising excitement” at the idea after Jorah lays it out to her, so there’s no intent on freeing slaves at this point. Indeed, despite knowing that they are slaves and having seen them before, this is what she thinks and says when Jorah first suggests that she buys the Unsullied:

“The slaves in the spiked bronze hats?” Dany had seen Unsullied guards in the Free Cities, posted at the gates of magisters, archons and dynasts. “Why should I want Unsullied? They don’t even ride horses, and most of them are fat.”

In the beginning of ASOS Daenerys II, her perception begins to change as she gains more knowledge of their situation. Dany and “Arstan” are negotiating with the slaver Kraznys, who explains and exposes them to the cruel and inhumane training that the Unsullied undergo to develop their so-called “obedience”. It becomes too personal for her to feign indifference at this point, in particular:

“How can any man possibly remember a new name every day?”

“Those who cannot are culled in training, along with those who cannot run all day in full pack, scale a mountain in the black of night, walk across a bed of coals, or slay an infant.”

Dany’s mouth surely twisted at that [...] “Whose infants do they slay?”

“To win his spiked cap, an Unsullied must go to the slave marts with a silver mark, find some wailing newborn, and kill it before its mother's eyes. In this way, we make certain that there is no weakness left in them.”

She was feeling faint. The heat, she tried to tell herself. “You take a babe from its mother's arms, kill it as she watches, and pay for her pain with a silver coin?”

Such a physical reaction comes from both basic empathy and the fact that she was a mother who almost had her baby killed herself, back when the Dothraki revolted over her allowing Khal Drogo to be treated by Mirri Maz Duur:

She tried to crawl toward the tent, but Cohollo caught her. Fingers in her hair, he pulled her head back and she felt the cold touch of his knife at her throat."My baby," she screamed, and perhaps the gods heard, for as quick as that, Cohollo was dead. Aggo's arrow took him under the arm, to pierce his lungs and heart. (AGOT Daenerys VIII)

Despite the injustice about which she can’t remain apathetic, Dany’s heart is still in conflict with itself. Barristan argues that “many good men will oppose [Dany] for no other reason than [being the head of a slave army]” and asserts that she must “leave this place before [her] heart turns to brick as well”. Dany remains decisive on getting an army, however:

“Yet I must have some army,” Dany said. “The boy Joffrey will not give me the Iron Throne for asking politely.“

“When I leave Astapor it must be with an army, Ser Jorah says.”

And then Dany explains what makes her so intent on getting an army:

“My brother visited Pentos, Myr, Braavos, near all the Free Cities. The magisters and archons fed him wine and promises, but his soul was starved to death. A man cannot sup from the beggar's bowl all his life and stay a man. I had my taste in Qarth, that was enough. I will not come to Pentos bowl in hand.”

She had witnessed the mental deterioration of Viserys over the years—she had witnessed the change of “the brother who had sometimes let her creep into his bed, [...] told her tales of the Seven Kingdoms, and talked of how much better their lives would be once he claimed his crown” to a “stupid and vicious” and “cruel weak” man by the end of his life. Understandably, she does not want to struggle with the same material problems that he did nor repeat his actions. One of the reasons why she hesitates to buy the Unsullied is that she knows that Viserys wouldn’t. Also, she risks selling Drogon in the next chapter, but not her crown, as she knows that “only rage” left Viserys when he sold their mother’s crown. “Arstan” may argue that it’s “[b]etter to come a beggar than a slaver”, to which she replies:

“There speaks one who has been neither.” Dany’s nostrils flared. “Do you know what it is like to be sold, squire? I do. My brother sold me to Khal Drogo for the promise of a golden crown. Well, Drogo crowned him in gold, though not as he had wished, and I ... my sun-and-stars made a queen of me, but if he had been a different man, it might have been much otherwise.Do you think I have forgotten how it felt to be afraid?”

There you have Dany’s internal conflict: on the one hand, she can empathize with the Unsullied and would not wish to be complicit in the brutal system that they’re forced to maintain; on the other hand, she does not want to be powerless the way Viserys once was because she saw the psychological damage that came with it.

The next interaction between Dany and Jorah only makes her conflict more pronounced:

“How many men do they have for sale?”

“None.” Was it Mormont she was angry with, or this city with its sullen heat, its stinks and sweats and crumbling bricks? “They sell eunuchs, not men. Eunuchs made of brick, like the rest of Astapor. Shall I buy eight thousand brick eunuchs with dead eyes that never move, who kill suckling babes for the sake of a spiked hat and strangle their own dogs? They don't even have names. So don't call them men, ser.”

“Khaleesi,” he said, taken aback by her fury, “the Unsullied are chosen as boys, and trained—”

“I have heard all I care to of their training.” Dany could feel tears welling in her eyes, sudden and unwanted. Her hand flashed up and cracked Ser Jorah hard across the face. It was either that, or cry.

Mormont touched the cheek she'd slapped. "If I have displeased my queen—"

“You have. You've displeased me greatly, ser. If you were my true knight, you would never have brought me to this vile sty.”

There’s a lot going on here. She’s angry at Jorah for disrespecting her boundaries, but she’s also angry that her only way out of powerlessness makes her part of a vicious system.

By the end of the chapter, Dany is still trying to “find some way to buy [the eight thousand brick eunuchs]”, so she certainly hasn’t figured out the plan that she’ll carry out in the next chapter.

Days later, in the beginning of ASOS Daenerys III, she announces that she wants to buy all the Unsullied. The slavers are skeptical and want more guarantee that she’ll be able to pay for all of them, so she uses her last resort:

Two thousand would never serve for what she meant to do. I must have them all. Dany knew what she must do now, though the taste of it was so bitter that even the persimmon wine could not cleanse it from her mouth. She had considered long and hard and found no other way. It is my only choice. “Give me all”, she said, “and you may have a dragon.”

On first reading, one may think that the last bolded passage is about getting a huge army to take Westeros. In retrospect, with the knowledge that Dany has already concocted her plan at this point, it becomes so much more powerful, for it shows that Dany will go to any lengths to help them. “It is my only choice” is the equivalent of Brienne’s often lauded “no chance, and no choice.”

