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duhragonball · 3 years

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[FIC] Luffa: The Legendary Super Saiyan (152/?)

Disclaimer: This story features characters and concepts based on Dragon Ball, which is a trademark of Bird Studio/Shueisha and Toei Animation. This is an unauthorized work, and no profit is being made on this work by me. This story is copyright of me. Download if you like, but please don’t archive it without my permission. Don’t be shy.

Continuity Note: This story takes place about 1000 years before 66 years after the events of Dragon Ball Z.

[24 December, Age 762. Namek.]

Luffa found herself back in the past, on the Planet Namek, during Frieza's invasion. She did not understand how the Scroll of Eternity worked, or how her Time Patrol missions could "fix" anomalies in the flow of time. What mattered now was that a mysterious enemy had altered the course of events on this date and place, and when Luffa had failed to correct the problem on her first try, she ended up switching bodies with the villainous Captain Ginyu. Somehow, the Scroll of Eternity had recalled her to the Time Vault, but the only way to complete the mission was to resume from the exact moment where she had left off. And because of the bodyswapping complication, Luffa would have to handle the matter personally.

Inhabiting Captain Ginyu's massive purple body was a deeply unsettling experience for Luffa. So was the sight of her own Saiyan body acting independently of her consciousness. Disillusioned as she was with the Saiyan species and culture, she still clung to her heritage as a refuge of self-esteem. Ginyu had ripped that away from her without even noticing he had done it. It had been a great relief to be recalled back to the Time Vault and made whole again. Returning to this nightmare was just as traumatic as it had been the first time. Luffa's only solace was that she was somewhat more prepared this time around.

She felt the weight of her new alien body, took note of the curious deadening of her sense of smell, and felt her own ki nearby, as Ginyu used her body to attack Goku. Then she saw Jeice and Guldo, ready to finish her off. Everything was happening just like before.

Only this time, Luffa laughed.

"Oi, what's so funny?" Jeice demanded. The red-skinned, white-haired alien was one of Captain Ginyu's squad of mercenaries. During her first go-round on this mission, Luffa had noticed that Jeice was familiar with Captain Ginyu's bodyswapping technique. Jeice had seen it used before, which meant that he must have known the last person Ginyu had used it on.

"You... fools! Luffa cackled. "You played right into my hands! I never dreamed you'd actually be stupid enough to use that trick again, but now that you have--! Well, that just makes this so much easier, doesn't it?"

The next moment would decide everything. Luffa's plan was mostly a hunch followed by a lot of improvisation. If she had miscalculated, then the entire house of cards would collapse. Jeice's reaction would tell the story. He blinked twice, his face blank as he seemed to process what she had just said.

Then he swallowed hard, and his lower lip shrank behind his upper. Luffa would have smiled anyway, in order to keep up appearances, but now she could grin much more genuinely.

"Y-you can't be--!" Jeice gasped, his throat suddenly dry with terror. "Not... him! It's impossible, ain't it? W-we left you for dead!"

"Did you actually think a Saiyan woman could fight like that?" Luffa went on. "Take a look at your captain over there. He's not doing so well, is he? He thought that a Saiyan body would give him an edge, but that little savage girl never would have beaten Recoome on her own. Without me, she's useless. As for me...? Well, now I'm back where I belong. So where does that leave you, Jeice?"

Jeice spared a moment to glance over to the fight between Son Goku and Ginyu-in-Luffa's-body. Goku had a clear advantage, and Ginyu seemed to be struggling for a chance to switch bodies again to even the odds.

"It's a trick!" Jeice protested. "Nah, you're puttin' me on, lady. I can tell you ain't him. It can't be. There... Well, there's no way!"

The sweat on his brow was enough for Luffa to know that she had him in the palm of her hand. She didn't need to convince Jeice; she just had to make him wonder long enough to stop fighting. As for Guldo, he had been acting strangely ever since her unknown enemy had enchanted him. His four eyes still glowed red, and a purple aura rose up from his bulbous green body, making him look like an evil frog. From then on, Guldo had been driven by his rage against Luffa, but he seemed to lack the will to speak or ask questions, and Luffa's bodyswap with Ginyu seemed to confuse him a little. The important thing was that Guldo was staying out of the conversation. Jeice would be a lot harder to fool if someone were around to talk sense into him.

"To be honest, Jeice, I'm not him," Luffa continued. "I used to be once, but not anymore, I suppose. You did leave me for dead, but I survived, and I swore I'd find Ginyu someday. Make you all pay for what you did to me. I can't switch bodies the way Ginyu does, Jeice. It's more like a possession. Or a merger. With each soul I take over, I lose a little more of myself in the process. And that Saiyan woman over there? Hah! And I thought I had anger issues. It's funny. Now that I'm back in my original body, it almost doesn't feel right anymore. It's just another vessel I've stolen. I guess after all I've been through, I'll never feel 'right' again. But that's a small price to pay for revenge. Yeah, a real bargain, as long as it gets me Ginyu's death."

She had concocted this half-story over a hot stove, working out just enough details to make it sound plausible. The hard part had been figuring out how to impersonate an alien warrior she knew nothing about, until she realized that she could use that to her advantage. Besides, if this didn't work, she would fail the mission and have to start over, so she could theoretically try again as many times as she needed, and tweak her approach each time. Luckily, Jeice was hooked on the first try.

The key was to look past her own fear of being trapped inside this purple man's body, and see the fear Captain Ginyu must have had for the purple man's body. It must have belonged to a powerful enemy. A being so powerful, that there was no other way for Ginyu to defeat him. And perhaps Ginyu could trade up whenever he was cornered, but Jeice could not. It wasn't important that Luffa didn't know the purple man's name, or what sort of powers he had. The body itself was a weapon. And now that Jeice was paralyzed with fear, Luffa had the chance she needed to figure out how to use it.

Her first target was Guldo. A simple ki blast from her eyes was enough to stun him, and that would put his psychic powers out of commission long enough to do what came next. And now that she didn't have to worry about any psionic hold on her movements, Luffa found that controlling the purple man's body wasn't all that difficult.

"Guldo!" Jeice cried. In the moment it took him to notice Guldo toppling backward and down to the ground below, Luffa was upon him.

"It must have been comforting, Jeice!" Luffa whispered into his ear as she grabbed him from behind and twisted his arm behind his own back. "All this time, knowing that you never had to worry about me, as long as your precious captain had control of my body. But he can't save you now, can he?"

"Y-you're wrong!" Jeice whined. "The Captain knows how to handle blokes like you! He always maims himself right before he does a body switch. Or hadn't y'noticed that hole in your chest? All that blue stuff leakin' outta you? That ain't soda, mate."

"I did notice," Luffa said. "It's kind of uncomfortable, actually, but I've had worse. Your boss must have wanted to injure me so I'd be too weak to put up a fight, but he couldn't do too much damage or he'd wind up killing himself before he could use his magic trick."

It was her-- the purple man's-- left pectoralis muscle that was wounded. A similar wound on her own body would have been devastating. Her left arm would be practically useless, to say nothing of potential damage to her ribs and the lung tissue underneath. And the blood loss alone would have been debilitating. For a Saiyan body-- and for several other humanoid anatomies-- this would have been an ideal place to sabotage. But in the purple man's body, the wound didn't seem to bother her much at all. It just hurt. It hurt a lot, but she didn't feel any weaker, and her left arm worked just fine. In fact, she almost wondered if the wound was healing itself.

She decided to demonstrate her good fortune by wrapping her left arm around Jeice's neck in a choke hold.

"You and Ginyu really don't know anything about me, huh?" she asked. "He wanted my body so badly, but he never bothered to study it, to learn how it works! So many secrets, Jeice. Let me share them with you."

This was exactly how she wanted it to work. She had already overpowered Jeice, but she still needed more time to master the purple man's body. And it suited her sense of justice that the purple man still carried the keys to victory within his body, long after his spirit had been removed. She struggled to gather more ki, mostly to intimidate Jeice further, but as she did this, she began to realize it was a lot easier than it had been in her own body.

"You're crazy!" Jeice pleaded as he gasped for breath. "Even if you kill me and the Captain, you still wouldn't stand a chance against Lord Frieza."

"You aren't listening Jeice," Luffa snarled. "I don't care about Lord Frieza, or these Saiyans, or even the Dragon Balls. I only came here for revenge. I'm not even sure where I go from here. I could take your ship and escape, or maybe Frieza will kill me before I get the chance. It doesn't matter anymore. As far as I'm concerned, I'm already dead. I died the day Ginyu stole my body and left me to rot. All that matters is that you Ginyu Force goons will precede me into hell..."

With a sudden burst of power, fueled by desperation, Jeice managed to break free of Luffa's grip. He might have attacked, but instead he screamed as loud as he could.

"Captain Ginyu! Heeellllp!"

By the time he realized that he needed to be fighting back, it was too late. He cut loose with a bombardment of ki energy, and Luffa was enveloped in a glowing vermilion fog of destructive power, but it wasn't enough. She emerged from the clouds of light and struck Jeice with a devastating punch to his jaw.

"He can't save you," Luffa taunted. "He can't even save himself."

By now, Luffa was not only satisfied with her own control over Ginyu's body, but with Ginyu's apparent difficulty in handling hers. She would have expected him to have beaten Son Goku, but instead Ginyu was still struggling. She doubted that switching bodies again would help him. His only chance now was to get help from his teammates, and so Luffa decided it was time to eliminate that option. She held up her hand and fired pointblank into Jeice's face. When the light of her attack faded, there was nothing left of him. Her Saiyan body would have caught the odor of burnt flesh and hair, but the purple man's inferior nose couldn’t pick it up, and so Luffa had to settle for her imagination of the aroma.

She smiled anyway.

"Jeice!"

Nearby, it seemed that Captain Ginyu had reached the same conclusion as Luffa. He needed help to defeat Son Goku, and he was running out of allies. Recoome and Burter's bodies had barely grown cold, and Jeice was the third to die, but Luffa didn't plan to stop there. She looked around for Guldo, but could find no trace of him. Under the influence of the unknown enemy's magic, it was unlikely that he would flee, but his strange powers did make him tough to find. And then, when she finally realized where Guldo had gone, she flew towards Ginyu as quickly as she could.

She didn't spot Guldo until she was much closer. He was taking cover on the ground, behind a large rock formation, but Luffa couldn't take the time to deal with him. Not while Goku suddenly found himself frozen in mid-air, unable to move, not while Ginyu, sensing the opportunity, raised his arms and began to glow. Under different circumstances, Luffa might have found it surreal to watch her own body glowing this way, but she couldn't afford to think about that, not until she was at last where she needed to be...

Directly between Ginyu and Goku, so that the body-changing technique would strike her instead of Ginyu's intended target.

The results were nearly instantaneous, though Luffa did notice a horrified look in her own eyes when Ginyu realized his technique was about to misfire. In the next moment, she was herself again, and Captain Ginyu floated between the two Saiyans, once more in the purple man's body.

"Wh-what's going on?!" Goku asked, his body still paralyzed by Guldo's power.

"No!" Ginyu shouted. "How can this be?!"

"I'll explain later, Kakarot," Luffa said, surprised by the sound of her own voice. She raised her fingers, and began charging her ki to attack. Everything felt so familiar, so right, although she still had only a fraction of her former strength. "First, I need to kill this bastard off before he gets any more bright ideas. Say, goodbye, Captain. I'll be sending Guldo to join y--"

But before she could attack, she found herself overcome by a wave of exhaustion. She had expected to find a certain level of ki in her own body, but what she hadn't considered was the damage her body had taken from Ginyu using it to fight Goku. For that matter, Luffa had also forgotten the damage she had sustained against Recoome and Guldo earlier in the mission. When the Time Patrol had recalled her to base on her first botched attempt, Chronoa had healed those wounds. But now that Luffa had returned to try again, it seemed that some of that damage was restored. It was no wonder that Ginyu had performed so poorly in Luffa's body. Even if he had known how to use it to its fullest, Goku was fresh.

Had Luffa been prepared for this fatigue, she might have still been able to gather the power needed to kill Captain Ginyu as she had planned. But she wasn't ready, and so she had gathered her ki much faster than she should have, and the result left her dazed and weakened. She began to sink to the ground, like a leaf falling from a tree. She had fully expected to finish the Ginyu Force off for good, but now it was all she could do to slow her descent.

Even before she reached the ground, Ginyu's laughter told her what would happen next. She tried to call out to Goku, to warn him of what would happen, but she knew there was nothing he could do. Guldo's power would keep him frozen in place until the deed was done.

At least history was back on course! This was what Luffa told herself as she tried to force herself to stay conscious. Galling as it was, Ginyu was supposed to switch bodies with Goku, and no one else, and supposedly, Goku and the others could resolve that problem themselves. The only trouble was that Guldo was still in the picture, and Luffa was reasonably sure Guldo was supposed to be dead by now.

"Game over, monkey."

She suddenly noticed Guldo looming over her, and before she could defend herself he kicked her with those stubby legs of his. His eyes still burned red, and his body still roiled with the purple aura of the enemy's magic. It seemed that he wasn't going to stop until Luffa was dead, which suited her just fine. If she could just keep Guldo occupied, then her mission could still succeed, and this would all be over.

It was getting easier to concentrate now, but she still wasn't sure if Guldo had gotten stronger, or if she was still weak. As she tumbled across the Namekian plains, her tattered yellow clothes staining blue from the alien grass, Guldo gave chase, punching and kicking her before she could ever come to a stop. In the distance, she could sense Goku and Ginyu leaving, no doubt heading back to Frieza's ship. Guldo could still interfere in their battle, and so she decided not to fight back. She wasn't sure if she was in any shape to defeat him, but she could definitely keep him occupied for a while longer.

"Miserable little savage!" Guldo growled. It seemed like all he could say now were these spiteful names and racial epithets. The enemy had amplified his hatred until there was nothing else for him to express. Luffa ignored his words as she covered her face to block his next strike.

She wasn't sure how to make sense of it. During these missions, her powers seemed to grow whenever someone hit her, but Goku had battered her senseless while Captain Ginyu had been in possession of her body, and she didn't seem to gain anything from it. And yet, Guldo's attacks seemed to be getting her fired up again.

"Saiyan germ!" Guldo screeched as he punted Luffa another few hundred meters. By now, she was fed up with stalling him, but she was having trouble keeping up with his movements. He seemed to blink in and out of existence for a moment, and she couldn't anticipate where he would be next.

"You're not like Chiaotzu at all," Luffa muttered as she flew high into the air. If she couldn't intercept his next kick, she could avoid him completely and see how he reacted. "When I fought him he was possessed like you are now, there was still a decent man underneath, clawing and scratching to get out. But you! You're just a pathetic wretch, and that dark energy just makes it that much more obvious."

He was gone. Luffa played a hunch and turned herself to face the sky, where she found Guldo preparing another psychic attack. She fired a ki blast, but he vanished again before it could connect.

"Golden Duster," Luffa grumbled. This technique was something she had developed long ago, useful for tracking stubborn targets who were better at hiding than fighting. The problem was that its range was limited. As the Legendary Super Saiyan, Luffa could have covered large swaths of the Namekian surface with it. In her present condition, the best she could do was to surround herself in a misty field of ki globules. Guldo would have to pass through it in order to attack her, and she would sense the disturbance in the field, even if she couldn't detect him directly.

Only, it didn't work the way she had planned. Guldo suddenly struck her, and she sensed the hole he had made in her defenses, but it all happened instantaneously. As she crashed into the Namekian turf, she wondered if Guldo had super-speed abilities, but that didn't make sense. Burter had claimed to be the fastest of the Ginyu Force, and she had managed to outrun him with little trouble. If Guldo was even faster, Luffa suspected that Burter wouldn't have had much to brag about. There had to be more to his secret than mere speed.

"Whatever this is, you can't keep it up for very long," Luffa said as she gathered herself up from the ground. "And it doesn't make you any stronger; it just gives you a free shot. Then you have to reset before you can do it again. So let's make the most of that time, shall we?"

She shot straight up into the air, flying as fast as she could. Luffa wasn't sure if Guldo's strange abilities would help him catch up, but she figured she couldn't go wrong by moving in one direction. As she ascended, she charged her ki and began firing wild shots down to the surface below. None of them would be strong enough to destroy Namek entirely, but the bombardment would scorch the land directly beneath her, and Guldo would have to attack or flee if he wanted to avoid taking a hit. And with the dark energy controlling his thoughts, Luffa was sure that Guldo wouldn't run away.

As expected, Guldo's pudgy green form came rising up to meet her, vanishing every few seconds and reappearing ever closer. Luffa continued firing ki blasts in her wake as she flew higher and higher. Without knowing what Guldo's power was, her only chance was to test it to find its limits. He continued to chase her into the air, following her no matter how high into the sky she climbed. And then, just when he was close enough to strike...

Guldo's fist reached Luffa's face, but she didn't even feel the impact. He had managed to blink ahead just enough to break through her defenses, but there was no force behind his punches. And then Guldo started gasping for breath.

"K-kill you!" he sputtered, as Luffa continued to back away. They were high enough in the air that the stars were visible in the green sky.

"So that's it," Luffa said. "Whatever you're doing, you have to hold your breath to make it work. And maybe you've got a good handle on it at sea level, but not when the air's thin and you need to move quickly."

She threw a kick, and he managed to hold his breath long enough to blink out of the way, but she was ready for him, and fired a ki blast when he reappeared. Then she grabbed him by the collar of his armor and punched him in the gut to make it even harder for him to breathe.

"It's almost like you can stop time. Is that it? I didn't even know that was a thing. If you weren't such a weakling, you might actually be pretty dangerous. No, you're not a weakling. You're a lot stronger than Nappa and Raditz were. The problem is you've got no ambition. Ginyu only keeps you around so you can help him use his own ability. No one's interested in using you for anything but support. It's pitiful, really. Such a waste of talent."

To his credit, Guldo continued to struggle, but he was powerless at this altitude.

"Even if you can stop time, or just immobilize me, it won't do you any good while I'm holding on to you like this," Luffa said. "Now let's just see what's in that pea brain of yours..."

She placed her free hand on his face, and found the texture of his skin revolting, like the rind of a rotten fruit. She hoped that Guldo had some memory of the one who had enchanted him, but instead she only found a torrent of rage and hatred, mostly aimed at Vegeta for insulting him, and at herself for humiliating him.

"You don't smell that bad," Luffa grumbled. "I knew Vegeta was a spoiled brat, but this is ridiculous. Wait..."

There was no recollection of Guldo falling under the enemy's spell. He had been alone on Frieza's ship when it happened, but Guldo did remember seeing the rest of Frieza's crew falling under the same spell, one by one, until the entire crew followed him into battle. And that was when Luffa finally realized...

"The enemy must still be here!" she gasped. "Near Frieza's ship!"

She killed Guldo as quickly as she could and reached out with her senses to find Goku and Vegeta's power signatures. They would be heading for Frieza's ship as well, and may have already arrived. And perhaps Captain Ginyu was a threat they could handle, but if the Time Patrol's mysterious enemy was still on Namek, still influencing other fighters, then she had badly miscalculated Guldo's purpose. Luffa had assumed the enemy had sent Guldo to neutralize her, but he was probably nothing more than a diversion.

After what seemed like an eternity, Luffa finally reached the ship, where she found Goku lying defeated on the ground, and the purple man's body battling desperately against Vegeta. Krillin and Gohan were there as well, and the seven Namekian Dragon Balls lay on a patch of upturned soil near the entrance ramp of the ship. She had been eager to join the fray, except she had no idea which of these fighters was Captain Ginyu. At last, she settled on checking Goku's body first, since he would be the easiest to avoid if he were Ginyu waiting for an opportunity.

"You've looked better, Kakarot," Luffa said as she alighted next to him.

"Heh. Dunno why you guys keep callin' me that name," Goku said.

Up close, Goku looked even worse than she had feared, but at least he had gotten his own body back, and he seemed to be in high spirits.

"Ginyu," she asked. "Which one is he?"

"He... he's in his own body again," Goku said. "But he's gonna try to switch with Vegeta, and Vegeta's got no idea--"

"Typical," Luffa scoffed. "If that royalist coward hadn't cut and run earlier, he'd know all about Ginyu's ability by now. Instead, he's completely fresh, and ready to walk right into a trap. Well, I'll just head up there and--"

"No, wait!" Goku pleaded. "You're hurt too! If you try to get between them now, you might only make things worse!"

"You've got a better idea?" Luffa demanded. As much as Vegeta disgusted her, she could at least understand him. Goku was difficult to read.

Mostly, she found him rather pathetic. Raised among Earthlings, Goku seemed to lack the killer instinct that defined Saiyans. He appeared to have plenty of courage, and his power had developed impressively over a short time, but there was still something missing about him, something she couldn't quite figure out. As Luffa waited for him to answer, she noticed him suddenly looking at a frog that had burrowed up from the ground beside him. Before she could ask, Goku grabbed the frog in his hand, and then tossed it into the air.

"What the hell are you d--?" Luffa started to ask. And then she saw Ginyu use his technique, and she got her answer.

Vegeta remained transfixed in midair, completely confused by what had just happened. Both the frog and the purple man fell to the ground. The purple man landed on his hands and feet, looked around with a blank expression, and croaked. Then he hopped away from the ship, passing Luffa and Goku without even noticing them.

"It worked!" Goku said with a stifled groan. Luffa suspected that throwing the frog had aggravated his injuries. Krillin and Gohan, also very confused, rushed to Goku's side, and helped him up.

"What happened to Ginyu?!" Vegeta demanded. He landed nearby, and glared in the direction the purple man had hopped away.

"Wrong way," Luffa replied. "If you want Ginyu, he's right over there." She pointed at the small blue frog that Goku had tossed into the air. The frog was trying to hop away to safety, but something about its movements seemed very unnatural, like it wasn't sure how to be a frog, and it was trying a little too hard.

"Oh, you've got to be kidding," Vegeta growled.

"You saw how he used Kakarot's body, idiot!" Luffa shouted. "Ginyu was going to do the same thing to you if Kakarot hadn't tossed that frog in the way."

"Then he's helpless," Vegeta said with a malicious smile. "Well that suits me just fine..."

"Don't be a fool!" Luffa warned him. "He's smaller now, but he might still have that bodyswapping power. If you're not careful, you'll be the one catching flies. Then again, those antennae would be an improvement for you, Vegeta... Go ahead and fight him, if you dare."

Vegeta crossed his arms and turned his back on Luffa and the frog. "Lucky for you, woman, I have more pressing business than listening to your feeble japes. I'll deal with you after I've settled with Kakarot..."

With that, he walked over to speak with the others. Luffa continued to watch the frog-Ginyu as he hopped away. After everything else she had endured, this felt anticlimactic. She was sure the enemy was still lurking somewhere nearby, and if Ginyu was still a potential threat, then they might use him to attack them once more. She considered killing the frog and the purple man's body, if only to eliminate any loose ends, but then she noticed the frog glancing to one side, as though something had caught Ginyu's attention.

Luffa sensed nothing in that direction. If there was a strong ki signature, it was carefully hidden. Curious, she stared into the distance, trying to find whatever Ginyu had seen. It occurred to her that Namekian frogs might have possessed keener senses than she understood. And then she spotted it: a pair of humanoid figures in the distance, watching from the top of a tall, narrow hill.

She looked back for a moment, and saw the others helping Goku into the spaceship. Satisfied that nothing would happen to them, Luffa took flight, heading directly for the hill.

When she arrived, there was no one in sight. Luffa had expected to find a spaceship, or a time machine, or some other vehicle or base. As she examined the terrain at the base of the hill, she heard footsteps, and suddenly, she could sense their ki.

A woman's voice made a bemused chuckle, and Luffa turned to find her stepping out from behind the hill.

"You're pretty sharp," the woman said. She had pale blue skin, and pointed ears. Luffa almost wondered if she was a different strain of Namekian, except all the Namekians she had met were bald, with two antennae on their foreheads. This woman had a head of white hair, and she was dressed head-to-toe in a skin-tight red-and-black costume. Something like a skirt flared out from the waist of her suit, and she held a spear in her left hand.

"It must have been you snooping around," the woman continued. "I hope you aren't thinking of interfering. That would be a mistake."

Luffa didn't understand. She had already interfered, hadn't she? This woman was the Time Patrol's enemy, wasn't she? The one who had tried to alter history, except Luffa had just set things right. It seemed like this woman had a completely different plan altogether. Could the changes in history simply be a means to an end?

"A costly mistake," added a man who now stepped out to join the woman. He appeared to be the male of the same species, whatever that species was. He was considerably taller than the woman, and his red-and-black costume included a white chestplate with a bronze bar that looped around the back of his neck.

"I will eliminate you here and now," he declared in a somber, dispassionate voice. His words were hostile, but he made them sound like a bored weather report. Luffa wondered if he was some sort of machine, but before she could ask, he began to raise his ki, and a large red aura flared up around him.

"Shall I proceed, Towa?" he asked, never taking his eyes off Luffa.

"Very eager today, aren't you, Mira?" Towa replied with a wry smile. "All right, I'll let you have your fun. Killing this Saiyan will make a decent test of your abilities."

Mira stepped towards Luffa with cold menace in his eyes. Luffa stood her ground, and smiled.

NEXT: Luffa vs. Mira

#dragon ball #fanfiction #lssjluffafic #luffa #jeice #guldo #captain ginyu #goku #vegeta #krillin #gohan #towa #mira #namek

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aboveallarescuer · 4 years

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Dany and Barristan’s relationship

This is a list of all the passages from the books featuring key moments in Dany and Barristan’s relationship (including Barristan's chapters).

In my opinion, this is a relationship that deserves more appreciation than it gets. There are multiple reasons why it doesn't: most of us (myself included) wish we had gotten Missandei's POV instead of Barristan's; most of us (myself included) were more eager to see Dany and Tyrion finally intersect and interact with each other than to enjoy Dany and Barristan's dynamic; D&D chose to focus on show!Jorah's relationship with show!Dany, to the detriment of show!Barristan; Dany/Barristan doesn't leave room for shipping like Dany/Jon or Dany/Jorah or Dany/Daario or Dany/Drogo; certain asoiaf meta writers overfocus on the possibility that Barristan might betray Dany for Aegon (which I don't find likely) or harshly criticize Barristan (since his character development is inherently tied to Dany's actions, criticizing him is a convenient way to criticize Dany herself).

Still, Barristan is meant to be a foil to Jorah in that the former does what the latter was unwilling (or incapable) of doing: he respects Dany's authority and personal boundaries, he thinks that slavery is immoral, he always calls Dany by her rightful title, he praises Dany for her own sake (instead of relating her accomplishments back to a man), he admires Dany for caring about her people, he knows her well enough to realize that she's in love with Daario, he thinks of what she would do when she's away from Meereen before making his decisions and so on.

A Dance with Dragons

ADWD Daenerys X

She still clung to the hope that someone would come after her. Ser Barristan might come seeking her; he was the first of her Queensguard, sworn to defend her life with his own.

And she wondered how much the Yunkai’i knew about what her captain meant to her. She had asked Ser Barristan that question the afternoon the hostages went forth. “They will have heard the talk,” he had replied. “Naharis may even have boasted of Your Grace’s ... of your great ... regard ... for him. If you will forgive my saying so, modesty is not one of the captain’s virtues. He takes great pride in his ... his swordsmanship.”

He boasts of bedding me, you mean.

As the world darkened, Dany settled in and closed her eyes, but sleep refused to come. The night was cold, the ground hard, her belly empty. She found herself thinking of Meereen, of Daario, her love, and Hizdahr, her husband, of Irri and Jhiqui and sweet Missandei, Ser Barristan and Reznak and Skahaz Shavepate. Do they fear me dead? I flew off on a dragon’s back. Will they think he ate me?

ADWD The Queen's Hand

He stood beside the parapets of the highest step of the Great Pyramid, searching the sky as he did every morning, knowing that the dawn must come and hoping that his queen would come with it. She will not have abandoned us, she would never leave her people, he was telling himself, when he heard the prince’s death rattle coming from the queen’s apartments.

