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house-strong · 1 year

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— DRAGONS BANE, chapter seven ʾ ⋆

CHAPTER SEVEN – salt in the wound

index ; chapter one. chapter two. chapter three. chapter four. chapter five. chapter six. chapter seven. chapter eight. chapter nine.

summary ; it’s been weeks since aemond had brokered irritation between the velaryons and targaryens. the ordeal effortlessly brought him the cold shoulder from you. before jacaerys left king’s landing, he spent most of his time with you, much to aemond’s dismay.

pairings ; aemond targaryen x tyrell!reader , alluded jacaerys velaryon x reader

notes / warnings ; accidentally wrote this with capitalization 😍😍 mm enjoy my pining for aemond. mentions of fighting, cleaning wounds/applying cream, aemond doesn’t like touching his own face,, uhh aemond’s thoughts and aegon being weird

tags ; @gloryekaterina @andysnewgroove @mitsuyaws @vikingsisthenewsexy @signyvenetia @tina-theslytherin @thegreat-annamaria @sana-within-you @averageperhaps @ephemeralninon @sanguinalia @merakiaes @fancylisoo @miaowchan17 @thesnugglingduck @mistalli @rosedovve @itisjustwhatitis @fandoms8 @lizajane2 @sunscreenfeverdream @witchymermaid12 @marytvirgin @s0ph-3 @starddustt @redridingpants @aaleksmorozova @riddlerloveb0t @bcon24 @queenofshinigamis @myspy @ilovepornstaches-69 @woodandwaxwings @muddleofnervouswords @kittykat5742 @moonstruckbucky @tomshollandz @myspotofcraziness @jenoix @bluecatton @ashloonie @zanmorgan @preciouslosers @kirithewitch @m00n5t0ne-blog

Under the hardened cloak of melancholy and lamentation, Aemond has not been granted the privilege of seeing your face or hearing your voice. Truth be told, that was a lie. He had seen you, once or twice, but your face was screwed in an ugly grimace, paired with vile words that spewed out like venom.

It’s been weeks since he had squandered the goodwill and peace that was beginning to ignite between the Hightowers and Velaryons. Weeks since he had denounced Jacaerys and Lucerys Velaryon as nothing more than bastards – all because of a sly sneer and the haunting words of betrothal.

Yet all the same, you treated it as if it happened yesterday.

And since then, Aemond had been at constant ends with himself. So sure, he was once. But the dragon Aemond formerly was, was a dragon no longer. Instead, smiting itself and within the ashes that rained, a plump, pink pig oinks with discontent.

Aegon's annoying laughter, paired with the pubescent giggles of Jacaerys and Lucerys play in his mind like a haunting melody branded into his brain. He grimaces at the faint memory of his childhood.

Fire crackles and burns loudly within the hearth hall. Despite the layers woven of emerald green fabric that made his doublet, Aemond found succor within the dancing heat of orange flames. A book lays idle in his lap, open to a page he hasn’t bothered reading. Most likely, it was old proverbs and poetry, tales depicting the lessons and values of greater men.

Aemond found himself growing with unease at your prolonged absence. What was this feeling? The same burning desire that would only be extinguished by your presence – how else could he quell that feeling?

There is some good in you, Aemond.

His lip twitches.

We cannot rewrite what's already written in the stars.

Aemond feels a strange chagrin claw at his chest and burrow into the depths of his heart cavity. What was once warm, grew cold as he thought. How could the Gods be so cruel to a boy barely of ten? Was it because of his intense avidity to be a great dragonrider, like Aegon the Conqueror and his sister-wives, that made the Gods want to punish him? Was it his ambitious greed for power and control – the ability to change course of what once was?

Aemond wanted to summon the Gods themselves and demand an answer. Despite that, he didn’t think it would help with the foreign, intrusive thoughts that have kindled themself within him.

His mind soon churns as his thoughts turn to Jacaerys and Lucerys. The frigidity further festered and almost bordered on cruelty. There’s spite and anger towards the bastard boys who took his eye – the same bastard boys who would be the future line of succession. There was nothing royal about them; they were merely common, middleborns who happened to drop from the maidenhead of Princess Rhaenyra.

He remembered how he felt the days after his outburst at the family feast. When the Velaryon family had stayed despite the coming storm, and when Jacaerys breathed fire into the growing discontempt. When he took your hand into his and paraded you around the Red Keep. Exchanging glares and sly sniggers.

I know you can be good.

It’s almost as if your words echo in the cavity of his mind, bleaching his anger and burning the hatred from the inside out. He inhales sharply, letting the same breath push from his nostrils. His chest rises and falls with a steady motion.

Was he entirely wrong? Should he have not burdened a festival night by calling his nephews bastards? He remembers very vividly the way your face fell when the word ‘Strong’ was uttered from his lips. The same face that contorted into anger when he confronted you.

They deserved it, he finally reconciles. Though, he assumed it’s more to quell the ache in his heart rather than be actual fact. The same humiliation they received was the same his mother and himself faced the very night he lost his eye, all those years ago. Humiliated, disgraced, and full of contempt.

A belch resonates within the air. It’s deep and guttural, no doubt the byproduct of Dornish wine. The peaceful silence that Aemond had secluded himself to was sullied by one sound.

Aemond raises his head, the ache in his neck becoming more prominent as he cranes his muscles to confirm his thoughts on the identity of the person who wanted to irk him – Aegon.

“Oftentimes, I believe there is wine rather than blood in your veins,” Aemond speaks, his tone even and almost cold.

“Would that not be impressive?”

Aemond deadpans, “It would not.”

His eye narrows at the sight of his brother's disappointed face, but Aemond returns his attention to the forgotten book decorated on his lap. There’s times when Aemond himself wished he was named Aegon. He was much more successful than his elder brother; he knew the arts of literature, he was a formidable warrior that grew successful by every evenfall, and he rode Vhagar, the largest dragon in the world. He’d be doing Aegon the Conqueror a service, not dragging his name through –

“What was the name of that Tyrell girl?” Aegon’s voice is like iron on dried whetstone – unpleasant and almost whiny.

Aemond looks up once more, his head turning much slower than before to give Aegon a pointed look. His brother looked unnerved by the action.

“(Y/N).” Your name is foreign on his lips. He hadn’t spoken it since the argument that happened between you both. He became reminiscent – an action that felt akin to second nature. He purses his lips, nose digging back into the book he wasn’t reading. A long, pointed index moves to trail the bottom of words – something he did to help solidify that he was reading and not thinking. Though, he felt that his brother probably wasn’t observant enough to notice the difference.

Aegon settles into a chair, the pegs of the furniture shrilling loud enough to make Aemond grimace, “She’s pretty, ain’t she?”

“She’s.. fair.” Aemond felt as if this was a trap.

Silence.

“‘Joy of Highgarden’,” he sing-songs, his words carrying an unmelodic ring, “hm?”

Aemond shuts the book in his lap with such ferocity that there’s a deep, thunderous boom when the leather bound cover kisses the aged parchment paper, “Why are you here?” The words were more harsh than he had intended, he’s unsure as to why.

“I cannot enjoy the company of my dearest brother?”