Another passage that also receives a whole different meaning is this one:

Dany fed her dragons as she always did, but found she had no appetite herself. She cried awhile, alone in her cabin, then dried her tears [...] [“]I need the Unsullied more than I need these ships, and I will hear no more about it”.

One may think that she’s deeming a huge army more valuable than ships, but that’s not the case: she’s talking about how “[protecting] the ones who can’t protect themselves” is more important than material assets.

Then we get a few hints that she has the situation (mostly) under control:

“[...] A dragon is worth more than any army. Aegon proved that three hundred years ago, in the Field of Fire.”

“I know what Aegon proved. I mean to prove a few things of my own.”

If I look back, I am lost, Dany told herself the next morning as she entered Astapor through the harbor gates. She dared not remind herself how small and insignificant her following truly was, or she would lose all courage. [...]

Slaves and servants lined the ways, while the slavers and their women donned their tokars to look down from their stepped pyramids. They are not so different from Qartheen after all, she thought. They want a glimpse of dragons to tell their children of, and their children’s children. It made her wonder how many of them would ever have children.

The first one-on-one interaction between Dany and Missandei also has a significance that is only apparent with hindsight:

“If I did resell [the Unsullied], how would I know they could not be used against me?” Dany asked pointedly. “Would they do that? Fight against me, even do me harm?”

“If their master commanded. They do not question, Your Grace. All the questions have been culled from them. They obey.”

The last highlighted passage makes it clear that Dany wants to give the Unsullied freedom, but, in order to do so, she also needs to know if they can truly change their allegiances rather than stay passive or even defend their former masters instead.

I've seen some argue that Dany not dropping the whip until the Unsullied fight for her is an intentional symbolism for her role as anti-villain, but this is ill-considered for ignoring Dany's entire thought process and characterization and even the actual sequence of events. Turtle-paced indirectly debunks their interpretation by pointing out that “[Dany] herself turns the whip on Kraznys”, which is clear symbolic demonstration that neither Dany nor Drogon are slaves and that she did not consider this deal legitimate. She doesn’t mean to “compel obedience” with the whip, in fact, she “throws [the whip] aside to show that she has no intention of ordering them as slaves.” Then, “[the Unsullied] demonstrate their own collective wills [and] do not obey. [...] Dany’s entire plan hangs on [...] her belief that the Unsullied are not mindless - and, in fact, would jump at the chance for freedom”, which she gives.

Now that the preparation for the conquest of Astapor has been analyzed, I’d like to call attention to this passage, which explores Dany’s motivations for taking the city and freeing the slaves:

“Do you remember Eroeh?” she asked him.

“The Lhazareen girl?”

“They were raping her, but I stopped them and took her under my protection. Only when my sun-and-stars was dead Mago took her back, used her again, and killed her. Aggo said it was her fate.”

“I remember”, Ser Jorah said.

“I was alone for a long time, Jorah. All alone but for my brother. I was such a small scared thing. Viserys should have protected me, but instead he hurt me and scared me worse. He shouldn’t have done that. He wasn’t just my brother, he was my king. Why do the gods make kings and queens, if not to protect the ones who can’t protect themselves?”

[...] “[Robert] did no justice. Justice ... that’s what kings are for.”

As goodqueenaly said, Mirri showed Dany that “you don’t erase the evils that are done by other slavers because you are a better person” and that Dany “could not escape [from a fundamental evil to the Dothraki system] while being part of it”. This certainly applies to Eroeh as well, since, for all her efforts, Dany failed to protect her and remains painfully aware of that. Those experiences were a catalyst for Dany to become, as goodqueenaly puts it, “the Breaker of Chains, the one who sets slaves free entirely, instead of moving them from one master to another.” Indeed, khaleesirin calls Dany a pragmatist in the Deweyan sense, for “her beliefs, her core principles [...] were a result of her actual experiences“. The connection between Dany’s personal experiences/past suffering with her political values/goals is one of the most interesting aspects of her storyline and one of the main reasons why she has the potential to be a great ruler.

I've also seen people who are skeptical of Dany's humanitarian motivations because she wasn't as affected by seeing the Lhazareen slaves (see the comments of this analysis). While it's true that she first tries to rationalize what they are seeing (and many people bring up this passage to argue that she is):

Slaves, Dany thought. Khal Drogo would drive them downriver to one of the towns on Slaver’s Bay. She wanted to cry, but she told herself that she must be strong. This is war, this is what it looks like, this is the price of the Iron Throne.

She ultimately can't continue to do so (as I've said before):

Behind them, the girl being raped made a heartrending sound, a long sobbing wail that went on and on and on. Dany’s hand clenched hard around the reins, and she turned the silver’s head. “Make them stop,” she commanded Ser Jorah.

“Khaleesi?” The knight sounded perplexed. 

“You heard my words,” she said. “Stop them.” She spoke to her khas in the harsh accents of Dothraki. “Jhogo, Quaro, you will aid Ser Jorah. I want no rape.”

However, she can't be as confrontational about what's happening because of Drogo:

“This is the way of war. These women are our slaves now, to do with as we please.”

“It pleases me to hold them safe,” Dany said, wondering if she had dared too much. (AGOT Daenerys VII)

Drogo had been more than her sun-and-stars; he had been the shield that kept her safe. (AGOT Daenerys VIII)

Which is why he had to die so she could be who she is nowadays. (It's interesting to wonder, as this post by rainhadaenerys does, if GRRM always planned to write Dany as the abolitionist figure she ended up being, though.)

And if some were still confused by Dany's character development, it feels like GRRM wrote this bit of dialogue between Dany and Xaro especially for them. Seriously, Xaro could serve as an audience surrogate to them:

“Whence came this madness? Should I count myself fortunate that you did not free my own slaves when you were my guest in Qarth?”

I was a beggar queen and you were Xaro of the Thirteen, Dany thought, and all you wanted were my dragons. “Your slaves seemed well treated and content. It was not till Astapor that my eyes were opened. Do you know how Unsullied are made and trained?”

“Cruelly, I have no doubt. When a smith makes a sword, he thrusts the blade into the fire, beats on it with a hammer, then plunges it into iced water to temper the steel. If you would savor the sweet taste of the fruit, you must water the tree.”