At his command, Quentyn Martell had been laid out in the queen’s own bed. He had been a knight, and a prince of Dorne besides. It seemed only kind to let him die in the bed he had crossed half a world to reach. The bedding was ruined—sheets, covers, pillows, mattress, all reeked of blood and smoke, but Ser Barristan thought Daenerys would forgive him.

He should have stayed in Dorne. He should have stayed a frog. Not all men are meant to dance with dragons. As he covered the boy once more, he found himself wondering whether there would be anyone to cover his queen, or whether her own corpse would lie un-mourned amongst the tall grasses of the Dothraki sea, staring blindly at the sky until her flesh fell from her bones.

“No,” he said aloud. “Daenerys is not dead. She was riding that dragon. I saw it with mine own two eyes.” He had said the same a hundred times before … but every day that passed made it harder to believe. Her hair was afire. I saw that too. She was burning … and if I did not see her fall, hundreds swear they did.

“They await the Hand’s pleasure below.”

I am no Hand, a part of him wanted to cry out. I am only a simple knight, the queen’s protector. I never wanted this. But with the queen gone and the king in chains, someone had to rule, and Ser Barristan did not trust the Shavepate.

“The black beast came once, why not again? This time with our queen.”

Or without her. Should Drogon return to Meereen without Daenerys mounted on his back, the city would erupt in blood and flame, of that Ser Barristan had no doubt. The very men sitting at this table would soon be at dagger points with one another. A young girl she might be, but Daenerys Targaryen was the only thing that held them all together.

“Her Grace will return when she returns,” said Ser Barristan.

Though he had assumed the title of Hand, Ser Barristan would not presume to hold court in the queen’s absence, nor would he permit Skahaz mo Kandaq to do such. Hizdahr’s grotesque dragon thrones had been removed at Ser Barristan’s command, but he had not brought back the simple pillowed bench the queen had favored. Instead a large round table had been set up in the center of the hall, with tall chairs all around it where men might sit and talk as peers.

“You had best guard that tongue, ser.” Ser Barristan did not like this Gerris Drinkwater, nor would he allow him to vilify Daenerys. “Prince Quentyn’s death was his own doing, and yours.”

“He offered her his heart,” Ser Gerris said again. “She needed swords, not hearts.”

“He would have given her the spears of Dorne as well.”

“Would that he had.” No one had wanted Daenerys to look with favor on the Dornish prince more than Barristan Selmy.

“...Duty brought Prince Quentyn here. Duty, honor, thirst for glory … never love. Quentyn was here for dragons, not Daenerys.”

The Dornishmen, Hizdahr, Reznak, the attack … was he doing the right things? Was he doing what Daenerys would have wanted? I was not made for this. Other Kingsguard had served as Hand before him. Not many, but a few. He had read of them in the White Book. Now he found himself wondering whether they had felt as lost and confused as he did.

Galazza Galare was attended by four Pink Graces. An aura of wisdom and dignity seemed to surround her that Ser Barristan could not help but admire. This is a strong woman, and she has been a faithful friend to Daenerys.

“If you truly think me wise, heed me now. Release the noble Hizdahr and restore him to his throne.”

“Only the queen can do that.”

“...Even your own young queen, fair Daenerys who called herself the Mother of Dragons … we saw her burning, that day in the pit … even she was not safe from the dragon’s wroth.”

“Her Grace is not … she …”

“… is dead. May the gods grant her sweet sleep.” Tears glistened behind her veils. “Let her dragons die as well.”

ADWD The Kingbreaker

“One guardsman amongst forty. All waiting for the empty tabard on the throne to speak the command so we might cut down Bloodbeard and the rest. Do you think the Yunkai’i would ever have dared present Daenerys with the head of her hostage?”

No, thought Selmy. “Hizdahr seemed distraught.”

“Sham. His own kin of Loraq were returned unharmed. You saw. The Yunkai’i played us a mummer’s farce, with noble Hizdahr as chief mummer. The issue was never Yurkhaz zo Yunzak. The other slavers would gladly have trampled that old fool themselves. This was to give Hizdahr a pretext to kill the dragons.”

Ser Barristan chewed on that. “Would he dare?”

“He dared to kill his queen. Why not her pets? If we do not act, Hizdahr will hesitate for a time, to give proof of his reluctance and allow the Wise Masters the chance to rid him of the Stormcrow and the bloodrider. Then he will act. They want the dragons dead before the Volantene fleet arrives.”

Aye, they would. It all fit. That did not mean Barristan Selmy liked it any better. “That will not happen.” His queen was the Mother of Dragons; he would not allow her children to come to harm.

“Daario might piss on us if we were burning. Elsewise do not look to him for help. Let the Stormcrows choose another captain, one who knows his place. If the queen does not return, the world will be one sellsword short. Who will grieve?”

“And when she does return?”

“She will weep and tear her hair and curse the Yunkai’i. Not us. No blood on our hands. You can comfort her. Tell her some tale of the old days, she likes those. Poor Daario, her brave captain … she will never forget him, no … but better for all of us if he is dead, yes? Better for Daenerys too.”

Better for Daenerys, and for Westeros. Daenerys Targaryen loved her captain, but that was the girl in her, not the queen. Prince Rhaegar loved his Lady Lyanna, and thousands died for it. Daemon Blackfyre loved the first Daenerys, and rose in rebellion when denied her. Bittersteel and Bloodraven both loved Shiera Seastar, and the Seven Kingdoms bled. The Prince of Dragonflies loved Jenny of Oldstones so much he cast aside a crown, and Westeros paid the bride price in corpses. All three of the sons of the fifth Aegon had wed for love, in defiance of their father’s wishes. And because that unlikely monarch had himself followed his heart when he chose his queen, he allowed his sons to have their way, making bitter enemies where he might have had fast friends. Treason and turmoil followed, as night follows day, ending at Summerhall in sorcery, fire, and grief.

Her love for Daario is poison. A slower poison than the locusts, but in the end as deadly. “There is still Jhogo,” Ser Barristan said. “Him, and Hero. Both precious to Her Grace.”

“We have hostages as well,” Skahaz Shavepate reminded him. “If the slavers kill one of ours, we kill one of theirs.”

For a moment Ser Barristan did not know whom he meant. Then it came to him. “The queen’s cupbearers?”

“Hostages,” insisted Skahaz mo Kandaq. “Grazdar and Qezza are the blood of the Green Grace. Mezzara is of Merreq, Kezmya is Pahl, Azzak Ghazeen. Bhakaz is Loraq, Hizdahr’s own kin. All are sons and daughters of the pyramids. Zhak, Quazzar, Uhlez, Hazkar, Dhazak, Yherizan, all children of Great Masters.”

“Innocent girls and sweet-faced boys.” Ser Barristan had come to know them all during the time they served the queen, Grazhar with his dreams of glory, shy Mezzara, lazy Miklaz, vain, pretty Kezmya, Qezza with her big soft eyes and angel’s voice, Dhazzar the dancer, and the rest. “Children.”

“Children of the Harpy. Only blood can pay for blood.”

“So said the Yunkishman who brought us Groleo’s head.”

“He was not wrong.”

“I will not permit it.”

“What use are hostages if they may not be touched?”

“Mayhaps we might offer three of the children for Daario, Hero, and Jhogo,” Ser Barristan allowed. “Her Grace—”

“—is not here. It is for you and me to do what must be done. You know that I am right.”

“Prince Rhaegar had two children,” Ser Barristan told him. “Rhaenys was a little girl, Aegon a babe in arms. When Tywin Lannister took King’s Landing, his men killed both of them. He served the bloody bodies up in crimson cloaks, a gift for the new king.” And what did Robert say when he saw them? Did he smile? Barristan Selmy had been badly wounded on the Trident, so he had been spared the sight of Lord Tywin’s gift, but oft he wondered. If I had seen him smile over the red ruins of Rhaegar’s children, no army on this earth could have stopped me from killing him. “I will not suffer the murder of children. Accept that, or I’ll have no part of this.”

Rhaegar had chosen Lyanna Stark of Winterfell. Barristan Selmy would have made a different choice. Not the queen, who was not present. Nor Elia of Dorne, though she was good and gentle; had she been chosen, much war and woe might have been avoided. His choice would have been a young maiden not long at court, one of Elia’s companions … though compared to Ashara Dayne, the Dornish princess was a kitchen drab.

Even after all these years, Ser Barristan could still recall Ashara’s smile, the sound of her laughter. He had only to close his eyes to see her, with her long dark hair tumbling about her shoulders and those haunting purple eyes. Daenerys has the same eyes. Sometimes when the queen looked at him, he felt as if he were looking at Ashara’s daughter …

ADWD The Discarded Knight

Daenerys Targaryen had preferred to hold court from a bench of polished ebony, smooth and simple, covered with the cushions that Ser Barristan had found to make her more comfortable. King Hizdahr had replaced the bench with two imposing thrones of gilded wood, their tall backs carved into the shape of dragons. The king seated himself in the right-hand throne with a golden crown upon his head and a jeweled sceptre in one pale hand. The second throne remained vacant.

The important throne, thought Ser Barristan. No dragon chair can replace a dragon no matter how elaborately it’s carved.

“Is it true?” a freedwoman shouted. “Is our mother dead?”

“No, no, no,” Reznak screeched. “Queen Daenerys will return to Meereen in her own time in all her might and majesty. Until such time, His Worship King Hizdahr shall—”

“He is no king of mine,” a freedman yelled.

Men began to shove at one another. “The queen is not dead,” the seneschal proclaimed. “Her bloodriders have been dispatched across the Skahazadhan to find Her Grace and return her to her loving lord and loyal subjects. Each has ten picked riders, and each man has three swift horses, so they may travel fast and far. Queen Daenerys shall be found.”

A tall Ghiscari in a brocade robe spoke next, in a voice as sonorous as it was cold. King Hizdahr shifted on his dragon throne, his face stony as he did his best to appear concerned but unperturbed. Once again his seneschal gave answer.

Ser Barristan let Reznak’s oily words wash over him. His years in the Kingsguard had taught him the trick of listening without hearing, especially useful when the speaker was intent on proving that words were truly wind. Back at the rear of the hall, he spied the Dornish princeling and his two companions. They should not have come. Martell does not realize his danger. Daenerys was his only friend at this court, and she is gone. He wondered how much they understood of what was being said. Even he could not always make sense of the mongrel Ghiscari tongue the slavers spoke, especially when they were speaking fast.

Prince Quentyn was listening intently, at least. That one is his father’s son. Short and stocky, plain-faced, he seemed a decent lad, sober, sensible, dutiful … but not the sort to make a young girl’s heart beat faster. And Daenerys Targaryen, whatever else she might be, was still a young girl, as she herself would claim when it pleased her to play the innocent. Like all good queens she put her people first—else she would never have wed Hizdahr zo Loraq—but the girl in her still yearned for poetry, passion, and laughter. She wants fire, and Dorne sent her mud.

Martell was dancing in a vipers’ nest, and he did not even see the snakes. His continued presence, even after Daenerys had given herself to another before the eyes of gods and men, would provoke any husband, and Quentyn no longer had the queen to shield him from Hizdahr’s wroth. Although …

The thought hit him like a slap across the face. Quentyn had grown up amongst the courts of Dorne. Plots and poisons were no strangers to him. Nor was Prince Lewyn his only uncle. He is kin to the Red Viper. Daenerys had taken another for her consort, but if Hizdahr died, she would be free to wed again. Could the Shavepate have been wrong? Who can say that the locusts were meant for Daenerys? It was the king’s own box. What if he was meant to be the victim all along? Hizdahr’s death would have smashed the fragile peace. The Sons of the Harpy would have resumed their murders, the Yunkishmen their war. Daenerys might have had no better choice than Quentyn and his marriage pact.

Ser Barristan watched them, thoughtful. What would Daenerys want? he asked himself. He thought he knew.

“This Ghiscari lordling is no fit consort for the queen of the Seven Kingdoms.”

“That is not for you to judge.” Ser Barristan paused, wondering if he had said too much already. No. Tell him the rest of it. “That day at Daznak’s Pit, some of the food in the royal box was poisoned. It was only chance that Strong Belwas ate it all. The Blue Graces say that only his size and freakish strength have saved him, but it was a near thing. He may yet die.”

The shock was plain on Prince Quentyn’s face. “Poison … meant for Daenerys?”

“Her or Hizdahr. Perhaps both. The box was his, though. His Grace made all the arrangements. If the poison was his doing … well, he will need a scapegoat. Who better than a rival from a distant land who has no friends at this court? Who better than a suitor the queen spurned?”

Quentyn Martell went pale. “Me? I would never … you cannot think I had any part in any …”

That was the truth, or he is a master mummer. “Others might,” said Ser Barristan. “The Red Viper was your uncle. And you have good reason to want King Hizdahr dead.”

“So do others,” suggested Gerris Drinkwater. “Naharis, for one. The queen’s …”

“… paramour,” Ser Barristan finished, before the Dornish knight could say anything that might besmirch the queen’s honor.

ADWD The Queensguard

You were the queen’s man,” said Reznak mo Reznak. “The king desires his own men about him when he holds court.”

I am the queen’s man still. Today, tomorrow, always, until my last breath, or hers. Barristan Selmy refused to believe that Daenerys Targaryen was dead.

Perhaps that was why he was being put aside. One by one, Hizdahr removes us all.

Despite all the queen had done, the sickness had spread, both within the city walls and without. Meereen’s markets were closed, its streets empty. King Hizdahr had allowed the fighting pits to remain open, but the crowds were sparse. The Meereenese had even begun to shun the Temple of the Graces, reportedly.

The slavers will find some way to blame Daenerys for that as well, Ser Barristan thought bitterly. He could almost hear them whispering—Great Masters, Sons of the Harpy, Yunkai’i, all telling one another that his queen was dead. Half of the city believed it, though as yet they did not have the courage to say such words aloud. But soon, I think.

Not for the first time, Selmy wondered at the strange fates that had brought him here. He was a knight of Westeros, a man of the stormlands and the Dornish marches; his place was in the Seven Kingdoms, not here upon the sweltering shores of Slaver’s Bay. I came to bring Daenerys home. Yet he had lost her, just as he had lost her father and her brother. Even Robert. I failed him too.

Perhaps Hizdahr was wiser than he knew. Ten years ago I would have sensed what Daenerys meant to do. Ten years ago I would have been quick enough to stop her. Instead he had stood befuddled as she leapt into the pit, shouting her name, then running uselessly after her across the scarlet sands. I am become old and slow. Small wonder Naharis mocked him as Ser Grandfather. Would Daario have moved more quickly if he had been beside the queen that day? Selmy thought he knew the answer to that, though it was not one he liked.

He had dreamed of it again last night: Belwas on his knees retching up bile and blood, Hizdahr urging on the dragonslayers, men and women fleeing in terror, fighting on the steps, climbing over one another, screaming and shouting. And Daenerys …

Her hair was aflame. She had the whip in her hand and she was shouting, then she was on the dragon’s back, flying. The sand that Drogon stirred as he took wing had stung Ser Barristan’s eyes, but through a veil of tears he had watched the beast fly from the pit, his great black wings slapping at the shoulders of the bronze warriors at the gates.

The rest he learned later. Beyond the gates had been a solid press of people. Maddened by the smell of dragon, horses below reared in terror, lashing out with iron-shod hooves. Food stalls and palanquins alike were overturned, men knocked down and trampled. Spears were thrown, cross-bows were fired. Some struck home. The dragon twisted violently in the air, wounds smoking, the girl clinging to his back. Then he loosed the fire.

It had taken the rest of the day and most of the night for the Brazen Beasts to gather up the corpses. The final count was two hundred fourteen slain, three times as many burned or wounded. Drogon was gone from the city by then, last seen high over the Skahazadhan, flying north. Of Daenerys Targaryen, no trace had been found. Some swore they saw her fall. Others insisted that the dragon had carried her off to devour her. They are wrong.

Ser Barristan knew no more of dragons than the tales every child hears, but he knew Targaryens. Daenerys had been riding that dragon, as Aegon had once ridden Balerion of old.

“She might be flying home,” he told himself, aloud. “No,” murmured a soft voice behind him. “She would not do that, ser. She would not go home without us.”

Ser Barristan turned. “Missandei. Child. How long have you been standing there?”

“Not long. This one is sorry if she has disturbed you.”

It was his failures that haunted him at night, though. Jaehaerys, Aerys, Robert. Three dead kings. Rhaegar, who would have been a finer king than any of them. Princess Elia and the children. Aegon just a babe, Rhaenys with her kitten. Dead, every one, yet he still lived, who had sworn to protect them. And now Daenerys, his bright shining child queen. She is not dead. I will not believe it.

Afternoon brought Ser Barristan a brief respite from his doubts. He spent it in the training hall on the pyramid’s third level, working with his boys, teaching them the art of sword and shield, horse and lance … and chivalry, the code that made a knight more than any pit fighter. Daenerys would need protectors her own age about her after he was gone, and Ser Barristan was determined to give her such.

The lads he was instructing ranged in age from eight to twenty. He had started with more than sixty of them, but the training had proved too rigorous for many. Less than half that number now remained, but some showed great promise. With no king to guard, I will have more time to train them now, he realized as he walked from pair to pair, watching them go at one another with blunted swords and spears with rounded heads. Brave boys. Baseborn, aye, but some will make good knights, and they love the queen. If not for her, all of them would have ended in the pits. King Hizdahr has his pit fighters, but Daenerys will have knights.

If the queen had commanded me to protect Hizdahr, I would have had no choice but to obey. But Daenerys Targaryen had never established a proper Queensguard even for herself nor issued any commands in respect to her consort. The world was simpler when I had a lord commander to decide such matters, Selmy reflected. Now I am the lord commander, and it is hard to know which path is right.

“I have the poisoner.”

“Who?”

“Hizdahr’s confectioner. His name would mean nothing to you. The man was just a cats paw. The Sons of the Harpy took his daughter and swore she would be returned unharmed once the queen was dead. Belwas and the dragon saved Daenerys. No one saved the girl. She was returned to her father in the black of night, in nine pieces. One for every year she lived.”

“Why?” Doubts gnawed at him. “The Sons had stopped their killing. Hizdahr’s peace—”

“—is a sham. Not at first, no. The Yunkai’i were afraid of our queen, of her Unsullied, of her dragons. This land has known dragons before. Yurkhaz zo Yunzak had read his histories, he knew. Hizdahr as well. Why not a peace? Daenerys wanted it, they could see that. Wanted it too much. She should have marched to Astapor.” Skahaz moved closer. “That was before. The pit changed all. Daenerys gone, Yurkhaz dead. In place of one old lion, a pack of jackals. Bloodbeard … that one has no taste for peace. And there is more. Worse. Volantis has launched its fleet against us.”

“Volantis.” Selmy’s sword hand tingled. We made a peace with Yunkai. Not with Volantis. “You are certain?”

“Certain. The Wise Masters know. So do their friends. The Harpy, Reznak, Hizdahr. This king will open the city gates to the Volantenes when they arrive. All those Daenerys freed will be enslaved again. Even some who were never slaves will be fitted for chains. You may end your days in a fighting pit, old man. Khrazz will eat your heart.”

His head was pounding. “Daenerys must be told.”

“Find her first.” Skahaz grasped his forearm. His fingers felt like iron. “We cannot wait for her.

“Daenerys signed that peace,” Ser Barristan said. “It is not for us to break it without her leave.”

“And if she is dead?” demanded Skahaz. “What then, ser? I say she would want us to protect her city. Her children.”

Her children were the freedmen. Mhysa, they called her, all those whose chains she broke. “Mother.” The Shavepate was not wrong. Daenerys would want her children protected. “What of Hizdahr? He is still her consort. Her king. Her husband.”

“Her poisoner.”

Is he? “Where is your proof?”

“The crown he wears is proof enough. The throne he sits. Open your eyes, old man. That is all he needed from Daenerys, all he ever wanted. Once he had it, why share the rule?”

Why indeed? It had been so hot down in the pit. He could still see the air shimmering above the scarlet sands, smell the blood spilling from the men who’d died for their amusement. And he could still hear Hizdahr, urging his queen to try the honeyed locusts.

ADWD Daenerys IX

At the base of the Great Pyramid, Ser Barristan awaited them beside an ornate open palanquin, surrounded by Brazen Beasts. Ser Grandfather, Dany thought. Despite his age, he looked tall and handsome in the armor that she’d given him. “I would be happier if you had Unsullied guards about you today, Your Grace,” the old knight said, as Hizdahr went to greet his cousin. “Half of these Brazen Beasts are untried freedmen.” And the other half are Meereenese of doubtful loyalty, he left unsaid. Selmy mistrusted all the Meereenese, even shavepates.

“And untried they shall remain unless we try them.”

“A mask can hide many things, Your Grace. Is the man behind the owl mask the same owl who guarded you yesterday and the day before? How can we know?”

“How should Meereen ever come to trust the Brazen Beasts if I do not? There are good brave men beneath those masks. I put my life into their hands.” Dany smiled for him. “You fret too much, ser. I will have you beside me, what other protection do I need?”

“I am one old man, Your Grace.”

“Strong Belwas will be with me as well.”

“As you say.” Ser Barristan lowered his voice. “Your Grace. We set the woman Meris free, as you commanded. Before she went, she asked to speak with you. I met with her instead. She claims this Tattered Prince meant to bring the Windblown over to your cause from the beginning. That he sent her here to treat with you secretly, but the Dornishmen unmasked them and betrayed them before she could make her own approach.”

Treachery on treachery, the queen thought wearily. Is there no end to it? “How much of this do you believe, ser?”

“Little and less, Your Grace, but those were her words.”

“Will they come over to us, if need be?”

“She says they will. But for a price.”

“Pay it.” Meereen needed iron, not gold.

“The Tattered Prince will want more than coin, Your Grace. Meris says that he wants Pentos.” “Pentos?” Her eyes narrowed. “How can I give him Pentos? It is half a world away.”

“He would be willing to wait, the woman Meris suggested. Until we march for Westeros.”

And if I never march for Westeros? “Pentos belongs to the Pentoshi. And Magister Illyrio is in Pentos. He who arranged my marriage to Khal Drogo and gave me my dragon eggs. Who sent me you, and Belwas, and Groleo. I owe him much and more. I will not repay that debt by giving his city to some sellsword. No.”

Ser Barristan inclined his head. “Your Grace is wise.”

Ser Barristan Selmy rode at Dany’s side, his armor flashing in the sun. A long cloak flowed from his shoulders, bleached as white as bone. On his left arm was a large white shield. A little farther back was Quentyn Martell, the Dornish prince, with his two companions.

The column crept slowly down the long brick street. BOMM. “They come!” BOMM. “Our queen. Our king.” BOMM. “Make way.”

Dany could hear her handmaids arguing behind her, debating who was going to win the day’s final match. Jhiqui favored the gigantic Goghor, who looked more bull than man, even to the bronze ring in his nose. Irri insisted that Belaquo Bonebreaker’s flail would prove the giant’s undoing. My handmaids are Dothraki, she told herself. Death rides with every khalasar. The day she wed Khal Drogo, the arakhs had flashed at her wedding feast, and men had died whilst others drank and mated. Life and death went hand in hand amongst the horselords, and a sprinkling of blood was thought to bless a marriage. Her new marriage would soon be drenched in blood. How blessed it would be.

BOMM, BOMM, BOMM, BOMM, BOMM, BOMM, came the drumbeats, faster than before, suddenly angry and impatient. Ser Barristan drew his sword as the column ground to an abrupt halt between the pink-and-white pyramid of Pahl and the green-and-black of Naqqan.

Dany turned. “Why are we stopped?”

Hizdahr stood. “The way is blocked.”

A palanquin lay overturned athwart their way. One of its bearers had collapsed to the bricks, overcome by heat. “Help that man,” Dany commanded. “Get him off the street before he’s stepped on and give him food and water. He looks as though he has not eaten in a fortnight.”

Ser Barristan glanced uneasily to left and right. Ghiscari faces were visible on the terraces, looking down with cool and unsympathetic eyes. “Your Grace, I do not like this halt. This may be some trap. The Sons of the Harpy—”

“—have been tamed,” declared Hizdahr zo Loraq.

“She needs a spear,” Ser Barristan said, as Barsena vaulted over the beast’s second charge. “That is no way to fight a boar.” He sounded like someone’s fussy old grandsire, just as Daario was always saying.

“Khaleesi?” Irri asked. “What are you doing?”

“Taking off my floppy ears.” A dozen men with boar spears came trotting out onto the sand to drive the boar away from the corpse and back to his pen. The pitmaster was with them, a long barbed whip in his hand. As he snapped it at the boar, the queen rose. “Ser Barristan, will you see me safely back to my garden?”

“Kill it,” Hizdahr zo Loraq shouted to the other spearmen. “Kill the beast!”

Ser Barristan held her tightly. “Look away, Your Grace.”

“Let me go!” Dany twisted from his grasp. The world seemed to slow as she cleared the parapet. When she landed in the pit she lost a sandal. Running, she could feel the sand between her toes, hot and rough. Ser Barristan was calling after her. Strong Belwas was still vomiting. She ran faster.

Drogon roared full in her face, his breath hot enough to blister skin. Off to her right Dany heard Barristan Selmy shouting, “Me! Try me. Over here. Me!”

ADWD Daenerys VIII

“Ser Barristan?” she said softly.

The white knight appeared at once. “Your Grace.”

“How much did you hear?”

“Enough. He was not wrong. Never trust a sellsword.”

Or a queen, thought Dany. “Is there some man in the Second Sons who might be persuaded to … remove … Brown Ben?”

“As Daario Naharis once removed the other captains of the Stormcrows?” The old knight looked uncomfortable. “Perhaps. I would not know, Your Grace.”

No, she thought, you are too honest and too honorable. “If not, the Yunkai’i employ three other companies.”

“Rogues and cutthroats, scum of a hundred battlefields,” Ser Barristan warned, “with captains full as treacherous as Plumm.”

“I am only a young girl and know little of such things, but it seems to me that we want them to be treacherous. Once, you’ll recall, I convinced the Second Sons and Stormcrows to join us.”

“If Your Grace wishes a privy word with Gylo Rhegan or the Tattered Prince, I could bring them up to your apartments.”

“This is not the time. Too many eyes, too many ears. Their absence would be noted even if you could separate them discreetly from the Yunkai’i. We must find some quieter way of reaching out to them … not tonight, but soon.”

“As you command. Though I fear this is not a task for which I am well suited. In King’s Landing work of this sort was left to Lord Littlefinger or the Spider. We old knights are simple men, only good for fighting.” He patted his sword hilt.

“Our prisoners,” suggested Dany. “The Westerosi who came over from the Windblown with the three Dornishmen. We still have them in cells, do we not? Use them.”

“Free them, you mean? Is that wise? They were sent here to worm their way into your trust, so they might betray Your Grace at the first chance.”

“Then they failed. I do not trust them. I will never trust them.” If truth be told, Dany was forgetting how to trust. “We can still use them. One was a woman. Meris. Send her back, as a … a gesture of my regard. If their captain is a clever man, he will understand.”

“The woman is the worst of all.”

“All the better.” Dany considered a moment. “We should sound out the Long Lances too. And the Company of the Cat.”

“Bloodbeard.” Ser Barristan’s frown deepened. “If it please Your Grace, we want no part of him. Your Grace is too young to remember the Ninepenny Kings, but this Bloodbeard is cut from the same savage cloth. There is no honor in him, only hunger … for gold, for glory, for blood.”

“You know more of such men than me, ser.” If Bloodbeard might be truly the most dishonorable and greedy of the sellswords, he might be the easiest to sway, but she was loath to go against Ser Barristan’s counsel in such matters. “Do as you think best. But do it soon. If Hizdahr’s peace should break, I want to be ready. I do not trust the slavers.” I do not trust my husband. “They will turn on us at the first sign of weakness.”

“The Yunkai’i grow weaker as well. The bloody flux has taken hold amongst the Tolosi, it is said, and spread across the river to the third Ghiscari legion.”

The pale mare. Daenerys sighed. Quaithe warned me of the pale mare’s coming. She told me of the Dornish prince as well, the sun’s son. She told me much and more, but all in riddles. “I cannot rely on plague to save me from my enemies. Set Pretty Meris free. At once.”