Aemond stares at Aegon. His elder brother never wanted to see him or spend time with him, not unless he desired something that only with Aemond’s help he would get. Years prior when they were nothing but children, Aegon would’ve only seen Aemond to ridicule his little brother in front of his nephews. Now that Aemond was a dog with a rabid bite, Aegon knew better than to stick his nose where it didn’t belong and instead, left his scourge behind and opted his brother for usage.

“Ser Criston expects you for your midday training.”

Ah, yes, the infamous extended hand of his mother's wrath. When Aemond had ridiculed his nephews, he noted that Ser Criston didn’t hold back and often used movements unseemly of a Kingsguard. Aemond wasn’t one to care for honor like his mothers sworn shield had, but it did irk him when Ser Criston swept his legs from under him, his back colliding with the dirt floor. He didn’t enjoy the gasps that followed from the crowd that had gathered to watch.

Ser Criston had effectively dismantled the one-eyed dragon, and he didn’t think he’d let that go.

Aemond rises from his chair, sweeping the book in his grasp to tuck underneath his arm. He and Aegon share a wordless exchange, a message that hopefully Aegon would understand. Aemond saunters out of the room, the notable sound of armor clanking as he passes the threshold of the door. He doesn’t need to turn his head to know that it’s Ser Erryk falling in to step behind him.

Aemond passes the long stretch of hallway that meets the corridor of Maegor’s Holdfast. He had grown so used to the map of the Red Keep that he thought if he was blind, he could navigate it easily without the aid of someone else. He continues forward, steps light and almost deafened by the clanking of Ser Erryk’s boots behind him. Aemond reaches the courtyard of the holdfast, turning on his heel to the spiraled steps of the royal apartments. He climbs them easily, legs long and allowing him to skip a step at a time.

He reaches the level his quarters are located and moves towards it. He opens his door, leaving it ajar as he navigates his way through the dimly lit aura of his quarters to place the book in a safe space. He leaves, shutting the door behind him before allowing his feet to carry himself back to the bailey of the keep.

He reaches a corner and notices a body making a beeline for him. He sidesteps and watches the mess of blues flail about into the chest of Ser Erryk. Aemond has to stifle the whicker that threatens to spill. Ser Erryk helps you gather your bearings, your head shooting to the side to cast Aemond a glare that parallels the combined wrath of the Seven Hells. Ser Erryk’s profuse apologies are quickly casted aside.

“Are you laughing at my misfortune?”

Aemond is surprised that this is the string of words that dances its way through the air and into his ears. They’re light and free of anger, drastically different from the story your eyes told.

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” Aemond quips back, his voice like honeyed silk; threading itself into a weave of fabric that softens your resolve. Despite the charades, the game of faces, and the deceit you’ve conjured the past fortnight, you've missed the sly remarks of Aemond Targaryen. It’s almost evident in the way your gaze softens, the blazing wrath kindling down to nothing more than forlorn. “No bastard trailing after you, my lady?”

The fire reignites and your gaze darkens at his words. You didn’t miss that.

Scoffing audibly, “You are truly intolerable, Aemond.”

Despite the insult, Aemond’s lips twitch upwards into a small smile, “I should have your tongue for such slander.”

“Yet here I stand, tongue intact.” You raise your head, jutting your chin out. You both stare at each other; Aemond’s is lustrous and goading, clearly enjoying the scene that was unfolding, while yours is defiant and testing, obviously unhappy with his previous statement.

“My prince, I don’t mean to interrupt–”

“Then don’t.” Aemond is quick to respond. He casts Ser Erryk a look, the softness he once bore now melting away like ice near a flame – the coldness returning. Ser Erryk blinks quietly back at him and Aemond suddenly remembers he’s needed elsewhere. He clears his throat. “I am seeing Cole in the courtyard, if you want to accompany me.”

“So I can watch him knock you to the ground?” He should probably be offended, but the fire you’ve shown him here and there is doing everything to make him rapt. He loves it.

“You can only hope.” He dips his head in farewell, his blue eye maintaining its gaze on you. He turns and with a whip of his hair (it seems to have a mind of its own), Aemond returns to his journey towards the outdoor courtyard nestled by the exterior postern of the castle.

He reaches it slower than he intended. The luscious, raven curls of Criston Cole were easy to spot within the small throng that littered the courtyard. He moves toward him, Ser Erryk abandoning him. Ser Criston’s head raises when Aemond nears, allowing a polite greeting of Aemond’s title to leave his mouth.

The next actions that transpire are a silent ritual. Each man allows padded leather to fall over their torsos, serving as a shield from the iron that would attack the protected cavity of their organs.

He casts a glance over the steppe, his eyes observing the faces of each person that’s starting to form a crowd. He’s almost disappointed until his eyes trail to the scaffolding where two figures, one adorned in blue and the other yellow, stood side by side, arms interlocked. Behind, there is a Kingsguard he can’t recognize. He sucks in his bottom lip, sinking his teeth into the flesh before turning his attention back to Cole.

A steward brings Aemond a wooden shield.

Ser Criston enters the small ring dotted with rock markers and Aemond follows. It’s Ser Criston who moves first, swinging his morningstar above his head just enough to create momentum and send the weapon into a steady circle. Aemond steadies himself, eye darting to observe the way Ser Criston stood.

Ser Criston is the first to swing, but his attack misses its mark and Aemond jumps away. They continue like this, playing their game of cat and mouse as you observe their behavior.

Aemond is smooth and calculating, like a watersnake dancing around its opponent. Ser Criston is more or less the same, his steps teetering as he tries to maneuver a mistake out of Aemond. Despite the shrewdness of Ser Criston’s movements, every time he swings the morningstar, it’s brash and brazen – a fury of attacks that attempt to hit their mark.

Iron meets iron and there’s the ringing of metal that sings its way through the air as Aemond deflects each blow. He’s stepping to the side and ducking underneath each swing. He’s graceful the way he moves and it’s mesmerizing, leading you to become almost in awe of his movements. Aemond would surely grow to become a renowned warrior.

Some of the attacks made by Ser Criston land, eliciting sharp gasps and groans to leave the prince. Aemond hisses at the pain, his mouth thinning into a tight line as his attacks become flurried – anger evident in each swing that Aemond does. Ser Criston swings his morningstar once more and it collides with the wooden barrier of Aemond’s shield. It splinters and sends a rippling tingle up his arm.

“You shan’t succumb to your emotions.”

Aemond seems to mind himself when the words force themselves in short syllables from Ser Criston’s mouth. His anger subsides as quickly as it comes.

Soon, the attacks slow and become sluggish. With a final swing from Ser Criston, Aemond parries the blunt of the morningstar, his sword sliding against the iron with a shrilling screech. Aemond follows his sword through and abruptly turns on his heel, driving behind Ser Criston to hold the edge of the blade to his throat. There’s a small smile that creeps upon your lips and you see Helaena clap her hands in delight at the scene that unfolded.

“You’re learning quickly.” Ser Criston remarks after a moment. He moves a tuft of black hair out of his face, “You’ll be a warrior in no time.”

“Save your flatteries for someone else.” Aemonds words are harsh, bearing the fire of a dragon. He twirls the hilt of the shortsword in his grasp, the blade spinning with momentum as Aemond lowers it to his side. He turns, walking away from his master-at-arms. With the adrenaline dwindling down to nothingness, Aemond begins to feel his skin become tender. There’s a dull ache, one that causes him to grimace as he lifts the sword to place back into its socket on the armory rack.