“This tree has been watered with blood.” (ADWD Daenerys III)

Not only Dany is (and was) aware of how she lacked power to make the changes she's now doing at this point, she (and the author) also confirms, as I just wrote about, how witnessing the Unsullied's training was a major turning point for her actions.

Still, there are still people who think she only freed them because she wanted an army. Friends of mine (who read the books), even. Game of Thrones actors from Nikolaj Coster-Waldau to Finn Jones have also expressed similar feelings, with the latter arguing that “she goes to other civilizations, and she “frees” them, and she makes them their own slaves”.

Maybe that sort of criticism would have some basis if Dany weren't a POV character (for it would be easier to project how we feel about what she's doing and ignore how she herself is feeling). But she is a POV character, thankfully, and so, as she clings to her image of Rhaegar (who, inside Dany’s thoughts, is merely Dany’s own ideal of how a good ruler should think and act, not Rhaegar the person), she says:

“Prince Rhaegar led free men into battle, not slaves. [...] when he touched a man on the shoulder with his sword, what did he say? ‘Go forth and kill the weak’? Or ‘Go forth and defend them’? At the Trident, those brave men Viserys spoke of who died beneath our dragon banners—did they give their lives because they believed in Rhaegar’s cause, or because they had been bought and paid for?” (ASOS Daenerys II)

Which makes it clear that making them her slaves is precisely the opposite of what the character wants.

#daenerys targaryen #a storm of swords #valyrianscrolls

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jomiddlemarch · 5 years

Text

The one who was all to me

She married William Boldwood. Not because he had a splendid house and acres of parkland, the windows cleverly placed to make the most of the vista and the sunsets, though he did. Not because he was a fine gentleman with a library full of books and a harp, his knotted cravat silk, his riding boots polished to a mirror’s sheen, though he was. Not because it was expected and not because she admired him, though it was and she did.

Bathsheba married William Boldwood because he sang with her at the feast, his baritone clear and true, though she heard in its tone that he would have kept singing even if his voice trembled. Because he knew every word and she could tell he knew what they meant and how he was asking her a question the whole time. Because he watched her as she sang with a longing she understood she could gratify—and found, suddenly as a match was struck, she wanted to. She knew she would not need to say very much and that he would pick up her hand in his when she spoke; she had not known he would bring her palm to his lips to kiss her there or that she would close her hand around to caress to keep it. She had not known how sweet his smile would be when he saw.

They had three years. She asked to plant more barley and fewer oats and he agreed. She asked to start a school for the village girls, a proper school, for the twelve most likely to begin with, and he agreed, nodding but not laughing. She did not give him a son and apologized for it; he refused to accept it, saying she was young and there was time, that she was all in all to him. When a poor girl was found on the brink of death with a newborn child, Bathsheba asked for the apothecary to be called and William gave her to coins to pay from his own pocket. He let her send the maid to Bathsheba’s dowry farm, let her name the baby Will Robin.

A fever came and few died. A grandmother, two nursing babies, a young boy already ill with consumption. And William Boldwood, who came home from riding and said,

“My head aches, I fear I’m unwell.”

He did not die in a day or a day and a night. Bathsheba nursed him herself, fed him broth from a silver spoon with his crest on the handle, lifted his head for him to sip from a cup of water. She gave him medicine the physician left after shaking his head with a mixture of sagacity and resignation, a particular sorrow that a gentleman of long acquaintance would shortly be departing. When nothing worked, she brewed her own teas from herbs she remembered were supposed to help, peppermint and chamomile, boneset and lemon balm, and he choked them down. She read to him and she sang every song she could every recall he’d smiled to hear and she prayed, not well but nothing to lose. She saw how he tried to rally and what it cost him; she saw when he decided it cost too much.

“Gabriel Oak,” he said, his voice halfway ruined with catarrh.

“What? Mr. Oak is fine, he’s managing the farm perfectly well, the flock is thriving. You needn’t worry about that,” Bathsheba said, dipping a soft cloth in water with a handful of lavender buds thrown in. The lavender did nothing for the fever; William still burned to the touch but the scent was pleasant, the reminder of happier days, of summer mornings when the fragrance came in through open windows like laughter.

“When I’m gone, marry him. He’ll help you,” William said.

“But he’s not a gentleman!” Bathsheba exclaimed.

“I’ve a sense that doesn’t make much difference, facing eternity,” he said, beginning to smile before he coughed. When he finished, she wiped his face with the cloth but he reached up to take her hand, to hold her still. “He’s a good man, steady, and he loves you. Has loved you all this time. I know.”

“How do you know?” she asked, not arguing that he would live. She saw in his dark eyes he noticed, that it was a relief and a disappointment. She saw that he loved her and meant to leave her.

“I have seen his expression in my own looking-glass these three years. And the year before, before you married me. I’ve seen how he turns away. And how he cannot help turning back.”

“I don’t need anyone,” Bathsheba said. William still held her hand in his and there was some strength left in him. Just not enough for this world.

“You mayn’t. You’re the most independent woman I’ve ever met. The most self-reliant soul. But it is still a good thing to be loved by someone worthy,” he said, squeezing her hand. “It is till good to have someone’s hand to hold when it grows dark.”

“What if I don’t love him?”

“You’re not a liar, my dear. Not to me and not to yourself. I don’t think you’d lie to Gabriel. He won’t ask you, you’ll have to say something,” William said. He hadn’t spoken this much, this long, in days. He looked something beyond tired.

“I’ll do what’s right, you must know that,” she said softly. He wanted to shut his eyes, to turn his face towards the light from the window. “Rest now, William. It’s all right.”

She married Gabriel Oak. Not because he made every arrangement she couldn’t face, the coffin and the stone, telling the people who worked for her she grieved in her own way, though he did. Not because William had made it his dying wish or request or blessing, though he did. Not because he asked, because he didn’t and not because she couldn’t think of what else to do, because she could.