“As you command. Though … Your Grace, if I may be so bold, there is another road …”

“The Dornish road?” Dany sighed. The three Dornishmen had been at the feast, as befit Prince Quentyn’s rank, though Reznak had taken care to seat them as far as possible from her husband. Hizdahr did not seem to be of a jealous nature, but no man would be pleased by the presence of a rival suitor near his new bride. “The boy seems pleasant and well spoken, but …”

“House Martell is ancient and noble, and has been a leal friend to House Targaryen for more than a century, Your Grace. I had the honor of serving with Prince Quentyn’s great-uncle in your father’s seven. Prince Lewyn was as valiant a brother-in-arms as any man could wish for. Quentyn Martell is of the same blood, if it please Your Grace.”

“It would please me if he had turned up with these fifty thousand swords he speaks of. Instead he brings two knights and a parchment. Will a parchment shield my people from the Yunkai’i? If he had come with a fleet …”

“Sunspear has never been a sea power, Your Grace.”

“No.” Dany knew enough of Westerosi history to know that. Nymeria had landed ten thousand ships upon Dorne’s sandy shores, but when she wed her Dornish prince she had burned them all and turned her back upon the sea forever. “Dorne is too far away. To please this prince, I would need to abandon all my people. You should send him home.”

“Dornishmen are notoriously stubborn, Your Grace. Prince Quentyn’s forebears fought your own for the better part of two hundred years. He will not go without you.”

Then he will die here, Daenerys thought, unless there is more to him than I can see. “Is he still within?”

“Drinking with his knights.”

“Bring him to me. It is time he met my children.”

A flicker of doubt passed across the long, solemn face of Barristan Selmy. “As you command.”

Her king was laughing with Yurkhaz zo Yunzak and the other Yunkish lords. Dany did not think that he would miss her, but just in case she instructed her handmaids to tell him that she was answering a call of nature, should he inquire after her.

Ser Barristan was waiting by the steps with the Dornish prince.

Even here in her own pyramid, on this happy night of peace and celebration, Ser Barristan insisted on keeping guards about her everywhere she went. The small company made the long descent in silence, stopping thrice to refresh themselves along the way.

One of the elephants trumpeted at them from his stall. An answering roar from below made her flush with sudden heat. Prince Quentyn looked up in alarm. “The dragons know when she is near,” Ser Barristan told him.

[...] “Remain outside,” Dany told Ser Barristan, as the Unsullied were opening the huge iron doors. “Prince Quentyn will protect me.” She drew the Dornish prince inside with her, to stand above the pit.

“Ser Barristan will have summoned a pair of sedan chairs to carry us back up to the banquet, but the climb can still be wearisome.”

ADWD Daenerys VII

Khal Drogo had been her sun-and-stars, but he had been dead so long that Daenerys had almost forgotten how it felt to love and be loved. Daario had helped her to remember. I was dead and he brought me back to life. I was asleep and he woke me. My brave captain. Even so, of late he grew too bold. On the day that he returned from his latest sortie, he had tossed the head of a Yunkish lord at her feet and kissed her in the hall for all the world to see, until Barristan Selmy pulled the two of them apart. Ser Grandfather had been so wroth that Dany feared blood might be shed. “We cannot wed, my love. You know why.”

“As you wish. Bring your frog to court tomorrow. The others too. The Westerosi.” It would be nice to hear the Common Tongue from someone besides Ser Barristan.

“If it please Your Grace, we are all three knights.”

Dany glanced at Daario and saw anger flash across his face. He did not know. “I have need of knights,” she said.

Ser Barristan’s suspicions had awakened. “Knighthood is easily claimed this far from Westeros. Are you prepared to defend that boast with sword or lance?”

“If need be,” said Gerrold, “though I will not claim that any of us is the equal of Barristan the Bold. Your Grace, I beg your pardon, but we have come before you under false names.”

“I knew someone else who did that once,” said Dany, “a man called Arstan Whitebeard. Tell me your true names, then.”

“This is your gift? A scrap of writing?” Daario snatched the parchment out of the Dornishman’s hands and unrolled it, squinting at the seals and signatures. “Very pretty, all the gold and ribbons, but I do not read your Westerosi scratchings.”

“Bring it to the queen,” Ser Barristan commanded. “Now.”

Dany could feel the anger in the hall. “I am only a young girl, and young girls must have their gifts,” she said lightly. “Daario, please, you must not tease me. Give it here.”

The parchment was written in the Common Tongue. The queen unrolled it slowly, studying the seals and signatures. When she saw the name Ser Willem Darry, her heart beat a little faster. She read it over once, and then again.

“May we know what it says, Your Grace?” asked Ser Barristan.

“It is a secret pact,” Dany said, “made in Braavos when I was just a little girl. Ser Willem Darry signed for us, the man who spirited my brother and myself away from Dragonstone before the Usurper’s men could take us. Prince Oberyn Martell signed for Dorne, with the Sealord of Braavos as witness.” She handed the parchment to Ser Barristan, so he might read it for himself.

Daario and Ser Barristan followed her up the steps to her apartments. “This changes everything,” the old knight said.

“This changes nothing,” Dany said, as Irri removed her crown. “What good are three men?”

“Three knights,” said Selmy.

“Three liars,” Daario said darkly. “They deceived me.”

“And bought you too, I do not doubt.” He did not trouble to deny it. Dany unrolled the parchment and examined it again. Braavos. This was done in Braavos, while we were living in the house with the red door. Why did that make her feel so strange?

She found herself remembering her nightmare. Sometimes there is truth in dreams. Could Hizdahr zo Loraq be working for the warlocks, was that what the dream had meant? Could the dream have been a sending? Were the gods telling her to put Hizdahr aside and wed this Dornish prince instead? Something tickled at her memory. “Ser Barristan, what are the arms of House Martell?”

“A sun in splendor, transfixed by a spear.”

The sun’s son. A shiver went through her. “Shadows and whispers.” What else had Quaithe said? The pale mare and the sun’s son. There was a lion in it too, and a dragon. Or am I the dragon? “Beware the perfumed seneschal.” That she remembered. “Dreams and prophecies. Why must they always be in riddles? I hate this. Oh, leave me, ser. Tomorrow is my wedding day.”

She found Strong Belwas eating grapes, as Barristan Selmy watched a stableboy cinch the girth on his dapple grey.

Ser Barristan helped her up onto her sedan chair. Quentyn rejoined his fellow Dornishmen. Strong Belwas bellowed for the gates to be opened, and Daenerys Targaryen was carried forth into the sun. Selmy fell in beside her on his dapple grey.

“Tell me,” Dany said, as the procession turned toward the Temple of the Graces, “if my father and my mother had been free to follow their own hearts, whom would they have wed?”

“It was long ago. Your Grace would not know them.”

“You know, though. Tell me.”

The old knight inclined his head. “The queen your mother was always mindful of her duty.” He was handsome in his gold-and-silver armor, his white cloak streaming from his shoulders, but he sounded like a man in pain, as if every word were a stone he had to pass. “As a girl, though … she was once smitten with a young knight from the stormlands who wore her favor at a tourney and named her queen of love and beauty. A brief thing.”

“What happened to this knight?”

“He put away his lance the day your lady mother wed your father. Afterward he became most pious, and was heard to say that only the Maiden could replace Queen Rhaella in his heart. His passion was impossible, of course. A landed knight is no fit consort for a princess of royal blood.”

And Daario Naharis is only a sellsword, not fit to buckle on the golden spurs of even a landed knight. “And my father? Was there some woman he loved better than his queen?”

Ser Barristan shifted in the saddle. “Not … not loved. Mayhaps wanted is a better word, but … it was only kitchen gossip, the whispers of washerwomen and stableboys …”

“I want to know. I never knew my father. I want to know everything about him. The good and … the rest.”

“As you command.” The white knight chose his words with care. “Prince Aerys … as a youth, he was taken with a certain lady of Casterly Rock, a cousin of Tywin Lannister. When she and Tywin wed, your father drank too much wine at the wedding feast and was heard to say that it was a great pity that the lord’s right to the first night had been abolished. A drunken jape, no more, but Tywin Lannister was not a man to forget such words, or the … the liberties your father took during the bedding.” His face reddened. “I have said too much, Your Grace. I—”

“Gracious queen, well met!”

ADWD Daenerys VI

Ser Barristan wrinkled up his nose, and said, “Your Grace should not be here, breathing these black humors.”

“I am the blood of the dragon,” Dany reminded him. “Have you ever seen a dragon with the flux?” Viserys had oft claimed that Targaryens were untroubled by the pestilences that afflicted common men, and so far as she could tell, it was true. She could remember being cold and hungry and afraid, but never sick.

“Even so,” the old knight said, “I would feel better if Your Grace would return to the city.” The many-colored brick walls of Meereen were half a mile back. “The bloody flux has been the bane of every army since the Dawn Age. Let us distribute the food, Your Grace.”

“On the morrow. I am here now. I want to see.” She put her heels into her silver. The others trotted after her. Jhogo rode before her, Aggo and Rakharo just behind, long Dothraki whips in hand to keep away the sick and dying. Ser Barristan was at her right, mounted on a dapple grey.

Yesterday a wagon had been overturned and two of her soldiers killed, so today the queen had determined that she would bring the food herself. Every one of her advisors had argued fervently against it, from Reznak and the Shavepate to Ser Barristan, but Daenerys would not be moved. “I will not turn away from them,” she said stubbornly. “A queen must know the sufferings of her people.”

“Too many dead,” Aggo said. “They should be burned.”

“Who will burn them?” asked Ser Barristan. “The bloody flux is everywhere. A hundred die each night.”

“It is not good to touch the dead,” said Jhogo.

“This is known,” Aggo and Rakharo said, together.

“That may be so,” said Dany, “but this thing must be done, all the same.” She thought a moment. “The Unsullied have no fear of corpses. I shall speak to Grey Worm.”

“Your Grace,” said Ser Barristan, “the Unsullied are your best fighters. We dare not loose this plague amongst them. Let the Astapori bury their own dead.”

“They are too feeble,” said Symon Stripeback.

Dany said, “More food might make them stronger.”

Symon shook his head. “Food should not be wasted on the dying, Your Worship. We do not have enough to feed the living.”

He was not wrong, she knew, but that did not make the words any easier to hear. “This is far enough,” the queen decided. “We’ll feed them here.” She raised a hand. Behind her the wagons bumped to a halt, and her riders spread out around them, to keep the Astapori from rushing at the food. No sooner had they stopped than the press began to thicken around them, as more and more of the afflicted came limping and shambling toward the wagons. The riders cut them off. “Wait your turn,” they shouted. “No pushing. Back. Stay back. Bread for everyone. Wait your turn.”

Dany could only sit and watch. “Ser,” she said to Barristan Selmy, “is there no more we can do? You have provisions.”

“Provisions for Your Grace’s soldiers. We may well need to withstand a long siege. The Stormcrows and the Second Sons can harry the Yunkishmen, but they cannot hope to turn them. If Your Grace would allow me to assemble an army …”

“If there must be a battle, I would sooner fight it from behind the walls of Meereen. Let the Yunkai’i try and storm my battlements.” The queen surveyed the scene around her. “If we were to share our food equally …”

“… the Astapori would eat through their portion in days, and we would have that much less for the siege.”

Dany gazed across the camp, to the many-colored brick walls of Meereen. The air was thick with flies and cries. “The gods have sent this pestilence to humble me. So many dead … I will not have them eating corpses.” She beckoned Aggo closer. “Ride to the gates and bring me Grey Worm and fifty of his Unsullied.”

“Khaleesi. The blood of your blood obeys.” Aggo touched his horse with his heels and galloped off.

Ser Barristan watched with ill-concealed apprehension. “You should not linger here overlong, Your Grace. The Astapori are being fed, as you commanded. There’s no more we can do for the poor wretches. We should repair back to the city.”

“Go if you wish, ser. I will not detain you. I will not detain any of you.” Dany vaulted down from the horse. “I cannot heal them, but I can show them that their Mother cares.”

“To celebrate your nuptials, it would be most fitting if you would allow the fighting pits to open once again. It would be your wedding gift to Hizdahr and to your loving people, a sign that you had embraced the ancient ways and customs of Meereen.”

“And most pleasing to the gods as well,” the Green Grace added in her soft and kindly voice.

A bride price paid in blood. Daenerys was weary of fighting this battle. Even Ser Barristan did not think she could win. “No ruler can make a people good,” Selmy had told her. “Baelor the Blessed prayed and fasted and built the Seven as splendid a temple as any gods could wish for, yet he could not put an end to war and want.” A queen must listen to her people, Dany reminded herself.

The queen was framing her response when she heard a step behind her. The food, she thought. Her cooks had promised her to serve the noble Hizdahr’s favorite meal, dog in honey, stuffed with prunes and peppers. But when she turned to look, it was Ser Barristan standing there, freshly bathed and clad in white, his longsword at his side. “Your Grace,” he said, bowing, “I am sorry to disturb you, but I thought that you would want to know at once. The Stormcrows have returned to the city, with word of the foe. The Yunkishmen are on the march, just as we had feared.”

A flicker of annoyance crossed the noble face of Hizdahr zo Loraq. “The queen is at her supper. These sellswords can wait.”

Ser Barristan ignored him. “I asked Lord Daario to make his report to me, as Your Grace had commanded. He laughed and said that he would write it out in his own blood if Your Grace would send your little scribe to show him how to make the letters.”

“Blood?” said Dany, horrified. “Is that a jape? No. No, don’t tell me, I must see him for myself.” She was a young girl, and alone, and young girls can change their minds. “Convene my captains and commanders. Hizdahr, I know you will forgive me.”

“Meereen must come first.” Hizdahr smiled genially. “We will have other nights. A thousand nights.”

“Ser Barristan will show you out.”

“You’re hurt,” she gasped.

“This?” Daario touched his temple. “A crossbowman tried to put a quarrel through my eye, but I outrode it. I was hurrying home to my queen, to bask in the warmth of her smile.” He shook his sleeve, spattering red droplets. “This blood is not mine. One of my serjeants said we should go over to the Yunkai’i, so I reached down his throat and pulled his heart out. I meant to bring it to you as a gift for my silver queen, but four of the Cats cut me off and came snarling and spitting after me. One almost caught me, so I threw the heart into his face.”

“Very gallant,” said Ser Barristan, in a tone that suggested it was anything but, “but do you have tidings for Her Grace?”

“Hard tidings, Ser Grandfather. Astapor is gone, and the slavers are coming north in strength.”

Ser Barristan frowned at Daario. “Captain, you made mention of four free companies. We know of only three. The Windblown, the Long Lances, and the Company of the Cat.”

“Ser Grandfather knows how to count. The Second Sons have gone over to the Yunkai’i.” Daario turned his head and spat. “That’s for Brown Ben Plumm. When next I see his ugly face I will open him from throat to groin and rip out his black heart.”

“Please,” Dany said, but only Missandei seemed to hear. The queen got to her feet. “Be quiet! I have heard enough.”

“Your Grace.” Ser Barristan went to one knee. “We are yours to command. What would you have us do?”

“Continue as we planned. Gather food, as much as you can.”

ADWD Daenerys V

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

Daario won that for me, for all that it is worth. “The Lamb Men. Would that lambs had teeth.”

“That would make the wolves more cautious, no doubt.”

That made her laugh. “How fare your orphans, ser?”

The old knight smiled. “Well, Your Grace. It is good of you to ask.” The boys were his pride. “Four or five have the makings of knights. Perhaps as many as a dozen.”

“One would be enough if he were as true as you.” The day might come soon when she would have need of every knight. “Will they joust for me? I should like that.” Viserys had told her stories of the tourneys he had witnessed in the Seven Kingdoms, but Dany had never seen a joust herself.

“They are not ready, Your Grace. When they are, they will be pleased to demonstrate their prowess.”

“I hope that day comes quickly.” She would have kissed her good knight on the cheek, but just then Missandei appeared beneath the arched doorway.

Afterward, Ser Barristan told her that her brother Rhaegar would have been proud of her. Dany remembered the words Ser Jorah had spoken at Astapor: Rhaegar fought valiantly, Rhaegar fought nobly, Rhaegar fought honorably. And Rhaegar died.

She turned to Ser Barristan. “Send riders into the hills to find my bloodriders. Recall Brown Ben and the Second Sons as well.”

“And the Stormcrows, Your Grace?”

Daario. “Yes. Yes.” [...]

When Ser Barristan told her that her captain desired words with her, she thought for a moment that it was Daario, and her heart leapt. But the captain that he spoke of was Brown Ben Plumm.

“These are not apples, Ben,” said Dany. “These are men and women, sick and hungry and afraid.” My children. “I should have gone to Astapor.”

“Your Grace could not have saved them,” said Ser Barristan. “You warned King Cleon against this war with Yunkai. The man was a fool, and his hands were red with blood.”

And are my hands any cleaner?

Daenerys looked at the faces of the men around her. The Shavepate, scowling. Ser Barristan, with his lined face and sad blue eyes. Reznak mo Reznak, pale, sweating. Brown Ben, white-haired, grizzled, tough as old leather. Grey Worm, smooth-cheeked, stolid, expressionless. Daario should be here, and my bloodriders, she thought. If there is to be a battle, the blood of my blood should be with me. She missed Ser Jorah Mormont too. He lied to me, informed on me, but he loved me too, and he always gave good counsel.

“I defeated the Yunkai’i before. I will defeat them again. Where, though? How?”

“You mean to take the field?” The Shavepate’s voice was thick with disbelief. “That would be folly. Our walls are taller and thicker than the walls of Astapor, and our defenders are more valiant. The Yunkai’i will not take this city easily.”

Ser Barristan disagreed. “I do not think we should allow them to invest us. Theirs is a patchwork host at best. These slavers are no soldiers. If we take them unawares …”

“Small chance of that,” the Shavepate said. “The Yunkai’i have many friends inside the city. They will know.”

“How large an army can we muster?” Dany asked.

“Not large enough, begging your royal pardon,” said Brown Ben Plumm. “What does Naharis have to say? If we’re going to make a fight o’ this, we need his Stormcrows.”

“Daario is still in the field.”

“Ben, I will need your Second Sons to scout our enemies. Where they are, how fast they are advancing, how many men they have, and how they are disposed.”

“We’ll need provisions. Fresh horses too.”

“Of course. Ser Barristan will see to it.”

“What of these Astapori?”

My children. “They are coming here for help. For succor and protection. We cannot turn our backs on them.”

Ser Barristan frowned. “Your Grace, I have known the bloody flux to destroy whole armies when left to spread unchecked. The seneschal is right. We cannot have the Astapori in Meereen.”

Dany looked at him helplessly. It was good that dragons did not cry.

When Daenerys finally turned away, Ser Barristan stood near her, wrapped in his white cloak against the chill of evening. “Can we make a fight of this?” she asked him.

“Men can always fight, Your Grace. Ask rather if we can win. Dying is easy, but victory comes hard. Your freedmen are half-trained and unblooded. Your sellswords once served your foes, and once a man turns his cloak he will not scruple to turn it again. You have two dragons who cannot be controlled, and a third that may be lost to you. Beyond these walls your only friends are the Lhazarene, who have no taste for war.”

“My walls are strong, though.”

“No stronger than when we sat outside them. And the Sons of the Harpy are inside the walls with us. So are the Great Masters, both those you did not kill and the sons of those you did.”

“I know.” The queen sighed. “What do you counsel, ser?”

“Battle,” said Ser Barristan. “Meereen is overcrowded and full of hungry mouths, and you have too many enemies within. We cannot long withstand a siege, I fear. Let me meet the foe as he comes north, on ground of my own choosing.”

“Meet the foe,” she echoed, “with the freedmen you’ve called half-trained and unblooded.”

“We were all unblooded once, Your Grace. The Unsullied will help stiffen them. If I had five hundred knights …”

“Or five. And if I give you the Unsullied, I will have no one but the Brazen Beasts to hold Meereen.” When Ser Barristan did not dispute her, Dany closed her eyes. Gods, she prayed, you took Khal Drogo, who was my sun-and-stars. You took our valiant son before he drew a breath. You have had your blood of me. Help me now, I pray you. Give me the wisdom to see the path ahead and the strength to do what I must to keep my children safe.

The gods did not respond.

When she opened her eyes again, Daenerys said, “I cannot fight two enemies, one within and one without. If I am to hold Meereen, I must have the city behind me. The whole city. I need … I need …” She could not say it.

“Your Grace?” Ser Barristan prompted, gently.

A queen belongs not to herself but to her people.

ADWD Daenerys IV

“They are very sweet, the both of them,” Dany assured her. “Qezza sings for me sometimes. She has a lovely voice. And Ser Barristan has been instructing Grazhar and the other boys in the ways of western chivalry.”

“Your Grace need only ask him. The noble Hizdahr awaits below. Send down to him if that is your pleasure.”

You presume too much, priestess, the queen thought, but she swallowed her anger and made herself smile. “Why not?” She sent for Ser Barristan and told the old knight to bring Hizdahr to her. “It is a long climb. Have the Unsullied help him up.”

No sooner had Hizdahr zo Loraq taken his leave of her than Ser Barristan appeared behind her in his long white cloak. Years of service in the Kingsguard had taught the white knight how to remain unobtrusive when she was entertaining, but he was never far. He knows, she saw at once, and he disapproves. The lines around his mouth had deepened. “So,” she said to him, “it seems that I may wed again. Are you happy for me, ser?”

“If that is your command, Your Grace.”

“Hizdahr is not the husband you would have chosen for me.”

“It is not my place to choose your husband.”

“It is not,” she agreed, “but it is important to me that you should understand. My people are bleeding. Dying. A queen belongs not to herself, but to the realm. Marriage or carnage, those are my choices. A wedding or a war.”

“Your Grace, may I speak frankly?”

“Always.”

“There is a third choice.”

“Westeros?”

He nodded. “I am sworn to serve Your Grace, and to keep you safe from harm wherever you may go. My place is by your side, whether here or in King’s Landing … but your place is back in Westeros, upon the Iron Throne that was your father’s. The Seven Kingdoms will never accept Hizdahr zo Loraq as king.”

“No more than Meereen will accept Daenerys Targaryen as queen. The Green Grace has the right of that. I need a king beside me, a king of old Ghiscari blood. Elsewise they will always see me as the uncouth barbarian who smashed through their gates, impaled their kin on spikes, and stole their wealth.”

“In Westeros you will be the lost child who returns to gladden her father’s heart. Your people will cheer when you ride by, and all good men will love you.”

“Westeros is far away.”

“Lingering here will never bring it any closer. The sooner we take our leave of this place—”

“I know. I do.” Dany did not know how to make him see. She wanted Westeros as much as he did, but first she must heal Meereen. “Ninety days is a long time. Hizdahr may fail. And if he does, the trying buys me time. Time to make alliances, to strengthen my defenses, to—”

“And if he does not fail? What will Your Grace do then?”

“Her duty.” The word felt cold upon her tongue. “You saw my brother Rhaegar wed. Tell me, did he wed for love or duty?”

The old knight hesitated. “Princess Elia was a good woman, Your Grace. She was kind and clever, with a gentle heart and a sweet wit. I know the prince was very fond of her.”

Fond, thought Dany. The word spoke volumes. I could become fond of Hizdahr zo Loraq, in time. Perhaps.

Ser Barristan went on. “I saw your father and your mother wed as well. Forgive me, but there was no fondness there, and the realm paid dearly for that, my queen.”

“Why did they wed if they did not love each other?”

“Your grandsire commanded it. A woods witch had told him that the prince was promised would be born of their line.”

“A woods witch?” Dany was astonished.

“She came to court with Jenny of Oldstones. A stunted thing, grotesque to look upon. A dwarf, most people said, though dear to Lady Jenny, who always claimed that she was one of the children of the forest.”

“What became of her?”

“Summerhall.” The word was fraught with doom.

Dany sighed. “Leave me now. I am very weary.”

“As you command.” Ser Barristan bowed and turned to go. But at the door, he stopped. “Forgive me. Your Grace has a visitor. Shall I tell him to return upon the morrow?”

“Who is it?”

“Naharis. The Stormcrows have returned to the city.”

Daario. Her heart gave a flutter in her chest. “How long has … when did he …?” She could not seem to get the words out.

Ser Barristan seemed to understand. “Your Grace was with the priestess when he arrived. I knew you would not want to be disturbed. The captain’s news can wait until the morrow.”

“No.” How could I ever hope to sleep, knowing that my captain so close? “Send him up at once. And … I will have no more need of you this evening. I shall be safe with Daario. Oh, and send Irri and Jhiqui, if you would be so good. And Missandei.” I need to change, to make myself beautiful.

When he was gone, Daenerys called Ser Barristan back. “I want the Stormcrows back in the field.”

“Your Grace? They have only now returned …”

“I want them gone. Let them scout the Yunkish hinterlands and give protection to any caravans coming over the Khyzai Pass. Henceforth Daario shall make his reports to you. Give him every honor that is due him and see that his men are well paid, but on no account admit him to my presence.”

“As you say, Your Grace.”

ADWD Daenerys III

“Your hinterlands are not precious to me. Your person is. Should any ill befall you, this world would lose its savor.”

“My lord is good to care so much, but I am well protected.” Dany gestured toward where Barristan Selmy stood with one hand resting on his sword hilt. “Barristan the Bold, they call him. Twice he has saved me from assassins.”

Xaro gave Selmy a cursory inspection. “Barristan the Old, did you say? Your bear knight was younger, and devoted to you.”

“I do not wish to speak of Jorah Mormont.”

“Oh most beautiful of women,” Xaro said, as they began to climb, “there are footsteps behind us. We are followed.”

“My old knight does not frighten you, surely? Ser Barristan is sworn to keep my secrets.”

She turned her back upon the night, to where Barristan Selmy stood silent in the shadows. “My brother once told me a Westerosi riddle. Who listens to everything yet hears nothing?”

“A knight of the Kingsguard.” Selmy’s voice was solemn.

“You heard Xaro make his offer?”

“I did, Your Grace.” The old knight took pains not to look at her bare breast as he spoke to her.

Ser Jorah would not turn his eyes away. He loved me as a woman, where Ser Barristan loves me only as his queen. Mormont had been an informer, reporting to her enemies in Westeros, yet he had given her good counsel too. “What do you think of it? Of him?”

“Of him, little and less. These ships, though … Your Grace, with these ships we might be home before year’s end.”

Dany had never known a home. In Braavos, there had been a house with a red door, but that was all. “Beware of Qartheen bearing gifts, especially merchants of the Thirteen. There is some trap here. Perhaps these ships are rotten, or …”

“If they were so unseaworthy, they could not have crossed the sea from Qarth,” Ser Barristan pointed out, “but Your Grace was wise to insist upon inspection. I will take Admiral Groleo to the galleys at first light with his captains and two score of his sailors. We can crawl over every inch of those ships.”

It was good counsel. “Yes, make it so.” Westeros. Home. But if she left, what would happen to her city? Meereen was never your city, her brother’s voice seemed to whisper. Your cities are across the sea. Your Seven Kingdoms, where your enemies await you. You were born to serve them blood and fire.

Ser Barristan cleared his throat and said, “This warlock that the merchant spoke of …”

“Pyat Pree.” She tried to recall his face, but all she could see were his lips. The wine of the warlocks had turned them blue. Shade-of-the-evening, it was called. “If a warlock’s spell could kill me, I would be dead by now. I left their palace all in ashes.” Drogon saved me when they would have drained my life from me. Drogon burned them all.

“As you say, Your Grace. Still. I will be watchful.”

She kissed him on the cheek. “I know you will. Come, walk me back down to the feast.”

Late that afternoon Admiral Groleo and Ser Barristan returned from their inspection of the galleys. Dany assembled her council to hear them.

[...] The ships are sound, then?” she said, hoping.