You and Helaena move down from the scaffolding, steps slow so as to not tumble down the flight. The princess is waddling at this point, belly plump and round underneath the luxurious fabrics of her samite gown. Helaena suddenly moans softly, her hand moving to rub at the protrusion of her stomach. She sighs, shaking her head and gently declining the help of her Kingsguard.

“As much as I enjoy the fresh air, the babe doesn’t agree.” She says, her eyes fluttering from the floor to your face. You give her a smile and move forward to hold her hand. Her dark brows furrow slightly as she chews on her bottom lip, “It has eyes, though I believe it cannot see.”

Confusion sprawls across your face at her words, her once enlightened expression had now turned sour, “Helaena?”

“It has eyes, but it cannot see,” Helaena continues, her voice almost pleading for a fragment of understanding. She raises a hand to her head, a tired sigh falling from her lips. “Excuse me.”

Without another word, Helaena takes her leave with the Kingsguard following close behind. You open your mouth to object, but Helaena is already too many paces ahead to call out for. You sigh and take a look around the yard, your posture straightening at the sight of Aemond. He turns his head and locks eyes with you, his stare unwavering. Taking that as your cue to join him, your legs carry you to where he stood.

“You’re here.” You almost confuse the statement for pleasantry and surprise on his part.

“Unfortunately,” You respond, your arms clasping behind your back as you circle Aemond. He’s fiddling with the hilts of the training swords that adorned the armory rack. “You’re bleeding.”

Aemond’s finger gingerly touches his cheek. When he pulls it away, there’s a smear of crimson on the pad of his forefinger. He smacks his lips and rubs it against the darkness of his clothes. “Just a scratch.”

“It’ll be much more if you leave it.” You sounded like his mother; fretting over small things that shouldn’t warrant worry. He hums in response, his hands rubbing at the tenderness that started to scream. He grimaces, but bites back the sharp inhale. Aemond feels as though the soreness is comforting – a reminder that he is indeed human. “There’s ointments for such things.”

He looks up to shoot you a look, but says nothing. His gaze travels down to give you a proper once over. He didn’t notice earlier that your dress had Myrish silver lace decorating the hems. He blinks and decides to lead the way back into the safety of the Red Keep. You assume he wants to keep your company – when you fall into step beside him, he only casts you a glance without a word of refusal.

A whirlwind of thoughts takes your mind. This was going to be the first time you and Aemond were going to be together, alone, after the incident. Undoubtedly, you were hurt. You thought the time spent together, you could help quell the distraught that lingered in his mind. You wanted him so desperately to be something other than a brooding mess of intangible feelings – constantly haunted by the premonitions of the past.

Helaena had told you once or twice about how.. content Aemond was during his childhood. He had both eyes and an affinity for dragons, reading, and sword fighting. She told you about how he used to do anything to make her laugh and how he pretended to be intrigued at her collection of insects. He was sweet once upon a time, she said.

Seeing that kindness he had – the one he had shown to you freely at the night of the festival – made you want to see more.

You reach his room and he opens the door. There’s a fire stoked now, a fresh blaze swelling within the hearth.

You take a look around. His room is quaint, but larger than yours. It’s ridiculously tidy, almost as if no one lived in the room. There’s a painting above the hearth, one of Aegon the Conqueror and his dragon, Balerion. Aegon is waving his sword in the air and Balerion is shooting flames from his mouth.

Out of the corner of your eye, you watch as Aemond fiddles with the contents of his bookshelf. When he pulls away, there’s a small box that he holds in his grasp. When he sits at his table and opens it, you notice that there’s ointments and herbs filling the space.

“Are you a maester now?”

He looks up through the lashes of his one eye and narrows it. You click your tongue and suck in a breath, exhaling out a small, unsure ‘okay’. You walk around the room, noticing that his blankets are black and the Tyroshi carpet is a forest green. You raise your brow and settle on a nearby chair close to the fire.

You’re watching him curiously as he fiddles with the things within the box. Why did he have this in his room? Was he uncomfortable being around a maester?

It seems as if he hears your thoughts.

“The last time I saw a maester, I was told I’d lost my eye.” Aemond unclasps the dragon buckles of his coat, shedding the layer before rolling up the sleeves of his dark tunic. There’s welts littering the pale skin – welts that are slowly forming giant purple contusions. You frown at the sight of aged, yellowed blotches.

He doesn’t say anything more to elaborate, but you assume he’s cynical about the ordeal.

He pulls out a container of ointment, spreading a thin layer on top of the bruises that were starting to form. It was something to help cease the swell, you reckon. You continue to watch silently as deft fingers rummage through the box. He pulls out something, popping it into his mouth and chewing it carefully.

Aemond moves his attention to his palm, examining it as if something bothered the skin. He then starts to pick at the soft flesh, his mouth forming into a tight line. He grunts in frustration and hollows his cheeks, chewing on the tissue that meets his teeth. His eye flicks to you and you raise a brow.

“I need–” The words fail to leave him. He looks down at the table, uncertainty pooling in his stomach and causing heat to redden the tips of his ears. He’s glad his hair is down and in the way, he didn’t need to hear any sly quips about it. “Can you–”

Deciding it’s enough torture for him, you get up from your seat and grab the piece of cloth that he holds up. You dab at the blood that’s trickled from the cut on his cheek.

“I wonder, who would have helped you if I wasn’t here?” You say, not missing the way his eyelashes of his eye flutters closed. Your fingers are leaving ghostly kisses on his skin, sending waves of comfort. He finds himself desiring to lean into the touch.

He wants to retort and claim he didn’t need any help, rather, he wanted your help. Then again, he didn’t want to stroke the flame of something bigger. He opts to stay silent.

“No other companion.. or, friend.”

Aemond knows what you’re trying to get at. As much as he would like to say it, he doesn’t think the words would be allowed to come out of his mouth. To express gratitude was hard enough, but to allow this.. aching to become real by muttering words of its presence? He sucks in his bottom lip and chews on it. He decided he wouldn’t give you the satisfaction.

Once the blood is wiped away, you rummage through the ointments. Your nose wrinkles at the sight of some, but when Aemond’s hand moves to swat yours, you scoff. He, however, meant no ill-will, and instead, plucks the right container out of the box and hands it to you.

“Perhaps I’ll forsake you once more.”

Aemond turns his head slightly to give you a pointed look. The look could’ve been mistaken for daring, or even a simple plea. He doesn’t like the way those words sing freely from your mouth – a threat. The last few weeks without you, in his opinion, was intolerable. Dull affairs had only soured his days and he found himself wanting the fiery companion he had taken for granted.

“Don’t.” The simple word is enough to elicit a smile from you.

You hum in almost agreement, a noise that is squandering his thoughts about you abandoning him, “I thought you’d lost your voice, Aemond.”

Seven Gods, he loved the way his name rolled off your tongue. He had missed it – missed everything.

“Little flower.” The nickname that he’s conjured for you sends a flutter to your heart. His voice is deep and almost wanting. “I.. I..”

His words trail off again and his mouth runs dry. After a moment, you nod your help and gently dab the ointment onto the cut. He didn’t have to say it, but the way his gaze softens and the way he chokes out the beginning of it, is enough for you. It’s a step toward something better.