She married Gabriel Oak because he waited when she asked him into her grand parlor and in his rough clothes, he was all she wanted to look at. Because his eyes were grey and filled with the most patient longing, though she did not know what to say and could not have sung a note, her voice half-ruined with weeping. Because when she lifted a hand, he took it and he came to her instead of drawing her to him, because he murmured there now, sweetheartas he stroked her hair and only kissed her forehead though he held her close, so very close.

The baby came quickly, within the year; William had been right, she was young and there was time enough. Just enough for the midwife to attend to the delivery, instead of Gabriel, just enough time for him to brush the loose hair back from her flushed cheeks as the baby cried, indignant at the cool air, soothed only by her mother’s breast.

Gabriel said they might call the baby Wilhelmina, but Bathsheba shook her head.

“Her name is Ruth, because whither thou go, I shall go. He’d like that better, I think.”

“You’re all in all to me,” Gabriel said. She heard William saying it too, the memory like a charm. She closed her eyes and felt the swaddled baby in her arms, Gabriel’s hand on their daughter’s head. If someone else watched over them all, she couldn’t, didn’t mind it. She didn’t mind it at all.

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kapitan-rusakov · 5 years

Text

The Distribution of Justice

I had been celebrating the birth of my first child when the King’s men had approached us. They inquired as to why we were deep into our cups, and we cheerfully told them the wonderful news, that I had just become a father. They seemed so innocent, so pure of heart, such model soldiers at that time. They bought us a round of drinks and toasted to my newborn baby girl...but after we had drained our glasses, we noticed something extra at the bottom of our glasses: a coin. “Well gents, it seems you have accepted the King’s silver. You are officially in the Royal Navy now lads.” the tallest man snickered. His long red coat, his black, tree-cornered hat, adorned with gold trim and some kind of insignia, it was burned into my mind. I flew into a rage. How could he do this!? As I lunged for his throat, everything went black.

“Greetings to you lot. Greetings to you beggars, vagrants, drunkards, and scum. Your poor life choices and humble birth has afforded you very little in this life. Here, however, you have a chance to gain glory and honor by serving in His Majesty’s Royal Navy. If you work hard, and obey me…” he guestered to a few well-dressed men behind him, “...and my officers, you just may become something more than the filth of England. Disobey, and we shall break you the way superior beings have broken the filth for millenia: with lash, pain, torment, and discipline. If this doesn’t suit you, there is always a second option. Does anybody not want to serve in His Majesty’s Navy? If that is your decision step forward.”

One man did. One man took a step forward. We did not recognize him, but he was dressed in rags and smelt of cheap ale. “I-I-I-I would like to take the second option, s-s-s-ir” he choked out. The tall man smiled, and snapped his fingers. Two of the well-dressed men, the ship’s officers as I understood them to be, grabbed the poor man and threw him overboard. The tall man said nothing, and kept us standing there until we could hear his screams of protest no more. Then he smiled.

“That, lads, is the second option. If you choose to stay, know this: you will be bound to every plank on this vessel until you are dead or not needed anymore. Is that clear?” We all replied “Aye-aye!”. The tall man flashed us another sinister grin. “My name is Captain Walter Davies, welcome aboard the HMS Hound, sailors.” He turned and left for the same door he had entered through, and the Officers began to bark orders. That had been my introduction to the sailor’s life.

The days turned into weeks, the crossing was filled with hardship and pain. Our destination was Port Royal, but we hadn’t been told what awaited us there. Captain Davies wanted to make it there in four weeks, but we all knew that was impossible. Not only were we fighting the winds, but the tyrant Captain had skimmed on our provisions. While he ate salted pork and drank brandy, we were fed hardtack, a strange, thick oatmeal, and given watered down rum to drink. We toiled for hours, trying to make his deadline, but our inexperience betrayed us. There wasn’t enough hardened sailors to properly instruct us of our tasks, and the result was far from what the Captain had expected. One man fell from the mainmast due to an improperly tied knot, and another had his legs smashed by an improperly stowed cannon, which had come loose and rolled into him. Both men were tossed overboard with such contempt it was insulting. The man with the smashed legs screamed for what seemed like hours while our vessel left him behind. While we grew weak with hunger, the Captain and his men started to gain more flesh on their frames. By week seven we hardly had the strength to rise from our hammocks. The surgeon informed the Captain that we needed more to eat in order to keep the ship sailing. He relented after hours of arguing. It was the seventh week when we spotted what would be our salvation.

A sail was spotted to our east. She was flying colors Captain Davies did not recognize. It was a white banner with a blue “X” stretched out to the four corners of the flag. He had us beat to quarters, in landsman terms that means we made the ship ready to fight. Despite our weariness we readied the cannon and waited. The HMS Hound was a 6th rate Frigate, however, she only had 20 cannons to her name, all were 6 pounders. Captain Davies had armed her to deal with smaller vessels, but the ship that chased us appeared to have 28 cannon. We could not make out the poundage, but they were long guns, the same used by navies around the world for their range and penetration. We waited for two days as the mystery ship approached us cautiously.

It was my watch on the third day, and through my spyglass I noticed a man standing at the bow He was wearing clothing from a culture or part of the world unknown to me. His boots had curled up, pointed toes like those worn by the Ottoman Turks. His pants were not the tight fitting breeches or sailor pants worn by most of the Great Powers’ Mariners, they were loose and had a dyed, linen shirt tucked into them. The belts were of standard european fare, as was his red coat. The most peculiar things, however, were his sash and his hat. The sash was a rich green and patterned. While we had all heard of the beautiful silks that came from the Far East, but this seemed to be even more exotic. His hat was fur, and folded up on each side of his head. The only two adornments was a brass ship in the center of the front fold, and a feather tucked behind the same fold, sticking straight up. Before I could get a look at his face, a single cannon fired from the bow of the vessel, and their flag began to be brought down. I called for Captain Davies, and he wrenched the spyglass from my hands. The flag was changed, and raised again. The new flag was black, with a heart pierced by a cutlass, and an hourglass placed below that ghastly symbol. Drops of red blood from the heart were shown leaking onto the hourglass. Captain Davies swore, and before he could bark order, the man on the enemy vessel shouted through a speaking horn:

“Strike your colors Englishman! You have no chance, we are well armed and well provisioned! Surrender and no harm will come to you and your men! Should you choose to fight, you will be shown no quarter!”