“Sound enough, Your Grace. They are old ships, aye, but most are well maintained. The hull of the Pureborn Princess is worm-eaten. I’d not want to take her beyond the sight of land. The Narraqqa could stand a new rudder and lines, and the Banded Lizard has some cracked oars, but they will serve. The rowers are slaves, but if we offer them an honest oarsman’s wage, most will stay with us. Rowing’s all they know. Those who leave can be replaced from my own crews. It is a long hard voyage to Westeros, but these ships are sound enough to get us there, I’d judge.”

“Those left behind in Meereen would envy them their easy deaths,” moaned Reznak. “They will make slaves of us, or throw us in the pits. All will be as it was, or worse.”

“Where is your courage?” Ser Barristan lashed out. “Her Grace freed you from your chains. It is for you to sharpen your swords and defend your own freedom when she leaves.”

“Brave words, from one who means to sail into the sunset,” Symon Stripeback snarled back. “Will you look back at our dying?”

“Your Grace—”

“Magnificence—”

“Your Worship—”

“Enough.” Dany slapped the table. “No one will be left to die. You are all my people.” Her dreams of home and love had blinded her. “I will not abandon Meereen to the fate of Astapor. It grieves me to say so, but Westeros must wait.”

Groleo was aghast. “We must accept these ships. If we refuse this gift …”

Ser Barristan went to one knee before her. “My queen, your realm has need of you. You are not wanted here, but in Westeros men will flock to your banners by the thousands, great lords and noble knights. ‘She is come,’ they will shout to one another, in glad voices. ‘Prince Rhaegar’s sister has come home at last.’”

“If they love me so much, they will wait for me.” Dany stood.

She received the merchant prince alone, seated on her bench of polished ebony, on the cushions Ser Barristan had brought her.

ADWD Daenerys II

“It has been so long,” she had said to Ser Barristan, just yesterday. “What if Daario has betrayed me and gone over to my enemies?” Three treasons will you know. “What if he met another woman, some princess of the Lhazarene?”

The old knight neither liked nor trusted Daario, she knew. Even so, he had answered gallantly. “There is no woman more lovely than Your Grace. Only a blind man could believe otherwise, and Daario Naharis was not blind.”

No, she thought. His eyes are a deep blue, almost purple, and his gold tooth gleams when he smiles for me.

Ser Barristan was sure he would return, though. Dany could only pray that he was right.

A shadow. A memory. No one. She was the blood of the dragon, but Ser Barristan had warned her that in that blood there was a taint. Could I be going mad? They had called her father mad, once.

In the purple hall, Dany found her ebon bench piled high about with satin pillows. The sight brought a wan smile to her lips. Ser Barristan’s work, she knew. The old knight was a good man, but sometimes very literal. It was only a jape, ser, she thought, but she sat on one of the pillows just the same.

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

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

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

Ser Barristan escorted her back up to her chambers. “Tell me a tale, ser,” Dany said as they climbed. “Some tale of valor with a happy ending.” She felt in need of happy endings. “Tell me how you escaped from the Usurper.”

“Your Grace. There is no valor in running for your life.”

Dany seated herself on a cushion, crossed her legs, and gazed up at him. “Please. It was the Young Usurper who dismissed you from the Kingsguard …”

“Joffrey, aye. They gave my age for a reason, though the truth was elsewise. The boy wanted a white cloak for his dog Sandor Clegane and his mother wanted the Kingslayer to be her lord commander. When they told me, I … I took off my cloak as they commanded, threw my sword at Joffrey’s feet, and spoke unwisely.”

“What did you say?”

“The truth … but truth was never welcome at that court. I walked from the throne room with my head high, though I did not know where I was going. I had no home but White Sword Tower. My cousins would find a place for me at Harvest Hall, I knew, but I had no wish to bring Joffrey’s displeasure down upon them. I was gathering my things when it came to me that I had brought this on myself by taking Robert’s pardon. He was a good knight but a bad king, for he had no right to the throne he sat. That was when I knew that to redeem myself I must find the true king, and serve him loyally with all the strength that still remained me.”

“My brother Viserys.”

“Such was my intent. When I reached the stables the gold cloaks tried to seize me. Joffrey had offered me a tower to die in, but I had spurned his gift, so now he meant to offer me a dungeon. The commander of the City Watch himself confronted me, emboldened by my empty scabbard, but he had only three men with him and I still had my knife. I slashed one man’s face open when he laid his hands upon me, and rode through the others. As I spurred for the gates I heard Janos Slynt shouting for them to go after me. Once outside the Red Keep, the streets were congested, else I might have gotten away clean. Instead they caught me at the River Gate. The gold cloaks who had pursued me from the castle shouted for those at the gate to stop me, so they crossed their spears to bar my way.”

“And you without your sword? How did you get past them?”

“A true knight is worth ten guardsmen. The men at the gate were taken by surprise. I rode one down, wrenched away his spear, and drove it through the throat of my closest pursuer. The other broke off once I was through the gate, so I spurred my horse to a gallop and rode hellbent along the river until the city was lost to sight behind me. That night I traded my horse for a handful of pennies and some rags, and the next morning I joined the stream of smallfolk making their way to King’s Landing. I’d gone out the Mud Gate, so I returned through the Gate of the Gods, with dirt on my face, stubble on my cheeks, and no weapon but a wooden staff. In roughspun clothes and mud-caked boots, I was just one more old man fleeing the war. The gold cloaks took a stag from me and waved me through. King’s Landing was crowded with smallfolk who’d come seeking refuge from the fighting. I lost myself amongst them. I had a little silver, but I needed that to pay my passage across the narrow sea, so I slept in septs and alleys and took my meals in pot shops. I let my beard grow out and cloaked myself in age. The day Lord Stark lost his head, I was there, watching. Afterward I went into the Great Sept and thanked the seven gods that Joffrey had stripped me of my cloak.”

“Stark was a traitor who met a traitor’s end.”

“Your Grace,” said Selmy, “Eddard Stark played a part in your father’s fall, but he bore you no ill will. When the eunuch Varys told us that you were with child, Robert wanted you killed, but Lord Stark spoke against it. Rather than countenance the murder of children, he told Robert to find himself another Hand.”

“Have you forgotten Princess Rhaenys and Prince Aegon?”

“Never. That was Lannister work, Your Grace.”

“Lannister or Stark, what difference? Viserys used to call them the Usurper’s dogs. If a child is set upon by a pack of hounds, does it matter which one tears out his throat? All the dogs are just as guilty. The guilt …” The word caught in her throat. Hazzea, she thought, and suddenly she heard herself say, “I have to see the pit,” in a voice as small as a child’s whisper. “Take me down, ser, if you would.”

A flicker of disapproval crossed the old man’s face, but it was not his way to question his queen. “As you command.”

The servants’ steps were the quickest way down—not grand, but steep and straight and narrow, hidden in the walls. Ser Barristan brought a lantern, lest she fall. Bricks of twenty different colors pressed close around them, fading to grey and black beyond the lantern light. Thrice they passed Unsullied guards, standing as if they had been carved from stone. The only sound was the soft scruff of their feet upon the steps.

At ground level the Great Pyramid of Meereen was a hushed place, full of dust and shadows. Its outer walls were thirty feet thick. Within them, sounds echoed off arches of many-colored bricks, and amongst the stables, stalls, and storerooms. They passed beneath three massive arches, down a torchlit ramp into the vaults beneath the pyramid, past cisterns, dungeons, and torture chambers where slaves had been scourged and skinned and burned with red-hot irons. Finally they came to a pair of huge iron doors with rusted hinges, guarded by Unsullied.

At her command, one produced an iron key. The door opened, hinges shrieking. Daenerys Targaryen stepped into the hot heart of darkness and stopped at the lip of a deep pit. Forty feet below, her dragons raised their heads. Four eyes burned through the shadows—two of molten gold and two of bronze.

Ser Barristan took her by the arm. “No closer.”

“You think they would harm me?”

“I do not know, Your Grace, but I would sooner not risk your person to learn the answer.”

When Rhaegal roared, a gout of yellow flame turned darkness into day for half a heartbeat. The fire licked along the walls, and Dany felt the heat upon her face, like the blast from an oven. Across the pit, Viserion’s wings unfolded, stirring the stale air. He tried to fly to her, but the chains snapped taut as he rose and slammed him down onto his belly. Links as big as a man’s fist bound his feet to the floor. The iron collar about his neck was fastened to the wall behind him. Rhaegal wore matching chains. In the light of Selmy’s lantern, his scales gleamed like jade. Smoke rose from between his teeth. Bones were scattered on the floor at his feet, cracked and scorched and splintered. The air was uncomfortably hot and smelled of sulfur and charred meat.

“They are larger.” Dany’s voice echoed off the scorched stone walls. A drop of sweat trickled down her brow and fell onto her breast. “Is it true that dragons never stop growing?”

“If they have food enough, and space to grow. Chained up in here, though …”

The Great Masters had used the pit as a prison. It was large enough to hold five hundred men … and more than ample for two dragons. For how long, though? What will happen when they grow too large for the pit? Will they turn on one another with flame and claw? Will they grow wan and weak, with withered flanks and shrunken wings? Will their fires go out before the end?

What sort of mother lets her children rot in darkness?

ADWD Daenerys I

“Your Grace,” said Ser Barristan Selmy, the lord commander of her Queensguard, “there is no need for you to see this.”

“He died for me.”

Ser Barristan Selmy remained behind. His hair was white, and there were crow’s-feet at the corners of his pale blue eyes. Yet his back was still unbent, and the years had not yet robbed him of his skill at arms. “Your Grace,” he said, “I fear your eunuchs are ill suited for the tasks you set them.”

Dany settled on her bench and wrapped her pelt about her shoulders once again. “The Unsullied are my finest warriors.”

“Soldiers, not warriors, if it please Your Grace. They were made for the battlefield, to stand shoulder to shoulder behind their shields with their spears thrust out before them. Their training teaches them to obey, fearlessly, perfectly, without thought or hesitation … not to unravel secrets or ask questions.”

“Would knights serve me any better?” Selmy was training knights for her, teaching the sons of slaves to fight with lance and longsword in the Westerosi fashion … but what good would lances do against cowards who killed from the shadows?

“Not in this,” the old man admitted. “And Your Grace has no knights, save me. It will be years before the boys are ready.”

“Then who, if not Unsullied? Dothraki would be even worse. [...] When the Stormcrows return from Lhazar, perhaps I can use them in the streets,” she told Ser Barristan, “but until then I have only the Unsullied.” Dany rose. “You must excuse me, ser. The petitioners will soon be at my gates. I must don my floppy ears and become their queen again. Summon Reznak and the Shavepate, I’ll see them when I’m dressed.”

“As Your Grace commands.” Selmy bowed.

There were times when Dany wondered if that razor might not be better saved for Reznak’s throat. He was a useful man, but she liked him little and trusted him less. The Undying of Qarth had told her she would be thrice betrayed. Mirri Maz Duur had been the first, Ser Jorah the second. Would Reznak be the third? The Shavepate? Daario? Or will it be someone I would never suspect, Ser Barristan or Grey Worm or Missandei?

“Ser Barristan,” she called, “I know what quality a king needs most.”

“Courage, Your Grace?”

“Cheeks like iron,” she teased. “All I do is sit.”

“Your Grace takes too much on herself. You should allow your councillors to shoulder more of your burdens.”

“I have too many councillors and too few cushions.”

Her dragons had grown too large to be content with rats and cats and dogs. The more they eat, the larger they will grow, Ser Barristan had warned her, and the larger they grow, the more they’ll eat.

No. Dany shivered. No, no, oh no. “Are you deaf, fool?” Reznak mo Reznak demanded of the man. “Did you not hear my pronouncement? See my factors on the morrow, and you shall be paid for your sheep.”

“Reznak,” Ser Barristan said quietly, “hold your tongue and open your eyes. Those are no sheep bones.”

No, Dany thought, those are the bones of a child.

A Storm of Swords

ASOS Daenerys VI

Dany shifted uncomfortably on the ebony bench. She dreaded what must come next, yet she knew she had put it off too long already. Yunkai and Astapor, threats of war, marriage proposals, the march west looming over all ... I need my knights. I need their swords, and I need their counsel. Yet the thought of seeing Jorah Mormont again made her feel as if she’d swallowed a spoonful of flies; angry, agitated, sick. She could almost feel them buzzing round her belly. I am the blood of the dragon. I must be strong. I must have fire in my eyes when I face them, not tears. “Tell Belwas to bring my knights,” Dany commanded, before she could change her mind. “My good knights.”

Strong Belwas was puffing from the climb when he marched them through the doors, one meaty hand wrapped tight around each man’s arm. Ser Barristan walked with his head held high, but Ser Jorah stared at the marble floor as he approached. The one is proud, the other guilty. The old man had shaved off his white beard. He looked ten years younger without it. But her balding bear looked older than he had. They halted before the bench.

“Ser Barristan saved me from the Titan’s Bastard, and from the Sorrowful Man in Qarth. [...] So many people wanted her dead, sometimes she lost count. “And yet you lied, deceived me, betrayed me.” She turned to Ser Barristan. “You protected my father for many years, fought beside my brother on the Trident, but you abandoned Viserys in his exile and bent your knee to the Usurper instead. Why? And tell it true.”

“Some truths are hard to hear. Robert was a ... a good knight ... chivalrous, brave ... he spared my life, and the lives of many others ... Prince Viserys was only a boy, it would have been years before he was fit to rule, and ... forgive me, my queen, but you asked for truth ... even as a child, your brother Viserys oft seemed to be his father’s son, in ways that Rhaegar never did.”

“His father’s son?” Dany frowned. “What does that mean?”

The old knight did not blink. “Your father is called ‘the Mad King’ in Westeros. Has no one ever told you?”

“Viserys did.” The Mad King. “The Usurper called him that, the Usurper and his dogs.” The Mad King. “It was a lie.”

“Why ask for truth,” Ser Barristan said softly, “if you close your ears to it?” He hesitated, then continued. “I told you before that I used a false name so the Lannisters would not know that I’d joined you. That was less than half of it, Your Grace. The truth is, I wanted to watch you for a time before pledging you my sword. To make certain that you were not ...”

“... my father’s daughter?” If she was not her father’s daughter, who was she?

“... mad,” he finished. “But I see no taint in you.” 

“Taint?” Dany bristled.

“I am no maester to quote history at you, Your Grace. Swords have been my life, not books. But every child knows that the Targaryens have always danced too close to madness. Your father was not the first. King Jaehaerys once told me that madness and greatness are two sides of the same coin. Every time a new Targaryen is born, he said, the gods toss the coin in the air and the world holds its breath to see how it will land.”

Jaehaerys. This old man knew my grandfather. The thought gave her pause. Most of what she knew of Westeros had come from her brother, and the rest from Ser Jorah. Ser Barristan would have forgotten more than the two of them had ever known. This man can tell me what I came from. “So I am a coin in the hands of some god, is that what you are saying, ser?”

“No,” Ser Barristan replied. “You are the trueborn heir of Westeros. To the end of my days I shall remain your faithful knight, should you find me worthy to bear a sword again. If not, I am content to serve Strong Belwas as his squire.”

“What if I decide you’re only worthy to be my fool?” Dany asked scornfully. “Or perhaps my cook?”

“I would be honored, Your Grace,” Selmy said with quiet dignity. “I can bake apples and boil beef as well as any man, and I’ve roasted many a duck over a campfire. I hope you like them greasy, with charred skin and bloody bones.”

That made her smile. “I’d have to be mad to eat such fare. Ben Plumm, come give Ser Barristan your longsword.”

But Whitebeard would not take it. “I flung my sword at Joffrey’s feet and have not touched one since. Only from the hand of my queen will I accept a sword again.”

“As you wish.” Dany took the sword from Brown Ben and offered it hilt first. The old man took it reverently. “Now kneel,” she told him, “and swear it to my service.”

He went to one knee and lay the blade before her as he said the words. Dany scarcely heard them. He was the easy one, she thought. The other will be harder.

“Your Grace?”

She turned to find Ser Barristan behind her. “What more would you have of me, ser? I spared you, I took you into my service, now give me some peace.”

“Forgive me, Your Grace. It was only ... now that you know who I am ...” The old man hesitated. “A knight of the Kingsguard is in the king’s presence day and night. For that reason, our vows require us to protect his secrets as we would his life. But your father’s secrets by rights belong to you now, along with his throne, and ... I thought perhaps you might have questions for me.”

Questions? She had a hundred questions, a thousand, ten thousand. Why couldn’t she think of one? “Was my father truly mad?” she blurted out. Why do I ask that? “Viserys said this talk of madness was a ploy of the Usurper’s ...”

“Viserys was a child, and the queen sheltered him as much as she could. Your father always had a little madness in him, I now believe. Yet he was charming and generous as well, so his lapses were forgiven. His reign began with such promise ... but as the years passed, the lapses grew more frequent, until ...”

Dany stopped him. “Do I want to hear this now?”

Ser Barristan considered a moment. “Perhaps not. Not now.”

“Not now,” she agreed. “One day. One day you must tell me all. The good and the bad. There is some good to be said of my father, surely?”

“There is, Your Grace. Of him, and those who came before him. Your grandfather Jaehaerys and his brother, their father Aegon, your mother ... and Rhaegar. Him most of all.”

“I wish I could have known him.” Her voice was wistful.

“I wish he could have known you,” the old knight said. “When you are ready, I will tell you all.”

Dany kissed him on the cheek and sent him on his way.

“Aegon the Conqueror brought fire and blood to Westeros, but afterward he gave them peace, prosperity, and justice. But all I have brought to Slaver’s Bay is death and ruin. I have been more khal than queen, smashing and plundering, then moving on.”

“There is nothing to stay for,” said Brown Ben Plumm.

“Your Grace, the slavers brought their doom on themselves,” said Daario Naharis.

“You have brought freedom as well,” Missandei pointed out.

“Freedom to starve?” asked Dany sharply. “Freedom to die? Am I a dragon, or a harpy?” Am I mad? Do I have the taint?

“A dragon,” Ser Barristan said with certainty. “Meereen is not Westeros, Your Grace.”

“But how can I rule seven kingdoms if I cannot rule a single city?” He had no answer to that. Dany turned away from them, to gaze out over the city once again. “My children need time to heal and learn. My dragons need time to grow and test their wings. And I need the same. I will not let this city go the way of Astapor. I will not let the harpy of Yunkai chain up those I’ve freed all over again.” She turned back to look at their faces. “I will not march.”

“What will you do then, Khaleesi?” asked Rakharo.

“Stay,” she said. “Rule. And be a queen.”

ASOS Daenerys V

“Blood of my blood,” Dany told them, “your place is here by me. This man is a buzzing fly, no more. Ignore him, he will soon be gone.” Aggo, Jhogo, and Rakharo were brave warriors, but they were young, and too valuable to risk. They kept her khalasar together, and were her best scouts too.

“That was wisely done,” Ser Jorah said as they watched from the front of her pavilion. “Let the fool ride back and forth and shout until his horse goes lame. He does us no harm.”

“He does,” Arstan Whitebeard insisted. “Wars are not won with swords and spears alone, ser. Two hosts of equal strength may come together, but one will break and run whilst the other stands. This hero builds courage in the hearts of his own men and plants the seeds of doubt in ours.”

“This challenge must be met,” Arstan said again.

“It will be.” Dany said, as the hero tucked his penis away again.

“Missandei,” she called, “have my silver saddled. Your own mount as well.”

The little scribe bowed. “As Your Grace commands. Shall I summon your bloodriders to guard you?”

“We’ll take Arstan. I do not mean to leave the camps.” She had no enemies among her children. And the old squire would not talk too much as Belwas would, or look at her like Daario.

“There’s the treacherous sow,” he said. “I knew you’d come to get your feet kissed one day.” His head was bald as a melon, his nose red and peeling, but she knew that voice and those pale green eyes. “I’m going to start by cutting off your teats.” Dany was dimly aware of Missandei shouting for help. A freedman edged forward, but only a step. One quick slash, and he was on his knees, blood running down his face. Mero wiped his sword on his breeches. “Who’s next?”

“I am.” Arstan Whitebeard leapt from his horse and stood over her, the salt wind riffling through his snowy hair, both hands on his tall hardwood staff.

“Grandfather,” Mero said, “run off before I break your stick in two and bugger you with —”

The old man feinted with one end of the staff, pulled it back, and whipped the other end about faster than Dany would have believed. The Titan’s Bastard staggered back into the surf, spitting blood and broken teeth from the ruin of his mouth. Whitebeard put Dany behind him. Mero slashed at his face. The old man jerked back, cat-quick. The staff thumped Mero’s ribs, sending him reeling. Arstan splashed sideways, parried a looping cut, danced away from a second, checked a third mid-swing. The moves were so fast she could hardly follow. Missandei was pulling Dany to her feet when she heard a crack. She thought Arstan’s staff had snapped until she saw the jagged bone jutting from Mero’s calf. As he fell, the Titan’s Bastard twisted and lunged, sending his point straight at the old man’s chest. Whitebeard swept the blade aside almost contemptuously and smashed the other end of his staff against the big man’s temple. Mero went sprawling, blood bubbling from his mouth as the waves washed over him. A moment later the freedmen washed over him too, knives and stones and angry fists rising and falling in a frenzy.

Dany turned away, sickened. She was more frightened now than when it had been happening. He would have killed me.

“Your Grace.” Arstan knelt. “I am an old man, and shamed. He should never have gotten close enough to seize you. I was lax. I did not know him without his beard and hair.”

“No more than I did.” Dany took a deep breath to stop her shaking. Enemies everywhere. “Take me back to my tent. Please.”

“You might have warned me that the Titan’s Bastard had escaped.”

He frowned. “I saw no need to frighten you, Your Grace. I have offered a reward for his head—”

“Pay it to Whitebeard. Mero has been with us all the way from Yunkai. He shaved his beard off and lost himself amongst the freedmen, waiting for a chance for vengeance. Arstan killed him.”

Ser Jorah gave the old man a long look. “A squire with a stick slew Mero of Braavos, is that the way of it?”

“A stick,” Dany confirmed, “but no longer a squire. Ser Jorah, it’s my wish that Arstan be knighted.”

“No.” 

The loud refusal was surprise enough. Stranger still, it came from both men at once.

Ser Jorah drew his sword. “The Titan’s Bastard was a nasty piece of work. And good at killing. Who are you, old man?”

“A better knight than you, ser,” Arstan said coldly.

Knight? Dany was confused. “You said you were a squire.”

“I was, Your Grace.” He dropped to one knee. “I squired for Lord Swann in my youth, and at Magister Illyrio’s behest I have served Strong Belwas as well. But during the years between, I was a knight in Westeros. I have told you no lies, my queen. Yet there are truths I have withheld, and for that and all my other sins I can only beg your forgiveness.”

“What truths have you withheld?” Dany did not like this. “You will tell me. Now.”

He bowed his head. “At Qarth, when you asked my name, I said I was called Arstan. That much was true. Many men had called me by that name while Belwas and I were making our way east to find you. But it is not my true name.”

She was more confused than angry. He has played me false, just as Jorah warned me, yet he saved my life just now.

Ser Jorah flushed red. “Mero shaved his beard, but you grew one, didn’t you? No wonder you looked so bloody familiar ...”

“You know him?” Dany asked the exile knight, lost.

“I saw him perhaps a dozen times ... from afar most often, standing with his brothers or riding in some tourney. But every man in the Seven Kingdoms knew Barristan the Bold.” He laid the point of his sword against the old man’s neck. “Khaleesi, before you kneels Ser Barristan Selmy, Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, who betrayed your House to serve the Usurper Robert Baratheon.”

The old knight did not so much as blink. “The crow calls the raven black, and you speak of betrayal.”

“Why are you here?” Dany demanded of him. “If Robert sent you to kill me, why did you save my life?” He served the Usurper. He betrayed Rhaegar’s memory, and abandoned Viserys to live and die in exile. Yet if he wanted me dead, he need only have stood aside ... “I want the whole truth now, on your honor as a knight. Are you the Usurper’s man, or mine?”

“Yours, if you will have me.” Ser Barristan had tears in his eyes. “I took Robert’s pardon, aye. I served him in Kingsguard and council. Served with the Kingslayer and others near as bad, who soiled the white cloak I wore. Nothing will excuse that. I might be serving in King’s Landing still if the vile boy upon the Iron Throne had not cast me aside, it shames me to admit. But when he took the cloak that the White Bull had draped about my shoulders, and sent men to kill me that selfsame day, it was as though he’d ripped a caul off my eyes. That was when I knew I must find my true king, and die in his service—”

“I can grant that wish,” Ser Jorah said darkly.

“Quiet,” said Dany. “I’ll hear him out.”

“It may be that I must die a traitor’s death,” Ser Barristan said. “If so, I should not die alone. Before I took Robert’s pardon I fought against him on the Trident. You were on the other side of that battle, Mormont, were you not?” He did not wait for an answer. “Your Grace, I am sorry I misled you. It was the only way to keep the Lannisters from learning that I had joined you. You are watched, as your brother was. Lord Varys reported every move Viserys made, for years. Whilst I sat on the small council, I heard a hundred such reports. And since the day you wed Khal Drogo, there has been an informer by your side selling your secrets, trading whispers to the Spider for gold and promises.”

He cannot mean ... “You are mistaken.” Dany looked at Jorah Mormont. “Tell him he’s mistaken. There’s no informer. Ser Jorah, tell him. We crossed the Dothraki sea together, and the red waste ...” Her heart fluttered like a bird in a trap. “Tell him, Jorah. Tell him how he got it wrong.”

“The Others take you, Selmy.” Ser Jorah flung his longsword to the carpet. “Khaleesi, it was only at the start, before I came to know you ... before I came to love ...”

“Do not say that word!” She backed away from him. “How could you? What did the Usurper promise you? Gold, was it gold?” The Undying had said she would be betrayed twice more, once for gold and once for love. “Tell me what you were promised?”

“Varys said ... I might go home.” He bowed his head.

I was going to take you home! Her dragons sensed her fury. Viserion roared, and smoke rose grey from his snout. Drogon beat the air with black wings, and Rhaegal twisted his head back and belched flame. I should say the word and burn the two of them. Was there no one she could trust, no one to keep her safe? “Are all the knights of Westeros so false as you two? Get out, before my dragons roast you both. What does roast liar smell like? As foul as Brown Ben’s sewers? Go!”

Ser Barristan rose stiff and slow. For the first time, he looked his age. “Where shall we go, Your Grace?”

“To hell, to serve King Robert.” Dany felt hot tears on her cheeks. Drogon screamed, lashing his tail back and forth. “The Others can have you both.” Go, go away forever, both of you, the next time I see your faces I’ll have your traitors’ heads off. She could not say the words, though. They betrayed me. But they saved me. But they lied. “You go ...” My bear, my fierce strong bear, what will I do without him? And the old man, my brother’s friend. “You go ... go ...” Where?

And then she knew.

ASOS Daenerys IV

But when Mero was gone, Arstan Whitebeard said, “That one has an evil reputation, even in Westeros. Do not be misled by his manner, Your Grace. He will drink three toasts to your health tonight, and rape you on the morrow.”

“The old man’s right for once,” Ser Jorah said. “The Second Sons are an old company, and not without valor, but under Mero they’ve turned near as bad as the Brave Companions. The man is as dangerous to his employers as to his foes. That’s why you find him out here. None of the Free Cities will hire him any longer.”

“It is not his reputation that I want, it’s his five hundred horse.”

“I think we should attack from three sides. Grey Worm, your Unsullied shall strike at them from right and left, while my kos lead my horse in wedge for a thrust through their center. Slave soldiers will never stand before mounted Dothraki.” She smiled. “To be sure, I am only a young girl and know little of war. What do you think, my lords?”

“I think you are Rhaegar Targaryen’s sister,” Ser Jorah said with a rueful half smile.

“Aye,” said Arstan Whitebeard, “and a queen as well.”

“Daenerys, I am thrice your age,” Ser Jorah said. “I have seen how false men are. Very few are worthy of trust, and Daario Naharis is not one of them. Even his beard wears false colors.”

That angered her. “Whilst you have an honest beard, is that what you are telling me? You are the only man I should ever trust?”

He stiffened. “I did not say that.”