“I know.” I can see it, you thought.

When you move away, his hand reaches out for your wrist. You look back at him and he’s beautiful under the warm glow.

“Thank you,” he swallows, “for helping me.”

You give him another smile and nod, mumbling out a small ‘you’re welcome’. You place the ointment jar back in the box, leaving his side to return to the kindling fire. You stare at the flames whilst you hear the commotion of glass bottles clinking together. The box shuts and his feet thud against the floor.

“I missed you.”

You turn out of surprise and notice his back is to you. He’s facing the bookshelf, arms against the shelves to steady himself as he stands. With the way he doesn’t move, you’re almost sure you imagined the soft-spoken words.

“You’re a radiance within the dull tenebrosity of this Keep.”

The words warm your heart.

“You’re a maester and a poet,” you tease, biting back the grin that was surly peeking behind the veil of your lips. Aemond turns his head just slightly, his lips puckering. Though, he can’t help the short exhale that shoots from his nose. He’s heard that one too many times, but hearing it from you is something else entirely.

He allows a small smile to curl the corners of his lips. It’s not a sly smirk that he’s shown Jacaerys, or a goading grin that Aegon sometimes saw, but it was a real smile. Gentle and soft. A smile that he once only smiled when he was a child.

You nibble on your lip, hands moving to fiddle with one another in front of your body, “If you must know, I missed you too.” The words of confession are scary, no doubt, and it's evident in the way your voice wavers. Aemond fully turns now, his eye drinking in your appearance. You’re ethereal against the backlash of the orange glow of the fire. There’s something in him that wants to engrave it in his memory and keep it for all eternity.

Aemond feels as if he needs to swallow the bile that will fester in his throat if he voices his thoughts. The first time he did that, you two formed an unspoken bond. He liked the comfort he found within you and he decided that if he wanted to keep you around, he needed to be sensitive and in tune with his emotions – no matter how uncomfortable it seemed for him. It worked the first time, there wasn’t a doubt it wouldn’t do so now.

“I was wrong.” He says, moving slowly towards you. His steps are heavy and thudding against the wooden floorboards. “I shouldn’t have agitated my nephews.”

Your brows raise and your mouth barely parts as you sharply inhale. He’s close now, his next words dropping an octave and lowering to a whisper. It’s enough to send a tingling sensation down your spine.

“I see that now.”

With his proximity, his words go in one ear and out the other. You’re blinded by the intoxicating scent he carries. It’s a mixture of sandalwood, some peppers, and his own musk. It’s heavenly and it forces your eyes to shut with a flutter, an involuntary, deep inhale following.

You should be upset, pushing him and demanding why he was so difficult. You wanted to ask him what weighed so heavily on consciousness that he felt the need to ruin moments of happiness. But then, he looked so pretty and he smelled heavenly. It was enough to lull you into a peaceful serenity, a willingness to do whatever he wanted.

Perhaps it was the effect of the pretty words he sang, or the sandalwood that wafted into your nostrils.

He raises a hand, his blue eye scanning your face. His touch is ghostly over your skin, the calloused skin of his finger pads barely touching the velvet of your face. He cups your cheek with his hand and you lean into his touch, your own hand enclosing over his wrist.

“Aemond.”

He hums, head moving closer to yours. This is the same feeling he had felt rupturing within him when you gave him a kiss. It’s lingering, this time, and it’s more softer than before. The tip of his nose then nudges against your face. You find yourself leaning forward, but Aemond pulls away enough to see your face.

Remembrance of his nephew and yourself cozying up together floats to the front of his brain. He almost frowns at the thought, the corners of his lips twitching downward. He recalls how elated you looked when Jace took your hand into his and invited you for a dance.

“What about Jacaerys?” His tone is partially flat when the name is spoken. He doesn’t like the coil of dithering and resentment that winds itself around his organs, crushing them with a white-hot intensity. He sucks his bottom lip into his mouth, a habit.

“Forget about Jacaerys,” you plead. when his hands leave your face, you’re quick to grab him by the shoulders and pull him back to the close proximity. you were exchanging breaths at this point, each air fanning over the others face. Your heart feels as if it’s going to burst out of your chest as his eye searches yours, uncertain.

He’s the first to move. It’s slow, near a snail-pace, until his lips gently brush against yours. They’re soft and warm when he finally connects his with yours. Drastically different from the first kiss, this one is easy and free from any hesitancy or mistake. It’s blinding, becoming more facile when his tongue swipes across your bottom lip. You part your lips and Aemond moves forward, pushing you to look up at him as he kisses you from atop. His grip on your jaw becomes a tad tighter as his kiss turns more passionate, an obvious sign of a voiceless confession for his feelings.

It’s as easy as breathing to kiss him now.

He pulls away and sharply inhales, his eye slowly opening as it searches your face. You’re slow to copy his action – deciding instead to savor the taste of him on your lips. You hum in content, eyes drawing open after a moment.

“That’s much better.”

A ghostly smile raises the corner of his lips up and he moves forward to give you another kiss.

The thought of Jacaerys lingers and burns a hole deep into his mind.

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accursedkaleeshi · 3 years

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Blys’aan’s Bio (Wife #7)

TL:DR 2 Members of the Izvoshra bully Grievous into another marriage to the captain of imports of the largest trade organization on Kalee. Blys’aan was successful PR for them & was an angel with a soup ladle. Died 27 BBY due to scarcity of medical resources.

Part 1: Meeting I wrote over 1000 words, there’s a lot of dialogue, its like a lazy fanfic.

Part 2: About Her

First of all, I finally gave Western Wuja Bandit Izvoshra a name. It is Dakaliidae, as Western male names tend to be a ton syllables. Yes his name is Doc Holliday: it’s funny & topical, fight me about it. Anyway, I told you this because he is instrumental in meeting Blys’aan.

So, whilst Grievous was doing Ked’jat (the crackhead friend, if you’ll recall) a solid by meeting his aristocratic family, Ked’jat & Dakaliidae got together to try & be responsible members of society by helping Grievous out. They got him an audience with the council of the largest native trading organization on planet, aptly called Hakaleel. This surprised Grievous because Ked’jat & Daka were literally the two least law-abiding Kaleesh he knew. They must have been on their best behavior to get a meeting with an esteemed legitimate business council. He was not without his suspicions.

Hakaleel was already well aware of the planetary embargoes they were facing. Their High Trade Chief, Yaitee (ee-eye-tee) was present at the meeting Grievous had at the capital with Bryaru’s father. So, the Hakaleel trade council was pretty much in various states of the stages of grief. Hakaleel had an excellent local reputation; Kaleeshi people were not keen on material greed as a trait. The trade council were legitimately thinking of the economic impact on the people. The fact that they were themselves facing down poverty was just a bonus.

Yaitee, in a delicate manner, admits to being almost completely locked out of all nearby extraplanetary trade routes by Republic ban on official registered vessels in their system’s airspace & exorbitant fees otherwise in a currency they scarcely even had any access to. They had been combing over the documentations the Republic was gracious enough to provide them & came to much the same conclusion. There wasn’t anything they could legally do about it. After this admission there was a long heavy pause after which Grievous replied, “What about illegally?”