Before Captain Davies could respond, one of the men had already begun lowering our flag. Davies drew a pistol and shot him before he completed his task. It was as if a floodgate had been released, l and before the man hit the ground, my fellow sailors drew our weapons with intent on taking control of the ship. However, the enemy vessel was already upon us. As the men from the other vessel threw over grapples, we abandoned our arms and fell to our knees. Captain Davies and the Officers were shouting as we were boarded by scraggly, unkempt barbarians. Davies drew another pistol and fired at the man I had seen on the bow, but his pistol misfired, and exploded in his outstretched hand. The strange man drew his own blade and walked up to Davies, grinning smugly. Davies attempted to draw his sword, but was stopped by the sound of pistols being readied to fire. The Officers and Davies dropped to their knees, and we expected to meet our end…

What followed was most unusual. We expected to be killed outright by these foreign corsairs, but they merely bound our hands and legs and took many of us away for questioning. I watched many men be dragged away, whimpering and pleading for their lives. When they were brought out, their bonds had been cut and they were sent to the quarterdeck. I was trying to understand the corsairs’ intentions when I was seized and brought before the man I had seen on the bow. The man had taken up residence in Captain Davies’ cabin. He sat on a chair while smoking a pipe, his feet lazily placed on the fine table, and his arms were stowed behind him. He introduced himself as Captain Rusakov, and questioned me about our voyage. I explained to him how most of us were not seamen, that we were actually landsmen pressed involuntarily into service. I told him of the night in the tavern, of the hardship and cruelty suffered beneath Captain Davies. He listened intently, only pausing to relight his pipe and drink from a flask produced from a coat pocket. After I had shared my tale, he stood up and one of the corsairs offered him a knife. I closed my eyes, fearing I had offended him in some way, but felt the bonds containing my hands and feet loosen as the knife cut through them. He stood me up and smiled, before leading me out of the cabin. I was stowed with the other sailors and Captain Rusakov signaled his men. They began to cut my fellow crew members free and bring them to the quarterdeck. It was only then we noticed Captain Davies and his Officers were all tied to the Mainmast. Two corsairs brought over a large barrel and Captain Rusakov climbed on top of it while clearing his throat. Then, he started to speak:

“English sailors! I have questioned many of you, and received the same story! While you were drinking at a tavern, out in a fishing boat, or celebrating your child’s birth…” he glanced at me as he spoke before turning to the rest of my men, “...the Captain and his men stole you away from your homes and forced you into servitude! Then, while you scrounge for food like beasts, he eats like a king! The unceremoniously tossing of injured and dead men overseas like spoiled cargo is the most heinous of crimes ever committed at sea! We all hail from a far off land, a crew of many religions, races, and talents! We sail as free men, and would like to offer that same opportunity to you lot!”.

There was a cheer from the men, but before it got out of hand, he raised his arms as a signal to quiet down.

“However, we need to address the offenses done unto you by the tyrant captain! Before we decide how to handle the transfer of goods and men from this vessel, we must distribute justice unto the captain and his officers! The officers shall face the punishment of humiliation, and the captain shall receive our most painful lesson…” as he said this, Rusakov showed us a sinister sneer before hopping off the barrel and whistling to his men.

The Officers were stripped nude of all but their socks and hats, then tied up as pigs. While this happened, the former Captain was relieved of his clothes save for his shirt and breeches. His feet and wrists were tied to separate ropes, and he was propped up on his knees before Captain Rusakov. He removed the pipe from his mouth and blew a cloud of smoke into Davies’ face.

“Normally, we’d take your cargo and leave. We’d petition your crew to join us and leave you be. However, you treated your men like slaves on a plantation. You treated them like disposable beasts of burden. This crime cannot go unpunished. The Captain’s role is to guide his men to glory and riches, not beat them into submission.”

He blew another cloud of smoke into Davies’ face. He coughed and started sputtering as he started to weep. Before fear overtook him, Davies spoke in what sounded more like a condemned man than a ship’s captain:

“Please sir, let me go and I swear to Christ Almighty I’ll be a better Captain! Give me the chance to change my ways! Just please don’t kill me!” He cried as tears rolled down his face.

The foreign Captain laughed as he inhaled and exhaled more smoke.

“We aren’t going to kill you, man. We are going to make an example of you. One that your underlings will never forget.” He produced a black hood from his belt and draped it over Davies’ face before clapping his hands twice.

At the second clap, a group of corsairs pulled on the ropes and Davies was dragged to the starboard side of the HMS Hound. He was suspended by his feet, with his head pointing to the water. I had never seen this kind of punishment before, and ignorantly thought they were going to drown him. I looked at some of the more experienced men, and saw their faces go pale. There were no cheers, and all was silent. Captain Rusakov snapped his right hand, and the rope holding Davies above the water was let go, plunging Davies into the sea. As the splash of the former captain hit the water, another group of corsairs began to pull on the rope that I assumed was tied to Davies’ hands. They pulled in short, quick tugs. I failed to comprehend what was happening, and then I heard it. The sound of something...no...Davies’ body scraping against the bottom of the HMS Hound! I will admit here that my nerve was lost, and I had to vomit overboard at this sudden realization. Just as I finished emptying my stomach, I saw Davies’ body come from the water, where it was unceremoniously lowered onto the deck. His clothes were torn, and his arms, legs, stomach, and back were bleeding from many cuts. He lay there motionless for a few moments, before two more corsairs tossed saltwater on him. Davis screamed and wretched as the pain overtook him. He neck snapped back and his body writhed in agony. After Davies slowly fell silent, Rusakov turned to us, and spoke softly.

“Has justice been dispensed? Are you lot satisfied with this?”

There was silence. No man said a word. Rusakov raised his right hand again and snapped, and, once again, Davies was pulled up and over the water. We could all hear his screams. The shrieks intensified when Rusakov clapped his hands again. Davies’ protests were silenced by the water and they dragged him under the ship again. Once again, we all heard that terrible sound. He was brought up again and dropped on the opposite side. Davies was motionless, taking short, ragged breaths. Rusakov walked over and tore the hood off, revealing the horribly damaged face. An eye had been scraped off, kart of his cheek was torn free, and we could see his teeth through the wound. Again, Rusakov asked us:

“Has justice been dispensed?”