“You say it every day. Pyat Pree’s a liar, Xaro’s a schemer, Belwas a braggart, Arstan an assassin ... do you think I’m still some virgin girl, that I cannot hear the words behind the words?”

She felt very lonely all of a sudden. Mirri Maz Duur had promised that she would never bear a living child. House Targaryen will end with me. That made her sad. “You must be my children,” she told the dragons, “my three fierce children. Arstan says dragons live longer than men, so you will go on after I am dead.”

A stillness settled over her camp when midnight came and went. Dany remained in her pavilion with her maids, while Arstan Whitebeard and Strong Belwas kept the guard. The waiting is the hardest part. To sit in her tent with idle hands while her battle was being fought without her made Dany feel half a child again.

The hours crept by on turtle feet. Even after Jhiqui rubbed the knots from her shoulders, Dany was too restless for sleep. Missandei offered to sing her a lullaby of the Peaceful People, but Dany shook her head. “Bring me Arstan,” she said.

When the old man came, she was curled up inside her hrakkar pelt, whose musty smell still reminded her of Drogo. “I cannot sleep when men are dying for me, Whitebeard,” she said. “Tell me more of my brother Rhaegar, if you would. I liked the tale you told me on the ship, of how he decided that he must be a warrior.”

“Your Grace is kind to say so.” 

“Viserys said that our brother won many tourneys.”

Arstan bowed his white head respectfully. “It is not meet for me to deny His Grace’s words ...”

“But?” said Dany sharply. “Tell me. I command it.”

“Prince Rhaegar’s prowess was unquestioned, but he seldom entered the lists. He never loved the song of swords the way that Robert did, or Jaime Lannister. It was something he had to do, a task the world had set him. He did it well, for he did everything well. That was his nature. But he took no joy in it. Men said that he loved his harp much better than his lance.”

“He won some tourneys, surely,” said Dany, disappointed.

“When he was young, His Grace rode brilliantly in a tourney at Storm’s End, defeating Lord Steffon Baratheon, Lord Jason Mallister, the Red Viper of Dorne, and a mystery knight who proved to be the infamous Simon Toyne, chief of the kingswood outlaws. He broke twelve lances against Ser Arthur Dayne that day.”

“Was he the champion, then?”

“No, Your Grace. That honor went to another knight of the Kingsguard, who unhorsed Prince Rhaegar in the final tilt.”

Dany did not want to hear about Rhaegar being unhorsed. “But what tourneys did my brother win?”

“Your Grace.” The old man hesitated. “He won the greatest tourney of them all.”

“Which was that?” Dany demanded.

“The tourney Lord Whent staged at Harrenhal beside the Gods Eye, in the year of the false spring. A notable event. Besides the jousting, there was a mêlée in the old style fought between seven teams of knights, as well as archery and axe-throwing, a horse race, a tournament of singers, a mummer show, and many feasts and frolics. Lord Whent was as open handed as he was rich. The lavish purses he proclaimed drew hundreds of challengers. Even your royal father came to Harrenhal, when he had not left the Red Keep for long years. The greatest lords and mightiest champions of the Seven Kingdoms rode in that tourney, and the Prince of Dragonstone bested them all.”

“But that was the tourney when he crowned Lyanna Stark as queen of love and beauty!” said Dany. “Princess Elia was there, his wife, and yet my brother gave the crown to the Stark girl, and later stole her away from her betrothed. How could he do that? Did the Dornish woman treat him so ill?”

“It is not for such as me to say what might have been in your brother’s heart, Your Grace. The Princess Elia was a good and gracious lady, though her health was ever delicate.”

Dany pulled the lion pelt tighter about her shoulders. “Viserys said once that it was my fault, for being born too late.” She had denied it hotly, she remembered, going so far as to tell Viserys that it was his fault for not being born a girl. He beat her cruelly for that insolence. “If I had been born more timely, he said, Rhaegar would have married me instead of Elia, and it would all have come out different. If Rhaegar had been happy in his wife, he would not have needed the Stark girl.”

“Perhaps so, Your Grace.” Whitebeard paused a moment. “But I am not certain it was in Rhaegar to be happy.”

“You make him sound so sour,” Dany protested.

“Not sour, no, but ... there was a melancholy to Prince Rhaegar, a sense ...” The old man hesitated again.

“Say it,” she urged. “A sense ...?”

“... of doom. He was born in grief, my queen, and that shadow hung over him all his days.”

Viserys had spoken of Rhaegar’s birth only once. Perhaps the tale saddened him too much. “It was the shadow of Summerhall that haunted him, was it not?”

“Yes. And yet Summerhall was the place the prince loved best. He would go there from time to time, with only his harp for company. Even the knights of the Kingsguard did not attend him there. He liked to sleep in the ruined hall, beneath the moon and stars, and whenever he came back he would bring a song. When you heard him play his high harp with the silver strings and sing of twilights and tears and the death of kings, you could not but feel that he was singing of himself and those he loved.”

“What of the Usurper? Did he play sad songs as well?”

Arstan chuckled. “Robert? Robert liked songs that made him laugh, the bawdier the better. He only sang when he was drunk, and then it was like to be ‘A Cask of Ale’ or ‘Fifty-Four Tuns’ or ‘The Bear and the Maiden Fair.’ Robert was much—”

ASOS Daenerys III

“Give me all,” she said, “and you may have a dragon.”

There was the sound of indrawn breath from Jhiqui beside her. Kraznys smiled at his fellows. “Did I not tell you? Anything, she would give us.”

Whitebeard stared in shocked disbelief. His hand trembled where it grasped the staff. “No.” He went to one knee before her. “Your Grace, I beg you, win your throne with dragons, not slaves. You must not do this thing—”

“You must not presume to instruct me. Ser Jorah, remove Whitebeard from my presence.”

Mormont seized the old man roughly by an elbow, yanked him back to his feet, and marched him out onto the terrace.

“Tell the Good Masters I regret this interruption,” said Dany to the slave girl.

Arstan Whitebeard held his tongue as well, when Dany swept by him on the terrace. He followed her down the steps in silence, but she could hear his hardwood staff tap tapping on the red bricks as they went. She did not blame him for his fury. It was a wretched thing she did. The Mother of Dragons has sold her strongest child. Even the thought made her ill.

Yet down in the Plaza of Pride, standing on the hot red bricks between the slavers’ pyramid and the barracks of the eunuchs, Dany turned on the old man. “Whitebeard,” she said, “I want your counsel, and you should never fear to speak your mind with me ... when we are alone. But never question me in front of strangers. Is that understood?”

“Yes, Your Grace,” he said unhappily. 

“I am not a child,” she told him. “I am a queen.”

“Yet even queens can err. The Astapori have cheated you, Your Grace. A dragon is worth more than any army. Aegon proved that three hundred years ago, upon the Field of Fire.”

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

ASOS Daenerys II

“Tell her that these have been standing here for a day and a night, with no food nor water. Tell her that they will stand until they drop if I should command it, and when nine hundred and ninety-nine have collapsed to die upon the bricks, the last will stand there still, and never move until his own death claims him. Such is their courage. Tell her that.”

“I call that madness, not courage,” said Arstan Whitebeard, when the solemn little scribe was done. He tapped the end of his hardwood staff against the bricks, tap tap, as if to tell his displeasure. The old man had not wanted to sail to Astapor; nor did he favor buying this slave army. A queen should hear all sides before reaching a decision. That was why Dany had brought him with her to the Plaza of Pride, not to keep her safe. [...]

“Inform the savages that we call this obedience. Others may be stronger or quicker or larger than the Unsullied. Some few may even equal their skill with sword and spear and shield. But nowhere between the seas will you ever find any more obedient.”

“Sheep are obedient,” said Arstan when the words had been translated. He had some Valyrian as well, though not so much as Dany, but like her he was feigning ignorance.

“A eunuch who is cut young will never have the brute strength of one of your Westerosi knights, this is true,” said Kraznys mo Nakloz when the question was put to him. “A bull is strong as well, but bulls die every day in the fighting pits. A girl of nine killed one not three days past in Jothiel’s Pit. The Unsullied have something better than strength, tell her. They have discipline. We fight in the fashion of the Old Empire, yes. They are the lockstep legions of Old Ghis come again, absolutely obedient, absolutely loyal, and utterly without fear.”

Dany listened patiently to the translation. “Even the bravest men fear death and maiming,” Arstan said when the girl was done.

“Tell her all their names are such,” Kraznys commanded the girl. “It reminds them that by themselves they are vermin. The name disks are thrown in an empty cask at duty’s end, and each dawn plucked up again at random.”

“More madness,” said Arstan, when he heard. “How can any man possibly remember a new name every day?”

Arstan Whitebeard tapped the end of his staff on the bricks as he listened to that. Tap tap tap. Slow and steady. Tap tap tap. Dany saw him turn his eyes away, as if he could not bear to look at Kraznys any longer.

She looked at Arstan. “You have lived long in the world, Whitebeard. Now that you have seen them, what do you say?”

“I say no, Your Grace,” the old man answered at once. 

“Why?” she asked. “Speak freely.” Dany thought she knew what he would say, but she wanted the slave girl to hear, so Kraznys mo Nakloz might hear later.

“My queen,” said Arstan, “there have been no slaves in the Seven Kingdoms for thousands of years. The old gods and the new alike hold slavery to be an abomination. Evil. If you should land in Westeros at the head of a slave army, many good men will oppose you for no other reason than that. You will do great harm to your cause, and to the honor of your House.”

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

“When the day comes that you raise your banners, half of Westeros will be with you,” Whitebeard promised. “Your brother Rhaegar is still remembered, with great love.”

“And my father?” Dany said.

The old man hesitated before saying, “King Aerys is also remembered. He gave the realm many years of peace. Your Grace, you have no need of slaves. Magister Illyrio can keep you safe while your dragons grow, and send secret envoys across the narrow sea on your behalf, to sound out the high lords for your cause.”

“Those same high lords who abandoned my father to the Kingslayer and bent the knee to Robert the Usurper?”

“Even those who bent their knees may yearn in their hearts for the return of the dragons.”

“May,” said Dany. That was such a slippery word, may. In any language.

Tap tap tap, Dany heard. Arstan Whitebeard’s face was still, but his staff beat out his rage. Tap tap tap.

Dany climbed into her litter frowning, and beckoned Arstan to climb in beside her. A man as old as him should not be walking in such heat.

“Bricks and blood built Astapor,” Whitebeard murmured at her side, “and bricks and blood her people.”

“What is that?” Dany asked him, curious.

“An old rhyme a maester taught me, when I was a boy. I never knew how true it was. The bricks of Astapor are red with the blood of the slaves who make them.”

“I can well believe that,” said Dany.

“Then leave this place before your heart turns to brick as well. Sail this very night, on the evening tide.”

Would that I could, thought Dany. “When I leave Astapor it must be with an army, Ser Jorah says.”

“Ser Jorah was a slaver himself, Your Grace,” the old man reminded her. “There are sellswords in Pentos and Myr and Tyrosh you can hire. A man who kills for coin has no honor, but at least they are no slaves. Find your army there, I beg you.”

“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.”

“Better to come a beggar than a slaver,” Arstan said.

“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?”

Whitebeard bowed his head. “Your Grace, I did not mean to give offense.”

“Only lies offend me, never honest counsel.” Dany patted Arstan’s spotted hand to reassure him. “I have a dragon’s temper, that’s all. You must not let it frighten you.”

“I shall try and remember.” Whitebeard smiled.

He has a good face, and great strength to him, Dany thought. She could not understand why Ser Jorah mistrusted the old man so. Could he be jealous that I have found another man to talk to?

“Prince Rhaegar led free men into battle, not slaves. Whitebeard said he dubbed his squires himself, and made many other knights as well.”

ASOS Daenerys I

The squire Whitebeard, standing by the figurehead with one lean hand curled about his tall hardwood staff, turned toward them and said, “Balerion the Black Dread was two hundred years old when he died during the reign of Jaehaerys the Conciliator. He was so large he could swallow an aurochs whole. A dragon never stops growing, Your Grace, so long as he has food and freedom.” His name was Arstan, but Strong Belwas had named him Whitebeard for his pale whiskers, and most everyone called him that now. He was taller than Ser Jorah, though not so muscular; his eyes were a pale blue, his long beard as white as snow and as fine as silk.

“Freedom?” asked Dany, curious. “What do you mean?”

“In King’s Landing, your ancestors raised an immense domed castle for their dragons. The Dragonpit, it is called. It still stands atop the Hill of Rhaenys, though all in ruins now. That was where the royal dragons dwelt in days of yore, and a cavernous dwelling it was, with iron doors so wide that thirty knights could ride through them abreast. Yet even so, it was noted that none of the pit dragons ever reached the size of their ancestors. The maesters say it was because of the walls around them, and the great dome above their heads.”

“If walls could keep us small, peasants would all be tiny and kings as large as giants,” said Ser Jorah. “I’ve seen huge men born in hovels, and dwarfs who dwelt in castles.”

“Men are men,” Whitebeard replied. “Dragons are dragons.”

Ser Jorah snorted his disdain. “How profound.” The exile knight had no love for the old man, he’d made that plain from the first. “What do you know of dragons, anyway?”

“Little enough, that’s true. Yet I served for a time in King’s Landing in the days when King Aerys sat the Iron Throne, and walked beneath the dragonskulls that looked down from the walls of his throne room.”

“Viserys talked of those skulls,” said Dany. “The Usurper took them down and hid them away. He could not bear them looking down on him upon his stolen throne.” She beckoned Whitebeard closer. “Did you ever meet my royal father?” King Aerys II had died before his daughter was born.

“I had that great honor, Your Grace.”

“Did you find him good and gentle?”

Whitebeard did his best to hide his feelings, but they were there, plain on his face. “His Grace was ... often pleasant.”

“Often?” Dany smiled. “But not always?” 

“He could be very harsh to those he thought his enemies.” 

“A wise man never makes an enemy of a king,” said Dany. “Did you know my brother Rhaegar as well?” 

“It was said that no man ever knew Prince Rhaegar, truly. I had the privilege of seeing him in tourney, though, and often heard him play his harp with its silver strings.”

Ser Jorah snorted. “Along with a thousand others at some harvest feast. Next you’ll claim you squired for him.”

“I make no such claim, ser. Myles Mooton was Prince Rhaegar’s squire, and Richard Lonmouth after him. When they won their spurs, he knighted them himself, and they remained his close companions. Young Lord Connington was dear to the prince as well, but his oldest friend was Arthur Dayne.”

“The Sword of the Morning!” said Dany, delighted. “Viserys used to talk about his wondrous white blade. He said Ser Arthur was the only knight in the realm who was our brother’s peer.”

Whitebeard bowed his head. “It is not my place to question the words of Prince Viserys.”

“King,” Dany corrected. “He was a king, though he never reigned. Viserys, the Third of His Name. But what do you mean?” His answer had not been one that she’d expected. “Ser Jorah named Rhaegar the last dragon once. He had to have been a peerless warrior to be called that, surely?”

“Your Grace,” said Whitebeard, “the Prince of Dragonstone was a most puissant warrior, but ...”

“Go on,” she urged. “You may speak freely to me.”

“As you command.” The old man leaned upon his hardwood staff, his brow furrowed. “A warrior without peer ... those are fine words, Your Grace, but words win no battles.”

“Swords win battles,” Ser Jorah said bluntly. “And Prince Rhaegar knew how to use one.” 

“He did, ser, but ... I have seen a hundred tournaments and more wars than I would wish, and however strong or fast or skilled a knight may be, there are others who can match him. A man will win one tourney, and fall quickly in the next. A slick spot in the grass may mean defeat, or what you ate for supper the night before. A change in the wind may bring the gift of victory.” He glanced at Ser Jorah. “Or a lady’s favor knotted round an arm.”

Mormont’s face darkened. “Be careful what you say, old man.”

Arstan had seen Ser Jorah fight at Lannisport, Dany knew, in the tourney Mormont had won with a lady’s favor knotted round his arm. He had won the lady too; Lynesse of House Hightower, his second wife, highborn and beautiful ... but she had ruined him, and abandoned him, and the memory of her was bitter to him now. “Be gentle, my knight.” She put a hand on Jorah’s arm. “Arstan had no wish to give offense, I’m certain.”

“As you say, Khaleesi.” Ser Jorah’s voice was grudging.

Dany turned back to the squire. “I know little of Rhaegar. Only the tales Viserys told, and he was a little boy when our brother died. What was he truly like?”

The old man considered a moment. “Able. That above all. Determined, deliberate, dutiful, single-minded. There is a tale told of him ... but doubtless Ser Jorah knows it as well.”

“I would hear it from you.”

“As you wish,” said Whitebeard. “As a young boy, the Prince of Dragonstone was bookish to a fault. He was reading so early that men said Queen Rhaella must have swallowed some books and a candle whilst he was in her womb. Rhaegar took no interest in the play of other children. The maesters were awed by his wits, but his father’s knights would jest sourly that Baelor the Blessed had been born again. Until one day Prince Rhaegar found something in his scrolls that changed him. No one knows what it might have been, only that the boy suddenly appeared early one morning in the yard as the knights were donning their steel. He walked up to Ser Willem Darry, the master-at-arms, and said, ‘I will require sword and armor. It seems I must be a warrior.’”

“And he was!” said Dany, delighted.

“He was indeed.” Whitebeard bowed. “My pardons, Your Grace. We speak of warriors, and I see that Strong Belwas has arisen. I must attend him.”

Dany glanced aft. The eunuch was climbing through the hold amidships, nimble for all his size. Belwas was squat but broad, a good fifteen stone of fat and muscle, his great brown gut crisscrossed by faded white scars. He wore baggy pants, a yellow silk bellyband, and an absurdly tiny leather vest dotted with iron studs. “Strong Belwas is hungry!” he roared at everyone and no one in particular. “Strong Belwas will eat now!” Turning, he spied Arstan on the forecastle. “Whitebeard! You will bring food for Strong Belwas!”

“You may go,” Dany told the squire. He bowed again, and moved off to tend the needs of the man he served.

Ser Jorah watched with a frown on his blunt honest face. Mormont was big and burly, strong of jaw and thick of shoulder. Not a handsome man by any means, but as true a friend as Dany had ever known. “You would be wise to take that old man’s words well salted,” he told her when Whitebeard was out of earshot.

“A queen must listen to all,” she reminded him. “The highborn and the low, the strong and the weak, the noble and the venal. One voice may speak you false, but in many there is always truth to be found.” She had read that in a book.

“Hear my voice then, Your Grace,” the exile said. “This Arstan Whitebeard is playing you false. He is too old to be a squire, and too well spoken to be serving that oaf of a eunuch.”

That does seem queer, Dany had to admit.

[...] Ser Jorah saved me from the poisoner, and Arstan Whitebeard from the manticore. Perhaps Strong Belwas will save me from the next.

“Sit, good ser, and tell me what is troubling you.”

“Three things.” Ser Jorah sat. “Strong Belwas. This Arstan Whitebeard. And Illyrio Mopatis, who sent them.”

Again? Dany pulled the coverlet higher and tugged one end over her shoulder. “And why is that?”

“The warlocks in Qarth told you that you would be betrayed three times,” the exile knight reminded her, as Viserion and Rhaegal began to snap and claw at each other.

“Once for blood and once for gold and once for love.” Dany was not like to forget. “Mirri Maz Duur was the first.”

“Which means two traitors yet remain ... and now these two appear. I find that troubling, yes. Never forget, Robert offered a lordship to the man who slays you.”

Dany leaned forward and yanked Viserion’s tail, to pull him off his green brother. Her blanket fell away from her chest as she moved. She grabbed it hastily and covered herself again. “The Usurper is dead,” she said.

“But his son rules in his place.” Ser Jorah lifted his gaze, and his dark eyes met her own. “A dutiful son pays his father’s debts. Even blood debts.”

“This boy Joffrey might want me dead ... if he recalls that I’m alive. What has that to do with Belwas and Arstan Whitebeard? The old man does not even wear a sword. You’ve seen that.”

“Aye. And I have seen how deftly he handles that staff of his. Recall how he killed that manticore in Qarth? It might as easily have been your throat he crushed.”

“Might have been, but was not,” she pointed out. “It was a stinging manticore meant to slay me. He saved my life.”

“Khaleesi, has it occurred to you that Whitebeard and Belwas might have been in league with the assassin? It might all have been a ploy to win your trust.”

Her sudden laughter made Drogon hiss, and sent Viserion flapping to his perch above the porthole. “The ploy worked well.”

A Clash of Kings

ACOK Daenerys V

“I see a fat brown man and an older man with a staff. Which is it?”

“Both of them,” Ser Jorah said. “They have been following us since we left Quicksilver.”

The other man wore a traveler’s cloak of undyed wool, the hood thrown back. Long white hair fell to his shoulders, and a silky white beard covered the lower half of his face. He leaned his weight on a hardwood staff as tall as he was. Only fools would stare so openly if they meant me harm. All the same, it might be prudent to head back toward Jhogo and Aggo. “The old man does not wear a sword,” she said to Jorah in the Common Tongue as she drew him away.

A Qartheen stepped into her path. “Mother of Dragons, for you.” He knelt and thrust a jewel box into her face.

Dany took it almost by reflex. The box was carved wood, its mother-of-pearl lid inlaid with jasper and chalcedony. “You are too generous.” She opened it. Within was a glittering green scarab carved from onyx and emerald. Beautiful, she thought. This will help pay for our passage. As she reached inside the box, the man said, “I am so sorry,” but she hardly heard.

The scarab unfolded with a hiss.

Dany caught a glimpse of a malign black face, almost human, and an arched tail dripping venom ... and then the box flew from her hand in pieces, turning end over end. Sudden pain twisted her fingers. As she cried out and clutched her hand, the brass merchant let out a shriek, a woman screamed, and suddenly the Qartheen were shouting and pushing each other aside. Ser Jorah slammed past her, and Dany stumbled to one knee. She heard the hiss again. The old man drove the butt of his staff into the ground, Aggo came riding through an eggseller’s stall and vaulted from his saddle, Jhogo’s whip cracked overhead, Ser Jorah slammed the eunuch over the head with the brass platter, sailors and whores and merchants were fleeing or shouting or both ...

“Your Grace, a thousand pardons.” The old man knelt. “It’s dead. Did I break your hand?”

She closed her fingers, wincing. “I don’t think so.”

“I had to knock it away,” he started, but her bloodriders were on him before he could finish.

Aggo kicked his staff away and Jhogo seized him round the shoulders, forced him to his knees, and pressed a dagger to his throat. “Khaleesi, we saw him strike you. Would you see the color of his blood?”

“Release him.” Dany climbed to her feet. “Look at the bottom of his staff, blood of my blood.” Ser Jorah had been shoved off his feet by the eunuch. She ran between them as arakh and longsword both came flashing from their sheaths. “Put down your steel! Stop it!”

“Your Grace?” Mormont lowered his sword only an inch. “These men attacked you.”

“They were defending me.” Dany snapped her hand to shake the sting from her fingers. “It was the other one, the Qartheen.” When she looked around he was gone. “He was a Sorrowful Man. There was a manticore in that jewel box he gave me. This man knocked it out of my hand.” The brass merchant was still rolling on the ground. She went to him and helped him to his feet. “Were you stung?”

“No, good lady,” he said, shaking, “or else I would be dead. But it touched me, aieeee, when it fell from the box it landed on my arm.” He had soiled himself, she saw, and no wonder.

She gave him a silver for his trouble and sent him on his way before she turned back to the old man with the white beard. “Who is it that I owe my life to?”

“You owe me nothing, Your Grace. I am called Arstan, though Belwas named me Whitebeard on the voyage here.” Though Jhogo had released him the old man remained on one knee. Aggo picked up his staff, turned it over, cursed softly in Dothraki, scraped the remains of the manticore off on a stone, and handed it back.

“And who is Belwas?” she asked.

The huge brown eunuch swaggered forward, sheathing his arakh. “I am Belwas. Strong Belwas they name me in the fighting pits of Meereen. Never did I lose.” He slapped his belly, covered with scars. “I let each man cut me once, before I kill him. Count the cuts and you will know how many Strong Belwas has slain.”

Dany had no need to count his scars; there were many, she could see at a glance. “And why are you here, Strong Belwas?”

“From Meereen I am sold to Qohor, and then to Pentos and the fat man with sweet stink in his hair. He it was who send Strong Belwas back across the sea, and old Whitebeard to serve him.”

The fat man with sweet stink in his hair ... “Illyrio?” she said. “You were sent by Magister Illyrio?”

“We were, Your Grace,” old Whitebeard replied. “The Magister begs your kind indulgence for sending us in his stead, but he cannot sit a horse as he did in his youth, and sea travel upsets his digestion.” Earlier he had spoken in the Valyrian of the Free Cities, but now he changed to the Common Tongue. “I regret if we caused you alarm. If truth be told, we were not certain, we expected someone more ... more ...”

“Regal?” Dany laughed. She had no dragon with her, and her raiment was hardly queenly. “You speak the Common Tongue well, Arstan. Are you of Westeros?”

“I am. I was born on the Dornish Marches, Your Grace. As a boy I squired for a knight of Lord Swann’s household.” He held the tall staff upright beside him like a lance in need of a banner. “Now I squire for Belwas.”

“A bit old for such, aren’t you?” Ser Jorah had shouldered his way to her side, holding the brass platter awkwardly under his arm. Belwas’s hard head had left it badly bent.

“Not too old to serve my liege, Lord Mormont.”

“You know me as well?”

“I saw you fight a time or two. At Lannisport where you near unhorsed the Kingslayer. And on Pyke, there as well. You do not recall, Lord Mormont?”

Ser Jorah frowned. “Your face seems familiar, but there were hundreds at Lannisport and thousands on Pyke. And I am no lord. Bear Island was taken from me. I am but a knight.”

“A knight of my Queensguard.” Dany took his arm. “And my true friend and good counselor.” She studied Arstan’s face. He had a great dignity to him, a quiet strength she liked. “Rise, Arstan Whitebeard. Be welcome, Strong Belwas. Ser Jorah you know. Ko Aggo and Ko Jhogo are blood of my blood. They crossed the red waste with me, and saw my dragons born. [...] Now tell me, what would Magister Illyrio have of me, that he would send you all the way from Pentos?”

“He would have dragons,” said Belwas gruffly, “and the girl who makes them. He would have you.”

“Belwas has the truth of us, Your Grace,” said Arstan. “We were told to find you and bring you back to Pentos. The Seven Kingdoms have need of you. Robert the Usurper is dead, and the realm bleeds. When we set sail from Pentos there were four kings in the land, and no justice to be had.”

Joy bloomed in her heart, but Dany kept it from her face. “I have three dragons,” she said, “and more than a hundred in my khalasar, with all their goods and horses.”

“It is no matter,” boomed Belwas. “We take all. The fat man hires three ships for his little silverhair queen.”

“It is so, Your Grace,” Arstan Whitebeard said. “The great cog Saduleon is berthed at the end of the quay, and the galleys Summer Sun and Joso’s Prank are anchored beyond the breakwater.”

Three heads has the dragon, Dany thought, wondering. “I shall tell my people to make ready to depart at once. But the ships that bring me home must bear different names.”

“As you wish,” said Arstan. “What names would you prefer?”

“Vhagar,” Daenerys told him. “Meraxes. And Balerion. Paint the names on their hulls in golden letters three feet high, Arstan. I want every man who sees them to know the dragons are returned.”