He had known Yaitee to be a very keen & straight-laced man. He could see his lips purse beneath the edges of his mask. Desperation does much to test a person’s image of themselves. Yaitee said, “Let us see what input our Captain of Imports has on the matter.” Grievous could almost feel the energy of Ked’jat & Daka doing their best to maintain their composure. Yaitee & his scribe led the three of them down to their spaceport. It was not on the scale of anything in the core worlds by any means but it used to be quite busy just a year before. The fact that Grievous had expanded his crusade against the Huk to the neighboring systems actually did a lot to improve relations & they had seen more traffic than usual despite the Yam’rii.

Now it was very quiet. In what looked to be a sort of central gate there was a stocky, medium height Kaleesh woman of day gecko colors standing in front of an equally colorful display of spices. She was looking forlornly at an old datapad from behind her hunt veil before Yaitee introduced her as Captain Blys’aan of Hakaleel Imports.

Grievous was like, “I hate to ask, Captain Blys’aan, but how are things.”

To which Blys’aan, in this warm mix of Caribbean & local Slavic space-adjacent accents, replied, “BOY lemme tell you. Is grim! So grim! Precious few of our off vendors want to pay the fees for reaching us out here on the edge of wild space & not ONE of them are willing to defy the Republic openly. Can’t blame most of them. We can’t afford to regularly offset the fees with oh- anything on our planet.”

Grievous was just like, “Yeah I thought as much.”

“Does the Great Khaganate General Grievous have any enlightenment for us today?” Blys’aan asked sarcastically. Not because she didn’t respect him, but because the situation was that dire.

Grievous deadpan replies, “How do you feel about pirates.”

“Oooh boi, I knew I was going to like you. Guess what, I already have a few in contact,” Blys’aan reacted very excited.

Yaitee was like, “Blys’aan what the fuck.”

But she just lays it out like, “Lissen Yaitee, sweetie, da core worlds want civilized societies. But when we try to advance? No. We should have done that already. We don’ warrant de resources.”

“Yaitee, you hire some tough sons to protect my inventory managers & you deal wit dese pirates. T’ings have to change with or witout us. You are best on Kalee at wheelin & dealin. If anybody try to throw us down river? De General will kill them. Won’t you, big boy?” She tapped his chest with the back of her hand like she was indicating quality stock.

With absolutely zero hesitation Grievous goes, “Yeah, I will. The Republic is not a popular as they like to think. You will find people willing to work.”

Blys’aan says, “I t’ink I’m gonna step down. Hakaleel doesn’t need my brand o customer service anymore. Everytin gonna work out. Or maybe no. I hope I get myself a husband before I get killed by pirates…”

It was at this point the Ked’jat & Dakaliidae can no longer contain themselves & go full gremlin mode. “Grievous is taking wives.” Ked’jat says. “Yeah, he is available.” Daka follows.

Grievous is just like, “I’m- I literally have- you just set me up with your sister-”

Blys’aan again gets very jubilant. “Oooh. You have a hard limit on that number? My pedigree maybe not so shiny as others but I can cook better than your hearth mothers, I bet this.”

Daka interjects, “Also. you came down here to denounce legally binding documents from the Grand Army of the Republic & she was already one step ahead of you.”

“That is true. I am impressed,” Grievous admired only to immediately regret it when Ked’jat says to her, “Oho, hear that? He’s impressed, bima-” Grievous is just stone faced wondering what is wrong with these two.

“Or. I could stay in my position & be killed by pirates,” Blys’aan says with a very overexaggerated sigh.

Daka grabs one of Grievous’s shoulders, really pouring it on thick like, “Ah, General, what if she is killed by pirates? So sad.”

Blys’aan gives Grievous big sad green puppy dog eyes. There is half a minute of silence.

“Very well, you can accompany me home & we’ll see how it goes,” Grievous relents. Ked’jat is like furiously giving her a thumbs up from behind Grievous, mouthing dumb shit like, “Girl that means yes!”

#blys'aan #about his family #I had fun & that's what matters

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secretsofthemasquerade · 4 years

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did you hear they fired brian mitsoda? WHAT ARE THEY THINKING?!?!?

MONEY.

Ok, let’s get serious a moment, here’s some links. Mitsoda and Cluney were fired from Paradox/HSL last month.

VTMB2 presented it as organizational changes and “it was a joint decision between HSL and Paradox”.

Here’s the catch:

Mitsoda is the dude who made VTMB1.

Cluney is the dude who pitched the game and grabbed Mitsoda along.

Paradox and Hardsuit Labs SOLD us VTMB2 as “by the authors of VTMB1″, capitalizing a lot on Mitsoda’s name. As well as Rik Schaffer (the composer of VTMB1, magnificent music, but my guess is that Schaffer wasn’t an employee but a contractor/Freelancer whose job is now basically dine, and he’s not involved in the game making itself).

To get the game out of the door, they’re ringing Alexandre Mandryka, and you can see his CV right here. Alexandre isn’t replacing Brian Mitsoda in and out of itself though, after all the game was on track to be done March 2020 so the story itself should be done already.

"None of Brian's work is being removed, it was an honour to work with him, Alexandre is being brought in to get the game out the door on time and not as a replacement" is basically what Outstar said in some discord servers.

So they’re firing him after having used his name, fame and brand recognition, and still intend to profit off his work and say his content is staying. They’re firing two people in the middle of a pandemic, the two people who carried the project, and now they’re not “useful anymore”, they get tossed away.

Way to go, Paradox/HSL. Congrats on becoming full Pentex.

Brian Mitsoda may have been slowing the project to make it the best it could be, out of masterpiece work ethics. Maybe. But Mitsoda is also the dude who, as an indie dev, pushed a AA game out of the door, in time and on budget (seriously go buy Dead State, it’s a great game). Mitsoda as a creative knows what to cut and what to focus on. VTMB1 has flaws, but the story was basically done. Activision pushed it out of the door way too early, and coders, programmers and writers couldn’t finish what was planned (which is why the last third of the game is kinda bad). Paradox is making the same mistake. This is why I and most others VTMB fans were fine with the delays.

A delayed game can be eventually good. A rushed game is bad forever.

Paradox and HSL have seriously dented player trust, because if the reason displayed elsewhere for the firing was “creative differences”, and the company sided against the creatives for “creative differences”, then this should be shields up moment. This is unacceptable.

Many of us are voting with our wallets (cancelling preorders, speaking up against the shit image it gives, there’s a change/org petition); remember, paradox and hardsuit went full "with the original team!!!" to sell it to us, and breached our trust. It’s up to us as a community to show them that they can’t buy the IP and basically become the antagonists the IP denounces.

What we’ve seen so far has been: (late) ps3 era quality animations (for a game advertised for next gen PS5 stuff, that’s not good), no accessibility, unflattering fan service / appeal to nostalgia, and a serial killer as center piece to be glorified and drooled over. I really want to believe it.

And despite all of this, I do believe the final product will be a fine game. But this is a matter of ethics, a matter of values.

This is the World of Darkness, an IP which is centered around denouncing such shit behaviors, punching up and taking matters into the players' hands, fighting the corruption and facelessness of hard data oriented productivity-bottom-line oriented assholes against artists and creators.