I stepped forward, walking towards the crumpled man. Two corsairs moved to stop me, but Rusakov waved them away. I looked at Davies, and with all the rage I could muster, drew back my fist and drove it into his wounded cheek. He grunted and breathed in more ragged gasps, and I was satisfied when he spat out a few teeth. I nodded and walked back with my men. Captain Rusakov smiled and whistled again, signaling his men to bring Davies below decks.

The surgeon tended to his wounds as best he could, dressing his cuts with bandages and using slaves to ease his pain. Davies and his officers were then placed in a small, single-masted launch with some provisions, a compass, and a map to Port Royal. In an ironic twist, it was only three days away from our current position. We stripped the HMS Hound of all her goods, then set her aflame before sailing away with Captain Rusakov. As we watched her burn, we all felt relieved.

We made port in Nassau, where I was able to barter for transport to England, and eventually made it home. After reuniting with my beloved wife and daughter, I caught wind of some news. The local taverns had just heard a story of a scarred up captain arriving in Port Royal with his officers, all were nude except for their socks and hats, and the captain was so disfigured that many of the barmaids fainted upon seeing him. He carried a note in his sock that had details of the crimes committed at sea. The last they heard he was dishonorably discharged from the Royal Navy, and the Officers were to spend the rest of their careers in the bilges. The Distribution of Justice had served its purpose, and taught me a lesson I’ll never forget: The Captain’s duty is to guide his men to glory and riches, not beat them into submission.

#nautical #pirate of the caribbean #yo ho yo ho a pirate's life for me #pirate #pirate media #ageofsail #original short story #short story #writing #justice #naval warfare #navy #pirates #nautical story #the pirates life #hoist the colours #enemy of the state

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purplecloaks · 5 years

Text

To Survive, Part One

Pairing: Daenerys x child!OC

Warnings: talk of killing babies, attempt on characters’ lives

Words: 1309

Everything Tag: @squirrelacorngliterfarts @kawennote09 @sherrybaby14

A/N: This starts in the third season, so Thirri can tell the story herself.

I stand next to Mommy on the ship. My brothers are flying around everywhere, screeching. Drogon dives into the water and catches a fish. He throws it up in the air and burns it before eating it. I laugh. Then he lands on the ship next to Mommy. Mommy strokes his head. I tug at her dress and she picks me up. I pet Drogon too.

“They’re growing fast,” Jorah says.

“Not fast enough,” Mommy says. “I can’t wait that long.” Drogon leaves. “I need an army.”

“We’ll be in Astapor by nightfall. Some say the Unsullied are the greatest soldiers in the world,” Jorah says.

Mommy turns around fast. I grip onto her neck. “The greatest slave-soldiers in the world. The distinction means a good deal to some people.”

“Do those people have any better ideas about how to put you on the Iron Throne?” Jorah asks.

“It’s too beautiful a day to argue. Especially in front of Thirri,” Mommy says. She starts walking away from Jorah.

“You’re right. Another lovely day on the high seas,” Jorah says.

It smells suddenly. I look down and see people vomiting.

“Don’t mock them. They’re the first Dothraki who have ever been on a ship. They followed me across the poison water. If they’ll do it, others will. And with a true khalasar –” Mommy says.

“The Dothraki follow strength above all, khaleesi. You’ll have a true khalasar when you prove yourself strong. And not before,” Jorah says.

“I think you’re strong, Mommy,” I say.

She kisses my forehead. “Thank you, my love.” She sets me down.

Later in the day, we dock our ship in a new place. Mommy bends down close to me.

“I want you to stay close to me and Jorah, do you understand?” she asks.

“Yes, Mommy.” I nod.

When we get off the ship, I hold Mommy’s hand tightly. We meet a bald man and a pretty girl. He speaks in funny words and the pretty girl tells Mommy what he says.

“The Unsullied have stood here for a day and a night with no food or water.” The pretty girl says.

The man speaks the funny words again.

“They will stand until they drop.”

More funny words.

“Such is their obedience.”

There’s a wall of men in front of us. They separate suddenly, creating a pathway for us.

“They may suit my needs. Tell me of their training,” Mommy says.

The pretty girl speaks the funny words now. When we get to the other side of the pathway the men move back together.

“They begin their training at five. Every day they drill from dawn to dusk until they have mastered the shortsword, the shield, and the three spears. Only one boy in four survives this rigorous training,” the pretty girl says.

The bald man speaks the funny words again.

“Their discipline and loyalty are absolute. They fear nothing,” the pretty girl says.

“Even the bravest men fear death,” Jorah says.

The man and the girl speak back and forth for a moment.

“My master says the Unsullied are not men. Death means nothing to them,” she says.

More funny words. Then he steps away from us.

“He begs you attend to this carefully, Your Grace,” the girl says.

The man is in front of the warriors now. He says something and one of them step forward. He moves his shield and spear away and takes his knife out of it’s place.

Mommy suddenly grips my head and puts it in her dress. “Do not watch, my love. Tell the good master there is no need.”

“My master points out that men don’t need nipples,” I hear the girl say.

“But in front of my child?” Mommy sounds upset.

The man speaks more funny words.

“My master says maybe you shouldn’t have brought her with,” the pretty girl says.

Mommy lets go of my head and I bring my head out from her dress. I wonder what happened.

More funny words from the bald man.

“To win his shield, an Unsullied must go to the slave marts with a sliver mark, find a newborn and kill it before its mother’s eyes. This way, my master says, we make certain there is no weakness left in them,” the pretty girl says.

“You take a babe form its mother’s arms, kill it as she watches, and pay her for her pain with a silver coin?” Mommy asks. Her grip on me tightens.

“My master would like you to know that the silver is paid to the baby’s owner, not the mother,” she says.

“How many do you have to sell?” Mommy asks.

The man holds up eight fingers.

“8,000,” the girl says. The man says something. “Master Kraznys asks that you please hurry. Many other buyers are interested.” The man turns to go, and the girl follows him.