#daenerys targaryen #barristan selmy #dany relationships #dany passages #a dance with dragons #a storm of swords #a clash of kings

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imjustthemechanic · 3 years

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The Price of a Soul

Part 1/? - Agent Russel Part 2/? - The Letter Part 3/? - Miss Lake Part 4/? - The Stewardess Part 5/? - An Assassination Part 6/? - Fallout Part 7/? - Face to Face Part 8/? - Deals, Details, and Other Devils Part 9/? - Baggage Part 10/? - Private Funding Part 11/? - Just Passing Through Part 12/? - Party of Four Part 13/? - Resolute Part 14/? - The Wreck Part 15/? - Body Snatchers Part 16/? - Out of the Frying Pan Part 17/? - A Miracle Part 18/? - A Matter of Circumstance Part 19/? - Nome Part 20/? - The Future Part 21/? - A Hero’s Welcome Part 22/? - Up to Speed Part 23/? - Expect Further Delays Part 24/? - The Welcome Wagon Part 25/? - Fugitives

Alone and on the run from the law, Peggy and Kay have to decide what to do next.

ince Kay’s bunker was a no-go, they ended up spending the night in an abandoned farmhouse on the edge of the Pine Barrens. This was exactly as creepy as it sounded, with no electricity, and rats and raccoons nesting in it. It started to rain around midnight, drumming on the roof and coming in through the long-broken windows. Peggy and Kay broke up some pieces of the stair bannister and used them to light a fire in the fireplace, and by that flickering light, they tried to figure out what to do next.

“I don’t suppose you can go back in time again and start over,” Peggy said.

Kay shook her head. “This was a one-shot thing.”

“I see.” Peggy thought for a moment. “When we’re caught, I’m going to tell them you kidnapped me.”

“Cool,” said Kay. She sighed heavily, hugging her knees to her chest she stared into the flames. Peggy noticed that her root were growing out, coming in darker than the blonde, although by the firelight it was impossible to say quite what colour they were.

“Everything was supposed to be better,” Kay said. “Steve was supposed to get the happy ending he wanted, with you and James. HYDRA would be rooted out once and for all before they could really get their claws into the government.” She reached up to scrub at her eyes with her fingers. “The Red Room would be destroyed. I don’t know if I’d be able to force Howard to hug his son once in a while but I was going to try. I don’t know if I’d be able to do anything for Clint or for Bruce… I’m not going to live that long.” She shrugged. “And after that… I don’t know if we can destroy the Infinity Stones with the technology of this decade, but if anybody could figure it out, it’s Howard Stark.”

She hadn’t been joking when she said she had an extensive to-do list, Peggy thought. Most of the items on it meant absolutely nothing to Peggy, but she could tell they were things Kay cared about very much.

Which made for one odd omission. “What about you?”

“The Red Room,” said Kay. “That’s the code name for the place where they raise girls into spies. If that doesn’t exist, then I won’t be drafted into it when my parents abandon me. I don’t know what will happen to me, but even starving on the streets of Volgograd would be better than that.”

Peggy thought of some of the things she’d seen at that facility in Siberia, and shuddered.

“The thing is,” Kay added, “I know I can’t do it alone. I need you guys. If you’re in prison and Ste… and Captain America’s off shaking hands with his fans, then I can’t do it. I might be able to do it myself in the twenty-first century, but not now, I don’t know enough. Even if I did, it would be so much easier with help. I had one shot, and I ruined it.”

She fell silent then, and Peggy wondered what it was she wanted. Reassurance that everything would be okay? Peggy couldn’t give her that. “Well, you certainly didn’t improve things by taking us both on the run,” she said.

“Probably not,” Kay agreed.

Peggy wrapped her coat around herself to use as a blanket, and lay down with her own elbow for a pillow. “In the morning,” she said, “we should head to the nearest town and turn ourselves in.”

“Then what happens to Steve?” asked Kay. “And to James?”

“At the moment I’m primarily worried about what happens to me,” said Peggy. Steve was doubtless worried about her, and about Sergeant Barnes, and if Kay said was true, Barnes did need help, but Peggy was not in a position to do anything about that right now. Her focus had to be on her own survival, both physical and political. “If I wasn’t going to end up in prison before I certainly am now.”

“I know,” said Kay. “I’m sorry.”

“Apologies don’t do a lot of good at this point,” Peggy told her.

“Apologies never do a lot of good for me,” said Kay. “I’ve always been the one who throws the other guy over a cliff. Looks like nothing’s changed.”

Peggy woke up early, stiff and cold from sleeping on the floor. The fire had burned itself down to a smolder, and Kay was gone. For a moment Peggy was furious, thinking the other woman had abandoned her, but then she rolled over and discovered Kay’s red purse, still sitting there on the floor. Had she simply left that behind, or was it intended to tell Peggy she was coming back?

She got up, stretched the kinks out of her neck as best she could, and went to look out front. The car was still there, and Kay was sitting in the driver’s seat. When Peggy came closer, picking her way between the puddles and the rotten boards of the front steps, she found that the radio was on.

“They haven’t said anything about us yet,” said Kay, “but I’ve only been here about ten minutes. Weather’s supposed to be nice today.”

Peggy climbed in the passenger seat to listen for herself. There was a weather report, and then it began talking about Captain America.

New York Senator Elect Vernon Masters brought the Captain home to Brooklyn last night to tremendous fanfare, the announcer said. Captain America will be embarking on a tour of the state capitals, along with the Senator Elect and industrialist Howard Stark, who was instrumental in locating the wreck of the German bomber.

“Of course they don’t mention Jason,” grumbled Peggy. If anything, he had more trouble getting recognition for his achievements than she did.

“They don’t mention us, either,” Kay mused. “That means they don’t want people knowing we’ve escaped.”

“Specifically, Thompson doesn’t want people knowing,” said Peggy. “He must be dreadfully tired of people escaping from him.”

“He ought to take better care of them, then,” snorted Kay. “You still want to turn yourself in?”

Peggy had to think about it. “I think we’d better,” she said. “But not to Thompson. We need to find a pay telephone, and I’ll speak to Daniel.”

They drove into the nearest town, where they found a little diner to order breakfast. Kay clearly had no appetite, nibbling at her toast and forcing herself to eat her scrambled eggs. Peggy didn’t feel very hungry, either, despite some grumbling from her stomach. She got through about half of it, and then pushed her plate away and checked her watch, which was still on Los Angeles time.

The moment it reached eight-thirty AM, she went outside and picked up the pay telephone. “Hello,” she said, “I’d like to make a long-distance call.”

She gave the number for the storefront in Los Angeles, and waited while switchboard operators across the country made connections. Finally, the line picked up, and Rose’s somewhat staticky but familiar voice said, “good morning, Auerbach Theatrical Agency.”

“Good morning,” said Peggy. “May I speak to Mr. Auerbach, please?”

“Peggy?” Rose asked. “Where are you?”

“I can’t say,” Peggy replied. “I just need to speak with Daniel right away.”

Rose lowered her voice. “You can’t,” she said. “He was arrested yesterday, just after you left! What’s going on?”

Peggy’s insides turned to ice. Daniel had been arrested… because of course, Dottie had told Thompson that Daniel had colluded with Peggy in letting her out of jail. She’d probably implicated Mr. Jarvis, too. This wasn’t just about what would happen to Peggy anymore, not at all. This was about what was going to happen to all of them.

“I… can’t say,” Peggy repeated. “Listen, please don’t tell anybody I spoke to you. We’re all in a lot of trouble.”

“All right,” said Rose. “What are you going to do?”

“I’m not sure yet,” said Peggy. She hung up the phone and stood there a moment, digesting what she’d just heard. ‘Borrowing’ Dottie to get the sample of Zero Matter had been Peggy’s idea. Daniel and Mr. Jarvis had helped, but none of it would have happened without Peggy, and now they were possibly all going to hang for it. Would pleading that they’d done it to save the world do any good? Not likely. Masters’ lawyers would argue that there must have been other options. It was just that in the hurry of the moment, Peggy hadn’t been able to think of any.

Kay was waiting for her outside the phone booth. When Peggy opened the door, her eyes went wide.

“Sit down,” she ordered. “Put your head between your knees.”

“I am not going to faint!” Peggy snapped. “Daniel has been arrested as well, and Mr. Jarvis. I don’t know if she’s implicated Howard and Jason or not.”

“Oh.” Kay covered her mouth. “This is… this is all my fault…”

“No, it isn’t,” Peggy said. “It’s mine.”

“If I hadn’t been here…”

“Even with you here, we wouldn’t be in trouble if I hadn’t had the blindingly stupid idea to break Dottie out of jail to begin with!” Peggy informed her. This sensation of crushing weight on her chest, as her bad decisions rained down like bricks to bruise and bury her… this must be what Kay had felt last night when Thompson had tried to arrest them for treason. If so, Peggy found herself reacting to it in what had to be a very similar way.

“Bugger it,” she said. “You are a bad influence.”

“I know,” said Kay.

“Do you have any more change?”

Kay dug into her purse for some coins, and Peggy lifted the receiver again. “Hello, operator. I would like to make a long-distance call. Can you get me the California FBI office in Sacramento?”

She didn’t actually know if the FBI opened as early as the SSR, though it seemed likely, so it was a relief when she heard a receptionist pick up and greet her. “FBI, can I help you?”

“Good morning,” said Peggy, affecting an American accent. “May I please speak to Agent Ned Russel? This is his wife, Alice.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” the woman replied. “He’s still in New York, working on a case.”

“I thought he’d been taken off that case,” Peggy said.

“I don’t know the details,” said the receptionist. “I think he was reinstated as a favour for somebody from another agency. Would you like to speak to the chief?”

“No, no thank you,” Peggy said. “I’ll see if I can call him there. Goodbye.”

She hung up, and turned to Kay again. “I have an idea.”

The black SSR vehicle they’d been driving so far was far too recognizable to take back into the city, so the women left it behind and stole a green Ford coupe they found parked beside the diner. Peggy drove this time, as they headed north back towards the city.

“What’s your plan?” asked Kay.

Peggy took a deep breath. “The easiest, although perhaps not the most legal, way to get everybody I know and love out of trouble is to make sure Dottie cannot testify,” she said. “Masters and Thompson didn’t make their move until they had her, so she must be the cornerstone of their case. We remove Dottie again, and they have nothing.”

“Makes sense,” said Kay in a deadpan. It was impossible to tell what she thought.

“Unfortunately, we cannot get in to see her,” Peggy went on. “Last time I got her out by wearing a disguise, but that’s not going to work again. The police guarding her know me now, because I was in there to see you, and there’s the possibility that Dottie herself will raise the alarm. And you certainly can’t go in because they know you as well. However, we know somebody who probably has every right to be there, we know that he is slightly terrified of both of us, and we possibly know where he eats lunch.”

It was with that in mind that they parked their stolen car behind the Automat up the street from the telephone company building. The lunch rush had just ended, and Peggy could see Pearl standing by the back door on a cigarette break. She approached.

“Hi, Peggy,” said Pearl. “What are you doing back here?”

“I need to see Angie right away, privately,” said Peggy. “It’s very important. Don’t tell anybody else I’m here… and tell her it’s Phone Company Business.”

“Ah… all right,” said Pearl. She dropped the remains of her cigarette on the pavement and went inside to get her co-worker. Angie appeared a few minutes later, looking concerned – she knew very well what Peggy meant by Phone Company Business.

“What’s wrong, English?” she asked.

“Angela Martinelli!” Kay exclaimed.

Angie blinked. “Do we know each other?”

“You’re going to be in Stark Pictures’ Captain America movies,” said Kay, “opposite Burt Lancaster!”

“Ignore her, she thinks she can see the future,” said Peggy. “Listen to me, Angie… did we frighten Agent Russel away permanently?”

“No, he had his lunch here today,” Angie said. “He didn’t sit in my section.”

Peggy smiled. “Excellent,” she said. “Here’s what we need you to do.”

#fanfic #captain america #agent carter #peggy carter #steve rogers #steggy #fix it fic

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kpopdancings · 3 years

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FROM UP ON POPPY HILL - THE STRUGGLE OF YOUNG GENERATION

New Post has been published on http://www.whatsupkpop.com/from-up-on-poppy-hill-the-struggle-of-young-generation/

FROM UP ON POPPY HILL - THE STRUGGLE OF YOUNG GENERATION

FROM UP ON POPPY HILL – THE STRUGGLE OF YOUNG GENERATION

Link Video:

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As a film from the famous Ghibli production studio, “From Up on Poppy Hill” must be the best choice for those who are looking for a beautiful movie with both photo and content.

The love of school age is always a topic that makes them flutter when turning on the screen. “From Up on Poppy Hill” a rare Ghibli work on the subject. Directed by Miyazaki Gorō, son of legendary filmmaker Miyazaki Hayao. The main theme of the film is the love between Umi and Shun, a love that is both beautiful and complex.

The journey to light up “From up on Poppy hill”

From the beginning, this was a huge challenge for Miyazaki Goro, the wounded son who suffered an invisible pressure from his father, Miyazaki Hayao, who brought his life to the works. associated with our childhoods such as: Spirited Away, Howl’s moving castle, My neighbor Totoro, … Everyone expected that he was “the second Hayao”, and that expectation overcame on his shoulder a huge burden. Until his debut Tales from Earthsea was released to the public, despite being well-received and successful in terms of sales, it was a failure when the work received a lot of words. Disparaging comes from critics. And when he decided to do his second animation, but this time he was making the movie with his father, Miyazaki Hayao. This unique father-son combination led to the birth of one of the Ghibli works that I consider to be worthy of viewing, From up on the poppy hill.

This is the highest-grossing Japanese film of 2011 with the proceeds of 4.46 billions yen.If you haven’t seen From Up on Poppy Hill, enjoy the movie now. If you have seen this movie or don’t care about the spoiler, Let’s start now.

Main content

Set in 1963, in the port city of Yokohama, near Tokyo. The drama revolves around 2 main characters Umi and Shun. Umi is a 16 years old girl, energetic and courageous. She lives with her grandmother and two children in the family building, an old hospital that has been renovated to become a hostel for several girls. Umi’s daily jobs are cooking, cleaning, looking after the children and running the building while her mother is in America. The building is located on Kokuriko Hill. Every day, to commemorate her late father, who was a captain who died in the Korean War, Every morning she pulls colored flags that carry the message of asking for a safe journey for each ship.

Kazama Shun – a male student at the same school as Umi, is seen as the hero by a stunt performance to attract interest in the school newspaper – the club he joined after school. Wanting to get Shun’s signature, Sora – Umi’s sister asked her sister to come to the Quartier Latin. It is a very old building and is also the site of historical events and full of club memories. Here, Umi watched Shun and his friends devote themselves to keeping the building in danger of being dismantled. Realizing the sagging, old building of the building, Umi came up with an initiative to call the girls to come clean and renew it together.

They gradually became close to helping each other in everything. Then one day in a meeting at the house on the top of the hill, they accidentally discovered they have the same bloodline. When Shun avoided Umi, after demanding, Umi also discovered that the two were siblings.

They decided to hide their feelings and continue to be friends, and then one day, when the sun was still shining in the green bushes, Umi’s mother returned. It was also when Ryoko revealed that Shun’s biological father was Tachibana Hiroshi – the second man in the photo. In 1945, Tachibana died in a shipwreck accident. Shun’s mother passed away after giving birth to him, and relatives all died during the US atomic bombing on Nagasaki. Ryoko was unable to adopt Shun because she was pregnant with Umi, and was currently a medical student. Yūichirō issued a birth certificate for Shun in his name so that he would not have to become an orphan in the tumultuous post-war years that followed. Shun was eventually adopted by the Kazama couple. After being verified by Captain Yoshio, they rejoiced … not only because from now on being together and not worrying anymore …

The film’s success is not only based on the content, but also on the profound meaning that is meticulously incorporated in the movie

Image of dynamic and enthusiastic young people

The fact that the Quartier Latin was about to be dismantled at the behest of the district president was a challenge for the students living in the clubs in this building. Young students who are still day and night diligently devote their youth to research projects, they learn and cultivate everything outside of school, they do not hesitate to choose the difficult path of resisting directives to pursuing what they think is right.

They are willing to devote all their energies to renovating the building, which is not an individual’s work but a collective work of a team with so many enthusiastic people working. They try to the last minute, with only a little hope, the students here still make efforts to create opportunities, not easily surrendered. The trio of Umi, Shun, and Mizunuma together went to Tokyo to meet the chairman, waited patiently and bravely asked the president to visit the building before executing his dismantling instructions.

Young people working together to save the club can be a metaphor for the country’s rebirth. Together With other students, they are the embodiment of the future Japan, enthusiasm and determination, enthusiasm and optimism, passionate love and foolish youthful aspirations. touched and inspired those of the same generation. The film recreates the spirit of a time that helped that generation to rise up to revive the country, heal the wounds of war in the past, protect and preserve traditional values.

“From Up on Poppy Hill” can be said to be one of the most “Japanese” films of the Ghibli studio.Not only because the port area’s street space is faithfully reproduced in every small detail/, but also because of the strong and resilient spirit hidden in the characters’ personalities. They embody the country with determination, youthful enthusiasm and optimism for the future.

History lessons are appreciated without being cliché

Every effort comes from the thought: “… There will be no future for those who always talk about the future but forget the past …” that Shun raised in an argument between students. One detail I really like in the movie is the image of everyone singing solemnly and singing the national anthem of Japan. Never before has the atmosphere of national pride exploded so deeply, it crept into the consciousness of each student. Everything they are fighting for seems to be for the noble purpose of preserving and promoting historical and cultural values.

“Eliminating the old means erasing the memory of the past”

Actually, this statement by Shun is very correct. Always remember that history is the connection between the future and the past, there is the past, the present, and the present, the future. Thanks to the cultural identities, customs, monuments, and historical records, we can look back on our own country’s past and take it as a lesson to rise later.

Even the girls who do not join the club in the building, still spend time, effort and enthusiasm to renovate it, to give the Quartier Latin a new interface, with the desire for prices. Historical values are preserved.

The story of a group of young people fighting together to protect the old clubhouse building /with sacred memories of generations of seniors is a metaphor for Japan in its renovation towards development. /Still fighting to preserve precious traditional values. /Through these activities, they met and gradually a love between them began to arise …

The pure love of the young couple

Actually, Shun still notices and responds to the signals that Umi sends to her father every day, but because her garden is out of view, Umi has not noticed it for a long time. The author of the poem about the girl pulling the flag on the top of the hill is also written by Shun for Umi. We can feel the sincerity and very cute before the subtle vibrations integrated. The scene of Umi holding his hand during the show, the scene of Shun passing Umi down the hill to buy some evening preparations, the scene where the two of them go home together and discuss the upcoming exam, or simply keep quiet and intently together. After completing the school newspaper, all the videos are lovely and gentle.

“I like you, Shun, even though we are bloodline, even if you are my brother, my feelings won’t change” Umi’s words in the movie.

Love is like a Rose, sometimes sleep quietly, like Umi once buried in her heart … there is also a compromise between the pain, so go on or stop … /maybe expect peace , when the waves are quiet, the sea is together …/ and sometimes simple, reunited after days away. /Far away from war, distant because of obstacles, distant because of painful feelings … /but in the end, it will be as sweet as a child’s sleep, still meeting.

Family affection is always warm

Umi’s memories of her father are still standing, as evidenced by the flags she sends every day to inform her father at sea about the way back home. She still loves her father even though she is doubting Shun is his son. Or Shun’s adoptive father, who insists he always loves him like his own son, is willing to find ways to let Shun know the identity of his deceased father.

Both Shun and Umi are poor children who lost great fathers because of the war, but still cherish and are happy with their current family.

General conclusions

From Up on Poppy Hill, a work from Ghibli never disappoints from image to sound. The poetic and artistic scenes have always been the specialties for each of us, the films to feel the life, the daily activities from the beginning of the film, combined with the melodies from the composer Takebe Satoshi, has created an extreme … peaceful atmosphere.

See and feel the daily beauties of life, love and cherish our values, and constantly strive to dedicate living in accordance with the youth we currently have.

Although building a love story between two high school students in the most pure, sweet and vague way, From Up on Poppy Hill still makes us wonder, is it the ideal type of love, when two people have opposite personalities but a common desire?

#FROM UP ON POPPY HILL #reivews #THE STRUGGLE OF YOUNG GENERATION #youtube

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officialdcshepard · 3 years

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The Marble Emperor

**DISCLAIMER: This short story was originally written back in 2014 for a college writing class.**

*May 28th, 1453*

Byzantine Emperor Constantine XI Dragaš Palaiologos knelt on the cold marble floor of the Hagia Sophia, the church at the center of Constantinople, with his head bowed and his eyes closed in prayer.

“To surrender the city to you is beyond my authority or anyone else's who lives in it, for all of us, after taking the mutual decision, shall die out of free will without sparing our lives,” he had growled as he threw the Turkish delegation out.

His father Manuel II, his mother Helena, and his older brother John VIII had prepared Constantine his entire life for the possibility that the Ottomans would one day try to destroy the Empire. (If they were here, they would know what to do, he thought solemnly.) Their stories of the centuries of Muslim atrocities against Christians horrified him as a child. And he suffered a bitter military loss when the Turks drove his armies from an attempted conquest of Athens back to Corinth in 1446. Therefore, from the moment he took the throne in 1449, he undertook to strengthen the city and spill their blood fighting for it. But now those very words of defiance came back to bite him like vipers that now hissed with the accusation, What empire is there left to destroy? What empire indeed? The Byzantines were the eastern, Greek speaking descendants of the Roman Empire, which once had uncontested dominion from Britain to Persia. After ten centuries of weathering attacks from barbarians, Muslims, and Christians alike, however, the Byzantines now only ruled a small portion of the southernmost part of Greece called the Despotate of the Morea (astride what used to be Sparta), a handful of Aegean islands, and the immediate environs of Constantinople.

And yet, Constantine reflected, he was not truly alone in this fight. Kneeling in prayer beside him was Giovanni Gustiniani. Constantine had joked to Giovanni during a rare break in the siege that he was the only good man to ever come out of Genoa. But it was true. The Italian had sailed to Constantinople’s aid with seven hundred Genoese mercenaries. But far more importantly, he quickly became Constantine’s protostrator (or second in command) and made sure the ragtag Byzantine, Genoese, and Venetian soldiers remained unified and could effectively defend the walls. Without his help, the city would not have held out for as long as it had so far.

Right now, though, Giovanni looked worried as he turned to Constantine. Constantine did his best to not show the fear that this look caused to spread through his whole body. If Giovanni was nervous, then surely something must be wrong. But Constantine dared not show his trepidation. He certainly could not afford to appear weak in front of the throng of thousands of civilian refugees who had been praying with them. They now took shelter in the center of this cathedral that remained strong for them and that housed the priests who fed them with meager stores of bread, even as paint from the mosaics peeled off and critical masonry in the walls started to show cracks and strain. It seemed to the Emperor that his subjects were also barely holding themselves together, especially recently.

On the night of May 22nd, when the Moon rose, it was partially eclipsed by the Earth's shadow and its light glowed red like blood. This already caused enough panic for Constantine and what remained of his government in a city that had been besieged for a month to have to deal with. To make things worse, rumors flew around that there was a prophecy that the city would fall after a blood moon. Then four days later, the entire city was blanketed by a large, thick, and choking cloud of black fog. When the fog lifted, there appeared around the dome of the Hagia Sophia a strange multicolored light, which some hoped came from the fires of foreign armies come to relieve the city. Most, however, despaired, wailing throughout the crumbling streets that the Holy Spirit had abandoned the capital to the heathens.

Under these circumstances, Constantine could not blame anyone for panicking. He almost envied that they were able to scream.

"Is there something that troubles you, my friend?" he asked calmly, placing a large, weary hand on the Italian captain's shoulder.

"I don't know quite how to say this, my lord..."

"Please. We have known each other long enough, Giovanni. It is Constantine."

"Alright- Constantine," Giovanni stammered quietly, hoping that he wasn't disturbing the Latin and Greek churchmen and the Imperial nobility who sat immediately behind him as the service continued. "I am afraid I must beg leave to attend to the walls. It appears that the Turks are concentrating their cannon fire on the Blachernae." These were the most weakened walls, and were situated in the northwest of the city.

“I will excuse you and ask for God's forgiveness on your behalf if He should be offended by this," Constantine nodded.

As Giovanni attempted to slink towards the exit without arousing the panic of the commoners or the offended huffs of the churchmen, Constantine wished that he could leave. He was, of course, a very devout Christian, and it was important that the Emperor remain implacably, solemnly beseeching of God's mercy at a time like this. But now he could very well feel the weight of the sword on his right hip and the shield leaning on his left arm, and he knew they would soon be needed.

*****

*Rumeli Hisari, Ottoman Fortress Just North of Constantinople*

"Are you sure that it will not break this time?" Sultan Mehmed shouted at Orban the Dacian, his Hungarian gunsmith. He did this not out of any anger towards the other man, but simply in order for his words to be heard over the constant gunfire.

"Yes, my lord," Orban bowed. "I have made several small but important improvements to the design since the last time we fired it."

"Excellent, my friend," Mehmed replied.

However, the Sultan made a careful mental note to keep an eye on Orban. He had initially offered to work for the Byzantines. It was only because his asking price was too high and because the Byzantines did not have the resources necessary for what he was asking to create them that he had changed sides, and that would pose a problem.

“When will it be ready?"

Orban's blond mustache trembled before he said, "I- I have the full team of sixty oxen and four hundred men rolling it into position in front of the fort even as we speak."

"Good," Mehmed smiled, something which Orban had rarely seen.

Orban then enthusiastically cried, "I will go down there and personally make sure that it is aimed and fired properly. Where would you like me to aim it?"

"See how the other cannons are concentrating their fire at the northwest corner?" Mehmed asked and then pointed.

Orban nodded and immediately rushed down and made preparations to fire upon the Blachernae. At whatever price his loyalty may have been bought to start with, with that gesture Mehmed was now confident that Orban would remain on his side.

When he came to the throne two years earlier after the death of his father, Sultan Murad II, no one would have ever thought that Mehmed, then only nineteen, would ever inspire any kind of loyalty or do anything great. Even Mehmed himself had not been confident in himself when he took the throne.

He had done it before, ruling for a short time when his father abdicated in 1444. But he was only twelve at the time. Frustrated when his teachers assumed he could not do anything competently, took power out from under him, and then nearly ran the entire nation into the ground, Mehmed had had to supplicate his father to return to the throne and resented being lectured by the old fool afterwards. Thereafter father and son bitterly resented each other.

Mehmed had not wanted to have to go through it all again, and almost cursed Allah for taking his father away and making him do this.

But as his father lay dying in 1451, he had summoned young Mehmed into his chambers and had him sit beside him on the bed and read from one of the hadiths, a report of the deeds and sayings of the Prophet Muhammad (Peace Be Upon Him). In it he said, "Verily you shall conquer Constantinople. What a wonderful leader will he be, and what a wonderful army will that army be!"

"I know that you can do what I could not, my son," Sultan Murad coughed, and then closed his eyes and drifted into Paradise.

His teacher Ak Şemseddin had drilled into him from the moment he could read that it was his Islamic duty to capture Constantinople. And now, as he wept for the loss of his father, Mehmed was reminded of that. He knew what his first act in office must be, and knew that the Christian and Muslim enemies that surrounded him would never take him seriously unless he did this. Therefore, from the moment he had taken the throne, Mehmed prepared his armies to crush Constantinople. In doing so, he would succeed where Muslim armies had failed since 678. In the process he would eliminate a small but annoying foe in the middle of his country, establish for it a natural capital, and turn his Sultanate into an heir to the glory of Rome herself.

Of course, since he was a reasonable man, he had first offered a way for Byzantine "Emperor" Constantine to step down without bloodshed. He didn’t expect Constantine would *agree*, but all this blood was now on the Greek.

"Fire!" the Sultan cried once Orban had positioned the cannon correctly. It was now midnight on the morning of May 29th, and the Sultan now prayed that this would mark the final assault that would deliver the city to himself, his people, and to Allah.

No sooner had the fuse been lit then the hiss and pop of the fire dancing on the edges of the rope that fed itself into the monstrous bronze beast echoed within its cavernous belly. To some who were on the ground, it was almost was as if this cannon, which was heavier than several ships put together, was an unholy djinn taking a deep inhalation before breathing out terrible fire upon its enemies. And when it belched its black smoke, wheels taller than two men standing on top of one another nearly buckled from the recoil as the ball sailed across the Golden Horn, the small inlet that formed the northern boundary of Constantinople.