The WoD is about fighting Pentex, oppressive societies, harmful homogeneity, and celebrating individual creativity, making things work on a small scale around yourself and making the world a little brighter for you and those you care about. The WoD IS about activism.

If we, vtmb players, let this slide and still buy it, and still accept it, we’re letting them win.

We’re talking about a political IP about the evils of certain corps running the world and asphyxiating it with greed and horror. They’re not a how-to manual, they’re not to be glorified and followed as example.

Please write to Paradox. Write to HSL. Tweet about it. Tag them. Comment their videos. Refund your preorders. Tell Outstar to be the critical thinking fan she always was and show where her values are, as a newly arrived Paradox employee. Tell Jason Carl to use his influence. Grab Achilli and tell him he’s allowing ghouls to run the thing, instead of the passion franchise it is. Ghouls fully ruining and exploiting the fuck out of creatives for the IP which explicitly denounces this kind of behavior.

Yes, products need to be shipped out at some point, but quality and soul are important. Crucial.

Currently, Paradox has licensed a whole lot of different companies to do WoD work, doing it the Warhammer way and see what sticks, and let failures disappear into oblivion. Make sure you support the products worth supporting, and ghouls need to die off.

Highly recommend supporting the VTES folks, who hire great artists, who support FLGS, who use WORLD of Darkness material (instead of yet-again-another-US-centered thing). Renegade is doing a reskin card game, it’s going to have good mechanics, but otherwise? It’s a consumer product.

Where do you stand?

youtube

#vtmb2 #Anonymous #bloodlines 2 #vampire the masquerade bloodlines 2 #vtmb #bloodlines #vampire the masquerade bloodlines #brian mitsoda #discourse #secrets rants #world of darkness #vtm #vampire the masquerade

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fonzy26 · 3 years

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Donald Trump vs. Napoleon by Tanya Tilwani

Animal Farm is a novel written by George Orwell that expounds about equality, inequality, corruption, tyranny, and control. The story brings us back to time when Russia and the Soviet Union were under Communist Rule. This political satire uses animal characters with great resemblance to famous political figures during this period. One of the characters was a tyrannical, power-hungry pig named Napoleon, who represents Joseph Stalin, an autocrat who presided over the Soviet Union. The story centers on Napoleon’s tactics against another pig named Snowball, for supremacy in Animal Farm. Snowball is a systematic and imperative leader, portraying a role with the likeness of Leon Trotsky, a man of wisdom and integrity. George Orwell magnifies snowball as the animal most qualified for the job. With Napoleon’s manipulative ways, he sold a big lie that Snowball was the enemy that caused all the problems on the farm. With his devious acts and clever words, all the animals were convinced that snowball was a traitor, and Napoleon was believed to be the hero out to save the farm from eternal damnation.

Soon after Napoleon gained victory as their supreme leader, he went on betraying his fellow animals due to his inflated ego and power-hungry mind. He started conniving with humans who are viewed as the enemies of the animals on the farm. He went on breaking other rules like wearing clothes and drinking alcohol, to name a few. In the end, Napoleon became a controlling and manipulative liar who betrayed the whole farm. He changed the phrase “All animals are equal” to “All animals are equal, but some animals are more equal than others." He also twisted the slogan "Four legs good, two legs bad." to "Four legs good, two legs better." This story is so timeless that it could apply to the president of the United States of America. It is known to all how Donald Trump sowed disunity, division, and racialization during his term. America, once the land of freedom that used all its might to promote equality and democracy, suddenly lost its dignity and grace in the hands of a leader that promoted white supremacy. Trump capitalized on the line: Make America great again, it has been four years, and that remains to be seen.

Both Trump and Napoleon promised a lot of things they could not deliver. For instance, Napoleon promised to reward the animals for all their hard work but gradually sided with humans and forgot all his promises. During the start of the campaign Trump promised to make America great again, projecting himself as a savior or an antidote to all the problems America is facing. He claimed that America belongs to Americans, referring to white Americans as the rightful owners and residents of the country. By sowing disunity among Americans, he manipulated and undermined people of color, immigrants and minorities in favor of white Americans. With his four-year term coming to an end, he barely kept any of his promises during his presidential campaign. The Americans have not seen the Mexico wall, they have an unresolved financial crisis, and many families are left homeless. With all the chaos, we may have to rename it the Disunited States of America.Like Napoleon, Trump is scared to lose his leadership, so he uses all means available to scare his citizens. He says that without him, they would be in danger from the Chinese job-stealers, Muslim terrorists, Mexican drug dealers, crooked Hillary, and sleepy Biden. Napoleon did the same by telling the animals that the evil humans are still out there and orders that defenses be built. As the two tyrants remind their followers of these alternative facts, Trump fans and the animals remain in fear and continue to support the enemy. (Russo, 2017)

Napoleon is a brainy antagonist who uses effective propaganda to lure the animals to his side. Throughout the story, Squealer served as Napoleon's speaker every time Napoleon does something bizarre, which the animals begin to question. He convinced the animals that Napoleon was doing what was best for the farm. One common lie was to blame it all on Snowball. Trump is often caught red-handed, but he has political machinery standing by him, denouncing any wrongdoing and blaming it on his predecessor Barrack Obama. He blames him for the rise of the number of immigrant families, the financial crisis, the economic slowdown and the setbacks of the national healthcare. (Milbank, 2018)

With all the facts and scientific data at hand, Trump showed complete disregard for the safety of the American people by downplaying the danger that the coronavirus poses to the entire population. He said that this is just like an ordinary flu outbreak and there is nothing to worry about. Due to this misinformation and reckless handling of the pandemic, America remains the nation with the most significant number of coronavirus cases. He went to the extent of discouraging people from wearing masks to protect themselves. With his false bravado, he makes them feel invincible and fear nothing. Napoleon, on the other hand, always instilled a culture of fear. Using dogs to scare other animals helped him stay in power for a long time. All the animals on the farm were convinced that humans were the enemies when in fact, he connived with them to gain more power and control over all the animals on the farm.

In conclusion, both Napoleon and Trump betrayed their supporters and manipulated them into thinking they would not survive without them. They made a string of promises but failed to deliver to their constituents. It even came to a point when Napoleon bent all the rules to fit his needs. He neglected his loyal followers like Boxer and many others, which led to health problems and over-fatigue. Just like any other animal on the farm, Boxer was not honored for his hard work. In fact, when he was falling ill, Napoleon had ordered for his slaughter. Everything Napoleon said was a lie to keep him in power. Animal Farm never became successful as he promised it to be. It is undeniable how Trump uses all his might to stay in power. Just like Napoleon, for Trump power, ego, and greed come first. We have witnessed numerous incidents on how the justice system works when a white man is a casualty compared to African Americans and the Hispanic race. To protect the rich taxpayers, Trump scrapped the health care bill put in place by his predecessor because it guaranteed equal benefits and care to every social class be it rich or the homeless. Just recently, he was caught in a fiasco, attacking his rivals and challenging the results of the elections to stay in power. The greatest lesson to be learned is to look at all angles when choosing our leaders. Let us not be swayed; by a few good deeds done in front of us is not enough. A background check of a leader’s track record is a must before giving them our vote. After all, our present choices are entirely responsible for our future state.