Mommy looks at Jorah. We leave the place we’re at and take a walk.

“8,000 dead babies,” Mommy says. She’s carrying me now. I rest my head on her shoulder.

“The Unsullied are a means to an end,” Jorah says.

“Once I own them, these men –”

“They’re not men. Not anymore,” Jorah interrupts.

“Once I own an army of slaves, what will I be?” Mommy asks.

“Do you think these slaves will have better lives serving Kraznys and men like him or serving you?” Jorah asks.

I look out at the people and see a little girl. She looks older than me by a year or so. She’s playing with some sort of ball. I point to her. Mommy sets me down and I go to run to her, but Mommy grabs my hand. We start walking towards her, but she runs away.

“You’ll be fair to them. You won’t mutilate them to make a point,” Jorah says. We’re close to the girl now, but Mommy won’t let me run with her. “You won’t order them to murder babies. You’ll see they’re properly fed and sheltered. A great injustice has been done to them. Closing your eyes will not undo it.”

We’re caught up to the girl now. I look up at Mommy and she lets go of my hand now. I walk closer to her. She bends down and rolls her ball towards me. I pick it up and look at it. She makes a twisting motion with her hand. I look up at Mommy, confused. She smiles and takes the ball from me. She twists it open some but then it’s knocked out of her hand. Mommy stumbles to the ground and I fall too. We’re right in front of the ball. It opens and out comes a big bug. I scream. Mommy pulls me back towards her. The bug charges at us, but before it gets to us, a knife stabs it. There’s an old man there. Jorah helps Mommy and me up.

Mommy picks me up and hugs me close to her. Jorah wipes my tears that have started falling. “The warlocks,” Mommy says, looking at the girl that is now far away on a ledge. She turns to the old man then. “I owe you my life, ser. My daughter’s life.”

“The honor is mine, my queen,” the man says. He pulls his hood back. He’s got white hair and a white beard.

“You know this man?” Mommy asks.

“I know him as one of the greatest fighters the Seven Kingdoms has ever seen and as the Lord Commander of Robert Baratheon’s Kingsguard,” Jorah says.

“King Robert is dead. I have been searching for you, Daenerys Stormborn, to ask your forgiveness. I was sworn to protect your family. I failed them.” The man gets to one knee. “I am Barristan Selmy, Kingsguard to your father. Allow me to join your Queensguard and I will not fail you again.” He bows his head.

#game of thrones #game of thrones x oc #got #got x oc #daenerys targaryen #daenerys x oc #daenerys x child oc #child oc

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queen-of-deans-booty · 5 years

Text

It’s the Great Pumpkin, Sam Winchester- Part 1

Pairing: Dean x Reader

Word Count: 1,907

Warnings: typical supernatural violence, language, angst, blood, you know the usual

Author’s Note: I do not own anything from Supernatural. All credit goes to their respective owners. Any and all comments on these are appreciated. I really want to hear what you guys think about this one!

Feedback is the glue that holds my writing together.

Tags at the bottom

Just because you were a witch, didn’t mean you were a bad person. Every witch case you and the brothers came across were always the same. Some messed-up woman wanted revenge on a friend, boyfriend, or even a whole town. Having powers was definitely something you could get used to, but you could never think about using them to hurt someone else.

Seeing this case in the newspaper really put a damper on things because you wanted to believe that you were a good person. Were you just going to end up like every other witch and go stir-crazy? What did the future have in store for you?

“How many razor blades did they find?” Sam asked the grieving woman. Her husband, Luke Wallace, died by razor blades. Dean had suspicion that a witch was involved based on the nature of it. That is why they were talking to the woman and you were finding the hex bag—if there was any to be found.

“Two on the floor,” she answered with tears nearly coming, “one in his stomach, and one was stuck in his throat. He swallowed four of them. How is that even possible?” Looking at the oven, you peeked around it to see if there might have been a hex bag, and unfortunately, Mrs. Wallace saw you. “The candy was never near the oven.”

“We just have to be thorough, Mrs. Wallace,” you assured her.

“Did the police find any razors in the rest of the candy?” Sam asked, trying to keep her attention away from you. Getting on your knees, you checked underneath the oven when you spotted a hex bag-shaped item. Bingo.

“No, I mean, I don’t think so. I just—I can’t believe it. You hear urban legends about this stuff, but it actually happens?”

“More than you might imagine,” Sam sighed. Reaching for the bag, you pulled it out from under the oven before standing up. Holding up the hex bag behind Mrs. Wallace, you showed the brothers that this was indeed a witch case.

“Mrs. Wallace did Luke have any enemies?” Sam asked with a sigh.

“Enemies?”

“Anyone who might have held a grudge against him?”

“What do you mean?”

“Co-workers? Neighbors? Maybe a woman?” Dean asked. Mrs. Wallace suddenly got what Dean insinuated and became offended.

“Are you suggesting an affair?”

“Is it possible?” you asked, putting the bag in your pocket before approaching the brothers.

“No! No, Luke would never—”

“I’m very sorry. We just have to consider all possibilities,” Sam interrupted her.

“If someone wanted to kill my husband, don’t you think they’d find a better way than a razor in a piece of candy he might eat?” she asked, making you look at the brothers.

“If you have any more information, please don’t hesitate to call. You have our number,” you said to her, trying to get away to talk about the hex bag you found.

“Okay,” she sniffled. She escorted everyone out, giving you three time to talk.

“Okay, where to start?” you asked, pulling out the hex bag and giving it to Sam.

“I can look into this hex bag. You two find out why someone wanted Luke dead,” Sam took charge, telling everyone exactly their parts. Now that you knew yours, it was only a matter of time.

All the time you spent trying to figure out why Luke was killed was wasted since you and Dean never found anything. Hopefully, Sam had a lot more luck than you two did. As Dean pulled up to the motel room, he took out yet another piece of candy before popping it in his mouth.

“Really? Another one? Even after we found razor blades?” you asked as you got out.

“It’s Halloween,” he shrugged. Shaking your head, you walked into the room where Sam was at the table, the contents of the hex bag all over it. Dean set his keys on the table along with a bunch of candy wrappers.

“Really? After that guy choked down all those razor blades?”