Several soldiers immediately noticed another loud bang emerge from the metal dragon. But none of them remembered loading and firing it at all, which seemed odd. One went to take a closer look. By the time he heard another angry shout emerging from the cracks, however, an enraged fireball devoured him and spat out only ash in its wake. The frightened rabbits ran for their lives but it was already too late. Mehmed could not bear to watch the carnage below him. When the bloated weapon finally shuddered and died, he despaired to learn that was left of Orban had been incinerated in the blast and crushed by falling pieces of bronze as well.

Struggling to keep away tears so as not to panic those men who still lived and were dealing with the horror of seeing their mangled comrades, the Sultan's eyes followed the cannonball for a moment before he knelt on the fortress's walls and made this solemn prayer.

"Allah, if it be your will, bring Orban into Paradise and let his death not have been in vain. Bless our endeavor this night and deliver Constantinople unto us."

"What will you have me do, my lord?" the Commander of the Janissaries, the Empire's brave, elite soldiers, asked the Sultan.

"Assemble every man you have and prepare to attack!"

*****

"All of you, get away from the walls and take cover!" Giovanni cried. He was at the front of the line, waving with his sword and banging his shield to get the attention of those who were still manning the Blachernae guard posts at that moment.

Most saw his message and tried to escape by leaping away from the towers and onto piles of hay below. This did not work at all, but fortunately, when compared to those who were caught on the walls when the cannonball slammed into them, their deaths were swift and painless.

Giovanni squinted as his entire body and his suit of armor was coated in a thin layer of powdered limestone from the hole that had been punched through the city's defenses. And worse, mere moments seemed to pass before a horde of howling Turks streamed through the walls, seemingly endless. And not just any Turks.

Janissaries.

Brutal, merciless, and born only to kill and maim, these monstrous, gnarled mercenaries drove fear into the hearts of the defenders.

"Stand your ground!" Giovanni yelled. "For we will fight and die honorably and on our feet, as our Roman forefathers did before us!"

He did not get to say much more before a river of Turkish shields slammed against his own. The Italian leaned his shoulder into his shield to push back against them and stabbed his foes through whatever hole in their guard he could find, coating the cobblestones generously with their blood.

Just as Giovanni was about to say something further to rally the defenders to push the Turks back towards the breach in the wall, a crossbow bolt lodged itself in his throat and stifled the Emperor's friend forever. And as word of Giovanni's death spread around the ranks, the Byzantines and their foreign allies broke ranks and retreated now that the man who had single-handedly kept the Empire together was gone.

“Why are they retreating?" Emperor Constantine asked to himself with his hands folded behind his long purple robes, even though he already knew what the answer was.

"I do not know, my lord," one of the churchmen said.

"The Turks are pouring into the city like a river!" a man who used to be a merchant yelled. "We're doomed!"

"I just saw two priests disappear into the cathedral walls! God is punishing us up for our sins," a woman sobbed.

But then, even though Constantine was coming apart at the moment he knew the city was lost, the Emperor walked calmly through the teeming masses and said, "My friends, fellow Romans! Do not despair. For whatever happens this night, trust in our Lord and Savior, for he has said to us, 'Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven'."

With that, Constantine commanded the guards still inside to bolt the doors to the Hagia Sophia, quickly picked up his sword and shield, and ran through the city in full armor, fueled by adrenaline to meet with his men before they could completely retreat.

His robes were long and cumbersome and the trappings of what little of his Imperial office he had left now only served to slow him down. With that, he cried at the top of his lungs, "The city is fallen and I am still alive," tore them off so as to no longer distinguish himself from his soldiers, and charged into the fray with them. After that, no one saw Constantine again.

Some say even to this day that just at the moment of his death, an angel flew in and carried the beloved last Emperor of Rome away. Others say he left the battle, stood atop a platform overlooking the carnage, and wept before hanging himself.

From that moment on, he became the Marble Emperor, turned to stone and entombed underneath the city until he would awaken again in its hour of need. Simultaneously, legends grew that the two priests who disappeared into the walls of Hagia Sofia would reemerge when the city would be retaken by the soldiers of Christ.

*****

The great oak doors to the Hagia Sophia now leaned slackly against the rotting pillars of stone as the Sultan entered the passageway. It had only been three days since the Ottomans captured Constantinople and already his workers were busy painting over the mosaics of Mary with child with beautiful white Arabic lettering on top of a simple black background, as well as placing minarets at the tops of the towers. Within a month, his planners told him, the mosque would be renovated enough to allow for Friday prayers to be read.

Mehmed's soldiers had also been hard at work looting over the past three days, an enterprise that personally disgusted the young ruler. But this had to be allowed, if only for this limited amount of time, for soldiers on any side of a war these days were often a fickle bunch, prone to deserting if every little demand of theirs was not met. For instance, he had had to build Rumeli Hisari in the shape of the Arabic letters for Muhammad in order to keep morale up, and that had only lasted a week. (It hadn't hurt, however, that his name was styled the same way.)

The results of the three day looting period were almost too much for him to gaze upon. Elderly men who just days earlier had been praying for deliverance from the prophet Isa, who they called Jesus, were now stacked on wagons and preparing to be dumped into the Bosporus. Children were in shackles, about to be sold to slave markets as far as the Songhai in the heart of Africa. And women and young girls were weeping, their clothes in tatters.

He could do nothing about those whose freedom had already been lost, but now his voice boomed through the mosque,

"Henceforth, those who are still in hiding will not be harmed."

Hopefully, he thought, this would be the first step in beginning to rebuild the city to its former glory. Soon, he reasoned, it would become the glorious, shimmering golden crown of an Empire without end. It would welcome commerce from all over the world, shelter Muslim, Christian, and Jew, and become the greatest power the world had ever known. "The spider weaves the curtains in the palace of the Caesars and the owl calls the watches in the towers of Afrasiab," Mehmed had proclaimed when he first stepped into the city. Hopefully, that would not be the case for much longer.

#history #byzantine #ottoman #war #christianity #islam #writing #my writing #short story

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affceafesa · 3 years

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It is essential that the next FBI director understand the details

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whitecatindisguise · 4 years

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Let Me Make You Proud 27

So let me get this straight:

You, guys, are NOT READY FOR THIS. Neither am I, but the show (or the story) must go on. Prepare for a lot of hurt and absolutely no comfort (at least not in this chapter).

To put it simply: this chapter is going to destroy you. Feel free to scream at me, shout, roast and do whatever your heart desire.

(Be mindful, tho, if you decide to kill me ya’ll never know how the story actually ends.)

Also, friendly reminder: This story DOES, indeed, HAS A HAPPY ENDING! It might not look like it, seeing how this chapter looks like and ends, but I am not lying to you.

Having that done with...

Trigger Warning: Death. If I missed anything, let me know.

------

All was silent again. Rapunzel was shock-frozen. And, from the corner of her eye, she could see the others were the same. It wasn’t actually so surprising, given what they have all just witnessed.

“Varian…?” Quirin took a tentative step forward, reaching his hand towards his son. The boy was trembling, breathing heavily. There were drops of sweat forming on his forehead.

Varian suddenly gasped and fell to his knees, grasping for his shirt over his heart, face squeezed in pain. Quirin and Rapunzel both let out a cry of alarm, rushing to the boy’s side. Ruddiger almost fell from where he was seated, also concerned about his boy’s well-being.

“No!” The alchemist cried, and several black rocks sprouted from the ground, stopping their advance. “Don’t come… any closer!” He breathed out, still in pain, still on his knees.

“Varian, we just want to help.” Rapunzel argued but the boy shook his head and yelped, as another wave of pain shook his whole body.

He grabbed for his head now, closing on himself, tears falling down his eyes. The ground shook and rocks grew haphazardly, hitting already existing clusters, creating a barrier between them and the boy.

The princess yelped as she was suddenly pulled back, staring in shock at the black spire that sprouted where she was standing just a moment ago.

“Varian! Please!” Quirin shouted over the sounds of growing rocks, his voice desperate. “Let us help you.”

“I… can’t!” The answer came, the boy’s frame still hunched on the ground, barely visible from behind all the new-created clusters. “Can’t… control it!”

He let out another cry of pain and doubled over even more, pulling at his hair.

“Blondie, we have to move!” Eugene’s voice was trembling, as he observed what was going on. “It’s too dangerous. We are too close.”

“No!” She argued, eyes trying to spot the blue hue of Varian’s still-glowing hair amongst the chaos. “I can reach him! I can-!” She was cut short as another black rock rose, nearly impaling her.

“Princess!” Captain shouted and grabbed for her hand, dragging her away.

She tried to fight, but the grip was strong. She noticed Cassandra and Eugene running after them, Quirin close behind, dragged the same way she was. Eugene had the raccoon stuffed under his arm, making sure it won’t slip away and hurt itself even more.

Quirin could get himself free no problem, she noticed, but he seemed to be in too much shock to try anything now. They stopped several feet away, distance too big for the growing rocks to reach them. They seemed to surround Varian, not reaching further than necessary.

“What in the Sun is going on?” Eugene asked as he panted, his hands resting on his knees.

Ruddiger fell to the grass, letting out a pained yelp. Princess knelt down and picked him up, gently cradling him in her arms.

“The kid lost control.” Cassandra replied, eyeing the growing clusters.

“He seemed just fine a moment ago.” One of the guards grumbled and she sent him a death glare.

“Up until now he was only partly in control. It was more like his subconscious was controlling the rocks, not him.” She explained, eyes back at the battlefield. “When he tried to get full control, it backfired.”

“Is there anything we can do?” The Captain asked. Their eyes met for a second, before the woman looked away.

“I don’t know.” She mumbled, not meeting his gaze. “I don’t know much about this powers to begin with. Everything I’ve learned was from…” She waved her head in the general direction of the rocks and sighed. “And she’s gone, so…”

“We can’t just give up on him!” Rapunzel argued, Ruddiger chittered in agreement.

“Well, what do you want me to do?!” Cass snarled back, her eyes burning. “You saw what he can do! You saw how I barely managed to change course of those rocks which almost run us through! There is nothing I can do about it!”

“Cass, I-” Rapunzel faltered but the woman was not finished. She turned sharply and stared right back at the blonde, eyes raging with fire.

“No, listen Raps! Not everything can be solved by you just wishing it will!” She shouted, anger burning. “You can’t assume everything will turn out right just because YOU want it so! When I say there is nothing we can do, I mean THERE IS NOTHING WE CAN DO!”

Silence ringed in their ears, Cassandra standing in front of the princess, panting as if she just ran a marathon. Rapunzel’s eyes were wide open, mouth agape. She closed it, and looked down, reaching for her hair.

“You’re right…” She whispered, voice trembling. “You’re right, but still… I don’t want to give up on him. I don’t want to leave him. Not again.”

“Well, what do you suggest we do then?” Cassandra’s voice was sharp.

“I… I can talk to-” Rapunzel offered quietly and the woman snorted.

“Well, that clearly isn’t going to work now.” She said. “Unless you have some grand plan to get through those rocks.”

“I…” Rapunzel faltered, tugging on her hair. Cassandra hissed in response.

“Thought so.” She muttered, turning away.

“The Final Incantation…” The princess whispered, eyes widening. “Of course! It destroyed black rocks back-” She stopped herself and sent an uncertain gaze at the blue-haired woman.

“Back at my tower, I remember.” Cassandra replied, her back still turned away. “It won’t work. The rocks grow too fast and too unpredictable. You won’t see them coming fast enough to destroy them on time. Not when you’ll be focusing on going in the right direction.”

“What if she only focuses on the rocks, then?” Another voice cut in. They both turned to see Quirin, stepping closer.

Cassandra grabbed her chin, thinking. After a few seconds, she nodded.

“That might work. But then, who would-?” She asked but the man interrupted her.

“I will go.” He said, his gaze determined. “Varian is my son. I… I wasn’t there to stop him the first time he fell. I want to be there now.”

“Quirin, no! This is too dangerous!” Rapunzel argued, terrified. “What if I miss one of the rocks? What if the incantation fails? What if-”

“I trust you, Your Highness.” The man replied, a small smile appearing on his lips. “And I trust Varian. He won’t hurt me.”

“I… Okay.” Rapunzel agreed, nodding. “Alright. Bring him back, please.”

“I wouldn’t do it any other way, princess.” Quirin smiled and she smiled back.

~~~~~~

It hurt. Everything hurt. His head. His chest. His lungs. Even the roots of his hair. Pain. Pain. Pain. Constant and neverending pain.

Varian didn’t know what to do. He didn’t quite know what happened. He remembered things like through the fog. The light of the fool moon. The Moonstone shard stuck in his chest. The sudden pain. The power. Zhan Tiri… And now again… pain.

It hurt. It hurt so much he wanted it all to just stop. He felt tears falling down his cheeks. He felt his fingers pulling at his hair. Stop. Please, just stop!

“Varian!” Someone called and for a moment he thought he misheard. There was no one here. He was alone. And everything hurt.

“Varian!” The sound was closer now and his eyes opened in realisation, as he recognised the voice.

“D-dad…” He turned his head to see his father making his way towards him. His eyes widened in horror. No, he shouldn’t be here. He shouldn’t come any closer. He shouldn’t-

Another black rock shot up from the ground and went straight for the man’s chest. Varian cried out in alarm. He’s going to get impaled. He’s going to die. He is going to kill his father!

Moments before the rock reached him, gold exploded and the rock was no more. Varian stared at it in shock. What…? How…?

Suddenly, dad was right there, large arms embracing him.

“No, no, no!” He cried, trying to push away. “No, why? You shouldn’t be here! You’re going to get hurt!”

“Shhh.” His father’s embrace tightened, warm and safe. “It’s alright, son. It’s alright. You can rest now.”

“No, no, no, no! I can’t control it! I can’t-!” Varian was crying. Why was his dad here? Why was he risking his life for him?

“Varian, it’s alright.” His father’s voice was calm, reassuring. “You don’t need to fight it anymore. You can let it go. You can let this power go. It’s over.”

“No, no, no! If I let go-” He tried to argue, but he couldn’t make the words.

“It will be alright.” Quirin repeated once more. He sounded so sure. And Varian just… let go.

All of the sudden, everything ended. The pain was gone. His hair stopped glowing, turning black again, falling down gently. His eyes taken their usual blue, not shining anymore. The rocks… the rocks stopped too.

Varian felt exhausted. He let out a deep exhale, falling limp in his father’s embrace. Quirin panicked, as the boy fell.

“Varian!” He looked at his son, suddenly so pale. He laid him down gently, eyes looking for any injuries. “What’s going on? What’s happening?”

“M-must have used too much.” The boy mumbled, chuckling a little. So he was only exhausted? But why was he so pale then? Why was his breathing so laboured, so shallow…?

“What do you mean?” Quirin was trembling. What was his son talking about?

Varian looked up to him, gaze hazy. He smiled gently, as if he knew something.

“Did you know, dad? This power… it isn’t power at all.” He said, as if it would explain everything. He continued after a short breath. “It’s a… a curse.”

“A… curse?” The man’s eyes widened in shock. “What are you-?”

“The Moon deceives… It promises power but… doesn’t mention the price…” Varian’s breathing was getting more and more shallow. “And the price… Do you know… what it is… dad?”

Quirin felt pricking at his eyes. He didn’t want to believe it. This couldn’t be true. This couldn’t-

“Life…” the boy said and laughed. It wasn’t a happy laugh he heard so many times. It was wrong, broken. “So… what I am trying to say….” His blue eyes looked up, staring into his father. “I am dying… dad.”

“No.” Quirin shook his head, tears gathering at the corner of his eyes. “No. Varian. Son, please.”

“I’m sorry… dad.” Varian reached out his hand to touch the man’s cheek. “I’m sorry.”

“No, Varian. You can’t.” Quirin was shaking. He reached out and grabbed his son’s hand, vision turning misty. “Please!”

“Dad… Did I… Did I make you proud?” The boy asked, eyes searching his father's face.

“Varian…” The man’s voice cracked.

“Dad… please. I… I have to know.” Varian’s voice was barely a whisper now. The movement of his chest so small. And yet, he asked… no, he demanded the answer.

“Yes… I am proud of you, Varian.” His father answered, throat clenched. The boy smiled slightly, pleased with the answer. “I always was.”

“That’s good.” He said quietly. “That’s all… I ever wanted,”

His eyes slowly closed, hand slipped from the glove still held by the man, falling to his side. His chest lowered. And didn’t rise.

Quirin’s breath hitched. He held the single glove to his chest, tears finally flowling. He stared at the motionless body of his son and then his head moved upwards, to the moon. His hold on the glove tightened… and he cried.

#tts #varian #let me make you proud #tw: death #rapunzel #cassandra #quirin #hurt/no comfort #you're all gonna cry

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zombiejoepino · 3 years

Text

The Scavenger. CH: 3 (Cobb Vanth x OC fanfic)

Chapter 3: The Search

simpFandom: The Mandalorian

Word count: 3636

Summary: Plog is searching from town to town for anything related to the missing Scavenger. The Marshal finds she is gone already.

A/C: If you havent read the first parts, they are here and here. Also you can check them on my wattpad

"I'm telling you, this is too much. I'm not paying for that piece of trash." The pale hooded man rose his arms and signed at the tiny hooded figure.

The Jawa just shook his arms and argued back that it was a fair price. It might be an old speeder but it works. He was trying to explain and then folded his arms, telling him to take it or leave.

Plog just frowned for a moment and handed him the bag with credits. The Jawa took the time to count it and shook his hand. He steps aside to let him check the old imperial speeder. The weapons were down but, it moved. For him, it looked like they put together whatever they found and just label it as imperial to get a fair price.

He muttered in his language and took off in the speeder.

He didn't like Captain Qod that much, yet, it meant protection for him. His gambling habits got him in a lot of trouble, Qod stood up for him in exchange for information. Plog was useful and sneaky to get intel from strangers or anyone. He knew everything about the town, what kind of drink you like, how many Hutts went around before they were all gone, even knew about the lone Jedi that years before helped that farm boy. He never saw them again.

Now, he was just an errand boy, looking for two bounty hunters and their prey. Probably they killed each other and tried to take the canister, who knows. There was a small chance that the woman was dead already. After all, it was the Captain's words to bring her dead or alive, he didn't care, he wanted back was his prize.

Plog wasn't exactly loyal to anyone but, he owed Qod, and the man was good at finding traitors and take them down personally, like the time he just threw one of his crew members out of the ship cause he giggled about his heist plans. Qod didn't like pranksters or jokers, he was serious with his matters. He had little tolerance for stupidity but, Plog a lucky card, he was silly and clumsy, yet, he was useful.

The first stop would be nearby towns, asking the right folks about two lousy hunters wouldn't be so hard. Those two weren't exactly low profile. They were loud, show-offs, always trying to demonstrate how strong they were, picking fights cause they could, ally with other hunters that were stupid enough to trust them and take the bounty from them. No honor amongst thieves.

But those stops would be useless. If those two are on the run, they would go to Mos Eisley's spaceport and take passage with anyone, leave with the canister forever. He hated the whole road to Eisley cause that meant problems; dust, Tusken Raiders, and long cold nights in the middle of nowhere. He loved the comfort and the luxury in the city that he disliked those dead areas and sleeping in the ground. That annoyed him the most.

...

The sunbeam made its entrance through the thin curtains aiming right at his face. The first rays were warm but not burning ones like the mid-day ones. He opened his eyes and quickly scanned the area. He studied the dirty white walls and dusty ground, the armor placed in a chair next to a helmet.

Cobb sat up and stretched a little. He had no idea how long he slept but it was time to start his duties. An idea bolted in his head and made him rushed to the room.

It was empty.

He sighed and shook his head, looking around last night's disaster; shattered glass on the floor, the bloodied and dirty bandages. He rubbed his temples to think.

Maybe it was the best if she was gone but he felt responsible for the girl. He was not a smooth-talker with strangers and worst, with women. He was rough with her and pushed too much. He didn't even ask if she was feeling better.

When you corner an animal, they jump on you, he thought. No reason why the girl snapped at him.

Cobb picked up the glasses and bandages, putting them into a small bin. Then, he fetched a clean shirt and tossed away the dirty one. He ran his fingers through the primitive like star-shaped scar with dots and hashes on his back. He hated every side of it, what it meant but, it was a reminder to keep fighting.

A knock at his door interrupted his thoughts and rushed to put on the long-sleeved shirt. By the entrance, there was a slim guy with a hat and big rounded shades. He had small scars over his cheeks. When the Marshal stepped out, full armor and everything, he waved at him.

"Morning Marshal! How was last night's watch?" Marc flashed a friendly smile and shook hands with him.

"Nothing new, son. Creatures chasing each other. Not sign of the Dragon yet." Cobb adjusted the crimson bandanna across his neck.

"That must be a good sign, right? Maybe it's gone."

"Or just hunting somewhere else. Anyway, is the list ready?"

Both men walked together across the town making their way towards the bar. Cobb could hear Marc talking but was not paying too much attention, he kept wondering if the stranger was gone, maybe lost in the dunes, limping away from Sand People, or worst, found by the large Dragon.

His mind kept drifting. He thought about his time as a slave, how the women had it worst than anyone. He hoped that The Mining Collective or the Red Key Raiders wouldn't find her. The whole idea of what they do to young girls just made him sick.

He felt bad for thinking that and worst for not being able to help her. Damn, he wished she would listen to him and understand he had no shady intentions.

"And we need fuel." Marc's voice finally made some sense and snapped the gruesome thoughts in the Marshal's head.

Cobb frowned thinking about it and he started to nod. Marc rose a brow noticing the lost gaze and rephrased again.

"For the speeders. And extra for the young lady, your guest."

"My guest?" Cobb said.

"Aye, she got up early. Limped around and waited for the old Weequay to open the joint."

Cobb tried to act as cool as possible and told Marc to look for him later. He would fetch a soup and get them ready to go. The Marshal made his way into the joint and scanned the area looking for her.

The young redhead was near the counter having lunch; blue milk and slices of Ahrisa. She dipped the bread in the liquid and took a small bite. She finally looked at the Marshal but didn't say much. Just gave him a slight nod.

Cobb tried his best not to smile, he was glad that she was still around.

"Everything ok, Marshal?" Weequay spoke at him while he poured down a drink and slid a wooden bowl for him.

The Marshal nodded, gulped down his morning drink, and then took the bowl. He noticed the bartender's uneasy eyes when he looked back at the young redhead.

"Is it safe to keep her around?" The old one lowered his voice.

"Just for a few days, pal. Let's give her a break." Cobb sipped from the bowl.

Nath just kept her gaze down her plate and didn't dare to look back at the armored man. She was shamed about her behavior but was too proud to apologize. She heard his footsteps approaching her and looked up at him.

"Thought you were gone." He flashed a pearly smile.

Nath just shrugged and looked away. "I was about to but I was hungry, so, I hopped my way out and got here."

"You know you could ask for help, kid."

"You seemed tired. I don't wanna give you much trouble." She took another bite from the bread.

"How's the leg?"

"Better, it hurts at times but it's not that bad."

"Good. I'll bring more bacta spray then."

"Going somewhere, Marshal?"

"Out of town to get supplies. Do you need anything?" He placed the bowl on the table like he was about to sit down with her. He gave it a second thought and stood still.

"Just the fuel. I was hoping to put together a speeder with whatever was left from the crash."

"Whatever you were riding is gone. The rest is with us."

"Are they working properly? Maybe I can check them for you cause I took some pieces from them." She tried to stand up but the leg stung at that moment. She cursed quietly and sat back.

Cobb chuckled and placed his hand over her shoulder while looking at her.

"Don't sweat about it, kid. I'm sure they are ok" He reached the bowl and sipped it while reading out her expression. She didn't say anything but after giving it a long thought, she nodded at him.

"Well, you should trust me on this. They are gonna break down before you exit the town." She took another bite.

...

The streets were packed with junk dealers and other black-market folks, trying to shove you whatever piece of trash droid or strange food they had around. Plog just kept walking between them, trying to keep them away from his pockets.

He wasn't exactly a flashy man but, these lowlives can't tell the difference and are willing to steal anything they can find.

The pale man was uneasy for parking the speeder outside the dirty joint, Jawas or other scavengers always stopped long enough to take a piece or two. If he needed intel about the bounty hunters' whereabouts, that was the only place where he could go.

A smoky atmosphere crashed his face, followed by music and indistinct conversations between the folks around. Some helmets looked back at him, just checking the new stranger. Others just ignored him, no one started for too long.

Plog just moved around to catch up with the Zabrak bartender. He had mean looks, a horned head but quickly asked him if he needed a drink. Plog slid the credits on the counter and, the Zabrak took them fast.

"What are you looking for?"

"More like who. I dunno if you saw these guys around." He took out a puck that flashed the hologram of the two bounty hunters. The Zabrak examined the blueish image and made a face.

"Yeah, those two were around a couple of nights ago. They go around like bounty hunters but ain't exactly from the Guild. They got a reputation for joining bounty hunters from the Guild in their quests. When they have the proper opportunity, they shot down the Guild member and take the puck. It worked the first two times but those two are stupid. While they were drunk, they didn't stay quiet about their achievements and got The Guild's attention. There's a price for their heads so, my best guess is that they must be dead by now."

"Do you know who they were tracking the last time?"

"Some old Quarren."

"Did you see a woman or someone else with any of them?" Plog said.

"Not, I mean, the Quarren met with different people that day, all of them male. He even cut a deal with a scavenger." The bartender paused while his thoughts drifted for a moment.

"Now that I think about it, I can't tell if it was a woman or not. He or she wore a long tunic and mask. But I remember that scavenger cause those two followed him after taking down the Quarren. It was strange they just left him there to follow him or her. "

"Anything peculiar about the scavenger? Did they come back?"

"I haven't seen them after that day and the scavenger, I didn't pay much attention, you know how they are. Carrying trash bags, stealing whatever they can. Arguing with Jawas. Nothing else." The Zabrak poured himself a drink and shrugged. "Maybe talk to the Jawas." He joked.

"Yeah, right. They are gonna rip me off." Plog shook his head and left the counter. He was running out of ideas.

...

Her body plopped under the biker speeders, checking the cable hitches, patching up the fuel tube, and reached a small screwdriver from her bag as she adjusts the loose shift gear. Fixing things always made her feel better in any situation. She didn't mind the heat, the sweat, or the oil stains on her clothes. What mattered to her was making the speeder work.

Basic 101 for scavengers was being able to take someone's trash and turn it into a decent vehicle. Stealing was allowed if you didn't get caught. Cantinas were the best place to wait for your next hit. There is always someone that gets too drunk and passes out in the middle of the street.

That was the chance to take the finest pieces fast as you could before others showed up. It was a never-ending battle with Jawas. They were always in groups and worked faster, but if a human was smart enough, it would take the best parts first and leave the rest for the little scoundrels.

Nath didn't think of herself as the best mechanic from her town but, she was a pretty decent one. She kept a low profile most of the time and no one bothered her when she put together speeders or podracers, only if they paid a fair price.

Her thoughts were interrupted by the approaching footsteps and a voice.

"Thirsty?" He spoke and stopped next to the bike. The Marshal looked down at the curious woman and shook a small bottle with water.

"You bet but, I wanna finish this." She peeked out to look at him and return her attention to the bike. Her hand tried to reach a wrench.

"You should take a break, kid." The Marshal lowered down to hand her the wrench and smiled at her.

She puffed her cheeks and rolled her eyes. "Told you, I'm not a kid." She took the tool from his hands. Seconds later, her hand reached out of the bottle.

"Where did you learn to do this?" His eyes studied the bike and the tools around the ground, followed by small pieces from other ships or speeders.

"I was raised by scavengers, learned a few tricks from pilots, and picked one or two things from Jawas." Nath sipped the water. This weather was unbearable at times.

"Ever thought about starting your shop?" He kept examining the items around and, picked something that looked like a knife. It had old blood or oil stain. He couldn't tell by the color.

"It crossed my mind but I didn't worry too much when I worked f..." and she paused before she gave away something else. "Business is hard, you gotta commit yourself to one place and it's not my style."

"Staying in one place is not that bad, at least you can call it home." He shrugged and looked at her working.

"I'm not sure about that. I've been moving around since I was a kid, so home is not exactly something I look for."

"We all need one at some point."

"Not when you are being hunted down." She muttered to herself and tried to change the conversation. "What about you? Why Marshal and not bounty hunter if you have that armor?"

"Long story. But killing for pleasure is not my thing." He admitted.

"And killing in the name of the law is?" She chuckled.

There was a small silence, Cobb kept a serious expression and smirked.

"If they pull, I put them down." He said.

"So, you made your own rules for this town?"

"There's not much to follow, just don't step over your neighbor kinda thing. We look after each other."

"That's interesting. From where I come from, you have to watch your back all the time. I guess that's why I'm not made for places like this."

"You can't tell if you haven't tried it"

"Are you asking me to stay, sir?"

"I'm just saying."

"Sure." She flashed her tongue at him and kept her head down under the bike. Then she groaned when the oil leaked down her clothes and hands. "Dank farrik!" She yelled.

The Marshal chuckled and shook his head. He reached for an old rag to hand it to her. She snatched it from his hand to clean her dirty face.

He couldn't help himself to think that she looked cute with the dirt and oil stains across her fair skin and flushed delicate face. The contrast between those two ideas got him thinking but scratched the idea off his mind when the pale gaze met his.

Her eyes had a peculiar way to look at someone. This time they were friendly, curious about him, unlike last night. He swore that those soft blue eyes were cold and sharp with him, just like ice or whatever it looks like. He never got the chance to leave this planet, but he knew stories about those other worlds and snow.

Nath crawled out from under the bike and thumbed up at him.

"Ready to go, Marshal." She smiled at him.

"Thanks. And you can call me Cobb, you know."

"Well, I like calling you Marshal." She teased him. Cobb chuckled and held out his hand to help her.

She pulled herself up with a swift move but bumped her chest with him. His first reaction was to hold her still and not let her fall. She rested her hands over his chest. Their gazes lock for a moment and they froze right there.

Being close to him allowed her to see his features a little better. Even though his hair was grey already, he didn't look old. She thought that he was trying to look older than he was. She found herself studying his features again. Even breathing was something she didn't dare to do.

Cobb noticed a few looks from the locals and quickly moved his hands away to give her space.

"Good work, kid. I think the boys and I are ready to go." He excused himself and smiled at her.

The redhead smiled back, dusted off the sand from herself, and took the bottle from the ground. She took a large sip to refresh from the heat.

...

The tiny hooded figure just kept studying his speeder and nodding vigorously. He signed those pieces he wanted and, Plog just rolled his eyes. He looked around many times, making sure no one else was watching him with the group of Jawas and took out the small puck. He displayed the image of Nathsca and, they yelled gibberish in anger.

His jawaese was pretty bad yet, he understood briefly that the woman was around taking what rightfully belonged to them, that she had no reason to be a scavenger. They saw her taking off. She left behind most of her belongings but, she clung to an old silver canister. They wanted the canister. It was shiny.

Plog shook his head at them and quickly kept the puck back in his pockets. He paid the tiny hooded figures and pushed them away from his path. Some of them cursed at him but picked the pieces they wanted from the speeder.

A Jawa rushed after him and pulled his sleeve, Plog looked quite annoyed and folded his arms. "What now? I told you, anything you want but It needs to keep working."

The Jawa shook his head and signed at him while he whined. Plog squinted his eyes, listening to with attention, trying to put together all the ideas but he was pretty sure what the tiny one just told him. This was the first time that he met a Jawa that wanted something for himself.

"Off the map, you say?" He lowered to his level. The Jawa nodded as it explained quietly about the lost sandy areas in the west, an old mining place near a small town called Mos Pelgo. People thought it was gone, but this little guy saw the town; just farmers. When the speeders chase down the young scavenger, they were on the path to this town.

Plog slid a bag with credits for the little Jawa that rushed back with his kin but kept the bag for himself.

West. The unexplored dead area. He would go and tell the Captain with the risk of finding lone and empty dunes, taking the risk of getting attacked by the sand people, or worst, a Krayt Dragon. Qod was way scarier than the dragon. The dragon would eat you and, that was it. Qod would take his time to torture you before killing you.

The pale man jumped back in his speeder. He needed to get supplies, fuel, and a blaster. He thought about bringing muscle but, it was hard to trust anyone these days. Lone dunes or not, he was not gonna let some stranger or sand people take advantage of him. Shooting first and fast. Basic survival skills. He gave a second thought about bringing muscle.

tagged for the readers and thanks for reading too :3 : @simpfields @fandoms-will-be-the-death-of-me @sithcajunvalkyrie @qrangcr @rachel2003 @wolfangelwings @storytellerandwriter25 @beyond-antares @youmademeanolyphant @kenobilover1009

#cobb vanth #cobb vanth x oc #cobb vanth fanfiction #cobbvanth

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snowbellewells · 4 years

Text

Self Promo Sunday: Quietly Breaking, Breaking the Chains

We were having some conversation yesterday about how there could have been a lot more possibility for CS fic in the season six finale, particularly in Fiona’s little institution (right @darkcolinodonorgasm and @killian-whump ? ;) This isn’t exactly the sort of fic we were envisioning, but I was reminded that I had written this fic not long after the finale. There’s definitely more of Fiona and her asylum, more of Killian getting to play an active part in the heroics, and more CS than the finale gave us though. Anyway, one particular scene came to me and the rest of the story filled in around it. It goes canon divergent from where Killian and Charming are climbing down the beanstalk and in how Emma gets out of the Black Fairy's institution, but everything in canon up to that point still occurred. Thanks for reading! I'd love to hear what you think!

"Quietly Breaking, Breaking the Chains"

i. down the rabbit hole

A wailing, screaming, shuddering panic whirled within her mind, clawing up her throat, churning in her gut. The dingy cinder block walls, never exuding safety or comfort, but at least a familiar boredom, were suddenly closing in on her, enough so that she wanted to shrink back into herself, but the one small bit of pride she had left refused to cower before the exultant face studying her, waiting for just that.

"What is it going to be, Dear?" the Mayor practically licked her lips, face moving once again from her strange preoccupation with the flames in the incinerator to the book in Emma's hands, to hold Emma's gaze one again. "If it truly is only a children's book, if it is hurting our son, it shouldn't be so difficult to simply rid us of it once and for all. Come now, you don't want to move backwards, be kept in here forever and never see Henry at all, do you?"

The older woman's voice was syrup-sweet, and she wore a look of knowing concern on her face, but it didn't lessen the tremor of alarm that ran through Emma. Fiona was dangerous. It had always seemed so, though Emma couldn't explain it. As long as she could remember, she had felt it; for as long as she had been in this place and endured the Mayor's patronizing visits. Fiona reached forward, as if to help Emma, to make the task easier, but as soon as those sharply manicured fingertips touched the worn leather of Henry's book, it was like an electric shock of realization ran through Emma. 'No! She can't!' her mind screamed, suddenly finding it imperative that the book of fairytales didn't burn.

Jerking away from the woman's grasp, desperate to save her son's prized possession, Emma stumbled, losing her balance and sending the heavy tome careening to the floor, pages flapping. With a slap, the book landed heavily, open to a page that showed a dark-haired man with kohl-lined blue eyes staring out at her, capturing Emma in a way she didn't understand. She bent to her knees, pulling the illustration closer as images flashed through her head so quickly she was overwhelmed. "Killian…" she whispered softly, certain at last that she knew the man in the picture, somehow. Her tentative, wistful fingers reached out to trace the sculpted features of this man dressed in leather, who inexplicably appeared to be a pirate on the high seas – at least they did until the Mayor's surprisingly strong grasp caught her wrist.

"Now, now, Dearie, let's not go through this again. You know as well as I that the people in there aren't real." Fiona moved to take the storybook from her, but Emma pushed it away, shielding it behind her own body.

"You can't!" she exclaimed, a surge of energy pulsing through her veins, feeling more herself and more alive than she could recall.

"I warned you of indulging these delusions again," Fiona purred. With a snap of her fingers, two burly orderlies appeared out of nowhere, seeming to materialize from the shadows of the room. Emma tensed to fight, but in her muscle-weakened, medication-blurred state, she didn't stand much of a chance, sadly not even remembering her magic. She got in a wicked kick at one and a punch which glanced off the meaty shoulder of the other, but soon they had her pinned and writhing helplessly in their grasp, holding her for Fiona as she stepped forward with a syringe in hand, malicious smile on her face.

Patting Emma's cheek in a way that made her skin crawl, though at the moment she was powerless to brush off, Fiona hissed right in her face, "Why must you fight me, Miss Swan? I will still have my way in the end, but now you will suffer instead of having your freedom to go in peace." She gave her two henchmen a nod, and their grip on Emma tightened further.

Emma bucked wildly, screaming her frustration, anger, and fear to the solid walls that only trapped her alarm and echoed it back, unheard by any who could help her. She kept struggling vainly, the beautiful blue gaze of the man in the book now in her head and her heart, begging her not to give up. But then she felt the needle's prick, and it took frighteningly little time for her body to numb and fail her. She was still aware, but unable to move at all when she was carried from the room and taken back to her cell on Fiona's cackled orders.

ii. up the beanstalk

As the beanstalk began to fall, Killian's gaze flew to his father-in-law, clinging with clenched jaw and determined grip to his side of the vine-y tower. The whole thing wobbled precariously, shaking and swaying back and forth in the breeze; it wasn't going to hold. Pirate and prince's eyes met across the green, knotted leaves and sprouts and both knew it without speaking. If the wrong sudden tilt or dip didn't cause a foot to slip loose and make them tumble, the whole thing was about to crash to the ground on its own.

Bile rose in Killian's throat, his heart racing painfully at the idea that this truly was the end; he wasn't going to make it back to Emma and Henry, or be there to help her in what she faced. He had been so rash, so foolish, and now Swan's father, his friend and rightful monarch, would pay the price for his recklessness as well. Swallowing down the sour despair and self-loathing, tightening his slipping grip, Killian searched frantically for another way down, a loophole, some chance to still save them – he was a survivor after all – when Dave called out to him over the ominous creaking from their wavering perch and the wind in their ears. "Do you still have the bean?"

Killian looked up at the other man's question, surprised, but plunged his hook more securely into its hold and put his hand in the inner pocket of his vest where he had stowed his plunder for safekeeping. "Aye," he affirmed, fingers closing around it tightly.

"Then toss it," Dave called, his voice strong and certain – a truly fearless leader, stopping just short of issuing a command, but forcing Killian to see the only way he hadn't wanted to consider. "You'll land in the portal and get back to her. What are you waiting for?"

Killian's throat closed even more tightly, forcing him to choke out his response and reveal just how much it cost him. "What? You expect me to just leave you here to die, when you're only in this spot because of my bloody daft idea?"

The Prince eyed him knowingly, his small smile cold comfort in the weighted moment. "I can't go with you, even if we could both hit the portal at a jump, not with this world crumbling to pieces. I can't leave Snow behind. If I fall, I fall. Honestly, I'd prefer that over cowering somewhere while the ground disintegrates beneath my feet."

Killian nodded, a short, tight bob of the head, acknowledging his agreement with Dave's words, but his jaw clenched tightly, still hating the option despite its sense. And yet, he didn't have time to waste. If he refused to use the bean, they were both lost; their effort for naught, and his Swan – his wife – would still be back in her world without them. He could feel her desperation thrumming under his breastbone, right beside his own heart, a part of him as surely as skin or sinew.

"Aye, of course you're right, Mate," he gritted through clenched teeth, readying himself as the beanstalk creaked and tilted wildly again, nearly shaking him loose too soon. "Here goes nothing."

Dave held his gaze for a long moment, as if cementing his determination and approval to his son-in-law for strength. "You'll make it, Pirate," he said solidly, a hint of their joking and long ago rivalry in his words. "Go take care of our girl. I'll be alright."

The pirate captain knew the other man was merely feigning casual bravery; that his survival of this tenuous situation was anything but certain, and yet he had no recourse. "I'll not stop until I am at her side," he vowed.

The prince smiled tensely, a nod of acceptance that needed no further discussion.

Without another moment's hesitation, Killian pulled his arm back, magic bean in his fist, and threw it forward, releasing at just the right moment, watching it fall in a perfect arc. He readied himself to leap, waiting for the telltale swirling of a portal to open far below him. Taking one last deep breath, the captain steadied himself, pushed away from the stalk, and let himself fall, praying that when he landed he would once again be in the same realm as his True Love.