Milbank. (2018, January 9). President Trump is a pig. In the best sense of the word. Retrieved from: https://www.washingtonpost.com/opinions/president-trump-is-a-pig-in-the-best-sense-of-the-word/2018/01/08/ N.A (2020, August 18). Animal Farm at 75 ‘still as relevant as ever’. Retrieved from: https://theday.co.uk/stories/animal-farm-at-75-still-as-relevant-as-ever Owen, L. (2016, September 21).

Trump is Napoleon, not Hitler. Retrieved from: https://www.news-leader.com/story/opinion/contributors/2016/09/21/trump-napoleon-hitler/90816386/

Russo, J. (2017, May 9). Animal Farm’ Perfectly Describes Life in the Era of Donald Trump. Retrieved from: https://observer.com/2017/05/donald-trump-george-orwell-animal-farm/ Spinner, S. (2020, September 5). Life on the Animal Farm. Retrieved from: https://yaledailynews.com/sjp2020/2020/09/05/life-on-the-animal-farm/

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libertariantaoist · 4 years

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Do not consider Collectivists as "sincere but deluded idealists". The proposal to enslave some men for the sake of others is not an ideal; brutality is not "idealistic," no matter what its purpose. Do not ever say that the desire to "do good" by force is a good motive. Neither power-lust nor stupidity are good motives.

I am interested in politics so that one day I will not have to be interested in politics.

There's no way to rule innocent men. The only power any government has is the power to crack down on criminals. Well, when there aren't enough criminals, one makes them. One declares so many things to be a crime that it becomes impossible to live without breaking laws.

Either we believe that the State exists to serve the individual or the individual exists to serve the State. -from Letters of Ayn Rand

Racism negates two aspects of man’s life: reason and choice, or mind and morality, replacing them with chemical predestination. ... A genius is a genius, regardless of the number of morons who belong to the same race -- and a moron is a moron, regardless of the number of geniuses who share his racial origin.

The government was set to protect man from criminals, and the Constitution was written to protect man from the government.

The man who produces while others dispose of his product is a slave.

A society that robs an individual of the product of his effort - is not strictly speaking a society, but a mob held together by institutionalized gang violence.

The only proper purpose of a government is to protect man's rights, which means: to protect him from physical violence.

The smallest minority on earth is the individual. Those who deny individual rights cannot claim to be defenders of minorities.

The government's only proper job is to protect individual rights against violence by force or fraud - to protect men from foreign invaders - to settle disputes among men according to objective laws - The greatness of the Founding Fathers was how well they understood this issue and how close some of them came to understanding it perfectly.

The Constitution is a limitation on the government, not on private individuals. It does not prescribe the conduct of private individuals, only the conduct of the government. It is not a charter for government power, but a charter of the citizens' protection against the government.

The meaning ascribed in popular usage to the word 'selfishness' is not merely wrong: it represents a devastating intellectual 'package-deal,' which is responsible, more than any other single factor, for the arrested moral development of mankind.

Statism survives by looting; a free country survives by production.

What is the basic, the essential, the crucial principle that differentiates freedom from slavery? It is the principle of voluntary action versus physical coercion or compulsion.

Every movement that seeks to enslave a country, every dictatorship or potential dictatorship, needs some minority group as a scapegoat which it can blame for the nation's troubles and use as a justification of its own demand for dictatorial powers. In Soviet Russia, the scapegoat was the bourgeoisie; in Nazi Germany, it was the Jewish people; in America, it is the businessmen.

If workers struggle for higher wages, this is hailed as "social gains", if businessmen struggle for higher profits, this is damned as "selfish greed".

It is a free market that makes monopolies impossible.

Since there is no such entity as "the public," since the public is merely a number of individuals, the idea that "the public interest" supersedes private interests and rights can have but one meaning: that the interests and rights of some individuals take precedence over the interests and rights of others.

Every coercive monopoly was created by government intervention into the economy: by special privileges, such as franchises or subsidies, which closed the entry of competitors into a given field, by legislative action.

It stands to reason that where there's sacrifice, there's someone collecting sacrificial offerings. Where there's service, there's someone being served. The man who speaks to you of sacrifice, speaks of slaves and masters. And intends to be the master.

The degree of a country's freedom is the degree of its prosperity.

There is no difference between communism and socialism, except in the means of achieving the same ultimate end: communism proposes to enslave men by force, socialism -- by vote. It is merely the difference between murder and suicide.

Capitalism has created the highest standard of living ever known on earth. The evidence is incontrovertible. The contrast between West and East Berlin is the latest demonstration, like a laboratory experiment for all to see. Yet those who are loudest in proclaiming their desire to eliminate poverty are loudest in denouncing capitalism. Man's well-being is not their goal.

#ayn rand #libertarian quotes

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jesscreason · 7 years

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Red Fire: Growing Up During the Chinese Cultural Revolution by Wei Yang Chao

In August 1966, a 14-year-old boy in Beijing is thrust into violence and chaos as the Cultural Revolution begins to blaze across China. Fifty years later, Red Fire, Growing up During the Chinese Cultural Revolution, offers the first intimate account from someone who lived through these events and survived.

What was the Cultural Revolution like as seen through the eyes of a child? How do people surrender themselves to ideological frenzy? How does one break free? Wei Yang Chao tells a riveting story: how rebels attached and publicly humiliated his family, upended his education, and sent him out into a country rendered unrecognizable by violence and radical ideology. At heart a gentle boy, when he is swept up by the Red Guards, he finds himself at the center of a bloody revolution. The unflinchingly observant narrator or Red Fire reveals his families' struggles in an increasingly isolated and hostile culture.

Sent to boarding school in Beijing, young Wei Yang finds that beyond the gates enclosing that peculiar, closed world, conflict roils in Chinese society. After mass rallies at Tiananmen Square, he witnesses attacks on teachers and professors, and the disintegration of his partents' lives as tolerance and freedom begin to crumble and he himself is cast into exile. Red Fire chronicles social upheaval through the keen yet naive eyes of a teenager, giving readers a fascinating and unprecedented glimpse into the Chinese Cultural Revolution. This is a rare and mesmerizing account, told with real force and heartbreaking honesty.

Review

I wasn't sure what to expect when I started reading this book. Truthfully, I didn't know much about the Chinese Cultural Revolution (CCR), going into it. I had definately heard the name Chairman Mao, but my knowledge from past history lessons failed me, and I didn't know much more than he was a bad guy (I know, that's sad).

The first chapter of the book, in which the author starts to explain the violence and humiliation that his family experienced started to give me an idea of what to expect, though. I do know alot about traditional Asian culture and how important family honor is, so I understood the significance of the public humiliation they suffered and how devestating it must have been.

To give a little background, in case you are as clueless as I was before I read this book about the CCR: The CCR started in May of 1966. It was a political movement inaugurated by Mao Zedong, also known as Chairman Mao. Mao grew up a peasant and "organized other peasants to eventually bring revolution to all of China, forcing his great rival Chiang Kai-shek to flee to Taiwan."

Chairman Mao was worried that China would fall victim to what then President, Nixon, called a "peaceful evolution from socialism back to capitalism," something he believed the Soviet Union had already fallen victim to and he would not allow China to follow suit. However, Liu Shaoqi, the country's president, had very different ideas from Mao, who believed that China should "transform itself into a powerful nation state," which would require a cultural revolution.