“That’s what I said.”

“It’s Halloween, man,” Dean said before taking a seat at the table. Pulling a chair over to them, you sat between them to check it out. “Don’t be a downer. Anything interesting?”

“Well, we’re on a witch hunt, that’s for sure, but this isn’t your typical hex bag,” Sam explained, showing you what was inside it. One the table was a silver piece the size of a coin, something small and charred in addition to an organic dried up flower.

“What are these?” you asked.

“Goldthread,” Sam picked up the dried-up flower, “an herb that’s been extinct for two hundred years. And this silver coin is Celtic, and I don’t mean some new age knock-off. It looks like the real deal, like 600 years old real.”

“What is this?” you asked, picking up the small charred item.

“That is the charred metacarpal bone of a newborn baby.”

“Gross,” Dean shuddered while you just shrugged.

“It’s sad,” you frowned, placing it back on the table.

“It’s at least a hundred years old,” Sam informed you.

“Oh, right, like that makes it better? Witches, man, they’re so fucking skeevy,” Dean shivered. Suddenly, a wave of guilt and sadness washed over you. It’s not like you asked to be a witch.

“Yeah, I guess,” you shrugged.

“No, I didn’t mean it like that,” Dean tried to take back what he said, but you waved him off.

“It’s fine. Sam, what else did you find?”

“Well, it takes a pretty powerful witch to put a bag like this together. More juice than we’ve ever dealt with, that’s for sure. What about you two? Find anything on the victim?”

“Luke was so vanilla, he makes vanilla seem spicy,” you answered for Dean, trying to get your mind off the fact that you were a witch. Dean felt really bad and knew he would have to make up for it later. “I can’t find any reason why somebody would want this guy dead.”

“Let’s hope we figure it out before someone else in this town dies,” Sam sighed as he leaned back in his chair.

Speaking of other people dying, later that night, you heard of someone else dying in a mysterious way. It happened at a college party, and a girl named Jenny had drowned while bobbing for apples. As much as you hated it, this death screamed witch to you. As the three of you entered the crime scene, you put a hand on Sam and Dean’s chest to stop them.

“I’ll go look for the hex bag. Just keep them busy,” you said before walking to the other side of the room where the couches were. If you anything about hex bags, you knew that witches loved to hide them in places where they couldn’t be found. It’s mainly because they wanted to get away with the death and by the time someone found it, they wouldn’t relate it back to the death.

Getting on your knees, you peeked over at Sam and Dean to see them talking to a blonde girl who looked like she had been crying.

“Your friend didn’t happen to know a man named Luke Wallace?” Dean asked, holding out his badge for the girl to see.

“Who’s Luke Wallace?”

“He died yesterday.”

“I don’t know who that is,” the girl sighed. Reaching your hand into the cushions, you felt around for something unusual until you found it. Grabbing it, you pulled out another hex bag. Sighing deeply, you turned to the brothers before holding up the bag. No one else seemed to be paying attention to you which was good. Once the brothers saw the bag in your hand, they knew they needed to wrap this up as soon as possible. It was time to hit the books again.

Once again, Sam was checking out the contents of the bag while you and Dean did research on the newest victim, Jenny, but she was cleaner than Luke. There was no dirt on these two people, which got you frustrated because why was a witch killing them?

“Sam, there is nothing on these victims. They are both squeaky clean. There is no reason for a wicked bitch payback,” you groaned, rubbing your temples to ease the slight headache. Sam, who had been reading a book about the contents, suddenly sat up as if he had an idea.

“Maybe cause it’s not about that.”

“What do you mean?” you asked, getting up and joining him on the bed where he was.

“Maybe this witch isn’t working the grudge, maybe they’re working a spell. Check this out. Three blood sacrifices over three days, the last before midnight on the final day of the final harvest. Celtic Calendar, the final day of the final harvest is October 31st.”

“Halloween,” Dean stated.

“Exactly.”

“What exactly are the blood sacrifices for?” you wondered.

“Uh, if I’m right, this witch is summoning a demon, and not just any demon—Samhain.”

“Am I supposed to be impressed?” Dean asked, something he said when he didn’t understand what Sam was talking about.

“Dean, Samhain is the damn origin of Halloween. The Celts believe that October 31st was the one night of the year when the veil was the thinnest between the living and the dead, and it was Samhain’s night. I mean, masks were put on to hide from him, sweets left on doorsteps to appease him, and faces carved into pumpkins to worship him. He was exorcised centuries ago.”

“So even though Samhain took a trip downstairs, the tradition stuck.”

“Only now instead of demons and blood orgies Halloween is all about kids, candy and costumes,” you put the pieces together.

“Okay, so some witch wants to raise Samhain and take back the night?” Dean asked.

“Dean, this is serious,” Sam sighed.

“I am serious.”

“We’re talking heavyweight witchcraft. This ritual can only be performed every six hundred years.”

“And the six hundred year marker rolls around, I’m assuming tonight or tomorrow night?” you asked.

“Yeah.” Sighing, you looked at the book before settling your eyes on a picture of the demon on a heap of bodies while holding a head in his hand.

“It sure is a lot of death and destruction for one demon,” you commented.

“That’s because he likes company. Once he's raised, Samhain can do some raising of his own, i.e., dark, evil shit and lots of it. I mean, they follow him around like the fucking Pied Piper.”

“So, we’re talking ghosts?” Dean asked and Sam nodded. “Zombies?” Another nod. “Leprechauns?”

“Dean,” Sam sighed.

“Those little dudes are scary. Small hands.”

“Look, it just starts with ghosts and ghouls, this sucker keeps on going, by night's end, we are talking every awful thing we have ever seen. Everything we fight, all in one place.”

“Shit, it’s going to be a slaughterhouse,” you gasped softly.

“Not unless we can stop it before it ever gets started. We have to figure out who the witch it. One of us needs to stakeout the Wallace’s place while one of us takes the research,” Sam declared.

“There is no way in hell I am doing that research. You two have fun with that. I’ll be on babysitting duty,” Dean said.

“Fine, first thing in the morning we’ll get started,” you said with a yawn, ready for an uncomfortable night’s sleep.

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