~~~~~~8888888888~~~~~~

When the sky opened to dump him heavily on the rough cement of Storybrooke's Main Street, Killian barely flinched, despite the pain on impact. He was so relieved to be back in the land he had adopted as home, back where his Swan awaited him, that he barely felt the cuts to his palm from the rugged surface, the dizziness of his portal fall, or the roiling of his stomach. He stood stiffly; testing his limbs to make sure nothing was broken, and glanced around hopefully for a sign of which way to go. However, though no sign of his Swan greeted him, as he made his way down the eerily deserted street, wandering toward the home they shared with Henry for lack of anywhere else to start, the lad found him.

"Killian!" Henry's tense voice cut through the evening air, ringing stridently in the quiet that would normally be broken by passing cars, people chatting on the sidewalk, dogs barking, but instead only heightened the paranoia he felt, as if the very breeze was hovering over them, watching and waiting.

The pirate immediately turned at the sound of his stepson calling to him, the sound of the lad's shoes slapping on the pavement growing louder and louder until the teen slammed into him, lanky arms wrapping around his waist and holding on tightly. For a moment, the relief almost overwhelmed the centuries older man; his chest tightening as he encircled Henry's wiry shoulders and clung to him just as desperately. He loved this boy, just as he loved the lad's mother, and only prayed he could offer some modicum of comfort as Henry heaved in a deep breath muffled against Killian's chest to disguise what would otherwise be a hiccupping sob.

When the lad pulled away to look up at his stepdad, his bright, intelligent eyes were wet but equally clear and determined as well. "I'm glad you're here," Henry stated seriously. "I need your help. I know where Mom is, but…but I can't get through to her." His voice wavered slightly, but he pressed on, clamping his mouth shut after he finished to stop the wobbling of his chin. "Now, th-they won't even let me in to see her."

Killian gave him a quick nod of affirmation, hoping to assure Emma's son that everything would be fine. He put his hook on Henry's shoulder and clasped the boy's upper arm with his good hand. "Well then, lead me to her. We will get to her – whatever it takes. Don't you doubt that for a second."

Henry bobbed his head in agreement and set off, headed toward what Hook had always known to be the town's bustling center, where the hospital and town hall were located. Still, they encountered no traffic, and the few people they saw peered suspiciously from the windows or glared at them outright in passing. They were still so few and far between as to send a foreboding shiver down both Author and sailor's spines. 'What had the Black Fairy done to their home?' Killian wondered as they hurried on.

Upon reaching the hospital, Henry cautioned him to be quiet and move swiftly before they snuck in a side entrance for housekeeping staff and carefully made their way down several floors to the basement level by sneaking into stairwells, elevators, and around corners when nurse stations were deserted and orderlies had their backs turned. They reached the dank, underground, almost bunker-like segment of the hospital, the one most knew of but had never laid eyes on, which served as an asylum. The two had used their wits and a clever trick to reach this place once before, but the situation felt even more troubling this time. A chill ran through Killian at the thought of his wife being locked down here in the cold, dark labyrinth of cement and metal doors with barely a window in their stark faces. 'How long had it seemed to her? Did she believe she had been abandoned and forgotten once more?'

"Emma doesn't bloody belong here!" he spat in a harsh whisper, anger making him clench his fist in helpless fury.

"I know that, Killian," Henry tried to soothe, anxiety making his throat almost too dry to speak through and his pulse racing at triple speed, hoping his stepdad could keep himself in check long enough for them to get his mom out of there for good. "But Fiona even has her half-convinced she's unstable. I knew I was right, that I had to make Mom believe again… but no one would listen to me."

"That ends now," Killian swore, holding Henry's gaze resolutely until he saw the youth accept it as truth and know he was no longer fighting alone. "Show me where she is, and we will get her out of here right now."

Like they had done in Isaac's skewed alternate universe, and in this very basement after Emma had vanished with the Darkness, they worked like a well-oiled machine; once Henry had shown him which room he last knew his mother to be in, the lad had waltzed up to the nurse on duty, completely distracting her in conversation that even the dour old battleaxe couldn't worm out of – the two guards standing at Emma's room door drawn over as well, just as they had hoped. Now was his chance, and Killian didn't waste it, slipping behind them all the moment Henry's enthusiastic gestures had them looking the other way, snagging the key off the wall hanger and slipping into the room Henry had indicated as his mom's without a moment's pause or fumble.

However, upon slipping into the cell and pulling the door closed behind him to hide his presence, Killian was frozen stock still by the sight that met his eyes. He had found his wife, but the woman before him on a hospital bed next to the wall in the stark room, was hardly recognizable as his fiery, beautiful Swan. She barely moved, even as he let out an unconscious groan of her name and stumbled forward to reach her. Glassy, unfocused eyes turned to study him, but no expression enlivened their depths.

So struck dumb – both violently angry and saddened near tears by Emma's unresponsive state – it took Killian a few minutes to take in the rest of the horrifying tableau that surrounded her, and when he did, he was sorry, as it indicated a nightmarish reality to which she had been subjected.

Finally snapped from the appalled trance that had struck him, Killian took several more steps forward, still gauging Emma for a reaction even as he catalogued signs of the injustice done to her. The room was so dim he wondered if she could really even see who had entered; the only light came from a high, barred window that allowed a mere shaft of sun into the shadowed interior. He saw a calendar and pictures affixed to the wall before a rickety desk – strange red Xs he couldn't fathom the meaning of marking through certain dates at random. But his heart broke for her at the pictures and messages posted alongside them. "Must Accept Reality" blared the largest, which came before a picture of her parents, one of Henry, and one of himself, all slashed through in black marker with a harsh, succinct warning of "Not Real" scrawled along with it. On the desk was a large and wicked-looking syringe for administering medicine, as he had learned from his own time as a patient following his unfortunate run-in with a car. He immediately distrusted the array of bottles and pills on the surface along with the needle however, somehow sensing that these had been used to render Emma the nearly insensate shadow of herself he saw before him.

He couldn't help going to her after that, hoping to offer some solace in the obvious proof that he did exist, as did her parents and her son. As he came to stand before her, he finally sensed her vision clearing just a bit. Blinking ever so slowly, she swallowed before her mouth moved, working almost lethargically to make some sound escape. Then, almost inaudibly soft, he heard her sweet voice, "Y-You…you're real." The smallest flicker of recognition flared in her gaze, and then, shattering his last defense, a single tear trekked silently down her cheek. Her arm moved as if to reach for him and make sure he was there, but was jerked back by what he suddenly saw were restraints cuffing each wrist to a side rail of the bed. Rage flooded his system afresh at how panicked and helpless his strong, take-charge wife must have felt at being physically tied down, at least until she was drugged into docility, as he was now certain she had been.

His good hand fisted until his nails drew blood in his palm, but he didn't stop. Fearing she might retreat back into the stupor she'd been lost in, he fell to his knees beside her, reaching out to brush her tear away. "Oh Emma," he breathed, forcing tenderness to his hoarse tone, despite the turmoil rioting inside, and already fumbling to loosen the cuffs that held her, "Love, what have they done to you?"

iii. together again

The dark-haired man with eyes blue as the sea was standing there in front of her. Emma blinked disbelievingly, trying to clear her vision and convince her mind to stop playing these games, but the arresting stranger didn't go anywhere, his deep gaze holding her captive even more strongly than it had from the pages of Henry's book. She thought that she tried to speak, to ask him if he was real, but everything felt so sluggish and muted. Whatever the shot they had given her was, it had rendered her almost immobile, and made it hard to think. Her head felt disjointed from her body.

She knew she tried to reach out for him, but something held her back, and in the fog of her brain and vision, she wasn't sure what. He must have heard her anyway, or understood her intention, because despite her thwarted attempt, he came closer. In fact, he fell to his knees beside her bed, and she saw pain and caring and fear for her in his eyes as he wiped the tear she hadn't even felt fall from her cheek. She heard him speak her name – such emotion in the lilt of it, had her name ever sounded that lovely before? Something about it was familiar, just as the illustration of him had been.

Then, he was fumbling to free her wrists. Why was she fastened to the bed? And why couldn't she remember? Terror began to latch onto her, and she was doing all she could not to fall apart, her mind crawling at putting events and pieces of memory together, but racing in anxiety and the feeling that she had been so trapped and out of it at the same time. It was almost a blessing for her handsome rescuer that her body wasn't responding correctly to her brain's signals, or he might have earned a punch or kick in self-defense, just for being so close before she could gather her wits about her.

She found herself calming though once freed, and he soothed her in a low murmur, running gentle fingers and what felt like smooth, cool metal over the raw, reddened skin of her wrists. Soon he was brushing her hair back from her face and rising taller on his knees to look her in the eyes searchingly. "Are you alright, Darling? Are you hurt anywhere else? Can you tell me what you need, Love?"

For whatever reason, however she knew him or thought she did, Emma wanted nothing more than to fall into his arms, cling to him and never let go. Yet, even in her weakened, confused condition, she couldn't quite beg, ‘Just hold me please’, and so nothing came out. She simply stared at him, hoping against frantic hope that she wouldn't blink to find him gone, alone again in her hopeless void.

"It's going to be alright now, Swan. I've got you. You're going to be fine," he promised.

Though she didn't know much else, Emma believed him and took him at his word. When he leaned forward and kissed her at the end of his vow, it didn't feel strange, but right. She didn't flinch away; instead she closed her eyes and welcomed it. The rainbow light that burst and illuminated the air behind her eyelids may have meant she'd completely lost it, but she didn't care. She was rocked to the core with a joy and exhilaration she had never known; it would have blown her off her feet if she had been standing. Opening her eyes, Emma met his equally stunned gaze, all the pieces falling into place.

She gasped for air as the world shifted, her strength returned, her brain cleared, and the curse was lifted from her shoulders. True Love's Kiss had at last gifted its magic to them. "Killian," she whispered adoringly, tracing his beloved face with her fingertips and wondering how she had ever managed to forget him. "You found me."

~~~~~~8888888888~~~~~~

He knew that they needed to move, that he could explain later, but for now they had to get out. Neither he nor Henry had magic to fight their way through with her if they were discovered. And yet, seeing Emma so weakened and lost; confused, drugged, and imprisoned, he couldn't bring himself to push her or order her to do anything – even for her own good. Instead, Killian merely freed her hands, unable to stop touching her, so relieved he had found her and that she was in his arms again.

Though she did seem pleased to see him and some hint of recognition now shone on her face, Killian also sensed that it wasn't a complete knowledge of who he was to her, of their shared history and their connection as husband and wife. For that reason, he valiantly restrained himself, limiting his touches to the skin of her abused wrists, smoothing the wildly matted hair off her face, and wiping away the tear that nearly undid him. Woe to Gold's wretch of a mother if he got hold of her first. What she had done to his love was inexcusable, and the only thing that kept his blood from boiling over was his need for gentleness in the face of Emma's distress.

Despite his best intentions, he did end up holding her to him, easing the cool curve of his hook up and down her spine and allowing her to cling to him and bury her head in his chest. She was shaking slightly, tremors running throughout her body, and he worried again just what had been given to her and what aftereffects might have yet to appear. It would break Henry's heart to see her this way, and Killian dreaded it, but he couldn't in good conscience leave the lad out there as decoy alone much longer. He found himself murmuring calming words against Emma's cheek, promising all would be well, though he was not at all sure how to make it true.

So when she pulled back to look up at him and hope lit in her eyes, along with trust in him and his protection writ large on her face which had always been so tough and self-reliant, he realized he shouldn't have been at all surprised that his heart stopped and restarted again before he pulled her in for a kiss he couldn't contain.

What did stun him, after all the times they had kissed and then had to find another way, the other modes of confirmation and the unspoken disappointments at previous attempts, was the way the world rocked at the impact of their lips. The whoosh of wind he felt swirl around him and the dazzling light that almost blinded him. Somehow, finally, they had been granted the fairytale stamp of approval like her parents before them. His heart soared despite the fear, pain, and anger of the past hours – True Love's Kiss.

The awed whisper of his name on her tongue let him know that much had been set right – her memory and awareness returned to her. Not sure whether to laugh or cry at her stunned repetition of her mother's long ago realization "You found me", he merely held her tighter, placed a kiss to her brow, and smirked briefly, hoping his mate would now be back soon to mock him for it as he gave his own version of the familiar response. "Did you truly doubt I would, Darling?"

Relief seeped into his bones as everything within him slid back to its rightful place, and the world seemed to stop shaking with the threat of destruction from her lost belief. Henry burst into the room behind them and flung his arms around them both, where he was welcomed into the midst of their laughing, crying, locked together heap on her bed. For the moment, for now at least, nothing would tear them apart.

~~~~~~8888888888~~~~~~

From there, things were set right quickly; her devious plan thwarted and genuine reality again restored, the Black Fairy was dealt with in a way that made the havoc she had wrought hard to believe. Killian marveled that her demise had not come about by his own hand or hook after the distress and horror she had caused Emma, but at the moment of truth, Charming had held him back, and it had only taken a second for Killian to know it was right. His mate had merely said he was returning a reminder about vengeance that Killian had offered him, and both knew exactly what was meant. It was, in the end, by her crooked son's own hand that the dark fairy was vanquished. With her evil influence removed and his heart restored, Gideon was returned to his parents a babe once more, for better or for worse the Crocodile's happy ending restored along with Belle's. The rest of their family was returned to them from the other realm, almost as soon as they had exited the hospital, the final confrontation taking place on Main Street. None of the realms they knew had crumbled, thanks to he and Henry's success in restoring the Savior's belief.

Yet none of that or the clean-up, explanations, and details left to be ironed out, mattered as much to Killian in the wake of the Final Battle as did Emma in his arms, walking beside him up the front steps to their home. His first, and in truth only, priority was to see that she was taken care of. That she felt herself again, and knew they would be just fine, that she felt safe and loved, and knew he was still at her side and she wasn't alone, were his only objectives.

Emma told him everything of the false world and circumstances while they had been sent away. How she had doubted herself, doubted Henry, even doubted her own sanity and what she knew to be real. She choked on the words occasionally – guilt, hurt, and a false sense of responsibility threatening to drown her, but Killian merely held her, both arms around her as they sat against the headboard of their bed, her back leaning against his front, his lips and his scruff brushing over her bare shoulder in repeated reassurances that it wasn't her fault, there was nothing she could have done, that no one blamed her, and that she had still managed to save them in the end. It was not the honeymoon night they might have wished for, but the healing together bound them closer all the same.

Eventually, Emma felt some peace, and they lay down to sleep, still wrapped around each other, hoping against hope that they were tangled up with each other so tightly that if something tried to steal between them again in the night it would prove impossible. Kilian's chest ached for her when she woke in the still-dark early morning gasping for breath from a vivid nightmare, but he sadly was not surprised after what she had gone through.

Turning to face him, still in the circle of his arms, Emma stroked her fingers through the dark hair covering his chest until her hand rested atop his heart, in a gesture he had come to adore, both for its protectiveness and its possessiveness as well. "Even when I didn't know who you were to me, or why, I still wanted you near…wanted you safe," she breathed against his skin. "You were still there inside me somehow."

Killian pressed his lips to the back of her neck, mumbling "good" as she shivered at the intimate touch. "I would be lost without you…if you ever forgot and left me behind." He said no more, simply held her until her breathing evened out in slumber once more, and he began to drift off himself. This time had to be the true beginning for them; their time for peace and happiness after so many trials. Nothing could break them apart; as long as they both should live.

Tagging a few who may enjoy: @kmomof4 @whimsicallyenchantedrose @jennjenn615 @searchingwardrobes @hollyethecurious @darkcolinodonorgasm @sherlockianwhovian @killian-whump @spartanguard @lfh1226-linda @therooksshiningknight @tiganasummertree @thislassishooked @winterbaby89 @blowmiakisscolin @resident-of-storybrooke @teamhook @revanmeetra87

#self promo sunday #cs oneshot #season six finale divergent #captain cobra #captain charming #cs ff canon divergent #quietly breaking breaking the chains

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