Mao made his conflict with Liu Shaoqi known publicly in 1966, writing and publishing a public notice, denouncing the Party and referring to Shaoqi as "people like Nikita Khrushchev, referring to Stalins successor and leader of the Soviet Union. Even though The May Sixteenth notice became the framework for the CCR, it was met with resistance at first and most high-level officials remained loyal to Li Shaoqi, which made Mao furious. For the first time since becoming the Communist Party's leader, his "authority seemed less than absolute." In 1959, Mao had given temporary leadership to Liu Shaoqi and by 1966, many officials backed Shaoqi, and he "had become powerful enough to challenge Mao's authority."

Although Mao never actually feared a power struggle, he knew that the situation must be remedied. The author explains:

From earliest childhood, I was taught that the West - America especially - was on the verge of extinction. America was dying. No, it was already dead, destroyed by greed and decadence.

The author also explains how in school, at the beginning of the CCR, they were asked to list things that were "Yes" (good for the State) and "No" (Bourgeois inclinations). Under the "No" category, they listed things like nylon stockings, stylish hairstyles, and for some reason, a pork dish that one of his class mates enjoyed, so his mother packed it for him to bring to school. The author described that classmate as the most innocent victim of exercise.

During the CCR, Mao was equivalent to a god and a billion copies of a book of his quotes was published, making it one of the most widely printed books ever, and during the CCR, it was almost illegal not to own and carry a copy. One of the first pages of this book shows a picture of the author and his two siblings, each holding a copy of the little red book.

I also was not aware of the existence of the Red Guards and was shocked at how young they were. The author was present a the same site, the day they first met and were officially established. The Red Guard started as a group of middle schoolers, ready to fight to the death to defend Mao and "Mao thought," and anyone "threatening the revolution."

I also knew nothing about the Big-Character-Posters (BCP) that were so prevalent during this time. Even though paper was so scarce that even obtaining toilet paper was rare in some places ,the BCPs were plastered EVERYWHERE - on the outside and inside of every building, including government offices, businesses, schools, and even outside of the city, in the country. The author explains that they were everywhere inside his school, in classes, in the hallways, in the bathrooms, etc. There were so many what when there was no more space, people simply posted new ones on top of previously posted BCPs. These BCPs ruined lives and caused tradgedy in the 20 odd years the phenomena lasted (the CCR lasted a decade). The author explains:

In some respects, BCPs constituted the first real opportunity for free expression within the country's legal system. They were considered 'the best route to a people's democracy' and 'a very effective weapon of a new generation.'

They were anywhere and everywhere, all different colors and sizes, and could consist of anything the writer wanted to express. They could consist of slogans, poems, a passage from a book, an essay or even a cartoon, but even though the format varied widely, the content always aimed to shock. No one was spared; anyone's dignity and privacy could be violated. Taking a person's remarks out of context, grossly exaggerating their actions - even slander or libel didn't raise eyebrows so long as the writer claimed 'a revolutionary stance' or 'a revolutionary purpose.' The only risk, should you have engaged in this practice, was that someone would retaliate by writing a poster to take you down too. Here are a few pictures I found online (not from the book):

The author actually saw the first widely publicized BCP, two days after it was posted, and witnessed its author, a woman in her 40's, arguing with a group of men in front of it at Peking University, during his first trip to the campus. Mao had the message from the BCP broadcasted everywhere, which brought about more BCPs, with people arguing over who was for Mao and the revolution and who was against it, which fed into Mao's strategy to create disorder and achieve "great order from great disorder under the heavens." This incited violence all over campuses in China, with Peking University being a "forerunner in many respects."

As the huge and almost uncontrolled political energy inspired by the BCPs grew, revolutionary fever spread through teh whole University campus. Students began to torture their instructors, which only spurred more violence at other campuses across the country.

The author was unfortunately part of the first case. He didn't understand everything that was happening and he went to Peking University to see what was happening, to try to better understand but still didn't understand why professors were being called "monsters" and "devils," words he had only heard in stories and fairy tales. Even at his middle school, students created a BCP titled "Fight to the Death for the Proletarian Dictatporship - Mao Thought" and posted it in a large classroom. It targeted the school administration, which furthered the agenda of the Red Guards, whose oldest members were 19, and the youngest only 13 years old. I couldn't believe some of the things I read in this book, and I couldn't believe that I had never heard about any of this before! Children from every school, incited by Mao and his call for a cultural revolution, humiliated, beat and even killed many of their instructors and other school staff and faculty! It got so bad that many instructors committed suicide to avoid more violence. The one thing I kept thinking over and over throughout this book, was how these were children - just middle schoolers and some high school age - carrying out the "revolution." Children who dragged their teachers out of classrooms and dragged people out of their houses and businesses - beating and sometimes killing them, for sometimes something as small as the name of their restaurant, their family's background, even the clothes and shoes they wore, or the way they styled their hair! And more incredulous: the government and law enforcement ENCOURAGED this! I kept thinking about how I've been seeing/reading about kids today taunting people that don't look like them. We've all heard about the violence that has been happening all over the country, after the election, but what's going on in schools has been talked about less. Like the stories in this article: Kids Quoting Trump to Bully their Classmates and Teachers don't know what to do about it. After a school assembly at a school that is 1/3 Latino, in which dozens of students chanted "Build that wall!" the principal talked with some of the kids and found that most had no idea what it meant. They were simply joining in, because others next to them were. Similarly, the author explains that he initially wanted to and later felt pressure to participate in the CCR with his peers. There are tons of articles online, telling of the similar incidents all across the country, fueled by the so-called "president" and the things they hear from their parents. Although I don't foresee anyone plastering Trump's tweets up on the sides of buildings across the country, they might as well be, with all of the media coverage they get. Reading this book made me think long and hard about the similarities with the things that are happening on our country today, and what if all of the children who are chanting about building walls were to decide that their teachers are part of the problem. I have no doubt in my mind that Trump would support them. I can't fathom what the author and his family experienced. They were treated horribly for reasons that would have never occurred to them as being "bad" or "traitorous." This book, like many other autobiographies by people who have survived such trauma, strengthens my faith in humanity and the power of hope among even the most hopeless. I loved the ending! Although I was expecting... well, I don't exactly know what I was expecting, but it wasn't this ending! I love how the author's life was changed by such an unexpected turn of events. I am amazed at the things that happened during the CCR and am in awe of the author and his achievements, despite everything that his family went through. However, I cannot help relating things that I have been seeing/hearing/reading about what is happening today. While I know that the words/tweets of the so-called "president" would never be considered to be up there with the bible, there are too many people taking our not-so-great leader's words way too seriously. Just like the holocaust, the Japanese internment camps after Pearl Harbor, and other tragedies, I think it is more important, now more than ever, for people to learn about the tragedies of the past so that we don't relive them in the future. I really enjoyed this book. The author's writing was extraordinary, and the resilience and resolve he showed at such a young age is admirable. For most, it would have been easier to take the hand he was dealt and live the life that was forced upon him. Instead, he found a way to educate himself and lived to write this great book that taught me so much about Chinese history! I received this book for free from the publishers, via NetGalley, in exchange for an honest review.

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